It has become quite clear that the makers of electronic gadgetry have successfully taken a page, yea pages, what the hell, chapters from the book so long maintained by the automotive companies during their lush days, promoting dynamic obsolescence. Every new piece of equipment these silicon chip neo-geniuses foist on the market now seems to result in a clamor to visit the nearest sales spot, so the outmoded model purchased just a couple years ago can be tossed into the retirement bin or given to the kids.
Perhaps we’re more conservative than we constantly claim to be, by never appreciating the need to possess the latest pocket-sized or slightly larger device, guaranteed to perform heretofore unimaginable feats, both faster and with more storage capacity than ever envisioned. If so, we must confess to prefer behaving in an old fuddy-duddy manner, rather than like a wide-eyed yuppie. What’s wrong with being content sticking to an earlier version, as long as it does the job satisfactorily?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
THE GUY NEXT DOOR
During the years of Ronald Reagan’s presidential tenure, we never ceased viewing him as a man who’d very likely make an ideal next door neighbor, based upon his consistent demeanor while appearing in public. He always seemed like the sort of chap inclined to drop by on occasion for a friendly beer at the kitchen table, or engage in frequent spirited conversation with a fellow back yard grass cutter. It’s no wonder that he enjoyed such immense universal popularity for such a lengthy time period.
In rather sharp contrast, we developed a much different feeling as regards his immediate White House successor, George Bush Sr. Should he be residing that close by, we envision an approximate weekly pounding on our door to proclaim in vociferous tones “Your dog peed
on my shrubbery!”
In rather sharp contrast, we developed a much different feeling as regards his immediate White House successor, George Bush Sr. Should he be residing that close by, we envision an approximate weekly pounding on our door to proclaim in vociferous tones “Your dog peed
on my shrubbery!”
Monday, June 14, 2010
A LONG AND WELCOME SARTORIAL STRIDE
Whenever we venture out on various excursions for shopping, social events, or other purposes these days, we find it interesting to note the wearing apparel which adorns roughly 95% of the men observed. Clothing once viewed as fit for only a hobo or a hopeless wino is now the accepted mode. The casual look has become the universally accepted male fashion.
Anyone who watches early era movies on television or DVD will see how strictly conservative masculine garb prevailed in those days. Among our best remembered examples was a scene with approximately twenty men grouped together in the stands viewing a hockey game. Without exception, they wore business suits, neckties, and felt hats, more resembling chorus line members than spectators. To our subsequent century eyes, this seemed nothing short of ridiculous. Nevertheless, that's how we chaps were virtually required to drape ourselves much of the time a half-century or so back.
Contrarily today, about the only situations that force a fellow to clad himself thusly occur when sitting in a stuffy board room or attending church services. Being retired, and otherwise not having not occupied a pew for decades, we wouldn't be overly surprised to learn that some might be showing up at both such locations wearing more relaxed duds by now. However, we hold no particular anxiety to check either matter out.
To help the trend along, several latter-day U.S. Presidents have shed such senseless formality as well, when making public appearances under appropriate conditions.
A close acquaintance once described an incident which took place when he was an early teenager (circa 1939), vacationing with older relatives at a rustic cabin resort in the Pennsylvania hills. He showed us a family photo where every person except his father wore casual outfits. In stark dissimilarity, Pop had on a white shirt and a tie -- at an Appalachian wilderness retreat! Furthermore, he'd shaved, after allowing his five o'clock shadow to build up for several days, according to our narrator.
The reason readily became clear, as our friend went on to explain. There was periodic need for someone to drive into the nearest hamlet to seek supplies or whatever. As head of the household, the old man had the procurement obligation, and had groomed himself with due propriety. During those times, a true gentleman never trod the sidewalk without a single-color suit plus a necktie, and likely a hat on top, even in Hickburg, Pa. Besides that, only bums let their beards grow back then. His return had immediately preceded the picture-taking, with only a few minutes to shed his coat and sombrero.
Speaking very candidly, it's a pleasure not having to put up with such false formality any longer. In turn, dare we suppose the day will come when judges and barristers in England's and its many commonwealth countries' courts of law might stop wearing those silly powdered wigs, faggoty cravats, and outmoded robes?
