Speak Without Interruption » Morality

George Steinbrenner, great American loser

Muhammad Cohen — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 17:22:52 +0000

Among the many despicable figures in baseball history, George Steinbrenner stood out as one of the most obnoxious and objectionable. I decry the revisionist obits of Steinbrenner and describe some of his offenses in this eyewitness account of Steinbrenner’s reign of error, posted on The Guardian website.

One topic the article doesn’t cover – not exactly mainstream, particularly for a British publication – is what baseball might have looked like without Steinbrenner setting the trend for the modern economics of the game that have added zeros to baseball salaries, ticket prices, and the rest. Yes, people have been predicting the demise of baseball’s popularity since they made foul balls strikes, but removing both the spontaneity and affordability factors from a visit to the ballpark seems to narrow the game’s potential audience substantially.

At the draw of free agency in the 1970s, Steinbrenner presented the vision of growing revenue faster than salaries. A competing vision came from Oakland Athletics owner Charles O Finley, who wanted to keep costs stable. “Free agent is another word for unemployed,” Finley declared. “Let them all be free agents.” If Finley had won the argument, baseball would look different. Or perhaps Finley did win the argument in places like Pittsburgh, Kansas City, and Oakland, which nevertheless share in the expanded revenue stream that Steinbrenner helped create.

Totally globalized native New Yorker and former broadcast news producer Muhammad Cohen is author of Hong Kong On Air, a novel set in his adopted hometown during the 1997 handover about television news, love, betrayal, financial crisis, and cheap lingerie.

Whispering Freedom – Juneteenth

Kaye — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 01:17:45 +0000

On June 19th I’d like you to do me a favor. It is a small one and it won’t take must effort or time. Some time during your busy day maybe when you first wake or during a meal or while having a glass of wine just whisper the word “Freedom”.

1865, June 19th, Union soldiers, led by Major General Gordon Granger, landed at Galveston, Texas with news that the War Between the State had ended and that all slaves were now free, two and a half years after President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863.

There are conflicting stories as to why it took two years for black men, women and children to learn of their freedom. One stories says the message of freedom was delayed because the messenger was murdered on his way to Texas. Another is that federal troops waited for the slave owners to use free labor for one last cotton harvest before they went into Texas to enforce the new law. Then there is the story that says that the news of freedom was deliberately withheld by the plantation owners so that they could maintain the free labor force at least for awhile.

Today there are celebrations commemorating June 19, 1865 but, not many. The day is called “Juneteenth” and it’s the oldest celebration marking the ending of slavery in the United States. I think June 19th should be a national holiday or at the very least have national recognition. Sadly very few Americans even know the significance of the day, including African Americans.

When Juneteenth rolls around this year most Americans will go about their regular routines. We won’t even spend a few seconds during the day remembering the men, women and children that were held against their will in bondage and servitude two years after they were officially and legally granted their freedom. We won’t even contemplate the gravity of the transgression. But maybe, you and I can whisper the word “Freedom”.

Afterlife

Jose Antonio Ponce — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 04:13:19 +0000

We’re all heading

to the same destination in this life.

We end up

on the mortician’s table,

bloody and bruised,

old and twisted,

pale, toothless and thin.

Some of us racing

to get there while others

just mosey along

admiring the scenery

and waiting their turn.

What’s on the other side?

Billy Graham’s heaven”?

Billy Sunday’s hell?

Nothingness?

Another shot at life?

There is great debate about this.

In the end

we mete out our own justice.

Our suffering,

at least in this life,

is directly proportional

to the pain we have caused.

Purgatory is the discovery

on the other side

of what damage we have done

and the disappointment

hidden from our hearts

now exposed.

It is seeing the full weight of our sins

Brought to bear on this world

And the sins of those you loved

revealed.

And it is more terrible

than we can imagine.

Bernie Madoff claims another victim

Muhammad Cohen — Fri, 28 May 2010 11:20:01 +0000

Ghostwriters do more than simply make sure that the story gets written and that the grammar is right. If you want to see the value of a ghostwriter, read No One Would Listen by Harry Markopolos, the man who blew the whistle no one heard on Bernard Madoff’s $65 billion scandal. The book, which I reviewed in Asia Times, details how Markopolos uncovered the scandal and tried, yet failed, to expose it to the world. The book reveals, above all, how thoroughly despicable Madoff and his conduct were.

Markopolos tells the story in his own words, animated by disgust for Madoff and the US Securities and Exchange Commission that ignored Markopolos’ repeated attempts to stop Madoff, and apparently without the aid of a ghostwriter. Markopolos, who is undoubtedly an honorable man and by all rights ought to be seen as a hero, is portrayed as such an unsympathetic figure, driven over the edge by the pursuit of Madoff, his white whale, that only Markopolos himself could have written it that way.

Somebody’s Watching You

Minnette Coleman — Tue, 18 May 2010 18:30:10 +0000

It used to be that New York was open 24/7/365. But the years have worn the Big Apple to the core and somethings that were once popular to do have changed and gone the way of the dodo. You can still find someplace to find a bite to eat at 4am but the pickings are getting slimmer. Doors at clubs and eateries are watched to keep out undesirables. Some places are so afraid of problems they close early. And while the city boosts a rich cultural diversity there is always the problem that big brother is watching you. We still live in an age of profiling those who are different.

It happens more frequently than one thinks. And it happens so quickly you might not know it. While dressed in a suit I went into a famous store in this city and looked around for a present for my mother. It was a work day and I had just come from a meeting so sales people were falling all over themselves to help me. That weekend I returned the store was not crowded with shoppers and I was dressed in a leather jacket and some jeans. No one came to wait on me and one salesperson actually looked me up and down like I was a beggar when I asked for some assistance. The other women were dressed like me, casually in jeans and slacks but they were all white. I even had on boots, no sneakers. But I was not a person that was expected to buy. At over 50 I was profiled because of my color. Even when others didn’t buy they had help while the only person watching me was the security guard at the door. I made sure to purchase what I wanted but I found that manager to help me. Thus the commission for what I was getting went to none of the idiotic sales people. When she asked who helped me I replied: “No one.” She turned bright red at the prospect of the store losing a sale because of race. Maybe she should have taught her staff that all money in this country is the same color.

While many people complain about the law that Arizona is trying to enforce they don’t take into consideration the laws the state is breaking. If I am not under suspicion of doing anything other than walking while being Latino why should you treat me with disdain? How does an immigrant look, really? Because this is not targeting immigrants from Poland, or France or Italy, or even Africa. What ever happened to being treated as equal? We know it is still a myth, yet there are those of us who would die to see it become true.

My husband and I were given an option once of a discounted weekend at a resort at the Jersey Shore if we listened to a sales pitch. We booked the rooms well in advance and paid the small fee. On the day of arrival we were sent to an older part of the resort in a building that looked like it was on its last leg. Our suite of promise was to have two bedrooms and a kitchen. The room they were trying to force us in was not big enough for two and they had added fold out beds. The woman at the desk just knew because we were black that we were going to use every profane statement we could think of to get what we thought was ours. Even after showing the receipt for the room with all the amenities they still didn’t understand why I thought I should get this exclusive room. Quietly I told them: “Why can’t I get what I was promised?”

I said no more. I sat in the chair at the reception desk while they apologized and got us the room we were promised. I could tell they had profiled us and were sure sure that they would be able to remove us because of our behavior. But their own ability to see that just thinking a person is going to act one way ended up making it clear that maybe not every person of color is going to be angry. Just like not every white person is going to be right or rich.

Somebody is always watching us no matter what we do. They are waiting for us to make a move classic to the profile their minds have established. To step out of that mindset is a daring feat in a world ripe with prejudice. Say a friend is from a certain country and you will get a response like “Well, I hope he’s not a terrorist.” Tell an acquaintance that someone white moved into your Harlem neighborhood and watch them snap with disgust at how the white people are always trying to take over. Say your neighbor is Mexican and they may call them drunks or wife beaters. We watch and we profile. The bottom line is we shouldn’t.

If you are profiled for any reason you should report it. Too many people sit back and take it and grow weary hoping someone else will take up the cause for them. It is up to every individual to fight for what they think is right and to stop the madness of profiling. You have to show the world what you are made of because it probably won’t ask you.

Arizona-Land of the Free

seamus — Fri, 14 May 2010 18:34:32 +0000

Amazing how many high government officals (including the Attorney General), political pundits, politicians, school officials and religious leaders comment so harshly on the immigration law in Arizona and publicly admit they haven’t read the ten page document.

The document basically states that when being stopped for a traffic violation or questioned concerning a crime that the police have the right to ask for identification. Haven’t they been doing that for years? Every ticket I’ve ever received the first thing out of the cops mouth was license and registration.

Oddly you can ask a waspish soccer mom for her drivers license after running a stop sign but the liberals cringe, bitch and moan if you ask a non wasp for the same thing. Members of the Obama cabinet can’t say the words terrorist or radical Islam but thet can call the Governor of Arizona a racist. Absolutely amazing!

