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.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
“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.
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.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Hold the Applause!
The dictionary states that the definition of applause is: approval or praise expressed by clapping. This is not to be confused with clap, which is: to strike the palms of (one’s hands) together repeatedly, typically in order to applaud. Other forms refer to putting a hand on one’s mouth or forehead to show dismay; slap encouragingly on the back or shoulder; an explosive sound, esp. thunder. It is also a venereal disease, esp. gonorrhea. That’s what Al Capone died of. It does not say uncontrollable hand collisions due to nervousness. It does not say the spastic ritual of bringing hands together to get attention. With this in mind, I would surmise that Nancy Pelosi is suffering from clapping disease.
There are many forms of clapping, as well as applause. Baseball coaches often clap encouragement either from the dugout or coach’s box. This display will often provoke clapping from other players to encourage the fellow player to accomplish whatever endeavor he is engaged in. If said player succeeds, this will then result in applause from both teammates and observers. Similar circumstances occur during the course of basketball and football games. This does not arise among hockey players, since it is not only difficult, but pointless to clap with hockey gloves on. However, like boxing, performance by the participants will often elicit applause from the spectators of these events. In golf, there is a muffled, rapid acknowledgement known as “the polite golf clap.” This is a subtle version of applause.
Impatient concert goers will sometimes break into a rhythmic clapping to persuade whatever artist they are there to see, to get up on stage and perform. This usually results in rousing applause. When most enjoyable performances conclude, the crowd then stands and applauds. This is called a standing ovation. Conditions have to warrant such demonstrations of emotion. In the world of entertainment, standing ovations happen at the end of particularly fine executions of one’s craft, this will then cause a counter to the standing ovation, which is a curtain call. In the theater, the actors will come out on stage to receive additional accolades. If the standing ovation continues, actors will then take multiple bows to acknowledge the audiences appreciation. For dramatic effect, the curtain will open and close between bows. Once the applause dies down, the curtain will then remain closed and the house lights will come on.
Last night there was a Presidential address. Nancy Pelosi may very well be still at Capital building, alone, standing and applauding, or should I say clapping, because there’s nothing left to applaud.
In music, if the standing ovation lasts long enough, the band or artist will reappear on the stage and perform one or more additional songs. The music standing ovation is sometimes accompanied by the ceremonial igniting of cigarette lighters as a supplement to the din of hands. Last evening, a baseball game did not go on in the halls of Congress; nor did a rock concert, or a remarkable performance by a renowned actor.
Sometimes one solitary clap is necessary to get the attention of a person or thing. We may clap once to keep the dog from barking. A single clap is used by some to stop the cat from using the Indian cotton couch as a scratching post. A hypnotist will clap to awaken someone from their trance-like state. At one time, two claps quickly in succession have been used by the wealthy to summon a servant. Two rapid claps are also valuable to the school teacher to get their students to focus. Today, there is a device where one clap can turn a light on or off. Had the lighting at the Hall of Congress had this device wired into its system, Nancy Pelosi could have single-handedly made the room look like a dance club with multiple strobe lights.
For those of you who missed it, Barack Obama gave his Congressional address. He talked about the state of the economy. He talked about the state of education in this country. He talked about the deficiency in health care in the United States. He talked of his plan to alter the present course of those things. He did so in a prepared speech. Speech writers normally include breaks in the speech that state “wait for applause.” They are trained men and women who can accurately gauge what will educe applause. Last night the speech writers were made to look like imbeciles by Nancy Pelosi, whose dreadful disease came on without warning throughout the Presidents address. Her affliction almost each and every time Barack Obama uttered a sentence, or cleared his throat, manifested itself in the form of a Standing Ovation. It got to the point Obama must have been curious as to what he said that prompted this exuberant response. He could scarcely get through a complete statement. Little did he know what was going on behind him. If he had, as humble as he appears to be, it would not have shocked those in attendance if the President of the United States had turned around and yelled “QUIT IT! Can’t you see I’m speaking here?” And then promptly bitch slapped her.
Nancy Pelosi sprang from her seat so often, it was as though her chair was heated and someone put the setting on too high a temperature. Perhaps she was also suffering from hemorrhoids and she couldn’t help herself. When she could no longer endure sitting, she’d jump from her seat giving her much needed temporary relief. Can one suffer of Tuorette's of the ass? Vice-President Joe Biden once even rolled his eyes at a prompt that launched Ms. Pelosi for the umpteenth time. Since Vice-President Biden was seated next to her on the rise behind the President, if he didn’t get up when Speaker of the House Pelosi did, he’d look like a fool,when it was Pelosi who looked, and acted the part of the fool. I wouldn’t be surprised if Biden felt embarrassment for her.
Watching Ms. Pelosi, I was reminded of clergy who stand before their congregations and motion with their hands when it’s time for the parishioners to stand and sit. She was like those people who sign for the deaf members of the audience, when she got up, those in the audience facing her were supposed to get up. If they did not, they would no doubt raisee her ire, and perhaps be shamed into standing. However, I’m convinced Pelosi eventually lost all comprehension as to why she was repeatedly standing and clapping, (because often nothing was said that justified applause). Perhaps she did so due to some strange form of OCD.
During the analysis on CBS, Katie Couric stated that the President had spoken for nearly fifty minutes. Like an hour long television show peppered with commercial breaks, resulting in only forty minutes of viewing; the net time of real speaking was only thirty minutes.
