Have a Merry and a Happy!

Going on hiatus until after the holidays.  See you in January!

"Bond. James Bond."

MSN's Web site home page recently included an item about how viewers of the movie "Skyfall" found 24 incongruities in the film.  These include the mysterious rising and falling of the liquor level in a glass over several different takes, and the swapping of loafers for laced shoes while scuffling atop a fast-moving train.

So what?  Of more interest to me is why anyone would pay today's movie ticket prices to sit in a theater and concentrate on finding fault instead of on the flow of the plot.  It's fiction, stupid!

I can understand faulting flaws in historical films.  If a movie pretends to history, it ought to at least be factual.  But fiction?  Who cares?!

"Skyfall" brought up the inevitable comparisons with previous James Bond flicks.  Every critic of the film whose review I've read all opined that it's the best Bond movie since "Goldfinger".  Well, I watched "Goldfinger" a couple of evenings ago.  "Goldfinger" sucked.

The problem with "Goldfinger" is that many of its scenes were contrived for their "wow" factor, rather than logical threading of the plot line.  For instance:

* Goldfinger assembles leaders from various mobs at his palatial estate to brief them on his plan to break into Ft Knox.  One of the bosses opts out.  Goldfinger loads his promised cut of gold bullion into the trunk of a car, to which the mobster is escorted.  Odd Job, Goldfinger's all-around handythug for, well, odd jobs, drives him away, shoots him, and takes him to an auto junkyard where the car, body, and gold are scrunched into a cube by a compressor.  When the cube is delivered to Goldfinger, he excuses himself to separate the mobster from his gold.  Huh?

* He uses an array of state-of-the-art electronic visual aids, including scale models and maps, to brief the mobsters and then kills them all.  Why bother to tell them what's going on if he's going to whack them?

* Both Bond and Pussy Galore, oblivious to the g-forces of a rapidly plunging jet, find time to retrieve parachutes rarely found aboard executive jets, put them on, and punch out before the plane slams into some body of water or other.

The movie also showcased some of the worst acting I've ever witnessed in a big-budget film.  For example, the aforementioned death scene of the mobsters displayed hams dying with such gyrations, spasms, and reflexive twitches as to make you think you're watching a farce.

"Thunderball" was a much better movie than "Goldfinger", but neither comes close to "Skyfall".  "Skyfall" keeps it real!  How important is that in movie fiction?  Well, compare the first three Batman movies with the last three.  Michael Keaton and Val Kilmer were okay as the caped crusader, but the scripts were terrible.  No one can fault the acting ability of Jack Nicholson, but really--his Joker compared with Heath Ledger's?  Not Jack's fault.  He was stuck with a horrible scripot and just made the best of it.  And hundreds of penguins packing rockets and infrared eye pieces?  Seriously?

"Skyfall" also begs the inevitable question:  Who is the best James Bond?  Depends on the script.  Sean Connery is a ladies' man; Daniel Craig is a man's man.  Sean seduces, Daniel is seduced.  Connery gets to the bad guy by banging his women; Craig gets there by banging through his obstacles.  Connery is all about sublety; Craig doesn't understand the meaning of the word.

The latest version of James Bond is less gimmicky than those previous, the villains more realistic.  No kitty-stroking megalomaniacs, no golden gun wielders with three nipples.  Rather, think a very gay Anton Chigurh sporting a blond wig.

"Skyfall" is the best Bond movie ever.  Don't waste a second looking for non-plot-related flaws.  Just enjoy the ride.  Okay, Rex?

Giving Thanks

I still remember a November day in 4th or 5th grade when our teacher, Mrs. Gerry Squires, asked each of us to stand and share at least one thing for which we were thankful.  I felt that was personal information that I didn't need to share.  Or probably I just drew a blank.  Either way, I remained silent.  She thought that was just awful.

So, in order to atone and purge myself of the guilt that has weighed heavily on my heart lo these many decades, herewith for what I'm thankful:

I'm thankful I was born in Ohio and not Michigan.  I know what a buckeye is.  What's a wolverine--a gay wolf?

I'm thankful I'm not related even by rumor to the Kardashians.

I'm thankful I did my thing for God and country in the skies over Southeast Asia and not on the ground in the deserts of the Middle East.  I much prefer mosquitoes over scorpions, though I'm not particularly fond of mosquitoes.

I'm thankful I'm not so vain that I would ever go under a plastic surgeon's knife and risk coming out of the bandages looking like either Bruce Jenner or Kenny Rogers.  Well, maybe I'd go under a knife wielded by Joan Rivers' face-lifter.  She looks damn good for her age; better, I think than before she had her work done.  And I still believe she'd have been a better "Tonight" show host than Jay "Lantern Jaw" Leno.  Nothing is sadder than a clown who isn't funny.

I'm thankful that I never did anything to disgrace myself or the United States Air Force...by getting caught.

I'm thankful I was born in the United States, even though it now seems hell-bent on becoming Greece.

I'm thankful I don't live next door to Honey Boo Boo and her mother.  I'm especially thankful that I have way too much self-respect to ever do what I would have had to do to be Honey Boo Boo's father.

I'm thankful I was born heterosexual.  Sorry, gays, it's just that women are the greatest high on this planet, even above beer and a Packers Super Bowl win.

I'm thankful for Catherine Zeta-Jones, arguably the most beautiful woman in the universe.  I'm really thankful that she's married to a man almost my age.  It gives all of old perverts hope, however forlorn.

I'm thankful for my marriage to the shamrock of the Emerald Isle.  Some folks enjoy the "It's a Small World" ride, nice and smooth, no shocks, no surprises.  I enjoy "Magic Mountain"--lots of ups and downs, but, oh, what a rush!

Actually, that guilt thing I mentioned earlier is a lie.  My mother, who could have given lessons to Jewish and Italian mothers on how to lay guilt, succeeded at laying it on me until I had an epiphany.  Guilt, I finally realized, comes from allowing others to make their problems your problems.  Haven't felt guilty about anything since.

I just wanted an excuse for this blog.  Okay, Gerry?

Elections, Florida Style

Ever loath at having to repeat myself, every once in a while I must remind my reason for living that there's a reason that TV show was called "Father Knows Best".

"This is embarrassing," opined the tulip from The Netherlands.

"What's that, light of my life?"

"Here it is three days after the election, and we still don't have the votes counted."

"May I remind you, dearest of the dear, that we moved here not for the intellectual stimulation, or the pursuit of the philosophical, or, obviously, the cultural opportunities.  As a wise man once said, 'There ain't no Coupe de Ville hidin' at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.'  We moved here for the weather.  Moreover, we do not owe an apology to those who have to use their fingers and toes to count just because we don't."

Results were finally announced Saturday.  Obama won.  My question is, who cares?  Once the vote was in from Ohio, the election was over.  Here's a suggestion: why not have just Buckeyes vote and save everyone else in the country all the phone calls, ads, trips to polling places and lines at the voting booths?  Makes sense to me.  You?

There were other yuks served up by the election:

* Robocalls went out on election day to Pinellas County folks who had requested absentee ballots, but who had not turned them in, advising them that they had to be turned in "tomorrow," which would have been Wednesday and thus too late to be counted.  Neither Election Supervisor Deborah Clark nor the company she hired to make the calls, CallFire, accepts responsibility for the kerfuffle.

* Republican and former Hillsborough County Commissioner and state Senator Ronda Storms--book burner, homophobe, creationist, anti-abortion flyer of the Confederate battle flag--lost her bid to become Hillsborough's property appraiser to a Democrat who actually knows something about the job.  She's now out of elective office, and we're out the comic relief she provided every time she opened her mouth.

* Perhaps they thought it was a communist plot to pollute our precious bodily fluids.  Perhaps they confused it with formaldehyde.  Whatever their reason, two Republican Pinellas County Supervisors lost their seats because they voted to remove fluoride from the county's drinking water.  The good news is, their ouster provided a wake-up call for another commissioner, who says he will now vote to have the water fluroidated.  Welcome to the 21st century, Mr Spock.

Here's yet another example of what we transplants find so amusing about Florida:

18-year-old Benjamin Bishop and an 18-year-old friend went to a gun dealer, where Benny tried to purchase a 12-guage shotgun.  Required checks revealed Benny had a criminal record and may not possess firearms.  The dealer refused to sell him the gun.  The two left the store.  Later, the friend returned to the store and bought the gun.

Benny has since been charged with first-degree murder in the shooting deaths of his mother and her boyfriend.

Florida law states that it is a felony to knowingly buy a gun for anyone who is prohibited by state or federal law from possessing a gun.  This makes Benny's buddy culpable, right?  I mean, he was with him when the dealer refused to sell him the gun, right?

"How do you prove that the kid who bought the gun knew that Bishop was prohibited by state law," asked a senior prosecutor, whose office has not charged Benny's buddy.  "We've got to prove that."

Okay, let's start from the beginning.  1+1=2.  2+2=4.  Are we learning to do the math, yet, Sparky?

The Politics of Sandy

I'm a card-carrying cynic.  So sue me.

Politicians are in no-win situations whenever tragedy strikes.  Presidents, governors, mayors, dogcatchers, all show up at the sites of tragedies.  They get out of their rides, walk around, commiserate with the victims, promise aid, and provide moral support.  This is good; this is their job.

But accompanying them are entourages of PR people whose function it is to facilitate photographers and reporters and make sure the image of a caring, compassionate and strong leader gets out to the electorate.  This is bad; critics will claim the pols are just using the tragedy to make themselves look good.

"Hey, he was there when we needed him," is the cry from a grateful community.  Yeah?  Well, so is a loan shark, a lawyer, or a drug dealer.  Politicians will pat you on your back with one hand, while they pick your pocket with the other.

Every once in a while, politicians stumble over each other in their effort to accept credit or assign blame when something goes wrong.  Case in point--Atlantic City, in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy.

