Poor reasoning is hardly unusual in political arguments, but among the poorest is the ire expressed by some of Hillary Clinton’s disappointed supporters.
The argument, such as it is, runs that since the media treated Senator Clinton poorly, her supporters will vote for McCain instead of Obama.
No, seriously—they say this with straight faces and pious intensity.
Apparently this must be made explicit—Obama is not a media mogul. He does not control it, and to blame him (or attempt to punish him) for the media’s actions is ridiculous. Also bizarre about this claim is that these Sen. Clinton supporters apparently feel she’s a helpless girl at the mercy of the big bad powers that be—and that somehow these powers are the media. Come on, Sen. Clinton is a strong and politically astute politician—hardly a victim. And reporters’ lackluster performance as the Bush administration has run roughshod over the Constitution and blatantly lied to the U.S. people is not exactly an indication of the media’s power—dupes would be closer to truth. Or perhaps spineless.
Meanwhile Obama has assiduously avoided presenting himself as the “black candidate,” running instead on his appeal and ideas. Imagine that.
The simple truth is that Clinton lost the primary because she came up against a superior candidate, one the voters preferred. (Yes, she’s claimed she won the “popular vote,” but no one has been able to see how she came up with that conclusion, as Obama won more votes and more delegates.)
But she has more experience? Not much. She’s a second term senator, but presents herself having decades of national politics experience—when she spent most of it in private practice. (And if First Lady counts, then does anyone find Laura Bush a prime presidential candidate?)
Let’s be honest---if these voters wanted the most experienced candidate, they’d have voted for Bill Richardson—long experience, popular, and Hispanic, so still historic (if that’s the point for these voters).
These voters are at least well matched with their preferred candidate—her performance refusing to admit obvious defeat in the primary and her ungracious speech “backing” Obama was shameful.
In short, this comes down to “sore loser.” OK, human---but at what cost? I’d have considered McCain at one point, eight years ago, and I don’t doubt that he’s a good man, but his record and views during the Bush administration have evolved to present a poor candidate.
Military operations seemed to have tipped the balance. McCain maintains that we could have won Vietnam if we’d only have stayed. Perhaps true, but what he misses is at what cost in both funding and lives, without considering everything we’d have to sacrifice just for the sake of winning. This same blind egoism drives his take on Iraq--above all else, he wants to win, no matter the cost, ignoring several other serious problems.
This irrational machoism pops up again in his insistence that we should never talk to countries with which we have conflicts, specifically Iran, which McCain ridicules as “making nice to our enemies.” But since when did talks equal “making nice”? If you get a “talking-to,” for example, it’s not a pleasant experience. We talked to the Soviet Union all during the Cold War--and more than once prevented nuclear war by doing so. And talking doesn’t mean we agree or concede. It means we attempt to find acceptable middle ground, or perhaps even persuade the Iranians to follow a preferable course.
The distortions aren’t limited to foreign policy. McCain has attacked Obama’s plan to help poorer families with a tax bracket occurring at $200,000, claiming this will hurt small businesses and cost jobs. McCain, however, ignores that those small business costs are already legitimate business liabilities, and so are deducted before counting as earned income--the $200,000 would be net income earned AFTER those employment expenses are already paid.
McCain also repeats the tax cut mantra--we must cut taxes to stimulate the economy. This, of course, ignores that the previous tax cuts haven’t accomplish that; to the contrary, they’ve contributed to a soaring national debt that has devalued the dollar and helped tighten credit markets. Further, just as in the Reagan years, when the U.S. went from being the largest creditor nation to being the largest debtor nation, with 25% of our assets moving into foreign hands, our current spending habit is being financed primarily by China. Hardly contributes to the independence from foreign interests. Plus, all during the economic boom of the 1990s, the mantra was that we have to cut taxes to give the money back to the American taxpayers. So which is it? Cut taxes in good times. Cut taxes in bad times. Anybody suspect they don’t particularly care about the economy (or just about the economic welfare of their wealthy campaign contributors)? McCain has admitted it’s not his strong suit. He’s right on that point, at least. But certainly not a “maverick.”
