a fly on the wall, you know?

You know when you’re sitting in your living room and suddenly a bean of sunlight streams into the window and you sit there staring at it?   You know how, like, after you’ve been staring at the beam of sunlight streaming into your living room you see hundreds of dust particles just floating there? And then you start to think, wow that’s a lot of dust, I should clean the house more often? But then you don’t because you don’t like to clean house?  And then you start thinking, crap I wonder which one of those dust particles is going to make me sneeze for an hour?  And then you know when you go to the mall and you’re having some frozen yogurt and you see a beam of sunlight with dust floating in it, and you think wow the mall is cleaner than my house?  And then you think you should spend more time at the mall, but then you don't?  And then you start thinking about when you’re walking around the house and you stub your toe a stool that you left in the middle of the room because you were going to clean something up high but then you didn’t? And then you curse and say ouch? You know? And then you start thinking about all those poor little flies.

Do you see what I’m getting at?

No?

You know when you’re writing a blog post and your readers can't figure out what you’re talking about?  Sheesh, I’ll explain.

Flies have to fly through those thousands of suspended dust particles all the time, all day long, for all of their lives.  And then you think about how fast flies fly and you wonder how many times a day they go wham into a dust particle, that to them is just about the size of that stool you left in the middle of the room. And then you know when you start wondering if flies curse and say ouch all day? And then you know when you sit there wondering whether flies displace enough air to move dust particles out of their way before they the fly smack dab into them?  And then you start thinking about 6th grade science and you remember that flies have five eyes.

You know when you’re walking down the street and you get some dust in your eye and you have to stop walking and rub your eye until the dust stops irritating your eye? 

You see what I’m getting at?

You do? Good for you!

And then you think about how glad you are that the piece of dust in your eye isn’t a stool.   Well, anyway, next time you wish you were a fly on the wall… don’t!  It’s just not as glamorous as it seems, you know?

The demise of perfection or the day I read Dropped Names by Frank Langella

The demise of perfection or the day I read Dropped Names by Frank Langella

There have ever only been two perfect men in the history of humanity:  my grandfather and Frank Langella.  My grandfather, because he died when I was 14 before I had found fault in him.  If he had lived a few more years and I had known him when I was 16, perhaps his perfection would not have endured the onslaught of the rite of passage we call adolescence and its ravenous disinterest in everyone and everything.  And Frank Langella because when I was 17 I rented a VHS tape and at the exact moment my interest in the movie was about to be consumed by my newly found ravenous disinterest, the heroine was startled by a man in her hotel room, and there on the TV screen was the most beautiful, the most handsome man I had ever seen or imagined. I had to rewind the tape (yes, VHS tapes had to be physically rewound and phones had cords!) to discover the name of this Adonis.  Once I eliminated Lesley Ann Down and John Gielgud as possible candidates I was left with Frank Langella.  At 17 you are able to reach absolute conclusions with absolute certainty without the tiresome bother of consideration and critical thought. It’s a gift we lose with age. At 17 my absolute certain conclusion was that any man who looked like that had to be perfect.

Over the years I lost my ability to jump to absolute conclusions, which is probably for the best, though I miss it occasionally.  Without that ability I never again deem any man perfect at first glance, that particular super-power faded and was gone by the time I was 20. Furthermore, I realized that Mr. Langella couldn’t possibly be perfect, no man is, and that his claim to perfection was solely based on the warped workings of my 17 year old brain.  But I enjoyed having that one perfect thing, there are so few perfect things that even imaginary perfection is in short supply, so I kept it. Why not? In the private universe of my mind, the scale of male perfection went from Pewee Herman to Frank Langella, all men fell somewhere in between, including Paul Reubens and Frank Langella.

I’ve watched most of Frank’s movies and I’ve been privileged to see him on stage a few times.  And that was the extent of the information available to me about the real Frank Langella. I’m not inclined to read gossip magazines or search for information on the lives of people I think should be left to live their lives in privacy. So I knew absolutely nothing about him, until he moved in with Whoopi Goldberg.  I heard about that. It couldn’t be helped, though there were unconfirmed rumors of an aging Yupik Eskimo in Siberia who knew nothing about it at the time.  Complete lack of information is extremely conducive to imaginary perfection, as you might imagine.  So he remained perfect over the decades. 

