The Senate

Time we took a hard, impassioned look at the U.S. Senate without the usual lament that the system is broken. The seeds of its dysfunction were planted a long time ago, 1789 to be exact.

When 13 sovereign colonies decided that the Articles of Confederation was little more than a mutual defense treaty, too much emphasis was lavished on trying to preserve the continuing myth that the several states could really be treated as sovereign . None of the later states had even a colorable claim to sovereignty at the time of their admission. They were merely a portion of territory cut out of lands, acquired from France by purchase and Mexico by conquest. We created a Senate for the “states” treating them of equal importance (lest the feelings of the smaller ones would be offended and opt out of ratification.) The House was to represent the people. Originally we provided for the election of Senators by the Legislatures of the several states, until a century of abuse and corruption led to the adoption of the 17th amendment and the direct election of Senators. Now we live with the tyranny of the minority.

Senators enamored of their own, rule making power, bestowed upon themselves all manner of extraordinary powers, far beyond those originally contemplated now serve as tools to frustrate the will of the people and the President. Filibuster, super majority votes on ordinary legislation, the power of one Senator to hold up consideration or voting on a bill, secretly and without giving, any reason, all of those self-created devices to inhibit and frustrate the powers of the House and the Executive in the performance of their constitutional duties. Yet they complain, that the system is broken.

Reconsider why we have a Senate at all ? Perhaps it should be stripped of any but symbolic functions, similar to the British House of Lords. Under our current system, seven states, with a population so small that they are only entitled to one seat in the House of Representatives, still have 14 U.S. Senators, equal in power and authority to Senators from states whose populations number in the millions.

It was foreseen that whatever compromises were necessary to bring the Constitution into effect, it was a flawed solution and would need readjustment and change. The fact that we have already amended 27 times is ample proof of the imperfections of the system and the fact that it is time to rethink the Senate, reshape its function and restrict its abusive powers.

On Writing

Up late, unable to sleep, to capture the parade of recollections we call dreams. It appears that writing has become an optional activity when sleep is illusive or television programming is poor or abysmal.

Reexamination of what were once seemingly good ideas for writing themes now seem more like exercises in futility. Either preaching to the choir as I perceive my family and friends to be or casting pearls before swine as I perceived the total effect of my letters to the editors, however pithy and correct I deem them to b e.

Still ego suggests that so many good one liners held in reserve ought not be wasted. In a era of bumper strip philosophy and simplistic oversimplification as the rule in political discourse it would be pointless to add yet one more voice to the cacophony.

If I write only for me (a self-deception) I might as well turn it into a mantra and save the ink and paper. Still, I think I have some insights and clarity on a few issues, but no one is listening then it can’t really matter. Maybe I can write my upscale version of a political dead sea scrolls, get some plastic tubing and bury them in the backyard for some yet to be born archeologist to discover in some remote future. EGO - unseemly for one with Buddhist inclinations - wanting to let go.

Still and yet, I feel I may still have something of significance for my sons or grandsons, some little shard of insight which might serve as a prism for their own perspectives.

For the now, with my ego and ambitions appropriately atrophied, I am reduced to dividing my concerns between organizing my next several doctors’s appointments and delivering a daily can of cat food (alimony payments) to my alienated cat, Flower, now in residence down the block.

The Continuing Saga of Flower

Unable to find inspiration to write about anything of significance, and since I am obsessively concerned with Flower’s welfare I thought I would catalog my continuing adventures in that regard.

For the last several days I have walked early in the A.M. and called her name as I approached the new venue of her choice. She usually appears from the jungle of the growth which surrounds the place, a so-called “Florida lawn”, of leafy plants and wild grasses, which I, and apparently Flower much approve of. I bring her food which she eats gratefully, rolls a bit, and then with an air of quiet dismissal concentrates on washing, my signal to depart, no longer with any expectation that she will follow.

I have made the acquaintance of the lady of the house who has informed me that Flower has been resident in her yard for the last two years but understands that she lives elsewhere, in a house up the street, this information based on her recent conversation with Becky.

We knew that for some time this was the point where we encountered Flower on our daily walks when she would accompany us home but I was unaware of how Flower had really made herself at home here. The householder, Mel by name, told me she pets Flower for a few minutes each day but doesn’t feed her; however, today I informed her that Flower has no longer returned to our house and I have undertaken to bring her food on my walks, less the poor animal starve. Mel has joined in my concern and furnished me with a bowl, to replace the coffee filters I was using as plates as well as finding a better location for me to place the food so it would not dry out in the sun. Flower ate with gusto while we talked, pausing occasionally to determine whether she should join in the conversation. I remember that for some time, an earlier time, she had made an abandoned boat trailer in a vacant lot her alternative venue but this time it seems more serious (and apparently permanent).

Still my affection for the weird cat, has not abated so I fear I will be delivering a can of meow mix on a virtual daily basis for the foreseeable future. Saturday morning as I left at 7 A.M. Becky seemed surprised that I made to walk around the block rather than making straight away for Flower to deliver her food. I fear I am now regarded as the “food guy,” a “meal on wheels” for my favorite feline. I prefer to think of it as a sort of a delivery of alimony in kind, Flower not yet having mastered the intricacies of our electronic banking (though not beyond her ability to comprehend.) Still she was sitting in her usual spot and recognized me before I made any sign or signal. Payment due for years of enthusiastic attention, now to be delivered rather than awarded after a walk up the block. Having experienced this attitude in other, former relationships, I understood it implicitly.

If we understand that our dogs and cats employ their intelligence in influencing the people in their world to do things for them that they cannot really do for themselves and have, through many trial and error encounters, learned to manipulate our behavior on their behalf, we are light years ahead of those who think they employ their intelligence just to please us.

My Teachers

From time to time I have realized that I have an unacknowledged debt to those wonderful people who stood (or sat) at the front of the room and endeavored to communicate with me and infuse me with some knowledge or understanding of the world.

Firstly, there was Miss Dotell, first grade (P.S. 6) who I accused of hitting me in order to get some attention when my brother was born. To her great credit she never retaliated against an insecure, stuttering child after the confrontation by mother, and my confession that I made the whole thing up.

My second grade teacher, Miss Eagan, (P.S. 36) I remember dimly, she of the soft lisp and the frozen face who also was my mother’s teacher in some distant past. The rest of P.S. 36 is vague, but something must have stuck since I can now do long division.

Next came a seismic move from East to West Bronx, (P.S. 26)where the formidable principal, Miss Healy, who informed me they did not tolerate wise guys. My lasting impression of that lady was she was vastly more suitable to serve across the street as Mother Superior in the Holy Spirit School. Mr. Pascal, my first fifth grade teacher, urban, spent most of the time drying 8 X 10 glossy prints on the radiator, only to bail out midterm, becoming a successful something or other on Broadway, but then P.S. 26 was where Mrs. Webber , she of the wonderful soft breast, who came to regard me as her favorite, and ranted at Bronx crudity and bad manners as “Burnside Avenue style,” but gave me my earliest feelings of being special and perhaps, even loved.

