Pulp Radio

          While the world laments the fading of quality journalism in the face of media takeover by huge corporations, a whole new breed of stars is on the rise in radio. It used to be morning chat teams who shared humor and homey patter with their listeners. Many are still around. Then it was the “shock jocks” that ascended the throne. But the real comers these days are the “talk radio” opinion mongers who ply their trade with sensationalism, conspiracy theories, exploitative exhortations, and fear.

           Spin the dial any time of day and you will find somebody on pulp radio screaming ‘scandal !’ and telling you how the Constitution of our great country has been sullied, or the honor of our military fighters has been tarnished, or how our country is being overrun by unsavory elements that must be expelled, or how lascivious and immoral people in our midst are destroying our religious freedom.

           Around here, we call it “Pulp Radio” because it is cheap and simplistic and caters to fear, hatred, and ignorance. Pulp Radio is doing as much damage in America as any other wrong-headed influence. It contributes to political gridlock and emotional adherence to unfounded accusations.

           It is clear that our system of education has not taught us an essential skill—that of asking, and establishing by fact, “What is true and what is false among the things that are found in radio, television, print, and internet media?” That failure has come home to roost in Pulp Radio.

Sandhills Symphony

          Today’s performance of a Spanish Salute by the many Sandhills Symphony volunteer musicians was an exceptional treat. Carmen Allen and crew filled the auditorium with great (and some familiar) music, all of it with a Spanish theme. This group deserves to have a huge area following, and therein lies the exception to the treat. Not nearly enough people are taking advantage of this wonderful community asset. Too many people, particularly young people, are missing out on exposure to this form of good music—exposure that would dramatically enrich their lives and their appreciation of quality entertainment and community involvement.

           Live local symphony is one of the things that families should enjoy together if possible, and it should begin when kids are young. It will turn into a lifelong joy for those who grow to appreciate it. Enlightened listening is after all an intellectual activity that engages the senses uniquely. Music of all genres belongs in our lives. It can relax, it can uplift, and it can energize us. There may not be a soundtrack to your life, but nearly everyone has a favorite song. Here’s the great news: with early exposure, nearly everyone can also have a favorite overture or classical composer, or orchestral piece that brings abiding delight.

           Around here, we are convinced of a couple of things. First, the volunteers who bring us this musical enjoyment deserve our appreciation and support. Thank you to all of you! Second, those who missed today’s Sandhills Symphony performance missed out on a cultural gem.

Wiley Stinks Is Up To Something

          Ducky Bumps noticed it first. A subtle change in Wiley’s demeanor. Then I caught him softly singing, “Workin’ on the Chain Gang” and doing a little two-step. Weird. We pretty much don’t mess with Wiley. He’s a great cook, and a frugal cook, and he does his own thing—he has autonomy. He walks to work. He washes his hands. Who messes with that?

           When he started draping the dining room with crepe streamers and making party favors, we had no choice.

           “Wiley, are you ingesting some kind of new food or pharmaceutical group substance these days,” Ducky Bumps asked diplomatically?

           “Yous are always so thoughtful,” Wiley allowed. “The answer is nope I’m just naturally ecstatic. See, in two days I’m discharged from parole. I’m baking a cake!”

           “That’s GREAT,” we both said in unison.

           “Wiley,” I asked, “what, exactly, were you convicted of?”

           “Felony abuse of U.S. Postal regulations,” Wiley grinned.

           “No, what I mean is, what did you do?”

           “Well, I stole the stink bag out of a skunk and stuffed it in Governor Louie Headbolt’s mailbox at the Mansion in Baton Rouge. Thought I got away with it too. Turns out they just didn’t notice it for two weeks. That was a felony in them days. Got 34 years. Thirty three on probation. Done in two days.

           “Nice story, Stinks,” Ducky Bumps snarled, “What about all those missing automobiles I heard about down the FBI?! What’d they say? Two hundred or so?”

           “Oh. That,” said Wiley, his grin going straight. “What kind of cake do you want for the party?”

Bainwarble’s Personal Senator

          Senator was an exemplary coyote. As a Senator, he was typically picaresque. He urinated and dumped on everything Bainwarble treasured until Bainwarble voted him out. Senator became an “outside” canis. Bainwarble built him a doghouse out of old pallets and stuck it by the camper.

