Thursday, January 26, 2006
People Are Dumb
Apparently, businesses can be dumb, too (ostensibly because they are run by people). Check out this list of the 101 Dumbest Moments in Business for 2005. Some of the items listed are pretty funny, if not obviously bad decisions (painfully so in some cases). A lot of them I already knew; some of them I'd never heard of.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Not Supporting Our Troops
Hang on for the ride - I'm bound to piss some people off with this post.
Joel Stein really got the ire of a lot of people with his Op-Ed piece Warriors and Wusses in the LA Times yesterday in which he expressed his opinion on the War in Iraq, and more specifically, whether or not to support the individual soldiers who are fighting it.
Throughout the article, the message was largely that if you don't agree with the war, you shouldn't feel obligated to support the troops. As if to illustrate this, he points out that "we shouldn't be celebrating people for doing something we don't think was a good idea".
To say these ideas upset people would be a gross understatement. For example, reflective of popular sentiments on the topic, Hugh Hewitt writes:
Absent military credentials on Mr. Stein's part, I'd like to make a few observations as someone who does happen to have modest military credentials.
People have gotten extremely wrapped up with comparing what's going on now with Vietnam, particularly as it relates to how the troops are treated when they return home. Most people are overlooking some important points, though.
It's important to draw a distinction between the troops in Iraq now and those who fought in Vietnam. In Vietnam, soldiers were drafted. It didn't matter what your opinion was -- if your number came up, you had to go. Today's military is an all-volunteer force. Anyone serving is doing so in consequence of a conscious decision to serve, knowing full well the implications of his or her service. This is even more true for those who joined the service after September 11th.
That said, I certainly do not advocate spitting on troops, booing them, or otherwise using our troops as a venue to express frustration with the current administration. The other side of that, though, is that I also see no reason to arbitrarily be "grateful" or "appreciative". Neither of these things define someone as being a great American.
I remember when I returned from Desert Storm on April 1st, 1991. We landed at Pope Air Force Base, which adjoins Fort Bragg. I walked down the steps from the airplane, and I was met by a large brass band playing some military parade tune, and an even larger gathering of people cheering. We were "heroes", or so I'm told.
What impact did this "hero's welcome" have on me as a soldier? What feelings did it elicit from my little warrior heart? In a word: guilt. That's right, I felt guilty.
I didn't have any family or friends greeting me, but I remember this girl -- a complete stranger -- approached me and asked if anyone was there to welcome me home. I explained that there was nobody there to greet me.
"Well, " she said, "I'm not here to meet anyone in particular, so I'll welcome you home."
And with that, she hugged me.
During all of this, those feelings of guilt persisted. Had I been born a mere 20 years earlier than I was, a similar girl might have greeted me, but in a very different way. Further, I don't feel like we went through anywhere near the horrors experienced by most who fought in Vietnam.
You won't find any of those cheesy magnets on my vehicles. Frankly, I find them distasteful. Instead, I express my gratitude on an individual basis. When I meet a Veteran, I shake his hand, introduce myself, and welcome him home.
If you really want to support the troops, do it at the polls. Elect officials who will not place them in harms way unless it truly is necessary. Vote for people like Senator John McCain who have the proper experience from which to draw when making the decision whether or not to send our sons and daughters into harms way.
To those who will no doubt paint Joel Stein as anti-American, I say get off his back. The right to freely express dissent and unpopular opinions is fundamental to our way of life in this country. Those who would silence him need look no further than the mirror to see someone who is truly un-American.
Joel Stein really got the ire of a lot of people with his Op-Ed piece Warriors and Wusses in the LA Times yesterday in which he expressed his opinion on the War in Iraq, and more specifically, whether or not to support the individual soldiers who are fighting it.
Throughout the article, the message was largely that if you don't agree with the war, you shouldn't feel obligated to support the troops. As if to illustrate this, he points out that "we shouldn't be celebrating people for doing something we don't think was a good idea".
To say these ideas upset people would be a gross understatement. For example, reflective of popular sentiments on the topic, Hugh Hewitt writes:
"As I suspected, Mr. Stein really doesn't know anyone on active duty, hasn't been to any bases or any of the service academies, hasn't met with wounded or returning troops, and generally admits to being blissfully ignorant of the military. He could not recount a single book he has read about the military, and doesn't even know how big it is. He thinks the soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines who have died in the GWOT have died in vain. He does not feel grateful for their service."Many of the comments left at the LA Times were far less flattering and succint. Nevertheless, when did military service become a precursor to having an opinion as a citizen? Is this man not entitled to have his say? Is he a bad guy for having an unpopular opinion? I don't think so.
Absent military credentials on Mr. Stein's part, I'd like to make a few observations as someone who does happen to have modest military credentials.
People have gotten extremely wrapped up with comparing what's going on now with Vietnam, particularly as it relates to how the troops are treated when they return home. Most people are overlooking some important points, though.
It's important to draw a distinction between the troops in Iraq now and those who fought in Vietnam. In Vietnam, soldiers were drafted. It didn't matter what your opinion was -- if your number came up, you had to go. Today's military is an all-volunteer force. Anyone serving is doing so in consequence of a conscious decision to serve, knowing full well the implications of his or her service. This is even more true for those who joined the service after September 11th.
That said, I certainly do not advocate spitting on troops, booing them, or otherwise using our troops as a venue to express frustration with the current administration. The other side of that, though, is that I also see no reason to arbitrarily be "grateful" or "appreciative". Neither of these things define someone as being a great American.
