Sen. John McCain: "I pledge again a respectful campaign. A respectful campaign based on the issues and based on the stark differences we have on the vision for the future of America."
Sen. Barack Obama: "We don't need John McCain and I to be demonizing each other. You won't get that from my campaign."
That lofty rhetoric was uttered some months back by two gentlemen who undoubtedly had their fingers crossed when they spoke.
Because they, and we, understand there has never been a "respectable campaign" marked by "civil substantive debate" in the political history of the United States.
And this year is no exception. Obama is a "socialist" who "pals around with terrorists" while McCain is a Depends-wearing dupe of the Bush administraion who is "out of touch."
So much for clean campaigning.
When and where did the grand old tradition of mudslinging in American politics start?
It began a long, long time ago, according to historians.
No less than Founding Fathers John Adams, the incument president, and his friend and vice president Thomas Jefferson faced each other in the election of 1800.
The niceities didn't last long.
Jefferson's camp accused President Adams of having " a hideous hermaphroditical character, which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman."
In return, Adams' men called Jefferson "a mean-spirited, low-lived fellow, the son of a half-breed Indian squaw, sired by a Virginia mulatto father."
They didn't stop there. Adams was labeled a fool, a hypocrite, a criminal, and a tyrant, while Jefferson, the eventual winner, was branded a weakling, an atheist, a libertine, and a coward.
The election of 1884 pitting Grover Cleveland against James G. Blaine was one for the ages as well.
Blaine had been prevented from getting the Republican presidential nomination during the previous two elections because of the stigma of the "Mulligan letters." In 1876, a Boston bookkeeper named James Mulligan had located some letters showing that Blaine had sold his influence in Congress to various businesses.
It was perfect fodder for the Cleveland forces.
But then, according to historical accounts, the Buffalo Evening Telegraph reported that Cleveland had fathered a child out of wedlock, that the child had gone to an orphanage, and that the mother had been driven to an asylum.
Cleveland's campaign decided that candor was the best approach to this scandal: they admitted that Cleveland had formed an "illicit connection" with the mother and that a child had been born and given the Cleveland surname. They also noted that there was no proof that Cleveland was the father, and claimed that, by assuming responsibility and finding a home for the child, he was merely doing his duty.
Finally, they showed that the mother had not been forced into an asylum; her whereabouts were unknown. Blaine's supporters condemned Cleveland by singing "Ma, Ma, Where's my Pa? Gone to the White House, Ha, Ha, Ha."
But Cleveland's high road approach won the day.
Contemporary campaigns have had memorable moments.
Remember the "Daisy Girl" television ad from the Lyndon Johnson campaign? It showed a cute blonde child picking the pedals from a flower only to be obilterated in a nuclear explosion. The unspoken message was that Barry Goldwater was threatening a nuclear war. It only ran once but is considered the most famous ad of all time.
The so-called Swift Boat Veterans for Truth attempted to descredit John Kerry, his war record and his integrity with some success.
Geroge H.W. Bush unleased the Willie Horton ad on Michael Dukakis, holding him responsible for a prison furlough program in which Horton, a convicted murderer, committed armed robbery and rape.
In 1968, the Hubert Humphrey campaign featured an ad that had the words "Agnew for Vice President? on the screen" accompanied by a soundtrack of a man laughing hysterically, louder and louder, until the laughs veer off into a groan. Richard Nixon had the last laugh, however.
So is negative campaigning successful?
Certainly, negative ads are the ones we remeber.
The conventional wisdom among campaign professionals is that negative ads do, in fact, work, according to one study.. That is, while voters might not like negative ads, their perceptions of candidates attacked in negative ads are tarnished by the information they are exposed to.
But there is a perceptible "backlash" effect when a candidate persistently publishes or airs negative information about his or her opponent, especially when that information is not perceived by voters as immediately relevant to the campaign.
So when you go negative, you take chances.
In the meantime, here are two negative campaigns that are candidates for the hall of fame:
One, in 1934, was aimed at Upton Sinclair, the socialist muckraker turned Democratic gubernatorial nominee. Hostile newsreels featured actors portraying Sinclair supporters as Soviet comrades, saying lines like, "His system vorked vell in Russia, so vy can't it vork here?" Sinclair lost.
The other reported by CNN featured North Carolina's Sen. Robert Rice Reynolds, who several generations ago denounced his opponent for his alleged habit of eating caviar.
"You know what caviar is?" Reynolds would ask, with a squinty and meaningful eye. In a paroxysm of disgust and incredulity, he would answer his own question: "Why, it's fish eggs! Fish eggs from Red Russia!"
Reynolds told the backcountry crowds that his opponent had once sunk so low as go up to Harvard (pronounced HAW-vud). What did the man do there? Why, he "matriculated"! And, worse, he became "a thespian"! Imagine.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Out of Step
I tuned into "Dancing With the Stars" the other night to see how our new Grand Marshal of the Rose Parade, Cloris Leachman, was getting along.
But before I get to Cloris, a confession:
I think "Dancing With the Stars" is the worst thing on TV since "My Mother the Car." It consists of a bunch of Grade D celebrities and washed up jocks competing in a trumped up ballroom dancing competition while the judges engage in breathless exclamations and the dancers blow air kisses to one and all.
It makes "Hollywood Squares" look like "Masterpiece Theater."
"Dancing With the Stars" is the ultimate embrace of mediocrity. One critic summed it up nicley when she described a male dancer as "stalking his hottie partner on stage like the creepy uncle you always avoid at wedding receptions."
A recent competition featured Heather Mills, the former Mrs. Paul McCartney, dancing with a prosthetic leg. I suspect many people watched for the same reason they watch auto racing. To see a crash.
A lot of people like it. But then again, a lot of people voted to reelect George Bush.
Cloris Leachman, God bless her, is a quality actress with a long (she began appearing on television and in films shortly after competing in Miss America as Miss Chicago 1946) and distinguished career. She won an Oscar for "The Last Picture Show" in 1971 and a bunch of Emmys.
On "Dancing With the Stars," however, the 82-year-old actress looked like somebody's grandmother who had one too many champagne cocktails. I guess it's what passes for humor these days.
Is she really the embodiment of "Hats Off to Entertainment"? It makes me wonder who finished in second place.
My choice for grand marshal is and will be Dodger announcer Vin Scully, a beloved national icon who is arguably the best announcer of all time. I'm betting he wouldn't be caught dead on "Dancing With the Stars."
But once again, Show Biz or what passes for it will triumph over all on Colorado Boulevard.
As they say in baseball, maybe next year.
I was astonished recently to hear Republican vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin say that Barack Obama "... is someone who sees America, it seems, as being so imperfect, imperfect enough, that he's palling around with terrorists who would target their own country."
Since I wouldn't want to see some fellow traveler in the White House, I decided to investigate.
It turns out Palin was referring to Bill Ayers, one of the founders of the Weather Underground, a bunch of 1960s radicals whose members took credit for explosions at the Pentagon and U.S. Capitol during the Vietnam War.
Obama was the first chairman of the Chicago Annenberg Challenge, a school-reform group of which Ayers was a founder. Ayers also held a meet-the-candidate event at his home for Obama when Obama first ran for office in the mid-1990s.
Palin cited a New York Times story that detailed Obama's relationship with Ayers. But according to the Associated Press, the Times concluded: "A review of records of the schools project and interviews with a dozen people who know both men, suggest that Obama, 47, has played down his contacts with Ayers, 63. But the two men do not appear to have been close. Nor has Mr. Obama ever expressed sympathy for the radical views and actions of Ayers, whom he has called 'somebody who engaged in detestable acts 40 years ago, when I was 8.'"
As for the foundation, Walter Annenberg, who provided a grant to start the foundation, was a lifelong Republican and former ambassador to the United Kingdom under President Richard Nixon. His widow, Leonore, has endorsed McCain.
Under the deal with Annenberg every dollar from him had to be matched bytwo from elsewhere. The co-funders were a host of respected,mainstream institutions, such as the National Science Foundation, theJohn D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, the W.K. KelloggFoundation and the Chicago Public Schools.
According to PolitiFact, a project of the the St. Petersburg Times and Congressional Quarterly, among the other board members who served with Obama were Stanley Ikenberry, former president of the University of Illinois; Arnold Weber, former president of Northwestern University and assistantsecretary of labor in the Nixon administration; Scott Smith, thenpublisher of the Chicago Tribune; venture capitalist Edward Bottum;John McCarter, president of the Field Museum, and Patricia AlbjergGraham, former dean of the Harvard University Graduate School ofEducation.
Not a bomb thrower among them.
But before I get to Cloris, a confession:
I think "Dancing With the Stars" is the worst thing on TV since "My Mother the Car." It consists of a bunch of Grade D celebrities and washed up jocks competing in a trumped up ballroom dancing competition while the judges engage in breathless exclamations and the dancers blow air kisses to one and all.
It makes "Hollywood Squares" look like "Masterpiece Theater."
"Dancing With the Stars" is the ultimate embrace of mediocrity. One critic summed it up nicley when she described a male dancer as "stalking his hottie partner on stage like the creepy uncle you always avoid at wedding receptions."
A recent competition featured Heather Mills, the former Mrs. Paul McCartney, dancing with a prosthetic leg. I suspect many people watched for the same reason they watch auto racing. To see a crash.
A lot of people like it. But then again, a lot of people voted to reelect George Bush.
Cloris Leachman, God bless her, is a quality actress with a long (she began appearing on television and in films shortly after competing in Miss America as Miss Chicago 1946) and distinguished career. She won an Oscar for "The Last Picture Show" in 1971 and a bunch of Emmys.
On "Dancing With the Stars," however, the 82-year-old actress looked like somebody's grandmother who had one too many champagne cocktails. I guess it's what passes for humor these days.
Is she really the embodiment of "Hats Off to Entertainment"? It makes me wonder who finished in second place.
My choice for grand marshal is and will be Dodger announcer Vin Scully, a beloved national icon who is arguably the best announcer of all time. I'm betting he wouldn't be caught dead on "Dancing With the Stars."
But once again, Show Biz or what passes for it will triumph over all on Colorado Boulevard.
As they say in baseball, maybe next year.
I was astonished recently to hear Republican vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin say that Barack Obama "... is someone who sees America, it seems, as being so imperfect, imperfect enough, that he's palling around with terrorists who would target their own country."
Since I wouldn't want to see some fellow traveler in the White House, I decided to investigate.
It turns out Palin was referring to Bill Ayers, one of the founders of the Weather Underground, a bunch of 1960s radicals whose members took credit for explosions at the Pentagon and U.S. Capitol during the Vietnam War.
Obama was the first chairman of the Chicago Annenberg Challenge, a school-reform group of which Ayers was a founder. Ayers also held a meet-the-candidate event at his home for Obama when Obama first ran for office in the mid-1990s.
Palin cited a New York Times story that detailed Obama's relationship with Ayers. But according to the Associated Press, the Times concluded: "A review of records of the schools project and interviews with a dozen people who know both men, suggest that Obama, 47, has played down his contacts with Ayers, 63. But the two men do not appear to have been close. Nor has Mr. Obama ever expressed sympathy for the radical views and actions of Ayers, whom he has called 'somebody who engaged in detestable acts 40 years ago, when I was 8.'"
As for the foundation, Walter Annenberg, who provided a grant to start the foundation, was a lifelong Republican and former ambassador to the United Kingdom under President Richard Nixon. His widow, Leonore, has endorsed McCain.
Under the deal with Annenberg every dollar from him had to be matched bytwo from elsewhere. The co-funders were a host of respected,mainstream institutions, such as the National Science Foundation, theJohn D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, the W.K. KelloggFoundation and the Chicago Public Schools.
According to PolitiFact, a project of the the St. Petersburg Times and Congressional Quarterly, among the other board members who served with Obama were Stanley Ikenberry, former president of the University of Illinois; Arnold Weber, former president of Northwestern University and assistantsecretary of labor in the Nixon administration; Scott Smith, thenpublisher of the Chicago Tribune; venture capitalist Edward Bottum;John McCarter, president of the Field Museum, and Patricia AlbjergGraham, former dean of the Harvard University Graduate School ofEducation.
Not a bomb thrower among them.
Dipping Into the Past
When I first drove to a new job in downtown Los Angeles some years back, it was as much a rite of passage as it was a trip down the freeway.
I left the sleepy suburbs behind that day. I was now part of the Workforce, a cadre of men and women descending on the big city every day to engage in commerce, build skyscrapers, cure illnesses, dispense justice and right wrongs.
It felt like I belonged to something big and wonderful.
I'd been in big cities before. I worked in San Francisco while going to college. I served part of my military duty in Washington, D.C.
But working in downtown Los Angeles was something special. This is where my father spent most of his career. When I was a kid, it was a treat to go downtown and have my dad take me to lunch at Cole's, or Little Joes, or some out of the way place in Chinatown. Or if I was really lucky, the Jonathan Club.
When Dodger stadium opened, we'd often stop at Phillipe's on the way to the game. Dad seemed to know every nook and cranny in the city.
Now it was my turn to discover the Big City on my own.
It didn't take my long to find a favorite haunt, a place where I headed as often as I could for lunch.
But it wasn't anything new or trendy. In fact, it was old and worn.
It was the very same Phillipe's, the sandwhich joint which celbrates its 100th aniversary this month.
I can honostly say I have never met anyone in Southern California who hasn't been to Phillipe's at least once. Or at least heard of it.
But if you haven't, it is a somewhat less than elegant eatery that is a shrine to the French Dip, a place hard by Union Station that has been in operation since 1908 making it one of the oldest restaurants in Los Angeles.
Come to think of it, in a city which has historically bulldozed almost everything several times over, Phillipe's may be the oldest institution of any kind in Los Angeles.
Customers stand sometimes 10 deep behind a long counter staffed by women wearing starched waitress attire the likes of which you haven't seen in 50 years.
When they deliver your order (on paper plates), you sit at long tables atop sawdust covered floors where your dining partners could be anyone from a judge to a transient. Or, befitting the atmosphere of the place, a barrister or a bum.
Specialty of the house: French dip sandwhiches of beef, pork, lamb or turkey although they also serve soups, stews, even pickled pigs feet. Don't ask for lettuce or tomato for your sandwich. They don't have any. In fact, the only condiment available I've ever seen is their homemade mustard.
And if you must wash down your dip with a sophisticated beverage, they even have a decent wine list which includes Silver Oak Cabarnet at 15 bucks a glass. It is a dining experience as meomorable as it is simple.
The origins of Phillipe's French dip sandwhich are legendary.
According to food writer Charles Perry, original owner Phillipe Mathieu told a Los Angeles Times reporter in 1951, "One day a customer saw some gravy in the bottom of a large pan of roast meat. He asked me if I would mind dipping one side of the French roll in that gravy. I did, and right away five or six others wanted the same." He quickly ran out of gravy.
"But," he said, "it put me wise." The next day he had a gallon of gravy ready, but so many people wanted dip sandwiches that he still ran out.
An alternative explanation bases the invention in frugality. A fireman came into the restaurant when there were leftover rolls. Mathieu would use them up although they were stale. The fireman complained that the roll was dry, so Philippe dipped it in au jus, basically to get rid of the guy.
This alternative is likely since Mathieu may have preferred to credit a customer rather than waste a stale roll.
The most common story is that Mathieu accidentally dropped a roll in pan drippings, and the customer who had ordered the sandwich agreed to eat it anyway. This is less likely since the "happy accident" theory of food origins is typically used where there is no alternative explanation.
Whatever the truth may be, it was the most fortuitous culinary marriage since peanut butter met jelly.
Time has not stood still in downtown Los Angeles. My father would be astonished to see the skyscrapers, the condos and lofts, the Staples Center complex rising south of downtown.
His employer, the mighty Southern Pacific Railroad, is no more.
My former employer, the Los Angeles Times, is a shadow of its former self. The building, half vacant, is up for sale.
But I'm sure if we could meet one more time for lunch, Phillipe's would be the destination.
We'd have a single dipped roast beef with a side of cole slaw and a lemonade.
It would be as if time stood still.
I left the sleepy suburbs behind that day. I was now part of the Workforce, a cadre of men and women descending on the big city every day to engage in commerce, build skyscrapers, cure illnesses, dispense justice and right wrongs.
It felt like I belonged to something big and wonderful.
I'd been in big cities before. I worked in San Francisco while going to college. I served part of my military duty in Washington, D.C.
But working in downtown Los Angeles was something special. This is where my father spent most of his career. When I was a kid, it was a treat to go downtown and have my dad take me to lunch at Cole's, or Little Joes, or some out of the way place in Chinatown. Or if I was really lucky, the Jonathan Club.
When Dodger stadium opened, we'd often stop at Phillipe's on the way to the game. Dad seemed to know every nook and cranny in the city.
Now it was my turn to discover the Big City on my own.
It didn't take my long to find a favorite haunt, a place where I headed as often as I could for lunch.
But it wasn't anything new or trendy. In fact, it was old and worn.
It was the very same Phillipe's, the sandwhich joint which celbrates its 100th aniversary this month.
I can honostly say I have never met anyone in Southern California who hasn't been to Phillipe's at least once. Or at least heard of it.
But if you haven't, it is a somewhat less than elegant eatery that is a shrine to the French Dip, a place hard by Union Station that has been in operation since 1908 making it one of the oldest restaurants in Los Angeles.
Come to think of it, in a city which has historically bulldozed almost everything several times over, Phillipe's may be the oldest institution of any kind in Los Angeles.
Customers stand sometimes 10 deep behind a long counter staffed by women wearing starched waitress attire the likes of which you haven't seen in 50 years.
