T'was the night before the night before Christmas and there did I sit.
In front of my laptop thinking, "Man, I'm a twit!"
It's been near a month since I posted a blog,
So I thought, "why not now?" as I sipped some egg nog.
This blogging, I've learned, for the fainthearted it's not.
Keeping up, staying current, posting often - it's a lot!
When you consider my day job, and being a dad,
My "free" time is little, it's really quite sad.
Like most of my peers I have much on my plate.
Sometimes it's too much and I just want to skate.
But, no, that won't do, my wife's there to remind me,
She works just as hard, if not harder, you see.
For nearly three decades she's been by my side.
Through thick and through thin, through low and high tide.
My angel has been there, committed and true.
What more could I ask? What more could she do?
As I look out my window and ponder next year.
I do so undaunted, and free of all fear.
With Christmas so close, only two days away,
I know what to write and I know what to say.
We may not be blessed to have presents galore,
But we're blessed nonetheless; what we have is much more.
Our children are here. We're all healthy to boot.
The love that we share makes the other stuff moot.
I can't think of anything more that I'd want.
To hell with the rest, if I may be so blunt.
My wife and my kids are what give my life meaning.
So Christmas with them is all I'll be needing.
Happy Holidays To All, On One of the Few Days I'm NOT . . .
. . .Wishin' I Was Fishin'
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Giving Thanks
Ah, Thanksgiving Day. My favorite of all the holidays. My wife and daughters prefer Christmas. My son's kind of a fence-sitter. He understands why I prefer Thanksgiving and he agrees with my rationale, but I sense he generally likes one as much as the other, and that's OK. He's only 17. I do get a little rankled, though, when the girls address me as Scrooge!
I have a cynical Irish streak that I get from my mother, God rest her soul, and over time, I've come to view Christmas as more of a hassle than a holiday. (Ironically, my mom loved Christmas!) It would be convenient, and probably lazy, to chalk up my Yuletide cynicism to "the commercialization of Christmas." After all, there's nothing new about that. Most of us know Christmas was commercialized over a century ago. While I admit the commercial aspect of Christmas does play an important role in my general dislike of the holiday, there is more to it than that. I blame the religious right! Yep, it's those bible-toting conservatives again, this time messing up Christmas for me and God knows how many other people. My evidence? Read on.
(-Reprinted from To Celebrate: Reshaping Holidays and Rites of Passage, 1987): While the Gospel of Luke links the date of Jesus' birth to a census in Palestine decreed by Caesar Augustus, nothing is known of the time of year of his birth. The date of Christmas, like other Christian holy days, likely was established to provide an alternative to popular pagan festivals. It's known that December 25th was originally the date of the feast to the sun god, Mithras. After spreading from Persia into the Roman world during the first century, the cult of Mithras had become Christianity's leading rival by the third century. Although Christmas was intended as an alternative to pagan festivals, many of the practices of those festivals were simply incorporated into the Christian celebration and as Christianity spread through central and northern Europe, incorporation of the practices of local religions continued.
By the Reformation of the 16th century, many reformers wanted Christmas dropped as a Christian celebration. They viewed the popular practices of Christmas too similar to the old pagan festivals, and they emphasized the fact that there was no biblical sanction for Christmas. In 17th-century England, for a few years the feast of Christmas was even outlawed by the Puritan-dominated parliament. At the same time, Puritans in Massachusetts passed similar legislation. Between the 16th and 18th centuries, the widespread position taken against Christmas as a holy day by Puritans, Quakers, Baptists and Presbyterians ended up having consequences those religious groups could not have imagined.
Resistance to attaching religious significance to Christmas encouraged it's growth as a secular holiday. Through the 20th century (and now into the 21st) in Europe and North America, the popular celebration of Christmas remains an amalgam of Christian and non-Christian traditions. The lack of clarity about the celebration's purpose has remained, accentuating a new factor that arose in the 20th century - the commercialization of Christmas. The commercialization of Christmas did not take place in a social vacuum. It is part of our society, in which consumption for its own sake - regardless of need - is legitimized and encouraged. Without reluctance, comsumerism exploits religious beliefs and deep emotions to persuade people to buy.
Commercial Christmas, its underpinnings of Santa Claus firmly in place, continues its spiraling growth. It seems evident that its cultural pervasiveness makes future change little less than a distant dream. It is also true that many Christians and congregations accept the distortion of their holy day without challenge. The reason, one suspects, is not so much an insensitivity to the issues, but rather a feeling of impotence – not knowing what to do or how to do it. Aware that slogans such as "putting Christ back in Christmas," and ideas about "Christmas basket charity" are simplistic, many Christians opt to do nothing. The commercialization of Christmas is something everybody talks about, but nobody does anything about.
The previous four-paragraph passage was written 22 years ago, folks. It is still germane today, and will remain so as long as consumerism is at the heart of the celebration of Christmas. And who were the catalysts for that - you betcha, Sarah P. - religious conservatives. Of course, at the time, they had no way of knowing the consequences of turning their backs on Christmas would ultimately be Black Friday, but then, that's usually the case with the religious right. It's all about their interpretation of what Jesus would do and imposing that on the rest of us. Turning their backs on Christmas for nearly 200 years essentially guaranteed a more secular evolution. By the 19th century when those formerly-resistant Protestant groups (I suppose they saw the error in their ways) began to celebrate the birth of Christ again, it was not only a religious holy day, but a well-established secular holiday, for which Santa Claus, the North Pole and a sleigh with reindeer also represented the meaning of Christmas.
I guess what it comes down to is this: I resent the expectations that come with Christmas more than anything else. And I resent those in the religious community preaching about how we've lost the true meaning of Chritmas, while they queue up at Wal-Mart before dawn to get a shot at the new-and-improved Talking Elmo. Every year that passed as my children got older, I watched with regret as it became all about the presents, who got what, and making sure exactly the same amount of money was spent on each person. (Of course we couldn't have anyone feeling short-changed, now could we!) Getting dressed up and attending Christmas services was a mere sidebar to the bigger celebration back at the house - the celebration of consumpton. It's not "good little boys and girls" who get presents, it's the sons and daughters of prosperity, regardless of whether they are "good." And it's certainly not the poor, for whom the consequence of being "good" is generally getting nothing at all, because their families lack the resources to buy breakfast, let alone presents. Christmas is a cruel hoax to them.
Ironically, as the economy has taken its toll on my family, I may actually enjoy Christmas a little more this year. We can't afford presents. Our three children, now young adults, understand the situation, and we have shifted the focus to simply being together for Christmas. You know, sort of like Thanksgiving, where we give thanks for the good things in our lives, like the food on our table, the family surrounding us and the blessing of good health. And you wonder why I like Thanksgiving better than Christmas? It ain't just about the football, the turkey and the pumpkin pie! (But make no mistake, drumstick in hand, I'll be watching those Cowboys and Lions on Thursday. Hey, it's tradition!) Happy Holidays!
. . . Wishin' I Was Fishin'
I have a cynical Irish streak that I get from my mother, God rest her soul, and over time, I've come to view Christmas as more of a hassle than a holiday. (Ironically, my mom loved Christmas!) It would be convenient, and probably lazy, to chalk up my Yuletide cynicism to "the commercialization of Christmas." After all, there's nothing new about that. Most of us know Christmas was commercialized over a century ago. While I admit the commercial aspect of Christmas does play an important role in my general dislike of the holiday, there is more to it than that. I blame the religious right! Yep, it's those bible-toting conservatives again, this time messing up Christmas for me and God knows how many other people. My evidence? Read on.
