The Square Peg

Score One for the Silent Majority

2012-02-04T09:18:00.003-06:00

Old Testament fetus fetishists who wish to remove any and all reproductive options for women failed in their bid to de-fund Planned Parenthood via their political influence within the Susan G. Komen Foundation for the Cure.

A hostile backlash erupted after it became known the foundation would cease funding breast screenings offered by Planned Parenthood, an organization which promotes reproductive rights in addition to providing general health care information and services for women.

As a result, the foundation announced Friday it would reverse its policy on funding groups under congressional investigation, even when those “investigations” are manufactured by radical, right-wing congressmen like Cliff Stearns and meant only to incite an extremist minority.

At the core of conservative dislike for reproductive rights (a.k.a. abortion) is that it removes from their control the lives they would otherwise destroy via poverty, unemployment, denial of health care and long-term marginalization.

A statement by the Komen Foundation said it was "distressed" by the notion funding changes were made for "political reasons."

Imagine how the rest of us felt.

Score one for the silent majority.

Hat Trick

2012-02-02T15:46:00.015-06:00

A hat trick is a trick not performed by guys in tuxedos with sexy assistants, but by heavily-padded, sweaty dudes on ice skates looking to knock the crap out of each other.

It means they’ve scored three goals in a game.

This is typically celebrated with hats being tossed upon the ice by the paying customers in attendance.

While I haven’t scored three goals, I have attempted (and perhaps succeeded) to make three points.

And whether you agree or disagree, you are free to, in the words of Randy Newman, leave your hat on.

In countries more-committed to maintaining at least the appearance of equality than the United States of America, people who brazenly and recklessly steal from the public are punished, not protected.

Case in point is the former head of the Royal Bank of Scotland, Fred Goodwin.

After making disastrous financial decisions which necessitated a 45 billion-pound bail-out by UK taxpayers, and the subsequent loss of thousands of jobs, Goodwin was stripped of his knighthood on Monday by the Queen of England.

His 650,000 pounds-per-year pension was reduced to 342,500.

I applaud his royal title being forcibly removed and his extravagant pension cut. But let’s be clear—this is only a beginning, not an end.

You or I wouldn’t receive so much as a lukewarm reference after such a performance, yet financial atrocities far-worse than Goodwin’s remained virtually unpunished, especially in the U.S.

Last I checked, prison cells remain fully functional throughout this once-great nation of ours. How about it, Mr. Congressman? Does this give you any ideas?

Any ideas at all?

Think it might resonate with a sour electorate devastated by an ongoing recession that shows no signs of abating? Especially in an election year when congressional approval ratings struggle to stay north of those posted for sexual predators?

**********************************************************************************

The very profitable Susan G. Komen Foundation, which has become ubiquitous through its savvy marketing and corporate partnerships for heightening awareness of breast cancer recently had its own awareness of the far-right’s relentless campaign to strip women of their reproductive rights heightened when funding for breast cancer screenings was cut.

The screenings, funded by a Komen grant to Planned Parenthood, were part of a larger effort to provide low-cost reproductive and sexual health services to women who could not otherwise afford them.

The Foundation defended itself by saying that owing to recently-adopted policies, it could no longer provide funding to any group currently under congressional investigation.

That would be Cliff Stearns, a Republican from Florida hell-bent on preventing abortion rights from destroying whatever parts of America Citizens United and unmitigated corporate greed haven’t already decimated.

Komen spokesmen maintained the decision “wasn’t political.”

Yeah, and I'm not really offended.

**********************************************************************************

Finally, in the latest example of Republican marketing genius, legislation which allows non-union employees to receive the same benefits as dues-paying members recently passed in Indiana. This parasitic bill, sure to sap unions of their financial reserves, is cheerily entitled Right To Work.

Isn’t that pretty? Gosh. Don’t we all believe in the right to work? I mean, who doesn’t?

Of course, we already possess it. But who's asking?

It’s another Republican sleight-of-hand passed on an unsuspecting populace kept blind-angry by incessant conservative yammering about transfers of wealth and high taxes and creeping socialism.

In other words, teachers are killing us!

It is my hope the folks who lap this swill up are allergic to wool in their orbital regions. For that would be their best chance at realizing they’ve again had the wool pulled over their eyes by the Republican noise machine.

What this represents is the removal of one more speed bump on the road to slave labor and one-hundred percent profit margins for our overtaxed, overregulated and overburdened corporation.

When oh when are we going to stop penalizing success?

Sniff.

Looks like I'm not the only one who scored three times...

Oops!...I Did It Again

2012-01-26T15:49:00.022-06:00

It’s never a good day when you look in the mirror and realize it’s not only possible—but probable—you are insane.

You’ve heard insanity defined as the continual repetition of an act with the expectation of a different outcome. And while you’re not sure where this leaves the scientific community, in the context of a job hunt this means you're certifiable.

Worse is the realization you may also be a masochist. The American Heritage Dictionary defines ‘masochism’ thusly:

• A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.

Regrettably, this definition also fits you like an Anne Claiborne dress shirt. In this lottery of emotional impairments, you're a grand prize winner—only you don’t get to meet Linda Kollmeyer.

Because these conditions remove the shield of impulse control, you apply to Kohl’s Department stores a second time. A notice arrived in the mail informing you they are opening a new store in your area, and are staffing it now.

It says to expect great things. You make a note of it.

Because you have a lingering hangover from previous cashiering and customer service positions, you opt for an opening under Replenishment. The word provokes pleasant images of fragrant rain falling on and nurturing parched earth.

This opening likely requires the ability to place consumer goods on store fixtures in a neat and attractive way.

Since you recently shaved and successfully returned the can of shaving gel and a razor to their rightful place on a shelf in the bathroom, you feel reasonably qualified to perform this job.

This doesn’t even begin to take into account the innumerable household items you regularly restore to their proper place on shelves throughout the home. Yes, you have this putting-stuff-on-shelves thing down cold.

As instructed, you arrive at the hotel meeting room twenty-minutes early to fill-out the same forms you filled-out online. You sign sworn affidavits attesting to the fact that if hired, yes, these are the hours you are available, so help you God.

You agree to drug tests and credit checks and criminal history checks and past employment checks. Every conceivable type of check but the ones beginning with 'pay'.

To your chagrin, the first question on the application asks if you have applied to Kohl’s before. Ignoring persistent images of a guillotine blade in free fall, you answer ‘yes’ because you are an indomitable force of nature. You will not be denied a second time.

The room is then informed by a harried twenty-something that these jobs are temporary. The applicants within collectively deflate like a punctured tire. You are positive the word ‘temporary’ did not appear on the flier. You are correct.

You wrestle with the fact you are auditioning for a twelve-hour a week, near minimum-wage job. Then you wrestle with the fact you have no choice. The fact wins.

Returning your attention to the form, you attempt to fit the name of previous employers, their addresses and telephone numbers in boxes similar to the ones coupons use to list their expiration date.

The form then asks you to explain all periods of unemployment. Rage wells up inside your chest. You sigh.

You want to answer that you are unemployed because you used the preceding months to burn through your inheritance while on a meth binge in the Caribbean, accompanied by a dozen Las Vegas strippers.

But that would be snotty. Or disrespectful. Or both. And we wouldn’t want that.

Thankfully, you are not asked why you want to work at Kohl’s. You wonder if you could find a job designing job applications. But then, you have an IQ.

The same twenty-something is now reading names off a list, which are followed by a number. You are assigned to group one. Group one then listlessly trudges off to a meeting room.

At the group interview, you introduce yourself and attempt to put a positive spin on things. You try to sound youthful and vibrant. You want to impart the idea that yes, you are amazing. And if not that, perhaps employable.

But if you could do that, you’d be earning a bundle doing PR for Francesco Schettino, captain of the Costa Concordia.

When asked about recognition from previous employers, you respond that you hit speed and accuracy targets as a scorer of educational assessments and received multiple performance bonuses.

One of the women sitting at the table in the front of the room hears this and scribbles furiously. You allow yourself to believe you have made an impression.

Silly you.

A sharp knock on the door startles everyone. The interviewer announces they will have to abort the interview because they are running behind schedule. She reminds you to submit your completed applications before leaving.

As you walk through the vacant lobby past the darkened gift shop, you cannot shake the feeling that you were at a dress rehearsal for an interview. You cannot imagine what kind of meaningful insight Kohl’s could have received from this exercise.

A week later, you find out.

Despite demonstrating “many qualities”, Kohl’s is unable to offer you a position at this time. You smile to yourself because you know what qualities were demonstrated, and you are relieved.

This is insanity, and you would be a masochist to pursue it. It is time for something different.

You have only to figure out what that is.

My Favorite CDs of 2011

2012-01-10T22:10:00.014-06:00

Like its predecessor, 2011 finds its top ten evenly divided between industry veterans and fresh-faced newbies.

But before I delve into new releases, heaps of archival live albums appeared last year. Neil Young, Pink Floyd, Fairport Convention, Pearl Jam and the Rolling Stones uncorked vintage shows either as stand-alone releases or to round out expanded and remastered packages.

And there were some important re-issues, as U2, the Kinks, Frankie Miller, the Rolling Stones and the Beach Boys had landmark material re-visited and re-released.

I’ll attempt to sort-out this mess o’ product and, in the best-case scenario, provide a guide for the year just ended. Displaying the impeccable manners that are the hallmark of this blog, I’ll start with the old stuff first.

Were it not such a widespread and well-known bootleg, the Rolling Stones’ Brussels Affair would be the hands-down favorite of the vintage concert releases. It’s a resounding and unforgettable show. But it’s hard to get newly worked-up over something you’ve been listening to since the Carter administration.

Which is why I’m naming Fairport Convention’s Ebbets Field 1974 as the year’s best. Snobs may decry the absence of Richard Thompson, but only until they hear it. If you’re lucky, songs like “John the Gun” and “Matty Groves” will act as gateway drugs to what could become a full-blown addiction.

Picking the year’s best re-issue is a little more-difficult. The two-disc Kinks’ re-releases were powerful candidates, especially Face To Face and Arthur. But by the slimmest of margins, I’m picking the Frankie Miller box set, if only because his material has been unavailable in the United States for so long.

While not a box set in the traditional sense (there’s only a couple of B-sides and no previously unreleased material, demos or one-off concert recordings), it presents the entirety of his output for Chrysalis in his seventies prime plus an alternate version of High Life.

For all intent and purposes, Miller should’ve been rocking arenas throughout the late-seventies and into the eighties. But commercial success is a nebulous thing, dependent on many things utterly unrelated to music. At least the catalog of one of rock’s great voices has been restored.

Now to 2011.

1. PJ Harvey – Let England Shake

This isn’t the howling vocalist of yore, but one that uses marimbas, autoharp and muted brass to sculpt striking songs of war and mortality. The inspired "Call to the Post" sample on "The Glorious Land" suggests war is a horse race, and just as consequential.

Check "The Glorious Land" and "Written on the Forehead".

2. TV on the Radio – Nine Types of Light

No one writes intricate melodies (complete with counter melodies) that coalesce into sublimely funky pop overtures the way TV on the Radio does. If Nine Types of Light appears to tail off in the second half, that’s only because four of the album’s first five tracks are absolutely brilliant.

Check "You" and "Killer Crane".

3. Raphael Saadiq – Stone Rollin’

The former Tony! Toni! Tone! front man finds his voice on this towering fusion of rhythm and blues, soul, pop and blues. From the razor-edged strut of the title track to the smooth soul of "Movin’ Down the Line", Stone Rollin’ is all good, all the time.

Check "Go To Hell" and the title track.

4. The Black Keys – El Camino

This is the album I wanted Brothers to be; fuzz-toned stomp that is as habit-forming as Spicy Nacho Doritos. And unlike its forebearer, Messrs. Auerbach and Carney have herewith worked-up eleven indelible and indestructable melodies on El Camino for your listening pleasure.

Check "Dead and Gone" and "Gold on the Ceiling".

5. David Kilgour and the Heavy Eights – Left by Soft

The Clean’s David Kilgour has received much belated recognition for his singular guitar-playing, and it’s duly highlighted on the six-minute epic "Diamond Mine". But it’s Left by Soft’s more-modest pleasures that land the album here.

Check "Pop Song" and "Diamond Mine".

6. Fairport Convention – Ebbets Field 1974

Along with the Move, Fairport Convention were one of the most unjustly ignored (in the U.S., anyway) bands of the late-sixties and early-seventies. This 1974 concert proves that ultimately, the strength of any band is its songs. For even sans RT, they cast a haunting, unforgettable spell.

Check both tracks listed above.

7. Nicki Bluhm – Driftwood

This album really shines when Bluhm and husband Tim pair-up for their plaintive and heartfelt harmonizing. Even when they don’t, its country-ish Americana is fine. But in the tradition of George Jones and Tammy Wynette, it’s best when they do.

Check "Women’s Prison" and "Wall of Early Morning Light".

8. The Feelies – Here Before

Reunion tours and reunion albums usually make me squeamish. But leave it to the Feelies to upend convention. Here Before sounds like a year or two passed since their last, and not a couple of decades. Does this mean the Feelies are timeless? Probably.

Check "Should Be Gone" and "Way Down".

9. James Walbourne – Drugs and Money EP

While his earlier full-length was completely competent, Drugs and Money raises Walbourne’s craft to a whole new level. Be it the weathered Americana of "Drugs and Money" or the highland hoedown that is "Hillbilly Crack", this EP reeks of soul and fire.

Check both of the aforementioned tracks.

10. Tune-Yards – Whokill

The jagged jump-cut musicality of Whokill can be as startling as it is fractured, but when it works, it’s as bracing a breath of fresh air as was heard in 2011. And the buoyant undercurrent of Afro-Pop that holds it all together is just a bonus.

Check "My Country" and "Powa".

Honorable Mentions:

Admiral Fallow - Boots Met My Face
The Bats – Free All the Monsters
REM – Collapse Into Now
Neil Young – A Treasure

To the Unemployed...

2012-01-02T00:58:00.010-06:00

...who understand that fifty is the new seventy.

...who understand deeply and resolutely that, yes, it can happen to you.

...who, just for a change, would like to hear the phrase ‘stay positive’ from someone who is actually unemployed.

...who are able to withstand being judged by that supreme arbitrator of worth known as Corporate America.

...who understand that America’s labor force consists of just two groups: the unemployed and hostages.

...who understand that ‘unemployed' means in 2012 what 'colored' did a hundred years earlier.

...who understand the purpose of the question "Are you currently employed?" and answer yes with the specific intent of accomplishing what the question was expressly created to avoid, which is the wasting of an employer’s valuable time on an unemployed candidate.

(Don’t you feel horrible?)

May you always possess the faith of Mother Teresa and the persistence of Sisyphus.

You are my heroes.

An Appreciation of the X-Files

2011-12-30T03:15:00.010-06:00

TV is an easy target for social critics like me. Too easy. Which is why I usually refrain from ranting about it here. But every once in a while, something goes wrong. The lowest common denominator filters that usually guard against this sort of thing fail and we the people end up with something new and different.

Such is the case with The X-Files.

For four seasons and most of a fifth, The X-Files provided some of the best, most-compelling television of the twentieth century. Episodes stuffed with government conspiracies and unspeakable monsters terrorized our imaginations when they weren’t provoking double takes with their wry, left-of-center humor.

It was new and unique and reliably disturbing.

Not so unique were the problems that plagued it: the spiraling demands of newly-famous actors, writers, producers and directors, in addition to a dearth of fresh storylines.

Tired of the weekly commutes between his home in Los Angeles and the show’s set in Vancouver, David Duchovny successfully lobbied for filming to be moved to L.A. While not always sufficiently camouflaged to resemble Iowa or New Jersey, British Columbia nevertheless provided X-Files with just the backdrop its scripts demanded.

The moody, dank clime was ideal for spawning Fluke Man or the crazed victim of one too many alien abductions. The shadowy light acted as a metaphor, underscoring the morally-ambivalent world Scully and Mulder inhabited. Despite the convenience, sunny SoCal just wasn’t the same.

And it was probably inevitable that there would one day be a lack of original scripts. If producing one for a movie is difficult, imagine the demands of two-dozen a season for a TV series. Season five revealed the first signs of full-blown fatigue, and where a reliance on soap opera plots reared its ugly head.

Scully is abducted. Scully has cancer. Scully can’t have babies. While the first two of these developments actually came to light near the end of the fourth season, they are taken to their melodramatic extremes in season five. One has only to watch the insufferable two-parter Christmas Carol and Emily to see the depths to which X-Files could fall.

But I come to praise X-Files, not bury it.

The X-Files was Star Trek and Night Gallery and CSI all rolled into one. No other series had ever fused such disparate genres so successfully. And when it chose to be funny, its humor was as sharp as it was unexpected. Sure, some of the conspiracy plots were more labyrinthine than The Big Sleep. But it scared us and challenged us and made us laugh.

And if that moment in Unruhe when Scully realizes she is confronting the suspect in a series of gruesome murders while alone in a gutted building undergoing rehab isn’t the most chilling in television history, I don’t know what is.

These days, X-Files would air on a premium cable channel, and not network TV. Only those with hundreds of dollars to spend on TV each month would be privileged enough to enjoy its compelling scripts, distinctive look and appealing cast. I am forever grateful it was not.

What follows is a highly-subjective list of my favorite episodes. They appear in order of broadcast because attempting to order them any other way would cause my hair to fall out. Not surprisingly, they also skew heavily to the first four seasons, since those had first crack at my imagination.

Comments welcome.

Top Ten:

Beyond the Sea
Irresistible
Dod Calm
Humbug
Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose
Grotesque
Pusher
Wetwired
Unruhe
Small Potatoes

Honorable Mentions:

Miracle Man
Duane Barry/Ascension
Excelsis Dei
Aubrey
Die Hand Die Verletzt
War of the Coprophages
Syzygy
Hell Money
Quagmire
Bad Blood

Giving It Away

2011-12-13T07:59:00.013-06:00

Silly me. I thought my employer paid me because I enhanced their profitability. By providing a skill, I enabled them to bring a product or service to market better or faster or more-efficiently.

Now I find that business is actually performing a public service by employing me. Who knew employment was a charitable act, done to protect America's labor force from the horrors of daytime TV?

What else to think after seeing so many of Illinois’ corporate citizens approach our bankrupt state government and request tax relief and deferments and subsidies? To hear them tell it, the employment they offer is a radiant act of selflessness equal to anything Mother Teresa ever did in India.

Employees aren’t the drop of oil or bit of grease that expedites the profit-making machinery. No. Employees are the ungrateful beneficiaries of really nice guys just trying to do the right thing.

According to our newly emboldened business class, they should be subsidized because they employ people. (Kindly ignore the fact they benefit enormously from this employment.) And pay them. And because they pay people, they themselves should be paid—even though they already are.

Confused? Me, too. But not to worry. This makes perfect sense in executive suites and in the GOP national headquarters.

If gigantic multi-national corporations aren’t our biggest parasites, who is? Is there anyone who finds something even a little objectionable about billion-dollar corporations extorting bankrupt state governments for whatever spare change might be lying around?

Do the words necrophilia or rape spring to mind? Leech? How about entitlement? They should.

Struggling telecommunications giant Motorola got $100 million from the state of Illinois for not leaving. Struggling retail giant Sears yesterday received $150 million in tax credits and will receive another $125 million in property tax relief for, again, not leaving.

The CME Group, which owns the Chicago Mercantile Exchange and the Board of Trade has also received welfare, the exact nature of which is unknown. CME also threatened to leave.

Sniff.

And those are just the most-recent cases. My manners would be showing if I neglected to mention Navistar, Chrysler, Continental Tire and U.S. Cellular.

As consumers, our options are limited. The governor is also in a spot. Call the guilty parties out in public and you risk ruffling their feathers and having these Vito Corleone wanna-bes make good on their threats.

Pay the scumbags and you outrage the public, especially when cuts to public transit, health care and education are deep and widespread. And don't forget, the public still votes.

The best response is a public boycott. Let consumer-dependent companies like Motorola and Sears know how the tax-paying public feels about extortion. Especially for an entity that has received the bounty of government largesse our corporations have.

While we’re sensitive to the fact it costs a lot of money to make a lot of money, it’s not all gravy, all the time. In other words, the one-hundred percent profit margin will remain a fantasy—at least until the next Republican president signs the slave labor mandate.

Besides, whatever happened to the small government ideal, anyway? Oh that’s right—that’s unless it can shovel a mountain of public cash into your sweaty, clutching hands. Got it.

It’s Christmas, folks. Companies like Motorola and Sears are never more vulnerable than now. We should strenuously and obstreperously not be okay with this.

Ever.

Ron Santo

2011-12-06T09:45:00.008-06:00

I’m sorry, but I can’t see the belated election of Ron Santo to baseball’s Hall of Fame as anything but borderline cruel. Perhaps I’m afflicted with an undiagnosed case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Maybe it’s the crass capitalism of Christmas.

Or maybe it’s the smug and exclusionary politics that kept an earnest, deserving ballplayer from the Hall for decades as he battled the diabetes that would eventually kill him.

None other than baseball-obsessive Bill James named Santo as one of the ten best third basemen ever. Not of the 60s. Not of the modern era. Ever. How is it that someone so-named remained excluded for so long?

There are a dearth of third basemen in the Hall. According to Baseball Almanac, just eleven. Only the position of catcher (thirteen) even comes close. Yet Ron Santo, nine-time All-Star, five-time Gold Glove winner, breaker of a sixty-year-old league assist record at the position somehow wasn’t good enough.

Third base is an extraordinarily difficult position to play. It’s physically demanding, and as such, makes long-term success as a hitter (the primary criteria for entrance to the Hall of Fame) unlikely. Despite their often powerful builds, only two third basemen have ever surpassed 400 home runs. None have 3,000 hits.

Third base is a meat grinder. It devours baseball players.

There are only a few obvious choices at the position. Mike Schmidt. Brooks Robinson. Eddie Mathews. Pie Traynor. While admittedly a shade below their stature, Santo was nevertheless the premier National League third basemen of his era, second only to Robinson in all of Major League Baseball. He was clearly and obviously a rare talent.

And coupled with his private struggle with diabetes, his success at one of sport’s most-difficult positions was remarkable. Ron Santo was given a life expectancy of twenty-five years. Think diabetes is a tough battle now? What do you think it was in 1964?

More than any of his quantifiable athletic gifts, Santo’s greatest asset was his heart. It was a relentless and powerful one.

Admittance to any type of club is invariably political. It is often no more than a popularity contest. And for inexplicable and unfathomable reasons, it was a contest Santo had to die to win.

Having spent fourteen of his fifteen years in baseball as a Chicago Cub, it is an irony Ron Santo no doubt appreciates.

Quit Happens

2011-12-03T20:58:00.012-06:00

Good evening, Square Peggers. And how are you? I hope this finds you in the very best of spirits. Fine of fettle and robust of mettle.

Yes, I am positively overflowing with good thoughts and wishes this fine eve. And it is my wish to distribute this newfound treasure—my joy—to each and every one of you!

For when joy finds us, is it not our solemn duty to break off a piece and let everyone have a sip?

Perhaps I have mixed my metaphors. But let us not allow mere semantics stand in the way of this joyous tsunami! Tarry not! For the moment must be flavored!

The source of this great (but by no means uncharacteristic) joy is the recent announcement that Herman Cain is dismantling his campaign and will not seek the office of president.

Oh great, good fortune! To whom, to what do I owe this wondrous occurrence of divine intervention? Hallelujah! Huzzah! Strawberry-scented hand sanitizer and Sans-A-Belt slacks for everyone!

Let us take a look back. The Hermanator once spoke thusly:

"Don’t blame Wall Street, don’t blame the big banks. If you don’t have a job and you’re not rich, blame yourself!"

La Piazza Gancio now speaks thisly:

“Don’t blame the media, don’t blame the other candidates. If you don’t have a campaign and you’re not the president, blame yourself!”

Of course, Herman has not done this. Nor is he ever likely to.

But by all means I should blame myself for the gutting of our economy by unimgainably wealthy Americans who have yet to face a single consequence for their indefensable actions.

Hypocrisy and the royal 'we' are alive and well. In fact, they have never been more alive or more well. I want to thank Herman for being the arrogant embodiment of entitlement that he is. I'll always remember him as the 'hands on' candidate.

And finally, a tip of the hat to Ms. Potts, curator of the Angry Historian, who correctly predicted on October 14th that Herman Cain wasn’t going anywhere near the presidency. She was right.

The Many Roads to 'No'

2011-11-19T07:35:00.008-06:00

No one will ever confuse me with Leif Erickson or Juan Pizzaro. Not Vasco da Gama, Hernan Cortes or Christopher Columbus. And yet I too have discovered something, a place only rumored to exist. I have discovered hell.

How else to feel with days that begin like this?

La Piazza Gancio,

Thank you for your interest in ____'s Department Stores. We appreciate the time you took to consider us for employment at our store locations.

We have given your background and qualifications careful consideration in relation to the opportunity for which you've expressed interest and have determined that we are unable to match your qualifications to a position at this time. We would encourage you to continue to check snagajob.com for future opportunities.

Thank you again for your interest in ____'s and please accept our best wishes for success in your future career endeavors.

Best Regards,

Human Resources

At least it didn’t open with ‘Dear’.

It is unclear exactly what aspect of my background or qualifications render me ineligible for even seasonal, part-time employment. Yet knowing the Van Halen-like heights (remember no brown M&Ms?) corporate fickleness has reached, I am likely better off in the darkness of my ignorance.

But as an occasionally-sentient being, questions persist.

I smile. I make eye contact. I speak in concise, direct sentences that answer the interviewer’s questions. I am nicely dressed. I am enthusiastic. I sit up straight, don’t fidget and even made everyone at a recent group interview belly laugh—twice. I am sober.

You read this blog. Do I not ooze personality? Does my personality not spill like filling from buttery, cinnamon-laced apple pie? What’s not to like? Isn’t my pixie dust sparkly-enough?

How can prospective employers fail to see how I could lighten a customer’s mood, especially when they discover half the items they’re shopping for are either out of stock, the wrong size, style or color? Especially at 11:30 PM on a weeknight with just three shopping days left until Christmas.

I would be a two-legged Mai Tai. A warm mug of spiced cider. A pungent glass of Pinot Noir. No tipping allowed.

Perhaps I have been branded a flight risk. Since the majority of my employment has (thankfully) been for wages higher than what seasonal positions offer, this means I will vacate the position at first opportunity—as if there were any.

Then there is my college degree, which conveniently confirms to any would-be employer that I will be bored. This somehow differentiates me from the sullen, texting and twittering employees already hired.

Bail is set at extended unemployment

Could it be that I fail to properly impress the young women I am invariably interviewed by? When asked why I want to work at the ________ store, perhaps I don’t become starry-eyed enough as I relate how working from midnight to eight AM the day after Thanksgiving for what can’t even be described as a living wage has been a dream of mine since I was a little boy.

Which presents yet-another another problem: I have a penis. This provokes in me the unsettling feeling that to these women, drunk on some vague notion of empowerment and girl power, I am their enemy. Middle-aged white guys stand in the way of everything they want to be, and always have. And this is their chance for payback.

Just for a change, I’d like to receive a wan smile, a limp handshake and the complete avoidance of eye contact from a middle-aged male after an interview.

But the hideousness doesn’t end there. That would be when friends, acquaintances and overheard conversations confirm that many of those deemed fit for seasonal slavery don’t even show up for their first day on the job, nor possess the time to even call employer number-one and inform them that they have accepted employment with employer number-two.

Were circumstances not so bleak, I would laugh a heinous, villanous laugh and spit that these corporate shitheads get exactly what they deserve. But money is oxygen, and I am suffocating.

God Damn Emerson Bolen

2011-11-08T08:52:00.008-06:00

Like my previous post, this letter also appeared in a Sunday edition of the Chicago Tribune. It is in response to Rachel Unterman’s letter, which appeared the previous Sunday.

As conservative Stepford Wives do, Bolen either reduces complex issues to simplistic, black-and-white conclusions, applies stereotypes without a shred of evidence or just plain gets it wrong.

Nowhere in Ms. Unterman’s letter does she indicate she is opposed to the military, capitalism, the government, or say society owes her anything. And where does she state she is too good to take a temporary job?

In the edition of the Tribune I received, Ms. Unterman said she has frequently worked two or three part-time jobs simultaneously to make ends meet. It's probably just me, but that seems very different from feeling you're too good to take a temporary job.

But why let facts get in the way of a blind, inaccurate, anti-democracy, elitist hissy fit?

Remarkably, Bolen did get a few things right. Rachel Unterman lives at home, is a liberal and is frustrated.

Only someone as willfully and spectacularly ignorant as Emerson Bolen wouldn’t be.

“This is in response to “Why I occupy” (Voice of the People, Oct. 30), by letter writer Rachel Unterman, which took up many paragraphs.

I can sum it up in one paragraph:

You occupy because you are anti-military, anti-capitalism, anti-government, feel that society owes you something, are well-educated and unemployed but too good to take a temporary job, still living at home, frustrated, bored and yep, liberal.”

Emerson Bolen
River Forest, Illinois

God Bless Rachel Unterman

2011-11-01T15:44:00.006-05:00

This letter appeared in last Sunday's Chicago Tribune.

For those of you slumped in front of yet-another episode of 'Keeping Up With the Kardashians', it crystalizes why the Occupy Wall Street protests are so vital.

This movement (literally) represents ninety-nine percent of us, yet I have never heard such widespread criticism. Such petty whining. So many sideline editorialists opining about what the movement should be doing.

These protests are years overdue. We absolutely need to clog the streets of every city in the United States. We absolutely need to kick and scream and fight and yell until the vermin entrusted to represent us actually begins to do so.

And they won't without a hard shove from the electorate, which is us. You and me.

Rachel says it far-better than I.