I remember when I returned from Desert Storm on April 1st, 1991. We landed at Pope Air Force Base, which adjoins Fort Bragg. I walked down the steps from the airplane, and I was met by a large brass band playing some military parade tune, and an even larger gathering of people cheering. We were "heroes", or so I'm told.
What impact did this "hero's welcome" have on me as a soldier? What feelings did it elicit from my little warrior heart? In a word: guilt. That's right, I felt guilty.
I didn't have any family or friends greeting me, but I remember this girl -- a complete stranger -- approached me and asked if anyone was there to welcome me home. I explained that there was nobody there to greet me.
"Well, " she said, "I'm not here to meet anyone in particular, so I'll welcome you home."
And with that, she hugged me.
During all of this, those feelings of guilt persisted. Had I been born a mere 20 years earlier than I was, a similar girl might have greeted me, but in a very different way. Further, I don't feel like we went through anywhere near the horrors experienced by most who fought in Vietnam.
You won't find any of those cheesy magnets on my vehicles. Frankly, I find them distasteful. Instead, I express my gratitude on an individual basis. When I meet a Veteran, I shake his hand, introduce myself, and welcome him home.
If you really want to support the troops, do it at the polls. Elect officials who will not place them in harms way unless it truly is necessary. Vote for people like Senator John McCain who have the proper experience from which to draw when making the decision whether or not to send our sons and daughters into harms way.
To those who will no doubt paint Joel Stein as anti-American, I say get off his back. The right to freely express dissent and unpopular opinions is fundamental to our way of life in this country. Those who would silence him need look no further than the mirror to see someone who is truly un-American.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Hanging it Out There
I've never been good at biting my tongue. In fact, I have this horrible tendency toward being a bit too honest, and letting people know when something bothers me. Sometimes it gets me in trouble.
Years ago, after serving a number of years in the 82nd, I found myself assigned as the S-3 Schools NCOIC for 50th Signal Battalion. Although I was a staff puke riding a desk, I quickly discovered that "you can take the soldier out of the 82nd, but you can't take the 82nd out of the soldier". Even as a young Private in the 82nd I had been encouraged to speak my mind, and be aggressive. Those traits became ingrained in me.
During my tenure at 50th Signal Battalion, we got a new Battalion XO. His name is not important; what's important is that he quickly developed a reputation for being hard-nosed, outspoken, and aggressive. Officers treated him with obsequience, NCO's feared him, and the soldiers, for the most part, tried to avoid him. In the vernacular, this guy would "eat your lunch".
One of this Major's first tasks was to write a new policy. I don't remember exactly what the policy was, except that it really annoyed me. I had discussed it privately with several of the senior NCO's (it's worth mentioning that I was the most junior in rank), and the consensus was unilateral: it was a bad idea.
A few days later, the XO dropped into the office (a big open room with grey government desks neatly lined up in rows). He planted himself in front of my desk, surveyed the room, and began asking people what they thought of the new policy. Response after response either acquiesced to his position, or praised it outright as people withered under his mighty presence.
He nodded thoughtfully while accepting this glowing feedback, then looked me right in the eye and said, "What do you think, Sergeant Mooers?"
Drat! I'm on the spot, and on the hook for an answer. Now, I know I should either agree, or make a polite excuse to not say anything, but I have years of training coupled with my distaste for sycophants working against me.
"Can I speak freely, sir?" I responded.
"Always!" he blurted as if insulted that I would even ask.
"Well, sir, it's the dumbest f*cking thing I've ever seen."
His eyebrows went up in disbelieve, and I decided I had better make a hasty explanation if I wanted to keep my chevrons, so I continued.
"You have to think about what you're doing to the soldiers. Sure, it will make your job easier, but you're really screwing the soldiers down on the line."
The room grew uncharacteristically quiet as those around me waited to watch me be devoured whole by this man. Certainly he would put me in my place -- this young punk who dared question his judgment.
"You know, " he said, "I never thought about it that way, but you're right." Then he actually smiled.
From that point on, my word was gold with this man, and we ultimately became staunch allies if not friends (assuming, of course, that friendship might exist between a field grade officer and an NCO).
Years later, that aggressive honesty came through again, much to the chagrin of my wife, while we were negotiating the purchase of a car from a dealership. We had been haggling for a while, and found ourselves in a bit of a stalemate.
It's pretty common for car salesmen to bring in the "Sales Manager" when they are having a tough time closing the deal. The problem with that, is that I don't respond well to the high pressure sales tactics. I especially don't respond well when I don't like the "Sales Manager".
After negotiating with this guy for 5 minutes or so, I decided I'd had enough.
"You know, " I told him, "we have a problem. We have a personality conflict."
"A personality conflict?" he asked.
"That's right. I don't like you, and I want you to leave. If you don't, I will."
Although my wife was embarrassed, he did leave, and we ended up getting the deal we wanted on the vehicle.
I wish I could say I've never gotten myself into trouble with my, um, "honesty". I wish I could say that, but it wouldn't be true. I've gotten myself into a fair number of jams (and indeed, I may be in one even as I write this), but I guess all's well that ends well. At least I can look at myself in the mirror.
Regardless of whether you agree with my approach, or just think I'm a jerk with no tact, you can be assured that you'll always know exactly where you stand with me, and exactly how I feel. Now please don't ask me if I think you look fat in those pants.
Years ago, after serving a number of years in the 82nd, I found myself assigned as the S-3 Schools NCOIC for 50th Signal Battalion. Although I was a staff puke riding a desk, I quickly discovered that "you can take the soldier out of the 82nd, but you can't take the 82nd out of the soldier". Even as a young Private in the 82nd I had been encouraged to speak my mind, and be aggressive. Those traits became ingrained in me.