(-Reprinted from To Celebrate: Reshaping Holidays and Rites of Passage, 1987): While the Gospel of Luke links the date of Jesus' birth to a census in Palestine decreed by Caesar Augustus, nothing is known of the time of year of his birth. The date of Christmas, like other Christian holy days, likely was established to provide an alternative to popular pagan festivals. It's known that December 25th was originally the date of the feast to the sun god, Mithras. After spreading from Persia into the Roman world during the first century, the cult of Mithras had become Christianity's leading rival by the third century. Although Christmas was intended as an alternative to pagan festivals, many of the practices of those festivals were simply incorporated into the Christian celebration and as Christianity spread through central and northern Europe, incorporation of the practices of local religions continued.
By the Reformation of the 16th century, many reformers wanted Christmas dropped as a Christian celebration. They viewed the popular practices of Christmas too similar to the old pagan festivals, and they emphasized the fact that there was no biblical sanction for Christmas. In 17th-century England, for a few years the feast of Christmas was even outlawed by the Puritan-dominated parliament. At the same time, Puritans in Massachusetts passed similar legislation. Between the 16th and 18th centuries, the widespread position taken against Christmas as a holy day by Puritans, Quakers, Baptists and Presbyterians ended up having consequences those religious groups could not have imagined.
Resistance to attaching religious significance to Christmas encouraged it's growth as a secular holiday. Through the 20th century (and now into the 21st) in Europe and North America, the popular celebration of Christmas remains an amalgam of Christian and non-Christian traditions. The lack of clarity about the celebration's purpose has remained, accentuating a new factor that arose in the 20th century - the commercialization of Christmas. The commercialization of Christmas did not take place in a social vacuum. It is part of our society, in which consumption for its own sake - regardless of need - is legitimized and encouraged. Without reluctance, comsumerism exploits religious beliefs and deep emotions to persuade people to buy.
Commercial Christmas, its underpinnings of Santa Claus firmly in place, continues its spiraling growth. It seems evident that its cultural pervasiveness makes future change little less than a distant dream. It is also true that many Christians and congregations accept the distortion of their holy day without challenge. The reason, one suspects, is not so much an insensitivity to the issues, but rather a feeling of impotence – not knowing what to do or how to do it. Aware that slogans such as "putting Christ back in Christmas," and ideas about "Christmas basket charity" are simplistic, many Christians opt to do nothing. The commercialization of Christmas is something everybody talks about, but nobody does anything about.
The previous four-paragraph passage was written 22 years ago, folks. It is still germane today, and will remain so as long as consumerism is at the heart of the celebration of Christmas. And who were the catalysts for that - you betcha, Sarah P. - religious conservatives. Of course, at the time, they had no way of knowing the consequences of turning their backs on Christmas would ultimately be Black Friday, but then, that's usually the case with the religious right. It's all about their interpretation of what Jesus would do and imposing that on the rest of us. Turning their backs on Christmas for nearly 200 years essentially guaranteed a more secular evolution. By the 19th century when those formerly-resistant Protestant groups (I suppose they saw the error in their ways) began to celebrate the birth of Christ again, it was not only a religious holy day, but a well-established secular holiday, for which Santa Claus, the North Pole and a sleigh with reindeer also represented the meaning of Christmas.
I guess what it comes down to is this: I resent the expectations that come with Christmas more than anything else. And I resent those in the religious community preaching about how we've lost the true meaning of Chritmas, while they queue up at Wal-Mart before dawn to get a shot at the new-and-improved Talking Elmo. Every year that passed as my children got older, I watched with regret as it became all about the presents, who got what, and making sure exactly the same amount of money was spent on each person. (Of course we couldn't have anyone feeling short-changed, now could we!) Getting dressed up and attending Christmas services was a mere sidebar to the bigger celebration back at the house - the celebration of consumpton. It's not "good little boys and girls" who get presents, it's the sons and daughters of prosperity, regardless of whether they are "good." And it's certainly not the poor, for whom the consequence of being "good" is generally getting nothing at all, because their families lack the resources to buy breakfast, let alone presents. Christmas is a cruel hoax to them.
Ironically, as the economy has taken its toll on my family, I may actually enjoy Christmas a little more this year. We can't afford presents. Our three children, now young adults, understand the situation, and we have shifted the focus to simply being together for Christmas. You know, sort of like Thanksgiving, where we give thanks for the good things in our lives, like the food on our table, the family surrounding us and the blessing of good health. And you wonder why I like Thanksgiving better than Christmas? It ain't just about the football, the turkey and the pumpkin pie! (But make no mistake, drumstick in hand, I'll be watching those Cowboys and Lions on Thursday. Hey, it's tradition!) Happy Holidays!
. . . Wishin' I Was Fishin'
Thursday, October 29, 2009
On Being Yellow
Ever since the Democrats took control of both the White House and our national legislative branch, then proceeded to run healthcare reform right back up the national flagpole, the rhetoric coming from inside AND outside the Beltway has been elevated to levels not seen since the Pulitzer vs. Hearst yellow journalism days of the late 19th century. I have to admit, in sort of a voyeuristic way, watching all this from a distance at times is pretty amusing, until, that is, I realize that there are boatloads of my neighbors out there who buy into all this crap.
"Yellow journalism, in short, is biased opinion masquerading as objective fact. Moreover, the practice of yellow journalism involved sensationalism, distorted stories, and misleading images for the sole purpose of boosting newspaper sales and exciting public opinion." This is an excerpt from an educational article on the Oracle Education Foundation website, ThinkQuest.org. The article goes on to explain that this type of sensationalistic journalism tended to appeal to the "shorter attention spans and interests of the lower class." (Gosh, remind you of anyone?) It also goes on to explain that following this dark period in journalistic history, generally considered to have ended around 1910, newspapers and journalism were never the same. Now there's a revelation!
Fast forward to today and we find that yellow journalism is no longer the exclusive domain of newspapers, and hasn't been for a long time. The so-called 24-hour news cycle is now driven electronically by cable television and the web. Newspapers simply aren't as relevent as they once were, just prior to the start of the 20th century when 98% of the population - that's right, 98% - got their news from newspapers. Being all things yellow also now seems to be the bastion of the right (although the left can lay claim to a few fact-benders too). My problem is not so much with all the truth-stretching and yellow shading going on on both sides. Rather, I'm disturbed by the fact that waaaaaayyyyyy too many of my fellow citizens get their information exclusively from these sources. They form their opinions based soley on what they are being told from a narrow and extremely biased perspective. People are lazy. They listen to whatever suits their own proclivities. They will not proactively seek out opposing viewpoints. They won't search for truly factual, objective information in an effort to form a more educated opinion. What's worse, when challenged, they become defensive and combative, rather than being open-minded.
The electorate, my friends, is largely ignorant. We, are largely ignorant. (Not stupid, but ignorant. If you don't know the difference, look it up.) Oh yeah, and apathetic to boot. How else can you explain voter turnout of only 64% in the 2008 presidential election - virtually unchanged from 2004. For all the hullaballoo about voter registration and electing a black president, the fact is, the percentage of registered voters who voted did not change. It was the makeup of the voters that changed: 2 million more black voters, 2 million more Hispanic voters and 600,000 more Asian voters made up the lion's share of the 5 million-voter increase from 2004. And for whom did they vote? Go on, take a wild guess.
So, all you WASPy right-wing haters out there, keep rattling your yellow sabres and spewing your yellow misinformation. It served you well in last year's elections didn't it? Until you can give your ignorant, apathetic constituents truly compelling reasons to get off the couch and turn out at the polls, the GOP will continue to be the party of exclusion, not inclusion. Oh yeah, and just to make yourselves even more appealing, why don't y'all line up alongside my obviously-doesn't-have-enough-to-do-in-Washington, fellow Floridian, Rep. Ginny Brown-Waite. In unison insist that Pres. Obama must ask Congress for permission to accept the Nobel Peace Prize. That should make you a lot of friends. You Republicans, you're a funny lot. And Ginny, keep trying to be controversial, if not relevent. You fit right in with your fellow GOPers - loud, proud, grasping for straws and still completely clueless.
Ya know, when all this yellowness gets to be too much, I find myself . . .
