After taking office in 1981, President Reagan made an immediate push to honor the tax cuts he promised during his campaign. The nation was mired in a steep recession at the time, which was not the least of his worries, at least when compared to the Democratic congressional majority he had to convince to play along nicely with.
Reagan's tax cuts passed with the help of forty-eight Democratic votes in the House, and thirty-seven Democratic yays in the Senate. The plan was enacted effective that spring and Reagan celebrated an early bi-partisan victory.
When President Obama took office last month, he was poised to usher in a new era of friendly government decorum, the kind where divisiveness would be cut through, and a cozy group hug would emerge.
Not so fast.
President Obama is celebrating victory in the passing of the massive stimulus package, an accord brokered by a hold-the-party line Congress before limping to the White House for the President's signature. After weeks of meetings and clandestine back room negotiations with Republican members of Congress, the President garnered zero votes in the House and just three in the Senate, or just enough to escape the prospect of ugly dramatics of a Senate filibuster.
Hope took a few right jabs to the nose, and change was left staggering and woozy, TKO'd by the partisan beltway machine.
This doesn't feel like a stimulus to me. Come to think of it, I don't feel stimulated at all. In fact, it smacks of a sort of awkward foreplay that ends up ruining the mood and making me want to conjure an excuse to pack up, go home and pretend it all never happened.
The stimulus reeks of bad pork and typical government waste. If garbage goes in, garbage must come out, I suspect. This is no New Deal, gang. It's an insult to FDR to even suggest that this is remotely similar.
If I brought the stimulus bill with me to my proctologists office, the doctor would stick his finger in it. That's how stinky it is.
Now it's time for all of us to roll up our sleeves, get to work and see if the stimulus works. These things take several years to play out, despite the gloom and doom that cable news and talk radio suggest is imminent.
As for Reagan and his tax cuts, history shows mixed results. The separate realities of the left and right have vastly different opinions of its effectiveness.
And President Obama's stimulus? I'll hold my strongest disdain after the completion of the bullet train that will be built between Disneyland and Las Vegas, a project made possible by the stimulus package and courtesy of Senate Majority Leader, Nevada Senator Harry Reid.
It would be only appropriate that Disney's Goofy take the lead in the ground-breaking ceremonies.
22 February, 2009
15 February, 2009
SlumfRod Multi-Millionaire
Being a parent can render itself to intellectual tedium at times, a constant game of "hurry up and wait" for those fleeting "teaching" moments, where parental wisdom is simultaneously required and ignored by its loving recipient.
My oldest son is a huge baseball fan, much to my vicarious delight. He's a statistical hound that brings innate analytical nuance to our great American spectacle, a byproduct of a naturally curious boy that is an amazing purveyor of patience, for which he has enough of to enjoy the methodical pace of a baseball game and seemingly endless season it's played in.
The boy has grown up taking a shine to the game during a time that has amounted to the most tarnished era the game has ever seen, an era now and forever known as the steroids era. Sure, baseball has weathered other distractions and controversies; racism and segregated leagues, gambling scandals and ugly labor disputes. Never before, however, has such an epidemic of cheating, scheming and lying ever gripped the sport the way steroids has. The result is a decades worth of questionable statistics that bring wary eyes to anybody looking at them.
Last season the boy and I were discussing the all time home run record now held by Barry Bonds, a man that is the crowned king of the steroid era. With every ounce of earnestness intact, I assured my son that in a few short years Barry Bonds would be rendered a pathetic footnote in the annals of baseball history, after a squeaky clean slugger named A-Rod (Alex Rodriquez) catches Bonds to take his worthy place as baseballs home run king.
Well, looks like I had some more splainin' to do.
A-Rod has now publicly admitted using steroids for three full seasons (2001-2003), one of which he was named the league MVP and another he used to position himself to sign the highest paid contract (with the Yankees - shocker!) in the history of the game.
Disgusting.
Time to dust off the classic Simon and Garfunkel's song, Mrs. Robinson, revise the words, but keeping the vibe; "where have you gone, Nick Punto, our nation turns its lonely eye to you."
Yesterday the boy and I discussed A-Rods' admission, and it turns out the wisdom I was ready to strategically dish wasn't needed at all.
"Well dad", the boy chimed, "there are a lotta players that don't use steroids."
"I know, son."
Then the boy put things into proper perspective.
"I don't use steroids, dad."
Baseball will be fine. Thanks to my boy, I'm now sure of it.
