Bill Rooney's Random Thoughts

On Terror

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 11:06:59 PDT

May you never get that call. - Me
********

This has nothing at all to do with that crisp September morning ten years ago.

September 10, 2011, a crisp September afternoon in AP,about 3pm. Just back from a brief family outing, and the boys have just left for a bike ride with a friend. A nap beckons.

The phone rings, and Bride answers. Son #1 is explaining to her that Son #2 has just been hit by a motorist, and that he is badly hurt. I am getting the gist of this, and as she hangs up, we're both racing for the door. Moments later, we arrive on the scene, and are advised by a friend in the fire department that he's conscious, and is heading to the hospital. Bride goes in the ambulance, Son #1 in the Jeep with me.

The stuff that goes through your head at times like these is staggering. The kid's been thrown 20-30 feet across the road by the impact, and as we go into the ER, he's already been admitted, and is being examined. The injuries are significant; a broken left ankle, left collarbone, right pelvis, and scrapes and cuts all over the place. He's made stable, and is lucid throughout. It is soon explained to us, however, that the extent of his trauma is such that he'll be moved from the local hospital to Albany Medical Center, whose facilities are much better suited to his type of injuries.

Long story short, we spend six days at Albany Med, followed by seven more at Sunnyview Rehab Center, before we get to bring him home September 23. He's in a wheelchair, owing to the hip-length cast on the left leg, and while he's thoroughly miserable about that, we are all by now aware he'll recovery fully over time. That we as a family have been extraordinarily lucky is manifest.

I thought I knew everything about this kid. I was wrong; I learned his strength of character, his toughness, and his sense of humor were far greater than I had thought. His first few days at Albany Med were very painful for him, and required some pretty heavy-duty medication. About day 4 there, the kid sharing the room with him had been operated on for something or another, and returns to the room just FLYING on pain meds. He's loud, and he's pretty silly. My kid simply looks at me, and whispers, "I'll have what he's having..."

The point of all of this? Damned if I know, but that I know I am so lucky, and so grateful to have him back. When I think of what could have been, I just shudder.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

POSTSCRIPT: November 4, 2011. The casts are off, the shoulder allows the use of crutches now, and Son #2 returns to school in three days. God has truly been good.

On Change (again)

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 12:39:12 PDT

"Turn and face the strange changes..." - David Bowie

"Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you." - Satchel Paige

********

We have written in this space before of the anachronism that is your intrepid scribe's working life. Essentially, the twenty-eight years of that career have been spent with Mother Bell, in one of many incarnations: New York Telephone, NYNEX, Bell Atlantic, and Verizon.

Absent some last-minute intervention, that will come to an end some fifty hours from now. Due to the effects of a reduction in force (RIF), a determination has been made that my services will not be required as of the close of business on August 5, 2011.

Those are the facts, and as it has always been my goal in this space to support one man's opinion with reasoned argument, I want to try to reflect without bitterness, and, hopefully, with a bit of good humor.

Twenty-eight years is a long time to do anything, especially within one corporate culture. Like anyone, I have done some things well, some things less well, and some things I wish I hadn't done at all. Hindsight is at once a remarkably useful, and a remarkably dangerous tool at times like these.

I have very few regrets. I've had the opportunity to travel a bit, and to support a family and home that I love deeply, and that is directly due to the stability that my time with Ma Bell has afforded me. I have made many lasting friendships in my time here, and I truly cherish all of them.

It has also been a pleasure to witness firsthand and up-close the change wrought by the coming of the Information Age, for my money the single greatest technological leap in human history. Without the network advancements put forth by my industry, those changes simply would not be feasible, and it has been a privilege to take a very small part in that.

Like any corporate culture, that of Verizon has undergone great change over the past thirty years. Divestiture, merger and acquisition, and the inherent advancement of the industry made such change inevitable. It's very easy for an individual observer to take a position that such change is "good" or "bad"; the truth (to me, anyway) is that it's far more intellectually honest to assess the changes individually, and with the perspective of what was happening at the time, rather than in hindsight. I'm of the opinion that the general calculus of business as a whole has changed so radically in my time that to take any other point of view would be sheer folly. The notion of "lifetime employment", fairly commonplace within my own lifetime, simply does not exist any longer, and even the most casual of observers can see that.

In sum, it would be easy for me to lob rhetorical hand grenades at Verizon for the inherent unfairness of my current situation. Uh-uh. Ain't happening. While I was surprised at the timing of this, I was by no means shocked by it; I've seen at least seven separate RIFs come down the pike in my fifteen years in management at Verizon, and while none of those affected me personally, I never failed to think to myself how short-sighted it always appeared at the time. The longer view here is one that I simply must adopt at this particular point. Fair or unfair is simply opinion, and not part of this particular equation.

There's a part of this that is undeniably scary; a fifty-one year-old guy hitting the job market in earnest for the first time in thirty years is admittedly a scary proposition. That said, and this may be deeply delusional on the part of your intrepid scribe, I'm oddly confident about this, and not a little excited as well. I had been stagnating a bit in my current position, and, if I'm going to be truly candid about this, that stagnation had to have become as apparent to others as it was to me. "Fair play", as Schlom used to say. In addition, there is, blessedly, no immediate urgency to find a new position; the offered severance package is attractive, and will do.

Instead, the fundamental question is "What's next?" I've been fortunate to have developed some experience that may be useful, and this world is filled with opportunities for those with the wit to find them. Further, I'm not even sure that I want telecom to be my main focus going forward; I've been indulging my more creative side of late, and that is starting to have some real appeal.

It's funny; this feels a little like dealing with a serious illness, in that there's shock, denial, etc. as part of the whole process. Perspective and reason become of paramount importance. We will progress, because the alternative is simply unaccceptable.

The point of all of this? Change happens. Deal with it. Move on. Trust in you, and in those who care for you. Satch was right.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Progress (?)

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 10:41:03 PDT

Normally, your intrepid scribe attempts to take a lighter view of events, and I do try to see the humor in just about everything.

Not today.

If what I have read in numerous online news sites today is true, then I have just reached a whole new level of appalled.

To summarize it, 18 year-old Kymberly Wimberly (not making that up), of McGehee, Arkansas, filed a complaint in Federal court on July 21, 2011, alleging that her rights under the Fourteenth Amendment of the United States Constitution have been violated by the school district in McGehee.

Miss Wimberly, according to the complaint, compiled the highest GPA in her graduating class at McGehee Secondary School, posting a single "B" against straight "A"s over her four years there, all while loading up on every honors and advanced placement course she could find.

By any account I have been able to find over the past two hours, an exceedingly bright young lady. So, why the complaint?

Again, according to the court document, Miss Wimberly has been denied the sole valedictory status she worked so hard to achieve, and was, instead, named CO-valedictorian with another student, whose GPA was not as high of Miss Wimberly's.

Miss Wimberly is an African-American, and her co-valedictorian is white.

The complaint document, which is readily available online, alleges that the McGehee School District, after originally informing Miss Wimberly's mother (a school employee) that she had indeed won top honors, then proceeded to name the white student as co-valedictorian, to prevent "a big mess" in the town of roughly 4500.

Admittedly, I have only heard one side of this story so far, and the school district has as of yet not commented on the matter. Further, untrue allegations filed in court are not exactly unheard-of, and I readily accept that.

That said, if the allegations are indeed true, than your intrepid scribe is appalled beyond my ability to express it.

I have personally spent very little time in the deep South, and as a white Irish guy from upstate New York, I clearly have no means of understanding what it is to be Black in America.

I can only hope that this is all some kind of horrible screw-up.

Sadly, I'm not betting on that. If Miss Wimberly's allegations are indeed proven correct, I hope that bright young lady absolutely takes that school district to the cleaners.

This one, I'm gonna keep an eye on. More as I get it.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On The Big Man

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 11:42:32 PDT

"The change was made uptown, and the Big Man joined the band." - Springsteen

*********

OK, your intrepid scribe has a confession to make. I was not an early acolyte of The Boss. In my infinite wisdom and musical maturity, and to the extreme perplexion of my three younger brothers, I found his music limiting, terming it something like, "girls, cars, and the night."

I consider it a testament to my character that I have since softened my stance somewhat, to the point where I am now willing to admit that if this kid stays with it, he may have a future in the music business.

It took me a few years, but the simple beauty, depth, and breadth of the E Street catalogue is such that it cannot be denied. While Bruce's ability as musician and songwriter stand second to no one, I believe he is at his very best when he hits the stage with his E Street family.

That family took quite a hit this past weekend. The Big Man himself, 69-year-old Clarence Clemons, who with Max Weinberg has driven the E Street rhythm section for forty years, suffered a stroke at his Florida home. Early reports of his recovery seem promising, and your intrepid scribe just wanted to take a moment to add his prayers for a speedy return. The E Street band, and music in general, are so much the better for his powerful sax, his towering presence, and his kind demeanor.

God speed, Big Man.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Fatherly Pride

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Thu, 02 Jun 2011 09:44:53 PDT

I write often about Sons #1 & #2 in this space, and with good reason; I am inordinately proud of them. They are bright, well-spoken, and polite. They are 14 and 12 years old, respectively, and are therefore prone to the many hormonal, cultural, and technological influences common to the modern American teenaged male. They are experiencing new things every day, but it's the reintroduction and advancement of the familiar I want to talk about for a moment.

