I am a big believer in the freedom of the press—always have been, always will be. But the recent experience of someone I know very well has forever changed the way I will read newspapers. From now on, when I see a story in print purporting to be “investigative,” I will not only read it very carefully, I will take it with a grain of salt.
Let’s just say that I have learned the word “investigative” can mean absolutely nothing in the aforementioned context. Just like op-ed writers, investigative reporters can and do write the stories they want to write. Whether they have truly investigated an issue is irrelevant—they can, and do, use only the facts that support the story they have decided to write. And if a little twisting or creative placement of the few facts they have is necessary in order to support the story they’ve decided to write, well, they’ll do that, too.
You could call it yellow journalism—it fits the bill, but more than that, it can be so misleading it’s tantamount to lying. And it can hurt innocent people.
Try this next time you read a story that appears to be about something, for example, you as a taxpayer need to know: look for assertions, allegations, and innuendo.
Then look for the supporting evidence.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Me, the Fairweather Golfer and Blogger
I must be the lamest blogger in America. It is not that I don't have things I could write about—I think about things to write about all the time, and I get them about halfway written in my head. But for reasons I cannot explain, I am not in a writing mood. I am in the mood to play golf, to be outdoors on a beautiful June day. Unfortunately, most of the beautiful days in June in Indy so far have occurred between Monday and Friday.
I need another vacation in another place where it almost never rains.
I need another vacation in another place where it almost never rains.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Mugwump
She woke at about 5:30 a.m. with a twinge that started deep in her lower back and slowly made its way to the front until her belly suddenly felt hard as granite, and then, just as suddenly, went away.
She smiled. No doubt about it. Contraction! She tried to keep calm, to keep her breathing slow and even. It was a contraction, but unless another one followed fairly soon, she knew there was no point in getting excited.
But of course she was excited. She’d felt nothing so distinct up to that point, certainly nothing that could wake her from a deep sleep. Still, she tried to keep her breathing steady and her heart from racing while she kept an eye on the clock. Five minutes later, almost on the dot, she had another twinge. It lasted about 30 seconds. Wow! Five minutes apart!
For a moment she panicked. Had she been having contractions all night while she slept? Was she about to have this baby any minute?
Right. By the time she got to the hospital, around 7:30 a.m., the contractions had slowed from five minutes apart to 15 minutes apart. And they would slow down a good deal more than that by the time she was squared away in the small labor room at the hospital.
Listen up people: they call it a “labor” room for good reason. She knew women who’d given birth two hours after they’d started having contractions: that was not labor. Labor was when your contractions started at 5:30 a.m. and you didn’t deliver until 6:30 p.m. That was a long, hard day, and very little that she’d learned in childbirth classes prepared her for it.
They certainly didn’t tell her in the classes that she might get Nurse Ratchet for a labor room nurse. They didn’t prepare her for a woman who would call her a “crybaby” as she lay there, whimpering from a contraction that felt like she was being turned inside out. They didn’t prepare her for the overwhelming urge she had to kick her doctor in the nuts when he strolled in and out 5 or 6 times to see how far she’d dilated, then smilingly assured her that she still had a long way to go. Nor did anyone tell her that when the contractions really were coming hard and fast with almost no time in between and her husband leaned down to whisper encouragement in her ear, she would be likely to say to him “Get your fucking beard out of my face.”
But most of all, most of all, they didn’t prepare her for how utterly and completely and absolutely she would fall in love with the sweet baby girl they would place in her arms when it was all over.
Every second of that long day was so worth it.
Happy Birthday.
She smiled. No doubt about it. Contraction! She tried to keep calm, to keep her breathing slow and even. It was a contraction, but unless another one followed fairly soon, she knew there was no point in getting excited.
But of course she was excited. She’d felt nothing so distinct up to that point, certainly nothing that could wake her from a deep sleep. Still, she tried to keep her breathing steady and her heart from racing while she kept an eye on the clock. Five minutes later, almost on the dot, she had another twinge. It lasted about 30 seconds. Wow! Five minutes apart!
For a moment she panicked. Had she been having contractions all night while she slept? Was she about to have this baby any minute?
