Mall Diva, slacker

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The Mall Diva unexpectedly got the entire day off from work yesterday. I’m not sure how she spent all the extra time, but it probably involved using her new laptop to browse on-line shoe stores or check out the iTunes capabilities of our just upgraded high-speed broadband wi-fi connection.

What I know she didn’t do is blog. It’s been over a month since her last post and, frankly, the comments on this site have dropped to an alarmingly low level. Therefore, a single course of action suggests itself:

Please leave a comment for the Mall Diva, either urging her to return or — maybe better yet — offering your own speculation as to what she’s been doing the last few weeks that has made it impossible for her to contribute here.

Going Dutch

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A friend of mine moved her whole family to Amsterdam at the end of December for a three-year assignment. Her husband started a blog about the experience a few weeks prior to the move and I’ve been enjoying the reports from the whole family.



I’m happy to add Half a World Away to my “Night Lights” blogroll. Check it out and enjoy the vicarious thrill of picturing yourself starting a new life in a new country.

Pubs suffering in “Scotland the Smoke-free”

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The countdown is on for state-wide smoking ban in Minnesota with competing prophecies of gloom and doom vs. fresh air and sunshine on what will happen. It is worth noting what actually has happened elsewhere.

A nationwide smoking ban in pubs and restaurants went into effect in Scotland in late March of 2006, with many of the same arguments on both sides that we’ve become familiar with here in Minnesota. Shortly after the ban went into affect the Cancer Research UK poll released results confidently predicting that Scottish pubs would benefit from the ban, citing poll results showing that 25% of those surveyed said they’d be more likely to visit a pub because of the ban. The poll also found that 10% said they’d be less likely to go to a pub.

That 10% figure is especially interesting when you read this article:

The smoking ban in Scotland has seen a 10% decrease in sales and a 14% fall in customers in pubs, according to a new study.

The study carried out by Oxford University Press on behalf of the International Epidemiological Association compared sales before and after the ban at 2724 pubs – 1590 in Scotland and 1134 in northern England – where smoking is still permitted.

The study’s authors say this is the first major look at the smoking ban outside of the US – where trade has remained fairly constant.

The report says: “These studies have mostly found no negative economic effects of such legislation on the hospitality sector in the long run.

“However, differences in the social use of public houses in Great Britain in comparison with the US may lead to different findings.”

“Our study suggests that the Scottish smoking ban had a negative economic impact on public houses … due in part to a drop in the number of customers.

“The short-term impact of the ban did not lead to more customers coming into pubs due to the smoke-free atmosphere, and presumably did not lead smokers to spend more money on drink or food instead of smoking.”

The study backs anecdotal evidence from licensees north of the border.

While the study makes a reference to similar bans in the U.S. having little affect on the bar and restaurant trade — an assertion that bears further scrutiny — it appears that the International Epidemiological Association must also acknowledge the statistics showing that harm has been done. In fact, if anyone is clearly benefitting from the ban it is the people hired — at tax-payer expense — to enforce the ban, as reported here:

A survey has found that some of Scotland’s smoke ban enforcers are seriously under-employed with some councils’ officers NEVER having issued a ticket.

An investigation by Scotland on Sunday found seven councils, between them employing at least 11 full-time enforcers, have failed to issue a single penalty ticket or warning since they began work in March.

It is estimated that the salary bill for these officers is around £220,000.

Councils say there is more to the job than handing out fines, however Stewart Maxwell, the MSP who brought the original bill before the Scottish parliament said: “I always thought it would be self-policing. From the start I didn’t think that it would be necessary to employ so many enforcement officers.

“A lot of them were certainly doing a lot of work when the ban was brought in, including distributing posters, but I don’t know whether this is still the case.”

Paul Waterson, chief executive of the Scottish Licensed Trade Association, said the money could be better spent compensating badly hit rural pubs.

It appears that an addiction to bureaucracy is even harder to stamp out than a craving for nicotine. Actually, I know of many people who have been able to quit smoking, but I haven’t heard of any government jobs being reduced. Has anyone ever tried to develop a “Bureaucracy Patch”?

