See you in October - The View from Plymouth Rock
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Smell the Tulips
Apparently, many of the town folk in bucolic Middleborough continue to cling to the belief that the $1 billion casino planned for their town will have little or no impact on the quality of town life. Recently, however, Wampanoag Nation and its developer-partners submitted a business plan to the U.S. Department of the Interior which wields regulatory approval under the 1988 Federal Indian Gaming Act. Some of the details contained in the submission provide some interesting food for thought.
The total project is expected to comprise 850,000 square feet and will include as many as 1,500 hotel rooms and eight to ten restaurants. But the focal point, of course, will be the 400,000 square foot gambling floor. Nine acres! Initial plans call for 4,000 slot machines, which would provide at least 1.67 machines for each of the 2,387 citizens who voted for the casino in the special Town meeting on July 28 th. And those who voted against the casino and are now feeling left out will be pleased to learn that this space can easily accommodate up to 8,000 slot machines, according to gambling experts. Parking? Not to worry. There will be 10,500 parking spaces which roughly translates into a half space for each town resident. But here again, since the casino will occupy 550 acres, there is probably a little room for expansion.
The seven million dollars a year that the developers have promised to the town, in lieu of taxes, may seem like a lot of money. Frankly, it does to me when I check out my IRA balance. But in 2006, Middleborough’s annual budget was $62 million. I suspect it won’t take many years for the “casino windfall” to be absorbed into the budget and the upward pressure on property taxes to start anew. But by then, Rte 44 will have been transformed into "The Strip" of Southeastern Mass.
Reportedly, Governor Patrick is ready to one-up the Wamps and call for the approval of not one, but three full-blown casinos in Massachusetts. The tribe can either bid for one of the state deals, or continue to pursue federal approval for a fourth. So we are now looking at the possibility of four casinos for the Olde Bay State! Think of how a Vegas-style structure (see photo) would liven up those dull, wooded landscapes on the Mass. Pike. Those who worry about the effect on our culture will be pleased to know that the croupiers will all wear tricorn hats and knee breaches. And when a customer hits a big jackpot, the Minutemen could fire off a flintlock volley just like after a Patriot score. The Gov, of course, is quick to note the massive amounts of new revenues this plan will provide and all the marvelous ways the government can spend it. There is also the vision of the thousands of new jobs to be created. After all, think of the numbers of busboys and wait staff that would be needed for just the eight to ten new restaurants at Middleborough. And how about all those chamber maids that will be needed to change the sheets in those 1,500 hotel rooms? Is this opportunity or what?
This rush to a Gambling solution for the state’s spending addiction is starting to smack of the Tulip Bulb mania of 1636. The only responsible adult in sight would appear to be House Speaker, Sal Di Masi with his lonely finger in the dyke.
The total project is expected to comprise 850,000 square feet and will include as many as 1,500 hotel rooms and eight to ten restaurants. But the focal point, of course, will be the 400,000 square foot gambling floor. Nine acres! Initial plans call for 4,000 slot machines, which would provide at least 1.67 machines for each of the 2,387 citizens who voted for the casino in the special Town meeting on July 28 th. And those who voted against the casino and are now feeling left out will be pleased to learn that this space can easily accommodate up to 8,000 slot machines, according to gambling experts. Parking? Not to worry. There will be 10,500 parking spaces which roughly translates into a half space for each town resident. But here again, since the casino will occupy 550 acres, there is probably a little room for expansion.
The seven million dollars a year that the developers have promised to the town, in lieu of taxes, may seem like a lot of money. Frankly, it does to me when I check out my IRA balance. But in 2006, Middleborough’s annual budget was $62 million. I suspect it won’t take many years for the “casino windfall” to be absorbed into the budget and the upward pressure on property taxes to start anew. But by then, Rte 44 will have been transformed into "The Strip" of Southeastern Mass.
