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.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Who Needs Broadway?
Forget high-priced Broadway play tickets; the best theater today is as close as your local town hall. At least it is in Brookhaven.
All the elements are present: a great cast (in many cases actually chosen by the audience!); important issues; unmatched dialogue; it’s “live,” it’s now, it’s big bucks; there are heroes and villains, innocent bystanders and collateral damage, (as they say in the military), narrators and even a Greek chorus of sorts; people’s lives and livelihoods are up for grabs; it’s replete with pathos, humor, bathos and drama; and the ending is always a surprise. Finally -- the “book” (as they call it on Broadway) -- well, as the cliché goes, “ya couldn’t make this stuff up.”
The best part: you never know when a Tony-award-winning performance is going to pop up.
Take Tuesday, 6/17’s Brookhaven Town Board meeting.
The Playbill (the agenda with the list of Resolutions/Decisions/Public Hearings) didn’t have anything in it that would have suggested a moment of sublime delight. Attendance was sparse – even two of the most devoted civic folks bailed half-way though the performance.
There was a bravura turn taken on-stage by two of the regular cast, they performed admirably, as was expected, revealing, fact by fact, the Town would save about a half-million dollars by installing GPS in town vehicles. Two other folks, who don’t share the enthusiasm for GPS our heroines do, delivered their lines well, as they are paid to do, but the script wasn’t quite right. Fortunately for them, last night was the Town version of a New Haven or Baltimore out-of-town tryout….there’s two weeks to revise and rehearse for the real show on July 1.
For the next hour or two it was business as usual. Millions of dollars were on the line; people’s lives, fortunes, and well-being were at stake; seemingly little decisions and quick votes that really have major impacts on many people were taken.
So on and on it droned -- of interest to no one but the people who actually live in town and care about a new local park, a zoning change for an auto-body repair shop in the middle of a residential neighborhood, or $500,000 worth of town money being spent on streets, sidewalks, and bike lanes. (It only matters if they are your streets, sidewalks, or bike lanes.)
And then it happened. A magic theater moment. Unexpected. Unrehearsed. Unbelievable.
The scene: a beer permit for the August balloon festival at Calabro Airport. No drama there, right? It would be the same as last year. The festival is a big deal. Tens of thousands of people attended, lots of fun had by all, and a bunch of beer served in a “bier garten” and a hospitality tent.
Last year the Town Board voted to okay a special license for beer sales. Pro forma. This year, an instant replay, right? “Allinfavorsay‘Aye,’allopposedno,the Ayeshaveit,motionpassed, moving right along, right?
Hmmm…..maybe not so right. It started slow with one councilman pondering aloud if the town allows other liquor sales on town ground. Yes, sort of, was the reply. Mostly small-scale wine tastings at the Bald Hill art gallery. All raised pinkies, blush wine, and la-di-dah.
Another representative questioned what would happen if someone got hurt or killed via a DWI afterwards. “We’re insured,” said Keith Romanie, in whose district the festival takes place. Hmmmm…the show’s getting better. That wasn’t the right answer. Not much more debate. A little clarifying by another cast regular (who was a main player in last year’s festival). All polite and right on script.
There was a bit of a puzzle why this was on the agenda in the first place. It was a near “walk-on” – a last minute addition to the agenda, it hadn’t be on the regular work-session agenda the previously Thursday; but that didn’t seem like a big deal.
Now the drama: time to vote. No! No! No! No! from council districts 1, 2, 3 & 4.
Whoa! Now it’s getting really interesting. That NEVER happens. Folks in the know started moving to the edge of their seats. What next?
Yes from district 5 and then, drum roll please, new facts on the issue from district 6.
WHAT! Someone got the script backwards!! Did a page fall out? Was someone asleep when they should have been rehearsing?
New facts are being introduced by Mr. Romaine AFTER the voting begins:
-Two town fraternal groups will loose $10,000 each they would have made selling beer.
-The contract calls for it (sorta).
-You voted for it last year.
-Bluster, sputter…but, but, but.
NOW YOU TELL US!!!! gasps a councilperson. (Financial damage to a constituent group is a no-no of the first magnitude. An elected NEVER does that). But it’s too late….on the record for probity and against drunken debauchery….no way to take that vote back.
The last two votes: a Yes and a No.
Motion Defeated….5 – 2. Next resolution please.
Now…watch closely. Savor it. Revel in it. Pure theater, pure award-winning drama and keystone kop klassic slapstick is about to play out on the horseshoe (the podium where the town board sits). Drama like this usually cost $125 a ticket (and that ain’t front row!):
Mr. Romaine gathering his papers. A red face. An incredulous look. Anger. Frustration. Defeat.
He rises.
He turns.
He leaves.
“If I can’t get my way, I ain’t gonna play,” sings the Greek chorus. (If there was a Greek chorus to sing, that’s what they’d sing.)
Open mouths all around. Heads begin to swivel. Did I really just see what I think I just saw? Tittering begins but is quickly muffled. Damn, do you believe that?
The meeting drones on. Votes are taken. One decision can’t be voted on as the sponsor seems to have left the room before the meeting has been gaveled to a close. Okay, hold it over to July 1.
The meeting ends, the buzz rises. The curtain falls.
All is silence.
All the elements are present: a great cast (in many cases actually chosen by the audience!); important issues; unmatched dialogue; it’s “live,” it’s now, it’s big bucks; there are heroes and villains, innocent bystanders and collateral damage, (as they say in the military), narrators and even a Greek chorus of sorts; people’s lives and livelihoods are up for grabs; it’s replete with pathos, humor, bathos and drama; and the ending is always a surprise. Finally -- the “book” (as they call it on Broadway) -- well, as the cliché goes, “ya couldn’t make this stuff up.”
The best part: you never know when a Tony-award-winning performance is going to pop up.
Take Tuesday, 6/17’s Brookhaven Town Board meeting.
