The law of unintended consequences is going to slobber all over your face

Sometimes a good idea can go wrong, even with the best of original intentions. A couple years back, long before I had joined the team, my Pet Connection colleagues Gina Spadafori, Dr. Marty Becker, Keith Turner and Kim Thornton created DogCars.com. It's a site dedicated to vehicle reviews, specifically aimed at advising dog owners which cars would be best for them and their furry kids. Things like how low to the ground is the rear hatch -- so the dog wouldn't have to jump as high. It's a terrific idea, right? Yes, it is. It's a great site, very helpful, and I especially like the multi-paw ratings for each succeeding level of dog friendly vehicle. But here's the problem. Over time, it leads to the concept behind Dog Cars being misunderstood, and worse, misapplied.

Subaru, which happens to make very pet-friendly cars, is launching a campaign that will premiere this weekend on Animal Planet's Dogs 101 marathon tomorrow. The ads will also be featured prominently on the 6th Annual Puppy Bowl this Sunday, airing opposite a football game, of all things. And if you look at the content of the ads, you might see what I'm getting at. Olive and Zelda are demonstrating that they can drive, and even parallel park -- a feat of automotive derring-do which eludes many people I know.

And this is my central point: I'm not in favor of all dogs being allowed to drive. To be sure, I support the granting of rights to as much of our citizenry as possible. I believe that gays and lesbians everywhere should enjoy the same right to have their wages garnished due to failure to pay child support as the rest of us. I believe that Georgetown Hoya basketball fans, New York Yankees fans, and even Dallas Cowboys fans should be allowed to vote, and on a limited, strictly controlled basis, be allowed to hold elective office. Town Selectmen, state treasurer, stuff like that. I even support the right of Tea Party activists to breathe the same air as the rest of us, though responsibilities beyond that should be limited until they can prove conclusively that they're more capable of sentient thought than the average bullfrog.

But you have to admit that Subaru's pernicious campaign will lead to dreadful consequences. Border Collies, Weimaraners and Australian cattle dogs, no problem. They'll be fine, and I have no doubt will prove to be far better drivers than most residents of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and all southerners during snowstorms. Many, though certainly not all Labs, German shepherds, Dobermans, and a family of Flat Coated retrievers and a Sheltie I know of in Sacramento, they should be perfectly good behind the wheel. Schnauzers of all size, I expect, will be careful and courteous drivers, better than anyone you're likely to encounter on the average freeway at rush hour. But face reality. Irish Setters? Seriously? And Bull Mastiffs? Are you kidding me? We're not talking impressive attention spans here. I'm not going to pile on the "Afghan Hounds are rock stupid" bandwagon in this post, but, ok, yes I am. You have to admit that putting one of these dogs behind a couple hundred horsepower and a ton of metal, rubber and chrome at more than 50 MPH might not be a wise course of action, even in good weather. On an empty roadway. In daylight.

And then there are the dogs who will simply be too aggressive. You do NOT want to be in front of (or behind, for that matter) a Jack Russell or a West Highland terrier in a bad mood in fast moving traffic, or -- god forbid -- the poodle who's too busy applying her makeup to pay attention to the Toyota she's about to rear-end, which will then accelerate out of control, clobbering the poor, unsuspecting family of Shih-Tzu's out for their lunch date at the country club.

On a personal note, I have no confidence whatsoever that my own beloved Cami will be even an adequate driver, and I'm deeply resentful that after seeing the Subaru ad over the weekend, she's going to insist that *she* be allowed to take driving lessons, and that we not only buy her her own car (which we can't afford), but also driving gloves and matching shoes - and probably a new collar or three - so that she coordinates properly. Harry would be fine, I'm sure, borrowing my or P's car to run errands on occasion, and I would be amenable to that, though we'd have to make sure he stays away from the supermarket, because once he navigates his way to the butcher shop and the marrow bone section, it's all over. But little Missy Diva Piglet Punky Girl, I don't think so. I know my daughter, and this is just a recipe for disaster on so many levels I can't even bring myself to recount them all.

This is, at its core, all about what's known the Law of Unintended Consequences. One day a bunch of years ago, George and Barbara said "wouldn't it be a hoot if Dubya ran for office? That'd be great, and hey, he couldn't fuck up anything worse than he did the Texas Rangers, right?". What seemed like a harmless prank by a bored couple in Texas didn't turn out so well, did it? Actions have consequences, people. It's important to THINK SOMETHING THROUGH before you just spring it on the general public. I'm telling you, we're seeing a slippery slope effect at work here, and don't blame me when some irresponsible bitch (I can say that in this case -- do NOT give me a hard time about it) lets her rambunctious basset hound puppy get behind the wheel of her Mercedes SUV, and the next thing you know, we have a major catastrophe on I-95, or the 101 near San Francisco, or the I-35 near Dallas, or the Kennedy Expressway heading to O'Hare. You know it could happen, too.

All I'm saying is the law of unintended consequences could slobber all over your face, and innocent dachshunds (and their owners) will pay the price. I have no doubt I'll be inundated with comments now saying "my dog is smarter than your dog" and similar invective. Save it. I have seen the future, and it's going to ruin the leather upholstery.

Photo credit: Olive/Zelda: AdAge.com. Cami: PKG.

Mess with the bull, you get the horns

Fresh off his State of the Union address, President Obama was invited to speak today in Baltimore at a retreat of GOP Representatives. He was walking into the enemy's lair, as it were, and agreed not to simply address Republican Members of Congress, but also submit to a Q&A session following his remarks. I happened to tune in to CNN in time to watch. What I saw can only be described as remarkable. The GOP caucus members were, by their own words, "itching to quiz the President". They were so confident they'd own the day that they allowed the entire proceeding to be televised. CNN had most of it, but CSPAN had all of it. To call this unfriendly ground would be putting it mildly. Behind Mr. Obama on stage were House Minority Leader John Boehner (R-OH), Minority Whip Eric Cantor (R-VA), and House Republican Conference Chair Mike Pence (R-IN).

In the Q&A, the President listened to and responded to each and every standard, tired talking point in the GOP "arsenal" (I use the term loosely), and he calmly, eloquently, and utterly without rancor refuted each and every point they tried to make. A couple of the questioners were people the president happened to know well (one Congressman was a former colleague of the President's from their time together in the Illinois General Assembly). Whether he knew the questioner well or not, he continued to elucidate the same points: automatically barking "no" at everything coming from the White House, without having a reasoned response of your own serves no purpose, and does nothing to serve the people you're ostensibly representing. Additionally, if you're going to disagree with policies, at least have the decency to describe them accurately, and stop mischaracterizing (or outright lying about) them.

The President pointed out that GOP Caucus members had derisively called his health care proposals a "Bolshevik plot", when in fact many of the details in the President's plan had been proposed by Republicans in the 90's during the debate over Bill Clinton's failed health care initiative. His executive summary to the GOP: a "ton of civility instead of slash and burn would be helpful".

In the Q&A, though, the GOP had their chance to make their points, and that's when they looked foolish. Mike Pence of Indiana, as red blooded a Republican as they come, admitted candidly that their arguments were "simply demolished" by the President. He admitted they shouldn't have allowed the proceedings to be televised. They weren't talking to a bumbling, intellectually bereft George W. Bush anymore. Personally, I'm grateful for their miscalculation, because it reminded me once again why I voted for the President.




The GOP Caucus must have thought that Scott Brown's win would chasten Mr. Obama, and they'd be in control. Today's performance, though, shouldn't have been a surprise. The man was a law professor at the University of Chicago. The President showed Boehner and company for what they are on national television, and they should have seen it coming. The truth remains that the GOP has nothing of substance to offer. It has gained some good mileage from mocking the President for using a teleprompter (as if there's something wrong with that), but this time he had none, and he still beat them like a rented mule.

Barack Obama is a leader. I don't care what Boehner, McConnell, Grassley or Fox News have to say, because the truth is, they have nothing to say. "No" is not an argument, and President Obama showed that conclusively in Baltimore today. While I still believe that Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi are the two worst Democratic Congressional leaders in more than a century, it's heartwarming to know that Democrats have two powerful forces in our favor:

• the Republicans are led by John Boehner and Mitch McConnell, and
• Barack Obama in office, reminding us that once again, it's good to be an American.
  

Just stop already, ok?

The 2010 Super Bowl will be played at Sun Life Stadium. Where the hell is that, you ask. Hell, before this morning, I'd never heard the term in my life. Was a new stadium built in Miami since the Orange Bowl a few weeks ago? That game was played in (as Dave Barry would say, I'm not making this up) Land Shark Stadium. More on that name later. You know what I found out? Sun Life Stadium IS what was, since last May, Land Shark Stadium. All you Saturday Night Live fans of a certain age are depressed you can no longer chirp "land shark!", aren't you? Yeah, I am too.

It isn't the whole loss of the Chevy Chase-Dan Akroyd meme that's bothering me. And it isn't that Sun Life Financial paid $4 million a year to stick their name and logo all over the stadium now named for them. It's that this is the SEVENTH name this freakin' facility has had since it was built in 1987. That's right, it's six years younger than my son Marc, and it's had seven names. Officially, he's only had one. Nicknames don't count.

