Ripped Off and Mad As Hell

I just watched the movie that won an Oscar for Best Documentary, "Inside Job". Charles Ferguson did an extraordinary job of telling it like it really is and how it really is is damn scary and not likely to change. The financial meltdown that began in 2007 and cost many of us savings, jobs and home equity is directly due to the corrupt financial practices not only of Wall Street, but the collusion of the federal government in allowing them to do so, and worst of all, the academics of our leading universities who teach that deregulation is sound business.

 The best part of it all is that these same people in an incestuous circle, rotate through the academic world, where they are paid millions in "consulting" fees and board directorships with investment banks and firms, then go on to work in the federal government, and then go to work directly for the investment banks as well. After a time, they just go through the circle again and again, if it should get a little too hot in one area, they move to the next, like the figures in a cuckoo clock of financial insanity.

Let's say, for example, that you are the CEO of Goldman Sachs. Before that, you could have taught business at Harvard or Northwestern, and after that, you could be appointed Treasury Secretary. You continue to spout the same unethical shit in each of your positions, but that's OK, because your net worth in ten short years is now between $50 million and $500 million, depending on how much you managed to sock away. The best part of it all is that money? It came from taxpayers, homeowners and investors that the government didn't protect because there is no regulations on these thieves. How could there be? It's the fox guarding the henhouse, kiddies, and no fox is stupid enough to give the hens a hand. Silly American public, do you believe in fairy tales?  Apparently.

Take a look at these bozos - Henry Paulson, Timothy Geithner, Ben Bernanke, Larry Summers. These are just four the architects of fraud who continue to rotate as above, and it doesn't matter who's President, they play along, whether it's Reagan, Bush 1, Bush 2, Clinton or Obama. You'd like to think that a president you voted for has your best interests at heart, or at least the economic interests of the country. Silly rabbit. They don't give a shit about you and never did. It's all about the Lincoln bedroom and power, so get over it. Politicians of any stripe and investment bankers are made from the same clay and dine at the same table, and you can bet your life it's a lot fucking better than yours. Change you can believe in? O gullible voter, take a look at who's Treasury secretary right now. Also take a look at how many people or firms in the financial industry who clearly engaged in this fraud meltdown have been arrested or prosecuted: ZERO.
They did, however, get big cash bonuses and even better job opportunities. 

What's ultimately the most discouraging is the insidiousness of it, and that these same snakes are teaching business practices and ethics in the most prestigious colleges and universities in the country, (while collecting millions at the same time as hired guns, but there's no rule of disclosure of conflict of interest, isn't that nice?), and publishing papers paid for by banks, financial firms and governments while they "teach".  Any hope there is that honesty, ethics, common sense and compassion could leak into business, finance, industry or government is a feeble one, not only now, but for generations to come, since the future leaders are being "educated" and brainwashed by those who don't possess those virtues. Business schools have followed law schools down the same path. Gerry Spencer, the rogue trial lawyer from Wyoming, once warned that law schools have become simply breeding grounds for corporate clones that prop up the infrastructure of legal robbery for business and insurance companies. He was right, and so is Charles Ferguson.

What to do, what to do. My first thought is retreat to a cabin on an island in the Northwest or a beach in Honduras, write books, raise dogs and tomatoes, eat well and drink vodka. Not a bad plan, if a copout, but thanks to these bastards I can't afford it now. So, instead I'm writing this so maybe somebody out there will read it, investigate and start a movement to make a difference, or at least educate people. Like they say, once you know, you have a responsibility to act. Count me in when you do, but I'm no stranger to lost causes and have become too jaded and le tired for executive leadership. 

You know where to find me.

The Orca Will Not Be Fishing Today

One day, twelve years ago, the Orca entered my life. We rode the ferry to Bainbridge Island, met with a dog breeder and fell in love with a black and white puppy with brown eyes. The ferry authorities aren't wild about pets on board, but within minutes the secret was out and everyone on that ferry fell in love, too. The object of our affection we named Priest, since he looked as though he was wearing a clerical collar and had the personality of Beelzebub, therefore a good contrast. We lived in a big house with eight people and early training flew out the window in confusion as Priest lived up to his personality with a vengeance, surviving angry girls, cranky Wicket the Lhasa and many scoldings which he pretty much ignored, always a happy dog, only grumpy when someone tried to invade his "under the table" space and nipped fingers made for quick learners.
He quickly received other names that stuck just as surely, "Beast" and "Bud".

