He warned us, but have we given him a fighting chance?
by
Tom Davidson
“If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer,” President-elect Barack Obama said when the majority of the nation elected him on Nov. 5, 2008.
Last night, we deserved a better answer.
I’ll concede I wouldn’t wish the problems he’s facing on anyone, but it was time for President Obama to start acting like he’s a part of the solution to our problems, not an impartial bystander to the doomsday events that have plagued us.
For too long, he’s been a harbinger of bad news instead of being the leader who forges a new path, politics be damned. His cool standoffishness is not what the country needs in a leader right now. I didn’t like Reagan’s politics, but as a leader, he was at least a good actor.
When it came to tragedy or terrorism, the man who busted the air-traffic controllers union, talked our way out of the Cold War, and mourned with us through the Challenger Tragedy, was able to lead with gusto and decisiveness, legalities be damned; Reagan was Presidential.
President Obama’s aloofness is costing him a chance to win over people in the name of a crisis. This is a time for us to band together, as he said when he won our hearts and minds, we Americans “who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of red states and blue states; we are, and always will be, the United States of America,” he told us then.
Really?
I’m sick and tired of the divisiveness of the nation. I don’t believe the “grassroots” support of those singing the Songs of the Doomed is as great as they say it is, but I acknowledge their presence.
I’m also seeing other folks, people who once were gaga for Obama, cool off a bit. They’re no longer flying the “hope and change” flag as prominently.
He warned us this day was coming.
Remember?
“The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year, or even one term, but America – I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you: We as a people will get there.”
Thus far it's been a rough-and-tumble time of turmoil. He's gotten the change part right.
My, the changes: The New World Order that's emerging in the wake of an economic Hindenburg. The fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan that is less a war and more a fact of life in this Brave New World – because wars end. The health care reform was so filled with debate that it motivated an unhealthy, New York apple-pie slice of Americans to action and near-constant criticism. They’re led by a motley cast of stentorian talking heads, who pick it apart piece by excruciating piece, in a 24/7 debate that has yet to really end.
He foresaw it, that cold Tuesday in November in Chicago’s Grant Park:
“There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won’t agree with every decision or policy I make as president, and we know that government can’t solve every problem.”
He was inspiring, then.
Where was the hope when he spoke from the Oval Office Tuesday night? Where’s the man who once aroused a thrill that shot up Chris Matthews’ leg?
He’s a dour man now, saddled with the soiling of the Gulf of Mexico, when he was supposed to be taking a short health-care victory lap, then waiting for the economy to make a great leap forward so people would be inspired to find solutions to our myriad problems.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy.
“But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree.”
But is he hearing us? It’s time for him to show us he’s our leader, and thus far, he’s performed like a sports prospect, a number-1 draft pick who’s been given a huge signing bonus, and has so much potential, but hasn’t yet made it.
It’s not over, Mr. President. There’s still time to man the rudder. I still believe that the American ship is unsinkable because the American people won’t stand for it. We’re not like World Cup soccer fans who will settle for a tie.
We’d rather play football with each other, and since it’s the off-season, the political version of the sport is biding our time, but always, we play to win.
So here’s a “yo” to the “Party of No” that it’s time to abide by our calculated leader. Prove him wrong by getting behind him to see if he can inspire us to “join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it’s been done in America for (223) years – block by block, brick by brick, callused hand by callused hand” or oily for that matter.
Lead us out of it all, Mr. President.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Fear & Loathing & Laziness (Unpaid)
Fear & Loathing & Laziness (Unpaid)
By Tom Davidson
The American Way has gone all awry in the 21st Century. We forgot our hard-working roots in a whirlwind fugue that brought on this downspin into the Great Abyss. In the name of profits, we’ve scaled back, using the economics of the time as an excuse to sacrifice selves in the name of more profits for shareholders.
It’s nothing new but it’s evolved to the point that some companies really, really just need to fail. End the bail-outs; instead of just cutting back, close up shop; stop being compassionate and offering across-the board temporary furloughs instead of just firing the dead weight and telling the others they need to work more because their jobs are on the line.
