Aloha! Now my wife and I can say we have been to Hawaii. We spent Thanksgiving and several more days with friends on the Big Island.
We flew Hawaiian Airlines, and in the waiting lounge at the San Diego airport, every announcement from the desk ended with "Mahalo." Ending every routine message with this word gave it special meaning, an urgency, in my mind. I decided it meant, "Don't crash." I liked that and adopted it into other contexts. The waiter said, "Mahalo," it meant, "Don't choke." The checkout clerk said "Mahalo," it meant, "Don't drop your groceries."
I discovered the Hawaiian language is 95 percent vowels. It dates back to the first king of Hawaii, a Polynesian on one of the canoes which followed the birds from the eastern Pacific and ran into Hawaii. The Polynesian language was ALL vowels, and the king's name was AAA'A'AA'AAAA'AA'A'A, because the A vowel was more beautiful in its pronunciation than the E, I, O, or U, and he was the king. When they colonized Hawaii, the king decreed that the language would follow the rule of three A's for every other vowel. Eventually Captain Cook arrived and bargained for a few consonants, in the interest of making global trade easier. He was successful in establishing K, L, M and P. Centuries later, "Wheel of Fortune" was established on these Hawaiian agreements.
I had wanted to try poi, which is a paste made from the taro root. Wherever we went, no poi was available. The macademias, though, were dynamite. The Hawaiian music was also beautiful, a Nashville beat with slide guitar, high full-throated voices, and many vowels. They had a Costco in Kona. The checkout clerk said, "Mahalo," which meant, "Don't rupture yourself getting your purchases back to the car."
And so, now, I say to you, "Mahalo," which means "Don't hit the wrong button logging off and uninstall your entire Office suite." Don't laugh. It happened to me several weeks ago, before I knew "Mahalo."
December 13, 2013
May 30, 2013
The Great Gulliver
Gulliver could sit in my cupped hands when he came to Alta Mira in the summer of 1998. He was a black fuzzball with a huge white ruff and a white blaze on his face.
But he had the stout forelegs typical of male Shelties and his feet were big. Hence, "Gulliver."
He was not a nipper or a chewer. He gave the expression of waiting for something to happen. The black undercoat gave way to the sable color typical of Shelties and their larger Collie cousins. It may have been his size, or the size he was growing into, that gave an impression of awkwardness, resembling a teenage male human in a growth spurt.
But he matured into a boulevard dog. Gulliver by age four belonged at the end of a diamond leash on Park Avenue. A coat of pure, radiant silk. Huge white ruff thrown like an ermine stole over his shoulders and neck. The white blaze, the perfectly flopped ears, the carriage, the assertive strut which male Shelties display. He was a Gatsby dog. I guarantee, sooner or later, if he had lived in New York, his picture would have been in The New York Times.
Instead, Gully passed his years here with us at Alta Mira. Never in the spotlight, he still maintained an indifferent, celebrity, air. He didn't much let his intelligence show. He was a solid C student. He didn't need the grades; he was beautiful. When something happened, he was ready. Barkeley, his female running mate, was the provocateur. But when the chase began, she was halfway out to the patio while Gully was still turning around.
For the last few days, I have been watching Gully. He is the faded Gatsby now, head and ears still erect, the gait still suggestive but now slow and unsure, the ermine stole still there but looking worn, the gray muzzle dulling the electricity of the white blaze. His vision is suspect, his eyes watery. His hearing is either very poor, or he has decided to ignore us entirely. He is the herding dog, but now we are herding him. A couple of days ago, he managed to get three feet – not all at the same time – into his water bowl.
Next month, Gully would be 105 years old. Fifteen, in human years. "The Gully-Man," as Karen croons to him. Tomorrow the circle closes anew: when you decide to love, you agree to grieve. When Gulliver leaves at midday, tears will be copious, tomorrow afternoon, at Alta Mira.
But he had the stout forelegs typical of male Shelties and his feet were big. Hence, "Gulliver."
He was not a nipper or a chewer. He gave the expression of waiting for something to happen. The black undercoat gave way to the sable color typical of Shelties and their larger Collie cousins. It may have been his size, or the size he was growing into, that gave an impression of awkwardness, resembling a teenage male human in a growth spurt.
But he matured into a boulevard dog. Gulliver by age four belonged at the end of a diamond leash on Park Avenue. A coat of pure, radiant silk. Huge white ruff thrown like an ermine stole over his shoulders and neck. The white blaze, the perfectly flopped ears, the carriage, the assertive strut which male Shelties display. He was a Gatsby dog. I guarantee, sooner or later, if he had lived in New York, his picture would have been in The New York Times.
Instead, Gully passed his years here with us at Alta Mira. Never in the spotlight, he still maintained an indifferent, celebrity, air. He didn't much let his intelligence show. He was a solid C student. He didn't need the grades; he was beautiful. When something happened, he was ready. Barkeley, his female running mate, was the provocateur. But when the chase began, she was halfway out to the patio while Gully was still turning around.
For the last few days, I have been watching Gully. He is the faded Gatsby now, head and ears still erect, the gait still suggestive but now slow and unsure, the ermine stole still there but looking worn, the gray muzzle dulling the electricity of the white blaze. His vision is suspect, his eyes watery. His hearing is either very poor, or he has decided to ignore us entirely. He is the herding dog, but now we are herding him. A couple of days ago, he managed to get three feet – not all at the same time – into his water bowl.
Next month, Gully would be 105 years old. Fifteen, in human years. "The Gully-Man," as Karen croons to him. Tomorrow the circle closes anew: when you decide to love, you agree to grieve. When Gulliver leaves at midday, tears will be copious, tomorrow afternoon, at Alta Mira.
March 26, 2013
A hand for the Inverted Pyramid, please
I am so proud for my old friend and partner, the Inverted Pyramid. Thanks to him I and others in my profession have been able, for more than a hundred years, to construct news stories that let readers become their own editors. The whole story may be 100 paragraphs long, but with the Inverted Pyramid, readers can stop after the fifth or sixth paragraph, and know they have the most important information in the story.
The I.P. never got a dime for his work. He has been open-source technology from the beginning, in the 1850s. But today, he showed his worth. Yahoo bought an app called Summly for a reported $30 million.
Right away, Summly will be coming to your mobile device with short summaries of stories you may not have otherwise wanted to read on the small screen. If the summaries feel familiar to you, it's probably because it's the same self-editing you've been doing all these years with the I.P., who never got any credit for it.
He should now receive credit. I suggest a smidgen of the $30 million be used to fund a display at the Newseum, celebrating the I.P.'s power, since 1850, to summarize the lengthiest stories in five paragraphs.
That's all. The app's creator, announcing the Yahoo deal on his Website today, began: "In true Summly fashion, I will keep this short and sweet." That's the spirit.
The I.P. never got a dime for his work. He has been open-source technology from the beginning, in the 1850s. But today, he showed his worth. Yahoo bought an app called Summly for a reported $30 million.
Right away, Summly will be coming to your mobile device with short summaries of stories you may not have otherwise wanted to read on the small screen. If the summaries feel familiar to you, it's probably because it's the same self-editing you've been doing all these years with the I.P., who never got any credit for it.
He should now receive credit. I suggest a smidgen of the $30 million be used to fund a display at the Newseum, celebrating the I.P.'s power, since 1850, to summarize the lengthiest stories in five paragraphs.
That's all. The app's creator, announcing the Yahoo deal on his Website today, began: "In true Summly fashion, I will keep this short and sweet." That's the spirit.
March 11, 2013
Coming to your city soon: "The Big One"
We had an ominous earthquake here this morning, at 9:55 (I checked my watch by habit). A bookcase to my left creaked suddenly, and the floor rolled very gently beneath my chair for about five seconds.
The epicenter popped up almost immediately on the USGS Earthquake Hazards Program Website, which is bookmarked by many Southern Californians. It showed the epicenter to be 12 miles east-southeast of Anza, a high-plateau hamlet 65 miles northeast of San Diego, where we live. There were numerous aftershocks.
Authorities said the activity was on the San Jacinto Fault, "one of the most active faults in California, and often called the western branch of perhaps the most well-known fault in the United States, the San Andreas."
In fact the San Andreas is only a few miles east of the epicenter. This is the kind of quake which would occur in the first five minutes of an end-of-the-world movie about what we in California call "The Big One."
Toward the middle of the movie – scripted to be three or four days from now – The Big One will hit, most likely an 8.5 or 9. When it does, a monstrous fissure will open up the spine of California, from the Mexican border through the Salton Sea and Palm Springs north into the San Joaquin Valley and central and northern California.
We in San Diego will get a hell of a shaking. Almost immediately thereafter, all of the United States east of the fissure will break off and slide into the Atlantic. You guys should go ahead and prepare.
The epicenter popped up almost immediately on the USGS Earthquake Hazards Program Website, which is bookmarked by many Southern Californians. It showed the epicenter to be 12 miles east-southeast of Anza, a high-plateau hamlet 65 miles northeast of San Diego, where we live. There were numerous aftershocks.
Authorities said the activity was on the San Jacinto Fault, "one of the most active faults in California, and often called the western branch of perhaps the most well-known fault in the United States, the San Andreas."
In fact the San Andreas is only a few miles east of the epicenter. This is the kind of quake which would occur in the first five minutes of an end-of-the-world movie about what we in California call "The Big One."
Toward the middle of the movie – scripted to be three or four days from now – The Big One will hit, most likely an 8.5 or 9. When it does, a monstrous fissure will open up the spine of California, from the Mexican border through the Salton Sea and Palm Springs north into the San Joaquin Valley and central and northern California.