. . . Wishing I Was Fishing.
"Yellow journalism, in short, is biased opinion masquerading as objective fact. Moreover, the practice of yellow journalism involved sensationalism, distorted stories, and misleading images for the sole purpose of boosting newspaper sales and exciting public opinion." This is an excerpt from an educational article on the Oracle Education Foundation website, ThinkQuest.org. The article goes on to explain that this type of sensationalistic journalism tended to appeal to the "shorter attention spans and interests of the lower class." (Gosh, remind you of anyone?) It also goes on to explain that following this dark period in journalistic history, generally considered to have ended around 1910, newspapers and journalism were never the same. Now there's a revelation!
Fast forward to today and we find that yellow journalism is no longer the exclusive domain of newspapers, and hasn't been for a long time. The so-called 24-hour news cycle is now driven electronically by cable television and the web. Newspapers simply aren't as relevent as they once were, just prior to the start of the 20th century when 98% of the population - that's right, 98% - got their news from newspapers. Being all things yellow also now seems to be the bastion of the right (although the left can lay claim to a few fact-benders too). My problem is not so much with all the truth-stretching and yellow shading going on on both sides. Rather, I'm disturbed by the fact that waaaaaayyyyyy too many of my fellow citizens get their information exclusively from these sources. They form their opinions based soley on what they are being told from a narrow and extremely biased perspective. People are lazy. They listen to whatever suits their own proclivities. They will not proactively seek out opposing viewpoints. They won't search for truly factual, objective information in an effort to form a more educated opinion. What's worse, when challenged, they become defensive and combative, rather than being open-minded.
The electorate, my friends, is largely ignorant. We, are largely ignorant. (Not stupid, but ignorant. If you don't know the difference, look it up.) Oh yeah, and apathetic to boot. How else can you explain voter turnout of only 64% in the 2008 presidential election - virtually unchanged from 2004. For all the hullaballoo about voter registration and electing a black president, the fact is, the percentage of registered voters who voted did not change. It was the makeup of the voters that changed: 2 million more black voters, 2 million more Hispanic voters and 600,000 more Asian voters made up the lion's share of the 5 million-voter increase from 2004. And for whom did they vote? Go on, take a wild guess.
So, all you WASPy right-wing haters out there, keep rattling your yellow sabres and spewing your yellow misinformation. It served you well in last year's elections didn't it? Until you can give your ignorant, apathetic constituents truly compelling reasons to get off the couch and turn out at the polls, the GOP will continue to be the party of exclusion, not inclusion. Oh yeah, and just to make yourselves even more appealing, why don't y'all line up alongside my obviously-doesn't-have-enough-to-do-in-Washington, fellow Floridian, Rep. Ginny Brown-Waite. In unison insist that Pres. Obama must ask Congress for permission to accept the Nobel Peace Prize. That should make you a lot of friends. You Republicans, you're a funny lot. And Ginny, keep trying to be controversial, if not relevent. You fit right in with your fellow GOPers - loud, proud, grasping for straws and still completely clueless.
Ya know, when all this yellowness gets to be too much, I find myself . . .
. . . Wishing I Was Fishing.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Sleepless in Tampa Bay
So, what keeps you awake at night? The possibility of another terrorist attack? Can't pay the mortgage? You're afraid your kid's smoking God-knows-what or ingesting God-knows-what and headed for rehab like Amy Winehouse? You think the wife/hubby might be doing the wild thing on the side with a tattoo artist from Seattle? How many interns did Dave really have sex with?
Maybe you're worried that that little nest egg you've been salting away for the past umpteen years, in the hope of bailing for a double-wide on a picturesque hillside in North Carolina, will end up a Bernie Madoff-type casualty? Or how about simply wondering whether come Friday you'll be called into the Poobah's office (or worse, the HR director's office) and told to turn in your office key, your key-card and have your desk and/or locker cleaned out by the end of the day? (Oh, and by the way, you'll have to sign this waiver that says you won't sue us. Otherwise we won't be able to pay you the disgustingly, insultingly paltry excuse-for-a-severance we have so generously awarded you for your many years of selfless service. Oh yeah, and your e-mail access has been cut off. Best of luck, and, oh, I almost forgot, if you want a recommendation, our company policy requires that we merely acknowledge that you were employed here.)
OK, let's see a show of hands. You been there? There now? Got any kin in Michigan? How about California, where you get a promissory note instead of a paycheck (Hey, Ah-nold, did Vons accept your promissory note for payment when you stopped to buy milk and eggs on the way home?)? If you're sleeping easily these days, (and I'm not sure I'd admit that openly in mixed company) then I would suggest you're in the minority - or an already-successful dermatologist in Florida who just hit a $181-million PowerBall jackpot, or taking 1,500 mg of Ambien nightly. Either way, you're one of few (or in the good doctor's case, the only). In the interest of full disclosure here, I do fall asleep fairly easily each night. I just don't stay asleep. It's what happens a couple hours later that's pertinent to this discussion. Now that I've passed 50, I find myself waking up pretty regularly in the middle of the night, needing to drain my bladder. (One could argue that in my case this has less to do with my age and more to do with the numero de las cervesas I've consumed over the course of the evening, but I would contend that it's both - A&B - Age & Beer!)
Regardless, once awake, my mind begins to race with the Mount Everest of issues I will contend with come morning light. Bills to pay; fires to put out at work; fires to put out at home; the house repairs I've put off for months and months because the money's just not there; the "I should have known better" penny stock I bought on a "tip" that tanked within 48 hours of buying it and has yet to rebound, thereby reducing the value of my already-diminished retirement account; my aging parents who are 1,000 miles away and in ill health; the what-used-to-be-manageable-but-now-seems-Jabba-The-Hut-size house payment coming due; the Russian Roulette I'm playing with our family's vehicles (not to mention my loved ones' safety!) - all of which are approaching 100,000 miles (the vehicles, that is) - as I allocate scarce resources to repairs. Sleep, you say? What the hell is that!? After two hours-or-so, of tossing and turning and ruminating and fretting, I'm lucky if I conk out from sheer lack of sleep for a few glorious minutes before the dreaded alarm goes off (just as I'm in the middle of a rather disturbing dream featuring Martin Sheen and Sigourney Weaver, with Martin handcuffed to a bed and, . . . oh, never mind).
The point is, as the pundits repeatedly use terminology like, "not since the Great Depression," the cold reality is that thousands, and tens of thousands, and hundreds of thousands of well-meaning, hard-working, tax-paying, home-owning, business-owning, used-to-put-$50-in-the-envelope-at-church-every-week, won't-ever-happen-to-me people - YOUR NEIGHBORS AND FAMILY MEMBERS - are not just struggling, but are on the verge of financial collapse.
Now, it's easy - and I would add, convenient - to suggest that we all had it coming to us. We borrowed when we should have been saving. We bought on credit when we should have paid cash. We leveraged when we should have been more conservative. We speculated. We got complacent. We ran up the market. We got greedy. Etc., etc., etc. But let me ask you, who is the "We" I refer to? Us? You and me? Couldn't the word be just as easily changed to "They." They, as in those mercenary-to-a-fault, won't-stop-'til-I-have-my-Ferrari-and-my-house-in-the-Hamptons Wall Streeters, and their myopic, insulated corporate C-level cronies who nearly drove The Big Three off a cliff and nearly flushed B of A and AIG down the sub-prime toilet.
While we - you and I - lay awake at night wondering how the electric bill (which, by the way is 25% higher than last year) is going to get paid, our Wall Street bretheren are simply gearing up for another round of yearly seven-figure bonuses. After all, we are approaching November. Year-end will be here before we know it, and I've had my eye on that luscious little Aston-Martin coupe with the leather ashtray! Bailout, shmailout. Didn't you see the Dow crack 10,000 again the other day? It's biz-as-usual here in the land of Bears & Bulls. After all, we have to pay these bonuses if we have any hope of attracting and keeping the best and the brightest, now don't we? Jesus, these guys make Gordon Gekko look like Mother Teresa!
