Published: September 07, 2010

Years after I had hopped into my 1966 Ford Mustang and headed from New Jersey to Florida, my parents shared their feelings with me. While I was excited about the new life and adventures that lay ahead for me and my new bride, my parents were struggling with seeing their youngest son leave the nest and land so far away from home – never to return.

While I was driving they were crying, and as they later shared it was like sending me onto the freeway on my tricycle. Yes we visited once or twice a year, but our children were raised away from my parents and siblings. Life went on, and many good things happened, but most memories had to be shared via phone calls and pictures mailed of birthdays and graduations passed.

Raising children is a full time job, and when that job comes to an end it can be pretty unsettling. My bride and I are still together and have raised three fine young people who are all in college and working. Their many accomplishments bring us much joy, but as each left we experienced the “tricycle on the highway” feelings that my parents had endured years earlier.

When our daughter moved out it was tolerable because she lived near us. When our oldest son left, the 130 miles seemed like a million. When the last one left this year we finally realized that our job raising children had, for the most part, ended.

The house seems so empty at times and I find myself walking down the hall expecting to see one of them and getting a good morning hug. Instead it’s a phone call or text message to share their adventures and accomplishments, and thankfully all of them are close enough that we see each other often. I secretly hope that their vocations keep them close to home, as I now know what my parents felt, and continued to feel over the years.

The best parts of being empty nesters are quiet dinners with my lovely bride and more time to do things that we have delayed or forgotten about in our roles as parents. It is our time to blossom again, and provide an example to our children that life is indeed a beautiful thing, and that love endures and continues to grow - no matter where we are. 

Published: September 03, 2010

Ever since I discovered that “PhD” stands for “Doctor of Philosophy,” I’ve wanted one. My relationship to my course catalogue resembles that of a four-year-old girl to a My Little Pony superstore; I attend so many office hours that they stretch into office days; I can describe a Frisbee with Euler’s Equations more accurately than I can throw one. By age five, I committed myself to a Path for Helpless Dorks.

Since learning what “PhD” stands for, I learned about earning one. And concluded that the abbreviation should denote “Painful and Hellish Decision.”

Exhibit A: the webcomic (online comic strip) PhD Comics. Also known as Piled Higher and Deeper, the webcomic depicts “life (or the lack thereof) in grad school.” Its heroes battle blundering researchers, indifferent advisors, iffy job prospects, and the procrastination encouraged by a hilarious webcomic for students who should be doing research instead of reading webcomics. A friend of mine introduced me to PhD Comics last year. Now that websites for grad schools have joined the webcomic in my bookmarks folder, I feel as though I’m applying to get hit in the head with a Frisbee.

Exhibit B: a friend of mine who’s pursuing a PhD in physics. He likened undergraduate education to vacation, in comparison to grad school. My undergraduate experience frequently includes six hours of outside-of-class work for one class per day. I’d prefer that this experience remain leashed to education, and not sink its fangs into holidays. If it did, I might grow Piqued and Horribly Depressed.

Exhibit C: the capitalization and lack of punctuation in “PhD”—which I always forget. If I forget them, others must. Appending such a suffix to my name would halve the number of people who write the name, already long and spelled strangely, correctly. Pity we can’t all earn degrees in Penning Hard-to-write Designations.

Perhaps I hesitate to chain myself to a physics department for five years because I fear the irons will rub. Perhaps because I fear loneliness. Because I fear I’ll overwork myself. Because I fear I’ll burrow so deeply into a sub-discipline of a sub-discipline of physics that I’ll find myself alongside a gopher who knows more about art history than I.

But perhaps I hesitate to pursue a PhD because physicists consider problems from multiple angles before drawing conclusions, and because I consider myself a physicist. Perhaps I want to hone my conclusion-drawing skills. Perhaps I find myself grinning like the Cheshire Cat while vanishing unsolved integrals. Perhaps feeling a solution’s shape before arriving at the solution gives me goosebumps. Perhaps I feel less-than-half-satisfied with my understanding of physics and doubly-driven to triple my knowledge.

Perhaps I have a Pulse-throbbing, Heart-thumping Desire to Pursue a Higher Degree.

Published: August 31, 2010

My son has started his freshman year of college and appears to be functioning just fine without his mother. I’m trying hard to forgive him for that.

On the drive home, after we’d helped him move into his dorm room and I’d made enough of a blubbery scene to thoroughly embarrass my boy, I got to thinking about his first day of preschool. On the short drive to the school that day, he’d clutched his favorite toy — a stuffed bunny he’d inexplicably named Malcolm — and tried to be very brave. So did I.

“You’re going to have a wonderful time!” I remember saying too cheerfully. He didn’t look convinced. He kept rubbing his finger across Malcolm’s head, something he did often to comfort the rather emotional rabbit.

“It makes Malcolm feel better,” he’d once explained to me. I think it probably made my little man feel better, too.

I remember praying silently on that drive that he would like school and that the other kids would be nice to him and that his teachers would be smart enough to see how utterly special this blue-eyed child was — head and shoulders above any other kid in the school or any other kid in the world for that matter. Maybe I was a little biased. But only a little.

When we arrived at the preschool, he got out of the car with Malcolm tucked under his arm. I reminded him that Malcolm would have to stay with me. I promised to take good care of him.

“He’ll be right here waiting for you when I pick you up,” I said. I sounded like Mr. Rogers, way too cheerful.

For a moment, those blue eyes brimmed with tears. He rubbed Malcolm’s head several times to reassure him, then placed the rabbit back in the car. I still remember watching, through my own brimming tears, as he lovingly strapped the little rabbit into the car seat.

“You stay here, Malcolm,” he said, stroking the bunny’s head one last time. “Only people can go to school. I’ll be back soon. You’ll be OK.”

When we got home after dropping our son off at college, I went into his room and reached into the top of his closet, way back behind the boxes of video games and soccer trophies, and pulled out an old stuffed bunny. His ears are frayed now, and his fur looks matted; the seams in his body are visible. The top of his head is bare in several places, worn down to the fabric by a little boy’s fingers.

“Hi Malcolm,” I said to him, sounding again like Mr. Rogers. “Long time no see!”

I sat down on my son’s bed and just stared at Malcolm for awhile. I rubbed his head several times. I think it made him feel better.

© Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved

http://www.jackiepapandrew.com

Published: August 21, 2010

I have a job.

After 18 months of looking high and low, depleting my 401k to pay bills, and not sleeping, I have a job.  And it’s a good job.  Ok, the hours are a little strange, but it’s interesting, challenging, well matched to my skill set, comes with health benefits, and pays well.  I will never, ever complain about any part of it.

Mentally, it’s been an adjustment.  After seeing myself as a “loser” for so long, is it ok to feel like a winner again?  Is it ok to brag about it?  Is it ok to relax a bit? 

I still hear the unemployment news and shudder.  “I was one of you,” I think.  “Hang in there.  If I did it, so can you.”  I send a mental message to the throngs of people out there who’ve all but lost hope.