Enter baseball. (Cue groaning; your intrepid scribe is on this topic again?) We are well into our current odyssey of daily baseball, to the point where we're hitting a bit of a wall, right about the time we usually do each year.

This year seems a little different, and I'm not quite certain whether it's just my perception, but it seems to me my guys are growing fairly rapidly as ballplayers as well as young men. Two immediate cases in point come to mind, one for each of the boys:

1) Son #1's development as a team leader. On both his modified and house league teams, #1 has turned into a de facto leader, on and off the field. He is not the best player on either team, but is clearly one of the top two or three, and his willingness to assume a role of leadership is making a real difference. He's a personable kid, and gets along well with his teammates. He's not a "clique" kind of guy, and because of that, he's seen as accessible by everyone.

He's also finally growing confident in his ability on the field. His primary positions have evolved from behind the plate to the mound, and to third base. He's always had a strong throwing arm, and has utilized that skill to grow confident that when the heat is on, he can make the play. This confidence is also manifesting itself at the plate; he's hitting well over .450 on the year, and just last night, he threw a three-hitter, did not give up an earned run, and went 2-4, with 5 RBI.

Our school district, as a result of budget cuts, just eliminated freshman sports for the coming school year. #1 will be a freshman in September; his response when told of this? "Guess I'll just have to make the JV, then, Dad."

It was the fact that he said this without a trace of arrogance that blew me away. He was one of just three returning players on his current modified team, and his attitude throughout the tryout process for that team was one of desperate concern to just make the club. Once he did, his drive to make the club quickly morphed into a leadership role on it.

2) Son #2 is rapidly developing similar characteristics. He's the catcher on his Little League team, and his team is enjoying quite a bit of success this year. Again, he's not the most talented player on the team, but he's closing that gap with effort, a bit of leadership, and growing confidence in his own game. He did not possess #1's throwing ability, yet he threw out basestealers in his first four games this season, and word got around that running on him may not be such a good idea. As the catcher for this team, he runs the defense on a good ballclub, and that defense has made the difference in at least three of their wins so far this year.

He's also discovering a knack for getting on base, and for driving in runs at big moments. He's clearly playing his way into being an All-Star-caliber player, and I was not sure he'd get there as well as he has done.

There had been a considerable gap over the years between the two of them, and I think that gap has bugged #2 for some time. I think it caused him some frustration, and caused him to be unnecessarily hard on himself on occasion.

I also think that gap is closing, and rapidly.

What's the point of all of this? Fatherly pride can manifest itself in many, many ways. It also knows no bounds, if you do it right.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Quiet Professionalism

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Thu, 05 May 2011 07:46:06 PDT

Osama bin Laden, 1957-2011

*******

First, your intrepid scribe notes the above without any regret whatsoever. If your planned effort results in the death of 3,000 innocents on a clear September morning, you deserve to be hunted and killed without hesitation or remorse.

If this sounds like hypocrisy from an avowed social liberal, I ask you to consider the following: Men, women, and children die every single day as a result of armed conflict around the globe. It is commonplace and accepted that combatants in the field are by definition in harm's way, and wars result in people being dead. Osama bin Laden was the declared and acknowledged leader, ideologue, and spokesman of al Qaeda. By his own urging, al Qaeda publicly declared war on the United States of America, and brought that war to these shores.

As has been said in this space before, if you make war on the United States, we will return the favor.

As a first-year Midshipman at RPI, many years ago, I had the opportunity to meet a Navy SEAL who came to address our NROTC unit. The gentleman was certainly engaging and friendly with us, but the overwhelming impression I got, and one echoed by a number of my classmates, was that this guy gave off the unmistakeable aura of someone not to be trifled with under ANY circumstances.

"Quiet professionalism" is a phrase often associated with the SEALs, and with Special Forces troops around the world. Excruciatingly well-trained, intelligent, and possessed of physical and psychological strength most of us cannot fathom, these individuals do the dirty work that must be done in the defense of our country. They don't talk about, except within their own. They seek neither riches nor glory, and the only accolade they receive is from within their own very closely-knit fraternity. They do a job that they know needs to be done, so that we can sleep at night.

We may not like it, or like to admit it, but we know it.

That this world is a dangerous place is a given. That SEALs make it just a little less dangerous for you and me is equally true.

Thanks, guys.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Silliness

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 08:41:31 PDT

“We do not have time for this kind of silliness. We’ve got better stuff to do." - Barack Obama, 44th President of the United States, two hours ago.

"These are serious times, and we need serious people to address them." - Aaron Sorkin, via Andrew Shepard, The American President

*********

Well, thank Heaven that's out of the way.

It appears that the 44th President of the United States, Barack Hussein Obama II, was born August 4, 1961, on the island of Oahu, Hawaii, which I am fairly certain was at the time and remains one of the fifty United States.

Roughly two hours ago, the White House released official copies of President Obama's "long form" birth certificate, showing the above information. Copies of the document will be available in one gazillion news outlets before your intrepid scribe is done with this particular screed. There will be no link in this particular outlet.

That Donald Trump is taking credit for this extraordinary revelation is neither surprising, nor out of Mr. Trump's wheelhouse. Mr. Trump, who is not a declared candidate for anything as of this writing, was in his personal helicopter, and preparing to land in Portsmouth, NH, for a tour of the area, ostensibly to engender support for a 2012 run at the White House. Upon landing, Mr. Trump then engaged the press, and enlightened them as to just how proud of himself he was to have caused this revelation to occur. That he then quoted a non-existent CNN poll showing him "statistically tied" with President Obama in an hypothetical 2012 presidential race was just icing on the cake.

It took CNN roughly forty seconds to correct Mr. Trump, by my estimate; they ran a poll showing Mr. Trump and Mike Huckabee tied for an hypothetical Republican nomination. CNN then quoted three other polls showing Mr. Trump trailing President Obama by thirteen to eighteen percentage points.

Mr. Trump's ego is approximately the size of one of his casinos, or perhaps the Moon. I admittedly forget which it is.

That the President, whom I watched deliver an unscheduled address of great brevity on this topic this morning, managed not to laugh out loud whilst doing so is a testament to his character. That the press managed to recognize the linkage between this address and Mr. Sorkin's writing is encouraging, even if the reference was to The West Wing, and not The American President.

That I personally support President Obama should be no surprise to even the most casual reader of this space. That I am personally disgusted by the traction this issue has gotten in the name of partisan politics shouldn't suprise anyone, either.

Can we be done with this now? Please?

One last thing: Mr. President, if I forget to say so by August 4, please enjoy a very happy fiftieth birthday. I know I enjoyed mine.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

Thank God

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 10:06:36 PDT

It is now Opening Day.

First pitches will be thrown before this very brief post is completed. Thank God.

There are a million personal reasons for your intrepid scribe to be grateful for many, many things. This is one of them, and it couldn't come at a better time.

Play Ball!

***********

Of course, this evening's weather calls for 8-14 inches of snow. I am not making this up.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Jubilee

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 06:11:30 PST

Just some random thoughts this time 'round...

*********

Once again, we find ourselves in the middle of Jubilee, that glorious week beginning with Bride's birthday, and ending with a dear friend's birthday one week later. This year, Jubilee covers a full calendar week as well, effectively stretching the revelry to nine days, beginning last Friday.

It's a full nine days.

Last Friday & Saturday, we had Son #2's performances of "Once Upon This Island, Jr.", this year's school play. Just a ball to watch, and the kids worked for months to put on a very successful & very enjoyable performance.

Sunday was Bride's birthday, and we had much gift-giving and merriment. Bride & I had the chance to get out for two or three hours of shopping & laughs, both of which were needed, and welcome. The weather was, for the most part, cooperative, at least while we were out.

Yesterday, of course, we had a snow day for everyone but your intrepid scribe. Why? Well, in 24 hours we go from melting snow via warm temps & rain, to dropping temperatures, to ice, to snowing sideways. Road conditions yesterday morning were patently treacherous, and once again, the folks who run the AP schools and HVCC made absolutely the right call.

Today, folks are back to school and work, and promises to be the most peaceful day of Jubilee. Today also marks the start of the Big East tournament. 'Nuff said.

Tomorrow, we have basketball practice, and Thursday we have both practice and a Twin Town board meeting.

Friday, we have a tournament hoop game for the boys.

Saturday, there's TWO tournament games, Bride getting her hair done, and tickets for "The Lion King" that night. Sunday is G's birthday.

Other than that, not much going on.

**********

We have entered the 21st Century. I am now the owner of a smartphone. The irony of a 51-year-old lifelong member of the telecom business waiting until now to do this is not lost on me.

I have written before about change, and I firmly believe it's inevitable. I primarily use a cell phone for making (shudder!) actual voice calls, and had been utilizing TracFone throwaways for years. I have been on a bit of a mission of late to reduce our burn rate when it comes to money, and started to do some research on cutting this particular expense. I was burning about $80 a month, and finally decided on a Straight Talk Nokia E71. $45 a month, no contract, unlimited everything. The phone is undeniably cool, very well-reviewed, and does everything I can ask for, and more.

Some day, I may even know how to use it. The boys are trying to help their dear, decrepit Old Man.

