I’ve been wondering about Pfc. Bradley Manning, the Army intelligence analyst accused of passing hundreds of thousands of military and State Department documents to WikiLeaks.
It can’t be good news for him that we rarely hear a peep about his status. It’s peculiar that a person has to look for news of the case that created such a colossal commotion just a few months ago.
It’s almost as if the US Government, and the mainstream media, “disappeared” him.
But of course we’ve had vital news items draw our attention and energy: Schwarzenegger’s baby-gate. Gingrich’s vacation-gate. And a favorite: Weiner’s wiener-gate. With such noteworthy and historically relevant events at the forefront, it’s a wonder newspapers have any column inches available for all the wars and financial quagmires we’re slogging through, let alone a follow-up on Pfc. Manning.
Julian Assange, founder of WikiLeaks, released a statement saying no one around the globe has come to harm because of the information Manning and he released. Maybe that’s the real story and it’s just not juicy enough to get a headline.
The courts will decide if Pfc. Manning meets the standards to be considered a true and honest whistleblower.
A legitimate whistleblower has several attributes, follows certain protocol, and has noble goals for taking such radical actions. We don’t yet know if Manning rises to those standards.
A true, red-blooded whistleblower has an altruistic intent: to right a wrong, to assist the weak in their battle against the government (or corporate) machine, to protect the defenseless, to alert the public to fraud or large-scale waste.
Did Pvt. Manning have a particular piece of wrongdoing on his mind to correct? He seems to have released a flood of information about a myriad of topics in a rush of emotion. There are multiple pellets to chase down from his scattergun.
The material he turned over to WikiLeaks is so wide ranging as to defy categorization. If he wanted us to know that government and military operations are ugly and deceptive, OK, but it’s old news. That diplomats are diplomatic to your face and tacky behind your back? Got it.
According to Justice Department spokesman Matthew Miller, avenues are available for whistleblowers to report wrongdoing, even in classified matters, “and we encourage people to use them. But people cannot make unilateral decisions to publicly release information that jeopardizes national security. When that happens, the government has an obligation to act.”
There is no evidence – which we’ve been allowed to see anyway – that Manning followed the procedures set out in the Intelligence Community Whistleblower Protection Act, which provides these methods for employees to bring malefactions to light without compromising security. But, neither can we be sure he acted unilaterally.
Did he speak to his superiors about the egregious infractions wearing on his conscience? If he were thwarted there, did he attempt to draw the attention of his congressman? Again, we haven’t been allowed to know.
Is Manning a true whistleblower, a hero who put himself at risk for the benefit of others, or the “conflicted” young man, “prone to emotional outbursts and impassioned by his beliefs,” profiled in the Washington Post?
With the dearth of information, we cannot know for sure. This is ominous for him, and perhaps for others who hold dark secrets and wish to bring them to light.
It is ominous for us as well. Is our government so insecure that it must squelch anyone who dares challenge its mode of operating?
The conditions under which Manning was detained at a marine base in Quantico, Va., and the resignation of Former State Department spokesman P.J. Crowley after criticizing the Defense Department’s treatment of Manning, do not bolster confidence in the government’s stance.
That Manning was moved to a medium-security prison in Leavenworth, Kansas, after President Obama assured us “the terms of his confinement [in Quantico] are appropriate and are meeting our basic standards” makes us uneasy.
Did Pfc. Manning attempt to dodge the consequences of his actions by remaining anonymous? The Wall Street Journal says an honest whistleblower, with the courage of his convictions, engages in classic civil disobedience, breaking a law openly, specifically to call attention to that wrongful law. He accepts the consequences of his actions by doing so publicly.
Democracy thrives on the truth and transparency. We must have it. Therefore, the impact of the release may outweigh the circumstance. The ends may justify the means.
Otherwise, he only blew the whistle on himself.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Big Brother is a Pimple-Faced Geek
We’ve come a long way from Black Bear #32.
Remember him from the grainy video of a campsite after dark in Yosemite National Park? Focused and following his nose, oblivious to the fact that he’s sporting a giant numbered ear tag; he’s breaking the back window of a camper’s Corolla and climbing in to steal his Twinkies.
Surveillance technology was #32’s downfall. That hapless beast, already identified, had his fate sealed - a swift relocation to the nether regions of the park. No more s’mores for you!
The first time-stamped video we reviewed at my school after the district installed security equipment showed a student in the 300 wing looking intently into the camera, his nose growing larger as he moved closer and closer. Slowly he reached up to stick a Post-It note on the lens, supposing this would prevent us from knowing who turned over all the trash cans in that wing.
You might expect we’ve become more tuned-in to the ubiquitous eyes upon us, but consider the laptop thief you may have seen on the news this week. He didn’t realize he’d stolen a device with an internal camera and software called “Hidden” that documented his actions and tracked his movements.
With the software’s help, the laptop’s rightful owner chronicled the thief’s daily routines, mundane and pathetic as they were, not in fuzzy “is that the guy?” ATM video, but in unmistakable full color clarity.
When the police couldn’t prioritize the crime, the incensed victim ran a series of captioned still shots on his blog, taken by the very laptop stolen from him, showing the thief in various compromising situations: Curled into the fetal position on his couch, with the title – “Guy sleeping on the couch next to my MacBook;” With a fixed gaze sitting just right of center frame – “Guy staring deliriously into my MacBook;” and best of all, the perpetrator shirtless and in bed – “I don’t want to know what this guy’s doing in bed with my MacBook.”
Just like single-minded Black Bear #32, and a clueless high school sophomore, the reality show led to the thief’s apprehension and arrest.
Stop light cameras keep us under the eye of Big Ticket Brother if we practice the California rolling stop instead of the full and complete stop “The Law” requires. Tollbooth cameras and now even carpool lane cameras rat us out if we try to save a few bucks or a few minutes just this once.