When I was part of the corporate world and we were downsizing, I was formally trained to deliver the bad news to employees.  One lie they told me was that it was “just as hard” on those who keep their jobs, because they suffer so much “survivor guilt.”  Uh… no.  I never saw anyone doing anything remotely close to “suffering.”  Mostly, there was relief, (dodged that bullet), a false feeling of superiority (they kept me and not you), and anger (now I get to do your job and mine for the same pay.)”

One day, as I knew they would, the company decided I was disposable, and I got “the” phone call.  Intellectually, I understood getting laid off.  It was purely a financial exercise to my corporation   But to me, it was very personal.  I was one of their best.  They were still giving me awards, stock options, bonuses, and other “perks” designed to keep me loyal - but, the bottom line was that I made a LOT of money.  Whack!

I understood the decision, but emotionally, I was devastated.  I felt hurt and betrayed. As time passed, and I could not find work – even at a small fraction of what I once made, or at the most menial of jobs - I began to feel worse and worse.  I was not skilled enough, not smart enough, not young enough, not “cool” enough to deserve a job.  But I hung in there.  I made finding a job my new job.

Now, I have someplace to be and something to do.  It’s immensely satisfying to the ego.  I’m starting to feel much better about myself.  But, I worry about the people still out there.  I know what it’s like, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Hang in there.  If I can do it, so can you.

The author can be contacted at krisdigiovanni [at] gmail [dot] com or on FaceBook

Published: August 14, 2010

Last Thursday, I passed through Israeli airport security.

In minutes.

No detector beeped; no one rifled through my underwear; no strip search occurred.

Not that the security personnel neglected their duties—not Israeli security personnel. I jumped through five overt security hoops, and perhaps others I didn’t notice. Countless people checked my boarding pass, even the convenience store employee who sold me a Sprite. They asked me why I’d come to Israel, the names of family members, which elementary school I’d attended. Yet I arrived at my gate with an hour-and-a-half to spare…and without complains.

Which, judging from the yarns that everyone and his Great-Auntie Mildred knits into a sordid sock of self-pity anytime anyone mentions airport security, happens less often than a strangling-by-sock.

So-and-so underwent eight hours of questioning; such-and-such almost missed her flight and her train and a dentist’s appointment and dinner with the president of Bulgaria; wossname’s laptop got mistaken for a bomb and almost set off a global thermonuclear war. However little threat our protagonists posed to fellow passengers, they explode my blood pressure. After listening to so-and-so’s story, followed by such-and-such’s, then wossname’s, I want to strangle the lot with socks.

So the next time you feel compelled to kvetch about security checks, recall that not all trip-related horror stories involve security. Some trip-related horror stories involve a passenger who whines.

And not all horror stories about whining take place during trips.

Published: August 12, 2010

www.jackiepapandrew.com

Published: August 08, 2010

You have to cut the bananas in big chunks, not slices, or they will get too mushy.  That’s because they are more than slightly past their prime.  So are the grapes, the peaches, and the nectarines, but we pare away the brown parts, and amazingly, we end up with enough fruit salad to feed 150!

It’s early morning in the crowded prep area of the St Vincent dePaul Soup Kitchen in Clearwater.  A few of the small band of loyal volunteers have been here since 6:00 a.m.  Weekdays, these volunteers masquerade as business professionals, or lawyers, or even doctors.  But today they are cooks, servers, dishwashers, and janitors.  They’ve sacrificed their Friday night social life and those precious extra hours of sleep on Saturday morning to prepare and serve a hearty meal to anyone who walks in the door.  Before it’s even light, they are here to chop, stir, pour, and mash – and lift huge pots onto burners and slide giant trays into the oven. 

On the menu today: chili, mashed potatoes, green salad, fruit salad, vegetable soup, bread, and cornbread.  Desert is brownies or small pastries and sweet rolls.  Except for the freshly made brownies and cornbread, donated by yet another volunteer, the offerings are mostly day-old, past the sell-date, bruised and damaged food from local supermarkets.  For many, this will be the only meal they eat today, so it hardly matters that they are eating dinner at the same time most other people eat breakfast   The daily main course depends on whatever protein remains the freezer and needs to be used first.  It might be stew, beef tips with rice, or spaghetti - something that can be stretch a small amount of meat to feed the 150-300 that show up on any given day - but it is always hot, well seasoned, and nutritious.

At 9:00 a.m. the doors open and the people who’ve been lined up for over an hour outside shuffle in, sign a register, and accept a sectioned metal tray. For the next two hours, a slow parade of the homeless, the downtrodden, the sick passes by.  They traverse the line quietly and respectfully, and most say “please” and “thank-you.”  A few don’t speak English, but point eagerly when asked to choose applesauce or fruit.  Despite the clearly worded sign on each serving station that warns them not to ask for larger helpings, a few do.  It’s hard to say no, but if you do it for one, you must do it for all, and the food will run out.

Everyone is served with a smile and addressed as sir or ma’am.  A few regulars trade quips with the long-time volunteers.  Some are much cleaner and better dressed than you might expect.  There are a few scammers – like the chatty Hispanic man–boy with a side-slung cap and brand new lavishly embroidered hip hop jeans.  But he is the exception.  Right after him, I serve a used-up-looking man with a split lip and an eye so swollen and black he probably can’t see out of it.  He smells of very old sweat and alcohol.  An elderly Oriental man, thin as a rail and still wearing his hospital ID band is carrying a bag that connects to his catheter.  That leaves just one hand for his tray, so he takes only soup.  A volunteer eagerly steps out of the kitchen to ensure the old man gets plenty of food and help him get seated.

I am humbled to be among these people – who could be spending their time off with their family, or on the golf course, or at the beach, but choose to be here instead.  So selflessly choosing to be here in a hot, cramped kitchen, sweating while they use both hands to stir a huge vat of beans or lift an enormous pan out of hot soapy water.  Who glove up and dexterously scoop macaroni and applesauce, nod understandingly at a guy who tells them he just got back from Venus, wink, and sneak an extra brownie only a child’s tray.  Who instead of just writing a check, (which many have already done), come to mop the floors, wipe the tables, leaving the area spotless and ready for the next day’s group.  They choose to give the greatest gift – themselves.

Good job guys and gals!  I’m proud to know you.


Maybe there’s a place like St Vincent’s near you that could use another set of hands.  Let your fingers do the walking through the Google.


The author may be contacted at Kris DiGiovanni [at] gmail [dot] com or on FaceBook.

Published: August 01, 2010

With the advent of Lyndon Johnson’s “Great Society” programs of the 1960’s the fortunes and future of black America seemed destined to rise to levels our forefathers – whether black or white – would have never imagined possible.

By the mid-1970’s virtually all government enforced/endorsed segregation had been eliminated.  Public schools, colleges and universities, workplaces, offices and neighborhoods were more integrated than ever before.  The doors that had been closed for so long to our parents and their parents were now opening to the generation of black baby boomers.

I was among that fortunate group – the first person in my entire family tree to earn a college degree.  The first to wear a suit and tie to work and carry a briefcase instead of a lunch pail.  The first to sit at a desk in an air conditioned office, instead of standing before a machine in a hot, sweltering factory.  Many of my high school classmates were also the first in their families to go through that experience.

