At this point, I think I can officially announce that health care reform in the United States is again dead. It will not happen; millions will continue to lack coverage, with millions more under-covered, and the costs to our nation will keep escalating. And the fault belongs entirely to the majority Democratic Party.
Let's start with President Obama, for it was he who, out of hand, rejected the notion of a single-payer system, thus immediately shifting the debate rightward and eliminating as a possibility the surest method to expand coverage, control costs and improve outcomes.
Mister Obama, as President, has given up thinking big for some hope of bipartisanship. But the Republicans have no interest in being bipartisan; they wish only to muddy the waters and score inside-the-beltway political points. So why give up policy for a pipe dream? And isn't making good policy really what politics is all about?
And then there are the conservative Democrats, the Blue Dogs. Whether you consider it fortunate or unfortunate, as the G.O.P. has devolved into a party at the margins of political thought, the Democratic Party has become the refuge of serious politicians, be they liberal, moderate or conservative. At this point, the debate within the party has come to matter far more than the debate between parties.
And the Blue Dogs are very concerned about the cost of health care reform. What they fail to deal with, though, is the cost of failing to enact serious change. At this point health care eats up over 17% of GDP -- that's more than $2.7 trillion -- and those costs are going to continue rising exponentially if we do nothing. We already pay the costs of health care, and will continue to do so; it is just a matter of how, and how intelligently, we decide to do so.
Also telling is the amount of money that is flowing into our lawmaking process from the health insurance and pharmaceutical industries, and the results that it buys. That political finance in the U.S. is nothing more than a system of legalized bribery can no longer be reasonably argued -- but this is an issue that neither party seems particularly interested in addressing (I guess that is where you can find true bipartisanship in Washington).
This mess, caused by the corruption that is Washington, D.C., means that our elected representatives will essentially do nothing to meaningfully change our current broken system, even if a bill somehow makes it through the process. What I fear is that we will end up with an individual mandate for insurance while failing to control costs or improve care -- in other words, a massive giveaway to insurance and drug providers at public expense.
And if it happens, the fault will lay directly at the feet of the Democrats.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Franklin Henry Means, 1922-2009
Long ago, when my wife Barb and I were in the nascent, getting-to-know-each-other phase of our relationship, she one day asked me, "Who are your heroes?" I was able to reply without hesitation: "John Lennon and my Dad." She was suitably impressed.
Suitably, I say, because it really had nothing to do with me. Instead, it was a testament to what kind of man my father was; his character was so evident that even that stupid, cocky, know-it-all teenage boy could see it.
Frank Means, my Dad, died today at age 86.
Dad's story was, in many ways, the common story of his generation: His childhood was shaped by the cruelties of the Great Depression; his young adulthood was spent in the service of his country during the Second World War and as part of the Army of Occupation of Japan; he returned home to marry the woman he loved, to build a family and a life (and, in so doing, to help rebuild our nation) through hard work, thrift and patience.
But to reduce the life of Frank Means to something so trite as a mere demographic exercise would be a great disservice. He was not a man of means, nor power, nor wide acclaim. Yet in that supposedly "ordinary" life, he was an extraordinary man.
In a world where simple, common decency is far too uncommon, Dad was the embodiment of the notion. He saw other people as human beings -- not as tools to be manipulated toward his ends, not as obstacles to be overcome, not as merely the money with which they might be parted nor as the sum total of their possessions, but as people endowed with human dignity and deserving of a basic respect.
When I was a child of perhaps ten, I found a five-dollar bill on the floor of the local dime store; when I brought it to the attention of the cashier, an elderly woman immediately claimed it as money that she had lost, and, though it was clearly not actually hers, I gave it to her. This bothered me, and I told Dad about it later. He thought about it for moment, and then said, "Well, she must have needed that money a lot more than you did."
