Their, Their Now

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

July fourth is coming. The day when we here in the former colonies gather in our little fenced part of the world to celebrate grilled food, Classic Rock, and oh yes, the birth of our nation. It was just 234 short years ago that a bunch of guys in powdered wigs, except for Ben Franklin apparently, gathered on a hot Philadelphia summer day, in a room with all windows closed, in a time before air conditioning or even swamp coolers for God’s sake, and let their brains bake until they all agreed to sign a declaration of independence. Thus “declaring” their independence from England. Not a huge surprise since they had been at war with them for over a year.

The document upon which they all put their John Handcocks, including John Hancock, was written, mostly they say, by Thomas Jefferson. It’s basically a list of “issues” they had with King George III and a list of rights that they felt all men have.

The issues, or grievances that the colonies had with England mostly centered on two acts that were passed by the British Parliament to create some revenue through taxes. Specifically The Stamp Act and the Townshend Acts. The Stamp Act required that most printed material would be printed on official English government paper for which you had to pay. The Townshend Acts was a bunch of revenue generating acts all bundled together, like getting your phone, Internet, and TV all from the same provider.

Had the Townshend Acts instead been a series of concerts by Pete Townshend, the colonists may have been in a much better mood and might have even let The Stamp Act slide. But alas, Mr. Townshend, in an act of unbelievable selfishness, refused to be born for 170 years. So just when it was hot and muggy in Philadelphia, and a nice outdoor concert by The Who would have hit the spot, the colonists instead had to fork over their drachmas, or whatever they were using to buy IPODs and Blue Ray players back then, to instead pay for judges and governors. That pissed them off so a revolution was born. Oh, as a side note; ironically, Pete Townshend just turned 170 this year.

As to the rights, they boil down to being alive, being free, and being happy. Plus some other stuff about having the right to revolt. But I’m going to stick with the three I just mentioned here, and are mentioned in the famous line from that declaration that I quoted above, and more specifically, where the writer(s) of the Declaration of Independence felt those rights came from.

Lately a conservative Republican friend of mine – yes it’s true, I actually have friends who are both conservative and Republican – in answering a question I had about social conservatism said that he and his pals just wanted to return the country to her original Christian roots. Finishing with, “Just as the Founding Fathers intended."

But did those Founding Fathers create a Christian country? Did they intend to? I think I can safely say that the men who signed The Declaration of Independence are what the majority of us feel, fit the bill as Founding Fathers. I also claim that the Declaration of Independence is the document which established what kind of country those Founding Fathers wanted to create; a country where men had those aforementioned rights of Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. When they signed their names at the bottom, not only were they risking hanging together, they were agreeing on the what the document said.

Read that quote at the top again. Go ahead, I’ll wait... Got it? Good. Now notice the part where it says that men are endowed by their creator with certain rights. It says their creator, not a creator, or even the creator. It is as if Mr. Jefferson meant that your creator is... whoever you say it is. Whatever idea of a creator you bring to the table, whether it’s the God of Abraham either Christian, Jew, or Muslim; Buddha; none; or anything else, it will be acceptable. And all those Founding Fathers, who I assume read it before signing it, agreed to this when they put quill to paper.

One word with five little letters and it says it all about how religion was intended to play out in this new country. Does it say that we are a Christian country? No. Does it say we are a type of country other than Christian? No. It says “their creator.” Your creator. My creator.

Go in peace.

I am the Walrus

There is a growing concern, no there is an exploding concern that BP, who used to be know as British Petroleum, was not prepared to tackle their massive oil leak that looks now like it will flow until we’ve long moved past the need for fossil fuels and run our cars, homes, and our very cities on the energy from our minds themselves. Of course we will also be using our minds to fly ourselves from place to place, so the only cars left will be fine art in museums, and yard art in front of trailer parks.

But before we put all of our energies into developing that incredible brain power, let us set a bit aside for this concern as to whether or not the artist formally know as British Petroleum poked a hole in a pool of crude under more pressure than the thousands of pounds per square inch the ocean was exerting at that 5,000 foot depth, allowing it to spew out into the sea, and in the process banishing shrimp from my dinner plate for the foreseeable future.