The future looked so bright we all probably felt we’d need the strongest of sunscreen and the darkest of sunglasses for what was to come.  From there it was going to be full steam ahead, onward and upward, both for us and the generations of blacks to follow.

Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream was unfolding before our very eyes, and we were the ones living it and making it happen.

Flash forward to 2010…

I look around and I do not see the widespread prosperity, success, advancement and record of achievement I envisioned when I graduated from college.  What I see instead are a people – my people – who seem to have made a u-turn somewhere “back there” and launched into a full-scale retreat from greatness.

Black teen pregnancy is viewed as being no more serious than a case of the mumps.  Thuggish behavior, accompanied by repeated arrests and brushes with law.  Failure to put forth any effort whatsoever to succeed in school is accepted all too readily.  Sloppy, slovenly dress, vulgar language, disrespectful and anti-social behavior, horribly bad personal hygiene, complete lack of any work ethic are glossed over or swept under the rug.

Many in the black community seek to attribute these failings to the government, law enforcement’s targeting of young black males, the schools, the lack of jobs, the lack of understanding of “black culture” and/or “the white man”.  The fact of the matter is the blame belongs squarely on young blacks themselves, their parent(s) and the black community.

We no longer see the unwavering, iron-fisted parental control over the behavior of their children that was so commonplace for my generation.  Teens today seem to dress as they please, talk as they please, behave as they please and treat their parent(s) as they please, with little fear of negative repercussions from school officials, our courts, relatives, other family members and, most importantly, their parent(s).

Multiple generations of blacks who shunned education, hard work and self discipline, and thereby locked themselves into a life of poverty, have instilled in the subsequent generations (their children) the same self-defeating values.  It brings to mind the lyrics of a song by the Temptations from the mid 1960’s - “Like a snowball rolling down the side of a snow covered hill, it’s growing.”  The ranks of the poor, uneducated, unemployable, unaccomplished blacks grow larger with each successive generation, and at an accelerating rate.

Bill Cosby is not a lone voice in the wilderness crying out for a community-wide and family based attack on the attitudes and behaviors that are destroying black America.  There are thousands like him preaching the same sermon, delivering the same message and begging our people to turn inward and begin making and working for the changes needed to “right our ship” – before it’s too late.

Alas, he, and they, have been, and are being, largely ignored.

Everything within me, every shred of reasoning, tells me we are doomed.  I can neither see not think of anything that can stem this tide.

Some would say “Things can’t get any worse.”  I say “They can, and they will.”

Unless…

Published: July 29, 2010

An expected protest by the notorious Fred Phelps and his Westboro Baptist Church never took place yesterday at the Spring Hill funeral of Sergeant Derek Schicchi. Thank goodness.

Schicchi, who was from the Tampa area but currently serving at Fort Hood in Texas, was found dead of a gunshot wound behind a building on July 19. The circumstances are suspicious and under investigation. 

According to tbo.com’s report yesterday, Phelps and some Westboro Baptist Church protesters were expected to picket the funeral.

Fred Phelps, who calls himself a pastor and leads a church whose website’s motto is “God hates fags.” Phelps has been picketing and protesting U.S. Military funerals with the reason that war and a soldier’s death are God’s punishment for homosexuality.

Phelps and his church do not represent the majority of American Christians

Speaking as a Christian myself, there is no way Phelps or anyone else is going to win the understanding of gays and lesbians, much less their confidence in Christians or their hearts for the Lord, with this kind of message.

This is so out of order for a person calling himself a Christian clergyman, to say nothing of his followers—who must be following him blindly and not reading the Bible for themselves. This is the kind of church and pastor giving all of Christianity a bad name. 

Getting past the fact that there are verses addressing homosexuality in both the Old and New Testament, we must remember this: Jesus said, Let he who is without sin cast the first stone (John 8:7).

Does Fred Phelps or anyone in his church gossip? Have any committed adultery? Have any stolen from their employers by taking coffee breaks that are too long, or taking paper clips and pencils home? Then they are no better then the others they say are sentenced to hell.

We are all sinners in some way or another. Besides, God calls believers to repent of their sins in order for Him to heal their land – he doesn’t call people who don’t believe what the Bible says to save the earth.
2 Chronicles 7:14: If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land.

Phelps also has his congregation believing that God hates the world which is in direct contradiction to John 3:16: For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

Christians are called to be examples of these verses:

Galatians 5:22-23a: But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

2 Cor 2:14: But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and manifests through us the sweet aroma of the knowledge of Him in every place. (NAS)

Colossians 4:5a: Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders.

Does this sound like Fred Phelps and his group? Do they project a “sweet aroma” for Jesus? No. I appeal to readers not to allow Phelps to be your example of Christianity. And his followers need prayer for their eyes to be opened.

Side note: Contrary to popular belief, Jesus himself did say something about homosexuality (Mark 10:6-8: “…at the beginning of creation God made them male and female. For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, 8and the two will become one flesh.”)

Unless otherwise noted, Scriptures are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

(NAS) = Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960,1962,1963,1968,1971,1972,1973,1975,1977,1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

Published: July 16, 2010

The Florida Department of Law Enforcement has stated since 2008 that human trafficking is the biggest “invisible” crime in Florida.

Unfortunately, Tampa and its Hillsborough County outskirts take the top honors for having the most sex-related businesses in the state, and the highest rate of human trafficking.

Exotic dance parlors, adult theatres, video stores and “massage” parlors that serve as covers for escort services or prostitution rings all gravitated here after other Florida cities and counties began either outlawing them or laying down too many regulations for these businesses to make their money. 

This in turn has led to an influx of criminals indulging in sex trafficking and child trafficking for sexual slavery, prostitution, forced labor and making pornographic movies against the victims’ will. Human trafficking grabs could be happening under our noses, in an instant.

Human Trafficking is no longer a “foreign” thing.
It’s something Americans associate with a few European or third world countries. But the U.S. State Department’s 2009 “Trafficking in Humans” Report has documented problems in 175 nations, including interstate trafficking within and between the 50 states.

Estimated FBI numbers show 100,000-300,000 teens and children under the age of 18 have been trafficked within the United States per year. It’s harder to obtain statistics for adult victims, because of a finer line between “voluntary” and forced prostitution and sexual slavery.

How does this happen?
American and immigrant girls, women, children who wind up on milk cartons and both male and female teen runaways are being kidnapped and shipped to new U.S. locations—or even to be used by everyday suburban couples as captive sex toys not far from their own home.

Young women are often enticed by the possibility of modeling or acting jobs. The Hollywood dream of obtaining fame and fortune at a young age through television and movies has become an obsession. Once they are lured to the location of their “audition,” they are trapped, kept in back rooms for sex acts or pornographic films against their will.

This past spring, the Florida House and Senate each came up with bills aimed at helping law enforcement push back against human trafficking, sex slavery and sex-related businesses in the Tampa area.

On April 22, 2010, the Florida House unanimously passed Bill 633. Senate Bill 966 apparently “died” in the Senate on April 30, pending a reference review. Whatever that means. Meanwhile Tampa’s human trafficking problem continues.

