Citizen Kane versus Centurytel (round 1)
May 31, 2009 in Short Stories
Citizen Kane versus the twenty-seventh floor of “Indifferent, Inc. “
Part (1) Target: CENTURYTEL
or: “an exercise in treating Internet customers with cynical contempt “
I just love it when corporate America demonstrates once again that they really don’t give a rat’s a***.
And that they hope troublesome customers -who demand fair treatment– will simply give up and go away.
Consider that well known Communications giant, CENTURYTEL.
About a year ago, we had a different Internet provider. “Charter “.
The service was not too bad, and we could play YouTube videos and watch video news broadcasts. But it was unreliable when bad weather hit. Just when you really wanted to know what was going on, the Internet would die. Frustrating.
About every week, we could get a phone call at home from some little girl at CENTURYTEL. It got to be annoying. I had to answer the phone, in case it was a work related call. And there would be a little girl from CENTURYTEL again.
Polite requests from us to go away were always ignored. A week later, they would be back on again.
Eventually, we were really frustrated with Charter’s Internet service. It had left us in the lurch once again. The weather had turned sour, and ‘Poof!’ no Internet. Maddening. And of course, there was the seventy eighth phone call in two months from a little girl at CENTURYTEL.
“Well “, I said to her, “You must understand we watch YouTube videos and news videos. We absolutely MUST have that capability. ” She assured me she fully understood. She assured me I would have NO PROBLEM. I emphasized the point. She emphasized it would work just great. I told her I would kick up merry hell if it didn’t. She told me, simultaneously swearing on the Bible, the Koran, the Constitution of the United states, and the latest copy of Mickey Mouse’s Adventures in China, that it would work just fantastically. And that a team of dedicated monastic technicians, working around the clock, would rather commit ritual hara-kiri than allow me to be without my YouTube videos for one second.
Okay, I exaggerate. But only slightly. The point is: she swore to me it was gonna be just fine and dandy.
And the introductory price was cheap. I hesitated. I was suspicious. I had some sixth sense saying it was going to be a total nightmare.
A little voice within. If only- I had listened…
We agreed. We switched internet service provider.
That was a year ago. Since that, we have been played for the Simple Simons we were.
Needless to say, we could not play YouTube videos, or watch news footage. A YouTube video would run about two and a half seconds before stopping. To play a three minute song, you would have to put up with thirty three long pauses. Talk about losing the beat. The service was not just terrible. It was a killer. It just wasn’t worth the frustration.
So I complained.
Then came the run around. The Great CENTURYTEL game their executives on the twenty-seventh floor laughingly call:
“Just baffle ’em with B*****SH******T. “
And that is precisely what they did.
I would call.
They would be so, so sorry. Sympathetic. Promise to look into it and call back.
Nobody would call. The service remained terrible.
A week later, I would call.
They would be so, so sorry. Sympathetic. Promise to look into it and call back.
Nobody would call. The service remained terrible.
I would call.
Amazingly, they would have no record of my ever having called. They would have no record of there having been any problems. So I would have to explain the problem all over again. And again. And again.
They would be so, so sorry. ETC.
Eventually, I demanded to talk to a supervisor. Explained my whole story to her.
You guessed it. She was so, so sorry. Promised to look into it and call back. ETC.
I called back again.
Asked for her. She came on the phone, and quickly dispatched me through to service and repairs.
They fiddled with something while I was on the phone, and told me there was nothing wrong.
I got frustrated.
This whole sorry saga repeated itself over and over again. I would be placed on hold for five minutes, ten minutes, and shuttled around and around. Until I ended up back exactly where I started. The service remained absolutely terrible.
Then,one day, I was put through to service once again. Eureka.
I spoke to a bored, but honest technician.
“Well “, he said.
“I’m not supposed to tell you this, but with the service packet you have, you will never get YouTube videos to play properly. I get calls like this all the time. I’m supposed to refer you back to sales… “
What!?
Now I was really ticked off. Back to service. Yes, for an extra $$$$$ per month, they could do blah-blah-blah.
What!?
I was friggin’ well promised that service when I signed up!
Oh, NO! said the supervisor frostily. That would NEVER have happened.
Yes it BLOODY well DID, I said.
Well, she said haughtily, as if she had finally got proof that I was a dirty low-born liar, “all our phone calls are RECORDED. We can play it back and see! ” There was a note of triumph in her voice.
I said: “Great! ” With undisguised satisfaction in MY voice. “You DO that! And call me back! “
She must have picked up on the level of confidence in my voice.
For, quickly, she added a caveat.
It might take her “a few weeks “to locate the tape!
What!?
And, yes, you guessed it: she never called back. That was months ago.
So I decided on drastic action; I stopped paying the bill.
After two months, I had run up a decent bill.
Now I phoned customer service and told them I was not paying the bill until I got satisfaction.
(There is a great song about that…!)
A young lady by the name of Letitia was polite, but also confirmed she could see nothing on the file about my ever having called before with complaints about the service. Of course not. But the fact that I was withholding payment, that got me transferred re-mar-kably quickly to a gentleman called Trey.
He explained to me that he represented “the next level of escalation ” in the “internal resource center “.
Amazing what happens when you refuse to pay the bill…
I explained the whole sorry saga to him. A year’s worth of misery and frustration.
He kindly explained that there are different levels of bandwidth:
the lowest being 256 K “high speed Internet ” (a definite misnomer)
followed by:
512 Kilobyte
1.5 Megabyte
3.0 Megabyte
6.0 megabyte
10.0 Megabyte
Guess what I was on?
256 K. The lowest level of bandwidth…
Surprise, surprise.
He told me flat out that “streaming video ” was an impossibility with a 256 Kilobyte so-called “High Speed Internet ” connection.
So what’s so “High Speed ” about it???
So, Mister Trey, I said. I’m a Dufus. An admitted Dinosaur. But:
1) why didn’t the little girl at the very start of this great big long sorry saga NOT bother to tell me there were different levels of bandwidth?
2) why did she repeatedly assure me I could play YouTube videos and news videos?
3) why did that supervisor not explain to me about the different bandwidths?
4) why did that supervisor never call me back when she promised to go and look out the audio recording of the initial sales call??
5) Can you understand I feel that CENTURYTEL have treated me with complete contempt?????
Yes, he said, he could understand that perfectly. It wasn’t right. This type of pressure marketing was downright misleading. Well, he could do something for me. For the same money, he could change my package, and give me 1.5 Megabyte of bandwidth.
Hmmm…. I said. And then I can play YouTube videos and watch news reels?
Yes, he said.
Hmmm…. I said. Do you have an extension there?
No, he said. Unfortunately not.
Yeah, right.
My Trey, I said, I will take your word for it. And here’s my credit card number, and I will pay the two months arrears on my bill. BUT. If this goes pear shaped AGAIN, I will raise merry hell. Anyway I can.
Oh, No, I assure you, he said. It will work just fine.
That was a week ago. It worked just fine for five days. We could play YouTube videos, and enjoy the music.
We watched CNN news footage. We even had a drink to celebrate. I felt emotional. It had taken us a year of frustration, but -by jingo- we had finally gotten there.
Until yesterday. The weekend. I’m home, and I want to relax. I don’t want to be back to stuffing pins in VooDoo doll effigies of CENTURYTEL execs… But all day yesterday and today the YouTube videos I tried to watch stopped every two or three seconds. Try listening to music that way…
I seem to remember my old 56K modem connection – a century ago- being far faster than that.
So CENTURYTEL made a monkey out of me again.
Well, I look forward to the phone call I shall be making tomorrow.
And the nice little girl, all puzzled, who will in vain search the computer screen for any mention of any problem EVER BEFORE for my account.
I wonder who I will get tomorrow? And what the story will be then?
After one year of CENTURYTEL.
Who deserve my Gold Star Award.
FOR BUNGLING, INSINCERE, TWISTED, FALSE, MISLEADING, DIS-SERVICE.
Stand by for Part TWO….
Francis Meyrick
(alias Citizen Kane)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 4, 2009, 10:41 pm
Diary (13) “Wayward Flamingoes on the Wing “
May 17, 2009 in Auto-biographical
photo by Suneko
Diary (13) “WAYWARD FLAMINGOES ON THE WING “
May 17, 2009
I don’t normally buy local papers. But this headline caught my eye.
“Wayward Flamingoes return to parish “.
Flamingoes? Louisiana has Flamingoes? You gotta be kidding. I bought the paper. And there, on May 7, 2009, I read an absolutely charming article written by Cyndi Sellers. The gist of it was that an orange “Greater Flamingo “, banded in 2005 on the Yucatan peninsula, way down Mexico way, had traveled a huge distance North, and ended up in Louisiana. After hurricane Rita, “it was seen in the coastal bend of Texas on the Aransas National Wildlife refuge. ” And stayed around.
It seemed this unusual tourist liked it around here. But all creatures, with the exception perhaps of hermits and burglars, seek company. Our orange Flamingo friend, who I shall call ‘Noddy’ for no other reason than that their long necks must cause them to ‘nod’ a lot, had taken up with a flock of Canadian geese.
And seemed to be getting along perfectly well. Birds of a different feather, they nonetheless were happy to flock together. If only humans could learn to do the same.
But what was really exquisite, what really captivated me, was the fact that Noddy, all the way from the Yucatan, wandering through Louisiana and Texas, had even found himself a mate. Incredibly, an Old World Greater Flamingo escaped from a Wichita, Kansas zoo, back in 2005. I shall call her Nelly. Although an equally long distance off, Nelly flew a huge distance South, and, in the making of an epic love story, the stuff of Hollywood, somehow, against all the odds, after many lonely, searching years, Noddy and Nelly had managed to meet up. And here they were, exploring the Mermenteau River area, passed the mercifully silent guns of observant hunters. Still together. The odd pair. Despite hurricanes and distance, hunters and predators. Together. On the wing. Enjoying one another’s company.
Beautiful. Uplifting. Inspiring. A gentle story….
The metaphor leaps out to me.
Cyberspace. And the promise – as well as the dangers- it holds out for sensitive, creative, artistic types. The Orange Flamingo types, who feel adrift in their own cultural vacuum, with nobody of like mind seemingly available. Adrift in a cruel world, cynical, materialistic, uncaring and empty. Spiritually dead.
But no matter how unusual a person may be, or even lonely, or feeling alienated, and unappreciated for their own particular skills and mindset, there is always another mass cultural escapee somewhere, a renegade who holds similar viewpoints, or philosophical convictions. And cyberspace provides us with a vast expanse of Space and Time, a whole new world of plains and mountains, skies and sunsets, in which we can soar up to truly dazzling heights. Where the sun bounces off the cloud tops, where thoughts are pure, and where friendship -sometimes- is very genuine, seeking no physical reward.
The trick is to be cautious, but hopeful.
The article by Cyndi Sellers went on to describe the excitement of genuine bird watchers everywhere. She mentioned some knowledgeable hunters, their guns -thank goodness- remaining silent, who reported sightings.
But she also described a small group of bird watchers, so-called caring bird lovers, who had to be restrained by a deputy from entering the reservation, and approaching the birds. Disturbing their natural habitat.
I thought that was typical. These so-called caring, curious onlookers, didn’t really care a hoot about Noddy and Nelly. They pretended to. I’m sure that’s the way they would wish to be seen, but if the cold truth be spoken, they cared only about themselves. To feed their own selfish desires. For recognition probably, amongst fellow birdwatchers, for how close they had gotten. How intimate and close up their photos were.
Just like Cyberspace…
Good luck, Noddy and Nelly.
And all you orange Flamingos out there.
Photo by Frank Wouters
Fly safe. Be careful. Be happy…
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 17, 2009, 8:39 pm
Diary (12) “DWI, killed a kid, but Police say “driver wasn’t in the wrong in crash “!??
May 17, 2009 in Auto-biographical
Diary (12) Sunday, May 17, 2009
DWI, KILLED A KID, BUT POLICE SAY DRIVER “WASN’T IN THE WRONG IN THE CRASH “!??
Occasionally you read something in the newspaper, and it makes you despair.
Human life is worth less and less each day.
Sometimes you feel you could weep for the future of compassion amongst the human race. If you are a writer, or a scribbler, as I prefer to call myself, you take it out on the keypad. Poor old Hewlet Packard have no idea of the raw physical abuse this laptop has received from me. If they did, they’d be proud. They would point to me in their advertisements, and note that their ‘HP Pavilion’ model, several years old now, by no means new, has withstood being pummeled for thousands of hours. Occasionally, like today, in a futile, cold rage. And once again, this keyboard withstood the test. And performed well.
