Sometimes I get nostalgic for the olden days. Way back when gas was only three dollars and fifty cents a gallon. An election year. In 2008, the world waited on pins and needles for the answer to one question: Where was this Barack Obama character born? How had this foreign insurgent missed all other checkpoints in our political system and found himself running for the highest office in the land if he wasn't even a citizen?
Okay, so it turns out that he was a citizen, born in Hawaii and had the documents to prove it. He got elected, and he made some decisions that people didn't like, so the brain trust decided to check into that whole birth certificate thing one more time. Over the next four years, since it's a fee country and all, some people spent a lot of time making sure that this Obama fella didn't just sneak into the line for president and take somebody else's turn.
Perhaps no one has been more vigilant in his quest to unmask this pretender to the throne than Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio. You know, the guy who doesn't like the way George Lopez talks about him. Or the U.S. Justice Department. Or the ACLU. He's not particularly fond of a great many people and institutions, and that may be why he chooses to describe himself as "the toughest lawman in America." How tough is Joe? Well, his own mother died while giving birth to him. But all this tumult and drama could not deter him from his mission: figuring out just how this Obama character got himself elected with a fake birth certificate. Never mind that Hawaii is way out of Joe's jurisdiction, or that a county sheriff in Arizona might have one or two more pressing local matters on which to spend his time. The posse Joe put together has been working, off and on for the past year, to find holes in the elaborate network of deceit that the President and his cronies in the records department in Honolulu have been spreading.
Or maybe somebody should tell Joe to get his own documentation together for the civil lawsuit the Department of Justice is about to drop on his head. I'm no expert, but that one looks pretty official.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
Unclear
John Sununu called the President and his campaign "a bunch of liars" on Tuesday. He told reporters Obama "comes out of that murky political world in Chicago where politician and felony has become synonymous." John may be working from a different thesaurus than I am, but I suppose I get his drift. This summer certainly brings to mind some of the murkiest of the murk from Chicago and other less-than-polite election cycles, but then Mister Sununu piled on with "I wish this president would learn how to be an American."
What is more American than dirty politics? We seem to be in the midst of a spitting contest where the contestants seem intent on standing face to face. What possible good comes from pointing out the other candidates' perceived flaws? Are there truly undecided voters out there who will be swayed by a clever thirty seconds of TV advertising? What happened to polite discourse? How about the fair exchange of ideas?
That's not going to happen in a win or lose environment. Somewhere at the bottom of all of this murk lies a plan for our country that involves compromise and a shared concern for all of us. Billions of dollars are not currently being spent to find that solution, but instead we have murk-spattered veterans and rookies showing up for what appears to be a four-month long Celebrity Death Match. Buy your tickets and find your seats, ladies and gents, it's going to be a murky ride to November.
What is more American than dirty politics? We seem to be in the midst of a spitting contest where the contestants seem intent on standing face to face. What possible good comes from pointing out the other candidates' perceived flaws? Are there truly undecided voters out there who will be swayed by a clever thirty seconds of TV advertising? What happened to polite discourse? How about the fair exchange of ideas?
That's not going to happen in a win or lose environment. Somewhere at the bottom of all of this murk lies a plan for our country that involves compromise and a shared concern for all of us. Billions of dollars are not currently being spent to find that solution, but instead we have murk-spattered veterans and rookies showing up for what appears to be a four-month long Celebrity Death Match. Buy your tickets and find your seats, ladies and gents, it's going to be a murky ride to November.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Elvis Has Left His Senses
If I said I wasn't here to judge, I would be lying. It is something that I do on a daily basis, beginning with my choice of breakfast cereal and ending with the side of the pillow I choose to drop my head. In between these momentous decisions, I make hundreds if not thousands of little choices that add up to a day full of judgement. Today I would like to add this to the pile: Elvis Dumervil is a dolt.
You may or may not be familiar with Mister Dumervil. If you are not, a brief biographical sketch: Elvis (his real name) is a professional football player currently employed by the Denver Broncos. His job is to find the player on the other team who has the ball and tackle him. For this he is paid a very handsome salary. He is scheduled to be paid twelve million dollars this season. It should be noted that in 2010, he was paid three million dollars not to play, since he was injured. This is an important statistic, since we don't know what his agent will be able to get for him if he ends up spending the 2012 season on the bench. In jail.
