Yesterday I had an interesting conversation with a Conservative acquaintance, one in which he claimed that one's political affiliation determines which "facts" one chooses to believe. We were speaking in particular about the current health-care-reform debate, and, essentially, his assertion was that there is somehow an equivalence between the latest Glenn (The University of I Don't Remember) Beck fabrication and actual, real-world statistics compiled by organizations such as WHO.
And so it goes with the Radical Right. If reality is too difficult or inconvenient, then they truly believe that they can simply make up an alternative set of facts that better fit the way they want to see the world.
Just look back to those heady days of the Bush Administration's first term, when the Neocons so arrogantly proclaimed that "...we create our own reality." Those of us in the "reality-based community" were passe, hopelessly mired in a non-fantasy-based past.
I think we all can recall how that worked itself out in Mister Bush's second term.
Because, no matter how much one might want want to believe, say, that America's health-care system provides the best results in the world... well, that pesky reality does keep getting in the way. We don't cover as large a percentage of our population as, get worse results than, and still rack up more money spent per capita than, any other Western democracy. And no amount of made-up drivel about "Death Panels" or "Socialism" is going to change that.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The Crazy Lady Who "Represents" Me
Yes, the one and only, certifiably insane Michelle Bachmann, "my" U.S. Representative, is at it again. The most recent crazy quote:
The steps that are being taken by the current Administration have more in line with the Weimar Republic in the 1920s.
Setting aside that she mispronounces "Weimar," it's still quite entertaining that Bachmann would compare the Obama Administration to the democratically-elected government of Germany in the period of 1919-1933. After all, since she wants to supplant the current government, wouldn't that make her, and those allied with her, the historical equivalent of Hitler and the Nazis?
Of course, I'm not really suggesting that she and her ilk are the equivalent of fascists. (I, unlike them, am too well-enough grounded in both reality and human decency to sink to such lows.) But it is hilarious that Bachmann is so historically illiterate that she does not see the obvious logical extension of her assertion.
One way or another, it's just pretty damn funny. And telling.
The steps that are being taken by the current Administration have more in line with the Weimar Republic in the 1920s.
Setting aside that she mispronounces "Weimar," it's still quite entertaining that Bachmann would compare the Obama Administration to the democratically-elected government of Germany in the period of 1919-1933. After all, since she wants to supplant the current government, wouldn't that make her, and those allied with her, the historical equivalent of Hitler and the Nazis?
Of course, I'm not really suggesting that she and her ilk are the equivalent of fascists. (I, unlike them, am too well-enough grounded in both reality and human decency to sink to such lows.) But it is hilarious that Bachmann is so historically illiterate that she does not see the obvious logical extension of her assertion.
One way or another, it's just pretty damn funny. And telling.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Welcome Back, Michael Vick?
Thursday night, news came that quarterback and NFL pariah Michael Vick has returned to the league, signed by the Philadelphia Eagles to bolster their chances of making it to the Super Bowl. And this development leaves me feeling deeply ambivalent.
Does a man like Vick -- a felon convicted of Federal charges stemming from his involvement in a horrific dogfighting ring, yet also a man who has paid his proverbial "debt to society" -- now deserve another chance to pursue a very, very lucrative football career?
I just don't know.
In a press conference Friday, he said, "I know I've done some terrible things, made a horrible mistake... We all have issues, we all deal with certain things..." But what he did to land behind bars was no mistake, no garden-variety accident. His actions, though truly difficult to fathom, were willful and deliberate. The brutality that Vick displayed in pitting his unwilling canine minions against each other in fights to the death, as well as in executing many of them, indicates a cruelty, a lack of empathy that is often found in incipient serial killers, not in your average citizen.
And such language makes me feel as though he really hasn't come to grips with what he did; instead, it seems as though he is sorry only that he got caught and had to pay the price.
Nonetheless, he has paid the price -- a terrible price that cost him years of his life in prison, years of his career and millions upon millions of dollars, driving him to bankruptcy. Should we now deprive him of the opportunity to make a future living, too?
Were veterinary medicine or animal husbandry his chosen work, perhaps we would be right in doing so. But now, I fear, we must simply hope that Michael Vick is able to live up to his own professions of rehabilitation. I wish him the best; perhaps he can actually get his life straightened out.
But I'm surely glad that he isn't trying to do so as a member of my beloved Vikings.
Does a man like Vick -- a felon convicted of Federal charges stemming from his involvement in a horrific dogfighting ring, yet also a man who has paid his proverbial "debt to society" -- now deserve another chance to pursue a very, very lucrative football career?
I just don't know.
