Progress with Pain
Dentists inflicted much pain on me during my youth (See October 1, 2009 Post, “Unintended Consequences”). My horrific encounters with drills and scraping instruments without the benefit of pain killers had a lasting effect. I am terrified by the prospect of visiting a dentist.
So when a routine exam revealed that one of my molars was in serious trouble and needed to be pulled, I was not a happy puppy. I even got a second opinion. It confirmed the diagnosis. I was referred to an oral surgeon for the work, which came as a surprise. More than a dozen of my teeth have been extracted over the years, and every one was yanked by a dentist as part of his general practice. I didn’t know things had progressed to the point where a family dentist would refer extraction work to a specialist.
I did know that a lot of progress has been made in dental techniques since the days of “Painless” Parker, who was sued for claiming in ads that his work was painless. Of special interest was knowing that painkillers are more effective today than they were 40 or 50 years ago.
Fifty three years ago my last remaining wisdom truth was in serious trouble. I didn’t need any professional opinions to realize it had to be pulled. A referral from members of the family who owned the weekly newspaper where I worked sent me to “the best guy in town.” Town was De Pere, Wisconsin.
The De Pere dentist shot me full of local anesthetic that numbed a big part of my lower jaw. He had to split the roots before he could get the tooth out. He did that with a couple of smart whacks with a hammer on a chisel. I thought the world was ending. But I survived the jolts, the tooth finally was gone, and I was more than ready to get out of there.
“Where are you going now?” the dentist asked.
“Back to work.”
“Oh, no, you’re not. When the novocaine wears off, you won’t want to go anywhere. Call your office and tell them you won’t be in today. Then stop at the liquor store and buy a half-pint of brandy. Go home. When the bleeding stops, get in bed and drink all the brandy.”
I followed the advice. After sleeping fitfully from mid-afternoon until the following morning, I made it to the office. Constant pain accompanied me through that work day. The pain diminished gradually, but it didn’t disappear for several days.
After that, I didn’t let a dentist touch me without first administering a dose of laughing gas (nitrous oxide) to provide something of a feel-good aspect to any work on my teeth. My favorite caper was to schedule dental work for late Friday afternoons. When I got home, still somewhat goofy from the gas, a single martini usually was sufficient to launch me flying a little high into a relatively painless weekend recovery period.
Sandy, our keeper of up-to-date medical knowledge, briefed me on oral surgeons before my recent appointment. She said they usually are very skilled and offer all sorts of ways to reduce pain. Included, in addition to modern local anesthetics (novocaine no longer is used), are the old reliable “laughing gas,” oral drugs, intravenous drugs, and even all-out anesthesia to render patients unconscious throughout the procedure.
Sandy insisted on driving me to the surgeon’s office. She assumed I would be “put under” when my aversion to pain became known. Her opinion got backing as we waited. An assistant came into the waiting room and instructed a man to drive around to the back of the building. She said his daughter’s extraction was complete, and she would bring the recovering girl to the rear exit and help get her into the car. I thought, “Aha, they do put you out. I’m going for that if there’s a choice.”
A different assistant read my medical history carefully, asked a few questions, and took my blood pressure. “That’s really good,” she said. “Any bad reactions to anesthetics?”
“Absolutely none,” I said. “What are the choices?”
“Looks like a routine extraction. We almost always just use local anesthetics for them. The doctor will numb you up real good.”
Perhaps puffed up into a state of mini-machismo by the compliment about my physical condition, I lost my wits for a moment and said, “OK.” In an instant, areas around my soon-to-be-missing tooth were swabbed with topical anesthetic to numb the surfaces. I don’t recall topicals being used 50 years ago. I do recall jabs with local anesthesia needles hurting something fierce.
J. Mark Domin, DDS, appeared with some comforting, and not so comforting, news. He said my extraction indeed appeared to be routine. I felt good about skipping the gas. He said roots would need to be split, and I could expect to hear a “rasping sound.” I felt less good about skipping the gas.
However, when Dr. Domin numbed me with the big needle, I didn’t feel much of anything. I felt absolutely no pain as he broke off an old crown, sawed (I think) through the remnants of the tooth, and pulled the pieces out. I was told taking a nonprescription painkiller would be a good idea before the anesthesia wore off. I was given a prescription for stronger stuff that could minimize pain for two or three days.
I took no pain killers. When the numbness wore off, there was no pain. Hours later, there was no pain. Days later, there was no pain. Wow! Dental science has made mighty strides toward greater patient comfort in the last half century.
But improved dental technology has at least one painful price. Prominent in the post-operative instructions sent home with me by the oral surgery staff were these words: “DO NOT USE ALCOHOL FOR ONE WEEK FOLLOWING SURGERY SINCE IT DELAYS HEALING.”
Now, that hurt!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A Cheesy Present
Fraternity brother Lowell Laitsch, an attorney in Alexandria, VA, perused a recent post and dispatched this e-mail:
“I note that the UW colors are properly reflected on the cover of Days with the Dads. . . even though you are now a Michigander or whatever. . . ”
The cardinal and white sweaters pictured on the cover of my book were gifts from Sandy’s mother, who lived in West Bend, Wisconsin. She spent hours knitting the three surprise Christmas presents. She got the colors just right. I have been among the most fortunate of men. I had a wonderful mother-in-law as well as a wonderful mother.
But even the best don’t always get it right. It happened on a visit to West Bend years after the sweaters arrived. With a little smile but no comment, Sandy’s mom handed me a cheesehead—the ludicrous headgear favored by rabid Packers and Badgers fans. I handed it back, and said “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one of those.”
“Didn’t you know that was a gift?” Sandy whispered to me moments later.
“No, but if did I probably would have said the same thing."
Fraternity brother Lowell Laitsch, an attorney in Alexandria, VA, perused a recent post and dispatched this e-mail:
“I note that the UW colors are properly reflected on the cover of Days with the Dads. . . even though you are now a Michigander or whatever. . . ”
The cardinal and white sweaters pictured on the cover of my book were gifts from Sandy’s mother, who lived in West Bend, Wisconsin. She spent hours knitting the three surprise Christmas presents. She got the colors just right. I have been among the most fortunate of men. I had a wonderful mother-in-law as well as a wonderful mother.
But even the best don’t always get it right. It happened on a visit to West Bend years after the sweaters arrived. With a little smile but no comment, Sandy’s mom handed me a cheesehead—the ludicrous headgear favored by rabid Packers and Badgers fans. I handed it back, and said “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one of those.”
“Didn’t you know that was a gift?” Sandy whispered to me moments later.
“No, but if did I probably would have said the same thing."
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Who Dat General?
Choosing a Super Bowl favorite was a snap at our place. New Orleans for years has rated right up there with San Francisco among U.S. cities we believe are worth visiting many times.
In the early 1980s, New Orleans’ music was great, the perpetual party atmosphere in the French Quarter was a joy, and typical tourist activities were anything but dull. Like San Francisco, it was a good place to “take her along” on a business trip. We did that several times.
While business meetings occupied my time, Sandy spent enjoyable days scouting out the cities, often in a tour group. She was ready every evening with good ideas for an activity. We tacked a weekend day or two onto the trips at our personal expense to make time for at least one lengthy tour together.
In 1981, we flew to New Orleans the weekend before a national meeting for heads of U.S. Forest Service research information units. Among other things, we wanted to travel five miles south to the site of the most famous battle of the War of 1812. Gray Line had a tour going there by boat. It was a good one.
The National Park Service employee at the historic site did an excellent job describing the events of January 8, 1815. With his clever interpretations fueling our imaginations, we could visualize the redcoats coming out of the wooded area and marching into withering fire from a rag-tag American army led by General Andrew Jackson. I still recall one of the park ranger’s lines: “All of a sudden the fog lifted, and the Americans were looking straight down their gun barrels at the best-dressed army in Europe.”
We had special help with activity planning during our 1981 visit to New Orleans. My counterpart at the Southeastern Forest Experiment Station, Bob Biesterfeldt, was there as a source of sound advice. Biesterfeldt had worked for several years at Southern Forest Experiment Station headquarters in New Orleans. He owned some rental properties in the city. He provided several good tips on where to go (and, definitely, where not to go) in the Big Easy. He even took me to a seedy little restaurant to experience the joys of a Po’ Boy sandwich after I said I’d like to go where the “regular people” ate lunch.
Sandy and I joined Biesterfeldt for early coffee before the Monday business meeting started. He asked about our weekend adventures. We started to give a glowing account of our trip down the river to the historic battlefield.
With tongue firmly in cheek, Biesterfeldt said, “I suppose some Park Service guy fed you a bunch of nonsense about the battle. They never tell tourists the true story.”
“It sounded real to us,” I said.
“I suppose he told you how Andy Jackson rode his big white horse up and down the line, telling the troops how important it was to win the battle and save the nation.”
“Not exactly, but he said something about Jackson’s fears that a victory there was sorely needed to keep the British from marching into New Orleans and splitting the country in half.” No one on the scene, including Jackson, realized that the battle meant nothing. The War of 1812 had ended 12 days earlier with a treaty signed in Europe. News moved slowly in those days.
“Well, he did try to fire up the Americans, but not with a bunch of patriotic jabbering,” Beisterfeldt said. “Jackson’s words really were, ‘Boys, I know that British general. He’s a Methodist. If he gets past us, nothing will stop him from marching into New Orleans. The first thing he’ll do is shut down every tavern, whorehouse, and gambling den in the city.’ When the time came, the Americans rose up and shot hell out of those redcoats.”
The Park Service version seemed more plausible. Whatever the truth, the Americans defended their turf with enthusiasm. The final score was not nearly as close as Sunday’s Super Bowl tally: British casualties 2,042, American casualties 71. Fitting right in with Biesterfeldt’s bogus account, one of the British dead was their commander, Major-General Edward Pakenham.
The Park Service interpreter squelched one myth about the battle. Pirate Jean Lafitte not only did not fight valiantly in the American cause, he wasn’t even there. He was several miles away. One version of history says he was on a scouting mission. Another has him sneaking away before the fighting started to enjoy the pleasures in one of his favorite taverns. As with many things related to New Orleans, take your pick.
And be joyful that, come hurricanes or high water, those Saints keep right on marchin’ in. The Super Bowl win just revved up the Bourbon Street party that never really stops.
Choosing a Super Bowl favorite was a snap at our place. New Orleans for years has rated right up there with San Francisco among U.S. cities we believe are worth visiting many times.
In the early 1980s, New Orleans’ music was great, the perpetual party atmosphere in the French Quarter was a joy, and typical tourist activities were anything but dull. Like San Francisco, it was a good place to “take her along” on a business trip. We did that several times.
While business meetings occupied my time, Sandy spent enjoyable days scouting out the cities, often in a tour group. She was ready every evening with good ideas for an activity. We tacked a weekend day or two onto the trips at our personal expense to make time for at least one lengthy tour together.
In 1981, we flew to New Orleans the weekend before a national meeting for heads of U.S. Forest Service research information units. Among other things, we wanted to travel five miles south to the site of the most famous battle of the War of 1812. Gray Line had a tour going there by boat. It was a good one.
