So the jury found Joe O'Reilly guilty of murdering his wife Rachel. So they were unanimous. It's all so unfair, according to Joe himself.
Hard to argue with Mr. O'Reilly's point, that his trial was unsatisfactory. Well, sure, he was found guilty, wasn't he, and that's not particularly pleasing to the convicted. Should the judge examine that particular point from Rachel O'Reilly's perspective, he or she would have to believe that the trial was thoroughly satisfactory. In which case, Mr. O'Reilly must take the egotistical tack and make it all about him. No trouble there.
Reportedly, there are eleven points of contention that Mr. O'Reilly's legal counsel is certain will render the verdict unsafe. For example, the mobile phone records that showed himself in the vicinity of the house when Mrs. O'Reilly was murdered should not have been shown to the jury.
There you have it. By presenting evidence, the court was unfair to Joe O'Reilly. How could any reasonable judge have allowed such things in the courtroom as proof that a man was at the scene of a crime when the crime was committed? What about all the other bits and pieces, the testimony of witnesses who said they weren't with Joe when he said they were, and they couldn't account for his whereabouts while the murder went down?
In summation, we must conclude that no evidence should have been presented at the trial, and no witnesses called for the prosecution. Eliminate all that, and how could a jury have tendered a unanimous verdict of guilty? The prosecution's evidence tainted the trial, and Joe O'Reilly won't be satisfied until he's gotten away with murder.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Carve The Turnip
Jack the Blacksmith will wander the world tonight, and you'd do well to hollow out a turnip and put a burning candle inside. Fool that he was, Jack made a pact with the Devil but he's condemned now to walk the earth. You can keep him from your house if your Jack of the lantern is set out for protection. Too difficult to carve a wee turnip, isn't it? A lovely orange pumpkin will serve as well, and going modern with a flameless candle won't diminish the magic.
While you're safe and snug, with a cuppa and a slice of barnbrack to fill your belly, you must be ever on your guard against the fairies and spirits who will try to steal your soul tonight. Should the need arise to leave your house, where the Jack o' lantern glows bravely, be aware and be prepared. In the event that a fairy approaches you, be ready to snatch up the dirt under your feet. Throw the dirt at the fairy, and it will run away, releasing all the souls it caught until you acted. It's all about saving souls, this eve of All Hallows.
There'll be bonfires aplenty to bid farewell to the summer and light up the darkness of the coming winter. Don't be throwing your old Firestones into the blaze, for feck's sake. And can you not find someone to take that old sofa? The stink of it burning would put a man off his food for a week.
Happy Halloween!
While you're safe and snug, with a cuppa and a slice of barnbrack to fill your belly, you must be ever on your guard against the fairies and spirits who will try to steal your soul tonight. Should the need arise to leave your house, where the Jack o' lantern glows bravely, be aware and be prepared. In the event that a fairy approaches you, be ready to snatch up the dirt under your feet. Throw the dirt at the fairy, and it will run away, releasing all the souls it caught until you acted. It's all about saving souls, this eve of All Hallows.
There'll be bonfires aplenty to bid farewell to the summer and light up the darkness of the coming winter. Don't be throwing your old Firestones into the blaze, for feck's sake. And can you not find someone to take that old sofa? The stink of it burning would put a man off his food for a week.
Happy Halloween!
How Many Doctors Needed To Change A Light Bulb?
In Ireland, that's a question with no simple answer. The very suggestion that a doctor or even the hospital porter be allowed to change a light bulb has resulted in a dispute that has seen electricians suspended from four different hospitals.
The Labour Court decreed that anyone could change a light bulb. An electrician, and member of the Technical Engineering and Electrical Union, was not required to remove a spent bulb and screw in a new one. Should a doctor be passing by and notice that the light was out, he was within his right to replace it so that all might see more clearly, thereby avoiding accidents and injury. The electricians' union did not see things that clearly at all.
It's an electrician's job to change a bulb, the union members claim, and because they wouldn't adhere to the labour court's decision, the electricians have been suspended without pay at Mallow Hospital, Kerry General, Cork University Hospital, and St. Finbarr's. To show the Health Service people that they won't take the suspension lying down, TEEU electricians won't come running if the power goes out over night when they're sleeping. Unless someone's life is at peril. They're not entirely heartless, these masters of the alternating current.
In answer to the original question, it is now apparent that only one doctor is needed, to place a call to a union electrician, to come over with his union-mandated assistants and be paid union scale for a job that most people manage at home, on their own, with no difficulty.
The real question is, why would the electricians think anyone would actually believe that only a TEEU member was capable of safely changing a light bulb? Is it any wonder that home owners aren't so concernced about hiring union electricians to do a bit of re-wiring? After all, if the union insists that only a union electrician can change a bulb, and anyone can do it, what else might the TEEU members be saying that's a cod?