During my tenure at 50th Signal Battalion, we got a new Battalion XO. His name is not important; what's important is that he quickly developed a reputation for being hard-nosed, outspoken, and aggressive. Officers treated him with obsequience, NCO's feared him, and the soldiers, for the most part, tried to avoid him. In the vernacular, this guy would "eat your lunch".
One of this Major's first tasks was to write a new policy. I don't remember exactly what the policy was, except that it really annoyed me. I had discussed it privately with several of the senior NCO's (it's worth mentioning that I was the most junior in rank), and the consensus was unilateral: it was a bad idea.
A few days later, the XO dropped into the office (a big open room with grey government desks neatly lined up in rows). He planted himself in front of my desk, surveyed the room, and began asking people what they thought of the new policy. Response after response either acquiesced to his position, or praised it outright as people withered under his mighty presence.
He nodded thoughtfully while accepting this glowing feedback, then looked me right in the eye and said, "What do you think, Sergeant Mooers?"
Drat! I'm on the spot, and on the hook for an answer. Now, I know I should either agree, or make a polite excuse to not say anything, but I have years of training coupled with my distaste for sycophants working against me.
"Can I speak freely, sir?" I responded.
"Always!" he blurted as if insulted that I would even ask.
"Well, sir, it's the dumbest f*cking thing I've ever seen."
His eyebrows went up in disbelieve, and I decided I had better make a hasty explanation if I wanted to keep my chevrons, so I continued.
"You have to think about what you're doing to the soldiers. Sure, it will make your job easier, but you're really screwing the soldiers down on the line."
The room grew uncharacteristically quiet as those around me waited to watch me be devoured whole by this man. Certainly he would put me in my place -- this young punk who dared question his judgment.
"You know, " he said, "I never thought about it that way, but you're right." Then he actually smiled.
From that point on, my word was gold with this man, and we ultimately became staunch allies if not friends (assuming, of course, that friendship might exist between a field grade officer and an NCO).
Years later, that aggressive honesty came through again, much to the chagrin of my wife, while we were negotiating the purchase of a car from a dealership. We had been haggling for a while, and found ourselves in a bit of a stalemate.
It's pretty common for car salesmen to bring in the "Sales Manager" when they are having a tough time closing the deal. The problem with that, is that I don't respond well to the high pressure sales tactics. I especially don't respond well when I don't like the "Sales Manager".
After negotiating with this guy for 5 minutes or so, I decided I'd had enough.
"You know, " I told him, "we have a problem. We have a personality conflict."
"A personality conflict?" he asked.
"That's right. I don't like you, and I want you to leave. If you don't, I will."
Although my wife was embarrassed, he did leave, and we ended up getting the deal we wanted on the vehicle.
I wish I could say I've never gotten myself into trouble with my, um, "honesty". I wish I could say that, but it wouldn't be true. I've gotten myself into a fair number of jams (and indeed, I may be in one even as I write this), but I guess all's well that ends well. At least I can look at myself in the mirror.
Regardless of whether you agree with my approach, or just think I'm a jerk with no tact, you can be assured that you'll always know exactly where you stand with me, and exactly how I feel. Now please don't ask me if I think you look fat in those pants.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Wear Sunscreen
I was talking to my mom on the phone this morning, mainly commiserating on everything that's wrong right now (corrupt politicians, a huge deficit, eroding civil rights, etc.) and I was reminded of a phrase from a Baz Lurman song several years ago.
Purportedly, this song came from a commencement address, and has been attributed to a number of different people, including Kurt Vonnegut. Always one to seek the facts, I did a little research and found out that the speech in question was actually not a speech at all. Rather, it was a column written by Mary Schmich for the Chicago Tribune.
Regardless of how her work has been misrepresented over the years, Schmich made some very valid points that bear repeating. With that in mind, I've decided to reproduce the entire text here.
Purportedly, this song came from a commencement address, and has been attributed to a number of different people, including Kurt Vonnegut. Always one to seek the facts, I did a little research and found out that the speech in question was actually not a speech at all. Rather, it was a column written by Mary Schmich for the Chicago Tribune.Regardless of how her work has been misrepresented over the years, Schmich made some very valid points that bear repeating. With that in mind, I've decided to reproduce the entire text here.
Wear Sunscreen
Ladies and gentlemen of the class of '97.
Wear Sunscreen.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 pm on some idle Tuesday. Do one thing every day that scares you.
Sing.
Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself. Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how. Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.
Stretch.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year- olds I know still don't. Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone. Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody's else's.
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.
Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths. Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.
Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.
Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85. Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.
But trust me on the sunscreen.
Friday, January 20, 2006
New Search Engine
If you've been following the stories in the press lately, you'll know that our courageous government has been working hard to protect us from terrorists, but has been continually thwarted or annoyed by those who think "privacy" or "free speech" are important. Really, do you think an honorable red-blooded American law enforcement officer should have to take the time to explain himself to some puke who rides a court bench all day just to get a warrant? Certainly not! The government knows best; obtaining a warrant only slows things down and helps the terrorists!
I read an article today that pointed out that only 4 out of 5 search engines voluntarily gave the government their search records. Those do-gooders at Google, unpatriotic as they are, refused under the guise of "protecting privacy".
Take heart - there's something you can do to help. Instead of using Google, use the new Patriot Search. Just read this excerpt from the Patriot Search Mission Statement, and you'll know why it's important:
I read an article today that pointed out that only 4 out of 5 search engines voluntarily gave the government their search records. Those do-gooders at Google, unpatriotic as they are, refused under the guise of "protecting privacy".