So let’s not ridicule Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi like I’ve done here. Let’s have some compassion for her and her illness. Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt for her bizarre behavior unlike what the public gave her colleague Howard Dean. One day she’ll leave politics and have to get a job and cope in the real world with this illness. Maybe she can get a job as a professional seat filler. I hope she avoids the same fate as Al Capone. Now will some one tell her to extinguish her lighter and go home.
There are many forms of clapping, as well as applause. Baseball coaches often clap encouragement either from the dugout or coach’s box. This display will often provoke clapping from other players to encourage the fellow player to accomplish whatever endeavor he is engaged in. If said player succeeds, this will then result in applause from both teammates and observers. Similar circumstances occur during the course of basketball and football games. This does not arise among hockey players, since it is not only difficult, but pointless to clap with hockey gloves on. However, like boxing, performance by the participants will often elicit applause from the spectators of these events. In golf, there is a muffled, rapid acknowledgement known as “the polite golf clap.” This is a subtle version of applause.
Impatient concert goers will sometimes break into a rhythmic clapping to persuade whatever artist they are there to see, to get up on stage and perform. This usually results in rousing applause. When most enjoyable performances conclude, the crowd then stands and applauds. This is called a standing ovation. Conditions have to warrant such demonstrations of emotion. In the world of entertainment, standing ovations happen at the end of particularly fine executions of one’s craft, this will then cause a counter to the standing ovation, which is a curtain call. In the theater, the actors will come out on stage to receive additional accolades. If the standing ovation continues, actors will then take multiple bows to acknowledge the audiences appreciation. For dramatic effect, the curtain will open and close between bows. Once the applause dies down, the curtain will then remain closed and the house lights will come on.
Last night there was a Presidential address. Nancy Pelosi may very well be still at Capital building, alone, standing and applauding, or should I say clapping, because there’s nothing left to applaud.
In music, if the standing ovation lasts long enough, the band or artist will reappear on the stage and perform one or more additional songs. The music standing ovation is sometimes accompanied by the ceremonial igniting of cigarette lighters as a supplement to the din of hands. Last evening, a baseball game did not go on in the halls of Congress; nor did a rock concert, or a remarkable performance by a renowned actor.
Sometimes one solitary clap is necessary to get the attention of a person or thing. We may clap once to keep the dog from barking. A single clap is used by some to stop the cat from using the Indian cotton couch as a scratching post. A hypnotist will clap to awaken someone from their trance-like state. At one time, two claps quickly in succession have been used by the wealthy to summon a servant. Two rapid claps are also valuable to the school teacher to get their students to focus. Today, there is a device where one clap can turn a light on or off. Had the lighting at the Hall of Congress had this device wired into its system, Nancy Pelosi could have single-handedly made the room look like a dance club with multiple strobe lights.
For those of you who missed it, Barack Obama gave his Congressional address. He talked about the state of the economy. He talked about the state of education in this country. He talked about the deficiency in health care in the United States. He talked of his plan to alter the present course of those things. He did so in a prepared speech. Speech writers normally include breaks in the speech that state “wait for applause.” They are trained men and women who can accurately gauge what will educe applause. Last night the speech writers were made to look like imbeciles by Nancy Pelosi, whose dreadful disease came on without warning throughout the Presidents address. Her affliction almost each and every time Barack Obama uttered a sentence, or cleared his throat, manifested itself in the form of a Standing Ovation. It got to the point Obama must have been curious as to what he said that prompted this exuberant response. He could scarcely get through a complete statement. Little did he know what was going on behind him. If he had, as humble as he appears to be, it would not have shocked those in attendance if the President of the United States had turned around and yelled “QUIT IT! Can’t you see I’m speaking here?” And then promptly bitch slapped her.
Nancy Pelosi sprang from her seat so often, it was as though her chair was heated and someone put the setting on too high a temperature. Perhaps she was also suffering from hemorrhoids and she couldn’t help herself. When she could no longer endure sitting, she’d jump from her seat giving her much needed temporary relief. Can one suffer of Tuorette's of the ass? Vice-President Joe Biden once even rolled his eyes at a prompt that launched Ms. Pelosi for the umpteenth time. Since Vice-President Biden was seated next to her on the rise behind the President, if he didn’t get up when Speaker of the House Pelosi did, he’d look like a fool,when it was Pelosi who looked, and acted the part of the fool. I wouldn’t be surprised if Biden felt embarrassment for her.
Watching Ms. Pelosi, I was reminded of clergy who stand before their congregations and motion with their hands when it’s time for the parishioners to stand and sit. She was like those people who sign for the deaf members of the audience, when she got up, those in the audience facing her were supposed to get up. If they did not, they would no doubt raisee her ire, and perhaps be shamed into standing. However, I’m convinced Pelosi eventually lost all comprehension as to why she was repeatedly standing and clapping, (because often nothing was said that justified applause). Perhaps she did so due to some strange form of OCD.
During the analysis on CBS, Katie Couric stated that the President had spoken for nearly fifty minutes. Like an hour long television show peppered with commercial breaks, resulting in only forty minutes of viewing; the net time of real speaking was only thirty minutes.
So let’s not ridicule Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi like I’ve done here. Let’s have some compassion for her and her illness. Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt for her bizarre behavior unlike what the public gave her colleague Howard Dean. One day she’ll leave politics and have to get a job and cope in the real world with this illness. Maybe she can get a job as a professional seat filler. I hope she avoids the same fate as Al Capone. Now will some one tell her to extinguish her lighter and go home.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Funny Odd, Funny Ha-Ha, Sort of
When you hear that two nuclear submarines collide, it is perfectly understandable for the initial reaction to be one of shocked disbelief. The prospect of submarines armed with enough nuclear warheads to carry out 1,246 Hiroshima bombings is one of enormous gravity. The earth’s inhabitants should in unison breath a sigh of relief, thankful that a global catastrophe had been narrowly averted. As CNN led their Monday morning broadcast with this news, I was shocked. But not with wary trepidation, it was incredulousness that caused my stupor.