Pity I can’t say the same for common sense, human compassion, the art of caring, or Trooper David Anderson, described by “The Daily Advertiser ” as the “spokesman for Louisiana State Police Troop 1 “. Who appointed this dude spokesman for Louisiana State Police troop 1? What kind of message is this gentleman sending out? Does he speak for the department’s attitude and philosophy? There are a bunch of habitual criminal risk takers out there (and their lawyers) who are gonna absolutely LOVE what Trooper David Anderson has to say on the subject of drunk driving…
And there are also a bunch of pedestrians, cyclists, teenagers, children, and other living creatures out there, who had better sit up and take notice of the way Louisiana State Police -so we read- administer justice…
The headline reads: “Crash kills teen; 1 hurt “. Somewhere, a family is mourning the loss of a loved one, a young life just stepping out in the adventure of the Great Wide World..
It appears that at 9.20 pm, on Thursday, May 14 2009, after dark, two bicyclists were pedaling their way down LA 679.
One does not know what kind of ambient lighting was available. Streetlights, house lights, whatever.
They were riding northbound in the southbound lane. Presumably they were worried -with good reason- about being run over from behind by careless motorists. It shows that they were at least thinking defensively. One was 17 and one was 15. I wonder if they had lights. I doubt it. If they did, that would be almost a first. Putting a light on a bicycle at night in Louisiana? Whoever heard of such a thing.
Along comes Danielle B., 24, of Saint Martinville. DWI. Drunk. You know, the type that thinks: “I know I’ve had too much too drink. But I’m gonna drive anyway. So what if I’m taking chances with my life. And everybody else’s. I don’t care. I’m just gonnna do it. If they can’t take a joke, well, f****k ’em. “
The inevitable tragedy takes place. She decides to overtake. DWI and all. Here we go. I wonder what speed the vehicle that she overtook was doing. I wonder what speed she was doing. We will probably never know, unless the driver she was overtaking gives evidence. Anyway, during this DWI overtaking missy Danielle (drunk) splatters a kid on a bicycle. Kills him. Another tragedy on the road. Another death. Another life torn away. More tears.
I would have left the story there, sadly shaking my head, reminding myself again that if I ever have the urge to drink and drive, I will prove myself to be a monster. I’m older. I know better. Human being or no, I have NO RIGHT to play Russian Roulette with my life. Or other people’s lives. I would have folded the paper, and quietly put it away, but for the amazing -stunning- corollary. I don’t know if Trooper David Anderson really meant the words that he spoke. I want to think perhaps reporter Amanda McElfresh is mis-quoting him, or taking his words out of context, or something.
Tell me it ain’t so…?
How-ever…. this is what I actually read in the ‘Daily Advertiser’ on Saturday (May 16).
Trooper David Anderson, spokesman for Louisiana State Police Troop 1, said Danielle Bienvenu is not facing additional charges because authorities believe she was not at fault in the crash, even though alcohol was involved.
“She wasn’t in the wrong in the crash. The kids were in the wrong lane, ” Anderson said. “She was passing. She was within the law. The only thing breaking the law was the fact that she was impaired. ”
Now hold it right there, mister. Just hold it right there for one cotton pickin’ second.
1) The ONLY thing?? She was DWI. Drunk. Tipsy. Half seas over. Impaired. Sloshed. Call it what you want.
I can’t believe I’m even having to spell this out! But here goes. It seems -incredibly- it IS necessary.
*** How do we know what effect that had on her reactions?
*** Her vision?
*** Her braking distance?
*** Her ability to maybe swerve and avoid?
*** Her sighting of a reflection?
*** Her ability to avoid killing that kid??
You mean there was nothing reflective on that bicycle that might have caught the light? No decals, stickers? Nothing reflective on the kid’s clothing? Zero ambient light from nearby houses? What was he, a black kid, wearing black jeans, black sneakers, a black t-shirt, and a black bandanna?? Were his wheels painted black? Are you saying if I had been there, I would have done the same thing? Killed that kid? Are you saying that there was nothing, absolutely nothing that would have alerted me to an object on the road? Are you saying I would have not been able to swerve, brake, avoid, do something? Are you saying ALL average sober drivers would not have had a much better chance at avoiding killing another human being?
Poppycock.
2) They were KIDS, for flip sake. Kids do that sort of stuff. Ride bicycles at weird times of the day and night, in weird places. Adults do it. Nuns do it. People who like the hula-hoop do it. Anybody who has driven for more than a few weeks at most, will have encountered the oddest obstacles at night. Bicycles. MANY of which will be riding in the opposite lane, because they are scared of traffic coming up behind. Cows. Drunken pedestrians. Unlit parked cars. Unlit semi trailers. Potholes you could lose a Hummer in. All kinds of weird stuff. I met a galloping horse on the road one dark foggy evening. I was on a motorcycle. I thought I was dreaming. But no, here comes a horse, right at me, wide-eyed, going like the clappers. I swerved, braked, panicked, yelled, freaked out, but I missed that flaming nag. My point is this: you can’t just blithely adopt an attitude that it was her right to overtake, DWI/drunk and all, and anything that happened to get in the way, living or dead, well, that would be THEIR fault. Tough cheddar.
3) Whatever happened to driving with due care and attention?
How can you possibly separate her state of legal intoxication from what the tragic outcome was?
That one just blows my mind. Well, yes, we hear Trooper Anderson saying, yes she was DWI, legally drunk, but that had nothing to do with the accident??? Nothing at all. It was all the kids’ fault. Hell, the stupid kids were in the wrong lane! Gimme a break, bicyclists do that all the time. It’s wrong, but can you blame them? With the amount of people like this young lady driving drunk, it has got to be a scary experience hearing traffic coming up behind, wondering if they have seen you, and what their blood alcohol content is likely to be. And what their blurred vision, and their reduced reactions, have in store for you when they finally reach that small space of the road occupied by you on your flimsy bicycle.
How can you possibly separate her state of legal intoxication from what the tragic outcome was?
4) Trooper Anderson, on behalf of Louisiana State Police Troop 1, has handed defense attorneys everywhere a precious, golden gift. I can just see the defenses for DWI everywhere, standing in court, their mock solemn expressions, their sickening, feigned sincerity, addressing the judge and the hushed court room:
“Your Honor, my client deeply regrets the unfortunate tragedy of the death of young Alec LeBlanc. Deeply. It is a heart rending tragedy. A real misfortune. And our deepest, deepest sympathies go out to the family….. “
(pause, shaking of head, allow the deep sense of loss and sadness to sink in)
(with a bit of luck, there might be a sob heard somewhere at this stage)
“How-ever, your Honor, we are forced to face the facts. Trooper Anderson of Louisiana State Police Troop 1, has summed the situation up very well when he explained, in response to questions, as follows:
” Danielle Bienvenu is not facing additional charges because authorities believe she was not at fault in the crash, even though alcohol was involved. She wasn’t in the wrong in the crash. The kids were in the wrong lane. She was passing. She was within the law. The only thing breaking the law was the fact that she was impaired. ”
(pause, for dramatic effect, let the wise Trooper’s words sink in)
(hopefully nobody sobs at this moment)
“Therefore, your Honor, we must respectfully ask that our client’s charges be reduced to simple first offense DWI, with no further charges brought…. “
Simple. First offense. Never done it before. Simple…
Slap on the wrist??
5) No, we cannot prove that if she had been sober, that she would have avoided killing the kid. But do we really have to go the lengths of proving that if she had been sober, that then she would have had a much better shot at it? And that the poor kid would have had a much better chance at being alive today?
We can do that. Trot out any number of studies that show alcohol, even in small quantities, never mind DWI quantities, reduces vision, reaction time, judgment, and distorts the drinker’s interaction with his or her environment? Adds a greater sense of invulnerability? Do we really, really, have to spell it out?
Conclusion:
A) If there is any justice left, any regard for human life, any common sense, any regard left for that dead kid: then somewhere, some attorney, some idealist with a sense of civic pride, needs to stand up and SUE the living daylights out of that DWI driver for wrongful death. Criminal recklessness. Endangerment. Whatever the fancy legal phrase is…
How can you possibly separate her state of legal intoxication from what the tragic outcome was?
B) If this is left undisturbed, then human life is devalued further. In that case, the DWI driver needs to finish the tragi-comedy off, by suing the parents of dead teenager for the damage occurred to her fender. Or better still, for emotional damages incurred due to the trauma of that stupid kid getting in her way whilst she was ‘exercising her right’ to overtake.
Excuse me: Does that mean she had a right to overtake DWI??
C) I would personally happily pony up $100 towards a legal fund to fight this law suit.
We need to fight these drunk drivers, or else resign ourselves to more of these tragedies. It could be you. Or your family.
Contact me at francismeyrick@yahoo.com
Remember: How can you possibly, conveniently, legally, morally, emotionally, separate her state of legal intoxication from what the tragic outcome was?
There was a case a short while back of a mother and a daughter slaughtered by an unlicensed, thuggish, crazed, habitual DWI driver, who had caused a whole spate of DWI accidents, with a special penchant for crossing -drunk- onto the opposite carriageway.
It was amazing to me how inept the State’s prosecution was. They lost case notes, resulting in charges being dropped, they ignored his repeated non-appearances to face charges. Basically he was a drunken maniac on the road, looking for the next moment in time to inflict his Neanderthal uncaring cruelty on some hapless victim. The public outrage -what we saw in print- was muted. Situation normal….??
I was sorely tempted to go into print, but I didn’t.
Now this. We are going a step further. Not only is State Police showing themselves insensitive, and out of touch with public horror at DWI carnage, they are handing DWI defense attorneys everywhere a golden gift on a platter.
I say again:
How can you possibly, conveniently, legally, morally, emotionally, separate her state of legal intoxication from what the tragic outcome was?
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 18, 2009, 7:01 am
Is America turning to a different path? (2)
May 13, 2009 in Uncategorized
An ancient socialist on a molding basement wall; photo by crackhouse
Is America turning to a different path?
Part 2) “A Much Better America we can easily achieve ”
(Utopia, here we come!)
There is, of course, a much better America we can easily achieve.
I can safely say that we all want that.
All we need… is ‘a little more’ planning. That much is pretty obvious. And for the planning to work, it has to have some teeth. It need not be called coercive planning. That does not sound nice. So we shall just pass some laws, and that makes it into ‘democratic planning’. Because after all, the government was democratically elected. Yes, democratic planning it shall be,with the force of law, and we shall surely achieve a much better America.
Wait a minute. There is a pesky dissenter present, some kind of Irish anarchist, who is loudly complaining that more enforced central planning -by definition- represents a retreat from individual freedom. And that a retreat from individual freedom, in return for promises of economic security, renders those who retreat powerless if the economic promises of bounty are not kept. How annoying. Such people just don’t get it. We are trying to make a much better America.
This is an important task, and why do we have these doubters?
They are holding things up. Highly unpatriotic. Borderline treason. Maybe we need some more laws. Maybe it needs to be illegal to criticize President Obama by telling blatant lies. Okay, let’s make a law that says obstruction of the progress towards our much better America is an act of treason. Now, we have another dissenter? What!? Well, what we’ll do this time is this…..
You’ll see I’m poking some fun here. But the underlying modus operandi described is accurate.
Benito Mussolini had a clear picture of the Italian Fascist Paradise. Vast crowds cheered him on. People went delirious with delight when he appeared in public. Women wept, threw flowers, and men had tears in their eyes. Emotion, emotion, emotion. High, high expectations. A golden new age. Where have I recently seen that same sort of hysteria? And the high expectations? I can’t think… There is a lot of evidence that our very own President Franklin D.Roosevelt was heavily influenced by the Italian model. And what was this model? In a word: heavy state control over the means of production, strong central authority. A powerful, authoritarian, collectivist state. A lot of power over ordinary people’s lives, which, get this, was concentrated in very few hands. And lots of loud cheers. Hard to believe that they lynched poor Benito not many years afterwards…
Hmmm.. but what about freedom under Italian fascism? There is a famous quote from “Il Duce ” Mussolini, in which he comes right out with it, no punches pulled. He says:
“We were the first to assert that the more complicated the forms assumed by civilization, the more restricted the freedom of the individual must become. “
Duh. What!? More restricted…?
And there we have an important issue: the relationship between individual freedom and strong central planning.
