The passage of the health care plan, and the validation of its constitutionality, mark a step forward. Now, the United States is no longer the only modern nation in the world without some kind of health care plan to address needs of a large population.
It's a flawed plan, because the resisters did everything they could to poison it, kill it, keep it from being born. It will need work, just like Social Security and Medicare needed -- and continue to need -- adjustments and improvements.
The ability to take an idea and make it better, make it work, is what progress is all about. It's what nationhood is about. It's what the evolution of humanity is all about.
But as we assess the meaning of the Supreme Court's decision, and listen to the rhetoric of those who are dedicated to stepping all over political adversaries, even if it means stepping on the American people, we have to wonder if the hyperpartisanship of the ones who are truly elected to be The People in the the true definition of the document that uses the term, "We the People," will bring the temple down on us all.
It's clear from listening to the talking heads in Washington that the focus is on winning the next election, not health care, not national defense, not jobs or the economy. They just want to win, even if it's over the ashes of the great American idea.
Many years ago, I interviewed a politician beloved in Carroll County. He was a conservative Republican, and proud of it, and he was proud of his record in Annapolis.
What was his record? Voting against Democrats and anything they wanted to do.
Let us support progress, even if it means we have to learn something new.
If we don't keep walking forward, we may forget how to walk altogether.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Big banks don't give us due credit
Every day -- you get them, too -- I am invited to apply for a credit card that earns points for every dollar I charge.
And I am always pre-qualified, with potential interest rates as low as a Kardashian neckline if I apply now. They'll let me know later if my new credit card is at the lowest rate possible, or a rate adjusted for my buying misadventures of the past, if any.
In other words, you don't have a clue as to what kind of interest rate you're going to get.
Sometimes, you are offered a $25 gift card, which may have a little number beside the note directing you to the fine print.
I got one the other day saying I have to buy something first, then the gift card will be in the mail. Please allow four weeks for delivery card, and I must comply with all the enclosed terms and conditions.
Terms and conditions takes up two legal sized pages, one in normal size print, and a second in what we used to call 6 point, but what a reader might just call squint. These two pages, boiled down to basics, explain that they have you by the short hairs, and even if you win an argument, it will be your responsibility to pay their lawyers for defending themselves against their mistake.
What a deal.
I liked it better when banks were represented in short silent films as the leering dude in a stovepipe hat and black cape who burns the house if you can't make the mortgage payment, and ties the virgin to the railroad tracks if she won't submit to his advances.
If you spend $40 to $80 for a membership card to a big box store, you can save that much over a year in the cost of Cheerios, which is five if you have a place to park a railroad car out back for the volume buying thing.
The last time I had dealings with any bank, it was local, or so I thought. I went in to the building where I had banked for years, even though the name changed several times in a decade, and dealt with people I have known for years.
In a day or two, I get a call from "MY" representative at the bank, only I don't recognize the name. No wonder. Turns out she's a marketing type person in the bank's offices in Pittsburgh, or Philly, or was it Milwaukee?
I had to threaten to cancel the transaction altogether to regain and retain the right to deal with the person I know at my local bank branch.
But then, when I started there, bank had a local name; remember when banks had names that began with Westminster, or Taneytown, or at least Carroll County?
Now, it seems, all the banks are named after football stadiums. Oh, I know, it's supposedly the other way around, but haven't you been gang tackled by a financial institution lately?
And I am always pre-qualified, with potential interest rates as low as a Kardashian neckline if I apply now. They'll let me know later if my new credit card is at the lowest rate possible, or a rate adjusted for my buying misadventures of the past, if any.
In other words, you don't have a clue as to what kind of interest rate you're going to get.
Sometimes, you are offered a $25 gift card, which may have a little number beside the note directing you to the fine print.
I got one the other day saying I have to buy something first, then the gift card will be in the mail. Please allow four weeks for delivery card, and I must comply with all the enclosed terms and conditions.