The Playbill (the agenda with the list of Resolutions/Decisions/Public Hearings) didn’t have anything in it that would have suggested a moment of sublime delight. Attendance was sparse – even two of the most devoted civic folks bailed half-way though the performance.
There was a bravura turn taken on-stage by two of the regular cast, they performed admirably, as was expected, revealing, fact by fact, the Town would save about a half-million dollars by installing GPS in town vehicles. Two other folks, who don’t share the enthusiasm for GPS our heroines do, delivered their lines well, as they are paid to do, but the script wasn’t quite right. Fortunately for them, last night was the Town version of a New Haven or Baltimore out-of-town tryout….there’s two weeks to revise and rehearse for the real show on July 1.
For the next hour or two it was business as usual. Millions of dollars were on the line; people’s lives, fortunes, and well-being were at stake; seemingly little decisions and quick votes that really have major impacts on many people were taken.
So on and on it droned -- of interest to no one but the people who actually live in town and care about a new local park, a zoning change for an auto-body repair shop in the middle of a residential neighborhood, or $500,000 worth of town money being spent on streets, sidewalks, and bike lanes. (It only matters if they are your streets, sidewalks, or bike lanes.)
And then it happened. A magic theater moment. Unexpected. Unrehearsed. Unbelievable.
The scene: a beer permit for the August balloon festival at Calabro Airport. No drama there, right? It would be the same as last year. The festival is a big deal. Tens of thousands of people attended, lots of fun had by all, and a bunch of beer served in a “bier garten” and a hospitality tent.
Last year the Town Board voted to okay a special license for beer sales. Pro forma. This year, an instant replay, right? “Allinfavorsay‘Aye,’allopposedno,the Ayeshaveit,motionpassed, moving right along, right?
Hmmm…..maybe not so right. It started slow with one councilman pondering aloud if the town allows other liquor sales on town ground. Yes, sort of, was the reply. Mostly small-scale wine tastings at the Bald Hill art gallery. All raised pinkies, blush wine, and la-di-dah.
Another representative questioned what would happen if someone got hurt or killed via a DWI afterwards. “We’re insured,” said Keith Romanie, in whose district the festival takes place. Hmmmm…the show’s getting better. That wasn’t the right answer. Not much more debate. A little clarifying by another cast regular (who was a main player in last year’s festival). All polite and right on script.
There was a bit of a puzzle why this was on the agenda in the first place. It was a near “walk-on” – a last minute addition to the agenda, it hadn’t be on the regular work-session agenda the previously Thursday; but that didn’t seem like a big deal.
Now the drama: time to vote. No! No! No! No! from council districts 1, 2, 3 & 4.
Whoa! Now it’s getting really interesting. That NEVER happens. Folks in the know started moving to the edge of their seats. What next?
Yes from district 5 and then, drum roll please, new facts on the issue from district 6.
WHAT! Someone got the script backwards!! Did a page fall out? Was someone asleep when they should have been rehearsing?
New facts are being introduced by Mr. Romaine AFTER the voting begins:
-Two town fraternal groups will loose $10,000 each they would have made selling beer.
-The contract calls for it (sorta).
-You voted for it last year.
-Bluster, sputter…but, but, but.
NOW YOU TELL US!!!! gasps a councilperson. (Financial damage to a constituent group is a no-no of the first magnitude. An elected NEVER does that). But it’s too late….on the record for probity and against drunken debauchery….no way to take that vote back.
The last two votes: a Yes and a No.
Motion Defeated….5 – 2. Next resolution please.
Now…watch closely. Savor it. Revel in it. Pure theater, pure award-winning drama and keystone kop klassic slapstick is about to play out on the horseshoe (the podium where the town board sits). Drama like this usually cost $125 a ticket (and that ain’t front row!):
Mr. Romaine gathering his papers. A red face. An incredulous look. Anger. Frustration. Defeat.
He rises.
He turns.
He leaves.
“If I can’t get my way, I ain’t gonna play,” sings the Greek chorus. (If there was a Greek chorus to sing, that’s what they’d sing.)
Open mouths all around. Heads begin to swivel. Did I really just see what I think I just saw? Tittering begins but is quickly muffled. Damn, do you believe that?
The meeting drones on. Votes are taken. One decision can’t be voted on as the sponsor seems to have left the room before the meeting has been gaveled to a close. Okay, hold it over to July 1.
The meeting ends, the buzz rises. The curtain falls.
All is silence.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Time Out for a Movie
The top crouched low, scurrying from man to man making sure his troops were well dug in; that the foxholes were deep, deep enough to survive whatever was thrown at them….HE, tree bursts, shrapnel; and that the men knew, despite the quiet, another assault was on the way.
He checked the fire team at the advance listening post. “Nothing, Sarge,” they said. “Not a peep. Maybe it’s over.”
Top knew better. The enemy was relentless. Merciless. Vengeful. They’d never forgive how the troops took the high ground. It was rich country, the high ground, simply bursting with opportunities to loot and no one with the will or ability to stop them from taking what they wanted. “Take what’s not nailed down,” was the start of their motto. “And if we can pry it up, it ain’t nailed down,” went the rest.
It had been a bloody fight to take that high ground. Victory was sweet. Now, it was mostly gone,….he and the boys, what was left of ‘em, were hanging on by their fingernails.
Where were the reinforcements? Where were the reserves? There had to be reserves. Didn’t there?
Where was TR to lead the boys up San Juan Hill?
Where was Farragut hanging in the rigging screaming “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” as ships around him were blowing up?
Where was McAuliffe that Christmas in Bastogne, to say “Nuts!” to the Panzer-riding Hun?
Or was it gonna be a repeat of Patton's idea of valor, ”Our blood, his guts.”
He thought about guys in similar situations….
