So it turns out all those Baby Einstein videos we parents have been showing our infants aren't the panacea we thought them to be. New studies show that children under the age of two should not be watching any video at all, and certainly not those inane puppets set to Mozart and brought to us by the fine folks at Disney. Turns out the videos might even lead to a worsened attention span as children reach school age. Doh!
Threatened by the possibility of a class action lawsuit brought by a group called Campaign For a Commercial-free Childhood, Disney is now offering refunds to parents who have purchased these videos in droves. Parents must be apoplectic, wondering if they have ruined their child's life by force-feeding to them sock puppets set to classical music. What's next? Will studies show that those mechanical mobiles we hung over their crib gives them vertigo? Does allowing them to have a binky make them overly dependent? What is a parent to do?
All I can say is that the one person laughing all the way to the bank is the lady who first thought up the Baby Einstein idea and then sold it to Disney for millions. And for all the parents out there wringing their hands, all I can say is if it's too good to be true, it probably is.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
NFL To Rush: No Thanks
I wrote the other day about Rush Limbaugh's bid to become part owner of my beloved Rams. The next day Dave Checketts, owner of the St. Louis Blues hockey franchise and head of the prospective ownership group, unceremoniously dropped Limbaugh from the group. The hue and cry from fans, active players, NFL Commissioner Goodell, and other owners about Limbaugh's involvement had risen to a fever pitch, and Checketts really had no choice.
What I find interesting about the whole matter is Rush's predictable response. He seems to think this is another example of the "liberal media" and liberals attacking the conservative movement. He thinks some sort of liberal miasma is somehow seeping into the NFL.
On his radio show yesterday, Limbaugh called the NFL "a collection of unhappy, angry, agitated people." He went further, saying "Obama's America is quite possibly going to include the National Football League, and pressure from Obama, the Congressional Black Caucus and other places might be brought to bear on the owners."
Sorry to be the one to point this out Rush, but NFL owners are quite possibly the most conservative collection of men in America. They broadcast their games on Fox Sports, for crying out loud, not exactly a shining example of American liberalism, if you catch my drift.
No, Rush, I don't think the NFL is rife with liberals. In fact, the very reason NFL owners dumped you is their extreme conservatism. They are straight-laced and careful by nature. They don't want anybody rocking the boat. Commentators joke that NFL stands for "No Fun League."
Indeed, Rush, I think most of us see this entire episode for what it is: a shameless attempt to boost your ratings during October sweeps nothing more, nothing less. Go back to your radio show, preaching your vile, racist rants to the converted.
What I find interesting about the whole matter is Rush's predictable response. He seems to think this is another example of the "liberal media" and liberals attacking the conservative movement. He thinks some sort of liberal miasma is somehow seeping into the NFL.
On his radio show yesterday, Limbaugh called the NFL "a collection of unhappy, angry, agitated people." He went further, saying "Obama's America is quite possibly going to include the National Football League, and pressure from Obama, the Congressional Black Caucus and other places might be brought to bear on the owners."
Sorry to be the one to point this out Rush, but NFL owners are quite possibly the most conservative collection of men in America. They broadcast their games on Fox Sports, for crying out loud, not exactly a shining example of American liberalism, if you catch my drift.
No, Rush, I don't think the NFL is rife with liberals. In fact, the very reason NFL owners dumped you is their extreme conservatism. They are straight-laced and careful by nature. They don't want anybody rocking the boat. Commentators joke that NFL stands for "No Fun League."
Indeed, Rush, I think most of us see this entire episode for what it is: a shameless attempt to boost your ratings during October sweeps nothing more, nothing less. Go back to your radio show, preaching your vile, racist rants to the converted.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Rush Limbaugh Is a Big Fat . . . NFL Owner?
As a card-carrying self-avowed liberal as well as long standing Rams fan, I was naturally aghast at the news noted fat blowhard (and Hillbilly Heroin addict) Rush Limbaugh is heading a prospective ownership group trying to buy the Rams.
Good God. Haven't we Rams fans suffered enough? The Rams this year, quite possibly, are fielding the worst NFL team in history. We have no hope of winning, our players merely trying to get out of the stadium each Sunday with a modicum of dignity still intact. The Vikings, whom we play today, are averaging more points per game than we've scored all season. Moreover, other than that short, glorious period when we were known as The Greatest Show On Turf, the Rams have been the laughingstock of the league for over two decades.
Much of that ineptitude, of course, sprang from the wretched ownership of one Georgia Frontiere. Through her penny-pinching ways and inability -- or unwillingness -- to hire good football people to run the team she oversaw a franchise truly remarkable in its ineptitude. Indeed, the Rams are just 5 - 31 since the beginning of the 2007 season. I doubt we could beat USC.
But Frontiere died in January 2008, thereby giving the Ram's legion of long-suffering fans reason for hope. Her children, Chip Rosenbloom and Lucia Rodriguez, inherited controlling interest in the team. They proceeded to shock Ram's fans everywhere by actually hiring experienced football people to remake the front office. Then they lured respected defensive coordinator Steve Spagnuolo away from the Giants to run the team. Spagnuolo cut a lot of dead weight and came up with a respectable first college draft. Yeah, we're still awful, but we're one of the youngest teams in the league, and the guys are playing hard; for the first time in years there seems to be light at the end of the tunnel.
Alas, it appears that light is an oncoming train in the form of Mr. Limbaugh, a fat, reactionary racist who has been paid far too much money to spew his mindless venom over the airwaves all these years. We have a tough time attracting free agents as it is, yet dozens of players have already said they would never consider playing for a team with Limbaugh as owner.
And what of the fans? Could I in good conscience continue to support a team with Mr. Hillbilly Heroin as its titular leader? Politically, I am diametrically opposed to everything for which this soulless man stands. The thought of rooting for this Neanderthal to succeed in anything fills me with a self-loathing that makes my physically ill. Please Mr. Commissioner Goodell, tell me it's not so. Tell me you won't let this happen. Is it too late for me to become a Charger's fan?
Good God. Haven't we Rams fans suffered enough? The Rams this year, quite possibly, are fielding the worst NFL team in history. We have no hope of winning, our players merely trying to get out of the stadium each Sunday with a modicum of dignity still intact. The Vikings, whom we play today, are averaging more points per game than we've scored all season. Moreover, other than that short, glorious period when we were known as The Greatest Show On Turf, the Rams have been the laughingstock of the league for over two decades.
Much of that ineptitude, of course, sprang from the wretched ownership of one Georgia Frontiere. Through her penny-pinching ways and inability -- or unwillingness -- to hire good football people to run the team she oversaw a franchise truly remarkable in its ineptitude. Indeed, the Rams are just 5 - 31 since the beginning of the 2007 season. I doubt we could beat USC.
But Frontiere died in January 2008, thereby giving the Ram's legion of long-suffering fans reason for hope. Her children, Chip Rosenbloom and Lucia Rodriguez, inherited controlling interest in the team. They proceeded to shock Ram's fans everywhere by actually hiring experienced football people to remake the front office. Then they lured respected defensive coordinator Steve Spagnuolo away from the Giants to run the team. Spagnuolo cut a lot of dead weight and came up with a respectable first college draft. Yeah, we're still awful, but we're one of the youngest teams in the league, and the guys are playing hard; for the first time in years there seems to be light at the end of the tunnel.
Alas, it appears that light is an oncoming train in the form of Mr. Limbaugh, a fat, reactionary racist who has been paid far too much money to spew his mindless venom over the airwaves all these years. We have a tough time attracting free agents as it is, yet dozens of players have already said they would never consider playing for a team with Limbaugh as owner.
