Moving is never fun. Scores of people have horror stories about their moves. I've moved so much in the last fifteen years I've almost gotten blasé about the whole process. But I'd never moved from one state to the other before. This is our saga.
Given the woeful state of the state of Illinois, it was high time we hightailed it out of there. Between the endemic corruption, the horrificly out-of-proportion taxes, the tolls, the congestion, the pettiness and the burgeoning governmental intrusion into every facet of life, Illinois is not a place to live.
We drove back on Wednesday night and immediately began to pack up loose ends. We got to bed early knowing that the next day would be long and hard, planning to get up early. Our reservation for the truck I'd be driving was at eight o'clock, and the movers we'd hired to pack the truck would be there at eight thirty. Even assuming there were no problems, we'd be cutting it close.
The truck rental agency wasn't open when we arrived, so we checked out the truck I'd be driving -- fully loaded with all our furniture and other belongings -- and waited for them to open. When they opened, we learned that because Karen had signed up for the rental, I had to pay $17 as an additional driver and $10 for a background check by DHS. That wasn't welcome news, but the truly shocking news was that over the course of the last couple of months, seventy-eight trucks had been rented by people for one way trips out of Illinois. People were fleeing the state. And we were lucky because there were three other people who had rented trucks that same day who weren't going to get one because all the trucks were out of state.
I drove the truck back to the house to find the crew we'd hired on craigslist waiting for us. There were three guys -- street guys, it seemed -- but they knew their stuff. It was like a giant game of Tetris at two guys moved stuff out of the house with me and one guy inside the truck fit it all together. Karen kept herself more than busy finalizing the packing and worrying that we didn't have enough room in the car or storage unit to get all our stuff out of the house.
The packing of the truck took about six hours. The movers were pretty good and they appreciated, respectfully, the water and drinks Karen provided them. When they finally left, there was a discussion about the ages of the movers and my age, and I had to break out my driver's license to prove that I was as old as one of their fathers.
Once we got the three big pieces of furniture out of the basement that we were going to donate, I tried to contact the Cancer Federation to arrange for a pickup from our neighbors' house, because they were kind enough to allow the CF to pick up the items there the next week after we were out of our house. The CF wouldn't allow me to schedule the reservation because I'm not a member of the family. Apparently, DHS's tentacles stretch farther than I thought. I spoke with the neighbors, moved the items to their garage and thanked them profusely.
I then found out that our dining room table wouldn't fit in my car so that I could take it to storage, so I had to importune yet another neighbor to hold it for three weeks until we could return to pick it up with a smaller truck. Thank goodness for nice neighbors. At least I think that's their motivation. I hope it's not because they just want us to get out of town.
Karen and I kept packing after they left, with me shuttling things to the storage facility to get it out of the house or to the donation center to get rid of it. We worked as hard as we could until it got dark then bedded down on a foam mattress on the floor of the master bedroom for what would be our final night in our first house together. Tomorrow, we reasoned, we'd get up early, take stuff to storage and donation, pack up the car and throw some things into the truck and leave before we had to be out of the house at noon.
The next morning we overslept because the alarm didn't go off. I immediately jumped out of bed and drove to the storage facility to unload the car I'd loaded the night before. The skies were ominous but I was hopeful there'd be no rain, fool that I was.
I must have made about five trips when Karen called in a panic. Apparently, our agent didn't inform us there'd be a final walk-through and the buyers were going to be there any minute. We still had far more belongings to take care of and now we had one less hour in which to move them all. Desperation doesn't describe the feeling we shared -- all we wanted to do was get packed up and on the road.
The couple buying the house touched Karen's heart and lessened our worries. We still had to go to yet a third neighbor to hold our bikes and a couple of boxes. Then the rains came. Sheets of rain just pouring down as we tried to get the car packed and the last few items into the truck. I ended up driving a twenty-four foot truck seated next to the kitchen garbage can loaded with odds and ends which was next to the office chair inverted on the passenger car seat beneath which were more odds and ends including a very expensive dog poop scoop. Wedged underneath the console was a child's doll with great sentimental value for Karen but also with a full head of hair that kept itching me while I tried to drive the twenty-four footer. At one point, it became too much such that I pulled it out from underneath, guided it under the steering wheel -- all while going sixty-five miles an hour on the express way, creating a sight for anyone who could see through the blankets of rain that were coming down -- and into my left arm whence I guided it onto the four-wheeler that rested on the console in front of the passenger seat. I barely had any view of the rearview mirror on the right side of the truck, because I had to bob and weave between the legs of the office chair and the doll to see anything on the right side of the truck.
Before we finally left our first house I changed into a dry shirt and helped Karen into the car. Her rear view out the right side of the car was no better and in fact worse, but at least she could go more than seventy miles an hour.
We pulled out of the neighborhood on a gloomy early afternoon and wended our way to the expressway. It seemed somewhat ironic that on an otherwise happy day, it was raining.
Perhaps it was just the state's way of telling us it was sorry.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
New beginnings
This will be short. This is the last blog post I'll ever make from this house.
Today I drove a rough total of nearly five hundred and twenty-nine miles. I had to bring the boys to their new home and then Karen and I drove to our first home together, from which we are moving on Friday. Tomorrow we pack the truck and take care of odds and ends, and thus will end the story of the first home we owned together.
It's a lovely house. Karen's done a great job decorating it and keeping me from ruining it. She takes great pride in the house and rightly so. She'll miss it horribly.
I'll miss the first house we ever owned together. I'll miss a couple of the neighbors, but that's it. I will not miss Stepford, USA.
The next couple of days will be hard, so I'll be out of touch.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Today I drove a rough total of nearly five hundred and twenty-nine miles. I had to bring the boys to their new home and then Karen and I drove to our first home together, from which we are moving on Friday. Tomorrow we pack the truck and take care of odds and ends, and thus will end the story of the first home we owned together.
It's a lovely house. Karen's done a great job decorating it and keeping me from ruining it. She takes great pride in the house and rightly so. She'll miss it horribly.
I'll miss the first house we ever owned together. I'll miss a couple of the neighbors, but that's it. I will not miss Stepford, USA.
The next couple of days will be hard, so I'll be out of touch.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
200 Things
On a social website to which I used to belong, there was a thread that was called Five Things No One Knows About Me, or some such thing. Usually, the things I put down were whimsical, although some could just have easily applied to anyone else. For lack of anything better about which to write, I'm going to try to come up with two hundred things no one knows about me, although some of them I've probably already divulged in these blogs posts. I hope not to bore you too much:
1. I have a unicorn hair that remains below the line to which my hair has receded.
2. I've never seen ET.
3. I eat my vegetables before my meat at dinners.
4. I've never been to Mexico or Canada.
5. I don't divulge my own birthday, but I know famous people who share it.
6. I don't like gum.
7. I need bifocals but refuse to get them.
8. I once snuck into a cadaver room on campus.
9. I don't like licorice but like Long John's Silver's chicken, which has licorice-flavored batter.
10. I can count to ten in Irish.
11. I read War and Peace in high school, not for a class but for fun.
12. I have no interest in the Far East.
13. I don't understand India or its culture at all.
14. For whatever reason, I like pitchers and ewers.
15. I have trouble with the various tenses of lay and lie.
16. I've never had or been to, nor will I ever attend, a bachelor party.
17. I keep in touch with a retired federal judge.
18. The three books I'm writing have nothing in common except the author and his poor writing.
19. I don't like the color orange, but it was one of the colors of two of my schools.
20. I almost attended all three Big Ten schools whose names begin with an I.
21. I like Frank Lloyd Wright's architecture and designs.
22. I've read nearly all of Isabel Allende's works in Spanish.
23. I can type with all fingers; I'm not a hunt 'n pecker.
24. I can't make coffee.
25. I've only visited seventeen of the United States.
26. I cannot play a single musical instrument.
27. I play chess but not checkers.
28. I've never been to a casino.
29. My vertigo is getting worse as I get older.
30. I've never been west of Overland Park, Kansas.
31. I don't like rollercoasters but don't mind airplanes at all.
32. I had a double hernia at two months old.
33. I can cook turkey with homemade stuffing.
34. I can drum with my fingers.
35. I have more female friends than male friends.
36. I've never played hockey but own ten hockey sweaters.
37. I can read and understand Portuguese and Italian.
38. I can't dive but I can snorkel.
39. I'm no good at algebra.
40. I don't collect autographs.
41. I've met Hollywood celebrities but wasn't impressed.
42. I've been to White O' Morn.
43. I took up golf at age thirty-seven -- and it shows.
44. I never saw Michael Jordan or Wayne Gretzky play in person.
45. I've driven a stick-shift vehicle on the other side of the road in the other side of the car.
46. I spent the night in a phone booth.
47. I visited the site of the battle of Monte Cassino.
48. I still think Rafael Palmeiro was set up by Miguel Tejada.
49. I read Don Quijote in Spanish.
50. I only hit one home run in my baseball career.
51. I helped a Peruvian get political asylum in this country.
52. I've never smoked anything.
53. I once tackled a future NFL quarterback in a pick-up game.
54. I'm allergic to mold.
55. I never watched ER.
56. I've been to less than ten concerts in my lifetime.
57. I can't remember song lyrics or jokes.
58. I've only owned one car in my lifetime.
59. I was the runt of the litter but am the third largest in the family.
60. I have three college degrees.
61. I can't draw.
62. I actually completed my degrees in four years, two years and three years, as anticipated.
63. I don't like most animated films.
64. I once lived in an attic during grad school.
65. I've never won more than $7 from a lottery ticket.
66. I've never strapped on shoulder pads.
67. I am pretty good with locating countries and other geographical features on a map.
68. I never cared for Ronald Reagan, ironically.
69. I prefer clocks with Roman numerals.
70. One of my favorite sports names is Shlomo Glickstein, the Israeli tennis player.
71. I know the capital of Burkina Faso is Ouagadugou.
72. I like John Denver music.
73. I want to fly in a glider and a hang glider, but not parachute.
74. I'll never have a body piercing or a tattoo.
75. I like making lists.
76. For me, pizza without pepperoni isn't pizza.
77. I've never sat in box seats at a ballgame.
78. I've attended a World Cup soccer game.
79. I've never had a cast on my body.
Well, I couldn't make it to two hundred. Then again, the 1001 Nights of the Arabian Nights aren't actually 1001 nights, either. I'm just not that interesting.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles.