Junior high school, McCombs (P.S. 82) just up the street came next, with some wonderful, memorable people stepped into my reality. These was Miss Riley, who shared with me the fact that our fathers were both serving in the Navy, and on that connection came early several mornings to tutor me in Algebra, raising my grade from 30 at the midterm to a soaring 98 by the end of the term. The elegant Mr. Middleton, who resembled a dissipated Walter Pidgeon, in his glen plaid suit, good tweeds, brilliant, if cutting wit, who conjugated the name Ludacer as if it were a French verb with “er” ending. English teachers names , now forgotten who motivated me to read short stories, novels, histories, putting my feet on the path of being a lifetime learner. Shop teachers, giving me some rudimentary skills in electricity, carpentry, and the art of printing although never attaining a skill level worthy of mention, still thanks !

Briefly, commuting to DeWitt Clinton High School, a large foreboding building resembling Attica, where I first developed some creative writing skill, only to be accused of plagerism. The rest of that year largely blurred, becoming a pretend “tough guy” in the service of serf-preservation, commuting to downtown Manhattan at 3 P.M. to a variety of part time jobs. Then moving to Arizona, the return and .........

Baldwin HIgh School where I finally found new friendships which have lasted a lifetime and a nice life in a great little town. Teachers like, Mr. Hillman, who read history one chapter ahead of the class; Mr. Reed, who made math understandable; others supportive rather than critical. I began to develop some social skills and develop a persona but still wore a variety of masks. Naval Reserve time where old salts taught me seamanship.

A wasted semester at Toledo University, with no memory of my teachers, which I have already chronicled. Lastly the University of Florida, a freshman at age 23, obsessed with maximizing my GI benefits , and catching up with my peer group, carrying too many credits, making, mostly A grades, and having no memory of having fun, no social life. An academic monk. My only clear memory of teachers were the ones who treated me unfairly, withholding A grades, reserved for graduates students looking for easy credits, as Dr. Vedder, phony who taught criminology. Still, I managed to do 3 years of work in 2.

Then law school under a special admission policy for veterans. There I worked my ass off, graduated second in my class. Professors like Ernie Jones and Frank Maloney putting a critical edge on my thinking.

Still in sum, I remain grateful to all of those wonderful people who with chalk-stained suits, stood at the front of the room, overcame my resistance, and instilled in me a love of knowledge.

MSNBC

Trying an end run on the old adage that you can’t make a silk purse out of a ssow’s ear, MSNBC now continues to try to make a pundit out of Joe Scarboro, an unreconstructed redneck, Alabama football fan, whose sole claim to fame is he snuck into Congress behind a Newt Gingrich “surge”, is now presented as Morning Joe, an expert in politics, economics, foreign affairs and sports.

Posing in fashion flixs with his co-host and traveling largely on her good looks, Joe with the aid of a wardrobe consult is packaged in the A.M. as the new voice of middle of the road “enlightenment “; despite his obdurate insistence on his paleolithic views on politics and his constant references to 1994 as proof of his judgments.

Hey - she’s great but....BASTA !

Visions

It is early in the morning of election day and I cringe in expectation of the perpetual onslaught of the political pundits and pollsters in their final orgasms of opinion once more, their last chance to pummel my brain with their witless forecasts of tea party expectations, statistical satire and the rest, like a sunami of verbal bullshit advancing toward a shore of helpless listeners. The have battered my brain with their ceaseless harangues for months and have inculcated a litany of nonsense into my fore conscience.Instead I will search the corners of long, almost forgotten past for images of amusement or concerns to wait for first light and the routines of retirement, of sorting my weekly wash, coffee, the therapeutic walk and brief visit with Flower, the cat of my heart, all before curling up before the TV for an hour of “Will & Grace”, my latest addiction to well-written comedy.

I am back in the east Bronx, about a block from the intersection of Tremont Ave and Southern Blvd, where the overhang of the subway station casts a great shadow over the busy confusion of cars, trolley cars and pedestrians, all scurrying about on some serious mission. My eye finds, with delight, one of the many moving vans of the,( wait for it,) “The Seven Santini Brothers” and my imagination sees a group of muscular, young men on the stage of the Loews Paradise, posing in their formfitting purple tights before performing 10 minutes of acrobatic exhibitions, hand to hand stands, tumbling and the like until they all link hands and join in a final unified bow as they leave the stage. Knowing that the glory of applause and the footlights will not last forever they wisely repair to the east Bronx and the “Seven Santinis Moving Company” is born. To this day a vision of a big van with that name emblazoned on its side brings a grin to my face. Mayflower, and the others be dammed, its the Santini Brothers for me.

After a moments reflection and a sip of coffee, my memory reveals the dark side, linked to the visit with the Wieners, my long time friends, my former analyst and his Dutch wife now in their 80’s and struggling with the disabilities visited by advancing age. Beth, struggling with her knee operation, a recent repair Stan, his memory and brilliant insight now sliding down the slippery slope of early dementia or alzheimer’s which I cannot guess. He usually asks me if I still carry a pistol, which I make sure to do on my visits, and display for him my latest firearm, while we reminisce about our old days of playful target shooting and related misadventures, such as the time we assisted the deputy sheriff in subduing a prisoner. He grins, but has no memory of the event. Sad. Always he responds to my carrying with an enthusiastic “good,” glad that his aging friend is still armed and my mind turns to the poem by Martin Niemoeller, to the effect, that:

“,,, they came first for the communists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a communist, then they came for the Jews, and I didn’t speak up “....and I spare you the rest of the litany, now very well known to every thinking person. Beth, who lived through the Nazi occupation of her beloved Amsterdam, Stan who grew up in the Yiddish dominated Crown Heights of Brooklyn and is well familiar with our Jewish history, still my source for the occasional translation of a Yiddish expression I find drifting in my memory. Stan knows the gun in my pocket is my personal answer for “Speaking up” if once again they come for the Jews. I long ago decided my personal response would not to be taken willing, but rather than write a poem I would punctuate my protest with whatever Smith and Wesson or Sig Sauer happened to ride in my hip pocket at that moment. My personal “Masada” would take a few latter day centurions with me.

But those are dark corners, and today is election day, and if I prayed , (and I do not) I would pray that the electors will have enough vision and sense to see through the fog of disinformation and posturing, provocations and prevarication's and vote sensibly, without rancor or anger and give us a wise Congress for the next 2 years. Until the results are in, I will try to avoid the pundits and their daily production of their misguided predictions.

Octogenarians

When I told my proctologist I just passed my 80th birthday he informed me that the “scoping” which he urged every three years was now “optional,” and after some perplexed reflection I opted not. On further reflection however I wondered what further implications I might find in this relaxed attitude on the part of the medical community. Is causa mortis for my age group now to be easily dismissed as “natural causes” unless a car crash or a bullet hole is inconveniently interjected into the causal chain ? Might I now expect a somewhat cavalier attitude from other practitioners of the curative arts if prognosis or prescriptions become a touch less precise?

Having now reached the age of 80; probably largely due to nature, nurture and good luck, rather than pills and nostrums, but the medics, now take full credit for my longevity, expect continued lavish expressions of gratitude despite their now dismissive, “Oh well, soon or later “ attitudes. What wonders - I wonder ?