Elvis was arrested last Saturday night in Florida after he was involved in a road rage incident. Tempers flared. Guns were brandished. Police were called. Charges were filed. And here's what I can't comprehend: It didn't have to happen. Let's start with the part where Elvis didn't need to be driving himself. He could pay someone to drive him wherever he needed to go and still have plenty of that twelve million to spare. He could have stayed in the car he was driving and waited for the other nincompoops to settle their differences, and then motored on to his destination. He could have even jumped out of his car and hurled invective at those who might have limited or halted his progress. But then he went and brought out a gun. When the police showed up, he denied having one. "You mean this gun that you don't have in your glove compartment?"
And so, the wheels of justice grind on, and the processes that will determine just how much football Elvis gets to play for the Denver Broncos remains to be seen. But I've already made my judgement. Professional athletes are sometimes awarded with colorful nicknames to reinforce their unique abilities. Elvis had a nice start with his first name, but the powers that be granted him the scary epithet, "Doctor Doom" as a tag on his last name. Pretty cool when he's chasing quarterbacks around the backfield, but when he's waving a gun around in south Florida because he can't get to the night club of his choice, I'll stick with "Doctor Dum." Short "u."
Now I've got to go figure out what's for lunch.
You may or may not be familiar with Mister Dumervil. If you are not, a brief biographical sketch: Elvis (his real name) is a professional football player currently employed by the Denver Broncos. His job is to find the player on the other team who has the ball and tackle him. For this he is paid a very handsome salary. He is scheduled to be paid twelve million dollars this season. It should be noted that in 2010, he was paid three million dollars not to play, since he was injured. This is an important statistic, since we don't know what his agent will be able to get for him if he ends up spending the 2012 season on the bench. In jail.
Elvis was arrested last Saturday night in Florida after he was involved in a road rage incident. Tempers flared. Guns were brandished. Police were called. Charges were filed. And here's what I can't comprehend: It didn't have to happen. Let's start with the part where Elvis didn't need to be driving himself. He could pay someone to drive him wherever he needed to go and still have plenty of that twelve million to spare. He could have stayed in the car he was driving and waited for the other nincompoops to settle their differences, and then motored on to his destination. He could have even jumped out of his car and hurled invective at those who might have limited or halted his progress. But then he went and brought out a gun. When the police showed up, he denied having one. "You mean this gun that you don't have in your glove compartment?"
And so, the wheels of justice grind on, and the processes that will determine just how much football Elvis gets to play for the Denver Broncos remains to be seen. But I've already made my judgement. Professional athletes are sometimes awarded with colorful nicknames to reinforce their unique abilities. Elvis had a nice start with his first name, but the powers that be granted him the scary epithet, "Doctor Doom" as a tag on his last name. Pretty cool when he's chasing quarterbacks around the backfield, but when he's waving a gun around in south Florida because he can't get to the night club of his choice, I'll stick with "Doctor Dum." Short "u."
Now I've got to go figure out what's for lunch.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Power of the Press
Sports, entertainment, comics. That's how I used to read the paper when I was a kid. Sure, there were times when a picture on the front page would give me pause, but mostly I was hot on the trail of news that I cared about. What was happening with the local sports franchises? What movies were opening that weekend? What was up with Cathy?
And so it went, year after year. Presidents were elected. Governments were toppled. Fortunes were won and lost. I kept reading those three sections, not oblivious to the world around me, but with the purpose of gaining all the information that would allow me to get through the day. It makes me think of one of the best Steve Martin bits. In "Roxanne," Steve walks out of a cafe, buys a newspaper, looks at the headline, screams in terror, then pays again to put the newspaper back into the machine. It is a work of considered genius, and it informed me for lo these many years.
These days I open up my browser window and make a quick scan of the headlines, searching for the one the one that won't elicit a scream. "Romney Attacks Obama's Negative Campaigning." Eek! "Egyptians Pelt Clinton Motorcade With Tomatoes." Yikes! "Obama: DC 'Feels As Broken As It Did Four Years Ago.'" Ak! "Springsteen And McCartney Cut Off By London Curfew." There we go. Finally some news I can use.
Combine that along with the Oakland A's creeping ever-so-quietly out of the American League West cellar, and I can go about my business. If only we could find a swimsuit for Cathy.
And so it went, year after year. Presidents were elected. Governments were toppled. Fortunes were won and lost. I kept reading those three sections, not oblivious to the world around me, but with the purpose of gaining all the information that would allow me to get through the day. It makes me think of one of the best Steve Martin bits. In "Roxanne," Steve walks out of a cafe, buys a newspaper, looks at the headline, screams in terror, then pays again to put the newspaper back into the machine. It is a work of considered genius, and it informed me for lo these many years.
