My best ideas often come to me when I'm doing something mundane, usually washing dishes, taking a shower or on a run. Last night when Don and I were washing the dishes after the Academy Awards, we were talking about the budget crises across the country, when a possible solution came to me.
Nonfinancial Fortune 500 companies that are sitting on $1.8 trillion could lend to the states. No handouts, but a business relationship. Keep people employed, and eventually the budget crises will be resolved, allowing these companies to be repaid in due time, even earning a profit. Sounds like the patriotic thing to do.
I can already hear the familiar refrain: "But that would be socialism." So tell me, how well are those companies going to fare if hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of state employees are laid off because their states are bankrupt? Unemployed people aren't buying GE refrigerators or smartphones--they're living off the government dole, they're cancelling cable, eating Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and doing whatever they need to do to make sure the bank doesn't foreclose on their houses--those who manage to keep their payments current under these circumstances. How's it going to prosper major corporations if elementary-school students are stuck in classes of 40 or more because a couple hundred or even a couple of thousand teachers in their districts were laid off?
Our country has asked thousands of people to defend our interests in Iraq and Afghanistan. Many have died or been severely wounded. If we can ask soldiers to spill blood, it's not too much to ask corporations to spill their black ink.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
I don't have any problems
I started writing this blog to talk about worth and worthiness, for what my two cents on the subject of worth is worth. I figure I'm uniquely qualified to write about it because I spent most of my life not feeling like I was worth much. I don't write this to get anyone to feel sorry for me, or to be curious about why. I write to get as close to telling the truth from where I stand as I can. Starting with myself and my one wild and precious life seems as good a place as any. If you've been reading The Low Three Figures, you'll have some idea why. Hell, if you're human, you'll have some idea why most of us walk around feeling unvalued.
I was listening to the program "Outlook" on the BBC this morning and heard Liz Murray's story. Hence, the title of this post. I don't have any problems. She has written Breaking Night: A Memoir of Forgiveness, Survival and My Journey from Homeless to Harvard. It's already on my list of books to read. She had to teach herself how to ask for what she needed, which for her began with wanting a high school education. After knocking on a lot of doors, she was finally accepted into a high school in Manhattan. That led to her being one of six socially disadvantaged kids who got scholarships to Harvard from the New York Times.
But what if you don't know what to ask for? What if you've given up asking for what you want, in the face of so many rejections? What kept Liz going?
I have the idea that she kept going because she was becoming someone who would teach others how to identify what they have to offer, what training they need to hone their natural skills, and then to gather the resources they need going forward. That is precisely what Ms. Murray is doing with Manifest Living, the organization she's created.
I was listening to the program "Outlook" on the BBC this morning and heard Liz Murray's story. Hence, the title of this post. I don't have any problems. She has written Breaking Night: A Memoir of Forgiveness, Survival and My Journey from Homeless to Harvard. It's already on my list of books to read. She had to teach herself how to ask for what she needed, which for her began with wanting a high school education. After knocking on a lot of doors, she was finally accepted into a high school in Manhattan. That led to her being one of six socially disadvantaged kids who got scholarships to Harvard from the New York Times.
But what if you don't know what to ask for? What if you've given up asking for what you want, in the face of so many rejections? What kept Liz going?
I have the idea that she kept going because she was becoming someone who would teach others how to identify what they have to offer, what training they need to hone their natural skills, and then to gather the resources they need going forward. That is precisely what Ms. Murray is doing with Manifest Living, the organization she's created.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Open Letter to Sarah Palin
Dear Governor Palin,
I just watched your conversation with Sean Hannity, and I want to tell you as one mother to another that I, as one of the wee-wee liberals you disdain, am not telling you to shut up. I am asking you to turn down the volume.
I've noticed that you and I have something in common--a love of referencing folksy, personal stories. So let's pretend we're neighbors, and not neighbors like that creepy so-called journalist who rented that house next door to yours last summer and then pretended like he didn't do it to irritate you. What if you and your family were playing your music too loud after midnight, and I called to ask you to turn it down? How would you respond?