We’ve worked ourselves into a false prosperity by helping life’s “C” and “D” students get by. Sure, it was nice for them, but for the people really trying to make a go of it and almost-succeeding it was a crime.
We took the corporate ladder and turned it into an escalator but we didn’t decide who’s going to pay the power bill to keep the contraption running.
I think it’s best to struggle step-by-step instead of taking the free ride, but then, I’m willing to risk my mettle against a brutal system.
I’m tired of watching lesser workers getting a pass and a free paycheck; it foils industry to accept less when more is needed.
Alas, we’re doomed to fall from first place. We, the American Exceptionalists whom the fates have smiled on for more than two centuries are facing crises because we’ve grown lax; pampered; willing to let others do the dirty work instead of sweating for our own success.
So here I sit, at home, writing for free, off unpaid as work piles on my desk and news gets old. (And we wonder why circulation’s down and some people make fun of us?)
What happens to real journalists at the 40th hour of each week? Do they just stop writing?
That’s what’s happening now, most of the time, and it’s why things are suffering.
We expect less and pay less but still strive to cover more and write better, but the problem is that scale is impossible to balance.
So we’re here, treading water, barely, sometimes drowning as we roll with the waves. We cash our lower paychecks each fortnight and complain as stress builds and resentments fester and the end product suffers.
We’re caught in this Super Cycle with most other American institutions, waiting for the Next Great Hope to save us. The truth is far more unsettling: we are beyond saving; unless we collectively shape up, our ship is sunk, we’re taking on water and oil now, and Houston, did you get that radio call that we’ve got a gusher in the Gulf?
The problem is us and our attitude. The Compassionate Conservatives refuse to assume any blame, but it is all of our faults: We delegated too much power and wealth to too few people and now we’re helpless.
We’re slaves to corporate boards and markets beyond our understanding because we weren’t required to take that class in high school or college. We keep on, strident, unhappy, voiceless in this country built by people who strived to win the game. Now, it’s game over and guess what? They won.
By Tom Davidson
The American Way has gone all awry in the 21st Century. We forgot our hard-working roots in a whirlwind fugue that brought on this downspin into the Great Abyss. In the name of profits, we’ve scaled back, using the economics of the time as an excuse to sacrifice selves in the name of more profits for shareholders.
It’s nothing new but it’s evolved to the point that some companies really, really just need to fail. End the bail-outs; instead of just cutting back, close up shop; stop being compassionate and offering across-the board temporary furloughs instead of just firing the dead weight and telling the others they need to work more because their jobs are on the line.
We’ve worked ourselves into a false prosperity by helping life’s “C” and “D” students get by. Sure, it was nice for them, but for the people really trying to make a go of it and almost-succeeding it was a crime.
We took the corporate ladder and turned it into an escalator but we didn’t decide who’s going to pay the power bill to keep the contraption running.
I think it’s best to struggle step-by-step instead of taking the free ride, but then, I’m willing to risk my mettle against a brutal system.
I’m tired of watching lesser workers getting a pass and a free paycheck; it foils industry to accept less when more is needed.
Alas, we’re doomed to fall from first place. We, the American Exceptionalists whom the fates have smiled on for more than two centuries are facing crises because we’ve grown lax; pampered; willing to let others do the dirty work instead of sweating for our own success.
So here I sit, at home, writing for free, off unpaid as work piles on my desk and news gets old. (And we wonder why circulation’s down and some people make fun of us?)
What happens to real journalists at the 40th hour of each week? Do they just stop writing?
That’s what’s happening now, most of the time, and it’s why things are suffering.
We expect less and pay less but still strive to cover more and write better, but the problem is that scale is impossible to balance.
So we’re here, treading water, barely, sometimes drowning as we roll with the waves. We cash our lower paychecks each fortnight and complain as stress builds and resentments fester and the end product suffers.