We in San Diego will get a hell of a shaking. Almost immediately thereafter, all of the United States east of the fissure will break off and slide into the Atlantic. You guys should go ahead and prepare.
March 10, 2013
The truth about journalism and change
I must have entered a zone where untruths about my profession pop up before me and demand correcting. Here's the first paragraph from a review in this week's New York Times Book Review:
"A novelist once told me that he had given up writing journalism on the side because 'in journalism they only let you tell one story: Something Has Changed.'"
That is not true. In writing journalism, they let you tell two stories:
1. Something Has Changed.
2. There is a Threat that Something Will Change.
Take politics. Late last Nov. 6, something changed. A presidential candidate was elected. Many "change" stories were written about the event. They would have filled a couple of scrapbooks.
At least as far back as January, 2011, stories were already appearing regularly that something would change. A president would be elected in November, 2012. Those threat stories would fill a couple of thousand scrapbooks and, by and large, were more closely read, for meaning and for hints at resolution.
Take sports. Sports is a multi-billion-dollar industry based on the question, who will win? For the Super Bowl, the premier event in American sports, journalists had two weeks to write the threat stories, and a day or two to write the change stories. Which do you suppose would fill up more scrapbooks?
Take weather. What will the weather be? Every newspaper has a weather page, every local broadcast station has two or more reporters, and national television has celebrity reporters and at least one 24-hour channel, covering something that hasn't happened yet.
Take the pope. Global television showed the installation of the plain metal chimney being installed on the Sistine Chapel roof, which millions of people will be watching daily for the white smoke signaling change, as they read hundreds of stories about who the new pope might be.
Take Congress. There is no threat of any change there in the foreseeable future. But don't we wish there was, and we could read about it?
"A novelist once told me that he had given up writing journalism on the side because 'in journalism they only let you tell one story: Something Has Changed.'"
That is not true. In writing journalism, they let you tell two stories:
1. Something Has Changed.
2. There is a Threat that Something Will Change.
Take politics. Late last Nov. 6, something changed. A presidential candidate was elected. Many "change" stories were written about the event. They would have filled a couple of scrapbooks.
At least as far back as January, 2011, stories were already appearing regularly that something would change. A president would be elected in November, 2012. Those threat stories would fill a couple of thousand scrapbooks and, by and large, were more closely read, for meaning and for hints at resolution.
Take sports. Sports is a multi-billion-dollar industry based on the question, who will win? For the Super Bowl, the premier event in American sports, journalists had two weeks to write the threat stories, and a day or two to write the change stories. Which do you suppose would fill up more scrapbooks?
Take weather. What will the weather be? Every newspaper has a weather page, every local broadcast station has two or more reporters, and national television has celebrity reporters and at least one 24-hour channel, covering something that hasn't happened yet.
Take the pope. Global television showed the installation of the plain metal chimney being installed on the Sistine Chapel roof, which millions of people will be watching daily for the white smoke signaling change, as they read hundreds of stories about who the new pope might be.
Take Congress. There is no threat of any change there in the foreseeable future. But don't we wish there was, and we could read about it?
Preserving something valuable in our culture
In this morning's New York Times, Maureen Dowd wrote a timely column about the news that Time Magazine has met its demise. Toward the end, she wrote this:
"It will be good if this moment provokes a reckoning about what really needs to be preserved in the culture, about what is valuable.
"Many content providers and managers — formerly known as reporters and editors — have stopped believing in their own value and necessity. But the gatekeepers in the content class have to understand the world in which we’re living and wield their judgment.
"Digital platforms are worthless without content. They’re shiny sacks with bells and whistles, but without content, they’re empty sacks.
"It is not about pixels versus print. It is not about how you’re reading. It is about what you’re reading."
Speaking for myself, Maureen is very wrong, and she is very right.
She is wrong when she says, "It is not about pixels versus print." It is very much about pixels versus print. The print business model was very simple. Hundreds of years ago, advertisers, seeing newspapers starting to spew out of the new print technology introduced by Gutenberg, quickly seized on the idea of riding the backs of newspapers through a family's front door and into their living room.
Publishers loved it too, because they quickly seized on the idea of charging advertisers for space in their newspapers. By the mid-20th century, hundreds of newspapers were being published in the United States, and getting through the front door into millions of homes. Publishers and advertisers could agree on affordable ad rates because the ads would be seen by so many people. There was a multiplier effect.
Newspaper publishers learned they could get very rich by establishing a 60-40 business model: 60 percent of every newspaper would contain ads, and the other 40 percent would be reader content. If you've ever wondered how publishers decided on the number of pages in any given edition, it was determined by ad sales. When the ad deadline was reached, publishers calculated the newsprint space the ads would require, then added 40 percent, and that total space determined the number of pages in that paper.
When pixels showed up, that very solid, mutually satisfactory and long-lived business model went blooey. Advertisers learned they could get into homes with very inexpensive but flashy digital productions, and a url. They didn't need newspapers any more. Newspapers became a bit player in advertisers' multi-media purchasing schemes.
There is an obvious fix, easy to initiate but difficult to propagate. In the old print business model, advertising revenue carried the load, and subscribers contributed a trickle. In the new pixel business model, they just need to be reversed: advertisers provide the trickle, and subscriber revenue carries the load. It will work because, again, there is a multiplier effect.
Speaking for myself, no blog should go over 500 words. So I'll stop here, and take this up again tomorrow. Or maybe the next day.
"It will be good if this moment provokes a reckoning about what really needs to be preserved in the culture, about what is valuable.
"Many content providers and managers — formerly known as reporters and editors — have stopped believing in their own value and necessity. But the gatekeepers in the content class have to understand the world in which we’re living and wield their judgment.
"Digital platforms are worthless without content. They’re shiny sacks with bells and whistles, but without content, they’re empty sacks.
"It is not about pixels versus print. It is not about how you’re reading. It is about what you’re reading."
Speaking for myself, Maureen is very wrong, and she is very right.
She is wrong when she says, "It is not about pixels versus print." It is very much about pixels versus print. The print business model was very simple. Hundreds of years ago, advertisers, seeing newspapers starting to spew out of the new print technology introduced by Gutenberg, quickly seized on the idea of riding the backs of newspapers through a family's front door and into their living room.
Publishers loved it too, because they quickly seized on the idea of charging advertisers for space in their newspapers. By the mid-20th century, hundreds of newspapers were being published in the United States, and getting through the front door into millions of homes. Publishers and advertisers could agree on affordable ad rates because the ads would be seen by so many people. There was a multiplier effect.
Newspaper publishers learned they could get very rich by establishing a 60-40 business model: 60 percent of every newspaper would contain ads, and the other 40 percent would be reader content. If you've ever wondered how publishers decided on the number of pages in any given edition, it was determined by ad sales. When the ad deadline was reached, publishers calculated the newsprint space the ads would require, then added 40 percent, and that total space determined the number of pages in that paper.
When pixels showed up, that very solid, mutually satisfactory and long-lived business model went blooey. Advertisers learned they could get into homes with very inexpensive but flashy digital productions, and a url. They didn't need newspapers any more. Newspapers became a bit player in advertisers' multi-media purchasing schemes.
There is an obvious fix, easy to initiate but difficult to propagate. In the old print business model, advertising revenue carried the load, and subscribers contributed a trickle. In the new pixel business model, they just need to be reversed: advertisers provide the trickle, and subscriber revenue carries the load. It will work because, again, there is a multiplier effect.
Speaking for myself, no blog should go over 500 words. So I'll stop here, and take this up again tomorrow. Or maybe the next day.
February 27, 2013
Becoming seventy
Seventy.
It approaches, indifferently. I approach it, differently. This one is different. Next Wednesday, March 6, I will become seventy years old. I need to say something about it, and that's a risky business. But it's my birthday, and I can try if I want to.
What a long, interesting, complicated aisle, coming forward from March 6, 1943. If I could return, and tell my grandmother, Susie, where I would wind up when I was seventy, she would say, "You're crazy as a loon, boy."
Approaching seventy feels like the aisle where it emerges from the seats and goes forward to an altar where the coronation will occur. That's where I am today. I'm not seventy yet. But from where I stand, I like the looks of it.
All the other landmark birthdays were grim labels, bitten off in two syllables. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty.
Now comes seventy. Three syllables, which come out like a sigh.
What a difference. Forty was a wake-up call. Fifty was to the AARP as Feb. 14 is to Hallmark. Then sixty. I remember sixty like it was yesterday. Sixty was a threat. A cool breath of mortality arrived on that day in light curlicues that tightened around my neck. Too late to plant a tree and expect to enjoy the shade.
The sixties now seem like a proving ground for seventy. Show that you can take this aging thing. Make it, and you will be rewarded with a nice ceremony, conferring the nobility of this age. Seventy.
I know already, approaching it, that next Wednesday I am not to look past seventy. Seventy is a day unto itself, to be breathed deeply in, celebrating not where I've been, or where I'm going, but where I am.
It approaches, indifferently. I approach it, differently. This one is different. Next Wednesday, March 6, I will become seventy years old. I need to say something about it, and that's a risky business. But it's my birthday, and I can try if I want to.
What a long, interesting, complicated aisle, coming forward from March 6, 1943. If I could return, and tell my grandmother, Susie, where I would wind up when I was seventy, she would say, "You're crazy as a loon, boy."
Approaching seventy feels like the aisle where it emerges from the seats and goes forward to an altar where the coronation will occur. That's where I am today. I'm not seventy yet. But from where I stand, I like the looks of it.
