I've been working on some common sense joe six pack reforms. Try these on for size:
1. If a company is too big to fail, it is too big to exist and should be broken up. Use national
security as a pretext if you have to. No more bailouts needed.
2. If an investment instrument can not be explained in language a sixth-grader can understand in one sentence, it should not be allowed. That way, maybe, our politicians can understand what they are supposed to oversee.
3. Here's a novel thought. The sum total of insurance on a bond should not surpass the face value of the bond. At present, there are incredible multiples of the bonds involved in the credit swaps. Only those who present the bonds should be able to collect.
4. You've heard of "insurable interest," right. In order to short a stock, you must own the stock. In order to insure a bond, you must own the bond.
5. Insurance, by another other name- call it credit swap or not- should be subject to insurance regulations.
Just another two cents offered facetiously, maybe.
Friday, October 10, 2008
What McCain Needs to Say: Part 1
He should be mad. He should be presidential. He should attack Obama. He shouldn't attack Obama. Admonitions to the Republican candidate seems to multiply like tribbles. Well, I'll add my two cents here.
Americans do not like attacks. They do, however, work. The trick is to get someone else to do the attacking. But since the media has abnegated its role this election cycle, and there is no "swift boat" equivalent here, McCain has to do it. Obama, realizing his opponent's quandary, has coyly said, "Gee, funny he didn't say anything to my face," as if McCain were afraid of him. Still.... Let me propose something revolutionary. It doesn't have to be an attack.
The choice here is not between Senator Obama and Senator McCain, but between two competing visions of America. It is not important if the Senator was bosom buddies with Bill Ayers, although that would show poor taste. What is important is that Obama was the first chairman of the board of the Chicago Annenberg Challenge, the dreamchild of Mr. Ayers. During his tenure, the CAC used 50 million dollars of education reform funds to raise the political consciousness of inner city kids. This, of course, is in perfect keeping with the education philosophy Mr. Ayers explained as he praised Hugo Chavez:
We share the belief that education is the motor-force of revolution. . . . I look forward to seeing how . . . all of you continue to overcome the failures of capitalist education as you seek to create something truly new and deeply humane."
Ayers told the great humanitarian Chavez: "Teaching invites transformations, it urges revolutions large and small. La educacion es revolucion." It is that form of socialist revolution that Ayers, and Obama, have worked to bring to America.
source
The real problem with the association is that Senator Obama helped carry out the agenda of someone who is not only an unrepentant terrorist, but who has spent the past decades as a professor of education undermining the system he was unable to blow up.
Then there is the pastor in whose church he sat for twenty years. Now the Senator claims he never heard the Pastor's "God damn America" diatribes. For the sake of argument, let's assume that's true. Is it believable that he never ever got wind of it? Given the nature of church gossip in general, I'm sorry, it's not likely.
The Rezko matter we can drop, because that just smacks of routine cronyism. But what of ACORN, which has emerged as a insidious Hydra with tentacles that reach into the Capitol? The Senator maintains that he only worked on a lawsuit on their behalf. Fair enough. But he also paid a branch of that organization which is perennially accused of voter fraud $800,000 to register voters. At the same time, this summer, the parent organization was given hundreds of thousands by a Democrat congress in a housing bill. In fact, they were planning on forking over 20 percent of any taxpayer monies retrieved from the bailout bill until outrage stopped them.
This same organization organized sit ins at banks, followed bankers home, and applied pressure to lower lending standards on, you guessed it, the Democrats in congress- the first step in the Fannie/Freddie debacle which ultimately resulted in the present economic implosion. This is the same organization whose workers are reputed to have turned in thousands of fraudulent registration forms, threatening to subvert a fair and free election. Has anyone anywhere heard of conflict of interest? Unseemly, at best.
So Senator Obama did not make an unfortunate choice of a friend or two. He has set a longtime pattern of professional associations with people who don't seem to like America, some who have actively worked for its demise. That is the problem.
For me the scariest is this ACORN business. Who are these people? When did they start pulling the strings on the three stooges on Capitol Hill? And how did they get away with doing it surreptiously? But that is beside the point here. If the Senator does not espouse this hatred of America, it apparently does not bother him. There is another possibility, almost as inpalatable, that he used this fifth column simply as a means to further his ambitions. Of course, there is also the possibility that Barack Obama was walking along the street, minding his own business when Mssrs. Ayers et al yanked him into their web. Yeah, right.
Americans do not like attacks. They do, however, work. The trick is to get someone else to do the attacking. But since the media has abnegated its role this election cycle, and there is no "swift boat" equivalent here, McCain has to do it. Obama, realizing his opponent's quandary, has coyly said, "Gee, funny he didn't say anything to my face," as if McCain were afraid of him. Still.... Let me propose something revolutionary. It doesn't have to be an attack.
The choice here is not between Senator Obama and Senator McCain, but between two competing visions of America. It is not important if the Senator was bosom buddies with Bill Ayers, although that would show poor taste. What is important is that Obama was the first chairman of the board of the Chicago Annenberg Challenge, the dreamchild of Mr. Ayers. During his tenure, the CAC used 50 million dollars of education reform funds to raise the political consciousness of inner city kids. This, of course, is in perfect keeping with the education philosophy Mr. Ayers explained as he praised Hugo Chavez:
We share the belief that education is the motor-force of revolution. . . . I look forward to seeing how . . . all of you continue to overcome the failures of capitalist education as you seek to create something truly new and deeply humane."
Ayers told the great humanitarian Chavez: "Teaching invites transformations, it urges revolutions large and small. La educacion es revolucion." It is that form of socialist revolution that Ayers, and Obama, have worked to bring to America.
source
The real problem with the association is that Senator Obama helped carry out the agenda of someone who is not only an unrepentant terrorist, but who has spent the past decades as a professor of education undermining the system he was unable to blow up.
Then there is the pastor in whose church he sat for twenty years. Now the Senator claims he never heard the Pastor's "God damn America" diatribes. For the sake of argument, let's assume that's true. Is it believable that he never ever got wind of it? Given the nature of church gossip in general, I'm sorry, it's not likely.
The Rezko matter we can drop, because that just smacks of routine cronyism. But what of ACORN, which has emerged as a insidious Hydra with tentacles that reach into the Capitol? The Senator maintains that he only worked on a lawsuit on their behalf. Fair enough. But he also paid a branch of that organization which is perennially accused of voter fraud $800,000 to register voters. At the same time, this summer, the parent organization was given hundreds of thousands by a Democrat congress in a housing bill. In fact, they were planning on forking over 20 percent of any taxpayer monies retrieved from the bailout bill until outrage stopped them.
This same organization organized sit ins at banks, followed bankers home, and applied pressure to lower lending standards on, you guessed it, the Democrats in congress- the first step in the Fannie/Freddie debacle which ultimately resulted in the present economic implosion. This is the same organization whose workers are reputed to have turned in thousands of fraudulent registration forms, threatening to subvert a fair and free election. Has anyone anywhere heard of conflict of interest? Unseemly, at best.
So Senator Obama did not make an unfortunate choice of a friend or two. He has set a longtime pattern of professional associations with people who don't seem to like America, some who have actively worked for its demise. That is the problem.
For me the scariest is this ACORN business. Who are these people? When did they start pulling the strings on the three stooges on Capitol Hill? And how did they get away with doing it surreptiously? But that is beside the point here. If the Senator does not espouse this hatred of America, it apparently does not bother him. There is another possibility, almost as inpalatable, that he used this fifth column simply as a means to further his ambitions. Of course, there is also the possibility that Barack Obama was walking along the street, minding his own business when Mssrs. Ayers et al yanked him into their web. Yeah, right.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Reflections on the Second Debate
There was one winner last night, and it was not McCain nor Obama. I've heard all the pundits complaining about how boring it was, how badly Tom Brokaw moderated, etc. I beg to differ. As I sat there listening initially, then lured into watch, my chest swelled with pride. Whatever my own preferences might be, here were two intelligent men with competing visions for America essentially asking for the support of the American people. Each did a more than adequate job of explaining that vision. I happen to side with one. And Tom Brokaw did a marvelous job of ensuring that there were no questions from melting snowmen and the like, that there were no "gotcha" questions. Yes, it was boring, particularly if you've been reporting on the campaign for two years. And policy, itself, is boring to all but wonks. But the debate was an excellent primer for those who are going to be called upon to pull that lever in November.