1. I have a unicorn hair that remains below the line to which my hair has receded.
2. I've never seen ET.
3. I eat my vegetables before my meat at dinners.
4. I've never been to Mexico or Canada.
5. I don't divulge my own birthday, but I know famous people who share it.
6. I don't like gum.
7. I need bifocals but refuse to get them.
8. I once snuck into a cadaver room on campus.
9. I don't like licorice but like Long John's Silver's chicken, which has licorice-flavored batter.
10. I can count to ten in Irish.
11. I read War and Peace in high school, not for a class but for fun.
12. I have no interest in the Far East.
13. I don't understand India or its culture at all.
14. For whatever reason, I like pitchers and ewers.
15. I have trouble with the various tenses of lay and lie.
16. I've never had or been to, nor will I ever attend, a bachelor party.
17. I keep in touch with a retired federal judge.
18. The three books I'm writing have nothing in common except the author and his poor writing.
19. I don't like the color orange, but it was one of the colors of two of my schools.
20. I almost attended all three Big Ten schools whose names begin with an I.
21. I like Frank Lloyd Wright's architecture and designs.
22. I've read nearly all of Isabel Allende's works in Spanish.
23. I can type with all fingers; I'm not a hunt 'n pecker.
24. I can't make coffee.
25. I've only visited seventeen of the United States.
26. I cannot play a single musical instrument.
27. I play chess but not checkers.
28. I've never been to a casino.
29. My vertigo is getting worse as I get older.
30. I've never been west of Overland Park, Kansas.
31. I don't like rollercoasters but don't mind airplanes at all.
32. I had a double hernia at two months old.
33. I can cook turkey with homemade stuffing.
34. I can drum with my fingers.
35. I have more female friends than male friends.
36. I've never played hockey but own ten hockey sweaters.
37. I can read and understand Portuguese and Italian.
38. I can't dive but I can snorkel.
39. I'm no good at algebra.
40. I don't collect autographs.
41. I've met Hollywood celebrities but wasn't impressed.
42. I've been to White O' Morn.
43. I took up golf at age thirty-seven -- and it shows.
44. I never saw Michael Jordan or Wayne Gretzky play in person.
45. I've driven a stick-shift vehicle on the other side of the road in the other side of the car.
46. I spent the night in a phone booth.
47. I visited the site of the battle of Monte Cassino.
48. I still think Rafael Palmeiro was set up by Miguel Tejada.
49. I read Don Quijote in Spanish.
50. I only hit one home run in my baseball career.
51. I helped a Peruvian get political asylum in this country.
52. I've never smoked anything.
53. I once tackled a future NFL quarterback in a pick-up game.
54. I'm allergic to mold.
55. I never watched ER.
56. I've been to less than ten concerts in my lifetime.
57. I can't remember song lyrics or jokes.
58. I've only owned one car in my lifetime.
59. I was the runt of the litter but am the third largest in the family.
60. I have three college degrees.
61. I can't draw.
62. I actually completed my degrees in four years, two years and three years, as anticipated.
63. I don't like most animated films.
64. I once lived in an attic during grad school.
65. I've never won more than $7 from a lottery ticket.
66. I've never strapped on shoulder pads.
67. I am pretty good with locating countries and other geographical features on a map.
68. I never cared for Ronald Reagan, ironically.
69. I prefer clocks with Roman numerals.
70. One of my favorite sports names is Shlomo Glickstein, the Israeli tennis player.
71. I know the capital of Burkina Faso is Ouagadugou.
72. I like John Denver music.
73. I want to fly in a glider and a hang glider, but not parachute.
74. I'll never have a body piercing or a tattoo.
75. I like making lists.
76. For me, pizza without pepperoni isn't pizza.
77. I've never sat in box seats at a ballgame.
78. I've attended a World Cup soccer game.
79. I've never had a cast on my body.
Well, I couldn't make it to two hundred. Then again, the 1001 Nights of the Arabian Nights aren't actually 1001 nights, either. I'm just not that interesting.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Racism
In the wake of the Zimmerman trial, there have been the riots that many anticipated -- make that feared -- in the event of his acquittal. Justice, that high ideal tossed around as a synonym for specific desires, was wrought in the trial, with no one complaining about the composition of the jury, the evidence allowed in, the jury instructions given or the jury's deliberations. From all accounts, the trial was a fair one and a verdict was rendered. Yet because the verdict many anticipated or desired eluded them, rioting is the only alternative.
To repeat: I don't know what happened that fatal night. Zimmerman may be a punk with a vendetta against black people. Trayvon Martin might have been a thug mascarading as an innocent teenager. Or Zimmerman could have been a Latin Barney Fife and Martin a wide-eyed teenager who was understandably frightened. We'll never know for sure.
But the system worked. That the system didn't provide the outcome many people wanted doesn't mean that justice wasn't served. From what I'm reading, the prosecution had a weak case, didn't present what it had well and reasonable doubt was not only asserted it took up residence in the courtroom. If that's true, there was only one possible outcome.
Instead, the uproar has been about how this was a racially motivated verdict, that a black man cannot receive justice in this country and that there will be protests until things are done to change the system to make it more fair.
Well.
Why is it that when a white man commits a crime against a minority, it absolutely, positively, must necessarily be a hate crime? Could it not be the result of greed, lust or any of the other seven deadly sins? Why is it that blacks can judge whites by the color of their skin but whites must maintain a race-neutral approach when judging blacks?
For example, there was this little nugget that, of course, received next-to-nothing attention on the network newscasts: Four black men raped the black wife in front of her white husband and then killed her and her husband in San Diego. Nigger lover was spray painted on the walls of the couple's apartment. Yet prosecutors saw no reason to charge the accused with a hate crime.
You can read about this case here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/murder_of_Jan_Pawel_and_Quiana_Jenkins_Pietrzak
In a northern Mississippi town after the Zimmerman verdict, a white jogger was beaten up and left for dead by blacks who told him it was for Trayvon. The police didn't see any reason to investigate a hate crime. The FBI is now investigating.
Perhaps the best instance of a retaliatory violence is the infamous attack on Reginald Denny in the aftermath of the Rodney King verdict. What was done to that innocent man was scandalous. Yet one of the defendants claimed that they just got caught up in the moment. Only the brick thrower was convicted of anything serious. No hate crimes were charged.
In commenting about the Zimmerman verdict -- with which he agrees -- Charles Barkely said that ther is such a thing as black racists. Others believe that blacks can't be racists because they have no power, although with Barack Obama occupying the White House that argument is undercut just a tad.
It is high time for blacks to stop looking for racist motives in everything bad that happens to them at the hands of white people. There are racists out there -- skinheads, ignorant people, dyed-in-the-wool segregationists who will not admit the equality of the races. But sometimes, things just happen without any extra motivation. To live in a multiracial society invites such interactions. For street thugs to react the way they have is one thing, but for others, like Stevie Wonder and Jesse Jackson, to make the Zimmerman verdict a racial event is appalling. Goaded by the MSM to frame this sorry event as a racial test case, they have set back the cause of civil rights. Those whites who were more than willing to treat blacks as equals are confused and hurt; those who never wanted equality can point to these accounts and claim that they always knew it would happen because blacks are no better than savages.
Responsible parties within the black community must stand up and be counted. Combat racism where it truly arises. Don't inject it into every social interaction between blacks and whites. Saying racism is present when it isn't doesn't make it so.
Martin Luther King, Jr., would be ashamed of these opportunists and would have to agree with George Will who has christened this the Forever Selma movement, whose goal is to extend the public lives of people like Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton and give them continued, if illusory, relevance.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
To repeat: I don't know what happened that fatal night. Zimmerman may be a punk with a vendetta against black people. Trayvon Martin might have been a thug mascarading as an innocent teenager. Or Zimmerman could have been a Latin Barney Fife and Martin a wide-eyed teenager who was understandably frightened. We'll never know for sure.
But the system worked. That the system didn't provide the outcome many people wanted doesn't mean that justice wasn't served. From what I'm reading, the prosecution had a weak case, didn't present what it had well and reasonable doubt was not only asserted it took up residence in the courtroom. If that's true, there was only one possible outcome.
Instead, the uproar has been about how this was a racially motivated verdict, that a black man cannot receive justice in this country and that there will be protests until things are done to change the system to make it more fair.
Well.
Why is it that when a white man commits a crime against a minority, it absolutely, positively, must necessarily be a hate crime? Could it not be the result of greed, lust or any of the other seven deadly sins? Why is it that blacks can judge whites by the color of their skin but whites must maintain a race-neutral approach when judging blacks?
For example, there was this little nugget that, of course, received next-to-nothing attention on the network newscasts: Four black men raped the black wife in front of her white husband and then killed her and her husband in San Diego. Nigger lover was spray painted on the walls of the couple's apartment. Yet prosecutors saw no reason to charge the accused with a hate crime.
You can read about this case here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/murder_of_Jan_Pawel_and_Quiana_Jenkins_Pietrzak
In a northern Mississippi town after the Zimmerman verdict, a white jogger was beaten up and left for dead by blacks who told him it was for Trayvon. The police didn't see any reason to investigate a hate crime. The FBI is now investigating.
Perhaps the best instance of a retaliatory violence is the infamous attack on Reginald Denny in the aftermath of the Rodney King verdict. What was done to that innocent man was scandalous. Yet one of the defendants claimed that they just got caught up in the moment. Only the brick thrower was convicted of anything serious. No hate crimes were charged.
In commenting about the Zimmerman verdict -- with which he agrees -- Charles Barkely said that ther is such a thing as black racists. Others believe that blacks can't be racists because they have no power, although with Barack Obama occupying the White House that argument is undercut just a tad.
It is high time for blacks to stop looking for racist motives in everything bad that happens to them at the hands of white people. There are racists out there -- skinheads, ignorant people, dyed-in-the-wool segregationists who will not admit the equality of the races. But sometimes, things just happen without any extra motivation. To live in a multiracial society invites such interactions. For street thugs to react the way they have is one thing, but for others, like Stevie Wonder and Jesse Jackson, to make the Zimmerman verdict a racial event is appalling. Goaded by the MSM to frame this sorry event as a racial test case, they have set back the cause of civil rights. Those whites who were more than willing to treat blacks as equals are confused and hurt; those who never wanted equality can point to these accounts and claim that they always knew it would happen because blacks are no better than savages.
Responsible parties within the black community must stand up and be counted. Combat racism where it truly arises. Don't inject it into every social interaction between blacks and whites. Saying racism is present when it isn't doesn't make it so.
Martin Luther King, Jr., would be ashamed of these opportunists and would have to agree with George Will who has christened this the Forever Selma movement, whose goal is to extend the public lives of people like Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton and give them continued, if illusory, relevance.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Clusters
Given my line of work, patterns matter. It can be a pattern of behavior, a pattern of payments, a pattern of virtually anything that's probative. My interest in patterns probably comes from my days playing sports, where I would look for tendencies, whether they were what a pitcher would throw in a given situation or what a player would do when he had the ball on a basketball court. Chess players try to make sure they aren't too patterned in their play, because they become predictable and therefore vulnerable.