These days I open up my browser window and make a quick scan of the headlines, searching for the one the one that won't elicit a scream. "Romney Attacks Obama's Negative Campaigning." Eek! "Egyptians Pelt Clinton Motorcade With Tomatoes." Yikes! "Obama: DC 'Feels As Broken As It Did Four Years Ago.'" Ak! "Springsteen And McCartney Cut Off By London Curfew." There we go. Finally some news I can use.
Combine that along with the Oakland A's creeping ever-so-quietly out of the American League West cellar, and I can go about my business. If only we could find a swimsuit for Cathy.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Shame
The Los Angeles Superintendent of schools is getting a lot of attention currently for his decision to remove and entire school's staff after he learned that a teacher had been accused of playing classroom sex games with children for years. Years. Perhaps no one would be upset to hear that the teacher in question had been let go. Even the hard-core union folks would probably be okay with the idea that this person had limited contact with children for some time. But the entire staff? What was going through this guy's head?
Well, it was this phrase: "culture of silence." The idea that no one at the school would have a suspicion or clue to what was going on next door for years seems a little hard to fathom. So what would or should these teachers, custodians, aides, parents, administrators done in such a case? Who wants to be the rat? Who wants to stand up and be accountable for such an accusation? Sure, if it turns out to be a mistake, do you want to be the person responsible for almost ensuring that someone's teaching career is over? On the other hand, how could you live with yourself if any one of the children you were there to educate and protect came to any kind of harm?
For me, it turns out to be a pretty easy choice. It's not one of those TV movie of the week questions where a good-looking, caring teacher is wrongfully accused by a bitter and confused adolescent with a chip on his or her shoulder. It's about protecting six-to-ten-year olds. The bad guy was fired, after being charged with twenty-three acts of lewd act on a child, and the rest of the staff is being given jobs elsewhere. How awful would it be to have to give up your classroom in a school where you had spent the last fifteen years? How about if it was your first year of teaching and you had no idea who this terrible person was, let alone what he was doing behind closed doors? These are grown-ups who have to deal with that struggle. The investigation led to the firing of another teacher who was charged with three counts of lewd acts on a child. About three too many. Both were veteran teachers who had taught at the school for more than twenty years. It makes me wonder how many other stories are waiting to be told, and how many will never be told.
Think Penn State. Think Joe Paterno. Think Jerry Sandusky. Think.
Well, it was this phrase: "culture of silence." The idea that no one at the school would have a suspicion or clue to what was going on next door for years seems a little hard to fathom. So what would or should these teachers, custodians, aides, parents, administrators done in such a case? Who wants to be the rat? Who wants to stand up and be accountable for such an accusation? Sure, if it turns out to be a mistake, do you want to be the person responsible for almost ensuring that someone's teaching career is over? On the other hand, how could you live with yourself if any one of the children you were there to educate and protect came to any kind of harm?
For me, it turns out to be a pretty easy choice. It's not one of those TV movie of the week questions where a good-looking, caring teacher is wrongfully accused by a bitter and confused adolescent with a chip on his or her shoulder. It's about protecting six-to-ten-year olds. The bad guy was fired, after being charged with twenty-three acts of lewd act on a child, and the rest of the staff is being given jobs elsewhere. How awful would it be to have to give up your classroom in a school where you had spent the last fifteen years? How about if it was your first year of teaching and you had no idea who this terrible person was, let alone what he was doing behind closed doors? These are grown-ups who have to deal with that struggle. The investigation led to the firing of another teacher who was charged with three counts of lewd acts on a child. About three too many. Both were veteran teachers who had taught at the school for more than twenty years. It makes me wonder how many other stories are waiting to be told, and how many will never be told.
Think Penn State. Think Joe Paterno. Think Jerry Sandusky. Think.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Glass House
You know the old adage, so I won't be throwing any Stones around here. Not Mick, or Keith, even Ronnie. This is the Band That Would Not Die, with apologies to Brian Jones. It might be easy enough to assume that all that consorting with the devil brought that little bit of tragedy on, but it seems to have had a pretty positive effect on the rest of the group's experience. Getting a multi-album deal with the Prince of Darkness turns out to be just the kind of luck for which the Stones are most well-known.
There are plenty of other solo acts and parts of bands floating about that can trace their lineage back to the early sixties and before. Jerry "The Killer" Lewis has tour dates scheduled for this year, and he's still knocking over piano benches, though without some of the reckless abandon. Half of the Beatles continue tease the public with the potential of a reunion, but the difficulty of getting all two of them on the same stage doesn't seem as daunting as the chore facing the Stones' management team. Finding a bass player continues to be one such challenge. At least they know where their lead singer is.