************

I am now officially concerned that we MAY not be able to start our baseball seasons on time. She-who-must-not-be-messed-with has not been cooperative so far, and March is historically tempestuous when it comes to weather in these parts anyway. We'll obviously do what needs to be done, but we really need to see some bare ground pretty soon. We shall see.

************

That'll have to do for now. Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Proof that The Almighty has a sense of Humor

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 10:22:01 PST

"Everyone talks about the weather. Nobody does a damned thing about it." - Unknown

***********

OK, this is my last rant about the weather.

The above sentence will likely be proven a lie, and, I suspect, in the very near future.

***********

Almost one year ago exactly in this space, I wrote somewhat smugly about our area repeatedly missing, narrowly, winter storms that hammered our neighbors to the south. Folks in the Mid-Atlantic just got pounded; here, 150 miles north of NYC, we had a lighter-than-normal winter (call it 40-45 inches or so).

Mother Nature must have had a free moment in Her schedule and had taken Notice, because this winter, She-who-must-not-be-messed-with has remembered us.

This is not a "Dewey defeats Truman" headline; I voluntarily live in the Northeast, and have my entire life. Snow between late November and late March is to be expected, and four to five feet of it are a common-enough total for a winter here to not pass much notice.

Sixty-plus inches, however, in thirty days, is a real pain in the ass. I just watched the Weather Channel's Jim Cantore, who's pretty knowledgeable, call this the worst winter he remembers in tweny-five years.

This, from a guy who makes his living staring down hurricanes.

Meteorologists in our area, for the first time in my memory, are routinely calling for 100% chances of snow. No hedging of bets whatsoever. Why bother?

It's not that we get snow, and that I can't stand it. We do, and I can.

It's not that I want to live somewhere warm. I would not trade this area for anything, even with the winters.

It's the relentlessness of it this year. If I count right, we've had seven major storms since Christmas, and our area has gotten drilled by six of them. The one we missed? Only got about four inches.

It's also not a tale of woe. We have family in Buffalo and New Hampshire for whom this is pretty routine. I love them dearly, but that's their problem, and I want to whine about mine.

All right. I'm done.

*************

True story. This morning, 8:30 or so. Back in AP after having successfully gotten the boys to school, and Bride to work. It's snowing sideways, and I'm in our local market picking up a few things. I run into a good friend who also has kids in our schools. We chat, 5-10 minutes, than go finish our purchases. I find myself behind him in the checkout line when his cell phone goes off at roughly 9:10 AM, to alert him that the children we have just deposited at school, and who started their school day seventy minutes earlier, will be released at 11:00.

I could not fault the decision for a single moment. In addition, there is not a single chance in hell of school tomorrow; Thursday may also be in question. It's a little before three in the afternoon as I write this, and the eight inches we got this morning were little more than a warmup for the main event expected for this evening. We have a brief breather; our plow guy's been through, and I expect to see him again, and again.

Our school district plans for five snow days each year, a total sufficient 99% of the time. We used that up in January.

We have another eighteen inches-plus expected, starting tonight. (Update 2/2 10:15am: We only got about ten. Meh.)

True story #2: A good friend, who lives just south of the Canadian border, suggests we move North to avoid the snow, as they've gotten a pittance, in comparison. Yep, that Global Warming stuff is just some cockamamie Left-wing creation.

The point of all of this? Mother Nature is not to be trifled with. Stay warm; after all, it's only February first.

Excelsior!

On Miscellany

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 07:18:16 PST

Just some random thoughts this time 'round...

*******

1) I have written frequently in the past about living in Averill Park, NY. We really love it here. We have friends, community, and natural beauty that combine to provide a quality of life we all find very appealing.

We also currently have entirely too Goddamned much snow.

As I write this, I'm looking out a window at nearly four feet of it in the yard, all of it just since Christmas. Unlike last year, where we largely "just missed" the repeated whackings the folks in the Mid-Atlantic & New England got, this year we're at Ground Zero. Just this past week, Sons # 1&2 were treated to three, count 'em, three snow days, in a week where they already had a holiday for Dr. King's birthday. One actual school day in the last nine.

Of late, I find myself frequently glued to The Weather Channel in one or another of its forms, and two hours ago was advised that four or five days from now, "a significant portion of the Northeast" could be picking up another 12-20 inches. I am completely resigned to the notion that they are specifically referring to my address.

I wouldn't trade this area for anything; no one has forced us to stay here, and we're dug in. Enough, however, is enough.

2) That said, we're only three weeks from pitchers and catchers. Hope springs eternal.

3) Going back to the S-word for a moment, I would be remiss if I didn't say a word of thanks to the folks who plow the roads in these parts. There may be nine-foot piles of snow in places, but damned if there aren't roads cleared from edge to edge. We live in a pretty hilly area, with more than a few considerable grades. These folks have done a hell of a job, under some pretty trying conditions. Thank you all.

4) The recent tragedy in Arizona has really made me think about guns rather a lot lately. If I understand the circumstances correctly, Jared Loughner quite legally purchased a Glock, along with a thirty-three shot extended clip, and then proceeded to create the madness and bloodshed there.

Full disclosure dept.: I am not a gun-owner, and have fired one under supervised conditions maybe three times in my life. That said, I have no problem whatsoever with responsible gun ownership and use at all. I have often said that if my sons wanted to learn to hunt, or otherwise handle firearms, I would immediately point them to one of a couple of close friends for proper advice and instruction. These two guys in particular are sportsmen, and lock up their gear in a manner that makes Fort Knox look like a piggy bank.

Guns aren't my thing, but that in and of itself does not make them bad. We live in a day and age where violence is a problem, and there are legal and quite justifiable reasons and processes for having a firearm for personal protection.

Nor am I anti-sportsman in any way. While hunting is also not my thing, I enjoy a nice venison as much as the next guy, and have enjoyed many a night in the outdoors. I can readily understand that people enjoy hunting, and I hope they do so for as long as they are able.

What I don't get is the notion that individuals need military-quality hardware, simply because the Second Amendment grants us the right to bear arms. Could someone please explain to me the justification for my being able to purchase assault weapons, extended clips, specialized ammunition, and the like? Is there any purpose for these items, outside of target practice, other than to kill someone? Is not even that target practice itself designed to ready one to kill?

When the Second Amendment was written some 220 years ago, state-of-the-art firearms were muskets, absolutely essential to the feeding of one's family, and to participation in a citizen militia needed to defend our new nation. I do not personally believe the Framers could possibly have envisioned the advances in firearms in the period since, and times do change.

Does the military have need for stuff like this? Absolutely. People sent in harm's way in defense of this country should be armed to the teeth, and I will gratefully pass the ammo. Bringing overwhelming firepower on target is the central tenet of the American military, as it should be. Make war on this country, and we have proven time and again that we'll return the favor.

I just don't think it belongs on Main St.

5) Did I mention three weeks until pitchers & catchers?

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Truly Awful Television

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 13:36:20 PDT

"The medium IS the message." - Marshall McLuhan

*****

Been awhile, so first off, a very happy holiday season to you and yours.

What follows are some random musings about that most ubiquitous of influences in our lives, television.

Television, for sixty years or so now, has been the mass media platform we turn to for news, entertainment, sport, and so on, and while content delivered by the Internet is certainly making inroads on the more traditional methods of broadcast and cable/satellite, it says here those methods ain't going away any time soon. Besides, that's a technology discussion, and I want to talk a moment about content, not delivery.

The Tube has presented some content over my lifetime that has changed us all; JFK, the moon landings, the election of a black man to the White House. It has given us drama that illuminates and entertains, from "You Are There" to "Upstairs, Downstairs" to "M*A*S*H", to "The West Wing". It educates, it enlightens, and we as a people are enraptured before its glow. We have SD, HD, 3D, and who-knows-what-else, and we are digging it. Whether that's healthy is a discussion for another time.

I want to rant about pure, unadulterated dreck. I draw a distinction between television designed to titillate ("Baywatch", etc), and that which is just awful; the former may be truly bad, but there's an honesty in its approach that I must respect. No; today, gentle reader, we're going after true cheese.

Bad TV's been around since Day 1. Those of us of a certain age can recall Japanese horror movies so bad they induced fits of laughter. Soap operas, at least for me, have always done the same; a buddy of mine surreptitiously messing with the remote control in a breakroom of thirty women watching "General Hospital" is to this day one of my fondest memories.

The "made for TV movie" has long been a sub-genre singularly fitting to today's rant. Whether a tale of a man/woman/child who leads multiple lives/has multiple families and/or is a serial killer/polygamist/vistor to or from another planet, the made for TV movie has presented us with some of the truly low moments in television history.

Enter the SYFY channel. In a moment of true enlightenment, the folks at SYFY came to the realization that enough of us harbor a secret love for awful television that there's a market for it, and they have filled that gap with a vengeance. Unlike the major networks, who tend to couch their crap in marketing campaigns of sweeping grandiosity (can anyone over 50 forget NBC's "Manimal"?), these folks are straight up about it. This is promoted as cheese, without any pretense. Gotta love the forthrightness.

Son #2, at age 12, is a bright child, recognizes this pap for what it is, and thinks it absolutely hilarious. He insisted, a few weeks ago, that we as a family simply must view a SYFY offering of "Triassic Attack", exclaiming, "Guys, it's gonna be just terrible!". The excitement on the boy's face was too much to resist, and so we gather at the appointed hour.