Priest was a travelin' man. His favorite place was Green Lake, and if he was missing, could usually be found there, happily running along the lake with joggers. Once he saw a clear path, which to him meant a front door ajar, a human back turned for a second, or a leash dropped, he was off like a canine rocket, sometimes accompanied by his little brother Wicket, and the neighborhood got to know them both well, even the Italian restaurant whose kitchen they frequented. Our reputation as responsible dog owners dwindled rapidly and to this day I can't fathom how they navigated the busy Seattle streets without incident, even Ravenna Blvd.

His early successes with doggie destruction were legendary: wallets, shoes, money, wingchairs, belts, books, and anything remotely edible fell victim to his appetite. After ingesting an entire loaf of bread, the plastic bag that had housed it eventually emerged as well, with help. After that he was cagier, and anything left on a kitchen counter mysteriously vanished, although whatever wrapping it may have had was untouched. Many a sandwich or piece of toast disappeared so completely,the prospective diner was left wondering if they'd had a senior moment. Priest was the master of wide-eyed innocence.

For all his transgressions, he was so happy and lovable, forgiveness was easy. He loved his kitties, Oz, Ed, Fatty Lumpkin, Leo and Harley. When we went for walks in the evening, Oz the cat accompanied us, much to the amusement of the neighborhood, trotting along beside his dog. Learning to walk on a leash was not a simple matter, and more than once I ended up face down on the sidewalk if I wasn't paying attention. Sled dogs have strong shoulders.

When Priest was three, I returned to Phoenix with him, and the travelin' man was a good companion. I had to stop at gas stations frequently. He liked to catch the breeze from the passenger side window, and every 100 miles or so the back windows were obscured with dog drool. When we arrived in Arizona it was August and the first time I opened the door for him to jump out, he promptly jumped back into the seat and fixed me with a look I knew well. He adjusted, as I did, but regretfully I broke the promise I made to him that day: "it's just for a little while, Bud, we'll go back North soon."

No more "running the ridgelines" looking for that loose board in the fence that spelled freedom, fishing for "salmon" on my knee, dancing in anticipation of dinner, head rubs, laying beside me when I exercise, long conversations in huskytalk, watching "8 Below", dashing around with Marla, or gathering up pieces of his favorite toy, the dozens of Froggies that he so loved. My little house seems very empty, but my memory is very full and I was so lucky to have had his affection and companionship for 12 years.

If there's a husky heaven, Priest is running through snow, playing with Froggy and his cats and has all the Cheezits he wants. R.I.P., best friend.

Raising Arizona?

Arizona, what has happened to you?  No, I'm not a native, but I've lived in this beautiful state off and on for the greater parts of my life, so I pretty much feel like one. I know its history, its scenic wonders, its good and bad. I first came here from dreary Michigan in the early 70s, and fell in love with the place. It was different then, in so many ways. I think the reason I still defend Arizona is because of my own history here -- I know what it was, and there are glimpses of that nearly every day, from people to places, amid the clutter and awfulness of what Arizona sounds and looks like today.

Two of my children still live here, interestingly enough, the two who were born here, so there may be something to that sense of place thing. The younger three, however, having had to endure the hellhole that was Scottsdale's Saguaro High School, have run like sensible rabbits back to the Northwest, and LA, admittedly now better places to live, if minus the sun most of the time in the former. Their memories obviously are not mine, and as much I may have waxed poetic about the good old days, that is exactly what that are: old days and not the Arizona that exists today, especially in the Phoenix metro area. But, just for a minute, let me tell you what it was.

Scottsdale pretty much stopped at Shea Blvd., and between Lincoln and Shea there wasn't much except open land and houses set back from the road. The Rocking R Dude Ranch behind my house was a tourist destination, tourists who wanted to ride horses and have barbecues, polite people, mostly, and locals and tourists alike rode their horses pretty much anywhere then, along the canals, down to the Sugar Bowl to have ice cream, or Mag's for a sandwich and beer (you could tie your horse up at the hitching posts on Scottsdale Road, and then visit an art gallery or two before riding home). There wasn't much traffic and a lot of the roads were still dirt and gravel.

