911 Responders
Last month I was in the throes of tax season. And it wasn’t pretty. Aside from not sleeping much, working three jobs, seven days a week – including volunteering time at a tax clinic in Asbury Park where we were so busy (can you say Economic Stimulus package?) that I set my own record for hours worked in a day.
Nevertheless my family suffered.
The last Sunday in April before the deadline, I was sitting at my desk working through another (damn) K-1 and the various (and forever re-issued) broker’s statements when my daughter came to me and said we were going to see a movie. No excuses.
In retrospect, I think her behavior might have been prompted by the dinner I served the night before – poached pork a la mode.
It was clear: I needed a time out.
We went to see Stop Loss which I thought was going to be about The New York Yankees. I mean, its obvious people are concerned. How can an organization with such an enormously disproportionate budget (two to ten times larger than any other) fail to claim victory for the 5th consecutive year? How much more can Americans take?
But I was wrong. Although Stop Loss was about men in uniform, it was a little different in that these boys were without enthusiastic fans watching their every move, jovial dancing mascots, or a zealous media determined to report every last statistic.
Here’s the story: The movie follows a group of Army soldiers returning home to a hero’s welcome after serving a tour of duty in Iraq. The parades and medals and congressional speeches occur just days after these men were caught in an intense, violent, bloody, and deadly battle on the streets of Tikrit. These former high school classmates volunteered to serve their country after 9/11. Now they just want to get reacquainted with friends and family, including the main character, Staff Sergeant Brandon King (played by Ryan Phillippe), who is looking forward to chilling out at his ranch.
Apparently this ranch is quite different from the one the President owns in Texas. Because while our commander in chief is spending time cutting down bush (him too?), riding his bicycle, and holding hands with foreign dignitaries, these young veterans are getting into bar fights, digging trenches in their front yards to sleep in, waiving loaded pistols, drinking, beating their wives, evading restraining orders, wrestling with night terrors, and using wedding presents for target practice.
Suffice to say, the boys are having some transition difficulties.
In fact, on the very day that Brandon goes to turn in his uniform, he is advised that the Army is sending him back – in less than 30 days - to Iraq for another tour. This is called “stop loss” – a government policy that allows soldiers to be called back to service even after they’ve completed their military contracts. It is also referred to as a back door draft.
This doesn’t sit well with Brandon. He appeals to his commanding officer by pointing out that he has already served his country, and that he signed up for one tour. Further, since the president declared “Mission Accomplished”, we are not technically at war so why is he being sent back?
The officer in charge is not amused and informs Brandon - in case he forgot - that the President of the United States can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and to whomever he wants. Doesn’t Brandon know we are over there to spread democracy?
.
Brandon is irate. He tells his commanding officer that the president is a *#%$^#@.
And *&%$* the President.
Oh boy.
Time out.
Which is exactly what Brandon does as he goes AWOL on a cross country jaunt to Washington DC to appeal to his congressman (the movie is not without humor). Along the way, Brandon stops at the home of a fallen soldier, meets another soldier making his way to Canada with his family because he was also issued stop loss orders, and visits one of his men, Rico, who is recovering from injuries received as a result of the battle in Tikrit. Despite losing part of his arm, his leg, and his eyesight, Rico tells Brandon that he is lucky. It is unlikely he will get stop loss orders.
There is turmoil throughout the movie, and I won’t tell you the ending, mostly because I don’t think I will ever understand it. The movie did disclose the number of Brandons in America: At least 81,000.
How our government could treat our soldiers with such callous disregard is incomprehensible. And it reminded me of the words of my grandfather who said to the governor of New Jersey in 1919 on his return from “The War to End all Wars” as one of 13 survivors of Company B regarding his service: “The enemy in front of us put up a good fight and we knew it, but they were not nearly as dangerous as the enemy in the rear of us, in our own organization.”1
Each of the returning soldiers in Stop Loss seemed to be fighting their own war on terror.
Apparently what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. But what happens in Iraq doesn’t stay in Iraq.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2008
1 Other Men’s Lives, Captain William J. Reddan, 1936,
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Dear Oprah
It is not often that I am able to secure a copy of your magazine which I believe is referred to as “O”. But thanks to my male cat’s urinary tract problem, wherein he’s been peeing continually - and outside the box - for the past two weeks, I was able to glean your latest edition as part of my (repeated) daily visits to clean comforters, blankets, etc at the local laundromat. Here’s the thing: Someone left your magazine next to the soap dispensing machine. It was truly my lucky day.
I wanted to comment on one of the cover articles – Tell Your Story! (a top novelist shows you how) – which I read at least four times. I wish under the stars in heaven that I was able to tell my story too. But I have no story; nothing of a critical nature to relate whatsoever. How does one go about telling a story when there isn’t one? Is it OK to make things up?
Here’s what I mean. Last year my brother and his family came for a visit. It was nice, of course, but not the kind of stuff you would write about. We had a function at my home and invited most of the family (parents, siblings, nieces, nephews) so we could all be together. My family is typical of our nation’s citizens - loving their country and viewing life through the American lens.
And it isn’t easy to arrange a reunion, especially at my home, because I have cats.
And they hate cats.
When my mother arrived, as expected, she retold this one story which takes place just after the war (oh, sorry, I’m referring to WW II) and is about a teenage boy that lived on her block. It seems that every day on his way home from school, the boy would pass by a certain fenced-in yard with a big brown dog, and he’d always tease the animal by poking, barking, and rattling the fence. Some times he would hit the dog with a stick. Other times the boy would bring his friends along to watch the fun.
The dog would go nuts running back and forth trying to defend his territory. The boy did this because, well because, it made him feel like a super power. And he knew he’d be safe…because of the fence and also because the boy was certain the dog was inferior. Best of all, no one would suspect him – or rat him out.
This went on for years. The dog, once quiet and well behaved, became irritable and nasty. The dog’s owners were dismayed at their pet’s unfounded behavior. Because they were at work when the taunting occurred, the owners were unaware and never considered any foul play by their fellow citizen.
At this point, since we had all heard this story many, many times, I tried to change the subject by remarking that my daughter was busy applying to law schools. But that didn’t work.
Because my family hates lawyers.
So my mother continued as if there had been no interruption.
One day the boy was walking home from school and the dog was not in the back yard. Somehow he was able to get outside the fence. Do you know what that dog did when he had the opportunity to attack the person who had made his life miserable? He tore that boy to shreds.
OK so now I tried to move on to a more current topic by remarking that as of yesterday, there were over 4,000 US soldiers killed in Iraq. But that didn’t work.
Because my family hates statistics.
My mother continued.
After the boy was mauled by the dog, he spent months in the hospital, lost part of one ear, and was left with a scar on his face the size of Mississippi. All the neighbors were shocked, and angry at the dog’s owners. How could this happen in their community, in their back yard, for God’s sake? What the hell was wrong with those people?
and
Who would protect the children?
So, the neighbors – who never again walked through the community without looking over their shoulders - rallied for new laws against terrorizing animals and their owners. Of course, they called for the dog’s death. All similar breeds of dog were suspect from that day forward.
(I’m pretty sure it’s one of the reasons why we’ve never owned a brown dog.)
Then, my mother remarked that she and her friend Martha wanted to go on a trip overseas but they were unsure if it was safe, considering all the bombings.
End of story.
See? Nothing to write about.
After everyone left, I needed to get some fresh air so I took a walk through town. As I passed by the local Burger King, I nodded to myself in agreement reading their sign: Home of the Whopper.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2008
It is not often that I am able to secure a copy of your magazine which I believe is referred to as “O”. But thanks to my male cat’s urinary tract problem, wherein he’s been peeing continually - and outside the box - for the past two weeks, I was able to glean your latest edition as part of my (repeated) daily visits to clean comforters, blankets, etc at the local laundromat. Here’s the thing: Someone left your magazine next to the soap dispensing machine. It was truly my lucky day.
I wanted to comment on one of the cover articles – Tell Your Story! (a top novelist shows you how) – which I read at least four times. I wish under the stars in heaven that I was able to tell my story too. But I have no story; nothing of a critical nature to relate whatsoever. How does one go about telling a story when there isn’t one? Is it OK to make things up?
Here’s what I mean. Last year my brother and his family came for a visit. It was nice, of course, but not the kind of stuff you would write about. We had a function at my home and invited most of the family (parents, siblings, nieces, nephews) so we could all be together. My family is typical of our nation’s citizens - loving their country and viewing life through the American lens.
And it isn’t easy to arrange a reunion, especially at my home, because I have cats.
And they hate cats.
When my mother arrived, as expected, she retold this one story which takes place just after the war (oh, sorry, I’m referring to WW II) and is about a teenage boy that lived on her block. It seems that every day on his way home from school, the boy would pass by a certain fenced-in yard with a big brown dog, and he’d always tease the animal by poking, barking, and rattling the fence. Some times he would hit the dog with a stick. Other times the boy would bring his friends along to watch the fun.
The dog would go nuts running back and forth trying to defend his territory. The boy did this because, well because, it made him feel like a super power. And he knew he’d be safe…because of the fence and also because the boy was certain the dog was inferior. Best of all, no one would suspect him – or rat him out.
This went on for years. The dog, once quiet and well behaved, became irritable and nasty. The dog’s owners were dismayed at their pet’s unfounded behavior. Because they were at work when the taunting occurred, the owners were unaware and never considered any foul play by their fellow citizen.
At this point, since we had all heard this story many, many times, I tried to change the subject by remarking that my daughter was busy applying to law schools. But that didn’t work.
Because my family hates lawyers.
So my mother continued as if there had been no interruption.
One day the boy was walking home from school and the dog was not in the back yard. Somehow he was able to get outside the fence. Do you know what that dog did when he had the opportunity to attack the person who had made his life miserable? He tore that boy to shreds.
OK so now I tried to move on to a more current topic by remarking that as of yesterday, there were over 4,000 US soldiers killed in Iraq. But that didn’t work.
Because my family hates statistics.
My mother continued.
After the boy was mauled by the dog, he spent months in the hospital, lost part of one ear, and was left with a scar on his face the size of Mississippi. All the neighbors were shocked, and angry at the dog’s owners. How could this happen in their community, in their back yard, for God’s sake? What the hell was wrong with those people?
and
Who would protect the children?
So, the neighbors – who never again walked through the community without looking over their shoulders - rallied for new laws against terrorizing animals and their owners. Of course, they called for the dog’s death. All similar breeds of dog were suspect from that day forward.
(I’m pretty sure it’s one of the reasons why we’ve never owned a brown dog.)
Then, my mother remarked that she and her friend Martha wanted to go on a trip overseas but they were unsure if it was safe, considering all the bombings.
End of story.
See? Nothing to write about.
After everyone left, I needed to get some fresh air so I took a walk through town. As I passed by the local Burger King, I nodded to myself in agreement reading their sign: Home of the Whopper.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2008
No Country for Old Women
(Partie Deux)
In the fall of 1979, my husband and I returned from our honeymoon. Eager to demonstrate my domestic goddess skills, I decided to make him a special dinner of veal parmesan. So I went to the butcher and purchased two nice plump veal cutlets which I took home and pounded down to about a sixteenth of an inch thick. Then I dipped the cutlets in egg, rolled them in a coating of bread and spices, dipped and rolled, dipped and rolled, repeating this process about a dozen times. I baked them for two hours. When he came home from work, the setting was beautiful, candles lit, food prepared, and the veal glowing on the plate – all three and half inches thick. We sat down to eat. Halfway through the meal, my husband got up and went into the bathroom. I heard him vomiting through the closed door. He came out, sat down, and we finished the meal without a word about what had just happened.
The next day I confronted him. He waited patiently to respond, (praying, I’m sure) to find just the right words. Finally he said that the sacred rule of marriage – in fact, of any successful relationship – is: First, do no harm.
Everything I knew about cooking I gleaned from my mother. (And that explained a lot.)
But in retrospect, that purging probably helped to extend my husband’s life - because recently, I’ve come across an enormous amount of information about the detrimental effects of animal fat on our well-being. Oh, I don’t mean that I found it in the (LM) liberal media (ha, ha, good one!) like the conglomerate-owned newspapers or while watching (GE-owned) The Today Show (now four long hours). They have to protect their sponsors – Kraft, ConAgra, McDonalds - by promoting educational segments like how to recycle old bridesmaid’s dresses into party hats.
No.
I’m talking about getting information the old fashioned way, like they did 150 years ago, through word of mouth, personal references, bulletin boards, or local community-owned radio. Talk about progress!
In last month’s column, I asked the following question: Why are American women’s chances of getting breast cancer six times greater than women in China and India?
That query deserved consideration, and my quest for answers led me to two sources: (1) The China Study by Dr. T. Colin Campbell, subtitled “The most comprehensive study of nutrition ever conducted” which articulates the results of over two decades of research on the relationship between diet and disease and (2) Dying to Have Known, a documentary by Stephen Kroschel about the cancer treatment therapy developed by Max Gerson over 75 years ago which relates the testimony of patients, scientists, surgeons and nutritionists.
Two common threads run through these sources. One is the fact that a good diet – high in plant-based nutrition – is the most powerful weapon we have against disease and sickness. Both authors lay out critical evidence on the damaging effects of animal fat – which they contend actually promotes illness. Most importantly, each articulates how we are grossly misinformed by the media. The second common thread is the body’s amazing ability to heal itself.
The China Study takes the reader through 50 years of research that has been ignored by the LM including as the following:
- p. 36
(1968) A research paper from India surfaced in an obscure medical journal. It was an experiment involving liver cancer and protein consumption in two groups of laboratory rats. One group was given AF (one of the worst carcinogens) and then fed diets containing 20% protein; the second group was given the same level of AF and then fed diets containing only 5% protein. Every single rat fed 20% protein got liver cancer or its precursor lesions, but not a single animal fed a 5% protein diet got liver cancer or its precursor lesions. It was not a trivial difference; it was 100% versus 0%.
