What's One Pair of Shorts Worth?

Recently British Prime Minister David Cameron has been bloviating at length about the evil young who sent on a destructive rampage after a police killing of the father of four who worked as a taxi driver in a rough part of town. The family of the deceased came to the local Police station asking for answers as to why he was killed, no answers were given. A special anti-firearms unit had been involved in the attempted arrest and one of its members seems to have been the shooter. Supporters of the family became restive and when there was no response after four hours some began to break windows. From that point events escalated, in roughly the same way that events spiraled out of control in the Rodney King beating aftermath.

In response English Courts are working overtime to ram through the convictions of all that were swept up by the Police in the unrest. Some sentences have been oddly small, others, including four months in jail for a mother who was given a pair of shorts from a stack of garments looted from a shop, seem draconian (whatever that means). But there's more! Now Cameron and his Conservative government are pressing to evict the families of any young people who got caught in the Police dragnet from their public housing or subsidized housing. If mothers and fathers can't control their children, then they must suffer the consequences!

But while we are talking about "consequences", this is the same Prime Minister who hired a fired News of the World Editor who had been tarred by his connection to a phone hacking scandal. The Prime Minister spoke of believing that everyone deserved a "second chance". Except the poor who live in public housing, it would appear. They don't deserve shit. They apparently have no civil rights and should be considered unpersons.

And who is it that is suggesting this? Well sir, it turns out this is the entitled son of a wealthy family who in college was a member of the Bullingdon Club at Oxford University. Who were they exactly? They turn out to be a lively group of well-heeled ne'er do wells who enjoyed going out to dinner and then trashing the restaurant or pub at the end of the evening, laughing and throwing money over their shoulders as they staggered out into the street, presumably to scream obscenities at passing women. It was so jolly to do that! Where have these lively lads gone? One is the Mayor of London. One is the Prime Minister. One is Chancellor of the Exchequer (kind of like the Secretary of Money). All of them are articulate, well-connected, upper-class douchebags.

Oh, and that Secretary of Money? Here are his brilliant ideas for the future. Unions? Pfaagh! Planning Codes? An impediment to business! Higher taxes? Pish, who thinks that would be a good idea? How would the wealthy be able to afford to send their children to Oxford so they can trash restaurants and buy their way out of vandalism charges? I mean, surely it makes sense to send a single mother to jail for accepting a stolen pair of shorts, right? But it cannot, simply cannot be okay to jail a horde of well-dressed hooligans who trash restaurants, because they know they can do so with impunity. If they were poor, no, that would be wrong, but if you are wealthy and have good attorneys? It's all A-OK. And on one level or another, we have seen this in this country as well. How many went to prison for fraud in the mortgage (and economy) melt-down? Not so many? Umm, none? Wow. While I was living in Portland I read about a woman (probably BLACK for God's sake!) who was sent to jail for four years for stealing a carton of cigarettes. This was back when a carton of cigs cost about $2.00. It puts a low cost on human life, doesn't it? But interestingly I later heard that the same judge was well-known as the go-to guy if one needed to buy their way out of a pesky manslaughter case, or something silly like that. Twenty Grand would do it, if the case was a messy one. All the defendant had to do was ask for trial by Judge. Injustice will always be with us, but when will someone start to do something about it.?

Maybe we could start by voting such people out of office? Which people? oh, like this idiot.

Arthur

London Is Burning

(Arthur phoned this one in several days ago, and it got misplaced 'till now. Damned messy office, don't cha know? sorry Arthur.)

To those who have not been following the news, London and other parts of England have had outbreaks of looting, rioting and arson that have been unexpected and inconvenient for the new conservative government, who have been busy working to cut social services, rent support, police department budgets and other key parts of the British social safety net. I personally think that Prime Minister David Cameron is a colossal dickwad, while others think he is too eloquent to ever be tossed out of office. Sort of a young Reagan it would seem. I still think Cameron is very likely to lose his post over the Murdock/News of the World scandal, but we'll have to wait and see. Oh, and David Cameron used to belong to a college club that regularly trashed restaurants, thinking it was wonderful fun to do so, since they could sort of pay for it and not get prosecuted. Critics are starting to remind the public of these "inconvenient facts". It might have seemed funny two weeks ago, it is not sounding that way now.

And here, in the middle of this mess, appears an article by of all people Russell Brand, an actor whose public persona is that of a deranged twit. The one word in the article you might not recognize is "trainers", a British term for running shoes. I didn't know Brand could write, I didn't know he could think, I didn't know he had strong opinions. I was wrong. Brand's essay is far, far more intelligent than other pundits' comments on the situation, one of whom wrote a piece titled "The whites have become black". Amazingly, that is what has passed for intelligent commentary during the last week.