Some years ago, I read a disturbing story about some prominent NFL quarterbacks whose children suffered from disabilities and diseases. I took notice at first because these players had risen to the top of their profession, yet their children were afflicted with horrible illnesses. Here's the list I found online:
Jim Kelly - son has Krabbes disease
Mark Rypien - son died at age 4 of a brain tumor
Boomer Esiason - son has cystic fibrosis
Trent Dilfer - son died of a heart condition
Doug Flutie - son has autism
Dan Marino - son has/had autism
Of these quarterbacks, five have played in Super Bowls, two have won them, one has won a Heisman trophy and two are in Canton. That's a pretty remarkable group of players from one position, and an even more remarkable coincidence of medical tragedy afflicting only their sons.
When I look at the list, I try to find explanations in commonalities beyond their position that might explain the occurrence of illness in their sons. Kelly and Marino are from Pennsylvania, Flutie's from Maryland, Esiason is from New York, Rypien from Canada and Dilfer from California, so location isn't the connection. All but Flutie are 6'4" or taller. Most are roughly my age, with Dilfer and Flutie just a few years younger. Their ethnic backgrounds, judging from their surnames are all different. I don't know what makes them all similar beyond the football connection. It's an eerie coincidence and one that sparks discussion among knowledgeable sports fans.
A possible connection that might be suggested is PED's, but if anyone looked at any of these guys, not one of them was bulked up. It's doubtful that those are the cause.
It could but just rotten, random luck. Those in the medical profession call this a cluster, which Wikipedia describes as a grouping of health-related events that are related temporally and in proximity. Typically, when clusters are recognized, they are reported to public health departments in the local area. The 1854 cholera outbreak which occurred in London is a classical example of a cluster. If clusters are of sufficient size and importance, they may be re-evaluated as outbreaks.
I don't think this rises to the level of an outbreak, but's a curious anomaly, because the tendency would be to think that children of such prominent athletes to be very health at worst and extremely gifted athletically at best. These children are neither.
I bring this up because recently, I've notice another cluster that's starting to take shape. Again, it may be simple rotten coincidence, but anyone who learns of it -- even Karen, who likes to kid me about my always noticing coincidences -- would say it's an eerie one.
Darren Daulton was a catcher for the 1983 and 1985-97 Philadelphia Phillies. Recently, he had surgery to remove two brain tumors. In and of itself, that's not unusual, were it not for the fact that another former Philly, Tug McGraw, a relief pitcher for the World Series-winning 1980 team and father of singer Tim McGraw, died of a brain tumor. So did Gary Carter, a Hall of Fame catcher who played for the Montreal Expos and New York Mets.
In analyzing the superficial commonalities of these three players, the only things they shared were baseball and playing in batteries, instead of playing in the field. The careers of McGraw and Carter overlapped, as did Daulton's, mostly with Carter. Carter and McGraw were from California originally, but Daulton is from Kansas. The only other thing that might link their maladies is that for a large portion of their careers, each of them played on Astroturf, McGraw and Daulton in Veterans Stadium and Carter in Olympic Stadium in Montreal. Both of those fields were notorious for cutting the careers of numerous players short due to the unforgiving surfaces' effects on their legs. Veterans Stadium was long regarded as the worst playing surface not only in the Major Leagues but also in the NFL.
The quarterbacks mentioned above played on artificial turf as well, but not as much. The NFL season for most of them was either fourteen or sixteen games long, not counting the preseason and any postseason games. The major leaguers played eighty-one games at home and may have played more games on Astroturf in other stadia, such as the Astrodome.
I'm no scientist or medical professional. I don't have any answer for why these things happened to these people or their families. I just think that the coincidence of illness lumped into these specific groups -- quarterbacks, pitchers and catchers -- is highly unusual. I don't think PED's are the answer. The answer may even be as simple as rotten dumb luck. But it is curious.
Ironically, from what I read on Wikipedia about Daulton, he holds a series of beliefs related to conspiracies, occultism and numerology.
Perhaps, if he recovers sufficiently from his surgery, he can explain these nasty occurrences.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Some years ago, I read a disturbing story about some prominent NFL quarterbacks whose children suffered from disabilities and diseases. I took notice at first because these players had risen to the top of their profession, yet their children were afflicted with horrible illnesses. Here's the list I found online:
Jim Kelly - son has Krabbes disease
Mark Rypien - son died at age 4 of a brain tumor
Boomer Esiason - son has cystic fibrosis
Trent Dilfer - son died of a heart condition
Doug Flutie - son has autism
Dan Marino - son has/had autism
Of these quarterbacks, five have played in Super Bowls, two have won them, one has won a Heisman trophy and two are in Canton. That's a pretty remarkable group of players from one position, and an even more remarkable coincidence of medical tragedy afflicting only their sons.
When I look at the list, I try to find explanations in commonalities beyond their position that might explain the occurrence of illness in their sons. Kelly and Marino are from Pennsylvania, Flutie's from Maryland, Esiason is from New York, Rypien from Canada and Dilfer from California, so location isn't the connection. All but Flutie are 6'4" or taller. Most are roughly my age, with Dilfer and Flutie just a few years younger. Their ethnic backgrounds, judging from their surnames are all different. I don't know what makes them all similar beyond the football connection. It's an eerie coincidence and one that sparks discussion among knowledgeable sports fans.
A possible connection that might be suggested is PED's, but if anyone looked at any of these guys, not one of them was bulked up. It's doubtful that those are the cause.
It could but just rotten, random luck. Those in the medical profession call this a cluster, which Wikipedia describes as a grouping of health-related events that are related temporally and in proximity. Typically, when clusters are recognized, they are reported to public health departments in the local area. The 1854 cholera outbreak which occurred in London is a classical example of a cluster. If clusters are of sufficient size and importance, they may be re-evaluated as outbreaks.
I don't think this rises to the level of an outbreak, but's a curious anomaly, because the tendency would be to think that children of such prominent athletes to be very health at worst and extremely gifted athletically at best. These children are neither.
I bring this up because recently, I've notice another cluster that's starting to take shape. Again, it may be simple rotten coincidence, but anyone who learns of it -- even Karen, who likes to kid me about my always noticing coincidences -- would say it's an eerie one.
Darren Daulton was a catcher for the 1983 and 1985-97 Philadelphia Phillies. Recently, he had surgery to remove two brain tumors. In and of itself, that's not unusual, were it not for the fact that another former Philly, Tug McGraw, a relief pitcher for the World Series-winning 1980 team and father of singer Tim McGraw, died of a brain tumor. So did Gary Carter, a Hall of Fame catcher who played for the Montreal Expos and New York Mets.
In analyzing the superficial commonalities of these three players, the only things they shared were baseball and playing in batteries, instead of playing in the field. The careers of McGraw and Carter overlapped, as did Daulton's, mostly with Carter. Carter and McGraw were from California originally, but Daulton is from Kansas. The only other thing that might link their maladies is that for a large portion of their careers, each of them played on Astroturf, McGraw and Daulton in Veterans Stadium and Carter in Olympic Stadium in Montreal. Both of those fields were notorious for cutting the careers of numerous players short due to the unforgiving surfaces' effects on their legs. Veterans Stadium was long regarded as the worst playing surface not only in the Major Leagues but also in the NFL.
The quarterbacks mentioned above played on artificial turf as well, but not as much. The NFL season for most of them was either fourteen or sixteen games long, not counting the preseason and any postseason games. The major leaguers played eighty-one games at home and may have played more games on Astroturf in other stadia, such as the Astrodome.
I'm no scientist or medical professional. I don't have any answer for why these things happened to these people or their families. I just think that the coincidence of illness lumped into these specific groups -- quarterbacks, pitchers and catchers -- is highly unusual. I don't think PED's are the answer. The answer may even be as simple as rotten dumb luck. But it is curious.
Ironically, from what I read on Wikipedia about Daulton, he holds a series of beliefs related to conspiracies, occultism and numerology.
Perhaps, if he recovers sufficiently from his surgery, he can explain these nasty occurrences.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Another Brit invasion
As I may have mentioned a time or two over the last couple of months, I have limited access to television since I'm on the austerity plan. I have an antenna hook-up that leaves a lot to be desired. Consequently, the number of stations I can receive legally is extremely small. Until my recent move within the same hostel-style accomodations, I was able to get the local NBC, Fox and CBS stations, not to mention a couple of weirdo stations that do nothing than promote products all day long. Since my move downstairs to combat the heatwave that is summer, our stations have been reduced to one: CBS.
It could be worse, I suppose, although there are those who would argue that it's better this way, because it forces one to read more. Considering what's on CBS, I'm getting in plenty of reading about Abraham Lincoln and Oliver Wendall Holmes, both of whose biographies measure roughly six hundred pages each (Lincoln has just released the Emancipation Proclamation and Holmes has just joined the Massachusetts Supreme Court, if anyone's keeping track).
Anyway, I was stuck watching the finale of some show about American's top amateur baker because there was nothing else on that night. Imagine my surprise when one of the two judges standing beside the host, Jeff Foxworthy, a decidedly Southern comedian, was some Brit. If anyone's spent a minute reading any of my blog posts, he can only imagine the hackles this development raised with me.
There are some shows that have been imported from that island: American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance and perhaps something else. For as much as I loathe and despise Simon Cowell, if those were his creations, I can understand why he's a judge on the American version. But why is it that every reality competition we have -- almost -- has a Brit on it??? America's Next Top Model, Dancing With the Stars, even Top Chef, have all had, at one time or another, a British judge. Ignoring for the moment the staple arguments about having kicked them out of this country twice and having saved their arses in two world wars, why is it that we need Brits judging American competitions? Are there no reliable American judges out there? About the only two reality shows that come readily to mind where there hasn't been a Brit judge -- yet -- are The Amazing Race (only the best reality show not involving Padma Lakshmi) and The Voice, and the former is hosted by a Kiwi and ironically the latter is a Dutch creation.
I'm sick and tired of hearing British voices on American television. I studiously avoid the BBC Channel for a reason. Instead, we have Brits hawking wares, announcing the news or reporting it, acting on our shows and commenting on American society as if they know everything. Why Americans allow this to happen is beyond me. It's as pervasive as when Brits play all the ancient Greek or Roman roles in movies. I never knew Laurence Olivier resembled a Roman patrician.
Sure, my Anglo-hatred -- because I don't fear them, I just don't like 'em -- fuels this rant. But honestly, when one thinks about it, it doesn't make any sense. I'm not talking about British stars who come over to act in movies or what not -- there are plenty of Americans in Brit movies and shows, I imagine, so what's fair for the goose, etc. -- but all these unknown Brits being hired as if they're more authoritative than Americans is galling. I don't know what the relative populations are, but I'm quite sure that there are of more of us than there are of them. Someone, somewhere, in this great nation must be competent enough to pitch the latest cleaning gizmo on television.
This trend rankles me. Soon enough, we'll have Brits representing the Franklin Mint, or playing dentists in commercials (o' the irony). It's disgusting, I tell you.
And besides, Americans know plenty about what makes bakery goods good.