I just finished Dropped Names by Frank Langella. It’s a very well written, interesting and clever collection of stories about encounters with people who are now dead.  Needless to say that by the time you amass a “collection of stories about encounters with people who are now dead”, you’ve probably done some introspection and analyzed your relationships and existence, so there is some of that in the book as well.  If you’ve read this far, I highly recommend the book, for whatever that recommendation is worth.  And I’m sure that the devastation it caused in my life will not befall other casual readers.

While I was reading the book responsible for the complete eradication of my imaginary standard of male perfection, I often found myself looking up from the book and around the room as if I had been reading something subversive that could somehow compromise my good character and feared that someone might be watching.  The book describes relationships and expounds on the author’s opinions and impressions of some well known people.   It felt much too intimate to be proper.  It wasn’t the intimacy Mr. Langella shared with the people described in the book that felt inappropriate to me.  It was stranger than that.   It was a sort of unshared intimacy.  A unilateral intimacy, if you will, derived from an insight into the personal thoughts and relationships of the author, things I was never meant to know. It was as if I was peering into his relationships with these people, into his thoughts and opinions; that he was sharing moments and situations I never sought to know.  I felt an intimacy unbeknownst to the other person in the intimate moment.  I’m sure the peculiar feeling was a result of the remnants of some warped conclusions of my 17 year old brain.  But my present brain paused to consider the situation.  What would you call that? Unilateral intimacy… After some thought I realized that anyone with any moral fortitude would call it voyeurism.

Not only has Frank Langella managed to loosen my extremely fragile hold on imaginary male perfection, he has made a voyeur out of me, obliterating both a treasured delusion and whatever moral high ground I held over the average peeping tom. Next time I run into a peeping tom not only will I be completely unable to gage his masculine wiles, I won’t be able to toss my nose in the air and leave in a huff of superiority. This is obviously a very serious problem that will impact my daily life. But I really should have known that nothing good could come from reading this book, since years ago Frank Langella nearly had me arrested for groping.

It was an off Broadway play and he was playing a Cyrano de Bergerac sans panache, which I found an odd choice because without panache Cyrano is just a guy with a sword. But any way, where was I? Yes, groping.  In a scene too boisterous to be restricted to the stage Mr. Langella and his rival came down the aisle in some well rehearsed sword play.  At a specific point in the interlude they were fighting right next to my aisle seat. In a lunging motion Frank Langella’s butt was mere inches from my shoulder.  The butt of the only living perfect man was literally inches from me.  My mother, sitting next to me, in her infinite wisdom realized the rarity of this once in a life time opportunity and verbalized the fleeting magic of the moment with the whispered words “grab it”.  I doubt Mr. Langella remembers two women desperately trying to contain a most inopportune and inappropriate guffaw inches from his butt during a performance. But I’m sure the subsequent police report would have contained the words ‘groping in a public venue’.

Somewhere in the rules of depravity there must be a loop hole that provides absolution of guilt associated with present day voyeurism if the object of the voyeur had in the past also been the intended object of groping in a public venue.  It’s the old stand-by “I can’t be a voyeur, I’m a groper” defense we’ve all used at some point.  You haven’t? Really? So it’s just me then.

The point I’m trying to make is that this book will not shatter your frail grasp on delusional male perfection, it will not make you question the quality of your character and it will not remind you of judgment calls that might have landed you in jail and banned you from Broadway audiences.  That’s just me.  Most people will find it a beautifully written, perfectly entertaining, insightful and memorable collection of stories.

Even if you are not delusional and living in an imaginary world where Frank Langella is perfect, go read the book! It’s called Dropped Names.  You can get it here: Amazon Don’t worry, it probably won’t make you want to drown your morally weak, reality recognizing self in a glass of wine, that’s probably just me again. 

