Give 'n Go

Farewell Breaker

2009-11-16T08:30:00.005-05:00

Edward Woodward died yesterday at the age of 79.

Best known as Robert McCall on the hit 80s crime show The Equalizer, Mr. Woodward played the title role of Harry "Breaker" Morant in the breakthrough Australian film Breaker Morant and turned in an exceptional performance as the Ghost of Christmas Present in the George C. Scott television version of A Christmas Carol.

In what is one of the most powerful scenes in all of English literature, Edward Woodward gave the Spirit an aura humanity tinged with excruciating dread.

'Spirit. are they yours.' Scrooge could say no more.

'They are Man's,' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. 'And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers.

This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want.

Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it.' cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. 'Slander those who tell it ye.

Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end.'

'Have they no refuge or resource.' cried Scrooge.

'Are there no prisons.' said the Spirit, turning on him
for the last time with his own words. 'Are there no workhouses.'"

In the same way, he brought Robert McCall to life. A disillusioned retired intelligence operative of independent means, he was a true-to-life James Bond. Instead of fighting evil geniuses, he took arms against a sea of trouble caused by the random acts of violence that were so common in the New York City of the 1980s. The Equalizer was a great show with great supporting players, great locales--shot on the streets of New York--and great, great music by Stewart Copeland.

The Equalizer tapped into the undercurrent of fear that was pervasive in pre-Giuliani New York City. They couldn't make that show today with its dark and foreboding atmosphere.

I never liked Rudy, but you cannot dispute the fact that he transformed New York.

Requiem in Pacis Mr. Woodward.

Coffee, Coffee Everywhere!

2009-11-16T07:46:00.007-05:00

Just got a new Keurig Platinum coffee maker. Only problem is that I have this visceral aversion to buying trendy convenience stuff like those chic little K Cups filled with serving-sized portions of designer coffee.

Then I stumbled upon this little gem that lets you re-use K-cups, filled with your own favorite Java.

The site is here: Reuse your Keurig K-Cups!

I'm gonna give it a try.

Besides, those designer coffees always smell better than they taste.

All Rangel-ed Up

2009-11-05T05:45:00.034-05:00

Rarely does a single piece of mail cause one's heart to flutter, face to flush and knees to buckle.

But, then again, rarely does a piece of mail arrive with the dreaded return address:

Department of the Treasury
Internal Revenue Service

That's the "Welcome Home" that greeted me this past Tuesday as I dragged myself through the front door after a rough day of earning a living, playing golf and ferrying adolescent infants from one suburban soiree to another. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I owed our esteemed and infallible federal government... $11,589.22!

Holy smoke. What did I do this time?

Now look, I'm not the Secretary of the Treasury.

I'm not the chairman of the Federal Reserve.

I'm not a New York Times columnist who also consulted for Enron.

I'm not even a graduate of the Harvard Business School, a Fortune 500 CEO, a wheeler dealer in foreign exchange arbitrage or the chairman of the House Ways & Means Committee.

The tax code, for me, is not all that complicated.

I don't have income from esoteric foreign sources, like Timothy Geithner.

I don't keep piles of cash in my freezer like Rep. William Jefferson of New Orleans.

And I didn't make billions selling collateralized debt obligations to individual investors and pension funds while also making private wagers on the collapse of the mortgage market, like Goldman-Sachs.

It's also very difficult for me to make HONEST mistakes about rental income from condos in Puerto Rico, villas in the Dominican Republic and sublets from multiple rent-controlled New York apartments.

Unlike Charles Rangel I don't have those kinds of investments.

Most of us don't and if we did, we'd be evicted, audited, harassed, terrorized and waterboarded before being prosecuted.

No, my life and my income streams are exceedingly boring.

So, what was my transgression?

UNREPORTED INCOME?!

How on earth can I un-report? My life, again, like most of our lives, is an open book.

The federal government knows who I am, where I live, what I do and how much money I make.

It's all documented by the gigantic legion of American businesses, large and small, who, in addition to struggling to earn a profit also have to serve as government tax collectors.

Every year these businesses send out millions of W-2s, 1099s and a wide variety of related tax documents that make it impossible for ordinary citizens to claim complexity or honest mistakes when confronted by a jack-booted stormtrooper carrying a Treasury Department ID card.

But, there it is in horrifying black and white on official Department of the Treasury stationery.

Non-employee compensation: $17,000
Capital Gains from the sale of stocks and bonds: $17,225

With penalties and interest... I owe $11,589.22!!!!

Quick, let's go to the videotape.

In this case, the TurboTax file for the year in question.

Click the "Income" button. Scroll down a few lines...

There it is, right on my Schedule C: Non-Employee Compensation, $17,000.

Whew, that's a relief.

Scroll down a few more lines to Investment Income and presto... under Capital Gain...

Proceeds from Sale = $17,255
Cost Basis = $15,900

Capital Gain = $1,355

Whew... relieved again.

Not very complicated. Not much wiggle room to claim an honest mistake. Every penny documented and reported to the powers that be in our nation's capitol.

But very quickly, my sense of relief turned to anger and outrage.

How can a dedicated public servant waste time and resources generating a 26 page document that seeks to explain why I owe back taxes on income that I have already been taxed on?

What's more frustrating is this: How can this Mensa member suggest that my capital gain on the sale of stock is exactly equal to the proceeds of the sale?

Does she believe that I PAID ZERO DOLLARS?

I'm not Hillary Clinton.

Stock certificates, cattle futures contracts and mansions in Chappaqua do not appear, as if by magic, in my Christmas stocking every December 25th.

So now I'm on the seventh draft of my reply letter. I've taken out the references to Cossacks and Brown Shirts. I've even removed my description of this particular bungling bureaucrat as Her Highness, the Twittering Twat of the Treasury. That one hurt. I like the alliteration.

But if we cannot expect the people that write the tax laws and collect the taxes to understand the complexities and requirements of the tax code, the very least we can hope for is that the people who have the power to terrorize us through the mail system should be able to read a simple--a very simple--tax return.

Feelin' Groovy?

2009-06-01T07:42:00.033-05:00

In his landmark book, Future Shock, Alvin Toffler postulated that it was not the nature of change that would cause the downfall of modern civilization, but the speed of change.

Poor Alvin.

How could he have envisioned the world we inhabit today?

On the surface, it would seem that the pace of modern life is accelerating exponentially. There's never enough time. We're always rushing. A short delay in the daily sprint causes road rage, high blood pressure and hemorrhoids.

Poor, poor us.

So it was with a combination of curiosity and skepticism that I picked up "In Praise of Slowness" by Carl Honoré. The sub-title, "How a Worldwide Movement Is Challenging the Cult of Speed," provides some insight into the author's preconceptions, i.e. that speed, in and of itself, is the culprit.

I respectfully disagree.

Historically, when we look at the proponents of the simpler, slower life many have a unique and irritating trait in common: they have already made or inherited their millions.

Short of that, they have a comfortable social hammock (Thoreau for example) woven of friends and family willing to indulge their indolence.

Invariably, those who can afford to contemplate their navels while seated in a half lotus position are already rich or they are counting on someone else to pay the rent.

Many times the dichotomy is comical.

On a movie set, the action is frenetic. Time is money. An afternoon rain shower causes a delay that cascades throughout the shooting schedule. The producer is screaming about time and money. The star is apoplectic because she has to be in Aspen by Friday. The director is curled up behind the camera in a fetal position. And the writer is giving an interview on E! telling the reporter that his masterpiece is all about how the pace of modern life is killing us all.

Did you ever wonder why Paul Simon didn't think of slowin' down or kickin' down the cobblestones until he had a dozen top-ten hits under his belt?

He was too busy doing the important, creative work that made him his millions in the first place!

My modest proposal: Don't slow down, make the rest of the world slow down.

Superstar athletes know the secret. Chess grandmasters know it too.

It was said that Wayne Gretzky could envision patterns on the ice five seconds ahead of real time. For him, the game slowed down and he was always in the right place at precisely the right time. The Great One was able to see that lightning-fast game unfold before his eyes in super slow motion.

Bobby Fisher could see the chess board several moves ahead of his opponent. He didn't speed up his calculations. Instead, he eliminated extraneous variables and the game slowed down for him while it sped up for his competitors. A chess computer may be able to calculate every conceivable move with lightning speed, but a world-class grandmaster is able to zero in on the perfect move in every situation.

For us it's easier. We're not playing NHL hockey or competing against the world's finest chess masters.

For the overwhelming majority of normal, sentient beings the task at hand is to eschew the trivial pursuits that squander time, destroy productivity and make it seem as if we're all hurtling toward a black hole.

Step back for a moment. Look and listen. Today, those that complain loudest about their lives spinning out of control never eliminate extraneous variables.

In fact, triviality is their religion.

Just take an objective look at what sort of information makes the rounds on any of the cyber versions of the Foro Romano.

"Herman Fruschnick is waiting at the Dunkin' Donuts Drive Thru."

"Tippi Canavari wants Benno Blimpy to win The Biggest Loser."

So rather than demonizing the Cult of Speed, perhaps Mr. Honoré should revisit the topic to find what's really ailing us.

Is it velocity, or is it volume? Are we rushing toward oblivion at the speed of light; or are being being buried under an avalanche of text messages, emails and tweets?

I suspect that after chipping away at the superficial patina of modern life he may discover that while speed kills, banality numbs.

Do the Math

2009-05-22T06:24:00.024-05:00

A personal story illustrates very clearly why the attraction of a single-payer health care care system is irresistible. When our first child was born my wife and I decided that we would both share the child-care responsibilities. Since I had been freelancing for nearly a decade, it was easy for me to arrange my schedule and still hold up my end of the bargain.

For Maureen the decision was far more complex. She was entitled to child-care leave, but with the associated loss of income and benefits we would have to arrange our life in ways that reflected our new circumstances.

It turned out to be easier than we had anticipated.

Spurred on by the external motivation of having our income halved and the arrival of our second child, my career flourished. And fueled by the internet revolution the ranks of independent contractors and consultants swelled, leading also to an expansion of services and benefit plans aimed at freelancers.

In the area of health care we were faced with a choice. We could cover our family's medical risks with a comprehensive COBRA plan priced at $650 per month or we could design our own plan from the menu of offerings available through the major insurance providers.

We chose the latter option at a price of $196 per month.

Here are the details.

Under the COBRA plan all of our medical expenses would be covered, minus deductibles and co-pays.

Under our plan each family member was subject to a $2,000 deductible with a family deductible of $4,000. After we reached those thresholds all of our medical expenses would be covered.

So let's make a quick cocktail napkin analysis.

Under our plan, the most we could be on the hook for in a worst-case scenario was the $2,352 premium payment plus the $4,000 out of pocket deductible for a grand total of $6,352. In reality, we wrote a check whenever Matt saw the pediatrician and our expenses for that first year topped out at less than $2,800.

Compare this to the best-case scenario under the COBRA. Let's say that none of us got sick or had to go to the doctor. Our premium payments alone would have amounted to $7,800. Add to this the deductibles and co-pays involved had we incurred the hypothetical $4,000 in medical expenses and the total would have topped $9,000.

Our choice was easy and many other New York freelancers made similar choices.

But here in the Empire State CHOICE is a four-letter word, except in a very narrow context. Empire Blue Cross/Blue Shield along with the civil service unions and public policy advocates went in front of our state legislature and LIED, LIED, LIED!

Challenged by an aggressive new group of competitors and facing massive market-share erosion most businesses would seek ways to upgrade their offering, improve their service and reduce their costs.

But no. Empire Blue Cross and other non-profit insurers went crying to the government.

They misrepresented their finances with bogus financial documents.

Civil service unions predicted that New Yorkers would die in emergency rooms if non-profits were forced to compete with the more flexible benefit plans.

Public policy experts described holders of high-deductible plans, like ours, as the growing number of under-insured, forced into inferior plans by dire circumstances or duped by unscrupulous insurance salesmen.

Once again the experts contended that Americans were simply too stupid to make their own decisions.

If given a state-sanctioned monopoly, the non-profits promised to provide better coverage at lower premiums.

So, with no other choice, we were forced into a comprehensive benefits plan. The premium by this time ballooned to more than $700 per month and by the time Maureen went back to work four years later we were paying $980 each month for comprehensive benefits we didn't want and didn't need. So much for promises.

When it became clear that the New York State legislature had formulated their new regulations based on lies, deceit and corruption, I asked our State Senator if there was any possibility that the state would revisit the issue.

"No chance," came his reply.

Graft has momentum and the fruits of graft are so great that individual liberty stands little chance against a stampeding herd of parasites. But there's another dynamic in play. One that's far more insidious: Willful ignorance and the voluntary surrender to constant, relentless propaganda. When describing our chosen medical plan to friends and relatives, they were horrified.

"You mean... you have to pay to go to the doctor?"

"Well, yes, but we only pay $196 per month and if anyone gets seriously ill we don't have to worry about being bankrupted by medical bills."

"Yeah, but, you have to pay to go to the doctor!"

And that's the attraction of a single-payer health care system: Nobody has to pay to go to the doctor.

You can do the math. Run the numbers. Explain the pros and cons, but it's useless because for the vast majority of today's citizens the Canadian model is perfect.

Put simply, in Canada nobody has to go through the humiliation of paying for a doctor's visit, but seriously ill Canadians wait eight months or more for cancer surgery.

So when Hillary Clinton, Howard Dean, Barack Obama or the simpleton who chooses to pay for Starbuck's coffee while waiting for someone else to pick up the tab for health insurance speaks of universal coverage ask this question:

Coverage for what?

The truth is that when health-care bureaucrats and public policy experts refer to cost containment what they really they mean is rationing of the most expensive medical treatments and procedures.

Just as in Canada, the bureaucrats will be happy to provide low-cost services for people who aren't sick, then ration acute care so that by the time the patient's treatment is approved, they're already dead.

That's what I call compassion.

Health Versus Healthcare

2009-05-21T05:30:00.024-05:00

Nearly thirty years ago, as a Fortune 500 employee, I attended a seminar on health care finance. Newly hired and full of enthusiasm I volunteered for every "extra curricular" I could fit into my schedule. This one was very revealing and ominously prescient.

To my great good fortune I arrived in my new position just as the Nixon-Ford-Carter wage and price controls were lapsing so my income increased by about 40% on my starting day.

Other effects of the 1970's economic policies were more pernicious and far reaching. Prohibited from raising salaries beyond the government limit, employers sought alternative ways to attract new employees and retain current ones. As a result, non-salary benefit packages were expanded.

Health care benefits, which were referred to as "Hospitalization" in prior generations now became more comprehensive, adding layer upon additional layer of services that benefit plans would cover.

One member of the panel predicted that the current system of medical insurance was in danger of becoming a bureaucratic third-party payment plan for routine doctor visits.

As with all third-party payment plans, he warned, health-care costs were sure to skyrocket as administrative costs spiked up and consumer choices spiraled down. That was in 1981.

Now, three decades later, we are mired in another self-inflicted catastrophe which the ruling class has termed:The Health Care Crisis!

We can debate the merits of one health policy proposal versus another, but thoughtful discussion of any complex issue requires precise definitions, common lexicon and the agreement among all parties to refrain from personalizing policy disagreements.

In the current climate, thoughtful discussion is impossible.

Those on the left claim that those who oppose national single-payer health care want to see people die in the streets. Those on the right, myself included, brand national health care advocates as communists. Whether they are true believers or merely useful idiots is yet to be determined.

At the heart of the crisis, though, is the mind-set (predicted long ago at that seminar) that reaching into your wallet for routine medical treatment was an ordeal that no American should have to endure.

This is where precise definitions are critical.

Insurance versus third-party payment.

Health care versus medicine.

Most important, the definition of good health and how to achieve it.

This last element has been uniquely damaging. Over the years the term "preventive medicine" has become the Holy Grail of the health industry. While the prevention philosophy is well established, a collective mythology has emerged which equates good health with more trips to the doctor.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Today, advocates for coercive universal, single-payer health care claim, rightly, that insurance is about spreading the risk. What they fail to accept is that insurance is also about pricing risk. This is the paradox:

How can our national government devise an equitable medical insurance paradigm when the leading causes of disease and premature death are self-inflicted?

The short answer is that they can't.

While very few would advocate for a universal single-payer automobile insurance system that allows a motorist with five drunk driving violations to pay the same premium as another with a clean driving record, this is exactly what the single-payer health care advocates demand.

Moreover, while we all pay auto insurance premiums to protect against large property and liability risks, we don't dip our government-issued insurance cards into the gas pump every time we fill up.

If we did, we should not be surprised when regular unleaded jumps to $8 a gallon.

Once again, as with nearly all social and personal crises, the fault lies not in the stars but in ourselves.

Bloated Idiots

2009-05-19T05:53:00.030-05:00

In the Dashiell Hammet classic The Maltese Falcon, Casper Gutman discovers that the black bird he has been chasing for nearly two decades is nothing more than a crude fake.

Joel Cairo, unable to contain his disappointment cries:

"You imbecile. You bloated idiot. You and your stupid attempts to buy it!"

Yes. Yes. Crude attempts at gaining what you covet intensely very often result in disappointment. Today, the devotees of Daily Kos and Democratic Underground are consumed by two separate and conflicting desires.

The first is retribution.

George W. Bush trashed our Constitution, lied us into war and authorized an illegal and useless torture program for no other reason than, well, he's bad guy--a stupid guy--who did dumb things and enjoyed inflicting pain.

Today's rabble won't be satisfied until the former president is burned at the stake, paraded to the guillotine in an oxcart or left in a cell with a pistol and a cyanide capsule.

Through all of this, our esteemed Speaker, Lady Robespierre, has been playing a very perilous game, i.e. fanning the flames of wingnut revenge just enough to keep the embers glowing but not so much that they singe her pubic hairs.

It has been a delicate and dangerous dance indeed and she has proven not to be particularly adept at this version of the two-step.

To hear our current national leadership speak, you would think that they had spent the last eight years in a sensory-deprivation chamber.

Silly me, I thought that members of the Intelligence Committee attended briefings on intelligence.

It seems they were as attentive as were members of the Banking Committee and the Financial Services Committee, or so they say.

Funny thing, though, about the goings on in government.

The people who run these fandangos like to keep very detailed records and they keep them for a very long time.

This is a common trait among bureaucrats.

Records of the Nazi Holocaust list names, dates and precise hours of the day for every atrocity they committed in pursuit of a more perfect world. But I digress. Written, contemporaneous accounts of each and every briefing indicate that unless our leaders in Washington were all suffering from somnambulism, they had to have some knowledge of enhanced interrogation methods.

In fact, records indicate that when informed of the details of waterboarding, the Speaker-to-Be asked:

"Are you sure that's enough?"

So now Pelosi, Murtha, et.al. are being waterboarded by their own words and they don't like it one little bit.

To add to the irony, Frau Facelift's former patron and mentor, current CIA Director Leon Panetta, issued a scathing memo excoriating those who would cast doubt upon his department and its brave men and women.

Et tu, Leon.

So if Curious George deserves the guillotine, doesn't Nancy at least merit a little nip and tuck with a chain saw?

Which brings us to that other all-consuming craving of the left, i.e. implementing every hare-brained scheme cooked up by Ivy League eggheads and Saul Alinksy acolytes over the last fifty years.

Alas, the distraction of "What Did Nancy Know and When Did She Know It" threatens to divert political energy from more important Democratic Party objectives, such as eroding our freedoms, confiscating our wealth and dismantling free enterprise.

It won't be long now. As their dreams of a Euro-socialist Utopia quickly fade the witless parasites, misfits, and malcontents of the left will soon turn on their own heroes, screaming...

You imbeciles. You bloated idiots!

Migliore fortuna la volta prossima.

Intellectual Misuserisms

2009-05-18T07:33:00.025-05:00

During a conversation on politics with an old friend I offered the hope that all his faith in our new president:

"Ain't been in vain fer nuthin'."

With that he reared up and replied to my comment by saying:

"You always ridicule with clever solipsisms."

Far be it from me to be solipsistic, so I pointed out that he probably meant solecism.

Mistake 1: Never quote Lina Lamont at a New York City cocktail party. They won't know what you're talking about.

Mistake 2: Never attempt to correct the tortured misuse of the English language by New York intellectuals who pride themselves on their rhetorical skills. Especially New York intellectuals who took such great glee in equating our former president's acyrologia-laden speech with a simian level of intelligence.

Far be it from me to defend George W. Bush's tortured misuse of English. I confess that I still hold the bigoted view that fuzzy syntax indicates fuzzy thinking.

Then, just last week, during an interview with Wolf Blitzer Senator Dianne Feinstein of San Francisco took a shot at political opponents who would rather keep suicide bombers locked up in Guantanamo instead of halfway houses in Ashtabula.

"And, so, this shibboleth, which is largely used by Republicans, to say, oh, the Democrats want terrorists in your -- in your neighborhood, in your community, that is a lot of baloney. That is not true. And that's the message that is being pushed, because it frightens people."

Far be it from me to to lecture Sen. Feinstein on the Old Testament.

Rather than shibboleth, meaning password in Hebrew, she could have used canard, or misrepresentation, or prevarication or even baloney--which she did use later in her statement. But no, shibboleth has that certain intellectual panache that fuzzy-headed liberals love so dearly.

Never mind that it's incorrect to the point of idiocy.

This week, our Commissar in Chief was asked about his preferences in movies. In addition to calling the White House "my house" he also told of his admiration for the old Star Trek series.

"It turns out we got this nice theater on the ground floor of my house … So Star Trek, we saw this weekend, which I thought was good.

I used to love Star Trek. You know, Star Trek was ahead of its time. There was a whole–the special effects weren’t real good, but the storylines were always evocative, you know, there was a little commentary and a little pop philosophy for a 10-year-old to absorb."

Far be it from me to remind Mr. Obama that he is living in the people's house.

But should I expect the leader of the free world to understand the difference between evocative and provocative? Apparently not. Actually, for a man who had visited all 57 states during his presidential campaign and is now making personnel decisions for the Fortune 500 what's a little misusery now and then.

There I go again. Another clever solipsism.

So now I have had my bigotry reaffirmed. Yes, I do believe that fuzzy usage is an indicator of fuzzy thinking, regardless of how seemingly well-spoken or articulate.

Before Their Time

2009-05-17T14:38:00.001-05:00

In the hierarchy of human misfortune, nothing comes close to the tragedy of mothers and fathers attending the funerals of their children. As a Christian I understand that death is the beginning of eternal life in the presence of God, but as much as I try to reconcile faith and fact I still cannot accept a death that occurs out of sequential order. In the past few months I have listened to homilies delivered by sincere, loving and compassionate ministers of God, but still I ache--my heart has a void at its center.

Many years ago in Peru, we would observe the almost daily ritual of funeral processions with grieving fathers holding the tiny coffins of their infant children. And almost daily we would bow our heads and choke back a tear for babies we did not know and parents who should not have to go through this heart-wrenching ordeal. It's a distant land without modern services and they deserve better.

Almost two decades have past, but rarely does a week go by that I don't visualize those solemn processions.

Then a few weeks ago the word came: a young boy from our community who had been battling leukemia for several years finally lost his long fight.

A few days later, the teen-aged son of close friends was killed while engaging in a bizarre ritual that's become all the rage with kids these days.

