It’s an early Sunday morning and I’ve just watched the movie “Now and Then” for the second time this week. For those who may not have seen it, “Now and Then” is the female version of “Stand By Me.” It is set in 1970; the main characters a year-and-a-half to two years younger than I was at the time, but there wasn’t much difference between what they did to keep themselves occupied during the long summer months. I remember the summer of 1970 very well; I’d graduated from 8th grade, and we started the summer in Lodi looking for Nazi gold (seriously! One of my father’s dearest friends from childhood felt there is Nazi gold buried on a property near Lodi, and my dad and uncle gathered the brood and we all watched and waited for a bulldozer to find it—needless to say we didn’t!), and I ended the summer with a bang by starting my period a week before reporting to high school. In between we’d ride horses during the morning and evening hours (sometimes with a transistor radio looped over the saddle horn, though the local AM station really played poppy stuff unless you requested something else), and hang out by my parent’s new pool during the heat of the day. Probably the “worst” thing to happen that summer was coming to the understanding that the Beatles had indeed broken up, the breakup having been announced that spring—and just as I was getting old enough to fully appreciate their music to the point of picking up a guitar and teaching myself to play.
Music used to be a big part of my life. From the 5th through 7th grade I took clarinet lessons in school, so I used to be able to read music. The clarinet doesn’t really have a place in rock music though… I have always loved guitar-driven music with creative vocal harmonies and catchy lyrics—not to the point of being a fan of the really “poppy” stuff, because the guitar licks just were not there. Besides loving the Beatles’ music, I also liked Cream, and the Beatles’ protégées Badfinger, and I especially remember a song called “All Right Now” by a band named Free being all over the place that summer. Notice a trend? They are all British, and all very guitar-driven!
Unfortunately for me, I chose not to have a whole lot of fun in my high school classes. I’d wanted to graduate early, so I took nothing but college prep classes, which left no time for any music classes. I changed that my junior year when I finally had enough and dropped out of Spanish III to take guitar; during my senior half-year I took choir, where my voice was identified as being contralto and when I discovered that when acting I could do nearly anything, including sing, though I did my best singing when stoned on pot. Yep, I was quite the little pothead.
I bought all of the Beatles sheet music and taught myself the rhythm parts (I had two sets of Beatles’ music books—one with rhythm guitar tabs, the second lead, which I never really got good at). I came to appreciate just how hard the guitar is to learn, and I’d chosen to learn to play on a steel-stringed Yamaha acoustic I bought for $75 with my own money. I learned to change strings, to tune by ear, and by the summer of 1972 was comfortable enough to play in front of people, to the point I traveled around Spain for 6 weeks carrying that Yamaha acoustic and jamming at night. I’d never be a George Harrison (though he was my favorite by that time, hence I’ve used this photo of him I recently tripped over—what a beautiful man he was!), but I could play and sing most of the Beatles’ songs, a couple of Badfinger’s songs, and some Neil Young stuff, too.
Every so often I’ll hear songs from the early 1970s and remember that there was good music despite disco being shoved down everyone’s throats by the middle of the decade. I’ll wish I still had that Yamaha acoustic—my stepbrother learned to play on it and I think he sold it, which makes me very sad, that guitar had truly gone to battle! I’ll listen to certain songs that fit my vocal range and sing my heart out. Tonight’s song was from “Now and Then”—Badfinger’s “No Matter What.” That lead to a pair of Badfinger songs: “Baby Blue” and “Day After Day.” And yes, I used to be able to play those songs, and in public, too!
There are times I am tempted to buy another acoustic guitar—I’m betting I still can find my Beatles’ sheet music! I wonder if returning to music might be good for me …
Jaded: 1. fatigued by overwork : EXHAUSTED 2: made dull, apathetic, or cynical by experience or by surfeit (jaded network viewers; jaded voters) Cynical: 1. CAPTIOUS, PEEVISH 2: having or showing the attitude or temper of a cynic: as a : contemptuously distrustful of human nature and motives (those cynical men who say that democracy cannot be honest and efficient — F. D. Roosevelt) b : based on or reflecting a belief that human conduct is motivated primarily by self-interest (a cynical ploy to win votes)
How has this bit of self-assessment come about?
While watching coverage of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan over the past couple of days, I could not help but notice the difference in behavior between the Japanese people and how Americans behave in time of disaster. Specifically, thus far I have not seen, heard or read a thing about widespread looting and vandalism anywhere in the affected areas. I vividly remember seeing news videos during Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath, including people openly stealing from stores—and not stealing food or other things one needs to live, but stealing televisions, electronics, pretty much anything not tied down. I remember that people affected by Katrina demanded that “the government” do something for them. I remember stories about FEMA queens demanding their government assistance, receiving debit cards intended to provide assistance in acquiring food and lodging, and using those federally-acquired funds to buy flat screen televisions and designer handbags.