I hope you wouldn't respond by telling me that's too bad, but you have the right to play your music as loud as you want, any time of the day or night, and that as a matter of fact, you're going to turn it up louder, because darn it, this is America, where people have gone to war and died to earn the right for the rest of us to do what we want when we want to. Because I actually had a neighbor tell me that when I so rudely interrupted his loud hot-tub party at one a.m. to ask him to quiet down. No matter that he and his friends had so rudely interrupted my sleep during my sixth month of pregnancy. Somehow he turned it into that I was raining on his parade.
"Tell that to the police when they arrive," I said, turning toward my house to make good on my promise.
Here's another story I think you'll relate to, as a hockey mom: At a soccer match for second-grade boys, I asked a parent who kept walking in front of me as I sat on the sidelines to please not walk in front of me during the game. Of course this begged the question, why wasn't he sitting in a chair like all the other spectating parents were?
He got so angry so instantly I was afraid he was going to hit me. His responses are in quotes, mine (real and imagined, I'll let you make the call) in parentheses. "Who are you to ask me to stop?" (Uh, another parent watching my son's match.) And "Everyone knows our team always sits on this side of the field." (How would I know that? I've never laid eyes on you before in my life.) And my personal favorite: "You could have asked nicely." (I did. I was very direct, and as polite as I could manage, given that your pacing was ruining my view of my son's game. Maybe next time I'll say, "Can you please sit down and shut up, asshole?")
But wait, that would just be throwing fat on the flame. I wouldn't want to be irresponsible or anything with that hard-won right to free speech.
I've learned when people are determined to be aggressive, they will resist all efforts to restrain them in any way. It sounds to me like that's where you're coming from, Governor.
No one knows better than me how tough it is to practice what you preach. But if you want the right to express yourself freely, it works both ways. You'll have to expect some sassy responses from wee wee liberals, the lamestream media and anyone whose opinions differ from yours. That's how I understand America's commitment to free speech.
So are we going to be happy neighbors, or are we going to be at odds?
I just watched your conversation with Sean Hannity, and I want to tell you as one mother to another that I, as one of the wee-wee liberals you disdain, am not telling you to shut up. I am asking you to turn down the volume.
I've noticed that you and I have something in common--a love of referencing folksy, personal stories. So let's pretend we're neighbors, and not neighbors like that creepy so-called journalist who rented that house next door to yours last summer and then pretended like he didn't do it to irritate you. What if you and your family were playing your music too loud after midnight, and I called to ask you to turn it down? How would you respond?
I hope you wouldn't respond by telling me that's too bad, but you have the right to play your music as loud as you want, any time of the day or night, and that as a matter of fact, you're going to turn it up louder, because darn it, this is America, where people have gone to war and died to earn the right for the rest of us to do what we want when we want to. Because I actually had a neighbor tell me that when I so rudely interrupted his loud hot-tub party at one a.m. to ask him to quiet down. No matter that he and his friends had so rudely interrupted my sleep during my sixth month of pregnancy. Somehow he turned it into that I was raining on his parade.
"Tell that to the police when they arrive," I said, turning toward my house to make good on my promise.
Here's another story I think you'll relate to, as a hockey mom: At a soccer match for second-grade boys, I asked a parent who kept walking in front of me as I sat on the sidelines to please not walk in front of me during the game. Of course this begged the question, why wasn't he sitting in a chair like all the other spectating parents were?
He got so angry so instantly I was afraid he was going to hit me. His responses are in quotes, mine (real and imagined, I'll let you make the call) in parentheses. "Who are you to ask me to stop?" (Uh, another parent watching my son's match.) And "Everyone knows our team always sits on this side of the field." (How would I know that? I've never laid eyes on you before in my life.) And my personal favorite: "You could have asked nicely." (I did. I was very direct, and as polite as I could manage, given that your pacing was ruining my view of my son's game. Maybe next time I'll say, "Can you please sit down and shut up, asshole?")
But wait, that would just be throwing fat on the flame. I wouldn't want to be irresponsible or anything with that hard-won right to free speech.
I've learned when people are determined to be aggressive, they will resist all efforts to restrain them in any way. It sounds to me like that's where you're coming from, Governor.