Just look at our waistlines.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
It could be worse, I suppose, although there are those who would argue that it's better this way, because it forces one to read more. Considering what's on CBS, I'm getting in plenty of reading about Abraham Lincoln and Oliver Wendall Holmes, both of whose biographies measure roughly six hundred pages each (Lincoln has just released the Emancipation Proclamation and Holmes has just joined the Massachusetts Supreme Court, if anyone's keeping track).
Anyway, I was stuck watching the finale of some show about American's top amateur baker because there was nothing else on that night. Imagine my surprise when one of the two judges standing beside the host, Jeff Foxworthy, a decidedly Southern comedian, was some Brit. If anyone's spent a minute reading any of my blog posts, he can only imagine the hackles this development raised with me.
There are some shows that have been imported from that island: American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance and perhaps something else. For as much as I loathe and despise Simon Cowell, if those were his creations, I can understand why he's a judge on the American version. But why is it that every reality competition we have -- almost -- has a Brit on it??? America's Next Top Model, Dancing With the Stars, even Top Chef, have all had, at one time or another, a British judge. Ignoring for the moment the staple arguments about having kicked them out of this country twice and having saved their arses in two world wars, why is it that we need Brits judging American competitions? Are there no reliable American judges out there? About the only two reality shows that come readily to mind where there hasn't been a Brit judge -- yet -- are The Amazing Race (only the best reality show not involving Padma Lakshmi) and The Voice, and the former is hosted by a Kiwi and ironically the latter is a Dutch creation.
I'm sick and tired of hearing British voices on American television. I studiously avoid the BBC Channel for a reason. Instead, we have Brits hawking wares, announcing the news or reporting it, acting on our shows and commenting on American society as if they know everything. Why Americans allow this to happen is beyond me. It's as pervasive as when Brits play all the ancient Greek or Roman roles in movies. I never knew Laurence Olivier resembled a Roman patrician.
Sure, my Anglo-hatred -- because I don't fear them, I just don't like 'em -- fuels this rant. But honestly, when one thinks about it, it doesn't make any sense. I'm not talking about British stars who come over to act in movies or what not -- there are plenty of Americans in Brit movies and shows, I imagine, so what's fair for the goose, etc. -- but all these unknown Brits being hired as if they're more authoritative than Americans is galling. I don't know what the relative populations are, but I'm quite sure that there are of more of us than there are of them. Someone, somewhere, in this great nation must be competent enough to pitch the latest cleaning gizmo on television.
This trend rankles me. Soon enough, we'll have Brits representing the Franklin Mint, or playing dentists in commercials (o' the irony). It's disgusting, I tell you.
And besides, Americans know plenty about what makes bakery goods good.
Just look at our waistlines.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, July 15, 2013
Smart phones
There are those of us for whom smart phones are anything but. I used to have what I referred to as a dumb phone, because all it did -- and did imperfectly at best -- was make phone calls. No texting, no photos, no internet. Just impressively bad reception when it worked at all. Had I lost it or had it stolen, I wouldn't have been upset at all.
Due to the dictates of the cellphone contract Karen has, I had to upgrade this month. I didn't even want to look at phones with all the bells and whistles that cost nearly $300. I wanted one for .99 if I could get it, but the sound quality was better with the $49 phone, so over my objections we went with that.
The next day on our interstate drive, I had an endless stream of problems using the thing. Some of it no doubt was operator error. But there were problems that couldn't be my fault, such as the phone constantly going to sleep when it wasn't used and it locking without my locking it. Heck, I couldn't even lock it because I have no idea how to lock it.
Karen bravely looked at the owner's manual which was in reality nothing more than advanced advertising. She gave up and told me that I'd have to call AT&T the next day to get the password with which to unlock my phone.
So I dutifully called the company and asked for technical support. As is my wont whenever dealing with assistance for technology, I made sure the person was imbued with endless patience. I then explained the problem and tried to get her to understand that what she was asking me to locate on my phone wasn't on my phone. To wit: She asked me to go to Settings, then Display and look for some feature that would allow me to lock certain things on the phone. The only things that were under the Lock Screen feature were Random and My Pictures, neither of which was going to let me keep my phone from going to sleep in a nanosecond and requiring me to unlock the phone.
The fact that my phone even locks irks me. It's like have a childproof medicine vial when there are no children in the house. Why in the heck do I need to have a lock on my phone? What would happen in an emergency if I were to need quick assistance? I'd have to, absurdly, wake up my phone (wake up a frigging phone? What idiot thought this one up?), then unlock it (as if I'd store valuables in there) just so I could then struggle to call someone using a smart phone that is infinitely more difficult and time-consuming than the old dial phones were.
I understand that for many people, smart phones are cutting-edge technology. All I know is that they're a royal pain in my backside.
All I want to do is make phone calls with it.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Due to the dictates of the cellphone contract Karen has, I had to upgrade this month. I didn't even want to look at phones with all the bells and whistles that cost nearly $300. I wanted one for .99 if I could get it, but the sound quality was better with the $49 phone, so over my objections we went with that.
The next day on our interstate drive, I had an endless stream of problems using the thing. Some of it no doubt was operator error. But there were problems that couldn't be my fault, such as the phone constantly going to sleep when it wasn't used and it locking without my locking it. Heck, I couldn't even lock it because I have no idea how to lock it.
Karen bravely looked at the owner's manual which was in reality nothing more than advanced advertising. She gave up and told me that I'd have to call AT&T the next day to get the password with which to unlock my phone.
So I dutifully called the company and asked for technical support. As is my wont whenever dealing with assistance for technology, I made sure the person was imbued with endless patience. I then explained the problem and tried to get her to understand that what she was asking me to locate on my phone wasn't on my phone. To wit: She asked me to go to Settings, then Display and look for some feature that would allow me to lock certain things on the phone. The only things that were under the Lock Screen feature were Random and My Pictures, neither of which was going to let me keep my phone from going to sleep in a nanosecond and requiring me to unlock the phone.
The fact that my phone even locks irks me. It's like have a childproof medicine vial when there are no children in the house. Why in the heck do I need to have a lock on my phone? What would happen in an emergency if I were to need quick assistance? I'd have to, absurdly, wake up my phone (wake up a frigging phone? What idiot thought this one up?), then unlock it (as if I'd store valuables in there) just so I could then struggle to call someone using a smart phone that is infinitely more difficult and time-consuming than the old dial phones were.
I understand that for many people, smart phones are cutting-edge technology. All I know is that they're a royal pain in my backside.
All I want to do is make phone calls with it.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Saturday, July 13, 2013
American service sector
Recently, I've had a couple of run-ins with that hallmark of American capitalism, service. It's run from the ridiculous to the stupid, with no room for the sublime. It's hard to imagine that these two pillars of American business have the kinds of issues I experienced, but they do.
The first involved Ford Motor Company. As the attorney of a client who recently had to file bankruptcy, I had to notify Ford because my client had garnishments on her paycheck which, with the filing of the bankruptcy, had to stop immediately due to the protections of the automatic stay. When I called Ford, I got a vaguely Asian woman who seemed nonplussed by the inquiry I was making, asking for a fax number or an email address to which I could send the notice of filing. The woman responded that Ford could not take orders other than through the regular mail which, in this day and age, seemed a tad antiquated, if not completely moronic. I told her I wasn't sending an order but a notice, but she was unmoved by my clarification. Frustrated and incredulous, I asked to speak with a supervisor, my go-to move when it comes to bureaucratic red tape.
Hold please, I was told, I'll send you through to the pension department, and before I could object, I was passed through to someone who had a much firmer grasp of English. We debated the principle about regular mail versus fax or email, but because it wasn't her department, she couldn't be much help, no matter how earnest she was. I was given a couple of email addresses to which I sent the notice and prayed that they would work.
The next day I came into work to find an email from some woman with the surname Priya and a phone number that began with 91 02. Now, I don't have all the world's telephone prefixes memorized, but I know a foreign one from an American one. Of course, the surname might have been a giveaway, but I'm quite sure that I was invited to call downtown Mumbai to discuss the matter.
The irony of this is that I was mere miles from Ford's world headquarters, yet I would have to call halfway around the globe to locate someone who would address my concerns, albeit not to my satisfaction. I was again invited to send the notice to a mail address -- again, ironically within miles from my location -- because Ford doesn't use email or fax for orders, completely ignoring the fact that this wasn't an order. I sent the notice to the address and let Ms. Priya rest with the thought that she had guarded the kingdom.
My second incident with Corporate America's evolving service was with McDonald's. Since we're moving, we don't want to heat the house up or dirty up the kitchen cleaning, so we're bowing to fast food on the weekends. I ordered the usual and saw that the menu offered two hash browns for one dollar. I ordered Karen her usual -- a bacon, egg, cheese biscuit with no cheese -- and made sure it was understood that there was to be no cheese. I went for the pedestrian sausage biscuit. It couldn't have been easier.
When I got to the window I paid and drove to the second window, where I read my receipt while I waited for our food. Clearly marked was NO CHEESE by Karen's order, but the two hash browns came out at $1.39. I brought this to the cashier's attention, who asked the manager, who told me that the menu was incorrect. That may be, I told her, but I either want my .39 back or she could have her hash browns back. I got my .39.
Then at home, Karen opened her biscuit to see cheese dripping from it. That was bad enough, but then she pulled a chicken nuggets box out and opened it to reveal my sausage, sans biscuit. I immediately went upstairs and called the restaurant, asking for a manager. I prefaced my comments by telling her in Spanish that I not only wasn't racist, but spoke Spanish, then told her that it was either because someone didn't speak English or because they were incompetent, then outlining the incorrectly filled order. But the manager back there speaks English, I was told. Then the cook must not, I retorted. It's not like there was a long line of customers in the drive-through; I was only the second of three cars in it. We're getting a free breakfast next weekend.
This is on the heels of our ordering at another McDonalds in another state where I watched the cook drop a spatula on the floor, pick it up and put it right back on the shelf with the other spatulas to be used in the preparation of guests' meals. When I told Karen, she told the manager.
American services are in decline. Something is wrong when they can't use a fax, fill an order correctly or use clean utensils. What's more worrisome is that Corporate America doesn't care. Only when one complains loudly enough does it take notice. It should be conducting reviews of itself periodically to ensure that the standards it claims to hold are being held.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
The first involved Ford Motor Company. As the attorney of a client who recently had to file bankruptcy, I had to notify Ford because my client had garnishments on her paycheck which, with the filing of the bankruptcy, had to stop immediately due to the protections of the automatic stay. When I called Ford, I got a vaguely Asian woman who seemed nonplussed by the inquiry I was making, asking for a fax number or an email address to which I could send the notice of filing. The woman responded that Ford could not take orders other than through the regular mail which, in this day and age, seemed a tad antiquated, if not completely moronic. I told her I wasn't sending an order but a notice, but she was unmoved by my clarification. Frustrated and incredulous, I asked to speak with a supervisor, my go-to move when it comes to bureaucratic red tape.