I’ve not seen any of that behavior from the Japanese people. From the outside, it looks like many people heeded the tsunami warnings, and though I expect the death toll will be in the thousands, the fact that so many people did survive tells me they did not sit around waiting for the government to “do something” for them, specifically evacuation. No one expected the tsunami wave to reach 6 miles inland.
I am glad there are United States military assets able to help in search, rescue and recovery. That’s one reason to ensure our military is always at the ready for humanitarian missions. I expect the Japanese people will rebuild their nation quickly and efficiently, and find a way to improve things. I also expect that Japan does have the economic backbone to finance rebuilding efforts themselves.
Here comes my jaded, cynical attitude.
Why is it in time of natural disaster it’s expected that the United States pick up the pieces for every damn country that suffers a natural disaster or war? While Japan is indeed a reliable ally today, a little thing called Pearl Harbor and World War II is still an important piece of history and there are still people alive today who vividly remember these events.
It was the United States, or rather U.S. dollars, that rebuilt Japan. Japan’s economy is in much better shape than ours. We have millions of people who are un- or under-employed through no fault of their own, people whose unemployment “benefits” may be long gone or expiring soon. We have American citizens and families going hungry and without creature comforts that many others take for granted. But it’s not glamorous to talk about them, and it’s not glamorous to donate money or goods in our own nation. You don’t see celebrities making appeals for the regular American who may not have endured a natural disaster but who is enduring joblessness through no fault of his or her own.
Charities are of course popping up to help Japan in this time of crisis. However, I’d think that what is really needed are goods and services, provided by human beings, not money. Japan has the money; Japan can pay for those goods and services. American farmers certainly can produce what the Japanese people need, but it’s up to Japan to ask for what they need. A story on CNN revealed that there are food shortages, specifically rice, bottled water, fresh produce and bread. I think the United States produces those things in abundance and I’m sure the U.S. will be happy to provide those goods.
My second question is why the crappy behavior from Americans in time of disaster, a la Katrina or even times of civil unrest—why do Americans find it so easy to commit vandalism and thievery? They aren’t breaking into stores to steal food and water—they are taking physical goods. Those same Americans expect the government to “do something,” to fix whatever they think is wrong or unjust by giving them something. I’m sick of people being so non-self-efficient, and I look at how Japan is coping, and wish that Americans could be more like the Japanese.
I also wish that people residing in the United States, citizens and those here legally—people enjoying economic success and who are in a position to help Americans less fortunate would do so—but I suppose helping American citizens simply isn’t glamorous enough.
Why am I such a Negative Nelly? I really didn’t used to be this way. I want to believe that people are inherently good and honest, but the past ten years have taught me otherwise. Especially since late 2008, times have been very tough for others and myself. It seems that the ability to get good gainful work is a crapshoot and it’s a case of who you know and if you are lucky enough to run in a circle where cronyism is the way of doing things. It doesn’t matter if you are good at what you do, or know you could really rock a job, if given the chance. It hurts like hell to see people less qualified get that great job—and it hurts worse when racism is involved.
I am cynical and distrustful because of the job that community college district did to me. I purposefully grossly underbid my services in the hope—and with the promise from the chancellor herself—that my thoughtfulness and lack of greed would be rewarded by hiring me for the job once the district was able to budget for the full-time position. Once she’d hired someone else for the job, she didn’t even have the decency to speak to me about why I wasn’t awarded the job after doing the job for nearly two years—and doing that job well. Or at least I was told I was doing it well. So much for kindness and trust—where does that get you? Screwed over, I guess.
Same goes for the place I’ve provided editing services to for over ten years—I turn my work over quickly, I have not asked for a pay raise in 6 or 7 years, yet for some reason, I haven’t received any work from them since December. Why? One of my guesses is one of the usual over published, full-of-herself Ph.D.-educated authors doesn’t like for me to edit her work because I catch holes and biases in her research, so she’s made complaints and the new research director found it easier to sell me down the river as opposed to say to this researcher “Well, maybe she is right about errors in your stuff.”
Submitting resumes is an act of futility, but I guess I enjoy self-flagellation?
Being burned as much as I have, it’s pretty hard to see any good anywhere in humanity. Hence, I trust my cats more than pretty much any human right now!
This doesn’t mean I won’t continue to try to deliver a random act of kindness whenever I can—but I will stop believing that I will receive any kindness or consideration from others. Today I let an elderly Japanese woman cut in line ahead of me at Costco. She had an armful of foodstuffs; I had a full cart. Why make her stand behind me, I said to myself, and motioned for her to get in front of me. She said “Really?” and I replied, “Of course, why make you stand there? You go ahead of me!” Once she was done, she turned to me and with a huge smile offered her sincere thanks.