And last week, the infant daughter of a friend--born prematurely--could not overcome the stresses of her birth. Forever I will retain the image of a young father holding the ashes of his infant daughter in his trembling hands.

During this period I also got word that my oldest friend had been killed in an accident caused by his own recklessness. He was not an infant or a teenager, but his mother and father still had to attend the funeral for their son and, for them, it was a tragedy.

The circumstances surrounding his death are unimportant. What happened was a reflection of the way he lived his life. He never gave the slightest thought for the consequences of his actions, either on himself or others. In his personal life he ran roughshod over the people who loved him. In his professional life he took advantage of our innate desire for deals that are too good to be true. As result, life savings were wiped out and lives were ruined. The victims were all strangers, of course, but it mattered little.

His death, caused by his own reckless disregard, was a final poke in the eye to the people who cared for him.

Four funerals. Eight grieving parents.

In the first three cases the tragedy involves lives cut short, aspirations unfulfilled and talents left untapped.

In the last instance the tragedy was not in how he died or even that he died. No, in this case the tragedy was in how he lived his life and the trail of wreckage he left in his wake.

Into the Fire

2009-05-17T04:40:00.000-05:00

A business colleague once told me that rewriting your life story line by line and chapter by chapter is a futile exercise. "If you want a new life," she said, "you have to throw your old life into the fire."

It's not a new idea.

From the legend of the Phoenix to Götterdämmerung to 2001, A Space Odyssey destruction and renewal have been integral to human mythology.

Frustrated by incremental improvements followed by regression, those who seek perfection look to conflagration as the pathway to a better life and a better world. They're probably correct in their thinking.

Evolution takes time, effort and commitment. Destruction provides instant gratification.

On a macro level, we may be living through the final death scene of American freedom and democracy. In 1787 Scottish historian Alexander Tyler observed:

"A democracy is always temporary in nature; it simply cannot exist as a permanent form of government.

A democracy will continue to exist up until the time that voters discover that they can vote themselves generous gifts from the public treasury.

From that moment on, the majority always votes for the candidates who promise the most benefits, with the result that every democracy will finally collapse due to loose fiscal policy, (which is) always followed by a dictatorship.

The average age of the worlds greatest civilizations from the beginning of history, has been about 200 years. During those 200 years,these nations always progressed through the following sequence:

From bondage to spiritual faith;
From spiritual faith to great courage;
From courage to liberty;
From liberty to abundance;
From abundance to complacency;
From complacency to apathy;
From apathy to dependence;
From dependence back into bondage."

Can anyone doubt that we Americans have learned how to vote ourselves goodies from the public treasury? More alarmingly, the evidence is clear that we are now in the apathy/dependence phase of the American death spiral.

On the personal level, the Émile Coué de Châtaigneraie mantra gives millions of adherents daily inspiration and a faint glimmer of hope that tomorrow may be better than yesterday.

In reality, when looking back at the illusion of getting better and better, few can claim that daily incremental improvements have resulted in dramatic lifetime transformations.

For most, every day and in every way we descend more deeply into conformity, boredom and despair.

Bejeebers, this is depressing, pessimistic even nihilist. No it isn't.

Every crossroad provides the pathway to a better more rewarding life.

As a nation, throwing our old ideas about governance and civic responsibility into the fire may lead to a better society if we choose the right path.

For me, eliminating negative influences, tearing off self-imposed shackles and pursuing a new life story--in effect, throwing my past life into the fire--can and will lead to a happier, more productive and far more rewarding life.

Today, I've resolved to begin the next phase of my of life with a renewed sense of enthusiasm and creative energy.

I'm also very confident that generations to come will create a better world out of the ashes of our collective selfishness and profligacy and that I will see that better world in my lifetime.

The Teamwork Trap

2009-02-20T11:38:00.000-05:00

Where are the leaders when we need them?

Where is Teddy Roosevelt?

Where is Robert Moses?

Where is Lee Iacocca?

To our great misfortune they are long gone. Some dead, some retired but all long gone. Even Bob Lutz has had enough and announced his retirement from General Motors leaving the future of the American car industry to Harvard Business School imbeciles like Rick Wagoner.

When America's westward growth and emergence as a world power depended on a reliable seaway connecting the east coast with the west coast, Teddy Roosevelt went into action, unilaterally. Rather than let Congress debate the merits of the project he simply went ahead and built it.

"Should I let them debate this issue endlessly or go ahead with it and let them debate Teddy Roosevelt. They can debate me for the next four years and when they get tired of talking the canal will have already been built."

President Roosevelt didn't build consensus. He didn't appoint a commission. He didn't invite the leaders of the House and Senate into the Oval Office for tea or make speeches about bipartisan teamwork. He built the Panama Canal--under budget and ahead of schedule.

When Robert Moses received millions of federal dollars under the WPA he could have easily used it to pay off political cronies.

After all, that's what the power brokers from other states did with the money. Instead, Moses built a state parks system that still endures, providing recreational opportunities and state revenues for nearly eighty years.

Moses also realized that the automobile was the engine that would drive economic expansion and built highways and bridges.

In addition to building them, Robert Moses protected these massive infrastructure projects from the political hacks and parasites who would use the revenues not for the maintenance and expansion of the system, but to create political patronage and fuel corruption on a massive scale.

Of course, since his death this is precisely what has happened. Today, with a round trip on the Verrazano Bridge costing $10 (with $9 going to the MTA) the Metropolitan Transportation Authority is still teetering on the brink of insolvency.

Left to a commission or the state legislature we would still be debating the merits of a two-lane highway between Spring Valley and Albany or an upgrade of ferry service between Brooklyn and Staten Island.

When Lee Iacocca took over a troubled Chrysler Motors he went to Congress with a personal pledge to turn the company around.

He made himself personally accountable and through the power of his leadership and his keen insights into the American car market he succeeded.

It wasn't a management committee that brought Chrysler back from the dead, it was the leadership of Lee Iacocca.

The Chrysler bailout was still a bad idea because it now provides the rationale for every conceivable use of taxpayer money to rescue banks, car companies and securities firms without any reasonable expectation that they can survive past next month.

Can anyone who has witnessed the pathetic spectacle of the auto and financial executives appearing before Congrees honestly say that there's a Lee Iacocca among this gaggle of dimwits?

And what has consensus building, bipartisanship and teamwork gotten us?

For starters there's a stimulus bill with virtually no stimulus. President Obama let Nancy Pelosi, Barney Frank, Chris Dodd, Bernie Sanders and Harry Reid write the bill and he has signed it into law without even pretending that this has anything to do with reviving the economy. And while our President speaks so eloquently about getting this economy going again immediately, unsurprisingly most of the Porkulus spending goes into effect next year when the best legislators money can buy are all up for reelection.

Coincidence?

So while America's leaders are using our grandchildren's money to pay off today's political debts, the Chinese--yes the Red Chinese--are using their trade surplus to build roads, bridges, nuclear power plants and their own worlwide automobile manufacturing industry.

The Tiger Champ, designed and engineered in China, will be assembled in Oklahoma for sale in America and throughout the world. No doubt this is just the beginning.

I wonder how home prices are faring in Guangzhou?

The 67% Solution

2009-01-28T11:45:00.000-05:00

Update! Update! Update! Update!

With the predictability of a lunar eclipse, the New York Times today features a front-page report headlined:

Stimulus Plan Would Provide Flood of Aid to Education

So now the taxpayers--US--will be coerced into partnership with failed and corrupt banks, failed, corrupt and stupid carmakers, and a failed, corrupt, stupid and arrogant education industry. The Times article is excerpted here.

The proposed emergency expenditures on nearly every realm of education, including school renovation, special education, Head Start and grants to needy college students, would amount to the largest increase in federal aid since Washington began to spend significantly on education after World War II.

Critics and supporters alike said that by its sheer scope, the measure could profoundly change the federal government’s role in education, which has traditionally been the responsibility of state and local government.

In this euphoric run-up to the ascension of The Oba-Messiah, all the usual suspects are lumbering toward the trough in order to slobber up the Fool's Gold now being minted by our leaders in Washington.

Consistently neglected in boom years, INFRASTRUCTURE is now the Golden Calf of the 21st Century New Deal, worshipped by one and all in every level of government.

Who can argue with it? Don't these worthy projects need funding? And aren't these the same public servants that have served us so well in good times and bad?

In recent years here in New York City the tax dollars fueled by Wall Street profits cascaded into the city treasury and--as in boom times past--roads, bridges and transit systems deteriorated.

Did any of our political leaders wail about our crumbling infrastructure?

"Sorry, bridges don't vote" came the reply from the political class as they shoveled money to voting blocs and interest groups for the express purpose of remaining in office so they could shovel more money.

Remember the gas tax? How about the bridge tolls that were supposed to benefit mass transit? Money, money, money with nothing to show. So now that stimulus is our government's most critical responsibility, the Fed is cranking up the printing presses.

Their mission: inflate the money supply to pay workers to dig holes in the ground.

Ten years from now when the next crisis hits we'll be treated to another round of bleating from those who advocate a commitment to infrastructure and we will have all forgotten about the previous roads and bridges scam.

This should come as no surprise.

Wasting money is what governments do and infrastructure is traditionally the way they do it. Nothing new here.

But what of social welfare, healthcare and education? Surely these are noble endeavors worthy of national mobilization and they figure prominently in the new administration's stimulus plans.

Useless infrastructure projects simply produce "Big Digs" and "Bridges to Nowhere" that impoverish our grandchildren. National commitments to worthy social and educational crusades typically result in stunted human development in the here and now. As an added kick in the ass, they prolong and entrench the delusions of the social engineers and educrats so that effective reform becomes impossible.

As an example, let's take issue with a government initiative that is beyond reproach: Project Headstart. Headstart was born in 1965 during America's Great Society frenzy. Its mission and vision, to promote greater school readiness among under served children, was self-evidently noble. Predictably, as the Headstart Medusa spread its reptilian ganglia from city to city, suburb to suburb and state to state, community action groups sprang up, taking proactive steps to keep the federal dollars flowing. Also predictably, advocacy groups such as the National Headstart Association resisted all efforts to provide accountability and financial transparency.

Instead, public money was poured into a black hole while self-serving measurements designed to assess the "SKILLS" promoted by the early education movement showed that these skills developed at a more rapid rate.

In effect, industry studies demonstrated convincingly that two-year-old children who were taught to place "A" blocks next to "B" blocks performed this valuable task better than two year olds who had not been conditioned like trained seals. More than forty years later, the beat goes on without a whisper of protest from those who know better but fear being branded as heartless.

Year after year, independent studies designed to measure long-term educational efficacy consistently demonstrate that when tracked through the four stages of cognitive development, children enrolled in Headstart programs show no greater proficiency in formal operational thinking than children who have started school as late as seven years old.

Jean Piaget, the Swiss biologist, philospher and epistemologist first identified the four stages-- sensory/motor, preoperational, concrete operational and formal operational--more than seventy years ago.

He also observed that by the end of secondary education about one third of all high school graduates were capable of formal operational thinking. Today, throughout the industrialized world, one third of all high school graduates demonstrate formal operational thinking.

Does this mean that the decline in public education is only an illusion?

I think not. It's true that the proportion of students capable of abstract thinking and symbolic logic has remained constant. However, the academic performance of the remaining 67% of high school graduates has declined precipitously. These are the
students who in past generations achieved a level of functional literacy which has all but disappeared.

Who is advocating for the great two thirds?

Who will campaign for functional literacy?

Moreover, will anyone have the courage to admit that America's continued prosperity depends on Americans who can operate a CNC lathe at least as much as it depends on Americans who can design a CNC lathe?

In a matter of weeks the Fed will start pouring buckets of depreciating Greenbacks into the feeding trough.

And you can be certain that the Early Education Pimps will be there, cheek-to-jowl with the porcine infrastructurists, their snouts buried deep in the stimulative slop. So take heart. There will be new roads and gleaming bridges and modern transit systems to speed Americans to work in this grand new epoch of 21st Century jobs. But traffic will be much lighter than normal if there aren't enough qualified Americans to fill these dream jobs.

For today, though, the skies are brighter and the air is fresher and a brave new world is just beyond the horizon. God help the 67% who will be left behind.

Orfeo ed Euridice... or... I've Just Gone Through Hell for This Chick and She Still Won't Do What I Tell Her

2009-01-28T05:23:00.000-05:00

We went to see Orfeo again last week at the Met. We don't usually attend a performance a second time, especially so soon, but this is a breakthrough production so here goes.

Proving once again that there's nothing new under the Sun, the Metropolitan Opera wound down its 2006/2007 season with a spectacular production of Christoph Willibald Gluck's Orfeo ed Euridice.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Orpheus myth, here's a quick synopsis:

Orfeo is mourning the death of his young wife, Euridice. But he sends everyone away because his grief is so overwhelming even their sincere and heartfelt support sinks him deeper into despair.

Then along comes Cupid, yeah Cupid, suspended from a wire no less, who tells him that all he has to do is follow his beloved's spirit into the underworld and bring her back.

But, she orders, he cannot look at her, or tell her why he can't look at her, until they're back home or she will die. And this time, for keepsies.

Yada, yada, yada... he descends into Hell, gets past the Furies, finds his wife and they start home.

"But why won't you look at me?," she asks, "Am I no longer beautiful?"

"Just shut up and follow me." implores Orfeo, but she's relentless.

"Is it because this dress makes me look fat?"

"Have you found someone else? It's that little tart from Thessalonika, isn't it?"

At this point the Missus turned to me and said "What a wimp. Why doesn't he just grab her by the scruff of the neck, tell to STFU and drag her out of there?"

Why not indeed? But this is an opera.

Finally, when he can't take her nagging anymore, he turns and looks her straight in the eyes and she promptly drops dead... again.

At that point poor Orfeo collapses to his knees and wails: "Che faro senza Euridice" (what shall I do without Euridice). Well lets see... for starters I'll play golf, go fishing and drink as much beer as I want anytime I want.

But no.

All Orfeo has to do is threaten suicide and Cupid returns to snatch the dagger from his hand. Touched by his devotion Cupid brings Euridice back to life and she immediately starts nagging him to finish mowing the lawn. What oh what shall I do without Euridice? What oh what shall any of us do?

Well, they live happily every after, have five kids and Orfeo gets a job playing in the house band at Euridice's father's catering hall. They are Greek, after all.

And we can only speculate as to how Orfeo's life would have turned out if he had passed on Cupid's "descend into Hell" offer and just looked around for a younger woman. After a respectable mourning period, of course.

But this is pure fiction. For the happily married among us, thankfully, Orfeo's tragedy is a prospect that few of us (gentlemen) will have to confront. All you have to do is glance at the obituary page or take a walk past your local assisted living center to recognize that we're not going to outlive our wives. It brings back memories of the old Alan King routine, "Survived by his wife." In fact, I'm sure that if we followed the Orpheus legend to its conclusion we'd find Euridice sitting in a beach chair in Boca Raton cashing Orfeo's pension checks from the Amalgamated Greek Lyre Players Union.

Face it, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

So when you're tempted to blurt out, "Why can't you do what I tell for once?", understand that this is a male/female dynamic that's been going on since there have been males and females. Just swallow those words before they jump out and get you into trouble because the odds that she'll do what you say are roughly equivalent to the chances that Alex Rodriguez will hit a bases-loaded homer with two out in the bottom of the ninth of the seventh game of the World Series while still wearing a Yankee uniform.

It ain't happenin'.

Next week: Wotan, the King of the Gods, chides his teenage daughter Brunnhilde for her disobediance. "You're grounded, young lady!", he shouts. Then he places her on a rock surrounded by a ring of fire for all eternity. Would that it were...

I'm, Like Ya Know, Available

2009-01-22T10:34:00.000-05:00

Caroline Kennedy is breaking hearts again.

Forced by personal reasons to inform Governor David Paterson that she is unable to serve her state and her country in the Senate, Princess Caroline will now retreat to her Eastside townhouse and suffer in private.

Unlike that other paragon of the New York City conspicuous-charity scene, Bernard Madoff, Ms. Kennedy will not be required to wear an electronic ankle bracelet.

Her voluntary confinement, however, will be no less unplatable or reflective than that of Bunko Bernie, 21st Century Ponzi.

Perhaps, however, now is the time for the rest of us to reflect on how shabbily Her Grace was treated. How dare we question her motives, her qualifications, her resolve, her... like, ya know... experientials, and most of all her... like, ya know... wantingness for the job.

Poor dear. I suppose that she can go back to writing books, but I'm told that a member of the vast-right-wing conspiracy hid her box of Crayolas.

Shame on us.

But enough about the Lady from Hyannis.

Let's get down to business.

You're in a bind, Governor. The recent high-jinx in Illinois make it nearly impossible for you to sell this position at anywhere near what it's worth. Appointing another high-profile Democrat risks roiling the wrath of the House of Kennedy, especially that despicable ex-cousin in law. For the same reason, likely candidates are hiding under the couch in fear.

So Governor, since there's so little time and so few potential takers...

I'm available.

Here are the reasons why I am the perfect choice.

I have no relevant experience.

I have no appropriate training or education.

My interpersonal and communication skills are, to be blunt, crude and a little creepy.

Since I'm likely to be impeached or indicted before the next election you'll soon be able to sell the seat at the current market price. By next year that Blay-Go-Jevich stuff will have been long forgotten.

And lastly, my father is a very jolly, very likable fellow.

Oh, and did I mention... after paying my New York State tax bill I really, really, really need the money.

So call now. This offer won't last forever.

Yours truly,

Rufus T. Firefly
Soon-to-be-Former President
Democratic Republic of Freedonia

Oh yeah... Thanks JetBlue

2009-01-22T08:25:00.001-05:00

Balancing the demands of shameless and brutal commerce with the impossible dreams of the preservationists, JetBlue has restored a measure of sanity into this cruel and sterile world. JetBlue resisted the temptation to raze Eero Saarinen's iconic Terminal 5 to make way for their new JFK complex. Just as significant, they also pushed back attempts to preserve the site as an obsolete museum piece.

The new JetBlue JFK terminal complex places Saarinen's masterpiece at the center of a beautiful, functional and, environmentally-friendly facility.

Nearly 50 years ago, after the concrete was poured, Saarinen and his chief engineer stood underneath the structure as the scaffolding was being removed.

When the last support was dismantled the architect paused for a moment, turned to his colleague and said:

"If this whole thing came came crashing down on my head right now, I would die a happy man."

It didn't. Firmitas, utilitas, venustas.

Vitruvius would be proud.

Bravo JetBlue.

Monuments & Anti-Monuments: The Death of Artistic Vision

2009-01-21T11:48:00.000-05:00

I was confronted by three strands of cultural connective tissue this week which portend the death of artistic expression. No, it has nothing to do with the First Amendment or government suppression. It has everything to do with the tearing down of greatness and the worship of mediocrity by the dominant cultural elite.

First, Terminal 5 at John F. Kennedy International Airport.

Second, the Zurich Opera's production of Richard Wagner's Parsifal.

And third, that gaping hole in the ground where New York's World Trade Center once stood.

Terminal 5 was and is an architectural wonder.

Designed by Eero Saarinen nearly 50 years ago it stands as a soaring monument to flight and mankind's unquenchable desire to reach for the heavens.

Unfortunately, Terminal 5 was also the site and the title of an ill-fated "Art Exhibit" in 2005.

Organized by the Generation Y nouveau dilettante Rachel K. Ward, Terminal 5 featured works of quackery that spoke directly to those to whom they speak directly--folks who would not know a work of art from a hole in the ground.

In fact, these imbeciles often worship holes in the ground as breakthrough works of art.

Case in point, Vanessa Beecroft whose naked narcissism is hailed far and wide by adoring acolytes who admire naked narcissism.

In addition to the Beecroft masterpiece, which was never shown, there was a square carpet made of padlocks, a red carpet leading nowhere, and a breathtaking message board with nothing on it.

Look out Michelangelo, the giants of 21st Century art have you in their sights.

Bottom Line: The opening night gala turned out to be a closing night disaster.

Why?

Because the scions of the New York art scene descended upon Kennedy Airport, got drunk, trashed the terminal, vomited on the floor and added their own personal artistic touches--in the form of spray painted graffiti--to Terminal 5's iconic white curved walls.

Then there's Parsifal. Now, I must confess that I am a theater throwback. When I buy a ticket and take my seat I willingly suspend my disbelief. Same thing at home when I pop the NetFlix DVD into the player. So if I'm watching a story that's supposed to take place in a forest in the Pyrenees I don't mind if the trees are made of papier mache and the rocks wobble a bit at the slightest touch.

IT'S THEATER. IT'S MAKE BELIEVE. GET OVER IT!

Not today. No, now we're treated to theater pieces designed and produced by people who hate theater.

So the clearing in the forest becomes a minimalist classroom with abstract furniture.

The Grail Knights are now represented by a professor in dusty frock coat and his slobbering pupils.

The wounded King is a pathetic wimp in a bloody white leisure suit being wheeled around on a stand-up hospital gurney.

Thankfully, as with Robert Wilson's putrid interpretation of Lohengrin, there's always the music. Close your eyes, drink in the monumental score and let your imagination run wild. It's better than watching the visual atrocity on the stage.

Which brings us to the hole in the ground in downtown New York.

As it stands, or more accurately as it doesn't stand, the World Trade Center site is an Al Qaeda victory monument. Every day that the site stands vacant is an expression to the world that Osama bin Laden has won the battle. Politicians debate. Interests groups demand a seat at the negotiating table. Construction workers and heavy equipment lay idle. And the overwhelming majority of Americans wonder...

WHEN WILL THE GIGANTIC SCAR IN THE NEW YORK SKYLINE BE HEALED?

There was great hope that the completion of the Calatrava Transit Hub would be the impetus to get the project moving.

Now, even this beautiful, functional and environmentally innovative project has hit a logjam.

Superstar architect Santiago Calatrava, who has a reputation for being able to exceed an unlimited budget, has created a magnificent structure that actually pays homage to Saarinen and adds 21st century technological innovations that will make it the greenest facility of its kind in the world.

However, cost overruns along with the anti-monument thinking of small-minded bureaucrats have conspired to halt construction.

The excuse du jour is the cost, but modifications to the mechanics of the facility can bring the budget in line without changing the integrity of the design. It's much more likely that the design will be trashed in favor of a transit hub that looks less expensive and costs twice as much. This isn't a unique paradox. I cannot count the times that a client has told me to design an event that "doesn't look expensive."

On his home-building blog Tedd Benson recently invoked Vitruvius, the Roman architect.

A building, said Vitruvius, must be strong, it must be functional and it must be beautiful--firmitas, utilitas, venustas.

Strong is easy. Functional is a bit more challenging. Beautiful? Artistic? Inspiring? These are qualities that are, today, all but impossible.

Today, the anti-monumentalist, anti-artistry movement represented by Ward, Beecroft, Wilson, et. al. worships the puny, the plain, the unimaginative.

In this day and age the Philistines no longer have to tear down the shrines.

They have simply enshrined mediocrity.

As was stated so clearly and so cynically by Ellsworth Monkton Toohey in The Fountainhead:

"A man more able than his brothers insults them by implication."

Heaven forbid that great thinkers, artists and builders insult those with small intellect, small imagination and small ambitions.