The National Park Service employee at the historic site did an excellent job describing the events of January 8, 1815. With his clever interpretations fueling our imaginations, we could visualize the redcoats coming out of the wooded area and marching into withering fire from a rag-tag American army led by General Andrew Jackson. I still recall one of the park ranger’s lines: “All of a sudden the fog lifted, and the Americans were looking straight down their gun barrels at the best-dressed army in Europe.”
We had special help with activity planning during our 1981 visit to New Orleans. My counterpart at the Southeastern Forest Experiment Station, Bob Biesterfeldt, was there as a source of sound advice. Biesterfeldt had worked for several years at Southern Forest Experiment Station headquarters in New Orleans. He owned some rental properties in the city. He provided several good tips on where to go (and, definitely, where not to go) in the Big Easy. He even took me to a seedy little restaurant to experience the joys of a Po’ Boy sandwich after I said I’d like to go where the “regular people” ate lunch.
Sandy and I joined Biesterfeldt for early coffee before the Monday business meeting started. He asked about our weekend adventures. We started to give a glowing account of our trip down the river to the historic battlefield.
With tongue firmly in cheek, Biesterfeldt said, “I suppose some Park Service guy fed you a bunch of nonsense about the battle. They never tell tourists the true story.”
“It sounded real to us,” I said.
“I suppose he told you how Andy Jackson rode his big white horse up and down the line, telling the troops how important it was to win the battle and save the nation.”
“Not exactly, but he said something about Jackson’s fears that a victory there was sorely needed to keep the British from marching into New Orleans and splitting the country in half.” No one on the scene, including Jackson, realized that the battle meant nothing. The War of 1812 had ended 12 days earlier with a treaty signed in Europe. News moved slowly in those days.
“Well, he did try to fire up the Americans, but not with a bunch of patriotic jabbering,” Beisterfeldt said. “Jackson’s words really were, ‘Boys, I know that British general. He’s a Methodist. If he gets past us, nothing will stop him from marching into New Orleans. The first thing he’ll do is shut down every tavern, whorehouse, and gambling den in the city.’ When the time came, the Americans rose up and shot hell out of those redcoats.”
The Park Service version seemed more plausible. Whatever the truth, the Americans defended their turf with enthusiasm. The final score was not nearly as close as Sunday’s Super Bowl tally: British casualties 2,042, American casualties 71. Fitting right in with Biesterfeldt’s bogus account, one of the British dead was their commander, Major-General Edward Pakenham.
The Park Service interpreter squelched one myth about the battle. Pirate Jean Lafitte not only did not fight valiantly in the American cause, he wasn’t even there. He was several miles away. One version of history says he was on a scouting mission. Another has him sneaking away before the fighting started to enjoy the pleasures in one of his favorite taverns. As with many things related to New Orleans, take your pick.
And be joyful that, come hurricanes or high water, those Saints keep right on marchin’ in. The Super Bowl win just revved up the Bourbon Street party that never really stops.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
More to the Story
Just when you think you’ve said it all on a topic, up pops a new angle on an old story.
I thought a tale in Days with the Dads, my memoir, included every detail of the connection between Jerry Kramer, a five-time All-Pro with the Green Bay Packers in the 60s, and our son and me. It did. At least, it included everything I knew about that when the book was published late last year.
I was mystified, and frankly a bit miffed, about Kramer’s lack of interest in talking with me while we were seated next to each other for an hour or more in the Chicago airport. After all, I had told him I was a long-time Packers fan and admired his play. Only recently did I stumble onto a fact that would have guaranteed some Klade-Kramer conversation.
Sandy and I were visiting one of our local library’s periodic discount book sales. Sandy usually fills a couple of bags with titles to support her two to three book a week reading habit. I usually fill one hand with two or three titles. This time, I found more. One was a well-worn copy of Jerry Kramer’s Farewell to Football, published in 1969. I’d never heard of the book, and assumed he authored only two—Instant Replay and Distant Replay.
When we got home, I casually flipped Kramer’s book open, and read a few lines. One jumped right out at me. “I’d just pledged Sigma Nu,” Kramer said on page 106. That was at the University of Idaho. That was the same year I pledged Sigma Nu at the University of Wisconsin. Lo and behold, our family football hero and I were fraternity brothers! I just didn’t know it when we met at O’Hare.
Kramer’s Farewell book has a lot of personal information. He includes several descriptions of Sigma Nu happenings on the Moscow campus. He gives “clowning around” with buddies, including fraternity brothers, as one reason for his lackluster academic work. Kramer finished nearly four years at Idaho as a football and track all-star, but without a degree.
The Sigma Nu chapter at Idaho was known to be strong during the time I worked in the state and nearby in Utah. Its members included plenty of academic achievers, and a number of men who went on to become leaders after graduation. I met several who were successful businessmen in Boise. Throughout the 1980s, both U.S. Senators from Idaho—Republicans Steve Symms and Jim McClure--were Sigma Nus. I met one of them.
I did not meet McClure, but as far as I know, he served with distinction during his 18 years in the Senate. He was said to be strongly influenced by the mining industry, which did not always gladden the hearts of those of us interested in sound forest management. But mining was important in Idaho, and McClure was up front about his political positions. I saw no reason not to respect him.
Symms was another story. When we met in Boise in 1973, I was performing one of those low-level duties that sometimes fell to information officers. Wearing my uniform, I was working at a booth at the Idaho State Fair, answering questions about the National Forests and handing out maps and brochures. Symms had a booth almost directly across the aisle where he was promoting his candidacy for Congress.
The Symms family ran a large orchard and fruit processing business west of Boise. His campaign slogan was, “Let’s Upset the Applecart.” He was running hard against the status quo in Washington and what he saw as excessive governmental control on every level (sound familiar?). He and his supporters said some pretty nasty things about federal and state employees during that first campaign.
When the lunch hour provided a lull in booth visitors, Symms strode over to me. He offered a friendly smile and a firm handshake. “You’ve probably heard some of my comments about feds,” he said. “You know, of course, I don’t mean you Forest Service guys. You do a great job.”
I said, “Sure, we know you’re not talking about us.” By that time in my career, I had met enough politicians to not be surprised by enthusiastic insincerity. And I knew he probably was not surprised by my insincere response.
Symms won the election and went on to serve four terms in the House and two in the Senate. If he was distinguished by anything, it was as an accomplished philanderer. Rumors flew about his romantic adventures in Washington. Idaho journalists were said to know about several, but, as they did in those days, they kept his personal life out of their reports. However, when Symms’ long-suffering wife sued for divorce she put his alleged extra-marital activities on the public record. The media carried the stories, and Symms declined to run for another term, perhaps thinking his behavior would not be appreciated by voters in a conservative state.
I saw Symms once more after our Boise encounter. He passed within several feet of me as he rushed down a busy hallway in the Capitol Building in Washington. I was there as part of a legislative training course. I called out, “Hello, Steve.”
He responded with a big wave, and a hearty, “Well hi, great to see you,” as he continued on his way. He made it sound as though he remembered me well. I didn’t believe it for a minute.
So what does all that prove? Fraternity brothers, especially those from other chapters, certainly are not equivalent to birth brothers. However, they have one thing in common. Whether you respect them, admire them, choose to ignore them, or dislike them and their activities, they are yours forever.
Just when you think you’ve said it all on a topic, up pops a new angle on an old story.
I thought a tale in Days with the Dads, my memoir, included every detail of the connection between Jerry Kramer, a five-time All-Pro with the Green Bay Packers in the 60s, and our son and me. It did. At least, it included everything I knew about that when the book was published late last year.
I was mystified, and frankly a bit miffed, about Kramer’s lack of interest in talking with me while we were seated next to each other for an hour or more in the Chicago airport. After all, I had told him I was a long-time Packers fan and admired his play. Only recently did I stumble onto a fact that would have guaranteed some Klade-Kramer conversation.
Sandy and I were visiting one of our local library’s periodic discount book sales. Sandy usually fills a couple of bags with titles to support her two to three book a week reading habit. I usually fill one hand with two or three titles. This time, I found more. One was a well-worn copy of Jerry Kramer’s Farewell to Football, published in 1969. I’d never heard of the book, and assumed he authored only two—Instant Replay and Distant Replay.
When we got home, I casually flipped Kramer’s book open, and read a few lines. One jumped right out at me. “I’d just pledged Sigma Nu,” Kramer said on page 106. That was at the University of Idaho. That was the same year I pledged Sigma Nu at the University of Wisconsin. Lo and behold, our family football hero and I were fraternity brothers! I just didn’t know it when we met at O’Hare.
Kramer’s Farewell book has a lot of personal information. He includes several descriptions of Sigma Nu happenings on the Moscow campus. He gives “clowning around” with buddies, including fraternity brothers, as one reason for his lackluster academic work. Kramer finished nearly four years at Idaho as a football and track all-star, but without a degree.
The Sigma Nu chapter at Idaho was known to be strong during the time I worked in the state and nearby in Utah. Its members included plenty of academic achievers, and a number of men who went on to become leaders after graduation. I met several who were successful businessmen in Boise. Throughout the 1980s, both U.S. Senators from Idaho—Republicans Steve Symms and Jim McClure--were Sigma Nus. I met one of them.
I did not meet McClure, but as far as I know, he served with distinction during his 18 years in the Senate. He was said to be strongly influenced by the mining industry, which did not always gladden the hearts of those of us interested in sound forest management. But mining was important in Idaho, and McClure was up front about his political positions. I saw no reason not to respect him.
Symms was another story. When we met in Boise in 1973, I was performing one of those low-level duties that sometimes fell to information officers. Wearing my uniform, I was working at a booth at the Idaho State Fair, answering questions about the National Forests and handing out maps and brochures. Symms had a booth almost directly across the aisle where he was promoting his candidacy for Congress.
The Symms family ran a large orchard and fruit processing business west of Boise. His campaign slogan was, “Let’s Upset the Applecart.” He was running hard against the status quo in Washington and what he saw as excessive governmental control on every level (sound familiar?). He and his supporters said some pretty nasty things about federal and state employees during that first campaign.
When the lunch hour provided a lull in booth visitors, Symms strode over to me. He offered a friendly smile and a firm handshake. “You’ve probably heard some of my comments about feds,” he said. “You know, of course, I don’t mean you Forest Service guys. You do a great job.”
I said, “Sure, we know you’re not talking about us.” By that time in my career, I had met enough politicians to not be surprised by enthusiastic insincerity. And I knew he probably was not surprised by my insincere response.
Symms won the election and went on to serve four terms in the House and two in the Senate. If he was distinguished by anything, it was as an accomplished philanderer. Rumors flew about his romantic adventures in Washington. Idaho journalists were said to know about several, but, as they did in those days, they kept his personal life out of their reports. However, when Symms’ long-suffering wife sued for divorce she put his alleged extra-marital activities on the public record. The media carried the stories, and Symms declined to run for another term, perhaps thinking his behavior would not be appreciated by voters in a conservative state.