When your friends can’t explain why they voted for Democrats, give them this

seamus — Fri, 14 May 2010 15:46:28 +0000

Pick Your Reason

10. I voted Democrat because I believe oil companies’ profits of 4% on a
gallon of gas are obscene but the government taxing the same gallon of gas
at 15% isn’t.

9. I voted Democrat because I believe the government will do a better job of
spending the money I earn than I would.

8. I voted Democrat because Freedom of speech is fine as long as nobody is
offended by it.

7. I voted Democrat because I’m way too irresponsible to own a gun, and I
know that my local police are all I need to protect me from murderers and
thieves.

6. I voted Democrat because I believe that people who can’t tell us if it
will rain on Friday can tell us that the polar ice caps will melt away in
ten years if I don’t start driving a Prius.

5. I voted Democrat because I’m not concerned about the slaughter of
of babies through abortion so long as we keep all death row inmates alive.

4. I voted Democrat because I think illegal aliens have a right to free
health care, education, and Social Security benefits.

3. I voted Democrat because I believe that business should not be allowed to
make profits for themselves. They need to break even and give the rest away
to the government for redistribution as the democrats see fit.

2. I voted Democrat because I believe liberal judges need to rewrite the
Constitution every few days to suit some fringe kooks who would never get
their agendas past the voters.

1. I voted Democrat because my head is so firmly planted up my ass that it
is unlikely that I’ll ever have another point of view.

Casinos make bad bets in Asia

Muhammad Cohen — Fri, 07 May 2010 17:33:39 +0000

The world’s two most expensive casino resorts are now open in Singapore, whether the Lion City likes it or not. As I wrote in Asia Times, Singapore didn’t want casinos, just the theme park, convention center, museums and other attractions that it was able to squeeze out the developers in exchange for allowing the gambling dens. However, Singapore’s nanny state ways limit casino revenue. That promises trouble for developers Las Vegas Sands and Malaysia’s Genting Group that are investing a combined $10 billion in their resorts, and for Singapore, too.

Singapore isn’t the only Asian city where casino developers are placing bad bets. Billionaire Steve Wynn’s infatuation with China’s government and disdain for the Obama administration got another airing at last month’s debut of his Encore Macau property. Wynn’s plan to plunk down another couple billion dollars in Macau illustrates precisely why to be wary of Macau, especially if you’re Steve Wynn.

SB1070

Antonio de la Vega — Thu, 06 May 2010 22:25:44 +0000

¿Qué hay en verdad de fondo tras la promulgación de la ley SB1070?

Un inmigrante se columpiaba

sobre la tela de una araña

como veía qué resistía

fue a llamar a otro inmigrante…

Más que una clave archivonómica se trata de un distintivo. La ley aprobada y por entrar en vigor dentro de unas semanas en el estado de Arizona, Estados Unidos, ¿qué es? Como lo veo yo, es una llamada de atención tanto para el gobierno y la sociedad estadounidenses como para los mexicanos; y aún más, para el resto del mundo.

Estados Unidos y cada uno de sus estados son libres y soberanos para hacer dentro de sus fronteras cualquier cosa que les plazca, y que sirva para la mejor convivencia. El respeto a la ley es prioritario en Arizona como en China, pero cuando las leyes son usadas como ariete, cuando se emplean como un pretexto para otros fines, es cuando resultan sospechosas, por decir lo menos.

En México, la reacción a esta tan cacareada y polémica ley ha causado gran disgusto, incomodidad y revuelo. Ya no se diga en Estados Unidos, donde las multitudinarias y variadas manifestaciones no se han hecho esperar. Se hacen a diestra y siniestra acusaciones a la gobernadora Brewer, empleando un sinnúmero de calificativos hacia su persona y su gobierno. El despropósito está instalándose en la opinión pública. ¿En verdad se trata de una imposición “racista”? ¿Cuál es el trasfondo de una decisión de esta envergadura? ¿Se trata de la versión real de aquella película “La segunda guerra civil” protagonizada por Beau Bridges? También podría pensarse que se trata de una artimaña concertada para forzar al congreso estadounidense a tomar medidas definitivas y, de una vez por todas, votar una reforma migratoria más que suficiente, más bien moderna y ajustada a las necesidades reales tanto del país como de la gigantesca población migrante que año con año determina el dinamismo de la todavía principal economía del mundo.

Pero también puede pensarse que es una forma de acicate al gobierno y la sociedad de México, toda vez que, entrapado el país en una guerra sin cuartel contra el narcotráfico y otras linduras como la crisis económica, la influenza, etcétera, está arrinconado en la definición de soluciones concretas, viables y factibles que resuelvan el problema de la migración dentro y hacia fuera del propio México.

MIGRACIÓN ES MOVIMIENTO

De México se va la gente no por falta de oportunidades, ofertas de trabajo hay y muchas, pero pocas satisfacen las necesidades y expectativas de la población. El campo ha sido abandonado a su suerte y la población rural ha optado por ceder a las “bondades” de la vida urbana. Sueldos bajísimos combinados con costos altísimos de diversa índole obligan a las clases bajas y media (lo que queda de ella) a hacer malabares, recurriendo a desempeñarse en más de una actividad para llevar el sustento a casa y cumplir medianamente con sus obligaciones más elementales. La concentración de poder político y económico en unas cuantas familias y empresas (sin hacer hincapié en las trasnacionales, muchas de ellas estadounidenses) ha hecho de México un laberinto cuyo centro no puede ser hallado si no como reliquia del pasado, y la salida, la mejor que puede ofrecerse, generalmente es la fácil y a contra pelo de las normas y los ordenamientos: piratería, comercio informal, narcomenudeo, entre otras.

De México y hacia el sur el problema es similar, claro que con matices según el país y la región. Hoy, México junto con el resto de Latinoamérica, ha decidido “dar la espalda” a Estados Unidos y formar un bloque común, con fundamento en lo que les es común, la cultura, el idioma. Latinoamérica en su conjunto es mayoría en población comparada con Estados Unidos y Canadá; pero, en otros factores por supuesto que son el contrapeso justo del continente estos otros dos. Por eso también México y el resto de Latinoamérica caminan de la mano de Estados Unidos. Pura conveniencia mutua. La división norte-sur, por maniquea, es parte de lo que está generando la mecánica del continente. Estados Unidos y Canadá, por su nivel de vida, son objetivo aspiracional para muchos latinoamericanos. Estos, al llegar a la “tierra prometida” ven, en la mayoría de los casos, que sus “sueños” se convierten en pesadillas, máxime cuando terminan siendo explotados, ninguneados, desprovistos de los derechos más elementales.

Está mal México, sí, porque no hace lo que debería para retener a su población. Pero también está mal Estados Unidos, porque está haciendo todo lo posible porque no entre en su territorio la materia prima humana que históricamente ha definido al país como lo que es, uno formado desde la raíz por inmigrantes (y, recordemos, no siempre de la mejor estofa, como muchos de los primeros colonizadores).

AL DEMONIO LAS FRONTERAS

: La nueva ley SB1070 de Arizona facultaría a arrestos sólo por sospecha discriminatoria.

En una época cuando las fronteras cada vez están más desdibujadas, la migración, sea por causas de turismo o por búsqueda de la supervivencia, acentúa y complica los conceptos añejos que teníamos de soberanía y nacionalismo, por mencionar dos. Al amparo de la “seguridad nacional” y el miedo irracional al “terrorismo” (también a los rebeldes que defienden sus causas nobles se les llama ahora de ese modo), países como Estados Unidos hacen lo que China hace dos siglos: cerrarse. Mientras, China hace lo contrario y ¡miren cómo está y a dónde va!

Entender los tiempos no es algo que a los gobiernos estadounidenses se les haya dado con cierta facilidad históricamente. En México, en cambio, seguimos viviendo de los rencores no asimilados.

Un genetista estadounidense ya demostró con sus investigaciones que el concepto de “raza” es no sólo una estupidez, sino el más imbécil pretexto para la discriminación. Todos tenemos de todos en nuestros genes. Pero no es más grave la discriminación por esta causa. La verdaderamente grave es la que obedece a prejuicios infundados, al odio irracional.

En una de mis primeras colaboraciones a SWI afirmé, y lo sostengo, que yo sí discrimino. Es natural la discriminación, es parte del proceso adaptativo de todas las especies. Discrimino cuando tengo que elegir entre comerme una manzana o una naranja, para ello aquilato sus propiedades, mi gusto, mi necesidad del momento. Pero entre este concepto en su acepción lógica, incluso ecológica y antropológica, y el uso que se le da cotidianamente al tratar con el otro sólo distan la grosería, la obsecación, la egolatría.

Los seres humanos nos debemos mucho a cada cual, y sería muy sano empezar a imaginar un mundo sin más fronteras. Ya estamos tan revueltos, que las líneas divisorias están de más. Estados Unidos (pero no únicamente) se ha dedicado a imponer su voluntad a otras naciones mediante recursos transfronterizos y pretextando mil y una razones, muchas de ellas bastante ridículas cuando no enojosas. Entonces, quieren o no quieren fronteras. Quieren mandar en el mundo, pero que el mundo no rebase el límite de… ¿de qué? Quieren ser el policía del mundo, pero en vez de admiración, como el policía de la película muda ganan animadversión y recelo de parte de los demás.

