Immigration Reform...NOT

Today, we have a topic from the Government Office Of Oxymorons (GOOO). The Senate has just agreed upon Compromise Comprehensive Immigration Reform legislation. Each word of this mis-titled bill is severely mal-placed.

Compromise
When an issue is black or white, there is no such thing as compromise. In this particular debate, one side says that illegally crossing national borders, regularly taking payment under the table while here, and appropriating a false identity and/or social security number are crimes. The other side says, "well, not really." The current bill obviates the debate in favor of the latter. No compromise has taken place.

Comprehensive
One can only apply this word to the bill if one removes the topics of health care; criminal punishment; consequences to the nation under the interpretation of Clause one, section one of the 14th amendment to the Constitution; and the economic analysis of the migration incentives (a long topic by itself).

Immigration
We have long-standing immigration laws and restrictions in place. This bill seeks to circumvent such policy and the incumbent mandate to enforce it. If you are unwilling to prefix the word "Illegal" to the term, then "Migration" is probably a better choice of words as it infers a free, unrestricted, and perhaps seasonal flow.

Reform
I do not want to get all "word wonk-ish" on you, but I cannot see how our immigration policy will be reformed by this terrible little bill. We have, at the heart of all this, an enforcement problem. Jiggling around the periphery in order to avoid enforcement is not likely to solve or reform much of anything.

That group of Senators (normally stalwart Jon Kyl included) is trying to pull a David Copperfield on the nation--flash, bang, and dazzle abounds; but the illegal aliens didn't really disappear--they just hide under the sheets.

Be well,
Huckleberry

Spiritu Ex Machina
(Charlie Stross has a blog: http://www.antipope.org/charlie/blog-static/ . He is a writer and "futurist." I reply to his post of May 13.)

Millennia ago as our ancestors stacked one rock upon another to construct the first shelter in the first cluster of shelters in what would become the first town of the first civilization, one of the brightest in the group (let's call him Cousin Og) realized that rocks were pretty heavy and that there was a limit to the size rock that he could lift. (Coincidentally, this was also the first time that Mrs. Og gave that look of disapproval because the neighbor's house was built of bigger, shinier rocks--but I digress). This now henpecked and Paleolithic cousin discovered that when he wedged a stick under one side of the large rock and pressed down, he could then move that which he was incapable of with his directly applied strength. He thus discovered leverage (launching the first Hedge Fund, I imagine).

Futurisms and Techno-philosophy fail most when they fail to consider advancements within this context. Every device we build and every machine or process we design is a leverage upon what we already possess. Computers work because they run programs that we create. We work them over and over again--often thousands of times--until that set of instructions works well. Then we let that machine do it again for us efficiently. The computer and software that I am using right now is simply the leveraged millions of man-hours brought to efficiency to build my terminal, write the software, and link the whole mess together.

Specialization is a form of leverage. In the GPS world, specialization allows Garmin and Galileo to get very very good at mapping places and finding people (and saving a lot of trees and frustration in the process). This allows me to be very very good at......well, I'll think of something later; but you get my point.

As memory chips advance and becomes cheaper, we are simply finding new and unique ways to leverage our own memories and resources--to "remember" and access more; and to get more memory from whatever resources we already have, both physical and mental. Ken Burnes (the film documentarian) has made a career out of reading the letters and journals of Civil War era citizens into a microphone to record and display what, for those citizens, was memory. Digital memory is simply a more efficient version--it is leverage against what is for us a natural instinct--taking notes to communicate and remember.

Will we design a machine that thinks better than we do? The question is moot because such a machine would only be a leverage of the billions of combined man-hours and trillions of dollars in resources that are put into it. It will be an efficiency--a leverage of what we already do and have already created. It will be an expression....of us. And Cousin Og would be proud.

Be well,
Huckleberry

* The Cross image above originally appeared as the cover illustration for the DEcember 2002 issue of WIRED Magazine.

The Wolves are Feasting Upon Wolfie

Well, today Paul Wolfowitz resigned as President of the World Bank. Lefties cheer and Bushies jeer. So we set aside all the cheering and jeering to see if there is anything to glean from the cacophony.

Cheers?
Paul Wolfowitz, you see, was assistant Secretary of Defense under Donald Rumsfeld at the start of the current Iraq War. Any time misfortune or evil befalls a so-labeled "Neocon" proponent of the invasion, everyone who disagrees thumps their chest in a display of voyeuristic victory.

Jeers?
As for the jeering, many respected journalists--even many without a political axe to grind--have labeled this a hit job that intentionally smears the good name and reputation or a decent guy doing a decent job on many fronts--including his cleaning up of much that is messy at the chronically corrupt World Bank.