Of course, why worry about livelihoods when lives are at stake? Scottish Health Minister Andy Kerr responded angrily to the survey results, saying “There’s a brutal answer to that. This is about public health, it’s about saving lives – it’s not about businesses.” I’ll bet newly unemployed Scottish pub and restaurant workers are already lining up to apply for jobs as government fat inspectors (fat in food, not government, of course) in anticipation of the next ban.

It’s, like, a real bummer, dude

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Katherin Kersten’s column in the StarTribune today laments the fallen state of youthful language skills, citing overheard examples of overused words (“awesome”), trite expressions and ubiquitous cursing. Her take, with which I generally agree, is that we are losing our appreciation for language due to a diminishing common experience of seeing it used well.

Today, teens aren’t the only ones who have lost the ability to speak and write with vigor and eloquence. Folks of all ages are reading less — especially the classics, whose authors wielded our language most powerfully. As a result, our ability to express ourselves is diminishing, because we can’t draw on their example for inspiration.

Indeed, there has been quite some cultural devolution from “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,” to “Don’t have a cow, man.” That doesn’t necessarily mean that people, especially young people, are less intelligent or less stimulated; they have shown an amazing ability to adapt to the high-speed inundation of the digital, text-messaging world with it’s word and number contractions and abbreviations, and some hip-hop rapping is remarkably facile and creative. What is missing is a certain cultural currency of universal themes and ideas. Kersten cites one example of an attempt to bring this back:

Last month, Diane Ravitch, an eminent historian of education, provided the perfect antidote: “The English Reader: What Every Literate Person Needs to Know.” In this anthology, she and her son Michael Ravitch have gathered what they regard as the most memorable speeches, poems, essays and songs in the English language.

“Today, our common cultural reference points come from the visual culture: Britney Spears, Jennifer Lopez,” Ravitch told me last week. Our schools could help remedy the problem, but often don’t, she says. That’s because “‘relevance” is now the watchword in education.

In textbooks, teens tend to find countless stories about young people much like themselves, according to Ravitch.

“How much richer it is to be able to use your imagination — to communicate with people who lived 200 years ago and come away with something that remains in your head and your heart,” she adds.

Norman Fruman, an emeritus English professor at the University of Minnesota, agrees. “Good literature deals with ideas, as well as emotions and the psychology of human behavior,” he says. “It records our greatest tragedies and our highest aspirations.” During 40 years as a teacher, he saw a steep decline in students’ knowledge of their literary heritage.

Having a collection of inspiring prose and oratory in one volume is a timely start. According to a Wall Street Journal article from January 3rd (HT: Port McClellan), the classics are being removed from what many might consider their last public refuge: libraries.

Checked Out
A Washington-area library tosses out the classics.

BY JOHN J. MILLER

“For Whom the Bell Tolls” may be one of Ernest Hemingway’s best-known books, but it isn’t exactly flying off the shelves in northern Virginia these days. Precisely nobody has checked out a copy from the Fairfax County Public Library system in the past two years, according to a front-page story in yesterday’s Washington Post.

And now the bell may toll for Hemingway. A software program developed by SirsiDynix, an Alabama-based library-technology company, informs librarians of which books are circulating and which ones aren’t. If titles remain untouched for two years, they may be discarded–permanently. “We’re being very ruthless,” boasts library director Sam Clay.

According to the article, books by Charlotte Brontë, William Faulkner, Thomas Hardy, Marcel Proust and Alexander Solzhenitsyn have already been pulled to make more room for more books from the recent best-seller lists. As in the schools, “relevancy” is puddle-deep evaluation that goes into giving the “customer” what they want, rather than what they ought to have. Granted, the argument, “It’s good for you” has never been especially persuasive to me whether the subject was books or vegetables, and there is quality in many of the newer works. My contention is, however, that we may focus too much on the pretty, colorful fish in the shallows and never venture into deeper waters where there are some truly awesome (in it’s literal sense of the world, not the teen version) creatures.

While there are times I would like to take others by the hand long enough to place a good book there, I look realistically to where I have the most influence: in my family. Reading has always been a favorite pastime for our children, starting with my wife and reading to them when they were still infants. Both my daughters read from an early age, and Tiger Lilly was especially motivated to learn her letters well before she started school. The television has never been a big focus for the two of them (in fact, I probably watch more tv than they do) and I think this shows in their writing and vocabulary. There are still opportunities to go deeper, though.