HABLANDO DE NACIONES Y TRAICIONES

Cuando un estadounidense muere fuera de su territorio, el mundo es el territorio estadounidense y hay que mover cielo, mar y tierra para dar con la justicia. Es un país que de suyo ha promovido la acción mercenaria. En México, nuestra Constitución pena al ciudadano que pelea en las filas de un ejército extranjero por causas ajenas a México, son traidores a la patria. Eso son muchos mexicanos enrolados para pelear como carne de cañón en Irak, Afganistán… Son traidores a México. Pero con en México somos muy románticos, además de ignorantes de nuestras propias leyes, cuando muere un mexicano “heróicamente” en esas tierras tan lejanas, en vez de señalarlo ensalzamos su memoria como la de “alguien que luchó por la libertad y la democracia”. ¡Pamplinas! Nos merecen respeto los familiares perdidos en algún enclave de la Sierra Madre, es humanitario allegarles el cuerpo para darle cristiana sepultura y consuelo. Es comprensible la actitud, pero entonces ¿a qué estamos jugando? ¿Somos o no somos?

¿Es para enorgullecerse pelear guerras ajenas para países que, aun cuando sus ideales son nobles, su fundamento es contrario a los intereses más básicos? El soldado mexicano en el ejército estadounidense, ese que come tacos y hamburguesas, ese que llegó de mojado y ya como recluta porta su green card, mastica a medias su lengua materna y escupe la adoptada, no es más que un mercenario. Un inmigrante y mercenario; mientras tenga papeles es tolerado, de lo contrario…

Contradicciones tenemos todos. Preocupante es que las contradicciones nos lleven a definiciones y decisiones contrarias a nuestra naturaleza. ¿Cuál es la naturaleza y el espíritu de la ley SB1070?

A Measured Voice

write2bfree — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 18:26:47 +0000

Charles Dickens’ novels show the degradation and exploitation of the working poor, but his solution (as pointed out by Orwell) was that those in power would become better people and in their new-found compassion create a safer, healthier environment for the workers. This would extend even to educational opportunities and a chance to move up the ladder, but only so far, never far enough to threaten the existing order.

To counter this “benign ruler” point of view, some people in the early 1900s began to organize the working poor. Those most effective and trustworthy came from that background and took action. The work of Camus and Orwell springs from a real knowledge of poverty (Camus) or being an outsider among the privileged (Orwell). It must be pointed out that Camus took a dim view of Marx, and Orwell was horrified by Stalin’s Communism. But these two writers have held the greatest influence in the minds of Western thinkers who call themselves liberal. Camus went so far as to coin the term “libertarian socialist.”

The rise to political and economic power of the European workers had a parallel in the United States. While Communism was a hothouse flower that died quickly and Socialism remains a mystery to most Americans, the societal changes that occurred here were spurred by two forces basic to this country: a distrust of concentrated power and a belief in individual freedom. In this, both conservatives, liberals and those in the middle (that is, almost everybody – to paraphrase Camus) share common ground. Unionization helped, and so did “top-down” changes.

The liberal reluctance to classify people, either in groups or as individuals, comes from the concern that this leads to elevating one group or individual above others. But liberals in their rush toward equality in the 1960s and early 1970s overran the boundaries, and began to exalt those groups that had been previously held down. In the fray, the individual was lost. For liberals, the search for new groups to “free” became the doctrine.

However, in conservative doctrine, the individual is only free as long as he or she conforms to the dominant power group’s rules. The idea that new rules might be positive threatens their world view. This is experienced as a personal assault on their core values, even if it is not. While conservatives profess to be against “top down” order, in fact, they support it when it serves them (the recent immigration law in Arizona, for instance). At the same time, they believe that within the established order they are free.

Both liberals and conservatives, when they classify groups fall into the Hegelian abyss of duality, a never-ending cycle of dominance and submission punctuated by violence (which “history” can be seen to be). Both lose their moral and ethical balance and sense of measure that inspires their vision of freedom.

Behind every liberal deserving of the name stands a rebel who is sensitive to injustice and is compelled to act. The liberal who wants change for others, but does not change his or her own life, is just as status quo in his or her thinking as a conservative. Behind every conservative is an absolutist who wants to see his life style codified. There have been powerful cases made for the concept that human nature and the world we live in is ruled by immutable laws. One issue is that these laws are not agreed upon, and another is that there are dimensions we will never understand, and finally, there are those who see random phenomena as part of the norm. The rebel perceives that change must occur through every level of society. Even if the world were to be 9/10ths perfect, the rebel would not be satisfied. The rebel is an agent of change. As such, he or she will always be at odds with society.

Some people dream of a harmonious world where people with different points of view live equally and freely. But others prefer a society that affords them a modicum of safety and stability, including a hedge against diversity and change. In any case, both liberal and conservative thinking tends to live on the boundaries of human nature

Very few people ask what responsibilities are inherent in their freedom. What is the impact of rights for one person, for a minority, for the majority, and for society, on other people, and on society? What are our responsibilities as an individual? None, some, many?

Camus wrote that among the apparent truths about human nature is that each of us must always believe oneself to be innocent, and has a need to dominate and “see oneself as a hero.” Is freedom our goal? Stability? Peace? Does real freedom from the violent past begin when we can honestly and modestly confront the questions of individual and societal rights, their consequences, and their relationship to our own innocence and need to dominate? Was Camus right, that until we find that sense of measure, we will be lost?

Haliburton – a touch of the medievals?

Tim Roux — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 18:21:39 +0000

War and money have always been inter-related.

After all, you need money to fight a war – it has been argued that all world empires have collapsed ultimately economically because they had to protect too much territory with too little money – and conquest often brings in money. In the past, wars have often been fought to seize resources and enrich the conqueror – ask any passing European colonialist – and a short war generally proves a great stimulus to the economy too.

In feudal times, the king mostly fought wars to keep his otherwise revolting and over-mighty robber barons exhausted but happy. According to feudal law, the barons had to raise the army, but they then got to go on a glorified fox hunt in foreign lands and to return with goodies and rights to land far more valuable than both ears and the tail.

When the feudal system collapsed in the face of the rise of mercantilism in the sixteenth century, the king had to go to Parliament to raise taxes to fund his army, but he still managed to keep his greatest adventurers adventuring on someone else’s doorstep and bringing back the loot.

Not that the formula was infallible. Charles I of England seemingly got it wrong when he declared an unpopular war on Scotland and then tried to raise Ship Money to pay for it. He made the even bigger mistake of stockpiling all these expensively purchased armaments in Hull which subsequently declared for the rebel parliamentarians. However, as the Marxist historian Christopher Hill pointed out, the truth may have been a little different from the way it has been traditionally painted.

Most of the leaders of the Parliamentary rebels, including John Hampden and Oliver Cromwell, had another axe entirely to grind. In the 1630s they had backed a commercial speculation called the Providence Island Company which collapsed, taking their fortunes with it. Something drastic had to be done and raising money for a large army, some of which would get lost in their own pockets, seemed an excellent way to go, especially when they happened to win the subsequent war and Oliver Cromwell got made Dictator.

The Second War of Iraq was a classic of medieval politics and money making. George W. Bush got to declare war on Iraq under an entirely spurious pretext and then persuaded those dupes the American people to fund the war out of their taxes. Astonishingly enough, Bush’s political allies seem to have profited rather excessively as a result of contracts aimed their way and the military-industrial complex likewise – furnishing a double dose of pork-barrel politics to fuel re-election – and only the American and Iraqi people missed out. Tough titties, huh?

However, there was a drawback to this dramatic money-circulating scam. The US government was already in deep doo-doo deficit, so there was a limit to how much money could be transferred from the many to the few. This is where Bush’s true genius came in. Under rules related to Homeland Security, he managed to persuade everybody across the world, including the usually intensively and righteously secretive Swiss, to declare whenever money moved around (even by PayPal), all in the name of the War against Terror, you understand. This level of global scrutiny cunningly enables the IRS to track down taxation money so much more efficiently, bringing to book avoiders and evaders alike.

You have to hand it to them, in more ways than one ….

Your Mother and Me

Jose Antonio Ponce — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 02:34:01 +0000

I sat next to my father in the counselor’s office at west mesa high school embarrassed and staring at my feet.

“This is Joe’s last chance Mr. Pahn-cee.” The counselor said, mispronouncing our last name as everyone had done our whole lives. I had been named after St. Joseph the Worker; patron saint of laborers who’s feast day it was on May 1^st,the day I was born.,. When I got to the first grade, the nuns renamed me because we already had a Jose in class, Jose Hernandez. By virtue of the alphabet, I became Joe Ponce.

“Your son has failed his second year of algebra and is lacking full credits in English and Science because of unexcused absences. At this rate, he will not graduate with his class.” he continued. I could feel my father looking at me. “We believe that he is a good candidate for a new non-traditional program recently started at APS. That’s what Mr. Nuzzo is here to talk to you about.”

The counselor gestured toward the older man sitting in the corner of his traditionally spartan, traditionally institutional office. He looked a little like my father. Slightly graying hair combed back, black frame glasses and a simple collared shirt and slacks. A pen in his pocket, just like my dad.