Why is he stepping down?
Good question. It appears that Mr. Wolowitz likes the ladies. Normally that is not too much of a problem for an American male, but in Mr. Wolfowitz's case he apparently likes the ladies that are not necessarily his wife.........in a serial fashion, I might add. Worse, he gives the impression of playing favorites with the ladies he does like in matters of job position and salary when they happen to work with him. It appears that the Democrat Party is not the only harbor for marital scoundrels.

Now the World Bank has an Ethics Committee (I know, this shocked me too). This Ethics Committee approved his appointment; even though they were aware of his "relationship" with a current World Bank staffer; and were aware that Wolfie (that nickname has a whole new meaning for us now, doesn't it?) had stepped out in similar fashion previously on at least one occasion in 2001 (causing a permanent, though not formalized, rift with his wife); then murkily colluded to buy-off the World Bank staffer with a substantial bump in pay and a State Department reassignment. Yes, that Ethics Committee. They are now shocked and stunned that this conflict of interest might have interfered with Mr. Wolfowitz's duties (Gasp!).

Yes, He Is Our Problem
Well, what is President Bush to do now. He appointed the guy and will reappoint his successor. The Left is making quieter hay about this situation than usual because......think about it.

Setting aside whether you like the decisions and influence of Wolfowitz or not--or whether you like Republicans or Democrats for that matter--we have been taught over the last fifteen years that personal lives do not matter. Morally, I agree that serial infidelity can indicate a lack of philosophical and moral standing that should not be ignored. But how can the Democrats and the media (et al) now stand up and claim "If we had only known!" Remember that the left-leaning side of the media built a presidential campaign--and supported an entire Presidency--on the premise that it just didn't matter.

Well....whose pigeons are coming home to roost? Whose ever pigeons they are, it sure doesn't smell very good, does it......and I think that some of it is stuck to the media's shoes.

Be well,
Huckleberry

The Riddle of the Sphinx Amongst Wistful Memories

Four Legs in the Morning
Early in our lives we are in awe of them. We hang in rapt attention upon their answers to all of our questions in total acceptance as if gospel. In fairness to our parents we must remember that they are humans--and as such they are more like us than we care to consider. Any mis-step or failing that we have had, it is likely they also failed and tripped many of the same ways and included a certain unique subset of their own. We become disillusioned with our folks usually to the extent that our expectations are unrealistic. This is compounded by the necessary inclusion of a measure of hero-worship and respect incumbent in the parent-child relationship. Otherwise, few of us would have ever gone to bed on time nor attended class when other interests beckoned.


Two Legs in the Noon
But as time advances, the hero-worship tempers into a different kind of respect. Sometimes one wonders how the folks managed to get through it at all--especially at the time when you are wondering for yourself if you will be able to endure. So--from the vantage point of this male writer--instead of gazing at Father as "Superman," we begin to look at him as the experienced soldier who has marched into battle ahead of you and cleared a little of the path. Instead of seeing mother as linen-wrapped saint and healer of all boo-boos, she morphs into a defining reference point of wife and care-giver.


Three Legs in the Evening
Later still, as one reaches the dreaded middle ages, your parents' role can feel inverted. The world you live in--the technology, speed, and standards experienced in your halcyon days--can be estranged from them. You are called upon to help them understand the world because certain aspects of it have left them behind. But help them you do, in much the same way as they helped you when for you the world was new.


Further, by your forties you have had the opportunity to see your parents fail; and in their failing you have seen them both shine and fail miserably. You realize that they are just like you--or, more correctly--that you are just like them, but different. Respect remains to a degree, but that respect is more focused on specific accomplishments and attributes rather than on the whole. All vestiges of hero-worship have faded with the years, and you may find yourself reciting the moral and philosophical lessons to the generation that came before you as often as you do to the one that follows.


Tell Me Soon
What remains for us as we don our temporal and temporary mantles--as we take our parents position as the caretaker of the generations--as we find our faith, sometimes lose it, and then hopefully find it again--is love. Our love for them and their love for us.


Be well,
Huckleberry

Saint Cripsin's Day Falls in May This Year

Recent efforts and travels have kept me from my blogger's keyboard and dedicated to more wordly pusuits. The struggles of a friend have called to my mind one of Good Bill's most famous soliloquies. Forgive my lack of attention and read the better words of another.

"What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmorland. No, my fair cousin:
If we are marked to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will, I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It ernes me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace, I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more.
Rather proclaim it presently through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the Feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a-tiptoe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live t'old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say "To-morrow is Saint Crispian":
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars
And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."
Henry V, Act IV, scene iii

Be well,
Huckleberry

Amazing Fossil Discovery in Washington DC

HuckleberryNewsWire
Washinton DC, April 26, 2007
staff writer

The fossilized remains of a new species of human-like ape have been discovered under our Nation’s Capital.