Were they prepared? Did they understand the possible consequences should that money tree of a genie get out of the bottle and attack pelicans, dolphins, tourists, and those aforementioned shrimp? Or did they stick their heads in the (at that time unsoiled) sand, cross their fingers, and count their gold?

I don’t know. I don’t know how to tell. But something has come to light that might provide a hint as to the obliviousness under which they may have been operating, a clue to their cluelessness if you will. Before the spill, BP published a document entitled, “Regional Oil Spill Response Plan, Gulf of Mexico.” Listed in that memo under "Sensitive Biological Resources" along with those creatures mentioned above and others are walrus. Yes, walrus. You know, long tusks, lots of blubber, found in the arctic. They might as well have added hobbits.

Don’t believe me? Here is the URL to that document which is pretty large so let it load and then look on page 249:

http://info.publicintelligence.net/BPGoMspillresponseplan.pdf

The mighty walrus’ inclusion in any document pertaining to the Gulf of Mexico screams copy and paste. So if nothing else, the mega-corporation known as British Petroleum, BP, and possible someday The Great Oil Satan, rubber-stamped what animals might be affected by an oil spill in the Gulf, suggesting they also rubber-stamped the response to that spill. Their performance since seems to shore up that theory, if you’ll pardon my pun.

And the Oscar Goes To...

I have a favorite new word. It has replaced meh, which is a word that may have been coined on The Simpsons. Meh is defined as meaning, “whateverness.” An example of its use in conversation;
First person says, “What do you think of the United States advancing in the World Cup?”
Second person answers, “Meh,” and shrugs his shoulders.

Speaking of the World Cup, it is from there that my new favorite word has been born. There are many people, I’m sure, who follow soccer on a regular basis that have been aware of this word for awhile, but not being one of those people, it’s new to me. The word is…flopping.

Flopping can be loosely defined as acting with intent to receive advantage, or perhaps maybe lying for gain. Here is what it is; flopping is when a soccer player flings himself to the ground when he and a player or players from the opposite team make contact, or appear to make contact, or are on the same field, or are in the same zip code, or may have met once, and writhes in pain. In includes, but is not limited to, the scrunching up of the face and the clutching of the knee, ankle, foot, head, or the ever popular groin. Some players have been known to go as far as to clutch a fellow player's groin, as seen the the graphic below.

What the “injured” player is looking for is a penalty so he can get a free kick. Because free kicks are much easier that running down the field with the ball, maneuvering it around other players, and then kicking it past the opposing goalie through a goal that is only twice as big as the average American garage door. That would be four times as big as the average European garage door, and twice as big as the square footage of the average South American’s home.

But that’s only half of the story. If the ref doesn’t see eye-to-eye with the actor (player), then that player will pull the greatest resurrection act since Lazareth. Like someone throwing a switch he’ll pop up like a spring daisy and dash off in search of the next opportunity to vie for an Oscar.

Now I’ve talked to others who think this behavior is inexcusable. But I argue that it may be what will finally bring the USA around to the rest of the world’s appreciation of the game. Americans find soccer boring, although I don’t know how any society can call any sport where participants actually run boring, when that society will sit around and watch other people sit around and play poker, or play worse, golf. But American’s do say soccer is slow and there is too little scoring. So why not add an element to the game that will hold our collective interest? Also soccer games can, and often do, end in a tie, an outcome that is simply unpalatable to the American…palate.

They could give out awards like Best Approximation of a Descended Testicle, or maybe Most Lifelike Representation of a Ruptured Spleen. Maybe to prevent ties, a point could be given to whichever team garners one of these awards.

Maybe flopping will catch on and become commonplace in other areas or arenas? Imagine your boss’s chagrin if when called on the carpet, you throw yourself to that carpet, grab your head, and yell, “Foul!” Think of the opportunity flopping provides the driver who gets pulled over for speeding? The offending motorists could leap out the window of his car and roll around in the gutter screaming about a torn meniscus or broken femur. The possibilities are endless.

Nobody is Perfect

In baseball this year there have been two, almost three, perfect games. And that last one’s imperfection came at what would have been the last out. So it was near perfect.

A perfect game is a game that goes at least nine innings in which no player from the other team reaches base. It can be pitched by one or more pitchers, but there can be no hits, walks, or errors. Basically 27 batters come to the plate and all are called out in one way or another.