On that day, there will be no white smoke issuing from the Capitol building. There will be no bells tolling. It will not be the advent of a Messiah. Those who think he came already don't need one, and those who await his coming will still be waiting. There will, however, be the promise of a new administration, freely chosen by the citizens of this great Republic. There is no more beautiful a thing in the civic sphere.
I may or may not agree with the people's choice on that day, but I can countenance that there are opposing points of view, that people are entitled to their own opinions, that they can disagree without being immoral or stupid. I, of course, think I'm right; but so do they. In either case, there is always the next election. Fancy that! Stop, think, and marvel. As an Eastern European I knew used to say, "Ameriiica, Great Country!"
On that day, there will be no white smoke issuing from the Capitol building. There will be no bells tolling. It will not be the advent of a Messiah. Those who think he came already don't need one, and those who await his coming will still be waiting. There will, however, be the promise of a new administration, freely chosen by the citizens of this great Republic. There is no more beautiful a thing in the civic sphere.
I may or may not agree with the people's choice on that day, but I can countenance that there are opposing points of view, that people are entitled to their own opinions, that they can disagree without being immoral or stupid. I, of course, think I'm right; but so do they. In either case, there is always the next election. Fancy that! Stop, think, and marvel. As an Eastern European I knew used to say, "Ameriiica, Great Country!"
On Guevara: A Tale of Two Executions
Humberto Fontova has an uncanny ability to shake the cobwebs of history and extract a single shining moment which encapsulates reams of dry polemic. This talent is especially valuable to the Cuban cause, because no one wants to hear it. The purveyors of information in the United States, no, most of the world, have made up their minds to accept the Venetian carnival mask of the Cuban regime. They do not want to be confused by the truth. Humberto, however, a master storyteller, holds a mirror up to the seamy underside of all that revolutionary mythology.
In response to the paeans to the iconic "Che" on the anniversary of his execution in Bolivia, where he was fomenting revolution in yet someone else's country, Humberto gives us a description of another execution, one dictated and carried out by the "Che" apparatus of death:
In 1961 a 20 year-old boy named Tony Chao Flores took his place at the execution stake, but he hobbled to it on crutches. He'd taken 17 bullets from their Czech machine guns when the Castroites captured him. On the way to the execution stake at the old Spanish fort turned to a prison and execution ground by Che Guevara, Tony was forced to hobble down some cobblestone stairs. Tony tumbled down the long row of steps and finally lay on the cobblestones at the bottom, writhing and grimacing. One of Tony's bullet-riddled legs had been amputated at the hospital, the other was gangrened and covered in pus. The Castroite guards cackled as they moved in to gag Tony with their tape.
Tony watched them approach while balling his good hand into a fist. Then as the first Red reached him — BASH!! right across his eyes.
"I'll never understand how Tony survived that beating," says eyewitness Hiram Gonzalez who watched from his window on deathrow, screaming in helpless rage at the Communist guards. The crippled Tony was almost killed in the kicking, punching, gun-bashing melee but finally his captors stood off, panting and rubbing their scrapes and bruises. They'd managed to tape the battered boys mouth, but Tony pushed the guards away before they bound his hands. Their commander nodded, motioning for them to back off.
Now Tony started crawling towards the splintered and blood-spattered execution stake about 50 yards away, pushing and dragging himself with his hands as his stump of a leg left a trail of blood on the grass. As he neared the stake he'd stop and start pounding himself in the chest. His executioners seemed perplexed. The crippled boy was trying to say something. But his message was muzzled by the gag the gallant friend of George McGovern made obligatory for his thousands of execution victims.
Tony's blazing eyes and grimace said enough. But no one could understand the boy's mumblings. Tony kept pushing himself, shutting his eyes tightly from the agony of the effort. His executioners shuffled nervously, raised their rifles, lowered them. They looked towards their commander who shrugged. Finally Tony reached up to his face and ripped off the tape that George McGovern's sparkling dinner companion required for his condemned.
The 20 year-old freedom-fighter's voice boomed out. "Shoot me RIGHT HERE!" roared Tony at his gaping executioners. His voice thundered and his head bobbed with the effort. "Right in the CHEST!" Tony yelled. "Like a MAN!" Tony stopped and ripped open his shirt, pounding his chest and grimacing as his gallant executioners gaped and shuffled. "Right HERE!" he pounded.
On his last day alive, Tony had received a letter in jail from his mother. "My dear son," she counseled. "How often I'd warned you not to get involved in these things. But I knew my pleas were vain. You always demanded your freedom, Tony, even as a little boy. So I knew you'd never stand for communism. Well, Castro and Che finally caught you. Son, I love you with all my heart. My life is now shattered and will never be the same, but the only thing left now, Tony . . . is to die like a man."
"FUEGO!!" Castro's lackey yelled the command and the bullets shattered Tony's crippled body, just as he'd reached the stake, lifted himself and stared resolutely at his murderers. But Castro's firing squads usually murder a hero who is standing. The legless Tony presented an awkward target. So some of the volley went wild and missed the youngster. Time for the coup de grace.
Normally it's one .45 slug that shatters the skull. Eyewitnesses say Tony required . . . POW!-POW! . . . POW! — three. Seems the executioner's hands were shaking pretty badly. But they finally managed. The man Time magazine's hails among the "heroes and icons of the Century" had another notch in his gun. Another enemy dispatched — bound and gagged as usual.
Castro and Che were in their mid-30s when they murdered Tony. According to the authoritative "Black Book of Communism" their firing squads riddled another 14,000 bound and gagged freedom-fighters. Many (perhaps most) of their murder victims were boys in their late-teens and early 20s. Some were even younger. Carlos Machado and his twin brother Ramon were 15 when they spat in the face of their communist executioners and died singing their national anthem as lustily as they cursed Che Guevara's Internationale. Their dad collapsed from same volley alongside them.
Compare Carlos and Tony's death to Guevara's capture: "Don't shoot!" whimpered the arch-assassin to his captors. "I'm Che! I'm worth more to you alive than dead!"
Then ask yourselves: who's face belongs on T-shirts worn by youth who fancy themselves, rebellious, freedom-loving and brave?
Then they wonder why we're intransigent? Read the whole article on Newsmax here.
In response to the paeans to the iconic "Che" on the anniversary of his execution in Bolivia, where he was fomenting revolution in yet someone else's country, Humberto gives us a description of another execution, one dictated and carried out by the "Che" apparatus of death:
In 1961 a 20 year-old boy named Tony Chao Flores took his place at the execution stake, but he hobbled to it on crutches. He'd taken 17 bullets from their Czech machine guns when the Castroites captured him. On the way to the execution stake at the old Spanish fort turned to a prison and execution ground by Che Guevara, Tony was forced to hobble down some cobblestone stairs. Tony tumbled down the long row of steps and finally lay on the cobblestones at the bottom, writhing and grimacing. One of Tony's bullet-riddled legs had been amputated at the hospital, the other was gangrened and covered in pus. The Castroite guards cackled as they moved in to gag Tony with their tape.
Tony watched them approach while balling his good hand into a fist. Then as the first Red reached him — BASH!! right across his eyes.
"I'll never understand how Tony survived that beating," says eyewitness Hiram Gonzalez who watched from his window on deathrow, screaming in helpless rage at the Communist guards. The crippled Tony was almost killed in the kicking, punching, gun-bashing melee but finally his captors stood off, panting and rubbing their scrapes and bruises. They'd managed to tape the battered boys mouth, but Tony pushed the guards away before they bound his hands. Their commander nodded, motioning for them to back off.
Now Tony started crawling towards the splintered and blood-spattered execution stake about 50 yards away, pushing and dragging himself with his hands as his stump of a leg left a trail of blood on the grass. As he neared the stake he'd stop and start pounding himself in the chest. His executioners seemed perplexed. The crippled boy was trying to say something. But his message was muzzled by the gag the gallant friend of George McGovern made obligatory for his thousands of execution victims.