Right. By the time she got to the hospital, around 7:30 a.m., the contractions had slowed from five minutes apart to 15 minutes apart. And they would slow down a good deal more than that by the time she was squared away in the small labor room at the hospital.
Listen up people: they call it a “labor” room for good reason. She knew women who’d given birth two hours after they’d started having contractions: that was not labor. Labor was when your contractions started at 5:30 a.m. and you didn’t deliver until 6:30 p.m. That was a long, hard day, and very little that she’d learned in childbirth classes prepared her for it.
They certainly didn’t tell her in the classes that she might get Nurse Ratchet for a labor room nurse. They didn’t prepare her for a woman who would call her a “crybaby” as she lay there, whimpering from a contraction that felt like she was being turned inside out. They didn’t prepare her for the overwhelming urge she had to kick her doctor in the nuts when he strolled in and out 5 or 6 times to see how far she’d dilated, then smilingly assured her that she still had a long way to go. Nor did anyone tell her that when the contractions really were coming hard and fast with almost no time in between and her husband leaned down to whisper encouragement in her ear, she would be likely to say to him “Get your fucking beard out of my face.”
But most of all, most of all, they didn’t prepare her for how utterly and completely and absolutely she would fall in love with the sweet baby girl they would place in her arms when it was all over.
Every second of that long day was so worth it.
Happy Birthday.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Reason the Golf Pro Tells You to Keep Your Head Down is so You Can't See Her Laughing
I overheard a conversation in a hallway at work the other day, and while I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping, the topic was golf, so my ears perked up.
It was a conversation between two guys and they were talking about how they—I quote—hate to get stuck behind a foursome of women on a golf course because women play so slow.
Anyone who knows me knows that it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut, because I firmly believe the notion that women play golf slower than men is a myth. It may be true that some women play slower than some men, but I’d be willing to bet if anyone bothered to conduct a little research on the subject, they would discover that, in fact, overall, the average male golfer (AMG) plays slower than the average female golfer (AFG).
And understand, I am talking about average golfers here—not scratch golfers. I’m talking about ordinary hackers who play once, maybe twice a week—a group to which I happen to know my hallway golfers belong. Yes, I know them—I’m just too polite to yell “Horseshit!” at anyone in a crowded hallway. (Because I had a mama, and she highly discouraged that kind of thing.)
Back to my point. Reasons why I believe the AMG is slower are numerous, and most of them stem from my actual observations on the golf course. The first is that, although (or because) the AFG usually doesn’t hit as far as her male counterpart, the AFG usually hits straighter. The AFG doesn’t have to spend upwards of 10 minutes looking for her golf ball because said ball can usually be found somewhere in the fairway. The AMG can hit farther, sometimes really, really farther, but because the AMG is only average, he cannot manage both distance and accuracy. Eighty per cent of the time, the big-hitting AMG is going to wind up in the woods or the weeds, and it is the rare AMG indeed who will abandon his search for a ball after a couple of minutes.
Which leads me to the next reason why I believe the AMG, in general, plays slower than the AFG. The AMG is more likely to gamble with his buddies on the golf course. And because his money, not to mention his ego, are at stake, a lost golf ball and the resulting penalty is a much bigger deal. Why, the AMG could lose up to a dollar or two for that stroke (or more, depending on the extent of the AMG’s disposable income and the amount of trash-talking he has done), not to mention the cost of the ball.
You see, the AMG tends to play an expensive golf ball because the AMG tends to believe the marketing that says equipment will make a huge difference in his game—and this even though he only plays once or twice a week.
Another reason I believe the AMG is slower is that the AMG is more likely to try to mimic what he sees the pros do on TV. You will rarely see the AFG reach down for a fistful of grass and throw it up in the air to determine wind speed and direction, whereas you will see the AMG wasting his and everyone else’s time doing this a lot—way more often than you would believe.
Likewise, you will rarely see the AFG stand on a green and hold up her putter in front of her face to help determine the line between the ball and the cup, and you will almost certainly never see the AFG get down on all fours on a green, ala Spiderman, to “study” its characteristics. I personally wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen the AMG do one or both of these things. I also wish I had a dollar for every time the AMG missed the very putt he took such care and so much time lining up.