Looking back now, of course, I know that Dad was right. The woman was clearly not well-off; that five dollars that might have bought me a few packs of baseball cards or a treat instead probably bought her a couple of meals. It was a lasting lesson that Dad managed to impart in thirteen simple words.
Outstanding, too, about Dad was his sense of humor. His smile was always at the ready, his laughter a big, booming affair that carried across the largest of rooms. We often joked that in order to find Dad, all you had to do was follow the sound of that laugh.
There was an enduring love of baseball that ran deep in him, a love that he also imparted to his children. As a young man, he played the game. Constantly, and well enough that he was actually offered a minor-league contract by the Milwaukee Braves. Dad, then with a young family, had to say no to that offer, to the vagaries and uncertainties of the minor-league life, but it certainly was evidence of the skill and joy that he brought to the sport.
By the time that I was old enough to be part of it, he was in his mid-fifties and had moved on to managing (along with his friend and brother-in-law, Chuck) Spooner's city league baseball team. I was only able to see Dad play once, when the team was so shorthanded that it pressed him into service. Even at age 54, he went 3 for 4 with an RBI against a pitcher less than half his age. I don't know if I ever saw him smile so broadly as he did that day.
There was Dad's tender, affectionate nature, which, too, lives on in his children. Having lost his own father to cancer when he was only twelve years old, he endeavored to give his family the paternal love that he had missed for much of his life. I don't think that a day went by in my childhood during which I was not told that I was loved. Dad taught me that a man could be masculine while still being warm-hearted, loving, even sentimental.
And of course no recollection of Frank Means would be complete without mention of the greatest love of his life: his wife, his partner, Kathleen Means. He said that he fell for her the first time he saw her, Chuck's little sister, when she was just thirteen years old. That love endured for more than half a century; his devotion to, and respect for, Mom was extraordinary, deep and abiding, lasting far beyond her death in January of 1999. He was always patient with her, kind, gentle, indulgent. A gentleman in the finest sense of the word.
As much as anything, that has shaped the man that I am today, the relationship that I have with Barb. He taught me to honor women and womanhood, to see as precious the bond between the two of us, as partners, as lovers, as friends.
In recent years, much of what made Dad who he was began to slowly, and then more precipitously, fade. The laughter came less and less often; the humor became less apparent. There were still glimpses of the real Dad, but he was gradually robbed from us, and, worse, from himself. That he has now rejoined Mom is only right. But that doesn't make it any easier for those of us who must go on without him, without his smile and love and wisdom.
My failings and failures in this world are my own. But most of the little good that I manage to achieve in this world is due to Frank Means.
I miss you, Dad, and I love you.
Suitably, I say, because it really had nothing to do with me. Instead, it was a testament to what kind of man my father was; his character was so evident that even that stupid, cocky, know-it-all teenage boy could see it.
Frank Means, my Dad, died today at age 86.
Dad's story was, in many ways, the common story of his generation: His childhood was shaped by the cruelties of the Great Depression; his young adulthood was spent in the service of his country during the Second World War and as part of the Army of Occupation of Japan; he returned home to marry the woman he loved, to build a family and a life (and, in so doing, to help rebuild our nation) through hard work, thrift and patience.
But to reduce the life of Frank Means to something so trite as a mere demographic exercise would be a great disservice. He was not a man of means, nor power, nor wide acclaim. Yet in that supposedly "ordinary" life, he was an extraordinary man.
In a world where simple, common decency is far too uncommon, Dad was the embodiment of the notion. He saw other people as human beings -- not as tools to be manipulated toward his ends, not as obstacles to be overcome, not as merely the money with which they might be parted nor as the sum total of their possessions, but as people endowed with human dignity and deserving of a basic respect.
When I was a child of perhaps ten, I found a five-dollar bill on the floor of the local dime store; when I brought it to the attention of the cashier, an elderly woman immediately claimed it as money that she had lost, and, though it was clearly not actually hers, I gave it to her. This bothered me, and I told Dad about it later. He thought about it for moment, and then said, "Well, she must have needed that money a lot more than you did."
