Dr. Kidglove strikes again.
Elizabeth Warren, a Harvard professor with impeccable credentials, is every reasonable person's choice to head the new Consumer Protection Bureau. In her previous government service, she has demonstrated a shrewd understanding of finance and an even better understanding of the problems a corrupt system imposes on American consumers.
Of course Republicans hate her. Their corporate masters hate her even more.
And so, according to Bloomberg news, our alleged president, Obama, is about to name someone else to head the bureau.
That someone, according to Bloomberg, is a former banker.
Just what we need.
Next: finding a former kleptomaniac to guard Fort Knox.
"Don't tell Momma I'm a journalist; say I play the piano in a whorehouse."
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Murdoch, Mea Culpas and Unremarked Crimes
It's fun watching the rich and powerful squirm in their own pudding, and in the case of Rupert Murdoch, it's downright delicious.
It also reinforces my theory that the decline of modern civilization began the day that politicians, propagandists and press lords realized that emotion is far more useful in manipulating the masses than Reason. This explains today's obscene transmogrification of the United States Constitution, one of the sublime fruits of the Age of Reason.
I've just read a report that Murdoch has had a meeting with the family of Milly Dowler, the 13-year-old murder victim, whose phones were hacked when police were searching for the missing girl in 2002. Clearly he will go to any lengths to control the damage from what's now being called "the hacking scandal."
Earlier today, a highly placed head rolled: Rebekah Brooks, editor of Murdoch's tabloid News of the World when the Dowler phone taps took place, resigned. A favorite of Rupert's, she had ascended to head all of his U.K. newspaper operations. After closing News of the World, he's buying space in other British newspapers to publish an apology.
There are rumblings in the United States Congress about investigating Murdoch's holdings in this country -- the Wall Street Journal, New York Post and Fox "News" television -- to see if they've committed crimes against journalism and the public interest. They're thinking of electronic hacking and police payoffs.
The intercepts of a grief-stricken family's private conversations after the murder of a child reeks of villainy, of course. The emotional reaction of the public has so damaged Murdoch's empire that he personally is conducting the mea culpa propaganda.
It requires more than emotion, however, to recognize the crimes of Rupert's U.S. empire, particularly Fox Fiction. Yet the deliberate lies, distortions, salacious rumor mongering and sleazy innuendo that Fox Fiction garbs as "news", arguably, has done more harm to more people than the intercepted phone messages in the U.K.
But for the most part it's only a handful of souls on the American political left who have pointed accusatory fingers at the Murdoch minions for these transgressions against truth. The public, obviously, is charmed by them and keeps electing the wingnuts, teapot windbags and Christofascist fruitcakes Fox endorses and beatifies.
But isn't Fox's proud alliance with Andrew Breitbart and his boy-toy with the hidden cameras, James O'Keefe, just as wretched as NOTW's telephone spying on grief-stricken families? Like the pols, performers and royals who previously were spied upon by Murdoch's so-called journalists, the victims of the Fox pals' hidden-camera scams lacked the emotional socko of a murdered 13-year-old.
I really don't expect much more than self-serving noise from American politicians in the calls for an "investigation" of Murdoch's U.S. companies.
But wouldn't it be fun if some of the top Foxies were made to squirm just a little bit, like their Big Boss?
It also reinforces my theory that the decline of modern civilization began the day that politicians, propagandists and press lords realized that emotion is far more useful in manipulating the masses than Reason. This explains today's obscene transmogrification of the United States Constitution, one of the sublime fruits of the Age of Reason.
I've just read a report that Murdoch has had a meeting with the family of Milly Dowler, the 13-year-old murder victim, whose phones were hacked when police were searching for the missing girl in 2002. Clearly he will go to any lengths to control the damage from what's now being called "the hacking scandal."
Earlier today, a highly placed head rolled: Rebekah Brooks, editor of Murdoch's tabloid News of the World when the Dowler phone taps took place, resigned. A favorite of Rupert's, she had ascended to head all of his U.K. newspaper operations. After closing News of the World, he's buying space in other British newspapers to publish an apology.
There are rumblings in the United States Congress about investigating Murdoch's holdings in this country -- the Wall Street Journal, New York Post and Fox "News" television -- to see if they've committed crimes against journalism and the public interest. They're thinking of electronic hacking and police payoffs.
The intercepts of a grief-stricken family's private conversations after the murder of a child reeks of villainy, of course. The emotional reaction of the public has so damaged Murdoch's empire that he personally is conducting the mea culpa propaganda.
It requires more than emotion, however, to recognize the crimes of Rupert's U.S. empire, particularly Fox Fiction. Yet the deliberate lies, distortions, salacious rumor mongering and sleazy innuendo that Fox Fiction garbs as "news", arguably, has done more harm to more people than the intercepted phone messages in the U.K.
But for the most part it's only a handful of souls on the American political left who have pointed accusatory fingers at the Murdoch minions for these transgressions against truth. The public, obviously, is charmed by them and keeps electing the wingnuts, teapot windbags and Christofascist fruitcakes Fox endorses and beatifies.
But isn't Fox's proud alliance with Andrew Breitbart and his boy-toy with the hidden cameras, James O'Keefe, just as wretched as NOTW's telephone spying on grief-stricken families? Like the pols, performers and royals who previously were spied upon by Murdoch's so-called journalists, the victims of the Fox pals' hidden-camera scams lacked the emotional socko of a murdered 13-year-old.
I really don't expect much more than self-serving noise from American politicians in the calls for an "investigation" of Murdoch's U.S. companies.
But wouldn't it be fun if some of the top Foxies were made to squirm just a little bit, like their Big Boss?
Friday, July 8, 2011
To Eli and His Ilk: Let's Draft a Progressive
Perhaps because it's my ox they're goring, propriety requires me to remain silent on Dr. Kidglove's obscene plan to slash Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security.
Fuck propriety.
The crowning glories of the New Deal and the Great Society, these social programs have done more to improve the quality of life for more people than any other act of government in United States history.
What kind of buffoon cannot see the difference between tax money spent to improve the quality of life for American citizens, and tax money spent to kill imaginary enemies abroad, at the cost of thousands of young American lives as well?
Ans.: virtually every damned buffoon we've elected to office in Washington.
The corporations who profit from this buffoonery, thanks to the Supreme Court Gang of Five, will lavish filthy lucre on the same buffoons, and worse ones, to perpetuate our endless war on innocents, including the American poor and middle classes.
The media buffoons will lie and distort to equate the madness with patriotism; they will continue to refer to the money spent making illegal wars as "defense spending;" they will continue to "report" that our national deficit must be reduced by taking away Grandma's meals on wheels, arthritis medication and government-subsidized hip replacement surgery.
Kidglove/Obama has betrayed millions of people who voted for him. His campaign statements cautioning against too much executive power to make war without consulting Congress were outright lies. He scuttled true health care improvement behind our backs before legislation had even been drafted. He has redoubled his predecessor's worst transgressions against civil liberties and human rights. He is a disaster.
The spineless "leaders" of his party, and its members of Congress, are incapable of standing up to the corporatocracy that pulls his strings because they, too, are owned by the planet rapers, the makers of deadly weapons, the profit-gorged masters of greed on Wall Street and the compliant ignoramuses of Main Street.