The pitcher, or pitchers, get credit for the perfect game, but that seems a little unfair. After all, it’s not inconceivable that a perfect game could be completed without the pitcher having struck out a single batter. Maybe perfect games should be awarded to a team instead of a pitcher.

If a pitcher does happen to strikeout all 27 batters that too would be called a perfect game, it has yet to happen, but that is a much more impressive feat than if there were 13 groundouts, 13 fly outs, and one strikeout, or some combination thereof. Maybe 27 strikeouts should be a perfect game and a game with 27 straight outs could have another name, like a real good game, or maybe a 27’er. Okay, so 27 outs in a row will be called a 27’er (it’s growing on me) and 27 strikeouts will be a perfect game.

But what if a pitcher strikes out all 27 batters with 81 pitches? Three each. That would be more impressive still, more perfect-er if you please, so maybe that should be a perfect game. Okay, 27 up and 27 down will be a 27’er (it rings now doesn’t it?), and 27 strikeouts will be a strike-o-rama or something and 27 strikeouts on 81 pitches will be from now on known as a perfect game.


I guess the word perfect is just a name and does not denote perfection. Besides, aside for Abbot and Costello’s “Who’s on First” and 90 feet between bases, there is not much perfection in baseball as it is. So let perfect not mean perfection and let’s get back to the game.

Now what if all 27 batters fly out to the centerfielder on their first pitch…?

Sixteen Tons and What do You Get?

This week, a statue of Jesus in front of a church in Ohio burned to its metal frame shell. Burned down essentially. That’s one reason why it was news. Another reason is that the statue, unofficially nicknamed Touchdown Jesus because the savior’s arms were raised in a way similar to a touchdown call, stood six stories tall and weighed eight tons. So burning it down is no small feat. Yet another reason it was news is because the fire was started by a lightning strike.

There’s been a lot of talk of the irony of lightning, God’s traditional go-to tool for smiting the wicked, burning down a statue of his only begotten son, even a yellow yard art quality representation like this one, but that dialog is pointless. Anyone who would usually point to a violent weather phenomenon destroying something as a message from and angry God, would never do so if the offending item were within the Christian chronicle. Anyone outside that group would not point to lightning as a message from God; or hurricanes, earthquakes, or terrorist’s attacks.

Now let’s move 2,300 miles west. In San Francisco this week a statue of Buddha that was sitting in front of the City Hall was vandalized by graffiti. This statue, which weighs in at 16 tons, has six arms, three faces, and is made of copper, was donated by the artist, Zhang Huan, to mark the 30th year of San Francisco's sister-city relationship with Shanghai. Sixteen tons! Not just art but art on a scale befitting a major city. A cultural object right in front of a governmental object. Gigantic and beautiful, out of place and perfectly placed, and accessible for anyone both physically and intellectually.

When I was in San Francisco a few weeks ago, I happened upon this statue while taking an evening perambulation (Thanks Walt Whitman), inasmuch as you can happen upon something that was this large and looked like Sinbad should be fighting it. But, children were climbing on it, adults were compelled to touch it, and everyone with a camera was taking pictures of it.

I felt the need to touch it myself so I walked up and put my hand in the hand at the end of one of those arms. It was cool and smooth, something I wish I could say about myself more often. Then I walked around it and tried to find the best angle from which to capture it on film. I know, I have a digital camera, but saying, “capture it on a solid-state electronic flash memory data storage device” doesn’t have the same zing. I took a handful of pictures and moved on.

As I was reading the article about the graffiti damage I was just about ready to move on when I saw that one of the tags said, “Jesus is the one,” suggesting this graffiti was applied by someone whose views differ than those who subscribe to Buddhism. I’d hate to think of the damage this guy might reap if he ever wanders into Chinatown with his can of paint. There are more Buddha statues there than I’ve had hot meals.

It was then that I remembered another act of vandalism against statues of Buddha. It was in March of 2001. Back then the group that was running Afghanistan systematically destroyed statues of Buddha that had stood since the 6th century and were nearly 200 feet tall. That group subscribed to a religion other than Buddhism, much like the vandal of the statue in San Francisco. But whereas the vandal in San Francisco looks to be Christian, those who delivered so much destruction in 2001 were Muslim. We may never know the name of person, or persons, in San Francisco, but we do know their name in Afghanistan; Taliban.

