Tuesday, January 19, 2010
A GR8 Solution for the G-8
For the past decade, whenever the G-8 hold a meeting, no matter what city they choose, every conceivable protestor of every conceivable political stripe shows up to protest and, invariably, the protests degenerate into riots. To me, the solution is simplicity itself: someone ought to get out a copy of a world atlas and make a list of good-sized uninhabited islands more than twenty miles from shore. Even if a few protestors will get into boats, it is much easier to control a few dozen boats than a few dozen thousand indignant pedestrians.
A "Good Shooting"
Almost forty years ago, a seventeen-year-old kid in Columbus, Ohio decided that the best way he could advance his economic interest was to rob a filling station at gunpoint. Unfortunately for him, the Columbus Police Department arrived before he could leave the premises. Even more unfortunately, he pointed his gun at one of the officers. That officer fired once, striking the would-be robber in the head, killing him instantly.
Years later, I got to know that police officer, Ron Larimer, pretty well. I used to date his sister. I ultimately concluded that, I would have loved to have had Ron as a brother-in-law, just so long as I didn’t have to marry his sister to do it. He once told me about that shooting incident and that, for months afterward, he had nightmares.
After I broke up with Ron’s sister, I didn’t have occasion to talk with him for over twenty years. One day, I was doing a bit of research about a question of Columbus police procedure, and I called Ron for the answer. He had long since retired, and we had a good time catching up. When I mentioned that he had told me about his months of nightmares after that shooting, he was quiet for a few seconds, and then slowly said, “I had nightmares for *years* afterwards.”
That is, perhaps, the most insidious aspect of violence on television. I recently read that, in real life, *half* of all police officers involved in fatal shootings, leave the profession within a year. In TV shootings, no one is ever traumatized for more than a few seconds, or until the next commercial break.
Years later, I got to know that police officer, Ron Larimer, pretty well. I used to date his sister. I ultimately concluded that, I would have loved to have had Ron as a brother-in-law, just so long as I didn’t have to marry his sister to do it. He once told me about that shooting incident and that, for months afterward, he had nightmares.
After I broke up with Ron’s sister, I didn’t have occasion to talk with him for over twenty years. One day, I was doing a bit of research about a question of Columbus police procedure, and I called Ron for the answer. He had long since retired, and we had a good time catching up. When I mentioned that he had told me about his months of nightmares after that shooting, he was quiet for a few seconds, and then slowly said, “I had nightmares for *years* afterwards.”
That is, perhaps, the most insidious aspect of violence on television. I recently read that, in real life, *half* of all police officers involved in fatal shootings, leave the profession within a year. In TV shootings, no one is ever traumatized for more than a few seconds, or until the next commercial break.
Not From Around Here?
When my paternal grandmother died in 1969, my father and mother went down to Osceola, Arkansas to fix up my grandmother’s house in preparation of putting it on the market. When they arrived at the house , my mother saw my grandmother’s “colored” cleaning lady. (Please note: in 1969, in Osceola, Arkansas, the *polite* term for a cleaning person of African ancestry was “colored.”) on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. My mother, being the good Kansas farm girl she was, immediately grabbed a rag, dipped it in the water and began scrubbing the other end of the kitchen floor.
My grandmother’s cleaning lady did a double-take, was silent for a while, and then commented, “You’re not from around here, are you?”
That story has always made me very proud of my mother.
My grandmother’s cleaning lady did a double-take, was silent for a while, and then commented, “You’re not from around here, are you?”
That story has always made me very proud of my mother.
Bing Crosby
I’m not *at* *all* fond of Christmas- Partially because it coincided so closely with my mother’s death in 1975. I’m sure I’m not the only person who finds the sound of Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas” both obnoxious and depressing, since it brings to mind some hopelessly idealized vision of ecstatic Christmas happiness.
It wasn’t until recently that I learned a couple things that made me feel better. Bing had four sons by his first wife. The eldest, Gary Crosby, achieved a modicum of success as an actor playing a supporting role as a Los Angeles cop in Adam-12. Gary Crosby wrote a book called Going My Own Way, in which he excoriated his father as being a terrible parent. His youngest brother disputed those claims, so who knows where the truth lies? One aspect of the Crosby family that strikes me as absolutely *ghastly* is that Bing’s second and third sons, who were twins, both committed suicide. Sounds to me as though there was something seriously wrong in that household.
The last piece of evidence for me is that fact that Bing Crosby was a *fabulously* wealthy man and, when he died, he left his sons trust funds that they could not collect on until their *sixtieth* birthdays. Ironically, none of his four sons lived that long. So cheer up, people. Don’t let Bing singing “White Christmas” get you down. I’ll bet his family was a *lot* more dysfunctional than yours.”
