Of Dogs and Cars

I don't mind admitting that I'm a tremendous Dave Barry fan. Over the years I particularly enjoyed his columns that dealt with either dogs or cars. These, because of my own memories with such things, always set me chuckling.

I've dealt with a few dogs myself over the years, ranging from a Heinz-57 variety when I was a toddler (known to me only via home movies), an extremely nervous chihuahua named "Twinkle" (for whom my grandmother was nicknamed), and, when I was a teenager, a neurotic whippet named "Splinter."

Her actual name was not Splinter. She was in reality an AKC-bred whippet and a name like Splinter does not sit well with the AKC for purposes of registration. So her registered name, dreamt up by my father (proving once again that his sense of humor extended beyond merely creating five interesting children) was "Fleetfoots Frangere Dubois." This appropriately pretentious-sounding name was, in fact, a loose composite of French and Italian for "splinter of wood," except for the Fleetfoots part, which was the name of the breeding farm where Splinter was dropped off by extra-terrestrials during an emergency.

Loudspeaker on ET's bridge: Warning! Transwarp engines reaching critical mass! Eject the whippet core!

ET would use whippets for their spacecraft because these dogs, bred as miniature greyhounds, are lightning fast. We were never rich or pretentious enough as a family to do anything like turn Splinter into an actual racing dog, so her primary form of physical activity was going to the school yard next door and running around like an antelope on meth. I'd let her off the leash, and she'd leave me behind in a cloud of dust. Only an occasional sonic boom would indicate her approximate position. Her favorite trick was waiting for a larger dog, like a labrador or a shepherd, to wander into the school yard and then - ZOOM - she'd run right underneath the larger dog, sending that animal into paroxysms of barking and howling, begging his owner to let him off the leash so he could hunt her down and turn her into a snack.

Ironically, they wouldn't have had to try very hard if they'd simply wanted to get rid of her. Splinter was a very high strung animal. Her nervousness was such that if our cat happened to wander into the house (on those occasions when she deigned to let us feed her), Splinter would immediately take up residence under our couch and refuse to come out until the cat stopped threatening to shred her like an old credit card.

I've since been told that whippets are, in fact, highly intelligent animals and capable of amazing feats beyond just running faster than our current fleet of F-22s.

Right.

Splinter's main amazing feat was her ability to jump over a given fence or wall, while still chained in our yard, and effectively hang herself in the neighbor's yard. She did this frequently because we spent a lot of time in our neighbor's pool next door during the summer, and Splinter could not bear to hear us having such a good time without her. Since I was a mindless teenager, I usually forgot to shorten her chain and she would easily jump the six-foot fence into the next yard. The chain, however, was only long enough to clear the fence with about three feet of chain left.

Ah, the good times.

This morning I was reading about Dave's experiences with buying a car. This reminded me of my Dad's stories about various cars he'd owned. Our family owned cars that were not what I would call muscle cars. Our cars tended to be technological weaklings that other cars could not resist kicking sand at while on the beach.

The coolest cars we owned were handed down to us by my grandparents who had themselves moved on to muscle cars and gave us what were, when they owned them, perfectly serviceable automobiles, but which became, after our family got hold of them, simpering, blithering shadows of their former selves. Even our Chevy Bel-Air (1955! Baby blue!) could not long withstand our inability to keep any car running without developing some sort of fatal car disease. In the Bel-Air's case, a transmission that somehow or other lost the ability to move in reverse. This meant never parking anywhere that we could not move out of nose-first. If we parked in a driveway, it had to be steep enough to allow us to drift backwards in neutral all the way into the street so we could then move forward.

Once upon a time, Dad told me about a car they bought mostly on the recommendation of my grandfather (my mom's Dad). It was called the "Goliath," and Dad hated this car. Thanks to the internet, I now know that the Goliath was of European design and build and was considered "revolutionary" for its time. However, the words "two cylinder, two stroke engine" helped me understand the vitriol my father felt for this car. Dad would have considered this car a lawn mower with a trunk and a steering wheel.

Dad bought the Goliath and before long developed the kind of relationship with it that was similar to Ralph and Alice Kramden in "The Honeymooners." Except that Dad's language when dealing with Alice (the Goliath) was much more colorful than anything Jackie Gleason ever came up with.

My favorite story about the Goliath, however, was one which always caused my mother to shrink back into the couch and try, if possible, to disappear. This is because she was actually with Dad when this happened, and she tried the same trick in the front seat of the car.