The Labour Court decreed that anyone could change a light bulb. An electrician, and member of the Technical Engineering and Electrical Union, was not required to remove a spent bulb and screw in a new one. Should a doctor be passing by and notice that the light was out, he was within his right to replace it so that all might see more clearly, thereby avoiding accidents and injury. The electricians' union did not see things that clearly at all.
It's an electrician's job to change a bulb, the union members claim, and because they wouldn't adhere to the labour court's decision, the electricians have been suspended without pay at Mallow Hospital, Kerry General, Cork University Hospital, and St. Finbarr's. To show the Health Service people that they won't take the suspension lying down, TEEU electricians won't come running if the power goes out over night when they're sleeping. Unless someone's life is at peril. They're not entirely heartless, these masters of the alternating current.
In answer to the original question, it is now apparent that only one doctor is needed, to place a call to a union electrician, to come over with his union-mandated assistants and be paid union scale for a job that most people manage at home, on their own, with no difficulty.
The real question is, why would the electricians think anyone would actually believe that only a TEEU member was capable of safely changing a light bulb? Is it any wonder that home owners aren't so concernced about hiring union electricians to do a bit of re-wiring? After all, if the union insists that only a union electrician can change a bulb, and anyone can do it, what else might the TEEU members be saying that's a cod?
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Buddy, Can You Spare A Dime?
Pass the hat for HMRiverdeep, the hard-pressed, whale-swallowing minnow of an educational publisher. They're in need of cash to cover the cost of all those many acquisitions.
You'll need a rather large hat, something bigger than a ten-gallon Stetson. Perhaps it would be better to pass around one of those enormous fish tanks that are so popular in hotel lobbies, with their thousands of gallons of capacity.
The first pass would have to net $4.95 billion to cover the first-lien term loan. Then you'd want to wheel your mighty fish tank around once more to pick up enough spare change to cover the $1.7 billion second-lien loan. Finally, it's one more dip in the money well to cover the $500 million revolving loan.
Keep in mind that this is in addition to the $250 million revolver, the $1.57 billion term loan B and the $2.1 billion add-on term loan B, all of which was needed to finance Riverdeep's acquisition of Houghton Mifflin.
Credit Suisse will be presenting the particulars in Barcelona on Tuesday, and then they'll pass their giant fish tank around the financial offices in London and New York at the beginning of November. Once that's done and the money's in hand, Harcourt Education, Harcourt Trade, and the Greenwood-Heinemann division of Reed Elsevier will be swallowed up by the former minnow that has grown to be a whale.
Financial gurus will take note that the pricing on the first-lien term and the revolver is set at 375 basis points over LIBOR. The rest of us will scratch our heads and wonder how Barry O'Callaghan will generate enough profits from his newly grown whale to pay for all that borrowing.
You'll need a rather large hat, something bigger than a ten-gallon Stetson. Perhaps it would be better to pass around one of those enormous fish tanks that are so popular in hotel lobbies, with their thousands of gallons of capacity.
The first pass would have to net $4.95 billion to cover the first-lien term loan. Then you'd want to wheel your mighty fish tank around once more to pick up enough spare change to cover the $1.7 billion second-lien loan. Finally, it's one more dip in the money well to cover the $500 million revolving loan.
Keep in mind that this is in addition to the $250 million revolver, the $1.57 billion term loan B and the $2.1 billion add-on term loan B, all of which was needed to finance Riverdeep's acquisition of Houghton Mifflin.
Credit Suisse will be presenting the particulars in Barcelona on Tuesday, and then they'll pass their giant fish tank around the financial offices in London and New York at the beginning of November. Once that's done and the money's in hand, Harcourt Education, Harcourt Trade, and the Greenwood-Heinemann division of Reed Elsevier will be swallowed up by the former minnow that has grown to be a whale.
Financial gurus will take note that the pricing on the first-lien term and the revolver is set at 375 basis points over LIBOR. The rest of us will scratch our heads and wonder how Barry O'Callaghan will generate enough profits from his newly grown whale to pay for all that borrowing.
Whatsoever You Do To The Least Of My Brothers
Where do the poor live in Italy, Archbishop Bagnasco has asked. Shame on the government for failing to supply enough low-income housing for those who need shelter. Did not the Lord Himself tell us to feed his lambs and his sheep? What sort of Good Shepherd leaves his flock out in the cold and wet?
Well, the Catholic Church, for one. The good shepherds of the Catholic faith are busy these days, evicting tenants in church-owned housing in Rome. Laws being what they are in Italy, landlords are not inclined to hand out long term leases. Rents are rising in Rome, so why extend the lease of someone paying next to nothing? That's money lost, as lost as if the tenant had reached into the landlord's pocket and picked it.