When they deliver your order (on paper plates), you sit at long tables atop sawdust covered floors where your dining partners could be anyone from a judge to a transient. Or, befitting the atmosphere of the place, a barrister or a bum.
Specialty of the house: French dip sandwhiches of beef, pork, lamb or turkey although they also serve soups, stews, even pickled pigs feet. Don't ask for lettuce or tomato for your sandwich. They don't have any. In fact, the only condiment available I've ever seen is their homemade mustard.
And if you must wash down your dip with a sophisticated beverage, they even have a decent wine list which includes Silver Oak Cabarnet at 15 bucks a glass. It is a dining experience as meomorable as it is simple.
The origins of Phillipe's French dip sandwhich are legendary.
According to food writer Charles Perry, original owner Phillipe Mathieu told a Los Angeles Times reporter in 1951, "One day a customer saw some gravy in the bottom of a large pan of roast meat. He asked me if I would mind dipping one side of the French roll in that gravy. I did, and right away five or six others wanted the same." He quickly ran out of gravy.
"But," he said, "it put me wise." The next day he had a gallon of gravy ready, but so many people wanted dip sandwiches that he still ran out.
An alternative explanation bases the invention in frugality. A fireman came into the restaurant when there were leftover rolls. Mathieu would use them up although they were stale. The fireman complained that the roll was dry, so Philippe dipped it in au jus, basically to get rid of the guy.
This alternative is likely since Mathieu may have preferred to credit a customer rather than waste a stale roll.
The most common story is that Mathieu accidentally dropped a roll in pan drippings, and the customer who had ordered the sandwich agreed to eat it anyway. This is less likely since the "happy accident" theory of food origins is typically used where there is no alternative explanation.
Whatever the truth may be, it was the most fortuitous culinary marriage since peanut butter met jelly.
Time has not stood still in downtown Los Angeles. My father would be astonished to see the skyscrapers, the condos and lofts, the Staples Center complex rising south of downtown.
His employer, the mighty Southern Pacific Railroad, is no more.
My former employer, the Los Angeles Times, is a shadow of its former self. The building, half vacant, is up for sale.
But I'm sure if we could meet one more time for lunch, Phillipe's would be the destination.
We'd have a single dipped roast beef with a side of cole slaw and a lemonade.
It would be as if time stood still.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Now,for the Good News
I was going to write about the presidential campaign.
Or maybe why we are blessed that vice presidential candidates rarely sway our opinions. Joe Biden thinks Roosevelt spoke on TV in 1929. Trouble is, Joe, that was before FDR was president and before television was invented. Sarah Palin's interview with Katie Couric made her sound like someone off her meds.
I was thinking about proposing that, in view of the Wall Street fiasco, the salaries of Congress members be tied to the meaningful and timely legislation they pass. That would provide plenty of bail-out funds.
But the heck with all that. It gets depressing.
Instead I bring you some news items that may have escaped your attention, and are guaranteed not to have you reaching for the aspirin bottle.
News: In the biggest medical response in recent Rose Bowl history, Fire Department officials treated nearly 1,000 people at a UCLA-Fresno State football game last weekend for heat-related problems. The majority of those treated were visiting fans sitting in the north end of the stadium.
Views: You mean to tell me that it's too hot in Pasadena for those hard-scrabble farmers from the San Joaquin Valley, where summer temperatures average 100 with occasional highs of 112? Where it's humid and the air smells like, well, farmland? The land of truck stops and tule fog?
The town that Johnny Carson used to call "Gateway to Bakersfield," and "Home of the Highest Speed Bumps?
I guess the big city was too much for our country cousins.
News: The fourth annual Big Tex Choice award for best taste this year (at a precursor event to the Texas State Fair) went to Glen Kusak's chicken fried bacon.
Earlier this summer, fourth-generation candymaker Joseph Marini III introduced chocolate-covered bacon bon-bons at his stand on California's Santa Cruz Boardwalk.
And for the more sophisticated, restaurateur Don Yovicsin of Waltham, Mass., serves bacon-infused Absolut vodka (allowed to sit for four weeks' time and then filtered of the bits).
Views: The bacon industry has somehow convinced Americans to smother their product on everything from hamburgers to Pringles (yes, they come in a bacon ranch flavor) to pet food.
I read somewhere that a stand at the Minnesota State Fair featured something called Big Fat Bacon. It's described as a one-third-pound slice of bacon that is fried, caramelized with maple syrup, and served on a stick with dipping sauces.
It was probably invented by a cardiologist.
News: Convicted sexual molester Donald Fox, 62, of Frederick, Md., became the most recent convict to challenge the unfairness of his sentence (40 years in prison) and then have the appeals court agree it was unfair. Except they ruled it was too short. He's now serving 80 years.
Views: Is this a great country or what?
News: Humor columnist Dave Barry had a sewage station named after him and a potluck dinner thrown in his honor Wednesday, according to his website.
"I'm honored," Barry said at the dedication. "It's not every day that your work is compared to human waste."
Views: If you like this idea, the president of Webber International University in Florida is using eBay to auction off the naming rights to the college's new project. The college is building a new sewage plant. So, for the right price, you could have it named after you, a loved one, or someone who deserves it.
News: A Florida teenager claims he was attacked and robbed by four topless blonde women on his way to work. Olmer Morales, 18, told police the attack happened as he rode his bike to work one morning in Stuart, Martin County.
A heavy-set blonde woman wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt and overalls stopped him by grabbing his handle bars, according to the police report. Four thinner blonde-haired women, all wearing overalls with no shirts and no bras, then surrounded him and stole the $100 in his back pocket, Morales told deputies.
Views: Soon to be the subplot of a new James Bond movie.
News: Two Jet Blue pilots have been charged with two counts of theft and one of felony battery after allegedly attacking Miami cab driver Juan Martin over a $9 fare after a ride from a Fort Lauderdale strip club to a Subway restaurant, police said.
Pilots William Hart Smith, 40, and Brad Leopard, 38, both of Fort Lauderdale, allegedly attacked the cab driver about 2 a.m. on Aug. 12, said Fort Lauderdale Detective Katherine Collins. The pilots were arrested weeks later.
Views: Don't let these guys catch you with an extra carry-on.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
The Great Debate
GUN-toting, moose-hunting hockey moms. Lipstick on pigs. Bridges to Nowhere. Who has the biggest flag lapel pin or the goofiest pastor?
It seems the current presidential election is being scripted by spin meisters, flacks, hired character assassins and mud slingers of every stripe.
It is high time for John McCain and Barack Obama to look the American voters square in the eye and tell them exactly where they stand on the issues.
And some time soon, posturing and politics notwithstanding, we may get a chance for the straight talk we have been so generously promised when the televised candidate debates finally begin.
Think of it as "American Idol" with the free world at stake.
"The candidates and their handlers are aware that all it takes is one bad sentence or one good sentence to resolve an election," said Jim Lehrer, anchor of PBS's "NewsHour."
Some highlights underscore that point.
The first televised debate is perhaps the most famous of them all. Richard Nixon and John F. Kennedy met in a Chicago studio on Sept. 26, 1960, both sides believing they had something to gain by debating.
Everyone remembers not what was said, but who won the image battle.
Kennedy wore a dark suit, wore makeup and appeared presidential. Nixon, by contrast, looked like a guy who just got caught shoplifting. He wore no makeup, had a 5 o'clock shadow, was recovering from the flu and had lost weight and suffered from a knee injury. He appeared to be
sweating profusely. Many think it was the turning point in Kennedy's campaign.
From 1960 to 1976, no presidential debates took place. Not surprisingly, Nixon avoided debates in 1968 and vetoed repeal of the equal time provision in 1970. Finally in 1976, Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford met for three debates. The debates were dominated by Ford's statement that Eastern Europe was not under Soviet control.
"There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe, and there never will be under a Ford administration," Ford said, in response to a question. "I don't believe ... that the Yugoslavians consider themselves dominated by the Soviet Union. I don't believe that the Romanians consider themselves dominated by the Soviet Union. I don't believe that the Poles consider themselves dominated by the Soviet Union. Each of these countries is independent, autonomous, it has its own territorial integrity, and the United States does not concede that those countries are under the domination of the Soviet Union."
In response Carter said he'd like to see Ford "convince the Polish-Americans and the Czech-Americans and the Hungarian-Americans in this country that those countries don't live under the domination and supervision of the Soviet Union behind the Iron Curtain."
When Carter and Reagan met in 1980, the Republican challenger was a clear winner. To Carter's attack that he would cut Medicare, he quipped, "There you go again." And in his closing remarks, Reagan asked, "Are you better off than you were four years ago?" a phrase that struck a chord with voters.
When George Bush and Massachusetts Gov. Michael Dukakis met in 1988, the highlight of the debate was a question posed by CNN's Bernard Shaw: "Governor, if Kitty Dukakis were raped and murdered, would you favor an irrevocable death penalty for the killer?"
Dukakis, an opponent of the death penalty, responded: "No, I don't, Bernard. And I think you know that I've opposed the death penalty during all of my life. I don't see any evidence that it's a deterrent, and I think there are better and more effective ways to deal with violent crime..."
His passionless response to the question apparently didn't set well with voters, and while Bush didn't perform well either, he didn't have to.
The 1992 debate was unusual in that it featured three candidates: George Bush, Bill Clinton and H. Ross Perot. A poll conducted by CNN/USA TODAY found that of those watching, 47 percent rated Perot the winner, 30 percent voted Clinton and 16 percent voted for Bush.
But Perot dropped out of the race, then reentered it, diminishing his popularity in the process.
In 2000, Vice President Al Gore and then Texas governor George W. Bush debated. According to published accounts, the debate became a judgment of style over substance. Gore audibly sighed several times during Bush's answers. Some analysts said, Gore forfeited the aura of his position and came across as petulant and petty. Gore did better in later debates but never shook the early reviews.
Just for some perspective, the most famous debates of the pre-broadcast era are the senatorial debates between Abraham Lincoln and Stephen Douglas in 1858. Douglas agreed to the joint appearances only after Lincoln followed him around the state, making comments from the audience.
The debates were considered a major success. Kathleen Hall Jamieson wrote in her book
"Presidential Debates:" "They were orderly and closely attended. Both advocates were serious and articulate. They addressed themselves to a discreet set of political concerns. The debates advanced the issues, illuminating the areas of both agreement and disagreement."
We can only hope this year's debates will meet that standard.
It seems the current presidential election is being scripted by spin meisters, flacks, hired character assassins and mud slingers of every stripe.
It is high time for John McCain and Barack Obama to look the American voters square in the eye and tell them exactly where they stand on the issues.
And some time soon, posturing and politics notwithstanding, we may get a chance for the straight talk we have been so generously promised when the televised candidate debates finally begin.
Think of it as "American Idol" with the free world at stake.
"The candidates and their handlers are aware that all it takes is one bad sentence or one good sentence to resolve an election," said Jim Lehrer, anchor of PBS's "NewsHour."
Some highlights underscore that point.
The first televised debate is perhaps the most famous of them all. Richard Nixon and John F. Kennedy met in a Chicago studio on Sept. 26, 1960, both sides believing they had something to gain by debating.
Everyone remembers not what was said, but who won the image battle.
Kennedy wore a dark suit, wore makeup and appeared presidential. Nixon, by contrast, looked like a guy who just got caught shoplifting. He wore no makeup, had a 5 o'clock shadow, was recovering from the flu and had lost weight and suffered from a knee injury. He appeared to be
sweating profusely. Many think it was the turning point in Kennedy's campaign.
From 1960 to 1976, no presidential debates took place. Not surprisingly, Nixon avoided debates in 1968 and vetoed repeal of the equal time provision in 1970. Finally in 1976, Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford met for three debates. The debates were dominated by Ford's statement that Eastern Europe was not under Soviet control.
"There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe, and there never will be under a Ford administration," Ford said, in response to a question. "I don't believe ... that the Yugoslavians consider themselves dominated by the Soviet Union. I don't believe that the Romanians consider themselves dominated by the Soviet Union. I don't believe that the Poles consider themselves dominated by the Soviet Union. Each of these countries is independent, autonomous, it has its own territorial integrity, and the United States does not concede that those countries are under the domination of the Soviet Union."
In response Carter said he'd like to see Ford "convince the Polish-Americans and the Czech-Americans and the Hungarian-Americans in this country that those countries don't live under the domination and supervision of the Soviet Union behind the Iron Curtain."
When Carter and Reagan met in 1980, the Republican challenger was a clear winner. To Carter's attack that he would cut Medicare, he quipped, "There you go again." And in his closing remarks, Reagan asked, "Are you better off than you were four years ago?" a phrase that struck a chord with voters.
When George Bush and Massachusetts Gov. Michael Dukakis met in 1988, the highlight of the debate was a question posed by CNN's Bernard Shaw: "Governor, if Kitty Dukakis were raped and murdered, would you favor an irrevocable death penalty for the killer?"
Dukakis, an opponent of the death penalty, responded: "No, I don't, Bernard. And I think you know that I've opposed the death penalty during all of my life. I don't see any evidence that it's a deterrent, and I think there are better and more effective ways to deal with violent crime..."
His passionless response to the question apparently didn't set well with voters, and while Bush didn't perform well either, he didn't have to.
The 1992 debate was unusual in that it featured three candidates: George Bush, Bill Clinton and H. Ross Perot. A poll conducted by CNN/USA TODAY found that of those watching, 47 percent rated Perot the winner, 30 percent voted Clinton and 16 percent voted for Bush.
But Perot dropped out of the race, then reentered it, diminishing his popularity in the process.
In 2000, Vice President Al Gore and then Texas governor George W. Bush debated. According to published accounts, the debate became a judgment of style over substance. Gore audibly sighed several times during Bush's answers. Some analysts said, Gore forfeited the aura of his position and came across as petulant and petty. Gore did better in later debates but never shook the early reviews.
Just for some perspective, the most famous debates of the pre-broadcast era are the senatorial debates between Abraham Lincoln and Stephen Douglas in 1858. Douglas agreed to the joint appearances only after Lincoln followed him around the state, making comments from the audience.
The debates were considered a major success. Kathleen Hall Jamieson wrote in her book
"Presidential Debates:" "They were orderly and closely attended. Both advocates were serious and articulate. They addressed themselves to a discreet set of political concerns. The debates advanced the issues, illuminating the areas of both agreement and disagreement."
We can only hope this year's debates will meet that standard.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
The Flower of Los Angeles
I don't have a lot of influence around these parts.
I'm just an ink-stained wretch who bares his soul on these pages for the amusement and entertainment of our readers.
Or as Gene Fowler once wrote, "Writing is easy. All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead."
But I am here today to right a wrong, comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable, view with alarm, all those things that responsible newspapers are supposed to do.
Specifically, I am here to chastise the Tournament of Roses.
They have done a hell of a job running the Rose Parade for a century or so, making it into a must-view international event long on beauty and family values, short on gimmicks and bad taste.
But for too many years, the Rose Parade folks have ignored in their selection of grand marshal the most visible, most beloved, most celebrated citizen of the greater Los Angeles area, a man who as much as anyone defines the word "institution."
And time may be running short for the opportunity to salute his remarkable talent.
I speak of Vincent Edward Scully, the melliflous and knowledgeable voice of the Los Angeles Dodgers for 59 years.
He has been named California Sportscaster of the Year 28 times, he received the Ford Frick Award from the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1982, was honored with a Life Achievement Emmy Award for sportscasting and induction into the Radio Hall of Fame in 1995, and was named Broadcaster of the Century by the American Sportscasters Association in 2000.
He has a star on the Hollywood Walk of fame. There is talk of erecting a statue of him at Dodger Stadium.
Through the power of his voice, he has almost single handedly made the Dodgers one of the top drawing franchises in all of sport.
His popularity has crossed generational, economic and racial lines.
But he has never been grand marshal of the Rose Parade.
Last year, writing about Scully, I said, " When I think of a half-century of Dodger baseball...there is one constant that remains when all the seasons and players begin to blend together in memory.
"That is Vin Scully. Back in the days before every game was televised, Scully was the Dodgers. his voice on the radio meant spring was here. When Scully called the Dodgers, it was time to get the lawn furniture out, fix a cool drink and listen to the drama unfold as only a master story teller could describe it.
"It is Scully who said, 'He (Bob Gibson) pitches as though he's double-parked.'
"It is Scully who described pitcher Tom Glavine as being 'like a tailor; a little off here, a little off there and you're done, take a seat.'
"It is Scully who called Stan Musial 'good enough to take your breath away.'
"It is Scully who said, 'It's a mere moment in a man's life between the All-Star Game and an old timer's game.' "
Scully doesn't announce a game. He sings it. In his hands, it is grand opera.
"Criticizing him is like criticizing Shakespeare," wrote Gary Kaufrman. "You can do it, but you say more about your own foolishness than anything else."
We have watched while tournament officials honored an omlette flipper, a cartoon mouse, a frog puppet, various actors and actresses and inummerable politicians.
This year's theme is "Hats Off to Entertainment" and president RonaldH. Conzonire who picked the theme also gets to select the grand marshal.
Not that the theme makes a great deal of difference.
Last year's theme was "Passport of the World's Celebrations" and featured TV chef Emeril Legasse as the honoree. Go figure.
In 2005, it was "Celebrate Family" and Mickey Mouse was selected. I was never quite able to connect the dots on that one.
So whatever theme the Rose Parade people come up with, Scully fits.
I don't know if he has been asked to be grand marshal in the past and declined. He is as self-effacing as he is talented.