Bing Crosby in a rare toupee-less moment.
It wasn’t until recently that I learned a couple things that made me feel better. Bing had four sons by his first wife. The eldest, Gary Crosby, achieved a modicum of success as an actor playing a supporting role as a Los Angeles cop in Adam-12. Gary Crosby wrote a book called Going My Own Way, in which he excoriated his father as being a terrible parent. His youngest brother disputed those claims, so who knows where the truth lies? One aspect of the Crosby family that strikes me as absolutely *ghastly* is that Bing’s second and third sons, who were twins, both committed suicide. Sounds to me as though there was something seriously wrong in that household.
The last piece of evidence for me is that fact that Bing Crosby was a *fabulously* wealthy man and, when he died, he left his sons trust funds that they could not collect on until their *sixtieth* birthdays. Ironically, none of his four sons lived that long. So cheer up, people. Don’t let Bing singing “White Christmas” get you down. I’ll bet his family was a *lot* more dysfunctional than yours.”
Bing Crosby in a rare toupee-less moment.
Another "Daycare Defector"
One of my dearest friends is an extraordinarily sweet-natured woman named Barbara who has three children who are currently either in college, or have graduated. I remember watching her play with her children years ago and thinking about how lucky those children are to have such a wonderful mother. Over the years, that impression has only grown stronger. (A few years ago, she took in one of her nephews, who was in his late teens, another testament to the goodness of her heart.) I was impressed with her as a mother to begin with, but all the more so when I learned that she operates a daycare center, caring for between five and eleven preschoolers. (My collaborator just said that isn’t so bad if you have the right cages.)
Barbara is the only woman I’ve ever met who *might* be accused of being too good a mother. She occasionally unintentionally embarrasses other mothers. I recently learned that a three-year-old child, after having completed a stint at Miss Barbara’s Daycare, ran away from home. The kid ran to Miss Barbara’s home. This is *not* the first time such a thing has happened. (A couple of years ago, different 3 year old, same destination) I’m not entirely sure whether this indicates that the child’s birth parents should take a good, long look at themselves, or that this is another indication that Miss Barbara is Supermom, or both.
Barbara is the only woman I’ve ever met who *might* be accused of being too good a mother. She occasionally unintentionally embarrasses other mothers. I recently learned that a three-year-old child, after having completed a stint at Miss Barbara’s Daycare, ran away from home. The kid ran to Miss Barbara’s home. This is *not* the first time such a thing has happened. (A couple of years ago, different 3 year old, same destination) I’m not entirely sure whether this indicates that the child’s birth parents should take a good, long look at themselves, or that this is another indication that Miss Barbara is Supermom, or both.
Merlin Olsen: Football Star, Florist and Actor
Merlin Olson was always one of my favorite football players. He played *fifteen* *years* in the NFL for the Los Angeles Rams and made All-Pro every year until, finally, old age and knee injuries caught up with him. People younger than I, no doubt, know him as a TV sports color commentator and as the most successful flower salesman FTD has ever had.
He always comes across as being very thoughtful and well-spoken. If I ever met him, I would seriously consider politely asking him if he was okay with being hugged by a total stranger. (He not only earned his college degree, but picked up an MBA, graduating cum laude.) He also achieved a certain amount of success as an actor. Once, at a Hollywood party, as Merlin was sipping a fruit juice (as a devout Mormon, drinking alcohol is a no-no), his teammate Roman Gabriel mentioned that he had an offer to be in a movie and asked if Merlin would like to join the production. There was a part in the film that was perfect for him.
Merlin asked, “Is it fun?”
“Yes.”
“Do you make money?”
And a Hollywood legend was born. The film was a John Wayne/Rock Hudson vehicle called "The Undefeated". Although Olsen only had about ten lines and had no previous acting training, I seriously doubt that Brando, Olivier, Gielgud or DeNiro could have played the part of “Little George” the blacksmith, as well as Merlin Olson did. You see, the key to that part was that they needed someone who was huge enough to dwarf both John Wayne and Rock Hudson by comparison. Since Merlin stands 6’5” and was 275 pounds of solid muscle, so he fit the bill quite well.
This was not the end of Merlin Olson’s acting career. Many viewers may recall him in the role of the Ingalls family’s next-door neighbor in Little House on the Prairie. Olsen looks big enough to wrestle a bear, but gentle enough that you'd trust him to hold your pet parakeet in the palm of his hand.
