DRONES ATTACK IN CENTRAL PARK!

We have seen the future:

A1a-1SQ-Quadcopter

Drones Mug Tourists in NYC

“My buddy and I were walking across the park, you know, and two of those drone copter things just came down right in front of us while we’re walking.  You know, those quad-copter things you see on Youtube.  So, we’re just walking but these two copter things keep buzzing right in front of us, so Steve kinda swats at one but it just dances away and gets right back up in our face and says, ‘Hey, asshole, don’t do that.’  Yeah, it called Steve an asshole, which we thought was pretty funny until the things stop right in front of our face and it says, ‘Give over your money and wallets.’  We didn’t even know what it was talking about, but every time we try to get away the things get in our face, you know?  Steve told the thing to fuck off, we’re not giving you anything and then, bam, the copter in front of Steve hits him square in the chest with a TASER!  Yeah, fuckin’ crazy, right?  Steve goes down and is screaming and the drone thing in front of me says I should take his wallet and his money and his phone and put it in the basket thing hanging under the copter that just TASER’d him.  I mean, the things menacing, you know what I mean?  So I did it.  Then I had to give it my phone and shit, too, and then they both just zoomed up over the trees and were gone, man.  Crazy, right?  That’s what the cops said.  They thought we were high.”

Anniversary of a Tragedy

In memory of those lost one year ago today, I reprise my earlier post:

Superman is a Myth

It was a classic Superman moment. A train of seventy-two railroad cars filled with highly flammable liquid was poised precariously on a hill above a sleepy town filled with innocent Canadians. It was dark. There was no driver or attendant to witness that the airbrakes preventing the train from slipping are slowly draining pressure. The train begins to slowly roll downhill, picking up momentum as it ponderously but inevitably begins to roll faster and faster towards the center of town, disaster looming–but wait! Here he comes, streaking out of sky! A red and blue caped blur, a powerful hand braced against the lead locomotive, a grimace and then, with a squeal–all is saved, disaster averted.Minolta DSC

Only it didn’t happen. No Superman. Instead, disaster, death, and destruction. Innocent lives lost. The classic Superman moment, one I had witnessed in comics and onscreen since my wide-eyed youth, went horribly wrong. No Superman.Minolta DSC

At first, I hoped and believed that Superman could not save the day because he was otherwise occupied achieving even greater goodliness, saving even larger populations of threatened innocents. But I checked–it seems that North Korea had not simultaneously launched a nuclear tipped missile aimed at a New York museum at the exact moment that Lois Lane was visiting with her little nephew’s fourth grade class. The only other possible explanation, that Lex Luthor had Superman incapacitated under a geodesic dome made of Kryptonite, was also disproved by a quick Google search. No Superman.

How could it be that Evil had triumphed? How could the sinister forces of darkness and malevolence succeed, unchecked by our heroes? Such a situation is contrary to the workings of a moral universe, would require the balance beam of justice to be bent beyond all reasonable fairness. Not possible; the Fates are not so cruel.

But, hold on a second. Deep investigation reveals no Fates, cruel or otherwise, in the immediate vicinity at the time of the accident. Reviews of salient radar logs show a sky clear of evil, flying monkeys. Overhead satellite imaging clearly indicates that a demonic miasma did not dissolve the critical feedlines to the airbrakes. Not at all. No Evil, either, it seems.

No, upon further investigation it appears that a well-meaning crew of volunteer firemen, responding to a fire on the train, skillfully extinguished the blaze. They did their best, including following the protocol which required them to shut down the engine to the burning train. The engine that provided the pressure necessary to maintain the airbrakes. And then they went home.

No evil. Not even an absence of good intent. But no Superman.

It makes me sad.

My heartfelt sympathy to the families of the victims of the Canadian railway tragedy.

Requiem en pace

The Alternate Reality We Live In

In light of this past week’s incomprehensible ruling by the Supreme Court of the United States, and since I am still intellectually stuttering in my attempts at a reasoned response, I instead present a very old essay that pays tribute to another of our Supreme Court’s auspicious decisions.  Hindsight is easy, I know, so please take this with the sense of irony with which it was conceived.  Have a happy and safe Fourth of July holiday.

BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE THOSE FINE FOLKS AT  THE SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

REALITY  (JANUARY 22, 2001):

“Gee, Dick, is this the first damn meeting in this office?  The tags are still on the chairs.”