Some runaways and other victims are also used to commit theft and other acts for their captors, and are arrested as criminals when they are really victims. Here are some warning signs that a person has been trafficked*:
-They become flustered at the mention of law enforcement.
-They are disoriented and ask where they are (what city, what area).
-They won’t make eye contact.
-They are closely held by a companion and not given a chance to speak.
-Or, they evade questions.
-They don’t appear healthy or clean.
-They may seem sleepy or drugged.
Please recognize the signs and try to get an opportunity to ask the person if they need help.

If you have a missing loved one or friend, plant the possibility of human trafficking in the minds of the authorities with whom you are working. They don’t always consider it.

*Some of the warning signs given here are cited in: “Human Trafficking in America,” by Tammy LaVigne, appearing in this month’s Overflow Magazine, an excellent new free Tampa area publication that can be picked up at some Publix stores and other locations.

Published: July 13, 2010

Which do you think is worse; (1) increasing the amount of money the US government owes to other countries, or (2) losing your home, your health insurance, and the ability to feed your children?

#2, you say?

WRONG!  The Republicans and the Democratic “deficit hawks” will tell you the correct answer is #1.  At least that’s the reason they’ve given for not extending unemployment benefits.

But I’ve got a question for them.  To paraphrase a respected politician and personal hero of mine, Barney Frank, “On what planet do you guys spend most of your time?”

When millions of people in this country are losing everything they’ve scrimped and saved and worked their entire lives for; when breadwinners are overwhelmed by guilt and depression because they have “failed” in their duty to provide for their loved ones; when former middle-class families are being literally kicked to the curb, you think the responsible course of action is to ignore the desperate plight of millions of Americans, because the cost to address the problem would increase in our national debt?

Seriously?

I’m talking to you Ben Nelson, (D-NE), the guy who voted to extend unemployment benefits in November 2008, but said a few days ago you couldn’t do it again, because it

And I’m talking to you, Kevin Brady (R-TX) who recently assured us so emphatically that

And I’m definitely talking to you, Mitch McConnell, (R-KY), who insists,

Ok, well, here’s a dose of reality for you:  After you so stalwartly protected us from that horrendous 2% increase in the deficit, then rewarded yourselves by taking time off to go to watch fireworks and watermelon seed spitting contests, 1.3 million Americans lost that slender lifeline that was keeping food on their tables, the electricity on, and a roof over their heads.  Since June 2, when the first wave of those who had reached the 99 week limit stopped receiving their unemployment checks, a total of 2.24 million have lost the only means of support available to them.

2.24 million – that’s more than the entire population of Philadelphia – or Dallas – or San Diego.  There are now that many people out there asking themselves that scariest of all questions, “Now what?”

But I suppose you think all “real Americans” – the ones whose values you keep saying you represent - would rather let the bank take their home and live in their car, than ask the government to help them out.  I suppose you think this little act of “tough love” will make these average Joes and Janes realize that it’s really their fault they don’t have jobs, because they’ve been laying on their sofas living the life of luxury that’s so possible on $300 a week, instead of getting out there on the street fighting tooth and nail for that one job that exists for every five workers. 

I guess you feel like US Senate candidate Sharon Angle that the unemployment insurance that gets taken out of worker’s pay is too much of an “entitlement” and today’s workers are “spoiled.”  You agree with Senator Jon Kyl (R-AZ) who thinks unemployment benefits are “a disincentive” to work” because “people are being paid even though they’re not working, ” and with NV State Representative Dean Heller who says unemployment benefits create “hobos.”

Perhaps you alone understand that all of us long-term unemployed are really just lazy bums.  That would certainly that explain why the average length of unemployment keeps rising, and is now longer than it has been since the Great Depression.  And the reason that almost half of the unemployed have been without a job for more than 27 weeks, is because most of them want nothing more than to live on the government dole. Perhaps your uncanny insight into the true nature of the jobless explains why the U-6 schedule – the unemployment rate nobody wants to talk about – stands at 16 ½ %.   The Bureau of Labor says these are the people who’ve been out of work so long they’ve all but quit looking, and the ones who can only find part time jobs but need full time work.  But you their secret - they’re really just slackers.

So under those circumstances, I can see why you guys are so worried about adding to the deficit.  You’ve got your eye on the future and you’re trying to think ahead.  You don’t want to pass on the problems we caused for ourselves to the next generation.

Well, I’ve got some comforting news for you.  All you have to do is keep on saying “no” to more unemployment benefits, and tomorrow’s children won’t have anything to worry about - because most of them will have already starved to death.

To contact the author, email me at KrisDiGiovanni at gmail dot com or reach out to me on FaceBook.

Published: July 10, 2010

People kept telling me to drink water.

You’re working on an archaeological dig in Israel? Drink. The temperature has reached 104 degrees Fahrenheit? Drink. The clock has struck eleven? Drink. Your name is Nicole? Drink.

So I drank. And drank. And drank.

A couple of weeks ago, I started feeling sick. Drink, came the order. So I drank.

I drank like a fish. I drank everyone else under the table. I drank in; I drank up; I drank down; I drank sidewise.

“Are you sure I should drink this much?” I asked a few days ago.

“Of course!” came the reply. “How much do you drink?”

“Three to four quarts per morning.”

“Oh.” Pause. “No, don’t drink that much.”

My salt concentration had dropped too low. I’d bloated and lost my appetite, letting my blood sugar level drop. I felt weak, exhausted, nauseous…my own spin on “drunk.”

A few years ago, I confessed to being the world’s most boring teenager. Now, I’m the world’s most boring 21-year-old. I don’t touch alcohol; my demon drinks are water and apple juice. I’ve followed instructions too faithfully for my own good.

Perhaps I’ll start a self-help group for similarly boring 21-year-olds. HH, I’d call it: Help for the Humdrum. We’ll blame our parents for setting poor examples, toting around water bottles on family trips. We’ll commiserate about how poorly we hold our drink, between excursions to the bathroom. We’ll raise our glasses to dryness and dullness.

I may be the world’s most boring 21-year-old, but I don’t mind. My drinking problem is a water-drinking problem.

I’ll drink to that.

Published: July 06, 2010

I remember when the Public Enemy album; Fear of a Black Planet was released.  I remember it because it was controversial.  Although the controversy was nothing more than Chuck D and Flavor Flav speaking some truths there were some folks who just had to complain, protest and just simply be afraid of the title of the album.

That is why I titled this column Fear of a Mexican Planet.  gasp!

After reading the enlightened comments of many on TBO about the suit brought by the federal government challenging the constitutionality of the Arizona Immigration law I was moved.

I was moved by nausea that Tampa had that many ‘ignant” comments.  That’s right…you read it right.
Not ignorant.  Ignant.

Tampa does not have an “immigrant problem” like the state of Arizona has.  Unless you lived in Arizona or any state that borders Mexico, lived near the border, dealt with illegal immigrants there and moved to Tampa to complain…only then...you can have some validity to whatever you want to spew out.

The state of Arizona has every right to be mad as hell about what the Federal government has failed to do: protect our borders.So they want to do some enforcing.  Bravo!
By checking any person that is suspicious (non-white) of being an illegal immigrant.
Brilliant! except that…

If I was carrying a bag of oranges to my car and my clothes are dirty because I was doing yard work?
I could be considered an illegal immigrant.
I’m brown and I have native features:  gasp! I could be illegal.
My name is pepe, jose, maria or ricardo?  Illegal! call INS!
I have an accent or speak little english…hurry call the swat team.