And now, perhaps the most sinister new development of all, Facebook has completed a "silent roll out" of their new facial recognition software. Here’s how it works: You attend your niece’s Christening and appear in photos posted on the proud parent’s wall. Your sister “tags” you by clicking on your face and entering your name, which is listed in the picture’s caption. Lovely, wholesome family fare. No harm in that.
But now, Facebook stores a digital record of your face in its giant databank in the sky. And, whenever your likeness appears again, on anyone’s page in any setting at any time, Facebook recognizes it and says to the poster of your photo, “Look, it’s YOU! Want to tag YOU in this photo?”
Let’s say you go down to Fisherman’s Wharf to scout out some dinner. A tourist lines up his wife and child in front of the crab pots and snaps a picture of them and YOU in the background. No biggy, he doesn’t know you anyway. His family back in Amarillo will only wish you hadn’t cluttered the scene.
But what if you’re playing hooky from work? Or bending your elbow with buddies at the bar instead of attending your mother-in-law’s Sunday dinner? White lies exposed, and shenanigans fair game, we can no longer be certain everything stays in Vegas.
There’s no reclaiming lost privacy. We slid past the bottom of the slope sometime shortly after the manager at 7-11 put up the fish-eyed mirror to watch over the corn nuts on his snack aisle.
Sure, we can opt out of Facebook’s facial recognition “service,” now that they’ve told us they opted us in.
But don’t kid yourself, Mark Zuckerberg, and God knows who else, is watching.
Remember him from the grainy video of a campsite after dark in Yosemite National Park? Focused and following his nose, oblivious to the fact that he’s sporting a giant numbered ear tag; he’s breaking the back window of a camper’s Corolla and climbing in to steal his Twinkies.
Surveillance technology was #32’s downfall. That hapless beast, already identified, had his fate sealed - a swift relocation to the nether regions of the park. No more s’mores for you!
The first time-stamped video we reviewed at my school after the district installed security equipment showed a student in the 300 wing looking intently into the camera, his nose growing larger as he moved closer and closer. Slowly he reached up to stick a Post-It note on the lens, supposing this would prevent us from knowing who turned over all the trash cans in that wing.
You might expect we’ve become more tuned-in to the ubiquitous eyes upon us, but consider the laptop thief you may have seen on the news this week. He didn’t realize he’d stolen a device with an internal camera and software called “Hidden” that documented his actions and tracked his movements.
With the software’s help, the laptop’s rightful owner chronicled the thief’s daily routines, mundane and pathetic as they were, not in fuzzy “is that the guy?” ATM video, but in unmistakable full color clarity.
When the police couldn’t prioritize the crime, the incensed victim ran a series of captioned still shots on his blog, taken by the very laptop stolen from him, showing the thief in various compromising situations: Curled into the fetal position on his couch, with the title – “Guy sleeping on the couch next to my MacBook;” With a fixed gaze sitting just right of center frame – “Guy staring deliriously into my MacBook;” and best of all, the perpetrator shirtless and in bed – “I don’t want to know what this guy’s doing in bed with my MacBook.”
Just like single-minded Black Bear #32, and a clueless high school sophomore, the reality show led to the thief’s apprehension and arrest.
Stop light cameras keep us under the eye of Big Ticket Brother if we practice the California rolling stop instead of the full and complete stop “The Law” requires. Tollbooth cameras and now even carpool lane cameras rat us out if we try to save a few bucks or a few minutes just this once.
And now, perhaps the most sinister new development of all, Facebook has completed a "silent roll out" of their new facial recognition software. Here’s how it works: You attend your niece’s Christening and appear in photos posted on the proud parent’s wall. Your sister “tags” you by clicking on your face and entering your name, which is listed in the picture’s caption. Lovely, wholesome family fare. No harm in that.
But now, Facebook stores a digital record of your face in its giant databank in the sky. And, whenever your likeness appears again, on anyone’s page in any setting at any time, Facebook recognizes it and says to the poster of your photo, “Look, it’s YOU! Want to tag YOU in this photo?”
Let’s say you go down to Fisherman’s Wharf to scout out some dinner. A tourist lines up his wife and child in front of the crab pots and snaps a picture of them and YOU in the background. No biggy, he doesn’t know you anyway. His family back in Amarillo will only wish you hadn’t cluttered the scene.
But what if you’re playing hooky from work? Or bending your elbow with buddies at the bar instead of attending your mother-in-law’s Sunday dinner? White lies exposed, and shenanigans fair game, we can no longer be certain everything stays in Vegas.
There’s no reclaiming lost privacy. We slid past the bottom of the slope sometime shortly after the manager at 7-11 put up the fish-eyed mirror to watch over the corn nuts on his snack aisle.
Sure, we can opt out of Facebook’s facial recognition “service,” now that they’ve told us they opted us in.
But don’t kid yourself, Mark Zuckerberg, and God knows who else, is watching.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Too Much Information at the Dinner Table
I guess I’m glad Performance Food Group of Richmond, Virginia, can trace the origins of my T-bone steak from the tip of the tines of my fork all the way back to the exact heifer that gave her all for my dining experience. It’s a good thing, right?
Yes, says PFG. It will pay off in multiple ways: DNA traceability of beef boosts consumer confidence. It ups the value of the meal.
Let’s just cast an eye on the details.
Restaurateurs commenting in the recent Associated Press article about DNA tracking of beef from kibbutz to kitchen, as the case may be, say the process is a “security factor” for the guest as well as the chef. Diners can indulge at the table with assurance that Bossy came from a happy home on a range pinpoint-able on Google maps.