Reportedly, Governor Patrick is ready to one-up the Wamps and call for the approval of not one, but three full-blown casinos in Massachusetts. The tribe can either bid for one of the state deals, or continue to pursue federal approval for a fourth. So we are now looking at the possibility of four casinos for the Olde Bay State! Think of how a Vegas-style structure (see photo) would liven up those dull, wooded landscapes on the Mass. Pike. Those who worry about the effect on our culture will be pleased to know that the croupiers will all wear tricorn hats and knee breaches. And when a customer hits a big jackpot, the Minutemen could fire off a flintlock volley just like after a Patriot score. The Gov, of course, is quick to note the massive amounts of new revenues this plan will provide and all the marvelous ways the government can spend it. There is also the vision of the thousands of new jobs to be created. After all, think of the numbers of busboys and wait staff that would be needed for just the eight to ten new restaurants at Middleborough. And how about all those chamber maids that will be needed to change the sheets in those 1,500 hotel rooms? Is this opportunity or what?
This rush to a Gambling solution for the state’s spending addiction is starting to smack of the Tulip Bulb mania of 1636. The only responsible adult in sight would appear to be House Speaker, Sal Di Masi with his lonely finger in the dyke.
Friday, September 14, 2007
"You talking to me?"
Hilary Rodham Clinton (D, Wellesley) showed us some of that slick lawyer talk that supports her assertion that she is to be counted among the smartest lawyers, if not human beings, in the US, when in response to the testimony of General David Patraeus to a Senate Committee hearing said:
"The reports that you provide to us really require the willing suspension of disbelief."
Anyone, excepting those clinging to the barest fig leaf of denial will probably parse these words and agree that the Senator and presidential aspirant just called a four star General, with a well-earned reputation for integrity, a liar. Of course, I guess it all depends on what the definition of is is. To the extent that all morality is relevant, this comment probably says more about Hilary than it does the about good General.
And this emerged against the backdrop of a full-page ad run in the New York Times in advance of the General’s testimony. The ad, (booked at a “fellow travelers” discount rate) by those patriots at MoveOn.Org took the grade-school low-road of playing off the General’s name as “Betray Us.” I guess when you have nothing else to say, make fun of the guy’s name.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
A Thousand Splendid Suns
What a difference a few hundred years can make. Writing in the seventeenth century, Afghan poet Saib-e-Tabrizi wrote the following lines as part of a poem about his beloved Kabul:
One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs,
Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.”
The Kabul that we see in this modern tale of Afghani life seems to have slipped a bit. A pervasive drought produces relentless dust that even gets into one’s molars. The Kabul River dries so that the riverbed is used as a bazaar. And heat? Welcome to life in a sauna.
Against this backdrop, which would in itself drive most of us to madness, is layered an ongoing civil unrest that rains rockets on its buildings killing its people at random. Adding a third layer of misery is a domestic arrangement whereby nasty Rasheed, the misogynist shoemaker (custom loafers for the upper crust) terrifies his two wives with overbearing, but innovative, cruelty punctuated by regular beatings, and we are not talking the occasional love tap here. Old Rasheed evokes the image of Rocky using a side of beef as a heavy bag. At one point he sticks his gun (even the cobbler is packing) in his younger wife’s mouth.
Amid this hellish existence, the two wives overcome their initial antagonism and develop a deep bond. Mariam, the elder wife, whose life was marginal even before she was sent off, at 15, to marry Rasheed, missed her one chance at a sliver of appreciation by virtue of her inability to bear him a son. Laila, the backup wife, does come through on this point, but Mariam soon learns that she didn’t miss much. From this morass, a happy ending of sorts is actually attained after Mariam makes the ultimate sacrifice, courtesy of a sentence levied by a Taliban tribunal and carried out in a soccer stadium, freeing Laila and her children to hook up with her childhood sweetheart, Tariq. (Cue the sappy music)
The story is a good read and I kept turning pages to find out what happens to these poor wretches. But of equal interest was the description of daily life under a succession of repressive regimes, not the least of which was the Taliban. Americans got to know of this gang of Islamic crazies during the military actions against Al Quida, post 9/11. But the portrayal of daily life under these maniacs as they cruised through Kabul in their Toyota trucks checking the male citizenry for proper beard length and other infractions necessitating on-the-spot punishment, begins to shed some life on the bizarre philosophy of the Islamo- fascists It’s easy to see why Osama bin Laden seems to be thriving in Tora Bora.
The View recommends A Thousand Splendid Suns, the second novel by Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner, who was born in Kabul in 1965, but has lived in California since 1980. In his spare time, Hosseini is an MD active in refugee affairs with the UN.
One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs,
Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.”