Without ruining the exquisitely-executed denouement of the alleged plot for you, let me just say that the title says it all. Modern-day bad guys out West try to take over Native American lands for some nefarious purpose or another, a modern shaman invokes "Spirit" to help, and fossilized dinosaurs thus run amok, causing consternation for all. The best part? Said dinos are still in their bony state, leading one to wonder how one of their Ptero-types actually flies. Aerodynamics and all, you see. At any rate, there he is, flapping his bones across the western skies, menacing all in his path, thanks to some of the most low-rent special effects seen in some time. Two hours of my life that I'll never get back, but a family memory for a lifetime.

Let us now turn to the infomercial, if only for a moment. The infomercial has a distinguished history, starting in the late '70s, perfected by one Ron Popeil, and has directly led to things like the Home Shopping Network. Whether you want to lose weight, drive a golf ball out of sight, or renew your hairline, there's an infomercial out there for you. About 12 hours ago as I write this, Bride and I are enjoying the bottle of champagne we opened for the New Year, and surfing the tube, when we come across the tale of "Leandro, the Brazilian Butt-Master".

Two things, immediately:

1) I am not making this up.
2) This is not some soft-porn offering.

No, dear friends, this is a thirty-minute informercial extolling the revolutionary regimen that Leandro is bringing you to make your derriere more attractive. There were "booty-blasting" exercises, a diet regimen, personal instruction via the Web, and various devices offered, all aimed at one's gluteus maximus. How Leandro has found himself uniquely suited for such a Sisyphean task escaped me at that hour, but there were supermodels proclaiming his virtue and genius, so it must be true. That Bride & I were weeping with laughter goes without saying, and I was renamed "Leandro" for the balance of the evening.

The point of all of this? Whether it's "so bad that it's" funny, or it's meant to be, it's still damned funny.

On this New Year's Day, I wish you all a very happy and prosperous 2011.

Excelsior!

******

This is in memory of my dear friend Tom Devane, who we lost two years ago today, and who truly loved bad television.

On Being The Man

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 09:29:49 PDT

In a few weeks, Stanislaus Francis Musial will celebrate his ninetieth birthday, and will do so as baseball's Greatest Living Hitter. That he is an all-time great is beyond dispute; that he's the all-time great farthest below the radar is equally beyond dispute.

For 22 seasons, Stan Musial drove the St. Louis Cardinals. He did so quietly, without the jaw-dropping flash of Willie Mays, without the big-city spotlight of DiMaggio and Mantle, without the tempestuousness of Ted Williams. Year after year, he cranked out .330, .340, .350, and made it look entirely too easy. He absolutely snookered you into thinking, "Hell, I can do that!"

Curt Flood tells a great story about Musial in Ken Burns' "Baseball". Musial was in the last third of his career when Flood came up as a rookie in 1956, and was in the midst of a typical torrid hitting stretch when the astounded rook asked in exasperated bewilderment, "Stan, how do you DO it?"

Musial thought it over a moment, and said, "Well, Curt, you just get a strike, and knock the heck out of it." Forty years later, Flood's face still had a look of astonishment: "It really was that simple for Stan Musial."

He retired at the end of the 1963 season as the all-time National League leader in hits with 3,630. He hit .331 lifetime; seven times the NL batting champion, he was in his SIXTEENTH season, at 38 years of age, before he finished out of the top five in the NL in batting. His day-to-day, year-over-year consistency was simply remarkable. Again, from Ken Burns' "Baseball", comes this tidbit from noted baseball whackjob George Will: "Baseball's rich in wonderful statistics, but it's hard to find one more beautiful than Stan Musial's hitting record. Stan Musial got 3,630 hits; 1,815 at home, 1,815 on the road. He didn't care where he was; he just hit."

Oh, the hell with it. Read this by Joe Posnanski instead; he's written it much better than I can.

The point of all of this? Happy Birthday, Mr. Musial.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Sex, Religion, and Politics, Part II

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 08:38:06 PST

Once again, not really. Just a screed on politics.

******
"Please vote. If nothing else, it keeps the bastards on their toes." - Ned Slattery

"Don't vote. It just encourages the bastards." - P.J. O'Rourke

******

Full disclosure department: Your intrepid scribe has been a Democrat since he was old enough to spell the word "politics". I was raised that way, have worked on campaigns (to stunningly bad results), and have even run for public office myself (7th-place finish in a 6-man race). That all having been said, I'm going to do my level best to keep this balanced. Given the initial topic of discussion, some effort will be required on that score.

Carl Paladino, the Republican candidate for Governor in New York, is an ass.

OK, some background here. In spite of my Dem affiliation throughout my life, I am a fervent believer in the multi-party system we have in these-here parts. Debate is absolutely critical to our survival as a nation, and I will defend to the death your inalienable right to be totally incorrect, should you have the misfortune to disagree with my particular point of view. I live in the great Empire State, which, in addition to being a Democratic bastion my entire life, is home to the most dysfunctional state government in America, and quite possibly in American history.

This dysfunction is laughably bi-partisan; we have seen political snafus on both sides of the aisle that simply suspend belief. Where else could you have a former Democratic governor, run out of Albany on a rail for advanced hooker procurement, pull higher polling numbers than his successor, who may be completely inept, but is, at minimum, currently unindicted? Budgets, under both Republican and Democratic administrations, are months late, pork-barrel politics are rampant, and what passes for dialogue between opposing parties would be hilarious, were it not so sad.

But, I digress. Back to the GOP candidate. Carl Paladino finds himself the Republican standard-bearer largely, I believe, as a result of the Tea Party movement gaining favor nationwide these days. As much as I generally disagree with many Republican positions, and as much as the NY GOP is in seeming disarray at the moment, I cannot fathom their promoting this gomer on their own hook. Misguided in my opinion though they may be, they are not dumber than a box of rocks.

This character has, in the last two weeks, and three weeks before Election Day, challenged possibly the most influential political writer in the state to a fistfight in public, and has declared gay people to be "dysfunctional", saying "that's not how God created us." I happen to be a straight male; nature of the beast, I guess. Lots of folks aren't. Vive le difference. I'd like to hope that, when I shuffle off this mortal coil, my epitaph reads something more substantial than "Here lies a straight guy."

My radar starts twitching, however, when political candidates start interpreting the will of the Almighty for my poor, unenlightened benefit.

That he did this at all is appalling; that he did this is public is beyond my ken. I am not, by the way, making any of this up; you can see it for yourself in any number of media. This guy actually believes that spewing stuff like this is how you win elections? Andrew Cuomo must be laughing his ass off. Not since the immortal Pierre Rinfret ran against Andrew's father has the Empire State GOP come up with a guy quite like this one.

Even as a lifelong Democrat, and despite my opposition to many Republican positions, I am not anti-GOP; I firmly believe Republicans are equally as patriotic as their Democratic counterparts, and fervently want what they feel is best for our nation. That we possibly disagree on how to get there is one of this country's strongest attributes.

Let's face it; gomerism knows no party affiliation. Dennis Blagojevich (D-IL) was as crooked as the Colorado River. Here in NY, Dems of questionable ethical/moral conduct are a time-honored tradition, from Boss Tweed to Charlie Rangel.

That all said, this particular gomer is a disgrace, in one man's opinion.

The point of all of this? Please vote on Election Day. My old friend Ned Slattery is right.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On October

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 08:24:30 PDT

Leaves change their colors and gently fall to earth; a crispness hits the air. Apples are picked, pressed into cider, and baked into pies. Footballs fill Saturdays and Sundays, and T-shirts and shorts give way to sweaters and jeans. Without question, it's my favorite time of the year; there's still enough warmth to forestall the thoughts of winter, at least for a bit longer.

The madness that is even-year politics has shifted into high gear; voters are deluged with robocalls, brochures, and ringing doorbells. Schoolchildren are fully back into their routine, and what the hell is wrong with that?

And then, there's post-season baseball.

If you've been here before, you know your intrepid scribe is a trifle irrational when it comes to baseball. In Ken Burns' recent Tenth Inning, the eminent commentator George Will sums it up better than I ever could: "My wedding ring, which I designed myself, has the Major League Baseball logo on it. This serves to insure Mrs. Will, that she reamins, in my heart, right up there close to baseball." He continues, "I believe there are two seasons, not four; baseball season, and the void."

The post-season does nothing but ratchet up the intensity of the baseball fan; each pitch takes on a different meaning in October. The long season, one of the game's greatest attributes, is over, and with it, the notion that "we'll get 'em tomorrow" no longer applies. All of the wonder of the game is compressed in time; the team that won one hundred regular-season games can find itself facing elimination with two poor performances in twenty-four hours. In 2001, the Seattle Mariners won a record 116 games during the regular season, only to narrowly defeat Cleveland in a best-of-5. They were then summarily dispatched by the Yankees in the AL Championship Series.

The financial industry has a mandatory disclaimer, "Prior results are not a guarantee of future performance." So it is in October. As I type this, we're just a few minutes from the beginning of the post-season, so we'll wrap this up for now.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Change

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 10:39:25 PDT

"Because things are the way they are, things will not stay the way they are." - Bertolt Brecht

"Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine." - Robert C. Gallagher

***********

When my closest friend was married some 27 years ago, I was invited to be his best man, and at the toast offered these words, pithy as they seem to me now: "About the only constant in our lives is the incidence of change". To this day, I can't be entirely sure if I coined the line or inadvertently copped it from someone else. What the hell; I was 23.