I saw Symms once more after our Boise encounter. He passed within several feet of me as he rushed down a busy hallway in the Capitol Building in Washington. I was there as part of a legislative training course. I called out, “Hello, Steve.”
He responded with a big wave, and a hearty, “Well hi, great to see you,” as he continued on his way. He made it sound as though he remembered me well. I didn’t believe it for a minute.
So what does all that prove? Fraternity brothers, especially those from other chapters, certainly are not equivalent to birth brothers. However, they have one thing in common. Whether you respect them, admire them, choose to ignore them, or dislike them and their activities, they are yours forever.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Take it from the Bank
Of course, the bank president will just laugh at the loss of our business, if by some strange quirk of fate it comes to his attention. But our action will be symbolic. We are going to transfer Sandy’s checking account from a big bank to join mine at a little credit union.
Shortly after we made that momentous decision, several commentators pointed out that we will part of a national trend. Quite a few people are fleeing the huge banks that dominate the U.S. and world financial systems. They are transferring their accounts into local banks, savings and loans, and credit unions.
We little guys aren’t moving our business out of greed, although often we can get better rates locally. We’re doing it because we’re mad as hell at greedy big bankers.
We ought to be. In 2008, the median U.S. household income was $50,303. It no doubt will be lower when the numbers are in for 2009. The average professional employee (broker, sales staffer, trader) compensation at JP Morgan Chase was $279,000 in 2008. The bankers gave themselves a raise in 2009, upping average compensation to $379,000. Wow! The average Morgan staffer got an income increase double what the average American family must subsist on.
JP Morgan Chase was given $25 billion dollars of taxpayer money in the fall of 2008 to ensure the firm would be healthy. (Wouldn’t it follow that the guys who were making a quarter million or more a year were the same bozos who were making the firm unhealthy?)
The medicine worked. Morgan paid back the $25 billion. The taxpayers even earned some profit on the deal. Unfortunately, although the patient survived, it didn’t start doing what the doctors envisioned. The idea was that the propped-up big banks would lend cash to stimulate business, which in turn would save or create jobs.
The bankers quickly engineered a payback to avoid government control of their compensation packages. They made the money to do that in investment banking, and continued a lot of the risky stuff that got us into a financial crisis in the first place. Instead of ramping up typical business lending they tightened things up in that area. They gave the surplus funds to each other, rather than helping their country out of recession.
Isolated case? Goldman Sachs got $10 billion from Uncle Sam to stay in business. It was one of the first to make a full repayment. It should be better managed than some competitors, because at Goldman average professional compensation was a mind-boggling $317,000 in 2008. It increased to $498,000 in 2009. Meanwhile, nationwide unemployment moved above 10 percent.
In contrast to the Wall Street bankers, Ben Bernanke’s salary in 2009 was $186,600. Bernanke is Chairman of the United States Federal Reserve. A Bush appointee, his bold actions probably were the biggest factor in keeping the world financial system from collapsing during the depths of the “Great Recession.”
The fact that Bernanke's salary is considerably less than half the average broker compensation at Goldman Sachs says something bad about our values. It also says something good about Bernanke. The brilliant economist surely could make a lot more money on Wall Street than he does in Washington. Apparently, there still is a certain amount of satisfaction in government service as a career despite the best efforts of a long line of demagogues to vilify federal officials.
It is true that Bernanke dawdled for quite a while as the financial crisis unfolded. He believed, as did many others, that his mentor Alan Greenspan had the right approach. Greenspan thought financial markets had some magical inherent ability to regulate themselves. When the error of that position was revealed, Bernanke went to work to fix things. He ought to be supported for his positive actions, not penalized for inaction before the seriousness of the situation became clear.
Bernanke is one of the few good things Bush left for Obama. Despite that, some Democrats who, along with his fellow Republicans, solidly supported the economist a few months ago now are turning against him. Some Republican Senators are joining the opposition. Bernanke may not be reconfirmed as Reserve Chairman, even though Obama nominated him for another term weeks ago. This is a case of misplaced wrath.
The big bankers are the ones who deserve our ire. Some even admit it. At a recent hearing before the Financial Crisis Inquiry Commission, Brian Moynihan, Bank of America chief executive officer and president, said, “Over the course of the crisis, we as an industry caused a lot of damage.” That’s right on.
Politicians, both Republicans and Democrats, over the past twenty years stripped away needed regulations or looked away as questionable activities were taking place. But, just because politicians gave financiers a license to steal doesn’t mean the liberated bankers were forced to plunder. They could have applied their own ethical standards--if they had any--to daily practices.
Come on, Senators. Keep the good guy who rescued us. Clamp down hard on the bad guys who betrayed us. Democrats will lose the support of a lot of voters if they simply continue running around yelling “yes, we can” make financial institutions work for all Americans. They need to do it. And Republicans need to identify some common sense reforms they can support and get with the program.
Of course, the bank president will just laugh at the loss of our business, if by some strange quirk of fate it comes to his attention. But our action will be symbolic. We are going to transfer Sandy’s checking account from a big bank to join mine at a little credit union.
Shortly after we made that momentous decision, several commentators pointed out that we will part of a national trend. Quite a few people are fleeing the huge banks that dominate the U.S. and world financial systems. They are transferring their accounts into local banks, savings and loans, and credit unions.
We little guys aren’t moving our business out of greed, although often we can get better rates locally. We’re doing it because we’re mad as hell at greedy big bankers.
We ought to be. In 2008, the median U.S. household income was $50,303. It no doubt will be lower when the numbers are in for 2009. The average professional employee (broker, sales staffer, trader) compensation at JP Morgan Chase was $279,000 in 2008. The bankers gave themselves a raise in 2009, upping average compensation to $379,000. Wow! The average Morgan staffer got an income increase double what the average American family must subsist on.
JP Morgan Chase was given $25 billion dollars of taxpayer money in the fall of 2008 to ensure the firm would be healthy. (Wouldn’t it follow that the guys who were making a quarter million or more a year were the same bozos who were making the firm unhealthy?)
The medicine worked. Morgan paid back the $25 billion. The taxpayers even earned some profit on the deal. Unfortunately, although the patient survived, it didn’t start doing what the doctors envisioned. The idea was that the propped-up big banks would lend cash to stimulate business, which in turn would save or create jobs.
The bankers quickly engineered a payback to avoid government control of their compensation packages. They made the money to do that in investment banking, and continued a lot of the risky stuff that got us into a financial crisis in the first place. Instead of ramping up typical business lending they tightened things up in that area. They gave the surplus funds to each other, rather than helping their country out of recession.
Isolated case? Goldman Sachs got $10 billion from Uncle Sam to stay in business. It was one of the first to make a full repayment. It should be better managed than some competitors, because at Goldman average professional compensation was a mind-boggling $317,000 in 2008. It increased to $498,000 in 2009. Meanwhile, nationwide unemployment moved above 10 percent.
In contrast to the Wall Street bankers, Ben Bernanke’s salary in 2009 was $186,600. Bernanke is Chairman of the United States Federal Reserve. A Bush appointee, his bold actions probably were the biggest factor in keeping the world financial system from collapsing during the depths of the “Great Recession.”
The fact that Bernanke's salary is considerably less than half the average broker compensation at Goldman Sachs says something bad about our values. It also says something good about Bernanke. The brilliant economist surely could make a lot more money on Wall Street than he does in Washington. Apparently, there still is a certain amount of satisfaction in government service as a career despite the best efforts of a long line of demagogues to vilify federal officials.
It is true that Bernanke dawdled for quite a while as the financial crisis unfolded. He believed, as did many others, that his mentor Alan Greenspan had the right approach. Greenspan thought financial markets had some magical inherent ability to regulate themselves. When the error of that position was revealed, Bernanke went to work to fix things. He ought to be supported for his positive actions, not penalized for inaction before the seriousness of the situation became clear.
Bernanke is one of the few good things Bush left for Obama. Despite that, some Democrats who, along with his fellow Republicans, solidly supported the economist a few months ago now are turning against him. Some Republican Senators are joining the opposition. Bernanke may not be reconfirmed as Reserve Chairman, even though Obama nominated him for another term weeks ago. This is a case of misplaced wrath.
The big bankers are the ones who deserve our ire. Some even admit it. At a recent hearing before the Financial Crisis Inquiry Commission, Brian Moynihan, Bank of America chief executive officer and president, said, “Over the course of the crisis, we as an industry caused a lot of damage.” That’s right on.
Politicians, both Republicans and Democrats, over the past twenty years stripped away needed regulations or looked away as questionable activities were taking place. But, just because politicians gave financiers a license to steal doesn’t mean the liberated bankers were forced to plunder. They could have applied their own ethical standards--if they had any--to daily practices.
Come on, Senators. Keep the good guy who rescued us. Clamp down hard on the bad guys who betrayed us. Democrats will lose the support of a lot of voters if they simply continue running around yelling “yes, we can” make financial institutions work for all Americans. They need to do it. And Republicans need to identify some common sense reforms they can support and get with the program.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Bitter Berries
Promoters extol Acai berries as the greatest thing for our health since the Mayo Clinic. So, when we spotted a webpage ad offering a free month’s supply of Acai in pill form, we thought it would be a great way to try the substance. We agreed to pay only shipping and handling costs, which were less than two dollars.
We were flim-flammed.
The day the pills arrived our VISA card, in addition to the shipping charge, had another charge of $88.64 by the Acai Berry Tropic Company. We phoned the firm. They said the charge was for our “membership,” which would ensure continuing shipments of their wonderful products. After a long discussion about the fact that we had not applied for any membership or authorized a fee, Acai Berry Tropic’s agent agreed to cancel our “membership” if we returned the pills, which we did. We then had to dispute the charge with VISA.
By coincidence, the September/October AARP magazine, which arrived while all this was going on, has an article titled “The Scam Stops Here.” It states that a company called Central Coast Nutraceuticals paid $1,375,000 in fines and restitution in an Acai fraud case. The article described the scam as: “You go for the free-trial offer online. You pay for shipping and handling with a credit card. Then, when the bill arrives, you find the trial was anything but free—you’ve signed up for an ongoing supply of the product at a hefty price.”
Sound familiar? The “sign-up” in our case was buried deep in some fine print that only the most dedicated reader would ever find.
If you must sample Acai berries, you might be wise to fly down to the Amazon country where they grow, pick some, and consume them on the spot. That actually could be a cost saver. AARP reported that some victims of Acai scams have been ripped off for several hundred dollars. And, at least you would know you were eating the real thing.
Promoters extol Acai berries as the greatest thing for our health since the Mayo Clinic. So, when we spotted a webpage ad offering a free month’s supply of Acai in pill form, we thought it would be a great way to try the substance. We agreed to pay only shipping and handling costs, which were less than two dollars.
We were flim-flammed.