But he rode on the Dodger 50th anniversary float last year so we know he's not adverse to getting up in the middle of the night to motor down Colorado Boulevard.
On Friday, Sept. 5, 2008, Scully announced that he intended to continue calling games through the 2009 season at age 80. It will be his 60th season with the team.
And its high time he rides at the front of the parade.
If you agree, contact the Tournament of Roses at 391 South Orange Grove Ave., Pasadena, CA. 91184. Send them a letter. Ask your friends and family to send them a letter. Send them a copy of this column. Or e-mail them at : rosepr@rosemail.org.
I'm just an ink-stained wretch who bares his soul on these pages for the amusement and entertainment of our readers.
Or as Gene Fowler once wrote, "Writing is easy. All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead."
But I am here today to right a wrong, comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable, view with alarm, all those things that responsible newspapers are supposed to do.
Specifically, I am here to chastise the Tournament of Roses.
They have done a hell of a job running the Rose Parade for a century or so, making it into a must-view international event long on beauty and family values, short on gimmicks and bad taste.
But for too many years, the Rose Parade folks have ignored in their selection of grand marshal the most visible, most beloved, most celebrated citizen of the greater Los Angeles area, a man who as much as anyone defines the word "institution."
And time may be running short for the opportunity to salute his remarkable talent.
I speak of Vincent Edward Scully, the melliflous and knowledgeable voice of the Los Angeles Dodgers for 59 years.
He has been named California Sportscaster of the Year 28 times, he received the Ford Frick Award from the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1982, was honored with a Life Achievement Emmy Award for sportscasting and induction into the Radio Hall of Fame in 1995, and was named Broadcaster of the Century by the American Sportscasters Association in 2000.
He has a star on the Hollywood Walk of fame. There is talk of erecting a statue of him at Dodger Stadium.
Through the power of his voice, he has almost single handedly made the Dodgers one of the top drawing franchises in all of sport.
His popularity has crossed generational, economic and racial lines.
But he has never been grand marshal of the Rose Parade.
Last year, writing about Scully, I said, " When I think of a half-century of Dodger baseball...there is one constant that remains when all the seasons and players begin to blend together in memory.
"That is Vin Scully. Back in the days before every game was televised, Scully was the Dodgers. his voice on the radio meant spring was here. When Scully called the Dodgers, it was time to get the lawn furniture out, fix a cool drink and listen to the drama unfold as only a master story teller could describe it.
"It is Scully who said, 'He (Bob Gibson) pitches as though he's double-parked.'
"It is Scully who described pitcher Tom Glavine as being 'like a tailor; a little off here, a little off there and you're done, take a seat.'
"It is Scully who called Stan Musial 'good enough to take your breath away.'
"It is Scully who said, 'It's a mere moment in a man's life between the All-Star Game and an old timer's game.' "
Scully doesn't announce a game. He sings it. In his hands, it is grand opera.
"Criticizing him is like criticizing Shakespeare," wrote Gary Kaufrman. "You can do it, but you say more about your own foolishness than anything else."
We have watched while tournament officials honored an omlette flipper, a cartoon mouse, a frog puppet, various actors and actresses and inummerable politicians.
This year's theme is "Hats Off to Entertainment" and president RonaldH. Conzonire who picked the theme also gets to select the grand marshal.
Not that the theme makes a great deal of difference.
Last year's theme was "Passport of the World's Celebrations" and featured TV chef Emeril Legasse as the honoree. Go figure.
In 2005, it was "Celebrate Family" and Mickey Mouse was selected. I was never quite able to connect the dots on that one.
So whatever theme the Rose Parade people come up with, Scully fits.
I don't know if he has been asked to be grand marshal in the past and declined. He is as self-effacing as he is talented.
But he rode on the Dodger 50th anniversary float last year so we know he's not adverse to getting up in the middle of the night to motor down Colorado Boulevard.
On Friday, Sept. 5, 2008, Scully announced that he intended to continue calling games through the 2009 season at age 80. It will be his 60th season with the team.
And its high time he rides at the front of the parade.
If you agree, contact the Tournament of Roses at 391 South Orange Grove Ave., Pasadena, CA. 91184. Send them a letter. Ask your friends and family to send them a letter. Send them a copy of this column. Or e-mail them at : rosepr@rosemail.org.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
A Thorny Issue
Another National Football League season has begun without a team in Los Angeles.
And once again, the apathy is overwhelming.
Let's face it. We have two college football teams with bigtime fan bases in town. UCLA drew an average of 76,000 fans to the Rose Bowl last year with a mediocre team. And you couldn't get a ticket to a USC game at the Coliseum if your name was Tommy Trojan.
The NFL, after an absence of 14 years, just doesn't generate much buzz around here anymore.
Unless your name is Ed Roski.
Ed, part owner of the Lakers and Kings and co-owner of Staples Center, has gobs of money and the passion to bring the NFL back to the Los Angeles area.
He's so passionate, in fact, he has unveiled a plan to build a $800 million stadium in the city of Industry. All he needs is a team.
Which is like saying I can fly. All I need is wings.
If fans in Los Angeles are skeptical, they should be. The wreckage of other NFL plans lie strewn about like so much hurricane debris.
But let's engage in the willing suspension of disbelief for a few moments and presume Ed does the deal.
The Chargers or the Raiders or some other team rises to the bait and moves to Los Angeles.
The first thing the team would need is a place to play while their new stadium is being built.
Enter the Rose Bowl.
Eager to generate revenues for much needed improvements to their aging facility, a NFL team, even as a temporary tenant, would appear to be nothing short of Santa Claus to the Rose Bowl folks. They need hundreds of millions of dollars to bring their stadium into the 21st Century.
When they call the Rose Bowl the "Granddaddy of Them All," the emphasis is on "granddaddy." The place is 86 years old. It operates at a loss. It needs new seats, new tunnels, upgraded video and scoreboards, lighting and sound systems. It needs luxury suites to generate revenue.
It needs to be able to compete.
But there is a downside to all of this. Consider:
If Roski builds his stadium, you can be sure he wants to keep it full. Empty stadia cost money. Full ones create income. So it would be no surpise if Ed would enter the bidding to host the BCS college football championship game, a contest that has been held at the Rose Bowl in the past in rotation with other stadia in the country.
What Roski could offer is a state-of-the-art facility with abundent luxury boxes and other amenities the Rose Bowl, in its current state, couldn't hope to match.
The resulting loss of revenue for the Rose Bowl would be a blow not only to its financial future but to its stature as well, something the city of Pasadena could ill afford.
It is probably far-fetched to think that Roski's new stadium would pick off UCLA or the Tournament of Roses games as tenants. Far fetched but not impossible. With the exception of the Rose, all of the original stadia that hosted New Year's games - the Cotton, Sugar and Orange- have been or are being demolished, the games being played in new facilities miles from the originals.
We may be getting ahead of ourselves here. Roski doesn't have a team, the NFL still appears to view Los Angeles with disdain, the Rose Bowl is still packing them in.
But Los Angeles hasn't had a new stadium since the Coliseum was opened for business in 1923. The odds favor a new one sooner rather than later. And if Roski makes his plan work, the ramifications both pro and con could reach right into Pasadena.
And once again, the apathy is overwhelming.
Let's face it. We have two college football teams with bigtime fan bases in town. UCLA drew an average of 76,000 fans to the Rose Bowl last year with a mediocre team. And you couldn't get a ticket to a USC game at the Coliseum if your name was Tommy Trojan.
The NFL, after an absence of 14 years, just doesn't generate much buzz around here anymore.
Unless your name is Ed Roski.
Ed, part owner of the Lakers and Kings and co-owner of Staples Center, has gobs of money and the passion to bring the NFL back to the Los Angeles area.
He's so passionate, in fact, he has unveiled a plan to build a $800 million stadium in the city of Industry. All he needs is a team.
Which is like saying I can fly. All I need is wings.
If fans in Los Angeles are skeptical, they should be. The wreckage of other NFL plans lie strewn about like so much hurricane debris.
But let's engage in the willing suspension of disbelief for a few moments and presume Ed does the deal.
The Chargers or the Raiders or some other team rises to the bait and moves to Los Angeles.
The first thing the team would need is a place to play while their new stadium is being built.
Enter the Rose Bowl.
Eager to generate revenues for much needed improvements to their aging facility, a NFL team, even as a temporary tenant, would appear to be nothing short of Santa Claus to the Rose Bowl folks. They need hundreds of millions of dollars to bring their stadium into the 21st Century.
When they call the Rose Bowl the "Granddaddy of Them All," the emphasis is on "granddaddy." The place is 86 years old. It operates at a loss. It needs new seats, new tunnels, upgraded video and scoreboards, lighting and sound systems. It needs luxury suites to generate revenue.
It needs to be able to compete.
But there is a downside to all of this. Consider:
If Roski builds his stadium, you can be sure he wants to keep it full. Empty stadia cost money. Full ones create income. So it would be no surpise if Ed would enter the bidding to host the BCS college football championship game, a contest that has been held at the Rose Bowl in the past in rotation with other stadia in the country.
What Roski could offer is a state-of-the-art facility with abundent luxury boxes and other amenities the Rose Bowl, in its current state, couldn't hope to match.
The resulting loss of revenue for the Rose Bowl would be a blow not only to its financial future but to its stature as well, something the city of Pasadena could ill afford.
It is probably far-fetched to think that Roski's new stadium would pick off UCLA or the Tournament of Roses games as tenants. Far fetched but not impossible. With the exception of the Rose, all of the original stadia that hosted New Year's games - the Cotton, Sugar and Orange- have been or are being demolished, the games being played in new facilities miles from the originals.
We may be getting ahead of ourselves here. Roski doesn't have a team, the NFL still appears to view Los Angeles with disdain, the Rose Bowl is still packing them in.
But Los Angeles hasn't had a new stadium since the Coliseum was opened for business in 1923. The odds favor a new one sooner rather than later. And if Roski makes his plan work, the ramifications both pro and con could reach right into Pasadena.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Par for the Coarse
News: The Ladies Professional Golf Association will require
players to speak English starting in 2009, with players who have been LPGA
members for two years facing suspension if they can't pass an oral evaluation of
English skills. "Athletes now have more responsibilities and we want to help
their professional development," deputy commissioner Libba Galloway told
The Associated Press. "There are more fans, more media and more sponsors.
We want to help our athletes as best we can succeed off the golf course as
well as on it."
Views: Hogwash. The LPGA, whose television ratings rank somewhere
below reruns of "Wife Swap," is using the race card as a scapegoat for its
troubles.
It seems the women's tour has been populated in recent years by
Korean golfers whose skills often put them on top of the leaderboard. Like
most professional sports venues, it is becoming intermational in makeup.
But apparently many of the recent arrivals can't chat up the
sponsors, schmooze with high rolers in pro-ams or grab big enough endorsement
deals to please the cash hungry LPGA. So the tour leadership is blaming those
who don't look like them.
If it's not bad enough that the LPGA has chosen the meat cleaver
approach to its problems, it broke the news as athletes from around the world
gathered to compete in harmony and friendship in Beijing.
Half the Dodgers roster in recent years has been made up of
foreign-born athletes. Can you imagine what the reaction would have been if Major
League Baseball would have given Fernando Valenzuela or Hideo Nomo the heave
ho based on their language skills?
The LPGA has chosen stupidity over diversity.
News: The newspaper business is going to hell.
Views: This is a topic of great debate but apparently journalists
in San Diego are buying into the glass-half-empty view.
About 20 Union-Tribune staffers slept in the newspaper's lobby
recently, determined not to miss their chance to take what's expected to be the
final buyout offer.
News: Some men may be more genetically predisposed to encounter
difficulties in monogamous relationships, including marriage, a Swedish study
indicates.
Views: Like we guys have been saying all along, we just can't
help it. The research out of Stockholm's Karolinska Institute suggests two
out of five men have the DNA pattern that makes them less able to commit to
a stable relationship.
And you thought we were just insensitive slobs.
If that's not enough, Psychology Today suggests that the history
of western civilization aside, humans are naturally polygamous.
Polyandry (a marriage of one woman to many men) is very rare, but polygyny (the
marriage of one man to many women) is widely practiced in human societies,
even though Judeo-Christian traditions hold that monogamy is the only natural
form of marriage.
Or, as George Bernard Shaw put it, "The maternal instinct leads a
woman to prefer a tenth share in a first-rate man to the exclusive possession
of a third-rate one."
This particular study has set off a debate about whether people
should conduct genetic tests to find out whether potential mates are bad
marriage prospects.
Which means when you give her a ring, she may ask to swab the
inside of your mouth before she says "yes."
Helen Fisher, a biological anthropologist at Rutgers University
who studies romantic love, told the Washington Post that she would not
reject a potential mate whose DNA is suspect. But, she added "I might not
start a joint bank account with them for the first few years."
News: John McCain names Alaska Gov. Sarah Polin as his running
mate.
Views: If McCain wanted to draw attention to the Republican
convention this week, he has succeeded beyond anybody's wildest dreams.
By selecting Polin, he has tosssed a political flash bang grenade
into the room whose resounding explosion is still ringing in our collective
ears.
And while many in the GOP decry the attention focused on Polin as
a liberal media hatchet job, they must know that when someone uknown is
dropped onto the international stage as a major player, questions are going
to be asked.
Are some of these questions irrelevant? Is the media going
overboard? Not when the person in question is next in line to be the most powerful
person on the planet.
I was critical last week when Obama named Joe Biden as his running
mate. A long-winded party insider who has been kicking around the Beltway
most of his political life, he hardly exemplifies the "change we can believe
in" mantra of the Obama campaign.
But Sarah Polin is more sound bite than substance, the victim of a
cynical process in which expediency often trumps experience.
If she's an attempt to corner the female vote, someone didn't do
their homework. When Geraldine Ferraro, a Democrat, ran for vice president
in 1984 as the first woman on a major party ticket, she and Walter Mondale
lost the women's vote by 12 percentage points to Ronald Reagan and George Bush.
And strictly on resume, she makes Joe Biden look like Thomas
Jefferson.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Just a Guy Named Joe
News and views.
News: Barack Obama selects Delaware Sen. Joe Biden as his running mate.
Views: Joe Biden?
The same Joe Biden who said of Obama, “ I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy…”
The same Joe Biden who said, “You cannot go into a 7-11 or a Dunkin'Donuts unless you have a slight Indian accent. Oh, I'm not joking."
The same Joe Biden who said in June, “I'd make a great president. I'd make a great Secretary of State. I'd make a great vice president. There are a lot of people out there who want the job. I'm not one of them… (But) you'd have to take it. There's not a single, solitary person who, with Barack Obama as the presidential nominee in this most historic of races, who if asked would say 'no.' I wouldn't say 'no.' I hope he doesn't ask me….”
What, was Yogi Berra unavailable?
If Obama wants to capture the imagination of voters by bringing change to Washington, he might have done better than a 65-year-old insider with foot-in-mouth disease and a Senator Beauregard Claghorn approach to stump politics.
OK, he’s a blue collar guy and is considered an expert on foreign affairs, both attributes the Obama campaign is seeking to exploit.
But when you hear the slogan, “Change We Can Believe In,” do you think of Joe Biden? I don’t.
It all goes to show that while the vice president may only be a heartbeat away from the Oval Office, it’s not a job that makes the pulse race.
Who ever voted for Dan Quayle or Dick Cheney?
News: It seems like only yesterday the Summer Olympics were in full bloom.
Views: Actually, it was only a week ago. And it was a memorable event, filled with spectacle and excitement not to mention suppression of dissent and lots of “spontaneous” enthusiasm by the Chinese fans.
NBC drew high marks and the event itself was watched by the largest viewing audience in the history of TV.
However.
I could have done without announcer Chris Collingsworth, who conducted a one-man love-in, gushing over everyone and every place he saw. He praised the Chinese people for their unflagging hospitality which leads me to believe he didn’t ask them about human rights or freedom of expression and he kept his distance from the military, whose members appeared to have had any hint on kindness in their faces surgically removed.
And I hope I’ve heard the last of Bella Karolyi, who game new meaning to the term sore loser by ripping judges and athletes of whom he didn’t approve in a voice that sounded chillingly like Dracula.
He directed most of his wrath at the Chinese who he accused on using under-age Munchkins in the women’s gymnastics competition.
I happen to believe he was right.
I’ve seen bigger athletes at Mommy and Me classes. For example, Deng Linlin is 4-foot-6, 68-pounds.Jiang Yuyuan, is 4-7 and 70 pounds.
On the other hand, NBC failed to mention that Japan’s Koko Tsurumi is 4-7 and 75 pounds. Russia’s Ksenia Semenova is 4-6 and 77 pounds. Japan’s team average is just 4-10 and 82.5 pounds.
By comparison, Shawn Johnson of the U.S. is checks in at 4-foot-9 and 90 pounds, a virtual summo wrestler compared to some of the competition.
Size matters in gymnastics.
I’m not saying it wasn’t a legitimate point. I’d just rather hear it from someone who didn’t sound like he was about to bite me on the neck.
While were at it, I could also do without platform diving, team handball, synchronized swimming and field hockey.
Speaking of the Olympics, is the best the Brits could offer at the closing ceremonies was the inevitable David Beckham and Jimmy Paige?
It’s bad enough Paige can’t sing anymore, but then they had to tone down the lyrics to “Whole Lotta Love” which was deemed too sexually explicit for a bunch of 20-something athletes.
Couldn’t he have done “Stairway to Heaven” instead? Or better yet, invite Ringo to sing “With a Little Help From My Friends.”
News: John McCain is endorsed by Daddy Yankee.