A few days before the hurricane hit the New Jersey coast, Governor Chris Christie, who makes Ralphie May look positively anorexic, signed an executive order for the evacuation of Atlantic City.  He sent several huge tour buses to the beach to take residents out of harm's way.

Drivers of the buses reported back to the governor that folks told them they didn't have to evacuate, that AC's mayor, Lorenzo Langford, told them he had set up a shelter for them.  The governor went ballistic.  He took to local TV, which sent the feed to the networks, insinuated that the mayor was an idiot with the IQ of Honey Boo Boo, and laid the blame for potential hurricane-caused fatalities and/or casualties at the mayor's feet.

The mayor, in full CYA mode, replied that he didn't tell people they didn't have to evacuate, only that if they chose not to they could hunker down in the shelter.

Now, cynic that I am, I'm willing to give the mayor the benefit of the doubt.  I can believe that he told folks what he said he told them, and they misunderstood.  I seriously doubt he flat out countermanded the governor's executive order or that he meant to give residents an excuse not to leave town.

But here's the thing.  The governor is a Republican; the mayor is a Democrat.  I know local politicians are fiercely territorial, but I can't believe the mayor would take a "this is my town, you stay out" defensive posture when there are lives at stake.  To do so would just be setting himself up for the fall if there was massive loss of life.

When the president showed up to tour the devastated area, the governor accompanied him.  No sign of the mayor, and no explanation of why he wasn't along.  I know one thing:  the political scene in New Jersey just got a lot more interesting and, yes, a lot more fun to watch.

Here is the reaction to this kerfuffle from one AC resident, printed exactly as it appeared on the "Press of Atlantic City" Web site:

"well Christie, did u know its still people in AC that is not leaving, did u know that they are denying help, even now, so stop acting like a big 'SAVIOR' knowing you really doing nothing, AC is not just downtown and far uptown AC, is all the streets from beginning to end, instead of grown men lying, and defending they need to be showing full coverage and figuring out what to do, nobody wants a ball measuring contest."

Here's a textbook example of one of education's fads that I rail about, the idea that "student expression should not be stifled by emphasis on such irrelevancies as proper punctuation, sentence structure and word usage.  What's important is that they are free to express their opinions and feelings."

Perhaps the good folks in AC will take this opportunity to start all over with their public school system.

Of Rednecks and Such

In my youthful ignorance I thought the term "redneck" came from farming.  Farmers, working outdoors in the sun all day long, had necks that seemed to be permanently sunburned.

I was wrong.  I know--me!

The term "redneck" comes from long ago West Virginia coal mine wars between unions and owners.  The owners hired thugs from outside to come in and beat the striking miners into submission.  With so many folks involved and neither side wearing uniforms, how to tell who was fer ya and who agin?  So the combatants in one group began wearing red bandanas around their necks.  Anyone not wearing one was then fair game for a pickaxe handle upside his head.

The definition of "redneck" no longer applies to sides in labor disputes, nor is it limited to folks from West Virginia.  It's not even limited to the South.  "Redneck" is more descriptive of an attitude, rather than of a regional demographic.  Rednecks are literally everywhere, from Barrow to Key West, from Hawaii to Maine.  And though they walk among us, they are rather easy to spot.

Rednecks are generally loud in expression, vulgar in behavior, and inappropriate in dress.  Their "I don't give a damn" attitude is an effort, however subconscious, to mask their ignorance, certainly of manners and taste.  Regardless of destination or event, they wear their baseball caps backwards, their footwear with no socks, and their 29" pants buckled under their 56" waists which, with their too-small, often profanity-laced t-shirts riding up their backs, expose about three inches of butt-crack.

The favorite sports of rednecks most often involve the WWE, MMA, mud (wrestling or just driving trucks through it), animals (alligators, possum, snapping turtles, fish, snakes), wet t-shirt contests, beer-chugging, and essentially anything that will create a sloshing, spilling, smelly, barf-inducing mess.

Oh, I almsot forgot NASCAR.  "Those cars blowed up real good, huh, Sis?  Haw!  And you wanted to take the young'uns to Didney World!"

Jeff Houck, writing for the "Tampa Tribune, explored how fascination with rednecks has translated over the years to the small screen, beginning "when homespun Andy Griffith brought 'The Andy Griffith Show' to life...featuring hinmself as the common-sense sheriff of Mayberry, N.C.  America fell so in love with his aw-shucks manner, it spawned an entire genre of television highlighting the best and worst of what Hollywood perceived to be Southern life."

He believes its success led to "Beverly Hillbillies", "Gomer Pyle", and "The Dukes of Hazzard."

Having reached the bottom of the garbage bucket with "Hee Haw", we lifted it up and started to probe the grub-swarmed dregs underneath for even worse examples of human degradation and cultural decadence.  We found it, and its name is Honey Boo Boo.

Honey Boo Boo's "show" is a spin-off of "Toddlers & Tiaras", a TV series showcasing mothers living vicariously through their offspring by dressing them up as miniature beauty queens and entering them in pageants.  Honey Boo Boo's signature talent is compressing and manipulating the rolls of fat on her Pillsbury dough boy-gut, turning her abyss of a navel into a pie-hole from which she may emit verbiage she deems pithy.

No less a celebrity icon than Rosie O'Donnell has compared Honey Boo Boo to Shirley Temple.  "She has a presence and an intellect that goes way beyond her years," said Rosie.  You've got something there, Jabba.  She's seven years old and already evinces an IQ comparable to yours.

We've come a long way since those early days of TV.  We used to laugh with rednecks; now we just laugh at them.

Flotsam and Jetsam

Item 1:  News out of Chicago is that because of the worsening homicide rate, a tax of 25 cents will be placed on ammunition.  The following conversation was overheard in Promiscuous Pearl's Pool Hall and Pole Dancing Pavillion:

"Did you case the bank this morning?"

"Yeah.  Biggest haul will be tomorrow, before they ship out the cash surplus."

"Can't do it tomorrow.  We haven't even submitted our applications to purchase handguns.  It'll be at least seven days before they're approved, and then we gotta buy the guns."

"And there's another problem.  You hear they're talking about putting a 25-cent tax on bullets?  How the hell are we gonna afford that?"

"Well, we could have a car wash."

"Or a bake sale."

"You know, we could just steal the guns and ammo."

"But that'd be illegal.  Wouldn't it?"

Item 2:  Tyler Perry has taken over the Alex Cross role from Morgan Freeman.  That's like Chuy Bravo taking over Zorro from Antonio Banderas, or Justin Bieber taking over James Bond from Daniel Craig.

Item 3:  Every day I open up my "Tampa Bay Times" and read how its editors want me to vote.  With typical arrogance, they think I am too stupid to figure it out for myself.

Well, I've got news for you, Charlie Foster.  Given that our choices for president are Jimmy Carter-lite and Ronald Reagan-extra lite, I've decided to write in Dexter Morgan and Walter White.  How's that for responsibly exercising my constitutional right to vote?

Item 4:  Hulk Hogan is suing his former BFF, Bubba the Love Sponge Clem (that's his legal name) for releasing a sex video of the Hulk doing the nasty.  You probably know who the Hulkster is.  Bubba, who fancies himself a "shock jock," has a local radio show.  Imagine a redneck, TPT version of Howard Stern, but with all the talent of Honey Boo Boo and her Jabba the Hutt blob of a mother.

After years of the Hulk pestering the Sponge to let him penetrate his wife, Bubba finally agreed on the condition he could videotape the coupling.  Hulk, in anxious anticipation, let his hormones overrule his common sense and panted, "Sure!"  As for Mrs Clem, well, she had to have seen the steroid-sculpted Hulk as a huge step up from the beer-bloated Sponge.

You can guess what happened.  Yep, the sex tape was leaked and shown all over the Internet.  Bubba, who has even less credibility than Bill "I did not have sex with that woman" Clinton, denied that he leaked it.

Item 5:  One "Tampa Bay Times" columnist, who inexplicably lives in Tampa, writes, "Me, I am glad every time I see a dog on a leash downtown, because it means people actually live there."  Me?  I always thought people lived in Tampa.  Never understood it, but there they are.  Every time I see a dog anywhere, whether it's on a leash or not, I see doggie download which may or may not get picked up, depending upon whether its owner is a jerk.  I do not suffer pooch panderers who think my lawn is their mutts' toilet.

Item the last:  Speaking of dogs, an Apollo Beach resident was walking his when the mutt knocked over a sign that was partially blocking the sidewalk.  John Gallik, owner of the sign, stormed outside, thrust a knife at the resident, and threatened to cut his throat.  Standing his ground, the resident pulled his .38 revolver from his pocket, fired, and thus terminated Gallik.

I blame the mutt.

A Morality (?) Play in Three Acts

Act I.  Scene, University of South Florida President's office, 1995.  The president and the Chair, USF Board of Trustees, are meeting.

"I'm sick of USF being the stepchild of Florida's higher education.  I mean, look at UF, FSU, and UM.  Tons of press, nationwide recognition, applications from all over the country.  No one outside of Tampa even knows we exist."

"So, what do you suggest?"

"Let us ask ourselves what those institutions have that we don't."

"I give up.  What?"

"Football!  That's the ticket!  We get a football team, we're on national TV, we're in the newspapers.  Everybody will know our name!"

"Okay.  Guess the first thing we have to do is hire a coach."

Act II.  Scene, USF President Judy Genshaft's office, 15 years later.  Genshaft and Trustees' Chair meet.

"Judy, Coach Leavitt has gotta go.  8 and 5 is not going to hack it."

"Yeah, well, it won't be easy.  Jim's 95 and 57 overall.  He got us into the Big East in only 10 years and had us ranked number two nationally in 2007.  He's taken us to a bowl game every year.  Won't be cheap, either.  He's only just finished his second season of a seven-year, $12.6 million contract."

"Nah, it'll be easier than you think.  Did you see the report from AOL FanHouse?  Apparently, during halftime of the Louisville game he grabbed a player by his shoulder pads and slapped him twice in the face."

