Monday, August 31, 2009

Two Americas

So I'm watching this frizzy-haired woman on TV, at one of the Town Halls, weeping about the loss of "her America."

"I want MY America back," she wailed. "What happened to MY America?"

It reminded me of my daughter when she was 5, and wanted some toy she'd long since outgrown. But it also made me think about the frizzy-haired chick's America versus my America.

(If anyone knows why there's this huge gap before this table, please feel free to let me know.)








































Her America My America
It’s okay to bring a gun to a Town Hall. It’s okay to bring a gun to a Town Hall (although I personally think that’s craziness, but it’s the Constitution, and I support the Constitution – even when I disagree with it.
People who wear t-shirts critical of the president are arrested. People who carry posters of President Obama with a Hitler mustache get to do that because it’s the Constitution, and I support the Constitution – even when I disagree with it.
It’s okay for the government to tap our phones. It’s not okay for the government to break the law. Even if we are pissing-our-pants scared of terrorists.
It’s okay to torture prisoners of war. It’s not okay to torture people. Even if we are pissing-our-pants scared of terrorists.
It’s okay for the government to lie and get us into a war under false pretences. It’s not okay for the government to lie to us. Even if they are pissing-their-pants scared of terrorists – or whatever-the-hell ever their real motivation was.
Only white guys get to be President. Any guy can be President. Hell, if I live long enough, maybe ANYONE can be president.
Marriage is only between one man and one woman. Marriage can be between any two adults who love each other enough to be willing to risk it.
Burning the flag is an abomination, and should be banned via the Constitution. Burning the flag is silly, and rude, but proposing a Constitutional amendment banning it is a cheap political ploy to distract from your own misdeeds or lack of accomplishments.
Only people with good jobs get healthcare. Everyone gets healthcare.

Friday, August 28, 2009

The Man by the Window -- American Style

I got this info from the professor of my Group Problem-Solving and Decision-Making class up at Metropolitan State University, in St. Paul. He had worked as the CEO for the Japanese division of an air conditioning manufacturer. The division was having profitability issues, and he was tasked with finding the problem and resolving it.

What he found was that in Japan they have a different approach to career mobility than here in the U.S. There, you’re expected to make solid forward movement throughout your career, achieving positions of increasing responsibility, culminating in a CEO-ship.

There is an age limit on succeeding titles within organizations – by, say, 50 you must be a vice-president, by 55 a C-level, by 60 a CEO (don’t quote me on the specific ages/titles). Once you pass the upper-limit for the position you’re in, if your work does not justify that next promotion, you are moved to an honorary position and given a desk along the outside wall to await appointment to another, smaller company, where your skills are more appropriate for the next level up.

You become manohito – the man by the window.

Your CEO, using the connections he forged in school, is tasked with finding you such a position and getting you off the company payroll. At my prof’s company, their profitability was impacted by having too many manohito, chewing up payroll but unable to contribute anything.

Consequently, his recommendation for addressing the problem was to appoint a Japanese CEO, with the appropriate school-ties to repurpose the manohito.

We have a similar belief here in the U.S., except that we think that if people haven’t made it to the top of the org chart by the time they’re fifty, they are fit only for welcoming people to Wal-Mart.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Slow and Odd

When Old Dog and I were dating, I lived in St. Paul and he lived here in Ohio. On weekends when we couldn’t figure out a way to get together, Old Dog would go visit my Dad on Sunday afternoons. He’d sit on the couch and listen to Dad reminisce about serving in Afghanistan and Burma during WWII, about his years wheeling and dealing real estate, about growing up in western Kentucky coal country.

By the time I started making plans to move back to Dayton, Dad knew Old Dog pretty well. Since Dad loathed my first two husbands, I was nervous about hearing the review, but I respected his judgment enough to ask anyway.

“He’s a good man,” Dad said. “He’ll take care of you.”

As I breathed a sigh of relief, Dad said, “He’s slow, though.”

“Slow?”

Dad nodded. “You’ll have to slow yourself down for him.”

