'Twas the shift before Christmas and all through the station,
not a creature was stirring, nor graphics or animation.
The rundowns were set in the prompters with care, in hopes that an anchor soon would be there.
Young producers were napping, asleep in their chairs, dreaming of Emmys that would one day be theirs.
With my e-p on vacation and I at "The Desk," I sat down to my consoles to begin the day's tests.
When up from the scanners their arose such a clatter, that I woke from my stupor to hear what was the matter.
Away from "The Desk," I flew like a flash; I ran towards the door, it was truly a dash!
Halogen lights bathed the parking lot below, which was covered in ice, from non-shoveled snow.
When what in my sleep deprived eyes did appear, but a miniature sat-truck, and 8-weary reindeer,
With a gnarly old driver, so bitter (yet quick), I went with my gut that it must be St. Nick!
More rapid than eagles his curses they came, but because kids may read this, I’ll list them by name.
"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer!, Prancer & Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!
To the tops of the sat-dishes, make the engineers crawl!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!
As news can "break" in the blink of an eye, like making his page, he took to the sky!
So up to the roof with his reindeer he flew, with a sled full of toys and some good advice to.
And inside the studio, the anchors aloof, soon heard the noise of each tiny hoof.
And back at "The Desk" I had just made some calls when in came St. Nick to deck our news halls.
He was clad in station gear, from his head to his feet, and his clothes were all filthy from years on the street.
The bundle of toys that he had on his back could be considered a hazard, or bring heart attack!
His eyes, oh how bloodshot! His crow's feet how deep! He slogged into the newsroom, just desperate for sleep!
His mouth was down turned and I detected a frown, but his demeanor was touching I knew this was no clown.
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself, for I knew not to anger this gnarly old elf!
The butt of a cig was clenched in his teeth and the aroma of fast food made the image complete.
A grunt from his mouth and a weary nod from his head soon let me know I had nothing to dread.
He gave me a look and started his work and said, "Just manage that desk and don't be a jerk!"
I stood very still, as if on a mission, then he gave some advice. Now you take a listen:
"Be kind to each other, give love and respect.
And remember your newsies are human beings too, that they tire, have bad days and even catch the flu.
So treat all with care and keep in mind this, for Christmas is one day, but I promise you this.... the spirits inside you!
This you can't miss!"
Then pinching his cig and wiping his nose, up to the roof and his sat-truck he rose!
He took down the dish, he lowered the mast, he fired it up and was off in a flash!
But I heard him yell, as he drove out of sight.....
"Happy Christmas Dear Newsies! And to all a good-night."
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
On Death, News and "The Desk"
Americans love sports. In fact, I know many people who put more effort into assembling their fantasy football teams than investing their 401K plans. We can quote chapter and verse regarding our favorite players, yet most of us have no clue who possess our greatest scientific minds. It’s an ugly fact, but it’s part of what makes us a great nation.
Death, as they say, is the great equalizer. Although it comes in many forms its result is always the same. The funny thing is, we don’t view death the same way. Which brings me to the sad tales of Annie Le and Jasper Howard, two of three Connecticut students killed at their respective schools this year. WTNH News Channel 8 provides continuous coverage off all three.
Jasper Howard may have been a great football player, but we’ll never know. His athletic abilities vaulted him from the hard streets of Miami, Fl. to the bucolic campus of the University of Connecticut at Storrs. There, under the guidance, tutelage, and constant watch of his coaches Howard was to graduate into the National Football League. Unfortunately, Howard’s life was cut brutally short for he was stabbed to death outside the University’s Student Union. A tragic end to a promising life.
No one knows for sure if Jasper Howard would have made it to the NFL. The odds were against him. Yet the scouts were already checking him out and his jersey was a hot seller at the campus bookstore. People knew him. He was a star.
During the homicide investigation, there were not many calls from the networks. There were not rows of satellite trucks outside UConn’s Police Department. Howard’s murder was treated as a news blurb on the morning talk shows. Nothing more, nothing less.
