My son Tyler has a band, Grant Farm, based in Lyons CO. They play gigs coast to coast and many times these days, newspapers won't do advances interviews, but send questionnaires. Tyler dutifully completes them, sends them back. Here's one such completed questionnaire. Believe me, it's worth the read.
Summit Daily News
Band Q & A
[please attach photo]
Band name: Grant Farm
Where does the name come from? It's a pun on Tyler Grant's last name. Rhymes with "Ant Farm"
Your home base: Boulder County, CO
Date playing in Summit County: Saturday, 3/31. Doors at 9, show at 9:30
Location playing in Summit County: Three20South in Breckenridge
Type of music you play? Roots, Rock and Cris-Co!
If your band were a dog, what breed would it be, and why? A Mutt, because we draw from a variety of influences, we're smart and tough and will live longer than pure-bred dogs.
If you had to compare yourself to another band, who would it be? This answer might change day-to-day, but for today I will say The Grateful Dead. Tomorrow I might say Derek and the Dominoes…
What sets your band apart? We don't have a mandolin.
What’s been your craziest experience on the road? Driving East from Tonopah, NV we saw a dim speck of light to the North, near Polaris. It was about 2AM and Buck Owens' "Close Up the Honkytonks" was playing on the radio. It was a new moon and the stars were bright and many out there in the middle of the desert. We were feeling fine. Nobody was sleeping. The light slowly grew larger and began to change colors. We thought nothing of it at first, but before the song was over it became apparent that this bright and colorful object was flying toward us at high velocity. When, to our perspective, it grew to about the size of a basketball out the driver's window, Sean (who was riding shotgun, Chris was driving) noticed an arc of electricity, like from a Tesla coil, creep out of the van's antenna and telescope toward the flying object. This arc grew in intensity and when it reached the flying object (which by now looked like a multicolored Sun out the left window) the van was instantly engulfed in a bright blue sheen of electricity. All the power lines along the highway lit up and we could see arcs of electricity connecting the lines to us and the flying object. Chris drove on and the bright object flew alongside. Flashes of electricity were everywhere. The power lines were bright with blue light off to every horizon as far as the eye could see. No other vehicles were on the road. The song on the radio suddenly stopped and in a moment continued at incredibly high volume outside of the van. Even with the windows rolled up we could hear Tom Brumley's pedal steel solo blasting at an alarming volume out across the barren desert. By the time Buck and Don came back in singing the last chorus all we could see was bright blue light. The flying object was completely obscured. Not knowing what to do in this situation, Chris drove on like a hardened road warrior. The light was blinding and we suddenly felt the van lift off the ground. At that point matter, energy, light, sound and sensation all became one. Among the four of us Adrian seems to remember the most, though we cannot get him to talk about it. It was as if the van and the four of us in it had entered a place where all being was pure energy. The boundaries of space, time and communication fell down and we could see into the center of the universe. None of us are sure how long we were in this place, but we all agree that it seemed as if we were moving the whole time. Flying, perhaps, or traveling in a way that cannot be explained in the format of this interview. Then, suddenly, we found ourselves stopped at a stoplight in Ely. The flying object was gone and the sky was dark once again. The van and our gear were intact and everyone seemed to be okay, but for about five minutes Sean eagerly told us a story in a language we could not understand. The concept of spoken "language" notwithstanding, I have never before or since heard a human voice make those kinds of noises. We sat at the stoplight (flashing yellow but it did not matter; no cars were coming) and listened to his story, amazed at the sounds coming from his mouth. The otherworldly monologue ended with a long, drawn out syllable that started at an almost sub-sonic frequency and ascended to a near-deafening high pitched squeal that rattled the windows and caused the frame of the van to creak. We sat, Adrian and I in the back benches and Chris in the driver's seat, fingers in our ears, and stared at Sean. He looked at us, straight faced, and began to blink furiously. When the blinking episode ended he stared at us, straight faced, as if nothing happened. The radio turned back on and now played George Jones' "Seasons of My Heart." Chris pulled the van into an all-night casino diner. We did not say a word until an old, frail waiter took our order. When he returned with the coffee he was humming "Close Up the Honkytonks." We finished our coffee quick, lost a twenty on the roulette table, and did not say a word the rest of the drive to Denver. It was a bonding experience and made us closer as a band.
Is your music geared toward mosh pits or foot tapping? Depends on the crowd.
September 30, 2012
September 28, 2012
Advertising imitates life
I just saw a car ad on television that describes exactly what is happening to Mitt in this election.
I have already blogged about this, in "The Boat and the Dock." Mitt has one foot on the dock, which is the Republican base, and one foot on the boat, which is the moderate vote. He has to have support from both constituencies to win.
Mitt can't be too true to the base, or the undecided voters will start drifting away. And he can't court the undecided voters too much, or the base will either complain to the media, or the right-wing media will complain in behalf of the base, which nudges the boat farther out.
Either way, Mitt is in constant peril of going into the water. In the last couple of days, the base, knowing its causes are in trouble, has nudged the boat farther out, and here's Mitt, stretched to the breaking point, with nowhere to go.
So I'm sitting here, half an hour ago, watching television, and on the screen comes an ad about car insurance. I have seen it before. The ad talks about the need for insurance when something unusual happens, over which the car owner has no control. In one scene, a neighbor is trimming a tree and a limb falls on your car in a driveway. In another, your parked car is crunched between a truck backing up, and a truck behind.
But this time there was something new: you are driving your car onto a ferry, and there's not room in front. You stop, with your back wheels on the dock, and your front wheels on the ferry.
And then the ferry starts to pull very slowly away from the dock.
That is Mitt's exact position in this election.
I have already blogged about this, in "The Boat and the Dock." Mitt has one foot on the dock, which is the Republican base, and one foot on the boat, which is the moderate vote. He has to have support from both constituencies to win.
Mitt can't be too true to the base, or the undecided voters will start drifting away. And he can't court the undecided voters too much, or the base will either complain to the media, or the right-wing media will complain in behalf of the base, which nudges the boat farther out.
Either way, Mitt is in constant peril of going into the water. In the last couple of days, the base, knowing its causes are in trouble, has nudged the boat farther out, and here's Mitt, stretched to the breaking point, with nowhere to go.
So I'm sitting here, half an hour ago, watching television, and on the screen comes an ad about car insurance. I have seen it before. The ad talks about the need for insurance when something unusual happens, over which the car owner has no control. In one scene, a neighbor is trimming a tree and a limb falls on your car in a driveway. In another, your parked car is crunched between a truck backing up, and a truck behind.
But this time there was something new: you are driving your car onto a ferry, and there's not room in front. You stop, with your back wheels on the dock, and your front wheels on the ferry.
And then the ferry starts to pull very slowly away from the dock.
That is Mitt's exact position in this election.
September 25, 2012
Refs seize ratings lead over NFL
I am a football fan, but I would not normally stay up past my bedtime to watch Monday Night Football, even if my favorite teams were playing.
But last night I did stay up, because I wanted to see what might happen. Not with the teams. With the referees.
I don’t think the NFL understands the kind of trouble it’s in, when fans start watching the games to see what the referees will do. Monday night, my interest in what might happen was highly rewarded, totally worth staying up for, and it had nothing to do with Green Bay or Seattle. Based on their Monday night performance, I think the replacement refs should demand a raise. I know that today, sitcom producers are buzzing with excitement, and I am not kidding, about ideas for a “Replacement Refs” show.
Now it’s up to the NFL to wrest interest away from the referees and place it back with the game. Surely the NFL owners realize they are a media business, selling a product to television networks for a LOT of money, and the product they are selling is not football, but suspense. Pro football is a multi-billion-dollar business built entirely on the reality that the audience doesn’t know what is going to happen, and loves it. Such an audience keeps a vast universe of media entertainment humming, in television, books and movies.
But the suspense has to be legitimate, even pure, in the sense that genuine suspense won’t tolerate much contamination. Pro football fans invest serious levels of physical and emotional energy into their enjoyment, as I well know, and in return they expect a legitimate thrill of victory or agony of defeat. I recall an example provided by “Dallas,” the ‘70s television drama, which developed a certain line of suspense for an entire season, and then at the end said it had all been a dream. “Dallas” fans never got over it.
Now the NFL is three games into a season of referee drama in which a football game occasionally breaks out. NFL fans have an extremely high level of forgiveness, but this time the NFL may be asking too much. Which, of course, is for us, the audience, an attractive story, because the weekend is coming and we don’t know what is going to happen. Forget the teams, who don’t matter, and the replacement refs, which have now given us their best. This week’s big story: What will the fans do?
But last night I did stay up, because I wanted to see what might happen. Not with the teams. With the referees.
I don’t think the NFL understands the kind of trouble it’s in, when fans start watching the games to see what the referees will do. Monday night, my interest in what might happen was highly rewarded, totally worth staying up for, and it had nothing to do with Green Bay or Seattle. Based on their Monday night performance, I think the replacement refs should demand a raise. I know that today, sitcom producers are buzzing with excitement, and I am not kidding, about ideas for a “Replacement Refs” show.