Arthur

Weekend Update - Happy Birthday Edition

(So we're watching M.A.S.H. the other night, the boy and me, and there's this episode where Radar is in the bar and he's apparently getting tipsy on Grape Nehi, and the boy turns to me and says "Dad, did you ever drink Grape Nehi?"  And my thoughts instantly ran to hot summer afternoons on my bike in the old neighborhood, the old little store on 20th street, being thirstier than the Mill Tails of Hell, and the first big gulp of an incredibly cold bottle of Grape Nehi.  You could feel the carbonation and the slam of intense grape flavoring all the way to your toes.  It was, at the time, better than sex.  Of course I was only 12 at the time, but still.  So instead of trying to explain it all to him - well okay I tried, but half way into it I got teary eyed about my bike and lost him - and realizing you can't just go out and buy the original Grape Nehi anymore, I suggested we look it up on the old Internet.  And guess what?  We found a place that still has the Nectar of the Preteen Gods available.  It turns out that for a mere $1.99 a bottle, Old 52 General Store will send directly from their warehouse in Sabin, Minnesota, just a stone's throw from Fargo, North Dakota,  the original formula Grape Nehi to your home in Eugene, Oregon.  Ah, the wonders of modern convenience.  But of course at $1.99 a bottle, and with shipping and handling, a six-pack of this stuff will run your credit card about 30 bucks, and that's $5.00 a bottle when all is said and done.  So we're sitting out on the deck drinking this $5 a bottle Grape Nehi and the boy says "can I have another one?" and I says I don't think so, at these prices.  We'll save them, and only drink them one a day, or when we're watching M.A.S.H. or or or or.  There's 2 of them left.  We follow each other out to the kitchen to make sure the other one doesn't snitch one.  I know he's waiting for me to go asleep.  I must stay awake.  But I digress ...

• Fidel Castro turned 85 today.  Merely one of the oldest living douche bags in the Western Hemisphere. Salsa and cigars, baby.  That's what it's all about.
• So in the Republican race to see who looks the silliest in the 2012 elections, Michelle "Batshit" Bachmann has apparently bested the Field of Dreams games, nationally known as the Iowa Straw Poll, where rich contenders pay plenty to win a contest no one pays any attention to, because it doesn't matter anyway.  We here at Bad Hat offer our sincere congratulations to whomever was responsible.  By the way, if you're interested, some guy named Paul finished second.  All the other have seemed to come to their senses and gone home.
• Team Jesus head cheerleader Rick Perry is just seconds away from shooting his wad into the next presidential election, and most of us are wishing he'd just get on with it.  What, he did it?  Ohgawd, I feel so much better. This guy flat out frightens me.  The sheer scope of his insincerity is jaw-dropping.  I never thought we could witness anyone more full of crap than Mitt Romney, but Eureka! we have found him.  I forced myself to listen to him talk the other day, and I think I'd have had more respect for this Bozo if he'd just whipped out his burrito and pissed on my shoes.  If Hunter S. Thompson was alive he'd put a contract of somesort out on this idiot, or do it himself.  God rest his soul.
• At the Fox News Christmas party the year the network overtook arch-rival CNN in the cable ratings, tipsy employees were herded down to the basement of a midtown bar in New York. As they gathered around a television mounted high on the wall, an image flashed to life, glowing bright in the darkened tavern: the MSNBC logo. A chorus of boos erupted among the Fox faithful. The CNN logo followed, and the catcalls multiplied. Then a third slide appeared, with a telling twist. In place of the logo for Fox News was a beneficent visage: the face of the network's founder. The man known to his fiercest loyalists simply as "the Chairman" – Roger Ailes. "It was as though we were looking at Mao," recalls Charlie Reina, a former Fox News producer.  Forget Rupurt Murdock, here's a chilling report concerning the real man behind the evil, Roger Ailes.
• And speaking of Mitt, (for a real kick on a hot afternoon just start walking around your house saying mitt mitt mitt mitt over and over. Say it fast or slow, whatever irritates people more.  See how long it takes before people tell you to go outside.) he experienced a bit of embarrassment when he hypothetically asked his audience to ponder what to do about the deficit.  "Tax the corporations!" came the answer.  Whoops.  You could actually see Mitt's cheeks tighten, and I'm not speaking of the ones on his handsomely weathered face.  "Corporations are people too, my friend," he says, thrusting his size 12 foot directly into his pretty lips.  The fallout from that remark is only the beginning of Mitt's (mitt mitt mitt mitt) problems.  Gosh this is going to be fun.  Hand me that Grape Nehi dammit ... 