Looking back now, of course, I know that Dad was right. The woman was clearly not well-off; that five dollars that might have bought me a few packs of baseball cards or a treat instead probably bought her a couple of meals. It was a lasting lesson that Dad managed to impart in thirteen simple words.
Outstanding, too, about Dad was his sense of humor. His smile was always at the ready, his laughter a big, booming affair that carried across the largest of rooms. We often joked that in order to find Dad, all you had to do was follow the sound of that laugh.
There was an enduring love of baseball that ran deep in him, a love that he also imparted to his children. As a young man, he played the game. Constantly, and well enough that he was actually offered a minor-league contract by the Milwaukee Braves. Dad, then with a young family, had to say no to that offer, to the vagaries and uncertainties of the minor-league life, but it certainly was evidence of the skill and joy that he brought to the sport.
By the time that I was old enough to be part of it, he was in his mid-fifties and had moved on to managing (along with his friend and brother-in-law, Chuck) Spooner's city league baseball team. I was only able to see Dad play once, when the team was so shorthanded that it pressed him into service. Even at age 54, he went 3 for 4 with an RBI against a pitcher less than half his age. I don't know if I ever saw him smile so broadly as he did that day.
There was Dad's tender, affectionate nature, which, too, lives on in his children. Having lost his own father to cancer when he was only twelve years old, he endeavored to give his family the paternal love that he had missed for much of his life. I don't think that a day went by in my childhood during which I was not told that I was loved. Dad taught me that a man could be masculine while still being warm-hearted, loving, even sentimental.
And of course no recollection of Frank Means would be complete without mention of the greatest love of his life: his wife, his partner, Kathleen Means. He said that he fell for her the first time he saw her, Chuck's little sister, when she was just thirteen years old. That love endured for more than half a century; his devotion to, and respect for, Mom was extraordinary, deep and abiding, lasting far beyond her death in January of 1999. He was always patient with her, kind, gentle, indulgent. A gentleman in the finest sense of the word.
As much as anything, that has shaped the man that I am today, the relationship that I have with Barb. He taught me to honor women and womanhood, to see as precious the bond between the two of us, as partners, as lovers, as friends.
In recent years, much of what made Dad who he was began to slowly, and then more precipitously, fade. The laughter came less and less often; the humor became less apparent. There were still glimpses of the real Dad, but he was gradually robbed from us, and, worse, from himself. That he has now rejoined Mom is only right. But that doesn't make it any easier for those of us who must go on without him, without his smile and love and wisdom.
My failings and failures in this world are my own. But most of the little good that I manage to achieve in this world is due to Frank Means.
I miss you, Dad, and I love you.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Ignorance Is Not Virtue
The culture wars continue, with now-well-known idiot (and Arizona Republican State Senator) Sylvia Allen exhibiting her vast knowledge of both geology and cosmology. That such a display of ignorance is essentially required to win a primary as a member of the GOP is a sad commentary upon the state of both the party and our nation.
In my dark hours, I fear that we are truly in a cosmic war, one that will determine whether mankind continues forward toward a true planetary civilization or sinks back into the darkness of its past, withering to eventual extinction. It is a fight between those of us who can embrace modernity and those who cling to callowness, superstition and prejudice.
In this fight, the likes of Osama bin Laden and Ali Khamenei are allied with the Sam Brownbacks and Pat Robertsons and James Inhofes of the world, each of them trying to stamp out rational thought in the name of his own version of fundamentalist purity, each of them certain that he is the true servant of the one true god, each ready to murder any and all who don't see the world as he does.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: If it wishes to survive, humanity had better hope that my side wins.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
This Is Just Wrong
Professional attention whore (and part-time NFL quarterback) Brett Favre in a Minnesota Vikings uniform? I've hoped against hope that it wouldn't happen.