The Kabul that we see in this modern tale of Afghani life seems to have slipped a bit. A pervasive drought produces relentless dust that even gets into one’s molars. The Kabul River dries so that the riverbed is used as a bazaar. And heat? Welcome to life in a sauna.
Against this backdrop, which would in itself drive most of us to madness, is layered an ongoing civil unrest that rains rockets on its buildings killing its people at random. Adding a third layer of misery is a domestic arrangement whereby nasty Rasheed, the misogynist shoemaker (custom loafers for the upper crust) terrifies his two wives with overbearing, but innovative, cruelty punctuated by regular beatings, and we are not talking the occasional love tap here. Old Rasheed evokes the image of Rocky using a side of beef as a heavy bag. At one point he sticks his gun (even the cobbler is packing) in his younger wife’s mouth.
Amid this hellish existence, the two wives overcome their initial antagonism and develop a deep bond. Mariam, the elder wife, whose life was marginal even before she was sent off, at 15, to marry Rasheed, missed her one chance at a sliver of appreciation by virtue of her inability to bear him a son. Laila, the backup wife, does come through on this point, but Mariam soon learns that she didn’t miss much. From this morass, a happy ending of sorts is actually attained after Mariam makes the ultimate sacrifice, courtesy of a sentence levied by a Taliban tribunal and carried out in a soccer stadium, freeing Laila and her children to hook up with her childhood sweetheart, Tariq. (Cue the sappy music)
The story is a good read and I kept turning pages to find out what happens to these poor wretches. But of equal interest was the description of daily life under a succession of repressive regimes, not the least of which was the Taliban. Americans got to know of this gang of Islamic crazies during the military actions against Al Quida, post 9/11. But the portrayal of daily life under these maniacs as they cruised through Kabul in their Toyota trucks checking the male citizenry for proper beard length and other infractions necessitating on-the-spot punishment, begins to shed some life on the bizarre philosophy of the Islamo- fascists It’s easy to see why Osama bin Laden seems to be thriving in Tora Bora.
The View recommends A Thousand Splendid Suns, the second novel by Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner, who was born in Kabul in 1965, but has lived in California since 1980. In his spare time, Hosseini is an MD active in refugee affairs with the UN.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
A New Day of Infamy
Digitalization has saved acres of trees from being used to record the torrent of words that continue to be written about the terrorist attacks on America on September 11, 2001; the destruction of the World Trade Towers in New York, the damage to the Pentagon and the fiery end of American Airlines Flight 93 in a rural field in western Pennsylvania, where the actions of courageous passengers prevented even more damage and loss of life. These events, and their aftermath, have been recorded, examined, and analyzed to a fare-thee-well with volumes of comments by some of the greatest and not so great minds of our time. But as we mark the sixth anniversary of this terrible affair, the memories, while melded together by the effects of time, are as vivid and clear as they were six years ago and beg to be re-examined.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was sitting in an industry conference at a Mid-town Manhattan hotel when one of the organizers came to the podium in the middle of a presentation to announce that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. With additional information lacking, it was first assumed that a terrible accident had taken place, but the stark truth soon became apparent. With the conference hastily adjourned, I found myself in the hotel bar, which doubled as a morning breakfast room. There, among a group of strangers, we learned of the second plane and watched the first tower fall as we tried to get our minds to comprehend the magnitude of the loss of life we were witnessing in real time on the hotel’s TV. Leaving the hotel, I cut across the Park and headed downtown on Sixth Ave to my office at fiftieth, swimming against the tide of the endless swarm of people moving north on Sixth. The vista over their heads was the long view downtown where huge clouds of black smoke were billowing into the impossibly clear blue sky three miles to the south. Shortly we would begin to see people with their clothes covered with soot and cinders as the first of the Wall Streeters began to arrive in Midtown. More information seeped out. There had also been an attack at the Pentagon and it was reported that additional commercial airliners were not responding. Jet fighters could be seen flying up the East River. Long portions of the day were a blur of trying to assimilate the incremental information which, over time, began to coalesce into a stark reality
When they finally got the trains running out of Grand Central that afternoon, I arrived home and we began to put a more personal face on the casualties. Among the missing was our friend’s daughter, recently married, and newly pregnant with her first child. She worked at Cantor Fitzgerald and along with hundreds of her co-workers was missing We began to understand the reality of just what “missing’ meant in the context of the mountain of smoking remains at what came to be called ground zero and began to taste the bitter futility of dashed hope. In neighborhoods all over greater New York, the tragedy struck painfully close to home.