Anyone who watches early era movies on television or DVD will see how strictly conservative masculine garb prevailed in those days. Among our best remembered examples was a scene with approximately twenty men grouped together in the stands viewing a hockey game. Without exception, they wore business suits, neckties, and felt hats, more resembling chorus line members than spectators. To our subsequent century eyes, this seemed nothing short of ridiculous. Nevertheless, that's how we chaps were virtually required to drape ourselves much of the time a half-century or so back.
Contrarily today, about the only situations that force a fellow to clad himself thusly occur when sitting in a stuffy board room or attending church services. Being retired, and otherwise not having not occupied a pew for decades, we wouldn't be overly surprised to learn that some might be showing up at both such locations wearing more relaxed duds by now. However, we hold no particular anxiety to check either matter out.
To help the trend along, several latter-day U.S. Presidents have shed such senseless formality as well, when making public appearances under appropriate conditions.
A close acquaintance once described an incident which took place when he was an early teenager (circa 1939), vacationing with older relatives at a rustic cabin resort in the Pennsylvania hills. He showed us a family photo where every person except his father wore casual outfits. In stark dissimilarity, Pop had on a white shirt and a tie -- at an Appalachian wilderness retreat! Furthermore, he'd shaved, after allowing his five o'clock shadow to build up for several days, according to our narrator.
The reason readily became clear, as our friend went on to explain. There was periodic need for someone to drive into the nearest hamlet to seek supplies or whatever. As head of the household, the old man had the procurement obligation, and had groomed himself with due propriety. During those times, a true gentleman never trod the sidewalk without a single-color suit plus a necktie, and likely a hat on top, even in Hickburg, Pa. Besides that, only bums let their beards grow back then. His return had immediately preceded the picture-taking, with only a few minutes to shed his coat and sombrero.
Speaking very candidly, it's a pleasure not having to put up with such false formality any longer. In turn, dare we suppose the day will come when judges and barristers in England's and its many commonwealth countries' courts of law might stop wearing those silly powdered wigs, faggoty cravats, and outmoded robes?
Friday, June 11, 2010
TACTICAL ADVICE FROM A WOULD-BE FIFTH COLUMNIST CHASER
Quite recently, the apartment complex where we reside sent out invitations for any and all occupants to attend a brief reception at its club house a few days further on. With the announced hour being "by 1:00 PM", our initial thought was to drop in at 11:00 and stay only long enough to meet a 12:30 appointment elsewhere. Shortly afterward though, the realization struck that the correct starting time would be somewhat later than first anticipated, making our presence impossible.
How did reach such conclusion? Purely and simply because we knew the bulletin had been composed by a Latina lady, who had grown up in another country. With no disrespect intended, we could tell that her use of by didn't actually mean before, but rather near, hence around or about one o'clock.
To expand upon this innocent type of linguistic error, we've long held to the certainty that should we ever become engaged in counterespionage activity, an enemy agent posing as a U.S. patriot could eventually be tripped up through noting improper English preposition use. As an unofficial, yet dedicated student of various foreign tongues, we've experienced countless cases where such application can be much different between one language and another, especially when a direct textbook translation pattern is followed. Consequently, a reasonably lengthy interview with a supposed "one of us" would guarantee spy detection results in due course.
Another alleged way to catch an unwanted infiltrator would merely be to sketch a diamond on a piece of paper, then ask him or her to place an X where the shortstop belongs. We scoff at this idea for two sound reasons. Firstly, we've met any number of native-born Americans unable to perform such exercise properly, which might lead to false presumption. Conversely, a well-trained enemy agent could handle the matter with his or her eyes closed.
Everything we've said above is likely old hat to the CIA et al lads and lasses. Nevertheless, we just wanted to flaunt our vicarious capabilities.
How did reach such conclusion? Purely and simply because we knew the bulletin had been composed by a Latina lady, who had grown up in another country. With no disrespect intended, we could tell that her use of by didn't actually mean before, but rather near, hence around or about one o'clock.