“You know, Bill, now that you mention it, I think it is.”

“Well, Dick, I want to just say how great it is to finally have a couple of real Americans running this country.  And Texans, to boot!”

“Not just Texans, Bobby, Texas oil men!”

“Gentlemen, thank you.  And I know you know how much me and George deeply appreciate all you’ve done to make this a reality.  Now you know why you’re all here–our country needs an energy policy, and we’re here to write it.  This is our first and highest priority.”

“We appreciate the opportunity to participate at such an early stage.”

“Hey, Dick.  Since we’re talking about oil–you and George ever notice how Iraq is just about the same size as Texas?”

“Yeah–we could call it East Texas, Dick!  Way East Texas–I think Jeb’s gonna need a new state to run soon.  Term limits, you know.”

“Whoa, whoa.  This would be a prudent time to point out that this meeting is being transcribed and will be subject to discovery under the rules of the Freedom of Information Act.”

“Yeah, Dick.  Like you’d let that happen in this century…”

ALTERNATE REALITY (January 22, 2001):IMG_1114

“Mr. President, I appreciate you seeing me so early on in your Presidency.  I know you’re very busy.”

“I certainly am, Mr. Pickens. My staff tells me you’ve been calling nonstop since I finished my acceptance speech. You’re my token meeting with Big Oil.  Talk fast.”

“Yes, thank you Mr. President.  Please call me Boone.  Mr. President, our country’s highest priority is a new energy policy.  I believe our very survival as a nation will depend on what we do in the next decade.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Boone.  I said as much at my inauguration.  But drilling for more oil all over ANWAR is not the approach this administration is going to take.”

“I’m not here to talk about oil, Mr. President.  I’m here to talk about natural gas.”

“Gas?  I was hoping for something a little more imaginative from you, Boone.  Nothing renewable about gas. At least pretend you listened to my speech.”

“Mr. President, the technology does not yet exist to obtain any meaningful relief from our nation’s energy crisis from renewable resources.  That’s just reality, Mr. President.  What we do have, sir, is a breakthrough in our ability to tap our nation’s reserves of natural gas.  I believe that my plan will make our country independent of foreign sources of oil by 2020.”

“You have a plan?  Do your buddies in Texas know about this plan?”

“Mr. President, I think it would be best not to involve too many oil execs during these early critical months.”

“Hell, couldn’t agree with you more.  Let’s ask the Secretary of Energy to come in and listen to your plan.  I think we can find some extra time in the schedule–I only pencilled you in for five minutes.  Not wind power, huh?”

“Not in our lifetime, Mr. President.”

~~~~~

REALITY (September 12, 2001 AM)

“Bill, you’re my goddamn head of CIA.  How in God’s name could you let this happen?

“I’m sorry, sir.  We screwed up.  We had these guys on the radar.  FBI, too.  We didn’t know they were this close.”

“Close?  There’s a goddam smoking hole in the ground where the Trade Center used to be!  Over three thousand people dead, probably more by the time this is over.  On my watch!”

“Yes, Mr. President.  Let me just say that the CIA feels devastated by this.  I’ve got senior analysts in tears at their desks.  But we are all over this.  Nobody has gone home since this happened. We’re working our assets and configuring our response–”

“That’s just bull and you know it.  After the fact.  Hell, they should be in tears.  They failed.  They let down America.”

“Mr. President, it’s not that simple.  But if that’s how you feel, sir, you will have my resignation on your desk in the next hour.”

“It is that simple and that is how I feel.  But Dick and Karl and I have been talking and now isn’t the time to change horses.  No resignations, not right now–that would just send the message that we screwed up.  No–you stay.  But, Bill, I want a good old-fashioned house cleaning.  I want everybody who failed our country out!”

“Mr. President, it’s not like that.  These people are professionals, they are the best in the world.  I stand by my–”

“House cleaning!  Or I’ll put somebody over CIA who’ll do it.  And Bill–”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Don’t go signing any long-term leases in this town, you hear me?”

ALTERNATE REALITY (September 12, 2001 AM)

“What happened, Bill?  We’ve been talking about this coming for over a year.”

“Yes, Mr. President.  We knew.  We knew these guys–we just didn’t know enough.  And CIA didn’t know they were in country.”

“What are you saying?”

“FBI knew they were in the country.  But they didn’t know who they were.  We blew it–we all blew it.  Three thousand dead.  My God.”

“Mueller told me the same thing just now.  My God.”

“It’s not the people, Mr. President.  We’ve got the best.  Mueller’s got the best.  It’s the system–the system failed.  It’s gotta be fixed.”

“Can you do it?”

“I’m not your man–you need a systems guy.  Somebody younger–I’ve got a couple of names.”

“Thank you for not making me  say it.  Mueller’s getting me his letter in the morning.”

“You’ll have mine in the morning as well.  I’m sorry, Mr. President.  We let down the country.”

“I know it wasn’t your fault, Bill.”

“Three thousand people dead–you tell me whose fault it is, Mr. President.”