It’s just that easy to melt a jaded cynic’s heart, if only for a few seconds.
Me as a hopeless 17-year old with my friend Marie Sprugasci, who was my maid-of-honor at my wedding. Marie was just so darn spunky! She's now an elementary school teacher. I'm the blonde.
I don’t romanticize my academic career prior to working toward my B.S. and M.A. I seriously hated high school, except for a few teachers and classes. I was not popular, and never really found my niche. Some teachers accused me of being lazy. In hindsight, I probably had a learning disability that affected me ability to grasp the abstract thinking required in algebra. But because I was supposed to be “bright,” any problems I had in algebra were of my doing, out of laziness or spite.
Thing is, I really didn’t have a problem with math until 6th grade. My teacher, a fine instructor named John Andes, took a group of his brighter kids, including me, and wanted to “introduce” us to some higher-thinking math. It had to do with thinking of math systems in different “bases.” The “base” we work in is base 10, in other words, numerals are grouped by tens. That’s really as much as I got out of it. By the time the school year was done, I was hopelessly confused.
Then came junior high, switching teachers and subjects throughout the day for the first time. I found myself in “A” rail everything except for math, which was “C” rail. My math teacher was a man Mr. Yeager. We called him “Bird” because he had severe, sharp features like a bird and wore his hair in a crew cut.
He was the first teacher I had that I hated. I was so confused in his math class, confused to the point that I didn’t even know how to ask questions. I received my first D from him—up until then my lowest grade had been a C in penmanship in 4th grade!
My lot got no better in 8th grade. I was still C rail math because I was too smart for D rail. I was again stuck with Yeager. And again I learned nothing. Adding to my problem was my English teacher, Mrs. Grote. She too looked like a bird, except she was small and skinny, and an even worse teacher than Yeager.
I received my first F from her, in English, a subject I’d always excelled. My mother came in and had conferences with Mrs. Grote and Mr. Yeager. To this day I think the only problem I had in English with Mrs. Grote was I didn’t understand any of the directions she’d given—ever. The math problems were chalked up to laziness. I was getting high marks in social studies, science, and Spanish.
Things did not look much better for me going into high school. Because of my crappy grades in math and English, I was going to be put on the “career” track; in other words, enrolled in office classes in the hopes I could work as a secretary. At the time I had aspirations to be a veternarian, but the high school counselor, Mrs. Olsen, suggested I not think about pursuing that as a career. It was only at the cajoling of my mother that I was put into the “college prep” path, and put into one of the higher-functioing English classes, because by that time it had been determined I was simply bored with whatever it was Mrs. Grote had tried to teach me.
I was lucky that I ended up in the classroom of Dan Hoffman. Sure he frustrated me (Can anyone remember diagramming sentences? I thought “How useless,” but I confess that I use those skills whenever I am editing a poorly-written academic study.), but I learned from that man. I went on to take drama and journalism classes from him, and in a large part, he gave me the confidence and knowledge to craft powerful words.
Of course there is also the bad, and he came in the form of Mr. Quatre. He was the algebra teacher, and because algebra was required for college, I was put into a 2-year Algebra I class—designed to cover the subject a bit slower for students who struggled.
I never made it past the first year of that two-year course. I re-took the class my sophomore year with the same results—Ds and Fs. The only time I got an acceptable grade was the semester we did word problems. To this day I can set up word problems, but the operations just confuse me.
The traumas I endured in algebra stuck with me well into my 40s. I was math-stupid, and pretty much any and all four-year degrees required some sort of math. Even while earning my AA which allowed me to write the RN boards, I avoided taking pre-algebra. In order to graduate, I had to take a basic math test and pass with a 75. I waited until a week before my coursework was done, and passed with a 76.
In my early 20s I again tried algebra at the college level, at a night class. I cannot remember the teacher’s name, but I know I worked my butt off doing homework, which I earned As. However, at testing time, I’d go blank, and was grateful for a C. Going into the final I had a B based on my homework—I didn’t show up for the final, knowing I’d tank. The teacher offered for me to make up the final or accept a C in the class.
I was no dummy—I took the C!
A good 15 years later, I decided I really wanted a 4-year degree. By this time, the math required for a PR major was statistics. The prereq for statistics was intermediate algebra. I was still math-phobic, and spoke to a counselor at Hartnell College (the community college closest to me) who told me they had teacher on staff named Ken Rand who had a way with math-stupid people. I was lucky to be able to get into his class.