Terms and conditions takes up two legal sized pages, one in normal size print, and a second in what we used to call 6 point, but what a reader might just call squint. These two pages, boiled down to basics, explain that they have you by the short hairs, and even if you win an argument, it will be your responsibility to pay their lawyers for defending themselves against their mistake.
What a deal.
I liked it better when banks were represented in short silent films as the leering dude in a stovepipe hat and black cape who burns the house if you can't make the mortgage payment, and ties the virgin to the railroad tracks if she won't submit to his advances.
If you spend $40 to $80 for a membership card to a big box store, you can save that much over a year in the cost of Cheerios, which is five if you have a place to park a railroad car out back for the volume buying thing.
The last time I had dealings with any bank, it was local, or so I thought. I went in to the building where I had banked for years, even though the name changed several times in a decade, and dealt with people I have known for years.
In a day or two, I get a call from "MY" representative at the bank, only I don't recognize the name. No wonder. Turns out she's a marketing type person in the bank's offices in Pittsburgh, or Philly, or was it Milwaukee?
I had to threaten to cancel the transaction altogether to regain and retain the right to deal with the person I know at my local bank branch.
But then, when I started there, bank had a local name; remember when banks had names that began with Westminster, or Taneytown, or at least Carroll County?
Now, it seems, all the banks are named after football stadiums. Oh, I know, it's supposedly the other way around, but haven't you been gang tackled by a financial institution lately?
Friday, June 15, 2012
Father's Day a lifetime later
When I was four, I marveled that Dad had the power to make the loose stones make noise under his feet, where I made no sound at all as we walked with my hand in his across a gravel pan behind the movie theater where he had parked the car.
I believed then that he would always be bigger, smarter, more man than I could ever hope to be. After all, he was Dad, and I was the kid.
He took me everywhere with him, even when others might think it was inappropriate. Before television took such status in the American home, we went to the movies twice a week, usually on a Monday night, and again on a Wednesday afternoon, because he was off work those hours. If he stopped for a beer, I sat at the bar with him and had a Coke.
In Ohio, I could get a Dad's root beer, in a brown bottle. Shrinks and child behaviorists would have convulsions.
I was a privileged child, because I knew I was loved. He told stories, jokes, was full of hugs and wet kisses, and sometimes embarrassed me with his displays of affection.
After I returned from three years in Asia, we took my parents to a Japanese steak house in Towson for some special occasion, and while Mom and Pat visited the ladies' room after the drive from home, Dad and I were seated with a few strangers at the rim of the cooking area.
Two guys, talking and laughing and obviously close.
At one point, Dad was overcome with emotion and gave me a big hug, then, looking sheepishly at the strangers at the setting, said, "We're not queer. He's my SON!"
Years later, Mom told me the reason Dad never got out of bed to say goodbye the morning I shipped out was because he was afraid he'd break down and cry. I had thought it was just no big deal, but that was before I had become a father.
He fought cancer, and announced that he was cured, and we vacationed together; Mom and Dad, my wife and sons, sharing a rental off the beach in South Bethany. The village was about a mile up the coast, and the first year, Dad and my sons and I would walk up there for breakfast.
A year later, we got so far on such a walk to breakfast, and Dad stopped and announced that he didn't think he could make it all the way up and back. Brian and I should go ahead without him, he was going back to the house.
It was a moment. Him, walking back, turning to wave once, Brian, out in front, impatient to get going.
Several years later, I arrived at his house on a Sunday morning as was our custom, but this time I wanted to take him for a drive. He was by now in the final stages of bone cancer, and could no longer tool around in his car on country roads, listening to a big band station on the radio, smoking a cigar.
He was using a walker now, coming down the wooden ramp I had fashioned to help him clear the two steps off the porch to the sidewalk. He looked up at a beautiful morning and broke into a few lines of one of his favorite songs: "Blue skies, smiling at me, nothing but blue skies, do I see."
I was thinking, later, that was Dad. He showed me how to live, and he showed me how to die.
He was the same age that I am now, last time I saw him..
I believed then that he would always be bigger, smarter, more man than I could ever hope to be. After all, he was Dad, and I was the kid.