Fire Ashton Kutcher hire Donald Trump

Fire Ashton Kutcher hire Donald Trump
The thing that makes Two and a Half Men work is extremes.  The show’s humor is mostly derived from the extreme flaws of the characters.  Charlie wasn’t a self centered womanizing alcoholic, he was the most self centered, the most womanizing alcoholic ever. Berta isn’t a housekeeper with a bad attitude, she’s the housekeeper with the worst attitude ever.  Evelyn isn’t a bad mother, she’s the worst mother ever. Jake isn’t dense, he’s a black hole.  Rose isn’t an insane stalker… well you get the picture.  Now we have Ashton Kutcher as Walden, the heartbroken, computer geek billionaire.  The problem is that he’s not the most heartbroken computer geek billionaire ever.  He’s not even the geekiest computer geek or the most obnoxious rich guy ever.  He’s just a regular guy.  No extremes anywhere.  He just doesn’t fit into the recipe, he’s bubble gum in a French restaurant.   So here’s my suggestion: fire Ashton Kutcher and hire the most obnoxious rich man in the world to play the part. But that’s not all, if you act now you also get the most ridiculous hair and the sorest loser in the world thrown in for free!!  He's perfect for the part.

I just can't give a hoot

A well dressed, somewhat distinguished gentleman walks into an UNICEF office.  He approaches the young woman at the front desk with a “Good morning, I would like to buy a fuck.”  The young woman is, as you might expect, shocked and somewhat offended.  She snaps at him “Excuse-me? How rude!” She eyes her phone and tries to remember the extension for security.  “Not at all!” the man says in a defensive tone. “You’ve been asking me to give a fuck for years, and I have! Now I’m all out of fucks to give and it’s ruining my life.”  The woman pulls out a laminated phone list and confirms that security is extension 155, she then looks at the man, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”   “You don’t understand,” says the man.  His tone becomes depressed as he continues,  “I gave a fuck about global warming and now politicians tell me it’s a hoax.  I gave a fuck about education and now schools refuse to teach evolution.  I gave a fuck about the overpopulation problem and the church proclaims contraceptives as the work of the devil.  I gave a fuck about world peace and they elected GWB twice! I’m just out of fucks to give.”  The woman is a little more sympathetic now, but her hand remains on the receiver. The man continues with a tear in his eye “The other day my son brought home a lousy report card and I just didn’t give a fuck. My boss told me I had to take a pay cut and I just couldn’t give a fuck.  My wife said she’s sleeping with the pool boy… you see what I’m getting at.  They think I don’t care, but the problem is that I’m all out of fucks.”

“Sir, I don’t think I can help you.  Have you tried giving a hoot?” His exasperated look told her she’s stating the obvious. “Of course I have, but it’s just not the same. Once you’ve given a fuck, a hoot is just so understated. You feel like you’re not doing enough”.  She tries again, “Well, sir, that’s not really our core business, we mostly sell Christmas cards,” she points to a lovely display of cards in a corner.  “I know,” says the man with a sigh “I tried Greenpeace before I came here, they gave me a t-shirt”.  The man looks defeated as he walks toward the door.  The receptionist hears him mutter “I’ll try Washington, they sell so much bullshit, someone is bound to have a fuck or two for sale.”

from great to pathetic in a single statement

I voted for Obama and I’m going to vote for him again, not because he’s doing a stellar job, but because president Romney would be disastrous.   It’s a sad state of affairs when in an election in the most powerful military power in the world, the strongest economy in the world, the greatest advocate for democracy in the world, the choice for president is between mediocre and incompetent evil.

You might jump to Obama’s defense at this moment (‘cause if you’re jumping to Romney’s defense, stop reading and go away), saying that I’m being unfair, that his presidency has been marked by major positive accomplishments, that he has improved America's standing around the world, passed a healthcare act that aims at providing all Americans with adequate care, improved veteran benefits, ended the Iraqi war, stopped US torture of prisoners and, at the very least, scratched his head over the Guantanamo conundrum.  Yes he did all of those things and what’s more, he got his daughters a puppy! 

So why is it that during a recent interview with Brian Williams (see it here) he described the Bin Laden raid as the ‘most important single day of my presidency’?   Was Bin Laden evil? Absolutely!  Did Bin Laden need to be brought to justice? A resounding ‘yes’!  Did Bin Laden deserve to die? I’d have to go with ‘probably’ since he seemed to be an overall waste of oxygen. However, if ‘the single most important day’ in the presidency of the most powerful military power in the world, the greatest advocate of democracy in the world, the strongest economy in the world is the murder of one sickly evil man, then it’s not a really a great world power, it’s just pathetic.