I mean – geez - in America only 4 out of 5 dentists recommend Colgate!
The China Study contains data on the study of different dietary, lifestyle, and disease characteristics of 65 counties, 130 villages, and 6,500 adults and their families in China. When the analysis was complete, Dr. Campbell had over 8,000 statistically significant associations between lifestyle, diet and disease variables.
p. 160
Exposure to excess amounts of female hormones, including estrogen and progesterone, leads to an increased risk of breast cancer. According to our China Study data, exposure to estrogen is at least 2.5 – 3.0 times higher among Western women when compared with rural Chinese women…diet plays a major role in establishing estrogen exposure. This suggests that the risk of breast cancer is preventable if we eat foods that will keep estrogen levels under control. The sad truth is that most women simply are not aware of this evidence. If this information were properly reported by responsible and credible public health agencies, I suspect that many more young women might be taking very real, very effective steps to avoid this awful disease.
Remember the golden rule: First, do no harm.
These two publications can help.
Oh, yes, and from my perspective: Dr. Campbell’s book is mmm mmm good.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2008
(Partie Deux)
In the fall of 1979, my husband and I returned from our honeymoon. Eager to demonstrate my domestic goddess skills, I decided to make him a special dinner of veal parmesan. So I went to the butcher and purchased two nice plump veal cutlets which I took home and pounded down to about a sixteenth of an inch thick. Then I dipped the cutlets in egg, rolled them in a coating of bread and spices, dipped and rolled, dipped and rolled, repeating this process about a dozen times. I baked them for two hours. When he came home from work, the setting was beautiful, candles lit, food prepared, and the veal glowing on the plate – all three and half inches thick. We sat down to eat. Halfway through the meal, my husband got up and went into the bathroom. I heard him vomiting through the closed door. He came out, sat down, and we finished the meal without a word about what had just happened.
The next day I confronted him. He waited patiently to respond, (praying, I’m sure) to find just the right words. Finally he said that the sacred rule of marriage – in fact, of any successful relationship – is: First, do no harm.
Everything I knew about cooking I gleaned from my mother. (And that explained a lot.)
But in retrospect, that purging probably helped to extend my husband’s life - because recently, I’ve come across an enormous amount of information about the detrimental effects of animal fat on our well-being. Oh, I don’t mean that I found it in the (LM) liberal media (ha, ha, good one!) like the conglomerate-owned newspapers or while watching (GE-owned) The Today Show (now four long hours). They have to protect their sponsors – Kraft, ConAgra, McDonalds - by promoting educational segments like how to recycle old bridesmaid’s dresses into party hats.
No.
I’m talking about getting information the old fashioned way, like they did 150 years ago, through word of mouth, personal references, bulletin boards, or local community-owned radio. Talk about progress!
In last month’s column, I asked the following question: Why are American women’s chances of getting breast cancer six times greater than women in China and India?
That query deserved consideration, and my quest for answers led me to two sources: (1) The China Study by Dr. T. Colin Campbell, subtitled “The most comprehensive study of nutrition ever conducted” which articulates the results of over two decades of research on the relationship between diet and disease and (2) Dying to Have Known, a documentary by Stephen Kroschel about the cancer treatment therapy developed by Max Gerson over 75 years ago which relates the testimony of patients, scientists, surgeons and nutritionists.
Two common threads run through these sources. One is the fact that a good diet – high in plant-based nutrition – is the most powerful weapon we have against disease and sickness. Both authors lay out critical evidence on the damaging effects of animal fat – which they contend actually promotes illness. Most importantly, each articulates how we are grossly misinformed by the media. The second common thread is the body’s amazing ability to heal itself.
The China Study takes the reader through 50 years of research that has been ignored by the LM including as the following:
- p. 36
(1968) A research paper from India surfaced in an obscure medical journal. It was an experiment involving liver cancer and protein consumption in two groups of laboratory rats. One group was given AF (one of the worst carcinogens) and then fed diets containing 20% protein; the second group was given the same level of AF and then fed diets containing only 5% protein. Every single rat fed 20% protein got liver cancer or its precursor lesions, but not a single animal fed a 5% protein diet got liver cancer or its precursor lesions. It was not a trivial difference; it was 100% versus 0%.
I mean – geez - in America only 4 out of 5 dentists recommend Colgate!
The China Study contains data on the study of different dietary, lifestyle, and disease characteristics of 65 counties, 130 villages, and 6,500 adults and their families in China. When the analysis was complete, Dr. Campbell had over 8,000 statistically significant associations between lifestyle, diet and disease variables.
p. 160
Exposure to excess amounts of female hormones, including estrogen and progesterone, leads to an increased risk of breast cancer. According to our China Study data, exposure to estrogen is at least 2.5 – 3.0 times higher among Western women when compared with rural Chinese women…diet plays a major role in establishing estrogen exposure. This suggests that the risk of breast cancer is preventable if we eat foods that will keep estrogen levels under control. The sad truth is that most women simply are not aware of this evidence. If this information were properly reported by responsible and credible public health agencies, I suspect that many more young women might be taking very real, very effective steps to avoid this awful disease.
Remember the golden rule: First, do no harm.
These two publications can help.
Oh, yes, and from my perspective: Dr. Campbell’s book is mmm mmm good.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2008
No Country for Old Women
(Part One)
In August of 1999, my sister and I completed a marathon event to raise money for a worthy cause: The Avon Breast Cancer Three Day. Avon (the company for women) sponsored this affair in which participants walked sixty miles over a three day period, from West Point, New York to Manhattan. It was the most physically challenging and exhausting experience I had ever endured.
Except for giving birth. And that only took two days.
But that didn’t matter. No amount of pain would stop the thousands of participants – 99.9% women - because we were united, an army of one, comrades-in-arms, together fighting this battle in the war on breast cancer.
On the first day of the event, we awoke at 4 am - sleepy-eyed and caffeine depleted - and boarded buses that took us to ground zero, the starting point of our sixty mile adventure. There, we listened to President James Preston of Avon (the company for women), who stood among us advocating the importance of our involvement in this (never-ending) conquest. He spoke compassionately, using loud speakers and visual effects, telling us about the company’s determination to win, win, win this war on breast cancer. He (could have) reminded the audience of the history of Avon (the company for women) which was founded in 1886, by Mr. David McConnell (originally called the California Perfume Company) and that in its (then) 113 year history, there had never been a woman chief executive officer.
(Which makes sense because only men know how they want a woman to smell.)
After this in-cite-ful indoctrination, we were charged up, and ready to rumble.
On the first day, we walked 22 miles in humidity and temperatures that hovered around 100 degrees, on the second day, 20 miles, and 18 on the third. At the end of each day’s march, we removed our backpacks, set up camp, ate in the mess tent, bathed in communal showers, tended to our sore, aching, tired, feet, and then slept.
Unfortunately over the three day course, some of the participants couldn’t complete the mission, succumbing to heat stroke, physical exhaustion, swelling of the feet, hammer toes, or that darn fungus foot. Some just plain went AWOL. But not me. No sir. I was able to do everything that was asked of me: (1) raise the required $1,200 (anything less would’ve come out of my pocket), (2) attend a class entitled “Ten Walking Mistakes to Avoid” (like flapping your arms like a chicken), and (3) watching a 75 minute video on how to cross the street.
Everyone involved gave their unwavering support and implicitly understood that you are either with Avon (the company for women) in its war on breast cancer or you are with the terrorizing few that strayed from the pack and actually articulated independent, (albeit “liberal”) thought about this often fatal disease. And if you are in the latter, you’re sure to get breast cancer.
(Frightened masses huddle together and ask very few questions.)
Some people even formed conspiracy theories which bordered on subversion, questioning how a company whose sales were $9 billion (last year) and whose products, applied directly to the skin (the body’s largest organ), include ingredients such as salicylic acid, aluminum starch octenylsuccinate, parabens, and fragrances - have the audacity to advocate they are working to eradicate this disease.
They wanted to know why this company pays enormous fees to fundraisers – including a $7.5 million dollar settlement that Avon (the company for women) doled out in 2005 to their former marketing joint venture partner, Pallotta Team Works (that’s 6,250 walkathon participants minimum contribution or 12,500 blistered feet), and why, according to their latest financial statements, marketing and overhead charges a whopping 22 cents on every dollar raised.
Make no mistake about it, cancer is a frightening disease and treatment options – which include chemotherapy, radiation, surgery, and/or drugs - are physically and emotionally painful, debilitating, and costly. That is exactly why I decided to participate nine years ago.
But since then, I’ve learned quite a bit about the power of those who capitalize on (never-ending) wars against “something”. Don’t forget, American’s toil under a system that allows drug companies to spend billions a year telling citizens – via any media source possible - that their doctors are too stupid to know what drugs they should be taking (“ask your doctor”) – and tens of billions more directly marketing these same products to physicians. Drug companies spend almost twice as much on advertising ($57 billion in 2004) than on research and development.
I’m not making this up!
According to the US Department of Health and Human Services, breast cancer is the second leading cause of cancer deaths in women - in America. Our chance of getting breast cancer is one in eight.
But our odds are six times greater than women in China and India. Why is that?
That’s what I want to know.
And until we have honest, open discussions – irrespective of what market segments are impaired by the answers (god forbid) – American women will continue to suffer from this disease. And that’s totally unacceptable to this woman.
Ding, Dong: Avon, we’re calling on you…
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2008
(Part One)
In August of 1999, my sister and I completed a marathon event to raise money for a worthy cause: The Avon Breast Cancer Three Day. Avon (the company for women) sponsored this affair in which participants walked sixty miles over a three day period, from West Point, New York to Manhattan. It was the most physically challenging and exhausting experience I had ever endured.
Except for giving birth. And that only took two days.
But that didn’t matter. No amount of pain would stop the thousands of participants – 99.9% women - because we were united, an army of one, comrades-in-arms, together fighting this battle in the war on breast cancer.
On the first day of the event, we awoke at 4 am - sleepy-eyed and caffeine depleted - and boarded buses that took us to ground zero, the starting point of our sixty mile adventure. There, we listened to President James Preston of Avon (the company for women), who stood among us advocating the importance of our involvement in this (never-ending) conquest. He spoke compassionately, using loud speakers and visual effects, telling us about the company’s determination to win, win, win this war on breast cancer. He (could have) reminded the audience of the history of Avon (the company for women) which was founded in 1886, by Mr. David McConnell (originally called the California Perfume Company) and that in its (then) 113 year history, there had never been a woman chief executive officer.
(Which makes sense because only men know how they want a woman to smell.)
After this in-cite-ful indoctrination, we were charged up, and ready to rumble.
On the first day, we walked 22 miles in humidity and temperatures that hovered around 100 degrees, on the second day, 20 miles, and 18 on the third. At the end of each day’s march, we removed our backpacks, set up camp, ate in the mess tent, bathed in communal showers, tended to our sore, aching, tired, feet, and then slept.
Unfortunately over the three day course, some of the participants couldn’t complete the mission, succumbing to heat stroke, physical exhaustion, swelling of the feet, hammer toes, or that darn fungus foot. Some just plain went AWOL. But not me. No sir. I was able to do everything that was asked of me: (1) raise the required $1,200 (anything less would’ve come out of my pocket), (2) attend a class entitled “Ten Walking Mistakes to Avoid” (like flapping your arms like a chicken), and (3) watching a 75 minute video on how to cross the street.
Everyone involved gave their unwavering support and implicitly understood that you are either with Avon (the company for women) in its war on breast cancer or you are with the terrorizing few that strayed from the pack and actually articulated independent, (albeit “liberal”) thought about this often fatal disease. And if you are in the latter, you’re sure to get breast cancer.
(Frightened masses huddle together and ask very few questions.)
Some people even formed conspiracy theories which bordered on subversion, questioning how a company whose sales were $9 billion (last year) and whose products, applied directly to the skin (the body’s largest organ), include ingredients such as salicylic acid, aluminum starch octenylsuccinate, parabens, and fragrances - have the audacity to advocate they are working to eradicate this disease.
They wanted to know why this company pays enormous fees to fundraisers – including a $7.5 million dollar settlement that Avon (the company for women) doled out in 2005 to their former marketing joint venture partner, Pallotta Team Works (that’s 6,250 walkathon participants minimum contribution or 12,500 blistered feet), and why, according to their latest financial statements, marketing and overhead charges a whopping 22 cents on every dollar raised.
Make no mistake about it, cancer is a frightening disease and treatment options – which include chemotherapy, radiation, surgery, and/or drugs - are physically and emotionally painful, debilitating, and costly. That is exactly why I decided to participate nine years ago.
But since then, I’ve learned quite a bit about the power of those who capitalize on (never-ending) wars against “something”. Don’t forget, American’s toil under a system that allows drug companies to spend billions a year telling citizens – via any media source possible - that their doctors are too stupid to know what drugs they should be taking (“ask your doctor”) – and tens of billions more directly marketing these same products to physicians. Drug companies spend almost twice as much on advertising ($57 billion in 2004) than on research and development.
I’m not making this up!
According to the US Department of Health and Human Services, breast cancer is the second leading cause of cancer deaths in women - in America. Our chance of getting breast cancer is one in eight.
But our odds are six times greater than women in China and India. Why is that?
That’s what I want to know.
And until we have honest, open discussions – irrespective of what market segments are impaired by the answers (god forbid) – American women will continue to suffer from this disease. And that’s totally unacceptable to this woman.
Ding, Dong: Avon, we’re calling on you…
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2008
My Big Fat American New Year
Our New Year started off with a bang.
My husband and I wanted to do something special but we didn’t want it to be controversial or – god forbid – educational.
We considered going into The City to see a play, and prepared for our trip by waiting in line at the drive-thru window of our local pharmacy to refill needed prescriptions (restless leg/irritable bowel/overactive bladder/depression/anxiety/chronic fatigue/PMDD) and then proceeding to the bank’s drive-thru to withdraw funds for the estimated $385 it would cost (donuts/gas/insurance/tolls/parking/snacks/admission/beverages/drive-thru-donuts).