Paleontologists have dubbed the new hominid species Hillarius Clintoni because of its unique political and evolutionary advantage of being able to kiss up to the minority co-species Jessimus Jackassicus and Judisicus Liberalis while storing its head inside of its rectum--much like a kangaroo carries its young in a pouch—thus protecting it from rational dissenting argument. Scientists speculate that Hillarius Clintoni accomplished this extraordinary maneuver through the use of two horizontally opposed faces and a great deal of unpleasant attitude.

Further evidence indicates that the new species would likely have met with rapid extinction without the direct support of an earlier, larger species—Williamus Clintoni—that had evolved long, coat-tail like appendages that trailed behind it and which Hillarius Clintoni rode upon as the larger species roamed about, in search of mating opportunities.

Both the Williamus and Hillarius branches of the Clintoni thrived in the swamp-bogs common to what is now the Washington DC area. Artifacts related to these primitive nomads have been found as far North as the Lower Catskill Mountains in New York State and as far West as the White Water River in Arkansas, though the evidence indicates that the Clintoni never set up permanent settlements in these remote areas—preferring instead to pass through them and return to the lowland swamps.

Tool marks and dental scans seem to point to a diet rich in interns, subordinates, and graft—though recent analysis of petrified Clintoni feces have indicated that the hominids, though relatively dim-witted, occasionally had the opportunity to feast upon cattle-futures contracts, and large chunks tax dollars have been pulled from the stool samples.

So what caused the eventual extinction of the Clintoni? No one knows for certain, but a poll of tenured college professors revealed that the ultimate elimination of the Clintoni occurred after a vast alliance of Humans—the Reaganites—arrived from the right-side of the continent driving SUVs. Thus, their extinction may be largely attributable to Global Warming.

Sometimes, just for fun.
Be well,
Huckleberry

Evil in the Kingdom

Once again we are stunned by the actions that one insane man can wreck upon us. The damage to lives and property is only exceeded by the damage to our psyches. Virginia Tech is a university and community in mourning.

The calls of remedy and blame will invariably persist:

• "Ban all firearms!"
• "The university should have done something!"
• "The teachers and administrators were suspicious and did nothing!"
• And undoubtedly at some point we will hear, "It's George Bush's fault!"

Protect ourselves, we should. Plan and prepare, of course. Sensibly regulate and legislate, if need be. But it seems one of the highest forms of denial and ego to think that we as individuals, a people, or a nation can act, do, or prepare in any way sufficient to strip the world completely of evil and its effects. Were we to try, we would populate our land with closeted phobics devoid of freedom and will--but still evil would appear to stun us again, and again.

Serve Us Justice
Insanity is just that. To expect that the reasoning and methods of insanity would make sense or be controllable in the planning and rationale of the sane is itself .....well, insane. We should take what reasonable measures we must, and then accept the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as are flung at us by those evil and insane. That is what justice is for. For if we truly have the power to prevent evil, we have no use for justice. It is the rational realization that evil exists somewhat on the fringes of our ability to plan for and cope that the concept of justice finds its meaning.

This is true if you seek justice in the corporeal or spiritual.

As for me, I send my condolences to the families of the dead and wounded--equally to those who witnessed that dreaded day and have had their confidences shaken. I offer only that they--and we--consider that the fault of such a tragedy lays solely with its perpetrator--and evil itself.

Be well,
Huckleberry

Beware Strange Men Bearing Gifts

The Gift
So....How did he phrase it? Well, according to a transcription posted on The Independent (1), he said it thus:

"On the occasion of the birth anniversary of the great Prophet of Islam, and on the occasion of Easter and Passover, I would like to announce that the great nation of Iran, while it is entitled to put the British military personnel on trial, has pardoned these 15 sailors and gives their release to the people of Britain as a gift...."

The last time I saw such a gift, it involved Don Corleone and an unfortunate horse.

International pressure was certainly a factor--nobody believed that the British sailors were captured in Iranian waters. But Mahmoud Ahmadinejad can rest comfortably in the knowledge that he accomplished his primary mission. Though in person he may be physically diminutive in stature, he was able to pull up to the grown-up's table using the booster-seat of this contrived crisis. That's what he really wanted. And he got what he wanted by stomping about and raising a ruckus like a spoiled child who has been spared the rod too often.

Imams, Ayatollahs, and Sheiks (Oh, my!)
Is Mahmoud Ahmadinejad insane? Maybe. But likely his madness is just enough to allow his adequate function on the world's stage. He will play his pawns and subsequently be played as one by the Imams, Ayatollahs, and sheiks. For rarely does one who plays humanity cheaply avoid getting played himself. It is the way of totalitarians and tyrants.

