In September 2008, Lance Armstong announced his return to professional cycling and his decision to once again ride in the Tour de France. Much speculation about his motives and attitudes exploded in the media as the cycling world held it's breath for 10 months during Lance's preparation. Making sure, for instance, that he was available for the complete scrutiny of the international anti-doping community to ensure that his return would be far above reproach. He also joined the cycling team, Astana, for free. That's right, he will be riding for Team Astana as an unpaid, uncompensated, team member.
And Astana is not just any team. Astana boasts the likes of Alberto Contador who is favored to win this year, along with Andreas Kloden and Levi Lipheimer. Lance stepped onto the most powerful cycling team in the world with perhaps the best coach in the world, Johan Bruneel. He has told the press that his return to cycling is to move awareness of his fight against cancer through his "Livestrong" foundation to a global stage. From a strictly marketing point of view this was a brilliant move. It's difficult to find a professional athlete or celebrity who is the front man for an organization that can actually step straight into an international sporting event as a participant, not just give a speech or throw out an add, but actually compete. That's like saying, "Oh today I feel like competing in the Olympics for a Gold Medal, I wonder if they will let me in." And not just in any event - the three week long international frenzy that is the Tour de France or TdF. Lance's participation in this event -- at any level, from coach, to sponsor, to lessor team member, to even spectator, would be sure to have garnered publicity from the throngs of fans and his supporters who still monopolize cycling events and continue to wear the highly visible, yellow "Livestrong" armbands, all without compensation.
But it is fairly clear, that not only will Lance ride in the event, he will compete at the highest level and vie to be a contender for yet another victory. That would bring his total to eight wins at the TdF. Not so fast, however, because with Alberto Contador on his team, how will Johna Bruneel, sort out his team leadership. As everyone knows, it takes a team to win the tour, and as Bruneel has pointed out through the years, there can only be one lead rider on any team. Bruneel has managed to have four riders in a position to lead his team this year, or so it is speculated.
But this blog, believe it or not, is not about Lance, or the TdF, or the Bike, or his foundation. I'm posting this blog to discuss one idea -- the idea of what constitutes professional behaviour in a professional sports. I've been told that being a "Pro" or a paid participate in an event has nothing to do with your conduct. For instance, you can be a professional criminal, break every civil, criminal, and moral law in the book -- lie, cheat, and steal your way to the top and still be considered a "Pro". Turns out you can be a "Professional" criminal in any occupation you choose -- in cycling we see this through the use of illegal performance enhancing drugs. So perhaps what I've been told is correct -- being a "Pro" is irrelevant to the conversation. Just to be a "Pro" doesn't require the individual to act with any higher code. I could stop right there and the debate would end. The word "Professional" is meaningless. I, however believe the word "Pro" transcends whether or not you receive a pay check. You either conduct yourself with grace, dignity, and act beyond the call of duty, in any situation, paid or unpaid, or you do not. Do we have a term to describe such an actor? I believe the term still is "Professional". And it has been the "unprofessional" acts of our "professional" athletes in this dialogue that have stripped meaning from this word -- and turned it into nothing more than a fee-for-service modifier.That is what I would like to discuss here.
One more piece of background. This discussion began because there was an event that occurred during the Stage 9 of the TdF that I found to be wholly unprofessional and labeled it as such on FaceBook. That event was the protest of the entire peleton of riders during that stage against what the TdF organizers created as an added challenge for the competitors on that day. The challenge was for the stage to occur without the use of race radios. The nine riders on each team would not be able to talk with their team car and coach via the radio. They would still be able to talk amongst themselves during the ride, or to drop back to the team car for a chat through the open window. This was the way the race communicated before the advent of the race radio. To use these radios to the advantange or disadvantage of a team or individual rider during a race is the subject of a huge discussion itself. The crowd is mixed but it is definitely skewed in favor of their use. However, the race organizers didn't decide all 21 stages of the tour would be run without radios, only two stages. Coincidentally, there are 21 teams in the tour so the math is easy. Only 6 teams acknowledged they were in favor on the rule to not use race radios while 15 teams were against this stage of the race -- clearly skewed against. To be completely fair, six stages of the tour then, should be run without radios...right? As it is, for various reasons, the organizers established that only two stages would be run without radio communications. And this is where our story begins...
Prior to the start of the stage all of the teams met behind closed doors to decide what to do during the stage without radios. When the race began, it was evident what they had decided to do. They decided to protest during the race primarily by not racing at all on that day. They soft petaled throughout the stage. The stage was uneventful, of little excitement, and a waste of every ones time. I labeled the riders as a bunch of babies who spoiled the stage because they couldn't have their way. In an event that has it's share of scandal and tarnish, why would these "professionals" provide one more black eye to the sport they love? Lance was one of the "Pros" who not only voiced his opinion over the rule not to use race radios, there is no question he was part of the organized strike...he soft pedalled just like everyone else. Oddly, I would argue, that since Lance is the only one riding who is not drawing a salary or bonus from his team, he is the only one in a position to actually protest. In which case, I would further argue, he is not a true part of the competition. Rather he is a side show act, a distraction from the the main event. The Team sponsors and the TdF organizers should be upset.
Perhaps they will be no backlash and all will be forgotten as within 24 hours another stage will have to take precedence. My point is simple. If you are a "Pro" you are paid to do something. If you fail to do what you are paid to do, you might still be a professional in the "collect a paycheck" sense. But you've robbed you clients of their value. In soccer there is a term known as a "professional" foul. This foul occurs when you are beaten by an opponent, perhaps you are feigned out of position and the player on the attack moves by you in a way where they now have a terrific opportunity to threaten your goal. If the player beaten has their wits about them and immediately recognizes the danger, they may reach out and grab the opponent by the shirt to slow or disrupt their play. A foul is called and the offending player will be issued a yellow card. The "professional" foul sacrifices a yellow card to thwart a possible goal by the other team. These professional fouls are accepted by the soccer community at large but in reality are simply cheating. And cheating, by my definition, is far away from behaving professionally.
To dig further into why I believe to be a professional means more than just collecting a paycheck, one has to understand why a professional collects a pay check to begin with. I could not collect a pay check to ride in the TdF or to play soccer for that matter. Why? Because I am not good enough. The athletes who are paid to play and race are professionals because they are good -- great in fact. Better than the common place. We pay professionals to work on our cars or put a roof over our heads -- I wouldn't pay riders in the TdF to build my house or work on my car. They might, for instance, attempt to change my spark plugs with a air hammer. Riders in the tour wouldn't know the right tool to use, even if you paid them. But you would expect them to know bike tires and although I can change a bike tire, don't expect to seem me in a team car anytime soon. I myself am paid in my own particular profession -- in which I try to do my best. But with tour riding, the sponsors of the team pay for even more. They pay to see the name of their company on the shirts of the best riders...those in front and those winning the competitions. The teams exist for the competition and when a rider does well they see their name in lights, so to speak.
Also, unlike other professional sports where the prize money and proceeds come from the viewing audience, with tour riding, the big money is in the tour sponsorship. The sponsors pay your salary and they are paying you to race--under contract--and in most cases not to cheat and not to get in trouble that will be an embarrassment to the team name. It's the contract with the team sponsors that caused the riders colluded with one another and why they still hopped on their bikes to complete the stage, albeit at a reduced pace. They were under contract to do so. Further, there can be no doubt they also orchestrated a low speed attack with a group of riders soft pedalling two minutes ahead of the field to sit their and make it look like a race was in progress throughout the stage. If they really had reason to protest they should have refused to ride -- that would get some attention.
You are either a professional or something else. Their profession is "Bike Racer" not protester. They could become professional protesters, I guess, if they wanted to join a group like Sea Shepard for instance. But even then, there is something about the way in which an individual plys their trade that lifts them above that of the ordinary -- something that makes it worth the money they receive. It's more than skill, it's more than a dedication to their craft, it's more than experience, and it's more than collecting a pay check at the end of the day. The hallmark of a professional is to always do the right thing -- like using the right tool for a job. In both victory and in defeat a professional always does the right thing. In the TdF, the great British sprinter Mark Cavendish, after he has won a stage, moves through the field and individually thanks all of the team members that put him on the podium. That's the right thing and we respect his actions. When defeated the professional athlete acknowledges the loss, congratulates the victor and moves on to next challenge. These are the respected actions of a professional and while they may not be required to earn a paycheck are the transcending qualities of a true "professional". A professional can always be found doing the right thing. The Stage 9 protest of the 2009 TdF by the riders was not the right thing.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Breath Free Road
The unalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The right to bear arms. The right to free speech. The right to vote. The right to drive a car. That's correct, the right to drive a car. I'm having a debate with my wife. I heard some half-wit district attorney jabbering on about how having a driver's license and driving a car in the United States is a privilege and not a right. So I went off, my wife disagreed. Instead of continuing the debate, since I'm a coward when it comes to debating her (she told me to get lost) I've taken to the blog. To caveat, of course, this issue is wrapped completely inside of the drinking and driving debate over the punishment for offenders. But I want to separate the emotion of this particular criminal debate from the right to use our roads in general.