Since then, as a guy who's spent his entire life in telecommunications, I've been blessed to have a front-row seat for the greatest technological change in human history, the evolution of the Information Age. Think about it; at that time, I worked as a customer-service rep for New York Telephone Company on a computer that was cutting-edge; the conventional network architecture at that time was to have basically "dumb" user terminals retrieving information from a central source of data.

Son #1 now has significantly more computing power in his $99 cell phone, and it ain't even close.

I have lived through more technological change already than my dad did, and he spent 36 years in the telecom business. My children will see exponentially more of it than I will. It is ever thus, and to rail against it is a waste of time and energy.

It does lend itself to some amusing observations, though.

About two years ago, Son #1 and I are spending some time at the ballfield, doing some pre-season cleanup with a couple dozen other hardy souls. Time is passing, and we're nearing the end of our shift as we walk into the concession stand for something to drink. I'm standing with a few members of our league Board when I notice the time, and ask my son to go to the phone on the wall, and call Bride to advise her we'll be home in about 20 minutes.

He turns, and freezes. "Dad, how do I do this?", he asks.

The phone in question is a rotary-dial job, and my then-12 year-old had neither seen nor used one before. The other adults & I had a nice chuckle over that, the comments basically centering around, "GOD, we're getting old."

Even the simple enjoyment of music has undergone radical change; when was the last time you bought a CD, or, God forbid, an "album", even if you can find one? The digitialization of everything has led us to take for granted that change is permanent, and is universally beneficial.

There, we better stop for a moment, and take a breath.

Nothing is ALL good, with the possible exception of the love of one's family; into everything a little rain does fall. For example, technological change brings us the ongoing evolution of the computer; it also can make us so dependent upon it that new types of "cyberwarfare" may well define the next great battlefield. Digitization and miniaturization allows me to store my entire music collection, in unmatched fidelity, in my shirt pocket; it also allows me to secretly observe your actions using almost exactly the same technology.

Technology allows me to put the debatable wisdom of this blog onto the Internet; it's still incumbent upon you, however, to determine for yourself whether or not I'm completely full of crap.

So, what's the point of all this? Change is real, it's omnipresent, and it is not going away. We can embrace it, we can rail against it; let's just make damned sure we approach it with a little balance.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Wisdom

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 12:28:25 PDT

"Those who do not learn from history, are condemned to repeat it." - George Santayana

******

Wisdom is one of those things in life that's easier perceived than it is defined, or even definable. It can take many forms, from age-old aphorisms to simply observing (and remembering) what's gone on around you.

To me, wisdom is the result of accumulated experience; go around the track enough times, and you, if you're smart, start to learn what works, and what is likely to turn around and bite you in the ass.

I was twenty-four when my Dad died; sadly, it was not until I was about twenty-one that I realized he wasn't just talking because he liked the sound of his own voice. At least I had those three years; the lessons I learned served me well to this day. Of course, leading up to that realization, I had all the answers, anyway; what could that old fool teach ME?

As it turned out, quite a few things. Dad knew he was dying, and one of his fervent goals was to teach my brothers and I as much as he could in the time he had left. The longer I'm a Dad myself, the more I understand; the urge to have your children not make the same mistakes you made is a fairly ordinary act of fatherhood.

Wisdom as an accumulation of life experiences can also manifest itself as a feeling of comfort in one's own skin. After about 40, I had settled into the routine of family and career, and many of the pursuits of my youth were fond memory. To some, this serves as the quintessential "mid-life crisis"; in my case, there was almost a sense of relief. I had about a 20-year run as gadabout extraordinaire, and I finally realized I didn't miss it at all.

Now, with 12 & 14-year-old boys myself, I'm getting ready to sit on the other side of the table, and assume the other side of the argument. Much of the initial discussions will be futile, at least as I'm likely to view it, but it's a long view I need to take on this. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that this will take time.

Is that wisdom? We'll see.

Until next time,
Excelsior!

On Being Schlom

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 11:52:57 PDT

"Stack, QPWC, large fry, small fry, and two large tea-a-mas." - Tom Devane, at McDonald's

"Well, of course you are!" Schlom, on getting someone's name completely wrong, and being corrected

"It's a poor man who can't keep a roof over his tools."

***********

Really long post this time out, but the subject is near and dear to my heart.

"Schlom" is Thomas J. Devane. Bon vivant, realtor, bachelor, former roommate, cook, and one of the best friends your intrepid scribe ever had. He had more nicknames than Carter had little pills; "The Big Kid", "HBK" (Heavy Blond Kid), and the list goes on.

Above all, to me, he was just Schlom. Impossible to define, he was truly a force of nature. He had more varied interests than anyone I've ever known. Beneath the impossibly rumpled khakis, and constantly tousled red-blond hair lay a man of considerable intellect, sizable girth, and unparallelled kindness. He shared anything and everything he had, and more than a few things he didn't, technically, have.

The Big Fella was known to enjoy the occasional cocktail. He also loved golf, and combined these two pursuits in tandem with a passion seen in few others. I once watched him stagger from bed, dress, throw his ancient weapons in my car, and break 80 at Troy CC, on what had to be memory alone. I'm fairly certain we were on the third tee before he fully grasped where the hell he was.

He was my partner for over a decade in the Schneider Cup, a benefit tournament at Troy in honor of a great friend of ours, and while we were never a threat to compete on the course, we were frequently the leaders in the clubhouse in other pursuits.

Nothing if not innovative, he proposed the formation of the Cocktail Tour, whereby one's blood alcohol content would be factored into one's score, thus leveling the playing field somewhat. Even with Dewar's as a proposed sponsor, sadly, the idea has yet to catch on in the golf world.

Tommy enjoyed considerable success at various points in his life, but whether or not the fates were with him at the moment, his kindness and generosity never wavered, ever. He was a gentleman in the classic, old-school sense; he would spend the last ten bucks he had to ensure that he did not arrive at an invitation empty-handed, because you just didn't DO that. This was no affectation; it was how he lived his adult life.

As a house-guest, he had no equal. Bride & I had him in our home a million times over the years, whether for a planned "Former Roomates Appreciation Night", an impromptu "Tapas and Scotch" session, or simply because the boys had not seen Uncle Tommy in a week or so. We've always enjoyed entertaining, and Schlom never failed to be an enthusiastic guest and participant. He'd take over the kitchen in a heartbeat, and it's revealing that he's about the only friend I've ever had who would be regularly permitted to do so.

Boy, did he like to travel. The stories of his travels are too numerous to print here, and some likely unfit to print at all. I had the pleasure of a week in Italy with him for a friend's wedding nine years ago, and we'll try the sanitized version of that trip here. If names have not been changed, assume extreme guilt.

I've never minded flying; in fact, I usually enjoy it, and my work has caused me to do it fairly often over the years. Schlom was studying at the time for his pilot's license, so we were of a mind when it came to taking to the air. As long as the number of landings equal the number of takeoffs, I'm pretty good with it.

We board a 20-seater prop-job for the hour trip from Albany to JFK. I've been in smaller aircraft than this a number of times before, and turbulence is not new to me, but typically it's been of the up & down variety; this trip featured side-to-side pitching, and it was difficult to take. I had never experienced anything close to nausea in the air; it was coming on hard now.

Schlom recognized the conditions, explained to me what the pilot was doing to combat them, and settled my mind considerably. After a 60-minute trip became 90, we were wheels-down at Kennedy, to a well-deserved ovation for the pilot, led, of course, by Schlom. Only after we were strolling through the concourse did he explain just how difficult a job the pilot faced, and just how well it was done.

Sixteen sleepless hours later, we've crossed the Atlantic in coach, seating unfit for men of our dimensions. We land at DeGaulle Airport in Paris, for a layover of about two hours before the final hop to Rome.

Three important things to consider here: I am toting a virgin US passport, having never been outside the country before, and we've been up about 24 hours by now. We're also schlepping more luggage than is medically necessary.

These three factors cause Schlom to temporarily lose his temper for the first time in my memory. I'm sure it had happened before, but I had neither seen nor heard of it.

I get us heading in the wrong direction in the damned airport, which does not help. The carry-on luggage is doing us no favors, 24 hours into the trip, either.

Then, we meet French airport securite. Long story short, we get in one line, wait therein, then get directed to another, only to be sent back to the first line, all while within sight of our aircraft. This is proving irksome to Schlom, who exchanges some uncharacteristically sharp rebukes with the poor young fellow who finally has to process us.

Moods change quickly. We board our Air France 737, with the Big Kid still steamed, although by now due equally to the process snafu, and his embarrassment at his reaction to it. Things look up, however, at the arrival of a lovely flight attendant who offers us breakfast and champagne. Crisis averted.

Many hours later, I still have, to my consternation, an unstamped passport, it's 2pm local time in Rome, and we're sitting on the edge of our hotel beds, 30 hours since last we slept. The urge to fall backwards and submit to fatigue is STRONG.

We overcome it, get up, and spend the next six hours strolling the ancient streets of Rome. He'd been there before, so we hit the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Via Veneto, and a local eatery before heading back to the hotel. It's at this point that I have the most (some might say only) intelligent idea of the whole trip.