And what of the fans? Could I in good conscience continue to support a team with Mr. Hillbilly Heroin as its titular leader? Politically, I am diametrically opposed to everything for which this soulless man stands. The thought of rooting for this Neanderthal to succeed in anything fills me with a self-loathing that makes my physically ill. Please Mr. Commissioner Goodell, tell me it's not so. Tell me you won't let this happen. Is it too late for me to become a Charger's fan?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
So I went to my thirtieth high school reunion last Saturday. The good news is that I got to laugh at all the guys with whom I went to school who got fat. The bad news is that they got to laugh at me for losing my hair.
In all seriousness, I had a great time. Facebook may be great for reconnecting with old friends and flames, but nothing beats personal contact. The only problem was that the music was too damned loud. I could hardly converse with anyone, and because the shindig was in the low desert near Palm Springs it was too damned hot (even at 10:00 P.M.), to go outside to talk.
I've aged so much the only people who recognized me were friends with whom I've stayed close and people who know me on Facebook (in fact, even a couple of Facebook friends couldn't figure out who I was without reading my name-tag). I found that a tad disconcerting -- after all, I recognized almost everybody, but then I'm a salesman by trade and have learned to read and recognize people.
I think a total of fourteen of my classmates had died (their names and photos on an "In Memoriam" board at the front of the ballroom). I suspect quite a few more of us will be on that board in ten years -- hopefully I won't be one of them.
In all seriousness, I had a great time. Facebook may be great for reconnecting with old friends and flames, but nothing beats personal contact. The only problem was that the music was too damned loud. I could hardly converse with anyone, and because the shindig was in the low desert near Palm Springs it was too damned hot (even at 10:00 P.M.), to go outside to talk.
I've aged so much the only people who recognized me were friends with whom I've stayed close and people who know me on Facebook (in fact, even a couple of Facebook friends couldn't figure out who I was without reading my name-tag). I found that a tad disconcerting -- after all, I recognized almost everybody, but then I'm a salesman by trade and have learned to read and recognize people.
I think a total of fourteen of my classmates had died (their names and photos on an "In Memoriam" board at the front of the ballroom). I suspect quite a few more of us will be on that board in ten years -- hopefully I won't be one of them.
Friday, September 11, 2009
We Have a New Dove Hunter Among Us
So I just got back from my annual Arizona dove hunt. My eight-year old son joined us for the first time, and, I must say, the apple certainly hasn't fallen far from the tree.
I was a bit worried about taking him. No other children would be there, so he'd have nobody with whom to play. It usually takes us about an hour or so to get our limits; the remainder of our days are filled with naps, beer drinking and lounging around the pool, not exactly fun and games to a tow-headed energetic young man. I waited with a sense of dread for the three words every parent hates to hear: Daddy, I'm bored.
The words were never uttered. Turns out he enjoyed every aspect of the hunt. The first morning he squealed with glee when I knocked down my first bird. He marveled at the dog's amazing ability to locate birds, and was awed when she tracked down a fluttering cripple. He liked helping us clean the doves, and was surprised by the kick of the old 20 gauge single-shot Stevens we let him shoot. He swam for hours, played cards and Yahtzee, and just hung out with us. He seemed pleased we accepted him as one of us, an equal, one of the guys.
I had him call his Mom Monday afternoon. He told her his favorite part was cleaning the doves. "I could see their intestines and heart and lungs, and got blood all over my hands," he said (probably a little more information than his Mom needed). He told her about the beer cans he obliterated with the 20 gauge (his Mom was not pleased, thinking him too young to be handling a gun). He said he really liked eating the deep-fried dove nuggets we had made the night before. He told her how he dispatched cripples by pulling off their heads. I have never been so proud. My ex-wife told me, again, how happy she is we are divorced.
So I've recruited another hunter. My son can't wait to go duck hunting with me in November, and wants to walk the fields with me when we chase peasants and quail this fall. I feel I've passed the torch to the next generation. I didn't think it possible, but my ex-wife is even more unhappy with me than before. All in all, a very successful outing.
I was a bit worried about taking him. No other children would be there, so he'd have nobody with whom to play. It usually takes us about an hour or so to get our limits; the remainder of our days are filled with naps, beer drinking and lounging around the pool, not exactly fun and games to a tow-headed energetic young man. I waited with a sense of dread for the three words every parent hates to hear: Daddy, I'm bored.
The words were never uttered. Turns out he enjoyed every aspect of the hunt. The first morning he squealed with glee when I knocked down my first bird. He marveled at the dog's amazing ability to locate birds, and was awed when she tracked down a fluttering cripple. He liked helping us clean the doves, and was surprised by the kick of the old 20 gauge single-shot Stevens we let him shoot. He swam for hours, played cards and Yahtzee, and just hung out with us. He seemed pleased we accepted him as one of us, an equal, one of the guys.
I had him call his Mom Monday afternoon. He told her his favorite part was cleaning the doves. "I could see their intestines and heart and lungs, and got blood all over my hands," he said (probably a little more information than his Mom needed). He told her about the beer cans he obliterated with the 20 gauge (his Mom was not pleased, thinking him too young to be handling a gun). He said he really liked eating the deep-fried dove nuggets we had made the night before. He told her how he dispatched cripples by pulling off their heads. I have never been so proud. My ex-wife told me, again, how happy she is we are divorced.
So I've recruited another hunter. My son can't wait to go duck hunting with me in November, and wants to walk the fields with me when we chase peasants and quail this fall. I feel I've passed the torch to the next generation. I didn't think it possible, but my ex-wife is even more unhappy with me than before. All in all, a very successful outing.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Some Football Predictions
Another football season is upon us, so it's time for some predictions:
Brett Favre will fail miserably. The Vikings not only will fail to make the Super Bowl, they will fail to make the playoffs. Countless articles will be written detailing the tarnishing of Farvre's legacy, but most of us won't care, because -- if he wants to -- it's his legacy to tarnish.
The Raiders will be better. They may even make the playoffs, despite Al Davis and his dementia.
The Broncos will be a laughingstock. They may have the worst defense in league history, they have no quarterback, and their best wide receiver is a head case.
The Chargers are the biggest shoo-in for a divisional championship ever. If they don't make the playoffs, Norv Turner will get fired and be hung in effigy at Qualcom Stadium.
If Tom Brady stays healthy (and it pains me to write this), the Patriots are a lock to win the Super Bowl.
The Cardinals will repeat as NFC West champions. Kurt Warner is not a fluke; he's going to the Hall of Fame. Look it up: he's won two MVP's, and he's taken three teams to the Super Bowl. They may well go again this year. The Cardinal's defense is underrated, and Larry Fitzgerald is a freak of nature.
The Rams won't make the playoffs, but they will no longer be the weak sisters of the NFC. They have a revamped offensive line, a monster of a tailback, a serviceable defensive backfield, and a new coach who means business. Look for them to win seven or eight games, and become perennial playoff contenders by next season.
The Giants won't make the playoffs, either. Eli Manning winning the Super Bowl a couple of years ago was the biggest fluke in the history of the league.
Seven different punters will hit the scoreboard in Jerry Jones' new stadium, forcing the league to institute the "Jerry Jones rule," mandating a minimum height for Jumbotrons. The Cowboys will again fail to make the postseason, and Tony Romo will start dating Jessica Alba.
I will continue to despise the San Francisco 49'rs, despite the fact they are aweful, are of no consequence and mean nothing at all to the league.
Brett Favre will fail miserably. The Vikings not only will fail to make the Super Bowl, they will fail to make the playoffs. Countless articles will be written detailing the tarnishing of Farvre's legacy, but most of us won't care, because -- if he wants to -- it's his legacy to tarnish.