Not one, but two different naval commanders from different countries could simultaneously come down with a case of the stupids. Slack-jawed, I stared at the television screen, and listened to the anchorwomen, in a voice normally saved for assassinations of heads of state, the passing of a pope, and declarations of war; inform the viewers of this tragedy in the North Atlantic. How did she do that and keep a straight face? Sure, two nuclear submarines crashing into each other is serious. But once she got beyond that, didn’t it cross her mind, “How the hell did that happen?”
Let’s first take a look at the players in this bizarre performance of a David Lynch screenplay. The British sub HMS Vanguard was launched in 1992, and refitted in 2007 as part of a $7 billion contract. The sub is not due to be replaced until 2024, unless someone sails off the edge of the earth first. It stands to reason after spending that kind of cash, every available piece of new technology was installed aboard this pride of the British fleet. It’s safe to assume that it would include sonar and radar.
The same goes for the French vessel Le Triomphant, sonar and radar have just got to be onboard, don’t they? A closer look at the details of this incident reveals that one sub is British, and the other French. You may think that’s stating the obvious, but under the circumstances one can’t be too sure.
The military past of the French has been distinguished by the incredible amount of money spent yielding little positive results. Napoleon’s march into Russia didn’t turn out so hot. The French foray in Viet Nam was a disaster. And the French should be thankful the United States entered World War II, or German would be the spoken language. Granted, the French came to the aid of the colonies versus the Brits, and we know how that turned out. One good turn deserves another.
The British and the French faltered during the battle over the Suez, and it was up to the U.S. again to set things straight. Sure America has had it’s setbacks as well, but they aren’t driving their subs into other folks. As a matter of fact, in 1992, a surfacing Russian submarine struck the USS Baton Rouge in the Barents Sea. If any countries subs should be slamming into other countries it should be the U.S. They’ve got submarines patrolling most of the world’s major bodies of water.
Speaking of major bodies of water; 70.8% of the earth is covered by water, about 139,000,000 square miles. 20.8%, or 27,800,000 of that 139,000,000 is the Atlantic Ocean. This recent freak incident occurred in the North Atlantic. For the sake of argument, let’s say the North Atlantic covers 13,900,000 square miles of varying depths. Two submarines, on routine maneuvers, both running stealthily at the same time so as not to be picked up on sonar, run into each other in those nearly 14 million square miles at the same depth. Who woulda’ thunk? If Vegas only took bets on that happening!
The powers that be, which include British Admiral Sir Jonathon Band, the First Sea Lord, (swear to god) quickly allayed any fears as to whether a nuclear strike could be launched if the situation arose at this very moment; “We can confirm that the capability remained unaffected and there has been no compromise to nuclear safety.” Well, that’s good to know! We can rest easy knowing there was no nuclear accident, but we can still kill people on purpose if necessary. Whew! That’s certainly a load off. There are more astounding real life quotes from esteemed and learned individuals; all said with an air of utmost seriousness, I shit you not.
Stephen Saunders, a retired British Royal Navy commodore and the editor of the prestigious Jane’s Fighting Ships, said “This really shouldn’t have happened at all…I find it quite extraordinary.” How’s that for expert insight. Mr. Saunders doesn’t quit while he’s ahead. He further states “The modus operandi of most submarines, particularly ballistic-missile submarines, is to operate stealthily and to proceed undetected. This means operating passively, by not transmitting on sonar, and making as little noise as possible.” Well, it looks like both subs achieved their goal. These statements fall under the heading of “No shit, really?”
Complex, long-winded excuses, or explanations, depending on your personal sentiment, included that France being situated outside of NATO’s command structure, so it does not provide information on the location of its mobile nuclear arms. Why pray tell? Well, “France considers its nuclear arsenal the most vital element in its defense capabilities,” said Jerome Erulin, a spokesman for the French Navy. Remember, this is coming from the folks who felt the Maginot Line was their best defense against the Germans.
Consider this nugget; it took six years to draw up the U.K.-French Bilateral Defense Cooperation Agreement, which called for regular exchanges on nuclear policy between navies. And we think the U.S. government gets bogged down in bureaucratic red tape. After this recent incident, Hans Kristensen, who monitors NATO’s weapons for the Federation of American Scientists stated “The fact that the collision occurred at all indicates that the two allies need to talk more.” Chalk another one up for the “no shit” column. I haven’t seen a picture of Mr. Kristensen, but the image of the scientist on The Simpsons comes to mind. Mr. Kristensen is not alone on “the big brain squad.”
Liberal Democrat defense spokesman Nick Harvey, said “While the British nuclear fleet has a good safety record…the people of Britain, France and the rest of the world need to be reassured this can never happen again.” I wouldn’t hold my breath. The HMS Trafalger in November of 2002 ran aground off the coast of Scotland. The British sub HMS Tireless, in 2003, crashed into “possibly an iceberg” while on patrol in the Artic. In May 2003 Pippa Dunlop, a reporter for the Telegraph News referred to this accident involving the Tireless, as “the latest in a series of mishaps to befall the British fleet.” This very same sub witnessed an onboard explosion that killed two sailors in March 2007. Mr. Harvey, I don’t think “good” is good enough when you’re talking about vessels that are nuclear powered and are armed with nuclear weapons.