He took me everywhere with him, even when others might think it was inappropriate. Before television took such status in the American home, we went to the movies twice a week, usually on a Monday night, and again on a Wednesday afternoon, because he was off work those hours. If he stopped for a beer, I sat at the bar with him and had a Coke.
In Ohio, I could get a Dad's root beer, in a brown bottle. Shrinks and child behaviorists would have convulsions.
I was a privileged child, because I knew I was loved. He told stories, jokes, was full of hugs and wet kisses, and sometimes embarrassed me with his displays of affection.
After I returned from three years in Asia, we took my parents to a Japanese steak house in Towson for some special occasion, and while Mom and Pat visited the ladies' room after the drive from home, Dad and I were seated with a few strangers at the rim of the cooking area.
Two guys, talking and laughing and obviously close.
At one point, Dad was overcome with emotion and gave me a big hug, then, looking sheepishly at the strangers at the setting, said, "We're not queer. He's my SON!"
Years later, Mom told me the reason Dad never got out of bed to say goodbye the morning I shipped out was because he was afraid he'd break down and cry. I had thought it was just no big deal, but that was before I had become a father.
He fought cancer, and announced that he was cured, and we vacationed together; Mom and Dad, my wife and sons, sharing a rental off the beach in South Bethany. The village was about a mile up the coast, and the first year, Dad and my sons and I would walk up there for breakfast.
A year later, we got so far on such a walk to breakfast, and Dad stopped and announced that he didn't think he could make it all the way up and back. Brian and I should go ahead without him, he was going back to the house.
It was a moment. Him, walking back, turning to wave once, Brian, out in front, impatient to get going.
Several years later, I arrived at his house on a Sunday morning as was our custom, but this time I wanted to take him for a drive. He was by now in the final stages of bone cancer, and could no longer tool around in his car on country roads, listening to a big band station on the radio, smoking a cigar.
He was using a walker now, coming down the wooden ramp I had fashioned to help him clear the two steps off the porch to the sidewalk. He looked up at a beautiful morning and broke into a few lines of one of his favorite songs: "Blue skies, smiling at me, nothing but blue skies, do I see."
I was thinking, later, that was Dad. He showed me how to live, and he showed me how to die.
He was the same age that I am now, last time I saw him..
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
How much should commissioners be paid?
I hesitate to comment on how much a commissioner should be paid, because everything is different now that they've gone from three at large for the whole county to five serving only their district, or in a couple of cases, citizens of their district and others who share certain interests, county residents or not.
Also, in full disclosure, I now have to admit that among the things I didn't know when I first ran for commissioner was how much the job paid.
I thought it paid about $30,000 a year, but after I filed for office, I was told the salary had been increased by the delegation in Annapolis to $45,000. It was done under the radar, one of those "local courtesy" actions affecting only the requesting county, during the term of Frazier, Dell and Gouge. There was apparently no opposition from the incumbents.
The story was that certain conservative lawmakers, or those with influence, wanted to reward incumbent Robin Frazier, in particular, for the fine job she was doing as commissioner saving the taxpayers the cost of big government. Keep payouts to the public small by paying the deciders well, was the idea, I guess.
When Frazier failed to win a second term, those same Annapolis representative tried to get the salary changed back, even reduced further, but that didn't get enough support in the state capitol.
I was surprised to learn that the commissioners got $12 a day -- per diem, so much per day in addition to the annual salary. My first impression was that it was excessive, but then it became apparent that the job for at-large commissioners was not a three-days per week thing at all. It was usually five, sometimes seven.
Then there was the gas mileage or a county car. I did not want a county car; nor did I think it was appropriate to get gas mileage for showing up for work. It seemed reasonable to provide a car or reimburse mileage for trips that were made on county business. In any case, the policy is worth no more than the ethics of the driver, or the person coming in on non-meeting days.
It would seem to me, now that each commissioner serves a specific district, that there is less justification for cross-county or out of county travel. Per diem, which this board made a show of giving up before they knew what the job entails, might be another story, but it would be hard for them to reinstate it now, unless they can do it on the side, which is not inconceivable, considering their track record on openness so far.
