Communication Breakdown

In past blogs cynicism and sarcasm have played an important role when opining about a particular state of affairs. Uses of these nouns occasionally bring perspective to the absurd. Some folks will tell you that this cynicism stems from a reservoir of pent up anger. It can be said that cynicism comes from disillusioned idealism. It may be idealistic to expect people to do their jobs that they’re paid to do competently, what, with the Peter Principle so embedded in our employment culture. However, if it’s idealistic to expect people to communicate, Christ, then call me unrealistic.
After the Civil War, once the Industrial Revolution got it’s muscle back; the wealthy thought it best to not only have a home in the cities where they were in close proximity to their businesses, but to also own a weekend retreat, an oasis if you will, from the soot, filth, noise, and crime of the metropolis. The fifty blocks from residence to factory no longer provided sufficient insulation from the world of rich to the world of the impoverished. Save the shit holes for the Irish and German immigrants, and the African-Americans.
An economic middle class was beginning to form at this time, America was shifting from an agrarian fueled economy to and industrial based economy. Wage earners were gaining ground in terms of respect. Land ownership was no longer the determining factor for voter registration. What you made now had as much bearing as what you owned.
Early in the twentieth century a new wave of immigration took place as Italians, and Eastern Europeans provided the manpower for industry to flourish. These laborers and artisans resided in the densely populated cities. This made for easy access to their places of employment. A bond was formed as most residences housed extended families, as well as multiple generations. Socializing with neighbors was the primary activity one engaged in after the whistle blew. Small local business owners became friends.
The wealthy were now moving out in droves. With automobile travel, the construction of bridges, railroads, tunnels, and eventually a subway system, commuting became a way of life.
The invention of the telephone allowed for people to keep in more frequent contact than ever before. Letter writing was still considered the most proper, and acceptable form of communication. Not all that the Great Depression brought was misery. Affordable housing appeared on the landscape. Not just in cities, but in the suburbs. Tract housing let people buy into their small piece of the American dream. Everlasting friendships were forged among neighbors. Block parties, and party line telephones provided entertainment, and kept everyone up to date on the local gossip.
World War II provided the middle class and their exodus to the suburbs a huge kick in the ass in the form of Levittown and like housing developments. Sixteen million returning GI’s needed jobs and places to live. Planned communities like Levittown provided both employment opportunities and affordable housing. By the 1950’s we were a truly mobile society.
The passage of the Interstate Highway Act connected America but severed ties. Neighbors moved away, generations now moved on away from their families. Often the only connections that remained were phone calls, an occasional visit, and Christmas cards. When a college education became a staple instead of an exception for middle class households, children moved away and stayed away. In many areas we live on top of each other, with zero lot lines and postage stamp yards, it’s no wonder we don’t catch the flu when the person next door sneezes. Yet many of us couldn't tell you who our neighbors are. Thank goodness for technology!
Today, we should be grateful we have all the devices that allow us to contact anyone at anytime. We have cell phones, which we’re never without. The thought of leaving the house without it is unthinkable. How often have we returned home to retrieve the indispensable little dickens? And just twenty-five years ago only the very well-to-do had such an item. We have the Internet, allowing us to e-mail anyone, anywhere at anytime. We have cell phones that have the Internet, ain’t life grand? We can put one call on hold while we take another while we’re scratching our lazy asses. We can text, we can e-mail, we can call, and we can send videos of what we’re doing in case the spoken word isn’t adequate. Yet we are further disconnected than ever before.
We also have call waiting, we have answering machines, we have caller ID, all in the name of keeping people out. Don’t want to talk to someone, let the machine get it, or let it go to voice mail. Don’t want to, or are to lazy, rude, ill mannered, answer e-mail or phone messages? Delete it, fuck’em. There are a few folks I’d like to delete altogether.
We have Facebook and MySpace so if a phone call, a text, an e-mail, doesn’t put you in contact with someone, you can contact them through these Internet connecting websites. Both have instant messaging, so you chat! Wow! But still, many of us don’t acknowledge one another.