Is it right for Americans to forgo, in dribs and drabs, more and more of their individual freedoms, for the sake of the alleged common good? When strong Central government reaches out, into your wallet, and takes more and more, for the common good of course, do you have any right to feel resentful? When strong central government makes decisions that cannot be reversed for decades, because those hundreds of billions already ‘have been borrowed’ and already ‘have been spent’, and will ‘have to be’ paid back over a period of decades, do you have any right to protest against a democratically elected government? Let’s be straight about this: a Federal Elite, in a one hundred day Blitzkrieg, spending $12 Billion dollars a day, has committed you and me and our descendants for DECADES to chump up a substantial portion of our earnings. The fruits of our labor are being CONFISCATED. And this action, for which we will pay for decades, was rammed through in a very short period, in a most non-transparent manner. Stacks and stacks of paper work, yards thick, deliberately designed to be as opaque as possible. And remember, EVERYBODY pays. Direct taxes, or indirect taxes, or costs passed on to the consumer, or other creative ways to milk the cow (inflation), EVERYBODY PAYS. It elevates naivety to truly Olympian Gold medal proportions for intelligent people to still believe that only those earning more than $200,000 per year will pay for this clatter-bang orgy of fiscal extravagance…
The Frenchman Alexis de Tocqueville, a nineteenth century political thinker and statesman, put it this way:
“Democracy extends the sphere of individual freedom, socialism restricts it. Democracy attaches all possible value to each man; socialism makes each man a mere agent, a mere number. Democracy and socialism have nothing in common but one word: equality. But notice the difference: while democracy seeks equality in liberty, socialism seeks equality in restraint and servitude. ”
Oh, what nonsense! Somebody might say. What have Mussolini and present day America in common?
Adolf Hitler came to power, many Historians attest, not with a majority. Nowhere near it, in fact. He was seen by many as the only man powerful enough to ‘get things sorted out’. He was living proof, if such proof was needed, that a relatively small, well organized and dedicated minority can assume vast powers, when a political vacuum exists. All sorts of varied segments of German society supported him. Or,to be more precise, they supported their perception of him. Industrialists and capitalists supported him, and most of the unemployed did so too. Idealistic students supported him, housewives did, and many clergy did as well, such as Professor Eduard Heiman, one of the leaders of, get this, “German religious socialism “. Hitler proclaimed himself to be the defender of democracy. And the defender of true socialism.
He even claimed to be the protector of Christianity. Crowds cheered wildly, and the adulation was palpable. Anybody who has ever watched those old newsreels can sense the electricity. Hitler was about as far removed from old style classic nineteenth century liberalism (not today’s pseudo version) as can possibly be imagined. He most certainly never claimed to be the defender of individual freedom, and a proponent of small central government. “Laissez faire ” ( “let the markets sort themselves out, and let a free people do their thing “) was not part of his thinking. It is easy to assume therefore that Hitler killed classic old style German liberalism. Wrong. He did not. Old style liberalism, the sacred freedom of the individual, was already dead. It was not Hitler who killed it off. It was socialism.
That very same, well meaning socialist thinking, espoused by many sincere and warm hearted people, that we see very much in evidence in the great USA of today, 2009.
Oh, what nonsense! Somebody might say. What could Hitler and Nazism possibly have in common with America today?
I really recommend a book called “The Forgotten Man – A new History of the Great Depression ” by Amity Schlaes. You can read one of my reviews of it on www.Amazon.com. The book is worth it just for Chapter Two alone. Titled “The Junket “, it describes in fascinating detail the 1927 pilgrimage of a group of young, eager, sincere, intellectuals to Russia. They were academics, magazine writers and union men. They sailed off on a steam ship to visit the Socialist workers’ paradise. They actually personally met Stalin in the Kremlin. They returned, aglow with enthusiasm, and many of them rose later to great prominence on the American political stage. Fired up they were, and determined to impose their benign wisdom on the simple American plebs. The Ordinary Folk, not to be trusted, poor dears, with decisions that required too much thinking. History was -eventually- to prove that they were misled, naive, cloud cuckoo land minded Utopian idealists. With an uncertain grasp of the realities of human nature, and the workings of a free market. And with little comprehension at all of Stalin’s cruelty and mass extermination policies. But meanwhile, the harm they did was incalculable. They massively misled American public opinion about Stalin, albeit with the sincerest of motives, pure as the driven snow. Their ‘rose tinted spectacles’ way of thinking had a massive impact on a later weak thinking president. This gentleman, surrounded by sycophants and admirers, and personally poorly read on matters of Economics and History, unfortunately regarded himself as a wise statesman and a deep thinker. And unfortunately he managed, allied with a pliable gaggle of equally well meaning newspaper columnists, to convince most -not all- of the American people of this. The initial impetus of this ‘voyage of the dreamers’ to Stalin in 1927, backed up after 1932 by an intellectual core of elitists, who were so clever that they simply ‘knew’ what was best for every common American grunt, was to fundamentally change the direction of World History. Very much for the worst…
Oh what nonsense! Somebody might say. What have Stalin and America today in common?
Mussolini, Hitler and Stalin are long dead! Ancient history! This is America in 2009! What possible lessons can we learn from a bunch of old fogies?
The answer, I would respectfully suggest, to all of the questions posed above, is: human nature.
Stalin, in 1927, had a lot on his mind. The Soviet revolution, for all its bally-hoopla and its appeal to starry eyed, left leaning socialist dreamers, was failing. Communism needed cash, lots of it. Only the West, possessed such resources. Stalin needed to be legitimized, approved, formerly recognized, so he could qualify for Western loans and economic support. And cement his cruel, despotic, and secretly bloody power base in Russia. He also very much wanted to win over the American labor movement. Communism’s ‘inevitable’ eventual world wide domination might have been -diplomatically- shoved aside in favor of “Socialism in One Country “, but Stalin’s real colors were yet to erupt forth. They would later do so at the conferences of Casablanca, Cairo and Yalta. And sweep away the pitiful, token objections of a weak, sick, tired, and grievously naive US President.
The points that are really, screamingly relevant to America in 2009, flow forth from these historical tragedies like a never ending, bound-to-be-repeated requiem for idealistic, well meaning innocence. Plentifully present today!
1) Socialism undermines the freedom of the individual
2) Any intellectual elitists who imagine that “they know best “, and that important decisions, such as how to spend money cannot be left to little people, is well on the way towards hubris and a dangerous, dictatorial, totalitarian outlook
3) the bigger and more powerful ANY central regime becomes, and the more power is concentrated in fewer and fewer hands, the more the risk factor screams up to the point where cataclysmic mistakes can -and will- be made.
And whatever lofty sounding new tags and catchphrases these intellectuals come up with, to distract the attention of the “Historically illiterate Ones “, terms like “individualist socialism ” and “democratic socialism “, you can rest assured that this wonderful and perfect America they promise us, courtesy of their unique wisdom and insight, is simply not achievable. And worse, the attempt to reach it by force through a powerful Elite, WILL result in an unrecognizable America we would not like.
I would like to chuck in a revealing anecdote about Mrs Clinton. Her of the Dickensian begging bowl performance in China ( “Please, Sir, can I have some more? “). I.e.: “Please buy our Treasury Bonds, because we need to borrow lots and lots of your money so we can build a stronger America. Oh, and please be nice to everybody. ” (I’m tempted to add: “Because if you are not nice to Tibet, or Taiwan, or our Navy ships in international water, or anybody, we might be forced to borrow more money off you so we can teach you a lesson “)
Notice above,whilst talking about Alexis de Toqueville, this phrase I quoted:
“Democracy and socialism have nothing in common but one word: equality. But notice the difference: while democracy seeks equality in liberty, socialism seeks equality in restraint and servitude. “
Back to Mrs Clinton. There is a very interesting book out called “The End of Prosperity – how higher taxes will doom the economy – if we let it happen. ” By Laffer, Moore and Tanous. (For my Amazon review on this book, go to www.amazon.com, select ‘books ” and dial in the title.) On page 288 there is described a small, but telling incident involving the current Secretary of State. Quote:
“Some politicians, and we would put Barack Obama in this camp, will vote for these economy killers because they are first and foremost obsessed with creating a ‘fair society’, with equality of income. They are willing to sacrifice growth… ”
If that does not sound like a REgressive flashback to early nineteenth century socialism, then I’ll eat my headsets.
Remember the French revolution? The catchphrase?
Equalite, liberte, fraternite!
Equality, liberty, brotherhood!
The author continues:
“Dick Morris, a Bill Clinton political consultant, recently told us a story about being in the Clinton White House and getting a complaint from then First Lady Hillary Clinton about the bipartisan tax plan that her husband was about to sign into law even though it included a capital gains tax cut. Mrs Clinton thought that this would be a giveaway to the rich and she opposed the policy. After Morris explained to her that ‘all of the evidence indicates that this tax cut will raise revenue for the government and will help the economy, she responded by saying,
‘Dick, that may be so, but I still think it’s unfair.’
Her ideology has trumped common sense… “
I agree with the author, and I might add: her ideology resonates with old, discredited, and poorly thought out themes.
It’s a puzzle to many of us that more of the electorate don’t pick up on these points:
First: the resurgence of extreme socialism.
Of the old, old school. A centuries old school. (Yawn….) Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, Trotsky, Lenin…. hundreds of visionaries. They all took a wander down that cozy dream road…. until reality set in. Equality is not possible. Life is not fair. Even if by a magic stroke all men were equal for one moment in time, within days some -the hard working ones, the brilliant ones, the lucky ones- would soon soar ahead of the pack.
I hate to say it, but when I read Hillary anecdotes like that, I feel that “Rainbow Dream Number Eighteen-oh-Five ” is still going strong, it seems…
Second: unfairness
Far from being fair, this political dogma is Massively Unfair.
You can research these figures yourself, it fluctuates, but roughly:
The top 1 per cent of income-tax payers now shoulder 40 per cent of all income tax collections
The top 5 per cent of income tax payers now shoulder 60 per cent of all income tax collections.
Am I missing something here? What is fair about that?
Third: hypocrisy?
Ahem. Mrs Clinton is one of many Democrats who are staggeringly wealthy. Indeed, many were born with a silver spoon in their mouths. She can make twenty five thousand dollars in a couple of hours just by speaking engagements. Bumping her gums to crowds of fervent admirers, rabid groupies who will thump the tables and cheer whatever she says. The rules of fairness and equality don’t -of course- apply to Mrs Clinton and co. Note this fact. They are special. They are the Great Elite. The Enlightened Ones. What possible comparison could anybody make between the inestimable value of their brilliant talents and the tens of thousands of pesky, annoying, parasitic employers and capital investors who actually put millions and millions of people to work on a daily basis? Those economic royalists? The persecutors of the proletariat?
I would respectfully suggest that if it’s good enough for Mrs Clinton and her compadres to be so wealthy -because of their purported unique talent, insight and wisdom- then it’s good enough for those pesky “economic royalists “, the business and professional elite, to aspire to wealth and reward as well…
Fourth: crude voter appeal
Class warfare begets the votes. As old, as tarnished, as worn as that old record is, there is still always that seductive element. Unscrupulous politicians can still count on piling in the votes if they appeal to primitive emotions: green eyed jealousy and class envy. Never mind the obvious contradiction they serve us up every day: on the one hand they express their noble concern for the unemployed. Their compassion. “We feel your pain “. But on the other side, the employers, the capital venturists, the professional classes, are treated as pariahs… Excuse me, but if you really care about the unemployed, should you not also care about the potential employers? Or do you really think “The Government, Inc ” can employ everybody in a gainful manner? That has been tried before – many, many times. Are we really going to go down that cul-de-sac again? Do we have to drag up and expose -once again- the wasteful nonsense of FDR’s multiple shovel leaning make-work boondoggles?
Fifth: lack of economic training and reading
Consider Mrs Clinton’s statement, quoted above: ‘Dick, that may be so, but I still think it’s unfair.’
Ma’am: it is so. And, I might add, if you did some serious reading on the twin subject of Economics and History, you would know that it is so. This is a well documented principle that goes back to at least as far as Andrew Mellon, Hoover’s Secretary of the Treasury. A man crudely persecuted and defamed later by FDR’s faithful lackeys, the IRS investigative department.
Mrs Clinton’s statement of course may ring some bells with those who remember another famous pronouncement on the subject, this time by Mr Obama, exposing his lack of depth and knowledge in the field of economics. And his ideological obsession with fairness. And of course equality.
My source for this, once again, is “The End of Prosperity ” Chapter 1, “The Gathering Economic Storm “, pages 9 and 10.
In an interview with Charlie Gibson of ABC news, the following exchange took place:
Gibson: Senator, you have said you would favor an increase in the capital gains tax. You said on CNBC, and I quote: “I certainly would not go above what existed under Bill Clinton, ” which was 28 per cent. It’s now 15 per cent. That’s almost a doubling, if you went to 28 per cent.