~~~~~

REALITY (September 12, 2001 PM)

“Gentlemen, America has been attacked.  I know it’s soon, but I want to go around this table and have your thoughts.  Please speak freely.”

“Mr. President, as you say, America has been attacked.  This is our generation’s Pearl Harbor.  We are at war.  We must respond.”

“That’s easy to say.  But at war with who?  How do we respond?  Dick?”

“SecDef is right, Mr. President.  We’ve pussyfooted around this too long and this is the result.  Clinton wouldn’t do it, last time around.  Hell, the last guys who tried to knock down the Trade Towers are eating three squares in San Quentin.  This changes the game.  We take it to the next level–no more police actions, no more trials.  They wanted a war–let’s give it to them.”

“You mean bomb those bases you showed me pictures of?”

“No, Mr. President.  That’s not enough.   That’s what the last administration did. This is a game changer.”

“Yeah–a game changer.  I get that.”

“Mr. President, we need a new policy on terrorism.  The Bush policy–we bring the full force of the world’s most powerful military to bear on any country contributing to terrorism.”

“Dick, that’s half the countries in the Middle East.”

“We know where these guys came from–we hold the state responsible for the actions of its citizens.  Providing safe harbors, that sort of thing.  And we don’t stop there–we take the offensive.  We go after them before they do this again.”

“The Bush policy?”

“Yes, Mr. President.  Pre-emption.  Offense, not defense.”

“There’s still the problem of which state to hold responsible–hell, you told me half these guys were from Saudi Arabia.  You’re not saying we bomb Riyadh, are you?”

“No, Mr. President, not at all.  But there are targets worth considering.  I’d like you listen to Mr. Wolfowitz, from the Pentagon.  I asked him to prepare a short presentation.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vice President.  Mr. President, gentlemen.  While the events we are discussing this morning are truly tragic, I believe we are now presented with the opportunity to directly confront the greatest danger currently facing our country–I am referring to Saddam Hussein and Iraq.  Could I have the lights down, please?”

“Did he say Iraq?”

ALTERNATE REALITY (September 12, 2001 PM)

“Mr. President, the people of the United States demand a response.”

“I know that, Mike.  But I’m the President and I’ll tell you something–this is not Pearl Harbor.  We are not going to treat these guys like the Imperial Empire of Japan.  This was horrible, I know.  But we’re not the first country to be attacked.  I’m going to weigh our options.”

“We have very few options, Mr. President.  I believe it is imperative that we immediately respond with overwhelming force.”

“Where?  Against whom do we respond with overwhelming force?”

“To start, Afghanistan.  We know Bin Laden was behind this.  We know he’s there.”

“So we bomb the whole country?”

“Not just bomb, Mr. President.  It will take a major land force to take out Al Queda.  Not to mention toppling their government–the Taliban have been supporting them all along.”

“Invade Afghanistan?  Are you nuts?  My Secretary of Defense is recommending I recreate the biggest military fiasco of the twentieth century?”

“No sir, I’m just saying…”

“Is that what you’re saying, Joint Chief?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. President.”

“Well, maybe you could share your thoughts, then.”

“As the Secretary said, we know who’s behind this, Mr. President.  We know where they live.  Al Queda isn’t an army–it won’t take an army to take them out.  We know how to do this.  I need additional assets, additional funding–and time.  We’ll take them out, completely and permanently.  But there won’t be any headlines.  It’ll take six months, maybe a year.”

“A year?  The American people won’t wait a year for revenge for yesterday.”

“Revenge, Mr. President?  Revenge I can do in six weeks–very loud, lots of explosions.  It’ll look great on the evening news–shock and awe, the whole works.  But if you want us to really take care of this–six months, at least.  A doubling of funds for special forces.  Creation of a new special forces command, complete international integration–the Israelis, the Brits, the French, the Saudis.  And no headlines–completely dark.”