I worked harder for those 4 units than I have in any other class before or since—including nursing classes, science classes, and anything at San José State or the University of San Francisco. Mr. Rand gave his students the opportunity to have a signed “contract”—a promise from the student that he/she would ask questions in class, would do all homework, attend all classes, and participate in class. If you did all to his satisfaction, the lowest grade you’d get was a B. But it was no cakewalk. I spend at least two afternoons a week in his office, learning about quadratic equations. I also spend 4 to 6 hours a week in the special math lab Mr. Rand has sent up. He’d also give us a practice exam the night before an exam—and that practice exam consisted of the kind of questions we’d be asked on the real exam.
I earned an A from Mr. Rand. To this day, I give him full credit for my academic success. I was able to take statistics the following semester, and although I liked the class, my math anxiety came back in full force. I’d get As on my homework, earned an A+ on my class project, but when it came to exams, I’d look at the questions and ask “When did I learn this?”
I am done with math, period.
To end this entry, I’ve made a list of my favorite, and least favorite, teachers or professors I have had the pleasure or mispleasure to know.
Elementary School Favorites: Miss Dvorak (2nd grade); Mr. Andes (6th grade)
Least Favorites: Mrs. Bryan (4th grade, she just scared me, she was so strict!); Mrs. Nunley (5th grade, a waste of a year. She was very discouraging toward my creative writing attempts. I had a thing for science fiction…); Mrs. Pitcher (physical education; she did not believe I had knee problems…)
Junior High Favorites: Raymond Miller (social studies, 7th and 8th grade). LOVED his class and his way of engaging students. He’d have a weekly current events “college bowl” quiz and I’d usually end up on the winning team.
Least Favorites: Mr. Yeager (7th and 8th grade math); Mrs. Grote (8th grade English)
High School Favorites: Dan Hoffman (9th grade English, drama 10th through 12th grades, journalism 11th and 12th grade); Larry Sonniksen (Agriculture 9th and 10th grade). Yes I was an aggie, in FFA and all that; Stephen Highfill, 9th and 11th grade Spanish. My Spanish used to be good enough that was a teacher’s assistant for Mr. Highfill in 11th and 12th grades.
Least favorite, and the one who had the most negative effect on my life: Ed Quatre, 9th and 10th grade Algebra I; Mr. Campbell, 10th grade science—KILLED my interest in science until I had to take biology classes for nursing school.
College/University Favorites: Ken Rand, Hartnell College. The MOST influential teacher I have ever had; Dr. Lucindi Mooney, English 1B and Literature. Ultra-picky when grading my writing, which in the long-term has been very helpful to me. Debby Figurski, RN program at Hartnell College; threatened to fail me when I did not thrive in my ICU rotation, she made me get off my butt and want it more. Judy Duffy, RN program. Taught OB nursing, which ended up being my favorite area of practice; Connie Powell, RN program, taught pediatric nursing, which I hated, but she so obviously loved it she could not help make you care more about it.
Chris DiSalvo, San José State University, public relations instructor; Dr. Bill Briggs, SJSU, mass communications instructor. Sad thing about Dr. Briggs is I did not appreciate how brilliant he is until he was no longer my professor. Dr. Dennis Wilcox, SJSU, public relations professor. Dr. Wilcox is another of those brilliant, but I got it too late types… Dr. Kathleen Martinelli, SJSU public relations professor. Just makes it look so easy … Dr. Dan Rascher, University of San Francisco, master’s program sport management—made economics fun. Dr. Maria Veri, USF. Reminded me of the importance of accepting and embracing cultural differences.
Least Favorite:
Ms. Brown, SJSU, marketing professor. I HATED her class, 120 bodies and most were in the class because it was required of their major. I still don’t really get the point of her class—and didn’t until grad school.
A pair of female professors at USF, I have conveniently forgotten their names. One was a marketing teacher who did not understand the NHL or how inept it can be; the second was the sport law professor who was confused by my research paper about civil RICOs and the Alan Eagleson mess with the NHL Player’s Association in the 1970s. My lowest grades in grad school from the two—a pair of B+, messing up my grade point averages. Hags.
Thanks to my conspiracy theory friends for contributing to this entry. You know who you are!
Let me remind anyone tripping over this that I am not a fan of Michael Jackson, the Jackson 5, or that genre of music. So when I heard that Jackson had died in June 2009, I thought, “How sad for those kids,” but not “Oh my God, the world has lost a living saint!” as it seems so many people think or feel. They argue, “Look at his humanitarian efforts, look at how much money he donated to causes for children! He cared about the earth!”
Well that’s all fine and dandy. No one really knows where Jackson’s heart was on those issues. Was his “famous” generosity actually a way to pay less in taxes? Was it his way of atoning for possible questionable behavior around pre-pubescent boys?