Across the pond is another band that is giving the Stones a run for their money. The Beach Boys' endless summer has been resurrected in honor of their fiftieth year together, more or less. These American rock and rollers had their own brush with Satan, in the form of Charlie Manson, or maybe you prefer to discuss their association with John Stamos? These surfing legends match the output of their British counterparts, except when you start counting live albums, which the Stones seem to issue on a bi-annual basis.
So, in the end, maybe it isn't so much a contest as it is a matter of personal taste. Congratulations to both of these groups of groundbreaking artists, and look forward to 2023 and the golden anniversary of Cheap Trick.
There are plenty of other solo acts and parts of bands floating about that can trace their lineage back to the early sixties and before. Jerry "The Killer" Lewis has tour dates scheduled for this year, and he's still knocking over piano benches, though without some of the reckless abandon. Half of the Beatles continue tease the public with the potential of a reunion, but the difficulty of getting all two of them on the same stage doesn't seem as daunting as the chore facing the Stones' management team. Finding a bass player continues to be one such challenge. At least they know where their lead singer is.
Across the pond is another band that is giving the Stones a run for their money. The Beach Boys' endless summer has been resurrected in honor of their fiftieth year together, more or less. These American rock and rollers had their own brush with Satan, in the form of Charlie Manson, or maybe you prefer to discuss their association with John Stamos? These surfing legends match the output of their British counterparts, except when you start counting live albums, which the Stones seem to issue on a bi-annual basis.
So, in the end, maybe it isn't so much a contest as it is a matter of personal taste. Congratulations to both of these groups of groundbreaking artists, and look forward to 2023 and the golden anniversary of Cheap Trick.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Dave Everlasting
Much to the chagrin of a couple of my friends who came to my birthday party, I announced that I had no plans to pass on. Not just in the near future. In the forever sense. It put a good many of the conversations that might have been had about mortality on the back burner, at least for me. I told anyone who cared to listen that I was pretty sure that I was going to live forever, primarily because I had no anecdotal evidence to the contrary.
Oh sure, there have been plenty before me who haven't managed to lick the whole eternal life problem, but that's everyone else's problem. I've been dropped from heights and wrecked cars and passed out in all kinds of improbable places and yet I've managed to come bounding back like that bunny in the battery commercial, only even more long lasting since the pink rabbit didn't show up until 1989. And, for the record, I've had to dispose of my share of Energizer batteries, so I've already outstripped that particular test of endurance.
In what is generally considered a fairly chaotic universe, I offer up my life as an experiment in the orderly. By knowing where my car keys and glasses are at any given instant throughout the day, as well as those of my wife and son, I feel that I am doing what I can to subvert this notion of inevitable decay. I'm fixing things all the time, and because of my efforts, the house I live in that was built in 1895 continues to stand.
The other anecdotal evidence I have to describe my shot at eternity? Well, I have an iPod that currently holds more than six days of music, and just the other day when I was listening to random songs on the "shuffle" mode, I heard Devo's "Uncontrollable Urge" followed immediately by the live version of that same song. Again, I am the agent of order in this sea of chaos. I believe this is a sign that I will live forever.
Or maybe I have too much Devo on my iPod.
Oh sure, there have been plenty before me who haven't managed to lick the whole eternal life problem, but that's everyone else's problem. I've been dropped from heights and wrecked cars and passed out in all kinds of improbable places and yet I've managed to come bounding back like that bunny in the battery commercial, only even more long lasting since the pink rabbit didn't show up until 1989. And, for the record, I've had to dispose of my share of Energizer batteries, so I've already outstripped that particular test of endurance.
In what is generally considered a fairly chaotic universe, I offer up my life as an experiment in the orderly. By knowing where my car keys and glasses are at any given instant throughout the day, as well as those of my wife and son, I feel that I am doing what I can to subvert this notion of inevitable decay. I'm fixing things all the time, and because of my efforts, the house I live in that was built in 1895 continues to stand.
The other anecdotal evidence I have to describe my shot at eternity? Well, I have an iPod that currently holds more than six days of music, and just the other day when I was listening to random songs on the "shuffle" mode, I heard Devo's "Uncontrollable Urge" followed immediately by the live version of that same song. Again, I am the agent of order in this sea of chaos. I believe this is a sign that I will live forever.
Or maybe I have too much Devo on my iPod.
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