All the other landmark birthdays were grim labels, bitten off in two syllables. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty.
Now comes seventy. Three syllables, which come out like a sigh.
What a difference. Forty was a wake-up call. Fifty was to the AARP as Feb. 14 is to Hallmark. Then sixty. I remember sixty like it was yesterday. Sixty was a threat. A cool breath of mortality arrived on that day in light curlicues that tightened around my neck. Too late to plant a tree and expect to enjoy the shade.
The sixties now seem like a proving ground for seventy. Show that you can take this aging thing. Make it, and you will be rewarded with a nice ceremony, conferring the nobility of this age. Seventy.
I know already, approaching it, that next Wednesday I am not to look past seventy. Seventy is a day unto itself, to be breathed deeply in, celebrating not where I've been, or where I'm going, but where I am.
February 25, 2013
How they played the game
Back in the 1930s, a great sportswriter wrote of a boxer: "He was a third-rate middleweight second to none."
I can't find the quote, even with Google, and I don't remember the writer or the boxer. But the writer could have been talking about me as a football player. In every practice and in the locker room before every game, my routine was to acknowledge my shortcomings. I suppose it became psychological, but the shortcomings were real. I was slow. I was a third-rate athlete second to none. Glynn Gregory could cut on a dime; it took me a manhole cover, if it occurred to me to cut at all.
I am setting the scene for a legacy bequeathed me, and so many like me, by Glynn after his death, at 73, of cancer, on Feb. 14. At his funeral in Dallas, and events afterwards, teammates would have told stories about him, and how great he was on the field, and off.
It was a haze of lore that has enveloped me. I was an Abilene Eagle, in 1959-60, sat in the same classrooms as Glynn, practiced on the same field, suited out in the same locker rooms, played for the same coach, Chuck Moser, even got to wear Glynn's old jersey, No. 21, in a spring practice scrimmage in 1958. I blocked a punt that day. It was the highlight of my gridiron career.
Through this mist I can actually enter the Eagles' locker room in 1956, and feel what it was like, before a game, with Gregory sitting in front of a locker, and Jimmy Carpenter, Hayseed Stephens, Stuart Peake, Rufus and Boyd King, Jim Rose, John Young. Pull on a jersey knowing I had the speed and the skill and the will. Not just will. We all had will. We wouldn't have stood practice without it. But the will backed up by the speed and the skill, the athleticism, to go out and do something about it.
I can feel what it was like to be one of those Eagles, ready to just go out and play the way they could play. It reminds me of dreams I have had throughout life, where I could fly, not like Superman, but just above the houses and the treetops, above the neighborhood, liberated from gravity. What must it be like to leave the locker room and trot toward the field, liberated from gravity?
Last week a collection of photos from Glynn's life was circulated to an email list of men who played at Abilene High in the 1950s. For me, one image, from a baseball game, stood out. Abilene won three state football championships in Glynn's tenure, and two state baseball championships while he was playing catcher. In this image, an Amarillo batter, a lefty, has swung and hit a ground ball. Behind him, and even with him, is Glynn, the catcher, flinging off his mask in the same motion he breaks for first base to back up the play.
To kids like me, it is a fantasy photo. For Glynn, it was another happy day at the ballpark.
I can't find the quote, even with Google, and I don't remember the writer or the boxer. But the writer could have been talking about me as a football player. In every practice and in the locker room before every game, my routine was to acknowledge my shortcomings. I suppose it became psychological, but the shortcomings were real. I was slow. I was a third-rate athlete second to none. Glynn Gregory could cut on a dime; it took me a manhole cover, if it occurred to me to cut at all.
I am setting the scene for a legacy bequeathed me, and so many like me, by Glynn after his death, at 73, of cancer, on Feb. 14. At his funeral in Dallas, and events afterwards, teammates would have told stories about him, and how great he was on the field, and off.
It was a haze of lore that has enveloped me. I was an Abilene Eagle, in 1959-60, sat in the same classrooms as Glynn, practiced on the same field, suited out in the same locker rooms, played for the same coach, Chuck Moser, even got to wear Glynn's old jersey, No. 21, in a spring practice scrimmage in 1958. I blocked a punt that day. It was the highlight of my gridiron career.
Through this mist I can actually enter the Eagles' locker room in 1956, and feel what it was like, before a game, with Gregory sitting in front of a locker, and Jimmy Carpenter, Hayseed Stephens, Stuart Peake, Rufus and Boyd King, Jim Rose, John Young. Pull on a jersey knowing I had the speed and the skill and the will. Not just will. We all had will. We wouldn't have stood practice without it. But the will backed up by the speed and the skill, the athleticism, to go out and do something about it.
I can feel what it was like to be one of those Eagles, ready to just go out and play the way they could play. It reminds me of dreams I have had throughout life, where I could fly, not like Superman, but just above the houses and the treetops, above the neighborhood, liberated from gravity. What must it be like to leave the locker room and trot toward the field, liberated from gravity?
Last week a collection of photos from Glynn's life was circulated to an email list of men who played at Abilene High in the 1950s. For me, one image, from a baseball game, stood out. Abilene won three state football championships in Glynn's tenure, and two state baseball championships while he was playing catcher. In this image, an Amarillo batter, a lefty, has swung and hit a ground ball. Behind him, and even with him, is Glynn, the catcher, flinging off his mask in the same motion he breaks for first base to back up the play.
To kids like me, it is a fantasy photo. For Glynn, it was another happy day at the ballpark.
February 17, 2013
The Eagles and Secretariat
Following up on Glynn's blog, only last summer did I learn something new and significant about Abilene High's "Team of the Century." Last summer at my household we watched "Secretariat," the movie about the racehorse that won the Triple Crown in 1973, and winning the last and toughest race, the Belmont Stakes, by a totally preposterous 31 lengths.
Many of the reporters at the Belmont that day – Pete Axthelm, Heywood Hale Broun, George Plimpton, Furman Bisher, Jack Whitaker, Frank McGee – wrote and told of people crying as Secretariat roared down the stretch, actually accelerating, near the finish line, away from the rest of the field far up the track.
Broun told of Jack Nicklaus, the legendary golfer, telling him, at a tournament later that summer, "I was all alone in my living room, watching, and as he came down the stretch, pulling away, I applauded, and I cried." Broun said to him, "Jack, don't you understand? All of your life, in your game, you've been striving for perfection. At the end of the Belmont, you saw it."
When I heard that, I remembered I had seen perfection somewhere else, as a seventh-grader on Dec. 17, 1955, at Amon Carter Stadium in Fort Worth. That day, Abilene beat Tyler, 33-13, for the AAAA state championship. It was the 23rd game in the Eagles' winning streak, but this game stood apart. In building a 33-0 lead, the Eagles realized their potential. Chuck Moser always taught perfection, but realistically, knowing 75 or 80 percent of perfection would give his team a significant advantage. Against Tyler, though, perfection was achieved. Even Moser said it: "That game was something a coach lives for. Our first team played a perfect game all the way."
As always, when you remember those Eagles, two names rise first: Moser, and Glynn Gregory. That afternoon at Fort Worth, Gregory provided two memorable plays. Well, Moser would get mad at me for putting it that way. The Eagles provided two memorable plays in which Glynn was the ballcarrier.
The first was the second play of the game. The Eagles were in a hole at their own 10, then Gregory carried 48 yards to the Tyler 42. It turned out to be the biggest play of the game. Six plays later, the Eagles scored their first touchdown.
"On either side of the field," I wrote in "Warbirds" 50 years later, "people didn't quite know what to think. After a nerve-rattling start, the Eagles had moved 95 yards in eight plays, all of them rushes inside the tackles, and they did it in three minutes and seven seconds against the unbeaten Tyler Lions, who had allowed only one touchdown in the playoffs, and only 87 points all season."
The second memorable play came in the second quarter, fourth and 25 from the Tyler 40.
"It was the Statue of Liberty play. Gregory took off to the right, his cleats kicking up chalk dust at the 50 as he turned upfield . . . In front of Gregory was left tackle Rufus King. Gregory galloped across the 40, then the 30, with King five yards in front. At the 20, running at full speed, the 185-pound King hit (Charles) Milstead with a block that knocked the 6-2, 190-pound Milstead five yards backward and to the ground at the 15. Behind King's block, Gregory cut back across the field. Of the nine players near him, six wore gold jerseys. (Freddie) Green, racing across in front of Gregory, knocked down one defender who in turn rolled into a second Tyler back. Near the goal line, (Henry) Colwell set up to screen off the last defender, who wasn't going to catch Gregory anyway as he strode into the end zone."
I have been told that Rufus King, rest in peace, cried, when he read these words about that play 50 years later. I think it must be that humanity, as it began to develop on this Earth, started to use performance as an exercise in trying to understand potential. Eventually they learned that performance potential, when realized, reveals a spiritual element, and that element stirs the soul. When the soul is stirred, as most people now well know, it's common for some tears to spill over.
It's happened to me, watching Secretariat, and the films of the first half of the Tyler game, which are available in a DVD set created by the Abilene High video department.
Many of the reporters at the Belmont that day – Pete Axthelm, Heywood Hale Broun, George Plimpton, Furman Bisher, Jack Whitaker, Frank McGee – wrote and told of people crying as Secretariat roared down the stretch, actually accelerating, near the finish line, away from the rest of the field far up the track.
Broun told of Jack Nicklaus, the legendary golfer, telling him, at a tournament later that summer, "I was all alone in my living room, watching, and as he came down the stretch, pulling away, I applauded, and I cried." Broun said to him, "Jack, don't you understand? All of your life, in your game, you've been striving for perfection. At the end of the Belmont, you saw it."