Is this the death of artistic expression in everyday life?

Maybe not, but it's definitely on life support.

If This is What They're Thinking About...

2009-01-16T14:32:00.000-05:00

Thought you'd all get a kick out of this.

Just got a letter from the District Court of Nassau County, Criminal Term. Since most of you already know that I'm a hardened criminal, I'm not giving away any secrets.

I did it, and I'm glad!

Yes, I exceeded the 5MPH speed limit on my jetski in Freeport Creek last summer. After a desperate struggle I was finally subdued and served with five bogus summonses, all of which (except for the speeding) were immediately dismissed.

Rather than spend another full day sitting on the "Group W" bench with slumlords and drunk drivers, I capitulated and paid the fine.

Now, the criminal justice system here in NYS is checking up to make sure that I'm remaining on the straight and narrow.

The letter reminds me that I (the defendant) shall abide by the following conditions of conduct:

- Avoid injurious or vicious habits.

- Refrain from frequenting unlawful or disreputable places or consorting with disreputable persons.

- Work faithfully at a suitable employment or faithfully pursue a course of study or of vocational training that will train me for suitable employment.

There's more, but you get the idea. My personal favorites are the requirements to seek psychiatric treatment and make restitution of the fruits of my crime.

It's heart warming to know that the State of New York is using all their considerable resources to protect the citizens of the Empire State from dangerous marauders who would ride their jetskis at 10MPH in a 5MPH zone.

Now we can all sleep easy.

Perhaps our state's highest law enforcement official, Saint Cuomo the Younger, should coordinate an undercover operation at the new Waverunner attraction in the Nathan's gameroom.

Looks like a career criminal to me.

Prudence and the Pill

2009-01-13T11:38:00.000-05:00

Everybody loves a rollicking British bedroom farce.

In the 1960s sexual taboos were called into question, popular culture was in a transitional stage, and David Niven and Deborah Kerr starred in a harmless bit of cinematic fluff entitled:

Prudence and the Pill.

In keeping with the cultural imperative of the decade, "The Pill" of the title was looked upon as a Magic Bullet that could shield man and woman, young and old, from every manner of irresponsible behavior. As in all farce comedies, things go awry, birth control pills and aspirins get switched and mother and daughter wind up pregnant. A laugh riot.

Today we have another version of Prudence and the Pill.

Prudence is the sense of responsibility and discipline demonstrated by the great majority of Americans who live within their means, work hard and pay their bills.

The pill, in this case, comes in the form of government bailouts for the idiots and incompetents that have spent the last four decades running their old-economy enterprises into the depths of Hell.

These dinosaurs have no logical or rationale basis for their continued existence beyond the "too-big-to-fail" argument.

But what would happen if we were to turn that "too-big-too-fail" excuse on its ear?

What if we were to determine that a money-losing enterprise was too big to continue on life support? Now there's an idea.

Keeping General Motors, AIG and CitiGroup alive prevents younger more innovative companies from jumping in and filling the void. Pouring money into moribund Detroit manufacturers, irresponsible banks and predatory mortgage companies rewards bad judgement and forces those of us that bought cars and houses we could afford, after saving enough for a down payment, to subsidize those who refused to defer gratification.

It's exasperating. Time after time, our government steps in to save the fools from themselves. The result is that every well-run enterprise in America is placed at a severe competitive disadvantage.

Worse, they are forced through penal taxation to fund their competitors' idiocy.

And it seems that this folly will never end.

Instead of our prudence being rewarded we're forced to swallow the biggest and bitterest pill our government has ever served up.

And how will future generations look upon this sorry period in American history?

Will this this episode resemble a British farce?

I think it's much more likely that the ending of this drama will be An American Tragedy.

Faces in the Crowd

2009-01-01T04:56:00.000-05:00

We toyed with the idea of ringing in the New Year at Times Square, but that was a few days ago when the forecast called for mild temperatures and light winds.

As the days and hours ticked off and the forecast changed from mild to brutal, the notion of a quiet New Year's Eve at home became more and more appealing.

Besides, with the kids planning their own acivities, staying close to the phone and not trapped in a Bloomberg pen seemed more prudent.

Then, early yesterday L'il Angel developed a cough, sore throat and congestion so it was off to the doctor. No strep. That was good news and the doctor said that going out with her friends was not prohibited. I think he's as scared of her as I am. But when the time came, she said that she wanted to spend New Year's Eve with her family. What a crock. So Matt invited his friends over to our house and we all celebrated the coming of 2009 in front of the TV. First it was the Twilight Zone Marathon, then the celebration from Times Square.

Did I say celebration?

We've been to New Year's Eve at Times Square prior to the Bloomberg restructuring of the iconic celebration. It was quintessential New York--a raucous, spontaneous and chaotic affair. You could be a child again. No rules. Total anonymity. Anarchy... PRICELESS!

But now? You have to get to the venue by the appointed time.

You must stand in the designated place.

Once there, you cannot move about or wander past the barricades.

Participants in this atrocity are given party favors, told when to cheer and invited to sing along with Lionel Richie. I know it was Lionel Richie because they told me. After multiple plastic surgeries you have to take their word for it.

"Wave your blue balloons. Jump in place. Sing along."

It's not New Year's Eve, it's a Bar Mitzvah.

And worst of all, in this Brave New World the stars of the show aren't the anonymous revelers drawn to the Hub of the World from every nation on Earth.

No, our senses and sensibilities are assaulted by the giants of American culture... Carson Daly, Kellie Pickler... The Pussycat Dolls!

Spare me.

Happy New Year.

Now let's switch back to The Twilight Zone.

It's Time to Put the Fun Back in Dysfunctional

2008-12-30T22:26:00.000-05:00

Several years ago the New York Times ran a Sunday Magazine profile of several young and successful TV sitcom writers. They spoke of their therapy sessions, their shoes and their families.

"You can't write for television" said one comedy writer, "if you didn't grow up in a dysfunctional family."

Okay, I admit it. I love oddball families.

There were the Dowds, the extended family of Harvey the six foot rabbit. In You Can't Take it With You the Sycamores took in every misfit in town, even the wealthy son of the bigshot banker who was trying to evict them.

And of course my personal favorites, those lovable Brewster sisters of Arsenic and Old Lace who buried their problems in the basement.

Did anyone who went to the theater ever believe that these were authentic slices of American life?

Of course not. The Dowds, the Sycamores, the Brewsters were all fictional. And that's the point.

So, for anyone here with a sensitive nature or a fragile ego, cover your eyes, ears, nose and throat. What you are about to read will shock and amaze you. It may revolt you. It may even enlighten you, although I doubt it. The reason is that my conclusion is so basic and so self evident that for those that understand the concept it's as clear as crystal. For those that don't it's as dense as treakle and ten times more unpatatable.

Here goes. You have been warned.

There is no such thing as a dysfunctional family.

You read it right. There is no such thing as a dysfunctional family. It's a fiction. What we have today is a pathetic legion of dysfunctional people, aided and abetted by an army of psychologists and social workers, who have slithered out from under their beds to blame those that love them most for all their problems and difficulties.

It's nearly impossible to miss the symptoms.

Bad habits become addictions.

Anti-social behavior is defined as a public health problem.

Unpleasantness is defined as honesty and "speaking my mind."

And all personal failures are ascribed to an all-consuming but nebulous family pathology, i.e. dysfunction.

So, not only do these dysfunctional people make life a hell on Earth for family and friends, they also turn the mirror toward the wall and blame everyone around them for their own shorcomings. Worse, these losers have now reached a critical mass as the designers of the popular culture. They are eroding our objective sense of right and wrong, human and inhuman, functional and dysfunctional.

When I turn the key to start my car and hear nothing but a faint clicking sound, I can be fairly certain that my battery is dysfunctional. I don't blame the entire automobile industry for inflicting dysfunctional cars on an innocent and unsuspecting public. Then, when I notice that I had left the lights on the night before, as a relatively sentient being I blame the occasional dysfunction in my own brain rather than any defect in the battery.

Not so for the dysfunctional person.

"That battery should know that I'm imperfect. It should recognize my weaknesses. It should adjust and accomodate. It's that damn battery that doesn't understand me!"

As Elwood P. Dowd told us so eloquently, "In this life you have to be oh so clever or oh so pleasant. I decided to be oh so pleasant."

It seems that the designers of today's popular culture have decided that they want to be oh so unpleasant. Tragedy is, there's not a thing that's the least bit clever about any of it.

A Milestone

2008-12-27T12:01:00.001-05:00

December 27th, 2008

Today marks an important milestone for me and the fact that I'm here writing this blog entry on this dreary afternoon is the proof. On December 27th, 2003 I was diagnosed with tacchycardia-induced cardiomyopathy which caused severe damage to the left side of my heart and a 35% loss of cardiac function. On that day, the odds of me being here to tell this story stood at less than 50/50.

So... it's time for a little history.

I've never been in really good shape. Even during my high-school days when I played baseball and ran track, I would often cross the finish line after a sprint and collapse. In the past twenty years, other than running around with the kids I've done virtually no exercise.

Then, about six years ago I started having dizzy spells. Doctors couldn't find a cause, other than thallysemia or "stress and anxiety", and it went on for a year. More than once the attacks were so bad I had to go to the Emergency Room. Early that same year I cracked up my motorcycle and broke my collarbone and four ribs. (Doctors had no problem with this diagnosis)

After the crash I spent two months sleeping in a recliner (out of necessity) and another four months spending most of my time in that same recliner (out of de-motivation).

Finally I saw a doctor who diagnosed atrial fibrillation. The good news: A calcium-channel blocker cured the problem in about a day.

The bad news: I had 35% loss of cardiac function (cardiomyopathy) on the left side of my heart. Just my luck, it’s the type of problem that kills 50% of patients within 5 years.

When I asked the cardiologist if my heart damage could be reversed he looked up at the ceiling and said that it's been known to happen... in some patients... some of the time...

I sensed immediately that he was blowing smoke up my shorts.

Dr. Zaman told me to go on a light exercise program so I bought a treadmill and a Total Gym. Good news again. After about five months my heart function started to rebound slowly. Little by little I was up to 75%... 85%...

In a year I was back up to 95%. Then 100% in less than two years. But the heart damage was still there.

Still, I felt as if I had been reborn. The A-Fib episode gave me all the motivation I needed and I resolved that I was not going to make the same mistakes (no exercise) again. I had been 175 pounds, 149 cholesterol and normal blood pressure for the last 30 years, but I WAS SQUISHY.

The treadmill and the Total Gym worked fine, up to a point. Then I hit a plateau.

So I decided to increase the intensity. Working late one night I took a break and turned on the TV. As I was flipping through the dial I stopped on a fitness infomercial and made the first, and only, impulse purchase of my life.

Soon the DVDs, resistance bands and pull-up bar arrived and I started the program. Starting easy I went through the first twelve weeks, felt better and looked better. Then, during an echocardiogram Dr. Zaman said that there was something curious going on.

"Your cardiomyopathy has improved" he said.

That's when I told him that I had started an extreme exercise program.

I was supposed to consult with my doctor before starting, but I was sure he would advise against it. That was more than a year ago.

But there's more.

My last two echocardiograms showed no evidence of cardiomyopathy.

I asked the doctor if he had ever seen this before and he told me that in 37 years practicing cardiology he has had five patients who have improved their cardiac function, but only one patient who has completely reversed a cardiomyopathy.

Guess who?

BTW: The fibrillation was caused by a defect in the electrical impulses to the heart muscle, not any problem with weight, cholesterol or blood pressure.

My advice: If any of you have experienced a flushed feeling, rapid heartbeat and dizzyness don't take the doctor's word that it's stress or anxiety. Stress is the modern day equivalent of evil spirits. When they don't know what's wrong with you they blame stress.

Get yourself checked for atrial fibrillation. It's the most common and undiagnosed form of cardiac arrythmia and there are modern methods available now to treat it.

Hope this helps.

Hobbyists, Take Heart!

2008-12-26T14:25:00.000-05:00

Please read this disclaimer before proceeding:

I don't have a diploma from Harvard like John Thain, Rick Wagoner, Barney Frank, Jamie Gorelick, Chuck Schumer, Ted Kennedy and Eliot Spitzer.

I don't have any high-level executive experience at rock-solid enterprises like Lehman Brothers, Pan American World Airways or Studebaker.

Most importantly, I do not have any special insight or intuition regarding arcane, high-yield investment opportunities like Bernard Madoff, Ivan Boesky and Carlo Ponzi.

No, I'm merely a poor, starving writer with a degree in theater arts from a humble municipal institution of slightly higher learning. However, I do know that a business has to take in more money than it shells out, provide products and services that customers actually want, and pay back money that it borrows. Call me naive. Call it 19th century thinking. Call it anything you want, yet these simple facts of life remain in force today as they have for more than 5,000years. Surprisingly, these concepts seem to have been lost on most graduates of high-tone universities.

This isn't a new phenomenon and you don't have to look back very far for parallels.

During the dot.com bubble we were told that "old economy" metrics like share of market and price-to-earnings ratio were no longer relevant.

No, in this new Gilded Age investors foamed at the mouth to invest in startups with high share of mind and price-to-concept ratios.

Then, when the inflow of new cash couldn't keep up with the outflow of marketing funds (i.e. Super Bowl commercials necessary to maintain high share of mind) the house of cards came tumbling down. These were companies with no tangible products, services or value. In short, investors had no reasonable expectation of profit--long term, near term, any term. Oops, forgot to ask.

How is the Madoff scam any different?

If there's any lesson to be learned it's that traditional business models and metrics matter.

Today, any objective observer looking at General Motors would determine that GM is not, by any definition, a car company.

No, it's the world's largest nursing home with a small money losing operation that makes cars.

In spite of the fact that they employ the greatest minds in the automotive industry every car that rolls off the GM assembly line sells for an average of $900 less than it costs to produce. We can debate all day about the reasons, but--LISTEN UP CLASS--a company that continually produces products at a loss is not a viable business.

General Motors Chairman Rick Wagoner acknowledges that his company loses money on every car they sell. His public statements suggest a belief that they can make it up in volume.

Do you get the message folks?

If Americans will simply open up their grandchildren's piggy banks to them they're confident they can come up with a plan to sell more cars at a loss. Is it possible that he learned of this curious business strategy while pursuing his MBA at Harvard? If so, I'll take my degree from UCLA (The University on the Corner of Lexington Avenue) any day of the week.

As an independent contractor I have to file a Schedule C every year detailing business income or loss from my modest enterprise. According to IRS rules any business that shows a loss in three of the previous five years is not really a business at all, it's a hobby.

Now, if GM gets its way, independent contractors from coast-to-coast will have a wide variety of opportunities to report losses from fishing, golf, TV watching, snowboarding, jetskiing and every other diversion they can conjure.

In its own way GM can almost singlehandedly transform the American economy. Rather than producing goods and services, Americans will be able to focus all their energies on avoiding the production of goods and services. That is, of course, unless your business happens to be fishing tackle and golf clubs.

Perhaps the best part of this whimsical adventure is that next year President Obama will get to change the name of the Commerce Department to the Federal Bureau of Diversion and the Secretary of Commerce will forevermore be known as the Hobby Czar.

Escape, American Style

2008-12-20T12:28:00.000-05:00

One interesting demographic trend that was ignored in this past election cycle is the outmigration from California and the northeast by retirees and others who are trying to escape the oppressive burden of taxes in their home states.

When you look at the highest combined tax burdens among all fifty states the numbers are staggering. Connecticut: Number 1. New York: Number 2. New Jersey: Number 3.

In fact, the only state in the northeast that's not in the infamous Top Ten is New Hampshire which ranks 29th in combined taxes and has no state sales tax. Maybe that's why New Hampshire is seeing an increase in population compared with it's neighbors.

But there's a festering problem on the horizon and the evidence is clear in the state-by-state election returns of last November. New Yorkers, and others from liberal enclaves move out to escape the oppressive burden of taxation.

Then they get to their new home and pull the lever on election day for the same scolds, bloodsuckers and losers who have made life unlivable in their former hometowns.

So, how do the rest of us avoid this tragic fate?

It turns out that we’re looking to make a move in the next few years to escape from sales taxes, state income taxes, five-figure property taxes, increases in tolls and fees, along with confiscations we cannot even imagine now as New York's deficit grows and its population dwindles.

In analyzing our choices we determined that our destination will have to fulfil several criteria.

It must be in the Bottom Ten in combined tax burden.

There must be no major cities.

It must have little or no migration from the northeast or any other liberal mecca.

This last factor is critical.

We were at a recent going-away party for friends who were moving to North Carolina because they could no longer afford New York. When I told Ben that we were looking to relocate and were considering North Carolina he raised his glass and said:

“Good. We’ll turn that red state blue in no time.”

I walked away shaking my head while making a mental note to cross North Carolina off of our prospective destination list.

Right now, our leading choices are Biloxi, Mississippi and Gulf Shores, Alabama.

When I mention these two destinations to friends here in Fun City they gag and become physically ill.

I think we're on the right track.

UPDATE: December 26th, 2008.

This morning, while browsing through the New York Times, I choked on my porridge when I got to the "Escapes" section. Seems that the Manhattan intelligentsia have discovered Gulf Shores, Alabama. Looks like we'll have to cross this one off the list as well. Costa Rica is looking pretty attractive.

The Invisible Hand

2008-12-12T04:26:00.000-05:00

I recently stumbled upon a very interesting website from a company in the Great Northeast that designs and builds high-end, high efficiency homes and commercial structures. This is a field that has interested me since my old advertising/public relations days with a great metropolitan electrical plug and connector manufacturer.

But enough about me.

On his blog page Tedd Benson (founder of Bensonwood, Inc.) takes his own industry to task for their complicity in the current housing collapse.

According to Tedd, the National Association of Homebuilders (NAHB) ignored the public good and continued to lobby for loose or non-existant credit standards in order to keep the housing bubble inflated. But for how long? The current bust, which may have broader implications far beyond our wildest nightmares, was both inevitable and predictable.

Tedd ends his blog entry with the following statement:

"Economist Adam Smith didn’t contemplate conscious, rationalized idiocy on such a large scale; his “invisible hand” was no match for such a massive, wanton snow job."

I enjoy Tedd's blog and often agree with his observations and conclusions. However, in this case I respectfully disagree.

Actually, Adam Smith anticipated exactly what has happened in this particular boom/bust cycle.

He made it very clear that considerable structure was needed before the invisible hand of the market could work efficiently.

For example, property rights must be strong, and there must be widespread adherence to moral norms, such as prohibitions against theft and misrepresentation.

In his time, property rights were only recognized among the aristocracy.

Adam Smith developed his theories in a centralized, heavily planned and dictatorial society where some individuals were above the law and others were effectively without any rights.

He saw the system of his time as corrupt and inefficient--a massive and wanton snowjob that enriched the few at the expense of the many.

He even anticipated the influence of special interests, writing that:

"People of the same trade seldom meet together even for merriment and diversion, but the conversation ends in a conspiracy against the public or some contrivance to raise prices."

The two greatest misrepresentations (uhh... outright lies) of the modern liberal/progressive movement are:

- Those who favor an Adam Smith approach to economics seek a law of the jungle society where the strong devour the weak without constraint, and…

- Adherence to Keynesian macroeconomic theory can eliminate the normal ups and downs of the business cycle.

Rather than leveling the cycles the present economic crisis is the result of the massive doses of Keynesianism our government has given us for decades. John Maynard Keynes did not trust the market economy therefore he called for central management of the economy by governments and central banks.

According to Keynes, since spending and consumption drive an economy the more that is spent the better. Smith, on the other hand, recognized the distinction between productive and nonproductive consumption.

It seems axiomatic that productive consumption is an agent of economic growth while nonproductive consumption--paid for with money fabricated out of thin air--leads to economic impoverishment, but this fact is lost on today’s generation of economic experts, including Nobel laureates.

In my opinion the strongest reason for leaving the allocation of effort and reward to the invisible hand is that when it misappropriates goods it is usually on a small scale. Centralized methods of allocating goods are more prone to corruption and waste. More importantly, when centralized planning succeeds it succeeds modestly and when it fails, it fails on a massive scale.

Smith wrote about the spending of other people's money this way:

"It is the highest impertinence and presumption, therefore, in kings and ministers to pretend to watch over the economy of private people, and to restrain their expense...They are themselves always, and without exception, the greatest spendthrifts in the society."

In place of kings and ministers substitute presidents, committee chairs, university professors and columnists… most especially columnists who are also university professors.

I don't blame the NAHB. They were advocating for their constituents. Where were our elected officials? Where was the adversarial press? Yes, there were some in 2004/2005 who wrote of the 18-year housing cycle and warned that the next bust could be deeper and longer than any in recent memory, but you really had to dig deep to find them.

Son of Privilege

2008-11-26T06:53:00.001-05:00

Just saw a CNBC interview with Michael Gates Gill the author of How Starbucks Saved My Life: A Son of Privilege Learns to Live Like Everyone Else.

What a pantload!

Son of privilege is right.

Son of Brendan Gill, New Yorker critic and columnist, he grew up in a Bronxville mansion with regular guests like John and Jackie Kennedy, Ernest Hemingway, John Updike and Brendan Behan showing up for tea and crumpets and Chivas Regal. His life story is a prototype blueprint illustrating how birth privilege provides a safety net for all manner of irresponsible behavior.

Drop out of college... not a problem when your frat buddy can get you a job at his Daddy's Madison Avenue advertising agency.

Marry, divorce... have an affair... marry divorce... have an affair... father more children... Hey, just brush it off with trust-funds, inherited money and a six-figure salary from advertising giant J. Walter Thompson.

Then, when you run out of great ideas like "Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz." and they toss you out on your butt, just use friends and family to fund a vanity consulting business. Go bust? Well, it wasn't your money anyway.

Then what? No more money, nobody left to borrow from, no job prospects and no wife.

Ever wonder why a young woman would be attracted to a pasty-faced, balding, pot bellied has been? Duh... he's rich.

Not rich anymore? Not married anymore either.

So this modern day Siddhartha, who had never taken a subway ride until forced into it by penury, had a revelation while rubbing up against the unwashed:

Eureka! Simplicity is key to happiness!

Now that his sob-story memoir has become a best seller, soon to be a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks, his advice for America is simplify your life, reduce your overhead and live the life of a modern-day Thoreau.

Great idea, Einstein.

Why didn't the rest of us think of that?

Tell a young family that runs out of money on Wednesday and has to wait until payday on Friday to buy groceries that they should lower their overhead and live simply. If you live in a 25-room mansion, like Mr. Gill once did, it's easy to scale back. For the rest of us it's hang on for dear life and ride out the storm.

My father worked in a sweatshop, when he wasn't on layoff. We ate plenty of spaghetti for dinner. Then I got to college on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and discovered that all those "Sons and Daughters of Privilege" who all grew up without a care believed in the nobility of poverty. They actually envied those of us who had nothing and didn't hesitate to tell their therapists and anyone else who would listen.
Let them try it for a day or two.

This morning I started writing a book entitled...

"How Having Plenty of Money Saved My Life: A Son of The Working Class Learns to Live Like a Child of Privilege."

What are the chances that Tom Hanks will give me a $50,000 advance for the rights?

Excuse me while I go plunge my hands into boiling water and wait for Mr. Hanks' people to text message my people.