Since Dad had the fastest Southern drawl ever clocked, and Old Dog’s hearing is pretty damaged from years of loud factory machines, I knew where this came from. I couldn’t resist sharing Dad’s critique with him, though.

“Slow?” he said, a grin spreading across his face.

I laughed. It’s hard to resist a man who can hear something like this and think it’s funny.

“Do you want to hear what he said about you?” he said.

My grin faded. I looked at him warily. “What?”

“He said, ‘Jeanne’s intelligent. She’s the smartest of all my kids. But I’ll warn you – she’s odd.’”

Odd? Moi?

A word of advice: Don’t ever let your dad play Cupid.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Old Joke #18


Did you hear about the man with three penises? His pants fit like a glove....

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

My Little Town:- Getting Into the Swing

(No Web Wednesday this week -- all I've gotten are cute animal pictures and a Powerpoint slideshow about these hot baths formed from calcium carbonate deposits in Turkey. So, I'm introducing a new feature - "My Little Town."

Lately, I've been walking my dogs in the morning before I go to work. Since the nature of dog-walking is that you see the same stuff over and over, after a while, you start to really see it.

One of the things we pass each morning is this building:


If you look closely, you'll see the sign says, "Club 101".

According to the woman who lives across the street from me, and grew up in the neighborhood, it's a swingers' club.

My question is: Shouldn't it be called "Club 202"? Or, Club X on Y?

Just sayin'....

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The Trouble with Interns, Part 2

About halfway through the summer, I noticed that our bright young intern seemed harried. She held frequent, highly emotional, phone conversations and her productivity started to tail off. Although, as a manager, I prefer to allow people to come to me if they have a personal issue (because, let’s face it, the last thing anyone wants from their manager is help with their personal problems), it seemed appropriate to at least offer support, especially since I knew her parents were out of the country.

“It’s the Sheriff from West Lafayette,” she said. “He wants me to come to Indiana tomorrow and give a deposition.”

I blinked. “Deposition?”

“My parents left $40,000 with my uncle, in case I needed something,” she said. “And my boyfriend and I used it to buy a Jeep Cherokee.”

I’m usually pretty quick on the uptake, but I didn't understand why the Sheriff was interested in Rashmi’s latest automotive acquisition.

“My parents are very mad. They said they did not leave that money for me to buy a truck.”

Valid, but I couldn't see where the Sheriff came into it.

She continued. “Last week, you remember I was sick?”

I nodded.

“My mother wanted my boyfriend to stay with me, in case I got worse.”

Yeah, that didn’t help with the puzzle.

“We left the Jeep parked outside his apartment,” she said. “So we wouldn’t put any more miles on it, in case we had to take it back.”

Okay.

“A bank in West Lafayette was robbed, and the Sheriff says the bank’s security camera showed my Jeep.”

Suddenly, the full picture emerged.

“I told the Sheriff that my employer would not like me to miss work.”

I explained that the average corporation, given the choice between a lost employee work day and having the Sheriff show up in the lobby, would choose Option A every time.

She spent the next day in West Lafayette.

As it turned out, Rashmi was on her cell phone in Ohio at the time the bank was robbed, and her carrier’s records proved it. Soon after that, she returned to school to finish up her five majors, and we never did hear who borrowed the Jeep.

But to this day, when I'm offered an intern, I decline.

(Notice how I resist the urge to take a cheap shot at Bill Clinton? That's because I have discipline.)

Monday, August 17, 2009

The Trouble with Interns, Part 1

Confession: I’m not fond of people between the ages of 14 and 25.

I find them self-absorbed and clueless. Also meta-clueless – clueless about being clueless.

(Oh, give me a break. Everyone is prejudiced against some group. At least it’s possible to outgrow the target group for my bigotry.)

Anyway, because of this, as an IT manager I avoided hiring interns. This story should help you understand why.

Rashmi was between her junior and senior years at Purdue when she worked with us. She was extremely bright – she had 5 different majors and was carrying 4.0’s in all of them. More impressive to me, she accomplished actual programming work – no mean feat without a mainframe background.

Over the course of the summer, she shared her automotive history with us.

