Foleygate and the Star Tribune

The Minneapolis Star Tribune, lovingly known to locals as the Strib, carries a horrible column by Jonah Goldberg, son of Lucienne Goldberg, the eminence grise behind the Monica affair during those halcion days of yore. Anyway, the Strib should be ashamed to run his stuff, but they, like every other quasi-liberal media outlet, pander like crazy.

Case in point. Today, ol' Jonah went on a rampage about the hypocrisy of Democrats, who, he believes, allowed Bill, Gary Stubbs, and other ghosts of a bygone era to get off scott free (censure? impeachment? scott free?), while taking poor Mr. Foley to the cleaners. I think Jonah missed the point. I don't remember that the Democrats campaigned on their so-called family values, their hatred for gays, or their religiosity. The Republicans did that. So, when they are hoist on their own petard, the GOP and their holier-than-thou supporters resoundingly deserve the label of hypocrite. There are certainly hypocrites in this story, but they ain't Dems. Take that mote out of your eye, Jonah. And Strib, stop wasting ink.

Minneapolis school conferences

It's school conference time in Minneapolis. It probably is where you live, too. Joe College Grad, who is teaching first grade in the Bronx, reported that he had sandwiched in parent-teacher conferences in between the high holy days and Columbus day. Apparently few parents attended.

That's not the case at Minneapolis South High, where I'm doing PT conferences for the third time. Most of the teachers are now familiar faces, and there are lots of middle aged parents milling around, learning that little Sean or Nick or Emily is doing very well.

And that's the problem with PT conferences, of course. The families who should come don't. Kids who have marginal school performance often have families who are diengaged from their school life. And it's easy to become disengaged. Now that I have kid #3 at South High, Joe High School, I feel as if I know the ropes. I don't pay as much attention to details as I did 8 years ago, when Joe College Grad hit South with a bang.

But education is the pre-eminent value in our family, so my disengagement probably registers as over-involvement on some meters. But what really struck me this time was that all the teachers are old, over 50. And that, of course, is the result of the funding scene in Minneapolis for schools. There is no money for teachers, and only the most senior have been able to hold on to their jobs.

And while there is some benefit to having a teacher who really knows what he or she is doing, there is also some benefit to having fresh perspective, energy, and gratitude for the job. And there is really major benefit to having enough teachers that you don't have to have 38 kids in a French II class. That is really disgraceful, and any Republican who tells you otherwise should have to teach that class for a week, although I suspect that they won't know French....

Logan Airport

I've been flying in and out of Logan for around 45 years. From my first solo trip to England, at age 16, to an unknown number of trips from MSP to Boston, Logan airport is either the destination or the departure venue. And, throughout all those years, it has always been under construction. Always.

Today, Terminal C (or was it B)--anyway, the US Airways terminal--seemed totally inaccessible because of massive sidewalk construction activities. Fortunately, NWA flies out of terminal E, which is the international terminal. During the day, NWA is one of the few airlines operating, making terminal E actually pleasant (the international airways perk up in the late afternoon). And it's no longer under construction, although it was for at least five years.

Apparently huge airports never cease their self-improvement activities. This constant effort to rearrange the landscape resulted in the Big Dig, an effort to streamline Boston's terrible roadway system that certainly helped fuel stereotypes about Boston drivers. Unfortunately, the Big Dig collapsed, killing a motorist, and causing the thing to shut down. The result, of course, was more construction on the tunnels that lead to the airport. As of today, the tunnel is still closed west-bound, forcing tourists onto the streets of South Boston. I do believe that the Boston economy requires major construction projects to stay alive. So even if Logan airport were cement-truck-free, there would still be massive disruption just getting to the place. There has to be serious government-funded construction activity at all times in Beantown. Right now, visitors to Boston who pick up rental cars at Logan are treated to a view of South Boston's industrial wasteland as they circle around the disabled tunnel. And I love it. Logan is my home. Just like Tom Hanks in Terminal.

Civilization and its discontents, Minneapolis-style

Yesterday afternoon was unpleasant. First, I went to Radio Shack. It's a tiny storefront in a down-at-the-heels strip mall. It was crowded, and there were three clerks, all girls around 16 or 17. I was working on my transaction, returning something, when a guy somewhat younger than I rushed in, went to the back of the store, and quickly came to the counter where I was standing.