Tiger Lilly is our sole student in our little home-educating academy and she checks out staggering numbers of books from the local library. I am casting about right now, though, for a suitable classic and I’ve about settled on “The Count of Monte Cristo”, one of my favorite books when I was her age. I think she has the taste for adventure and righteous outlook to become absorbed in the story while absorbing and appreciating the themes of liberty and justice — and the well-turned sentence.

Hoarse is hoarse, of course, of course

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It’s been quiet around Chez Night the last few days. That’s mainly because last week my voice wandered off at a rest stop somewhere between Missouri and here and has had to hitchhike its way back home. (I know I should have been paying more attention, but the cold medicine made me groggy). About half of it has made it back as of today, and I’m leaving the light on for the rest of it.

For the past few days my voice has fluctuated somewhere between a whisper and a scrape, which has led to some interesting challenges. For example, I haven’t been able to replace my out-of-office voicemail message at work because if I had tried to record anything my callers would end up thinking they’d mistakenly called Dial-A-Perv.

On Wednesday our Executive of the Year came down from Olympus to inspect the troops (“Executive-of-the-Year” is not an award but an acknowledgement that my Division of the Company has reported up to four different super-senior executives in the last five years). I was among a group of managers invited to a get-to-know-you luncheon. You know what happened: “let’s go around the room and say something about what you do.” Naturally, the EOTY decided to sit at the opposite end of the long conference table from me. After five other people had done their thing all eyes rolled to me. I stood up (everyone else had remained seated), grabbed my lunch plate, and walked all the way around the table to an empty chair across from our guest. I then gave my name and croaked “I’m responsible for Communications, and the first rule of Communications is to put yourself in a position to be heard.” Actually, I think that worked out rather well as I quickly hit the “5 things you need to know in 15 seconds” then sat back and let the rotation go on; if the EOTY remembers anyone from that meeting I’m sure it will be me. The rest of the meeting I relied on thoughtful, profound eyebrow movements to make up for what I was missing in vocalization.

The worst part was Tuesday night. I had been saving some tasty morsel for myself, but when I went to the refrigerator it was gone! “Hey! Where’s my ….” I said, except that it came out sounding more like, “Heh! Wissss shhhh meh, meh!” I was like Mufasa without his roar. I had to go into the living room where the rest of the family was and pantomime a tantrum. I pounded my fist into my open, up-turned palm and twisted it. I slashed my finger across my throat. I swung my arms up and out to diagram a large mushroom cloud. The effect was less than satisfying as the response was more amused than repentent. Arrrgghhh! (Boy, my throat hurts just typing that!)

Oh well, it was probably for the best. Some things really are better left unsaid.

Give him a medal!

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“We live in a heroic age. Not seldom are we thrilled by deeds of heroism where men or women are injured or lose their lives in attempting to preserve or rescue their fellows; such are the heroes of civilization. The heroes of barbarism maimed or killed theirs.”

– Andrew Carnegie
A 50-year-old New York man literally leapt to the rescue of a stranger on Tuesday in a way that would have made Andrew Carnegie proud:

NEW YORK — Wesley Autrey faced a harrowing choice as he tried to rescue a teenager who fell off a platform onto a subway track in front of an approaching train: Struggle to hoist him back up to the platform in time, or take a chance on finding safety under the train.

At first, he tried to pull the young man up, but he was afraid he wouldn’t make it in time and they would both be killed.

“So I just chose to dive on top of him and pin him down,” he said.

Autrey and the teen landed in the drainage trough between the rails Tuesday as a southbound No. 1 train entered the 137th Street/City College station.

The train’s operator saw them on the tracks and applied the emergency brakes.

Two cars passed over the men _ with about 2 inches to spare, Autrey said. The troughs are typically about 12 inches deep but can be as shallow as 8 or as deep as 24, New York City Transit officials said.

…

Autrey had been waiting for a train with his two young daughters. After the train stopped, he heard bystanders scream and yelled out: “We’re O.K. down here but I’ve got two daughters up there. Let them know their father’s O.K.,” The New York Times reported.

While spectators cheered Autrey, hugged him and hailed him as a hero, he didn’t see it that way.

“I don’t feel like I did something spectacular; I just saw someone who needed help,” he told the Times. “I did what I felt was right.”