We’re caught in this Super Cycle with most other American institutions, waiting for the Next Great Hope to save us. The truth is far more unsettling: we are beyond saving; unless we collectively shape up, our ship is sunk, we’re taking on water and oil now, and Houston, did you get that radio call that we’ve got a gusher in the Gulf?
The problem is us and our attitude. The Compassionate Conservatives refuse to assume any blame, but it is all of our faults: We delegated too much power and wealth to too few people and now we’re helpless.
We’re slaves to corporate boards and markets beyond our understanding because we weren’t required to take that class in high school or college. We keep on, strident, unhappy, voiceless in this country built by people who strived to win the game. Now, it’s game over and guess what? They won.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Fear & Loathing at 35!
Fear & Loathing at 35!
By
Tom Davidson
Skylab Skylab Skylab! I remember it falling and my father collecting a piece of history in our basement. At least, that was a family joke!
The mid-to-late 1970s were a national joke and I was a punch line, a long-lost “All in the Family” episode waiting to be filmed.
Sheet & Tube had yet to be closed and my maternal grandfather had yet to be killed – squashed like a bug, according to his co-workers at Valley Mould – shortly after my parents met. Two years later, in 1975, I was borne of them, a child of the flashy-oversized collar and bell-bottom Baby-boomers who are taxing our government today.
My first relevant memories are a house-explosion on Youngstown’s North Side and the capture and release of the hostages in Iran during the Reagan Revolution. I kind of remember that Black Monday in 1977 when Sheet & Tube died and the Steel Valley became a part of the Rust Belt, but those memories are hazy.
I thought we’d be nuclear war-remnants by now; I remain astounded we’ve survived Y2K, 9/11 and whatever you want to call our world-at-the-brink-on-the-blink world as we know it.
All I know is I feel fine.
I’m glad I know what it’s like to struggle. I also remember the shock-and-awe of the 1980s: Challenger falling before my 11-yeat-old eyes, already shaded with the 1985 tornadoes; the fall of the Berlin Wall and of Communism as a Red Scare; the rise of Terror!
The horror, my horror. And now I’m tasked with covering it all. I feel it’s a sacred duty despite the horrific corporate corruption of my calling: The Truth is my bottom line, all other be damned.
As a scribe, I’ve survived Y2K, 9/11, War and Act 47. I’ve written books about sewage and comprehensive plans; I covered Hurricane Katrina and tired to do our local war dead justice.
I maintain a succor for seeing something new every day and writing about it; The Shenango Valley has yet to stump me with its foibles and I keep chasing the sirens and the story that helps to tell the tale of the best and worst of times in this Dickensian, Faulkneresque Valley that is my valley! Still green, though rust-littered after all these (35) years!
And so it goes...
By
Tom Davidson
Skylab Skylab Skylab! I remember it falling and my father collecting a piece of history in our basement. At least, that was a family joke!
The mid-to-late 1970s were a national joke and I was a punch line, a long-lost “All in the Family” episode waiting to be filmed.
Sheet & Tube had yet to be closed and my maternal grandfather had yet to be killed – squashed like a bug, according to his co-workers at Valley Mould – shortly after my parents met. Two years later, in 1975, I was borne of them, a child of the flashy-oversized collar and bell-bottom Baby-boomers who are taxing our government today.
My first relevant memories are a house-explosion on Youngstown’s North Side and the capture and release of the hostages in Iran during the Reagan Revolution. I kind of remember that Black Monday in 1977 when Sheet & Tube died and the Steel Valley became a part of the Rust Belt, but those memories are hazy.
I thought we’d be nuclear war-remnants by now; I remain astounded we’ve survived Y2K, 9/11 and whatever you want to call our world-at-the-brink-on-the-blink world as we know it.
All I know is I feel fine.
I’m glad I know what it’s like to struggle. I also remember the shock-and-awe of the 1980s: Challenger falling before my 11-yeat-old eyes, already shaded with the 1985 tornadoes; the fall of the Berlin Wall and of Communism as a Red Scare; the rise of Terror!