Tell me again, what real value are these folks creating as they gaze out over the Manhattan skyline? Traders. There was a day in this country when a trader was someone who exchanged a tangible piece of property with someone in return for another tangible piece of property - or currency. You know, like fur traders, and spice traders, and silk traders. Now, traders are on Wall Street, and they are not so much trading tangibles as much as they are simply buying and selling the electronic equivalent of the future value of something we can't even touch in the first place - a stock (when was the last time you saw, or held, an actual stock certificate?), or a derivative (can anyone really tell me, in terms that I will actually understand, what a derivative is?), or a future (is that your future, my future, or the future price of the ear of corn my cousin grows on his farm in Ohio?).
Like two of the three little pigs, in many respects, it seems we've built our economic house out of straw and sticks. And in the process, we've ceded the oversight of our now-fragile economy to men and women who cut their teeth in the very halls of commerce they have now been tasked to oversee and regulate. At first glance, it would seem to make sense that someone with first-hand knowledge and experience in the industry he or she has been hired to oversee would make the best choice, but when he or she was previously the beneficiary of the same outsized bonuses and perks, how can he or she then rule with a firm, objective hand? The heck with the big bad wolf! The damn fox has been in the hen house for years, while we were too busy sucking the equity out of our homes to finance that Carribbean cruise or that shiny used Lexus or that beautiful 1/16th-acre lot in Ashville, NC!
When the Feds chose Elliot Ness to bust Public Enemy #1, Al Capone, do you think their list of required credentials included, "Must have stolen copious amounts of money. Must have wiped out numerous competitors (literally). Must possess a total disregard for collateral damage. Etc, etc." This romantic idea that it takes a thief to catch a thief is a crock. Think like a thief, maybe - been a thief, I don't think so.
What's my solution to all this? I don't have one. I'm just a guy in the middle, wondering about things and occasionally spotting the inequities that seem to separate the haves from the have-nots a little more every day, and wondering how this is all going to shake out. And losing a little more sleep every night. And as my head begins to ache, from all this inequity-spotting, I start to think, man . . .
. . . I Wish I Was Fishing.
Maybe you're worried that that little nest egg you've been salting away for the past umpteen years, in the hope of bailing for a double-wide on a picturesque hillside in North Carolina, will end up a Bernie Madoff-type casualty? Or how about simply wondering whether come Friday you'll be called into the Poobah's office (or worse, the HR director's office) and told to turn in your office key, your key-card and have your desk and/or locker cleaned out by the end of the day? (Oh, and by the way, you'll have to sign this waiver that says you won't sue us. Otherwise we won't be able to pay you the disgustingly, insultingly paltry excuse-for-a-severance we have so generously awarded you for your many years of selfless service. Oh yeah, and your e-mail access has been cut off. Best of luck, and, oh, I almost forgot, if you want a recommendation, our company policy requires that we merely acknowledge that you were employed here.)
OK, let's see a show of hands. You been there? There now? Got any kin in Michigan? How about California, where you get a promissory note instead of a paycheck (Hey, Ah-nold, did Vons accept your promissory note for payment when you stopped to buy milk and eggs on the way home?)? If you're sleeping easily these days, (and I'm not sure I'd admit that openly in mixed company) then I would suggest you're in the minority - or an already-successful dermatologist in Florida who just hit a $181-million PowerBall jackpot, or taking 1,500 mg of Ambien nightly. Either way, you're one of few (or in the good doctor's case, the only). In the interest of full disclosure here, I do fall asleep fairly easily each night. I just don't stay asleep. It's what happens a couple hours later that's pertinent to this discussion. Now that I've passed 50, I find myself waking up pretty regularly in the middle of the night, needing to drain my bladder. (One could argue that in my case this has less to do with my age and more to do with the numero de las cervesas I've consumed over the course of the evening, but I would contend that it's both - A&B - Age & Beer!)
Regardless, once awake, my mind begins to race with the Mount Everest of issues I will contend with come morning light. Bills to pay; fires to put out at work; fires to put out at home; the house repairs I've put off for months and months because the money's just not there; the "I should have known better" penny stock I bought on a "tip" that tanked within 48 hours of buying it and has yet to rebound, thereby reducing the value of my already-diminished retirement account; my aging parents who are 1,000 miles away and in ill health; the what-used-to-be-manageable-but-now-seems-Jabba-The-Hut-size house payment coming due; the Russian Roulette I'm playing with our family's vehicles (not to mention my loved ones' safety!) - all of which are approaching 100,000 miles (the vehicles, that is) - as I allocate scarce resources to repairs. Sleep, you say? What the hell is that!? After two hours-or-so, of tossing and turning and ruminating and fretting, I'm lucky if I conk out from sheer lack of sleep for a few glorious minutes before the dreaded alarm goes off (just as I'm in the middle of a rather disturbing dream featuring Martin Sheen and Sigourney Weaver, with Martin handcuffed to a bed and, . . . oh, never mind).
The point is, as the pundits repeatedly use terminology like, "not since the Great Depression," the cold reality is that thousands, and tens of thousands, and hundreds of thousands of well-meaning, hard-working, tax-paying, home-owning, business-owning, used-to-put-$50-in-the-envelope-at-church-every-week, won't-ever-happen-to-me people - YOUR NEIGHBORS AND FAMILY MEMBERS - are not just struggling, but are on the verge of financial collapse.
Now, it's easy - and I would add, convenient - to suggest that we all had it coming to us. We borrowed when we should have been saving. We bought on credit when we should have paid cash. We leveraged when we should have been more conservative. We speculated. We got complacent. We ran up the market. We got greedy. Etc., etc., etc. But let me ask you, who is the "We" I refer to? Us? You and me? Couldn't the word be just as easily changed to "They." They, as in those mercenary-to-a-fault, won't-stop-'til-I-have-my-Ferrari-and-my-house-in-the-Hamptons Wall Streeters, and their myopic, insulated corporate C-level cronies who nearly drove The Big Three off a cliff and nearly flushed B of A and AIG down the sub-prime toilet.
While we - you and I - lay awake at night wondering how the electric bill (which, by the way is 25% higher than last year) is going to get paid, our Wall Street bretheren are simply gearing up for another round of yearly seven-figure bonuses. After all, we are approaching November. Year-end will be here before we know it, and I've had my eye on that luscious little Aston-Martin coupe with the leather ashtray! Bailout, shmailout. Didn't you see the Dow crack 10,000 again the other day? It's biz-as-usual here in the land of Bears & Bulls. After all, we have to pay these bonuses if we have any hope of attracting and keeping the best and the brightest, now don't we? Jesus, these guys make Gordon Gekko look like Mother Teresa!
Tell me again, what real value are these folks creating as they gaze out over the Manhattan skyline? Traders. There was a day in this country when a trader was someone who exchanged a tangible piece of property with someone in return for another tangible piece of property - or currency. You know, like fur traders, and spice traders, and silk traders. Now, traders are on Wall Street, and they are not so much trading tangibles as much as they are simply buying and selling the electronic equivalent of the future value of something we can't even touch in the first place - a stock (when was the last time you saw, or held, an actual stock certificate?), or a derivative (can anyone really tell me, in terms that I will actually understand, what a derivative is?), or a future (is that your future, my future, or the future price of the ear of corn my cousin grows on his farm in Ohio?).
Like two of the three little pigs, in many respects, it seems we've built our economic house out of straw and sticks. And in the process, we've ceded the oversight of our now-fragile economy to men and women who cut their teeth in the very halls of commerce they have now been tasked to oversee and regulate. At first glance, it would seem to make sense that someone with first-hand knowledge and experience in the industry he or she has been hired to oversee would make the best choice, but when he or she was previously the beneficiary of the same outsized bonuses and perks, how can he or she then rule with a firm, objective hand? The heck with the big bad wolf! The damn fox has been in the hen house for years, while we were too busy sucking the equity out of our homes to finance that Carribbean cruise or that shiny used Lexus or that beautiful 1/16th-acre lot in Ashville, NC!