Mr. Autry’s story has appropriately been featured on tv and in many news stories, and it reminded me of something I learned about several years ago: the Carnegie Hero Fund Commission, created by the well-known industrialist and philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. Carnegie created the fund, initially endowed with $5 million, in 1904 after being inspired by reading of the selfless rescue efforts of people responding to a coal-mine disaster.

The Carnegie Hero Fund Commission has given out more than 9,000 medals since its inception to individuals who risk their lives to save others, including 92 people in 2006. Each received a medal and grant ($5,000 in 2006). In addition, widows and orphans of rescuers receive Carnegie pensions and some children of deceased medal earners receive college scholarships. To date the fund has distributed more than $29 million in one-time grants, scholarship aid, death benefits, and continuing assistance.

The fund has some interesting requirements. People who save others in the line of duty – police, firemen, soldiers – don’t qualify, though several off-duty individuals have won. People who save family members qualify only if they are killed or severely injured in the rescue. Essentially, you can’t be a hero for doing what’s expected of you. Most of the awards go to people who risked their lives to save strangers. For the record, 7 recipients last year died in their attempts to save others; two medal winners were in their 70s and one was 81; three were 15 to 16 years old; five were women. Medal winners were recognized for rescuing others from burning (46), drowning (17), assault (15), animal attack (5), accidents (5) and falls (2). You can get the details concerning these and other heroes here.

I celebrate Mr. Autry and wish that the 92 heroes recognized with Carnegie medals last year could have received the same attention and celebration — not just because they deserve it, but because we need to hear about it. Just think, 92 people; that’s nearly two heroes a week we could be splashing on our video screens, tabloids, web pages and talking about over lunch. I’d much rather hear about these actions than some celebimbo who’s gone out without her underpants. And, much like Carnegie’s quote that opened this post, I’d much rather see the media focus its attention on those who preserve or rescue their fellows as opposed to those who take a bomb into a public place to maim or kill theirs.

Life is a highway

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One of the things about blogging is that occasionally you can do a little self-indulgent interior-monologuing:

We were bombing down the interstate the other day, the Mall Diva in the driver’s seat, cruise control, good visibility and dry pavement laid out straight in front of us just the way the engineer drew it up. We were going fast, perhaps a little faster than allowed, but the road appeared to roll by langourously with the green highway signs occasionally marking progress as the numbers to our expected destination got steadily smaller.

Life is often like that. It goes by fast, but you get so used to it that you hardly notice. The signposts — birthdays, events — come and go pretty much as expected, letting you know you’re getting closer to whatever is ahead, and large sections of it (at least when you get to be my age) are flat and straight. Every so often, though, you come to a curve; a big, sweeping change of course. You’re still on the same highway, still going the same place, it’s just that this is “the way” and you follow it as the compass (and sometimes your tummy) swings around. It’s not unexpected, if you check the map you’ll see that the curve is clearly marked, but you might be surprised to find that you’ve come so far, so soon.

It just takes the slightest turn of your hands to stay on course; similarly a simple thing, such as a short conversation, can mark a turning point and the familiar road starts to look a little different. Our family swept into one such curve the other day. I’m talking about life, not the highway, but the natural inclination is still to let off the gas a little, slow down, maintain control — if I were in the driver’s seat, that is.

All in all, it’s a good thing, but — sorry to be a tease — I can’t write any more about it at this time. Actually, I think I’m going to write plenty (this, for example) as I sense that a very philosophical vein has been tapped; it’s just that I don’t expect to post any thing further about this particular subject for some time. Everyone is well, everything is secure — did that last sign say anything about there being a rest area up ahead?

Back to other blogging nonsense tomorrow.

50 years on a dare

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They had known each other of course, the basketball player and the cheerleader at the small high school, but neither really liked the other all that much. She was smart, talented, headed for college and, truth be told, probably a bit stuck on herself. He was coarse and gangly with a quick temper shaped perhaps by being the youngest of four brothers, and from a family that sent its sons to the Air Force, not college. Their first date was more of a dare than a launching pad for romance.