Lastly, did you know that if this collision had been worse according to nuclear physicist Frank Barnaby, there could have been dire consequences? Really? Where do you want to start? He stated that “if the warheads were exposed to the sea, plutonium and highly-enriched Uranium could go into the water and be absorbed by marine life.” Sorry Frank, that’s doesn’t rank high on the import list with the earth blowing up and all.
The British Ministry of Defense issued this statement “because of the secret nature of these weapons. I think a degree of secrecy is necessary but the Ministry of Defense is, by nature, very secretive.” Huh?
Not one of these cerebral giants ever mentioned the word “radar.” I don’t give a rat’s ass about sonar. The last time ocean liners ran into each other was 1956, when the Andrea Doria was struck in dense fog by the Stockholm. Radar didn’t exist yet. For Christ’s sake, couldn’t somebody see a 500 foot long, 3 stories high, 16,000 ton blip on a screen? Let’s also keep in mind that 79% of France’s electricity is generated by nuclear energy. I sure hope none of the guys that run their utilities command a sub in their Navy. If so, Jon Stewart, SNL and the Harvard Lampoon are going to have a field day. I certainly hope the media keeps this story in the news. There so much more to make fun of than tired, old, boring, steroids.
Not one, but two different naval commanders from different countries could simultaneously come down with a case of the stupids. Slack-jawed, I stared at the television screen, and listened to the anchorwomen, in a voice normally saved for assassinations of heads of state, the passing of a pope, and declarations of war; inform the viewers of this tragedy in the North Atlantic. How did she do that and keep a straight face? Sure, two nuclear submarines crashing into each other is serious. But once she got beyond that, didn’t it cross her mind, “How the hell did that happen?”
Let’s first take a look at the players in this bizarre performance of a David Lynch screenplay. The British sub HMS Vanguard was launched in 1992, and refitted in 2007 as part of a $7 billion contract. The sub is not due to be replaced until 2024, unless someone sails off the edge of the earth first. It stands to reason after spending that kind of cash, every available piece of new technology was installed aboard this pride of the British fleet. It’s safe to assume that it would include sonar and radar.
The same goes for the French vessel Le Triomphant, sonar and radar have just got to be onboard, don’t they? A closer look at the details of this incident reveals that one sub is British, and the other French. You may think that’s stating the obvious, but under the circumstances one can’t be too sure.
The military past of the French has been distinguished by the incredible amount of money spent yielding little positive results. Napoleon’s march into Russia didn’t turn out so hot. The French foray in Viet Nam was a disaster. And the French should be thankful the United States entered World War II, or German would be the spoken language. Granted, the French came to the aid of the colonies versus the Brits, and we know how that turned out. One good turn deserves another.
The British and the French faltered during the battle over the Suez, and it was up to the U.S. again to set things straight. Sure America has had it’s setbacks as well, but they aren’t driving their subs into other folks. As a matter of fact, in 1992, a surfacing Russian submarine struck the USS Baton Rouge in the Barents Sea. If any countries subs should be slamming into other countries it should be the U.S. They’ve got submarines patrolling most of the world’s major bodies of water.
Speaking of major bodies of water; 70.8% of the earth is covered by water, about 139,000,000 square miles. 20.8%, or 27,800,000 of that 139,000,000 is the Atlantic Ocean. This recent freak incident occurred in the North Atlantic. For the sake of argument, let’s say the North Atlantic covers 13,900,000 square miles of varying depths. Two submarines, on routine maneuvers, both running stealthily at the same time so as not to be picked up on sonar, run into each other in those nearly 14 million square miles at the same depth. Who woulda’ thunk? If Vegas only took bets on that happening!
The powers that be, which include British Admiral Sir Jonathon Band, the First Sea Lord, (swear to god) quickly allayed any fears as to whether a nuclear strike could be launched if the situation arose at this very moment; “We can confirm that the capability remained unaffected and there has been no compromise to nuclear safety.” Well, that’s good to know! We can rest easy knowing there was no nuclear accident, but we can still kill people on purpose if necessary. Whew! That’s certainly a load off. There are more astounding real life quotes from esteemed and learned individuals; all said with an air of utmost seriousness, I shit you not.
Stephen Saunders, a retired British Royal Navy commodore and the editor of the prestigious Jane’s Fighting Ships, said “This really shouldn’t have happened at all…I find it quite extraordinary.” How’s that for expert insight. Mr. Saunders doesn’t quit while he’s ahead. He further states “The modus operandi of most submarines, particularly ballistic-missile submarines, is to operate stealthily and to proceed undetected. This means operating passively, by not transmitting on sonar, and making as little noise as possible.” Well, it looks like both subs achieved their goal. These statements fall under the heading of “No shit, really?”
Complex, long-winded excuses, or explanations, depending on your personal sentiment, included that France being situated outside of NATO’s command structure, so it does not provide information on the location of its mobile nuclear arms. Why pray tell? Well, “France considers its nuclear arsenal the most vital element in its defense capabilities,” said Jerome Erulin, a spokesman for the French Navy. Remember, this is coming from the folks who felt the Maginot Line was their best defense against the Germans.
