What Betty said...

                                        Election Confession by Betty Cracker|

You know how sometimes you’re faced with a really hard choice where the pros and cons seem even and you just can’t make up your mind? And then you flip a coin, and while your quarter is spinning in the air, you realize which outcome you’re rooting for, and that’s how you make your decision?
That’s how picking a candidate for tomorrow’s primary has been for me this year. I like Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders both a lot and would happily vote for either one in the general. I’ve donated small sums to both candidates, watched most of the debates and followed their campaigns closely. Both are great candidates, IMO.

I first donated to the Sanders campaign as a protest: Like Sanders himself, I suspect, I didn’t think he’d come this far. My small donation was a way to show support for his consistent message about the corrupting influence of money in politics, a hope that an early groundswell of support for Sanders would buy his issues a seat at the table and shift the conversation in the primary leftward.
That’s not a knock on Clinton, BTW; I’ve never bought the notion that she’s a DLC Democrat at heart. I think her beliefs are similar to President Obama’s (in other words, a bog-standard center-left Democratic governing philosophy) and that they are consistent. There wasn’t a great deal of difference between the Clinton and Obama platforms in 2008, and there aren’t now either.
But I’ve noticed in past primaries that a candidate with a strong message can shift the conversation. Even that odious phony John Edwards put poverty more firmly on the agenda back in aught-eight with his “Two Americas” focus. Bernie’s message about creeping plutocracy couldn’t be more timely and urgent, and to his great credit, he has made it central to Democratic politics throughout this primary season.

Even so, just before the actual voting started, I was leaning a bit toward Hillary because I thought she was more electable, having withstood the wingnut shit storm for 25 years, formidably faced down the partisan witch hunt over Benghazi and forged strong, deep and long-standing ties with establishment figures and core constituencies of the party. But I still wasn’t sure.

I’ve followed the Berniacs vs Hillbots clashes at this blog and elsewhere, and I resolved not to allow the behavior of overly enthusiastic supporters color my opinions of the candidate, and that remains the case. But my coin-flip moment has been playing out as the voting takes place, and now I’m ready to admit it, to myself and to you all: I want Hillary to win. I’m going to vote for her tomorrow.
This realization started to dawn on me when she got edged out in Michigan. It’s not that I wanted Bernie to lose, but I was disappointed that Hillary didn’t win. I was disgusted with the media spin about it — not the valid analysis about trade, etc., and how that might have driven Rust Belt voters to the Sanders camp but the crap-fest about whether HRC was once again losing to a man who excites the youngs and whether the country wants to try something new instead of this tiresome, ambitious woman.

Well, after 229 years of the Oval Office being a men’s only club, a woman would be something new, even if we’ve known this particular woman forever. I’m not going to deny that’s a huge part of my support for HRC. I want a woman in the White House, damn it. And we’ve got an incredibly qualified one right in front of us.

It wasn’t that big of a deal to me in 2008 since I supported PBO over HRC. It seems more urgent now. In the 2008 primaries, my mom was a Hillary supporter, not just because Hillary is a woman but because my mom was a big fan of the Clintons, who were of her generation. Mom was no PUMA; after Obama won the primary, she voted for him in 2008 and again in 2012. She thought he was a great president.
But she never got to see a woman win the White House. And that sucks. I don’t apologize for believing that breaking this barrier is incredibly important. For myself. For my daughter. For all the women who came before us and will come after us. It’s not everything, but it’s not nothing either.
Anyhoo, as I said, I like Bernie too, and if he wins, I’ll work my ass off to make sure he prevails in November. My husband is going to cancel my Hillary vote by voting for Bernie tomorrow, and I will even remind him to do so. But it turns out I’m with her…and I have been all along.
PS: I realize the graphic up top is controversial because some people thought the quote implied that Sanders’ line about “shouting about gun control” was sexist. I don’t think Sanders is sexist at all. But I do like the sentiment in the quote, which is generally true.

Betty Cracker, Front Pager at Balloon Juice

HOLY SHIT!