No one knows better than me how tough it is to practice what you preach. But if you want the right to express yourself freely, it works both ways. You'll have to expect some sassy responses from wee wee liberals, the lamestream media and anyone whose opinions differ from yours. That's how I understand America's commitment to free speech.
So are we going to be happy neighbors, or are we going to be at odds?
Monday, January 10, 2011
Adults, please
Just listened to Neal Conan's program, Talk of the Nation, on National Public Radio. Neal devoted the first part of the show to the Tucson shootings. One of his guests was Randy Graf, a former Arizona state house rep and Giffords' Republican opponent in 2006. Mr. Graf spoke of how politics is a tough business; how Sheriff Clarence Dupnik stepped over the line when he described Arizona as a focal point for overheated rhetoric and bigotry; and the NRA platitude, "Guns don't kill people, people kill people."
Yes, politics is a tough business. Things are said. Policies are going to offend at least half the electorate. I hope Mr. Graf isn't lumping the toughness of politics in with assassination, attempted or otherwise. 'Cause it sure sounds like it.
Again, at least half the electorate agrees that political rhetoric is overheated. Sheriff Dupnik is a law enforcement officer. That he made these remarks after a shooting rampage seems perfectly appropriate to me. And it's not like overblown rhetoric creating a hostile environment is a new idea--people have been talking about cooling it down for a long, long while. Why is it so outrageous to say it after a shooting? Does it mean that Mr. Graf and others want to keep open the option of throwing rhetorical flames? Is what Sheriff Dupnik said more outrageous than the conditions leading up to the shootings, or the shootings themselves? As in when the governor of Arizona makes the statement that many headless bodies have been found in the Arizona desert and which she later has to retract?
And as for guns killing people--ay, yay, yay. I'll quote a caller to TOTN, who said in response to Mr. Graf's recitation, "Try telling that to the mother of the nine-year-old girl."
Yes, politics is a tough business. Things are said. Policies are going to offend at least half the electorate. I hope Mr. Graf isn't lumping the toughness of politics in with assassination, attempted or otherwise. 'Cause it sure sounds like it.
Again, at least half the electorate agrees that political rhetoric is overheated. Sheriff Dupnik is a law enforcement officer. That he made these remarks after a shooting rampage seems perfectly appropriate to me. And it's not like overblown rhetoric creating a hostile environment is a new idea--people have been talking about cooling it down for a long, long while. Why is it so outrageous to say it after a shooting? Does it mean that Mr. Graf and others want to keep open the option of throwing rhetorical flames? Is what Sheriff Dupnik said more outrageous than the conditions leading up to the shootings, or the shootings themselves? As in when the governor of Arizona makes the statement that many headless bodies have been found in the Arizona desert and which she later has to retract?
And as for guns killing people--ay, yay, yay. I'll quote a caller to TOTN, who said in response to Mr. Graf's recitation, "Try telling that to the mother of the nine-year-old girl."
Music Man
I'm almost finished reading Keith Richards' autobiography Life. It confirms almost everything that I knew about him--that he's talented, funny, pugnacious, curious, generous, chock full of joie de vivre, and intelligent. This last trait cuts both ways. As he writes, "Like all geniuses, [the producer Rob Fraboni] can be a pain in the arse, but it goes with badge."
Right back atcha, Keith.
I love this man enough to hang in even when he gives what I expect will be a geeky Keef guitar clinic early in the book. I was tempted to skip it altogether and get to the juicy bits about Anita and Brian and Mick and the drugs. But I'll be damned if I didn't keep reading because he explained it in a way I could understood, that I cared about, and that gave me insight into his skill as a maker of music. The guy hears sounds in his head--it might be harpsichord or taiko drums--and translates those sounds onto the strings of his guitars.
When he wrote that feminists hate the Stones, adding "Where would they be without us?" I got defensive. I consider myself a feminist who is also a big fan of the Stones, and Keith in particular. What's wrong with supporting equal rights for women? I sat with his question for a little while. Of course he's sort of pulling our leg--sort of. But he's also right. Where would the women's movement be without fighting against the sentiments expressed in "Under My Thumb"? While I'm not gonna thank the Stones for that, I'm also not going to pretend that the Stones invented it. Or that we'd all be in Paradise if sexism never existed.