Ashes to Ashes
We will undoubtedly hear from the Iranian president again soon as he either creates another crisis or inserts himself into one. Ronald Reagan once famously consigned communism to the "ash heap of history." Certainly, Ahmadinejad will one day join his Islamofascist brethren in that smouldering pile. Let us pray that he does not take a city or two with him as he goes.

Be well,
Huckleberry

(1) Published: 05 April 2007;
http://news.independent.co.uk/world/middle_east/article2422638.ece

In a Tip to the Bard

It's a smack-down....really "old school"....in the Shakespeare style.

"You have the understanding of an infant--but this is very well, if a child you are--reliant on the willingness and care of those 'round about to hold their noses, gather your soiled garments, and wipe your bare ass. This is a task that all do quite willingly for the very young. But there have been decades since you sat up to your mother's breast; What then is your reasoning? You speak proudly of your manhood and erudition, then soil yourself in your naiveté' and crass calumny. Is there no hair yet upon your chest and arms? You wryly lay claim to a salient command of science and art, yet spout only childish philosophies.

Well it seems that you would have me run through your gates and traps once again; defend my faith yet cry "foul!" if I venture the slightest retort. Quite the fragile boy, you are!

But you are worse than a child, for a babe knows nothing more. You embrace your reckless ignorance like a drunkard does his wine. It is both shield and sword to you--but good for neither.

Fine then! As I have been the needy recipient of grace up til this very day, may the Lord in Heaven give me patience as I come 'round to mop up your filth once again, resist the temptation to strike your bare bottom with a cane in the process whilst it hangs out, and explain it to you one more time.

But remember this: I may be willing to wipe your ass, dear child, but dare not ask that I kiss it."

I giggleth, therfore I am.

Be well,
Huckleberry

The Bones of the Past

"For who can say they be loose their mortal coil
And think that their flesh will be saved from the soil?
Be you scoundrel or fool, prince or a poet
You walk over the bones of your past, 'ere you know it."

Thirty years ago or so, a ragtag group of misanthropic Iranian students marched upon the US Embassy--taking it and capturing the staff as hostages. Rumored among this group, a youngish Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

The more things change....
Apparently time and maturity have not diminished Mr. Ahmadinejad's appetite for hostages and chaos as he wets his pen to author his latest ransom demands--yet to be revealed. I think that his real demand has already been amply met. Attention and aggrandizement are what he craves. And get them he does, in spades and to the detriment of the people he purports to serve.

Scoundrels and Fools
The last time the world was thusly held at the point of Iranian scimitar, all it took was the raising of a leader to back down the Ayatollahs who appropriated the uprising. As I look to my right and to my left...well, the pickings may be slim. Ronald Reagan did his job, it is time for another.

We are told (often by Ahmadinejad himself) that he lives in prophesized times. I might tend to agree. But history has tended to demonstrate that scoundrels and fools are usually displeased by the eventual outcome of such struggles--goodness and freedom being, as they are, stubbornly triumphant. I will remain faithfully confident in Mr. Ahmadinejad's eventual disappointment.

To the British sailors now held without just cause I say, "Godspeed."

To Mr. Ahmadinejad I say, "You walk over the bones of your past, 'ere you know it."

Be well,
Huckleberry

Scooter, Scuttled

Lewis “Scooter” Libby has been found guilty. Asking the random passer-by what he has been found guilty “of” elicits some interesting responses.

Some say, “He ‘out’ed’ Valerie Plame as a covert CIA operative, endangering her and in violation of law.” Actually no—that was Richard Armitage.

Others state that, “He leaked classified information to the press for political purposes.” Armitage once again, I’m afraid. In fact, Mr. Armitage actually admitted this to Patrick Fitzgerald (the Special Prosecutor in the case) quite early on in the investigation. One would have thought Case Closed! But alas, not. Mr. Fitzgerald had some more investigating to do, it seems.

Harry Reid (D), the current Senate majority leader, said that someone was finally being held accountable for the “campaign to manipulate intelligence and discredit war critics.” (1) What? I will double check, but I am rather certain that there is not a crime delineated in that chunk of political rhetoric—true or not.