Uh, oh... L'il Angel--my 15 year old daughter--just yelled out that she's ready to be chaufered off to school. On the way I'll ask her what she thinks of switching over to the simple life.

"Live like everybody else, Dad? We already live like everybody else."

I guess the romantic view of everybody else is a little bit different from up on that perch in Westchester.

Munchausen By Proxy, Washington Style

2008-11-21T10:54:00.000-05:00

By the time she was 8 years old, J.B. had been hospitalized 200 times and had undergone more than 40 operations, including the removal of most of her intestines.

K.C., a 2-year-old boy, was hospitalized more than 20 times due to complications from asthma, severe pneumonia, mysterious infections, and sudden fevers. His doctors were baffled and unable to determine the cause of these illnesses.

Productive Americans who work hard, play by the rules, pay their bills and live within their means have lost nearly half of their net worth in 2008. Politicians scramble to stop the bleeding, but nothing they do seems to help.

What do these seemingly unrelated cases have in common? They were all the result of Munchausen by proxy syndrome.

This relatively uncommon condition involves the fabrication of illnesses or symptoms by a primary caretaker. One of the most harmful forms of child abuse, Munchausen by proxy syndrome was named after Baron von Munchausen, an eighteenth-century German dignitary known for telling outlandish stories.

J.B.'s medical history was traced to her mother, who manufactured her daughter's illnesses. Similarly, when K.C. was thought to have AIDS, he eventually complained to his mother's friend that his thigh was sore because "Mommy gave me shots" (indicating that the mother was giving her son something to cause his symptoms).

In the case of the American economy, Washington politicians caused the disease through legislation (Community Reinvestment Act) and executive order.

Through these actions they, along with their hired extortionists like ACORN, coerced lending institutions into making loans to clients who did not have the ability nor the willingness to pay them back.

Many of them took huge campaign contributions from lenders like CountryWide and Fannie Mae. Fannie Mae, in fact, became a dumping ground for government cronies who made tens of millions at the same time they were producing phantom profits from loans they knew would never be paid back. Franklin Raines, former CEO of Fannie Mae, ascended to his high office after several years in government service advising that other famed real estate guru, William Jefferson Clinton.

Comrade Raines took salaries and bonuses totaling more than $90 million during his short stay at Fannie, but shows no willingness to pay back any of it.

Now that the financial mess has reached crisis proportion, these same psychopaths claim they are the only ones qualified to solve the problem.

Often Munchausen perpetrators give themselves away with subtle verbal clues or attempts to shift blame.

Rahm Emmanuel's recent statement that Democrats should "never let a crisis go to waste" is one example.

Harry Reid's demand that Detroit executives need to submit a detailed plan before "we show them the money" is another.

These geniuses have been running their industry into the ground for five decades, but the esteemed Senator wants a turnaround plan in two weeks.

I've got an idea. Since I'm an independent contractor and file estimated taxes, instead of a tax check I'll send a polite note informing Senator Reid that he must submit a detailed plan to retire the national debt before I "SHOW HIM MY MONEY."

Anyone care to join me?

In Munchausen by proxy syndrome, an individual deliberately makes another person sick then misleads others into thinking that the child has medical problems by lying and reporting fictitious episodes. He or she may exaggerate, fabricate, or induce symptoms. As a result, doctors usually order tests, try different types of medications, and may even hospitalize the child or perform surgery to determine the cause. Sound familiar?

Typically, the perpetrator feels satisfied by gaining the attention and sympathy of doctors, nurses, and others who come into contact with him or her and the child. Some experts believe that it isn't just the attention that's gained from the "illness" of the child that drives this behavior, but also the satisfaction in being able to deceive others. Remind you of anyone?

Because the caregiver appears to be so caring and attentive, often no one suspects any wrongdoing.

Most often, abusive Munchausen by proxy syndrome cases are resolved in one of three ways:

The perpetrator is apprehended.

The perpetrator moves on to a younger child when the original victim gets old enough to "tell" on them.

The child dies.

To get help, the caregiver must admit to the abuse and seek psychological treatment. But if the perpetrator doesn't admit to the wrongdoing, psychological treatment has little chance of remedying the situation.

Psychotherapy depends on truth, and Munchausen by proxy perpetrators generally live in denial.

Now the questions remains: Will those of us who work hard, pay our bills and play by the rules continue to drop our pants and invite the syringe every time Pelosi, Frank, Reid, et. al. declare a crisis that only they can solve?

With thanks and apologies to Kidshealth.org

Getting on With Life

2008-08-30T07:35:00.000-05:00

John McCain's choice for Vice President has inspired some very interesting comments from the left-wing blogosphere:

i'm outraged that mclame piked a chearleeder

Well... actually... she was point guard for her high school basketball team and hit the winning free throw that clinched Alaska Small School State Championship.

another big oil stooge

Well... actually... she raised state royalties on oil drillers and gave every Alaskan a $1,200 energy credit from the proceeds. I understand that to the current crop of Neo-Socialists, tax credits that provide direct cash are anathema. After all, it's the responsibility of the state to confiscate earnings and profits then provide "services" designed to dictate behavior and promote a utopian society--while providing huge monetary gains for state-supported cronies. This is the culture of corruption in Alaska politics that Governor Palin was elected to combat, and did. Any comments from Mr. Obama--an extortionist for ACORN as well as willing accomplice to the Chicago corruption cartel--would be greatly appreciated.

once again an attractive woman gets picked ahaed of qualified women

This one is especially amusing. First, because it suggests that a woman with nearly a decade of executive experience is less qualified for Veep than a man with barely three years in the Senate and not a single legislative achievement on his resume is for President.

And second, because this feminist tactic confirms Rush Limbaugh's contention that:

"Feminism was created to allow unattractive women access to the mainstream media."

Okay, here we are. Many comments, very few surprises--until this little gem after it was made known that Governor Palin has a four-month-old child with Down's Syndrome.

she should have had an abortion and gone on with her life.

An isolated kook, right. Wait, there's more.

any woman who would give birth to a down sindrome baby isn't smart enough to hol office

she should quit her job, stay home and take care of her family; what's she doing having five kids anyway

Yes, I do agree with population control, and would want it guaranteed by
mandatory sterilization after one-half a live birth per person. Both people involved get the knife. And any guy who gets more than one woman pregnant at a time loses his nuts.

These vitriolic blatherings should not have come as a surprise. As I was reading these thoughtful postings my "Horrid Comment" memory chip kicked into gear. Years ago when an acquaintance from work gave birth to a Down's Syndrome child a highly-evolved colleague suggested that she should: "Leave the kid at the hospital."

Some turned away while others nodded.

And in fairness, even on the Leftoid message boards there were expressions of disgust from many posters. But that didn't keep the whackos from posting on.

I think it is dumb to have a kid that you know will be born all messed up. Period.

Actually, Trig's biggest problem isn't that he has Down's Syndrome it's that he has a repuke for a Mom.

Granted, as an adoptive father I'm biased. When our son was born, the inseminator (referred to euphemistically as the birth father) believed that his responsibility ended with an offer to pay for an abortion.

Our daughter was born three years later and our legal liaison relayed the same story.

But then, when I proudly showed her picture to a group of professional associates at an Upper West Side cocktail party I was left speechless (not easy) by a comment from a complete stranger who proclaimed with an unassailable aura of authority that:

"Foreign adoptions are a conspiracy to depopulate the Third World."

As I said, none of this should surprise me.

Staring at the Ceiling Fan

2008-08-27T13:30:00.000-05:00

I'm sullen, confused, depressed. My normally cheerful outlook on life has been dragged through the depths of despair. All of the poisons that have lurked in the mud for millenia... well... never mind.

Every once in awhile I see, hear or read something that makes me want to go straight to the nearest cliff and throw myself to the mercy of gravity.

That was my reaction recently when I happened upon this essay written by a young gentleman, Ken Ilgunas, from Niagara Falls and published in the Buffalo News. The whining ruminations of Mr. Ilgunas are reproduced below in Bolshevic red.

I am 24, live with my parents, can’t find work and am floundering in a sea of debt five figures high. I think of myself as ambitious, independent and hardworking. Now I’m dependent, unemployed and sleeping under the same Super Mario ceiling fan that I did when I was 7.

How did this happen? I did what every upstanding citizen is supposed to do. I went to college. I took out loans so I could enroll at Alfred University, a pricey private school. The next year, I transferred to the more finance-friendly University at Buffalo, where I could commute from home and push carts part-time at Home Depot.

I related my forthcoming debt to puberty or a midlife crisis — each an unavoidable nuisance; tickets required upon admission to the next stage of adulthood. But as interest rates climbed and the cost of tuition, books and daily living mounted to galactic proportions,

I realized this was more than some paltry inconvenience.

Upon graduating, I was helplessly launched headfirst into the “real world,” equipped with a degree in history and $32,000 in student loans. Before ricocheting back home, I would learn two important lessons: 1) There are no well-paying — let alone paying — jobs for history majors. 2) The real world is really tough.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and I had no intention of living in a society that was as unfair as this one. To seek a haven devoid of the ruthless 9-to-5 ebb and flow of contemporary America, I moved to Alaska.

As a liberal arts major, I dreamed of making a profound difference in people’s lives. Instead, for a year, I lived in Coldfoot, a town north of the Arctic Circle that resembles a Soviet Gulag camp. My job as a tour guide for visitors temporarily alleviated my money woes because it provided room and board, but when the season ended and I moved back home, I was again confronted with the grim realities of debt.

Desperate, I browsed through insurance and bank job descriptions. I had hit an all-time low. Could I surrender my soul for health coverage and a steady income? Could I sacrifice my ideals by falling into line?

Suddenly, living at home didn’t seem nearly as degrading as selling out. But sadly, other graduates don’t have any choice but to work for temp agencies and retail stores to eke by.

That’s the tragedy of student debt: it doesn’t just limit what we do, but who we become. Forget volunteering. Forget traveling. Forget trying to improve your country, or yourself. You’ve got bills to pay, young man.

Unfortunately, the recent passage of the College Cost Reduction and Access Act doesn’t portend that times are a-changin’. The act reduces interest rates on Stafford Loans and increases Pell Grant awards. Whoopty-do.

There’s no question that this is a step forward. But we’re still talking pennies and nickels when we need to completely revolutionize the government’s role in financing post-secondary education.

College is a wonderful experience and something every young citizen should pursue. But without help, a college education is becoming an unaffordable rite of passage and a privilege of the affluent.

My loan payments can’t wait much longer, and soon I must leave home to find work that doesn’t compromise my integrity. Although I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I had declared as an accounting major and got a cushy job punching numbers somewhere, I’ll take my history major, my debt and my mom’s cooking any day of the week.

Being a heartless windbag I'm probably the last person who should be commenting on this doofus' ramblings, but I can't help myself.

HEY MR. ILGUNAS... A COLLEGE DEGREE DOES NOT GUARANTEE A LIFETIME OF COMFORTABLE, RESPONSIBILITY-FREE ADOLESCENCE!

Wanna travel? Get a job.

Wanna help your fellow man? Earn your own way and set a good example.

Wanna get out of the basement?

Stand on your own two feet and quit the whining and self pity.

America's future? I hope not.

New York Governor Averts Panic

2008-07-19T08:10:00.000-05:00

The horrifying images are in. The killer shark that's been terrorizing aquatic adventurers on Long Island has been vanquished. A team of marine rescue specialists, dispatched by Governor David Patterson who declared a state of emergency from Montauk to Lake Champlain, descended upon Zach's Bay and captured the man eater before disaster ensued.

EMS technicians arrived at the scene to treat panic-stricken bathers. Women screamed, children fainted, grown men cried in anguish at the sight of the monster.

Maria, a 37 year old mother from Flushing, was treated for "The Vapors" and described the horror experienced by everyone who witnessed the near carnage.

"For the rest of my life, everytime I take a drink of water or step into the shower I'll be haunted by the grisly images of what might have been."

Marine biologists, unsure of what to do with the pelagic carnivore, decided to give it to Rip Curant--a Jones Beach lifeguard who has a 110 gallon marine aquarium in his bedroom.

Rip is seen here, taking his new pet out for a walk.

Forever Young

2008-07-12T07:41:00.000-05:00

It was an inspiring evening. A very close friend and colleague invited a few intimate buddies to his 80th birthday at Tavern on the Green in Central Park. More than 300 people packed the main banquet room. He has been a great mentor to me, a pioneer in the art of television lighting.

Literally a pioneer

That term is bandied about, but when Immie started there was no such thing as TV lighting. He was trained in theater, so when he was hired on at ABC in 1950 he told his new boss that he knew nothing about TV lighting. His boss told him not to worry, nobody does.

"How will I know if what I do is right," he asked.

"If it looks good, remember how you did it."

Good advice all around.

When I started in TV as a technician (1974) Immie was already a legendary figure. The first time I encountered him in the studio I was too awestruck to approach. Then, years later after I became a writer, I got a call to work on a corporate documentary:

"This is Imero Fiorentino Associates, would you please hold for Mr. Fiorentino?"

My heart stopped.

Over the years I have been very blessed. At every turn there have been bright, creative and caring people who were more than willing to put a hand on my shoulder and guide me through the rough spots. None more creative and caring than Immie. Following his example I've also tried to return the favor to those young people entering our industry.

At the end of the evening he jumped up to the podium to thank everyone for being part of his life and to invite us all to be a part of the rest of his life.

Never a thought of retiring.

Never a thought of slowing down.

At 80 he's looking forward to more challenges and more victories.

The renowned glass artist, Josh Simpson, once said that an artist must find his comfort zone and then spend the rest of his life staying out of it.

Through the quiet eloquence of his sterling example Immie has shown all who have been blessed to know him that staying out of our comfort zone is more than a slogan, it's a way of life.

Pre-Teens in Combat

2008-06-21T09:44:00.000-05:00

In a dramatic report, the New York Times has uncovered a conspiracy by the United States military to conscript children.

Posing as male nannies, bow-tied Republicans wisk away infants as their single mothers pursue their dreams in exciting careers away from the drudgery of traditional home-based chores. They then force these babies into combat zones and cover up their misdeeds with the complicity of the right-wing hate media.

This conspiracy came to light in today's Times. Buried deep inside a front page story detailing how George W. Bush has personally foreclosed on millions of American homeowners in order to give their houses to Halliburton stockholders, the Times printed this seemingly innocent quote:

"Steve Allen, 51, a Vietnam veteran in Seattle, was repeatedly rejected when he and his wife, Lesa, started searching for an apartment this month. Some apartment managers said no because they had lost their home to foreclosure. Others said their credit scores were too low."

If the New York Times reporter had a calculator handy, she could have quickly determined that Mr. Allen, born in April of 1957, would have been 15 years old at the time of the Paris Peace Accords of January, 1973.

Democrats were quick to cite this disclosure as evidence of a larger, ongoing conspiracy.

"This is typical of this administration's continued effort to distort, misleed and dissemble" said Democratic presidential hopeful Barack Obama.

Harry Reid added that his office will look into the recent rash of child abductions. "There is nothing this adminstration won't do to advance their war strategy, including kidnapping" said the Senate Majority Leader.

Eli Pariser of Moveon.org commented that this disclosure reinforces the Moveon/AFSCME message seen recently in their "Not Alex" TV commercial. "If you think that these Neo-Fascists won't kidnap your children and train them to fight in secret wars, think again" said Mr. Pariser as he was leaving his aroma therapy session.

Quick to respond, the far-right hate cult Swiftboat Veterans for Truth issued a press release. "We have polled thousands of American veterans who served in Vietnam between 1965 and 1973. Not one had ever reported seeing American children in combat."

Senator John Forbes Kerry, however, differed. "I remember this clearly. It is seared into my brain. During Christmas of 1944 I was windsurfing toward Bastogne when I came upon a battalion of American snowboarders. They couldn't have been more than eleven years old."

In a related development, Barack Obama has reported to close advisors that he has been experiencing symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome.

According to campaign chief David Axelrod, the senator has been having recurring hallucinations where he sees himself, as a child, using a flamethrower against civilians living in grass huts.

"We are looking into a two-year gap in the senator's personal history. We can't seem to account for the years 1970-1971. This has an ominous feel to it."

"Barack would have been eight years old at the time," added Michelle Obama, "the perfect age for the Republican abduction squads. After all, Steve Allen was eight when they sent him to Viet Nam in 1965. Do the math whitey!"

Willie Randolph Blames Man-Made Global Warming for Historic 2007 Collapse

2008-06-21T06:21:00.000-05:00

Citing extensive United Nations research as well as personal observations, former Mets manager Willie Randolph has concluded that last year's historic late-season collapse of the New York Mets was caused by anthropogenic global warming.

"This is a settled issued," declared Randolph.

"The Intergovermental Panel on Climate Change has investigated every possible explanation for our cataclysmic stretch run choke. The only logical conclusion is that global warming caused severe imbalances in the microclimates in and around Shea Stadium."

Pressed for details Mr. Randolph explained that temperature readings in left field were .0002 of a degree (Celsius) higher than readings in right field.

This phenomenon was most pronounced during day games when left field is bathed in sunshine while right field is shrouded in shade.

The Mets left-hand heavy lineup was at a dramatic disadvantage since fly balls hit to right field carried an average of .013783 of an inch less than a similarly struck ball hit to left field.

He was quick to note that the Mets final game last year was played in the afternoon when the leftfield/righfield temperature differential was most dramatic.

Mr. Randolph continued. "Satellite readings also showed that Tom Glavine's armpit temperature was 98.70012 rather than the normal 98.6 degrees. This, to any thinking person, should be conclusive."

The former Mets manager also suggested a solution.

"The commissioner should institute baseball's version of cap and trade" he said.

Under this proposal major league teams in cooler climates would gain one game in the standings for each one-tenth of one degree decrease in field temperature below a specified norm determined by the United Nations. Under these rules, the Mets would now hold a five game lead over the Philadelphia Phillies and sixteen game lead over the Florida Marlins.

"And I would still have a job," added Willie.

When asked whether his opinion was colored by the fact that the Mets are the northernmost team in the National League East, Mr. Randolph angrily described the questioner as a global warming denier and stormed out of the press room.

Just before his exit he was overheard muttering to a confidante that global warming had killed his dog, reduced the value of his home and given him athlete's foot.

Reflections on Father's Day

2008-06-18T11:35:00.000-05:00

Whenever I reflect on the most important moments of my life it's always those seemingly insignificant and casual conversations that come to mind. In every possible way he could devise, my father tried to impart to me the lessons and values he had learned the hard way, hoping against hope that my journey would be less torturous than his own.

The most profound message that my Dad delivered to me was:

"Put in a little effort now and it will pay off for the rest of your life."

Of course, as a precocious (some say obnoxious) pre-teen I put more emphasis on the "little" than I did on the "effort." As a result I skated through my junior high and high school years with less than inspiring B/B- results. To say that I was Joe Average would be overstating the obvious. My high school graduation standing listed me as 150th in a graduating class of 300. Jim Hightower, that progressive scion, once said that the only thing you find in the middle of the road is roadkill. Well, he didn't know me. There I was, comfortable and complacent sunbathing right there on the solid double line next to a flattened and bloody possum.

Then, my little effort regressed to a miniscule effort and that B/B- magically became a C/C- during my first two years of college. Way to go kid.

Thankfully, after I endured science, math, sociology, pychology and all the other requirements that university students were once expected to master, I got to the real meat: theater, music, philosophy, art--the reason I attended college in the first place. I'm not sure whether I put in more effort because I enjoyed the subject matter and did well, or I enjoyed it more and did well because at that stage of life I was more willing to put in more than the minimum. Whatever the reason, I finished my last two years with a perfect 4.0 GPA and no one asks, nor do I volunteer, what my four year cumulative was. The diploma on my wall doesn't have an asterisk indicating that:

"We confer this degree on Josph Martini in spite of the fact that he f**ked up during his first two years."

As in golf, the scorecard just records the result, not that you had to hit it out of the trap to save par.

Lucky for me that this life is full of opportunities for redemption.

Next week my son will receive his high-school diploma. Next September he will attend college. I'm certain that he'll hit rough spots and have to hit it out of the sandtrap occasionally, metaphorically speaking. And I will have to be there to guide, advise and encourage while resisting the impulse to micro-manage his life.

I hope that I'm equal to the task.

In spite of all the mistakes I've made in these past eighteen years there are still opportunities for redemption.

Lucky for me.

Al Gore: Invisible Man

2008-04-25T08:03:00.000-05:00

Recent news about the global food crisis has caused me re-post this essay from January of last year. Curiously, Prince Albert of Tennessee has been unavailable for comment.

Georgie Cracks Corn

I don't know how many State of the Union Addresses since 1973 have pledged commitment to energy independence, but to quote Jim Ignatowski when he was asked how many different illicit drugs he had ingested in his lifetime, it's "exactly a lot."

It was still a surprise, however, when our current President touted ethanol last week citing the sustainability myth as just one of its many indisputable virtues. Science aside, the numbers on ethanol are staggering. Today, the federal subsidy stands at 51 cents per gallon. The most optimistic projections regarding the effects on greenhouse gases are estimated at 5%, but, like nearly all environmental statistics, they're based on static models that do not factor the ancillary costs of growing, processing and transporting ethanol. For example, since ethanol destroys the rubber seals used in conventional pipelines, every drop, at every stage of its refinement, must be trucked in vehicles burning, what?

Candidate Clinton, campaigning in Iowa last week, touted ethanol mandates as an excellent method for promoting sustainable alternatives to foreign oil. But there’s a reason why so few U.S. Senators have been elected President, and this is the perfect example. During this little chat, Her Heinous neglected to mention that she consistently voted "Nay" on ethanol legislation and even signed a letter stating that: “There is no public policy reason to support an ethanol mandate.”

Senator Clinton opposing a government mandate?

Now there’s news.

Last year, federal and state subsidies for ethanol total $6 billion. In addition to the 51-cent a gallon domestic subsidy there's a 54 cent a gallon tariff on imported ethanol. Would anyone make the stuff without these government bribes? Would anyone buy it without government coercion?

But there’s an even darker side to this charade. Artificially high corn prices are reflected in everything from breakfast cereal to Coca-Cola, taco shells to pork chops. America’s meat industry, a major exporter, is becoming much less competitive because of a distorted market for feed corn.

The price of tortillas, an important dietary staple among the world's poorest, has risen sharply. In Mexico this price rise has caused widespread protests and price controls. China has abandoned ethanol-plant construction declaring ethanol a dangerous threat to food security. In Brazil, long touted by environmentalists as a beacon of enlightened ethanol policy, ethanol production has displaced small indigenous farmers. For their own survival, many of them have fled to the Amazon rain forest where they clear the forest for their small subsistence farms.

Once again, an elitist Western fad is causing widespread Third World misery. Once again we have proof that when the government, rather than the free market, selects the economic winners and losers, eventually everybody loses. For someone born, raised and educated in New York City this simple fact has been evident to me since Vincent Impelleteri was mayor.

In spite of the multiple attempts at indoctrination by The New York City Board of Education, The City University of New York, and conversations with nine out of ten people I meet in my peregrinations around the town, I hold these truths to be self evident:

Freedom is better than tyranny.