Wainwright’s troops on Bataan waiting in vain for the Pacific Fleet to come to the rescue…and that fleet at the bottom of Pearl Harbor and the war in Europe the first priority.
Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett and Travis waiting for Houston to come to the Alamo and chase Santa Anna’s army back to Mexico. The Top remembers the Alamo, and what happened to its defenders.
Custer at the Little Big Horn. Surely the army that had beaten Lee, Jackson and the Rebs could beat a bunch of half-naked savages.
The Cuban Refugee Army at the Bay of Pigs. The CIA had assured them America would back their invasion of Castro’s Cuba….except when they looked from the beach to the sea and the sky for support, all they saw were seagulls.
Cornwallis at Yorktown and the only time the French Navy beats the English fleet keeps his relief outa Chesapeake Bay….or poor ole Burgoyne, with his ten-mile supply train and the best trained army in the world beaten by Benedict Arnold and a bunch of colonials at Saratoga.
He thinks of the glorious defeats: Wake Island and “Send us more Japs;” Washington getting whupped in Brooklyn, Manhattan, and at White Plains in 1776; the third day at Gettysburg and Pickett’s advance to the “high point of the Confederacy;” the Coral Sea, Ironbottom Sound, and the first half of the Battle of the Atlantic; the Brits in the Blitz; the Canadians at Dieppe; Frozen Chosin; the Anzacs at Gallipoli….and how reading about those fights is a lot different than fighting through those fights.
Those far-off, long-ago soldiers live gloriously in our memory and in our history. But they died alone and in mortal agony. What made them do it? Courage? Resolve? Principles? Money?
Or was it as the Sergeant-Major says in the movie “Zulu” when asked, “Why us?” by the young private, as the last men of the 24rd Regiment of Foot face a mass attack by 3,000 Zulus, “Because we’re here, lad.”
Well, thinks Sarg, here we are. The wagons are in a circle, the enemy has us surrounded, and everyone is looking for the cavalry to come to the rescue…..
Okay, who wants to finish the script. How will this one end?
He checked the fire team at the advance listening post. “Nothing, Sarge,” they said. “Not a peep. Maybe it’s over.”
Top knew better. The enemy was relentless. Merciless. Vengeful. They’d never forgive how the troops took the high ground. It was rich country, the high ground, simply bursting with opportunities to loot and no one with the will or ability to stop them from taking what they wanted. “Take what’s not nailed down,” was the start of their motto. “And if we can pry it up, it ain’t nailed down,” went the rest.
It had been a bloody fight to take that high ground. Victory was sweet. Now, it was mostly gone,….he and the boys, what was left of ‘em, were hanging on by their fingernails.
Where were the reinforcements? Where were the reserves? There had to be reserves. Didn’t there?
Where was TR to lead the boys up San Juan Hill?
Where was Farragut hanging in the rigging screaming “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” as ships around him were blowing up?
Where was McAuliffe that Christmas in Bastogne, to say “Nuts!” to the Panzer-riding Hun?
Or was it gonna be a repeat of Patton's idea of valor, ”Our blood, his guts.”
He thought about guys in similar situations….
Wainwright’s troops on Bataan waiting in vain for the Pacific Fleet to come to the rescue…and that fleet at the bottom of Pearl Harbor and the war in Europe the first priority.
Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett and Travis waiting for Houston to come to the Alamo and chase Santa Anna’s army back to Mexico. The Top remembers the Alamo, and what happened to its defenders.
Custer at the Little Big Horn. Surely the army that had beaten Lee, Jackson and the Rebs could beat a bunch of half-naked savages.
The Cuban Refugee Army at the Bay of Pigs. The CIA had assured them America would back their invasion of Castro’s Cuba….except when they looked from the beach to the sea and the sky for support, all they saw were seagulls.
Cornwallis at Yorktown and the only time the French Navy beats the English fleet keeps his relief outa Chesapeake Bay….or poor ole Burgoyne, with his ten-mile supply train and the best trained army in the world beaten by Benedict Arnold and a bunch of colonials at Saratoga.
He thinks of the glorious defeats: Wake Island and “Send us more Japs;” Washington getting whupped in Brooklyn, Manhattan, and at White Plains in 1776; the third day at Gettysburg and Pickett’s advance to the “high point of the Confederacy;” the Coral Sea, Ironbottom Sound, and the first half of the Battle of the Atlantic; the Brits in the Blitz; the Canadians at Dieppe; Frozen Chosin; the Anzacs at Gallipoli….and how reading about those fights is a lot different than fighting through those fights.
Those far-off, long-ago soldiers live gloriously in our memory and in our history. But they died alone and in mortal agony. What made them do it? Courage? Resolve? Principles? Money?
Or was it as the Sergeant-Major says in the movie “Zulu” when asked, “Why us?” by the young private, as the last men of the 24rd Regiment of Foot face a mass attack by 3,000 Zulus, “Because we’re here, lad.”
Well, thinks Sarg, here we are. The wagons are in a circle, the enemy has us surrounded, and everyone is looking for the cavalry to come to the rescue…..
Okay, who wants to finish the script. How will this one end?
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Job Hunting or “I’m glad I ain’t a girl”
Limbo sucks.
No, not the religious concept of limbo as a place that’s neither heaven, hell, nor purgatory, but a nether world I remember from the good ‘ole Baltimore Catechism where un-baptized babies and some other poor souls were consigned.
No, I mean the limbo of not knowing if you have a job. (Cold, hard logic and my intuition tells me I’m dead meat after the 7th of July when the Town Council takes control of the Brookhaven Public Information Office…but in B’haven you never really know,hence the element of the unknown.)
So I began, prudently, a limited job search a month ago. Answered ads for jobs in journalism from newspapers here and there (like in Vermont, Idaho, Washington State, Maryland, and New York); made a few discreet inquiries and leading suggestions to some key political people who I’d really like to work for; and generally kept my ear to the ground to catch the buzz.