And long after these events dropped from prominence in the national news, the wreckage at ground zero continued to smolder as crews continued to search for victims and knots of firefighters in their dress uniforms made their way to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for still another heartbreaking farewell to a comrade.
We would eventually learn a great deal about the perpetrators of this horrific crime, their names and faces becoming all too familiar. And we learned how easily they had come to America, taking advantage of our free society, to scheme and plot, even to obtain aeronautical training so as to be able to execute on their vicious plans Our country’s vaunted intelligence agencies, perhaps still organized to fight the old cold war, missed the clues and the chance at prevention but I don’t think many of us had any idea of the presence of those among us with such pure evil in their hearts. We still ask ourselves what kind of people would fly plane loads of passengers into buildings? And the big question remains: why? What did they hope to gain? What exactly was the payoff they were seeking? We learned about widespread desire for martyrdom and the gibberish of its rewards, but the basic question still remains. Why?
They came to the United States, and used covert means to achieve nothing less than a vicious military attack against our civilian population. To try and explain these actions with a rationale of religious, and/or political goals obscures the essential evil of their nature. History has shown that appeasement of such factions has only strengthened their determination. The threat posed by such factions must be met with all the resources of this great country including military reprisals, however unpopular. Those committed to the politicization of our very survival as a nation, who call for passivity in favor of some vague prescriptive for a heavier reliance on reasoning and diplomacy are either implausibly naive or willing to allow the lust for political power to trump even the defense of our most basic values. They must be reminded that it is the aggressive preservation of our way of life that allows them to hold their contrary views, no matter how inappropriate they might be.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was sitting in an industry conference at a Mid-town Manhattan hotel when one of the organizers came to the podium in the middle of a presentation to announce that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. With additional information lacking, it was first assumed that a terrible accident had taken place, but the stark truth soon became apparent. With the conference hastily adjourned, I found myself in the hotel bar, which doubled as a morning breakfast room. There, among a group of strangers, we learned of the second plane and watched the first tower fall as we tried to get our minds to comprehend the magnitude of the loss of life we were witnessing in real time on the hotel’s TV. Leaving the hotel, I cut across the Park and headed downtown on Sixth Ave to my office at fiftieth, swimming against the tide of the endless swarm of people moving north on Sixth. The vista over their heads was the long view downtown where huge clouds of black smoke were billowing into the impossibly clear blue sky three miles to the south. Shortly we would begin to see people with their clothes covered with soot and cinders as the first of the Wall Streeters began to arrive in Midtown. More information seeped out. There had also been an attack at the Pentagon and it was reported that additional commercial airliners were not responding. Jet fighters could be seen flying up the East River. Long portions of the day were a blur of trying to assimilate the incremental information which, over time, began to coalesce into a stark reality
When they finally got the trains running out of Grand Central that afternoon, I arrived home and we began to put a more personal face on the casualties. Among the missing was our friend’s daughter, recently married, and newly pregnant with her first child. She worked at Cantor Fitzgerald and along with hundreds of her co-workers was missing We began to understand the reality of just what “missing’ meant in the context of the mountain of smoking remains at what came to be called ground zero and began to taste the bitter futility of dashed hope. In neighborhoods all over greater New York, the tragedy struck painfully close to home.
And long after these events dropped from prominence in the national news, the wreckage at ground zero continued to smolder as crews continued to search for victims and knots of firefighters in their dress uniforms made their way to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for still another heartbreaking farewell to a comrade.
We would eventually learn a great deal about the perpetrators of this horrific crime, their names and faces becoming all too familiar. And we learned how easily they had come to America, taking advantage of our free society, to scheme and plot, even to obtain aeronautical training so as to be able to execute on their vicious plans Our country’s vaunted intelligence agencies, perhaps still organized to fight the old cold war, missed the clues and the chance at prevention but I don’t think many of us had any idea of the presence of those among us with such pure evil in their hearts. We still ask ourselves what kind of people would fly plane loads of passengers into buildings? And the big question remains: why? What did they hope to gain? What exactly was the payoff they were seeking? We learned about widespread desire for martyrdom and the gibberish of its rewards, but the basic question still remains. Why?