When the Feds chose Elliot Ness to bust Public Enemy #1, Al Capone, do you think their list of required credentials included, "Must have stolen copious amounts of money. Must have wiped out numerous competitors (literally). Must possess a total disregard for collateral damage. Etc, etc." This romantic idea that it takes a thief to catch a thief is a crock. Think like a thief, maybe - been a thief, I don't think so.
What's my solution to all this? I don't have one. I'm just a guy in the middle, wondering about things and occasionally spotting the inequities that seem to separate the haves from the have-nots a little more every day, and wondering how this is all going to shake out. And losing a little more sleep every night. And as my head begins to ache, from all this inequity-spotting, I start to think, man . . .
. . . I Wish I Was Fishing.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Garrison Keillor
You've heard the voice. I know you have; that smooth, soothing, melodic baritone, waxing philosophic, or poetic or nostalgic - or all of the above - as the narrator of (and giver-of-life-to) A Prairie Home Companion. If not, then perhaps you've read his syndicated column (or his 77 Love Sonnets). If none of the above applies, then I'm afraid you, sir or madam, have truly missed out; there is a hole in your life you don't even realize exists! I implore you, find his column (in the editorial pages, for those of you who still read newspapers), find his books, or find A Prairie Home Companion somewhere on your radio dial (590 public radio stations carry the weekly broadcast), on the internet, or via podcast. Trust me, your life will be better for it. (Want to find out more? Go to http://prairiehome.publicradio.org/
People, Garrison Keillor is a national treasure. Yes, a walking, talking, wiser-than-most-of-us-could-ever-hope-to-be NATIONAL FREAKING TREASURE. And we nearly lost him recently - to a stroke. He's a national treasure, but he's human - and he ain't gettin' any younger. He's OK, thankfully, and brilliant as ever. So that's why I pay tribute to him here - while he's still very much vertical. He deserves to be recognized in the here-and-now, rather than the here-after.
There are those who might say Garrison is old-fashioned, or even out of touch, considering his wistful Lake Wobegon ways and references to bygone days, but trust me, this dude has it going on, and has for over three decades. Don't judge a book by its Lake Wobegon cover. Consider this excerpt from a recent Keillor column:
"The right believes that if you throw enough mud, some will stick, and if you characterize healthcare reform as an evil plot by one-eyed space aliens, you can defeat the thing. The fact is that there are 40 million uninsured Americans and soon, if nothing is done, there will be more. This is a moral dilemma, the same as if habeas corpus only applied east of the Mississippi or that green-eyed children will only be educated through the sixth grade. Not acceptable in the country I live in. And it's up to people who care about the common good not to be scared off.
The right is operating in the grand old irreverent American middle-finger spirit of contrarianism. The cars full of kids who drive country roads busting mailboxes with baseball bats are expressing the same freewheeling spirit, and the computer hackers, and graffiti artists, and every conscientious rock 'n' roll band for the past 50 years.
But the price of being an angry jerk is that nobody wants to invite you over for supper except your mother, and even she feels a little uneasy. . ." (copyright, Garrison Keillor, all rights reserved.)
Brother, that's good stuff! Eloquence need not be uppity. It doesn't require arcane, high-brow Dennis Miller-esque references that only a few people ever really get. We need more Garrison Keillors - people, who with wit and wisdom, evenhandedness, depth of knowledge and incredible, insightful, historical perspective, can declare that the emperor has no clothes and do it without sinking into the hateful, spiteful mosh pit of a monologue (Yes, monologue, because a dialogue requires two voices, and we seem to hear only one these days. You know the one, its full name is Seanglenn Rushann Limbaughcoulter-Hannitybeck) that has become the standard for those who lean to the right.
So, this day, I revel in the survival of our National Treasure, Garrison Keillor, and I raise a pint to his ongoing battle against the forces of ignorance (and clogging arteries), and his love of the Lake Wobegon life, where the fish are biting, "all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average." And that makes me think . . .
. . . I Wish I Was Fishing.
People, Garrison Keillor is a national treasure. Yes, a walking, talking, wiser-than-most-of-us-could-ever-hope-to-be NATIONAL FREAKING TREASURE. And we nearly lost him recently - to a stroke. He's a national treasure, but he's human - and he ain't gettin' any younger. He's OK, thankfully, and brilliant as ever. So that's why I pay tribute to him here - while he's still very much vertical. He deserves to be recognized in the here-and-now, rather than the here-after.
There are those who might say Garrison is old-fashioned, or even out of touch, considering his wistful Lake Wobegon ways and references to bygone days, but trust me, this dude has it going on, and has for over three decades. Don't judge a book by its Lake Wobegon cover. Consider this excerpt from a recent Keillor column:
"The right believes that if you throw enough mud, some will stick, and if you characterize healthcare reform as an evil plot by one-eyed space aliens, you can defeat the thing. The fact is that there are 40 million uninsured Americans and soon, if nothing is done, there will be more. This is a moral dilemma, the same as if habeas corpus only applied east of the Mississippi or that green-eyed children will only be educated through the sixth grade. Not acceptable in the country I live in. And it's up to people who care about the common good not to be scared off.
The right is operating in the grand old irreverent American middle-finger spirit of contrarianism. The cars full of kids who drive country roads busting mailboxes with baseball bats are expressing the same freewheeling spirit, and the computer hackers, and graffiti artists, and every conscientious rock 'n' roll band for the past 50 years.
But the price of being an angry jerk is that nobody wants to invite you over for supper except your mother, and even she feels a little uneasy. . ." (copyright, Garrison Keillor, all rights reserved.)
Brother, that's good stuff! Eloquence need not be uppity. It doesn't require arcane, high-brow Dennis Miller-esque references that only a few people ever really get. We need more Garrison Keillors - people, who with wit and wisdom, evenhandedness, depth of knowledge and incredible, insightful, historical perspective, can declare that the emperor has no clothes and do it without sinking into the hateful, spiteful mosh pit of a monologue (Yes, monologue, because a dialogue requires two voices, and we seem to hear only one these days. You know the one, its full name is Seanglenn Rushann Limbaughcoulter-Hannitybeck) that has become the standard for those who lean to the right.
So, this day, I revel in the survival of our National Treasure, Garrison Keillor, and I raise a pint to his ongoing battle against the forces of ignorance (and clogging arteries), and his love of the Lake Wobegon life, where the fish are biting, "all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average." And that makes me think . . .
. . . I Wish I Was Fishing.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Momma Said There'd Be Days Like This
I'm a guy, so like lots of other guys, life sort of goes like this when it comes to the influence mothers have on our lives:
- Infancy and Early Childhood: Mom can do no wrong. She feeds us; bathes us; clothes us; protects us; comforts us; encourages us; gives us ice cream and animal crackers and above all else, believes in us.
- Adolescence: Except for the bathing part (other than when she threatens to do it herself if we don't), repeat bullet #1, and add in a healthy dose of what we now come to view more as nagging.
- Pre-Teen (or what these days is the new euphemism, "tween"): Our viewpoint is totally skewed, thanks to the onslaught of puberty and raging hormones, so there's no question it's all about the nagging (even though the points in bullet #1 still apply).
- Teenager: Face it, parents are just lame - Mom, Dad (and usually any siblings, for that matter). All Mom does is try to make us feel guilty. Hormones are out of control. We're so self-centered we can't see straight (or is that the weed?) Just get out of our faces and leave us alone already! What do you mean, did I do my homework? Duuuuhhhhh! Why is my door locked? Read the sign, people: "Parental Units, Teachers and Sisters Verboten!" 11:00? You're joking, right? Hello, it's Friday and ALL my friends get to stay out until midnight! Heck, Steven doesn't have to be home until 1:00 and his parents are freaking ministers! This sucks! You have no idea what it's like to be me! You're repressing my individuality; stifling my self-expression. And on, and on, and on . . .