Last but not least, the AMG is way more likely to take multiple practice swings before he hits the ball, sometimes as many as four. Four. Do you have any idea how much time is eaten up by that many practice swings? But that’s not all. Once the AMG is finally done with all his practice swings, he situates himself over the ball and . . . stands there.
I’m never quite sure what the AMG could possibly be thinking about when he does this, but he stands over the ball an inordinately long time. What’s that all about? Is he having a seizure? A sexual fantasy? I don’t know, but the AFG can feel her hair sprouting gray while she waits for the AMG to hit the damn ball.
I was not privy to the entire hallway conversation, but my best guess is that my colleagues were taking a single bad experience they’d had and extrapolating it to the entire population of women golfers, because (a) they’d had the misfortune of actually being behind four slow women and not taken into account the number of times they’d been behind equally slow men, or (b) they’re just jerks who don’t like women intruding on what they consider their domain: the golf course.
To which the AFG says: TFB.
It was a conversation between two guys and they were talking about how they—I quote—hate to get stuck behind a foursome of women on a golf course because women play so slow.
Anyone who knows me knows that it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut, because I firmly believe the notion that women play golf slower than men is a myth. It may be true that some women play slower than some men, but I’d be willing to bet if anyone bothered to conduct a little research on the subject, they would discover that, in fact, overall, the average male golfer (AMG) plays slower than the average female golfer (AFG).
And understand, I am talking about average golfers here—not scratch golfers. I’m talking about ordinary hackers who play once, maybe twice a week—a group to which I happen to know my hallway golfers belong. Yes, I know them—I’m just too polite to yell “Horseshit!” at anyone in a crowded hallway. (Because I had a mama, and she highly discouraged that kind of thing.)
Back to my point. Reasons why I believe the AMG is slower are numerous, and most of them stem from my actual observations on the golf course. The first is that, although (or because) the AFG usually doesn’t hit as far as her male counterpart, the AFG usually hits straighter. The AFG doesn’t have to spend upwards of 10 minutes looking for her golf ball because said ball can usually be found somewhere in the fairway. The AMG can hit farther, sometimes really, really farther, but because the AMG is only average, he cannot manage both distance and accuracy. Eighty per cent of the time, the big-hitting AMG is going to wind up in the woods or the weeds, and it is the rare AMG indeed who will abandon his search for a ball after a couple of minutes.
Which leads me to the next reason why I believe the AMG, in general, plays slower than the AFG. The AMG is more likely to gamble with his buddies on the golf course. And because his money, not to mention his ego, are at stake, a lost golf ball and the resulting penalty is a much bigger deal. Why, the AMG could lose up to a dollar or two for that stroke (or more, depending on the extent of the AMG’s disposable income and the amount of trash-talking he has done), not to mention the cost of the ball.
You see, the AMG tends to play an expensive golf ball because the AMG tends to believe the marketing that says equipment will make a huge difference in his game—and this even though he only plays once or twice a week.
Another reason I believe the AMG is slower is that the AMG is more likely to try to mimic what he sees the pros do on TV. You will rarely see the AFG reach down for a fistful of grass and throw it up in the air to determine wind speed and direction, whereas you will see the AMG wasting his and everyone else’s time doing this a lot—way more often than you would believe.
Likewise, you will rarely see the AFG stand on a green and hold up her putter in front of her face to help determine the line between the ball and the cup, and you will almost certainly never see the AFG get down on all fours on a green, ala Spiderman, to “study” its characteristics. I personally wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen the AMG do one or both of these things. I also wish I had a dollar for every time the AMG missed the very putt he took such care and so much time lining up.
Last but not least, the AMG is way more likely to take multiple practice swings before he hits the ball, sometimes as many as four. Four. Do you have any idea how much time is eaten up by that many practice swings? But that’s not all. Once the AMG is finally done with all his practice swings, he situates himself over the ball and . . . stands there.
