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.
Friday, June 27, 2008
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.
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