Obama: Right.
Gibson: And George Bush has taken it down to 15 per cent. And in each instance, when the rate dropped, revenue from the tax increased: the government took in more money. And in the 1980’s, when the tax was increased to 28 per cent, the revenues went down. So why raise it at all, especially given the fact that 100 million people in this country own stock and would be affected?
Obama: Well, Charlie, what I’ve said is that I would look at raising the capital gains tax for purpose of fairness.
We saw an article today which showed that the top fifty hedge fund managers made $29 billion last year – $28 billion for fifty individuals. And part of what has happened is that those who are able to work the stock market and amass huge fortunes on capital gains are paying a lower tax rate than their secretaries. That’s not fair
Gibson: . But history shows that when you drop the capital gains tax, the revenues go up.
Obama: Well, that might happen, or it might not.
It might happen, or it might not? Sir, it’s a matter of doing some basic research. Small wonder that the authors summed it up in this scathing paragraph on page 10:
“This amazing exchange left us scratching our heads and wondering whether this gifted orator who can fill stadiums with 70,000 or more adoring fans and followers and says that he is promoting the “Audacity of Hope ” has even the slightest clue about how economics works in the real world. How jobs are created. How entrepreneurs and risk takers create wealth. “
In chapter 14, ominously entitled “The Death of economic sanity “, there is this statement:
“One gets the feeling that for some politicians the main purpose of tax increase plans is to punish the rich, not to help the poor – or the economy.. We would have hoped that policymakers learned from the 1970’s and 1980’s what works and what doesn’t. But they haven’t and are intent on giving the policy failures of the 1930s and 1970s one more chance… “
The chances are high that this government will lead the United States into a head on collision with the “twin evils of high inflation and equally high unemployment ” (see p ix)
I label Mr Obama, Mrs Clinton, and the whole orchestra as classic ‘closet socialists’.
Big government, big spending, higher and higher taxes, big plans, big egos, frighteningly limited knowledge and a great big mess waiting to erupt.
Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Francis Meyrick
(c)
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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 2, 2010, 11:04 am
The Teddybear
May 6, 2009 in Auto-biographical (youth and childhood)
THE TEDDYBEAR
The heavy motorcycle roared down the little London East End side street. Screeched to a stop. Roared back again. Screeched to a stop. Came back once more, bombing along, at some crazy speed.
Jane Doyle turned over in bed, and looked at the alarm clock.
Half past one in the morning.
What the …?
She was a very attractive young lady. No doubt about that. Just twenty, slim, dramatic black hair, high cheek bones in a classic face. When she wore tight jeans, heads turned all the time. Male heads.
But now, at 1.30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, her thoughts were far from any pleasant sexual awareness.
She was mad.
It had to be him. She recognized the roar of his Kawasaki 900. His beloved Z1-B. But what on earth was he doing belting up and down the street waking up the whole neighborhood?
Idiot! They had conducted a blazing row at six o’clock that evening, and he had stormed out in a typical paddy. She guessed he would have gone to the ‘White Bear’ in Smithfield, London’s old meat market. It was his favorite pub. To drown his sorrows. Had he over indulged again? Probably.
She had better go and investigate…
* * *
He had sat in the White Bear, sulking furiously. The truck drivers there, who knew him well, had bought him rounds, and sympathized with him. They also knew Jane, and knew her temperament. They could imagine those two sparking.
But one or two of the older wiser ones, with families of their own, knew well that behind the spectacular fall out lay a deep mutual loving. They knew the dynamitic division was unlikely to last long, and would doubtless result in an equally pyrotechnic reunion.
But for now it was just a case of humoring Francis. Let him get it out of his system…
“That’s it, I’m finished, I want NOTHING to do with that milk machine EVER again! “
Slug of beer. Sympathetic noises from all around.
“And you know what she said? She said I ought to SLEEP with my bloody bike! Yep! She reckons I ought to take it to bed! Just because it occasionally RAINS a bit an’ she gets a bit damp. Huh! “
He took another slug, in fiery disgust. As if the cold beer rinsing around his mouth could swill away the distaste he felt at weak willed women who couldn’t cope with a spot of rain whilst out on a motorbike in mid-winter London…
It was unfair of course, and, deep down, he knew it. The downpour of that morning, the Niagara Falls that the M2 Motorway had become, could not possibly be reasonably described as having merely rendered the pillion passenger ‘a bit damp’.
Soaked through, past the skin, into unmentionable places, more like it. Jane had actually held up her bra in annoyance, demonstrating the fact that the red coloring dye from her once fluffy mohair sweater had run into her underclothes. And as for the mohair… it had sort of lost its luster, and was pathetically draped over a clothes horse, looking decidedly like a drowned beaver.
He had not been sympathetic, probably partly because he quietly wished he had been driving a car as well. His black leather motorcycle jacket was so soaked through, it had taken on that weird, clammy, moisture-oozing-out of every pore texture. The depressing effect of which can only be fully understood by those who in their lives too have belonged to the clan of the totally suicidally depressed rain sodden frustrated motorcyclists. Especially when it started out so sunny and bright, and the blitheringly imbecilic weather men forecast bright sun, so you only took light leggings and not the full set of heavy duty rain gear…
He was hacked off. Murderous. In no mood to be sympathetic. Even the sight of the lovely Jane, topless in all her firm breasted splendor, holding up her bra in disgust, could not lighten his mood. There she stood, wearing tight leather jeans, soaked, standing in shiny black boots, equally soaked, with wet hair hanging straggly down her face, in the middle of a rapidly expanding pool of water on the carpet; but he failed to see the funny side. He had threatened to go out. Then he had put his sodden gear back on again, then off, then ON again. Finally stormed out, roared off. Knowing full well Jane would be fed up, as she normally always came along to the White Bear sessions…
“What do you do, huh, what do you DO with women like that, HUH? “, Francis was grumbling bitterly.
He had calmed down a bit, and the spurious short term soothing impact of alcohol was already blurring the edges of his sensitivity to reality.
The older wiser drivers knew he was on the mend…
Somebody made a suggestion.
-Buy her a present, mate.-
“A PRESENT? What for? To say ‘thank you’ for yelling at me and being flipping unreasonable? Wish somebody would buy ME presents every time I had a cob on! “
He had left himself wide open, and a chorus of wisecracks split the nicotine saturated air.
He giggled, and started another pint.
The evening wore on.
Jokes flew. Banter bounced back and forth. Stories were told.
Another driver walked in. Pontius. So nicknamed, for his slightly aloof bearing, and his refined accent.
It probably didn’t do him justice. Pontius was all right. Couldn’t help his speech. Or his slightly aristocratic looks. Not a bad bloke, really.
Bit of a wheeler dealer. Always flogging some weird commodity, to augment his long distance truck driving income.
Tonight was no exception.
After the welcomes, he announced: “Anybody want to buy… ” But he was drowned out by the loud collective groan. He assumed a suitably pained expression, and waited until the chorus of catcalls and whistles had died down. Then, with the air of an entertainer, he left the room, to return moments later with quite the largest female Teddy Bear Frank had ever seen.
It was quite a giant of a Teddy Bear…
Although it adopted the classic ‘sitting cuddly bear’ pose, with arms stretched forward in a ‘love me, cuddle me’ supplication, this could not disguise the fact that this bear, standing erect, would be nearly five feet tall. It truly was a bear of a Bear…
Pontius seemed immensely proud of his Teddy, and appeared to find there to be nothing incongruous about trying to sell a giant Teddy Bear in a bar full of tough truckers. Quite unmoved by the delighted heckling of his audience, he proceeded with his sales pitch, praising the Bear’s anatomy, texture, and softness. The Bear apparently came from a long distinguished line of Bears, and possessed an impeccable ancestry.
A pedigree Bear in fact.
Pontius even demonstrated a passionate bear hug, with a smile of rapture as he squeezed Miss Bear tightly, and Miss Bear draped her formidable paws over his shoulders in a reciprocal gesture of eternal love and affection.
The truckers went wild. The sight of Pontius, eyes half closed, a distant faraway smile illuminating his craggy features, smooching it voluptuously with a furry broad, was too much for even the most restrained drinkers. The smoke filled atmosphere reverberated with witticisms and crudities, and even the stoic White Bear landlord rolled his eyes to the heavens. Then he shrugged, grinned, and went on with the interminable ritual polishing of the glasses. The jukebox was now blaring away wildly with ‘Lovely Rita’. Soon Miss Bear was being asked to dance.
She didn’t decline, and on the dance floor she was soon shaking and rolling with the best of them.
“Lovely Rita, Meter MAAAAID… ” belted the jukebox.
Beer flowed freely. Francis drank too much. He always regretted it the next morning. Kept trying to give it up. Kept failing. There came a point where he just kept guzzling. Two pints. Three. Four.
“That’s it! I’ve had enough! “
-Ah, go on! Have another!-
“No thanks! “
-Be a devil! Last one!-
“NO! “
Another pint would mysteriously appear in front of him.
He would resolve not to drink it.
Equally mysteriously the glass would end up empty.
Five…
Thoughts… Subtle thoughts. Like:
“Bugger! “
“I’m over the limit ANYWAY! “
“Oh, hell… “
It was going to be several more years before stories of roadside carnage wrought by drink, and TV advertisements highlighting the anguish of relatives of drink-drive victims, were to finally penetrate his thick brain in a meaningful manner…
Six…
“That’z id! I’m (hic!) fi-fi-finished! “
-Ah go on, one more!-
“NO! BU-BU-BUGGER ORF! “
-Have a chaser. A brandy, eh?-
“NOOOO! “
Mysteriously, a double brandy would appear in front of him. He would resolve not to drink it.
Equally mysteriously, the glass would end up empty.
Six and a bit…
Ridiculous, his tired brain would say. This is stupid, and you know it. You better take a taxi.
His eyes focused slowly on the Bear. Somehow or another, he had ended up with the Bear sitting beside him. And he had his arms wrapped around the Bear, and one giant paw was resting trustingly on his shoulder…
He blinked.
How had that happened?
Then the idea came to him.
Jane would like the Bear. She was in to cuddly things.
Hmmm…
“How mu-mu-MUCH (hic!) for LU-LUVVELY RITA ‘ere (burp!)??
-Fifty quid!-
“PISS ORF! “
-Forty!-
“Stuff you…! “
-Thirty!-
“I’ll give you… HANG ON… How am I gonna get ‘er home? I’m on me blinking bike! “
A startling thought had registered.
-Easy! On the pillion!-
Great gales of laughter.
“Don’t be si-si-silly. How’s I going to get this lump home on the pi-pi-(hic!)-pillion!? “
Somehow he had found himself straddling the bike, surrounded by two dozen truckers, with Rita Bear on the pillion. It was ridiculous. Rita was simply too big. Partly because of her ample size, and partly because of the dropped handlebars, which put him in a slightly crouched racing position behind the big black fairing, Rita’s face peered over the top of his crash helmet.
With much fiddling about, Rita’s lovely legs ended up draped around his thighs. The big soft padded Bear soles jutted forwards, fluffy Bear toes in the air, as if caught in the midst of a braking action. Rita’s huge paws kind of clasped his leathered shoulders.
Somebody produced a rope.
Rita was securely tied around her ample waist, and around Francis’ middle. His thoughts: “This ain’t gonna work… “
It was decided a trial blast was called for.
A screaming blatter up and down the road, and then once round Smithfield Meat market, discovered a problem.
The slipstream was tending to push Rita backwards, so that her toes were ending up moving steadily upwards, her ankles now level with his ears. At the same time her entire upper torso was moving backwards, arms revolving upwards into the air, her paws leaving his shoulders and reaching for the sky. Whilst all the time she wore her adoring expression:
“Come cuddle me! ”
He screeched to a rubber squandering stop outside the ‘White Bear’. Ordered the readjustment. The problem was fixed by raising the rope up to just under his armpits.
Now, when he roared around, Rita stayed put.
Good! The first problem was solved. But how about the weather? It had stopped raining, but that was no guarantee it wouldn’t start again on the forty minute journey home. Oh well, he would just have to take a chance. It wouldn’t be the first time…
With much waving and cheering, the merry band of truckers bid him goodbye, and he was off on the trip back to surprise the lovely Jane.
Round the corner onto the main road.
BWAMMMMMMMM!!
The Kawasaki roared, and he accelerated briskly. The lights ahead changed to red, and he slowed to a stop.
The engine ticking over quietly now, he waited patiently for the lights to change.
A taxi pulled up alongside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the driver’s window being wound down. He waited for a comment, but continued looking straight ahead. Eventually he could stand the suspense no longer.