Free markets distribute economic benefits more equitably than centrally planned, subsidized and distorted economies.

Free people pursuing their enlightened self interests have created ALL of the technological advances, material wealth and public good in world history.

But all philosophical matters aside, the ethanol debate represents a much larger issue that no one on the Left, Right or Center seems willing to face: The morality (yes, morality) of using food to fill the fuel tanks of America's SUVs when there are still people in this world who are slowly, but surely, starving to death.

The comments to this essay provide a keen insight into the mindset and motivation of the Anthropogenic Global Warming zealots.

3 comments:
R. Reynolds said...
Interesting. But of course, you left out the elephant in the room. Boys and girls from Oceanside and elsewhere are dying in Iraq to ensure we get our oil. 19 Saudi men with boxcutters could bring the US to its knees because of our dependence on Mideast oil. Our reliance on the region may bring us to the brink of world war III. So the problem is more than tortillas and corn chips. Market forces don't factor in the cost of nuclear annihilation. All or none thinking regarding the "wisdom" of the markets is silly and long ago discredited.

January 30, 2007 7:05 AM
Anonymous said...
corn is dirt cheap in this country. before you say another thing about corn, read michael pollan's book, the omnivores dilemma.

there are as many people in the world "starving to death" as there are overweight people! look up the latest stats, mr. martini!

there is plenty of food to go around, just not the best of political climates in places where it is needed most.

January 30, 2007 7:48 AM
Joseph Martini said...
I read Omnivore's Dilemma and I seem to remember Mr. Pollan (an elitist imbecile) having some very harsh words about today's organic food industry. Sorry, but very few of us can afford to get our food from family-run organic farms that are within walking distance.

Using McDonald's as an example of "industrial nutrition" is a typical exercise in card stacking.

Since a large part of my diet is made up of fish and mollusks that I hunt and gather myself, I suppose I'm ahead of the game.

When something occurs to you before it occurs to me, you may say a prayer over me and shovel dirt in my face.

Give 'n Go Comes to Technorati.com

2007-11-18T07:46:00.000-05:00

Since I'm technologically illiterate, I don't exactly know what this means.

But here goes...

Technorati Profile

Mental Health... With a Fourteen-Year-Old Daughter

2007-11-17T09:01:00.000-05:00

Since so many blogs deal with hygiene of the mind, body and spirit it's difficult to get through even a few without being brought to the brink of self destruction by tales of obsession, compulsion, emotional angst and exasperation.

As the father of a fourteen-year-old daughter I often sink into self reflection about the meaning of life; whether life has any meaning and the most important existential question facing fathers of adolescent young ladies:

Is life too short, or is life too long?

After several years of morbid introspection I've been able to answer several questions about myself.

Obsessed? No. Compulsive? No. Overcome with angst? No.

Exasperated? Yes. A resounding and unequivocal yes.

That's why I am taking this opportunity to post my secret for a happy and angst-free coexistance with your teenaged daughter.

Say yes to everything!

This is an approach I've always believed, in theory, but have very rarely put into practice.

Case in point. Little Angel comes to me two weeks ago with a proposition:

"Dad, we'd like to give Olivia a surprise birthday party."

"Go ahead," says dad, "make yourself happy."

"But we want to have the party here, in our house."

"Absolutely not!"

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

I know in these instances that my no is never final. Teenaged girls believe that a "no" is simply the start of the negotiation, or trial by ordeal as it's known in my household.

"Why can't you arrange it all with Olivia's parents and have it at her house?" It seemed a reasonable query.

"Olivia is being punished, and they just finished fixing their house so they don't want it..."

"They don't want it shambalized by a horde of marauding suburban teenagers... right?"

"Uhhhh... well... yeah."

"But it's okay for you shambalize our house?"

"Uhhhh... well... yeah."

And so it went... for two solid weeks... until I finally relented, which I always do. For those of you who are looking forward to simliar episodes with your now-compliant pre-teens, understand this:

With a teenaged daughter, no always means maybe, maybe always means yes, and compromise is only one small step toward total victory.

So surrender immediately and save yourself a lot of grief.

Until modern technology advances to a state where I can personally monitor her every movement--and every thought--each moment of uncertaintly will continue to pile aggravation on top of aggravation.

So why add to the avalanche.

But there's more to it than saving yourself mental anguish and domestic turmoil.

There are practical reasons for going to immediate and unconditional surrender. Because no matter what she wants to do, if it involves the participation of one or more of her friends the chances are 999-to-1 that's it's never going to happen.

I don't know when I'll learn this lesson. Maybe now it will sink in.

Little Angel comes home yesterday to find me clearing tools and construction materials out of our family room in preparation for this Friday Night Soiree for Olivia.

"What are you doing Dad?"

"I'm clearing things out for Olivia's party."

"Oh, I meant to tell you, we're not having a party. Ya know, Olivia said blah blah to Katrina about Theresa and then Katrina told Kiara and Kiara told Theresa and now nobody is talking to Olivia so we're not having a suprise party because noboby wants to come."

Good grief. Thank heaven.

When will I ever learn?

So, am I obsessed, compulsive, angst filled?

Don't be ridiculous. There's not enough room in my psyche to be even slightly over-committed to anything, let alone obsessed.

I have a teenaged daughter, for heaven's sake!

An Open Letter to the Nobel Committee

2007-10-15T14:12:00.000-05:00

Proving once again that Phineas T. Barnum was the most perceptive man that ever lived, the Nobel Committee has bestowed upon Albert Gore and his legion of conspirators (uh… collaborators) the prestigious Peace Prize.

This year’s award continues a long tradition of honoring nitwits, incompetents, charlatans, and murderers, including the Greatest Former President in American history, James Earl Carter and that renowned man of peace Yasser Arafat.

Mr. Arafat, it turns out, should have been awarded the Piece of the Action prize for his well-known ability to shake down gullible do-gooders and convert vast sums of cash earmarked for long-suffering Palestinians to his own account.

However, why should Prince Albert, Jimmah and Mr. Arafat be the only parasites sucking on the Nobel nipple? I’ve devoted the last several months to a research project which has uncovered a serious global phenomenon that is so critical in its scope and consequences it could mean the end of life as we know it by the middle of next year’s baseball season.

I have summarized my findings in this…

Open Letter to the Nobel Committee

Ladies and gentlemen, and children of all ages,

I have been making precise calculations since June 20th of this year and I’ve uncovered incontrovertible evidence of Anthropogenic Global Darkening. According to my observations there were 15 hours and 6 minutes of daylight on June 20th. Yesterday, my instruments measured 10 hours and 16 minutes of daylight. This is due to a steady, measurable decrease in sunshine each and every day.

So do the math. If the current trend continues the Earth will be completely shrouded in darkness in precisely pretty soon. I propose that everyone on the planet who has more than I do, give everything they have to me. I will then distribute the funds to everyone on the planet who has less than me, minus a small administration fee.

The overwhelming consensus of people who think the way I do agree that this is the only way to save the Earth from the coming Dark Age.

You can do your part by liquidating your holdings and sending the cash to:

The Gullibility Foundation
P.O. BOX 1984
Chappaqua, New York

Response to this open letter has been gratifying.

D.B. of Brooklyn writes:

Let me be the first to scream “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!”

There, I did it.

Upchuck from Katonah is eager to contribute, but has a logistical question.

Since it's Sunday it’s kinda hard to liquidate all my assets. I realize the urgency of this but can I wait until the markets open tomorrow?

And do you accept Pay Pal?

Kindred from Knoxville, Tennessee points out an omission.

You forgot the zip code. And Al will be mad that you are cutting into the earnings of his global warming tax credit company he prospers from.

Sender from Possum Gulch, Arizona concurs with my findings.

That is terrifying! I too have noticed the shortening days. Also, I have been comparing the daily temperatures since July. I am seeing a worrisome trend.

Omar from the Southern Hemisphere is in Global Darkening Denial.

He writes:

Caramba, señor.

I have been taking daylight readings as well and have reached the opposite conclusion. I measured diez horas of sunshine on Junio vente y uno, and more than quince horas of sunlight yesterday. This trend can only be the result of Anthropogenic Global Brightening. In a very short time we will all be scorched and blinded by eternal sunlight.

Anyone who was tempted to contribute their hard-earned treasure to the Gullibility Foundation should instead forward all their worldly goods to:

Instituto del Estúpidos
Santiago, Chile

Snail Darter from Witch’s Elbow, Georgia has his own cause to promote.

I am sure that your fine institutions are worthy of support, and I hope you land billion-dollar grants from Soros and Greenpeace and Algore Inc., however I am not able to contribute at this time. Currently all my meager donations are being sent to the Fund to Save the Fat Three Ridged Mussel, which is in danger of extinction if the uncaring, speciesist bastards in power here in Georgia decide to favor humans and hoard the remaining water so idiot humans can drink and bathe.

These inoffensive mollusks, of the family parasitic glochidia, are quickly being decimated by anthropogenic demusseling as well as the competition for habitat from the interloping Asiatic Clam.

The clams stowaway on ships transporting skilled workers who travel here to fill high-paying jobs in sweat hops on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Once here they displace indigenous Fat Three Ridged Mussels and establish take-out restaurants, nail salons and real-estate offices.

I can’t rest until these defenseless mussels are safely lying unthinking in the mud, occasionally spewing out a bubble or some feces. I'm sure you will understand.

Clem from Walpole, New Hampshire has had his consciousness raised.

Damn those exotic Asian clams! Up with parasitic glochidia! Save the mussels! The world can't wait! Global demusseling is happening, people!

But Luke Skyfreeper gets the prize for going straight to the heart of the matter.

I hereby certify that I have less than you do, so I need to get on the redistribution list. Can I just freepmail you my contact info?

And thanks for your service to mankind!

BTW: I accept PayPal.

Pay It Forward

2007-09-14T14:09:00.000-05:00

I hesitate to tell this story because it is so terrifying it makes me shiver.

Maureen and I were involved in a rescue incident yesterday.

It was a gorgeous day, bright and clear, so we decided take the bike out for little spin along the beach. When we arrived at Jones Beach (Field 6) it was about time for our afternoon coffee. We parked the bike and went to the snack shop.

Sitting out under the bright blue sky, with the surf pounding and the wind blowing through my scalp we sort of lost ourselves in the beauty of the moment. I should have remained vigilant.

Vito Corleone reminded his son that "Women and children can afford to be careless" but he never told me.

When it was time to leave we turned toward the parking lot to discover...

I had left the lights on!

I ran as quickly as these old legs would carry me, but it was too late. The strain of keeping those lights lit was just too great, and the Little Battery That Could... suddenly... couldn't.

Being trained in crisis management I immediately sized up the situation and went directly to the Umbrella Lady. I asked her if the Park Police could provide a jump start.

Her answer chilled me to the bone.

"It's not a matter of could they," she said. "The big question is will they."

Oh, no.

Stranded here less than 100 yards from the water's edge with man-eating sharks lurking invisibly just under the surface, I was paralyzed with fear.

"It will be dark in less than four hours!" I cried.

That's when a strong and confident voice pierced through the darkness of my agony.

"Aw, quit your whining. I have jumper cables in my Cadillac."

I looked up at my rescuer, flushed with relief.

Alvin stood there, tanned and stunningly fit for his 85 years. The 1945 Navy Air Corps WWII cap perched atop his head glistened in the afternoon sunlight.

"Let's go kid" he commanded, as if he were still leading men into battle.

And go we did.

Alvin grabbed his cables from out of the trunk, hooked us up, and with one hit on the starter button... WE WERE SAVED!

When I tried to offer Alvin a gratuity, he just waved me off. "If you find someone who needs help, stop and lend a hand. AND QUIT THAT WHINING!"

With the Honda engine purring I looked at my dear wife.

"Does this mean you don't want to bike to Alaska with me next Summer? I asked.

"I don't want to bike home with you now" came her terse answer.

"Call me a cab" she ordered. I sheepishly obeyed.

Then... oh no... my cell phone battery is dead.

But that's another story.

So Long Scooter

2007-08-14T19:14:00.000-05:00

About 25 or 30 years ago I stopped in at the legendary NYC pizza joint, Pizza City, on my way to visit Mom and Dad. Inside, I discovered lights, a camera crew and Yankee great Phil Rizzuto filming a TV commercial. Phil was about 60 at the time and still looked as if he could step out onto the field and play shortstop.

When he got to the punch line he went into a pantomime baseball swing and then flashed that great Rizzuto smile straight into the camera.

As he took his phantom swing I noticed his biceps and forearms, muscles rippling. Now Phil was 5'6" and weighed 150 pounds with his pockets full of quarters, but 20 plus years after his retirement as an active player he was still ripped. You could never notice it under those baggy uniforms they wore back then. At that moment I realized why elite athletes are elite athletes.

During the breaks for lighting and camera changes, Phil talked with the customers, signed autographs and retold some of those great stories we had all heard a thousands times, yet loved to hear once again.

So long Scooter. We'll miss you.

Wizards Win Waldbaum's Cup!

2007-06-18T08:53:00.000-05:00

June 17, 2007 Stony Brook, New York

The Oceanside Wizards capped off another successful season with a 3-2 victory over the very talented Newfield Wave of Selden to win the Waldbaum's Cup Championship.

It was a hard fought match from the opening whistle. Cheyenne opened the scoring in the first half, taking a great centering pass from Ali Cassidy and slamming the volley into the back of the net for a 1 goal lead. Newfield came roaring back to tie the game at the half, and then took a 2-1 lead early in the second period.

But the Wizards kept the pressure on. Cheyenne made a lightning-quick dash down the right wing and slammed a long blast high into the far corner of the goal to tie the match.

Then, showing the toughness that has made her the team's high scorer, Ali Cassidy beat her defender in the center and went in on a breakaway.

The Newfield keeper made an aggressive play to stop her at the 18 but Ali kept her balance, chipped the ball over the keeper and then slammed it into the back of the net for THE WINNING GOAL!

The Wizards then played smart and disciplined defense and got another stellar effort from goalkeeper Devin to bring the Waldbaum's Cup to Oceanside.

Great effort. Great Game. Great season from a truly terrific group of young ladies.

Father Knows Best, Again

2007-06-15T06:11:00.001-05:00

In celebration of Father's Day today's post is a reprint of my very first blog attempt.

December, 2006

I very rarely read New York Magazine, but a cover story caught my eye last week as I scanned the magazine rack in Dr. Zaman's waiting room.

Authentic Happiness. Now there's a concept.

The author of the article, a New Yorker, treated the subject the way the Discovery Channel describes UFO sightings. They know UFOs are fiction, dammit! Why do so many people claim to have seen them? Happiness, authentic or not, is something that most New Yorkers experience through the eyes of others. Happiness, like alien visitors from another planet, is an illusion; a construct created by delusional fools to camouflage their misery. To a practical and prudently-maladjusted New Yorker happiness is simply unfathomable.

Unhappiness? Now there's something the author could sink her teeth into. What causes unhappiness? What can we do about it? Well, since happiness is an illusion and unhappiness is reality, why would anyone want to do anything about it? More to the point, since unhappiness is the default position and therefore uncaused, why is she writing about the causes of unhappiness?

I think she's stumbled upon something here.

The lack of wealth does not cause unhappiness, she claimed. Rather, it's a relative lack of wealth that causes unhappiness. Instantly, hundreds of conversations raced through my mind. The law partner who whined to me about how tough it was trying to make ends meet on $500,000 a year. My upper-middle-class friend from an upscale town in Westchester whose 17 year old daughter sobbed because her new Lexus didn't have the performance package (a $5,000 option). It's an interesting question. New Yorkers can't help but be bombarded with evidence of conspicuous and excessive consumption. Very few of us can look around and not see thousands of things we can't have. But is this the cause of unhappiness, or simply the trigger?

My father, in addition to being a man of immense intellect and courage, is able to place almost any situation in its proper perspective. Years ago, while fishing on my small runabout in Reynolds Channel I mentioned that it would be nice to have one of those fully-decked-out sport fishing boats that were buzzing past us. He pointed to the crowd fishing on the Magnolia Street Pier and said that those guys were looking at us and thinking the same thing. I was an adult at the time but this was an Andy-and-Opie moment, one of many that we've had over the course of the decades.

"Go after what you want in life," he taught me, "and don't look into anyone else's wallet." It was a lesson I took to heart at a very early age.

Basically it all comes down to this: If I get what I want, I'm a happy guy.

"Mr. Martini..." called Dr. Zaman's nurse. I put down the magazine, smiling, and went in for my yearly echocardiagram. "You're 100%," the doctor reported. "Keep exercising, watch what you eat and STAY OFF THAT MOTORCYCLE!"

"One out of three ain't bad," I mumbled.

The next morning I played the Red Course at Eisenhower Park and shot a 40 on the front nine.

Authentic happiness.

On the back, the course having somehow discovered my true handicap, double bogey followed double bogey followed double bogey for a 49. Yet just as I descended into sleep that night a wide-screen HD image emerged: A perfect swing with my 3 iron, my second shot soaring toward the Par 5 First Green and gently coming to rest 20 feet from the pin.

Before I could reach for my putter, I was fast asleep.

Happy Father's Day to all.

Ich Bin Ein New Yorker?

2007-06-06T00:19:00.000-05:00

You can't blame Illinois-ans for feeling a burdensome sense of inferiority these days.

The White Sox are languishing around the .500 level. The Blackhawks and the Bulls are playing golf again during the playoff season.

Even the most rabid Cubs fans are wondering why their team is still in the Majors. If this was the European Premiereship League the Cubs would have been relegated to Serie "F" in 1909, never to return. A T-shirt seen at Wrigley Field recently stated: "Hey, every team has a bad century once in awhile."

Okay, so the White Sox clobbered the Yankees last night, but that doesn't count. Everybody beats the vaunted Bronx Bombers.

I won't even pile on and mention the pathetic performance by Dah Bears last January.

A short-lived sense of euporia lifted Illinois residents for a short time when they found themselves with the two front runners in the Democratic race for the presidential nomination.

This should have come as no surprise since Illinois, the Land of Lincoln, has a long and storied (some say bizarre) political tradition.

Illinois, after all, is the only state in the Union that has three senators and was able, without the slightest giggle, to report that JFK received 160% of the vote in Cook County.

So why is it that the good citizens of Illinois in general and Chicago in particular still feel this underwhelming sense of inferiority vis-a-vis their big brother to the east.

Maybe a recent story in the New York Post has something to do with it.

While campaigning through the Empire State Senator Barack Hussein Obama declared himself a New Yorker to an adoring crowd of admirers. His rationale, curiously, was the fact that he attended Columbia University more than two decades ago. Am I nitpicking? I think not. Not until I hear him declare himself Hawaiian--or Indonesian for that matter--will I believe that his identification with NYC is anything less than evidence of the deeply-held sense of inferiority experienced by most, if not all, citizens of the Second City.

Gadzooks! Even the self-applied nickname is an affront. They could have called themselves The Big Shoulders Comedy Troupe, The Windy City Comedy Troupe. Jeez-Louise, even the Hog Butchers Comedy Troupe is better than Second City.

Tell me, do you know any New Yorker who attended... let's say... Union College of Barbourville, Kentucky who would declare to the world: "I am an Appalachian"?

No! New Yorkers are New Yorkers down to the bone and will tell you so at every opportunity.

Yes, I tell people that I graduated from UCLA (University on the Corner of Lexington Avenue) but that's a joke.

My own senator, Ms. Rob-Em Clinton, considers herself multi-lingual because of her ability to slide between Brooklyn-ese, Arkansas drawl and Midwestern nasal twang within the same sentence. Curious? Not if you understand her history. But then again, enlightened people should maintain expansive and inclusive definitions of both multi and lingual.

Just ask Rosie O'Donnell. I understand that she recently told a joke in the obscure Chinese dialect spoken only in the remote region of Ching-Chong. Talk about inferiority, here's a pathetic blob of protoplasm who tells everyone that her hard edge comes from growing up in New York, when she spent her formative years in a remote ex-urbian outpost known as Commack, Long Island.

I'll bet Commack-ians are busting their buttons over this dubious honor.

Sort of like Chappaqua being famous as the adopted hometown of Bill and Hillary. But then again, Chappaqua has long been known as the bedroom community of choice for every low-life dirtbag lawyer in New York, so what's new.

But back to the main topic. Why do Barack and Hitlery have this compulsive desire to be Noo Yawkers? I think it's the inborn sense of optimism and confidence that native New Yorkers radiate. By growing up in the most densely populated and frenetic community in America, one develops a hard-shell patina as a means of protection. But, by the same token, New Yorkers instinctively understand that a collective personality inclined toward tolerance, grudging courtesy and mutual respect for each other's space is essential for peaceful coexistence. Outsiders may believe that New Yorkers are cold and distant. I believe that we're incredibly good natured given the circumstances. But, you'll just have take our word for that.

When the burly truck driver in the diner bellows: "Hey Mack! I said pass the sugar!" as one did to me yesterday, we know that he means it lovingly. It's kind of like baseball signals or what Bible scholars call a shibboleth: language meant to be understood by a close knit community. And that's what we are; eight million plus neighbors who understand each other perfectly. Interlopers may chomp on a knish in front of the TV cameras then retreat to their gated compounds, but they will never understand what it means to be a New Yorker.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy proclaimed "Ich bin ein Berliner" and his words resonated throughout the world because he was affirming solidarity with people who had suffered isolation from friends and neighbors, brothers, sisters and cousins. When today's politicians proclaim that they are New Yorkers because they spent a four hour layover at La Guardia, to quote John Cleese, it is something completely different.

How Do You Fix a Problem Like... Sha-Ria?

2007-05-31T10:00:00.000-05:00

Just in case anyone this side of the kook border had any doubts that multi-cultural tolerance and "reasonable accommodation" have reached ridiculous proportions, here's a story that's guaranteed to warm your hearts.

A regular reader of this esteemed blog, The Warbasse Warlord, happened into his friendly neighborhood supermarket last week to stock up on sale items. Wow! Boar's Head Deluxe Ham for $5.99 a pound. As that great American philosopher, Stymie, once said: "Isthmus be my lucky day!" And from there it only got better as special offer after special offer for the Memorial Day Weekend jumped out at him shouting: "Buy me! Buy me!

So after filling his cart with low-cost goodies, including a $3.99 watermelon, buy-one-get-two-free Snapple, and a pound of Boar's Head Dead Pig (sliced thin), off he went to the checkout.

That's when he made a giant leap, unknowingly, out of the serene republic of Brooklyn and into...

The Twilight Zone.

Suddenly, the bagboy began speaking to the cashier in a very agitated tone.

"What's the matter?" asked the Warlord.

"Do you have meat in any of your packages?" she asked.

"Yeah, we're coming up on a big barbecue weekend," he answered.

"Well... uhh... Hassan can't touch any meat that's not Halal," came the explanation.

Call me intolerant, but bagboy at a non-kosher supermarket was probably NOT the best career choice for this pluralist American in training.

My good friend and legal counsel, Oliver Wendall McMansion, had a similar situation a few years back. On a Monday he hired an associate; a seemingly well-adjusted young lady who had graduated from a respected law school. On Tuesday she informed her new boss that she could not work in the cubicle that had been assigned to her because she suffered from adult ADD and needed a private office to screen out the distractions. This particular suite of offices consisted of one private office (belonging to the boss) and a large open area divided with cubicles. According to the Americans With Disabilities Act Oliver W. could either give up his sanctum, build her a private office, or face an ADA lawsuit.