When I heard that, I remembered I had seen perfection somewhere else, as a seventh-grader on Dec. 17, 1955, at Amon Carter Stadium in Fort Worth. That day, Abilene beat Tyler, 33-13, for the AAAA state championship. It was the 23rd game in the Eagles' winning streak, but this game stood apart. In building a 33-0 lead, the Eagles realized their potential. Chuck Moser always taught perfection, but realistically, knowing 75 or 80 percent of perfection would give his team a significant advantage. Against Tyler, though, perfection was achieved. Even Moser said it: "That game was something a coach lives for. Our first team played a perfect game all the way."
As always, when you remember those Eagles, two names rise first: Moser, and Glynn Gregory. That afternoon at Fort Worth, Gregory provided two memorable plays. Well, Moser would get mad at me for putting it that way. The Eagles provided two memorable plays in which Glynn was the ballcarrier.
The first was the second play of the game. The Eagles were in a hole at their own 10, then Gregory carried 48 yards to the Tyler 42. It turned out to be the biggest play of the game. Six plays later, the Eagles scored their first touchdown.
"On either side of the field," I wrote in "Warbirds" 50 years later, "people didn't quite know what to think. After a nerve-rattling start, the Eagles had moved 95 yards in eight plays, all of them rushes inside the tackles, and they did it in three minutes and seven seconds against the unbeaten Tyler Lions, who had allowed only one touchdown in the playoffs, and only 87 points all season."
The second memorable play came in the second quarter, fourth and 25 from the Tyler 40.
"It was the Statue of Liberty play. Gregory took off to the right, his cleats kicking up chalk dust at the 50 as he turned upfield . . . In front of Gregory was left tackle Rufus King. Gregory galloped across the 40, then the 30, with King five yards in front. At the 20, running at full speed, the 185-pound King hit (Charles) Milstead with a block that knocked the 6-2, 190-pound Milstead five yards backward and to the ground at the 15. Behind King's block, Gregory cut back across the field. Of the nine players near him, six wore gold jerseys. (Freddie) Green, racing across in front of Gregory, knocked down one defender who in turn rolled into a second Tyler back. Near the goal line, (Henry) Colwell set up to screen off the last defender, who wasn't going to catch Gregory anyway as he strode into the end zone."
I have been told that Rufus King, rest in peace, cried, when he read these words about that play 50 years later. I think it must be that humanity, as it began to develop on this Earth, started to use performance as an exercise in trying to understand potential. Eventually they learned that performance potential, when realized, reveals a spiritual element, and that element stirs the soul. When the soul is stirred, as most people now well know, it's common for some tears to spill over.
It's happened to me, watching Secretariat, and the films of the first half of the Tyler game, which are available in a DVD set created by the Abilene High video department.
February 15, 2013
Glynn Gregory
One morning in 2004, the phone rang.
"Mike, this is Glynn Gregory."
I about fell out of my chair. Men in their 60s aren't supposed to do that, but this was, well, Glynn Gregory. Calling me!
He wanted to order a copy of my book, "Warbirds," a history of the 1954-57 Abilene High School Eagles, who were voted the "Team of the Century" in Texas high school football.
When you remember those teams, two names rise first: Chuck Moser, the coach, and Glynn Gregory, a player. He is routinely named the best player/athlete on the Team of the Century, but I don't know. Stuart Peake and Sam Caudle played like hurricanes, but they were guards and didn't get much ink. Jimmy Carpenter, whose program weight was 153 pounds, scored both touchdowns in the 1956 state championship game and gained 227 yards rushing, and he still holds state tournament baseball records for hits (eight in 11 at-bats, a .727 average) and runs scored (nine).
The Team had many great players: Hawkins, Millerman, Ash, Thomas, Bourland, Welch, Colwell, King, Rose, on and on. Still, Gregory's name rises first. My own adulation for him has remained strong for more than 50 years. When I learned last night that he had died of cancer, yesterday, at age 73, it felt like a corner of the firmament had been knocked off.
I was beginning sixth grade in 1954, the September when Glynn, a sophomore, first pulled on an Eagle game jersey, No. 21. The Eagles were No. 1 in state preseason rankings, a big deal, I can tell you, to sixth graders interested in sports. Then they lost the third game of the season.
The following Friday, on Oct. 8, 1954, the Eagles beat Borger, 34-7. It was the beginning of a winning streak that stretched into December, 1957, meaning, from October of the sixth grade to December of the ninth grade, a stretch of 49 games, I never saw the Eagles lose. Glynn was on the field for 37 of those games, from Borger in 1954 to the 1956 state championship game at Austin.
By then, not just the kids, but adult Abilenians, were mesmerized by the glory. Even in the 1950s, cities the size of Abilene, without the natural identity of a Dallas or Houston or Austin, were trying to tag themselves. Abilene was "The Key City of West Texas." Anything to get on the map. The Abilene Eagles were terrific publicity.
Not until I was finishing "Warbirds" did I realize another kind of continuity might have been at work. This is from the last paragraph of the book:
"A feeling emerges, among the players but also among Abilenians of that generation. It is a feeling of being different from people their age who grew up in other cities. They saw for almost four years – almost the length of an entire high school education – what can happen when you live by the rules, know all the plays, and run till the whistle blows. Now they wonder if the message was so strong that they carried it with them, part of their education not available to others. They wonder if their lives have been different, because of a football team, the Abilene High School Eagles, 1954-57."
When I wonder about that message, as I am wondering now, two names rise first. One is Glynn Gregory.
"Mike, this is Glynn Gregory."
I about fell out of my chair. Men in their 60s aren't supposed to do that, but this was, well, Glynn Gregory. Calling me!
He wanted to order a copy of my book, "Warbirds," a history of the 1954-57 Abilene High School Eagles, who were voted the "Team of the Century" in Texas high school football.
When you remember those teams, two names rise first: Chuck Moser, the coach, and Glynn Gregory, a player. He is routinely named the best player/athlete on the Team of the Century, but I don't know. Stuart Peake and Sam Caudle played like hurricanes, but they were guards and didn't get much ink. Jimmy Carpenter, whose program weight was 153 pounds, scored both touchdowns in the 1956 state championship game and gained 227 yards rushing, and he still holds state tournament baseball records for hits (eight in 11 at-bats, a .727 average) and runs scored (nine).
The Team had many great players: Hawkins, Millerman, Ash, Thomas, Bourland, Welch, Colwell, King, Rose, on and on. Still, Gregory's name rises first. My own adulation for him has remained strong for more than 50 years. When I learned last night that he had died of cancer, yesterday, at age 73, it felt like a corner of the firmament had been knocked off.
I was beginning sixth grade in 1954, the September when Glynn, a sophomore, first pulled on an Eagle game jersey, No. 21. The Eagles were No. 1 in state preseason rankings, a big deal, I can tell you, to sixth graders interested in sports. Then they lost the third game of the season.
The following Friday, on Oct. 8, 1954, the Eagles beat Borger, 34-7. It was the beginning of a winning streak that stretched into December, 1957, meaning, from October of the sixth grade to December of the ninth grade, a stretch of 49 games, I never saw the Eagles lose. Glynn was on the field for 37 of those games, from Borger in 1954 to the 1956 state championship game at Austin.
By then, not just the kids, but adult Abilenians, were mesmerized by the glory. Even in the 1950s, cities the size of Abilene, without the natural identity of a Dallas or Houston or Austin, were trying to tag themselves. Abilene was "The Key City of West Texas." Anything to get on the map. The Abilene Eagles were terrific publicity.
Not until I was finishing "Warbirds" did I realize another kind of continuity might have been at work. This is from the last paragraph of the book:
"A feeling emerges, among the players but also among Abilenians of that generation. It is a feeling of being different from people their age who grew up in other cities. They saw for almost four years – almost the length of an entire high school education – what can happen when you live by the rules, know all the plays, and run till the whistle blows. Now they wonder if the message was so strong that they carried it with them, part of their education not available to others. They wonder if their lives have been different, because of a football team, the Abilene High School Eagles, 1954-57."
When I wonder about that message, as I am wondering now, two names rise first. One is Glynn Gregory.
December 20, 2012
It's All Over But the Laughing, Loving, and Living
This is bizarre. This morning, Dec. 20, I received an email from former San Diegan Donna Belk, who now lives in Philadelphia. She liked my column in the old San Diego Union, she said, and she cut one out and saved it. "I read it frequently when I need to be reminded that maybe humanity isn't completely worthless. I read it this morning after listening to a local radio DJ hyping the end of the Mayan calendar. Maybe this is the scenario they envisioned too." The column is reproduced below; it was published in 1982, 30 years ago.
Just after 7 o'clock on a fine spring morning a voice came to mankind out of a clear blue sky.
"The world will be brought to an end before there is another dawn," it said. "This will be your last day on Earth. Enjoy it."
Despite the convincing delivery, more than a few played devil's advocate and inquired of the messenger, "How can we know that it's true?"
"Watch the moon," came the reply.
The full moon at that hour rode low in the pastel western sky, pale and vulnerable. At 7:15 it burst into flame and burned furiously for a few minutes before exploding into a sparkling cloud that bloomed above the horizon like a silver rose.
Mankind, after a few stunning moments of silence, broke into an accusatory buzz. In the following 90 minutes, blame was laid at many feet. But the bitterness was hollow, because it was generally recognized that blame no longer mattered.