Unfortunately, the landlord in Rome is likely to be some Catholic religious organization because the Church owns a great deal of rental property in the city. The owners are blaming the estate agents, who are doing what they are supposed to do: examine the rent rolls, find out who is paying below-market rates, and boot them out so that a new tenant can be installed at a higher rate of return.
A tenant's committee has informed Archbishop Bagnasco that they were never once late in rendering unto Caesar, so that must mean that they are being evicted because the landlord, i.e. the Catholic Church, is money hungry and greedy. The leases are up but no renewals have been offered. Connect the dots and you arrive at the point of eviction.
The government responded to the initial round of evictions by barring landlords from kicking out those who were old, disabled, or poor families with children. As that particular order is set to expire, the old, disabled, and poor expect to be shown the door, but where are they to go if they can't find cheap housing in Rome? Remember, Archbishop Bagnasco, the shortage of housing for the poor?
Might the poor and downtrodden find shelter within the walls of their local church? Or is there no room at God's house?
Well, the Catholic Church, for one. The good shepherds of the Catholic faith are busy these days, evicting tenants in church-owned housing in Rome. Laws being what they are in Italy, landlords are not inclined to hand out long term leases. Rents are rising in Rome, so why extend the lease of someone paying next to nothing? That's money lost, as lost as if the tenant had reached into the landlord's pocket and picked it.
Unfortunately, the landlord in Rome is likely to be some Catholic religious organization because the Church owns a great deal of rental property in the city. The owners are blaming the estate agents, who are doing what they are supposed to do: examine the rent rolls, find out who is paying below-market rates, and boot them out so that a new tenant can be installed at a higher rate of return.
A tenant's committee has informed Archbishop Bagnasco that they were never once late in rendering unto Caesar, so that must mean that they are being evicted because the landlord, i.e. the Catholic Church, is money hungry and greedy. The leases are up but no renewals have been offered. Connect the dots and you arrive at the point of eviction.
The government responded to the initial round of evictions by barring landlords from kicking out those who were old, disabled, or poor families with children. As that particular order is set to expire, the old, disabled, and poor expect to be shown the door, but where are they to go if they can't find cheap housing in Rome? Remember, Archbishop Bagnasco, the shortage of housing for the poor?
Might the poor and downtrodden find shelter within the walls of their local church? Or is there no room at God's house?
Monday, October 29, 2007
Two For One Rejection
The envelope must have come by way of Afghanistan, battered and scarred in a war zone. One corner was crumpled, crushed against something and held there for a long time.
There was a degree of softness to the envelope, as if it had been rubbed against its fellow pulp products for months, layered in a stack that fell over and spilled across an office floor. And not just once.
Two queries were sent to the David Black Literary Agency, for two different novels and in two different months. Only one SASE made it out alive, battered and bruised, with a haunted look upon its face. And what of the form rejection? The print was skewed, the words blurred after too many trips through a copy machine. It took a fight to get the single sheet out of the envelope, so enmeshed were rejection letter and SASE.
Which manuscript is not garnering further interest? Both, I guess. But since the first query was sent in April, after six months it doesn't make much difference. Take it as a two-for-one special, there was finally an intern on board to deal with the stacks of queries that no one has time to read and this is the best you'll get.
I'd write if off, but the queries were already chalked up as rejections based on the no-reply rule. Six months or not at all, it's close to the same thing.
There was a degree of softness to the envelope, as if it had been rubbed against its fellow pulp products for months, layered in a stack that fell over and spilled across an office floor. And not just once.
Two queries were sent to the David Black Literary Agency, for two different novels and in two different months. Only one SASE made it out alive, battered and bruised, with a haunted look upon its face. And what of the form rejection? The print was skewed, the words blurred after too many trips through a copy machine. It took a fight to get the single sheet out of the envelope, so enmeshed were rejection letter and SASE.
Which manuscript is not garnering further interest? Both, I guess. But since the first query was sent in April, after six months it doesn't make much difference. Take it as a two-for-one special, there was finally an intern on board to deal with the stacks of queries that no one has time to read and this is the best you'll get.
I'd write if off, but the queries were already chalked up as rejections based on the no-reply rule. Six months or not at all, it's close to the same thing.
Confined To West Virginia
The Exit Counselor has been spared. Praise the Lord. Prepare to die.
George Exoo, Unitarian minister and self-styled Exit Counselor, won his fight against extradition and may remain in West Virginia. Ireland wanted Mr. Exoo to stand trial on charges of murder, but the man who put Exit Counseling on the map insisted that he only helped. Snuff out the cig, love, and swallow the pills, was reportedly part of his assistance to a woman who wanted to die. She, however, had no terminal illness whatsoever and would have been better assisted by someone skilled in psychiatric counseling.
So Mr. Exoo showed a very depressed woman the final door, and he's feeling rather good about himself. He's so sure that he did the right thing that he's calling on the twenty-five states that criminalize assisted suicide to change their laws. In the meantime, he has to carefully avoid setting foot in one of those states.