“Can we sell this, Mike?”

“Your’re the president, Mr. President.  You tell me.”

~~~~~

REALITY (August 25, 2005)

“Mr. President, I’m sorry, I know you’re very busy.”

“Not at all.  Just getting ready to head to the ranch for a couple weeks of R and R, you know.  Gawd, I hate this town in the summer.  Feels like we’re living in a swamp.”

“Yes it does, Mr. President.  I wanted to just quickly mention one thing.  I’ve got a guy over at the National Weather Center who’s called about a hundred times about this hurricane in the gulf.  He’s bending everybody’s ear about a real disaster scenario.”

“Really?  Did you know about this, Karl?  Does this mean the weather’s gonna suck down in Texas?”

“Yes, Mr. President, I heard about it.  He’s called about every department in the government.  He thinks New Orleans could be hit hard.  It’s just one possibility–he’s a weatherman.  Twenty percent probability sort of thing.

“What do you think, Karl?  Get a task force together like we did in Texas?  Let’s get FEMA on it–who is FEMA, anyway, Karl?

“Michael Brown, Mr. President.”

“You’re kidding!  Brownie?  That Michael Brown?  Couldn’t find his office for the first six weeks when he was head of the racing commission?  Head of FEMA?  You have got to be kidding.”

“No Mr. President.”

“Karl, this is bad.  You’ve got to get Brownie some help.  Hell, he probably couldn’t find New Orleans on a map.  Put together an emergency task force, mobilize the Guard.  Let’s get on this!”

“Of course, Mr. President.  But could we discuss some of the other aspects of this, Mr. President?”

“Other aspects?  Karl, it’s a hurricane.  We’ve seen our share while I was governor.  We know how to do this.”

“This isn’t Austin, Mr. President.  There are bigger ramifications to how we handle this.  A big difference between state and federal authority.  This is a problem to be handled at the state level.  If we go charging up at the federal level, what kind of message does that send?

“Your losing me, Karl.  The man said this could be really bad for New Orleans.  What if they can’t handle this at their level?”

“Of course, Mr. President.  But we’re talking only possibilities.  Nothing’s definite.  Do we want to send a message that the federal government is willing to charge in, take care of all your problems?  That’s not us, Mr. President.  Remember, smaller government.  Compassionate conservatism.  Responsibility to the states.   Let’s see how this plays out.  If things look bad, we can always have Brownie come to the rescue.”

“Gee, Karl, you’re always seeing the political side.  It’s just a hurricane, for crissakes.”

“That’s what you pay me for, Mr. President.”

ALTERNATE REALITY (August 25, 2005)

“Mr. President, one more thing.”

“If I had a buck for every time somebody said that…”

“Yes, Mr. President.  It seems the Chief Meteorologist at the National Weather Service is having a conniption over this storm in the Gulf.  He’s called everybody with a phone, telling  a doom and gloom scenario about New Orleans.”

“When?  I haven’t heard about this.  What’s he saying?

“Evidently, this guy’s an authority on New Orleans.  He says there’s about a twenty percent chance that this is the big one–broken levees, massive flooding, hundreds of thousands homeless.”

“Holy cow!  When?  How come I’m just hearing about this now?”

“It’s not definite, Mr. President, just a possibility.  Nobody really thinks it’s gonna happen.”

“You don’t think so?  This is just the kind of thing I’ve been talking about for twenty years, dammit.  This is global warming taking a swing at us.”

“I’m sorry, sir, you’re losing me.  Global what?”

“Are you kidding me?  You’re my Chief of Staff?  What are you doing about this?”

“Well, nothing yet, sir.  I wanted to get your take on how you’d like to proceed.  As I see it, there are two approaches.  Traditionally, this sort of thing falls to the states.  We could let them handle it.”

“Have you ever been to Louisiana, Elliot?”

“Uh, no sir.”

“What’s your other approach?”

“Well, just the opposite, I guess.  Full court press.  Activate FEMA, call out the Guard.  Though, of course, we’d have to do that in cooperation with the governor and all.  Don’t want to offend–”

“Offend?  Don’t you think the sight of a few hundred bloated bodies floating in the bayou on the six o’clock news might offend?  Listen, Elliot.  This is what you’re going to do–who’s at FEMA, anyway?”

“Actually, I don’t know, sir.”

“Oh for crissakes!  Remind me to look for a new Chief of Staff.  Find FEMA and light a fire under his ass.  I want bigger than full court press–you put together a damn federal emergency task force.  I’m talking the army, not just the reserves.  Put somebody you know in charge–don’t screw this up.  Get a general, somebody in uniform.  I want helicopters and those big Starlifters we use when there’s a disaster in Somalia or whatever.  If we can send them to India every time there’s a goddam monsoon, we can sure as shit send them to Louisiana.  Use less gas, too.  And I want press notified–get them on this hard.”