"Liberals" have become pariahs in our oligarchy. The progressive intelligentsia surveys the political scene and, with a resigned sigh, says there's no choice in sight in 2012 so we just won't vote.
Yet it was far-sighted young people like Eli Pariser of MoveOn who realized the potential of the internet as a political force. They were highly instrumental in forging Kidglove's successful presidential campaign. Now they can, if they choose, give progressives an alternative: a Draft-a-Progressive campaign on the internet.
Even without the internet, Eisenhower backers were able to conduct a successful write-in campaign for Ike in the Republican primaries of 1952.
The savvy tekkies of today surely could devise a successful internet campaign to Draft a Progressive. Then, assuming the draftees consented, they could wage a write-in campaign in the 2012 general election for president and vice-president.
The progressive draftees wouldn't win. But it would give progressive voters a voice. Hawaii and eight other states, mostly in the south and west, prohibit write-in votes for President. Most of the others require some paperwork, often including a list of electors who would represent a winning write-in candidate in the electoral college. States like Iowa, New Hampshire, Oregon, Rhode Island and Vermont make it relatively easy to run a write-in campaign.
What have we got to lose? An election? Hell, we lost the last one, but didn't realize it until after Kidglove had already been sworn in.
Oh, rueful day.
Fuck propriety.
The crowning glories of the New Deal and the Great Society, these social programs have done more to improve the quality of life for more people than any other act of government in United States history.
What kind of buffoon cannot see the difference between tax money spent to improve the quality of life for American citizens, and tax money spent to kill imaginary enemies abroad, at the cost of thousands of young American lives as well?
Ans.: virtually every damned buffoon we've elected to office in Washington.
The corporations who profit from this buffoonery, thanks to the Supreme Court Gang of Five, will lavish filthy lucre on the same buffoons, and worse ones, to perpetuate our endless war on innocents, including the American poor and middle classes.
The media buffoons will lie and distort to equate the madness with patriotism; they will continue to refer to the money spent making illegal wars as "defense spending;" they will continue to "report" that our national deficit must be reduced by taking away Grandma's meals on wheels, arthritis medication and government-subsidized hip replacement surgery.
Kidglove/Obama has betrayed millions of people who voted for him. His campaign statements cautioning against too much executive power to make war without consulting Congress were outright lies. He scuttled true health care improvement behind our backs before legislation had even been drafted. He has redoubled his predecessor's worst transgressions against civil liberties and human rights. He is a disaster.
The spineless "leaders" of his party, and its members of Congress, are incapable of standing up to the corporatocracy that pulls his strings because they, too, are owned by the planet rapers, the makers of deadly weapons, the profit-gorged masters of greed on Wall Street and the compliant ignoramuses of Main Street.
"Liberals" have become pariahs in our oligarchy. The progressive intelligentsia surveys the political scene and, with a resigned sigh, says there's no choice in sight in 2012 so we just won't vote.
Yet it was far-sighted young people like Eli Pariser of MoveOn who realized the potential of the internet as a political force. They were highly instrumental in forging Kidglove's successful presidential campaign. Now they can, if they choose, give progressives an alternative: a Draft-a-Progressive campaign on the internet.
Even without the internet, Eisenhower backers were able to conduct a successful write-in campaign for Ike in the Republican primaries of 1952.
The savvy tekkies of today surely could devise a successful internet campaign to Draft a Progressive. Then, assuming the draftees consented, they could wage a write-in campaign in the 2012 general election for president and vice-president.
The progressive draftees wouldn't win. But it would give progressive voters a voice. Hawaii and eight other states, mostly in the south and west, prohibit write-in votes for President. Most of the others require some paperwork, often including a list of electors who would represent a winning write-in candidate in the electoral college. States like Iowa, New Hampshire, Oregon, Rhode Island and Vermont make it relatively easy to run a write-in campaign.
What have we got to lose? An election? Hell, we lost the last one, but didn't realize it until after Kidglove had already been sworn in.
Oh, rueful day.
Friday, July 1, 2011
We Have Met the Enemy and He is Us
A California couple reserved a campsite months ago for a three-week stay in Kodachrome Basin State Park, one of the crown jewels of Utah's red rock country.
They pulled out after two days. "We've got welts from head to toe," they said. A great swatch of southern Utah, including virtually all of the Grand Staircase/Escalante national monument, and much of Dixie national forest, is infested with biting midges -- also called "no-see-ums -- and they're making life miserable for early summer visitors.
Long-time residents can't remember anything equal to this infestation of the blood-sucking parasites.
"I don't know why they're so numerous, and so vicious, this year," said a ranger at the multi-agency visitor center in Escalante.
Short-term studies elsewhere in the world, in both the beach and mountain habitats the pests prefer, suggest that global climate change is the culprit. The changes in climate seem to favor parasites.
Shifts in climate alter the landscape. When wildlife populations have to cope with changes in their habitat, their range and behavior often shift dramatically. The timing of annual events such as migrations, mating seasons and hibernation are disrupted. Not just individual species are so affected; the entire web of life, dependent upon seasonal rhythms to survive, is upset.
Thus a campground in Wyoming has suddenly been invaded by a horde of massasauga pygmy rattlesnakes -- hundreds of miles north of their normal range. Warning signs are posted at the entrance to the Firehole site, and the campground manager makes special trips to reiterate the warning for newcomers.
Human behavior is changing the planet that sustains us -- and not for the better.
Visitors to Green River and Rock springs, WY, are urged to travel a scenic loop through the foot of the Uinta Mountains. Wildlife abounds for much of the route. Then you enter the Clay Basin. All you can see for miles is brown desert scrubland pockmarked with the barren circles surrounding gas wells. When the area had been sucked dry midway in the first decade of this century, Questar turned it into a massive gas storage operation: 89,000 feet of pipe, 29 field dehydration units and 44 injection and storage wells. Not a creature stirs. Barren and ugly.
There's a similar wasteland south of Dinosaur National Monument in Colorado. The Worst Congressman, Stevan Pearce of New Mexico, wants to do this to a place called Otero Mesa. It's not as spectacularly beautiful as the despoiled parts of Utah and Colorado, but it's a haven for wildlife including several protected species. If Pearce has his way, their habitat will be replaced by lifeless circles around gas wells. The extraction procedures will threaten with poisons a vast underground water table,t he potential partial solution to a sere region's ongoing water shortages.
What fools these mortals be.
Wildfires, stoked by strong winds far beyond the normal windy season, are destroying swaths of trees and brush in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.
Tornadoes in record numbers and severity savaged other parts of the country. In areas where water is abundant, swollen rivers flood cities and threaten nuclear plants. Atlantic coastal communities await with trepidation the coming of the next hurricane season, and the biological fate of the Gulf of Mexico remains uncertain in the wake of the BP oil disaster.
The profits of Questar and BP -- like those of their fellow corporate rapists Exxon, Chevron, et al -- soar and their CEO's bonuses soar with them. Yet nearly one in ten Americans is jobless and those who are employed see no increase in their paychecks even as food costs skyrocket.
Happy Independence Day, America.
They pulled out after two days. "We've got welts from head to toe," they said. A great swatch of southern Utah, including virtually all of the Grand Staircase/Escalante national monument, and much of Dixie national forest, is infested with biting midges -- also called "no-see-ums -- and they're making life miserable for early summer visitors.