Also, in full disclosure, I now have to admit that among the things I didn't know when I first ran for commissioner was how much the job paid.
I thought it paid about $30,000 a year, but after I filed for office, I was told the salary had been increased by the delegation in Annapolis to $45,000. It was done under the radar, one of those "local courtesy" actions affecting only the requesting county, during the term of Frazier, Dell and Gouge. There was apparently no opposition from the incumbents.
The story was that certain conservative lawmakers, or those with influence, wanted to reward incumbent Robin Frazier, in particular, for the fine job she was doing as commissioner saving the taxpayers the cost of big government. Keep payouts to the public small by paying the deciders well, was the idea, I guess.
When Frazier failed to win a second term, those same Annapolis representative tried to get the salary changed back, even reduced further, but that didn't get enough support in the state capitol.
I was surprised to learn that the commissioners got $12 a day -- per diem, so much per day in addition to the annual salary. My first impression was that it was excessive, but then it became apparent that the job for at-large commissioners was not a three-days per week thing at all. It was usually five, sometimes seven.
Then there was the gas mileage or a county car. I did not want a county car; nor did I think it was appropriate to get gas mileage for showing up for work. It seemed reasonable to provide a car or reimburse mileage for trips that were made on county business. In any case, the policy is worth no more than the ethics of the driver, or the person coming in on non-meeting days.
It would seem to me, now that each commissioner serves a specific district, that there is less justification for cross-county or out of county travel. Per diem, which this board made a show of giving up before they knew what the job entails, might be another story, but it would be hard for them to reinstate it now, unless they can do it on the side, which is not inconceivable, considering their track record on openness so far.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
What rolls downhill
Some call the game politics. Others know it's just King of the Hill.
Most of us spend our lives as spectators. We're at the bottom of the hill.
We watch the players, representing political factions, scratch and claw and abuse the sensibilities of all to climb to the top of the hill. It's always a temporary victory, because the people at the bottom of the hill are almost always looking for a replay of the game, with a better outcome.
This is why every election season, both sides promise change. The change is that some other people should take a turn being at the bottom of the hill, and we all get first hand knowledge of what rolls downhill.
Plumbers already know it, and the rest of us find out, every two to four years.
Folks have become impatient with this. As shown in the effort to recall Wisconsin governor Scott Walker, public employees objected strenuously to being thrown downhill by having their union agreements tossed out, so they wanted a mulligan.
I hear that's a term used in golf, another game that involves going into the hole as quickly as you can. It means a do-over after you've had a bad result.
It means the losers don't like the results of the election and want to do it over, now, not wait for the usual four years for another election.
It's the same thing that Republicans all over America have been wanting since the election of President Obama.
Allowing a mulligan in golf is not all that disruptive, but in politics, it can get chaotic, and expensive, and downright nasty.
The teachers and other public employees lost, but those who pay taxes and, therefore, the wages and benefits of public employees, consider it a win. They can relate to the folks who -- for the moment -- hold the top of the hill.
It's complicated. Taxpayers are also parents, and business owners, and users of public parks, emergency services and other things that we Americans consider our due.
We have come to assume that public employees have an unfair edge, so we don't seem to mind too much when the retired school secretary, who was counting on that retirement benefit, has it yanked away overnight.
I heard one retired secretary say her insurance costs went up from under $100 a month to more than $800 with the new budget forced on the school board by the county commissioners.
Same with a teacher, who took the job here not for the money as much as for job satisfaction, sweetened by a nice insurance package. He's still working, a long way from retirement, but his costs went up by almost $900 a month.
But, hey, it's just a game of King of the Hill. They're at the bottom, probably always will be, while the Democrats and the Republicans change players every couple of years but never really lose, because they invented the game, and the rules.
Most of us spend our lives as spectators. We're at the bottom of the hill.