"I occupy because corporations are not people, and money is not the same thing as free speech.

I occupy because I believe in united citizens, not Citizens United.

I occupy because our military is spending billions of dollars to occupy foreign countries while jobs, infrastructure and the economy suffer at home.

I occupy because my generation should have opposed these wars in greater numbers and with greater outrage to start with.

I occupy because I am tired of going to the polls and trying to decide which politician is least likely to attempt to sell a Senate seat to the highest bidder.

I occupy because I am tired of seeing executives of failed companies receiving bonuses while their employees are laid off without severance.

I occupy because I believe in the First Amendment and the civil liberties it grants us.

I occupy because the system is not broken but relies on this kind of active participation to remain strong.

I occupy because it is exciting to see democracy working.

I occupy because after seven years combined of undergraduate and graduate studies, I have student loan debt but not the gainful employment necessary to pay it down.

I occupy because I have been underemployed since finishing school, often working two or three part-time jobs to try to make ends meet.

I occupy because I have spent half of this year unemployed altogether, through no fault of my own. I occupy because the unemployed cannot afford to be invisible statistics any longer.

I occupy because the alternative is sitting in my parents' basement writing cover letters that won't even be rejected, just ignored.

I occupy because if it weren't for the safety net my parents have provided, I would be sitting on a street corner all day asking for a different kind of change.

I occupy because my dreams have been deferred, and it was only a matter of time before they would explode."

Rachel Unterman
Chicago, Illinois

Cain Is Able?

2011-10-09T19:48:00.015-05:00

Herman Cain is a black Republican, and at last glance, a presidential hopeful. If there’s a more bankrupt example of humanity than the black Republican (credo: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em) I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing it.

I will, however, extend him credit for knowing which side his (white?) bread is buttered on.

In Mr. Cain’s most-recent attack of oral flatulence, he advised America’s unemployed (specifically, the Occupy Wall Street protesters) not to blame Wall Street for their joblessness. Here are Mr. Cain’s words, verbatim:

Don’t blame Wall Street, don’t blame the big banks, if you don’t have a job and you’re not rich, blame yourself. It is not someone’s fault if they succeeded; it is someone’s fault if they failed.

You're a very wealthy man, aren't you Mr. Cain? But the wealthy don't spend their own money, do they? They spend other people's. Which is likely why you need to protect Wall Street. You need their money.

It's quite amusing (and not a little bit ironic) how despite all the Horatio Alger and the rugged individualism, you need help. Whose fault is that? Mine?

It's also abundantly clear that you have no problem embracing those who have systematically attempted to deny your people opportunity and equality every step of the way for decades.

But make no mistake, Mr. Cain. I know who my enemies are. And the scent of a dollar bill isn't going to make me forget.

I know why I am unemployed. I know why I find it so difficult to believe that my life as a self-supporting American isn't over. It is you. And the unconscionable, whorish greed you represent.

God damn you.

More Campaign Slogans

2011-08-25T14:13:00.006-05:00

I feel awful. While devising acidic campaign slogans for the underwhelming egotists who will soon be vying for the privilege of living in the White House, I left out the newest Republican challenger, Texas governor Rick Perry.

I have thought long and hard about one, since my aim is to provide equally assaultive and insulting slogans for all Presidential hopefuls. So. For your amusement, I suggest this:

I'm that big Rick from Texas.

I would remind all campaign managers that yes, these are copyrighted.

: )

Positively Presidential

2011-08-16T02:54:00.007-05:00

Underwhelmed by the prospective candidates for the 2012 presidential election, I set about creating slogans for their campaigns.

For Barack Obama it would be this: Republicans are people, too.

For Michele Bachmann, I have two. Number one: What have you got to lose? Number two: The President we deserve.

As always, comments are welcome.

I Almost Have a Job!

2011-08-14T08:09:00.007-05:00

If the paucity of posts weren’t clue-enough, you should know: I found a job. Not a full-time-with-benefits one mind you, for I am clearly unworthy of such extravagance.

But I have found temporary work. With benefits--the exact nature of which escapes me at the moment. Oh yeah—I’m being paid. So that’s something.

What I do was once the province of a degreed position, that of a human resources benefits administrator. Yes, the finer points of health insurance, 401(k)s, pensions, payroll, COBRA, vacation and FMLA administration are being stuffed into me as rapidly as I can clear space on my internal hard drive.

Week five was completed Friday.

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I am. To have a forty hour paycheck for the first time in two years is the proverbial rain in the desert. But I am troubled.

Troubled by the degreed HR staffers who no longer have a job because their jobs have been outsourced to temporary workers like me. Troubled by a company that either doesn’t realize its raging hypocrisy as it speaks of the importance of commitment from its temporary workers, or doesn’t care.

I am troubled by the ongoing conditions in a supposed first-world country in which highly-educated people make fifty and one-hundred mile commutes for a temporary paycheck while chasing a vague and nebulous promise of permanent employment.

As I suspect is true in many American offices circa 2011, the mood is grim. Weary, stressed-out workers swallow hard and multi-task while working for stagnant wages while executive compensation rockets upward in an unbroken trajectory independent of company performance or economic conditions.

In the hour and a half it takes to negotiate the twenty-five mile trip to work, I realize I am uncomfortably close to a conundrum where I work merely to perpetuate my ability to get to work.

But then there is my resume. The official record of my contributions to corporate America. If nothing else, this position will allow me to show recent experience in my chosen field. Which, if you haven’t looked for a job lately, is the mantra of our business class: only the employed (or recently-employed) need apply.

And would all of you ninety-niners please just go away? Or something?

But the days aren’t without mirth. The monumental tedium that results from eight hours of ‘What are the restrictions on withdrawals of after-tax contributions made to the DC plan after December 1, 1986?’ is an extraordinary fertile breeding ground for humor.

I long to quote Dr. “Bones” McCoy from the original Star Trek, and say “Dammit Jim! I’m a doctor—not a retirement specialist!” I struggle to resist publicly identifying the three types 401(k) distributions as hardship, regular and regular with cheese. Or to inquire of our off-site facilitator “Does a 401(k) participant get a treat when they roll over?”

But these aren’t even my biggest temptation. Let me explain.

In our classrooms, we sit in individual, high-walled cubicles. As mentioned earlier, we take our instruction from an off-site source as we are monitored by on-site instruct—I mean facilitators. This person comes to us from Texas via speaker phone.

When questions are asked over the speaker phone, they produce a stadium-like echo, which creates in me an irresistible urge to say things like “Upon further review, it has been determined that the offensive player had both feet down at the time of the catch. The call stands. Touchdown Chicago.”

Alas, I have not. Corporate America takes itself very seriously. But as any temporary can tell you, dreams die hard.

The Twenty Year Rule

2011-07-08T08:47:00.007-05:00

I am the newly-appointed Minister of Cultural Affairs for the State. I have decreed that no pop band or artist may record for more than twenty years.

Because of the power accorded me, this means there is no Bob Dylan after 1982. No Rolling Stones after 1984. No Bruce Springsteen after 1993. No U2 after 2000.

This also means Green Day has bid us farewell. That Pearl Jam is in the process. And that the Dave Matthews Band has just two years left.

This raises questions. Who would lose the greatest portion of their legacy? Does a band or artist even contribute to its legacy after twenty years? And whose career would end on the highest note?

What I’ve done below is list five artists each from the sixties, seventies and eighties, and placed their careers in the context of the twenty-year rule.

I list the artist, what would be their final album, some significant albums that never would have been as a result and the number of studio releases which followed their twentieth anniversary:

Bob Dylan
Shot of Love (1981)
Infidels, Oh Mercy, Time Out of Mind, Love and Theft
12

The Rolling Stones
Undercover (1983)
Bridges to Babylon
5

The Kinks
Word of Mouth (1984)
none
3

The Moody Blues
The Present (1983)
none
5

Neil Young
This Note’s for You (1988)
Freedom, Ragged Glory, Living With War, Chrome Dreams II
14

Aerosmith
Get a Grip (1993)
none
3

Bruce Springsteen
Human Touch, Lucky Town (1992)
none
6

Tom Petty
She’s the One (1996)
Mojo
4

Prince
Crystal Ball (1998)
Musicology
9

The Cure
Wild Mood Swings (1996)
none
3

U2
All That You Can’t Leave Behind (2000)
none
2

R.E.M.
Reveal (2001)
Around the Sun
3

Metallica
St. Anger (2003)
none
1

The Red Hot Chili Peppers
By the Way (2002)
none
1

Green Day
21st Century Breakdown (2009)
none
0

Granted, the third category (significant albums made after a band’s twentieth anniversary) is highly-subjective. But it’s my blog and I can do whatever I want. You are free to quibble with Around the Sun and Mojo until the recession is over for all I care.

Next, a couple of things become clear. One, very few bands or artists have released a career-defining album after their twentieth anniversary. Or even many good ones. And two, solo artists fare better than bands.

What does it say that Bridges to Babylon is the best Stones album of the past twenty-seven years? This from a band that once released Beggar’s Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main Street in a space of less than four years.

Or that U2 haven’t released a powerful album in over a decade? You could argue it’s been twice that for the Cure and Metallica. It might be more for Bruce. Prince has released one.

There’s a pattern here.

It’s interesting that soloists age better than bands. Fewer people equal fewer agendas. And fewer agendas mean less time wasted, which streamlines the creative process. However hard it may for a solo artist to find artistic inspiration twenty years down the road, it’s far-more difficult to get four or five people to even look for it at that point.

A band is marriage times five. Think about that.

Another thing. Even given the better odds for solo performers, the output of Dylan and Neil Young in their third and fourth decades is astonishing. They are rock and roll’s George Blanda. They are (if you’ll pardon the expression) musical freaks. Let’s face it. No one has a right to be making albums like Love and Theft two years away from being eligible for social security benefits.

It’s just not fair.

So you see, while my proposal may at first seem severe and even undemocratic, in the end it should be obvious that it couldn’t be more egalitarian.

Or is it?

Comments welcome.

Concealed Carry

2011-06-29T14:44:00.012-05:00

In last Friday's print editions of the Chicago Tribune, columnist John Kass expressed his humiliation at residing in the only state in the union that has yet to pass concealed carry legislation. Read here how arming Americans will make us more--not less--civilized.

No one asked, but I shared my (unprinted) opinion:

Dear Editor,

I was dismayed to read John Kass’ column Friday the 24th citing his embarrassment over Illinois’ failure (his words, not mine) to pass concealed carry legislation.

To the Dirty Harry fetishists aching for such legislation, I pose this question: why is this a good idea?

When confronted with an E. coli outbreak, is more E. coli the answer? When segments of the population are beset by heroin addiction, is the answer more heroin? And when a certain brand of blinds are found to be potentially lethal to children, is it best to ramp-up production of those blinds?

Of course not.

But according to the addled logic employed by cowboy wanna-bes like Kass, the answer to our endemic gun violence is still-more guns.

You’ll have to explain to me how this is wise, especially in a country where we can’t decide how far back an airplane seat can be reasonably reclined without coming to blows and forcing an airplane flight to return to its point of departure.

Is this really a population that needs to be armed?

Sincerely,

La Piazza Gancio
Chicago, Illinois

An Appreciation of Clarence Clemons

2011-06-21T17:01:00.006-05:00

It had been, at the time, a while since I listened to Bruce Springsteen. When I did, the giant piece of my young adulthood that was tied up in those songs exploded, pouring out of me in a torrent.

It was impossible to listen to a song like Badlands without remembering the certainty and the resolve I once felt, and without realizing how drastically life had changed.

No wonder it produced a giant lump in my throat.

Lights out tonight
trouble in the heartland
Got a head-on collision
smashin' in my guts, man
I'm caught in a cross fire
that I don't understand
But there's one thing I know for sure girl
I don't give a damn
For the same old played out scenes
I don't give a damn
For just the in betweens
Honey, I want the heart, I want the soul
I want control right now
talk about a dream
Try to make it real
you wake up in the night
With a fear so real
Spend your life waiting
for a moment that just don't come
Well, don't waste your time waiting

CHORUS
Badlands, you gotta live it everyday
Let the broken hearts stand
As the price you've gotta pay
We'll keep pushin' till it's understood
and these badlands start treating us good

Workin' in the fields
till you get your back burned
Workin' 'neath the wheel
till you get your facts learned
Baby I got my facts
learned real good right now
You better get it straight darling
Poor man wanna be rich,
rich man wanna be king
And a king ain't satisfied
till he rules everything
I wanna go out tonight,
I wanna find out what I got
Well I believe in the love that you gave me

I believe in the love that you gave me
I believe in the faith that could save me
I believe in the hope
and I pray that some day
It may raise me above these

CHORUS

mmmmmmmm, mmmmm, mmmmmm

For the ones who had a notion,
a notion deep inside
That it ain't no sin
to be glad you're alive
I wanna find one face
that ain't looking through me
I wanna find one place,
I wanna spit in the face of these badlands

CHORUS

No small part of Springsteen’s appeal was the saxophonist that accompanied him. In the E Street Band, the saxophone frequently assumed the role of lead guitar, underscoring the majesty, the salvation, or the sadness in many a Bruce Springsteen song. It was like punctuation; an italics or bold-faced font. I can’t imagine Born to Run, Backstreets or Jungleland without Clarence Clemmons.

If ever one musician belonged with another, it was Bruce and Clarence.

In twenty-first century America, we often use the word legacy. Probably too much. We want to be remembered for something, for having influenced someone somehow. Clarence Clemons has no such concerns. He left an indelible stamp on some of the most singular music of its era.

I hope you were happy, Clarence. I hope you realized how the nameless, faceless throngs that filled those arenas thrilled to your playing. I hope you know what it meant to them. And to me. I hope it meant something to you.

Rest in peace. And thank you.

Brand Names and Championships

2011-06-13T10:31:00.007-05:00

I know it’s considered bad form to celebrate the failure of others, but I can’t help it. I am happy the Miami Heat lost the 2011 NBA Finals.

There. I’ve said it. Light the fires of hell.

I’m happy because I am a sports purist; one who holds on to the quaint notion that great teams are made, not purchased. One who believes a wily general manager scours the draft for cohesive and complementary talent, pulls off a savvy trade or two and voila! A champion is born.

This as opposed to writing checks.

George Steinbrenner forever corrupted professional sports, and for reasons that are far beyond me, was roundly celebrated for it. Thanks to him, the commonly-held belief, the aspired-to business model, is he with the most all-stars wins.

And the Miami Heat are merely the NBA’s Steinbrenner knock-off. They’re the Yankees of South Beach. A collection of high-profile players that, on paper, create a can’t-miss team.

If this were a proven formula, the Yankees (with a payroll that is typically twice that of any other MLB team) would win the World Series every year. Daniel Snyder (Washington Redskins) and Jerry Jones (Dallas Cowboys) would have split the last decade’s Super Bowls.

The Detroit Red Wings would have more Stanley Cups than President’s Trophies. And the 2003/04 Lakers—the team that Gary Payton and Karl Malone joined to form a supposed 82-0 juggernaut with Shaq N’ Kobe—would have won the title going away.

But they didn’t. These chemistry-free undertakings have by and large gone title-less.

In a celebrity-obssesed, brand name culture such as ours, I suppose this was inevitable. Which only serves to make it more refreshing to see that titles and trophies are still based on chemistry, and not Q indexes.

Enjoy your summer, guys.

The Hamster Wheel

2011-06-08T08:45:00.014-05:00

“Please make sure you arrive at least ten minutes early” the voice on the phone said. “We’ll send you a confirmation e-mail that’ll list all the stuff you need to bring.”

I hung-up the phone. When it comes to mounting productions that ooze ego and self-importance, only Broadway can compete with corporate America. There are screenings and pre-screenings and online tests and personality profiles, and you still aren’t anywhere near an interview.

As directed, I arrived ten minutes early for the 9:30 screening, bringing a sheaf of papers that contained the vital information requested by my would-be employer; copies of my high school and college diploma, W2s, previous addresses, employers, schools, a list of references, my driver’s license and of course, my social security card.

I brazenly left last week’s grocery store receipt at home.

Upon entering the lobby of the hotel hosting the job fair, I saw a sign mounted on an easel. It read ‘Peapod’, with a big, green arrow underneath. Things were going swimmingly.

As directed by the big, green arrow, I turned right. I found myself in a corridor lined with hotel rooms. Ahead lay only an emergency exit and a vending machine room. It was difficult to imagine how either was connected to the job fair.

I turned back, and found myself being followed by half a dozen people, also attired in business casual.

“The arrow is wrong” I said. “There’s nothing down there.”

This was met by the tepid smiles of those reluctant to socialize. We trudged back to the lobby.

Only it wasn’t actually a lobby; it was a hallway with pretensions. Architectural criticisms notwithstanding, I approached the teenager behind the desk. He politely looked up from his cell phone as I approached.

“Can I help you, Sir?”

“Yes” I said. “Where is the job fair being held? And while you’re at it, where are they hiding the Ferris wheel and cotton candy?”

A look of concern clouded his young face. He did not know. His eyes darted left, then right. His head extended just a bit beyond the confines of the desk as he scanned the hallway, er lobby.

“Just a minute.”

At least I wasn’t the only one to whom the location of the job fair was a mystery. I listened for the sound of calliope music. Nothing.

“Sir?” The clerk had reappeared.

“Um, Peapod isn’t ready yet. But when they are, it will be in there.”

He gestured to an area beyond the sign with the big, green arrow. Behind frosted glass windows, figures could be glimpsed.

“I see” I said. “Thank you.”

The clock read 9:35. I faced the others and shrugged. As the de facto head of the job fair search committee, it was my job to communicate.

“They can be late. They already have jobs.” one of my committee members noted bitterly. I didn’t argue.

I found an empty stretch of wall and attempted to lean against it inconspicuously. I took great care not to appear shiftless or lazy. First impressions, you know.

About 9:45 a joyless young woman emerged from behind the frosted glass and made an announcement. Her voice cleaved the silence like a hatchet.

“People—if you’re here for the job fair you need to cross your name off the list and come in the conference room and fill out an application.”

By now there were over a dozen of us waiting, and we moved en masse to a clipboard on a small table and scanned the list for our names. Free pens were available for those who did not have them.

I noticed a woman was dressed in dark green pants with a light green top. I wanted to ask her if this was on purpose or just a happy accident. Wanting to maintain appearances, I refrained.

In the conference room, a large screen TV had been turned on, presumably for the entertainment of the woman who had barked at us in the lobby. A game show had begun. I was relieved that my selfish search for financial sustenance wouldn’t interfere with her need for noisy, mindless entertainment.

“Hello and welcome to You Choose, the game show where you’re the boss! And how is everybody doing? Great! I’m your host Darrell Woodson, and today we’re going to be looking for two special contestants to compete for cash and fabulous prizes! Is everybody ready?”

I thought of asking her to turn it down, but realized my future lay in her hands. And if prolonged unemployment teaches you anything, it’s to be fearful. It would not be a good idea to provoke her.

If she wanted to watch a game show while I listed my previous employers and the extent of my education for the 1,422,309th time, so be it.

“Is there anyone here from Connecticut? I’ll give two-hundred dollars and a chance at today’s grand prize to anyone who can prove they’re from Connecticut! Who’s from Connecticut? Oh come on! There must be someone in our wonderful audience from the great state of Connecticut!”

I began to supply the names and locations of my elementary, junior high and high school, and of the two colleges I attended and the degrees received from each, and the names, addresses, phone numbers and descriptions of employment at the previous decade’s employers.

When I was done I reviewed my application. I wanted to ensure that my ‘t’s were crossed, my ‘i’s dotted and that my p’s and q’s were being minded. I stood up and approached the table where Barking Woman sat.

“Hi!” I said, attempting to simultaneously convey warmth and enthusiasm.

“Have a seat” she said, without looking up.

She took the sheaf of papers and looked them over wordlessly. She pulled out the fresh copy of my resume I had been instructed to bring and inspected it.

“Why did you leave New Mexico?” she asked.

I told her it was a tough place to earn a living.

“What is Rio Grande?”

“A jewelry supplier”.

She fell silent. The game show seemed incapable of doing so.

“That’s right Gloria! You have your choice of a year’s supply of Captain Bob’s barbequed shrimp and an all-expenses-paid trip for two to Las Vegas or whatever’s behind the curtain Monique is standing in front of! What do you choose Gloria?”

Satisfied she had extracted whatever was worth extracting, Barking Woman dismissed me.

“If the hiring manager feels your experience is a good match with the opening, they’ll call and schedule an interview. Otherwise, you’ll get an e-mail. Okay?” She turned the papers over and placed them on the left edge of the table.

“I’d love the opportunity to meet with Peapod again” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

Barking Woman leaned to her right to make eye contact with the applicant behind me. “All set?”

I got up to leave.

On the big screen TV, Gloria had chosen the curtain. Behind it sat a single box of dog treats.

Four-and-gone Conclusions

2011-05-27T09:20:00.013-05:00

Ouch. This one really hurt.

Just like the ’69, ’84, ’03 and ’08 Cubs. Or the ’71 Blackhawks. Or just about any Big Ten football team that has played in the Rose Bowl since 1970.

It hurt like the Ditka-era Bears teams perennially without the services of quarterback Jim McMahon come playoff time—except for the golden year of 1985.

The 2010/11 Chicago Bulls had the league’s best record. Home court advantage throughout the playoffs. They were mature and seasoned beyond their years; a team that intrinsically knew the value of playing defense and moving the ball around.

This was going to be fun.

Then there were the convincing, series-closing victories in games five and six over the Atlanta Hawks, and the twenty-one point win over the Miami Heat in game one. Yes, after a rocky stretch in the playoffs, the Bulls had rediscovered their groove. The Bulls were ready to roar.

But then the wheels came off. The Bulls went missing. They became the first basketball team in sixteen years to drop a playoff series after such a resounding, opening-game victory. Could they have picked a worse time for their first four-game losing streak?

The team that spent the season playing as one forgot everything it learned.

They forced shots. Made more turnovers than Sara Lee. Thought focus was the exclusive property of movie theaters, and that defense was something that happened only in a court room. They were unglued by NBA officiating.

Worst of all, they repeatedly relied on a single player down the stretch, which is probably why so many games resembled the economic collapse of ‘08, right down to the fourth-quarter cave-ins.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s that the Bulls are young. Young-enough to learn from the hideous wreckage of this series and apply it before their bodies hit athletic middle age.

Same goes for rookie head coach Thibodeau, who seemed unable (or unwilling) to respond to his counterpart’s adjustments, or even to create some of his own. Or to play veteran Kurt Thomas, who might have been able to settle the distracted Bulls.

Or to vary his play calling enough to keep even the there-to-be-seen neophytes from knowing where the ball was headed in critical, late-game possessions.

Yes, Derrick Rose is wonderful. Great, even.

But there is no way he should be taking twenty-nine shots in an elimination game which takes place during a series in which he’s shooting like the bastard offspring of Jason Kidd and Allen Iverson, and being guarded (in the fourth quarter, anyway) by a man half-a-foot taller.

It’s called passing. Point guards all over the world do it. And when one is making just one-third of their shots, it would behoove one to try it.

You could say this is just a lot of day-after whining, made even more-obnoxious by the fact it’s through the rose-colored glasses of hindsight. But there are grains of truth here. Ones that need to be taken to heart before next season starts.

That and that alone will tell us if this is 1975 and Thibodeau is Dick Motta, or if this is 1990 and the reigning coach of the year is a nascent Phil Jackson.

Lakers Get Swept! (and grabbing the Bulls by the horns)

2011-05-09T13:18:00.012-05:00

Pleasures are both quick and fleeting. They should be enjoyed whenever they present themselves. So when the Los Angeles Lakers succumbed to perennial playoff underachievers the Dallas Mavericks yesterday, I rejoiced. I loved. I laughed.

A sweep? How sweet!

The fabled and privileged Lakers repeatedly snatched defeat from the jaws of victory in the four-game series; blowing leads, orchestrating fourth-quarter collapses and finally, not even bothering.

Like the Bad Boy-era Pistons (who showed their true colors by petulantly stalking off the court when it became apparent the Chicago Bulls would sweep them in the 1991 Eastern Conference Finals), these Lakers revealed their true selves by administering late-game cheap shots to the Mavericks—a team that had been wholly respectful of the Laker legacy.

The game was also an ironic send-off for coach Phil Jackson, he of the eleven championships.

I’ll admit to feeling a bit betrayed when Jackson signed on with the Lakers, abandoning the dynasty he had helped build in Chicago for the glamour of L.A. It reminded me a bit of Nicolas Cage, who chose the big paychecks of rote action flicks over the quirky dramas that brought him fame in the first place.

Jackson’s career has yet to be viewed through the corrective lens of time. But for now, I feel he was never really challenged as a coach. Sure, he deftly managed delicate superstar egos, and had the good sense to incorporate Tex Winter’s triangle offense.

But he assumed control of the pre-fabricated Jordan-era Bulls just as they were ready to soar, and did likewise with the Lakers in L.A. I have to think that even a modestly-talented coach could have stumbled into the NBA Finals with either team.

Lastly, the suddenly championship-caliber 2010-11 Chicago Bulls have encountered substantial difficulty in the post-season. First was the surprisingly taut series with the 37-win Indiana Pacers. Now the 2-2 draw with the Atlanta Hawks.

Like so much else, winning must be learned. Defense, consistency and focus are the keys—especially in the post-season. The Bulls had all three in spades during the regular season, which is how they won 62 games. But suddenly, the Bulls don’t seem to possess any of them.

Defense has been employed selectively. They appear unable to focus. They seem tentative, playing not to lose. The young Bulls are also afflicted with Jordan-itis, a malady which makes them succumb to the temptation of “Let Michael Do It.”

Or in this case, Derrick.

Granted, Derrick Rose is a gifted player. But whether it is his decision or by design, Rose is taking too many shots and attempting to shoulder too much of the load.

Rose is surrounded by complementary players who also happen to be quite talented. Rose is made even more-lethal when those around him touch the ball. Let them participate. When they move the ball and keep defenses honest, the Bulls win. Convincingly.

When Rose insists (or is forced) to be Michael Jordan at his pre-championship-era worst, they don’t.

Basketball is a simple game: get the ball to the guy with the best shot. Then stop the other guys from doing it. Do that for forty-eight minutes and you’ll win more games than you lose.

Maybe even a championship.

Insights from a Record Collection

2011-04-24T16:35:00.007-05:00

We are very much the product of our times. Or so my record collection told me after I exhaustively cataloged it. Coming of age in the late-sixties and seventies as I did, it is not very surprising that my largest collections are from the likes of the Rolling Stones, Ray Charles, Bob Dylan and Neil Young.

What is surprising is that despite my continued interest in pop music, I have but one artist who released a debut after 1990 whose collection numbers in double figures—PJ Harvey.

In the twenty-one years since the beginning of that decade, history would suggest that I would find at least a couple of bands whose career I would follow into a double-digit CD collection. Yet it hasn’t happened.

Why? Do bands have shorter careers now? Less-frenetic recording schedules? Am I too old? This question gnaws at me because I am as enthusiastic about the New Pornographers or TV On the Radio as I am about Led Zeppelin and the Temptations.

First off, it’s an ADD world. Both fans and musicians become bored more quickly than was the case in my youth. Another reason is that record companies are not as likely to shepherd an artist through a sales or creative slump as they once were. Bands must arrive at a label fully-formed and produce immediately, which means that for bands not named U2 or REM, they must do their growing and experimenting off-record, which also means fewer releases.

Number two, taking years between releases is the norm, not the exception, these days. This is especially true of established artists. To put things in perspective, consider that the Beatles dropped thirteen LPs in a little over six years. Kind of puts the three-albums-a-decade megastar aesthetic into perspective, doesn’t it?

Finally, I am old. After forty-some years of listening to pop music, it gets harder to find something that doesn’t sound derivative. Just as one generation heard diluted impressions of Elvis or Chuck Berry or Bo Diddley in everything that followed, I am likely to hear echoes of the Stooges or Nick Drake or the Velvet Underground in much of what has come since.

But harder doesn’t mean impossible.

There are fresh recombinations of elements that make for new and exciting music, and unique and original visions, and the inspired refining of existing formulas happening every day. You’re just not likely to hear them on the radio (which for all intent and purposes is dead as an outlet for rock music).

Finally, I/we have changed. Fifty-somethings aren’t very likely to get together and talk about the new Strokes album, are they? Which sadly eliminates the biggest source of the music we enjoyed in our youth—our friends and word of mouth.

Whatever the reason, these are the post-1990 bands and artists I have collected the most releases from:

10
PJ Harvey

9
Pearl Jam

8
Beck
Bjork
The New Pornographers
Stereolab

7
Guided By Voices
Moby
Mogwai
Nine Inch Nails*
TV On the Radio

6
Foo Fighters
Goldfrapp
Mercury Rev
Ride
St. Etienne
Lisa Stansfield
The 3Ds
The Verve

5
Athlete
Blur
Built To Spill
Cat Power
The Chainsaw Kittens
Low
Luna
Massive Attack
Pavement*
Wilco
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
You Am I

* released debut album/EP in 1989

My Pet Peeves

2011-04-06T16:57:00.009-05:00

Like most people, I have pet peeves. Unlike most people, I keep mine in a zoo. A petting zoo, to be exact. The kind where rabies shots are highly-encouraged prior to admission.

