Just finished Bob Woodward’s latest book on Bush.
Read it if you want to be depressed/frightened/enraged.
I’m not going to rant about Bush, his personal history, or the basic dishonesty of the Republican Party that got him elected and aided and abetted the disaster of the last eight years.
Rather, I’m simply going to offer my list of some of Bush’s “accomplishments.”
Then, it’s your call on how you judge him.
National debt from a surplus to + $500 trillion.
Largest increase in size of government since WWII.
A drug plan written by the big drug companies that mostly benefited the big drug companies, not people.
Energy bill written by big oil, guided by Cheney. Gas +$4.00 a gallon.
Katrina and the failure of FEMA that caused the permanent destruction of New Orleans and the Gulf States and the nation’s ability to respond to a national disasters. Millions of Americans had their lives, if not ruined, then nearly destroyed.
Iraq: 4,100 Americans killed; 30,000+ seriously injured; 50,000? 100,000?, 250,000? American soldiers and their families suffering PTSD, broken homes, and the crippling psychological effects of fighting a needless war.
1,000,000 men, women, and children killed in Iraq.
America’s moral leadership destroyed.
Thousands kidnapped, tortured, and imprisoned.
The Constitution ignored.
The opportunity to unify the country after 9/11 wasted.
“Signing Statements” making a joke of the legislative process.
Theocratic policies displacing lawful government and the Constitutional concept of separation of church and state
Tax breaks to the wealthy.
$700 billion bank bailout.
Abandonment of government oversight of banks, brokerage houses, and hedge funds resulting in the near destruction of the world’s financial systems.
The “Ownership Society” as official government policy, authorizing reduction of lending standards to implement the policy; and the destruction of the American mortgage industry and destruction of millions of American families and their lives.
The power of Dick Cheney.
The “Unitary Presidency.”
Rendition (kidnapping) as official US policy.
Waterboarding (torture) as official US policy.
Privatization of Social Security (thank god that didn’t happen).
Carl Rove running government.
Millions of White House and government records/emails/memos destroyed so no trace left behind.
No Child Left Behind: bad policy and then never funded.
Global Warming denied.
An election stolen.
Americans’ phones tapped and private calls monitored without legal warrants.
Miners killed because of deregulation/de-emphasis of OSHA mining safety regulations.
Roberts and Alito to the Supreme Court
“Mission Accomplished”
WMD’s
“Bring it on!”
There’s more, I’m sure. But this is draining.
Go ahead….add to the list.
And if you want an even longer list in four years, vote McCain/Palin.
I dare ya.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Update -- Long delayed.
Confession, said the old Baltimore Catechism, is good for the soul. The absolution that accompanies the rite removes the burden of sin and sets the spirit soaring, making one square with the diety. Of course, in the Catholic Church, absolution is predicated on an act of penance, under the theory of “no free lunch.”
So here’s my confession: I’ve been a lazy slug, I’ve not written anything meaningful in months, and I haven’t even really thought about writing much after my tour of jury duty.
Call it job-loss post partum depression or just plain laziness. Both are probably accurate.
Now. There. I feel better. Confession complete.
(Penance to be performed when I figure out what it should be. All suggestions wll be considered.)
So what’s the news? What’s been happening?
The usual stuff.
Life.
As Walter Cronkiet used to intone on the ‘50’s TV show You Are There, “What sort of day was it? A day like all days, filled with those events that alter and illuminate our times... and you were there."
So let’s go “there,” and talk about trips to Vermont, jury duty, summer nights, semi-employment, the race for president, the family, protential presidents, and watching politics from afar.
The home front
Everyone is fine. Within reason.
Dolores and daughter-in-law Joy are both working far too hard:
Dolores because there’s all these really sick people on the 18th floor of Stony Brook University Medical Center; but then, it is the trauma unit where the sickest of the sick are sent, so no surprise there. And with her work ethic, it means Hercules had an easy job cleaning out the stables. Fortunately she’s got a “partner,” Roy, the social worker on the unit, who is as smart and hard-working as she. He and his wife have become some new good friends.
Joy, working in a new school right near her home on Queen Anne Hill in Seattle, is saddled with teaching two grades; that’s tough enough; but add an autistic, inclusion child, his parents from hell and an aide who is worthless and the job becomes a major mountain to climb every day. All that, plus a one-year-old, Tom’s new job with the Seattle fire dept., an eight-year-old, and the silly desire to live a “normal” life and it’s enough to exhaust anyone, even Joy.
Michael continues with his job creating the inside of Boeing’s now and future jumbo jets and doing great by any measure of success; but he still hasn’t found his dream job/career, so the search continues. His girl friend Sarah has moved to New York for two more years of art school. Michael isn’t coming East. Draw your own conclusions.
Margaret finished her summer of organic agriculture (check out her blog at http://margburke.blogspot.com/ > She survived; the cattle survived (them what didn’t get turned into steak and rump roasts) and the vegetables were enjoyed by hundreds of Northern Vermont residents, Dolores, my mother, and me. Yummy stuff.
The big news from up north, Margaret fell in love with…..wait for it…Vermont; and found a new job/career there.
She’s the field trip coordinator for a 1,400 acre, historic, world-renowned, environmental education facility, Shelburne Farms, near Burlington. Here’s the web site: http://shelburnefarms.org/index.htm Visit it -- both the web site and the actual farm. The place is off-the-chart world class absolutely wonderful, they make some of the best cheddar cheese you’ll ever taste, and you can join and help support their mission; and, if you send in enough money, Margaret might even get a raise.
Of course she loves it. She has a new apartment in Burlington; a new, used car (picture to follow); and a bunch of new friends.
Travelogue
Me mum is doing fine, still playing and winning at cards and maj jong, suffering silently with some knee problems, and she spent a week with Dolores and I as we took the grand tour of New England – Rhode Island, Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont -- via CT and MA.
It was a great trip. If you want the details, send me an email and I’ll write ‘em up. I’ll just say here it was quality time; the food and lodging were outstanding (especially “The Squire Tarbox Inn,” near Bath, Maine. It’s owned by a Swiss, former-Four-Seasons-chef and is precisely what you’d dream a down-east bed and breakfast/inn should be.) Plus it was great to see my uncle, Tom Craddock, who lives nearby and visit Margaret on the farm up north.
We find for the defendant
The next big deal was jury duty. District Court in Riverhead and a civil case. We were asked to decide: was it medical malpractice and a colonoscopy gone wrong; or just nature and a body failing? Our conclusion: nature is a mother, no fault on the Doctor’s part. It was two full weeks of my life and I know more about the exit end of the alimentary canal/digestive system than I ever wanted to know. But it was nice to watch two pros work their magic: the attorneys were great and their performances were impressive.