Did Farmer Phil treat Bossy with kindness and feed her well? Did she win blue ribbons at the County Fair? We’ll know. Family photos? Well, probably not, but now it could happen.
This could convert a person to vegetarianism. Trace the filet at my lips back to the ranch and even the precise animal it came from? I don’t want to be that well acquainted with the origins of my meals.
My cousin Terry back in Oklahoma raised steers, showed them at the Tulsa State Fair, and then swallowed them medium rare with new potatoes. I followed instructions on my annual vacations in the country, never naming the big-eyed beasts. But I talked to them, communed with them, made psychic connections. And when the fair left town, I went hungry while Terry chomped on #42.
I know I’m a hypocrite in this. I can eat the steak but I can’t kill the cow. Chicken? Yummy. But gone are the days when I had to sit on an overturned bushel basket with a hen flopping around underneath after my sadistic uncle swung the bird by its neck. I’m not sure why that didn’t put me off poultry long ago.
When I was a kid my family lived in the Middle East for a while. We had a houseboy, Majid. I loved Majid. Among other things, he helped me care for my pet rabbit, Fluffy (of course). Fluffy had bunny babies, providing great fun for my brother and me.
But, next thing I knew, we sat the dinner table and I found out, mid-bite, mid-chew --- Hey this is pretty good what is it? Majid fileted and deep-fried Fluffy! But it didn’t put this Okie off eating rabbit. Just my rabbit. For me, DNA tracing runs the risk of bringing the donor too close to the donee.
The benefit of “upping the value” of a meal sounds like doublespeak for raising the price of dinner. And sure enough, part of the market research backing the implementation of DNA tracking showed consumers will pay $2 or $3 dollars more for the same cut of beef if the proprietor adds various “pleasers” to its descriptors on the menu.
What’s a “pleaser,” you ask? Words and graphics added to menus to draw diners’ attention to a higher quality of meat, for example. Yeah, we’ll pay for that. But I suggest going light on the graphics. What can you show us anyway, a dairy cow’s double helix?
Another pleaser - our waitperson can now educate us as to our bovine friend’s ante-mortem diet. Better intake equates to better output. Sure, we Okies can joke about Nebraska’s corn-fed beef, but that’s when we’re talking about their football team. This is serious. This is chow.
With DNA traceable beef, the chef’s assurances come in the form of the first wave of malpractice insurance for purveyors of fine food. Another “pleaser” for the menu at Buffalo Bob’s Barbeque and Waterin’ Hole: “Guaranteed: No mad cows in this joint!”
Which brings us to the true benefit of this newest of technologies: DNA tracing cuts the time needed to track recalled meats. If E-coli breaks out, in hours instead of days or weeks, DNA tracing can identify the multiple sources of meat used in a 10-pound box of ground beef, for example, which may include up to 1000 animals.
Too much detail? Yeah, for me too. But more and more we want and need to know the information is available to someone whose job it is to look out for us at Sizzlin’ Sirloin.
So you go, Performance Food Group! ‘Cause I don’t wanna know.
Yes, says PFG. It will pay off in multiple ways: DNA traceability of beef boosts consumer confidence. It ups the value of the meal.
Let’s just cast an eye on the details.
Restaurateurs commenting in the recent Associated Press article about DNA tracking of beef from kibbutz to kitchen, as the case may be, say the process is a “security factor” for the guest as well as the chef. Diners can indulge at the table with assurance that Bossy came from a happy home on a range pinpoint-able on Google maps.
Did Farmer Phil treat Bossy with kindness and feed her well? Did she win blue ribbons at the County Fair? We’ll know. Family photos? Well, probably not, but now it could happen.
This could convert a person to vegetarianism. Trace the filet at my lips back to the ranch and even the precise animal it came from? I don’t want to be that well acquainted with the origins of my meals.
My cousin Terry back in Oklahoma raised steers, showed them at the Tulsa State Fair, and then swallowed them medium rare with new potatoes. I followed instructions on my annual vacations in the country, never naming the big-eyed beasts. But I talked to them, communed with them, made psychic connections. And when the fair left town, I went hungry while Terry chomped on #42.
I know I’m a hypocrite in this. I can eat the steak but I can’t kill the cow. Chicken? Yummy. But gone are the days when I had to sit on an overturned bushel basket with a hen flopping around underneath after my sadistic uncle swung the bird by its neck. I’m not sure why that didn’t put me off poultry long ago.
When I was a kid my family lived in the Middle East for a while. We had a houseboy, Majid. I loved Majid. Among other things, he helped me care for my pet rabbit, Fluffy (of course). Fluffy had bunny babies, providing great fun for my brother and me.
But, next thing I knew, we sat the dinner table and I found out, mid-bite, mid-chew --- Hey this is pretty good what is it? Majid fileted and deep-fried Fluffy! But it didn’t put this Okie off eating rabbit. Just my rabbit. For me, DNA tracing runs the risk of bringing the donor too close to the donee.
The benefit of “upping the value” of a meal sounds like doublespeak for raising the price of dinner. And sure enough, part of the market research backing the implementation of DNA tracking showed consumers will pay $2 or $3 dollars more for the same cut of beef if the proprietor adds various “pleasers” to its descriptors on the menu.
What’s a “pleaser,” you ask? Words and graphics added to menus to draw diners’ attention to a higher quality of meat, for example. Yeah, we’ll pay for that. But I suggest going light on the graphics. What can you show us anyway, a dairy cow’s double helix?
Another pleaser - our waitperson can now educate us as to our bovine friend’s ante-mortem diet. Better intake equates to better output. Sure, we Okies can joke about Nebraska’s corn-fed beef, but that’s when we’re talking about their football team. This is serious. This is chow.