“My name is Don Nuzzo,” he said extending his hand “from Freedom High. I’d like to talk to you, but first I’d like to ask your son something. Why do you want to come to Freedom High?”

“I’m not sure that I do.” I mumbled. My father made an angry noise.

“Then why in the hell are you wasting my time?” he said calmly. With that, Mr. Nuzzo stood up, shook my father’s hand again and began to walk out of the office.

“Wait,” my father said. He turned and gave me a threatening look. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

I finished out my junior year at West Mesa and enrolled in Freedom High for my senior year. The school was located in the basement of an empty Baptist church on the corner of Fifth Street and Marble, downtown. At first, it seemed all too easy. Everyone went by their first names, including the teachers. The whole place was laid back. There was no curriculum we could see. Each day seemed to be a series of unrelated lessons.

But there were lessons learned. The first was responsibility. Roll was never taken and it was the student’s responsibility to show up. If you didn’t come to school, no one called your parents. If you didn’t come to school, you wouldn’t graduate.

With such a low teacher to student ratio, teachers often taught more than one type of class. Chris (Chrissos) taught English and Social Studies. Bert (Norgorden) taught Music and Math. Don Nuzzo taught History and Art. Every adult in the school got involved in their student’s lives to the extent that we would let them in. Because they asked to be involved, we let them get involved.

I found myself participating in my education more than ever before. I asked questions. I debated my point of view and was not just dismissed as a kid and I complained that the curriculum was not progressive enough. That’s when I got into trouble and trouble’s name was Lynn.

I had seen her in the hallway (there was only one with classrooms on either side.) She was extremely fair skinned with plump little hips. She had a crooked front tooth that she teased constantly with her tongue. And dark auburn hair. She had this little pageboy cut that framed her face perfectly and made her seem innocent, almost harmless despite her overwhelming sexuality. I was smitten from the moment I saw her. I never had a chance.

Lynn was mouthy. She challenged everything. Unlike me, who did it for show, she was genuinely subversive, never wanting to let the status quo remain so. Why were we studying this? Was something opinion or fact? Could anything really be absolute? It was this common interest in trying to be uncommon that first brought us together.

Lynn asked why Freedom High didn’t have a school newspaper. I chimed in, not wanting to be left out of the rebellion and Chris made the formation and publication of the newspaper our project. He would give us no direction or instruction. We were to find stories, interview people, write the articles, compose, publish, print and distribute the paper in addition to our other schoolwork.

Lynn and I formed a partnership. I drove her to and from school. She let me sing songs for her. She flirted shamelessly with me, draping her arms around my neck, propping herself up against me as we worked together, holding my hand to cross the street.

I was lost. No girl had ever been so nice to me. I wanted to give her the world. We had frank discussions about love and sex and friendship. She made me answer questions that were uncomfortable for me. People made fun of me, shadowing this girl one-third my size. I wanted to be her boyfriend. Fat chance!

And then one day, it happened. She kissed me. Lynn cupped my chin lovingly in her hand, tilted my head toward hers and kissed me. I’ll never forget that as long as I live and I’ll compare it to every other kiss I’ll ever get.

When I fell in love the first time in eighth grade

and I started shaving the very next day.

Just walking her home made me light on my feet.

And I promised her things you just wouldn’t believe.

When I asked my dad why girls had that effect

He said, “Go ask your mom. I ain’t figured it yet.”

It’s magic and you don’t want to know

just how it’s done. It would ruin the show.

You’ve just got to believe ’cause believing is what makes it happen.

Oh, it’s nothing but magic.

My senior year is always hazy. All I remember is Lynn. She consumed every moment of my life. All I wanted in life was the next day because it meant I could spend it with her. As life should have become more serious for me, it became even more of a pipe dream. I was going to be famous and rich and happy with my girlfriend.

Lynn, however, became bored. I was nice and I had a job and some money, but maybe I was a little too responsible. When she told me she was pregnant, I was pretty happy and she was a little stunned at my reaction. The look in her eyes told me she felt trapped. It was clear she didn’t want to be stuck with this dependable but boring guy.

Other guys came into the picture. Better looking, more exciting guys. She flirted with them the way she no longer flirted with me. People talked behind my back about her running around. I felt her slipping away from me. I became more and more obsessed with not losing her. I rented an apartment from one of my former teachers at Freedom High so that we could have our own place, but that scared her worse than anything and we broke up.

I went to the wedding ceremony in her parent’s house. She was very pregnant in a long, red flower print dress standing next to a leather jacketed Kurt Bradshaw. He was ragged looking with his scruffy beard and long blond ponytail. He didn’t have a job, but he did have a motorcycle. Still, her parents seemed somewhat relieved. At least he was white.

I tried to stay friends with Lynn. I talked to her as often as I could. I kept track of the pregnancy. I left the summer apartment when Bert came back from sabbatical and moved into a two-bedroom shack with Tim Robertson. He even went to the hospital with me when the baby was born. Kurt Jason Bradshaw. Not Nicholas David we had agreed on only months before.

Everybody sympathized with me and told me how they knew what was going on but didn’t want to be the first to tell me. I went to work with my brother. We formed a construction company that specialized in re-stucco and concrete work. I stopped playing my guitar because everything that came out of it sounded sad. All my dreams of running away to New York with Lynn and becoming the next Bob Dylan withered away.

Six months went by. I didn’t see Lynn at all. One afternoon I came home and she called. Kurt had slapped her. Could she come stay with me? With hope renewed, I went to pick her up at Kurt’s. I packed her few possessions (she was still wearing the same clothes she wore in high school) and the additional baggage of baby blankets, diaper bag, bottles and of course, the baby into my Camero and headed back to the apartment. It was just going to be for a few days, she assured me and she made it clear that she was still married.

I moved a small mattress into a corner of Tim’s room and turned my room over to her. I respected her privacy, too timid to even hold her. Days turned into weeks and into months. Tim hated her. She didn’t clean house, she didn’t have a job and worst of all, she wasn’t sleeping with either of us. As far as he was concerned, she contributed nothing to the household.

After a few months, it was clear that Lynn was willing to break her marriage vows with a few of my friends, and eventually, Tim. It was also clear that she knew better than to start up again with me.

The one bright spot was that I got to be with my son. Shortly after Lynn brought Jason into the house, I bought him a Cookie Monster birthday cake to celebrate his sixth month birthday. Toothless, all he was able to enjoy was the bright blue icing. Changing his diapers for the next 24 hours was comical as the bright blue icing worked its way through him.

After Lynn moved into Tim’s room, I had the chance to move back into my room and for some reason, Lynn left Jason there on a small mattress next to mine. For weeks after he learned to crawl, he was my alarm clock, waking early and crawling into bed with me. I was startled into conciseness when he wet himself at the start of the day.

My most clear memory of Jason was lying on my bed in the early morning, the house quiet except for his laughter as I gently tossed him into the air. At some point, I held him at arm’s length and studied him. I realized that he was a tiny perfect copy of a man. I examined his hands, his feet, his arms and his legs. He had tiny fingernails and fingerprints, miniature wrists, elbows and shoulders. His nose, eyes, lips and mouth all moved just the way anyone’s would. His hair was finer and his little teeth were perfect. He was human.

Well the years have been hard and the years have been kind.

These past years have taken both parents of mine.

Some things you can change with a wave of your hand

And there are so many things I still don’t understand.

But in a hospital gown standing next to my wife

I’m watching this miracle coming to life.

It’s magic and you don’t want to know

just how it’s done. It would ruin the show.

You’ve just got to believe ’cause believing is what makes it happen.

Oh, it’s nothing but magic.

I started to sing and write again. Not everything that came out of my guitar was happy, but at least I had something new to write about.

Sometime later, I moved out. I traveled to Memphis for a few weeks to try and re-kindle the dream of becoming a famous folk musician, but it was clear that I was not as good as I had believed myself to be. What’s more, I was unwilling to put in the effort to become even a marginal musician.

When I returned home, I dropped into Tim and Lynn’s apartment. Jason recognized me immediately. I bounced him on my lap for hours.

Lynn and Tim moved sometime later. They bought a home near downtown and I decided to file for paternity. At that point, I was no longer welcome in their house. Many of my friends stuck by me. They told Tim if I wasn’t welcome, they would not feel welcome either, but I couldn’t go back. It was just way too uncomfortable.

Twenty-five years ago, there was no DNA testing and blood tests were unreliable. I had heard about a test called an HLA that was being used in California in criminal cases. It was said that it could determine a person’s identity from a blood sample with better than ninety percent certainty. The problem was that there was no existing law in the state of New Mexico to allow this test.

My attorney went to work on the problem. He contacted state legislators he knew and finally got one of them to introduce a bill making this test legal. The benefit to the state would be that they would now be able to make fathers financially responsible for their children, thereby easing the burden of the state welfare roles. The strategy worked and the bill sailed through the legislature in one session. My attorney had always had some political savvy. He’s a district judge these days and I believe that he never billed me for the full amount of time he spent on my case.

