~flowerchild~'s Blogtag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//88902009-11-24T14:37:44ZMovable Type Pro 4.21-enRepublicans and Democrats According to My Patag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.3040952009-11-24T14:29:12Z2009-11-24T14:37:44Z~flowerchild~ A Republican doesn't do anything. Nothing. If something goes haywire, they wait for it to fix itself....you know, like a broken clock is right twice a day if you just leave it alone. Their prime objective is to maintain the status-quo as they would like it to be. Republicans want everyone to behave.
A Democrat does everything. Lots of busywork. If something goes haywire, they come up with 900 solutions and can't decide which one is best.....so, they end up doing nothing. Their prime objective is their version of utopia, which of course, might not be utopia for everyone although they do try to please. Democrats want everyone to be happy.
Basically, said my pa, being a Republican or a Democrat doesn't mean much. A politician is a politician and that's what you should keep in mind when you listen to their speeches.
I reckon that's why I'm still an undeclared voter.
But, politics have changed since my dad's time. It's all about money now. It's not about achieving goals or striving towards ideals or the betterment of the citizenry. It's about how much money a candidate can generate for their party.
Well, I don't really give a shit how much money a candidate can raise to spend on getting elected. That aspect of if seems so far out of sync with the function of what an elected representative is meant to do. Their job is to reflect the wishes of their constituents, not represent the wishes of their donors. Their job is to respond to the people, not bend to the will of religious leaders. They are supposed to listen to their public and respect their demands, not take instructions from a 'higher order' and carry out their bidding.
Something went horribly wrong somewhere.
A few years ago, Sen. Ted Kennedy gave an extended interview on NPR. I forget the name of the interviewer and I cannot find the links, although it was recently re-broadcast around the time of his death. But, he spoke of how politics had taken a turn for the bad about 40 years ago, about how politics no longer served the people, but served the master instead.
Well, the way I look at it, there are more of 'us'....people....than there are masters and I'm asking.....
Why have we subjugated ourselves?
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Schtupped by Stupaktag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.3028032009-11-19T03:31:46Z2009-11-19T03:47:29Z~flowerchild~ I live in District 1 of Michigan; Bart Stupak territory. I am completely stunned by the inclusion of the Stupak-Pitts Amendment into the House HCR bill.
People on the left are calling him a Blue Dog. He isn't. Over on the right, they call him a liberal. He isn't. Fer cryin' out loud. If he's not one or the other, then I reckon that makes him a moderate.
I voted for him in 1992 and every two years after that. It was him or the other guy, a Republican, and that sure wasn't gonna happen. But, I was relatively happy with Bart's efforts. I was especially pleased with his involvement in getting the Great Lakes Compact resolved. He is pro-active when it comes to protecting the valuable natural resources of his district. I mean, he called up Canada and yelled at them to stop burying their toxic waste so close to their edge of Lake Huron.
He voted for the Afghanistan War but against the Iraq War.
He is for the withdraw of troops in Iraq.
He thinks the US should bring and end to the violence in Darfur.
He has taken a stand to end human rights abuses.
He's pro-union.
He is for the improvement of many social programs.
"Congress can provide health care by simply allowing all Americans access to voluntarily 'buy in' to the Medicare, Medicaid, Children's Health Initiative and Federal Employees Health Benefit Package."
Yeah. He would have been a strong supporter of single-payer. Actual Health Care Reform....not Insurance Reform.
So, then he co-sponsored this amendment, gumming up the works, causing a lot of anguish among those who have been so closely following the whole procedure. He is Catholic, so his views on abortion are not unexpected. But, he is not in D.C. to represent the Catholic Church. He's there to represent his constituents, of which I am one. And, I am not a Catholic, not a Christian, and I am Pro-Choice. I am also very pro-environment, pro-union and a socialist.
I don't know who I'm going to vote for in 2010. Stupak has said that he doesn't care if standing firm on this issue costs him the next election. I think he's serious.
I am very disappointed in my C-Street congressman. I feel like I've been schtupped. Schtupped by Stupak.
Man, I need a cigarette.
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Grandpa's 8th Grade Education (Amended)tag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.3022532009-11-17T01:30:41Z2009-11-17T16:38:58ZThere has been some discussion about education on this side of the Cafe over the past few days so it was kinda karma funny I was forwarded this e-mail from a long time friend about the subject.I have left it...~flowerchild~ I have left it exactly as I received it, except I omitted the photo at the top. (It was a class posed outside their 1895 Kansas schoolhouse.) If you have already received this e-mailing, I apologize for wasting your time. But, I did think it was interesting and could foster more discussion of our national education policies and what is good about our school systems and what is......well, not so good.
Quite frankly, I am beginning to wonder if Arne has the stuff. I don't really give a crap if he has a good jump shot or not. I'm having "Heckuva job, Brownie" flashbacks and we just don't want to go there, now do we?
(Sorry for the all cap intro.......that's how it came in the mail.:o)
COULD YOU PASS THE TEST LISTED BELOW?
WELL NO BECAUSE OUR EDUCATION SYSTEM HAS CHOSEN NOT TO TEACH IT. IT'S CALLED "DUMBING DOWN".
EDUCATION ADMINISTRATORS TODAY TEND TO TEACH TO THE LOWER HALF OF THE STUDENTS TO GET GRADUATION RATES UP. THAT'S WHY SOME SCHOOLS HAVE ADOPTED "HONORS, OR ADVANCED" COURSES, WHICH ARE PROBABLY EQUIVALENT TO A '50'S TO MID '60'S CURRICULUM!
What it took to get an 8th grade education in 1895...
Remember when grandparents and great-grandparents stated that they only had an 8th grade education? Well, check this out. Could any of us have passed the 8th grade in 1895?
This is the eighth-grade final exam from 1895 in Salina , Kansas , USA . It was taken from the original document on file at the Smokey Valley Genealogical Society and Library in Salina and reprinted by the Salina Journal.
8th Grade Final Exam: Salina , KS - 1895
Grammar (Time, one hour) 1. Give nine rules for the use of capital letters. 2. Name the parts of speech and define those that have no modifications. 3. Define verse, stanza and paragraph 4. What are the principal parts of a verb? Give principal parts of 'lie,''play,' and 'run.' 5. Define case; illustrate each case. 6 What is punctuation? Give rules for principal marks of punctuation. 7 - 10 Write a composition of about 150 words and show therein that you understand the practical use of the rules of grammar.
Arithmetic (Time,1 hour 15 minutes)
1.. Name and define the Fundamental Rules of Arithmetic. 2. A wagon box is 2 ft. Deep, 10 feet long, and 3 ft.. Wide. How many bushels of wheat will it hold? 3. If a load of wheat weighs 3,942 lbs., what is it worth at 50cts/bushel, deducting 1,050 lbs. For tare? 4. District No 33 has a valuation of $35,000. What is the necessary levy to carry on a school seven months at $50 per month, and have $104 for incidentals? 5. Find the cost of 6,720 lbs. Coal at $6.00 per ton. 6. Find the interest of $512.60 for 8 months and 18 days at 7 percent. 7. What is the cost of 40 boards 12 inches wide and 16 ft.. Long at $20 per metre? 8. Find bank discount on $300 for 90 days (no grace) at 10 percent. 9. What is the cost of a square farm at $15 per acre, the distance of which is 640 rods? 10. Write a Bank Check, a Promissory Note, and a Receip t U.S. History (Time, 45 minutes)
1. Give the epochs into which U.S. History is divided 2.. Give an account of the discovery of America by Columbus 3. Relate the causes and results of the Revolutionary War. 4. Show the territorial growth of the United States 5. Tell what you can of the history of Kansas 6. Describe three of the most prominent battles of the Rebellion. 7. Who were the following: Morse, Whitney, Fulton , Bell , Lincoln , Penn, and Howe? 8. Name events connected with the following dates: 1607, 1620, 1800, 1849, 1865.
Orthography (Time, one hour) [Do we even know what this is??]