Stuck in a rut

Little Red Riding Hood is startled by the little girl who just materialized in front of her.  She stumbles a few steps back on the road to grandma’s house and asks: “Who are you? Where did you come from?”  Lily can’t believe her own eyes and is just as startled as her hooded page mate.  “My name is Lily, my mother was reading me this story for the millionth time, she reads it every night, and my eyelids got heavy and I shut them…” she looks around at the damp forest, “suddenly I was here talking to you.”   

Once the original fright wears off  Ridding Hood relaxes, dusts her hooded cape and picks up her basket.  “Well I suppose it is a road, I should expect other travelers occasionally.”   Lily, who knew the story by heart, was quick to correct her erroneous assumption.  “It’s not a real road, it’s just a, a story, and aside from the wolf there really shouldn’t be anyone else here.   I’m not supposed to be here.”   Hood looks startled again, “did you say ‘wolf’?”  Lily is irritated with Hood’s ignorance of the plot, “yes I said wolf, what’s the matter with you? Everyone knows about the wolf eating the grandmother,  ‘what large eyes you have my dear’ and all that stuff.”   Hood seems surprised “a wolf eats my granny? How’s that supposed to happen? she’s safe at home.”  Lily explains, “he pretends he’s you and she lets him in the house…” but as she hears the words she finds her explanation somewhat farfetched, as does Hood who retorts “a wolf fools my grandmother into thinking he’s me and she lets him in, that’s fresh.”   “Well, it’s true!!” protests Lily.

At that moment a vivacious figure emerges from the trees,  “Hi there youngsters”  chirps the wolf.   Hood looks his way and comments on how busy the road is today and Lily again informs her that it’s a story, not a road and that this is the wolf not a passerby.  “Me a wolf? Nonsense,” cries the wolf in a self righteous tone, “I’m a traveling salesman.”  Lily cannot stand his smug lies and cuts him down immediately “a salesman you say?  Where are your products? What’s with that snout and that tail?”  Hood studies the wolf and agrees with Lily “you don’t look like a salesman.”  The wolf realizes he has hit a snag, but he’s been stickier situations, “Did I say salesman?  Yes, er… I meant I’m a er… well, you startled me and I was scared… yes, that’s it!”  He stands taller and continues “I’m the cowardly lion from the Wizard of Oz and I was wondering if you had any courage in that basket of yours.”   Lily is incensed at that bold lie “No he’s not, he’s the wolf, look at him!”  Hood examines the wolf carefully and finds his explanation plausible, “what with the snout and the tail, you could be the cowardly lion.”   Lily is almost screaming now “ There’s no lion in this story! That’s the wolf!”

The wolf continues his lion-in-need spiel  as Lily considers the entire situation.  She concludes that deception is part of his nature, a survival mechanism.  No matter what she says to him, he will not deviate from his crooked path, so she turns her attention to Hood who is about to give the wolf directions to grandma’s house: “If you tell him where you’re going he will eat your grandmother and get killed by a lumberjack, who I suspect is a operative for the logging industry; he shows up out of nowhere and makes  logging seem downright heroic. But I digress… stop talking to the wolf and let’s go back to your house. ”  Hood ignores Lily’s warnings and continues her conversation with the wolf.  A few seconds later the wolf is racing through the forest, Hood turns, waves goodbye to Lily and continues down the road to grandma’s house.

Lily sighs her frustration as she watches Hood disappear in a bend.  But she learns a valuable lesson: some people are just stuck in a rut and can’t get out, even with the help of others. Tomorrow night when she asks her mom read the story again she’ll try to talk some sense into the grandmother instead.

10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife

Nothing ever makes me laugh anymore, sad but true, but this did. True story.  Our employees work mostly from home, but the company has an office in the boondocks of the outskirts of Tinytown  in São Paulo.  I’ve never seen the office, but I imagine it to be bare bones, a couple of desks, a couple of outdated computers and a couple of dedicated people.  On a good day there’s toilet paper in the bathroom.  