With DNA traceable beef, the chef’s assurances come in the form of the first wave of malpractice insurance for purveyors of fine food. Another “pleaser” for the menu at Buffalo Bob’s Barbeque and Waterin’ Hole: “Guaranteed: No mad cows in this joint!”
Which brings us to the true benefit of this newest of technologies: DNA tracing cuts the time needed to track recalled meats. If E-coli breaks out, in hours instead of days or weeks, DNA tracing can identify the multiple sources of meat used in a 10-pound box of ground beef, for example, which may include up to 1000 animals.
Too much detail? Yeah, for me too. But more and more we want and need to know the information is available to someone whose job it is to look out for us at Sizzlin’ Sirloin.
So you go, Performance Food Group! ‘Cause I don’t wanna know.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
No Worries, You Go Ahead
Reverend Howard Camping, the independent Christian radio preacher who predicted the end of the world for last Saturday, might be looking only at the upper part of the glass, the empty part. That would explain his wish for the world to come to an end.
Sometimes the world as we know it overwhelms us with pessimism. It appears to be flush with liars and killers and thieves. Oh my. Yearning for a guilt-free escape may be appealing. But escapism reflects a narrow view. Maybe relief comes by widening one’s field of vision.
Like most of us, I gave a cursory thought to the Reverend. I did not divest myself of all my earthly stuff. I like my stuff, but not too much. It is just stuff after all. Nevertheless, I kept it, dusted it, mopped it, fluffed and folded it. Just like always.
I did make a mental list of all the things I wouldn’t miss about life on earth if, in an unlikely turn of events, I found myself drifting upward into the sunlight and clouds and the open arms of God. It’s a long list of nasty stuff, probably not dissimilar from your list, if we were to compare.
War, for example. No regrets in leaving war behind. Partisan politics. No pangs of conscience at its vestige shrinking on the curvature of the earth. Newt Gingrich and Donald Trump. No lamentations.
Then there’s the small stuff, the mundane. Yet even though it’s tedious and redundant, I just want to go on doing it. Go on doing the laundry and cleaning the litter box. Buying groceries, cooking them, eating them, and buying some more. Washing dishes only to dirty them up again.
I made another list of the things I would sorely miss. It’s even longer: Water, shimmering water, fountains, birdbaths and the birds on their edges. Fresh paint and generosity. Smiles, laughter, and new mown grass. But maybe we’ll get that in heaven.
Not to imply that my husband would be left behind, but I don’t want to go before him. I’d miss him so much I’d have to haunt him. I’d like to think I’d be a benevolent haunt, but who knows? Those of us caught between here and the nether regions sometimes behave badly. I could be impish. How could I forgo the opportunity to tweak those tiny details that hold him out of perfection?
Our son has taught me more than perhaps anyone else on the planet has. I hope I do die before he does, of course. But I reserve the right to hang around in the ether and nudge him (that’s a nice way of saying nag and pester him) into finding a smart and beautiful young woman who will take up the process where he and I leave off.
Someone said if there really were a rapture cats and dogs won’t be going. Well that’s just stupid. Of course cats and dogs will go. The definition of heaven includes cats and dogs. Look it up.
The Reverend said he’s “flabbergasted” his doomsday prophecy did not come to pass. He’s recalculated now and I must say I am glad to have another five months to reflect.
When I worked in the schools I told the kids I knew the meaning of life. It’s easy I would say: Make the world a better place. That’s why we’re here. As soon as we formulate the question and recognize the answer, duty binds us to get after the task. Get ‘er done!
It sounds daunting, but we just need to adopt the Okie version of completing a large project --- break it into small pieces and work on it “slow by slow.”
That’s where faith comes into play. We go about our daily business, doing our granular part with a gentle spirit, knowing somehow we’re fulfilling our obligations and contributing to the good of all.
Then, if on October 21st, or whenever that giant roulette wheel in the sky lands on our number, the harps begin to play, and our eyes are drawn upward, we can defy gravity without regrets.
If there’s anything left undone, it won’t be that we should have been kinder or more generous. We won’t be yearning for that one last chance to say, “No worries, you go ahead.”
Sometimes the world as we know it overwhelms us with pessimism. It appears to be flush with liars and killers and thieves. Oh my. Yearning for a guilt-free escape may be appealing. But escapism reflects a narrow view. Maybe relief comes by widening one’s field of vision.
Like most of us, I gave a cursory thought to the Reverend. I did not divest myself of all my earthly stuff. I like my stuff, but not too much. It is just stuff after all. Nevertheless, I kept it, dusted it, mopped it, fluffed and folded it. Just like always.
I did make a mental list of all the things I wouldn’t miss about life on earth if, in an unlikely turn of events, I found myself drifting upward into the sunlight and clouds and the open arms of God. It’s a long list of nasty stuff, probably not dissimilar from your list, if we were to compare.
War, for example. No regrets in leaving war behind. Partisan politics. No pangs of conscience at its vestige shrinking on the curvature of the earth. Newt Gingrich and Donald Trump. No lamentations.
Then there’s the small stuff, the mundane. Yet even though it’s tedious and redundant, I just want to go on doing it. Go on doing the laundry and cleaning the litter box. Buying groceries, cooking them, eating them, and buying some more. Washing dishes only to dirty them up again.
I made another list of the things I would sorely miss. It’s even longer: Water, shimmering water, fountains, birdbaths and the birds on their edges. Fresh paint and generosity. Smiles, laughter, and new mown grass. But maybe we’ll get that in heaven.
Not to imply that my husband would be left behind, but I don’t want to go before him. I’d miss him so much I’d have to haunt him. I’d like to think I’d be a benevolent haunt, but who knows? Those of us caught between here and the nether regions sometimes behave badly. I could be impish. How could I forgo the opportunity to tweak those tiny details that hold him out of perfection?