"That's terrible!  What does he think this is, Marine Corps boot camp?  Does he think he's Gunnery Sergeant Hartman?"

"Look.  Remember the bowl game where Woody Hayes clotheslined a Clemson player?  He was a legend, and they fired him."

"Yeah, but not for that.  He was fired because he lost to Michigan three years in a row.  Had he won those games he could have decapitated that kid and kept his job.  I don't know.  You really think we can fire Jim that easily?"

"Sure.  We'll go through the motions of an investigation.  It'll be iffy.  The kid isn't talking, and his dad has said the coach didn't slap him.  But we can round up plenty who'll say they witnessed it.  It'll take a little finesse, but he'll be gone in time to get someone else in place for next season."

"Got anyone in mind?"

"Matter of fact, Lou Holtz's son, Skip, is available.  Can't go wrong there!"

Act III.  Scene, Genshaft's office, present day.  Genshaft and John Ramil, Chair, Board of Trustees, meet.

"Judy, Coach Holtz has gotta go.  2 and 4 is not going to hack it.  You get my e-mail?"

"Yeah, pretty strong, John.  'Disgusting and unacceptable.  We have major problems with our football program.'  Kinda harsh, isn't it?"

"Look.  We've lost four in a row and 10 of the last 11 in the Big East.  Right now we're 2 and 4 overall and 0 and 2 in the conference.  Apparently, Skippy hasn't tapped into his dad's genes.  He's just 15 and 16 after three seasons.  We've gone from a team no one wanted to play to being a schedule-filler."

"Now, John, remember, we had a winner once, and we got rid of him.  How's that make us look?  I don't want to think about trying to sack Lou Holtz's son."

"Well, keep your fingers crossed.  Maybe he'll slap some kid."

Menagerie A Trois

Reaching out to touch wildlife in Florida is strongly discouraged.  Feeding wildlife in Florida is illegal.  Attempting to join in the fun with mating wildlife when not invited to do so is, well, just plain rude.

One may swim with dolphins at a couple of places.  At the zoo one might even touch snakes and other reptiles.  At the aquarium one can immerse one's hand in a pool and brush the backs of rays as they swim by.  But these encounters with local fauna are well controlled and supervised.

Not all attempts at inter-species contact are appreciated, however.  A man who thought it was a super, neat-o, peachy-keen idea to put elementary school-age kids in a swimming pool to frolic with a three-foot alligator brought down the wrath of do-gooders, animal rights wackos and others of the perpetually outraged upon his head.  Never mind that the gator' jaws were taped shut with duct tape, or that the gator never left the hands of its handler.

To be fair, in this case the buzz-killers had a point.  Little kids learn that it's okay to be in the water with an alligator, next thing you know they're wading into a pond to play with one.  They see a fun playmate; the gator sees lunch.

Kids that age just don't think at the cognitive level.  For that matter, neither do many adults.

Imagine that you are cuddled up with your significant other, nuzzling, nipping, smooching, caressing, whatever.  You can do it; I'm sure you've done it before.  Imagining, that is.

The moment is right.  The positions are assumed, expectations are high, hormones are running amok, and penetration is imminent.

All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, a shapeless blob of humanity jumps right on your back, wraps her arms around your neck and her legs around your hips, presses herself down upon you, and hangs on for what she expects to be a wild and crazy ride.  What will you do?  What can you do?

Well, you could invite her to join in on the fun.  But, see, if you're, say, a manatee, you probably don't think like that.  If you're a manatee, you've just been thrown off your game, which is making other manatees.  And that's exactly what happened when one woman thought her need for a joy ride was more critical than a manatee's need to procreate.

Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez was on the beach at Ft De Soto when she saw manatees in the process of copulating.

I can't pretend to understand what she was thinking.  I can understand folks who share my levels of education and experience, but I draw a headache-inducing blank when trying to understand the cognitively challenged.  And since I retired from teaching mostly high school freshmen, I no longer even try.

Anyway, perhaps Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez thought she'd make the manatees' up close and personal interaction a three-some.  Perhaps she thought she'd make the male's fantasies a reality while she taught the female the real definition of animal sex.  I suspect she wasn't thinking at all.

Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez (anyone with four or more names ought to be accorded the respect of being addressed by all of them, don't you think?) propelled herself up onto the back of the male and engulfed him with a grip worthy of adoption by MMA combatants.

Manatees are, by nature, slow-moving, laid back creatures.  When Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez didn't get the dolphin-like hyper-drive ride through the waves she expected, she gave up and released her death hold.  The manatees, wondering WTF just happened, if they wonder at all, just swam off, the moment having passed.

Gracias, Ana Gloria Garcia Gutierrez.  Thanks for the cold shower.

School Board Soap: As the Stomach Turns

Excerpt from Dave's Definitive Dictionary of Definitions:

school board n 1.  A plank used in the construction of a school building.  2.  A wooden paddle similar in size and shape to a cricket bat usually found hanging on the wall of a school principal's office.  3.  A group of mostly lay, clueless, agenda-driven men and women elected to manage a school system.

I've spent decades going around the country trying to convince folks to do away with school boards tout de suite.  They are archaic relics from the days of the frontier, when parents formed committees to recruit and hire teachers.  Necessary at the time, they have become counterproductive to education to the point that any actual teaching that occurs in classrooms is achieved in spite of school boards, rather than because of them.

However incompetent at their raison d'etre, some school board members have proven themselves adept at using their positions to pad their political resumes, line their pockets with kickbacks and bribes, and hook up with contacts for a bit of the ol' in and out.  Case in point: the Broward County School Board.

After years of investigations dating back to 2007, a special statewide grand jury in February, 2011, concluded that if it had the power it would abolish the school board, so serious were the "malfeasance, misfeasance and nonfeasance" it uncovered by board members.  It found that some members directed contracts to friends and acquaintances, pushed unnecessary building projects, and schemed to get the children of friends and family into specific schools.

One former school board member is doing three years in the slam after pleading guilty in 2010 to one count of bribery after admitting taking payoffs.  Another is awaiting trial after having been accused of accepting money in return for helping developers win a $500,000 break on fees they owed the schoold district.

The investigation also uncovered bedroom hanky-panky between then-board member and chairwoman Jennifer Gottlieb and not one but two married Citigroup executives seeking money-making deals with the school board.  Jenny herself was married to a local judge at the time.

Jenny could probably not stand on the gold medal platform with, say, Chelsea Handler in the Promiscuity Olympics, but she could certainly make a bed-hopping run for a bronze.

Jenny's first experience servicing a Citigroup exec lasted the summer of 2007.  She discussed the potential conflict of interest ramifications of indulging in extra-marital sex with a seeker of school board business with her political consultant.

"So, what do you think?  Should I quit banging this guy, or what?"

"I know you're blonde, Jenny, but are you really that stupid?  Seriously?"

"Yeah, you're probably right.  Okay, he's history."

Jenny dumped her stud muffin.  A few months later she was playing musical beds with another Citigroup exec in hotels all over southeast Florida, an affair that lasted three years.  Then someone, perhaps a jealous lover or rejected suitor, hacked into her e-mail account and ratted her out to her long-cuckolded husband.  He filed for divorce in June.

Now, I don't mean to imply that all school boards are as morally corrupt as Broward County's.  I'm sure many are made up of folks who, however inept they might be, have their hearts in the right place and keep their hands in their pockets, their pants zipped up and their legs crossed.

I'm also sure there are others out there that are worse.  Taken a close look at yours lately, have you?

The Plot Sickens

I'm not big on conspiracy theories.  I'm ready to believe that FDR set up Pearl Harbor to turn a citizenry of doves desperately clinging to isolationism into saber-rattling hawks screaming to get into WWII, an ignoble but necessary ruse.  I'm also ready to believe LBJ used a report of a torpedo attack in the Gulf of Tonkin, suspect at the time and later thoroughly discredited, to get his blank check from Congress to wage war in Vietnam, a despicable ploy that wasted hundreds of thousands of lives and wreaked wanton destruction on whatever vestige of American innocence we had left.  But that is pretty much it.

Or it was, until the Chicago teachers' strike, which was more rigged than a WWE match and had as much suspense about its outcome as a Harlem Globetrotters vs Washington Generals basketball game.  In fact, I predicted in last week's blog, "Biting the Hand that Feeds," that Chicago's mayor would roll over for a pin faster than Jake "The Milkman" Milliken after a Hulk Hogan leg drop.

"The New York Times" reports that the Chicago Teachers Union agreed September 18 to end its strike.  Under the agreement, teachers will receive more than 17 percent in raises over four years, including pay increases for higher levels of experience and additional degrees, in spite of a $1 billion deficit next year.  What the "Times" didn't report is a phone call between Democratic Mayor Rahm Emanuel and Karen Lewis, Chicago Teachers Union president, that took place September 16.  I have in my possession what appears to be an authentic transcript of that conversation.

"Mayor Emanuel speaking."

"What the hell is going on over there, Manny?  What the hell do you think you're doing anyway?"

"Karen?  I thought I told you never to call me at my office.  And don't call me "Manny."

"Oh, bite me, you scrawny little twerp.  I want to know why you're dragging your black ass on settling this strike.  How long do you think we're going to put up with your intransigence before we bring this city to its knees?"

"Ha!  Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?  I'm the mayor of Chicago, and I don't need to listen to some frump school marm threatening me."

"Threatening?  I'm promising you, you myopic twit.  You don't settle this strike tout de suite I'll get the city employees unions--cops, firefighters, anybody else--to come in on this in a show of solidarity."

"Now, wait just a minute...."

"And then you know what else?  We'll find some little opportunistic hand puppet to run against you in the next primary.  Care to speculate about what percentage of the Democratic vote you'll get without union support?  Zero!  Zip, zilch, zug, nada!  Think about it, Manny.  Without us you get none of the working class, black, Hispanic, dead folks, or illegal immigrant vote.  Hell, you might as well start packing.  Stick a toothpick in yourself, Manny.  You're done, unless you settle this damn strike NOW!"