They came to the United States, and used covert means to achieve nothing less than a vicious military attack against our civilian population. To try and explain these actions with a rationale of religious, and/or political goals obscures the essential evil of their nature. History has shown that appeasement of such factions has only strengthened their determination. The threat posed by such factions must be met with all the resources of this great country including military reprisals, however unpopular. Those committed to the politicization of our very survival as a nation, who call for passivity in favor of some vague prescriptive for a heavier reliance on reasoning and diplomacy are either implausibly naive or willing to allow the lust for political power to trump even the defense of our most basic values. They must be reminded that it is the aggressive preservation of our way of life that allows them to hold their contrary views, no matter how inappropriate they might be.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
A Maine Event
The stated occasion of yesterday’s gathering was to celebrate the wedding anniversary of our friends, Ruth and Dick Coakley, who, on July 6th, had clocked (calendared?) fifty years of marriage. The fact that this event was taking place two months after the fact is the least of the unusual aspects of this affair. At the time, a marvelous gala was held, where the couples’ seven children and twenty grandchildren were joined by a large crowd of friends and family to wish them well in a much more traditional manner. But this was something different. This was a group of old friends gathering to celebrate a grand friendship.
We gathered at Chauncey Creek in southern Maine, a lobster-in-the-rough venue featuring outdoor tables, a BYOB policy and the best lobster in the state. In spite of a spectacular river view, the place falls squarely into the category of rustic dining. But what better place to gather for the group loosely organized under the “Cheap Eats” banner. The “Cheaps” were a group of young women who started throwing an occasional girls night out to gain a respite from the demands of raising young families. The locale would shift among various local restaurants, none of which provided white table cloths or cloth napkins. But the food was always good, the wine supply ample and the premises always able to withstand the barely-controlled hilarity of this fun-loving group. As time went on, situations changed, but the group continued its nights of camaraderie. And on those other occasions, where husbands and other friends were included, we found that same camaraderie through comfortable banter, good conversation and, above all, laughs, many, many laughs. Over the years, some of us have moved away, but the Winchester-based nucleus can always rally the troops. We have gathered to celebrate our children’s graduations, and then, later on, their weddings. We have tried to be there for each other on more solemn occasions, and as of late, ogle the pictures of grandchildren
Dick was a Dorchester boy (St. Mark’s parish) who met Ruthie when he went to work at Boston Edison, back in the fifties. They were married in Winchester’s Immaculate Conception Church on July 6, 1957. Boston Edison marked their marriage by immediately showing Ruthie the door. No married women allowed! So off they went to start their lives which would eventually include their wonderful family. When asked for the secret of such a long successful marriage, Dick answered, “patience”, A concise, and apt, formula for success, especially today where it seems as though all personal needs must be met before the end of the next commercial.
So we talked, ate lobster, drank some wine, and, best of all, had a lot of laughs until finally, the manager suggested that all those potential paying customers clustered on the dock might like the use of a table or two, sometime before first snowfall. So we packed up the cars, and headed back down I-95 under the grey skies of late summer thunderstorms that were unable to blot out the re-kindled glow of warm friendship.
We gathered at Chauncey Creek in southern Maine, a lobster-in-the-rough venue featuring outdoor tables, a BYOB policy and the best lobster in the state. In spite of a spectacular river view, the place falls squarely into the category of rustic dining. But what better place to gather for the group loosely organized under the “Cheap Eats” banner. The “Cheaps” were a group of young women who started throwing an occasional girls night out to gain a respite from the demands of raising young families. The locale would shift among various local restaurants, none of which provided white table cloths or cloth napkins. But the food was always good, the wine supply ample and the premises always able to withstand the barely-controlled hilarity of this fun-loving group. As time went on, situations changed, but the group continued its nights of camaraderie. And on those other occasions, where husbands and other friends were included, we found that same camaraderie through comfortable banter, good conversation and, above all, laughs, many, many laughs. Over the years, some of us have moved away, but the Winchester-based nucleus can always rally the troops. We have gathered to celebrate our children’s graduations, and then, later on, their weddings. We have tried to be there for each other on more solemn occasions, and as of late, ogle the pictures of grandchildren
Dick was a Dorchester boy (St. Mark’s parish) who met Ruthie when he went to work at Boston Edison, back in the fifties. They were married in Winchester’s Immaculate Conception Church on July 6, 1957. Boston Edison marked their marriage by immediately showing Ruthie the door. No married women allowed! So off they went to start their lives which would eventually include their wonderful family. When asked for the secret of such a long successful marriage, Dick answered, “patience”, A concise, and apt, formula for success, especially today where it seems as though all personal needs must be met before the end of the next commercial.