But then we remembered there were rumors of labor strikes forcing many plays to shut down.
These “strikers” almost ruined our New Year. What’s wrong with them?
The City is a scary place anyway filled with unsavory characters, so we were relieved to skip the play and see a movie - but not at the Mega Mall Movie Theatre Complex where "undesirables" could roam in an unsupervised manner (and high on whatever). No. We went to a little independent movie theatre in a quaint seashore town known for its (increasing) separation of the "haves" (on one side of the railroad tracks) and "have-nots" (on the other).
When I entered the theatre, an employee gave me a special promotion. The offer seemed phenomenal - yet confusing - but I think it worked like this: Every dollar spent, you earned one point. Spend $50 (50 points) and that entitled you to free (small, unbuttered) popcorn. Three hundred points entitled you to a movie pass (weekends, holidays, after hours excluded). I think five hundred thousand points entitled you to a $10 gift card.
(I don’t know how businesses make any money these days.)
Anyway, we moved into the crowded theatre to see the film: "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead” – which we heard was a family film - something about your distinctive all-American white collar family, living in a white four-story colonial (with black shutters), in a typical suburban neighborhood.
The story centers on the relationship between the two brothers.
The oldest brother, Andy, is embezzling money from his employer, a high-profile real estate conglomerate. Andy has a Park Avenue drug habit (not the kind that "cracks" open jail cells for people of color). He snorts cocaine on the top of his filing cabinet before going into a corporate meeting about an impending IRS audit. Hey, who wouldn't?
His wife, played by Marisa Tomei is mostly naked in the film -in almost every scene - every 15 minutes or so. And then some. Quite frankly, I'd seen more of her than I cared to.
I think my husband was glad we skipped the play.
The other brother, Hank, is four months behind in child support payments to his ex-wife who is a nagging, sniveling, denigrating hag. She does not have a scene or any dialogue in the movie where she is not hurling four letter words at her ex husband. Hank’s family loathes him, and Hank feels that pain by screwing Andy's wife (every Thursday morning between 10 and 11). Hence more naked scenes with Marisa Tomei.
Oh boy.
Despite all this family bliss, Andy and Hank decide to rob their parents business - a jewelry store that has been in the family for generations. All this conniving, planning, and possible jail time will net them $60,000 each. Each!
What dopes. I mean after taxes, they'll get only half of that!
During the robbery, all hell breaks loose. The mother tries to ward off the robber with a hand gun she has hidden in her....well, I dare not say. She manages to shoot the masked robber (who Hank hired to do the job because he is a big baby and doesn't even have enough courage to steal from his own mother). The robber - although wounded - is able to shoot the mother. There's lots of blood. The mother ends up in the hospital - brain dead - hooked up to machines that keep her alive. The family has to decide whether to pull the plug on mom.
I understood that part.
(As you can see, women are well represented in the film.)
In the aftermath, Andy laments: "Why couldn't it have been dad, instead of mom?"
The police are not looking into the crime so the father takes matters into his own hands after his investigation reveals his sons’ involvement. He grabs a gun and follows them during a bloody shooting spree (is there any other kind?).
I understood most of the film except the part where the father confesses that he was a bad parent. I’m not sure what dysfunctional leadership has to do with ensuing chaos.
I won't tell you the ending in case you want to see the film. But I think the moral of the story is black and white: Behind violence is the absence of color…and the presence of crude, capitalistic opportunities that benefit a very few.
Oh…and crimes against humanity come with a heavy price.
Especially if the Devil Knows You’re Dead: Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2007
Our New Year started off with a bang.
My husband and I wanted to do something special but we didn’t want it to be controversial or – god forbid – educational.
We considered going into The City to see a play, and prepared for our trip by waiting in line at the drive-thru window of our local pharmacy to refill needed prescriptions (restless leg/irritable bowel/overactive bladder/depression/anxiety/chronic fatigue/PMDD) and then proceeding to the bank’s drive-thru to withdraw funds for the estimated $385 it would cost (donuts/gas/insurance/tolls/parking/snacks/admission/beverages/drive-thru-donuts).
But then we remembered there were rumors of labor strikes forcing many plays to shut down.
These “strikers” almost ruined our New Year. What’s wrong with them?
The City is a scary place anyway filled with unsavory characters, so we were relieved to skip the play and see a movie - but not at the Mega Mall Movie Theatre Complex where "undesirables" could roam in an unsupervised manner (and high on whatever). No. We went to a little independent movie theatre in a quaint seashore town known for its (increasing) separation of the "haves" (on one side of the railroad tracks) and "have-nots" (on the other).
When I entered the theatre, an employee gave me a special promotion. The offer seemed phenomenal - yet confusing - but I think it worked like this: Every dollar spent, you earned one point. Spend $50 (50 points) and that entitled you to free (small, unbuttered) popcorn. Three hundred points entitled you to a movie pass (weekends, holidays, after hours excluded). I think five hundred thousand points entitled you to a $10 gift card.
(I don’t know how businesses make any money these days.)
Anyway, we moved into the crowded theatre to see the film: "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead” – which we heard was a family film - something about your distinctive all-American white collar family, living in a white four-story colonial (with black shutters), in a typical suburban neighborhood.
The story centers on the relationship between the two brothers.
The oldest brother, Andy, is embezzling money from his employer, a high-profile real estate conglomerate. Andy has a Park Avenue drug habit (not the kind that "cracks" open jail cells for people of color). He snorts cocaine on the top of his filing cabinet before going into a corporate meeting about an impending IRS audit. Hey, who wouldn't?
His wife, played by Marisa Tomei is mostly naked in the film -in almost every scene - every 15 minutes or so. And then some. Quite frankly, I'd seen more of her than I cared to.
I think my husband was glad we skipped the play.
The other brother, Hank, is four months behind in child support payments to his ex-wife who is a nagging, sniveling, denigrating hag. She does not have a scene or any dialogue in the movie where she is not hurling four letter words at her ex husband. Hank’s family loathes him, and Hank feels that pain by screwing Andy's wife (every Thursday morning between 10 and 11). Hence more naked scenes with Marisa Tomei.
Oh boy.
Despite all this family bliss, Andy and Hank decide to rob their parents business - a jewelry store that has been in the family for generations. All this conniving, planning, and possible jail time will net them $60,000 each. Each!
What dopes. I mean after taxes, they'll get only half of that!
During the robbery, all hell breaks loose. The mother tries to ward off the robber with a hand gun she has hidden in her....well, I dare not say. She manages to shoot the masked robber (who Hank hired to do the job because he is a big baby and doesn't even have enough courage to steal from his own mother). The robber - although wounded - is able to shoot the mother. There's lots of blood. The mother ends up in the hospital - brain dead - hooked up to machines that keep her alive. The family has to decide whether to pull the plug on mom.
I understood that part.
(As you can see, women are well represented in the film.)
In the aftermath, Andy laments: "Why couldn't it have been dad, instead of mom?"
The police are not looking into the crime so the father takes matters into his own hands after his investigation reveals his sons’ involvement. He grabs a gun and follows them during a bloody shooting spree (is there any other kind?).
I understood most of the film except the part where the father confesses that he was a bad parent. I’m not sure what dysfunctional leadership has to do with ensuing chaos.
I won't tell you the ending in case you want to see the film. But I think the moral of the story is black and white: Behind violence is the absence of color…and the presence of crude, capitalistic opportunities that benefit a very few.
Oh…and crimes against humanity come with a heavy price.
Especially if the Devil Knows You’re Dead: Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2007
The Great Divide
I used to be a hot babe.
Not the Paris Hilton sex-starved-nose-thumbing-I’m not changing-my-ways kind of babe No. I’m talking about the bald-headed-thumb-sucking-hey!-I-need-a-change-over-here kind. You see, as an infant, I’d get fevers in excess of 105 degrees. Consequently, I’d be cranky, irritable, and quite messy. This went on for the better part of 1957.
Seven years later, I spent months in isolation after contracting meningitis. I couldn’t walk, was lethargic, feverish, and subjected to daily injections and other bodily invasions too embarrassing to mention.
Those were the good old days.
At least that’s what I’m told. Because back then – allegedly - doctors made house calls, provided routine treatments, prescribed medicine without commercial intervention, and had a “staff” of one handling payment.
Restless leg syndrome was not yet invented…err, I mean treated.
If that’s true, health care has changed quite a bit. Nowadays we have exorbitant medical bills, co-pays, referrals, pre-certification, and thousand dollar deductibles. You’re either in-network, out-of-network, or out-of-pocket. We have HMOs, PPOs and of course, OCOs Then there are the 500 page insurance contracts and the distinct differences between “urgent care” and “emergency”.
And everywhere you go, you hear stories from people who are fighting their health insurance companies over denied benefits.
That is exactly the premise of Michael Moore’s new film, Sicko, which focuses on the so-called flaws in the system for the roughly two hundred million Americans who have health insurance. The film implies that capitalism is to health care what Penthouse is to the women’s movement.
After I saw the film, I noticed the rush – the mad rush in the media, that is – to immediately discredit any notion that Americans need (or God forbid want) a single-payer health care system with universal coverage.
There were the usual suspects like:
Bill O’Reilly who, referring to Mr. Moore as a socialist, observed: “Say national health care is passed. Then what? I can guarantee you that Michael Moore and his acolytes will say that decent food is a human right. So is decent housing and a dignified retirement and child care for working people, and on and on and on.” (7/11/07)
Who in their right mind wants decent child care?
Oh, it gets better.
National Review’s Deroy Murdock, who titled his review “SKIPO”, states: “Moore overlooks many facts that would balance his otherwise well-crafted film…its leftward tilt makes the Leaning Tower of Pisa look like the Washington Monument.”
Kevin Carr of 7(M) Pictures considers a patient’s inability to get treatment their own damn fault. He recounts one of the film’s “criminals”: “Like the woman who killed her own child arguing with doctors to treat her rather than driving the sick kid to a hospital that took her insurance.”
An 18 month old dies in an ER with treatment an arms length away.
Yes, I agree. That is criminal.
The New York Times (hardly a conservative source) published a scathing editorial (7/5/07) in which Philip Boffey offered: “The film is unashamedly one-sided, superficial, overstated and occasionally suspect in its details…Can it really be true that three volunteers who worked on the smoldering World Trade Center pile after 9/11 were unable to afford care in this country?”
Imagine that.
I think that borders on criminal behavior also.
Most of the critics “reinforced” the notion that health insurance coverage is a non issue, like Mr. Denby, in his review for The New Yorker (7/2/07), who pointed out “Everyone knows the major Democratic Presidential candidates have already offered, or will soon offer, plans for reform.”
Duh! Of course they will. And to think otherwise is just plain sicko.
I can’t wait for these wordsmiths to evaluate other movies with such fanaticism. I can see the review for Evan Almighty now:
“Evan Almighty is a film of Biblical proportions about a woman’s quest for the patience to deal with her husband’s increasingly irrational behavior. The husband, whose name I believe is Evan (but that’s not important), plans to build a big boat because he claims an old black man appeared telling him there would be a monumental flood wiping out life as we know it causing devastation and catastrophic illness. The movie is a comedy.”
Mr. Moore claimed he received over 25,000 emails - within the first 24 hours - about the horrors of dealing with health insurance companies. That’s only from the people who heard about his request.
What seems clear to me from Sicko is the great divide in America today. Not left versus right, or Democrat versus Republican. I’m talking about the great (and ever expanding) division between public opinion and public policy.
It’s ironic that BlueCross VP Barclay Fitzpatrick’s confidential memo - leaked to Mr. Moore by an employee - (unintentionally) sums it up best: “You would have to be dead to be unaffected by Moore’s movie.”
Speaking of which, someday I’ll be a hot babe again - when I‘m reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. Hopefully that won’t be the result of someone’s inability to determine whether the treatment I needed fell under the category of “urgent care” or “emergency”…or some insurance company hyping: Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2007
I used to be a hot babe.
Not the Paris Hilton sex-starved-nose-thumbing-I’m not changing-my-ways kind of babe No. I’m talking about the bald-headed-thumb-sucking-hey!-I-need-a-change-over-here kind. You see, as an infant, I’d get fevers in excess of 105 degrees. Consequently, I’d be cranky, irritable, and quite messy. This went on for the better part of 1957.
Seven years later, I spent months in isolation after contracting meningitis. I couldn’t walk, was lethargic, feverish, and subjected to daily injections and other bodily invasions too embarrassing to mention.
Those were the good old days.
At least that’s what I’m told. Because back then – allegedly - doctors made house calls, provided routine treatments, prescribed medicine without commercial intervention, and had a “staff” of one handling payment.
Restless leg syndrome was not yet invented…err, I mean treated.
If that’s true, health care has changed quite a bit. Nowadays we have exorbitant medical bills, co-pays, referrals, pre-certification, and thousand dollar deductibles. You’re either in-network, out-of-network, or out-of-pocket. We have HMOs, PPOs and of course, OCOs Then there are the 500 page insurance contracts and the distinct differences between “urgent care” and “emergency”.
And everywhere you go, you hear stories from people who are fighting their health insurance companies over denied benefits.
That is exactly the premise of Michael Moore’s new film, Sicko, which focuses on the so-called flaws in the system for the roughly two hundred million Americans who have health insurance. The film implies that capitalism is to health care what Penthouse is to the women’s movement.
After I saw the film, I noticed the rush – the mad rush in the media, that is – to immediately discredit any notion that Americans need (or God forbid want) a single-payer health care system with universal coverage.
There were the usual suspects like:
Bill O’Reilly who, referring to Mr. Moore as a socialist, observed: “Say national health care is passed. Then what? I can guarantee you that Michael Moore and his acolytes will say that decent food is a human right. So is decent housing and a dignified retirement and child care for working people, and on and on and on.” (7/11/07)
Who in their right mind wants decent child care?
