I went to 13 schools. We moved a lot, and fast. And, I need to confess that I did manage to kill my first “pets,” a pail full of tadpoles. We had been given them at school to take home over the summer so we could see the miracle of life. I looked forward to seeing all those little frogs. I kept them on the balcony and refreshed their water and fed them daily. Eventually I forgot about the tadpoles and one day found their dried up little bodies at the bottom of the pail. They had just morphed little legs. I stood there on the balcony in the hot afternoon sun weeping. I was a killer. I poked them a little with my finger, but they were stuck to the bottom of the pail. I sat down and thought about what to do. I was wracked with guilt. I did the only thing I could think of: I washed out the pail, put it under the sink and went outside to play. So, now that you know that I was less than an angel, I can tell you how my mum, either physically or metephorically, killed the rest of my pets. (more…)

Yes, I was an only child. I am also left-handed, very important that. My Mum was a Jew, my dad was Catholic. I was sent to Catholic schools because my Mum was afraid that Hitler wasn’t really dead and the Nazis would rise again.** All that and the fact that the nuns would keep me until 5 pm when she got off work. She was also very firm that I would never be made to write right-handed as she had been.

A deal was struck with Sister Elizabeth at St. Francis School. My Mum would drop me off early on her way to work and they would keep me until she came back. Mum insisted that I was not to be “indoctrinated.” She was very firm about that. Sister said okay, but there was just one sticking point: in order to go to St. Francis, I had to be baptised. Obviously, Mum had never heard about, “give me the child and I’ll give you the man.” So, I was baptised at the age of 2 and started my Catholic education. (more…)

Here’s an image for you to ponder: a child sitting on a bench. The scuffed Buster Brown oxfords move rhythmically back and forth. Hands gripping the edge of the seat, arms stiff. It’s a warm fall day in the Mexican border patrol station at the U.S. border at San Diego. The child looks around the room for the 100th time. Nothing has changed in the last hour or two. The bright sun, just outside, is getting lower in the sky.

I sat on that bench for the better part of a Sunday afternoon. I was 8 years old. I had been brought by my mother and Uncle Sid for a visit to Mexico. We had spent the previous summer in Mexico, but that was a supposed to be a holiday; this was business. I knew that. My role was to be quiet and smile and do what I did best: look innocent. (more…)

Many years ago, when I was in my gap year, I went to work in a shop fairly far from home. Having only a bicycle, I had to take several buses to get to work. I had no idea what I wanted to do in life, and the year off gave me a bit of break from thinking constantly about my future. It also got me out of the house and my mother’s constant thinking about what I was going to do with my life. The long bus ride to work afforded me the opportunity to read, or observe or just let my mind wander. Work started around mid-morning and ended at a decent hour. But as summer stretched in fall and then winter, it was dark by the time I left for home. (more…)

This is for everyone who had the courage to stand up and protest today.
Support our troops –

bring them home:

Magnetic Yellow Ribbon on My S-U-V
(sung to the tune of, “Tie a yellow ribbon ‘round the old oak tree”)

I’m staying home, won’t go to war.
You can fight
for my right
to guzzle gas some more.

There ain’t no rhyme or reason
to put my butt at risk.

In the dollar we trust
you’ll never see us
across the deep blue sea
Magnetic yellow ribbon on my S-U-V

Magnetic yellow ribbon on my S-U-V
Means you go to war
But no, not me.

You can stay on the bus
Forget about us
I won’t be an amputee
Magnetic yellow ribbon on my S-U-V

You go to war, I’m stayin’ home.
You can fight,
For my right,
To guzzle gas some more.

Magnetic yellow ribbon on my S-U-V
Means you stay on that bus,
Forget about us,
You can have that old Humvee.

Magnetic yellow ribbon on my S-U-V

*Absolutely nothing!

I was perusing Whitespace, (Paul Scrivens’ place to think aloud). He had started a discussion about design and its inevitable tension with commerce. Well, he didn’t put it that way; but I am.

Anyway, it was a mere hop, skip and a leap for me to take those thoughts to baseball. What’s the connection? It’s commerce. Yes, it will all become clear. Baseball is usually referred to as America’s Game or America’s Pastime. Generally that’s why we have such a hard time dealing with the scandals starting with the 1910 World Series fix by 8 players on the White Sox team (now referred to as the ‘Black’ Sox).

Why would anyone bother to “fix” a game? They wouldn’t if there were nothing to gain from it. But, to fix a business deal, well that’s a different matter. Even back then the “game” was all business. As you can see by Charlie (Duke) Farrell’s baseball/cigarette card from the late 19th century, there has always been money to be made in baseball.

So, why can’t it be cleaned up? I have feeling it’s an overall unwillingness, by the public, to accept that it’s a business. If it were looked upon as a business, there would be calls far and wide for regulation by the states or the feds. All aspects of the business would be under scrutiny from the use of performance enhancing drugs to gambling by players to revenue from ancillary items. MLB, after all, is a self-regulating industry, we shouldn’t forget that. Would we allow any other multi-billion dollar industry to fall into such disrepute, especially when the workers lives are at stake?

I love the game, but I hate the crap that goes with it. I used to also be an avid basketball fan, but when the NBA relaxed their rules about recruiting, teams became just a series of star performers making their pirouettes, they lost me. If they were regulated, the NBA wouldn’t be scooping kids off the street and discarding them when they’ve used them up leaving them without even an education. I couldn’t even tell you who’s on what team anymore. I just don’t care and baseball’s not far behind.

Professional sports are commerce. We just need to wrap our heads around that concept. The sports business won’t straighten up until we do.

I defy you to show me anyone who can flash those pearlie-whites on a moment’s notice and be any more gorgeous. Well, it’s her birthday today and she’s more beautiful than ever (and I’d say that even if I weren’t related).

Not only that but she’s brilliant. She’s got it all. So, Buon compleanno, principessa!

Before I start I must explain that I am a qualified ‘Toonologist. With my studies of ‘toons, I ought to have a ‘Th.D by now. So, understand that as I proceed: I’m an expert in the field.

I started my studies by watching Looney Tunes. I can tell you who directed any particular Warner Brothers’ cartoon without even seeing the credits. I can even tell you who did the music. Carl Stalling rocks! Milt Franklyn doesn’t. Tedd Pierce was the best storyteller, and Bob Clampett’s ‘toons were always way too topical.
I have a cartload of classic Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies on DVD and will watch them for hours on end. Chuck Jones walked on water. (more…)

You know there are certain things in life that are great levellers: public transportation, humidity, lines to the women’s loo.

This is a story about the greatest leveller of all: Montezuma’s revenge. I used to have a friend who went to become a very well-known writer and director. In his younger salad days, he loved to surf and generally party. One spring vacation he decided to go to Mazatlan, Mexico. He was looking forward to an endless supply of booze and babes. Hot to trot, oh yeah. (more…)

Now for those of you who are still gobsmacked by the failure of CIA intel when it came to Iraq and WMDs, let me tell you a little story. It’s all true. It used to crack me up, but it makes me laugh with tears in my eyes these days.

I had a friend, Howard, who was a Major in the Army when I knew him. At one point in his career he had been chosen to be the military attaché at the embassy in Caracas, Venezuela. As you may or may not know, this is often the CIA post in an embassy. Howard looked at this as a move up and out of the trenches. He was thrilled. (more…)