The murder of Yale student Annie Le however, became a national story! It had all the lurid details, which the networks love. A brilliant, young Ivy League student. Her brutal murder-taking place just before her wedding. It was exactly the type of story Producers dream of and every reporter wants to cover.
In the days after Le went missing until the arraignment of her alleged killer, the networks howled like wild dogs feeding on the carcass of the dead girl. New Haven’s nice hotels were filled with network types and it was hard to get a drink at a good bar. Fights broke out on the steps of New Haven’s Police Department headquarters as teams vied to get decent backdrops. It was nothing less than the belly of television news laid bare for all who wanted to, and could bear to see.
The Assignment Desk, like Death, plays no favorites. Murders are a series of live shots and reporter packages. They are updates and court appearances. They are memorial services, funerals and then forgotten. Unless it’s someone I know or love, I couldn’t care less.
There is no fantasy league of scientists. For all we’ll ever know, Annie Le may have cured cancer while Jasper Howard may have failed in his bid to join the NFL and ended back on those hard streets of Miami.
Why does the star athlete get next to no network coverage, while the budding scientist makes national headlines? If you don’t already know the answer, then stay with me and I’ll teach you.
Quo Fata Ferunt!
Death, as they say, is the great equalizer. Although it comes in many forms its result is always the same. The funny thing is, we don’t view death the same way. Which brings me to the sad tales of Annie Le and Jasper Howard, two of three Connecticut students killed at their respective schools this year. WTNH News Channel 8 provides continuous coverage off all three.
Jasper Howard may have been a great football player, but we’ll never know. His athletic abilities vaulted him from the hard streets of Miami, Fl. to the bucolic campus of the University of Connecticut at Storrs. There, under the guidance, tutelage, and constant watch of his coaches Howard was to graduate into the National Football League. Unfortunately, Howard’s life was cut brutally short for he was stabbed to death outside the University’s Student Union. A tragic end to a promising life.
No one knows for sure if Jasper Howard would have made it to the NFL. The odds were against him. Yet the scouts were already checking him out and his jersey was a hot seller at the campus bookstore. People knew him. He was a star.
During the homicide investigation, there were not many calls from the networks. There were not rows of satellite trucks outside UConn’s Police Department. Howard’s murder was treated as a news blurb on the morning talk shows. Nothing more, nothing less.
The murder of Yale student Annie Le however, became a national story! It had all the lurid details, which the networks love. A brilliant, young Ivy League student. Her brutal murder-taking place just before her wedding. It was exactly the type of story Producers dream of and every reporter wants to cover.
In the days after Le went missing until the arraignment of her alleged killer, the networks howled like wild dogs feeding on the carcass of the dead girl. New Haven’s nice hotels were filled with network types and it was hard to get a drink at a good bar. Fights broke out on the steps of New Haven’s Police Department headquarters as teams vied to get decent backdrops. It was nothing less than the belly of television news laid bare for all who wanted to, and could bear to see.
The Assignment Desk, like Death, plays no favorites. Murders are a series of live shots and reporter packages. They are updates and court appearances. They are memorial services, funerals and then forgotten. Unless it’s someone I know or love, I couldn’t care less.
There is no fantasy league of scientists. For all we’ll ever know, Annie Le may have cured cancer while Jasper Howard may have failed in his bid to join the NFL and ended back on those hard streets of Miami.
Why does the star athlete get next to no network coverage, while the budding scientist makes national headlines? If you don’t already know the answer, then stay with me and I’ll teach you.
Quo Fata Ferunt!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Why President Obama Can Babysit Our Boys
Meeting the President of the United States should be a big deal. At least, it's supposed to be. Yet, having met three, I can tell you they're all basically regular folk. No, I have yet to be invited to the Oval Office. Everyone knows, I wouldn't pass the Secret Service check even with my extensive and well documented record. My experiences took place outside the White House.