The day was warm and cloudless. Chickens laid. Cows gave milk. Larks sang brightly in fields flushed with the greening promise of a good harvest. Their song drifted on the silence and blended with other melodies of the planet in a chorus not quite like anyone had ever heard, though it was only their regular Wednesday tune. Not that anyone noticed it was Wednesday.
Here at home, in a 9 a.m. joint session, Congress declared it a national holiday and went into recess. Some thought was given to moving the President to a place of safety, but he declined this notion and stayed in the White House.
At 10:10, the President canceled a military alert that had existed since 7:17 and ordered a complete military stand-down. An air marshal in Moscow, monitoring the order, withdrew a top-secret scenario from a safe, leafed through it briefly, and with a shrug tossed it toward a wastebasket. The file flew open, scattering target lists across the floor. Radio transmissions had switched automatically to Civil Defense bands, but by noon most stations had resumed program control. The television networks devoted almost all of their air time to coverage of the story. Several radio stations began count-downs of "The Top 100 All-Time Hits." There were no commercial interruptions.
Afternoon newspapers, complete with baseball standings, hit the streets with full-page photos of the dying moon, while editors of the morning dailies tried to decide what to do.
Little panic was reported. Churches were crowded, business districts deserted, skeleton crews sufficed. Some looting was reported, though it was half-hearted, as the stores no longer contained anything of value. Supermarkets dropped their prices to cost. The mail went through. Telephone lines became choked with good-byes.
In residential districts, families gathered their children around them. Reporters there found a mood that grew almost celebratory, like the Fourth of July. There were cookouts everywhere, and adults and children ran through sprinklers and wiggled their toes in the grass and laughed like there was no tomorrow.
In the absence of the future, the present acquired a curious unfamiliarity, as if it were being experienced for the first time. In this vivid light, oranges and apples became miracles, and grimy little boys works of art.
The adventure so absorbed the adventurers that, toward late afternoon, the past became disembodied as well, estranging indifference and leaving only the here and now and each other to embrace. Between brothers, the embarrassed silence of strangers melted into familiar laughter, and daughter looked into mother's eyes to find they were not blue, but hazel.
Shadows lengthened. Mankind forced a glance over its shoulder at the lowering, growing sun. Down a rosy cirrus stepladder it slipped toward the night, until for an instant a man's shadow could escape the Earth and cast itself on infinity.
The great warm ball dwindled to an orange puddle that clung like a tear on the horizon. And then, for the last time, it ran out.
Mankind watched until the afterglow was gone, then turned inward beneath the moonless black void to wait. The networks promised to stay on the air until the very end, offering commentary on where we had been and how we got here, and keeping a watch out for the first signs of the final event.
Eventually, but sooner than might have been expected, a faint glow appeared in the eastern sky. It grew steadily, pushing the night back like a shroud. It was a fragile blue glow, the observatories noted, and mankind watched in awe.
Presently the stars disappeared, and the entire sky was aglow. Then a blinding shaft of light exploded through a low crack on the horizon and pierced the sky with the glittering brilliance of a fiery diamond.
"Why, this is a dawn!" the observatories declared, and the networks flashed the word.
"What's happening?" breathed mankind. The voice replied, "I changed my mind."
Just after 7 o'clock on a fine spring morning a voice came to mankind out of a clear blue sky.
"The world will be brought to an end before there is another dawn," it said. "This will be your last day on Earth. Enjoy it."
Despite the convincing delivery, more than a few played devil's advocate and inquired of the messenger, "How can we know that it's true?"
"Watch the moon," came the reply.
The full moon at that hour rode low in the pastel western sky, pale and vulnerable. At 7:15 it burst into flame and burned furiously for a few minutes before exploding into a sparkling cloud that bloomed above the horizon like a silver rose.
Mankind, after a few stunning moments of silence, broke into an accusatory buzz. In the following 90 minutes, blame was laid at many feet. But the bitterness was hollow, because it was generally recognized that blame no longer mattered.
The day was warm and cloudless. Chickens laid. Cows gave milk. Larks sang brightly in fields flushed with the greening promise of a good harvest. Their song drifted on the silence and blended with other melodies of the planet in a chorus not quite like anyone had ever heard, though it was only their regular Wednesday tune. Not that anyone noticed it was Wednesday.
Here at home, in a 9 a.m. joint session, Congress declared it a national holiday and went into recess. Some thought was given to moving the President to a place of safety, but he declined this notion and stayed in the White House.
At 10:10, the President canceled a military alert that had existed since 7:17 and ordered a complete military stand-down. An air marshal in Moscow, monitoring the order, withdrew a top-secret scenario from a safe, leafed through it briefly, and with a shrug tossed it toward a wastebasket. The file flew open, scattering target lists across the floor. Radio transmissions had switched automatically to Civil Defense bands, but by noon most stations had resumed program control. The television networks devoted almost all of their air time to coverage of the story. Several radio stations began count-downs of "The Top 100 All-Time Hits." There were no commercial interruptions.
Afternoon newspapers, complete with baseball standings, hit the streets with full-page photos of the dying moon, while editors of the morning dailies tried to decide what to do.
Little panic was reported. Churches were crowded, business districts deserted, skeleton crews sufficed. Some looting was reported, though it was half-hearted, as the stores no longer contained anything of value. Supermarkets dropped their prices to cost. The mail went through. Telephone lines became choked with good-byes.
In residential districts, families gathered their children around them. Reporters there found a mood that grew almost celebratory, like the Fourth of July. There were cookouts everywhere, and adults and children ran through sprinklers and wiggled their toes in the grass and laughed like there was no tomorrow.
In the absence of the future, the present acquired a curious unfamiliarity, as if it were being experienced for the first time. In this vivid light, oranges and apples became miracles, and grimy little boys works of art.
The adventure so absorbed the adventurers that, toward late afternoon, the past became disembodied as well, estranging indifference and leaving only the here and now and each other to embrace. Between brothers, the embarrassed silence of strangers melted into familiar laughter, and daughter looked into mother's eyes to find they were not blue, but hazel.
Shadows lengthened. Mankind forced a glance over its shoulder at the lowering, growing sun. Down a rosy cirrus stepladder it slipped toward the night, until for an instant a man's shadow could escape the Earth and cast itself on infinity.
The great warm ball dwindled to an orange puddle that clung like a tear on the horizon. And then, for the last time, it ran out.
Mankind watched until the afterglow was gone, then turned inward beneath the moonless black void to wait. The networks promised to stay on the air until the very end, offering commentary on where we had been and how we got here, and keeping a watch out for the first signs of the final event.
Eventually, but sooner than might have been expected, a faint glow appeared in the eastern sky. It grew steadily, pushing the night back like a shroud. It was a fragile blue glow, the observatories noted, and mankind watched in awe.
Presently the stars disappeared, and the entire sky was aglow. Then a blinding shaft of light exploded through a low crack on the horizon and pierced the sky with the glittering brilliance of a fiery diamond.
"Why, this is a dawn!" the observatories declared, and the networks flashed the word.
"What's happening?" breathed mankind. The voice replied, "I changed my mind."
December 19, 2012
The Right Wing, starring Mitch, John and Mr. President
Sen. McConnell's office. Speaker Boehner enters, stern-faced. He has just given a brief statement to the press, critical of the President's refusal to consider Plan B.
"John," says Mitch, "this 'Plan B' idea has been inspired from start to finish."
"Thanks," says John, his face relaxing a bit. "My Indiana grandpa told me, 'Boy, if you want to split a rail, you have to have a rail to split.' His wisdom has worked for me before."
"So this time, Plan B is the rail," says Mitch, remembering John's confidence on Monday that the Times would characterize it as "a scaled-back" plan, made more palatable to House Republicans by raising the tax-increase threshold to people making $1 million.
"I have to say, it's going well," says John. "Of course we knew the President would threaten to veto it immediately."
"I thought the tone of your reply to him – 'bizarre and irrational' – was spot-on," says Mitch. "It kills two birds with one stone: distances us from the President with words that will energize the tea partiers."
John smiles. "Well, and then, Norquist hops on board, too." He read from the Post: "Grover Norquist, the longtime anti-tax advocate, had blessed Mr. Boehner's plan as compliant with his 'taxpayer protection plan.' Norquist seemed to bend his longstanding, absolutist principles to issue the endorsement."
"Brilliant," says Mitch. "The tea partiers are going to vote 'no,' no matter what anyone says, while the centrists, the 'New GOP,' can vote 'for,' and cite Norquist's new 'relevance to tax debates,' the Post says, which is exactly what he wants."
"By this time tomorrow," says John, "the rail should be split: the New GOP accepting Plan B, the tea partiers rejecting. Then the whole thing goes away when the President vetoes it, we get back to serious business, and the tea partiers are split away from the New GOP, and headed toward irrelevancy before the year is even out."
Mitch scratches his head. "You know, I thought it would take us a year to get the tea partiers out of the picture, which had to happen before we could move forward with the New GOP's 'A New Era for America.' And now it's almost done! I don't know how it could have happened any better."
"It is time we had some good news around here," says John.
"John," says Mitch, "this 'Plan B' idea has been inspired from start to finish."
"Thanks," says John, his face relaxing a bit. "My Indiana grandpa told me, 'Boy, if you want to split a rail, you have to have a rail to split.' His wisdom has worked for me before."
"So this time, Plan B is the rail," says Mitch, remembering John's confidence on Monday that the Times would characterize it as "a scaled-back" plan, made more palatable to House Republicans by raising the tax-increase threshold to people making $1 million.