Now it’s up to the NFL to wrest interest away from the referees and place it back with the game. Surely the NFL owners realize they are a media business, selling a product to television networks for a LOT of money, and the product they are selling is not football, but suspense. Pro football is a multi-billion-dollar business built entirely on the reality that the audience doesn’t know what is going to happen, and loves it. Such an audience keeps a vast universe of media entertainment humming, in television, books and movies.
But the suspense has to be legitimate, even pure, in the sense that genuine suspense won’t tolerate much contamination. Pro football fans invest serious levels of physical and emotional energy into their enjoyment, as I well know, and in return they expect a legitimate thrill of victory or agony of defeat. I recall an example provided by “Dallas,” the ‘70s television drama, which developed a certain line of suspense for an entire season, and then at the end said it had all been a dream. “Dallas” fans never got over it.
Now the NFL is three games into a season of referee drama in which a football game occasionally breaks out. NFL fans have an extremely high level of forgiveness, but this time the NFL may be asking too much. Which, of course, is for us, the audience, an attractive story, because the weekend is coming and we don’t know what is going to happen. Forget the teams, who don’t matter, and the replacement refs, which have now given us their best. This week’s big story: What will the fans do?
September 24, 2012
Pork and Migas Alta Mira
Hey Jessie and Tyler! Here's a twist on migas which is working out well here.
It is one of the results of the new propane grill I got for retirement. I use it to make a tomato sauce that goes with spaghetti or Mexican creations. This one is a Mexican creation with the migas principle thrown in.
Halve a dozen plum (roma) tomatoes, remove the pulp and seeds but not the middle spine. Oil a baking sheet and place the tomatoes on it. Brush them with olive oil and sprinkle lightly with Balsamic vinegar, brown (or white) sugar, minced garlic, oregano (dried is fine) and salt and pepper. On the grill, I roast these in indirect heat for 30 minutes. You can do it also in a 450-degree oven for 20-25 minutes. The tomatoes should have started to caramelize.
While you're doing the tomatoes, grill a couple of pork chops (actually I used sliced pork loin, which is cheap at the Price Club), half-inch thick, three minutes on a side, and place them in a small baking dish, like a Corning Ware.
Full disclosure: This isn't an original recipe with me. I got the roasted tomatoes part of it from the Barefoot Contessa. Let the tomatoes cool, then pulse them in a food processor with a couple tablespoons of tomato paste. Not too smooth, please.
Spoon some sauce over the pork chops and pour the rest into a container to save for spaghetti or some other creative thing. You can do all this preparatory stuff way ahead of time. I did it during the morning, when it was not so hot outside.
Ordinarily, you would serve pork like this over noodles or rice. Instead, slice five Porkyland's tortillas (this recipe is for two) into noodle-wide strips. Make migas as usual – oil, sautéed onion, green chiles, the tortilla strips, but no eggs. Heat the chops and sauce in the oven until just hot. Serve the chops and sauce on top if the migas. I will make it for you when you're here.
Tyler, I did try the migas with whole eggs, as we had talked about, and Karen was near unconscious at their goodness. The trick is to cook the whites but leave the yolk runny. I cracked the eggs on top of the migas in the hot skillet and covered the skillet, just for a minute or so (keep checking it), and it worked.
Another trick (if you don't do this already): brown some skirt steak or pork loin slices to serve on the side, then brown the onions in the meat skillet and turn them into a second skillet to make the migas. The onions pick up a ton of flavor that way.
It is one of the results of the new propane grill I got for retirement. I use it to make a tomato sauce that goes with spaghetti or Mexican creations. This one is a Mexican creation with the migas principle thrown in.
Halve a dozen plum (roma) tomatoes, remove the pulp and seeds but not the middle spine. Oil a baking sheet and place the tomatoes on it. Brush them with olive oil and sprinkle lightly with Balsamic vinegar, brown (or white) sugar, minced garlic, oregano (dried is fine) and salt and pepper. On the grill, I roast these in indirect heat for 30 minutes. You can do it also in a 450-degree oven for 20-25 minutes. The tomatoes should have started to caramelize.
While you're doing the tomatoes, grill a couple of pork chops (actually I used sliced pork loin, which is cheap at the Price Club), half-inch thick, three minutes on a side, and place them in a small baking dish, like a Corning Ware.
Full disclosure: This isn't an original recipe with me. I got the roasted tomatoes part of it from the Barefoot Contessa. Let the tomatoes cool, then pulse them in a food processor with a couple tablespoons of tomato paste. Not too smooth, please.
Spoon some sauce over the pork chops and pour the rest into a container to save for spaghetti or some other creative thing. You can do all this preparatory stuff way ahead of time. I did it during the morning, when it was not so hot outside.
Ordinarily, you would serve pork like this over noodles or rice. Instead, slice five Porkyland's tortillas (this recipe is for two) into noodle-wide strips. Make migas as usual – oil, sautéed onion, green chiles, the tortilla strips, but no eggs. Heat the chops and sauce in the oven until just hot. Serve the chops and sauce on top if the migas. I will make it for you when you're here.
Tyler, I did try the migas with whole eggs, as we had talked about, and Karen was near unconscious at their goodness. The trick is to cook the whites but leave the yolk runny. I cracked the eggs on top of the migas in the hot skillet and covered the skillet, just for a minute or so (keep checking it), and it worked.
Another trick (if you don't do this already): brown some skirt steak or pork loin slices to serve on the side, then brown the onions in the meat skillet and turn them into a second skillet to make the migas. The onions pick up a ton of flavor that way.
September 23, 2012
Regress or Progress
For someone like me, this entire November election – president and Congress – comes down to regress or progress.
I mean "regress" in the Webster's sense of "movement backward to a previous and especially worse or more primitive state or condition."
I mean "progress" as a verb in the Webster's sense of, simply, "to move forward; proceed."
Regress or Progress! Simple as that. That's my bumper sticker. My yard sign. Couldn't be simpler. Could it?
I mean "regress" in the Webster's sense of "movement backward to a previous and especially worse or more primitive state or condition."
I mean "progress" as a verb in the Webster's sense of, simply, "to move forward; proceed."
Regress or Progress! Simple as that. That's my bumper sticker. My yard sign. Couldn't be simpler. Could it?
Morning of the orange spiders
It is late in the season of the orange spiders, but still we can see one when we go out in the morning. The other day I walked directly into a web. "Bejabbers!" I cried, and flailed myself about the head for possible arachnids. It would have made a competitive YouTube.
Last week, one had set himself up between me on the glider and the view to the south. In fact one of his anchors was the hummingbird feeder. Presently a hummingbird arrived and, hovering, viewed the spider.
I suppose the spider viewed the hummingbird, which advanced a couple of inches closer. The spider's web suddenly vibrated vigorously, as if he had gathered it like a skirt and shaken it. I was engrossed. Had I viewed a spider's defense mechanism?
Or it might have been the hummingbird. If you have ever been buzzed by a hummingbird, you know they make quite a noise and create quite a wake. It could have been the wash off the hummingbird's wings, which was buffeting the web. I couldn't say. So many simple questions about nature present themselves to me, which I have no answer for.
This morning, Dixie and I were out early, more than first light in the east but still darkish on the glider. I sat down and took first sips of hot coffee and Dixie went to see what she could see. That's another question: who took the first sip of hot coffee at dawn, creating such an enduring age of tranquility? Had to be somebody.
I sat there for several minutes, witnessing dawn events, and then I looked to my right, toward the ocean. A foot from my head was a nickel-sized spider, hanging there patiently. A foot was far enough. I let him hang. One thing I am learning in retirement age is that life of all forms, in all situations, has taken on a new stature.
But then came a bit of ocean breeze, blowing the spider nearer to my ear, and certainly inside my boundaries of respect for spider life and situations. Nearby was one of the sticks that Karen posts around the grounds to knock down orange-spider webs. I passed the stick below the spider and he disappeared.
I sat back down and sipped coffee. A couple of minutes later I looked to the right, and there he was. He looked bigger. A movie plot dashed through my mind. I said to him: "I thought I sent you packing." I got the stick again and waved it through a wider arc beneath him, severing unseen anchors. He scrambled up to an eave over the window and didn't bother me again, though I kept an eye on him, thinking I weighed 200 and he weighed .002, but what little difference that made.
I must watch for him tomorrow. Speaking of seasons, we did not have an acorn fever season this year, a first brief snap of cool weather to gull us into thinking it was fall. Day by day at our house, we have formed the conviction that the 2 p.m. temperature is not going to fall below 80 until Thanksgiving Day, if then.
Last week, one had set himself up between me on the glider and the view to the south. In fact one of his anchors was the hummingbird feeder. Presently a hummingbird arrived and, hovering, viewed the spider.
I suppose the spider viewed the hummingbird, which advanced a couple of inches closer. The spider's web suddenly vibrated vigorously, as if he had gathered it like a skirt and shaken it. I was engrossed. Had I viewed a spider's defense mechanism?
Or it might have been the hummingbird. If you have ever been buzzed by a hummingbird, you know they make quite a noise and create quite a wake. It could have been the wash off the hummingbird's wings, which was buffeting the web. I couldn't say. So many simple questions about nature present themselves to me, which I have no answer for.