The Raiders will be better. They may even make the playoffs, despite Al Davis and his dementia.
The Broncos will be a laughingstock. They may have the worst defense in league history, they have no quarterback, and their best wide receiver is a head case.
The Chargers are the biggest shoo-in for a divisional championship ever. If they don't make the playoffs, Norv Turner will get fired and be hung in effigy at Qualcom Stadium.
If Tom Brady stays healthy (and it pains me to write this), the Patriots are a lock to win the Super Bowl.
The Cardinals will repeat as NFC West champions. Kurt Warner is not a fluke; he's going to the Hall of Fame. Look it up: he's won two MVP's, and he's taken three teams to the Super Bowl. They may well go again this year. The Cardinal's defense is underrated, and Larry Fitzgerald is a freak of nature.
The Rams won't make the playoffs, but they will no longer be the weak sisters of the NFC. They have a revamped offensive line, a monster of a tailback, a serviceable defensive backfield, and a new coach who means business. Look for them to win seven or eight games, and become perennial playoff contenders by next season.
The Giants won't make the playoffs, either. Eli Manning winning the Super Bowl a couple of years ago was the biggest fluke in the history of the league.
Seven different punters will hit the scoreboard in Jerry Jones' new stadium, forcing the league to institute the "Jerry Jones rule," mandating a minimum height for Jumbotrons. The Cowboys will again fail to make the postseason, and Tony Romo will start dating Jessica Alba.
I will continue to despise the San Francisco 49'rs, despite the fact they are aweful, are of no consequence and mean nothing at all to the league.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Great American Dove Hunt
It's that time of year, when all thoughts (for me) turn to hunting. Come Saturday afternoon I'll again be making the trek to beautiful Dateland Arizona for our annual dove hunt.
In a new twist, I'll be dragging my eight-year old along for his first experience at a hunting camp. He seems to be excited, and looking forward to finding out what this "hunting" thing is all about. Of course, he doesn't yet realize it entails waking at crazy-thirty and venturing out in the dark to reach the dove fields. He doesn't yet understand that, despite unseasonably "cool" weather, the low for this weekend's forecast is 80, and that we'll spend every waking moment we're not in the field in a swimming pool so warm it feels like a bath. He certainly doesn't yet comprehend his days could well be filled with interminable boredom. I don't care. I want to hunt, so I'm taking him anyway.
I'm guessing he'll find the actual hunt exciting. The staccato of the shotgun blasts, the dogs racing for the retrieves, my friend Chris swearing as he misses another crossing shot at the zig-zagging, dive-bombing doves. That part will be fine. It's the hours afterward about which I worry.
I'm bringing his bow and his BB gun, and we'll let him shoot Chris' Remington 1100 20 gauge (I sure hope my son's Mom hasn't found this blog), a sweet-shooting, forgiving gun. He'll have his video game to play, and I'm sure we'll have some spirited card games and some Yahtzee tournaments. I hope he likes the flavor of dove; some find it gamey after a life-long diet of the pablum most supermarkets pass off as meat.
I do know I've never looked forward to a dove camp so much. I hope my son has a good time, and a good remembrance. I hope he doesn't tell his Mom his Dad drinks too much beer. And I hope he doesn't melt in the heat.
In a new twist, I'll be dragging my eight-year old along for his first experience at a hunting camp. He seems to be excited, and looking forward to finding out what this "hunting" thing is all about. Of course, he doesn't yet realize it entails waking at crazy-thirty and venturing out in the dark to reach the dove fields. He doesn't yet understand that, despite unseasonably "cool" weather, the low for this weekend's forecast is 80, and that we'll spend every waking moment we're not in the field in a swimming pool so warm it feels like a bath. He certainly doesn't yet comprehend his days could well be filled with interminable boredom. I don't care. I want to hunt, so I'm taking him anyway.
I'm guessing he'll find the actual hunt exciting. The staccato of the shotgun blasts, the dogs racing for the retrieves, my friend Chris swearing as he misses another crossing shot at the zig-zagging, dive-bombing doves. That part will be fine. It's the hours afterward about which I worry.
I'm bringing his bow and his BB gun, and we'll let him shoot Chris' Remington 1100 20 gauge (I sure hope my son's Mom hasn't found this blog), a sweet-shooting, forgiving gun. He'll have his video game to play, and I'm sure we'll have some spirited card games and some Yahtzee tournaments. I hope he likes the flavor of dove; some find it gamey after a life-long diet of the pablum most supermarkets pass off as meat.
I do know I've never looked forward to a dove camp so much. I hope my son has a good time, and a good remembrance. I hope he doesn't tell his Mom his Dad drinks too much beer. And I hope he doesn't melt in the heat.
More Random Thoughts
Well, turns out Michael Jackson may have been murdered, but the knuckleheads at LAPD may have butchered the prosecution because they failed to secure the crime scene. Why am I not surprised? And for the love of God, will they please plant this guy in the ground.
I don't know if the rest of the world realizes this, but Southern California is on fire again. The so-called "Station Fire" has burned over 120,000 acres and fifty structures. That's almost 200 square miles. There are fires burning in Azusa Canyon, Yucaipa and in the San Jacinto Mountains. And it's not even fire season yet; the notorious Santa Ana winds haven't yet reared their ugly head. I fear things are going to get even nastier than usual this year. This is supposed to be an El Nino year -- mudslides are sure to follow. And we're over-due for a quake on the San Andreas. The four horsemen are at our door.
Why are hot dogs sold in packs of ten, but hot dog buns in packs of eight? You have to buy four packs of hot dogs and five packs of buns to make it work. And then some eight-year old eats a hot dog without a bun and ruins the whole dichotomy.
Why do people feel they have to come to a complete stop to make a right turn? And why do they have to do it from the middle of the street? Why can't any one figure out how a four-way stop works? Driving is not rocket science, people.
Orange County just spent six months putting in a right turn lane at the intersection of Rose and Imperial Highway. A month later they've torn up Imperial to resurface. Couldn't they have done all this at once? Our taxpayer dollars at work.
While I'm at it, the City of La Habra spent eight months putting in a bus stop and fancy crosswalks at the intersection of La Habra and Harbor. The fancy crosswalks are about six inches above the roadway -- they "improved" things by putting speed bumps in a perfectly good intersection. If I'm ever elected God I'll immediately put an end to such "civic improvements."
Former beauty queen Carrie Prejean has sued Miss California officials for libel. Seems she won't be able to testify at the trial because her foot is so firmly planted in her mouth. Will somebody please make this woman go away?
I don't know if the rest of the world realizes this, but Southern California is on fire again. The so-called "Station Fire" has burned over 120,000 acres and fifty structures. That's almost 200 square miles. There are fires burning in Azusa Canyon, Yucaipa and in the San Jacinto Mountains. And it's not even fire season yet; the notorious Santa Ana winds haven't yet reared their ugly head. I fear things are going to get even nastier than usual this year. This is supposed to be an El Nino year -- mudslides are sure to follow. And we're over-due for a quake on the San Andreas. The four horsemen are at our door.
Why are hot dogs sold in packs of ten, but hot dog buns in packs of eight? You have to buy four packs of hot dogs and five packs of buns to make it work. And then some eight-year old eats a hot dog without a bun and ruins the whole dichotomy.
Why do people feel they have to come to a complete stop to make a right turn? And why do they have to do it from the middle of the street? Why can't any one figure out how a four-way stop works? Driving is not rocket science, people.
