Pow! Bang! Slam!

I’ve been away from this blog for a few weeks, in a sort of one-man retreat pondering one question: what is it I can do with this blog? What can I add to the “conversation”? One thing for sure, I’m not going to beat up on the Bucks County Courier Times any more. I’ve had e-mail conversations with the paper about one day’s sloppy product overall, about a puzzling lack of explanations in a simple but important story, about the post-hoc fallacy, and a reporter’s backpedaling by saying it’s not her fault if people misinterpret what she writes.

I’ve also written a letter to the editor about a ridiculous guest column about “death panels” without a single reference to the actual text of the health care bill. When they published the letter I demanded an explanation of why they toned it down, which explanation, once given, poured gasoline on my fire.

Probably the least productive thing I did was becoming a more or less regular commenter on one of the columnists' blogs. I was wasting my time even reading the thing, much less reading the existing comments to see what I could add, then writing my couple of sentences, then checking back to see what else was new, perhaps even a rebuttal to my comment.

In the early stage of this prolonged meditation about this blog, I was in our local dollar store and stumbled upon and bought -- for a dollar -- a copy of Taking On The System, by Markos Moulitsas Zuniga, the founder of the Daily Kos blog. He cites a rule “Don’t punch down.” With bold irony, he uses himself as an example. When the right-wing media started attacking him, readership of his blog went through the roof.

“Punching down” can also means beating up on people smaller than you. In other words, bullying. I don’t mean smaller in the sense of significance or worthiness. But it seems they didn’t have my journalism teacher or mentors, my variety and length of experience, or my passion for accurate, responsible and readable writing. I meant well of course, even hoping at one point to have some avuncular, friendly, positive relationship with the home team. But it felt like a fight, and an unfair one.

So that’s one thing I won’t do any more. I’m not 100 percent sure what I will do, but I’ve shaken that off, and I think I can proceed in uncertainty.


Punching up, perhaps. Sounds like even more fun.

Try to Un-Forget

When I'm puttering around the house I usually put on the History Channel or one if its variants. There's always something to fill in the blanks of what little I know about history, or refresh memories of things learned long ago.

Today they're running various re-tellings of the September 11, 2001 story. I can start to feel a touch of the original anger and sadness, though I think it would take another such event to get all the way there.

I wondered why I'd almost forgotten. Not the event of course, but the feelings.

Because for about seven years, it's been Iraq. We started a still-unexplained war and of course we forgot about murder artist Osama bin Laden.

I won't get into the wilful incompetence of those who were supposed to protect us from this happening in the first place. Instead, I'll take the occasion to recommend reading the 9/11 Commission Report. It's available online, but at 585 pdf pages it's worth a few bucks to buy a copy.

Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy!

What is it about frogs that makes us smile? The first, for me, wasn't Kermit, who's a Johnny-come-lately and doesn't begin to look like a real frog. It was Froggy, who lived in the grandfather's clock on Andy's Gang on Saturday mornings. He was nasty and rude and played cruel practical jokes on Andy Devine (Also known as "Jingles," who said "Hey, Wild Bill, wait for me!" Remember him now?).


I can't remember when I saw my first real frog, perhaps because by the time I was spending more time outdoors I took them for granted. Walking by the edge of a pond, I'd hear them chirp and then splash into the water as if I were a heron or raccoon or some other predator. I couldn't help smiling. No need to be afraid of me, little one. Watch out for that pickerel. The thing with all the teeth.

My little den in the basement has a window that looks out into a window well, about four feet square and five feet deep. We don't know whether it was designed for light, ventilation or escape. If escape, good luck getting out the window and then raising the heavy iron grate on top of the well. I use it in warm weather to stash  house plants, and on permanent exhibit is a small concrete Buddha we bought on Marlboro Street in Keene, New Hampshire. He sits on a slab of quartz I found on a roadside during another trip to New Hampshire.

We moved here about five years ago, and for the first couple of years whenever there was a really heavy rainstorm there would be a frog or two in the window well. Whether they were washed in or fell in because of haste I didn't get a chance to observe. Trying to get out, they would climb to the highest point in the well, which is the top of Buddha's head. I'd climb through the window and catch them in a baseball cap, then escort them upstairs and out the door, bouncer fashion.

But I haven't seen any here in a couple years, and I'm wondering where they went. I did a little Googling around and it turns out I'm not the only one wondering the same thing. There's actually a save-the-frogs organization, called Save The Frogs, and they're holding a big shindig in April. I'll put something up when the time is getting closer.


If I don't croak first.

The Morning After

Well that was interesting. A president of the United States tells students to do their homework, stay in school, listen to their teachers and their parents, take responsibility for their own lives and their own futures, there are no excuses, and pursue their dreams but be sensible about them.

For this, we endured a week of ranting by "concerned" parents who didn't want their kids "indoctrinated," and cowardly cringing by some school administrators. (And some "Hitler Youth" video blog postings by a very weird local columnist).

I call it "hiding behind the children," using the kids as human shields in advancing your own political ends. A president tells kids to do their homework, and people go nuts.