I’m never quite sure what the AMG could possibly be thinking about when he does this, but he stands over the ball an inordinately long time. What’s that all about? Is he having a seizure? A sexual fantasy? I don’t know, but the AFG can feel her hair sprouting gray while she waits for the AMG to hit the damn ball.
I was not privy to the entire hallway conversation, but my best guess is that my colleagues were taking a single bad experience they’d had and extrapolating it to the entire population of women golfers, because (a) they’d had the misfortune of actually being behind four slow women and not taken into account the number of times they’d been behind equally slow men, or (b) they’re just jerks who don’t like women intruding on what they consider their domain: the golf course.
To which the AFG says: TFB.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
God is great, beer is good, and film critics are crazy
One of the cable channels was running “Mr. Holland’s Opus” this past weekend, and in the process of surfing I caught the end of it. What happened to me when he walks into that auditorium to an ovation from past and present students is what always happens to me: I got a big lump in my throat and tears filled my eyes. I don’t know how many times in the past 15 years I have seen that particular scene, but my response is always the same.
As I recall, that movie did well at the box office and in the video stores, but by and large the critics didn’t seem to care for it. “Clichéd” and “manipulative” are the words that come to mind, as well as “schmaltzy” and “sentimental.” It is, I know, not unusual for the public to like a movie better than the critics, but watching that scene from MHO got me to wondering, not for the first time, why that should be.
Another movie that came out in ’95 was “Leaving Las Vegas.” No schmaltz there, but if Cage’s and Shue’s characters aren’t a couple of clichés, then there’s really no such thing; the fact that their portrayals of their respective characters are outstanding doesn’t make them clichés any the less. Even so, the end of that film evokes a response in me, too—one of pity for the human condition. I don’t cry at the end of LLV, but instead briefly ponder razor blades or ropes hanging from rafters. And that, too, is a result of manipulation. Needless to say, critics could not say enough good things about it.
Story will always be what matters most, and movies that “move” me will always be the ones I like best, regardless of whether I’m left with a lump in my throat from a warm and fuzzy feeling or from one of hopelessness and despair. I just don’t understand why film critics generally seem to prefer the latter to the former. Why should a film that shows our darkest selves deserve more praise than one that shows what is best in us? I don’t think we are in any danger of overestimating the good and generous side of human nature, especially in view of recent world events.
Because here’s the deal as I see it: in spite of recent world events, good things do happen, every day. Random acts of kindness are in fact practiced, people are reunited, diseases get ameliorated or cured, people fall in love, animals rescue people (and vice-versa), people make sacrifices that make a difference in other people’s lives and are eventually acknowledged for it, and plenty of alcoholics get help before they manage to drink themselves to death. Little redemptions of all kinds occur, and why critics give only begrudging respect, if not outright dismissal, to films that celebrate this is beyond understanding.
Makes me want to buy the world a Coke. And some popcorn. And invite them all over to watch “Old Yeller.”
As I recall, that movie did well at the box office and in the video stores, but by and large the critics didn’t seem to care for it. “Clichéd” and “manipulative” are the words that come to mind, as well as “schmaltzy” and “sentimental.” It is, I know, not unusual for the public to like a movie better than the critics, but watching that scene from MHO got me to wondering, not for the first time, why that should be.
Another movie that came out in ’95 was “Leaving Las Vegas.” No schmaltz there, but if Cage’s and Shue’s characters aren’t a couple of clichés, then there’s really no such thing; the fact that their portrayals of their respective characters are outstanding doesn’t make them clichés any the less. Even so, the end of that film evokes a response in me, too—one of pity for the human condition. I don’t cry at the end of LLV, but instead briefly ponder razor blades or ropes hanging from rafters. And that, too, is a result of manipulation. Needless to say, critics could not say enough good things about it.
Story will always be what matters most, and movies that “move” me will always be the ones I like best, regardless of whether I’m left with a lump in my throat from a warm and fuzzy feeling or from one of hopelessness and despair. I just don’t understand why film critics generally seem to prefer the latter to the former. Why should a film that shows our darkest selves deserve more praise than one that shows what is best in us? I don’t think we are in any danger of overestimating the good and generous side of human nature, especially in view of recent world events.