Look.  Before you get your underwear bunched up and ready to retaliate with a comment.  Consider this:

The ends never justifies the means.  The Arizona law leaves too much to interpretation.
We wouldn’t want to have something similar to what happened to Rodney King would we?
Only difference would be that the victims name might be Reynaldo (Rodney) Rey (King)...

The Federal government did NADA during the Clinton and Bush administrations.  Although during the final Bush administration months there were a lot of deportations which is similar to taking the water our of a sinking boat with a paper cup.  Finally the current administration has some political will to do something and instead of sharing comments of support or suggestions you get things like:

Obama needs to be voted out, mexicans are taking over, blah, blah, blah…same old caca.

Here is a refreshing option.  If we have illegal immigrants in this country, lets make them pay.  A lot!  A fine for having come over, a fine for having stayed and assorted fees to get your paper work done.  We have a deficit and we need money.  We can take VISA, MC card, payment plans etc.  Don’t pay? Jail time or deportation.

You think this is far fetch?  The financial collapse/disaster that this country experienced was because financial companies, in a free market, were lending and making bucko money off people who had little money.  Here I’m only suggesting that we apply the same principles.  Lets start charging and collecting from those who are illegal immigrants.

After all, the american dream does have a price.

Published: June 26, 2010

“Hi, I’m Nicole.”
“I’m [insert name here].”
“What’s your major, [insert name here]?”
“Archaeology. Yours?”
“Physics, more or less.”
“…What are you doing here?”

I’ve had that conversation countless times during the past two weeks. For the past two weeks, I’ve worked at an archaeological dig at Megiddo in Israel. Run by Tel Aviv and George Washington Universities, the dig allows archaeology students to practice techniques they’ve studied. Classics students, too. And anthropology. And the odd history major. But physics?

“Oh, I’ve heard of you!” one administrator exclaimed after I mentioned my major. “You’re the scientist!”

And scientists have no business butting into the social sciences, apparently.

“Are you here to study radiocarbon dating?” some ask me.

Not particularly. I’m here to study archaeology.

Archaeology intrigues me; most subjects do. During my first two years of college, I studied as many subjects as I could. Alas, one can’t major in “a bit of this and a bit of that,” and one can’t graduate without a major. I concocted a compromise, an interdisciplinary approach to physics. My major consists of six physics classes, one math class, one philosophy class, two history classes, and cartloads of prerequisites. Since the major leaves me little time to study subjects other than physics, I resolved to explore archaeology this summer.

Why shouldn’t I? Why must I burrow into a laboratory or into calculations during vacation? Why shouldn’t I explore new environments, experience a new lifestyle, study new perspectives, use other vague but positive-sounding words?

This summer, I trade my pencil for a pickax. Notwithstanding my ability to mathematically describe the damage that pickax does.

Published: June 24, 2010

A couple of weeks ago I watched my oldest child cross a stage, mortarboard perched precariously on his head, and accept his high school diploma with a brilliant smile. I don’t see how this is possible as it was just yesterday he crossed a stage with another mortarboard on his head and flashed a gap-toothed grin at his kindergarten graduation.

I’m sure all the other parents were as stunned as I to suddenly be standing at the closing bookend of childhood. But it didn’t really hit me until a few days later when our family began its annual summer hike in the Rocky Mountains. We’ve been hiking the same stretch since my children were preschoolers, unable to keep up. In fact, I have pictures of both kids being carried on the shoulders of their dad and grandpa.

We’ve hiked that trail so many times now that certain trees, streams and boulders are infused with memories, and every family member remembers details the rest of us have forgotten.
One of us recalls stumbling into an ice-cold stream and then walking for hours in wet shoes. Another remembers eating lunch on the trunk of a fallen pine tree until an attack by ravenous ants. Grandpa remembers a pair of osprey that nested in a tree overlooking a beautiful mountain lake. We lay back on a large, sunny rock, watching the birds swoop down to catch fish for their hungry offspring.

My daughter remembers our yearly pilgrimage to the grave of a beloved dog who was buried just off the trail. The dog’s owner had erected a simple wooden marker on which he (or she) had painted a heartfelt epitaph: Sid – World’s Best Dog. We spent a couple of hours after we first found the grave amusing each other with stories about Sid’s imagined adventures on the trail. I can clearly hear my kids’ high, eager voices, talking over each other as they competed to give Sid’s life the juiciest details.

Grandma’s memories of the trail center on which boulders and tree trunks provided the most privacy for the inevitable call of nature. Grandma is an expert at picking out secluded spots. Sadly, though, I am not. My son’s favorite hiking story is about the time that I – not realizing my chosen spot could be seen from another part of the trail – exposed my backside to a group of college students. They’re probably still in therapy.

My husband and I share a favorite location – a log bridge over a rushing stream. The first time each of our kids clambered across that bridge unassisted was a momentous event, captured in pictures. The trail from the bridge leads off into dense woods, curving out of sight. This year, I stopped to take a picture of the bridge, as I always do. My son, all grown up, crossed ahead of me, then turned to look back, the trail with its unseen destination stretching ahead of him.

I snapped the shot, then had to sit down on a rock to compose myself. Someday, he’ll understand why.

© Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved
http://www.jackiepapandrew.com

Published: June 18, 2010

Magazines on grocery store checkout stands are full of ideas to keep romantic relationships going. They show scantily clad perfect bodies and regularly claim to have 280 new ways to rev up your love life.

After 30 plus years of marriage it’s hard to come up with new and exciting dates that are guaranteed to titillate your mate. You’ve traveled, seen lots of movies, eaten at every restaurant within a 50 mile radius, and have done everything else that has come and gone over the last three decades.

Recently I was reading the 4YOU insert in the Tribune and stumbled upon something that presented a great date idea. The price was unbelievable at $25 per person. It involved a trip to Tampa on a Saturday, would put us in front of lots of interesting people, and hopefully lead to an even more robust physical relationship.

I called and made the reservation, but waited to spring it on my wife until the end of the week. One evening after dinner I happily announced that I had signed us up for a Stroke Awareness and PVD Screening at the UCH Pepin Heart Hospital!

Her response was not what I expected, even after I explained the exciting itinerary of an EKG for the evaluation of Atrial Fibrillation, a Liver Function Test, Blood Sugar, Lipid Profile including Total Cholesterol, HDL, LDL, VLDL & Ratio, Ankle Brachial Index, Homocysteine level and C-Reactive Protein tests. Even the icing on the cake – a Carotid Ultrasound – wasn’t sweet enough to change the stunned look of disbelief on my wife’s face.

After the shock subsided she agreed to go. We signed in, took a brief stroke awareness test and then were escorted to a barrage of professionals ready to poke and prod us. We jumped in bed for an EKG – alone of course – then off to get our fingers pricked for the Cholesterol screening. The next stop was a blood draw and then to bed again for a Carotid Ultrasound. Can my heart take this I remember thinking…?