Our son has taught me more than perhaps anyone else on the planet has. I hope I do die before he does, of course. But I reserve the right to hang around in the ether and nudge him (that’s a nice way of saying nag and pester him) into finding a smart and beautiful young woman who will take up the process where he and I leave off.
Someone said if there really were a rapture cats and dogs won’t be going. Well that’s just stupid. Of course cats and dogs will go. The definition of heaven includes cats and dogs. Look it up.
The Reverend said he’s “flabbergasted” his doomsday prophecy did not come to pass. He’s recalculated now and I must say I am glad to have another five months to reflect.
When I worked in the schools I told the kids I knew the meaning of life. It’s easy I would say: Make the world a better place. That’s why we’re here. As soon as we formulate the question and recognize the answer, duty binds us to get after the task. Get ‘er done!
It sounds daunting, but we just need to adopt the Okie version of completing a large project --- break it into small pieces and work on it “slow by slow.”
That’s where faith comes into play. We go about our daily business, doing our granular part with a gentle spirit, knowing somehow we’re fulfilling our obligations and contributing to the good of all.
Then, if on October 21st, or whenever that giant roulette wheel in the sky lands on our number, the harps begin to play, and our eyes are drawn upward, we can defy gravity without regrets.
If there’s anything left undone, it won’t be that we should have been kinder or more generous. We won’t be yearning for that one last chance to say, “No worries, you go ahead.”
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Grandma Wanted: Discerning Eye Required
No doubt motivated by people watching at the mall, an organization called Diet Life polled 2000 women asking the appropriate ages to quit wearing certain fashions.
Here’s a sample of their findings:
Quit wearing your miniskirts at 35, your bikini at 47 and your stilettos at 57.
OK. This isn’t a problem for me since I gave that stuff up long ago. All of it. Probably at 35, even though I still looked good, if I do say so myself. Thirty-five was a peak year for me. Gosh that was a long time ago! Darn it!
Editors from US fashion magazines Allure and More (geared to women over 40) stepped up immediately to voice their opinions on the subject. They say that these decisions are not about age, but about judgment. “Just look in the mirror,” they say. If you look good, wear it!
They point to Helen Mirren as an example, saying in her sixties she still rocks a plunging neckline and a bikini. Couldn’t agree more.
However, they gloss right over pronounced examples at the other end of the fashion faux pas spectrum. To wit: Cher, who used to rock it, but now dwells in the realm of caricature. And I’ll bet she has many mirrors in her many mansions. Susan Sarandon’s tired cleavage must be reflected somewhere; but she’s not looking.
While many celebs continue to look great well past the magic ages of 35, 40, 50, and even 60, we cannot let them be our rules of thumb. They and their plastic surgeons are not trustworthy.
And frankly, we can’t trust ourselves! Some of us just can’t accept what the mirror tells us. The human brain is a magnificent mechanism of mendacity. It can blot out trauma, even the trauma of sagging, bagging, bulging, and crinkling.
As you know, anorexics continue to see themselves as fat even as they waste away before their own eyes. Some of the rest of us manifest reverse anorexia: We continue to think we look slim even when the mirror says, “Not so much.”
I remember the first time I went to Weight Watchers (to be supportive of my friend who needed to go --- she invited me! Go figure.). When I weighed in, I blurted, “Are these scales correct?!” I didn’t believe the scales at Weight Watchers! That’s how far denial can go in the so-needing-it-not-to-be-true mind.
And so, if we’re not going to pick an arbitrary age to make the crucial determination as to whether it’s appropriate for us to wear a ponytail (cutoff age – 51!), and we can’t trust Hollywood or our own judgment; what about fashion designers themselves? They’ll look out for us, right?
Oops. Look no further than Princess Beatrice’s chapeau at the Royal Wedding. Designer Phillip Tracey said beauty and elegance inspired him when he made it.
Oh well.
We’re going to need a blunt and honest “friend.” We need someone who will look at our reflection for us and tell it like it is.
I remember years ago when Tina Turner appeared on the Oprah show. Tina looked good. She might have been 60 already, but hard body and wild hair --- we all wanted to go there. And Oprah did. She bought a Tina Turner wig and began to wear it on the show and around town in Chicago. I thought she looked great.
But soon Oprah returned to her show sporting her familiar coif. She confessed to a conversation she had about the wig with Stedman in which he asked, “Doesn’t anyone tell you the truth?”
So where can we find our own personal Stedman? I’ll have to hire one. My husband loves me just the way I am. Either that or he’s too smart to tell me what he really thinks.
Too bad my grandma’s gone. She would do it. And from her, I could take it.
I can see her now, filtered cigarette between manicured fingers, right eye squinting as she inhales, sizing me up in my new summer dress.
“That dress isn’t doing you any favors, Honey.”
That’s all it would take. I don’t need the details. Or Allure magazine, or Diet Life, or Entertainment Tonight.
I just need my grandma to state the facts without the varnish to keep me on the real side of “young at heart.”
There’s an opportunity here for grandmas with entrepreneurial spirit. Lots of us Baby Boomers need help with our reflections.
Come on Grannies! Step up! Get paid to save us from ourselves!
Here’s a sample of their findings:
Quit wearing your miniskirts at 35, your bikini at 47 and your stilettos at 57.
OK. This isn’t a problem for me since I gave that stuff up long ago. All of it. Probably at 35, even though I still looked good, if I do say so myself. Thirty-five was a peak year for me. Gosh that was a long time ago! Darn it!
Editors from US fashion magazines Allure and More (geared to women over 40) stepped up immediately to voice their opinions on the subject. They say that these decisions are not about age, but about judgment. “Just look in the mirror,” they say. If you look good, wear it!
They point to Helen Mirren as an example, saying in her sixties she still rocks a plunging neckline and a bikini. Couldn’t agree more.