The most common claim I seem to hear and read is that Scooter Libby was just the convenient “fall guy” for Dick Cheney (et al) and that they are the ones who really committed the crimes. Even the jury thought as much during the trial and deliberations. One jury member (coincidentally a former employee of The Washington Post) said in an interview, “We wish we weren’t judging Libby…This sucks.” (1)

When trying to determine exactly what Mr. Libby was convicted of we are faced with the uncomfortable realization that federal courts have determined that no crime occurred at all (this ruling survived several appeals and re-filings). The courts determined that Valerie Plame was not a covert CIA operative at the time her name was mentioned. Further, they determined that Richard Armitage revealed her name to reporter Robert Novak by accident in a fit of piqued bravado and that no violation of any state or federal law had occurred. What then of Mr. Fitzgerald’s investigation and multiple grand juries? Well, Richard Armitage is no friend of the Bush administration and a bit of a buffoon—there is no sport in chasing him. But I am sure he found something for the investigators and juries to do.

So, while Mr. Libby sits in some half-darkened room with his attorneys vigorously preparing an appeal while contemplating the significance of his unfortunate nickname upon daily prison life, I ask you: What was he convicted of?

Answer?
The answer is that he was found guilty of perjury and obstruction of justice—serious crimes, to be sure. It seems that when the feces was hitting the fan (actually, more like the ACME Turbo Feces Flinger), Mr. Libby panicked a bit, dithered, obfuscated, delayed, laid claim to failed memory, and—the Granddaddy of all political parsing—“did not recall” as he strived to be loyal to those around him and figure out what to do. Turns out the paper trail and witnesses could reasonably testify that he should have recalled quite a bit. Thus, the jury is in and Mr. Libby leaves Washington….in stripes, pending appeal.

Even Handed Justice
Assuming the jury took to heart the task at their feet, we will trust that they were as fair as they could be. If the verdict holds, Scooter should by all rights scoot-off to the big house with our thanks for that which he did well, and the even-handed punishment justice delivers for his criminal failings. Hmmm…..Even handed Justice?

As Democrats and Liberals celebrate this verdict as a political victory, they would do well to remember the charge and conviction—perjury—as they cast their eyes up to the podium to see Bill Clinton standing at the side of their candidate Hillary….with Sandy Berger in the shadows, his pockets stuffed anew.

Be Well,
Huckleberry

(1) The Economist, March 10th-16th, page 27

An Open Letter to The Reagan Foundation and Library

Please Assuage My Fear
I am concerned.

As I opened my mail--discovering the latest "Coming Events at the Reagan Library" flyer-- I was at first comforted by the listing of conservative speakers and family events planned. My eye then quickly fell to the scheduled Reagan Forum event of April 28th with...Senator Edward M. Kennedy?
( http://www.reaganfoundation.org/visitorguide/calendar.asp )

Now then; there are most certainly Democrats of national renown that might be appropriate for this event (Zell Miller, Joe Lieberman?). However, I feel safe in stating that if the entire universe of possible Forum presenters were to be drawn into a list with the most appropriate at the top, the current Senior Senator from Massachusetts would undoubtedly appear quite near the bottom--perhaps just below Jimmy Carter and one or two rungs above Muammar Khdafi (pardon the gentle hyperbole--but the mind reels).

As a long term supporter of both the Reagan Foundation and the Reagan Library I feel entitled to ask who made this decision and why? So often, fine institutions with noble purpose are segued into politically corrected prattlers by time and distance from those who honorably set out their bylaws and courses. It seems far too soon to have such a fate fall upon any institution with the name Reagan attached. Please keep my heart from breaking by defending the Kennedy decision.

Regards,
Huckleberry

A Word from Huck - Diaspora

When capitalized, Diaspora is used to refer specifically to the scattering of Jews from their ancestral homeland. Used in lower case, it refers to a migration or movement of any group of people from their traditional, accustomed, or assumed area. The word comes to us from the Greek (as so many interesting words do)--but more on that in a moment.

In common usage, it has come to be a reference to the history of not just the scattering of a people, but to include their struggle to return. One can therefore be interested in the diaspora of nomadic tribes as they pursue new pastures. Further, I do not believe that the lexicographers at Webster's nor the grammatically prickly in Chicago would complain too awfully much if the word were used in the singular--referring to an individual or self. Thus I give myself the permission to refer properly to the scriptural passage as the "Diaspora of the Prodigal Son."

Prodigal Son....Hmmmm....

What was the original meaning? Well, the Greek prefix "dia-" had several uses. In certain instances it implied "through" or "from" among other things. Sometimes, dia- meant "apart," which is the case here. The root word "speirin," meant "sow" or "sown" as in seeds or grain. In this sense, diaspora means to sow or be planted apart.

Well, what which was planted has grown. And the fruits of that growth are made complete in their return--whole once again.

Recent events and family news have brought this to my mind as I celebrate the diaspora.

Be well,
Huckleberry

Ann Coulter—Reexamined

An Open Letter to Jon Friedman of MarketWatch.com

Jon –

There is little to argue with factually in your recent article on Ann Coulter in response to her instantly infamous John Edwards comment (Ann Coulter’s the Paris Hilton of political coverage, March 7, 2007). Excepting that your effort is steeped in irony—and not just the “she wins because I am writing about her” variety of which you are aware.