Prosecutors were satisfied that Mr. Exoo participated in the murder of a woman who was too mentally fragile to make good choices, and as such he should have been packed off to Dublin to face the consequences. West Virginia judge Clarke VanDervort ruled that, because of the wording of the extradition treaty, Mr. Exoo could not be shipped overseas because West Virginia does not have a law on the books that bans assisted suicide.
A criminal can be extradited if the law they will be tried under in Ireland exists in the U.S. as well. In that case, say the prosecutors, if the Exit Counselor should exit West Virginia and wander into a state that has the necessary law, they will have him arrested. Ireland has not withdrawn its extradition request, so Mr. Exoo is not home free. Hence his suggestion that all of the fifty states erase their assisted suicide laws.
George Exoo may be a fine minister, but you'd think he would have more to offer than a push over the cliff after a depressed woman has taken a peek over the edge.
George Exoo, Unitarian minister and self-styled Exit Counselor, won his fight against extradition and may remain in West Virginia. Ireland wanted Mr. Exoo to stand trial on charges of murder, but the man who put Exit Counseling on the map insisted that he only helped. Snuff out the cig, love, and swallow the pills, was reportedly part of his assistance to a woman who wanted to die. She, however, had no terminal illness whatsoever and would have been better assisted by someone skilled in psychiatric counseling.
So Mr. Exoo showed a very depressed woman the final door, and he's feeling rather good about himself. He's so sure that he did the right thing that he's calling on the twenty-five states that criminalize assisted suicide to change their laws. In the meantime, he has to carefully avoid setting foot in one of those states.
Prosecutors were satisfied that Mr. Exoo participated in the murder of a woman who was too mentally fragile to make good choices, and as such he should have been packed off to Dublin to face the consequences. West Virginia judge Clarke VanDervort ruled that, because of the wording of the extradition treaty, Mr. Exoo could not be shipped overseas because West Virginia does not have a law on the books that bans assisted suicide.
A criminal can be extradited if the law they will be tried under in Ireland exists in the U.S. as well. In that case, say the prosecutors, if the Exit Counselor should exit West Virginia and wander into a state that has the necessary law, they will have him arrested. Ireland has not withdrawn its extradition request, so Mr. Exoo is not home free. Hence his suggestion that all of the fifty states erase their assisted suicide laws.
George Exoo may be a fine minister, but you'd think he would have more to offer than a push over the cliff after a depressed woman has taken a peek over the edge.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Shia, Sunni, Shamrock
Excuse me, don't mean to interrupt, but, em, would you happen to be aware of Sheikh Salman Al Awda's position regarding the Shia branch of Islam? So asked the imam of Ireland's Shia mosque, upon hearing that Sheikh Al Awda was coming to speak at a conference hosted by the Islamic Cultural Centre of Ireland.
Do you not know that he has branded Shias as not being Muslim at all? Don't you think that might be sending the wrong message, given that Shia and Sunni are getting along in Ireland. Why, pray tell, would you open the door to a man who was once Osama Bin Laden's spiritual mentor?
This would be the same sheik who said it was a Muslim's religious duty to fight the Yanks in Iraq. Why has a man who preaches hatred and divisiveness be allowed in the country?
Ali Selim of the cultural centre doesn't know what Mr. Al Saleh is going on about. Why, the sheikh was fully behind integration at Friday prayers, and he's not come to babble on about the sniveling dogs, er, I mean, the Shia sect. Sheikh Al Awda's a real prince of a man, only here to mentor our young men. No, pardon me, discuss their concerns.
Besides, Mr. Wajdi Ghunaim is attending the conference as well, and he's a fine upstanding Egyptian cleric. As for his links to Hamas and the Muslim Brotherhood, well, that's merely allegation now, isn't it? So what if Canada and Switzerland have barred the door to him? What would they know about suitable Muslim speakers? So much more progressive, these Irish. They understand religious fundamentalism in a way that few other Western nations can match.
And they're possessed of a refreshing naivete as well.
Do you not know that he has branded Shias as not being Muslim at all? Don't you think that might be sending the wrong message, given that Shia and Sunni are getting along in Ireland. Why, pray tell, would you open the door to a man who was once Osama Bin Laden's spiritual mentor?
This would be the same sheik who said it was a Muslim's religious duty to fight the Yanks in Iraq. Why has a man who preaches hatred and divisiveness be allowed in the country?
Ali Selim of the cultural centre doesn't know what Mr. Al Saleh is going on about. Why, the sheikh was fully behind integration at Friday prayers, and he's not come to babble on about the sniveling dogs, er, I mean, the Shia sect. Sheikh Al Awda's a real prince of a man, only here to mentor our young men. No, pardon me, discuss their concerns.