Nearsleep

I awoke at 4:00 A.M. with a mixture of images in my dreams, images easily identifiable from a movie seen on TV yesterday, together with a BBC offering involving unarmed British police as victims. The images of Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr. the Kennedy's - the dead Beetle, a lessor sacrifice to a gentle philosophy of peaceful persuasion of the beast by becoming victims, all dead by violence. In my dream I was an unarmed beach patrol policeman whose only badge of authority was a large sunflower pin, with the word “talk” printed on it. My job was to defuse violence by willingly allowing myself to be beaten until the aggressor had worked off his anger and was willing to talk. Jane Goodall and her patience with her chimps (also a recent TV viewing) got folded into my mental omelet and I awoke at the point where I was pondering the question of whether I was obligated to let my passive resistance proceed to the point where I permitted my own death to occur as part of the process of educating the aggressor to the understanding that violence is not productive.

The movie seen earlier was my latest NetFlix offering “Temple Grandin,” which unexpectedly hit many of my most sensitive buttons and I found tears flowing easily and surprisedly while watching the picture. The story, about an autistic young woman, with great compassion for animals, who overcame much difficulty,somehow broke loose some ancient feelings of my own, of fears and failings, due to my “refrigerator” mother and early feelings of fear and insufficiency, things whose sequela haunt me still. Recollection of awkwardness and gaucheness in parties and gatherings of people who seemed me more sophisticated than I and how I was provoked into acts of anger and stupidity as a defense.

The movie other main theme of compassion for animals hit my own level of understanding for animals - memories of Ken and Ginger bringing the vet to their home when it became necessary to put down two of their dogs, but did not want to heighten their anxiety and fear by a trip to the vet and the accompanying signals which would create panic in the dogs. My admiration for my kids for this understanding and compassion is still huge and respectful. “Secret Buddhist.”

The movie focused on redesign of the slaughterhouse to eliminate those things which created or heightened fear in the cattle. Applying her understanding of what frightened animals, the heroine goes about designing the processing of cattle, to the point of killing, to minimize their fear so that their end comes unexpectedly without causing panic; her premise “ we owe them that much.” A lovely attitude in a world which grows more brutish and unfeeling every day with promolgating concepts like “collateral damage” for deaths of bystanders or “preventative war” as a description for invading a country with which we are at peace for latent fears or to resolve perceived insults. Such is the devaluation of our values.

Our two “great wars” of the 20th century provoked some reevaluation of our values and proportion; trying ot find a rationale and justification for the mass killings ordered or tolerated in those wars and to synthesize a philosophy which could encompass those disasters and still present a face of humanity. I think so far we have failed.

In the state I now described as “nearsleep” somewhere between dreaming and reflective semiconsciousness, much of the review takes place with amazing speed, as demonstrated by an occasional time check which reflects only the passage of a few minutes.

So, now provoked out of further attempts to sleep and finding it still too dark to begin my walk, I surrender to the urge to record it all in some dim hope that upon rereading I can glean some sense of it all.

Homecoming

A painful bright morning in Florence Arizona, dad, his jaw set, largely uncommunicative as we sat with a row of suitcases waiting for the Eastbound Arizona Trailways bus to take us to Tucson connecting with other buses which would ultimately take us back to New York, - broke, humiliated and defeated after our bold, doomed to defeat, business venture to be remembered as the Shamrock Cafe. I was in tears, a self-absorbed 15 year old, feeling only my own acute sense of loss at an identity that I had won as Brooklyn, the cowboy from Brooklyn - having passed all of the small town tests and felt accepted, fully fledged and belonging to a place, a group, a community for the first time in my life. I was aware of my father’s anger, his own defeat, and his regard for my tears and turning to Tony, his untrustworthy partner for solace at my ultimate weakness, a breach in the family solidarity he needed. I had only a faint awareness of mom, who said nothing, and my younger brother, Ed, whose presence I barely felt. I was aggravating my father’s shame in defeat, (another one, inflicted after his return from the war and qualified rejection from his NYPD.)

Ultimately the bags were stored in the underneath compartments of the bus and we boarded, the first in a succession of bus rides, 20 minutes in greasy spoon meal stops until we took a break in St. Louis two days later. We had been separated on the bus, taking seats as available and I had attached myself to a young cowboy traveling East to a new job, Oklahoma as I remember, who had taken me under his wing and provided an instant sense of companionship, separating me from the low hanging gloom which pervaded mom and dad’s attitude. He waived off dad’s apologies on my behalf and was all too briefly, an instant friend. I guess the country was full of such young men at the time, some just out of service at war’s end or on their own for the first time, traveling in search of new jobs, brave horizons. Tough, self reliant guys.

Dad decamped his troop in St. Louis, declaring we needed a good nights sleep in a hotel after a few days of bouncing around on Trailways best and checked us into a commercial hotel in the downtown; then shepherding us straight to the hotel dining room. I remember how the color drained from is face as he read the menu, ultimately ordering a shot of whiskey, quickly downed and then we left the dining room. I later realized the prices were for us, beyond reach and we found ourselves a cafeteria a few blocks away, more within our means. It was rush hour and it seemed to me that every policeman in St. Louis was blowing his whistle and waving his arms at the traffic clogging the road, a sharp contrast to Florence with it’s one paved road, in and out of town, at that time.

Next day it was back on the bus for a few uneventful days re-crossing the other half of the United States, finally to surface at 42nd street and 7th avenue, the edge of Times Square about 8 P.M. Dad busy at a battery of pay phones on the side of the building while mom, Ed and I guarded the suitcases. Frantic, crow-eating calls for help to various of the relatives resulted in mom and Ed and I going to Grandpa’s on Simpson Street in the Bronx while Dad went to his brother Irving’s in Flatbush. The arrival, the reception now lost - a blur, sleeping on Al’s old art deco curved sofa - Dad signing me out of school so I could get my working papers a few days later my next clear recollection within a few days I was hired at Blomingdale’s on 59th street as a stock boy - my employment for most of that year until the reconstitued Ludacer’s made their way to Baldwin.

I visited with Phil and Frank, my former friends on the West side but clearly I was now the down and out kid, the dropout who lived in the slums, although that particular term was never uttered in my presence. The residents at Grandpa’s place, 1166 Simpson Street seemed never constant; mom moving to Brooklyn, Betty and Roy living there for a time as well as Uncle Noah. Where we all fit is now a mystery - my evenings frequently with Uncle Noah at one of the movies on Southern Blvd., - taking Roy his lunch on his late night in a hardware store on the Blvd., and suffering the terrible noises he produced while pissing away his GI bill on saxophone lessons. Almost like a set in a Saroyan play. Still we survived. Dad studying refrigeration and air conditioning on his GI bill, to emerge a newly confident, well informed salesman, by mid- 1946. His courage and stoic resilience became a model for me although we never spoke of it. He was just another depression hardened guy taking care of his family and surviving whatever life threw at him.

Waiting

The political news on the television grows more strident daily, empty-headed candidates posing with bland, slogans so utterly vague as to be meaningless, presented as brilliant insights,illustrative of the kind of representation to be expected from the empty-headed ones. Liberals protest,seeking approval to demonstrate general pique and dissatisfaction with the current officials failure to deliver instants total gratification unable to take the long view. The malady of youth and inexperience.

Learning to wait is an acquired skill is well understood by us older folk. The patience accumulated over a lifetime now serves. With nothing much to really do, one must do a lot of waiting. Waiting with style is a new art form.