"I have to say, it's going well," says John. "Of course we knew the President would threaten to veto it immediately."
"I thought the tone of your reply to him – 'bizarre and irrational' – was spot-on," says Mitch. "It kills two birds with one stone: distances us from the President with words that will energize the tea partiers."
John smiles. "Well, and then, Norquist hops on board, too." He read from the Post: "Grover Norquist, the longtime anti-tax advocate, had blessed Mr. Boehner's plan as compliant with his 'taxpayer protection plan.' Norquist seemed to bend his longstanding, absolutist principles to issue the endorsement."
"Brilliant," says Mitch. "The tea partiers are going to vote 'no,' no matter what anyone says, while the centrists, the 'New GOP,' can vote 'for,' and cite Norquist's new 'relevance to tax debates,' the Post says, which is exactly what he wants."
"By this time tomorrow," says John, "the rail should be split: the New GOP accepting Plan B, the tea partiers rejecting. Then the whole thing goes away when the President vetoes it, we get back to serious business, and the tea partiers are split away from the New GOP, and headed toward irrelevancy before the year is even out."
Mitch scratches his head. "You know, I thought it would take us a year to get the tea partiers out of the picture, which had to happen before we could move forward with the New GOP's 'A New Era for America.' And now it's almost done! I don't know how it could have happened any better."
"It is time we had some good news around here," says John.
December 07, 2012
The Right Wing, starring Mitch, John and Mr. President
The Speaker's office.
"Mitch, what do you have on Jim DeMint?" he says.
"Nothing," says Mitch.
"You mean you didn't strong-arm him to resign?"
"Of course not. But now that you mention it . . . "
"No, no, I'm sorry I said it. But it was just such a stroke of luck . . . "
Rep. Ryan appears in the doorway. "Gentlemen! It's a great day for The New . . . The New . . . The New Era in America!"
Mitch, with his old, stern "one term for Obama" look, says, "Go ahead, Paul, go ahead and say it."
"Where Obamacare becomes . . . aiiiyeeee!"
"He's not ready yet," says Mitch, studying the chair-hurdling athleticism of Rep. Ryan's retreat.
"Well, it took me a few tries too," smiles the Speaker, remembering. He turns to the window, spreads his arms wide and says, easily, as if from a podium, "Where Obamacare becomes Americare!"
"Whoa," mutters Mitch, lifting his chin in the direction of the window, as if sniffing the wind. "Can you feel Lindsey Graham drifting toward the center?"
"It's like David Brooks wrote this morning about the GOP," says John: "'They are moving in the right direction and moving fast. These are first steps, and encouraging ones.' 2016, here we come!"
"Mitch, what do you have on Jim DeMint?" he says.
"Nothing," says Mitch.
"You mean you didn't strong-arm him to resign?"
"Of course not. But now that you mention it . . . "
"No, no, I'm sorry I said it. But it was just such a stroke of luck . . . "
Rep. Ryan appears in the doorway. "Gentlemen! It's a great day for The New . . . The New . . . The New Era in America!"
Mitch, with his old, stern "one term for Obama" look, says, "Go ahead, Paul, go ahead and say it."
"Where Obamacare becomes . . . aiiiyeeee!"
"He's not ready yet," says Mitch, studying the chair-hurdling athleticism of Rep. Ryan's retreat.
"Well, it took me a few tries too," smiles the Speaker, remembering. He turns to the window, spreads his arms wide and says, easily, as if from a podium, "Where Obamacare becomes Americare!"
"Whoa," mutters Mitch, lifting his chin in the direction of the window, as if sniffing the wind. "Can you feel Lindsey Graham drifting toward the center?"
"It's like David Brooks wrote this morning about the GOP," says John: "'They are moving in the right direction and moving fast. These are first steps, and encouraging ones.' 2016, here we come!"
December 05, 2012
The Right Wing, starring Mitch, John and Mr. President
The Speaker's office.
"This is going a lot better than I thought it would," says John.
"Maybe too good," says Sen. McConnell, reading a Sarah Palin newspaper quote: "John Boehner is a decent fellow." "Our biggest job," says Mitch, "may turn out to stay in control of the thing."
"Oh," says John. "This is for you." He hands Mitch a 5x7 plain wood picture frame. "Lucretia made these up for us."
Mitch reads the framed material, printed in a formal font.
"The New Real GOP
1. Take the real GOP back from the tea party.
2. Meet Obama halfway to achieve 'A New Era for America,' real progress in the next four years in the economy, health care, immigration reform, women's issues.
3. Claim credit for the 'New Era' in the 2016 campaign.
4. Nominate a viable presidential candidate for a change.
5. Crush the tea party."
"Lucretia thought it would be a good idea for us to have the guiding principles handy, just to look at once in a while," says John. "We're going to be working in a huge field of weeds, all the details that go with the fiscal cliff, the economy, health care, and the rest. We don't want to lose sight of the main goal."
"I can see that," says Mitch. "It will also be helpful when events start happening so fast, as they have been this week. Everyone seems so hell-bent on decontaminating the party, after the election. We need to have something" – he brandishes the frame – "to help us keep our eye on the real prize."
"Yes," says John. "We need to stay in control of the rogues like Roskam," referring to Illinois GOP Rep. Peter Roskam, who appealed to President Obama "to rise above partisanship. President Obama has an unbelievable opportunity to be a transformational president, that is to bring the country together."
"The way we frame it," looking at the frame again, "is to say the President is going to transform the GOP, bring the party together. Unbelievable as that sounds."
"This is going a lot better than I thought it would," says John.
"Maybe too good," says Sen. McConnell, reading a Sarah Palin newspaper quote: "John Boehner is a decent fellow." "Our biggest job," says Mitch, "may turn out to stay in control of the thing."
"Oh," says John. "This is for you." He hands Mitch a 5x7 plain wood picture frame. "Lucretia made these up for us."
Mitch reads the framed material, printed in a formal font.
"The New Real GOP
1. Take the real GOP back from the tea party.
2. Meet Obama halfway to achieve 'A New Era for America,' real progress in the next four years in the economy, health care, immigration reform, women's issues.
3. Claim credit for the 'New Era' in the 2016 campaign.
4. Nominate a viable presidential candidate for a change.
5. Crush the tea party."
"Lucretia thought it would be a good idea for us to have the guiding principles handy, just to look at once in a while," says John. "We're going to be working in a huge field of weeds, all the details that go with the fiscal cliff, the economy, health care, and the rest. We don't want to lose sight of the main goal."
"I can see that," says Mitch. "It will also be helpful when events start happening so fast, as they have been this week. Everyone seems so hell-bent on decontaminating the party, after the election. We need to have something" – he brandishes the frame – "to help us keep our eye on the real prize."
"Yes," says John. "We need to stay in control of the rogues like Roskam," referring to Illinois GOP Rep. Peter Roskam, who appealed to President Obama "to rise above partisanship. President Obama has an unbelievable opportunity to be a transformational president, that is to bring the country together."
"The way we frame it," looking at the frame again, "is to say the President is going to transform the GOP, bring the party together. Unbelievable as that sounds."
December 03, 2012
Finding peace at Christmastime
(Every year, in the first week of December, I post this blog again, hoping someone will find it useful.)
"Peace on Earth” this Christmas of 2012?
Don’t think so. So many Christmas cards I’ve mailed, promising “Peace on Earth.” Hasn’t happened in my lifetime. I have seen Christmas cards in family scrapbooks from the 1940s, including 1943, the year I was born. They promised “Peace on Earth,” in the middle of World War II, with the first tactical atomic explosion at Hiroshima still two years away. I haven’t and wouldn’t be able to document it, but I’ll bet Earth has not had a moment of peace since then.
Maybe if we narrowed it down. “Peace in the Christian World.” Nope. “Peace in America.” Daily murders, violence and crime, in streets, in movies and on TV. “Peace in California.” Road rage capital of the world. “Peace in San Diego.” Nope. Daily mayhem. “Peace in La Mesa.” La Mesa is where I live, and we do have our quiet moments, but why would I offer that as your Christmas wish? “Peace at my house.” Now we’re getting close, as long as we don’t watch the news, but peace at my house doesn’t do you much good, and your good is my wish.
No, once again this Christmas, peace anywhere on Earth has to be portable, and that peace is achievable. Insurance follows the car, and peace follows the person. “Peace in your mind” is totally possible this Christmas Day, or if not this Christmas (it takes a little work), then by Christmas 2006. If peace follows all the people who come to sit down at your Christmas dinner, then you will have “Peace at the Christmas dinner table.”
At many Christmas dinner tables, though, you might as well ask for “Peace on Earth.”
So many people go through life wired with buttons to be pushed. Such buttons can be pushed from a range of a thousand miles. All it takes is the right word traveling through the air. Get a dozen button-wired people at a Christmas dinner table, and watch out.
The buttons can be unwired. All you have to do is take back the power you have given to some other person to push it. These can be very important and powerful people: mothers, fathers, etc. But it isn’t their power they use to push your buttons. It is yours. You gave it to them years ago, probably starting in childhood. With that power, they can push your buttons at any time and make you feel small, cheap, insignificant, selfish, ungrateful, undesirable, inferior, a lifelong waster of every opportunity you ever had at achieving the greatness that you were born for, if you had only listened to the person leaning with all his or her weight against the thumb pressing your button.
You gave that person that power and weight, and you can take it back. All it takes is forgiveness. Appropriate, at the Christmas season, and the figure it celebrates, that the route to peace involves forgiveness. But it works. I don’t know exactly how it works, and it takes some work and willingness to get there, but when you forgive, you take power back, and peace is there waiting. Forgiveness, power, peace, freedom and surrender are all different spellings of the same human condition: happiness.