Ann (the beautiful of face and intelligent—yet loud of mouth—right-wing pundit) enjoys a love/cringe relationship with much of the right. But her most common rants are against one-sided journalism. You are certainly free to rail against her harshness of temperament and voice, but where have you been? Where was your critical pen when Al Franken called President Bush a Nazi or when he challenged Richard Lowry to a fight (actual fisticuffs)—amongst other outrages? Where is your objective eye when the gals on The View ambush Dr. Laura Schlesinger (it was ugly)? Or when Karen Bates of the New York Times commented that the sound of Trent Lott’s voice called to mind the image of nooses hanging from trees? Or when Julianne Malveaux (left-wing syndicated columnist) openly wished in print that Clarence Thomas would die of a heart attack. Or when Nina Totenberg (PBS) hoped on-air that Jesse Helms would die of AIDS? Or when Harry Belafonte called our President the “biggest terrorist in the world” in a series of interviews with the foreign press? Could I not go on?

I regularly follow your MarketWatch columns—did I miss something or are you practicing selectivity in your disdain? Perhaps Ann Coulter believes she needs the outrage to be heard at all. Rail against Ann Coulter if you will—she may deserve it on occasion. But she is your creation and that of your journalistic brethren (themselves no strangers to outrageous statements).

Is Ms. Coulter in danger of becoming "obsolete" as you claim? Ask not for whom the bell of obsolescence tolls; for it may toll for thee.

Be well,
Huckleberry

Copybooks, Markets, and Tigers….Oh my!

The Gods
I am reminded of one of my favorite poems by Rudyard Kipling (first introduced to me by my father) titled The Gods of the Copybook Headings. The premise of the poem is that man falls and fails with each generation to the extent that the new generation fails to remember the hard-fought lessons and wisdom of the past. It is a great read—thought dated in its analogy—and reiterates a truth common to us all.

The Capital Markets
Over the last few weeks, the stock market—being the bastion of sanity and stability that it is—took a header. Billions of dollars in market-valuation were wiped out more quickly than they ran up and gains for the year turned into losses. Friends and business associates alike screamed in pain. Before the final tallies were taken each day, fingers were rapidly pointing at villains du jour—to the right and the left. Stock proponents blamed comments made by Alan Greenspan (“He has retired, now he should keep his mouth shut!”), the larger fall in China’s Shanghai indices (“Currency controls restrict the markets!”), and banks themselves (“Sub-prime mortgages are destroying value!”). Even perpetual Bears—who go through life expecting a market’s fall—were aghast that their hoards of hidden gold bullion did not rise in glorious counterpoint to the falling market they have been predicting, lo these many years (several articles and blogs are adequately represented by the following headline from MarketWatch: “What forces are trying to hold down the price of gold?”).

The Tiger and the Monkey
There are several versions of a good story involving a tiger who looks up into a tree and sees a small monkey. The tiger says, “Come on down from the tree little monkey and play with me.” The monkey says, “No, no. I shall not, for you shall eat me up.” The tiger replies, “My days of eating monkeys are over, dear friend. Besides, you are so small! A tiger like me prefers much bigger game. Come down from the tree and play with me.” The monkey say, “I cannot trust you because you are a tiger and will eat me up!” The tiger looks up longingly and proclaims, “You are wrong small friend. I am simply lonely and desire your company. Come down from the tree and play with me for just a little while.” The monkey jumps down from the tree to play with the tiger. Quickly, the tiger seizes the little monkey and as the monkey is about to be devoured, he cries, “But you said that I am your friend and you would not eat me!?” To which the tiger replies, “What do you expect? I am only a tiger.”

Markets are Markets
Markets go up and markets go down—sometimes quickly—taking their revenge upon those who have forgotten that the market is, after all, just a market. No doubt I will have regular occasions to recall Rudyard Kipling and his fine work of poetry again in the future. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

Be well,
Huckleberry

Good 'ol Tommy A.

A good friend recently recalled Thomas Aquinas to my mind. Volumes have been written by this great thinker--and undoubtedly volumes more will follow. For today, I offer you all a few quotations--plucked from his vast corpus literi--by this most intellectual of saints in an attempt to introduce him to those of you who know him not, and inspire those familiar with his work to read him again.

"If the highest aim of a captain were to preserve his ship, he would keep it in port forever."

"It is requisite for the relaxation of the mind that we make use, from time to time, of playful deeds and jokes."

"It is possible to demonstrate God's existence, although not a priori, yet a posteriori from some work of His more surely known to us."