In the spring, you could take in a baseball game for free and get a preview of the season, at the Scottsdale ball field, now the Civic Center and paved over, alas, and the ball field has become a new place further down the street where it now costs you up to $50 to watch a game.  After that, go to the Pink Pony and mingle with the ballplayers, or the Old Corral, where you could have great Mexican food, sitting around a firepit outside. Not any more.  Few of the old restaurants still exist, except for the venerable Grapevine.

When the monsoons came, Hayden Road flooded, and it was impossible sometimes to get to Tempe, unless you went around through Phoenix or Mesa, but now the US Corps of Engineers has fixed that pesky problem. Admittedly, there's advantages to that, but it was interesting, to say the least, to watch trees, rattlesnakes, and debris from the higher country float down the newmade river to the south now and then, and it never lasted long.

Tempe itself was a pretty small town then, too, except for ASU, and Mill Avenue was a great place of quirky bars, stores and restaurants frequented by students and locals alike. Now it's a corporate behemoth of Gordon James Brewery type joints and high rise apartments, a Friday night destination to take in the freaks and geeks, with permanent panhandlers/meth addicts staking their sidewalk spots. Progress? Ah, no.

So what happened was this: nobody kept their mouth shut and people started moving here. In droves. They didn't care about this state except that it had sun, they didn't have to shovel snow, and subdivisions starting popping everywhere. Goodbye, open land, orange groves, lettuce farms, horse corrals, small ranches, and laidback lifestyle.  Hello easterners and midwesterners with attitude, lawns, entitled kids, allergies, love for Yorkshire terriers and hate for horses and cactus, complaints, prejudices and all their baggage that didn't really have a place in this desert. Hello polluted air, traffic gridlock, concrete, suburban sprawl,strip malls and corporate fast food, and ten degree higher temperatures thanks to all of it.

Yep, you came, you saw, you fucked it up. The only thing that distinguishes the Valley of the Sun from Detroit on some days is an occasional palm tree. Oh, yeah, and those charming tile-roofed McMansions of dubious Mediterranean descent that litter the Valley floor by the tens of thousands, and their SUV-driving inhabitants. Presumably for going to Basha's to get groceries in and driving the brats to soccer, since none of them have ever seen a real desert road.

So that's the changed atmosphere, physically. But the politics? Well, that's another story. Arizonans have always been quirky, -- Barry Goldwater, Sandra Day O'Conner for example. But now, we have the lock on crazy/stupid/tea partyesque morons, most of whom are new arrivals, and their descendants. Take a look at Jan Brewer, a governor that's a joke: Scottsdale PTA mom with $ and white like me prejudices from California with little education; Russell Pearce, state senator and Mesa Mormon (always troublesome for this state) whose racist right wing politics and lies are over the top, running rampant in the so-called legislature. Between SB 1070 and the birther bill, these two and their vile cronies have made this state a national laughingstock.

A little history lesson to them and most of the newcomers to this state might be a wake-up call, i.e., the Indians and Mexicans were here long before you and your ilk were, and it is their cultures, not yours, that helped make this state a diverse great place to live long before you showed up. There ought to be a bill about arresting stupid white people who don't know anything about the desert they moved to but the jails would be overwhelmed as would the state budget, feeding these dolts burritos before they could be transported back to wherever they came from. Cincinnati? Get out. There is no place for you here, and you can't make it like the place you came from, although you've tried and made a mess of it.

So, I shoulder on, here for now, enjoying myself most of the time in spite of it all, but still wishing and hoping for the impossible: that Arizona could reclaim itself to what it was, that the population of transplanted dumbasses would tire of the summer heat and leave once and for all, and that the Easter bunny is real. Yes, some of us Arizonans have brains and memories, but we are few anymore. Cochise, Geronimo, if only you were immortal and still ran wild here, armed with more than arrows.

And lest you think I'm a hypocrite, since I came here myself, I'll say this: I came for the desert, the mountains, the cactus, the burros, the culture, the sun, horses, the history, and the diversity. I didn't want to make it like the place I left. Most of the rest of you so-called Arizonans? Take your SUVs, sunscreen, shopping malls, golf courses, lawns, seas of subdivisions, attitudes, politics, plastic surgery, franchises, bratty type kids and yappy type dogs and get the fuck out. I'd like to ride my horse again over the graves of your flattened mansions.Hope springs eternal.