1. What is meant by the following: alphabet, phonetic, orthography, etymology, syllabication 2. What are elementary sounds? How classified? 3. What are the following, and give examples of each: trigraph, subvocals, diphthong, cognate letters, linguals 4. Give four substitutes for caret 'u.' (HUH?) 5. Give two rules for spelling words with final 'e.' Name two exceptions under each rule. 6. Give two uses of silent letters in spelling. Illustrate each. 7. Define the following prefixes and use in connection with a word: bi, dis-mis, pre, semi, post, non, inter, mono, sup. 8. Mark diacritically and divide into syllables the following, and name the sign that indicates the sound: card, ball, mercy, sir, odd, cell, rise, blood, fare, last. 9. Use the following correctly in sentences: cite, site, sight, fane, f ain, feign, vane , vain, vein, raze, raise, rays.. 10. Write 10 words frequently mispronounced and indicate pronunciation by use of diacritical marks and by syllabication.
Geography (Time, one hour)
1 What is climate? Upon what does climate depend? 2. How do you account for the extremes of climate in Kansas ? 3. Of what use are rivers? Of what use is the ocean? 4. Describe the mountains of North America 5. Name and describe the following: Monrovia , Odessa , Denver , Manitoba , Hecla , Yukon , St. Helena, Juan Fernandez, Aspinwall and Orinoco 6. Name and locate the principal trade centers of the U.S. 7. Name all the republics of Europe and give the capital of each. 8. Why is the Atlantic Coast colder than the Pacific in the same latitude? 9. Describe the process by which the water of the ocean returns to the sources of rivers. 10. Describe the movements of the earth. Give the inclination of the earth
Notice that the exam took FIVE HOURS to complete.
Gives the saying 'he only had an 8th grade education' a whole new meaning, doesn't it?! Also shows you how poor our education system has become and, NO, I don't have the answers.
*******AMEND BELOW*******
Pseudocyants pointed out in comments below that the e-mail I cited in this blog is listed in Snopes as false. This is an important distinction and it was not my intention to lead anyone astray. I'm glad to be able to clear up the problem, and make amends and apologies.
(Thanks, cyants. I visit Snopes frequently. That I did not this time was my bad.)
What I was trying to do, and obviously failed at, by copying this e-mail into the blog was to raise the point of our failing educational system. I wasn't really expecting anyone to take the actual test. :o) I didn't. I've been out of school too long to even want to try.
What I was hoping for was to further the discussion that had been ongoing over the past few days about the decline of the quality of our education system, how we are failing our students, how they are losing their edge as we face a more global economy.
Our kids are not going to be able to keep up if we don't give them a solid base to build from. Norseman had a blog up the other day outlining some solutions. And in cmaukonen's blog the point was raised about how we learn to learn.
Arne Duncan is the new U.S. Secretary of Education, yet he is not an educator. He's an administrator. He's only interested in the bottom line, as in...test scores....when we know that test scores are not a good measurement of intelligence or how a student will function once out in the 'real world'.
In the intro of the e-mail there was mention of "education administrators today tend to teach to the lower half of the students to get graduation rates up". (That alone should have sent me to Snopes right away because administrators don't teach .) But, it's a valid point, I think. Administrators are having teachers aim at improving the test levels of the lowest scoring students and in the process are leaving the non-struggling students out in the cold, many of them becoming discouraged and bored out of their skulls. They are not given an opportunity to push their own intellectual curiosity because they are made to wait for their classmates to "catch-up".
So, yes, we are failing our young people by giving them an inferior education.
We must find some workable solutions.
That's was what I was trying to say by way of the copy and paste e-mail.
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Less? More? None? Some? Troop Levels in Afghanistantag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.3016062009-11-12T19:15:46Z2009-11-12T19:20:22Z~flowerchild~
MILITARY. They're in the war business. It's what they do. So, of course they are asking for more troops in Afghanistan. It may seem, to some, that President Obama is hesitating in his decision about troop increase in Afghanistan, but if it was me making this decision, it wouldn't be hesitation holding things up; it would be the waiting for better Intel.
I would not think it wise to depend wholly upon my war advisers because their view is limited by their profession. It's no fun being a general in peace time....there's nothing to do. Well, at least there is nothing to do that involves blowing shit up, which is what military personnel are trained for. I mean, do they take boot camp classes on international diplomacy, finance, and cultural differences or do they learn how to shoot a gun? But, in wartime the top brass keep busy being busy; they have purpose.
So, there is no surprise, at least not to me, that McChrystal wants more troops for Afghanistan, because if he tries really, really hard, he just knows he can win, plus he actually gets out from behind a desk. I mean, really. When is the last time any wartime general in mid-campaign said, "This is useless. I'm done. Let's go home."?
But, Karzai's government is corrupt. Everybody knows it's corrupt. I held out a little bit of hope that Abdullah Abdullah could become a player, but that hope was dashed when he dropped out of the election. Probably to save his own hide.....and I ain't blaming anybody for not wanting to get killed before their time.
So, why should we be there to help a corrupt government hold onto power? I can't think of a reason. And I hope President Obama has this question in mind while he is deliberating. I also hope Secretary of State Clinton is wisely using her skills in deciphering intent of Karzai's government.
Our military is stretched awful thin right now, but our saber still rattles the loudest. How long will that last if we keep sending troops into war? We are not a bottomless pit of eligible soldier material. I think we should begin withdrawing. Start sending our equipment home and start removing troops. Our military's basic function is, after all, to be used as a defense.......not as an offense. They exist for our well-being. Not the Afghans or the Iraqis well-being. Yes, I know I'm being simplistic and we have bases all over the world 'protecting our interests' and blah, blah, blah.
If the Afghan people want a transparent, central government, let them make one. If it is what they want, they have to call upon their own will and power to build it, like we empowered ourselves to build our own government in our colonial times.
If what they want is what they had, a loose collection of tribal governments, let them go back to it unimpeded. I know 'tribal government' sounds scary to most of us. It sounds wild and unpredictable and you just don't want to be anywhere around a tribal government because you might get your throat slit at any moment or they will eat your liver raw or something like that. But, that is not how tribal government works. It's an effective government form that functioned well enough for centuries in Afghanistan and since it is their territory, it should be their choice. If they choose to take control of their future by building a central government of their own devise, and find they need our help, and ask for it, then we can go back and help, whether it is with our military aid or our financial aid.
We can leave.
We can return. If invited.
Otherwise. We can leave.
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Seven Tiny Miracles Leading to One Veterantag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.3012582009-11-11T00:11:39Z2009-11-10T23:56:32ZLast May I published a blog containing a letter that my great-grandmother had received from the soldier and friend who had been with her son on the day he was fatally wounded during the Second Battle of the Marne in...~flowerchild~
a blog containing a letter that my great-grandmother had received from the soldier and friend who had been with her son on the day he was fatally wounded during the Second Battle of the Marne in 1918. Relating the story of my Great-Uncle Harry was a way to honor all the fallen on Memorial Day.
Now, to honor the veterans, the ones that made it home, on this Veteran's Day 2009 I would like to continue the story by taking a closer look at the writer of the letter. Although Mr. Elder was later wounded in WWI, he made it home to Indiana in one piece, living on a 120 acre farm and working for General Electric until 1955. He also built and ran a filling station along the road near his farm. In his final years he would spend winters in Florida and go fishing nearly every day even though he had become hearing and vision impaired. Although he never had children of his own, he married a widow with three kids and they all considered him their dad. He was a month shy of his 101st birthday when he died. How did I come to know all these details? Serendipity, I suppose. A spot of good luck, perhaps. But, I have come to think of it as a bunch of tiny miracles strung together. This is the only explanation that gives me satisfaction.
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Then, my thoughts began to turn toward the writer of the letter. Mr. Elder, I began to call him in my mind. I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to know what had happened to him, to this man who had written such a detailed account of the fatal wounding of a comrade with such calmness and gentleness so as to give some measure of comfort to a mother grieving over a son. Being the mother of a son currently tied to the military, I could appreciate the effort Mr. Elder made. The letter he wrote is exactly the kind of letter I would want to receive if I am ever faced with an awful day.
So, I decided to look for Mr. Elder. I had a name, a date, a location, military data and the internet. Oh, and I also had my naivete, which if I had been lacking that, I never would have made the attempt to find what I figured, after such a great passage of time, was probably a dead man. After all, dead men don't move much, they are a stationary target, shall we say, and public death notices are a matter of record which can easily be looked up. Obituaries are goldmines of familial information. How hard could it be? I was sure I'd be able to find out a few things about Mr. Elder to sate my curiosity. Let's call naivete miracle number two.