Besides, Mr. Wajdi Ghunaim is attending the conference as well, and he's a fine upstanding Egyptian cleric. As for his links to Hamas and the Muslim Brotherhood, well, that's merely allegation now, isn't it? So what if Canada and Switzerland have barred the door to him? What would they know about suitable Muslim speakers? So much more progressive, these Irish. They understand religious fundamentalism in a way that few other Western nations can match.
And they're possessed of a refreshing naivete as well.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Love On The Rocks
Unpredictable weather and unpredictable footing -- if they weren't careful, they'd end up in the lake.
A thick blanket of fog was rolling in, but she wanted to walk along the lakefront and he wasn't about to contradict her. He'd been trying to get her alone for weeks, to split with the group that went everywhere together. Hard to build up a relationship when you were one of eight, all competing for the center of attention. He wasn't even sure she was the least bit interested in him until she suggested that they come over here, to look at the Bahai Temple glowing like the moon. Look at the temple, and watch your step. Algae and seaweed coated the rocks along the shore, green slime that was more slippery than ice.
How's calculus, he thought he might ask, but she lurched against him. Slipped, didn't see that patch of wet weed. They were too close to the edge. Gingerly, he touched her elbow to steer her away from the water's edge and onto a dry path that he couldn't see in the misty darkness. All this way to walk, and they couldn't even make out the temple through the fog.
"Did you hear that?" she said, stopping dead in her tracks. "Someone screaming?"
He pricked up his ears, but only the soft hush of waves on tumbled concrete whispered. "Noises carry funny in weather like this," he said. Physics 305, Applied, Engineering. Then he heard it too.
A man was calling out, calling for help, his voice getting louder. Out of the mist he appeared, drenched to the bone, dripping wet, gasping with exhaustion and panic.
"Please, we need help," the stranger said.
From far away, the couple picked up the echoes of many people calling for help, women screaming, but the fog blinded them. There could be dozens of people in the water, or a boat may have crashed into a breakwater. Again, the stranger begged for help, their boat had gone down, the Lady Elgin, get help.
"Stay here," he said to her, don't move and don't fall in. "Call the cops."
"There's no service here," she said. The lakefront was cell phone tower free. "I'll go back up towards Sheridan Road. Will you be all right?"
He was the man, the protector of the weak, masculinity in all its glory, encased in the short, pudgy body of a brainy engineering major. All those years in the Boy Scouts had done him some good service, however.
The stranger grabbed his arm, please hurry, and the student put aside his reveries, ready to spring into action. Locate the site of the sinking, look for survivors who could be pulled out of Lake Michigan. For someone who had struggled to swim to shore, the victim had a powerful grip. He would get pulled into the lake himself if he wasn't careful.
The fog swallowed up the stranger. "Where are you?" he screamed out. "Can anyone hear me? Is anyone out there?"
Before long, flashlight beams bounced through the mist and a voice announced the presence of the Evanston police. The student hurried to give the officers the details, such as he had. A man had approached, said he was on a boat that had gone down, and they needed help. Shouldn't the Coast Guard be involved?
"What boat went down, did he say?" the policeman asked.
"He said it was the Lady Elgin," the student said. "He didn't say how many people were aboard."
The cop, who had been interested and intense, relaxed his shoulders. He turned his head and spoke into the radio that was clipped to his shirt. "Forget it, dispatch. College prank again."
"Officer, I saw the man and he was not pulling a prank," she said. People were dying in the lake and no one would believe the couple.
"Listen, buddy, you tell your frat brothers we fell for it again, okay? You can all have a good laugh," the policeman said.
"What about the Lady Elgin?" she shouted, outraged.
"The Lady Elgin went down in 1860," the cop said. "And we're getting pretty fed up with you college kids making these prank calls. Next time, we're not going to be so nice about it."
A shift in the wind sent the fog back out, to creep over the edge of Indiana, and the Bahai Temple came into brilliant white view. She looked at him, puzzled, confused, and put her hand on his arm.
"Oh my god," she gasped. "It's wet. Your sleeve's wet."
A thick blanket of fog was rolling in, but she wanted to walk along the lakefront and he wasn't about to contradict her. He'd been trying to get her alone for weeks, to split with the group that went everywhere together. Hard to build up a relationship when you were one of eight, all competing for the center of attention. He wasn't even sure she was the least bit interested in him until she suggested that they come over here, to look at the Bahai Temple glowing like the moon. Look at the temple, and watch your step. Algae and seaweed coated the rocks along the shore, green slime that was more slippery than ice.
How's calculus, he thought he might ask, but she lurched against him. Slipped, didn't see that patch of wet weed. They were too close to the edge. Gingerly, he touched her elbow to steer her away from the water's edge and onto a dry path that he couldn't see in the misty darkness. All this way to walk, and they couldn't even make out the temple through the fog.
"Did you hear that?" she said, stopping dead in her tracks. "Someone screaming?"