However, they gloss right over pronounced examples at the other end of the fashion faux pas spectrum. To wit: Cher, who used to rock it, but now dwells in the realm of caricature. And I’ll bet she has many mirrors in her many mansions. Susan Sarandon’s tired cleavage must be reflected somewhere; but she’s not looking.
While many celebs continue to look great well past the magic ages of 35, 40, 50, and even 60, we cannot let them be our rules of thumb. They and their plastic surgeons are not trustworthy.
And frankly, we can’t trust ourselves! Some of us just can’t accept what the mirror tells us. The human brain is a magnificent mechanism of mendacity. It can blot out trauma, even the trauma of sagging, bagging, bulging, and crinkling.
As you know, anorexics continue to see themselves as fat even as they waste away before their own eyes. Some of the rest of us manifest reverse anorexia: We continue to think we look slim even when the mirror says, “Not so much.”
I remember the first time I went to Weight Watchers (to be supportive of my friend who needed to go --- she invited me! Go figure.). When I weighed in, I blurted, “Are these scales correct?!” I didn’t believe the scales at Weight Watchers! That’s how far denial can go in the so-needing-it-not-to-be-true mind.
And so, if we’re not going to pick an arbitrary age to make the crucial determination as to whether it’s appropriate for us to wear a ponytail (cutoff age – 51!), and we can’t trust Hollywood or our own judgment; what about fashion designers themselves? They’ll look out for us, right?
Oops. Look no further than Princess Beatrice’s chapeau at the Royal Wedding. Designer Phillip Tracey said beauty and elegance inspired him when he made it.
Oh well.
We’re going to need a blunt and honest “friend.” We need someone who will look at our reflection for us and tell it like it is.
I remember years ago when Tina Turner appeared on the Oprah show. Tina looked good. She might have been 60 already, but hard body and wild hair --- we all wanted to go there. And Oprah did. She bought a Tina Turner wig and began to wear it on the show and around town in Chicago. I thought she looked great.
But soon Oprah returned to her show sporting her familiar coif. She confessed to a conversation she had about the wig with Stedman in which he asked, “Doesn’t anyone tell you the truth?”
So where can we find our own personal Stedman? I’ll have to hire one. My husband loves me just the way I am. Either that or he’s too smart to tell me what he really thinks.
Too bad my grandma’s gone. She would do it. And from her, I could take it.
I can see her now, filtered cigarette between manicured fingers, right eye squinting as she inhales, sizing me up in my new summer dress.
“That dress isn’t doing you any favors, Honey.”
That’s all it would take. I don’t need the details. Or Allure magazine, or Diet Life, or Entertainment Tonight.
I just need my grandma to state the facts without the varnish to keep me on the real side of “young at heart.”
There’s an opportunity here for grandmas with entrepreneurial spirit. Lots of us Baby Boomers need help with our reflections.
Come on Grannies! Step up! Get paid to save us from ourselves!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Preserving My Place in History
So prior to publication, Brooklyn Hasidic newspaper Der Zeitung photo-shopped Hillary Clinton and Audrey Tomason, a White House counterterrorism staffer, out of the iconic picture taken in the White House situation room, of top U.S. officials viewing the raid on Osama bin Laden’s compound in Pakistan.
The small, ultra-Orthodox paper released a statement Monday apologizing if the edited image "was seen as offensive," but said it was following Jewish modesty laws when it made the decision to delete Clinton and Tomason.
It’s only an historical record after all. And those pantsuits. Really.
As it turns out, there is no Jewish law mandating the removal of normally-clothed women from pictures like this. Must have been force of habit.
Jewish Week writer Rabbi Jason Miller voiced his criticism of the editing asking, "Is it really better to misrepresent the truth and deceive people than to see a photo of a modestly clothed Secretary of State?" Evidently so.
It’s hard to imagine that in 2011, in the United States of America, a mindset still exists even in a tiny corner of our nation, which would simply eliminate women.
I’m curious about how this denial of women’s participation in historic events has manifested itself over time. Did they censor photos of Christa McAuliffe, for example? No? Sally Ride? NASA could muddle along well enough without them.
Hey, what about Golda Meir? Thank goodness she covered up. Otherwise how would Israeli history have played out? Indira Gandhi? Margaret Thatcher…?
Is Der Zeitung’s editing offensive? Oh yes. Offensive and archaic. Offensive and egocentric. Offensive and ridiculous.
I can’t help thinking about the women in that community. They know, don’t they, that the men around them see their presence as extraneous and irrelevant to any central issue. It seems the men are embarrassed by the presence of women. Or maybe the presence of women is vague in their thinking, if they think of women at all.
Then again, I can conjure up of lots of moments I’d like to edit out of history. Maybe photos of bin Laden himself, even though he always dressed modestly. It would be as if he never existed! Nothing offensive about that. I like the idea.
Just like in “Back to the Future,” we could change history, and thereby improve the present, by pretending that bin Laden never existed. Let’s go back and wipe his dreadful face out of the record. Let’s remove every mention of OBL and his hideous organization. How long would it take before he actually didn’t exist? If there’s no institutional memory, there’s no OBL.
I’m guessing my movie reference might be lost on the staff at Der Zeitung. It must be problematic finding a movie to watch with so few choices and so little variety in the all-male category. “Band of Brothers.” “Saving Private Ryan.” “The Hurt Locker.” “Apocalypse Now.” All good movies, but wouldn’t one tire of war?
Still, the idea grows on me. I think I’ll prepare a list of candidates for elimination so historians can get to work. Off the top of my head - Hosni Mubarak, Idi Amin. Hitler, of course! Top of the list. How great would the world be without them and their legacies!