I finally got my day in court. The most painful part of the process was having Jason give blood for a paternity test. He screamed in agony when they stuck the needle into him. Lynn scolded me royally for that at the hospital, but the court had ordered it. There was nothing she could do.

On the day we were to go before the judge, Lynn spoke to me for only the second time since I had filed for paternity. In the hallway, before the hearing she asked me why it was that I wanted to screw up Jason’s life. I didn’t answer. In the hearing, my attorney set the results of the test before the judge. Our witness interpreted the results saying that the results showed there was a ninety-eight percent probability that I was Jason’s father. Our entire presentation took less than ten minutes.

Kurt testified on Lynn’s behalf, saying that there was no point in taking a kid away from his family. He didn’t seem to know that I didn’t want custody, just a chance to visit. Finally, Lynn’s attorney wrapped up his side of the case. His argument went something like this: If you took a disassembled typewriter, a monkey and a ream of paper and throw them off of a one hundred-story building, there is a “probability” that the monkey will assemble the typewriter and write a novel before he hits the ground. I knew I had won.

In the hallway, during the recess, Lynn’s attorney stormed up to me. He was large, imposing, 6’4″ tall with silver hair slicked back on his head. “You know” he said, “if you win this, we’re going to ask for back child support for the past 4 years.” I looked past him to Lynn and said clearly, “It’s all in the bank.” He turned on his heel and walked back toward his client.

In the courtroom, the judge conceded that our evidence was strong and that despite the current family situation, I indeed had a right to visit with the child. It was so ordered that I would be allowed to see Jason twice a week for four hours. Lynn never spoke to me again.

As weeks went by, I saw Jason. After six months, Lynn and Tim started to make it tougher to see him, saying the times I had chosen were inconvenient or interfering with the household. I took them back to court and this time the judge decided that “in the best interests of the child” I would only be allowed to see Jason twice a year. I never saw him again.

Lynn and Tim went on with their lives. They had another son and I always had my suspicion that he was not Tim’s child, but only they know that for sure. Year’s later, Tim and Lynn divorced. I went to see him after this happened and he was vague about what had happened to their marriage but he assured me that it had nothing to do with what I had put them through.

A few years later, I saw Tim and asked if he had seen Lynn. He told me that she had come to see him at work and that when she came into the office, she looked as pretty as she ever had and he thought that day they might still have a chance to get back together. Unfortunately, she was only there to tell him that despite their divorce settlement, she was finding it hard to live on the alimony he was paying and that she was going back to court to ask for more. He told me he stopped loving her that day.

When Lynn remarried, Tim had already hooked up with a girl ten of fifteen years younger than him He had finally stopped paying alimony to Lynn when this new girl got pregnant, left him and sued for child support. He had to start paying that money all over again. He looks so much older than he should.

Somewhere along the way, my fight over Jason stopped being about being his father and turned into a flag of self-righteousness and a tool to elicit sympathy. I spent the money I had saved for him. I occasionally drove through the neighborhoods that I believed Lynn might be living in, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. It was more important to me that Jason believe I had done the right thing than he believed me to be his father, although I wouldn’t have known what to say if I had ever found him. I’m sure I would have chickened out at the last minute.

Still, I believed that God had promised me that if I was a good man, that I would see my son again someday. I clung to this promise even though I know in my heart what a corrupt man I have been and continue to be. For my sake, God has been more forgiving than exacting.

–He does not deal with us according to our sins,

nor repay us according to our iniquities.

¹¹ For as the heavens are high above the earth,

so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him;

¹² as far as the east is from the west,

so far he removes our transgressions from us.–

.–Psalm 103: 10-12

God has kept his promise. And He has used your father, Tim, as the instrument to deliver you to me. Imagine that. A man I despised for so many years. A man who had paid the terrible price I never had to pay has brought you back to me.

I am forty-seven years old and I have you to deal with in my life. It is what I have always wanted. It is what I have always dreaded. It is guilt and joy and shame and regret all rolled up into a ball that sits in my gut from the moment I wake until the moment I fall to sleep.

“God thank you for the things you have given me, the things you have taken away and the things that you have left for me.” It is a simple prayer that reminds me that God has led me when I have been willing to follow, blessed me mightily all my life and that my only loss has come where I have walked away from Him. Still, He has never abandoned me, is patient with me and continues to bless me despite my obstinacy.

So how do I feel about you? At first I have to say that I don’t know anything about you except what I see superficially, and I have to keep from making the same judgements that other people must make about you. I’m sure that there is more there than meets the eye, but I’ve never been one to get much further than first impressions. I either like you or I don’t. At the moment, I can’t make up my mind and that’s something that is unusual for me.

When I look at you, I see your mother. Her smile, her eyes, her attitude. She was sharp tongued and argumentative. Her wit always turned on puns or word play. You seem to have that ability at another level.

You have her bohemian sensibility. She wore the same clothes every day; jeans and a long sleeve, gray knit top in the winter and fall, a small red halter-top and the same ragged blue jeans in the spring and summer. She never wore underwear and she always wore these great big hiking boots we used to call waffle-stompers, and occasionally sneakers when she wasn’t barefoot altogether. She showered when she wanted, combed her hair if she felt like it and roughhoused with everyone in tomboy fashion.

She made the same choices about men that you do about women, choosing people that are insecure for one reason or another. The insecure person makes an ideal mate. They will do anything you ask, overlook every flaw, forgive every insult and follow you to ruin. They’ll make apologies and excuses, ignore destructive habits and believe any lie. They do this because they believe wholeness comes from acceptance. With luck, a person grows out of this.

All of your mother’s lovers believed that they had stumbled into the greatest love of their lives when in fact they had fallen, or perhaps were pushed, deeper into that pit of inadequacy. It takes years to recover from that kind of love.

Unfortunately, it always ends the same, with both parties finding themselves trapped in a relationship that neither can extricate themselves from, one afraid that love will never find them again and the other ashamed of the damage that will surely be done to someone once loved. I know this because I have lived on both sides of these relationships.

I don’t hate your mother. I did spend years hating her, resenting her, blaming her and even missing her. I forgave her in my heart long ago and it is one of my greatest regrets that I was never able to get her to forgive me. I am greatly responsible for the life she has lived. Had I not given in to my lust, she may have had other options in life, at least early on. I don’t really think of her anymore except when she pops up in my dreams occasionally. She’s always 17 to me.

When I look at you, I see myself as a young man. My problem is that I was never happy as that young man. In hindsight, I see that I was selfish and shallow, hollow and lazy. I was someone who took for granted all of the people around me and never made restitution for the wrong I did. I never took responsibility for my own actions and years later it is almost too late to make good the debt.

Although you are decidedly different, I wonder if I have left you a legacy of disdain that you can’t escape. Had I put more effort into fighting for you, I might not feel the remorse that I do today. After years of putting the thought of you aside, I believed that maybe I had dodged a bullet and that losing you had really been a good thing. I convinced myself that you were somehow better off without me. How selfish of me to make you carry that feeling of abandonment throughout your youth. And now my legacy may be that I gave you the tools to create the indifference that I so completely embraced.

Part of me worries that you’ll use me. That you’ll become complacent and ignore who I am and who I could be to you. I look at you and I know it’s a place you’ve been before.

Your mother is clever. I’ll bet she still thinks of me as a sucker. She could smell one a mile away. I have the smallest suspicion that she pointed you in my direction throughout your adolescence, always rejecting my existence with just enough theatre to make it credible. A 2^nd father conspiracy that is made all the more believable by denial. Years of exhaustion or desperation may have brought you here more than curiosity.

You have her positive qualities as well. Strength, intelligence and a hunger for answers. Grit and determination to soldier on even when the direction you’re going may be the wrong direction. You would rather hammer your way through life on your own terms rather than change direction or take one step backward. Admirable, but foolish. Still, it is only my opinion and one formed with only a few hours of observation. I can help, but I doubt that you want my help.

It has always been my feeling that a child should hope to recognize the mistakes their parents made and try to avoid them. The fact is that most children become their parents despite their best efforts to run away from their legacy. Like Jonah sailing away from Ninevah, we are swallowed by the whale and spit up on shore at a destination least desired.

What dreams sprouted in your head with my absence? What dreams were revoked? What conclusion exposed? I’m sure I must have seemed better as smoke, as a myth. How disappointed you must be.

What’s the Deal?

Jose Antonio Ponce — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 05:28:39 +0000

“What’s the deal with boobs?” she asked me quite frankly.

“What is it about them that men like so much?

“Well…” I replied, “They’re really quite nice.

They’re smooth and soft and lovely to touch.

They’re God’s perfect circles, or haven’t you noticed?

Their design is un-matched. They’re meant to appeal.

No two are the same and all quite exquisite.

They attract our attention whether clothed or revealed.

They’re smooth, seamless curves in all shapes and sizes.

And all men are slaves to these beautiful orbs.

A man leaves his family. A king abdicates.

Just a glimpse and were lost. Completely absorbed.

I believe this is where the term nuzzle came from.

Such a comfortable word. How can it not be?

Men wish just to possess a set all their own.

And they just look so right in a form fitting tee.”