Meanwhile, Senator couldn’t support his voracious appetites, so he applied for a government grant. Ducky Bumps said Bainwarble should never have taught him to make an ‘X’ by holding a pencil in his teeth, but it was she who prepared his application. Fortunately, it failed.

           Bainwarble spent weeks cleaning his camper. He scrubbed everything, replaced the mattress, cushions, and rugs, and even wiped down the ceiling. I helped him. Ducky Bumps obliged by yelling at us until we were finished. She said a little adult supervision could do wonders, and told Bainwarble there was a place in politics for anyone who would listen.

           Left temporarily unsupervised, Senator admired a spot behind the fence, on the neighbor’s property. He drug his doghouse and toys over, and became a squatter. The neighbor said it was fine, but when he wanted the spot back for a compost heap, Senator bared his teeth. Bainwarble had to hypnotize him and bring his things home. Senator retaliated by biting the mail carrier, so the Post Office made us rent a box. Then they moved the Post Office two miles away.

           The dog whisperer we hired said Senator wasn’t mean, just opposed to any form of government that didn’t benefit him personally.

Bright Light or Dim Bulb?

          Our world appears to be in crisis. The old imperial borders in the Middle East are looking less permanent every day, while wars and atrocities are setting huge numbers of refugees on the run for safety. Human migration is taking countless lives. It all makes America’s illegal immigration issues seem second shelf.

           Meanwhile, the bright light in the political firmament shines like a glittering ball of hatred over the dance floor as he markets racism and fear, and divines for all to hear that our problems will be solved when he is permitted to get rid of all those annoying poor people who are seeking survival by coming to our great country. He is proud to help us understand that they are mostly criminals and they populate criminal gangs. It is a tired refrain. And an immature blame-gaming response. The big problems we face are not caused by immigrants. Nor are they caused by children who are citizens by birthright as guaranteed in our Constitution.

           It might be closer to the truth to believe that Congress has fumbled the ball on immigration reform, and that the immigrants here and those wishing to come to America present a tremendous opportunity for our country. It might be closer to the truth that obtuse politicians are the roadblock to record-setting prosperity in America, and that immigrants will play an important role in our future greatness.

           Around here, we think America’s serious problems germinate in plush board rooms, and are nurtured by self-serving political hacks.

Mouth-Worrying About Racism

            Too many people in the public eye are mouth-worrying about the niceties of racial politeness—meaning they say the words, but don’t really give a rat’s whisker.  If they did, they would be working to end the systemic bias that taints the lives of racial minorities, and the economic disaster that keeps them poor.  And of course, the poor sometimes riot and loot, and occasionally steal, so policing in some places is sometimes brutal and militarized to strike terror into their hearts. 

            Meanwhile the BIG thieves manipulate currency and evade billions in taxes, going without substantial punishment when caught, and lobby their way to even greater riches, and throw delightful cocktail parties, while the LITTLE thieves, the ones who riot and loot, and steal what they can carry, and the LITTLE criminals, the ones born of hunger and squalor, who suffer 50% unemployment and do drugs you don’t find in a martini glass, these little ones get sent to for-profit prisons to become part of America’s record-breaking crowd of hopeless apprentices.  Seems like a bizarre aberration.

            Around here, we think the I-got-mine “leaders” in Federal and State Government need to stop all the stupid mouth-worrying and put America to work on parks, roads, bridges and other infrastructure.  Maybe if we get enough people working and prospering, we can start to deal with the hate that fuels our real problem of racism.  We might even find that America’s symbols of treason and hate just quietly become unacceptable.  Certainly that should be the fate of mouth-worrying.

Experience Teaches Us…

          One thing we all have in common: sooner or later experience teaches us to be wary of “leaders” who have all the answers. When we are children, we need parents on whom we can rely for worldly knowledge and guidance. When we become adults, it’s on us. WE have to be the ones who evaluate what we believe, guide our actions, and sort through the hype for truth. It isn’t easy. Truth and fairness are never as alluring as the grand promises of demagogues.

           For example, a ‘flat tax that treats everyone the same’ sounds great, but would be disastrous for people without the money to influence Congress (meaning YOU). That hideous ‘Death Tax’ that’s so unfair? It only affects individuals with more than five million dollars, and couples with more than ten million to bequeath. And only the amounts in excess of those limits. Eliminating it creates a huge windfall for people who already have more money than you will earn in your entire lifetime. If ever there were a victimless tax, it is the estate tax.