So we talked, ate lobster, drank some wine, and, best of all, had a lot of laughs until finally, the manager suggested that all those potential paying customers clustered on the dock might like the use of a table or two, sometime before first snowfall. So we packed up the cars, and headed back down I-95 under the grey skies of late summer thunderstorms that were unable to blot out the re-kindled glow of warm friendship.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
All the Dirt that's Fit to Dish
It’s the change in the quality of the sunlight that usually catches my attention at this time of year even before I think to consult the calendar, especially now that I continue to climb the learning curve of this nether land called retirement. The lush full summer sunlight is starting its annual slide as it slowly morphs into its pale thin winter semblance. But between then and now, the gradually fading light plays off against the cool dry autumn air, shed of its dulling humidity, to provide a new clarity with a sharpened focus and heightened coloring. School is starting up again and even those of us well beyond our student years and beyond the student years of our children, feel a stimulating sense of renewal.
Among the wide range of events coming into sharper focus is the fledgling presidential campaign, which has spent the summer months slouching towards serious consideration of the voters in spite of the fact that Hilary announced her candidacy last January. Today’s edition of the scrupulously independent Boston Globe (known in some circles as the Blue State Banner) in an above-the-fold front-page headline describes the introduction of a new technological approach to an old, but time-honored, political strategy. It seems that the Massachusetts Democratic Party has launched a new web site dedicated not to promoting its broad party principles, or even one of its own candidates, but rather to showcase, in an easily-searched format, information about Mitt Romney that could be used AGAINST his presidential campaign. It seems the Dems are concerned that some of Mitt’s current positions on some issues differ from positions he has taken over the years of his Massachusetts political career.
So, let me get this straight. The Massachusetts Democratic party is concerned that a politician might be inconsistent on his pronouncements, and even might have changed a position over time? Or that a candidate might tailor his message to a specific audience? Oh Mitt! Say it aint so.
As a public service, then, the Mass. Dems are providing “the facts” so that anyone concerned about Mitt’s veracity and/or consistency has a handy central location for the truth. And while they are at it, they intend to include any and all negative information, no matter how trite. This is essentially a puddle of digital mud, suitable for slinging and the party doesn’t stop there. It sent operatives out to a recent Romney rally to distribute flip-flops to the attendees in an effort to highlight some of Mitt’s change in positions. Who knows maybe they were left over from John Kerry’s last campaign? In addition, we are told the party is ready with a roster of speakers it plans to send out to future Romney events across the country.
Finally, unable to stand the suspense, I visited RomneyFacts.com to see what kind of nasty secrets the Dems had on tap. Right off the bat, I learned that squeaky-clean Mitt has been arrested not once, but twice! In 1981, Mitt attempted to launch an undocumented boat (expired sticker) in a State Park pond and was made to stop only by the timely intervention of the Natick cops who hauled him off to the pokey in his swimsuit. As near as I could tell from the website, no one drowned as part of this caper. But even this flagrant disregard for the law pales when compared to the events of 1965 when Mitt, at the tender age of 18, but clearly above the age of reason, aided and abetted by his then future wife Ann, were arrested for, are you ready?, blatantly sliding down the slopes of a Michigan golf course on giant blocks of ice! Is this the type of behavior we want the country’s first couple to condone? Before you answer, take a long hard look at the picture of this felonious duo above.
Yes friends, we live in a digital age and there is precious little personal information concerning the presidential candidates that will remain un-reported before November ’08 rolls around. And even if through some twisted logic you allow that the Mass. Dems are doing a public service, the old saw “what goes around, comes around,” pops to mind. While this may the first, it will in all likelihood not be the last of the candidate “information” sites, when it comes to evaluating who has the biggest pile of dirt in his or HER closet, the Romney’s are sure to be well back in the pack on this count.