One day on the job and this new employee orders him to "accommodate" her disability or incur the wrath of legions of angry Washington bureaucrats.

Here in New York, where cabbies are not allowed to refuse service to people who look as if they just stepped out of a dumpster, there are constant stories about Muslim hacks who refuse to pick up young women who are dressed inappropriately. It almost makes me want to get behind the wheel to pick up the crumbs these guys leave.

So what's a multi-cultural society to do? Reasonable accommodation makes sense to a reasonable person. It's just that "reasonable" is another of those elastic terms that members of the American Left interpret in the most ludicrous ways to justify the most idiotic policy decisions.

And every time we think it can't get any dumber the headlines shriek out about a woman in Florida who wants to take her driver's license picture with just her eyes showing behind a Casper the Friendly Ghost veil or a federal judge says that a youth sports league has to allow a teenage girl to play soccer with a table cloth wrapped around her face.

While we're at it, why not provide a driver's license exemption for members of that legendary southern civic group.

It just gets goofier and goofier.

Does an employer have to provide flex time for a worker who's not a "morning person."

Do our courts need special procedures to accommodate killers who come from cultures where honor killing has a long and glorious tradition?

Should we make a reasonable accommodation for immigrants from regions in Africa where the phrase "Having our neighbors for dinner" has a completely different meaning than it does here?

And what about me? I'm lazy and undisciplined. Why should I have to compete against people who are focused, ambitious and persistent?

Where's the justice... where's the reasonable accommodation... for those unlucky masses who suffer from my disability?

Why should I lose out to those who are the winners in life's lottery?

Why indeed?

Sha-Ria... say it loud and there's music playing. Say it soft, and it's almost like preying.

What Kind of Loser Would Want My Identity?

2007-05-26T14:20:00.000-05:00

I've been trying for two weeks, without success, to come up with a humorous angle on this story so bear with me.

Yes, my identity was stolen.

Yes, the consequences have been relatively minor.

Yes, I'm pissed as hell and want to have the guy strung up by his scrotum in a junkyard filled with hungry, snarling Rottweilers.

And I would prescribe a more torturous fate for the long line of bureaucrats and political flunkies who could have helped at any point along the line, but chose to do nothing other than suggest that I "pay the two dollars."

Well, it's not two dollars. And while $750 may represent small potatoes to New York City's esteemed billionare-in-chief... THEY'RE MY POTATOES!!!

In case you're wondering, Mayor Mikey is one of the political flunkies who chose to do nothing, along with Betsy (uggghhh) Gotbaum, the Department of Motor Vehicles, the Parking Violations Bureau and the City Marshall, one particularly heinous dirtbag named Richard Capuano.

So let's begin at the beginning.

It all started with the tribulations of a very old and tired 1990 Mazda 626. As jalopies go, this one would have long ago been rolled off a cliff by Wally Cleaver and Lumpy Rutherford, but it was perfect for ferrying fishing gear and gardening supplies and those periodic trips to the town dump. Then, in June of 2005, it reached the tipping point, as the Global Warming kooks like to say.

Like the old hermit living in the Arizona desert spitting out teeth as he walked, Ol' Mazie was dropping parts along the street at an alarming rate. When the brakes failed to slow its momentum at 5 MPH, it was time to put her to sleep. Even driving to the junkyard less than a mile away was more risk than I was willing to take, so I called Stevie the Junk Man and he showed up ten minutes later with his flatbed. Off came the plates and away went the car. Good riddance, you say, but I still wiped away a tear as it disappeared around the bend.

Like a good little boy I went to DMV and surrendered the plates. I love that expression. Imagine crawling up to the DMV dimwit waving a white flag with one hand and sheepishly "surrendering" the plates with the other. Then, with my receipt in hand, I returned home confident that I had fulfilled my civic duty. My thoroughness was rewarded a few weeks later when I received a refund check from the Comptroller of the State of New York for the unused balance of my registration fee.

What a windfall!

Then, in September of 2005 I received a cordial letter from the NYC Parking Violations Bureau informing me that I had failed to pay a parking ticket that was issued in August, 2005.

The summons was issued at the corner of Sutphin Boulevard and 94th Avenue in Jamaica.

Now, it's not that I have anything against Sutphin Boulevard or Jamaica. It's just that since Gertz, Robert Hall and the Valencia Theater closed more than thirty years ago, I have no reason at all to go there. Yes, I did take my father-in-law to the ER in Jamaica Hospital. I remember the incident because one of the "patients" took the ER nurse hostage at knifepoint. But that was still many years ago.

A quick phone call, I thought, would resolve the issue. WRONG!

The genius on the other end of the line suggested that I pay the fine and be done with it.

"Yes," I answered, "but it will never end because whoever is doing this will continue doing it." And continue he did. A letter to the mayor's office resulted in zero action, not even a reply telling me how busy Hizzoner is. At least Senator Moynihan had the decency to tell me he couldn't be bothered with my petty problem. He had a book to finish. Mind you, my petty problem was that my wife and child were stranded in a third-world country in the middle of a terrorist war, but the senator was busy writing his tenth book in his tenth year in the Senate. That's the ticket, become a United States Senator, cure writer's block (and banish those pesky rejection letters).

So on and on it went. I wrote to the Public Advocate (HAH!!!) explaining my problem: tickets on a car I no longer own. Two weeks later I get a phone call from Ms. James of the Public Advocate's office. I explained my problem again: tickets on a car I no longer own. Two weeks after that Ms. James calls back and says she's very sorry, but there's nothing her office can do.

"Do you know you have parking tickets?", she queried.

Excuse me, Ms. James. I have to scrape the top of my skull off the ceiling because MY HEAD JUST EXPLODED!

More phone calls. More letters. And still no action, until the fines, penalties, and ultimately the towing charges reached $750. Yes, I said towing charges. The Missus came out of school two weeks ago to find "our car had been stolen." A quick check confirmed that rather than car theft, this identity theft resulted in the towing and impoundment of my cherished 1995 BMW, a car that has a completely clean record.

Would that I were so lucky.

The next day, armed with all the relevant documentation I trudged down to the NYC Department of Finance/Parking Violations Bureau, curiously located on 94th Avenue just off Sutphin Boulevard. I should have recognized this as a clue, but I shrugged it off as a coincidence. More bureacratic mumbo jumbo. More gov-speak.

"Do you have documentary evidence?" asked the Senior Judge.

I showed him the receipt for the plates. "Anything else?" he continued. I showed him the stub from the refund check issued by the Comptroller of the State of New York. "That's still not enough. How about a letter from your insurance company indicating that you terminated the insurance on this car?"

Quick as a flash I got on the cell phone. The rep from GEICO printed the letter and faxed it to a nearby Kinko's. Breathlessly I submitted the final document to the Senior Judge.

"What about the bill of sale from the junkyard?"

The inferno roaring from my ears set off every smoke alarm in the building.

Several images began floating through my mind giving me the premonition that this episode would not have a happy ending. That's when I paid the $750, went to the Marshall's office in Rego Park, got the release, and then traveled to Whitestone to get my car out of hock.

My interaction with the fat bastard wearing the Yankee cap behind the bullet-proof glass in the Marshall's office I'll leave for a subsequent blog.

So, what had happened? Simple.

One hour of amateur sleuthing on my part revealed that a gentlemen living in close proximity to Stevie's Junkyard saw the Mazda sitting out front and offered to buy it, as is. He then put a set of stolen plates on the car and drove it for another year without registration or insurance. Then he registered the car in his own name and drove it for yet another year, racking up nine additional unpaid parking tickets. Since the car was not registered for a year the geniuses who wrote the tickets simply entered the VIN and let the computer do the rest of the work.

Apparently the computers at the DMV do not speak to the computers at the PVB which do not speak to the computers in the New York State Comptrollers office. Never did any of them take notice that the car and the plates did not match.

My only solace is that this fraud was committed by a corrupt slug, not an illegal immigrant from Yemen who stuffed it full of fertilizer and heating oil. Rather than paying to get my car out of the pound, I'd now be reading the Koran at Gitmo.

And what about the Sutphin Boulevard connection? Not only is the perpetrator of this fraud an investigator for the law firm that represents the Department of Motor Vehicles, this guy has the castagnas to go to PVB in Jamaica (94th and Sutphin) and contest the tickets while posing as me... and then he gets another ticket while he's there!!!

I have to show my photo ID to buy beer at the self checkout at Stop 'n Shop, but this guy has a formal hearing in front of a government magistrate and never has to show any proof that he is who he says he is.

This, of course, fills me with confidence in this post 9-11 world.

Especially when I see the livery drivers out every morning switching plates from one Crown Victoria to another.

But there's more to this story, because I'm not letting this one go.

Stay tuned.

Orfeo ed Euridice... or... I've Just Gone Through Hell for This Chick and She Still Won't Do What I Tell Her!

2007-05-25T15:45:00.000-05:00

Proving once again that there's nothing new under the Sun, the Metropolitan Opera wound down its 2006/2007 season with a spectacular production of Christoph Willibald Gluck's Orfeo ed Euridice.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Orpheus myth, here's a quick synopsis:

Orfeo is mourning the death of his young wife, Euridice. But he sends everyone away because his grief is so overwhelming even their sincere and heartfelt support sinks him deeper into despair.

Then along comes Cupid, yeah Cupid, suspended from a wire no less, who tells him that all he has to do is follow his beloved's spirit into the underworld and bring her back.

But, she orders, he cannot look at her, or tell her why he can't look at her, until they're back home or she will die. And this time, for keepsies.

Yada, yada, yada... he descends into Hell, gets past the Furies, finds his wife and they start home.

"But why won't you look at me?," she asks, "Am I no longer beautiful?"

"Just shut up and follow me." implores Orfeo, but she's relentless.

"Is it because this dress makes me look fat?"

"Have you found someone else? It's that little tart from Thessalonika, isn't it?"

At this point the Missus turned to me and said "What a wimp. Why doesn't he just grab her by the scruff of the neck, tell to STFU and drag her out of there?"

Why not indeed? But this is an opera.

Finally, when he can't take her nagging anymore, he turns and looks her straight in the eyes and she promptly drops dead... again.

At that point poor Orfeo collapses to his knees and wails: "Che faro senza Euridice" (what shall I do without Euridice). Well lets see... for starters I'll play golf, go fishing and drink as much beer as I want anytime I want.

But no.

All Orfeo has to do is threaten suicide and Cupid returns to snatch the dagger from his hand. Touched by his devotion Cupid brings Euridice back to life and she immediately starts nagging him to finish mowing the lawn. What oh what shall I do without Euridice? What oh what shall any of us do?

Well, they live happily every after, have five kids and Orfeo gets a job playing in the house band at Euridice's father's catering hall. They are Greek, after all.

And we can only speculate as to how Orfeo's life would have turned out if he had passed on Cupid's "descend into Hell" offer and just looked around for a younger woman. After a respectable mourning period, of course.

But this is pure fiction. For the happily married among us, thankfully, Orfeo's tragedy is a prospect that few of us (gentlemen) will have to confront. All you have to do is glance at the obituary page or take a walk past your local assisted living center to recognize that we're not going to outlive our wives. It brings back memories of the old Alan King routine, "Survived by his wife." In fact, I'm sure that if we followed the Orpheus legend to its conclusion we'd find Euridice sitting in a beach chair in Boca Raton cashing Orfeo's pension checks from the Amalgamated Greek Lyre Players Union.

Face it, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

So when you're tempted to blurt out, "Why can't you do what I tell for once?", understand that this is a male/female dynamic that's been going on since there have been males and females. Just swallow those words before they jump out and get you into trouble because the odds that she'll do what you say are roughly equivalent to the chances that Alex Rodriguez will hit a bases-loaded homer with two out in the bottom of the ninth of the seventh game of the World Series while still wearing a Yankee uniform.

It ain't happenin'.

Next week: Wotan, the King of the Gods, chides his teenage daughter Brunnhilde for her disobediance. "You're grounded, young lady!", he shouts. Then he places her on a rock surrounded by a ring of fire for all eternity. Would that it were...

The Bully's Best Friend

2007-03-03T09:43:00.001-05:00

Several years ago my wife and I attended the back-to-school festivities at my son's elementary school. This is the yearly exercise where hapless parents learn about all the new and wondrous miracle strategies that the public education system has cooked up to benefit "the children."

The evening was winding down, finally, when we bumped into the principal in the hallway. Although I tried my best to avert my eyes and hurry toward the exit, he corralled us and asked if we had any questions.

"Well," I said, "there is one thing I'd like to discuss. My son continues to be bullied by the same gang of four or five delinquents. We've told his teachers, we've informed your assistant, but it has continued now for almost a year."

"You do know that we have a full-time psychological social worker on staff," he replied.

The look in my eyes obviously betrayed a combination of puzzlement and contempt, but this genius continued anyway.

"Matt can schedule an appointment to come and talk. It will help him resolve his feelings."

"Matt has resolved his feelings," I informed him. "He hates their guts and wants them to be carried off by flying monkeys."

I went home that evening, my faith in the public education establishment reaffirmed, and had a long conversation with my son. It was reminiscent of conversations I had with my father when he told me it was always best to avoid a fight, but "when push comes to shove," he insisted, "you have to defend yourself."

These motivational encounters are seared into my memory because they were almost always followed by terrible beatings at the hands of the thugs in my old neighborhood. Defending yourself doesn't guarantee that you'll be victorious. In my case it invariably led to ignominious defeat and liberal applications of Mercurochrome.

"But Dad," Matt protested, "I'll get in trouble."

"Look, you may get in trouble with your teachers and you may get in trouble with your mother, but" I assured him, "you will never get in trouble with me if you defend yourself."

Unlike his skinny father, Matt's a big powerful kid who can do a lot of damage if he has a mind to.

He had always been told to avoid fights; to just walk away. This time he couldn't. They harassed him. They pushed him. And then, the unthinkable happened. A little girl he had known since pre-school jumped in and screamed at them to stop. When one of these sixth grade suburban gangstas pushed her aside Matt popped him. Just once. That's all that was needed. Matt got a reprimand from the school, but after a few weeks it was clear that the bullying had stopped. I felt very proud of my son and pleased with myself.

But did the bullying really stop?

Of course not.

They just went on to bully someone else's son.

My job is to see to it that my children don't get bullied. I did my job.

But it's the school's job to see to it that nobody's children get bullied, not to make them feel good about getting beat up every day during recess.

They weren't doing their job then, and they're not doing their job now.

Today, schools promote anti-bullying strategies which encourage the goons to talk to their victims. They attach no blame to the perpetrators. Predictably, they are failing, according to the British children's charity Kidscape.

Using this strategy the school forces the victim to provide a written statement describing how distressed he feels about the way he's been treated. He is then expected to read the statement to the good little boys who have derived pleasure from inflicting pain. This approach gives the thugs all the information they need to torture their victims even more.

One exasperated mother described the dismal results:

"They found out about my son's weaknesses, his feelings and his lack of confidence and had a field day bullying him and telling others. The bullying increased because the bullies knew he would not tell again after this devastating result."

In another instance a school principal refused to exclude a boy who had set fire to a young girl's hair. He was reluctant, he said, to single out a youngster who had "problems." Describing this junior arsonist as a youngster with problems is like saying that Jeffrey Dahmer had an eating disorder.

Maybe the girl with the flaming hair can resolve her feelings about being set on fire. Would anyone like to suggest that she talk to the psychological social worker?

Not me.

Because until and unless school officials get over their aversion to placing blame on kids with "problems", this cycle will repeat, and repeat and repeat. And for generations to come, children with problems will continue to be problem children.

For now, you'll have to excuse me. I have a therapy appointment. I'm working to resolve my feelings about elementary school principals.

Master of None

2007-02-23T12:37:00.000-05:00

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm a hater.

This world is full of things I HATE!

I hate SUVs.

I hate cell phones.

I hate Blackberrys!

Not the sweet and juicy kind that grow on vines.

No, I'm referring to the ubiquitous annoying kind that are attached to the hands of self-important biz nerds.

These are people SO critical to the success of their respective enterprises they can't be out of communication range for even one second.

Curiously, this phenomenon is most evident among the job descriptions whose decisions are the least vital and the most subjective.

Are you listening all you ad agency geeks?

People whose decisions have real and substantial consequences understand that their attention is critical to the decision-making process. But for those whose decisions are limited to "the blue backdrop or the purple drapes, shrimp cocktail or lobster rolls" the myth of multi-tasking seems to be inextricably linked to their own inflated sense of self worth.

How many times have you tried to complete a conversation with someone who's checking emails or answering the cell phone?

"What is that? The kitchen is on fire?

NO, NO, NO... THE ICE GOOSE GOES NEXT TO THE VODKA AND CAVIAR!!!"

Now, what that you were...

YES. PICK UP MY SUIT AT FRANCESCO AND MAKE A 7PM RESERVATION AT UMBERTO."

Ugghhh... it's a madhouse. Now what was that again?... Fire?... Where?"

The bottom line: If you're not focused on being excellent at what you're doing-- right now--you cannot excel at anything.

The most successful people I've known have had the unique ability to do several tasks in rapid succession and give each of them their undivided attention. To the casual observer it may appear that they're doing five things at once, but they're not. They are paying close attention, making decisions, resolving problems and moving along.

You can accomplish a lot by simply paying attention. And you can do a lot of damage by trying to do everything at once.

Last week, during an ice storm, I was sitting at a stop light minding my own business. In my rear view mirror I was horrified to see a suburban armored personnel carrier, AKA a Cadillac Escalade, with 20-something driver yacking on the cell phone.

Closer... closer... closer... SPLAT!

Smack into the rear bumper of my magnificent 1995 525i. My cherished car has given me unconditional devotion and impeccable service for more than a decade, and it will be celebrating its 12th birthday next week in Bob's Collision Shop.

Okay, these things happen. Let's get out and exchange documents.

"What? No licence? No registration? But you remembered to take your cell phone!"

With that she burst into tears. I'm cooked. She slams into me, sends my spare tire into my back seat and she's crying. Luckily, daddy showed up in a few minutes and assured me that he would take care of the damages. He has three kids of driving age and runs an open tab at Bob's.

Okay, so I'm overreacting. A little damage to an old car isn't the end of the world.

But last month Westschester EMTs removed a corpse from a wrecked car that had careened off the highway. Stuck in the eye of this unfortunate accident victim they found a mascara applicator. That is the end of the world. The only positive anyone could extract from this tragedy is that it was a single-vehicle accident.

In the business world I've come across dozens, if not hundreds, of "Busy Bees" whose work days consisted of attending to 100 insignificant crises simultaneously. Not coincidentally, these crises were all manufactured to create a veil of busy activity masking a total vacuum of real importance.

To make matters worse, these busybodies invariably agonized over decisions that did not make one whit of difference one way or another.

Then, when finally confronted with a decision that carried some real consequences, they would throw their hands in the air and shout:

"I can't deal with this now!"

Of course not. You can't be expected to worry about the fire in the kitchen when you have to decide whether to put Mrs. Kolmeister and Mrs. Minciotti at the same table while choosing between gladiolas or gardenias for the centerpieces.

Uggghh... it's a madhouse.

As a clever motivational poster I saw recently stated: "When you earnestly believe that you can compensate for a lack of skill by redoubling your effort, there's no limit to the damage you can cause."

The moral of the story: Don't mistake busy for productive and never confuse activity with action.

A Fascist Alliance

2007-02-14T23:30:00.000-05:00

I once told an old friend, a New York liberal, that I would never vote for Pat Buchanan because he was a socialist. He shot back immediately that Buchanan was a fascist. That's when I offered to pay him a nickel if he could explain the difference. It's been more than fifteen years and I'm still waiting for an answer.

We had been traveling extensively during that period and had the misfortune to find ourselves in the middle of two terrorist wars motivated by socialist ideology and instigated by fascist thugs. In Guatemala the war was winding down. There were still random attacks, but travel in the countryside was relatively safe.

In Peru the Sendero Luminoso held the countryside in the grip of fear.

Up to five million campesinos had left the highlands and moved into a series of barrios that ringed the capital city of Lima. The Senderos followed them and by 1990 Lima had been declared a Red Zone. Pundits at the time described the Shining Path and their leader, former college professor Abimael Guzman, as Maoists and went to great lengths to describe the dramatic distinctions between these cut-throats and the wide variety of cut-throats in other parts of the world. "Yes, they're brutal and ruthless," the analysts admitted, "but we have to understand the unique nuances of their world view."

In the highlands, Shining Path guerrillas would enter a town, round up ten or fifteen men at random, cut off their heads and hang them from a tree in the town square.

The Sendero Christmas Tree ceremony was designed to show everyone in the region who was the boss. In Lima, car bombs and indiscriminate grenade attacks were daily occurrences. And Guzman, AKA Presidente Gonzalo, declared in his manifesto that he would transform Peru into an agrarian utopia "only after crossing a river of blood."

How's that for nuance?

Because they controlled much of Peru's vast coca crop, the Sendero Luminoso were financially self reliant. Unlike today's fascists, their income was not subject to the vagaries of worldwide commodity prices, distribution deals with the grandchildren of Joseph P. Kennedy or fund-raising cocktail parties on the Upper West of Manhattan. The cash flowed unabated and unencumbered courtesy of doctors, lawyers and stockbrokers throughout the free world, while the IRA, Tamil Tigers, Brigate Rosso, Baader Meinhof, Fatah and others needed to form fundraising networks and stickup convenience stores.

Shining Path thugs still formed loose alliances with terrorist organizations throughout the world, but they remained fiercely independent because they could afford to. If an American grand jury had been convened to consider conspiracy charges against the Sendero Luminoso and their terrorist colleagues, they could never bring an indictment. No hard evidence.

Before RICO, American law enforcement was virtually powerless in their fight against the MAFIA. Connecting the dots with enough hard evidence to gain a conviction was near impossible.

As Willie Cicci testified to the U.S. Senate Committee:

"Yeah, buf-fas. The Corleone Family got lotsa buf-fas."

Finally, the legal system caught up with the thugs and simply being associated with the MAFIA became a crime. Carmine (The Snake) Persico, in an early post-RICO MAFIA trial asked furtively, "So I'm in the MAFIA. Is that a crime?"

"Yes, it is." answered the judge and sentenced him to a long prison term.

Was Saddam Hussein responsible for 911? Chris Matthews loves this question. The answer of course is no. Was Saddam Hussein part of a worldwide alliance of fascists? Yes. Was Saddam Hussein providing material support for terrorists who were killing thousands of innocent civilians? Yes.

Could anyone go into an American court and prove conspiracy beyond a reasonable doubt? By pre-RICO standards probably not. But today, just being a member of Ba'ath, Hamas, FARC, ELN, Sinn Fein, al Qaeda is more than sufficient.

And it doesn't matter whether they're masquerading as downtrodden campesinos, idealistic intellectuals, or freckled-faced bartenders who speak with charming brogues.

A fascist is a fascist is a fascist.

In my humble opinion, whether the economic elites usurp government authority, the government elites usurp economic authority, or intellectual and political elites seize authority over everything, the results are always the same and that authority, eventually and inevitably, is enforced at gunpoint.