Meeting Bill and Hillary Clinton was no different.
The stock market had yet to experience the "Crash of '87," and politicians were lining up to see who would replace The Gipper. It was a tough act to follow and the smart money was betting that Poppy would waltz into the Oval Office under the watchful eyes of Barbara.
We were in Helena, Arkansas to go duck hunting. It was just three guys from the city going to visit a friend who lived in a different part of the country. We would dress up in different clothes, drink copious amounts of bourbon and kill innocent waterfowl. Guns, booze and barbecue are a combination few men can refuse.
Little did we know that our host's father was a political operative and special guests were coming to meet us. We were several rounds into the evening meal when Bill and Hillary Clinton walked in. He was the Attorney General and she was miserable. Sometimes you can just tell. What caught my gimlet eye, was that they spent no time together. Bill, who usually had his arm around our hostess' waist, told duck hunting stories and asked us how things were back in the city. Hillary sat with our host in a quiet discussion regarding Wal-Mart's future earnings prospects.
Even I could see the marriage was less than happy. Bill was a rising star with an appetite for just about everything. He asked Hillary if he could join the hunting party and received an icy stare in return. She knew it would be another excuse for Bill to be out of the Governor's Mansion and nothing good ever came of that. It was evident, even back then, that Bill was not scared of his bride.
Which Brings me to President Obama. Although I'll probably never meet the man, we share one important quality. We love our families.
Like me, The President has grown up. He may sneak a cigarette every now and then, but he does not drink to excess, do drugs or chase women. He genuinely loves his girls and fears his wife. Oh yes, I said fears. Every smart man fears his wife. It makes us straighten up and fly right.
Although our belief systems are different, our love of family and respect for our wives is virtually the same.
So, I wouldn't let Bill Clinton babysit the boys. They'd be burning down the house, while Bill would be ordering pizza, raiding my beer fridge and watching pay per view movies. I'd trust Barack Obama with the boys. I know he'd feed them, give them a bath and read a story before bed.
Barack Obama is just like me. He's a husband and father trying to make the world a better place for his family. We may share little else, but I am happy to share this common ground.
Quo fata ferunt!
Meeting Bill and Hillary Clinton was no different.
The stock market had yet to experience the "Crash of '87," and politicians were lining up to see who would replace The Gipper. It was a tough act to follow and the smart money was betting that Poppy would waltz into the Oval Office under the watchful eyes of Barbara.
We were in Helena, Arkansas to go duck hunting. It was just three guys from the city going to visit a friend who lived in a different part of the country. We would dress up in different clothes, drink copious amounts of bourbon and kill innocent waterfowl. Guns, booze and barbecue are a combination few men can refuse.
Little did we know that our host's father was a political operative and special guests were coming to meet us. We were several rounds into the evening meal when Bill and Hillary Clinton walked in. He was the Attorney General and she was miserable. Sometimes you can just tell. What caught my gimlet eye, was that they spent no time together. Bill, who usually had his arm around our hostess' waist, told duck hunting stories and asked us how things were back in the city. Hillary sat with our host in a quiet discussion regarding Wal-Mart's future earnings prospects.
Even I could see the marriage was less than happy. Bill was a rising star with an appetite for just about everything. He asked Hillary if he could join the hunting party and received an icy stare in return. She knew it would be another excuse for Bill to be out of the Governor's Mansion and nothing good ever came of that. It was evident, even back then, that Bill was not scared of his bride.
Which Brings me to President Obama. Although I'll probably never meet the man, we share one important quality. We love our families.
Like me, The President has grown up. He may sneak a cigarette every now and then, but he does not drink to excess, do drugs or chase women. He genuinely loves his girls and fears his wife. Oh yes, I said fears. Every smart man fears his wife. It makes us straighten up and fly right.
Although our belief systems are different, our love of family and respect for our wives is virtually the same.