In a press conference Friday, he said, "I know I've done some terrible things, made a horrible mistake... We all have issues, we all deal with certain things..." But what he did to land behind bars was no mistake, no garden-variety accident. His actions, though truly difficult to fathom, were willful and deliberate. The brutality that Vick displayed in pitting his unwilling canine minions against each other in fights to the death, as well as in executing many of them, indicates a cruelty, a lack of empathy that is often found in incipient serial killers, not in your average citizen.
And such language makes me feel as though he really hasn't come to grips with what he did; instead, it seems as though he is sorry only that he got caught and had to pay the price.
Nonetheless, he has paid the price -- a terrible price that cost him years of his life in prison, years of his career and millions upon millions of dollars, driving him to bankruptcy. Should we now deprive him of the opportunity to make a future living, too?
Were veterinary medicine or animal husbandry his chosen work, perhaps we would be right in doing so. But now, I fear, we must simply hope that Michael Vick is able to live up to his own professions of rehabilitation. I wish him the best; perhaps he can actually get his life straightened out.
But I'm surely glad that he isn't trying to do so as a member of my beloved Vikings.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
So Much For Health Care Reform
At this point, I think I can officially announce that health care reform in the United States is again dead. It will not happen; millions will continue to lack coverage, with millions more under-covered, and the costs to our nation will keep escalating. And the fault belongs entirely to the majority Democratic Party.
Let's start with President Obama, for it was he who, out of hand, rejected the notion of a single-payer system, thus immediately shifting the debate rightward and eliminating as a possibility the surest method to expand coverage, control costs and improve outcomes.
Mister Obama, as President, has given up thinking big for some hope of bipartisanship. But the Republicans have no interest in being bipartisan; they wish only to muddy the waters and score inside-the-beltway political points. So why give up policy for a pipe dream? And isn't making good policy really what politics is all about?
And then there are the conservative Democrats, the Blue Dogs. Whether you consider it fortunate or unfortunate, as the G.O.P. has devolved into a party at the margins of political thought, the Democratic Party has become the refuge of serious politicians, be they liberal, moderate or conservative. At this point, the debate within the party has come to matter far more than the debate between parties.
And the Blue Dogs are very concerned about the cost of health care reform. What they fail to deal with, though, is the cost of failing to enact serious change. At this point health care eats up over 17% of GDP -- that's more than $2.7 trillion -- and those costs are going to continue rising exponentially if we do nothing. We already pay the costs of health care, and will continue to do so; it is just a matter of how, and how intelligently, we decide to do so.
Also telling is the amount of money that is flowing into our lawmaking process from the health insurance and pharmaceutical industries, and the results that it buys. That political finance in the U.S. is nothing more than a system of legalized bribery can no longer be reasonably argued -- but this is an issue that neither party seems particularly interested in addressing (I guess that is where you can find true bipartisanship in Washington).
This mess, caused by the corruption that is Washington, D.C., means that our elected representatives will essentially do nothing to meaningfully change our current broken system, even if a bill somehow makes it through the process. What I fear is that we will end up with an individual mandate for insurance while failing to control costs or improve care -- in other words, a massive giveaway to insurance and drug providers at public expense.
And if it happens, the fault will lay directly at the feet of the Democrats.
Let's start with President Obama, for it was he who, out of hand, rejected the notion of a single-payer system, thus immediately shifting the debate rightward and eliminating as a possibility the surest method to expand coverage, control costs and improve outcomes.
Mister Obama, as President, has given up thinking big for some hope of bipartisanship. But the Republicans have no interest in being bipartisan; they wish only to muddy the waters and score inside-the-beltway political points. So why give up policy for a pipe dream? And isn't making good policy really what politics is all about?
And then there are the conservative Democrats, the Blue Dogs. Whether you consider it fortunate or unfortunate, as the G.O.P. has devolved into a party at the margins of political thought, the Democratic Party has become the refuge of serious politicians, be they liberal, moderate or conservative. At this point, the debate within the party has come to matter far more than the debate between parties.
And the Blue Dogs are very concerned about the cost of health care reform. What they fail to deal with, though, is the cost of failing to enact serious change. At this point health care eats up over 17% of GDP -- that's more than $2.7 trillion -- and those costs are going to continue rising exponentially if we do nothing. We already pay the costs of health care, and will continue to do so; it is just a matter of how, and how intelligently, we decide to do so.
Also telling is the amount of money that is flowing into our lawmaking process from the health insurance and pharmaceutical industries, and the results that it buys. That political finance in the U.S. is nothing more than a system of legalized bribery can no longer be reasonably argued -- but this is an issue that neither party seems particularly interested in addressing (I guess that is where you can find true bipartisanship in Washington).
This mess, caused by the corruption that is Washington, D.C., means that our elected representatives will essentially do nothing to meaningfully change our current broken system, even if a bill somehow makes it through the process. What I fear is that we will end up with an individual mandate for insurance while failing to control costs or improve care -- in other words, a massive giveaway to insurance and drug providers at public expense.