Audiences found Olsen’s presence and manner so appealing that, in 1981, he even got the opportunity to play title role in a TV drama called Father Murphy. In it, he played a benevolent fellow posing as a monk so he could help a group of orphans. (How schmaltzy can you get?) The series did run into one snag early on. In one episode, the script called for Father Murphy to get the news that a nefarious group of bad guys were going to shut down the orphanage and convert it into a sweatshop. The script also called for Father Murphy to fly into a rage. They did a take, but the director told Merlin he wasn’t producing a suitable rage, so they shot another take, and another, and another and another. Finally, when it became clear that they weren’t get a good “rage” out of Merlin Olson, the TV execs asked Merlin why he couldn’t even pretend to be angry. He told them that it was probably the result of something his parents had told him almost thirty years earlier. He was almost full-grown at the very early age of twelve. Even for a kid his size, he was possessed of a near-Herculean strength. One day, his parents sat him down for a talk. They told him, “Merlin, do not EVER lose your temper. You could kill someone if you do!”
The series was cancelled after one season. I just love that story because, while it proves that while Merlin Olson may not be a great actor, he is a truly *outstanding* human being.
He always comes across as being very thoughtful and well-spoken. If I ever met him, I would seriously consider politely asking him if he was okay with being hugged by a total stranger. (He not only earned his college degree, but picked up an MBA, graduating cum laude.) He also achieved a certain amount of success as an actor. Once, at a Hollywood party, as Merlin was sipping a fruit juice (as a devout Mormon, drinking alcohol is a no-no), his teammate Roman Gabriel mentioned that he had an offer to be in a movie and asked if Merlin would like to join the production. There was a part in the film that was perfect for him.
Merlin asked, “Is it fun?”
“Yes.”
“Do you make money?”
And a Hollywood legend was born. The film was a John Wayne/Rock Hudson vehicle called "The Undefeated". Although Olsen only had about ten lines and had no previous acting training, I seriously doubt that Brando, Olivier, Gielgud or DeNiro could have played the part of “Little George” the blacksmith, as well as Merlin Olson did. You see, the key to that part was that they needed someone who was huge enough to dwarf both John Wayne and Rock Hudson by comparison. Since Merlin stands 6’5” and was 275 pounds of solid muscle, so he fit the bill quite well.
This was not the end of Merlin Olson’s acting career. Many viewers may recall him in the role of the Ingalls family’s next-door neighbor in Little House on the Prairie. Olsen looks big enough to wrestle a bear, but gentle enough that you'd trust him to hold your pet parakeet in the palm of his hand.
Audiences found Olsen’s presence and manner so appealing that, in 1981, he even got the opportunity to play title role in a TV drama called Father Murphy. In it, he played a benevolent fellow posing as a monk so he could help a group of orphans. (How schmaltzy can you get?) The series did run into one snag early on. In one episode, the script called for Father Murphy to get the news that a nefarious group of bad guys were going to shut down the orphanage and convert it into a sweatshop. The script also called for Father Murphy to fly into a rage. They did a take, but the director told Merlin he wasn’t producing a suitable rage, so they shot another take, and another, and another and another. Finally, when it became clear that they weren’t get a good “rage” out of Merlin Olson, the TV execs asked Merlin why he couldn’t even pretend to be angry. He told them that it was probably the result of something his parents had told him almost thirty years earlier. He was almost full-grown at the very early age of twelve. Even for a kid his size, he was possessed of a near-Herculean strength. One day, his parents sat him down for a talk. They told him, “Merlin, do not EVER lose your temper. You could kill someone if you do!”
The series was cancelled after one season. I just love that story because, while it proves that while Merlin Olson may not be a great actor, he is a truly *outstanding* human being.
Romping With Wrigley
During my five-year stint as a public defender in Bethel, Alaska, one of my greatest joys was my occasional visits from my coworker’s extremely vocal beagle, Wrigley. The dog and I had an understanding. I kept a large box of dog biscuits in my filing cabinet and would feed that critter as many as he wanted. In return, Wrigley would make it clear that he thought I was absolutely, positively the most wonderful person in the world. This was downright therapeutic for me after having disgruntled clients calling me *everything* but a Precious Child of God 8-5 Monday through Friday.
Wrigley would run away from home, lurk outside the public defender’s office door and dart in at his first opportunity. He would then scamper down the hall and scamper to my office door, scratching and trying to turn the doorknob with his paws. This was a sight that never failed to crack me up. Furthermore, Wrigley did not bark like most dogs. That critter *hooooooooooooooowled*. I do not have an English-to-Beaglish dictionary, but I *think* he was saying, “Biscuits! Biscuits! I want biscuits right now!”
I told Wrigley’s owner that the dog was a talented creature. Not only could he sing, but he could dance. I would hold up a biscuit, and Wrigley would dance on his hind legs, trying to snatch the biscuit from my hand.. I’ve noticed that some dogs are dainty eaters. Wrigley could scarf one down in two seconds flat, then look at me as if to say, “So...... what have you done for me lately?”