The Oklahoma House has voted to do away with the state's training and licensing requirements for people who want to carry their guns openly. Here is a verbatim transcript of part of the debate:

"Is it a good idea to let anyone carry a gun, even if they don't know how to use it or even where the safety is?" asked Rep. Emily Virgin, D-Norman.

"The key word is 'let,'" said Coody. "Somehow we've gotten the idea that the government has to give us permission to exercise our freedoms. That is totally antithetical to me."

The bill excludes felons from open carry, but not people under protective order. This caused some concern, even among gun-rights supporters, and may be addressed when the bill reaches the Senate.

Rep. Mike Brown, D-Tahlequah, noted that the state requires people to learn to drive to obtain a driver's license, and asked why a person shouldn't be required to learn how to operate a gun before carrying one in public.

"Because driving is privilege," replied Coody. "The Second Amendment is a constitutional right."

"But what about my safety?" Brown asked. "Doesn't the government have a responsibility to protect me?"

"No," replied Coody.

A couple of things...

I read this morning, believe it or not, the Republican held Senate passed a bi-partisan bill to fight Opiate Addiction. It passed unanimously. High fives all around and then they voted not to fund it. Only 5 Republicans voted to fund the bill, a bill they authored and passed.

Niggers, wops, spics, kikes, greasers, queers, chili shitters, jungle bunnies, bohunks, micks, round heads and wet backs. I heard all those names and more growing up in the "good old days". I heard those words out of the mouths of professionals and out of the mouths of the unskilled, so yeah I'm on board for PC.

Oh, and I remember when I first started working in the late 60's guys thought nothing about calling women they worked with, sweetie, doll and baby and on occasion gave them a little slap on the ass as they walked by the desk. I have no nostalgia for the "good old days".


I'll leave you with this note from the dearly departed Molly Ivins...

"One function of the income gap is that the people at the top of the heap have a hard time even seeing those at the bottom. They practically need a telescope. The pharaohs of ancient Egypt probably didn't waste a lot of time thinking about the people who built their pyramids, either."

RIP Sir George

In my career in broadcasting, I was fortunate to meet some very interesting people, some famous, some infamous and some not famous at all, but never the less, they were all interesting, especially this man.  One the best afternoons of my life was lunching (and drinking) for most of the afternoon with Sir George Martin, the producer of the Beatles.

Martin had little or no contact with the world of rock music when he signed and then produced the Beatles for a division of EMI/Capitol Records. His boss told him "to see what he could do with these boys".

Sir George taught the Beatles about music, the Beatles taught him about music. They had mutual respect for each other, he was their guidance counselor, their teacher and co-collaborator.

Sir George said the thing he was most impressed with the Beatles was their desire to learn. He talked about John Lennon going from barely able to pick out scales on the piano, to playing beautifully on Beatles' records. He talked of their work ethic, constantly practicing, working on lyrics and songwriting. Martin taught them about musical structure, he taught them how a recording studio works, he taught them to channel their energy onto the tape.

He said none of it was easy, but it was always creative and as hard as they worked, for all the hours put in, day and night, week after week the songs were the reward.

We were all given the gift of great music by the Beatles with Sir George Martin by their sides all the way.

That afternoon was one of the best of my life.  And Sir George wasn't quite as "posh" as he seemed to be. I'll leave you with this.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4spkG8LizyE

  

Downton farewell and an Oddity

We watched the last of Downton Abbey last night...happy endings all around. The Executive Wife was happy with the ending and depressed because the show is over.

Here are a few of the online comments about the show and the character's futures.

Bates and Anna name their son Norman. They immigrate to the US and buy a small motel on the California coast.

During the "Red Scare" of the 50's Daisy is arrested by Scotland Yard for heading up a Soviet Espionage ring and dies in prison in 1991.

Mr. Barrow has taken over for Mr. Carson (Carson remains as "Managing Butler") Mr. Barrows hires a new Footman, the new Footman is gay. A romance ensues and there is another wedding at Downton, but not until 2013 when same sex marriage is legalized in the UK. Barrow and his long time partner become the oldest couple to marry under the new law.