There is the small waiting, like for a traffic light to change, now more easily tolerated than formerly but then there is no longer any urgency in where I am going or when I get there. Then there is the slightly more prolonged waiting, as in a doctor’s waiting room (appropriately named ) but here growing impatience can be forestalled by a good book. (Something I am now never without after viewing most M.D.’s magazine offerings (Yachting World, Golfing, Forbes, Fortune, a subtle “in your face”.)

Then there is the ultimate waiting which some of us try to embrace with patience and understanding, - at least resignation and dignity - while some hide in busy work, diversion and denial - as if the party was to last forever and that long sought - instant, total gratification somehow never arrived although we all waited for that in our own way - some quietly, some with growing impatience - but still waiting - but somehow it continues to elude. It is an illusion - the gratification is in quietude which comes from within neither instant nor total - but grows with waiting.

Dreams

Freud wrote that dreams have three basic functions; to review recent events, to review long term events and issues, and , to keep the dreamer asleep. Recently I have experienced a number of dreams which seem to have yet another purpose - to clean out the remote corners of memory as if a “spring cleaning” was in progress. Ancient, and seemingly insignificant encounters and concerns are dredged up and woven into some bizarre fabric or narrative. People encountered only once, people whose names cannot be recalled nor probably were never committed to memory, now parade across the mirror of my sleeping mind, clamoring for attention and assuming roles of importance, which never existed in my reality.

Rather than resort to Sigmund’s “Dream Work,” I prefer to improve my own understanding as the reason for the appearance of these remote “bit players” in my nightly productions. I suspect I am in the process of reorganizing many recorded understandings, imposing new insights on old confusions and rejecting analyses which served for a time but now seem incorrect, ersatz “band aids” which no longer serve their original purpose.

I think the engine for this reexamining, the prime mover, as it were, is a need to replace compromises with new , honest understanding, sweeping out old deals I made with myself for the sake of expediency, and replacing those data with a new, more honest understanding of old events and old decisions. In many cases my old memories, highly protective once, are no longer accurate nor correct recollections, and with the remove of the need to protect myself from painful realities of the past I can run the data through a new examination.

Just what all this has to do with the old, barely remembered, cast of characters I am unsure but I suspect it will fall into place.

Buchanan

This weekend C-Span 2, Book TV broadcast was a rare threat of the double barreled bullshit of Pat Buchanan; a fraudulent historian repacking the old Irish-American anti- British bias in his latest effort in demonstrating that Winston Churchill was the pivotal cause of World War II, and a simultaneous display of his so-called historical gun collection, a pile of bogus - glitzed up, gun-of-the-month offerings of the NRA - the ultimate sucker bait for those who never served nor carried a combat weapon and think they are buying “history.”

Firstly, as to the history, Buchanan displays a large wall of writings of other writers, many of them looking spanking new, dust covers undisturbed - the collection presented as his resources for his anti-Churchill offering. One would question whether Pat is old enough to actually read all of these tomes page by page, but they are clearly some of the sources for some delicate “cherry picking” which he quotes to support his bogus analysis of history. I could not have found a more flagrant example of the abuses described in Margaret MacMillan’s “Dangerous Games” subtitled “the uses and abuses of history”

For example, his comments on Hitler’s Mien Kampf; “of course it was full of anti-Semitic stuff, but it was badly organized, needed an editor.” Thus he dismisses the dire warnings of history, searching instead for some obscure reference which would demonstrate Churchill’s awareness of Hitler’s organizational skills as evidence of Winston’s culpability in causing the war.

Similarly, his so-called system seems excessively with triple checking the precision of quotes and punctuation in his “cherry picked” samples of scholarship that the overall significance, or lack thereof, of the tidbits he advances in support of his thesis.

All of this passing as the dedicated scholar, (his insider Nixon connections advanced collaterally to buttress is credentials of sincerity.)

The gun collection is almost a Freudian ratification of is ability of deception and self-deception, each glass boxed, engraved, and overly ornate and overdecorated piece a supposed duplicate of the piece carried by Rommel, Kaiser Wilhelm, and even a LeMat of “JEB Stuart”, the “cherry” of his collection. A more bogus book of the month club styled collection never existed. What a crock - he goes to some length explaining that a Walther P-38 is not a Luger, something self-evident to even a casual observer, then argues that his replica of the famous Ned Buntline, with it’s 12’ barrel was worn as a sidearm rather than a saddle gun. Yet here again, Pat puts himself forward as an expert, pointing to his glitzy, barely shootable replica collection as proof of his expertise - What a Bozo !!

Now appearing on TV as a noted historian and political pundit.

The Amnesiac Party

Some of the arguments advanced by certain members of the Republican party recently suggest that there is an outbreak of amnesia in their ranks.

Tax cuts for the very rich is advanced as a cure for the loss of jobs, a sure fire way to create new business and have a trickle down of wealth, creating new business and job opportunities in the process. Yet not too long ago, supply-side and trickle down economics, as advanced by David Stockman as Reagan’s director of OMB led to greater and greater deficits and was finally rejected by Reagan and later rejected by Stockman himself, has been completely forgotten.

At a recent news conference a Republican enthusiast, repeatedly asked the White House communications director whether the President would give Bush credit for the “surge” in discussing the end of combat activities in Iraq. Anyone seeking such acclaim for the “surge” must have forgotten Bush’s responsibility for causing the unnecessary war, manipulating the country and the press by withholding critical facts and arguing for the invasion of a country which posed no threat to America, all of which is generally now acknowledged, is either politically tone deaf or suffering from an extreme case of historical amnesia.

De ja vu all over again.

Critical Balance

During 50 years as a lawyer I have served as campaign manager for a Democratic state representative, a speech writer for a Republican U.S. Congressman and Republican candidate for the U.S. Senate, a legal advisor to an Ambassador and a county attorney for a county commission. As such I have been involved in government on all levels, Federal, State and local and have seen both good government and misguided government in action and learned to tell the difference.

Good government requires a critical balance be maintained between competing factions and points of view. Vigorous disagreement and the airing of difference has been one of the hallmarks of our healthy democracy, with give and take and sensible compromise resulting in beneficial legislation and policies. Obdurate obstructionism, such as we have witnessed in our Congress for the last several years, serves no positive purpose except to paralyze government and lead people to the erroneous conclusion that our system is broken.

In their effort to make Obama and the Congress look bad for the last 2 years, the Republican party have pursued such a course of conduct, intent only on creating issues for campaigning purposes without regard to the needs of the people and the gravity of the crisis they have fomented and prolonged.

Arguing for bipartisanism while consistently refusing to participate in any realistic attempt to achieve compromise, arguing for capitulation as the price of cooperation and then blandly contending that the Democrats have “controlled” Congress for the last 4 years is the worst kind of dissembling.

With the inability to pass any legislation over a threatened filibuster without 60 votes, and faced with a consistent Republican refusal to do other than vote NO unless some crippling amendments are agreed to, and to now argue that the Democrats controlled Congress is the height of insincerity and deceit.

The country and its citizen’s deserve better. Until we restore the critical balance and the party out of power resumes the role of loyal opposition rather than seeking to win at any cost, we can expect little progress toward resolving some of our nation’s problems.