Three weeks later, bleary eyed and despondent, I was stymied. Dead end after dead end. Having exhausted every lead, I was no closer to my goal and had no fresh ideas on how to proceed. So, I called on my friends...my internet friends specifically, asking for input, ideas, suggestions, anything that would help lift the roadblocks. I was looking for new eyes to help me see. I only had one response. My grumpy old neejekewan, my brother-friend, e-mailed me in return. 'I'll help ya, flower,' was all he wrote.
I thanked him, gave him the few particulars I had found, then promptly left him on his own. An ongoing family situation had escalated into a kind of breakdown that couldn't be ignored and kept me away from home for several days. Needless to say, I was a little distracted when I finally got back to what passes for normal at my house, but there in my e-mail in-box waiting for me was four messages from neejekewan. I welcomed this renewed distraction.
Three of the leads did not advance my search, but they did confirm or eliminate the military information I had gleaned. The fourth one was looking as though it was yet another dead end, taking me to a genealogy site that included a long list of R. Elders. Now, I had been through about 300 genealogy pages of Elders already and none had panned out. Why I thought this one would, I had no idea. But, I did not want to give up just yet. Maybe this is called miracle number three.
So, for the next couple of days I went through the list and followed a bazillion links, ending up at a site far, far away from the original point. To this day I cannot tell you the precise path I took to get there or why I lingered on this one particular site and not any of the others. I do remember staring at this page for about half an hour. Just staring. There were Ralph Elders all over this site, the location was in the realm of possibility, but the comparative dates were not in sync. It just could not possibly be what I was looking for. At the very bottom of this lengthy site was the webmaster's particulars and the invitation to submit any questions.
I had a question, alright. Where the hell did Ralph Elder go when he got home from the war?
Throughout my internet adventure I had sent off a couple dozen e-mails inquiring after more detailed information. No replies. Snotty people on the internet make my teeth grind together. But, I sent off one more, asking the webmaster if they knew of any members of the Elder family currently residing in this particular part of Indiana who might know of a Ralph Elder that was a veteran of WWI. I was becoming used to rejection and figured I might as well go for the world's record. I did not expect an answer.
Ten minutes later, I got a reply. I'll call this miracle number four.
The webmaster gave me a little extra history of the Elder name, none of it pertinent to my cause, but at the end he asked for the reasons behind my specific request. I figured, I'm desperate, I have nothing to lose, and unloading my woes onto a complete stranger sounded like a good idea at the time, so I sent off a copy of the letter and told him my reasons why I wanted to find out what happened to Mr. Elder.
Ten minutes later, I got another reply. Turns out Mr. webmaster's websites are just a hobby of his, as is genealogical research. His real job is in genetics...as in he has a Phd. From that point on I called him Dr. webmaster with sincerity because I had thought he was signing himself off as Dr. So-and-so like Gene Simmons calls himself "Dr.Love".
Dr.webmaster asks for permission to send the letter and my questions around to the various historical societies in Indiana that he has done work for to see if they can help. I gave it and thanked him for his efforts on my behalf Even though I figured nothing much would result, it was very heartening to know there are such good people sprinkled throughout the webosphere who would help a total stranger. When I am sent a miracle, I get five star service.
Ten minutes later, I got an e-mail.
This time from a secretary of a historical society in Indiana who, after reading Dr webmaster's e-mail, recalled she has a cousin who's grandfather was named Ralph Elder and is forwarding the e-mail to said cousin to find out if it could possibly be the same Ralph Elder I am looking for. This is definitely miracle number six.
Ten minutes later, I got an e-mail.
This time from a woman named Delores. She is the granddaugher of Ralph Elder, a child of one of the children Mr. Elder raised as his own. We compared notes and specifics and it became quite obvious we were speaking of the same man. The final miracle in the string.
Four weeks of searching that culminates in one hour of fast and furious e-mailings and I find my Mr. Elder, and over the next few days I heard from the grand children and great grandchildren the details of his life. How it was so like him to write such a kind letter. Seven tiny miracles that lead to finding the WWI veteran that had been so generous to my great-grandmother. I was happy. People in Indiana were happy. And, we celebrated this veteran's life.
I reckon if I was any kind of smart I would end this already too long essay right here. But, I can't.
Veteran's Day. A day to think about all the men and women that returned from war, that devoted decades to service of country, or even just a few years. They gave of themselves to serve. Some of them gave up more than others.
This day should not pass without thinking of the ones that brought the war home with them. Many veterans have good stories to tell. Funny, sad, touching. But there are some who won't tell their stories. There are some who make you guess at their stories and you never get it right. There are some who act out their stories.
Shell shock. Battle fatigue. Post Tramatic Stress Disorder. Complicated by head trauma. Brains rattling around inside skulls rattling around inside helmets from the sound of repeat gunfire and exploding bombs and the shriek of missiles. It goes off inside their heads and keeps going off long after they have left the theater.
Isn't it odd they call war 'theater'.
While corresponding with members of the Elder family, I sent out scanned copies of the actual letter. One of the grandchildren had remarked that Mr. Elder's handwriting was quite elegant in form, rivaling calligraphy. They were very disappointed however, when they saw the copy.
The handwriting from 1919 is erratic and uneven. It cannot be mistaken for fancy script.
Mr. Elder apparently would discuss the events of the war quite often. He brought back souvenirs; he had his medals and helmet and gas mask to bring out and show from his trunk full of memories, including a photo album of comrades, alive and dead. He remembered them all. He discussed them. He discussed the war and the battles. He told his war stories over and over again to a family proud and willing to listen; they embraced the return of their warrior. By doing so, they helped him to conduct his own therapy of dealing with the thunderous effects of the first truly mechanized war.
We should do no less for our warriors returning now.
The handwriting of the letter reflects the anguish Mr. Elder was working through. He was fresh from the fight; he could still hear the battle inside his head when he wrote about that day near Thierry Castle in 1918. But, he worked it out. It took him years, perhaps decades, but he worked it out, and at some point along the way, with the help of his family, the tortured scrawl turned into calligraphy.
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A Case for Wisdom to Decidetag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.2997732009-11-03T15:32:17Z2009-11-03T15:59:56Z~flowerchild~
a dilemma like this one facing several groups in and around Nantucket Sound.
Windmills. It's getting hard to find a place where they are welcome and if we want to keep the lights on, wind energy is one beautiful thing. Green tech. How can something that benefits in so many ways be considered a pariah?
Windmills for renewable energy = good.
Local economy. With the high national unemployment rate, retaining jobs is imperative. Folks gotta eat and pay rent. The local businesses are concerned new regulations, that would result if Nantucket Sound was turned into a Traditional Cultural Property, will hamper the economy. They have a point.
Viable local economy = good.
Wampanoag. The four directions, north, south, east and west, are traditionally significant for a good many Native American tribes. Facing east figures prominently for the Wampanoag who need an unimpeded eastern view in a particular area of the Sound to carry out their religious ceremonies. But, the proposed windmills are gonna be in the way.
Religious Freedom = good.
So, we have windmills on one side, local businesses on the other, and Injuns in the middle facing east.....and everybody is right!
So who gets to be righter?
Like I said, I'm glad I'm not in the Wisdom Dispensing business and I have to admit, in this particular instance, I have no idea which path I'd take.
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The Genocide of the American Middle Classtag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.2993672009-11-01T20:02:58Z2009-11-01T20:45:22Z~flowerchild~ First, from TheraP, came two entries relating the story of Terry-Lynn from another blogger, Doxy. This led to tmccarthy publishing Modern Day Trail of Tears. Today there is Rutabaga Ridgepole'sDetroit Demolition Disneyland about the decay of the Motor City, once a bastion of the middle class.
Somehow, in my mind, these blogs melded together for me and it made me think of loss. Loss of life. Loss of ability. Loss of caring. Loss of ourselves.
I don't know what the purist's definition of middle class is; to me, being middle class meant earning enough money to generously cover your needs, have some left to put in a savings account, a little bit to have fun with, but most of all, it meant being able to pay taxes.
I know I'm probably in the minority here, but I've always considered it an honor to pay taxes. To give a portion of my earned dollars to the government in return for the work it does on my behalf. I do not necessarily agree with how government spends every dollar I send them, but I do not begrudge the dollars I send them.
The tax dollars that the Great Middle Class sent off to Washington, D. C. helped to build a strong nation. Oh, yeah, we had problems, but we were solid underneath. We felt secure. We were sure of our identity and destiny. Maybe, just maybe, we were a little uppity on the world stage, but we were kind, too. Generous. I liked that about us.