Rights can be taken away as well as privileges. So I want to discuss whether or not, in our country, in our day an age, we should treat driving on the roads that surround us, as ubiquitous as the air that we breath. Is breathing and therefore driving a right or a privilege? Should we breath free road. Perhaps you can see my bias. To me, driving a car is as American as baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie. Since, perhaps the 1930's, did any one of us make it to birth or home from birth without a set of Goodyear vulcanized tires beneath us. Isn't it time to recognize that our society, our economy, and our lifestyles revolve around the automobile and hence the network of roads which surround us? I'm not a civil libertarian and I'm certainly not trying to ease the penalties for drunken driving our our roads, but we have to face it, the use of the roads should be a free as the air we breath.
By considering the use our roads to be a privilege, granted to us by the King vs a right granted us by birth, is as sure as telling us that, although we were born with legs and the ability to walk, to use them as they were intended is at the sole discretion of the King. Fully recognizing that roads do not just occur in nature, and that construction of the roads and their upkeep is a requirement, there is a cost associated with and for their use. And the burden of this cost is shared by the kingdom not incurred by the King. The way these costs are assessed should be a subject for debate not as a discriminator as to who gets to use them. Driver's licenses, for instance, should be a demonstration of the educational mastery of driving, not a source of revenue. And when is the last time the license was actually used to show that you could drive, rather than, ironically, old enough to purchase alcohol.
Thinking about the number of drivers on American roads for instance. Over the course of a lifetime a driver is on the road an average 15,000 miles a year for 70 years or the nice round number of 1,000,000 miles. If we estimate the average speed of these miles to be on the order of 20 mph (it's probably less), that's 50,000 hours in the car. Or about, accounting for the time we are sleeping, 13% of our conscious lives in the car. Try holding your breath from one to two hours a day and you might begin to understand how important driving is to our society.
So let's see if we need licenses to prove we can drive. Of the time that we spend driving, in general, how many tickets are we receiving, and thus we must produce the piece of plastic that says we can legally be on the road. Well, of the tickets I've received, and been convicted of, in almost 30 years of driving (hard to believe I still have 40 years to go) I have received two violations for speeding. That's one ticket every 15 years. That's a ticket every 11,000 hours of driving. Of all the time I've spent on the road, the percentage of time I was using the road in a way that required a correction from the authorities is on the order of 0.01% or one-hundredth of a percent. And the number of times I've needed retraining in order to drive are exactly zero. Since I left the drivers education class in 12th grade, I've not been back. Now if I add in the number of tickets I've received but have not been convicted of -- we will put this in the category of the attempted revenue collection for the King -- we can add 5 more tickets of various nature. One more speeding, running two stop signs, and two illegal turns. That brings the total amount of time the state found me wanting but could not prove it, to 0.06%, or six hundredths of a percent. Again, a ridiculously small number of offenses for the unhindered use of our roads over the course of half a life time. As far a I know my mother has received only a single ticket in over 60 years of driving and my father has not received a single one, or he's not talking. So my mom has misused the road 0.002% or two thousandths of a percent over the course of her life and my dad is just an aberration.
Let's see who pays for the roads we drive on, since, on average it can't be from the revenues collected from those driving irresponsibly and getting tickets. If we believe most of the gas tax goes to pay for roads and highways, we currently pay about $0.36 per gallon in Federal and State takes. Using 2009 as the average tax over a lifetime and estimating the average fuel economy of a car is 20 miles per gallon we pay about $22/month to use the roads in gas taxes or about the same for basic phone service. But we also pay about about $8/month to keep our car registered for use on the roads. In some states where they pay personal property taxes, depending on the car, these taxes can dwarf gas and registration costs. We also pay Federal Income Tax to the tune of $40B a year going to the Federal Highway Administration which adds another $10/month per driver. Again, some pay state income tax as well only driving up their individual tax for use on the roads even higher. So in direct fees to the kingdom we pay, on average, and very conservatively estimated, about $40/month to the King to use the roads around us. I live in Florida. In most states that number will be considerably higher with state income tax, city and county registration fees, and vehicle inspection requirements and fees. So I will just add another $10/month to cover these assorted other fees. So that brings the total up to a round $50/month.
But what about the costs of car ownership. We have to make personal investments and scarifies for the so called privilege of using the roads. What does that investment look like? Well certainly there is the remainder of the gas cost per mile, harder to estimate because the price of gas fluctuate more than the gas tax. But let's say $1.70/gallon. That puts gas alone up at $100/month. How about a car payment? Lets just average that to around $150/month over the life of the car. Then add $50/month for repairs over the life of the car. OK what's left? Car insurance. Easily $50/month. So the necessary investment on our part to be able to use the roads is $350/month.
Where are the hidden costs?
Well first there are the lives we lose on our highways every year. About 40,000 per year on average. Over 70 years we sacrifice almost 3 million of our citizens to the road gods.
Second there is the environmental impact. Each one of us is belching 15,000 miles worth of carbon monoxide into our atmosphere every year. We pay for that in having to breath smog. Our children will be paying an even steeper price as this hidden car tax adds to global warming. There are currently 250,000,000 cars on the road in the US with about 7,000,000 being added and subtracted each year. Every year 28,000,000 million tires join a land fill and 50,000,000 lead acid batteries find their way to some place, hopefully not a land fill. And if everybody changes there oil at least twice a year that's half a trillion gallons of oil finding itself in need of recycling. Now let's look at the environmental costs of the roads themselves. The roads are covered in oil and other chemicals (salt for instance) that find there way into the water table, lakes, streams, and bays. And speaking of oil, of the tankers that transport oil to our country, how much ends up in the oceans, every year, in order to get the oil that we do use where it needs to be. And then there's the environmental impact of drilling for oil. Finally, the roads themselves, and not to mention the necessary parking lots. All of this concrete and asphalt crossing the country, contributing significantly to heat pollution which we all must endure. And then of course noise pollution. Hard to put a cost on this but we all, as individuals, ultimately pay the price for this environmental damage. Not the King and not the District Attorney who believes she is the representative of the King.
Finally, if we believe the Almighty oil to be a big driver of our economic success, and that we as a country are so addicted to it, we might also believe that we have started wars over it's protection. Even if you believe oil to be only a percentage of our war motivation, say 20%, that's $150 billion so far with over 800 lives lost in Iraq.
So is driving and using our roadways one of our basic civil rights that we all pay dearly for, or is it a privilege granted to us by the the granter of things? If you own it, then perhaps you can restrict its use. I think it's clear that we all own the roads, they are bought and paid for in direct and indirect costs every single day. To hear a suggestion from the self-righteous that somehow they have providence over this resource, to me, is akin to claiming providence over the air we breath. So Ms. District Attorney, as you represent the King with your belief that driving is a privilege that you have the power to bestow on your subjects and therefore have the power to take it away from us a well. Please consider who's paying the bill. It's most certainly not you.
Rights can be taken away as well as privileges. So I want to discuss whether or not, in our country, in our day an age, we should treat driving on the roads that surround us, as ubiquitous as the air that we breath. Is breathing and therefore driving a right or a privilege? Should we breath free road. Perhaps you can see my bias. To me, driving a car is as American as baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie. Since, perhaps the 1930's, did any one of us make it to birth or home from birth without a set of Goodyear vulcanized tires beneath us. Isn't it time to recognize that our society, our economy, and our lifestyles revolve around the automobile and hence the network of roads which surround us? I'm not a civil libertarian and I'm certainly not trying to ease the penalties for drunken driving our our roads, but we have to face it, the use of the roads should be a free as the air we breath.
By considering the use our roads to be a privilege, granted to us by the King vs a right granted us by birth, is as sure as telling us that, although we were born with legs and the ability to walk, to use them as they were intended is at the sole discretion of the King. Fully recognizing that roads do not just occur in nature, and that construction of the roads and their upkeep is a requirement, there is a cost associated with and for their use. And the burden of this cost is shared by the kingdom not incurred by the King. The way these costs are assessed should be a subject for debate not as a discriminator as to who gets to use them. Driver's licenses, for instance, should be a demonstration of the educational mastery of driving, not a source of revenue. And when is the last time the license was actually used to show that you could drive, rather than, ironically, old enough to purchase alcohol.
Thinking about the number of drivers on American roads for instance. Over the course of a lifetime a driver is on the road an average 15,000 miles a year for 70 years or the nice round number of 1,000,000 miles. If we estimate the average speed of these miles to be on the order of 20 mph (it's probably less), that's 50,000 hours in the car. Or about, accounting for the time we are sleeping, 13% of our conscious lives in the car. Try holding your breath from one to two hours a day and you might begin to understand how important driving is to our society.
So let's see if we need licenses to prove we can drive. Of the time that we spend driving, in general, how many tickets are we receiving, and thus we must produce the piece of plastic that says we can legally be on the road. Well, of the tickets I've received, and been convicted of, in almost 30 years of driving (hard to believe I still have 40 years to go) I have received two violations for speeding. That's one ticket every 15 years. That's a ticket every 11,000 hours of driving. Of all the time I've spent on the road, the percentage of time I was using the road in a way that required a correction from the authorities is on the order of 0.01% or one-hundredth of a percent. And the number of times I've needed retraining in order to drive are exactly zero. Since I left the drivers education class in 12th grade, I've not been back. Now if I add in the number of tickets I've received but have not been convicted of -- we will put this in the category of the attempted revenue collection for the King -- we can add 5 more tickets of various nature. One more speeding, running two stop signs, and two illegal turns. That brings the total amount of time the state found me wanting but could not prove it, to 0.06%, or six hundredths of a percent. Again, a ridiculously small number of offenses for the unhindered use of our roads over the course of half a life time. As far a I know my mother has received only a single ticket in over 60 years of driving and my father has not received a single one, or he's not talking. So my mom has misused the road 0.002% or two thousandths of a percent over the course of her life and my dad is just an aberration.