Not very satisfying. I’ve always approached job hunt like a job. Full time. Full bore. 100%. Call everyone I know (now known as “networking”); answer every appropriate ad; spend 8 hours a day scouring the help wanted sections, web sites, etc. and keep calling friends, business acquaintances, etc. (‘Cause we all know the really good jobs hardly ever get advertised).
But what I’m doing now isn’t really a job hunt, it’s more like a job look-around.
Now, here’s where the frustration comes in. Jobs applied for: a dozen-and-a-half or so. Companies responding: three -- the Rutland Herald’s Human Resources Dept. confirming receipt of the application; The Nature Conservancy’s HR dept. in Helena, MT confirming receipt of their application; and an interview scheduled by the editor of Hamptons.com, an online newspaper in Southampton. (The lady stood me up for the interview! She forgot. She admitted it to me on the phone from wherever she was when she was supposed to be with me. Then she felt guilty and told me I was overqualified and was making too much money to take the pay cut she was offering. I told her, politely, it wasn’t any business of hers whether I was taking a pay cut, as long as I was willing to work for the salary she was offering. I don’t think she could deal with that ‘cause I never heard from her again. Of course, she might have guessed I wasn’t really interested in her job in the first place: the pay cut was too much and Hamptons.com seems like a real amateur operation. Her conduct re the job interview seemed to confirm my observation.)
That’s it. Not another word from another organization. (Consider this: every one of the companies I’ve contacted is a “communications” company. The folks I’ve written to are professional communicators.)
Surely after 40 years in business I should know better than to expect anything more than dead silence at the other end of an emailed job application.
But hope springs eternal, hence my frustration.
Here’s where I tie my job search back into the title of this posting.
I’m sitting here thinking about how much I would hate to be a girl. You know, a cute, smart, out-going, good wit, nice hair, well-read, easy to talk with, ready to laugh, on top of politics, business, current events, got good grades in school, athletic, not unfamiliar with spectator sports, have a good, highly skilled, professional-type job kind-a girl,who's willing to put it all out there in hopes of meeting a nice guy...and then have to wait by a telephone for some schmuck to call her for a date.
Okay, so that’s an outmoded concept. Some sort of relic from my youth. Boy-girl 1.0.
But it was the standard at one time and it’s just dawning on me what a jerk I must have been for a whole lot of years.
Not that I suspect there were legions of women sitting around pining for my phone call. But the idea of not having the initiative; not being able to go on the offensive, having to wait for someone else to act first really irks me now, and would have made me crazy had some chromosomes been arranged a bit differently way back in 1946-47. It also gives me more of an emotional connection with Betty Friedan, Gloria, et. al on top of my intellectual acceptance of the women's movement.
Okay, so I’m now on the receiving end of some sort of karmic justice. I probably deserve it.
But I don’t have to like it.
And to every girl I didn’t call, I’m grimly accepting my penance and offering my apology….Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Lo siento. Really.
Ciao for now.
No, not the religious concept of limbo as a place that’s neither heaven, hell, nor purgatory, but a nether world I remember from the good ‘ole Baltimore Catechism where un-baptized babies and some other poor souls were consigned.
No, I mean the limbo of not knowing if you have a job. (Cold, hard logic and my intuition tells me I’m dead meat after the 7th of July when the Town Council takes control of the Brookhaven Public Information Office…but in B’haven you never really know,hence the element of the unknown.)
So I began, prudently, a limited job search a month ago. Answered ads for jobs in journalism from newspapers here and there (like in Vermont, Idaho, Washington State, Maryland, and New York); made a few discreet inquiries and leading suggestions to some key political people who I’d really like to work for; and generally kept my ear to the ground to catch the buzz.
Not very satisfying. I’ve always approached job hunt like a job. Full time. Full bore. 100%. Call everyone I know (now known as “networking”); answer every appropriate ad; spend 8 hours a day scouring the help wanted sections, web sites, etc. and keep calling friends, business acquaintances, etc. (‘Cause we all know the really good jobs hardly ever get advertised).
But what I’m doing now isn’t really a job hunt, it’s more like a job look-around.
Now, here’s where the frustration comes in. Jobs applied for: a dozen-and-a-half or so. Companies responding: three -- the Rutland Herald’s Human Resources Dept. confirming receipt of the application; The Nature Conservancy’s HR dept. in Helena, MT confirming receipt of their application; and an interview scheduled by the editor of Hamptons.com, an online newspaper in Southampton. (The lady stood me up for the interview! She forgot. She admitted it to me on the phone from wherever she was when she was supposed to be with me. Then she felt guilty and told me I was overqualified and was making too much money to take the pay cut she was offering. I told her, politely, it wasn’t any business of hers whether I was taking a pay cut, as long as I was willing to work for the salary she was offering. I don’t think she could deal with that ‘cause I never heard from her again. Of course, she might have guessed I wasn’t really interested in her job in the first place: the pay cut was too much and Hamptons.com seems like a real amateur operation. Her conduct re the job interview seemed to confirm my observation.)
That’s it. Not another word from another organization. (Consider this: every one of the companies I’ve contacted is a “communications” company. The folks I’ve written to are professional communicators.)
Surely after 40 years in business I should know better than to expect anything more than dead silence at the other end of an emailed job application.
But hope springs eternal, hence my frustration.
Here’s where I tie my job search back into the title of this posting.
I’m sitting here thinking about how much I would hate to be a girl. You know, a cute, smart, out-going, good wit, nice hair, well-read, easy to talk with, ready to laugh, on top of politics, business, current events, got good grades in school, athletic, not unfamiliar with spectator sports, have a good, highly skilled, professional-type job kind-a girl,who's willing to put it all out there in hopes of meeting a nice guy...and then have to wait by a telephone for some schmuck to call her for a date.
Okay, so that’s an outmoded concept. Some sort of relic from my youth. Boy-girl 1.0.