Glitter Fail: 2011 Oscars

Like the movie geek I am, I look forward to watching the Oscars every year. That said, this year was a huge disappointment. I had high hopes for the James Franco/Anne Hathaway host pairing but those hopes were quickly dashed. I can't remember a more boring couple of hours, highlighted by awful speeches and absolutely no funny moments. I knew this was going to go badly even before it started, when I saw Ann's Valentino dress prior to the opening.

Nice dress, you might say. However, I've seen it before: it was nearly the same dress my daughter-in-law got married in last October, and it looked better on the bride. Valentino looked like a fossil, and clearly he hasn't gotten out much lately.

Moving on. The entire show was pockmarked by moments like these:

•  Melissa Leo's acceptance speech, where she had to say fucking, which got bleeped. Apparently playing a white trash mom wasn't much of a stretch for her, which I suspected.  Don't you hate it when someone who knows they're going to win acts like it's such a shock? Oh please.
• Another supremely boring speech from Natalie Portman, who needs either an editor or duct tape.
• Christian Bale's hyped up accent, which sounded Australian, and yes I know he's British. Seemed to forget his wife's  name, too.
• Having to listen to Florence minus the machine, who inevitably sings off-key live.
• Uninspired "jokes", stale and staler
• James Franco looked as though every time he went backstage, he toked up again
• An old video of Bob Hope, whose lines were better than any heard from a host last night.
• The closing moment of a school choir from New York. OK, sweet and all, but when that was the best they could come with in terms of musical entertainment (and it was), yikes.

Come on, Hollywood. You can do better. Much better. There were actually some decent movies this year, let's showcase this properly. Next year, Ricky Gervais, or at least Alec Baldwin/Steve Martin. That would be worth watching.  Entertain me, you know how and you know this stunk.

Frozen Heart-shaped Box

It's still cold outside and there's been no revelations on the horizon inside either. However, just to get the bad taste out of my mouth and burn a new image on my abused retinas, I thought I'd briefly post something pretty.

Ah, no he hasn't called and it's highly unlikely he ever will but who cares. Kinda warms me up just to see that smirk. I'll bet he's never set foot in a motorhome and doesn't have a poodle named Caressa, either.
Shallow,solitary and loving it.

The Ongoing Futile Quest

Just a brief update on this frosty evening in the hopeless search for a compatible dinner companion as evinced by my latest foray onto the ever exciting website of eharmony.com. We're up to 67 or so complete losers and counting and I'm thoroughly discouraged by the sort of harmonic convergence that appears the eharmony people are up to.  I can picture these little elves sitting in a dank room somewhere sipping lukewarm green tea, fondling themselves and chuckling as they "match" people up in their warped fantasy of a cosmic joke.  The sort I'm getting so far within 100 miles sound like this:

• watches NCIS 
• repairs motorcycles
• doesn't read much
• or reads motorhome magazines
• plays a lot of golf
• love their dogs, (usually small and furry and most likely female (shudder)
• like Garth Brooks
• Forrest Gump was their favorite movie

Plus, I finally had to say I don't like excessively overweight gentlemen. The ones that have pics look somewhat like this:

My favorite was the guy who was the clown at the company picnics. I'm starting to understand nuns. Are there no men over 50 who try these things who aren't morons or look like a Pillsbury doughboy? It's a rhetorical question.  Jesus God.  And, no, I don't want to "extend my membership". I have material enough now for a series of horror stories. I'd like to say it was just research and I think I'll leave on that line. Exit with dignity, stage left.

Colder than a ...rosy cheek in Reykjavik?

Why, yes it is. However, this is the Sonoran desert and the temperature in February isn't supposed to dip into the 20s, but it just did for two nights in a row, and is working on a third. What ?? you say. Something must be wrong. It most likely is, Virginia, this is what we call climate change...think about all the blizzards across the country this year, time and again, and all the other strange weather patterns that have been in effect for the last few years, and it does become fairly obvious there are bigger changes ahead. How far ahead is the question that no one knows the answer to, though.  All I know is my pond is frozen and my lemon tree doesn't look happy, even though I put a blankie on him, poor baby. I'm very glad I don't live in North Dakota, too, but there's more to that than weather, even though the place is a whirl of exotic cuisine and social life.

 

Now you're glad, too. Please warm up in the desert, nobody wants this sort of thing. I may be singing a different tune come July, but I don't think it's ever going to be for a McWank's.