My pet peeves range from justifiable homicide (well, almost) to the merely annoying. That said, allow me to present the seventy-five fascinating and multitudinous things that piss me off:

1. Right-wing conservatives
2. Big Business
3. The impunity of Wall Street
4. Corporate welfare
5. The NRA
6. Executive compensation
7. Stoplights
8. Insurance companies
9. Looking for work
10. Our refusal to address the cause of skyrocketing health care costs—only the symptoms.
11. Credit card companies
12. Oil companies
13. Hyperbole
14. Cable TV providers
15. Corporate banks
16. Pharmaceutical manufacturers
17. The clean coal lobby
18. Saggy jeans
19. Pick-up trucks/sport utility vehicles
20. Congress
21. The Los Angeles Lakers
22. Pro-lifers
23. Bird shit on my car
24. Control freaks
25. Defense contractors
26. Terrorism
27. Impatience
28. Parents who, evidence to the contrary, think their children are incapable of failure and bad behavior (up to and including premeditated murder) merely because said children sprang from their loins.
29. Habitat destruction
30. Bullies
31. Selfishness
32. One-issue voters
33. The New York Yankees
34. Cheapskates
35. The popularly accepted re-imagining of Ronald Reagan as great president and visionary.
36. Reality TV
37. Violent computer games
38. People who use their cell phones a.) while driving b.) while shopping c.) while going to the bathroom d.) in movie theaters e.) in restaurants.
39. This persistent idea that fowl is food.
40. People who say they’d continue working even after winning the lottery.
41. Barry Bonds
42. Liars
43. Climate change deniers
44. Psychology-as-fashion (namely, positive thinking)
45. The owners of professional sports franchises who hold cities hostage for publicly-funded stadiums for what are privately-owned businesses, and the municipal governments who let them.
46. Being labeled a racist because I oppose illegal immigration.
47. Fake boobs
48. Golf
49. Weak drinks
50. People who belch in public
51. The price of concert tickets
52. Drama queens (and kings)
53. Professional wrestling
54. Arrogance
55. Budweiser
56. The weather in the Midwest
57. The San Francisco 49ers
58. Carrie Prejean
59. Gangster hip-hop
60. Women who complain about guys in Speedos
61. Early-release programs
62. Being interrupted
63. Sour cream on Mexican food
64. Reggaeton
65. Monster truck shows
66. The New York Mets
67. Sale items that don’t ring up at the advertised price.
68. Jerry Jones
69. People who insist on dragging two and-a-half-foot wide shopping carts down three-foot wide aisles.
70. Competitive eating contests
71. Fart jokes
72. The words devastated, extreme, legacy and iconic.
73. Music videos
74. The names real estate developers give their developments.
75. Smooth jazz

Behold the Power of Chocolate

2011-03-29T07:51:00.008-05:00

For those of you who know me from MySpace, sorry for the re-run.

For those of you who don’t, this is one of four blogs I salvaged from the two-hundred and something I posted on MySpace before they went down. I mean reinvented themselves.

It was plainly the sweetest moment I’ve ever enjoyed in the workplace. My last day at J.C. Penney’s catalog desk, a job I had taken to put some much-needed legal tender in my wallet following a move to New Mexico.

It was a deceptively tough job, owing to the variety of services we offered. Each had its own highly-detailed set of procedures and processes that needed to be followed—and learned on the fly.

The manager was a woman named Helga. She was in her late-fifties and clearly exhausted by the continual turnover in the department. Even the most earnest questions were answered in a weary, resigned monotone.

A few moments stand out.

The night a customer anxiously watched me wrap her wedding gift, distress written all over her face as she frantically searched for the politically correct words to get me to stop and let a woman take over.

In a fiendish mood, I continued, even suggesting pairing a tartan plaid ribbon with the pink, satiny wrapping paper. I'll admit to being a bit put-off, as I've been wrapping gifts since I was old-enough to give them, and do a pretty fair job of it.

Then there was the middle-aged Native American woman who wanted to return a comforter. In accordance with store policy, I removed the comforter from its heavy plastic storage bag for a quick inspection.

After unfolding it, I needed a moment to digest what I was looking at. The comforter looked as if she had given birth on it. Or murdered someone in it. It was covered with red stains and others the cast of CSI: Miami would have trouble identifying.

I looked at her in disbelief. “I can’t take this back, Ma’am.” Expressionless and unblinking, she asked why. “It’s used” I said. “No it’s not.” I wasn’t in the mood for a Monty Python skit just then and summoned the assistant manager.

She took one look at the comforter, then the woman, and went blank. It was the only time I saw this wise-cracking New Jersey transplant speechless.

She went to the phone and called the store manager, who—unbelievably—gave the woman her money back. No questions asked. I don’t remember if the comforter went to the CDC in Atlanta or the Navajo police in Shiprock.

But I digress. This is about sweet moments, not comforters.

After a month at Penney’s, I had found a “real” job and given notice. My last day would be a Saturday. That morning, a new marketing promotion (miniature chocolate bars wrapped in coupons) was to be introduced.

I was chosen to hand them out, and positioned myself near an entrance. It didn’t take long for the mostly-female shoppers to figure out that chocolate, no free chocolate, was being handed out

Within minutes I was surrounded by women. Women with broad, beautiful smiles. Women who looked at me with something approaching adoration. If I wasn’t the fountain of youth guaranteeing eternally moist and youthful skin, I was at least handing out chocolate.

The circle surrounding me grew three and four deep. As best I could, I attempted to get a bar to each of them. The eye contact was deep and lingering. And full of unspoken surrender. God I loved this. Was this what it’s like to be a rock star? Or Brad Pitt? Or George Clooney? I didn’t want it to end.

“How’s it going, Randy?” Then laughter. The assistant manager had approached with another box of chocolate, and was taking in the success of Penney’s new marketing promotion. But all too soon, the second box was empty as well. The women? Gone. My fifteen-minutes were over. I was a has-been.

The truth of the moment emerged in one of those late night, look-in-the-mirror moments we sometimes have with ourselves. And the truth was this: it could have been Charles Manson handing out the chocolate, and the results would have been the same.

I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that I was a mere messenger, a delivery system, for women’s first love—chocolate.

Tainted Love

2011-03-19T08:27:00.011-05:00

Business loves me
This I know
For the advertising
Tells me so

(with apologies to Anna Warner)

I’m so happy. I woke up today and realized I am loved. I stretched my limbs languorously and reveled in the warmth of it. Okay, so it’s not the torrid stuff of tabloid magazines. It’s different than that. It’s subtle and understated—more resonant.

It’s the kind that makes you clutch your pillow and close your eyes in quiet contentment. It’s forever. Or as long as I possess a functioning credit card. Whichever comes first.

Kidding aside, ever heard the expression actions speak louder than words?

You might have heard it was inspired by Confucius. Or St. Francis of Assisi. Wrong. It was inspired by the business gap—the gulf that exists between a businesses marketing and its standard operating procedure.

Take the supermarket chain I work for. It has a big business gap. It spouts its love of customers like a lovesick fourteen-year-old girl writing in her diary. The only thing missing are the hearts drawn in strawberry-scented ink.

Too bad it isn’t true.

Grocery shopping is work. It’s repeated motions, done and undone many times. Put the food in the cart, take the food out of the cart. Put the food on the check-out counter, take the food off the check-out counter. Put the food in the car, take the food out of the car. And so on.

This doesn’t even take into account reading between the lines on coupons, discerning which flavor of frozen entrée is—and isn’t—on sale, hoping you’re in possession of the keychain with the rewards card on it and the reusable grocery bags and remembering the debit card PIN.

Look! Your five-year-old just tore open a pack of Skittles and spilled them all over the floor.

The chain I work for began as a no-frills market, with the gimmick being that along with the warehouse-like environment were the lowest-possible prices. Along with the prices, grocery baggers were cut. Marketing experts determined that bagging your own groceries was just part of the fun.

But by 2011, any appeal that idea held has been thoroughly and irretrievably exhausted. In a world in which most women work (in addition to their traditional responsibilities), grocery shopping is just one more chore. Adding insult to injury, it is also one that must be paid for.

And my employer has adapted. We now have baggers. Technically.

We have baggers as long as they’re not cleaning bathrooms or retrieving shopping carts. Or returning unwanted items to store shelves. Or emptying garbage cans in far-flung corners of the building.

Because my employer is so stupendously and astonishingly efficient, when a bagger is idled for a minute or two because a credit card has been declined or a coupon is being disputed or because of the dreaded price check, they are whisked away.

Honesty compels me to admit that while it does lend a now-you-see-‘em, now-you-don’t element to the tedium of supermarket cashiering, customers with three-hundred dollars of groceries who chose your lane because there was a bagger at the end of it rarely see it this way.

So in addition to bearing the glowering rage of an upset customer, a cashier not only has to scan a massive order, but bag it as well. Which easily doubles the time it would take otherwise, and occurs roughly half the time a cashier is behind a register.

Even with glasses, I can’t find the customer service in this. Never mind the love.

It demands that the modest request of having your groceries bagged be the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket. Your groceries will be bagged if the bathrooms have been cleaned and shopping carts brought in and garbage emptied and unwanted items placed back on shelves and if the customer ahead of you doesn’t encounter or present a problem.

In other words, your groceries will be bagged only if the sun, moon and stars have aligned in just the right way. Business may love us, but it loves a big, fat profit margin more.

And my employer isn’t the only example. There’s the jewelry supplier who cut call center agents to improve its bottom line—even if it means the customers it cherishes will have to wait longer.

And the telecommunications giant who punishes service consultants for poor sales—but not for hanging up on customers. And the retailer who leaves calls unanswered and customers unapproached because staffing must be kept to an absolute, bare-bones minimum.

With profit margins shrinking like a wool sweater in a dryer and middle and lower-class wages skyrocketing the way they are, well, what’s a poor business to do? Something’s got to give.

And that something would be you.

Vicki Johnson

2011-03-10T20:42:00.012-06:00

Two blogs in one day after one in all of February. Imagine. So it goes when the fire of outrage burns brightly.

It was confirmed today that Republicans in the Wisconsin state legislature unearthed an obscure parliamentary procedure Wednesday night, allowing them to ratify a bill stripping public-sector unions of their right to collective bargaining despite the continued absence of Democrats.

This is just the first domino to fall in what will likely be a very long chain.

I hope those who voted for Scott Walker last November recall their reasoning and their faith when they find themselves at the mercy of their employer in ways they absolutely cannot imagine today.

****

Vicki Johnson is a woman in her mid-forties. She is the manager of a feed mill in central Wisconsin, and is someone I have never met. For all I know, she is a wonderful woman. A caring mother. A devoted daughter. A best friend.

But she is also dangerously naïve. Amazingly short-sighted. And just a little misinformed. And she (presumably) votes.

Her thoughts fascinate me because they are a glimpse into the middle-class Republican mind; the mind responsible for installing people like Scott Walker, Rick Snyder, Mitch Daniels, John Kasich and Chris Christie into public office.

If you’re not fortunate-enough to live in the United States circa 2011, Walker, Snyder, Daniels, Kasich and Christie are governors waging war on those with the temerity to belong to public-sector unions, with the eventual goal of establishing a Republican (i.e. corporate) monopoly on governance in the United States.

Not that small government adherents like Johnson see the contradiction.

She likens the behavior of the fourteen Wisconsin state representatives who left the state capitol to prevent passage of Walker’s kill-collective-bargaining-or-else bill to “little children throwing a tantrum, and they should be spanked.”

I can't imagine what she makes of the Boston Tea Party.

I have a persistent and nagging suspicion that were the Wisconsin Fourteen Republican, she’d be calling them “wile” and “savvy”; saying “they’re freedom-loving people standing up for what they believe in.”

When asked about unions, Johnson paused her Shirley Temple DVD and answered.

“Up here, if you’re an honest, hard-working person, you take your lumps. I don’t believe in unions. They were good when they started. But now, the union protects the lazy man. I really think these days an honest, hard-working man doesn’t need protection.”

I can't help but feel like the deli customer in When Harry Met Sally, who after watching Meg Ryan simulate an orgasam, tells the waitress "I'll have what she's having."

For those of us who don't live in a Norman Rockwell painting, being honest and hard-working means that with a dollar, we can buy a weekday edition of the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, which coincidentally, costs one-dollar.

It would undoubtedly come as a shock to Ms. Johnson, but there are millions of honest and hard-working people who are fending off financial ruin and persistent unemployment because our elected representation (which, incidentally, is non-union) allowed Wall Street (which is also non-union) to gamble with our economy and our futures without fear of retribution or punishment or accountability.

Being ‘good’ employees or ‘bad’ employees had nothing to do with it. Being not rich and not powerful did.

Johnson’s is the conservative mind at work. It’s this or it’s that. It is or it isn’t. It’s up or it’s down. In the words of the execrable George W. Bush, “You’re either with us or you’re against us.” There are no shades of grey. It’s easy, quick, black and white thinking. Which incidentally, is a characteristic of the undeveloped adolescent brain. Draw your own conclusions.

Johnson is also the triumph of conservative marketing; intoxicated by the nostalgia of traditional values even as those all around her are sacrificed at the altar of executive compensation and insatiable corporate and conservative greed.

Ignorance is clearly bliss.

Our Serfin' Safari

2011-03-10T16:07:00.010-06:00

From Morocco to Bahrain, citizens are demanding democracies in which everyone has an equal voice, and are overthrowing the dictators who stand in their way. In the United States, we are electing them.

One example comes from Wisconsin, where angry voters engorged by Republican fear-mongering elected Scott Walker as governor last fall. Walker is a Reagan-worshipping conservative determined to enact the small government ideal his corporate sponsors demand by doing things like “balancing the budget”.

Balancing the budget is a Trojan Horse. Balancing the budget is code for slashing programs that assist the poor and the elderly. Balancing the budget is code for unplugging the middle class. Balancing the budget is code for big, giant business unfettered by regulation or oversight. Balancing the budget is code for fuck you.

But there are obstacles. Namely, Democrats and the people who fund them. Oh, and that irksome concept of democracy.

Democrats receive a majority of their campaign financing from unions. And it is clear to conservatives that in order to silence Democrats, unions must be crushed. Big business has sought—and mostly succeeded—in eroding private sector union membership, either by relocating to areas of the country where unions hold no sway, or by eliminating the jobs altogether by outsourcing them outside the U.S.

But government doesn’t have that option. Public sector unions must be snuffed out directly in big, ugly confrontations. But it’s a risk conservatives are willing to take, because when coupled with the Supreme Court’s landmark decision on Citizens United vs. Federal Election Commission, the elimination of unions paves the way for Republicans to run—for all intent and purposes— unopposed. Eliminate a Democrat’s funding and you effectively eliminate the Democrat.

And who doesn’t think that’s a great idea?

If you believe that history began with the Kennedy presidency or the civil rights movement, you need to know there was a time when the middle class didn’t exist. A time when workers didn’t have eight-hour days and weekends off, much less paid vacations, health insurance and maternity leave.

The world was a handful of rich folk, with nearly everyone else an indentured servant to a feudal lord. People (or serfs) were purposely kept ignorant and in fear of an angry, judgmental god lest they see things for what they really were.

The world somehow managed to progress to the point where even people not considered royalty could read, or own land. And to conservatives, this is where it all went to hell. This is where the idea of democracy flowered.

People with absolute power didn’t give it up without a fight. Installing democracy demanded fierce, bloody and prolonged struggles where people died. With extraordinarily rare exceptions, kings and queens didn’t just give it to us. We took it.

This was also the cost of providing workers with their current quality of life.

Lives were lost. More were ruined. Businessmen didn’t give it to us because they thought it was the right thing to do. It was the union, or sometimes the mere threat of them, that drove business owners to relent and give workers a fair share of the pie.

But as the U.S. curdles into a society consisting of either somnambulant, ossified sheep or snarling, conscience-free wolves, this is changing. The entitlement conservatives love to whine about when addressing social programs and unions has crept into their vocabulary as well.

In short, they feel that you have too much of everything. That you’re stealing from them. And that it must stop. And we, by voting for Republicans like Scott Walker, inexplicably agree.

While not lemmings hurtling ourselves off the cliff in a literal sense, we absolutely, positively are in the figurative one. Is there a more pathetic sight in America than a teacher and a department manager screaming at each other while the wealthiest of us get tax breaks and enjoy actual congressional representation?

Like the party that supposedly represents us, the middle class are dupes for the oldest political ploy in the book: divide and conquer.

The enemy isn’t the sheet metal worker across the street, or the teacher across town. The enemy are those who run Wall Street, oil companies, corporate banks and big pharma, and the naked, empty shills who spread their ass cheeks for them in exchange for campaign funding.

Do we know the difference?

I don’t hate the wealthy. Or the powerful. Hell, I even believe most of them should be allowed to live. Where I become anti-social is with the idea of absolute rule. That the United States become a corporate oligarchy, serving only the interests of its richest and most-powerful clients. A country of, by and for the wealthy and the well-connected.

It is said a people have the government they deserve. And as a distracted, cynical citizenry who are too busy to pay attention to politics, we certainly have that. Now that we know the conservative agenda, and their ruthless and their relentlessness, are we still too busy to pay attention?

Please Dispose of Responsibly

2011-02-19T07:48:00.011-06:00

Unemployment really fucks with your head.

You hear 'no' long enough and you begin to believe you’re the piece of shit corporate America says you are. Things like self-confidence and self-esteem erode imperceptibly, like paper yellowing or paint fading.

You haven’t won the lottery, but have still managed to defy the odds. You’re told the unemployment rate for those with bachelor’s degrees is just four-percent. Yet you have come to the inescapable and bitter conclusion after two years of searching that not looking for work is the same as looking.

You also learn what it’s like at the very bottom of America’s social strata. It doesn’t matter what you did, how long you did it or for whom you did it. What matters is that you are long-term unemployed, and for this single, solitary reason must not be employed. The effects on American business could be catastrophic.

You realize you have been reduced to a drooling, enfeebled idiot. If not that, a pedophile with a record longer than a porn star’s dick. You are, for lack of a better word, a nigger. Please fuck off.

You listen to Lisa Murkowski (R-AK) say “The unemployed just don’t want to work” while you perform two highly undesirable part-time jobs that only the desperate would consider, much less take. You attempt (unsuccessfully) to forget she is the daughter of a millionaire former senator, and has roughly the same relationship with struggle that you do with menstruation.

Namely, that it’s something that happens to other people—not you.

You witness the let’s-heap-dirt-on-the-victims antics of Orrin Hatch (R-UT) as he freely questions the continued existence of unemployment benefits since “They’d just use the money for drugs.” Or watch as newspapers publish cartoons in which a tree labeled ‘unemployment benefits’ bears fruit labeled ‘unemployment’.

You again fail in an effort not to take this staggering misinterpretation of cause and effect personally, even though you yourself don’t qualify for any type of assistance. You search job listings for a position which requires falling through the cracks, and to your utter lack of surprise, find none.

Yes, you are employment-proof.

As you prepare for a second downsizing (this time into your parent’s home), you wonder if there will be a third. And if so, if it will involve cement and the outdoors. You ponder your chances, which conveniently fall into two categories: slim and none.

Of course, you could always go back to school, take out a fifteen-thousand dollar loan and hope that in a year or two someone will want to hire a fifty-something pharmacy tech. By the time you are sixty, it might even be paid off. Which leaves you free to begin saving for retirement.

You could also continue looking for work. After all, in the past decade you have witnessed the New Orleans Saints win a Super Bowl. The Arizona Cardinals compete in one. The New Jersey Nets visit the NBA Finals—twice. And the Tampa Bay Rays make the World Series. So it could happen.

And let’s not forget it was just last week that you picked up two-bucks in the MegaMillions game. Yes, things are looking up.

My Favorite Concerts

2011-01-28T11:33:00.003-06:00

You are at the point of creation. The audience can't wait for the next song to begin. The air is charged. It’s one of those nights.

I’ve been lucky-enough to experience over seventy of those nights; the kind of where the band is on fire and notes hang in the air, making music so tangible you can practically reach out and touch it.

It’s better than sex or great food or the best movie you ever saw. You drive home with the radio off because you don’t want to disturb the afterglow.

The concerts that follow represent about one-fifth of the three-hundred forty-nine concerts I’ve attended. Shows are listed in chronological order. Support acts are listed when they contributed to the vibe.

And if you’re wondering about the deficit of post-1995 shows, let’s just say I moved to a state that was enchantment-rich but concert-poor.

The Outlaws/The Doobie Brothers 9/19/75 The Chicago Stadium
Natural Gas/Gary Wright/Lynyrd Skynyrd/Peter Frampton/Yes 8/15/76 Hawthorne Racetrack
Jeff Beck 2/19/77 The Auditorium Theater
The Michael Stanley Band/Nazareth/REO Speedwagon 4/22/77 The Auditorium Theater
The Climax Blues Band/The J. Geils Band/Foghat/Emerson, Lake & Palmer 6/4/77 Soldier Field
Pink Floyd 6/19/77 Soldier Field
UFO 10/13/78 The International Amphitheater
Louisiana Leroux/REO Speedwagon 11/4/78 The University of Illinois Assembly Hall
Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band 11/20/78 The University of Illinois Assembly Hall
The Rockets/Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band 12/1/78 The Chicago Stadium
Graham Parker & the Rumour/Cheap Trick 6/16/79 The International Amphitheater
Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers 6/18/80 Poplar Creek Music Theater
The Rockets/REO Speedwagon 8/24/80 Poplar Creek Music Theater
Moon Martin & the Ravens/Rockpile 11/15/80 The Riviera Theater
Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band 11/20/80 The Rosemont Horizon
The Kind/Ian Hunter 10/9/81 Cahn Auditorium
The Neville Brothers/The Rolling Stones 11/23/81 The Rosemont Horizon
Red Rider/The J. Geils Band 12/19/81 The Uptown Theater
Defunkt/The Clash 8/13/82 The Aragon Ballroom
Little Steven & the Disciples of Soul 2/13/83 Park West
The Talking Heads 8/14/83 Poplar Creek Music Theater
Los Lobos/The Blasters 7/5/84 SummerFest
The Dream Syndicate/REM 7/7/84 The Aragon Ballroom
The Fleshtones/Billy Bragg/Echo & the Bunnymen 8/25/84 The Bismarck Theater
The Kinks 12/2/84 The University of Illinois Chicago Pavilion
Lone Justice/U2 3/22/85 The University of Illinois Chicago Pavilion
The Blasters 4/13/85 Park West
Til Tuesday/Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers 6/22/85 Poplar Creek Music Theater
Dire Straits 8/3/85 Poplar Creek Music Theater
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark 9/2/85 Cabaret Metro
Eleventh Dream Day/Green on Red 9/20/85 The West End
The Cure 10/18/85 The Aragon Ballroom
EIEIO/The Del Fuegos 4/21/86 Park West
Big Audio Dynamite 11/28/86 The Riviera Theater
Peter Gabriel 12/5/86 The Rosemont Horizon
Dave Edmunds 2/14/87 Park West
Shriekback 4/23/87 Park West
Cameo 5/2/87 The Holiday Star Theater
Paul Kelly & the Messengers/Crowded House 9/12/87 The Riviera Theater
Barrence Whitfield & the Savages/Dave Alvin & the All-Nighters/Los Lobos 10/16/87 The Riviera Theater
Richard Lloyd/The Replacements 11/14/87 The Riviera Theater
The Silencers/Squeeze 11/27/87 The Riviera Theater
Public Image Limited/INXS 3/11/88 The University of Illinois Chicago Pavilion
Rosie Flores/Joe Ely 11/13/88 Fitzgerald’s
The Ben Vaughn Combo/John Hiatt 11/26/88 Park West
The Primitives 12/2/88 Cabaret Metro
NRBQ 1/28/89 Fitzgerald’s
Cherrelle/Alexander O’Neal 4/30/89 The Regal Theater
The Jayhawks/The Vulgar Boatmen/The Silos 5/18/90 Cabaret Metro
Lisa Stansfield 5/21/90 Park West
Social Distortion/Sonic Youth/Neil Young & Crazy Horse 1/29/91 The Rosemont Horizon
The Picadors/Trip Shakespeare 7/13/91 The Cubby Bear
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark 9/22/91 Cabaret Metro
Superchunk/The Mekons 11/8/91 Cabaret Metro
The Ocean Blue/The Psychedelic Furs 11/13/91 Cabaret Metro
My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult/Siouxsie & the Banshees 12/8/91 The Central Park Ballroom
The Wallflowers/Cracker 5/9/92 Cabaret Metro
Big Audio Dynamite/Public Enemy/U2 9/18/92 The World Music Theater
Ike Reilly & Community #9/The Mekons 11/14/92 Cabaret Metro
David J/PJ Harvey 11/26/92 Cabaret Metro
The Mekons 11/24/93 Cabaret Metro
Seam/Fig Dish/The Flaming Lips 12/10/93 Cabaret Metro
Throneberry/Tina & the B-Sides/Tommy Keene 2/11/94 The Cubby Bear
Cynthia Plastercaster/The Mekons 7/22/94 Lounge Ax
The Vulgar Boatmen/The Silos 4/13/95 Cabaret Metro
Susan Voelz 5/17/95 Lounge Ax
Kitchens of Distinction 5/22/95 The Double Door
Bjork 8/4/95 Cabaret Metro
PJ Harvey 10/7/95 The Riviera Theater
Marcia Ball/Aaron Neville/John Fogerty 9/1/00 The World Music Theater
Gavin DeGraw/Maroon 5 11/16/03 The Sunshine Theater
Lavender Diamond/The New Pornographers 9/22/07 The Sunshine Theater

Revenge of the Tailgated

2011-01-13T06:46:00.012-06:00

At first, I thought it was the second coming. That I was being bathed in the light of redemption. Either that or I was being abducted by aliens. Such was the flood of bright white light that engulfed my car.

But there was a stop light at the intersection up ahead. And however limited my experience with second comings and alien abductions, I am positively resolute in my belief that traffic signals don’t play a role in either.

A little background.

You see, I was headed south along a two-lane street renown for being a speed trap. With the understanding that driving is a social activity, I motored along at what I assumed to be a cooperative five miles over the speed limit.

I reasoned this would both appease the overscheduled folk who are so frequently behind me, yet at the same time, shield me from unwelcome attention by law enforcement authorities.

And that is when The Light appeared.

I flipped the rear view mirror to nighttime. But my puny efforts were overwhelmed by a glare that made it feel as if I were driving on the surface of the Sun.

Perhaps this was the second coming. My brain was suffused with questions. Had I comported myself in a manner consistent with redemption? Had I sinned in the last twenty-four hours?

Without answering either question, I made a desperate attempt to adjust the exterior mirrors. But The Light would not be denied. I gamely continued towards the strip mall, where it had been my intention to purchase a bag of road salt and some washer fluid.

Unfortunately, this also seemed to be The Light’s destination.

As residential neighborhoods gave way to commercial ones, the ambient light helped lessen the intensity of The Light. It was at that point I discerned the visage of a vehicle—a pick-up truck to be exact.

While relieved that final judgment had been delayed until I could at least procure some windshield washer solvent, I was also highly agitated. What did The Light want? Why was it following me? Was it too much to hope for a break in the solid yellow line that would indicate a passing zone?

It was New Year’s Day evening. It was unlikely The Light was rushing to work. Or picking up its kid from soccer practice. I cursed the construction budget shortfalls that consigned me to this two-lane, halogen hell.

Just as The Light seemed poised to attempt some form of vehicular sodomy, the mall came into view. I turned in, and hoped The Light would bypass it and continue on its merry way. Wrong.

The Light slash pick-up turned in also. It was look-at-me obnoxious, standing about three-feet off the ground with several dozen lights mounted on the front bumper and above the cab. The tires appeared to have been borrowed from a river rapids outfitter in Grand Canyon National Park.

It parked across several spaces, and I watched as the driver climbed down. A baseball cap gathered in a headful of wiry, longish hair. He was slender. Stood about 5’8”. He was wearing a Blackhawks jacket and dark sweatpants.

I remembered an expression I had heard in New Mexico: The smaller the man, the bigger the truck. I smiled. He probably needed a stepladder just to wash the hood.

I got out of my car and followed him in.

The store’s white tile floor was crisscrossed with muddy footprints and shopping cart tracks. A voice on the PA was excitedly informing shoppers of the values to be had in the seasonal close-out section. The fluorescent lights glared.

I caught up with the truck driver at the display of rock salt. I parked my cart and stood very near him as I pretended to inspect the various bags. Within seconds I detected a face turned briefly in my direction. A sigh. And then the sound of a cart being suddenly and forcibly moved.

I loitered near the rock salt for a moment, selected the five-pound bag I needed and continued on.

The truck driver was now in aisle 1—canned fruits and vegetables. I followed, suddenly fascinated by the array of canned goods. A smiling woman holding a wicker basket full of ripe, red tomatoes beckoned from a can of Contadina.

While reaching for her, I brushed the truck driver. I pretended not to notice, but could feel him looking at me. I nonchalantly replaced the can and continued down the aisle.

After locating a bottle of windshield solvent, I encountered the truck driver again, this time by the deli. I stood directly behind him as he ordered a quarter-pound of olive loaf and pimento loaf. Upon receiving his packages, he turned to put them in his cart and ran into me. There was another exasperated sigh. He was irritated.

“Excuse me” I said brightly and stepped up to the counter. I could feel him attempting to stare a hole into me.

I debated whether to continue. If I didn’t tell him I was the driver of the car he had been tailgating, the entire exercise would be for naught. A decision needed to be made. Our last encounter would be at the cash registers.

Unbelievably, the old Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway duet “The Closer I Get to You” was playing as I joined the line. I wanted to laugh.

I again stood within inches of him as he stooped to retrieve the jug of milk from beneath the cart. We bumped. His eyes betrayed an anger his face struggled to contain.

I looked at him. “It’s not very nice, is it?”

“Huh?” The truck driver stood there, staring. His body was cocked in a pose of expectation.

I studied his pale face. The watery blue eyes and the half-formed pimples near his chin. He was young.

“Being tailgated.”

“What are you talking about, dude?” It didn’t quite come off as a question.

“I’m just sorry I don’t have a bunch of spots to blind you with. Let’s see. By your rules, I should just shove you out of the way and check out first because I'm bigger than you. What do you think of that?”