Unfortunately, it couldn’t have come at a worse time as it interrupted freelance work I was doing for the Times/Review newspapers. Freelance is tough. When writing from a home office, one is isolated from the interaction of the newsroom, one misses the vitality and excitement of being with coworkers, and communications with editors is mostly via email, which ain’t the same as face to face talk’n.
A National Tragedy
Looking at the presidential campaign...well, maybe it’s better not to look and just go out and vote for Obama.
If there really is a “Manchurian candidate” in the race, it’s John McCain, not Obama. Whatever brain washing they did to him all those years ago apparently worked. (I’d like to think it was brain washing and not that he’s just a common, venal, cheap, self-centered child of privilege, who’s gotten old and delusional and is being used as a tool by even more venal, cheap, common ideologues who have no regard for the country and are only concerned with keeping power.)
Could anyone be doing more to divide this country, making it impossible to bring dems and reps together after the election, than John McCain? He’s achieving the prime objective of every enemy the US has ever had – splitting the unity of the American people.
Now unity wasn’t our strongest suit to begin with; thank Carl Rove for that. But most folks got the idea that Bush was/is a disaster. We could come together on that. And we all know we’ve got to fix what he broke (virtually everything), another unifier.
But now McCain/Palin are dividing the country not on issues, but on character/culture/geography/class/pro and anti Americanism/global warming/race and religion and more. They are inflicting wounds that will take years and years to heal, if they can be healed.
What a dream-come-true for Osama, Uncle Ho, Nikita, Che, Fidel, the Dear Leader, the Ayatollah, and Putin. McCain, the great American hero, does what they couldn’t do, split the country into “us” and “them.”
What can he be thinking?
Summer Nights
Summer Friday nights that is. Our new friends, Roy and his wife Margare introduced us to the Snapper Inn’s Friday night happy hour/dance/live music dinner. What a wonderful way to end the week, sipping something relaxing on the banks of the Connetquat River; dining on fairly fresh, nicely cooked seafood, and spending time with truly interesting people.
We’ve continued into the fall now, with last Friday night spent drinking pumpkin flavored ale at John Harvard’s pub, in Smithtown. Decent pub grub plus and they make all their own beer and ale. Fresh and delicious.
Politics from Afar
Not now. I need to do some catching up on Brookhaven and the County.
‘Nough for now…..more to follow.
So here’s my confession: I’ve been a lazy slug, I’ve not written anything meaningful in months, and I haven’t even really thought about writing much after my tour of jury duty.
Call it job-loss post partum depression or just plain laziness. Both are probably accurate.
Now. There. I feel better. Confession complete.
(Penance to be performed when I figure out what it should be. All suggestions wll be considered.)
So what’s the news? What’s been happening?
The usual stuff.
Life.
As Walter Cronkiet used to intone on the ‘50’s TV show You Are There, “What sort of day was it? A day like all days, filled with those events that alter and illuminate our times... and you were there."
So let’s go “there,” and talk about trips to Vermont, jury duty, summer nights, semi-employment, the race for president, the family, protential presidents, and watching politics from afar.
The home front
Everyone is fine. Within reason.
Dolores and daughter-in-law Joy are both working far too hard:
Dolores because there’s all these really sick people on the 18th floor of Stony Brook University Medical Center; but then, it is the trauma unit where the sickest of the sick are sent, so no surprise there. And with her work ethic, it means Hercules had an easy job cleaning out the stables. Fortunately she’s got a “partner,” Roy, the social worker on the unit, who is as smart and hard-working as she. He and his wife have become some new good friends.
Joy, working in a new school right near her home on Queen Anne Hill in Seattle, is saddled with teaching two grades; that’s tough enough; but add an autistic, inclusion child, his parents from hell and an aide who is worthless and the job becomes a major mountain to climb every day. All that, plus a one-year-old, Tom’s new job with the Seattle fire dept., an eight-year-old, and the silly desire to live a “normal” life and it’s enough to exhaust anyone, even Joy.
Michael continues with his job creating the inside of Boeing’s now and future jumbo jets and doing great by any measure of success; but he still hasn’t found his dream job/career, so the search continues. His girl friend Sarah has moved to New York for two more years of art school. Michael isn’t coming East. Draw your own conclusions.
Margaret finished her summer of organic agriculture (check out her blog at http://margburke.blogspot.com/ > She survived; the cattle survived (them what didn’t get turned into steak and rump roasts) and the vegetables were enjoyed by hundreds of Northern Vermont residents, Dolores, my mother, and me. Yummy stuff.
The big news from up north, Margaret fell in love with…..wait for it…Vermont; and found a new job/career there.
She’s the field trip coordinator for a 1,400 acre, historic, world-renowned, environmental education facility, Shelburne Farms, near Burlington. Here’s the web site: http://shelburnefarms.org/index.htm Visit it -- both the web site and the actual farm. The place is off-the-chart world class absolutely wonderful, they make some of the best cheddar cheese you’ll ever taste, and you can join and help support their mission; and, if you send in enough money, Margaret might even get a raise.
Of course she loves it. She has a new apartment in Burlington; a new, used car (picture to follow); and a bunch of new friends.
Travelogue
Me mum is doing fine, still playing and winning at cards and maj jong, suffering silently with some knee problems, and she spent a week with Dolores and I as we took the grand tour of New England – Rhode Island, Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont -- via CT and MA.
It was a great trip. If you want the details, send me an email and I’ll write ‘em up. I’ll just say here it was quality time; the food and lodging were outstanding (especially “The Squire Tarbox Inn,” near Bath, Maine. It’s owned by a Swiss, former-Four-Seasons-chef and is precisely what you’d dream a down-east bed and breakfast/inn should be.) Plus it was great to see my uncle, Tom Craddock, who lives nearby and visit Margaret on the farm up north.
We find for the defendant
The next big deal was jury duty. District Court in Riverhead and a civil case. We were asked to decide: was it medical malpractice and a colonoscopy gone wrong; or just nature and a body failing? Our conclusion: nature is a mother, no fault on the Doctor’s part. It was two full weeks of my life and I know more about the exit end of the alimentary canal/digestive system than I ever wanted to know. But it was nice to watch two pros work their magic: the attorneys were great and their performances were impressive.
Unfortunately, it couldn’t have come at a worse time as it interrupted freelance work I was doing for the Times/Review newspapers. Freelance is tough. When writing from a home office, one is isolated from the interaction of the newsroom, one misses the vitality and excitement of being with coworkers, and communications with editors is mostly via email, which ain’t the same as face to face talk’n.
A National Tragedy
Looking at the presidential campaign...well, maybe it’s better not to look and just go out and vote for Obama.
If there really is a “Manchurian candidate” in the race, it’s John McCain, not Obama. Whatever brain washing they did to him all those years ago apparently worked. (I’d like to think it was brain washing and not that he’s just a common, venal, cheap, self-centered child of privilege, who’s gotten old and delusional and is being used as a tool by even more venal, cheap, common ideologues who have no regard for the country and are only concerned with keeping power.)