I’ve written it before and I’ll write it again: At worst he was a pedophile, at the minimum he exhibited some confusing behaviors around elementary/junior high-aged boys (never girls). At best he was a very talented entertainer, at worst someone who came along at the right place at the right time and was discovered. What I can write with certainty is he was a human being full of self-loathing because of what his father did to him. And that’s a fact—how many people go through so much effort to distance themselves from their father by subjecting themselves to plastic surgery to look less like him (and ultimately look like an alien, related to no one on earth, except for his sister LaToya)?
My friend Sprocket at her blog Trials and Tribulations attended the hearing for Conrad Murray, the physician responsible for Jackson’s death by abandoning his heavily sedated patient. Her blog entries brought out the best and worst in Jackson fans. I believe it is possible to be a fan and be able to understand that Jackson’s death was utterly avoidable, that Jackson’s behavior in seeking a doctor to put him to sleep using a drug that is NOT approved in any way, shape or form for insomnia, and that he has left a legacy of music that many people love.
Said rabid fans are also convinced that Murray is being undercharged, no matter how concisely it is explained to them that the law, currently as written, does not allow for anything other than involuntary manslaughter at the time of Jackson’s death or today. In other words, if the same thing happened today to a person as famous as Jackson, or a nobody like me, the worst that could be charged is involuntary manslaughter, unless there is malice. (“I want that person dead, so I’m going to do it with propofol.” That’s malice.)
But oh boy, the conspiracy theories surrounding this death are friggin’ hysterical. I refuse to “visit” any links sent to T & T proving those conspiracy theories. AEG did it, Sony did it, I am sure there are more but I refuse to investigate. I think for shits and giggles I will share some of my own, along with theories brought by friends.
1. The “this case is just like a repeat offender drunk driver running over someone and killing them while drunk, hence malice, hence second degree murder” argument. Proof: Conrad Murray delayed calling 911 and then made himself unavailable immediately after Jackson was pronounced dead 'cause he was chemically impaired on whatever.
2. The “This is a federal case and the FBI should be involved ‘cause Murray was on the phone to someone in Texas when Jackson stopped breathing in California” argument. Only problem is Murray wasn’t doing anything illegal by flirting with a girlfriend in Texas, unless he was trying to sell her something stolen or illegal.
3. The “Jackson died of sleep deprivation” argument. So to best buy into that one, you must embrace what you remember (erroneously) of your high school biology and assume that Jackson’s sleep deprivation caused hallucinations. The ensuing stress response caused kidney failure and cardiac stress. The chest pain, renal failure, and hallucinations drove MJ to recklessly climb onto the roof of the rented mansion, seeking relief from insomnia, whereupon he slipped and fell, impaling himself on a large syringe of propofol held innocently by Conrad Murray who was busy making dates. Sadly, AEG had not anticipated this situation, thus no insurance coverage. The beneficiaries of this conspiracy were Tito and LaToya, who placed the banana peel on the roof, in the hopes MJ would just accidentally fall to his death and allow them to take over MJ’s bankrupt empire.
4. (This goes with the above) Jackson was being held by AEG and was tortured and deprived of sleep to get him to comply with showing up to rehearsal. MJ was being a bad boy and not practicing, so they had Dr. Murray take care of the problem.
5. G.W. Bush did it.
6. Dick Cheney did it, and waterboarded poor MJ, too.
7. Bush, Cheney, Obama, bin Laden, Kadaffi, and Kim Jong Il did it. It was the one thing they were able to agree upon.
8. It was Kim Il sung, who ordered the hit from his deathbed. (In 1994.) MJ's music has always threatened stability in that region. Kim Il Sung was a huge MJ opponent, and feared MJ's music would drive the North Korean empire into ruin.
9. PepsiCo did it. They meant for him to burn alive when he had his little "accident" that got him hooked on drugs. They didn't mean for him to live long enough to do that. Joe Jackson told them to do it!
10. There is also a distant association between the Jackson family and JFK’s extended family (former California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, married to JFK’s niece Maria Shriver), which had something to do with the conspiracy faking the lunar landing. Jackson knew the lunar landing was fake, and his dance step, the moonwalk, was a secret code in acknowledgment. Both MJ and JFK (both of whom have "J" in their names) are now dead. That is no accident.
11. A pentagram has 5 points—and the Jackson 5 had five members. The “hit” on MJ was ordered by the devil!
12. Conrad Murray was born in Grenada. Grenada contains the letters A, E, and G. Murray was chose for that reason—AEG knew he would comply because they shared letters of the alphabet!
13. The Vatican is involved, too, because the Jackson Family are practicing Jehovah's Witnesses. It had to look like the Muslims or Hindus did it.