“You’re not helping.” She said, in a judgmental tone.

“I mean, really, all this fuss about two globes of skin.

They’re quite inconvenient. At least that’s my take.

It’s like raising a pair of troublesome twins.

Must I always have to call your attention

up toward my face and away from my chest?

It’s like walking around with a target on me.

They always cause trouble. A distraction at best.”

“You have to admit that they have value to you.

For certain a price above rubies or pearls.

And we’re just fine with this. Really, we are.

The world is yours for a glimpse of the girls.

Psychological jargon clutters every discussion.

Freud had his theories about why all the bother.

“It goes back to childhood, zis bosom fixzation.”

Disturbing ideas about loving one’s mother.

The Oedipus complex. Breast-fed or not.

Most men believe that to be so much nonsense.

We just want to see them. Is that really that hard?

But achieving them does not come without recompense.

Marriage, of course, is the ultimate price.

A soft comfy prison where we’ll never be free.

All because of this fear that the last pair of breasts

will indeed be the last pair that we’ll ever see.

It’s a cruel, wicked joke that we react as we do

We take leave of our senses. Flat out lose our minds.

And all women learn this at one time or another.

How completely they have conquered all of mankind

I really can’t say why men love boobs so much.

As far as deals go, it’s not all that big.

We like women, that’s all. They’re soft and their pretty.

It’s not true that we’re all just a bunch of foul pigs.

If I had to imagine a world without breasts

it would be a sad place without tenderness, sure.

Women would go without any attention

and men would be sullen and without any cure.

It’s a wonderful tradeoff when you think about it.

You have all this power to make men do your will.

Superficial it seems, we’re content just to please you

for a chance at that one thing that gives us a thrill.

I can’t stop myself. Human nature I guess.

For you are a beautiful woman and blessed.

I will always see you in the light of this beauty.

And always find myself insanely obsessed.”

MGM ‘lion’ picks Macau over Atlantic City

Muhammad Cohen — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 17:34:22 +0000

A couple of years ago, I visited Atlantic City to write a feature as a special correspondent for Macau Business magazine. My only previous visit to Atlantic City had been to try out for Jeopardy about 15 years earlier, when I took the test, ate the buffet at Merv Griffin’s hotel (Merv also produced Jeopardy), and drove straight home.

Atlantic City was depressing back then, like the Louis Malle film of the same name, and it was still sad when I returned. The few bright spots included Angelo’s Fairmont Tavern, a red brick Italian restaurant with great fish and a signed photo of Frank Sinatra over the bar; The Quarter, a Cuban themed mall at The Tropicana, though the hotel had been seized by regulators en route to its third owner in about as many years after a bankruptcy; and Borgata, the newest, biggest and fanciest casino in town that brought Las Vegas style and customers under 60 to Atlantic City.

Last week, MGM Mirage announced that it would sell its 50 percent stake in Borgata to settle a five year long probe by New Jersey casino regulators into its Macau partnership with Pansy Ho, the daughter of Macau casino mogul Stanley Ho. State investigators deemed the younger Ho an “unsuitable” partner for MGM. In the wake of that finding, MGM chose Macau over Atlantic City and kept its partnership with Pansy Ho, as I wrote in Asia Times.

“Absolutely the right decision for MGM,” IGamiX managing partner Ben Lee told me. “Asia is a short, medium and long term growth story. The States is a mature market. If MGM gave up Macau, they would find it extremely difficult to get back in again, and nobody in Asia would ever take them seriously after that.”

The kicker is the report from New Jersey investigators skewers MGM for ignoring its own findings about Stanley Ho’s underworld ties and his relationship with Pansy Ho, and for being less than forthright with casino regulators. The report gives a whole new meaning to MGM lion besides that 63 ton bronze sculpture of Leo outside the MGM Grand Macau.

But MGM doesn’t seem to think its dishonesty matters, even though it runs highly regulated businesses in several other jurisdictions, is listed on the New York Stock Exchange, and hopes to get another stock listing in Hong Kong this year. MGM acts as if its settlement with New Jersey puts that corporate duplicity, now in plain public view, behind it; instead, perhaps the report should lead investors and regulators ask, “If MGM lied to New Jersey, how can we be sure it’s not lying to us?” Otherwise MGM’s apparent deceit and arrogance will keep paying off.

DOING WHAT IS RIGHT

timbryce — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 10:54:08 +0000

As we grow up, we are taught the difference between right and wrong. Even in the absence of effective parenting, a growing problem in this day and age, children look to schools, their religious institutions, their clubs and peers, and the media for answers. Teachers are typically overburdened, attendance at church has diminished to approximately 40% of the populace, the media is more inclined to promote sex and violence as opposed to morality, and there is a steady resurgence of juvenile gang related problems in recent years. It’s not until we are older, and more mature, when the difference is made clear to us. Even then, it remains fuzzy to some of us.

I’m not here to preach dogma, only to try and articulate how we learn the differences between the two. Perhaps the most influential philosophy in this regards is “The Golden Rule” whereby we are admonished to “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” This is a fundamental part of modern human rights and a philosophy embraced by all religions. Yet, it is something we have moved away from in recent times as people have become more self-centered due to socioeconomic influences; e.g., greed and competition.

In the corporate world, for example, there is more of an inclination to establish “Win-Lose” relationships as opposed to “Win-Win,” as professed by the late quality assurance consultant W. Edwards Deming. Under “Win-Lose,” in order for one party to succeed, another party must fail. Deming challenged this rationale and questioned what is wrong with establishing “Win-Win” relationships whereby both parties succeed. He often cited the story of the project to make NYLON, the well known synthetic polymer, which was developed by two groups working in cooperation, one from New York (NY) and another from London (LON), hence the name. Joining forces, was simply the right thing to do.

Pursuant to Deming’s work, I have learned that the only type of business deal to enter into is a situation where both parties benefit, not just one. If one party prospers at the expense of the other, it is simply not worth it. Consequently, integrity and trust are key elements for “Win-Win,” two important socialization skills that seem to be diminishing. There is nothing wrong with tough negotiations, but when a deal is struck, you must have confidence that the other party if going to uphold their end of the bargain.

Doing the right thing is not always easy; in fact, it can be rather painful which is one reason why some people avoid it and take the most expeditious way out. For example, people would rather find a loophole than pay a creditor what is rightfully due them. Doing what is right isn’t always profitable either, as we discovered when we made the decision to move our business from Cincinnati, Ohio to the Tampa Bay area of Florida. At the time, we had several employees and when we finally made the decision to move the company, we offered them two choices, either we would help them find a new job locally or pay their relocation expenses to Florida. Keep in mind, we were not required to do either, but felt it was the right thing to do. Economically, it would have been cheaper to terminate everyone and recruit new personnel in Florida, but this was not the route we took. From this perspective, doing “right” means accommodating others, not just yourself.

Doing what is right requires moral fiber which comes from learned behavior. In the absence of parenting and formal teachings, it is learned through the social mores of the people we come in contact with, regardless if they are positive or negative role models. In other words, in order to adapt to a social group, be it a vicious gang or a Cub Scout pack, we will gravitate towards and emulate those we perceive as confident leaders or those with particular talents we admire, hence the need for positive role models. This also means the media has a moral responsibility to our culture. If they depict unsavory characters with questionable moral integrity in a favorable light, the actions of these characters will be envied and emulated. Yes, life can definitely imitate art.

So, is doing the right thing “right” for you? That depends on your perceptions and priorities. Understand this though, doing what is right is more than just adhering to the legal laws of the land. It’s also a matter of adhering to the moral values you have personally adopted. Now for the big question, how does your morality compare to what society expects; is it better, worse, or nothing more than the status quo? Hopefully, it is better. Doing “right” requires perseverance and an intolerance for what is “wrong.” Bottom line, can you look yourself in the mirror with any regrets?

Keep the Faith!

Note: All trademarks both marked and unmarked belong to their respective companies.

Tim Bryce is the Managing Director of M. Bryce & Associates (MBA) of Palm Harbor, Florida and has over 30 years of experience in the management consulting field. He can be reached at timb001@phmainstreet.com

For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm

The Man on the Horse- Do We Care How He Smells?

Minnette Coleman — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 20:57:41 +0000

To be honest I like the latest, hottest commercial on television because it is funny, not because the man selling the product is good looking from head to toe and has a voice that could whisper in my ear anytime. The sensuality is a plus. But it is a good commercial, it’s a funny commercial and the actor went so over the top that he created a character that has 2 millions views on YouTube.

And he’s on a horse.

When I first saw it I couldn’t believe the creativity Old Spice allowed the guys that wrote this to have. It is a marketing dream, appealing to both men and women. He is the man you want your man to smell like. Because, let’s face it, most men are not going to ever look like Isaiah Mustafa (the actor in the commercial). It is the point of the commercial. This very stuck -up character is actually trying to help couples out by telling them: “Pay close attention to this African King-like torso, regal manner, sexy voice and perfect diction. You cannot have me or anyone like me. You man cannot be me or anyone like me. But if he washes with the same thing I wash with, he can smell like me and doesn’t that wet your fantasies just enough to go out and purchase what could make him close to me?”