The horror, my horror. And now I’m tasked with covering it all. I feel it’s a sacred duty despite the horrific corporate corruption of my calling: The Truth is my bottom line, all other be damned.
As a scribe, I’ve survived Y2K, 9/11, War and Act 47. I’ve written books about sewage and comprehensive plans; I covered Hurricane Katrina and tired to do our local war dead justice.
I maintain a succor for seeing something new every day and writing about it; The Shenango Valley has yet to stump me with its foibles and I keep chasing the sirens and the story that helps to tell the tale of the best and worst of times in this Dickensian, Faulkneresque Valley that is my valley! Still green, though rust-littered after all these (35) years!
And so it goes...
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Fear & Loathing in May
Fear & Loathing in May
Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.
-- Tom, as Narrator, in Scene One
“The Glass Menagerie”
Tennessee Williams
Getting the story started is the hardest part. I know what I want to tell you, but how to start it?
I could tell you about that hour-long drive almost 10 years ago when I went to watch a former co-worker portray the Tom character in “The Glass Menagerie” – it was a summer-stock production, or at least what passes for summer stock in western Pennsylvania. Our group was one of a handful who came to the show. It felt like we had the theater to ourselves.
I felt bad then for Schyler, that’s his last name, his full name is Radcliffe Schyler. No one calls him “Rad” or “Radcliffe” but as is the habit among boys at certain preparatory schools and over-priced liberal arts colleges, he’s called “Schyler.”
It’s an odd spelling of a last name, it seems to me. It’s as if there’s a vowel missing before the “y” and Schyler’s like that himself: He’s missing that vowel.
Schyler was performing the Williams play to less than 50 people (25 is a better estimate, but it was tough to get an accurate head count with the house lights dimmed.).
“Menagerie” isn’t the kind of play that plays well in western Pennsylvania. People like to laugh here and they like the jokes to be clean.
Not to sully anything about “The Glass Menagerie” – it’s just that is the kind of thing better appreciated by city folks or people in high school or college.
I hadn’t talked to Schyler for about 10 years after that, when he found me on one of those social networking Web sites that I used to despise, but now am unhappily almost addicted to: if I don’t log in each day, what am I missing?
It spins around in my mind until I have no choice but to get up and wait for the computer to boot up. Most of the time, I’m disappointed. The interesting stuff only seems to happen when I’m too busy to care and then I find out about it days later, when my life has slowed down and I waste the time looking at what my “friends” are up to. By then, they’re back to tedium.
As it turns out, Schyler has nothing to do with this story, he was just a digression. This story’s about two kids I saw swimming Sunday afternoon in an un-heated above-ground pool that had clean-enough, albeit cold, water.
The boys, ages 16 and 14 were splashing about and fooling around on a humid, but mild, early May afternoon. Not swimming weather by a long shot. But they made the most of the day and are probably sitting indoors by now, teeth chattering, lips blue, fingertips shriveled like prunes: I know the feeling, I’ve been there.
I’m listening to Johnny Cash sing Steve Goodman’s folk song about the “City of New Orleans” – the train, not the city – as I think about the kids splashing each other in a pool that I swam in when I was there age.
Back then, the corner store that’s almost caddy-corner from the house sold penny candy and even cigarettes to kids. I remember being sent to the store with a couple singles to buy my dad a soft-pack of Kent kings, a newspaper, and some candy with the change.
Swedish fish and fire balls were favorites, but there were so many choices: Laffy Taffy, Jaw Breakers, Boston Baked Beans, string licorice. Older kids would come in and buy 40s of malt liquor; I don’t think the clerks cared if they were 21.
Much as I reminisce about the “good-old days” I can’t help but think about how we were making the best during trying times. Looking at the facts, the Shenango Valley lost its prosperity in the 1980s: the mills were closing and unemployment was rampant. Still, I remember them as glorious days.