Fascist or socialist?

The difference is in the details. Minor details. Insignificant details. Extraneous details.

A Surge in the Gender War

2007-02-12T09:00:00.000-05:00

A contributor to another blog page (http://www.my-pnn.blogspot.com) written by a long time soon-to-be-ex friend, chastised me for my failure to recognize the historical significance of Hillary's ascent to the White House. To demonstrate how much more sensitive, caring and intelligent women are, she closed her criticism by referring to me and another dissenting contributor as "dumb f**ks."

So goes the gender war, a spectator sport played out in newspapers, television shows, saloons and across kitchen tables. At the center of this battle lies the question: Can a woman better lead America than a man?

In a book entitled "Closing the Leadership Gap" author Marie Wilson wrote that America "has been steered by male leadership who tend to lead from a self-centered, self-preservation perspective. In contrast women... are inclined to lead, their families and nations, from an other-centered perspective."

Never one to let a goofy theory go unexploited the aspiring Dungeon Master in Chief claimed that research "shows the presence of women raises the standards of ethical behavior and lowers corruption." The implication, of course, is that honesty and civility are traits possessed in huge quantities by women in general and Hillary in particular.

Let's look at the record: "Vast right-wing conspiracy. That'll teach them to f**k with us. I've been a life-long Yankee fan." And my personal favorite, "I was named after Sir Edmund Hillary."

Never mind that Her Heinous was born in 1947 and Sir Edmund scaled Everest in 1953.

In an earlier column I detailed that slimy minimum-wage deal finagled by Madame Speaker on behalf of Star-Kist Tuna; a little legislative sleight of hand worth millions to Mr. and Ms. Pelosi. But these gals are politicians and that's what politicos do. What about your average everyday woman on the street?

Last week a new York City cabbie spent several hours trying to find a woman who had left his cab earlier in the day. It turns out that she had given him a 30 cent tip for an $11 ride, but that's not why he sought her out, foregoing an afternoon's worth of fares in the process.

Rather, it seems she was so pre-occupied with stiffing this guy that she had forgotten to take a bag full of diamonds when she left. When the cabbie found her purse and the bag of diamonds, he tracked her down and returned the gems.

The driver didn't want a reward, but thought it would be nice if she reimbursed him for his lost fares. On the evening news I saw the video of her handing him $100. She was in severe pain as she forked over the cash. It was as if she was giving him a body part.

What a dumb f**k!

This episode reminded me of another encounter I had years ago at John Jay Park in Manhattan. My wife was attending a small gathering of college friends and I took Matt, my son, to the playground.

There I was, a man alone with a three-year-old boy on Sunday.

Get the picture?

Soon I found myself in a small group of fathers, also alone, all watching their kids and bitching to each other about their ex-wives.

One of them noticed that I was wearing a wedding ring.

"Have you re-married?" he asked.

"No, once is enough," I answered.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw Matt get decked by an angel-faced little girl. He had the ball. She wanted the ball. She knocked him down and took the ball. Sitting there on his can he did a perfect Oliver Hardy slow burn, leaped to his feet and made a full-force charge toward this little fem-fascist. Quick as a flash I jumped out and intercepted him.

"You never hit a girl! I don't care what she did!"

What you are about to read is true. The names have been omitted because I don't know them.

From nowhere came a shrill: "How dare you say that to him?"

I looked up and saw the little girl's mother, an EarthMom with all the trimmings--wire-rimmed glasses, peasant dress, paisley headband and Birkenstocks.

"That's how little boys grow up to be male chauvinists!"

I tried my best to explain that this was MY son. That he will grow up to be a male chauvinist is a foregone conclusion.

The only question is: "Would you like him to be a male chauvinist who beats up women, or one who doesn't beat up women?"

She didn't call me a "dumb f**k" but she hurled every other cliched epithet she could think of at me. I didn't realize it at the time, but her response was a perfect example of an "other-centered" perspective. She wanted me (the other in this conflict) to die, on the spot, in a very painful manner.

Speaker Pelosi, along with the Clinontistas, have demonstrated repeatedly that they lead from an "other-centered" perspective. They pass legislation that affects others, meaning us. They impose rules that restrict the freedoms of others, meaning us. Not coincidentally, these are laws and rules that they themselves are free to ignore. And increasingly they expand their power to regulate us out of business and tax us into the poorhouse while limiting or eliminating our freedom to speak in opposition.

More on "Campaign Finance Reform" soon.

By the way, does anyone think that Hillary will be using the "Buy-One-Get-One-Free" campaign offer anytime soon? I'm sure that she has "other" plans. Namely, a steel cot stashed away in the sub-basement with "Big Creep" engraved on it.

The Unexamined Life

2007-02-09T11:44:00.000-05:00

I make it a point to re-read Man's Search for Meaning by Dr. Viktor Frankl every five years or so. The late Dr. Frankl had an extraordinary gift for observation combined with a talent for communicating clearly and persuasively.

His recollections of life in a concentration camp reveal humanity at its best and at its most vile. In 1965 they had a profound impact on a skinny high school freshman who was just beginning to experience life outside of his small circle of friends and family.

Like Socrates, Santayana and Bishop Sheen, Dr. Frankl believed that the greatest dangers facing contemporary society were isolation and the inevitable loss of purpose that isolation brings. Even while he was confined in the most horrendous conditions, the Nazis could not strip him of his dignity because throughout his ordeal he retained his sense of purpose.

His mission: To help his camp mates get through their ordeal while retaining at least a small shred of humanity; to heal their bodies and help sustain their spirits.

He examined his purpose every day and reminded himself every moment that his life had meaning in spite of all the efforts to strip it away.

His was a life worth living.

Socrates didn't say that the unexamined life was "not so good" or "less satisfying."

No. To Socrates a life without daily reflection on the purpose and meaning of what it takes to be human was "not worth living."

In today's world we face the same dangers that Socrates warned of more than two millennia ago. What pretends to be serious discussion is just argument. Blind anger passes for passion. Indifference is justified as realism. And feeble attempts at humor mask shallow thinking and, many times, inner rage. As David Ivor St. Hubbins of Spinal Tap once said:

"There's a fine line between clever and stupid."

Socrates himself recognized this. He warned that dialecticism must not degenerate into mere contradiction, because mere contradiction inevitably leads to cynicism, sophistry and nihilism. Augustine saw this phenomenon in his students and at one point suggested that dialecticism be abandoned. The risks, for him, were just too great.

Periodically, I find myself agreeing with Augustine. Since modern man is shallow beyond all reclamation, the risks of dialecticism are just too great. Worse, I sometimes even begin to think that Freud was right, and that "the moment one inquires about the sense or value of life, one is sick."

Then something happens that jolts me out my cynicism or I meet someone who reaffirms my faith. It doesn't take much.

About five years ago I was riding on the "F" train reading Man's Search for Meaning. A young woman was sitting across from me and I committed the cardinal sin of New York Subway riders: I made eye contact. She smiled. I smiled back, wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

And then she said: "It's a wonderful book, isn't it?"

Every day millions ride in that same subway system.

Every day millions look straight ahead never making eye contact.

Yet, last month while standing on the subway platform with his daughters, holding their hands tightly, a courageous man let go of his daughters' hands and jumped down onto the subway tracks to save the life of a young man he had never met.

Yes, there is hope.

And that dusty old paperback left over from high school is calling to me once again.

You Missed the Funny Part, Leo

2007-02-06T22:21:00.000-05:00

Anyone who spends more than ten seconds reflecting on life can usually recall dozens, if not hundreds of people who have had positive effects on their thoughts, opinions and outlook. Among the hundreds of people I've learned from over the years, two came to mind recently as I was watching A Thousand Clowns for the four hundred and eightieth time. Herb Gardner, the playwright, and Barbara Sproul, Chairman of the Religion Department at Hunter College.

I never met Herb Gardner. Like everyone else, I knew him through his work. But during my years at NBC I met people who had known him, as well as the director of A Thousand Clowns, Fred Coe. Through their recollections I felt as if I had known him personally. I was lucky enough to know and admire Barbara Sproul when I was a student at Hunter College.

Gardner created a richly-textured and moving collection of work that included the aforementioned Jason Robards classic, as well as I'm Not Rappaport, Thieves, Conversations with my Father and a cartoon series called The Nebbishes, which was The Simpsons of its era. His plays like his characters were unique and timeless. In a world of shallowness he saw complexity. In a show biz milieu dominated by tired and predictable old gags, his humor worked so beautifully because you could never see the punchlines until they were long gone.

Most importantly, Herb Gardner saw humanity everywhere.

There were no good guys, no bad guys, no easy targets.

In contrast with what passes for satire today, there was no anger in his humor. Every Gardner creation reveals insights from a wide variety of perspectives.

Just when you think that Albert is an irredeemable bad guy or that Arnie has sold his soul for success, they come back with soliloquies that reveal extraordinary depth of character.

And while I'm still trying to think of a redeeming quality in Leo the Chipper Munk, I even felt a twinge of sorrow for him. He was a professional comic with no sense of humor. And he knew it.

When Murray and Nick do their impression of Jefferson and Hamilton, Leo screams:

"You can't do an impression of Jefferson and Hamilton. Nobody knows what they sound like."

"That's what's funny" says Nick.

"You missed the funny part, Leo" adds Murray.

At Hunter College I was a bit of a curiosity. I was older. Already married and already with a fairly good job; the kind of job that most of my colleagues in the Theater Department craved. As a theater major with a minor in philosophy I loved every course. Unlike my early academic career, which I merely endured, this was great stuff and I enjoyed it thoroughly. My instructors were successful playwrights, directors, designers... authors and activists, philosophers and theologians... and Barbara Sproul.

She was an extraordinary teacher and a persuasive writer. She was also a serious, clear-minded thinker who was able to communicate complex ideas in ways that young minds full of mush could readily apprehend.

And she was a tireless activist, traveling the world on behalf of Amnesty International and as an outspoken opponent of capital punishment.

We had lively discussions. I was, of course, absolutely certain about everything and she was more patient with me than I deserved. In a very gentle and intelligent manner she steered my thinking, allowing me to arrive at conclusions on my own.

It's a rare gift.

What I learned from Herb Gardner and Barbara Sproul is that we should never let our current pattern of thinking get in the way of discovering what's new and beautiful in the world. And we should never let temporary setbacks color our disposition.

Unlike Leo, we should not miss the funny parts.

Herb Gardner died a few years ago. As I read through the accounts of his life in the New York Times obituary I could hear Murray Burns hollering at me: "Everybody on stage for the Hawaiian number!" and "I want to see a better class of garbage out there!" And then, at the very end, I read the closing line: "Mr. Gardner is survived by his wife, Barbara Sproul, Chairman of the Religion Department at Hunter College, and their two sons."

Merciful heavens. Can you imagine the dinnertime conversations in that home?

The Preemption Paradox

2007-02-05T09:49:00.000-05:00

Every decision we make involves risks and benefits. On the world stage, the upside of preemption is that we don't have to live through the consequences of appeasement.

The downside is the endless chattering and speculation of politicians and pundits because preemption assures that we'll never know what those consequences might have been.

For parents of teenagers the analogy is obvious. We're confronted every day with conflicts that require parental judgment and the judicious application of authority. When my sixteen year old son asks if he can get on the subway and go to a video-game show in the city, I'm forced to say yes even though I know that it's going to turn out badly. He and his suburban friends will get lost, wind up in the bowels of Brooklyn and be calling me to pick them up. Worse, it will be on the way back rather than on the way in so the call will come at 11PM just as the wind-chill factor reaches -21.

But I say yes anyway. The consequences of this misadventure are far outweighed by the lessons learned from going out into the world to stumble about on his own--to find his own way--always with the lifeline of having me at the other end of the cell phone.

On the other hand, what if he wants to spend the weekend with Herman and his family at their vacation house in the Adirondacks? The answer is a swift, unequivocal and preemptive: "NO!" And there's no debate. I know that Herman's father drinks a bit and has a habit of leaving his loaded hunting rifles scattered about the house unattended. The consequences of appeasing my son here could be horrifying, but we'll never know because he's never going. The art and craft lie in the delicate balance known as "picking your spots."

For example, what would have happened if the world had said no to Hitler?

What if the Allies preemptively bombed the German glider clubs before they developed into the Luftwaffe?

What if there were preemptive raids on German forces before they became strong enough to mount Blitzkrieg against Poland and do an end run around the Maginot Line into France?

The American isolationists would have called FDR a war monger and defeated his re-election bid. Chamberlain, hailed as a great hero, would have led Britain for the next twenty years.

My father would have graduated from Pratt Institute in 1944. In the summer of that year, rather than driving his tank off of an LST and onto the beach at Normandy, he would have traveled to Paris to continue his art studies. And while there he would have met and fallen in love with Elsie Glicksman, another art student from a small town in Bavaria called Dachau. They would have married, had children and lived long and productive lives without ever imagining that their world might have been very different.

But none of this ever happened because young men were forced to fight a war that could have been averted and millions were killed by monsters that could have and should have been preemptively destroyed.

Today, we can't imagine what would have happened had the Israeli Air Force not conducted a preemptive bombing raid on the Osirak reactor. But when Arab leaders proclaim their vision of a world without Jews and pledge to wipe Israel off the map we can be thankful that we don't have to experience the consequences of appeasement firsthand.

A current world leader has pledged that he will kill one million Jews with a nuclear attack on Tel Aviv. "They", he says, "will retaliate and kill ten million Muslims. In the end we will win because there are more of us." Yet Jacques Chirac announced last week that the world may have to get accustomed to a nuclear-armed Iran.

No problem for him. At the first sign of trouble he'll simply surrender to Germany.

In facing today's tyrants, we don't have to speculate about their intentions. Like those that preceded them, they continue to tell us what their intentions are time and time again.

In years to come will our children experience the consequences of appeasement?

Let's pray that they merely have to endure the chattering speculations of politicians and pundits.

Real Men Cook Mexican

2007-02-02T15:45:00.000-05:00

"Come on," she said, "it'll be fun." Whether it's fun or not we have teenagers in the house so any excuse to get away will have a palliative effect on my disposition.

So off we went to Rosa Mexicano for a Saturday morning adult education session entitled:

Real Men Cook Mexican.

And fun it was. The merriment started when I stepped to the breakfast buffet to discover that one of the attendees, a woman who looked like Mammy Yokum's grandmother, had left her upper plate on the buffet table next to the pitcher of pineapple juice.

No thank you.

I'm not that thirsty.

Then we all settled in for the demonstration. More fun. Looking around I could see that this cooking lesson for "Real Men" was filled with women, save for three poor souls who had been trundled off to this high-energy event by their wives. If any of the eligible young women in attendance thought that this would be a good way to meet eligible young men, they were grossly mis-informed.

Roberto, the executive chef, is a friendly and articulate gentleman who truly has a passion for food and an extensive knowledge of food history. His presentation was very engaging and even I started to develop an interest, not an easy task. After all, on this beautiful 50-degree day I might have been wasting my time playing golf, fishing, riding my motorcycle... rather than learning how to make scrambled eggs mixed with crumbled tortilla chips. Yummy.

To think that I have been satisfied with bacon... ham... corned beef hash... biscuits and gravy... for all these years and missing out on THIS.

The cooking lesson, which focused on Mexican-style tidbits perfect for a Super Bowl party, was followed by a lunch made up of dishes featured in the lesson. Grandma Yokum found her teeth and we all went to the dining room to feast on these newly-crafted delicacies.

"This will be great," chimed the Mrs., "we can make some of these next Sunday."

Lots-a-luck. Granted, the lunch tasted a bit better after two or three Pomegranate Margaritas, but for a football crowd? No en esta vida.

So the crowds at Hooters will not be any smaller this year and the guys at New Park Pizza and Kentucky Fried Chicken have nothing to worry about.

They'll be getting their regular yearly call from the Martini home at about 7:30PM EST.

But first, excuse me; I have to get back to work.

I'm knocking off early today because we're going to a wine tasting at the Marriott Marquis.

"Come on," she said, "it'll be fun."

Good Night and Good Grief

2007-01-31T09:15:00.000-05:00

It was only a matter of time, I suppose, but I never dreamed that it would happen this soon. Sean McManus, President of CBS News and Sports said yesterday that gender bias is to blame for the ratings failure that has befallen the cute and perky anchor chick over at Black Rock.

"I think it is a fact there are probably people, both men and women, who are perhaps uncomfortable having a woman anchor the news,” McManus told the media industry publication Broadcasting & Cable.

"The way she is scrutinized, I think sometimes unfairly, quite frankly, I think a lot of that has to do with gender. As a woman, Couric has to be concerned about a lot of things the male anchor doesn’t have to worry about, like how she looks or what she is wearing."

Granted, Im probably not the best person to comment on such matters--the last time I watched a network news broadcast I was backstage operating a special effects projector in Studio 3K at 30 Rockefeller Plaza and John Chancellor was at the anchor desk.

Also, anything I say has to be viewed through the prism of my mid-Victorian anti feminist leanings. But what the heck, here goes: SHE'S FRIGGIN' AWFUL!

24 hours a day we get our news from cable Info Babes who know what they're talking about AND are easy on the eyes. Ms. Couric, heaven forgive me, looks like that sinister smiling logo over the entrance at Steeplechase Park.

I'll admit that I'm as shallow as the next guy, probably more so, however my distaste for Her Cuteness goes beyond her gruesome exterior. First, there was her pre-production listening tour. Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't another lead-bottomed New York dishrag conduct a listening tour before her big premiere? Then there was the on-air struggle to come up with an appropriate tagline. Dan had Courage, could Katie or any of her loyal viewers (all three of them) come up with something compelling yet dignified? And what is with the legs? Can you imagine Chet and David sitting behind open-front anchor desks in their Bermuda shorts?

So what is it that has caused CBS Evening News to tumble from a close third to an abysmal third in a field of three. It's all of the above, and more, including the snarky undertone in Mr. McManus' comments: "We've failed," he admits, "and it's your fault."

In my business we compete for projects every day. Basically, to get a project we have to create the project... stage designs, scripts, media excerpts... and present them to our prospective clients. Sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. When we lose you can bet that it's because one of our competitors did a better job, but I'm continually amazed that many of my colleagues refuse to admit that sometimes we just get beat. We fail.

No. The typical post-mortem conversation nearly always includes a rundown of all the ways that the cards were stacked against us:

"The VP of Marketing has his favorite vendor."
"We had the best ideas, but purchasing thinks we're too small."
"We had the best ideas, but purchasing thinks we're too big."
"The CEO plays golf with the sales director from MoonBat Productions."
"The MoonBat sales director is married to the CEO."

Never has anyone said: We missed the mark. We got beat fair and square.

Does anyone at CBS admit that they're getting their asses handed to them, fair and square, because of their own shortcomings?

I doubt it.

No, Mr. McManus. Viewers aren't turning away from CBS Evening News because the anchor is a woman. They're turning away because the anchor is THAT woman and because the news judgement, presentation style and journalistic integrity of the Managing Editor lacks judgement, style and integrity.

In 1945, Edward R. Murrow filed a report from the grounds of the Buchenwald death camp in occupied Germany:

"As we walked out into the courtyard, a man fell dead. Two others, they must have been over 60, were crawling toward the latrine. I saw it, but will not describe it.

In another part of the camp they showed me the children, hundreds of them. Some were only 6 years old. One rolled up his sleeves, showed me his number. It was tattooed on his arm. B-6030, it was. The others showed me their numbers. They will carry them till they die. An elderly man standing beside me said: “The children — enemies of the state!” I could see their ribs through their thin shirts....

I arrived at the conclusion that all that was mortal of more than 500 men and boys lay there in two neat piles. There was a German trailer, which must have contained another 50, but it wasn't possible to count them. The clothing was piled in a heap against the wall. It appeared that most of the men and boys had died of starvation; they had not been executed.

But the manner of death seemed unimportant. Murder had been done at Buchenwald. God alone knows how many men and boys have died there during the last 12 years. Thursday, I was told that there were more than 20,000 in the camp. There had been as many as 60,000. Where are they now?

I pray you to believe what I have said about Buchenwald. I reported what I saw and heard, but only part of it. For most of it, I have no words.

If I have offended you by this rather mild account of Buchenwald, I'm not in the least sorry..."

In a world where atrocities similar to this happen on a recurring basis, CBS Evening News chooses to follow the same old path. It isn't news, it's an electronic encounter group.

Ms. Couric could present international news from parts of the world that remain invisible. She could report economic news with context and political news with insight rather than personal bias. But instead of asking herself "What is the most important 24 minutes of information I can present tonight," she asks her viewers to suggest a clever slogan for her sign off.

Good grief.

Georgie Cracks Corn

2007-01-30T07:02:00.001-05:00

I don't know how many State of the Union Addresses since 1973 have pledged commitment to energy independence, but to quote Jim Ignatowski when he was asked how many different illicit drugs he had ingested in his lifetime, it's "exactly a lot."

It was still a surprise, however, when our current President touted ethanol last week citing the sustainability myth as just one of its many indisputable virtues. Science aside, the numbers on ethanol are staggering. Today, the federal subsidy stands at 51 cents per gallon. The most optimistic projections regarding the effects on greenhouse gases are estimated at 5%, but, like nearly all environmental statistics, they're based on static models that do not factor the ancillary costs of growing, processing and transporting ethanol. For example, since ethanol destroys the rubber seals used in conventional pipelines, every drop, at every stage of its refinement, must be trucked in vehicles burning, what?

Candidate Clinton, campaigning in Iowa last week, touted ethanol mandates as an excellent method for promoting sustainable alternatives to foreign oil. But there’s a reason why so few U.S. Senators have been elected President, and this is the perfect example. During this little chat, Her Heinous neglected to mention that she consistently voted "Nay" on ethanol legislation and even signed a letter stating that: “There is no public policy reason to support an ethanol mandate.”

Senator Clinton opposing a government mandate?

Now there’s news.

Last year, federal and state subsidies for ethanol total $6 billion. In addition to the 51-cent a gallon domestic subsidy there's a 54 cent a gallon tariff on imported ethanol. Would anyone make the stuff without these government bribes? Would anyone buy it without government coercion?

But there’s an even darker side to this charade. Artificially high corn prices are reflected in everything from breakfast cereal to Coca-Cola, taco shells to pork chops. America’s meat industry, a major exporter, is becoming much less competitive because of a distorted market for feed corn.

The price of tortillas, an important dietary staple among the world's poorest, has risen sharply. In Mexico this price rise has caused widespread protests and price controls. China has abandoned ethanol-plant construction declaring ethanol a dangerous threat to food security. In Brazil, long touted by environmentalists as a beacon of enlightened ethanol policy, ethanol production has displaced small indigenous farmers. For their own survival, many of them have fled to the Amazon rain forest where they clear the forest for their small subsistence farms.

Once again, an elitist Western fad is causing widespread Third World misery. Once again we have proof that when the government, rather than the free market, selects the economic winners and losers, eventually everybody loses. For someone born, raised and educated in New York City this simple fact has been evident to me since Vincent Impelleteri was mayor.

In spite of the multiple attempts at indoctrination by The New York City Board of Education, The City University of New York, and conversations with nine out of ten people I meet in my peregrinations around the town, I hold these truths to be self evident:

Freedom is better than tyranny.