Because here’s the deal as I see it: in spite of recent world events, good things do happen, every day. Random acts of kindness are in fact practiced, people are reunited, diseases get ameliorated or cured, people fall in love, animals rescue people (and vice-versa), people make sacrifices that make a difference in other people’s lives and are eventually acknowledged for it, and plenty of alcoholics get help before they manage to drink themselves to death. Little redemptions of all kinds occur, and why critics give only begrudging respect, if not outright dismissal, to films that celebrate this is beyond understanding.
Makes me want to buy the world a Coke. And some popcorn. And invite them all over to watch “Old Yeller.”
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Letting Go
I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions for the simple fact that I prefer not to set myself up for failure. Frankly, if I wanted to do any of the stuff that usually generates a New Year's resolution, I’d already be doing it.
But yesterday on the way to work I had an epiphany. I will make a NYR for 2010, to wit: I will no longer worry about stuff I can’t do anything about.
This epiphany came to me over something really ridiculous. I had a hard time getting out of the house yesterday for one reason and another, and was running late. Nevertheless, I have a Christmas party to go to this Saturday night and a new outfit to wear to it, the pants to which outfit are about an inch too long for me. (I won’t go into the problems I have buying any kind of pants—slacks, jeans, sweats—just suffice to say that I’m either on the tall side of short or the short side of tall.) So my plan was to stop at the cleaners on my way in to work and drop off said pants to be altered.
Only I hadn’t yet decided how much the pants needed to be altered. So in the middle of trying to get ready for work, getting the dog out into 2 inches of new-fallen snow and back in again, dried off, fed, watered, and happily crated, my lunch packed, and everything from the Miata transferred to the truck (the Miata does not do well in any amount of snow), I took the time to pin up the pants and try them on with the relevant high-heeled party shoes. Perfect.
Now the roads were bad and it was slow-going. We live in a city that gets snow every winter and has an armada of salt trucks and snow plows, but Hoosiers are the most tax-averse people in the nation, and we have a Republican mayor who blames unsalted streets on faulty forecasts, so services are often sparingly employed.
And the only advantage to driving our Ford Ranger pick-up truck on icy roads is that the truck is heavy, considerably heavier than the Miata. Both have rear-wheel drive and both will fish-tail, so the truck is only slightly more useful than the Miata; the only real difference is in getting started. The Miata will simply slide all over the place whereas the truck will, eventually, through sheer poundage, eventually catch and get rolling.
So I’m rolling, albeit slowly, toward America’s One-Hour Cleaners when I suddenly realize, with utter clarity, that I have left the pants at home, sitting on the kitchen countertop (where I had put them to ensure I would not forget them).
Damn. What if tomorrow is too late, and the alterationist can’t get the job done in time? Should I turn around? No way. I am more than half way to work, and I am probably lucky to have made it this far without sliding into a telephone pole or another car. But what if I can’t get the pants back in time?
Epiphanal moment. Who the fuck cares? It’s not like I don’t have other clothes, even other party clothes, and even if I didn’t, who the fuck cares? I’m practically hyperventilating over this, and it’s just a pair of pants. Moreover, I have never taken anything to this place to be altered that I couldn’t get back the very next day.
But what if? What if the worst-case scenarios are that 1) I wear something to this party I’ve worn before or 2) I go shopping and buy yet another outfit? I like to go shopping, and I like going shopping for party clothes. And I know it all sounds silly and trivial, but who the fuck cares about that, either? I’m 57 years old, I work for a living, and if I like shopping for myself, SO WHAT?
All of this went through my mind in about 30 seconds, after which I had this just huge sense of relief. I had gone to a lot of trouble for nothing, but it was too late to fix it and no point getting worked up about it. And not being worked up about it felt so much better than being worked up about it that I decided that would be my New Year’s Resolution for 2010.
If I can’t do anything about it, I’m not worrying about it.
But yesterday on the way to work I had an epiphany. I will make a NYR for 2010, to wit: I will no longer worry about stuff I can’t do anything about.