When you are ready, and it very well could require some professional guidance, you come to a point where you simply say in your mind to a person: “I forgive you.” At that instant, the button becomes unwired. The person may say the same things as before, words that for years you felt as sandpaper in your ears or an arrow through your heart. But now the words pass right through you and out into space. Left behind is a feeling of liberation you have known only in your dreams.
You haven’t said a word to the person about forgiveness. The person knows something has happened, though, because the button doesn’t work anymore. So he or she quits pushing, and it is a relief. It was your power, but it required their energy to keep their thumbs on your buttons all those years, and at some point, inside themselves, they will feel relieved.
But this Christmas story about reachable peace is not about them; it is about you. It is a true story.
"Peace on Earth” this Christmas of 2012?
Don’t think so. So many Christmas cards I’ve mailed, promising “Peace on Earth.” Hasn’t happened in my lifetime. I have seen Christmas cards in family scrapbooks from the 1940s, including 1943, the year I was born. They promised “Peace on Earth,” in the middle of World War II, with the first tactical atomic explosion at Hiroshima still two years away. I haven’t and wouldn’t be able to document it, but I’ll bet Earth has not had a moment of peace since then.
Maybe if we narrowed it down. “Peace in the Christian World.” Nope. “Peace in America.” Daily murders, violence and crime, in streets, in movies and on TV. “Peace in California.” Road rage capital of the world. “Peace in San Diego.” Nope. Daily mayhem. “Peace in La Mesa.” La Mesa is where I live, and we do have our quiet moments, but why would I offer that as your Christmas wish? “Peace at my house.” Now we’re getting close, as long as we don’t watch the news, but peace at my house doesn’t do you much good, and your good is my wish.
No, once again this Christmas, peace anywhere on Earth has to be portable, and that peace is achievable. Insurance follows the car, and peace follows the person. “Peace in your mind” is totally possible this Christmas Day, or if not this Christmas (it takes a little work), then by Christmas 2006. If peace follows all the people who come to sit down at your Christmas dinner, then you will have “Peace at the Christmas dinner table.”
At many Christmas dinner tables, though, you might as well ask for “Peace on Earth.”
So many people go through life wired with buttons to be pushed. Such buttons can be pushed from a range of a thousand miles. All it takes is the right word traveling through the air. Get a dozen button-wired people at a Christmas dinner table, and watch out.
The buttons can be unwired. All you have to do is take back the power you have given to some other person to push it. These can be very important and powerful people: mothers, fathers, etc. But it isn’t their power they use to push your buttons. It is yours. You gave it to them years ago, probably starting in childhood. With that power, they can push your buttons at any time and make you feel small, cheap, insignificant, selfish, ungrateful, undesirable, inferior, a lifelong waster of every opportunity you ever had at achieving the greatness that you were born for, if you had only listened to the person leaning with all his or her weight against the thumb pressing your button.
You gave that person that power and weight, and you can take it back. All it takes is forgiveness. Appropriate, at the Christmas season, and the figure it celebrates, that the route to peace involves forgiveness. But it works. I don’t know exactly how it works, and it takes some work and willingness to get there, but when you forgive, you take power back, and peace is there waiting. Forgiveness, power, peace, freedom and surrender are all different spellings of the same human condition: happiness.
When you are ready, and it very well could require some professional guidance, you come to a point where you simply say in your mind to a person: “I forgive you.” At that instant, the button becomes unwired. The person may say the same things as before, words that for years you felt as sandpaper in your ears or an arrow through your heart. But now the words pass right through you and out into space. Left behind is a feeling of liberation you have known only in your dreams.
You haven’t said a word to the person about forgiveness. The person knows something has happened, though, because the button doesn’t work anymore. So he or she quits pushing, and it is a relief. It was your power, but it required their energy to keep their thumbs on your buttons all those years, and at some point, inside themselves, they will feel relieved.
But this Christmas story about reachable peace is not about them; it is about you. It is a true story.
November 30, 2012
The Right Wing, starring Mitch, John and Mr. President
"What does 'White Turkey Chili' mean?" grumps Sen. McConnell.
"Maybe it's a Mormon favorite," says Speaker Boehner.
"That's not what I meant," says Mitch. "Is it because of white turkey, or because the chili is white and not red?"
"If it had been me, I'd have given him surf and turf," says John.
"Does Mitt eat lobster?" says Mitch.
The Speaker gives an unknowing shrug. "He deserves it, for what he's done. After what Fox and the tea partiers said about him, and then for him to walk into the Oval Office and shake the President's hand!"
"Then eats lunch with him in the President's private dining room!" Mitch roars and slaps his knee. "You can hear the teeth grinding out in the hallways! These are good times for the new GOP!"
"I hope Mitt knows what a valuable man he is," says John, musing.
"I'm sure he does," says Mitch. "I'm happy for him. This is as close as he has come, in politics, to knowing who he really is."
"Maybe it's a Mormon favorite," says Speaker Boehner.
"That's not what I meant," says Mitch. "Is it because of white turkey, or because the chili is white and not red?"
"If it had been me, I'd have given him surf and turf," says John.
"Does Mitt eat lobster?" says Mitch.
The Speaker gives an unknowing shrug. "He deserves it, for what he's done. After what Fox and the tea partiers said about him, and then for him to walk into the Oval Office and shake the President's hand!"
"Then eats lunch with him in the President's private dining room!" Mitch roars and slaps his knee. "You can hear the teeth grinding out in the hallways! These are good times for the new GOP!"
"I hope Mitt knows what a valuable man he is," says John, musing.
"I'm sure he does," says Mitch. "I'm happy for him. This is as close as he has come, in politics, to knowing who he really is."
Occupy the Internet!
Welcome to the offices of "Occupy the Internet."
We are similar to the "Occupy Wall Street" movement, which protested Wall Street ripping off the little people and giving it to the rich people. Their battle cry was, "The 99 percent." Ours is, "Our 2 cents worth."
If we all got our 2 cents worth, the Internet would be a fabulously productive place. Instead, it's impoverished. Sooner or later, Internet businesses would have to start asking for handouts. Now it has happened. WikiPedia started asking last week:
“We are the small non-profit that runs the #5 website in the world. We have only 150 staff but serve 450 million users, and have costs like any other top site: servers, power, rent, programs, staff and legal help. To protect our independence, we'll never run ads. We take no government funds. We run on donations. If everyone reading this gave the price of a cup of coffee, our fundraiser would be done within an hour.”
You can donate to Wikipedia if you like, but the better solution is embedded right there in the plea, in boldface: “If everyone reading this gave the price of a cup of coffee, our fundraiser would be done within an hour.”
It’s called the multiplier effect. Everyone using Wikipedia is a lot of people – 450 million, according to Wikipedia – and if each donated the price of a cup of coffee, say $1, that’s $450 million, and you’d only be out a buck.
That's where Occupy the Internet comes in. We don't want WikiPedia to have to ask for handouts. Our goal is an Internet-wide system that would require users to pay to use WikiPedia, and every other Internet site, 2 cents for every visit. Every time 450 million users paid 2 cents, WikiPedia would earn $9 million, which would more than pay the rent.
The Wall Street ripoff is peanuts, compared to the billions of Internet users, myself included, who rip off the Internet for billions of dollars worth of free information and entertainment every day.
This should stop. When it did, every user would pay 2 cents to every page visited. That's 50 visits for a buck, 1,000 visits for $20, or whatever subscription you wanted to pay per month. I would get paid something for what I just wrote, and you would have gotten your 2 cents worth. It would revolutionize the Internet, both for content and business model. It would mean the rebirth of newspapers, for example, and good journalism. Think about it.
We are similar to the "Occupy Wall Street" movement, which protested Wall Street ripping off the little people and giving it to the rich people. Their battle cry was, "The 99 percent." Ours is, "Our 2 cents worth."
If we all got our 2 cents worth, the Internet would be a fabulously productive place. Instead, it's impoverished. Sooner or later, Internet businesses would have to start asking for handouts. Now it has happened. WikiPedia started asking last week:
“We are the small non-profit that runs the #5 website in the world. We have only 150 staff but serve 450 million users, and have costs like any other top site: servers, power, rent, programs, staff and legal help. To protect our independence, we'll never run ads. We take no government funds. We run on donations. If everyone reading this gave the price of a cup of coffee, our fundraiser would be done within an hour.”
You can donate to Wikipedia if you like, but the better solution is embedded right there in the plea, in boldface: “If everyone reading this gave the price of a cup of coffee, our fundraiser would be done within an hour.”
It’s called the multiplier effect. Everyone using Wikipedia is a lot of people – 450 million, according to Wikipedia – and if each donated the price of a cup of coffee, say $1, that’s $450 million, and you’d only be out a buck.
That's where Occupy the Internet comes in. We don't want WikiPedia to have to ask for handouts. Our goal is an Internet-wide system that would require users to pay to use WikiPedia, and every other Internet site, 2 cents for every visit. Every time 450 million users paid 2 cents, WikiPedia would earn $9 million, which would more than pay the rent.
The Wall Street ripoff is peanuts, compared to the billions of Internet users, myself included, who rip off the Internet for billions of dollars worth of free information and entertainment every day.
This should stop. When it did, every user would pay 2 cents to every page visited. That's 50 visits for a buck, 1,000 visits for $20, or whatever subscription you wanted to pay per month. I would get paid something for what I just wrote, and you would have gotten your 2 cents worth. It would revolutionize the Internet, both for content and business model. It would mean the rebirth of newspapers, for example, and good journalism. Think about it.