Could anyone be doing more to divide this country, making it impossible to bring dems and reps together after the election, than John McCain? He’s achieving the prime objective of every enemy the US has ever had – splitting the unity of the American people.
Now unity wasn’t our strongest suit to begin with; thank Carl Rove for that. But most folks got the idea that Bush was/is a disaster. We could come together on that. And we all know we’ve got to fix what he broke (virtually everything), another unifier.
But now McCain/Palin are dividing the country not on issues, but on character/culture/geography/class/pro and anti Americanism/global warming/race and religion and more. They are inflicting wounds that will take years and years to heal, if they can be healed.
What a dream-come-true for Osama, Uncle Ho, Nikita, Che, Fidel, the Dear Leader, the Ayatollah, and Putin. McCain, the great American hero, does what they couldn’t do, split the country into “us” and “them.”
What can he be thinking?
Summer Nights
Summer Friday nights that is. Our new friends, Roy and his wife Margare introduced us to the Snapper Inn’s Friday night happy hour/dance/live music dinner. What a wonderful way to end the week, sipping something relaxing on the banks of the Connetquat River; dining on fairly fresh, nicely cooked seafood, and spending time with truly interesting people.
We’ve continued into the fall now, with last Friday night spent drinking pumpkin flavored ale at John Harvard’s pub, in Smithtown. Decent pub grub plus and they make all their own beer and ale. Fresh and delicious.
Politics from Afar
Not now. I need to do some catching up on Brookhaven and the County.
‘Nough for now…..more to follow.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Life is throwing overhand these days
Well, there’s news, bad news, and really bad news.
The “news” is I finally got canned from Brookhaven. July 11 was my last day. I took a week off, did some errands, took a trip to Vermont to visit Margaret and returned to start my new/old career back writing for the Times Review Newspapers on Monday July 21. I’m now a “freelancer,” or itinerant journalist, and will spend most of my time writing for Denise Civiletti and the Suffolk Times/Riverhead News Review/Shelter Island Reporter and the wonderful North Shore Sun. I’ll focus on the environment and real estate, two favorite topics. The money’s not like it was in town government, but with Dolores’s support we can manage. And it’s what I want to do. (And can, but only thanks to her!!)
More on my Vermont trip and amateur pro wrestling (yes) in an upcoming entry.
Now for the bad news: my friend and former co-worker Mike Pitcher has been in the hospital for near a week. Tests seem inconclusive (he’s got one more to go) and he’ll be out on Thursday, 7/31, not too much the worse for wear. That's actually good news. Also, another coworker has been in hospital but he too is getting sprung soon, although I’m not sure they really know what’s wrong with him, either. Which isn't really bad news, but not exactly good news.
Now for the really bad news – a friend and former Severna Park, MD neighbor, Ted Paquet, was killed in an auto accident in Maryland just as I was leaving for Vermont. Dolores went down and said it was heart-wrenching. No need for details, just know he was too young to die, had too much to live for, and his kids don’t deserve what happened.
If that wasn’t enough, another dear friend, Kathy Meade, a co-worker and drinking buddy from Brookhaven town government, suffered a catastrophic medical mishap in a doctor’s office and is paralyzed from the neck down. There’s no telling at this stage how this will turn out, but if anyone reading this prays, pray for her, her husband Jim, and the friends who are standing by her like lionesses defending the pride. These are awesome women. Kathy's got great friends and deserves them.
No long philosophical “what does it all mean” from me tonight. Just that when real life intrudes into the fairy-castle-in-the-clouds worlds we sometimes build for ourselves, the descent is violent and the landing hard.
Visit Kathy in her hospital bed and all the stupid antics of the town republicans become so trivial, and the people who play their silly little games become so marginal, that you don’t know whether to laugh at their foolishness or simply dismiss them as trivial beyond consideration.
Watch how Kathy’s friends suffer as she struggles; and then consider all the time and energy wasted on the politics of greed.
Then watch how the nurses, docs, social workers, aides, ward clerks, everyone, in fact, on 18 South at Stony Brook University Medical Center works miracles by the minute, and they hardly even know they're doing it....just rearranging some pillows is a magnificent act of mercy, while working for 8 hours straight to get a new doc for a second opinion is an heroic accomplishment, worthy of great praise and gratitude.
Be uplifted these people have no interest in who controls the public information office, who reports to the town council, or who gets the credit for taking a few cars away from a few employees to save a few dollars. Those people in the white or blue or green scrubs know the consequences of their actions, and they are deliberate in what they do, what sort of power they have and how they wield it...and how they can be humbled by their inability to heal, and the tyranny of a broken body that cannot be cured with all the skill, compassion and technology at their command. If only those who live the illusion of being powerful understood what powerlessness really is, the consequences of what they do and how much hurt they cause, perhaps a little corner of Long Island would be a better place to live.
Please, pray for Kathy, pray hard.
The “news” is I finally got canned from Brookhaven. July 11 was my last day. I took a week off, did some errands, took a trip to Vermont to visit Margaret and returned to start my new/old career back writing for the Times Review Newspapers on Monday July 21. I’m now a “freelancer,” or itinerant journalist, and will spend most of my time writing for Denise Civiletti and the Suffolk Times/Riverhead News Review/Shelter Island Reporter and the wonderful North Shore Sun. I’ll focus on the environment and real estate, two favorite topics. The money’s not like it was in town government, but with Dolores’s support we can manage. And it’s what I want to do. (And can, but only thanks to her!!)
More on my Vermont trip and amateur pro wrestling (yes) in an upcoming entry.
Now for the bad news: my friend and former co-worker Mike Pitcher has been in the hospital for near a week. Tests seem inconclusive (he’s got one more to go) and he’ll be out on Thursday, 7/31, not too much the worse for wear. That's actually good news. Also, another coworker has been in hospital but he too is getting sprung soon, although I’m not sure they really know what’s wrong with him, either. Which isn't really bad news, but not exactly good news.
Now for the really bad news – a friend and former Severna Park, MD neighbor, Ted Paquet, was killed in an auto accident in Maryland just as I was leaving for Vermont. Dolores went down and said it was heart-wrenching. No need for details, just know he was too young to die, had too much to live for, and his kids don’t deserve what happened.
If that wasn’t enough, another dear friend, Kathy Meade, a co-worker and drinking buddy from Brookhaven town government, suffered a catastrophic medical mishap in a doctor’s office and is paralyzed from the neck down. There’s no telling at this stage how this will turn out, but if anyone reading this prays, pray for her, her husband Jim, and the friends who are standing by her like lionesses defending the pride. These are awesome women. Kathy's got great friends and deserves them.
No long philosophical “what does it all mean” from me tonight. Just that when real life intrudes into the fairy-castle-in-the-clouds worlds we sometimes build for ourselves, the descent is violent and the landing hard.