This happens frequently in business. The level of inconsideration is unfathomable. I understand this comes from the skewed sense of self-import some feel they’re entitled, but the bottom line is, if you don’t want people to contact you, don’t give them so many ways to do so. That way you won’t look like such a douche bag, if you care at all.
In the past thirty days I have e-mail Congressman Connie Mack, and Congresswoman Debbie Wasserman-Schultz. I have e-mailed the White House twice. I have e-mailed an editor at the Miami Herald. I have written and sent a hard copy to Congressman Mack. I have called an editor at the Herald and the Sun-Sentinel. I have sent numerous media packs to various colleges around the nation. Not one response. Not one form letter, or form e-mail. Not one “Thank you for taking the time…blah blah blah” Not one, “Don’t contact us again…” nothing. Congressman Wasserman-Schultz has been ill, but she has plenty of help I assume. With all the technology at our fingertips, and the abundance an aides and interns to call upon for assistance, you’d think that there’d be some sort of correspondence. Let's see them try to contact me if they need my vote or support. I’d even settle for “Go fuck yourself,” rather than nothing at all to remind me of my insignificance. Yet President Obama stated that we should all band together. How can we when apathy and inconsideration are so rampant?
I am not some self-righteous asshole. I have done my share. I commented just the other evening, that I live less than ten feet from my neighbor whose backyard abuts mine, yet I have no idea who that person is. I’ve lived in my home for ten years. For all I know it might not even be the same person living there as when I moved in. It’s a good thing the next generation doesn’t behave with each other the same way my generation does.
They call each other, they text each other, they send each other e-mails, and 99 times out of a 100 there’s a response. Well our generation better wake up. Answer your letters and e-mails. Return your phone calls; you never know who left you a message. Maybe it’s someone from the next generation, and they aren’t going to tolerate our snobbish, rude, ill-mannered, isolationist bullshit. It may be idealistic to think that one day they’ll be running the show, and they’ll remember who dissed them.
So call me a cynic if you will, but for Christ sake, at least have the common courtesy to fucking call to tell me so! Maybe cynicism is just idealism that’s had the shit kicked out of it.

Come Dancing

To show you just how stupid AIG head Edward Liddy seems to think everyone is, let me tell you of his version of the Washington D.C. Congressional two-step. In his ten page prepared statement to today’s Congressional committee, Mr. Liddy cites the President’s call for “a more restrained compensation system,” in one paragraph; while in the next, states that AIG has “to continue managing our business as a business”. This statement, prepared by Christ only knows how many lawyers and AIG execs that had a hand in it, is supposed to address and/or justify the $147 billion in bonuses given to AIG employees for the magnificent jobs they did for the 2008 fiscal year, and the marvelous corporate recovery that these captains of industry are engineering. Why are your tax dollars being spent in such fashion you might ask? Well, it’s so AIG can “maximize the amount of money we pay back to the government.” This Liddy guy ought to run for office.
I was of the understanding that when a business got funds from somewhere in order to do business, you paid that money back plus interest. What are they going to do, get together and decide in a magnanimous gesture of good will to give government extra to show what good guys they are? In order for these bonus laden employees to do their jobs sufficiently so the government can get their money back they need an incentive or they’re not going to perform up to their capabilities? Mr. Liddy refers to these payments as “retention” bonuses. Yeah, that’s a good idea; let’s retain the very same guys that got the company into the mess it’s in. Liddy stated that not all the people who got bonuses are still with the company. That’s even better, pay people who split when the shit hit the fan. Is this what Billy Idol referred to as “Dancing with Myself?” Let’s really go dancing shall we?
March Madness is upon us. Sixty-four teams will vie for the coveted title of NCAA Basketball Champions. Man, this dance has given college basketball fans more great memories than any prom you ever attended, even if you did get laid.
Beginning in 1939 with eight teams, the NCAA Basketball Tournament has grown steadily over the years. In 1953, the field was expanded to include 22-25 teams. That format lasted until 1974. The field was expanded to 64 teams in 1985. Today, the field stands at 65.
