The more things change…

Some people will do *anything* to gain political advantage.

Nice point made by Chris Muir over at Day by Day.

I’ve got nothing terribly important to add, save that the “race card” playing is getting a little thin.

Spread the (new) good word

Dan Savage, in his sex advice column Savage Love, is in the habit of coining new words describing sexual acts and details–filling in the gaps in the language as it were–while at the same time not-so-gently skewering political or religious nonsense. He does this in an adroit style that is rather fun to read.

His newest effort is the term “saddlebacking“, which means (per the web site):

Saddlebacking: sad•dle•back•ing \ˈsa-dəl-ˈba-kiŋ\ vb [fr. Saddleback Church] (2009): the phenomenon of Christian teens engaging in unprotected anal sex in order to preserve their virginities
After attending the Purity Ball, Heather and Bill saddlebacked all night because she’s saving herself for marriage. Unfortunately her parents found out because they got santorum all over the sheets.

(Please note that, in my efforts to investigate the details of this and other witty proclamations, I had to look up the definition of Savage’s term “santorum”, mentioned in the example. It means…well, look for yourself.

Oh, and spread the word. (Or words, in this case.)

Is it any wonder?

The neoconservatives have not clue one.

“I didn’t like the line in the [inaugural] speech about how we didn’t have to compromise our values to protect ourselves. Sometimes we do.”
– Bill O’Reilly

A Tale of Two Cities

It was the best of the police, and it was the worst of the police.

I’m doing some work in Milwaukee, and I am staying at a hotel in the western suburbs. Just as I was getting ready for bed a couple of nights ago, I got a call from the hotel front desk. It was explained to me that the interior dome light of my car was still on. I thanked the caller, got clothes back on, and rode the elevator downstairs before I realized that there was no way the hotel knew which car was mine. I wondered how they knew who to call.

It became clearer as I walked out the lobby door. There was an unmarked police car (in my youth it would have been called “smokey in a plain brown wrapper”) idling at the curb. Apparently the policeman, who was on evening patrol, saw the light on in my car, called the license tag in to dispatch to get my name, and went into the hotel to let them know they had a guest with a light left on.

Here was public service at its shining best, on a very cold (10° F) night.

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Shift the viewpoint to Detroit and the point-in-time to last night.

My sweetheart’s son was on his way home from work while freezing rain fell. There was no evidence of salt having been laid on the road, so the boy was driving with a bit of extra care. He lost control of his car on a large patch of ice and he swerved into the curb, which he hit rather hard.

While he sat gathering his wits about him, a passing car rear-ended him. In the next 30 minutes while his car sat still at the curb, he was rear-ended by another car (which failed to stop to exchange insurance information), he was hit by a bus, and then hit by another bus (which jammed up against his car), and then that bus was struck by two more buses (neither of which stopped to render assistance as required by law).

The police showed up over an hour later (and we’re talking about the middle of downtown Detroit).  The boy tried to explain that he was waiting for AAA’s tow truck (which was on the way). He was told that the entire affair was his fault. He offered the license plate numbers of the hit-and-runs he’d experienced. His mother, with whom he was talking on his cell phone, tried to explain the situation to the officer, including the bad road conditions and lack of salt which caused her son to swerve in the first place.

The cop’s reaction? He told her to shut up, hung up on her, impounded the now-destroyed car, issued him a ticket for “having caused the entire incident”, and forced him into the impound tow truck. (The boy was told he’d be arrested if he waited at the accident site for a ride.) The cop also would not give the boy an accident report number, although he then turned around and gave it to the driver of the immobilized bus.

At this point his mother, who lives across the river in Windsor, Ontario, was feeling a wrath that could have cowered a demon. She ended up having to cross into the U.S. (on horrifically slick roads), discovered that she couldn’t get to him herself, called a cab for her son (the impound lot attendant claimed to have done so, but didn’t), and waited for him patiently at the border crossing. The only bright spot of the evening occurred when a tow truck operator came into the lot, asked the boy how long he’d been waiting for a cab (over 30 minutes, with no result), and then took him to a cab stand.