14. Paul McCartney ordered the hit, because MJ bought the Beatles’ catalog before Paul was able to buy it for himself.
15. The executors of the will did it so they could play around with all of the recordings Jackson left, so they could have full-time work and get paid lots of money by Jackson’s estate.
I am a firm believer in Occam’s Razor, that the simplest theory that fits the facts of a problem is the one that should be selected. The more people involved in a conspiracy makes it more likely that conspiracy will be uncovered. Over 2 ½ years after his death, no one has stepped forward (other than conspiracy theorists) to say there was indeed a conspiracy to kill MJ. No one has been able to prove how the main so-called conspiracists, Sony and AEG entertainment, were going to benefit from a dead Michael Jackson. There is not enough insurance in the world to make it profitable to have a corpse on their hands, allowing them to collect the insurance funds.
I also believe that the LA County DA performed an extensive investigation and would have upped the charges had they been able to find a reliable witness who could say Murray showed malice toward Jackson. Truth is, Jackson himself hired Murray, and demanded AEG hire/pay him to be Jackson’s personal physician. MJ did not need a cardiologist, he needed multiple specialists, doctors who would have said “no” to his request for propofol and benzos. While Murray is responsible for abandoning a patient receiving unacceptable medical care, MJ is the one who picked that incompetent physician.
If Jackson fans want to pursue any of their conspiracy theories, I suggest they form a group, collect the funds, and hire a private investigator or ten. Build an unshakable case. Look at both sides, pro and con. Make sure your evidence is valid and admissible in court. Only then do you take your unshakable case to the DA. They will appreciate all of the work you have done."
Or let LaToya and and the rest of the Jacksons pay for it. Just don't spend a dime of taxpayers' dollars on investigating something that has already been investigated and is going through the courts in proper fashion.
A heads-up to would-be negative commenters: Don't bother to send me links proving the various conspiracy theories. I will not approve the comment nor will I check out the link. However, I will approve people who see this post for the tongue-in-cheek entry it is, and want to add their own conspiracy theories to the lunacy. This is MY blog and there is no freedom of speech unless I like it!
I have not written much about my first love, horses. It’s about time I do. I was always a horsey kid. I cannot remember a time when I didn’t love them. My mom has a photo of me, perhaps at the age of 12 to 18 months, sitting atop a neighbor’s horse (the horse’s name was Sammy), holding onto the saddle horn. I have no memory of that photo. One of my earliest memories, perhaps at the age of three, is that of me feeding a horse from our backyard in Eureka. In hindsight, that horse might actually have been a mule, but that’s of no matter. I remember waiting for that equine’s daily visits. My first horse was a pony named Dynamite. My non-horsey dad brought him home one day while I was at dance class. I vividly remember being dropped off by the neighbor, whose daughter was my age and at that time my BFF. The gray pony was tied to the swing set in the front yard. I think my dad was busy building his pen. Years later I learned that the pony was a stallion and probably only half-broke. My dad borrowed a saddle from one of his cousins, and the bit we used on him was a ring snaffle with no stopping power. My riding lessons consisted of being put on Dynamite’s back, and being told to kick and cluck. I am sure that he ran off with me too many times to count, straight up the hill behind our house, toward the low oak trees that grew on the property surrounding the house. I remember one time that Dynamite had done just that, and my dad was not going to climb that hill and rescue me. I was crying, kicking that little devil, trying to pull him around and point him down the hill. There was also the time Dynamite cornered me and bit me on the shoulder, managing to get his mouth and teeth all the way around my scrawny left shoulder. Again my dad rescued me—that pony was like a pit bull, with his laws firmly locked and me screaming hysterically. That pony was gone by the time I started kindergarten. I bought my first real horse when I was in 5th grade, with my own money earned from babysitting and working in the fields. From that time, until 1997 or so, I was owned by at least one horse. Here I am 50 years later, horseless. So I try to live vicariously by looking at horses from afar, wishing I had a place to keep a horse, brave enough to defy my doctor who told me that horseback riding was not a good thing for a fused back. So for today, I am sharing two images of horses that have touched me and made me miss my horses all the more. One of the photos, that of the dark bay horse, is Zenyatta, 2010’s Horse of the Year, and one of the best thoroughbred mares to grace the track. She’s only the second racehorse I have been attached to, the first being the immortal Ruffian. We know how that ended. Zenyatta’s story is much happier—she’s recently retired and waiting to go into heat, when she will be bred for her first foal. Z’s handlers have a website for her, with a daily blog entry. It’s so sweet that her people love her so much, that she is more than a machine. Z herself has obvious personality, and I am excited to meet her first not-yet-conceived baby. The other two photos are of a paint mare that recently went through an auction ring in New Jersey. I do not know her name. With the economy in its present slump, many well-loved horses find themselves at auction, with no buyers, and no hay at home to feed that horse anymore. This mare, said to be a family horse, lived that nightmare on Wednesday night. She ended up in a feedlot pen, that is, she was headed to slaughter in Canada. Of all the horses that ended up in pen #10, she is the first one I would have taken home. She had until today (Saturday) to find a home, or there was a very good chance she would be headed to Canada. Last night I learned she was still there, and I just sat here by myself and cried. Not only am I on the other side of the country, I had no money to buy her or even call the sales barn and offer to pay for her food for a week, just to buy her more time. This morning I learned that pretty paint mare been purchased and would be rescued from pen #10. It was a nice way to start my Saturday. Even though it makes me sad, I think I will take the time to write about my horses. Now if I can find photos …
I certainly have been neglectful in writing for fun, haven’t I? It’s certainly not due to being too busy with work, but that’s a rant for another day.