Hold please, I was told, I'll send you through to the pension department, and before I could object, I was passed through to someone who had a much firmer grasp of English. We debated the principle about regular mail versus fax or email, but because it wasn't her department, she couldn't be much help, no matter how earnest she was. I was given a couple of email addresses to which I sent the notice and prayed that they would work.
The next day I came into work to find an email from some woman with the surname Priya and a phone number that began with 91 02. Now, I don't have all the world's telephone prefixes memorized, but I know a foreign one from an American one. Of course, the surname might have been a giveaway, but I'm quite sure that I was invited to call downtown Mumbai to discuss the matter.
The irony of this is that I was mere miles from Ford's world headquarters, yet I would have to call halfway around the globe to locate someone who would address my concerns, albeit not to my satisfaction. I was again invited to send the notice to a mail address -- again, ironically within miles from my location -- because Ford doesn't use email or fax for orders, completely ignoring the fact that this wasn't an order. I sent the notice to the address and let Ms. Priya rest with the thought that she had guarded the kingdom.
My second incident with Corporate America's evolving service was with McDonald's. Since we're moving, we don't want to heat the house up or dirty up the kitchen cleaning, so we're bowing to fast food on the weekends. I ordered the usual and saw that the menu offered two hash browns for one dollar. I ordered Karen her usual -- a bacon, egg, cheese biscuit with no cheese -- and made sure it was understood that there was to be no cheese. I went for the pedestrian sausage biscuit. It couldn't have been easier.
When I got to the window I paid and drove to the second window, where I read my receipt while I waited for our food. Clearly marked was NO CHEESE by Karen's order, but the two hash browns came out at $1.39. I brought this to the cashier's attention, who asked the manager, who told me that the menu was incorrect. That may be, I told her, but I either want my .39 back or she could have her hash browns back. I got my .39.
Then at home, Karen opened her biscuit to see cheese dripping from it. That was bad enough, but then she pulled a chicken nuggets box out and opened it to reveal my sausage, sans biscuit. I immediately went upstairs and called the restaurant, asking for a manager. I prefaced my comments by telling her in Spanish that I not only wasn't racist, but spoke Spanish, then told her that it was either because someone didn't speak English or because they were incompetent, then outlining the incorrectly filled order. But the manager back there speaks English, I was told. Then the cook must not, I retorted. It's not like there was a long line of customers in the drive-through; I was only the second of three cars in it. We're getting a free breakfast next weekend.
This is on the heels of our ordering at another McDonalds in another state where I watched the cook drop a spatula on the floor, pick it up and put it right back on the shelf with the other spatulas to be used in the preparation of guests' meals. When I told Karen, she told the manager.
American services are in decline. Something is wrong when they can't use a fax, fill an order correctly or use clean utensils. What's more worrisome is that Corporate America doesn't care. Only when one complains loudly enough does it take notice. It should be conducting reviews of itself periodically to ensure that the standards it claims to hold are being held.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, July 12, 2013
Justice
The Travon Martin-George Zimmerman case is about to go to the jury, and now that additional counts have been allowed, I have no idea how it will turn out. I didn't think the prosecution, from what I read, had proven a case of second degree murder. But I thought from the outset that a case for involuntary manslaughter could be made, and now manslaughter is a charge the jury can consider.
But what's interested me is the calls from Martin's parents for justice for Trayvon. Technically, he's getting it. Justice is his day in court. The state of Florida is prosecuting Zimmerman -- that white of Hispanic descent as he's known in the MSM -- for murder and manslaughter. Zimmerman is asserting self-defense. Rather than have a lynch mob take Zimmerman out, a legally constituted court is listening to evidence and will render a verdict hopefully based on nothing but the evidence. That is justice. The verdict, whatever it is, is the end result of justice. But the verdict is not justice in and of itself.
Dire predictions are being floated that in the event of an acquittal, there will be rioting on a scale rivaling that seen after the Rodney King incident, and I tend to agree. There is a notable difference between the two cases. Whereas in the King case there was video showing the cops savagely and unnecessarily brutalizing Mr. King, here there is no video, just a few sketchy audio tapes and Zimmerman's account of what happened. Mr. Martin's perspective has gone to the grave with him. Forensic evidence isn't dispositive, so the jury is going to have to decide as best it can what it thinks happened. It may very well acquit Zimmerman.
If it does, does that mean that Mr. Martin didn't receive justice? No, it doesn't. It means that his parents didn't get the verdict they wanted, but justice was provided. None of us will ever know what actually happened that sorry night, so we can't be sure that the jury gets it right no matter how it finds. But justice has been provided. The system has worked.
And if Mr. Martin's parents are disappointed by an acquittal, imagine how Mr. Zimmerman's life will be. There will always be those who think he killed Mr. Martin in cold blood. Some will say that the system saved him, others will find racism because, after all, Mr. Zimmerman is that white of Hispanic descent. Mr. Zimmerman will be a pariah to many because he, as an adult, killed a teenager.
But where are the Zimmerman supporters seeking justice for him? There haven't been any calls for justice for Mr. Zimmerman that I've heard. He, too, has had justice. As I've already mentioned, there are no lynch mobs roaming about that could have served up their own brand of justice already. He has invoked his right not to testify, much to the chagrin of many. Mr. Zimmerman, also, has had justice. He's had a speedy trial, he's had counsel and he's been able to put on his own case. That is justice.
Verdicts do not equate to justice depending on what they are. That they are rendered is justice. That they are rendered fairly and legally is justice. That they are guilty or innocent, liable or not liable, are simply elements of the justice system. Those claiming to want justice for Trayvon don't mean that. What they mean is that they want him to be found guilty and go to jail. Cloaking their desire in less objectionable language to hide their bloodlust is transparently false. They want Mr. Zimmerman to spend a long time in jail. And that's understandable. But it's not the same as justice.
It's a tragic story and no matter how the jury decides there will be more to come afterwards. Almost certainly there will be an appeal. But the reaction of society will be most telling. How the supporters of whichever side loses this case reacts will be telling as to how far we've come in race relations in this country.
I only hope the MSM doesn't fan the flames of racial hatred any more than they already have simply to sensationalize a very sad incident.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
But what's interested me is the calls from Martin's parents for justice for Trayvon. Technically, he's getting it. Justice is his day in court. The state of Florida is prosecuting Zimmerman -- that white of Hispanic descent as he's known in the MSM -- for murder and manslaughter. Zimmerman is asserting self-defense. Rather than have a lynch mob take Zimmerman out, a legally constituted court is listening to evidence and will render a verdict hopefully based on nothing but the evidence. That is justice. The verdict, whatever it is, is the end result of justice. But the verdict is not justice in and of itself.
Dire predictions are being floated that in the event of an acquittal, there will be rioting on a scale rivaling that seen after the Rodney King incident, and I tend to agree. There is a notable difference between the two cases. Whereas in the King case there was video showing the cops savagely and unnecessarily brutalizing Mr. King, here there is no video, just a few sketchy audio tapes and Zimmerman's account of what happened. Mr. Martin's perspective has gone to the grave with him. Forensic evidence isn't dispositive, so the jury is going to have to decide as best it can what it thinks happened. It may very well acquit Zimmerman.
If it does, does that mean that Mr. Martin didn't receive justice? No, it doesn't. It means that his parents didn't get the verdict they wanted, but justice was provided. None of us will ever know what actually happened that sorry night, so we can't be sure that the jury gets it right no matter how it finds. But justice has been provided. The system has worked.
And if Mr. Martin's parents are disappointed by an acquittal, imagine how Mr. Zimmerman's life will be. There will always be those who think he killed Mr. Martin in cold blood. Some will say that the system saved him, others will find racism because, after all, Mr. Zimmerman is that white of Hispanic descent. Mr. Zimmerman will be a pariah to many because he, as an adult, killed a teenager.
But where are the Zimmerman supporters seeking justice for him? There haven't been any calls for justice for Mr. Zimmerman that I've heard. He, too, has had justice. As I've already mentioned, there are no lynch mobs roaming about that could have served up their own brand of justice already. He has invoked his right not to testify, much to the chagrin of many. Mr. Zimmerman, also, has had justice. He's had a speedy trial, he's had counsel and he's been able to put on his own case. That is justice.
Verdicts do not equate to justice depending on what they are. That they are rendered is justice. That they are rendered fairly and legally is justice. That they are guilty or innocent, liable or not liable, are simply elements of the justice system. Those claiming to want justice for Trayvon don't mean that. What they mean is that they want him to be found guilty and go to jail. Cloaking their desire in less objectionable language to hide their bloodlust is transparently false. They want Mr. Zimmerman to spend a long time in jail. And that's understandable. But it's not the same as justice.
It's a tragic story and no matter how the jury decides there will be more to come afterwards. Almost certainly there will be an appeal. But the reaction of society will be most telling. How the supporters of whichever side loses this case reacts will be telling as to how far we've come in race relations in this country.
I only hope the MSM doesn't fan the flames of racial hatred any more than they already have simply to sensationalize a very sad incident.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Generals' update
It's been awhile since we've looked in on the Generals. Here's how they looked about an hour ago:
It's only about six o'clock in the evening here, but they've had a long day. Heck, they've had a long month. They're tuckered, and rightfully so.
Because we're moving, and because we have logistical nightmares trying to keep the boys with people who both want them and know how to take care of them, they have been shuttled around the better part of two states. Today I picked them up and drove two hundred and fifty miles home. Sure, the back of the car was air-conditioned, but they're tuckered. For the last week they've been in tight quarters in a loving home, surrounded by children and at least one other dog. Most importantly, they haven't seen Karen, who calms them and knows how to take care of them best. We had to buy run-of-the-mill dog food because we were caught with having to remove them from one location and take them to another without bringing along their regular food. The person who was allegedly watching them went to play golf on July 4th and didn't leave any air conditioning on, no fan on and no water. Even though we were able to provide water, the room was stifling. Karen and I got them out of there and took them elsewhere, where they were cooped up and left along a lot over the weekend. Then they were driven about a hundred miles to a new venue where they've been for a week.
Before that, they were with a young couple and their two-year-old daughter who played dress-up with Custer. Given Custer's proclivities for small children, it's not hard to imagine the brute sitting calmly next to the little girl as she put bows and ribbons around his ears. I just wish we could have seen pictures of him like that.
Each weekend we go home we take them with us. That's a three-hundred mile drive both ways in the back of the car, sometimes with the sun beating down on them through the rear window. Although my car has vents for the air conditioning to blow on them, Karen's car doesn't. We have to make stops to let them do their business and give them water. Inevitably, when we get out, people want to pet them and ask about them. They're always on call whenever get out of the car. It has to be tiresome for them to be petted all the time, although you'd never know it looking at them as they lap up the attention. But then it's back into the rear of the car where, if they're really lucky, Karen will throw something from her lunch to them, usually bouncing it off the interior roof of my car. Somehow, she never seems to bounce it off the interior roof of her car...