The multi purpose facility was initially christened Joe Robbie Stadium in 1987. Mr. Robbie was the founding owner of the Miami Dolphins, the primary tenant of the building. The MLB Florida Marlins play there too, as well as the Miami Hurricanes football team. In January, this is where the FedEx Orange Bowl is held. Actually, the game used to be played IN the Orange Bowl, which was a real live place, but it was a creaky old barn, and was torn down a few years back, so now the FedEx Orange Bowl isn't played in the Orange Bowl but we still call it the Orange Bowl because, oh who cares. It takes place in January, ok?

So back to the name. It was Joe Robbie Stadium until 1996. That's NINE years. An eternity, compared to what was to come. In 1996, Pro Player, an athletic clothing brand, bought the naming rights, and it became Pro Player Park. Sometime during that year, there must have been a vehement protest by Porky Pig that the name was giving rise to excessive spittle, so it then became Pro Player Stadium. That name stuck until 2005 - another 9 year run, which appears to be the upper limit on names for this place. The naming rights agreement then expired, at which point it became Dolphins Stadium. Remember, the Dolphins play there, and Joe Robbie was their first owner, so that wasn't a bad move, though it was already the fourth name in 18 years, so people had to have figured out by then that facility nameplates should only be applied with big velcro strips, and no office staff should buy too much stationary at a time.

Where were we? Oh yes, Dolphins Stadium. Far too sensible a name, don't you think? Yes, so did the folks in charge, because it became Dolphin Stadium, and got a spiffy new logo, which you see here. "Hey!", I hear you saying, "that's not a name change. It WAS Dolphin Stadium!". "Au contraire, mon frere", I respond. "Mais non". The new moniker was DOLPHIN Stadium. No terminal S for the marine mammal portion of the title. Dolphin, not DolphinS. Oddly, that did not mean that the football team could only have one player on the field at a time, so I don't have a clue as to why the offending "S" had to go, but it was jettisoned, presumably along with reams upon reams of hapless, now obsolete letterhead.

Dolphin -- let's just call it No Final S Stadium, stood for three years. Last summer, things got surreal. Along came Jimmy Buffet, he of the parrot head, cheeseburger in paradise, margaritaville, not quite drunk, not quite sober concerts. Jimmy entered into an agreement with the marketing department of Anheuser Busch -InBev to create Land Shark Lager for Mr. Buffet's chain of restaurants. They wanted more attention for the brew (I've never tasted it...is it any good?), so they decided to slap the name on the big ol' park, harkening back to the good ol' days when Saturday Night Live was really, really funny. Ironically, by the time the stadium WAS built, the whole landshark skit was already a distant memory. In the event that any of my loyal readers are either too young to have been alive in 1975, too fatally unhip to have watched at the time, or were alive but weren't allowed to stay up that late, here's a link to the first land shark sketch from Season 1 of Saturday Night Live.

Land Shark | Movies & TV | SPIKE.com

Ok, so this whole Land Shark Stadium deal? It expired after eight months. THEN, the name briefly reverted to No Final S Stadium. Now, the NFL Pro Bowl (next Sunday) and Super Bowl XLIV (Sunday, February 7 - Geaux Saints!) will be played at, wait, I've forgotten already. Oh yeah, Sun Life Stadium, thanks to Sun Life Financial Inc, which by the way, is based in CANADA! It's always possible that down the road, Sun Life might go out of business or be bought up by someone else (see New Boston Garden --> Shawmut Center --> FleetCenter-->TD Banknorth Garden --> TD Garden, though everyone in New England just calls it The Gahden). Honestly I could have used other facilities to make the point. All of you in San Francisco and Oakland, just insert the 31 names used for PacBell Park, Candlestick, and the big yard where the A's play.

This game of Name That Building, if transferred to people, would be like determining that next year, instead of Marc, we're going to call him George. Then eight months later, Andrew. Then Stephen. Then Steven, because, well, we feel like it. Then Alan, and Randy. We'll reserve the right to rename him Ned, Buzz, Harold, Thomas or Wayne (or some combination of any of those, as we see fit) down the road.

I get it when a company goes out of business. The Houston Astros used to play at Enron Field. It had to be renamed, for obvious reasons, and since 2002 it's been called Minute Maid Park (nicknamed The Juice Box). Apart from that sort of event, this insanity has to stop. I have to believe I'm not alone in this sentiment. My late grandmother saw Babe Ruth play at Fenway Park. My dad saw Ted Williams play at Fenway Park. I've seen Carl Yastrzemski, Jim Rice and Jacoby Ellsbury play at Fenway Park. Same place, just like Wrigley Field, Dodger Stadium and even (gasp!) Yankee Stadium. Yes yes, I know it's all about the Benjamins, but seriously, was money changing hands when Pro Player Park become Pro Player Stadium? Or the Dolphin / No Final S incarnations? And seriously, is that outweighed by the idiocy of an 8-month naming arrangement, followed by ten minutes of No Final S, followed by Sun Life, which will soon become Toshiba Television Park, then Ballpark Franks Ballpark, Hathaway Shirts Field, Toyota Prius Park, Starbucks Stadium, and finally, Trojan Condom Park?

Enough already. It's Miami, right? Let's just settle on one name, and keep it there. I even have a nomination: Gangland Field.

Massachusetts is red-faced

The rest of the country is dumbfounded. The sound you heard a little before 9:30pm tonight was the thud of collective jaws dropping all over the United States. The Senate seat held by Ted Kennedy for 47 years, and held by Democrats (including Ted’s brother, President Kennedy) since February of 1944 is now in Republican hands. How is this possible?

For starters, Martha Coakley ran an inexcusably poor campaign, and Scott Brown ran a picture perfect one that made people feel good about him being their new Senator. Martha Coakley was an awful candidate who either made spectacularly bad decisions or succumbed to appallingly bad advice from her advisors. She appeared to believe that all she had to do was win the primary, and from there it would all be smooth sailing. It took two weeks into a six week campaign for her to start a serious media presence. In the meantime, Coakley effectively ceded the airwaves and the public attention to Scott Brown. He’s a bright, good looking and well spoken (now-former) state senator, married to one of the best news reporters in Boston. Since he had nothing to lose, he played to win. Brown introduced himself to the Commonwealth’s electorate with his now-famous “truck ads”, and by the time the Coakley campaign figured out what was going on, their 30 point lead had evaporated. Brown dominated the agenda, and controlled the discussion. As they say, in politics, if you’re not on offense, you’re on defense. If Martha Coakley had a proactive gameplan, she never gave herself a chance to run it.

When she did start running a campaign against Brown, her formidable faults became apparent. While Brown looks like the guy you want to have a beer with and talk current events, Coakley comes across as the scolding, disapproving meter maid who won’t let you have the extra two minutes you need to put your shopping bags in the trunk and vacate the space. She’s already started writing the ticket, and, well, you should have thought of that before you decided to check out the big sale on shoes across the street. It’s clear that in her positions as Middlesex County DA and state Attorney General, she didn’t get much practice smiling. When she attempts the feat, it looks like she’s trying to do something she only read about in a book. Her smile isn’t just unnatural, it isn’t sized or shaped correctly for her face. So when Martha Coakley smiles, you’d prefer she reverted to her sour default look.

Then she opens her mouth, and you realize that the idea of her succeeding Ted Kennedy feels vaguely ludicrous. She’s a dreadful speaker, with all the charisma of a roll of store-brand paper towels. Her rhetorical skills are nearly as bad the late Senator Paul Tsongas, except he was brilliant, he cared deeply about what he was saying, and you could feel his passion in his words. It’s hard to tell if she’s brilliant, because she can’t get out of her own way. In the words of Steve Martin, some people have a way with words. Others, not have way.

In addition, Coakley has a disconcerting vocal affect that makes you wonder where she’s from, because you’ve never had a neighbor who sounded like that, and perhaps she could stop talking for a minute because your ears are starting to ache. From the beginning of the campaign to the end, in debates, interviews and stump speeches, Coakley couldn’t seem to muster up an original or interesting thought of her own. The late Senator Kennedy could take an audience, hold it in his hand, and if he wanted, put it in his pocket to take it for a walk around the US Capitol grounds. Martha Coakley couldn’t hold a crowd’s attention if she offered free beer.

Above all, Martha Coakley committed a mortal sin in politics: she severely underestimated her opponent. Contrary to what the rest of the country thinks, we do have a Republican party in Massachusetts. They’re small but effective. Republicans held the state house without interruption from 1991 (Bill Weld) until Deval Patrick took over the governor’s office in January of 2007. That’s 16 years. A couple of them (Jane Swift and Mitt Romney) were so bad they should have been sued for professional malpractice, but they were there in the corner office, gamely trying to run things. Coakley should have understood that assuming her opponent would be a tomato can of the Ray Shamie variety could prove fatal, but she either missed or ignored the memo.