Views: No, Daddy Yankee is not another name for Uncle Sam. Indeed, Daddy Yankee is big star among some elements of our younger generation, a musician whose dabbles in something called raggaeton.
This was no offhand endorsement. The two men appeared together in Phoenix where Yankee (or Daddy if you know him well enough) said that McCain is “a fighter for the Hispanic community” and “a fighter for the immigration issue.’’
Replied McCain, “I just want to say thank you, Daddy Yankee.’’
According to the New York Times, Daddy Yankee, a native of Puerto Rico, had a smash hit a few years back called “Gasolina.”Although its catchy refrain, “Dame mas gasoline,’’ or give me more gasoline, fits in nicely with Mr. McCain’s “drill here, drill now” message these days, the Times reported, it is usually understood as a double entendre that has little to do with fossil fuels.
All of which would have caused smiles at Obama headquarters if they didn’t have their own celebrity headaches.
Singer Madonna, never one known to practice moderation in thought or deed, kicked off her latest world tour with images of McCain, Adolf Hitler, Robert Mugabe, starving children and global warming, all wrapped up in one multimedia spectacular.
In the meantime, Obama was depicted as Gandhi and John Lennon.
Poor Barack. Next thing you know, he’ll be endorsed by the Dixie Chicks.
News: Barack Obama selects Delaware Sen. Joe Biden as his running mate.
Views: Joe Biden?
The same Joe Biden who said of Obama, “ I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy…”
The same Joe Biden who said, “You cannot go into a 7-11 or a Dunkin'Donuts unless you have a slight Indian accent. Oh, I'm not joking."
The same Joe Biden who said in June, “I'd make a great president. I'd make a great Secretary of State. I'd make a great vice president. There are a lot of people out there who want the job. I'm not one of them… (But) you'd have to take it. There's not a single, solitary person who, with Barack Obama as the presidential nominee in this most historic of races, who if asked would say 'no.' I wouldn't say 'no.' I hope he doesn't ask me….”
What, was Yogi Berra unavailable?
If Obama wants to capture the imagination of voters by bringing change to Washington, he might have done better than a 65-year-old insider with foot-in-mouth disease and a Senator Beauregard Claghorn approach to stump politics.
OK, he’s a blue collar guy and is considered an expert on foreign affairs, both attributes the Obama campaign is seeking to exploit.
But when you hear the slogan, “Change We Can Believe In,” do you think of Joe Biden? I don’t.
It all goes to show that while the vice president may only be a heartbeat away from the Oval Office, it’s not a job that makes the pulse race.
Who ever voted for Dan Quayle or Dick Cheney?
News: It seems like only yesterday the Summer Olympics were in full bloom.
Views: Actually, it was only a week ago. And it was a memorable event, filled with spectacle and excitement not to mention suppression of dissent and lots of “spontaneous” enthusiasm by the Chinese fans.
NBC drew high marks and the event itself was watched by the largest viewing audience in the history of TV.
However.
I could have done without announcer Chris Collingsworth, who conducted a one-man love-in, gushing over everyone and every place he saw. He praised the Chinese people for their unflagging hospitality which leads me to believe he didn’t ask them about human rights or freedom of expression and he kept his distance from the military, whose members appeared to have had any hint on kindness in their faces surgically removed.
And I hope I’ve heard the last of Bella Karolyi, who game new meaning to the term sore loser by ripping judges and athletes of whom he didn’t approve in a voice that sounded chillingly like Dracula.
He directed most of his wrath at the Chinese who he accused on using under-age Munchkins in the women’s gymnastics competition.
I happen to believe he was right.
I’ve seen bigger athletes at Mommy and Me classes. For example, Deng Linlin is 4-foot-6, 68-pounds.Jiang Yuyuan, is 4-7 and 70 pounds.
On the other hand, NBC failed to mention that Japan’s Koko Tsurumi is 4-7 and 75 pounds. Russia’s Ksenia Semenova is 4-6 and 77 pounds. Japan’s team average is just 4-10 and 82.5 pounds.
By comparison, Shawn Johnson of the U.S. is checks in at 4-foot-9 and 90 pounds, a virtual summo wrestler compared to some of the competition.
Size matters in gymnastics.
I’m not saying it wasn’t a legitimate point. I’d just rather hear it from someone who didn’t sound like he was about to bite me on the neck.
While were at it, I could also do without platform diving, team handball, synchronized swimming and field hockey.
Speaking of the Olympics, is the best the Brits could offer at the closing ceremonies was the inevitable David Beckham and Jimmy Paige?
It’s bad enough Paige can’t sing anymore, but then they had to tone down the lyrics to “Whole Lotta Love” which was deemed too sexually explicit for a bunch of 20-something athletes.
Couldn’t he have done “Stairway to Heaven” instead? Or better yet, invite Ringo to sing “With a Little Help From My Friends.”
News: John McCain is endorsed by Daddy Yankee.
Views: No, Daddy Yankee is not another name for Uncle Sam. Indeed, Daddy Yankee is big star among some elements of our younger generation, a musician whose dabbles in something called raggaeton.
This was no offhand endorsement. The two men appeared together in Phoenix where Yankee (or Daddy if you know him well enough) said that McCain is “a fighter for the Hispanic community” and “a fighter for the immigration issue.’’
Replied McCain, “I just want to say thank you, Daddy Yankee.’’
According to the New York Times, Daddy Yankee, a native of Puerto Rico, had a smash hit a few years back called “Gasolina.”Although its catchy refrain, “Dame mas gasoline,’’ or give me more gasoline, fits in nicely with Mr. McCain’s “drill here, drill now” message these days, the Times reported, it is usually understood as a double entendre that has little to do with fossil fuels.
All of which would have caused smiles at Obama headquarters if they didn’t have their own celebrity headaches.
Singer Madonna, never one known to practice moderation in thought or deed, kicked off her latest world tour with images of McCain, Adolf Hitler, Robert Mugabe, starving children and global warming, all wrapped up in one multimedia spectacular.
In the meantime, Obama was depicted as Gandhi and John Lennon.
Poor Barack. Next thing you know, he’ll be endorsed by the Dixie Chicks.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Conventional Wisdom
Two incidents come to mind when I recall the dawn of the television age in America.
My first encounter with TV came shortly after a neighbor got the first set on the block. I raced to their house one Saturday morning anxious to see the first major league baseball game of my young life.
Until then, big league baseball on the West Coast was a fairy tale, a mystical game sometimes heard but never seen played by larger than life heroes in a faraway land.
I plunked down in front of the set along with the other neighborhood kids only to be required by the lady of the house to stand at stiff attention, salute and sing the National Anthem for those in the living room while some organist 2500 miles away played in an octive out of my reach.
Fortunately, my parents bought a set shortly thereafter so I was able to watch baseball and keep my dignity intact at the same time.
My other memory involves watching a political convention for the first time.
I won't claim to have been a political junky at the age of 10 but there was high drama taking place in Chicago in 1952 as Dwight Eisenhower and Robert Taft competed to be the Republican Party standardbearer.
Funny hats, fiery speeches, bands, demonstrations, roll calls punctuated by drama and humor. It beat hell out of "I Love Lucy."
I was a Taft fan, probably because his name was Bob. And watching high-energy democracy in motion struck a chord in me that resonates to this day. (I don't recall the Democratic convention. My father, a staunch Republican who considered Democrats nothing more than layabouts and welfare cheats, probably would have forbade me from watching it had I wanted to. Thus, I missed the nomination of Adlai Stevenson who ran on the anti-charisma slate).
Remembering political conventions back when they actually meant something is like yearning for the days of cheap gas and penny post cards. It's hard to believe such things even existed.
But the conventions march relentlessly on as we will see when the Democrats gather in Denver next week and the Republicans meet in St. Paul the following week.
The party business is concluded long before the opening gavel drops which means the conventions become week-long pep rallies.
The day when platforms would be built plank by plank and horse trading and back room dealing would be prime time fare are long gone.
Both parties learned that while dirty laundry may be compelling viewing, it didn't do a lot for them at the ballot box. Look no farther than the ruinous 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago to understand that point.
And yet there are reasons to watch this year. Both network and and cable stations know it. They are actually increasing their coverage.
In Denver, Barack Obama will conclude his selection as the party nominee with a speech at Invesco Field, the 75,000-seat home to the Denver Broncos football team. It won't be the largest crowd he has drawn but it is sure to underscore his image as a rock star, able to draw massive audiences to hear his message.
But before Obama takes center stage, there are a pair of 500-pound gorillas that will have their say.
First is Hillary Clinton, who will speak on Aug. 26. Her campaign brought her closer than any other woman in history to securing the party's nomination.
Because of that, her supporters want to stage a march through the hall, a tribute with music and balloons, or some other display to mark her achievement, according to published reports.
Clinton supporters are adament she be shown respect at the convention. You can bet that whatever Hillary wants, she'll get. Her support is too important to the Obama camp.
The other looming presence is Bill Clinton, who, as one wag wrote, is behaving more like King Lear than keynote speaker.
The former president's support of the the Obama campaign has been tepid at best and it's anybody's guess whether he will be party royalty or a royal pain.
Not only that, but he preceedes the vice president nominee on the dias. Given the Clinton proclivity for long-winded speeches, he could force the vice presidential candidate right out of prime time.
Al Gore will speak. How will the man who lost to George Bush be received?
John Edwards will not be there. His next speech may be in front of a self help group for cheating spouses.
The Republicans feature no less than the President of the United States, and Vice President Dick Cheney. Also featured will be 2000 Democratic vice presidential nominee Joe Lieberman, now a McCain supporter.
Our very own governor Arnold Schwarzeneger will speak despite his support of the Obama plan for properly inflated tires.
And the keynote speaker will be Rudolph Giuliani. Count the number if times he mentions 9/11.
On paper, the Republicans appears to present a more unified front but McCain's attempts to woo the convervative wing of the party won't be far off stage.
Tune in. It will be the best reality show on TV.
My first encounter with TV came shortly after a neighbor got the first set on the block. I raced to their house one Saturday morning anxious to see the first major league baseball game of my young life.
Until then, big league baseball on the West Coast was a fairy tale, a mystical game sometimes heard but never seen played by larger than life heroes in a faraway land.
I plunked down in front of the set along with the other neighborhood kids only to be required by the lady of the house to stand at stiff attention, salute and sing the National Anthem for those in the living room while some organist 2500 miles away played in an octive out of my reach.
Fortunately, my parents bought a set shortly thereafter so I was able to watch baseball and keep my dignity intact at the same time.
My other memory involves watching a political convention for the first time.
I won't claim to have been a political junky at the age of 10 but there was high drama taking place in Chicago in 1952 as Dwight Eisenhower and Robert Taft competed to be the Republican Party standardbearer.
Funny hats, fiery speeches, bands, demonstrations, roll calls punctuated by drama and humor. It beat hell out of "I Love Lucy."
I was a Taft fan, probably because his name was Bob. And watching high-energy democracy in motion struck a chord in me that resonates to this day. (I don't recall the Democratic convention. My father, a staunch Republican who considered Democrats nothing more than layabouts and welfare cheats, probably would have forbade me from watching it had I wanted to. Thus, I missed the nomination of Adlai Stevenson who ran on the anti-charisma slate).
Remembering political conventions back when they actually meant something is like yearning for the days of cheap gas and penny post cards. It's hard to believe such things even existed.
But the conventions march relentlessly on as we will see when the Democrats gather in Denver next week and the Republicans meet in St. Paul the following week.
The party business is concluded long before the opening gavel drops which means the conventions become week-long pep rallies.
The day when platforms would be built plank by plank and horse trading and back room dealing would be prime time fare are long gone.
Both parties learned that while dirty laundry may be compelling viewing, it didn't do a lot for them at the ballot box. Look no farther than the ruinous 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago to understand that point.
And yet there are reasons to watch this year. Both network and and cable stations know it. They are actually increasing their coverage.
In Denver, Barack Obama will conclude his selection as the party nominee with a speech at Invesco Field, the 75,000-seat home to the Denver Broncos football team. It won't be the largest crowd he has drawn but it is sure to underscore his image as a rock star, able to draw massive audiences to hear his message.
But before Obama takes center stage, there are a pair of 500-pound gorillas that will have their say.
First is Hillary Clinton, who will speak on Aug. 26. Her campaign brought her closer than any other woman in history to securing the party's nomination.
Because of that, her supporters want to stage a march through the hall, a tribute with music and balloons, or some other display to mark her achievement, according to published reports.
Clinton supporters are adament she be shown respect at the convention. You can bet that whatever Hillary wants, she'll get. Her support is too important to the Obama camp.
The other looming presence is Bill Clinton, who, as one wag wrote, is behaving more like King Lear than keynote speaker.
The former president's support of the the Obama campaign has been tepid at best and it's anybody's guess whether he will be party royalty or a royal pain.
Not only that, but he preceedes the vice president nominee on the dias. Given the Clinton proclivity for long-winded speeches, he could force the vice presidential candidate right out of prime time.
Al Gore will speak. How will the man who lost to George Bush be received?
John Edwards will not be there. His next speech may be in front of a self help group for cheating spouses.
The Republicans feature no less than the President of the United States, and Vice President Dick Cheney. Also featured will be 2000 Democratic vice presidential nominee Joe Lieberman, now a McCain supporter.
Our very own governor Arnold Schwarzeneger will speak despite his support of the Obama plan for properly inflated tires.
And the keynote speaker will be Rudolph Giuliani. Count the number if times he mentions 9/11.
On paper, the Republicans appears to present a more unified front but McCain's attempts to woo the convervative wing of the party won't be far off stage.
Tune in. It will be the best reality show on TV.
Golden Moments
There are a lot of reasons to shun the Olympics.
A larger-than-life spectacle intended to showcase the very best the human race has to offer, it has been tainted too often by doping scandals, judging controversies, violence and boycotts.
The opening ceremonies have become orgies of extravagance whose cost exceeds the gross national product of some of the participating countries.
The games have been villified, politicized, commercialized and trivilized.
Yet, like California, we love it despite all its faults.
Where else can you see a finish as electric as the men's 400 meter swimming relay in which the U.S. beat the trash-talking, snail eating, bordeaux sipping French, an outcome that would have been more emotional only if we had edged out the Taliban. (Remind me: Why is it we are supposed to hate the French? Because they opposed the war in Iraq?)
Where else can you watch a Ghanian boxer named Prince Octopus Dzanie ply his craft?
Where else would you receive a press release from the Beijing Tourist Bureau announcing the serving of dog in restaurants will be suspeded during the games. "Restaurant staff should patiently suggest another entree," the release stated. Watch out, cats of China.
Where else can you see smog that makes Los Angeles look like Vail? Or as David Letterman said, ""There's excitement in the air over the Olympics...also lead, arsenic, benzene."
Where else can you watch a 9-year-old lip sync "Ode to the Motherland" because the real 7-year-old singer had crooked teeth?
Where else can see you Michael Phelps turn water into gold?
When else would you spend a weekend watching team handball, archery, synchronized diving, women's saber and weightlifting?
When else can you hear archery commentators make a match between Korea and Italy sound like the seventh game of the World Series?
When else would you look forward to the broadcast of events such as rhythmic gymnastics, race walking, modern pentathalon, table tennis and field hockey, all coming to a TV set near you soon.
Speaking of TV, NBC is in the middle of broadcasting 3600 hours of Olympic events. Or as one wag commented, just a few hours short of the number of "Law and Order" repeats running each week.
More than 34 million tuned into the opening ceremonies. An Associated Press dispatch pointed out that means some 270 million took a pass. I guess they were watching a "Law and Order" rerun.
One recent evening, I counted at least seven commercials running back to back during break time. Most of them seemed to be narrated by Morgan Freeman, who can make a credit card commercial sound like the Ten Commandments.
Some touted the candidacy of Barack Obama or John McCain, which means there is no escape from a presidential campaign characteried by tire pressure gauges and Paris Hilton.
Through all this thicket, NBC is doing a commendable job. The hype and overstatement are being kept to a minimum. The coverage extends beyond America competitors to those from other countries. Breaking news is being covered in a professional manner.
Let the games continue. And enjoy the ride.
A larger-than-life spectacle intended to showcase the very best the human race has to offer, it has been tainted too often by doping scandals, judging controversies, violence and boycotts.
The opening ceremonies have become orgies of extravagance whose cost exceeds the gross national product of some of the participating countries.
The games have been villified, politicized, commercialized and trivilized.
Yet, like California, we love it despite all its faults.
Where else can you see a finish as electric as the men's 400 meter swimming relay in which the U.S. beat the trash-talking, snail eating, bordeaux sipping French, an outcome that would have been more emotional only if we had edged out the Taliban. (Remind me: Why is it we are supposed to hate the French? Because they opposed the war in Iraq?)
Where else can you watch a Ghanian boxer named Prince Octopus Dzanie ply his craft?
Where else would you receive a press release from the Beijing Tourist Bureau announcing the serving of dog in restaurants will be suspeded during the games. "Restaurant staff should patiently suggest another entree," the release stated. Watch out, cats of China.
Where else can you see smog that makes Los Angeles look like Vail? Or as David Letterman said, ""There's excitement in the air over the Olympics...also lead, arsenic, benzene."
Where else can you watch a 9-year-old lip sync "Ode to the Motherland" because the real 7-year-old singer had crooked teeth?
Where else can see you Michael Phelps turn water into gold?
When else would you spend a weekend watching team handball, archery, synchronized diving, women's saber and weightlifting?
When else can you hear archery commentators make a match between Korea and Italy sound like the seventh game of the World Series?