But it was the standard at one time and it’s just dawning on me what a jerk I must have been for a whole lot of years.
Not that I suspect there were legions of women sitting around pining for my phone call. But the idea of not having the initiative; not being able to go on the offensive, having to wait for someone else to act first really irks me now, and would have made me crazy had some chromosomes been arranged a bit differently way back in 1946-47. It also gives me more of an emotional connection with Betty Friedan, Gloria, et. al on top of my intellectual acceptance of the women's movement.
Okay, so I’m now on the receiving end of some sort of karmic justice. I probably deserve it.
But I don’t have to like it.
And to every girl I didn’t call, I’m grimly accepting my penance and offering my apology….Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Lo siento. Really.
Ciao for now.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Wot a Weekend
Another successful delivery.
No, not Margaret delivering a new calf...us delivering Margaret so she can deliver a new calf.
We drove to Vermont on Friday to "deliver" Margaret to MapleWood Farm, the 300+ acre organic farm in Highgate, VT where she'll be spending the summer and perhaps more.
We met her mentors/farmers, Eric and Hanna Noel and their parents (who actually own the property). We also me Gabe and Justin, the two fellows who will be "interning" alongside Marg for the summer. (Justin worked with Margaret at the Brooklyn ecology center where she taught this past year and got her interested in working on the farm; Gabe is Justin's friend and after his agricultural summer begins his masters in classical languages [Latin]).
There's lots of cattle on the farm (spread? ranch? What do they call a beef operations in VT?) Plus lots of organic veggies. They sell "shares" in the harvest before the season starts, then the shareholders reap the hard work of Eric, Hanna, and the interns throughout the growing season. On Sunday Marg harvested radishes, a couple of kinds of lettuce, rhubard, and arugula and then divided it all up into 27 or so shares.
We on the other hand took advantage of the cultural offerings and didn't miss a tourist trap on the way home.
The Shelbourne Museum is a collection of collections. Art, sculpture, folk art, a 180 ft. lake boat, a covered bridge, wildfowl decoys, and most everything in between; all housed in a collection of 18th and 19th century buildings collected from all over New England.
It's impossible to take in on a single tour. It's like the Met or Natural History Museum. Too much in not enough time. Gotta go back!
Then there was the the maple syrup store, the wildflower store, and the cheese store, all pretending not to be stores, but a sugar house, wildflower garden and dairy. Infact, they've got just enough cover to be more than stores, but it's pretty easy to see through the window dressing. The were "real, as in real, retail outlets. But if you want wildflower seeds ($33.00), maple products ($56.00), or Vermont chedder ($22.00) ya gotta get it somewhere. (And at least these places have a certain home-made quality, not the studied "part-the-visitors-from-their-money" science of Disney World.)
The Lake Champlain Maritime Museum, on the other hand, was the real, real thing. But it's so underfunded and tucked away so far off the beaten path, it has the aura of a place run as a private playground for the members of the board of directors, not for the public.
Lots of great stuff, the raw material of a spectacular explanation of the maritime history of a critical place in American history (Lake Champlain: the path between Canada and the Hudson River), at a couple of critical times (French & Indian War, the American Revolution, and the Industrial Revolution). But so poorly marked, so poorly explained, and so without the interpetation that puts the collection in perspective....that you wind up looking and saying, "Yep, another old boat." One's old boat meter soon gets into the red zone and it all becomes a blur.
We also stepped back in time to the farm where my family spent a couple of weeks for a couple of summers in the mid-fifties. Ken and Lilly Atwood ran a dairy farm near Bridgewater Corners, VT (which is near Woodstock, VT). They took in boarders. Ken ran the farm. Lilly did the cooking. She had the reputation as the worst cook in VT, if not all New England.
Not that it mattered to a six or seven year old. (Enough maple syrup can make amost anything, at least at breakfast, okay to eat.)
But the memory of the milking, the bull, swimming in a cold stream, the poverty of the surrounding area, pulling the trigger on a .30-06 rifle we kids were using in a "play" and sending a slug through the ceiling (honest, I didn't know it was loaded!), riding on a tractor, helping harvest the hay, and the time spent with my Uncle Ken, Aunt Sis and cousins Carol and Eileen is the bedrock of life. (Hmmm...wonder if there are any pictures from that time.)
Anyway, this is about the third time I've driven past the old place in the last 40+ years. Each time it gets more and more run down, more and more depressing looking, and smaller. We stopped at a garden store next to the old place, but it was closed. Besides, the house looks so run down on the outside, I was terrified to see what it would look like on the inside.
The poverty in Vermont is probably as bad as it ever was, at least in some places.
Burlington has the look and feel of a cross between a propserous mill town, a college/education mecca, tourist destination and rich suburb. Which is precisely what it is.
The area around the Killington ski area is nothing but condos, Marriotts, and upscale-looking restaurants.
Go a few miles down the road and it's cars on blocks, junk in the yard, rust-streaked single-wides, and women who are clearly eating way too many carbs while the men are clearly drinking way too many beers.
Now I've been around enough farms to distinguish between hardworking operations, which come with a certain organized disorder, and a rural slum. In the area Margaret is living the family farm is alive and prospering, albeit on the back of incredible dedication and unmeasurable amounts of hard work.
But some places, like the old Atwood farm, there's a look of defeat. Buildings collapsing, paint peeling, shades askew in the windows, yellowed lace curtains half hung, junk piled up where it shouldn't be. You can almost smell the mildew seeping out from under the door; hear the music from the kids getting their culture from the tv and parents too tired, too uneducated, or too poor of spirit if not of body, to do anything about it.
We asked the young high-school-age hostess at Chow Bella (one of St. Albans' most upscale eateries -- it was okay but not great) what brought people to the area. "The maple festival," she said. I observed the festival was in April and I doubted people stayed from then until June.