Let's see who pays for the roads we drive on, since, on average it can't be from the revenues collected from those driving irresponsibly and getting tickets. If we believe most of the gas tax goes to pay for roads and highways, we currently pay about $0.36 per gallon in Federal and State takes. Using 2009 as the average tax over a lifetime and estimating the average fuel economy of a car is 20 miles per gallon we pay about $22/month to use the roads in gas taxes or about the same for basic phone service. But we also pay about about $8/month to keep our car registered for use on the roads. In some states where they pay personal property taxes, depending on the car, these taxes can dwarf gas and registration costs. We also pay Federal Income Tax to the tune of $40B a year going to the Federal Highway Administration which adds another $10/month per driver. Again, some pay state income tax as well only driving up their individual tax for use on the roads even higher. So in direct fees to the kingdom we pay, on average, and very conservatively estimated, about $40/month to the King to use the roads around us. I live in Florida. In most states that number will be considerably higher with state income tax, city and county registration fees, and vehicle inspection requirements and fees. So I will just add another $10/month to cover these assorted other fees. So that brings the total up to a round $50/month.
But what about the costs of car ownership. We have to make personal investments and scarifies for the so called privilege of using the roads. What does that investment look like? Well certainly there is the remainder of the gas cost per mile, harder to estimate because the price of gas fluctuate more than the gas tax. But let's say $1.70/gallon. That puts gas alone up at $100/month. How about a car payment? Lets just average that to around $150/month over the life of the car. Then add $50/month for repairs over the life of the car. OK what's left? Car insurance. Easily $50/month. So the necessary investment on our part to be able to use the roads is $350/month.
Where are the hidden costs?
Well first there are the lives we lose on our highways every year. About 40,000 per year on average. Over 70 years we sacrifice almost 3 million of our citizens to the road gods.
Second there is the environmental impact. Each one of us is belching 15,000 miles worth of carbon monoxide into our atmosphere every year. We pay for that in having to breath smog. Our children will be paying an even steeper price as this hidden car tax adds to global warming. There are currently 250,000,000 cars on the road in the US with about 7,000,000 being added and subtracted each year. Every year 28,000,000 million tires join a land fill and 50,000,000 lead acid batteries find their way to some place, hopefully not a land fill. And if everybody changes there oil at least twice a year that's half a trillion gallons of oil finding itself in need of recycling. Now let's look at the environmental costs of the roads themselves. The roads are covered in oil and other chemicals (salt for instance) that find there way into the water table, lakes, streams, and bays. And speaking of oil, of the tankers that transport oil to our country, how much ends up in the oceans, every year, in order to get the oil that we do use where it needs to be. And then there's the environmental impact of drilling for oil. Finally, the roads themselves, and not to mention the necessary parking lots. All of this concrete and asphalt crossing the country, contributing significantly to heat pollution which we all must endure. And then of course noise pollution. Hard to put a cost on this but we all, as individuals, ultimately pay the price for this environmental damage. Not the King and not the District Attorney who believes she is the representative of the King.
Finally, if we believe the Almighty oil to be a big driver of our economic success, and that we as a country are so addicted to it, we might also believe that we have started wars over it's protection. Even if you believe oil to be only a percentage of our war motivation, say 20%, that's $150 billion so far with over 800 lives lost in Iraq.
So is driving and using our roadways one of our basic civil rights that we all pay dearly for, or is it a privilege granted to us by the the granter of things? If you own it, then perhaps you can restrict its use. I think it's clear that we all own the roads, they are bought and paid for in direct and indirect costs every single day. To hear a suggestion from the self-righteous that somehow they have providence over this resource, to me, is akin to claiming providence over the air we breath. So Ms. District Attorney, as you represent the King with your belief that driving is a privilege that you have the power to bestow on your subjects and therefore have the power to take it away from us a well. Please consider who's paying the bill. It's most certainly not you.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
One-Nineteen
I am not a poet, although at times like these I wish I were. Nor am I a professional writer. I write this blog and from time to time I get a complement or two. Most of those come from my mom. I am forgetful. For instance, last night I took my daughter down to the beach to watch the launch of STS-119. I forgot to bring my camera and my daughter forgot to bring her glasses. Which, to be honest, was somewhat my fault. With all the yelling to hurry up and get out of the house and the other general annoying racket I make when I'm trying to do something that I am more excited to do then the rest of my family, sometime I force the forgetfulness. But we made it on time and only had to wait a few minutes until the launch would occur. If it were to occur. As of today's launch, STS-119 had already been cancelled two times and it's mission delayed over a month. So there was a bit of uncertainty hanging in the air.
But I've gotten ahead of my self. You might ask what is STS-119? To make it easy, most of us knew where we were when we first heard the fate of STS-51. That would be the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. I still remember vividly the bright white plumes of rocket smoke trailing the Challenger into a crystal blue sky and the horrible aftermath. Trying to reconcile the beauty of the launch with the tragedy that just befell the Country was difficult. Of course we have had a more recent disaster, that of STS-107, the Columbia. And it is the memory of Columbia and the highly cautious culture that emerged directly thereafter that can be attributed to the delays in the launch of STS-119 this month. In fairness, this culture has emerged not just for the protection of the astronauts, the brave men and women who ride the rocket know the risks, but it is for the protection of the manned space program in general. Americans do not like to see Americans die. Too many accidents and we might as well kiss our space program goodbye. So in preparing for STS-119 caution and certainty were the buzzwords.
Just a little on STS-119. Discovery is the name of the orbiter being used on this mission. It has a crew of seven. A commander, a pilot, and five mission specialists. It's destination is the International Space Station or ISS. They are delivering some parts for the ISS -- a few trusses, some batteries, and some replacement solar panels. That sounds like it could be a run to Home Depot, except with a $500 million dollar delivery charge. But it's worth it, because not only will the crew deliver the parts, they will install them at no additional charge. Since they would have nothing to do in orbit anyway, other then stare out the window until their return, they agreed to install the upgrades. So, over and above their delivery mission, what's so special about STS-119? It turns out that our Country is only planning 10 more space shuttle launches. With the end of STS-119's mission in about 13 days, we will have only 9 more to go. Considering I grew up with the space shuttle, learning about it and writing reports in grade school and then following those early missions as a high school student (STS-1 took place in April 1981), it's kind of sad that after thirty years it's all coming to an end. But after the shuttle program is retired we are off to the moon, so that is perhaps, even more exciting. And then to Mars.
So getting back to the launch, there was a bit of uncertainty hanging in the air, but we wouldn't have to wait long to know if there would be a delay, plus, the beach was crowded with space enthusiasts wanting to cheer the launch on as well, so we were not waiting alone. I checked the clock on my cell phone, the launch was set for 7:43 and it was 7:41. Two minutes to go, not sufficient time to run back to the car to retrieve my daughter's glasses. It seemed to me that she forgot her glasses for the last launch as well, so I asked her. She had. Oh well, that was probably my fault then too. No glasses and no camera, well perhaps I will just try to take a picture in my mind, and perhaps I can write about it when I get home, if this launch inspires me.
Those were my thoughts as we all waited and stared north towards the haze covered point of Cape Canaveral. The Discovery however, sits atop its pile of solid rocket propellant and liquid oxygen at a launch pad on Kennedy Space Center, which is a few miles further north of the Cape. So from our vantage point, along with the curvature of the earth, we cannot actually see the launch pad directly. It takes a few seconds directly after ignition, to see what's creating the glow on the horizon. But if you can picture looking north down a long white beach with true turquoise waves breaking all the way up the coast, almost 20 miles to the Cape, and with an evening clear enough to see that far in the twilight, in fact sunset had actually occurred at 7:31. You could still see the white of the beach and the blue of the sky. At a few seconds past 7:43 pm the glow in the distance began. There was no sound, at least not from the launch, as soon as the bright orange ball of fire appeared slowly rising above the horizon a cheer from all along the beach erupted. Not the cheer of thousands but the cheer of hundreds, although further muffled by the strong warm breeze blowing from the surf.
As the orange ball slowly rises above the horizon at this distant point it begins to paint the surrounding haze in a glow of orange, pink, and red. Then a small ball of fire breaks above the haze and appears to be riding on top of a clearly visible column of smoke. This smoke trailing from the trust generated by its solid rocket boosters. As the column of smoke stretches higher and higher into the sky it begins to change color. First it is grey in the haze but above the haze it begins to turn a bright orange, almost the color of the blazing ball of fire itself. But then as the ball of flame rises steadily higher it leaves it's orange color impregnated on the column of smoke. As the column of smoke gets longer and longer it begins to change color again as it begins an easterly arch into the heavens. First the column of billowy smoke is orange and then it is red and then it is pink. Finally the column turns bright white, a pure white as bright as the whitest cloud on a summer's day against a crystal blue sky. It is the immediatly identifiable white plume against a blue sky of a space shuttle launch, it could be nothing else. It was not apparent until this very point that the palette of colors that were we seeing, was not man made. The deep colors were coming from the heavenly made light of a Florida sunset being filtered through the lower atmosphere and painting the skyward reaching pure white canvas of a man-made rocket exhaust plume. As the billowy tower continued to rise and was high enough to be directly in line with the sun which was now well below the horizon, it turned back to its original pure white color. The crew of STS-119 was creating their own sunrise and we were watching them do it.