Then there’s McCain’s famed claim of reaching across the aisle. It’s true! Trouble is, he hasn’t accomplished anything meaningful. When George McGovern and Bob Dole reached across the isle, they created the school lunch program, ensuring that every school child in America got at least one nutritious hot meal a day. McCain reached out for immigration reform that doesn’t work.
His bipartisan attempts at campaign finance reform have been equally unrealistic. Reality is, stakes are high in national politics, and since people (and groups) have the right to support candidates of their choice, all new regulations will ever accomplish is moving the money from one avenue to another. Further, his position is disingenuous. Barack Obama offered to rely on public financing if McCain would do--and McCain is the one who refused (and foolishly at that, since the Obama campaign has much, much more cash). Is it time for the silly flip-flop chant?
And speaking of flip-flops, how about McCain’s flat claim that we should not bail out banks or consumers who make poor economic decisions. Two days later, after a popular Obama speech about not bailouts but sensible refinancing, McCain suddenly argued that we had to help people in trouble.
But perhaps at the top of my befuddlement is why any strong supporter of women’s rights would vote for a candidate who has repeatedly made clear that he would appoint Supreme Court Justices who will overturn Roe v. Wade. Let alone the point that packing the court to force it do one’s will instead of pursuing justice undermines the system.
Speaking of the Supreme Court, McCain made the ridiculous claim that a President Obama would mean more Justices like the ones who ruled out the death penalty for the rape of a child--and this was AFTER Obama said he strongly disagreed with the decision (a decision reached, incidentally, by an already Conservative court).
The Straight-Talk Express has pulled into Bullshit Central, and it’s dropping load after load after load. McCain likes to label Obama as “elitist.” If by “elite” he means “smart,” I say we go with it.
Writer
Monday, July 28, 2008
Updating my Blog
Thanks to all of you who asked about blog updates. Nice to know there are so many readers!
Yes, I will still be regularly updating my blog--though probably not as frequently in the past (lots of things going on).
Writer
Yes, I will still be regularly updating my blog--though probably not as frequently in the past (lots of things going on).
Writer
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Snakes and Other Sounds
We get used to the strangest things.
The sound is barely audible, and very, very brief. But I hear it above all the cars, birds, dogs, planes, mowers, whatever is going on around the neighborhood—a garter snake escaping from under the garden’s black plastic as I approach. I can even tell which garden and the exact location of the snake, watching it slither quickly into the grass.
I start working the soil for a new plot, and I hear the low, quick sound of my neighbor’s horse quickly flapping his lips. From two hundred feet away, through several lines of densely packed evergreens, he knows I’m there. I know exactly where along the fence he is, too, although I can’t see him and I’m not sure how I can tell—nor how he can tell that yes, just this afternoon I bought a bag of carrots to share, still in the car…but he knows.
The neighbor’s dogs—on the other side, five hundred feet away---bark incessantly. They have eight dogs (they show them). I don’t even notice the sound, until my neighbor periodically yells at them to shut up. His barking is the annoyance, and it never works anyway, other than a second or two of silence before the dogs begin again.
Red-winged blackbirds tsk tsk continually. That does get irritating after a time. I know it won’t stop, however, nor can I get away from it, as the birds are telling others that I’m there and where I am. I watch them follow me as I move through the garden.
I check my strawberry patches---lots of berries, and many more on the way. Finally, fencing out rabbits and netting out birds has proven successful. I lift the net and pick the ripe berries—only to find that I’m now competing with ants and slugs for the fruit. Damn frustrating. I pick all the ripe berries before any more damage can be done. I’ll clearly have to stay on top of harvesting.
I check my broccoli---the largest plant is lying on its side, cut halfway through the stem at the ground. Rootworm. Great. Sigh.