...These are our boys. We love them and try to take care of them as best we can. It's been rough on us not being with them, but nowhere near as rough as it's been on them being passed around like the collection plate at church. Through it all, they've borne the indignities and strains of being in new locations with new people almost weekly extremely well. If it were me, I'd feel unwanted, no matter how much it was explained to me otherwise. It doesn't matter how much we tell them because they don't understand a word we say.
Sherman and Custer are the best dogs I've ever been around. Sure, they have their problems, whether it be physical (Sherman) or mental (Custer). But they are the most loving dogs a human could ask for, and we're darned lucky to have them in our lives.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
It's only about six o'clock in the evening here, but they've had a long day. Heck, they've had a long month. They're tuckered, and rightfully so.
Because we're moving, and because we have logistical nightmares trying to keep the boys with people who both want them and know how to take care of them, they have been shuttled around the better part of two states. Today I picked them up and drove two hundred and fifty miles home. Sure, the back of the car was air-conditioned, but they're tuckered. For the last week they've been in tight quarters in a loving home, surrounded by children and at least one other dog. Most importantly, they haven't seen Karen, who calms them and knows how to take care of them best. We had to buy run-of-the-mill dog food because we were caught with having to remove them from one location and take them to another without bringing along their regular food. The person who was allegedly watching them went to play golf on July 4th and didn't leave any air conditioning on, no fan on and no water. Even though we were able to provide water, the room was stifling. Karen and I got them out of there and took them elsewhere, where they were cooped up and left along a lot over the weekend. Then they were driven about a hundred miles to a new venue where they've been for a week.
Before that, they were with a young couple and their two-year-old daughter who played dress-up with Custer. Given Custer's proclivities for small children, it's not hard to imagine the brute sitting calmly next to the little girl as she put bows and ribbons around his ears. I just wish we could have seen pictures of him like that.
Each weekend we go home we take them with us. That's a three-hundred mile drive both ways in the back of the car, sometimes with the sun beating down on them through the rear window. Although my car has vents for the air conditioning to blow on them, Karen's car doesn't. We have to make stops to let them do their business and give them water. Inevitably, when we get out, people want to pet them and ask about them. They're always on call whenever get out of the car. It has to be tiresome for them to be petted all the time, although you'd never know it looking at them as they lap up the attention. But then it's back into the rear of the car where, if they're really lucky, Karen will throw something from her lunch to them, usually bouncing it off the interior roof of my car. Somehow, she never seems to bounce it off the interior roof of her car...
...These are our boys. We love them and try to take care of them as best we can. It's been rough on us not being with them, but nowhere near as rough as it's been on them being passed around like the collection plate at church. Through it all, they've borne the indignities and strains of being in new locations with new people almost weekly extremely well. If it were me, I'd feel unwanted, no matter how much it was explained to me otherwise. It doesn't matter how much we tell them because they don't understand a word we say.
Sherman and Custer are the best dogs I've ever been around. Sure, they have their problems, whether it be physical (Sherman) or mental (Custer). But they are the most loving dogs a human could ask for, and we're darned lucky to have them in our lives.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Pens
I can't put my finger on exactly when I took an interest in pens, but somewhere earlier in my career I started buying nice pens. I still use the reliable Bics and other mass produced commercial pens, but when I have to write a nice letter or sign an important document, I try to use one of my nicer pens.
Along the way, I learned some things about finer pens. I know that one of the brands that brings oohs and ahhs from most people is Waterman. It's a nice pen, but I don't think it's worth the price. I may be wrong, but I think one is buying the name more than a quality of a pen with Waterman.
For me, I prefer Cross and Parker pens. Not just any Cross or Parker pens. I'm particular when it comes to them. For Cross pens, the very first one I owned was given to me by our Grandmother for my First Communion. It's the classic Century model, one too small for my meat cleaver hands. I keep it out of respect for Grandma, and I've actually bought a couple more since then, but I don't use them that often.
My favorite Cross model is the Century II. It's fatter and rests more easily in my hand. Unlike the classic Century model, this doesn't get lost in my fingers. It weighs just the right amount and doesn't feel clunky, like some of the fatter, thicker models do.
The Parker model I prefer is the Sonnet. It's similar to the Cross Century II in size and shape, which is why I prefer it, probably.
For both brands, I prefer the classic black or silver versions. I don't like all the hip new colored pens out there. My preferred choice in ink color is black, which I know runs against the grain when it comes to signing legal documents, but it's what I prefer.
I even took a liking to fountain pens, thinking it would be a more sophisticated look. It turns out that it's more messier than anything, and the writing it produces isn't as refined as I'd like. I prefer an extra fine nib, and even then the writing is splotchy and broad. I like my cursive to be thin.
Ordinarily, I don't prefer pens to be loud or have too much in the way of design to them. But Karen got me a Frank Lloyd Wright pen, in fact, this one:
and I cherish it, bringing it out only for special occasions. I used to have a pen made by Tomtom, but I can't find it. That's one pen I really miss.
In learning about pens, I was amazed to find that there are pens that cost more than the down payment on some houses. For example, check out these pens:
The last pen shown only costs $4,000. The second pen costs $730,000. Amazing. First of all, I don't like how either of the three shown looks. As works of art, they may have some merit. But as a writing instrument? Please. Second, who needs anything that ostentatious with which to write? It makes no sense. I've lost plenty of pens in my time and if I lost one costing $730,000, I'd be heartbroken. I can't find my Tomtom and it only cost about $60.
Whatever the case, I have my little collection of pens. They really are writing implements. I don't see them as a collection, or as art. They're tools.
One day, I hope to sign a book with my FLW pen that Karen bought me.
It would help if I got published first.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Along the way, I learned some things about finer pens. I know that one of the brands that brings oohs and ahhs from most people is Waterman. It's a nice pen, but I don't think it's worth the price. I may be wrong, but I think one is buying the name more than a quality of a pen with Waterman.
For me, I prefer Cross and Parker pens. Not just any Cross or Parker pens. I'm particular when it comes to them. For Cross pens, the very first one I owned was given to me by our Grandmother for my First Communion. It's the classic Century model, one too small for my meat cleaver hands. I keep it out of respect for Grandma, and I've actually bought a couple more since then, but I don't use them that often.
My favorite Cross model is the Century II. It's fatter and rests more easily in my hand. Unlike the classic Century model, this doesn't get lost in my fingers. It weighs just the right amount and doesn't feel clunky, like some of the fatter, thicker models do.
The Parker model I prefer is the Sonnet. It's similar to the Cross Century II in size and shape, which is why I prefer it, probably.
For both brands, I prefer the classic black or silver versions. I don't like all the hip new colored pens out there. My preferred choice in ink color is black, which I know runs against the grain when it comes to signing legal documents, but it's what I prefer.
I even took a liking to fountain pens, thinking it would be a more sophisticated look. It turns out that it's more messier than anything, and the writing it produces isn't as refined as I'd like. I prefer an extra fine nib, and even then the writing is splotchy and broad. I like my cursive to be thin.
Ordinarily, I don't prefer pens to be loud or have too much in the way of design to them. But Karen got me a Frank Lloyd Wright pen, in fact, this one:
and I cherish it, bringing it out only for special occasions. I used to have a pen made by Tomtom, but I can't find it. That's one pen I really miss.
In learning about pens, I was amazed to find that there are pens that cost more than the down payment on some houses. For example, check out these pens:
The last pen shown only costs $4,000. The second pen costs $730,000. Amazing. First of all, I don't like how either of the three shown looks. As works of art, they may have some merit. But as a writing instrument? Please. Second, who needs anything that ostentatious with which to write? It makes no sense. I've lost plenty of pens in my time and if I lost one costing $730,000, I'd be heartbroken. I can't find my Tomtom and it only cost about $60.
Whatever the case, I have my little collection of pens. They really are writing implements. I don't see them as a collection, or as art. They're tools.
One day, I hope to sign a book with my FLW pen that Karen bought me.
It would help if I got published first.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Free speech and its consequences
The First Amendment is in the news these days, and not for the best of reasons. Once again, celebrities and wannabe celebrities are the culprits, fueling a debate that's as chaotic as it is puerile.
Paula Deen started it off with her deposition testimony for a lawsuit brought by a former worker. In it, she testified that in the past, she had called an African-American a nigger. Nigger is a word I deplore and loathe. I've even gone so far as to read Professor Randall Kennedy's incisive work Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word, to better understand the word's origins and uses. I don't use the term and I'm quick to criticize those who do. That Ms. Deen was emotional about her experience of being held at gunpoint by a robber is understandable, but it doesn't justify the use of the word.
After the revelations of the deposition testimony, Ms. Deen's sponsors began to cut ties with her. This had to be expected. I don't find it to be sanctimonious -- for most of them. Whether Smithfield Hams or the Food Network cuts ties with Ms. Deen is largely a business decision, and I understand that. Where I part company with a sponsor is Wal-Mart who, otherwise, would be a natural to divest itself of Ms. Deen for her language choice. The problem is that Wal-Mart sells CD's that have lyrics on them much worse, in my opinion, than what Ms. Deen said some thirty years ago. For as raunchy as those lyrics may be, the artists have every right to use them and I have the choice to ignore them and the artists. But for Wal-Mart to let Ms. Deen go and keep those CD's on their shelves is hypocrisy, plain and simple.
Then there's this asinine reality show called Big Brother on CBS. Because we only receive one channel for the moment, all I can watch are CBS shows. So I watched these puerile, self-important post-pubescent narcissists acting out for the first episode of the current season, shrugged my shoulders and vowed never to watch it again. A couple of days later I went online and saw that a couple of the people on that show had been fired by their jobs -- but because they're on lockdown in the house, they don't know this yet. And the reason they were fired? They made racist and homophobic comments that were aired on the streaming computer portion of the show, not the portion televised by CBS. The employers were alerted to the statements and fired them from their jobs, not wanting to be associated with racists and homophobes.
As with the Paula Deen situation, I don't disagree with the actions taken by the employers whatsoever. Where I find it amusing is that CBS continues to allow the racists and homophobes in the house, using their misfeasance as a ratings attraction to pull in more viewers who want to see what all the controversy's about. Ratings, after all, matter.
In the acme of irony, Julie Chen, who is only married to Les Moonves, the head of CBS, is the host of Big Brother. Ms. Chen is of Asian descent. Some of the racist comments made by the housebound narcissists were against Asians. And still, CBS won't take the offending parties and remove them from the show, despite the outcry from fans of the show threatening a boycott.
The First Amendment only protects speech from government infringement. None of Ms. Deen's sponsors, none of the houseguests' employers, nor is CBS a governmental agency, so the First Amendment protections don't apply in these situations. Those entities can take whatever actions they like, which some of them have. The problem is the inconsistent application of the standards. This is natural, since each is a separate entity. But it also points out the difficulty in navigating politically correct waters.