Orange County just spent six months putting in a right turn lane at the intersection of Rose and Imperial Highway. A month later they've torn up Imperial to resurface. Couldn't they have done all this at once? Our taxpayer dollars at work.
While I'm at it, the City of La Habra spent eight months putting in a bus stop and fancy crosswalks at the intersection of La Habra and Harbor. The fancy crosswalks are about six inches above the roadway -- they "improved" things by putting speed bumps in a perfectly good intersection. If I'm ever elected God I'll immediately put an end to such "civic improvements."
Former beauty queen Carrie Prejean has sued Miss California officials for libel. Seems she won't be able to testify at the trial because her foot is so firmly planted in her mouth. Will somebody please make this woman go away?
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Happiness
I guess I'm lucky; I hit what I consider to have been my "mid-life crisis" when I was still in my thirties. It was then that I figured out what is, for me, the key to happiness: figure out what it is you really like to do, and do it as often as humanly possible. When you can't, then spend as much time as possible dreaming of and planning for what it is you really like to do.
For me, this means spending time outdoors. I'm never as happy as when I'm outside; hunting, fishing, backpacking, even just sitting on a stream bank watching the water flow or watching the dog swim in a back-country lake. It relaxes me and makes me feel whole. It is when I approach and experience almost total satisfaction in body and mind.
Don't get me wrong -- I have a career and I work hard. Fortunately, as an outside sales person I have lots of down time driving from town to town to see my customers, so I have a lot of time to dream and plan my next backpacking or hunting or fishing adventure. When I'm at home I spend most of my spare time pouring over maps, reading guidebooks, checking out outdoor-related web sites, reloading shotgun shells or tying flies.
Of course, my ex-wife though me a bit obsessive, which may explain why I'm not married any more. But I'm happy -- at least most of the time -- and to me that's what is most important.
For me, this means spending time outdoors. I'm never as happy as when I'm outside; hunting, fishing, backpacking, even just sitting on a stream bank watching the water flow or watching the dog swim in a back-country lake. It relaxes me and makes me feel whole. It is when I approach and experience almost total satisfaction in body and mind.
Don't get me wrong -- I have a career and I work hard. Fortunately, as an outside sales person I have lots of down time driving from town to town to see my customers, so I have a lot of time to dream and plan my next backpacking or hunting or fishing adventure. When I'm at home I spend most of my spare time pouring over maps, reading guidebooks, checking out outdoor-related web sites, reloading shotgun shells or tying flies.
Of course, my ex-wife though me a bit obsessive, which may explain why I'm not married any more. But I'm happy -- at least most of the time -- and to me that's what is most important.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
More Random Thoughts On the Day's News
So six of seven Republican members of the Senate Judiciary Committee voted against recommending Sonia Sotomayor to the full Senate for confirmation, with poor Lindsay Graham the only consenting senator. Then Michael Steele, erstwhile Republican National Committee Chairman, begged off from attending a National Council of La Raza meeting (the largest Latino advocacy group in the country), because he was attending some RNC get-together in California. Moreover, he couldn't even be bothered to find a Republican governor from some backwater state to fill in.
Is it just me, or are the Republicans purposely pissing-off the Latinos? The Latino vote has become increasingly important, as they register in larger numbers and continue to slide towards the Democrats. I swear, I almost suspect the powers that be in the Republican Party are intent on burning their house down just to start over.
Today's news has it the Blue Dog Democrats are starting to side with Republicans in an attempt to derail President Obama's health care initiative. At this point, Nancy Pelosi needs to earn her keep, and herd these yahoos into line. Grow some brass ones, Nancy. Threaten them. Promise to pull plumb committee assignments. Tell them we'll yank their campaign funding and run progressives in the primaries. These DINO's (Democrats In Name Only) are going to have to be purged eventually, anyway. Let them scurry to the Republican side and find out what it's like to be in the wilderness.
The Governator just signed a budget that will close at least 100 of California's 279 state parks. We don't have the final list yet, but rumoured to be on the chopping block is one of may favorite places, Picacho State Park on the Colorado River. According to the California State Parks Foundation, our state parks return some $4.2 billion in economic benefits, through ripple effects, to the state's local economies. Even before the recent cuts, just 1/10th of one percent of the entire state budget funded our state parks, and for every dollar spent, $2.35 was returned to the general fund from taxes generated by consumer spending. Talk about being penny wise and pound foolish.
My questions: since the parks are public property, are they really closed? What's to stop me from showing up at Picacho and going fishing or hunting anyway? If it's closed, I assume that means there won't be a ranger there to tell me it's closed. They'll just post some sign saying the park is no longer in operation. Can't I just go anyway? Can I bring my dog now, or is that still against the rules? I'm confused.
Finally, am I the only person who's sick of the Chase Bank commercial featuring a butchered version of John Lennon's "Instant Karma?" The poor guy has to be spinning in his grave. If Yoko is behind this -- and I suspect she is -- I hope she rots in purgatory for an eternity. I've worn out the mute button on my remote.
Is it just me, or are the Republicans purposely pissing-off the Latinos? The Latino vote has become increasingly important, as they register in larger numbers and continue to slide towards the Democrats. I swear, I almost suspect the powers that be in the Republican Party are intent on burning their house down just to start over.
Today's news has it the Blue Dog Democrats are starting to side with Republicans in an attempt to derail President Obama's health care initiative. At this point, Nancy Pelosi needs to earn her keep, and herd these yahoos into line. Grow some brass ones, Nancy. Threaten them. Promise to pull plumb committee assignments. Tell them we'll yank their campaign funding and run progressives in the primaries. These DINO's (Democrats In Name Only) are going to have to be purged eventually, anyway. Let them scurry to the Republican side and find out what it's like to be in the wilderness.
The Governator just signed a budget that will close at least 100 of California's 279 state parks. We don't have the final list yet, but rumoured to be on the chopping block is one of may favorite places, Picacho State Park on the Colorado River. According to the California State Parks Foundation, our state parks return some $4.2 billion in economic benefits, through ripple effects, to the state's local economies. Even before the recent cuts, just 1/10th of one percent of the entire state budget funded our state parks, and for every dollar spent, $2.35 was returned to the general fund from taxes generated by consumer spending. Talk about being penny wise and pound foolish.
My questions: since the parks are public property, are they really closed? What's to stop me from showing up at Picacho and going fishing or hunting anyway? If it's closed, I assume that means there won't be a ranger there to tell me it's closed. They'll just post some sign saying the park is no longer in operation. Can't I just go anyway? Can I bring my dog now, or is that still against the rules? I'm confused.
Finally, am I the only person who's sick of the Chase Bank commercial featuring a butchered version of John Lennon's "Instant Karma?" The poor guy has to be spinning in his grave. If Yoko is behind this -- and I suspect she is -- I hope she rots in purgatory for an eternity. I've worn out the mute button on my remote.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Adventure In the High Uintas Wilderness
When we arrived, we thought it somewhat odd there were only two other cars parked at the Uinta River Trailhead last Sunday. About a half-hour into our hike, we encountered a day-hiker on her way out. She was to be the last human being we would see for six days.
Indeed, if one is seeking a combination of solitude and grandeur, the High Uintas Wilderness of Northeast Utah may be one of the finest destinations in the contiguous United States. Add the outstanding angling and abundant wildlife viewing and this was to be one of my favorite backpacking experiences.
Only two drawbacks: first, we live in Southern California, so it's a thirteen hour drive to the trailhead. Second, the trails are brutal. I'm used to the well-worn tracks of the High Sierra. The Uinta River trails, however, are faint, often difficult to follow and -- my God -- they are rocky! We walked for miles through rock-strewn paths: ankle-breakers to boulders the size of my dog, debris fields hundreds of yards wide, rocky and treacherous stream crossings. Never have I so had to concentrate on each step, and never have my feet so ached at the end of the day.