“But, Mr. President–he’s a weatherman.  What if he’s wrong?”

“Then we’ll call it a damn training exercise for when the big one really does come.  You’re kidding about not knowing about global warming, right?  And Elliot–”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“If this guy’s right, I’m gonna give him a medal in the Rose Garden.”

END

Dog’s Got an Attitude

Bob Barker, the Tibetan Terrier who sublets from us, is giving me a bit of an attitude.  My fault, actually.  I left the Times out on the coffee table where he can see it from his side of the couch.  Unfortunately, the Sunday Magazine was on top, the one from last weekend with the cover story about the lawyer suing in NY Supreme Court to grant “personhood” to NY chimpanzees.  No way the dog was going to let that go unremarked upon.  Turns out, worst luck of all, that two of the chimps in question actually live in our little town here on Long Island, at the University.  What are the chances?  So, of course, this initiates a very uncomfortable discussion, which leads to raised voices, considerable barking–you know where this is headed.photo

I can’t claim that I didn’t see this coming, mind you.  The dog has a pretty high opinion of himself.  Not at all like our last dog, Mack (may he rest in peace).  Mack was a Wheaton Terrier, a terribly bright but completely psychotic houseguest that had the unfortunate habit of launching himself through screen doors if anything moved within 500 yards of our property.  Pretty high strung.  If you’ve ever met a Wheaton, you know what I’m referring to.  When excited (which is constantly), they have this amazing ability to jump straight up in the air to approximately eye level.  Rather unnerving in a forty pound animal with teeth. In twelve years of living with us, the dog never slept.  Wheatons do  become somewhat more mellow with age; which is to say, they settle down about two weeks after they’re dead.

Bob is not nearly as excitable.  Being a Tibetan Terrier, he is much more spiritual than most dogs.  He is always going on about the fact that Tibetan Terriers are not really terriers at all, but were misclassified by some English dog slaver that kidnapped his forebears from their homeland in Tibet, where they were originally bred (he always says “formed,” a la the training of a Jesuit priest) by the Dali Lama himself.  You know how most dogs (every other dog, really) can’t wait to be let outside in the morning so they can run around and relieve themselves?  Not Bob Barker.  This dog must be aroused from slumber each morning and enticed to take the morning air.  Upon finally sauntering outside, he assumes a Yoga pose on the porch, stretching and turning his muzzle to the sun, eyes closed and doing some kind of deep breathing exercise for about twenty minutes.  He may or may not empty his bladder, depending upon the scents he detects swirling in the morning drafts and his overall karma.  When called, he tilts his head and stares at me, but he doesn’t return, instead exhibiting a look of disdain for a moment before trotting off again to roll about in a patch of sunshine.  He is a very strange dog.

Which would be okay.  I wouldn’t begrudge the dog his nearly burning down the house with his incense burning every night, or finding him just staring into the refrigerator at 3 am, then leaving the fridge door open after finally deciding to steal the last beer I’ve hidden all the way in the back behind the milk.  I mean, he lives here.  I get it.  But some consideration is to be expected.  Maybe not taking-out-the-garbage type consideration, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched the dog come back from a walk and just saunter right past the empty trash cans without even considering bringing them back.  Don’t tell me he doesn’t know where they belong, the dog is obsessed with those cans when they’re full.

Some quid pro quo is necessary.  If our pets are going to be granted “personhood” status ( http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/27/magazine/the-rights-of-man-and-beast.html ), I expect a little more responsibility on their part.  This isn’t Neanderthal cave living, where just barking a couple of times whenever a saber tooth tiger was in the area was enough to earn your place by the fire and a few leftover bones.  Inappropriate barking at the mailman is not going to cut it anymore.  Don’t give me that crap about instincts, either.  Get over it.  Time to start doing the dishes on a more consistent basis, not just licking the food off the plates after they’re already in the dishwasher.  It’s a dishwasher, idiot–welcome to the 21st century.  And if you’re going to be making brown spots all over the lawn, the least you could do is try peeing on the dandelions every once in a while.  Don’t tell me that takes much effort.  And don’t give me that “can’t see colors” excuse–that got old after you insisted on turning off The Wizard of Oz once they got to Oz just so you could watch the WWF.  What kind of Buddhist watches professional wrestling, anyway?