“You’re trippin’, man.” He turned to face the cashier. His denial provoked a torrent of self-righteous rage.

“You mean you’re not the guy who followed me down McHenry Road? Really? You’re not the guy who tried to blind me because I wasn’t going fast enough? Because I watched you get out of your fucking truck. You are the asshole who was tailgating me. And you know what? I’d like to beat your scrawny ass to a pulp.”

The truck driver anxiously waited for his change. His outstretched hand was a dictionary entry for the word urgent.

In contrast to the portrayal my kindergarten teacher had offered my parents that I wasn’t an oral child, I now found myself in the position of not being able to keep my mouth shut.

“You’re not so tough outside your truck, are you? Tell me something—how should we handle this? What do you think is fair?”

He quietly collected his bags and left the store. I set the rock salt and washer fluid on the counter.

I felt good.

My Favorite CDs of 2010

2011-01-04T07:32:00.020-06:00

Musically speaking, it was a good year for old guys. It was the year of re. As in resurgent. Reinvigorated. Renewed.

Tom Petty, John Mellencamp, Robert Plant (Band of Joy), Jimmie Vaughan, Los Lobos, Ron Wood, Neil Young and the late Solomon Burke all released their strongest work in years in 2010.

Which followed on the heels of last year’s compelling live album from Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood and 2008’s Robin Trower collaboration with Jack Bruce.

I’m tempted to say an impending sense of mortality has these guys digging down deep. That the realization that life isn’t an endless stream of twenty-something days has brought their priorities—like the face of death itself—into sharp focus.

On the other hand, it could be mere coincidence.

Of course, the young-uns were active, too. Best Coast, Plants and Animals, Jenny Lewis and Jonathan Rice (Jenny and Johnny), the New Pornographers and Robyn all released albums that require the warning Caution: May become habit-forming.

Lest you feel an eyeroll coming on at having to slog through yet-another year-end review, know that mine is the only one which doesn’t list Kanye West at number one or mention Nicki Minaj, pop-hop’s hook girl of the year.

Oh wait—I just did. Shit. So much for originality.

Several highly-anticipated disappointments (you know who you are) nonwithstanding, here are my ten favorite CDs of 2010.

1. Robyn Body Talk

I’m tempted to say this is the guiltiest pleasure I’ve ever installed at number one. But that would be damning Robyn’s tough, brainy dance pop with faint praise.

The irresistible beats lure you to the dance floor while Klas Ahlund’s brilliant production colors Body Talk with bits of electronica, hip-hop and sound effects that elevate the hook-laden songs into the realm of pop-art.

Translated, that means it’s dance music you can stand to listen to even when you’re not dancing. Besides, when was the last time you heard Snoop Dogg drop a memorable cameo? Sexy, smart and the year’s best.

Check "Fembot" and the single, "Indestructible", which features the hottest, most reckless lyric of 2010. (I’m guessing you won’t need that Snuggie any longer.)

2. Robert Plant Band of Joy

Say what you want about the Led Zep-era posturing of Robert Plant, the dude takes his music very seriously. Instead of settling for a huge paycheck by endlessly recycling Zeppelin, Plant has spent the better part of the last fifteen years exploring the folk and Middle Eastern music that first inspired him.

With the stellar support of Patty Griffin and Buddy Miller, Band of Joy recasts songs by Low, Los Lobos and Richard Thompson into something that sounds like they’re wafting from a high plains jukebox, circa 1952.

Check "House of Cards" and the haunting "Silver Rider".

3. The New Pornographers Together

All this Candian indie all-star band did was turn out another album filled with tuneful songs, inventive arrangements and sparkling harmonies with the same regularity that Robert DeNiro makes crappy script choices.

Were they anything but Canadian, egomania would have split them long ago. But like the joke says, all you need to do to clear a hundred Canadians from the pool is say please. And thank god for that.

Check "My Shepherd" and the epic album-closer "We End Up Together", which contains the faint trace of Magical Mystery Tour-era Beatles that runs through much of Together.

4. Los Lobos Tin Can Trust

Back in the mid-eighties, I tried to hip everyone I knew to Los Lobos by dragging friends to their rollicking live shows and making listening to …And a Time to Dance and Will the Wolf Survive? mandatory in exchange for the pleasure of my company.

I never figured I’d still be forking over cash for their latest and greatests a quarter-century later.

Tin Can Trust continues the twenty-first century revival begun by Good Morning Aztlan, and as the smoldering "Burn It Down" and the sober title track make clear, the 2000 box set was just a bit premature.

Los Lobos’ seasoned melding of rock, folk, blues and norteno is multi-cultural soul music. Check both of the aforementioned tracks.

5. Ron Wood I Feel Like Playing

Ron Wood solo albums happen like weird planetary alignments every decade or so. And when they do, they’re usually worth noting. Recharged after a bout with alcoholism, Wood brings his well-worn Dylanesque croak to this set of twelve songs that display the same rough-edged sense of groove that propelled his first (and best) effort, 1974’s I’ve Got My Own Album to Do.

Check "100%" and "Tell Me Something", which are the sort of mid-tempo crotch grinders the Stones don’t make enough of anymore.

6. Jenny and Johnny I’m Having Fun Now

This low-key gem, a collaboration between the Rilo Kiley lead singer and her longtime boyfriend Jonathan Rice often finds itself exploring the relationship dynamic with tart (but never bitter) results.

It doesn’t hurt that their voices go together like peaches and cream, or that the album is rife with sublime production touches applied with restraint and intelligence.

But like last season’s surprise playoff team, Jenny and Johnny won’t sneak up on anyone next time around. Which might take some of the fun out of the sequel—assuming there is one. So enjoy this while it lasts.

Check "Switchblade" and "Big Wave".

7. John Mellencamp No Better Than This

Like the former Led Zeppelin frontman, the former Johnny Cougar knows a bit about aging gracefully. Substituting intimacy for arena-sized bluster, Mellencamp proves a whisper is just as powerful as a scream. And that multi-tracking and overdubbing don’t necessarily give an album depth.

It’s stark, spare beauty is recorded in monaural, giving No Better Than This an emotional heft that falls somewhere between a nineteen-fifties Elvis Presley EP and Woody Guthrie’s Dust Bowl Ballads LP.

Do yourself a favor and check the title track and "Save Some Time to Dream".

8. Plants and Animals La La Land

Montreal’s other band, Plants and Animals describe their music as post-classic rock. Imagining a less-bombastic Muse is probably a good place to begin.

As a result, La La Land is a bit like seeing an old girlfriend with a new haircut—the same, but different. Their melodic, textural pleasures are a treat, and mark Plants and Animals as a band to watch.

Check "American Idol" and "Game Shows".

9. Neil Young Le Noise

I’d love to see the look on people’s faces the first time they hear Le Noise. Yes, it's a Neil Young solo album. But no, the guitar that accompanies him isn’t a softly-strummed acoustic.

The combination of voice and electric guitar may seem off-putting, but it provides stark relief. The quiver in Young’s voice has never sounded more ghostly.

You’ll be so absorbed by Le Noise you won’t even care that "Sign of Love" nicks the riff from 1975's "Drive Back". Or that it’s technically not a solo album. (Producer Daniel Lanois added some post-production electronics.)

Check "Angry World" and "Love and War".

10. Best Coast Crazy for You

This L.A. trio isn’t doing anything revolutionary here; just executing classic forms like girl group pop and surf to sunny, lo-fi perfection. But it’s enough of a wrinkle that Crazy for You frequently finds its way into my CD player.

Check the title track and "Honey".

Honorable Mentions:

Solomon Burke Nothing’s Impossible

If there’s a silver lining in the cloud of Mr. Burke’s passing, it’s that he ended on the upswing of the good-album-bad-album cycle that marked his twenty-first century resurgence.

Tom Petty Mojo

I haven’t liked a Tom Petty album this much since the eighties, which is totally like all you need to know about Mojo.

I Am a Music Magnet

2010-12-27T05:42:00.018-06:00

I have more records than Guinness. More CDs than Citibank. And more cassettes than even a third world flea market could hope to unload.

I’m a radio station waiting to happen. My girlfriend has threatened—on more than one occasion—to make my embarrassment of musical riches public on Hoarders: Buried Alive.

This is only because Intervention is off the air.

How did this happen? How did a generally neat and organized person like myself end up with a sprawling, immovable mass of record albums, compact discs and cassettes?

After weeks of careful and considered scientific investigation, I have come to this conclusion: It’s grandma’s fault.

Grandma was the silver-haired enabler who placed the gateway drug of a transistor radio into my innocent, eight-year-old hands one Christmas.

Two summers earlier, it was through her well-intentioned, grandmotherly largesse that I received the first of my long-playing phonograph albums, the soundtrack to A Hard Day’s Night.

A deliberate pattern of exposure and indulgence had been set. It should be obvious that with adult influences like these, I didn’t stand a chance. I was at risk. It wasn’t long before I was displaying the behavior of a musiholic.

I knew the weekly Top Ten like my classmates knew their multiplication tables. I was in the world’s most hard-to-iron shirt (my mother’s words) the second it was out of the dryer because it resembled one George Harrison wore on the cover of Beatles VI.

I memorized song lyrics with a facile ease I could never locate when it came to committing Bible passages to memory for Sunday school. I organized primitive karaoke and air guitar sessions with fellow obsessives in the neighborhood, lip-syncing to Beatles’ albums as we played our "guitars".

This soon evolved to actual singing and the strumming of wooden planks, on which we had drawn tuning pegs, strings, pickups and volume knobs with magic marker.

In the parlance of the day, I was a scream. Little wonder my parents so rarely sought entertainment outside the home. And come to think of it, where’s my check from Rock Band?

Then there was the radio. The plastic Pandora’s Box that was to complete my undoing. It measured roughly seven inches by four, and if memory serves, was made by Crown.

It was in the slightly-garish style of early-Japanese electronics, with a cream-colored body, red accents and lots of fake gold trim. The click that sounded when I thumbed the volume dial was practically a prison door springing open.

WCFL and WLS were conduits for the electrical charge of Beatles’ harmonies, the fuzz-toned defiance of Rolling Stones’ riffs and the ache of Levi Stubbs’ vocals. I couldn't get enough.

Unbeknownst to her, grandma had provided me with 24/7 access to my favorite drug.

Despite the rampant overstimulation of my tiny physiology, I can and did grow tired. (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction, In the Midnight Hour and Ticket to Ride were my usual lullabies.

If not quite borne on the wings of angels, I drifted off to sleep to a honking horn section and James Jamerson’s bass kicking-off the latest Motown smash.

I also went through batteries like John Mayer does girlfriends.

There’s a line from a song which says “We learned more from a three-minute record than we ever learned in school.” And for better or worse, that is a perfect description of my formative years.

While I struggled with the complexities of math, science and grammar, I effortlessly came to understand the myriad of influences that shaped the music I love. If the definition of passion is what we devote ourselves to without thought of remuneration, then this is mine.

Best of all, I now understand I am not a hoarder. I'm an archivist. Hear that, honey?

OMG!

2010-12-24T13:54:00.007-06:00

I recently opened the stats function in Blogspot, and was astonished to find that a thousand of you from 14 different countries have visited this blog.

I can't imagine what I have to say that merits such attention, but I am honored by it. I hope somewhere down the line you have found a kindrid voice.

Or been semi-amused.

Or at least found a blog that successfully hides the Internet porn you're looking at from a spouse or boss.

If you'll excuse me now, I must climb the cliche tree, go too far out on a limb and hope desperately for understanding, unselfishness and leadership worthy of the name.

Merry Christmas to all of you. And a very happy new year.

Wait

2010-12-19T14:07:00.007-06:00

I was at K-Mart yesterday. Namely, it was to purchase a boot tray, which, despite the $4.49 price tag, is priceless when it comes to storing big, wet winter shoes.

Once I had secured said tray, I headed towards the registers. That’s when I encountered the most jaw-dropping Christmas gift of the year: the camouflage Snuggie.

I ask you—is there a better example of conflicted? I mean, where do you even begin? Declaring your masculinity from underneath a Snuggie? Are you serious?

Marketing-types should know there are places where camouflage just doesn’t work: Smart cars. Taylor Swift albums. Eat Pray Love. And Snuggies.

Convincing the world you’re an alpha-male from beneath a Snuggie is Michael Buble pretending he's Fifty Cent.

Ours is a culture of intimidation. Confrontation. Which is why we embrace reality TV and enormous SUVs and threat-spewing conservatives. And if you want to wear camo, fine.

But do it right. Drive a big, black pick-up. Shave your head. And don't forget the sunglasses and Oakland Raiders T.

But a camouflage Snuggie? There isn't a calculator in the world that can make that add up.

On the other hand, you could always hope no one sees you. Which was the original purpose of camouflage, I think.

Confronting Confrontation

2010-12-09T09:51:00.012-06:00

To paraphrase Albert Einstein, Barack Obama is a mystery wrapped in an enigma.

Given a mandate by an electorate fed-up with eight years of Republican policies, Obama seemed poised to lead America into a fresh, new era. Factoring in a Democratic-controlled Congress, the promise of January 20, 2009 seemed infinite.

But a funny thing happened. The electorate that thought it was getting a president committed to righting the wrongs of the Bush administration got instead a president more interested in setting a world land speed record as he checked off his to do list. One more interested in quantity than quality.

It got a president routinely unable to corral congressional Democrats and get them on the same page to enact desperately-needed legislation. A president who, despite being repeatedly subjected to the most-obnoxious elements of the conservative noise machine, attempted only to appease it.

We thought we were voting for the voice of change in November of 2008. It turns out we were voting for at-any-and-all-costs bipartisanship. In doing so, Obama has consistently snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

As a slight, bookish boy not given to athletics, I was overly familiar with bullies. This came to a head one day as I was returning to school after lunch. I encountered Billy Smith on the sledding hill near my home, and for whatever reason, Billy was in a foul mood. He believed that giving me a beating would right all the wrong in his world.

I attempted to ignore him, gamely continuing my walk to school. But Billy would not be denied. And when he landed a punch to my face, I became enraged. I kicked and punched with a fury unknown to me. And as the fight moved to the steep rear slope of the hill, I saw my opportunity and pushed him down it.

It gave me great satisfaction to see him tumbling. To see him get scratched and bruised by the cement-like clumps of earth. And when he reached bottom, I heard a strange and unexpected sound—Billy the bully was crying. I gathered my books and continued to school. I felt empowered in a way I never had before.

Billy never touched me again, and even made an awkward attempt at friendship. But the enduring lesson I took from that day was that there is a small group of people who respect and understand just one thing: force. It is sad. And it is unfortunate. But it is true.

It is also something Barack Obama will never understand.

In his news conference responding to criticism over the deal he cut with Republicans, Obama defended the compromise by saying that he couldn’t have working-class Americans held hostage by Republican threats.

What he doesn’t get is that by repeatedly kowtowing to the bully, he extends and entrenches the bullying. And consequently, the desperate state of the country he is entrusted to lead.

Mr. President, it's time to push Billy Smith down the hill.

Ditto (A Blog about Cover Versions)

2010-12-04T16:02:00.014-06:00

It’s funny how these things work. Someone hears a song. They love it so much they have to record it. The funny part comes when it bests the original.

A musician hears an opportunity in the melody, the arrangement or the lyrics and voila! The song is reinvented. Recast. Reimagined.

The most-obvious example is the Supremes’ You Keep Me Hangin’ On, a tidy, two-minute Motown single turned into a blazing, late-sixties epic of romantic torment by the Vanilla Fudge in a way the song’s writers probably never intended.

The opposite (and more popular) approach also works; taking a “big” song and stripping it down to its essence: lyrics and melody.

The most-famous cover version (although few people realize it) might be Whole Lotta Love. Yes, the Led Zeppelin chestnut is a retitled cop of Muddy Waters’ You Need Love.

While the Theremin break is all Zeppelin’s, the remainder of the song that defines heavy metal comes courtesy of Mr. McKinley Morganfield, born in Jug’s Corner, Mississippi on April 4, 1913.

In the weeks I spent compiling these, three things became clear: 1.) There are a couple of inspired Beatles’ covers. 2.) Rod Stewart is my favorite interpreter of other people’s songs. And 3.) No one has successfully covered the Rolling Stones.

It’s hard to hear a Beatles’ cover on its own merits, since the originals are all but indelible. It’s like watching a remake of your favorite movie. You’re constantly comparing the casting, the script, and the look to the original. But Joe Cocker and Spooky Tooth pulled it off.

To a generation of Boomers, Rod Stewart stands as the example of talent tossed away. After a quartet of albums that brilliantly melded folk, soul and buoyant rock, he dissolved into a cartoonish stereotype.

But let’s give the man his due. From the late-sixties through the mid-seventies, there wasn’t a finer interpreter of the Isley Brothers, Sam Cooke or the Temptations on the planet.

Finally, I love the Rolling Stones. Few bands sound as singular. And while there are lots of Stones’ covers, none is very memorable. (Cobra Verde’s Play with Fire is probably the best.) Is this proof of their uniqueness, or the ultimate example of fan bias?

That said, here are my ten favorite covers, plus five I felt guilty about leaving off.

1. Piece of My Heart Janis Joplin
Erma Franklin (yes, that Franklin) cut the formidable original. But hearing Joplin lance the boil of her heartbreak on this 1968 edition makes the hair on my arms stand up. Nearly every female singer who has followed is in its debt.

2. Gloria The Shadows of Knight
It takes a fair bit of inspiration to make Van Morrison (who wrote and recorded the original) sound mannered and remote. But for two minutes and thirty-four seconds, this Arlington Heights, IL. garage band did exactly that.

3. House of the Rising Sun The Animals
Like Stagger Lee, this song has a long and winding past. And despite the countless alliterations, there is only one that matters. This simmers like foreplay before finally boiling over in a churchy swell of organ and Eric Burden’s anguish. Awesome.

4. Respect Aretha Franklin
This song found its center when Franklin recorded it from a woman’s perspective. It works on both a personal and a societal level. And despite the prodigious talents of the songwriter (Otis Redding), Aretha’s take crackles with a finger-wagging sass Redding’s barely hinted at.

5. With a Little Help from My Friends Joe Cocker
This Beatles song was buried in the middle of Sgt. Pepper, given to Ringo to imbue with his hangdog charm. Cocker recasts it on his debut, turning a modest ode to friendship into a surging, majestic anthem of survival.

6. Nothing Compares 2 U Sinead O’Connor
For a time, Sinead O’Connor could do no wrong. Here, she takes a Prince giveaway and pours herself into the loneliness and hurt of love freshly lost. And the arrangement frames O'Connor's voice in sublime perfection.

7. (I Know) I’m Losing You Rod Stewart
This jewel comes from the Every Picture Tells a Story album, and is a shining example of how Motown can rock. A critic once wrote that Mickey Waller deserved the Nobel Prize in Physics for his propulsive drumming. He wasn't lying.

8. What Was It You Wanted Willie Nelson
This Dylan tune from 1989’s Oh Mercy is given a haunting, minor key treatment that emphasizes its searching, unsettled lyric. Fred Tackett’s picking on the outro is just a bonus.

9. You Really Got a Hold on Me The Beatles
Among their many talents, the Beatles were pretty fair cover artists. John Lennon takes this 1962 Miracles’ hit and gives it a soulful reading that obliterates the original. Which is something not many people did to Smokey Robinson.

10. Girl from the North Country Secret Machines
This song always seemed more barren and windswept than Dylan presented it on John Wesley Harding. Secret Machines obviously felt the same, issuing this stark, synth-based rendition on their The Road Leads Where It’s Led EP.

Urge for Going -Tom Rush
He Was Really Saying Somethin’ -Bananarama
(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love & Understanding -Elvis Costello
Baby It’s You -Smith
Superstar -Sonic Youth

Counter Culture, Pt. 2

2010-12-01T07:58:00.020-06:00

You have manned the take-away register seven days out of the last eight. Co-workers greet you with comments of the “What did you do?” variety.

The register is awkward, being positioned on a postage stamp-sized cart with an acute shortage of space for groceries. Never mind the cell phones, purses, babies, water bottles and key rings shoppers also have with them.

This is likely the reason for the ‘6 Items or Less’ sign. Thankfully, most of your customers can count this high.

There is even less room for maneuvering flimsy Styrofoam containers overfilled with sauces, dressings and gravies into plastic bags mounted on a rack only slightly more stable than Lindsay Lohan.

When pulled, the bags are supposed to tear along a perforation, much like a sheet of paper from a pad. But then, the recession supposedly ended in June of 2009, too.

Then there is the change cup. By the time a customer is standing at the register paying for their groceries, it is actually positioned behind them.

So during the lunch hour, the line of customers is continually performing a polite but poorly-choreographed samba as they move backwards, and then forwards, to accommodate customers retrieving their change.

You wonder if this could be parlayed into a slot judging contestants on Dancing With the Stars. If not, you still retain one measure of celebrity, because the register is located within the store manager’s favorite area of the market.

This means that when it’s 9:45 AM and there isn’t a long line of customers waiting to purchase BBQ, soup or salad at your register, you become visible in a manner desirable only to unknown actors, writers and musicians.

You proffer reasoned arguments that you are a cashier, and that standing around is your job. They fall on deaf ears. The fact that it isn’t the lunch hour is never an excuse for it not being the lunch hour.

The track lighting is specifically arrayed to reflect off the stainless steel counter and into your eyes. Customers have observed that the resulting squint gives you an uncanny resemblance to Sergio Leone–era Clint Eastwood, especially when you don’t shave.

You are disappointed that ponchos, cigars and black cowboy hats are prohibited by the store’s dress code.

There is also an exterior door store architects thoughtfully placed near the register. Due to their exhaustive studies of prevailing wind conditions, it allows maximum blasts of icy, Arctic air into the workspace.

Technically, there is a wall-mounted space heater near the door. But only in the same sense that technically, you are no longer unemployed.

So yes, employees clamor to work here.

Strange things happen. Like the time you are summoned to the main registers to cover for a late-arriving employee. You shut-off your light, flip the sign to ‘Closed’ and head to the front of the store.

When you return some twenty minutes later, there are several people waiting at the register. You didn’t know ‘closed’ also meant ‘wait here’. You are staggered.

The knock-out punch arrives courtesy of the woman at the front of the line, who says “You were open when I came in here.”

You choke back several less-considered responses before telling her you're sorry, but you had to help out in another part of the store. She repeats herself before snatching her bag and storming off.

The sixty-ish man behind her is irritated also. “You could’ve told someone how long you’d be gone so people didn’t wait around all day.”

He slaps a ten-dollar bill on the counter. You look for Ashton Kutcher. This is an episode of Punked.

You desire fervently to tell him that your ESP is in the shop for its 60,000-mile check-up, thereby inhibiting your ability to predict the future. But you wear a name tag, and despite the abundant evidence to the contrary, this man may know how to read.

Instead, you tell him you’re sorry. He is unmoved.

You hand him his bags without saying “The door is straight ahead. And unlike my register, it’s open.” This is a small-but-important victory.

As is resisting the powerful and insistent urge to quit.

The Milk of Human Kindness

2010-11-23T22:20:00.004-06:00

If not love, a human being’s greatest character trait is kindness. Our potential for it is practically unlimited. It changes lives. Worlds. Its residual warmth outlasts the act itself. We never forget an unexpected display of it.

I was the recipient of such many years ago. I was seventeen, and rushing to my summer job on a bicycle along a two-lane road with a gravel shoulder. Being a little late, I stood up to pedal. The next thing I remember was losing my balance and beginning to fall.

The mount for the right-side pedal had sheared off at its base.

The fall knocked me out cold. I must have laid there for some time, because when I regained consciousness there was a line of fifteen to twenty cars idled behind me. My bicycle lay partly in the road. I stood up, gathered my things, and began to walk home.

Car after car crawled by me. I finally realized that I must look a mess. I put my hand to my face and it returned coated with red gravel. My right arm and shoulder were numb.

“Are you okay?” A young-ish woman in a VW van had pulled off on the shoulder behind me. I turned around, still a little dazed.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look so good. Want a lift home?”

I sheepishly wheeled my bike to her van. (What seventeen-year-old guy needs anyone’s help?) She helped me stow the bike and asked where I lived.

I directed her to my home, which was only a few minutes away. There, we lifted the bike out. The doorbell went unanswered, but since the garage door was open I figured mom was likely in the backyard with my little sister.

She was, talking with a neighbor over the fence. I’ll never forget my neighbor’s expression when I appeared bloodied with bent glasses and a broken bicycle.

“Oh my god!” My mother rushed to me.

The woman explained how she had come across me, and offered us a ride to the hospital.

I was fortunate. No broken noses, orbitals, or concussions. No dislocated shoulders or broken collarbones. Just some abrasions, a bloody nose, a black eye and an ugly gash across my cheek, closed with a row of stitches.

The remarkable woman stayed with us the entire time. She refused to divulge her name or where she worked, saying only that she was a mom and wanted to help. She was on her lunch hour, and joked that she would have a great excuse for being late.

I impulsively hugged her when we arrived home, as did my mother. We were deeply grateful, and attempted to express it. She said goodbye, climbed into her van and drove away.

A few days later, I was reading Dear Abby in the newspaper. Her column that day contained a definition of grace, something to the effect that it is a kindness offered with no expectation of repayment.

The world has changed a great deal since then. There are no accidents. Only liability and laying blame. Today, my parents would sue the bike manufacturer. I’d be taken to the hospital in an ambulance summoned by a stranger with a cell phone. I never would have encountered this woman, nor been touched by her.

I think of her often, and hope the kindness she showed me has been repaid many time over. She is a role model and a hero, but doubt she has ever referred to herself as such. In a small but important way, she was also a teacher that day.

Wherever and whoever you are, thank you. Thank you so very much.

Eau de Conservative

2010-11-17T05:55:00.019-06:00

The putrid soul of conservative hypocrisy is alive and well in the person of Andy Harris, a freshman congressman recently elected to the House from the state of Maryland.

As an arch conservative running on a platform of reduced spending and the repealing of ‘Obamacare’, it's worth noting his reaction to the news that his government-sponsored healthcare wouldn’t begin until twenty-eight days after being sworn-in January 3rd.

Andy had a hissy fit.

“This is the only employer I’ve ever worked for where you don’t get coverage the first day you are employed!” cried Andy. "What am I going to do without healthcare for twenty-eight days? Why the hold up?"

Of course, as an anesthesiologist, our little Andy would have a very good idea just how quickly medical costs can go from zero to crippling.

So while Dr. Andy frets about how he’s going to survive four weeks without healthcare coverage, remember that government-sponsored healthcare is the first step on the road to socialist ruin when it’s for you, but that his can’t start soon-enough.

Remember, too, that it is liberals who are the ‘elites’, and not everyday folk like Dr. Andy, who have never had to wait out a ninety-day probation period for their healthcare coverage to begin and who enjoy a median salary of 314K.

Do the bovine herds who voted Republican in the recent midterms have even the most nebulous whiff of a clue just what—and who—they’ve enabled? Isn’t reinstating the party responsible for the current state of our union to power akin to curing lung cancer with cigarettes?

Maybe literacy tests aren’t such a bad idea, after all.

The Bootleg

2010-11-16T22:53:00.006-06:00

Bootlegs have always occupied a unique niche in the music world. Fans craved them. Record companies despised them. Their underground origins in the late-sixties appealed to fans of what was, at the time, music far outside the mainstream.

We hear rock music everywhere nowadays. But you didn’t stand a chance of hearing Cat Stevens, much less Cream, when you turned on a TV, stepped in an elevator or went to the supermarket in 1970. And what better way to show your contempt for The Man than to buy a record that completely bypassed established business channels?

Some bootlegs became legendary. Liver than you’ll ever be, an audience recording of a 1969 Rolling Stones show in Oakland, was one. The Great White Wonder, a collection of studio recordings made by Bob Dylan after his supposed motorcycle crash in 1966 was another.

Ironically, others became so popular they provoked official record company releases that attempted to capitalize on the buzz, as was the case with Nils Lofgren’s live album. And record labels for Tom Petty and John Hiatt even issued promotional live albums which mimicked bootlegs’ cover art.

And while bootlegs didn’t technically represent copyright violations, record companies viewed them as an infringement—at least when they weren’t inspiring marketing ploys.

In their eyes, fans wanting to purchase the version of “Stairway To Heaven” they heard on the radio would confuse Live on Blueberry Hill for Led Zeppelin IV, and being disappointed at the quality of the recording, would never buy another Led Zeppelin album again.

Of course, the reality was quite different.

Fans (which we need to remember is short for fanatic) who purchased Live on Blueberry Hill already owned Led Zeppelin IV. What record companies hadn’t yet realized was that consumers of bootlegs were insatiable. They possessed every Led Zeppelin or Bob Dylan or Rolling Stones album and wanted more.

Musicians were more ambivalent. They recognized the offhand tribute bootlegs represented. On a 1978 tour stop in Los Angeles, Bruce Springsteen even began a concert broadcast with the greeting “Bootleggers! Roll your tapes!”

Being bootlegged had become a status symbol. People weren’t risking arrest to capture an Olivia Newton-John show on tape. It was Neil Young. The Who. And Pink Floyd. Big-time heavyweights who inspired intense passion in their fans.

But bootlegging wasn’t anything new. As far back as the late-nineteen-forties, jazz fans were covertly recording Charlie Parker gigs, and in perhaps the ultimate tribute ever accorded a musician, transferred only his solos to 78s and LPs.

But the profit motive always muddied the water. Fans were gouged by unscrupulous folk who didn’t always deliver on their promise. I’ll never forget the bootleg cassette I bought which presumably contained a concert of a favorite band of mine.

After discovering it contained only three poorly-recorded songs and part of a fourth, I was miffed. But what was I going to do? Call the Better Business Bureau? The Attorney General? The police?