Much like 85-year-old Kate Yasgur, who attended a recent tea party. The Greenville resident longed for the days of her girlhood – the late 1930s. The country was in the midst of the Great Depression and was about to enter World War II, but to Mrs. Yasgur, they were a time full of wonder and delight.
She liked her government then and told me she supported FDR’s New Deal whole-heartedly. Others didn’t, equating the laws that were passed expanding the government and creating an American welfare state were un-American.
More than half-a-century later we’re still debating the issue. Some still, like Archie Bunker, maintain, “we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again.”
Myself, I relish the intense debate we’re having. There is no right answer in politics and that we’re allowed to freely speak our minds is something I cherish as an American.
While right now some of us are fretting about the direction our country is headed, the kids I saw swimming in the pool will look back on this time as their “glory days.”
That’s America for you.
Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.
-- Tom, as Narrator, in Scene One
“The Glass Menagerie”
Tennessee Williams
Getting the story started is the hardest part. I know what I want to tell you, but how to start it?
I could tell you about that hour-long drive almost 10 years ago when I went to watch a former co-worker portray the Tom character in “The Glass Menagerie” – it was a summer-stock production, or at least what passes for summer stock in western Pennsylvania. Our group was one of a handful who came to the show. It felt like we had the theater to ourselves.
I felt bad then for Schyler, that’s his last name, his full name is Radcliffe Schyler. No one calls him “Rad” or “Radcliffe” but as is the habit among boys at certain preparatory schools and over-priced liberal arts colleges, he’s called “Schyler.”
It’s an odd spelling of a last name, it seems to me. It’s as if there’s a vowel missing before the “y” and Schyler’s like that himself: He’s missing that vowel.
Schyler was performing the Williams play to less than 50 people (25 is a better estimate, but it was tough to get an accurate head count with the house lights dimmed.).
“Menagerie” isn’t the kind of play that plays well in western Pennsylvania. People like to laugh here and they like the jokes to be clean.
Not to sully anything about “The Glass Menagerie” – it’s just that is the kind of thing better appreciated by city folks or people in high school or college.
I hadn’t talked to Schyler for about 10 years after that, when he found me on one of those social networking Web sites that I used to despise, but now am unhappily almost addicted to: if I don’t log in each day, what am I missing?
It spins around in my mind until I have no choice but to get up and wait for the computer to boot up. Most of the time, I’m disappointed. The interesting stuff only seems to happen when I’m too busy to care and then I find out about it days later, when my life has slowed down and I waste the time looking at what my “friends” are up to. By then, they’re back to tedium.
As it turns out, Schyler has nothing to do with this story, he was just a digression. This story’s about two kids I saw swimming Sunday afternoon in an un-heated above-ground pool that had clean-enough, albeit cold, water.
The boys, ages 16 and 14 were splashing about and fooling around on a humid, but mild, early May afternoon. Not swimming weather by a long shot. But they made the most of the day and are probably sitting indoors by now, teeth chattering, lips blue, fingertips shriveled like prunes: I know the feeling, I’ve been there.
I’m listening to Johnny Cash sing Steve Goodman’s folk song about the “City of New Orleans” – the train, not the city – as I think about the kids splashing each other in a pool that I swam in when I was there age.
Back then, the corner store that’s almost caddy-corner from the house sold penny candy and even cigarettes to kids. I remember being sent to the store with a couple singles to buy my dad a soft-pack of Kent kings, a newspaper, and some candy with the change.
Swedish fish and fire balls were favorites, but there were so many choices: Laffy Taffy, Jaw Breakers, Boston Baked Beans, string licorice. Older kids would come in and buy 40s of malt liquor; I don’t think the clerks cared if they were 21.
Much as I reminisce about the “good-old days” I can’t help but think about how we were making the best during trying times. Looking at the facts, the Shenango Valley lost its prosperity in the 1980s: the mills were closing and unemployment was rampant. Still, I remember them as glorious days.