Long-time residents can't remember anything equal to this infestation of the blood-sucking parasites.
"I don't know why they're so numerous, and so vicious, this year," said a ranger at the multi-agency visitor center in Escalante.
Short-term studies elsewhere in the world, in both the beach and mountain habitats the pests prefer, suggest that global climate change is the culprit. The changes in climate seem to favor parasites.
Shifts in climate alter the landscape. When wildlife populations have to cope with changes in their habitat, their range and behavior often shift dramatically. The timing of annual events such as migrations, mating seasons and hibernation are disrupted. Not just individual species are so affected; the entire web of life, dependent upon seasonal rhythms to survive, is upset.
Thus a campground in Wyoming has suddenly been invaded by a horde of massasauga pygmy rattlesnakes -- hundreds of miles north of their normal range. Warning signs are posted at the entrance to the Firehole site, and the campground manager makes special trips to reiterate the warning for newcomers.
Human behavior is changing the planet that sustains us -- and not for the better.
Visitors to Green River and Rock springs, WY, are urged to travel a scenic loop through the foot of the Uinta Mountains. Wildlife abounds for much of the route. Then you enter the Clay Basin. All you can see for miles is brown desert scrubland pockmarked with the barren circles surrounding gas wells. When the area had been sucked dry midway in the first decade of this century, Questar turned it into a massive gas storage operation: 89,000 feet of pipe, 29 field dehydration units and 44 injection and storage wells. Not a creature stirs. Barren and ugly.
There's a similar wasteland south of Dinosaur National Monument in Colorado. The Worst Congressman, Stevan Pearce of New Mexico, wants to do this to a place called Otero Mesa. It's not as spectacularly beautiful as the despoiled parts of Utah and Colorado, but it's a haven for wildlife including several protected species. If Pearce has his way, their habitat will be replaced by lifeless circles around gas wells. The extraction procedures will threaten with poisons a vast underground water table,t he potential partial solution to a sere region's ongoing water shortages.
What fools these mortals be.
Wildfires, stoked by strong winds far beyond the normal windy season, are destroying swaths of trees and brush in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.
Tornadoes in record numbers and severity savaged other parts of the country. In areas where water is abundant, swollen rivers flood cities and threaten nuclear plants. Atlantic coastal communities await with trepidation the coming of the next hurricane season, and the biological fate of the Gulf of Mexico remains uncertain in the wake of the BP oil disaster.
The profits of Questar and BP -- like those of their fellow corporate rapists Exxon, Chevron, et al -- soar and their CEO's bonuses soar with them. Yet nearly one in ten Americans is jobless and those who are employed see no increase in their paychecks even as food costs skyrocket.
Happy Independence Day, America.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
A Morning Walk in Paradise
Spend enough time in the wilderness -- or what passes for wilderness in these United States -- and grim reality begins to fade. Let's see, we're fighting wars where? There's still Iraq (called Eye-rack around here); Afghanistan, Pakistan, Libya . . . Yemen, is that an official war yet? Hell, everything, all the clandestine crap, the hired-hand killings, all the stuff that sustains the insatiable greed of the military-industrial oligarchs, it's all war. War's our bidness, Bubba, and don't you ever fergit it.
But out here, I'll try.
We mount a vistaed slope of pinion, juniper and Mormon tea. Brandi, a rambunctious pup who's trying to learn, between bouts of mischief, to be a trail dog, looks for something to chase. Finding nothing, he decides to run around In circles while I rest on the fallen trunk of a juniper, savoring the view of distant valley and more distant pink and gray cliffs. I imagine this tree was standing tall and green and lush with berries when Silas Smith and his scouts passed by here in 1879, looking for a shortcut across the Colorado River. When Brandi tires, and flops down beside me for a drink, we consider the next leg of our morning walk.
It's so quiet that even I, thanks to my high-tech and even higher-priced new hearing aids, can hear the gnat buzzing two feet from my head, looking for an unbitten place to have lunch. You pay a price to walk in places such as this, but the precious silence alone makes it worthwhile. Thirst-slaked and bored, my companion begins to dig in the dry, red earth. An abundance of ornery critters is part, too, of the price of being here; wouldn't want my curious pup to get acquainted with one the hard way. We move on.
Half a mile further on, we gaze down into a deep gulch, carved by snow melt and spring and autumn rains to nurture the green valley below. I can see a negotiable route down to the dry bed, and back up the opposing slope to an inviting plateau. Once, and it doesn't seem all that long ago (but it was), I'd have gone that way without hesitation, maybe even raced my dog to the other side, but that wasn't an option now. My tired old legs had just enough gas In the tank (I hoped) to get me back to the campsite. We had walked somewhat farther than I intended, and it would be uphill all the way back.
Brandi led us home. Like all good trail dogs, he stops periodically, turns, and waits for his Geezer to catch up. "How was your walk?" the Boss asked when we returned. "Piece of cake," I said. "This is my favorite place in the entire world." When I'm not near the girl I love, I love the girl I'm near.
We were low on some supplies and would normally have driven to the nearest town to replenish them, but they'd lost one of their own in one of our wars, and the memorial service was to be held this day: businesses were closing and mourners were coming from miles around. They'd wave flags and the high school band would play the Marine Hymn and some Sousa, maybe, and they'd say how proud they were of Our Troops over there fighting for democracy. Over There. Endless war can seem right, and heroic, even, as long as it's always Over There. Last time I looked, only one member of Congress, and no senior administration official, had close blood kin among Our Troops Over There. Still, said the clerk at the local hardware store, who knew the dead local soldier well, "it's better to fight them Over There than here at home."
This is a beautiful place, undisturbed, sparsely populated and lightly visited. Brandi's snoozing at my feet. We're at peace here in our shady place, but the sun is high in the sky, and soon we'll have to go out into the blazing heat, another of the costs of experiencing silence and beauty.
Even in Paradise, reality intrudes.
Bahrain. I forgot about Bahrain. The CIA is on the ground there, isn't it ?
But out here, I'll try.
We mount a vistaed slope of pinion, juniper and Mormon tea. Brandi, a rambunctious pup who's trying to learn, between bouts of mischief, to be a trail dog, looks for something to chase. Finding nothing, he decides to run around In circles while I rest on the fallen trunk of a juniper, savoring the view of distant valley and more distant pink and gray cliffs. I imagine this tree was standing tall and green and lush with berries when Silas Smith and his scouts passed by here in 1879, looking for a shortcut across the Colorado River. When Brandi tires, and flops down beside me for a drink, we consider the next leg of our morning walk.
It's so quiet that even I, thanks to my high-tech and even higher-priced new hearing aids, can hear the gnat buzzing two feet from my head, looking for an unbitten place to have lunch. You pay a price to walk in places such as this, but the precious silence alone makes it worthwhile. Thirst-slaked and bored, my companion begins to dig in the dry, red earth. An abundance of ornery critters is part, too, of the price of being here; wouldn't want my curious pup to get acquainted with one the hard way. We move on.