Slowly he turned to stare the driver straight in the eye.
There was a silence. Francis was tempted to say: “Well!? “, but didn’t. The cab driver, possibly wary of this grim black leathered figure, was studying the spectacle carefully, with alert eyes, from which however all trace of amusement was carefully erased. It was only as the lights changed to green, that a quiet “Mister, I like your girl friend “, was heard a split second before the four cylinder boom of the Kawasaki propelled rider and pillion away in a puff of exhaust smoke.
Francis grinned quietly to himself, and concentrated on his driving. He never seemed to feel the effects of alcohol once he was on the bike, but he was cautious about the effects on his reactions. The roads were wet and greasy, and now was no time to come spilling off. He hoped as always that the lights would be with him, but it was not to be. Soon he was braking again, slowing to a stop.
Cars pulled up beside and behind him, and windows were wound down all around.
A heavy Cockney voice bellowed: “Hey Tarzan, yer missus could do with a shave… “
He heard delighted chuckling from an old Avenger full of young folk who had obviously also been celebrating Saturday night. Some female was giggling in a high pitched soprano. “He’s having bondage on a motorbike! ” For some reason, she thought that was hysterically funny.
Another driver was leaning a long way out of his window, addressing Rita in a theatrical voice: “Oi, missus, you’ve got no bleedin’ helmet! “
Slowly Francis turned and looked at the actor, who was by now grinning from ear to ear, aware that he commanded an audience. In the background the soprano was still giggling hysterically, fascinated it seemed by the rope and the uses to which it was being put.
The actor was obviously expecting a reaction.
Francis looked him steadily in the eye: “Watch it mate. That’s me sister you’re talking to… “
The actor creased up, and the cockney was in mid sentence, when an angry tooting came from behind. An angry driver was thumping his horn, shouting out the window something about the light not getting any greener…
A mile or two later, the lights turned to red outside a pub cum discotheque which was just emptying out. A mob of heaving, panting, gesticulating folk poured off the pavement and surrounded the bike. Any short lived alarm he felt soon disappeared. They were harmless… just very drunk…
A quite well dressed intelligent looking fellow in a blazer flopped against the handle bars, struggling to get the words out:
“Mi-mi-mi-mister, she-she-she… “
He was pointing desperately at Rita.
“Sheez god no cloooothes on! “
With that amazingly astute observation, he fell over backwards, to be caught in the nick of time by his friends. With that the rest of the party goers held hands, formed a moving circle, and started to sing:
“If you go down to the woods today…
you’re in for a big surprise,
if you go down to the woods today,
you’d better go in disguise.
For every bear that ever there was,
will gather there for certain because,
today’s the day the teddy bears have… “
the wails reached a crescendo…
“…their PIC….NIC…!! “
With that salutation, the throng opened, and he was able to roar off again. Not for far.
On the far corner of the cross roads ahead of him, he saw a Policeman staring intently in his direction. Although addled with alcohol, his brain told him that the chance of a Policeman NOT being interested in the center piece of all that commotion was NOT very good…
even WITHOUT his furry passenger.
Approaching the cross roads he saw the copper step off the kerb, and he waited no longer.
A smart left turn saw him heading off the wrong way, but at least he could pretend he couldn’t see the arm shooting up stiff and straight. He roared off, not before he was aware, out of the corner of his eye, of the Old Tinribs making several running steps.
He wondered how that would sound on the Police Radio.
“Unit seventy six request pursuit of motorcycle heading west on Stratford Road, with one male and one Teddy Bear! Over… “
By now the alcohol was really making him feel desperately tired. He passed up the Romford Road without too much trouble, and half a dozen witticisms.
“What a honey! “
“Look at those hips! “
“Gawd, she is UGLY! “
A hurried left into Woodgrange Road, and all he had to do now was turn right up Capel Road.
What the…?
Wrong! He’d gone too far. Back again. Wrong again!
Oh, shoot. Where the dickens was his house! Why did they all look the bloody same?
41 Latimer Road. He repeated it to himself a few times. Yes, that was where he lived.
41 Latimer Road, Forest Gate.
It was raining again. That was the problem. His goggles were spattered.
“Oh God, I’m tired… “
Ah. THERE it is.
He normally got off his bike, opened the gate, and then drove the bike up the short path.
Oh, flip.
“I’ll just give the gate a lil’ NUDGE with the front wheel, an’… “
He giggled to himself at the splendid labor saving idea.
He wouldn’t have to get off that way.
With a blast of throttle the Kawasaki bumped up the kerb.
Another blast, heading straight for the gate…
CRUNCH!
The gate disappeared out of his way, and this pleased him no end. Another idea crossed his befuddled brain as he was still moving forward.
He would give the front door a ‘bump’ as well with the front wheel, and fetch the lovely Jane down.
Yeah…
Jane hurried down the stairs to investigate, aware that the approaching heavy motorbike sounds had by now slowed down. He had found it…
Then she froze.
BWAMMM! BWAMMM! BWAMMMM!!!!
CRASH!
BWAMMM! BWAMM! BWAMMMM!!!
CRASH!
Jane lept back up the stairs in momentary stunned amazement, as the front door slammed open. A large motorcycle burst in, and collided spectacularly with the bottom of the stairs. It keeled over against the wall, and the engine stalled. The rider, giggling hysterically, slowly rolled off, and ended up face down on the floor, gasping and spluttering for breath, in between fits of giggles.
Slowly, the giggles subsided. He seemed to wriggle a bit, and make himself comfortable.
Some incoherent mumbling came forth from the slumped figure.
“Dzjany-baby…
I gotta prez… prez… prezzie for you… uz called…
Rita… “
The incoherent mumbling lapsed into silence, punctuated by the odd outburst.
” Rita… prezzie… Pontius… heh-heh… waz gooood… ”
There was a snore. Then a half giggle. Then another snore. A shuffling to get comfortable. Another snore.
Jane stared. Out the front door, with the smashed Yale lock, at the front gate; which lay, smashed, on its side.
Beyond that, the lights had gone on in the houses opposite, and startled faces were appearing at the windows.
Her gaze traveled back to the spectacle on the floor, now snoring ever more regularly. Her man, the love of her life, with a huge Teddy Bear grinning idiotically at him, paws resting affectionately on his shoulders. Still tied to him with a dirt old piece of rope.
She walked over to the bike and switched off the ignition. The bike looked all right. Built like a tank, that thing. The same couldn’t be said for the wallpaper, the gate, and the front door…
A voice drifted in. It was their immediate neighbor, Maureen, in night clothes, craning over the little low wall, looking in with amazement and shock registered on her face.
“Is he all right? “, she inquired solicitously.
Jane looked down on the slumped body, now snoring peacefully.
“Yes, he’s all right… “, she said quietly.
She shuffled past the debacle to the front door, and pushed it gently to, noticing the splintered wood in the door frame where the Yale fitting had been almost twisted right out. She shut the door as best she could, and picked her way carefully back.
At the bottom of the stairs she hesitated, and then, with a silent little shrug, she climbed the stairs and went back to bed.
He could sleep with his bloody bike, she thought.
She always reckoned he should take it to bed…
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 21, 2009, 4:56 pm
Driving in America; The Whacky Races
May 6, 2009 in Uncategorized
Driving in America: The Whacky Races
Alisdair McDiarmid
I love America. It is such a privilege to live and work in the great USA. And, especially for a former European, the source of endless good bar stories.
Driving in the USA is sometimes like being in a race. A somewhat looney, whacky race, with a weird assortment of vehicles of different age,types, and varying sexuality competing for a finite amount of road surface in which to strut their stuff. The culture of any country is typified by many excesses. The customs of eating, drinking, swearing, womanizing and driving may vary from locale to locale, but they inevitably do take place, and we are aware and sensitive to the subtle differences. Driving style is one of the great indicators of the essential ‘je ne sais quoi’ of daily life in a region or town. If you strolled around London in the 1970’s, and used the well marked pedestrian crossings, you stood a pretty good chance of car drivers stopping for you, or at least significantly slowing down. You got used to it. You almost sensed a certain heady power. You were a mere pedestrian. But you did have the right of way.
Ha! Slow down, you heathen four-wheeled contraptions! C’est moi! Here comes the emperor!
In the London of that decade, before the advent of modern madness, such an attitude became ingrained.
Then you might end up suddenly in France, like I did. In an abstract moment, pondering the poetry of Baudelaire, or the jiggly boobs I’d just seen strutting by, I strode out onto a long crosswalk. It was a clearly marked pedestrian ‘zebra crossing’, with black and white painted stripes stretching like a secure, welcoming carpet to the other side of a wide one-way avenue in the fine city of Chalon-sur-Saone. Way in the distance, almost beyond my perception of relevance, there was a junction, with the lights at red. On the other side of that junction, the road was full of cars. They were parked up peacefully, shoulder to shoulder, behind the red light of imperial electronic command. All was well in my little world, and I was nearly half way across, lost in a pleasant reverie, when a dull grumble in the far distance engaged one brain cell. I casually looked to my right, and noticed that the gaggle of cars were on the move. The light had turned green. Well, no worries, I remembered thinking to myself. I was on a pedestrian crossing, the speed limit was only 40 kilometers, and the gaggle was light years away. Ho-hum.
I just continued without much thought.
Things, unfortunately, deteriorated rapidly from the next moment on.
The dull grumble was no longer dull. Nor was it a grumble. The gaggle of cars was no longer a gaggle. It was a herd. An armada. A stampede. A combination of a Formula One start and an uncontrolled nuclear chain reaction. The sign said 40 Kilometers. A little over twenty-five miles per hour. The sign was obviously right, and carried the weight of authority. I had trusted it. I glanced at it despairingly. It hadn’t moved; it just stood there. Somehow, the water buffalo mowing towards me had not gotten the same telegram. The leaders were accelerating through seventy. In terms of Miles per hour. Not the chic European diminutive Kilometer variety.
My eyes bulging, I debated running. However, it was obvious I would never reach the other side in time. The leaders of the pack were going to cut me off on both sides. Retreat was equally impossible.
Holy cow…
Religion seemed an option, but at that moment I vaguely remembered somebody’s advice. An admonition delivered by a veteran, which I had barely heeded. What was it he had said…?
Keep walking….
I strode on,neither accelerating or slowing down, mentally measuring my feeble forward momentum with the stupendous velocity of the oncoming steel cages. It wasn’t pretty. It was as if I was in the gun sights of several dozen Mad Max Road Warriors all at the same time. At any moment a hatchet waving fiend, clad only in leopard skin, with an orange Mohican haircut, and one glass eye, was bound to appear from an open roof. To scream promises of blood and guts at me.
The first wildebeest, the leader, crossed ten steps ahead of me. I felt his slipstream. I wondered if he even saw me. I didn’t even dare look behind me, as something big, fast, loud, and ugly barely shushed by, traveling at Mach Two. It is impossible to describe how vulnerable I felt. Still I stepped on, either the coolest fool in Chalon-sur-Saone that day, or the luckiest etranger-foreigner re-appraising his cultural expectations.
La belle France… mais ils sont tous fou!
Yep. Plumb loco. Crazy. All of them…
The weirdest thing of all was that the cars behind the front leaders were trying to overtake. The overtaking wildebeest did not seem particularly perturbed to observe a pesky pedestrian barring their way. They didn’t brake, or even slacken their speed. Heaven forbid. No, they just calculated your forward momentum, hit the air horns, the gas pedal, and then they just aimed passed you. Sportingly, they gave you at least six inches. What was likely to happen if the pedestrian panicked, ran, stopped, turned or freaked out, I have no idea. Probably, nor did they.
I made it to the other side, and now, a grizzled veteran of affairs, I am happy to pass on these tips. Firstly, keep walking. Secondly, don’t look at the wildebeest charging you. It will affect your forward speed, and greatly increase the danger. It will also terrify you. Thirdly, if they run you over, the good news is that the French government pays for your funeral. And finally, the French word cochon means ‘chicken’. The word imbecile indicates they think you are a blithering idiot. You will hear these and other compliments if you try and copy my little stunt.
Having said all that about the French, it might puzzle my regular readers (all two of you, Jimmy is on holiday) when I respectfully suggest that the average driver from the shores of Americay does not stand an iced testicle’s chance in hell of passing a driving test in Holland, Belgium, Germany or the U.K. I’m not sure in this regard to La belle France. But then I am not sure in many regards as to the French. They are in a class by themselves.