He pricked up his ears, but only the soft hush of waves on tumbled concrete whispered. "Noises carry funny in weather like this," he said. Physics 305, Applied, Engineering. Then he heard it too.
A man was calling out, calling for help, his voice getting louder. Out of the mist he appeared, drenched to the bone, dripping wet, gasping with exhaustion and panic.
"Please, we need help," the stranger said.
From far away, the couple picked up the echoes of many people calling for help, women screaming, but the fog blinded them. There could be dozens of people in the water, or a boat may have crashed into a breakwater. Again, the stranger begged for help, their boat had gone down, the Lady Elgin, get help.
"Stay here," he said to her, don't move and don't fall in. "Call the cops."
"There's no service here," she said. The lakefront was cell phone tower free. "I'll go back up towards Sheridan Road. Will you be all right?"
He was the man, the protector of the weak, masculinity in all its glory, encased in the short, pudgy body of a brainy engineering major. All those years in the Boy Scouts had done him some good service, however.
The stranger grabbed his arm, please hurry, and the student put aside his reveries, ready to spring into action. Locate the site of the sinking, look for survivors who could be pulled out of Lake Michigan. For someone who had struggled to swim to shore, the victim had a powerful grip. He would get pulled into the lake himself if he wasn't careful.
The fog swallowed up the stranger. "Where are you?" he screamed out. "Can anyone hear me? Is anyone out there?"
Before long, flashlight beams bounced through the mist and a voice announced the presence of the Evanston police. The student hurried to give the officers the details, such as he had. A man had approached, said he was on a boat that had gone down, and they needed help. Shouldn't the Coast Guard be involved?
"What boat went down, did he say?" the policeman asked.
"He said it was the Lady Elgin," the student said. "He didn't say how many people were aboard."
The cop, who had been interested and intense, relaxed his shoulders. He turned his head and spoke into the radio that was clipped to his shirt. "Forget it, dispatch. College prank again."
"Officer, I saw the man and he was not pulling a prank," she said. People were dying in the lake and no one would believe the couple.
"Listen, buddy, you tell your frat brothers we fell for it again, okay? You can all have a good laugh," the policeman said.
"What about the Lady Elgin?" she shouted, outraged.
"The Lady Elgin went down in 1860," the cop said. "And we're getting pretty fed up with you college kids making these prank calls. Next time, we're not going to be so nice about it."
A shift in the wind sent the fog back out, to creep over the edge of Indiana, and the Bahai Temple came into brilliant white view. She looked at him, puzzled, confused, and put her hand on his arm.
"Oh my god," she gasped. "It's wet. Your sleeve's wet."
Thursday, October 25, 2007
A New Focus For The Obsessive Compulsive
While you're enjoying the Chicago ghost stories being posted in this run-up to Halloween, you don't want to lose sight of your querying business.
Everyone has their strategy, whether it's scraps of paper with scribbled notes or elaborate Excel spreadsheets brimming with data. Now someone's come along and offered up a free website that will help you track your endless supply of queries, along with enough data to keep you transfixed for hours on end.
Wander over to LitMatch and your craving for query obsession can at last be gratified. If you've ever tried Duotrope for tracking short story submissions, then you know how intriguing it can be to check whenever you please, any time of the day or night. How many days has that submission been out there? What kind of responses are others getting? How soon might I expect an answer? Mine's out longer than average, are they considering it?
LitMatch does the spreadsheet for you, all nice and well-ordered and shuffle-able. How many, to whom, how long, when sent, results, check out the agent, who wants what.....the list goes on. For now, the site owner makes money off of the ads that flash across and around, but who cares about advertisements when there's data to focus on? Numbers and statistics, how glorious to obsess more readily over even more obscure information.
If enough people make use of it, the site may eventually obtain the data needed to rate the literary agents by their response time...or lack thereof. But at least then you'd know, which is better than staring at a pile of notes and wondering if you'll ever hear back from that query you sweat blood over.
Everyone has their strategy, whether it's scraps of paper with scribbled notes or elaborate Excel spreadsheets brimming with data. Now someone's come along and offered up a free website that will help you track your endless supply of queries, along with enough data to keep you transfixed for hours on end.
Wander over to LitMatch and your craving for query obsession can at last be gratified. If you've ever tried Duotrope for tracking short story submissions, then you know how intriguing it can be to check whenever you please, any time of the day or night. How many days has that submission been out there? What kind of responses are others getting? How soon might I expect an answer? Mine's out longer than average, are they considering it?
LitMatch does the spreadsheet for you, all nice and well-ordered and shuffle-able. How many, to whom, how long, when sent, results, check out the agent, who wants what.....the list goes on. For now, the site owner makes money off of the ads that flash across and around, but who cares about advertisements when there's data to focus on? Numbers and statistics, how glorious to obsess more readily over even more obscure information.