Much like 85-year-old Kate Yasgur, who attended a recent tea party. The Greenville resident longed for the days of her girlhood – the late 1930s. The country was in the midst of the Great Depression and was about to enter World War II, but to Mrs. Yasgur, they were a time full of wonder and delight.
She liked her government then and told me she supported FDR’s New Deal whole-heartedly. Others didn’t, equating the laws that were passed expanding the government and creating an American welfare state were un-American.
More than half-a-century later we’re still debating the issue. Some still, like Archie Bunker, maintain, “we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again.”
Myself, I relish the intense debate we’re having. There is no right answer in politics and that we’re allowed to freely speak our minds is something I cherish as an American.
While right now some of us are fretting about the direction our country is headed, the kids I saw swimming in the pool will look back on this time as their “glory days.”
That’s America for you.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Fear & Loathing on the Hamster Wheel
Fear & Loathing on the Hamster Wheel
Sometimes I feel like I’m a hamster running on one of those silly wheels, spinning quickly to nowhere. The futility of the exercise is symptomatic of working within the institutions of today. My protest is just another “Catch-22”-like tome to rail against the absurdity of it all.
As a professional observer, I watch a lot of re-runs. The criminals I cover commit such similar crimes that it’s tough to keep the specific incidents straight; the community events I attend are mainly traditional, annual things that happen with little script changes each year.
Many times, I feel like I’m living the movie “Groundhog Day” infinitely. Finding something new to write about or photograph in the midst of these constants is the challenge. Finding the new in the midst of all these same-old, same-old, re-runs of life takes patience and paying close attention to detail.
When something brand-new happens, it’s a time to rejoice, to write about or photograph something the likes of which haven’t been seen here before.
For ages now, men have complained that it’s all been said before, that all things are discovered and there’s nothing new under the sun.
But that isn’t true. The newness slips in unannounced, most of the time, and I’m always ready to spot when it happens.
When it does and I capture that moment, I feel like Henri Cartier-Bresson, whose artistic credo was to capture the definitive moment. His art was in photographs and that “definitive moment” was that point that makes the picture live.
It’s the same with words and there are a few creations that live with the spark of genuine life; of energy and emotion harnessed into something that people want to look at or read again and again.
When that happens, and as an artist I am able to corral that bit of this American life, it makes all the repetition worth it.
It stops the hamster wheel and justifies the time spent spinning. It’s a re-affirming thought to think that I’m not just a hamster spinning a wheel in a cage to burn energy.
Here’s to life!
Sometimes I feel like I’m a hamster running on one of those silly wheels, spinning quickly to nowhere. The futility of the exercise is symptomatic of working within the institutions of today. My protest is just another “Catch-22”-like tome to rail against the absurdity of it all.
As a professional observer, I watch a lot of re-runs. The criminals I cover commit such similar crimes that it’s tough to keep the specific incidents straight; the community events I attend are mainly traditional, annual things that happen with little script changes each year.
Many times, I feel like I’m living the movie “Groundhog Day” infinitely. Finding something new to write about or photograph in the midst of these constants is the challenge. Finding the new in the midst of all these same-old, same-old, re-runs of life takes patience and paying close attention to detail.
When something brand-new happens, it’s a time to rejoice, to write about or photograph something the likes of which haven’t been seen here before.
For ages now, men have complained that it’s all been said before, that all things are discovered and there’s nothing new under the sun.
But that isn’t true. The newness slips in unannounced, most of the time, and I’m always ready to spot when it happens.
When it does and I capture that moment, I feel like Henri Cartier-Bresson, whose artistic credo was to capture the definitive moment. His art was in photographs and that “definitive moment” was that point that makes the picture live.
It’s the same with words and there are a few creations that live with the spark of genuine life; of energy and emotion harnessed into something that people want to look at or read again and again.
When that happens, and as an artist I am able to corral that bit of this American life, it makes all the repetition worth it.