Dad had pulled up to a red light and - only because the law required it - stopped. The car, sensing an opportunity to get some well deserved rest, expired. Being Los Angeles (the Big City!), some gracious lady pulled up behind Dad at the light. When the light turned green and Dad was frantically trying to get the Goliath resuscitated, the lady began honking her horn. Those of us who knew and loved my Dad could just envision Dad's reaction to this lady's helpful horn blowing. After a moment or two (I reckoned Dad's legendary patience would have been strained after precisely two honks, but that may be a slight exaggeration) Dad got out of the car, walked back to the helpful lady and said something to the effect of, "Look, lady. I'll make a deal with you. You come start my car, and I'LL SIT HERE AND HONK YOUR #$&*%! HORN!" Mom, at this point, was attempting to phase into an entirely different dimension.

I'd tell you about the joys of being a two-Volkswagen family when I was a teenager, but I think Dad's patience has had all it can stand for one post.

Great Communication (or: Great. Communication.)

Instant messaging has its place, but I'm a traditionalist. In today's terms, probably even a fundamentalist. My problem is that I insist on complete sentences in my business communications.

Typical IM exchange between me and a co-worker:

Me: Are you there?

Co-worker: y

Me: When you say "y," do you mean "yes" or "why?"

Co-worker: wut
Co-worker: y do u ask

Me: See? In that last sentence, "y" clearly meant "why," but without context your first sentence could have meant "yes I am here, thanks for asking," or "why do you need to know? Am I late for a meeting?"

Co-worker: ?

Me: Ah! So you DO know what a question mark is!

Co-worker: go away

I blame my mother. She has always been a strong typist and I decided at some point early in life that I wished to master the realm of QWERTY. I remember sitting at our small portable typewriter upstairs carefully transcribing my collection of Bill Cosby records. By the time I took typing as a class in junior high, I was already typing around 35 words per minute. I think in my prime I got that all the way up to around 70 or 75. Fast enough to prefer typing to all other forms of writing, but not quite fast enough to be an office admin.

Then Dad bought our first home computer. I was still on my mission at the time, but it didn't take me long to immerse myself in the world of microcomputing and begin learning a third language: BASIC. (Fourth, actually, if I count both K'iche' and Spanish as my second and third languages. Unfortunately, I've all but lost the Mayan dialects now.)

BASIC was fun because I had to master a whole new slate of keys to which I'd never paid attention on the old typewriters. Things like the colon, for which I could never find a use in normal correspondence, but which are found in nearly every line of BASIC code in any given application. Likewise the @ symbol. I can't even remember covering that silly thing in typing class, yet have been using it faithfully since 1980. Almost lost my skills when migrating from the old TRS-80 keyboards to today's standard PC keyboards, though. The Trash-80's character keys were in different positions, so I had to re-teach myself how to type them when I received my first XT Boat Anchor (640K RAM! Two — count 'em — TWO 5-1/4 inch floppies!)

Even then, however, I refused to give up on traditional English when writing memos, even as a lowly expediter working in a factory.

(For those who really know me, this is especially ironic. My family nickname is "the Great Communicator," because I pretty much never communicate with anyone who is not in the immediate room with me. I have kids living in Minnesota who are now convinced that I am about as real as Santa Claus because they only hear from me once a year, and about all I say is, quote, "Ho, ho, ho," as in, "You need money? Ho, ho, ho.")

(Secondary sidebar: Do you have any idea how ludicrously difficult it is to frame a formal letter in the old DOS version of Lotus 1-2-3? Yet that was what we tended to use because we weren't allowed an actual word processing application for a few years. Then we printed them out on our dot-matrix printers, some of which forced everything into ALL CAPS WHETHER YOU TYPED THEM THAT WAY OR NOT. The result was that our business communications, however well formed, tended to look like we'd printed them using $1.99 rubber stamp kits such as you'd buy at your local supermarket to get your kids out of your hair on rainy afternoons. Weren't those days fun?)

Now, of course, we have a whole new generation of college-educated kids hitting the workplace (assuming they won the mud-pit wrestling match at the jobs fair) with really fascinating degrees in business and communications. Except that they can't form a complete sentence to save their souls. These days it's not at all uncommon to receive requests like this one:

Woody,

Someone said to me that you are the guru for UCA datas and I need a report but I need it last quarter and first quarter and you can have it for me by tomorrow? Early? Thx

You guessed it: another MBA from Pepperdine just hit the rolls. I'll probably be working for this person in another six months or so.

I may be poor, but I'm a terrific communicator.

Unless you're related to me.

Blogging for the Sake of Blogging

New glasses are like the vernal equinox. Or not.