When she finished high school, she was given a brand new Honda Civic as a graduation present. She promptly totaled it.

Annoyed, her father refused to buy her another new car. Instead, he gave her a six-month-old, fully-loaded Honda Accord. Two weeks later, she loaned it to a friend, who rolled it.

He then bought her another new car, another Honda Civic, which she was still driving as our story begins.

But it wasn’t the only car she owned.

That spring, while on break in L.A. with a bunch of friends, she’d inadvertently purchased a Rolls Royce.

How, you ask, do you accidentally buy a $200,000 car?

Apparently, the family of one of the kids in the group collected Rolls. When the lighthearted crowd saw a dealership, they decided to go window shopping, and this kid fell in love with a model on the showroom floor. Because he didn’t have his ID with him, Rashmi signed the paperwork, believing that she was simply attesting to his identity.

But when the kid told his parents about the car, they said, “We do not need another Corniche sitting around taking up space. We’re not buying that car.”

Rashmi's parents’ lawyer was still trying to back out of the deal.

Tomorrow: The Sheriff Said What?

Friday, August 14, 2009

Fiction Friday: Building a Plot

Okay, I think I've incorporated everyone's suggestions (and then some)!

Nicole Benson wants to appear onstage in a Broadway musical because it’s what she’s wanted since she and her identical twin sister took turns playing Annie at the local dinner theater when they were 7 years old AND she’s bored to tears with her job as a bookkeeper AND her ex-husband always scoffed at her dreams. So she packs up her two kids and moves to New York to pursue the dream, expecting the old friends from the dinner theater who are now famous to help her find work. But the only theater job she’s offered is working as the bookkeeper on a new production of Annie.

Disappointed, she hangs around rehearsals looking for opportunities to show the director and cast members that her true talent lies in performing, thinking that will get her a job, but instead a surprise audit by the play’s angel shows that money is missing, and in one day she gets fired, kicked out of her apartment, the cops come looking for her and Children’s Services takes her daughters.

Fortunately, an old buddy who’s playing Daddy Warbucks in the current production offers her a place to stay/hide out, and that takes some of the pressure off.

But not for long, because the cops are still looking for her and Children’s Services has her kids. At her wit’s end, she finally remembers the girls bringing their aunt down to the theater just before the money went missing and realizes she left her sister alone with QuickBooks sitting open on the computer. She sneaks back into the theater, where she discovers that the leading lady has had a nervous breakdown because she’s phobic about mice and someone released a shoebox of them in her dressing room. And she learns her evil twin is about to assume the role of Miss Hanigan. Once she proves that Nancy is responsible for both the missing money and the migrant mice (plus she tends to get a little pitchy in the upper ranges when the weather is damp), Nicole is given the role of Miss Hanigan, her own little girls are returned to her and Daddy Warbucks proposes after Opening Night, but instead of accepting, she finally answers the letter and agrees to go to France.

The one big difference in this version and any of the ones that were submitted is that things go MUCH worse for our protagonist in the middle. It's only by making her life pure hell that she'll grow as a character (and hold your audience's interest).

Thanks to Pseudonymous High School Teacher, Jim Styro, Jan, Rachel Cotterill and Ocean Girl for contributing!

Monday, August 10, 2009

Bend Over and Try to Relax

So let's not even talk about the 46 million uninsured, some of whom have diabetes, or hypertension, or cancer and will die without treatment. If someone believes they are more entitled to health care than other people, because they have a job or went to college or whatever, my saying that's bullshit isn't going to change their minds.

Instead, let's talk about why people who currently HAVE health insurance should support reform that includes a government option.

I understand your concerns, but, frankly, the health insurance industry has been treating the American consumers the same way the banking industry did: as a goldmine to be plundered and then abandoned once the gold runs out.

In 1993, in order to get Congress to drop Hilary-care, health insurers agreed to self-police and do several things: 1) eliminate underwriting practices like pre-existing condition exclusions and cherry-picking 2) begin to use community rating; and 3) create a standard benefit plan.

They've done none of these.