Scott Brown framed the discussion, and he painted the Attorney General as “more of the same” Even though Massachusetts is generally seen as happy with the same, so many people are hurting economically that he was able to tap into a broad, inchoate displeasure with a recession that has hit the state hard, and a Democratic candidate who wasn’t exactly mesmerizing or confidence-inspiring. Brown himself had no solutions to offer. He’s a run of the mill Republican out of central casting, blathering on about lowering taxes, the supposed evils of government taking over health care, and how he’ll do something about that. The fact that he had little to no substance behind his rhetoric was beside the point. For two weeks, when voters were paying attention, he had the court to himself, he held serve, and he had skills. He kept talking about his trusty truck (as if his truck, with its 200,000 miles, renders him more suitable for office), and built visibility, name recognition and polling points. More than that, his candidacy caught fire. People began to believe he could win. The groundswell had begun, based on little more than “I have a truck, and you don’t want more of the same”. In politics, being the only one on stage for awhile means the only message people have to listen to is yours, and they’ll buy it if you sell it convincingly enough. In a short election, time is of the essence.

Coakley didn’t explain who she was or what she stood for until too late. When she woke up after missing the alarm for the first couple weeks, she immediately went negative -- another colossal misstep. In so doing, she gave the impression that Ted Kennedy’s Senate seat was, in fact, her birthright as a Democrat. Further, Brown’s temerity in running for the seat was an insult to the late Senator’s memory and she was going to get nasty about the insult. Therefore, you should vote for her, because, well, she never made it clear to the electorate why. Cohesive Messages R Us worked for Brown, not Coakley. By then, the DNC realized they had backed a lame horse, and started to panic. Bill Clinton was brought in. President Obama was asked to appear. The incessant robocalls started in earnest (I’ve heard friends report more than a dozen a day), Brown’s lead widened, and he was able to hold the momentum on up to Election Day.

There’s so much Martha Coakley could have said. Her policy positions resonate with what Massachusetts citizens believe about government and how policy should work, but she blew it. Health care reform and reproductive rights for women were slam dunk issues that should have blown a hole in the race, but Coakley couldn’t close the deal. She had Ted Kennedy’s legacy behind her, and she ran the worst statewide campaign anyone’s seen since the early 90’s, frittering away a 30 point lead. The race she couldn’t lose, she lost, and lost in humiliating fashion.

Now the super-majority has been taken away from the Democratic Senate Caucus. Filibusters are on the table again, health care reform is in serious jeopardy, and Martha Coakley had better hope Ted Kennedy’s ghost doesn’t find out where she lives, because if he does, she’ll never get a good night’s sleep again. Personally, I’m totally ok with that.

A campaign this thoroughly brain dead deserves consequences from beyond.

Dad's 40th birthday

My dad turns 40 today. No really, that’s what he said Friday night. We were siting down to dinner at Sel de la Terre in Boston to celebrate. He said he’s been celebrating his 39th birthday for long enough now (since the year man landed on the moon, and Joe Namath's New York Jets shocked the Baltimore Colts in the Super Bowl). It was time to turn 40, I suppose. Leap Day babies have got nothing on Robert Greene. The fact that I’m the youngest of his six kids and I’m 45 isn’t an issue. Dad’s judgment on that head-scratching conundrum: “That’s your problem”.

I gave him his 80th, uh, I mean 40th birthday present last year. Even if it was 12 months early, a 10-day vacation to Hawaii trumps pretty much everything, other than a 30-day vacation to Hawaii. Nobody offered that, so I win.

I’m the first to admit how fortunate I am to have a father whose birthday I can celebrate, and even better, a father I’m proud to say is my dad. He has always been, and continues to be, my idol. I probably said this last year, when I first explained why I was voluntarily embarking on such an unusual journey. Most middle aged men probably don't book 10 days in an island paradise with a parent, but I didn’t give it a second thought. It made perfect sense to me. He’s the one I’ve always been leaned on. There’s nobody else I would have considered asking to be my best man. I’ve always known that no matter what, he’s understood what made me tick. I’m a Red Sox fan because he instilled the passion of the game in me, and I’m a sailor because he showed me the value of an easy beam reach.

Dad shares his birthday with the most fascinating cross section of people you’ve probably heard of: Benjamin Franklin, Muhammad Ali, Mack Sennett, Anne Bronte, Andy Kaufman, Al Capone, Anton Chekhov, James Earl Jones, Jim Carrey, Vidal Sassoon, Michelle Obama, Kid Rock and Dwayne Wade. Or should I say they share their birthday with him.

Happy 40th birthday, dad.

Just because you can doesn't mean you should

A Pet Connection reader sent me a fascinating link, and asked if I thought it was legitimate. The owner of a German Shepherd is offering $2000 plus expenses for someone who would be willing to donate their German Shepherd's healthy kidney to replace the failing kidneys of his dog Orso. Orso is suffering from kidney dysplasia (a genetic, irreversible disorder). Without a new kidney, Orso will die. With an organ donation, there's still no guarantee -- organ rejection syndrome works the same way in animals as it does in people, but a small chance is admittedly better than none.

It appears the listing is most likely not a hoax. Organ transplantation for animals does exist, though it's prohibitively expensive ($11-13,000 plus post-surgical immuno-suppressive medication costs that can reach $2,000/month for the rest of the recipient's life) and entails risks on both sides. The man is understandably hoping against hope that a miracle donor of the same bloodline as his dog is out there, and could save Orso's life. Whether it's legitimate or not, I can't help.

However, even if Cami or Harry were shepherds, and were from the same bloodline, I still wouldn't do it. In people, organ donations happen one of two ways. Either a living person who matches agrees to donate, or it's done post mortem, presumably by a donor who agreed to donate while they were still using the organs in question. Neither scenario is possible with pets. Neither a cat nor a dog can say "sure, I can live on one kidney. You can have the other one". Additionally, post mortem donation isn't done. The technology doesn't exist for that, and even if it did, an elderly pet's organs are generally not useful for young ones.

But my central point is that I would be violating my responsibility as a conscientious pet owner to allow such a donation. Cami and Harry can't give consent, and I have no right to agree to donating their perfectly healthy body part, unnecessarily risking their health (or their life) on behalf of any other animal. My responsibility is to care for them to the best of my ability, to promote their health and welfare their entire lives. Most of all, to borrow a line from the Hippocratic Oath, I promise to do no harm. Although I'm their "owner", their organs aren't mine to donate. Selling or donating [insert body part here] is intentionally doing harm, no matter the justifying rationale. Seems to me I'd be demonstrating myself to be an irresponsible dog owner, and I'd rather cut off my own right arm than break faith with my best buddy.

I love animals. I wouldn't be writing this if I didn't. My own pet's health and safety will always be far more important than that of any other animal, without exception or hesitation. My heart truly goes out to Orso's owner. Watching his beloved dog suffering from progressive renal failure has got to be a pain like no other, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy (well, maybe my WORST enemy, but nobody else). Nevertheless, my pet can't be their putative savior. I wouldn't bet my pet's health (and life, perhaps) on the speculative gamble that might, perhaps, still not save Orso (the success rate for canine renal transplants is only 40%). Even if the success rate were better, to me that still wouldn't be sufficient justification for causing intentional harm.

So what do you think? For purposes of the discussion, let me stipulate three assumptions.

1. The reward money wouldn't make you or break you. Of course $2,000 is great to have, but it won't make the difference between keeping your house or homelessness, food or starvation. The money doesn't constitute a critical need.
2. You are a responsible pet owner. You aren't going to steal another dog for the reward. You love your animal(s), you treat them as your children, and you do whatever is best of them. In other words, you're not Michael Vick.
3. Your pet won't die in the process of organ donation. There are the usual, customary risks of anaesthesia, surgery and recovery, but not more than normal. Otherwise, they'll live and eventually be ok, minus one organ.

If you had a pet who matched the breed, bloodlines, age, size and all other relevant parameters, and were faced with the prospect of $2,000 plus expenses to donate your otherwise healthy pet's organ to a complete stranger, would you? Please comment and check back to follow. I'm interested in your opinions.

Photo Credit: Orso: pedigreedatabase.com. Surgery: flickr creative commons

...and never brought to mind

May you all have a very happy new year, and here's to a 2010 that doesn't suck.



A tip of the fedora to SomeECards

2009 Thankful list, part the fourth: Cami and Harry

This the fourth and final post in the series detailing things for which I'm thankful this year

Tangled puppies in a small bed.

There never was a plan to have two dogs. We were only looking for a female dog because that was what my wife wanted. I wanted a furry buddy, and I wasn't picky about the gender. However, while P was examining the girl, I distracted her brother, with no intention whatsoever of keeping him. This little 4 pound puppy with the soulful eyes had other ideas. He snuggled into my down jacket on that cold December afternoon in 2001 and gave a contented little sigh. I was a goner. We decided to get both. I looked into his eyes and knew his name should be Harry. I don't know why. The face said 'Harry'. “Potter Dachshund Greene” followed naturally after that.