Guys and Noise

When I was a kid, I well remember being on longish drives (in kid terms: anything > 1/2 hr = long drive) and trying very hard not to make noise in the back seat. Or, perhaps more accurately, trying very hard for, maybe, the first five minutes. After that, we'd revert to normal Kid Noise Levels (called "kennels" by the cognoscenti). Had I been more of an entrepreneur in those days, I'd have gotten rich off of forming pools to determine when, exactly, Dad would turn his head slightly and yell, "What's that noise?!"

Dad was always hyper-sensitive to car noises on long trips, and with good reason. Our cars were notorious for breaking down for any number of reasons, including rusting while in use. On a trip to San Diego one year, we broke down and had to be towed (oh, the shame!) to a local service station. Remember "service stations?" Me, neither. Anyway, I was mortified for some reason. Dad was just purple in the face.

The funny thing is, Dad wasn't nearly that bad on local trips. He seems to have driven around town pretty much on automatic. Side mirrors could fall off the car while we were driving to Church, for example, and he'd barely register. He was probably more concerned that we (his family) were making him "late," which happened nearly every Sunday.

Anyway, I bring this up because of a story told by Jay Tea over at Wizbang, wherein he has to Google instructions on how to start a Prius so his bosses could leave on a road trip.

Turns out that the Prius starts in "electric mode" which means there's no engine noise to inform the driver that the car is ready to roll. You just hit the "Power" button, put it in gear and roll.

Make that reason number 2 why I will probably never get a Prius.

Reason number 1 is because I am constantly getting behind one of these gutless machines in the HOV lanes out here in California, and I have yet to find the Prius that can reach anywhere close to the speed limit. When Yugos having a 75 to 1 rust-to-viable-steel ratio are passing me in the slow lane, I get a tad upset with the green-hugging driver in front of me.

So I will not likely ever get a Prius. I'd always be afraid that some maniac in a mini-van right behind me is about to deploy his tactical road-obstacle removing laser any minute now.

Guys need noise. This explains everything from making motor noises in the bathtub (BBBBRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM) to the Space Shuttle. Even the APU's on that baby make noise when you "fire 'em up." And wait until the ARES rocket makes its debut this week. Noise, dude! Noise!!

As a young man, I always envied the teenagers down the street that had those cars that made Dad crazy. They were always doing something with "headers" (removing them, I think), and either losing or heavily modifying their mufflers so that their steet 'rods would have roughly the same decibel level as a 747 at full thrust. And nearly the same horsepower.

(I notice, however, that teenagers don't seem to bother with headers and mufflers anymore. They're too busy installing sound systems in their vehicles that are medically proven to cause sterility. This is probably a good thing because I'm not sure I want these idiots to reproduce.)

I guess this all means that I will, for now, remain among the traditionalists who demand a car noise when I turn on the ignition. Preferably the one that goes "BBBBBRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMM."

Don't Give Up!

This means there's hope for Congress, too!

Tasteless AND Offensive

I've been looking at this cover of "The New Yorker" all flamin' day. It's typical political porn: this is the kind of stuff that campaigns dream will come their way so they have someone to demonize and take the heat off whatever legitimate criticisms may be coming their way. While McCain tries to point out Obama's obvious lack of terrorism smarts (huge) and distance himself from Obama's position on immigration reform (not do-able, I'm afraid), this kind of pointed political satire just feeds an already frenzied bottom-dwelling class of voter. Reaction from the left, particularly Obama's campaign, is swift:

"The New Yorker may think, as one of their staff explained to us, that their cover is a satirical lampoon of the caricature Senator Obama's right-wing critics have tried to create," Obama spokesman Bill Burton said.

"But most readers will see it as tasteless and offensive. And we agree," he said in a statement.

Well, yes and no. Do I find it "tasteless and offensive?" Sure. It's an obvious hit piece; designed to evoke an emotional response from both sides of the political spectrum. Do I think it reflects badly on Obama?

Nope. Not even close.

Look, if tasteless and offensive were ever considered true political barometers, Clinton the First would never have made it to the Oval Office in the first place. We knew he was a womanizing shark before he ever took office. Tasteless and offensive in a single package. What a deal!

Also, if tasteless and offensive were truly worthy of contempt, then people like Ted Rall would have been arrested and waterboarded years ago.

It doesn't really help that McCain's campaign jumped on the bandwagon, either:

"We completely agree with the Obama campaign that it is tasteless and offensive," spokesman Tucker Bounds said.

Oh, for heaven's sake. Is that as original as the campaign machine gets? If this is really that important, let's go after "The New Yorker" and take them down. (Rhetorically, of course. The press, for reasons that are still unclear, appear to be even more sacred than a black politician trying to reach the highest political office in the nation.)