Visit Kathy in her hospital bed and all the stupid antics of the town republicans become so trivial, and the people who play their silly little games become so marginal, that you don’t know whether to laugh at their foolishness or simply dismiss them as trivial beyond consideration.
Watch how Kathy’s friends suffer as she struggles; and then consider all the time and energy wasted on the politics of greed.
Then watch how the nurses, docs, social workers, aides, ward clerks, everyone, in fact, on 18 South at Stony Brook University Medical Center works miracles by the minute, and they hardly even know they're doing it....just rearranging some pillows is a magnificent act of mercy, while working for 8 hours straight to get a new doc for a second opinion is an heroic accomplishment, worthy of great praise and gratitude.
Be uplifted these people have no interest in who controls the public information office, who reports to the town council, or who gets the credit for taking a few cars away from a few employees to save a few dollars. Those people in the white or blue or green scrubs know the consequences of their actions, and they are deliberate in what they do, what sort of power they have and how they wield it...and how they can be humbled by their inability to heal, and the tyranny of a broken body that cannot be cured with all the skill, compassion and technology at their command. If only those who live the illusion of being powerful understood what powerlessness really is, the consequences of what they do and how much hurt they cause, perhaps a little corner of Long Island would be a better place to live.
Please, pray for Kathy, pray hard.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Those Were The Days (My Friend)
Wow! Double wow!! We got blown away this weekend at Theater 3 in Port Jefferson by the world premier of the new musical “1968 – Rock the World.”
The short take: great music; a good “book” to tie the tunes together; and more than enough talent to pull it all off. Go see it. Twice. We’re gonna.
The story mixes a single mom (not very accepted in polite society in 1968); a returned Vietnam vet (burned out and barely hanging on); a new teacher (who gets radicalized by her school board); a goofy high school kid; a standard issue Latino youth; a young black girl; a WWII vet (who’s not getting the changes in society); a gay black artist who cooks in a luncheonette; a gal who gets all her news from the squirrels in the park; and her brother, the local pharmacology consult who deals off a park bench; plus the narrator, a journalist trying to write/sell the great American novel. Their acting is adequate-plus, their renditions of the 30 or so of the best tunes of the year 1968 hits all the right notes.
And it was written by two locals – Jeffrey Sanzel (one of the world’s best Scrooges, don’t miss Theater 3’s “A Christmas Carol”) and Theater 3’s musical director, Ellen Michemore.
For those who didn’t live through the ‘60’s it’s a bit of history brought to life. (It got top props from my two 20 year-old nieces.) For those who remember when the music was new, not only is it a living reminder of what our “good old days” were sorta like, but it’s fun to hear that music again, done live, by larger-than-life talent -- Corryn Manwiller blows the doors off the joint and Liza Colpa (a senior at St. Joseph Academy, Dolores and her sister Theresa’s high school alma mater) is gonna be a star some day.
The rest of the cast, especially Carolyn Droscoski (a Broadway pro and 20-year Actor’s Equity member) does a fine, fine job.
The real stars, of course, are the tunes: “For What It’s Worth (something’s happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear); Mr. Tambourine Man; Those Were The Days (my friend); California Dreamin’; Heard It Through the Grapevine; The Times They Are a Changing and more, more, more. ’68 was quite a year, musically.
The Dylan song, “The Times They Are A Changing” was the most interesting to me, ‘cause I think Dylan missed. He was a good song writer but a lousy seer.
His protests were on target -- warning parents, writers, politicians, everyone…that “the old order is rapidly changing,” and
“Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.”
The promise, back in 1968, was “we” would change things – end the war, end racism, end poverty, end all the wrongs in the world, or at least here in America.
Well, he was right to protest, there were major problems in the country need’n fix’n.
But he was wrong to prophesize “our” generation would fix them. While there have been improvements in many areas, most of the challenges of 1968 are the same challenges we face today, 40 years later. I can’t say we boomers have quite lived up to the promise everyone said we had, and we certainly haven’t lived up to the promise we thought we had. The hopeful lyrics Dylan penned in 1968 really brought that home to me in 2008.
It’s not quite the anthem it used to be. History dun killed it.
On the other hand, maybe it was just media hype in the first place; maybe we convinced ourselves we were different, and most certainly “better;” or maybe we just dropped the ball.
Or maybe, just maybe, Dillon saw an opportunity to appeal to an audience and cash in. Was he actually saying something new or just reinforcing our own vanity and stroking our ego to make some dough?
True art or crass commercialism?
That’s more than I have room for here. Besides, it sounds like at least a Master’s thesis if not a PhD dissertation.
No matter. The purpose of theater is to provoke thought, isn’t it? Or is it to sell tickets? Or maybe just provide some entertainment, relief from “life,” and a pleasant evening.
There’s no doubt about the pleasant evening. A great one, even. So invest the $25 or so, buy a bunch of tickets, line up some friends and go see it.
It’s good theater in a great old theater.
Here’s the web site: http://www.theatrethree.com/
The short take: great music; a good “book” to tie the tunes together; and more than enough talent to pull it all off. Go see it. Twice. We’re gonna.
The story mixes a single mom (not very accepted in polite society in 1968); a returned Vietnam vet (burned out and barely hanging on); a new teacher (who gets radicalized by her school board); a goofy high school kid; a standard issue Latino youth; a young black girl; a WWII vet (who’s not getting the changes in society); a gay black artist who cooks in a luncheonette; a gal who gets all her news from the squirrels in the park; and her brother, the local pharmacology consult who deals off a park bench; plus the narrator, a journalist trying to write/sell the great American novel. Their acting is adequate-plus, their renditions of the 30 or so of the best tunes of the year 1968 hits all the right notes.
And it was written by two locals – Jeffrey Sanzel (one of the world’s best Scrooges, don’t miss Theater 3’s “A Christmas Carol”) and Theater 3’s musical director, Ellen Michemore.
For those who didn’t live through the ‘60’s it’s a bit of history brought to life. (It got top props from my two 20 year-old nieces.) For those who remember when the music was new, not only is it a living reminder of what our “good old days” were sorta like, but it’s fun to hear that music again, done live, by larger-than-life talent -- Corryn Manwiller blows the doors off the joint and Liza Colpa (a senior at St. Joseph Academy, Dolores and her sister Theresa’s high school alma mater) is gonna be a star some day.
The rest of the cast, especially Carolyn Droscoski (a Broadway pro and 20-year Actor’s Equity member) does a fine, fine job.
The real stars, of course, are the tunes: “For What It’s Worth (something’s happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear); Mr. Tambourine Man; Those Were The Days (my friend); California Dreamin’; Heard It Through the Grapevine; The Times They Are a Changing and more, more, more. ’68 was quite a year, musically.