Individual performances, including last second heroics often have defined a player’s career, or enhanced it. The names of Tyus Edney, Keith Smart, Tate George, Lorenzo Charles, Bryce Drew, and most recently Ty Rogers are only recognizable to the college hoops fans because they all made improbable last second shots to allow their teams to advance, or in the cases of Keith Smart and Lorenzo Charles, win the National Championship.
Gerry McNamara was not known for one shot, but several of them. He scored 18 points on 6 first half three point shots, as he and Carmelo Anthony led Syracuse to their 2003 National Championship. The following year, McNamara scored 43 points; including 9 three’s in a first round win against Brigham Young University.
Some of the greatest individual games have been turned in on college basketball’s biggest stage. One of the UCLA teams in a long string of great UCLA teams was led by a 44 point, on 21 of 22 shooting by Bill Walton. In 1973, Bill Walton outdueled Memphis big man Larry Kenon for the title. Kenon represented himself admirably finishing with 8 rebounds and 22 points.
Cedric Maxwell who played for then unknown UNC-Charlotte, led his team to the Final Four, and increased his NBA draft status in the process. The Boston Celtics took him in the first round. He helped the Celts win the championship that had elluded him in college. The same can be said for Dwyane Wade, who led Marquette to its first Final Four appearance in 26 years. In the regional final against Kentucky in 2003, Wade recorded only the third triple double in tournament history. He scored 29 points to go along with his 11 assists, and 11 rebounds. Every basketball fan in America knew that Dwyane Wade was primed for the NBA. Another player to distinguish himself in the tournament also became a “can’t miss” NBA star. However, he never played in an NBA game.
Len Bias scored 31 points and snared 12 rebounds in a quarterfinal loss versus the University of Nevada-Las Vegas in 1986. That performance cemented his status as a first round pick. The day Bias was selected with the Celtics third pick in the draft; he celebrated that evening with friends by ingesting cocaine. A cardiac arrest kept him from NBA glory.
1986 was also the year that saw unheralded Cleveland State reach the Sweet Sixteen, only to see the clock strike twelve against a David Robinson-led Navy squad. But 1985, the first year for 64 teams produced perhaps the greatest team performance of in tournament history. On paper, Villanova was grossly outmatched by Georgetown with center Patrick Ewing. But Villanova shot 78.6% from the field, and slayed Goliath 66-64.
Larry Bird and Indiana State versus Michigan State and Magic Johnson in 1979; Christian Laettner’s buzzer beater for Duke ousting Kentucky in 1992, Jack Givens lighting Duke up for 41 in 1978, and the only black player in the ACC North Carolina’s Charlie Scott scoring 32 including the last second game winner against Davidson in 1969. These are memories that last a lifetime.
Who cares who your date to the Big Dance is, this year it’s guaranteed to quicken the pulse. Let’s take our attention away from Edward Liddy’s bullshit funky chicken, you don’t even have to wear one of those fugly tuxedoes.

“GreenDay”

For a baseball fan, Spring Training can offer more to the spectator than any other time of the season. Sights and sounds that are normally obscured at a Major League venue during the regular season, are enhanced by the minor league intimacy of pre-season.
Eighteenth century Enlightenment author Alexander Pope began a poem “Hope springs eternal within the human breast.” He no doubt portended the game of baseball, and its optimistic trappings of each spring. Sanguinity is the order of the day for ballplayer, management, and fan. A coveted roster spot remains for an untested phenom hoping to fulfill his promise, or the aging veteran trying to quell the passage of time.
. At a time when most big league cities are still in the firm grip of winter, their franchises go through the weeding out process by playing in Grapefruit and Cactus Leagues found in the sunshine of Florida and Arizona.
Every team is tied for first place in their respective divisions. Yes sir, Spring Training, a rite of passage for the passionate.
My first spring training was also my son’s first. While vacationing in Florida, we drove three hours from Marathon in the Florida Keys to Bobby Maduro Stadium in Miami, to witness my beloved New York Mets take on the Baltimore Orioles on their winter turf. Top down, music blaring, the company and the anticipation made the trek seem much shorter than it was. The stadium itself was in disrepair. Wisely, it has since been razed. But that day young stars Eddie Murray, Cal Ripken, Dwight Gooden, and Darryl Strawberry brought a majestic dignity to the tired ballpark, paying homage to past Orioles and Mets, Frank and Brooks Robinson, Tom Seaver, and Nolan Ryan and others who once trod its grounds. Our mild sunburns were a small price to pay indeed for such a delightful experience.