And if it happens, the fault will lay directly at the feet of the Democrats.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Franklin Henry Means, 1922-2009
Long ago, when my wife Barb and I were in the nascent, getting-to-know-each-other phase of our relationship, she one day asked me, "Who are your heroes?" I was able to reply without hesitation: "John Lennon and my Dad." She was suitably impressed.
Suitably, I say, because it really had nothing to do with me. Instead, it was a testament to what kind of man my father was; his character was so evident that even that stupid, cocky, know-it-all teenage boy could see it.
Frank Means, my Dad, died today at age 86.
Dad's story was, in many ways, the common story of his generation: His childhood was shaped by the cruelties of the Great Depression; his young adulthood was spent in the service of his country during the Second World War and as part of the Army of Occupation of Japan; he returned home to marry the woman he loved, to build a family and a life (and, in so doing, to help rebuild our nation) through hard work, thrift and patience.
But to reduce the life of Frank Means to something so trite as a mere demographic exercise would be a great disservice. He was not a man of means, nor power, nor wide acclaim. Yet in that supposedly "ordinary" life, he was an extraordinary man.
In a world where simple, common decency is far too uncommon, Dad was the embodiment of the notion. He saw other people as human beings -- not as tools to be manipulated toward his ends, not as obstacles to be overcome, not as merely the money with which they might be parted nor as the sum total of their possessions, but as people endowed with human dignity and deserving of a basic respect.
When I was a child of perhaps ten, I found a five-dollar bill on the floor of the local dime store; when I brought it to the attention of the cashier, an elderly woman immediately claimed it as money that she had lost, and, though it was clearly not actually hers, I gave it to her. This bothered me, and I told Dad about it later. He thought about it for moment, and then said, "Well, she must have needed that money a lot more than you did."
Looking back now, of course, I know that Dad was right. The woman was clearly not well-off; that five dollars that might have bought me a few packs of baseball cards or a treat instead probably bought her a couple of meals. It was a lasting lesson that Dad managed to impart in thirteen simple words.
Outstanding, too, about Dad was his sense of humor. His smile was always at the ready, his laughter a big, booming affair that carried across the largest of rooms. We often joked that in order to find Dad, all you had to do was follow the sound of that laugh.
There was an enduring love of baseball that ran deep in him, a love that he also imparted to his children. As a young man, he played the game. Constantly, and well enough that he was actually offered a minor-league contract by the Milwaukee Braves. Dad, then with a young family, had to say no to that offer, to the vagaries and uncertainties of the minor-league life, but it certainly was evidence of the skill and joy that he brought to the sport.
By the time that I was old enough to be part of it, he was in his mid-fifties and had moved on to managing (along with his friend and brother-in-law, Chuck) Spooner's city league baseball team. I was only able to see Dad play once, when the team was so shorthanded that it pressed him into service. Even at age 54, he went 3 for 4 with an RBI against a pitcher less than half his age. I don't know if I ever saw him smile so broadly as he did that day.
There was Dad's tender, affectionate nature, which, too, lives on in his children. Having lost his own father to cancer when he was only twelve years old, he endeavored to give his family the paternal love that he had missed for much of his life. I don't think that a day went by in my childhood during which I was not told that I was loved. Dad taught me that a man could be masculine while still being warm-hearted, loving, even sentimental.
And of course no recollection of Frank Means would be complete without mention of the greatest love of his life: his wife, his partner, Kathleen Means. He said that he fell for her the first time he saw her, Chuck's little sister, when she was just thirteen years old. That love endured for more than half a century; his devotion to, and respect for, Mom was extraordinary, deep and abiding, lasting far beyond her death in January of 1999. He was always patient with her, kind, gentle, indulgent. A gentleman in the finest sense of the word.
As much as anything, that has shaped the man that I am today, the relationship that I have with Barb. He taught me to honor women and womanhood, to see as precious the bond between the two of us, as partners, as lovers, as friends.
In recent years, much of what made Dad who he was began to slowly, and then more precipitously, fade. The laughter came less and less often; the humor became less apparent. There were still glimpses of the real Dad, but he was gradually robbed from us, and, worse, from himself. That he has now rejoined Mom is only right. But that doesn't make it any easier for those of us who must go on without him, without his smile and love and wisdom.
My failings and failures in this world are my own. But most of the little good that I manage to achieve in this world is due to Frank Means.
I miss you, Dad, and I love you.
Suitably, I say, because it really had nothing to do with me. Instead, it was a testament to what kind of man my father was; his character was so evident that even that stupid, cocky, know-it-all teenage boy could see it.
Frank Means, my Dad, died today at age 86.