My oldest son is a huge baseball fan, much to my vicarious delight. He's a statistical hound that brings innate analytical nuance to our great American spectacle, a byproduct of a naturally curious boy that is an amazing purveyor of patience, for which he has enough of to enjoy the methodical pace of a baseball game and seemingly endless season it's played in.
The boy has grown up taking a shine to the game during a time that has amounted to the most tarnished era the game has ever seen, an era now and forever known as the steroids era. Sure, baseball has weathered other distractions and controversies; racism and segregated leagues, gambling scandals and ugly labor disputes. Never before, however, has such an epidemic of cheating, scheming and lying ever gripped the sport the way steroids has. The result is a decades worth of questionable statistics that bring wary eyes to anybody looking at them.
Last season the boy and I were discussing the all time home run record now held by Barry Bonds, a man that is the crowned king of the steroid era. With every ounce of earnestness intact, I assured my son that in a few short years Barry Bonds would be rendered a pathetic footnote in the annals of baseball history, after a squeaky clean slugger named A-Rod (Alex Rodriquez) catches Bonds to take his worthy place as baseballs home run king.
Well, looks like I had some more splainin' to do.
A-Rod has now publicly admitted using steroids for three full seasons (2001-2003), one of which he was named the league MVP and another he used to position himself to sign the highest paid contract (with the Yankees - shocker!) in the history of the game.
Disgusting.
Time to dust off the classic Simon and Garfunkel's song, Mrs. Robinson, revise the words, but keeping the vibe; "where have you gone, Nick Punto, our nation turns its lonely eye to you."
Yesterday the boy and I discussed A-Rods' admission, and it turns out the wisdom I was ready to strategically dish wasn't needed at all.
"Well dad", the boy chimed, "there are a lotta players that don't use steroids."
"I know, son."
Then the boy put things into proper perspective.
"I don't use steroids, dad."
Baseball will be fine. Thanks to my boy, I'm now sure of it.
08 February, 2009
Check Out My Stimulus Package
Sports talk radio personality, Dan Patrick, coined a clever observation several years ago while working as an ESPN Sportcenter anchor. Whenever Patrick would report news of athletes injuries, he would invariably come across one less severely injured athlete that was listed on the injury report as simply "day to day". Patrick would respond by commenting, "well, aren't we all" - day to day, that is.
Patrick's wisdom came to mind this morning while I was tending the orange juice (actually, it was Tang) station at Grace Lutheran Church in Phoenix, where my daughter and I served as volunteers to help gift a pancake and sausage breakfast to the homeless.
When we arrived at 6:30 to begin setup and food preparations, there were already about a dozen people outside the door waiting to be fed, weathering an uncharacteristic Phoenix rain drizzle, even though the doors would not swing wide until 7:30. Typically the Sunday breakfast and worship at Grace yields about 450 hungry bellies.
A few weeks ago I was laid off from my job, and the subsequent days since have been an interesting mix of networking, emailing resumes, phone calls and rhetorical navigation into hiring recruiters dead-ends. While my spirits remain buoyed and confident, I must admit that the I've reached a near panic attack on more than a few occasions when my days work, of finding work, ends with bleak results. I'm scared.
Today, though, came a much needed dose of perspective. You might say I received my very own stimulus package.
I have nothing at all to whine about. In fact, lest you believe that this post is about to take a sudden turn towards the cliche of a "there by the grace of God I go" story, I can assure you that there is no way, no matter how bad things get for me, I will ever be so unfortunate as to be alone and homeless, standing in the rain to wait for pancakes and sausage.
I'm blessed with so much that is not material and can't be commoditized or financially inventoried. Aside from our own resources, Mrs. Fischer and I have massive families that we could lean on if we were ever to get to the point where the roof that covers are head were to collapse. The mere thought of the love and support that surrounds us is entirely humbling.
I'm pretty sure that the masses I served Tang to this morning aren't nearly as fortunate. As the steady stream of patrons shuffled with their food plates towards me so I could hand them a glass of juice, I made my best conscious effort to look each person in the eye and greet them individually.
"Good morning", I said, "thanks for coming today".
Most would simply nod there head, with an occasional few requesting me to fill their thermos with a day or two worth of nectar. One person, however, caught me off guard with an enthusiastic greeting of his own.
"Hello, sir", the wide smile man noted, "how you doin' today?"
A bit surprised, I responded with a succinct, "I'm doing very well. Thank you for asking."
The man was long gone before "thank you for asking" left my lips. What a stupid goddamn answer to his rhetorical question, I immediately thought. I mean, of course I was doing well. In fact, very well by most standards, and astronomically well compared to the man that asked me the question, I would presume. I felt like a total dick.