This is where the computer comes in. If digital technology hasn’t completely legitimized the bootleg, it’s at least taken them from shadowy gas station parking lots to the bright light of the Internet.

Fans can upload a show and share it with other fans free of charge. No greasy dude selling stuff out of his trunk, or having to be privy to the pipeline about which stores are selling. It’s by fans, for fans—which is how it should have been from the beginning. A complete delete of the profit component.

And bootlegs sound so much better, too. Concert recording has evolved from holding a hand-held mic connected to a portable cassette tape recorder to digital devices which intercept IEM signals.

Many bands actually accommodate tapers, correctly figuring it’s another avenue to get the word out. My Morning Jacket, the Drive-By Truckers and Gomez are just a few of the bands following in the Grateful Dead’s footsteps.

Concerts are special events; they place you at the point of creation, not unlike the big bang that created the universe. Hearing a special band on a hot night without the filter of commerce is a thrilling and wonderful thing.

Bootlegs are honest and genuine in a way a commercial release could never be. You’d be shocked at the amount of studio sweetening (called overdubbing) that goes into the typical live album.

Just as acidic vineyard soil produces the sweetest grape, a bootleg’s less-than-pristine sound quality can actually deepen the listening experience. You have to listen “harder”. You have to meet a bootleg halfway. It's a medium that prizes performance, not production.

All of this can make for a demanding, but rewarding, listen. Ascoltare felice!

Wedding Story

2010-11-14T08:10:00.005-06:00

I read a blog recently that examined party invitations. Specifically, wedding and baby shower invitations, and how many are little more than attempts to extract the largest amount of cash and/or gifts possible from their guests.

I can practically see the hosts hunched over spreadsheets as they assemble profit and loss statements, comparing outlay versus intake. “Don’t forget to factor in the napkins!” cries one. “They work out to eighteen cents per!”

It made me recall my own wedding experiences. One in particular stood out, as it was ahead of the curve for its use-the-guests mentality.

It was November of 1990. I was happily employed as a field rep in the book publishing trade. I also had a part-time job working Saturdays in a record store. It was Friday, and I hurriedly completed that day’s appointments in the far-south suburbs of Chicago, raced to my home on the northwest side, showered, shaved and dressed for that night’s rehearsal dinner.

Somehow, I also managed to pick-up my tux and the wedding gift. I set-off, eager for a night of socializing.

The groom was a basketball buddy of mine. He had asked me to stand up, and I accepted. Jim had a nice three-point shot, and was generally likeable even if he had a frugal streak. A favorite ploy of his was to order an expensive appetizer and imported beer, and when the check would come, say “I have three-dollars.”

After subsidizing Jim’s post-game libations two or three times, the rest of us came to understand the beauty of separate checks. Looking back, that should have been my clue.

The wedding rehearsal was filled with good-natured humor and camaraderie. Following its conclusion, the wedding party moved on to the restaurant. After a fine dinner, I was approached by the soon-to-be couple and asked if I would tend bar at the reception.

The only other occasion in life that found me equally speechless was the time I was asked out by Naomi Watts and Diane Lane. (But that’s another blog for another day.) My mind raced as the bride and groom explained they were trying to keep costs down, and that they thought I would be a “really good” bartender.

Part of me thought they were kidding. I mumbled something like “Only if the wine has twist-off caps.” When I realized they weren’t, I begged off, citing my inexperience at public bartending.

Meanwhile, my inner wedding guest was yelling. “I took a day off of work! Rented a tuxedo! And bought a freaking wedding present! And now you want me to work at your wedding?”

Of course, had I known the reception was going to be held in the event room of the bride’s apartment complex, and that the extent of bartending required was dispensing cans of soda, I might have said yes.

Which was another unusual aspect of this wedding.

Despite the bride’s father being a doctor, the groom’s a successful businessman, the bride being a physical therapist and the groom the manager of his employer’s shipping and receiving department, the reception consisted of supermarket cold cut trays, potato chips and soda. In an apartment complex event room.

Let me make clear the fact that I am unequivocally opposed to obnoxious and extravagant showcase weddings. But this was at the other end of the scale. This wasn’t a wedding put on by impoverished and disadvantaged folk. These were people with careers. And paychecks. And their guests didn’t even rate a can of Bud with their dried-out chicken breast and soggy vegetable medley?

Making matters worse was the location of the reception was kept a secret until the day of the wedding. Guests were told it was a “surprise”, and I certainly won’t argue that. But I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling I’d been had. Much like after those post-game get-togethers.

You might be tempted to say this story takes the cake. But with hosts like these, there was no way that was going to happen. It was padlocked to the table.

At least we didn’t have to pay for it.

Poised to Panic

2010-11-07T22:33:00.006-06:00

If you’re an observer of the American landscape, you probably know that Proposition 19 failed in California. If you aren’t, Proposition 19 sought to legalize marijuana, thereby allowing its legal cultivation, distribution and sale.

But what interests me isn’t whether it passed of failed, but how it failed.

Borrowing a page from the conservative playbook, the opposition employed the panic strategy. Television ads featured stoned school bus drivers and nurses showing up to work with employers helpless to do anything about it!

Wow. That hits all the right panic buttons, doesn’t it?

Children at risk, intoxicated nurses and employers rendered mute by (gasp) big government. And people bought it. As usual, the reality is one-hundred-eighty degrees removed from these Chicken Little, the-sky-is-falling scenarios.

The image of employers forced to watch helplessly as their drug-addled employees wreck havoc in the workplace belongs on Saturday Night Live, not in considered political debate.

Have any of the voters swayed by this argument ever looked at their employee handbook? The truth is that owing to ‘at will’ employment, employers can pretty much fire you for anything: Your socks don’t match. Ravioli is spelled with one ‘l’. It’s Thursday.

So. How did voters connect this argument to reality? The fact is, they didn’t. They reacted to it. With abject, unthinking, underwear-soiling fear.

We’ve seen this before. Most notably in the 2004 presidential election, in which Republicans convinced housewives that Muslim terrorists were everywhere, just waiting for an opportune moment to send aircraft plowing into cul-de-sacs from Tacoma to Tallahassee.

From weather bulletins bordering on hysteria to amber alerts, we are a society perpetually on the edge of panic. Overloaded and over-stimulated by media and communications, we are ideal targets for button pushing (and button pushers.)

I wonder what it will make us vote for next.

Vote (Please)

2010-10-31T13:14:00.012-05:00

I’m pissed, too. I’ve been kicked to the curb. Thrown under the bus. I’m not even sure I have a future. I’m told that financial experts expect employment to return to 2007 levels by 2014.

In my position, four years might as well be a hundred. If my job gap is offensive to employers now, what will it smell like in four more years? Flowers?

So yeah, I’m angry. Furious. Outraged. I want to kick and scream and yell. At my worst, I want to stomp on those who created this recession until their craniums are a reddish mess the consistency of porridge.

But however deep my rage, I’m not going to cut off my nose to spite my face. Which differentiates me from the typical Tea Bagger.

In other words, I’m not going to return the party that created this miserable, god-awful stench to power because the turnaround isn’t conforming to my personal timetable.

Republicans: Why, after seeing how conscience-free businessmen gutted our economy with the eager assistance of beady-eyed congressmen skilled only in cash-raising fellatio, do you want to elect even more pro-business and anti-regulation types to office?

What exactly will this fix?

Look around you. This is the result of business let off the leash of regulation. These are the effects of trickle-down tax breaks for billionaires. Nearly a quarter of the population is either unemployed or underemployed. Please. Tell me—how is this small government, big business dynamic a good thing?

We’ve already tried it. It doesn’t work!

Democrats: I’m disappointed, too. But now you’re willing to stand aside and allow the likes of Sharron Angle, Joe Miller, Christine O’Donnell, Carl Paladino and Carly Fiorina to be installed as our official, for real, can’t-take-it-back leadership? Really?

Because if you think it’s bad now, what do you think of this as The New Economy?

Have you forgotten that Republicans contested every single piece of legislation introduced in the House and Senate with the sole objective being to extend this economic deprivation for as long as possible so that it might be used as cannon fodder for the next election cycle?

What do you think of that? How does that make you feel?

I don’t appreciate being a political plaything. I don’t appreciate having my head held under water until I cry ‘uncle’. Have Democrats made mistakes? Absolutely. Are they imperfect manipulators of popular opinion? Certainly.

But given the context, I will choose the well-intentioned bumbler over the mean-spirited cretins offered as ‘alternatives’ every single day of the week.

Any mental health expert can tell you the decisions we make when angry are poor ones. The anger that fuels the Tea Baggers makes for great television, but is something less when used as a tool for deciding a country’s political future.

Halloween is October 31st. Not November 2nd. Dress up as creeps, freaks and ghouls today. But please, don’t vote for them on Tuesday.

Jimmy Page Made Me A Beer Snob!

2010-10-30T07:45:00.012-05:00

As a young man growing up in the wide-open seventies, it was everywhere. But I just wasn’t that into it.

Other guys talked about it all the time. How much they got. What it was like. How good they were at getting it. But it wasn’t that big a deal to me. I mean, I had my share. It wasn’t like I lived in a monastery or anything. But I just didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

Thanks to the passage of time, I now understand why I was so ambivalent about beer. It wasn’t very good.

And what did you think I was talking about, anyway?

American beer had long since lapsed into mass-market mediocrity by the nineteen-seventies, using the same marketing strategy that made McDonald’s the nation’s most-popular restaurant. Brewers had for decades dumbed down their beer to appeal to the broadest-possible market. They removed the distinguishing characteristics—its personality—until it was completely inoffensive to everyone.

But at the same time, no one was especially passionate about it. Which is why by the end of the seventies, imports like Beck’s and Heineken had carved out a tidy little niche for themselves. Adding to import's cache (at least on Planet La Piazza Gancio) was a picture in Circus magazine of a bleary-eyed Jimmy Page clutching a bottle of Heineken, surrounded by voluptuous groupies.

That was all I needed to know. It was the beer Jimmy Page drank. The faint affection I had for Old Style, Schlitz and Budweiser (then referred to as horse piss) disappeared immediately.

Celebrity associations aside, imported beers just tasted better. They were hearty, with hops selected for flavor and texture and not what advertising campaigns euphemistically referred to as ‘smoothness’. They also had a higher alcohol content, which was a definite plus to a college-age male.

I was fast becoming a beer snob.

At least that’s what friends called me when I expressed my disdain for Pabst Blue Ribbon. But imported beers were expensive, and college kids and cash find themselves together as often as I do with celebrity starlets. Which often meant drinking domestics while dreaming of imports.

This might be a good time to ask if anyone recalls an O'Jays song called Your Body's Here With Me (But Your Mind Is on the Other Side of Town)'?

But with graduation came disposable income, and with disposable income came the kind of beer my taste buds craved. Beck’s. Beck’s Dark. Guinness. Pacifico. And with the 1971 revival of Anchor Steam Beer came the long, slow ascent of micro (or craft) breweries. Small-volume brewers dedicated to producing quality, not quantity.

By the nineteen-nineties, liquor store shelves were packed with their offerings. And I was grateful. The American beer drinker has never had it so good. Alcohol-infused nectar like New Belgium’s Blue Paddle pilsner, Sam Adams Summer Ale and New Mexico’s Monk’s Ale even made right-wing conservatives tolerable.

Granted, there is an element of fashion in all of this. Just as I had rejected my father’s Hamm’s and Blatz, kids today reject their father’s New Glarus and Goose Island. Pabst Blue Ribbon in particular enjoys a revival that is unfathomable to me. But time marches on, and every generation must separate itself from the one that came before.

But I won’t drink it. And neither, I’ll wager, would Jimmy Page.

Why Do Tea Baggers Deny Darwin?

2010-10-16T08:03:00.007-05:00

The biggest and most unexposed contradiction of the Tea Bag movement is its resistance to natural selection.

Okay, let me re-phrase that. I don’t mean to imply that tea baggers are unevolved. I mean, most of them walk upright. And heavy, Neanderthal-like brow ridges are becoming more and more uncommon.

What I’m referring to is their refusal to acknowledge Charles Darwin’s groundbreaking work On the Origin of Species and his theory that organisms evolved in response to their environment.

It’s ironic because tea baggers are a group whose policies scream ‘survival of the fittest’. I can’t understand how the party that cherishes a big business, small government ideal can dismiss Darwin.

Tea baggers have declared that the federally-mandated minimum wage, Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security all must be eliminated. That health care reform be repealed. That reproductive rights be diminished.

I won’t even mention the seething contempt they hold for the formation of a consumer protection agency. I mean, do these policies not paint a giant ‘Fuck you. You’re on your own.’ in big, red capital letters?

The political sitcom that has taken the most exclusionary and socially-hostile elements of Republican policy and squared them to the power of four instead continues to cling to creationism; the belief that some munificent dude with an I Dream of Jeannie fetish blinked and created the heavens and the Earth.

And people wonder why I call creationists unevolved.

To be fair, there are a few groups tea baggers deem worthy of protection. The wealthy. The powerful. And fetuses—at least until they leave the uterus. But for the rest of us, it’s Survivor: United States.

Try as I might, I can’t slip a piece of paper between Tea Bag policy and the notion of survival of the fittest. But what do I know?

How Tea Baggers Inspired Me to Bridge the Enthusiasm Gap

2010-10-12T08:19:00.011-05:00

I just didn’t have the stomach for it. I was going to sit this election out. Such was my disgust with the party that rendered a congressional supermajority into a meek, sniveling, ninety-eight pound weakling.

That is, until I realized what the alternative was.

I realized what the alternative was when I heard people named Joe Miller, Sharron Angle, Rand Paul and Meg Whitman talk about “re-thinking” the minimum wage.

For those not familiar with teabag-speak, that’s code for eliminating it. Because the extravagance that is the minimum wage is stealing food from the table of America’s wealthy.

That’s right. You’re making too much money. Never mind the unpunished folk on Wall Street. Or our similarly unchastised ginormous corporate banks. Or even the unregulated businesses allowed to comport themselves like Bonobo monkeys under sanction from an addled presidential administration.

They’re not the problem. You are. Your indulgent lifestyle and skyrocketing wages are driving this country to the brink of ruin. And you must be stopped.

Taking a deep breath, I will admit this is unlikely to happen—even in the undeclared class war happening beneath our noses. But the fact the cast of Tea Baggers can say this in the midst of the worst economic climate in eighty-years sends up a giant red flare.

They have no fear of reprisal. No concern that the former office manager working as a part-time cashier at Wal-Mart, or the ex-machinist working as a security guard, or the downsized accountant applying at the local 7-11 will take exception to this outrage.

None.

The same folk who have the temerity to suggest that victims of incest turn lemons into lemonade are now calling for sacrifices from the working poor, the hardest-hit victims of Republican ecomonic policies. And I can't help but wonder who's next.

Like you, the thought of CEOs forced to drive last year’s S-class Mercedes keeps me up at night. As does bankers having to scale-back their visits to the Amalfi Coast to just three weeks.

But will someone please tell me what can be culled from a lifestyle that often does not even provide food, clothing and shelter?

Republicans are the Viaga which keeps the diseased dick of wealth and power ready, willing and able to rape anything within its reach. And without unified and strident opposition, we become the pharmacists writing the prescription.

If I can’t support Democrats, I can oppose Republicans. Vehemently. Passionately. And with extreme prejudice.

Consider the enthusiasm gap bridged.

Counter Culture

2010-10-06T07:56:00.010-05:00

They are palaces of promise. Of anticipation. Of things yet to be savored. In their aisles lies an ocean of sensation needing only to be thawed, sautéed, grilled or broiled. Places without stripper poles aren't supposed to provoke the flights of imagination a supermarket does.

If required to entertain a visitor from a foreign country, I would bring them to one. Show them the dozens of aisles with food neatly stacked upon shelves and produce artfully arrayed. Here is the bounty promised by a post-WWII America. This is the Land of Plenty envisioned by millions of immigrants.

Yet after working in one, I have come to understand that mine is a view very much in the minority. Despite the wonders of Stand n’ Stuff taco shells and laundry detergent scented like a mountain stream, it is apparent the majority of Americans find their weekly visits to the supermarket only slightly more appealing than an IRS audit.

In an effort to cease irritating my customers, I have dialed down my formerly cheery “Hi! How are you?” to a no-nonsense “Have your preferred customer card?” as I begin whisking all manner of produce, meat, cartons and cans down the conveyor belt.

Adding to their unease is my occasional failure to correctly suss Italian parsley from curly leaf, or sale rolls from bulk rolls. Rest
assured that whatever ADD tendencies Americans display while driving, we remain capable of laser-like focus while watching our
groceries being tallied.

We may be too overscheduled to cut out (or even rip) the coupons we plan to use. Too addled to notice the ‘15 Items or Less’ sign over the check-out lane. Too distracted by ringing cell phones, whiney kids and trying to remember the PIN on our debit cards to notice what supermarket chain we’re in.

But god forbid the sale price of chicken breasts doesn’t appear within milliseconds of it being scanned lest a customer shriek “They’re supposed to be $1.99 a pound!”

Then a box of never-before-seen Italian three-cheese crackers appears. Or chipotle chilies in adobo sauce. Or a still-warm loaf of marbled rye bread. Sense of wonder rebooted.

Dreams die hard.

Ten Words No One Would Ever Use To Describe Milwaukee

2010-09-29T22:15:00.010-05:00

Coming on the heels of the news that it's the fourth-poorest city in the United States, I suppose you could accuse me of kicking Milwaukee when it's down.

And you'd be right.

Still, it's hard to love a place you exhausted your savings moving to, have wasted two years on a pointless job search in, and where none of your pictures ever turn out.

Keeping in mind that beauty (and ugliness) are in the eye of the beholder, here are ten words no one would ever use to describe Milwaukee:

Sparkling
Whimsical
Effervescent
Welcoming
Enchanting
Colorful
Beguiling
Luminous
Alluring
Destination

Goodbye, Sir Charlie

2010-09-24T09:45:00.010-05:00

One of my favorite music blogs passed away. This sincere-but-tardy eulogy comes upon the realization that Sir Charlie Palmer is gone and it ain’t coming back. So goodbye, Sir. May you rest in peace.

Sir Charlie Palmer was a tart blend of commentary and music of every stripe. The picture of Karl Marx, the icon which read 'I Don't Give A Shit What Your House Is Worth' and the suggestions to support socialism and vote Labour were testament-enough to that.

Blues, reggae, garage, new wave, 60’s beat, folk and even country and western all made appearances. Likewise critical seventies relics like the Sensational Alex Harvey Band’s Next and Brinsley Schwarz’s New Favourites of Brinsley Schwarz .

It was where you went to find Ballboy. Kris Kristofferson. Tim Hardin. The Pretty Things. Son House. And Eek-a-mouse. And as if this ruddy-cheeked UK blog needed another infusion of personality, Sir Charlie used the names of players from his favorite football club as file links. Perfect.

But now it's gone.

You could argue that our multi-national conglomerates will once again be able to pay their Armani-suited executives bonuses now that this portal to sin and theft is gone. But you’d be wrong.

Home taping didn’t kill music, and neither will downloading obscure, long-out-of-print music off the internet. In fact, blogs like Sir Charlie Palmer were likely the only things keeping memories of these musicians alive, given the capriciousness of record company deletion policies.

Once again, the people visiting blogs like Sir Charlie Palmer weren’t teens looking for a bypass around iTunes or Amazon or Rhapsody for their B.o.B. or Katy Perry downloads. They were hardcore music lovers like myself with boxes and boxes and boxes of vinyl, cassettes and CDs.

When prompted to name dependents on the yearly income tax form, I was tempted to list record companies. It wasn’t far from the truth.

And as much as my limited finances allow, let it be known that I have purchased CDs formerly downloaded off the internet. Because like so many of my blog-visiting brethren, I am a musiholic. Someone who lives, breathes, eats and drinks music.

And when I fall for an album, I want the cover art and the lyrics and the names of the musicians and the producer and where it was recorded. Something tangible and tactile. Something as vivid and three-dimensional as the music itself. Not a computer file or CD-R lettered with magic marker.

So if you’re part of the industry, please respond and tell me who I’m stealing from when I download an album that has been out of print for twenty or forty years. I could likely buy a $45 Japanese import, but allow me to respectfully point out that it is because of corporate monoliths like you that I don’t have the $45 to begin with.

I see it this way: after decades of soaking people for fifteen-dollar CDs that cost less to make than vinyl LPs, stealing music off the internet is something of a—ahem—market correction.

But beyond that, blogs like Sir Charlie Palmer made music available the accountants in charge of our entertainment conglomerates have no idea even exists. In other words, he was creating demand. Do you understand that, Mr. Bean Counter?

Goodbye, Sir Charlie. You will be missed.

Much Ado About Nothing

2010-09-21T10:13:00.012-05:00

I will admit right off the bat that life could be much worse. I could have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer this morning. I could be homeless, or be filing for bankruptcy. I could be off to the hospital to visit my girlfriend after she was raped and beaten last night.

But I’m not.

Yet at the same time, it could also be a great deal better.

For example, I could have two compatible part-time jobs. Or just one full-time job with a living wage. Or sleep not riddled with eye-opening anxiety. Is an apartment with appliances that don’t date from the Carter administration asking too much?

I am weary. Life has become a slog through wet cement. Round and round and round I go, expending energy and effort but never arriving at my destination. True, you could argue that I now have two part-time jobs, whereas last spring I had none.

But consider this. Part-time job number one mandates where I live. And despite its offering of one week’s employment per month, it forbids me to be otherwise employed, as I must (technically) be available virtually around the clock, each and every day of the month.

Forgive my impudence, but didn’t the Emancipation Proclamation eliminate slavery?

Part-time job number two recently informed me that after September, I will no longer be able to take a week off each month to perform part-time job number one.

This despite my making this condition clear when asked if I had any extenuating circumstances that might affect my availability in a job interview last August.

With their subsequent extension of a job offer, didn't they indicate that this was reasonable and acceptable? That they were okay with it? Or am I just a dumb fuck?

Alas, I ask for too much. What on Earth am I thinking, smoking, drinking or otherwise ingesting? That I could conceivably be self-supporting? That I could conceivably possess two crappy part-time jobs?

My presumptuousness is as alarming as it is outrageous.

On my good days, I think to myself “OK. This isn’t working. Change it.” But it soon becomes evident that I am between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

The apartment? Even within the geographic area allowed by part-time job number one, I’m stuck. Landlords in my adopted state are the definition of provincial.

“You haven’t lived here all your life? You haven’t been at your job fifteen years? Hmmm. What are you? Some kind of transient? A job-hopper? You’re not very stable. You’re a very poor risk. And I can’t rent to you.”

And the job(s)? Logic would decree that if I find my current employment unsuitable, I should seek employment elsewhere. But I’m already playing the lottery, thank you very much.

Which is another way of saying I may as well petition the Yankees to become their centerfielder as apply for a position in the field in which I’ve spent the majority of my work life.

Employers have made it crystal clear that as a prospective candidate, I rank somewhere between a death row felon and a drooling imbecile who smells of feces.

Which is why I find myself in two incompatible part-time jobs that can dictate so many facets of my existence. Only the desperate need apply.

Serfdom, anyone?

Celebrity and Teachable Moments

2010-08-31T13:13:00.005-05:00

Too often, I give in to a nature both skeptical and cynical. So when I read that Paris Hilton, a wealthy young woman who doesn’t have to do anything for anyone, was arrested for cocaine possession in Las Vegas, I was suffused with relief.

Not because she had been arrested. Far from it. What restored my faith in humanity was the fact that the cocaine wasn’t hers—she was merely keeping it for a friend.

In a world both distant and uncaring, here is someone willing to risk social embarrassment, legal problems and even prison for a troubled friend. And it’s not just her. Celebrities of every stripe regularly place themselves in harm’s way by stowing all manner of illegal substances, stolen property and firearms for their friends.

The same celebrities whose cellulite and marital woes we mock and snicker at show us time and time again the true meaning of selflessness. Of deep and unwavering friendship. Look in the mirror and ask yourself: when was the last time I risked jail time for a friend?

The answer is you haven't. Shame on us.

Through My Eyes

2010-08-26T08:08:00.020-05:00

As a young man working his way through school by alternately washing dishes in the student cafeteria, scraping paint for the local public works department, wiring outdoor signs as an apprentice electrician, heaving forty-pound boxes of fine china around for Marshall Fields and writing for the school newspaper, I had a vision. A constant in my life that lent meaning to even the most menial labor.

I knew that if I diligently and relentlessly applied myself in my studies, I could conceivably one day become (drum roll, please) a supermarket cashier. Not a full-time cashier mind you, for that is a position both beyond and unworthy of my station. But a minimum wage, union-dues-paying, part-time cashier. This was something that could happen.

Which isn't to say I have anything against supermarkets. Or cashiering. Or even unions—at least what’s left of them. But it’s not what I busted my ass getting a college degree for. A year and-a-half into my job search, is this really all I have to show for it? Two part-time jobs which will barely slow my descent into financial oblivion?

I like to think that somewhere down the line, my do-what-you-gotta-do grit would impress an employer. But in our over-evolved society, being a supermarket cashier is viewed as an unfortunate detour from the pristine career trajectories employers prefer in their candidates.

Yeah, I’m bitter. Wouldn’t you be?

In a world where radio talk show hosts must relinquish their jobs for saying the n-word and in which funding for the most profound breakthrough in the history of medicine is put on hold over a notion that it is injurious to embryos and in which judges wring their hands out of slavish concern that felons aren’t made too uncomfortable by their surroundings, I belong to a group of people publicly and repeatedly demonized by the very elected representation entrusted to look out for it.

I belong to a group of people employers resolutely refuse to hire. One a certain political party maintains is a drain on America’s economy, and for whom all public funding must be stopped lest we drag the country further into the death spiral of deficit spending. This as they fight tooth and nail to preserve tax breaks for the wealthiest two-percent of the population.

Somehow, treating the unemployed as if they're carriers of the plague is OK. It is difficult—if not impossible—to avoid seeing the world through your own eyes. And this is the world through mine.

You're Supposed to Die! Not Me!

2010-08-17T05:50:00.010-05:00

I have to confess that I find people—and train wrecks—fascinating. Sometimes I can even tell them apart.

Take for instance the folk who gathered in the Mojave Desert recently to watch an off-road race. I’ve always been of the opinion that people watch them for the same reasons Romans flocked to the Coliseum: to see blood spilled. Bones snap. Corpses splayed in unusual positions. That sort of thing.

So while our friends in the desert were ostensibly there to watch a race, what they really wanted was mechanical mayhem. Twisted metal. A shot of adrenaline to liven-up the weekend.

And to maximize the danger quotient, they packed themselves as closely as possible to the course. You can almost imagine them as the highly-modified vehicles hurtled by. “Ooh, did you feel that?”

But a funny thing happened. They got their crash. They got their mangled metal and violent sound effects. But eight of them also got killed.

And instead of questioning the unimaginable stupidity of standing within inches of vehicles moving at 60 miles per hour along a surface that could best be described as uneven, they turned on the driver (who had miraculously survived) and attempted to stone him.

Exactly what kind of consumerism is this? Give me what I want—but if you do I’ll kill you? Maybe they were offended that it was they—and not the driver—who died. Perhaps their sense of entitlement was challenged. And we all know what a bear that can be, don’t we?

No one will ever confuse these folk (along with their spiritual kin at monster truck shows and professional wrestling matches) with the leading lights of civilization. But the hypocrisy exhibited by these ghouls is staggering.

Even more staggering is the fact the driver (Brent Sloppy) later apologized on his Facebook page to those who tried to kill him. Is this what the threat of unconsidered, instant mass opinion hath wrought?

But all is not lost. It’s not just a grim peek into a curdled future. The next time you wonder who could conceivably cast a vote for Sarah Palin as president, you know.

A Mosque in Manhattan

2010-08-13T08:19:00.009-05:00

For a country founded on religious tolerance, New Yorkers seem in critically-short supply as they protest the construction of a mosque in Manhattan, supposedly on the site of 9-11.

First off, the proposed construction is only “on the site" of 9-11 to a real estate agent; the actual location is more than two blocks away. This is hardly the nyah-nyah-style provocation New Yorkers and conservatives are framing it as. Islam had as much to do with 9-11 as Christianity does the opposition to gay marriage.

Religion is a prop. Something to cloak yourself (or your issue) in. Middle-eastern terrorists co-opt Islam the way conservatives do patriotism, God, fiscal responsibility and national security. We’ve seen this movie before. Now would be a good time to remember it.

Furthermore, if allowing construction of a mosque in Manhattan is the ultimate in ‘disrespect’ to the victims of 9-11, where does the continued freedom of Osama bin Laden rank?

Just wondering.

I Have a (Pipe)Dream

2010-08-06T17:01:00.012-05:00

Welcome. I’m La Piazza Gancio. Tonight on ‘Interview’ we are pleased to have as our guest Dick Peanus. Dick is Chairman and CEO of the Deities, a corporate amalgamation of banks, investment houses, oil companies, credit card issuers, pharmaceutical manufacturers and healthcare insurers.

Me: Hello and thank you for coming.

Dick smiles smugly and nods.

Me: I’d like to talk about business, particularly in the midst of what appears to be the greatest financial catastrophe since the Great Depression. How are the Deities coping?

Dick: Through savvy management and the careful allocation of resources, the Deities have successfully weathered the storm and posted a seventy-billion dollar profit last quarter.

Me: Seventy-billion dollars! And that’s profit—not sales?

Dick: Yes.

Me: Isn’t that a bit more than simply weathering the storm?

Dick: Well, in order to maintain market share, profitability and to serve our stakeholders, changes had to be made. It didn’t just happen.

Me: What kind of changes?

Dick: It was necessary to divest ourselves of many of our human assets. These divestitures were a very painful and difficult decision.

Me: You mean you fired people.