Oh, it gets better.
National Review’s Deroy Murdock, who titled his review “SKIPO”, states: “Moore overlooks many facts that would balance his otherwise well-crafted film…its leftward tilt makes the Leaning Tower of Pisa look like the Washington Monument.”
Kevin Carr of 7(M) Pictures considers a patient’s inability to get treatment their own damn fault. He recounts one of the film’s “criminals”: “Like the woman who killed her own child arguing with doctors to treat her rather than driving the sick kid to a hospital that took her insurance.”
An 18 month old dies in an ER with treatment an arms length away.
Yes, I agree. That is criminal.
The New York Times (hardly a conservative source) published a scathing editorial (7/5/07) in which Philip Boffey offered: “The film is unashamedly one-sided, superficial, overstated and occasionally suspect in its details…Can it really be true that three volunteers who worked on the smoldering World Trade Center pile after 9/11 were unable to afford care in this country?”
Imagine that.
I think that borders on criminal behavior also.
Most of the critics “reinforced” the notion that health insurance coverage is a non issue, like Mr. Denby, in his review for The New Yorker (7/2/07), who pointed out “Everyone knows the major Democratic Presidential candidates have already offered, or will soon offer, plans for reform.”
Duh! Of course they will. And to think otherwise is just plain sicko.
I can’t wait for these wordsmiths to evaluate other movies with such fanaticism. I can see the review for Evan Almighty now:
“Evan Almighty is a film of Biblical proportions about a woman’s quest for the patience to deal with her husband’s increasingly irrational behavior. The husband, whose name I believe is Evan (but that’s not important), plans to build a big boat because he claims an old black man appeared telling him there would be a monumental flood wiping out life as we know it causing devastation and catastrophic illness. The movie is a comedy.”
Mr. Moore claimed he received over 25,000 emails - within the first 24 hours - about the horrors of dealing with health insurance companies. That’s only from the people who heard about his request.
What seems clear to me from Sicko is the great divide in America today. Not left versus right, or Democrat versus Republican. I’m talking about the great (and ever expanding) division between public opinion and public policy.
It’s ironic that BlueCross VP Barclay Fitzpatrick’s confidential memo - leaked to Mr. Moore by an employee - (unintentionally) sums it up best: “You would have to be dead to be unaffected by Moore’s movie.”
Speaking of which, someday I’ll be a hot babe again - when I‘m reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. Hopefully that won’t be the result of someone’s inability to determine whether the treatment I needed fell under the category of “urgent care” or “emergency”…or some insurance company hyping: Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2007
Monday, April 28, 2008
My Big Fat American New Year
Our New Year started off with a bang.
My husband and I wanted to do something special but we didn’t want it to be controversial or – god forbid – educational.
We considered going into The City to see a play, and prepared for our trip by waiting in line at the drive-thru window of our local pharmacy to refill needed prescriptions (restless leg/irritable bowel/overactive bladder/depression/anxiety/chronic fatigue/PMDD) and then proceeding to the bank’s drive-thru to withdraw funds for the estimated $385 it would cost (donuts/gas/insurance/tolls/parking/snacks/admission/beverages/drive-thru-donuts).
But then we remembered there were rumors of labor strikes forcing many plays to shut down.
These “strikers” almost ruined our New Year. What’s wrong with them?
The City is a scary place anyway filled with unsavory characters, so we were relieved to skip the play and see a movie - but not at the Mega Mall Movie Theatre Complex where "undesirables" could roam in an unsupervised manner (and high on whatever). No. We went to a little independent movie theatre in a quaint seashore town known for its (increasing) separation of the "haves" (on one side of the railroad tracks) and "have-nots" (on the other).
When I entered the theatre, an employee gave me a special promotion. The offer seemed phenomenal - yet confusing - but I think it worked like this: Every dollar spent, you earned one point. Spend $50 (50 points) and that entitled you to free (small, unbuttered) popcorn. Three hundred points entitled you to a movie pass (weekends, holidays, after hours excluded). I think five hundred thousand points entitled you to a $10 gift card.
(I don’t know how businesses make any money these days.)
Anyway, we moved into the crowded theatre to see the film: "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead” – which we heard was a family film - something about your distinctive all-American white collar family, living in a white four-story colonial (with black shutters), in a typical suburban neighborhood.
The story centers on the relationship between the two brothers.
The oldest brother, Andy, is embezzling money from his employer, a high-profile real estate conglomerate. Andy has a Park Avenue drug habit (not the kind that "cracks" open jail cells for people of color). He snorts cocaine on the top of his filing cabinet before going into a corporate meeting about an impending IRS audit. Hey, who wouldn't?
His wife, played by Marisa Tomei is mostly naked in the film -in almost every scene - every 15 minutes or so. And then some. Quite frankly, I'd seen more of her than I cared to.
I think my husband was glad we skipped the play.
The other brother, Hank, is four months behind in child support payments to his ex-wife who is a nagging, sniveling, denigrating hag. She does not have a scene or any dialogue in the movie where she is not hurling four letter words at her ex husband. Hank’s family loathes him, and Hank feels that pain by screwing Andy's wife (every Thursday morning between 10 and 11). Hence more naked scenes with Marisa Tomei.
Oh boy.
Despite all this family bliss, Andy and Hank decide to rob their parents business - a jewelry store that has been in the family for generations. All this conniving, planning, and possible jail time will net them $60,000 each. Each!
What dopes. I mean after taxes, they'll get only half of that!
During the robbery, all hell breaks loose. The mother tries to ward off the robber with a hand gun she has hidden in her....well, I dare not say. She manages to shoot the masked robber (who Hank hired to do the job because he is a big baby and doesn't even have enough courage to steal from his own mother). The robber - although wounded - is able to shoot the mother. There's lots of blood. The mother ends up in the hospital - brain dead - hooked up to machines that keep her alive. The family has to decide whether to pull the plug on mom.
I understood that part.
(As you can see, women are well represented in the film.)
In the aftermath, Andy laments: "Why couldn't it have been dad, instead of mom?"
The police are not looking into the crime so the father takes matters into his own hands after his investigation reveals his sons’ involvement. He grabs a gun and follows them during a bloody shooting spree (is there any other kind?).
I understood most of the film except the part where the father confesses that he was a bad parent. I’m not sure what dysfunctional leadership has to do with ensuing chaos.
I won't tell you the ending in case you want to see the film. But I think the moral of the story is black and white: Behind violence is the absence of color…and the presence of crude, capitalistic opportunities that benefit a very few.
Oh…and crimes against humanity come with a heavy price.
Especially if the Devil Knows You’re Dead: Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2008
Our New Year started off with a bang.
My husband and I wanted to do something special but we didn’t want it to be controversial or – god forbid – educational.
We considered going into The City to see a play, and prepared for our trip by waiting in line at the drive-thru window of our local pharmacy to refill needed prescriptions (restless leg/irritable bowel/overactive bladder/depression/anxiety/chronic fatigue/PMDD) and then proceeding to the bank’s drive-thru to withdraw funds for the estimated $385 it would cost (donuts/gas/insurance/tolls/parking/snacks/admission/beverages/drive-thru-donuts).
But then we remembered there were rumors of labor strikes forcing many plays to shut down.
These “strikers” almost ruined our New Year. What’s wrong with them?
The City is a scary place anyway filled with unsavory characters, so we were relieved to skip the play and see a movie - but not at the Mega Mall Movie Theatre Complex where "undesirables" could roam in an unsupervised manner (and high on whatever). No. We went to a little independent movie theatre in a quaint seashore town known for its (increasing) separation of the "haves" (on one side of the railroad tracks) and "have-nots" (on the other).
When I entered the theatre, an employee gave me a special promotion. The offer seemed phenomenal - yet confusing - but I think it worked like this: Every dollar spent, you earned one point. Spend $50 (50 points) and that entitled you to free (small, unbuttered) popcorn. Three hundred points entitled you to a movie pass (weekends, holidays, after hours excluded). I think five hundred thousand points entitled you to a $10 gift card.
(I don’t know how businesses make any money these days.)
Anyway, we moved into the crowded theatre to see the film: "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead” – which we heard was a family film - something about your distinctive all-American white collar family, living in a white four-story colonial (with black shutters), in a typical suburban neighborhood.
The story centers on the relationship between the two brothers.
The oldest brother, Andy, is embezzling money from his employer, a high-profile real estate conglomerate. Andy has a Park Avenue drug habit (not the kind that "cracks" open jail cells for people of color). He snorts cocaine on the top of his filing cabinet before going into a corporate meeting about an impending IRS audit. Hey, who wouldn't?
His wife, played by Marisa Tomei is mostly naked in the film -in almost every scene - every 15 minutes or so. And then some. Quite frankly, I'd seen more of her than I cared to.
I think my husband was glad we skipped the play.
The other brother, Hank, is four months behind in child support payments to his ex-wife who is a nagging, sniveling, denigrating hag. She does not have a scene or any dialogue in the movie where she is not hurling four letter words at her ex husband. Hank’s family loathes him, and Hank feels that pain by screwing Andy's wife (every Thursday morning between 10 and 11). Hence more naked scenes with Marisa Tomei.
Oh boy.
Despite all this family bliss, Andy and Hank decide to rob their parents business - a jewelry store that has been in the family for generations. All this conniving, planning, and possible jail time will net them $60,000 each. Each!
What dopes. I mean after taxes, they'll get only half of that!
During the robbery, all hell breaks loose. The mother tries to ward off the robber with a hand gun she has hidden in her....well, I dare not say. She manages to shoot the masked robber (who Hank hired to do the job because he is a big baby and doesn't even have enough courage to steal from his own mother). The robber - although wounded - is able to shoot the mother. There's lots of blood. The mother ends up in the hospital - brain dead - hooked up to machines that keep her alive. The family has to decide whether to pull the plug on mom.
I understood that part.
(As you can see, women are well represented in the film.)
In the aftermath, Andy laments: "Why couldn't it have been dad, instead of mom?"
The police are not looking into the crime so the father takes matters into his own hands after his investigation reveals his sons’ involvement. He grabs a gun and follows them during a bloody shooting spree (is there any other kind?).
I understood most of the film except the part where the father confesses that he was a bad parent. I’m not sure what dysfunctional leadership has to do with ensuing chaos.
I won't tell you the ending in case you want to see the film. But I think the moral of the story is black and white: Behind violence is the absence of color…and the presence of crude, capitalistic opportunities that benefit a very few.
Oh…and crimes against humanity come with a heavy price.
Especially if the Devil Knows You’re Dead: Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2008
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue Freeze Out
Seven days before the start of my sophomore year in high school, my family was homeless.
Oh, I don’t mean that the way it sounds. It wasn’t like we were living out of the back of our Pink Cadillac, freshening up in the bathrooms of Esso gas stations. No. What I mean is that at the end of my freshman year, we vacated the house where we lived during that school year, visited friends for several weeks (surprise!), and then moved into a two week end-of-summer bargain rental where we sent our Greetings from Asbury Park.
When that lease expired, my family – father, mother, 5 kids, 1 dog, 2 cats – would be moving to another yet-to-be-disclosed location.
We weren’t house-less. More accurately, we were home-less
And no matter how often we relocated – a dozen times in ten years through eleven towns, seven school districts and from coast to coast – it wasn’t easy, but I’d take those days back in a heartbeat. Because I noticed that no matter where we lived, the citizens of this nation had something you don’t see much today: Passion
In the 1960s and 1970 - every single day – people were standing up for what they believed in, marching and protesting for equality or civil rights or against the war.
What was interesting is that the media – our public airwaves - actually covered these actions. The people’s voices were reported.
Where is that passion today? I feared the answer to that question. And then I saw Bruce Springsteen’s interview in October on 60 Minutes:
"We’ve seen things happen over the past 6 years that I mean I don’t think anybody ever thought we’d see in the United States. When people think of the American identity, they don’t think of torture, they don’t think of illegal wiretapping, they don’t think of voter suppression, they don’t think of no habeas corpus. No right to a lawyer. You know…those are things that are anti-American."
The mainstream media’s goon squad - in their zeal to deter any and all criticism of this administration - immediately began their assault.
Monopolistic Clear Channel dusted off their 2003 internal memo – which came to light in senate hearings on radio consolidation during the Dixie Chicks boycott – that threatened: “Just wait and see what happens if Springsteen tries this.” They sent an order to their stations not to play any songs from Bruce’s current album.
Other critics lamented why Bruce changed from singing about people’s personal struggles to Washington DC politics.
Everyone knows that people’s personal struggles have nothing to do with DC politics.
Some columnists stated that even his songs regarding war weren’t political. They were about the soldier.
Of course. There is absolutely no relationship between war and soldiers fighting halfway around the world in lands where they don’t speak or understand the language, culture, or history, with their fingers on the trigger of a Colt XM 177.
I mean how can someone with only a high school diploma, and from a small, blue-collar, working class American town – whose classmates were deployed to “fight the yellow man” in Southeast Asia in the prime of their lives - know anything about the big issues? Stuff like that never shapes your life. Instead, it takes a Yale University and Harvard Business School graduate – worth millions of dollars - to adequately express the intricate relationship between the common man and the common man in fatigues.
Even (the character) Bill O’Reilly (plays) got on the bandwagon calling Bruce un-American and a pin-head. Of course O’Reilly relied on his usual specifics to dispute Springsteen’s comments: “We don’t torture. It’s bull.”
There you have it. Prove positive.
(By the way, why is it after I watch O’Reilly I crave a bologna sandwich?)
My favorite criticism came from Tommy DeSeno, an Asbury Park attorney who wrote in his column for The TriCity News: “Bruce, DC politics isn’t your skill. When the subject was music, you spoke majestically. You were Shakespeare”. An interesting analogy indeed - especially considering that this author of Henry VI also wrote: “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.”