"Man cannot live without joy; therefore when he is deprived of true spiritual joys it is necessary that he become addicted to carnal pleasures. "

"Not everything that is more difficult is more meritorious."

"Perfection of moral virtue does not wholly take away the passions, but regulates them."

"Reason in man is rather like God in the world."

"Sorrow can be alleviated by good sleep, a bath and a glass of wine."

"The highest manifestation of life consists in this: that a being governs its own actions. A thing which is always subject to the direction of another is somewhat of a dead thing."

"The truth of our faith becomes a matter of ridicule among the infidels if any Catholic, not gifted with the necessary scientific learning, presents as dogma what scientific scrutiny shows to be false."

"There are wars where no one marches with a flag, though that does not keep casualties from mounting. Our hearts irrigate this earth. We are fields before each other."

"Three things are necessary for the salvation of man: to know what he ought to believe; to know what he ought to desire; and to know what he ought to do."

"We can't have full knowledge all at once. We must start by believing; then afterwards we may be led on to master the evidence for ourselves."

"Whatever is received is received according to the nature of the recipient."

There is so much more. Discover him, if you will.

Be Well,
Huckleberry

Anna Nicole Smith, RIP

In what feels like a fitting end to a twisted tale of fiction, Anna Nicole Smith has been found dead in her hotel room.

But Ms. Smith was not a work of fiction; she just played one on TV. Everything about her was...there is no other way to say it...larger than life. From her most notable physique, to her television series—from her stereotypical ditz-iness, to her marriage and subsequent widowhood with its incumbent oversized inheritance—the gal lived the vida loca in a way that virtually defined the self-absorbed media generation we live in. It is Anna Nicole’s world, and we just live in it.

Or is it better to say that we are a world of Anna Nicole’s? Her life certainly had its tragic moments and Hollywood glamour. Anna's tabloid appearances were marked by the excesses many crave, and seemed to be interrupted only by those who would "out-Anna" her. Paris and Brittany have certainly tried. We view their wretched experiences in slow-motion reply again and again. They are the court jesters of our age—the minstrels that entertain us and then move on, having failed to truly move us at all.

Today, however, we take pause. One of our clown-princesses has left the stage with a final, tragic bow as she follows her son, so recently departed. Regardless the excesses and comic faults, we find it is easy to believe that she did love her son--perhaps even cherished him. But it is evident that she lacked the ability to fully understand that love or communicate it through deed and sacrifice. Perhaps now, joined again—loose the mortal coil so fragile and flawed—mother and son may find peace in the arms of grace.

Now, Paris and Brittany (et al) will be forced to compete with Anna's bizarre mix of truth and calumny, the rage of media fervor that will no doubt drip red with the salacious details of her final days, and the coming conspiracy theories that will spare us not. Unfortunately, I suspect that they will compete very well indeed.

Anna Nicole Smith, dead at 39--Frebruary 7, 2007. She is survived by her four-month old daughter. RIP.

- Huckleberry

A Word From Huck, for your consideration

Epistemology:"The study or a theory of the nature and grounds of knowledge especially with reference to its limits and validity" Merriam-Webster

My favorite reference that communicates my understanding of this word is a quotation from Hamlet:"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Hamlet, Act 1, Scene V

Philosophy being the study, collection, and/or pusuit of all learning, wisdom, beliefs, and ethics; Shakespear was telling us that there are limits to what we do and can know. So we should not be surprised by what is new (to us) or mysterious. Nor should we instantly doubt that which is not within our personal experience.

I extend this thought a bit to say that embracing that which is outside our philosophy is the nature of inquest (inquisitiveness). However, we must be aware that there is the most common of traps amongst humanity--predisposition. For if we color our inquest by denying our epistemological limits--or worse, by only extending our limits where expedient in economy or pain--we interject fallacy into our philosophy and gain not. This is the better definition of prejudice.

Be Well.
Hucklberry

Happy New Year - Michael Savage is an Idiot

I am sorry to kick the year off with such a negative posting, but under the cover of conservative talk radio Michael Savage has joined the lineup at my favorite station--KFYI in Phoenix. So what is wrong with Michael Savage you ask? Glad you did.....

Michael Savage is a blowhard with an uncomfortable tendency to praise himself.
But, but, but...You say...so is Rush Limbaugh! Yes, but Savage lacks Rush's talent and the wry wink and smirk you can hear in Rush's voice every time he lets loose with self-praise.