All this during freezing rain and snow.

~~~~~~~~~~

Remind me why anyone would want to live in such a pesthole.

Let Detroit go bankrupt (pass it on!)

There is a new and absolutely outstanding column in the New York Times from Mitt Romney concerning the proposed bailout of the American automobile industry. If I thought NYT wouldn’t have a cow, I’d just copy and paste the entire article; it really is a gem. But I’m allergic to cease-or-decease letters, so I’ll just quote chunks.

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Romney calls for GM and Ford to sink or swim on their own–gutsy talk from a member of a political party that traditionally chummies up to Big Business.

“Without that bailout, Detroit will need to drastically restructure itself…Detroit needs a turnaround, not a check.”

He calls for tough measures…

“Their huge disadvantage in costs relative to foreign brands must be eliminated”

The cost of domestic car manufacturing in America increases the cost of each car by an estimated $2000. This is caused largely by the cost of benefits and wages given to American car makers. To make American cars economically competitive with foreign cars, therefore, $2000 of features are cut from them. Romney calls for a realignment of benefits and wages from both labor and management to improve this.

“Management as is must go”

Preach, brother, preach! Upper management in Detroit has been criminally shortsighted and blindly clinging to outmoded business models.

“The enmity between labor and management comes to an end…accepting sanity in salaries and perks”

Again, too much “me, me, me” going on. Labor contracts for the auto industry have nothing short of criminally negligent. When both labor and management expect and get reasonable wages and perks, that will go a long way toward a healthier industry.

“Investments must be made for the future”

He calls for vastly increased energy research, and for the domestic car industry to show at least some of the energy that foreign manufacturers have put into electric and hybrid vehicles. He also calls for not taking out pay and benefit cuts on the dealerships that sell their cars.

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This is a hell of an op-ed column. Pass it on.

“I don’t feel equal anymore. It was a great feeling, while it lasted.”

California’s Proposition 8, recently approved by a slim majority of voters in that state, consisted of a single line:

“Only marriage between a man and a woman

is valid or recognized in California.”

I’m not going to argue the morality of the proposition, as incredibly, unbelievably immoral as it is. We live in a republican democracy, which means that a voting majority can make the rules for the area they live in no matter how inane or biased those rules may be. Vox populi, vox Dei, or some crapola like that.

Protect marriage from...what?

What I want to touch upon is the aftermath. The majority of minority voters, and the Mormon and the Catholic Churches (though perhaps not a majority of their members) were quite vocal in their support for this proposition. Large amounts of money were raised and spent on advertising campaigns that were primers for FUD marketing. Among their claims:

• Children would be forced to learn the details of same-sex marriage.
• Gay bars would be allowed to exist anywhere, even locations next to school.
• Church members were told that congregations could be legally forced to allow same-sex marriages in their churches.

Homophobia was rampant.

Now those same groups that have historically demanded their right to speak freely are now trying to invoke a halt to the same sort of free expression for those who are loudly protesting and boycotting Prop 8 supporters. They have been trying to file suits to stop protesters and boycotters from exercising their right of free expression.

The greatest irony of this situation is that ethnic minorities have spent decades of blood, sweat, and tears trying to gain those civil rights and privileges granted non-minorities from the inception of this country. (The Mormons did the same thing in the 19th century by migrating to Utah.) And now these groups, who made hues and cries for the civility available to others, are making a concerted effort to deny it to other minorities.

(The title for this piece comes from this article.)

$10 bills, and missed steps

Thumbs up:

Have you ever been broke and found yourself walking down the street wishing, “Geez, I wish I had enough money to get that espresso and iced cardamom cookie over at Nina’s”, and glorioski! you find a $10 bill wedged in a crack in the sidewalk.

That’s something like what happened to me last night. I’m in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, for a class, and my cohort-in-crime Haddassa called me and said, “You should take a look at Carolina Breweries in Chapel Hill.”

So I had a Tar Heel Burger, which was rather dry and tasteless. However, it was not entirely the restaurant’s fault; blame the state of North Carolina for not allowing hamburger to be cooked any less than ‘medium’. I started out, however, with an alcoholic version of that $10 bill–their Copperline Amber Ale. From their site:

I knew I’d made the right choice of beer when I hovered my nose over it. I was instantly hit with a distinct toasted marshmellow aroma. It was followed by a palate that contains caramel, a nicely blended malt overtone, and just enough fruit and hops fighting it out to make for a pleasantly isometric struggle. I really like beers with complex tastes and noses that vie well for attention without clashing badly, and I really liked this one. A lot.

Thumbs down:

You ever take that 11th step down a familiar stairway, thinking you’re all the way down. And then you discover that the level of perversity in the Universe has tended yet again toward a maximum, while unpleasantly discovering that the treacherous Stairway Fairies have installed a 12th step while you were asleep?

That is what else happened to me last night. The next beer I tried from Carolina Breweries was their Octoberfest. From their site:

Understand here that I usually adore octoberfest-style beers. They are traditionally fall beers (as the name indicates), and usually rich with malts, spices, and usually just a hint of sweetness about them. They are often on the creamy side, similar to some stouts, and these combinations usually make for a good cold-weather brew. European octoberfests tend to be drier than their slightly sweeter American counterparts, but they’re all usually good.

I hit that 12th step rather badly. The beer was watery, with badly blended, bland flavors that were overpowered by (to tell the bald truth) not much in the way of hops. When a mild hop chemistry can overcome an octoberfest-style drink’s appeal, you know there’s something really, really wrong. Nix on that one.

(BTW, their sweet potato pie is not to be believed. I have never had better, and I can say, being a retired old-fashioned-southern-gentleman as I am, that I’ve had a lot of them.)

So, one thumbs-up (a big one), and one thumbs-down. The Copperline was good enough that I will definitely go back for it; the plan is to return later this week to try their Old North State Stout and Western Wheat as well.

Vox populi, vox Dei

Subtitle: …and just how the HELL did we get into this mess??

Brasso, elbow grease, and duty

For reasons not worth going into now, I am currently renting an apartment in St. Paul. The house was built in 1894-5, and it has been blessed with a series of owners and tenants that have not painted the beautiful woodwork such houses often possess.  The original maple flooring is still in place. Most of the original door and window hardware is also still in place, including solid brass doorknobs and copper-tone door plates and locks (most of which still work).

After and before

I’ve been slowly going cleaning up the tarnished hardware, and have found sublime beauty in what I’m finding. I’m also generating self-satisfaction in making the apartment look as well-kept as can be done reasonably.

The floor of the larger bedroom had beat-up wall-to-wall carpet, and I struck a blow for a healthier, carpetless environment by ripping it out, along with the pad and the carpet strip (staples and nails in this beautiful maple!). I’m now in the process of negotiating with the landlord to have the now-uncovered floor’s maple refinished.

Why am I going through all this trouble and work (and some personal expense I’ve voluntarily undergone)?

Not only do I like to live in a place that looks nice, but I feel there is a joyfully obligation on my part to restore some fine craftsmanship to a state where it can be appreciated. So much conscientious craft went into making a house like this that I feel I have a moral obligation to myself to do something to bring it back.

One should always be careful when undertaking obligations. Be sure that it is something on which you are getting a return. It might be as simple as the feeling of a job well done or renovating something that pleases you, or it could be as great as the indescribably sublime joy of conceiving and raising a child. Rational self-interest is your guide here.

Always be sure that any duty you undertake is undertaken because there is a return on it, for you or someone important to you.

A fable of connections, or How to glurge in one easy step

(from an anonymous source on the web)

His name was Fleming, and he was a poor Scottish farmer. One day, while trying to make a living for his family, he heard a cry for help coming from a nearby bog. He dropped his tools and ran toward the cry. He found a terrified boy mired to his waist in black muck, screaming and struggling to free himself. Farmer Fleming saved the lad from what could have been a slow and terrifying death.

The next day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman’s sparse surroundings. An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.

‘I want to repay you,’ said the nobleman. ‘You saved my son’s life.’

‘No, I can’t accept payment for what I did,’ the Scottish farmer replied.

At that moment, the farmer’s own son came to the door of the family hovel. ‘Is that your son?’ the nobleman asked.

‘Yes,’ the farmer replied proudly.

‘I’ll make you a deal. Let me provide him with the level of education my own son will enjoy. If the lad is anything like his father, he’ll no doubt grow to be a man we both will be proud of.’ The farmer agreed.

Fleming’s son attended the very best schools, and in time graduated from St. Mary’s Hospital Medical School in London, He went on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of the antibiotic penicillin.

Years afterward, the same nobleman’s son who was saved from the bog was stricken with pneumonia. It was penicillin that saved his life.

The name of the nobleman had been Lord Randolph Churchill.

The first name of the boy who was rescued was Winston.

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…and if this sounds like an incredible story, it is indeed an incredible story. It’s also not true. None of it. As a boy Churchill never vacationed in an incredibly remote corner of highlands Scotland. Fleming didn’t rush into a highly successful medical career, and Churchill was treated with sulfa and digitalis, not penicillin, when he came down with pneumonia.

Lesson? Always, always confirm what you proclaim beforehand.

Oh, glurge? Google is your friend.

(thanks to Snopes for a little background research)