Free markets distribute economic benefits more equitably than centrally planned, subsidized and distorted economies.

Free people pursuing their enlightened self interests have created ALL of the technological advances, material wealth and public good in world history.

But all philosophical matters aside, the ethanol debate represents a much larger issue that no one on the Left, Right or Center seems willing to face: The morality (yes, morality) of using food to fill the fuel thanks of America's SUVs when there are still people in this world who are slowly, but surely, starving to death.

Beginning in Earnest

2007-01-28T17:55:00.000-05:00

The Washington Post yesterday announced the first steps in America's latest coronation. The lead headline in their Sunday edition read: Senator Clinton Begins Campaign in Earnest.

Earnest, a small suburban community just outside of Ames, was the perfect place for the President Select to begin her campaign. Confining her campaign activities to this bedroom community adjacent to the largest college town in Iowa, Illinois' Third Senator was absolutely assured of having an enthusiastic audience of sniveling liberal weenies, all gazing at her starry eyed, as she kicked off her quest to fulfill all of their hopes and dreams.

The town was founded in the 1960s by New York City expatriate professors who had migrated to Iowa in order to bring Eastern Enlightenment to this intellectually-barren fly-over outpost. They named their new home in honor of their philosophical and political hero, Ernesto "Che" Guevara.

But on this day, far from being an unqualified hit, here in Earnest, Iowa Shrillary's most glaring shortcomings became painfully apparent to anyone with one eye and one ear. The sight of her gives many folks, male and female, the dry heaves. The sound of her makes almost anyone within earshot run for the exits, screaming. The verdict: When she's chatting, she's fine, as she demonstrated in her state-of-the-art Internet announcement video.

(By the way, how did she manage to create springtime outside her Chappaqua great room? In the real world it was January, but in Clinton's little corner of Westchester every tree is green and every flower is in full bloom.)

However, when she's on a confrontational roll--as her true-believing Socialist supporters have urged--every dog within three miles heads for the fallout shelters the instant she opens her mouth. I'm not an expert on Constitutional Law, but the First Amendment says nothing about protecting freedom of screech.

Supporters of Her Heinous may dismiss these comments as the desperate ravings of troglodytes and fearful, insecure American males who are all cowering at the prospect of America's first female President. But these observations were reported in The Washington Post this morning, just one day after they gleefully heralded her pre-inaugural celebration. In today's edition WaPo describes a series of focus groups conducted with Democrats in Iowa. Yes, some people like her, they said. But most people hate her. Can she be elected? Most of these Democrats think not, which is why she is now running fourth in Iowa.

I disagree. Any candidate who wins their party's nomination has a chance to win. And a little part of me is even rooting for her. No candidate since James Earl Carter has been more thinly equipped by intellect, aptitude and talent to be President. But without Carter we could never have had Ronald Reagan. True the damage inflicted by Carter to America's economy and place in the world was considerable. But this is not 1977. When Hildebeast's husband tried to replay the Carter years there were responsible people in power who were more than willing to take him on. Today, the opposition is more organized and the bankruptcy of Clintonism is even more widely acknowledged, even by eastcoast elitist Democrats. Check out Senator Schumer's comments during a recent confab with Gov. Spitzer and Mayor Bloomberg.

So relax. It won't happen. Lady Macbeth's campaign may have begun this week in Earnest. But when it ends, the Washington Post headline will read: Senator Clinton Burned in Effigy.

Effigy is a small cattle town about ten miles from Amarillo.

Coming soon: Hillary assures voters she has the experience to deal with BAD men.

McMansions... I WANT ONE!

2007-01-26T10:04:00.000-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night. No kidding, it really was, and we were having dinner with old friends here on Long Island in their quaint, cozy AND FRIGGIN' FREEZING HOUSE. Our hosts, I'll call them Mr. and Ms. Green, had bought this little gem, their Dream House, because living in it gave them a sense of history. For me, just being in it for less than an hour was robbing me of my senses and leaving in their place a predictable and creeping numbness. After dinner we were all invited to the family room for coffee and dessert. The roaring fire was a welcome sight and I quickly grabbed a seat close to the flames in an attempt to stave off frostbite.

My relief was short lived, however, and I was soon reminded of Ralph Kramden describing his affliction (after a bowling injury) as feeling "like I have my head in the oven and my feet in the ice box." As it happens, just as the feeling was returning to my fingers I could feel my eyebrows singeing from the radiance of this cozy fire, while the back of my neck was developing a patina of Winter frost from the arctic blast blowing through the quaint leaded windows opposite the hearth.

Very cozy.

Soon, the conversation came around to the changing face of Long Island. I'm sure that suburbanites the World over have been having this same conversation for decades. "They come here, crowd our schools and build their McMansions," complained Ms. Green. "Do you see that monstrosity they're building across the street?", she said, pointing to the window.

I tried in vain to turn my head and get a look, but the ice was now too thick and had formed a frozen collar around my neck.

"McMansion?", I asked.

"Yes!", she said. "They knock down the old homes, the ones with character, and they build those monstrosities!"

"Ah, McMansion. I get it. A clever term of derision for a home with walls and floors that are plumb and level.

Where all the drains work. Homes that are cool in the summer AND WARM IN THE WINTER! Who on Earth would live in such a place?"

For some reason we haven't been invited back, though we have spent many pleasant evenings with our new neighbors, the ones that knocked down the cozy, quaint structure that had been there since the Garfield Adminstration. In truth, we had lived here for fifteen years and I didn't know that house existed. When the new owners took possession they cleared away the brush and, what do you know? A house.

And in place of this quaint and historic structure, these Philistines, a Scottish-American family ironically named MacManschin, erected an eyesore; a monument to excess and personal greed. There, mocking me from across our narrow street stands a home that is actually habitable with enough room for Mr. and Mrs. MacManschin, the five little MacManschins, the Golden Retriever, along with pushy neighbors that show up on cold evenings in pathetic attempts to restore the circulation in their extremities.

So last night, as the wind howled and the temperature plummeted into single digits, my wife turned and asked what I'd like to do.

"We could fly a kite in the living room. Or we can grab a bottle of Frangelico and visit the MacManschin family across the street."

The Need For Speed

2007-01-25T13:52:00.000-05:00

ALERT!!! ALERT!!! ALERT!!!

To all of those who are familiar with the general tone of this blog, you have been warned: WHAT FOLLOWS IS AN ANTI-AMERICAN SCREED!

Why can't America make a low-cost, high performance motorcycle?

Here I am, cash in hand, ready to buy American and my only choices are Victory (horrendously expensive) and Harley-Davidson (just plain horrendous).

In fairness to Victory, they make a magnificent bike; powerful, gorgeous, and with fit and finish that makes them look like rolling jewelry. But that pricetag!!!???

Then there's Harley. Overweight, underpowered and overpriced. The overweight and underpowered part may be a marketing strategy. Matching bike to rider. And the overpriced part was understandable when there was a six-month waiting list to pay thousands over MSRP for the privilege of owning one of these Hogs.

They're more like Sows.

Last year an acquaintance of mine who bought one of these pigs two years ago put it up for sale because, he said, he doesn't ride it enough to justify the expense.

"How much?" I asked.

"Well... I paid 27, but I'll take 25."

GULP!!!

Today the bike is still in his garage and H-D Finance invoices still come to his mailbox every month. It's enough to make a grown man cry.

My 1984 Honda V30 Magna is faster and handles more nimbly than a just-out-of-the- showroom 2007 Sportster. One would think that a bike called a "Sportster" would have some element of "Sport" in it's DNA, but no. So what's a patriotic American rider who's in the market for a new bike supposed to do?

I'm buying a 2007 Honda VTX 1300.

Can American workers make a bike as fast, nimble and beautiful as the VTX? You bet they can, and do. The VTX is made in Marysville, Ohio by American workers who are the most productive in the world. A fact that Honda realized decades ago when they started building Accords here, and quickly expanded with Civics, Gold Wings, as well as engine building for all Honda models.

In fact, if a Japanese rider buys a Gold Wing in Tokyo, it has to be shipped from Marysville, Ohio. If a German motorist buys a BMW Z4 in Munich, it has to be shipped from Spartanburg, South Carolina.

So if you're wondering why Americans can't built a car or a motorcycle that can compete with the Germans or the Japanese, don't. But if you're wondering why an American company, like Harley, can't build a technologically competitive motorcycle, don't look to the assembly plant. Look into the executive suites.

It's sunny and dry out there. I'm taking my 23 year old bike for a spin.

A New Direction

2007-01-22T10:48:00.000-05:00

One can't help noticing that there's been some sort of change in Washington. I don't pay much attention to politics, but people that keep track of such things are bubbling over with enthusiasm about the spirit and energy of this new generation of leaders. These are the young bucks who will now manipulate the levers of government in order to take America in a new direction. What's immediately apparent about this new generation is that their average age is approximately five days past dead, which is why all of this new-direction talk is so amusing.

Anyone with two brain cells to rub together recognizes that this new direction they're always babbling about dates back to the mid-nineteenth century and two disagreeable malcontents named Freddie and Karl. It's never worked and never will, but what the heck, let's bet our children's future on another Utopian pipedream.

Imagine that Captain Smith, after realizing that his unsinkable ship has struck an iceberg, shouts to his helmsman:

"Full reverse! Let's ram it again on the port side!"

In reality, today's situation is even more baffling. Beyond the obvious goofiness of this new/old herd, who among us, other than a tiny number of parasites, elites, and ideologues doesn't recognize that we're in a period of economic growth, low inflation and full employment? Now we're looking at Captain Smith cruising along in calm clear waters looking for something big and hard to slam into just for grins and giggles. So if it's not about economics, this new direction must be something very esoteric, beyond the understanding of mere mortals.

Maybe it has something to do with this Culture of Corruption we've been hearing about. Speaker Pelosi did say that ethics reform was high on her agenda. Never mind that the new Federal Minimum Wage law passed by the House specifically excluded American Samoa. "Who cares about American Samoa?" you may ask. Del Monte Foods cares about American Samoa. Their Star-Kist Tuna Division is the island's largest employer and Del Monte HQ is located in Ms. Pelosi's district.

Coincidence? Maybe. Proximity doesn't necessarily imply cupidity.

Well then try this one on for size: Ms. Pelosi's Mister just happens to own $17 million worth of Del Monte stock. But this is nothing new. Vineyards owned by the happy couple have been cited for minimum wage as well as immigration violations at the same time that these same enterprises were getting special consideration from the California Legislature as well as the U.S. Congress.

This new direction looks curiously like the same old direction.

Over in the Senate, Dingy Harry took one look at the lobbying reform bill sent to his desk by Frau Facelift and got so angry that his pulse nearly reached three beats per minute. On close review, the House bill seeks to restrict lobbying abuses practiced in the Senate, while Reid's Senate version will outlaw the petty nick-nacking so common in the House. We'll devote a future column to Harry & Son's curious dealings with certain Nevada real estate developers and the Federal land the U.S. Congress is supposed to oversee. Apparently, the Reid family operates under the axiom: Never steal anything small.

And in late-breaking news, Nancy & Company are set to alter House Ethics Rules to protect Democrats who might be found guilty of corruption or bribery related to the passage of legislation.

Under present rules, if Members of Congress are found guilty of a crime related to the passage of legislation, they would have their pensions cut off as of the date of the legislation's passage, even if it took a few years to find them guilty.

The Democrats, via H. R. 476, the Member Pension Bill, which they intend to push through tonight, will seek to change this. With this scam, if a bill is signed by President Bush, and then a Member of Congress is found guilty of a crime related to the passage of legislation between the President's signature and January 2, 2009, the member would receive his or her FULL Congressional pension.

Guess who just might be found guilty of a crime between now and January 2, 2009?

Are you listening Reps Mollohan, Cole and William (stash it in the freezer) Jefferson.

Ah yes, victory over the Culture of Corruption. It looks like the coming years will be fun, fun, fun.

With Pelosi playing Nedda to Reid's Canio, who will she call for when Dingy Harry comes for her with the knife in his hand? Will John Murtha be willing to take one in the gut for his lovely but spoken for paramour? I doubt it.

In any case, it will be quite a spectacle as Charlie Rangel stares into the C-Span camera and wails:

La commedia e finita.

Liar. Liar?

2007-01-18T08:43:00.000-05:00

The new religious alliance formed by former Presidents Carter and Clinton, both unabashed Christians, reminded me of a brief exchange I had with an acquaintance more than a decade ago. During an after-dinner conversation the subject, once again, came around to religion and intelligence.

"How can anyone with an ounce of brains believe that nonsense?" he asked.

I explained to him that I was not blessed with the gift of evangelism and if he was seeking someone to give him reason to change his mind, he should look elsewhere. Truthfully, I would love it if everyone could discover the peace and contentment that I have found, but I'm not going to lose any sleep over it.

But he was relentless. "You'd have to be an idiot!" he continued.

In an attempt to end the discussion I pointed out that his hero, William Jefferson Clinton, the man he considered to be the most intelligent human in the history of civilization (because he did the Times Sunday Crossword in pen) was a committed Christian.

"Never!" he snapped. "He's way too smart."

"He speaks of his Christian faith all the time." I answered.

"He's lying," came the instant reply.

I stared for a moment. Did he just say what I think he said?

Then he continued: "He's lying because he knows that an Atheist could never be elected. And anybody that smart has got to be an Atheist."

Of course, that means he's been telling the same lie since the Kennedy administration, but that didn't seem to faze this sycophant on this night. In fact, he explained that he expected him to lie... he encouraged him to lie... because it's the only way he could achieve power and implement his agenda.

While I'm as cynical as the next guy about politicians and truthfulness, it had never occurred to me that Mr. Clinton would construct this elaborate lie early in life and actively maintain the deception through four decades. Any candidate can get around the religion thing by simply showing up at church now and then and keeping his mouth shut on the subject. Why then this intricate fabrication? He didn't just show up at church, he spoke candidly about how his faith informed every aspect of his public and private life.

If this is a lie, it's a beaut. I can understand and even accept political lies as reasonable puffing of the wares. After all, nobody's going to rush out and vote for the candidate that declares: "I'm as impotent as the other guy, but I have better hair." They have to express unwavering commitment to bold new strategies and breakthrough ideas. But, with rare exceptions, they never actually describe those ideas and strategies let alone act on them.

All these years later few of his supporters or detractors can say exactly what Bill Clinton's agenda might have been. The Clintonistas looked to him, teary eyed with hearts palpitating, as the Messiah who would finally lead them to their Utopian Promised Land. His opponents warned of dire consequences indeed if, left unchecked, he was able to put his ideas into action. What ideas?

Who was right? It turns out that our 26th President, who had died nearly thirty years before B.J. was born, had him pegged. Like the political hacks that Teddy Roosevelt derided a century ago, it seems he was interested not at all with big ideas, but with digging sewer lines in Ashtabula.

In the intervening years I've recalled this short conversation on occasion and one simple question still gnaws at me: If they know he's lying about this, how do they know when he's telling the truth? Does Hillary know? Does he have a secret code or a hand signal? And if he does, why hasn’t anyone figured it out yet?

I suspect that the answer is much simpler and more universal. It's not so much that politicians lie to us. It's more that we're all lying to ourselves; hearing what we want to hear and seeing what we want to see.

"What kind of a Christian are you?" he sneered when I tried to turn the conversation toward baseball. "Don't you care if I get to Heaven."

I didn't care then and don't care now.

"Part of the attraction of Heaven" I explained, "is that you won't be there."

If This Isn't Civil War, What Is?

2007-01-05T12:12:00.000-05:00

This report was compiled from multiple sources.

The Arab street, the U.S. government and the American media refuse to term the violence here a civil war, even after at least 6 more were killed Thursday in ‘inter-factional violence’.

As the gunfire raged in her neighborhood, Amina Abu Sahar walked into the street Thursday night and cried out, “Stop the fire! Arabs shooting Arabs…”

“What has happened to us? Save your bullets for the enemies. What a disgrace,” she said through tears.

Abu Sahar is not alone. Many of the “simple people” on the Arab street feel the same, feel despair over the escalating chaos.

On the street, people still refuse to term the events a civil war. Official spokespeople chose more military definitions, such as “confrontations between rival factions.” But as the death toll rises, including a senior security commander, plus dozens of wounded, it is clear to all that these are legitimate confrontations in a governmental power struggle.

Every violent incident results in threats, revenge, and in the end, more casualties. Every day there is renewed drama. Today the drama was broadcast to residents of the entire country when chief of the Security Service in the north, Mohammed Ghayeb was killed when rival militants laid siege to his house. Ghayeb’s killing was expected to trigger revenge attacks by the men under his command.

Ghayeb was on the phone to national TV just moments before his death and appealed for help as his house came under attack. "They are killers," he said of the gunmen. "They are targeting the house, children are dying, they are bleeding. For God's sake, send an ambulance, we want an ambulance, somebody move."

The battle outside the house raged for much of the day and killed four of Ghayeb's guards and a rival gunman. About three dozen people, including eight children, were also wounded.

Now, all fear further escalations, which are likely to rise if public representatives are counted among the casualties. The concerns are not unrealistic – Wednesday an RPG missile was fired at the home of senior insurgency official Sufian Abu-Zaida, although he was not killed.

This could be the reason as well why the Prime Minister called on all sides to do all possible to bring the fighting to a halt. “These confrontations must stop, this slaughter must end. Let us love one another, let us solve our disagreements through dialogue and not weapons. Our weapons should be directed only at the occupation,” he said.

No, this is not Iraq. This what daily life is like in Gaza and the rival factions are Hamas and Fatah. The New York Times doesn't call this a civil war. The U.N. has no opinion. A former U.S. President blames the Arab-on-Arab violence on Israel, which he likens to Apartheid South Africa. And the Palestinian Prime Minister?

He wants this slaughter to end so they can get back to their real mission: slaughtering Jews.

Enviro-Genocide

2006-12-29T07:50:00.000-05:00

Here's a question that High School science teachers might want to include in their next pop quiz: Which of the following megalomaniacs caused the greatest amount of death and destruction in the 20th Century?

A- Josef Stalin
B- Adolf Hitler
C- Pol Pot
D- Rachel Carson

Here's a hint. The lies and distortions of the criminal in question resulted in more death, disease, poverty and misery than the other three combined.

The correct answer is critical to the understanding of how environmental science has evolved in the last forty years. With all the media jabbering about Globalism in 2006 one very dramatic development seems to have been overlooked. Last Summer The World Health Organization (WHO) said "Never Mind" and lifted its thirty year ban on the pesticide DDT. I could say better late than never, but I've never been accused of being overly charitable. No single act has done more to keep half the world's population imprisoned in the grip of poverty than the DDT ban. No class of people have done more to extend the misery of those living in the developing world than American and Western European environmental elitists.

Rachel Carson, the Joan of Arc of environmentalism, along with her enthusiastic accomplices at CBS News, willfully misrepresented and distorted the facts in her 1962 bestseller and subsequent CBS documentary, The Silent Spring. In doing so, she provided the instruction manual for all the environmental zealots that followed: Begin with a premise (pesticides are evil) then distort or fabricate the data to support it. The Aububon Society, Greenpeace, Earth First and their cheerleaders have all followed the strategy to perfection, even to the point of stifling dissenting voices, as demonstrated by Senators Rockefeller and Snowe just last week.

For those of us living in the comfort and security of the Industrialized World the results have been negligible. For the forgotten and invisible hundreds of millions who live beyond our view, the consequences have not been so benign. Malaria, a preventable parasitic condition which had long been in decline, is now the leading cause of disease and premature death. Worse, its social effects have been exponential, placing a tight lid on economic development so that even those not afflicted are condemned to a continuing cycle of grinding poverty. Governments have been held hostage to WHO extortion. Thailand defied the DDT ban throughout the 1980s and early 1990s and malaria there virtually disappeared. Finally, they could could no longer resist as the flow of United Nations aid dried up and the incidence of malaria slowly but surely rose again.

So now, the WHO has taken their "Mulligan" and admitted that maybe they were wrong about DDT. Nice try guys. Tell the families of the dead that you're sorry. Tell the mothers who wake up every morning wondering if this is the day that they will have to decide which of their children survive until sunset that you tried your best. More importantly, convince the world that those who have been so wrong about so much for so long should now be trusted, again. How many more will die needlessly in the 21st Century if we blindly follow today's environmental elitists?

Father Knows Best

2006-12-16T08:02:00.000-05:00

I very rarely read New York Magazine, but a cover story caught my eye last week as I scanned the magazine rack in Dr. Zaman's waiting room.

Authentic Happiness. Now there's a concept.

The author of the article, a New Yorker, treated the subject the way the Discovery Channel describes UFO sightings. They know UFOs are fiction, dammit! Why do so many people claim to have seen them? Happiness, authentic or not, is something that most New Yorkers experience through the eyes of others. Happiness, like alien visitors from another planet, is an illusion; a construct created by delusional fools to camouflage their misery. To a practical and prudently-maladjusted New Yorker happiness is simply unfathomable.

Unhappiness? Now there's something the author could sink her teeth into. What causes unhappiness? What can we do about it? Well, since happiness is an illusion and unhappiness is reality, why would anyone want to do anything about it? More to the point, since unhappiness is the default position and therefore uncaused, why is she writing about the causes of unhappiness?

I think she's stumbled upon something here.

The lack of wealth does not cause unhappiness, she claimed. Rather, it's a relative lack of wealth that causes unhappiness. Instantly, hundreds of conversations raced through my mind. The law partner who whined to me about how tough it was trying to make ends meet on $500,000 a year. My upper-middle-class friend from an upscale town in Westchester whose 17 year old daughter sobbed because her new Lexus didn't have the performance package (a $5,000 option). It's an interesting question. New Yorkers can't help but be bombarded with evidence of conspicuous and excessive consumption. Very few of us can look around and not see thousands of things we can't have. But is this the cause of unhappiness, or simply the trigger?

My father, in addition to being a man of immense intellect and courage, is able to place almost any situation in its proper perpective. Years ago, while fishing on my small runabout in Reynolds Channel I mentioned that it would be nice to have one of those fully-decked-out sport fishing boats that were buzzing past us. He pointed to the crowd fishing on the Magnolia Street Pier and said that those guys were looking at us and thinking the same thing. I was an adult at the time but this was an Andy-and-Opie moment, one of many that we've had over the course of the decades.

"Go after what you want in life," he taught me, "and don't look into anyone else's wallet." It was a lesson I took to heart at a very early age.

Basically it all comes down to this: If I get what I want, I'm a happy guy.

"Mr. Martini..." called Dr. Zaman's nurse. I put down the magazine, smiling, and went in for my yearly echocardiagram. "You're 100%," the doctor reported. "Keep exercising, watch what you eat and STAY OFF THAT MOTORCYCLE!"

"One out of three ain't bad," I mumbled.

The next morning I played the Red Course at Eisenhower Park and shot a 40 on the front nine.

Authentic happiness.

On the back, the course having somehow discovered my true handicap, double bogey followed double bogey followed double bogey for a 49. Yet just as I descended into sleep that night a wide-screen HD image emerged: A perfect swing with my 3 iron, my second shot soaring toward the Par 5 First Green and gently coming to rest 20 feet from the pin.

Before I could reach for my putter, I was fast asleep.