Harry Potter Dachshund Greene

As for the girl, she was always going to be named Camilla, pronounced Ca-MEE-ya, as if you had a wicked New England accent, saying “come here”. We figured out immediately that of the two, she was the handful, with the personality that extended far beyond her little body. The rest of her name became nothing more than natural descriptors of who she was: Camilla Missy Diva Piglet Punky Girl. 'Piglet' replaced 'Princess' when it was clear she had the voracious appetite of a Labrador retriever, and Punky Girl came from her ceaselessly getting herself into trouble, often while her brother sat nearby, saying "hey, don't look at me. I'm merely sitting here watching."

Cami at a year and a half

I didn’t even want a dachshund. Truth be told, I’d always coveted golden retrievers or other big dogs I could play football with, and never had one of my very own. I didn't mind lapdogs a bit, but Dachshunds were too yippy, not especially friendly, and not nearly cute enough. The traditional smooth hair dachshund looked vaguely alien to me. I never had much use for the doxies I'd met, but P saw a longhaired dachshund in a store near where we lived in Boston and was immediately smitten. I researched the breed online. Damn, this variant was gorgeous. The coat is beautiful. I’ve come to describe them jokingly as resembling Irish Setters with their legs cut off (and about 100 IQ points smarter). Research indicated that the longhaired variety had some advantages over the traditional smooth haired dachshund. They tend to have gentler temperaments and are considered by some to be more trainable (a little less of the classic dachshund stubbornness). What we found in reality: gentler, for the most part yes. Trainable, sure. Reduced stubbornness, not so much.

Although Harry is very laid back, flawlessly obedient and endlessly accommodating, his sister's a different story. When she wants to be, Cami can be as willful as my mom’s late West Highland Terrier. She’s much sweeter than that Westie was, though, and that’s worth a lot. And then there was something I had never encountered before. In all my years of dog ownership, I’d never had a true alpha, until Cami. If she were a human being, I’m not entirely sure we'd be friends, but her overriding sweetness renders her utterly irresistible. She MUST be in charge at all times, and seems to enjoy dominating, well, any other dog who even looks at her funny. She’s has backed down German shepherds, Bernese mountain dogs and more Labs than I care to count. However, I have to acknowledge that dogs create their own socialized pecking orders, and Cami fits in to her “pack” just fine.

My favorite picture of Cami

While I don’t dispute people who say a dog is only as good as his owner, there is such a thing as a truly great dog. P and I have two of them. Dr. Marty Becker, my new colleague at Pet Connection, put it best in a recent conversation. "There's only one greatest pet in the world...and every family has it." He’s right, we do. They’re the happiest dogs I’ve ever had, and combined with their ridiculous smarts, it makes for a priceless combination.

Cami (l) and Harry (r) with Roz when they were puppies

Nobody told me beforehand or prepared me for how smart dachshunds are. We have to spell entirely too many words, or worse, become excessively wordy. I cannot, for instance, casually mention to P that I’m going for a walk, if it’s not going to involve the children. Instead, I will ‘engage in an out of doors perambulation’. Thank God I have a good vocabulary. In addition, their problem solving skills are better than those of some people I know. The word “manipulative” doesn’t even begin to describe what they’re capable of. Like a Border Collie, you can almost see the wheels turning when they have their minds set on a goal. I feel strongly that someone should have clued us into that beforehand.

Nevertheless, when I’m away from home on business, I miss them the most. I can (and do) speak to my wife multiple times a day. We also text each other. I can’t talk to Cami and Harry when I’m away. They don’t know where I am or why I’m not home. Daddy’s just inexplicably gone. Coming home, whether it’s after a few hours or a couple weeks, well, it’s priceless.

I’ve always felt badly for people who have never had pets, who have never felt the furry, cuddling body, or known the joy of your best buddy doing the full-body wag upon your return home, or witnessed the adoring eyes saying “I love you, daddy”. They’re priceless souls who add far more to our world than I’ll ever be able to express. Being known as Cami and Harry’s daddy is a wonderful feeling, and someday I hope I can be the man my dogs think I am.

The Vick saga gets bizarre: "Have you no sense of decency?"

The following was posted this afternoon to the blog for petconnection.com, and yes, I wrote it. Obviously, I've been having fun over there...
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I admit it. Before I click on my browser’s bookmark for Pet Connection each day, I click on ESPN.com. I’ve been a sports nut longer than I’ve been pretty much anything else. This morning, a sports headline nearly knocked me out of my chair. Michael Vick has been voted the Philadelphia Eagles’ recipient of the 2009 Block Courage Award.

The Block Award is named after Ed Block, who was a well-known humanitarian and former head athletic trainer of the Baltimore (now Indianapolis) Colts. Quoting from their own website:

The Ed Block Courage Award Foundation is dedicated to improving the lives of neglected children and ending the cycle of abuse. The purpose is to raise Awareness and Prevention of child abuse. That objective is coupled with the Foundation’s commitment to celebrating players of inspiration in the NFL.

This is, basically, the NFL’s lower-profile version of baseball’s Clemente Award, named for Roberto Clemente, who played for the Pittsburgh Pirates until he was killed in a plane crash on New Year’s Eve 1972 while delivering relief supplies to victims of a Nicaraguan earthquake. The Block Award exists to recognize and celebrate notable good works off the field more than on-field performance. Even more importantly, you should know it’s voted on by each team’s players, not front office, fans or media.

This means Vick’s teammates decided he was such a good guy, such a role model for his public works on behalf of others, that he deserved to be lauded as their own community role model. Going back to the mission of the Block Award “…dedicated to improving the lives of neglected children and ending the cycle of abuse. The purpose is to raise Awareness and Prevention of child abuse.” Abused children and abused dogs have a lot in common. Neither are able to defend themselves against marauding people bent on causing them harm, and neither deserve the horrors visited upon them. The Block Courage Award is dedicated to ending the cycle of such abuse. Michael Vick perpetuated, and indeed encouraged the abuse, going so far as to slaughter dogs himself, according to eyewitness reports (from his own former employees).

In the past year since he was released from prison and reinstated by the NFL, I’ve lost count of how many interviews I’ve read and seen from players, his colleagues, who have said substantially “Look, the guy was punished for his crimes. He did his time. He gets to resume his life now, so back off, leave him alone, and let the man earn a living.”

He isn’t a star, and in fact Vick’s only played an ancillary role in the Eagle offense this year. I don’t like his presence in the NFL, but that’s not my call. Now, though, he’s lauded by his teammates as a role model? How have we gotten to the point where we not only celebrate poor behavior (i.e. the movie “Mean Girls,” the ongoing fascination with stories such as Jon vs. Kate and balloon boy, etc.) but now the convicted felons receive prestigious awards?

Fine, he’s earning a living. But calling him a “player of inspiration” is beyond the pale. The memories of the dogs in whose slaughter he assisted are again insulted. The award, and the other 31 (more worthy) 2009 NFL recipients are also duly insulted. Vick shouldn’t be mentioned in the same breath as Mike Furrey of the Cleveland Browns, who truly is a good citizen, or Shawntae Spencer of the San Francisco 49ers, who returned from a devastating knee injury in 2008 to become a team leader and star.

Vick has done nothing laudable, courageous or even exemplary. He’s a convicted felon whose crimes are often minimized by some as “just a part of his upbringing in a tough neighborhood.” Instead of a cautionary tale, today I can imagine kids in Vick’s hometown of Newport News, Va., saying to themselves “Hey, no matter what we do wrong, no matter how much trouble we get into, we can still play in the NFL, and our teammates will say we’re OK.”

To Vick’s teammates on the Eagles who voted for him, all I can do is quote Joseph Welch in front of the Army-McCarthy hearings in 1954. “Have you no sense of decency sir[s], at long last? Have you left no sense of decency?”

The Hanukkah story, chapter 3

Here’s what really happened.

There was plenty of oil. There was ALWAYS plenty of oil. For those who tended to the temple lighting implements and monitored oil reserves, the amount of the oil was never in doubt. However, everyone fancies themself an expert, and people who didn’t have the foggiest idea what the hell they were talking about insisted on complaining and catastrophizing.

“Oy, there’s not enough oil! Oyvayzmir, what are we gonna do, this is awful, God will hate us, and smite us, and send more awful people to do more awful things to us, and the sky will fill with darkness, the cattle will fall over dead, my ankles will swell and I won’t be able to wear those wonderful shoes I just got, the strappy ones with the cute little buckle, you should see them, they’re so pretty, especially with the new black dress I found on sale, can you believe it. Oy, there’s not enough oil, we’re doomed”.

Let’s be clear, nobody ever listened to these insufferable bores. They talked, but so what? They always talked. They talked so much you didn’t hear them. Always inveighing against something, they were always wrong, and roundly ignored, even by their own children, who were busy trying to figure out how to become best friends with or seduce Bruce The Goodlooking Tall Dark And Handsome Oh My This Is A Boy That My Daughter Could Marry We Should Be So Lucky Maccabee.