"Excuse me, but you look like you're about finished here. Do you have a box of 50 CDs rather than 25 CDs?" We were not finished, as I had just started telling the clerk why I was returning the phone headset (my el-cheapo cell phone didn't recognize it.)

My body language or glance must have conveyed my irritation, as the man said, "Are you enjoying this beautiful day?" I turned to him in some puzzlement, as it was pouring, and I wondered who he was talking to. I grunted, and he persisted. "You know, I sacrificed so that you could enjoy this beautiful day. You should thank God for me every day."

He stared at me very aggressively, and I said, "Oh?"

"Yes," he went on, "I gave up my youth so that you could enjoy this gorgeous day."

I responded, "Oh, and when was that?"

"In Vietnam, " he said. "And you are alive and standing here on this beautiful day because of me."

I said, "Well, it's great that we're both alive." That clearly was not the response he wanted, but he kept staring at me. The teenage clerk was staring at him.

And here's the deal: I was not going to engage him on the mechanics of Vietnam, and how his presence or absence there had little to do with me. And, I didn't believe he had actually been there, unless he enlisted at a very young age. He was too young. But, the young clerk really couldn't deal with him and me, so I drifted away, resolving never to come back to that Radio Shack, even though it's the closest to my house. He was nuts. And he wore a pimp hat. But he had clearly fixed on that ploy to get people my age to do his bidding. It worked.

I got in the car and headed to the food co-op, stewing. Right behind me were some teenagers in a low-rider truck with the woofers at top volume. The pavement shook, and I heard the scatalogical lyrics of the song very clearly, even though my windows were closed. "I hope they go deaf," was my uncharitable thought.

Then I arrived at the food co-op. It was crowded, they were stocking the shelves, and I scowled at everyone, irritated by the self-righteous appearance of all the 40-somethings who were filling their carts with organic this and fair-trade that. My cart was similar, but, of course, I was not self-righteous. I fumed at the folks who somehow didn't sense I was right behind them and move over. I made my purchases and left.

Then I went to the liquor store. The tiny parking lot, which holds about eight cars, had three SUVs taking 1.5 spaces each. I had to wait to park. "People should not be allowed to purchase these things in the city. They accomplish nothing, and they are used for commuting, trips to the store, and anything you could use a Toyota Pirus for," I ranted to myself. I don't own a Toyota Prius, but my cars usually get more than 5 mpg. I finally parked, got my bottle of wine, and left. Someone was waiting for my space. The SUVs were still there--I suspect the drivers were not shopping at the liquor store.

Finally driving home, I fumed and sulked. Several of the streets were under construction, with huge ruts, and "Road Closed" signs. People did not know how to navigate these single lane streets. I fumed some more, believing that I had now figured out why people move to the suburbs. But I hadn't--not yet. At first I thought I had succumbed to right wing mania, and my dearly held liberal views and live-and-let live attitudes had finally cracked under the strain. But the enthnicity of all the offending folks varied, and included several of my own persuasion. Finally, after brooding about it for a while, a light flashed.

All of these incidents were caused partly by someone else's thoughtlessness and being human, in other words, self-centered. But, in the suburbs, there would be so much room that being thoughtless would not have been remarkable. There would have been a clerk to deal with the Vietnam guy at Radio Shack. The teenagers with the super sound system would have been able to pass me. The coop's aisles would not have been crowded. The liquor store would have had a bigger parking lot. In other words, they could have all been incredibly rude, and it would not have bothered me, because I wouldn't have experienced it. I would have just have continued to do my own thing, secure in my own little bubble, without outside intrusion. We not only need to learn to live together, but to do it in very tight circumstances. Density matters.

Why blog?

Because this isn't a political blog, but a collection of my musings, I try not to write about only one thing. And, to be honest, writing about the current unpleasantness in Washington and the world would be too utterly depressing if it were full time work. And my entries are sporadic, anyway, and outrages happen in DC more than daily. I just couldn't keep up.

Blogs have been around since 1994, but took off in 1998. There are now approximately 60 million blogs out there in the ether, representing people venting, telling their personal stories, providing political commentary, and displaying pix of their cats. Why do we feel the need to send our precious words into cyberspace? Is it like sending a probe to Mars, hoping that something interesting will come back with the space craft? I admit to enjoying trying to figure out who is reading my stuff based on the records in the site meter. I have regular readers in Missouri, Masachusets, and, of course, Minneapolis, although the Minnie readers could just come to the house and ask me. But the anonymity of reading someone's diary at a distance, with no chance of getting caught, is a pretty cool feature of modern life. But, of course, with site meter I can catch you.