Half a mile further on, we gaze down into a deep gulch, carved by snow melt and spring and autumn rains to nurture the green valley below. I can see a negotiable route down to the dry bed, and back up the opposing slope to an inviting plateau. Once, and it doesn't seem all that long ago (but it was), I'd have gone that way without hesitation, maybe even raced my dog to the other side, but that wasn't an option now. My tired old legs had just enough gas In the tank (I hoped) to get me back to the campsite. We had walked somewhat farther than I intended, and it would be uphill all the way back.
Brandi led us home. Like all good trail dogs, he stops periodically, turns, and waits for his Geezer to catch up. "How was your walk?" the Boss asked when we returned. "Piece of cake," I said. "This is my favorite place in the entire world." When I'm not near the girl I love, I love the girl I'm near.
We were low on some supplies and would normally have driven to the nearest town to replenish them, but they'd lost one of their own in one of our wars, and the memorial service was to be held this day: businesses were closing and mourners were coming from miles around. They'd wave flags and the high school band would play the Marine Hymn and some Sousa, maybe, and they'd say how proud they were of Our Troops over there fighting for democracy. Over There. Endless war can seem right, and heroic, even, as long as it's always Over There. Last time I looked, only one member of Congress, and no senior administration official, had close blood kin among Our Troops Over There. Still, said the clerk at the local hardware store, who knew the dead local soldier well, "it's better to fight them Over There than here at home."
This is a beautiful place, undisturbed, sparsely populated and lightly visited. Brandi's snoozing at my feet. We're at peace here in our shady place, but the sun is high in the sky, and soon we'll have to go out into the blazing heat, another of the costs of experiencing silence and beauty.
Even in Paradise, reality intrudes.
Bahrain. I forgot about Bahrain. The CIA is on the ground there, isn't it ?
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Affirmation of the Great Tennis Paradox
The match was over after the tenth game of the first set. Rafael Nadal, certainly the best player ever to set foot on a clay tennis court, would win his sixth French Open championship, tying him with Bjorn Borg for most ever.
He'll break the record with his seventh title in 2012.
Not even Borg could have executed the two shots that enabled Nadal to break Federer's serve in that tenth game, with Federer serving for a set he had dominated up to that point.
Federer hit two shots that were sure-fire winners -- except that somehow Nadal returned them both. He lunged desperately for a ball no other player could hope to reach, and threw up a lob that enabled him to take control of the point. He followed with an impossible backhand to win a point any other player in the world would have lost.
Yes, there were more sets to be played before Nadal's victory was official. Yes, Federer, a man of incomparable grace and artistry on any surface, made the second set close, and managed to win the third before Nadal performed the coup de grace.
Yes, it was an exciting match -- another in a string of gems these two men have played. But it was, as usual in the Big Ones, another victory for Nadal. It reinforced the irony of their rivalry: Federer, who otherwise, with his record number of Grand Slam championships, has a claim to be called Best Player Ever, clearly is only the second-best player of his era.
The two impossible shots in the tenth game tell the story: on clay, when Nadal is at his best, it is impossible to hit a ball that stays in the court that he can't, somehow, return, often for winners of his own. If not the greatest player of all time, he is surely the finest defensive player of all time.
These matches are contests of will; a brutal test of which player can impose his will on the other. After that tenth game, even Roger knew, deep, deep inside, that this was another day when Nadal's will would prevail,.
Federer prepared assiduously for this tournament, adding topspin to a vulnerable backhand so that he could place the ball deeper on Nadal's side of the court. He played the best clay court tournament of his career, losing only one set -- to soon-to-be No. 1 Novack Djokovic--en route to the finals.
He was confident, as always, before the match, and played confidently for nine games. One could forgive him for thinking, "This time, it's mine!" But then he hit two sure winners -- and lost both points.
And so the man many tennis aficionados have anointed Best Player Ever remains only the second-best of his own era.
Go figure.
He'll break the record with his seventh title in 2012.
Not even Borg could have executed the two shots that enabled Nadal to break Federer's serve in that tenth game, with Federer serving for a set he had dominated up to that point.
Federer hit two shots that were sure-fire winners -- except that somehow Nadal returned them both. He lunged desperately for a ball no other player could hope to reach, and threw up a lob that enabled him to take control of the point. He followed with an impossible backhand to win a point any other player in the world would have lost.
Yes, there were more sets to be played before Nadal's victory was official. Yes, Federer, a man of incomparable grace and artistry on any surface, made the second set close, and managed to win the third before Nadal performed the coup de grace.
Yes, it was an exciting match -- another in a string of gems these two men have played. But it was, as usual in the Big Ones, another victory for Nadal. It reinforced the irony of their rivalry: Federer, who otherwise, with his record number of Grand Slam championships, has a claim to be called Best Player Ever, clearly is only the second-best player of his era.
The two impossible shots in the tenth game tell the story: on clay, when Nadal is at his best, it is impossible to hit a ball that stays in the court that he can't, somehow, return, often for winners of his own. If not the greatest player of all time, he is surely the finest defensive player of all time.
These matches are contests of will; a brutal test of which player can impose his will on the other. After that tenth game, even Roger knew, deep, deep inside, that this was another day when Nadal's will would prevail,.
Federer prepared assiduously for this tournament, adding topspin to a vulnerable backhand so that he could place the ball deeper on Nadal's side of the court. He played the best clay court tournament of his career, losing only one set -- to soon-to-be No. 1 Novack Djokovic--en route to the finals.
He was confident, as always, before the match, and played confidently for nine games. One could forgive him for thinking, "This time, it's mine!" But then he hit two sure winners -- and lost both points.
And so the man many tennis aficionados have anointed Best Player Ever remains only the second-best of his own era.
Go figure.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Shut Up. Stop Whining. Vote Republican. Especially, Shut Up!
Once again the Republican party, including the Worst Congressman in History who is named Stevan Pearce and purports to represent southern New Mexico, is calling its jackass a pony and putting a feather in its cap. But that's not Macaroni. That's equine excrement.
They're trying to bully television stations into refusing to air an ad by a progressive group that asserts -- accurately -- that the House Republicans' infamous "Ryan Budget" would end Medicare.
It is a clear and obvious fact that House Republicans would end not just Medicare, but also Medicaid and other social programs that benefit the aged, the sick, the unemployed and the impoverished.
The Republicans say they are not, either, ending Medicare; they would still call their program "medicare," even though it would NOT pay for your medical care the way Medicare does. Confusing? The Republicans want it that way. What they call "medicare" is in fact a system of providing vouchers that you could use to pay a private insurer for medical coverage -- if you can find one that will accept your vouchers as payment in full for a policy, which of course no private insurer will do since they'd all be free to raise premiums far above the value of the vouchers. It would legalize robbery by insurers from the people who can least afford to be robbed.
This is the basic Republican philosophy: government exists to serve the interests of only the richest and most powerful people and institutions in the land. The most powerful institutions in the land, of course, are corporations, which, according to the Worst Supreme Court in History are people, too. Real people -- workers, family farmers, small businessmen, the unemployed, the sick, the tired, the poor, those who speak with funny accents, those whose skin is the wrong color -- are not entitled to suck at the teat of government because that causes the richest and most powerful people to pay taxes, which are sinful, evil things that only the sick, the tired, the poor and the afflicted should have to pay because they can't afford multimillionaire lawyers and accountants and lobbyists to create loopholes that allow them to pay virtually no tax.