This morning, Dixie and I were out early, more than first light in the east but still darkish on the glider. I sat down and took first sips of hot coffee and Dixie went to see what she could see. That's another question: who took the first sip of hot coffee at dawn, creating such an enduring age of tranquility? Had to be somebody.
I sat there for several minutes, witnessing dawn events, and then I looked to my right, toward the ocean. A foot from my head was a nickel-sized spider, hanging there patiently. A foot was far enough. I let him hang. One thing I am learning in retirement age is that life of all forms, in all situations, has taken on a new stature.
But then came a bit of ocean breeze, blowing the spider nearer to my ear, and certainly inside my boundaries of respect for spider life and situations. Nearby was one of the sticks that Karen posts around the grounds to knock down orange-spider webs. I passed the stick below the spider and he disappeared.
I sat back down and sipped coffee. A couple of minutes later I looked to the right, and there he was. He looked bigger. A movie plot dashed through my mind. I said to him: "I thought I sent you packing." I got the stick again and waved it through a wider arc beneath him, severing unseen anchors. He scrambled up to an eave over the window and didn't bother me again, though I kept an eye on him, thinking I weighed 200 and he weighed .002, but what little difference that made.
I must watch for him tomorrow. Speaking of seasons, we did not have an acorn fever season this year, a first brief snap of cool weather to gull us into thinking it was fall. Day by day at our house, we have formed the conviction that the 2 p.m. temperature is not going to fall below 80 until Thanksgiving Day, if then.
September 21, 2012
Mitt's taxes
Media stories coming out right now about Mitt's tax returns are an indication that, in the next day or two (my guess), either Mitt will release his tax returns for the last 10-15 years, or a media investigative reporter will do it for him.
YELLO, HOW YOU DOING?
In the last 48 hours, Mitt Romney received some coaching from his staff: yell.
It's a good idea. Yelling at rallies is candidatial. I don't know if that word exists, but if Mitt can strive to appear presidential, he can also strive to appear candidatial.
Additionally, audiences are not accustomed to him yelling. It surprises them. They are accustomed to hearing Mitt labor to make an argument, which is practically impossible to do, because he is hemmed in between appeasing the base and courting the moderates (see my blog, "The dock and the boat"). They are also becoming accustomed to hear him commit some really damaging gaffes when speaking at conversational levels.
So this is a positive, happy, surprise from Mitt. It's not impossible, but it's harder to commit a gaffe when you are yelling than when you are trying to be thoughtful. Mitt was yelling yesterday, and we can look for more yelling today. If you want thoughtful language today from the Romney camp, listen to Mitt's wife telling alarmed Republicans to shut up and walk a mile in Mitt's 12 ½ D wingtip shoes.
Obama, meanwhile, responded by employing a strategy of reviewing old tapes for things Mitt has said in times prior ("can't change Washington from the inside," from 2007, for example) then repeating them on the air, then waiting for Mitt, an hour or so later, like it happened yesterday, to seize on them as a new Obama weakness and yell them out at this or that rally.
It makes Mitt look a little silly, but that's not his fault. It's the job of his senior staff to vet these things. Speaking of good jobs, any American should leap at a job on Mitt's staff. While they were making Mitt look silly yesterday, they got paid bonuses. Can't beat that.
It's a good idea. Yelling at rallies is candidatial. I don't know if that word exists, but if Mitt can strive to appear presidential, he can also strive to appear candidatial.
Additionally, audiences are not accustomed to him yelling. It surprises them. They are accustomed to hearing Mitt labor to make an argument, which is practically impossible to do, because he is hemmed in between appeasing the base and courting the moderates (see my blog, "The dock and the boat"). They are also becoming accustomed to hear him commit some really damaging gaffes when speaking at conversational levels.
So this is a positive, happy, surprise from Mitt. It's not impossible, but it's harder to commit a gaffe when you are yelling than when you are trying to be thoughtful. Mitt was yelling yesterday, and we can look for more yelling today. If you want thoughtful language today from the Romney camp, listen to Mitt's wife telling alarmed Republicans to shut up and walk a mile in Mitt's 12 ½ D wingtip shoes.
Obama, meanwhile, responded by employing a strategy of reviewing old tapes for things Mitt has said in times prior ("can't change Washington from the inside," from 2007, for example) then repeating them on the air, then waiting for Mitt, an hour or so later, like it happened yesterday, to seize on them as a new Obama weakness and yell them out at this or that rally.
It makes Mitt look a little silly, but that's not his fault. It's the job of his senior staff to vet these things. Speaking of good jobs, any American should leap at a job on Mitt's staff. While they were making Mitt look silly yesterday, they got paid bonuses. Can't beat that.
September 20, 2012
Better off than 2008? You decide
Republican candidates have been asking, "Do you feel better off than you did four years ago?"
Well, four years ago this month, in September, 2008, the Bush administration was proposing a $700 billion package to bail out "failing financial firms." Even so, Sen. John McCain, in a presidential campaign appearance, said, "The fundamentals of the economy are strong." At that same time, in mid-September, Lehman Brothers was collapsing.
Here is a September, 2008 news summary of the situation at the time. It was chaotic. Read the last two paragraphs in particular.
"Senator John McCain said that he planned to suspend campaigning and seek a delay in the upcoming presidential debate this week, so that he could return to Washington to try to forge a consensus on a financial bailout package.
"A short time later the campaign of his Democratic opponent, Senator Barack Obama, issued a statement saying that the two presidential candidates had spoken on the telephone Wednesday morning about issuing a statement on the financial difficulties facing the nation. It did not address canceling the debate.
"Aides to Sen. Barack Obama said that he was inclined to go ahead with the debate. 'There are serious global financial issues at stake and the American people deserve to hear how the next president will handle them,' said a senior Obama adviser.
"The proposed $700 billion bailout package has met with deep skepticism from Democrats and Republicans alike. McCain and Obama, who have both said that they favored taking some kind of action but warned that significant changes were necessary, have been under pressure to signal what they would do.
"Both McCain and Obama have said that action must be taken, but have urged greater oversight built into the plan, to monitor how the Treasury Department plans to use taxpayer money to take distressed assets off the hands of failing financial firms, as well as guarantees that taxpayer money is not used to enrich Wall Street executives.
"The fiscal crisis has put both candidates in a tremendously uncomfortable position — torn between an unpopular plan to use $700 billion in taxpayer funds to bail out Wall Street firms, or to risk what the Bush administration warns would be a widening financial crisis that could wipe out the savings of retirees, make it difficult to secure mortgages or college loans, and send the economy into a downward spiral."
As this news was reported that September, The Bush Administration was entering its last three months of his term in office. The widening financial crisis would be inherited by a new president.
Well, four years ago this month, in September, 2008, the Bush administration was proposing a $700 billion package to bail out "failing financial firms." Even so, Sen. John McCain, in a presidential campaign appearance, said, "The fundamentals of the economy are strong." At that same time, in mid-September, Lehman Brothers was collapsing.
Here is a September, 2008 news summary of the situation at the time. It was chaotic. Read the last two paragraphs in particular.
"Senator John McCain said that he planned to suspend campaigning and seek a delay in the upcoming presidential debate this week, so that he could return to Washington to try to forge a consensus on a financial bailout package.
"A short time later the campaign of his Democratic opponent, Senator Barack Obama, issued a statement saying that the two presidential candidates had spoken on the telephone Wednesday morning about issuing a statement on the financial difficulties facing the nation. It did not address canceling the debate.
"Aides to Sen. Barack Obama said that he was inclined to go ahead with the debate. 'There are serious global financial issues at stake and the American people deserve to hear how the next president will handle them,' said a senior Obama adviser.
"The proposed $700 billion bailout package has met with deep skepticism from Democrats and Republicans alike. McCain and Obama, who have both said that they favored taking some kind of action but warned that significant changes were necessary, have been under pressure to signal what they would do.
"Both McCain and Obama have said that action must be taken, but have urged greater oversight built into the plan, to monitor how the Treasury Department plans to use taxpayer money to take distressed assets off the hands of failing financial firms, as well as guarantees that taxpayer money is not used to enrich Wall Street executives.
"The fiscal crisis has put both candidates in a tremendously uncomfortable position — torn between an unpopular plan to use $700 billion in taxpayer funds to bail out Wall Street firms, or to risk what the Bush administration warns would be a widening financial crisis that could wipe out the savings of retirees, make it difficult to secure mortgages or college loans, and send the economy into a downward spiral."
As this news was reported that September, The Bush Administration was entering its last three months of his term in office. The widening financial crisis would be inherited by a new president.
September 19, 2012
Dick Tarpley, R.I.P.
Dick Tarpley died on Monday, at age 92, and I have a few things to say about what he meant to me.
I am a professional writer, sitting at this computer this morning, for three reasons.
1. I was just out of the Army and needed a job.
2. I ran into Jon Standefer at the post office.
3. Standefer took me to talk to Dick Tarpley.
In less than an hour, on a hot July day in 1969, I moved from a) having no direction to b) having a map with an X marked on it. If I reversed the history that has brought me to this computer this morning in La Mesa, California, and traveled back through its days and weeks and years, I would run into that X at the other end, marking the spot where I stood in Dick Tarpley's office that day.