When else would you look forward to the broadcast of events such as rhythmic gymnastics, race walking, modern pentathalon, table tennis and field hockey, all coming to a TV set near you soon.
Speaking of TV, NBC is in the middle of broadcasting 3600 hours of Olympic events. Or as one wag commented, just a few hours short of the number of "Law and Order" repeats running each week.
More than 34 million tuned into the opening ceremonies. An Associated Press dispatch pointed out that means some 270 million took a pass. I guess they were watching a "Law and Order" rerun.
One recent evening, I counted at least seven commercials running back to back during break time. Most of them seemed to be narrated by Morgan Freeman, who can make a credit card commercial sound like the Ten Commandments.
Some touted the candidacy of Barack Obama or John McCain, which means there is no escape from a presidential campaign characteried by tire pressure gauges and Paris Hilton.
Through all this thicket, NBC is doing a commendable job. The hype and overstatement are being kept to a minimum. The coverage extends beyond America competitors to those from other countries. Breaking news is being covered in a professional manner.
Let the games continue. And enjoy the ride.
Gone to the Dogs
Things are particularly dire these days in Sacramento, that political Chernobyl where good government goes to die.
Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger is calling the state's budget deficit, estimated at more than $15 billion, a "fiscal emergency."
At the same time, a new Field Poll states that only 40% of the residents of our fair land think Arnie is doing a good job. And 57% think the state legislature stinks.
Indeed, 68 per cent think the state is on the wrong track while only 21 per cent think it's moving in the right direction.
But forget all that.
This week, in the kind of bold action that has made making law in Sacramento legendary, our legislature passed and the governor signed a bill that will allow you to leave your personal fortune to your cat.
Or iguana, goat, parakeet, fish or whatever happens to be hanging around at the time you write your will.
We may be broke. Our schools may be going to hell. We may be running out water. But, by God, Californians will have the right to take care of Rex and Fluffy in their golden years.
This bit of legislative derring-do is brought to you by state Sen. Leland Yee (D-San Francisco) whose law will take effect Jan. 1.
Unlike most states, California law has treated pet trust funds as honorary and therefore the trusts are often unenforceable, he said.
"Pets are an important part of the American family," Yee said. "SB 685 will make pet trusts enforceable and assure that the wishes of pet owners are respected."
Great work, Mr. Yee. But while you were busy trying to nail down the pet owner vote, June 15 came and went, the date on which the state constitution says a budget must be enacted.
Then came the next deadline, July 1, when the new fiscal year begins.
By late August, the state could be unable to pay its bills without borrowing.
What's going on here?
The Democrats and Republicans are fighting like, well, cats and dogs. Bickering and backbiting are the status quo.
The Democrats contend revenues can be can be raised by closing tax loopholes. Republicans are calling the Democratic plan a tax hike by any other name.
The governor, for his part, wants to borrow heavily against future state lottery revenues, a plan that has flopped with Democrats, Republicans and, according to polls, the public as well.
And if his scheme fails, you and I will pay an additional sales tax of one cent, raising it to 8.25 per cent.
How do we get out of this mess, short of leveling the capitol and starting all over again?
One bright light is a bipartisan, foundation supported group called California Forward which is attempting to get a handle on the problem.
The groups says its mission is "to transform our state government through citizen-driven solutions to provide better representation, smarter budgeting and fiscal management, and high quality public services so all Californians have the opportunity to be safe, healthy and prosperous in the global economy."
"The current budget process," the group says," is largely a relic of the mid-20th century, with the focus on how much to increase spending (or how much to cut), rather than the value that public services bring to Californians over time.
"These annual budget decisions often either push California's fiscal systems toward long-term solvency or away from it. The ongoing and chronic imbalance between revenues and expenditures is one indicator of system failure. Changing how budget process decisions are made could enable public leaders to deal with the more intractable and complex problems involving the revenue system and the state-local relationship."
It's a noble quest, one that could take years to accomplish.
But California Forward is a ray of hope because it's clear that reform in Sacramento will have to come from outside of the legislative establishment.
Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger is calling the state's budget deficit, estimated at more than $15 billion, a "fiscal emergency."
At the same time, a new Field Poll states that only 40% of the residents of our fair land think Arnie is doing a good job. And 57% think the state legislature stinks.
Indeed, 68 per cent think the state is on the wrong track while only 21 per cent think it's moving in the right direction.
But forget all that.
This week, in the kind of bold action that has made making law in Sacramento legendary, our legislature passed and the governor signed a bill that will allow you to leave your personal fortune to your cat.
Or iguana, goat, parakeet, fish or whatever happens to be hanging around at the time you write your will.
We may be broke. Our schools may be going to hell. We may be running out water. But, by God, Californians will have the right to take care of Rex and Fluffy in their golden years.
This bit of legislative derring-do is brought to you by state Sen. Leland Yee (D-San Francisco) whose law will take effect Jan. 1.
Unlike most states, California law has treated pet trust funds as honorary and therefore the trusts are often unenforceable, he said.
"Pets are an important part of the American family," Yee said. "SB 685 will make pet trusts enforceable and assure that the wishes of pet owners are respected."
Great work, Mr. Yee. But while you were busy trying to nail down the pet owner vote, June 15 came and went, the date on which the state constitution says a budget must be enacted.
Then came the next deadline, July 1, when the new fiscal year begins.
By late August, the state could be unable to pay its bills without borrowing.
What's going on here?
The Democrats and Republicans are fighting like, well, cats and dogs. Bickering and backbiting are the status quo.
The Democrats contend revenues can be can be raised by closing tax loopholes. Republicans are calling the Democratic plan a tax hike by any other name.
The governor, for his part, wants to borrow heavily against future state lottery revenues, a plan that has flopped with Democrats, Republicans and, according to polls, the public as well.
And if his scheme fails, you and I will pay an additional sales tax of one cent, raising it to 8.25 per cent.
How do we get out of this mess, short of leveling the capitol and starting all over again?
One bright light is a bipartisan, foundation supported group called California Forward which is attempting to get a handle on the problem.
The groups says its mission is "to transform our state government through citizen-driven solutions to provide better representation, smarter budgeting and fiscal management, and high quality public services so all Californians have the opportunity to be safe, healthy and prosperous in the global economy."
"The current budget process," the group says," is largely a relic of the mid-20th century, with the focus on how much to increase spending (or how much to cut), rather than the value that public services bring to Californians over time.
"These annual budget decisions often either push California's fiscal systems toward long-term solvency or away from it. The ongoing and chronic imbalance between revenues and expenditures is one indicator of system failure. Changing how budget process decisions are made could enable public leaders to deal with the more intractable and complex problems involving the revenue system and the state-local relationship."
It's a noble quest, one that could take years to accomplish.
But California Forward is a ray of hope because it's clear that reform in Sacramento will have to come from outside of the legislative establishment.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Words Worth
IF you think a pescatarian is a member of a Protestant church or that prosecco is thinly sliced Italian ham, you, my friend, are engaging in mondegreen.
Or so we're told in the latest edition of the Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary which contains 100 new entries including "pescatarian" (a vegetarian who eats fish), "prosecco" (a sparkling Italian wine) and "mondegreen" which describes words mistaken for other words.
The folks at Merriam Webster have picked the new entries after monitoring their use for several years in a job that must be long on patience and short on stress.
"As soon as we see the word used without explanation or translation or gloss, we consider it a naturalized citizen of the English language," Peter Sokolowski, an editor-at-large for Merriam-Webster, told the Associated Press. "If somebody is using it to convey a specific idea and that idea is successfully conveyed in that word, it's ready to go in the dictionary."
Among the other terms that have recently found their way into print are soju (a Korean vodka distilled from rice), air quotes (a gesture made by raising and flexing the index and middle fingers of both hands, used to call attention to a word or expression), edamame (immature green soybeans), malware (software designed to interfere with a computer's normal functioning) and netroots (grassroots political activists who communicate via the Internet).
We also find racino (a racetrack at which slot machines are available for gamblers), webinar (a live online presentation during which viewers can submit questions and comments) and subprime, a term that unfortunately needs no explanation.
"Pescatarian" recalls a couple I once knew who refused to eat anything with a face. They bickered all through a dinner one evening while trying to decide if scallops fell into that category.
But "mondegreen" is my favorite. I'm surprised someone didn't coin a phrase for misunderstood phrases or lyrics centuries ago.
Instead, it was left to writer Sylvia Wright who coined the term in an essay called "The Death of Lady Mondegreen," which was published in Harper's Magazine. Wright described how, as a young girl, she misheard the final line of the first stanza from the 17th century ballad "The Bonnie Earl O' Murray."
She wrote: "When I was a child, my mother used to read aloud to me from Percy's Reliques, and one of my favorite poems began, as I remember: Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands, Oh, where hae ye been? They hae slain the Earl Amurray, (sic) And Lady Mondegreen.
"The actual fourth line is `And laid him on the green.' The point about what I shall hereafter call mondegreens, since no one else has thought up a word for them, is that they are better than the original," Wright explained.
She cited as an example, "Surely Good Mrs. Murphy shall follow me all the days of my life ("Surely goodness and mercy ..." from Psalm 23).
Perhaps the most famous modern example was the lyric from Credence Clearwater Revival that went "There's a a bad moon on the rise" which was heard by many as "There's a bathroom on the right."
Then there was "`Scuse me while I kiss the sky" from a lyric in the song "Purple Haze" by Jimi Hendrix, which somehow became "`Scuse me while I kiss this guy."
In an episode of the television sitcom "Friends," Phoebe believes the lyric from Elton John's "Tiny Dancer," "Hold me closer, tiny dancer" is actually "Hold me close, young Tony Danza."
In the CBS sitcom "The Nanny," "The girl with kaleidoscope eyes," from the song "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" by the Beatles, is misheard as "The girl with colitis goes by."
A Macy Gray song contains the "My world crumbles when you are not there." It was heard both as "I walk on gum balls when you're not there," and "I wear goggles for you on my rear."
Jon Carroll of the San Francisco Chronicle reported that "A social worker ... was dictating a report in which she mentioned that her client was living with her paramour. It came back from the typist that she was living with her power mower."
Carroll also wrote that a TV weatherman somehow became a "meaty urologist."
Who said the study of language was dull.
robert.rector@sgvn.com
Or so we're told in the latest edition of the Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary which contains 100 new entries including "pescatarian" (a vegetarian who eats fish), "prosecco" (a sparkling Italian wine) and "mondegreen" which describes words mistaken for other words.
The folks at Merriam Webster have picked the new entries after monitoring their use for several years in a job that must be long on patience and short on stress.
"As soon as we see the word used without explanation or translation or gloss, we consider it a naturalized citizen of the English language," Peter Sokolowski, an editor-at-large for Merriam-Webster, told the Associated Press. "If somebody is using it to convey a specific idea and that idea is successfully conveyed in that word, it's ready to go in the dictionary."
Among the other terms that have recently found their way into print are soju (a Korean vodka distilled from rice), air quotes (a gesture made by raising and flexing the index and middle fingers of both hands, used to call attention to a word or expression), edamame (immature green soybeans), malware (software designed to interfere with a computer's normal functioning) and netroots (grassroots political activists who communicate via the Internet).
We also find racino (a racetrack at which slot machines are available for gamblers), webinar (a live online presentation during which viewers can submit questions and comments) and subprime, a term that unfortunately needs no explanation.
"Pescatarian" recalls a couple I once knew who refused to eat anything with a face. They bickered all through a dinner one evening while trying to decide if scallops fell into that category.
But "mondegreen" is my favorite. I'm surprised someone didn't coin a phrase for misunderstood phrases or lyrics centuries ago.
Instead, it was left to writer Sylvia Wright who coined the term in an essay called "The Death of Lady Mondegreen," which was published in Harper's Magazine. Wright described how, as a young girl, she misheard the final line of the first stanza from the 17th century ballad "The Bonnie Earl O' Murray."
She wrote: "When I was a child, my mother used to read aloud to me from Percy's Reliques, and one of my favorite poems began, as I remember: Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands, Oh, where hae ye been? They hae slain the Earl Amurray, (sic) And Lady Mondegreen.
"The actual fourth line is `And laid him on the green.' The point about what I shall hereafter call mondegreens, since no one else has thought up a word for them, is that they are better than the original," Wright explained.
She cited as an example, "Surely Good Mrs. Murphy shall follow me all the days of my life ("Surely goodness and mercy ..." from Psalm 23).
Perhaps the most famous modern example was the lyric from Credence Clearwater Revival that went "There's a a bad moon on the rise" which was heard by many as "There's a bathroom on the right."
Then there was "`Scuse me while I kiss the sky" from a lyric in the song "Purple Haze" by Jimi Hendrix, which somehow became "`Scuse me while I kiss this guy."
In an episode of the television sitcom "Friends," Phoebe believes the lyric from Elton John's "Tiny Dancer," "Hold me closer, tiny dancer" is actually "Hold me close, young Tony Danza."
In the CBS sitcom "The Nanny," "The girl with kaleidoscope eyes," from the song "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" by the Beatles, is misheard as "The girl with colitis goes by."
A Macy Gray song contains the "My world crumbles when you are not there." It was heard both as "I walk on gum balls when you're not there," and "I wear goggles for you on my rear."
Jon Carroll of the San Francisco Chronicle reported that "A social worker ... was dictating a report in which she mentioned that her client was living with her paramour. It came back from the typist that she was living with her power mower."
Carroll also wrote that a TV weatherman somehow became a "meaty urologist."
Who said the study of language was dull.
robert.rector@sgvn.com
Bush League
IF any of these things happen to you, run, don't walk, to the nearest metaphoric exit:
A guy on a street corner tries to sell you a gold watch.
A "financial adviser" promises you double-digit returns on your investment.
A lame duck president pulls a major policy change out of his hat, the consequences of which will extend far beyond his term of office.
Let's assume you're smart enough to avoid the first two pitfalls and instead focus on No. 3.
President Bush, a half-year short of concluding what might be charitably called a controversial two terms in office, this past week lifted a presidential ban on offshore drilling, saying it would ease pressure on oil prices by increasing domestic production.
"With this action, the executive branch's restrictions on this exploration have been cleared away," Bush said. "This means that the only thing standing between the American people and these vast oil resources is action from the U.S. Congress."
At issue are about 19 billion barrels that, the Interior Department says, lie in federal waters in the Gulf of Mexico and off the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. Nothing can happen, however, unless Congress chooses not to extend its moratorium, first enacted in 1981.
Bush's plan is brilliant in its simplicity. But for all the wrong reasons.
To call this move political would be an understatement. In one deft sound bite, the president kicked the entire energy crisis/gas price mess into the laps of the Democrats who currently control Congress. At the same time, he gave hope, however false, to Americans chafing under the yoke of soaring gas prices that the solution is just a drilling rig or two away.
There are, however, a few conclusions we can draw from Mr. Bush's actions:
First, we apparently have a president who decries our addiction to oil (See State of the Union message, 2006), then suggests that the way to deal with that addiction is to find more.
Second, it would take at least seven years to even begin drilling in areas currently under the moratorium, and the resulting effect on gas prices could be a decade or more away. According to the Energy Department, a barrel of oil now costs approximately $140. Increased supply would cut that price to an estimated $138.60 to $139.60 a barrel. No one knows how this would affect the price of a gallon of gas for consumers at the pump.
Third, the president fails to acknowledge that the environmental danger in offshore drilling is substantial.
Californians ought to know. They need to look no farther than Santa Barbara. There, on the afternoon of Jan. 29, 1969, a Union Oil Co. platform stationed six miles off the coast of Summerland suffered a blowout.
For 11 days, oil workers struggled to cap the rupture. During that time, 200,000 gallons of crude oil bubbled to the surface and were spread into an 800-square-
mile slick by winds and swells. Incoming tides brought the thick tar to beaches from Rincon Point to Goleta, marring 35 miles of coastline.
Incoming tides brought the corpses of dead seals and dolphins. Oil had clogged the blowholes of the dolphins, causing massive lung hemorrhages.
Animals that ingested the oil were poisoned. In the months that followed, gray whales migrating to their calving and breeding grounds in Baja California avoided the channel, their main route south.
Shorebirds, which feed on sand creatures, fled the area. But diving birds, which must get their nourishment from the waters themselves, became soaked with tar.
"I don't like to call it a disaster," Fred L. Hartley, president of Union Oil Co., said at the time, "because there has been no loss of human life. I am amazed at the publicity for the loss of a few birds."
But the worst thing about the Bush plan is that an unrestricted quest for new oil reserves would prematurely halt a revolution in automobile manufacturing that has been too long in coming.
In the next several years, a new generation of cars, from hybrids to electrics, will be hitting the market. A new Prius. A new Honda. A new VW. Cars driven by ethanol, hydrogen, biofuel, clean diesel. Many are scheduled to arrive on the market starting in 2010.
We are on the verge of the greatest revolution in automotive technology since the advent of the internal combustion engine. It's one that will not only change the way we drive, but will be cleaner as well. In the long term, it could even break the undeniable link between oil and terrorism.
But if you want to stop it dead in its tracks, make it the policy of this country to dig for oil no matter what the cost or consequence.
A guy on a street corner tries to sell you a gold watch.
A "financial adviser" promises you double-digit returns on your investment.
A lame duck president pulls a major policy change out of his hat, the consequences of which will extend far beyond his term of office.
Let's assume you're smart enough to avoid the first two pitfalls and instead focus on No. 3.
President Bush, a half-year short of concluding what might be charitably called a controversial two terms in office, this past week lifted a presidential ban on offshore drilling, saying it would ease pressure on oil prices by increasing domestic production.