Consider this nugget; it took six years to draw up the U.K.-French Bilateral Defense Cooperation Agreement, which called for regular exchanges on nuclear policy between navies. And we think the U.S. government gets bogged down in bureaucratic red tape. After this recent incident, Hans Kristensen, who monitors NATO’s weapons for the Federation of American Scientists stated “The fact that the collision occurred at all indicates that the two allies need to talk more.” Chalk another one up for the “no shit” column. I haven’t seen a picture of Mr. Kristensen, but the image of the scientist on The Simpsons comes to mind. Mr. Kristensen is not alone on “the big brain squad.”
Liberal Democrat defense spokesman Nick Harvey, said “While the British nuclear fleet has a good safety record…the people of Britain, France and the rest of the world need to be reassured this can never happen again.” I wouldn’t hold my breath. The HMS Trafalger in November of 2002 ran aground off the coast of Scotland. The British sub HMS Tireless, in 2003, crashed into “possibly an iceberg” while on patrol in the Artic. In May 2003 Pippa Dunlop, a reporter for the Telegraph News referred to this accident involving the Tireless, as “the latest in a series of mishaps to befall the British fleet.” This very same sub witnessed an onboard explosion that killed two sailors in March 2007. Mr. Harvey, I don’t think “good” is good enough when you’re talking about vessels that are nuclear powered and are armed with nuclear weapons.
Lastly, did you know that if this collision had been worse according to nuclear physicist Frank Barnaby, there could have been dire consequences? Really? Where do you want to start? He stated that “if the warheads were exposed to the sea, plutonium and highly-enriched Uranium could go into the water and be absorbed by marine life.” Sorry Frank, that’s doesn’t rank high on the import list with the earth blowing up and all.
The British Ministry of Defense issued this statement “because of the secret nature of these weapons. I think a degree of secrecy is necessary but the Ministry of Defense is, by nature, very secretive.” Huh?
Not one of these cerebral giants ever mentioned the word “radar.” I don’t give a rat’s ass about sonar. The last time ocean liners ran into each other was 1956, when the Andrea Doria was struck in dense fog by the Stockholm. Radar didn’t exist yet. For Christ’s sake, couldn’t somebody see a 500 foot long, 3 stories high, 16,000 ton blip on a screen? Let’s also keep in mind that 79% of France’s electricity is generated by nuclear energy. I sure hope none of the guys that run their utilities command a sub in their Navy. If so, Jon Stewart, SNL and the Harvard Lampoon are going to have a field day. I certainly hope the media keeps this story in the news. There so much more to make fun of than tired, old, boring, steroids.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
This Week's News
A bevy of news stories seem to be garnering a lot of attention, whether these items are deserving of such overblown coverage or not. However, America’s “slow down to gawk at the care wreck” mentality of the majority of our population will never be sated. Our televisions are cluttered with dozens of channels devoted to covering the cornucopia of carnival-like diversions. Eyes were glued to the endless coverage that Anna Nicole Smith provided ad nauseum. While we should be analyzing things such as why gas prices are going up though oil prices remain moderately low; and what exactly is in the government stimulus package, and how it will effect us,; and why are Wall Street bankers crying about their bonuses being less than last year; many of us are riveted to the Michael Phelps saga, Alex Rodriguez and steroids (still), and………..
Fourteen children. 14 Children. F-O-U-R-T-E-E-N children. Nadya Suleman decided that six kids wasn’t enough, she had to have eight more. The more time has elapsed, the more bizarre this story becomes. Unlike other forms of media, some who have declared they will not pass judgment until all the facts are in; I hold not such reservations.
My feelings are rooted in a conservative attitude toward population growth, a limited amount of global resources, and a gratifying and fulfilling experience as a single parent of one child. Let’s see if I can find anything remotely redeeming in having eight kids in one pop when you already have six…without a husband…without any source of income…when your parents are already helping raise the other six…after they’ve lost a home…after they’ve filed for bankruptcy…while you’re receiving government assistance.
Oh, that’s right Ms. Suleman, you don’t think you’re receiving government assistance. You believe the $490 per month in food stamps, and the disability checks three of your kids get are not government assistance, but they are part of programs designed to help people in need. Oh. Like you needed eight more kids. Did you really need six kids to begin with, without any viable means of supporting them. There’s a room full of cuckoo clocks chiming at this very moment.
A dear friend of mine has eight children. Thankfully, she had them at various intervals. After hearing this nugget of information from one of my colleagues, I was initially appalled. What about the planet being overpopulated I railed? What about the dwindling open spaces I mourned? Who’s going to pay for these kids and their needs I chided? And then I got to know this woman. She is easily one of the finest, kindest, most compassionate individuals I have ever known, and am privileged to call her my friend. I quickly reversed my snap judgments. I surmised that if any human being existed on this planet that should have eight kids, and the world would be a better place because of it, it is this woman. Each of her children is bright, more pleasant, more respectful, and better behaved than the next. Did I mention these children are all home schooled either by my friend or her husband? Did I mention my friend is a PhD. candidate? These feelings of mine do not extend to Ms. Suleman.
She has had “work done” though she denies it. Her lips and nose are quite different now then they appeared in earlier photographs. She is one of the growing population of persons who holds others accountable for what happens to them, and has filed lawsuits to prove it. And now she is holding various forms of media for ransom so the public can hear what she has to say. She has hired publicists to handle the offers, and insulate her from anyone who may expose her for what she is. Publicist Joann Killeen states that “My job is to protect my client.” That’s something a lawyer or agent would say, not a publicist. The amount of damage control for a lunatic must be overwhelming.
Ms. Suleman stated that she plans to support her children by the employment she’ll gain from completing her college education. In the very next breath she stated that she will be there to nurture and care for all her children, a quality she believes many parents lack today. How does she plan on doing both, particularly when eight of your kids are in diapers, and it’s still undetermined whether any of them will have prolonged medical issues? I am aghast at this height of egocentricity. I weep for the children.