First, I had to run into Standefer. My wife and I were just out of the Army, passing through town to visit my family before continuing on to California, where she grew up and where we planned to live. I don't remember why I went to the post office, but it was the big, main Abilene, Texas, post office downtown, so it must have been more than just mailing a letter.
In the lobby, Standefer and I saw each other. We were high school classmates, he a grade ahead of me. He told me he was working as a reporter and editor at The Abilene Reporter-News. That was interesting, I said, because my intention was to go to San Diego, California, and, even though I had never set foot in a newsroom, get a job at the newspaper there. I was an English major, after all.
Standefer and I are lifelong friends – in fact our lives have eerie parallels – and one of the various things I admire about him is that he could size up a situation faster than anyone I ever knew. He said: "You need to walk over to the newspaper with me."
At the newspaper, he knocked on the door of an office. Dick Tarpley, a big man wearing glasses, looked up from his work. He was the newspaper's managing editor. "Got a minute?" Standefer said. Tarpley did, and Standefer explained my situation. I offered my only two qualifications: "I am a Stanford graduate, and I know I can write at least as well as anything I have ever read on the front page of a newspaper."
I was a good student in high school, and Tarpley remembered that; he was then, and continued to be, involved in many aspects of the community. He also trusted Standefer. He hired me, on a probationary basis, for $70 a week.
I worked at the Reporter-News for almost three years, then we moved to California where, with the experience Tarpley (thank you again, Jon) provided, I got a job at a newspaper there. This story has been mostly about me, but when you're looking at me, you're looking at Dick Tarpley.
I am a professional writer, sitting at this computer this morning, for three reasons.
1. I was just out of the Army and needed a job.
2. I ran into Jon Standefer at the post office.
3. Standefer took me to talk to Dick Tarpley.
In less than an hour, on a hot July day in 1969, I moved from a) having no direction to b) having a map with an X marked on it. If I reversed the history that has brought me to this computer this morning in La Mesa, California, and traveled back through its days and weeks and years, I would run into that X at the other end, marking the spot where I stood in Dick Tarpley's office that day.
First, I had to run into Standefer. My wife and I were just out of the Army, passing through town to visit my family before continuing on to California, where she grew up and where we planned to live. I don't remember why I went to the post office, but it was the big, main Abilene, Texas, post office downtown, so it must have been more than just mailing a letter.
In the lobby, Standefer and I saw each other. We were high school classmates, he a grade ahead of me. He told me he was working as a reporter and editor at The Abilene Reporter-News. That was interesting, I said, because my intention was to go to San Diego, California, and, even though I had never set foot in a newsroom, get a job at the newspaper there. I was an English major, after all.
Standefer and I are lifelong friends – in fact our lives have eerie parallels – and one of the various things I admire about him is that he could size up a situation faster than anyone I ever knew. He said: "You need to walk over to the newspaper with me."
At the newspaper, he knocked on the door of an office. Dick Tarpley, a big man wearing glasses, looked up from his work. He was the newspaper's managing editor. "Got a minute?" Standefer said. Tarpley did, and Standefer explained my situation. I offered my only two qualifications: "I am a Stanford graduate, and I know I can write at least as well as anything I have ever read on the front page of a newspaper."
I was a good student in high school, and Tarpley remembered that; he was then, and continued to be, involved in many aspects of the community. He also trusted Standefer. He hired me, on a probationary basis, for $70 a week.
I worked at the Reporter-News for almost three years, then we moved to California where, with the experience Tarpley (thank you again, Jon) provided, I got a job at a newspaper there. This story has been mostly about me, but when you're looking at me, you're looking at Dick Tarpley.
September 18, 2012
Brooks and Mitt's incompetence
You know, Mitt Romney is flirting with achieving the unthinkable. He may talk David Brooks into voting for Barack Obama.
Brooks keelhauled Mitt today in his New York Times column for comments Mitt made to a fundraising event that were published yesterday in Mother Jones. His column concluded: “Mr. Romney, your entitlement reforms are essential, but when will the incompetence stop?”
Brooks is a center-right columnist for The Times, an individual who could fit the voter that Mitt said his campaign is concentrating on, the “5 to 10 percent in the center” who are, as Mitt said, “thoughtful.” As centrist and thoughtful as he may be, I could never imagine David Brooks voting Democrat, but then Mitt Romney has never run for president before.
You can’t reject a presidential candidate just because he has a 12 ½ D wingtip mouth. George W. Bush got elected twice with a 9 ½ C Justin. Bush proved that mouth size plays a small role in overall incompetence, which is what Brooks was saying about Mitt today: it’s not how he said it, it’s what he said.
I can see David’s point. My wife and I voted for Obama in 2008 and we will vote for him again in November. That makes us, I heard Mitt say, among the 47 percent of Americans who “pay no income tax,” who are “dependent on government,” and who “believe they are victims.”
It must be something in the Boston water. Mitt, and I believe I am speaking for a good part of the 47 percent now, we’ll show you our last 10 years of income taxes if you’ll show us yours. Speaking for me now, since my first contribution to Social Security in 1955, I have believed the government was providing me a partnership in which my contributions to Social Security and Medicare would provide me a few years of retirement instead of dropping dead on the job when I was 80.
So it ticks me to hear you say I am dependent on government. Worst of all, though, is you calling us “victims.” I am going to tell everybody I know what you said about us, including my Republican congressman. I'll ask him how he might feel about voting for Obama.
Brooks keelhauled Mitt today in his New York Times column for comments Mitt made to a fundraising event that were published yesterday in Mother Jones. His column concluded: “Mr. Romney, your entitlement reforms are essential, but when will the incompetence stop?”
Brooks is a center-right columnist for The Times, an individual who could fit the voter that Mitt said his campaign is concentrating on, the “5 to 10 percent in the center” who are, as Mitt said, “thoughtful.” As centrist and thoughtful as he may be, I could never imagine David Brooks voting Democrat, but then Mitt Romney has never run for president before.
You can’t reject a presidential candidate just because he has a 12 ½ D wingtip mouth. George W. Bush got elected twice with a 9 ½ C Justin. Bush proved that mouth size plays a small role in overall incompetence, which is what Brooks was saying about Mitt today: it’s not how he said it, it’s what he said.
I can see David’s point. My wife and I voted for Obama in 2008 and we will vote for him again in November. That makes us, I heard Mitt say, among the 47 percent of Americans who “pay no income tax,” who are “dependent on government,” and who “believe they are victims.”
It must be something in the Boston water. Mitt, and I believe I am speaking for a good part of the 47 percent now, we’ll show you our last 10 years of income taxes if you’ll show us yours. Speaking for me now, since my first contribution to Social Security in 1955, I have believed the government was providing me a partnership in which my contributions to Social Security and Medicare would provide me a few years of retirement instead of dropping dead on the job when I was 80.
So it ticks me to hear you say I am dependent on government. Worst of all, though, is you calling us “victims.” I am going to tell everybody I know what you said about us, including my Republican congressman. I'll ask him how he might feel about voting for Obama.
September 16, 2012
Granny gear on Sunday
I am in granny gear today.
Technically, "granny gear" is an extremely low gear that is installed in big trucks. In granny gear, you can only go two or three miles an hour, but granny gear will get the truck to the top of the hill with a heavy load.
Granny gear will also get you from LAX to JFK in a middle seat between 300-pound pussel-gutted stink bombs and babies screaming fore, aft, and amidships. Granny gear will get you through this presidential campaign. Granny gear will get you through a colonoscopy.
Yes, today, my granny gear is a colonoscopy, which I am having tomorrow at 2 p.m. LIFE ALERT! NEVER SCHEDULE A COLONOSCOPY FOR A MONDAY AFTERNOON! Write this down and tape it to your forehead until needed.
God, I'm hungry. It never occurred to me that, by scheduling for a Monday afternoon, I was destroying a Sunday. Today, Sunday, I am forbidden to eat anything, or to drink alcohol. What are Sundays for? In the refrigerator is a gallon jug of solution that I am to start drinking at 5 this afternoon. Apparently it tastes so bad that the pharmacist said to refrigerate it ("It doesn't taste as bad cold") and pointed also to a little bag of lemon flavoring, taped to the jug, that would help.
Starting at 5, I am to drink eight ounces of this solution every 10 minutes until three-quarters of the jug is consumed. Very soon after I start, my body will produce results, and continue producing them for two hours until, the instructions say, "the liquid will be clear." Hey, don't go "EWWWW" to me! I'm the one sitting here, and I'm sure as hell not watching Sunday Night Football.
Sorry. A man turns cranky, sitting in the bathroom deep into a Sunday night, his life in granny gear moving forward at two miles an hour. Tomorrow morning, starting at 6 a.m., I am to consume the rest of the jug, and produce the rest of the results. I will be in granny gear all morning, then at 1 we will leave for the appointment. By 3, it will all be over. Karen will drive me home, and it might look like me in the seat. But behind my closed eyes, I'll be flying first-class.