Oh, and spelling out “union” with your chew toys?  Not amusing.

 

A Hard Place To Live–Part Two

The new Chairman of Surgery had only been in town for a few weeks when he asked me to accompany him for a drive to visit a friend in Westchester.  The new Chairman had just moved to New York after a distinguished, meteoric career at a famous medical center in the South.  Not the south side of New York.  I mean the South; where people are friendly and the pace is peaceful and life is grand.  He was, shall we say, new to New York.1-new-york-city-1270751697

The new Chairman had a research buddy in Westchester that he wanted to visit and it was a beautiful, sunny Sunday.  He thought we should drive his BMW the couple of hours it should take and I could help navigate and I’d surely be interested in the research project they were to discuss.  I had to explain that I had never been to Westchester and that my sense of direction is limited to up and down, and that only on a good day.  He was undaunted.

We started off confidently, driving down the Long Island Expressway at a good clip, discussing the new Chairman’s grand plans for the department.  As we began to navigate the sinuous and subtle exchanges of the various parkways and expressways of the city proper, our conversation lagged as we quickly realized that we didn’t know exactly where we were going.  This was confirmed when we passed under a large sign reading “New Jersey.”  Westchester, we were quite sure, was still in New York. Unfortunately, we were now on the rather intimidating approach to the George Washington Bridge and it appeared that our fate lay in crossing the Hudson River despite our reluctance.  As we paused at the toll booth, the new Chairman expressed to the toll worker that we really were going to Westchester.

“But you’re going the wrong way,” the toll booth attendant informed us.  We acknowledged this helpful bit of information and inquired how we could avoid crossing the bridge.  “You can’t,” she said.  “What you need to do is take the first exit after the bridge, get off the expressway, make a left and cross under to the other side, then get back on the expressway and come back over the bridge.  That’ll be sixteen dollars.”  The new Chairman thanked her for her helpful advice and got change for his twenty.  Now certain of our path, he did exactly as she recommended.  As he crossed under the bridge, however, a police officer standing just past the left turn waved him over and told he to stop the car.  The new Chairman pulled over and rolled down the window.

“Is there a problem, officer?” the new Chairman asked politely.

“License and registration,” the officer replied.

“I’m sorry?” the new Chairman asked.

“You will be if you don’t give me your license and registration in the next two seconds,” the officer replied.  The new Chairman looked at me.  I shrugged.  He gave the police officer his license and registration.  The officer disappeared to his cruiser.

“What’s going on?” the new Chairman asked.

“Haven’t a clue,” I answered.  “I’m sure we’ll find out, though.”  So we sat and waited to find out.  We sat for a half hour.  At last, the officer reappeared at the window.  He began throwing traffic tickets through the window at the new Chairman.

“Illegal left hand turn, obstructing traffic, expired license,” the cop rattled off, throwing the new Chairman’s license and registration back into the car. “Absent front license plate, failure to use turn signal,” the officer droned on as he continued to fling tickets into the car.

“Hold it, hold it,” the new Chairman spluttered, flabbergasted.  He reached down on the floor to retrieve his driver’s license.  “My license isn’t expired.  I just renewed it before I moved here three weeks ago.  Look,” he held up the license for the officer and indicated the back of the license where the renewal was documented.

The cop took the license and looked at the indicated sticker for a moment, then tossed it back in the car.  “They don’t pay me to look on the back.  Tell it to the judge.”

“Now hold it–” the new Chairman began.

The officer clamped his hand on the new Chairman’s forearm which was resting on the door sill, still holding the dollar bills he had gotten in change from the toll lady.  “And if you say one more word, asshole, I’m gonna arrest you for trying to bribe a police officer.”  He nodded at the four dollars in the new Chairman’s hand.

“You’r not serious,” the new Chairman said.  He turned to me.  “He’s not serious, is he?”

“I think he is,” I advised.  “I think you should stop talking now.”

The officer agreed.  Finally, we were allowed to resume our journey to Westchester.

“This place,” the new Chairman said as we drove on, “is a very hard place to live.”

I had to agree.

Are We Not Men?