In almost all cases, Keith is characteristically direct about his memories and his feelings. Though the journalist James Fox co-wrote Life, it is Keith's voice that blazes forth. Except in one instance, when he recalls his infant son Tara's death. It felt to me that Keith hid behind a curtain (for one of the few times in his life) and let Fox or someone else write it. Check it out for yourself. It's on page 386.
I didn't buy his rationalization about driving under the influence, about the time he crashed his Bentley with eight people inside, including his seven-year-old son. It was along the lines of what the Rain Man said, "I'm an excellent driver." And "Nobody got hurt." Except that his son recalls a bloody handprint he'd left on the dashboard that remained there for decades after. The best you can say about Keith's recollection of the crash, or his recounting of the obsession for arranging fixes, is that he didn't try to hide anything. Keith's addictions were clearly in control.
That's really no surprise. When you're as gifted a person as Keith Richards is, it's easy to believe you're in control. Maybe even that you're a god, or a damned good rival for God Himself. After all, Keith makes sounds people haven't heard before. He can go into a studio and make recordings that millions of people will pay good money to listen to
I'm one fan who's glad he kicked the most lethal addiction and has lived to pursue the real fascination of his life.
Right back atcha, Keith.
I love this man enough to hang in even when he gives what I expect will be a geeky Keef guitar clinic early in the book. I was tempted to skip it altogether and get to the juicy bits about Anita and Brian and Mick and the drugs. But I'll be damned if I didn't keep reading because he explained it in a way I could understood, that I cared about, and that gave me insight into his skill as a maker of music. The guy hears sounds in his head--it might be harpsichord or taiko drums--and translates those sounds onto the strings of his guitars.
When he wrote that feminists hate the Stones, adding "Where would they be without us?" I got defensive. I consider myself a feminist who is also a big fan of the Stones, and Keith in particular. What's wrong with supporting equal rights for women? I sat with his question for a little while. Of course he's sort of pulling our leg--sort of. But he's also right. Where would the women's movement be without fighting against the sentiments expressed in "Under My Thumb"? While I'm not gonna thank the Stones for that, I'm also not going to pretend that the Stones invented it. Or that we'd all be in Paradise if sexism never existed.
In almost all cases, Keith is characteristically direct about his memories and his feelings. Though the journalist James Fox co-wrote Life, it is Keith's voice that blazes forth. Except in one instance, when he recalls his infant son Tara's death. It felt to me that Keith hid behind a curtain (for one of the few times in his life) and let Fox or someone else write it. Check it out for yourself. It's on page 386.
I didn't buy his rationalization about driving under the influence, about the time he crashed his Bentley with eight people inside, including his seven-year-old son. It was along the lines of what the Rain Man said, "I'm an excellent driver." And "Nobody got hurt." Except that his son recalls a bloody handprint he'd left on the dashboard that remained there for decades after. The best you can say about Keith's recollection of the crash, or his recounting of the obsession for arranging fixes, is that he didn't try to hide anything. Keith's addictions were clearly in control.
That's really no surprise. When you're as gifted a person as Keith Richards is, it's easy to believe you're in control. Maybe even that you're a god, or a damned good rival for God Himself. After all, Keith makes sounds people haven't heard before. He can go into a studio and make recordings that millions of people will pay good money to listen to
I'm one fan who's glad he kicked the most lethal addiction and has lived to pursue the real fascination of his life.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Definitely NOT a Witchhunt
Just when I thought I'd heard the last from perennial candidate Christine O'Donnell after her defeat last month, the Justice Department is looking into how she spent the $7 million her Senate campaign raised.
I don't admire her. But for God's sake, the biggest part of me would rather let her abscond with money people were foolish enough to give her campaign than to hear her screechy voice complaining about how the world, and Joe Biden, are against her. She's going to use this investigation as fodder for her false sense of importance, while adding to the Delaware-sized chip on her shoulder.
O'Donnell has never explained how she earns a living. So I'll take a guess--she's a professional candidate. As long as she keeps running for office, she'll be able to pay the bills. She may well be running the biggest scam ever in the country's second smallest state.