Two blocks from the hotel, and we're really dragging. I spy an appropriate store, and grab a half-liter of Bushmill's. In the room, we drain half the bottle, and fall out for six solid hours. At 2AM local time, body clocks a wreck, we awake, drain the other half, and fall back out until 930 AM Roman time. We are now roughly in synch with the world around us.

Not the textbook way to combat jet lag, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Two days later, we've seen the Colosseum and the Vatican, the two big items for me, among many other locations. The Vatican has always held interest for me, and when we departed our tour bus, I am staggered by the sheer scale of the place. Standing on the sidewalk, I'm the typical American tourist, goggle-eyed. Schlom, sotto voce: "Keep in mind, Roon, we're still a mile away."

Hours later, we've been to the top of the dome ("The Pope's jogging track." "Careful, Schlom; I'm pretty sure God can find us here."), seen untold sights, and are standing with our backs to the front door of the Basilica, looking down the length of this magnificent cathedral. Schlom, as mind-reader: "No, Roon. You could not drive a ball that far, even on marble."

Last travel note, I promise: Day 3, Rome to Rieti, Italy, for the wedding itself, and three days of celebration. We've checked out, and, bags in hand, are following our directions (a sketchy proposition throughout the trip) for getting on the "Roma-Rieti" bus for a 90-minute journey. My Italian is non-existent, and my Spanish is sufficiently outdated as to be no help. I pantomime our need for bus tickets, and acquire them for the appropriate hour, about 40 minutes hence. We cross the street, luggage in tow, and find the bus in the lot, sign proclaiming our destination. It's warm, we're in the shade of a tree, and there's no one else nearby. Beautiful.

Fifteen minutes to departure, still no one but the driver around. I rap on the door, to be advised that our bus is across the parking lot, surrounded by a throng, with everything up to and including carry-on poultry. We ride 90 hellacious minutes, me in the aisle, an exhausted Schlom in the well of the side door.

Outskirts of Rieti. Did I mention sketchy directions? There are three Rieti exits, and we know not which one. We finally grasp this, and split the difference, opting for door #2. We leave the bus without a means to contact anyone we know; all we know is the name of the hotel. I'm staring at a map trying to figure out where the hell we are, when a young man, in excellent English, asks if he can help us. We give him the name of the hotel, and he chuckles. All he does is point. There, 100 yards away, in meter-high letters, is the name of our hotel.

Three days later, we return to Rome for one last night's sleep, and the trip home. More memories than I can recount, and the best trip of my life, largely due to spending it with Schlom.

I've written elsewhere in this blog of the horrible days upon learning of his passing, some eighteen months ago, and I will not repeat that here. While the shock has passed, my sadness at his loss remains. Not a day goes by that I don't think of him, and miss him.

This is not attempt at revisionist history in his memory. Schlom was not a saint, but then he never claimed to be. He was who he was; good, bad, and indifferent. He lived the day in front of him. I believe completely that the good greatly outweighed the bad, and that's not a bad way to be remembered, in my book.

To you, my friend.

Excelsior!

On Heroism

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 06:54:55 PDT

"We can be heroes, just for one day." - David Bowie

"The streets of heaven tonight are paved with heroes." - Aaron Sorkin, via Josiah Bartlet

************

All too often, heroism implies tragedy; the selfless grunt who falls on a grenade to save his platoon, the firefighter who goes back into the burning building, the brave souls in lower Manhattan on a crisp September morning. Those who "march to the sound of the guns", whether real or metaphoric, are indeed heroes. They who do what must be done, regardless of the risk, lift us all up by their acts. Lincoln called it "the last true measure of devotion", and whether we're talking about Audie Murphy, or the doctor who has retrieved a young life from death's door, heroism may be what defines us, above all, as human.

It is, at its essence, the giving of oneself in service of others, and in the recent news, I'm struck by two rather notable acts of heroism; one ending in tragedy, and one in glorious triumph.

In the first case, Darin McGahey, 42, of McDonough, GA, was on a Florida beach with his son's travel baseball team when he noticed his son and a teammate struggling in the ocean current. Although not a strong swimmer himself, without hesitation, he dove into the water to reach the boys. He was caught in a riptide, and instead of trying to swim parallel to the beach, and get out of the current, he attempted, quite naturally, to swim back directly to shore. By the time rescuers were finally able to reach him, the two boys had safely made it to a sandbar, but Mr. McGahey had lost his life.

The backstory just adds to Mr. McGahey's selflessness. A promising ballplayer himself as a youth, it became apparent to him that dreams of a professional career were not to be, so he became an electrician, and he and his wife settled into raising a family. Wanting more for that family, he supplemented his income with a number of rental properties in town, and the upkeep of those properties ate considerably into his time. What time he did have left over he dedicated to coaching youth, including his son. He enjoyed success in his coaching, and as was his nature deflected any praise he received toward the kids on his team.

While racked with grief over this tragic loss, friends and family of Mr. McGahey's were not even remotely surprised at his actions of July 7, 2010. It was yet another example of an unassuming, dedicated man, doing what had to be done.

Sixteen year-old Bryane (Bree) Heaberlin, of St. Petersburg, FL, is apparently one of the finest young goalies in the world, according to folks far more knowledgeable than your intrepid scribe. She's so good, at 16, that she was invited to play for the 20-under US national team at the FIFA U20 World Cup this month in Germany. I don't know beans about soccer, but she sounds pretty good.

That's not the story. Back in March, Bree's national team played a "friendly" against the Haitian national girls' team, and defeated them handily, 9-0. The result was hardly unexpected; the American girls held a significant advantage in resources, training, and skill. At the end of the match, the Haitian goalkeeper, obviously embarrassed and upset with the magnitude of the loss, was racked with tears.

Bree went up to the opposing keeper, and gave her a long hug, one that ended in both teams embracing at midfield. This was, after all, just two months after the devastating earthquakes that have torn Haiti apart. Bree knew there were players here who had lost friends and family, and decided then and there to do something about it.

OK, she's a terrific goalie, but what the hell can a 16 year-old do that governments and telethons couldn't?

Deliver.

All this remarkable young lady has done is raise over $15,000 to bring that Haitian team back in December for a two-week Disney International Tournament. She started a foundation called "Many Hearts, One Goal" to help the Haitian team; when word got out of her efforts, Disney donated lodging, meals, park passes, the whole smash. A local construction company has started building 12'X24' collapsible structures for shipment to Haiti, and other efforts are ongoing.

Please read Kevin Blackistone's July 19, 2010 column in FanHouse.com about Bryane Heaberlin, and David Whitley's July 18 FanHouse column on Darin McGahey; they have written their stories far better than I can.

The point of all of this? While heroism can take many forms, the stories of Darin McGahey and Bryane Heaberlin illustrate just how we can be heroes, for one day, or for many.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Writing

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 06:24:34 PDT

"Good writers borrow from other writers. Great writers steal from them outright." - Aaron Sorkin, by way of Sam Seaborn.

************

From the dawn of civilization, humans have used some sort of written communication as a means of documenting their lives. From ancient glyphs and runes, to today's blogosphere, the written word remains Man's foremost method for expressing our fears, joys, and ideas.

That said, I DO have a few concerns.

Again, (I have used this phrase before), this is not some Luddite rant against change; quite to the contrary. Technological change has a very positive history when it comes to the written word; we've gone from papyrus scrolls, to Herr Gutenberg, to the electrons that allow you to read this essay. Further, the Internet has brought the ability to access the written word to more people than ever before, and that's not even remotely debatable.

Herein lies the problem.

I run the risk of being labeled an intellectual snob with this particular rant, and so be it: Is it too much to ask that we encourage the preservation of the written word, and not just let it degrade into high-octane texting jargon? "CUL8R" is perfectly fine for a transmission when one is character-limited; no objection there at all. However, the Internet allows for any number of long-form capabilities, and it is e-mail that I will particularly target for today's screed.

E-mail was originally designed to replace paper-borne memoranda in the business world, and has come to largely replace paper correspondence of all kinds, save for the bills we all love to find in the mailbox. As a transmission medium, it's utterly brilliant; instantaneous delivery of information targeted to a specific recipient. It's addressable, forwardable, can be easily replied to, and requires no postage. What the hell is wrong with that?

As Marshall McLuhan might say, "It's not the medium, it's the messsage."

After thirty years in the business world, I long ago adopted for myself some fairly high standards for expressing ideas therein. Without question, I utilize instant messaging capabilities for the electronic equivalent of a "Post-It" note, but if I have allegedly important thoughts to express, I typically utilize email, and take my time in doing so. I will usually edit the work; I've never minded being edited, as long as the result was an improvement.

I first noticed five or six years ago what was to me an alarming relaxation of those standards in a communication from the subordinate of a friend of mine to a customer. Appalling use of grammar, spelling suited to a first-grader, and the notable closing of "cya" were just some of the high points of this little communique, and about the only positive aspect of the whole affair was that the sender's boss got to him before I did. We were in the process of responding to a bid with this particular government agency, and I was not looking to have all that work sunk because some idiot could not be bothered with his native language.

Some might say, "Pull the bug out of your butt, Miss Manners", and proceed to write this off as an old fart decrying the times. If I were attempting to rail against email in favor of snail mail, they'd have a point. Is it too much, however, to simply ask for a little Goddamned grammar?