In no way do I approve of either Ms. Deen's use of nigger or the narcissists' use of racist and homophobic language. I support their right to use it, but I also support the rights of sponsors, employers and others to distance themselves from the source of that language.
Years ago, Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks slammed then-President George Bush to a crowd in Europe. Fans and radio stations reacted by crushing stacks of Dixie Chicks' CD's and refusing to play their music. Since then, the Dixie Chicks have faded into obscurity. This is how it should happen: A statement is made, a (reasonable and sensible) reaction against it is made. End of story. And for the record, I happen to like the Dixie Chicks. But just as Ms. Maines had the right to make her statement, fans and radio stations had their right to react to it.
I'm not sure how any of this will end. But the politically correct world that we inhabit is treacherous for anyone who opens his mouth.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Paula Deen started it off with her deposition testimony for a lawsuit brought by a former worker. In it, she testified that in the past, she had called an African-American a nigger. Nigger is a word I deplore and loathe. I've even gone so far as to read Professor Randall Kennedy's incisive work Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word, to better understand the word's origins and uses. I don't use the term and I'm quick to criticize those who do. That Ms. Deen was emotional about her experience of being held at gunpoint by a robber is understandable, but it doesn't justify the use of the word.
After the revelations of the deposition testimony, Ms. Deen's sponsors began to cut ties with her. This had to be expected. I don't find it to be sanctimonious -- for most of them. Whether Smithfield Hams or the Food Network cuts ties with Ms. Deen is largely a business decision, and I understand that. Where I part company with a sponsor is Wal-Mart who, otherwise, would be a natural to divest itself of Ms. Deen for her language choice. The problem is that Wal-Mart sells CD's that have lyrics on them much worse, in my opinion, than what Ms. Deen said some thirty years ago. For as raunchy as those lyrics may be, the artists have every right to use them and I have the choice to ignore them and the artists. But for Wal-Mart to let Ms. Deen go and keep those CD's on their shelves is hypocrisy, plain and simple.
Then there's this asinine reality show called Big Brother on CBS. Because we only receive one channel for the moment, all I can watch are CBS shows. So I watched these puerile, self-important post-pubescent narcissists acting out for the first episode of the current season, shrugged my shoulders and vowed never to watch it again. A couple of days later I went online and saw that a couple of the people on that show had been fired by their jobs -- but because they're on lockdown in the house, they don't know this yet. And the reason they were fired? They made racist and homophobic comments that were aired on the streaming computer portion of the show, not the portion televised by CBS. The employers were alerted to the statements and fired them from their jobs, not wanting to be associated with racists and homophobes.
As with the Paula Deen situation, I don't disagree with the actions taken by the employers whatsoever. Where I find it amusing is that CBS continues to allow the racists and homophobes in the house, using their misfeasance as a ratings attraction to pull in more viewers who want to see what all the controversy's about. Ratings, after all, matter.
In the acme of irony, Julie Chen, who is only married to Les Moonves, the head of CBS, is the host of Big Brother. Ms. Chen is of Asian descent. Some of the racist comments made by the housebound narcissists were against Asians. And still, CBS won't take the offending parties and remove them from the show, despite the outcry from fans of the show threatening a boycott.
The First Amendment only protects speech from government infringement. None of Ms. Deen's sponsors, none of the houseguests' employers, nor is CBS a governmental agency, so the First Amendment protections don't apply in these situations. Those entities can take whatever actions they like, which some of them have. The problem is the inconsistent application of the standards. This is natural, since each is a separate entity. But it also points out the difficulty in navigating politically correct waters.
In no way do I approve of either Ms. Deen's use of nigger or the narcissists' use of racist and homophobic language. I support their right to use it, but I also support the rights of sponsors, employers and others to distance themselves from the source of that language.
Years ago, Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks slammed then-President George Bush to a crowd in Europe. Fans and radio stations reacted by crushing stacks of Dixie Chicks' CD's and refusing to play their music. Since then, the Dixie Chicks have faded into obscurity. This is how it should happen: A statement is made, a (reasonable and sensible) reaction against it is made. End of story. And for the record, I happen to like the Dixie Chicks. But just as Ms. Maines had the right to make her statement, fans and radio stations had their right to react to it.
I'm not sure how any of this will end. But the politically correct world that we inhabit is treacherous for anyone who opens his mouth.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, July 8, 2013
Oklahoma City v. New Orleans
There continue to be benefit concerts for the victims of the tornadoes that hit Oklahoma recently, and I've been noticing something very curious.
When Katrina hit, celebrities from all over the country, and in fact from all over the globe, sped to New Orleans to raise funds and help out otherwise to help the displaced residents and raise funds. Mike Myers and Brad Pitt, notably, were in the vanguard of relief efforts to help New Orleans. There were plenty of other stars there, but I mention those two for a reason.
When tornadoes devastated Oklahoma, there was a very noticeable bent to the celebrities who aided the victims. In New Orleans, entertainment and sports celebrities of all races helped the victims. But in Oklahoma, besides Usher, who was there because he has relatives and members of the NBA's Thunder, there were precious few black celebrities who aided the relief efforts. There might have been one or two who grew up there or plays elsewhere as a professional athlete, but the vast majority of celebrities who have helped the relief efforts are white. Most of them are country and western artists who hail from Oklahoma, but there are some others who are helping out.
Why is this?
I remember Kanye West infamously declaring, as he stood by the very pale Mike Myers, that George Bush hated black people. Well. Does the absence of Kanye West from Oklahoma mean he hates white people? Given that a very white woman just bore him a child, he has an interesting conundrum facing him as he tries to answer that question. Where are his black brethern and sistern?
I thought that the idea of helping fellow Americans transcended race. That's why Mike Myers -- who's Canadian, by the by -- and Brad Pitt rushed to New Orleans. But black celebrities -- unless they play for the nearby Oklahoma City Thunder -- can't seem to be bothered to help out. It's a very curious double standard, one that is either being ignored completely or going by absolutely unnoticed. For all the talk of a color blind society, it sure seems as if whites are only too easily importuned to help out when many of the victims are black but when the shoe's on the other foot, whites shouldn't expect any support from blacks.
I wonder why this is.
To be sure, there are plenty of blacks who have the means to contribute. Perhaps they're doing so silently. For a celebrity to donate large amounts of money silently would be a surprise, but I suppose it's possible. Somehow, however, I doubt it. I think that blacks celebrities feel no obligation to assist unless it inures to their pecuniary interest.
Whatever the reasons, this dichotomy stinks.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
When Katrina hit, celebrities from all over the country, and in fact from all over the globe, sped to New Orleans to raise funds and help out otherwise to help the displaced residents and raise funds. Mike Myers and Brad Pitt, notably, were in the vanguard of relief efforts to help New Orleans. There were plenty of other stars there, but I mention those two for a reason.
When tornadoes devastated Oklahoma, there was a very noticeable bent to the celebrities who aided the victims. In New Orleans, entertainment and sports celebrities of all races helped the victims. But in Oklahoma, besides Usher, who was there because he has relatives and members of the NBA's Thunder, there were precious few black celebrities who aided the relief efforts. There might have been one or two who grew up there or plays elsewhere as a professional athlete, but the vast majority of celebrities who have helped the relief efforts are white. Most of them are country and western artists who hail from Oklahoma, but there are some others who are helping out.
Why is this?
I remember Kanye West infamously declaring, as he stood by the very pale Mike Myers, that George Bush hated black people. Well. Does the absence of Kanye West from Oklahoma mean he hates white people? Given that a very white woman just bore him a child, he has an interesting conundrum facing him as he tries to answer that question. Where are his black brethern and sistern?
I thought that the idea of helping fellow Americans transcended race. That's why Mike Myers -- who's Canadian, by the by -- and Brad Pitt rushed to New Orleans. But black celebrities -- unless they play for the nearby Oklahoma City Thunder -- can't seem to be bothered to help out. It's a very curious double standard, one that is either being ignored completely or going by absolutely unnoticed. For all the talk of a color blind society, it sure seems as if whites are only too easily importuned to help out when many of the victims are black but when the shoe's on the other foot, whites shouldn't expect any support from blacks.
I wonder why this is.
To be sure, there are plenty of blacks who have the means to contribute. Perhaps they're doing so silently. For a celebrity to donate large amounts of money silently would be a surprise, but I suppose it's possible. Somehow, however, I doubt it. I think that blacks celebrities feel no obligation to assist unless it inures to their pecuniary interest.
Whatever the reasons, this dichotomy stinks.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, July 5, 2013
A woman's life
I've never considered the possibility of becoming a woman or, as it's called nowadays, gender reassignment. I've never dressed up in women's clothing, other than the odd time or two when I put Karen's bra on my head as a joke which, not surprisingly, she didn't find as funny as I did. I've never longed to deal with life from a woman's perspective, and I think there's ample reason for that.
First, the biological aspects are too much. Menstruation, pregnancy, three types of cancer almost entirely female in nature...the list goes on. Men have it infinitely easier from a biological standpoint, with the lone possible exception being getting our penises caught in a zipper. I don't even want to consider what labor/delivery is like (I've been told it's like trying to push a bowling ball or a turkery between one's legs). Women have it infinitely rougher than men and from what I can tell, not for real good reasons.
The next aspect that bothers me is the clothing. Egads. I'd have to have various and sundry parts of my body exposed for fashion? Plunging necklines, rising hemlines, short sleeves. Frilly, flouncy, multi-colored prints, slits up the sides and sides missing altogether. No thanks. And pink. Heavens. If there's one color I detest more than orange it's pink. I think it's a mandatory part of being a woman that you either surround yourself with pink or wear it at least four times a week.
The worst for me? High heels. What medieval inquisitor came up with these torture devices? I can't imagine being strapped into them, much less have to walk or -- heaven forbid -- dance or run in them. So they show of women's butts better. Who cares? I can think of few legitimate reasons women should wear high heels.
Then there's the warpaint, also known as make-up. There is no way on God's green earth I could put that crap on my face, let alone wear it all day. The thought of wearing warpaint makes me want to puke.
The worst part about being a woman, however, has to be having to deal with men. I'm not talking about the day-to-day intercourse involved in loving, monogamous relationships. I'm talking about dealing with men hitting on them, trying to get them to bed, discrediting them because of their gender, belittling the work they do, paying them less than they're worth, etc. There are precious few arenas in which women are not men's equals -- many sports and the military are the only two that come to mind -- and there is no reason for the disparity of treatment between the two. Yet men treat women like objects or second-class citizens, and I couldn't put up with that.
I'm glad I'm a man for many reasons. But there are so many more reasons that I'm glad I'm not a woman.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
First, the biological aspects are too much. Menstruation, pregnancy, three types of cancer almost entirely female in nature...the list goes on. Men have it infinitely easier from a biological standpoint, with the lone possible exception being getting our penises caught in a zipper. I don't even want to consider what labor/delivery is like (I've been told it's like trying to push a bowling ball or a turkery between one's legs). Women have it infinitely rougher than men and from what I can tell, not for real good reasons.