After Monday's HBO premiere of Joe Buck Live, however, it seems to be a sad inevitability. In his interview with Buck, Favre essentially said that, as long as his arm heals as expected from recent surgery, he will be a member of my beloved Vikings. And nothing could be more wrong.
Roger Staubach didn't end his career as a Redskin; Kirby Puckett didn't go play for Tony LaRussa in Oakland; Ernie Banks didn't migrate to the South Side of Chicago.
So why does the Hillbilly Gunslinger torment us so? To see him in purple and gold will be nothing short of an abomination. Rooting for the Favre-led Vikings will be virtually impossible, and, should he actually take us to football's promised land, the entire experience will be tainted so much as to make it utterly miserable.
Favre must surely be aware of the tarnish that he is putting upon his reputation. His gift sack for Michael Strahan, his endless "will-I-retire-or-won't-I?" off-season dramas, his forced trade to the Jets, and now this... Do yourself, and all of us, a favor, Brett. Stay retired.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
And This Is Why I Can't Be A Democrat
Over the last week or so, details have begun to emerge concerning the knowledge that Congressional Democratic leadership -- and particularly Nancy Pelosi -- had about America's use of "enhanced interrogation techniques" (read: torture) in the period immediately following September 11, 2001.
Sadly, after much dissembling and backtracking by the Speaker, it has become apparent that, at the very least (and despite her knowledge), she failed to raise any meaningful objections to these techniques until it became politically expedient for her to do so. Or, as 2004 candidate John Kerry might have said, Pelosi was "for torture before she was against it."
This is exactly why I can never be a member of the Democratic Party, why I could not bring myself to vote for John Kerry, nor for Al Gore before him, nor for Bill Clinton before him. Too often, too many Democrats (even on occasions when their inclinations may be correct) tend to take the path of least political resistance and ignore their principles. Or what should be their principles, were they not almost as corrupted by power and special interests as are their Republican rivals.
And what I find almost as disturbing is the willingness of many on the left to act as mere shills, to be apologists for the dereliction of duty practiced by Pelosi and her ilk. If she failed in her responsibilities to America, then let her face the consequences. She -- and all Democrats -- must be made to understand that enduring American ideals matter far more than the latest opinion poll, far more than the fleeting popularity of a Republican administration, far more than the next electoral cycle.
And, if they cannot understand this, then they do not deserve to maintain their current positions of power.
*****
That said, let us take a look at a point of emphasis about which the Left is currently obsessing: torture investigations and prosecutions. To me, there could be no worse idea. The President is correct; there is little of value that can come from such an endeavor.
Yes, I recognize that the Bush Administration lost sight of the ideals that make our nation extraordinary, and, yes, they may have violated both U.S. law and our international treaty obligations. But, I beg you, let us look back to the days after 9/11, to the desperate fear that gripped much of the country. Another attack was inevitable, went the conventional wisdom -- and soon. (And, many feared, in their own backyards. You narcissists know who you are.)
Was the Bush Administration torture policy morally right? No, I do not believe so. But was it borne of a sadistic desire to break the law -- or of a fervent inclination to protect America from further catastrophe? I must conclude that it was the latter.
We must learn from the pseudo-legal darkness into which we, as a nation, willingly descended. But to further descend into a spiral of retribution and bitterness could serve no good of which I can conceive.
Sadly, after much dissembling and backtracking by the Speaker, it has become apparent that, at the very least (and despite her knowledge), she failed to raise any meaningful objections to these techniques until it became politically expedient for her to do so. Or, as 2004 candidate John Kerry might have said, Pelosi was "for torture before she was against it."
This is exactly why I can never be a member of the Democratic Party, why I could not bring myself to vote for John Kerry, nor for Al Gore before him, nor for Bill Clinton before him. Too often, too many Democrats (even on occasions when their inclinations may be correct) tend to take the path of least political resistance and ignore their principles. Or what should be their principles, were they not almost as corrupted by power and special interests as are their Republican rivals.