If enough people make use of it, the site may eventually obtain the data needed to rate the literary agents by their response time...or lack thereof. But at least then you'd know, which is better than staring at a pile of notes and wondering if you'll ever hear back from that query you sweat blood over.
Harpo Studios: Behind The Scenes
People would try to hide after hours, that was human nature. Seth made his rounds carefully, thoroughly, probing every room, every corner, every stairwell and bathroom stall. They'd want to hide and then break into her office, maybe take a souvenir. Not on his watch they wouldn't.
At the end of the corridor, Seth could hear people walking. Not one or two, but a whole crowd, sounding just like the folks who came for the shows. A sort of shuffling, a lazy stroll when the mob moved as a unit into the studio. By the time he reached the place where he thought he heard footsteps, there was nothing but the quiet of the empty building.
Too nervous, he told himself. Too worked up about doing a perfect job, and maybe a little concerned about screwing up just one time and losing the best job he'd ever get. He'd been a bouncer at the nightclub where the folks stampeded in a blind panic and those poor women got the life squeezed out of them at the bottom of the stairs. No, he'd never work as a bouncer again. The way the cops and the paramedics had to peel the bodies apart, all wound together like tangled branches. Night watchman suited him fine.
A little girl giggled. Seth heard her, clear as if she were laughing in his ear. When he turned to see who was playing a joke, he saw nothing more than the shadows cast by the safety lights. Couldn't have been a child, he realized. It was just the building settling, an old board creaking. It was real old, this building, used to be an armory long ago. One hundred years ago, at least. Old buildings made a lot of noise, same as old people did.
Aware of movement over his shoulder, Seth spun around to see if he had an intruder on his hands. A woman in grey crossed the hall at the far end, heading towards the boss's office. He took off at a fast clip, ready to demand an I.D. Then they'd know he was on the job, nothing getting by Seth Lewis.
"Ms. Winfrey," he called to the woman. It was her, he was certain, putting in a late night, getting ready for the next round of taping. "That you, Ms. Winfrey?"
The lady in grey had disappeared before he could round the corner, but Seth's ears picked up her mournful wailing. Steadman must have broken up with her, to bring on that kind of sorrow, or that school in Africa had bigger problems than anyone knew.
He followed the sound of weeping to the green room and threw open the door. The room was filled with bodies, lined up so tight that a person could scarcely get a step between them. They were covered with sheets, but their shoes were exposed, rows of shoes on the feet of men and women and children. The lady in grey was crouching next to one of the dead, bawling her eyes out. A musty smell, the stink of the Chicago River, was a miasma that mingled with the eerie gloom that was broken only by his flashlight's beam.
"This is Harpo Studios," Seth said, as much to himself as to the sobbing intruder.
A picture crashed to the floor behind him and Seth spun on heels, heart pumping so fast it threatened to gallop out of his chest. The flashlight swung around, spraying sparkles across the carpet where the shards of glass had scattered. Except for the rattle of air bellowing out the night watchman's lungs, the room was strangely quiet.
With his breath catching in his throat, Seth took one look at the broken picture. The montage featured an old photograph of the Eastland, a lake steamer that had tipped over in the Chicago River not long after the Titanic sunk. Whole families, hundreds of people, had been trapped below deck and drowned, almost all of them employees of Western Electric headed over to Michigan for a company picnic. Spread around the center photo were newspaper articles that described the horrible day, accompanied by pictures taken by press photographers or maybe the County Coroner, chilling images of bodies that had been pulled from the river and brought to the armory. Hundreds of dead, all lined up in a makeshift morgue.
Harpo Studios was the makeshift morgue, Seth's lips mouthed the words that clattered in his skull, but he ran out before he read any more. The door of the green room slammed shut behind him, and he never looked back.
At the end of the corridor, Seth could hear people walking. Not one or two, but a whole crowd, sounding just like the folks who came for the shows. A sort of shuffling, a lazy stroll when the mob moved as a unit into the studio. By the time he reached the place where he thought he heard footsteps, there was nothing but the quiet of the empty building.
Too nervous, he told himself. Too worked up about doing a perfect job, and maybe a little concerned about screwing up just one time and losing the best job he'd ever get. He'd been a bouncer at the nightclub where the folks stampeded in a blind panic and those poor women got the life squeezed out of them at the bottom of the stairs. No, he'd never work as a bouncer again. The way the cops and the paramedics had to peel the bodies apart, all wound together like tangled branches. Night watchman suited him fine.
A little girl giggled. Seth heard her, clear as if she were laughing in his ear. When he turned to see who was playing a joke, he saw nothing more than the shadows cast by the safety lights. Couldn't have been a child, he realized. It was just the building settling, an old board creaking. It was real old, this building, used to be an armory long ago. One hundred years ago, at least. Old buildings made a lot of noise, same as old people did.