Take heart - there's something you can do to help. Instead of using Google, use the new Patriot Search. Just read this excerpt from the Patriot Search Mission Statement, and you'll know why it's important:"Only at Patriot Search can you be certain that you're helping the government the way you are supposed to -- as a patriotic, obedient, and honest citizen."So be an obedient citizen, stop crying about "civil rights", and start using the new Patriot Search Engine.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Fiscal Irresponsibility
Following up on my Excise Tax post, I've done a little reading on the subject of taxes and how the money is spent. Specifically, I took a little time to read the GAO report from December 15, 2005. (Special thanks to my good friend Anton for finding this and posting the URL as part of a follow-up comment to my original post.)Although my last post promised a new tone, some things are simply too interesting to pass up. (That didn't last long, eh?) As I read the information from the GAO, I found myself having a harder and harder time containing my rage at the ignorance of the Bush Administration, and to a certain extent, the general population.
If you have a strong stomach, I strongly encourage you to read this report. One part I found particularly interesting, if not infuriating, reads:
"...the federal government's fiscal exposures now total more than $46 trillion, up from about $20 trillion in 2000. This translates into a burden of about $156,000 per American or approximately $375,000 per full-time worker, up from $72,000 and $165,000 respectively, in 2000. These amounts do not include future costs resulting from Hurricane Katrina or the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Continuing on this unsustainable path will gradually erode, if not suddenly damage, our economy, our standard of living, and ultimately our national security. " (emphasis added)Let's put that into perspective. Assuming that someone earns $45,000 per year, if he were to pay 100% of his paycheck towards repaying the debt, it would take him 12 years to pay off his portion. Twelve years! Do you believe that?
Those with calculators are probably already wondering how I came up with that number. Regular taxes to the tune of at least 30% will still have to be paid just to keep the government running. That being the case, the number I used for a $45,000 annual salary was $31,500, which represents 70% of $45K. Furthermore, the 12-year prediction assumes that no additional interest will accrue on the debt, and that is certainly not the reality. A more reasonable number is probably more like 20 or 30 years, and without any money to eat, I don't think our poor protagonist will last that long.
Maybe I should consider offshore investment opportunities for retirement?
Changing the Tone
Today I was going to write about Mercury News and others reporting how the Bush administration is trying to force 
Google to give up some of their data. Then I realized that my posts have taken somewhat of a negative turn. (I also have a rant about Pyramid scams, and another on my thoughts about the pledge, the founding fathers, and US Constitution currently in draft.)
Unquestionably, there are plenty of news items that merit concern. Nevertheless, the news is not always all bad. Sometimes we just need to focus a bit more on the positive.
The economy seems to have come back to life, and most experts now see another boom just over the horizon. Personally, I've noticed that the VC funding is flowing again, and the IT industry is excited about Web 2.0.
Apart from technology, the shortest day of the year is now behind us, and the days are getting longer again. Plus, you're reading my blog, which makes me happy.
Google to give up some of their data. Then I realized that my posts have taken somewhat of a negative turn. (I also have a rant about Pyramid scams, and another on my thoughts about the pledge, the founding fathers, and US Constitution currently in draft.)Unquestionably, there are plenty of news items that merit concern. Nevertheless, the news is not always all bad. Sometimes we just need to focus a bit more on the positive.
The economy seems to have come back to life, and most experts now see another boom just over the horizon. Personally, I've noticed that the VC funding is flowing again, and the IT industry is excited about Web 2.0.
Apart from technology, the shortest day of the year is now behind us, and the days are getting longer again. Plus, you're reading my blog, which makes me happy.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Excise Tax
The latest buzz (that interests me) is about the "excise tax" that you pay on your cell phone bill, or more specifically, a call to repeal it. As reported by an Ohio TV station, it seems that the tax in question was actually instituted 107 years ago (long before cell phones) in order to fund the Spanish American War.
There's more information on the Federal Excise Tax, or FET, at MyWireless.org, and apparently, you can request a refund of everything you've paid in FET for the past 107 years by filling out a form from the IRS. A word of warning, however: you have to itemize on a quarter-by-quarter basis. Frankly, I think the burden of a refund should be on the IRS and the carriers.
Every year at tax time I say the same thing: I want some accountability! I would like to see how my tax money is being spent. Oh, I don't expect them to account for every dollar individually, but I would like to see a summary. For example, where is the majority of the tax revenue spent? National defense? If so, what percentage of my taxes are going towards that? What percentage of my taxes go towards education? What about welfare? Healthcare? Law Enforcement? Congressional Salaries? Anything over 1% should be accounted for.
Unfortunately, I really don't think the IRS will ever provide statistics on where the money goes. Like me, they realize that if people knew where the money was going, they would be outraged. Most people, though, are too stupid to question anything, so we'll continue to be milked for things like the Spanish American War in the years to come.
There's more information on the Federal Excise Tax, or FET, at MyWireless.org, and apparently, you can request a refund of everything you've paid in FET for the past 107 years by filling out a form from the IRS. A word of warning, however: you have to itemize on a quarter-by-quarter basis. Frankly, I think the burden of a refund should be on the IRS and the carriers.
Every year at tax time I say the same thing: I want some accountability! I would like to see how my tax money is being spent. Oh, I don't expect them to account for every dollar individually, but I would like to see a summary. For example, where is the majority of the tax revenue spent? National defense? If so, what percentage of my taxes are going towards that? What percentage of my taxes go towards education? What about welfare? Healthcare? Law Enforcement? Congressional Salaries? Anything over 1% should be accounted for.