The Dylan song, “The Times They Are A Changing” was the most interesting to me, ‘cause I think Dylan missed. He was a good song writer but a lousy seer.
His protests were on target -- warning parents, writers, politicians, everyone…that “the old order is rapidly changing,” and
“Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.”
The promise, back in 1968, was “we” would change things – end the war, end racism, end poverty, end all the wrongs in the world, or at least here in America.
Well, he was right to protest, there were major problems in the country need’n fix’n.
But he was wrong to prophesize “our” generation would fix them. While there have been improvements in many areas, most of the challenges of 1968 are the same challenges we face today, 40 years later. I can’t say we boomers have quite lived up to the promise everyone said we had, and we certainly haven’t lived up to the promise we thought we had. The hopeful lyrics Dylan penned in 1968 really brought that home to me in 2008.
It’s not quite the anthem it used to be. History dun killed it.
On the other hand, maybe it was just media hype in the first place; maybe we convinced ourselves we were different, and most certainly “better;” or maybe we just dropped the ball.
Or maybe, just maybe, Dillon saw an opportunity to appeal to an audience and cash in. Was he actually saying something new or just reinforcing our own vanity and stroking our ego to make some dough?
True art or crass commercialism?
That’s more than I have room for here. Besides, it sounds like at least a Master’s thesis if not a PhD dissertation.
No matter. The purpose of theater is to provoke thought, isn’t it? Or is it to sell tickets? Or maybe just provide some entertainment, relief from “life,” and a pleasant evening.
There’s no doubt about the pleasant evening. A great one, even. So invest the $25 or so, buy a bunch of tickets, line up some friends and go see it.
It’s good theater in a great old theater.
Here’s the web site: http://www.theatrethree.com/
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Say what?
We went to a 5th of July party Saturday night. It was wonderful.
Dolores’s “partner,” the social worker on her unit at Stony Brook University Medical Center, throws a massive 200 – 300-guest bash every “Glorious” 4th Weekend. The party had everything! All the food was homemade by Roy, our host. He cooked-up baked beans, baked ziti, collard greens, string beans, shrimp, sausage and peppers, eggplant parm, pirogis and sautéed mushrooms, ribs, hot dogs, hamburgers, kielbasa, fried chix and more, more, more!! Plus desserts!!!
Open bar and two bartenders!!!!
Plenty of tables, chairs, tents in case of rain, and parking wasn’t a problem.
The guests were charming – lots of co-workers clearly comfortable with each other and lots of spouses putting faces to names and not quite comfortable….but all making a great effort and generally succeeding, at congeniality.
It was perfect.
Almost.
My nemesis was there. The ubiquitous DJ. The accursed DJ. The destroyer of live music DJ. Damn, I hate DJ’s.
He was young (20-something); had a half-dozen speakers each roughly the size of the Pyramid of Cheops; and a selection of music that can only be described as LOUD; VERY, VERY LOUD.
And modern. Very, very modern -- which means VERY, VERY, LOUD; with a deep, percussive, driving bass that probably corrected my slightly arrhythmic heartbeat and most certainly forced everyone to shout, effectively killing any chance of conversation, unless you left the party, went around to the front of the house and walked from West Bayshore, Long Island, NY (the party’s location) to somewhere close to Hackensack, in Jersey, across the Hudson on the far west side of Manhattan Island.
We were at the party for 4 hours. He played three songs I could recognize (Mack the Knife, something Stones, and an old BeeGee’s disco tune). The rest, well, I couldn’t possibly tell you the names of the songs, the artists, or anything else, except it all sounded the same. (Yes, I’m clearly getting old and crotchety.)
On the plus side, the kids seemed bothered not at all. They danced; they shouted in lieu of conversation; and they took pictures of each other with their telephones.
All of which was great for them, but for many of the hospital crew who might have enjoyed speaking with their co-workers; or their husbands, boyfriends, wives, girlfriends, etc. who might have enjoyed meeting the people their significant others spend more time with at work than they often do at home, it was impossible to talk and impossible to hear, making it impossible to communicate.
Now if it sounds like I’m an ungrateful slug, I’m not. I had a very pleasant time. A great time. The food: superb; the booze: top shelf and plentiful; the generosity of our host and his family: unmatched, amazing, and, well, unmatched and amazing. The company: hard to tell. Who could find out?
If the purpose of a party is to bring friends and family together for the occasion of social intercourse; for strengthening the bonds between co-workers; for providing an “out-of-the-workplace” perspective on those we see every day; and for, well, if we’re there simply to have a good time, then the DJ should be shot, (wounded that is, winged in his turntable-volume arm) or at least bound tightly, the volume turned down during the “let’s eat” portion of the party; and then, when everyone’s had their meal and the booze has had a chance to work lowering inhibitions; then, that’s the time to loosen him from his bonds, let him put on the dance music, ramp up the volume, invite everyone to the dance-grass, and all assembled can par-tee, at least them that wants to.
Again, let me state “for the record,” I had a wonderful time. I’m looking forward to next year, even.
But I’da had a nicer time if there had been fifteen minutes…no, even five minutes…when I didn’t feel like I was living inside a 6-foot woofer, with 5-foot tweeters surgically attached to each ear, and the sound turned up to “SUPER MAD MAX.”
If I’d wanted to dance whole night, I’da gone to Arthur Murray’s. Loud music could have been accomplished by stuffing my ear buds in a little further into my ears and screwing up the volume on my disc-man (no iPod yet).
But this was a party. A very generous, expensive-for-the-host, rare-opportunity-to-meet-Dolores’s-friends-and-co-workers party.
I just wish I could’a done that. Did ja hear me? I said, “I JUST WISH I COULD’A DONE THAT.” Oops, I’m shouting. Sorry.
Dolores’s “partner,” the social worker on her unit at Stony Brook University Medical Center, throws a massive 200 – 300-guest bash every “Glorious” 4th Weekend. The party had everything! All the food was homemade by Roy, our host. He cooked-up baked beans, baked ziti, collard greens, string beans, shrimp, sausage and peppers, eggplant parm, pirogis and sautéed mushrooms, ribs, hot dogs, hamburgers, kielbasa, fried chix and more, more, more!! Plus desserts!!!
Open bar and two bartenders!!!!
Plenty of tables, chairs, tents in case of rain, and parking wasn’t a problem.
The guests were charming – lots of co-workers clearly comfortable with each other and lots of spouses putting faces to names and not quite comfortable….but all making a great effort and generally succeeding, at congeniality.
It was perfect.
Almost.
My nemesis was there. The ubiquitous DJ. The accursed DJ. The destroyer of live music DJ. Damn, I hate DJ’s.
He was young (20-something); had a half-dozen speakers each roughly the size of the Pyramid of Cheops; and a selection of music that can only be described as LOUD; VERY, VERY LOUD.