Instead, they cull their rolls of long-time customers as soon as the customer gets sick. (The Energy and Commerce Committee’s investigation into three insurers found that they canceled the coverage of roughly 20,000 people in a five-year period, allowing the companies to avoid paying $300 million in claims.) And, they purge employers by skyrocketing their rates if an employee gets seriously ill, or has an accident. In one case, Aetna raised the cost of a family policy to $44,000/year -- more than the average employee's gross earnings.

And they've been very successful: in the 10 years from 1998 to 2008, the medical-loss ratio (premiums received vs. claims paid) dropped from 85.3% to 81.6%, translating to several billion dollars in profit.

In fact, the profitability for the top ten health insurance companies rose 425% in this time period.

No wonder they're scared shitless of having a government-run option. Scared enough to plant shills in the audiences of town halls all over the country, so there can be no rational discussion on the topic.

All I can say is, if you've got health insurance, you'd better hang onto it.

Because with the hosing you're getting, you're going to need a proctologist.

(Note: All statistics pulled from the testimony before Congress of Wendell Potter, a former Cigna executive, or the Kaiser Family Foundation website.)

Friday, August 7, 2009

Fiction Friday: Building a Story

Since I so enjoyed taking your input and weaving a story (even if it was so vulgar it actually lost me a follower) and since you all seemed to enjoy participating in the effort, I thought we’d try something similar today.

Here’s the skinny: I’ll create a character and a plot structure, and you contribute suggested details. Then, on next Friday, I’ll piece it all together and post it. Assuming that there's enough input to make selection necessary, I will be choosing based on (1) adherence to the character as described and (2) dramatic sense.

Character: Nicole Benson is a 42-year-old, recently divorced, mother of two daughters, aged 11 and 14. She has a good job with good benefits, though not in the subject she majored in at college -- Theater.

Plot structure:

Nicole Benson wants (input #1 - name something she might want) because (input #2 - why does she want it?), so she (input #3 - what does she do to pursue her dream?), expecting (input #4). Instead, (input #5) happens.

Horrified, she (input #6), thinking that will (input #7), but instead (input #8).

Fortunately, (input #9), and that takes some of the pressure off.

But not for long, because (input #10). At her wit’s end, she finally (input #11) and (I’ll take it from here).

You can contribute any or all of the inputs (please number them, so I know which ones are which), and I’ll choose the ones that seem to work together to create a good plot.

Or, you can remain ominously silent, and I’ll just sit around listening to the crickets chirp.....

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Web Wednesday: Why Don't They Market That Here?

So my question is: Why doesn't Ford market this car in the U.S.?

Monday, August 3, 2009

Flasher Magnet

My younger sister is a flasher magnet.

I don’t know if it’s because she’s small, because her blue eyes and freckles make her look innocent and easily shocked, or some other less tangible quality, but she’s seen upwards of a dozen anonymous penises in her life.

In fact, the only two times I’ve been flashed, I was with her.

The first time, I was a senior in high school and she was in sixth grade. Her middle school was a quarter mile beyond my high school, and we’d just crossed Hedges Street when a man in a white Corvair pulled up to the stop sign behind us.

“Hey, can you tell me how to get to Terry Street?” he called from his car.

Our parents had recently owned a house on Terry (they used to flip houses in the 60’s, before it became trendy), so I had a general idea. I stepped up to the passenger side window and was describing how to get there when suddenly Robin starts yelling, “You’re sick! You make me sick!”

I turned around to see what the heck was going on, and she’s standing there, pointing toward the car. Following the trajectory from the end of her finger, my eyes came to rest on what seems, in memory, a flesh-colored object roughly the dimensions of the Washington Monument.

I said, “Oh, gross” and walked away.

A number of years later, we were sitting in a Taco Bell, enjoying a round of Nachos Bell Grande, when she suddenly leapt from the booth and headed for the counter, yelling, “That’s it. I’m getting the manager.”

I looked around in time to see a middle-aged guy with greasy, thinning hair dump the remains of his tray into the trash and head out the door.

Those are my only two incidents; for her, there have been many more. She insists that I’ve probably been flashed as often as she has, and just didn't notice.

She could be right.

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