Among the wide range of events coming into sharper focus is the fledgling presidential campaign, which has spent the summer months slouching towards serious consideration of the voters in spite of the fact that Hilary announced her candidacy last January. Today’s edition of the scrupulously independent Boston Globe (known in some circles as the Blue State Banner) in an above-the-fold front-page headline describes the introduction of a new technological approach to an old, but time-honored, political strategy. It seems that the Massachusetts Democratic Party has launched a new web site dedicated not to promoting its broad party principles, or even one of its own candidates, but rather to showcase, in an easily-searched format, information about Mitt Romney that could be used AGAINST his presidential campaign. It seems the Dems are concerned that some of Mitt’s current positions on some issues differ from positions he has taken over the years of his Massachusetts political career.
So, let me get this straight. The Massachusetts Democratic party is concerned that a politician might be inconsistent on his pronouncements, and even might have changed a position over time? Or that a candidate might tailor his message to a specific audience? Oh Mitt! Say it aint so.
As a public service, then, the Mass. Dems are providing “the facts” so that anyone concerned about Mitt’s veracity and/or consistency has a handy central location for the truth. And while they are at it, they intend to include any and all negative information, no matter how trite. This is essentially a puddle of digital mud, suitable for slinging and the party doesn’t stop there. It sent operatives out to a recent Romney rally to distribute flip-flops to the attendees in an effort to highlight some of Mitt’s change in positions. Who knows maybe they were left over from John Kerry’s last campaign? In addition, we are told the party is ready with a roster of speakers it plans to send out to future Romney events across the country.
Finally, unable to stand the suspense, I visited RomneyFacts.com to see what kind of nasty secrets the Dems had on tap. Right off the bat, I learned that squeaky-clean Mitt has been arrested not once, but twice! In 1981, Mitt attempted to launch an undocumented boat (expired sticker) in a State Park pond and was made to stop only by the timely intervention of the Natick cops who hauled him off to the pokey in his swimsuit. As near as I could tell from the website, no one drowned as part of this caper. But even this flagrant disregard for the law pales when compared to the events of 1965 when Mitt, at the tender age of 18, but clearly above the age of reason, aided and abetted by his then future wife Ann, were arrested for, are you ready?, blatantly sliding down the slopes of a Michigan golf course on giant blocks of ice! Is this the type of behavior we want the country’s first couple to condone? Before you answer, take a long hard look at the picture of this felonious duo above.
Yes friends, we live in a digital age and there is precious little personal information concerning the presidential candidates that will remain un-reported before November ’08 rolls around. And even if through some twisted logic you allow that the Mass. Dems are doing a public service, the old saw “what goes around, comes around,” pops to mind. While this may the first, it will in all likelihood not be the last of the candidate “information” sites, when it comes to evaluating who has the biggest pile of dirt in his or HER closet, the Romney’s are sure to be well back in the pack on this count.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
The View on the Arts
If you grew up in the Boston area, you know that there is a local version of the Mason-Dixon Line. This line runs on an east-west bearing through the Prudential Center and has a tradition that dictates that those of us from the south side of town, who feel the need to re-locate, must move south, while denizens of the northern burbs must gravitate towards the top of the map. And even though I lived, for a time in a northwestern suburb (what can I tell you, I have a mixed marriage, I married a northside girl), my trip yesterday up Rte 1A to Marblehead had the feel of venturing into uncharted waters. Revere, Lynn, Nahant (oops, wrong turn), Swampscott and finally onto Marblehead felt a little like following the Yellow Brick Road. But as we drove over the causeway towards achingly-scenic Marblehead Neck, the sun sparkled on the ocean to our right and the impossibly-large number of sailboats in the Harbor off to our left, and I began to realize the spectacular panoramic secrets that those north shore types have been keeping from us provincials.
As part of the ongoing effort at supporting the contention that The View reflects a renaissance outlook, we went up to visit The Labor Day showing of The Evolutions ’07 Art Exhibit, featuring the work of local artists. We had added motivation for this trip, which will become obvious shortly.