And modern. Very, very modern -- which means VERY, VERY, LOUD; with a deep, percussive, driving bass that probably corrected my slightly arrhythmic heartbeat and most certainly forced everyone to shout, effectively killing any chance of conversation, unless you left the party, went around to the front of the house and walked from West Bayshore, Long Island, NY (the party’s location) to somewhere close to Hackensack, in Jersey, across the Hudson on the far west side of Manhattan Island.
We were at the party for 4 hours. He played three songs I could recognize (Mack the Knife, something Stones, and an old BeeGee’s disco tune). The rest, well, I couldn’t possibly tell you the names of the songs, the artists, or anything else, except it all sounded the same. (Yes, I’m clearly getting old and crotchety.)
On the plus side, the kids seemed bothered not at all. They danced; they shouted in lieu of conversation; and they took pictures of each other with their telephones.
All of which was great for them, but for many of the hospital crew who might have enjoyed speaking with their co-workers; or their husbands, boyfriends, wives, girlfriends, etc. who might have enjoyed meeting the people their significant others spend more time with at work than they often do at home, it was impossible to talk and impossible to hear, making it impossible to communicate.
Now if it sounds like I’m an ungrateful slug, I’m not. I had a very pleasant time. A great time. The food: superb; the booze: top shelf and plentiful; the generosity of our host and his family: unmatched, amazing, and, well, unmatched and amazing. The company: hard to tell. Who could find out?
If the purpose of a party is to bring friends and family together for the occasion of social intercourse; for strengthening the bonds between co-workers; for providing an “out-of-the-workplace” perspective on those we see every day; and for, well, if we’re there simply to have a good time, then the DJ should be shot, (wounded that is, winged in his turntable-volume arm) or at least bound tightly, the volume turned down during the “let’s eat” portion of the party; and then, when everyone’s had their meal and the booze has had a chance to work lowering inhibitions; then, that’s the time to loosen him from his bonds, let him put on the dance music, ramp up the volume, invite everyone to the dance-grass, and all assembled can par-tee, at least them that wants to.
Again, let me state “for the record,” I had a wonderful time. I’m looking forward to next year, even.
But I’da had a nicer time if there had been fifteen minutes…no, even five minutes…when I didn’t feel like I was living inside a 6-foot woofer, with 5-foot tweeters surgically attached to each ear, and the sound turned up to “SUPER MAD MAX.”
If I’d wanted to dance whole night, I’da gone to Arthur Murray’s. Loud music could have been accomplished by stuffing my ear buds in a little further into my ears and screwing up the volume on my disc-man (no iPod yet).
But this was a party. A very generous, expensive-for-the-host, rare-opportunity-to-meet-Dolores’s-friends-and-co-workers party.
I just wish I could’a done that. Did ja hear me? I said, “I JUST WISH I COULD’A DONE THAT.” Oops, I’m shouting. Sorry.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Street Theater
I had to write a sample piece for some job application. I liked it. So here it is, appropos of nothing.
Broadway theater is great; traditional; mostly middle-brow, but great. (There is clearly something incongruous, however, about sitting in the Richard Rogers Theater on W. 46th Street, alongside 1,267 suburban New Jersey, Connecticut, and Long Island matrons at a Wednesday matinee, “experiencing” The Heights, but the same thing could have been said about sitting through the original West Side Story, with Leonard Bernstein conducting.)
Off-Broadway is great too, more avant-garde, but still safe. Off-off-Broadway is starting to get out there; more real-life and less safe. But really, the real theater in New York is on the streets of New York; and not just off-off-off-Broadway, but off-island (as in off-Manhattan Island); say in Bushwick, as in Brooklyn.
You want music? Walk down Bushwick Ave. and just listen, or open the car window anywhere on Wilson Ave. as school is getting out -- you’ve got rap, Latin, trad jazz, pop, bop, more rap and rap. Danc’n? Just watch the kids walk.
Tragedy? The stick-thin, 20-year old who looks 50, hair wild, beard scraggly, feet dirty and dressed in pajama bottoms and a wife-beater t-shirt has to be a tragic figure worthy of an entire Greek chorus. (But you’d have to go to Astoria for a real Greek chorus…or a Greek diner.) Want the American Dream brought to life better ‘n “Carousel?” -- try the Saturday family ’n friends picnics at any of the pocket-parks in the neighborhood, complete with arch-typical 1950’s suburban charcoal grills, steaks, chicken, ribs and corn-on-the-cob.
“Sex and the City” isn’t a movie or a TV show, it’s lunchtime in midtown, from 6th Ave. to the East River; or in the bars on 2nd or 3rd Ave. after work. The “Devil Wears Prada” your bag? Just hang around south of 36th and the real story of fashion plays itself out, double-parked, from early morning to late afternoon.
Finally, for the action/adventure types, who needs “Blood Diamond,” when there’s East 47th St.? It’s a two-fer – all that glitters there is gold (plus silver, platinum, and the aforementioned diamonds) as well as a flashback to Yidish Eastern Europe pre WWII – complete with big beaver hats, long black coats, and men with beards.
Dinner and a show can’t be beat. But with tickets +$125 per and entrees at the better watering holes anywhere from $35 - $90 (the original Palm is my all-time favorite New York restaurant) the show on the street, accompanied by two with mustard and onions and a Dr. Brown’s, is New York’s best bargain.
Broadway theater is great; traditional; mostly middle-brow, but great. (There is clearly something incongruous, however, about sitting in the Richard Rogers Theater on W. 46th Street, alongside 1,267 suburban New Jersey, Connecticut, and Long Island matrons at a Wednesday matinee, “experiencing” The Heights, but the same thing could have been said about sitting through the original West Side Story, with Leonard Bernstein conducting.)
Off-Broadway is great too, more avant-garde, but still safe. Off-off-Broadway is starting to get out there; more real-life and less safe. But really, the real theater in New York is on the streets of New York; and not just off-off-off-Broadway, but off-island (as in off-Manhattan Island); say in Bushwick, as in Brooklyn.
You want music? Walk down Bushwick Ave. and just listen, or open the car window anywhere on Wilson Ave. as school is getting out -- you’ve got rap, Latin, trad jazz, pop, bop, more rap and rap. Danc’n? Just watch the kids walk.
Tragedy? The stick-thin, 20-year old who looks 50, hair wild, beard scraggly, feet dirty and dressed in pajama bottoms and a wife-beater t-shirt has to be a tragic figure worthy of an entire Greek chorus. (But you’d have to go to Astoria for a real Greek chorus…or a Greek diner.) Want the American Dream brought to life better ‘n “Carousel?” -- try the Saturday family ’n friends picnics at any of the pocket-parks in the neighborhood, complete with arch-typical 1950’s suburban charcoal grills, steaks, chicken, ribs and corn-on-the-cob.