We could put John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson, Ted Bundy and their ilk on the wipeout list. We won’t ever have to look at their ugly mugs or think of their pox on our sunny days.
Those are the truly dark entries, but we could have some fun with this. Why not?
Snooky, Paris Hilton? They must go! Hooray! Their tasteless and immodest shenanigans shall forevermore be eliminated! (I see that I probably would fit in with Der Zeitung on some of this.)
I never liked Phyllis Schlafly. OMG! Madeline Murray O’Hare. Gone baby gone! And God Bless America!
I know, I know. Someone’s going to come along and disagree with my list. Who gets to decide? Who gets to be the “taste police,” or the “modesty police?” In some places, it’s just a bunch of self-appointed men!
You may recall my resolution earlier this year to make the world a better place, but I concede a balanced system of accountability is probably appropriate.
We’ll have to form an inclusive committee: Women and men, liberals and conservatives, Giants and A’s.
Otherwise, some men might just get together and decide to eliminate all the women from key roles, like the role of Editor in Chief of World History.
Then where would I be?
The small, ultra-Orthodox paper released a statement Monday apologizing if the edited image "was seen as offensive," but said it was following Jewish modesty laws when it made the decision to delete Clinton and Tomason.
It’s only an historical record after all. And those pantsuits. Really.
As it turns out, there is no Jewish law mandating the removal of normally-clothed women from pictures like this. Must have been force of habit.
Jewish Week writer Rabbi Jason Miller voiced his criticism of the editing asking, "Is it really better to misrepresent the truth and deceive people than to see a photo of a modestly clothed Secretary of State?" Evidently so.
It’s hard to imagine that in 2011, in the United States of America, a mindset still exists even in a tiny corner of our nation, which would simply eliminate women.
I’m curious about how this denial of women’s participation in historic events has manifested itself over time. Did they censor photos of Christa McAuliffe, for example? No? Sally Ride? NASA could muddle along well enough without them.
Hey, what about Golda Meir? Thank goodness she covered up. Otherwise how would Israeli history have played out? Indira Gandhi? Margaret Thatcher…?
Is Der Zeitung’s editing offensive? Oh yes. Offensive and archaic. Offensive and egocentric. Offensive and ridiculous.
I can’t help thinking about the women in that community. They know, don’t they, that the men around them see their presence as extraneous and irrelevant to any central issue. It seems the men are embarrassed by the presence of women. Or maybe the presence of women is vague in their thinking, if they think of women at all.
Then again, I can conjure up of lots of moments I’d like to edit out of history. Maybe photos of bin Laden himself, even though he always dressed modestly. It would be as if he never existed! Nothing offensive about that. I like the idea.
Just like in “Back to the Future,” we could change history, and thereby improve the present, by pretending that bin Laden never existed. Let’s go back and wipe his dreadful face out of the record. Let’s remove every mention of OBL and his hideous organization. How long would it take before he actually didn’t exist? If there’s no institutional memory, there’s no OBL.
I’m guessing my movie reference might be lost on the staff at Der Zeitung. It must be problematic finding a movie to watch with so few choices and so little variety in the all-male category. “Band of Brothers.” “Saving Private Ryan.” “The Hurt Locker.” “Apocalypse Now.” All good movies, but wouldn’t one tire of war?
Still, the idea grows on me. I think I’ll prepare a list of candidates for elimination so historians can get to work. Off the top of my head - Hosni Mubarak, Idi Amin. Hitler, of course! Top of the list. How great would the world be without them and their legacies!
We could put John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson, Ted Bundy and their ilk on the wipeout list. We won’t ever have to look at their ugly mugs or think of their pox on our sunny days.
Those are the truly dark entries, but we could have some fun with this. Why not?
Snooky, Paris Hilton? They must go! Hooray! Their tasteless and immodest shenanigans shall forevermore be eliminated! (I see that I probably would fit in with Der Zeitung on some of this.)
I never liked Phyllis Schlafly. OMG! Madeline Murray O’Hare. Gone baby gone! And God Bless America!
I know, I know. Someone’s going to come along and disagree with my list. Who gets to decide? Who gets to be the “taste police,” or the “modesty police?” In some places, it’s just a bunch of self-appointed men!
You may recall my resolution earlier this year to make the world a better place, but I concede a balanced system of accountability is probably appropriate.
We’ll have to form an inclusive committee: Women and men, liberals and conservatives, Giants and A’s.
Otherwise, some men might just get together and decide to eliminate all the women from key roles, like the role of Editor in Chief of World History.
Then where would I be?
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
I'll Dance at Your Wedding Instead
• "I've never wished a man dead, but I've read some obituaries with great pleasure.” -Mark Twain
Actually, I did wish Osama bin Laden dead. I told myself that I could pull the trigger if given the chance. I believe I could have. Blonde middle-class me. I killed him many times in my dreams and daydreams. And each time in my fantasies, on completing the task, I hanged my head and turned away.
Now that the day of his death has come, and though I am glad he’s gone, I cannot celebrate. On hearing the news of our successful mission, I only wanted to bathe, drink hot tea with honey, sleep a long sleep, and wake up to a world free of him. Breathe fresh air. Look forward.
I’ve never been a fan of courtroom celebrations, even when a filthy perpetrator of a heinous crime is found guilty and given a sentence that will make him suffer as he should. What’s to celebrate? Another life in ruin.
I’ll pass on the after party following a midnight execution.
It proved difficult to watch the chanting, flag-draped citizens of New York City jumping rhythmically at Ground Zero, looking so much like our enemies who celebrated the fall of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. Or maybe like fans of the winning soccer team on any given Sunday in say, Brazil.
Of course New Yorkers have a special circumstance. Maybe if we stood there, we’d dance with them.