Tony's blazing eyes and grimace said enough. But no one could understand the boy's mumblings. Tony kept pushing himself, shutting his eyes tightly from the agony of the effort. His executioners shuffled nervously, raised their rifles, lowered them. They looked towards their commander who shrugged. Finally Tony reached up to his face and ripped off the tape that George McGovern's sparkling dinner companion required for his condemned.
The 20 year-old freedom-fighter's voice boomed out. "Shoot me RIGHT HERE!" roared Tony at his gaping executioners. His voice thundered and his head bobbed with the effort. "Right in the CHEST!" Tony yelled. "Like a MAN!" Tony stopped and ripped open his shirt, pounding his chest and grimacing as his gallant executioners gaped and shuffled. "Right HERE!" he pounded.
On his last day alive, Tony had received a letter in jail from his mother. "My dear son," she counseled. "How often I'd warned you not to get involved in these things. But I knew my pleas were vain. You always demanded your freedom, Tony, even as a little boy. So I knew you'd never stand for communism. Well, Castro and Che finally caught you. Son, I love you with all my heart. My life is now shattered and will never be the same, but the only thing left now, Tony . . . is to die like a man."
"FUEGO!!" Castro's lackey yelled the command and the bullets shattered Tony's crippled body, just as he'd reached the stake, lifted himself and stared resolutely at his murderers. But Castro's firing squads usually murder a hero who is standing. The legless Tony presented an awkward target. So some of the volley went wild and missed the youngster. Time for the coup de grace.
Normally it's one .45 slug that shatters the skull. Eyewitnesses say Tony required . . . POW!-POW! . . . POW! — three. Seems the executioner's hands were shaking pretty badly. But they finally managed. The man Time magazine's hails among the "heroes and icons of the Century" had another notch in his gun. Another enemy dispatched — bound and gagged as usual.
Castro and Che were in their mid-30s when they murdered Tony. According to the authoritative "Black Book of Communism" their firing squads riddled another 14,000 bound and gagged freedom-fighters. Many (perhaps most) of their murder victims were boys in their late-teens and early 20s. Some were even younger. Carlos Machado and his twin brother Ramon were 15 when they spat in the face of their communist executioners and died singing their national anthem as lustily as they cursed Che Guevara's Internationale. Their dad collapsed from same volley alongside them.
Compare Carlos and Tony's death to Guevara's capture: "Don't shoot!" whimpered the arch-assassin to his captors. "I'm Che! I'm worth more to you alive than dead!"
Then ask yourselves: who's face belongs on T-shirts worn by youth who fancy themselves, rebellious, freedom-loving and brave?
Then they wonder why we're intransigent? Read the whole article on Newsmax here.
Monday, October 6, 2008
An Evening at the Movies: An American Carol
Like any self-respecting semi-conservative, I went to vote today. No, not at my local polling place, but at my local theater. In other words, I went to see An American Carol, adding my little mite to the box office receipts. I suspect others had the same idea, as the limited audience, although not bad for a Monday night, seemed to consist of middle-aged couples. They had the look, if you know what I mean. I've never actually seen Naked Gun or any of Zucker's other films, so I don't really have a basis for comparison, particularly since I'm not a big fan of comedy.
So there I was, sitting in the theater, when the trailers came on. The first one was for W. "Oh, that one's a Bush bashing film," I whisper to my husband. The next one was for Maher's Religulous. Again,I whisper to my husband, this time saying, "Oh, that's an anti religion film." The third one was for Milk, who I had no idea was a Moses type figure.
At first, I wondered whether there were no thrillers, or love stories, or plain fluff being made in Hollywood anymore. Then I thought about it. There were other movies playing. Could someone have figured that that the type of people drawn to the Zucker opus would be attracted to politically-themed movies? Or was it more pointed? The jury's out.
An American Carol, itself, was actually fun. The best scene takes place on a campus when in a Godspell moment, the professors rip off their tweeds and stage a musical number in their hippie gear. There are inspired moments, but it's all pretty silly. I did have a lift in my step as I left the theater, however. And I struck a blow for the God Bless America crowd. Not bad for a Monday Night.
So there I was, sitting in the theater, when the trailers came on. The first one was for W. "Oh, that one's a Bush bashing film," I whisper to my husband. The next one was for Maher's Religulous. Again,I whisper to my husband, this time saying, "Oh, that's an anti religion film." The third one was for Milk, who I had no idea was a Moses type figure.
At first, I wondered whether there were no thrillers, or love stories, or plain fluff being made in Hollywood anymore. Then I thought about it. There were other movies playing. Could someone have figured that that the type of people drawn to the Zucker opus would be attracted to politically-themed movies? Or was it more pointed? The jury's out.
An American Carol, itself, was actually fun. The best scene takes place on a campus when in a Godspell moment, the professors rip off their tweeds and stage a musical number in their hippie gear. There are inspired moments, but it's all pretty silly. I did have a lift in my step as I left the theater, however. And I struck a blow for the God Bless America crowd. Not bad for a Monday Night.
The Market: Another Learning Experience
I've been getting phone calls from investing buddies, asking my thoughts about whether they should sell their stocks. First off, I've got very little to lose. Thus for me, it is a bit of an academic exercise. Sometimes not having money to risk is a blessing.
"What would I do?" I ask myself. The first thing is a no brainer. If I were going to need my money soon and maybe even later, I'd sell out, the operative reasoning being bird in hand better than two in bush. But what about longer term? Well, some point out that the market over time goes up. I recall the average rate of return was 7% or 11% a year, depending on your source. Of course, the exact figure is irrelevant now. I reply, yes, but it took over twenty years to return to pre1929 crash levels. Still savvy investors like Warren Buffet are snapping up some goodies. Of course, they're getting perks you or I would never get.
Given time, even were we to go into a depression, the American economy will right itself. Al Queda pronouncements aside, the rumors of our death are greatly exaggerated. The money of investors, however, might never be recovered. I have owned stocks that have ceased to exist overnight, although the companies bearing the name continue to carry out business. Talk about unfair. I wanted those suckers to die. I don't know what I would do, but I do know I'd have to ask myself, "How much am I willing or able to lose?" Common sense.
Which leads me to my real point. The "irrational exuberance" of investment, entitlement, and irresponsibility has overwhelmed this nation for decades. However angry they may be at whomever, Americans are no different than the investment giants that have collapsed- over leveraged and under capitalized. I know the lunacy was contagious. I used to chide myself for not investing my pension in the market. As it is, we're a tad overextended. And I'm not a particularly materialistic type.
The moral of the story is that our parents and grandparents were right. There is something to be said for saving, living within your means, and handling money with respect. I can still hear my father exclaiming, "Le han perdido respeto al dinero" when he saw house prices. He was right. If there is anything good to come out of this, it is to force us to take a look at our priorities. And right about now, my mattress is looking pretty good. 'Nuff said.
"What would I do?" I ask myself. The first thing is a no brainer. If I were going to need my money soon and maybe even later, I'd sell out, the operative reasoning being bird in hand better than two in bush. But what about longer term? Well, some point out that the market over time goes up. I recall the average rate of return was 7% or 11% a year, depending on your source. Of course, the exact figure is irrelevant now. I reply, yes, but it took over twenty years to return to pre1929 crash levels. Still savvy investors like Warren Buffet are snapping up some goodies. Of course, they're getting perks you or I would never get.
Given time, even were we to go into a depression, the American economy will right itself. Al Queda pronouncements aside, the rumors of our death are greatly exaggerated. The money of investors, however, might never be recovered. I have owned stocks that have ceased to exist overnight, although the companies bearing the name continue to carry out business. Talk about unfair. I wanted those suckers to die. I don't know what I would do, but I do know I'd have to ask myself, "How much am I willing or able to lose?" Common sense.
Which leads me to my real point. The "irrational exuberance" of investment, entitlement, and irresponsibility has overwhelmed this nation for decades. However angry they may be at whomever, Americans are no different than the investment giants that have collapsed- over leveraged and under capitalized. I know the lunacy was contagious. I used to chide myself for not investing my pension in the market. As it is, we're a tad overextended. And I'm not a particularly materialistic type.