And what I find almost as disturbing is the willingness of many on the left to act as mere shills, to be apologists for the dereliction of duty practiced by Pelosi and her ilk. If she failed in her responsibilities to America, then let her face the consequences. She -- and all Democrats -- must be made to understand that enduring American ideals matter far more than the latest opinion poll, far more than the fleeting popularity of a Republican administration, far more than the next electoral cycle.
And, if they cannot understand this, then they do not deserve to maintain their current positions of power.
*****
That said, let us take a look at a point of emphasis about which the Left is currently obsessing: torture investigations and prosecutions. To me, there could be no worse idea. The President is correct; there is little of value that can come from such an endeavor.
Yes, I recognize that the Bush Administration lost sight of the ideals that make our nation extraordinary, and, yes, they may have violated both U.S. law and our international treaty obligations. But, I beg you, let us look back to the days after 9/11, to the desperate fear that gripped much of the country. Another attack was inevitable, went the conventional wisdom -- and soon. (And, many feared, in their own backyards. You narcissists know who you are.)
Was the Bush Administration torture policy morally right? No, I do not believe so. But was it borne of a sadistic desire to break the law -- or of a fervent inclination to protect America from further catastrophe? I must conclude that it was the latter.
We must learn from the pseudo-legal darkness into which we, as a nation, willingly descended. But to further descend into a spiral of retribution and bitterness could serve no good of which I can conceive.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Second-Guessing Everyone But Themselves
For the last week, we've had the opportunity to listen to the idea-deprived right wing bash President Obama for "not standing up to terrorists." Which, apparently, pirates who are in it entirely for the money qualify as, if you really, really want to paint a Democrat in a bad light. (Seriously, who pays attention to actual definitions of words?)
Then came this weekend's rescue, approved by the President himself, should it become necessary. Former hostage Captain Richard Phillips is fine now... and the vapid Fox News chicken-hawks are just as impotent and empty-headed as ever, even if there is slightly more egg upon their faces.
Do you think they'll actually say anything about it, fully admit how wrong they were? Or will they just move on to nit-picking about the next manufactured pseudo-scandal, such as whether or not the Obamas' new dog actually qualifies as a rescue animal?
I'm betting on the latter.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Language Of Irrationalism
Lately, I've been trying to gain some sort of understanding of just what it is that drives those of the right-wing stripe. It seems as though there are two mutually unintelligible political languages being spoken in this nation, as though there is an unbridgeable chasm between the far right and the rest of us.
Certainly, there are aspects of modern conservatism of which I have at least some comprehension: The affluent being in favor of policies that further enrich them is easily understandable; The pro-life movement I have some sympathy for, though I feel that they are being led down the primrose path by the G.O.P.; Right-wing racism, nativism, xenophobia and homophobia, though I find them to be reprehensible, are readily grasped.
But just what is it that drives an otherwise normal working-class person to act consistently against his or her own self-interest (and, as it turns out, the interests of the nation as a whole)?
This quest led, in the past week, to a rather interesting exchange with a conservative co-worker, the impetus being a bumper-sticker that read, "Obama: Keep the change. I'll keep my guns, my money and my freedom." It led me to muse aloud why so many people, despite the Administration's policy proposals, were so eager to believe the Republican Party's implication that Barack Obama wants to, in essence, disarm them, take their hard-earned money and give it to a bunch of shiftless Negroes.
My co-worker's ever-so-eloquent reply? "Because we're not liberal commies." I laughed, then ironically thanked him for being so helpful. His rejoinder: "It may be blunt, but it's true."
At this point, I realized that he was not attempting to amuse, in the manner that I might when jokingly calling him a fascist. Instead, he was dead serious; his mindless, and ultimately meaningless, iteration of hate-radio talking points was, in his own mind, a decisive bon mot.