There was one particular talker, the leader of the pack. This particular annoying, non-stop complaining person had a name. Now, I must acknowledge the obvious. History never recorded this person’s name. It could have been a man, but it wasn’t. You know it wasn’t. It was a woman. Her name could have been Riva, Harriet or Bertha, but it wasn’t any of those. Her name was Zelda.

Zelda had a mouth that could power Jerusalem by itself. Her voice cut through the morning fog like a hot knife through brisket. Zelda had her coterie of friends, but nobody else paid her any mind. Her husband Mordechai had died years before, after becoming terminally sick of his nonstop talking wife. He tried to disable his own ears by spearing them with a ram’s horn. The problem was the rest of the ram didn’t appreciate being utilized as a tool to solve someone else’s marital problem, and it quickly stomped Mordechai to death. The ram didn’t hang around to admire his handi, uh, hoofiwork. He couldn’t. Zelda started screaming again, and the ram suddenly realized he had just performed a messy, bloody but nevertheless kind mitzvah (blessed good deed) for poor Mordechai. The ram beat hooves out of Zelda’s hut, and retreated back to his lair to explain to his family what a weird day he'd just had, and perhaps those people deserved whatever happened to them, because even on their worst and smelliest days, rams aren't that annoying.

So back to Zelda. She wasn’t a stupid woman, but she wasn’t a happy one, either. She couldn’t attend High Holy Day services anymore, because one of the highlights is the ceremonial blowing of a ram’s horn, and her psychiatrist agreed that her PTSD would be exacerbated by the memory of the loss of her dearly (albeit strangely) departed husband. She was, therefore, shunned by most decent people. Zelda never understood that it had nothing to with whether or not she showed up for prayers. People just couldn’t stand her.

Nevertheless, the retaking of the temple was a communal event, and Zelda was there with everyone else. When it was discovered that the most of the oil had been spoiled by The Bad Guys, a collective gasp went up from the crowd. Although The Keeper Of The Oil (the Temple custodian and superintendant, a very nice man named Lenny, whom everyone loved, especially the kids, because he let them eat the leftover pastries from the larger and fancier bar and bat-mitzvahs) knew there was plenty of perfectly good oil left, Lenny never raised his voice much above a whisper. He didn’t see the point of yelling. Also, he was painfully shy around everyone over the age of 15. They intimidated him. So Lenny knew, the rabbis knew, the cantor knew, the cantor’s wife knew, the Temple president, vice-president, treasurer, secretary, president-emeritus, the president emeritus’ wife, and most everyone else in the crowd knew, but Zelda didn’t. Zelda was late to the temple meeting because she was stuck in traffic, so she was in the back of the room, which was very crowded. By the time word filtered to the back, “There’s enough oil” became “There’s not enough oil”. Zelda, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, started up. “Oy, there’s not enough oil! Oyvayzmir, what are we gonna do, this is awful, God will hate us, and smite us, and send more awful people to do more awful things to us, and the sky will fill with darkness, the cattle will fall over dead, my ankles will swell and I won’t be able to wear those wonderful shoes I just got, the strappy ones with the cute little buckle, you should see them, they’re so pretty, especially with the new black dress I found on sale, can you believe it. Oy, there’s not enough oil, we’re doomed”.

She didn’t just do this once. Every day, she’d return to the temple and say the same thing. (I’m not retyping it. You can just go back to the previous paragraph and read it again, ok? I typed it twice. You can read it twice. In fact, please read it eight times, just to save me the bother. Thanks)

As I said, there was always enough oil. Zelda was prone to overreaction. She repeated herself a great deal, and she was by now perhaps becoming a bit femisched (pronounced “fe-MISHed, meaning confused), and she kept on with the complaining as if she said it enough, it might come to pass. (This is the basis of The Big Lie. Say it enough times at a high enough volume, and hope people will eventually start to believe it. See: Abner Doubleday inventing baseball in Cooperstown, The Warren Commission Report, WMD in Iraq, and the edibility of blue cheese)

So the oil lasted through the entire eight days, of course. Lenny knew it would. All the Maccabees knew it would. The Rabbis knew. The Temple president knew. But none of them carried the history onward. Zelda was the one who kept talking, and Zelda was convinced it was a miracle from God. She was full of wildebeest entrails, but when everyone else forgot about what was honestly a total non-event, Zelda kept repeating the story over the years as if it was, well, gospel. She told her children. They weren’t paying attention at the time of the "miracle", of course. In fact, they weren’t in the temple when the so-called oil controversy began. They were out getting thoroughly stoned on ground-up ram’s horns they had snorted in the woods behind the temple parking lot. It was a real problem in those days. Eventually the problem got so out of control, there weren’t enough ram’s horns to use for High Holy Day Services, and the Jews had to barter with nearby Arabs. It cost them a very nice ark, rumored to contain the Holy Covenant. Quite the scandal, but that's grist for another post.

Zelda’s children told their children the apocryphal legend, they told their children, and so on and so on. History and legends are both written by those who tell the stories, whether it's the truth or not. Today, we light a menorah because an agitated, thoroughly annoying woman in the back of the temple who refused to listen to reason made up a story. We like holidays. The reason, like that used for Hanukkah, can be completely fokakta (screwed up), but hey, it’s an excuse to eat wonderfully addictive food. At Hanukkah, it’s latkes. Who doesn’t like little fried potato pancakes? Especially with sour cream or apple sauce. So thank you, Zelda. Lighting a menorah tonight, which commemorates your over-reactive hysteria, represents our version of the winter solstice holiday that every faith since the dawn of man has created. In the dead of winter, we create light to hope for the renewal of the sun, warmth and the blossoming of the earth again. The goyim do that at Christmas, we do it at Hanukkah. Tomorrow's the last night of Hanukkah. Light a candle for Zelda. She deserves it.

Enough talking. I smell latkes.

The Hanukkah story, chapter 2

In the last post, I recounted the official story of how Hanukkah came to be: a rebel family called the Maccabees fought off the Greco-Syrians to defend Judea, and in a divinely inspired miracle, enough oil to keep the menorah of the Holy Temple lit for one day lasted for eight. That’s the story, and to that I say hogwash. Or, pastramiwash.

Let’s start with a fact of the times. Most, if not all stories we now know from antiquity weren’t recorded contemporaneously. They were passed down for generations (or in many cases, centuries) as oral history. Grandparents to children to grandchildren and so on. And in so doing, they can become an elaborate example of the game Telephone. Details change, get twisted, and disappear. And the story is always skewed in favor of the person telling it, or friends of theirs.

So back to the Maccabees. They weren't just a family. They were more than just the guys doing the fighting, even though those are the only ones we hear about through the millennia. It was a big, extended crowd (or as we’d call it in Yiddish, a “gantse mishpuche” – a huge family, meaning it included inlaws, outlaws, close friends, wannabes and hangers on, too). They weren’t all brave, noble fighters. There were the nerds, like Harold The Bookworm Would It Hurt You To Go Outside Once In A While You're So Pasty Maccabee, the wimpy, downright cowardly relatives like Merton Afraid Of His Own Shadow It’s So Mortifying If Only Your Grandfather Were Alive To See This Maccabee , and completely apathetic relatives like Sid the Shiftless No Goodnik Who Didn’t Even Finish Law School, Can You Believe Maccabee. There were also the usual assortment of Bruce The Goodlooking Tall Dark And Handsome Oh My This Is A Boy That My Daughter Could Marry We Should Be So Lucky Maccabee and Aaron Ok He's Not the Sharpest Knife In the Drawer But He's a Good Man And You Can't Have Everything So You Should Be Happy And You Can't Always Get What You Want What A Catchy Phrase Maccabee. These guys all had wives, sisters, brothers, daughters, parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, dogs, cats, birds, gerbils, lizards, guinea pigs, you get the idea. It wasn’t just a few guys in a VW microbus.

The important thing to remember here is that Jewish families are just like all other families. As I often say, every family is (screwed) up in their own particular way. There’s no such thing as normal. Never has been. The Maccabees had the distinct disadvantage of being well-known and highly visible. That inevitably means the more embarrassing members of the clan had to be kept quieter than the regular rabble. After all, you don’t want to the big star soldier up on stage while the old biddies in the back of the hall are whispering to each other “oh sure, look at that hotshot getting the Maccabee Memorial Prize for Exceptionally Impressive Valor In The Face Of Enemies Who Want to Turn Us Into Chopped Liver, And Not the Good Stuff, Either, No, The Dietetic Crap You Have To Feed Your Grandmother Who Can’t Digest Anything Anymore. Did you hear about his cousin Shana The Miskeit? Such a shame about her, drunk as a skunk off the temple wine last Passover. She decided the Four Questions weren’t enough. Such a bigmouth. She must have asked thirty. Maybe forty. I lost count. The girl was yelling all kinds of things about goats and vegetables and what she had done with the Rabbi’s son last Simcha Torah. Oy, such a shunda (embarrassment). And those are our valiant role models? Feh.”