So, I wouldn't let Bill Clinton babysit the boys. They'd be burning down the house, while Bill would be ordering pizza, raiding my beer fridge and watching pay per view movies. I'd trust Barack Obama with the boys. I know he'd feed them, give them a bath and read a story before bed.
Barack Obama is just like me. He's a husband and father trying to make the world a better place for his family. We may share little else, but I am happy to share this common ground.
Quo fata ferunt!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
I'm OK. You're OK. Now Move On!
Anyone who knows me, knows I grew up in the city. It wasn't a pretty place back then. Mayor Beame had nearly run the place into the dirt and Mayor Koch wasn't doing much better. Graffiti was called art and thieves ran wild in the streets.
The nation was just starting to move past the specter of Viet Nam, and we were learning to live with our collective selves. Time, as usual, had healed some wounds, but others were left open and festering, especially in New York.
As the city moved into the 1980s, the Dinkins administration was swept away by Rudy Giuliani, and President Carter was banished to Plains by Ronald Reagan. Wall Street was growing and even the kids shining shoes were getting rich.
Shared prosperity, even in it's usual disproportionate form, sat well in the city. By 1986, even the lowly Mets were riding the wave. Yet, below the surface, things were not all that they seemed. And it all came to a head in the town of Wappingers Falls, New York. It was the tale of a child who was allegedly kidnapped, sexually abused and left covered in fecal matter. Those of you who are not familiar with the Tawana Brawley episode need to study up. For this is not about Tawana Brawley, but the rise of her spokesperson, The Rev. Al Sharpton.
Sharpton moved quickly, blaming local law enforcement and prosecutors for what had happened. Protest marches and media events were staged. Charges of cover-ups and corruption came forth daily.
None of it, however, was ever proven.
Flash forward to today. The Rev. Sharpton is a major player on the American political landscape. He has a strong following. His words are given credence and respect. He can be seen on national, political talk shows and can be heard on the radio. Some may say he is divisive in word and deed. Others may say he is something worse, while others may say he is something better. Who is to say?
You, me, anybody! That's who! For the Rev. Sharpton, like you or me or anybody is protected by the Constitution to say whatever he likes.
We're getting to quick to condemn words these days. I am not sure why, but I believe it has to do with the way we ingest information, opinion and (occasionally) news.
Who cares! You, me, everybody should!
The only person truly forced to listen to me is Kathy and most of the time she tunes me out. Others choose to listen to me. Usually, it's because I promise to buy the next round of drinks or have taken their shoes. That, my friends, is what the Constitution provides for.
You see, my friends, we are all guaranteed the right to free speech. None of us has the right to be heard. That must be earned.
So, I'm OK. You're OK. Sharpton, Limbaugh, Olberman and O'Reilly are OK. If you like them, listen. If you don't turn them off. It's time to move on!
Quo fata ferunt!
The nation was just starting to move past the specter of Viet Nam, and we were learning to live with our collective selves. Time, as usual, had healed some wounds, but others were left open and festering, especially in New York.
As the city moved into the 1980s, the Dinkins administration was swept away by Rudy Giuliani, and President Carter was banished to Plains by Ronald Reagan. Wall Street was growing and even the kids shining shoes were getting rich.
Shared prosperity, even in it's usual disproportionate form, sat well in the city. By 1986, even the lowly Mets were riding the wave. Yet, below the surface, things were not all that they seemed. And it all came to a head in the town of Wappingers Falls, New York. It was the tale of a child who was allegedly kidnapped, sexually abused and left covered in fecal matter. Those of you who are not familiar with the Tawana Brawley episode need to study up. For this is not about Tawana Brawley, but the rise of her spokesperson, The Rev. Al Sharpton.
Sharpton moved quickly, blaming local law enforcement and prosecutors for what had happened. Protest marches and media events were staged. Charges of cover-ups and corruption came forth daily.
None of it, however, was ever proven.