He’s in a shower, then on a boat, then riding backwards on a horse. A real horse! Does he look good? Damn right! Does he smell good? How the hell do I know. But he made his point and he made it well. You can’t have this chocolate wonder but maybe you can have someone who smells like it.

Did some women rush out and buy Old Spice Body Wash for men after they saw that commercia? Of course they did. Men are always looking at lingerie ads with gorgeous women and then on birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Christmas, even Mother’s Day, guys will show up with the pink bag from you-know-who and give it as a gift. It is usually filled with tiny lingerie that is impossible for women of any size to get in or out off, but they are not looking at the woman they are with when they buy it or even when she puts it on. They are looking at the girl in the ad. They are buying a part of a fantasy. Doesn’t matter to them if you like it or not, they didn’t really buy it for you. They bought it for a pleasure of the mind. It’s the only time they are going to actual get the woman they want and can’t have, and, for the most part probably can’t afford.

So in comes the guy on a horse to rescue men from usuing their ladies sweet scented soaps and body washes and women from the tedious commercials that hint that men smell more like socks worn for a month than the once enticing pheromones that captured your interest. The last line in the commercial is “I’m on a horse” and that is so important. Sexually it eludes to all kind of fantasies for women. Comparisons in proportions, f or those of you not paying attention. In the romance department it works as well. How many romance novels have a damsel being rescued by a handsome man on a horse? Sure a horse is a means of transportation. So is the boat. But the boat symbolizes the money your man probably doesn’t have to buy you the tickets to things you want but they can’t remember or the jewels you were hoping to get from him before old age set in and you couldn’t test them with your real teeth or wear them without riding around in your wheel chair. The commercial gives a woman every fantasy she could hope for in a man: clean, well built, rich and well hung. At least that’s my less the prurient view of it.

Cause he is on a horse.

Hey, I congratulate Old Spice for a real winner. And Mr. Mustafa (wasn’t that the name of the father in “The Lion King?” I rest my case!) is a great find for the screen. It’s a funny commercial but it makes a lot of points. In the end the truth is, ladies, do we really care how that guy smells when he rides into our lives on a horse?

An African Love Story: When Love came calling (Part One)

Lara Daniels — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 11:45:10 +0000

She noticed him staring at her through the window. Uncomfortably, she shifted. First on one foot, then the other, as she dizzyingly became aware of his intense scrutiny. Boss lady was coming any time soon and if she found this stranger staring at her through her precious shop windows, she would throw a fit. Suddenly angry at the brazen look this man was giving her, she turned to give him a reproachful glance of her own and mouthed the words “Rude. Rude to stare.” The man only smiled in return, a self –assured grin that maddened her only more. She saw him shrug nonchalantly and before she could take her next breath, realized that he was coming into the shop…heading straight for her. She stiffened.
“Come over here.” She suddenly heard Boss-lady scream at her from somewhere in the midst of the stacked boxes that lay by the corner.
“Yes ma.” She replied with alacrity, her reverie broken by the commanding tone of her Boss.
“Why do you never listen, Anwasia?” the fat lady bellowed at her employee, her jowls shaking with violence, which really was her normal look any given day.
“Yes ma.” The other one replied questioningly.
Boss-lady hissed in derision. “I keep telling you not to stack these boxes here. But do you listen? No. You don’t listen. You must stand there, by the counter, dreaming away your life. Other girls your age are getting married, but for you, no. You are lost in your own world. You are a disgrace, I tell you. A huge disgrace.”
“Yes ma.” She replied unfeelingly. This was the order of the day: Boss lady telling her how she was nothing but a no-good.
“Carry them boxes over there, stupid girl.”
“Yes ma.”
“And then come over here and manage shop. God knows you are worth nothing more than a penny. I swear to God, I wonder why I took you from your mother to come to the city to serve me. You have no looks to draw customers in. And you are too dumb to hold on to a conversation. Why did I have to curse myself with you?”
“Yes ma.” She replied. She was used to this daily rants. If Boss lady never ranted at her, then there had to be something sinisterly wrong.
“I am going for a drink.” The big woman announced.
“Yes ma.”
“Excuse me. But let me help you with that.”
Both she and Boss-Lady looked up at the same time to view the young man who had walked in unnoticed. It was the same man that had been staring at her through the window for the last thirty minutes or so. She gasped.
However, in her numb state, she could feel Boss-lady studying the stranger. Up close, he really was a handsome man. About five feet eight with a slightly heavy build. He almost looked like a street fighter with his physique, emanating a quietly fiery spirit. He still had the same amused grin on his face – the one she had seen plastered on his face when she realized he was walking into the shop. He could not have been more than thirty, but there was a youthful sparkle in those brown eyes of his’
Boss lady was all smiles now. She only smiled when she could smell money. And Anwasia knew she had a good nose for detecting currency.
“Mister. I can help you. What do you want to buy today?”
“Something special.” The man replied seriously, but Anwasia could detect the devilish gleam in his eyes.“Everything here is special. “ Boss lady replied, rubbing her hands in glee. She could tell she would make a fantastic sale today.
“Not everything.” The man replied. He was suddenly all hauteur as he spoke and it was only then that Anwasia noticed that he had the arrogant look of the military officers that had oppressed the nation with frequent coup de tats, causing political instability and economic turmoil in the country.
“I want only the item on special sale. The one that is worth nothing more than a penny.”
“Okay sir. What is it sir?” Boss-lady said, deep disappointment suddenly etching her face.
The next statement the man made left both women utterly stunned, leaving her numb, too frozen to move, as boss lady gasped in shock.
“This girl. Right here.” He replied without further ado.

What is Nudity?

Bob Grant - Editor — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 14:06:13 +0000

What is Nudity?

by Bob Grant

This seems to be the consensus definition of Nudity:

noun: the state of being without clothing or covering of any kind.

Someone, very special to me, sent out a harmless Valentine’s Day JibJab video. Someone else wrote something about there was an impression of nudity in this video – they try to keep their kids from seeing things like this. If you are not familiar with the website JibJab it is a place with funny videos that can be altered to put friends, relatives, pets, etc. faces on the characters in the video. In this particular video – one about Romeo and Juliet – there was about a second’s worth of video where the Juliet character showed a small amount of cleavage. By either dictionary – or common sense – definition it certainly was not Nudity.

Where is Nudity appropriate? Well, I certainly don’t take a shower with my clothes on nor was I born with them on either. Is it Nudity if no one sees it – something along the lines if a tree falls in the forest (but no one is there) does it make a sound? By the person’s definition above – of nudity – one can just look at TV shows, commercials, reality episodes, etc. to get a real look at Nudity. Just walk down the street and Nudity is walking around everywhere – think “Pants on the Ground.” My wife and I were in a restaurant the other day when a woman came bouncing in – almost out (if you get my drift) – so that all could see her “Nudity” we assumed? I am not certain how one shields their children from this type of attack of Nudity? Maybe blinders or a cage?

Is there good Nudity and bad Nudity? Is a butt crack Nudity? Where does one set the limit at the definition of Nudity? Short of a Nudist Colony – I am certain there is not a place on this earth where one can go without seeing some sort of Nudity and some sort of fractured definition of it. Do we accept the good Nudity and turn out (not look at) the bad Nudity? Where does one draw the line? Maybe good old common sense – on behalf of both the lookee and the looker – might be the answer here?

Wit, satire and forgery

Tim Roux — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 11:21:37 +0000

As you know, we have a hacker who turns up on this site from time-to-time.

As you may not know, we also have a wit-cum-satirist-cum-forger who is now regularly in the habit of changing other people’s postings to satirise them.

Whilst I am delighted that the guy has a sense of humour somewhat absent from his substantive work, and while I delight in satire labelled as satire, I do have some doubts about people changing other people’s posts here.

Example #1

Hi I am Prentiss Gray, jerk number #2. Just check out my comments and postings thoughout the site. I work hard on being the number #2 jerk of the site.

Example #2

Jerk #1 here.

Hi, my name is Tim Roux. I am the number one jerk who lives in a foreign country. I spend most of my time trashing other folks postings. I am basically anti-Chrisitian, and make as much fun of other posters that are in that vain as much as I can. Since I never served in the military for any country, I also enjoy making fun of any American who has served honorably in the U.S. Military. Check out my postings on this site, and decide you really want to deal with my lousy attitude toward life and people on a daily basis, whenever you post a commentary or poem on this site.

Funnily enough, I’ll go along with most of what this forger wrote.

Yes, I am a foreigner, which may of course be a shameful thing even if it might appear to be marginally excusable on an international writers’ site.

Sure I am a jerk. You may have heard the actor Alastair Sim’s story of someone saying to him “Alastair, you are a fool.” He thought about this statement for a while and then he decided “Yes, I am”, and was happy ever after.

Do I trash other people’s postings? Yes, from time-to-time. I support many too in a ratio of 1:4, I would guess (one trash to 4 supports).

Am I anti-Christian? Often. I believe that Christians with their blood lust and devotion to hell fire have created much misery on this earth. Am I negatively critical of Christ? Absolutely not. He was a great man, philosopher and quite possibly the incarnation of the loving God. Freddy Nietzsche took the same position as I am here (or vice-versa, more likely).