The Love

(We're back, sorry it's been a while. The following is a report concerning the death of my beloved Sister last week. I wrote it several days ago and have been debating with myself whether or not to publish it, not only worried it would upset members of my family, but also whether you guys would want to read something a bit depressing this weekend. Well, I checked with some of the family and they all seemed okay with it. So I've decided to go ahead and post it for you. What I want you to get from this is not depression, however. I want you to feel and understand the love that I had the privilege of witnessing. And two more things before we begin. First, I could rewrite this a hundred more times and never think I've done this whole event justice. And finally, I'm aware this has happened to most all of you as well, and please forgive me if I don't phrase it just right. Love to you all, JP)

Our dear sweet Nancy passed away in Lowell early Tuesday morning, her husband George and son Reid at her side. This "dying of cancer" thing takes too goddamned long, if you want my opinion. When people die of this particular disease their family members invariably say something like "he/she fought bravely to the end." To say Nancy fought bravely to the end in this case is an understatement. A huge understatement.

It's one thing to have to lose someone you love to a tragic accident, like a car wreck, or a skydiving mishap - it's over in a matter of seconds or at most hours. I don't mean to diminish the emotions involved in those cases, I'm just saying it's something else entirely to watch someone you love slowly die over a period of six months or more. I'm going to say something completely stupid: It's more agonizing to those of us who are watching it happen than to the one it's actually happening to. That, of course, is nonsense, but if you've ever experienced it, you know what I mean.

Extreme life and death situations makes heroes out of some of us, whether we start out to be one or not. In my learned yet humble opinion Nancy's husband George is a Hero, capital "H". Well, to be honest, George isn't legally her husband, they've been "living together" for over 25 years. But to say George isn't really Nancy's husband is like saying I'm not really her brother. I'm linked by blood to the Winslow family, and was adopted into the Perry family immediately after I was born. I am her brother. George is her husband. And throughout this entire agonizing ordeal her husband George never left her side. Devotion and dedication like that are the things that make up a true Hero.

My mother Louise gave birth to Nancy some eight years before I came into the picture, on October 14th, 1937. Pictures of her show a beautiful blond-haired baby with near perfect features. She was healthy and fit, and the pride of my parents. Bearing her and taking her to term did not fair well on my mother, however, as Louise later found out that health complications would never allow her to have another child naturally. The young Perry family lived on a small family farm near Eugene, Oregon, and Nancy helped with the daily chores that all farms have, and indeed became quite the little farm girl. Her first pets were two small pigs, Flopsy, and of course, Mopsy.

I had just gotten home from from work one day a few months ago when she called with the bad news. She had had this cancer thing for a year off and on, going through the routine of treatments, radiation, chemo, making the 30 minute daily drive into Eugene for standard rounds of humiliating and often painful bouts of testings and proddings. All things one must endure to get your hopes up, and keep you going a little longer. Throughout the years Nancy and I have always kept closely in touch, calling regularly, if sometimes infrequently, and just chatting about anything and everything in our lives. She and I had begun talking more often since it all began, almost daily, and her mood was always upbeat, always cheerful, and never centered on her or the ordeal she was going through. She always was one tough-yet-gentle cookie, so I wasn't a bit surprised at her tone when she called. She asked me how I was doing, then waited while I babbled on for a bit with my usual patter, then she reminded me that she had seen the doctor. "And?" I asked, suddenly sober. "You won't like it," she said gently, as though she was worried about how all this would effect me, for heaven's sake. I realized for some reason I wasn't ready for this. "Six months." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was telling me how long it takes to grow cabbage. I didn't say anything for several long seconds, flipping through my mental Rolodex looking for something intelligent to respond with. Finding nothing, I simply said "Now what?"

My mother was one of the most emotional people in the world. Perhaps it was because of that she was so good at hiding it. She was sensitive and kind, smart and stubborn, clever and secretive, and made us understand that the outpouring of emotion seen in other people on occasion was not a desirable trait for the Perry family. Emotion, particularly weeping sadness, was not something to be displayed to other people. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't a cold woman. Quite the opposite actually. It's just that to her "stoic" was not just a word, it was a lifestyle. In the early 1970's, on the night our mother died, Nancy and I weren't with her. We were at my little apartment on Harlow Road sitting stoically waiting for the phone to ring, for the Uncle to call, with the news. Mom had been in a coma for several months, in a "rest home," and we knew (we reasoned) Mom wouldn't have wanted us there anyway. It would have been too upsetting. For us. The phone rang, I answered, my Uncle Gordon said "your Mom died a few moments ago, I'm sorry." I hung up, turned to Nancy and quietly said, "It's over." We both got up, and leaving the rest of the people there in the room, walked out to the parking lot in silence, holding hands. It was weird. I could actually feel it coming. We stopped, turned and faced each other and just started bawling. We hugged each other as tight as we could, and Nancy said "You're the only one who understands." Those were the only words spoken. After a bit, we wiped our faces, straightened up, and walked back to our Mother's death with never another tear. To this day, I'm not sure what she meant by that.