So I reached an accord with myself that if somebody else were to ask me how I was doing, I'd be damn well prepared with a better answer. About five minutes later, my moment arrived. An older man approached, well worn and broken, although in a most endearing of ways, like a pair of denim jeans that may be battered and torn, however still hold a tough and dignified veneer.
He looked at me with a toothy grin. "Well, well, well. How you doin' tahday, yun man?" (editors note: I'm really not so young)
"Grateful to be here", was my reply.
The man stopped in his tracks. "Really? Meeeee too", he said with full confidence. "Well, looks like me and you gots somethin in common. God bless."
It all lasted less than ten seconds. Two men, bonded only by sentiment, yet with vastly different circumstance.
The rest of my day was the best I've enjoyed in a long while, and the man that brought it outta me lives day to day somewhere - everywhere, really - in the streets of Phoenix.
Day to day. Aren't we all?
Patrick's wisdom came to mind this morning while I was tending the orange juice (actually, it was Tang) station at Grace Lutheran Church in Phoenix, where my daughter and I served as volunteers to help gift a pancake and sausage breakfast to the homeless.
When we arrived at 6:30 to begin setup and food preparations, there were already about a dozen people outside the door waiting to be fed, weathering an uncharacteristic Phoenix rain drizzle, even though the doors would not swing wide until 7:30. Typically the Sunday breakfast and worship at Grace yields about 450 hungry bellies.
A few weeks ago I was laid off from my job, and the subsequent days since have been an interesting mix of networking, emailing resumes, phone calls and rhetorical navigation into hiring recruiters dead-ends. While my spirits remain buoyed and confident, I must admit that the I've reached a near panic attack on more than a few occasions when my days work, of finding work, ends with bleak results. I'm scared.
Today, though, came a much needed dose of perspective. You might say I received my very own stimulus package.
I have nothing at all to whine about. In fact, lest you believe that this post is about to take a sudden turn towards the cliche of a "there by the grace of God I go" story, I can assure you that there is no way, no matter how bad things get for me, I will ever be so unfortunate as to be alone and homeless, standing in the rain to wait for pancakes and sausage.
I'm blessed with so much that is not material and can't be commoditized or financially inventoried. Aside from our own resources, Mrs. Fischer and I have massive families that we could lean on if we were ever to get to the point where the roof that covers are head were to collapse. The mere thought of the love and support that surrounds us is entirely humbling.
I'm pretty sure that the masses I served Tang to this morning aren't nearly as fortunate. As the steady stream of patrons shuffled with their food plates towards me so I could hand them a glass of juice, I made my best conscious effort to look each person in the eye and greet them individually.
"Good morning", I said, "thanks for coming today".
Most would simply nod there head, with an occasional few requesting me to fill their thermos with a day or two worth of nectar. One person, however, caught me off guard with an enthusiastic greeting of his own.
"Hello, sir", the wide smile man noted, "how you doin' today?"
A bit surprised, I responded with a succinct, "I'm doing very well. Thank you for asking."
The man was long gone before "thank you for asking" left my lips. What a stupid goddamn answer to his rhetorical question, I immediately thought. I mean, of course I was doing well. In fact, very well by most standards, and astronomically well compared to the man that asked me the question, I would presume. I felt like a total dick.
So I reached an accord with myself that if somebody else were to ask me how I was doing, I'd be damn well prepared with a better answer. About five minutes later, my moment arrived. An older man approached, well worn and broken, although in a most endearing of ways, like a pair of denim jeans that may be battered and torn, however still hold a tough and dignified veneer.
He looked at me with a toothy grin. "Well, well, well. How you doin' tahday, yun man?" (editors note: I'm really not so young)
"Grateful to be here", was my reply.
The man stopped in his tracks. "Really? Meeeee too", he said with full confidence. "Well, looks like me and you gots somethin in common. God bless."
It all lasted less than ten seconds. Two men, bonded only by sentiment, yet with vastly different circumstance.
The rest of my day was the best I've enjoyed in a long while, and the man that brought it outta me lives day to day somewhere - everywhere, really - in the streets of Phoenix.
Day to day. Aren't we all?
01 February, 2009
Remembering John Updike
An amazingly gifted storyteller died last week. John Updike, a prolific and extremely popular chronicler of every day middle-class suburban drama, succumb to lung cancer last Tuesday. He was 76.
Updike was best-known for his series of four novels and a novella about the life of Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom. He was first published in 1950 and, by most accounts, kept a busy and varied writing schedule up until his death.