Flash forward to today. The Rev. Sharpton is a major player on the American political landscape. He has a strong following. His words are given credence and respect. He can be seen on national, political talk shows and can be heard on the radio. Some may say he is divisive in word and deed. Others may say he is something worse, while others may say he is something better. Who is to say?
You, me, anybody! That's who! For the Rev. Sharpton, like you or me or anybody is protected by the Constitution to say whatever he likes.
We're getting to quick to condemn words these days. I am not sure why, but I believe it has to do with the way we ingest information, opinion and (occasionally) news.
Who cares! You, me, everybody should!
The only person truly forced to listen to me is Kathy and most of the time she tunes me out. Others choose to listen to me. Usually, it's because I promise to buy the next round of drinks or have taken their shoes. That, my friends, is what the Constitution provides for.
You see, my friends, we are all guaranteed the right to free speech. None of us has the right to be heard. That must be earned.
So, I'm OK. You're OK. Sharpton, Limbaugh, Olberman and O'Reilly are OK. If you like them, listen. If you don't turn them off. It's time to move on!
Quo fata ferunt!
Sunday, April 5, 2009
On Money & Markets
An awful dawn broke over the Manhattan skyline on December 4, 1984. Ronald Reagan was deep into what would become his first term and the markets had yet to respond to The Gipper’s cheery tone.
To make matters worse, a cloud of noxious fumes had descended over the squalid town of Bhopal, India. The toxic mist had come from the nearby Union Carbide plant. And, as the death toll passed three thousand (with just as many injured) the news sent the Dow Jones Industrials into a tailspin.
I was on the exchange floor, having turned a series of summer jobs into a vocation. My natural inclination with numbers combined with a proclivity for gambling made Wall St. a natural destination.
Just then, a grizzled, somewhat shabby trader nearby cast his eyes towards the Big Board and with outstretched arms exclaimed, “How low can it possibly go?” It was at that precise moment that I learned what a market low looked like.
Of course I learned at the foot of one the true masters of the game. A man whose wisdom was, and is, only surpassed by generosity and kindness. As a young pup he had told me, “Look for the herd. When you find out which way it’s moving, get out of the way and do the opposite.”
Easier said than done, but truer words were never spoken.
Let’s face facts. The markets went into the potty last summer and have yet to recover. Opinions are still mixed, and most people don’t know what to do. That in itself should tell you there still room on the downside.
When will it all end? Understand this, no one, not even The President, has a clue. What should you look for? How will you know?
I suppose we’ll all know the market’s have hit bottom when the great minds in newsrooms across this land tell us that the stock market is finished and that shares of corporate America no longer represent the greatest path to shared prosperity.
When Brian Williams, and the editorial staff of The New York Times tell us the stock market is dead; when your friends and neighbors darkly confess that they’ve sold their last shares; then, and only then, will you know that the markets have hit bottom.
By the way…. They won’t ring a bell and I’ll already be long.
To make matters worse, a cloud of noxious fumes had descended over the squalid town of Bhopal, India. The toxic mist had come from the nearby Union Carbide plant. And, as the death toll passed three thousand (with just as many injured) the news sent the Dow Jones Industrials into a tailspin.
I was on the exchange floor, having turned a series of summer jobs into a vocation. My natural inclination with numbers combined with a proclivity for gambling made Wall St. a natural destination.
Just then, a grizzled, somewhat shabby trader nearby cast his eyes towards the Big Board and with outstretched arms exclaimed, “How low can it possibly go?” It was at that precise moment that I learned what a market low looked like.
Of course I learned at the foot of one the true masters of the game. A man whose wisdom was, and is, only surpassed by generosity and kindness. As a young pup he had told me, “Look for the herd. When you find out which way it’s moving, get out of the way and do the opposite.”
Easier said than done, but truer words were never spoken.
Let’s face facts. The markets went into the potty last summer and have yet to recover. Opinions are still mixed, and most people don’t know what to do. That in itself should tell you there still room on the downside.
When will it all end? Understand this, no one, not even The President, has a clue. What should you look for? How will you know?