"With this action, the executive branch's restrictions on this exploration have been cleared away," Bush said. "This means that the only thing standing between the American people and these vast oil resources is action from the U.S. Congress."
At issue are about 19 billion barrels that, the Interior Department says, lie in federal waters in the Gulf of Mexico and off the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. Nothing can happen, however, unless Congress chooses not to extend its moratorium, first enacted in 1981.
Bush's plan is brilliant in its simplicity. But for all the wrong reasons.
To call this move political would be an understatement. In one deft sound bite, the president kicked the entire energy crisis/gas price mess into the laps of the Democrats who currently control Congress. At the same time, he gave hope, however false, to Americans chafing under the yoke of soaring gas prices that the solution is just a drilling rig or two away.
There are, however, a few conclusions we can draw from Mr. Bush's actions:
First, we apparently have a president who decries our addiction to oil (See State of the Union message, 2006), then suggests that the way to deal with that addiction is to find more.
Second, it would take at least seven years to even begin drilling in areas currently under the moratorium, and the resulting effect on gas prices could be a decade or more away. According to the Energy Department, a barrel of oil now costs approximately $140. Increased supply would cut that price to an estimated $138.60 to $139.60 a barrel. No one knows how this would affect the price of a gallon of gas for consumers at the pump.
Third, the president fails to acknowledge that the environmental danger in offshore drilling is substantial.
Californians ought to know. They need to look no farther than Santa Barbara. There, on the afternoon of Jan. 29, 1969, a Union Oil Co. platform stationed six miles off the coast of Summerland suffered a blowout.
For 11 days, oil workers struggled to cap the rupture. During that time, 200,000 gallons of crude oil bubbled to the surface and were spread into an 800-square-
mile slick by winds and swells. Incoming tides brought the thick tar to beaches from Rincon Point to Goleta, marring 35 miles of coastline.
Incoming tides brought the corpses of dead seals and dolphins. Oil had clogged the blowholes of the dolphins, causing massive lung hemorrhages.
Animals that ingested the oil were poisoned. In the months that followed, gray whales migrating to their calving and breeding grounds in Baja California avoided the channel, their main route south.
Shorebirds, which feed on sand creatures, fled the area. But diving birds, which must get their nourishment from the waters themselves, became soaked with tar.
"I don't like to call it a disaster," Fred L. Hartley, president of Union Oil Co., said at the time, "because there has been no loss of human life. I am amazed at the publicity for the loss of a few birds."
But the worst thing about the Bush plan is that an unrestricted quest for new oil reserves would prematurely halt a revolution in automobile manufacturing that has been too long in coming.
In the next several years, a new generation of cars, from hybrids to electrics, will be hitting the market. A new Prius. A new Honda. A new VW. Cars driven by ethanol, hydrogen, biofuel, clean diesel. Many are scheduled to arrive on the market starting in 2010.
We are on the verge of the greatest revolution in automotive technology since the advent of the internal combustion engine. It's one that will not only change the way we drive, but will be cleaner as well. In the long term, it could even break the undeniable link between oil and terrorism.
But if you want to stop it dead in its tracks, make it the policy of this country to dig for oil no matter what the cost or consequence.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Sky Isn't Falling
COURTESY of the Associated Press, here's the latest missive from the Chicken Little school of journalism:
"Midwestern levees are bursting. Polar bears are adrift. Gas prices are skyrocketing. Home values are abysmal. Air fares, college tuition and health care border on unaffordable. Wars without end rage in Iraq, Afghanistan and against terrorism ...
"... a battered public seems discouraged by the onslaught of dispiriting things. An Associated Press-Ipsos poll says a barrel-scraping 17 percent of people surveyed believe the country is moving in the right direction. That is the lowest reading since the survey began in 2003.
"An ABC News-Washington Post survey put that figure at 14 percent, tying the low in more than three decades of taking soundings on the national mood."
Let's not bury our heads in the sand. Nobody is going to mistake this particular moment in time as America's golden era.
And while many are quick to blame George Bush, the Saudis, global warming or Kobe Bryant for the miserable state of things, let's get real for a moment.
While it's not the best of times, it's not the worst of times either.
Consider this era as described in an online history:
"What was once the land of opportunity was now the land of desperation. What was once the land of hope and optimism had become the land of despair.
"The American people were questioning all the maxims on which they had based their lives: democracy, capitalism, individualism ... the income of the average American family was reduced by 40 percent, from $2,300 to $1,500. Instead of advancement, survival became the keyword."
That, folks, was the Great Depression.
Unemployment rose from 5 million in 1930 to 13 million by the end of 1932. Unemployed fathers saw children hired for sub-standard wages. In 1930, 2.25 million boys and girls ages 10-18 worked in factories, canneries, mines and on farms. Children left school to support their families.
Kids in Appalachia were so hungry they chewed on their hands. The nation's suicide rate was at an all-time high.
Families split up or migrated from their homes in search of work. Shanty towns - constructed of packing crates, abandoned cars and other scraps - sprung up across the nation. Gangs of youths, whose families could no longer support them, rode the rails in box cars hoping to find a job. Victims of the drought and dust storms in the Great Plains left their farms and headed for California, the new land of "milk and honey," where some were stopped at the border.
And at the outset of the misery, Secretary of the Treasury Andrew Mellon advised President Hoover that shock treatment would be the best response:
"Liquidate labor, liquidate stocks, liquidate the farmers, liquidate real estate. ... That will purge the rottenness out of the system. High costs of living and high living will come down. People will work harder, live a more moral life. Values will be adjusted, and enterprising people will pick up the wrecks from less competent people."
Tough times? The toughest.
Then there was 1942. Hitler and Mussolini occupied most of continental Europe and many Americans believed England would soon fall. The Japanese were sweeping across the Pacific toward Australia. People on the West Coast feared an invasion, or at the least another Pearl Harbor. Nazi leaders were coordinating the "final solution to the Jewish question."
Fear? You bet.
The year 1968 was no walk in the park either:
Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy were murdered in the prime of their lives. The North Vietnamese launched the Tet offensive, changing the course of the war in Southeast Asia. American casualties mounted. Anti-war protests paralyzed college campuses. President Lyndon Johnson announced he would not stand for reelection. The Democratic National Convention in Chicago was marred by violent clashes between protesters and Mayor Daley's police force. Richard Nixon is elected president.
Chaos? Absolutely.
And now, polar bears are adrift? Costly gas? We've seen a lot worse. And survived quite nicely. I'm not prepared to write off America yet.
Or as George Easterbrook of the Brookings Institute put it, "Would you rather live as an average person in the United States of the present day or in this or any other nation at any time in the past? That question answers itself, and is a reason for fundamental optimism."
I am not a sportswriter. This is not a sports column. But I am a golfer. And as such, a word about Tiger Woods.
Let me get this straight. Young Eldrick wins the U.S. Open, arguably the toughest tournament of the year, contested on a course the length of the 405 Freeway with Brazilian-rain-forest rough, while playing on a broken leg with a torn ACL. In sudden death. After a 18-hole playoff.
They say Tiger is out for the year with knee surgery. Don't believe it. He's out for a lube and an oil change.
Because he's more machine than man.
"Midwestern levees are bursting. Polar bears are adrift. Gas prices are skyrocketing. Home values are abysmal. Air fares, college tuition and health care border on unaffordable. Wars without end rage in Iraq, Afghanistan and against terrorism ...
"... a battered public seems discouraged by the onslaught of dispiriting things. An Associated Press-Ipsos poll says a barrel-scraping 17 percent of people surveyed believe the country is moving in the right direction. That is the lowest reading since the survey began in 2003.
"An ABC News-Washington Post survey put that figure at 14 percent, tying the low in more than three decades of taking soundings on the national mood."
Let's not bury our heads in the sand. Nobody is going to mistake this particular moment in time as America's golden era.
And while many are quick to blame George Bush, the Saudis, global warming or Kobe Bryant for the miserable state of things, let's get real for a moment.
While it's not the best of times, it's not the worst of times either.
Consider this era as described in an online history:
"What was once the land of opportunity was now the land of desperation. What was once the land of hope and optimism had become the land of despair.
"The American people were questioning all the maxims on which they had based their lives: democracy, capitalism, individualism ... the income of the average American family was reduced by 40 percent, from $2,300 to $1,500. Instead of advancement, survival became the keyword."
That, folks, was the Great Depression.
Unemployment rose from 5 million in 1930 to 13 million by the end of 1932. Unemployed fathers saw children hired for sub-standard wages. In 1930, 2.25 million boys and girls ages 10-18 worked in factories, canneries, mines and on farms. Children left school to support their families.
Kids in Appalachia were so hungry they chewed on their hands. The nation's suicide rate was at an all-time high.
Families split up or migrated from their homes in search of work. Shanty towns - constructed of packing crates, abandoned cars and other scraps - sprung up across the nation. Gangs of youths, whose families could no longer support them, rode the rails in box cars hoping to find a job. Victims of the drought and dust storms in the Great Plains left their farms and headed for California, the new land of "milk and honey," where some were stopped at the border.
And at the outset of the misery, Secretary of the Treasury Andrew Mellon advised President Hoover that shock treatment would be the best response:
"Liquidate labor, liquidate stocks, liquidate the farmers, liquidate real estate. ... That will purge the rottenness out of the system. High costs of living and high living will come down. People will work harder, live a more moral life. Values will be adjusted, and enterprising people will pick up the wrecks from less competent people."
Tough times? The toughest.
Then there was 1942. Hitler and Mussolini occupied most of continental Europe and many Americans believed England would soon fall. The Japanese were sweeping across the Pacific toward Australia. People on the West Coast feared an invasion, or at the least another Pearl Harbor. Nazi leaders were coordinating the "final solution to the Jewish question."
Fear? You bet.
The year 1968 was no walk in the park either:
Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy were murdered in the prime of their lives. The North Vietnamese launched the Tet offensive, changing the course of the war in Southeast Asia. American casualties mounted. Anti-war protests paralyzed college campuses. President Lyndon Johnson announced he would not stand for reelection. The Democratic National Convention in Chicago was marred by violent clashes between protesters and Mayor Daley's police force. Richard Nixon is elected president.
Chaos? Absolutely.
And now, polar bears are adrift? Costly gas? We've seen a lot worse. And survived quite nicely. I'm not prepared to write off America yet.
Or as George Easterbrook of the Brookings Institute put it, "Would you rather live as an average person in the United States of the present day or in this or any other nation at any time in the past? That question answers itself, and is a reason for fundamental optimism."
I am not a sportswriter. This is not a sports column. But I am a golfer. And as such, a word about Tiger Woods.
Let me get this straight. Young Eldrick wins the U.S. Open, arguably the toughest tournament of the year, contested on a course the length of the 405 Freeway with Brazilian-rain-forest rough, while playing on a broken leg with a torn ACL. In sudden death. After a 18-hole playoff.
They say Tiger is out for the year with knee surgery. Don't believe it. He's out for a lube and an oil change.
Because he's more machine than man.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
The NFL and Other Fairy Tales
Hey diddle diddle
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
And a guy with dough
Says believe it, it's so
The NFL will he here soon
- A fairy tale
BILLIONAIRE developer Ed Roski has unveiled plans to build a stadium right here in our very own San Gabriel Valley aimed at luring the National Football League back to Los Angeles, where it has been absent since 1994.
That's great news. It was also great news when similar plans were announced for the Rose Bowl, Hollywood Park, Dodger Stadium, the city of Commerce and various other schemes.
"I think this is important for Los Angeles, for the fabric of the city," said Roski, who along with Philip Anschutz built Staples Center. "The city has done real well without the NFL, and the NFL has done real well without the city. But I think it's important to have a professional football team in Los Angeles."
Roski controls the land necessary to build the stadium and already has a certified environmental impact report for the site, according to published reports.
The price tag: $800 million or so, which is cheap compared with other stadia being built these days.
Of course, Ed isn't going to pay the entire bill. He wants the NFL to cough up a $150-million loan and the promise of at least one Super Bowl.
And, typical of these exercises, he's already suffered a setback when opponents led by Los Angeles County supervisors managed to block an effort by the city of Industry to get millions of dollars in tax subsidies that could help lure a team to the area.
But Ed is soldiering on. Sort of.
After announcing his stadium plans, he told the editorial board of the San Gabriel Valley Tribune that it hinges on his ability to lure a team to town. If not, the stadium becomes a shopping center. Did you hear that, Rick Caruso?
For its part, the NFL has said in no uncertain terms that they find the proposal "an interesting possibility" which is what you'd tell a door-to-door salesman to get him off your stoop.
At the moment, the league is focused on working out its differences with the players union, improving its revenue-sharing system between clubs, and trying to get someone to watch the league-owned NFL Network.
I'm betting Roski is unwilling to wait in that line for very long.
In the meantime, I bet the folks at the Rose Bowl, which is short on tenants and cash, aren't particularly enthusiastic about a state-of-the art stadium a few off-ramps away.
Stay tuned.
Tim Russert would be embarrassed by the amount of print and air time his death has consumed.
A blue-collar guy from Buffalo, N.Y., who rose to become Washington bureau chief for NBC and the host of "Meet the Press," he earned a reputation as a tenacious but fair interviewer, one who earned respect and admiration from all sides of the political spectrum.
But four days after his death at the age of 58, Russert was still the lead story on NBC and some of its affiliates, even as much of Iowa reeled from flooding so severe that the damage is being counted in the billions of dollars.
As influential as Russert was, he remained a self-effacing guy who loved his family, his job and the Buffalo Bills in no particular order.
Now, he is being elevated by some to the pantheon of American heroes. One tribute characterized his passing as "the most noteworthy and untimely `public' death in the past 20 years."
Tim Russert was a newsman. He was not the story. He was not the president nor the pope. As a journalist, he was not Edward R. Murrow. He was not Ernie Pyle nor even Walter Cronkite.
And being "tough but fair" isn't a unique talent. It's required of anyone who enters the journalism profession, although some sadly fall woefully short.
The outpouring of emotion over Russert's death will undoubtedly exceed anything Bill O'Reilly or Keith Olbermann will receive.
But if you want to trivialize the man, continue covering his passing like the death of Anna Nicole Smith.
May Tim Russert rest in peace.
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
And a guy with dough
Says believe it, it's so
The NFL will he here soon
- A fairy tale
BILLIONAIRE developer Ed Roski has unveiled plans to build a stadium right here in our very own San Gabriel Valley aimed at luring the National Football League back to Los Angeles, where it has been absent since 1994.
That's great news. It was also great news when similar plans were announced for the Rose Bowl, Hollywood Park, Dodger Stadium, the city of Commerce and various other schemes.
"I think this is important for Los Angeles, for the fabric of the city," said Roski, who along with Philip Anschutz built Staples Center. "The city has done real well without the NFL, and the NFL has done real well without the city. But I think it's important to have a professional football team in Los Angeles."
Roski controls the land necessary to build the stadium and already has a certified environmental impact report for the site, according to published reports.
The price tag: $800 million or so, which is cheap compared with other stadia being built these days.
Of course, Ed isn't going to pay the entire bill. He wants the NFL to cough up a $150-million loan and the promise of at least one Super Bowl.
And, typical of these exercises, he's already suffered a setback when opponents led by Los Angeles County supervisors managed to block an effort by the city of Industry to get millions of dollars in tax subsidies that could help lure a team to the area.
But Ed is soldiering on. Sort of.
After announcing his stadium plans, he told the editorial board of the San Gabriel Valley Tribune that it hinges on his ability to lure a team to town. If not, the stadium becomes a shopping center. Did you hear that, Rick Caruso?
For its part, the NFL has said in no uncertain terms that they find the proposal "an interesting possibility" which is what you'd tell a door-to-door salesman to get him off your stoop.
At the moment, the league is focused on working out its differences with the players union, improving its revenue-sharing system between clubs, and trying to get someone to watch the league-owned NFL Network.
I'm betting Roski is unwilling to wait in that line for very long.
In the meantime, I bet the folks at the Rose Bowl, which is short on tenants and cash, aren't particularly enthusiastic about a state-of-the art stadium a few off-ramps away.
Stay tuned.
Tim Russert would be embarrassed by the amount of print and air time his death has consumed.
A blue-collar guy from Buffalo, N.Y., who rose to become Washington bureau chief for NBC and the host of "Meet the Press," he earned a reputation as a tenacious but fair interviewer, one who earned respect and admiration from all sides of the political spectrum.
But four days after his death at the age of 58, Russert was still the lead story on NBC and some of its affiliates, even as much of Iowa reeled from flooding so severe that the damage is being counted in the billions of dollars.
As influential as Russert was, he remained a self-effacing guy who loved his family, his job and the Buffalo Bills in no particular order.
Now, he is being elevated by some to the pantheon of American heroes. One tribute characterized his passing as "the most noteworthy and untimely `public' death in the past 20 years."
Tim Russert was a newsman. He was not the story. He was not the president nor the pope. As a journalist, he was not Edward R. Murrow. He was not Ernie Pyle nor even Walter Cronkite.
And being "tough but fair" isn't a unique talent. It's required of anyone who enters the journalism profession, although some sadly fall woefully short.
The outpouring of emotion over Russert's death will undoubtedly exceed anything Bill O'Reilly or Keith Olbermann will receive.
But if you want to trivialize the man, continue covering his passing like the death of Anna Nicole Smith.
May Tim Russert rest in peace.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Put Up or Shut Up
SEVERAL years back, I had to go to a hospital for a procedure called an MRI.