Minnesota strikes again

My depression about 9/11--not the event itself, but the constant chewing it over five years later--has been lifted by the election in the Minnesota DFL (read Democratic) primary of Keith Ellison, an African American and a Muslim, to represent the party in the November election for the 5th Congressional district in this state. Keith is an anti-war progressive whose campaign slogan was "everybody counts". He reminds people of Paul Wellstone. He will win in November, because a Republican cannot win in the 5th Minnesota. He will be the first Muslim in the US Congress.

Did I ever say that I live in a bubble? When stuff like this happens, I'm proud to be from the North Star state, despite Jesse Ventura (I actually liked him for a while), Tim Pawlenty, and Norm Coleman. These last two give flyover land a really bad name, making us just a poorer, flatter, and less interesting outpost of northern Virginia. You don't need two of those. But the election of Keith Ellison bodes well for keeping us in the forefront of blue state culture. Huzzaa!

Bully Pulpit

Garrison, I take it all back. You can make all the jokes you want about Unitarians. Your weekly column in the Star Tribune, The Old Scout, suggested that the Current Occupant of the White House is a shallow jingoistic fool with a small rigid agenda and little knowledge of the world. People must say things like this, and say them loudly. You have a large fan base across the nation, people view you with (sometimes misplaced) nostalgia, and you have lots of print and broadcast vehicles. Use them to effect change. Use them to tell the truth about the boy from Texas. People listen, and you have nothing to loose.

And, being made fun of is probably not the end of the world. Tell those Unitarian jokes. Some of them are pretty funny.

Democracy Now!

Last night OLGS and I went to hear Amy Goodman, doyenne of the community radio show Democracy Now!, speak at a fundraiser for local Twin Cities Pacifica radio outlet KFAI. Amy was really, really, articulate, and a great storyteller. She was pushing a new book, Static, and told lots of tales from that book and from the radio show. Despite her Harvard education, or maybe because of it, she speaks in a way that is accessible yet still moving and compelling. Politicians, take note.

What bothered me about the event was not the speaker, but the audience. Everyone--about 500 people--had grey hair, pot bellies, and hearing aids. Where were the young people? One could say that they were not able to afford the $10 admission charge on a Friday night, having better stuff to do.

The other thing, of course, is that people under 35 are not radio people, whereas we geezers are. But Democracy Now! streams on the web, is available on public access cable, and on Link TV--all outlets which are available to the folks who should be our leaders in the very near future.

Does this mean that young people don't care? That they are so disillusioned by our current political disaster that they tune out, or, at best, act locally? Anyway, Amy was preaching to the choir, to people who already agree with her, and not to the people who should be hearing her. Are aging hippies, old potsmokers, and granola crunching types the only ones who care what is happening to our country? Say it ain't so.

Back to school

Another year has come and gone. I measure the passage of time by the turning of the year in September, rather than in January. From early childhood on, my calendar was the academic one. But there are lots of other ways of marking the passage of time and the changing seasons. There are religious calendars, and until the industrial era (sort of), the Gregorian calendar followed the Christian one, with the beginning of the year, or its end, somewhere around Easter, depending. There is the fiscal calendar, which begins in July or October or January, depending. The Jewish New Year takes place in September or October, depending. Chinese New Year, the Hindu New Year, and other festivals marking the new year take place sometime in January. It depends.

Here in flyover land, and mandated by state law, public schools cannot start until after Labor Day, when the State Fair is over and all the resorts have closed for the season and there is no longer any need for cheap, teenage labor. But private schools, whose students apparently don't need to work at the State Fair, usually return before that sacred date. Of course, there are places in the US--Aroostook County, Maine, for example--where school starts at the beginning of August and then stops so that all available hands can work the potato harvest or bring in the hay or whatever. And then it restarts again, and kids return to the classroom, or become fishing guides, or drop out. Depending.

Somali drivers' ed

On my way to work, I pass by the Minneapolis K-8 school that Joe College and Joe High School attended. Most public schools, especially in cash-strapped inner city districts, look pretty bleak in the summer, with weeds growing in the sidewalks, and torn posters flapping from the fence and pillars. And Anne Sullivan Communication Center, or ASCC, has all of these signs of neglect. But there's a bit of excitement in the adjacent the parking lot. It's been turned into an ad-hoc practice driving course, with gallon milk jugs and flags marking the edges and turns.