We watch the players, representing political factions, scratch and claw and abuse the sensibilities of all to climb to the top of the hill. It's always a temporary victory, because the people at the bottom of the hill are almost always looking for a replay of the game, with a better outcome.
This is why every election season, both sides promise change. The change is that some other people should take a turn being at the bottom of the hill, and we all get first hand knowledge of what rolls downhill.
Plumbers already know it, and the rest of us find out, every two to four years.
Folks have become impatient with this. As shown in the effort to recall Wisconsin governor Scott Walker, public employees objected strenuously to being thrown downhill by having their union agreements tossed out, so they wanted a mulligan.
I hear that's a term used in golf, another game that involves going into the hole as quickly as you can. It means a do-over after you've had a bad result.
It means the losers don't like the results of the election and want to do it over, now, not wait for the usual four years for another election.
It's the same thing that Republicans all over America have been wanting since the election of President Obama.
Allowing a mulligan in golf is not all that disruptive, but in politics, it can get chaotic, and expensive, and downright nasty.
The teachers and other public employees lost, but those who pay taxes and, therefore, the wages and benefits of public employees, consider it a win. They can relate to the folks who -- for the moment -- hold the top of the hill.
It's complicated. Taxpayers are also parents, and business owners, and users of public parks, emergency services and other things that we Americans consider our due.
We have come to assume that public employees have an unfair edge, so we don't seem to mind too much when the retired school secretary, who was counting on that retirement benefit, has it yanked away overnight.
I heard one retired secretary say her insurance costs went up from under $100 a month to more than $800 with the new budget forced on the school board by the county commissioners.
Same with a teacher, who took the job here not for the money as much as for job satisfaction, sweetened by a nice insurance package. He's still working, a long way from retirement, but his costs went up by almost $900 a month.
But, hey, it's just a game of King of the Hill. They're at the bottom, probably always will be, while the Democrats and the Republicans change players every couple of years but never really lose, because they invented the game, and the rules.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Disconnecting in a connected world
I heard a radio interview with an NPR reporter and a Wall Street Journal writer trying to figure out how we can have such a high jobless rate while many firms are reporting having trouble finding people for the growing list of job openings.
One reason speculated was that the workers don't live where the jobs are, another was that employers are being too picky because they figure with so many desperate people out there, they can find Mr. or Ms. Perfect, or that the jobs simply are not paying enough to cover the costs of working.
But I think they hit on something big when one of the talkers said that some companies tested their on-line application system and discovered that the machines were tossing out potential workers before any human being talked to another human being.
Kind of like trying to place an order by phone -- or on-line -- and getting cut off.
Or make reservations. Or get hold of your doctor's office.
Which password did you use the last time?
Computer programs are rejecting applicants to the point that one firm was shocked to discover that every applicant that attempted to file an application for a job was turned down on line.
Another company found out that, according to the software program they were using to take applications, no one who currently worked for the company was qualified. Including the founders and executives.
"Hello? Is anybody out there?"
"We're sorry, your application has not been processed. Thank your for your interest in working for Cybernone. BLIP!"
Guess the next big thing will be an Ap for filing Aps.
One reason speculated was that the workers don't live where the jobs are, another was that employers are being too picky because they figure with so many desperate people out there, they can find Mr. or Ms. Perfect, or that the jobs simply are not paying enough to cover the costs of working.
But I think they hit on something big when one of the talkers said that some companies tested their on-line application system and discovered that the machines were tossing out potential workers before any human being talked to another human being.
Kind of like trying to place an order by phone -- or on-line -- and getting cut off.
Or make reservations. Or get hold of your doctor's office.
Which password did you use the last time?
Computer programs are rejecting applicants to the point that one firm was shocked to discover that every applicant that attempted to file an application for a job was turned down on line.
Another company found out that, according to the software program they were using to take applications, no one who currently worked for the company was qualified. Including the founders and executives.
"Hello? Is anybody out there?"
"We're sorry, your application has not been processed. Thank your for your interest in working for Cybernone. BLIP!"
Guess the next big thing will be an Ap for filing Aps.
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