On day one, we aimed for the aptly-named Rock Canyon Creek, hustling to make it ahead of an impending afternoon thunderstorm. We were five minutes too late. The rain was intermixed with pea-sized hail, and I soon discovered my five-year old Gore Tex jacket was no longer waterproof (haven't worn it in the rain in three years). On the bright side, the weather only lasted thirty minutes, and we were able to collect enough hail from our tents to make iced cocktails before dinner.
The Uinta River gorge is deep and spectacular. The river was high and busy with snow melt, and the confluences with side creeks were violent and awe-inspiring. Particularly impressive is the view from the lip of the canyon where Atwood Creek pours in from the opposite side.
Day two brought us a brutal ten-mile climb to our base camp, a spot just east of North Fork Park. We spent three nights camped there, taking day trips up and down the North Fork Uinta and up to the twin Kidney Lakes. Angling in the river was outstanding for pan-sized brookies, and the Kidney's yielded one nice cutthroat and some huge brook trout. I caught my biggest back country brookie from South Kidney, a fourteen-inch monster that was a challenge on my two-pound test spinning outfit. Alas, I lugged my fly rig up the mountain for no apparent reason, having left my leaders at home. Sometimes I'm such a dimwit.
North Fork Park (out here on the West Coast we would call it a meadow) was pristine and beautiful. The river flows busily through it, but with enough pockets of slack water to provide good angling. Small side creeks flow into the main river from both sides of the valley in frequent intervals.
The camp site we chose was apparently a prime feeding location for mule deer, because we had visitors often. The deer would stroll right into camp, feeding quietly. They seemed almost tame. If the dogs were asleep (which was often) we could sit and watch them for as much as five minutes before they moved on. If the dogs were awake and barked at them, the deer never showed alarm. Instead, they simply shrugged and sauntered off, as if to say "fine, we'll eat elsewhere."
The hike out on Friday was noteworthy only because we finally ran into another hiker, at the Shale Creek Bridge. He told us he had been hiking throughout the Uintas for years and rarely did he see other backpackers. (An aside: my map of the High Uintas has a bunch of shaded areas labeled "Areas of Concentrated Use." As an experienced High Sierra backpacker used to dealing with herds of humanity, I can only conclude this term must be relative to location.)
The hoards of early-season mosquitoes we were promised never materialized, and after the first day the weather cooperated. We had the solitude we so crave. In all, I'd say my first foray into the High Uintas Wilderness was an unqualified success. I think I'll try it again next summer. Maybe two weeks this time.
Indeed, if one is seeking a combination of solitude and grandeur, the High Uintas Wilderness of Northeast Utah may be one of the finest destinations in the contiguous United States. Add the outstanding angling and abundant wildlife viewing and this was to be one of my favorite backpacking experiences.
Only two drawbacks: first, we live in Southern California, so it's a thirteen hour drive to the trailhead. Second, the trails are brutal. I'm used to the well-worn tracks of the High Sierra. The Uinta River trails, however, are faint, often difficult to follow and -- my God -- they are rocky! We walked for miles through rock-strewn paths: ankle-breakers to boulders the size of my dog, debris fields hundreds of yards wide, rocky and treacherous stream crossings. Never have I so had to concentrate on each step, and never have my feet so ached at the end of the day.
On day one, we aimed for the aptly-named Rock Canyon Creek, hustling to make it ahead of an impending afternoon thunderstorm. We were five minutes too late. The rain was intermixed with pea-sized hail, and I soon discovered my five-year old Gore Tex jacket was no longer waterproof (haven't worn it in the rain in three years). On the bright side, the weather only lasted thirty minutes, and we were able to collect enough hail from our tents to make iced cocktails before dinner.
The Uinta River gorge is deep and spectacular. The river was high and busy with snow melt, and the confluences with side creeks were violent and awe-inspiring. Particularly impressive is the view from the lip of the canyon where Atwood Creek pours in from the opposite side.
Day two brought us a brutal ten-mile climb to our base camp, a spot just east of North Fork Park. We spent three nights camped there, taking day trips up and down the North Fork Uinta and up to the twin Kidney Lakes. Angling in the river was outstanding for pan-sized brookies, and the Kidney's yielded one nice cutthroat and some huge brook trout. I caught my biggest back country brookie from South Kidney, a fourteen-inch monster that was a challenge on my two-pound test spinning outfit. Alas, I lugged my fly rig up the mountain for no apparent reason, having left my leaders at home. Sometimes I'm such a dimwit.
North Fork Park (out here on the West Coast we would call it a meadow) was pristine and beautiful. The river flows busily through it, but with enough pockets of slack water to provide good angling. Small side creeks flow into the main river from both sides of the valley in frequent intervals.
The camp site we chose was apparently a prime feeding location for mule deer, because we had visitors often. The deer would stroll right into camp, feeding quietly. They seemed almost tame. If the dogs were asleep (which was often) we could sit and watch them for as much as five minutes before they moved on. If the dogs were awake and barked at them, the deer never showed alarm. Instead, they simply shrugged and sauntered off, as if to say "fine, we'll eat elsewhere."
The hike out on Friday was noteworthy only because we finally ran into another hiker, at the Shale Creek Bridge. He told us he had been hiking throughout the Uintas for years and rarely did he see other backpackers. (An aside: my map of the High Uintas has a bunch of shaded areas labeled "Areas of Concentrated Use." As an experienced High Sierra backpacker used to dealing with herds of humanity, I can only conclude this term must be relative to location.)
The hoards of early-season mosquitoes we were promised never materialized, and after the first day the weather cooperated. We had the solitude we so crave. In all, I'd say my first foray into the High Uintas Wilderness was an unqualified success. I think I'll try it again next summer. Maybe two weeks this time.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Republicans Smear Sotomayor For Being Liberal
They can't seem to nail her on this Ricci thing. Even Lindsay Graham admits her past judicial decisions have been largely "in the mainstream." They can't call her inexperienced; she has over seven-teen years on the bench. So in the end, Republicans on the Senate Judiciary Committee have resorted to a tried and true approach in attacking Judge Sonia Sotomayor, President Obama's first appointment to the Supreme Court: they say she's too liberal.
Let's leave aside for a moment that the Republicans have been routed the past two elections by liberal Democrats elected by an increasingly liberal electorate. Let's forget conservative dogma has been repudiated by thirty years of failed Reaganomics and eight years of the most absurd and bungled presidency in our history. Let's instead focus on the real story here, a truth so dark and frightening for congressional Republicans they dare not speak it aloud: the word "liberal" is no longer a pejorative.
For fifty years now Republicans have used the word "liberal" to portray Democrats as out-of-touch elitists. They succeeded in making the word synonymous with "un-American." Frustrated Democrats began describing themselves as "progressives" or even as "moderates" rather than admit their liberal-ness.
Sucks for you, conservative Republicans, but the word "liberal" is back in vogue, and I don't mean as an insult. Bleeding hearts like Bernie Sanders (a socialist), Barney Frank (a gay man) and Dennis Kucinich (to the left of FDR) wear the word like a badge of honor. In California, Diane Feinstein has been pilloried for not being liberal enough, and the Governator has lost his Republican base by tacking ever more strongly to the left -- because the electorate demanded it.
In this political environment, hammering Sonia Sotomayor for being too liberal is like punishing Kobe Bryant for being too athletic, a tactic as ridiculous as it is pointless. That Republicans have to resort to name-calling at this stage merely accentuates how powerless and inconsequential they have become. Welcome to the wilderness, Republicans.