But of course they won't. Enough, I guess, to state that it was "tasteless and offensive" and then hope to heaven the furor dies down before the MSM hits their stride.

As a conservative — no, scratch that... — as a right-wing conservative, what I find truly offensive about the artwork is that it's supposed to be an over-the-top representation of how we right-wingers truly feel about Obama and his missus.

Hogwash.

Yes, of course there are those pond-scum in the Republican camp who froth at the mouth over Obama's alleged Muslim allegiances (unproven), his America-hating wife (slight overreaction), and his political naivete (dead on).

So if this cover is meant to portray them, fine. I'm on board with that. But to project this attitude on the rest of us who try to take a far more reasonable assessment of this upstart is truly insulting.

I will state here that there are remarkable aspects of Obama's campaign from a historical perspective. He is black, and is considered the first such candidate to have more than a decent chance of winning the election in November. Historically this is proof that we as a nation have risen above our blood-soaked past and catapulted a man who would have been a slave 160 years ago into the national spotlight. It might be said that this is a true vindication of Lincoln's proclamation.

He is also evidence of the American dream. His story is one of success from many different angles, even if one doesn't completely agree with what constitutes "success."

But there my admiration for the man ends. Politically he still represents positions that I find completely untenable as a would-be President of the United States. His desire to broadcast to our enemies that if they hunker down for just a few more months they will be left to their own devices is truly alarming. His naivete with respect to international politics is also a hugely negative point to consider. And, just because he's a dyed-in-the-wool (LATE NIGHT POSTING ALERT: "dyed" in the wool, NOT "died" in the wool. I'm not trying to send any subliminal messages here!) liberal, his positions on such things as same-sex marriage and the judicial are anaethma. (I can't really complain as much about his immigration policies simply because McCain isn't all that different. I sigh a lot when I think about this one.)

Thus I find it to be a slap in my face that this "New Yorker" cover is meant to represent me. I don't accept that perception. As a satirical piece I think it bombed completely. No one (except, perhaps, the Kos sycophants) seems to be laughing, if indeed they were really meant to.

Speaking of laughing, Drudge also points to this piece which wonders why no one is allowed to laugh at Obama. Because this is such a "historical" candidacy, I suppose, folks are handling Obama with the proverbial kid gloves:

When [Jon] Stewart on "The Daily Show" recently tried to joke about Obama changing his position on campaign financing, for instance, he met with such obvious resistance from the audience, he said, "You know, you're allowed to laugh at him." Stewart said in a telephone interview on Monday, "People have a tendency to react as far as their ideology allows them."

The man is black, which means, apparently, hands off. I'm guessing this is the bottom line, even though the article doesn't come right out and say that. So we have to check our senses of humor at the door whenever Obama enters the room. McCain, being white and old, is fair game.

Well, I, too, am white and (getting) old. So come and get me, "New Yorker." I'll have my lawyer look into age discrimination as hate speech. Why not try a cover about that?

Maybe I Should Get a Restraining Order

You might think, what with living next door to a BN&SF mainline and in close proximity to Disneyland and their nightly fireworks, that we have a level of sound saturation here at Hacienda Woody. The trains rumble through at more or less regular intervals, day or night. It's not uncommon for me to look up from my computer and see key pieces of furniture shaking as if we were having a minor temblor. First thing I do anymore is listen for that deep three-octaves-low rumble that tells me whether it's a freight or passenger consist passing by. The Big D, on the other hand, tosses their boomers high in the sky every night on a schedule. "9:30, Dear." "Ayup, thar she blows." The booms last between 15 and 25 minutes depending on season.

Then there's the freeway that sits a mere half mile from here, plus having our park abut one of the more active streets in Orange County at certain parts of the day. We're also in a construction zone at the moment, as they attempt to build an overpass for Imperial Highway on one side of us, and construct a power station across the street on another side.

Sound saturation is putting it mildly.

As noisy as things get around here, though, none of them hold a candle to a rather diminuitive fellow who resides immediately behind us. Every night at just past midnight, this character fills his lungs and begins an all-night serenade that will fade only when the first light of dawn approaches. These gratuitous concerts run for nearly seven hours without intermission or, seemingly, any level of discomfort on the part of the performer.

It used to be mildly annoying when he started this nonsense a year ago. Mrs. Woody and I are not always the best of sleepers, and when the weather is hot enough in the summer months it doesn't take much to wake us. This guy can do that. I used to harbor secret fantasies about getting a pellet gun and letting the guy have it right between the eyes, but a couple of things prevent me:

I don't really want any guns in the house.