The day the pills arrived our VISA card, in addition to the shipping charge, had another charge of $88.64 by the Acai Berry Tropic Company. We phoned the firm. They said the charge was for our “membership,” which would ensure continuing shipments of their wonderful products. After a long discussion about the fact that we had not applied for any membership or authorized a fee, Acai Berry Tropic’s agent agreed to cancel our “membership” if we returned the pills, which we did. We then had to dispute the charge with VISA.
By coincidence, the September/October AARP magazine, which arrived while all this was going on, has an article titled “The Scam Stops Here.” It states that a company called Central Coast Nutraceuticals paid $1,375,000 in fines and restitution in an Acai fraud case. The article described the scam as: “You go for the free-trial offer online. You pay for shipping and handling with a credit card. Then, when the bill arrives, you find the trial was anything but free—you’ve signed up for an ongoing supply of the product at a hefty price.”
Sound familiar? The “sign-up” in our case was buried deep in some fine print that only the most dedicated reader would ever find.
If you must sample Acai berries, you might be wise to fly down to the Amazon country where they grow, pick some, and consume them on the spot. That actually could be a cost saver. AARP reported that some victims of Acai scams have been ripped off for several hundred dollars. And, at least you would know you were eating the real thing.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Crime and Punishment
I don’t know Jeremiah H. or Stephen M., but I know they hoisted a few (or quite a few) and got into a peck of trouble. Kalamazoo Circuit Court Justice Pamela Lightvoet recently sentenced both men for driving while intoxicated.
Jeremiah got 30 days in the slammer; Stephen got 75. Each also was placed on probation for several years and fined $500 plus court costs and fees. Why Stephen got more jail time is not explained in the newspaper item. Perhaps he was drinking doubles.
Things certainly have changed dramatically over the past half century in how we deal with drinking drivers in our society. There never was sympathy for those who caused injuries, deaths, or severe property damage. There was, however, a tolerant approach to imbibers whose crime had no victim, especially when it was a first offense.
My mother, a rigid teetotaler, staunchly opposed locking up drunks. Surprised? She reasoned that jail time did nothing to promote rehabilitation, and that the families of those taken out of circulation were the real victims when the breadwinner was unavailable for work. She was not alone in holding that opinion. Most people, including law officers, had little enthusiasm for punishing drunks.
In the summer of 1956, I got a first-hand look at the type of lenient law enforcement that prevailed. I was a journalism intern at my hometown newspaper in northern Wisconsin, the Tomahawk Leader. Publisher Ken Keenan thought a good experience for a fledgling reporter would be a night ride with the police patrol. He arranged it.
The trip started at 10 p.m. Nothing at all happened during my first hours in the squad car. The officer made what he said was a normal drive back and forth through the small city. He answered a few radio messages, none requiring action. About 1:30 a.m., we got behind an old pickup truck as we headed north. The truck was moving slowly and erratically toward the Fourth Street Bridge. The bridge had a single, narrow lane in each direction. The truck started to weave across both lanes, bouncing off the steel guard rails on either side.
The officer turned on his red light. The truck slowed to a crawl, pulled to the right, and stopped just after it left the bridge. We stopped right behind it. We sat for a few minutes. Nothing happened. The cop got out, walked to the truck, and opened the driver’s door. As the door swung out, the driver came with it. He fell out full-length onto the pavement.
After shaking the man gently and exchanging a few words with him, the officer got the driver to his feet and stuffed him back into the cab of the truck. The patrolman got back into the squad car, made a U-turn, and headed south toward the business district. The truck didn’t move.
“Are you just going to leave him there?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. That’s old Charley. Most nights, about this time after the bars close, he heads for home. He drives real slow and never hurts much of anything. He dings the bridge a little sometimes, but it’s pretty old and banged up anyway. We’ll just let him sleep it off for a while. Then he’ll head out on County CC to his place.”
In 2009 in Michigan, Charley might have gotten something more like life in prison instead of a nap. My newly adopted home state has some of the toughest drunk driving laws in the nation. With New Year’s Eve coming up, we can expect a slew of reminders not to drink and drive, and a slew of arrests when the reminders are ignored, followed by many jail terms early in 2010.
In the 50s, getting bombed on New Year’s Eve was almost a requirement. Usually, it was a great party night. This year, I’m not drinking unless the bar is within walking distance of our house. Most likely, I’ll have a couple of glasses of wine in front of our TV set, wish Sandy a Happy New Year sometime around midnight, and go to bed.
New Year’s Day is my birthday. I’d rather not spend it in jail. But, darn, New Year’s Eve used to be fun.
I don’t know Jeremiah H. or Stephen M., but I know they hoisted a few (or quite a few) and got into a peck of trouble. Kalamazoo Circuit Court Justice Pamela Lightvoet recently sentenced both men for driving while intoxicated.
Jeremiah got 30 days in the slammer; Stephen got 75. Each also was placed on probation for several years and fined $500 plus court costs and fees. Why Stephen got more jail time is not explained in the newspaper item. Perhaps he was drinking doubles.
Things certainly have changed dramatically over the past half century in how we deal with drinking drivers in our society. There never was sympathy for those who caused injuries, deaths, or severe property damage. There was, however, a tolerant approach to imbibers whose crime had no victim, especially when it was a first offense.
My mother, a rigid teetotaler, staunchly opposed locking up drunks. Surprised? She reasoned that jail time did nothing to promote rehabilitation, and that the families of those taken out of circulation were the real victims when the breadwinner was unavailable for work. She was not alone in holding that opinion. Most people, including law officers, had little enthusiasm for punishing drunks.
In the summer of 1956, I got a first-hand look at the type of lenient law enforcement that prevailed. I was a journalism intern at my hometown newspaper in northern Wisconsin, the Tomahawk Leader. Publisher Ken Keenan thought a good experience for a fledgling reporter would be a night ride with the police patrol. He arranged it.
The trip started at 10 p.m. Nothing at all happened during my first hours in the squad car. The officer made what he said was a normal drive back and forth through the small city. He answered a few radio messages, none requiring action. About 1:30 a.m., we got behind an old pickup truck as we headed north. The truck was moving slowly and erratically toward the Fourth Street Bridge. The bridge had a single, narrow lane in each direction. The truck started to weave across both lanes, bouncing off the steel guard rails on either side.
The officer turned on his red light. The truck slowed to a crawl, pulled to the right, and stopped just after it left the bridge. We stopped right behind it. We sat for a few minutes. Nothing happened. The cop got out, walked to the truck, and opened the driver’s door. As the door swung out, the driver came with it. He fell out full-length onto the pavement.
After shaking the man gently and exchanging a few words with him, the officer got the driver to his feet and stuffed him back into the cab of the truck. The patrolman got back into the squad car, made a U-turn, and headed south toward the business district. The truck didn’t move.
“Are you just going to leave him there?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. That’s old Charley. Most nights, about this time after the bars close, he heads for home. He drives real slow and never hurts much of anything. He dings the bridge a little sometimes, but it’s pretty old and banged up anyway. We’ll just let him sleep it off for a while. Then he’ll head out on County CC to his place.”
In 2009 in Michigan, Charley might have gotten something more like life in prison instead of a nap. My newly adopted home state has some of the toughest drunk driving laws in the nation. With New Year’s Eve coming up, we can expect a slew of reminders not to drink and drive, and a slew of arrests when the reminders are ignored, followed by many jail terms early in 2010.
In the 50s, getting bombed on New Year’s Eve was almost a requirement. Usually, it was a great party night. This year, I’m not drinking unless the bar is within walking distance of our house. Most likely, I’ll have a couple of glasses of wine in front of our TV set, wish Sandy a Happy New Year sometime around midnight, and go to bed.
New Year’s Day is my birthday. I’d rather not spend it in jail. But, darn, New Year’s Eve used to be fun.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Kindness of a Stranger
A few weeks ago, “Alan G” commented on one of my posts about the Green Bay Packers. It seems, in the 1970s, he worked with a rabid Packers fan who became a close friend. Alan thought he still might have a poem he wrote about his friend’s football mania, and perhaps also a green and gold matchbook his pal had given him.
The poem was not to be found, but the matchbook turned up. After an e-mail to get our address, Alan mailed it to me from his home in Arkansas. It has joined my small trove of special possessions. The matchbook is in the shape of a helmet, with the Pack’s 1970 home schedule printed inside. It’s pretty well preserved. Most of the matches remain intact.
Careless internet users can have bad experiences. But consider the miracle of a medium that put me in touch with a man who went far beyond what anyone would expect in searching out and bestowing a special gift on someone he had never met.
Wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if each of us made similar efforts to bring even small bits of pleasure to strangers whenever we could?
(Alan G produces a blog worth visiting at www.cyberspacedawdler.wordpress.com Perhaps not quite coincidentally, he recently posted a two-part message describing the real Santa Claus.)
Best wishes for a Happy Holiday Season, Alan G, and to all who read this post. May you live long and prosper, and be kind to each other.
A few weeks ago, “Alan G” commented on one of my posts about the Green Bay Packers. It seems, in the 1970s, he worked with a rabid Packers fan who became a close friend. Alan thought he still might have a poem he wrote about his friend’s football mania, and perhaps also a green and gold matchbook his pal had given him.
The poem was not to be found, but the matchbook turned up. After an e-mail to get our address, Alan mailed it to me from his home in Arkansas. It has joined my small trove of special possessions. The matchbook is in the shape of a helmet, with the Pack’s 1970 home schedule printed inside. It’s pretty well preserved. Most of the matches remain intact.
Careless internet users can have bad experiences. But consider the miracle of a medium that put me in touch with a man who went far beyond what anyone would expect in searching out and bestowing a special gift on someone he had never met.
Wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if each of us made similar efforts to bring even small bits of pleasure to strangers whenever we could?
(Alan G produces a blog worth visiting at www.cyberspacedawdler.wordpress.com Perhaps not quite coincidentally, he recently posted a two-part message describing the real Santa Claus.)
Best wishes for a Happy Holiday Season, Alan G, and to all who read this post. May you live long and prosper, and be kind to each other.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Everybody Deserves a Little Christmas
Although there was one Women’s Army Corps unit at Fort Sill during my two years there, the U.S. Army in the late 1950s was pretty much a man’s outfit. The lower ranks, which included me, were overwhelmingly populated by young, single males.
Because no one was available to verify or cast doubt on tales of sexual exploits “back home,” a lot of lies were told about conquests of young ladies. More than one teenage private, in his own mind, evolved from novice to great lover. Others hatched more or less elaborate plots to gain real-life experience with the fair sex.
Often, nothing came of plans for new romantic experiences. That was especially true for my little buddy circle. For more than a year, I and two pals discussed in great detail how we were going to drive through Texas and cross the Mexican border. There we would woo numerous beautiful senoritas, taking time out only to guzzle as much tequila as we could hold. We selected the route. We picked “the best” border town. We even saved a little money. We never made the trip.
Just before Christmas 1959, an opportunity popped up much closer to our barracks. A veteran soldier in our building said he had found a bar that doubled as a bordello near a small town about 90 miles away. He claimed a half-dozen lovely young ladies were available, prices were low, and the beer was good. He was one of the few married men we knew fairly well, and therefore we believed he possessed special knowledge in such matters.