That's all gone now.
The Middle Class has been wiped out. Genocide. I don't think that is too strong of a term. Genocide, a relatively recent word introduced into our vocabulary, is defined by the United Nations, in part, like this:
The convention defines genocide as any act committed with the idea of destroying in whole or in part a national, ethnic, racial or religious group. This includes such acts as:
Killing members of the group
Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group
Deliberately inflicting conditions calculated to physically destroy the group (the whole group or even part of the group)
Forcefully transferring children of the group to another group
Deliberately inflicting conditions calculated to destroy a group. Is this not what happened to the American Middle Class? Were they not deliberately eliminated by a plan of the wealthy to absorb their incomes? I mean, why go after poor people? They haven't got anything worth taking. But, the Middle Class......
When tmccarthy published Modern Day Trail of Tears, the title really grabbed me. The original Trail of Tears story is a cruel one. A lot of people don't even want to think about it, but it happened. There is no escape from history, except by revision, but thankfully there are too many people who will not allow that to happen. I include bloggers in this group.
Thinking about the original Trail of Tears, a deliberate attempted genocide, made me correlate it with what has happened, is happening, with the Great Middle Class of America.
The Middle Class has been systematically removed from its wealth like the Cherokee were removed from their lands. The Middle Class has been force marched into the Poor Class. Families that derived their Middle Class income from two jobs, especially manufacturing jobs, have been decimated with very little hope of recovering. Our manufacturing base has been crippled by greedy owners shipping good paying jobs to where cheap labor abounds. The sentence I just typed has been typed by others a million times, I'll bet. But, has it had any effect? No. Just like protests against the forced removal of the Cherokee from their homes and onto the Trail of Tears, all will be ignored to benefit those behind the scenes that hold the power. And nowthey holdall the wealth.
Anyway, today, this is what is on my mind. It saddens me. It angers me. An entire class of people, essential to the general welfare of the country, decimated.
If that's not genocide, what is it?
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A Tale Told Ten Thousand Times, plus Once More...tag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.2991792009-10-30T22:01:05Z2009-10-30T19:30:32Z~flowerchild~Win-dee-goh. It's a rather long story so you might want to get a cuppa hot cider, spiced or spiked, your choice, get comfortable where you sit, turn the lights down a little. Set the mood.
After all, it's time for trick or treat......
.................................hahahahaha. ]]>
It's fresh in my memory, like it happened only yesterday, but in fact several years have passed since I survived that night with the Windego. The Skin-Walker. The 'fantastic monster' of the Anishinaabe, the Iroquois, the Algonquian, all the great Woodland Indian Nations.
I remember the night very well. Who could forget a single second in the presence of such evil as the Windego brings? That night, the moon and every star was hidden by a deep layer of clouds. No light in its natural form culd be picked out of the darkness. My only source of illumination was a small fire burning inside a ring of stones and if it hadn't been for the dancing flames I would not have been able to see my own hand in front of my face.
But, I did have the fire. A crackling comfort on a cold October night in a small clearing among the northern hardwoods.
It was from my mother that I had first heard the stories of the Windego in their milder incarnations, suited for a younger child to hear. Free from her own parental restraints, she had made sure that I, her youngest and last, was made aware of the inborn wickedness of humankind and how to defend against it. According to legend, the Windego was an evil spirit that would penetrate a human being's best defenses and overtake their body, mind, and soul, forcing them to behave in a manner most foul.
"Beware of the Windego," my mother would caution me when I was about to do something foolish, "Do not let the Windego trick you into doing wrong, Wahbigwan. Think for yourself."
"I will, Ma!" I'd reply, and I meant it with every fibre of my seven year old being. I wasn't about to let any old Skin-Walker get ahold of me and make me do something stupid!
Tales of the Windego were from my youth however, and I had left them there as I got older, letting them fade away with the remnants of a Native American culture that I was encouraged to ignore. But, in my early twenties I began an outreach into my mother's cultural heritage that would bring those stories back into my realm and I learned more about the Windego, that it was indeed believed to be a malevolent spirit capable of horrific acts. So real were these stories told by the Indians, that the first settlers in the New World were convinced the Windego was an actual creature that lived in the vast forests beyond the colonies and they kept a watchful eye that they would not become it's victims. In my own modern reality, I realized the scarier adult versions of the Windego story were merely cautionary tales, told to warn listeners against consuming human flesh in times of famine. Or, so I thought.
The Windego was the farthest thing from my mind on that night as I sat before the flickering fire. As was my habit, I would retreat to the woods for a few days when I felt myself losing my focus, my center. This was my third night in the forest after an especially trying and emotionally draining time in my life. Seeking solace, I had dedicated these days alone in the woods to rebuilding my core being and already I could feel myself pulling back together. I was not at my strongest yet, but I would be soon.
It was near the end of October, the leaves were off the trees and carpeting the forest floor. The air was still and dry and crisp. The fire warmed me, but I still was bothered by an inner chill. I had not eaten for five days. I had stopped eating two days before my retreat into the woods and continued fasting while I healed. Considering the time of year, perhaps I should have brought something more substantial than tap water, but I did not want to be weighed down by the responsibility of food, either by transporting or digesting.
I was hungry. But, it wasn't anything I hadn't lived through before and I knew the hunger pangs would ebb after a short while. And tomorrow, I would be feasting, because I had already decided to head for home in the morning; recognizing that my inner peace was that close to being fully restored.
Sitting cross legged on the ground in front of the fire, I pulled the stadium blanket around my shoulders tight and hunched forward, conserving what body heat I had and stared into the flames, contemplating, waiting for the fire to extinguish itself.
A few yards away, the faint rustle of dried leaves barely disturbed my concentrated thoughts. Night noises in the forest were familiar to me and I recognized the sound as one made by a small nocturnal mammal, most likely a skunk. I didn't pay it any attention. Neither did I acknowledge the doe that passed by on the nearby trail that led to her lair in the brush. The animals of the forest paid me no attentions either. Meditations had blended me into their natural surroundings and I had become just another part of their world, as familiar to them as a shrub or a rock. They could sense there was no threat from me.
The flames were dying and my head began to nod with sleepiness. I was relaxed, at peace, the hunger had ceased its gnawing, and the end of my personal quest was near.
It was then that I heard the first scream.
Instantly, I was alert. I had heard that particular scream only once before. It came from a cat...a big cat; most likely a lynx. An animal so shy, you were more likely to hear one than to see one and hearing one was more than enough. The human like scream, sounding like a woman in agony, tortured and forsaken, made your flesh crawl. I shuddered. And not because I was cold. The scream had sounded quite close, near enough to make me stand up and take a few pokes at the fire with a stick to stir out the last of the flames. I would spend the night in the cab of my truck, I decided. Even though I knew the big cat would not come anywhere near me and my fire, I felt the need to put something between me and the natural world.
The cat screamed again. But this time, the nerve stretching sound was cut short; chopped off in an unnatural ending. All my senses went on high alert and I stood very still, tuning in to what surrounded me. The one or two embers left of the fire were not enough to aid my vision. But, I could hear. And I could smell. And I could feel.
Something brushed past my right ear, moving the few tendrils of hair that had escaped from my braids. I turned my head towards it, but could sense nothing. There had been no sudden gust of night wind to disturb the dried leaves on the ground; yet something or someone had rushed past me so close and so quickly I could feel the breeze it left behind.
Again, something went swiftly past me, this time on my left, making my hair flutter. I heard nothing, but this time, whatever it was, left behind an odor. A foul, fetid stench that lingered in the still air and made me want to retch. I took a step backwards in an attempt to get away from the smell, looking towards my left, but I saw nothing. In the profound darkness that surrounded me it was impossible to make out any kind of a shape at all...if indeed there was anything there to see.
Then, from behind the line of trees beyond my camp in the small clearing, a frail, thin sound, the beginnings of an eerie wail, pierced the air, growing louder and louder, vibrating into an unearthly howl that filled every barren space between the trees.
Quickly the sound surrounded me, whirling around, so that I could not tell from which direction it came anymore. It was everywhere and ceaseless, confusing me, filling me with fright. That was no cat. No animal I knew made that sound. No human, either. It was like nothing I'd ever heard before.