What's the point of all of this? There is utterly brilliant writing going on every day, all around us. Writing that inspires and informs, and that brings out the best (and worst) of the human condition. Regardless of the means by which it's transmitted, let's take the time to do our best with what we write; it may well be our legacy.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Youth Sports

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 06:13:23 PDT

The casual reader of this space knows by now that ours is a baseball family. Our boys have grown up with the game, and play it pretty well.

While it may well appall seemingly "normal" households that boys would be allowed to throw a ball indoors, Bride & I have resigned ourselves to the inevitability of this activity, preferring instead to beseech them to at minimum show caution as to WHERE the projectiles are headed. Given their skills, lamps typically remain upright, and windows intact.

So, in I walk to the kitchen one recent evening, to find Son #1, to whom the fates have given a healthy throwing arm, delivering high-level heat to Son #2, at a distance of about twenty feet. Admittedly, it's a Wiffle ball, but it's still moving rather smartly.

I then admonish #1, asking him to keep it to off-speed stuff.

Really, I did.

I then start to chuckle, then go straight to full-body laughter at the absurdity of what I've just done. Here I am, fifty years old, negotiating with my sons WHICH KIND OF PITCHES THEY MAY THROW IN THE HOUSE.

Good Lord. I have completely lost my mind.
**************

Which brings us to youth sports, overkill, and the insane scheduling of children these days. This is not some Luddite, nostalgic rant about a return to a simpler time; I'm a big believer that change is both good, and inevitable, and that's just the way it is. However, when 10-year-olds are toting around I-Phones (latest version, if you please) to simultaneously keep track of their schedules, text their friends, and call Mom to get them from practice to piano lessons, something, to me, seems amiss.

It will come as no surprise that I am also a big believer in youth sports. They're fun, keep kids busy and physically active, and promote teamwork and character. That these are all good things is self-evident. Like any good thing, however, too much can be, well, too much.

Our boys primarily play baseball and basketball, with Son #2 throwing in some fall soccer into the mix. The seasons mesh together pretty nicely, meaning that basically we get free weekends in August, and in late March. Beyond that, it's "Who's playing where?", about 44 weeks of the year. This much, we're accustomed to.

This year's been a little different. Son #1, who is turning out to be an above-average baseball player, not only made his modified (middle school) team as a 7th grader, but also played in a 13-16 year old house league, and was asked, at 13, to play for a 14-under travel team. What this has meant is that he's played roughly 45 ballgames since April 1. Factor in Son #2's Little League schedule, and we have sixty ballgames in essentially three months. This is, as they say, becoming a bit much.

Thing is, I know for a fact that this is neither terribly unusual, nor by any means worse than other parents deal with. I thank God every single day that my guys don't play hockey; that's just insane. A good friend's son, and my own nephew are both elite-level 15-year-old hockey players, and trips every weekend to Canada, or Massachusetts, or Mars are utterly routine for those poor bastards.

I want my children, like any other parent, to succeed, and to enjoy their youth; it passes far too quickly. That said, the experience I've had in youth sports over the past 8 years has led me to a few conclusions, both exhilarating and sobering:

1) The odds against my kid being the next Jeter/Lebron/Insert name here are astronomical. While this is not a surprise to me personally, it would stagger the casual observer how many parents truly believe their kid IS the Second Coming. This leads to the essential dilemma of travel sports; parents who want to believe their kid can do it get lured by travel sports organizations into parting with large dollars to facilitate dreams of college scholarships, and lucrative professional contracts. Already, Son #1 has received flyers imploring him to "try out" for UnderArmour "National teams", if only Mom & Dad will part with $300 for the privilege. I personally know of parents who have paid that much or more just to audition for travel baseball teams locally; one Dad seriously told me this program would greatly improve his boy's opportunity for a college scholarship. Having coached the boy in question, I think it's a bit of a reach; he's good, but not that good.

2) Try VERY hard to temper your expectations; they get in the way of enjoying your child's progress. I had a conversation a year and a half ago with my best friend, and the topic turned to the kids, and specifically to Son #1's baseball. It was right about the time I was realizing he was getting good, and was trying hard to avoid the flights of fancy in 1) above. Matt, as usual, set me straight. "You think it's possible he might someday make his high school team?" I admitted I did. "Then let him make that team before he makes the Yankees, OK?" I think about that conversation a whole lot.

3) If you get through 1&2, then this one's easier: Have fun with this, and make damned sure your child does, too. If the only reason your kid is playing youth sports is because YOU desperately want him/her to, then you have a "you" problem, and it needs to be addressed. The winnowing-out process for young athletes can be as political as it is Darwinian; I urge parents to make certain, after about age 12 or so, that this is something the kid really wants to do. If not, they are very likely to be very miserable.

The point of all of this? Like chocolate, youth sports are a good thing. Still, too much of either can make you sick.

Until next time,
Excelsior!

On Grace

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 06:27:10 PDT

"Grace" can be amazing; it can define elegance of movement or conduct, a humble request for divine guidance or intervention, or simply the name of a good friend. Today, we'll take a look at grace as it applies to sport, as a result of two specific events of this past week.

*******

The first event is the passing of John Wooden, at the age of 99. Coach Wooden's accomplishments are quite simply legend; the only man inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame inducted as both coach AND player, ten national titles in twelve years at UCLA, and so forth. The college basketball player of the year receives the Wooden Award. As Casey Stengel said, "You can look it up."

I never had the privilege of having met Coach Wooden, so all of this is truly secondhand opinion, but I have also never known of any public figure this side of Mother Teresa about whom one never heard, said, or wrote ANYTHING negative, EVER. Not one thing, and I have looked into this. This man was so universally respected and loved that it suspends belief. His team may have just whomped you into next week, but he did not embarrass you.

As tribute to his memory accumulates from around the world, the common thread one constantly sees is that his professional accomplishments pale in comparison to his personal value as a man. For seven decades, John Wooden was an educator, advisor, and friend to all who encountered him. His concerns were simple: praise his God, love his wife and family, and help anyone and everyone he could. Rest well, sir. You have lived a life of grace, and we are the better for it.

Event #2 this week was, of course, the perfect game that wasn't. For those of you just returning from the Antarctic, this past Wednesday evening in Detroit, Armando Gallaraga of the Tigers was one out away from the 21st perfect game in baseball history. A simple ground ball to first baseman Miguel Cabrera, a toss to a covering Gallaraga, and immortality. Out by half a step.

Enter first base ump Jim Joyce, a respected 20-year veteran, who saw it differently. Joyce called "safe", and immortality goes out the window. Amid the snarling chaos of the ensuing argument, Gallaraga's calm, smiling mien stands out. The man has to be simply gutted at that moment, yet not only does he not come close to arguing about it, he just smiles, returns to the mound, and induces the next batter to ground out for what goes into the books as a one-hit shutout.

Grace also implies character. Re-enter Jim Joyce, who may have had a notion he got it wrong on the field, took all the heat imaginable there, then went into the umpires' dressing room to see the same replay millions of others had already seen. The play was close, but not that close, and Joyce knew he clearly got it wrong. It's what he does next that was graceful.

Joyce immediately asks permission to enter the Tigers' clubhouse, and without hesitation, walks up to Galarraga and admits his mistake, saying "You were perfect, and I wasn't". Galarraga accepts his apology, gives Joyce a hug, and that's that.

Galarraga's essential response to the swarm of media afterwards? "Sure, it's disappointing, but people make mistakes. Jim's a good ump, he apologized, and it's over. We still got the win."

The next day? Galarraga presents the lineup card to home plate umpire Jim Joyce, who's wiping tears from his eyes. They shake hands to a rousing ovation from the Detroit crowd.

The point of all of this? Grace can manifest itself in many ways, and most of them can teach us a lesson or two.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Youth

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 08:05:03 PST

"Youth is wasted on the young." - George Bernard Shaw

********

"When I was 14, my father was the stupidest man on Earth. By the time I was 21, I was amazed at how much he had learned in seven short years." - Mark Twain

********

I am a fifty-year-old father of 13 and 11 year-old sons. This is fact, and, as always, lends itself to opportunities for observation. Yesterday was one of those days.

My oldest son, who will be 14 this fall, took his 7th-grade class trip yesterday to Boston, and I had the pleasure of serving as one of the chaperones on the trip. 300+ kids and 40 or so chaperones and teachers filled seven buses at oh-dawn-thirty for a three-hour ride to one of my favorite cities, and the cradle of our nation.

I love Boston, and know it pretty well. I have visited the city many, many times, and fully subscribe to the notion that it's the "biggest small town in America." Truly a city of neighborhoods,there's more history packed within its boundaries than any other city in the country, and monuments to that history are everywhere. Back to that in a moment.

The trip over the MassPike to Boston is pretty uneventful, and even considering the horror show that is morning traffic in the Hub, we arrive at the Boston Museum of Science a few minutes ahead of schedule. Fully caffeinated, I am paired up with one of the school's teachers, and we are charged with the care and feeding of ten of the kids for the day.

All 350 of us, student and adult, are attired in get-out-of-the-way yellow T-shirts for the trip. While this makes identification of us as a whole simplicity itself, picking out individuals within this sea of yellow is much more along the lines of a "Where's Waldo?" exercise, which merits a moment's mention.