Consider the simple use of signals. (You know, I explain for the benefit of some: those flashy lights you see come on occasionally on other cars and trucks; especially when they are going around corners or about to overtake. No, it’s not a loose wire.) Any British driving instructor will beat you mercilessly over the head with a bound copy of The Highway Code if you don’t obey this rule; Mirror-Signal-Maneuver. In sequence. That means: First you look. Then you signal. Then you turn. Drivers in the States prefer a different technique. First, seemingly for no reason at all, you slam on the brakes. The harder the better. Listen to the sound of screeching tires behind you. Wait until everybody has just avoided a chain serpentine fender bender. THEN you signal that you are turning. (Yoo-hoo! I’m turn-ing….!)
It’s MUCH more fun that way. It livens everybody’s day up. A popular variant on this technique applies if you are really cool. It starts out the same way. But once everybody has narrowly avoided rear-ending the guy in front, you now seize the opportunity to show how cool you are. You do this by showing complete disregard for authority, the rules of the road, and especially the dude in the forty ton Mack truck six inches behind your Chinese plastic fender: don’t bother signaling at all. Pretend you didn’t even know anybody was there.
And if you did, you couldn’t care less.
I wish I could have a dollar for every wide eyed European who has come over to America, rented a car for the first time, and found himself the mystified object of a symphony in claxon and airhorns. These spontaneous compositions in falsetto, are entirely free of charge. All you have to do is obey the European rules of the road. In America. And see what happens.
I refer to the habit of always stopping -regardless- when faced with a red light. Mes amis, Meine gute Freunden, Beste mensen…. in America, we may legally carry loaded assault rifles in our cars. For protection. In case the flesh eating aliens invade. I know that freaks you Limey kitchen socialists out, but car jacking doesn’t happen much here. And we may also turn right on a red light. It is actually a very sensible and useful exception to the European rule. Once you get used to it, you will love it. Both the loaded AR-15 and the right turn on red. However, here as well, there is room for individual taste. The official version holds that you must stop first. And look. Then, if the cross traffic is gone, you may go through the red to turn right. But many drivers don’t bother with the stopping and looking part. As for the cross traffic, that may or may not be gone and clear. This also greatly livens the day up. Many a time I have been suffering a dull day, somewhat boring, and had the thrill of narrowly avoiding T-boning an individualist turning right-on-a-red without stopping. Even though I drive a Dodge Ram 1500 pickup truck, the “ram ” part refers to air being forced down narrow apertures. Not the ramming of other vehicles.
As a pedestrian, in Los Angeles, armed with my previously described Chalon-Sur-Saone experience, I was already a hardened cynic. Although the flashing signs would command me to “Walk “, like the Zombies do in Europe, I smugly knew better than to place my simple trust in this sadistic advice. I always cheated. First I would look for the high speed individualists turning right on red. And many a time this caution paid dividends, as I thus avoided a decidedly splattered fate.
Freeway motoring is another adventure. Navigating my way around the major metropolis of Houston, Texas, for the very first time, on a six lane (drag) race track, I soon realized that seventy miles per hour was the ideal crawl speed at which I would most certainly be run over from behind. Judging from the vehicles whizzing past on both sides doing eighty-five to ninety plus. And the vehicles behind me risking life and limb to get past. My theory on this is that Mother Nature has a hand in all this. Thousands of small fish flock together in the Ocean, when they see a predatory shark approaching. They form a tight ball, which at first seems to make it easy for the hunter. But when you think about it, the chance of being the unlucky meal ticket for the hungry Great White are very small. There is indeed safety in massive numbers. On the Freeway, the chance of a very expensive speeding ticket, administered by the Great Flashing Black-and-White, is infinitesimal when the whole world has gone crazy. So I joined the great ball, and dove in with the rest of them. I also tightened up the distance between myself and the vehicle in front. My cherished ‘Safety Gap Theory’ I had been taught in Europe worked backwards around Houston. The space seemed to only invite speeding vehicles to pass through sideways at a hundred plus. Not a good idea.
After an hour or two of this, I felt I was once again a grizzled veteran. I had seen it all, and could comfortably lecture other Europeans on the art. That was, until a small, -tiny- vehicle dove into the minuscule safety gap I had left, leaving mere inches clearance between my front fender and its rear end. At ninety miles per hour. I know this clearance is correct, because of my observation that all I could see over the engine compartment of my Dodge Ram pickup truck was the top of its roof. The rest of the diminutive, puny, fragile vehicle was out of sight. Even with decades of driving experience, flying experience, and risk evaluation, I was awed. The pilot of that little tin box had nerves of steel. The coordination of a supersonic test pilot.. The cajones of a matador. I had to know who was driving that thing.
A few minutes later, speeding like a bullet, I managed to draw alongside to snatch a quick peep. The driver with the cajones of a matador turned out to be a little girl. She was talking on a cell phone, laughing, perfectly at ease, and eating a Cheeseburger. In between that, she was having a relaxed drive home at ninety plus. I remember feeling old. I was having to work hard, and concentrate. Maybe I was just a dinosaur.
It is easy for a European, especially the older generation, the Dinosaurs, to get the impression that Americans are truly lousy, ill mannered anti-social drivers, with pronounced suicidal tendencies. I confess I thought something like that for years. I just did my old style European thing, and tried not to wince too much at the egregious traffic violations I saw all around me. But, sadly, it was I who missed the point.
The errors of my thinking, of my cultural ignorance, my backwardness, were finally revealed to me when I made the mistake of mildly complaining to an elderly gentleman from Arizona. I told him basically that people who didn’t use signals were dumb sons of bitches who needed to be surgically castrated. This gentleman, a true American, a frontier pioneer, looked at me quietly and thoughtfully. He spoke softly to me:
“Son, ” he said thoughtfully, and I somehow knew I was in trouble.
“Son “, he said again, and I braced myself for it.
It tuned out he had recently driven a forty foot motorhome from the West Coast to the East Coast, without signalling once.
It was quite obvious that he was perfectly proud of the fact.
And then, finally, after years of quietly cursing stupid American drivers, I slowly started to get it. This is still the home of the Free. The land of Liberty. The home of the Individual. And no amount of pesky, European style, dogmatic, you-must-go-here, and you-must-do-that, rules and regulations are gonna deter a real American from doing what he damn well pleases. The anarchist in me should have appreciated that cultural subtlety a long time before.
Now I drive much more happily on American roads. It doesn’t bother me anymore. They can slam on the brakes without a signal, or turn right on red in front of me, or any number of other grievous violations if the location was Europe. I feel like cheering. This is America, and it is a privilege to be here. I just remember back to that wise old dude in Arizona, who took me in hand. I see his weather beaten, craggy face, and I imagine him driving his forty foot motor home around Washington D.C. on a ten lane highway without once blinking a signal or an eyelid. Such men are heroes. The defenders of individualism and liberty. No European style socialist will ever succeed long term in ‘making over’ America. Try as they might, they will never change American society. There are just too many stubborn John Wayne types out there who will do it their way, and to hell with the rules.
Thank goodness…
Liberty rules.
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 6, 2009, 8:45 am
Is America turning to a different path? (1)
April 27, 2009 in Uncategorized
photo by Thomas Arhelger
Is America turning to a different path?
Something has changed in America. Or, to be more precise, a gradual change, a drift, over a period of decades has accelerated. Not only has it sped up, but if we draw an extrapolation, if we take an informed guess of where we will be in another decade or two, then the speed of that change resembles a headlong rush. A slow trickle has become a torrent.
I speak of the tidal drift towards bigger government, more central planning, and more intrusion into our private lives.
The undermining of liberty, and the right to make our own choices. The finger that reached into our pocket, and touched our wallet, has metamorphosed. In a blink of an eye, a few decades at most, the finger passed through the stage of mere fingerhood. It became a hand.
A determined, grasping hand, that denied us the right to decide over a larger and larger slice of our legitimate income.
The fruits of the people…
Will this hand in a few more decades become more? A brutal, totalitarian fist perhaps? Where will our tax rates go?
Fifty per cent? More? And will poor people and those on fixed incomes really not pay more taxes? Not even hidden taxes, passed down by heavily taxed business, or hidden taxes imposed by Government through duties on commodities, or even by cruel inflation?
But it was not always like this. I puzzle that fewer people seem to aggressively question the role and the rights of Big Government. And the meteoric growth rate. Certainly, everything was not perfect in the past. I do not suggest that. However, up to the 1920’s, Federal Government was a decidedly limited affair. When you are comparing government then and now, you are comparing the Toy Poodle and the Afghan Hound. A Chihuahua with a Pit Bull.
The question then arises: is this change, this tsunami of Central Planning, a good thing? Was it inevitable? Did we have a choice? And if the latter, then did we choose wisely?
What was the path we walked before? What was the road that built America in the eighteenth, nineteenth, and early twentieth century? This much I say, without fear of contradiction: it was different.
F.A.Hayek, in “The Road to Serfdom ” (page 67) has this to say:
“The crucial point of which our people are still so little aware is, however, not merely the magnitude of the changes which have taken place during the last generation but the fact that they mean a complete change in the direction of the evolution of our ideas and social order. “
Consider the old American entrepreneurs. The men who built America. Tens of thousands of them. For a long time, there were few barriers erected in their way. (Some, mostly by government meddling, as ably described in “The Myth of the Robber Barons “) But by and large, they were able to raise capital, and pursue their revolutionary visions. They were able to freely exercise their creative visions. They could go against the norm, and challenge our way of thinking and doing business. Our way of life. They could completely spread their wings. We all benefited greatly from that. What would have happened if punitive taxation had deterred investors? If crippling Federal Debt had spurred lawmakers to devise ever harsher marginal tax rates on the “Rich “? If massive government bureaucracy had erected massive red tape? If confiscatory taxes had made entrepreneurial risk not worth taking? Our world would have been vastly different.
The point is the potential in each individual, born on this planet. Regardless of race, origin, religion or class. Freedom. To invent, to live, to dream, to create, and to pursue revolutionary new schemes and visions. The moment Big Government, lumbering, costly, manifestly inefficient, partisan and frequently corrupt, starts to intrude more and more forcefully into the sphere of human endeavors, that is the danger point that should set off warning bells.
I say again: Federal Government used to be small, and non-intrusive. Why do so few people challenge the ever growing monster in Washington? Why are so many people satisfied to allow more and more power to rest in fewer and fewer hands? Why are so many people content to relinquish their own responsibilities for their lives and families to the State?
I try and stand on my own feet. My knees have buckled at times. I have fallen down, and had to pick myself up. But I know I do not rely on any State. If a Government would ever help me, that would be a bonus, but I don’t rely on it. Yet so many people seem content to rely on their almost childlike trust in Big Government.
There has been a strange death of liberalism in the classic sense of the word. Before the socialists hijacked the word, and it came to mean something different. A strange death in laissez faire. Translated from the French as “let them do their thing “.
Let the system do its thing. Let market forces rule. Let human ingenuity flourish.
It seems reasonable to ask why? What happened?
F.A. Hayek, in his soft spoken, quiet, meticulous style, in Chapter One ( “The Abandoned Road “) documents several causes. He says that by the demise of the nineteenth century into the twentieth, that “the belief in the basic tenets of liberalism was more and more relinquished “. (page 72).
“What had been achieved, came to be regarded as a secure and imperishable possession, acquired once and for all. The eyes of the people became fixed on the new demands, the rapid satisfaction of which seemed to be barred by the adherence to the old principles. ”
One of the most interesting books I have ever read was “The strange death of Liberal England ” (George Dangerfield), and in that work too, one senses the puzzlement of many observers. It was as if a system that had worked so well, and for so long, was suddenly discarded with impatience. Society was to be re-modeled. For the better. In a hurry.
And a critic of the old order did not have far to go to find rocks to hurl. There were indeed injustices. There was hypocrisy, and those who cynically “used liberal phraseology in defense of antisocial privileges “.
Many good and well meaning folk thought -sincerely- that they could do better. And they turned their attention to achieving power, through Government, and increasing the sum total of human happiness by their unique wisdom and insight.
They were helped in this by an Old Guard, who resolutely refused any change. Who insisted on a rigid adherence to ‘laissez faire’ with zero compromise.
This, if you like, was ground zero. The early twentieth century, and an impatient surge of intellectuals who wished for more. But how did we get from there to here? Allow me to draw a pencil line on a white sheet of paper, from the lower left of the page, representing the ending of the age of the “individualist tradition “, right up to the 1920’s, with minimalist government intervention in the lives of its citizens, to the middle of the page, half way up, representing the current state of affairs in the year 2009. This period covers some ninety years or so. What a sea change in the role of government! What a massive increase in the Federal tax burden! What a massive reduction in personal Liberty….?