I suppose we’ll all know the market’s have hit bottom when the great minds in newsrooms across this land tell us that the stock market is finished and that shares of corporate America no longer represent the greatest path to shared prosperity.
When Brian Williams, and the editorial staff of The New York Times tell us the stock market is dead; when your friends and neighbors darkly confess that they’ve sold their last shares; then, and only then, will you know that the markets have hit bottom.
By the way…. They won’t ring a bell and I’ll already be long.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Back to WTNH
My associate, Jeff Bailey (webguy@wtnh.com) is right.
It is time for me to emphasize to all my readers, followers and supporters that WNTH-TV should be one of your primary sources of information. In addition, you go to www.wtnh.com 24/7/365.
As always, I look forward to bringing all of you the very best in with and wisdom.
"Quo fata freunt!"
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Tea Party Update
Lots going on with the good people at the Tax Day Tea Party. First off was a great article regarding the group's leader and principal motivator, Pam Fowler.
Knowing a little about the news business allows me to give a minor assist to this cause.
Look for a bigger turnout than people expect on April 15th and beyond.
Look here for updates and be sure to leave your constructive comments and ideas.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Connecticut Tea Party 4/15/09
Getting ready to lend a hand to the folks working on the Connecticut Tea Party. This is a statewide event scheduled for April 15th (Tax Day). We're looking to broaden media exposure in conjunction with similar events taking place across the country. Feel free to share any constructive ideas.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Swing Away
Published March 20, 2009
A batter’s box appeared on the driveway as the last of winter’s grasp gave way towards hopes of spring. Daniel is five and he wants to swing away. He wields his bat with the confidence of a boy who has yet to feel failure’s cold hand.
In my youth, I shared his confidence. Mine started the first time I cradled a pool cue. At first I beat my parents friends who thought it was cute, but that was just the beginning. My skills grew and by the time I got to college, I hustled every dimwit who wanted to take a chance. Card games naturally. Long before neighborhood men put tables in their basements and had Texas Hold ‘Em nights, I was making my way through gambling dens and less reputable spots on Manhattan’s lower east side. My fortune grew exponentially along with my reputation. It was a thrill, but that’s how it is when you bet with your own money.
My Wall Street friends were gamblers too, but they played with other people’s money. The gig isn’t hard when you make bets with someone else’s dough. But we all know what happened to them, don’t we?
Which brings me to President Obama.
The President’s political rise has been stratospheric. Rising from the Illinois state house to the Oval Office in just 16 short years. He took on the vaunted Clinton political machine and beat them like red headed stepchildren. He stands astride history, and he knows it.
Spring comes early to Washington, DC. President Obama is in the batter’s box and he’s ready to swing away. Unfortunately for Mr. Obama it’s late in the game, we’re losing, there’s no one on base and he’s got a full count.
Remember then, that The President is a gambler. He’s used to winning and he really doesn’t know failure. He’s ready to swing away, to gamble that he can knock that next pitch out of the park.
Problem is, he’s gambling with your money.
A batter’s box appeared on the driveway as the last of winter’s grasp gave way towards hopes of spring. Daniel is five and he wants to swing away. He wields his bat with the confidence of a boy who has yet to feel failure’s cold hand.
In my youth, I shared his confidence. Mine started the first time I cradled a pool cue. At first I beat my parents friends who thought it was cute, but that was just the beginning. My skills grew and by the time I got to college, I hustled every dimwit who wanted to take a chance. Card games naturally. Long before neighborhood men put tables in their basements and had Texas Hold ‘Em nights, I was making my way through gambling dens and less reputable spots on Manhattan’s lower east side. My fortune grew exponentially along with my reputation. It was a thrill, but that’s how it is when you bet with your own money.
My Wall Street friends were gamblers too, but they played with other people’s money. The gig isn’t hard when you make bets with someone else’s dough. But we all know what happened to them, don’t we?
Which brings me to President Obama.