Shortly after the plume turned white those of us on the beach, thirty miles away from the pad, finally heard the sound of the launch. A massive rumbling, that was not loud, but powerful and shook the ground and the air we were breathing. At that point I looked around and was treated to the sight of hundreds of well wishers lined up further down the beach, perhaps for another ten miles, all with the flashes of their cameras trying to capture that same moment in time. As I gazed back at the arch of man made and heavenly color I thought to myself, awesome, just awesome, and my daughter exclaimed that it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. I guess she didn't need her glasses after all. But the show was not over, the sunset would hang on the white tapestry for many more minutes, and as the shuttle reached 200,000 feet with the helpful thrust from it's solid rocket boosters now over, the column of color and light abruptly ended with three pinpoints of light now being seen high and in the distance. Two tiny stars falling away from one brighter star that was making it's way higher and higher into the darkening sky. And then a single point of light moving further and futher down range already hundreds of miles over the Atlantic. Within nine minutes it will be over Africa. Within 11 minutes the shuttle would be in orbit. I am left with an awesome sense of both the power of God and the power of man.
But I've gotten ahead of my self. You might ask what is STS-119? To make it easy, most of us knew where we were when we first heard the fate of STS-51. That would be the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. I still remember vividly the bright white plumes of rocket smoke trailing the Challenger into a crystal blue sky and the horrible aftermath. Trying to reconcile the beauty of the launch with the tragedy that just befell the Country was difficult. Of course we have had a more recent disaster, that of STS-107, the Columbia. And it is the memory of Columbia and the highly cautious culture that emerged directly thereafter that can be attributed to the delays in the launch of STS-119 this month. In fairness, this culture has emerged not just for the protection of the astronauts, the brave men and women who ride the rocket know the risks, but it is for the protection of the manned space program in general. Americans do not like to see Americans die. Too many accidents and we might as well kiss our space program goodbye. So in preparing for STS-119 caution and certainty were the buzzwords.
Just a little on STS-119. Discovery is the name of the orbiter being used on this mission. It has a crew of seven. A commander, a pilot, and five mission specialists. It's destination is the International Space Station or ISS. They are delivering some parts for the ISS -- a few trusses, some batteries, and some replacement solar panels. That sounds like it could be a run to Home Depot, except with a $500 million dollar delivery charge. But it's worth it, because not only will the crew deliver the parts, they will install them at no additional charge. Since they would have nothing to do in orbit anyway, other then stare out the window until their return, they agreed to install the upgrades. So, over and above their delivery mission, what's so special about STS-119? It turns out that our Country is only planning 10 more space shuttle launches. With the end of STS-119's mission in about 13 days, we will have only 9 more to go. Considering I grew up with the space shuttle, learning about it and writing reports in grade school and then following those early missions as a high school student (STS-1 took place in April 1981), it's kind of sad that after thirty years it's all coming to an end. But after the shuttle program is retired we are off to the moon, so that is perhaps, even more exciting. And then to Mars.
So getting back to the launch, there was a bit of uncertainty hanging in the air, but we wouldn't have to wait long to know if there would be a delay, plus, the beach was crowded with space enthusiasts wanting to cheer the launch on as well, so we were not waiting alone. I checked the clock on my cell phone, the launch was set for 7:43 and it was 7:41. Two minutes to go, not sufficient time to run back to the car to retrieve my daughter's glasses. It seemed to me that she forgot her glasses for the last launch as well, so I asked her. She had. Oh well, that was probably my fault then too. No glasses and no camera, well perhaps I will just try to take a picture in my mind, and perhaps I can write about it when I get home, if this launch inspires me.
Those were my thoughts as we all waited and stared north towards the haze covered point of Cape Canaveral. The Discovery however, sits atop its pile of solid rocket propellant and liquid oxygen at a launch pad on Kennedy Space Center, which is a few miles further north of the Cape. So from our vantage point, along with the curvature of the earth, we cannot actually see the launch pad directly. It takes a few seconds directly after ignition, to see what's creating the glow on the horizon. But if you can picture looking north down a long white beach with true turquoise waves breaking all the way up the coast, almost 20 miles to the Cape, and with an evening clear enough to see that far in the twilight, in fact sunset had actually occurred at 7:31. You could still see the white of the beach and the blue of the sky. At a few seconds past 7:43 pm the glow in the distance began. There was no sound, at least not from the launch, as soon as the bright orange ball of fire appeared slowly rising above the horizon a cheer from all along the beach erupted. Not the cheer of thousands but the cheer of hundreds, although further muffled by the strong warm breeze blowing from the surf.
As the orange ball slowly rises above the horizon at this distant point it begins to paint the surrounding haze in a glow of orange, pink, and red. Then a small ball of fire breaks above the haze and appears to be riding on top of a clearly visible column of smoke. This smoke trailing from the trust generated by its solid rocket boosters. As the column of smoke stretches higher and higher into the sky it begins to change color. First it is grey in the haze but above the haze it begins to turn a bright orange, almost the color of the blazing ball of fire itself. But then as the ball of flame rises steadily higher it leaves it's orange color impregnated on the column of smoke. As the column of smoke gets longer and longer it begins to change color again as it begins an easterly arch into the heavens. First the column of billowy smoke is orange and then it is red and then it is pink. Finally the column turns bright white, a pure white as bright as the whitest cloud on a summer's day against a crystal blue sky. It is the immediatly identifiable white plume against a blue sky of a space shuttle launch, it could be nothing else. It was not apparent until this very point that the palette of colors that were we seeing, was not man made. The deep colors were coming from the heavenly made light of a Florida sunset being filtered through the lower atmosphere and painting the skyward reaching pure white canvas of a man-made rocket exhaust plume. As the billowy tower continued to rise and was high enough to be directly in line with the sun which was now well below the horizon, it turned back to its original pure white color. The crew of STS-119 was creating their own sunrise and we were watching them do it.
Shortly after the plume turned white those of us on the beach, thirty miles away from the pad, finally heard the sound of the launch. A massive rumbling, that was not loud, but powerful and shook the ground and the air we were breathing. At that point I looked around and was treated to the sight of hundreds of well wishers lined up further down the beach, perhaps for another ten miles, all with the flashes of their cameras trying to capture that same moment in time. As I gazed back at the arch of man made and heavenly color I thought to myself, awesome, just awesome, and my daughter exclaimed that it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. I guess she didn't need her glasses after all. But the show was not over, the sunset would hang on the white tapestry for many more minutes, and as the shuttle reached 200,000 feet with the helpful thrust from it's solid rocket boosters now over, the column of color and light abruptly ended with three pinpoints of light now being seen high and in the distance. Two tiny stars falling away from one brighter star that was making it's way higher and higher into the darkening sky. And then a single point of light moving further and futher down range already hundreds of miles over the Atlantic. Within nine minutes it will be over Africa. Within 11 minutes the shuttle would be in orbit. I am left with an awesome sense of both the power of God and the power of man.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
The Message of the Flag
Never has there been a better example of the medium becoming the message then the debate recently over the ban lifted by Secretary of Defense Gates originally prohibiting news organizations from photographing the flag draped coffins of our fallen heroes coming home from war aboard the cargo aircraft at Dover AFB, Delaware. Can there be anything more personal and private to a grieving family? Can there be anything more sensational than wrapping anything in the American flag? If the cargo bays of those C-141 aircraft were filled with plain pine boxes would there still be the same sensational photo opportunity? Draping those coffins is about paying the ultimate respect from a grateful nation for our warriors who have selflessly paid the ultimate sacrifice.
Those remains are sacred. Regardless what one might think politically of the war, any war, or the how and why of the existence of those remains, to exploit them in any way, is to disrespect the life, not the government that was ultimately responsible for the death. How many pictures of these coffin's, draped with flags, in the cargo bay of a C-141 do we need in our newspapers and magazines? We've all seen the pictures, there is nothing unique about them. Each picture is exactly the same visually -- it's only when you tie the exact picture to the remains of a certain friend or loved one that you invoke their precise memory. That is a personal and private sentiment known only to those close to the loved one lost. The physical content of the photo, in that case, is of sacred importance. To those who do not have a personal connection with the photo, the content is of little importance.
What becomes important is everything else. The powerful imagery of the aircraft, the soldiers in escort, the clean stark nature of the cargo bay, the all too important number of boxes, and of course the most powerful imagery of all, the clean and bright stars and stripes pulled neat and tight around each container. If you desire this picture there is a generic one available to you. If you are a family member you can get the exact one that is meaningful to you. However, the last time I checked, funeral photographer was not high up on the list of all time best career choices. So what is the drive behind these photographs? In our society, if you follow the money, most of the time you can find the motivation. Clearly these are not photo's that the families of the fallen would pay for in sufficiently profitable ways for a casket photographer to make money. Again, how many pictures of the same scene will continue to make the front page of Time or the USA Today? Who will continue to pay for these photo's?