Richard Gere gear. And at home in the refrigerator: a pint of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia, and a bottle of champagne. No matter how bad things get, there is always compensation.
Technically, "granny gear" is an extremely low gear that is installed in big trucks. In granny gear, you can only go two or three miles an hour, but granny gear will get the truck to the top of the hill with a heavy load.
Granny gear will also get you from LAX to JFK in a middle seat between 300-pound pussel-gutted stink bombs and babies screaming fore, aft, and amidships. Granny gear will get you through this presidential campaign. Granny gear will get you through a colonoscopy.
Yes, today, my granny gear is a colonoscopy, which I am having tomorrow at 2 p.m. LIFE ALERT! NEVER SCHEDULE A COLONOSCOPY FOR A MONDAY AFTERNOON! Write this down and tape it to your forehead until needed.
God, I'm hungry. It never occurred to me that, by scheduling for a Monday afternoon, I was destroying a Sunday. Today, Sunday, I am forbidden to eat anything, or to drink alcohol. What are Sundays for? In the refrigerator is a gallon jug of solution that I am to start drinking at 5 this afternoon. Apparently it tastes so bad that the pharmacist said to refrigerate it ("It doesn't taste as bad cold") and pointed also to a little bag of lemon flavoring, taped to the jug, that would help.
Starting at 5, I am to drink eight ounces of this solution every 10 minutes until three-quarters of the jug is consumed. Very soon after I start, my body will produce results, and continue producing them for two hours until, the instructions say, "the liquid will be clear." Hey, don't go "EWWWW" to me! I'm the one sitting here, and I'm sure as hell not watching Sunday Night Football.
Sorry. A man turns cranky, sitting in the bathroom deep into a Sunday night, his life in granny gear moving forward at two miles an hour. Tomorrow morning, starting at 6 a.m., I am to consume the rest of the jug, and produce the rest of the results. I will be in granny gear all morning, then at 1 we will leave for the appointment. By 3, it will all be over. Karen will drive me home, and it might look like me in the seat. But behind my closed eyes, I'll be flying first-class.
Richard Gere gear. And at home in the refrigerator: a pint of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia, and a bottle of champagne. No matter how bad things get, there is always compensation.
September 15, 2012
One last moon crescent? Not today
When I went out at 5:45 yesterday morning, the moon looked like it had been up about half an hour. It was a very old moon, probably the final morning crescent before the first new moon crescent shows up in the west. The dark face of the moon was also visible because it was reflecting bright earthshine back to us. Light from the sun was reflecting off earth, back toward the moon, then reflecting there, and coming back to my eye, all in less than the time to take a swallow of coffee. I thought that was really cool.
This morning, I watched from the glider, wondering if one more crescent would appear. We are in the second day of what Southern Californians know as a Santa Ana, very hot days, very clear skies, and crystal-clear balmy mornings with an unbreathed east breeze, when the edges of everything look as sharp as a lithograph.
Dixie has taken to going out with me at these times. She is a year old and hasn't had much time outside since she has been at Alta Mira. So she is learning to explore. Dogs love the outdoors. Where she began by mainly staying with me on the glider, now she has her head-scratch, then is off to see what she can see.
The pale orange layer of first light lay behind the dark silhouette of the eastern ridgeline, and I watched for the crescent to appear. I imagined myself as myself ten thousand years ago, watching these events from this bare rocky hilltop with no more than eyewitness knowledge, and watching the orange layer, and then to see a white crescent rising into it, and feeling an urge for protection, from someone or something, against the threat of marauding white crescents in the sky. I do believe that is how gods were born.
Finally, the bright orange proscenium spread out, setting the stage for the point at which the sun would appear. If there was one last moon crescent out there, it was lost in the brightness. I watched the proscenium instead, and watched the ridge catch fire just before the first dot of the sun appeared, a white diamond that you can look at for a couple of seconds before the blinding light explodes.
I called Dixie in, and said to her, "Gone be hot again today," as we went inside.
This morning, I watched from the glider, wondering if one more crescent would appear. We are in the second day of what Southern Californians know as a Santa Ana, very hot days, very clear skies, and crystal-clear balmy mornings with an unbreathed east breeze, when the edges of everything look as sharp as a lithograph.
Dixie has taken to going out with me at these times. She is a year old and hasn't had much time outside since she has been at Alta Mira. So she is learning to explore. Dogs love the outdoors. Where she began by mainly staying with me on the glider, now she has her head-scratch, then is off to see what she can see.
The pale orange layer of first light lay behind the dark silhouette of the eastern ridgeline, and I watched for the crescent to appear. I imagined myself as myself ten thousand years ago, watching these events from this bare rocky hilltop with no more than eyewitness knowledge, and watching the orange layer, and then to see a white crescent rising into it, and feeling an urge for protection, from someone or something, against the threat of marauding white crescents in the sky. I do believe that is how gods were born.
Finally, the bright orange proscenium spread out, setting the stage for the point at which the sun would appear. If there was one last moon crescent out there, it was lost in the brightness. I watched the proscenium instead, and watched the ridge catch fire just before the first dot of the sun appeared, a white diamond that you can look at for a couple of seconds before the blinding light explodes.
I called Dixie in, and said to her, "Gone be hot again today," as we went inside.
September 14, 2012
The dock and the boat
Mitt Romney can be described as a man stepping off of a dock onto a boat. While he's still got one foot on the dock, and one on the boat, the boat starts to slip away from the dock, farther and farther as the man's legs are stretched wider and wider.
In Mitt's case, the dock is decided voters (the GOP base), and the boat is undecided voters. Mitt can't be too true to the base, or the undecided voters will start drifting away. And he can't court the undecided voters too much, or the base will either complain to the media, or the right-wing media will complain in behalf of the base, in which case the man's foot on the boat is basically pushing it away from the dock.
Either way, the candidate is in constant peril of going into the water. And that is even before the tax returns surface (which they will), or madness breaks loose between Southern California and the Middle East, whizzing past Mitt's brain en route.
Madness? Muslim-hating extremists in the L.A. area create a crude movie slamming Islam and Islam's Prophet Muhammad for the purpose of provoking Muslim extremists, which is essentially extremists lighting and waving a burning torch in the face of extremists who wear their religion like gasoline.
The Cairo U.S. Embassy, recognizing full well this dynamic and its potential for violence, issues a statement saying it "condemns the continuing efforts by misguided individuals to hurt the religious feelings of Muslims."
Mitt issues a quick reply to this statement in a way that draws fire from his own allies, who say he went off half-cocked. In a subsequent press conference, he is asked: "Some people are saying you jumped the gun a little in putting that statement out last night and that you should have waited until more details were available."
Mitt replies: "I don't think we ever hesitate when we see something which is a violation of our principles." To what principles is he referring? Let's choose "accuracy." If he was moved not to hesitate, it must mean he doesn't consider accuracy a principle. Or if he actually does consider accuracy a principle, and he violated it in his unwillingness to hesitate, it must mean that he chose politics over principle.
You see the kind of agonizing that a man lets himself in for, when he has one foot on the dock, and one foot on the boat.
In Mitt's case, the dock is decided voters (the GOP base), and the boat is undecided voters. Mitt can't be too true to the base, or the undecided voters will start drifting away. And he can't court the undecided voters too much, or the base will either complain to the media, or the right-wing media will complain in behalf of the base, in which case the man's foot on the boat is basically pushing it away from the dock.
Either way, the candidate is in constant peril of going into the water. And that is even before the tax returns surface (which they will), or madness breaks loose between Southern California and the Middle East, whizzing past Mitt's brain en route.
Madness? Muslim-hating extremists in the L.A. area create a crude movie slamming Islam and Islam's Prophet Muhammad for the purpose of provoking Muslim extremists, which is essentially extremists lighting and waving a burning torch in the face of extremists who wear their religion like gasoline.
The Cairo U.S. Embassy, recognizing full well this dynamic and its potential for violence, issues a statement saying it "condemns the continuing efforts by misguided individuals to hurt the religious feelings of Muslims."
Mitt issues a quick reply to this statement in a way that draws fire from his own allies, who say he went off half-cocked. In a subsequent press conference, he is asked: "Some people are saying you jumped the gun a little in putting that statement out last night and that you should have waited until more details were available."
Mitt replies: "I don't think we ever hesitate when we see something which is a violation of our principles." To what principles is he referring? Let's choose "accuracy." If he was moved not to hesitate, it must mean he doesn't consider accuracy a principle. Or if he actually does consider accuracy a principle, and he violated it in his unwillingness to hesitate, it must mean that he chose politics over principle.
You see the kind of agonizing that a man lets himself in for, when he has one foot on the dock, and one foot on the boat.
September 11, 2012
How did American feel four years ago, Part I
Republican candidates have been asking, "Do you feel better off than you did four years ago?"
This is September, 2012, so it makes sense to wonder how Americans felt in September, 2008. Here is a business summary from The New York Times archives for that month.
"A housing boom in America and a number of European countries was followed by a bust and then a market tailspin that created the greatest financial crisis since the Great Depression.