Tail Wagging the Dog

With the periodic reporting of the Pew Poll to the effect that this month 18% of those polled thought that the President a Muslim, as opposed to 11% of those polled last month who thought the President a Muslim, one is compelled to ask “Why is the Pew (among others) asking folks whether they think the President is a Muslim ? In my minds eye I see the Pew people telephoning their little (how little ?) coterie of the misinformed, and politely asking “Do you think the President is a Muslim this month ? “, then spew out their periodic statistic. Immediately seized up by the AP and given the wildest possible dispersion, to be picked up and endlessly repeated by TV talking heads and published in the leading papers - ready packed and thoroughly digested disinformation whose sole purpose is to undermine the President’s effectiveness and create distrust and confusion. For whose benefit and to what end doesn’t get asked.

The tail is wagging the dog and those who still call themselves journalists should feel used and ashamed. Whatever it is, news it ain’t !

Musings - Music and Montebanks

After watching a TV broadcast of a rock concert, where the audience waived their arms in the air and ignighted cigarette lighters over head, I briefly lamented on the loss of rhythm and grace in contemporary dancing, and then , briefly, lamented on the loss of rhythm and grace in what now passes for music. Quality has been replaced by a concept which roughly translates to “you just have to be there.” The triumph of opportunism.

Early A.M. television is currently dominated by Joe Scarbrough (2nd cousin to Joe the plumber,) co-hosted by Mika Brzezinki, whose father, Zbigniew, once characterized Joe as “stunningly simplistic,” a charitable description at best. At his usual, obdurate best, Joe (a pundit) commenting on General Petraeus’ observations on the future of Afghanistan, said “President Obama now cannot do anything unless Petraeus agrees.”

And thereby is the burr, under my saddle this week, the glorification of a run of the mill general.

As a matter of public imagery, this “military Montebank - a clauswitz of self promotion has, by virtue of characterizing his request for more help as “the surge,” has elevated his regard as a military genius as ranking somewhere between Napoleon and Robert E. Lee. To add visual reinforcement to the myth, the general sports 16 rows of ribbons, despite the fact that his actual combat command was as a divisional 2 star for a 6 month period. When our peacock of a general appeared before a Senate committee, unctuous Senator Lindsey Graham lamented as to his inability to award Petraeus his “fifth star,” (a recognition of achievement only awarded to those commanders responsible for winning World War II.)

Perhaps his most significant award, and most telling, came from the American Enterprise Institute, which recently awarded the general the Irving Kristol Award, given for “notable intellectual or practical contributions, to improve public policy; ” the triumph of surgology as the acme of military tactics.

GOD save the Republic - next week - Mosqueology.

Political Pollsters

Of late, the political pollster has morphed into the wizard behind the curtain, whose methods, it’s sampling It’s composition, style of questioning are all beyond being questioned. The results are accepted like the Oracle of Delphi, a political pope speaking ex cathedral. When wrong, it was within the margin of error, with no standards, no transparency, it is impossible to judge whether the questions were fairly cast or shaped to provoke a desired result; based on questionable premises or generally accepted concepts. Yet we are deluged daily with dubious opinion polls as if they truly reflect the mood of the people. To ask how many fairies can dance on the head of a pin presupposes fairies can dance and a pin is an appropriate dance floor.

Too often pollsters influence and shape the outcome of their questionnaires, depending on who hires them and the nature of the inquiry. Recent polls ask for example “is the country going in the right or the wrong direction?” A more meaningless query could not be structured yet the results are reported as if serious data had been unearthed. Until the public becomes more critical of this glorified scam the pollsters will continue to tell us what we think and report the results they shaped.

More Reflections

I feel some novelty in my 80th year, a numerical milestone. How to fill up my day is another matter. My periodic squawk. One of my neighbors, in his 80’s use to spend his time washing his cadillac and hitting golf balls. My neighbor was a bean counter for GM and has an MBA from University of MIchigan. Once retired he had no beans to count and spent his time washing his cadillac. Somehow this always struck me as strange - but then there is something inherently aimless in being 80. My philosophic leaning has always been away from involvement, except for a period in my 30’s when I felt keenly about thing political, but now less so, wars and divorces have tempered my taste for blood sports. It seems appropriate that my view should be retrospect - re-examining where I have been, what I have done, and the new synthesis in my understanding. I have to work not to invest too much energy or concern in pointing to the repetitive mistakes our society makes; others are enthusiastic in this regard. I have made enough of my own to keep me busy for a while.

A summing up, it seems to me should be my recapitulation - an examination of how I have reasoned, arrived at decisions good and bad - not wisdom for the ages - just me knowing me better and hopefully finding some comfort in that - no cadillac to wash.

I hope as I write to find valid criticism in understanding. Cutting through the projections and distortions that have influenced my perception of reality.

In my 20’s my favorite tune was “Skylark” a musical representation of my loneliness and yearning, looking for an idealistic love - feeling quite poetic about my self and my quest. I also dabbled a bit in eastern attitudes, searching for understanding, at least, even then, vaguely aware that it would never be easy, and wanting to understand with more insight carried a price of pain and disappointment. My desires structured fantasies which became projections.

Zen suggested an exercise involving picking up an object, say a cup. Holding the cup you were instructed to put it down once you mentally formed the word “cup” in your mind. The object of this exercise was to hold the cup for as long as possible without mentally forming the word “cup.” It finally came to me that two things were operating; firstly, that we have a necessity to think about things by categories, that by categorizing objects and transactions we are more enabled to deal with them. The downside of this is that by seeing a thing as part of a category, we fail to see the thing as something unique, different, individual - that the word has become a filter to our ability to perceive the ultimate unique reality. Without categorization of things we could not function.

Other impediments we create for ourselves; preconceptions, bias and the uncritical acceptance of misinformation further distracts how we perceive reality. A projection of our needs create a filter of urgency, addition distortion. Of late I find that the Buddhist concepts of non-attachment have helped me to find a comfort in “letting go” - wanting less; especially wanting things, and this in turn, seems to reduce the amount of filtering I do. Wanting, creates distortions of priority and perception - fewer demands comforting. But then, without a Cadillac to wash one must find some level of involvement in something.

I have never been terribly good at making friends, or at least sustaining relationships. Over the years I constructed many excuses or explanation for this failing - but in the final analysis it is my failing. Sometimes it’s because of a lack of shared interests,unwillingness to risk, the few friendships I considered long lasting have ended by friends predeceasing me. Those few who survive are distant, engaged, perhaps too much time past. Mostly the mistakes were mine, but now I just want to understand my shortfall not assign responsibility.

So I will continue to pursue insights, to understand the world is an independent reality, not a construction of solutions to my needs, an edifice of my projections. And, of course, pick such additional fights as may, from time to time, strike my fancy or my funny bone.

Most recently, in reviewing priorties, the lyrics of an old song have been calling for attention, a Nat Kng Cole from the late 40’s called “Nature Boy.” Considered trite then, its compelling wisdom persuades me in my 80th year ;

“The greatest thing

You’ll ever learn

is just to love

and be loved

in return”

All the rest is just washing cadillacs.

Immigration

Once again, immigration is a hot topic, largely because of our current unemployment crisis and the competition of illegals in the work force. Even when this was not the cause of anti-immigration attitudes, immigrants have been less than enthusiastically welcomed in America.