When we offered him free bed and booze at the sporting house, the soldier agreed to guide us to the place. We arrived about 8 in the evening. After a round of beer, our host asked the bartender where the girls were.
“Oh, they’ve all gone home for the holidays. We always shut down the upstairs action for Christmas vacations.”
We never went back. To my knowledge, the three of us left the Army without gaining any additional experience in dealing with damsels.
Although there was one Women’s Army Corps unit at Fort Sill during my two years there, the U.S. Army in the late 1950s was pretty much a man’s outfit. The lower ranks, which included me, were overwhelmingly populated by young, single males.
Because no one was available to verify or cast doubt on tales of sexual exploits “back home,” a lot of lies were told about conquests of young ladies. More than one teenage private, in his own mind, evolved from novice to great lover. Others hatched more or less elaborate plots to gain real-life experience with the fair sex.
Often, nothing came of plans for new romantic experiences. That was especially true for my little buddy circle. For more than a year, I and two pals discussed in great detail how we were going to drive through Texas and cross the Mexican border. There we would woo numerous beautiful senoritas, taking time out only to guzzle as much tequila as we could hold. We selected the route. We picked “the best” border town. We even saved a little money. We never made the trip.
Just before Christmas 1959, an opportunity popped up much closer to our barracks. A veteran soldier in our building said he had found a bar that doubled as a bordello near a small town about 90 miles away. He claimed a half-dozen lovely young ladies were available, prices were low, and the beer was good. He was one of the few married men we knew fairly well, and therefore we believed he possessed special knowledge in such matters.
When we offered him free bed and booze at the sporting house, the soldier agreed to guide us to the place. We arrived about 8 in the evening. After a round of beer, our host asked the bartender where the girls were.
“Oh, they’ve all gone home for the holidays. We always shut down the upstairs action for Christmas vacations.”
We never went back. To my knowledge, the three of us left the Army without gaining any additional experience in dealing with damsels.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
A Little Behind the Times
I thought I knew a thing or two about communications theory and practice. I've spent almost a lifetime working with various ways to get messages from one person to another.
After a decade in retirement, I went back to nearly full-time work for two years. My work space was smack in the middle of a sophisticated technical communications group; I had plenty of chances to catch up on the latest developments.
As one of the gainfully unemployed now, I don’t strain to keep up with advances in my field, but the interest is there. I pay attention to reports of progress and change. Why then, was I unaware of some important results of communications research that have appeared in recent years? Perhaps I've begun to get too much of my information via computer.
A few weeks ago, I said that research would be useful to explain why we miss more errors reading text on computer screens than we do reading words on paper. A Nov. 23 article in Time magazine informed me that researchers were way ahead of me. They have been looking into that and related questions for some time. One authority, Jakob Nielsen, has written a dozen books on how people interact with computer technology. He has developed plausible theories that speak directly to my question.
According to Time, Nielsen described the bottom line thus: “The online medium lends itself to a more superficial processing of information. You’re just surfing the information. It’s not a deep learning.”
Nielsen tracked human eye movements. He concluded that we focus on screens in an “F pattern.” We start scanning horizontally as we would read a message on paper, but soon we drop down to see what else is on the screen. About halfway down a screen page, we start tuning out the message. In other words, we don’t plant firmly in our memory what we read on a computer screen.
Of course, another authority interviewed by Time writers said, we could print out important documents, such as bank statements. We then would learn more about where our money goes than we do by just scanning a number or two on the web page. The trouble with that is several user surveys show most people who subscribe to paperless statements do not print the pages out.
The new knowledge about communications should be part of a strong argument for keeping paper books, magazines, and newspapers alive. If we do not, we could become something worse than the classic generalist, the “jack of all trades and master of none.”
Going completely paperless, as some misguided folks advocate, might ultimately produce a whole universe of people who know almost nothing about anything.
I thought I knew a thing or two about communications theory and practice. I've spent almost a lifetime working with various ways to get messages from one person to another.
After a decade in retirement, I went back to nearly full-time work for two years. My work space was smack in the middle of a sophisticated technical communications group; I had plenty of chances to catch up on the latest developments.
As one of the gainfully unemployed now, I don’t strain to keep up with advances in my field, but the interest is there. I pay attention to reports of progress and change. Why then, was I unaware of some important results of communications research that have appeared in recent years? Perhaps I've begun to get too much of my information via computer.
A few weeks ago, I said that research would be useful to explain why we miss more errors reading text on computer screens than we do reading words on paper. A Nov. 23 article in Time magazine informed me that researchers were way ahead of me. They have been looking into that and related questions for some time. One authority, Jakob Nielsen, has written a dozen books on how people interact with computer technology. He has developed plausible theories that speak directly to my question.
According to Time, Nielsen described the bottom line thus: “The online medium lends itself to a more superficial processing of information. You’re just surfing the information. It’s not a deep learning.”
Nielsen tracked human eye movements. He concluded that we focus on screens in an “F pattern.” We start scanning horizontally as we would read a message on paper, but soon we drop down to see what else is on the screen. About halfway down a screen page, we start tuning out the message. In other words, we don’t plant firmly in our memory what we read on a computer screen.
Of course, another authority interviewed by Time writers said, we could print out important documents, such as bank statements. We then would learn more about where our money goes than we do by just scanning a number or two on the web page. The trouble with that is several user surveys show most people who subscribe to paperless statements do not print the pages out.
The new knowledge about communications should be part of a strong argument for keeping paper books, magazines, and newspapers alive. If we do not, we could become something worse than the classic generalist, the “jack of all trades and master of none.”
Going completely paperless, as some misguided folks advocate, might ultimately produce a whole universe of people who know almost nothing about anything.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
One Call, That's All
Never having been incarcerated, I don't know for sure if new prisoners actually get just one phone call before their cell door slams shut. If they do, most probably would not call a sportswriter.
Years ago when I was sports editor of the Wisconsin Rapids Daily Tribune, Dick Knar, basketball coach at Assumption High School, phoned me from the local police station about 12:30 one Saturday night. He was sloshed, and he was headed for the slammer.
Knar was something of a wild man. He started games attired rather nattily in a coat and tie, but soon ripped off the tie and was known to toss the jacket on the floor, rip his shirt, and actually jump up and down as the contest progressed. We once took advantage of his antics by doing a photo sequence.
Tribune photographer Bill Kiefer aimed a telephoto lens at the coach throughout a Royals' game. We picked out five scenes showing Knar's transformation from a calm gentleman into a raging maniac. As Associated Press members, we gave the sequence with captions to the AP. It went nationwide, appearing in many papers, including the Los Angeles Times.
In his late-night call, Knar asked if I would keep his arrest on a drunk and disorderly charge out of the Tribune. He had lost control in the bar of the Dixon Hotel, where the sports crowd hung out, and finally had to be removed by the police. I told him that since I now knew about the incident, I had an obligation to tell our managing editor. Anyway, I said, one of our reporters would pick it up on the police beat early in the morning.
Managing editor Ollie Williams decided the story didn't merit any special treatment on the sports page, but we would run it as a normal police report item. A bit later, the high school principal appeared in chief editor Carl Otto's office.
After the priest left, Otto emerged with a broad smile, and said. "He wanted me to kill that story about Knar getting arrested. I told him if the Pope was here asking us to kill a story, I wouldn't do it. But I would print the news that he asked all over the front page. Our little talk ended right there."
Never having been incarcerated, I don't know for sure if new prisoners actually get just one phone call before their cell door slams shut. If they do, most probably would not call a sportswriter.
Years ago when I was sports editor of the Wisconsin Rapids Daily Tribune, Dick Knar, basketball coach at Assumption High School, phoned me from the local police station about 12:30 one Saturday night. He was sloshed, and he was headed for the slammer.
Knar was something of a wild man. He started games attired rather nattily in a coat and tie, but soon ripped off the tie and was known to toss the jacket on the floor, rip his shirt, and actually jump up and down as the contest progressed. We once took advantage of his antics by doing a photo sequence.
Tribune photographer Bill Kiefer aimed a telephoto lens at the coach throughout a Royals' game. We picked out five scenes showing Knar's transformation from a calm gentleman into a raging maniac. As Associated Press members, we gave the sequence with captions to the AP. It went nationwide, appearing in many papers, including the Los Angeles Times.
In his late-night call, Knar asked if I would keep his arrest on a drunk and disorderly charge out of the Tribune. He had lost control in the bar of the Dixon Hotel, where the sports crowd hung out, and finally had to be removed by the police. I told him that since I now knew about the incident, I had an obligation to tell our managing editor. Anyway, I said, one of our reporters would pick it up on the police beat early in the morning.
Managing editor Ollie Williams decided the story didn't merit any special treatment on the sports page, but we would run it as a normal police report item. A bit later, the high school principal appeared in chief editor Carl Otto's office.
After the priest left, Otto emerged with a broad smile, and said. "He wanted me to kill that story about Knar getting arrested. I told him if the Pope was here asking us to kill a story, I wouldn't do it. But I would print the news that he asked all over the front page. Our little talk ended right there."
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Speak to Me
Talking this spring with Sebastian Rilling, a German teenager who was learning English, French, and Italian in addition to his native tongue in school (see July 16 post) brought to mind how different educational systems can be. We don’t train American high school students that broadly or intensely in languages.
Until fairly recently, it didn’t matter much. The British forgave us for butchering their language; people in other lands who wanted to do business internationally learned English. We rarely had to be able to speak anything but our own language to get by in most parts of the world.
But now there is new emphasis on linguistics. We woke up to a serious problem when military commanders ordered our soldiers to “win the hearts and minds” of legions of mostly illiterate Arabs without being able to talk to them. If not impossible, that mission is extremely difficult.
Some critics of our educational system claim we never included foreign languages. That is not true. My high school in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, for many years offered two years of training . . . in Latin. My parents demanded that I sign up to learn the ancient language, as did others who thought their little darlings might be headed toward higher education. The theory was that Latin was the root of many languages, and understanding it would help us understand all sorts of things.
My high school freshman year, 1949, was a milestone in language education at Tomahawk High School. Spanish classes were offered for the first time. The reasons for the new courses were different than those that prompted all the years of Latin offerings. Our school board was told that millions of people near our borders spoke Spanish, and it would be useful to be able to talk to Latinos. That line of thinking turned out to be correct. Millions of those millions now live in the USA. I didn’t sign up for Spanish lessons in 1949, but now I wish I had.
The Latin taught by Mrs. Harriet Borkenhagen, a lovely lady who was strict in the classroom, did help me now and then to understand the meaning of various words used by Americans and others. Nowadays, it often helps me solve the daily crossword. Latin training never helped me talk to anyone. Not many years after 1949 only a few old priests still spoke Latin.