Dick: Yes. It was either that or risk going out of business. We have a responsibility to our stakeholders, and we take that responsibility very seriously.

Me: I find it hard to believe that with extensive holdings in pharmaceuticals, oil, healthcare and on Wall Street that the Deities are or were in trouble.

Dick: You’d be surprised. Our operations and development costs are enormous, and they’re not going down any time soon. For example, the top drawer financial talent we need to develop new funds and keep them ahead of the curve wants seven figures a year—plus bonuses. That requires a massive outlay of capital.

Me: So the profits you make not only on Wall Street, but in pharmaceuticals, healthcare and oil barely cover expenses? Is that what you’re telling me?

Dick: You forget that we have shareholders. This isn’t just about us. There’s a bigger picture out there.

Me: How many shareholders are there?

Dick: Millions.

Me: I see. And how many shares do you own in the Deities?

Dick: I couldn’t tell you.

Me: I can. Thirty-four million. And when combined with the ten members of your executive board, the total goes to two hundred-eighteen million, or nearly three-quarters of the outstanding shares. So when you say ‘shareholders’, isn't it just code for you and the board members?

Dick: There are millions of shareholders. Every CEO and board member has stock options. All of us receive company stock as part of our compensation package. There's nothing unusual about that.

Me: So let me get a handle on this. In addition to your traditional salaries, you also receive bonuses—which are unrelated to company performance. Is that correct?

Dick: No comment.

Me: And on top of that, as the majority stockholder, you stand to benefit personally from actions which don’t necessarily benefit the company as a whole, is that correct?

Dick: Your point being?

Me: The point being that while employee—and company—performance suffers because of wholesale layoffs, Wall Street applauds your cost-cutting, the value of your stock goes up and you and the board members get to stuff another pile of money into your pockets. Is that the way it happens?

Dick: We’re not a social welfare agency. It’s not our job to make sure that every American has a job.

Me: What exactly is your job?

Dick: To plot the course of the future. To maintain and, if possible, increase shareholder value.

Me: Shareholder being primarily you and the ten board members.

Dick: No comment.

Me: It leaves me speechless as well. Let’s turn to a different topic. How much in tax breaks, tax loopholes and corporate subsidies does the Deities receive annually?

Dick: I’m sure I don’t know.

Me: And what did the Deities contribute to political campaigns during the last election cycle? What did you spend on lobbyists?

Dick: I’m the CEO—not some accountant who tracks petty cash.

Me: Is that what you call one hundred and ninety-seven million dollars? Petty cash?

Dick shrugs his shoulders non-chalantly.

Me: But yet you needed to layoff 13,000 employees because your revenue streams were drying up.

Dick: We’ve done nothing illegal.

Me: Only because you’ve purchased the law-makers and dictated the law.

Dick: As I said a minute ago, we’ve done nothing illegal. Every course of action taken by the Deities is completely within the law and upholds our responsibility to our stakeholders.

I begin to feel ill.

Me: (gamely) Tell us about your 4 America campaign.

Dick: (brightening) In the Deities’ ongoing effort to promote good health, we are offering an American flag to anyone who participates in a health care plan administered by the Deities, or obtains a prescription for a pharmaceutical manufactured by one of our subsidiaries. However, pre-existing conditions may affect availability.

Me: (laughs) Yet at the same time, you’re throwing tens of thousands of people onto public relief rolls and taking away their health care coverage while you collect hundreds of millions of dollars in corporate subsidies and dodge millions more in taxes by claiming that the Deities are headquartered in a one-bedroom apartment on the Isle of Man. Curious form of patriotism, don’t you think?

Dick: (angrily) Who underwrote the Matisse exhibit at the Guggenheim? And the Eugene O’Neill playhouse on public TV? Who brought the Ballet Company of Sierra Leone to Lincoln Center? Who organized fund-raising for the two Pandas on loan from China at the National Zoo? We did!

Me: And you received still-another tax break for doing it. And then you turn around and buy fear-mongering politicians who campaign on the threat of an unprecedented transfer of wealth should a Democrat take office and enact budget-busting social programs like food stamps and unemployment insurance. Is that correct?

There is no comment from Dick, who stares resolutely ahead.

Me: Dick, isn’t it true that there is indeed an unprecedented transfer of wealth occurring in this country, but that it’s flowing upstream, not down? Isn’t it true that while income for the middle class has increased just twenty percent since 1979, income for the wealthiest one or two percent of has increased over one hundred and seventy percent in the same period? Isn’t it true that you and the elected representation you buy are in fact stealing the country as you consign the poor and middle classes to what will eventually be an existence of Industrial Age slavery? Isn’t it true? Isn’t it?

Dick says nothing.

Me: Tell me I have it wrong, Dick. Please.

Dick: (tersely) For the last time, everything we have done is within the framework of the law. We have done nothing illegal.

Me: So your best answer is that you haven't broken any of the laws you had your employees in the DC office write. What a sterling accomplishment.

God bless America.

Does This Make You Angry?

2010-08-05T16:17:00.005-05:00

This op-ed piece by Bob Herbert of the New York Times appeared in the July 30th edition of that newspaper.

The treatment of workers by American corporations has been worse — far more treacherous — than most of the population realizes. There was no need for so many men and women to be forced out of their jobs in the downturn known as the great recession.

Many of those workers were cashiered for no reason other than outright greed by corporate managers. And that cruel, irresponsible, shortsighted policy has resulted in widespread human suffering and is doing great harm to the economy.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Andrew Sum, an economics professor and director of the Center for Labor Market Studies at Northeastern University in Boston. “Not only did they throw all these people off the payrolls, they also cut back on the hours of the people who stayed on the job.”

As Professor Sum studied the data coming in from the recession, he realized that the carnage that occurred in the workplace was out of proportion to the economic hit that corporations were taking. While no one questions the severity of the downturn — the worst of the entire post-World War II period — the economic data show that workers to a great extent were shamefully exploited.

The recession officially started in December 2007. From the fourth quarter of 2007 to the fourth quarter of 2009, real aggregate output in the U.S., as measured by the gross domestic product, fell by about 2.5 percent. But employers cut their payrolls by 6 percent.

In many cases, bosses told panicked workers who were still on the job that they had to take pay cuts or cuts in hours, or both. And raises were out of the question. The staggering job losses and stagnant wages are central reasons why any real recovery has been so difficult.

“They threw out far more workers and hours than they lost output,” said Professor Sum. “Here’s what happened: At the end of the fourth quarter in 2008, you see corporate profits begin to really take off, and they grow by the time you get to the first quarter of 2010 by $572 billion. And over that same time period, wage and salary payments go down by $122 billion.”

That kind of disconnect, said Mr. Sum, had never been seen before in all the decades since World War II.

In short, the corporations are making out like bandits. Now they’re sitting on mountains of cash and they still are not interested in hiring to any significant degree, or strengthening workers’ paychecks.

Productivity tells the story. Increases in the productivity of American workers are supposed to go hand in hand with improvements in their standard of living. That’s how capitalism is supposed to work. That’s how the economic pie expands, and we’re all supposed to have a fair share of that expansion.

Corporations have now said the hell with that. Economists believe the nation may have emerged, technically, from the recession early in the summer of 2009. As Professor Sum writes in a new study for the labor market center, this period of economic recovery “has seen the most lopsided gains in corporate profits relative to real wages and salaries in our history.”

Worker productivity has increased dramatically, but the workers themselves have seen no gains from their increased production. It has all gone to corporate profits. This is unprecedented in the postwar years, and it is wrong.

Having taken everything for themselves, the corporations are so awash in cash they don’t know what to do with it all. Citing a recent article from Bloomberg BusinessWeek, Professor Sum noted that in July cash at the nation’s nonfinancial corporations stood at $1.84 trillion, a 27 percent increase over early 2007. Moody’s has pointed out that as a percent of total company assets, cash has reached a level not seen in the past half-century.

Executives are delighted with this ill-gotten bonanza. Charles D. McLane Jr. is the chief financial officer of Alcoa, which recently experienced a turnaround in profits and a 22 percent increase in revenue. As The Times reported this week, Mr. McLane assured investors that his company was in no hurry to bring back 37,000 workers who were let go since 2008. The plan is to minimize rehires wherever possible, he said, adding, “We’re not only holding head-count levels, but are also driving restructuring this quarter that will result in further reductions.”

There can be no robust recovery as long as corporations are intent on keeping idle workers sidelined and squeezing the pay of those on the job.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Germany and Japan, because of a combination of government and corporate policies, suffered far less worker dislocation in the recession than the U.S. Until we begin to value our workers, and understand the critical importance of employment to a thriving economy, we will continue to see our standards of living decline.

Here, There and Everywhere

2010-08-02T16:00:00.008-05:00

I’ve been fortunate to have drunk deeply from the cup of travel. True, I’ve never strolled down the Champs Elysees nor wandered the market stalls of Marrakech. I’ve never laid eyes upon Milford Sound or walked beneath the orange trees on the tiled sidewalks of Seville.

But I’ve been to Pioche, Nevada. Holly Springs, Mississippi. Sublette, Kansas and Leadville, Colorado. Woken up in the green cathedral of the North Cascades. Shared the view from Hurricane Ridge with a grazing doe at sunset. And escorted a tarantula across a parking lot in Guadalupe Mountains National Park.

I’ve gazed in awe at an arm of the Milky Way from the 3AM darkness of eastern Tennessee. Heard the paper on my cigarette burn amid the utter stillness of El Malpais National Monument. Drunk chicory coffee and eaten powdered sugar-covered beignets at the Café du Monde in New Orleans.

I’ve been rendered speechless by St. Mary’s Lake in Glacier. Struck dumb by Monument Valley. And cowed by the looming shadow of Rainier. I’ve smelled the deep, rich earth of Iowa after a rainstorm, tasted the barbeque of Memphis and Kansas City, and wondered at the colors and shapes of Bryce Canyon.

I’ve climbed Mount Taylor and raced an approaching thunderstorm to its treeline. I’ve explored miles of volcanic plumbing at Craters of the Moon National Monument, and unimaginable formations at Carlsbad Caverns. Been the sole visitor at Mount Rushmore and part of the throng at Old Faithful.

I’ve sat on the porch of the Wortley Hotel in complete contentment. Pondered the Sonoran Desert after a spring rain. Spent two days in Bismarck, North Dakota stranded by a faulty brake caliper. And one in Livingston, Montana owing to an expired alternator.

I’ve been awakened by high tide washing underneath and around the car my friends and I fell asleep in after a youthful drinking binge on Padre Island. Learned the meaning of eternity on a drive from El Paso to San Antonio. Woken shivering on the Fourth of July. And eaten a Mexican dinner after a day of hiking at Arches that was as enormous as it was delicious.

I’ve seen the purple mountain’s majesty along US-93 in Nevada, and the amber waves of grain in Kansas. Yes, life is sweet.

Yet these memories are a two-edged sword; knowing what life can be makes it painful when it is something less. The more constrained I become, the more I need a steering wheel in my hands and unseen sights in my eyes.

Your Opinion Please!

2010-07-28T22:20:00.005-05:00

Now that I have enriched your lives with good advice, I turn to you for same.

How do you best answer the question ‘Have you applied to this company before’ when a previous attempt was unsuccessful?

Since the application process is basically one of elimination, your submission risks instant dismissal by answering ‘yes’. After all, an employer reasons, if they didn't hire you before, why would they hire you now?

Answer ‘no’ and thanks to computerized data bases, it’s only a matter of a few keystrokes to see if you’re lying. This of course also guarantees your efforts will be consigned to the cyber circular file.

Your opinion please!

Good Advice

2010-07-28T16:25:00.004-05:00

If you have a job, buy it the best, most-expensive bottle of champagne you can afford. The biggest, freshest bouquet of flowers. Invite it to your home.

There, sip the champagne. Breathe deeply the bouquet. Take your job in a long, meaningful embrace. When appropriate, retire to your bedroom and make passionate love to it. Scale the summit of orgasm many times.

For you have no idea how fortunate you are.

Living Lucky

2010-07-18T07:58:00.017-05:00

The phone rang. It was Lucky.

"How you doing?" he asked.

“No different than last time.” I said. “How ‘bout you?”

“I’m so tired of this crap. I want to retire.”

I laughed in knowing acknowledgement.

“You want to get together? Have a few beers, shoot the breeze?"

“Can’t.” I said. “Hell week. Sunday the eighteenth through Tuesday the twenty-seventh. My full-time part-time job. So what’s up with you? You still have a job?”

“Barely.” said Lucky.

“What do you mean?”

A long sigh emanated from Lucky. Then the sound of a bottle being emptied.

“Well, remember how I needed to make my numbers in June, or that was it?” “Yeah” I said. “Well, I didn’t hit ‘em. Then I got called into Amber’s office, and I walk in and the district manager’s there. I figured it was the end.”

That Lucky figured it was the end meant, of course, that it wasn’t. What bullet had he dodged now?

“They give me this crap about how they’re going out on a limb for me, and how they’ve decided to give me one more chance since I’ve been with the company so long. And you know what I find out when I go back on the floor?”

“What?”

“Janie, our best salesperson, is leaving. And they finally fired this screw-up Jason, so they’re short. They’re not giving me another chance—they’re shorthanded. And with a big sale coming up. Assholes.”

I laughed. “So that’s a bad thing? You have a paycheck for another month, plus some commission. What’s the problem?”

“Those assholes acting like they’re doing me a favor. Piss on ‘em! They think I’m some kind of idiot. I sat there and smiled and said ‘thank you’ and ‘I appreciate it’. God.”

“That’s why it's called work.” I said. “That’s why we have to be bribed with money to be there. Who the hell would put up with it for free?”

Lucky huffed in affirmation.

It being nearly ten PM, I didn't want to futher ignite his/mine/our considerable rage just now, so I nudged the conversation in another direction.

“You hear anything on that gig you took the personality inventory for?"

“Yeah. I interviewed Tuesday. The HR person is on vacation, but the manager said they’d like to move on it when she gets back.”

“Wait. So you have another job lined up?” I began to laugh. Lucky was great therapy.

“It looks that way.”

I collapsed into laugher. I couldn’t stop. I really needed to investigate the possibility of having Lucky purchase lottery tickets for me.

“I’m glad you’re in such a great mood!”

I was able to stop only long enough to ask “Can you do me a favor? Look out the window and tell me if there’s a truck parked outside that says Publisher’s Clearing House on it and a bunch of people walking up to your front door with balloons.”

“Ha ha.” said Lucky.

“I’m serious! I can’t believe you!” I said. “It’s incredible! Every time you come close to being fired, it's like a giant bird swoops down and saves your ass! You're bulletproof! And fireproof!”

Delirium set in as I pondered my friend. Life will seemingly not allow him to lose a job. Nor me to find one. The contrast is remarkable.

So goes the saga of Lucky, the man who cannot get fired.

The Other End of the Line

2010-07-14T23:17:00.013-05:00

A friend of mine recently posted a very funny blog about dealing with the phone company. It doesn’t seem to matter what continent you’re on, the phone company is always The Phone Company.

But the cluelessness isn't limited to one end of the line.

I should know. I spent many years working for one. The following is a faithful recollection of a call I received while working there. I doubt I’ll ever forget it. The names have been changed, etc.

Me: Thank you for calling Qwest Communications. My name is Danny. How can I help you?

Customer: Now listen up Danny. My name is Joe Strocek, and I’m a snowbird from Erie, Pennsylvania. I was told that a technician needs to come out to start up my service, but there’s just no way that needs to happen. There’s been service there before.

Me: Okay. Let me take a look at the address. Where did you want to set-up your service?

(Customer gives me the address of a popular RV park in Phoenix. I run a facility check and it comes up as ‘technician visit required’.)

Me: Okay Joe. I checked the address, and it’s coming up as one that requires a visit.

Customer: Now don’t tell me that Danny. That’s not what I want to hear.

Me: I know it’s frustrating. But at…

Customer: Look. I spent thirty-seven years working for a utility in Pennsylvania. I know when a technician needs to come out, and when they don’t. And a technician doesn’t need to come out here, Danny. Now what are you going to do about this?

Me: Let me double-check with Tech, and I’ll be back to you as soon as I can. Can you hold for a sec?

Customer: Sure.

(I call our facility technicians in Phoenix, and get a status report on the availability of lines at the RV park the customer is moving to. A technician does indeed need to go out and bring a line to the CO for this address.)

Me: Joe?

Customer: Yep.

Me: Thanks for holding. I called our office in Phoenix, and we definitely need to send a technician out to get your service up and running. I wish I could tell you differently, but we need to bring a line to your box. Are there any extenuating health conditions that would allow me to make this a priority install?

Customer: Now look here, Danny. I know you have a switch there by your desk. Will you please just flip the dang thing so my wife and I can have our phone service?

Me: Joe, we’re a for-profit company. Believe me, if we could start billing you now we would. But we can’t.

Customer: I know this game. Okay? Now will you PLEASE just flip the damn switch?

Me: Joe, this is what I have in my cubicle: a computer, a bunch of binders and manuals, some pens, a cup of coffee and a scratch pad of paper. That’s all. No switch—I promise.

Customer: JUST FLIP THE GODDAMN SWITCH!

(I'd already spent over ten minutes on this call, and it was going nowhere. It was obvious that only a technician visit and the subsequent sound of dial tone was going to convince Joe. Which is why I said...)

Me: Okay. It’s flipped.

Customer: Thank you! (click.)

I left extensive notes on the account explaining the conversation and what had (and had not) been confirmed, but never checked back to see when ol’ Joe got his telephone service.

The Right Profile

2010-07-09T10:14:00.021-05:00

I’m always grateful for the chance to laugh at corporate America.

If reinventing the wheel and fixing what isn’t broken guaranteed success, America’s corporations would be world-beaters. Even without the corporate welfare, government subsidies and abundant tax loopholes. They would be the industry leaders their help wanted posts say they are.

This latest opportunity for mirth comes from a friend, referred to in an earlier blog as Lucky.

Lucky is looking to make a lateral move within the company he has faithfully served for nearly a quarter-century. It is commonly agreed that Lucky is a fine person, and has done a wonderful job in whichever department he has landed.

But the new and improved version of his employer requires that Lucky submit to a personality profile, which guarantees a perfect match for the companies who use them.

This is likely the reason people no longer leave their jobs or are fired, because anyone who isn’t an ideal fit is eliminated in advance by the wonder that is the personality profile.

Oh wait, they do. And they are. But now I'm not being a team player. Slap me.

Anyway, Lucky failed his personality inventory.

After determining that he possessed an unacceptable number of undesirable personality traits, the computer e-mailed Lucky at his company e-mail address to inform him that no further action would be taken on his application.

Imagine the employment that could have been prevented had personality profiles been in use when Lucky first applied twenty-five years ago.

The same corporate America that brought you the Vega and Coke II has now got itself in a lather over the personality profile. Wasn't it Public Enemy who said don't believe the hype?

To paraphrase H.L. Menken, no one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of corporate America. They have made someone very, very wealthy.

Letter from LeBron?

2010-07-09T09:53:00.003-05:00

This appeared in an advice column the day before twenty-five year-old basketball deity LeBron James announced he would be leaving his hometown of Cleveland for the sun and glitter of Miami:

Dear Abby,

Twenty-years ago, I was in love with “Connie”, a girl who was my best friend and soul mate. We had so much in common. Connie was chubby—not fat, just not a size 3.

Being 22 at the time, I became infatuated with “Lisa”, who was a size 3. Lisa was also jealous, insecure and still tied to her mother. I snapped one day and left her—the smartest thing I have ever done.

By then, of course, Connie had moved on, and I deeply regret my wandering eye, lack of sensitivity and misplaced values. My life would be so much happier had I done what was right instead of being stupid.

Connie, I am told, is happily married, and I would not wreck her marriage. I have remained single. I don’t know if you can offer me advice, but if my experience can help another young man to recognize the beauty within, he will be happier than I am.

--Wiser Now in Ohio

We’ll need a few years to determine its prescience, but it’s an interesting coincidence, no?

Awkward

2010-07-07T13:39:00.010-05:00

It’s awkward, this unemployment thing.

I’m talking to my oldest friend on the phone. For the purpose of this blog, I’ll call him Lucky. He’s the only person I know who’s spent a decade—twenty-five years, actually—at one company.

Don’t get the wrong idea—this isn’t a tidy ascent up the corporate ladder to the corner office. Lucky has been laboring in a strata with a far-lower profile.

The thing is, Lucky has avoided screwing up, pissing anyone off or likewise calling unwanted attention to himself for nearly a quarter-century. It is a remarkable achievement. He has perfected the art of career camouflage.

He was smart enough to pick a company that has never been the object of a hostile takeover, and a job that has never been determined by a corporate financial analyst to be a profit-sucking hole. He has successfully avoided the employment contractions that have become a fact of life for virtually every other person I know.

And in 2010, when fifty-something white males bear a disproportionate share of America’s job loss, Lucky has a job.

But judging by his phone calls of the past eight or nine months, Lucky is convinced this will soon not be the case. Faced with sales goals for the first time in his work life, he is struggling.

Yet every time the guillotine is set to fall, there is a store-wide sale. Or a homeowner in need of a custom-made bedroom set. Only RNC Chairman Michael Steele has dodged more bullets.

If the twin pressures of a weak economy and working in the what-have-you-done-for-me-lately arena of sales aren’t enough, Lucky is also in the midst of a full-blown mid-life crisis. “What have I done with my life?” he asks.

I assure him there will be no statues of me in municipal parks, either. As best I can, I caution him that 2010 isn’t the year to embark on a journey of self-discovery. I tell him 2010 is all about the survival, and not the fulfillment.

I can hear him straining against the newly-understood confines of his life. The conversation then circles back to other things, like June’s unmet sales goals.

I confirm for Lucky that if his managers, coaches and supervisors truly wanted him gone, he’d be gone. They would have waited by the door at the close of business June 30th and requested his keys and name tag.

Termination does not tarry. If he is making a genuine attempt and—more importantly—is liked, someone somewhere will do something.

Lucky suddenly realizes he’s doing Chicken Little for someone for whom the sky has already fallen. “How are you doin’?”, he asks.

I give him the short answer and attempt to kid. “There’s no way you’re going to be fired. You know what? I’m putting up a statue of you, and I’m going to rub its head every time I send out a resume. You’re Teflon Dude. Nothing sticks!”

My jealousy is showing. Friends aren’t supposed to be jealous of their friend’s lack of unemployment, are they? I have farted in an elevator.

I take a hard right and steer the conversation towards sports. “You think the Bulls are going to sign LeBron?” We then take the obligatory dig at each other’s favorite baseball team, but with little enthusiasm.

And so it goes until we simultaneously notice the time.

Like I said, awkward.

Job gap killed. Employer held as suspect.

2010-06-19T09:22:00.011-05:00

At last the light of employment has shone down upon my wretched soul.

It's not the sunlight of full-time-with-benefits employment, but rather the flickering light of a candle on the other side of the room. Which is to say the employment is both part-time and temporary. But it puts an end to the yawning job gap on my resume.

If you’ve searched for work lately, you know that possessing a job gap is akin to answering ‘yes’ to the 'Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’ question. It is being a serial rapist, a child molester and a meth addict, only without the appeals.

My newfound employment says to America’s human resource professionals: Look—company X hired him and didn’t contract a fatal disease, go into receivership or land amidst a congressional investigation.

It relieves them of being Mikey from those old Life cereal commercials. More importantly, it is an experiment conducted on someone else's dime, and not theirs.

Lastly, it also inebriates the sober reality that breathing has become a form of debt creation. I’m not out of the woods by any means. But at least a clearing shows up on my dash-mounted nav now.

New Parking Lot

2010-06-09T08:15:00.013-05:00

When destitute, one must be creative in seeking entertainment. One must be alert to the entertainment potential of your immediate surroundings, as the usual avenues of museums, movies and sporting events are now off-limits.

In yet-another heinous and spiteful contradiction, unemployment dictates that just as you are most in need of diversion, you will be least-able to afford it.

Which is likely why I was so thrilled when my apartment complex announced it was going to repave its parking lot. The announcement was sprinkled with the sort of zero-tolerance warnings in bold-faced type currently in fashion. Many exclamation points were used.

"All cars must be removed from the parking by 6:00 AM! Those not in compliance will be towed at owner’s expense—no questions asked!" This was followed by one final declaration of authority: "No Exceptions!"

Being possessed of a cynical and skeptical nature, I snickered. The phrase ‘no exceptions’ practically guarantees there will be. It is an engraved invitation in ornate hand on heavy and expensive stock. It promises exceptions as surely as heathens will slather their French fries in ketchup.

The very phrase flies in the face of our modern temperament. In America we are all exceptions. It goes hand in hand with our sixth sense—entitlement.

Yet childrearing experts (and even some parents) caution against this. They advise consistency in the enforcement of rules, and stress that when consequences and punishments are called for, that they be carried out.

This because children (like their older and bigger counterparts) quickly learn to discern and tune out empty threats.

I positioned myself on the appointed morning at the window which overlooks the parking lot. Six AM found three cars still in the parking lot. Their mute defiance sent a chill down my spine. This was going to be, if not quite Shakespearian drama, better than a morning on milwaukeejobs.com.

The leader of the construction crew was on a cell phone, gesturing wildly at the offending vehicles. Soon, the complex’s lead maintenance man was on the scene, also speaking into a cell phone. Next was the property manager. She was on a cell phone as well.

For all I knew, they were calling in their grocery orders to peapod.com. But this tempest of cellular activity seemed to indicate that decisive action was being taken, and being taken quickly. I was impressed. This gave way to astonishment when a municipal police car arrived.

A tall, balding cop with the requisite mustache and aviator shades exited the squad car, ticket book in hand. He was going to write tickets! Cars were going to be towed! Exceptions were going to be snubbed out like cigarette butts! My pulse raced. My head throbbed. Why hadn’t I brewed decaf instead?

A flatbed tow truck then entered the lot, picking its way through the maze of idled construction equipment. There was now a faint layer of perspiration on my palms. I was a-quiver with anticipation.

I was also premature.

At six forty-five, two of the exceptions were located. He stumbled out of the building in flip-flops, gym shorts and a ratty t-shirt. She followed a few minutes later in way-too-tight sweat pants, a way-too-tight top and a cell phone seemingly grafted to the side of her head.

The cop and the property manager spoke to each. Drama King impatiently jingled his key ring as he listened to their lecture. Drama Queen couldn’t even be bothered to turn off her phone. She would periodically pause the lecture with an upraised index finger as she checked her call.

Afterwards, the royal couple sped-off petulantly in their respective vehicles. The cop spread his arms out in their wake, a non-verbal “What are you gonna do?”

There was one exception left.

Cell phones were again employed in a desperate search for the owner of the third car. Perhaps it had been stolen and left overnight. Perhaps the owner was someone’s one-night stand. Perhaps the owner didn’t give a damn.

Whatever the reason, the car was finally loaded onto the flatbed and taken away. Work on the repaving began at seven-thirty sharp.

No exceptions.

Of Gym Teachers and Bishops

2010-06-02T10:24:00.011-05:00

I have a problem with authority. The crappy kind, anyway. Have since I was in the seventh-grade, and a gym teacher reacted poorly to frustration I expressed at failing to bat in three successive softball games.

The fact that I had used the medium of the four-letter word to convey my regret did little to help matters, especially since this was 1970.

In a class full of chronic malcontents and discipline problems, this gym teacher got tough with otherwise quiet, obedient me. He grabbed my gym shirt and put his face very near mine.

I can still see the spittle flying as he laid into me with a fury he never shared with the boys who talked back. Or who hid behind bushes and smoked instead of running the marathons. Or who mooned passing cars.

But I learned a lot about authority that day. It is likely all I learned at that execrable school.

Authority is fallible. Authority can and does seek the path of least-resistance. Authority is opportunistic. And that the stated reason for your punishment may or may not be related to the reason you are being punished.

Which brings me to Bishop Thomas J. Olmsted.

Olmsted heads the Phoenix diocese of the Catholic Church, and recently excommunicated Sister Margaret McBride for her participation in an abortion performed at St. Joseph’s Hospital.

McBride was a hospital administrator, and a member of the ethics committee that signed-off on the procedure.

The twenty-seven year-old mother of four suffered from pulmonary hypertension, and eleven-weeks into her pregnancy, it was determined her life was in danger if the pregnancy was not terminated. Entirely justifiable abortion, right? End of story, right?

Wrong.

In Bishop Olmsted’s official statement “An unborn child is not a disease. While medical professionals should certainly try to save a mother’s life, the means by which they do it can never be by directly killing her unborn child. The end does not justify the means.”

Of course, this is only pandering to a political viewpoint. It’s too unthinking, too color-by-numbers rote to be taken seriously. It begs the question What is the real reason Sister McBride was fired?

It wasn’t because she acted in accordance to the most-humane dictates of her faith and served the greater good (one unborn infant being less a tragedy than five motherless children).

We’re ready when you’re ready, Tommy.

Small Government? Or Bigger Business?

2010-06-01T07:05:00.017-05:00

Item number-one on the conservative agenda is to make small government a campaign issue. Republican candidates dutifully include it in their recitations of party talking points, and deluded tea-baggers shout themselves hoarse in their frothing, wild-eyed mania for it.

But who does small government really benefit?

Not surprisingly, small government’s most-ardent admirers are wealthy businessmen. The reasons are simple. Observing government guidelines and conforming to government regulations costs money. And the more a business spends on fulfilling government requirements, the less there is for the guy in the corner office.

There’s also the issue of ego. Business is forever a toddler attempting to convince mom and dad it doesn’t need a babysitter. That it’s old-enough to stay home alone. Government regulation is the wagging finger that says it isn’t.

The small government ideal proposed by conservatives removes the speed bumps from the marketplace, while it diminishes the quality of life for just about everyone else. It lets business do whatever it wants, whenever it wants, wherever it wants. And make no mistake—conservatives are all about the business. First, last and always. The rest is just marketing.