Why the Windego came into my mind at that moment, I'll never know. But, it did, and all the tales I'd heard from the old storytellers about the evil spirit tumbled into my head. The Windego was tall...as tall as the trees it hides behind, and thin, its pale hide stretched tight over its bony frame, giving it the appearance of walking skin. Eternally starved, the Windego could sustain no muscle or fat and had in fact chewed off its own lips to sate a ceaseless hunger. The Windego was covered with sparse white hair, tangled and stinking with rotting particles of human flesh, remnants of a sloppy feast. It's bottom jaw would drop open, revealing row upon row of sharp pointed teeth that could rip the meat from the bones and then crack the bones in half in order to suck out the marrow, it's desire to fill an empty, aching gullet driving all it's actions.
The Windego had eyes that glowed.
In the darkest night, in the deepest forest, the Windego's eyes would glow a pale red, like the full moon rising on an October night.
"Beware the Windego, Wahbigwan!" My mother's voice urgently sounded in my head as though she were alive inside me. The unearthly wail came again and I wasted no more time with the fire, but turned to run, fishing a penlight out of the front pocket of my jeans, needing it to find my way to the truck parked several hundred yards away.
But, I never made it to the truck. And I had no further need of the penlight. Because, when I had turned to run, I found my path blocked, and two eyes, glowing the palest red, caught me in their illumination and held me paralized.
My useless penlight dropped from my fingers as I found myself face to face with the Windego.
Those eyes, relentless in their stare, mesmerized me with their evilness, paralyzed me with terror. At that moment I lost all my rational senses. Everything had ceased being ordinary. I was looking directly into the face of iniquity and when I had turned to run, I found myself in the middle of a world suddenly foreign to me.
A world I did not like. Where minutes before I had been shivering with cold, I was now burning; an unnatural heat rolled in continuous waves towards me and along with it the putrid smell of rotting meat as the Windego's jaw dropped to reveal to me the rows of jagged teeth. Again, the unearthly wail discharged from it's throat, the forceful wind of it causing the stray wisps of my hair to blow backwards. In the time it took to blink an eye I had been brought into an unknown place. My peaceful world had ceased to be and now my very soul was facing its own demise. I did not own a defense for this. I did not know how fight a spirit. I had never challenged evil before. How did one defy the Windego?
"Silver."
The word was whispered to me, spoken softly behind one ear. "Silver kills," the voice whispered again and I had to believe it was the spirit of my mother who had come to guide me in this strange world. I remembered now, learning from the storytellers that silver was the only substance that could defeat the Windego. But, I had no silver arrow or blade to pierce its frozen heart. Again the helplessness enveloped me.
"I have no silver, Ma!" I cried, feeling desperate tears begin to gather behind my eyes, knowing I was about to die.
"The ring you wear, my daughter," my mother's spirit whispered next to my ear. "The ring you wear is made of silver."
Of course! The sterling silver ring I wore and seldom went without, given to me with love nearly forty years ago. I did have silver! But, it was just a ring, not a weapon. I did not have the knowledge of how to use it in my defense.
"To defeat the Windego, the Windego must swallow the silver." Again I heard the caressing whisper beside my ear. "Do not let the Windego trick you, Wahbigwan!" These last words were placed inside my head, deliberately put there by the manidoo of my mother.
"No, Ma, I won't be tricked!" I answered the voice in my head.
"It is you who must trick the Windego, my daughter." My mother continued to whisper in my ear and I knew I must obey or else I would surely die. And I did not want to die. Not here in this unfamiliar place with the rolling heat and the fetid smell and the glowing eyes that held me powerless. Not apart from my family, from my friends, from the people I hold so dear in my heart who would never hear my death song. I did not want to die here. I did not want to die alone.
"How do I trick the Windego?" I asked my mother's manidoo, my voice low so the Windego could not hear.
The jaw with its rows of fearsome teeth dropped even more as another demented wail came up from the depths of the evil spirit before me.
"Throw the silver ring into the gullet of the Windego while it wails in the night. When the Windego swallows the ring, the Windego will die."
The fingers of my one hand went to touch the ring on the other, to removed it, and to obey the words whispered next to my ear. But, the ring was more than just an ornament to me. It was a talisman. It was powerful medicine. Every time my fingers would rub over the bumpy texture of the metal I would remember the one who had given it to me. I would remember how strong she had been in the face of great pain. How brave she had been in her fight against death. How noble she had been right until the end of her walk on this Earth. How strong her faith had been to know she would soon walk upon a new Earth. To remove this ring and cast it into the gaping maw of the Windego seemed wrong somehow and went against all my instincts. But, what other choice did I have?
I was fighting for my soul. The Windego was the evilest of evils. I knew what it would do to me. It would overtake my mind; it would squeeze itself into my body and force my being to do its will. To kill and to eat the flesh of my own kind, to devour every piece of sinew and bone of my human victim and then to lick the blood from my fingers. And then, to kill again. And again. And again. Until at last there would stand a single human being strong enough to remove the Windego's evilness residing inside me, to slay the fantastic monster by shattering it's heart of ice. But at the same time the brave human destroyed the heart of the beast, it would destroy the living husk of my body, the only remnant of myself after the Windego had possessed me. I would be truly dead then. My spirit lost, forsaken, homeless. That would be my fate if I did not cast the silver ring away.
I did not want to die.
At that moment I realized that I would have to be that strong human being that defied the Windego. It was up to me to save my own soul, my own self. I had the silver and had been given the knowledge. There was no one else nearby to protect my spirit. I was on my own and determined to defend my soul. The Windego would get no further than me tonight. I would fight.
I pulled the ring off and clutched it in my hand. I wanted to hold it just a moment longer before I cast it away. To let the spirit of my mother, my first storyteller, press itself into my memory one last time. It was then that I noticed that the gaping jaw of the Windego had ceased it's wailing and was now....grinning at me as though my dilemma was amusing in some way. The lipless mouth, bloody and in shreds, curved upwards on either side in a sinister smile.
"Do not let the Windego trick you, Wahbigwan." Inside my head each word dropped like a stone. But, one word weighed more than the others.
Wahbigwan.
This was the name my mother had called me when I was a child. No one else called me this. Only a handful of people even knew that this was the name given to me by my mother's people. It was then that I realized that I was not the one about to trick the Windego by throwing my silver ring in the creature's direction, but it was the Windego who was about to trick me into throwing away the only thing that could protect me. By whispering lies against my ear, with what I had thought was my mother's voice, the Skin-Walker had nearly fooled me. I had nearly been left defenseless against its power, nearly been stripped of the protective silver ring, nearly been turned into it's next victim.
I slipped the silver ring back on my finger and the Windego howled as though in agony. I had remembered the stories of honor and courage my mother had told me. That ring of silver, given to me with love, had reminded me of the lessons I had learned from my mother.
Courage to do what was right instead of what was easy. Courage to quietly accept a share of the work. To be able to walk with honor among the honorable. "Courage is what lifts honor high, Wahbigwan." Many times my mother had siad this to me. Had I not been reminded by the manidoo of my mother to have courage, I never would have been able to stand up to the Windego. And, that night, stand up to it, I did.
As bravery filled me, the paralyzing terror left me, and I lifted my face to fix upon the evil spirit a stare of my own. I was no longer afraid of its gruesome countenance. Not even when the creature, with a renewed shriek peircing the night air, thrust its head menacingly forward and I saw up close the cheek bones beneath the translucent pale skin that was stretched so tightly over it's face, saw the glow of the eyes, felt the hot breath rolling from it's bloody, gaping mouth, smelled the putrid stench that enveloped us both. I did not flinch, I did not blink, but held up my hand, the one with the ring, placing it between the creature's face and my own. The Windego abruptly pulled it's head back as though it had just been slapped, putting it's claw-like hands up in a defensive gesture. The howling noise produced by the creature stopped and was replaced by a miserable, low moan.
Could it be that easy? I asked myself this, refusing to let my puzzlement show on my face. Could it be that easy to make the Windego turn back? Just to stand up to its abuses? To its trickery? To its intimidation? Just to stand tall and resolute against the evil? Was that all it took to push the Windego back?
I took a step forward with my arm still outstretched and the evil spirit responded accordingly, stepping backwards, stepping away from me and my silver ring. I waved my hand back and forth in the Windego's face, taunting it, showing it that I knew how to protect myself from it's evil intent.