After the quick tests (about 15 minutes), we sat down with an MD who went over our findings and gave us some recommendations. Luckily our results looked good, so we were encouraged to exercise more, lose some weight, eat good food in moderation and have regular checkups.

Now we meet at the YMCA for cardio and strength training. Maybe we’ll add some Yoga or Zumba to really heat things up. By the way, after I stroked my wife at Pepin I treated her to lemon ricotta pancakes at one of our favorite restaurants. Now that felt good.

Published: May 29, 2010

BP has just about run out of ideas after their last ditch efforts, aka, Top Kill and The Junk Shot, failed to stop the torrent of crude escaping into the Gulf of Mexico.  After more than a month of making it up as they go, the score is BP- zero, Oil Leak – eleventy billion (that’s gallons, give or take a few.)

BP’s little “oopsie” is truly the gift that keeps on giving.  Not only has it permanently screwed up the ecology of thousands of square miles of ocean, marshland, and beaches.  It’s swelled the already huge list of America’s unemployed with thousands of fishermen, shrimpers, others who depend on the Gulf for their livelihood.  It’s killed tourism dead in a dozen states, and taken away annual income they need to survive.  And - it took Florida’s pristine beaches completely out of the running for the “Best Beach” competition, because the judge just assumed they’d be covered in tar balls by now. 

BP’s CEO at first characterized the spill as “tiny” and claimed the ecological impact would be “very, very modest.”  Since then, a massive number of BP employees and local “draftees” have worked around the clock to corral the crude and siphon it up.  Nearly 20% of the entire Gulf has been closed to fishing.  Huge plumes of oily muck that stretch from the sea floor all the way to the surface have been discovered.  Endangered species like Kemp’s Ridley Sea Turtles have washed up dead in alarming numbers.  Thousands of volunteers have put their lives on hold to scrub seabirds, and soak up oily ooze. 

Three weeks after his previous assessment, BP CEO Tony Howard finally admitted the spill was indeed an “environmental catastrophe.”  But he and his company still have no idea how to fix it.  After spending 40 days and and estimated $390 million to stop the leak, BP’s COO, Doug Suttles told the press, “I don’t think the amount of oil coming out has changed.”   Yay - just what we wanted to hear.

At times like this, we naturally look to our county’s leadership.  And although the US government has no expertise, no trained responders, nor any agency charged with taking over failed oil well disasters from the companies that caused them, there is a growing demand for Obama’s administration to assume the job to “save us.”  Ironically, the loudest shouts are being heard from traditional anti-big government advocates, who have now dubbed the disaster, “Obama’s Katrina,”  and are chastising him for not stepping in. 

They forget that the groundwork for “oil-pocolypse” was laid during the Bush administration.  Bush urged congress to increase offshore drilling, and to open up the Alaskan Arctic National Wildlife Refuge.   His Energy Policy Act of 2005 was designed to streamline oil and gas development, and allowed companies to ignore provisions in 1969 National Environmental Policy Act related to human health and the cumulative environmental effects of oil and gas drilling.  However not only did side-stepping these provisions not speed up drilling, The GAO reported that “Increased Permitting Activity Has Lessened the Bureau of Land Management’s Ability to Meet Its Environmental Protection Responsibilities.”  Per the Minerals and Management Service, in every year during the Bush administration, offshore producers released an average of 6,555 barrels of oil a year, 64% more than the previous annual average.

Lax oversight, and a “drill baby drill” mentality made the Deepwater Horizon not just a possibility, but a probability.  Congress forgot that just like Three Mile Island, energy-related disasters may happen only rarely, but it only takes one to totally mess things up.  Oil has been spilling into the fragile Gulf ecosystem at the rate of 12,000 to 19,000 barrels per day for the past forty days.  That’s over 30 million gallons already.

Congress must enact much stricter controls related to the safety of offshore drilling.  For example, Canada requires a relief well to be drilled at the same time as a new well.  BP has started its relief well, but it will takes weeks more to complete.  While we can’t do much except try to recover from this calamity, we can make it much less likely that it never happens again.


The author can be reached at KrisDiGiovanni at gmail dot com or on FaceBook.

Published: May 26, 2010

One of the downsides to having children is they gradually start to notice all that’s wrong with their parents. You get just a few golden years when they think you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Then, seemingly overnight, those young lips curl in distaste when you use an old-fashioned phrase like “best thing since sliced bread.”  Or worse, they begin making condescending statements about your physical appearance.

Like the other day when my son suggested that I join a gym.

“It’ll do you good, Mom,” he said in the same patronizing tone he’ll probably use when he’s checking me into a nursing home. “It’ll give you some motivation.”

What I was thinking was that I was becoming highly motivated to cut him out of my will. What I said, like an idiot, was, “OK. A gym sounds like fun.”

Now you should know that I am no slouch in the fitness department. I walk my dogs daily. Occasionally, I’ll even do a pushup or situp. And I’m a devotee of the Fitness Channel, which features many highly motivating exercise shows that promise to quickly whip you into shape. My favorite is a bootcamp-style program led by a woman in stunningly good shape named Cath e. Yes, that’s ‘Cath’ and then an ‘e’ set off from the rest of the name, italicized and gussied up in a different color. This kind of confidence impresses me so I watch Cathe several times a week. Someday soon, I’m going to stop just watching and let her actually work me out.

But in the meantime, I went ahead and followed my boy’s suggestion, joining a gym that offered me a free session with a trainer named – no kidding – Jim. At our session, I made a couple of clever jokes about getting to come see Jim at the gym, but I think my trainer’s biceps are a lot bigger than his brain because he didn’t even crack a smile. Jim questioned me closely about my current activity level and seemed unimpressed by my dog-walking and Fitness Channel-watching routine. Still going for a laugh, I told him I spend a lot of time exercising my mind. He actually snorted at that. I quickly decided I didn’t much like Jim.

I did what he told me to do, though, warming up on the elliptical machine, then lifting every weight he gave me, flopping around on every beach ball, squatting and stretching, contorting and curling until Jim seemed at least somewhat satisfied.

Of course, you know what happened next. The following morning, I could barely walk. I couldn’t laugh. It even hurt to breathe. Just about the only thing I could do was sit on the couch with a big tub of Haagen Daz (and a backup bar of chocolate) and spend several hours immobilized in front of numerous Brad Pitt movies. That kind of therapy works wonders.

Eventually, though, I was able to get off the couch long enough to grab a piece of paper and start revising my will. I haven’t yet been back to the gym but maybe I will go soon. I’ll bet Jim misses me.

© Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved
http://www.jackiepapandrew.com

Published: May 21, 2010

I read a letter to the editor this week that really irked me. 

You know I’m all for the expression of opinion.  It’s what I do here.  But I’m really getting sick and tired of hearing the same egotistical rant over and over from people who claim to be “real” Americans.

As far as I know, the only real Americans are Native Americans.  Everyone else is here only because some Western Europeans invaded and took over.  But I know this guy’s use of the term was not meant to refer to the founding of the country, but to his own personal brand of patriotism. 

He starts off proudly proclaiming that he pays his taxes, parking, and speeding tickets. The taxes, I get, but how does admitting to breaking the law make you a “better” American?  Please explain that one.