Only those with an interest in exploiting these pictures for some other purpose could possibly behind Secretary Gates lifting the ban. I applaud him for lifting the ban in the interest of an open Country not wanting appear as if they are trying to hide the cost of war. Also, by allowing the privacy of the pictures to be determined by the family is the right measure. If the family member has a political ax to grind, and wants to believe that a picture of their loved one's flag draped casket is an important message about the war that must be conveyed, they can release the picture into the public domain. Once it's out, how then it is used, and how the message to be conveyed, is no longer in their hands. Is it a message of thanks from a grateful nation for a national hero who paid the ultimate sacrifice, or is it message of hatred for a country who is responsible for their death in an unjust and an unwanted war? A framed picture hanging on the mantle at home, or a picture on the front page of the Washington Post. The medium is clearly the message.
Those remains are sacred. Regardless what one might think politically of the war, any war, or the how and why of the existence of those remains, to exploit them in any way, is to disrespect the life, not the government that was ultimately responsible for the death. How many pictures of these coffin's, draped with flags, in the cargo bay of a C-141 do we need in our newspapers and magazines? We've all seen the pictures, there is nothing unique about them. Each picture is exactly the same visually -- it's only when you tie the exact picture to the remains of a certain friend or loved one that you invoke their precise memory. That is a personal and private sentiment known only to those close to the loved one lost. The physical content of the photo, in that case, is of sacred importance. To those who do not have a personal connection with the photo, the content is of little importance.
What becomes important is everything else. The powerful imagery of the aircraft, the soldiers in escort, the clean stark nature of the cargo bay, the all too important number of boxes, and of course the most powerful imagery of all, the clean and bright stars and stripes pulled neat and tight around each container. If you desire this picture there is a generic one available to you. If you are a family member you can get the exact one that is meaningful to you. However, the last time I checked, funeral photographer was not high up on the list of all time best career choices. So what is the drive behind these photographs? In our society, if you follow the money, most of the time you can find the motivation. Clearly these are not photo's that the families of the fallen would pay for in sufficiently profitable ways for a casket photographer to make money. Again, how many pictures of the same scene will continue to make the front page of Time or the USA Today? Who will continue to pay for these photo's?
Only those with an interest in exploiting these pictures for some other purpose could possibly behind Secretary Gates lifting the ban. I applaud him for lifting the ban in the interest of an open Country not wanting appear as if they are trying to hide the cost of war. Also, by allowing the privacy of the pictures to be determined by the family is the right measure. If the family member has a political ax to grind, and wants to believe that a picture of their loved one's flag draped casket is an important message about the war that must be conveyed, they can release the picture into the public domain. Once it's out, how then it is used, and how the message to be conveyed, is no longer in their hands. Is it a message of thanks from a grateful nation for a national hero who paid the ultimate sacrifice, or is it message of hatred for a country who is responsible for their death in an unjust and an unwanted war? A framed picture hanging on the mantle at home, or a picture on the front page of the Washington Post. The medium is clearly the message.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Letter to A Bureaucrat
This post was written a few years ago - there was never a resolution. We lost.
Recently a friend of mine who plays lunchtime pickup game of soccer received an email from a bureaucrat with the National Park Service. The email required that the lunchtime pickup game of soccer be ended. A quote from the email reads, “The National Park Service (George Washington Memorial Parkway) operates under a series of regulations which are designed to protect the resources and we are not at liberty to randomly enforce them”. Then he cites from the regulation, 36 CFR (7-1-01 Edition), Ch. 1 Part 7.96. He obviously believes he is enforcing this regulation and therefore applies it to the casual game of lunchtime pickup soccer that now must end.
First some history-
Pick-up soccer, as with all pick-up games, is not an organized athletic event. Running at lunchtime, even though many people may do it, is not an organized event either. To suggest that lunch is an organized activity is a bizarre twist of facts. Pick-up soccer, for those who play several times a week, is indeed as regular as clockwork. It is far from organized. It is not the competition that compels us to play – a necessary aspect of all organized athletics. It is not the physical exercise. What compels players to play pick up soccer is the sheer freedom of this activity. There is no league, there are no fees, and thus there is no profit. There are no boundaries, there are no team loyalties, there is no championship match, and there are no winners or losers. This lack of organization is exactly what makes this activity of great appeal to those who play. There is only a fellowship with the grass, a diversion from our daily thoughts, and the ability to breathe fresh air.
All it takes to play soccer is a patch of grass. In many parts of the world grass isn’t even a requirement. It’s tough to say that a pick-up game of soccer played by children on a dirt lot in a small town in Central America is an organized sport simply because it is played everyday at the same time – after school. It is tough to say any pick-up game is an organized affair. It is by its very nature an unorganized game that “picks-up” when the time and condition are right. Lunchtime, recess, or a carefree Sunday morning are all the right times. A patch of grass is the right condition.
In most pick-up games last names are unknown, first names and nicknames are all that are used. There are no rosters. If you come to a pick-up game played at the Pentagon long enough you will run into many faces that you recognize – but not the uniforms. It’s surprising to note that the player you passed the ball to yesterday is wearing the rank of Lt Cmdr in the US Navy today. It’s surprising to note that the player who beat you in the air and scored with his head after a perfectly crossed ball was a Senior Airman in the US Air Force. It’s also surprising to note that on this occasion a Brigadier General in the US Army showed up and crossed the ball to the Senior Airman.
Our patch of grass was originally the rolling park beneath the Pentagon mall entrance. The game was played three days a week all year long and had been occurring for the past 25 years. That game was disrupted when the new postal facility was constructed to move potential threats from these deliveries. The Pentagon Building manager and Pentagon Grounds Manager responded quickly to allow us to meet at lunch on the lower drill field just above the marina. Here we ran and played below the windows of Cohen and later Rumsfeld. And this patch of grass was unlike any other soccer pitch any of us had ever played on. 100% grass – but not just any grass – a soft thick carpet of grass with soft earth to hold the roots and allow the grass to grow and thrive. Some different rules applied – no playing when the ground was wet or after the first snow, no playing again until after the new seed in the spring began to germinate. We can play within these rules. Unfortunately this patch of heaven was violently ripped from our hands after 9/11 after which the Pentagon Helicopter Port was temporarily moved to our patch of grass. For a time we played on – sharing the field with our rotary winged friends. We stopped only for their arrival or departure – unable to hear from the turbine noise but able to feel every beat of the blades and the burst of wind from the rotor wash. 9/11 also took one of our own – Navy Lt Cmdr Bill Donovan. Most of us did not know his last name or rank until his picture appeared in the news. We stood down for a few days to honor those who fell. We continue to play on to honor those who fell.
With new construction about to reroute Route 110 directly across our sacred grass we will permanently lose this playing area. We looked to the National Park Land that surrounds the Pentagon for an alternate location. We found one - A large grassy island in the middle of the George Washington Parkway. There are no nature trails, there is no wildlife in harms way, and there is no risk of environmental damage. Since we have been playing there we have heard no complaints from the owners of this property - the public - and we have interfered with no one. It is our national park – we live in the National Capital Region. We would like to use our national park system. But we cannot for the regulation reads: “(b) Athletics - (1) Permits for organized games; "Playing baseball, football, croquet, tennis, and other organized games or sports except pursuant to a permit and upon the grounds provided for such purposes, is prohibited."
Oddly enough under the same regulation, although we cannot play an organized game we could assemble in an organized protest. Therefore it is time to organize a protest. This protest would be a demonstration of our rights to use our national parks in ways that strengthen our minds and bodies. This protest would take the form of a non-violent activity. We would play soccer. Five days a week, all year long. Here is how it would work. Everyday, a number of players would arrive at the patch of grass known as Columbia Island/Lady Bird Johnson Park. It lies smack between opposing directions of George Washington Parkway just north of Lady Bird Johnson Park. This protest would be held daily between 12 pm and 1 pm. The protest will consist of a group of protesters continuously running through the grass for exactly 60 minutes each day. The protestors will zigzag, crisscross, run sideways, forwards, and back and forth. And the demonstrators will kick the head of a government bureaucrat at the National Park Service between their feet. Occasionally they will take aim and shoot the ball in an attempt to bounce this effigy off one of two portable soapboxes placed at each end of the park. These soapboxes are permitted structures allowed under the regulation and are positioned for orators to speak from in the event someone would like to talk at our protests – it’s not required that anyone speaks. We cannot play – organized games are prohibited. We can certainly protest – and the best part of this is that we will not require a permit. Protests that number less than 25 do not require such organization and planning – unless it is anticipated that a large crowd will be drawn to watch. Drawing a crowd seems unlikely as this particular patch of grass is an island locked between lanes of traffic on George Washington Parkway. It’s about a mile run from the closest building, the Pentagon. And there are no trails to or through this section of the national park. There are also no concessions, facilities, or benches to sit on.
This is our national park. This land belongs to everyone. This land does not belong to some pencil neck bureaucrat who temporarily has the job of “protecting the resources” and ensuring that he does not “randomly enforce” his sacred regulations. If the Pentagon were in Yosemite we might choose to rock climb at lunch. If the Pentagon were in Yellowstone we might choose to hunt or fish. These parks also belong to us as well. They are just a little less convenient to get to on our lunch break. This particular park happens to be a fairly flat stretch of grass within our lunchtime reach. Some individuals chose to spend this time running like children at recess through this National grass. There is no organization and there is no protest in doing so. There is freedom and the ability to breathe. What more can they ask? What better use is there for our National Parks?