Last Friday, my son Cory and I made our way up to Jupiter, Florida to take in a spring training contest between the New York Mets and the St. Louis Cardinals at Roger Dean Stadium. Racing up Florida’s Turnpike, I envisioned the exchange between a highway patrolman and myself, had I been pulled over…
“Yes, sir. That’s what I said, a Spring Training game. The Mets are playing! What time does the game start? Why, 1:05. Yes, I know it’s 10:30 and we’re only fifteen miles away from the stadium.”
I also envisioned him letting me go, because he too is a baseball fan. The only real urgency we had was to garner tickets for the game. Other than that, it was just I had to get there as soon as possible. It mattered little since the gates hadn’t opened yet. We took our place in line, our tickets secured from a gentleman scalper (he charged less than face value). Once inside, to me it was like observing a work of art. Finding a place down the left field line, my son and I….well, we just watched stuff.
While the Cardinals worked out on the many fields located throughout the complex, we watched the Mets take batting and infield practice simultaneously inside Roger Dean Stadium’s friendly confines. For good measure, another coach hit fungos to clusters of outfielders positioned on the greenest of grass. The little ballpark, home to two minor league squads, was pristine. The most minor of details caught our eye.
There were numerous spheroid impressions left in a nearby wall by errant foul balls. There was the noticeable absence of school age children. I absurdly suggested to Cory, that due to this unusually relaxed environment, several beach chaise lounges should occupy the open area where we stood. We watched a small gathering of fans scramble for wayward well hit foul balls.
One particular aggressive and obviously mentally unstable retiree, in an effort retrieve a spring training souvenir, had himself a mishap. Trying to rekindle the spryness and agility of a time long past, bounded down the outfield bleachers in hot pursuit of this meaningless batting practice baseball. No longer a spring chicken, he failed to negotiate the final row, and his attempt at impersonating a Flying Wallenda ended disastrously. He temporarily lost consciousness, and judging by the reaction of a spectator nearby, sustained a ghastly wound, perhaps even a broken leg. A Mets trainer was summoned who promptly removed the shirt he was wearing to use as a tourniquet. Another fan faired considerably better.
Unlike the no holds barred approach to foul balls at regular season games; this person clearly felt a dutiful sense of propriety was in order when pursuing a Spring Training memento. This fan felt it necessary to call off his fellow revelers, who reverently deferred. Shouts of “I got it, I got it” were honored as this fan negotiated the balls flight. He quickly and smoothly transferred his beer from his right hand to his left, in order to be better able to snatch the white orb. In the purist’s tradition, ungloved, he deftly snared his prize, eliciting grand applause of approval. Once the game began, our attentions focused on the action on the field.
Our disappointments were inconsequential compared to the satisfaction gained by the day’s events. Ramon Castro, whom I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance while he readied himself for pre-season at the Memorial Fitness Center; did not make the trip down with the Mets from their home in Port St. Lucie. I was also hoping to chat up Tyler Greene, a shortstop in the Cardinal organization. I had umpired several games Tyler played in while he still in high school. Cory, who no longer pitched, had faced him while both participated off season high school programs. With a certain amount of pride Cory reminded me he had struck Tyler out all three at bats against him. Tyler went on to an outstanding collegiate career at Georgia Tech and with Team U.S.A. He had made the Cardinal 40-man roster, and was now vying for the opportunity to appear in his first regular season game in The Show.
Crowds clamored for his autograph and attention, the opportunity to visit dashed. They’ll be other chances to wish him well I’m sure, maybe at a Florida Marlins game at Dolphins Stadium. However, another Green, who flew under our player radar, got our attention.