This is somewhat paradoxical since all of us (save native Americans) were descended from immigrants, hell even the founding fathers themselves were recent immigrants or children of immigrants. As each new group secured a foothold , found its niche, and felt secure, it rolled out the “your not welcome” mat for the next group of arrivals. Thus the early English colonials, Scotch-Irish, Italians, Jews, Eastern Europeans, and Asians were serially unwelcomed by their predecessors.

Yet all of the immigrants came here looking for a better life, improved living conditions, opportunity, all except, of course, those who first arrived in chains.

Forgotten War

Watching a parade of Korean War vintage movies last week I realize how much chauvinist blather was fed to my generation and how readily we swallowed it, trying to emulate our fathers and older brothers who served in Word War II. Without complaint we served, froze, saw our friends die, without being missed by our countrymen who were busy building careers, raising families and getting rich.

Educational exemptions for the affluent, draft or enlist for the rest of us. 37,000 dead; amputees whose wounds were attributable to frostbite due to poor winter equipment rather than combat wounds; an issue conveniently buried in piles of other statistics. Well insulated boots, called “MIckey Mouse” boots, arrived the second winter, not in time for the leg less victims of the winter of 1950-1951.

On July 27, 1953 an armistice ended the fighting in Korea, an occasion neither observed nor celebrated by American, the end of a war that never happened. For most Americans life went on. we were barely missed. When we returned we were not spate on nor called baby killers. We were just ignored.

Ring

Watching the history channel yesterday, a special on the city of Venice showed the ruler, the Doge, symbolic wedding to the sea, by throwing a gold ring into the water while reciting “I wed thee.” I was struck by the similarity of my custom of throwing my ex-wives wedding rings into the sea on the eve of my subsequent marriages, symbolic of a finality,

a letting go, closure.

OK, so I’m not Venetian and it’s not such a big deal - but still - there is some basis for comparison, n’est pas ?

Cousin Artie and the Purple Nipples

My only excuse for writing this piece is to exorcise an irrelevant, but persistent, memory of a singular, and singularly pointless, episode involving my distant cousin, Artie Lisker, while walking along the beach at Orchard Beach, the Bronx, during the summer of 1943. My usual contacts with cousin Artie were chance encounters at the corner of University Avenue and Tremont Avenue in the Bronx. We were of an age although we tended to hang out in different social groups, rarely tangential, except for these chance encounters. He lived within a block of me, on Andrews Avenue, perhaps even attended the same school but we rarely had any society, indeed I never knew what side of the family we shared but we knew one another as cousins.

Artie was a jazz musician, played trumpet, and if I recall correctly may have gone to Julliard and later played in the Navy band, if memory serves. Back in 1943 we rarely met; after that never but I digress.

Of late, my TV frequently offers up a cartoon called “Harold and the purple crayon” and, YUP ! immediately I see that title on the screen I am reminded of cousin Artie on Orchard Beach but Hell -

We were walking along; two groups of young kids, separated by 20 feet or so when suddenly Artie, who was ahead stood stock-still, his head canted 90 degrees left staring, pointedly at a young, topless black girl, changing out of her bathing suit. Artie, a touch nearsighted, perpetually wore glasses, and as we caught up to him, the sun glinting off is lenses, he said “Did you see, her nipples were purple ! ” Not to call too much attention to this gaffe, we tried to move Artie along, down the beach less he achieve some unwanted attention from the muscular young black guys in “ Purple nipples “ group - but Artie was having none of it. Like a mongoose transfixed by a cobra ( or the other way around.) Artie continued to stare - repeating his declaration “her nipples were purple.”

Racial tolerance in 1943 was somewhat limited but Artie’s fascination with the coloration of this young lady’s teats was not. As he seized my arms and urged me to look, we collectively grabbed Artie and dragged him down the beach. To this day, references to the purple crayon bring back a recollection of this pointless episode which I hope will now be forever exorcised.

The Swan Song of J. Alfred Pruf-rot

In the room where women no longer go

No one speaks of Michelangelo

They echo empty - dusty now

No fog rubs the window panes

Windows now the dust’s domain

Memories long forgot

No longer question where to part

The hair, once there, did now depart

You have grown old

Your feet grow cold

Your trousers hang without a fold

But no one’s looking

None will see

Whether you've rolled them

Past your knee

So go ahead and eat your peach

but be careful walking upon the beach

Randy Ludacer

America is not a Flag

As we approach June 14, and the air is filled with saccharine platitudes and advice as to which color goes where, it is important to remember that America is not a flag, it is a wonderful idea which was born over 200 years ago to a group of inspired people who were no longer content to be dominate by Kings or tyrants, but instead set about to create a government ruled by its own people and answerable only to them. They stitched together 13 rebellious colonies with diverse and conflicting interests and priorities, emphasizing those issues which unified them and structuring compromises to minimize the importance of those issues which proved divisive. The result of those efforts became our Constitution which, together with some critical amendments, became the heart and brain of America. Over the succeeding two centuries we have fought wars to preserve our America, protecting the idea which gave us birth and the country which grew out of it. While it is appropriate to show reverence for the symbols we have selected for our country, we should not confuse the symbol with what America still is, a wonderful idea about how people can govern themselves, and not a flag.

My Brother was a Soldier

I have written little about my brother Ed, his quiet courage and qualities as a young man nor how proud I was of him. When the family moved to Arizona then Baldwin, then Miami, Ed was still a youngster, yet he took the moving, the bouncing around and the displacement in stride; for years lacking both a stable home and a support structure.

In his quiet way he survived and flourished, making friends, becoming educated and growing into a likable, self reliant young man. Once settled in Miami, Ed came into his own, becoming popular and political in Coral Gables High School, surrounded by a circle of nice loving friends and developing a quality of self-confidence and charm which served him well. Active in a variety of youth activities, he became the Boy's State governor of Florida and we Ludacers were proud of little brother.

Some financial impediments prevented Ed from immediately pursing college and he enlisted in the Army in 1953, posted to Ft. Jackson S.C.for his basic training. Although he has always been modest regarding his military skills, at 17 years of age, first time on the range, Ed qualified as "expert" on the M-1 Garand rifle, a bear to shoot. No small achievement,usually achieved only by lifers and country boys, especially for a kid with no shooting background but Ed still refuses to brag, saying "I was 17 when that happened." After basic he opted for the Army language school in Monterey. There he ran into some substantial difficulty with the study of Vietnamese, then the largest class in the school. Apparently, U.S. officialdom had quietly decided to pull France's chestnuts out of the fire and was beefing up its linguistic skills for the task. Ed, having inherited the Ludacer tin ear was unable to cope with the Vietnamese sing- song subtleties and had much difficulty with hearing the tonals. Eventually he transferred out and was posted to the Army Security Agency at Ft. Devens Mass, where he finished his service. On discharge, he was shortchanged by the U.S.G. ; denied G.I. Bill educational benefits since the Korean ceasefire ended hostilities in the summer of 1953. Undaunted, Ed "sucked it up" and went to work, putting himself through the University of Miami, working part time jobs while living at home, no small achievement. Later a retrospective GI Bill was no avail for him since they would not compensate him for working his own way at his own expense.He did it by himself, the hard way.

He embarked on his career as an accountant, quietly working his ass off and advancing his interests, changing jobs and moving frequently. Along the way he acquired a wife and two sons who are his prize and the apple of his eye, rejoicing in their accomplishments as a proud father should. His work moved him all over the country, a lifestyle not unlike a career military officer, except in the business mode.