"C'mon, Karen.  Can I call you Karen?  I was just fooling about.  You know I had to appear to be hanging tough.  What kind of mayor would I look like if I just laid down and let you walk all over me?  I mean, this thing has gone national.  I give in too early and the national media'd be all over me like a tarp on Wrigley Field.  Of course you're gonna get what you want.  I'm just trying to save a little face, you can understand that.  Can't you?"

"You've got 24 hours, Manny.  You don't get this done by tomorrow I'm personally going to come over to City Hall and kick your skinny ass so hard you'll be farting out of your nose."

At least I think it's an authentic transcript.  Of course, I could be wrong--novel as that concept is.

Biting the Hand that Feeds

One could make the argument that the current sorry state of unions in this country began when the air traffic controllers went on strike.  They counted on being able to ground the nation's airlines, causing an uproar among air travelers, particularly business travelers, and they in turn would bring pressure to bear on the government to settle.  What they didn't factor in was Ronald Reagan.

You know what happened next.  Rather than allow air travel to be brought to a halt, President Reagan fired all the striking controllers and brought in military controllers until civilian replacements could be hired and trained to take over.  Not only did the Gipper keep 'em flying; he emboldened others to stand up to union blackmail.  Union membership and relevance have been declining steadily ever since.

Recently, Wisconsin teachers tried to have their Republican governor recalled when he sought to restore fiscal sanity to the state's economy, partly at their expense.  The result was that the governor was retained in office with an even larger majority than when he was first elected.  Perhaps more importantly, other governors who knew that economic responsibility trumped union greed took heart in their own confrontations with teachers' unions.

You would think, then, that unions would begin to read the writing on the wall.  Well, teachers' unions, anyway.  I know for a fact teachers can read.  I have serious doubts about Teamsters.

But no.  Of all the cities in all the country, Chicago is beset by striking teachers.  This is sublimely ironic on so many levels, not the least of which is that Chicago is a Democratic enclave.  Candidates who have union support are shoo-ins; without it they are also-rans.  Unions always support Democrats.  Conversely, unions have heretofore always had the support of those whose elections they have enabled.

Chicago teachers are the highest paid in the country, with an average salary of $76k per school year (a school year is typically 180 days).  The median wage in Chicago fell 6.9 percent since June, 2009, to $49,909 per calendar year.  Moreover, property values have been steadily declining.  So, what we have is a teachers' union expecting those who make $26k less than its members for double the amount of workdays to pony up more in property taxes than their homes are worth so that teachers can make twice as much as they do.

How does the union justify this exorbitant demand?  "You have a situation where the teachers feel totally and completely disrespected," explained Randi Weingarten, president of the American Federation of Teachers.  Yeah, I can see where there may be a self-esteem issue, here.  I mean, your current graduation rate is a whopping 55 percent.  In other words, 45 out of every 100 of your students drop out.  And your argument is, gee, if we could just get closer to that $100k salary mark, why, our teachers would feel so much better about themselves?

In spite of this utter nonsense, school officials have offered teachers what would amount to a 16 percent increase over four years, despite what is expected to be a $1 billion deficit in the system's operating budget.  Hey, no problem.  China already owns much of our national debt; why not sell it Chicago's as well?  How culturally diverse, rickshaws being pulled around The Loop!

Union officials have said that a 16 percent pay raise simply isn't enough, that there are other issues related to benefits--they want more--and teacher evaluations--they want none.

The union strategy is clear.  The union hopes that parents, faced with having to find "alternate child care" for 350,000 students who are shut out of classrooms, will bring pressure on the city to settle.  Right now Chicago's Democratic mayor and former Obama chief of staff Rahm Emanuel is hanging tough.  Smart money says he will eventually cave rather than permanently alienate the teachers' union.  Like that could happen.  To whom would an alienated union turn, the Republicans?  As if!

There was a time when parents thought of schools as centers of education.  That they now think of schools as "child care" centers is unsettling enough on its own.

The Brain-Dead Tattooed

I've often said--you remember--that people who don't believe in zombies have never taught in a public high school.  Neither have they ever lived in Florida.

Granted, my definition of "zombie" differs from that of, say, George Romero or the script writers of the TV hit "The Walking Dead.  Animated corpses, of course, do not exist.  However, there walk among us those with seemingly no brain activity whatsoever, who function solely on reflex.  The scariest part is, they can breed.

Herewith cases of actual zombies as reported in the "Tampa Bay Times".

* Charles Combs, 43, has an arrest record for bank robbery.  He also has a tattoo down his forearm that reads, "MOST WANTED".  While investigating another bank robbery, police stopped by a car wash to interview employees.  One had spotted Combs running by earlier and noticed his tattoo.  That information coupled with DNA evidence led to Combs' arrest.  Charlie got 30 years in the slam.

* 30-year-old Marquell Burge was shot to death last year behind the Ninth Street Pool Hall in St Petersburg.  Witnesses said the man who pulled the trigger had a "727 tattoo on the back of his neck and had just shot pool the other day."  Dwayne Bailey spoke to police officers because he heard he was a suspect.  Guess what Dwayne has tattooed on the back of his neck.  He has pleaded not guilty to murder and is awaiting trial.  727, incidentally is St Pete's area code.  Sigh.

* In another St Petersburg case, John Andrews was charged with three counts of sexual battery against three young women.  Two of the women described the same tattoo on their attacker:  "Ride or Die".  You figured it out, didn't you, Sherlock?  Yep.  John has "Ride or Die" permanently etched on his neck.  Apparently, John likes horses.  He is now awaiting trial.

* You have to wonder if Sean Eric Roberts didn't get up one morning, look in a mirror, and say, "No, I don't look nearly dumb enough.  What can I do to really screw myself up?"  He decided to ink an outline of the state of Florida on the side of his face.  Sean was accused in 2009 of breaking into a Riverview home.  How do you suppose he was identified?

* One woman was videotaped by store surveillance cameras using credit cards she had ripped off from parked vehicles.  The cameras recorded a cartoon character tattooed on her right shoulder.  Later, when she was arrested trying to break into a car, a tank top she wore revealed the tattoo.  When she was shown the surveillance videos, she admitted the tattoo was hers.  Not exactly in the right place for a tramp stamp, is it, Chelsea?

* Another woman suspected of snatching a purse and then using a stolen credit card at a nearby fast food restaurant was caught on surveillance video at the drive-thru.  She has a large tattoo on her right thigh and a smaller one on her left shoulder.  She spotted the surveillance camera and put down the sun visor to block it, but not before she looked into it.  Did you smile for your close-up, Miss Desmond?

But the hands-down best evidence that the brain-dead actually exist comes not from Florida, but from La-La Land.

Anthony Garcia was convicted of murdering a man outside a liquor store in California.  The case had gone unsolved until a Los Angeles County sheriff's sergeant was looking through photos and saw a diagram of the murder scene and how it went down tattooed on Garcia's chest.

St Petersburg police spokesman Mike Puetz said, "The more unique [the tattoo] is, with a unique location, the better."  It also helps that most people getting tattooed don't think to themselves, "Gee, I wonder if someone will be able to identify me from this?"

Certainly criminals and criminal wannabes aren't thinking.  Otherwise, they wouldn't be criminals.

Send in the Clowns

There are essentially two types of protest, violent and non-violent.

Examples of violent protest include the bombing of the on-campus Army Research Center at UW-Madison, which resulted in the death of a grad student; the burning of Watts, which resulted in making a poor area of LA even poorer; the trashing of the DNC in Chicago in 1968, which resulted in the take-over of the Democratic Party by liberals, and the throwing of bricks and rocks at men armed with M-16s at Kent State, which resulted in the deaths of four brick and rock throwers.

Examples of non-violent protest include the marches led by Martin Luther King, which resulted in the Civil Rights Act; the protests led by Mahatma Gandhi, which resulted in Indian independence; the confrontation of a lone Chinese man with a column of tanks, which resulted in world-wide attention and pressure on a communist dictatorship, and a love-in staged in bed by John Lennon and Yoko Ono, which resulted in world peace in our time.

Okay, clearly the result of that last example of non-violent protest is an exaggeration.

These protests had a focus, whether it was racism, the Vietnam War, the British Raj, oppression, or war in general.  And then you have the protests that were held at the 2012 RNC in Tampa.

One of the leaders of the RNC protesters was Andrew Speirs, 23, who had quit his job at a North Carolina deli to devote himself full time to protesting.  His cohort, Nathan Schwartz, 21, had asked his parents, who had already given him a Lexus, for an advance on his birthday money, which he used to buy such things as mouth guards in anticipation of police brutality.

Speirs, a self-styled anarchist, was expecting 300 fellow protesters.  72 showed up.  Protesters from Miami, New York, Dallas and other places, worried that they might get wet from Tropical Storm Isaac, said, "Nah, we're good," and cancelled out.

Speirs was chanting, "Whose streets?  Our streets!  Tear up the concrete!" when a more credible protester pointed out to him that his group was conducting a "voter suppression march with people who are not as radical as you."  Speirs' group let them pass.

While Speirs was doing his best to bait the police into creating You Tube moments, some protesters were posing for pictures with Tampa's police chief.  Others found themselfs in the embarrassing position of having to accept box lunches and cold bottled water from cops when their enablers failed to supply them with sustenance.

The one more or less success protesters had at disruption was at a power plant 15 miles south of the city.  At the plant, winter haven of warm water for manatees, two teams of three chained their arms together inside PVC pipes that were wrapped with chicken wire, tar, rebar and duct tape and laid down in the middle of the road.  When a power plant truck stopped rather than run over them a seventh climbed the truck and chained his neck to it.

The cops told them if they would leave nd get back on their buses, no one would be arrested.  The protesters, by this time bored and happy to oblige, were unable to free themselves and had to be cut apart.

Back in Tampa a group of 12, wearing pink cowboy hats, tried to arrest Condoleezza Rice for having been a part of the Bush Administration that sent troops to the Middle East.  As of this writing Condi remains at large.