"In the United States, the housing market peaked in 2006. The first sign of serious trouble on Wall Street came in June 2007, when the investment bank Bear Stearns shuttered two of its hedge funds that had lost deeply in the mortgage market.
"Over the next year, regulators scrambled to contain a steadily widening spiral of distress that in September 2008 emerged as a full-fledged global financial panic. As hundreds of billions in mortgage-related investments went bad, mighty investment banks that once ruled high finance crumbled or reinvented themselves as commercial banks. The nation's largest insurance company and largest savings and loan were seized by the government. Only the passage by Congress of a $700 billion bailout plan in October 2008 and actions by the Federal Reserve to pump money into the system headed off a full-scale meltdown.
"But while financial Armageddon was avoided, the crisis spread around the globe, toppling banks across Europe and driving countries from Iceland to Pakistan to seek emergency aid from the International Monetary Fund. A vicious circle of tightening credit, reduced demand and rapid job cuts took hold, and the world fell into recession."
As this globe-girdling skirting-Armageddon business news was being reported in global media that September four years ago, the Bush Administration was advancing into its last three months of his eight years in office.
This is September, 2012, so it makes sense to wonder how Americans felt in September, 2008. Here is a business summary from The New York Times archives for that month.
"A housing boom in America and a number of European countries was followed by a bust and then a market tailspin that created the greatest financial crisis since the Great Depression.
"In the United States, the housing market peaked in 2006. The first sign of serious trouble on Wall Street came in June 2007, when the investment bank Bear Stearns shuttered two of its hedge funds that had lost deeply in the mortgage market.
"Over the next year, regulators scrambled to contain a steadily widening spiral of distress that in September 2008 emerged as a full-fledged global financial panic. As hundreds of billions in mortgage-related investments went bad, mighty investment banks that once ruled high finance crumbled or reinvented themselves as commercial banks. The nation's largest insurance company and largest savings and loan were seized by the government. Only the passage by Congress of a $700 billion bailout plan in October 2008 and actions by the Federal Reserve to pump money into the system headed off a full-scale meltdown.
"But while financial Armageddon was avoided, the crisis spread around the globe, toppling banks across Europe and driving countries from Iceland to Pakistan to seek emergency aid from the International Monetary Fund. A vicious circle of tightening credit, reduced demand and rapid job cuts took hold, and the world fell into recession."
As this globe-girdling skirting-Armageddon business news was being reported in global media that September four years ago, the Bush Administration was advancing into its last three months of his eight years in office.
September 10, 2012
Little Dougie's newspaper
Newspapers in America have gone every whichaway since the Internet started to destroy the traditional newspaper business model 15-odd years ago.
I say to you, wherever you live, you will find no other result more interesting than the one we enjoy here in San Diego. Our newspaper, "U-T San Diego," is laid out on the living room floor by Little Dougie Manchester, with his "Jr. Newspaper Publisher and Future Ambassador Kit."
Doesn't sound possible? Subscribe to U-T San Diego for a month.
Little Dougie got his kit a couple of years ago but it's only been a year or so that he has really started learning how to use it. We in San Diego have had the privilege of watching his skills develop week by week.
Little Dougie must have received an earlier edition of the "Jr. Newspaper Publisher and Future Ambassador Kit." The newest edition would certainly call for a television studio to be built in one of the old newspaper's newsrooms, but it would also instruct that the project be purely digital, with TV content captured as computer files for consumers to come to, at a tiny fraction of the cost of transmitting this content using the traditional broadcast methodology.
Little Dougie's newspaper uses the old, traditional TV methodology. Thus it is costing him many more dollars to hear consumers tell him how bad it is.
But hey! What are instructional kits for? How many of your mother's china coffee cups, dear readers, did you ruin in your first year with your chemistry set?
We have witnessed Little Dougie's imagination shift into a higher gear in the last couple of months. Apparently it is tied to the 2012 presidential elections. He must have gone to his father and asked, "Father, as a publisher, what am I?" His father replied, "Son, you are a Mitt Romney Republican, and Barack Obama is the devil incarnate."
We saw red-crayon endorsements for Republican candidates start to show up on the front page. Then over the weekend we witnessed opinion-page layout that any veteran traditional newspaperman or editor will tell you has never been seen on an editorial page before. This very Sunday, an editorial appeared that could only have been written by a six-year-old with a couple of movie passes.
Little Dougie is really getting the hang of it. I will be keeping you posted. Late update: This week, Little Dougie is starting to show Republican candidates locally how to use the "Jr. Newspaper Publisher and Future Ambassador Kit," to write better press releases, get more favorable coverage, etc. You'll be reading more about this, I am sure.
If you are wondering about the kit's "Future Ambassador" feature, it takes a high level of ego to be a newspaper publisher. Ask them, and many will tell you frankly they would enjoy being an ambassador someday. If Mitt wins, with the kind of support received from Little Dougie, you can see an ambassadorship somewhere in the boy's future.
I say to you, wherever you live, you will find no other result more interesting than the one we enjoy here in San Diego. Our newspaper, "U-T San Diego," is laid out on the living room floor by Little Dougie Manchester, with his "Jr. Newspaper Publisher and Future Ambassador Kit."
Doesn't sound possible? Subscribe to U-T San Diego for a month.
Little Dougie got his kit a couple of years ago but it's only been a year or so that he has really started learning how to use it. We in San Diego have had the privilege of watching his skills develop week by week.
Little Dougie must have received an earlier edition of the "Jr. Newspaper Publisher and Future Ambassador Kit." The newest edition would certainly call for a television studio to be built in one of the old newspaper's newsrooms, but it would also instruct that the project be purely digital, with TV content captured as computer files for consumers to come to, at a tiny fraction of the cost of transmitting this content using the traditional broadcast methodology.
Little Dougie's newspaper uses the old, traditional TV methodology. Thus it is costing him many more dollars to hear consumers tell him how bad it is.
But hey! What are instructional kits for? How many of your mother's china coffee cups, dear readers, did you ruin in your first year with your chemistry set?
We have witnessed Little Dougie's imagination shift into a higher gear in the last couple of months. Apparently it is tied to the 2012 presidential elections. He must have gone to his father and asked, "Father, as a publisher, what am I?" His father replied, "Son, you are a Mitt Romney Republican, and Barack Obama is the devil incarnate."
We saw red-crayon endorsements for Republican candidates start to show up on the front page. Then over the weekend we witnessed opinion-page layout that any veteran traditional newspaperman or editor will tell you has never been seen on an editorial page before. This very Sunday, an editorial appeared that could only have been written by a six-year-old with a couple of movie passes.
Little Dougie is really getting the hang of it. I will be keeping you posted. Late update: This week, Little Dougie is starting to show Republican candidates locally how to use the "Jr. Newspaper Publisher and Future Ambassador Kit," to write better press releases, get more favorable coverage, etc. You'll be reading more about this, I am sure.
If you are wondering about the kit's "Future Ambassador" feature, it takes a high level of ego to be a newspaper publisher. Ask them, and many will tell you frankly they would enjoy being an ambassador someday. If Mitt wins, with the kind of support received from Little Dougie, you can see an ambassadorship somewhere in the boy's future.
September 08, 2012
Jacob's letter
In my novel about the 2012 presidential election, President Obama is sitting at his desk late one night, reading letters, just as Michelle described in her convention speech. This letter is from Jacob.
"I am a single parent of two teenaged daughters, and I have a question.
"Ten years ago, my wife Annie died of breast cancer. In our battle at that time (yes, a woman's breast cancer battle is her husband's battle, too), I learned that 185,000 American women annually are diagnosed with breast cancer, and every year 44,000 American women die of the disease.
"I remember thinking: those are combat figures. If breast cancer were a foreign nation, invading and killing 44,000 American women a year, and causing 185,000 casualties, Congress would have declared war a long time ago.
"But Congress hadn't, and it hasn't. That's when I realized breast cancer was politicized. If breast cancer were a foreign nation, AND A MAN'S DISEASE, invading and killing 44,000 American MEN a year, and causing 185,000 casualties, Congress would have declared war a long time ago.
"The children are now 14 and 17. A year ago, I lost my job in a downsizing. I was making $60,000 a year. Annie's life insurance helped make ends meet, but now I have dedicated what's left of it to our mortgage payments. The mortgage is upside-down. I would sell the house in a heartbeat if it wasn't going to cost me $75,000. We have nowhere to go, nothing we can do. I NEED A JOB.
"Mr. President, I invite you to come to my house and sit at our kitchen table and look at the fear in my eyes, and in the eyes of my children. When we lose the house, we become refugees. Can you tell me how this is any different from being a disaster refugee, or a war refugee?
"So I have a question. It is the same question I had during Annie's battle. If unemployment were a foreign invader and came into ordinary American homes and took the livelihood of 10 million Americans, and also, many times, the home itself, wouldn't Congress have declared war a long time ago?
"Mr. President, is it legal to declare a state of war on the unemployment enemy, and unite Congress against this enemy? I read enough to know the unemployment issue has become politicized and is in fact a major issue in the election. It may be politics up there, but down here, it's war, and all your political posturing, you and Mr. Romney, makes us sick. You are OUR GOVERNMENT. How can you people stand by and let this disaster happen?"