Will the vandal in San Francisco ever see his actions as a mirror, albeit a small one, of the people under whose protection the mastermind, and I use the term ironically, of 9/11 slept? Doubtful. A few of those who posted after the article about the Buddha in San Francisco said that he had every right to mar this statue, in what they see as a Christian country. Most of the Christians I know see him as nothing more than what he is; a dog pissing on a tree.

Now the City of San Francisco is erecting a fence around the Buddha statue to protect it. This fence will also prevent anyone who wishes to touch an outrageous piece of art from doing so, and because of its height, prevent anyone who isn’t tall enough, children, from even seeing it. So basically, although Mr. “Jesus is the one” didn’t destroy this statue, he pretty much took it away from anyone wishing to touch it, or see it if they are 5 feet tall or less.

I’m also wondering what would have been said if the San Francisco Buddha had been struck by lightning and destroyed instead of the Ohio Jesus. Or maybe what would have been done, if someone painted graffiti on the Ohio Jesus that read, “Buddha is the one.”

Kansas or Not Kansas

I was sitting in the theater watching Avatar with my wife and sons, thoroughly enjoying myself in the world of flying dragons, blue people riding 6-legged horses, and a 3D movie that didn’t give me a headache, when it happened. A line was spoken that took me right out of the movie world and dropped me into the lazy dialog and weak humor world. The grizzled army veteran opened the welcoming speech to the new recruits with a very curt, “You are not in Kansas anymore.”


Of course this didn’t ruin the movie for me. I was fully vested and my disbelief had been completely suspended. But it did annoy me enough for it to stay somewhere in the back of my mind, where it swirled around until it reared its ugly head a few weeks later. I was sitting on the couch watching the tube when a trailer for Sex and the City 2 came on. Sure enough, there was a shot where the four heroines walk into very richly appointed hotel or palace in a foreign country and one says, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” In the interest of brevity, from now on I'll refer to the line as NIKA.

To be honest I had no plans to see Sex and the City 2, and I still managed to enjoy Avatar, so why would it bug me? I think what it boils down to is this; I love good dialog . I love it in movies, I love it in books, and I love it in actual conversations I have with people. I think I equate NIKA with someone coming up to you on the job and asking, “Working hard or hardly working?” It just makes me want to groan and roll my eyes. And I might point out, the character who utters this tired piece of verbiage in Sex in the City 2 is a writer. It’s the same thing that always bothered me about Everyone Loves Ramon; the guy was a writer but you almost never heard anything he wrote and he didn’t come across as particularly articulate.

Now don’t get me wrong. NIKA is a great line. It worked in the Wizard of Oz and probably in a movie or two after that as a joke/homage. But it’s been played. It’s been milked of all irony and humor so instead of garnishing the smallest or chuckles, it falls flat. It’s not exactly a turd in the punchbowl but it’s at least something in the punchbowl that would make me fill my cup from the other side. Maybe it should be retired.

Along with NIKA I think we should also get rid of, “Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” Really? So if you get run over by a train, lose both arms and legs, and are put in a coma you’re stronger? “I have a bad feeling about this” and “Houston, we have a problem” are on the bubble.

My fondest wish is to be watching a movie where the characters find themselves in some exotic or magical world and utter the line, “You know, this is a lot like Kansas.”

An Edsel for the 21st Century

Here’s what happened. I was driving to work in rural Fresno County when I saw this car with “4 SALE” taped in the windows. The next day I snapped a picture of it as I drove by. I know, I know, but I swear I never took my eyes off the road. My sons were in the car with me and naturally asked why their daddy was endangering their young lives with this drive by photography. When I explained that the subject of the photo was an Edsel they looked back at me as if I were going on about the sound quality of LPs over digital downloads…again. So I guess it’s my paternal duty to pass down the legend of the valiant Edsel, and tragedy of her epic fall.
So I began, “Gather my children and you shall hear, of a line of cars that lasted three years.” In the late 1950’s Ford decided that their Lincoln was good enough to compete against General Motors' mighty Cadillac so they promoted it. Exactly what that entails, I don’t know. That left a vacancy for an “intermediate” car line that would, I guess, compete with the Oldsmobile or maybe just walking.