So stop whining. Crawl off somewhere and suffer in silence, you lazy unemployed slobs, you welfare queen sluts, you baby-factory refugees, you ignorant non-English speaking leaches, you tree-hugging enviro nerds, you bleeding-heart Commie ratfink libruls, you . . . well, you know who you are.
This is Merka, by God, the land of the Red, White and Blue, the flag-waving, tea--bagging, race-baiting, other-hating, war-making, bloodthirsty, world-ruling home of the brave and land of the free.
Love it or leave it.
They're trying to bully television stations into refusing to air an ad by a progressive group that asserts -- accurately -- that the House Republicans' infamous "Ryan Budget" would end Medicare.
It is a clear and obvious fact that House Republicans would end not just Medicare, but also Medicaid and other social programs that benefit the aged, the sick, the unemployed and the impoverished.
The Republicans say they are not, either, ending Medicare; they would still call their program "medicare," even though it would NOT pay for your medical care the way Medicare does. Confusing? The Republicans want it that way. What they call "medicare" is in fact a system of providing vouchers that you could use to pay a private insurer for medical coverage -- if you can find one that will accept your vouchers as payment in full for a policy, which of course no private insurer will do since they'd all be free to raise premiums far above the value of the vouchers. It would legalize robbery by insurers from the people who can least afford to be robbed.
This is the basic Republican philosophy: government exists to serve the interests of only the richest and most powerful people and institutions in the land. The most powerful institutions in the land, of course, are corporations, which, according to the Worst Supreme Court in History are people, too. Real people -- workers, family farmers, small businessmen, the unemployed, the sick, the tired, the poor, those who speak with funny accents, those whose skin is the wrong color -- are not entitled to suck at the teat of government because that causes the richest and most powerful people to pay taxes, which are sinful, evil things that only the sick, the tired, the poor and the afflicted should have to pay because they can't afford multimillionaire lawyers and accountants and lobbyists to create loopholes that allow them to pay virtually no tax.
So stop whining. Crawl off somewhere and suffer in silence, you lazy unemployed slobs, you welfare queen sluts, you baby-factory refugees, you ignorant non-English speaking leaches, you tree-hugging enviro nerds, you bleeding-heart Commie ratfink libruls, you . . . well, you know who you are.
This is Merka, by God, the land of the Red, White and Blue, the flag-waving, tea--bagging, race-baiting, other-hating, war-making, bloodthirsty, world-ruling home of the brave and land of the free.
Love it or leave it.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
What It Wasn't Was Football. Red Alert!
Even with the addition of computer hacking as a reason to bomb someone off the planet, we don't have enough casi belli to keep our perpetual war machine in top form.
Here are a few more acts the Pentagon might use as reasons to wage war:
Flatulism. As Vice-Adm. Gaylord Billy Lee Dunkle, who is in charge of training Navy Seals at a secret base, put it recently: "You ever smelt a Ayrab fart? Wouldn't take too many of 'em to wipe out an entire Merkin city." Far fetched? Not to the Innuit, in whose mythology Matshiskapeu (Fart Man) is a powerful spirit, a Shaman capable of inflicting great pain on humans.
Granted, flatulism can be harmless: St. Augustine, in City of God, spoke approvingly of performers who had "such command of their bowels that they can break wind continuously and at will, so as to produce the effect of singing."
To assure that only terrorist flatulists, who hate us because we have freedom, become targets of war, the Pentagon could make a distinction between "siffleton et bumbulum" (musical farting) and the really, really stinky kind that can cause human beings to suffocate.
Dirty Fingernails. As the WikiLeaks documents demonstrated, our intelligence has verified that Muslims, particularly in the Middle East, are prone to maintaining very dirty fingernails. "Lord knows what kind of killer germs they could have in there," one diplomatic cable said.
Picture hundreds of Muslim terrorists spreading out across the country, dirty fingernails laced with lethal germs, and getting jobs as waiters. And you thought Swine Flu was scary?
Collecting Pornography. Osama bin Laden did this. Enough said.
Francophilia. War is the next step beyond "Freedom Fries." In fact wouldn't it be a good idea to kidnap all the really good French chefs, press them into service cooking for Our Troops, and then bomb the rest of the dam' Frogs off the face of the earth?
Nuclear Disaffection. Germany is going to entirely quit making nuclear energy by 2022. Didn't the Krauts learn anything from two World Wars?
Calling Soccer "Football." Since every country in the world except the United States does it, this would give the Pentagon absolute license to make war on any other country in the world without so much as an "if you please."
Who needs War Powers Acts and Constitutional restraints? Bomb! Kill! Make the world safe for Democracy!
Here are a few more acts the Pentagon might use as reasons to wage war:
Flatulism. As Vice-Adm. Gaylord Billy Lee Dunkle, who is in charge of training Navy Seals at a secret base, put it recently: "You ever smelt a Ayrab fart? Wouldn't take too many of 'em to wipe out an entire Merkin city." Far fetched? Not to the Innuit, in whose mythology Matshiskapeu (Fart Man) is a powerful spirit, a Shaman capable of inflicting great pain on humans.
Granted, flatulism can be harmless: St. Augustine, in City of God, spoke approvingly of performers who had "such command of their bowels that they can break wind continuously and at will, so as to produce the effect of singing."
To assure that only terrorist flatulists, who hate us because we have freedom, become targets of war, the Pentagon could make a distinction between "siffleton et bumbulum" (musical farting) and the really, really stinky kind that can cause human beings to suffocate.
Dirty Fingernails. As the WikiLeaks documents demonstrated, our intelligence has verified that Muslims, particularly in the Middle East, are prone to maintaining very dirty fingernails. "Lord knows what kind of killer germs they could have in there," one diplomatic cable said.
Picture hundreds of Muslim terrorists spreading out across the country, dirty fingernails laced with lethal germs, and getting jobs as waiters. And you thought Swine Flu was scary?
Collecting Pornography. Osama bin Laden did this. Enough said.
Francophilia. War is the next step beyond "Freedom Fries." In fact wouldn't it be a good idea to kidnap all the really good French chefs, press them into service cooking for Our Troops, and then bomb the rest of the dam' Frogs off the face of the earth?
Nuclear Disaffection. Germany is going to entirely quit making nuclear energy by 2022. Didn't the Krauts learn anything from two World Wars?
Calling Soccer "Football." Since every country in the world except the United States does it, this would give the Pentagon absolute license to make war on any other country in the world without so much as an "if you please."
Who needs War Powers Acts and Constitutional restraints? Bomb! Kill! Make the world safe for Democracy!
Did Anyone Bother to Save Noah's Blueprints?
Like all mothers confronting errant, defiant children, Earth is punishing us. And the worst is yet to come.
Here in southern New Mexico, we've gone more than 100 days without rain. The winds came earlier, blew harder and are hanging around longer than any year in memory of most locals.
"Our respiratory systems weren't made to breathe dirt," a doctor friend said the other day when gusts over 40 mph called off our tennis session.
"Wait till 'monsoon season,'" I replied. "We're going to get a 200-year-rain and it'll wash everything, including us, down the arroyo to the Rio Grande." I was only half-joking.
Five years ago we had a "100-year rain." Lots of flood damage. The next year we had another, worse rain. We spent $20,000 repairing the damage to our own house and grounds.