But there’s a problem. Most of us don’t give a damn how much CEOs make. We’re not terribly concerned about the welfare of the wealthy. How can their problem be made our problem? How can government regulation be marketed as an issue constraining our personal liberty, and not one set to clear the runway for business unbound?

Pull out the time-honored tricks. Exaggeration. Lies. Misinformation. Find the lowest common denominator of your constituent’s anger and exploit, exploit, exploit. Push that hot button until your fingers hurt. You remember last summer’s death panels, don’t you?

While challenged by leading anything more than a parade, conservatives are master manipulators and brilliant marketers. They are experts at misdirection: You’re not pissed-off at British Petroleum’s incompetence and lack of accountability! You’re pissed-off at the Obama administration’s response!

In tea-bag land, Wall Street, Massey Energy and BP aren’t proof of what happens when mom and dad decide to forego the babysitter for an evening. They’re proof of how government meddling muddies the waters of commerce.

Do you see the delusion here? The naked self-interest in corporate America’s backing of this idea? Tell me how this differs from ghetto thugs advising their neighbors-slash-victims “No snitching”.

You can’t because it doesn’t.

Business is a one-celled organism. It has one instinct, and one instinct only. And that is to make as much money as possible. Left unregulated, it is a virus which invariably destroys its host. Left unregulated, business runs amuck with the numbing regularity that children choose Happy Meals over six-course, sit-down dinners.

I have a request to make of the hypnotized. Those of you who stubbornly refuse to acknowledge this agenda. Those for whom Lord of the Flies represents a societal ideal:

Keep your six-thousand pound SUV off publicly-funded roads. Bank and invest where there is no FDIC and SEC. Treat your own sewage. Find your own water. Process your own garbage. Buy your kids’ toys from China. Kindly purchase your meat, produce and pharmaceuticals at flea markets. Or better yet, an open air stall in Tijuana. And care for your developmentally-disabled offspring by yourself.

Fish near BP oil rigs. Work in Massey Energy coal mines. Develop your retirement plan with Bernie Madoff. Fly on planes, drive on bridges and ride in elevators with only a businessman’s promises for protection.

Ride your snowmobile to the furthest reaches of Yellowstone National Park, and dial anyone except 911 when you crash through the ice some winter afternoon. And as the hypothermia sets in, remember you got to keep everything you made.

And should your home catch fire, or a family member be fatally assaulted, we the sighted promise to do our damndest to ensure that municipal, county, state and federal governments don’t intrude and compromise your principles. And may I assume you’ve already bid adieu to Medicare and Social Security?

Thank you.

For the rest of us, small government is wealthcare dressed as populist outrage.

To be sure, government has abused taxpayers. Too often acted in the interests of a monied minority at the expense of the greater good. But to fall for the sucker punch offered by conservatives who demand its dismantling is throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

This is a problem with a solution. And that solution is better government, not less.

Rewriting History

2010-05-25T14:37:00.024-05:00

Sixteenth-century astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus was the first to posit that the Earth revolved around the sun—and not the church.

To say this was a dangerous thought at a time when the church wielded absolute control is underscored by the fact Copernicus was branded a heretic after the publication of his De revolutionibus orbium coelestium (which works out to On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres in English).

After his death in 1543, the great astronomer spent the next four-hundred sixty-seven years in an unmarked grave, guilty of free-thought in an age that demanded unblinking allegiance to the prevailing religous dogma.

But last Saturday, Copernicus was re-buried as a national hero in his native Poland.

It is the graceful re-write of history we see far too little of; a bishop in the same Catholic Church that had accused Copernicus of heresy initiating a search for the astronomer’s remains, determined that his discoveries receive the acknowledgement they deserve.

In an era where changing one’s mind is perceived as weakness, seeing the Roman Catholic Church reverse its stand on this great scientist is extraordinarily refreshing. It is a giant step forward.

But Newton's law states that for every action, there is a separate and opposite reaction. And for that, we need only look to the Texas School Board, and the tantrum they’re throwing over the content of the state's history books.

Conservatives on the board have concluded that media manipulation is not enough; that indoctrination of American youth must begin in the public school system.

In the version of American history they propose for Texas schoolbooks, the slave trade is euphemistically referred to as the Atlantic Triangular Trade. The founding fathers didn’t demand a separation of church and state.

And that an essential component of children’s education is understanding the critical role right-wing propagandists at the Heritage Foundation played in shaping our nation’s democracy.

*Puke*

And God forbid we forget these touchstones of American history: Newt Gingrich’s Contract with America, the marketing tool known as the Moral Majority and misogynist-with-breasts Phyllis Schlafly. What—no history of Fox News?

All of which would be fine if Abbie Hoffman, the Weathermen and the Chicago Seven were getting equal time. But I have this nagging and persistent suspicion they're not.

While the church illuminated a truth, conservatives seek only to institutionalize ignorance. Like the great man said, one step forward, one step back.

Flip-Floppin' with Bobby Jindal

2010-05-19T08:42:00.014-05:00

If there’s an amusing aspect to the sordid goings-on in the Gulf, it’s the specter of Louisiana governor Bobby Jindal pleading for aid from the federal government.

That would be the same Bobby Jindal who made such a show of declaring his unshakeable belief in personal responsibility, small government and state sovereignty following President Obama's 2009 State of the Union address.

The same Bobby Jindal who made such a show of decrying the stimulus package. And every other piece of legislation enacted during the reckless and socialist Obama regime.

But when faced with an environmental tragedy, who does Governor Tea-Bag turn to? That's right, the federal government. The same evil and invasive federal government who wantonly trampled his state’s sovereignty and forced unwanted stimulus cash down its throat.

John Kerry isn’t the only one who knows a thing or two about flip-flopping, is he Governor? I'll tell you what, Bobby. I would hate to compromise your ideology by imposing federal aid on you—not after you made such a compelling argument against it last year.

Why don’t you ask your corporate pals for help? You know, remind them what you said about accountability. About the importance of keeping government out of our lives.

What’s that—they’re tied up in legal? Oh. Sorry.

This isn’t situational ethics—it’s situation comedy. It's one we need cancelled as soon as possible.

Baby Needs a New Pair of Choos

2010-05-12T15:47:00.027-05:00

It’s a sign the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are upon us when you discover that women’s high heels which light up and sell for $2,495.00 a pair at Jimmy Choo boutiques in New York are sold out.

The punch line here is that the battery dies after only one-hundred hours and cannot be replaced. But you have to admit that $24.95 an hour is a bargain for proof that wealth and taste don't always intersect.

I have to confess to being deeply disappointed they're named 'Zap' and not 'Menken'. This because it was H.L. Menken who said “Nobody ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public.”

But at least Florida isn't gouging its conspicuous consumers.

The state legislature there has decided to cap the sales tax on yachts at 18K, or less than the purchase price of the average family-sized sedan. This realizes a savings of 42K for every million spent by beleaguered yacht-buyers.

It was healthcare—not wealthcare—we debated last summer, correct? The Florida legislature's hearing aid batteries must be running low. I wonder if they can be replaced?

Corporate Accountability (With Strings)

2010-05-10T11:11:00.015-05:00

Now that we’ve accorded the rights of the individual to corporations, I’m wondering if perhaps we shouldn’t extend the liabilities as well.

Our latest corporate disaster, the Deepwater Horizon offshore drilling project, presents a perfect case in point.

As a job seeker, I am repeatedly told that cardinal sin number-one is overstating your abilities and credentials. It is grounds for no-questions-asked termination.

Yet the two failed attempts at shutting down the fountain of oil that is spewing a quarter-million gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico every day clearly indicate that British Petroleum wildly overstated its capacity to deal with a problem of this magnitude.

Requiring them to absorb the cost of the clean-up and make restitution to the afflicted parties would seem to be the most-obvious solution.

Unfortunately, the guardians of the corporation that we pretend are our elected representation have limited oil company liability in these instances to just seventy-five million-dollars, or the rough equivalent of one day’s income for a company that earned six billion-dollars in the first-quarter of 2010.

Further proof of how deeply the corporate virus has infected the government of the United States would be that big oil was awarded this cap in exchange for an eight-cent-a-barrel tax on the oil they produce.

When was the last time the government asked you what concessions you needed in order to absorb a new tax? A couple of days? Months? A year or two ago?

Or never.

Publicly, BP has said all the right things. But per usual, actions speak louder than words. And BP has already begun to divest itself of culpability by insinuating that the cause of the spill lies with the out-sourced manager of the rig, Transocean Ltd.

I’m guessing BP’s squadron of highly-paid legal counsel has already begun to outline its defense strategy. And that victims won’t get paid if BP doesn’t get paid.

This ongoing tragedy will have repercussions far beyond the duration of the oil’s flow from the Gulf floor.

Most tragic is the persistent belief that allowing oil companies to drill within the United States somehow protects the United States from its dependence on foreign oil. This is the “Drill Baby, Drill!” crowd’s favorite argument.

Unfortunately, I’ve never had the opportunity to ask them why they believe oil drilled in the United States will (or even must) be sold in the United States. The naiveté is staggering.

For those blinded by the right, businesses only allegiance is to profit. Exxon, Royal Dutch Shell and British Petroleum don’t care where the oil came from. Only where they can sell it for the best (i.e. highest) price.

There is no law which demands that oil drilled or refined in the United States must be sold in the United States. In other words, you’re not guaranteed an endless supply of gasoline for your GMC Yukon XL because it was drilled off the coast of Louisiana.

Is that plain-enough for you? Do you get it now?

So. While individuals are responsible for the claims they make, corporations with the rights of individuals have liability caps to protect them in the event their propaganda is shown to be something less than true.

God bless the Corporate States of America. I am thankful I will never have to defend them in war.

This Modern World

2010-05-09T23:29:00.009-05:00

Aside from Dilbert, the best cartoon out there is This Modern World. It appears in free alternative weeklies like the Albuquerque Alibi and the Milwaukee Shepherd-Express.

Like all great cartoonists, creator Tom Tomorrow is blessed with the ability to render the complicated into the simple via a drawing or two.

This Modern World regularly exposes right-wing politics, conservatives and big business for the selfish and self-serving crap they are.

This week's strip takes on Wall Street. Beyond that, I've posted two old favorites for your amusement. Should you desire more (and you should), please visit www.thismodernworld.com for seconds.

It's My Life

2010-05-08T08:56:00.032-05:00

It’s spring in Milwaukee. You know this only because the calendar says May.

It’s cold and wet, which are climatic conditions considered ideal inside a beer bottle. But you don’t live in a bottle of beer—at least not yet. Looking on the bright side of things, you have no fear of melanoma. This is because there is no sun.

Each new day presents multiple opportunities for miracle-making. Shall you part Lake Michigan? Walk on it? Or find a job? Decisions, decisions.

Spiritualist that you are, you attempt to find meaning in your ongoing failure to land employment. You make a robust attempt to see this as life somehow protecting you from another bad job, and saving you for a good one. It doesn’t work.

Someone sings that if it weren’t for bad luck, they’d have no luck at all. This is true of you, also. You are on a hot streak. You sizzle like Canada in January.

There is the brief flirtation with telecommunications giant AT&T. You pass yet-another hundred-question personality inventory. Then you’re one of a handful of applicants to pass a performance audition, which asks you to perform the job before being hired for it.

Your reward is an actual job interview. A smiling businesswoman in a tailored suit and fashionably-coifed hair shakes your hand and schedules it for April 7th. You stride confidently through the cold March air and permit yourself to feel good.

On April Fool’s Day the phone rings. The interviews have been postponed. You are disappointed, but relieved they said 'postponed' and not 'cancelled'. You feel the difference is significant. One month later, you wonder if the difference is significant to AT&T as well.

Then there is the census-taker debacle.

You are convinced Lewis Carroll was inspired to write Alice in Wonderland after seeking employment with the federal government. It is akin to being inside an M.C. Escher drawing. It is the definition of labyrinthine. Surprisingly, no one has a recipe for upside down cake.

You successfully negotiate this lunacy. But state governments present a new set of hurdles.

One of the 3,416 requirements for this position is a current, state-issued driver’s license. You possess a current, state-issued driver’s license, but it’s for another state.

Your austerity program unfortunately does not allow for new, up-to-the-minute driver’s licenses, not with several years left on the current one and an acute shortage of cash.

But the promise of a paycheck has you aflame, so you make a leap of faith and visit the local Division of Motor Vehicles facility. All goes well until after your picture is taken.

You are informed that the driver’s license facility is unable to produce your license at this time. This despite the facility having seen sheaths of documents that confirm your existence, the various locales wherein that existence occurred, and the receipt of several hundred dollars.

You ask why. You are told that random licenses are assigned for processing in the state capital, and will arrive by mail “in two to three days.”

You err critically at this juncture and fail to ask “Two to three days from when?” Because a week after your visit, you remain bereft of the state-issued driver’s license with photo necessary for consideration for employment with the federal government.

You discover the State's telephone system successfully prevents interaction with other human beings. Visits to the Division of Motor Vehicles facility provoke only shrugs. And e-mails go unanswered because they do not conform to the topics listed on the division’s web page.

In a symphonic crescendo to this collision of lucklessness and bad-timing, Friday’s mail brings nothing. Ditto Saturday's. The deadline has expired. This feels like punishment. What was your crime?

As a child, you went to horror movies to get scared. Now, you need only get out of bed.

Private Rewards, Public Expense

2010-05-04T16:06:00.013-05:00

I’m an idiot. Let’s get that straight right off the bat. A pure, two-plus-two-equals-three moron. If I were anything else, I’d be rich. Or at least well-off. Because in America, the perception is brains = cash. And since I’m broke, well, it couldn’t be more clear: I am a retard.

This is likely the reason I don’t understand business.

In contrast to their twentieth-century counterparts, twenty-first century executives seemingly exist only to eliminate jobs. Shut down factories. Close offices and distribution centers. Freeze salaries.

Business calls it cost-cutting. Belt-tightening. And my favorite, restructuring. They use the royal ‘we’. A lot. But what is rarely made clear is whose belt will be tightened. (Hint: Look down.)

As a random, out-of-the-blue example, Wausau Paper CEO Thomas Howatt serves nicely. Ol’ Tom scored a nifty 80% pay raise last year, something I doubt very many people did in 2009. "How?" you ask.

First he eliminated 1,000 jobs. Then he froze salaries (which is a tad ironic when you consider his). Then he sat back and waited for the cash tsunami to roll in.

When asked about the questionable impact enormous executive pay raises have on workforces where salaries (where they even still exist) have been stagnant, and about being rewarded for tossing thousands onto public relief rolls, crafty Tom sniffed “I probably look at it a bit differently.”

Like I said, I’m an idiot. But shouldn’t we expect just a little bit more of our extravagantly-compensated captains of industry than payroll slashing? Do we really want to reward this behavior? Especially in an economy which happens to be consumer-powered?

I have nothing against wealth. We all need our carrots, don’t we? What I have a problem with is rewarding job cuts. Isn't this is the kind of short-sightedness that has made fortunes for our national optical chains?

I think it's great that America’s CEOs have a new revenue stream to frolic in, especially with summer approaching. But I would warn them not to become too accustomed to it. Because what happens when the only job left to slash is theirs?

Advertising On the Fly

2010-04-21T18:21:00.006-05:00

I have a peculiar talent for creating advertising. One that is frequently beyond my control. Take yesterday. My girlfriend and I were driving east on Lisbon when we came across a dilapidated chicken joint named Champion Chicken.

I involuntarily launched into an announcer-like voice and said “There isn’t a chicken in the joint that hasn’t gone fifteen rounds and come out a champ! No matter how hard you hit ‘em, they’re the chicken you can’t keep down!”

A second passed before peals of laughter emanated from the passenger seat. It was then that I realized the awful double entendre.

Madison Avenue fears me.

Streaming Thoughts

2010-04-21T13:19:00.008-05:00

I’m stuck. I start a blog, and after a paragraph or two lose all focus and sense of direction.

Doesn’t matter if it’s about Mitch McConnell and John McCain and the remarkable athletic ability they display while leaping from one position to another, the especially fine Dylan bootleg I downloaded last week, or my ongoing unemployment. They just sputter to a stop like a car out of gas.

And that’s another blog-starter: rising gas prices. Where’s the deflation economists were so worried about last year? Demand remains flat, the non-Wall Street economy is still on life support, yet gas prices continue to rise. Why isn’t the law of supply and demand dynamic coming into play? Did it pull a groin or something?

I thought the gravity of low demand kept prices down. Is everything we learned in Economics 101 wrong?

Then there’s the pending reform of Wall Street. I’m not holding my breath, and neither should you. Like our recent health care reform, the financial re-do will be gentle. Corporate-friendly. It will be faint like the light from a distant star.

Despite the valiant efforts of people like Elizabeth Warren, there’s just too much campaign cash at stake. Too many golf junkets. Too many days to turn into Christmas for our pocket-stuffing congressional representation.

Ironic that the public has no choice but to ask the town drunk to watch the liquor cabinet, isn’t it?

Despite the questionable covers and reportage on personalities like Justin Bieber that make me feel like I wandered into a copy of Young Miss by mistake, Rolling Stone continues to do an excellent job of reporting on the farce that passes for governance in the United States of Whatever.

And it doesn’t matter from which side of the aisle the farce originates; Democrats and Republicans alike are stripped of pomp and PR when deserving. Matt Taibbi’s writing deserves Pulitzers. Considering the subject matter, he must take a lot of showers.

Oh yeah. And then there’s the Dylan show. Re-invigorated by a near-fatal bout with pericarditis and the release of the stellar Time Out Of Mind, Dylan is in prime form here.

His is one of a handful of voices actually enhanced by age, not diminished by it. Its gravelly texture only adds resonance to songs of faded love and longing. And the band is expert; responsive, empathetic and supple, providing shading and sparks as needed.

Playing with arrangements, experimenting with phrasing, Dylan is one of rock music’s most challenging (on a bad night) and arresting (on a good one) performers. Here, at the Irving Plaza in New York City on the evening of December 8, 1997 he is very definitely one of the latter. Sweet Jesus.

Finally, a shout-out to my friends whose music blogs have been snuffed out. It’s funny—now that I can’t download the music they shared, I suddenly have the cash to purchase $16.99 CDs at the local big box and support global giants like Sony and Universal and Bertelsmann. Or so the powers that be must think.

Long live David. Death to Goliath.

You're Working Class and Conservative? Why?

2010-04-10T08:24:00.011-05:00

I’m trying to understand working class conservatives. Really. I want to understand working class conservatives. But I can’t.

I can understand wealthy and powerful conservatives. What I can’t understand are conservatives who drive Hyundais. The ones who do their own shopping. Mow their own lawns. The folk who provide the GOP with numbers while remaining blissfully ignorant of the fact they’re cutting their own throats.

The best example comes from Raleigh County, West Virginia. Here’s the tragic confluence of small government, big business and a malleable electorate too addled by the sizzle to realize the steak is for someone else.

The last Republican president was a great believer in removing the reins from business and letting it run free. Pure, unfettered capitalism would cure all of America’s ills.

The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) was neutered. Likewise the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). Countless regulatory agencies had their staffs and funding cut. Statutes were winked at. Protections ignored. Penalties intended to drive responsible corporate behavior were scaled-back or eliminated altogether.

Nowhere was this more true than in the coal industry. The intimacy big coal enjoyed with the last Republican president should have aroused the suspicions of the First Lady. Advances made by generations of miners, their unions and local, state and federal governments all but disappeared under that administration.

The ultimate expression of this largesse came from Massey Energy CEO Don Blankenship. In a perverse display of corporate honesty, he concluded it was more cost-effective to pay the fines levied by government inspectors than to upgrade the safety infrastructure in his mines. And thanks to a small government, big business climate created by conservatives, it was.

While guilty of thousands of violations over the past decade, no one could accuse Massey of filling their workers with tripe like ‘Our employees are our most-valuable resource’ could they?

As punishment, the good voters of northern Appalachia again voted Republican in the 2004 and 2008 presidential elections. The nation’s second and third-largest coal-producing states (Kentucky and West Virginia) have become the reliable source of Republican presidential votes the Great Plains and Rocky Mountain states have been for generations.

Like battered wives, the mantra of working class conservatives seems to be don’t bite the hand that beats you. Given the institutionalized abuse shown the working class by Republicans, this seems an extraordinarily steep price to pay for gun ownership. Or to protect fetuses until they emerge from the birth canal. Or to impose an angry, hateful God on the population.

Actions still speak louder than words. And I still don’t understand.

Ambushed on Amazon

2010-04-07T08:33:00.015-05:00

I often peruse the book reviews on amazon.com. There, I am refreshed and renewed by the thoughtful and literate discourse that takes place. It’s almost like another country.

I find it enormously heartening whenever my fellow Americans make new and exciting word choices that only rarely combine ‘Obama’ and ‘socialism’.

But all that changed after visiting the page for Michael Lewis’ The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine, a book about the Wall Street cutthroats who savaged our economy for personal gain.

Techies who fancy themselves environmentalists have littered the site with belligerent demands and accusations, most of them centered on either a. Amazon’s b. the author’s or c. the publisher’s refusal to offer the book on Kindle. And how that refusal dooms planet Earth.

Never mind their entertainment options.

As a confirmed business-hater and avowed environmentalist, I would ordinarily pump my fist and yell right alongside them. “Flaming death to the fascist corporate pigs!” Or something like that.

But not this time.

The contradiction is staggering. Traditional books are bad for the environment, but plugging in an electronic device that necessitates repeated charging and uses a stream of disposable batteries is somehow good for it?

Okay. Let me get my Shirley Temple on so I can deny the visions of coal-fired power plants in my mind, too.

Maybe I’m too cynical. I admit to viewing technology through the jaded eyes of one whom has seen—and heard—way too much breathless, this-is-gonna-change-the-world hyperbole. The last thing I owned that lived up to its brochure was my 1991 Honda Civic.

In addition to the technology itself, I’m also a mite skeptical of people who unblinkingly embrace it as a panacea.

It was noneother than Groucho Marx who wrote that technology is the opiate of the people. And when it comes to technology, my money is on the guy who asked “Shall I call a cab or would you like to leave in a huff?”

On the other hand, perhaps it’s ignorance. Sheer, dumb-as-fuck ignorance. I mean, maybe it is just that simple. Plug in, log on and save the planet from imminent apocalypse. I don’t know.

Mostly, I think it’s a collective shriek from the Twitchy Nation, caught in the spasms of tech-denial. It’s these very circumstances that provoke their greatest and most hideous fear: techlessness.

I’m sure it’s in the Constitution somewhere that you should never have to live life in real-time. Ever.

Well, logging off now. I’m re-reading Walden. And yes, it’s available on Kindle.

Undateable

2010-04-01T10:04:00.014-05:00

One of the nice things about getting older is the sense of perspective you gain. With fifty-some years under my belt, I have seen lots of change; both the evolutionary and devolutionary kind.

So when Undateable: 311 Things Guys Do That Guarantee They Won’t Be Dating or Having Sex came out, I was struck by its similarity to the things feminists railed against in the late-sixties and seventies. The things they called sexist and chauvinistic and misogynist. The things they charged were shallow and demeaning.

Authors Ellen Rakieten and Anne Coyle go into excruciating detail about what guys should and shouldn’t wear. About what they should and shouldn’t say, do, or presumably, think. It’s everything a guy needs to know about being the perfect guy—especially if you find yourself attracted to one of its authors.

Undateable states that women draw far-reaching conclusions about compatibility in the first fifteen to twenty seconds of meeting a man. Afterwards, the window inexorably closes. While you and I have been taught you can’t (and shouldn’t) judge a book by its cover, apparently Rakieten and Coyle can.

Speaking as a man who didn’t always make good first impressions (I was shy and socially awkward), and yet as one who enjoyed his share of female friends and lovers, I can state this absolutely is not true. If it were, I would be Rush Limbaugh.

The reason I am not is that as sentient life forms, women possess the ability to adapt and update their impressions as more data is made available. Which is a very clinical way of saying they have the ability to change their minds. They are flexible.

Beyond their intellectual agility, women (at least those not named Rakieten and Coyle) just aren’t as fixated on appearances as men are. While this doesn’t excuse men from being slovenly and unhygienic, should tube socks really consign them to the sexless and permanent bachelorhood Undateable says they should?

Ultimately, Undateable and its authors come-off as the female equivalent of men who judge women against Playboy centerfolds—even when they’re not seventeen. It, and they, are immature; obsessed with appearances and the status a prospective partner can bring to their own unfulfilled lives.

A philosopher once stated that we become what we hate. Insofar as Undateable is concerned, he seems to be correct.

Cake

2010-03-28T16:43:00.006-05:00

You’re pretty sure it’s not January anymore because the grey, rutted pavement outside your apartment window is no longer stained with road salt. But it’s still as cold as a stripper’s smile. And the trees are just as bare. The sky is stuck on the color of lead, and your neighborhood resembles a Soviet-era housing block.

You let the curtain fall back over the window and head to the kitchen. There are three cans of diet soda, a tub of margarine and some chicken stock in the fridge. Eggs. Some wilted green onions in the vegetable drawer. But no coffee. You’re cold and tired and irritable. Yes, life can really suck sometimes. Deeply and truly suck.

It sucks like one of those five-hundred dollar Dyson vacuums that remove dirt you can’t see at a price you can’t afford. Life is seemingly all four AM hip-hop and malfunctioning appliances and sick family and a looming sense of hopelessness. A sinister and nocturnal parade of problems that take your closed eyes as a signal to begin.

There is a cup of coffee left in the coffeemaker, and you heat it in the microwave. Luckily, the microwave still works. You don’t take things like this for granted anymore. You log on to the computer, which also still works. You’re in the middle of a 261-question personality inventory when it happens.

A small plate appears, held by two delicate hands. On the plate rests a still life; a confection of sliced apple and raisins and bits of walnut sautéed in butter and rum and lightly dusted with cinnamon. A fork is offered. You take it.

Your taste buds swim in a sea of flavor, delving through layers of them, one after the other. Each is vibrant and clear. Your eyes convey the questioning of one not able to cook with such delicacy. She smiles. “It’s good?” she asks.

You kiss her. You’re afraid to hug her as hard as you want to because you’re afraid she’ll break. (The washing machine already has.) You hold her and close your eyes, feeling her against you. You kiss her hair and feel the soft warmth of it against your face.

If only you and her could just be. If only all you had to do was hold her and kiss her and watch her eyes go wide with a child-like sense of wonder you have mostly lost. Something wells up in your throat.

You love her. This woman who gives a fuck about you when it seems the rest of the world is doing its best to throw you away.

In a spasm of optimism, you buy a lottery ticket later that day. Rather predictably, it is not a winner. But you’re lucky. You likely are luckier than you realize.

Interviewing

2010-03-22T08:31:00.022-05:00

Interviews don’t happen very often. When they do, you greet them with the frantic enthusiasm of a plane crash survivor after nine days of tree bark and melted snow. You review your favorite advice and conduct imaginary ones. You sizzle. You shine. You’re slaying them.

Then the interview happens.

They’re like the outdoor skating rinks you frolicked on as a child. The ones with the patch of frozen (and exposed) dirt. Everything is going along swimmingly until you hit the part without ice.

Technically, you’re capable of thinking on your feet. You do it all the time at the supermarket. But it’s a different story when you’re sitting in someone's office.

The last interview was in late-February. You girded your loins and convinced yourself you really wanted the job at an inner city blood bank. You were stoked like one of those old coal-fired locomotives.

You cleared the first hurdle, which was not answering the salary question with a number, but by responding that you were open and that it was negotiable. Check.

Next was the waiting. The interview was scheduled for ten, but it’s ten-twenty and you’re still eyeballing the characters shuffling in and out of the lobby. This is a test. Stay focused. You want this. Go get it. Check.

A technician in a white lab coat reads your name off a clip board like she’s reading the ingredients of processed cheese spread: Monosodium Glutamate, Artificial Coloring, La Piazza Gancio.

You stand. You follow the technician through the security doors, the lab and all the way to the back and an office on the right. There, a small man with a limp handshake asks you to sit down.

He starts the interview by asking you to tell him about yourself. Which you do, eagerly reciting the relevant experience of your life, education and work in tidy sound bites John Boehner (R-OH) would be proud of.

You remember to imbue your words with inflections that impart enthusiasm and a positive outlook. Check.

When you’re finished, he looks up from his desk. He asks you if you have any concerns about working with and around blood. Syringes. Stuff like that. Are you squeamish? Will you faint? Are you prone to vomiting?

Hoping to tread the fine line between appearing as a third-rate vampire and as someone with a less-than-stellar constitution, you respond that you are—quite literally—full of it and have a healthy regard for the role it plays in what has been until then your body’s ongoing functionality.

He looks up from the papers on his desk, holds up his hand and says “No joke. No joke. This is serious stuff.” and looks back down. You realize "No" would have sufficed. Strike one.

He goes on to explain the company, the training, and the job. You ask interested questions. He asks about your education again. He asks you where you are currently working, and whether they may be contacted for a reference. You respond that you are seeking employment.

“You’re unemployed? For how long?” You tell him. There is a long silence. The mood in the room is changing. He continues to scrutinize the papers on his desk. The part in his hair is remarkably straight.

Without sounding desperate, you remind him you are volunteering at ___________, and are learning new computer skills while you reinforce existing ones at the local community college. You are keeping busy, staying productive.

It's not enough. This is a deal-breaker. Your words disappear without a trace into a stony, impenetrable silence. The man with the limp handshake is ending the interview.

You hear an umpire call strikes two and three as he dials an assistant on the telephone and asks her to show you the remainder of the lab. Which is just a nice way of showing you the door.

You’re fuming as she outlines the operations. You try and ask pertinent questions.