To expand upon this innocent type of linguistic error, we've long held to the certainty that should we ever become engaged in counterespionage activity, an enemy agent posing as a U.S. patriot could eventually be tripped up through noting improper English preposition use. As an unofficial, yet dedicated student of various foreign tongues, we've experienced countless cases where such application can be much different between one language and another, especially when a direct textbook translation pattern is followed. Consequently, a reasonably lengthy interview with a supposed "one of us" would guarantee spy detection results in due course.
Another alleged way to catch an unwanted infiltrator would merely be to sketch a diamond on a piece of paper, then ask him or her to place an X where the shortstop belongs. We scoff at this idea for two sound reasons. Firstly, we've met any number of native-born Americans unable to perform such exercise properly, which might lead to false presumption. Conversely, a well-trained enemy agent could handle the matter with his or her eyes closed.
Everything we've said above is likely old hat to the CIA et al lads and lasses. Nevertheless, we just wanted to flaunt our vicarious capabilities.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
WHAT CONSTITUTES A SOCIAL GATHERING?
Years ago, when this writer was in the employ of a leading professional services firm, two annual parties would be hrown for the staff and their wives. The first came during the late spring months in the form of a cocktail party at a prominent local hotel, and the second near Christmas time, complete with drinks and an elaborate buffet dinner. Each occasion usually offered a pleasant evening for all.
In most organizations we've dealt with, the invitation lists for events of this sort include every current employee. However, that was never the policy adhered to by said company. Since its business consisted of serving the blue-chippiest clientele possible, a distinctly stuffy attitude constantly prevailed, with attendance limited to those holding university degrees, perhaps supplemented by professional certification.
What we're saying is that the secretaries, the typists, the office clerks, the reproduction equipment operators, and the messenger boy were never allowed to participate. Granted, they'd be given a small annual affair of their own at a separate spot, mingling solely among themselves.
When we once inquired as to the whys and wherefores of such practice, a company bigwig coolly replied by expressing a fear that some young lady might bring along her husband or boy friend, who could be a common laborer. Perish the thought of some professional type finding himself engaged in conversation with a hod carrier or rubbish collector. The explanation was concluded with "That, in our firm's eyes, does not make a social gathering". A page had clearly been taken from India's caste system.
Happily, while later working with similar firms over the years, we never found this outlandish situation duplicated.
From our anti-Republican viewpoint, a Christmas party or comparable occasion should provide an excellent atmosphere for camaraderie, where file clerks can brush shoulders with vice presidents. Even if some poor slob gets a snoutful and openly calls the big boss a fatassed s.o.b., the whole affair is supposed to be in fun.
We've never managed to forget or forgive such ultra-snobbishness.
In most organizations we've dealt with, the invitation lists for events of this sort include every current employee. However, that was never the policy adhered to by said company. Since its business consisted of serving the blue-chippiest clientele possible, a distinctly stuffy attitude constantly prevailed, with attendance limited to those holding university degrees, perhaps supplemented by professional certification.
What we're saying is that the secretaries, the typists, the office clerks, the reproduction equipment operators, and the messenger boy were never allowed to participate. Granted, they'd be given a small annual affair of their own at a separate spot, mingling solely among themselves.
When we once inquired as to the whys and wherefores of such practice, a company bigwig coolly replied by expressing a fear that some young lady might bring along her husband or boy friend, who could be a common laborer. Perish the thought of some professional type finding himself engaged in conversation with a hod carrier or rubbish collector. The explanation was concluded with "That, in our firm's eyes, does not make a social gathering". A page had clearly been taken from India's caste system.
Happily, while later working with similar firms over the years, we never found this outlandish situation duplicated.
From our anti-Republican viewpoint, a Christmas party or comparable occasion should provide an excellent atmosphere for camaraderie, where file clerks can brush shoulders with vice presidents. Even if some poor slob gets a snoutful and openly calls the big boss a fatassed s.o.b., the whole affair is supposed to be in fun.
We've never managed to forget or forgive such ultra-snobbishness.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
HOW DO YOU SPELL HIPPOCRATIC OATH?