Bruce, you might decide to take the (right) hint and forgets all this political stuff. It can get you into a whole mess of trouble. Consider the words of Brazilian Archbishop Helder Camara, a man who spent over 70 years tending to the impoverished citizens of his nation. He had the audacity to speak out against censorship, torture and killings. He implored the Catholic Church to move beyond charity for the poor by tirelessly advocating for fundamental social changes like land ownership: “When I fed the poor, they called me a saint. When I asked, ‘Why are they poor?’ they called me a Communist.”
I’ve got that home-less feeling again: This is America?
Still, I’m hopeful that Bruce’s observations stir a passion in our citizens that proves to be Magic-ally delicious.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2007
Seven days before the start of my sophomore year in high school, my family was homeless.
Oh, I don’t mean that the way it sounds. It wasn’t like we were living out of the back of our Pink Cadillac, freshening up in the bathrooms of Esso gas stations. No. What I mean is that at the end of my freshman year, we vacated the house where we lived during that school year, visited friends for several weeks (surprise!), and then moved into a two week end-of-summer bargain rental where we sent our Greetings from Asbury Park.
When that lease expired, my family – father, mother, 5 kids, 1 dog, 2 cats – would be moving to another yet-to-be-disclosed location.
We weren’t house-less. More accurately, we were home-less
And no matter how often we relocated – a dozen times in ten years through eleven towns, seven school districts and from coast to coast – it wasn’t easy, but I’d take those days back in a heartbeat. Because I noticed that no matter where we lived, the citizens of this nation had something you don’t see much today: Passion
In the 1960s and 1970 - every single day – people were standing up for what they believed in, marching and protesting for equality or civil rights or against the war.
What was interesting is that the media – our public airwaves - actually covered these actions. The people’s voices were reported.
Where is that passion today? I feared the answer to that question. And then I saw Bruce Springsteen’s interview in October on 60 Minutes:
"We’ve seen things happen over the past 6 years that I mean I don’t think anybody ever thought we’d see in the United States. When people think of the American identity, they don’t think of torture, they don’t think of illegal wiretapping, they don’t think of voter suppression, they don’t think of no habeas corpus. No right to a lawyer. You know…those are things that are anti-American."
The mainstream media’s goon squad - in their zeal to deter any and all criticism of this administration - immediately began their assault.
Monopolistic Clear Channel dusted off their 2003 internal memo – which came to light in senate hearings on radio consolidation during the Dixie Chicks boycott – that threatened: “Just wait and see what happens if Springsteen tries this.” They sent an order to their stations not to play any songs from Bruce’s current album.
Other critics lamented why Bruce changed from singing about people’s personal struggles to Washington DC politics.
Everyone knows that people’s personal struggles have nothing to do with DC politics.
Some columnists stated that even his songs regarding war weren’t political. They were about the soldier.
Of course. There is absolutely no relationship between war and soldiers fighting halfway around the world in lands where they don’t speak or understand the language, culture, or history, with their fingers on the trigger of a Colt XM 177.
I mean how can someone with only a high school diploma, and from a small, blue-collar, working class American town – whose classmates were deployed to “fight the yellow man” in Southeast Asia in the prime of their lives - know anything about the big issues? Stuff like that never shapes your life. Instead, it takes a Yale University and Harvard Business School graduate – worth millions of dollars - to adequately express the intricate relationship between the common man and the common man in fatigues.
Even (the character) Bill O’Reilly (plays) got on the bandwagon calling Bruce un-American and a pin-head. Of course O’Reilly relied on his usual specifics to dispute Springsteen’s comments: “We don’t torture. It’s bull.”
There you have it. Prove positive.
(By the way, why is it after I watch O’Reilly I crave a bologna sandwich?)
My favorite criticism came from Tommy DeSeno, an Asbury Park attorney who wrote in his column for The TriCity News: “Bruce, DC politics isn’t your skill. When the subject was music, you spoke majestically. You were Shakespeare”. An interesting analogy indeed - especially considering that this author of Henry VI also wrote: “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.”
Bruce, you might decide to take the (right) hint and forgets all this political stuff. It can get you into a whole mess of trouble. Consider the words of Brazilian Archbishop Helder Camara, a man who spent over 70 years tending to the impoverished citizens of his nation. He had the audacity to speak out against censorship, torture and killings. He implored the Catholic Church to move beyond charity for the poor by tirelessly advocating for fundamental social changes like land ownership: “When I fed the poor, they called me a saint. When I asked, ‘Why are they poor?’ they called me a Communist.”
I’ve got that home-less feeling again: This is America?
Still, I’m hopeful that Bruce’s observations stir a passion in our citizens that proves to be Magic-ally delicious.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2007
Oops, I did it Again!
The bullet that ripped through Jane’s young flesh came without warning and while she was absorbed in her daily routine. When the 800 mile per hour lead projectile entered her skin, interrupting circulation and alienating ligaments and arteries, blood discharged instantly from her mouth. Before she hit the floor, another bullet sliced a major organ in two. By then the die had been cast. There would be no more birthdays, no holidays, no wedding dances, no high school reunions, and most of all, no classes in Lamaze. In her final moments, she tried to speak, but the result was suffocating silence. When the gunman’s deadly spree ended, they found her body floating in blood and urine.
Jane’s mother attempted to claim her daughter’s body, but collapsed in the morgue before she could view what remained. Mom spent a week in the hospital, and missed the funeral. It’s just as well. The sight of that black hearse would have killed her.
If you assume Jane’s death was a result of the bloody campus rampage at Virginia Tech, which claimed the lives of 32 people and was – by all media accounts - the worst massacre in the history of the United States, it was not.
If you think she might have been killed at Columbine eight years earlier, think again.
How about that office building in San Francisco where a man gunned down eight and wounded six? No, wrong again.
How about:
Stockton California School (1989)?
University of Iowa (1991)?
Richland High School (1995)?
Frontier Junior High (1996)?
Jonesboro, Arkansas (1998)?
Southwood Middle School (2004)?
Platte Canyon HS (2006)?
No.
OK how about:
The Long Island Railroad shooting?
The Amish school in Pennsylvania late last year?
The upscale mall in Salt Lake City a few months back?
No. None of the above.
But at this point, does it really matter where she met her fate? Suffice to say we kill each other. And ironically, life goes on.
Thousands have been slaughtered by gunfire in our schools, our malls, our public places. Over a million have been killed by guns since the 1960s. I won’t even talk about the billions in medical costs. And nothing changes. Because the people who control the people who control We the People have it all figured out.
It works like this: After the carnage, the man in charge gives a speech to subdue the nervous public. At Virginia Tech it was President Bush who rushed to make an appearance lest he loses any “quality” media time (and who can blame him). As required he: Invoked the Lord, quoted scripture, and offered condolences.
When he was done, it was back to business as usual.
And anyone who dares to intervene, who tries to talk sensibly about guns and violence and protecting our children, and who is not in agreement with this system’s lock-step approach to handling any issue regarding our social well-being will be…well…shot down.
Talk about holding people hostage!
Apparently it wasn’t enough that we had already been thru decades of massacres in our own backyards when Bush allowed the (10-year old) Assault Weapons Ban (AWB) to expire just two months before the 2004 elections. The people who voted for him that year – and we’re not sure who they were (and probably neither are they) - possibly did not know that fact. At news of the AWB lapse, gun makers were reportedly “salivating”.
The following quote, published 9/14/04, is from a website that opposed the Ban:
“The AWB has made it illegal for a citizen to own or purchase magazines with capacities larger than 10 cartridges that have been manufactured or imported after the ban was made law.
The intent of having a smaller magazine capacity is that a criminal could not fire as many shots as rapidly, therefore reducing the ability to kill or wound more people. However, the statistical evidence showed:
‘The ban has failed to reduce the average number of victims per gun murder incident or multiple gunshot wound victims.”
The killer at Virginia Tech purchased one of his (increased-magazine-capacity) weapons on eBay – probably using his credit card. Now I ask: Can it get any easier?
I might point out that lifting the ban certainly failed to reduce the number of victims as well.
I wonder if our forefathers, when drafting the Second Amendment, had the vision to consider online auction warehouses as gun merchants. And endless credit to pay for it. Probably not. But then again, I’ll bet they didn’t count on America turning into a nation that is (comfortably and numbly) distracted by media reports of Britney Spears, Faux News, and pundits ranting about bleeding heart liberals. That is, in between the advertisements that control our daily lives.
Life takes Visa.
So they say.
And sometimes, Visa takes life.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2007
The bullet that ripped through Jane’s young flesh came without warning and while she was absorbed in her daily routine. When the 800 mile per hour lead projectile entered her skin, interrupting circulation and alienating ligaments and arteries, blood discharged instantly from her mouth. Before she hit the floor, another bullet sliced a major organ in two. By then the die had been cast. There would be no more birthdays, no holidays, no wedding dances, no high school reunions, and most of all, no classes in Lamaze. In her final moments, she tried to speak, but the result was suffocating silence. When the gunman’s deadly spree ended, they found her body floating in blood and urine.
Jane’s mother attempted to claim her daughter’s body, but collapsed in the morgue before she could view what remained. Mom spent a week in the hospital, and missed the funeral. It’s just as well. The sight of that black hearse would have killed her.
If you assume Jane’s death was a result of the bloody campus rampage at Virginia Tech, which claimed the lives of 32 people and was – by all media accounts - the worst massacre in the history of the United States, it was not.
If you think she might have been killed at Columbine eight years earlier, think again.
How about that office building in San Francisco where a man gunned down eight and wounded six? No, wrong again.
How about:
Stockton California School (1989)?
University of Iowa (1991)?
Richland High School (1995)?
Frontier Junior High (1996)?
Jonesboro, Arkansas (1998)?
Southwood Middle School (2004)?
Platte Canyon HS (2006)?
No.
OK how about:
The Long Island Railroad shooting?
The Amish school in Pennsylvania late last year?
The upscale mall in Salt Lake City a few months back?
No. None of the above.
But at this point, does it really matter where she met her fate? Suffice to say we kill each other. And ironically, life goes on.
Thousands have been slaughtered by gunfire in our schools, our malls, our public places. Over a million have been killed by guns since the 1960s. I won’t even talk about the billions in medical costs. And nothing changes. Because the people who control the people who control We the People have it all figured out.
It works like this: After the carnage, the man in charge gives a speech to subdue the nervous public. At Virginia Tech it was President Bush who rushed to make an appearance lest he loses any “quality” media time (and who can blame him). As required he: Invoked the Lord, quoted scripture, and offered condolences.
When he was done, it was back to business as usual.
And anyone who dares to intervene, who tries to talk sensibly about guns and violence and protecting our children, and who is not in agreement with this system’s lock-step approach to handling any issue regarding our social well-being will be…well…shot down.
Talk about holding people hostage!
Apparently it wasn’t enough that we had already been thru decades of massacres in our own backyards when Bush allowed the (10-year old) Assault Weapons Ban (AWB) to expire just two months before the 2004 elections. The people who voted for him that year – and we’re not sure who they were (and probably neither are they) - possibly did not know that fact. At news of the AWB lapse, gun makers were reportedly “salivating”.
The following quote, published 9/14/04, is from a website that opposed the Ban:
“The AWB has made it illegal for a citizen to own or purchase magazines with capacities larger than 10 cartridges that have been manufactured or imported after the ban was made law.
The intent of having a smaller magazine capacity is that a criminal could not fire as many shots as rapidly, therefore reducing the ability to kill or wound more people. However, the statistical evidence showed:
‘The ban has failed to reduce the average number of victims per gun murder incident or multiple gunshot wound victims.”
The killer at Virginia Tech purchased one of his (increased-magazine-capacity) weapons on eBay – probably using his credit card. Now I ask: Can it get any easier?
I might point out that lifting the ban certainly failed to reduce the number of victims as well.
I wonder if our forefathers, when drafting the Second Amendment, had the vision to consider online auction warehouses as gun merchants. And endless credit to pay for it. Probably not. But then again, I’ll bet they didn’t count on America turning into a nation that is (comfortably and numbly) distracted by media reports of Britney Spears, Faux News, and pundits ranting about bleeding heart liberals. That is, in between the advertisements that control our daily lives.
Life takes Visa.
So they say.
And sometimes, Visa takes life.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 2007
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
“I’ll take Public Education for $500, Alex”
Recently, my husband and I celebrated our 28th wedding anniversary - although he likes to tell everyone he’s been happily married for 10 years…and not in a row. Some wives might have trouble with that assessment. But I think it is fair – especially considering the fact that when we married - only one of us had chin hair.
What caught me by surprise was that after the wedding, I was immediately deployed to my father-in-law’s political boot camp, a rugged, in-your-face training facility - from which there was no escape - and where inductees were educated on the depth and gravity of society’s issues and resultant impact on the welfare of mankind.
Oh boy.
It is one thing to plan a wedding, a life together as husband and wife, but quite another to be held captive in a never-ending forum of systemically-examined social, political, and economic education.
What the hell had I gotten myself into? The marriage I could handle….but this?
Step aside Bob Eubanks. This was not going to be The Newlywed Game.
Over the next two and a half decades there was never an occasion - a holiday, celebration, or meal - at my in-law’s where macro-socio-economic conversation wasn’t front and center and thoroughly analyzed. Time and again - in between bites of food, choruses of Happy Birthday, and spontaneously shouted responses to Wheel of Fortune - we were relegated to consider contemplative answers to political decisions made by our (elected?) officials – and more importantly - how they impacted the masses, commonly known as We The People.
For most of those exchanges, I would sit politely and nod my head (as if) in agreement. In general, I felt that I had little standing on which to disagree, let alone voice an opinion. This stuff (so I thought) was way over my head, not merely because I often have trouble working the toaster, but also because my only previous political education was in November of 1963 when, at the tender age of seven, I overheard a paternal relative discussing President Kennedy’s assassination by commenting: “I’ll bet the media will flog this for days.“
(Note: That observation proved wrong. The media has been flogging it for decades).