My intended victim is probably protected by the Wildlife Protection Act.

When I grew up I harbored certain expectations about wildlife. During the day I figured the more interesting animals were in hiding from predators and rambunctious kids like myself. At night I figured I was safe and snug in my house, and once asleep wouldn't have to give them another thought. This was especially true of the various birds that roamed our neighborhood throughout the day. They were a noisy bunch but always seemed to tone it down at night so the crickets could have their say. And, as I say, I could safely ignore them in any case.

Whatever species of bird this character may be, he is the noisiest neighbor I've ever had. It's probably as much because after midnight sound really seems to carry, but this guy is LOUD. He runs through just about his entire repertoire every night. He may actually run through it multiple times. I don't know, because I've finally gotten to the point where I can generally consign him to that region of white noise that my ears create more and more as I get older. On a night like tonight, though, when everyone with an ounce of sanity is asleep and the other night noises are relatively low, I get the feeling this warbler (or whatever he is) can be heard as far away as Guam.

Not being a birder of any kind, I have absolutely no idea whether this is normal behavior for this bird or not. Don't really care, to be honest. All I know is that he is, above all, a gifted performer. Although, if he's trying to find a mate, I might suggest he try doing this during the day. Keeping the gals awake all night may not be conducive to romance.

The other possibility is that his internal clock is completely out of whack. Unless he's simply drowning everyone else out, I hear no other birds anywhere near here anytime after dark. This is in keeping with my own concept of nature as it applies to darkness, and this guy is like a Flat-Earther trying to convince a bunch of rocket scientists that they're full of hooey. I don't expect he's got much of an audience.

Except for the inhabitants of Hacienda Woody, who desperately need to get some sleep tonight.

Short Fused

To: Honorable United States of America
Re: Helicopter Batteries

Thank you so much for your recent shipment of helicopter batteries. We noticed that a few of them didn't seem to be of the same type that we normally receive. We understand that you know your helicopters better than we do, but would you check for us to make sure we got the right ones? We would appreciate that very much.

Sincerely yours,

Taiwan

To: Taiwan
Re: Helicopter Batteries

Our technicians assure us that we shipped batteries of the right type for your model. Let us know if this becomes any sort of problem and we will work to resolve any outstanding issues.

Sincerely,

United States of America

To: United States
Re: Batteries

We apologize for the delay in getting back to you on this issue. We worked through our stock of batteries until we came down to the last four. For some reason, they didn't seem to fit in their proper place. Our mechanics went through your manuals step by step, but of course there may be some language difficulties. They don't seem to translate well into Chinese. The part nomenclature says "FUSE" on it, instead of "BATTERY" as the manual suggests. We are probably not reading things correctly. Perhaps you could send an advisor to help us?

Thanks,

Taiwan

To: Air Force
From: State
Re: Fuses, Not Batteries?

Okay, guys, why is Taiwan writing to us about helicopter batteries labelled "FUSE" instead of "BATTERY?" Is this another one of those jokes that's gonna blow up in our faces, like when you marked those missile launchers "TOASTER?" Let's get some facts together and put a report on the Secretary of State's desk by Monday next.

To: The Honorable Secretary of State
From: The Honorable Secretary of the Air Force
Re: Mistaken Shipment to Taiwan

Condi,

Darned if I know how it happened. (How do these things ever happen, right?) We appear to have shipped four (4) nuclear missile fuses to Taiwan a year and a half ago or so. No radioactive stuff in 'em, so far as we know. (You know engineers... never tell you anything straight out. Makes you wanna waterboard 'em all!) Anyway, they still think they're trying to install bad batteries in their Hueys. Can we sweep this under the rug somehow? Hate to see this one go viral on the internet, y'know?

Thanks!

Mike

P.S. Let's do lunch next week. Your turn to treat. - MW

To: POTUS
From: SoS
Re: Trouble

Mr. President, the wing-wipers messed up again, and we have four missile fuses over in Taiwan with no missiles to put them in. We need to get them back before the Chinese understand what they have over there. Any suggestions?

Condi

To: Rice
From: CiC

Hey, no problemo, Condi. Just use the Dell model. Can't go wrong with a Texas solution, right?

Yeehah!

GWB

To: Michael Wynne
From: Secretary of State
Re: Operation "Halfbaked Hueys"

President authorizes execution of Dell Global Solution. Execute is Charlie, Echo, Tango. Repeat: Execute is Charlie, Echo, Tango.