I’m still crime/trial watching, but not as much as I would like, because my daughter thinks I am a doddering nutcase when I do so. However, how can anyone who grew up in the 1970s miss what is going on with the manslaughter trial of Conrad Murray, the physician who was Michael Jackson’s “personal physician,” a man about to be convicted of involuntary manslaughter for gross negligence in Jackson’s death in June 2009.
To me it’s a cut-and-dried case, and I won’t write about that in more depth at this time. What I will write about is how the crazies come out whenever Jackson is mentioned.
My friend Betsy, who not only enjoys reading and writing about crime, lives close enough to the courthouse in Los Angeles to attend trials that pique her interest. She’s worked very hard to be a professional when writing about crimes, and because of her professionalism in blogging about other trials (most noteworthy most of Spector I and every day of Spector II), has earned the respect of the courthouse’s public information officer, and is now considered a member of the media—and that’s a big deal.
Last month she braved LA County public transit and attended the aforementioned Dr. Murray, knowing she would likely “watch” the proceedings from a media overflow room. Working against uncomfortable chairs, less-then-perfect visuals and challenging audio, she took notes during prosecution witness testimony, and posted to her website, Trials and Tribulations.
That’s when the lunatics came out in force. Said lunatics are fans of Michael Jackson who honestly believe a saint was murdered and that Jackson was the victim of a widespread plot.
Hey kooks, here’s the truth: your hero, who was most likely a child molester at worst, someone who no doubt crossed the line with inappropriate behavior with children, a man who bought his three children, a man who hated himself so much he endured who-knows-how-many plastic surgeries, died because he wanted to dictate his own medical care. After he found a doctor who would do what he wanted, he hired the man, a cardiologist by trade, Jackson told the doctor what he wanted and got it. Jackson could have, should have, bought the very best multidisciplinary health care for himself—sleep specialists, pain control specialists, addiction specialists—any of which could have made a difference and helped him sleep at night.
Jackson made a poor choice of doctors. He did not need a cardiologist—he needed sleep. And being knocked out with whatever general anesthesia agent one desires is not a treatment for insomnia. Period. Plain and simple, Jackson must have liked the feeling of being woozy—isn’t that what addicts do? I watch enough Intervention to see common threads, regardless of what the chemical of abuse is, addicts love the effects, be it feeling down and drooly or wired and paranoid. So what if narcotics were not found in Jackson’s blood after his death—there are plenty of ways to get that floaty feeling, and benzodiazepines fit the bill nicely. I am sure that Jackson’s postmortem hair sample is chock full of interesting information.
It’s been quite amusing reading some of the comments Betsy’s gotten from readers from all over the world. Some are pretty rational, but many are rants about how she should make the district attorney’s office charge Murray with first-degree murder and give him the death penalty immediately. Others are certain Murray is a scapegoat for a larger conspiracy, that AEG wanted Jackson dead and because AEG does business in LA County, the DA’s office won’t really properly investigate and find the masterminds of this “horrific” crime.
Recall that Jackson’s child molestation trial was heavily populated by fans that dressed like Jackson, wore t-shirts with Jackson’s image, and waited outside just to have a glimpse of their hero. There is no doubt that Murray’s trial will bring out the same kind of kooks.
So I guess this is my rhetorical question for today: what is so lacking in those people’s lives to defend a very flawed human being years after his death? Whenever anyone says or writes anything they believe is unflattering to Jackson, they become unhinged and accuse the writer of bias, prejudice, being a “hater,” jealous of Michael’s God-given talent—on and on. What makes a person be a fan of something to the point of blindness? I truly loved the Beatles, but I understood from a young age each was an individual, each flawed, and perhaps John, Paul and George worthy of my admiration for their musicianship and ability to write memorable music.