Dad's story was, in many ways, the common story of his generation: His childhood was shaped by the cruelties of the Great Depression; his young adulthood was spent in the service of his country during the Second World War and as part of the Army of Occupation of Japan; he returned home to marry the woman he loved, to build a family and a life (and, in so doing, to help rebuild our nation) through hard work, thrift and patience.
But to reduce the life of Frank Means to something so trite as a mere demographic exercise would be a great disservice. He was not a man of means, nor power, nor wide acclaim. Yet in that supposedly "ordinary" life, he was an extraordinary man.
In a world where simple, common decency is far too uncommon, Dad was the embodiment of the notion. He saw other people as human beings -- not as tools to be manipulated toward his ends, not as obstacles to be overcome, not as merely the money with which they might be parted nor as the sum total of their possessions, but as people endowed with human dignity and deserving of a basic respect.
When I was a child of perhaps ten, I found a five-dollar bill on the floor of the local dime store; when I brought it to the attention of the cashier, an elderly woman immediately claimed it as money that she had lost, and, though it was clearly not actually hers, I gave it to her. This bothered me, and I told Dad about it later. He thought about it for moment, and then said, "Well, she must have needed that money a lot more than you did."
Looking back now, of course, I know that Dad was right. The woman was clearly not well-off; that five dollars that might have bought me a few packs of baseball cards or a treat instead probably bought her a couple of meals. It was a lasting lesson that Dad managed to impart in thirteen simple words.
Outstanding, too, about Dad was his sense of humor. His smile was always at the ready, his laughter a big, booming affair that carried across the largest of rooms. We often joked that in order to find Dad, all you had to do was follow the sound of that laugh.
There was an enduring love of baseball that ran deep in him, a love that he also imparted to his children. As a young man, he played the game. Constantly, and well enough that he was actually offered a minor-league contract by the Milwaukee Braves. Dad, then with a young family, had to say no to that offer, to the vagaries and uncertainties of the minor-league life, but it certainly was evidence of the skill and joy that he brought to the sport.
By the time that I was old enough to be part of it, he was in his mid-fifties and had moved on to managing (along with his friend and brother-in-law, Chuck) Spooner's city league baseball team. I was only able to see Dad play once, when the team was so shorthanded that it pressed him into service. Even at age 54, he went 3 for 4 with an RBI against a pitcher less than half his age. I don't know if I ever saw him smile so broadly as he did that day.
There was Dad's tender, affectionate nature, which, too, lives on in his children. Having lost his own father to cancer when he was only twelve years old, he endeavored to give his family the paternal love that he had missed for much of his life. I don't think that a day went by in my childhood during which I was not told that I was loved. Dad taught me that a man could be masculine while still being warm-hearted, loving, even sentimental.
And of course no recollection of Frank Means would be complete without mention of the greatest love of his life: his wife, his partner, Kathleen Means. He said that he fell for her the first time he saw her, Chuck's little sister, when she was just thirteen years old. That love endured for more than half a century; his devotion to, and respect for, Mom was extraordinary, deep and abiding, lasting far beyond her death in January of 1999. He was always patient with her, kind, gentle, indulgent. A gentleman in the finest sense of the word.
As much as anything, that has shaped the man that I am today, the relationship that I have with Barb. He taught me to honor women and womanhood, to see as precious the bond between the two of us, as partners, as lovers, as friends.
In recent years, much of what made Dad who he was began to slowly, and then more precipitously, fade. The laughter came less and less often; the humor became less apparent. There were still glimpses of the real Dad, but he was gradually robbed from us, and, worse, from himself. That he has now rejoined Mom is only right. But that doesn't make it any easier for those of us who must go on without him, without his smile and love and wisdom.
My failings and failures in this world are my own. But most of the little good that I manage to achieve in this world is due to Frank Means.
I miss you, Dad, and I love you.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Ignorance Is Not Virtue
The culture wars continue, with now-well-known idiot (and Arizona Republican State Senator) Sylvia Allen exhibiting her vast knowledge of both geology and cosmology. That such a display of ignorance is essentially required to win a primary as a member of the GOP is a sad commentary upon the state of both the party and our nation.
In my dark hours, I fear that we are truly in a cosmic war, one that will determine whether mankind continues forward toward a true planetary civilization or sinks back into the darkness of its past, withering to eventual extinction. It is a fight between those of us who can embrace modernity and those who cling to callowness, superstition and prejudice.
In this fight, the likes of Osama bin Laden and Ali Khamenei are allied with the Sam Brownbacks and Pat Robertsons and James Inhofes of the world, each of them trying to stamp out rational thought in the name of his own version of fundamentalist purity, each of them certain that he is the true servant of the one true god, each ready to murder any and all who don't see the world as he does.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: If it wishes to survive, humanity had better hope that my side wins.
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