15,000 protesters were expected.  500 or so showed up, of which only two were arrested.  Speirs and Schwartz said their issues were providing everyone with basic human rights, such as housing and food; eliminating corporate control of the political system and the right to protest in public spaces without a permit.

Hard to take folks who quit their jobs and drive luxury cars seriously when they demand housing and food.

I don't think anyone expected RNC protesters to self-immolate.  On the other hand, I would expect them to demonstrate a seriousness of purpose over serious issues.  This performance, all bombast and no substance, resulted in nothing but comic relief.

Gandhi, King and Lennon must be looking down and shaking their heads in disgust.

No Country for Superman

So, I'm immersed in my favorite activity, lying on my futon and complaining, when the phone rings.

"What?  What is it?"

"Whassup, pacfan?"

"Supe!  Is that you?  Where the hell are you?"

"Dude, I'm in my fortress.  I hadda get away.  Things were gettini kinda testy for the S-guy, know what I'm sayin'?  Plus, Lois took my wig!  Won't give it back, neither.  'Powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men' apparently don't apply to male pattern baldness."

"Yeah, I heard about the wig.  What'd you do to make her wanna do that?"

"She wanted me to go to the doctor and I wouldn't go.  She saw this ad on TV about how if you have an erection over four hours after taking Viagra, you need to see a doctor.  I told her, 'Look, bitch, in the first place, I don't take Viagra, and in the second place, four hours for me is minimal.  Man of steel--get the concept!'"

"So, what are you gonna do?"

"Well, first I thought I'd just punch the old moose in the mouth and take it.  Remember Ralph Kramden telling Alice, 'Pow!  To the moon!'?  I could really do it.  What would they do, put me in jail?  Good luck with that!  And besides, it's her own fault.  If she looked like Noel Neill, or Phyllis Coates, or Margo Kidder, or Teri Hatcher, or any other mousy-lookin' 'ho' we wouldn't be having this argument.  I'd get it done in four minutes, tops.  But, no, she's gotta look like Kate Bosworth!"

"Times are tough."

"Then she's all upset because I can fly and she can't.  'It ain't fair, it ain't fair!'  So I told her it's all in the cape, and she could borrow it if she wanted.  I even put it on her and took her up to the roof to see if she'd give it a try.  Thought she'd jump off, but she got suspicious, somehow.  Damn!"

"I know, man.  Can't live with 'em; can't shoot 'em."

"Tell me about it.  Then to make my life really suck, the feds are after me now about income taxes.  They said, 'You gotta have an income.  For instance, how do you pay your dry cleaning to keep that costume all bright and wrinkle-free?'  'I walk through a car wash and then fly through the sun a couple of times.'  "Well, there you are.  Where do you get the money for the car wash?'  Can't tell them I'm really that limp wad Clark Kent and make my money being a reporter.  Folks find that out, they'd be callin' me all the time, wantin' me to show up at their brat's birthday party, take care of some loser hittin' on their daughter, wantin' me to sponsor some product or another.  My calendar is full now, what with me fighting a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American way, and all.  'Sides, how'd that look, me selling, say, beer?  'Most interesting man in the world' my ass!  Let them get a look at me!  I do pick up some under-the-table bucks doing stunts for the movies, though, but I can't let that get out."

"Oh, yeah?  What movies?"

"The Superman movies, dummy!  Wasn't for me, they'd still be drawin' me flyin' like they did when Kirk Alyn was me.  You think that was Brandon Routh settin' that plane down on that ball field?  Or Christopher Reeve pushin' that missile into space?  Ha!  Bet he wished I was ridin' that horse for him the day he was thrown off and broke his neck."

"Aw, that's cold, Supe."

"What?  Too soon?"

I don't know.  I guess some folks wouldn't be happy even if they worked in a brewery.

Ayn Rand Redux

My reason for living and I recently returned from a visit up near the Arctic Circle, at a place called Manitowish Waters in Wisconsin.  Manitowish Waters consists of a chain of ten lakes, all connected so that one may boat among them unencumbered except by no-wake zones in the connecting channels.

Whenever I went out on a boat, and we passed other boaters, I would call out, "Have ye seen the white whale?"  The responses, save one, were liken unto deer caught in the headlights--staring eyes, gaping mouths, clueless countenances.  The one who responded verbally asked, "Who are you?  Moby Dick?"

After several such shout-outs, one of the people with me on the boat asked, "What is that Moby Dick crap?"  At first I suspected he thought I was referring to the male appendage of the little, skinny, bald-headed techno-pop artist who composed the credits-roll music at the end of all four Bourne movies, but after further consideration I doubt if he even made that connection.

His son knew what Moby Dick was.  He had read Melville's ponderous tome in high school, from which he was not far removed.

Moby-Dick or the Whale is not an easy read.  The plot narrative is interrupted here and there by entire chapters of woefully dated lectures on whaling.  Melville thought, for example, that the sperm whale is the largest animal on the planet.  He had heard rumors of the blue whale, but he was not convinced it exists.

Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged is equally ponderous but for different reasons.  Rand belabors her points until her reader screams, "Enough!  I get it!"  Her attempt to draw readers into her hero, John Galt, becomes tedious.  "Who is John Galt?" her characters reply when asked any question to which there is no known answer.  You know, like, "Barbra Streisand?  What was James Brolin thinking?"  "Who is John Galt?"

After she killed her horse and then continued to beat it for much of the book, she has Galt make a chapter-long speech that more or less expounds on her philosophy of objectivism.  I skipped almost all of it.  You don't need to keep beating me over the head with anything.

Anyway, Atlas Shrugged envisions a time when society's creators and producers finally become fed up with a government that regulates them to the point they can no longer operate their businesses efficiently and profitably, and redistributes their inventions, innovations and wealth to society's moochers.  One by one they drop out and disappear, leaving the masses to learn the hard way the dangers and consequences of socialism.  Collapse therefore becomes inevitable and necessary to the rebirth of a purely capitalistic economy, nurtured by individuals and bereft of government interference.

Why the sudden resurgence of interest in Ayn Rand?  Because Mitt Romney chose as his running mate Paul Ryan, a--for want of a better word--disciple of Rand.  In an effort to understand Ryan and convey that understanding to their audiences, the talking heads and newspaper columnists are contrasting (Rand was a vehement atheist and pro-abortion; Ryan is neither) and comparing (Rand staunchly believed in minimal, unobtrusive government and individualism as opposed to collectivism; Ryan does also) the two.

While Moby-Dick may have been a staple on the reading list of most high school English teachers, it's almost a certainty Atlas Shrugged was not.  I didn't even come across it until years after I graduated college.  If you haven't read it I strongly recommend that you do so.  Its engaging storyline and intriguing premise will give you much to think about.

As for its effect on me, well, it pretty much preached to the choir.

Alternate Reality

Ever have that feeling that there's a parallel universe, where fantasy is reality, and once in a while something happens to convince you that you've crossed into it?  Where fanciful ideas emerge that are so bizarre, so contradictory to historical fact, that you are at a complete loss as to what you can contribute to dispel them?

For instance, one person I know is convinced that the moon landings were faked on Hollywood-like sets.  When someone is that delusional in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, there is just no way to argue the point.

Some will swear JFK wasn't really assassinated but sits in a wheelchair in a vegetative state at some clandestine 24/7 care facility.

Others deny the reality of Elvis' death and claim he is simply in seclusion somewhere away from fame's constant spotlight.  Their sole "evidence" of this deception is that his middle name is misspelled on his grave marker.

Even entire organizations will conspire to deny truth.  The VFW fostered the pretense that Muhammad Ali was not really boxing's heavyweight champion, was not really the best fighter in the world, when he refused to be inducted and led the charge to have him stripped of both title and livelihood.

And now the NCAA is claiming that Joe Paterno, Penn State's late former football coach, does not have the most wins in college football history, and that from 1998 through 2011 the Nittany Lions had no victories on the gridiron, only defeats.

Before you get your pantyhose in a knot, before your FOTLs wedge up your cheek cleavage, I assure you I'm not trying to defend either JoePa or Penn State in their handling of the Jerry Sandusky scandal.  I'm simply trying to make the case that one cannot replace well-documented fact with fiction in knee-jerk reaction to lynch mob torch-bearers.  Okay, Inspector Kemp?

In case you were napping during a Kardashian marathon and missed the story, the NCAA fined Penn State $60 mil (one year's gross football revenue), withdrew 10 scholarships, banned it from post-season play for four years, and placed it on probation for five.  No argument, here.

But the NCAA also stripped the football teams of 111 victories, a move so ludicrous on its face that I had to call NCAA for an explanation.

"Hi.  The pacfan, here.  I wish to query you on behalf of my tens of readers about a matter of great import.  Got a sec?"

"Pacfan, huh?  What is that, Pac-12?  Pacific Air Command?  Pacman?"

"Perhaps I'm speaking to the wrong person.  Is there anyone available with an IQ above your athletic cup size?"

"Oh, go ahead.  I need to talk to the hoi polloi on occasion.  It keeps me grounded."

"When you stripped Penn State of 111 wins, did you find evidence of the illegal use of performance-enhancing drugs?  Violations of recruiting rules?  Use of players who hadn't met academic requirements?"

"No."

"So those games were won fairly and squarely on the field of play."

"No, of course not.  They weren't won at all."

"But they were won.  We saw them on TV.  We read about them in the print media."

"But you couldn't have, because if you had, Penn State's record would have 111 more victories than it does.  It doesn't; ergo, it didn't win them."

"Perhaps I have the wrong number.  Is this the NCAA or the WWE?"

"The what?

Remember that season of Dallas that led up to Pam, or someone, killing Bobby, or someone (hell, I can't remember), and then the next season revealed that the whole previous season was all Pam's dream and Bobby was alive and well and taking a shower?

Is this deja vu, or what?

Movies Ain't History, Plutarch!