I’m not fond of snakes. However, they don’t harm the plants, and they eat insects. They can stay.
And I don’t mind the sound anymore—I’m used to it.
Writer
The sound is barely audible, and very, very brief. But I hear it above all the cars, birds, dogs, planes, mowers, whatever is going on around the neighborhood—a garter snake escaping from under the garden’s black plastic as I approach. I can even tell which garden and the exact location of the snake, watching it slither quickly into the grass.
I start working the soil for a new plot, and I hear the low, quick sound of my neighbor’s horse quickly flapping his lips. From two hundred feet away, through several lines of densely packed evergreens, he knows I’m there. I know exactly where along the fence he is, too, although I can’t see him and I’m not sure how I can tell—nor how he can tell that yes, just this afternoon I bought a bag of carrots to share, still in the car…but he knows.
The neighbor’s dogs—on the other side, five hundred feet away---bark incessantly. They have eight dogs (they show them). I don’t even notice the sound, until my neighbor periodically yells at them to shut up. His barking is the annoyance, and it never works anyway, other than a second or two of silence before the dogs begin again.
Red-winged blackbirds tsk tsk continually. That does get irritating after a time. I know it won’t stop, however, nor can I get away from it, as the birds are telling others that I’m there and where I am. I watch them follow me as I move through the garden.
I check my strawberry patches---lots of berries, and many more on the way. Finally, fencing out rabbits and netting out birds has proven successful. I lift the net and pick the ripe berries—only to find that I’m now competing with ants and slugs for the fruit. Damn frustrating. I pick all the ripe berries before any more damage can be done. I’ll clearly have to stay on top of harvesting.
I check my broccoli---the largest plant is lying on its side, cut halfway through the stem at the ground. Rootworm. Great. Sigh.
I’m not fond of snakes. However, they don’t harm the plants, and they eat insects. They can stay.
And I don’t mind the sound anymore—I’m used to it.
Writer
Monday, June 2, 2008
The Saga Begins
I finally had to admit my old lawn mower was beyond even what duct tape, wire and gorilla glue could help, so I headed to the store for a replacement.
Emblazoned across the front and back of the 22” cut green beast, in bright yellow, appears its name: The Weed Eater. And all I could think of while cutting grass this morning was “I am the Weed Eater; where is the Key Master?”
As I cut along the edge of my property, my nearest neighbor had a different thought: “I am the horse; where is my apple?”
I rolled the mower back to the shed, accosted by Shanti: “I am your dog; why is the horse getting treats?”
As I opened my front door to get to indoor work, my cats greeted me with, “We are the cats; where is our lunch?”
The portal has been opened.
Writer
Emblazoned across the front and back of the 22” cut green beast, in bright yellow, appears its name: The Weed Eater. And all I could think of while cutting grass this morning was “I am the Weed Eater; where is the Key Master?”
As I cut along the edge of my property, my nearest neighbor had a different thought: “I am the horse; where is my apple?”
I rolled the mower back to the shed, accosted by Shanti: “I am your dog; why is the horse getting treats?”
As I opened my front door to get to indoor work, my cats greeted me with, “We are the cats; where is our lunch?”
The portal has been opened.
Writer
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Michael
Last night I came home, sat down with my dog, and watched the stars come out.
I used to do this all the time, and sat thinking about how and why I would ever stop. Bit by bit, I suppose, the intrusions accumulate. A firefly shines. Michael.
Michael was my best friend since I was two. His family rented the second floor of the house, my parents the first floor. We were inseparable. We even became blood brothers—and understood what we were doing (never underestimate children). Although we were born just six weeks apart, we straddled opposite lines of the school rules, so I set off for kindergarten at age four, while Michael had to wait a year. So it was at home that we cemented our friendship.
Michael had a collection of empty bottles—or so they appeared. We would walk across the field, and Michael would point out the sparkling lights that were fairies. His bottles, in fact, contained several of these fairies, each in the form of cartoon characters—Donald Duck, Mighty Mouse, Bugs Bunny and many more. I couldn’t see them of course, but I had Michael to describe them.