Don’t discount those biddies. They’re the ones who tell the stories. They’re the ones who, more often than not, are the root of the oral histories. You know it’s true, too. Your grandmother’s stories are told every year, over and over, until you’ve memorized them. She’s not just telling *you* the stories. She’s telling all her friends, too. She has her not inconsiderable circle of influence, and the more she talks, the wider the circle inevitably becomes, year after year, decade after decade, wider and wider, told over and over and over. And that’s how it starts.

There’s always an historian, but that doesn’t mean they necessarily wear bow ties and faded tweed jackets or they spend their time scolding kids with the eternal “Shhhhh”. The historians are the ones who tell the stories. Invariably, they do it from their own point of view. As the movie Rashomon taught us, there’s always the effect of the subjectivity of perception on recollections passed on to others. In other words, how you feel about what you saw will color what you say about it later.

That said, I know who the Maccabee historian was. It wasn’t one of the big, impressive male warriors. Guys who do the fighting don’t do the talking. They’d rather be left alone to take a shower, then have a beer with their buddies, replete with fist bumps, satisfied smiles and nods of “that’s right, we’ve got it goin’ on. You mess with the bull, you get the horns”.

And it wasn’t their wives or girlfriends. They were too busy basking in the reflected light of their heroes, and telling their friends “I know, right? Can you believe MY boyfriend just saved the whole country? How cool is that? You bet your ass I’m getting a big rock now to flaunt in the face of all those beeyotches who thought they deserved him over me”.

It also wasn’t their parents. They were too busy kvelling (bursting with pride), talking to their friends “I know, right? Can you believe MY son just saved the whole country? How cool is that? You bet your ass I’m getting a big portrait of My Son The Hero now to flaunt in the face of all those beeyotches who thought I was a lousy parent”.

It was one of The People Who Talk. Fortunately for you, I know who it was. In the next post, I’ll reveal her name, and tell you the rest of the story (Paul Harvey can’t sue me for writing that. He’s dead).

Come back Thursday.

The Hanukkah story, chapter 1

So what is Hanukkah (or Hannukah or Chanukah, or however the hell you want to spell it) about, anyway? The following is taken from Judaism.about.com:
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About 2200 years ago, Greek kings, who reigned from Damascus, ruled over the land of Judea and the Jews living there.

One Greco-Syrian King, Antiochus Epiphanes, forbade the Jewish people from praying to their God, practicing their customs, and studying their Torah. Antiochus forced the Jews to worship the Greek gods. It is said that he placed an idol of the Greek God Zeus on the alter in the Holy Temple of Jerusalem.

In response to this persecution, Judah Maccabee and his four brothers organized a group of resistance fighters known as the Maccabees. They fought against paganism and oppression. The tenacity of the rebels, which came from their steadfast faith in one God, is one reason this military victory has been so celebrated by Jews in future generations. In one battle near Beit Horon, Judah's small army is intimidated by the size of the enemy army and Judah tells them to have faith that God is on their side. Against great odds, after three years of fighting, the Maccabees succeeded to drive the Greco-Syrians out of Judea. The Maccabees reclaimed the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. They cleaned the Temple, removing the Greek symbols and statues. When Judah and his followers finished cleaning the temple, they rededicated it

According to tradition, when the Maccabees entered the Holy Temple, they discovered that the Greco-Syrians had defiled the oil which was used for the Temple's menorah. Only one vat of purified oil remained - enough for only one day. It would take the Jews a week to process more purified oil. Then a miracle occurred. The Maccabees lit the menorah and it burned for not one, but eight days, by which time the new, purified oil was ready. This is why the Hanukkah Menorah has eight candles (not including the shamash candle used to light the others) and one reason why Jews celebrate Hanukkah for eight days.



Ok, that’s the official story which Jewish kids are taught in Hebrew School. The essence is this: enough oil for one day lasted for eight, and God helped us through. We Jews pride ourselves on questioning everything, and I have to call BS on the Hanukkah story. It feels wrong, and I think, no, I know I can explain what really happened. What will follow in succeeding posts is my take on the official story, and why I believe that Hanukkah’s an embarrassingly silly holiday, and wasn’t a miracle at all. Not even close. When I’m done, you’ll believe me. Or you won’t, but you want to stay tuned. C’mon, you’ve read this far. Aren't you curious to know what really happened?


Come back for the next post tomorrow. You know you want to.

December Poll answers

Wow, I have to give you all more polls to answer!
Egg nog. LOVE the stuff. Lisa and Evelyn, that's ok, I'll take yours! Best answer was Gwenyth, who decided that anything tastes good with enough alcohol in it.


Snow. Most of you like it. You're decidedly strange people. Makes me want to hibernate. When I spent time in Syracuse, I was never more terrified than the first time I saw a horizontal snowstorm. When it was over, one end of the street was completely dry. The other end? A 20-foot snowdrift. That was just wrong, and depressed me more than I can tell you.


Handel's Messiah. If you don't like it, I'm betting you've never heard it done properly. Here in Boston we are blessed to have the Handel & Haydn Society, who annually put on a terrific performance, but there are also great Messiah's done each year in San Francisco, New York, Salt Lake City, and lots of other places. I don't care if you're Protestant, Catholic, Jewish or you believe in the Cosmic Muffin. Done right, this is a great piece of music, period. As for recordings, I submit to you one of the most astonishing performances you will ever hear. Andrew Davis, the Toronto Symphony, the Toronto Medelssohn Choir at the top of their game, a pipe organ that you can feel in your gut, and a quartet of soloists without equal. I look forward to listening to this 2-cd set in my car each year.


I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. Ohmigod I loathe this song. Just typing the title pains me. I worked in a mall selling jewelry over far too many Christmases, and when my manager wanted to get a rise out of me, he put this idiotic piece of trash on the store's little boombox, just to watch my ears bleed. Hate with the burning heat of a thousand suns. More than the Yankees. Yeah, that much.

(Leigh, Larry, Fred, and the rest of you who think this isn't a symbol of evil, you're welcome. Don't say I never gave you nuthin')


The Grinch. Only Lillian didn't like it. Dear Lillian, you realize I mean the animated show with Boris Karloff voicing the Grinch, not the puerile movie, right? I love the whole damn thing. "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch" is a fookin' classic. Cindy Loo-Hoo, who was no more than two. Dahoo Doray. The very last can of Hoo Hash. Max and the sled. A heart two sizes too small. Pantoozles and Wuzzles. It's not just a classic. It's the best animated holiday show ever made, period, full stop. Nothing else close.


It's a Wonderful Life. I admit it's schlocky now, but I don't care. I'm an absolute sucker for Capra movies, and Jimmy Stewart is just, well, Jimmy Stewart. And I'm not afraid to admit that I get choked up at the end every time. Mock away. It's great movie-making.


Christmas Shopping. Lye. Tarantulas. Kissing Dick Cheney on the mouth. Eating brisket. Rooting for Derek Jeter, the Dallas Cowboys or Newt Gingrich. All of those are preferable to shopping. Even if I had money to spend. Well, okay, maybe not the Cheney thing.



Hanukkah is a profoundly dumb holiday. Seriously, it is. And you know I'm Jewish, right? I like menorahs, lighting candles and chocolate, but I've never heard of a more transparently silly story as the basis for a holiday. Hell, a virgin having a baby sounds reasonable compared to Hanukkah. Stay tuned for more posts on this little pet peeve of mine.


The trend away from actually saying Merry Christmas. C'mon, gang. It's Christmas. That's what the holiday is called. Why can't it be said out loud? I don't get offended by someone wishing me a Merry Christmas. They're saying something nice. They're not telling me how to vote or drive or what to eat. They're saying "blessings of the season to you". If someone has a problem with that, perhaps they should switch to decaf.




PLEASE NOTE: My new *other* blog project is about to go into its second week over at petconnection.com. I'm having a blast, and the people there are beyond delightful. Go read Gina's very gracious introduction for me (replete with a shot of Cami and Harry), my first post, my second post, and don't forget to check back every Monday and Thursday morning for more, plus the occasional other contributions to important pet-related discussions. If you're a pet person, petconnection should be required reading, anyway. These people know their stuff, and they're not afraid to share the knowledge.

A furry new gig

When I mentioned my friend Gina in the recent California Dreamin' post, I said "There's a good chance I'll have something more to say about Gina in the near future, but that's material for another post." Well, here you go.



I have a new gig. For those not familiar with it, Pet Connection is probably the best site out there for rational, unbiased information on all things pets. Dogs, cats, birds, horses, rabbits, and other critters get the love and attention they deserve here. The team is led by Dr. Marty Becker - more on him in a moment, Gina, who's the executive editor and keeps the trains running on time, Christie Keith, and a whole host of very talented and experienced pet experts. Do you remember the huge story a couple years back about a massive pet food recall that was spurred by the deaths of thousands of pets due to kidney failure? The root cause was eventually tied to contaminated wheat gluten from China. Pet Connection broke that story. They're not beholden (or owned by) any big companies. They aren't trying to sell you anything. Their agenda consists of scrupulous honesty, a careful examination of the facts relative to pet health, and the promotion of the happiness, safety and welfare of furry and feathered friends.