Unfortunately, I really don't think the IRS will ever provide statistics on where the money goes. Like me, they realize that if people knew where the money was going, they would be outraged. Most people, though, are too stupid to question anything, so we'll continue to be milked for things like the Spanish American War in the years to come.
Best Blonde Joke Ever
Some people will no doubt think it tasteless of me to reproduce this, but frankly, I think it's really funny. Scobleizer today blogged about the best blonde joke ever. I'm still laughing.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Creepy
Few would argue that I have a pretty unusual name. First, the way my last name is spelled quite uncommon -- so uncommon, in fact, that it has been the cause of frequent confusion in the past. That unusualness is compounded by the fact that my full first name is actually Edison.
Every once in a while I Google myself just to see what comes up. The results change from time to time, which I suppose is not too surprising. What was a little surprising was what came up today. The first page that comes up if you search Google for Edison Mooers is this page. You'll notice that I have the exact same name (even down to the middle initial) as someone listed there. (Hint: look for "Mooers, Edison L".)
Frankly, I find it a bit creepy -- particularly since my name is so uncommon. I think there's a cool short story in there somewhere.
Every once in a while I Google myself just to see what comes up. The results change from time to time, which I suppose is not too surprising. What was a little surprising was what came up today. The first page that comes up if you search Google for Edison Mooers is this page. You'll notice that I have the exact same name (even down to the middle initial) as someone listed there. (Hint: look for "Mooers, Edison L".)
Frankly, I find it a bit creepy -- particularly since my name is so uncommon. I think there's a cool short story in there somewhere.
Sprint and Big Brother
Reuters recently reported on a story about a county in California being outraged that Sprint would not fork over location information to the police, stating in part that:
Apparently, Sprint has apologized for the incident, and is now working with the county to see how this can be avoided in the future. In return, the county has decided not to "slap a moratorium on new cellular towers".
Frankly, I think Sprint acted correctly in not providing the information -- to do otherwise would have run afoul of the Fourth Amendment. Police do not have the right to search your home simply because they feel like it, and likewise they should not be able to arbitrarily retrieve the whereabouts of any citizen simply by telling the telephone carrier that there is a need to know. That is what Judges are for.
Clearly, the presence of a baby in the car in this particular situation makes this an exceptional case, which is one reason why it is so thorny. Nobody wants to be viewed as unsympathetic to a parent or baby; however, the possibility exists to set precedent that will bind even when there is nothing exceptional.
It's also wrong of the county to abuse their zoning privilege simply to bully a corporation. Obviously, they seek to pressure Sprint to provide location information voluntarily and thereby make an end run around the constitutional issues. Shame on them!
When will people learn?
"A Sprint operator declined to provide Riverside police with global positioning system coordinates, that would have helped locate the car and the child, without first getting a subpoena."What got peoples' ire was that the car in question had been stolen, and there was a 10-month old baby in it at the time.
Apparently, Sprint has apologized for the incident, and is now working with the county to see how this can be avoided in the future. In return, the county has decided not to "slap a moratorium on new cellular towers".
Frankly, I think Sprint acted correctly in not providing the information -- to do otherwise would have run afoul of the Fourth Amendment. Police do not have the right to search your home simply because they feel like it, and likewise they should not be able to arbitrarily retrieve the whereabouts of any citizen simply by telling the telephone carrier that there is a need to know. That is what Judges are for.
Clearly, the presence of a baby in the car in this particular situation makes this an exceptional case, which is one reason why it is so thorny. Nobody wants to be viewed as unsympathetic to a parent or baby; however, the possibility exists to set precedent that will bind even when there is nothing exceptional.
It's also wrong of the county to abuse their zoning privilege simply to bully a corporation. Obviously, they seek to pressure Sprint to provide location information voluntarily and thereby make an end run around the constitutional issues. Shame on them!
When will people learn?
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Annoying Law
As CNET News reported on Monday, our elected idiots just passed a new law that essentially makes it a federal crime to annoy someone on the Internet if your identity is anonymous. I'll leave the debate on the finer points to other people, but there are a few things I'd like to say about this nonsense.
First, let me say that I doubt very seriously that anyone will be charged under the annoyance clause of this new law. The First Amendment implications all but beg for a constitutional challenge, and it is very unlikely that this law would stand up against one. Prosecutors know this, but that's not the point.
The way in which this little gem managed to get slipped in is yet another illustration of how our system of government can be effectively gamed. The trick is as tired and abused as it is simple: tack on your garbage to something else that would be political suicide to vote against. I'm always amazed (even if unsurprised) at the amount of unrelated legislation attached to budget bills.
This is a sad time for America. Our officials should be ashamed of themselves, and I hope they are annoyed if they read my post. For the record, my name is plainly visible on this blog. I point that out not because I'm afraid of some new federal law, but because I want each of them to easily know whose ass they are invited to kiss.
First, let me say that I doubt very seriously that anyone will be charged under the annoyance clause of this new law. The First Amendment implications all but beg for a constitutional challenge, and it is very unlikely that this law would stand up against one. Prosecutors know this, but that's not the point.
The way in which this little gem managed to get slipped in is yet another illustration of how our system of government can be effectively gamed. The trick is as tired and abused as it is simple: tack on your garbage to something else that would be political suicide to vote against. I'm always amazed (even if unsurprised) at the amount of unrelated legislation attached to budget bills.