The president lets Jacob's letter fall back to the desk. He closes his eyes, folds his hands in his lap and leans back into his chair, and as he does, a light comes on in his head.
"I am a single parent of two teenaged daughters, and I have a question.
"Ten years ago, my wife Annie died of breast cancer. In our battle at that time (yes, a woman's breast cancer battle is her husband's battle, too), I learned that 185,000 American women annually are diagnosed with breast cancer, and every year 44,000 American women die of the disease.
"I remember thinking: those are combat figures. If breast cancer were a foreign nation, invading and killing 44,000 American women a year, and causing 185,000 casualties, Congress would have declared war a long time ago.
"But Congress hadn't, and it hasn't. That's when I realized breast cancer was politicized. If breast cancer were a foreign nation, AND A MAN'S DISEASE, invading and killing 44,000 American MEN a year, and causing 185,000 casualties, Congress would have declared war a long time ago.
"The children are now 14 and 17. A year ago, I lost my job in a downsizing. I was making $60,000 a year. Annie's life insurance helped make ends meet, but now I have dedicated what's left of it to our mortgage payments. The mortgage is upside-down. I would sell the house in a heartbeat if it wasn't going to cost me $75,000. We have nowhere to go, nothing we can do. I NEED A JOB.
"Mr. President, I invite you to come to my house and sit at our kitchen table and look at the fear in my eyes, and in the eyes of my children. When we lose the house, we become refugees. Can you tell me how this is any different from being a disaster refugee, or a war refugee?
"So I have a question. It is the same question I had during Annie's battle. If unemployment were a foreign invader and came into ordinary American homes and took the livelihood of 10 million Americans, and also, many times, the home itself, wouldn't Congress have declared war a long time ago?
"Mr. President, is it legal to declare a state of war on the unemployment enemy, and unite Congress against this enemy? I read enough to know the unemployment issue has become politicized and is in fact a major issue in the election. It may be politics up there, but down here, it's war, and all your political posturing, you and Mr. Romney, makes us sick. You are OUR GOVERNMENT. How can you people stand by and let this disaster happen?"
The president lets Jacob's letter fall back to the desk. He closes his eyes, folds his hands in his lap and leans back into his chair, and as he does, a light comes on in his head.
September 07, 2012
Time for an "Occupy the Vote" movement
Unemployment figures were unimproved the day after the Democratic convention, and Mitt Romney and the media reacted as if that might make a difference in the election. The election on Nov. 6 should have nothing to do with the way things are today. What matters is how things will be two years from now, in 2014.
That's why both Obama and Romney are shut-mouthed about specific plans. Obama refuses to promise anything because he has learned in the last three years that an obstructionist Congress will shut it down. Romney refuses to promise anything because he has to keep both moderates and extremists in the Republican camp until Nov. 6.
Those are just convenient cover stories. Barack's girls, Malia and Sasha, and Mitt's five sons (you can Google their names), have said to them: "Dad, let me tell you about algorithms." Thus both candidates are aware that specific plans can be fed into algorithms, which will spew out 2014 scenarios, showing where the economy will be, in 2014, based on specific plans the candidates won't discuss today.
Obama realizes that, to get anything done in the next term, he will have to end-run the McConnell House anyway, and there's no sense giving them a heads-up. Romney realizes he can't utter a word about any plan that, in its 2014 incarnation, would infuriate the Limbaugh Republicans, or offend the moderates to the extent they would turn toward Obama before Nov. 6.
So America's future, in 2014, is frozen by what Republicans might do, which is exactly why America's present is frozen in 2012. Through my own children, in their 30s, I am hearing from a lot of young people who want to cast an informed vote. I don't know how to advise them, except expect to vote for the man, not the plan, and hope for the best. That's not a very encouraging way for the young people of this country to vote for their future. On Facebook, therefore, today I started encouraging them to start an "Occupy the Vote" movement.
That's why both Obama and Romney are shut-mouthed about specific plans. Obama refuses to promise anything because he has learned in the last three years that an obstructionist Congress will shut it down. Romney refuses to promise anything because he has to keep both moderates and extremists in the Republican camp until Nov. 6.
Those are just convenient cover stories. Barack's girls, Malia and Sasha, and Mitt's five sons (you can Google their names), have said to them: "Dad, let me tell you about algorithms." Thus both candidates are aware that specific plans can be fed into algorithms, which will spew out 2014 scenarios, showing where the economy will be, in 2014, based on specific plans the candidates won't discuss today.
Obama realizes that, to get anything done in the next term, he will have to end-run the McConnell House anyway, and there's no sense giving them a heads-up. Romney realizes he can't utter a word about any plan that, in its 2014 incarnation, would infuriate the Limbaugh Republicans, or offend the moderates to the extent they would turn toward Obama before Nov. 6.
So America's future, in 2014, is frozen by what Republicans might do, which is exactly why America's present is frozen in 2012. Through my own children, in their 30s, I am hearing from a lot of young people who want to cast an informed vote. I don't know how to advise them, except expect to vote for the man, not the plan, and hope for the best. That's not a very encouraging way for the young people of this country to vote for their future. On Facebook, therefore, today I started encouraging them to start an "Occupy the Vote" movement.
September 05, 2012
Yes, I feel better off
Republican candidates are asking, "Do you feel better off than you did four years ago?"
My God yes, but it didn't take four years. It only took one day. My sigh of relief on Jan. 20, 2009, the day after the Bush Administration vacated the White House, is still bouncing off walls at my house.
That day was like climbing the stairs from the storm cellar, flinging open the doors, and seeing beautiful clear blue sky above.
But the wreckage was monstrous. It looked like a national Hurricane Katrina, and that metaphor pops to mind because of President Bush's indifference to the New Orleans Hurricane Katrina, an indifference that has never left my mind. I hope and pray that this country never sees another administration with even the slightest similarity to the Bush years.
Today, four (almost) years later, I feel like the country is in the midst of the massive recovery, but the recovery is hindered by a FEMA-like entity staffed entirely by Republican representatives in Congress. I can literally see Mr. Bush being given a tour by House Speaker Mitch McConnell, and at the end, Mr. Bush says, "Mitchie, you're doing a heck of a job." But folks who are still under water continue to scream for help. We have to wonder if Mitchie is up to the task, or even cares.
My God yes, but it didn't take four years. It only took one day. My sigh of relief on Jan. 20, 2009, the day after the Bush Administration vacated the White House, is still bouncing off walls at my house.
That day was like climbing the stairs from the storm cellar, flinging open the doors, and seeing beautiful clear blue sky above.
But the wreckage was monstrous. It looked like a national Hurricane Katrina, and that metaphor pops to mind because of President Bush's indifference to the New Orleans Hurricane Katrina, an indifference that has never left my mind. I hope and pray that this country never sees another administration with even the slightest similarity to the Bush years.
Today, four (almost) years later, I feel like the country is in the midst of the massive recovery, but the recovery is hindered by a FEMA-like entity staffed entirely by Republican representatives in Congress. I can literally see Mr. Bush being given a tour by House Speaker Mitch McConnell, and at the end, Mr. Bush says, "Mitchie, you're doing a heck of a job." But folks who are still under water continue to scream for help. We have to wonder if Mitchie is up to the task, or even cares.
September 03, 2012
Watching "Dave" in 2012
Last week I blogged about Clint Eastwood's appearance at the GOP convention. I said if a political convention is into film icons for its surprise guest speaker, the convention managers should go for someone like Harrison Ford, who played the president in "Air Force One," or Kevin Kline, who was the president in "Dave."
Both those characters were action figures, and heroes in the end, and I thought at least that GOP challenger in 2012 should wear a WWHFD? or a WWDD? bracelet.
I was fresh on "Air Force One." It was on last week, and Harrison Ford was in fact a stirring action figure and hero at the end, though I can't imagine Mitt Romney tethered to a rescue cable being reeled in by a C-130 as Air Force One crashes into the sea below.
But I had not seen "Dave" in a long time, so I watched it today. The plot was clever, and exciting, but forget the plot. It was the context that had me rewinding, watching again, and taking notes. "Dave" was made in 1993, but its context is a contrast between political posturing and everyday reality, a political "falsiness" (a cousin to Stephen Colbert's "truthiness") that is unnerving, watching it in 2012.
Falsiness describes the 2012 campaign phenomenon in which a candidate or a campaign ad not only doesn't bother with letting facts get in the way, the candidate or campaign, when challenged, says that facts aren't that important anyway. "We're not going to let our campaign be dictated by fact-checkers," Romney campaign pollster Neil Newhouse said last week.
If you want to watch how unnerving falsiness is, watch "Dave." The plot is clever to the extreme, but it's the falsiness that sets the plot up. Falsiness in 2012, like that voiced by Newhouse or Paul Ryan, is a culture necessary to the growing of plots, none of which will yield anything resembling everyday reality. In the movie, Dave becomes the hero when he gives his life (sort of) to stop falsiness in its tracks.
Other quotes and situations not only echo, they could have been in this morning's paper. It's so current that you wonder if today's politics are real, or only a movie.