“Sex and the City” isn’t a movie or a TV show, it’s lunchtime in midtown, from 6th Ave. to the East River; or in the bars on 2nd or 3rd Ave. after work. The “Devil Wears Prada” your bag? Just hang around south of 36th and the real story of fashion plays itself out, double-parked, from early morning to late afternoon.
Finally, for the action/adventure types, who needs “Blood Diamond,” when there’s East 47th St.? It’s a two-fer – all that glitters there is gold (plus silver, platinum, and the aforementioned diamonds) as well as a flashback to Yidish Eastern Europe pre WWII – complete with big beaver hats, long black coats, and men with beards.
Dinner and a show can’t be beat. But with tickets +$125 per and entrees at the better watering holes anywhere from $35 - $90 (the original Palm is my all-time favorite New York restaurant) the show on the street, accompanied by two with mustard and onions and a Dr. Brown’s, is New York’s best bargain.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Extree, Extree….Read All About It!!!!
As the public information officer of a town the size of a small state, with a population of close to 500,000, and a $300 million budget (that’s a third of a billion, folks), there’s plenty to keep me busy.
I have a few major jobs (and some other minorish jobs as well):
- Getting news out. Which means, say, announcing new budgets, explaining new legislation to put GPS in all town vehicles, or creating and distributing a hurricane disaster guide to keep town taxpayers alive in the event of a disaster (both a humanitarian and fiscal necessity).
- Answering the press inquiries that come in. With seven or eight local newspapers, two local TV stations, and another half-dozen or so, further-off New York City TV stations, and a score of radio stations, there’s no lack of media outlets asking questions. (We deal with two dozen reporters we hear from on multiple stories, every week.) Queries range from animal control laws to highway collapses. We’re talking questions from the reporters and answers from me about landfill revenue; the safety of the town compost facility; new ballparks; quality-of-life code-enforcement including illegal rental houses, excessive noise, trash in the yard, girls being sexually assaulted in homes the town’s boarded up (the media got that one wrong, it was in a trailer behind the house we boarded up); kid quad riders trespassing on town land; if the town makes up the salary difference between town pay and army pay if a town employee gets called up and activated in the Reserve or Guard for more than 21 days (it does); what about a sewage spill at the town marina; what about the 5-year Mastic Pool repair and why did it cost $7 million to fix some tile work; or why were some trees cut down on a field next to the town-owned airport? (‘Cause the FAA said so.)
- Creating advertising or other marketing communications tools to get people to do stuff – like call the town’s info line, 451-TOWN; volunteer to help clean up trash for the “Great Brookhaven Cleanup” (4,000 + volunteers picked up 2 million pounds of litter); or learn about a new way to fund the town purchase of open space land. (People learned about it, didn’t like what they learned, voted it down, and now the town’s tapped outta funds to preserve open space. Can you say Brookhaven’s gonna look just like Corona or Queens Village some day soon?)
But there’s one task that isn’t in my job description: rumor control.
It should be. It could be my full-time job.
And as me old dad used to say….”man – o - man.” There’s no shortage of rumors in this town. You name it, there’s a rumor about it. There’s even a rumor about who’s starting the rumors.
Personnel changes lead the hit parade of juicy topics. (Of course, my fate as a town employee is the rumor I take most interest in!)
Name a job, there’s a rumor about who is in and who is out. As well as who is on the way in and who is on the way out. And why. And when. And who’s behind it.
Then there’s the rumors not about the job, but about the people in the job. Or out of the job. Or on their way in or on their way out.
And, of course, the rumors about who is hiring the people on their way in. And who is firing the people on their way out. Or who isn’t hiring…or who isn’t firing.
Whew.
Need a political rumor? We got a Supervisor who’s running for a state senate seat. That’s like an extra bonus, a free rumor -- for your town tax dollar you get state politics thrown in at no additional charge: He’s running out ‘cause the rep majority took away his power. No, he was asked to run and only agreed reluctantly ‘cause he wants to fight the power grad. He’s not paying any attention to town business. No, he’s paying more attention to town business so no one can accuse him of not paying attention to town business. Etc. Etc. Etc.
New a power rumor? Start with who’s really in charge of the republican majority: a town councilman, a local party leader, or a former town official. Or all three. Or none of the three. Then segue gently into who’s really in charge of the democratic minority: a guy in Town Hall, a party leader not in town hall….hey, it’s the democrats…that means no one is in charge…oops…I meant everyone is in charge…err…someone seems to be in charge, but they’re really not….are they?
How about staff rumors? Who got fired. Who got fired and then hired back.
Who got threatened with a firing but then didn’t get fired and the threat was took back, but now is getting fired anyway. Maybe. Or maybe who got slapped and then fired. Or didn’t get slapped but got accused of slapping and then got fired. Or got sent to the hospital and was gonna sue. But hasn’t sued yet and probably won’t. Unless their attorney is saying wait and then we’ll sue. There are, of course, the usual rumors about who is sleeping with whom. That used to be hot type of rumor. But this is the 21st Century, so sex as a topic has cooled off considerably. That sort of rumor hardly rises to the level of discussion, even when there’s no other rumors around.
With a town the size of Brookhaven, you’d think we’d hear some good rumors from outside Town Hall. I mean with a half-million people to draw from there’s gotta be something good-n-juicy out there. No?
Not a chance!
It’s like that old Colgate Dental Cream (toothpaste) commercial, like when I was ten. You didn’t get cavities because of the “invisible Gardol Shield!” Only Colgate could protect your teeth with Gardol!!!!
We’ll after Crest and 9 out of 10 dentists recommending it and fluoride and all, you’d think Gardol got retired.
Wrong!
It got recycled.
The invisible Gardol shield now protects Town Hall from anything outside, coming inside.
The entire Brookhaven Town Hall universe is only about 150 yards long -- the length of the corridor from the elevator to the Supervisor’s/Town Council suites and 50 yards wide – the width of the building from the Town Attorney’s Office to the office suite of the Commissioner of Finance.
That’s it. The whole Brookhaven universe bound up on one half of one floor of Town Hall. We’re talking an entire population of maybe 100 people. Total. Max. That’s the whole world that counts. And Gardol keeps it protected.
But all those rumors swirling around inside the Gardol Shield, it’s like critical mass in an atom bomb -- the fusion variety where it all gets pushed together so closely, gets packed so densely, gets so hyper-saturated with energy it triggers itself and KER-BOOM….a mushroom cloud and a big bang and enough fallout to poison the world, or at least New York’s second largest town.
Think of all that power; everything getting closer and closer together; getting hotter and hotter; the electrons spinning faster and faster and faster; hotter, closer, faster; hotter, closer, faster; more electrons, more power, more spin, hotter, closer, faster; more power rubbing against power…more people rubbing against people (mostly the wrong way)…until…until…until….blam: critical mass.