Among the seventeen artists exhibiting their work in a wide variety of media, we were intrigued by one particular artist, a young man who, by day, works in the fast-paced world of advertising as an art director for a Boston Ad agency, and who practices his long-time painting avocation in his off hours. Working in oils, he applies an uncanny sense of color and texture to evoke contrasting images of haunting serenity and static energy, an approach that flirts with whimsy against a stark graphic orientation, clearly a metaphor for the constraints of modern life. After viewing his work, you begin to wonder what he might produce if he were to focus all of his many talents on his painting. But, of course, this would come at the expense of his other great passion, that of graphic design. And no reclusive artists he. Mark brings well-honed interpersonal and communications skills to the challenges of client relations, which has made him a man to be reckoned with in the Ad biz. Mark Malloy graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design where his extensive innate abilities were nurtured and developed in the school’s renowned neo-abstract, constructionistic, perspective-obsessed tradition. (okay, your right, I made that last part up). In any case, I encourage you to visit his studio and view some of his work using the highlighted link to the left.
With the cat out of the bag, you now realize that this artist is my son, Mark, whose career I have watched with more than a little interest, long before his talents became widely recognized. Would that I be able to claim some credit for Mark’s talents, but my artistic abilities are sadly lacking. More likely, he inherited his acute color sense and aesthetic incisiveness from his mother’s talented genes. I did, however, note a glimmer of my influence at the art show when I saw the utilitarian, but attractive easels that Mark had constructed to exhibit his work. Hammering nails into boards is something I can relate to.
Several of Mark’s pieces sported “sold” tags yesterday and with the show continuing for another day, it would seem that collectors are slowly warming to the idea of owning an original by Mark. Seeing that I still posses a number of pieces from, shall we say, his early years, perhaps I will someday have the opportunity to contribute to his retrospective.
In the meantime, it’s very rewarding to see someone you love excel at something he loves.
As part of the ongoing effort at supporting the contention that The View reflects a renaissance outlook, we went up to visit The Labor Day showing of The Evolutions ’07 Art Exhibit, featuring the work of local artists. We had added motivation for this trip, which will become obvious shortly.
Among the seventeen artists exhibiting their work in a wide variety of media, we were intrigued by one particular artist, a young man who, by day, works in the fast-paced world of advertising as an art director for a Boston Ad agency, and who practices his long-time painting avocation in his off hours. Working in oils, he applies an uncanny sense of color and texture to evoke contrasting images of haunting serenity and static energy, an approach that flirts with whimsy against a stark graphic orientation, clearly a metaphor for the constraints of modern life. After viewing his work, you begin to wonder what he might produce if he were to focus all of his many talents on his painting. But, of course, this would come at the expense of his other great passion, that of graphic design. And no reclusive artists he. Mark brings well-honed interpersonal and communications skills to the challenges of client relations, which has made him a man to be reckoned with in the Ad biz. Mark Malloy graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design where his extensive innate abilities were nurtured and developed in the school’s renowned neo-abstract, constructionistic, perspective-obsessed tradition. (okay, your right, I made that last part up). In any case, I encourage you to visit his studio and view some of his work using the highlighted link to the left.
With the cat out of the bag, you now realize that this artist is my son, Mark, whose career I have watched with more than a little interest, long before his talents became widely recognized. Would that I be able to claim some credit for Mark’s talents, but my artistic abilities are sadly lacking. More likely, he inherited his acute color sense and aesthetic incisiveness from his mother’s talented genes. I did, however, note a glimmer of my influence at the art show when I saw the utilitarian, but attractive easels that Mark had constructed to exhibit his work. Hammering nails into boards is something I can relate to.
Several of Mark’s pieces sported “sold” tags yesterday and with the show continuing for another day, it would seem that collectors are slowly warming to the idea of owning an original by Mark. Seeing that I still posses a number of pieces from, shall we say, his early years, perhaps I will someday have the opportunity to contribute to his retrospective.
In the meantime, it’s very rewarding to see someone you love excel at something he loves.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
The Queen
Saturday is a notorious slow news day and those of you who live outside metro New York might have missed this. The will of recently-deceased Leona Helmsley, the aptly proclaimed “Queen of Mean”, was recently made public. Leona, whose estate was estimated to be in excess of $2.5 billion (the b is not a typo) left $12 million in trust for the care of her dog. Before you wonder if this doesn’t somehow reflect a heretofore unnoticed tenderness in this feisty ex-con (Tax-evasion, natch), you might want to check with her grandchildren, two of whom got stiffed, as in nada.
An appropriate epitath? How about “Only the little people pay taxes.”
An appropriate epitath? How about “Only the little people pay taxes.”
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