Both those characters were action figures, and heroes in the end, and I thought at least that GOP challenger in 2012 should wear a WWHFD? or a WWDD? bracelet.
I was fresh on "Air Force One." It was on last week, and Harrison Ford was in fact a stirring action figure and hero at the end, though I can't imagine Mitt Romney tethered to a rescue cable being reeled in by a C-130 as Air Force One crashes into the sea below.
But I had not seen "Dave" in a long time, so I watched it today. The plot was clever, and exciting, but forget the plot. It was the context that had me rewinding, watching again, and taking notes. "Dave" was made in 1993, but its context is a contrast between political posturing and everyday reality, a political "falsiness" (a cousin to Stephen Colbert's "truthiness") that is unnerving, watching it in 2012.
Falsiness describes the 2012 campaign phenomenon in which a candidate or a campaign ad not only doesn't bother with letting facts get in the way, the candidate or campaign, when challenged, says that facts aren't that important anyway. "We're not going to let our campaign be dictated by fact-checkers," Romney campaign pollster Neil Newhouse said last week.
If you want to watch how unnerving falsiness is, watch "Dave." The plot is clever to the extreme, but it's the falsiness that sets the plot up. Falsiness in 2012, like that voiced by Newhouse or Paul Ryan, is a culture necessary to the growing of plots, none of which will yield anything resembling everyday reality. In the movie, Dave becomes the hero when he gives his life (sort of) to stop falsiness in its tracks.
Other quotes and situations not only echo, they could have been in this morning's paper. It's so current that you wonder if today's politics are real, or only a movie.
September 01, 2012
Taking a lifelong break from "success"
In my 69 years, I, like most ordinary people, have learned a few lessons so hard that they can't be taught in books.
One of those lessons, which has really stuck with me, and is at my core today, is that, no matter how bad things get – the death of a spouse, for example – there is always compensation of some kind.
All this past week, I have been listening to Republican stories on television about people who succeeded against all kinds of odds, and the opportunity and will to build that kind of success, in the correct political climate, is what makes America so great.
I am tired of hearing it. I wouldn't hold it against them, but successful people are only part of what makes America so great. I certainly can't count myself among them. I have had a nice career, always salaried, always represented by a union, and it has worked out well for me. I sit with my family in our home on a hill and know that I would not change a thing, mostly because I wouldn't want to, and in some instances because I know I can't.
In reality, I am completely content today because of things I did, but also because of things I failed to do. Failing must be bad or not so bad, depending on what it leads to. I know in my heart there are many such Americans as me, and I want to share with you a story I wrote about you and me, several years ago.
The story started with "potential."
My folks always told me I had potential. "You have the potential of 10 people,” they said. I flinched, because the more potential you have, the guiltier you are bound to feel.
I shouldered my potential and plowed off through fields of mediocrity toward their goals. I reached one or two of them, but fell short of many others, like all-state quarterback, valedictorian, mayor, president and Pope. I remained mostly a person of potential, and naturally I felt bad about it. “My,” the folks would sigh, “the things that boy could do if he’d put his mind to it.”
Instead, I became a newspaperman. One day I was assigned to interview the most successful man in the United States. He could do anything.
I gulped. “You sure I’m the guy to do this interview?” I said. “Boy, you ought to win the Pulitzer Prize with this one,” grunted the editor, and off I went.
This unusual man was named Smith. He lived in a huge mansion on sprawling, manicured grounds. There was no one else around, save for a couple of gardeners and the butler, who answered the door. Classics of art crowded the walls, in the style of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Renoir and Matisse.
We tried to chat, but his phone kept ringing. Each time his reply was swift and sure. To his broker: “Okay, buy a block of Amalgamated and sell the Consolidated.” To the governor: “Tighten spending by 3.1 percent.” To the prince: “Tell the queen to take two aspirin and call me in the morning.” To The Vatican: “Yes, Your Holiness, I can be there by Monday noon.”
“I think you should be president,” I said. “So does my mother,” Smith said. “But I just don’t have the time.” The huge house was oppressively quiet. “You’re not married?” I said. Smith smiled. “Who could stand to live with me?” I said, “Don’t you ever have company? Friends over?” “You can ask your guests to lose at bridge only for so long,” he said.
I wondered if he had hobbies. “I loved golf,” he said. “There’s a course right here on the property. But it’s no fun playing alone.”
I said: “No one will golf with you either?” He stood and motioned me to follow. He picked up a coat tree and carried it outside to the first tee. He teed up a ball and with the coat tree drove it 375 yards down the fairway to the green. It rolled dead three feet from the cup.
“Shoot,” he said. “Missed! I’m out of practice.” He ripped a second ball toward the green. It bounced onto the green and hit the first ball, knocking it into the hole.
“The course record is 18,” Smith sighed. "Is there anything you can't do?" I asked, a little desperately.
“Well, I can’t keep my hands still,” he said. True enough, his hands were always busy. While we talked he doodled with pencil and pad. “May I see?” I said. He turned the pad to me and showed me a dazzling miniature of Picasso’s “Guernica.”
I looked up, amazed, at the Rembrandts and Van Goghs. “All Smiths?” I said. “It beats watching TV,” he shrugged.
“Surely a man of your infinite success will have some advice for the rest of us,” I said. Smith studied his “Guernica” critically for a moment, then wadded it up, flicked it into a wastebasket 45 feet away, and said, “Be thankful you’ve got potential.”
And I am. It's my compensation, and maybe yours, too. And it's priceless.
One of those lessons, which has really stuck with me, and is at my core today, is that, no matter how bad things get – the death of a spouse, for example – there is always compensation of some kind.
All this past week, I have been listening to Republican stories on television about people who succeeded against all kinds of odds, and the opportunity and will to build that kind of success, in the correct political climate, is what makes America so great.
I am tired of hearing it. I wouldn't hold it against them, but successful people are only part of what makes America so great. I certainly can't count myself among them. I have had a nice career, always salaried, always represented by a union, and it has worked out well for me. I sit with my family in our home on a hill and know that I would not change a thing, mostly because I wouldn't want to, and in some instances because I know I can't.
In reality, I am completely content today because of things I did, but also because of things I failed to do. Failing must be bad or not so bad, depending on what it leads to. I know in my heart there are many such Americans as me, and I want to share with you a story I wrote about you and me, several years ago.
The story started with "potential."
My folks always told me I had potential. "You have the potential of 10 people,” they said. I flinched, because the more potential you have, the guiltier you are bound to feel.
I shouldered my potential and plowed off through fields of mediocrity toward their goals. I reached one or two of them, but fell short of many others, like all-state quarterback, valedictorian, mayor, president and Pope. I remained mostly a person of potential, and naturally I felt bad about it. “My,” the folks would sigh, “the things that boy could do if he’d put his mind to it.”
Instead, I became a newspaperman. One day I was assigned to interview the most successful man in the United States. He could do anything.
I gulped. “You sure I’m the guy to do this interview?” I said. “Boy, you ought to win the Pulitzer Prize with this one,” grunted the editor, and off I went.
This unusual man was named Smith. He lived in a huge mansion on sprawling, manicured grounds. There was no one else around, save for a couple of gardeners and the butler, who answered the door. Classics of art crowded the walls, in the style of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Renoir and Matisse.
We tried to chat, but his phone kept ringing. Each time his reply was swift and sure. To his broker: “Okay, buy a block of Amalgamated and sell the Consolidated.” To the governor: “Tighten spending by 3.1 percent.” To the prince: “Tell the queen to take two aspirin and call me in the morning.” To The Vatican: “Yes, Your Holiness, I can be there by Monday noon.”
“I think you should be president,” I said. “So does my mother,” Smith said. “But I just don’t have the time.” The huge house was oppressively quiet. “You’re not married?” I said. Smith smiled. “Who could stand to live with me?” I said, “Don’t you ever have company? Friends over?” “You can ask your guests to lose at bridge only for so long,” he said.
I wondered if he had hobbies. “I loved golf,” he said. “There’s a course right here on the property. But it’s no fun playing alone.”
I said: “No one will golf with you either?” He stood and motioned me to follow. He picked up a coat tree and carried it outside to the first tee. He teed up a ball and with the coat tree drove it 375 yards down the fairway to the green. It rolled dead three feet from the cup.
“Shoot,” he said. “Missed! I’m out of practice.” He ripped a second ball toward the green. It bounced onto the green and hit the first ball, knocking it into the hole.
“The course record is 18,” Smith sighed. "Is there anything you can't do?" I asked, a little desperately.
“Well, I can’t keep my hands still,” he said. True enough, his hands were always busy. While we talked he doodled with pencil and pad. “May I see?” I said. He turned the pad to me and showed me a dazzling miniature of Picasso’s “Guernica.”
I looked up, amazed, at the Rembrandts and Van Goghs. “All Smiths?” I said. “It beats watching TV,” he shrugged.
“Surely a man of your infinite success will have some advice for the rest of us,” I said. Smith studied his “Guernica” critically for a moment, then wadded it up, flicked it into a wastebasket 45 feet away, and said, “Be thankful you’ve got potential.”
And I am. It's my compensation, and maybe yours, too. And it's priceless.
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