Recently a friend of mine who plays lunchtime pickup game of soccer received an email from a bureaucrat with the National Park Service. The email required that the lunchtime pickup game of soccer be ended. A quote from the email reads, “The National Park Service (George Washington Memorial Parkway) operates under a series of regulations which are designed to protect the resources and we are not at liberty to randomly enforce them”. Then he cites from the regulation, 36 CFR (7-1-01 Edition), Ch. 1 Part 7.96. He obviously believes he is enforcing this regulation and therefore applies it to the casual game of lunchtime pickup soccer that now must end.
First some history-
Pick-up soccer, as with all pick-up games, is not an organized athletic event. Running at lunchtime, even though many people may do it, is not an organized event either. To suggest that lunch is an organized activity is a bizarre twist of facts. Pick-up soccer, for those who play several times a week, is indeed as regular as clockwork. It is far from organized. It is not the competition that compels us to play – a necessary aspect of all organized athletics. It is not the physical exercise. What compels players to play pick up soccer is the sheer freedom of this activity. There is no league, there are no fees, and thus there is no profit. There are no boundaries, there are no team loyalties, there is no championship match, and there are no winners or losers. This lack of organization is exactly what makes this activity of great appeal to those who play. There is only a fellowship with the grass, a diversion from our daily thoughts, and the ability to breathe fresh air.
All it takes to play soccer is a patch of grass. In many parts of the world grass isn’t even a requirement. It’s tough to say that a pick-up game of soccer played by children on a dirt lot in a small town in Central America is an organized sport simply because it is played everyday at the same time – after school. It is tough to say any pick-up game is an organized affair. It is by its very nature an unorganized game that “picks-up” when the time and condition are right. Lunchtime, recess, or a carefree Sunday morning are all the right times. A patch of grass is the right condition.
In most pick-up games last names are unknown, first names and nicknames are all that are used. There are no rosters. If you come to a pick-up game played at the Pentagon long enough you will run into many faces that you recognize – but not the uniforms. It’s surprising to note that the player you passed the ball to yesterday is wearing the rank of Lt Cmdr in the US Navy today. It’s surprising to note that the player who beat you in the air and scored with his head after a perfectly crossed ball was a Senior Airman in the US Air Force. It’s also surprising to note that on this occasion a Brigadier General in the US Army showed up and crossed the ball to the Senior Airman.
Our patch of grass was originally the rolling park beneath the Pentagon mall entrance. The game was played three days a week all year long and had been occurring for the past 25 years. That game was disrupted when the new postal facility was constructed to move potential threats from these deliveries. The Pentagon Building manager and Pentagon Grounds Manager responded quickly to allow us to meet at lunch on the lower drill field just above the marina. Here we ran and played below the windows of Cohen and later Rumsfeld. And this patch of grass was unlike any other soccer pitch any of us had ever played on. 100% grass – but not just any grass – a soft thick carpet of grass with soft earth to hold the roots and allow the grass to grow and thrive. Some different rules applied – no playing when the ground was wet or after the first snow, no playing again until after the new seed in the spring began to germinate. We can play within these rules. Unfortunately this patch of heaven was violently ripped from our hands after 9/11 after which the Pentagon Helicopter Port was temporarily moved to our patch of grass. For a time we played on – sharing the field with our rotary winged friends. We stopped only for their arrival or departure – unable to hear from the turbine noise but able to feel every beat of the blades and the burst of wind from the rotor wash. 9/11 also took one of our own – Navy Lt Cmdr Bill Donovan. Most of us did not know his last name or rank until his picture appeared in the news. We stood down for a few days to honor those who fell. We continue to play on to honor those who fell.
With new construction about to reroute Route 110 directly across our sacred grass we will permanently lose this playing area. We looked to the National Park Land that surrounds the Pentagon for an alternate location. We found one - A large grassy island in the middle of the George Washington Parkway. There are no nature trails, there is no wildlife in harms way, and there is no risk of environmental damage. Since we have been playing there we have heard no complaints from the owners of this property - the public - and we have interfered with no one. It is our national park – we live in the National Capital Region. We would like to use our national park system. But we cannot for the regulation reads: “(b) Athletics - (1) Permits for organized games; "Playing baseball, football, croquet, tennis, and other organized games or sports except pursuant to a permit and upon the grounds provided for such purposes, is prohibited."
Oddly enough under the same regulation, although we cannot play an organized game we could assemble in an organized protest. Therefore it is time to organize a protest. This protest would be a demonstration of our rights to use our national parks in ways that strengthen our minds and bodies. This protest would take the form of a non-violent activity. We would play soccer. Five days a week, all year long. Here is how it would work. Everyday, a number of players would arrive at the patch of grass known as Columbia Island/Lady Bird Johnson Park. It lies smack between opposing directions of George Washington Parkway just north of Lady Bird Johnson Park. This protest would be held daily between 12 pm and 1 pm. The protest will consist of a group of protesters continuously running through the grass for exactly 60 minutes each day. The protestors will zigzag, crisscross, run sideways, forwards, and back and forth. And the demonstrators will kick the head of a government bureaucrat at the National Park Service between their feet. Occasionally they will take aim and shoot the ball in an attempt to bounce this effigy off one of two portable soapboxes placed at each end of the park. These soapboxes are permitted structures allowed under the regulation and are positioned for orators to speak from in the event someone would like to talk at our protests – it’s not required that anyone speaks. We cannot play – organized games are prohibited. We can certainly protest – and the best part of this is that we will not require a permit. Protests that number less than 25 do not require such organization and planning – unless it is anticipated that a large crowd will be drawn to watch. Drawing a crowd seems unlikely as this particular patch of grass is an island locked between lanes of traffic on George Washington Parkway. It’s about a mile run from the closest building, the Pentagon. And there are no trails to or through this section of the national park. There are also no concessions, facilities, or benches to sit on.
This is our national park. This land belongs to everyone. This land does not belong to some pencil neck bureaucrat who temporarily has the job of “protecting the resources” and ensuring that he does not “randomly enforce” his sacred regulations. If the Pentagon were in Yosemite we might choose to rock climb at lunch. If the Pentagon were in Yellowstone we might choose to hunt or fish. These parks also belong to us as well. They are just a little less convenient to get to on our lunch break. This particular park happens to be a fairly flat stretch of grass within our lunchtime reach. Some individuals chose to spend this time running like children at recess through this National grass. There is no organization and there is no protest in doing so. There is freedom and the ability to breathe. What more can they ask? What better use is there for our National Parks?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Whale Wars Must Go!
I've been reading a lot of Marshall McLuhan lately. It's been pretty difficult. It's not clear to me if the subject matter is uninteresting; if the content is so esoteric that you have to be McLuhan himself in order to understand it -- which includes the fact that every other day I'm not sure I understand it; Or if I'm simply wasting my precious time. But recently, events from another source have reminded me that, as McLuhan has said, " It is sometimes a bit of a shock to be reminded that, in operational and practical fact, the medium is the message." So what in the cheap seats did he mean? We can go around and around with this and at the end of the day, even if you believe the medium is the message, what do you do with this practical knowledge.
So here simply, as a practical example, is what I want to blog about today – should the TV production of "Whale Wars" be taken off the air? We are, in fact, witnessing, perhaps for the very first time, a prime time terrorist reality show sanctioned by American television. What happened to the GWOT? The message, quite apart from saving the whales, is that this type of behavior and sensationalism is normal--even though it is far from normal. This is not a Hollywood production of a terrorist event, movies for the most part, just like we learn in cartoons, are fiction. They are a different medium with a different message altogether. They are visual novels meant for pure entertainment and emotional stimulus – they are not intended to solve world hunger. Which, as an aside, is why we get so indignant when a foolish director/writer/producer thinks they can insert a message into our emotional fun park. They should knock that crap off and concentrate on their medium -- that's what makes a good movie.
Also, I'm not a big believer in the desensitization of people because of TV violence for instance. But this whale wars reality show is a bit different. An author of the blog I read, on whale wars, believes or hopes that ultimately the show will hurt the Sea Sheppard cause. It will convince us rational folk, that the better group to save the whales is not the crack pot, "borderline" terrorist organization; it is other kinder and gentler outfits like Greenpeace. I think the blogger is wrong on this one – not because I disagree with what the public in general will ultimately believe, but because what world wide fringe elements of society will take away as a more general case of acceptable forms of violent protest, and the idea that we would let dangerous ideas play out in our free market economy, is much worse.
As we move from the specific to the general the message begins to emerge. What is Japan to think -- this is a legitimized (by TV) group from the US now terrorising their whaling industry. Is this not akin to Somalia having a reality show highlighting daily pirating activity? Suddenly I feel like I'm living in Somalia, or worse. Now, what I am advocating here is absolutely contrary to my ideas on free speech and the associated liberties of a free society. However, I believe we've all been in agreement previously on censorship for certain things that cross the line. I firmly believe that a terrorist reality show crosses that line. I bring up the GWOT one more time just for effect.
We've just been witness to the first Internet suicide. Clearly, we all know that crosses the line. Again, how can the United States allow a show, crazies included or not, on terrorism make network television? It has to end or we are all hypocrites of the 1st order. So Animal Planet needs to take whale wars off the air – regardless of what plays out in the market. No reason to let this one go a full season. I firmly believe Animal Planet will come to their senses, lest the backlash that my blogger friend is willing to wait for takes down the entire network. Greenpeace backed away from the issue -- they fought hard for their legitimacy in the world -- they are not going to screw that up due to some crack pot with a video camera. Same with Animal Planet - they have a medium with a stronger message that they need to preserve. What happens on American television legitimizes our way of life, world wide. We are currently in the mist building a global society -- terrorism and the accompanying lawlessness it portents is a threat to us all. The medium of American television is the message -- and in this case we can do something practical about it. Whale wars must go!