So I guess last night those "concerned" parents were telling their kids to not do their homework, do not take responsibility for their lives, do not listen to their teachers, and don't listen to ... here's a dilemma ...your parents.

Or were they honest about it and quote to their kids the immortal words of Emily Litella?

"Never mind."

Amazing crap persists

"I'm tired of being amazed." Seth Jayson, The Motley Fool.

Anyone observing for any length of time the legislative process at the federal, state or local level will eventually figure out most major government actions have flaws or unintended consequences. Anyone listening long enough to politicians knows they daily engage in mendacity of one form or another.

But.

Rather than seeking out those flaws and suggesting they be deleted, amended or voted down, those opposing health care reform just make stuff up. As in a guest editorial in our local paper, for example. Here's the letter I wrote in response.

"I find it puzzling that Trish Castaldi advises 'all Americans' to read HR3200 Section 1233, without reading it herself. If she had she would see it promotes the use of a document that 'effectively communicates the individual's preferences regarding life sustaining treatment, including an indication of the treatment and care desired by the individual.' Living wills and advance directives (I get them mixed up myself) take the extremely painful burden off your family of trying to decide what to do when you are beyond being able to state those decisions yourself. If you wish to be kept alive as long as medically possible, then you can say so in such a document. If you believe that at some point enough’s enough, then you can say that.

On the other hand, perhaps out of consideration for her 'two children and three grandchildren,' so someday they don’t have to stand outside her hospital room and have a painful debate, she’s already drawn up the documents. It is possible she’s done that in spite of her stated objections to Section 1233, since she clearly doesn’t know what it says."

I could have put in a p.s., reacting to this sentence: "I know death is imminent for us all, but it's not up to our government to decide when and how." If it's imminent, why are we even bothering? Let's party while we can, say our goodbyes.

How Ben Learned to Write

It only took nine weeks, but I finally finished H.W. Brands' The First American: The Life and Times of Benjamin Franklin. I have knocked off books twice the length in half the time. But this one I took a teaspoon at a time because there's just too much detail to digest. Nine weeks is too long though. Sprinting to the end I came on a passing mention, on page 689, of Franklin's learning to write by imitating English essayist Richard Steele. Always curious about how people learn to write, I flipped to the end notes and there was no source listed (Yes, I'm a footnote junkie). Annoyance turned to embarrassment -- even though no one was looking -- when I found in my notes "p. 24-Spectator exercises." So here's Brands' description of how this Boston teenager taught himself to write.

"He had recently encountered an early issue of the Spectator, the London journal soon to be famous for the essays of Joseph Addison and Richard Steele. Ben read this number in front to back, then back to front and all over again. Entranced by the authors' ease of exposition, he adopted the Spectator's style as a model for his own. He devised elaborate exercises to absorb all that underlay its phrases. He would read passages and try to recapitulate them from memory. On the reasoning that poetry demands a larger vocabulary than prose -- and given the meaning must also fit the pattern of rhyme and meter -- he reworked the Spectator essays into verse, and subsequently back into prose again. He took notes on the essays, then deliberately scrambled the notes before attempting to reconstruct the original order, the better to appreciate the art of rhetorical organization."

By the middle of the 20th century, imitation as a means of learning how to write had fallen out of favor. But all but the most innovative teachers were still conflicted about it. To hedge their bets they assigned "readers" from which students were supposed to learn something, exactly what was unclear. Students of course sniffed out this ambivalence and did their best to ignore the readers. Perhaps both teachers and students would have been better off with a clear shot at what they were going to do and how they were going to do it.

On the other hand, Franklin taught himself, without the interference of teachers. Maybe he was on to something.

When I'm gone and dead

"...An explanation by the practitioner of advance directives, including living wills and durable powers of attorney, and their uses..." From the stupidistically* called euthanasia section of the health reform bill.

I've checked out some forms for living wills and advance directives, and I may need some help filling them out. In the meantime, I couldn't help but notice they are completely lacking in the human touch, providing mostly checkoffs for decision making. I may add a paragraph or two to mine to make my wishes perfectly clear. Here goes:

How to decide if I'm dead (By this time you've respected my previous wish and wheeled me under the nearest pine tree). First, ask me. "Mr. Sullivan, you still alive?" If there's no response, play the recording of Yo Yo Ma playing Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Sonatas. If I don't go "Ah. Yo Yo Ma" then I'm definitely going, if not gone. In which case, have somebody play or hum the first 11 notes of "Salt Peanuts" (Dizzy will explain). If I don't respond by humming the correct response, tap out those notes on my wrist, and if I don't tap a finger six times, then I'm definitely not having fun any more, so unplug me. I don't want to waste any more time than I have to.

Then, I want the works: Irish wake, Viking funeral, bagpipes, my ashes scattered from the top of Mt. Everest, or maybe burial at sea... Hey, I'm dead. The rest is up to youse guys.

(*Stupidism: the refusal to accept any information that might bring one closer to the truth. Pure, fact-free opinion.)