Recent reports indicate he will soon become a grandfather, something he has long

wished for. I wish him all the love and success he can garner. He has earned it. He has paid his dues many times over during the years, hardworking and uncomplaining. So - here's to you Ed - I am still very proud of my "baby" brother.

Becoming Rome

In addition to the widespread disposition of U.S. military around the world, as evidence of an American Imperium, the defining of American interests in terms of a projection of American force, a policy of what some conservative groups, such as the “New American Century” group define as “full spectrum dominance” is growing evidence that American interests are viewed by some as nothing less than full world dominance, a new Rome.

Contingency plans developed in the Pentagon have become heavily influenced by some political groups seeking dominance, including the implied threat of war, as a device to advance American commercial interests. Not since the opium wars to force open China to western commercial interests have such motives been so openly and unashamedly advanced.

We advocate for the development of democratic institutions in the third world, necessarily including the opening of markets to U.S. entrepreneurs as evidence of democratic institutions. Apparently advancing our own economic advantage is now an integral part of how we define democracy.

There is a great danger that we do not advance what is seen as “corporate colonialism” as a component of American democratic interest. These are neither benign nor particularly American and should not be promoted in the name of advancing American interests.

Dylan Thomas wrote :

"Do not go gentle into that good night

....Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Wrongly urging wise men, good men, wild men, grave men

and lastly, his father, not to go gently - to foment

disquiet - to rage -

A response:

Disappointment, regret, frustration, all failed

excuses - failure - forgiven -

By what right to demand one more swallow,

one more mouthful of the nectar that

has nurtured you all this time -

Now time stops - all excuses,

delays becomes shadow, dust, forgotten, memory -

Slip quietly back into the river that first gave

you life - close your mouth

Rage not, you have no right -

Time to recombine with the waters that

flow forever slow and quietly through

the time of existence to the sleep of

the quiet.

American Mother

This week’s news devoted a major segment to the visit of their "Moms" to the three American hikers who wandered across the border into Iran recently. Allegedly an innocent mistake but no explanation has ever been forthcoming as why any reasonably sane young Americans would do their hiking in close proximity to Iran's border nor why a visit from their mothers should be considered newsworthy.

And thereby hangs the tale. In his classic work, "A Generation of vipers," Phillip Wylie, a popular writer of the forties, observed "Mom is an American creation." He went on to observe that only in America has the adoration of motherhood almost been raised to the state of a religious cult, and concludes that "... Megaloid mom worship has got completely out of hand, .... a spot next to the Bible and the Flag, being reckoned part of both in a way." Without further making Wylie's case, beyond recommending a complete reading of his work on the subject, I would like to explore some consequences, the seguela of American mom's status.

In World War II the U.S.S. Juneau, a light cruiser was sunk with the loss of over 600 men. the five Sullivan brothers were among those lost and these five were elevated to heroic status, a destroyer being named the "Sullivan Brothers," in their honor. The remaining some 600 lost were ignored, but then their mothers were not as important as Mom Sullivan who had lost all of her sons; and a new governmental policy was born.

The movie "Saving Private Ryan" demonstrated this new policy in action, where the sacrifice of an entire patrol of American rangers (our elite troops at the time) was deemed necessary in order that Mom Ryan's sole surviving son be rescued from combat in order that she not suffer the fate of Mom Sullivan and be rendered sonless. Concerns for the moms of the other sons lost to effect this rescue is apparently ignored.

Currently, officially governmental policy has formalized this concern for sonless moms by enacting regulations which exempt a sole surviving son/daughter from combat service if they are the sibling of one who died as a result of military service.

A former comrade of mine, who rose to be a squadron commander in the U.S. Air Force was exempted from Vietnam duty because his older brother had been killed in W.W.II and he was the only sibling. As a matter of convenience , rather than provide a new CO for the squadron, which was scheduled for Vietnam duty, they were ordered to stand down, another squadron sent in their place. Here the effect of this policy, based on protecting a mom from a subsequent loss of a child in service was to give an entire fighter squadron a pass. Perhaps the result a bit excessive ?

The fact that other sons will lose their lives seems outside the concern of officialdom, as long as we do not have any moms with a loss of more than one son. So here the fact of parentage trumps risk of survival for others in the service.

Exit Stage Left

A much neglected aspect of the American presidency, is how some recent presidents left the White House upon the inauguration of their successor. Early research however has disclosed that this is an area largely ignored by both historians and contemporary journalists. I was always impressed by the modesty and civility of Truman’s quiet departure to Union Station. I was equally impressed by the gravity and insight of Eisenhower’s farewell address and his thoughtful and visionary caveat concerning the dangers of the military - industrial complex. Kennedy on a cassion, Johnson quietly by car. After that it has been largely downhill, Nixon, with a presidential pardon in his pocket, waiving boldly from the doors of the helicopter, shortly to be whisked to Andrews AFB for his departure (instead of Leavenworth, where he belonged.) His “farewell address” is best forgotten. Gerald Ford never really elected or inaugurated left in a golf cart, his prime mode of transport thereafter. As to record-setting bombast's, Reagan’s farewell speech is worthy of review,. As a straddle between Corinthians III, and a waive of self-congratulatory blather he almost dislocated a shoulder patting himself on the back, congratulating himself for “reversing the course of history” and giving the shining city on the hill a new patina, a new layer of chrome. Concluding, he disdained a helicopter and mounting a flaming chariot, rose to the center of the sun, his former resilience to await his second coming. His faithful, the revisionists quickly went to work, arguing for canonizing, and rewriting the history of his administration, while Nancy supervised the filling of is so-called presidential library with what she considered the significant artifacts symbolic of his reign. Pieces of the Berlin wall, a recently retired Air Force One, and other bricabrac considered of historic worth, a treasure trove worthy of a pharoh’s tomb. She would later be reduced to tears when advised that the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan CVN 76, a nuclear-powered, 100,000 ton aircraft carrier would actually serve with the U.S. Navy rather than be shipped to the Reagan library for inclusion in the accumulation. Bush I had a quiet departure, still muttering “read my lips” and perplexed as to his failure to secure a second term. His party, however, immediately began a jihad to disgrace his successor, securing the appointment of a special grand inquisitor who relentlessly delved into every aspect of Clintons private affairs, regardless of the expenditure of millions of taxpayer dollars, finally precipitating a pointless impeachment proceeding before departing to become dean of a fourth rate law school in California. At the end of Bush II, rather than leave quietly and permit Obamba’s inauguration to occupy center stage, the Bushies proceeded to Andrews AFB to hold a “departure ceremony” featuring some emotional blather from Karl Rove. It is reported that those who shook Rove’s hand subsequently developed warts but this has not yet been verified. Later sources indicated that only those who shook Rove’s hand during Bush’s exorcism broke out in warts. Flying back to Texas on a borrowed Air Force One, (now designated “special air mission 28000) the Texan continued to celebrate his retirement in happy oblivion to the disasters he bequeathed to his successor.

Bare Breast

A recent meeting of the Hillsborough County School board witnessed a protest by a group of women breast feeding their babies to object to a school barring a breast feeding mother from the waiting area of it’s school. In a culture which easily tolerates breast exposure for “titillating” purpose as demonstrated by the large numbers of topless entertainment establishments in the county, it is at least paradoxical that the school seeks a “screening” of the breast while nurturing one’s infant. The school’s official contended that letting the kids “get an eyeful” was distracting as the reason for the requirement, never imagining a crowd of lactating mothers would hold a “feed in” as a protest.