If this particular article fails to bring on loud retorts in defense of the sacred medical profession, we can’t possibly imagine what will. The matter we’re about to lay on the table deals with relationships established between physicians and the pharmaceutical companies, regarding what benefits may be forthcoming in return for prescription writing, excessive or otherwise.
A browse of the internet on such subject makes it abundantly clear that the drug manufacturers are known indeed to provide gifts (lacking a more suitable label) to doctors for having pushed their wares, due to age-old overly aggressive marketing habits. Still, we see no concrete statements to the effect that direct kickbacks are being paid.
Nevertheless, supposing we take a look at what can be readily accomplished with our 21st century technology. When picking up a prescription at any pharmacy, the doctor is expressly identified on the label, which means his name and address have also been lodged in a computer file. Reporting sales of products X, Y, or Z back to the drug companies, naming the initiator in each case, can be duck soup.
While living in Thailand for a great many years, we observed that every hospital and medical clinic carried huge quantities of pharmaceutical products. We further found that any direct charges for routine doctor services were either relatively minimal if not nil, with the profit derived from the small pile of prescriptions the patient carried to the stock room to be filled. Since the national mentality in said country is predicated on believing a doctor’s words to be the gospel according to St. Whoever, no person dares not to fork over the funds for the list of drugs dished out. In this case, the revenue comes from direct sales, but requiring a rather massive inventory investment. Accordingly, the drug producers can’t be other than blissfully pleased.
Our stateside system differs, of course, in that medical clinics don’t normally house drug stocks, letting the independent pharmacies carry the inventory burden. Theoretically then, the only profit is earned at the retail level, with the prescribing physician’s task a mere ordering service for no added remuneration. Correspondingly, medication issued from stores within hospital walls and charged to a patient’s account would produce revenue for the institution only.
However, can this always be true in real life practice? Might direct (or at least camouflaged) percentage kickbacks not be due the doctors?
Even if such condition may exist today, and we’re frankly inclined to harbor such suspicions, this wouldn’t necessarily imply that prescriptions are being written with an eye only on resulting rebates. In any such case, the physician would be on the borderline of a Hippocratic Oath violation.
In all due fairness, therefore, we shouldn’t jump to unwarranted conclusions. Still, it is common knowledge that doctors are extensively trained to combat illness with drugs, drugs, and more drugs. They spent long years in medical school having this point driven home. Even though many offer useful lip service to careful dieting, tobacco use restriction, ample exercise, and other natural cure methods, the underlying indoctrination back at dear old Siwash can’t be easily forgotten.
Fundamentally speaking, we feel that the prime fault has to lie with the pharmaceutical companies, whose sales promotion methods have irretrievably branded them as having resided in Satan’s bailiwick for as far back as any of us can remember. Besides, they have no Hippocratic Oath to hold them in check.
A browse of the internet on such subject makes it abundantly clear that the drug manufacturers are known indeed to provide gifts (lacking a more suitable label) to doctors for having pushed their wares, due to age-old overly aggressive marketing habits. Still, we see no concrete statements to the effect that direct kickbacks are being paid.
Nevertheless, supposing we take a look at what can be readily accomplished with our 21st century technology. When picking up a prescription at any pharmacy, the doctor is expressly identified on the label, which means his name and address have also been lodged in a computer file. Reporting sales of products X, Y, or Z back to the drug companies, naming the initiator in each case, can be duck soup.
While living in Thailand for a great many years, we observed that every hospital and medical clinic carried huge quantities of pharmaceutical products. We further found that any direct charges for routine doctor services were either relatively minimal if not nil, with the profit derived from the small pile of prescriptions the patient carried to the stock room to be filled. Since the national mentality in said country is predicated on believing a doctor’s words to be the gospel according to St. Whoever, no person dares not to fork over the funds for the list of drugs dished out. In this case, the revenue comes from direct sales, but requiring a rather massive inventory investment. Accordingly, the drug producers can’t be other than blissfully pleased.