I am ashamed that this “news story” has so irked me. I am upset that I’ve succumbed to my sense of morbid curiosity. I suggest that we should give Ms. Suleman virtually no media attention. Let her and her idiocy languish in the middle pages of various print forms. Hopefully, her fifteen minutes will be over. This is one case where if we ignore her maybe she will just go away.
Likewise with the Michael Phelps tale. Leave him alone, let’s move on. Our President smoked pot and we are not obsessed with the fact. Michael Phelps is a swimmer, not someone recently nominated for sainthood. Same goes for A-Rod and steroids; he’s a baseball player, not John Gotti incarnate. It’s funny how some folks want to pass judgment on a decorated Olympian, and the baseball stars of the era, but not on an obviously disturbed, misguided, selfish, burden to society……or…..
those Wall Street bankers from the first paragraph, remember them. Am I the only one who’s pissed because the men running an industry that lost $34 billion dollars in 2008 “only” got an average bonus that exceeded inflation by 406%? Who else in America gets rewarded for not doing their job states Rick Newman of U.S. News and World Report? How did you miss that little news item? Right, we’re busy paying attention to a woman in California who could profit by not having a job at all, and exceeding the average household population by 700%. We should bail on the coverage of Phelps and A-Rod, and take a closer look at those who are getting your tax dollars to bail them out.
Fourteen children. 14 Children. F-O-U-R-T-E-E-N children. Nadya Suleman decided that six kids wasn’t enough, she had to have eight more. The more time has elapsed, the more bizarre this story becomes. Unlike other forms of media, some who have declared they will not pass judgment until all the facts are in; I hold not such reservations.
My feelings are rooted in a conservative attitude toward population growth, a limited amount of global resources, and a gratifying and fulfilling experience as a single parent of one child. Let’s see if I can find anything remotely redeeming in having eight kids in one pop when you already have six…without a husband…without any source of income…when your parents are already helping raise the other six…after they’ve lost a home…after they’ve filed for bankruptcy…while you’re receiving government assistance.
Oh, that’s right Ms. Suleman, you don’t think you’re receiving government assistance. You believe the $490 per month in food stamps, and the disability checks three of your kids get are not government assistance, but they are part of programs designed to help people in need. Oh. Like you needed eight more kids. Did you really need six kids to begin with, without any viable means of supporting them. There’s a room full of cuckoo clocks chiming at this very moment.
A dear friend of mine has eight children. Thankfully, she had them at various intervals. After hearing this nugget of information from one of my colleagues, I was initially appalled. What about the planet being overpopulated I railed? What about the dwindling open spaces I mourned? Who’s going to pay for these kids and their needs I chided? And then I got to know this woman. She is easily one of the finest, kindest, most compassionate individuals I have ever known, and am privileged to call her my friend. I quickly reversed my snap judgments. I surmised that if any human being existed on this planet that should have eight kids, and the world would be a better place because of it, it is this woman. Each of her children is bright, more pleasant, more respectful, and better behaved than the next. Did I mention these children are all home schooled either by my friend or her husband? Did I mention my friend is a PhD. candidate? These feelings of mine do not extend to Ms. Suleman.
She has had “work done” though she denies it. Her lips and nose are quite different now then they appeared in earlier photographs. She is one of the growing population of persons who holds others accountable for what happens to them, and has filed lawsuits to prove it. And now she is holding various forms of media for ransom so the public can hear what she has to say. She has hired publicists to handle the offers, and insulate her from anyone who may expose her for what she is. Publicist Joann Killeen states that “My job is to protect my client.” That’s something a lawyer or agent would say, not a publicist. The amount of damage control for a lunatic must be overwhelming.
Ms. Suleman stated that she plans to support her children by the employment she’ll gain from completing her college education. In the very next breath she stated that she will be there to nurture and care for all her children, a quality she believes many parents lack today. How does she plan on doing both, particularly when eight of your kids are in diapers, and it’s still undetermined whether any of them will have prolonged medical issues? I am aghast at this height of egocentricity. I weep for the children.
I am ashamed that this “news story” has so irked me. I am upset that I’ve succumbed to my sense of morbid curiosity. I suggest that we should give Ms. Suleman virtually no media attention. Let her and her idiocy languish in the middle pages of various print forms. Hopefully, her fifteen minutes will be over. This is one case where if we ignore her maybe she will just go away.
Likewise with the Michael Phelps tale. Leave him alone, let’s move on. Our President smoked pot and we are not obsessed with the fact. Michael Phelps is a swimmer, not someone recently nominated for sainthood. Same goes for A-Rod and steroids; he’s a baseball player, not John Gotti incarnate. It’s funny how some folks want to pass judgment on a decorated Olympian, and the baseball stars of the era, but not on an obviously disturbed, misguided, selfish, burden to society……or…..
those Wall Street bankers from the first paragraph, remember them. Am I the only one who’s pissed because the men running an industry that lost $34 billion dollars in 2008 “only” got an average bonus that exceeded inflation by 406%? Who else in America gets rewarded for not doing their job states Rick Newman of U.S. News and World Report? How did you miss that little news item? Right, we’re busy paying attention to a woman in California who could profit by not having a job at all, and exceeding the average household population by 700%. We should bail on the coverage of Phelps and A-Rod, and take a closer look at those who are getting your tax dollars to bail them out.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Beating a Dead Horse
Raise your hand if you’re as sick of reading the never ending saga of steroids in baseball. It no longer has an appeal or redeeming qualities. We were once intrigued wondering which names the web of suspicion would ensnare. Once the stars were aligned, so to speak, there was nothing left to hold our attention.