Alamogordo south of the Sound. Fat Man and Little Boy right here in Farmingville. The Enola Gay taking off from Calabro Airport. Oppemheimer, the first A-bomb's architect, saying, “I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.” (His quote is from the Hindu scripture the Bhagavad Gita.)
So as the rumor mill continues to grind and reputations, careers, livelihoods, futures, plans, families and people are fed in to the hopper; to come out the other end ground very fine indeed. Ya gotta wonder….why? For what purpose? For whose benefit?
Well, there’s a rumor about that, of course.
I could tell you, but it isn’t really my job.
I have a few major jobs (and some other minorish jobs as well):
- Getting news out. Which means, say, announcing new budgets, explaining new legislation to put GPS in all town vehicles, or creating and distributing a hurricane disaster guide to keep town taxpayers alive in the event of a disaster (both a humanitarian and fiscal necessity).
- Answering the press inquiries that come in. With seven or eight local newspapers, two local TV stations, and another half-dozen or so, further-off New York City TV stations, and a score of radio stations, there’s no lack of media outlets asking questions. (We deal with two dozen reporters we hear from on multiple stories, every week.) Queries range from animal control laws to highway collapses. We’re talking questions from the reporters and answers from me about landfill revenue; the safety of the town compost facility; new ballparks; quality-of-life code-enforcement including illegal rental houses, excessive noise, trash in the yard, girls being sexually assaulted in homes the town’s boarded up (the media got that one wrong, it was in a trailer behind the house we boarded up); kid quad riders trespassing on town land; if the town makes up the salary difference between town pay and army pay if a town employee gets called up and activated in the Reserve or Guard for more than 21 days (it does); what about a sewage spill at the town marina; what about the 5-year Mastic Pool repair and why did it cost $7 million to fix some tile work; or why were some trees cut down on a field next to the town-owned airport? (‘Cause the FAA said so.)
- Creating advertising or other marketing communications tools to get people to do stuff – like call the town’s info line, 451-TOWN; volunteer to help clean up trash for the “Great Brookhaven Cleanup” (4,000 + volunteers picked up 2 million pounds of litter); or learn about a new way to fund the town purchase of open space land. (People learned about it, didn’t like what they learned, voted it down, and now the town’s tapped outta funds to preserve open space. Can you say Brookhaven’s gonna look just like Corona or Queens Village some day soon?)
But there’s one task that isn’t in my job description: rumor control.
It should be. It could be my full-time job.
And as me old dad used to say….”man – o - man.” There’s no shortage of rumors in this town. You name it, there’s a rumor about it. There’s even a rumor about who’s starting the rumors.
Personnel changes lead the hit parade of juicy topics. (Of course, my fate as a town employee is the rumor I take most interest in!)
Name a job, there’s a rumor about who is in and who is out. As well as who is on the way in and who is on the way out. And why. And when. And who’s behind it.
Then there’s the rumors not about the job, but about the people in the job. Or out of the job. Or on their way in or on their way out.
And, of course, the rumors about who is hiring the people on their way in. And who is firing the people on their way out. Or who isn’t hiring…or who isn’t firing.
Whew.
Need a political rumor? We got a Supervisor who’s running for a state senate seat. That’s like an extra bonus, a free rumor -- for your town tax dollar you get state politics thrown in at no additional charge: He’s running out ‘cause the rep majority took away his power. No, he was asked to run and only agreed reluctantly ‘cause he wants to fight the power grad. He’s not paying any attention to town business. No, he’s paying more attention to town business so no one can accuse him of not paying attention to town business. Etc. Etc. Etc.
New a power rumor? Start with who’s really in charge of the republican majority: a town councilman, a local party leader, or a former town official. Or all three. Or none of the three. Then segue gently into who’s really in charge of the democratic minority: a guy in Town Hall, a party leader not in town hall….hey, it’s the democrats…that means no one is in charge…oops…I meant everyone is in charge…err…someone seems to be in charge, but they’re really not….are they?
How about staff rumors? Who got fired. Who got fired and then hired back.
Who got threatened with a firing but then didn’t get fired and the threat was took back, but now is getting fired anyway. Maybe. Or maybe who got slapped and then fired. Or didn’t get slapped but got accused of slapping and then got fired. Or got sent to the hospital and was gonna sue. But hasn’t sued yet and probably won’t. Unless their attorney is saying wait and then we’ll sue. There are, of course, the usual rumors about who is sleeping with whom. That used to be hot type of rumor. But this is the 21st Century, so sex as a topic has cooled off considerably. That sort of rumor hardly rises to the level of discussion, even when there’s no other rumors around.
With a town the size of Brookhaven, you’d think we’d hear some good rumors from outside Town Hall. I mean with a half-million people to draw from there’s gotta be something good-n-juicy out there. No?
Not a chance!
It’s like that old Colgate Dental Cream (toothpaste) commercial, like when I was ten. You didn’t get cavities because of the “invisible Gardol Shield!” Only Colgate could protect your teeth with Gardol!!!!
We’ll after Crest and 9 out of 10 dentists recommending it and fluoride and all, you’d think Gardol got retired.
Wrong!
It got recycled.
The invisible Gardol shield now protects Town Hall from anything outside, coming inside.
The entire Brookhaven Town Hall universe is only about 150 yards long -- the length of the corridor from the elevator to the Supervisor’s/Town Council suites and 50 yards wide – the width of the building from the Town Attorney’s Office to the office suite of the Commissioner of Finance.
That’s it. The whole Brookhaven universe bound up on one half of one floor of Town Hall. We’re talking an entire population of maybe 100 people. Total. Max. That’s the whole world that counts. And Gardol keeps it protected.
But all those rumors swirling around inside the Gardol Shield, it’s like critical mass in an atom bomb -- the fusion variety where it all gets pushed together so closely, gets packed so densely, gets so hyper-saturated with energy it triggers itself and KER-BOOM….a mushroom cloud and a big bang and enough fallout to poison the world, or at least New York’s second largest town.
Think of all that power; everything getting closer and closer together; getting hotter and hotter; the electrons spinning faster and faster and faster; hotter, closer, faster; hotter, closer, faster; more electrons, more power, more spin, hotter, closer, faster; more power rubbing against power…more people rubbing against people (mostly the wrong way)…until…until…until….blam: critical mass.
Alamogordo south of the Sound. Fat Man and Little Boy right here in Farmingville. The Enola Gay taking off from Calabro Airport. Oppemheimer, the first A-bomb's architect, saying, “I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.” (His quote is from the Hindu scripture the Bhagavad Gita.)
So as the rumor mill continues to grind and reputations, careers, livelihoods, futures, plans, families and people are fed in to the hopper; to come out the other end ground very fine indeed. Ya gotta wonder….why? For what purpose? For whose benefit?
Well, there’s a rumor about that, of course.
I could tell you, but it isn’t really my job.
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