It stops the hamster wheel and justifies the time spent spinning. It’s a re-affirming thought to think that I’m not just a hamster spinning a wheel in a cage to burn energy.
Here’s to life!
Friday, March 26, 2010
Fear & Loathing on Friday
Fear & Loathing on Friday
The whole TGIF bit chaps my ass. As someone who’s worked nights, weekends and holidays for more than a decade, I don’t get the excitement the proletariat feels for Friday.
To me, it’s just another day except the traffic seems to be worse. I hate driving on the main streets in the Shenango Valley on Fridays, when everyone appears to be out-and-about and road rage threatens to explode in a volcano of verbal vulgarities.
Making Friday out as a holiday of sorts puzzles me, however. Are most people’s jobs so bad that they look forward to the weekend that much?
I don’t know, because I don’t do drudge work.
My craft is writing, reporting and photography and I’ll admit it: I live to work, not that I consider my “job” to be “work” if that makes any sense.
Most of the time, I get to see cool things from a good vantage point, and write and take pictures of it all.
So a day off for me is a day that I’m missing whatever’s going on and I feel left out.
I feel bad for the folks who have a job where all they do is complain: sure, Monday’s busy, but again, it’s just another day for me. I don’t feel like I’ve crossed a hump when I get to Wednesday and find nothing special about Saturday night.
I don’t really have a favorite day and have never thanked God for Friday as I’ve more important things to be thankful for.
But some folks live to holler about TGIF and all the fancy stuff they’re going to do. I think it’s because everyone else is so riled up about it that I prefer to withdraw from the world come Friday night.
I’ll read a book and listen to some jazz, try to get in a little personal writing and enjoy the solace of solitude after a busy workweek.
Alas, it’s Friday, thanks to God notwithstanding.
The whole TGIF bit chaps my ass. As someone who’s worked nights, weekends and holidays for more than a decade, I don’t get the excitement the proletariat feels for Friday.
To me, it’s just another day except the traffic seems to be worse. I hate driving on the main streets in the Shenango Valley on Fridays, when everyone appears to be out-and-about and road rage threatens to explode in a volcano of verbal vulgarities.
Making Friday out as a holiday of sorts puzzles me, however. Are most people’s jobs so bad that they look forward to the weekend that much?
I don’t know, because I don’t do drudge work.
My craft is writing, reporting and photography and I’ll admit it: I live to work, not that I consider my “job” to be “work” if that makes any sense.
Most of the time, I get to see cool things from a good vantage point, and write and take pictures of it all.
So a day off for me is a day that I’m missing whatever’s going on and I feel left out.
I feel bad for the folks who have a job where all they do is complain: sure, Monday’s busy, but again, it’s just another day for me. I don’t feel like I’ve crossed a hump when I get to Wednesday and find nothing special about Saturday night.
I don’t really have a favorite day and have never thanked God for Friday as I’ve more important things to be thankful for.
But some folks live to holler about TGIF and all the fancy stuff they’re going to do. I think it’s because everyone else is so riled up about it that I prefer to withdraw from the world come Friday night.
I’ll read a book and listen to some jazz, try to get in a little personal writing and enjoy the solace of solitude after a busy workweek.
Alas, it’s Friday, thanks to God notwithstanding.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Fear & Loathing on Obamacare
Fear & Loathing on Obamacare
I really shouldn’t let myself listen to right-wing radio. Laura Ingram is spewing inane invective as I unwind from a day in court watching another shooting case that’s the latest gang-related crime in the Shenango Valley.
I had some time to think about it all while waiting for the wheels of justice to turn (they move about as fast as Congress) and I can’t say I have much positive to say about the present state of our union.
The problem as I see it is the nation is facing a crisis not of healthcare or the economy or the end of all morality. The problem is we’ve become a nation of blamers, a group of people who know one thing for sure: It’s not our fault we're facing the life we’re living.
That’s the great American fault at the moment. It derives from lack of familiar upbringing and a broken support system of love & wisdom that used to prepare our youth for the big, bad world.