In 1961, 86 year old Lord Grantham once again heeds the advice of his fellow club members, invests his dwindling fortune in 4 young musicians "who will change the world and culture"....Gerry and The Pacemakers.

      This is The Republican National Committee Chairman Reince Priebus....

          If you remove the vowels from his name you get RNC PR BS

Tom

I reconnected with an old friend a few years ago---the magic of the web made it possible. I met Tom in the first grade at Lincoln School for the next 12 years, Tom and I shared teachers, friends, lunches, music lessons, sports and plenty of fun, maybe too much fun. Our teen years were classic American Graffiti. We didn’t reconnect until we were old men.

Tom died of cancer yesterday, it was quick and over almost before it started. Other friends haven’t been as fortunate as Tom.

A couple of years ago, Tom told me a story about his days as a young bass player. Tom was a fine musician. In high school he played standup bass with a folk trio, he played in the school orchestra and tuba in the marching band. Bill Pond, the school band director had a big band and from time to time he called on young Tom to fill in on bass. Tom said it was strange to play gigs with a band made up of your teachers, parents of your friends, local insurance men, a radio station owner and other early to late middle aged guys. But Tom was making music, something he loved to do, a kid playing in a band with all these guys old enough to be his father. They’d pack their instruments in a caravan of cars to travel to the band’s gigs, Tom wedged in the backseat. Bottles of whiskey would be passed around the car and Tom was expected to drink his share and he did. Tom said he learned to love the music most of our generation hated, playing with those old guys gave him his love of jazz and most of all it was great experience for a teenage boy to be treated as a man by men. It was, as he said, an education.

At Lincoln School most of the kids were together for years. One of our group, Mary Boe has all our Lincoln School class pictures she brought them to a mini-reunion a few years ago. Looking at them, you notice that for five years we were all happy, healthy smiling kids. The 6^th grade picture is different. In the 6^th grade picture we look like kids in a co-ed juvenile detention center.

Our regular teacher, for whatever reason, was gone a few weeks after school started and we had a succession of substitutes and we drove them crazy.

We invented a classmate, Mary wrote his name in the attendance book, Frank Furter. The substitutes would take attendance, calling out Frank’s name, no answer, ever. Frank was the little boy who was never there.

Usually after our little friend Frank was gone for three, four days, the substitute would ask if any of us knew what was going on with Frank. One day she asked Tom (he was called Tommy at the time) if he knew anything about Frank. Sweet, innocent Tommy immediately said, “I think his Mom is sick.” The teacher bought it. Of course Frank wasn’t in class the next week and the sub would ask Tommy if Frank’s mother was still ill. Tom would frown and say, "I believe she is." 

We worked the scam for a couple of weeks and then the shit hit the fan. The principle, Leo LaBelle took over our class. Mr. LaBelle was an ex-Marine. All of a sudden we were all in Marine Boot Camp. Lincoln School was turned into Marine Recruit Depot, Parris Island by Leo Labelle. In our 6^th grade picture, Mr. LaBelle is the only person with a smile on his face.

When Tom and I were seniors at Central we were in a Government Class together. It was boring, the teacher was boring and he had a short fuse. One night we were sitting at the Kegs Drive In and we decided to over-study our assignments for government class. We’d would go to the library and dig up incredibly arcane facts about the senate, house, Supreme Court, whatever we were studying at the time. Tom and I would craft questions from our fact gathering and at the right moment in class, one of us would raise our hand and ask a question of the teacher. Our questions were on topic, but very difficult to answer or explain, we asked questions that wouldn’t have been out of place in a graduate school seminar. We tied the teacher in knots. He hated to call on either of us. About halfway through the semester we really had him going one day, the teacher was so angry he broke his clipboard in half.

Tom and I were sent to see Dr. Patterson, the head counselor, her response? “Let me get this straight, you two were sent to me because you ask hard questions?” Dr. Patterson smiled and said, “Get out of here and put all that effort into something productive, please.” We didn’t take her advice.