Some tender shoot must have inviegled its way through such unpromising soil and gained a toe-hold, however. They finished high school in 1954 and became engaged, but set off on separate paths. She was off to Drury College in Springfield and he followed his brothers into the service, winding up in Germany. Her father wanted her to finish college; his Uncle Sam wanted him to spend 3 years near the Black Forest. Three years! Ah, but if you were a married man the Air Force would only keep you overseas for 18 months, and if you were an only daughter you knew the right combination of foot-stamping and soulful appeals to bend your father’s will. Rules and regulations met with hopes and aspirations and both paternal blessing and a 30-day leave were granted, and a late December wedding date was set.

The cold, waning days of the year are not a traditional time for weddings which more typically occur in the hopeful and promising days of spring, and other portents attending the event were ominous: the flower girl got stage fright at the back of the church and collapsed, crying, in the aisle, refusing to go forward; the ring-bearer wore a gaudy white patch over one eye as a result of a youthful accident immediately after the previous day’s rehearsal; the punch bowl was borrowed from a recently married woman who’s husband would later beat her half to death; and the pastor who married them would run off with another woman a week after performing their ceremony. Following the wedding they had to drive 90 miles through a blizzard to the swanky Case Hotel in St. Louis for their honeymoon (a gift from her parents), only to find the hotel on fire when they arrived.

Fortunately they were able to check into their room, and after the weekend it was back to spend a week with his parents and then a week in Indianapolis with hers before he had to board the bus for the two-day trip to New York and a flight back to Germany. Every time the bus stopped he had to fight the urge to get off and hitch-hike back to her, even if it meant going AWOL. It wouldn’t have been hard to do; in those days soldiers in uniform had little trouble hitching rides, but since the uniform represented the only clothes he owned he knew it was a very short-sighted strategy. He finished his time in Germany, now reduced to just seven more months as a result of his new status; returned to the states in July and together they conceived a son in August.

It would be nice to say that they used up all their hard luck just in getting through the wedding and early days, but nothing is that easy. She quit school and they put ten years and a lot of miles into the Air Force, living in base housing or whatever they could afford as two more kids came along. Real life was a lot harder than perhaps they expected and the knot at the end of their rope could get a bit frayed at times. They both had health issues and the kids had their own array of problems; one son walked funny and didn’t appear to hear well; another son seemed to require stitches for something every other week; the daughter seemed to be allergic to everything and would often swell up, or come down with Scarlet Fever. There seemed to be an awful lot of tomato-green bean casseroles for dinner. Just when the knot would seem about to give-way, though, there would be a timely visit from family or some stroke of fortune or fate to get them through. Later they would launch and sell a couple of businesses, she would go back to college for her degree and become an elementary school teacher and eventually a principal while earning Masters and Doctorate degrees.

The years came and went, as did the challenges and saving graces. That tender little shoot from their youth somehow grew into a strong, thick root — a bit gnarled and twisted, but all the harder to pry out of the ground for all that. They argued some, but hugged more and were absolutely resolute and united in trying to do the best they could for their children, even if the children didn’t always want to cooperate. Last Friday evening they stood in the same church where they were married 50 years earlier, posing for a succession of photos with children, grandchildren and relatives. They certainly knew everything that had gone into getting there, even if they were a bit at a loss to explain it.

“50 years ago all I had was a 1950 Mercury and my good looks,” he said with some wonder, “and now I don’t have that Mercury.” When she was asked for the secret she tried to give a short explanation for a long answer that is still being computed. “You just take it one day at a time, and sometimes, 15 minutes at a time.”

Happy 50th anniversary, Mom and Dad, and may there be many more!

‘Twas the days after Christmas

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Part 2 to my previous post: do you remember how the Red Ryder Air Rifle for me was a laptop? Well, I betcha can’t guess what happened on Christmas morning!

I woke up at about 6:30, but since I’m not one of the mean kids who
will jump out of bed and immediatley run into their parents rooms to wake them up no matter how tired they are, I stayed in bed until I heard the shower start in the Reverend Mother and The Old Man’s room, which meant Reverend Mother was awake (There was no telling if The Old Man was awake or not). I waited a bit more until I heard the door to the Mall Diva’s room open. I then jumped out of bed, eager to begin the stocking ritual of the morning. I then found out that MD didn’t think we should go into the Reverend Mother and The Old Man’s room yet. So I waited till I heard the shower shut off, then I ran down to grab the stockings while MD knocked on the bedroom door. We entered at The Old Man’s grunt of “Who is it?” and sat down. Mom wasn’t out of the bathroom yet, so we (surprise, surprise) waited.