At the outset, I'll have a couple responsibilities for the pet connection team. The first will be noting and reporting on the Pet Connection staff's public appearances, notably those by Dr. Marty Becker. His name will be familiar to watchers of Good Morning America, where he's been the resident veterinarian for more than ten years. If you still have your Sunday paper, go grab the Parade Magazine. Gina and Dr. Becker have an article in it today about small dogs. They're frequent contributors to Parade, and have a whole passel of books they've written together (with another on the way).

I'll also be doing a twice a week recap of interesting articles, discussions and blog posts from around the Web that Pet Connection readers will want to check out. My first post will appear tomorrow. These posts will be viewable on Mondays and Thursdays.

Although this is a part time arrangement, it's still very important. To begin with, I'm writing, and that's always good. More importantly, it allows me to dust off my journalism hat. After all these years, I find it still fits. I'm excited and honored to be a part of this new team!


P.S. Keep the holiday poll votes coming in! Answers and my responses to come later this week, along with what I hope will be a fun, irreverent look at Hanukkah.

A December Poll

In honor of the season, it's time for a two part poll.
First, I'll ask you a series of questions. You tell me whether you agree with 1 or 2. Give me your answers via the comments below. Don't email me, please. Those won't count, and I'll mock you in response. You don't want that. I want to see your votes, and so does everyone else. After a week or so, I'll tally them up and then give you my answers (that's the second part of the two part poll. Pay attention). And as we know by now, it's all about me. So read, then ANSWER, DAMMIT!!!
Thanks.
Love,
David


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Egg nog

1. is yummy
2. makes me nauseous. Would you like some wallpaper paste with that?

Snow

1. makes me happy, and gets me in the holiday spirit
   
2. makes me want to hibernate

Handel’s Messiah:

1. is overplayed crap. So help me, if I hear the Hallelujah Chorus one more time, I’m going to scream. It’s worse than Pachelbel’s Canon
2. is just about the only thing I listen to on my car CD player during the entire month of December. I can't get enough of it.
   

"I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"

1. has to be the most thoroughly annoying Christmas song ever written. Every time I hear it I want to blow up the radio.
2. is a fun, romantic gem. A holiday classic.

"How the Grinch Stole Christmas"

1. is the best animated holiday show ever. Cindy Lou Hoo, Max, and the Grinch, whose heart was two sizes too small. And don’t forget the Hoo Hash. It’s an annual event, and I never miss it.
2. is dated and hasn’t been funny since I was about 9, which is the last time I watched it..

"It’s a Wonderful Life"

1. is sappy, simplistic drivel. Are you kidding me? When a bell rings an angel gets his wings? Mindless schlock.
2. is a classic. Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed and Lionel Barrymore were all at the top of their game, and Frank Capra movies get me every time.

Christmas shopping

1. is an annual adventure, starting with Black Friday. I can't help it. I look forward to it!
2. is about as much fun as swallowing lye. In fact, I think I’d prefer the lye. During an earthquake. While rooting for the Yankees.

Hannukah

1. is the best. Eight days of presents! Also, this is when I get to show off my dreidel collection, including the dozen I’ve gotten from Israel.
2. is perhaps the dumbest holiday in the history of religious observance. Makes me cringe every time I hear the story.

The trend toward saying happy holidays instead of mentioning any particular celebration by name

1. is properly respectful of all faiths and creeds. Offending anyone is unnecessary, and we should be sensitive to all.
2. has gotten way out of hand. For god's sake, could people perhaps grow up and get over themselves? Wishing someone a Merry Christmas is a kindness, not an insult.

2009 Thankful list, part the third: Marc

My stepson Marc is an incredible guy. I'm not sure if I'm more thankful for him or proud of him. Perhaps both. Very, very early on in our relationship, before Marc and I had met, P told me about him, and although I don't remember if she said the words explicitly, the intent was clear. "I have a son, and he's the most important thing in my life. You don't get me without him."

He was just a teenager at the time. The first thing we bonded over was, of course, the Red Sox. Each year I've tried to take him to at least one Red Sox game. He's as much of a Sox addict as I am, though he doesn't have any use for my love of college athletics. We've agreed to disagree over that. Sports is always good, but there's so much more to him than that. Marc's just a tremendous guy. He's the twenty-something every mom wants her daughter to marry. He's honest, he has a great heart, he's funny, loves his family, works hard, and he's just a good man (sorry, ladies, he's taken). When Marc comes to visit, the dogs, especially Cami, lose their minds. They velcro themselves to him the instant he walks in the door until he leaves....then sulk for hours after he's gone.



Sometime after P and I were engaged, I sat Marc down one day and told him I had no intention of replacing his father. He has a terrific dad who loves him and has always been there for him. I told Marc I don't even want him to call me dad. David will do fine. I just wanted our relationship to be whatever it was going to be. I'd accept and love him unconditionally the way he was, and as long as he remembers his mom on her birthday, Christmas and Mother's Day, he and I would do just fine. True to his word, Marc is unfailingly loyal, loving and just plain great to his mother. In a generation not known for its work ethic or attention span, Marc is a breath of fresh air. He started working for a big retail company seven years ago, stocking shelves overnight. Today he's part of his store's executive staff, in charge of operations. In fact, the reason he's in Vermont is that he was re-located with the express purpose of opening the new store as a member of the management team. Through our discussions, it's obvious that Marc is a role model for how they expect employees to behave with customers and each other.

I not only love Marc, I trust him. He has his mom's soul, and an amazing sense of how to *be* in the world. He's one of those remarkable people who can be comfortable in any situation, because he is so wonderfully good at setting people at ease with his presence. I wish I was like that. And I'm thankful that for the past 8+ years, he's been my kid, too.

Michael Capuano for Senate

I’m voting for Mike Capuano in the December 8 special Senate primary election.


There are four major candidates for the Democratic nomination: Capuano, Martha Coakley, Steve Pagliuca and Alan Khazei. Steve Pagliuca is co-owner of the Celtics. End of story. He’s a very rich guy who has been a partner at Bain Capital (where Mitt Romney was once CEO) and he thinks it would be a hoot to be a US Senator. That’s the sum total of his campaign message. Sorry Steve, money doesn’t create qualifications. You have no experience and no history of public service apart from being the chairman of the Mass. Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I'm not a fan of the "sounds like fun, I want to do this" school of motivation when it comes to being a United States Senator.


Alan Khazei founded City Year Boston, which was the model used for the creation of AmeriCorps. That’s a powerful draw for me. Khazei gets public service, he has created public-private partnerships, and he and Ted Kennedy were close friends. I have boundless admiration for his work, but we need more than just that. If he were following John Kerry, his background might be a good start, but Khazei would be filling much larger shoes, and for this seat it's not enough.


Martha Coakley is the state Attorney General. She declared her intention to run while the dirt on Teddy’s grave hadn’t yet had a chance to sprout grass. She damn near declared before his heart had stopped beating. Nobody ever accused Martha Coakley of subtlety. She has the most money, and leads in the latest polls by 15 percentage points. She’s done an outstanding job as AG and before that, Middlesex County District Attorney. She’s prosecuted crimes against children, gone after the Catholic Church in the priest sex abuse cases, and like a good politician, always kept herself in the public eye. But that’s all she’s done, and like Hillary Clinton last year, I think she’s all about getting elected but not necessarily holding the office. It’s been an open secret in Massachusetts that Martha Coakley has always been upwardly mobile, but I’d defy you to illustrate her experience on national or international policy. Also, she’s never been a legislator. The arts inherent in creating alliances or compromise in service of getting a bill crafted can’t be underestimated. Ted Kennedy was perhaps the best in Senate history at getting things done. I just don’t see Ms. Coakley being what we need.


Mike Capuano has served his Massachusetts district in Congress for ten years. Prior to that, he was mayor of Somerville, which is not the easiest turf to govern. He stood up to the Bush administration when he voted against the Patriot Act, insisting at the time that it was an unconstitutional power grab on the part of the Executive Branch. In retrospect, he was right. He fought hard and loud against the Bush Administration’s torture policies, and the illegitimate war in Iraq. He supports the public option and universal access as part of comprehensive health care reform. He co-founded the House Sudan Caucus to bring attention to the genocide that’s been going on in Sudan (specifically Darfur). Capuano is smart, works hard, and has already demonstrated his chops as an effective Congressman. In addition, he is dedicated to ethics reform in Congress, which, as we all know, is looooong overdue. He is the man best qualified to take on the imposing mantle of Ted Kennedy’s legacy, and Capuano is the one candidate who will need no ramp-up time to be an outstanding US Senator from day one.


The best snapshot as to who Capuano is can be seen a the end of his latest TV ad. He looks directly at the camera and says “I’m Michael Capuano, and I approved this message, because there will always be people like Dick Cheney, and we need to stand up to them.” THAT’s a man I want representing me in the Senate.