Who uses this driving course? I've never actually stopped to investigate, so I can't be 100% certain. However, it appears to be a place where Somali women learn to drive. Watched by their menfolk, they slowly cruise around the school parking lot. The men stand around, smoking and chatting. Of course, once school starts, the lot will be full of cars, and the driving lessons will end. But for now, it's pretty cool to watch the ingenuity of our latest group of immigrants.

Current Occupant needs to file a change of address

The poor boy on Pennsylvania Avenue (or is he in Crawford right now?) needs a little reality check. Declaring victory in the Israel-Lebanon thing, he made himself look even more clueless, or truthless, than usual. Every newspaper and media outlet was stating with unusual clarity that there was no winner in the Israeli invasion of Lebanon (except maybe Fox, but I don't watch that. But the Current Occupant blithely stated otherwise, continuing his (and ol' Karl's) pattern of government by proclamation. They clearly believe that if you make definite statements, even if they are clearly incorrect, and make them often enough, you'll change reality. Didn't someone try this in Germany in the 1930s?

Speaking in tongues

The news from Lebanon and Israel is much easier to take when it's written in Franch. Le Monde refers to what English-speakers call the Middle East as Le Proche-Orient, or the Near East, which has enough whiff of anachronism to make it paletable. But even with my limited ability to read Le Monde en Francais (enhanced, BTW, by the wonderful on-line translators) the news is grim. And I have this horrible vision of members of the fanatical wing of the religious right rubbing their hands in glee and hoping that that Armageddon has come at last. And the rest of us just sit here....

Elderly cat, part deux

Got a vet who says that as long as we're willing to pump kitty antibiotics into her, Judy the Cat will live. So, we're on the job. Every month for a week, we fill her full of bug-crushing meds, then watch her gradually slide down hill until the next month, when we start the routine again. Sounds brutal, but she actually seems a lot better. But giving her the antibiotics, especially when she's in suspicious mode and won't eat anything, is a two-person job. Even with her reduced weight and strength, she fights. So, OLGS holds her down on the kitchen counter, strategically positioned on top of the Star-Tribune sports pages, and keeps those deadly front paws in a manly grip. I load up the syringe, pry open her jaws, and shoot the stuff into her mouth. A successful encounter is when only half of it dribbles onto the pix of the latest Vikings scandal. There are better ways, but this works for us. I hope it works for her.

Elderly cat

What to do about a very old cat who won't eat? She appears congested, and seems to have difficulty picking up food in her mouth. We've taken her to the vet, and she has responded to antibiotic shots and liquid. But once the meds have worn off, she's back to the frail, skinny, ratty coat look.

She is very picky. She likes grilled organic chicken, cut up very fine, and crummy cheddar cheese (the orange kind), also cut up fine. She drinks evaporated milk. She spurns cheap tuna, except she drinks the liquid when you first open the can. Even very expensive canned cat food, such as Iams, does not appear to be on her approved diet. She no longer likes milk or cream.

But she still goes outside, hunkering down under the car even on the hottest days. It's probably safe there.

Why do we let her suffer? I don't know if she is suffering. And, I promised Joe College Grad that I would try to keep her alive until he gets home, which will be this week. Maybe he'll have the magic touch. At least he can take her to the vet for another shot of antibiotics.

Working 50 hours

Not so many postings recently--in order to pay for the European extravaganza, I'm working again. Not very gainfully, but when you're laid off in middle age, finding another position at the same level is nigh on to impossible. So, it's four ten hour days at one place, and one 10 hour day at another. Both employers probably get shortchanged on occasion.

Working two or three jobs to sustain the American Dream is not uncommon. OLGS has consulting gigs, summer school, and many other oppotunities to earn more money. I don't know any academic who doesn't take advantage of this.

Our long hours allow us to take European vacations, buy coffee at $9.00/pound, and live in a big house--a beat-up house, but a palace nevertheless--and represent a choice. I don't complain, and both jobs are fun and interesting. But, there are so many Americans who have to work two and three horrible jobs, at minimum wage, simply to keep a place to live and feed their kids. They have no choice. And because our pals in Washington are slaves to corporate lobbyists, the situation of those truly hardworking folks is probably not going to get any better. It's shameful that we are represented by these clowns who have somehow convinced at least some of the American people that we have absolutely no obligation, and that there's no cost. to having a resentful, economically fearful, underclass. Shameful.

So I don't whine too much, but I post less frequently.