Michael Savage is rough and unpolished.
But, but,but...you say...so is Howard Stern and KFYI's morning guy, Bruce Jacobs. Correct on both counts. But one gets the impression that Howard is just naturally a nasty guy--the class clown. And a listener cannot help but believe that Bruce Jacobs is being, well...he's being Bruce. I think that if you played a covert recording of Bruce Jacobs as he went about his daily life--watching his dog chew the furniture, playing golf, cheering for the Jets--you would find his normal conversation virtually indistinguishable from his radio show, rantings and all, yet minus several FCC-banned words. Even if you consider Howard and Bruce to be the bookends of civil-less discourse, an honest listener cannot help but be at least modestly charmed by the honesty of their whole affair (what ever it is that it may be at the time). Michael Savage somehow manages to come off phony in his coarseness. He is able to edit himself into the confines of propriety a little too easily. And you can almost hear him thinking about his next semi-rough expression before he says it--measuring it in the hope it will provoke, just enough. It's like the schoolyards misanthrope who wants to be seen as tough, but cannot quite pull it off.

Michael Savage is not that funny.
Oh, the elements are all there. But his humor is formulaic, calling someone an idiot is almost never funny all by itself, and his timing is off--he gives no pause when one is needed and his inflections sounds asynchronous to his punch-lines. I hesitate to dwell too long in comparisons with other KFYI hosts, but there is a reason that Barry Young's show is so highly rated. Barry Young can talk about nothing in a circle for five minutes and end with his patented "canned" cheers and/or applause and all you know is that you are still laughing and have the latent belief that Barry actually made a point in there...somewhere. All of that is the anti-Savage, if you will allow the phrase.

I could go on, but will mercifully not. KFYI has been looking for a nighttime host to follow Joe Crummey (also solid, funny, and a good interviewer) for some time. I suggest that their search continue a bit longer.

Huckleberry

A Christmas Message from Huck
Santa' Gift
A New Christmas Story

Dedicated to the T. M. Hardy Family

It was just before Christmas
You could see all the signs
There was tinsel and eggnog
And frost on the pines
But amongst all the hubbub
And the standing in lines
Little Tom Junior
Was trying to find
A gift for young Matty
His brother, just five

As he shopped through the stores
He thought long and hard
Maybe Matty would like
A ball to play in the yard
Maybe a toy train
Or a soldier that guards
Why is choosing the right
Gift always so hard

Tom Junior decided
To try a new store
Maybe the right gift
Means searching some more
As he stepped outside
And looked 'cross the street
Young Tom caught a glimpse
Of a face he should meet

There on a bench
Bundled up from the cold
Was a man in small glasses
Who looked pretty old
His beard was all gray
White, truth be told
Maybe this nice man knows
Were good gifts are sold

Tommy stepped up
To give him his name
When he said, "Hello Tommy,
It's nice to see you again."
Tommy was surprised
At the extent of his fame
How could this old man
Know his name just the same?

The old Man just smiled
And said, "I know many things
I know the toy wishes
That this season brings
I know the meaning
Of the five golden rings
I hear every time
The church choir sings
'O Holy Night'
And I've met the Three Kings."

Tommy was a brave
Precocious young child
And there was something familiar
When this old man smiled
Beneath all the gruff
The old man’s spirit was mild

So Tommy spoke up,
“I need the perfect gift
Something my little
Brother Matty can lift
A toy he enjoys
And plays with, so if
You have a suggestion
I will give him that gift.”

The old man leaned back
And squinted his eyes
Saying, “The best gift at Christmas
Is a word from the wise
And is not purchased with money,
You may be surprised.”

Tommy cried, “What is this gift
And where is it found?
I’ve searched in every
Store that’s around.”
The old man said, “It’s not
In any store” as he frowned.

“Make sure you remember
And to your brother pass on
Christmas has meaning
That goes far beyond
Trees and tinsel and garland
And presents at dawn

It’s more than reindeer
More than the good food
It’s bigger than carols
And the holiday mood
It’s even more, than your
Gathered family brood

Christmas exists
For only one reason
That has little to do
With the time, place, or season
It is the joy we are given
By the birth of the Son”

“Now I am an old Saint
And there is but one thing I fear
That young children forget
To hold Christmas so dear.”
Tommy nodded and whispered
Into the old man’s ear
“I’ll never forget
The meaning won’t disappear.”

The old man smiled broadly
And patted Tommy’s head
He rose quickly up
To his feet as he said,
“Your gift is for me,
Because I no longer dread
That Christmas is lost
To Songs, Stuffing, and Sleds.”

Tommy smiled back
And turned to move on
The worry he had
About gifts was now gone
His thoughts were now
On the Christmas beyond

As he looked again for the man
To wave him goodbye
The old man had vanished
In the blink of an eye
Tommy now understood
And said with a sigh,
“Merry Christmas Santa
I’ll remember my whole life.”

A Gift to Remember
Merry Christmas

- Huckleberry

© 2006