Just recently I watched Buffalo Girls, which purported to be a biography of Calamity Jane, with Angelica Huston in the title role.  Afterwards, as is my wont, I researched what history was available on the subject.  Here's the thing--when the facts about a person or subject are known, or are easy to look up, you can't credibly revise them to fit your script.  You got that, Oliver?

Calamity Jane indeed had the unrequited hots for Wild Bill Hickok.  The movie shows us that she bore Wild Bill a daughter, whom she gave up to an English couple who had just lost their own.  That would have been one hell of a gestation period.  Jane's real life daughter was born three years after Wild Bill was murdered while playing cards in Deadwood.

Speaking of Deadwood, remember the TV series?  You know, where Seth Bullock was diddling the widow of a murdered prospector until his wife, whom he married out of a sense of responsibility when her husband, his brother, was killed, showed up in town?  In reality, Bullock arrived in town with his wife, to whom he was happily married.  And in case you're interested, Al Swearengen was killed when, while down on his luck, he tried to hop a freight train.

Other movies pretending to be history abound.  Practically nothing, for example, is accurate about Lawrence of Arabia, except that it does glimpse WWI as it played out between the English-supported Arabs and the Turks.  T. E. Lawrence, not even five feet tall, looked nothing like six-foot-plus, blond hair, blue-eyed Peter O'Toole.  I suppose in Hollywood, where image is everything, heroes must look heroic, not like some swarthy, dwarfish everyman.  Auda abu Tuyi, whom Lawrence met in a tent, not while dancing around in Arabic garb, did resemble Anthony Quinn in looks, but was not the semi-literate lummox portrayed in the film.

The Bridge on the River Kwai, which looked nothing like the one in the movie, was blown up by allied bombers, not commandos.  The experiences of Dith Pran as depicted in The Killing Fields were part his and part those of the actor who portrayed him, Haing S. Ngor.

Practically all the movies about Wyatt Earp take liberties with reality.  My Daughter Clementine (Henry Fonda) borders on fantasy.  Gunfight at the OK Corral (Burt Lancaster) has Earp's brother, Jimmy, murdered instead of Morgan.  Tombstone (Kurt Russell) shows Earp visiting Doc Holliday in a Glenwood Springs sanatorium just before Holliday dies from TB.  In fact, Holliday and Earp rarely saw each other in Colorado, and Holliday died alone in a seedy hotel room.  Wyatt Earp (Kevin Costner) is the most historically accurate of all the Earp films.

Movies about the Vietnam War also earn mixed reviews.  Apocalypse Now isn't really a war movie, it just happens to be set in a war environment.  It does offer vignettes of the war--the USO show disintegrating into chaos, the napalming of a village--but the plot could just as easily have involved the hunting down of a rogue cop or spy who had crossed the line.

Platoon was Oliver Stone's anti-military paean.  The Green Berets was blatantly pro-military.  While diametrically opposite, both focused on the military and thus missed the whole point, that five presidents, convinced that a bunch of rice farmers was a threat to the most powerful nation on the planet, dragged the US into a land war in Asia that resulted in millions of wasted lives.

For my money, the best Vietnam War movie is Full Metal Jacket.  It is neither anti- nor pro-military.  It presents the inhumanity of war in very human terms--the false bravado of men secretly soiling their underwear, the outwardly blase reaction to death that masks the relief that it wasn't theirs, the black humor they used in an attempt to make light of the nightmare.

Movies are like pro-wrestling.  They are entertainment.  You want history?  Go to the library.  You want amusement?  Go to the movies.  You want real mayhem in the ring?  Watch mixed martial arts.

Okay, girl?

It's Democracy, Stupid!

One of the tenets of Dave's Tao is, "When considering a choice between one thing or another, consider also both or neither."

Last I heard, democracy is about choice.  One goes to the polls and chooses between one candidate or another.  Or, one may choose not to go to the polls at all.  It is a sad documentary on our citizenry that fewer than 60 per cent actually exercise their vote in presidential elections.  In local elections the figure is probably closer to 30 per cent.  Still, that's the nature of democracy.

Democracy : choice.  Get the concept.

Peter Orszag is vice chairman of global banking at Citigroup Inc and a former director of the OMB for the present administration.  One does not rise to a top-tier position with an international corporation without high-powered smarts.  A high-level position in the Obama Administration, well, not so much.  After all, look at Joe Biden.

Still, Orszag doesn't get it, this whole democracy thing.  In an op-ed piece published in the June 21 issue of the Tampa Bay Times, he argues for compulsory voting.

"The probability that any individual voter can alter the outcome of an election is effectively zero," he writes.  "So if voting imposes any cost, in terms of time or hassle, a perfectly rational person would conclude it's not worth doing.  The problem is that if each person were to reach such a rational conclusion no one would vote, and the system would collapse.  Mandatory voting solves that collective problem by requiring people to vote and punishing nonvoters with a fine."

Mandatory democracy?  How oxymoronic!  Moreover, does Orszag imply that democracy is irrational?

I'm not going to reproduce his whole thesis.  Google Peter Orszag and I'm sure it'll crop under one menu option or another.  More interesting to me is visualizing possible scenarios for enforcing such a requirement.

First thing we're going to need is a cabinet-level Department of Voter Enforcement, with an attending bureaucracy of regional, state and local offices.  Thousands of officers will have to be hired to roust those of voting age ffrom their residences and get them to the nearest polling place.  Courts will have to be established to adjudicate recalcitrant folks who just won't get with the program.

Next, we'll have to root these people out.  We'll have to bang on cardboard boxes in back alleys and under overpasses.  We'll have to raid NASCAR and WWE venues.  We'll either have to set up polling facilities in the nation's slams, or transport prisoners en masse to community polling locations.

A requirement of a poli sci course on political parties that I completed had me going to a number of houses to interview people whose names were provided me from a voter registration list.  I was to ask each a series of questions, one of which was for whom the voter was going to vote.

"Whichever one is the Democrat," was one answer.

"Why the Democrat?" I asked.

"'Cause my diddy and grandiddy were Democrats, so I am, too."

Another interviewee also responded Democrat, because that's what his boss was.

Mandatory voting will cost millions to administer and enforce, and for what?  So we can say that at last we have a president elected by a majority of citizens, not just a majority of voters?

Quantity < quality.  Get the concept.

Two Updates

Follow-up to "Welcome RNC!"

As you know, the RNC chose Tampa to host its convention.  Tampa, not unaware of the fringe elements of the Gimme Party that follow Republicans around the country with their hands out, has actually held a lottery to determine which group of malcontents may express its discontent in which park.

Using a borrowed Bingo numbers machine, city attorneys chose ping pong balls, each numbered to identify a specific group, to assign groups to parks.  The winners then have until June 29 to accept or reject their assignment.  My guess is that most will be rejected just because the malcontents making the requests will, by nature, not be contented with the results.

The choice site has gone to the proletarian icon Service Employees International Union.  The group which has no other apparent purpose than to frustrate the attempt of Republicans to participate in the democratic process, the Coalition to March on the RNC, one of two runners-up for this particular park, has promised to bring 5,000 people to downtown Tampa.

Planned Parenthood, pro-abortionists who believe Republicans have declared war on women, and the March Against Voter Suppression, made up of those who realize the only way the Gimme Party is going to win in Novemenber is to allow illegal immigrants and dead folks to vote, are among others in the lottery mix.

I know, and so do you, that there is no way these groups are going to remain in their assigned parks.  Their whole purpose is to disrupt the RNC as much as possible, and they will take to the streets to do it.  Much of their strategy will no doubt involve provoking the police into deploying riot control tactics so that their confrontations will be broadcast and reported as proof that Republicans are fascists.

While the media are drooling in anticipation of the RNC, they will have to be awakened from their ennui to cover the DNC.  The DNC is not likely to have any similar fodder for them, since all the malcontents are their own constituents.

Follow-up to "Stop This Madness NOW!"

David Belniak, who in a drug-induced stupor killed three people when he drove his pickup truck into a vehicle stopped at a red light, testified to the pain he suffered as a result.  As proof of his pain, he pointed to a small, faded scar on his left elbow.

"That scar is permanent," said his lawyer, who is also his sister.  "I would request Mr Belniak be allowed to publish that scar to the jury."

The judge allowed it.  Belniak had to shuffle over to the jury in his shackles because the scar could not be seen from his court bench.

Belniak's sister has also filed a suit against the FHP, whose investigation she claims was a "government-sanctioned assassination against one individual."  She discounts eyewitness accounts because they "were not taken at the scene, but were taken after the witnesses were contaminated and after being exposed to the massive negative media coverage against Belniak."

The jury found that Belniak was the only one at fault in the crash and awarded $14 million to family members, including $4.5 million to each of the three sisters whose parents were killed.

Ever wonder why lawyers are ranked somewhere near the bottom of the food chain with used car salespersons and telemarketers?  Belniak suffered minor injuries and was released from the hospital the day after the crash, yet his sister wants his victims' estates to pay for his pain, suffering, mental anguish and hospital bills.  She also wants the FHP to pay for doing its job, because its findings did not support her case.

This is why I could never be a judge.  Not only would I have tossed Belniak's lawsuit immediately upon its filing, I would also have tossed his layer out of my courtroom and told her if she ever set foot in it again I would jail her for contempt.

And that's my ruling.

Stop This Madness NOW!

Once in a while there comes along an idea so obviously brilliant, so irrefutable in its logic, so necessary in its fruition, that the fact it has fallen on deaf ears defies even the most elementary understanding.  I shall try once more to rally the rational among us to its immediate subscription.

The time has long since passed, children, to enact a law that assigns responsibility for a person's actions to that person.  I know what you're saying.  "Dave, it's only common sense that each of us is responsible for our own behavior.  We don't need a law to tell us that."

Well, you are wrong, bailiff-breath.  Apparently we do.

On Christmas afternoon in 2007, according to eyewitnesses, Ray McWilliams, his wife, 50-year-old step-daughter and mother of three, and 51-year-old son-in-law were sitting at a red light in Ray's Chevrolet Tahoe.