Yet Nature is treating us kindly in comparison with other parts of the world. An epic wave of deadly tornadoes in the central United States. Wildfires in New Mexico, Texas, California and Oklahoma. Massive flooding in the Mississippi River valley, in Australia, in New Zealand, China and Pakistan.
Extreme weather. "Freak" weather? No: it's exactly what all the climate science models predicted: a proliferation of extreme weather events. Climate chaos. The third law of thermodynamics -- entropy -- on steroids.
We're killing the food in the oceans. We're melting the polar ice caps. Grain harvests have failed in Russia, China, Australia and Texas. Farmers in the midwest can't plant grain because their flood-ravaged fields are too wet. This in a world where a fifth of the population already couldn't afford adequate nutrition.
Just a run of bad luck? No, all these bad things are happening because greenhouse gas emissions increased by a record amount last year, to the highest carbon output in history, according to the International Energy Agency. The planet has already warmed by one degree celsius; if it warms by more than another degree, scientists say it will be difficult to sustain human life on most of the globe. Coastal cities, islands, perhaps even entire small countries will be submerged. Massive human migrations will take place. "It is becoming extremely challenging to remain below 2 degrees," Faith Birol, chief economist for the IEA, told the Guardian UK. "The prospect is getting bleaker. That is what the numbers say."
Bill McKibben, one of the first prophets of climate change, says the killer second degree of warming is "already in the pipeline." The year of record carbon emissions just ended, heaped on the emissions in the years immediately preceding it, means that warming energy temporarily stored in the oceans soon will escape to warm the entire envelope of life-sustaining atmosphere around the planet.
This is happening much faster than even the most dire climate change scenarios predicted.
Our government, our political leaders, and particularly our most profitable corporations, have sneered at climate change. In fact, the planet-raping profiteers have financed a massive fog of pseudoscientific nonsense to persuade us that we can adapt to whatever is happening.
Somebody build an Ark. Quickly.
Here in southern New Mexico, we've gone more than 100 days without rain. The winds came earlier, blew harder and are hanging around longer than any year in memory of most locals.
"Our respiratory systems weren't made to breathe dirt," a doctor friend said the other day when gusts over 40 mph called off our tennis session.
"Wait till 'monsoon season,'" I replied. "We're going to get a 200-year-rain and it'll wash everything, including us, down the arroyo to the Rio Grande." I was only half-joking.
Five years ago we had a "100-year rain." Lots of flood damage. The next year we had another, worse rain. We spent $20,000 repairing the damage to our own house and grounds.
Yet Nature is treating us kindly in comparison with other parts of the world. An epic wave of deadly tornadoes in the central United States. Wildfires in New Mexico, Texas, California and Oklahoma. Massive flooding in the Mississippi River valley, in Australia, in New Zealand, China and Pakistan.
Extreme weather. "Freak" weather? No: it's exactly what all the climate science models predicted: a proliferation of extreme weather events. Climate chaos. The third law of thermodynamics -- entropy -- on steroids.
We're killing the food in the oceans. We're melting the polar ice caps. Grain harvests have failed in Russia, China, Australia and Texas. Farmers in the midwest can't plant grain because their flood-ravaged fields are too wet. This in a world where a fifth of the population already couldn't afford adequate nutrition.
Just a run of bad luck? No, all these bad things are happening because greenhouse gas emissions increased by a record amount last year, to the highest carbon output in history, according to the International Energy Agency. The planet has already warmed by one degree celsius; if it warms by more than another degree, scientists say it will be difficult to sustain human life on most of the globe. Coastal cities, islands, perhaps even entire small countries will be submerged. Massive human migrations will take place. "It is becoming extremely challenging to remain below 2 degrees," Faith Birol, chief economist for the IEA, told the Guardian UK. "The prospect is getting bleaker. That is what the numbers say."
Bill McKibben, one of the first prophets of climate change, says the killer second degree of warming is "already in the pipeline." The year of record carbon emissions just ended, heaped on the emissions in the years immediately preceding it, means that warming energy temporarily stored in the oceans soon will escape to warm the entire envelope of life-sustaining atmosphere around the planet.
This is happening much faster than even the most dire climate change scenarios predicted.
Our government, our political leaders, and particularly our most profitable corporations, have sneered at climate change. In fact, the planet-raping profiteers have financed a massive fog of pseudoscientific nonsense to persuade us that we can adapt to whatever is happening.
Somebody build an Ark. Quickly.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
When It was Roland Garros by a Midwest Riverside
Each time I play tennis lately, as I did this morning and do every day that weather and an aging body permit me, I think of the man who gave me the love of the game.
I never knew his name. He'd be in his 90s now, if he's still alive.
It was a long, long time ago, on the public courts in a river town in the midwest. Two kids about 12 -- my best friend and I -- were batting a ball around, trying to do the few basic things they'd been taught about the game.
We hadn't seen him approach, weren't aware he'd been watching, for however long. Long enough to make some observations.
"You've got to change your grip on the backhand," he said. "Somebody told us to hold it this way," I replied, showing the shake-hands forehand grip we'd been taught. "Someone" was a recreation department summer employee, who coached softball and baseball mostly, but occasionally dropped by the tennis courts because his tasks also included organizing the annual city tournament for junior players.
"That's the standard forehand grip," our new acquaintance said. Then he moved our hands the quarter-turn for a proper backhand stroke. "With this grip you can hit the ball flat for a backhand drive, brush up for topspin, or open the face for slice. The way you've been doing it, all you can hit is slice -- floating slice, at that. Hard to control. Give it a try."
For an hour he tossed balls to us -- forehand, backhand; forehand, backhand. After the first half hour, we were comfortable with the grip change, using the bevels on the handle as a tactile guide.
"Come here often?" he asked when we broke for water. "Almost every day in the summer," we said. "OK, " he said, "tomorrow we'll work on the serve."
That was the day I fell in love with tennis. The sound of the ball coming off the strings when he demonstrated serving technique thrilled me to the bone. The serve came naturally to me, and with the tips he gave me on positioning my feet, "lifting" the toss high to get full extension, and snapping my wrist, it became a weapon. Sometimes, when I really popped one on the sweet spot, I imagined I heard that same awesome "thwack" I heard when he served.
He was, in the parlance of the day, a "tennis bum." Kramer, Gonzales, Sedgwick, Vines -- these were the guys who competed for championships. They were "amateurs," there was no professional tennis, but they took money under the table. Sometimes, when a player or two were needed to fill out a draw, the tournament officials would tap into the pool of tennis bums who followed the tour, hoping for a chance. The bums would hustle matches for money with the pretty good local yokels, tanking the first set and then offering to double the bet for a "chance to get even." Sometimes racquet manufacturers would give them day work teaching at clinics at tournament venues. It was barely a living -- thumbing was the usual transportation between tournament sites. He was good, but not good enough to play the tour regularly, and he knew it. "Some day," he told us, "I hope to find a rich widow who will support me in the manner to which I want to become accustomed."
For two weeks, he drilled us, taught us, gave us tips for competition. ("If you play a guy with a big serve you can't return, don't move back, move up inside the baseline. Way, way up. You might block back a few lucky ones. More than likely, the big hitter will get upset by the dare, start over-hitting, and start double faulting. You'll be inside his head then. He'll be putty in your hands.")