The moral of the story is that our parents and grandparents were right. There is something to be said for saving, living within your means, and handling money with respect. I can still hear my father exclaiming, "Le han perdido respeto al dinero" when he saw house prices. He was right. If there is anything good to come out of this, it is to force us to take a look at our priorities. And right about now, my mattress is looking pretty good. 'Nuff said.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Sunday Business Briefs
Given the recent near or impending economic meltdown...
The Origin of the Specie. Didn't get the chance to highlight this interesting take on the situation, circa the 27th. It contains a dollop of reassurance that something had to be done, as well as a few clues to the derivation of the crisis. Also, if you get the chance, be sure to watch FoxNews' documentary, "Saving the Economy." Worth watching if only for the professor's clear and cogent exploration of the genesis of the problem, not to mention an edifying explanation of the alphabet soup of debt instruments. Did you know that there have been six mortgage blow ups since the Civil War? I didn't.
The Wheel of Fortune. Also from the Wall Street Journal comes "The Intelligent Investor" with an upbeat and serendipitous view of the markets. Wall Street may be dead, but only as we know it. His advice: don't bail. I personally advocate no position, as to my mind at least the casinos comp you drinks.
The Nature of the Beast. On Townhall, Ken Connor introduces the moral dimension when he categorizes the current situation as an outgrowth of moral relativism. I'm not sure I have the same rosy view of possibilities going forward. To my mind, Wall Street types will always be greedy, money-grubbing characters, subject only to the fear of God. However, he is correct in the deleterious influence of the new morality on our society: the lack of absolutes has led to an arbitrary Chinese menu of prejudices and preferences, most of them self-serving.
The Tipping Point. This one by Frank Silverstein, I include as a public service because it is timely. Coming from a family of entrepreneurs, I have seen the phenomenon up close. The true measure of a businessman or businesswoman is knowing when to cut your losses.
Survival of the Glibbest. And how about finishing up with an inspirational list? From Fortune comes a top ten list of remarkable coups in the annals of salesmanship.
The Origin of the Specie. Didn't get the chance to highlight this interesting take on the situation, circa the 27th. It contains a dollop of reassurance that something had to be done, as well as a few clues to the derivation of the crisis. Also, if you get the chance, be sure to watch FoxNews' documentary, "Saving the Economy." Worth watching if only for the professor's clear and cogent exploration of the genesis of the problem, not to mention an edifying explanation of the alphabet soup of debt instruments. Did you know that there have been six mortgage blow ups since the Civil War? I didn't.
The Wheel of Fortune. Also from the Wall Street Journal comes "The Intelligent Investor" with an upbeat and serendipitous view of the markets. Wall Street may be dead, but only as we know it. His advice: don't bail. I personally advocate no position, as to my mind at least the casinos comp you drinks.
The Nature of the Beast. On Townhall, Ken Connor introduces the moral dimension when he categorizes the current situation as an outgrowth of moral relativism. I'm not sure I have the same rosy view of possibilities going forward. To my mind, Wall Street types will always be greedy, money-grubbing characters, subject only to the fear of God. However, he is correct in the deleterious influence of the new morality on our society: the lack of absolutes has led to an arbitrary Chinese menu of prejudices and preferences, most of them self-serving.
The Tipping Point. This one by Frank Silverstein, I include as a public service because it is timely. Coming from a family of entrepreneurs, I have seen the phenomenon up close. The true measure of a businessman or businesswoman is knowing when to cut your losses.
Survival of the Glibbest. And how about finishing up with an inspirational list? From Fortune comes a top ten list of remarkable coups in the annals of salesmanship.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Literary Interlude: History Repeats Itself
What could be more natural than an excerpt from one of my favorite novellas: Heart of Darkness? Given the prose here, it has always boggled my imagination that Conrad, a Polish Seaman, learned English as an adult.
"Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left. My idea was to let that chain-gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender; I've had to strike and to fend off. I've had to resist and to attack sometimes--that's only one way of resisting-- without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into. I've seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men--men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther. For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning. Finally I descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees I had seen.
"I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn't a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I don't know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn't one that was not broken. It was a wanton smash-up. At last I got under the trees. My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed to me I had stepped into a gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound--as though the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible.
"Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees, leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under my feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die.
"They were dying slowly--it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now,-- nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air--and nearly as thin. I began to distinguish the gleam of eyes under the trees. Then, glancing down, I saw a face near my hand. The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. The man seemed young--almost a boy--but you know with them it's hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good Swede's ship's biscuits I had in my pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held--there was no other movement and no other glance. He had tied a bit of white worsted round his neck--Why? Where did he get it? Was it a badge--an ornament--a charm--a propitiatory act? Was there any idea at all connected with it? It looked startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from beyond the seas.
"Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legs drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence. While I stood horror-struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all-fours towards the river to drink. He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall on his breastbone.
"Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left. My idea was to let that chain-gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender; I've had to strike and to fend off. I've had to resist and to attack sometimes--that's only one way of resisting-- without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into. I've seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men--men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther. For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning. Finally I descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees I had seen.
"I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn't a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I don't know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn't one that was not broken. It was a wanton smash-up. At last I got under the trees. My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed to me I had stepped into a gloomy circle of some Inferno. The rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound--as though the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible.
"Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees, leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under my feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die.
"They were dying slowly--it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now,-- nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air--and nearly as thin. I began to distinguish the gleam of eyes under the trees. Then, glancing down, I saw a face near my hand. The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. The man seemed young--almost a boy--but you know with them it's hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good Swede's ship's biscuits I had in my pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held--there was no other movement and no other glance. He had tied a bit of white worsted round his neck--Why? Where did he get it? Was it a badge--an ornament--a charm--a propitiatory act? Was there any idea at all connected with it? It looked startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from beyond the seas.
"Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legs drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence. While I stood horror-struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all-fours towards the river to drink. He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall on his breastbone.
Bejing Raises Leopold's Ghost
I interrupt the election to bring you an article that caught my jaundiced eye. I am familiar with the Chinese presence in Cuba, not one I consider particularly helpful to the cause of Cuban freedom. I had not, however, heard of their involvement in Sub-Saharan Africa. Reading it immediately brought to mind a very good book, King Leopold's Ghost by Adam Hochschild, which details Belgium's involvement in the Congo. It is eminently readable for a work of nonfiction.
It is a variation of the phenomenon Hitchens (Peter, not Christopher) describes that I fear for Cuba. As he researches the story, his life is in peril because the Africans in abject misery fear that if light is brought on the situation, the Chinese will leave, and they will be even worse off. And who's to blame them? Here is the crux:
These poor, hopeless, angry people exist by grubbing for scraps of cobalt and copper ore in the filth and dust of abandoned copper mines in Congo, sinking perilous 80ft shafts by hand, washing their finds in cholera-infected streams full of human filth, then pushing enormous two-hundredweight loads uphill on ancient bicycles to the nearby town of Likasi where middlemen buy them to sell on, mainly to Chinese businessmen hungry for these vital metals.
To see them, as they plod miserably past, is to be reminded of pictures of unemployed miners in Thirties Britain, stumbling home in the drizzle with sacks of coal scraps gleaned from spoil heaps.
Except that here the unsparing heat makes the labour five times as hard, and the conditions of work and life are worse by far than any known in England since the 18th Century.
Many perish as their primitive mines collapse on them, or are horribly injured without hope of medical treatment. Many are little more than children. On a good day they may earn $3, which just supports a meagre existence in diseased, malarial slums.
We had been earlier to this awful pit, which looked like a penal colony in an ancient slave empire.
Defeated, bowed figures toiled endlessly in dozens of hand-dug pits. Their faces, when visible, were blank and without hope.
We had been turned away by a fat, corrupt policeman who pretended our papers weren't in order, but who was really taking instructions from a dead-eyed, one-eared gangmaster who sat next to him.
By the time we returned with more official permits, the gangmasters had readied the ambush.
The diggers feared - and their evil, sinister bosses had worked hard on that fear - that if people like me publicised their filthy way of life, then the mine might be closed and the $3 a day might be taken away.
I can give you no better explanation in miniature of the wicked thing that I believe is now happening in Africa.