So here simply, as a practical example, is what I want to blog about today – should the TV production of "Whale Wars" be taken off the air? We are, in fact, witnessing, perhaps for the very first time, a prime time terrorist reality show sanctioned by American television. What happened to the GWOT? The message, quite apart from saving the whales, is that this type of behavior and sensationalism is normal--even though it is far from normal. This is not a Hollywood production of a terrorist event, movies for the most part, just like we learn in cartoons, are fiction. They are a different medium with a different message altogether. They are visual novels meant for pure entertainment and emotional stimulus – they are not intended to solve world hunger. Which, as an aside, is why we get so indignant when a foolish director/writer/producer thinks they can insert a message into our emotional fun park. They should knock that crap off and concentrate on their medium -- that's what makes a good movie.
Also, I'm not a big believer in the desensitization of people because of TV violence for instance. But this whale wars reality show is a bit different. An author of the blog I read, on whale wars, believes or hopes that ultimately the show will hurt the Sea Sheppard cause. It will convince us rational folk, that the better group to save the whales is not the crack pot, "borderline" terrorist organization; it is other kinder and gentler outfits like Greenpeace. I think the blogger is wrong on this one – not because I disagree with what the public in general will ultimately believe, but because what world wide fringe elements of society will take away as a more general case of acceptable forms of violent protest, and the idea that we would let dangerous ideas play out in our free market economy, is much worse.
As we move from the specific to the general the message begins to emerge. What is Japan to think -- this is a legitimized (by TV) group from the US now terrorising their whaling industry. Is this not akin to Somalia having a reality show highlighting daily pirating activity? Suddenly I feel like I'm living in Somalia, or worse. Now, what I am advocating here is absolutely contrary to my ideas on free speech and the associated liberties of a free society. However, I believe we've all been in agreement previously on censorship for certain things that cross the line. I firmly believe that a terrorist reality show crosses that line. I bring up the GWOT one more time just for effect.
We've just been witness to the first Internet suicide. Clearly, we all know that crosses the line. Again, how can the United States allow a show, crazies included or not, on terrorism make network television? It has to end or we are all hypocrites of the 1st order. So Animal Planet needs to take whale wars off the air – regardless of what plays out in the market. No reason to let this one go a full season. I firmly believe Animal Planet will come to their senses, lest the backlash that my blogger friend is willing to wait for takes down the entire network. Greenpeace backed away from the issue -- they fought hard for their legitimacy in the world -- they are not going to screw that up due to some crack pot with a video camera. Same with Animal Planet - they have a medium with a stronger message that they need to preserve. What happens on American television legitimizes our way of life, world wide. We are currently in the mist building a global society -- terrorism and the accompanying lawlessness it portents is a threat to us all. The medium of American television is the message -- and in this case we can do something practical about it. Whale wars must go!
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Mooch is a Mooch
I just finished reading the book "Mooch", by Dan Fante. I consider reading this book highly appropriate since my nickname, and the name of this blog for that matter, is Mooch. I enjoyed the book. Here is the overinflated, 5-star review, I posted on Amazon.com. How could I help but give it rave reviews?
" Brilliant! What Orwell would have written had he tried telemarketing instead of dish washing. What Fitzgerald would have written had he known about the "Big Book". What Kerouac did write except for his audience in the late 40's required PG-13 only. Fante get's it right. You are down and out, on the road, and in love with a muse that is every bit as crazy as Fitzgerald's own Zelda. It's all there. The insanity, the recovery, the obsession and the biggest mooch of them all, Fante himself. Since a mooch can be a free loader, a drug addict, a wanderer, or a sucker, you have to read the book to decide which definition Fante is using. I'm off to find the rest of his books."
Well perhaps I'm not actually off to find the rest of Fante's books -- but I was definitely taken by his writing and I may, one day, venture into some of his father's novels as well. Apparently John Fante, was quite the novelist, however never really being recognized during his actual life, he was reduced to scraping out a meager living writing for TV and Hollywood. Just like Fitzgerald. But for today, I am interested in a subject much closer to home. I am interested in my very own nickname, "Mooch". Why do I have it? What does it mean? It has been a natural name in some instances, it has been the source of interesting reactions from some people, perhaps a bit to polite to call me "a" mooch. Which, perhaps, if you use all of Fante's definitions might not be too far from the truth. But let's explore this word "Mooch" , just for a little, before we decide.
As I have mentioned, Fante has, I am sure, been playing with all four definitions of Mooch. He wouldn't have used the word for his title if he didn't have some affinity with the word itself and perhaps it's multiple meanings. The first definition, and the one with the most universal negative connotation has to be that of a free loader. A mooch is someone who, well, mooches. You can mooch cigarettes, mooch money, mooch places to stay. If there is anything to be had for free, a mooch is probably close by trying to ply their moochy trade. We all mooch off our parents for at least the first 16 years of our life -- some of us much (or mooch) longer. A mooch can be a sponge or a parasite. I'm personally glad the kid's cartoon, however, is named after the sponge. I'm not sure there is room in our world for me and a yellow mooch with square pants.
Now whereas I could be guilty of mooching from my parents, from time to time, I could never be guilty of being the mooch known as the drug addict. The sorry sort who is so addicted to their chosen drug that all other pursuits in life become irrelevant. This sorry mooch is in a never ending quest for their next fix. Most of us, fortunately, never become the addicts of such destructive behaviour that we commit crimes in search of our chosen high. However, don't be so sure that a seemingly innocent obsession, doesn't necessarily qualify you as a mooch. Most of us do know the addition of Love, for instance, either for a spouse or a child. The obsession, or the tie, to such another type of addicting drug that happens to comes with our emotions. Fools rush in. Perhaps a fool is a mooch -- a fool certainly fits the definition of mooch yet to come. But do we have to look so far to find coffee or caffeine junkies. Certainly, these addictions too, could or should qualify for the mooch moniker. Do the Dew, Mooch! The voice of the entire Generation X. So high adrenaline, highly addictive sports are probably in. But what about other activities we simply pursue with passion. Soccer, for instance, in my case.
Aside from my own personal morning fix of Mountain Dew, soccer could be my greatest addiction. And, as it turns out, the fundamental reason I am called Mooch. Calling Mooch, on the soccer field, it seems, is the quickest way to receive a pass from, well, Mooch. But what of this Mooch. Where did it come from? My name is Muccio. Americanized by my grandfather in New York City in the early part of the 19th Century. He was an immigrant from Italy it seems the family he brought with him was Mucia -- pronounced "Mew-Cee-Ah". In Italian the single "c" is pronounced as a soft "cee". My grandfather was not the only Mucia in New York City and he kept receiving the other guy's mail. So one day he went down to the court house and changed the final "a" in his name to an "o" and added the second "c" to the middle of his name. Muccio was the result. He pronounced it "Mew-Cee-Oh", instead of, it seems, the more appropriate actual Italian pronunciation of the double "cc" as a "ch" as in "church", or "Mew-Chee-Oh". However, since no one can be bothered to make the effort to pronounce the "Mew" and the "Chee" together, it's too difficult. You can either make the effort to say "Mew" or make the effort to say "Chee", never both. So the result is that, the family pronounces our name "Mew-cee-oh". But Italian's who come across the name, instinctively want to say "Chee" and a soft "Moo" slips out ahead of it. The end result is a pronunciation of the form "Mooch-ee-oh". Verse the more Americanized "Moose-ee-oh", which resulted, of course, in my father being called "Moose" for most of his life. For some reason, "Moose" never caught on with me -- perhaps because I ran track with an upperclassman named "Moose" -- and he already laid claim. My father, has admitted however, that some of his friends in New York, did in fact, call him "Mooch". But for him, it was "Moose" that caught on. Conveniently leaving Mooch for me to use and ponder.
Back to the book. Dan Fante's main character, Bruno Dante, however is not addicted to Mountain Dew or soccer. He is an alcoholic. For most of the book, though, he is struggling to stay on the wagon. It is the characters around him that fall, and, eventually drag him back into the hell that is drug abuse. His friend's, his business associates, just about everyone he comes in contact with is either an addict or a recovering addict. And everyone in this story is looking for a hand out. Everyone is looking to survive as best they can, taking what is given to them, trying to take what is not given to them, and attending to their given addiction. They are all mooches of the first and second sort. In the process, they move about from place to place. They drift. A third definition for a mooch is a wanderer. The route of this definition is not clear, at all, but the use of the phrase, "too mooch around", literally means to wander around, from place to place. Bruno Dante wanders too. He mooches from place to place and he is a mooch, taking what he can from who he can. And finally, he is an addict. Not just for his chosen drug but for the love he has for for the girl in this great American Novel. The crazy muse that gives his life meaning and drives him to the brink of despair and almost death. She is also a mooch -- wandering from job to job and from addiction to addiction, taking what she can from who she can. When she runs into Bruno, she has met her moochly match.