One of my favorite memories of Tom, who as a 7^th grader, decided he was going to be the manager of our Park Board Hockey Team. Our team played as Midgets and as Juniors. I can still see Tom standing next to Coach Peters. Tom dressed in a dark winter topcoat, scarf around his neck, papers under his arm, making notes on a clipboard for the coach. We were the only kid team with shot counts, minutes played because Tom recorded all our stats.

A great father to Anna, a baker and chocolatier. Ride that comet Tom.

The Old Man is Dead

My old man died at 10:30 at night in the Mountain Time Zone, he died after midnight my time. I wasn’t home. My mother couldn’t get ahold of me. I was out with some people from work and I didn’t find out he was dead until 7 the next morning. Out of frustration she’d left a message for me at the office. I was hung over when I called her back, by the time I said goodbye,my hangover was gone. My boss made me a reservation to fly home. By 11 that morning I was in the air.

On the plane, I thought about him, God dammit, I’d been anticipating his death for 20 years, worrying about him dropping dead every day since I was 14 years old.

The old man had his first heart attack at 39 and it was a bad one. In 1959 doctors didn’t know shit about heart attacks or how to care for the victims. Looking back on his treatment regime is like reading something from the dark ages. Things a medieval barber, a hair cutter, practicing medicine as a sideline would prescribe…”stay in bed, don’t exert yourself. No exercise, no walking, just rest…oh, you might want to try this diet, eat nothing but shrimp or eat just red meat and no vegetables...eat vegetables and no red meat.”

It drove Dad crazy and after a month he got out of bed and went back to work, he said to hell with the diet and ate what he wanted. He did quit smoking, he cut back on his drinking, no more beer, no more whiskey. He drank brandy and the only reason he drank it was his doctor told him, brandy is made from grapes and not grain, so it was “better” for him. The old man did like his brandy once he got used to it, he drank it straight with a water chaser. He washed down his nitroglycerine pills with it. He had constant angina and popped those pills like candy, all day every day.  

I sat in my seat, looking out the window of the airplane. I thought about how the hell Dad had made it for 20 years with a blown out heart? It was a miracle. The old bastard was tough, most guys, I think, would have given up. He didn’t.

About two and a half years ago, he called me. We talked every week, but this call was different. He was running a Ford dealership and the owner dropped dead from a heart attack. For a guy with a bad heart, it didn’t scare him. He wanted to talk about opportunity. He owned a small piece of the store and Ford wanted to finance the balance for him. I said, “Go ahead, do it.” He said, “I’ll do it if you’ll come in as my partner and I’ll teach you the business.” I flew out and we talked.

The deal he proposed was kind a of shitty opening offer from him. He and Mom would own 51%, 49% would be split equally between my brother, my sisters and I. We were sitting in his office, from his desk we could see the showroom, from the large side windows we could see the lot. He put me behind his desk while we talked. He started talking and I listened. “You look good behind the desk.” He was softening me up. “You grew up around this business.” I looked at the old man and didn’t say a word. I wanted to force him to keep talking. Dad was the rare sales guy who listened rather than talked all the time. If I didn’t say anything, he’d have to keep talking. He didn’t like it. I waited him out and he got frustrated with me. He stopped talking and said, “Well?”

“Your deal sucks Dad.”

“Why do you say that, son? I think it’s a wonderful opportunity for you.” He waited. I stood up. I looked out the window.

“That F 250, the red one in the 2^nd row, what have you got in it?”

“The dually?”

“Yeah, the red dually with the crew cab.” I said.

“A hair over 10,000.”

“What will you sell it for?”

“It’s priced at 14,999.”

“Not what I asked Dad, what will you sell it for?”

He cracked a little smile and said, “I need to make at least two thousand on it.”

“So you’d sell it for 12 grand and be happy with 20% on the deal, right?”

“Not particularly happy, but if I had to, I’d do it.”