One day he simply didn't turn up at the courts. He had moved on to the next tournament venue, looking for suckers to hustle.
But he'd given us the game. By summer's end our play had improved so much that the recreation guy ordered us to "play up" into an older group for the city tournament because we were too good for our peers. My friend Mel upset the No. 4 seed, 6-4. 6-4. I drew the No. 1 seed, but I only lost by a single break in each set. "Toughest serve I've faced in a long time," he told me at the net after the match. "Where'd you learn it?"
"Oh," I said, as cavalierly as a 12-year-old can be, "a friend who plays the tour taught me."
I like to think he found that rich widow. What he gave me was priceless: a lifetime of exercise, friendships and fun.
I never knew his name. He'd be in his 90s now, if he's still alive.
It was a long, long time ago, on the public courts in a river town in the midwest. Two kids about 12 -- my best friend and I -- were batting a ball around, trying to do the few basic things they'd been taught about the game.
We hadn't seen him approach, weren't aware he'd been watching, for however long. Long enough to make some observations.
"You've got to change your grip on the backhand," he said. "Somebody told us to hold it this way," I replied, showing the shake-hands forehand grip we'd been taught. "Someone" was a recreation department summer employee, who coached softball and baseball mostly, but occasionally dropped by the tennis courts because his tasks also included organizing the annual city tournament for junior players.
"That's the standard forehand grip," our new acquaintance said. Then he moved our hands the quarter-turn for a proper backhand stroke. "With this grip you can hit the ball flat for a backhand drive, brush up for topspin, or open the face for slice. The way you've been doing it, all you can hit is slice -- floating slice, at that. Hard to control. Give it a try."
For an hour he tossed balls to us -- forehand, backhand; forehand, backhand. After the first half hour, we were comfortable with the grip change, using the bevels on the handle as a tactile guide.
"Come here often?" he asked when we broke for water. "Almost every day in the summer," we said. "OK, " he said, "tomorrow we'll work on the serve."
That was the day I fell in love with tennis. The sound of the ball coming off the strings when he demonstrated serving technique thrilled me to the bone. The serve came naturally to me, and with the tips he gave me on positioning my feet, "lifting" the toss high to get full extension, and snapping my wrist, it became a weapon. Sometimes, when I really popped one on the sweet spot, I imagined I heard that same awesome "thwack" I heard when he served.
He was, in the parlance of the day, a "tennis bum." Kramer, Gonzales, Sedgwick, Vines -- these were the guys who competed for championships. They were "amateurs," there was no professional tennis, but they took money under the table. Sometimes, when a player or two were needed to fill out a draw, the tournament officials would tap into the pool of tennis bums who followed the tour, hoping for a chance. The bums would hustle matches for money with the pretty good local yokels, tanking the first set and then offering to double the bet for a "chance to get even." Sometimes racquet manufacturers would give them day work teaching at clinics at tournament venues. It was barely a living -- thumbing was the usual transportation between tournament sites. He was good, but not good enough to play the tour regularly, and he knew it. "Some day," he told us, "I hope to find a rich widow who will support me in the manner to which I want to become accustomed."
For two weeks, he drilled us, taught us, gave us tips for competition. ("If you play a guy with a big serve you can't return, don't move back, move up inside the baseline. Way, way up. You might block back a few lucky ones. More than likely, the big hitter will get upset by the dare, start over-hitting, and start double faulting. You'll be inside his head then. He'll be putty in your hands.")
One day he simply didn't turn up at the courts. He had moved on to the next tournament venue, looking for suckers to hustle.
But he'd given us the game. By summer's end our play had improved so much that the recreation guy ordered us to "play up" into an older group for the city tournament because we were too good for our peers. My friend Mel upset the No. 4 seed, 6-4. 6-4. I drew the No. 1 seed, but I only lost by a single break in each set. "Toughest serve I've faced in a long time," he told me at the net after the match. "Where'd you learn it?"
"Oh," I said, as cavalierly as a 12-year-old can be, "a friend who plays the tour taught me."
I like to think he found that rich widow. What he gave me was priceless: a lifetime of exercise, friendships and fun.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The Very, Very Inner Workings of the American Left
The revolutionary council met Saturday for only the third time this year. Hiding in a crowd, we spoke in code.
We'll be meeting again in July, this time under cover of culture. An opera, perhaps, or concert.
To guard against inadvertently leaking keys to our code, I will simply summarize our most recent meeting:
--The country continues to decline at an accelerating rate.
-- Peaceful solutions seem increasingly unlikely.
-- The next step will be to take to the streets. Even with MLK, Ghandi-style protests, there will be violence. We formed a slogan committee. What's the antidote to "Real Men Love Jesus"? Perhaps the creators of the Landover Baptist website will come up with something. Some of us will go to jail, like the Black Panthers and the Freedom Riders.
-- Green tea and boutique beer do not mix well.
--SKG (not his real initials, of course) wasn't really eager to go to jail. "I still have songs to write, a mortgage to pay," he said. CKG (not her real initials) gently chided him: "The drop of rain maketh a hole in the stone, not by violence, but by oft falling." He seemed chagrined, but then musicians always look chagrined.
--Bobby Dee (not his real name) was ready to man the barricades. "How can we take up arms," he asked, "if the NRA has all the guns?" We named a procurement committee to find our where terrorists, who don't usually belong to the NRA, get their weapons. "Now that we've killed bin Laden," Mary Dee wondered aloud, "are there any terrorists left? Armed ones, I mean." We referred the question to the etymology committee.
--"Massive non-violent protests (which of course will be met with violence by those being protested against) have to be tried before we consider taking up arms," counseled Tinkler Tee (not his real name). "Besides, it's a lot cheaper." "Nonsense!" roared Little Lulu (not her real name). "Read your Che." Tinkler appeared chagrined; but then, aging revolutionaries always look chagrined.
-- "Can Obama be re-elected?" Bobby asked. Consensus: Probably. Unless the Republicans manage somehow to find a candidate who does not immediately self-immolate. "Well, then," Bobby continued, "is it not possible that Obama will transform himself into the President we thought we elected in 2008?" We dismantled the procurement committee and formed a committee to investigate Obama's election prospects and the possibility of his transforming himself into the President we thought we had elected in 2008. (Tinkler Tee thought from the outset that the procurement committee was not aptly named. "It's suggestive," he complained).
--"Who got my green chile cheeseburger?" Bobby Dee asked. "SKG has traces of green chile in his mustache," Tinkler Tee observed. Accusations were hurled. The house had no porter. The enchiladas were overbaked. The waiter demanded a bigger tip. Chaos ensued.
--But then Mary Dee spoke up over the cacophony: "The Rive Gauche in July?" Glasses clinked. "The Rive Gauche!" we cried as one.
Chris Hedges to the contrary notwithstanding, the American Left is alive and well.
We'll be meeting again in July, this time under cover of culture. An opera, perhaps, or concert.
To guard against inadvertently leaking keys to our code, I will simply summarize our most recent meeting:
--The country continues to decline at an accelerating rate.
-- Peaceful solutions seem increasingly unlikely.
-- The next step will be to take to the streets. Even with MLK, Ghandi-style protests, there will be violence. We formed a slogan committee. What's the antidote to "Real Men Love Jesus"? Perhaps the creators of the Landover Baptist website will come up with something. Some of us will go to jail, like the Black Panthers and the Freedom Riders.