Do I make fun of the military? I think killing and torturing people is not a very Christian act and that most wars are utterly unjustified. I also find it hard to believe that any Christian would delegate his or her moral responsibility to a superior officer. I personally would never join the armed forces of any country and the US has certainly fought some very dubious wars in the last 50 years – Korea, Vietnam, Latin America (covertly), Iraq #2 and Afghanistan in particular.

So, all-in-all, what my forger wrote satirising me was unobjectionable, but it does concern me that he chose to do it in my name rather than his.

And Prentiss Gray is not the Son of God. He is just a naughty boy.

The Haitian Earthquake and Religious Zealotry.

Femi Olawole — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 04:15:02 +0000

Some years back, I used to have an acquaintance whose devotion to the cause of animals was legendary. Susan Page (not real name) had a couple of dogs and a cat. These were very cute animals, going by the photographs displayed on Page’s desk at work. Here was a woman who not only loved her animals but also dotted on them like babies.

One afternoon, a sobbing Page returned from a lunch break with tears flowing down her cheeks. Almost everyone around her thought she must have got some bad news about the untimely demise of a loved one. And when asked what the problem was, the woman, amidst sobs, finally revealed the source of her anguish. As she was pulling into the parking lot, a call came from a close friend. And during their conversation, she learned that the friend’s cat had died suddenly from an undisclosed ailment. Everyone was aghast!

Susan Page loved animals so much that she would not eat meat. Not even a hamburger! As a committed vegetarian, she would openly frown at anyone eating meat. It was therefore not uncommon to hear Page make rude remarks such as referring to another person as a murderer all because that person had the “audacity” to eat steak around her. Fortunately though, Price worked among individuals who were very tolerant of her antics on the issue of animals.

Everything however changed in the aftermath of the unfortunate Hurricane Katrina in 2005. According to statistics, Hurricane Katrina was the costliest in addition to being one of the five deadliest, in the history of the United States.

As the whole world empathized and mourned with the United States, Susan Page did something that stunned her colleagues and acquaintances. On that fateful day, almost everyone packed the large lunch room to follow the Hurricane Katrina events on the TV.

Suddenly, Page walked into the room and proceeded to wonder aloud why everyone was “making so much fuss over nothing!” At that moment, someone reminded her that the object of attraction in the lunch room was the Hurricane Katrina.

“And so damn what?” Page retorted rudely. “The hurricane is God’s way of punishing the people of New Orleans for their evil ways…”

In a stunned reaction, everyone turned to stare at the woman as she concluded her grossly distasteful comment. While many chose to ignore her rants, a few others engaged her in some bitter arguments. But Page was not the least remorseful.

Later, she came over to ask if I knew how sinful were the people of New Orleans? But before I could answer, she went on anyway to “educate” me.

“According to my Pastor…” she stated gleefully. “We, as Christians, should consider the Hurricane Katrina as punishment for all the evil stuffs that took place in New Orleans.”

“Really?” I sneered. “For someone who weeps like a baby over the death of a cat, it’s quite unfortunate to see how callous you are when it comes to the deaths of fellow humans.”

That was 2005.

Now, we are in the year 2010. The world is confronted with another natural disaster in the Haitian earthquake. And, as usual, the “holier than thou” section of the Christendom has been busy sneering and gloating over the human carnage which is attributed to sin.

It’s amazing how most people, the world over, quickly think of Islamic fanatics whenever the word “terrorism” comes up. But, in all fairness, the Christian fundamentalists are just like the Islamic fanatics in “modus operandi”. Members of the two groups of religious extremists only need to hear the sermons of their posturing, all-knowing Imams or Pastors to seek the blood of those they consider “unbelievers”.

In retrospect though, I have since found myself sympathizing with every religious extremist. My sympathy arises from the knowledge that victims of religious dogmatism and bigotry are as hapless and pathetic as the victims of natural disasters.

Persecuting Christians

Tim Roux — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 10:37:56 +0000

In all fairness (which I slip into sometimes entirely by accident), this piece is not exclusively about Christians; it is about all people who describe themselves as ‘devout’ and then promote hatred and persecution of others. There are some people who describe themselves as ‘devout’ who really are (and who are very special people indeed), but tragically they seem to be outnumbered rather significantly by the ersatz version.

Over the last 2,000 years, self-labelling ‘devout’ Christians, ‘devout’ Muslims, ‘devout’ Jews, devout ‘Hindus’ and ‘devout’ Buddhists (even) have been responsible for most of the world’s suffering.

On an everyday level, and in nearly all cases, the established churches have enthusiastically acted as an insidious secret police network for the state. The Spanish Inquisition is perhaps the most notorious example of this tendency, but it has been true of the established churches in almost every country in the world, including the Vatican.

From their pulpits they have not only breathed ruler-fire but also hell-fire. If you do not fear and obey the strategic dictats of the established church, you will be ex-communicated and doomed to eternal torture of the soul. I don’t know a lot about the Prophet Mohammed, but I am fairly sure that neither Jesus the Christ nor the various Buddhas were much into eternal damnation, but the minor fact that they were contradicting their luminaries all the way down the line doesn’t seem to have troubled the consciences of the leaders of the established churches at all.

Middle-Eastern and Western European colonialism were both justified by the will of Allah / God. It was all about spreading the Muslim / Christian word of civilisation, murdering and / or subjugating the locals, and robbing them blind. In South America, those ‘devoutest’ of all Christians, the Spanish Conquistadors, unleashed a genocide that destroyed almost the entire population there one way or another. Much the same thing happened in the US, where God-fearing men and women ripped the Native Indians to pieces, across Africa, across Asia. There hasn’t been a coloniser who hasn’t been discovered on his knees hosanna-ing the Lord whenever anybody else was looking.

Church leaders justified slavery by declaring the slaves to be lesser beings, quoting the Pentateuch of the Old Testament which sanctioned slavery. The Vatican persecuted the Liberation Theologists in South America for demanding that their church be more active in helping the desperately poor.

In the 1930s and 1940s, those nice Christian Germans murdered six million Jews, homosexuals and gipsies. In 1914-1918, those nice Christian Europeans, God on all sides, murdered each other by the million.

Jesus the Christ said “When your neighbour strikes you, turn the other cheek”, or something like that. One of our problems with God is that he is the least bureaucratic paper-pushing entity around – he never directly commits himself to print – so we have to rely on hearsay from biased observers playing Chinese whispers. Anyway, the ‘turn the other cheek’ philosophy is accepted by most Christians, yet what do we find? We find that the armed forces are full of military chaplains who for most of history have been standing there praying sonorously that the enemy will be ripped to pieces in the ensuing battle(s). They have a little more sense of shame nowadays, praying that in the conflict to come everybody will be kept safe on both sides of the war, but it has to be admitted that their stance is at best preposterous. If military chaplains spend their time in the various messes parading around with banners begging the soldiers to desert the army because the Christ has taught that they should turn the other cheek rather than fight, I have not heard of it.

In the US, conservative Christians are at the forefront of the persecution of homosexuals, the ritual execution of murderers, the carrying and distribution of guns, and the harassment (and assassination) of those involved in abortions. Members of the Klu Klux Klan proclaim themselves fervent Christians, and equally fervent Christians – KKK or otherwise – were to be found in the Deep South of the USA placing strange fruit struggling on trees and otherwise discriminating against black people and members of other minorities. The leaders of South African Apartheid were devoted to the furtherance of the Dutch Reformed Church. In many parts of South Africa it is laughably considered ‘unchristian’ to listen to rock music, to desire to talk to angels or to take homeopathy.

Yet, when those of us complain about Christians (and any other ‘devout’ people) pursuing vendettas against minorities, such as gays, whilst rabidly taking the lord’s name in vain, we are quickly met with a tears-in-the-eyes response about how persecuted Christians are.

Christians certainly have been persecuted – by the Romans, in the Soviet Union and in Communist China amongst others – but they have been a lot more efficient at persecuting each other, and at persecuting people they consider to be heathens and infidels.

I personally would strongly prefer that everyone follow a policy of ‘live and let live’ and in general that we should try to love one another as best we can, knowing that our thoughts, attitudes and behaviours will prove sub-optimal much of the time. I can endure bigots, whether neo-Nazis or homophobes spouting their poison and I mostly avoid getting too paranoid about them. However, I have the greatest difficulty with people who describe themselves as ‘devout’ Christians (and Jews / Muslims / Buddhists / Hindus / whatever) and yet who claim that God abominates and abhors this behaviour and that behaviour when he has never indicated anything of the sort. He has merely declared himself to be the God of love and forgiveness.

As a protocol, I would suggest that in future we give our opinions as our own and let God speak for himself. As a reputedly omniscient omnipotent being he must be capable of whispering in our ears if he wishes to advise us in our life path without enlisting some bigot with a megaphone to scream at us and then to light fires under us, real or metaphorical.

My Father’s Voice

Jose Antonio Ponce — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 15:52:30 +0000

My father’s voice sounded so small saying, “Son, please come home.”