This is a sad time for America. Our officials should be ashamed of themselves, and I hope they are annoyed if they read my post. For the record, my name is plainly visible on this blog. I point that out not because I'm afraid of some new federal law, but because I want each of them to easily know whose ass they are invited to kiss.
Preferences
The human mind is a fascinating thing. Some argue that we are each the sum of our experiences, and for the most part, I agree. Still, I wonder how personal preferences can sometimes be so different between people who otherwise have very much in common. This morning, I encountered a situation that made me reflect on this.
When it was time to take my shower, I ended up with a big fluffy towel (Hobson's Choice). Now, my wife and daughter both love this particular towel, and they'll no doubt be disappointed when they discover it has been retired to the laundry hamper for the week. I, on the other hand, happen to hate big fluffy towels.
I like my towels lean, mean, and damned near thread-bare. When it comes to towel selection, I take a pragmatic approach: if the purpose of a towel is to dry me off, then I should select a towel that will best do that job. Fluffy towels smear the water around, and generally do a very poor job of absorbing it. By contrast, old thin towels may not feel as nice against your skin, but they do a phenomenal job of soaking up the water. (They're also better for snapping people.) I guess you could say I take a utilitarian approach to towel selection.
I also think a good towel is like a fine wine -- it has to be properly aged. Among my very favorite towels are a few tattered old Army-issued brown towels that are now so thin you can see through them in spots. Since I've been out of the Army for nearly 9 years now, those towels have to be at least 10 or 15 years old. (On a side note, a lot of people insist that women, not towels, age like wine, but my experience has been that most women age more like milk.)
Whatever your towel preference, I'm sure you'll agree that having the right towel for you is essential to starting the day off right. The fact that my day began with a fluffy towel makes me nervous. I may get home today and find that all of my clothes are hanging in the closet facing right instead of left, or worse, that I have to eat dinner with a small fork.
When it was time to take my shower, I ended up with a big fluffy towel (Hobson's Choice). Now, my wife and daughter both love this particular towel, and they'll no doubt be disappointed when they discover it has been retired to the laundry hamper for the week. I, on the other hand, happen to hate big fluffy towels.
I like my towels lean, mean, and damned near thread-bare. When it comes to towel selection, I take a pragmatic approach: if the purpose of a towel is to dry me off, then I should select a towel that will best do that job. Fluffy towels smear the water around, and generally do a very poor job of absorbing it. By contrast, old thin towels may not feel as nice against your skin, but they do a phenomenal job of soaking up the water. (They're also better for snapping people.) I guess you could say I take a utilitarian approach to towel selection.
I also think a good towel is like a fine wine -- it has to be properly aged. Among my very favorite towels are a few tattered old Army-issued brown towels that are now so thin you can see through them in spots. Since I've been out of the Army for nearly 9 years now, those towels have to be at least 10 or 15 years old. (On a side note, a lot of people insist that women, not towels, age like wine, but my experience has been that most women age more like milk.)
Whatever your towel preference, I'm sure you'll agree that having the right towel for you is essential to starting the day off right. The fact that my day began with a fluffy towel makes me nervous. I may get home today and find that all of my clothes are hanging in the closet facing right instead of left, or worse, that I have to eat dinner with a small fork.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Clean Bill of Health
Okay, I did my due diligence and went to the doctor after work yesterday. While I appreciate all of the genuine concern and well wishes by friends and family, I'm somewhat embarrassed (even if relieved) to say that it was really nothing too serious.
During the course of my examination, Doc Johnson invited me to lie on the probulator, and much to my relief, the only poking he needed to do was on my abdomen. When he asked me about what happened, I resisted the temptation to tell him to just read my blog, and recounted the events of Sunday night. His prognosis: I most likely popped a small vein or something with the dry heaves.
The good doctor wrote me a prescription for Prevacid, and gave me a referral to one of those gastro-endo-intesti-specialist types who probably costs an exhorbitent amount. I went on my merry way to Safeway to have the script filled, and that is when the really fun part started.
After offering up my prescription, and waiting a half hour, I found out that my insurance company had a computer outage or something such that they couldn't authorize the claim. Having waited for 30 minutes in a grocery store during grocery rush hour, I just wanted to go home, so I told them I'd pick up the prescription the next day. Then I realized that since I have a $45 co-pay (because there is no generic for Prevacid), it might not cost that much more to just pay for the entire thing myself. How expensive can 30 pills be? I was appalled at the answer: $155. That's right, folks, more than $5 a pill.
This brings up a plethora of issues that I won't get into here, except to point out the obvious. The pharmaceutical companies are obscenely profitable, and they are able to basically rape the consumer through monopolistic practices that would not be tolerated in other industries. Unfortunately, the pharmaceutical lobby is a force to be reckoned with, so this is not likely to change in the near future.
For now, I'll have to content myself with bitching about it in my blog, and hope I never get sick or find myself without insurance. Oh, and for the record, I've decided not to refill the script. For $5 a day, I'll deal with an upset stomach. It's probably less than that the upset I'll have each time I see one of those pills and think of the cost anyway.
During the course of my examination, Doc Johnson invited me to lie on the probulator, and much to my relief, the only poking he needed to do was on my abdomen. When he asked me about what happened, I resisted the temptation to tell him to just read my blog, and recounted the events of Sunday night. His prognosis: I most likely popped a small vein or something with the dry heaves.
The good doctor wrote me a prescription for Prevacid, and gave me a referral to one of those gastro-endo-intesti-specialist types who probably costs an exhorbitent amount. I went on my merry way to Safeway to have the script filled, and that is when the really fun part started.