Fast approaching from behind was David Belniak, driving his Nissan Titan pickup truck.  He was stoned, surprise, surprise, on a combination of Xanax, alcohol and cocaine.  Without braking, swerving or slowing down, Belniak plowed into the rear end of the Tahoe.

Ray's son-in-law died at the scene.  His step-daughter was taken to a hospital and into surgery.  She didn't make it.  His wife suffered a traumatic brain injury and was taken off life support a few days after the crash.  Ray died last year.

Belniak pleaded guilty last August to three counts of DUI manslaughter and is serving 12 years in the slam.  He got off easy.

End of story, right?  Ha!  Silly you!

The family of the victims has sued Belniak.  Fair enough.  But here's where it gets insane.  You see, Belniak has countersued, claiming now that the accident was really Ray McWilliams' fault.  In spite of eyewitness testimony and Ray's deposition that he and his family were just sitting at a red light, Belniak alleges that Ray swerved from the left turn lane into the through lane, giving Belniak no chance to stop.

"You were impaired at the time of the accident, is that correct?" asked the victims' family's attorney.

"I can't deny that," Belniak replied.

"Do you take or accept any blame for this accident?" asked the judge.

"I don't know what I could have done differently," answered Belniak.

Seriously, Sparky?  Perhaps not mixing booze and coke with Xanax and then hopping behind the wheel of your pickup?  Hell, you weren't even going to stop for the red light, were you?

Belniak's lawsuit should have been thrown out immediately upon its filing.  And if the law I have been urging passage of were on the books, it would have been.  Here yet again is its essence:

Any death, personal injury and/or property damage that results during the commission of or fleeing from the scene of a crime will be solely the responsibility of the person(s) determined to be guilty.

So how 'bout it?  You with me on this?

 

Welcome, RNC!

Dear delegate,

You really couldn't have picked a better time or location for your convention than Tampa in August:  temperatures in the low nineties, middle of hurricane season, 30 per cent chance of rain every day.

Be aware that there's a difference in rain chances here than there is up north.  30 per cent chance of rain up there means there's a 30 per cent chance it will rain.  Here, 30 per cent chance means it will rain, 100 per cent guaranteed, with a 30 per cent chance it will rain on you.

Don't count on experiencing the thrill of a hurricane, either.  In our 15 years here, the worst we've seen just did manage to trash our yard and pool.  Kind of disappointing, really.  Nothing like a good blow to invigorate the spirit.

Bet you thought since you were coming to Tampa you could look forward to days frolicking in the sun on white sandy beaches with occasional dips in the surf.  Maybe, if you have lots of free time from your convention-related duties.  See, the decent beaches are about 25-plus miles west of where you'll be.  There is a beach that is technically in Tampa, at Rocky Point.  Go ahead and go.  There you'll be able to mingle with the hoi polloi, see how the locals kick back.  Or go across the bay to the redneck beach on the Clearwater side of the causeway.

Probably, though, you'll want to stay pretty close to the convention center and your accommodations.  And in that case, here are a couple of options for your pleasure, both prurient and profligate.

As you are aware, Tampa is a T and A theme park.  Come on, now, 'fess up--that's probably why you chose us in the first place, isn't it?  And when I say "us" I don't mean literally.  I live across the bay from Tampa and look for excuses not to go there.  But I digress.

Besides the strip joints and nudie bars, Tampa's erotic venues have taken their art to a whole new level.  Don't want to take a chance on being spotted in, say, Mons Venus or the Odyssey and wake up to find that pictures of you stuffing $20 bills down G-strings have gone viral on the Internet?  Just log onto their Web sites and watch scantily-clad, awesomely endowed "dancers" doing the hootchy-cootchy across the screen of your Nook (there's a pun begging to be put into words).

Want more?  For a fee you can actually have intellectual discourse with one of these augmented hotties ("Really, how did a beau...uh...smart woman like you end up working in a place like this?").  For a cheap-at-twice-the-price rate of just $4 per minute, pocket change for one-per centers, you can ask for a personal striptease.

Not into flesh fantasies?  How 'bout reality voyeurism?

Some 15,000 unwashed and unshaven (male faces, female legs and pits) malcontents are expected to hit town to disrupt your attempt to participate in the democratic process.  This should be more fun than Mardi Gras, Gasparilla and Guavaveen combined.  Don't know what those last two are?  Trust me--you don't want to know.

Count on painted faces that would make Lady Gaga cringe with disgust.  Look for crude, handmade and often misspelled and grammatically incorrect signs.  Be ready to avert your eyes to the usage of building walls and shrubbery for urinals.  Step carefully as you try to walk to a restaurant through discarded beer cans, wine boxes, and discarded syringes and condoms.

And if this isn't bad enough, regional Occupy groups are planning to cause traffic jams on area bridges, holding general demonstrations outside venues expected to be frequented by politicians, and performing skits in public areas.

Think about this.  Since Chicago in 1968, when is the last time you've seen anything at a DNC like what awaits you here? 

Well, anyway, good luck, and enjoy your stay!

Real Superheroes

hero, heroine n.  A person known for brave or noble deeds.

Hero is a word bandied about all too commonly.  There are childhood heroes, perhaps a teacher; sports heroes, usually the person who scores or prevents the scoring of game-winning points; police; firefighters; war heroes, soldiers who risk their own lives to save those of others.

All of these heroes have had training that enabled their heroism.  All have undergone rigorous and repetitive exercise in preparation for a myriad of contingencies, so that when a situation arises that calls for heroic action, they are able to respond automatically and reflexively.

We are also fast becoming familiar with the term "superhero," thanks to Hollywood's incredible financial success with bringing Marvel and DC comic book characters to life on the big screen.  Here men and women with impressive martial arts training, inventive genius backed by limitless bank accounts, or genes altered by space, arachnoids, chemicals, gamma rays, etc. defeat the forces of evil, always in color and often in 3D.

These are, of course, fictional.  There are, however, real superheroes among us.  I know a few.  And after you've thought about it, you will realize that you do, too.

My definition of a superhero is a person who possesses all the qualities of a hero but lacks the training, skills and resources normally expected in their application.  Instead, my superhero confronts life and death situations with neither mental nor pysical preparation and responds heroically regardless.

Joe was my lunch buddy when we were stationed together in Taiwan.  Practically every day we would leave work around noon and walk over to the dining hall.  I know, I know--in the military, dining facilities are called "mess halls."  Nowhere else that I'm aware of would this name be more of a misnomer.  Year after year our dining hall either won the Hennessy Trophy awarded to the best in the Air Force or finished second.

Anyway, the dining hall had two lines, a regular one that served full meals (steak, chicken, ham, pork, potatoes, vegetables, whatever), and a short-order one (hamburgers, cheeseburgers, hotdogs, French fries, chili, onion rings, etc.).  Joe would first go through the regular line.  After finishing off his plate, he'd go through the short-order line.  Next came a trip to the dessert counter for cake or pie, and lastly to the ice cream box, where he'd rummage around for a vanilla or chocolate cup.  I often found myself looking under the table to see where he was putting all this food, but if he had anything like a hollow leg or a doggie bag I was unable to discover it.

I would bet my paycheck that when Joe left the dining hall he weighed less than when he went in.  I'd put on five pounds just walking by the place.

Earlier this year Joe was diagnosed with Stage 3 ALS, commonly referred to as Lou Gehrig's disease.  Stage 4 is a certainty; it's only a question of when.

I can only imagine the life-changing impact of that diagnosis.  Literally between one moment and the next he and his wife, JoAnn, went from a future of watching grandkids grow and ongoing enjoyment of retirement to one of pain, heartbreak and, finally, loss.

Suddenly confronted with the unspeakable, JoAnn has proven undaunted, undeterred and unwavering in her support of her husband.  When lesser mates would have succumbed to the pressure, the inevitability, and the temptation to throw up their hands in submission, she has taken over the management of their household, learned what she needed to know to guide him through a labyrinth of medical and administrative bureaucracy, and kept his spirits buoyed with her "we'll get through this together" attitutde, all the while keeping her own despair in check.

Yes, I know a few superheroes.  I know JoAnn and a couple of others just like her.  They are my role models, those whom I hope I can emulate but wish I never have occasion to.

Dial 1-800-ASK-RevAL

"Hello.  You've reached the 'Reverend' Al Hotline.  How may I help you right the grievous wrong perpetrated on your black ass by white redneck racists?"

"Yeah, bro, this be Geroshe callin' from Tampa.  Me an' my main homey Lerome got ourselves in some s*** with the man down here, an' we need to know when you comin' to get us some justice."

"Dam', man, them's some names you got. Yo' mamas had a sense o' humor, huh?  I'll get to the spellin' later.  Tell the 'Rev' what happened."

"Well, they's four o' us, see, and we just walkin' down the street, mindin' our own bidnez, chillin', you know, when we see this dude walkin' towards us...."

"What time was this?"

"It was after three in the a.m.   Anyway, he just walkin' towards us, like he finna start some mess, you know?"

"There's one o' him and four o' you, and you thinkin' he gonna start something?"

"Yeah, well, he musta, cuz he not showin' any respect.  He just comin' on like he king o' the 'hood, you know?  You don' be comin' into our turf actin' like you belong, know what I mean?  Least he coulda done is cross over to the other side."

"And what did you do, then?"

"We axe him to give us a dollar, see what he does."

"And what did he do?"

"Man, dude thinks we serious!  He starts reaching for his wallet like we some panhandlers he gonna give some money.  First he in our 'hood, then he dissin' us, thinkin' we some poor bums or something.  We decide we gonna teach this cracker some respect."

"Let me guess.  You threw down on him."

"Well, yeah, what we s'posed to do?  We did a number on his ass.  Broke his nose, knocked out a tooth, left him lying in the street, took his wallet and cellphone.  He lucky we didn't pop a cap on him right there.  He won't be struttin' hisself 'round here no time soon, tell you that."