After a bit, Mom came into the room, and we began opening the stockings.
Here is a list of what I received in my stocking:

A bottle of Jones Fufu Berry Soda from The Old Man
A necklace from MD
Chocolate
Reeses Pieces from Mom
A Candy Cane from Bonita
A tweezers from Reverend Mother

We went downstairs, but we didn’t unwrap presents yet. Mom had to make
coffee first. There was a present for both me and MD, then 5 presents each for both of us. MD and I decided to open the present for both of us first. Dad said, “That’s from ‘The Old Man’,” which gave me a clue as to what was inside. MD took one side, and I took the other, and we shredded the paper. It was (dramatic pause) a box!!!! I opened the box and inside was a

LAPTOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh joy! I was sooo happy. I was sitting there with my mouth hanging wide
open, and MD was grinning wildly. Then The Old Man said, “Now we have to
figure out a schedule for you two to use it,” and MD said, “I know this is more for Tiger Lilly than for me.”

We commenced opening the other presents. I got:

A Dream Pillow that is supposed to ‘reduce stress, induce sleep, and
heighten dreams,’ from MD

A scrunchie from Reverend Mother

An outfit from Bonita

Crest teeth whitening strips (Mom claims that I asked for those, just not for Christmas.)

And a book that I unfortunately already had. I also got a bead bracelet maker, and a gift certficate for Michaels.

Later the family came over. There was feasting of goose and turkey, gabbing and more present opening. My cousin told me that he got “Factions” for Christmas (the second part to a game that I love called “Guild Wars”). He is sooo lucky. But hey, he didn’t get a laptop! He gave me his compound bow and arrows for Christmas. This year was the best Christmas ever, with one flaw. Mom was sick. She stayed in bed all day, except for the present opening. Of course she came down for that. It’s nasty to be sick on a holiday like Christmas, but she’s feeling much better now.

Ciao for now, and Merry Belated Christmas!

Cat-astrophe averted

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Our holiday houseguest list started with my mother-in-law. She, in-turn, attracted the outlaw-in-law, who brought along the pitbull-in-law. They’re all generally nice enough, but as with most relationships it still pays to watch your fingers.

The dog stays outside for the most part, but joined us all inside for breakfast this morning. She’s a friendly beast that thinks she’s a 50-lb lapdog and has all the inquisitiveness and exuberance of a puppy. Her presence definitely changed the animal dynamic in the house as she tried to be “friends” with the domiciled pets. The guinea-pig, who has always been oblivious of our cat, clutched his chest and buried himself inside his plastic pig-loo despite already being inside a cage. The bird, also caged, got verrrrwy, verrrwy quiet even though she is best-known for her sputtering, Al Franken-like rants (her diction is a little bit better). Someone thoughtfully sequestered the cat in the basement before letting the dog in, so his initial reaction was hard to judge.

After being rebuffed by the other pets, the pitbull became completely fixated on the door to the basement, snuffling, prancing and whining. Now, the basement has everything the cat needs to make himself comfortable; his food dish, litter box and plenty of his favorite soft spots to sleep upon. We always shut him down there whenever we take the bird out for social interaction. You’d think that with all the comforts and conveniences close at hand, and a hairy, slavering beast on the other side of the door, the cat would be content to lie low. Something in his felinity, however, determined that if we wanted him in one place, then he wanted to be anywhere but there. So, when my mother-in-law accidentally opened the basement door, he leaped to freedom, perhaps in the hopes of catching the bird uncaged and unawares.

It would have been funny to have seen his face the moment he realized his miscalculation. Instead I had to settle the next instant for the bug-eyed, brushy-tailed look of terror as he came peeling around the corner into the living room looking for any high ground. Fortunately for me, I was leaning back in my chair instead of standing up so instead of leaping on my head he went for the top of the piano instead while the dog’s owner caught the animal’s head between his knees to keep her from continuing the hot pursuit. The Mall Diva swooped in and collected her cat and whisked him to safety in her room, his eyes the size of quarters and his back toes spread out like rakes. Order was soon restored and life, fortunately, went on.

The holidays can be so stressful.