It is a variation of the phenomenon Hitchens (Peter, not Christopher) describes that I fear for Cuba. As he researches the story, his life is in peril because the Africans in abject misery fear that if light is brought on the situation, the Chinese will leave, and they will be even worse off. And who's to blame them? Here is the crux:
These poor, hopeless, angry people exist by grubbing for scraps of cobalt and copper ore in the filth and dust of abandoned copper mines in Congo, sinking perilous 80ft shafts by hand, washing their finds in cholera-infected streams full of human filth, then pushing enormous two-hundredweight loads uphill on ancient bicycles to the nearby town of Likasi where middlemen buy them to sell on, mainly to Chinese businessmen hungry for these vital metals.
To see them, as they plod miserably past, is to be reminded of pictures of unemployed miners in Thirties Britain, stumbling home in the drizzle with sacks of coal scraps gleaned from spoil heaps.
Except that here the unsparing heat makes the labour five times as hard, and the conditions of work and life are worse by far than any known in England since the 18th Century.
Many perish as their primitive mines collapse on them, or are horribly injured without hope of medical treatment. Many are little more than children. On a good day they may earn $3, which just supports a meagre existence in diseased, malarial slums.
We had been earlier to this awful pit, which looked like a penal colony in an ancient slave empire.
Defeated, bowed figures toiled endlessly in dozens of hand-dug pits. Their faces, when visible, were blank and without hope.
We had been turned away by a fat, corrupt policeman who pretended our papers weren't in order, but who was really taking instructions from a dead-eyed, one-eared gangmaster who sat next to him.
By the time we returned with more official permits, the gangmasters had readied the ambush.
The diggers feared - and their evil, sinister bosses had worked hard on that fear - that if people like me publicised their filthy way of life, then the mine might be closed and the $3 a day might be taken away.
I can give you no better explanation in miniature of the wicked thing that I believe is now happening in Africa.
Of course, as we are often reassured, conditions in Cuba are much better than in darkest Africa. But then, they always have been. Anyway, read the article. The analysis is incisive; the judgement; mordant.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Updated Meanderings: A Moment in Time and Nature
In the midst of political and economic high drama, it is well to commune with natural world. For instance, walking along the portico of my favorite bookstore this morning, I caught a glimpse of a dried leaf out of the corner of my eye. My brain began to process the sight when it announced an anomaly. How did the leaf get in that position halfway up a faux masonry column? Automatically, I turned and took a closer look. It was a moth, but not just any moth. It was a mega moth, confident in its camouflage and wisely ignoring me. A little down the way, I caught sight of one of our local wasps tending its nest above of my head. In the grass alongside the building industrious fire ants were busily constructing a mound.
Marveling at all this fauna in the unlikely location of a strip mall, I was reminded of the first time I stood by the Gulf of Mexico. Used to the beaches of the Caribbean islands, the East Coast of Florida, I was surprised that the waters of our local beaches are not generally the azure as those of the aforementioned locales, although they can be at times depending on their mood. They generally have a green tint. Over the years, I've come to see the color as symbolic of the fecundity of the natural setting.
We share the sugary sands of our beaches with countless birds, whole phalanxes of avian life. There are sand pipers and plovers, an odd ibis or two. There are diving birds and birds like pelicans and very sneaky white herons who challenge you for your bait as you fish. Our waters teem with the tiniest of bait fish. Go out a few yards, and you can catch mangrove snappers, grouper, snook. Incredible. Of course, if you're going in the water, it pays to practice the stingray shuffle. Although they are beautiful when you see them gliding in a school as I did off an abandoned trestle in Boca Grande, hidden in the sand under your feet, they are awesome in another way.
Inland, the ubiquitous lizards are kind of like mice up North, except that you ignore them, until they show up dessicated in the washing machine, etc. Then there is the dread Palmetto bug. Despite having grown up in South Brooklyn, inured to committing mass cockroach homicide, I cannot bring myself to stomp one. It's the splat factor. The same one that came into play, when we found the mother of all spiders, at least three inches long, in the living room. The hubster, as befits the man of the house, defended his castle with a shoe he had carelessly tossed by the sofa, only to unleash a sci fi channel horror as hundreds of spider babies fled in all directions from their mother's crushed body. Memo, use an inverted cup and slip a piece of paper under it.
I've learned to love nature here in all of its manifestations. Here in my part of Florida, we live much closer to Mama Nature, not only her beaches, but her skies, her weather and her minions. I love the blazing cardinal and screeching jays, the owl somewhere in the backyard, and the gorgeous birdsong outside my window, even at 2 AM. I know not to approach piles of brush directly or inverted planters. Snakes, you know. I've even learned not to get too freaked when the black racer that lives here visits the lanai, probably gaining access the same way the jays I occasionally have to liberate do and in search of the same prey- the seemingly endless supply of dead beetles that have given their all straining toward the light, as we all do.
Update: And today in the same spot, I came across the remains of a beautiful little bird, a yellow warbler of some sort, I think. I looked up at the plate glass window and read its demise in the smear. The last time I came across one of these little fellows, he had become hopelessly enamored of his reflection in the shed window. Sad.
Marveling at all this fauna in the unlikely location of a strip mall, I was reminded of the first time I stood by the Gulf of Mexico. Used to the beaches of the Caribbean islands, the East Coast of Florida, I was surprised that the waters of our local beaches are not generally the azure as those of the aforementioned locales, although they can be at times depending on their mood. They generally have a green tint. Over the years, I've come to see the color as symbolic of the fecundity of the natural setting.
We share the sugary sands of our beaches with countless birds, whole phalanxes of avian life. There are sand pipers and plovers, an odd ibis or two. There are diving birds and birds like pelicans and very sneaky white herons who challenge you for your bait as you fish. Our waters teem with the tiniest of bait fish. Go out a few yards, and you can catch mangrove snappers, grouper, snook. Incredible. Of course, if you're going in the water, it pays to practice the stingray shuffle. Although they are beautiful when you see them gliding in a school as I did off an abandoned trestle in Boca Grande, hidden in the sand under your feet, they are awesome in another way.
Inland, the ubiquitous lizards are kind of like mice up North, except that you ignore them, until they show up dessicated in the washing machine, etc. Then there is the dread Palmetto bug. Despite having grown up in South Brooklyn, inured to committing mass cockroach homicide, I cannot bring myself to stomp one. It's the splat factor. The same one that came into play, when we found the mother of all spiders, at least three inches long, in the living room. The hubster, as befits the man of the house, defended his castle with a shoe he had carelessly tossed by the sofa, only to unleash a sci fi channel horror as hundreds of spider babies fled in all directions from their mother's crushed body. Memo, use an inverted cup and slip a piece of paper under it.
I've learned to love nature here in all of its manifestations. Here in my part of Florida, we live much closer to Mama Nature, not only her beaches, but her skies, her weather and her minions. I love the blazing cardinal and screeching jays, the owl somewhere in the backyard, and the gorgeous birdsong outside my window, even at 2 AM. I know not to approach piles of brush directly or inverted planters. Snakes, you know. I've even learned not to get too freaked when the black racer that lives here visits the lanai, probably gaining access the same way the jays I occasionally have to liberate do and in search of the same prey- the seemingly endless supply of dead beetles that have given their all straining toward the light, as we all do.
Update: And today in the same spot, I came across the remains of a beautiful little bird, a yellow warbler of some sort, I think. I looked up at the plate glass window and read its demise in the smear. The last time I came across one of these little fellows, he had become hopelessly enamored of his reflection in the shed window. Sad.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Vice Presidential Debate: Parting Shot
I wonder if we will be subjected to a clip of Senator Biden's multiple errors of fact ad infinitum in the media tomorrow, including- Oh, my gosh!- one about the Constitution.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Media Malice
Charlie Gibson's behavior in his interview with Palin was reprehensible, but Katie Couric was an absolute bitch, and that's a word I don't use lightly in this blog. Just where does this woman get off? First she wants Palin to quote McCain's regulatory history. Of course, she couldn't have done the same to Biden had she dared, because his running mate doesn't exactly have one. Then she wants Palin to come up with specific Supreme Court cases with which she disagreed. What'd she expect? Oh, yeah, I disagreed with Plessy vs. Ferguson but agreed with Brown vs. the Board of Education. My "Journalism Degree" required that I study Supreme Court cases. And the attitude. It really deserved a George HW Bush/Dan Rather moment. What was the campaign thinking? Why didn't they start her on Hannity and Colmes?