We tried again. "I don't know," she said. "I'm trying to leave." I surrendered and asked our waitress. "I'm from Plattsburg (across the lake)," she reported. I dropped the topic.
Home now, I'd love to go back. Soon.
Maybe the Rutland Herald will be interesed enough in my journalistic skills to invite me up for an interview. (Rutland, along with the newspapers in Couer d'Alene ID; Wenatchee, WA; and Helena, MT all got incisive, hard-hitting writing samples, a brilliant cover letter, and a can't-be-beat resume along with a job application. I'm not sure what I'd do if any replied, but it's fun to see how long it takes for them to acknowldege my existance. (So far, the only response in a month of mailing has been from the HR people at the Herald.)
Can't wait to start the work week. Wonder what new wonders will unfold in Brookhaven?
No, not Margaret delivering a new calf...us delivering Margaret so she can deliver a new calf.
We drove to Vermont on Friday to "deliver" Margaret to MapleWood Farm, the 300+ acre organic farm in Highgate, VT where she'll be spending the summer and perhaps more.
We met her mentors/farmers, Eric and Hanna Noel and their parents (who actually own the property). We also me Gabe and Justin, the two fellows who will be "interning" alongside Marg for the summer. (Justin worked with Margaret at the Brooklyn ecology center where she taught this past year and got her interested in working on the farm; Gabe is Justin's friend and after his agricultural summer begins his masters in classical languages [Latin]).
There's lots of cattle on the farm (spread? ranch? What do they call a beef operations in VT?) Plus lots of organic veggies. They sell "shares" in the harvest before the season starts, then the shareholders reap the hard work of Eric, Hanna, and the interns throughout the growing season. On Sunday Marg harvested radishes, a couple of kinds of lettuce, rhubard, and arugula and then divided it all up into 27 or so shares.
We on the other hand took advantage of the cultural offerings and didn't miss a tourist trap on the way home.
The Shelbourne Museum is a collection of collections. Art, sculpture, folk art, a 180 ft. lake boat, a covered bridge, wildfowl decoys, and most everything in between; all housed in a collection of 18th and 19th century buildings collected from all over New England.
It's impossible to take in on a single tour. It's like the Met or Natural History Museum. Too much in not enough time. Gotta go back!
Then there was the the maple syrup store, the wildflower store, and the cheese store, all pretending not to be stores, but a sugar house, wildflower garden and dairy. Infact, they've got just enough cover to be more than stores, but it's pretty easy to see through the window dressing. The were "real, as in real, retail outlets. But if you want wildflower seeds ($33.00), maple products ($56.00), or Vermont chedder ($22.00) ya gotta get it somewhere. (And at least these places have a certain home-made quality, not the studied "part-the-visitors-from-their-money" science of Disney World.)
The Lake Champlain Maritime Museum, on the other hand, was the real, real thing. But it's so underfunded and tucked away so far off the beaten path, it has the aura of a place run as a private playground for the members of the board of directors, not for the public.
Lots of great stuff, the raw material of a spectacular explanation of the maritime history of a critical place in American history (Lake Champlain: the path between Canada and the Hudson River), at a couple of critical times (French & Indian War, the American Revolution, and the Industrial Revolution). But so poorly marked, so poorly explained, and so without the interpetation that puts the collection in perspective....that you wind up looking and saying, "Yep, another old boat." One's old boat meter soon gets into the red zone and it all becomes a blur.
We also stepped back in time to the farm where my family spent a couple of weeks for a couple of summers in the mid-fifties. Ken and Lilly Atwood ran a dairy farm near Bridgewater Corners, VT (which is near Woodstock, VT). They took in boarders. Ken ran the farm. Lilly did the cooking. She had the reputation as the worst cook in VT, if not all New England.
Not that it mattered to a six or seven year old. (Enough maple syrup can make amost anything, at least at breakfast, okay to eat.)
But the memory of the milking, the bull, swimming in a cold stream, the poverty of the surrounding area, pulling the trigger on a .30-06 rifle we kids were using in a "play" and sending a slug through the ceiling (honest, I didn't know it was loaded!), riding on a tractor, helping harvest the hay, and the time spent with my Uncle Ken, Aunt Sis and cousins Carol and Eileen is the bedrock of life. (Hmmm...wonder if there are any pictures from that time.)
Anyway, this is about the third time I've driven past the old place in the last 40+ years. Each time it gets more and more run down, more and more depressing looking, and smaller. We stopped at a garden store next to the old place, but it was closed. Besides, the house looks so run down on the outside, I was terrified to see what it would look like on the inside.
The poverty in Vermont is probably as bad as it ever was, at least in some places.
Burlington has the look and feel of a cross between a propserous mill town, a college/education mecca, tourist destination and rich suburb. Which is precisely what it is.
The area around the Killington ski area is nothing but condos, Marriotts, and upscale-looking restaurants.
Go a few miles down the road and it's cars on blocks, junk in the yard, rust-streaked single-wides, and women who are clearly eating way too many carbs while the men are clearly drinking way too many beers.
Now I've been around enough farms to distinguish between hardworking operations, which come with a certain organized disorder, and a rural slum. In the area Margaret is living the family farm is alive and prospering, albeit on the back of incredible dedication and unmeasurable amounts of hard work.
But some places, like the old Atwood farm, there's a look of defeat. Buildings collapsing, paint peeling, shades askew in the windows, yellowed lace curtains half hung, junk piled up where it shouldn't be. You can almost smell the mildew seeping out from under the door; hear the music from the kids getting their culture from the tv and parents too tired, too uneducated, or too poor of spirit if not of body, to do anything about it.
We asked the young high-school-age hostess at Chow Bella (one of St. Albans' most upscale eateries -- it was okay but not great) what brought people to the area. "The maple festival," she said. I observed the festival was in April and I doubted people stayed from then until June.