The next aspect that bothers me is the clothing. Egads. I'd have to have various and sundry parts of my body exposed for fashion? Plunging necklines, rising hemlines, short sleeves. Frilly, flouncy, multi-colored prints, slits up the sides and sides missing altogether. No thanks. And pink. Heavens. If there's one color I detest more than orange it's pink. I think it's a mandatory part of being a woman that you either surround yourself with pink or wear it at least four times a week.
The worst for me? High heels. What medieval inquisitor came up with these torture devices? I can't imagine being strapped into them, much less have to walk or -- heaven forbid -- dance or run in them. So they show of women's butts better. Who cares? I can think of few legitimate reasons women should wear high heels.
Then there's the warpaint, also known as make-up. There is no way on God's green earth I could put that crap on my face, let alone wear it all day. The thought of wearing warpaint makes me want to puke.
The worst part about being a woman, however, has to be having to deal with men. I'm not talking about the day-to-day intercourse involved in loving, monogamous relationships. I'm talking about dealing with men hitting on them, trying to get them to bed, discrediting them because of their gender, belittling the work they do, paying them less than they're worth, etc. There are precious few arenas in which women are not men's equals -- many sports and the military are the only two that come to mind -- and there is no reason for the disparity of treatment between the two. Yet men treat women like objects or second-class citizens, and I couldn't put up with that.
I'm glad I'm a man for many reasons. But there are so many more reasons that I'm glad I'm not a woman.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Independence Day, 2013
Happy Independence Day, everyone. Let freedom ring.
Today we celebrate the declaration of our independence from the tyranny of British overlords who, much like they did in every one of their colonies through history, wanted to use us to further their own interests. Americans should reflect on what led the Founding Fathers to make the most courageous of declarations and then follow through with it. We are truly blessed to live in the best country in the world.
There are those who would differ with that assessment. Landscape, food, traditions, history -- there are several ways to measure greatness, and by no means am I suggesting that the United States has a monopoly on all the best in this world. We have more than our share of warts, to be sure. But in terms of what this country provides for its citizens, it is the greatest experiment in human history. Hopefully, the country will survive the present administration.
The United States' example is illustrative today because we see another country -- much older than the United States -- struggling to settle on an identity. Egypt is in the throes of yet more upheaval, this time occasioned by the military forcing the democratically-elected government to step down. There will be those criticize the military for overthrowing the government, just as there will be those who praise the military for toppling what is seen by many as an illegitimate government who reneged on its promises. As an outsider, I don't know what's best for Egypt. That's up to the Egyptians.
What is clear, however, is that the Islamofascists have declared time and again that they would use our own tools against us. We see that in this country, where they use the First Amendment to spew invectives against our government and our way of life. They'll use the Fourth Amendment to hide their arms and bombs and then protect themselves once they're caught. They use the Fifth Amendment to protect themselves in trials. They use the Sixth Amendment not to get a right to a speedy trial, but to ensure that they'll have a forum from which they can make political speeches. The Fifteenth Amendment they'll use to gain rights of suffrage and then vote in the Muslim Brotherhood, as they did in Egypt. We're not up against camel-riding nomads.
That's why I'm torn about what's going on in Egypt. Morsi was elected democratically, absent any showing of voting irregularities, of which I've heard nothing. At the same time, once Morsi was elected, he tried to use democracy to install Sharia law, which is about as antithetical to democratic rule as any system on earth. Democracy was hijacked to be used as a Trojan horse to usher in an ancient system that is anathema to modern ways. The majority of people don't want to live under Sharia law, and the Muslim Brotherhood knew it had no chance of winning a popular election had it hewed closely to Sharia principles during the election.
This is for the people of Egypt to resolve. They must decide how their country is to be going forward. But it's instructive for all freedom-loving peoples -- especially Americans -- to see how their basic freedoms can be used against them and then lost.
We must abide by our cherished rights, but we must also protect them. This is no easier a task than what faced our Founding Fathers two hundred and thirty-seven years ago.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Today we celebrate the declaration of our independence from the tyranny of British overlords who, much like they did in every one of their colonies through history, wanted to use us to further their own interests. Americans should reflect on what led the Founding Fathers to make the most courageous of declarations and then follow through with it. We are truly blessed to live in the best country in the world.
There are those who would differ with that assessment. Landscape, food, traditions, history -- there are several ways to measure greatness, and by no means am I suggesting that the United States has a monopoly on all the best in this world. We have more than our share of warts, to be sure. But in terms of what this country provides for its citizens, it is the greatest experiment in human history. Hopefully, the country will survive the present administration.
The United States' example is illustrative today because we see another country -- much older than the United States -- struggling to settle on an identity. Egypt is in the throes of yet more upheaval, this time occasioned by the military forcing the democratically-elected government to step down. There will be those criticize the military for overthrowing the government, just as there will be those who praise the military for toppling what is seen by many as an illegitimate government who reneged on its promises. As an outsider, I don't know what's best for Egypt. That's up to the Egyptians.
What is clear, however, is that the Islamofascists have declared time and again that they would use our own tools against us. We see that in this country, where they use the First Amendment to spew invectives against our government and our way of life. They'll use the Fourth Amendment to hide their arms and bombs and then protect themselves once they're caught. They use the Fifth Amendment to protect themselves in trials. They use the Sixth Amendment not to get a right to a speedy trial, but to ensure that they'll have a forum from which they can make political speeches. The Fifteenth Amendment they'll use to gain rights of suffrage and then vote in the Muslim Brotherhood, as they did in Egypt. We're not up against camel-riding nomads.
That's why I'm torn about what's going on in Egypt. Morsi was elected democratically, absent any showing of voting irregularities, of which I've heard nothing. At the same time, once Morsi was elected, he tried to use democracy to install Sharia law, which is about as antithetical to democratic rule as any system on earth. Democracy was hijacked to be used as a Trojan horse to usher in an ancient system that is anathema to modern ways. The majority of people don't want to live under Sharia law, and the Muslim Brotherhood knew it had no chance of winning a popular election had it hewed closely to Sharia principles during the election.
This is for the people of Egypt to resolve. They must decide how their country is to be going forward. But it's instructive for all freedom-loving peoples -- especially Americans -- to see how their basic freedoms can be used against them and then lost.
We must abide by our cherished rights, but we must also protect them. This is no easier a task than what faced our Founding Fathers two hundred and thirty-seven years ago.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Garage Sales
By no means am I experienced at garage sales. I've been to a couple, had a couple myself, but I wouldn't dare write a book on how to hold a garage sale. They're not my idea of fun, either as a buyer or a seller. The haggling, the sitting around, the rain delays -- all of it is just wasteful to me, even if I am able, as a seller, to get rid of stuff and realize some cold hard cash in the bargain.
Last weekend Karen and I had another garage sale. This one was done by the seat of our pants since we were throwing all manner of things out there without any rhyme or reason to it. We had a bike rack, a bookshelf, various and sundry dishes and small kitchen appliances, a broken chainsaw, a fertilizer spreader, books, a defective map (it had the county listed as Londonderry and not Derry, which any good Irishman knows is simply wrong), garden tools, a wheelbarrow or two, a boxed ceiling fan -- in short, a menagerie of items for sale.
The people who attended our sale were both humorous and odd. We didn't have any real jackasses, although there was a woman who wanted us to cut in half our price for the bike rack that was in almost pristine condition -- and was already being sold for less than one quarter of its original price.
One family, a couple with their two grown daughters, was a riot. They fell in love with Sherman and Custer and bought a ton of stuff, staying roughly two hours. An older man stayed with us regaling us with stories of his cherry-picking first edition books at garage sales for profit. A pair of older women were so carefree, one of them buying cookbooks not because she cooks but because she likes to look at the pictures, the other offering Karen $5 to be allowed to dig up flowers in our flowerbed. Karen only paid $2 for them in the bargain bin.
A little neighborhood boy stayed with me for about a half hour just asking me questions. Other children were with their parents, so I wasn't entirely comfortable with the situation, but no harm came of it.
The funniest incident involved a small community bus that pulled into our driveway and unloaded about twelve senior women, much like a small car pulling up and unloading an endless group of clowns. Apparently, the village has this service for its seniors, who go from sale to sale looking for bargains. It was hard not to lower prices for these cheerful women. When they arrived I couldn't call Karen fast enough so she could come down to see the bus empty.
The other highlight of the sale was the number of Latino buyers who only spoke Spanish. There were times when I was negotiating -- regateando -- in English and Spanish simultaneously. Once, I didn't understand what someone said in Spanish, but Karen, who doesn't speak a whit of Spanish, did. That's how confusing it was.
The rain cut both sales short and the second day Karen and I decided to go see World War Z. I'm not into that whole zombie thing, but given the sometimes frenetic pace of the sales, seeing zombies was quite appropriate.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Last weekend Karen and I had another garage sale. This one was done by the seat of our pants since we were throwing all manner of things out there without any rhyme or reason to it. We had a bike rack, a bookshelf, various and sundry dishes and small kitchen appliances, a broken chainsaw, a fertilizer spreader, books, a defective map (it had the county listed as Londonderry and not Derry, which any good Irishman knows is simply wrong), garden tools, a wheelbarrow or two, a boxed ceiling fan -- in short, a menagerie of items for sale.
The people who attended our sale were both humorous and odd. We didn't have any real jackasses, although there was a woman who wanted us to cut in half our price for the bike rack that was in almost pristine condition -- and was already being sold for less than one quarter of its original price.
One family, a couple with their two grown daughters, was a riot. They fell in love with Sherman and Custer and bought a ton of stuff, staying roughly two hours. An older man stayed with us regaling us with stories of his cherry-picking first edition books at garage sales for profit. A pair of older women were so carefree, one of them buying cookbooks not because she cooks but because she likes to look at the pictures, the other offering Karen $5 to be allowed to dig up flowers in our flowerbed. Karen only paid $2 for them in the bargain bin.
A little neighborhood boy stayed with me for about a half hour just asking me questions. Other children were with their parents, so I wasn't entirely comfortable with the situation, but no harm came of it.
The funniest incident involved a small community bus that pulled into our driveway and unloaded about twelve senior women, much like a small car pulling up and unloading an endless group of clowns. Apparently, the village has this service for its seniors, who go from sale to sale looking for bargains. It was hard not to lower prices for these cheerful women. When they arrived I couldn't call Karen fast enough so she could come down to see the bus empty.
The other highlight of the sale was the number of Latino buyers who only spoke Spanish. There were times when I was negotiating -- regateando -- in English and Spanish simultaneously. Once, I didn't understand what someone said in Spanish, but Karen, who doesn't speak a whit of Spanish, did. That's how confusing it was.
The rain cut both sales short and the second day Karen and I decided to go see World War Z. I'm not into that whole zombie thing, but given the sometimes frenetic pace of the sales, seeing zombies was quite appropriate.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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