P.S. Lunch is no joy. Got Reuters snooping around. Take care of it. -C

To: Taiwanese Government
From: Dell Customer Service (on behalf of the United States of America)
Re: Mistaken Battery Shipment

Dear Taiwan,

Customer service is our number one goal. If you're not happy, neither are we! We understand that your shipment of:
36 Batteries, Huey-type

may have had some irregularities. We would ask you to return the defective merchandise using the return labels included with this letter. If you have any questions, please contact our 24 hour Customer Service hotline. Be sure to speak slowly as they have some slight trouble understanding English.

Thanks again for your order!

Dell®

Sometimes, truth really is stranger than fiction.

News You'll Never See

This is not out of the question:

DISASSOCIATIVE PRESS
Nashville, TN

Al Gore today angrily lashed out at what he termed a "Republican dirty trick" to demonstrate a full year's worth of global cooling according to at least four different sources. "President Bush is clearly trying to discredit my Nobel-winning work in preparation for the November election," he told a crowd of three supporters outside his carbon-neutral mansion. "NASA I can understand, since they constantly need more budget," Gore was reported to say. "But how he managed to get Hadley Climate Research, Remote Sensing Systems, and the University of Alabama in his pocket is beyond me."

The former vice president was reported to be waving his Oscar statuette throughout the interview.

Mr. Gore was reportedly reacting to news of a climate conference being held in New York. "They're taking the name of the Goracle in vain, and I simply won't stand for it!" At this point Mr. Gore nearly sideswiped Tipper, who had evidently forgotten just how large her husband's carbon footprint had gotten in recent years and was standing too close. "I will fight back, and I will sell the global warming crisis to the highest bi... to anyone who will listen!" he ranted.

Gore is now threatening to convene a new, more powerful panel to discuss rationally and scientifically just how correct Gore's views are. "This panel will consist of some of the most carbon-correct celebrities I've come to know and love in Hollywood. Michael Moore, Barbra Streisand, and even Alec Baldwin, if he'll agree not to punch anyone, just to name a few." Mr. Gore then declared, "If that doesn't convince those clueless conservatives, nothing will!"

All this by way of sympathizing with my mother, who reported three inches or more of snow on the ground in northern Texas yesterday. Bundle up, Ma! Looks like a few more weeks of winter, yet!

But It's Not On the Test

Tom Chapin scores big with this one. Titled "Not On the Test," it appeared on National Public Radio on January 1, 2007. If you'd like to listen, click here. (A fellow named John Forster helped write it. Not sure who gets the lyric credit, but I'm willing to settle on a collaboration.)

Now, so far as I'm concerned, the entire federal public education effort has become nothing more than a "pay as you go" set of failed policies. Any policy that requires standardized performance in order to win those all-important federal dollars is really just begging schools to teach to the tests. Rather than ensure that children are advancing at an even pace, it has instead the effect of discouraging true educational innovation. It supports bureaucratic nightmares at the local level, and shores up an increasingly ineffective money-feeding union.

This is the good news. Business as usual.

There are, however, a few glimmers of hard truth in Chapin's song. A few key phrases:

Remember your teachers. Their jobs are at stake.

Proponents of the merit-based pay schedule for teachers need to take note: Merit is ephemeral. It's darned difficult to establish success criteria for teachers. It's altogether too easy to say "students must perform to a certain level on standardized tests." It fails to take into consideration that every kid is different, they all learn at a different pace, and no one — not the feds, not the NEA, not the psychometricians — is smart enough to come up with a one-size-fits-all test. There are too many intangibles at play and no safe way of determining how well a teacher is performing. I'm not saying that a simple seniority system is the right answer, either. I just wish the one-size-fits-all crowd would shut the heck up.

Next:

The School Board is faced with no child left behind
With rules but no funding, they're caught in a bind.
So music and art and the things you love best
Are not in your school 'cause they're not on the test.

Hey, I would be the first to admit that if it weren't for music and performing arts, I wouldn't have graduated high school. That, and the fact that the dean couldn't stand one more semester of my smug little face. Still...

Whatever I have become in life is due to three things: a loving family, a burning testimony that took several years to develop, and the performing arts. The family and the testimony are self-explanatory. The performing arts, however, defined who I was, both internally and to society. I was an actor. I was a singer. I was reasonably talented. And I was driven.

I wanted to learn about the music I was singing. I had a strong desire to understand motivation in my stage blocking. I was motivated to study music and acting where math, history and science utterly failed to capture my imagination. Had you taken my teenage self and plopped me down in today's schools, I would have created a "Dropout Farm" no matter where I lived. Yet look what I have achieved today: a stable twenty-plus year career, skills as a programmer and web designer, and a reputation for being a better-than-average teacher. Not bad for someone who lived on the performing arts in high school.