A pseudo-Latin phrase did provide daily encouragement for years when I started off to face the rigors of the workplace. A sign on our garage wall said:
Illegitimi non Carborundum
The saying is not proper Latin, and the translation is pretty loose, but the thought was helpful:
“Don’t Let the Bastards Grind You Down”
Talking this spring with Sebastian Rilling, a German teenager who was learning English, French, and Italian in addition to his native tongue in school (see July 16 post) brought to mind how different educational systems can be. We don’t train American high school students that broadly or intensely in languages.
Until fairly recently, it didn’t matter much. The British forgave us for butchering their language; people in other lands who wanted to do business internationally learned English. We rarely had to be able to speak anything but our own language to get by in most parts of the world.
But now there is new emphasis on linguistics. We woke up to a serious problem when military commanders ordered our soldiers to “win the hearts and minds” of legions of mostly illiterate Arabs without being able to talk to them. If not impossible, that mission is extremely difficult.
Some critics of our educational system claim we never included foreign languages. That is not true. My high school in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, for many years offered two years of training . . . in Latin. My parents demanded that I sign up to learn the ancient language, as did others who thought their little darlings might be headed toward higher education. The theory was that Latin was the root of many languages, and understanding it would help us understand all sorts of things.
My high school freshman year, 1949, was a milestone in language education at Tomahawk High School. Spanish classes were offered for the first time. The reasons for the new courses were different than those that prompted all the years of Latin offerings. Our school board was told that millions of people near our borders spoke Spanish, and it would be useful to be able to talk to Latinos. That line of thinking turned out to be correct. Millions of those millions now live in the USA. I didn’t sign up for Spanish lessons in 1949, but now I wish I had.
The Latin taught by Mrs. Harriet Borkenhagen, a lovely lady who was strict in the classroom, did help me now and then to understand the meaning of various words used by Americans and others. Nowadays, it often helps me solve the daily crossword. Latin training never helped me talk to anyone. Not many years after 1949 only a few old priests still spoke Latin.
A pseudo-Latin phrase did provide daily encouragement for years when I started off to face the rigors of the workplace. A sign on our garage wall said:
Illegitimi non Carborundum
The saying is not proper Latin, and the translation is pretty loose, but the thought was helpful:
“Don’t Let the Bastards Grind You Down”
Monday, November 16, 2009
Upon Further Review
The previous post dealing with “second-class veterans” generated a flurry of reaction, through e-mails and personal observations in addition to the direct comments. One reader questioned the assertion that the American Legion would exclude a two-year vet who was honorably discharged. She said this is so preposterous that I must be wrong.
I rechecked at www.legion.org. I was right. Had I served from June 25, 1950 through January 31, 1955 (Korea) I could join. Ditto for February 28, 1961 through May 7, 1975 (Vietnam). But my service from May 20, 1958 through May 19, 1960 doesn’t count. I would qualify, however, had I served for about five weeks starting December 20, 1989, when we attacked a mighty adversary . . . Panama!
American Legion membership runs in my family. Two of my uncles served overseas in World War I and became legionnaires. Another uncle was awarded a Croix de Guere medal by the French government for bravery in battle. He would have had no trouble joining the American Legion, but I don't know that he did.
My father was drafted in the last days of WWI, and was discharged while still in training in North Carolina. He was in the U.S. Army barely long enough to have his picture taken in uniform. That minimal and hardly dangerous service qualified Dad for American Legion membership. He joined and participated in activities of the local post for nearly 50 years.
We had other connections. I played American Legion baseball for two years, and one of my proudest possessions is a trophy given to me by the post in my hometown as the "Outstanding Senior--1953" in my high school class.
Strangely, although the Legion obviously doesn’t want me as a brother vet, I could participate in some of the organization’s activities. I qualify to sign on as one of the “Sons of the American Legion” because of Dad’s brief service back in 1918.
I’ll be damned if I’ll walk through that loophole!
I rechecked at www.legion.org. I was right. Had I served from June 25, 1950 through January 31, 1955 (Korea) I could join. Ditto for February 28, 1961 through May 7, 1975 (Vietnam). But my service from May 20, 1958 through May 19, 1960 doesn’t count. I would qualify, however, had I served for about five weeks starting December 20, 1989, when we attacked a mighty adversary . . . Panama!
American Legion membership runs in my family. Two of my uncles served overseas in World War I and became legionnaires. Another uncle was awarded a Croix de Guere medal by the French government for bravery in battle. He would have had no trouble joining the American Legion, but I don't know that he did.
My father was drafted in the last days of WWI, and was discharged while still in training in North Carolina. He was in the U.S. Army barely long enough to have his picture taken in uniform. That minimal and hardly dangerous service qualified Dad for American Legion membership. He joined and participated in activities of the local post for nearly 50 years.
We had other connections. I played American Legion baseball for two years, and one of my proudest possessions is a trophy given to me by the post in my hometown as the "Outstanding Senior--1953" in my high school class.
Strangely, although the Legion obviously doesn’t want me as a brother vet, I could participate in some of the organization’s activities. I qualify to sign on as one of the “Sons of the American Legion” because of Dad’s brief service back in 1918.
I’ll be damned if I’ll walk through that loophole!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Lunch with the Heroes
I was a peacetime soldier drafted into the U.S. Army in 1958.
The Ike we liked so much as president had concluded a truce in 1953 to end the Korean War, an undeclared war officially called a “conflict” at the time. Marines were laying their lives on the line in Lebanon, and troop trains pulled into sidings where I was in basic training, but the crisis blew over and officially we were never at war in the Middle East.
A few months later, we had several thousand “advisors” in Southeast Asia, and were training hundreds of Vietnamese artillery and missile men at Fort Sill where I was stationed, but officially we weren’t at war in Vietnam. Only the Cold War was in full flower when Uncle Sam plucked two years out of my young life.
When I and several million others completed our active duty assignments we became second-class veterans. Our country gave us most of the benefits first provided in the G.I. Bill after World War II, but in some cases our benefits were reduced. For example, men and women who served during official wartime years got ten point preferences for federal employment. We got five points.
Private groups also treated us with less than full respect. Many of the first-class veterans signed up in the American Legion to enjoy social life with buddies and push veteran’s causes. To this day, we second-class vets are not eligible to join the organization.
My feelings about having served in the “doughnut hole” of recent American military history were ambivalent. After all, chances of an enemy shooting at me were pretty low. However, they were pretty low for most of those who served in the Navy and Air Force in many wartime situations, and nearly nonexistent for the wiser young men in the late 1950s who signed up in the National Guard or reserve units, avoiding all but brief active duty stints.
It also occurred to me that those of us dumb enough to be drafted in peacetime probably shouldn’t rank right up there with wartime volunteers when applying for veteran’s benefits. I opted out of the Air Force ROTC program after two years. That wasn’t smart. Mostly, however, I didn’t worry about my missed opportunities or veteran status.
Although some of our institutions have not changed their rules, it seems that many Americans in recent years have decided all veterans are first-class. For a long time at patriotic moments during public events it was customary to give a round of applause for vets who served during our various wars. This summer, Sandy and I attended two concerts where the emcees made it clear that ALL veterans should rise and be recognized. It was a thrill to stand with heroes, even though I hardly qualify as one of those.
Yesterday we had lunch with a lot of heroes. On Veterans Day, Applebee’s restaurant gave a free meal to everyone who could prove military service, and not a whole lot of formal proof was required. The place was packed. And it was packed with pride. When a waiter asked one patron dining alone if he was a vet, the man pulled out a map to show where he served on an island in the Pacific. A much older man, who apparently didn’t expect to be asked, had brought nothing to prove he served in the World War II era. The waiter said, “Oh, never mind. It’s OK; your meal is on us.”
Thanks, Applebee’s, for honoring our heroes in a tangible way, and for promoting me to veteran first class, if only for a day.
I was a peacetime soldier drafted into the U.S. Army in 1958.
The Ike we liked so much as president had concluded a truce in 1953 to end the Korean War, an undeclared war officially called a “conflict” at the time. Marines were laying their lives on the line in Lebanon, and troop trains pulled into sidings where I was in basic training, but the crisis blew over and officially we were never at war in the Middle East.
A few months later, we had several thousand “advisors” in Southeast Asia, and were training hundreds of Vietnamese artillery and missile men at Fort Sill where I was stationed, but officially we weren’t at war in Vietnam. Only the Cold War was in full flower when Uncle Sam plucked two years out of my young life.
When I and several million others completed our active duty assignments we became second-class veterans. Our country gave us most of the benefits first provided in the G.I. Bill after World War II, but in some cases our benefits were reduced. For example, men and women who served during official wartime years got ten point preferences for federal employment. We got five points.
Private groups also treated us with less than full respect. Many of the first-class veterans signed up in the American Legion to enjoy social life with buddies and push veteran’s causes. To this day, we second-class vets are not eligible to join the organization.
My feelings about having served in the “doughnut hole” of recent American military history were ambivalent. After all, chances of an enemy shooting at me were pretty low. However, they were pretty low for most of those who served in the Navy and Air Force in many wartime situations, and nearly nonexistent for the wiser young men in the late 1950s who signed up in the National Guard or reserve units, avoiding all but brief active duty stints.
It also occurred to me that those of us dumb enough to be drafted in peacetime probably shouldn’t rank right up there with wartime volunteers when applying for veteran’s benefits. I opted out of the Air Force ROTC program after two years. That wasn’t smart. Mostly, however, I didn’t worry about my missed opportunities or veteran status.
Although some of our institutions have not changed their rules, it seems that many Americans in recent years have decided all veterans are first-class. For a long time at patriotic moments during public events it was customary to give a round of applause for vets who served during our various wars. This summer, Sandy and I attended two concerts where the emcees made it clear that ALL veterans should rise and be recognized. It was a thrill to stand with heroes, even though I hardly qualify as one of those.
Yesterday we had lunch with a lot of heroes. On Veterans Day, Applebee’s restaurant gave a free meal to everyone who could prove military service, and not a whole lot of formal proof was required. The place was packed. And it was packed with pride. When a waiter asked one patron dining alone if he was a vet, the man pulled out a map to show where he served on an island in the Pacific. A much older man, who apparently didn’t expect to be asked, had brought nothing to prove he served in the World War II era. The waiter said, “Oh, never mind. It’s OK; your meal is on us.”
Thanks, Applebee’s, for honoring our heroes in a tangible way, and for promoting me to veteran first class, if only for a day.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
A Little Rebellion Now and Then
In my youth, adults exercised firm control over kids. Well, they did until we reached high school age. Teenagers rebelled against authority figures, openly or covertly, then as now.
In my small high school, rebellion could fall into the prank category. Enterprising chemistry students concocted a sulfur cocktail and found a way to get it into the ventilation system. The rotten egg odor cause the building to be evacuated, and it stayed shut down for most of a day. One young man showed up with a really ugly "Mohawk" haircut. He was told to go home and clean up his act. He reappeared the next day with a somewhat neater Mohawk, dyed green.
Sometimes things got violent. When I was a freshman, a particularly belligerent sophomore clashed with teachers several times. Just before the youth was expelled, a teacher who doubled as an assistant football coach threw the kid down the long flight of stairs at the school's main entrance.