           Slashing government, and government services, killing off help for people in need, tearing away the things the Great Depression proved were necessary—these are all examples of throwing away what experience has taught America in the past.

           Around here, we think ordinary folks need to sort through the scat, identify the demagogues and go-along goofs in Congress, and deliver a little worldly guidance in the voting booth, because…the NEXT Great Depression isn’t going to be as pretty as the last one.

Bainwarble's New Dog

          Turns out the coyote attached to the skunk was only unconscious from the smell. Bainwarble dislodged the skunk from its jaws, and while chef Wiley Stinks whipped up a pot of campfire skunk knuckle stew, Glassshard resuscitated the scraggly canine. The resulting madness only subsided when Bainwarble hypnotized the coyote into silence.

           I don’t know what Bainwarble said, because it was all in Welsh—it kind of ebbed and flowed rapturously. When he snapped his fingers, the coyote and I both started and then sat back in a soothing blanket of calm. I snapped out of it when Glassshard told the coyote, “Your new name is Margaret.”

           “You can’t do that Glass shard,” howled Wiley as he stirred the skunk knuckle stew. “Margaret-I-suppose-you’re-thinking-of-Thatcher was female. Your hair bag coyote is a boy!”

“Oh???” uttered Bainwarble, ending the argument. Margaret eyed Wiley and yowled, “Oh???” So Neighborhood Stop and Frisk lost out to Margaret’s care, feeding, and training. Bainwarble was wildly successful. I thought Parliament, had they known, would have been proud.

           The big problem came when Animal Control inserted itself into the mix. They told Glassshard he couldn’t keep a coyote as a pet. Ducky Bumps and I listened in on their last visit. They kept snarling, “Coyote!” Bainwarble kept mumbling “Kyhote!” with a Welsh lilt.

           Ducky Bumps had enough. “You idiots,” she roared, “It’s not a Coyote! It’s a Spanish breed called Quixote. And HIS name, “she said eyeing Bainwarble,“ is Senator. So leave the tags and buzz off!”

The Surprising Reason The Right Has It Wrong

      Only some science gets ignored. When it comes to abortion, there are all kinds of “scientific” ideas about when life begins. But that’s not why the right has it wrong. There are all kinds of biblical and spiritual interpretations about what God intended regarding abortion. But that’s not why either. There are even zealots who use altered audio/video concoctions to defraud unsuspecting good-hearted people. But that’s not why. And there is no shortage of “gross out” verbiage and footage depicting the horror of abortion. But that is also not why.

      The right has it wrong because they are seeking to force an anti-abortion belief system on millions of people to the detriment of those peoples’ other healthcare needs, and without regard for the reality that they don’t get to decide what other people believe. America was founded on peoples’ religious (or atheistic) and political freedoms to make their own choices.

      A recent concept posits a difference between ‘Pro Life’ and ‘Pro Birth.’ The former being a societal commitment to provide sustenance to the lives of those who are born; the latter being just get them born—society’s responsibility ends in the delivery room. The Right’s reputation for wanting to cut away safety nets speaks to a ‘Pro Birth’ mindset. A true conservative would feel a political responsibility to conserve and protect the lives of children with sustenance programs. Instead poverty burdens one of every four or five American children. It takes a village, and it takes a government. Whatever happened to ‘Pro Life?”

The Republican I’m For

     I’m for the one who knows the cost of war includes taking care of ALL the veterans that war will wound, and will see that without fail or hassle, they ALL get all the care they need. Forever. The one who wants a significantly higher national minimum wage and will say so and fight to make it so. Who demands equal pay for women. That courageous Republican who will lead the campaign to restore Glass-Steagall and break up the too-big-to-fail demons in our midst. The one who will get Congress to set medical marijuana standards for the whole country so veterans and other patients with a medical need can travel safely anywhere with their medicine.

      I’m for that stellar Republican who hates big government (and small government) messing with women’s reproductive rights. Who hates big government providing welfare…for wealthy individuals and corporations. The one who hates our national debt…enough to slam shut the doors of all those off shore tax havens. The adult who says flying two or three executives hundreds of miles in the company jet so they can play golf at exclusive links, burdens paying customers and should not be a deductible business expense. The one who insists laws be passed to exclude excessive executive compensation from company deductibility.