The President’s political rise has been stratospheric. Rising from the Illinois state house to the Oval Office in just 16 short years. He took on the vaunted Clinton political machine and beat them like red headed stepchildren. He stands astride history, and he knows it.
Spring comes early to Washington, DC. President Obama is in the batter’s box and he’s ready to swing away. Unfortunately for Mr. Obama it’s late in the game, we’re losing, there’s no one on base and he’s got a full count.
Remember then, that The President is a gambler. He’s used to winning and he really doesn’t know failure. He’s ready to swing away, to gamble that he can knock that next pitch out of the park.
Problem is, he’s gambling with your money.
Stupid Is As Stupid Does
Everyone on Rock Rimmon Road knew it. The Stamford Police and Animal Control knew it, and by Wednesday morning the whole world knew it to.
No, it’s not that you shouldn’t give your pet Chimpanzee Xanax and hot tea. After all, everyone knows those two items rarely mix well in humans or primates. That’s just common sense.
The ugly truth, lay inside a ramshackle home and on the streets of downtown Stamford. That truth, which no one wanted to confront or deal with, was that the little old lady inside that home was an eccentric with a penchant for an alternative lifestyle, which was a danger to her and others.
Everyone knew or heard of Sandra Herold and the unusual “relationship” she had with her pet Chimpanzee, Travis. Many had listened to the rumors while others bore witness to their emotional bonds. Herold unashamedly referred to the beast as her child. She openly admitted to giving Travis alcohol, personally bathed the simian, put it in diapers, and took him on dangerous road trips through the streets of Stamford.
Of course we know that Chimps don’t talk, but Sandra Herold felt differently. And, to make matters worse, she felt obligated to share her twisted vision with anyone in earshot.
Today, we are all paying for her freakish worldview.
Anyone who has watched Animal Planet or perused the National Geographic can tell you that Chimpanzees are not ideals pets. They spend their time eating, hurling feces at one another and are prone to bouts of cannibalism if they think they can get away with it.
None of this mattered to Herold. So, when Travis was having an off day, she decided to calm the 200-pound chimp with synthetic drugs and Darjeeling. A bad move. Especially for Herold’s friend Charla Nash.
Nash, a supporter of this strange, alternative lifestyle got involved in Travis’ drug induced rage and ended up getting her face ripped off.
A 9-1-1 call brought Stamford Police to the scene. They quickly dispatched Travis to his great reward, leaving Nash in the hospital without her face and Sandra Herold talking to any media outlet with reporters brave enough to enter her home.
In the end, we’ll all foot the bill for Herold’s “relationship.” Police overtime, the massive hospital bills and a near certain stay in jail will all be paid for by those of us still lucky enough to have jobs.
Thanks Sandra. Nothing makes us happier than paying for other people’s delusions.
Forrest Gump once said, “Stupid is as stupid does.” Never has a single phrase rung so true.
No, it’s not that you shouldn’t give your pet Chimpanzee Xanax and hot tea. After all, everyone knows those two items rarely mix well in humans or primates. That’s just common sense.
The ugly truth, lay inside a ramshackle home and on the streets of downtown Stamford. That truth, which no one wanted to confront or deal with, was that the little old lady inside that home was an eccentric with a penchant for an alternative lifestyle, which was a danger to her and others.
Everyone knew or heard of Sandra Herold and the unusual “relationship” she had with her pet Chimpanzee, Travis. Many had listened to the rumors while others bore witness to their emotional bonds. Herold unashamedly referred to the beast as her child. She openly admitted to giving Travis alcohol, personally bathed the simian, put it in diapers, and took him on dangerous road trips through the streets of Stamford.
Of course we know that Chimps don’t talk, but Sandra Herold felt differently. And, to make matters worse, she felt obligated to share her twisted vision with anyone in earshot.
Today, we are all paying for her freakish worldview.
Anyone who has watched Animal Planet or perused the National Geographic can tell you that Chimpanzees are not ideals pets. They spend their time eating, hurling feces at one another and are prone to bouts of cannibalism if they think they can get away with it.