My father-in-law’s discussions were nothing if not passionate, and were primarily focused on social ills that revolved around the relationship of labor, worker’s rights, class struggles and economic conflicts. In order to make his point, he would examine the words of Abraham Lincoln:
Labor is prior to and independent of capital. Labor can exist without capital, but capital cannot exist with out labor.
or
Benjamin Franklin:
All social values are produced by human labor
Or any number of individuals whose progressive thought, intellect, history, and tenacity helped turn America into the Republic for which we stand.
Over the years he’s filled my (politically) empty head with interesting terms, ideologies, and philosophical considerations. What started as a struggle for me to understand grew into a natural comprehension of society. I thank my father-in-law for his dedication to educating everyone (and I mean every one!).
To widen his listening audience - and key our citizens in on areas that beg for necessary discussion - he might consider writing questions for Jeopardy.
If he does, I imagine they might look something like this:
What egalitarian society – whose foundation stands on the words ‘liberty’ and ‘justice for all’ - would tolerate:
Poverty among the riches, endless wars, fear mongering, torture, corruption, cronyism, expanding inequity among the classes, consumer protection agencies headed by former employees of the industries they are supposed to be regulating, decreased funding of education (the cornerstone of any informed citizenry), slashed budgets for vital social services, wholesale auctioning of public lands and national treasures, decreased transparency of government actions, an economic system dependent upon an insatiable appetite to consume, the consolidation of power into two parties with a single agenda, and a suffocating national debt that is (only to be) passed on to future generations?
Or this:
A deaf ear to overwhelming public opinion?
And of course the obvious:
Actors for President and uneducated weight lifters as governors?
Oh boy.
I began this column by discussing a union between people that has endured – not because of inequality, deceit, injustice or covert operations – but because of inclusion, continual education, transparency, communication – and peaceful resolutions to problems.
The literal meaning of democracy is People (demos) having Power (cracy).
While completing this article, I notice that our major media outlets are discussing the current administration’s desire to take us into what they term “World War III”.
Is that what the majority of the citizens of this nation want?
Do you feel empowered by that decision?
If not, then you’ve got to speak up.
Start by saying: Can you hear me now?
Lynn - NOTTV
Copyright 10/07
Recently, my husband and I celebrated our 28th wedding anniversary - although he likes to tell everyone he’s been happily married for 10 years…and not in a row. Some wives might have trouble with that assessment. But I think it is fair – especially considering the fact that when we married - only one of us had chin hair.
What caught me by surprise was that after the wedding, I was immediately deployed to my father-in-law’s political boot camp, a rugged, in-your-face training facility - from which there was no escape - and where inductees were educated on the depth and gravity of society’s issues and resultant impact on the welfare of mankind.
Oh boy.
It is one thing to plan a wedding, a life together as husband and wife, but quite another to be held captive in a never-ending forum of systemically-examined social, political, and economic education.
What the hell had I gotten myself into? The marriage I could handle….but this?
Step aside Bob Eubanks. This was not going to be The Newlywed Game.
Over the next two and a half decades there was never an occasion - a holiday, celebration, or meal - at my in-law’s where macro-socio-economic conversation wasn’t front and center and thoroughly analyzed. Time and again - in between bites of food, choruses of Happy Birthday, and spontaneously shouted responses to Wheel of Fortune - we were relegated to consider contemplative answers to political decisions made by our (elected?) officials – and more importantly - how they impacted the masses, commonly known as We The People.
For most of those exchanges, I would sit politely and nod my head (as if) in agreement. In general, I felt that I had little standing on which to disagree, let alone voice an opinion. This stuff (so I thought) was way over my head, not merely because I often have trouble working the toaster, but also because my only previous political education was in November of 1963 when, at the tender age of seven, I overheard a paternal relative discussing President Kennedy’s assassination by commenting: “I’ll bet the media will flog this for days.“
(Note: That observation proved wrong. The media has been flogging it for decades).
My father-in-law’s discussions were nothing if not passionate, and were primarily focused on social ills that revolved around the relationship of labor, worker’s rights, class struggles and economic conflicts. In order to make his point, he would examine the words of Abraham Lincoln:
Labor is prior to and independent of capital. Labor can exist without capital, but capital cannot exist with out labor.
or
Benjamin Franklin:
All social values are produced by human labor
Or any number of individuals whose progressive thought, intellect, history, and tenacity helped turn America into the Republic for which we stand.
Over the years he’s filled my (politically) empty head with interesting terms, ideologies, and philosophical considerations. What started as a struggle for me to understand grew into a natural comprehension of society. I thank my father-in-law for his dedication to educating everyone (and I mean every one!).
To widen his listening audience - and key our citizens in on areas that beg for necessary discussion - he might consider writing questions for Jeopardy.
If he does, I imagine they might look something like this:
What egalitarian society – whose foundation stands on the words ‘liberty’ and ‘justice for all’ - would tolerate:
Poverty among the riches, endless wars, fear mongering, torture, corruption, cronyism, expanding inequity among the classes, consumer protection agencies headed by former employees of the industries they are supposed to be regulating, decreased funding of education (the cornerstone of any informed citizenry), slashed budgets for vital social services, wholesale auctioning of public lands and national treasures, decreased transparency of government actions, an economic system dependent upon an insatiable appetite to consume, the consolidation of power into two parties with a single agenda, and a suffocating national debt that is (only to be) passed on to future generations?
Or this:
A deaf ear to overwhelming public opinion?
And of course the obvious:
Actors for President and uneducated weight lifters as governors?
Oh boy.
I began this column by discussing a union between people that has endured – not because of inequality, deceit, injustice or covert operations – but because of inclusion, continual education, transparency, communication – and peaceful resolutions to problems.
The literal meaning of democracy is People (demos) having Power (cracy).
While completing this article, I notice that our major media outlets are discussing the current administration’s desire to take us into what they term “World War III”.
Is that what the majority of the citizens of this nation want?
Do you feel empowered by that decision?
If not, then you’ve got to speak up.
Start by saying: Can you hear me now?
Lynn - NOTTV
Copyright 10/07
Enter at your Own Risk (in theory)
One of my jobs around the house is not to load and run the dishwasher. Of course, that’s ever since “the incident.”
It happened one afternoon as I was roaming around the house with a dust rag and a can of pledge. I had cleaned just about every surface I could find when I spotted it: The closed doors (protecting and guarding) my husband’s precious little wet bar. He wasn’t home at the time so I figured what the hell.
When I first opened the doors, it was like a rush, a power trip. I was invading, damn it; and it felt great. Somebody take a picture!
The place was amazing, filled with all kinds of fascinating objects. I grabbed one particular interesting-looking mug, and placed it in the top rack of the dishwasher with other barware. During the appliance’s hour-long cleansing sound, I hummed and scrubbed.
When my husband arrived home we went out to eat, and I forgot about the dishwasher until the next morning.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
What went into the dishwasher in one piece came out in three. And apparently it wasn’t just any old container. Oh, no. It was a 95-year-old Croatian pilsner glass that my husband’s mother’s grandfather crafted on the island of Olib prior to WWI and which my mother-in-law had just gifted to her only son for his 50th birthday, the week before.
Oh, boy.
My husband wanted to know why I didn’t notice the hand-painted floral designs stenciled in gold delicately throughout the glass. Or the inlayed miniature cherry-tree leaves decorating the lower four bands that circled the glass, just above the hand-hammered copper base. This stunning antique had survived bombings, artillery raids, and occupation. It had withstood jurisdictional changes, Ottoman Empire exchanges, and regional rages. It had tolerated immigration, relocation, and Yugoslavian generations. But not our dishwasher.
Oh, boy.
In response to his question, I pushed my shoulders back and arrogantly said: “Well it didn’t say anywhere on it that it wasn’t dishwasher safe”.
In order to save myself, I had to develop a plan…and quickly.
The next day, I took the broken pieces to my office and asked for the referral of a good glass repair guy – preferably someone named Pierre - and whose nickname was not “Breaker”.
The first co-worker I approached, Mr. “D”, was dumfounded by my actions - not with regard to the dismantled glass - but with respect to the fact that I had the audacity to venture anywhere near my husband’s bar.
The second was kindler and gentler. He said he knew of a guy who might be able to repair it but “probably not to its original condition.” And it would take some time.
Oh, boy.
I waited eight weeks - eight long, agonizing, heard-it-already-I-get-it-already-won’t-do-it-again-all-right-already weeks. Finally I was told: Mission Accomplished. And I must say that I thought the glass guy did a bang up job….so to speak.
I was thrilled to bring it home.
My husband, however, looked at it differently. He put his family’s precious item through the beer test, the taste test, and the smell test. It passed. What it failed was the “look” test. You see, in order for the glass guy to repair it, he had to whack off two inches from the bottom of the stem to get the surface flat enough to re-solder it into the partially-melted/disfigured copper “foot” section.
The result was a pilsner glass that tilted to one side.
Oh, boy.
If that wasn’t bad enough, I heard the glass guy had to go to the emergency room because he lost his eyesight. Apparently, he used a new high-tech laser tool but neglected to read (important) operating instructions which clearly stated that workers should “not attempt to use device without wearing protective eye gear”.
The emergency room doctor had to call in a specialist, an ophthalmologist from another state, who had seen this kind of thing before and could render an opinion and course of treatment to recover (some of) the vision.
Oh boy.
Upon hearing the prospect of her husband’s condition, the glass guy’s wife had a heart attack and spent five days in intensive care...that is, before she was transported to another facility. I might mention that their daughter gave birth to their first grandson the next day. Last I heard, he had not yet “seen” the child.
I guess you could say that the sentence of not being allowed to load and run the dishwasher seems light considering the circumstances. And in five years or so, all lawsuits should be settled.
Most importantly, I learned a valuable lesson that I’d like to pass on for what it’s worth: Touching things that aren’t yours – on the pretense of trying to make them better - when your real objectives are self-serving, can get you into a whole mess of trouble.
Oh, yes, and watch out for things that go snap, crackle, pop. They can be dangerous to your health.
Lynn - NOTTV
Copyright 09/07
One of my jobs around the house is not to load and run the dishwasher. Of course, that’s ever since “the incident.”
It happened one afternoon as I was roaming around the house with a dust rag and a can of pledge. I had cleaned just about every surface I could find when I spotted it: The closed doors (protecting and guarding) my husband’s precious little wet bar. He wasn’t home at the time so I figured what the hell.
When I first opened the doors, it was like a rush, a power trip. I was invading, damn it; and it felt great. Somebody take a picture!
The place was amazing, filled with all kinds of fascinating objects. I grabbed one particular interesting-looking mug, and placed it in the top rack of the dishwasher with other barware. During the appliance’s hour-long cleansing sound, I hummed and scrubbed.
When my husband arrived home we went out to eat, and I forgot about the dishwasher until the next morning.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
What went into the dishwasher in one piece came out in three. And apparently it wasn’t just any old container. Oh, no. It was a 95-year-old Croatian pilsner glass that my husband’s mother’s grandfather crafted on the island of Olib prior to WWI and which my mother-in-law had just gifted to her only son for his 50th birthday, the week before.
Oh, boy.
My husband wanted to know why I didn’t notice the hand-painted floral designs stenciled in gold delicately throughout the glass. Or the inlayed miniature cherry-tree leaves decorating the lower four bands that circled the glass, just above the hand-hammered copper base. This stunning antique had survived bombings, artillery raids, and occupation. It had withstood jurisdictional changes, Ottoman Empire exchanges, and regional rages. It had tolerated immigration, relocation, and Yugoslavian generations. But not our dishwasher.
Oh, boy.
In response to his question, I pushed my shoulders back and arrogantly said: “Well it didn’t say anywhere on it that it wasn’t dishwasher safe”.
In order to save myself, I had to develop a plan…and quickly.
The next day, I took the broken pieces to my office and asked for the referral of a good glass repair guy – preferably someone named Pierre - and whose nickname was not “Breaker”.
The first co-worker I approached, Mr. “D”, was dumfounded by my actions - not with regard to the dismantled glass - but with respect to the fact that I had the audacity to venture anywhere near my husband’s bar.
The second was kindler and gentler. He said he knew of a guy who might be able to repair it but “probably not to its original condition.” And it would take some time.
Oh, boy.
I waited eight weeks - eight long, agonizing, heard-it-already-I-get-it-already-won’t-do-it-again-all-right-already weeks. Finally I was told: Mission Accomplished. And I must say that I thought the glass guy did a bang up job….so to speak.
I was thrilled to bring it home.
My husband, however, looked at it differently. He put his family’s precious item through the beer test, the taste test, and the smell test. It passed. What it failed was the “look” test. You see, in order for the glass guy to repair it, he had to whack off two inches from the bottom of the stem to get the surface flat enough to re-solder it into the partially-melted/disfigured copper “foot” section.
The result was a pilsner glass that tilted to one side.
Oh, boy.
If that wasn’t bad enough, I heard the glass guy had to go to the emergency room because he lost his eyesight. Apparently, he used a new high-tech laser tool but neglected to read (important) operating instructions which clearly stated that workers should “not attempt to use device without wearing protective eye gear”.
The emergency room doctor had to call in a specialist, an ophthalmologist from another state, who had seen this kind of thing before and could render an opinion and course of treatment to recover (some of) the vision.
Oh boy.
Upon hearing the prospect of her husband’s condition, the glass guy’s wife had a heart attack and spent five days in intensive care...that is, before she was transported to another facility. I might mention that their daughter gave birth to their first grandson the next day. Last I heard, he had not yet “seen” the child.
I guess you could say that the sentence of not being allowed to load and run the dishwasher seems light considering the circumstances. And in five years or so, all lawsuits should be settled.
Most importantly, I learned a valuable lesson that I’d like to pass on for what it’s worth: Touching things that aren’t yours – on the pretense of trying to make them better - when your real objectives are self-serving, can get you into a whole mess of trouble.