      I’m for the Republican who will lead the reform of America’s justice system, and who will prevent government (and corporate America) from filling its coffers by preying on the poor. The heroic Republican who will conserve the vision of our founders and restore the separation of Church and State in our one nation under God.

      For s/he is the one who will provide much needed oxygen to the American Dream.

The Trickle Down Standard

            According to some politicians, America’s gouging of corporations is taxing our country into third-rate producer status.  However, America’s corporate tax is providing the smallest portion of our tax revenue in history.  Should we blame foreign tax havens?  Seems like I read recently that Wal Mart had billions of dollars of income in Luxembourg, a place where they have NO stores.  And don’t forget all the companies whose home offices are now in tax paradises instead of here where the money comes from.  Corporations are reportedly just drowning in taxes and regulations.  And some politicians say, with great sincerity, that the fix is to reduce those taxes and restore the American Dream.

            Meanwhile, every stadium, arena, performance venue, and other public facility supported by taxpayers, but bearing a corporate name or logo, is unmistakable evidence that we are not taxing corporations enough.  They have enough to give huge (tax deductible) civic gifts, but not enough money to make things or create jobs.  Sort of puts the lie to the spin masters who want to restore America to the days of the trickle-down standard.  By the way, with our current egregious income inequality in America, how’s that trickle-down concept working for you?  Theoretically, it should be much easier now for you to make ends meet and build a solid middle-class future for yourself and your family.  Is that working?   

            Around here, we think it takes incredible cheek to pump such nonsense into air we are already struggling to keep clean.

The Memphis Spa For Important Dogs

            I finally had to do something about our dog, Lothar.  He is a giant—a cross between a Great Dane and a Mastiff that we lovingly shorten to Great Mass—about 174 pounds.  He should have come with a saddle.  Lothar’s problem is that he lays around all day eating biscuits and watching soaps on TV (He also likes the Humane Society bit on the noon news). 

          It doesn’t help that he loves everybody, including the mail carrier.  He’s even nice to Jehova’s Witnesses when they dare to join him on our porch.  And one time, when a burglar decided to turn himself in, the police apprehended him sitting by our front door, cheerfully scratching our docile drooling dog behind the ears.  Lothar chases nothing!

          Well, something had to be done.  Lothar’s muscle tone was deteriorating.  I would have exercised him myself, but a human can’t walk Lothar unless he or she is on a horse or a motorcycle, neither of which are luxuries I favor.  And I am much too big to ride Lothar.

          So off we went, a comic 21^st Century version of Turner And Hooch, to visit Chez Pup™, The Spa For Important Dogs™.  Six weeks and $6000 later, Lothar came home fit as a timber wolf.  My only concern is his new habit of curling his lip in an Elvis-like smile that even frightens our house plants.  So I’m buying better biscuits, but every time I give him some, I could swear he tries to say, “Thank-you-very-much!”   

Bainwarble’s Three-bread Walk

           Bainwarble always keeps a folding wire grocery cart in his Yugo for those odd carrying chores that crop up on road outings. It’s handy for getting supplies for our chef, but its purpose is unlimited. Two hundred pounds of sugar for his alley winery. A chainsaw for a camper remodeling project. (The chainsaw now hangs inside the privy in case he ever has trouble getting the door open.) Road kill…

           He came dragging the cart in one day, loaded with the flaming red pot off the top of his Yugo, the spare tire, the passenger seat, and a dead skunk with the grimacing coyote still attached. “I need some tomato juice,” he mumbled.

           “Get that out of here,” screamed Ducky Bumps! “What have you been doing?” We followed Glassshard to the terrace. A nice breeze made continuing the conversation possible.

           “What is the past tense of Yugo,” the exhausted butler asked?

           “You went,” I offered brightly.

           “Yugo went,” he said, collapsing into a lawn chair.

           “I think that tree stump over there would be better for you,” I said, “You’d be more comfortable on that stump.” Ducky Bumps just shook her head.

           “Where’s the Yugo,” she asked?

           “I tipped it into the ditch when the cart was full,” he muttered. “It’s about 11 miles west of town.” Ducky Bumps disappeared inside and returned, handing me three loaves of white bread. I held my breath and took them to Bainwarble.

           “At 3 calories a foot, that’s about three loaves of bread,” she said. “Will you be changing jobs???”