Spring Training is a time for the opportunity to possibly observe a future star, a player whose performance is noteworthy. In the spring of 1998, Cory and I witnessed a number “66” on the Los Angeles tear it up. The number is significant because often the higher the number, the less likely the player to make the big league team. The player wearing “66” crushed the ball in batting practice. He played first base expertly during fielding practice, and when he got the chance to show his stuff as a substitute in the Dodger line up, he made the most of it. “66” crushed the ball in both of his at bats. One hit the outfielder lost behind a cloud. The Dodgers did bring him to L.A. that year. But “66” did not languish in the minors for long. Paul Konerko eventually became the Dodgers starting first baseman, and continued with his stellar career with the Chicago White Sox.
Andy Green is not an unproven rookie. He has spent some time in the Arizona Diamondbacks organization with little fanfare. The Mets signed him in the off season. Cory and I were impressed by his hitting prowess during batting practice. He gave his full effort during fielding practice. His speed made us take notice. When the Mets inserted him in the lineup about mid-game, what we saw was not a fluke. Andy Green continued his fine play with timely hitting knocking in a run, and made a couple of nice plays in the field. We became immediate fans of Andy Green, and hoped the team would take this spark plug north to New York.
Cory’s lone regret was that he didn’t get to see sidearmer Darren O’Day pitch for the Mets. Cory met O’Day while he was a student at the University of Florida. Cory often saw him at work at the local Gainesville watering hole Gator City. This was Cory’s lone smudge on what was otherwise a fine day at the ballpark.
Spring Training is not a time to think of green as in player salaries, it’s a time to think of the Greenes, or Greens, that can seize the opportunity presented to them. Spring Training is not a time to lament what might be, but a time to heed more words of Alexander Pope. “Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.” A day at Spring Training never disappoints, it just renews the hope.

What’s in a Word?

It is said “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Yet, as the joke goes, why is it only “a penny for your thoughts?” With this in mind, what’s a word worth? Sometimes a word can bring a picture to one’s mind that’s priceless. Such is the curious case of Miramar, Florida Commissioner Fitzroy Salesman. Mr. Salesman was on trial for pulling a gun on two youths at a local Winn-Dixie. I won’t get into particulars here because the charges against Mr. Salesman are irrelevant. The issue here is that the two-week court case ended yesterday when the judge declared a mistrial. I would have paid to have been in that courtroom to hear what went down.
It seems that author Robert Fulgham was wrong declaring All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. They don’t teach you the definition of the word “imminent” in Kindergarten, much less how to spell it. Had Mr. Fulgham been on the jury for the trial of Commissioner Salesman, he most definitely would have needed both. You see boys and girls, that due to the fact that none of the six jurors knew the definition of the word “imminent,” a mistrial was declared. But there is so much more to this tale of intellectual incompetence.
After reading an article by Todd Wright in this morning’s Miami Herald concerning the aforementioned trial, I was curious as to how many members there were sitting on the jury. For statistical purposes, I also wanted to know from how large a jury pool these possessors of frontal lobe superiority came.
Let me give you a little background to the jury selection process in Broward County Florida. I won’t get into the specifics, because after a visit to the website that explains the ins and outs of those of your peers fortunate enough to get paid $15.00 a day to miss work; the legalese alone could take up an entire blog. So, I won’t bore you with the details. Let’s get to heart of it shall we?
A call to the Broward County Clerk office, (after the treatment I received, “clerk” does not deserve a capital) proved nearly fruitless. Silly of me to think that two harmless questions would result in answers so vague and so guarded, that you’d have thought I was asking for the classified documentation regarding the Kennedy Assassination.
The call started innocently enough with me identifying myself by giving her my real name, a classic covert ploy. But the tide quickly turned against me. The county employee, a public servant, who is paid with taxpayer dollars, was shall I say curt, brusque perhaps? Yes, I shall say. When I asked the veritable ray of sunshine what her name was, she paused, then flippantly said “Tie.” I asked how she spelled that; she stated “it doesn’t matter.” My guess is that someone walked by at the precise moment I queried her, who was wearing a tie, hence my spelling. I am quite sure it wasn’t her real name. You never know who might find out who leaked such sensitive information as to the size of a jury pool, and how many jury members there were for the Salesman Trial. The ramifications could be catastrophic if that knowledge fell into the wrong hands. Here I had placed my call with absence of malice, yet “Tie,” the shrewd inquisitor that she was, turned the tables on me. She caught me off guard, wanting to know “who I worked for?” “Was I from the Sun-Sentinel?” Ha! Little did she know I had Miami Herald home delivery!