I don't admire her. But for God's sake, the biggest part of me would rather let her abscond with money people were foolish enough to give her campaign than to hear her screechy voice complaining about how the world, and Joe Biden, are against her. She's going to use this investigation as fodder for her false sense of importance, while adding to the Delaware-sized chip on her shoulder.
O'Donnell has never explained how she earns a living. So I'll take a guess--she's a professional candidate. As long as she keeps running for office, she'll be able to pay the bills. She may well be running the biggest scam ever in the country's second smallest state.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Legs, not Wings
I've written about my grandmother in other posts. She was a salty gal, as at home wearing hip waders in a flooded basement and using choice profanities as she was powdering her nose before going to 7 a.m Mass. What a woman. Think Annie Oakley with painted toenails. I wouldn't mind being remembered this way.
In other ways, Grandma was surprisingly conventional. The woman was wild for chicken wings. Now bear with me. Loving chicken wings seems like a non-sequitur, but I'm making a Point. No one could understand her wingomania. Why not go for a breast with its large expanse of crispy skin, leaving the dry, tacky stuff for the dog, or a juicy leg? Who in their right mind would choose a wing? There's virtually no meat on them, and they're a pain in the ass to eat.
My mother's theory was that Grandma, who grew up in a big family, got whatever was left over. And learned to love it.
When I lived with her, she did most of the cooking, because her kitchen was her palace. She claimed I was too busy with my studies to muss my hands with cooking. But about once a month, she'd beg me to make these Asian-spiced chicken wings I got from an old Craig-Claiborne-does-Chinese-cooking. They're made with star anise and stick cinnamon, and they are pretty damned good, for chicken wings. I haven't made this recipe in years, as my husband and kids think anise tastes terrible. Maybe instead of those wretched deep fried wings with bleu cheese dressing people serve at Super Bowl parties, I'll invite over some people who would appreciate wings stewed with star anise and stick cinnamon.
As for that Point I promised to make--sometimes eating what's left over is good discipline. Like so much in her life, Grandma made the best of her circumstances. She knew how to put aside her desires and share, and that's a good thing.
What she wasn't so great at was communicating what she wanted. A lot of us, especially females, lack this skill. Sometimes it's somebody else's turn to share, especially in the daily give-and-take of family life.
So go ahead--tell your familiars you're taking the pick of the litter tonight, whether it's from a platter of chicken or the thickest steak. Eat slowly and enjoy every bite. Don't worry, you're not going to forget how to share. It's like riding a bicycle. Where you need practice most is in putting yourself first.
In other ways, Grandma was surprisingly conventional. The woman was wild for chicken wings. Now bear with me. Loving chicken wings seems like a non-sequitur, but I'm making a Point. No one could understand her wingomania. Why not go for a breast with its large expanse of crispy skin, leaving the dry, tacky stuff for the dog, or a juicy leg? Who in their right mind would choose a wing? There's virtually no meat on them, and they're a pain in the ass to eat.
My mother's theory was that Grandma, who grew up in a big family, got whatever was left over. And learned to love it.
When I lived with her, she did most of the cooking, because her kitchen was her palace. She claimed I was too busy with my studies to muss my hands with cooking. But about once a month, she'd beg me to make these Asian-spiced chicken wings I got from an old Craig-Claiborne-does-Chinese-cooking. They're made with star anise and stick cinnamon, and they are pretty damned good, for chicken wings. I haven't made this recipe in years, as my husband and kids think anise tastes terrible. Maybe instead of those wretched deep fried wings with bleu cheese dressing people serve at Super Bowl parties, I'll invite over some people who would appreciate wings stewed with star anise and stick cinnamon.
As for that Point I promised to make--sometimes eating what's left over is good discipline. Like so much in her life, Grandma made the best of her circumstances. She knew how to put aside her desires and share, and that's a good thing.
What she wasn't so great at was communicating what she wanted. A lot of us, especially females, lack this skill. Sometimes it's somebody else's turn to share, especially in the daily give-and-take of family life.
So go ahead--tell your familiars you're taking the pick of the litter tonight, whether it's from a platter of chicken or the thickest steak. Eat slowly and enjoy every bite. Don't worry, you're not going to forget how to share. It's like riding a bicycle. Where you need practice most is in putting yourself first.
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