Our stateside system differs, of course, in that medical clinics don’t normally house drug stocks, letting the independent pharmacies carry the inventory burden. Theoretically then, the only profit is earned at the retail level, with the prescribing physician’s task a mere ordering service for no added remuneration. Correspondingly, medication issued from stores within hospital walls and charged to a patient’s account would produce revenue for the institution only.
However, can this always be true in real life practice? Might direct (or at least camouflaged) percentage kickbacks not be due the doctors?
Even if such condition may exist today, and we’re frankly inclined to harbor such suspicions, this wouldn’t necessarily imply that prescriptions are being written with an eye only on resulting rebates. In any such case, the physician would be on the borderline of a Hippocratic Oath violation.
In all due fairness, therefore, we shouldn’t jump to unwarranted conclusions. Still, it is common knowledge that doctors are extensively trained to combat illness with drugs, drugs, and more drugs. They spent long years in medical school having this point driven home. Even though many offer useful lip service to careful dieting, tobacco use restriction, ample exercise, and other natural cure methods, the underlying indoctrination back at dear old Siwash can’t be easily forgotten.
Fundamentally speaking, we feel that the prime fault has to lie with the pharmaceutical companies, whose sales promotion methods have irretrievably branded them as having resided in Satan’s bailiwick for as far back as any of us can remember. Besides, they have no Hippocratic Oath to hold them in check.
A SOMEWHAT IMPASSIONED PLEA FOR MORE HOLLYWOOD REALISM
This piece focuses on the gentry who churn out movies in assembly line fashion, most pointedly the screenwriters. We hold nothing short of utter contempt for their ceaseless history revising, fact distortion, and classic literature corruption. The industry obviously has no qualms about insulting our alleged intelligence through truth manipulation for entertainment’s sake. It seems the only text they won’t twist around is that which comes from the Bible, perhaps due to inherent fear of recriminations from the Almighty.
Moreover, thanks to needed liberalization of those past days’ ridiculous censorship measures, our more modern film creators now go too far overboard, seldom failing to feature superfluous “in the sack” scenes, before blowing massive structures to bits as a finale. At least the earlier era bluenose-controlled productions couldn’t be overladen with erotic and violent sensationalism. However, we digress, since our current quest is for greater authenticity, not moderation.
Supplementing our above-stated misgivings, we’d like to add a few relatively minor pet peeves, where war and other military life films are concerned. We have no appreciation for lack of realism when portraying either battle scenes or barrack-room dialogue, and thus tend to wince at any of the aspects discussed below.
Military Rank Insignia
Anyone who ever served in direct confrontation combat knows that, beforehand, non-coms will have torn off their stripes, and officers discarded their bars, oak leaves, eagles, or stars. In addition, the facsimiles painted on their helmets get thoroughly coated with mud. To the enemy, such exposed designations signify leadership capacity, thus making the bearers more logical targets for snipers or other close range opponents.
Nevertheless, even in sterling war epics like The Longest Day and The Band of Brothers, among many lesser flicks we’ve watched over the years, no soldier ever appears without his rank prominently displayed for all to see and aim at. From our viewpoint, this lacks essential realism.
Shoulder Patches
The above point applies equally here, and never once have we noted the absence of military unit identification on any actor-soldier’s duds. Standard military procedure calls for such patches to be ripped off and thrown away before reaching the front, in the interest of security. Allowing the enemy to recognize what outfit they are facing has always been strictly taboo, with their forces’ having been thoroughly indoctrinated in noting and reporting any such observations.
Artillery and Mortar Fire
All too often, we witness troops moving forward, while shells keep landing and exploding no more than a few feet away from many of them, yet they carry on, miraculously untouched. The naïve film viewer is to suppose that only direct body hits will be damaging. Even the Rambo movies follow this erroneous pattern. Again, as many of us have learned from bitter experience, a strike that close will send deadly shrapnel flying in every direction.
Soldier, Sailor, Marine, and Air Force Vocabulary
We’re all aware that military personnel are prone to employ salty language as a matter of routine, and our latter-day films do a pretty adequate job in this regard. Although we have no objection to such practice, we have long deplored the unceasing use of two especially inaccurate expressions, both “clean” by nature, and normally applicable to off-duty or between-skirmish scenes.