November 28, 2012
The Right Wing, starring Mitch, John and Mr. President
Speaker Boehner's outer office. Sen. McConnell walks in, spies a prop-up sign on Lucretia's desk:
"No shirt, no shoes, no service."
He laughs aloud. "Ha! Where'd you get it?"
"My diner, down the street. It was in his door. I had to talk him out of it. I told him who it was for. And then he autographed it," Lucretia says, gesturing at the sign. Mitch bends to read:
"Best wishes, Mr. Speaker! Nguyen"
He chortles, scratches his head. "Naked protesters in the Speaker's office. This is one to tell your grandchildren about."
"Already did," says Lucretia. "Or, rather, they showed it to me on their iPhones, laughing their little heads off."
"It's good to have a sense of humor around here," says the Speaker, walking in from his office, carrying coffee in a take-out cup labeled, "Nguyen's Diner."
"Love Lucretia's new sign," says Mitch. "Nice middle-class touch."
"Hey!" says Lucretia, a creative person. "We could turn it into a slogan. Remember the slogan, 'What's good for General Motors is good for the country'? We could say, 'What's good for Nguyen's Diner is good for the Speaker.'"
"Or," says Mitch, "'What's good for Nguyen's Diner is good for the middle class.'"
"Well, Sen. Graham didn't get it," says Lucretia. "He came in to drop off some Susan Rice notes. He said, 'Who's Nuh-goo-y-yen?' I told him it's pronounced 'Win.' Opposite of 'lose'."
The Speaker cleared his throat. "We should probably keep this quiet, but workshops are planned for House Republicans. How to pronounce 'middle class': 'mid-dull class.' You might want to adopt it for the Senate."
"No shirt, no shoes, no service."
He laughs aloud. "Ha! Where'd you get it?"
"My diner, down the street. It was in his door. I had to talk him out of it. I told him who it was for. And then he autographed it," Lucretia says, gesturing at the sign. Mitch bends to read:
"Best wishes, Mr. Speaker! Nguyen"
He chortles, scratches his head. "Naked protesters in the Speaker's office. This is one to tell your grandchildren about."
"Already did," says Lucretia. "Or, rather, they showed it to me on their iPhones, laughing their little heads off."
"It's good to have a sense of humor around here," says the Speaker, walking in from his office, carrying coffee in a take-out cup labeled, "Nguyen's Diner."
"Love Lucretia's new sign," says Mitch. "Nice middle-class touch."
"Hey!" says Lucretia, a creative person. "We could turn it into a slogan. Remember the slogan, 'What's good for General Motors is good for the country'? We could say, 'What's good for Nguyen's Diner is good for the Speaker.'"
"Or," says Mitch, "'What's good for Nguyen's Diner is good for the middle class.'"
"Well, Sen. Graham didn't get it," says Lucretia. "He came in to drop off some Susan Rice notes. He said, 'Who's Nuh-goo-y-yen?' I told him it's pronounced 'Win.' Opposite of 'lose'."
The Speaker cleared his throat. "We should probably keep this quiet, but workshops are planned for House Republicans. How to pronounce 'middle class': 'mid-dull class.' You might want to adopt it for the Senate."
November 26, 2012
The Right Wing, starring Mitch, John and Mr. President
Sen. McConnell's office. The Speaker walks in, carrying a book-shaped wrapped package.
"John," says the senator in his offhand bloodhound way. "Have a nice Thanksgiving?"
"Very nice," says John. "Nothing like Thanksgiving in Ohio. We had the President's Italian red with the bird. Mitch, here's an early Christmas present."
"Well, that's a nice surprise," says Mitch, accepting the package. "I have an early gift for you, too," picking up a book-shaped package from his desk and handing it to John. They open the packages and laugh together.
"'Why Romney Lost'! exclaims John, as the two men hold up identical David Frum books, No 13 on the Times' bestseller list.
"Great minds," Mitch chuckles, flipping open the cover, as John does, to find an inscription:
"Mitch – here's a comment from a reader of the book: 'I believe a party that is fiscally responsible, and respects others' social views will resonate with Americans of all sorts. I can't say enough good things about this book. Spot on. Let's hope there is a change in the winds.'
"Merry Christmas! John."
The two men look up and laugh together. "The exact inscription I put in your book!" says Mitch.
"Amazing, sometimes, how alike we are," says John.
Into the office stumbles Martha, the Senator's office manager, still in her overcoat.
"Martha?" says Mitch. "You're late . . ."
"Missed my carpool," she says. "I had a horrible nightmare. Sarah Palin! Hair cut like Pelosi's! Talking like Rachel Maddow! Having lunch with Warren Buffett!"
John smiles, pulls his iPhone from his pocket, lets Martha read a Tweet:
"You read Frumdum's piece of moose pizza?" #Sarah"
Martha relaxes into a sigh. "So she doesn't want to be President of the United States."
"Didn't say that," says John.
"John," says the senator in his offhand bloodhound way. "Have a nice Thanksgiving?"
"Very nice," says John. "Nothing like Thanksgiving in Ohio. We had the President's Italian red with the bird. Mitch, here's an early Christmas present."
"Well, that's a nice surprise," says Mitch, accepting the package. "I have an early gift for you, too," picking up a book-shaped package from his desk and handing it to John. They open the packages and laugh together.
"'Why Romney Lost'! exclaims John, as the two men hold up identical David Frum books, No 13 on the Times' bestseller list.
"Great minds," Mitch chuckles, flipping open the cover, as John does, to find an inscription:
"Mitch – here's a comment from a reader of the book: 'I believe a party that is fiscally responsible, and respects others' social views will resonate with Americans of all sorts. I can't say enough good things about this book. Spot on. Let's hope there is a change in the winds.'
"Merry Christmas! John."
The two men look up and laugh together. "The exact inscription I put in your book!" says Mitch.
"Amazing, sometimes, how alike we are," says John.
Into the office stumbles Martha, the Senator's office manager, still in her overcoat.
"Martha?" says Mitch. "You're late . . ."
"Missed my carpool," she says. "I had a horrible nightmare. Sarah Palin! Hair cut like Pelosi's! Talking like Rachel Maddow! Having lunch with Warren Buffett!"
John smiles, pulls his iPhone from his pocket, lets Martha read a Tweet:
"You read Frumdum's piece of moose pizza?" #Sarah"
Martha relaxes into a sigh. "So she doesn't want to be President of the United States."
"Didn't say that," says John.
November 19, 2012
The Right Wing, starring Mitch, John and Mr. President, episode 8
Sen. McConnell, Mr. Speaker, I write a blog which supports The 47 Percent. We favor "Anything that gives the middle class a leg up." As such, I am following with interest your collaboration from the GOP side in creating "A New Era for America."
As a member of The 47 Percent, I want to share my thoughts about a story I read over the weekend. This one, from The New York Times: "Business owners and investors are rapidly maneuvering to shield themselves from the prospect of higher taxes next year, a strategy that is sending ripples across Wall Street and broad areas of the economy."
An example: Steve Wynn, whose business is Las Vegas casinos, who "has been a vocal critic of higher tax rates." On Tuesday, tomorrow, Wynn shareholders will "collect a special dividend of $750 million, a payout timed to take advantage of current rates."
The story says that this strategy will save just Wynn himself more than $20 million in taxes. Sirs, I can't adequately express how The 47 Percent would appreciate a similar strategy to save themselves just $200 in taxes, just with the Christmas season upon us. Talk about a leg up!
Apparently, though, we DO get a leg up of sorts. The story said Wynn alone would save $20 million, but it didn't say $20 million of what? If he is saving $20 million, it must mean he is paying some unknown figure in taxes in December, that he would not have been paying otherwise, before the end of the year, if ever (if Mitt had been elected). The same is true of many other business owners and investors. It must mean that it took only two weeks for The 47 Percent's vote (all for Obama, by Mitt's own definition) to count in a way that adds up, eventually, to dollars and cents for us! Such a quick return is very exciting!
Well, it's off to the big bird at Grandma's house. The 47 Percent hope you gentlemen have a great Thanksgiving!
As a member of The 47 Percent, I want to share my thoughts about a story I read over the weekend. This one, from The New York Times: "Business owners and investors are rapidly maneuvering to shield themselves from the prospect of higher taxes next year, a strategy that is sending ripples across Wall Street and broad areas of the economy."
An example: Steve Wynn, whose business is Las Vegas casinos, who "has been a vocal critic of higher tax rates." On Tuesday, tomorrow, Wynn shareholders will "collect a special dividend of $750 million, a payout timed to take advantage of current rates."
The story says that this strategy will save just Wynn himself more than $20 million in taxes. Sirs, I can't adequately express how The 47 Percent would appreciate a similar strategy to save themselves just $200 in taxes, just with the Christmas season upon us. Talk about a leg up!
Apparently, though, we DO get a leg up of sorts. The story said Wynn alone would save $20 million, but it didn't say $20 million of what? If he is saving $20 million, it must mean he is paying some unknown figure in taxes in December, that he would not have been paying otherwise, before the end of the year, if ever (if Mitt had been elected). The same is true of many other business owners and investors. It must mean that it took only two weeks for The 47 Percent's vote (all for Obama, by Mitt's own definition) to count in a way that adds up, eventually, to dollars and cents for us! Such a quick return is very exciting!
Well, it's off to the big bird at Grandma's house. The 47 Percent hope you gentlemen have a great Thanksgiving!
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