One of the decrepit computers has a loose wireless card. You remember the old desktop computers with card slots and one or two tiny screws that hold the card in place. Yes, one of those.  Anyway the wireless card on one of the computers was loose and Ada used every utensil in the office on the loose screw in various failed attempts to secure the card in place.  Whether the intermittent wireless service was more annoying than the taunting she received for her inability to tighten a screw is something you are going to have to ask her.  After much taunting from her fellow workers she decided what she needed was a knife.  A butter knife, a pocket knife, a letter opener any sort of knife would do. She ransacked the office from top to bottom.  No knife. She then had the idea to go to the corner bakery where she is a regular customer, they couldn’t begrudge her a knife.  She walked to the counter and had the following exchange:

Ada: “Hi, could I borrow a knife, I’ll bring it right back.”

Baker: “Sure, why do you need a knife?”

Ada: “To tighten a screw on a computer.”

Baker: “…Why didn’t you ask for a screwdriver then?”

Ada: “…Years of female stereotype social conditioning force me to request a kitchen utensil to do manly work…?”

vicious cycle

There are those who argue that a murder must be tried where it was committed by the people who suffered the injury. So the 911 terrorists must be tried in the US by Americans. That makes sense, it is almost irrefutable.  Then there is Robert Bales who murdered 16 innocent Afghans, mostly children.  Shouldn’t he then be tried in Afghanistan by the Afghan people? If it’s good for the goose, it should be good for the gander.  But instead he was quickly whisked back to the US to face possible charges in an American court. The victims in the case have no say.  You walk away with the sense of double standards that if a crime is committed against Americans, it is tried by the US and if a crime is committed by Americans it too is tried by the US.

I understand the difference in both those cases and the flaw in the reasoning of that argument.   The difference is that the soldier was placed in that situation by his government, in the service of that same government, and is therefore owed some sort of government protection. While the terrorists were acting of their own volition, not backed by any official government and therefore not entitled to any such protection.  The government is in the situation to protect the country’s interests, the terrorist is just a murderer with no higher ideal.   I understand it, but I wonder if the Afghan father who had to bury his children does.  I wonder if he is now so incensed that he would be willing to fly an airplane into a building, but mostly I wonder where it ends.

An unnamed teenage ability

Ok, when I was a teenager I had a thing for Neil Diamond. [Waits for the laughter to subside before continuing.] There is a sort of fanaticism, a sort of compulsion, a radical attraction that you only experience as a teenager.  It’s short lived, by the time you’re in your twenties it’s faded, by the time you’re thirty it’s just a memory, and by the time you’re forty it’s a youthful folly that you can’t really explain. For my cousin it was Elvis, for my mother it was Rock Hudson, for you it was someone else.  But for me it was Neil Diamond, he could do no wrong, in my mind he was perfect. When his album Primitive came out in 1984 I cried myself to sleep because it was obvious in that album he had lost his rather fragile voice and adapted his songwriting to suit his new diminished vocal abilities.  And I still loved him.  Why? Because I was a child and in my mind he was perfect.

What is that? Where does that come from? What is that ability to worship we have when we are very young and why do we lose it over time? I would have had words with anyone who questioned his unquestionable talent, or found fault in his flawless character.  What ability did my brain posses then to completely deceive itself, and why do I lack that same ability now?  Today, of course, I question his very questionable talent and I fault his very faulty character. But where did that unreasonable fanaticism go? How did that overwhelming talent for blind adoration simply dissolve into air? It was real, of that I am certain, and it was mine. 

Think of the hoards of teenage fans trampling each other for a glimpse of the airplane that brought the Beatles to America. The unexplainable phenomenon of teen idols like Bieber and David Cassidy, they are not talented people, they are a product of this unnamed ability of the teenage brain.  And their careers often fade in the time it takes our brains to lose that same ability.   Teen idols owe their stardom to a talent our brains possess for a very short time: the power of voluntary self delusion culminating in blind adoration.  It’s a condition that generates billions of dollars in profits every year, it launches questionable talents into stardom every decade.  Shouldn’t it have a name? Shouldn’t music executives be able to measure it? Chart it on a graph? Determine how much it’s worth each year?