- Early Adulthood: Still waaaaaayyy too self-centered, but now thoughts begin to creep into our amped-up little noggins that maybe, just maybe, Mom knew what she was doing - sort of, anyway (occasionally Dad did too, I guess). Geez, we were obnoxious little bastards, weren't we? How did she put up with us? Remember the time Dad was ready to draw-and-quarter us for sneaking out in the middle of the night and totaling the car? (Was that really projectile spittle coming from his mouth as he screamed at us?) Or how about the time Dad found pot in our closet? (Exactly, what was he doing in there anyway? The sign did say "Parents Verboten.") Mom always managed to bring the temperature down in those situations and made us feel like we weren't quite as derelict as Dad would have us believe, didn't she. We could be salvaged. We had value. We could still amount to something - some day. We really were good kids. She still believed in us.
So, here we are in adulthood, suffering through the worst recession since the The Great One, and thinking, "You know, Momma said there'd be days like this." Even if she didn't really say that (the song did), you know what I mean. It's like, now that we've reached this age, we've learned - hopefully - that there were no promises, and there were no guarantees. Life didn't come with an extended warranty. Mom always said to just do our best; show up on time; wear clean underwear; wash behind our ears; say please and thank-you, and be nice to people. The rest will take care of itself. There's some genuine wisdom there if we take the time to think about it.
If we all could believe in ourselves the way Mom believed in us, and set out each day to be nice to people, imagine what the world would be like! We have a bi-racial president, who, despite being without a father for much of his formative years, had a mother who stood by him, taught him, guided him, encouraged him, challenged him, supported him, and most of all, loved him and believed in him. Against unfathomable odds, he went on to be elected president of the United States of America. Did any of us honestly think that would happen in our liftetimes?
My mom told me I could do anything I wanted; be anything I wanted, as long as I was willing to work at it. She sat with me on the front steps of our house when I was four and five years old as my sisters went off to school each day and read books and did flash cards with me before she had to go off to work herself. She bugged me about my homework as I got older. She gave me "the look" when I brought home a C in math. She cut me slack when she thought I deserved it, and she gave no quarter when she thought I didn't. But above all else, she believed in me. I lost my mother to Alzheimers when I was 39 years old, but in actuality, she was lost to us ten years earlier when the disease rapidly began to steal her mind. At 29, I was equipped to deal with this world motherless, because she and my father had prepared me. I was fortunate to have 29 quality years with Mom. Some people are not so fortunate. What would Mom tell me now, if she were here?
As I sit and ponder how I'm going to fix this all-too-common mess I've gotten myself into these past few years with a maxed-out home equity loan and credit card balances out the wazoo that I can't pay off, I take comfort in the knowledge that Mom truly believed that I could do anything I put my mind to. So why shouldn't I be able to fix this? After all, there's another mom, and a couple future moms (and a future dad) in my house who are pretty special, and they've always believed in me too. I owe it to them, if not myself, to get us out of this hole. With love and support, and the will to get it done, anything is possible, right? (Besides, I'm an American; I'm an optimist!) And as importantly, I've got Mom(s) on my side.
I was thinking about this the other day as I opened what seemed like the 57th bill to come in the mail that day alone, and then my mind began to drift off, and I found myself . . .
. . . Wishing I Was Fishing
Thursday, September 10, 2009
When Did "Republican" Become a Dirty Word?
OK, first it was "death tribunals." Then our children were going to be brainwashed through subliminal, subversive, socialistic rhetoric cleverly disguised as a - gasp! - work-hard, stay-in-school, get-an-education message! Oh my God! Hide the women and children! Barricade your doors and windows! Those horrible socialist barbarians are at the gate!
Please, spare me the hysteria! When I was a kid, if the President of the United States (POTUS, to you old West Wing fans) announced he was going to go on television to talk directly to the nation's young people, both my parents (one a Democrat and one a Republican, by the way) and my teachers would have made it required viewing. No debate. "Son, the president wants to talk to you. Have a seat. Get comfortable. He needs about an hour of your time. Would you like a snack? Oh, and afterward, you'll be writing a 500-word essay on what you learned. Here's the thesaurus."
T-H-E P-R-E-S-I-D-E-N-T. Yeah, that one. Once again, what happened to simple respect? Respect for the man; respect for THE OFFICE? So, POTUS wants to say a few things to the kids. Since when did we develop the hubris to deny him that opportunity, regardless on which side of the idealogical aisle we reside? Damn it, he's the President of the United States, and it matters not whether you voted for him. He's OUR president and we should listen to what he has to say. You know, he is a rather bright guy.
I am sooooooooooooooo sick and tired of the bottom-feeding, pot-stirring, self-righteous, hate-mongering, fear-mongering, gun-toting, gay-bashing, egomaniacal, self-appointed right-wing, cloaked-in-the-flag (did I mention egomaniacal?), Limbaughs, Coulters, Hannitys, O'Reillys, et. al., taking advantage of an ignorant populace and a national platform to twist and spin information any possible way to discredit ANYONE who disagrees with them - and lying through their teeth throughout the process.
I'm a caucasion, balding, golf-loving, small-business owner; married (to the same beautiful woman for 27 years), proud father of three; a small-town child of the Midwest; a baby boomer. You know, the perfect poster child for the Republican Party. And guess what, I am, in fact, a registered Republican. I came of age during the Reagan years, entering the workforce with my fresh, crisp, newly-minted college diploma smack in the middle of the recession that followed the Carter presidency. Reaganomics, trickle-down, and down came the Berlin Wall. Free enterprise, baby! No new taxes! It's the economy, stupid! You bet your ass I was a Republican, and damn proud of it.
Then came Bush the Elder, Iraq the Prelude, Newt Gingrich, Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, Dubyah, John Ashcroft, Donny Rumsfeld, Karl Rove, Abu Ghraib, Sarah "I Can See Russia From My Porch" Palin, etc., etc., etc. A veritable non-stop rogues gallery of self-righteous (there's that word again), deceitful, dishonest and downright disgraceful poseurs who would have us believe they, and their Republican cronies were the enlightened ones. (Did I mention Tom "Dancing With the Stars" DeLay and Dick "The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight" Cheney?). Gosh, how could I be more proud of my Grand Ol' Party! Come on, you know waterboarding really isn't torture.
So, here I stand, essentially Republican only because that is what my voter registration card says. Disgusted, disenchanted, disappointed (and probably most other "dis-" words you can think of) asking, "When did Republican become a dirty word?" Don't worry, I don't plan to switch party affiliations anytime soon. And I certainly don't think the Democrats have all the answers, or the Libertarians, for that matter. I didn't have to become a Democrat to vote for Barack Obama. (I merely had to have a few neurons firing to know that was the right choice.) We make waaaayyyy too big a deal out of party affiliation these days. All the labels serve to do is polarize us at a time when we desperately need to find common ground.
Out-of-pocket medical bills never should have nearly bankrupted my family three years ago, thanks to the crappy insurance that was all I could afford as a self-employed small business owner. And coverage for my son's prescription for Allegra should not have been denied this week by Aetna because they think they know better than his pediatrician. So what are we (not the Republicans and not the Democrats, but WE) going to do about that? Our elected officials should somehow be mandated to work together to find solutions. POTUS can't do it by himself. Oh, and don't get me started on Afghanistan, and immigration, and Wall Street salaries, and Big Three bailouts, and off-shore drilling and . . .
. . . man, I Wish I Was Fishing!