Oh, yes, and watch out for things that go snap, crackle, pop. They can be dangerous to your health.
Lynn - NOTTV
Copyright 09/07
Moral Aptitude
Ken Lay is alive and well and living in South America. At least that’s what some people say. And that’s what some people think. I guess it’s because his demise was the most timely death in the history of corporate-fraud-greedily-scamming-investors-and-American-citizen/employees (and don’t forget-little-old-ladies-from-Pasadena-struggling-to-pay-their-electric-bills).
How in the name of God Bless America did the founder and CEO of Enron get off so easily?
At least, that’s what some people say.
I don’t know. His death from heart failure on July 5, 2006 occurred just weeks after he was found guilty of 10 counts of fraud and conspiracy relating to the collapse of Enron – at one time the nation’s seventh largest company - four years earlier. He was facing 25 to 40 years behind bars. To that fact, some people say: “Pardon me?”
It certainly is true that the last few years have not been good for your run-of-the-mill honest investor or pension plan recipient. As the Enron stock was declining in late 2001 – months before the inevitably declared bankruptcy on December 2nd - the “buy” orders from the Florida pension plan administrator just kept rolling in. It’s too bad then-governor Jeb Bush didn’t step in to save the day. As chairman of the Board of Trustees for Florida’s pensions, he could have halted the $355 million in losses that pension recipients (school teachers and other public employees) took up the wazoo. Would you believe that Florida’s pension took the largest hit and the losses were three times greater than those of any other state retirement fund? Who would have thought? I guess sometimes those Bush brothers just have bad timing. Or really good timing. It’s all a matter of how you look at it. Of course, there were also the securities dealers, brokers, accountants, investment bankers, journalists, financial analysts and other “oversight” agencies that could have sounded an alarm. I think it’s fair to say that fiduciary responsibilities were just totally in the crapper.
I remember that from the time Enron filed bankruptcy, it seemed like every other month - over the next few years - we heard stories about one multi-billion dollar company after another admitting they cooked the books and defrauded investors. As an American citizen, of course, I was concerned. As a CPA, I was, on one hand outraged, and on other trying to defend my profession. In that regard, I think that what these executives – CEOs and CFOs at Enron, WorldCom and HealthSouth - should have done to explain their actions is taken the advice of Ed Norton who said to Ralph Cramden on the eve of his IRS tax audit: “Just tell them you were drunk when you prepared your taxes.”
Wait a minute; at the congressional hearings didn’t these guys repeatedly take the fifth?
They certainly had capitalized on an unscrupulous intoxication.
And it seems that there is a trend (at the top) for no one to take responsibility for their actions. After the Enron collapse, President Bush signed legislation called The Sarbanes-Oxley Act of 2002. Hey, no one (else) is gonna fool the public on his watch! The purpose of The Act, according to the American Institute of Certified Public Accountants, is to “reinforce investment confidence and protect investors by improving the accuracy and reliability of corporate disclosure.” Section 406 of The Act states that “The SEC shall issue rules that require each issuer to disclose whether or not, and if not, the reasons therefore, such issuer has adopted a code of ethics for senior financial officers.”
I’d like to see the “if nots and reasons therefore”. You know the excuses for not having a go-to guide for morality. Because everyone knows that without an actual written Code of Ethics, senior financial officers would allow all hell to break loose. Apparently people don’t know enough to be morally responsible without looking at words assembled together in paragraphs and printed on pieces of paper. Let’s see, should I set up fictional subsidiaries offshore to hide losses boosting current financial position long enough for me to sell off my stock, makes millions, hide the profits, ruin employees’ retirement and citizen’s investment portfolios – all the while smiling and running a propaganda machine that declares everything is fine and dandy?
Tough call.
The fallout from Enron, and the resultant Sarbanes-Oxley Act hit the accounting profession hard. The volume of the law, increased oversight, and connect-the-dots accountability is enormous. In addition, CPAs are not able to renew their licenses without taking a class called “Ethics.” I’m no dummy. I signed up right away for the course. The instructor began the session by posing the following questions: Where do ethics come from? Your parents? Your community? Your peers?
Those are areas I’ve certainly contemplated. Because during that class I was thinking about a tax client I had in the mid-1980s – a woman who had recently separated from her husband of 30 years and had never filed a tax return on her own. In early February of that year, during the preparation of her return which was very easy and straightforward –prepared pro bono - I told her she would owe a small amount of money and instructed her to file and pay the amount by April 15th. Every week, for the next eight weeks, she called me with a frantic question about her return:
(1) “The box boy at the Acme told me I have to declare my state refund.”
“Only if you itemized the year before” I responded.
(2) “The man who cleans my windshield told me I can deduct the cost of commuting between my first job and my second.”
“Yes” I replied “But your second job is across the street from your first.”
And my favorite
(3) “My friend Martha’s son’s girlfriend’s neighbor’s cousin’s roommate’s sister said….”
You get the picture.
Who was this woman?
My mother
I’m not sure if one’s background, community, or environment can predict future behavior. I’m certain it can influence it – one way or another. There are twists and turns at every learning curve in life. And then there that’s darn imprinting thing. You know, watching and absorbing subconsciously. In the end, who you are and who you want to be – morally – should absolutely fall under the radar of decency. Perhaps it’s not too late to sign Bush and Cheney up for an ethics class.
Ken Lay was the son of a Baptist preacher from Missouri. I assume he spent many years listening to sermons about right and wrong. Who would have thought that little Kenny would grow up to be so morally deceitful – and on such a large scale?
Where is he now? I don’t know. But I do know that – for me – being able to perceive right from wrong is so easy a caveman could do it.
Lynn - NOTTV
Copyright 05/07
Ken Lay is alive and well and living in South America. At least that’s what some people say. And that’s what some people think. I guess it’s because his demise was the most timely death in the history of corporate-fraud-greedily-scamming-investors-and-American-citizen/employees (and don’t forget-little-old-ladies-from-Pasadena-struggling-to-pay-their-electric-bills).
How in the name of God Bless America did the founder and CEO of Enron get off so easily?
At least, that’s what some people say.
I don’t know. His death from heart failure on July 5, 2006 occurred just weeks after he was found guilty of 10 counts of fraud and conspiracy relating to the collapse of Enron – at one time the nation’s seventh largest company - four years earlier. He was facing 25 to 40 years behind bars. To that fact, some people say: “Pardon me?”
It certainly is true that the last few years have not been good for your run-of-the-mill honest investor or pension plan recipient. As the Enron stock was declining in late 2001 – months before the inevitably declared bankruptcy on December 2nd - the “buy” orders from the Florida pension plan administrator just kept rolling in. It’s too bad then-governor Jeb Bush didn’t step in to save the day. As chairman of the Board of Trustees for Florida’s pensions, he could have halted the $355 million in losses that pension recipients (school teachers and other public employees) took up the wazoo. Would you believe that Florida’s pension took the largest hit and the losses were three times greater than those of any other state retirement fund? Who would have thought? I guess sometimes those Bush brothers just have bad timing. Or really good timing. It’s all a matter of how you look at it. Of course, there were also the securities dealers, brokers, accountants, investment bankers, journalists, financial analysts and other “oversight” agencies that could have sounded an alarm. I think it’s fair to say that fiduciary responsibilities were just totally in the crapper.
I remember that from the time Enron filed bankruptcy, it seemed like every other month - over the next few years - we heard stories about one multi-billion dollar company after another admitting they cooked the books and defrauded investors. As an American citizen, of course, I was concerned. As a CPA, I was, on one hand outraged, and on other trying to defend my profession. In that regard, I think that what these executives – CEOs and CFOs at Enron, WorldCom and HealthSouth - should have done to explain their actions is taken the advice of Ed Norton who said to Ralph Cramden on the eve of his IRS tax audit: “Just tell them you were drunk when you prepared your taxes.”
Wait a minute; at the congressional hearings didn’t these guys repeatedly take the fifth?
They certainly had capitalized on an unscrupulous intoxication.
And it seems that there is a trend (at the top) for no one to take responsibility for their actions. After the Enron collapse, President Bush signed legislation called The Sarbanes-Oxley Act of 2002. Hey, no one (else) is gonna fool the public on his watch! The purpose of The Act, according to the American Institute of Certified Public Accountants, is to “reinforce investment confidence and protect investors by improving the accuracy and reliability of corporate disclosure.” Section 406 of The Act states that “The SEC shall issue rules that require each issuer to disclose whether or not, and if not, the reasons therefore, such issuer has adopted a code of ethics for senior financial officers.”
I’d like to see the “if nots and reasons therefore”. You know the excuses for not having a go-to guide for morality. Because everyone knows that without an actual written Code of Ethics, senior financial officers would allow all hell to break loose. Apparently people don’t know enough to be morally responsible without looking at words assembled together in paragraphs and printed on pieces of paper. Let’s see, should I set up fictional subsidiaries offshore to hide losses boosting current financial position long enough for me to sell off my stock, makes millions, hide the profits, ruin employees’ retirement and citizen’s investment portfolios – all the while smiling and running a propaganda machine that declares everything is fine and dandy?
Tough call.
The fallout from Enron, and the resultant Sarbanes-Oxley Act hit the accounting profession hard. The volume of the law, increased oversight, and connect-the-dots accountability is enormous. In addition, CPAs are not able to renew their licenses without taking a class called “Ethics.” I’m no dummy. I signed up right away for the course. The instructor began the session by posing the following questions: Where do ethics come from? Your parents? Your community? Your peers?
Those are areas I’ve certainly contemplated. Because during that class I was thinking about a tax client I had in the mid-1980s – a woman who had recently separated from her husband of 30 years and had never filed a tax return on her own. In early February of that year, during the preparation of her return which was very easy and straightforward –prepared pro bono - I told her she would owe a small amount of money and instructed her to file and pay the amount by April 15th. Every week, for the next eight weeks, she called me with a frantic question about her return:
(1) “The box boy at the Acme told me I have to declare my state refund.”
“Only if you itemized the year before” I responded.
(2) “The man who cleans my windshield told me I can deduct the cost of commuting between my first job and my second.”
“Yes” I replied “But your second job is across the street from your first.”
And my favorite
(3) “My friend Martha’s son’s girlfriend’s neighbor’s cousin’s roommate’s sister said….”
You get the picture.
Who was this woman?
My mother
I’m not sure if one’s background, community, or environment can predict future behavior. I’m certain it can influence it – one way or another. There are twists and turns at every learning curve in life. And then there that’s darn imprinting thing. You know, watching and absorbing subconsciously. In the end, who you are and who you want to be – morally – should absolutely fall under the radar of decency. Perhaps it’s not too late to sign Bush and Cheney up for an ethics class.
Ken Lay was the son of a Baptist preacher from Missouri. I assume he spent many years listening to sermons about right and wrong. Who would have thought that little Kenny would grow up to be so morally deceitful – and on such a large scale?
Where is he now? I don’t know. But I do know that – for me – being able to perceive right from wrong is so easy a caveman could do it.
Lynn - NOTTV
Copyright 05/07
Amiss America
Recently, while watching the True Hollywood Story of Jessica Simpson, I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. A young Miss Simpson and her father, a minister, conveyed that their deeply religious background would help Jessica become a role model for young girls. Unfortunately, when she was 14, that passion was rudely interrupted when Sony announced there would be no recording contract for her trademark Christian songs because (sadly) her boobs were too big.
I’m assuming they meant distracting.
Apparently that’s why the church choir wears robes.
That’s when the crying started. I couldn’t fathom an energetic, talented individual’s potential aborted because of factors other than their exceptional ability to complete the job.
Or could I?
There was that time several years ago when I worked for an international toy manufacturer that fired it most productive senior administrative assistant to the President. This company terminated a woman who, on my first day of work, called me from her hospital bed where she was recovering from a fracture of the leg so severe it required surgery and traction. I might mention the break occurred when she was bringing work home from the office – as was her usual routine. This widow had spent two decades with the company (as evidence) of her work ethic. Her only son was killed in Vietnam. After her dismissal, I walked around for days wondering what happened. Then I saw her replacement – a giggling, inept, yet snappy dresser in her 20s named (and I’m not making this up) – Neela.
Of course the shock of Miss. Simpson’s thwarted attempt to fulfill her dreams, had not yet set in when I became aware of another young woman in trouble. Thank goodness the media was able to take up the courageous battle of our very own Miss New Jersey, Amy Palumbo, in her tearful quest to fight the “blackmailing” publication of photos. It was (apparently) irrelevant that the pictures were originally put on the world wide web by her very own little manicured fingers.
Fortunately, Miss Palumbo was vindicated by the powers that be and was not terminated from the Miss America pageant. I mean, who then would fight for world peace?
Last week I decided to see how much Jessica Simpson strayed off her original Christian itinerary and tuned in to watch one of her performances. What I saw was a scantily-clad Jessica lip sinking a song while bumping and grinding on stage. This presentation occurred when she was the musical guest on the aptly named “Mad TV”.
These are our role models. Is it any wonder young girls have self-esteem issues?
The media helps these woman gain center stage where our (common) senses are assaulted ad nauseam The actions of this (select) group of women not only chips away at centuries of accomplishments, they also institutionalize sexist behavior. The result is a demoralized female infrastructure struggling to maintain its footing. And the ripple effects are felt in our schools, our families, our communities, our work places, our military, and our paychecks.
One of my idols passed away this year. And I really miss her. I long for her Texas twang, her spunk, her perspective, and her encouraging, outspoken passion for humanity, and especially for women’s rights. She was my mentor.
Molly Ivins.
She inspires from beyond the grave:
Say, here’s an item: A group of right-wing journalists famed for their impartiality has set themselves up as the Patriotism Police. No less distinguished a crowd than Rush Limbaugh, Matt Drudge, The New York Post editorial page and the Fox News Channel – quite a bunch of Pulitzer winners there – are now passing judgment on whether media outlets that do actual reporting are sufficiently one-sided for their taste.