But your head is swimming. Why didn't the man with the handshake see your resume? Why wasn't the person who set-up the interview the same person who conducted the interview? Why didn't the people involved consult with each other and decide what he/she/they were looking for in a candidate before they wasted their/your time?

Your girlfriend tries to cheer you by noting that working for a humorless paper-shuffler like the man who interviewed you would have been a perpetual struggle. And that anyone so obsessed with one aspect of an applicant is, to put it nicely, a little dim.

All true.

But you’re still jobless. You have no money. You are staggered by the realization that everything you are, everything you have done, pales in comparison to a job gap. This is what defines you. This is what you are. You have adult-onset cooties.

You wish vile and hideous things upon the man who has punished you for being unemployed. You hope he is soon to understand that unemployment is its own reward. That no further action is required.

Most of all, you hope you survive.

Giving Care

2010-03-16T07:28:00.019-05:00

I guess you could call it reconnecting. After spending time with your father and brother mostly in tidy, digestible six-hour nuggets for the past two or three decades, you’re again living with them. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.

You’ve forgotten how utterly slovenly your brother is. Where the phylum housekeeping is concerned, your brother is a genus unto himself, with no known connection to the remainder of mankind.

You wonder why there are two rolls of toilet paper on his bathroom floor, but a bare cardboard cylinder in the wall-mounted dispenser. You wonder what the black stuff is creeping up the sliding glass shower doors. And you wonder what he thinks a towel rack is for after you spy a mound of towels (interspersed with dirty laundry) heaped on the bathroom counter.

The ring of facial hair that circles the sink is revolting. Your regard for humanity prohibits you from detailing the condition of the toilet.

You peer into his bedroom. After successfully locating a government-issue Haz-Mat suit, you venture inside. You find yourself subconsciously developing a business plan for a second-hand clothing store after taking in the closets-full of clothing strewn about. You believe this room is carpeted, but are unable to find a patch of floor not covered by the ephemera that has fallen, leaf-like, from the tree of your brother’s life.

The back-up discs for your computer’s operating system that you have carefully stored in paper sleeves within a small file box, your brother has seen fit to let lie where they fell or were dropped. They lie alongside the CD-Rs of music you laborously compiled and labeled for his listening enjoyment, and innumerable discs of once-important data. Some are even unscratched.

There is enough change on the floor to buy a new car. You want to pick it up and pocket it, but the Haz-Mat suit prohibits this. And the laundry hamper your sister bought and labeled with a sign reading DIRTY CLOTHES GO HERE stands empty, forlorn like a clearance-priced Christmas ornament that has lingered into late-January.

Yet he won’t touch the sponge in the kitchen sink, and instead grabs three or four dozen paper towels to gingerly, almost delicately, wipe the remains of a lasagna dinner from his dinner plate because he knows, with unshakeable certainty, that the sponge is laden with deadly bacteria and fatal viruses.

Upon getting up in the morning, you can trace the path of his nocturnal eating forays by the trail of cellophane, half-empty cookie boxes, glasses and empty soda containers scattered throughout the house. Albert Einstein would reportedly become so involved in his calculations he would forget to eat. You aren’t that lucky.

You find tolerance more-easily for your father, he having recently survived a year in C-diff hell, the installation of a pacemaker, unsuccessful knee-replacement surgeries and the mild dementia that is the byproduct of his advancing years.

Yet you are forcibly returned to adolescence when you take him to the doctor, and discover anew his ability to discern upcoming potholes, road debris and to measure the distance between you and the car ahead of you. Without access to the speedometer, he can assess your speed and the threat it poses to Western Civilization. Even more remarkably, he can calculate the g-forces you generate as you corner and brake.

After several trips, you are tempted to suggest that he seek employment with a car magazine, as his ability to perform these calculations internally would surely save them a great deal of money on testing equipment.

Then there is the issue of food. It is a big one. Your father, being the product of a certain generation, is essentially helpless in the kitchen. Conversely, he lives to eat. This creates a sizeable quandary when, for the first time in your parent’s marriage, your mother is hospitalized.

But between hospital visits, setting-up in-home after care, shopping, chauffeuring, cleaning and fielding a myriad of phone calls, all while trying to perform a job search and maintain a suddenly long-distance relationship, you are only marginally inclined towards cooking. By dinner time, a bottle of beer and a frozen entrée are pretty much all you’re able to muster. You wonder how your mom did it.

While your vision of hell frequently involves either employment or the lack of it, your father’s is nine straight days of prepared food. Soon, his stoicism turns to grousing and finally, a form of pleading which wears the unmistakable scent of desperation. You relent and dine out. You make a mental note to at least sprinkle some basil and tomato on the next frozen pizza.

You smile at the irony of having told your father, in the gentlest manner possible, that money doesn't grow on trees.

But you eventually realize it’s not all fear of sponges and back seat driving. Evening frequently finds the three of you together in the quiet repose of a good book, or held captive in the flickering light of an absorbing movie. It is an experience not frequently known, and one that silently joins the three of you.

Certain personality traits have resisted time, like the cap rock atop mesas and buttes. They endure, like stubborn sentrys. You make your peace with them, because they are you, and you are them.

In the end, you are needed. And you are grateful.

Dear Citibank

2010-02-19T11:04:00.013-06:00

Mr. Ken Stork
3545 S. Spencer Blvd.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
57103

February 19, 2010

Dear Mr. Stork,

I received your letter detailing the important changes to my Citibank MasterCard recently. You cite the rising cost of doing business as the primary reason I’m being hit with a sixty-dollar annual fee. In the interest of fairness, I should add that you have also provided a generous option—you will negate the annual fee if I will just charge $2,400.00 a year to my Citibank MasterCard.

Somewhere, Mother Teresa is weeping.

The rising cost of doing business. Hmmm. I’m pretty sure you’re not giving raises to the poor folk who man your phones. And I doubt the cost of paper and plastic and telephone service has increased sufficiently to warrant this charge. No, I think there’s something else going on here. I think Citibank is in a snit about the passage of the Credit Card Accountability, Responsibility and Disclosure Act. I think Citibank is looking to offset the twenty-six billion dollars it sunk into sub-prime loans.

I mean, I’m sorry about that, guys. Really. It couldn’t have been easy. It’s like totally embarrassing. But as much as I’d like to cut you a sixty-dollar check for the privilege of stuffing your card in my wallet, I’m out of work right now. And I expect to be for some time. You see, I’m one of those people you might have heard about on the news. I’m a government statistic. And um, I blame you.

Remember how you guys played around with accounting methodology to disguise losses in order to boost share prices? Well, I like to play around with methodology, too. And the way I see it, you owe me. You and AIG and the Bank of America and Countrywide and Goldman-Sachs and all the other cunts who have sentenced millions of innocent people to suffer the ravages of unemployment.

Were my sexual orientation different, perhaps I wouldn’t be made so, um, uncomfortable by this offer. But as someone who wants only to be self-supporting and is being denied that opportunity as a direct result of your greed and your irresponsibility, I am just a little bit pissed.

So. You want sixty bucks a year from me so you can charge outlandish interest rates and hit up the retailers, wholesalers and anyone else I purchase something from with your outrageous processing fees.

I don’t possess an MBA from the Wharton School of Business, but even a bumpkin like me can see you’re charging cardholders to hold open the door to Citibank making still more money from vendors. I have to admit, it’s pretty clever. It lends a whole new meaning to 'get them coming and going'.

You've been talking to Bernie Madoff, haven't you?

Of course, I have the option of paying-off my balance every month—which I have been for twenty-four years now. But then I run the risk of becoming—in the inverted parlance of the credit card world—a deadbeat. Someone who doesn’t generate profit-swelling fees and charges. Someone who selfishly looks after their own finances at the expense of corporate ones.

As much as I’d like to participate in the new and improved Citibank, I’m afraid I must decline, Mr. Stork. Whatever your addled view of things, mine is that I’m already paying for Citibank. But thanks for asking.

Sincerely,

La Piazza Gancio

P.S. How appropriate your new policies take effect April 1.

cc: the World Wide Web

How Impunity Happens

2010-02-16T08:57:00.011-06:00

Anthem Blue Cross of California recently announced price-hikes of up to 39% for its subscribers. This after a year in which the largest health care insurers saw their profits rise by 52% over the previous year. This is the midst of the worst economic conditions in eighty years.

It’s as indefensible as it is unconscionable. Health care costs exist so far outside the realm of free-market capitalism they ought to have their own dimension. But this isn’t about health care. It’s about why Anthem Blue Cross of California can do something so brazen, and do it with impunity. And that would be the cost of a political campaign.

The two at first seem unrelated. But they’re not. A line can be drawn between the rising costs of campaigns and the ballooning power of corporate America. In other words, the more expensive it becomes to mount a campaign, the more sway those wielding the checkbooks have.

Campaign costs warp the political process. They inflict more damage than Osama bin Laden ever dreamt of. They reduce politicians to corporate puppets while they deliver an inordinate amount of control to the doorsteps of the wealthy. However lop-sided the power dynamic was a year or two ago, thanks to the recent Supreme Court ruling on Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, it's now a forfeited ballgame just waiting to happen.

In this new world, why shouldn’t Anthem raise its charges 39%? Why not 212%? At least that has a chance of making us boiling mad. With politicians neutered by the cost of campaigning and forced to beg corporations like Anthem for funding, is any other outcome even possible?

What needs to happen is that a third entity—not government, not business—is designated to write new campaign finance reform. Not the Bush-era reform with loopholes a crustacean could pilot a 747 through, but real reform that not only sets limits on what can be spent, but creates a window limiting the time candidates can spend campaigning. And while we’re at it, why not make TV spots within that window free of charge?

When a company like Anthem can stick a gun in the back of its customers in the midst of a ravaged economy like ours, and with health care reform (supposedly) still on the table, something is very, very wrong. Without genuine campaign finance reform, government will continue its transformation into little more than a nuisance for the jackals inhabiting our corporate suites.

Becoming Senator

2010-02-11T15:46:00.006-06:00

The scene is a radio station in a medium-sized town. There, one of the station's hosts prepares to interview a new senatorial candidate. The candidate is nervously reviewing his notes while his campaign manager sits off to the side.

Interviewer: We’re here today with Jonathan Hinder, who has recently announced his intention to run for senator from the state of Abyssia. Good morning. And thank you for coming.

Jonathan Hinder: Thanks for having me.

I: So. Why senator? Why now?

JH: Well, why not? You know, I‘ve been unemployed for over a year, and I’ve got a family to feed. What else was I going to do? (Laughs)

I: Has finding campaign financing been a problem?

JH: It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It was just sitting down with the more, um, influential members of my community and agreeing to, um, ugh…

At this point, JH turns and motions for the campaign manager to approach. The campaign manager does and whispers to JH.

JH: …pay special consideration to their concerns.

I: Does that bother you?

JH: Does what bother me?

I: Well, you give the appearance of having exchanged votes for financial backing.

JH: No. Absolutely not.

I: But…

The campaign manager again approaches JH and whispers in his ear.

JH: This is about meeting with constituents and discussing issues. Nothing more.

I: But…aren’t you supposed to represent all the people in your district?

JH: Of course. And I will be.

I: But if you won, haven’t you agreed to—in your words—give special consideration to those who contributed to your campaign?

JH: No.

I: You don’t see the conflict?

JH: The only conflict I see is a government soft on national security and dedicated to deficit spending.

JH turns to the campaign manager and whispers “Did I get that right?” The manager nods.

I: What made you decide to run as a Republican?

JH turns to the manager before speaking, as if for confirmation.

JH: At the end of the day, I decided it was disadvantageous to run as a Democrat.

I: Could you extrapolate on that?

JH: Here?

I: Yes.

Panicked, JH again summons the campaign manager. The manager whispers in his ear. Relieved, JH turns and resumes the interview.

JH: You had me worried there! That’s normally something I only do in front of my web cam! (Laughs) Oh shi…

The campaign manager explodes out of his chair and approaches the interviewer. After much gesturing and heated whispering, the interviewer reluctantly agrees to have the last comment edited from the broadcast. The interview continues.

I: What made you decide to run as a Republican?

JH: When you run as a Democrat, people expect you to have ideas and solutions. It’s different when you run as a Republican. I mean, when was the last time you heard a Republican being asked how he was going to end poverty? (Laughs) As a Republican, all you’re expected to do is keep things the way they are. It’s kind of like being a bookmark. People have different expectations of Republicans than they do of Democrats. I mean, look at Michele Bachmann. (Laughs) Wait. That came out wrong. Can we do it over?

I: No.

There is another prolonged meeting between JH and the campaign manager. JH resumes the interview with a new sense of confidence.

JH: No bail-outs for banks and big business. That’s the direction I’m taking this campaign in.

I: Do you support the Republican strategy of obstructionism?

JH: We’re the Party of No.

I: You’re not troubled by the consequences of congressional inaction?

JH: People know who we are, and what we stand for.

I: So it’s a good thing to be known as the Party of No?

JH: Yes.

I: Why?

JH turns and motions for the campaign manager to approach. They have yet-another extended conversation. The interviewer is clearly irritated.

I (Sarcastically): Do you need to phone a friend?

JH: No, no. Um, we know what the American people want. They’re tired of long, drawn-out debates. They’re tired of waiting. Americans don’t like politics. They don’t want to think about them—they just want to move on to the next thing. Americans want fast, easy answers. And we’re here to give that to them. It’s like Greyhound used to say: “Leave the driving to us”. That’s what America wants. It wants us to do the driving, and it just wants to curl up and not wake up until they reach L.A.

I: Interesting.

JH: Yep.

I: Finally, critics charge Republicans are indeed the party of no. No ideas, no direction and no clue. What is your response?

JH: We know what America wants to hear. And that’s all you need to know.

Pulling the Plug on Electric Cars

2010-02-11T11:03:00.001-06:00

Don’t get me wrong—I’m very encouraged by the research and development being done on electric cars. There’s so much to like about them; they’re quiet, don’t emit any greenhouse gases and are quickly attaining speeds and ranges that rival traditional gasoline-powered cars.

But there’s this one, nagging question that no one seems to be asking: Where is all the electricity going to come from?

Power plants are notorious polluters. They burn prodigious amounts of coal, produce tons of nuclear waste and expel hydro-carbons like there’s no tomorrow. Which, if electric cars ever achieve the market penetration internal combustion ones have, there may not be.

Were our electric plants solar or wind or hydro-powered, all would be well. But this is far from true. Before we commit to electric cars, shouldn’t we figure out where all the electricity is going to come from first?

Job Hunting

2010-02-04T09:00:00.031-06:00

One of the more entertaining aspects of unemployment is to watch the evolving language employers use to separate job seekers from actual employment. The newest and most-popular example is ‘recent’. As in “Recent experience in the field of…” Or “Recent employment as a…”

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate being reduced to the last, unwanted slice of meat on a buffet tray as much as the next guy.

But I have questions. Namely, if I’ve cooled-off to the point that ‘recent’ indicates I have, do I still need anti-perspirant? And what are the first signs of hypothermia?

Like high school princesses, employers ask for the moon with every expectation of getting it. They’re like totally hot. And just a wee bit precious.

This auto dealership is looking for a car jockey. For those unfamiliar with the profession, a car jockey moves cars around a parking lot, brings them into the service area for repair, re-arranges them to make room for new arrivals, etc. It’s a nice summer job for a high school kid, with the added perk of being able to tell your friends you drove a 370-Z today.

The dealer seeks “A self-starter who is good in (sic) taking direction with the ability to inspire others.” Hmmm. Exactly how do you quantify 'inspire' on an application? Collegiate football championships coached? Converts to Christianity? Former students who went on to become doctors? And is a driver's license important?

Then there are the reams of part-time and temp-to-hire positions. Like a famous cartoon character, I enjoy carrots. But I prefer mine on a plate, not dangling from a stick wielded by a fickle and capricious employer.

This start-up announced its intention to seek a part-time, temp-to-hire “Customer Adovcate (sic). Candidates’ (sic) that we pursue:

Have a burning desire to solve problems via phone and email
Are a (sic) creative and analytical thinkers
Have volunteer attitudes and always go the extra mile
Are team players as well as independent thinkers”

Before I spontaneously combust, how does the term ‘volunteer attitudes’ relate to your pay scale? And secondly, isn’t that last item an oxymoron? You know, like Fox News, bad sex and Detroit Lions Professional Football Club?

What do you think the likelihood is that a person embracing both these traits might be suffering from a multiple-personality disorder? Someone in a Dilbert cartoon once said “It’s hard to think outside the box when you work in one.” Do you read Dilbert?

Of course, the beauty of this is that we learn from everything. All experiences have something to teach us. And this is what I’ve learned: One, turn off spell-check. And two, stop thinking. It’s just making things more difficult.

Putting the Brakes on Unintended Acceleration

2010-02-03T08:53:00.009-06:00

Is it just me, or is the brouhaha over Toyota’s gas pedals becoming just a little overheated? Is Toyota's behavior really that unusual? And do sticky accelerators really spell the end of civilization as we know it?

Looking back to a time when Pintos were turning American streets into spontaneous Fourth of July celebrations, did Ford erect ‘Don’t Buy This Car!' billboards? And when their Explorers were shredding Firestone tires like CIA documents, did Ford put up a web site to broadcast the fact?

No.

Granted, crashing into a store front is traumatic. Especially when a Grande Mocha Latté is involved. Yet when I think of all the things that could conceivably go wrong while driving (loss of steering, fire, brake failure, the wheels falling off), unintended acceleration is pretty far down the list of automotive fears.

Fact is, I’m more afraid of the puffed-up tough guy in the black Dodge Ram riding my bumper because I’m only going five miles over the speed limit, or of the dolly texting her BFF about her nail salon experience from behind the wheel of her Jeep Cherokee than I am of unintended acceleration. That’s because a sticky accelerator is so easily remedied.

Even as a spastic seventeen-year-old learning how to drive, I knew that putting a car in neutral while the engine revved way too fast for the icy street it was on would disengage the transmission and keep it under control. Not to sound chilly, but didn’t this occur to a single soul driving an impacted Toyota? How about standing on that big ol’ pedal to the left of the one that sticks? Or turning the key to ‘off’?

Based on extensive personal experience, I’ll speculate that if a sizeable percentage hadn’t had their hands (not to mention their attention spans) all over a cell phone, mascara brush, burrito, lap top, Blackberry, cup of coffee, cigarette lighter, etc. and were actually focused on driving, a solution might have come to them before a crash did.

I'm not looking to absolve Toyota of blame. I suspect they got a little too caught-up in surpassing GM as the world’s largest car-maker, and skipped some steps while abandoning their traditional quality-first business model. But maybe—just maybe—we should consider only driving when we’re driving.

I’m well-aware this notion flies in the face of our national obsession with multi-tasking, and that it won’t prevent an accelerator from sticking. But it might just keep us engaged, and as a consequence, closer to corrective action than abject panic.

It's 2018. Do You Know Where Your Democracy Is?

2010-01-29T16:02:00.016-06:00

Last week, the Supreme Court awarded an inanimate object—business—the rights of a human being. The upshot is that this entity now has the ability to exert unlimited influence on elections.

Taken to its logical extreme, last Thursday’s Supreme Court ruling could reduce the US to a corporate-run business state. Only the appearance of a democracy will remain. PR and image are still important, regardless of the truth. Or perhaps because of it.

The scene is 2018. The setting is the office of Tom Politician, incumbent senator. He has just received a visitor, a henchman from the Deity Group known as Jack Business.

TP: Jack.

JB: Tom.

TP: What can I do for you?

JB: You know what you can do for me, Tom.

Tom winces a bit, pauses.

TP: The public was on me. I had to throw ‘em a bone.

JB: Is that the best you can do?

TP: They were watching me. I had to do something.

JB: This is a very disturbing trend, Tom.

TP: It was just one vote.

JB: That’s not why we back you.

TP: I had no choice!

Jack says nothing, and circles Tom’s office slowly. He lets the silence weigh on Tom.

JB: You always have a choice.

Tom sighs, runs his hand through his hair.

JB: We require complete compliance. And now we feel like we didn’t get what we needed from you. And that makes us angry.

TP: I've removed labor statutes. I've dissolved regulatory agencies. Consumer protections don’t exist anymore. I've derailed greenhouse gases legislation and sidetracked clean energy initiatives. I’ve done everything you asked. Jesus Christ! You guys can sell poison and call it chocolate milk and no one can do a damn thing about it! What the fuck do you want?

JB: You have done a good job for us, Tom. And that’s why we’re so disappointed. It’s the burden of great expectations.

TP: I can’t vote the way you want one-hundred percent of the time. I’m being watched.

JB: By who?

TP: The public!

JB: They’re nothing to worry about. You know that.

TP: You don’t understand. They know what’s going on.

JB: This isn’t a debate, Tom. Vote the way we tell you to or you’ll have a very well-funded opponent next election.

TP: You don’t get it, Jack. This isn’t 2010 anymore. The VR games, the I-phones, the five-hundred channels of 3D permeable video don’t mean anything to them. They know what happened, and they're angry. You forget that I hear them—uncensored.

JB: This is a bad time to get a conscience, Tom.

TP: Look, don’t listen to me. But I’m telling you—something’s going on. They’ve figured you out.

JB: Soft control would only last so long. We knew that. It’s evolution. It’s inevitable. And we’re prepared. Our social engineers are preparing new controls now.

TP: So everything’s fine, eh?

JB: The question you need to ask is what side you want to be on, Tom. Control or controlled?

TP: Every empire has its rise and fall.

JB: Been reading the history books again?

TP: Maybe you should learn to read and take a look at one sometime. What goes up, must come down.

JB: I’m glad you understand that, Tom. We’ll be in touch.

Can I Tell You Something, Mr. President?

2010-01-28T07:16:00.020-06:00

Dear Mr. President,

I have to confess—you are a mystery to me. A conundrum wrapped in an enigma. You ran one of the more inspiring campaigns in recent memory, yet your presidency thus far has been a confusing and contradictory one.

Following in the disastrous wake of the Bush administration, you have too-often sought Republican approval; even after the electorate made it clear they wanted a clean break from Republicans and Republican policies. Even after Republicans have repeatedly made it clear they had no intention whatsoever of siding with you on anything, you have continued to solicit their support.

The latest example is your tragically-flawed proposal of freezing government spending. Tell me Mr. President: Isn’t the spending freeze instituted by anxious consumers over the past sixteen months proof-enough this does not work? That this is a very bad idea? If not to appease Republican critics, exactly what is the reason for this?

The goal of bipartisanship you cited during your inauguration was a noble one. It is one likely beyond criticism. The ugly truth is this, Mr. President: You could have invented sex, and Republicans would only say they got screwed. Once and for all: Republicans are not your friends.

But that’s only the beginning.

There’s the wayward mess that are congressional Democrats. I’m wondering if they could agree on how many shoes human beings wear, much less on how to best govern a nation listing like a sinking ship. You’re the boss, Mr. President. You're the coach. Congressional Democrats are your team.

You need to grab your players by the scruff of the neck and tell them the facts of political life: “Listen up. You’re going to the sacrificial altar of re-election before I am. You want to come back to your cushy government job? Or do you want to go back to cranking out billable hours and negotiating settlements for people too stupid to know coffee is hot?

You want this job back, we need to get to work. We need to pass meaningful health care reform. Not your reform, or your reform, or your reform. Our reform. We need to show the country we’re not Wall Street’s bitch. Or the bank’s. And we need to expose Republicans for the sorry, reality-TV rejects they are.

If we don’t, we’re all going home. Going home as losers who couldn’t cut it in DC. And we’ll leave the country to those circus freaks on the other side of the aisle. The ones who think leadership is acting like a six-year-old who's just been told he can't go out and play because he didn't finish his vegetables.

Gentlemen, the choice is yours. Which do you prefer?”

There’s an old expression that you dance with them that brung ya. Well Mr. President, it’s time to remember.

Best Regards,

La Piazza Gancio

Lost Causes

2010-01-27T08:20:00.009-06:00

It’s no accident that I’m a Cub fan. Or a fan of bands like the Mekons, who with all the commercial appeal of sandpaper toothbrushes, were forced to nurture record deals like cavemen did embers in cold, dark caves.

I also cottoned enthusiastically to the Pepper Jack Doritos which were recently yanked from production by Frito-Lay, and to the Iguana Foods chile rellenos CostCo no longer sees fit to devote freezer space to.

I rooted for the Arizona Cardinals in last year’s Super Bowl. I voted for Walter Mondale and Michael Dukakis. And in my youth, I wanted to start a record label called St. Jude Records.

In other words, I’m really good at finding lost causes. I gravitate to them. Or maybe it’s the other way ‘round. While disliking salmon, I instinctively swim upstream in my pursuit of embracing the unpopular and hoping for the impossible.

This would probably be a good time to announce I’m also a Democrat. It has finally dawned on me that this is the political equivalent of being a Cub fan. And a Mekons fan. And all that other stuff I mentioned. It is part of a pattern.

In 2006, Republicans threatened to kill the filibuster if Democrats didn't withdrawal their opposition to Bush Supreme Court appointee John Roberts. In exchange for letting the filibuster live, Democrats swallowed their opposition to Roberts and approved his nomination.

Seen through the lens of 2010, it is an irony of epic proportions. It’s on the scale of Michael Jackson’s 2009 CD sales. Or my employment gap. It's huge. Enormous. Titanic. It's staggering to realize both owe their existence to Democrats.

Imagine our current crop of congressional Republicans without the threat of the filibuster. Or the Supreme Court without John Roberts. Congressional Republicans would only be the noisy eunuchs they are, while John Roberts would be issuing his judgments in an arena where collateral damage was limited.

It’s sowing the seeds of your own destruction on par with the 1969 and 2003 Cubs. Or more appropriately, Tiger Woods. And I haven’t even heard Obama’s State of the Union speech.

Given a choice between inept Democrats and obstructionist Republicans, I’ll take the Pepper Jack Doritos.

Continuity

2010-01-27T06:31:00.004-06:00

In a world that becomes more unrecognizable every day, there is a certain comfort in the realization that some things are as eternal as sunrise and Lego. I speak of the recently-announced Chicago Transit Authority (CTA) fare-hikes and service cuts (the latter of which was cunningly announced after the fare-hikes were approved).

One of the things I relished most about Chicago was its largely-functional network of buses and trains, which allowed you to navigate the city without the hassle and expense of finding a place to store your car at the end of a trip.

Even in the eighties and early-nineties, parking a car was an expensive and time-consuming proposition. The uncluttered ease of arriving at a destination sans automobile was one of life’s small joys. As was catching up on reading and sleep on the way home.

Sadly, the CTA is probably the best argument against government-run health care in the nation. Here is a government entity with a virtual monopoly on public transportation in a metropolitan area of eight million people, yet one which seemingly needs an inhaler at the mere mention of black ink. In the hyphen-happy language of the digital age, the CTA is profit-averse.

Unless you’re one of the unfortunate folks waiting at a slushy bus stop on a grey morning with a wind chill index of about ten, it’s almost the stuff of a Coen Brothers movie, with red ink replacing the blood.

It would be understandable if their monopoly were on curling equipment rentals. Or public appearances by nineties boy band 98 Degrees. But public transportation? In a metropolitan area recently named the third-most congested in the nation? Please.

I suspect the CTA is top-heavy, encrusted with dozens and dozen of politically-expedient appointees who draw six-figure salaries for being able to show up at the same address five days in a row, and not much more. And like our domestic automobile manufacturers, the CTA has perhaps been a tab bit generous to its unionized employees.

The CTA rolls out its bi-annual argument that ridership is declining. But to anyone who’s ever waited on a subway platform, or stood in line at a bus stop only to stand on a bus, this argument is unconvincing. More likely, the CTA is one of the city’s few remaining profit centers, and CTA patrons are paying-off Mayor Daley’s civic excesses, which include his bungled (and very expensive) Olympic bid.

Just when it's needed most, Chicago's public transportation is disappearing. And like so much of what is happening around us, this impacts the poor disproportionately. At the current rate, you have to wonder how much CTA riders will be paying to go nowhere at all. Which, when you think about it, puts CTA customers alongside the CTA itself.

It's 2010. And 1984.

2010-01-21T20:54:00.020-06:00

The legacy of the Bush administration—its Supreme Court appointees—reared its ugly head today and removed the final barrier standing between corporations and complete control of the United States of America.

By declaring that limits on the amount of money corporations could spend on political campaigns were a violation of their first amendment rights, all limits were removed in a five to four decision announced this afternoon by Chief Justice John Roberts.

Tea-baggers should be dancing in the street. The government they despise will soon exist in name only. The government that so rudely butted into their lives by regulating greedy and irresponsible corporations, by establishing schools that educated their children, and which provided state-funded care for their elderly and ill is gone.

To say nothing of that which maintained the pesky inconvenience known as democracy.

In its place will be a corporate state revolving around the pure and unfettered free-market capitalism Republicans—tea-stained or not—have been ruining mattresses over for decades. I stand in awe.

But I have questions. That is, if it’s still okay to ask them.

Number one: Exactly when did corporations become people? And in this world of no-holds-barred corporate rule, how long it will be before corporations decide that paid vacations are an unnecessary intrusion into their profit margins?

How long it will be before corporations opine that health insurance is a waste of valuable capital? And tell me how long it will be before wages are deemed a needless extravagance now that a glutinous, self-centered entity like business wields utter and complete control?

How long will it be before corporations tell you who to vote for? And that what remains of your job depends on your compliance? Do you really believe business wouldn't go that far? Why?

Say hello to 1984, my friends. Only big brother will be Halliburton—not the Party.

I am made speechless by this decision. Have we learned nothing by the repealing of the Glass-Steagall Act, which let the slobbering pigs in our financial and banking sectors free to do whatever they wished, with our gutted carcass of an economy the result?

Left unchallenged, this is the beginning of the end.