I don’t immerse myself in all things Beatles. I don’t spend money on memorabilia. I have a hard time understanding how anyone could worship anything or anyone like Jackson fans worship him? Why waste so much effort on someone who simply made music? And why make other people miserable with rantings, ravings and unkindnesses—especially toward those who do not fall in line with their thinking?
I’ll be researching and writing an article for T & T about the psychology of conspiracy theories. Perhaps I should also research why some people become so fanatical about someone (usually a celebrity), to the point of being blind and oblivious about that person’s faults. There is only one perfect thing in our universe, and we’d be better served being fanatical about Him.
P.S. Can you tell I am not a fan of Michael Jackson? Never was, never will be.
One of the very best things about social media such as Facebook is connecting with like-minded individuals. The title of this blog indicates that I feel I am a moderate Republican. Actually I am more likely to be a Libertarian.
Many times after making a quite-opinionated post, friends have said “I’d vote for you,” and “Why don’t you run for office?” So, in the name of fun, I’ll put my platform out first, then tell you why I cannot run—the so-called “skeletons in my closet.”
Catherine’s Platform
I tend to be socially liberal but fiscally conservative. For this reason, I could not run as a Republican. So let’s put the some of the stuff out there that makes me a RINO (Republican in Name Only). Here are the things I am for—I’ll write about what I’m against in another entry.
I am pro-choice. I am not pro-choice as a method of birth control. I am okay with gay marriage. I do sort of squirm when the term “marriage” is used because of my Catholic upbringing, but if marriage is looked at as declaring love between two people and then expecting that couple to remain faithful to each other (and what I mean by faithful is sexually exclusive), then so be it.
Those two issues are between an individual and God. Yes, I know in God. God will take care of everything. If abortion and gay marriage are wrong, He will make each of us answer to it.
The above two positions are enough to brand me a RINO. It’s a shame, but I certainly can understand conservatives’ beliefs, and know they are entitled to it. Call me a Libertarian then—I think that political ideology fits me best.
I believe that the United States must secure its borders. I’d put priority on the southern border first, of course. I do think Canada tries its best to control who comes in—have you looked at Canada’s immigration requirements? Now you might argue here that Mexico’s immigration laws are pretty strict, too, though the corruptness of those in public service means anyone can buy what they want in Mexico, including turning the other cheek. But there are people getting into Mexico who have no business being there—potential terrorists—and I don’t think Mexico’s southern border is terribly tough to get through either. Securing the border comes down to two reasons: one, to keep potential terrorists out; two, to keep people who will be an economic drain out; and three, to protect the jobs of Americans or people in the United States with proper work visas.
I think the 14th Amendment needs to be clarified to omit the “anchor baby” loophole that is being so overused and abused. It doesn’t have to be complicated—children born of U.S. citizens are citizens. Children born on U. S. soil of one U.S. citizen and one legal immigrant (that’s me) can be U.S. citizens if the parents choose (there are times I wish I had dual citizenship with Germany). Children born of a couple here on a green card/work visa can be U.S. citizens if the parents choose. Children born of a parent or parents in the U.S. illegally (no green card, no work permit) are not U.S. citizens. A birth certificate will be issued, but marked “not valid for proof of citizenship.” Contact information for an embassy of the parent’s home nation will be provided so they can follow up and obtain documentation of the child’s nationality. ICE will be informed and the parents and child, or children, are subject to deportation.
I am for the federal health care legislation being repealed. I am for tort reform. I am for education vouchers for parents of children who live in districts where the schools are sub-par. However, those vouchers should be for no more than the current national average—around $10,000 per student. And those children must be U.S. citizens or have a green card. No more free ride for non-citizens.
Yes, I know making children “pay” for the crimes/mistakes of their parents is cruel and un-American. Perhaps people who cross into the U.S. illegally to birth those anchor babies would think twice about breaking the law when there are no benefits to be gained—no welfare for a non-citizen infant.
I am for limits on how long a person can receive welfare. I prefer that welfare recipients be subject to drug testing, and for able-bodied people, community service. The idea that families are on welfare for generations has got to stop.
I am for a strong, prepared military outfitted with the very best equipment possible.
I am for term limits for elected officials. “Career politicians” will become a thing of the past. Sure, a person seeking a career in politics, and I’m fine with a person starting at the local level, and working his or her way through the state and federal office, but NOT occupying an elected office for more than two terms.
I am for responsible spending. I think every elected official who takes part in creating a budget or spending government funds (which are really our tax dollars) need to honestly ask if he or she would spend his or her own money in that way. Spend each dollar as if it is an investment. Spend it in a way that benefits the majority of Americans, not a special interest group.
I am a middle-aged moderate Republican who is concerned about the direction this country is taking. I'm mostly socially liberal but I am very fiscally conservative and I think too many people in this country are waiting for handouts and not seeking solutions.