He goes on to say that he believes in the enforcement of illegal immigration laws, although that might label him a racist, and that he believes congress should enact all laws favored by the majority of the public.

His first statement likely refers to the recent legislation passed in AZ, which I sincerely doubt he has actually read.  Unfortunately that bill is not so much about the enforcement of existing laws as it is about creating new ones.

Like this part:

The problem with this passage is the word “reasonable suspicion.”  Just how does one come under suspicion?  Well, obviously by doing something, saying something, or otherwise “seeming to be” an alien.  Here’s this plays out.  If you’re a Canadian visitor, it’s probably safe for you to drive through Phoenix.  But if you’re a 3rd generation American of Puerto Rican heritage from New York, that trip might not be such a good idea.  Oh, unless you always carry your passport or birth certificate with you, and don’t mind possibly having to prove you have a right to be here every time you pass a cop.  Our “real American” correspondent apparently feels that being detained and humiliated is a fair the price to pay for living in or visiting the Grand Canyon State. 

Regarding passing all bills most Americans support, perhaps a tiny civics lesson might clarify things for our not-so-gentle writer.  The reason the US is a democratic republic, and not a true “majority rules” democracy, is precisely to avoid the type of mob mentality he apparently favors.  Our elected officials are sworn to act in our best interests – not to simply do what we tell them.  Of course they have to listen to our opinions.  But then they have to go do right by us.  In a true democracy (every individual gets an equal say) things tend to get out of hand.  Think Salem Witch Trials.  Want intimidation, lynchings, vigilantism?  Mob rule will get you there.  Want reasoned judgment and equality under the law – well-qualified elected representatives are your best bet.

Up to this point, I can forgive the letters writer’s rhetoric as simply uninformed, but his last statement really got my dander up.

Sounds so familiar.  Where have I heard that statement before?  Ah yes, Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, Bill O’Reilly, and others who continually spout anti-progressive venom.  By all means, let’s save our country from any more of those abhorrent initiatives progressives have been responsible for in the past.  I’m talking of course about those abominations like women’s suffrage, the National Park System, the abolishment of child labor, safety inspections for food, medicines, and consumer goods, The Clean Air and Water Act, Medicare, Social Security, the Civil Rights Act, anti-trust laws – and when you get right down to it, the American Revolution. 

Yup, those pesky progressives are always up to no good, and dad gum it, our esteemed letter writer and those other “real Americans” are determined to take their country back. 

Me?  Well, with the help of my progressive friends, I’m equally determined to keep taking it forward.

The author can be reached at KrisDiGiovanni [at] gmail [dot] com

Published: May 17, 2010

Feeding two college-age boys and two hungry dogs is costing my wife and me an arm and a leg nowadays. A basket full of groceries used to be less than our mortgage payment, but that’s rapidly changing.

During the beginning of the recession it seemed like there were some good deals to be had. But now, weary retailers who have demanding stockholders have decided that it’s time for them to make some healthy profits by raising prices on everything we buy, or offering smaller packages at the “old” price.

On a recent trip to a home improvement store I found myself in the garden department. They had a wide selection of fruit and vegetable plants so I decided that this would be the year to cultivate the back forty.

I loaded up on blueberry and raspberry plants.  My wife added pots of assorted herbs along with three selections of tomato plants – Cherry, Roma and Beefsteak.

I could already feel the shopping basket getting lighter. No longer would we have to buy overpriced fruits and vegetables from parts unknown!

My wife showed me the latest above-ground gardening tips from Martha Stewart’s LIVING magazine, so it was off to the home center again to buy wood, stakes, top soil and fertilizer.

Our dreams of self sufficiency soon grew into a Green Acres episode. Apparently the blueberry plants offered at the home center don’t grow very well in Florida, and you need more than one variety for cross pollination – or guess what – no berries. You had to have acid soil to grow them in, and they need full sun and water.  After a second trip to a nursery and more plant buying, we finally have enough of the right plants in the right soil in the right place to yield three or four berries a day. Oh how nicely those little treasures decorate the top of my shredded wheat…

All in all, I figure that I have had the pleasure of growing my own fruits and veggies at about twice the cost of buying them at the store.

Not to worry. Next year I’m going to double the size of my garden so my wife and I can both have berries on our cereal on the same day… Now that’s living.

Published: May 07, 2010

It was just light when Allie & I left the house this morning and stepped out into the outdoor sauna that is Florida in May.  It seemed most of the world was still hitting the snooze button, except for the birds, of course. From telephone line to tree to fencepost, avian morning anchors filled the air with cheerful headlines.  A few blocks down the street, gulls cavorted over a sea of glass.  The sunrise reflected off a far away bank of sea fog, painting a perfect pink and purple watercolor.  This marvelous morning was made of beauty and peace


And for the few minutes it took us to complete our early jaunt, it was possible to forget that there was another day to be gotten through.  A day in which the stock market might decide to take another bungee jump.  A day in which you could be arrested for driving through Arizona without a birth certificate.  A day in which the muddy water covering Nashville might reveal another poor soul.  A day in which the oily fingers of a man-made disaster might reach out to strangle yet another hapless sea creature. 


It was with no little reluctance that we mounted the steps that marked our official entry into the day.  But we paused at the top for one last look at the serene elegance of water unmarred by so much as a ripple and palms with nary a frond aflutter, to breathe a short prayer to whatever might be out there in the vast unknown.  Thanks for this.  Thanks for this.


The author can be reached at KrisDiGiovanni at gmail dot com or on FaceBook

Published: May 03, 2010

Politicians want what they want when they want it.

Never mind that the people of Nevada voted for Harry Reid to represent their issues…he got so full of himself that he knew better. During a recent trip to that state, I heard that nobody wants to admit voting for him. Yet, if he runs again, he will keep being elected on name recognition alone by people too lazy to do research into other candidates. And he knows it.

Never mind that the people of Illinois voted for Barack Obama to be their Senator for six years…he did less than a quarter of that time before running off to campaign for President, and was rarely seen in his seat after that. Some of my relatives, staunch Illinois Democrats, were disappointed enough in his performance as Senator that they didn’t vote for him as President.

Never mind that Arlen Specter was a Democrat, then a Republican, then a Democrat. Hey – whatever way the wind blows in your favor, buddy, that’s what you gotta do.

And now we have Florida Governor Charlie “I don’t approve of gambling expansion” Crist. Yes, we all have the right to switch parties, or to be a part of no party. But one has to wonder what Crist will want to be next.

Crist, the first-ever Florida Attorney General to be elected, ran for that office on the Republican ticket and won by a handy landslide. Riding on the coattails of his success in that office, Crist won the gubernatorial election as a Republican as well.

But we’ve seen him turn moderate (not that there’s anything wrong with that, as Seinfeld would say) and now it appears he needs to get out of the Republican party entirely.

Does the Republican party no longer represent what Charlie believes will do the people the most good, or do the Republicans no longer represent what can get Charlie to the next level?

Politicians who run for different offices while holding one have the best of both worlds. They get to use their current office as a jump-off point. They don’t have to give up the power of their current position. They can still vote – if they decide to show up.