Simpler times.
Writer
I used to do this all the time, and sat thinking about how and why I would ever stop. Bit by bit, I suppose, the intrusions accumulate. A firefly shines. Michael.
Michael was my best friend since I was two. His family rented the second floor of the house, my parents the first floor. We were inseparable. We even became blood brothers—and understood what we were doing (never underestimate children). Although we were born just six weeks apart, we straddled opposite lines of the school rules, so I set off for kindergarten at age four, while Michael had to wait a year. So it was at home that we cemented our friendship.
Michael had a collection of empty bottles—or so they appeared. We would walk across the field, and Michael would point out the sparkling lights that were fairies. His bottles, in fact, contained several of these fairies, each in the form of cartoon characters—Donald Duck, Mighty Mouse, Bugs Bunny and many more. I couldn’t see them of course, but I had Michael to describe them.
Simpler times.
Writer
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Fate of a Cardboard Box
Any large odd-sized cardboard box—the one from the new ‘fridge, washing machine, television, etc.—proposes a unique challenge. What to do? I faced this dilemma with the 4 x 4 inch x 6 foot box used for shipping my trees.
Some might try to crumple, fold, compact, and then attempt to force it into the recycling bin. Others might try to fit it into a burning barrel along with other trash. Still others might take out a box cutter and reduce it to a flat sheet—a solution that only perpetuates the issue. Does the box now go to the compactor? The barrel? The recycling bin? My dad, an amateur mechanic, would probably save it to lie on while working on his back under the car.
I, however, fortuitously hit upon an elegant solution. After a brief attempt to extricate the trees by lifting them out, I realized I’d have to open the bottom and pull them out roots first. Once this was accomplished, and the trees safety housed in a five gallon bucket, I considered what to do with the leftover shipping container. Then it hit me.
Cat toy. Two cats and a 4 x4 6 foot tunnel. Even better—a ping pong ball, two cats and a tunnel (one of my cats can follow the ball through the tunnel as fast as I can roll it. I pity the mouse that attracts THIS cat’s interest.).
Cue commercial music. An assortment of trees—insert current cost. Expedited interstate shipping—include average cost. A cardboard box for two cats? Priceless.
Until they decide they’d rather sit on it.
Writer
Some might try to crumple, fold, compact, and then attempt to force it into the recycling bin. Others might try to fit it into a burning barrel along with other trash. Still others might take out a box cutter and reduce it to a flat sheet—a solution that only perpetuates the issue. Does the box now go to the compactor? The barrel? The recycling bin? My dad, an amateur mechanic, would probably save it to lie on while working on his back under the car.
I, however, fortuitously hit upon an elegant solution. After a brief attempt to extricate the trees by lifting them out, I realized I’d have to open the bottom and pull them out roots first. Once this was accomplished, and the trees safety housed in a five gallon bucket, I considered what to do with the leftover shipping container. Then it hit me.
Cat toy. Two cats and a 4 x4 6 foot tunnel. Even better—a ping pong ball, two cats and a tunnel (one of my cats can follow the ball through the tunnel as fast as I can roll it. I pity the mouse that attracts THIS cat’s interest.).
Cue commercial music. An assortment of trees—insert current cost. Expedited interstate shipping—include average cost. A cardboard box for two cats? Priceless.
Until they decide they’d rather sit on it.
Writer
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Days of Trees and--Nuts
A month ago I decided to expand my orchard to include nuts and some more fruits, so from an outfit in Wisconsin, I ordered Japanese Walnuts (I have Black Walnut), some Chestnuts, Hazelnuts, Pecans (I love pecans), Peanuts (I know, not a tree), Golden Apricot (My one apricot tree is lonely), along with Kiwi and three varieties of grapes (Again, yes, not trees). Just for the hell of it, because you can never have too many of these, I also ordered a handful of tomato and broccoli seeds.