If you're not familiar with it, MRI stands for magnetic resonance imaging, a process that uses a powerful magnetic field, radio waves and a computer to produce detailed pictures of organs, soft tissues, bone and virtually all other internal body structures.
It's space-age stuff.
That's the good news. The bad news is that it requires you to be entombed for a lengthy period of time in a tube that provides scant inches of clearance. And while you're immobilized, the device in full operational mode sounds like someone is pounding on it with a sledge hammer.
This is no place for claustrophobes.
To ease the anxiety, technicians offer a set of earphones tuned to your favorite music style. I chose classical music for its soothing qualities.
Unknown to me and the technician, the classical station was conducting a pledge break about the time I was being squeezed into the tube. So I had to lie there like a canned sardine for an hour listening to a Greek chorus of pitchmen begging for money. Over and over and over.
I was reduced to babbling incoherence when they finally pulled me out.
I thought about this the other evening when I tuned into KCET, the local PBS television station, to check out a special featuring Frank Sinatra captured in his prime.
Advertised at two hours, it consisted of one hour of Frank interspersed with an hour of
pledge breaks.
Old Blue Eyes would have been Seeing Red.
Look, I'm a longtime fan and financial supporter of public television. While it's not what it used to be, it is still a refreshing change from commercial television, with its steady diet of mind-numbing reality shows and stupor inducing sitcoms.
I know money for public television is tight. Back in the 1990s, Newt Gingrich threatened to end government subsidies to public television which led to major funding cutbacks. Not to be outdone, the Bush administration has taken several runs at funding cuts as well.
But there's got to be a better way to raise money than these tin-cup begathons. The Sinatra concert at one point was interrupted after two songs by a radio "personality" and his wife, who carried on a stream of incoherent blather for 20 minutes.
Four songs after the pledge break, the happy couple are back, carrying on like carnival barkers for another 10 or 15 minutes.
It didn't make me take out my checkbook. It made me take out my remote.
I'm not alone. "The Simpsons" TV show once had an episode where Homer pledged $10,000 to end the pledge break just to get his favorite show resumed. Moments later, the PBS "Pledge Enforcement Van" arrives to collect the money causing Homer to flee.
Exaggerated. But not by much.
Sinatra is not the only victim of performance interruptus. It seems that nearly every prime-time show on KCET recently has been chopped up by pledge breaks.
Over the years, a parade of Grade B (or worse) celebrities have been brought in to hawk the benefits of membership. They work cheap. And it shows.
So what to do? One exasperated blogger suggested that they have the pledge break at the top of the show, then warn viewers that show won't be aired unless the fundraising goal is met. At least it would create some dramatic tension.
Why not a Jerry Lewis-style telethon? How about shorter, commercial-length pledge breaks? Why not just sell more commercial time?
As for me, I came up with my own solution. Tape or TiVo it, then watch it, fast-forwarding through the pledge breaks.
That's easier on the eyes and ears. But not on the conscience. You'll sleep better if you send your local PBS station a hefty check once a year.
If you're not familiar with it, MRI stands for magnetic resonance imaging, a process that uses a powerful magnetic field, radio waves and a computer to produce detailed pictures of organs, soft tissues, bone and virtually all other internal body structures.
It's space-age stuff.
That's the good news. The bad news is that it requires you to be entombed for a lengthy period of time in a tube that provides scant inches of clearance. And while you're immobilized, the device in full operational mode sounds like someone is pounding on it with a sledge hammer.
This is no place for claustrophobes.
To ease the anxiety, technicians offer a set of earphones tuned to your favorite music style. I chose classical music for its soothing qualities.
Unknown to me and the technician, the classical station was conducting a pledge break about the time I was being squeezed into the tube. So I had to lie there like a canned sardine for an hour listening to a Greek chorus of pitchmen begging for money. Over and over and over.
I was reduced to babbling incoherence when they finally pulled me out.
I thought about this the other evening when I tuned into KCET, the local PBS television station, to check out a special featuring Frank Sinatra captured in his prime.
Advertised at two hours, it consisted of one hour of Frank interspersed with an hour of
pledge breaks.
Old Blue Eyes would have been Seeing Red.
Look, I'm a longtime fan and financial supporter of public television. While it's not what it used to be, it is still a refreshing change from commercial television, with its steady diet of mind-numbing reality shows and stupor inducing sitcoms.
I know money for public television is tight. Back in the 1990s, Newt Gingrich threatened to end government subsidies to public television which led to major funding cutbacks. Not to be outdone, the Bush administration has taken several runs at funding cuts as well.
But there's got to be a better way to raise money than these tin-cup begathons. The Sinatra concert at one point was interrupted after two songs by a radio "personality" and his wife, who carried on a stream of incoherent blather for 20 minutes.
Four songs after the pledge break, the happy couple are back, carrying on like carnival barkers for another 10 or 15 minutes.
It didn't make me take out my checkbook. It made me take out my remote.
I'm not alone. "The Simpsons" TV show once had an episode where Homer pledged $10,000 to end the pledge break just to get his favorite show resumed. Moments later, the PBS "Pledge Enforcement Van" arrives to collect the money causing Homer to flee.
Exaggerated. But not by much.
Sinatra is not the only victim of performance interruptus. It seems that nearly every prime-time show on KCET recently has been chopped up by pledge breaks.
Over the years, a parade of Grade B (or worse) celebrities have been brought in to hawk the benefits of membership. They work cheap. And it shows.
So what to do? One exasperated blogger suggested that they have the pledge break at the top of the show, then warn viewers that show won't be aired unless the fundraising goal is met. At least it would create some dramatic tension.
Why not a Jerry Lewis-style telethon? How about shorter, commercial-length pledge breaks? Why not just sell more commercial time?
As for me, I came up with my own solution. Tape or TiVo it, then watch it, fast-forwarding through the pledge breaks.
That's easier on the eyes and ears. But not on the conscience. You'll sleep better if you send your local PBS station a hefty check once a year.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Give Me a Break
ONCE around the news cycle:
I'm declaring a moratorium.
After witnessing the most protracted presidential primary in recent history, a race largely characterized by which candidate had the goofiest pastor, I'm suffering from political fatigue.
I'm tired of John McCain, the presumptive anti-Bush. I'm tired of Barack Obama, whose campaign seems to have a flat tire. Or two. I'm tired of Hillary Clinton's ego. And I'm really tired of Bill Clinton.
I will attempt for two weeks not to listen to any political news, read any bloggers, watch any talk shows, discuss any candidate while waiting for my head to clear.
To do this, however, I will need Hillary Clinton's cooperation. That seems like a stretch right now. Rather than concede, Hillary is showing all the grace and dignity of a 2-year-old who, being told it's bedtime, reacts by holding her breath and flailing her arms and legs in an attempt to postpone the inevitable.
In mid-snit, she has reportedly told Democratic Party officials that she is "absolutely ready" to discuss the vice presidency.
I'm sure those are just the kind of character traits Barack Obama is seeking in a running mate.
Let's face it, her offer seems disingenuous. The Clintons are drawn to power like flies to a ribroast.
While Hillary brings unity to the Democratic Party, vice presidential candidates seldom decide the outcome of an election. How many votes did Joe Lieberman, John
Edwards or even Dick Cheney contribute?
Wake me when the campaign focuses on the real issues.
Meanwhile, back at the airport, we learn from Bloomberg News that airline executives are thinking "out of the box" in an attempt to stop the bleeding caused by high fuel costs. One of their bright ideas: treat passengers like freight.
Imagine this scenario: You arrive at the counter ready to board your flight and you are confronted by two scales.
One is for your bags, the other is for you. The price of your ticket will depend upon the weight of both. This would be great news for jockeys, fashion models and small children. Not so good for offensive linemen, women pregnant with twins and beer lovers.
While the scale proposal is still in the development stage, airlines are aggressively looking for ways to cut costs.
US Airways is replacing meal carts with models that are 12 pounds lighter. They've also eliminated glassware in first class in favor of lighter plastic cups.
American Airlines is pulling in-seat phones and investing in lighter silverware for business class passengers. I read that the airline is even considering eliminating in-flight magazines to lighten the load.
American, whose former CEO Bob Crandall once bragged that he saved the airline $40,000 by removing olives from first class dinner salads, has formed "Fuel Smart Teams" charged with continually searching for ways to save energy.
I can only imagine where this will end. Subway straps instead of seats? Charging by the mile like a taxi?
Stay tuned. Airline travel isn't going to get any better.
I couldn't let the week pass without raising a toast to Bo Diddley, the legendary rock figure who died this week at the age of 79.
When I was a youth, one of my first jobs was delivering newspapers in north Glendale. It was what we charitably called a throwaway paper. That means it was tossed on your lawn or doorstep, whether you wanted it nor not.
My route was in an area called College Hills, which is just as daunting as it sounds. With two large bags packed with newspapers strapped to the handlebars of my bike, I tried to cover a territory that would have taxed Lance Armstrong.
After delivering the paper twice a week, I would then visit every house on the route and try to collect a subscription fee for a product my customers never asked for.
The pay: $1.25 a week.
When the boss handed me my five quarters, I took off on my bike to the record store downtown. There, I purchased a record for the first time in my life. It was "Bo Diddley" by Bo Diddley.
I don't remember where I had heard it, but I had to have it. Its "shave and a haircut, two bits" beat struck a chord somewhere deep in my soul.
I raced home and played it so many times that my parents threatened to exile me to a tent in the back yard.
But when I played the flip side, "I'm a Man," a song of astounding raw sexual energy disguised as four-bar blues, my mother raced into my room and told me never to play it again.
I knew I was onto something good.
Here's to you, Bo. Thanks for the beat.
robert.rector@sgvn.com
I'm declaring a moratorium.
After witnessing the most protracted presidential primary in recent history, a race largely characterized by which candidate had the goofiest pastor, I'm suffering from political fatigue.
I'm tired of John McCain, the presumptive anti-Bush. I'm tired of Barack Obama, whose campaign seems to have a flat tire. Or two. I'm tired of Hillary Clinton's ego. And I'm really tired of Bill Clinton.
I will attempt for two weeks not to listen to any political news, read any bloggers, watch any talk shows, discuss any candidate while waiting for my head to clear.
To do this, however, I will need Hillary Clinton's cooperation. That seems like a stretch right now. Rather than concede, Hillary is showing all the grace and dignity of a 2-year-old who, being told it's bedtime, reacts by holding her breath and flailing her arms and legs in an attempt to postpone the inevitable.
In mid-snit, she has reportedly told Democratic Party officials that she is "absolutely ready" to discuss the vice presidency.
I'm sure those are just the kind of character traits Barack Obama is seeking in a running mate.
Let's face it, her offer seems disingenuous. The Clintons are drawn to power like flies to a ribroast.
While Hillary brings unity to the Democratic Party, vice presidential candidates seldom decide the outcome of an election. How many votes did Joe Lieberman, John
Edwards or even Dick Cheney contribute?
Wake me when the campaign focuses on the real issues.
Meanwhile, back at the airport, we learn from Bloomberg News that airline executives are thinking "out of the box" in an attempt to stop the bleeding caused by high fuel costs. One of their bright ideas: treat passengers like freight.
Imagine this scenario: You arrive at the counter ready to board your flight and you are confronted by two scales.
One is for your bags, the other is for you. The price of your ticket will depend upon the weight of both. This would be great news for jockeys, fashion models and small children. Not so good for offensive linemen, women pregnant with twins and beer lovers.
While the scale proposal is still in the development stage, airlines are aggressively looking for ways to cut costs.
US Airways is replacing meal carts with models that are 12 pounds lighter. They've also eliminated glassware in first class in favor of lighter plastic cups.
American Airlines is pulling in-seat phones and investing in lighter silverware for business class passengers. I read that the airline is even considering eliminating in-flight magazines to lighten the load.
American, whose former CEO Bob Crandall once bragged that he saved the airline $40,000 by removing olives from first class dinner salads, has formed "Fuel Smart Teams" charged with continually searching for ways to save energy.
I can only imagine where this will end. Subway straps instead of seats? Charging by the mile like a taxi?
Stay tuned. Airline travel isn't going to get any better.
I couldn't let the week pass without raising a toast to Bo Diddley, the legendary rock figure who died this week at the age of 79.
When I was a youth, one of my first jobs was delivering newspapers in north Glendale. It was what we charitably called a throwaway paper. That means it was tossed on your lawn or doorstep, whether you wanted it nor not.
My route was in an area called College Hills, which is just as daunting as it sounds. With two large bags packed with newspapers strapped to the handlebars of my bike, I tried to cover a territory that would have taxed Lance Armstrong.
After delivering the paper twice a week, I would then visit every house on the route and try to collect a subscription fee for a product my customers never asked for.
The pay: $1.25 a week.
When the boss handed me my five quarters, I took off on my bike to the record store downtown. There, I purchased a record for the first time in my life. It was "Bo Diddley" by Bo Diddley.
I don't remember where I had heard it, but I had to have it. Its "shave and a haircut, two bits" beat struck a chord somewhere deep in my soul.
I raced home and played it so many times that my parents threatened to exile me to a tent in the back yard.
But when I played the flip side, "I'm a Man," a song of astounding raw sexual energy disguised as four-bar blues, my mother raced into my room and told me never to play it again.
I knew I was onto something good.
Here's to you, Bo. Thanks for the beat.
robert.rector@sgvn.com
Monday, May 26, 2008
This Column Is a Dramatization
I got waylaid by the flu over the weekend, which gave me the opportunity to do two things: complain loudly to no one in particular about how lousy I felt and watch more TV than I normally would.
The complaining was futile. It didn't make me feel any better and my wife, who is a saint, was properly sympathetic but correctly determined the best thing to do was to keep a bit of distance from me.
I guess I was hoping for the Florence Nightingale approach, having my head cradled in her arms while she stroked my fevered brow until a deep if fitful sleep swept over me.
Instead, I was forced to turn to television for some comfort.
One thing becomes very apparent when you watch TV in earnest.
Most commercials carry more disclaimers than an astronaut's life insurance policy.
Take a Quiznos commercial, for example, in which a woman wads up a five dollar bill, shoves it in her mouth and chews away. The point being, a voice intones, that if you're going to eat five dollars, spend it on something tasty. Flashing across the bottom of the screen almost to the point of distraction were the admonishments, "Dramatization. Do not attempt."
I guess the Quiznos legal team decided to cover their collective rear ends just in case some viewer out there decided to wolf down a couple of fives after watching the ad. Not that there's much likelihood of that. After all, five bucks would buy you a gallon of gasoline these days.
On the other hand, Kodak used to make a disposable camera called "The Weekender" and actually got calls from people asking if it was OK to use it during the week.
Then there was a commercial - I'm not even sure what it was for - showing a guy using his small fluffy dog to sweep up what appeared to be spilled breakfast cereal.
Kind of funny, actually, until the disclaimer hit the screen: "Do not attempt. No dog was hurt in the filming of this commercial."
Thank God for that.
At this point, watching for the disclaimers became a lot more fun than watching the shows.
There was an ad for Chevrolet, for example. Chevy, despite being an American icon, has suffered declining sales over the years in great part by designing cars with all the flair and reliability of a Pakistani taxi cab.
While the new Chevys are an improvement, they still have miles to go.
This particular ad, however, ends with the announcement, "Look Out Camry," implying that Chevy is about to overtake Toyota, the world's best-selling automobile. The disclaimer? The quote is from a magazine article that is nearly three years old.
Hasn't anyone said anything nice about Chevy in three years?
There have been other classic examples.
Tide-to-Go ran a commercial during the Super Bowl featuring a guy interviewing for a job with a large stain on his shirt. The stain sprouts a mouth and begins talking gibberish, the point being that stains send an unintended message. A very clever and effective ad until the disclaimer kicks in: "Coffee stain depicted."
I personally loved the Lexus commercial where one car is dropped from a helicopter while another races underneath it on what appears to be a runway. Of course, this was followed by the words, "Do not attempt."
In fact, almost any car commercial theses days states "professional driver on a closed course," even when the car is shown driving down the street.
I also enjoy the Bowflex commercial that promises you a Greek god body if you would only use their product three times a week. After showing well-chiseled men and women using the product, it adds, "results not typical." Oh.
Pharmaceutical advertising is a disclaimer gold mine.
I once saw an ad, I think it was for a psoriasis medication, in which one of the possible side effects was death.
I saw a sleeping pill ad in which it warned, "may cause drowsiness."
Then there was Mirapex, which is used to treat something called restless leg syndrome. It warns: "Tell your doctor ... if you experience increased gambling, sexual or other intense urges."
Better yet, just go to Las Vegas.
Those E.D. commercials that intone, "ask your doctor if you are healthy enough for sexual activity" are always good for a laugh. I would guess that 99.9 percent of males between the ages of 16 and 96 - including those in ICU following quadruple bypass surgery - would consider themselves healthy enough for sex.
The complaining was futile. It didn't make me feel any better and my wife, who is a saint, was properly sympathetic but correctly determined the best thing to do was to keep a bit of distance from me.
I guess I was hoping for the Florence Nightingale approach, having my head cradled in her arms while she stroked my fevered brow until a deep if fitful sleep swept over me.
Instead, I was forced to turn to television for some comfort.
One thing becomes very apparent when you watch TV in earnest.
Most commercials carry more disclaimers than an astronaut's life insurance policy.
Take a Quiznos commercial, for example, in which a woman wads up a five dollar bill, shoves it in her mouth and chews away. The point being, a voice intones, that if you're going to eat five dollars, spend it on something tasty. Flashing across the bottom of the screen almost to the point of distraction were the admonishments, "Dramatization. Do not attempt."