And, finally:

Debate is a skill that is useful to know,
Unless you're in Congress or talk radio,
Where shouting and spouting and spewing are blessed
'Cause rational discourse was not on the test.

Score! This is the payoff line in this little gem.

Take a good, hard look at the state of discourse in politics today. Go ahead. I'll just hum to myself for a bit while I wait.

Can you describe it? Probably sounded pretty harsh out there, didn't it? Did you happen to hear any actual debating while you were at it? No? Me, neither. So, let's talk about what happens out there. I remember debate class as a kid. I've watched a few debates in the past few years. Those aren't debates. Those are sound-bite political statements designed to encapsulate "everything you need to know" about a candidate in two minutes or less. Well, if this is everything I need to know, I shudder to consider what I'm missing. You cannot give substantive answers in two minutes. Two minutes is barely enough time to misspeak and accuse your opponent of inappropriate relations with livestock. This creates cardiac arrest in your hired spin doctors and gives the MSM all the ammunition they need to create your entire (incorrect) platform from that two-minute gaffe.

[Side note on a related topic: Has anyone ever though of creating Fantasy Politics? You could have your own front-runners, keep stats, dummy up your own sound-bite debates, and probably do a better job of predicting the actual winners than the pollsters. Just a thought.]

No, folks, the reasons for the popularity of Assault Debating are the same reasons why professional wrestling exists: the entertainment value. The current crop of voters in the desirable demographic were all raised on Phil Donahue, Ricky Lake, and (heaven help us) Jerry Springer. Assault politics is the only flavor they know and understand.

Conservatives, by the way, are not immune. Michelle Malkin has, if anything, gotten angrier over the last two years. She's spending so much time in full-court press that she tends to do fewer well-constructed thought pieces. Assault Politics sucks you in. It's a disease.

So listen to Tom's song, and give it a worthy chuckle. Then hold your hat over your heart and mourn the loss of a truly classical education.

Proof Positive that Ralph Nader is an Area 51 Alien

We gotcher proof right here.

If, like me, you appreciate ol' Ralphie as the fringe vote-grabber that he has become in years past, the article will probably tickle your funny bone. I find it hilarious that a consumer advocate would simply sue an entire political organization simply because he claims they hold a monopoly on potential voters.

I'm having a fit of the giggles over this one.

Is Ralph saying that he stands a better chance of grabbing votes from Democrats than Republicans? Or does he not want our votes? The question — largely rhetorical — is moot anyway. Nader runs for visibility. No one, including scientific polls of migrant farm workers who think "Nader" is mispronounced Spanish, ever expects Ralph to win more than a relative handful of votes. Personally, I think Ralph lends a certain entertainment value to every general election. Nader, not Dave Barry, is the true comic relief of any election cycle simply because he wants people to take him seriously, even as he knows that he'll never be elected to Municipal Dog Catcher.

Help yerself, Ralphie boy. Nothing spells "common sense" like pandering to a litigious society.

Can I sue Nader for physical distress? My side hurts.

Terror Alerts... More or Less

Breaking news from across the pond. A tip of the hat to my step-Dad, ZeeMeister, who sent me this from somewhere in western Texas. He won't identify his source, other than to claim that he "asked hard questions" and "confirmed the woman," whatever that means.

The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." Londoners have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.

Also, the French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France are "Surrender" and "Collaborate." The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France's white flag factory, effectively paralyzing the country's military capability.

It's not only the English and French that are on a heightened level of alert. Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides." The Germans also increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbor" and "Lose."

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual, and the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels .

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

Now, Woody stands next to no one in admiration for all of our allies — real and/or imagined — but you gotta admit: politically-speaking, these attitudes sound awfully familiar...

Miracle (or Knot)

For a church that proclaims to have the restored Gospel on the earth, we seem to have an appalling lack of verifiable miracles to which the media and frenzied fanatics might flock, were they so inclined. I know you understand what I'm talking about. Where in the Latter-day Saint culture do we find things on par with the Shroud of Turin, or Fatima, or even the Miracle Virgin Mary Image in the Grilled Cheese Sandwich?

Well, this isn't to say that modern Saints haven't experienced any of these things. When you think about it, only fragments of the papyrii are still around today. And what about the miracle of Brigham Young transfiguring into the voice and image of Joseph Smith shortly following the martydom? I am equally certain that Latter-day Saints have had any number of visitations over the many decades since the church was organized in 1830, but they tend to remain in the realm of anecdotal evidences rather than over-hyped phenomena such as we hear about today in other religions.