I take this assignment pretty seriously; as a parent and longtime coach, I am sensitive to the well-being of children above all things, and have a few reminders for our charges before we begin. I deliver those admonitions in my typical style; abrupt, to-the-point, and clear on the notion that their safety takes FAR greater precedence than their actually liking me. This last point requires private reinforcement shortly thereafter with one of my son's friends; to his credit, it was only needed once.

While I've done this kind of thing before, it was never on this scale. A friend and I shepherded our two kids and one other through the Metropolitan in NYC last year, but that was nothing in comparison. I got the distinct feeling of what it must be like for the Secret Service; constantly scanning for your charges, and also looking for potential problems. I do not mean to compare my task to that of protecting the President, but the analogy applies. One looks for potential issues, and looks to head them off before they even arise. In my case, I also learned to count to ten VERY quickly.

Two hours at the Museum of Science pass quickly; the place is undeniably cool, and the kids enjoyed it. We then pile back into the buses, count heads, and head downtown for a brown-bag lunch on the Common before we start on a part of the Freedom Trail.

The Boston Common is the oldest public park in America; 44 acres of green surrounded by history and high-rise. A lovely spot, and one, like any other such urban space on a nice day is inhabited by both the fortunate, and those less so. Under the category of staving off situations before they become problems, we manage our charges, eat lunch, and proceed along the Trail for forty-five minutes of walking history.

For those who have not done so, the Freedom Trail is required walking for anyone with an interest in American history. It winds through Boston, taking you past many of the seminal locations of the Revolution; the Old North Church, the Granary Burial Grounds, and Faneuil Hall are just a few of the stops along the way.

Anything that winds through Boston winds through Boston traffic as well. Boston traffic is justifiably the stuff of legend; narrow, centuries-old routes do not lend themselves well to modern vehicular traffic, and the Boston driver compensates with acts of automotive lunacy. Lights that are red for longer than a few seconds are usually considered broken, and let's not even get into highway conditions. This all can make pedestrian travel hazardous; one wonders why pedestrians aren't stacked up on the curb like cordwood. This merits mention only because one of our young ladies might not have paid full attention to admonitions about street-crossing, and had to absorb a rather sharp warning to retrurn to the (relative) safety of the sidewalk.

We reach Faneuil Hall/Quincy Market uninjured, and with all our number. We now have about forty-five minutes to wander about, surrounded by the sights and smells of a simply wonderful combination of urban mall and open-air market; everything from Abercrombie & Fitch to the cheapest dreck imaginable is readily available, and it has to be Boston's premier tourist attraction.

A brief aside; I have nothing but brothers, and have raised nothing but sons. I did not understand even remotely the teenaged American female when I was a teenager myself, and nothing has occurred in my life since then to add to that understanding.

This shortcoming becomes particularly evident when it comes to the retail experience. I am blessed to have married a woman who does not treat shopping as sport; Bride certainly is particular, and chooses purchases with care, but she is decisive and blissfully quick when it comes to shopping, and I am forever grateful for it. Her characteristics in this regard, sadly, are not universally-embraced by the modern American teenager, male or female.

We enter an American Eagle store.

Good God.

My chaperone compatriot wisely suggests we split the group on a gender basis, rapidly (and correctly) appraising that I am simply not up to the task of keeping up with the young ladies. Sadly, I'm not a hell of a lot better with the guys; they're flying from pillar to post. With the boys, at least, I'm able to communicate the notion that we have a finite amount of time to get done before we have to head to our final stop of the day, the IMAX theater at the nearby New England Aquarium, and we complete our retail therapy.

A sea of yellow shirts converges upon our last stop, and as we're being queued up for entrance to the movie, a sizable usher commands silence, asking if (insert name here) is in the crowd. No response. After accounting for our ten, and watching teachers fan out in search of the missing student, we enter the theater. After the movie, I'm told that the missing girl was indeed in the crowd; she simply hadn't been paying attention, had fallen in with some friends outside her specific travel group, and that neither occurrence was a particular surprise. Maybe not a surprise, but definitely the type of thing that keeps one awake at night.

After the movie, we pile back onto the buses, have one more successful head count, and begin to leave for home. All the kids are safely headed back to their rightful owners, and this chaperone can finally relax after what is now becoming a fairly long day.

Not so much.

Put 60 or so 12-14 year-olds in a confined space, completely jacked-up from the adrenaline of the day, not to mention the normal hormonal conflagrations resulting from such close confines, and the result is pure, unaldulterated cacaphony. Interminable story short? The notion of resting on the way home is fantasy, and the din of the crew, bouncing around the inside of the bus like a BB in a tin can, is trying. God bless him, Son #1 falls out in minutes, leaving me only the relative solace of Lewis Black on the Walkman amid a sea of chattering, wildly-texting kids.

The point of all of this? While George Bernard Shaw may well have been right, thank God the young have their youth. Without it, they'd never survive shopping. As for Mr. Twain, we shall see.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On The Importance of Humor

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Thu, 20 May 2010 09:46:04 PDT

"Laugh, and the world laughs with you".
********

I happen to have been employed by the telephone company my entire working life(nearly 28 years), a fact which makes me something of an anachronism these days; most folks will spend their working lives with a number of employers, and many change jobs with with an alacrity I would find alarming.

While my ability to remain with the company for so long has certainly been comforting, and has allowed me to care for my family, it has also provided me the fodder for one of my favorite pursuits, that of humor.

Let's make a few things clear. I am decidedly NOT a comedian. I simply try to observe some of the things happening around me, and attempt to see the humor in them. Some may see this as sophomoric, and they may have a point. I, on the other hand, view humor as a generally harmless, yet vitally useful, defense mechanism. Self-deprecation is a BIG part of my arsenal; I firmly believe that if you can't laugh at yourself, you likely are in dire need of an ego check anyway, and are to be avoided.

The juxtaposition of the real and the absurd, especially when it comes to the workplace, especially tickles my fancy. 28 years in the warm embrace of Mother Bell has provided me with countless examples of this, to the point where I am absolutely convinced that the company I work for makes money by the truckload in spite of itself. I will not bore the reader with the details; you're just going to have to take it on faith for the moment. It suffices to say that Scott Adams, the creator of "Dilbert", began his career in the Bell System. "Dilbert" is so on-point in my company that it's terrifying, and there are more "Dilbert" strips tacked up in more cubicles than one can possibly imagine.

We live our lives bombarded with information about horrible suffering; Darfur, Haiti, Katrina. The economy has been in the tank for a couple of years, and people are struggling to make ends meet like they haven't had to struggle in decades. Wars drag on in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the gridlock in Washington, in the name of partisan politics, continues ad nauseam.

Humor may well be our last line of defense. Hell, if you don't laugh at the goings-on in the NY State government, you might as well curl up in the corner and twitch. What passes for the political process in my home state truly suspends belief; where else could a former governor, run out of office for advanced hooker procurement, be pulling higher polling numbers than his successor, who may well be an idiot, but is at least currently unindicted?

From Mark Twain to Lewis Black, some of our most illuminating social commentary has come from America's funny bone. While we're laughing, in the back of our heads, a little voice is often saying, "Hey; that's right." We watch Jay, or Dave, or Jon Stewart every night, partially for a giggle, but equally as much to see which fool who shouldn't have opened their mouth on the national stage that day.

So, for heaven's sake, take the time to laugh. It feels good, helps alleviate your troubles, even if only for a moment, and who knows? You might just get someone else to laugh with you.

Until next time,

Excelsior!

On Sex, Religion, and Politics

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Rooney) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 07:58:31 PDT

No, not really.

Well, a trifle on politics. As I may have written before, I live in a small town outside Albany, NY known as Averill Park. Tucked in the hills of Rensselaer County, it's a physically beautiful place, combining lakes, forests, and mountains, and these characteristics help to provide a quality of life my family & I have come to greatly enjoy. There are a variety of cultural, athletic, and community opportunities for folks to enjoy, and blue-ribbon schools to educate our children.

Tip O'Neill, the legendary bastion of the House of Representatives, once said that "all politics is local".

Today, the day we elect members to the AP School Board, those words have never rung more true.

I've been here seven years now, and I have witnessed the factionalization of this community through a few of these elections by now. This year's edition, however, has raised the level of vitriol to heretofore unseen proportions.

What we have here are two diametrically opposed points of view, united by a common hatred.

The mudslinging, name-calling, and underhanded nonsense of many types have become appalling, embarrassing, and ridiculous. The lack of civility in this alleged debate is so overheated, rhetorical firehoses are called for, if only to knock both sides back a bit so they can take a breath.

The technological aspect of this particular election merits mention, as well. The comments found in the blogosphere, on Facebook, and in e-mail have been such that they have graduated to the "mainstream" media; our local newspapers have repeatedly written on the intensity and and overall dissension created by this election. As one individual commented on a blog today, "I wonder what folks without computers are thinking?" A hell of a question, that.

I have a good friend who participated successfully in this process some years back, and, as is his custom, threw himself at the task with all of his considerable ability. While I am loath to speak for anyone but myself, I'd hazard the guess that the nonsense he dealt with throughout his term completely overwhelmed his sense of duty; I am damned certain it would overwhelm mine.

The point of all of this? When a process becomes such a pain in the ass that good people on both sides of the argument choose to separate themselves from the debate rather than participate in it, then the process, or at least the current iteration of it, is seriously broken.

Next time, a happier topic, and a better mood, I promise.

Excelsior!