I’ve been attacked by Rush Limbaugh on the air, an experience somewhat akin to being gummed by a newt. It doesn’t actually hurt, but it leaves you with slimy stuff on your ankle.
It’s hard to argue against cynics – they always sound smarter than optimists because they have so much evidence on their side.
And my personal favorite:
I am not anti-gun. I’m pro-knife. Consider the merits of the knife. In the first place, you have to catch up with someone in order to stab him. A general substitution of knives for guns would promote physical fitness. We’d turn into a whole nation of great runners. Plus, knives don’t ricochet. And people are seldom killed while cleaning their knives.
Whenever I got lost, Molly helped me find my way.
Hopefully someone will be able to fill her shoes. And quickly!
But I won’t hold my breath. And I’ll brace myself for the next titillating “news” items to appear which I imagine will go something like this:
AM Edition:
Newlywed upset over misplaced breast augmentation samples on way home from plastic surgeon. She suspects they were taken from her car while stopping for a double mocha latte. Full manhunt expected.
Molly Ivins, may you rest in peace with the angels. Someday journalistic integrity will save women’s dignity. When that happens, you’ll see me wildly chanting: “I’m lovin’ it!”
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 08/07
Recently, while watching the True Hollywood Story of Jessica Simpson, I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. A young Miss Simpson and her father, a minister, conveyed that their deeply religious background would help Jessica become a role model for young girls. Unfortunately, when she was 14, that passion was rudely interrupted when Sony announced there would be no recording contract for her trademark Christian songs because (sadly) her boobs were too big.
I’m assuming they meant distracting.
Apparently that’s why the church choir wears robes.
That’s when the crying started. I couldn’t fathom an energetic, talented individual’s potential aborted because of factors other than their exceptional ability to complete the job.
Or could I?
There was that time several years ago when I worked for an international toy manufacturer that fired it most productive senior administrative assistant to the President. This company terminated a woman who, on my first day of work, called me from her hospital bed where she was recovering from a fracture of the leg so severe it required surgery and traction. I might mention the break occurred when she was bringing work home from the office – as was her usual routine. This widow had spent two decades with the company (as evidence) of her work ethic. Her only son was killed in Vietnam. After her dismissal, I walked around for days wondering what happened. Then I saw her replacement – a giggling, inept, yet snappy dresser in her 20s named (and I’m not making this up) – Neela.
Of course the shock of Miss. Simpson’s thwarted attempt to fulfill her dreams, had not yet set in when I became aware of another young woman in trouble. Thank goodness the media was able to take up the courageous battle of our very own Miss New Jersey, Amy Palumbo, in her tearful quest to fight the “blackmailing” publication of photos. It was (apparently) irrelevant that the pictures were originally put on the world wide web by her very own little manicured fingers.
Fortunately, Miss Palumbo was vindicated by the powers that be and was not terminated from the Miss America pageant. I mean, who then would fight for world peace?
Last week I decided to see how much Jessica Simpson strayed off her original Christian itinerary and tuned in to watch one of her performances. What I saw was a scantily-clad Jessica lip sinking a song while bumping and grinding on stage. This presentation occurred when she was the musical guest on the aptly named “Mad TV”.
These are our role models. Is it any wonder young girls have self-esteem issues?
The media helps these woman gain center stage where our (common) senses are assaulted ad nauseam The actions of this (select) group of women not only chips away at centuries of accomplishments, they also institutionalize sexist behavior. The result is a demoralized female infrastructure struggling to maintain its footing. And the ripple effects are felt in our schools, our families, our communities, our work places, our military, and our paychecks.
One of my idols passed away this year. And I really miss her. I long for her Texas twang, her spunk, her perspective, and her encouraging, outspoken passion for humanity, and especially for women’s rights. She was my mentor.
Molly Ivins.
She inspires from beyond the grave:
Say, here’s an item: A group of right-wing journalists famed for their impartiality has set themselves up as the Patriotism Police. No less distinguished a crowd than Rush Limbaugh, Matt Drudge, The New York Post editorial page and the Fox News Channel – quite a bunch of Pulitzer winners there – are now passing judgment on whether media outlets that do actual reporting are sufficiently one-sided for their taste.
I’ve been attacked by Rush Limbaugh on the air, an experience somewhat akin to being gummed by a newt. It doesn’t actually hurt, but it leaves you with slimy stuff on your ankle.
It’s hard to argue against cynics – they always sound smarter than optimists because they have so much evidence on their side.
And my personal favorite:
I am not anti-gun. I’m pro-knife. Consider the merits of the knife. In the first place, you have to catch up with someone in order to stab him. A general substitution of knives for guns would promote physical fitness. We’d turn into a whole nation of great runners. Plus, knives don’t ricochet. And people are seldom killed while cleaning their knives.
Whenever I got lost, Molly helped me find my way.
Hopefully someone will be able to fill her shoes. And quickly!
But I won’t hold my breath. And I’ll brace myself for the next titillating “news” items to appear which I imagine will go something like this:
AM Edition:
Newlywed upset over misplaced breast augmentation samples on way home from plastic surgeon. She suspects they were taken from her car while stopping for a double mocha latte. Full manhunt expected.
Molly Ivins, may you rest in peace with the angels. Someday journalistic integrity will save women’s dignity. When that happens, you’ll see me wildly chanting: “I’m lovin’ it!”
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 08/07
NOT The View
I remember the first time I watched The View, ABCs daytime program featuring women co-hosts. It was the year that I lost 40 pounds in 12 days. Of course, I don’t remember much else about that time what with the blackouts and all, but I do recall that this show was aired live. That’s a forum you don’t see every day.
I paid attention for several weeks. After that, I tuned out (or passed out – whatever) but I think it was pretty good.
The next time I caught the show was some time later, and I remember because it was the year that I lost 65 pounds in 20 days. The co-hosts, including Barbara Walters, were discussing various important topics to women such as eyelash curlers, designer diapers, and of course dieting. I gave the show considerable concentration but I had to give it up after going into debt buying one of everything they promoted. Damn the electric company and their threatening shutoff notices
I stayed away for a few years and then something happened. They acquired this no-nonsense, candid co-host named Rosie. Here was a woman – of considerable size – who talked about the things that affect our every day lives like corruption, cover-ups, and casualties of war. She even stood up to arrogant, sexist hair-challenged men.
I gave up my restless leg syndrome medication so I could watch uncompromised.
Unfortunately, in less than a year, Rosie was gone. And it was a rather ugly departure at that. After her “removal”, The View carried on (ad nauseam) with the adventures of Paris/Lindsey/Brittany under the guise of “hot topics”. One day, Barbara read a letter Paris had sent from her jail cell. For that item, I am thankful. My daughter owes me $25 over a bet on whether Paris was illiterate.
Nevertheless, I found myself looking forward to the debut of the new co-host, Whoopi Goldberg. During the week of September 4th, I tried to watch, but often didn’t get a chance to tune in until it had already started. And I (always) had to wait through several commercials – for Botox (gotta have it!) and usually some other product that alters the frequency of a woman’s period - resulting in fewer episodes of PMS and its new, sassy counterpart PMDD. I mean, what woman doesn’t want to disrupt her natural beauty, contours, and hormonal cycle into a wasteland of toxic bacterium clostridium and drospirenone/ethinyl estradiol? With a dash of botulism.
Of course, I pray that I live long enough to see not only the offspring produced by this new breed of female, but also the bone loss, tooth decay, and whatever other anomalies rear their ugly head.
Yet, I was hopeful Whoopi could save us from this paternal order of the controllers.
I soon learned it was not to be. A de-radicalized Whoopi made her appearance without any hullabaloo. In fact, on one show, Whoopi and Elizabeth Hasselbeck, The View’s blonde, had teamed up for a special project to design outfits in celebration of fashion week.
Whoopi a fashion icon: Who would have thought?
I couldn’t wait to “view” their designs.
Elizabeth’s sketch was remarkable. An absolutely stunning dress that could be worn at any time by any woman whose husband is a professional football player and who – at a moment’s notice – must let the nanny know they are going out for the evening. I prayed that she didn’t go overboard and was able to keep the cost of her outfit down to just a few thousand dollars. Anything over $8,500 would definitely spoil a weekly clothing budget.
Elizabeth’s inspiration for her design was the loveable Peanut’s character, Snoopy, as she pointed out that on the reverse side of the dress was a tie that lassoed resembling Snoopy’s ears. I inferred that Elizabeth was not – I repeat NOT – trying to imply that Snoopy likes to play dress up or has on occasion envisioned himself as a female beagle. Because then, and only then, would a male species know what it is like to be called a bitch.
And we can’t let that happen.
I watched as Whoopie listened with (controlled and probably contracted) restraint to Elizabeth’s gushing comments, and I felt my hopes and dreams for this new co-host’s ability to salvage any semblance of respect (not to mention intellect) for women quickly deteriorating.
I cry every time I think about how The View – this purported representational view – generates a society that inspects women from the outside in….instead of the perceptive inside out.
For now I’m going to just try and relax and wait for the pharmaceutical industry to find a treatment for an ailment that I don’t yet know I have. Although I’ve noticed that on sunny mornings - while waiting for the coffee to brew - I find myself compulsively whistling along with my daughter’s little canary. It could be that I have Whistling Mother Syndrome.
But given the patriarchal society women toil in, rest assured, relief will soon be on the way.
Maybe some day women will not be afraid to speak truth to power. And those women will actually be “viewed” through our public airwaves on a scale large enough to empower them – flaws and all.
At least that would be my preference. Because we’re worth it.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 09/07
I remember the first time I watched The View, ABCs daytime program featuring women co-hosts. It was the year that I lost 40 pounds in 12 days. Of course, I don’t remember much else about that time what with the blackouts and all, but I do recall that this show was aired live. That’s a forum you don’t see every day.
I paid attention for several weeks. After that, I tuned out (or passed out – whatever) but I think it was pretty good.
The next time I caught the show was some time later, and I remember because it was the year that I lost 65 pounds in 20 days. The co-hosts, including Barbara Walters, were discussing various important topics to women such as eyelash curlers, designer diapers, and of course dieting. I gave the show considerable concentration but I had to give it up after going into debt buying one of everything they promoted. Damn the electric company and their threatening shutoff notices
I stayed away for a few years and then something happened. They acquired this no-nonsense, candid co-host named Rosie. Here was a woman – of considerable size – who talked about the things that affect our every day lives like corruption, cover-ups, and casualties of war. She even stood up to arrogant, sexist hair-challenged men.
I gave up my restless leg syndrome medication so I could watch uncompromised.
Unfortunately, in less than a year, Rosie was gone. And it was a rather ugly departure at that. After her “removal”, The View carried on (ad nauseam) with the adventures of Paris/Lindsey/Brittany under the guise of “hot topics”. One day, Barbara read a letter Paris had sent from her jail cell. For that item, I am thankful. My daughter owes me $25 over a bet on whether Paris was illiterate.
Nevertheless, I found myself looking forward to the debut of the new co-host, Whoopi Goldberg. During the week of September 4th, I tried to watch, but often didn’t get a chance to tune in until it had already started. And I (always) had to wait through several commercials – for Botox (gotta have it!) and usually some other product that alters the frequency of a woman’s period - resulting in fewer episodes of PMS and its new, sassy counterpart PMDD. I mean, what woman doesn’t want to disrupt her natural beauty, contours, and hormonal cycle into a wasteland of toxic bacterium clostridium and drospirenone/ethinyl estradiol? With a dash of botulism.
Of course, I pray that I live long enough to see not only the offspring produced by this new breed of female, but also the bone loss, tooth decay, and whatever other anomalies rear their ugly head.
Yet, I was hopeful Whoopi could save us from this paternal order of the controllers.
I soon learned it was not to be. A de-radicalized Whoopi made her appearance without any hullabaloo. In fact, on one show, Whoopi and Elizabeth Hasselbeck, The View’s blonde, had teamed up for a special project to design outfits in celebration of fashion week.
Whoopi a fashion icon: Who would have thought?
I couldn’t wait to “view” their designs.
Elizabeth’s sketch was remarkable. An absolutely stunning dress that could be worn at any time by any woman whose husband is a professional football player and who – at a moment’s notice – must let the nanny know they are going out for the evening. I prayed that she didn’t go overboard and was able to keep the cost of her outfit down to just a few thousand dollars. Anything over $8,500 would definitely spoil a weekly clothing budget.
Elizabeth’s inspiration for her design was the loveable Peanut’s character, Snoopy, as she pointed out that on the reverse side of the dress was a tie that lassoed resembling Snoopy’s ears. I inferred that Elizabeth was not – I repeat NOT – trying to imply that Snoopy likes to play dress up or has on occasion envisioned himself as a female beagle. Because then, and only then, would a male species know what it is like to be called a bitch.
And we can’t let that happen.
I watched as Whoopie listened with (controlled and probably contracted) restraint to Elizabeth’s gushing comments, and I felt my hopes and dreams for this new co-host’s ability to salvage any semblance of respect (not to mention intellect) for women quickly deteriorating.
I cry every time I think about how The View – this purported representational view – generates a society that inspects women from the outside in….instead of the perceptive inside out.
For now I’m going to just try and relax and wait for the pharmaceutical industry to find a treatment for an ailment that I don’t yet know I have. Although I’ve noticed that on sunny mornings - while waiting for the coffee to brew - I find myself compulsively whistling along with my daughter’s little canary. It could be that I have Whistling Mother Syndrome.
But given the patriarchal society women toil in, rest assured, relief will soon be on the way.
Maybe some day women will not be afraid to speak truth to power. And those women will actually be “viewed” through our public airwaves on a scale large enough to empower them – flaws and all.
At least that would be my preference. Because we’re worth it.
Lynn NOTTV
Copyright 09/07
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