Two weeks ago, I received a small box in the mail—my tomato and broccoli seeds. All else was backordered. Deep sigh.
*Ring—ring—ring* Not many people I know are morning people, so the early phone call on a Saturday yesterday morning was a surprise. *Hello?”
“Hi! This is Doug at the Post Office.” In a small town, we all know each other. “Hey, I’ve got a tree here that’s not gonna fit in the carrier’s vehicle. Can you pick it up?” I sighed. Yesterday I was home all day, a nice sunny day. Saturday I had a rehearsal and a concert out of town—not a day I could plant. Oh well. “Sure—be right down.”
He had two cardboard boxes, one 4 x 4 inches x 6 feet, the other 2 x 4 x 24 inches. Both had labels from the Wisconsin Department of Agriculture. Apparently, my supplier had the trees shipped directly to me. I opened the tops just to see what had come. I pulled out an invoice.
Everything. Huh? I looked down. I expected roots wrapped in plastic with cord or rubber bands. Nope. Pots. Pots! Those “cardboard” nursery type, half filled with soil—as nothing secured the plants from moving about nor the soil from falling out as the package was handled. Cheese heads have different ideas about shipping plants than we do in New York, I guess—the box wasn’t even labeled “This end up” – just a small felt pen marking, “Please rush—planting materials.”
Well almost everything—they shipped the female kiwi plant, but backordered the male kiwi. I opened the small “planting materials” box—and found the male kiwi. I looked at my watch and headed for the hardware store to pick up the stakes I’ll need before I would have to leave to rehearsal.—the hardware stores would be closed on Sunday, and EVERYTHING planted must immediately be fenced,, or the rabbits will eat it right down to the ground. (They even eat the needles off my Austrian Pines! It’s a running battle—I’ve become Mr. McGregor.)
So today is the day for the digging of holes and planting, fencing and watering of trees. Probably tomorrow too. Rain or shine.
Maybe I should pick up some extra ibuprofen…
Writer
Two weeks ago, I received a small box in the mail—my tomato and broccoli seeds. All else was backordered. Deep sigh.
*Ring—ring—ring* Not many people I know are morning people, so the early phone call on a Saturday yesterday morning was a surprise. *Hello?”
“Hi! This is Doug at the Post Office.” In a small town, we all know each other. “Hey, I’ve got a tree here that’s not gonna fit in the carrier’s vehicle. Can you pick it up?” I sighed. Yesterday I was home all day, a nice sunny day. Saturday I had a rehearsal and a concert out of town—not a day I could plant. Oh well. “Sure—be right down.”
He had two cardboard boxes, one 4 x 4 inches x 6 feet, the other 2 x 4 x 24 inches. Both had labels from the Wisconsin Department of Agriculture. Apparently, my supplier had the trees shipped directly to me. I opened the tops just to see what had come. I pulled out an invoice.
Everything. Huh? I looked down. I expected roots wrapped in plastic with cord or rubber bands. Nope. Pots. Pots! Those “cardboard” nursery type, half filled with soil—as nothing secured the plants from moving about nor the soil from falling out as the package was handled. Cheese heads have different ideas about shipping plants than we do in New York, I guess—the box wasn’t even labeled “This end up” – just a small felt pen marking, “Please rush—planting materials.”
Well almost everything—they shipped the female kiwi plant, but backordered the male kiwi. I opened the small “planting materials” box—and found the male kiwi. I looked at my watch and headed for the hardware store to pick up the stakes I’ll need before I would have to leave to rehearsal.—the hardware stores would be closed on Sunday, and EVERYTHING planted must immediately be fenced,, or the rabbits will eat it right down to the ground. (They even eat the needles off my Austrian Pines! It’s a running battle—I’ve become Mr. McGregor.)
So today is the day for the digging of holes and planting, fencing and watering of trees. Probably tomorrow too. Rain or shine.
Maybe I should pick up some extra ibuprofen…
Writer
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