"Where did all this go down?"

"Down next to MacDill, you know, the air base.  Honky works there, some Army dude."

"Army dude?  You mean, he's in the Army?  He's a soldier?"

"Yeah, some sergeant, I hear.  So what?  He ain't got no bidnez here.  He needs to be over in Iraq or Afghan...Afghan...uh, that other place.  What's he doin' here, anyway, actin' all one percenter and s***?  He ain't none to me."

"Let me make sure I understand what went down.  You and three of your bros, out in the wee small, run into this soldier.  You ask him for money.  When he starts to give you some, you all beat the hell out of him and take his wallet and cellphone.  That pretty much it?"

"Yeah, man.  And now me an' Lerome is in the slam.  They tryin' to make us rat out the other two, but we holdin' tough.  You gotta come down an' get us out, man, afore they start waterboardin' us or some s***.  I mean, that's what you do ain't it?  Protect us black folks from the man?" 

"Okay, here's what I'm going to do.  You listening?  Listen real close, now."

"Yeah, 'Rev,' I be listenin'."

(Click)

Hey, everybody should have a dream.  This is one of mine.

Would You Rehire This Guy?

Imagine, if you will, that you are the owner of a major league baseball team.  It could happen.  Eleven years ago, your team had a winning percentage of .750.  Your manager at the time retired, so you hired a replacement.

Ten years later, your team's winning percentage is .250 and attendance has fallen off by half.  Your manager, burned out and needing a break, resigns to take a self-actualizing job with a concern unrelated to baseball.  You hire his replacement.

The replacement is on the job barely one season when he leaves for "family reasons."  You've just begun your search for a new manager when you get a call from the one who left your club two years ago.  He says he's refreshed, revitalized, and ready to come back to the bigs.

Will you hire him or laugh him off the phone?

Of course you wouldn't rehire someone who took your organization from top-tier to bottom-feeder...would you?  You'd think this was a no-brainer...wouldn't you?  Well, you would be wrong, jock strap-breath.

For all of the millennium's first decade, Bob Ashley was editor of Durham's main daily newspaper, The Herald-Sun.  When he first came aboard, he fired a fourth of the staff.  As a result, coverage fell off.  Between 2001 and 2010 the number of subscribers to both the weekday and Sunday editions dropped by 50 percent.  Ashley left the paper in 2010 to take a position with Preservation of Durham.

Not only did Ashley gut his paper's manpower, not only did he lose half of his subscribers, he also destroyed any reputation for journalistic objectivity and integrity his paper might have enjoyed by his egregious handling of the Duke lacrosse scandal.  Presented with the opportunity to simply report events as they unfolded, caution restraint and urge an inflamed community to let the justice system process play itself out, he instead spun the fraudulent rape claim of a drug-crazed stripper/hooker into a full-out assault on every buzz word in his liberal agenda.  He bought into the scam in toto not because of any evidence--there was none--but because it fit his world view.  Proof?  He didn't need any proof to know that Duke students are elitist, athletes feel entitled, males are sexist, and whites are racists.

His replacement lasted a year or so before taking another job somewhere else.  By now Ashley, apparently frustrated at not having a platform from which to spout his liberal drivel and believing the world deprived as a result, expressed an interest in reclaiming his old job as Herald-Sun editor.  And as insane as it seems given the destruction he wrought during his first term at the helm, he was rehired.

Now I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking, "Dave, what does running a newspaper have to do with managing a baseball team?  You're comparing apples with oranges."

Well, excuse me, but are they not both fruit?  Do they not both grow on trees, have seeds, produce juice, and are they not both protected by peels?

Business is business.  All businesses, whether sports franchises, newspapers, or whatever, have but one purpose--to make a profit.  When a business begins to lose money, there's a sickness.  When it continues to lose money, there's a fatality.

When the care of a patient on life support is given over to the quack whose malpractice is responsible for him being there, one ought not to be surprised if the plug somehow gets pulled.  Or maybe that's been the plan all along.

Not the Right Lesson to Learn

You just know his story was going to end badly, this waste of a human soul.  I won't say it was entirely his fault.  He did have some negative reinforcement and counterproductive enabling along the way.  But at the end of the day it was still his decision, still his own doing.

He attended Milwaukee Trade and Technical High School in the '90s.  Notice I said he "attended" Tech.  While he was on Tech's rolls as a student, he did not epitomize the accepted usage of the word.  No, this argument for post-partum abortion was not in school to study.  He was in school to play football.

And he was good.  Tech was a state powerhouse in all three major sports--basketball, baseball and football--and he was a star.  The problem was that because he was a star, he felt entitled.  He figured if he showed up to class often enough and put forth minimal, token effort, he should be given the grades he needed to maintain his eligibility.  After all, that was a hero's due.

Although he grudgingly submitted to the most trivial of requirements, he felt no obligation to respect those who imposed them upon him.  He referred to female staff as "skank 'ho's" and intimidated male teachers who even looked to him like they might not be inclined to kowtow to his sports worthiness.

Came the day when he ran up against a teacher who naively thought the purpose of high school was education, not preparation for a livelihood as a jock, and who, in the absence of any shred of academic accomplishment, any evidence of scholarship, subsequently failed him.  This flatlined a GPA that was already barely perceptible on the life support monitor, and he lost his eligibility to play.

Now I don't know who cried to the principal; the player, his coach, or both.  I do know, though, that all of a sudden the player's transcripts reflected his assignment as a monitor during the period of the class he had flunked, and that all school records were purged of the fact that he had even enrolled in that class to begin with.  His GPA was thus restored to the level required of eligibility, and he was back on the gridiron before you could say Vince Lombardi.

He eventually graduated high school and enrolled at University of Wisconsin.  He rushed for 1,681 yards as a running back in his junior year, after which he left school to enter the NFL draft.

He was drafted by the Minnesota Vikings with the 27th pick in 2001.  The following year he rushed for 1,296 yards and was selected to the Pro Bowl.  He was on five different teams over his ten-year career and finished up in 2010 with the Oakland Raiders.

Writing in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, Don Walker reported that on April 18, 2012, 33-year-old Michael Bennett allegedly attempted to obtain a $200,000 loan using as collateral a bank statement which falsely showed a balance of approximately $9 million.  The account balance was actually zero and, in fact, had never had any money in it.  He was charged in a federal complaint on May 1 with wire fraud.

Sharing responsibility for the moral ambiguity possessed by Bennett that allowed him to imagine it was okay for him to perpetrate a fraud in this fashion has to be the principal who reinforced his belief that he was special, and that the rules applicable to the rest of us, the common folk, the hoi polloi, do not apply to him.

I knew the principal personally.  I can tell you with neither doubt nor hesitation that what she did for him she didn't do for him, or even for his coach.  She did it for her own selfish aggrandizement.  You see, the farther Tech's football team advanced in the state, the brighter the spotlight on her.

Do you suppose that if Bennett, whom she started down the road to perdition under the guise of salvaging his career, ends up convicted and in the slam she will go visit him?  I don't.  Trust me--she'll deny even remembering his name.

They Walk Among Us

"Whut the....?  Whar the hell am I?"

You're back on Planet Earth.  What were you thinking, anyway?

"Whutchu mean?  Ah got sloppy-faced drunk is all, an' had me uh little lie down on the street.  Jus' lied down ratchere on the street.  Everbody said, 'Tha's jus' the way ol' Country is'--that's what they called me, 'Country,' ya know?  Never cud figger out why."

What should I call you...James?  James Roy?  Or would you prefer "Country?"

"Hell, ya doesn't haf tuh call me James.  Ya'll can call me Jim, Jimmy, Jim Roy, whutever.  Don' matter tuh me."

Well, Jim, didn't you think it might be just a little bit dangerous to lie down in the road like that?

"Been doin hit uh while an hain't nuthin happened.  'Ceptin' maybe tha' time uh couple uh yars ago when ah had tuh go tuh the hospital."

What happened then?

"Ah had jus' crawled under uh car in uh parkin' lot when all of uh sudden lak hit jus' started tuh leave!  How wuz ah supposed tuh know hit was goin'?  Ah mean, hit's not lak thar wuz any warnin' or anything."

You're lucky you weren't killed then.

"Ah don' know if'n I wuz lucky or not.  'Pends on how ya look at hit, ah reckon.  An' then thar's the time last year when ah ran out intuh the street and got hit.  Tha' one knocked me rat out, tha' one did."

You know, Jim, some folks would take those mishaps as a warning and try to stay out of the streets, especially when they've been hitting the sauce.

"Hey, man, tha's jus' how ah roll, 'kay?  An' guess whut--ah jus' got twenty thousand dollers after one car hit me.  Hell, hit paid for two yars o' rent an' wuz payin' for mah food an' booze, don'cha know.  Ah'm thinkin ah mat have hit on uh career har, know whut ah mean?"

After those close calls and 52 arrests and citations over the past two years, most for open container violations, trespassing and being too drunk in public, "Ol' Country's" death wish was finally granted.

Late on Wednesday, April 25, 43-year-old James Roy Scallion laid down in the middle of 4th Street North, a well-trafficked main St Pete drag.  Cops spotted him and pulled him out of the street.  He went home for a short while but returned and laid down again.  A car ran over him and kept going.  Scallion died at the scene.

"I told him, I said, 'get up, you idiot,'" said his building manager, who witnessed it.  "But he just lied down, put his arms up and...."

"I don't know why [the cops] let him go," said a friend.  "I don't know why they didn't take him somewhere."

The police agreed that Scallion was drunk, but said he was not disorderly.

"Being drunk is not a crime," said a police spokesman.  "Being intoxicated would only allow us to take you into custody if you're inebriated to the point of being a danger to yourself or others."

Apparently, being suicidal is not a crime, either.

"Whut happened," asked a very spectral "Ol' Country."

You were ran over by a car and killed, Jimmy.

"Oh.  Thank God, huh?"