And, if the left half of this sheet of paper represents the period 1920 to 2009, I ask you, what will be yet written on the remaining right half? Will this curve drop back down? Or will it rise until it intersects the top right hand corner? And if it does strike the upper right hand corner, a doubling of the effective current tax burden on ALL Americans, need we wait another ninety years for this to happen?
I suggest not…
I believe in the spontaneous forces of society. Forces for good. Forces of human energy, ingenuity, creativity, and compassion. I once had somebody sneeringly ask me if I wanted to go back to a society with child labor, fourteen hour work days, no social security and no health care.
This is an easy contrivance: the allocation to an opponent of a position that they do not hold, and then a subsequent onslaught on an indefensible position. But it is also not helpful. It smacks of a hard eyed party political position. A dogmatic approach, that admits of no good in an opponent’s point of view. We only have the (good) White Hats and the (really, really bad) Black Hats, right?
Before the advent of FDR’s Social Security, a theoretically reasonable system but not without very serious flaws, there were many charitable organizations at work. The State -for political propaganda reasons- has often intruded into social areas that were actually well catered for on the local level. Before the advent of Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society, it has often been argued that individual effort counted for more. A man had to be seen to be trying. But then his community would help.
The laggard, the drunk, the drug addict, the child molester might go hungry. If work was about, and you didn’t work, well, you might just go hungry. Certainly, there was no system that permitted any individual, regardless of his blatant lack of effort, to receive massive Government Aid. At the expense of his hard working neighbors. Housing, food stamps, and medical care. There was no system that effectively taught a man that he was entitled -by government decree- to live, eat and procreate. The meaning of work, many say, was debased. The value of family cohesion was undermined. The result was a permanent underclass, who were placed effectively on a 100 per cent tax rate. It would cost them more to go to work, on account of the government benefits they would lose.
We have, undeniably, abandoned a road. A road that served us well for a long, long period of time. The road that applied to everybody, equally. The road of hard work, of individual responsibility, of striving to be better. We have turned down another path. Swept along by seemingly unstoppable forces, we are wandering along a path of surrender of responsibility. It’s the Government’s job. Not ours.
And politicians, with varying motives, and varying degrees of intellect and foresight, are frequently all too willing to dress themselves in the robes of the White Knight. To make promises, and -worse- half promises, that they know will be very hard, if not impossible to keep.
We have abandoned the individualist tradition which has created Western civilization. We are relying on a handful of elite planners in Washington. Power has fled from the States, and is still -effectively- being concentrated in fewer and fewer technocratic hands in Washington. Brace yourself for more Presidential, regal, Executive Orders. Bypassing not just the man in the street, the humble peon, but even the elected members of Congress and the Senate. Stifling debate.
Many point out that this is not a democracy, but a republic. But the cynics remark that it increasingly looks more like a drift towards a collectivist , totalitarian state. With dissenters branded as unpatriotic, right wing zealots.
Freedom, it has been said, is often lost piece meal. In small, incremental steps. A nibble at a time.
If you consider that white sheet of paper I mentioned, ask yourself where you think that graph, and our taxes, and Central Big Government, are going.
And, sadly, our Liberty.
Francis Meyrick
(c)
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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 2, 2010, 11:02 am
Diary (11): “Support our teachers “
April 25, 2009 in Auto-biographical
Diary (11)
April 25th, 2009
Support our teachers, the guardians of young minds, mentors of the next generation, and today’s under appreciated heroes.
Uh-oh. Cutbacks are threatened, and our teachers are up in arms. Should only teachers lead this fight against cuts? This affects all of us. Big time.
I don’t know the levels of remuneration. Different claims are made. A state retirement must be very nice. Especially in these times. And I guess you can’t get a quart out of a pint pot, as the saying goes. If cuts are coming, let us hope they are shared out equally. Still, I confess that teachers have my warmest sympathy. Let me explain.
I recently had the pleasure of meeting Mr Elbert Guillory, during his senatorial run. I was impressed with the gentleman’s charm, his soft spoken, but piercingly insightful comments, and his knowledge of History. We had an interesting all too brief discussion comparing notes on the efficacy -or otherwise- of FDR’s economic policies during the Great Depression. He is the sort of person of integrity you feel instinctively that you can trust. I put it to him that the recent burning of a cross at Grand Coteau was a shameful act, and should be clearly condemned. He, for his part, sighed sadly, and thought it was probably the work of immature adolescents, and perhaps best quietly ignored. He is probably right. But it annoyed me.
Hitler went to great lengths to portray the Jews as an inferior race. Stalin did something similar with the Kulaks. And of course, we have the great contributions to humanity performed by Pol Pot and his Kmer Rouge, and other friendly people such as the current thugs in charge of places like North Korea and the Sudan. White supremacists disdain blacks and Hispanics. Hispanics and blacks naturally retaliate, and the whole thing stays just plain ugly.
Much of the writings of Hitler in Mein Kampf seem almost puerile today. The ravings of a crackpot. It would almost be comical, but for the fact that those rambling hate-filled thoughts led to untold suffering and human misery.
Is it really true that the British routinely hunted native aboriginees in Australia for “sport ” right up until the nineteen thirties? I thought it was perhaps a Hollywood inspired exaggeration flowing from movies like Quigley Down Under.
But no, some research indicates the sordid facts of that ugliness. Man’s inhumanity against Man.
Is it really true that untold numbers of young black men were publicly hanged, without proper trial, in twentieth century Christian America? Often for the flimsiest reasons? Yes. Is it true that many white townspeople posed proudly for photographs beside the limp bodies, seemingly proud of their accomplishments? Yes. Is it true that mostly there was never any legal comeback on these cowardly murderers? Yes. Is it true that President Franklin D.Roosevelt was repeatedly urged to back an anti-lynching law, and refused? Yes. Was this a shameful episode? Yes.
But this is 2009. Times have changed. A black man, smart, highly intelligent, sophisticated and charismatic sits in the White House. Proving, if further proof was needed, that there are no limits to where a black man can go, a brown man, a yellow man, or a half brown with-a-bit-of-yellow-and-black man.
Who cares anymore? The science of DNA should convince even the most ardent Swastika tattooed White Supremacist.
If only said person would stop and look. I’m no scientist, but I believe the coloring agent is called Melanin. It’s called a pigment. If you have lots of it, you’re black. If you have a medium amount of it, you are brown. Not a lot makes you varying shades of yellow or white. It’s basically that simple.
We are talking minute, tiny, infinitesimal small differences between human beings on this planet. To all extents and purposes, we are all brothers and sisters. Just take a look at the complicated ancestry of Tiger Woods. And what a charming, intelligent, witty fellow he is.
Who cares anymore? There is more and more intermingling going on. With such minute differences, I am much more interested in a person’s intellectual and emotional make up. I really don’t care if he’s black, or white, or yellow, or brown, or purple with orange polka dots. I have worked with whites, blacks, browns and yellows. Some were good, some were dubious, and the occasional few were stinkers. It had nothing… to do with their pigmentation.
A friend of mine, white, was recently viciously mugged by two young gun wielding black men on Ambassador Caffrey in Lafayette. They pistol whipped him so badly, that he was knocked unconscious. He showed me the photos. He had a lump the size of an egg on the back of his head. It could have killed him.
Recently, four incredibly brave young black men invaded a house in Opelousas just after lunch time, waving guns and threatening a Vietnamese grandmother and some young children.
These are two examples of despicable crimes, that, note this: have NOTHING to do with race. They have to do with young men making incredibly bad decisions, and crossing the line. A line they know full well exists.
It wasn’t their pigmentation that made the decision to willingly endanger life. Or their hair style. Or their baggy pants.
It was their minds. Their brains. The exact same biological mass that all us humans have.
Some have said that Police and Newspaper articles should not mention race. I don’t agree, but I can see their point. It’s a distraction. It seems to imply a racial tendency towards greater crime. Which doesn’t exist, right? We’re all the same, brothers and sisters, right?
Some would say: Wrong. Ask any person in Law Enforcement. The percentage of young blacks incarcerated is way, way higher than other races. What? Why?
Others say: well, blacks don’t get the same legal representation. That’s why there’s so many more behind bars.
Does that explain ALL of it? What do you think?
For me, I still don’t see it as a predominantly racial issue. I see it as a desperate problem, but I’m inclined to follow Mr Guillory’s lead: think in terms of literacy. Education. Teachers… What IS the illiteracy rate amongst these young men?
I have heard frighteningly high figures. Forty-five per cent?? How handicapped is a young man, who does not graduate from school? Who reads and writes poorly? I don’t care if he’s white, brown, yellow, black or indigo with ocre stripes, how is he going to make a career out of anything? What happens to his self respect?
Most of you have already guessed where I am going with this: this is a passionate plea for everybody to support our teachers. This is an urgent, urgent appeal for everybody to warmly appreciate our teachers. Call the cops by all means when it goes wrong. When young men cross the line, take up guns and drugs, and throw away their lives. But know this: law enforcement cannot solve the problems of society. Law enforcement, however brave and determined our fine Officers are, cannot educate our young people. Society as a whole must tackle the problem of illiteracy.
We look at our teachers. We also look at our leaders to support our teachers. And we look at parents to support our teachers. And we look at charities, self help organizations to support everybody, any age, and race, who wishes to learn to read and write. Or improve their skills.
I don’t care if you’re black. Or white. Or brown. Or yellow. You are a human being. There is a world of opportunity for you, if you can master reading and writing. You can go anywhere, and do anything. You can even be the President of the United States of America.
It is essential -vital- that we all face the problem of illiteracy. It affects all of us. Support our teachers. And support local voluntary organizations dedicated to helping people to develop reading and writing skills. I would ask for reader feedback: with regards to people outside the education system: where can they go to develop their skills? Where can a High School drop out go, regardless of race, age or origin, and be treated with respect and compassion, and helped with basic reading and writing skills?
Do we have reading and writing lessons available for young offenders in our prisons? On parole? I’m curious to know more. Email me at francismeyrick@yahoo.com
Support our teachers! Realistically, they may not get all the pay and retirement benefits they are seeking. But I hope that does not distract these fine professionals from the urgent tasks in hand. I for one would like to express my warm appreciation for the difficult and challenging jobs they do. I think you will find the good ones, the idealists, put in many, many more hours than they are contracted to. Good educators can work wonders for interracial harmony, and a steady climb out of illiteracy for countless disadvantaged youngsters. They can help spread compassion, mutual understanding, and racial tolerance. They deserve our support.
Peace. Happy reading.
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Diary (10): “Time Horizons “
April 25, 2009 in Auto-biographical
Diary (10) Time Horizons
April 25, 2009
I find myself wondering about “time horizons “. How far do people look ahead? Do they expect Mr Obama’s policies to solve the problems within weeks? Months? A year? Three?
A careful look at the statements of the man himself confuses an observer with their ambiguity. Nonetheless, in his defense, I will say he has often and repeatedly warned that this is a long road ahead. Good, at least that part is honest.
But: How long is long?
I find it striking that there has been repeated reference made to President Franklin D.Roosevelt and his “New Deal ” of the nineteen-thirties. Mr Obama himself recently raised eyebrows with a statement to the effect that the debate over FDR’s policies is “over “, and that it has been settled in favor of FDR. A strange statement perhaps. Ironically perhaps, we owe America’s “Freedom of Information Act ” to a fellow Democrat, the late congressman John Moss (D.,CA).
Without his efforts, it is arguable whether a great many documents would have surfaced. Tons of archives have been made available, giving Historians decades worth of painstaking work. The many questions, after seven decades, still loom large:
1) did FDR’s policies of the ‘New Deal’ and massive government deficit spending help America out of the Great depression? Or did they hinder America’s recovery?
2) Was the attack on Pearl Harbor a surprise to FDR? Was it a surprise to his top military and policy advisors?
3) Did FDR deliberately provoke Japan? By choking off their oil supplies and critical raw materials, and sailing destroyers close to her coast?
4) Did FDR deliberately mislead the American people? Because he knew the Gallup polls and the Neutrality Act overwhelmingly showed Americans did not wish to repeat the horror of World War One?
5) Why were the commanders at Pearl Harbor, General Short and Admiral Kimmel, (vilified during their lives as being responsible for America’s bloodiest defeat), posthumously publicly exonerated by Congress of any and all responsibility?
Was that the smoking gun?
Was this the correction of a screaming injustice, a stain on the integrity of American Justice?
6) Can we, the people, trust what our Government tells us?
The list goes. The point is, that 70 years later, new information is still being dug up. Books are still being written.