After offering up my prescription, and waiting a half hour, I found out that my insurance company had a computer outage or something such that they couldn't authorize the claim. Having waited for 30 minutes in a grocery store during grocery rush hour, I just wanted to go home, so I told them I'd pick up the prescription the next day. Then I realized that since I have a $45 co-pay (because there is no generic for Prevacid), it might not cost that much more to just pay for the entire thing myself. How expensive can 30 pills be? I was appalled at the answer: $155. That's right, folks, more than $5 a pill.
This brings up a plethora of issues that I won't get into here, except to point out the obvious. The pharmaceutical companies are obscenely profitable, and they are able to basically rape the consumer through monopolistic practices that would not be tolerated in other industries. Unfortunately, the pharmaceutical lobby is a force to be reckoned with, so this is not likely to change in the near future.
For now, I'll have to content myself with bitching about it in my blog, and hope I never get sick or find myself without insurance. Oh, and for the record, I've decided not to refill the script. For $5 a day, I'll deal with an upset stomach. It's probably less than that the upset I'll have each time I see one of those pills and think of the cost anyway.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Off to See the Doc
Last night, I didn't feel very well. I suppose that's a bit of an understatement, because in point of fact, I felt more like 10 pounds of crap stuffed into a 1 pound bag. I wouldn't say I was sick; I just didn't feel well (a little stomach cramping followed by those joyful waves of nausea).
At the time, I didn't mention anything to my wife because, as she pointed out the last time I bellyached about it (if you'll forgive the pun), "It seems like you feel bad every night." Now that I think about it, I have felt icky more frequently around bedtime lately, but I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that it's most likely a symptom of the aging processes. Indigestion does happen, after all.
What made last night different was that I threw up. Well, that's not entirely true, either. I've been known to hoark poetically into the bowl from time to time, but usually in consequence of a touchy stomach combined with coughing. This is especially the case in the morning before my gastrointestinal system has had a chance to process the morning coffee.
So I threw up. It happens. On the first heave, I say goodbye to the slice of French bread I had used to escort the chicken we had for dinner on to my fork. "Bon voyage, Frenchy, and say hello to my old goldfish if you run into him down there." With the next heave, the chicken follows, along with a several canned peas (that, incidentally, I didn't want to eat in the first damned place). By the third or fourth heave, my head is bobbing like a teenager at a Metallica concert, and the contents of my stomach have been fully disgorged, so now I'm dry heaving.
The storm seems to pass, and I start the process of mopping up the toilet bowl (I have pretty decent aim, but this stuff splashed) when another heave hits me. This time, I feel the mystery substance roiling up my throat and I'm surprised because it's not scratchy but it feels sort of hot.
When it hits the bowl, I'm startled by what I see. Bobbing up and down is a little ball a bit smaller than an egg, comprised of mostly angry crimson blood and what appears to be saliva. All I could think about was Gene Simmons, and how he used to be able to vomit blood at will while performing for KISS.
About that time, my wife realizes that I've quit yelling for my buddy Ralph, so she asks me that wonderful, obligatory question: "Are you okay?". How do you answer that question? I mean really? What do I say? "Not bad for a human Pez dispenser, dear! Oh, and the flavor today looks like cherry!"
Normally, I would assure her that I'm fine. This time, I'm not sure what to say because I have this little blood ball still bobbing up and down in the toilet mocking me, daring me to proclaim that I'm fine, and that in fact, it's good to let your insides out to roam around once in a while.
I sit there, as slack-jawed as the village idiot, staring at my little red friend until my wife arrives. Then, she asks me again if I'm okay. Always one to articulate my thoughts concisely in any given situation, I have the perfect answer: I point an accusing finger at toilet, and say "I dunno."
Suffice to say, my wife was less than thrilled, and a minor debate over what to do ensued. She wanted me to go to the doctor, whereas I take more of a wait-and-see approach. Experience tells me that more often than not, your body will heal itself (or you'll die of whatever ails you, and therefore not be concerned with the fact that you didn't seek medical attention when you should have).
It's worth noting that I have this minor phobia about medical facilities. I don't like them at all. Period. They make me feel as trapped and out of control as a laboratory rat. I suspect this may be a throwback to my military days. In the Army, you really are trapped and out of control. Doctors are medical professionals, yes, but they are also officers, and they're not afraid to flex that rank.
I spoke with my mom this morning, and she talked to a friend who is a doctor. What the doctor told her merited me getting a call at work from mommy: "Seek medical attention immediately. It may be nothing, or you may be sitting there bleeding to death in front of your computer."
How's that for cheery news? So, I'm scheduled to go see Doc Johnson at 4:45 today (his name is actually Dr. Kelly, but I call him "Doc Johnson" -- maybe I'll tell him about that when I see him, but certainly after he treats me).
We'll see what old Doc Johnson has to say about my little red buddy in the bowl. My fear is that I'll end up being probed like a trailer trash redneck from Roswell, New Mexico, but maybe I'll get lucky. Most likely, he'll tell me to dry my tears, wipe my nose, and stop eating paste. In any event, I'll post my experience here.
At the time, I didn't mention anything to my wife because, as she pointed out the last time I bellyached about it (if you'll forgive the pun), "It seems like you feel bad every night." Now that I think about it, I have felt icky more frequently around bedtime lately, but I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that it's most likely a symptom of the aging processes. Indigestion does happen, after all.
What made last night different was that I threw up. Well, that's not entirely true, either. I've been known to hoark poetically into the bowl from time to time, but usually in consequence of a touchy stomach combined with coughing. This is especially the case in the morning before my gastrointestinal system has had a chance to process the morning coffee.