While unavoidable personal circumstances have reduced the periodic percolation of new content on this blog to a mere unusual ooze, I will not insult you with any claim that I’m pursuing instead a plan to restore both Ukrainian unity and Wonder Woman’s starring role in the upcoming Avenger’s movie with a single email to Putin, cc’d to Joss Whedon (though this may well prove true with time). Just a bit busy, is all.20140423-141726.jpg

This is not a problem with my internal wiring. Though, lately–many people I know are having problems with their intellectual busses. Their bandwidth, it seems, is suddenly inadequate to allow them to respond to calls/texts/emails/hails from across the street in a timely fashion. I was recently astonished to read that this new bioelectronic cyborgian malady has even affected the august annals of The Economist (http://www.economist.com/blogs/babbage/2014/04/book-production). Didn’t know we were recently obsoleted. I await an upgrade. With greater bandwidth.

Killer

Quote

The young resident was flabbergasted to learn, in casual conversation, that the attending radiologist sitting next to him all morning had been in the Marines prior to going to medical school.

“Wow,” the student exclaimed in open admiration.  “Did you kill anyone?”

The radiologist shook his head.

“Not until I became a doctor.”

 

~CB, 2013

Trust No One

I’m so proud of my  Mom.  She told me last night that she had gotten a call earlier in the evening (middle of dinner, of course) from a woman asking her to confirm her banking and credit card information.  Despite the woman insisting that it was perfectly fine to tell a complete stranger on a cold call your every vital identifying fact, my mother demurred.  At 87, she’s still too polite to just hang up on the pirate, but she knows a scam when she hears one.  Good for you, I told her.  But listen to this.  Here’s a new one.Minolta DSC

I’ve had my “identity” stolen at least four times over the past five years.   The first time, I was upset.  I got a call from my credit card company asking me if I was buying a lot of stuff in Tennessee.  Never been there.  The nice guy from the bank actually was able to tell me the name of the guy who was buying stuff on my account and the address that he was having all the stuff sent to.  “So, you’re going to have the police in Tennessee pick him up?” I asked naively.  “Naw, of course not,” the bank guy said.  “We’ll just cancel out the card and send you a new one.”  At the time, I was rather indignant that no one was going after the guy who had stolen my “identity.”  Having gone through this process a few more times now, I’ve come to be more blasé about the whole deal.  Happens every day, I know.

But this is different.

A close relative called up the other day, quite upset.  It seems that she had just received an email from her bank notifying her that the credit card that she had requested was in the mail to her home.  She hadn’t ordered any credit card.  She immediately called the bank and spoke to a representative.  “Oh,” he admonished her, “you probably filled out the application the last time you were in the branch and just forgot.”  “No way,” she said.  “I haven’t been inside a bank in years.”  She does all her banking online.  He agreed that something was amiss and cancelled the card.  He went on to recommend that she sign up for the bank’s credit monitoring service, in view of this near-miss identity theft. Only $14/month.  She was so upset by the incident that she agreed to the service, grateful that the whole mess had been caught before any real damage had been done.

“Hold it,” I said, interrupting her story at this point.  “The email said the card was in the mail  to you?”  “Yeah.”  “But that makes no sense,” I said.  Being old, I am an expert in all things.  Including having one’s “identity” stolen.  “Why would someone have the stolen card sent to you?  They steal a bunch of identities and have the cards sent to a post office box.  Then they use the cards for a day or two before they’re cancelled.  Makes no sense.”

She was quiet for a minute.  “I’ll call you right back,” she said.  She called the bank again, getting a different service representative.  She explained her previous exchange and asked, rather pointedly, what was going on.  There was a pregnant pause before the bank guy responded.  “It seems,” bank guy explained, “that one of our employees initiated the request for the new card.”  He went on to explain that it was not the bank’s policy to do such a thing, of course, but there were incentives to move more credit cards, you understand, and of course he would be certain that the card was indeed cancelled.  Oh, and he’d be reporting the entire sordid affair to his supervisor.

“Of course,” my close relative said.  “And what about the credit reporting service that you guys just sold me by scaring the shit out of me?”

“Oh, you sure you don’t want to go ahead with that?  Just in case?”