And there is one more aspect of this unnamed ability that should be widely discussed and is not:  is it a good thing or a bad thing?

What name would you give it?

How would your dog introduce you?

When I had to board my dog I used to call up my vet and say to the receptionist “Hi, this is Titus’ human, he was wondering if he could stay with you a few days next week.”  She thought I was silly. But think about it, how would your dog introduce you to another dog? Wouldn't you be his human?  Titus was a min-pin, so he was 10 pounds of fierce independence with a Rottweiler glint in his eye.  He would have said “Hi, my name is Titus.  This is MY human, you may sniff her but none of that tail wagging, ‘pet me I’m so cute’ act ‘cause I will bite you! She’s mine.”  He was 18 when his body finally gave out, and I miss him everyday.


Now, Saskia is a mutt.  She was destined for a miserable, very short life in the streets of São Paulo, except that she was much too nice and friendly when I said hi to her.  So, now I'm her human.  Living in the streets made her afraid of other dogs.  If she had to introduce me she would say. “Hi, please don’t bite me.  I have a human, and I’m hiding behind her because she’ll bite you if you try to bite me. You can act all cute if you want, and she can pet you if she likes, ‘cause I’m the one going home with her, so there!”
 
If you think you ‘own’ your dog, if your dog is your property, you shouldn’t have a dog.

I'll have the gnocchi please

Low season, after lunch and before dinner, in modern Pompeii is characterized by deserted streets and closed restaurants. Two disheartened, wet, tired and frozen people wandered out of the scavi in search of food and warmth. We were desperate as we felt life drain from our cold, wet bodies. When we thought we couldn’t take another step we came across a McDonald's. The outrage and the subsequent vociferous and vigorous bitching about the fact that there was a McDonald's in front of the ruins revitalized us and we were able to continue.

Everything looked closed, except for one tavern next to the church, the door was half open and there were people sitting at a table having a meal. We tentatively pushed our way into the darkened space and out of the rain, fully expecting to be chased back outside by someone gesturing wildly and announcing loudly ‘Chiuso! Chiuso!’ We looked around for a host or waiter and saw that the only people in the place were sitting around a table next to an area heater having a meal. An old Italian woman left the table and came to greet us with a smile, while at the same time indicating a table near the wall. I couldn’t determine her age, she could have been forty or perhaps ninety five. As we gratefully settled into our seats the woman dragged the area heater away from the group’s table and placed it next to us. I looked over my shoulder expecting the other patrons to complain and gesture half obscenities toward the woman for removing the heater. Nothing! They continued their conversations and meals as if the only source of life giving heat in the world hadn’t just been snatched away from them. I was in awe of the woman’s power, from my perspective she had just snatched a prime rib out of the snarling teeth of a hungry lion and walked away unscathed. She wore her power with ease, she was accustomed to great power, to telling people what to do and never be questioned. A creature of such power could only be an Italian mother, and a progenitor of the other patrons in the restaurant.

 I perused the menu, found a gnocchi dish and was happy. My mother, knowing that I would order the gnocchi, focused on a lasagna. The matron came to take our order and smiled at my choice, informing me in Italian that the gnocchi is very good today and that I had made a good choice. She turned to my mom and tisked her tongue and shook her head from side to side at her choice informing her that the lasagna is not good today. Mom selected a string of different dishes while the matron shook her head at the selections and informed her, one by one, that those dishes weren’t any good today either. Mom gathered up some of her Italian and asked the woman what she would recommend today. She was told "Gli gnocchi, signora, è buono oggi."

We were already enjoying our gnocchi when another patron arrived at the door. The new arrival was seated at a table on the opposite side of the restaurant. My first concern was that the old woman would take the heater away from us and give it to the new arrival and that I would be powerless to object. She didn’t, because we were cold and she was an Italian mother. Instead she stood next to the young woman to take her order. We watched as the young arrival made her first selection from the menu and recognized the familiar head shaking and tongue tisking. We both agreed that though we couldn’t hear the details of the conversation, the new arrival would eventually get the gnocchi. The young woman made several other selections, each was politely declined by the proprietress. We couldn’t hear the final arrangement, but a few minutes later the young woman was served a lovely plate of gnocchi.