Darwin’s theories are being proven daily in this brutal new, each-man-for-himself world, where kids become adults before they have a chance to be kids.
Our solution to the problem is to throw money at non-profit organizations, schools and programs that do little more than perpetuate the problem to keep the grant money coming.
Meantime, the kids are running wild without proper role models and the closest thing they have to “tough love” is the mercies that may be shown to them by a penitent judge.
Our pro-life advocates remain hellbent on advising kids to keep making more kids that are wanted like baby dolls, but when the novelty wears off and the dolls become children, their parents are out of the picture and the cycle of kids growing up without a grounding in the basic differences between right and wrong and an understanding of that greatest of commandments, to love one another.
Until we fix that and give kids back the love and nurturing that’s required to become a capable adult, we’re stuck with a spiraling problem that gets exponentially worse with each generation.
This is all happening as our world’s going to hell and everyone’s arguing about politics as usual: healthcare myths, abortion, gay marriage that are each phantom issues, the latter two of which shouldn’t even be a subject of political debate. But we’ll waste time on it while kids devolve in the streets because no one’s watching them.
I don’t have the answer, but I know what’s happening now is missing the mark. And it makes me sad and angry when I go to court hearings and see pews filled with young people gone awry.
I’m tired of watching kids with potential get chewed up by the system and transformed into criminals.
I’m also sick of everybody blaming everybody else for it, and complaining about the problems but doing nothing to solve it.
To do so would require too much that seems like socialism, I suppose. Folks would have to work together for the common good and the ties that bind us because we’re human.
Obamacare doesn’t include a prescription to cure this, society’s greatest ill, but it should.
I really shouldn’t let myself listen to right-wing radio. Laura Ingram is spewing inane invective as I unwind from a day in court watching another shooting case that’s the latest gang-related crime in the Shenango Valley.
I had some time to think about it all while waiting for the wheels of justice to turn (they move about as fast as Congress) and I can’t say I have much positive to say about the present state of our union.
The problem as I see it is the nation is facing a crisis not of healthcare or the economy or the end of all morality. The problem is we’ve become a nation of blamers, a group of people who know one thing for sure: It’s not our fault we're facing the life we’re living.
That’s the great American fault at the moment. It derives from lack of familiar upbringing and a broken support system of love & wisdom that used to prepare our youth for the big, bad world.
Darwin’s theories are being proven daily in this brutal new, each-man-for-himself world, where kids become adults before they have a chance to be kids.
Our solution to the problem is to throw money at non-profit organizations, schools and programs that do little more than perpetuate the problem to keep the grant money coming.
Meantime, the kids are running wild without proper role models and the closest thing they have to “tough love” is the mercies that may be shown to them by a penitent judge.
Our pro-life advocates remain hellbent on advising kids to keep making more kids that are wanted like baby dolls, but when the novelty wears off and the dolls become children, their parents are out of the picture and the cycle of kids growing up without a grounding in the basic differences between right and wrong and an understanding of that greatest of commandments, to love one another.
Until we fix that and give kids back the love and nurturing that’s required to become a capable adult, we’re stuck with a spiraling problem that gets exponentially worse with each generation.
This is all happening as our world’s going to hell and everyone’s arguing about politics as usual: healthcare myths, abortion, gay marriage that are each phantom issues, the latter two of which shouldn’t even be a subject of political debate. But we’ll waste time on it while kids devolve in the streets because no one’s watching them.
I don’t have the answer, but I know what’s happening now is missing the mark. And it makes me sad and angry when I go to court hearings and see pews filled with young people gone awry.
I’m tired of watching kids with potential get chewed up by the system and transformed into criminals.
I’m also sick of everybody blaming everybody else for it, and complaining about the problems but doing nothing to solve it.
To do so would require too much that seems like socialism, I suppose. Folks would have to work together for the common good and the ties that bind us because we’re human.
Obamacare doesn’t include a prescription to cure this, society’s greatest ill, but it should.
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