This epiphany came to me over something really ridiculous. I had a hard time getting out of the house yesterday for one reason and another, and was running late. Nevertheless, I have a Christmas party to go to this Saturday night and a new outfit to wear to it, the pants to which outfit are about an inch too long for me. (I won’t go into the problems I have buying any kind of pants—slacks, jeans, sweats—just suffice to say that I’m either on the tall side of short or the short side of tall.) So my plan was to stop at the cleaners on my way in to work and drop off said pants to be altered.
Only I hadn’t yet decided how much the pants needed to be altered. So in the middle of trying to get ready for work, getting the dog out into 2 inches of new-fallen snow and back in again, dried off, fed, watered, and happily crated, my lunch packed, and everything from the Miata transferred to the truck (the Miata does not do well in any amount of snow), I took the time to pin up the pants and try them on with the relevant high-heeled party shoes. Perfect.
Now the roads were bad and it was slow-going. We live in a city that gets snow every winter and has an armada of salt trucks and snow plows, but Hoosiers are the most tax-averse people in the nation, and we have a Republican mayor who blames unsalted streets on faulty forecasts, so services are often sparingly employed.
And the only advantage to driving our Ford Ranger pick-up truck on icy roads is that the truck is heavy, considerably heavier than the Miata. Both have rear-wheel drive and both will fish-tail, so the truck is only slightly more useful than the Miata; the only real difference is in getting started. The Miata will simply slide all over the place whereas the truck will, eventually, through sheer poundage, eventually catch and get rolling.
So I’m rolling, albeit slowly, toward America’s One-Hour Cleaners when I suddenly realize, with utter clarity, that I have left the pants at home, sitting on the kitchen countertop (where I had put them to ensure I would not forget them).
Damn. What if tomorrow is too late, and the alterationist can’t get the job done in time? Should I turn around? No way. I am more than half way to work, and I am probably lucky to have made it this far without sliding into a telephone pole or another car. But what if I can’t get the pants back in time?
Epiphanal moment. Who the fuck cares? It’s not like I don’t have other clothes, even other party clothes, and even if I didn’t, who the fuck cares? I’m practically hyperventilating over this, and it’s just a pair of pants. Moreover, I have never taken anything to this place to be altered that I couldn’t get back the very next day.
But what if? What if the worst-case scenarios are that 1) I wear something to this party I’ve worn before or 2) I go shopping and buy yet another outfit? I like to go shopping, and I like going shopping for party clothes. And I know it all sounds silly and trivial, but who the fuck cares about that, either? I’m 57 years old, I work for a living, and if I like shopping for myself, SO WHAT?
All of this went through my mind in about 30 seconds, after which I had this just huge sense of relief. I had gone to a lot of trouble for nothing, but it was too late to fix it and no point getting worked up about it. And not being worked up about it felt so much better than being worked up about it that I decided that would be my New Year’s Resolution for 2010.
If I can’t do anything about it, I’m not worrying about it.
Monday, November 23, 2009
On Gratitude
It’s almost Thanksgiving. Here’s my Top Ten:
- I’m thankful for Josh, Catherine, and Michael. Every single day, you are the three people who bring joy to my life and make it worthwhile.
- I’m thankful for my girlfriends, who understand that having fun just for the sake of having fun is important. Even at our age.
- I’m thankful for Max, who is a good dog and makes me laugh. And I’m even thankful for Stella (for keeping Max humble).
- I’m thankful to have a job. Having any kind of job right now would be enough, but I am fortunate to (a) have a job I like and (b) work with a great group of people.
- I’m thankful for my health, which is good despite the aches and pains that come with the territory of late middle age.
- I’m thankful that this year, there’s a Democrat in the White House.
- And on that note, I’m thankful that Bush and Cheney are not.
- I’m thankful that somebody, a very long time ago in Scotland, invented the “greatest game ever played.”
- I’m thankful to Mazda for building the Miata. I’m not kidding. If you think I am, you don’t like to drive.
- I’m thankful to live in America, where it is possible to have all of the above to be grateful for, and I raise my glass to celebrate this holiday. Cheers!
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