When we were all happily eating our gnocchi, the old woman sat down in a chair next to the half open door looking outside at the dismal, cold, gloomy rain and started to talk. She wasn’t talking to us directly because she was still gazing out of the door, but we were the only ones able to hear her. “February.” She said in Italian. “February is always like this… March is better.” She kept looking out of the half open wooden door. “You should come back in March, it’s much better then.” My guess was that in March the other choices on the menu were available too.

I just love Italy.

The hand that rocks the cradle

There seems to be an ever increasing number of Muslim countries and communities favoring the implementation of Sharia law. I’m not going to judge any religious aspect of people’s choices, but I think no good has ever come out of mixing church and state.  However, there is something particularly nefarious about implementing Sharia in these places where social inequality is ramped and the poverty of the lower classes seems endemic and perpetual; where poverty is a legacy of despair from generation to generation.

It is a proven fact that the most effective method of pulling a community out of poverty is to empower women.  Women who have a minimum education, the power to make choices, earn a living, value her children’s education and to decide how many children she will bear, raise healthier children, who grow up to be better educated and more able to rise out of poverty. The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world! And when that hand is empowered to plan for her children’s future, there is nothing that can hold it back. However when that hand is restricted by law, there is little hope for the future of her children.

That Sharia law divests women of all power, education and choice is a fact. That communities whose women are divested of power, education and choice are less likely to rise out of poverty is a fact.  

Draw whatever conclusions you like.

Brazil: the emerging economy! (unless it rains)

 Rain has fallen from the sky since before human beings evolved on the planet.  Rain has always been there, in any given day in human history it has rained somewhere on the planet.  You may argue that human activity on the planet has changed rain patterns and that it now rains more or less in specific regions. But the fact remains that it rains, and that it has always rained, and that it will always rain.  We have built our civilization around the fact that it rains, no one ever designed a building around the notion that henceforth it shall never rain again.  That would be stupid.

Every year in the rainy season the states of Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo experience floods, landslides, death and destruction, massive power outages, disease riddled drinking water, overcrowded hospitals and shelters, and general despair.  Everyone is quick to point out that the catastrophe is caused by the rain, or the excessive rain, or the continuous rain.  All of the victims interviewed say that god willing, the rains will stop and they will be able to return home.  To this I would like to say one word: Bullshit!

It’s not the rain people!!! The rain has always been there.  The rain will always be there!!  It’s the complete lack of remotely adequate infrastructure that is to blame! Not the rain!  The government spends no money on infrastructure maintenance.  Construction on hillsides is unregulated.  Massive amounts of trash clog the sewer and runoff systems, in those few instances where a runoff system is in place. The rivers and waterways are completely stagnant from tons of debris that are freely dumped by the population whose government offers no other alternative for trash disposal.  No sewer or runoff system is ever cleared before the rains come.

If you force a person into a vacuum chamber and he dies, you might say that the cause of death was ‘lack of oxygen to the brain’.  You would be right.  However, any court of law would argue that the cause of death was the placement of the person inside a vacuum chamber in the first place, and that it was in fact murder.  The corrupt city, state and federal governments pocket public funds and force people to live with completely inadequate, life threatening infrastructure.  The cause of death in this case is not the excessive rain, it’s the subjugation of people to inadequate living conditions by a corrupt and broken system of government.

An astounding, shameful 49.1% of the Brazilian population has no access to a sewer system and the evening news on Globo television has the unmitigated temerity of blaming the problem on the ‘rain’ and then turn around and call itself ‘unbiased’.  A people who demands no accountability from its government, who believes the news when told that the rain is the problem and is happy to leave the solution in the hands of god, deserves next year’s rain.  Harsh? Perhaps, but I’m sick and tired of all of the hype and advertising around Brazil as the country to watch, the emerging power of today, the economic powerhouse in a dwindling world economy, while all of the very real problems are swept under the rug.  Stop advertizing and start solving the problems.   But by all means world, come to Brazil, come for the Olympics, come for the World Cup, come see all of the splendors of this magnificent country. Unless it rains.