The biscuit box gave instructions to only give a dog one biscuit for every seven pounds of body weight; I suspect that Wrigley may be the world’s only 147-pound beagle. If I ran out of biscuits or, as happened only occasionally, Wrigley had satisfied his appetite, the dog would run around in no apparent direction looking for a sunny place to nap. I once told Wrigley’s owner that it seemed that her dog’s life consisted of two occasions: happy hour and nappy hour. Who says that leading a dog’s life is a bad thing? Sad to say, Wrigley’s owner eventually told me to stop feeding her pet because she feared that Wrigley might get hit by a car on his way to partake of the biscuit buffet.
While I was in Alaska, I made a point of calling my father once a week. This strikes me as something a dutiful son would do, even if he has *major* issues with his father. Once time, I told my father about the joy Wrigley brought me. The next week, I committed the unpardonable gaffe of mentioning Wrigley a second time. Dad cut me off with, “I have heard all I care to hear about that dog.” I was *steamed*. So I spent the next week keeping a very careful count of the cases that our office dealt with. The next weekend, when I called my father, and he asked me what was going on, I informed him 1) that the domestic violence case against one of my clients had been dismissed because he had finally gotten around to actually killing his commonlaw wife and was facing second-degree murder charges, 2) that a DWI client was going to get his charge dismissed because he managed to drive his snow machine over thin ice and fell into the chilly waters of a local river and drowned and 3) We had a teenage client commit suicide and 4) that someone had broken into the house of our receptionist’s parents, had beaten and raped her mother and had beaten her father so badly that it was unclear whether he would live, or, if he lived, he would spend the rest of his life in a vegetative state.
After reciting that list, there was a *long* moment of silence on the other end of the phone. I then asked my father, “Is it really so [expletive deleted] TERRIBLE that I like talking about a happy little beagle who howls for joy when he sees me?
Wrigley would run away from home, lurk outside the public defender’s office door and dart in at his first opportunity. He would then scamper down the hall and scamper to my office door, scratching and trying to turn the doorknob with his paws. This was a sight that never failed to crack me up. Furthermore, Wrigley did not bark like most dogs. That critter *hooooooooooooooowled*. I do not have an English-to-Beaglish dictionary, but I *think* he was saying, “Biscuits! Biscuits! I want biscuits right now!”
I told Wrigley’s owner that the dog was a talented creature. Not only could he sing, but he could dance. I would hold up a biscuit, and Wrigley would dance on his hind legs, trying to snatch the biscuit from my hand.. I’ve noticed that some dogs are dainty eaters. Wrigley could scarf one down in two seconds flat, then look at me as if to say, “So...... what have you done for me lately?”
The biscuit box gave instructions to only give a dog one biscuit for every seven pounds of body weight; I suspect that Wrigley may be the world’s only 147-pound beagle. If I ran out of biscuits or, as happened only occasionally, Wrigley had satisfied his appetite, the dog would run around in no apparent direction looking for a sunny place to nap. I once told Wrigley’s owner that it seemed that her dog’s life consisted of two occasions: happy hour and nappy hour. Who says that leading a dog’s life is a bad thing? Sad to say, Wrigley’s owner eventually told me to stop feeding her pet because she feared that Wrigley might get hit by a car on his way to partake of the biscuit buffet.
While I was in Alaska, I made a point of calling my father once a week. This strikes me as something a dutiful son would do, even if he has *major* issues with his father. Once time, I told my father about the joy Wrigley brought me. The next week, I committed the unpardonable gaffe of mentioning Wrigley a second time. Dad cut me off with, “I have heard all I care to hear about that dog.” I was *steamed*. So I spent the next week keeping a very careful count of the cases that our office dealt with. The next weekend, when I called my father, and he asked me what was going on, I informed him 1) that the domestic violence case against one of my clients had been dismissed because he had finally gotten around to actually killing his commonlaw wife and was facing second-degree murder charges, 2) that a DWI client was going to get his charge dismissed because he managed to drive his snow machine over thin ice and fell into the chilly waters of a local river and drowned and 3) We had a teenage client commit suicide and 4) that someone had broken into the house of our receptionist’s parents, had beaten and raped her mother and had beaten her father so badly that it was unclear whether he would live, or, if he lived, he would spend the rest of his life in a vegetative state.
After reciting that list, there was a *long* moment of silence on the other end of the phone. I then asked my father, “Is it really so [expletive deleted] TERRIBLE that I like talking about a happy little beagle who howls for joy when he sees me?
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