So either the church wishes to keep such things quiet and let these miracles serve to strengthen faith as simple testimonies of the living Gospel, or we simply suffer from lousy P. R.

But I think I've found a way to compensate for the church's apparent lack of zing in these Last Days. What we need is something that could be viewed as a miracle and still be marketable. Something that one might even sell on eBay for a ludicrous amount of money (defined as "more than twenty-five cents") and give its owner his rightful fifteen minutes of fame.

Prepare to be dazzled, folks, because I'm about to offer you a chance to glimpse our own personal miracle. We have a knot in a piece of furniture that Mrs. Woody swears looks like Brigham Young. Yes! Let Dave Barry and a host of late night talk show hosts make fun of the Miracle Grilled Cheese if they will. We have an authentic, verified image of Brigham Young right in our living room. Get ready to feel that tingling in your spine, because here it is:

Isn't that great? Of course, the first time I saw it, I have to admit I had a hard time making out his image. I mean, the man's been dead for nearly 130 years now, so my own memories of the late prophet are fading fast. But Mrs. Woody was insistent that he is in fact there in that knot, so I put it to my readers of faith: is this or is this not the spitting image of Brigham Young, complete (as Mrs. Woody pointed out) with his distinctive "page boy" haircut? I'll even adjust the light for you:

Still can't quite see it? Here, let me adjust the contrast just a bit. You know how it is with glare on varnished wood...

Better? Isn't that simply astonishing?

As I say, we may very well offer this up on eBay. I mean, if the Miracle Grilled Cheese sandwich could fetch $28,000, our Miracle Brigham Young Knot ought to be worth a cool $2.00 or $3.00, easy!

On the other hand, this also makes this particular piece of furniture a real family heirloom. Think of the rolled eyes shining faces of our children when they explain to their children why Mom and Dad were committed to a facility this furniture is so special to the family.

And if, like ours, your faith has been strengthened by seeing this miracle of ours, we can only hope you start taking your medication again soon be grateful to have been allowed to share in your happiness.

Thank you.

Your Global Warming Update

Ok, this is funny. A House subcommittee has to postpone a hearing on global warming due to inclement weather. From Drudge:

The hearing is entitled “Climate Change: Are Greenhouse Gas Emissions from Human Activities Contributing to a Warming of the Planet?”

The hearing will be rescheduled to a date and time to be announced later.

DC WEATHER REPORT:

Wednesday: Freezing rain in the morning.

Irony, anyone?

Equally ironic: Your average session of Congress produces as much greenhouse gas as your average day on a Los Angeles freeway. Pick a freeway.

Oh, Whew!

Just when it seemed that the Democratic 2008 Juggernaut would be infallible this election cycle, along comes Joe Biden, just to keep things interesting.

Thanks, Joe! We'll be listening!

They Obviously Had It Coming

So it turns out that members of a Yale barbershop group were attacked while on tour in California. So far, so good. Barbershoppers are regularly attacked in California, where diversity is not so much celebrated as it is mandated. But here's the money quote from the article:

Members of the a cappella Baker's Dozen were performing at a party in San Francisco at the new year when their rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner" apparently sparked taunts and threats from fellow partygoers.

Oh, for heaven's sake. What were they thinking? They sang the "Star Spangled Banner?" In San Francisco?? They may as well have put on George Bush masks and paraded down Market Street! Of course they were beaten up!

Had they worn Ché berets and sung "Tiptoe Through the Tulips," no one would have batted an eye.

Sheesh.

New Jersey to (Finally) Allow Idiots to Vote

or, "Haven't They All Been Elected to the State Legislature Already?"

(H/T: Dave Barry)

It isn't often that a state political machine offers insights to its inner workings. Heck, once upon a time someone told me that California is a state run by liberals for the benefit of other liberals, but I've never really believed that. I mean, I sure as heck don't know what goes on in Sacramento, and neither, I suspect, do the politicians.

Anyway, via Dave Barry's blog we find this beautiful peek "behind the scenes" in New Jersey. Apparently, the only way the current vacuum bag of leaders can stay in power is if they allow idiots to vote. Thus, they must remove the restrictions against "idiots" from their constitution so that those with certain mental illnesses will be allowed to vote.

I'd say we should adopt such a policy here in California, but I'm pretty sure we've been allowing them to vote here for decades.

Please don't get me wrong: I have nothing against those with mental challenges, per se. I'm just dying of curiosity to see who in New Jersey will make the determination as to who would be eligible (or ineligible, for that matter) to vote in their state.

This just screams out for discrimination lawsuits.

Oughta be fun to watch.