A Congressional committee has been formed, the hearings televised, and testimony from the Snidely Whiplash’s of baseball was heard, or tuned out if you will. After a short period of relative dormancy, a new baseball season is now upon us, and with it comes tremors of discussion dotting the sports pages. On an interest scale, the steroids issue falls somewhere between pocket lint and Paris Hilton; and if it doesn’t, it should.
Drugs use in baseball is not new. Tim Keefe, a pitcher who played prior to the turn of the twentieth century. His illustrious career had five seasons of more than 30 wins. In two of those seasons Keefe had over 40 wins. In one of those remarkable years Keefe pitched 619 innings, in the other he registered 535 innings. Alas, Keefe’s playing days were cut short by injury. Keefe had once admitted that if he felt fatigued, he would pick up some “elixir” from the local pharmacy. Keefe pitched from 1880 to 1893, before the Pure Food and Drug Act was passed in 1906; long before the passage of the Harrison Drug Act in 1914. This is notable because prior to the passing of these two acts of governmental legislation opium, heroin, morphine, and cocaine were over-the counter drugs. Anyone could walk into a drugstore and purchase themselves these marvelous wonder drugs.
Please keep in mind most ballplayers during this period were not necessarily pillars of the community. The profession of ball playing had not yet gained complete social acceptance. The game itself was rife with gambling, and its step-brother cheating. The mind doesn’t have to make such a giant leap of faith to surmise ballplayers stooping to drug use to cure their ills; particularly if it meant collecting a paycheck.Notable personalities of the era were part of, not hiding underground, the drug culture. The famed psychiatrist Sigmund Freud wrote about the stimulant cocaine, and the talented but tormented writer Edgar Allen Poe, often used a variety of drugs; why would anybody think the ballplaying population would be exempt from sampling the narcotic wares of the day?
The next wave of drug use in baseball came shortly after the conclusion of World War II. Amphetamines were used extensively by soldiers to combat battle fatigue. “Next stop, the civilian population, all aboard!” In the ground breaking book Ball Four published in 1971, former New York Yankee Jim Bouton, took a candid behind the scenes look at baseball; he revealed that many notable players took these illegal narcotics in order to gain a perceived edge over their peers. Exposing this darker side of America’s game irked the fraternal hierarchy no end, prompting commissioner Bowie Kuhn to take a position of plausible deniability; denouncing Bouton’s book as a form of baseball blasphemy. Now we see that what Bouton wrote was tame, and exposed players for what they were; regular human beings with shortcomings just like the rest of us.
In the ‘70s and ‘80s cocaine made another appearance on the baseball landscape, in a new and improved form. Most Valuable Players Dave Parker and Keith Hernandez found themselves at the center of that firestorm of scandal. Tim Raines, the perennial all-star of the Montreal Expos was once asked why he slid head first so often when he stole a base. He replied that he didn’t want to break the cocaine vial in his back pocket. All these players went on with their superb careers. Again, baseball was reflecting the societal condition of the time.
And now we have steroids. But we also have smaller ballparks, and bigger salaries, and many players have personal trainers. We have weaker pitching, and we have a voyeuristic society with an insatiable desire to know the most personal details of its celebrities. If you combine those things with a “holier than thou” 21st century version of the Victorian mindset, it spells trouble; trouble for ballplayers, and trouble for our culture that loves to point fingers though the finger-pointers are far from chaste. We really needed a congressional committee to investigate steroid use? This is our government at work paid by our tax dollars? Doesn’t the government have bigger fish to fry? Christ! They can’t even police themselves, and their going to police baseball? Give me a break.
Twice before has government gotten involved with baseball, and both times it failed miserably. The first concerned baseball’s reserve clause. First challenged in 1885, it would take another 90 years for the judicial branch of the government to rule that baseball was indeed a business. The second had to do with the Black Sox scandal of 1919, when Chicago ballplayers were accused of throwing the World Series. Again our judicial system dropped the ball, pun intended, and cleared all players of any wrong doing. It took newly anointed baseball commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis to clean baseball’s house. He suspended the suspected players for life. Strike two federal government. And now they’re going to get to the bottom of the steroids scandal. I can’t wait to see how this one turns out. Oh, wait a minute, I can wait. As a matter of fact, I don’t care.
Sports writers and news journalists, the embodiment of all that is good in the world, have taken a stance against any player suspected of steroid use. Mark McGuire falls into this category. A point has been made to show how steroid rumors hurt his chances for the Hall of Fame. It couldn’t possibly be because he was a lifetime .263 hitter who struck out frequently could it? No, let’s make steroid the reason, voters will show him.
When did sportswriters become the moral entrepreneurs for America? They call the records set during this period tainted. No more tainted than the records set before integration. No more tainted than the records that were set before night baseball. No more tainted than the records set when ballparks had foul lines less than 270 feet from home plate, or pitchers regularly doctored the ball, or when only one umpire was used, I could go on but I’m not as pompous as those throwing the stones these days. Asterisks my ass, it’s just another turbulent time in baseball; disappointing yes, the decline of our civilization as we know it, not hardly. Sadly, something will come along to take steroids place. It's the way our society works if you haven't noticed for the last two hundred years or so.
The games stars implicated in this mess haven’t fallen, they’ve just moved with baseball’s celestial sky.