It's head thrashed from side to side, the loathsome bottom jaw slack and wagging, bloody saliva slinging off, the pitiful echo of a wail falling back into a gurgle inside it's throat. The pale red eyes grew dull, fading, and with one last lamenting moan, the Windego evaporated into the trees, becoming a wispy silver mist momentarily hanging in the air before falling to the ground like a hard, gray rain, sucked into the earth beneath. Soon, not even the rotting stench was left behind.
After a long moment, I dropped my arm to my side. My true world had returned to me; I was once again in a familiar place,existing in a dark cold midnight. A few embers of my fire sparked anew as a small breeze whirled through, freshening the air, blowing away the last traces of terror. I put the last of the wood supply on the coals, building up the flames. I was cold and hungry once again and I was happy to be that way.
And so, I survived that night, unclaimed by evil.
Now, when I tell this story, people will say to me, "Oh, you fell asleep and had a bad dream," and dismiss it with a sneer. But, I tell them, no, it was not a dream. When I think of that night with the Windego, I can remember the sound of its wailing in my ears, I can remember the smell of death in my nose, I can remember the pounding of my terroized heart. I remember all these things as though they are happening in this exact moment even though they happened years ago. And especially, I remember the eyes. The glowing pale red eyes that contained no dark center, no window, no path to a soul. I remember it all and it was too real to be a dream.
Did I actually defeat the Windego? Did I kill it? No. All I did that night was turn it away. The Windego will walk this Earth as long as there is an earth to walk. No one is safe. No one is immune. You cannot hide from evil. It will always seek you out and take from you everything you allow it to take. The best you can do to protect yourself is to be surrounded by a ring of silver courage. It's the only defense we have.
Here is C-SPAN video and closed captioning transcript of Stupak's interview yesterday where he discusses his perspective and responds to phone calls and e-mails during the program.
Now the Heritage Foundation is distorting Stupak's stance by cherry picking blurbs from last weekends Cheyboygan, MI townhall to make it seem he will torpedo the entire bill if he doesn't get "an opportunity to vote on an amendment stripping abortion from health care reform" That isn't true.The Heritage Foundation is lying.
I hope everybody on Capitol Hill is happy because they've just given me a headache. So, I'm sharpening the tines on my pitchfork just in case. In the meantime, I'm repeating my mantra....
We will get significant HCR We will get a decent public option Lobbyists will burn in hell
It is written.
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Encore for the Singing Fat Ladytag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.2979992009-10-26T01:53:32Z2009-10-26T02:20:30Z~flowerchild~
this article in CQ
In the first post I put up in the Guantanamo series, I pointed out that Rep. Pete Hoekstra was using the situation to his advantage in a bid to be the next governor of Michigan. And now, nearly three months later, Rep. Anna G. Eshoo of California, is of a like mind, referring to his intention to run during the hearing.
Hoekstra didn't like it much, but that's too bad.
Maybe if Dave Munson, the guy that headed up the opposition to Gitmo detainees at Standish Max, hadn't been invited as a witness to a hearing about "the executive branch violating the rules for keeping Congress 'fully and currently informed' of intelligence activities" the connection would not have been made.
The Republicans said, "Munson would illustrate how the Obama administration's refusal to share
information with the intelligence panels was part of a broader problem with
executive branch transparency."
At last report, detainees at Standish Max was a no-go, so why was Munson brought in to re-hash a dead issue? Could not the Republicans have brought in a better example? The Democrats did. Some former staffers from the Church Committee. It's like the 3th grade science fair....the brainy kid brings in the foaming volcano and the doofus brings in a rock from the driveway.
Although....it was a Fox News report that brought out the no-go Gitmo North story. And, ya know, I didn't find any other major media service come out with a similar story.....
Hmmmm.
Interesting.
I don't hate opera, but I never understood it. I reckon it wouldn't be the first time a diva belted out a second verse just when you thought the dang thing was over.
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Click, click.tag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.2979812009-10-25T16:41:00Z2009-10-25T16:47:27Z~flowerchild~
every single time...the exam starts out with my face smashed against that...that...that clicking eye thingie. I don't know what it's called, but most likely everyone knows what I mean. You look through the eye holes and read the chart on the wall, then the examiner clicks different lenses into place and you read the chart again.
Click, click. "Is it better this way?" Click, click. "Or this way?" Click, click. "This way?" Click, click. "Or this way?" Click, click. "Number five?" Click, click. "Or number six? Which is better?" Click, click, click, click, click. "How about this way?"
Then, at the end of this forever, you find out if you need different glasses or not.
"This is your health care reform." Click, click. "With a public option?" Click, click. "Or no public option?" Click, click. "Weak public option?" Click, click. "Robust public option?" Click, click. "Or no public option?" Click, click. "With a trigger?" Click, click. "How about with a co-op?" Click, click. "Or no public option?" Click, click. "Public option or co-op? Which is better?" Click, click, click, click, click. "Decent public option with an opt-out?"
At the end of what seems like forever in this back and forth discussion, when the vote is counted, when the bill is signed.....
We will have significant HCR. We will have a decent public option. And lobbyists will burn in hell.
It is written.
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Flowerchild's Farked Up Fairy Tales: The Ordinary Girl and the Damn Ponytag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.2974162009-10-21T20:01:41Z2009-10-21T22:50:51Z~flowerchild~ Of course, there were fancy princesses living in this land, too. Lots of 'em. And one could easily believe that the ordinary girls might be jealous of the fancy princesses, but it wasn't that way at all. Although, this particular ordinary girl secretly coveted a possession that all the fancy princesses had but the ordinary girls did not: a sweet little pony.
All the fancy princesses had a sweet little pony of their very own but the ordinary girls were ponyless. Completely and utterly ponyless. It was very sad, when you thought about the ponyless ordinary girls.
One day the ordinary girl whispered her secret desire to a group of friends. "I'd like a pony, too!"
Her friends laughed out loud. "What! Are you nuts? You can't have a pony! Yer just an ordinary girl and ordinary girls don't get to have sweet little ponies."
"But, I want one," she said, "And there's no reason I can't have one. It's not like it's against magical land law or anything for me to have a pony."
"Oh, there's tons of reasons you can't have a pony!" the friends exclaimed.
"Name one," the girl demanded, but the friends could not name one good reason why an ordinary girl could not have a pony. And, becoming emboldened by their silence, the ordinary girl marched right over to the nearest pony dealership and asked to see the dealer in charge.
"I would like a sweet little pony," she said clearly, "To go, please. And I would prefer a spotted one."
The dealer snorted, because he had seen this kind of demanding behavior before. "Show me yer princess crown and you'll get yer pony."
The ordinary girl frowned. "I do not have a crown. I'm not a fancy princess. I'm just an ordinary girl who wants a sweet little pony."
The dealer snorted again. "Look, kid. You can't have a pony because you don't have what it takes. Fancy princesses have acres and stables and silos with grain. They have sturdy fences and watering troughs and gold plated pony carts. They have what it takes to keep a pony." The dealer laughed in a very rude manner. "You, on the other hand, ain't got shit."
Well, this was true. So, the ordinary girl walked away, sad and dejected, until it occurred to her that if she worked hard and saved her money she could buy pony food and a place for it to live.
She got a job. She worked forty hours a week steady and volunteered for all the overtime that came up. She also sold Tupperware on the weekends. Pretty soon she had enough savings to buy a few pony sized acres. She saved some more and built a cute little pony sized barn. She built a little hayloft and filled it with little pony sized bales of hay. She put in a watering trough. And, she ordered a nifty wooden pony cart with custom upholstery. She did everything she was supposed to do according to accepted pony regulations except of course, she was not a fancy princess.
She returned to the pony dealership and looked over the inventory, picking out a very pretty gray pony with white spots and shiny black hooves. "I'll take that one," she said to the pony dealer, pointing out her prize.
"No, you won't, " said the pony dealer, "You cannot have a pony." "Why can't I have a damn pony?" "It's not that you can't," the dealer said smugly, "It's that you're not a princess." "Look, asshole," she began defiantly, "Ordinary girls in other countries get to have sweet little ponies and they're not princesses. I want a damn pony!" "Ordinary girls do not have pony pastures." "I do! I have several pony sized acres in the countryside!" "Ordinary girls do not have stables." "I do! I have built a snug little pony sized barn!" "Ordinary girls do not have pony food." "I do! I have a good supply of pony sized hay bales and more!" "Fence?" "Got it!" "Trough?" "Got it!" "Pony cart?" "GOT IT!" The dealer gave the ordinary girl a sly look. "Crown?" he sneeringly asked. The ordinary girl gave him the stink eye. "I do not have a crown but I WANT A DAMN PONY!"