2009 Thankful list, part the second: Family

Among my many oft-repeated sayings is I'm the luckiest guy I know. The main reason is I have the greatest wife. She's kinder than me, wiser than me, writes jaw droppingly beautiful songs and renders them with a voice that stops traffic, she has more street sense than me, and even though I'm frequently a pain in the ass and she knows the worst things about me, she loves me anyway. My occasional sarcastic, acerbic, unintentionally hurtful snark would, I'm sure, drive lesser mortals away. Nevertheless, she kisses me goodnight, and she's there in the morning. She's beautiful, smart, talented, and has the best and truest heart I've ever known. Her ongoing relationship and care for her mother is a testament to that. There's nothing I wouldn't do for P, because she loves me. For her sake alone, I'm the luckiest guy I know.

I wouldn't be much of anything without mom and dad, of course. I often look and sound just like dad (to the endless consternation of my siblings), but I also have a lot of mom's soul. They instilled an intellectual insatiability and the importance of understanding that my world extends far beyond the house where I live. Both of them spend their lives making other people's lives better. They work hard and play hard. They accept nothing less than the best, and they're proud of me not for what I do but for who I am. My education extended far beyond the classroom, and it was my parents who taught me that the root of education is the asking of a question. When I ask why something is, I'm paying tribute to teachers even better than the ones I highlighted in a previous post - I'm following mom and dad. Most of all, I'm blessed because I know their love for me is unconditional and unstinting.

My siblings are as varied as six adults get. The relationships become more complex over time, but seeing people at the holidays reminds you what you share, and what matters.

My cousins and aunt and uncle in Connecticut epitomize the concept of the Jewish heart. When my grandmother was dying, we all stuck with and supported each other through a sad, sometimes painful process. My fabulous logo for my new company was created by my cousin Ben, whose loving and generous nature I can't even begin to adequately describe. Ben's wife Courtney is every bit as lovely. My other cousin Liz and I grew up together, and she's created a family with her husband Todd that defines generosity of spirit. Their parents are as loving an aunt and uncle as you could want. The older I get, the more I appreciate the full meaning of the Yiddish term "mensch".

The next generation of the family continues to grow. My nieces and nephews, individuating extensions of my siblings and my brothers and sisters-in-law, grow, learn, struggle and blossom. Although I'm probably closest to the older kids, I'm in awe of the paths they're all taking. They live across the country, and when we get together, it's as if we've never been apart. Being an uncle is the best and the most rewarding identity I have. Not everyone has been given that gift.

In 2001, I inherited a whole new clan. P's family is even more diverse (a nun and a rabbi!), and in the past decade we've shared births, weddings and a funeral. Spending time with my in-law siblings and cousins has taught me whole new definitions of love and support. Who knew that I'd become so close to a dyed in the wool conservative like my brother in law David? He and I share so much, beyond our mutual love for his sister. He's a complex, brave and truly good man, and my admiration for him grows exponentially each time we interact. I'm as proud for his son David as I am for my the nieces and nephews I known since their birth (yes, that's three Davids...it's always zany fun when we're in the same room together). P's siblings, cousins and extended family, who live in Florida, Brookline, North Carolina and California, all paint a picture of the father in law I never knew. I see from them who he was, and how much a loss it was for everyone when he passed away too young. Still, P's father, though he's no longer with us, remains family to me. I'm as grateful to him as I am to my own parents.

You don't choose your family, and all things considered, I've done pretty damn well. It's not always a bowl of peaches and cream, but none of them are going to be on Jerry Springer or even Doctor Phil anytime soon, so I'm thankful for that. I love them all.

Patrick Kennedy fights his uncle's battle

Bishop Thomas J. Tobin of Rhode Island wants to deny holy communion to Congressman Patrick Kennedy (D-RI) because of Kennedy's stated pro-choice stance. After the four term Congressman publicized the Bishop's position, Tobin responded weakly yesterday, saying that he was unhappy to have had his remarks revealed. He did this yesterday. Yesterday was November 22, 2009, the 46th anniversary of the assassination of the Congressman's uncle in Dallas. Splendid timing, your Excellency. Well played.

Which brings me to another, more fascinating irony on the topic. It was, in fact, the late President Kennedy who gave the finest policy statement since Thomas Jefferson concerning the separation of church and state. Remember, in the 1960 election, everyone was all agog that a Catholic (gasp) was running for president, and people believed young Senator Kennedy would take his marching orders from the Vatican. So he went down to Houston in September 1960 and addressed the Greater Houston Ministerial Association. My friend Laffy, who's the brains and the brawn behind The Political Carnival website, posted a link to that great speech in a discussion, and I'll do the same here. Please take the time to watch it. It's excellent, straightforward oratory, and superb writing as well.


“I believe in an America that is officially neither Catholic, Protestant nor Jewish--where no public official either requests or accepts instructions on public policy from the Pope, the National Council of Churches or any other ecclesiastical source--where no religious body seeks to impose its will directly or indirectly upon the general populace or the public acts of its officials"

That speech is almost 50 years old, and couldn't be more relevant today. Sadly though, in an important sense we were a more mature country than we are today. People got JFK's message, which was "my faith is my business, not yours, and religion should play no role whatsoever in the affairs of state. None." The hue and cry ended, and Kennedy was voted into office two months later. Ah, a true separation of church and state. How quaint. Today, an entire political party is owned lock, stock and barrel by a vocal cadre of religious, amoral zealots who promise to punish anyone who strays from their declared orthodoxy. Independent thought or action is explicitly verboten. Critical thinking is non-existent. Violation of the rabble's strictures is punishable by attack from a loud, not always well-informed or educated collection of hyenas. Public servants and candidates for public office (and judicial posts) must pass a litmus test, and since the keys to the kingdom were handed over to preachers and churches, houses of worship have become de facto lobbying headquarters. I'm totally fine with that as long as the churches in question are willing to relinquish their non-profit status and start paying taxes. Otherwise, they're violating the law, and they should be given a choice: cease and desist or please to be shutting up.

It should, then, come as no surprise that the good Bishop feels free to blatantly use the cudgel of withholding a religious sacrament to threaten a Congressman (John Kennedy's nephew, no less). If you read the Bishop's ill-timed response, he doesn't want to further the discussion, since he knows doing so would make him look worse than he already does. Tobin's chief complaint is that his threat was publicly outed. He feels, outrageously enough, that Kennedy's airing of the Bishop's religious blackmail was dirty pool . I would say shame on Bishop Tobin, but as we in Massachusetts know all too well, the Catholic Church has no shame.

California Dreamin'

Blahblahginger and Greene Means Go Consulting hit the road this week. My second client training/consulting project was signed a month or so ago, and took place this week in northern California. I have never, and probably never will turn down a gig that gives me an excuse to see the Bay Area. I have so many friends out here and love everything about this corner of the world apart from the constant fear that the building I'm in could collapse at any moment in a massive, once in a millennium earthquake. I try not to talk about that part too much, though. None of my clients, and even fewer of my friends seem to enjoy my saying "did you feel THAT?" every time a big semi rumbles by. Earthquakes are David's #1 fear. Don't bother telling me how rare they are, and how the odds of my being killed in one are far lower than being hit by a meteorite. I remember "Earthquake", in Sensurround, starring Charlton Heston, Ava Gardner and George Kennedy. That shit is REAL. And I also was dumb enough to read "A Crack in the Edge of the World" by Simon Winchester about the 1906 Earthquake. See, I have this agreement with the ground: I move, and it doesn't. Anytime the ground is unwilling to live up to this simple understanding, I reserve the right to leave immediately and search out a place where terra FIRMA is willing to live up to its end of the bargain.

So far, the earth has been cooperative, so it's all good. The business end of the trip was terrific, and I left a very happy client yesterday, though I hope to see them again. A good sign that the training went well was one of the comments at the end of the 3rd day. One of the students said "on a scale of 1 to 10, this class was an 11". That's what I look forward to hearing.

Now it's time to see my friends, and per usual, I'm making the rounds. Last night I had an incredible time with my friend Gina, who I've known online for ten years but had never met in person. There isn't sufficient space here to extoll her virtues, but you can get a small taste of why I like and respect her so much if you check out her website, Pet Connection. That's just the tip of the iceberg that represents Gina's remarkable talents. In addition to chatting with her for hours, I also got to meet her four incredible dogs: 3 Flat coated Retreivers and a Sheltie. Wanna see pictures? I introduce to you: Woody, Drewbie, McKenzie and Faith. Gorgeous, aren't they? Psst. they're way better up close. In that last picture, Faith, also known as Faybee, is on the left. Her mom, McKenzie, is on the right. Faybee is only 7 month old. Meeting the furry faces might not have been the main impetus for hanging out with Gina, but it was a special treat. I miss Cami and Harry time when I'm away, so the four waggy tails were very soul-satisfying last night. There's a good chance I'll have something more to say about Gina in the near future, but that's material for another post.

I'll spend tonight in the South Bay with Angie, Cindy and Laura, three dear friends whom I last wrote about here. Before I fly home on Sunday night I'll check in with EB, an old fraternity brother from Syracuse who now lives in San Francisco. Damn, I love it here, as long as the ground stay put.