Put me in the category with those folks who find bin Laden’s death necessary and just. But it draws no feeling of joy and only the smallest satisfaction. It does not resolve the pain he inflicted; it only permits a release and strengthens a resolve.
Remember the scene in “Braveheart” where British King Longshanks’ emissary ties William Wallace’s bride to a stake and slits her throat? When Wallace returns to find her there, he single-mindedly seeks out the man who killed her, ties him to the same stake, and without ceremony, pulls his own blade across the villain’s throat. Justice? Yes. Joy? Hardly.
Perhaps you have seen the photo of President Obama, Vice President Biden, Secretary of State Clinton, and members of the national security team in the Situation Room of the White House, their eyes riveted on the real-time images from helmet-mounted cameras worn by the operatives of the mission to kill or capture bin Laden. Even when they received the coded confirmation that bin Laden was dead, “Geronimo-E KIA,” news they no doubt sought out and awaited with anxious anticipation, they didn’t slap hands and dance around the table. The occasion of bin Laden’s death is a solemn one.
Dancing at justice served mischaracterizes it, pushes past that justice into the realms of revenge, retribution, and retaliation, with their ugly agendas and scant rewards.
Better to think of our intelligence operatives, of their methodical and meticulous years of labor on our behalf. Picture their determination, hunched over computers, sleeves rolled up, huddled with partners, bouncing facts and ideas, testing theories.
Or maybe they stood at walls covered with flow charts linking pictures and players, movements and events; thinking and rethinking, they fitted each new molecule of information into a gene and the gene into a pattern, followed that pattern to the DNA of our enemy, and at last, pinpointed that cancerous cell in the global puzzle.
We marvel at the courage and precision of Navy SEALs Team Six, carrying out this mission on the dry ground of a dusty compound so far away, changing the world. Thank you. Thank you so very much.
Thanks to the Bush administration for setting a clear agenda, and to President Obama for the courage and wisdom to follow it to its conclusion.
We’ve already seen the headline: “Who Will the Next Target Be?” accompanied by photos of other Al Qaeda leaders. Of course we must press on, repeating the process, culling every hell-bent radical whose feverish purpose denies its own impotence.
This is the invaluable work of dedicated unrelenting organizations and individuals, striving on our behalf, without fanfare.
They do it not for the celebration, but so we can read another obituary, and another. We may not throw a party, but our appreciation at the reading runs deep.
Actually, I did wish Osama bin Laden dead. I told myself that I could pull the trigger if given the chance. I believe I could have. Blonde middle-class me. I killed him many times in my dreams and daydreams. And each time in my fantasies, on completing the task, I hanged my head and turned away.
Now that the day of his death has come, and though I am glad he’s gone, I cannot celebrate. On hearing the news of our successful mission, I only wanted to bathe, drink hot tea with honey, sleep a long sleep, and wake up to a world free of him. Breathe fresh air. Look forward.
I’ve never been a fan of courtroom celebrations, even when a filthy perpetrator of a heinous crime is found guilty and given a sentence that will make him suffer as he should. What’s to celebrate? Another life in ruin.
I’ll pass on the after party following a midnight execution.
It proved difficult to watch the chanting, flag-draped citizens of New York City jumping rhythmically at Ground Zero, looking so much like our enemies who celebrated the fall of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. Or maybe like fans of the winning soccer team on any given Sunday in say, Brazil.
Of course New Yorkers have a special circumstance. Maybe if we stood there, we’d dance with them.
Put me in the category with those folks who find bin Laden’s death necessary and just. But it draws no feeling of joy and only the smallest satisfaction. It does not resolve the pain he inflicted; it only permits a release and strengthens a resolve.
Remember the scene in “Braveheart” where British King Longshanks’ emissary ties William Wallace’s bride to a stake and slits her throat? When Wallace returns to find her there, he single-mindedly seeks out the man who killed her, ties him to the same stake, and without ceremony, pulls his own blade across the villain’s throat. Justice? Yes. Joy? Hardly.
Perhaps you have seen the photo of President Obama, Vice President Biden, Secretary of State Clinton, and members of the national security team in the Situation Room of the White House, their eyes riveted on the real-time images from helmet-mounted cameras worn by the operatives of the mission to kill or capture bin Laden. Even when they received the coded confirmation that bin Laden was dead, “Geronimo-E KIA,” news they no doubt sought out and awaited with anxious anticipation, they didn’t slap hands and dance around the table. The occasion of bin Laden’s death is a solemn one.
Dancing at justice served mischaracterizes it, pushes past that justice into the realms of revenge, retribution, and retaliation, with their ugly agendas and scant rewards.
Better to think of our intelligence operatives, of their methodical and meticulous years of labor on our behalf. Picture their determination, hunched over computers, sleeves rolled up, huddled with partners, bouncing facts and ideas, testing theories.
Or maybe they stood at walls covered with flow charts linking pictures and players, movements and events; thinking and rethinking, they fitted each new molecule of information into a gene and the gene into a pattern, followed that pattern to the DNA of our enemy, and at last, pinpointed that cancerous cell in the global puzzle.
We marvel at the courage and precision of Navy SEALs Team Six, carrying out this mission on the dry ground of a dusty compound so far away, changing the world. Thank you. Thank you so very much.
Thanks to the Bush administration for setting a clear agenda, and to President Obama for the courage and wisdom to follow it to its conclusion.
We’ve already seen the headline: “Who Will the Next Target Be?” accompanied by photos of other Al Qaeda leaders. Of course we must press on, repeating the process, culling every hell-bent radical whose feverish purpose denies its own impotence.
This is the invaluable work of dedicated unrelenting organizations and individuals, striving on our behalf, without fanfare.
They do it not for the celebration, but so we can read another obituary, and another. We may not throw a party, but our appreciation at the reading runs deep.
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