I have not been particularly impressed with Palin's performance. But the elitist left may well overplay their hand. While they're running around sniggering at the rube, they risk alienating moderate people. Check out Frank Luntz's bit on O'Reilly where he tracked the response of independents to The View. The people expect fairness.
And now tomorrow, the debate is going to be moderated by a woman who has written a book about Obama as a breakthrough candidate to be released on inauguration day? I don't think I have ever been so disgusted at the media. The fix is in and has been since day one.
I have come to the conclusion that in the future, historians will present journalism in this era very much like they now teach of "yellow journalism" in the lead up to the Spanish American War. How's that for a little history?
I have not been particularly impressed with Palin's performance. But the elitist left may well overplay their hand. While they're running around sniggering at the rube, they risk alienating moderate people. Check out Frank Luntz's bit on O'Reilly where he tracked the response of independents to The View. The people expect fairness.
And now tomorrow, the debate is going to be moderated by a woman who has written a book about Obama as a breakthrough candidate to be released on inauguration day? I don't think I have ever been so disgusted at the media. The fix is in and has been since day one.
I have come to the conclusion that in the future, historians will present journalism in this era very much like they now teach of "yellow journalism" in the lead up to the Spanish American War. How's that for a little history?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
The Election: My Cassandra Moment
There is something terribly scary in the air. Obama's latest campaigning reeks of confidence and condescion toward his opponent, perhaps because he feels his ship coming in as this article indicates. Over at Newsweek, Fineman is taking a victory lap for the candidate before the election.
I was listening to Obama yesterday. The list of those who were to receive government help was seemingly endless. I kept asking myself, "but who is going to pay for it? The top two percent?" I am no fan of Wall Street or the elites, but I had to ask myself whether those who study, struggle and/or even steal their way to the top should have to support those who, many by dint of their own choices- not going to school, addictions, inability to defer gratification- linger at the bottom. Better yet, even those in the middle will now function as their economic foster children. There is some thing categorically wrong with this picture. But believe it or not, that's not what made my hair stand on edge.
It was this link, I received courtesy of George. Mr. Obama's associations with some pretty dark characters has long perturbed me. His prime early influences included a Marxist poet. His pastor for 20 years chants "God damn America." His associates include an indicted businessman who just happened to be involved in Mr. Obama's purchase of a humble million dollar home, and two unrepentant terrorists. (I would advise any Cuban American to take a look at the pictures around the internet at the approach to the guy's office.) Still, I said to myself, "maybe the guy is the only virgin in the cathouse," which while it strained credulity, kept me from full panic mode.
But then I found "Obama Camp" and went into melt down. Why, I had to ask myself. Well, the name Saul Alinsky has been bandied about in terms of Obama's time as a "community organizer." Well, as I understand it, one of Alinsky's principles was that you had to use stealth. Here's a bit from an article (read it) in The Spectator about his views:
Alinsky was a ‘transformational Marxist’ in the mould of Antonio Gramsci, who promoted the strategy of a ‘long march through the institutions’ by capturing the culture and turning it inside out as the most effective means of overturning western society. In similar vein, Alinsky condemned the New Left for alienating the general public by its demonstrations and outlandish appearance. The revolution had to be carried out through stealth and deception. Its proponents had to cultivate an image of centrism and pragmatism. A master of infiltration, Alinsky wooed Chicago mobsters and Wall Street financiers alike. And successive Democratic politicians fell under his spell.
What, I had to ask myself, was it about Camp Obama that caused me such panic? Try this excerpt:
During these training sessions, people like you will be taking their support for Barack to the next level by learning the organizing principles that this campaign and our movement for change are built on.
Camp Obama attendees will receive real world organizing experience that will have a direct impact on this election. Graduates of Camp Obama will go on to become Deputy Field Organizers who will lead this campaign to victory in crucial battleground states around the country.
"Support to the next level." Is this a cult? Is it like Scientologists where you only get their true identity doled out in soupçons as you prove your dedication to the religion? Most damning of all is "Deputy Field Organizers," which smacks of the paramilitary organization. Why? When does politicking cross the line into propaganda? Are we electing a politician? A Savior? A Very Big Unknown?
Those of us who have lived or have lived to see the terrible price paid for the cult of personality have no choice but to fear this candidacy, not because of race, but because of reach. Obama might just be your run of the mill Liberal, and he seems like such a nice guy, albeit a tad arrogant and patronizing. But I for one can't contemplate giving him the keys to the kingdom. I hope my fears are unfounded. I really do. But to me, the sound of approaching hoofs is more likely horses than zebras. Be afraid, people. Be terribly afraid. The best we can hope for is that the man is a shameless opportunist.
I was listening to Obama yesterday. The list of those who were to receive government help was seemingly endless. I kept asking myself, "but who is going to pay for it? The top two percent?" I am no fan of Wall Street or the elites, but I had to ask myself whether those who study, struggle and/or even steal their way to the top should have to support those who, many by dint of their own choices- not going to school, addictions, inability to defer gratification- linger at the bottom. Better yet, even those in the middle will now function as their economic foster children. There is some thing categorically wrong with this picture. But believe it or not, that's not what made my hair stand on edge.
It was this link, I received courtesy of George. Mr. Obama's associations with some pretty dark characters has long perturbed me. His prime early influences included a Marxist poet. His pastor for 20 years chants "God damn America." His associates include an indicted businessman who just happened to be involved in Mr. Obama's purchase of a humble million dollar home, and two unrepentant terrorists. (I would advise any Cuban American to take a look at the pictures around the internet at the approach to the guy's office.) Still, I said to myself, "maybe the guy is the only virgin in the cathouse," which while it strained credulity, kept me from full panic mode.
But then I found "Obama Camp" and went into melt down. Why, I had to ask myself. Well, the name Saul Alinsky has been bandied about in terms of Obama's time as a "community organizer." Well, as I understand it, one of Alinsky's principles was that you had to use stealth. Here's a bit from an article (read it) in The Spectator about his views:
Alinsky was a ‘transformational Marxist’ in the mould of Antonio Gramsci, who promoted the strategy of a ‘long march through the institutions’ by capturing the culture and turning it inside out as the most effective means of overturning western society. In similar vein, Alinsky condemned the New Left for alienating the general public by its demonstrations and outlandish appearance. The revolution had to be carried out through stealth and deception. Its proponents had to cultivate an image of centrism and pragmatism. A master of infiltration, Alinsky wooed Chicago mobsters and Wall Street financiers alike. And successive Democratic politicians fell under his spell.
What, I had to ask myself, was it about Camp Obama that caused me such panic? Try this excerpt:
During these training sessions, people like you will be taking their support for Barack to the next level by learning the organizing principles that this campaign and our movement for change are built on.
Camp Obama attendees will receive real world organizing experience that will have a direct impact on this election. Graduates of Camp Obama will go on to become Deputy Field Organizers who will lead this campaign to victory in crucial battleground states around the country.
"Support to the next level." Is this a cult? Is it like Scientologists where you only get their true identity doled out in soupçons as you prove your dedication to the religion? Most damning of all is "Deputy Field Organizers," which smacks of the paramilitary organization. Why? When does politicking cross the line into propaganda? Are we electing a politician? A Savior? A Very Big Unknown?
Those of us who have lived or have lived to see the terrible price paid for the cult of personality have no choice but to fear this candidacy, not because of race, but because of reach. Obama might just be your run of the mill Liberal, and he seems like such a nice guy, albeit a tad arrogant and patronizing. But I for one can't contemplate giving him the keys to the kingdom. I hope my fears are unfounded. I really do. But to me, the sound of approaching hoofs is more likely horses than zebras. Be afraid, people. Be terribly afraid. The best we can hope for is that the man is a shameless opportunist.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
A Sunday Sense of Place
On the Brink. Thankfully, a deal has been brokered in Washington. It looks like it worked out. Supposedly the "affordable housing"/ACORN component is not included; there are provisions to protect the taxpayers "investment" and somehow limit the compensation of failed CEO's. The government will be insuring the banks somehow against the mortgages, Republican demand. Don't know the details, and we know who resides there. But all in all, it looks like cooler heads prevailed. Rumor has it, it was Pelosi. (See, I'm fair.)