It was getting down to weeks and because I was still working regularly (am I ever going to retire?) I could only get out to Lowell to see Nancy on the weekends. She had begun to lose weight, slowly at first, then shockingly rapidly as the time grew nearer. The doctors were still working on her, a couple chemoes here, radiations there, but everyone knew it was hopeless, though you never want to talk that way at the time. You see, the Stoic Handbook says There's Always Hope No Matter What, but most intelligent people know that's a lie. There is not a "bad word" in the English language that's bad enough to use in describing the monster, cancer. The way it kills is to slowly destroy the host, a biologically insane thing to do, similar to burning your own house down to keep warm. And it doesn't care, it doesn't quit, it never gives you a break. It will take over half your body mass and reduce it by half. It will leave you on your last day with nothing but skin, bones, and memories. And your beating heart. Nancy's big strong beating heart took every last nano-second that this life had to offer, fighting, refusing to surrender to the monster.

George never left her side, or at least he made sure someone else was holding her hand before he would go use the bathroom, or step outside. George has always been a bit of a comedian, always been in mid performance when visitors were over, always entertaining and keeping the mood lighter than it would be normally, not allowing anyone to become morbid or depressing around Nancy. His whole world became Nancy. It was obvious. He'd be talking to other people in the room, but his eyes never left hers. He was like a one-armed man because one hand was always holding Nancy's, like he was afraid if he accidentally let go she'd float away from his grasp, and he wasn't about to let that happen. If he slept, it was only when she slept, and it was while laying next to her on the big bed. Each day there was less of her. Near the end she could hardly speak, so George did all the talking. He never quit talking to her. He talked about anything, everything, the weather today, the yard, the dog, memories, plans. Friends would come by, stay for a bit, George would talk to them, including Nancy in the conversation like it was just any normal rainy afternoon. And he never let go of her hand. And his eyes never left hers.

Day after day and night after night it continued. One morning she woke up and said to George "am I still here?" Then she smiled. She hadn't eaten for almost two weeks, the end was coming. Hospice had, of course been there by then, but after making sure she was comfortable there wasn't much anyone could do. George administered the morphine as he was directed to, watching for signs of intense pain, but Nancy actually was doing relatively well, and like the Stoic she was, didn't wish to be "knocked out" with pain meds, so he monitored it very closely. And her big strong heart refused to quit. There was nothing left of Nancy except skin, and bones. That night, as she slept, George and Reid watched a spot on the side of her neck that pulsed with each beat. Each beat became an act of defiance. One more second. One more. One more. Each time she awoke she would gaze at George, her eyes never leaving him.

In the middle of the night something happened to her. One half of her body tensed violently, then contorted, then finally drooped as though she had lost all control and nerves on that side of her frail body. George thought perhaps it was a stroke of some kind. It began to effect her face, something unseen pulling horribly at her mouth, wrenching one side into a terrible contorted look of what? pain? Her eye on that side clenched shut tightly but the other one looked intently right at George with what? fear? Her back began to arch and something was dragging her head over to her shoulder. George thought ohmygod she's in pain. She's in trouble. She needs me to help her. My girl needs me What what what do I do? He grabbed the liquid morphine and with Reid's help they both got the proper dose measured out and he put the drops into her mouth on the side that was drooping. It seemed to make what was happening to her even worse. Her skin, on her face and shoulders, suddenly turned hard and non pliant. He couldn't even leave an indentation on her cheek when he gently pushed on it. George was in absolute anguish. He lept up and began pacing, sobbing and pounding the air. He was afraid he'd done something wrong, put his Nancy in worse jeopardy than she was before. He frantically grabbed the phone and called the Hospice nurse, but it was in the middle of the night, and what could they do, anyway.

He went back to her and knelt down on the floor next to her and started praying. Praying loudly. Praying for God to take her, to ease her pain. To stop this madness. And then her body relaxed. Her skin softened. Her breathing calmed. George looked at her face. Nancy had both eyes open and she looked directly into his. And smiled. A warm and beautiful smile that said "George, don't worry, it's going to be okay." George said later that at that moment he felt a warm calmness wash over him, like something wonderful had just touched him. He looked down and she was holding his hand.

For the next hour George and Reid talked to her, to each other, to themselves, not looking at her, just being quiet and relaxed. During that conversation one of them looked down and noticed the spot on her neck was no longer pulsing. Later, George washed her body and dressed it in her favorite yellow nightgown. He said she looked beautiful.

But of course, she always was.