The geniuses in the marketing department, using the more is better approach, decided to dump every possible feature that was popular with the automobile purchasing public at that time, into this new line. So you got things like push-button gear shifting in the center of the steering column, a binnacle like speedometer that sat on the dash like a Jiffy-Pop bag, and an all new styling concept where the grill was vertical instead of horizontal. The grill prompted someone to say, “It looks like a Buick sucking on a lemon.”

But you can’t add every ingredient you like to the same soup, because after you added the peanut butter and licorice to the chicken broth and liverwurst, it becomes inedible. To say the least. But what is the big deal with the Edsel? Why does it hold a place as the biggest failure in transportation history since the Donner party bought those used Conestoga wagons without snow tires? And why hasn’t it happened again for the fifty plus years since the last one rolled off the assembly line?

Some say it was the lemon-sucking grill that drove people away. Others point to the price or the reliability, although it was no less reliable then other cars of the same era and price wise it sat in the middle. One school of thought suggests it was the push-button transmission in the steering column. These folks thought that drivers, wishing to honk at another motorist who had in some way offended them, instead shifted their shinny new Edsel into another gear. Imagine that instead of delivering a macho, two toned blast from a heavy, U.S. steel horn and effectively cowering the target of your wrath, you instead came to a screeching halt because you accidentally threw your car into reverse. Oopsie!

Perhaps the head gasket wasn’t screwed on just right, it could be, perhaps, the brake shoes were too tight. Sorry, kind of Seussed out for a second there. But whatever the reason, the grill or the price, the Edsel was dropped into showrooms like an art-deco train wreck, and people stayed away in droves. And ever since, the name Edsel has equaled failure.
Like I said, the last Edsel rolled, off the assembly line 50 years ago. Why has no car line since picked up the definition of automotive failure mantle? Maybe someone has but we haven’t taken a long enough look to see them. I know I haven’t. Let’s.

If gigantic chrome bumpers, push button transmissions, and fins like sharks on steroids were popular in the 1950’s, then four-wheel-drive, high ground clearance, and cargo space were just as popular in the 2000’s.

If there was a vehicle into which the most popular recent features were poured, it was the SUV. In the 1990’s and 2000’s you couldn’t go broke selling SUVs. One in particular seems to have risen to the apex of the class, and it had it all; enough ground clearance to accommodate boulders, shopping carts, and small children; the big knobby tires; enough cargo space for the man who owns everything and just wants something to haul it all around in; a winch that will never be used on the front and a full size (and then some) tire on the back; duel fuel tanks and duel temperature controls with a 25-degree difference; and power-tilt and power-folding heated outside rear view mirrors. Did I just say power-folding?

It also had more blind spots than a sensory deprivation tank, a height that was above the legal limit requiring, by federal law, to have amber clearance lights, and at 8,600 pounds gross weight, above the limit that is allowed on residential streets in many cities. You’ve probably seen the sign in this graphic and not even though about it. To paraphrase Ralph Nader, “Unpractical at any speed.”

What was/is this vehicle? Well, let me answer that by saying the makers wanted something big and impressive that would rumble down the avenue like a tank. So naturally they went and asked the U.S. Army. The Army answered with the Humvee so the civilian version is the Hummer. It slid into showrooms with a marketing campaign (ironic word choice) that included then action movie star Arnold Schwarzenegger rolling around in one. But unlike the Edsel, the Hummer sold. To quote the Eagles song The Last Resort, “(they) put up a bunch of ugly boxes, and Jesus people bought ‘em.”

If both cars were packed with what the people want, why is it one died on the vine and the other grew to maturity, even if its drivers hadn’t? If you look at quality I’d put my money on the Edsel having higher quality then the Hummer in relation to its respective era. When you look at price the Edsel wins again. Features are probably a tie. The only real difference would be the consumer during the 1950s versus the consumer of the 1990s/2000s.

You know, each generation likes to think they are a little savvier, and perhaps a little more sophisticated than the generation before, but perhaps we are not. I’m pretty sure that if I stood next to Julius Caesar as a stealth fighter flew over, my reaction would probably be more subdued than his. But it seems that where the 1950’s consumer could walk past the Edsel showroom on his way to the Chevys or (regular) Fords, I would apparently be sucked in like a moth to a flame and lay down my hard earns for a brand new Hummer.