The dealer sighed. "How about this...I'll allow you to rent one of my ponies. You can take it home, feed it, let it stay in your barn. But, the second you need to hitch it up to your pony cart and go anywhere, I'll be wanting my pony back."
The ordinary girl stared at the pony dealer very hard. "You know," she said tersely, "I only look stupid. I'm not gonna pay you cash money for the privilege of feeding and sheltering one of your ponies if you won't let me hitch it up to my pony cart and take a tool around the magical land."
"Then I suggest you get yourself a chicken because you ain't getting any pony from me....and don't bother asking any of the other sweet little pony dealers because we're a personhood now and we got rahts. We don't have to sell you nuh-thin'."
So, the ordinary girl got a chicken because she did not want her acres and barn to go for naught. Having a chicken was okay, but it was too small to pull the pony cart, so she planted flowers in the pony cart and parked it on the front lawn for decoration. As the time passed, she would stare at her free range chicken and think about how if she ever got sick, she could make chicken soup and it would make her feel better. But, if she ever got really, really sick, the chicken would do her no good at all, for the wee hen could not pull the pony cart loaded with flowers plus a terribly sick person to the Charity Hospital.
Nope. Having a chicken was just not going to fix anything.
"I want a damn pony!" the ordinary girl said for the seven hundred and eighty-sixth time.
Meanwhile, as the ordinary girl had been busy building her farm, the other ordinary girls had been taking notice of what was going on. At first they all laughed. But, when they saw all the hard work the ordinary girl was putting into her efforts to get a sweet little pony they began to go, "Hmmmm."
Pretty soon, they were talking amongst themselves and saying that they would each like to have a pony, too. And why could they not have a pony? Like it had been said before; it was not as if having a sweet little pony was against magical land law. The only reason they were denied a pony was because they were not fancy princesses.
That just didn't seem fair or equal or noble or honorable or even half way nice. Yep. The other ordinary girls began building their own pony farms and quite without them knowing it, a pony farm movement was born.
Now, the leader of the magical land had heard reports about the ordinary girl and her desire to have a sweet little pony. "Nothing will come of this," the leader's advisers advised, "It's been tried before. Fuhgedaboudit."
"We shall see," said the leader thoughtfully, and the leader kept an eye on the ordinary girl and how she built up her farm and how the other ordinary girls built up their farms and became quite vocal in their demands to have a damn pony. They had demonstrations and rallies and would march side by side with their chickens who were equipped with tiny pitchforks.
Truly, the ordinary girls and their movement could not be ignored and the leader thought some more, deciding that the ordinary girls were right to want sweet little ponies.
When the pony dealers heard which way the wind was blowing, they asked to speak to the leader. "You seriously can't be thinking of giving ponies to these ordinary girls, can you?" they bellowed.
The leader gave the dealers the stink eye. "Why? Would you have a problem with that if I did?"
"But...but....but, they're NOT princesses!"
"There is no magical land law that states that ordinary girls can NOT have a sweet little pony."
"But....but....but, we were working on a big plan to rent out our ponies to these girls and then snatch them back when they needed to go anywhere!"
"You know," said the leader, "That's mean. That's just flat ass mean. I really hate you guys. Get out of my castle and take that bad smell with ya."
The leader called all advisers for a conference. "Sweet little ponies are not exclusive to fancy princesses according to magical land law. Ordinary girls should have ponies, too. So should ordinary boys. Pony dealers smell bad and from now on they shall have to pay a bad smell tax if they want to stay in the pony business. If they do not like this deal and cannot make it work, well then, it's gonna suck to be them because I will just expand pony Magicare and pony Magicaid and all the pony dealers will be S.O.L. I would like you advisers to write up a decree stating this statement I have just stated and nail it to the castle door where everybody can read it." The leader looked worried for a second. "Um, Everybody in this magical land can read, can they not?"
"Everybody except the football players," the advisers advised.
"In that case, make it a pictograph," the leader declared and went fishing.
Of course, the ordinary girl was ecstatic when she learned she would be able to have a damn pony. All the ordinary people were happy. The fancy princesses were happy, too, but that was because most of them didn't know what was going on. After all, they already had their ponies and didn't give a crap.
The ordinary girl found a nice gray pony with white spots and shiny black hooves and took it home to live with her on her farm. She also kept the chicken for she had become very fond of it. She never made soup.
And so, they all lived happily ever after, even the pony dealers, because business was never better.
Well, happily ever after until it was time for immigration reform. Holy crap. I don't even wanna think about that.
The End
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Bloggers in Pajamas Blogging from the Middle of Nowhere Unite!tag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.2965772009-10-17T21:32:32Z2009-10-17T21:40:45Z~flowerchild~
Net Neutrality. This was one of those things that I didn't know if I was fer or agin until I did some research. Holy crap. Talk about information overload. Took me all day to sift through it, but I concluded that I'm fer it.
On this upcoming Thursday the FCC is supposed to vote on taking the first step toward approving formal net neutrality rules. They've just been floating along with informal Internet principles for four years, but now they find themselves having to make it more concrete because telecom giant Comcast has challenged their authora-tay.
Yeah. Big business is in there wanting loose regs so they can fark us over a little bit more, make us pay for what we already have. Oh, and look who wants to help 'em......the Polar Pound Puppies, our friends, the Blue Dogs.
Here is an excerpt from the letter they sent to the FCC:
The FCC should "carefully consider the full range of consequences that government action may have on network investment," the Democratic letter said. "In light of the growth and innovation in new applications that the current [regulatory] regime has enabled, as compared to the limited evidence demonstrating any tangible harm, we would urge you to avoid tentative conclusions which favor government regulation."
Now, I don't know much about anything and I've got a boat load of evidence to prove it, but I do know this: If the Blue Dogs are agin it, I'm fer it.
What makes this even more confusing for me is there was another letter sent to the FCC by a coalition of minority groups indicating they had some of the same concerns as the Blue Dogs.
Huh?
Minority groups and Blue Dogs barkin' up the same tree? Did I fall into an alternate universe and not notice? That's nuts! It can't be right.
But, it was:
"As organizations that serve communities that are among the most severely impacted by a lack of access to technology, we urge you to keep your number one focus on the need to get everyone connected," said the letter, signed by representatives of the Hispanic Technology and Telecommunications Partnership, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), the Asian American Justice Center and other groups. "We are concerned that some of the proposed regulations on the Internet could, as applied, inhibit the goal of universal access and leave disenfranchised communities further behind."
Hmmmm. Is somebody being played here? Why, yes. Yes, they are.
Farking astroturfers. Plus the big telecoms have saturated D.C. with lobbyists to influence the outcome of net neutrality rules. And of course the minority groups and Blue Dogs fell for their shtick. Lobbyists are effective.....that's why they proliferate. Lobbyists will be outlawed one day! I just know it! Awww, crap. I think I just fell into that alternate universe again.
Why are there so many dumb asses in Congress? There.....now I'm back in reality.
My reality is this: My PC is literally the last stop on the phone line. I mean literally. The physical phone line ends at my house, it doesn't go any farther and yes, I live in the boonies. I'm lucky I have dial-up. On a good day, I connect at 26.9 kbps. Usually, it's 24 kbps, so all those lovely embedded vids in the blogs are mostly wasted on me. I was told that DSL would be available for me in 2008....I'm still waiting. Satellite, although still pricey, is more of a realistic option than before so things are looking up. (Pun intended) So, this net neutrality stuff had me concerned that I was going to be stuck in dial-up hell forever or have to pay higher service fees because of my remote location.
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The Hot Braintag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.2960932009-10-15T02:40:04Z2009-10-15T03:41:12Z~flowerchild~ Today I'm gettin' the hot brain from the economy. The first news story I read this morning had this for a headline: Colorado minimum wage to drop as living costs fall.
The minimum wage in Colorado is dropping four cents, or about a buck sixty a week for a forty hour work week. And of course, the employers could always keep the wage as it is now so the werkin' stiffs don't have to absorb the loss. So, while the story made me shake my head, I was not really on a rampage.