The first overworked word in army films is sarge, used when addressing a sergeant. Throughout this fellow’s entire military service career, that abbreviation was not heard on a single occasion. The custom has always been to call said person by the full term and/or his name.
Furthermore, in countless army or navy-based movies, we’ve listened to only one word ever applied when reference is made to members of the fair sex. Quite frankly, we’re sick and tired of their being called dames, without exception. Even that classic song from South Pacific, which complained of their absence, exploited such expression to the hilt.
Having participated in an endless number of barracks bull sessions, conversations with college fraternity associates, various stag affairs, poker parties, and the like, this writer has yet to hear the ladies so labeled, either individually or collectively. Although there are words applicable by the dozen, ranging from semi-complimentary to degrading to anatomically vulgar, never has a male colleague of this writer been known to designate them as dames.
Moreover, thanks to needed liberalization of those past days’ ridiculous censorship measures, our more modern film creators now go too far overboard, seldom failing to feature superfluous “in the sack” scenes, before blowing massive structures to bits as a finale. At least the earlier era bluenose-controlled productions couldn’t be overladen with erotic and violent sensationalism. However, we digress, since our current quest is for greater authenticity, not moderation.
Supplementing our above-stated misgivings, we’d like to add a few relatively minor pet peeves, where war and other military life films are concerned. We have no appreciation for lack of realism when portraying either battle scenes or barrack-room dialogue, and thus tend to wince at any of the aspects discussed below.
Military Rank Insignia
Anyone who ever served in direct confrontation combat knows that, beforehand, non-coms will have torn off their stripes, and officers discarded their bars, oak leaves, eagles, or stars. In addition, the facsimiles painted on their helmets get thoroughly coated with mud. To the enemy, such exposed designations signify leadership capacity, thus making the bearers more logical targets for snipers or other close range opponents.
Nevertheless, even in sterling war epics like The Longest Day and The Band of Brothers, among many lesser flicks we’ve watched over the years, no soldier ever appears without his rank prominently displayed for all to see and aim at. From our viewpoint, this lacks essential realism.
Shoulder Patches
The above point applies equally here, and never once have we noted the absence of military unit identification on any actor-soldier’s duds. Standard military procedure calls for such patches to be ripped off and thrown away before reaching the front, in the interest of security. Allowing the enemy to recognize what outfit they are facing has always been strictly taboo, with their forces’ having been thoroughly indoctrinated in noting and reporting any such observations.
Artillery and Mortar Fire
All too often, we witness troops moving forward, while shells keep landing and exploding no more than a few feet away from many of them, yet they carry on, miraculously untouched. The naïve film viewer is to suppose that only direct body hits will be damaging. Even the Rambo movies follow this erroneous pattern. Again, as many of us have learned from bitter experience, a strike that close will send deadly shrapnel flying in every direction.
Soldier, Sailor, Marine, and Air Force Vocabulary
We’re all aware that military personnel are prone to employ salty language as a matter of routine, and our latter-day films do a pretty adequate job in this regard. Although we have no objection to such practice, we have long deplored the unceasing use of two especially inaccurate expressions, both “clean” by nature, and normally applicable to off-duty or between-skirmish scenes.
The first overworked word in army films is sarge, used when addressing a sergeant. Throughout this fellow’s entire military service career, that abbreviation was not heard on a single occasion. The custom has always been to call said person by the full term and/or his name.
Furthermore, in countless army or navy-based movies, we’ve listened to only one word ever applied when reference is made to members of the fair sex. Quite frankly, we’re sick and tired of their being called dames, without exception. Even that classic song from South Pacific, which complained of their absence, exploited such expression to the hilt.
Having participated in an endless number of barracks bull sessions, conversations with college fraternity associates, various stag affairs, poker parties, and the like, this writer has yet to hear the ladies so labeled, either individually or collectively. Although there are words applicable by the dozen, ranging from semi-complimentary to degrading to anatomically vulgar, never has a male colleague of this writer been known to designate them as dames.
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