I proceeded to ask him numerous questions about his beliefs. He refused to answer questions about actual public policy, instead preferring to engage in ad hominem attacks against the President; he repeatedly regurgitated the right-wing talking point concerning Obama's use of a teleprompter. Apparently not realizing that Reagan, Bush 41, Clinton and Bush 43 had also extensively used such devices, he was only too ready to embrace the notion that a black man, as he put it, "can't speak well without his teleprompter."
In addition, he blamed the President for numerous perceived misdeeds that had, in fact, been perpetrated by others (or that were simply the product of the right-wing imagination). It became increasingly clear that he had no affirmative beliefs. His focus was only upon what he hated; Barack Obama was symbolic for him, a convenient focal point for his copious and otherwise-incoherent rage. He had been fed by the likes of Rush and Sean and Billo, for the entirety of his life, a simple explanation for every problem that he faced, for every injustice that he discerned in the world: blame the evil libruls.
It saddened me that this was all there was to it, that there was not some greater, overarching philosophical basis for my co-worker's beliefs. But, in the end, that is what conservatism is: an appeal to our baser instincts, to the lesser angels of our natures, to anger, to hatred, to irrationalism.
And that is the chasm that separates us, in our nation and in the world: The thoughtful versus the superstitious, the modern versus the medieval, the rational versus the irrational.
And God help humanity if my side loses this battle.
Certainly, there are aspects of modern conservatism of which I have at least some comprehension: The affluent being in favor of policies that further enrich them is easily understandable; The pro-life movement I have some sympathy for, though I feel that they are being led down the primrose path by the G.O.P.; Right-wing racism, nativism, xenophobia and homophobia, though I find them to be reprehensible, are readily grasped.
But just what is it that drives an otherwise normal working-class person to act consistently against his or her own self-interest (and, as it turns out, the interests of the nation as a whole)?
This quest led, in the past week, to a rather interesting exchange with a conservative co-worker, the impetus being a bumper-sticker that read, "Obama: Keep the change. I'll keep my guns, my money and my freedom." It led me to muse aloud why so many people, despite the Administration's policy proposals, were so eager to believe the Republican Party's implication that Barack Obama wants to, in essence, disarm them, take their hard-earned money and give it to a bunch of shiftless Negroes.
My co-worker's ever-so-eloquent reply? "Because we're not liberal commies." I laughed, then ironically thanked him for being so helpful. His rejoinder: "It may be blunt, but it's true."
At this point, I realized that he was not attempting to amuse, in the manner that I might when jokingly calling him a fascist. Instead, he was dead serious; his mindless, and ultimately meaningless, iteration of hate-radio talking points was, in his own mind, a decisive bon mot.
I proceeded to ask him numerous questions about his beliefs. He refused to answer questions about actual public policy, instead preferring to engage in ad hominem attacks against the President; he repeatedly regurgitated the right-wing talking point concerning Obama's use of a teleprompter. Apparently not realizing that Reagan, Bush 41, Clinton and Bush 43 had also extensively used such devices, he was only too ready to embrace the notion that a black man, as he put it, "can't speak well without his teleprompter."
In addition, he blamed the President for numerous perceived misdeeds that had, in fact, been perpetrated by others (or that were simply the product of the right-wing imagination). It became increasingly clear that he had no affirmative beliefs. His focus was only upon what he hated; Barack Obama was symbolic for him, a convenient focal point for his copious and otherwise-incoherent rage. He had been fed by the likes of Rush and Sean and Billo, for the entirety of his life, a simple explanation for every problem that he faced, for every injustice that he discerned in the world: blame the evil libruls.
It saddened me that this was all there was to it, that there was not some greater, overarching philosophical basis for my co-worker's beliefs. But, in the end, that is what conservatism is: an appeal to our baser instincts, to the lesser angels of our natures, to anger, to hatred, to irrationalism.
And that is the chasm that separates us, in our nation and in the world: The thoughtful versus the superstitious, the modern versus the medieval, the rational versus the irrational.
And God help humanity if my side loses this battle.
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