We tried again. "I don't know," she said. "I'm trying to leave." I surrendered and asked our waitress. "I'm from Plattsburg (across the lake)," she reported. I dropped the topic.
Home now, I'd love to go back. Soon.
Maybe the Rutland Herald will be interesed enough in my journalistic skills to invite me up for an interview. (Rutland, along with the newspapers in Couer d'Alene ID; Wenatchee, WA; and Helena, MT all got incisive, hard-hitting writing samples, a brilliant cover letter, and a can't-be-beat resume along with a job application. I'm not sure what I'd do if any replied, but it's fun to see how long it takes for them to acknowldege my existance. (So far, the only response in a month of mailing has been from the HR people at the Herald.)
Can't wait to start the work week. Wonder what new wonders will unfold in Brookhaven?
Sunday, June 1, 2008
This is the business we have chosen.
I've been ascribing that line to the Godfather movie. I'm not quite sure it's in it...but the spirit of the line permeates the movie.
It means: Don't complain when things get tough. You coulda been a baker or insurance salesman or ice cream truck driver instead of working for Don Corleone.
It's the same in politics. You should know the risks; you should know the rewards; you should accept them both with equanimity before you take the job.
Like at Brookhaven Town Hall.
Life "inside" Town Hall has become crass and brutal. It's no place for a gentleman, or for a lady. It's hardly the place for a self-respecting thug. But thugs there are aplenty.
There's little dignity. There's no respect for talent, hard work, dedication, competance, or public spirit.
Party loyalty is the coin of the realm.
One lives or dies by the letter after one's name. You are either a "D" or "R." (You could be a "C," but that's the same as being an "R.")
Take the late, departed Joe Asaro. Good party guy. A stalwart "R." Seventeen years working for the Town and working for the party (until 2006 it was the same thing).
Then he got promoted.
The Deputy Commissioner of Public Safety -- 20 years a command cop in NYC, an attorney, plenty of experience, etc. -- gets canned 'cause he ain't an "R" and "because we (the "R's") can, we will."
His replacement? A 17-year town veteran. Clawed his way up to "senior" messenger driver. He takes envelopes from building to building. Deposits to the bank. Trucks stuff around town.
Then, fortune smiles, the Party pays off, and he goes from Driver to Deputy Commissioner of Public Safety (he's become his boss's boss's boss's boss.)
Now he's no longer responsible for envelopes, he's responsible for near one-half million lives in an emergency. He's going to be the #2 guy organizing the Town's repsonse to a hurricane, or terrorist bomb, or some other disaster. (The only thing he's got on his resume as previous experience organizing something: he organized the Easter Egg hunt in Shirley and a Christmas Holiday parade in Mastic. He's got no public safety experience, no fire experience, no management experience, no financial experience, no personnel experience, no communications experience, no experience whatsoever....except drives envelopes from building to building. He knows where the buildings are, I guess.)
How could that be, you ask? Sheer thuggery. Pure brute power. A 4 - 3 voted on the Town Council (3 Republicans and 1 Conservative versus 3 Democrats.)
No concern for the well-being of a half-million people, only concern for paying off the party.
Cosa Nostra. "Our thing."
But wait...what's this. He fudged his time sheets? Nooooo! He wasn't where he was supposed to be? An investigation?
Nope. He called in sick the day he was supposed to be examined for the breach.
And resigned.
Now he's back driving the envelopes from building to building, deposits to the bank, and papers to the outlying offices.
Will there be any mea culpa's from the Republicans?
Wadda you think?
Stay tuned.
It means: Don't complain when things get tough. You coulda been a baker or insurance salesman or ice cream truck driver instead of working for Don Corleone.
It's the same in politics. You should know the risks; you should know the rewards; you should accept them both with equanimity before you take the job.
Like at Brookhaven Town Hall.
Life "inside" Town Hall has become crass and brutal. It's no place for a gentleman, or for a lady. It's hardly the place for a self-respecting thug. But thugs there are aplenty.
There's little dignity. There's no respect for talent, hard work, dedication, competance, or public spirit.
Party loyalty is the coin of the realm.
One lives or dies by the letter after one's name. You are either a "D" or "R." (You could be a "C," but that's the same as being an "R.")
Take the late, departed Joe Asaro. Good party guy. A stalwart "R." Seventeen years working for the Town and working for the party (until 2006 it was the same thing).
Then he got promoted.
The Deputy Commissioner of Public Safety -- 20 years a command cop in NYC, an attorney, plenty of experience, etc. -- gets canned 'cause he ain't an "R" and "because we (the "R's") can, we will."
His replacement? A 17-year town veteran. Clawed his way up to "senior" messenger driver. He takes envelopes from building to building. Deposits to the bank. Trucks stuff around town.
Then, fortune smiles, the Party pays off, and he goes from Driver to Deputy Commissioner of Public Safety (he's become his boss's boss's boss's boss.)
Now he's no longer responsible for envelopes, he's responsible for near one-half million lives in an emergency. He's going to be the #2 guy organizing the Town's repsonse to a hurricane, or terrorist bomb, or some other disaster. (The only thing he's got on his resume as previous experience organizing something: he organized the Easter Egg hunt in Shirley and a Christmas Holiday parade in Mastic. He's got no public safety experience, no fire experience, no management experience, no financial experience, no personnel experience, no communications experience, no experience whatsoever....except drives envelopes from building to building. He knows where the buildings are, I guess.)
How could that be, you ask? Sheer thuggery. Pure brute power. A 4 - 3 voted on the Town Council (3 Republicans and 1 Conservative versus 3 Democrats.)
No concern for the well-being of a half-million people, only concern for paying off the party.
Cosa Nostra. "Our thing."
But wait...what's this. He fudged his time sheets? Nooooo! He wasn't where he was supposed to be? An investigation?
Nope. He called in sick the day he was supposed to be examined for the breach.
And resigned.