"According to the Wall Street Journal, employees at 23 top U.S. investment banks, hedge funds, asset managers and stock and commodities exchanges were likely to earn about 20 percent more than they did last year."
Yeah. So the person earning the least can somehow make do with a little bit less, but the people making the most don't have to because they get a whole lot more without even trying. If there's any fairness in these situations you'd need a super-duper magnifying glass and a pair of jewelers tweezers to pick it out.
And so the gulf widens. The rich get richy-er and the poor get poory-er.
This is the scary part. I was always asking myself this same question when w was in office.
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Yeah, I KNOW I'm Dreamin'tag:tpmcafe.talkingpointsmemo.com,2009:/talk/blogs/flowerchild//8890.2943492009-10-06T19:52:40Z2009-10-06T19:59:28ZOnce we get done with the health insurance reform, you know, that thing that has nothing to do with health care, maybe then we can concentrate on delivering a model of care that actually helps people be healthy, get healthy,...~flowerchild~
insurance reform, you know, that thing that has nothing to do with health care, maybe then we can concentrate on delivering a model of care that actually helps people be healthy, get healthy, stay healthy. It seems so little to ask, does it not?
And yet....here we are. What number are we now in the world in terms of healthy citizens? I forget. Doesn't matter. It's all crap numbers anyway because health is not a damn contest.
Obviously, we need a different health care model because the one we have now ain't werkin' so hot. I mean, we run around and fix this little outbreak and that little scourge and scratch our heads and wonder why there's a trend toward a certain kind of cancer in this area but not in that area and little kids are still getting brain damage from eating lead paint chips. There's sick people all over the place and it's not necessarily from poor genes or bad luck. Our atmosphere is sick. Our soil is sick. Our water is sick. Our society is sick. So, of course, we are going to become that in which we live. Sick.
We need a different health care model other than the finger in
the leaky damn one we have now. There are all kinds of models to
choose from. Individual counties and states have developed programs to
learn from and on a bigger level there are the Medicare/Medicaid
programs as well as the Veterans Health Administration. Active
military has Tri-Care. But there is another nationwide health delivery
system model that is routinely overlooked. One that is more holistic
in its approach, taking extra steps to provide not only medical care
but preventative care and spiritual care as well, incorporating the
needs of the whole person...not just the blood and guts part.
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This healthcare program isn't new. It has been around in one form or another since, oh, about 1787, and in fact, is written into the Constitution. Article 1, Section 8, clause 3. Somehow the SCOTUS figured it out. I don't know how they did it...I'm not a lawyer....but, there it is. So, any of the poopyheads that say they do not have to pay for health care because it isn't in the Constitution...HA! Is too. The Supreme Court said so. And, so there.
If you have not yet clicked a link above, I will save you the agony and tell you the model I am talking about is the Indian Health Service.
The IHS has a long convoluted history that wasn't always necessarily devoted to Native American healthcare. In it's first stages, in the 18th and 19th and even the early 20th centuries, it was not so great, and there are many skeletons in its closet, including genocide and assimilation. In the beginning, it was basically taking care of the few NDNZ that managed to escape the new diseases brought from Europe. (Yeah. Jeffy Amherst. Thanks for those blankets, dood.)
But that, as they say, is history.
Moving on...
Eventually, the IHS was detached from the Bureau of Indian Affairs and reattached to the Department of Human and Health Services. Progress was being made! Injuns were now officially human! hahahhaha...that's an old Indian joke I heard from an old Indian. Whoops, there's another one. Oh, come on....where's yer sense of humor?
Anyhoo. In the 1970's the IHS took a good look at itself and began to investigate causes of the disparity between the health problems of Native Americans and the rest of American society. They didn't have to look very far to find causes. Much disease and illness are simply symptoms of poverty, substandard living conditions, and a diet of unsustainable nutrition.
So, the IHS began a program to bring clean water to the reservations. Improved housing and basic sanitation was introduced. Diabetic education programs were put into effect to help control the high rate of diabetes in Native Americans. Substance abuse programs were introduced to deal with the high percentage of alcoholism and drug abuse. Other programs dealt with depression and domestic and sexual abuse. And, to help fill the medical professions these programs need, college scholarships are given to those of NA descent that wish to pursue careers as doctors, nurses, etc.
But, the most significant change they made was the willingness to incorporate the spiritual into the model....cultural differences. Yeah. Medicine Men. Life on the rez is different. It just is. Native American cultural practices are different. They just are. And instead of trying to combat these differences and make everything come out like it's been through a machine, the IHS absorbed these differences and made it work to the advantage of all concerned.
Why couldn't these models be used to bring effective care to the differing cultures that exist within the one big American culture?
I mean, life in the inner city is different from life in the 'burbs. It just is. Chinese-American cultural practices are different from those of Irish-American. They just are. All cultural groups, clustered here and there throughout cities and spread out in rural areas have differing needs, healthcare wise.
Because of these programs being introduced by the IHS, the general overall health of Native Americans living on reservations improved, although poverty has remained to cast a pall. ( And that gubbermint cheese...hell, that ain't no good for nobody.)
Now, the IHS is far from perfect. It is woefully, and I mean woefully, underfunded. To receive any benefits from the IHS, you have to meet very strict requirements....less that two million U.S. residents qualify (Hint: the Indian part of IHS) But, I'm not really holding it up as the perfect plan....I'm using it as an example of what can be achieved once we have health insurance in place for everyone and can then concentrate on health care. Because, isn't the health of the people the entire point behind this HCR nightmare?
Oh. Yeah. I fergot. It's really about making the insurance providers and the drug companies happy. My bad. I have a short term memory problem I guess, because it was only just this morning I read this.
Yeah, I fergot it was all about health industry profit. That the uninsured and under insured will finally get a fair shot of coverage is just a tiny detail. A kind of side-effect. A by-product.
Human beings are not important, but their money is. I keep fergettin' that.
Poop.
Well, whatev. This is my dreamscape so I can dream-write what I want.
And, what I want is this....
Since Big Insurance and Big Pharma will soon be pocketing even more of our dollars, tax and otherwise, why don't we make them responsible for helping us to not use our policies by investing in preventative programs like those created by the IHS?
Instead of paying lobbyists, why can't they funnel their profit into programs that improve the standard of living? Get rid of the lead paint once and for all. Get rid of the asbestos. Bring in water that doesn't blister your skin because it's loaded with chemicals that didn't get filtered out because sewage systems are inadequate.
Why can't they pony up some med school scholarships? Why can't they fund a few diabetes education programs? Why can't they fund tele-med to bring primary care to rural areas where doctors are scarce? Why can't they underwrite some exercise programs? You know, come to the gym and do 25 jumping jacks or something three times a week and they'll knock some bucks off your premium. Attend a nutrition seminar and they'll acknowledge your new healthy eating habits by lowering premiums. Same goes for smoking cessation classes. Anger management training so you stop slapping the crap out of your significant other. Consciousness-raising classes so you stop letting your significant other slap the crap out of you. Classes on how to be accountable for your own health.
Health education. That's what I'm talking about. Learning how to be responsible for your own health. Straight talk from people in communities that have the confidence of the community. Yeah. Medicine Men. Medicine Women. There are people in nearly every community, urban and rural, Indian and non-Indian, that are looked up to....and they are not necessarily political leaders. Give these folks an office, maybe within the Social Services programs, and let them focus on outreach and co-ordination.
I mean, the models are already there to follow. There are social workers established in many places that do this kind of thing already, except their positions are being cut to trim budgets.
And, if you're interested in some numbers, try these on for size. The annual cost of preventative health measures plus the cost of needed treatment, including dental, per person, for the IHS is $2349. Compare that with $6538 per person for the U.S. in general. Yeah. That's quite a difference. Wonder who is pocketing that four grand per person....gee...I wonder who that could be? *Cough, cough, Big Insurance, cough.*
Nasty cough there...maybe I should see a doctor about it.
I dunno. Maybe it's just because I'm an incurable tightwad, but I want my money to work as hard for me as I worked to get it. I love a good deal. Why can't the Bigs pay out some of that windfall they're about to get into already established nationwide programs that work towards improving the living conditions of all our citizens, and therefore improve our general health? I mean, they're safe...their continued gargantuan profit is guaranteed by our very own government. In the long run, they'll be saving money as well as lives....and won't that look good on their resume? You know...for when we finally get single-payer and we fire their sad asses.