If Crist ran as a Republican against Marco Rubio, the party vote would still have been split, so running as an independent doesn’t necessarily do the damage in that respect that some people say.

But what matters most is that while his time is split between U.S. Senate campaigner and Governor, and his desire runs toward a national office, Crist cannot possibly pay sufficient sincere attention to his duties as Governor.

While we know the stated reasons for his party switch, these questions will always be in our minds: Is the real reason that he feels he wouldn’t be re-elected Governor because the state’s economy is in shambles? Is he cutting and running while the getting is good? Did he run for Governor not out of a desire to serve the people but to pole vault to his higher aspirations?

So whether or not he loses or wins the race, the people of Florida have lost.

Published: May 01, 2010

Last spring, I interned at the SIL in DC—pardon, at the Smithsonian Institution Libraries in the District of Columbia. After registering at NMNH (the National Museum of Natural History), I reported to NMAH (the National Museum of American History) to work in its Dibner Library of the History of Science and Technology (I wish that had an acronym, but it doesn’t). The internship’s perks blew my mind—the discount on SI (Smithsonian Institution) merchandise, the free passes to IMAXs (Image MAXimums) at NASM (the National Air and Space Museum). Rather, the perks would have blown my mind, but the lingo exploded it first.

The more vernacular I mastered, the more I discovered I needed to master. Upon realizing that “LC” denotes the Library of Congress, I learned that “LOC” does, too. And the LC/LOC has a building referred to as “LM.” But sharper fangs and hairier hides lurked in the Bedroom Closet of Alarming Appellations.

DC houses the driest, most forgettable, paint-the-walls-gray-and-don’t-even-think-of-hanging-curtains names: the American Enterprise Institute for Public Policy Research, the Surface Transportation Board, Administrative Committee of the Federal Register. Each name accomplishes its purpose—to identify the class of red tape concerns that that organization. But the names have no souls. Like Frankenstein, each seems assembled from a grab-bag of parts. Looking to christen a new organization? Chuck a dart, and see whether it lands on Alliance, Administration, Center, Board, Agency, Bureau, Institute, Office, or Council. Flip a coin: heads, we stick “National” in front of the name; tails, “United States.”

Before congratulating yourself on not being one of DC’s name-nudniks, consider whether your language deserves a tune-up. Do you reel off acronyms faster than the NFO (National Fishing Organization) reels in trout? You sound in-the-know, but if no one else knows the acronyms you know, you’ll come off less as knowledgeable than as a know-it-all. The more your interlocutor scratches her head over acronyms, the less she digests your message.

If she knows your shorthand, though, acronyms can speed up communication. Pepper conversations with acronyms—if your dinner guest isn’t allergic to alphabet soup.

Now that we’ve settled our acronym problems, let’s tackle lackluster names. Joe Citizen can’t scrub them from NGOs, but he can change his government. (Theoretically). If you lean right, rally against the bureaucracy represented by these names. What does Transportation Command do that the Transportation Department can’t? Scrap the former—and its name! If you lean left, attack not the bureaucracy’s size, but its word choice. Replace “Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences” with “Military Medicine” and “United States Mission to the United Nations” with “Hopeless.”

Please don’t abuse our language. It serves us well. Better than DC’s name-nudniks.

OK?

Published: April 22, 2010

Last week, I decided to make my mother proud and embark on a vigorous program of spring cleaning, so I went to the garage for a broom and came across my long-neglected bike, which reminded me I’d been intending to exercise since sometime before the last millennium and, since there’s no time like the present, I pulled the creaky bike out to the driveway, where my eyes fell upon my very dirty automobile, so I pulled out a hose and began washing it, but this got my sneakers wet, which reminded me that I really wanted to do some serious shoe shopping, but then I remembered that I sorely needed a pedicure, only when I pulled off my socks to examine my foul feet, I realized I had no clean socks because I failed to find the time all week to do laundry, so I rushed inside to start a load, and speaking of loads, I suddenly wanted to read the newspaper to find out what kind of hooey those humble public servants in Washington are pushing, and speaking of pushing, I realized I should get back to the garage to grab that broom, but then I saw the mop right there next to it and that got me thinking about my hair, which lately has had more bad days than good, and so I thought I’d make an appointment for a haircut, but when I picked up the phone, I recalled the irate conversation I had a couple of days ago with my mother, who feels I should call her more often, and she’s undoubtedly right, but then she asked if I’d begun my spring cleaning and so, remembering this, I hung up the phone and gathered a tub full of cleaning supplies with which to attack the job at hand, but seeing the tub made me think of the word ‘tubby’ which made me think of my stomach, which reminded me that I’d left the bike in the driveway, so I rushed outside, only to notice the deplorable condition of my windows so I went in search of a squeegee and while I was looking, I started thinking about how much I like the word ‘squeegee’ and then I started thinking about how much I like words in general, and if one likes words as much as I do, one naturally loves books as well, which often leads to reading, and I really love to read and thinking about reading caused my brain to take a philosophical turn, which it has a habit of doing whenever cleaning is on the horizon, but then I was jerked back to reality with the realization that I’ve never actually owned a squeegee and therefore could not properly clean my windows, and I’m pretty sure that it was Plato who said that if one cannot correctly clean one’s own windows, any other kind of cleaning is not morally justifiable, which is why I decided to lie down for the day and put off cleaning until next spring.
Sorry, Mom.

http://www.jackiepapandrew.com

Published: April 16, 2010

Tribune Staff photo by INDIRA LeVINE


They were mad as hatters in Joe Chillura Square, and in public spaces in cities across the country on April 15th.  In yet another a amusing episode of spelling and grammar challenged tantrum throwing, members of the “Tea Party” came out to decry the unfairness of their tax burden, and protest the oppression of Barack Obama and his “Tax and Spend” administration.


They apparently were too busy employing their best teabonics” in crafting appropriate signage to notice the report by the non-partisan Center for Budget and Policy Priorities that reveals the average family of four middle-income Americans are now paying federal taxes at a rate of 4.6 percent -  the second lowest rate in 50 years. 


But why let facts get in the way when you’ve got a good head of steam worked up?  It’s embarrassingly inconvenient for the group’s victimization meme that in the 15 months since President Obama took office, there have been 25 separate tax cuts, including $300 billion for the middle class, as part of the stimulus package.  The April 14th report from Citizens for Tax Justice, stating “The 2009 economic stimulus bill actually reduced federal income taxes for tax year 2009 for 98 percent of all working families and individuals,” does not fit the Tea Party’s monotonous mantra.  Neither does the fact that a recent CBS/NY Times poll found that 62% of all respondents, including 60% of those who identified themselves as Republicans, and 67% of those who said they were Democrats, feel their taxes are either “too low” or “about right.” 


But in a stunning proof that “what I think” trumps “what is actually true,” that same survey found most (55%) Tea Party members believe they are over taxed.  That is why they gathered (driving over tax-funded public roads), and assembled in public places (funded by tax dollars), with law enforcement (funded by tax dollars) to guarantee their safety, and exercised their right to free speech (as protected by the very government they feel is taking over their lives).


Ain’t democracy grand?


The author can be reached at KrisDiGiovanni at gmail dot com or on faceBook.