A tempest in a B cup!

The Mother of all Rants

My strong suit is political incorrectness but then I’m a direct descendant of the kid who said the Emperor didn’t have on any clothes. My career in the foreign service was a nonstarter because I was too observant and much too out spoken. My mistakes were usually my own although on occasion I got my lumps for trusting someone else.

In retrospect I think my perceptions are sharper and my conclusions are nearer the mark than before. Disengaged from self-interest I think I see more clearly.

What I see now is my world in a sea of confusion, without direction and involved i n purposeless pursuits. We have become the pampered darlings of creation, selfish and self-indulgent beyond all belief. In pursuit of everything bigger and better, more and more our vision fixed just beyond the horizon and regardless of the immediate consequences.

To explain : In the 1950’s and 1960’s we were content to purchase small two and three bedroom homes for little or nothing down as a place to begin, to raise a family and make a life . Now mini-mansions are the rule for young married couples who think nothing of undertaking mortgages of $200,000 or more, with floating interest rates and balloon provisions with no expectation of ever being out of debt.

Formerly these purchases were deferred, together with marriages and children, while we educated ourselves and began careers or employment with some expectation of security and advancement. We drove modest automobiles and had a keen interest in our families, our community, our governments and our world.

The term “entrepreneur” has been redefined from risk taker, to chosen of GOD whose welfare is the prime concern of those in government. “Privatizing” a plan to permit private companies to perform governmental functions have created a golden opportunity to raid the public fisc and vastly increase the cost of government by contending services will be performed more efficiently and economically by the private sector. Cost control usually goes out the window, together with career civil service, while new millionaires are created out of such governmental opportunities, all presented under the banner of conservatives.

Elected representative, now representing the contracting community from whom all campaign funds flow, no longer represent their constituency, instead declaring themselves to be leaders and deciders, preferring their own unenlightened, bought and paid for judgment to the considered will of the people. Dedication and conscience have given way to popularity and reelection. Political naivety coupled with uninformed cynicism rules the day, people don’t know how government works, who is responsible for what, and most assuredly never read the Constitution.

Jingoism and fear mongering infect our foreign policy and silence critics. We are wallowing in a technology of the trivial,, computer games, come to market with lines of people waiting outside stores for days to be the first one to acquire the gadget.

That item of convenience, the telephone, has metamorphosed into an “I thing” capable of serving as an instantaneous encyclopedia, internet connection, camera, entertainment center, music provider and oh yes a communications devise. Don’t leave home without one.

School children all have a personal portable telephone clipped to their belt, capable of verbal communications or text messaging. More ways to talk and less to say than ever before. Educational curricula have been modified to train workers and employees rather than to educate. Computer classes abound while history courses, civics, geography and the social traditions of the culture have fallen by the wayside. The well rounded educated person, the liberal arts graduate is an endangered specie.

Preachers, no longer content to serve as pastors to small congregations have create mega churches, with seating capacities that rival a sports arena and of course have TV coverage. Shrines are constructed to glory the ego of the founder rather that the creator. Group prayers are offered for everything from the winning season of a football team to a hopeful return to a booming real estate market, these being of critical concern to the Almighty. My prayers for enlightenment and serenity are considered quaint.

Automobiles, once viewed as basic utilitarian transportation have become overpriced, overblown status symbols, costly behemoths like vehicular mastodons called SUV’s or crossovers, inefficient in the extreme, are necessary for transport to the supermarket or the mall. Some upscale vehicles (those absurdly out priced) are capable of parallel parking themselves, a maneuver formerly required when passing a driving test.

People rejoice when the stockmarket goes up, without regard to its dependency on a good backlog of unemployed workers to keep wage demands low; and cheap imports to inflate the profits of the large retailers. Mergers and acquisitions are seen as good for the market although these consolidations of economic strength generally accrues to the ultimate disadvantage of the consuming public .

The TV weekly news enthusiastically reports which newly released movie made how many millions its first days in release with little or no regard as to the content or quality of the movie.

The television industry proudly sells bigger screens with higher definition and more and more channels from which to chose. A pity that programming hasn’t kept pace with the technology. So-called reality programs abound, low-budget tales as to who will survive like on a desert island until next week and win the large cash prize. Inane contest show, like how much is in the attaché case or who will be disqualified in dancing with the stars or be prevented from becoming this years American Idol. TV movies tilt heavily toward monsters, vampires, creatures of the darkness or interminable car chase with demolition derby results. One can search for hours for something entertaining, with plot and substances, without result.

Expressions such a “like” and “you know” and “I mean” have become as common as commas in the increased inarticulate communications of the day, whether a result of poverty of vocabulary or foggy thought processes is still undecided.

Elderly couples are now addressed as “you guys” by their “servers” (formerly known as waiters and waitresses.) Equally unuseful are their comments with regard to items on the menu, but always in expectation of a large tip their parting greeting will invariable by “have a nice day” the ultimate triteness of our communication.

All of this saddens me, the courtliness and civility seems to have been forced out of our dialogues by the “in your face” attitudes now prevalent. Yet I continue to hope.

But I digress

Small bits - In Saigon I bought a used 35 mm camera, with a view to recording interesting aspects of my stay. One day, stopped behind a bus in traffic, I was taken by a young man hanging out of the back window of the bus. He seemed effused with the joys of the day, his grin, (admittedly a bit goofy) spread across his face reflecting his enthusiasm for life, for all within his vision. I slowly raised my camera, intending to capture this wonderful image of a totally happy young man when he saw my move. Immediately his expression collapsed, he appeared almost to shrink physically. He quickly turned away and sat down, completely out of my field of vision. Clearly I had spoiled his day, actually robbed him of the elation he was enjoying until my unfeeling act intruded in his private paradise.

Ashamed, I put the camera away and took no more pictures of strangers.

When I got back to the states some years later I found the camera, still with a half exposed roll of film. I took no more pictures. For some it is like stealing a bit of their soul.

Risk and Redundancy

Design has always worked to incorporate safety as a concept, whether in a device or in a system. Delivery systems involved in bringing raw materials to a factory or to distribute goods to consumption points have usually incorporated concepts to absorb unanticipated disruption and smooth the supply chain so it can function without interruption. Warehousing finished goods or stockpiling raw materials have generally served as the “shock absorbers” in delivery systems enabling continued, smooth performance despite unforeseen interruptions.

Of late, however, a new arrogant concept called “just in time” has made inroads into the thinking of planners. By limiting and timing shipments just as they are needed, the “shock absorbers” the stock piling or warehousing is eliminated; resulting in a cost saving and consequent increase in profitability.

What is lost is the safety factors of the “shock absorbers” to the great risk of a serious stoppage in supply in the event of any unforeseen disaster or acts beyond the control of the planners. Weather crisis, earthquakes, truck and train wrecks, strikes, all possible problems which could quickly overpower the advantages of a “just in time” system are ignored, short cuts to disaster. Accidents waiting to happen.

Consequences are of course potentially empty store shelves and closing of manufacturing facilities and layoffs until the supply chain is remedied.

Was warehousing such a bad idea, really ?