Let's leave aside for a moment that the Republicans have been routed the past two elections by liberal Democrats elected by an increasingly liberal electorate. Let's forget conservative dogma has been repudiated by thirty years of failed Reaganomics and eight years of the most absurd and bungled presidency in our history. Let's instead focus on the real story here, a truth so dark and frightening for congressional Republicans they dare not speak it aloud: the word "liberal" is no longer a pejorative.
For fifty years now Republicans have used the word "liberal" to portray Democrats as out-of-touch elitists. They succeeded in making the word synonymous with "un-American." Frustrated Democrats began describing themselves as "progressives" or even as "moderates" rather than admit their liberal-ness.
Sucks for you, conservative Republicans, but the word "liberal" is back in vogue, and I don't mean as an insult. Bleeding hearts like Bernie Sanders (a socialist), Barney Frank (a gay man) and Dennis Kucinich (to the left of FDR) wear the word like a badge of honor. In California, Diane Feinstein has been pilloried for not being liberal enough, and the Governator has lost his Republican base by tacking ever more strongly to the left -- because the electorate demanded it.
In this political environment, hammering Sonia Sotomayor for being too liberal is like punishing Kobe Bryant for being too athletic, a tactic as ridiculous as it is pointless. That Republicans have to resort to name-calling at this stage merely accentuates how powerless and inconsequential they have become. Welcome to the wilderness, Republicans.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
News Of the Week In Review
We found out this week that, in death, Michael Jackson was an even bigger ratings boost for the networks than when he was being tried as an alleged pedophile.
We learned the city of Los Angeles forked over as much as $3 million to host the funeral of a private citizen. This must be heart warming to all those laid-off municipal employees and school teachers, not to mention the citizens whose services have been cut and whose children's class sizes have swelled to unmanageable levels.
We learned that, as of Friday, a web site asking for donations to reimburse L.A. for the funeral had collected a paltry $35,000. Would that some of you self-professed M. Jackson lovers put your money where your mouth is.
We have our latest member in the "Yes, I'm a Stinking Hypocrite" club: meet John Ensign, Republican Senator from Nevada, another in a long line of "Family Values" Republicans who just can't seem to keep it in their pants. This one is even more sordid than usual; seems Ensign's parents gave his mistress some $100,000 in hush money as Ensign sought to keep the affair secret. She sang anyway, leaving Ensign looking both stupid and hypocritical. Somewhere a certain ex-President is laughing his ass off.
Scientists say we may be headed for a "major" El Nino event this winter. This means that in addition to the annual fall conflagrations and random earthquakes, California can look forward to torrential rainstorms and the inevitable mudslides and wanton destruction of which we are so fond. On the bright side, should be some nice wildflower displays next spring.
Seriously, at some point a major California politician needs to grow a pair and state the obvious: quit building homes in places where we know for certain they will eventually either burn or get washed off the mountain. Us low-landers are getting tired of footing the bill for rich folks who knowingly put their homes in harm's way. If you want a nice view, climb Mt. Baldy.
We learned the city of Los Angeles forked over as much as $3 million to host the funeral of a private citizen. This must be heart warming to all those laid-off municipal employees and school teachers, not to mention the citizens whose services have been cut and whose children's class sizes have swelled to unmanageable levels.
We learned that, as of Friday, a web site asking for donations to reimburse L.A. for the funeral had collected a paltry $35,000. Would that some of you self-professed M. Jackson lovers put your money where your mouth is.
We have our latest member in the "Yes, I'm a Stinking Hypocrite" club: meet John Ensign, Republican Senator from Nevada, another in a long line of "Family Values" Republicans who just can't seem to keep it in their pants. This one is even more sordid than usual; seems Ensign's parents gave his mistress some $100,000 in hush money as Ensign sought to keep the affair secret. She sang anyway, leaving Ensign looking both stupid and hypocritical. Somewhere a certain ex-President is laughing his ass off.
Scientists say we may be headed for a "major" El Nino event this winter. This means that in addition to the annual fall conflagrations and random earthquakes, California can look forward to torrential rainstorms and the inevitable mudslides and wanton destruction of which we are so fond. On the bright side, should be some nice wildflower displays next spring.
Seriously, at some point a major California politician needs to grow a pair and state the obvious: quit building homes in places where we know for certain they will eventually either burn or get washed off the mountain. Us low-landers are getting tired of footing the bill for rich folks who knowingly put their homes in harm's way. If you want a nice view, climb Mt. Baldy.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Selling Ice Cubes To Eskimos
My Pop Warner Football Fund Raising Adventure
I should have known something was up the moment I walked into the meeting room that morning. It was our first team meeting for the Yorba Linda Colts, my son's Junior Mighty Mite Pop Warner Football team, and I was met by an unholy stench; it was an odd mixture of a florist shop, the cosmetics counter at Macy's and my ex-wife's bathroom.
The head coach began speaking. "I know we usually sell candy or frozen pizza as our team fund raising program, but we're trying something new this year. Let me introduce the team Mom."
The team Mom walked to the front of the room, proudly displaying her wares. "This year we'll be selling these beautiful scented candles. They feature double wicks, non-dripping wax, and come in over a dozen tantalizing aromas . . ." At this point, most of the men in the room were groaning, and at least three appeared to be visibly sick. Me, I remained stoic. It was a composure born of a stubborn belief I can sell almost anything to almost anybody. Either that or I was in abject shock.
I've peddled all sorts of crap to help fund my son's various sporting and scholastic endeavors. Frozen cardboard (I mean pizza), cookie dough (Salmonella, anyone?), and wrapping paper are a few of the items I've foisted on unsuspecting family and friends over the years. But scented candles? I had the feeling this wasn't going to be the slam-dunk the team mom might have thought it was.
My ex-wife was going to have it easy; all she had to do was parade my son door-to-door around the neighborhood, cornering other moms and the occasional blue-haired retiree. These people, of course, are the target customers for such a product. What woman can resist the overtures of a tow-headed eight year-old trying to raise money for his football team, particularly when the product smells nice?
I didn't have that luxury. I only get to see my son about four days a month, and I was unwilling to waste any of that precious time hawking scented candles to innocent neighbors, even if it is a good cause. This left me just one place to go if I was going to meet my candle quota, the one place in America where the victim is always captive, where they can't slam the door and they can't run away: the workplace.
So I spent the week suffering the indignity of pitching scented candles to my co-workers. The women, thank God, were easy marks -- I was selling a product they actually found interesting. Unfortunately, we only have four females at my office, and one was on vacation. This was going to leave me far short of my quota. I was left with no choice but to target my male co-workers.
I don't think I'll ever get out of my mind the somewhat disturbing image of a forty-two year old man scratching and sniffing a page labeled "Strawberry Delight." Nor will I soon escape the stigma and shame of asking grown men to fork over twenty-four bucks for a scented candle, a product that -- should it not end up in the trash -- will at the very least cover their furniture with the stench of a cheap bordello.
But let's leave that aside for a moment and ponder the obvious questions: Scented candles? For a football fund raiser? Talk about your non sequiter. Could they possibly have picked a less manly product for such a venture? I might have understood had the candles come in aromas such as "Eau du Jock Strap" or "Unwashed Socks," but "Kiwi Surprise" and "Pineapple Sunrise?" How un-football like. Do I even need to mention it was a woman who thought up this hare-brained scheme? Will I be expected to sell Vermont Teddy Bears and Harlequin romance novels next season?
I had to guilt the poor bastards at my office into buying the things. I felt dirty when I left at night.