Updike wrote more than 50 books, including short-stories, poetry and essays, and reaped the gamut of nearly every literary prize, including two Pulitzers, for "Rabbit Is Rich" and "Rabbit at Rest," and two National Book Awards.
Updike found much to write about in the seemingly pedestrian lives of all of us, through his wide-eyed curiosity and peripheral observations.
"I've always had, I think, even before I began to publish, this notion that the ordinary middle-class life was enough to write about, that there was enough drama, interest, relevance, importance, poetry and poetry in it", Updike once noted. "I didn't need to write historical epics, or science fiction, though I read a lot of science fiction as a kid and rather liked it. But I didn't have the mentality (to do so). So I was stuck from my own limits, really, with middle-class life, or the mundane, let's call it, and so I was just trying to, story by story, encapsulate some aspect of life as I was experiencing it or observing it."
And encapsulate, he did.
Updike was a brilliant writer of masterful prose. He was, at times, accused of being a bit "poetic" and mellow-dramatic with his scribe, which is critical rubbish not deserved. Not many fictional writers were (or are) as earnest, raw and "gritty" real about our march through life. The way Updike weaved a clever narrative with sharp dialogue reminded me of a lighter version of Richard Yates. The glaring distinction was Updike earned an immensely steady adoration (mostly) of critical acclaim, while Yates endured with the encumbering weight of being the "writers writer".
John Updike was uniquely skilled at helping the reader along, with an assumed mutual promise that humility and redemption would come in the end, a welcoming comfort of his stories' silver lining;
A Rescue, by John Updike
Today I wrote some words that will see print. Maybe they will last forever and that someone will read them there, ink making a light scratch on his mind or hers.
I think back with greater satisfaction upon a yellow bird, a gold finch that had flown into the garden shed and could not get out, battering its wings on the deceptive light of the dusty, warped, shut window.
Without much reflection for once, I stepped to where its panicked heart was making commotion, the flared wings drumming, and with clumsy, soft hands pinned it against a pane, held loosely cupped this agitated essence of the air, and through the open door released it like a self-flung ball to all that lovely, perishing outdoors.
Rabbit run, old boy. You will be missed.
Updike was best-known for his series of four novels and a novella about the life of Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom. He was first published in 1950 and, by most accounts, kept a busy and varied writing schedule up until his death.
Updike wrote more than 50 books, including short-stories, poetry and essays, and reaped the gamut of nearly every literary prize, including two Pulitzers, for "Rabbit Is Rich" and "Rabbit at Rest," and two National Book Awards.
Updike found much to write about in the seemingly pedestrian lives of all of us, through his wide-eyed curiosity and peripheral observations.
"I've always had, I think, even before I began to publish, this notion that the ordinary middle-class life was enough to write about, that there was enough drama, interest, relevance, importance, poetry and poetry in it", Updike once noted. "I didn't need to write historical epics, or science fiction, though I read a lot of science fiction as a kid and rather liked it. But I didn't have the mentality (to do so). So I was stuck from my own limits, really, with middle-class life, or the mundane, let's call it, and so I was just trying to, story by story, encapsulate some aspect of life as I was experiencing it or observing it."
And encapsulate, he did.
Updike was a brilliant writer of masterful prose. He was, at times, accused of being a bit "poetic" and mellow-dramatic with his scribe, which is critical rubbish not deserved. Not many fictional writers were (or are) as earnest, raw and "gritty" real about our march through life. The way Updike weaved a clever narrative with sharp dialogue reminded me of a lighter version of Richard Yates. The glaring distinction was Updike earned an immensely steady adoration (mostly) of critical acclaim, while Yates endured with the encumbering weight of being the "writers writer".
John Updike was uniquely skilled at helping the reader along, with an assumed mutual promise that humility and redemption would come in the end, a welcoming comfort of his stories' silver lining;
A Rescue, by John Updike
Today I wrote some words that will see print. Maybe they will last forever and that someone will read them there, ink making a light scratch on his mind or hers.
I think back with greater satisfaction upon a yellow bird, a gold finch that had flown into the garden shed and could not get out, battering its wings on the deceptive light of the dusty, warped, shut window.
Without much reflection for once, I stepped to where its panicked heart was making commotion, the flared wings drumming, and with clumsy, soft hands pinned it against a pane, held loosely cupped this agitated essence of the air, and through the open door released it like a self-flung ball to all that lovely, perishing outdoors.
Rabbit run, old boy. You will be missed.
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