At Sandy's high school in West Bend, Wisconsin, a much bigger place, she participated in a novel challenge to authority. Sandy was on the debating team. A fellow debater showed up at a football game slightly inebriated. The principal expelled him.
Sandy and the other debaters thought the penalty was too harsh for the crime. In fact, since the boy was 18, he was a legal beer drinker and the students didn't think any penalty should have been imposed. The debate team members removed the knobs from every drinking fountain in the high school. They let it be known that access to "bubbler" water would be restored when their friend was reinstated.
The principal retaliated by announcing he was going to find out exactly who stole the fountain hardware, and he then would expel anyone involved. The debaters decided they were not in a power position. Overnight, they put the bubbler knobs back on. Ultimately, though, their viewpoint prevailed. A few days later the principal reinstated the wayward debater.
In my youth, adults exercised firm control over kids. Well, they did until we reached high school age. Teenagers rebelled against authority figures, openly or covertly, then as now.
In my small high school, rebellion could fall into the prank category. Enterprising chemistry students concocted a sulfur cocktail and found a way to get it into the ventilation system. The rotten egg odor cause the building to be evacuated, and it stayed shut down for most of a day. One young man showed up with a really ugly "Mohawk" haircut. He was told to go home and clean up his act. He reappeared the next day with a somewhat neater Mohawk, dyed green.
Sometimes things got violent. When I was a freshman, a particularly belligerent sophomore clashed with teachers several times. Just before the youth was expelled, a teacher who doubled as an assistant football coach threw the kid down the long flight of stairs at the school's main entrance.
At Sandy's high school in West Bend, Wisconsin, a much bigger place, she participated in a novel challenge to authority. Sandy was on the debating team. A fellow debater showed up at a football game slightly inebriated. The principal expelled him.
Sandy and the other debaters thought the penalty was too harsh for the crime. In fact, since the boy was 18, he was a legal beer drinker and the students didn't think any penalty should have been imposed. The debate team members removed the knobs from every drinking fountain in the high school. They let it be known that access to "bubbler" water would be restored when their friend was reinstated.
The principal retaliated by announcing he was going to find out exactly who stole the fountain hardware, and he then would expel anyone involved. The debaters decided they were not in a power position. Overnight, they put the bubbler knobs back on. Ultimately, though, their viewpoint prevailed. A few days later the principal reinstated the wayward debater.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Rivalry Takes Two
As we approach the “second coming of Favre” game between the Packers and Vikings, one pundit observed that the “bitter rivalry” between the teams perhaps deserved as much attention as the homecoming of the prodigal quarterback. Phooey. Last time I looked, it took two to create a rivalry. This “rivalry” is mostly wishful thinking by Minnesotans.
It is difficult for a long-time backer of a 12-time world champion team to get excited about playing a team that never has captured the title. And I have trouble working up animosity for an expansion club that plays its home games on a tennis court. The Vikings are more of an aggravation than a rival.
There is talk of moving the Minnesota franchise to Los Angeles. If that happens, descendants of Leif Ericson can start circulating tales about their ancestor discovering the West Coast. Those stories will be about as credible as descriptions of a Packers-Vikings "rivalry" currently emanating from the Twin Cities.
Favre’s return to Green Bay is exciting. Bringing the Vikings along is not.
When we play da Bears, that’s a rivalry.
As we approach the “second coming of Favre” game between the Packers and Vikings, one pundit observed that the “bitter rivalry” between the teams perhaps deserved as much attention as the homecoming of the prodigal quarterback. Phooey. Last time I looked, it took two to create a rivalry. This “rivalry” is mostly wishful thinking by Minnesotans.
It is difficult for a long-time backer of a 12-time world champion team to get excited about playing a team that never has captured the title. And I have trouble working up animosity for an expansion club that plays its home games on a tennis court. The Vikings are more of an aggravation than a rival.
There is talk of moving the Minnesota franchise to Los Angeles. If that happens, descendants of Leif Ericson can start circulating tales about their ancestor discovering the West Coast. Those stories will be about as credible as descriptions of a Packers-Vikings "rivalry" currently emanating from the Twin Cities.
Favre’s return to Green Bay is exciting. Bringing the Vikings along is not.
When we play da Bears, that’s a rivalry.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Big Town, Small Town
I like small towns. For one thing, business people have to maintain a reputation for honesty in small communities, or they’re soon out of business. This is not nearly as true in bigger cities. There, service people, customers, and the businesses themselves all can be transients who never really get to know each other.
When we moved to Michigan, our Pontiac’s mileage indicated the need for a transaxle fluid change. One day, we stopped at an auto service chain place in Kalamazoo, the biggest city near our home, to deliver our son who was picking up his truck. While waiting in the office, I asked the bright young man whose nametag said “Manager” about fluid changes. He said they did transaxle fluid changes, filter changes, and flushes on three levels, ranging from about $100 to nearly $200. He strongly recommended the upper level.
A little later I took the Pontiac in for an oil change to Jim Koestner, Inc., the GM dealer in Plainwell (population about 4,000). I asked the bright older man whose family owns the place when I could get an appointment for the best transaxle fluid service they offered.
“You don’t need all that,” Mr. Koestner said, after checking the data for our car. He took me to the service manager to confirm his opinion. He called a mechanic out of the shop and put the question of what was needed to him. Same answer. They did the necessary service for just under $100.
A few months later, General Motors sent Koestner a letter canceling their dealership contract. The Plainwell dealership was among hundreds that got termination notices as part of GM’s bankruptcy settlement.
Over the years we’ve owned a German car, a Japanese car, and American cars built by Ford, GM, Chrysler, and American Motors. Our current Pontiac is far and away the highest-quality vehicle of the bunch, except perhaps for the 1929 Model A Ford that was running well at age 20 when I bought it.
We intend to drive our Pontiac until the wheels fall off, and that may be quite a while. Unfortunately, we won't be able to buy another. Shortly before it terminated Koestner’s dealership agreement, GM announced it would stop producing Pontiacs.
No doubt many factors entered into the GM decisions. Honesty is a big factor for me in any decision. I’ll keep buying whatever services Koestner continues to offer.
I like small towns. For one thing, business people have to maintain a reputation for honesty in small communities, or they’re soon out of business. This is not nearly as true in bigger cities. There, service people, customers, and the businesses themselves all can be transients who never really get to know each other.
When we moved to Michigan, our Pontiac’s mileage indicated the need for a transaxle fluid change. One day, we stopped at an auto service chain place in Kalamazoo, the biggest city near our home, to deliver our son who was picking up his truck. While waiting in the office, I asked the bright young man whose nametag said “Manager” about fluid changes. He said they did transaxle fluid changes, filter changes, and flushes on three levels, ranging from about $100 to nearly $200. He strongly recommended the upper level.
A little later I took the Pontiac in for an oil change to Jim Koestner, Inc., the GM dealer in Plainwell (population about 4,000). I asked the bright older man whose family owns the place when I could get an appointment for the best transaxle fluid service they offered.
“You don’t need all that,” Mr. Koestner said, after checking the data for our car. He took me to the service manager to confirm his opinion. He called a mechanic out of the shop and put the question of what was needed to him. Same answer. They did the necessary service for just under $100.
A few months later, General Motors sent Koestner a letter canceling their dealership contract. The Plainwell dealership was among hundreds that got termination notices as part of GM’s bankruptcy settlement.
Over the years we’ve owned a German car, a Japanese car, and American cars built by Ford, GM, Chrysler, and American Motors. Our current Pontiac is far and away the highest-quality vehicle of the bunch, except perhaps for the 1929 Model A Ford that was running well at age 20 when I bought it.
We intend to drive our Pontiac until the wheels fall off, and that may be quite a while. Unfortunately, we won't be able to buy another. Shortly before it terminated Koestner’s dealership agreement, GM announced it would stop producing Pontiacs.
No doubt many factors entered into the GM decisions. Honesty is a big factor for me in any decision. I’ll keep buying whatever services Koestner continues to offer.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
True Green
You had to be a True Green Packer Fan to buy a share of stock in the football club in 1998. As an investment, it rates a big, fat zero.
I and 106,000 other Packer backers plunked down $200 to help cover the multi-million dollar cost of modernizing Lambeau Field. In return we got no dividend, no possibility that the stock will appreciate in value, no preference for tickets, and not even a lottery chance at winning a parking space or a bratwurst. All we got was an annual opportunity to vote for some of the 25-person board of directors and a ticket into the annual meeting in Green Bay to cast the ballot. No other votes are taken at annual meetings.
We shareholders are very distant from the center of team operations. The 25 directors, most of whom we never heard of, appoint an executive committee from among their ranks. The executive committee appoints a club president. The president hires a general manager. The general manager hires the coach. We could write a letter stating how we think the gridiron ship should be steered, but it would be about as effective as sending off a political diatribe to the New York Times.
Packers’ administrators tried to extract the last drop of blood from the faithful during the stock sale. As soon as they got my $200, a follow-up letter offered to supply me with a frame for the certificate at an exorbitant price. I didn’t go for that one. If I had, I fantasized that the next letter would solicit several thousand dollars to build a green and gold wall to hang the frame on. That, I envisioned, might be followed by another letter offering to build me a new house around the wall for a mere three or four hundred thousand.
After congratulating myself on not falling into any follow-up traps, I encased the stock certificate in a frame we bought locally for a quarter of what the Green Bay people wanted for the job. After showing it to anyone who was willing to take a peek and bragging about it whenever possible, I decided my audience was dwindling and getting tired of my bragging and it was time to pass the certificate along for posterity.
When I called my son and offered to transfer the stock to him, he astounded me with the news that he also had bought a share, and didn’t really need another one. So I willed my share to a young man in the neighborhood who, although not a Packer fan, was a sports fanatic. At least, I thought, that would assure my stock of a good home after I departed.
While looking for a contact to change my address so I would continue to get the never-used invitation to vote for the board, I found the ownership rules included with the stock offering. I can’t transfer my share to anyone who is not an immediate family member, defined as a spouse, brother or sister, and son or daughter. I don’t have a whole flock of those, and the ones available don’t want or need my share of stock.
I remain a true green fan. Maybe I should change my will to specify that the stock certificate shall be placed in my right hand when it’s time for that final journey. I could use it to swat any Bears fans that get in my way as they head in the opposite direction.
You had to be a True Green Packer Fan to buy a share of stock in the football club in 1998. As an investment, it rates a big, fat zero.
I and 106,000 other Packer backers plunked down $200 to help cover the multi-million dollar cost of modernizing Lambeau Field. In return we got no dividend, no possibility that the stock will appreciate in value, no preference for tickets, and not even a lottery chance at winning a parking space or a bratwurst. All we got was an annual opportunity to vote for some of the 25-person board of directors and a ticket into the annual meeting in Green Bay to cast the ballot. No other votes are taken at annual meetings.
We shareholders are very distant from the center of team operations. The 25 directors, most of whom we never heard of, appoint an executive committee from among their ranks. The executive committee appoints a club president. The president hires a general manager. The general manager hires the coach. We could write a letter stating how we think the gridiron ship should be steered, but it would be about as effective as sending off a political diatribe to the New York Times.