Please, spare me the hysteria! When I was a kid, if the President of the United States (POTUS, to you old West Wing fans) announced he was going to go on television to talk directly to the nation's young people, both my parents (one a Democrat and one a Republican, by the way) and my teachers would have made it required viewing. No debate. "Son, the president wants to talk to you. Have a seat. Get comfortable. He needs about an hour of your time. Would you like a snack? Oh, and afterward, you'll be writing a 500-word essay on what you learned. Here's the thesaurus."
T-H-E P-R-E-S-I-D-E-N-T. Yeah, that one. Once again, what happened to simple respect? Respect for the man; respect for THE OFFICE? So, POTUS wants to say a few things to the kids. Since when did we develop the hubris to deny him that opportunity, regardless on which side of the idealogical aisle we reside? Damn it, he's the President of the United States, and it matters not whether you voted for him. He's OUR president and we should listen to what he has to say. You know, he is a rather bright guy.
I am sooooooooooooooo sick and tired of the bottom-feeding, pot-stirring, self-righteous, hate-mongering, fear-mongering, gun-toting, gay-bashing, egomaniacal, self-appointed right-wing, cloaked-in-the-flag (did I mention egomaniacal?), Limbaughs, Coulters, Hannitys, O'Reillys, et. al., taking advantage of an ignorant populace and a national platform to twist and spin information any possible way to discredit ANYONE who disagrees with them - and lying through their teeth throughout the process.
I'm a caucasion, balding, golf-loving, small-business owner; married (to the same beautiful woman for 27 years), proud father of three; a small-town child of the Midwest; a baby boomer. You know, the perfect poster child for the Republican Party. And guess what, I am, in fact, a registered Republican. I came of age during the Reagan years, entering the workforce with my fresh, crisp, newly-minted college diploma smack in the middle of the recession that followed the Carter presidency. Reaganomics, trickle-down, and down came the Berlin Wall. Free enterprise, baby! No new taxes! It's the economy, stupid! You bet your ass I was a Republican, and damn proud of it.
Then came Bush the Elder, Iraq the Prelude, Newt Gingrich, Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, Dubyah, John Ashcroft, Donny Rumsfeld, Karl Rove, Abu Ghraib, Sarah "I Can See Russia From My Porch" Palin, etc., etc., etc. A veritable non-stop rogues gallery of self-righteous (there's that word again), deceitful, dishonest and downright disgraceful poseurs who would have us believe they, and their Republican cronies were the enlightened ones. (Did I mention Tom "Dancing With the Stars" DeLay and Dick "The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight" Cheney?). Gosh, how could I be more proud of my Grand Ol' Party! Come on, you know waterboarding really isn't torture.
So, here I stand, essentially Republican only because that is what my voter registration card says. Disgusted, disenchanted, disappointed (and probably most other "dis-" words you can think of) asking, "When did Republican become a dirty word?" Don't worry, I don't plan to switch party affiliations anytime soon. And I certainly don't think the Democrats have all the answers, or the Libertarians, for that matter. I didn't have to become a Democrat to vote for Barack Obama. (I merely had to have a few neurons firing to know that was the right choice.) We make waaaayyyy too big a deal out of party affiliation these days. All the labels serve to do is polarize us at a time when we desperately need to find common ground.
Out-of-pocket medical bills never should have nearly bankrupted my family three years ago, thanks to the crappy insurance that was all I could afford as a self-employed small business owner. And coverage for my son's prescription for Allegra should not have been denied this week by Aetna because they think they know better than his pediatrician. So what are we (not the Republicans and not the Democrats, but WE) going to do about that? Our elected officials should somehow be mandated to work together to find solutions. POTUS can't do it by himself. Oh, and don't get me started on Afghanistan, and immigration, and Wall Street salaries, and Big Three bailouts, and off-shore drilling and . . .
. . . man, I Wish I Was Fishing!
Friday, August 28, 2009
TGIF
Woooo, what a week! Thank God It's Friday! I think - actually I hope - I'm going fishing on Sunday, even if it's for a mere hour or two. It's late August here on the Gulf Coast of Florida, and the relentless rain and humidity are starting to wear on me. Nonetheless, I'm upbeat (glass-is-half-full kind of guy!). I'm a good first-mate. Never pulled together the bucks to launch my own Glastron or Glacier Bay or Sea Ray, et. al., but I've been fortunate to have friends who did. I try to pull my weight. I tie-off; I clean; I buy the beer; I do whatever the captain needs me to do. Basically, I'm just happy to be there; catching a little sea spray; dropping a line; catching some rays. My neighbor invited us to join them on Sunday morning for a little cruise, and I can't wait. I'm going to do a little fishing!
I own a small (very small) business, and this week was just one of those weeks. You know, pulled in ten different directions; trying to figure out how to drum up some business; battling the urge to throw in the towel (come on, you know you've wanted to throw in the towel once or twice the past couple years!). The "economy" has been brutal the past 18 months. I'm a so-called "marketing guy" and at times, I wonder whether I can even sell anyone on the idea that the sun actually rises in the east!
Made a presentation to my networking group this morning - bright and early at 7:30 - about ways to network more creatively. This, after hitting the pillow at 2:00 a.m., after attending a pre-season NFL game. Not what I would normally do on a Thursday night prior to having to give a presentation, but my daughter was - believe it or not - debuting as a real-life NFL cheerleader, for crying out loud! I'm a huge football fan, but honestly, I was there to see my kid. Period. Anyway, did my fatherly duty, loved every minute of it, and got to bed late - really late (for someone of my advanced age). By the way, this Shock Top stuff from Anheuser Busch/InBev is a great summer brew! When the alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., I did what I always do: popped up, brewed some java, hit the shower and started my day (including reading the paper).
I don't know about y'all, but I'm sad for the newspaper industry. Not because I care about their ability to make a profit per se, but because of what I honestly believe is a genuine threat to the fabric of our society. I know many of you may not get it, but the "Fourth Estate" truly is one of the pillars of our society. I grew up in a small town of 12,000 people in rural Ohio, and for most of my formative years, we received no fewer than three newspapers in our home; two on weekdays, and a third on Sundays. I LOVE NEWSPAPERS, AND I'M NOT AFRAID TO ADMIT IT! My children, on the other hand, love texting; and tweeting; and getting their news from - gasp! - I'm not sure where they get their news! Irony of ironies, the news is now the news. Everyone is predicting the demise of newspapers. Folks, let me tell you: regardless of whether the death of newspapers is imminent, WE WILL ALL BE WORSE OFF IF IT COMES TO PASS!
So . . . my wonderful neighbors, the Larsons, invited me and my beautiful (and verrrrry tolerant) wife of 27 years to accompany them on their boat this Sunday. Like many of you, we've got stuff going on all the time, but Sunday mornings tend to be open (yes, we're probably going to hell because we no longer attend "services," but that's a topic for another blog!). The thing is, the invitation was extended during a neighborhood gathering last week after I had already fully enjoyed the fruits of fermentation. (Thankfully, my wife was the one to whom the invitation was communicated.)
Today, after a challenging week and an after-hours phone call from a client, I began to wish I was fishing. As luck would have it, my wife came home and reminded me that we were joining the Larsons for a little boat ride on Sunday (I had completely forgotten.). I immediately grabbed this morning's newspaper, checked the weather forecast and happily confirmed that Sunday's marine forecast looked encouraging. I'll go to sleep tonight, wishing I was fishing, AND saying a little prayer for the Kennedy family, because even though I resisted the urge to get into that subject here, I do believe an era has passed, and we, as a nation, are worse off as a result. (Coincidentally, I just watched "Bobby" on DVD for the first time, and I encourage all of you to do likewise, regardless of your political proclivities.) As always . . .
. . . Wish I Was Fishing
I own a small (very small) business, and this week was just one of those weeks. You know, pulled in ten different directions; trying to figure out how to drum up some business; battling the urge to throw in the towel (come on, you know you've wanted to throw in the towel once or twice the past couple years!). The "economy" has been brutal the past 18 months. I'm a so-called "marketing guy" and at times, I wonder whether I can even sell anyone on the idea that the sun actually rises in the east!