Did you ever notice how cumulus clouds occasionally can resemble bellybutton lint, now that’s fascinating!
A Congressional committee has been formed, the hearings televised, and testimony from the Snidely Whiplash’s of baseball was heard, or tuned out if you will. After a short period of relative dormancy, a new baseball season is now upon us, and with it comes tremors of discussion dotting the sports pages. On an interest scale, the steroids issue falls somewhere between pocket lint and Paris Hilton; and if it doesn’t, it should.
Drugs use in baseball is not new. Tim Keefe, a pitcher who played prior to the turn of the twentieth century. His illustrious career had five seasons of more than 30 wins. In two of those seasons Keefe had over 40 wins. In one of those remarkable years Keefe pitched 619 innings, in the other he registered 535 innings. Alas, Keefe’s playing days were cut short by injury. Keefe had once admitted that if he felt fatigued, he would pick up some “elixir” from the local pharmacy. Keefe pitched from 1880 to 1893, before the Pure Food and Drug Act was passed in 1906; long before the passage of the Harrison Drug Act in 1914. This is notable because prior to the passing of these two acts of governmental legislation opium, heroin, morphine, and cocaine were over-the counter drugs. Anyone could walk into a drugstore and purchase themselves these marvelous wonder drugs.
Please keep in mind most ballplayers during this period were not necessarily pillars of the community. The profession of ball playing had not yet gained complete social acceptance. The game itself was rife with gambling, and its step-brother cheating. The mind doesn’t have to make such a giant leap of faith to surmise ballplayers stooping to drug use to cure their ills; particularly if it meant collecting a paycheck.Notable personalities of the era were part of, not hiding underground, the drug culture. The famed psychiatrist Sigmund Freud wrote about the stimulant cocaine, and the talented but tormented writer Edgar Allen Poe, often used a variety of drugs; why would anybody think the ballplaying population would be exempt from sampling the narcotic wares of the day?
The next wave of drug use in baseball came shortly after the conclusion of World War II. Amphetamines were used extensively by soldiers to combat battle fatigue. “Next stop, the civilian population, all aboard!” In the ground breaking book Ball Four published in 1971, former New York Yankee Jim Bouton, took a candid behind the scenes look at baseball; he revealed that many notable players took these illegal narcotics in order to gain a perceived edge over their peers. Exposing this darker side of America’s game irked the fraternal hierarchy no end, prompting commissioner Bowie Kuhn to take a position of plausible deniability; denouncing Bouton’s book as a form of baseball blasphemy. Now we see that what Bouton wrote was tame, and exposed players for what they were; regular human beings with shortcomings just like the rest of us.
In the ‘70s and ‘80s cocaine made another appearance on the baseball landscape, in a new and improved form. Most Valuable Players Dave Parker and Keith Hernandez found themselves at the center of that firestorm of scandal. Tim Raines, the perennial all-star of the Montreal Expos was once asked why he slid head first so often when he stole a base. He replied that he didn’t want to break the cocaine vial in his back pocket. All these players went on with their superb careers. Again, baseball was reflecting the societal condition of the time.
And now we have steroids. But we also have smaller ballparks, and bigger salaries, and many players have personal trainers. We have weaker pitching, and we have a voyeuristic society with an insatiable desire to know the most personal details of its celebrities. If you combine those things with a “holier than thou” 21st century version of the Victorian mindset, it spells trouble; trouble for ballplayers, and trouble for our culture that loves to point fingers though the finger-pointers are far from chaste. We really needed a congressional committee to investigate steroid use? This is our government at work paid by our tax dollars? Doesn’t the government have bigger fish to fry? Christ! They can’t even police themselves, and their going to police baseball? Give me a break.
Twice before has government gotten involved with baseball, and both times it failed miserably. The first concerned baseball’s reserve clause. First challenged in 1885, it would take another 90 years for the judicial branch of the government to rule that baseball was indeed a business. The second had to do with the Black Sox scandal of 1919, when Chicago ballplayers were accused of throwing the World Series. Again our judicial system dropped the ball, pun intended, and cleared all players of any wrong doing. It took newly anointed baseball commissioner Kennesaw Mountain Landis to clean baseball’s house. He suspended the suspected players for life. Strike two federal government. And now they’re going to get to the bottom of the steroids scandal. I can’t wait to see how this one turns out. Oh, wait a minute, I can wait. As a matter of fact, I don’t care.
Sports writers and news journalists, the embodiment of all that is good in the world, have taken a stance against any player suspected of steroid use. Mark McGuire falls into this category. A point has been made to show how steroid rumors hurt his chances for the Hall of Fame. It couldn’t possibly be because he was a lifetime .263 hitter who struck out frequently could it? No, let’s make steroid the reason, voters will show him.
When did sportswriters become the moral entrepreneurs for America? They call the records set during this period tainted. No more tainted than the records set before integration. No more tainted than the records that were set before night baseball. No more tainted than the records set when ballparks had foul lines less than 270 feet from home plate, or pitchers regularly doctored the ball, or when only one umpire was used, I could go on but I’m not as pompous as those throwing the stones these days. Asterisks my ass, it’s just another turbulent time in baseball; disappointing yes, the decline of our civilization as we know it, not hardly. Sadly, something will come along to take steroids place. It's the way our society works if you haven't noticed for the last two hundred years or so.
The games stars implicated in this mess haven’t fallen, they’ve just moved with baseball’s celestial sky.
Did you ever notice how cumulus clouds occasionally can resemble bellybutton lint, now that’s fascinating!
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