Packers’ administrators tried to extract the last drop of blood from the faithful during the stock sale. As soon as they got my $200, a follow-up letter offered to supply me with a frame for the certificate at an exorbitant price. I didn’t go for that one. If I had, I fantasized that the next letter would solicit several thousand dollars to build a green and gold wall to hang the frame on. That, I envisioned, might be followed by another letter offering to build me a new house around the wall for a mere three or four hundred thousand.
After congratulating myself on not falling into any follow-up traps, I encased the stock certificate in a frame we bought locally for a quarter of what the Green Bay people wanted for the job. After showing it to anyone who was willing to take a peek and bragging about it whenever possible, I decided my audience was dwindling and getting tired of my bragging and it was time to pass the certificate along for posterity.
When I called my son and offered to transfer the stock to him, he astounded me with the news that he also had bought a share, and didn’t really need another one. So I willed my share to a young man in the neighborhood who, although not a Packer fan, was a sports fanatic. At least, I thought, that would assure my stock of a good home after I departed.
While looking for a contact to change my address so I would continue to get the never-used invitation to vote for the board, I found the ownership rules included with the stock offering. I can’t transfer my share to anyone who is not an immediate family member, defined as a spouse, brother or sister, and son or daughter. I don’t have a whole flock of those, and the ones available don’t want or need my share of stock.
I remain a true green fan. Maybe I should change my will to specify that the stock certificate shall be placed in my right hand when it’s time for that final journey. I could use it to swat any Bears fans that get in my way as they head in the opposite direction.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Grappling with Gremlins
Some researcher desperate for a new problem to ponder might shed light on this question: Why do more typos and other obvious errors appear in compositions produced solely on computer screens than in those appearing in ink on paper? It baffles me, but I know the difference is real.
I can proofread and correct even brief e-mail messages several times and miss a boo boo or two. It’s frustrating, it’s irritating, and it isn’t all due to advancing age. For some time, I’ve noticed the tendency of writers of all ages to produce more than a normal amount of typos and bloopers when they do all their work electronically.
Mal Furniss, retired research entomologist, caught a dandy when he read the July 16 post to this blog. He noted my statement: “Their family has operated the farm where we stayed for about 200 years.” He commented, “No wonder your blog is named Oldgeezer.” Furniss should have proofread the blog name, but, oh well, his version conveyed the message.
I’m not a day over 150, and we really only stayed at the farm for three weeks. I went back and fixed the goof. Thankfully for me, this can be done in internet “publishing.” In paper publishing, your errors stay on the record forever. Perhaps the ability to go back and correct stories is one reason much “breaking news” reporting on the internet is so inaccurate and sloppy.
Before computers became the tools of the trade, when Furniss was a project leader and I was an editor at the Intermountain Research Station, perfection was the goal in scientific publishing. Authors, reviewers, editors, and proofreaders worked hard (at least most of them were dedicated) to ferret out and correct any mistake of any kind. In retrospect, it may have been overkill. With humans doing the work perfection was elusive, but excellence was achieved often. Errata seldom could be found in scientific journal articles or reports issued by research institutions.
This no longer was true when I briefly returned to work at the Intermountain Station in 2004. While compiling a history, I read hundreds of publications written by scientists. Typos were much more prevalent in works produced in the previous ten years than those issued earlier. This quality change seemed to coincide with abandonment of “perfect proofreading” by scientific organizations and publishers. They had started to rely on computer spelling checks and editing programs. Both miss quite a bit.
The highest quality proofreading requires two people. One reads the proofs aloud. The other compares the narration to the manuscript. The reader spells every word that is even a bit unusual and tells the manuscript holder whenever he or she encounters a punctuation mark, capitalized or italicized word, or the start of a new paragraph. If the work is long, readers tire and begin to miss things, so assignments are traded at intervals. The workers exchange the manuscript and the proofs when they change roles.
At the Intermountain Station, our proofreaders used some interesting abbreviations to speed their work. In proofreaderese, parenthesis was “paren.” Quotation mark was “wrap.” Hyphen was “hi.”
Newspapers, at least the ones I worked for, didn’t have the time or staff for the kind of meticulous work research organizations did. One person quickly read proofs and marked corrections, consulting the typed copy only when something seemed questionable.
Because I was a small-time “independent editor” in both my newspaper jobs, no one but me edited my writing before it went to typesetters. Without a sharp-eyed editor checking on my work, quite a few literary atrocities found their way from my typewriter into print. Huge amounts of word processing must be done very quickly in the newspaper world, so bloopers and typos are not hard to find in even the best products.
Several weeks ago, I ordered new business cards from the publisher of the local shoppers guide. I carefully went over every word with the lady who took my order, and left an error-free typed version. The proof I received for approval had four typos. The lady was embarrassed. She admitted they had been exceptionally busy, and skipped proofreading for my little job except for looking at the words on a computer screen. Normally, she said, everything going through their shop was printed out and proofread by two people.
That didn’t surprise me. I had been scanning the shoppers guide for six months, and commented several times on the minimal number of errors in the weekly issues. When I got home, I told Sandy I had discovered why the quality of the guide was so high.
Two days later, Sandy handed me the newest edition of the shoppers guide. She had circled a blatant mistake in a large heading in a big ad. Nobody’s perfect.
Some researcher desperate for a new problem to ponder might shed light on this question: Why do more typos and other obvious errors appear in compositions produced solely on computer screens than in those appearing in ink on paper? It baffles me, but I know the difference is real.
I can proofread and correct even brief e-mail messages several times and miss a boo boo or two. It’s frustrating, it’s irritating, and it isn’t all due to advancing age. For some time, I’ve noticed the tendency of writers of all ages to produce more than a normal amount of typos and bloopers when they do all their work electronically.
Mal Furniss, retired research entomologist, caught a dandy when he read the July 16 post to this blog. He noted my statement: “Their family has operated the farm where we stayed for about 200 years.” He commented, “No wonder your blog is named Oldgeezer.” Furniss should have proofread the blog name, but, oh well, his version conveyed the message.
I’m not a day over 150, and we really only stayed at the farm for three weeks. I went back and fixed the goof. Thankfully for me, this can be done in internet “publishing.” In paper publishing, your errors stay on the record forever. Perhaps the ability to go back and correct stories is one reason much “breaking news” reporting on the internet is so inaccurate and sloppy.
Before computers became the tools of the trade, when Furniss was a project leader and I was an editor at the Intermountain Research Station, perfection was the goal in scientific publishing. Authors, reviewers, editors, and proofreaders worked hard (at least most of them were dedicated) to ferret out and correct any mistake of any kind. In retrospect, it may have been overkill. With humans doing the work perfection was elusive, but excellence was achieved often. Errata seldom could be found in scientific journal articles or reports issued by research institutions.
This no longer was true when I briefly returned to work at the Intermountain Station in 2004. While compiling a history, I read hundreds of publications written by scientists. Typos were much more prevalent in works produced in the previous ten years than those issued earlier. This quality change seemed to coincide with abandonment of “perfect proofreading” by scientific organizations and publishers. They had started to rely on computer spelling checks and editing programs. Both miss quite a bit.
The highest quality proofreading requires two people. One reads the proofs aloud. The other compares the narration to the manuscript. The reader spells every word that is even a bit unusual and tells the manuscript holder whenever he or she encounters a punctuation mark, capitalized or italicized word, or the start of a new paragraph. If the work is long, readers tire and begin to miss things, so assignments are traded at intervals. The workers exchange the manuscript and the proofs when they change roles.
At the Intermountain Station, our proofreaders used some interesting abbreviations to speed their work. In proofreaderese, parenthesis was “paren.” Quotation mark was “wrap.” Hyphen was “hi.”
Newspapers, at least the ones I worked for, didn’t have the time or staff for the kind of meticulous work research organizations did. One person quickly read proofs and marked corrections, consulting the typed copy only when something seemed questionable.
Because I was a small-time “independent editor” in both my newspaper jobs, no one but me edited my writing before it went to typesetters. Without a sharp-eyed editor checking on my work, quite a few literary atrocities found their way from my typewriter into print. Huge amounts of word processing must be done very quickly in the newspaper world, so bloopers and typos are not hard to find in even the best products.
Several weeks ago, I ordered new business cards from the publisher of the local shoppers guide. I carefully went over every word with the lady who took my order, and left an error-free typed version. The proof I received for approval had four typos. The lady was embarrassed. She admitted they had been exceptionally busy, and skipped proofreading for my little job except for looking at the words on a computer screen. Normally, she said, everything going through their shop was printed out and proofread by two people.
That didn’t surprise me. I had been scanning the shoppers guide for six months, and commented several times on the minimal number of errors in the weekly issues. When I got home, I told Sandy I had discovered why the quality of the guide was so high.
Two days later, Sandy handed me the newest edition of the shoppers guide. She had circled a blatant mistake in a large heading in a big ad. Nobody’s perfect.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Changing Expectations
Thirty years ago, Sandy and I attended a special University of Wisconsin alumni club meeting in Salt Lake City. A big crowd gathered because the UW chancellor flew out from Madison to speak to the group (and also because bratwursts were flown out from Sheboygan for dinner).
Coed dorms were a fairly new concept at the time. Many in the alumni club were skeptical about liberalized student living arrangements. Sex was on their minds, and they put some hard questions to the guest speaker. The chancellor assured us that the university president considered it his most important duty to provide student housing where high standards of morality were observed.
My, how things change. Tufts University recently announced a new policy on dorm living. Having sex in the rooms is OK, just not when the roommate is present. For some time, a few universities have allowed boys and girls to be roommates, not just to live in the same building.
Bill Tishler, a fraternity brother and retired UW professor of landscape architecture, recently sent a note agreeing with my belief that administrators have allowed college athletics to get out of control. Tishler was philosophical about the situation, however. He cited a campus saying defining what today’s successful university presidents provide:
“Football for the alumni, parking for the faculty, and sex for the students.”
Thirty years ago, Sandy and I attended a special University of Wisconsin alumni club meeting in Salt Lake City. A big crowd gathered because the UW chancellor flew out from Madison to speak to the group (and also because bratwursts were flown out from Sheboygan for dinner).
Coed dorms were a fairly new concept at the time. Many in the alumni club were skeptical about liberalized student living arrangements. Sex was on their minds, and they put some hard questions to the guest speaker. The chancellor assured us that the university president considered it his most important duty to provide student housing where high standards of morality were observed.
My, how things change. Tufts University recently announced a new policy on dorm living. Having sex in the rooms is OK, just not when the roommate is present. For some time, a few universities have allowed boys and girls to be roommates, not just to live in the same building.
Bill Tishler, a fraternity brother and retired UW professor of landscape architecture, recently sent a note agreeing with my belief that administrators have allowed college athletics to get out of control. Tishler was philosophical about the situation, however. He cited a campus saying defining what today’s successful university presidents provide:
“Football for the alumni, parking for the faculty, and sex for the students.”
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