And if anything, the divide is wider. (No, the debate is FAR from over, Mr Obama)
On the one side, we have those who hail President Franklin D.Roosevelt as one of the three greatest presidents ever. Up there, along with Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. A man whose benevolent shadow and legacy loom large over today’s Democratic party. The stuff of inspiration for today’s “New New Deal “. The guiding genius.
On the other side, you have informed, rational, well read people who stare in amazement at the growing (ignored) mountain of evidence that FDR was a bumbling ignoramus. A manipulator, with a feeble grasp of Economics, little interest in History or reading, and low personal and family integrity. Whose policies towards Stalin were hopelessly naive and uninformed, and whose betrayal of the free East European peoples was as unnecessary as it was callous. A man who sat down at Yalta with Stalin, to carve up the post World War two world, without some of his cabinet ministers, but with some key advisers who turned out later to be confirmed Communist spies…
On the subject of “time horizons “, you will now maybe see my point: People today, in April 2009, might be wise to stretch their time horizons out much, much further into the future. The verdict on Mr Obama’s policies, will not be rendered in six months, or a year, or in three years time. If it is, prematurely, delivered, then it will almost certainly be erroneous. Regardless of a positive or a negative judgment. Will authors still be writing books on Mr Obama and the ‘New New Deal’ and angry denunciations in the year 2080? With alternative viewpoints praising Mr Obama as one of the greatest FOUR presidents ever, alongside FDR, Washington and Lincoln? I leave you to answer that question…
What will the questions be? I’ll take a stab at it.
1) Did the bailout money go into the right pockets? Really? Or did clever business and finance moguls, allied with savvy investors, dupe the government, at the expense of the tax payer?
2) How come, after all the bailout monies, that lending to private businesses and individuals remained as tight as ever? Was Big Government’s insatiable demand for money crowding out the small private and small business borrowers?
3) Were Mr Obama and his advisers truthful with the American people? When they said their policies would create three and a half million jobs, were they basing this on solid economic fact? Or wishful thinking? How do you actually measure that? What methodology do you use? Is it even possible?
4) Did government make-work crowd out much more efficient private sector enterprise? In other words, for all the jobs they created, did they destroy as many more?
5) Was “Change we can believe in ” a genuine departure from the old, or just a clever catch phrase? And a recipe maybe for book sales?
6) Can we, the people, trust what our Government tells us?
I have read statements to the effect that government and national finance is totally different from household finance. That we humble mortals cannot possibly be expected to understand it, unless, (like all our politicians),we have advanced University qualifications in Economics, History, Law, and Nuclear Physics. The splitting of the atom is elementary compared with understanding how difficult it is to run the country. Right?
Hm. I beg to differ. Yes, you can get awfully complicated, and the counter cyclical Keynesian intervention theories do not make for light reading. Milton Friedman does not limit his monetary vocabulary to two syllable words.
But as for the basic principles? I am inclined to see a great deal of comparison between the Federal Budget ‘Black Hole’ and your very own household budget. If we decide, in our humble household, to throw caution to the wind, and spend-spend-spend on our credit cards, then, indeed, Life is good, for at least a while. That new car? Oh, yes! A fresh paint job on the house? Oh, yes! Private schools for the children? Oh, yes! Additional medical insurance? Certainly! Life insurance policies? Absolutely!
In this manner, it is not too hard to kid ourselves that Life has become much better. The expenditure of credit card debt, recognized at the outset as perhaps not-too-clever, can be rationalized away. Look at the good! The new clothes for the children! Their better education! The extra medical coverage!
But if we then adjust our time horizons, we all know that the credit line WILL run out. Uh-oh. Now what? The household ‘bail out funds’ will be used up. And we all know, that however long the period of initial joy was, the dizzying period of enhanced pseudo-prosperity, that repaying that debt will take much, much longer. The joy for our little household might last a year. Or two. Or Three.
But the pain of debt and card repayments may last twenty years.
Is that not exactly what we face for the USA? Already I read that the bail out funds are substantially used up. Only $160 Billion is remaining out of $730 Billion? That was a dizzy first one hundred days! And how long will it take for us to repay that spectacular bull ride through the proverbial China shop? Twenty years? Thirty? Fifty?
I would not be surprised to see a stock market rally within the next eighteen months. I for one have bought more ‘Apache Oil’ stock.
That rally may even temporarily take on its own dizzying steam, and be labeled by TV pundits as a “Bull Market “. I can see it now: beaming TV commentators of a REgressive political disposition (I refuse to call them PROgressives) praising government policies. With sighs of relief, and confident I-told-you-so smirks of satisfaction. Mr Obama and the Democrats have solved the Second Great Depression. All hail the Great Leader!
The small minority of critics will be disparaged, as poor losers, an ungrateful, spiteful, unbelieving band of right wing zealots. Out of touch with the times, unpatriotic -of course- and narrow minded.
After all, doesn’t the house look good in the new paint, don’t the children look spiffy in their new clothes, and doesn’t the additional medical insurance prove the responsibility of the household spending plan?
Alas. The years tick by. The principal borrowed shows little sign of going down much, if at all. The interest payments fall due inevitably, remorselessly, with a dull thud.
Where now, America?
Do you really need an advanced degree in Economics, History and Nuclear Physics to see this coming?
I have been waiting for one more development. I forecast it will come. In the late nineteen thirties, there arose a school of thought, that became very much in vogue at FDR’s white house. The academics who proposed this were wined and dined, and for a period of time their influence on FDR’s deficit spending policies became pivotal. This school of thought proposed that deficit spending by a government really didn’t matter. After all, we were really only lending this money to ourselves!
(try telling that one to the Chinese and the Arabs, and the European lenders, and just about everybody else who is willing to go on forever paying hard cash to buy into Obama’s soaring idealism)
The rush to print more dollar bills became a torrent…
But what happens when more and more bits of paper labeled “one hundred US dollars ” start chasing static amounts of goods and services? Ask the Germans who remember the nineteen twenties. Or those who remember double digit inflation under Bill Clinton.
And where is our moral stature? When Hillary Clinton is making grovelling whoopee with overseas creditors, (everybody smile for the Camera!) some of whom have a dubious history on human rights? Please buy our Treasury Bonds, we really need your money, oh, and please be nice to Tibet and Taiwan? Or else we will be forced to borrow more money off you, to slap you with….!? Oh, and please stop messing with our Navy vessels in international waters, its’ just not NICE, ya know?
(All Smile….!)
Time horizons.
Not six months. Not a year. Not three years.
Decades.
Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on April 25, 2009, 1:53 pm
Diary (9): “The Federal Elite in the Hippodrome “
April 7, 2009 in Auto-biographical
Diary (9): “The Federal Elite in the Hippodrome “
April 7, 2009
What we are seeing today, April 2009, in the political arena of the great US of A, is, sadly, nothing new.
The Federal Elite are, once again, making an even bigger grab for more power, bigger government, and lots more of YOUR money. But they are of course promising to make you happy, and better off, and, hell, maybe they will pay your electricity bill? Your mortgage? Your health care? Maybe Barack himself might even come down and mow the grass and do the dishes?
It annoys me. And it annoys me even more the way the majority of the electorate sits there and passively accepts it, votes for it, and encourages it. The poodles are back in town, sitting up and begging obediently. Wagging their loyal tails, accepting the pat on the head, waiting eagerly for the next handout, removed half an hour earlier from their very own dinner bowl.
The size, self importance and humongous $$$$$ cost of our imperious Federal Government is already grotesque, and ballooning to dimensions that are approaching the bacchanalian. A wild and drunken orgy of power and promises, half- promises, and soaring rhetoric. All sugar coated with good intentions of course. And the ladies swoon, the commentators obsequiously go along with the whole bamboozling charade, and even Jesse Jackson, the champion corporate shake-down artist, is shown on television with tears pouring down his face. He who was previously heard whispering his predilection towards surgical castration of our President’s what’s-its.
When, I would like to know, will cold reality seep in to this merry shin-dig? When will people start sitting back, drying their eyes, and thinking logically? There are cruel laws of economics, that have been proven to exist over and over again, and no amount of tear jerking, solemn pontifications from anybody will change that. You can wish for the moon, but gravity assures you will only get there by careful calculation, and a respectful observance of all the known laws of Physics and Chemistry. We didn’t talk our way to the moon.
I hear different figures of the national debt. I read $30,000 per family. Then I read it was going to $130,000 per family.
But, the cult tells us, Hosanna Barack is going to create or save three and a half million jobs! Or was it four and a half million? I forget. Regardless, it’s gobbledygook. How are you going to measure that? How are you going to prove that claim? Ever? It’s too intangible. And if you suck capital out of the marketplace into government, what deleterious effect does that have on private companies seeking the same capital to keep their businesses running and growing? What private sector jobs does the government DESTROY, whilst it pursues dramatic headlines, a blaze of television coverage, and glitzy policy programs?
I said above, all this Bravo Sierra is nothing new. We’ve been there before. Same theme, different players.
Barack Obama likes people to compare him with Abraham Lincoln. He was angling for that before he had spent a day working as president. I heard some of our TV commentators spouting reverential codswhallop that made me want to write a satire. Is it Abraham Lincoln we should compare him with?
Let’s grab a few books off my shelf. Yes, books. Obsolete things, in this day and age of course, going out like the steam engine and the theory of the Flat Earth. Or maybe the earth is flat. I forget. It always seems flat on television and in the movies. So I guess if the government announces on television that there has been a mistake, and the earth IS after all flat, then that must be so. Right?
Um. Let’s see. “The Roosevelt Myth “. By John T.Flynn. I reviewed it recently on www.amazon.com.
There’s a fun book. Wholly, totally, irrelevant to what is happening today, right? Of course. It was written in the years up to 1956, when the summary was compiled. Ancient history, eh? And History is bunk, we all know that. On top of that, it’s just a BOOK, for flip’s sake. What can a moldy ol’ book teach us that television and CNN cannot?
What the heck. Let’s flick through it.
(page 293) “This mere peep behind the curtain of the hippodrome will serve to afford a glimpse of that stupendous fiscal extravaganza put on in Washington “.
(page 293) “But there was another sector on this economic front,- the embattled legions of the bureaucrats mobilized to police the real producers and to supervise for the State the actual task of production. And at their side was that other battalion of New Deal fiscal philosophers – the bright evangelists of national debt, who were now permitted to gorge themselves on their pet theories… “
If we want to compare the current crisis of 2009, and the present “war ” on the global economic crisis, (drama, drama), with the equally glorious roll of the drums of World War Two, and Roosevelt on the stage, then that would be a stretch, right? Totally different time period, no relevance, no similarities at all. Right?
(page 294) “In the financing and supervision of the war effort from Washington, practically every fiscal crime was committed. And the plain evidence of that is before us in the bill of war. Few realize how vast it was. For the mind, even of the trained financier, begins to lose its capacity for proportions after the figures pass beyond the limit of understandable billions. The war cost I reckon at 363 billion dollars. To form some estimate of this figure it may help to recall that during the 144 years which cover the administration of all the presidents from Washington to the first inauguration of Franklin Roosevelt, the total expenditures of government equaled 117 billion dollars. Yet in the seven years from 1941 to 1947, the cost of supporting the war and its consequences alone was 363 billion – three times as much in seven years as in 144 years of our history. The total amount expended in these seven years was 463 billion. I have subtracted a hundred billion to cover the sums which our extravagant government would have spent had we not entered the war. To complete this picture we must not overlook the solemn fact that we have paid to date (note: 1956 -FM) only one-third of this prodigious bill. The remaining two-thirds stands against us as the national debt, the interest on which alone, when the debt is all funded, will be nearly twice the cost af government before Mr. Roosevelt came to power.
The story of how this vast account and this staggering debt was accumulated is a long and an intricate one. The follies, the recklessness, the appalling ineptness and incompetence, the deep and dark corruption remain yet to be told… “
(page 295) “there is no doubt that this intolerable burden, which will bear down upon the shoulders of of this generation and the next, is the direct result of President Roosevelt’s utter incapacity for administration. Here again, we may turn to a cabinet officer for the testimony. Secretary of War Stimson is lavish in his praise of Mr. Roosevelt and is prepared to forgive him the most costly defects of character in his admiration for Roosevelt’s great stroke of genius in naming Stimson to his cabinet. However, he wrote in his diary in March, 1943:
“The President is the poorest administrator I have ever worked under in respect to the orderly procedure and routine of his performance. He is not a good chooser of men and does not know how to use them in coordination…. “
Irrelevant. Quaint. How funny. No connection at all with today’s events. 2009.
Thank goodness.
F.M.
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on April 7, 2009, 11:19 am