I had led her down a dead end street. Foiled, she feigned stupidity when I asked her to whom I might place another call within the County clerk’s office who may reveal such delicate correspondence? In a moment of weakness, when I put pressure on her to give me a nugget, a morsel; she told me that on Monday’s, the jury pool was somewhere in the neighborhood of six-hundred and fifty to seven hundred members. If I wanted to know more I needed to call the newspaper. I rhetorically asked if we were living in Russia and hung up. (Since she said her name was “Tie,” I couldn’t resist the Caddyshack reference.)
Dutifully, I called the Herald and asked to speak to Todd Wright; we had a delightful conversation. I told him of my dilemma, and the reason for my inquiry. He astutely surmised that no subterfuge was behind my inquiry, and he cheerfully supplied me with the necessary information; which brings us back to the whole point of my story. Had you fooled, you thought this whole thing was pointless I bet. Well fear not, you may very well still think it’s pointless by the time you’re through.
Six men and women served on the Salesman jury, out of a pool of, for arguments sake, around six hundred since the trial began on February 23rd, which was a Monday. That means that at least 1% of the jury pool did not know the definition of “imminent.” I can safely assume that the percentage of people from the jury pool who were equally flummoxed by the word’s meaning was considerably higher. C’mon, what’s the likelihood that all of the lifelong dictionary avoiders wind up on the same jury? Based on the figures given, this small sampling reflects that at least 1% of America’s population doesn’t know the meaning of “imminent.” That means that approximately 3.6 million adults don’t know, not including individuals below the minimum jury duty age. But this gets better.
After two weeks of testimony where the word “imminent” was frequently used by attorneys when referring to the danger faced by Mr. Salesman; the jury finally decided to succumb to the adage that “the only stupid question is the one that goes unasked,” asked. According to Mr. Wright, “Circuit Judge Matthew Destry told the jury he could not define the word….” Mr. Wright also reported that “Eric Schwartzreich, Salesman’s attorney, asked Destry to instruct the jury not to look up the word in the dictionary. Destry declined.” I’m perplexed that none of the six could understand the word based on frame of reference, or the context in which it was used. I guess I’m giving the jurors too much credit where none is due. Hey maybe they thought “imminent” meant eminent? Can someone ever be in danger of being well known? Wait, these jurors are.
In keeping with the rampant self-absorption in American society, where individuals will do whatever they please, whenever they please, because they live by their own set of rules, ignored the judge’s edict.
Juror John Fanning eventually fesses up. I can hear him now. “Hey Judge! Remember that thing you told us not to do, well tough shit, we did it anyway. We know we could have asked what “imminent” meant the first time we heard it two weeks ago, but we didn’t want anyone to think we were stupid.” Too late. Cat’s out of the bag now, and in print to boot!
There is an underlying reason Mr. Fanning brought the dictionary into deliberations. It wasn’t just to find out the definition. Instead of looking the word up at home, this former genetic micro-biologist (only kidding) needed to bring the dictionary to the jury room because he needed assistance spelling “imminent,” then he could look the word up. Swear to god.
This jury was entrusted with the determining the fate of an individual’s life. Serious jail time rested on the verdict. Wrap your brain around that. The jury wasted countless manpower hours, thousands of dollars in taxpayer monies, all in the name of not appearing ignorant, which is exactly what wound up happening. The costs are undoubtedly going to escalate, with a new trial, and perhaps even a special election since Mr. Salesman is an elected official and has been suspended. There are other consequences of a less dire nature as well.
There have been six movies made and at least nineteen books published, with the word “imminent” in the title. Based on the guesstimated figures, all have lost out on considerable market share because of the amount of folks who don’t know what “imminent” means. I’d like to take this opportunity to drum up some business for one of those books, Dr. Maria M. Shelton’s American K-12 Public Education: Its Imminent Demise. Take note Mr. Fulgham.