Oddly, of all these meanings, definitions, and human behaviour Fante uses to illustrate his story, he only explicitly defines Mooch once, and it's none of these definitions. Fante define's mooch in it's forth state. A mooch is the target of a telemarketer's sale. It is used in a derogatory manner to refer to a client who has just been hooked and closed into a sale. This is the definition given to the word by grifters, or two-bit con-artists to discuss their mark, or the sucker to be taken advantage of during the con. A mooch is to a con-artist as a John is to a prostitute would be the appropriate and necessary seedy analogy. But to make the definition more general, just about anybody who is suckered into doing something they would rather not, or once in possession of all the facts, would not do. A sucker by any other definition, and of course, as we all know, a sucker is born every minute. "There, but for the grace of God, go I." Indeed, by this definition, couldn't we all be considered, "Mooch"? Is not being a mooch a part of the universal human condition. Fante hit's the nail on the head with this definition. So the struggle, the actual human drama that the hero must overcome in order to move forward in this story comes from this definition of mooch. It is the mooches that can lift his life out of poverty -- if he can sell enough unwanted product too them. But it is the mooches around him that can drag him just as quickly down. Put another way, we all have something to sell in this world, we are just looking for a Mooch to buy it. Conversely, everybody has something to sell us, we just hope we don't play the Mooch every-time. Fante has, infact, touched us all. Isn't that the essence of the Great American Novel?
So, in the end, and we find Bruno, discovering his mooch-hood, and it takes his obsession and love for the biggest mooch of them all to lead him to the promised land. It is in the very last line of the book that he chooses to stop the madness. And as his mooch, begs him for one more sale, as he plays her mooch, he decides to no longer stay in the game, and ironically hangs up the phone, no longer willing to be the mooch. I will need to read the sequel to "Mooch" to discover if the main character, has truly shed his Moochliness.
As for me, call me Mooch. I'm sure I have been a Mooch at somepoint in my life, maybe more than once.
" Brilliant! What Orwell would have written had he tried telemarketing instead of dish washing. What Fitzgerald would have written had he known about the "Big Book". What Kerouac did write except for his audience in the late 40's required PG-13 only. Fante get's it right. You are down and out, on the road, and in love with a muse that is every bit as crazy as Fitzgerald's own Zelda. It's all there. The insanity, the recovery, the obsession and the biggest mooch of them all, Fante himself. Since a mooch can be a free loader, a drug addict, a wanderer, or a sucker, you have to read the book to decide which definition Fante is using. I'm off to find the rest of his books."
Well perhaps I'm not actually off to find the rest of Fante's books -- but I was definitely taken by his writing and I may, one day, venture into some of his father's novels as well. Apparently John Fante, was quite the novelist, however never really being recognized during his actual life, he was reduced to scraping out a meager living writing for TV and Hollywood. Just like Fitzgerald. But for today, I am interested in a subject much closer to home. I am interested in my very own nickname, "Mooch". Why do I have it? What does it mean? It has been a natural name in some instances, it has been the source of interesting reactions from some people, perhaps a bit to polite to call me "a" mooch. Which, perhaps, if you use all of Fante's definitions might not be too far from the truth. But let's explore this word "Mooch" , just for a little, before we decide.
As I have mentioned, Fante has, I am sure, been playing with all four definitions of Mooch. He wouldn't have used the word for his title if he didn't have some affinity with the word itself and perhaps it's multiple meanings. The first definition, and the one with the most universal negative connotation has to be that of a free loader. A mooch is someone who, well, mooches. You can mooch cigarettes, mooch money, mooch places to stay. If there is anything to be had for free, a mooch is probably close by trying to ply their moochy trade. We all mooch off our parents for at least the first 16 years of our life -- some of us much (or mooch) longer. A mooch can be a sponge or a parasite. I'm personally glad the kid's cartoon, however, is named after the sponge. I'm not sure there is room in our world for me and a yellow mooch with square pants.
Now whereas I could be guilty of mooching from my parents, from time to time, I could never be guilty of being the mooch known as the drug addict. The sorry sort who is so addicted to their chosen drug that all other pursuits in life become irrelevant. This sorry mooch is in a never ending quest for their next fix. Most of us, fortunately, never become the addicts of such destructive behaviour that we commit crimes in search of our chosen high. However, don't be so sure that a seemingly innocent obsession, doesn't necessarily qualify you as a mooch. Most of us do know the addition of Love, for instance, either for a spouse or a child. The obsession, or the tie, to such another type of addicting drug that happens to comes with our emotions. Fools rush in. Perhaps a fool is a mooch -- a fool certainly fits the definition of mooch yet to come. But do we have to look so far to find coffee or caffeine junkies. Certainly, these addictions too, could or should qualify for the mooch moniker. Do the Dew, Mooch! The voice of the entire Generation X. So high adrenaline, highly addictive sports are probably in. But what about other activities we simply pursue with passion. Soccer, for instance, in my case.
Aside from my own personal morning fix of Mountain Dew, soccer could be my greatest addiction. And, as it turns out, the fundamental reason I am called Mooch. Calling Mooch, on the soccer field, it seems, is the quickest way to receive a pass from, well, Mooch. But what of this Mooch. Where did it come from? My name is Muccio. Americanized by my grandfather in New York City in the early part of the 19th Century. He was an immigrant from Italy it seems the family he brought with him was Mucia -- pronounced "Mew-Cee-Ah". In Italian the single "c" is pronounced as a soft "cee". My grandfather was not the only Mucia in New York City and he kept receiving the other guy's mail. So one day he went down to the court house and changed the final "a" in his name to an "o" and added the second "c" to the middle of his name. Muccio was the result. He pronounced it "Mew-Cee-Oh", instead of, it seems, the more appropriate actual Italian pronunciation of the double "cc" as a "ch" as in "church", or "Mew-Chee-Oh". However, since no one can be bothered to make the effort to pronounce the "Mew" and the "Chee" together, it's too difficult. You can either make the effort to say "Mew" or make the effort to say "Chee", never both. So the result is that, the family pronounces our name "Mew-cee-oh". But Italian's who come across the name, instinctively want to say "Chee" and a soft "Moo" slips out ahead of it. The end result is a pronunciation of the form "Mooch-ee-oh". Verse the more Americanized "Moose-ee-oh", which resulted, of course, in my father being called "Moose" for most of his life. For some reason, "Moose" never caught on with me -- perhaps because I ran track with an upperclassman named "Moose" -- and he already laid claim. My father, has admitted however, that some of his friends in New York, did in fact, call him "Mooch". But for him, it was "Moose" that caught on. Conveniently leaving Mooch for me to use and ponder.
Back to the book. Dan Fante's main character, Bruno Dante, however is not addicted to Mountain Dew or soccer. He is an alcoholic. For most of the book, though, he is struggling to stay on the wagon. It is the characters around him that fall, and, eventually drag him back into the hell that is drug abuse. His friend's, his business associates, just about everyone he comes in contact with is either an addict or a recovering addict. And everyone in this story is looking for a hand out. Everyone is looking to survive as best they can, taking what is given to them, trying to take what is not given to them, and attending to their given addiction. They are all mooches of the first and second sort. In the process, they move about from place to place. They drift. A third definition for a mooch is a wanderer. The route of this definition is not clear, at all, but the use of the phrase, "too mooch around", literally means to wander around, from place to place. Bruno Dante wanders too. He mooches from place to place and he is a mooch, taking what he can from who he can. And finally, he is an addict. Not just for his chosen drug but for the love he has for for the girl in this great American Novel. The crazy muse that gives his life meaning and drives him to the brink of despair and almost death. She is also a mooch -- wandering from job to job and from addiction to addiction, taking what she can from who she can. When she runs into Bruno, she has met her moochly match.
Oddly, of all these meanings, definitions, and human behaviour Fante uses to illustrate his story, he only explicitly defines Mooch once, and it's none of these definitions. Fante define's mooch in it's forth state. A mooch is the target of a telemarketer's sale. It is used in a derogatory manner to refer to a client who has just been hooked and closed into a sale. This is the definition given to the word by grifters, or two-bit con-artists to discuss their mark, or the sucker to be taken advantage of during the con. A mooch is to a con-artist as a John is to a prostitute would be the appropriate and necessary seedy analogy. But to make the definition more general, just about anybody who is suckered into doing something they would rather not, or once in possession of all the facts, would not do. A sucker by any other definition, and of course, as we all know, a sucker is born every minute. "There, but for the grace of God, go I." Indeed, by this definition, couldn't we all be considered, "Mooch"? Is not being a mooch a part of the universal human condition. Fante hit's the nail on the head with this definition. So the struggle, the actual human drama that the hero must overcome in order to move forward in this story comes from this definition of mooch. It is the mooches that can lift his life out of poverty -- if he can sell enough unwanted product too them. But it is the mooches around him that can drag him just as quickly down. Put another way, we all have something to sell in this world, we are just looking for a Mooch to buy it. Conversely, everybody has something to sell us, we just hope we don't play the Mooch every-time. Fante has, infact, touched us all. Isn't that the essence of the Great American Novel?
So, in the end, and we find Bruno, discovering his mooch-hood, and it takes his obsession and love for the biggest mooch of them all to lead him to the promised land. It is in the very last line of the book that he chooses to stop the madness. And as his mooch, begs him for one more sale, as he plays her mooch, he decides to no longer stay in the game, and ironically hangs up the phone, no longer willing to be the mooch. I will need to read the sequel to "Mooch" to discover if the main character, has truly shed his Moochliness.
As for me, call me Mooch. I'm sure I have been a Mooch at somepoint in my life, maybe more than once.
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