So I threw up. It happens. On the first heave, I say goodbye to the slice of French bread I had used to escort the chicken we had for dinner on to my fork. "Bon voyage, Frenchy, and say hello to my old goldfish if you run into him down there." With the next heave, the chicken follows, along with a several canned peas (that, incidentally, I didn't want to eat in the first damned place). By the third or fourth heave, my head is bobbing like a teenager at a Metallica concert, and the contents of my stomach have been fully disgorged, so now I'm dry heaving.
The storm seems to pass, and I start the process of mopping up the toilet bowl (I have pretty decent aim, but this stuff splashed) when another heave hits me. This time, I feel the mystery substance roiling up my throat and I'm surprised because it's not scratchy but it feels sort of hot.
When it hits the bowl, I'm startled by what I see. Bobbing up and down is a little ball a bit smaller than an egg, comprised of mostly angry crimson blood and what appears to be saliva. All I could think about was Gene Simmons, and how he used to be able to vomit blood at will while performing for KISS.
About that time, my wife realizes that I've quit yelling for my buddy Ralph, so she asks me that wonderful, obligatory question: "Are you okay?". How do you answer that question? I mean really? What do I say? "Not bad for a human Pez dispenser, dear! Oh, and the flavor today looks like cherry!"
Normally, I would assure her that I'm fine. This time, I'm not sure what to say because I have this little blood ball still bobbing up and down in the toilet mocking me, daring me to proclaim that I'm fine, and that in fact, it's good to let your insides out to roam around once in a while.
I sit there, as slack-jawed as the village idiot, staring at my little red friend until my wife arrives. Then, she asks me again if I'm okay. Always one to articulate my thoughts concisely in any given situation, I have the perfect answer: I point an accusing finger at toilet, and say "I dunno."
Suffice to say, my wife was less than thrilled, and a minor debate over what to do ensued. She wanted me to go to the doctor, whereas I take more of a wait-and-see approach. Experience tells me that more often than not, your body will heal itself (or you'll die of whatever ails you, and therefore not be concerned with the fact that you didn't seek medical attention when you should have).
It's worth noting that I have this minor phobia about medical facilities. I don't like them at all. Period. They make me feel as trapped and out of control as a laboratory rat. I suspect this may be a throwback to my military days. In the Army, you really are trapped and out of control. Doctors are medical professionals, yes, but they are also officers, and they're not afraid to flex that rank.
I spoke with my mom this morning, and she talked to a friend who is a doctor. What the doctor told her merited me getting a call at work from mommy: "Seek medical attention immediately. It may be nothing, or you may be sitting there bleeding to death in front of your computer."
How's that for cheery news? So, I'm scheduled to go see Doc Johnson at 4:45 today (his name is actually Dr. Kelly, but I call him "Doc Johnson" -- maybe I'll tell him about that when I see him, but certainly after he treats me).
We'll see what old Doc Johnson has to say about my little red buddy in the bowl. My fear is that I'll end up being probed like a trailer trash redneck from Roswell, New Mexico, but maybe I'll get lucky. Most likely, he'll tell me to dry my tears, wipe my nose, and stop eating paste. In any event, I'll post my experience here.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
A Word from Our Sponsor
Back in November I decided to try a little experiment that involved adding some advertising to my blogs. You may have noticed the Google ads at the top of this very blog. Well, the statistics are in, and surprisingly, I'm actually making a little money. It's not a lot of money (more than $2 but less than $5 for November), but I can definitely see the potential for a pretty consistent revenue stream.
That got me thinking about what I could do to 1. Drive more traffic to my blogs, and 2. encourage people to follow the advertising links. That seemed a little greedy, which got me thinking even more...
Those who know me will attest that me thinking too hard about something can be dangerous. I get crazy ideas (like leading a 3rd world banana republic to greatness -- more on that in another post), and I've settled on just such a crazy idea for my advertising revenue. I've decided to give it all away.
That's right. I'm going to give 100% of anything I make from the advertising on my blogs to a worthy charity. Now the question becomes which charity. I want a charity whose views line up with my own, and who could actually use the money. In other words, I'm looking for a non-prophet non-profit. I do have a few friends working on this, but if anyone has a suggestion, please leave a comment. I'll let you know what I decide in another post.
Also, please take some time to visit some of the sites that you may see advertised. Better yet, really take a look at what they offer. Google's AdSense does a great job of serving up ads that are relevant to the content, so you shouldn't be bothered with ads for Viagra, Mortgages, and other such nonsense.
That got me thinking about what I could do to 1. Drive more traffic to my blogs, and 2. encourage people to follow the advertising links. That seemed a little greedy, which got me thinking even more...
Those who know me will attest that me thinking too hard about something can be dangerous. I get crazy ideas (like leading a 3rd world banana republic to greatness -- more on that in another post), and I've settled on just such a crazy idea for my advertising revenue. I've decided to give it all away.
That's right. I'm going to give 100% of anything I make from the advertising on my blogs to a worthy charity. Now the question becomes which charity. I want a charity whose views line up with my own, and who could actually use the money. In other words, I'm looking for a non-prophet non-profit. I do have a few friends working on this, but if anyone has a suggestion, please leave a comment. I'll let you know what I decide in another post.
Also, please take some time to visit some of the sites that you may see advertised. Better yet, really take a look at what they offer. Google's AdSense does a great job of serving up ads that are relevant to the content, so you shouldn't be bothered with ads for Viagra, Mortgages, and other such nonsense.
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