“If I took your deal, you and Mom would get a check for $1020.00 gross, less sales commission and associated costs. I’d get 245 bucks less costs for doing all the god damned work and I’d have to write 3 checks for the same amount to my brother and sisters for doing nothing right?” He didn’t answer. “Multiply that times 200 units a month. You and mom are driving around the country in your motor home with a fat bank account. My brother is selling stocks and bonds, he’s getting a check and the girls are cashing checks that magically fall from heaven every quarter, meanwhile I’ working my ass off seven days a week doing everything from running the place to shoveling the fucking snow off used cars in the winter and I’m doing it just to keep everybody else in this deal happy. It doesn’t sound like a good deal to me.”

“You’re pretty quick with the numbers, where’d you learn that?” The old man grinned. ”You’d get a get a salary on top of the partnership, you know.”

“And what would that be Dad?”

“Good money, we can negotiate it and you’d get your partnership percentage.”

“You think everything is negotiable, don’t you?.”

The old man sat back in his chair and laughed, “You’re tough, how did you get so damn tough anyway?”

“I’m tough? Look who’s talking. I didn’t spend half my life sitting around car stores listening to you and not learn anything.”

“You’re saying you’re just like your old man then?”

“Nope, I’m better than you are.”

“Why’s that?” He lost his grin, he had a healthy ego. Probably the reason he was still working 60 hours a week with a time bomb in his chest.

“I’m more creative than you are. Look, you need me to get this deal done and you think you can get me to do it by appealing to my innate sense of fairness and love for my family, but you’re wrong. It’s going to take more than that daddy. So let's stop the bullshit and get down to it, maybe we both want something to happen, so let’s see if we can come to an agreement or an arrangement or whatever the hell you want to call what we’re trying to get done.” I stopped talking and sat back down in his chair.

“How much bigger a percentage do you want?”

“I want control. In the beginning you and I control this place, when you and Mom ride off in the sunset in that oak lined bus of yours I want the control, no I’ll need the control, you’ll still get your 51%. But I’m the boss, because after you croak and you will croak whether its next week, next year or ten or 20 years from now. I can’t have the family lining up with mom and controlling the store. If I’m going to change my entire life, go into a business that I promised myself I’d stay as far away from as possible, I won’t do it without controlling my own future and I refuse to go through negotiations with my family every time I need to hire a new parts runner, a god damned lot boy or change a sign, which is exactly what would happen, once you check out for good.”

The old man looked hurt, but I knew it was bullshit. He knew I was right. “It’s almost 6, let’s go to your club and you can have a nice brandy, you come up with something better and we can talk more later.” He agreed. We had drinks and went back to the house.

We never got the deal done, I was the asshole I guess. Everybody was pissed at me. There was anger between my brother and sisters and I. My mother was on their side. The old man could have done what ever he wanted and for the first time in my life I saw him waiver and take the easy way out.I said fuck it and went back to Boston.

The old man sold the store for the widow, he signed a contract to teach the new owner how to run it. Then he and mom got in their motor home and drove away. Now he’s dead.

                              

I'm eating a dry sandwich on the plane, wondering if I had agreed to the deal with him, would he still be alive? I doubt it. I’m not going to beat myself up.  

I’m numb. I’m not feeling much of anything. Mentally I’m in neutral and I hate to feel this way, but I’m not even sad. Shock, maybe. I don’t think I’m in shock. I’m not tired, I stayed out too late last night, drank too much. I feel good physically, but I feel nothing emotionally. For 5 days I went through the motions. My father’s friends cried, I didn’t, my family cried, I didn’t. I carried the family. People remarked how strong I was. Maybe I was, but I didn’t feel strong. I didn't feel anything.

Years have gone by since the day my old man died. I revisit it in my head on a regular basis. I didn’t cry over his death for a long time. One day, almost two years later, I did cry, it happened as I was driving home from work. I had tears running down my face for the entire commute. I haven’t any idea what triggered it, but it happened.

For a long time I was worried there was something wrong with me. Later, I asked a psychologist about it. He told me it was okay as everyone processes their grief in different ways. I think about him everyday, I miss him, I laugh about him and tell stories and I've dreamt about him. But I'm not sad, I don't think I ever have been.