Back the Way We Came. In this, Victor Davis Hanson reminds us that Frankenstein was the name of the inventor, not the creature, as he seeks to assign blame for this mess. Hint: "We have met the enemy, and he is us." Read it. It seems an opportune moment for some self-examination.
Up the Road A Spell. Now we turn to the upcoming Vice Presidential Debate. I'm not particularly optimistic about Palin's performance. It is fortunate it's against Biden, who I like by the way. But unlike the oh-so-syrupy condescending author of this column in the New York Times, I think it's because she's been ham stringed by not causing McCain grief. She's trying too hard to toe the company line. My advice to her: Screw it. Be who you are. Nobody expects you to be a foreign policy whiz. As to the writer, to paraphrase a country song, "Take your cheap sympathy and shove it." Cleanse your palate. Take a look at this
In the Rear. Here's an oldie but goodie about the common man. "Ten angry beer drinkers" are looking to stop the planned InBev purchase of Budweiser. They've filed suit in Federal Court alleging anti-trust. Not a hothouse chance in hell, but ya gotta love 'em. And don't forget to read the best explanation of the Castro stratagem- using the suffering of his people to advance his agenda- to be found in the Wall Street Journal here. Is it a strategy or a tactic?
Back the Way We Came. In this, Victor Davis Hanson reminds us that Frankenstein was the name of the inventor, not the creature, as he seeks to assign blame for this mess. Hint: "We have met the enemy, and he is us." Read it. It seems an opportune moment for some self-examination.
Up the Road A Spell. Now we turn to the upcoming Vice Presidential Debate. I'm not particularly optimistic about Palin's performance. It is fortunate it's against Biden, who I like by the way. But unlike the oh-so-syrupy condescending author of this column in the New York Times, I think it's because she's been ham stringed by not causing McCain grief. She's trying too hard to toe the company line. My advice to her: Screw it. Be who you are. Nobody expects you to be a foreign policy whiz. As to the writer, to paraphrase a country song, "Take your cheap sympathy and shove it." Cleanse your palate. Take a look at this
In the Rear. Here's an oldie but goodie about the common man. "Ten angry beer drinkers" are looking to stop the planned InBev purchase of Budweiser. They've filed suit in Federal Court alleging anti-trust. Not a hothouse chance in hell, but ya gotta love 'em. And don't forget to read the best explanation of the Castro stratagem- using the suffering of his people to advance his agenda- to be found in the Wall Street Journal here. Is it a strategy or a tactic?
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Not So Comic Relief
First off the bat, CANF is complaining that the US Government is curbing Cuba aid, at least according to this article. Actually, the government is not curbing the aid as much as to whom it can go. Their point: if the aid is targeted at a family member, it is a "remittance." If it is "humanitarian," it cannot be sent to a specific individual. Petty as it seems, it does address the problem of the hurricane victims who have no one in the US.
Then despite the disastrous effects of the recent hurricanes, the Cuban Capos expect tourism to rise 13% next year. Sure, if you count the relief workers, or maybe they intend to run Pompeii type tours. Article in Spanish at the Miami Herald here.
My favorite, though, is the announcement that North Korea and Cuba have signed protocols to "exchange goods." Since the "People's Republic" has an even worse (if possible) economy than Cuba, it would be laughable to contemplate what "goods" they intend to exchange, except the North Koreans do have one technology that once interested the Commission in Havana?
Finally, if you're in the Palm Springs area, you might want to go see Peter Moruzzi who signing his book about, you guessed it, precastro Cuba. I haven't seen it yet, but either way, it should be interesting. The title is Havana Before Castro: When Cuba Was a Tropical Playground, or as my dad would say, "cuando Cuba reía." A few details here and a bit about the book here, including the comment from "Three guys from Miami." Note the difference between the Library Journal review, which makes it seem a companion book to Havana Nocturne (sign of the cross), as does the website here. The comment, however, is more in keeping with what I've been reading. Anybody out there read it? I'm still in the middle of the Bacardi opus.
Then despite the disastrous effects of the recent hurricanes, the Cuban Capos expect tourism to rise 13% next year. Sure, if you count the relief workers, or maybe they intend to run Pompeii type tours. Article in Spanish at the Miami Herald here.
My favorite, though, is the announcement that North Korea and Cuba have signed protocols to "exchange goods." Since the "People's Republic" has an even worse (if possible) economy than Cuba, it would be laughable to contemplate what "goods" they intend to exchange, except the North Koreans do have one technology that once interested the Commission in Havana?
Finally, if you're in the Palm Springs area, you might want to go see Peter Moruzzi who signing his book about, you guessed it, precastro Cuba. I haven't seen it yet, but either way, it should be interesting. The title is Havana Before Castro: When Cuba Was a Tropical Playground, or as my dad would say, "cuando Cuba reía." A few details here and a bit about the book here, including the comment from "Three guys from Miami." Note the difference between the Library Journal review, which makes it seem a companion book to Havana Nocturne (sign of the cross), as does the website here. The comment, however, is more in keeping with what I've been reading. Anybody out there read it? I'm still in the middle of the Bacardi opus.
Tap Dancing on the Edge of Financial Oblivion
I haven't been posting as of late, because the economic and political tension is so enervating. But what I'm hearing about the negotiations in Congress is the last straw. Despite my aversion to the intrusion of the government into business, I support the bailout, although I would dearly like that Wall St bigwigs not only get no parachutes but have to return bonuses earned while they were leading their enterprises into perdition. Don't look like that's going to happen.
What I do know is that time is of the essence. If they dally too long, whatever they ultimately pass will be too little, too late and we will head for the next great depression. That is what I fear. And need I remind you those Americans were tough. One can only imagine the present generation. So what are our elected representatives doing? Well, yesterday I was angry at the conservative Republicans who were balking and making noises about the government insuring, making it easier for private equity, etc, palliatives that not only will not work but will allow the snowball to keep rolling.
Then I read politicians are actually putting pork on this bill. Rumor had it that Biden put money in for Dover Air Force Base. And now I hear that the Democrats are using this emergency bill as the occasion for demanding that union reps sit on the boards which decide executive compensation. And the one that really got my goat- that a portion-the figure mentioned was 20%- of taxpayer monies recovered go to ACORN. You know that Democrat leaning, voter registration, maybe irregularities, Obama associations ACORN. Not a penny. Start a whole new flippin' government bureaucracy but don't give any more taxpayer money to a partisan player. That is taxation without representation, perhaps because there are 9 Democrats closeted with 2 Republicans.
It is disgusting. It is beyond disgusting. It is vile to use an emergency to advance your agenda, to endanger further the economic well-being of this country in order to push your partisan views. If ever a situation demanded only the minimum necessary to staunch the bleeding, it is this one. But they just can't help themselves. Perhaps it is time that we help them out the door.
What I do know is that time is of the essence. If they dally too long, whatever they ultimately pass will be too little, too late and we will head for the next great depression. That is what I fear. And need I remind you those Americans were tough. One can only imagine the present generation. So what are our elected representatives doing? Well, yesterday I was angry at the conservative Republicans who were balking and making noises about the government insuring, making it easier for private equity, etc, palliatives that not only will not work but will allow the snowball to keep rolling.
Then I read politicians are actually putting pork on this bill. Rumor had it that Biden put money in for Dover Air Force Base. And now I hear that the Democrats are using this emergency bill as the occasion for demanding that union reps sit on the boards which decide executive compensation. And the one that really got my goat- that a portion-the figure mentioned was 20%- of taxpayer monies recovered go to ACORN. You know that Democrat leaning, voter registration, maybe irregularities, Obama associations ACORN. Not a penny. Start a whole new flippin' government bureaucracy but don't give any more taxpayer money to a partisan player. That is taxation without representation, perhaps because there are 9 Democrats closeted with 2 Republicans.
It is disgusting. It is beyond disgusting. It is vile to use an emergency to advance your agenda, to endanger further the economic well-being of this country in order to push your partisan views. If ever a situation demanded only the minimum necessary to staunch the bleeding, it is this one. But they just can't help themselves. Perhaps it is time that we help them out the door.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Mom's Cuban Proverbs and More Revisited
Mom's Proverbs:
Eramos pocos y pario la mula.