None of this mattered to Herold. So, when Travis was having an off day, she decided to calm the 200-pound chimp with synthetic drugs and Darjeeling. A bad move. Especially for Herold’s friend Charla Nash.
Nash, a supporter of this strange, alternative lifestyle got involved in Travis’ drug induced rage and ended up getting her face ripped off.
A 9-1-1 call brought Stamford Police to the scene. They quickly dispatched Travis to his great reward, leaving Nash in the hospital without her face and Sandra Herold talking to any media outlet with reporters brave enough to enter her home.
In the end, we’ll all foot the bill for Herold’s “relationship.” Police overtime, the massive hospital bills and a near certain stay in jail will all be paid for by those of us still lucky enough to have jobs.
Thanks Sandra. Nothing makes us happier than paying for other people’s delusions.
Forrest Gump once said, “Stupid is as stupid does.” Never has a single phrase rung so true.
Of Lucky Charms & The Stimulus Plan
Published February 13, 2009
It hit me on Saturday morning watching my boys (ages 5 & 7) lay into a box of Lucky Charms like Great White Sharks taking to baby seals off the Catalina Islands.
Of course, I thought, they’re getting 12 essential vitamins and iron. Of course it’s a nutritious way to start their day.
Lucky wouldn’t lie to me. He wouldn’t lie to you either.
Yet we all know that a binge on Lucky Charms will leave the kids feeling as satisfied as crack addicts in the morning, but sick as dogs later on in the day.
Is there any difference between my kids scarfing down Lucky Charms and the Government’s Stimulus Plan?
I think not.
Imagine the various corporations as hungry little boys, the bailout money as sugary cereal and our government as the parent.
These so-called “troubled” companies are gorging on monies from the Treasury. They’re hungry; and they’re going to eat and keep eating, because it tastes so good and no one is watching.
The “Stimulus” funds are as devoid of sound financial backing as those Lucky Charms are of nutrients. It’s nothing more than a series of enormous I.O.U’s payable by future generations of Americans. The result, U.S. Treasuries have so little value the Chinese buy them hesitantly.
The Administration, like the well-meaning parent who is not willing to do the real work of child rearing, believes that only more Lucky Charms will solve the current situation.
It’s time to tell our elected representatives that the economy only needs the guidance that we as parents provide our kids.
A bowl of Lucky Charms tastes good every once and a while, but too much of it will make you sick and rot your teeth.
It hit me on Saturday morning watching my boys (ages 5 & 7) lay into a box of Lucky Charms like Great White Sharks taking to baby seals off the Catalina Islands.
Of course, I thought, they’re getting 12 essential vitamins and iron. Of course it’s a nutritious way to start their day.
Lucky wouldn’t lie to me. He wouldn’t lie to you either.
Yet we all know that a binge on Lucky Charms will leave the kids feeling as satisfied as crack addicts in the morning, but sick as dogs later on in the day.
Is there any difference between my kids scarfing down Lucky Charms and the Government’s Stimulus Plan?
I think not.
Imagine the various corporations as hungry little boys, the bailout money as sugary cereal and our government as the parent.
These so-called “troubled” companies are gorging on monies from the Treasury. They’re hungry; and they’re going to eat and keep eating, because it tastes so good and no one is watching.
The “Stimulus” funds are as devoid of sound financial backing as those Lucky Charms are of nutrients. It’s nothing more than a series of enormous I.O.U’s payable by future generations of Americans. The result, U.S. Treasuries have so little value the Chinese buy them hesitantly.
The Administration, like the well-meaning parent who is not willing to do the real work of child rearing, believes that only more Lucky Charms will solve the current situation.
It’s time to tell our elected representatives that the economy only needs the guidance that we as parents provide our kids.
A bowl of Lucky Charms tastes good every once and a while, but too much of it will make you sick and rot your teeth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)