-- Green tea and boutique beer do not mix well.
--SKG (not his real initials, of course) wasn't really eager to go to jail. "I still have songs to write, a mortgage to pay," he said. CKG (not her real initials) gently chided him: "The drop of rain maketh a hole in the stone, not by violence, but by oft falling." He seemed chagrined, but then musicians always look chagrined.
--Bobby Dee (not his real name) was ready to man the barricades. "How can we take up arms," he asked, "if the NRA has all the guns?" We named a procurement committee to find our where terrorists, who don't usually belong to the NRA, get their weapons. "Now that we've killed bin Laden," Mary Dee wondered aloud, "are there any terrorists left? Armed ones, I mean." We referred the question to the etymology committee.
--"Massive non-violent protests (which of course will be met with violence by those being protested against) have to be tried before we consider taking up arms," counseled Tinkler Tee (not his real name). "Besides, it's a lot cheaper." "Nonsense!" roared Little Lulu (not her real name). "Read your Che." Tinkler appeared chagrined; but then, aging revolutionaries always look chagrined.
-- "Can Obama be re-elected?" Bobby asked. Consensus: Probably. Unless the Republicans manage somehow to find a candidate who does not immediately self-immolate. "Well, then," Bobby continued, "is it not possible that Obama will transform himself into the President we thought we elected in 2008?" We dismantled the procurement committee and formed a committee to investigate Obama's election prospects and the possibility of his transforming himself into the President we thought we had elected in 2008. (Tinkler Tee thought from the outset that the procurement committee was not aptly named. "It's suggestive," he complained).
--"Who got my green chile cheeseburger?" Bobby Dee asked. "SKG has traces of green chile in his mustache," Tinkler Tee observed. Accusations were hurled. The house had no porter. The enchiladas were overbaked. The waiter demanded a bigger tip. Chaos ensued.
--But then Mary Dee spoke up over the cacophony: "The Rive Gauche in July?" Glasses clinked. "The Rive Gauche!" we cried as one.
Chris Hedges to the contrary notwithstanding, the American Left is alive and well.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Brave Little Bird in a Big, Unfriendly Desert
Brandy and I have a new feathered friend. Perhaps "acquaintance" is a better word.
Brandy, our six-month-old boxer-shepherd puppy, is in training to be a responsible canine citizen in natural places (I can't say "the wild" because, thanks to The Worst Congressman in History [see previous post] there is no "wild" in southern New Mexico).
Sometimes, on our way to a favorite piece of desert, we stop at a flat, open space on the desert fringe to play a game of "fetch."
That's where I first spotted our new friend, a desert burrowing owl, standing guard over its nest. Typical of the species, this one is surprisingly bold and approachable. Standing stock still, it allowed me to get within four feet without flinching.
I threw the ball farther and farther away from its burrow so that Brandy wouldn't catch sight or scent of it and give chase. While not listed as threatened or endangered in New Mexico, as it is in several other states, the burrowing owl is considered a "species of concern." That means further biological research and field study are needed to resolve their conservation status, or they are considered sensitive, rare, or declining. I watched a pet kill an owl once; I don't want Brandy to be tempted to do the same.
On a recent visit Brandy crossed the invisible line between him and the owl; it took flight, soaring 20 or 30 meters away from the burrow. Brandy began to give chase, but I called him back. As soon as we backed away the bird returned to the vicinity of its burrow, scolding us with loud "chuck-chick" calls. It stood as tall as it could on its long legs, making itself look bigger than its actual size (8 or 9 inches tall).
I admire the owl's pluck and courage. It'll stand up to any predator, warning it away with "chucks" and sometimes screeches, but if the enemy crosses the invisible line it'll take flight and try to lure the predator as far as possible from the nest.
Even where it's not listed, the burrowing owl population is declining, largely because of people. We're encroaching on and destroying its habitat. At first I thought it odd that our owl had chosen our "fetch field" for its home, opting for a flat, open space rather than the deeper, more heavily vegetated desert.
Moments later I had my answer: a pick-up truck passed by on the nearby road, with two off-road machines in its bed. The ATV people are all over the deep desert, cutting roads where there weren't any, savaging the habitat of countless desert dwellers including the burrowing owl, its food, and its predators. Equal-opportunity habitat-destroyers.
Big contributors to the campaign funds of The Worst Congressman in History, whose name is Steve Pearce and who seems to hate every living thing except his fellow Republicans, especially the very, very rich ones in the extraction industries. Drill, drill, drill. Destroy, destroy, destroy.
I looked back at the burrowing owl, standing tall again and chucking at Brandy to stay away. Be safe, little bird, I thought. Be bold and plucky and courageous. I'm glad you can't understand how heavily the deck is stacked against you.
Brandy, our six-month-old boxer-shepherd puppy, is in training to be a responsible canine citizen in natural places (I can't say "the wild" because, thanks to The Worst Congressman in History [see previous post] there is no "wild" in southern New Mexico).
Sometimes, on our way to a favorite piece of desert, we stop at a flat, open space on the desert fringe to play a game of "fetch."
That's where I first spotted our new friend, a desert burrowing owl, standing guard over its nest. Typical of the species, this one is surprisingly bold and approachable. Standing stock still, it allowed me to get within four feet without flinching.
I threw the ball farther and farther away from its burrow so that Brandy wouldn't catch sight or scent of it and give chase. While not listed as threatened or endangered in New Mexico, as it is in several other states, the burrowing owl is considered a "species of concern." That means further biological research and field study are needed to resolve their conservation status, or they are considered sensitive, rare, or declining. I watched a pet kill an owl once; I don't want Brandy to be tempted to do the same.
On a recent visit Brandy crossed the invisible line between him and the owl; it took flight, soaring 20 or 30 meters away from the burrow. Brandy began to give chase, but I called him back. As soon as we backed away the bird returned to the vicinity of its burrow, scolding us with loud "chuck-chick" calls. It stood as tall as it could on its long legs, making itself look bigger than its actual size (8 or 9 inches tall).
I admire the owl's pluck and courage. It'll stand up to any predator, warning it away with "chucks" and sometimes screeches, but if the enemy crosses the invisible line it'll take flight and try to lure the predator as far as possible from the nest.
Even where it's not listed, the burrowing owl population is declining, largely because of people. We're encroaching on and destroying its habitat. At first I thought it odd that our owl had chosen our "fetch field" for its home, opting for a flat, open space rather than the deeper, more heavily vegetated desert.
Moments later I had my answer: a pick-up truck passed by on the nearby road, with two off-road machines in its bed. The ATV people are all over the deep desert, cutting roads where there weren't any, savaging the habitat of countless desert dwellers including the burrowing owl, its food, and its predators. Equal-opportunity habitat-destroyers.
Big contributors to the campaign funds of The Worst Congressman in History, whose name is Steve Pearce and who seems to hate every living thing except his fellow Republicans, especially the very, very rich ones in the extraction industries. Drill, drill, drill. Destroy, destroy, destroy.
I looked back at the burrowing owl, standing tall again and chucking at Brandy to stay away. Be safe, little bird, I thought. Be bold and plucky and courageous. I'm glad you can't understand how heavily the deck is stacked against you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)