Anyway, I did my part. I finally hit my quota by forcing my sister to purchase a "Very Berry" and an "Outrageous Orange." Our seven and eight year old football players will proudly wear matching socks when they take the field this fall, and every boy will get his "esteem building" trophy at the season's conclusion. But at what cost? Now, my co-workers scurry like roaches when they see me coming. I'm concerned my brother in-law will try to poison me the next time I'm invited for dinner. My pride may be damaged beyond repair, and my reputation at work is irreparably soiled. All things considered, I think I'd rather sell cardboard pizza.
I should have known something was up the moment I walked into the meeting room that morning. It was our first team meeting for the Yorba Linda Colts, my son's Junior Mighty Mite Pop Warner Football team, and I was met by an unholy stench; it was an odd mixture of a florist shop, the cosmetics counter at Macy's and my ex-wife's bathroom.
The head coach began speaking. "I know we usually sell candy or frozen pizza as our team fund raising program, but we're trying something new this year. Let me introduce the team Mom."
The team Mom walked to the front of the room, proudly displaying her wares. "This year we'll be selling these beautiful scented candles. They feature double wicks, non-dripping wax, and come in over a dozen tantalizing aromas . . ." At this point, most of the men in the room were groaning, and at least three appeared to be visibly sick. Me, I remained stoic. It was a composure born of a stubborn belief I can sell almost anything to almost anybody. Either that or I was in abject shock.
I've peddled all sorts of crap to help fund my son's various sporting and scholastic endeavors. Frozen cardboard (I mean pizza), cookie dough (Salmonella, anyone?), and wrapping paper are a few of the items I've foisted on unsuspecting family and friends over the years. But scented candles? I had the feeling this wasn't going to be the slam-dunk the team mom might have thought it was.
My ex-wife was going to have it easy; all she had to do was parade my son door-to-door around the neighborhood, cornering other moms and the occasional blue-haired retiree. These people, of course, are the target customers for such a product. What woman can resist the overtures of a tow-headed eight year-old trying to raise money for his football team, particularly when the product smells nice?
I didn't have that luxury. I only get to see my son about four days a month, and I was unwilling to waste any of that precious time hawking scented candles to innocent neighbors, even if it is a good cause. This left me just one place to go if I was going to meet my candle quota, the one place in America where the victim is always captive, where they can't slam the door and they can't run away: the workplace.
So I spent the week suffering the indignity of pitching scented candles to my co-workers. The women, thank God, were easy marks -- I was selling a product they actually found interesting. Unfortunately, we only have four females at my office, and one was on vacation. This was going to leave me far short of my quota. I was left with no choice but to target my male co-workers.
I don't think I'll ever get out of my mind the somewhat disturbing image of a forty-two year old man scratching and sniffing a page labeled "Strawberry Delight." Nor will I soon escape the stigma and shame of asking grown men to fork over twenty-four bucks for a scented candle, a product that -- should it not end up in the trash -- will at the very least cover their furniture with the stench of a cheap bordello.
But let's leave that aside for a moment and ponder the obvious questions: Scented candles? For a football fund raiser? Talk about your non sequiter. Could they possibly have picked a less manly product for such a venture? I might have understood had the candles come in aromas such as "Eau du Jock Strap" or "Unwashed Socks," but "Kiwi Surprise" and "Pineapple Sunrise?" How un-football like. Do I even need to mention it was a woman who thought up this hare-brained scheme? Will I be expected to sell Vermont Teddy Bears and Harlequin romance novels next season?
I had to guilt the poor bastards at my office into buying the things. I felt dirty when I left at night.
Anyway, I did my part. I finally hit my quota by forcing my sister to purchase a "Very Berry" and an "Outrageous Orange." Our seven and eight year old football players will proudly wear matching socks when they take the field this fall, and every boy will get his "esteem building" trophy at the season's conclusion. But at what cost? Now, my co-workers scurry like roaches when they see me coming. I'm concerned my brother in-law will try to poison me the next time I'm invited for dinner. My pride may be damaged beyond repair, and my reputation at work is irreparably soiled. All things considered, I think I'd rather sell cardboard pizza.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Random Thoughts on the Day's News
or, Michael Jackson Is Still Dead
For the love of all that is holy, please bury the man. Have your multi-million dollar "celebration." Hell, have a parade if you want. Just please get him off my T.V. It's All Jackson All the Time, and I just can't stand it any more. Dead is dead.
There are so many more compelling stories out there. Sarah Palin just resigned from office. Isn't this a more interesting story line than the death of an alleged pedophile and so-called pop icon? Sarah fancies herself the front-runner for the 2012 Republican presidential nomination, yet if she can't stand the heat of an Alaskan kitchen, what makes anyone think she can survive the crucible of national presidential politics? If she's still considered the favorite, the Republicans are in even worse shape than we hoped.
Al Franken was just admitted to the Senate. Which is more improbable, that a former "B" grade movie star could become president, or that a Saturday Night Live comedy writer could rise to represent the good people of Minnesota in the U.S. Senate? Bill O'Rilley was absolutely apoplectic; he cites the Franken election as proof the country is in really sorry shape. Of course, Bill and his ilk have conveniently forgotten who got us into this mess.
Finally, if the Lakers and their benefactors can pay for a parade and celebration, saving the cash-strapped city of Los Angeles millions, why can't all those rich Hollywood celebrities find a way to pay for this Jackson fiasco? If I lived in L.A. County, I'd be pissed. If I were a layed-off city employee, I'd be really pissed. Moreover, in these economic times, such an ostentatious display should be an affront to the sensibilities of every Angeleno. Please make Michael Jackson go away. Now. Forever.
For the love of all that is holy, please bury the man. Have your multi-million dollar "celebration." Hell, have a parade if you want. Just please get him off my T.V. It's All Jackson All the Time, and I just can't stand it any more. Dead is dead.
There are so many more compelling stories out there. Sarah Palin just resigned from office. Isn't this a more interesting story line than the death of an alleged pedophile and so-called pop icon? Sarah fancies herself the front-runner for the 2012 Republican presidential nomination, yet if she can't stand the heat of an Alaskan kitchen, what makes anyone think she can survive the crucible of national presidential politics? If she's still considered the favorite, the Republicans are in even worse shape than we hoped.
Al Franken was just admitted to the Senate. Which is more improbable, that a former "B" grade movie star could become president, or that a Saturday Night Live comedy writer could rise to represent the good people of Minnesota in the U.S. Senate? Bill O'Rilley was absolutely apoplectic; he cites the Franken election as proof the country is in really sorry shape. Of course, Bill and his ilk have conveniently forgotten who got us into this mess.
Finally, if the Lakers and their benefactors can pay for a parade and celebration, saving the cash-strapped city of Los Angeles millions, why can't all those rich Hollywood celebrities find a way to pay for this Jackson fiasco? If I lived in L.A. County, I'd be pissed. If I were a layed-off city employee, I'd be really pissed. Moreover, in these economic times, such an ostentatious display should be an affront to the sensibilities of every Angeleno. Please make Michael Jackson go away. Now. Forever.
Monday, July 6, 2009
My Weekend In the Southern Sierra
Just returned from a solo, three-day backpacking trip in the Golden Trout Wilderness in the Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains. Took a walk from Lewis Camp Trail head down to the Little Kern, looking for the elusive Little Kern Golden Trout (oncorhynchus aguabonita whitei), a subspecies of our State Fish.