Now he's back driving the envelopes from building to building, deposits to the bank, and papers to the outlying offices.
Will there be any mea culpa's from the Republicans?
Wadda you think?
Stay tuned.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Braggin Rights
Writing is usually done to an audience. I tell those who work for me that they should pick one person, typical of their target audience, and write to that person.
I often pick my mother if I'm trying to explain things; or my wife, Dolores, or maybe a specific reporter who I'm trying to reach with a message.
Here, however, in order to find a voice I need to find someone to talk to. It's gonna take a while.
So in the meantime, I'll just brag a bit about our kids.
Tom, now a firefighter in Seattle, is our oldest. Four years in the Marines; graduated with History degree from Seattle University (the Jesuits), showed a deft hand at carpentry; and then led his class at the Seattle Fire Academy. After a dozen tough years of hard work, thoroughly aided and abetted by Joy, his wife, things are looking better: good income, great kids, a nice house, and they both have "regular" jobs and can begin to settle down. The two of them have made us so proud.
Michael, a success at everything he puts his hand to, was our first college grad. Townson University in Baltimore. He not only got his degree he did it while working full time. Now creating the insides of Boeing jets, also in Seattle, he's thinking about moving back east. He's going about it like a total pro and it's exciting to watch him do everything right. My only regret for Mike is the string of broken hearts he's left behind. Every company he's ever worked for wants him back. The guys in Baltimore will give him a place to live and a car; the specialty display house in a northern Seattle suburb let him take 5 months off (traveling to South America to teach surfing and walk the cougar [think large lion without a mane] and took him back thanking him for returning; and as people are being laid off where he's now working, they're giving him more work to do. His grandfather would be proud of him.
Margaret has the itchy feet. After college it was a year in Seattle. After Seattle it was two years in the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan teaching English and learning Russian. Then Brooklyn for near a year teaching elementary school children about the environment and next northern Vermont working on an organic farm and perhaps doing some writing of her experiences in Kaz.
Dolores, of course, helps people. Really HELPS them. She's a nurse at Stony Brook University Hospital. Not a take-a-temp, run-an-IV, or give meds kinda nurse, but a nurse who helps get people out of the hospital; helps them stay alive at home, or go there to die; helps them have a quality of life they might not expect to have; helps the family care; and most of all, she cares for the family.....an average of a dozen hours a day, it seems.
A great family? YOU BET. I get pains in my chest pounding it in pride. What wonderful children, what a wonderful partner, what a wonderful adventure. Wonder what's next (besides a nine hour car ride next weekend taking Margaret to Vermont.)
I often pick my mother if I'm trying to explain things; or my wife, Dolores, or maybe a specific reporter who I'm trying to reach with a message.
Here, however, in order to find a voice I need to find someone to talk to. It's gonna take a while.
So in the meantime, I'll just brag a bit about our kids.
Tom, now a firefighter in Seattle, is our oldest. Four years in the Marines; graduated with History degree from Seattle University (the Jesuits), showed a deft hand at carpentry; and then led his class at the Seattle Fire Academy. After a dozen tough years of hard work, thoroughly aided and abetted by Joy, his wife, things are looking better: good income, great kids, a nice house, and they both have "regular" jobs and can begin to settle down. The two of them have made us so proud.
Michael, a success at everything he puts his hand to, was our first college grad. Townson University in Baltimore. He not only got his degree he did it while working full time. Now creating the insides of Boeing jets, also in Seattle, he's thinking about moving back east. He's going about it like a total pro and it's exciting to watch him do everything right. My only regret for Mike is the string of broken hearts he's left behind. Every company he's ever worked for wants him back. The guys in Baltimore will give him a place to live and a car; the specialty display house in a northern Seattle suburb let him take 5 months off (traveling to South America to teach surfing and walk the cougar [think large lion without a mane] and took him back thanking him for returning; and as people are being laid off where he's now working, they're giving him more work to do. His grandfather would be proud of him.
Margaret has the itchy feet. After college it was a year in Seattle. After Seattle it was two years in the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan teaching English and learning Russian. Then Brooklyn for near a year teaching elementary school children about the environment and next northern Vermont working on an organic farm and perhaps doing some writing of her experiences in Kaz.
Dolores, of course, helps people. Really HELPS them. She's a nurse at Stony Brook University Hospital. Not a take-a-temp, run-an-IV, or give meds kinda nurse, but a nurse who helps get people out of the hospital; helps them stay alive at home, or go there to die; helps them have a quality of life they might not expect to have; helps the family care; and most of all, she cares for the family.....an average of a dozen hours a day, it seems.
A great family? YOU BET. I get pains in my chest pounding it in pride. What wonderful children, what a wonderful partner, what a wonderful adventure. Wonder what's next (besides a nine hour car ride next weekend taking Margaret to Vermont.)
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
What's this all about?
I write for a living. Well, at least part of my living comes from my writing. Another part of my living comes from the thinking that comes before the writing.
Professionally, I'm not usually at a loss for words. As a reporter, I wrote about what I observed, what people said to me, and the things they did.
As the spokesman for a large Long Island town, I write about what's happening in the town.
As a speechwriter, I put words in other people's mouths and ideas in their heads, and then they say the words and perhaps adopt the ideas.
Now, as a blogger, I'll try to do all three: chronicle my observations, describe the people I'm interested in, and perhaps, plant some ideas and solicit some feedback.
Let's see if anyone is interested.
Professionally, I'm not usually at a loss for words. As a reporter, I wrote about what I observed, what people said to me, and the things they did.
As the spokesman for a large Long Island town, I write about what's happening in the town.
As a speechwriter, I put words in other people's mouths and ideas in their heads, and then they say the words and perhaps adopt the ideas.
Now, as a blogger, I'll try to do all three: chronicle my observations, describe the people I'm interested in, and perhaps, plant some ideas and solicit some feedback.
Let's see if anyone is interested.
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