I guess the Quiznos legal team decided to cover their collective rear ends just in case some viewer out there decided to wolf down a couple of fives after watching the ad. Not that there's much likelihood of that. After all, five bucks would buy you a gallon of gasoline these days.
On the other hand, Kodak used to make a disposable camera called "The Weekender" and actually got calls from people asking if it was OK to use it during the week.
Then there was a commercial - I'm not even sure what it was for - showing a guy using his small fluffy dog to sweep up what appeared to be spilled breakfast cereal.
Kind of funny, actually, until the disclaimer hit the screen: "Do not attempt. No dog was hurt in the filming of this commercial."
Thank God for that.
At this point, watching for the disclaimers became a lot more fun than watching the shows.
There was an ad for Chevrolet, for example. Chevy, despite being an American icon, has suffered declining sales over the years in great part by designing cars with all the flair and reliability of a Pakistani taxi cab.
While the new Chevys are an improvement, they still have miles to go.
This particular ad, however, ends with the announcement, "Look Out Camry," implying that Chevy is about to overtake Toyota, the world's best-selling automobile. The disclaimer? The quote is from a magazine article that is nearly three years old.
Hasn't anyone said anything nice about Chevy in three years?
There have been other classic examples.
Tide-to-Go ran a commercial during the Super Bowl featuring a guy interviewing for a job with a large stain on his shirt. The stain sprouts a mouth and begins talking gibberish, the point being that stains send an unintended message. A very clever and effective ad until the disclaimer kicks in: "Coffee stain depicted."
I personally loved the Lexus commercial where one car is dropped from a helicopter while another races underneath it on what appears to be a runway. Of course, this was followed by the words, "Do not attempt."
In fact, almost any car commercial theses days states "professional driver on a closed course," even when the car is shown driving down the street.
I also enjoy the Bowflex commercial that promises you a Greek god body if you would only use their product three times a week. After showing well-chiseled men and women using the product, it adds, "results not typical." Oh.
Pharmaceutical advertising is a disclaimer gold mine.
I once saw an ad, I think it was for a psoriasis medication, in which one of the possible side effects was death.
I saw a sleeping pill ad in which it warned, "may cause drowsiness."
Then there was Mirapex, which is used to treat something called restless leg syndrome. It warns: "Tell your doctor ... if you experience increased gambling, sexual or other intense urges."
Better yet, just go to Las Vegas.
Those E.D. commercials that intone, "ask your doctor if you are healthy enough for sexual activity" are always good for a laugh. I would guess that 99.9 percent of males between the ages of 16 and 96 - including those in ICU following quadruple bypass surgery - would consider themselves healthy enough for sex.
Glitz Comes to Glendale
I am not the kind of guy who builds his plans for the day around a trip to the mall.
But there are malls. Then there's a Rick Caruso mall.
So I found myself the other day wandering through the $400 million open-air mix of retail and residential glitz known as the Americana, a monument to conspicuous consumption rising along a seedy stretch of Brand Boulevard in Glendale.
If you live in the San Gabriel Valley, none of this would impact your life greatly except for the fact that developer Caruso is coming soon to a town near you.
His Shops at Santa Anita, scheduled to open in 2010, will feature nearly 830,000 square feet of commercial, retail and office development on the southern parking lot of the racetrack, with about nine acres of open space.
He already has The Grove at Farmer's Market on his resume, a wildly popular venture featuring 50 upscale shops, restaurants and movie theaters created in various architectural styles ranging from Art Deco to Italian Renaissance.
Think of the Vegas strip populated with boutiques.
But it wasn't Vegas that came to mind when I set foot in the Americana. It was Disneyland.
Like the Grove, the Americana is a mishmash of architectural styles, featuring an array of high end boutiques centered on a massive "dancing" fountain and what might be described as a village green, a rolling lawn surrounded by paved pathways.
The only transportation inside the Americana is by trolly car, a nice touch that makes us believe that Caruso is yearning for a simpler time. That feeling is underscored by the music of Frank Sinatra piped throughout the development.
At first glance, it looked all the world like Disney's Main Street U.S.A. All that was missing was a barbershop quartet. And Goofy.
I wondered how long it would be until someone staged an Americana on Parade down the mall's main street.
But on closer inspection, this is is no Disneyland. Or if it is, it's a Fantasyland for folks with lots of disposable income.
This is shopping for the European Greens and Chardonnay set.
This is a mall with a concierge desk that provides valet service, wardrobe consultation and styling, dry cleaning, tailoring, even a yoga instructor.
There's Barneys New York, Tiffany and Co., Kate Spade. There are a lot places with names like Custo Barcelona, Lululemon Athletica, Marciano, Rachel Ashwell Shabby Chic, and a boutique called Peek, Aren't You Curious.
There's Calvin Klein, Anthropologie, Urban Outfitters, Lacoste, Martin+Osa, Free People, H&M, Juicy Couture, XXI from Forever 21.
Caruso calls it a "return to glamour."
I call it a mall aimed at young women with lots of time and money on their hands. Or the guys who love them.
Oh, there's a movie complex, a Barnes and Noble, a couple of restaurants. But this is no country for old men.
There are 100 condos and 238 apartments that sit atop the retail stores. There's nothing new about this. Paseo Colorado in Pasadena had the same configuration years ago.
But Paseo Colorado sits on the edge of the charming Old Pasadena area. The Americana, with condos ranging from the low $700,000s to $2 million and rents from $2,000 to $5,500 a month, sits in south Glendale.
One wonders, especially in today's economic environment, just how high the Americana will fly. While there's not a lot of high-end shopping in the Glendale area, maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe it's the law of the marketplace.
Not that I'd bet against Caruso.
He battled the neighboring Glendale Galleria over his development plans and eventually won the right to proceed from the city's voters.
His plans for Santa Anita had been opposed by Arcadia First!, a group backed in part by the Westfield Group, which owns nearby Westfield Santa Anita mall.
He won both those battles. Whether or not he has won the war - will his vision of a Southern California populated with high-end boutiques, dancing fountains and "a return to glamour" prevail? - remains to be seen.
But there are malls. Then there's a Rick Caruso mall.
So I found myself the other day wandering through the $400 million open-air mix of retail and residential glitz known as the Americana, a monument to conspicuous consumption rising along a seedy stretch of Brand Boulevard in Glendale.
If you live in the San Gabriel Valley, none of this would impact your life greatly except for the fact that developer Caruso is coming soon to a town near you.
His Shops at Santa Anita, scheduled to open in 2010, will feature nearly 830,000 square feet of commercial, retail and office development on the southern parking lot of the racetrack, with about nine acres of open space.
He already has The Grove at Farmer's Market on his resume, a wildly popular venture featuring 50 upscale shops, restaurants and movie theaters created in various architectural styles ranging from Art Deco to Italian Renaissance.
Think of the Vegas strip populated with boutiques.
But it wasn't Vegas that came to mind when I set foot in the Americana. It was Disneyland.
Like the Grove, the Americana is a mishmash of architectural styles, featuring an array of high end boutiques centered on a massive "dancing" fountain and what might be described as a village green, a rolling lawn surrounded by paved pathways.
The only transportation inside the Americana is by trolly car, a nice touch that makes us believe that Caruso is yearning for a simpler time. That feeling is underscored by the music of Frank Sinatra piped throughout the development.
At first glance, it looked all the world like Disney's Main Street U.S.A. All that was missing was a barbershop quartet. And Goofy.
I wondered how long it would be until someone staged an Americana on Parade down the mall's main street.
But on closer inspection, this is is no Disneyland. Or if it is, it's a Fantasyland for folks with lots of disposable income.
This is shopping for the European Greens and Chardonnay set.
This is a mall with a concierge desk that provides valet service, wardrobe consultation and styling, dry cleaning, tailoring, even a yoga instructor.
There's Barneys New York, Tiffany and Co., Kate Spade. There are a lot places with names like Custo Barcelona, Lululemon Athletica, Marciano, Rachel Ashwell Shabby Chic, and a boutique called Peek, Aren't You Curious.
There's Calvin Klein, Anthropologie, Urban Outfitters, Lacoste, Martin+Osa, Free People, H&M, Juicy Couture, XXI from Forever 21.
Caruso calls it a "return to glamour."
I call it a mall aimed at young women with lots of time and money on their hands. Or the guys who love them.
Oh, there's a movie complex, a Barnes and Noble, a couple of restaurants. But this is no country for old men.
There are 100 condos and 238 apartments that sit atop the retail stores. There's nothing new about this. Paseo Colorado in Pasadena had the same configuration years ago.
But Paseo Colorado sits on the edge of the charming Old Pasadena area. The Americana, with condos ranging from the low $700,000s to $2 million and rents from $2,000 to $5,500 a month, sits in south Glendale.
One wonders, especially in today's economic environment, just how high the Americana will fly. While there's not a lot of high-end shopping in the Glendale area, maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe it's the law of the marketplace.
Not that I'd bet against Caruso.
He battled the neighboring Glendale Galleria over his development plans and eventually won the right to proceed from the city's voters.
His plans for Santa Anita had been opposed by Arcadia First!, a group backed in part by the Westfield Group, which owns nearby Westfield Santa Anita mall.
He won both those battles. Whether or not he has won the war - will his vision of a Southern California populated with high-end boutiques, dancing fountains and "a return to glamour" prevail? - remains to be seen.
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Pope and the Press
I have recently returned from Washington, D.C., where in the space of five days I experienced glorious religious pageantry, unholy gridlock and journalism at its most mediocre and very best.
What more can you ask for in a vacation?
It began when I, quite by accident, touched down at almost the very moment the Pope was arriving for his visit to the United States, an experience that led me to devise Rector's First Rule of Historic Events: no matter where or when they occur, historic events create massive traffic jams.
On a normal day, Washington is no walk in the park when it comes to traffic.
Take one 18th century city, designed for travel by horseback. Add tens of thousands of bureaucrats, diplomats, members of the military, elected officials and tourists by the busload.
Then top with the most visible religious leader in the world and stir in thousands of his followers. Voila: You have a city at standstill.
Amid the gridlock, souvenir hawkers sold Pope-on-a-rope soap, bobble head dolls, T-shirts, key chains, tote bags, coffee mugs, all adorned with either a likeness of Benedict XVI or the papal seal.
The streets were jammed with adoring clergy and lay people along with protesting atheists, zealots of dubious beliefs, even scalpers hawking tickets to a Mass at the local baseball stadium ("Who needs two down by the altar?")
The local media interviewed them all. Breathlessly. TV became all Pope, all the time.
After the Mass, viewers were subjected to more seat-of-the-pants analysis than a Super Bowl. We heard interviews with people who saw the Pope, people who hoped to see the Pope, people who saw the Virgin Mary on a pancake. Nobody escaped the dreaded roving reporters.
A procession of priests and theologians spoke endlessly and glowingly of the Pope's visit. Of course, asking a priest about the Pope is like asking Laura Bush her opinion of the president.
What did it all mean? What lasting effect will the visit have? Did it defuse the pedophile priest controversy? Did it boost the image of the Catholic Church in America? Alas, these were questions that were never asked. The pageantry trumped the purpose.
On the other side of the coin, I visited the newly opened Newseum, a massive, $450 million, six-story edifice that in the words of the Washington Post's Howard Kurtz is "an overpriced monument to journalistic self-glorification."
Perhaps it is. But given the mistrust of the media, plummeting newspaper readership and declining TV news ratings, who else but the profession is going to honor the profession? Passing the hat would not have got the place built.
Aside from quirky touches like an interactive ethics gallery, a video game in which you play an editor making decisions about a developing story (I passed: been there, done that) and a 4-D movie that combines the best of the First Amendment with "House of Wax," the place is not so much a monument as a museum.
Eight giant sections of the Berlin Wall, complete with East German guard tower, provide mute testimony to a brutal totalitarian regime.
The spire of twisted steel that had been the communications tower of the World Trade Center along with a chunk of limestone from the Pentagon is accompanied by a wrenching documentary about the media who were at Ground Zero that day.
The Watergate hotel door that led to the burglar's capture is on display. So is the bomb-damaged Datsun in which Arizona reporter Don Bolles was killed while exposing mob activity in Arizona.
There's a page from a Gutenberg Bible. There's Thomas Paine's writing desk. There's a news helicopter hanging in the atrium. A massive gallery houses historic newspaper front pages and magazines from declarations of war to presidential assassinations. The front page of an edition of the Neosho (Mo.) Times declares "JESSE JAMES Assassinated!"
The front page of the San Francisco Examiner from 9/11 has a picture of the massive fireball created when United flight 175 hit the south tower of the World Trade Center with a single word headline, "BASTARDS!"
This is a warts and all presentation. Janet Cooke, Jayson Blair, Stephen Glass and others who disgraced the profession are represented. So is the "Dewey Defeats Truman" front page from the Chicago Tribune and various newspapers that prematurely awarded the 2000 election to George W. Bush.
There is the "Headless Body in Topless Bar" headline from the New York Post and a lot of "Saturday Night Live" media sendups displayed on TV monitors.
There is a gallery of Pulitzer Prize-winning photographs, most of which chronicle our failures rather than our successes.
Ultimately, the Newseum is a monument to the First Amendment: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances." And it is noble in its execution.
But there's a certain irony in the fact that it is opening at a time the news business faces declining revenues, massive layoffs, desperate searches for a new business model.
Even though you won't see any mention of these problems within its walls, you can't help but wonder if the Newseum soon enough will become like the Louvre, a repository of ancient ideas and artifacts.
We will be poorer if it does.
What more can you ask for in a vacation?
It began when I, quite by accident, touched down at almost the very moment the Pope was arriving for his visit to the United States, an experience that led me to devise Rector's First Rule of Historic Events: no matter where or when they occur, historic events create massive traffic jams.
On a normal day, Washington is no walk in the park when it comes to traffic.
Take one 18th century city, designed for travel by horseback. Add tens of thousands of bureaucrats, diplomats, members of the military, elected officials and tourists by the busload.
Then top with the most visible religious leader in the world and stir in thousands of his followers. Voila: You have a city at standstill.
Amid the gridlock, souvenir hawkers sold Pope-on-a-rope soap, bobble head dolls, T-shirts, key chains, tote bags, coffee mugs, all adorned with either a likeness of Benedict XVI or the papal seal.
The streets were jammed with adoring clergy and lay people along with protesting atheists, zealots of dubious beliefs, even scalpers hawking tickets to a Mass at the local baseball stadium ("Who needs two down by the altar?")
The local media interviewed them all. Breathlessly. TV became all Pope, all the time.
After the Mass, viewers were subjected to more seat-of-the-pants analysis than a Super Bowl. We heard interviews with people who saw the Pope, people who hoped to see the Pope, people who saw the Virgin Mary on a pancake. Nobody escaped the dreaded roving reporters.
A procession of priests and theologians spoke endlessly and glowingly of the Pope's visit. Of course, asking a priest about the Pope is like asking Laura Bush her opinion of the president.
What did it all mean? What lasting effect will the visit have? Did it defuse the pedophile priest controversy? Did it boost the image of the Catholic Church in America? Alas, these were questions that were never asked. The pageantry trumped the purpose.
On the other side of the coin, I visited the newly opened Newseum, a massive, $450 million, six-story edifice that in the words of the Washington Post's Howard Kurtz is "an overpriced monument to journalistic self-glorification."
Perhaps it is. But given the mistrust of the media, plummeting newspaper readership and declining TV news ratings, who else but the profession is going to honor the profession? Passing the hat would not have got the place built.
Aside from quirky touches like an interactive ethics gallery, a video game in which you play an editor making decisions about a developing story (I passed: been there, done that) and a 4-D movie that combines the best of the First Amendment with "House of Wax," the place is not so much a monument as a museum.
Eight giant sections of the Berlin Wall, complete with East German guard tower, provide mute testimony to a brutal totalitarian regime.
The spire of twisted steel that had been the communications tower of the World Trade Center along with a chunk of limestone from the Pentagon is accompanied by a wrenching documentary about the media who were at Ground Zero that day.
The Watergate hotel door that led to the burglar's capture is on display. So is the bomb-damaged Datsun in which Arizona reporter Don Bolles was killed while exposing mob activity in Arizona.
There's a page from a Gutenberg Bible. There's Thomas Paine's writing desk. There's a news helicopter hanging in the atrium. A massive gallery houses historic newspaper front pages and magazines from declarations of war to presidential assassinations. The front page of an edition of the Neosho (Mo.) Times declares "JESSE JAMES Assassinated!"
The front page of the San Francisco Examiner from 9/11 has a picture of the massive fireball created when United flight 175 hit the south tower of the World Trade Center with a single word headline, "BASTARDS!"
This is a warts and all presentation. Janet Cooke, Jayson Blair, Stephen Glass and others who disgraced the profession are represented. So is the "Dewey Defeats Truman" front page from the Chicago Tribune and various newspapers that prematurely awarded the 2000 election to George W. Bush.
There is the "Headless Body in Topless Bar" headline from the New York Post and a lot of "Saturday Night Live" media sendups displayed on TV monitors.
There is a gallery of Pulitzer Prize-winning photographs, most of which chronicle our failures rather than our successes.
Ultimately, the Newseum is a monument to the First Amendment: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances." And it is noble in its execution.
But there's a certain irony in the fact that it is opening at a time the news business faces declining revenues, massive layoffs, desperate searches for a new business model.
Even though you won't see any mention of these problems within its walls, you can't help but wonder if the Newseum soon enough will become like the Louvre, a repository of ancient ideas and artifacts.
We will be poorer if it does.
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