In one of my dumbest moves ever, as I set up camp I realized I had somehow forgotten to pack my sleeping bag. (When I packed at home Friday morning, I remember thinking: "Seems I have a lot more room for my gear than usual.") I had to sleep in my jacket and down pants, yet awoke both mornings at three A.M., shivering. Ended up pacing around the campsite for two hours each morning praying the sun would rise earlier than usual. I tend to forget one or two items each trip, despite my obsession with lists, but never have I neglected to bring one of the "big three." Sheesh, next time I'll probably forget to bring my pack.
Despite my lack of sleep, I managed to get in some fishing Saturday. Access to the Little Kern in this area is, to say the least, difficult. The gorge is narrow and steep, and defined by huge expanses of granite that are impossible to traverse. Reaching the pools and runs that harbor the golden trout requires considerable (and dangerous) effort. As I scrambled down a steep pitch south of my camp, I remember thinking "if I break an ankle here, I'm probably a goner, because nobody knows where I am and nobody would think to look in such an inhospitable place."
Anyway, I managed to make it to the river without incident. I hooked and landed nine of the little yellow buggers (including an eleven-inch, my biggest golden yet from a stream) before the dog's barking and whining convinced me to let her take a swim, ruining the fishing.
Sadie is the least fishing-friendly dog I've ever known. When bass fishing she's constantly "falling" in the water (falling in parenthesis because I'm pretty sure she's doing it on purpose at least half the time). When stream fishing I have to tie her to a tree to keep her from thrashing into the water, chasing my lure like the knucklehead she is. But when tied up she whines and barks incessantly, not exactly the serene and peaceful fishing experience to which I usually aspire.
After another almost sleepless night, I awoke at three-thirty to find no stars in the eastern sky. It took me several moments before I realized the stars were obscured not by clouds, but by smoke. By daylight, the lightening-caused fire (which I later found was near the confluence of Shotgun Creek and the Little Kern, about ten miles from my camp) had spread a pallor of smoke and ash over the lower Little Kern. My subsequent hike back to the trail head, five miles and about two thousand feet of elevation gain, was not fun. By the time I reached my truck, my eyes burned, my throat was sore and my lungs felt as if I'd chain-smoked five packs of Winstons. But I did catch those yellow fish, so count my long weekend a success.
In one of my dumbest moves ever, as I set up camp I realized I had somehow forgotten to pack my sleeping bag. (When I packed at home Friday morning, I remember thinking: "Seems I have a lot more room for my gear than usual.") I had to sleep in my jacket and down pants, yet awoke both mornings at three A.M., shivering. Ended up pacing around the campsite for two hours each morning praying the sun would rise earlier than usual. I tend to forget one or two items each trip, despite my obsession with lists, but never have I neglected to bring one of the "big three." Sheesh, next time I'll probably forget to bring my pack.
Despite my lack of sleep, I managed to get in some fishing Saturday. Access to the Little Kern in this area is, to say the least, difficult. The gorge is narrow and steep, and defined by huge expanses of granite that are impossible to traverse. Reaching the pools and runs that harbor the golden trout requires considerable (and dangerous) effort. As I scrambled down a steep pitch south of my camp, I remember thinking "if I break an ankle here, I'm probably a goner, because nobody knows where I am and nobody would think to look in such an inhospitable place."
Anyway, I managed to make it to the river without incident. I hooked and landed nine of the little yellow buggers (including an eleven-inch, my biggest golden yet from a stream) before the dog's barking and whining convinced me to let her take a swim, ruining the fishing.
Sadie is the least fishing-friendly dog I've ever known. When bass fishing she's constantly "falling" in the water (falling in parenthesis because I'm pretty sure she's doing it on purpose at least half the time). When stream fishing I have to tie her to a tree to keep her from thrashing into the water, chasing my lure like the knucklehead she is. But when tied up she whines and barks incessantly, not exactly the serene and peaceful fishing experience to which I usually aspire.
After another almost sleepless night, I awoke at three-thirty to find no stars in the eastern sky. It took me several moments before I realized the stars were obscured not by clouds, but by smoke. By daylight, the lightening-caused fire (which I later found was near the confluence of Shotgun Creek and the Little Kern, about ten miles from my camp) had spread a pallor of smoke and ash over the lower Little Kern. My subsequent hike back to the trail head, five miles and about two thousand feet of elevation gain, was not fun. By the time I reached my truck, my eyes burned, my throat was sore and my lungs felt as if I'd chain-smoked five packs of Winstons. But I did catch those yellow fish, so count my long weekend a success.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Did Michael Jackson Die Yesterday?
Did Michael Jackson die yesterday? Holy Toledo, the death of Jesus Christ wouldn't receive this much coverage. I know he was a pop icon. I know "Thriller" was the best-selling non-greatest hits album of all time. I know his death came as a shock, that he was only fifty. Still, isn't the wall-to-wall, non-stop coverage a bit over the top?
And what of the knuckleheads seen traipsing around Hollywood Boulevard, placing flowers on Michael Jackson's star? The wrong Michael Jackson. You know, radio personality Michael Jackson. Why am I not surprised?
Of course, the one person truly happy to hear of Jackson's passing was South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, the sanctimonious and hypocritical former Senator who famously called upon Bill Clinton to resign from office for having an affair. The Jackson death -- coupled with the passing of Farrah Fawcett -- served to take Sanford off the front pages, where he has been deservedly lampooned for his own marital indiscretions involving an Argentinian senorita.
Anyway, in a city of freaks Michael Jackson was king. He made Phil Spector and Dennis Rodman seem normal by comparison. He set the weirdness bar at a heretofore unattainable height. Suffice it to say we'll never see another like him -- and that's probably a good thing.
And what of the knuckleheads seen traipsing around Hollywood Boulevard, placing flowers on Michael Jackson's star? The wrong Michael Jackson. You know, radio personality Michael Jackson. Why am I not surprised?
Of course, the one person truly happy to hear of Jackson's passing was South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, the sanctimonious and hypocritical former Senator who famously called upon Bill Clinton to resign from office for having an affair. The Jackson death -- coupled with the passing of Farrah Fawcett -- served to take Sanford off the front pages, where he has been deservedly lampooned for his own marital indiscretions involving an Argentinian senorita.
Anyway, in a city of freaks Michael Jackson was king. He made Phil Spector and Dennis Rodman seem normal by comparison. He set the weirdness bar at a heretofore unattainable height. Suffice it to say we'll never see another like him -- and that's probably a good thing.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Rush Limbaugh Is A Double Agent
Of course, everyone by now knows Rush Limbaugh has famously said he "hopes Obama fails." Let's leave aside for a moment the unpatriotic treason apparent in such a statement (who in America truly hopes our country fails?). The fact Rush is in effect the titular head of his party, isn't such a statement destined to drive mainstream Americans to the other side? If the vast majority of voters hope Obama's policies get us out of this economic malaise, won't they tend to disavow those who would hope those policies fail?
Then there's the unappealing spectacle of Republican leaders criticizing Rush for these outrageous statements and then turning around, apologizing and kissing Rush's ring in abject deference because they fear Rush will skewar them on his radio show. Not only is this behavior disgraceful, but it only goes to further marginalize an already powerless Republican leadership.
I say Rush has been conning us all along. I say he's a double agent bent on destroying the Republican Party once and for all. Just my two cents.
Then there's the unappealing spectacle of Republican leaders criticizing Rush for these outrageous statements and then turning around, apologizing and kissing Rush's ring in abject deference because they fear Rush will skewar them on his radio show. Not only is this behavior disgraceful, but it only goes to further marginalize an already powerless Republican leadership.
I say Rush has been conning us all along. I say he's a double agent bent on destroying the Republican Party once and for all. Just my two cents.
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