Made a presentation to my networking group this morning - bright and early at 7:30 - about ways to network more creatively. This, after hitting the pillow at 2:00 a.m., after attending a pre-season NFL game. Not what I would normally do on a Thursday night prior to having to give a presentation, but my daughter was - believe it or not - debuting as a real-life NFL cheerleader, for crying out loud! I'm a huge football fan, but honestly, I was there to see my kid. Period. Anyway, did my fatherly duty, loved every minute of it, and got to bed late - really late (for someone of my advanced age). By the way, this Shock Top stuff from Anheuser Busch/InBev is a great summer brew! When the alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., I did what I always do: popped up, brewed some java, hit the shower and started my day (including reading the paper).
I don't know about y'all, but I'm sad for the newspaper industry. Not because I care about their ability to make a profit per se, but because of what I honestly believe is a genuine threat to the fabric of our society. I know many of you may not get it, but the "Fourth Estate" truly is one of the pillars of our society. I grew up in a small town of 12,000 people in rural Ohio, and for most of my formative years, we received no fewer than three newspapers in our home; two on weekdays, and a third on Sundays. I LOVE NEWSPAPERS, AND I'M NOT AFRAID TO ADMIT IT! My children, on the other hand, love texting; and tweeting; and getting their news from - gasp! - I'm not sure where they get their news! Irony of ironies, the news is now the news. Everyone is predicting the demise of newspapers. Folks, let me tell you: regardless of whether the death of newspapers is imminent, WE WILL ALL BE WORSE OFF IF IT COMES TO PASS!
So . . . my wonderful neighbors, the Larsons, invited me and my beautiful (and verrrrry tolerant) wife of 27 years to accompany them on their boat this Sunday. Like many of you, we've got stuff going on all the time, but Sunday mornings tend to be open (yes, we're probably going to hell because we no longer attend "services," but that's a topic for another blog!). The thing is, the invitation was extended during a neighborhood gathering last week after I had already fully enjoyed the fruits of fermentation. (Thankfully, my wife was the one to whom the invitation was communicated.)
Today, after a challenging week and an after-hours phone call from a client, I began to wish I was fishing. As luck would have it, my wife came home and reminded me that we were joining the Larsons for a little boat ride on Sunday (I had completely forgotten.). I immediately grabbed this morning's newspaper, checked the weather forecast and happily confirmed that Sunday's marine forecast looked encouraging. I'll go to sleep tonight, wishing I was fishing, AND saying a little prayer for the Kennedy family, because even though I resisted the urge to get into that subject here, I do believe an era has passed, and we, as a nation, are worse off as a result. (Coincidentally, I just watched "Bobby" on DVD for the first time, and I encourage all of you to do likewise, regardless of your political proclivities.) As always . . .
. . . Wish I Was Fishing
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Why, "Wish You Were Fishing?"
This is a brand new blog, and I'm a brand new blogger, so let's get the question about the name out of the way right up front. No, this isn't a blog about fishing - at least that's not the primary subject matter. I just happen to enjoy fishing, among other things (like cooking, and golfing, to name a couple). There are times when I'm doing something else - like working, for instance - that I wish I was fishing; or golfing; or sucking down a cold one while checking out the thong on the hottie strolling past on the beach. You catch my drift?
I've reached an age - as have gazillions of you fellow bloggers and surfers out there - when I'm beginning to take stock of my life, what I've learned and what I have or haven't accomplished. I think about stuff! Most days, I'm cool with where I am. Things could be better (of course "better" is a relative term based on one's perspective and objectives in life), but it could be a helluva lot worse too!
My point is, I believe there are a lot of people out there like me who are just trying to figure things out from one day to the next; who want nothing more than to do the right thing - and have fun doing it. Sometimes, though, figuring out what the right thing is, is the toughest part of all.
Anyway, I'm devoting this blog NOT to "average guy on the street" topics (I don't consider myself average, so I won't consider you average), but to topics that come to mind - often randomly - that I believe many of you think about too, but never talk about, even with your closest friends and family members. This is for us not-so-average people who may not have hit the big time (yet), and occasionally - if not often - find ourselves wishing we were fishing.
Like the other day . . .
. . . after hearing what had to be the 500th (if not 1,000th) story of the day (and it was only noon!) about healthcare reform and how town hall meetings all over the country were exploding with rancor - and in some cases, violence - I had to ask, "What the hell is wrong with people?" I love a good argument, or debate even (I'm half-Irish, for God's sake), but I've determined that there are no good arguments and debates any more. If you take a position on A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G these days, you're setting yourself up to be attacked - at best verbally, and at worst physically! And chances are, you won't even know the person, or persons, doing the attacking! Where's my girl, Aretha, when you need her! It's about R-E-S-P-E-C-T people!
What happened to respect? It's still in the dictionary so I know the word still exists. Like the dude in the oversized, obnoxious, gas guzzling Hummer yesterday who, while yapping on his iPhone (which I could barely make out through his almost-illegally-tinted windows) ran through a stop sign in my development and nearly took me out. When I honked my horn at him (you know, just to remind him he wasn't the only one on this public throughfare) the a-hole flipped ME off. Can you belive that? Just a teensy-weensy self-absorbed, I'd say. We all know this stuff happens every day. It's death by a thousand cuts, isn't it. I grew up in the Midwest and was taught to live by the golden rule, and that's how I've tried to raise my kids. It's times like the "Hummer-Boy Encounter" though, when my faith in humanity takes another hit. And that's when the thought came to me - "Man, I Wish I Was Fishing."
I've reached an age - as have gazillions of you fellow bloggers and surfers out there - when I'm beginning to take stock of my life, what I've learned and what I have or haven't accomplished. I think about stuff! Most days, I'm cool with where I am. Things could be better (of course "better" is a relative term based on one's perspective and objectives in life), but it could be a helluva lot worse too!
My point is, I believe there are a lot of people out there like me who are just trying to figure things out from one day to the next; who want nothing more than to do the right thing - and have fun doing it. Sometimes, though, figuring out what the right thing is, is the toughest part of all.
Anyway, I'm devoting this blog NOT to "average guy on the street" topics (I don't consider myself average, so I won't consider you average), but to topics that come to mind - often randomly - that I believe many of you think about too, but never talk about, even with your closest friends and family members. This is for us not-so-average people who may not have hit the big time (yet), and occasionally - if not often - find ourselves wishing we were fishing.
Like the other day . . .
. . . after hearing what had to be the 500th (if not 1,000th) story of the day (and it was only noon!) about healthcare reform and how town hall meetings all over the country were exploding with rancor - and in some cases, violence - I had to ask, "What the hell is wrong with people?" I love a good argument, or debate even (I'm half-Irish, for God's sake), but I've determined that there are no good arguments and debates any more. If you take a position on A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G these days, you're setting yourself up to be attacked - at best verbally, and at worst physically! And chances are, you won't even know the person, or persons, doing the attacking! Where's my girl, Aretha, when you need her! It's about R-E-S-P-E-C-T people!
What happened to respect? It's still in the dictionary so I know the word still exists. Like the dude in the oversized, obnoxious, gas guzzling Hummer yesterday who, while yapping on his iPhone (which I could barely make out through his almost-illegally-tinted windows) ran through a stop sign in my development and nearly took me out. When I honked my horn at him (you know, just to remind him he wasn't the only one on this public throughfare) the a-hole flipped ME off. Can you belive that? Just a teensy-weensy self-absorbed, I'd say. We all know this stuff happens every day. It's death by a thousand cuts, isn't it. I grew up in the Midwest and was taught to live by the golden rule, and that's how I've tried to raise my kids. It's times like the "Hummer-Boy Encounter" though, when my faith in humanity takes another hit. And that's when the thought came to me - "Man, I Wish I Was Fishing."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)