(There weren't enough of us already, and the mule gave birth.)
Casamiento y mortaja del cielo baja.
(Marriage and mortality fall from heaven.)
Comen harina y erutan pollo.
(They eat grits and burp chicken.)
Sarna con gana no pica y si pica no mortifica.
(A rash when desired doesn't itch: and if itches doesn't mortify.)
Hasta la ciruela pasa.
(Even the prune passes. Works on a double pun, because pasa also means dried fruit.)
Si la cosa no tiene remedio porque te preocupas, y si tiene remedio porque te preocupas?
(If the situation cannot be remedied why do you worry; and if it can, why do you worry?)
No llores como mujer lo que no supiste defender como hombre.
(Don't cry like a woman what you didn't know how to defend like a man.)
En el reino de los ciegos, el tuerto es rey.
(In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.)
Mono vestido de seda, mono sigue.
(A monkey dressed in silk is still a monkey.)
Ningun mono se ve su rabo.
(No monkey sees his own tail.)
No hay mal que dure cien años, ni cuerpo que lo resista.
(There is no ill that lasts a hundred years, nor body that will survive.)
No hay mal que por bien no viene.
(There is no ill that doesn't result in good.)
Un (deleted) hala mas que una yunta de buey.
(A part of the female anatomy has more pull than a team of oxen.)
Dios le da barba al que no tiene quijada.
(God gives beards to the chinless.)
Algunos nacen bajo una estrella; otrs estrellado
(Some are born under a star; others smacked by the stars.)
Dad's Proverbs:
Mejor cabeza de raton que culo de leon.
(It's better to be the mouse's head than the lion's ass.)
Cuando estas montado en el burro tiene que seguir para alante.
(When you're on the donkey, you have to ride it.)
Perro que ladra no muerde.
(A barking dog doesn't bite.)
Contributions from Readers:
El diablo sabe más por ser viejo que por diablo.
(The devil knows more because of being old than from being the devil.)
from Michelle Velez
Bicho malo nunca muere.
(Bad people live forever.)
from an anonymous contributor
Jose Reyes has a bunch of Cubanisms at Cubanology here. If you have more out there, leave them in the comments. They don't have to be Cuban. My next proverb post will be a tad more catholic.
Meanderings: Can't Get Enough
The sounds of the Love Unlimited Orchestra issuing from the multiple speakers in the midlife crisis sports car bring me back to a nineteen seventy something Chevy Monte Carlo with my pal, Rosemarie P, whose dancing as we sing along results in a pattern of rhythmic and sudden braking, a frenzied automotive palsy. God knows what the pedestrians think. The bunny pink lip gloss stands out against Roe's tanned skin, and her skinny tube top threatens to expose the only part of her that's not underdeveloped.
It brings me back, as I wait for the husky tones of Barry White. But, no, this is an instrumental. Sounds like Muzak. No matter. Sarasota's Lite FM... I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but I've gotten in the habit of listening to the station. See, it's like this. The country station gets all staticky if I put the rear defrost on, and given the conditions in the environs of my house in the AM-malarial swamp- well, I've had to move on. No matter about Barry, though. They play him every morning, not just any song but "Can't Get Enough of Your Lovin'." The words have all come back. There was a time... there was a time I knew the words to most of his songs and not because I bought his albums.
It was nineteen seventy something, and I was in St. Maarten with my best bud and her family. It was a sleepy little place in those days, at least on the Dutch side. Young and adventurous, we sought other young people in vain. The one disco on the island at the time had three locals in it, all of whom worked there. So we had to resign ourselves to vacationing in a honeymooners' paradise. Actually, though, it did turn out to be a lot of fun, except when I almost drowned in six feet of water while scuba diving. Doubtless because of all of the cigarette smoke I had been exposed to I ran out of air. I gestured to Elton, our dive guide, and he lent me his spare regulator so I could buddy breathe. I purged the thing and took a big gulp of...water! Directly above me, so close, was the sky, full of wonderful life giving air, and I was going to die, drown right here. How embarrassing. I obviously survived via the expedient of holding my breath, but that was the beginning and end of my diving career. After all, that was after I had trouble getting down to the bottom. My whole body strained downward, except for my ample orange and white striped Cuban posterior, which I have on good authority bobbed up and down in the waves. I won't even go into putting fire coral down the side of my bikini.
Anyway, I promised Barry White, and Barry White we shall have. The island was really trying. It had a radio station which was housed in a little shack on a hilltop over the shore. We could see it from our hotel. The single radio station had one single eight track. Yup, Barry White. We listened to Barry White incessantly for eight days and seven nights. Maybe, it sounds like torture, and it kinda felt like it at the time, but, heck, now it sounds pretty damn good.
It brings me back, as I wait for the husky tones of Barry White. But, no, this is an instrumental. Sounds like Muzak. No matter. Sarasota's Lite FM... I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but I've gotten in the habit of listening to the station. See, it's like this. The country station gets all staticky if I put the rear defrost on, and given the conditions in the environs of my house in the AM-malarial swamp- well, I've had to move on. No matter about Barry, though. They play him every morning, not just any song but "Can't Get Enough of Your Lovin'." The words have all come back. There was a time... there was a time I knew the words to most of his songs and not because I bought his albums.
It was nineteen seventy something, and I was in St. Maarten with my best bud and her family. It was a sleepy little place in those days, at least on the Dutch side. Young and adventurous, we sought other young people in vain. The one disco on the island at the time had three locals in it, all of whom worked there. So we had to resign ourselves to vacationing in a honeymooners' paradise. Actually, though, it did turn out to be a lot of fun, except when I almost drowned in six feet of water while scuba diving. Doubtless because of all of the cigarette smoke I had been exposed to I ran out of air. I gestured to Elton, our dive guide, and he lent me his spare regulator so I could buddy breathe. I purged the thing and took a big gulp of...water! Directly above me, so close, was the sky, full of wonderful life giving air, and I was going to die, drown right here. How embarrassing. I obviously survived via the expedient of holding my breath, but that was the beginning and end of my diving career. After all, that was after I had trouble getting down to the bottom. My whole body strained downward, except for my ample orange and white striped Cuban posterior, which I have on good authority bobbed up and down in the waves. I won't even go into putting fire coral down the side of my bikini.
Anyway, I promised Barry White, and Barry White we shall have. The island was really trying. It had a radio station which was housed in a little shack on a hilltop over the shore. We could see it from our hotel. The single radio station had one single eight track. Yup, Barry White. We listened to Barry White incessantly for eight days and seven nights. Maybe, it sounds like torture, and it kinda felt like it at the time, but, heck, now it sounds pretty damn good.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
A Senator's Story and a Father's Dream
As I finish Senator Mel Martinez's biography, A Sense of Belonging, tears cloud my eyes. It is the epilogue that has done it. Having grown up feeling like a second class citizen, I know all about "a sense of belonging." For much of the book, I have envied his magical childhood in Cuba, a place where he belonged. Then I have thanked my lucky stars that I grew up in the US, as I read the very lonely and scary predicament he found himself in as a Pedro Pan. But all along, I have known that at least for Martinez, the story has a happy ending. It is when I get to the epilogue that it hits me full in the face. No matter how well we assimilate, how successful, or "American," we never forget. And as those first generations disappear, his words are my words are the words of countless others:
Though he is gone, I have continued to dream my father's dream as well. It's a dream shared by millions of Cubans. I dream that someday I will walk with my family beside me, and with my dad's spirit to guide me, in a free Cuba where the people live under a just government and are free to worship as they choose and to live as they desire. America made a great dream come true for me and for my family, and I trust God will make the enduring dream of a free Cuba, which I still share with my father, come true as well.
Though he is gone, I have continued to dream my father's dream as well. It's a dream shared by millions of Cubans. I dream that someday I will walk with my family beside me, and with my dad's spirit to guide me, in a free Cuba where the people live under a just government and are free to worship as they choose and to live as they desire. America made a great dream come true for me and for my family, and I trust God will make the enduring dream of a free Cuba, which I still share with my father, come true as well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)