Aware of movement over his shoulder, Seth spun around to see if he had an intruder on his hands. A woman in grey crossed the hall at the far end, heading towards the boss's office. He took off at a fast clip, ready to demand an I.D. Then they'd know he was on the job, nothing getting by Seth Lewis.
"Ms. Winfrey," he called to the woman. It was her, he was certain, putting in a late night, getting ready for the next round of taping. "That you, Ms. Winfrey?"
The lady in grey had disappeared before he could round the corner, but Seth's ears picked up her mournful wailing. Steadman must have broken up with her, to bring on that kind of sorrow, or that school in Africa had bigger problems than anyone knew.
He followed the sound of weeping to the green room and threw open the door. The room was filled with bodies, lined up so tight that a person could scarcely get a step between them. They were covered with sheets, but their shoes were exposed, rows of shoes on the feet of men and women and children. The lady in grey was crouching next to one of the dead, bawling her eyes out. A musty smell, the stink of the Chicago River, was a miasma that mingled with the eerie gloom that was broken only by his flashlight's beam.
"This is Harpo Studios," Seth said, as much to himself as to the sobbing intruder.
A picture crashed to the floor behind him and Seth spun on heels, heart pumping so fast it threatened to gallop out of his chest. The flashlight swung around, spraying sparkles across the carpet where the shards of glass had scattered. Except for the rattle of air bellowing out the night watchman's lungs, the room was strangely quiet.
With his breath catching in his throat, Seth took one look at the broken picture. The montage featured an old photograph of the Eastland, a lake steamer that had tipped over in the Chicago River not long after the Titanic sunk. Whole families, hundreds of people, had been trapped below deck and drowned, almost all of them employees of Western Electric headed over to Michigan for a company picnic. Spread around the center photo were newspaper articles that described the horrible day, accompanied by pictures taken by press photographers or maybe the County Coroner, chilling images of bodies that had been pulled from the river and brought to the armory. Hundreds of dead, all lined up in a makeshift morgue.
Harpo Studios was the makeshift morgue, Seth's lips mouthed the words that clattered in his skull, but he ran out before he read any more. The door of the green room slammed shut behind him, and he never looked back.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Resurrection Mary
Clothes make the man, and Jerry was a man from head to foot in a new suit and fedora. He examined the shine on his dad's Ford, the shine he had put into the car's finish that very afternoon. Perfect. With one foot on the running board, he stopped to verify the shine on his shoes. Also perfect. How could the ladies resist him?
Traffic was light on Archer Avenue, but not many people ventured out after eight, and not when it was cold and raining. The headlamps of the car swept around the corner and Jerry caught a glimpse of a woman standing at the corner. She was dressed for a night on the town, in a party dress that was too thin for a night like this. On top of that, she didn't have an umbrella or a rain slicker and if she stood out there much longer she'd catch her death of cold. Ever a gentleman, Jerry pulled over to the curb.
He leaned over and pushed at the passenger door, then called out, "Can I give you a lift?"
"Thanks," she said. She couldn't have been out there hitchhiking for long. She sure didn't look like a drowned rat.
"There's a lady dressed for dancing, I says to myself" Jerry said. "I'm on my way to the Liberty Grove ballroom. Say, if you'd do me the honor....name's Jerry, by the way. Jerry Palus."
"Pleased to meet you, Jerry Palus," she said. He detected a touch of an accent, Polack or Bohunk or the like. "Mary Bregovy. I'd love to go with you. I'm crazy for dancing. My parents, they don't think it's so good, that kind of crazy."
Jerry dismissed all the world's parents with a wave of his hand. "What do they know about being young? All the time, it's the Depression this, the Depression that. You gotta get out and live a little, you know?"
"Yes, exactly, Jerry. Live a little."
By way of conversation, he told her a bit about himself, about his brother who had just landed a job driving a garbage wagon for the city. Mary was a good listener, practically hanging on his every word. Easy to talk to, and even easier to look at. Jerry's pals wouldn't believe it, that he had the prettiest girl from Archer Avenue hanging on his arm. Nice legs, too, a dancer's legs.
Twirling around the floor while the band played, they cut a fine figure, or at least Jerry believed they did. Shoot, the way other guys gave him the eye, every one of them green with envy -- maybe it was meant to be, that he happened to see Mary on the side of the road, looking for a lift. She couldn't get enough dances, on her feet every time, and never once letting some lug cut in.
"Jerry, I have to go home now," she said after they'd practically worn out the soles of their shoes. "Can you take me home, please?"
It was early, but Jerry guessed that Mary had snuck out of the house, to go out on the town when her parents wanted her home, locked up in her room until she suffocated from boredom. He slipped his coat over her shoulders; the poor kid was shivering it was so cold. He drove back the way he had come, yakking up a storm, hoping that he could work up the courage to ask her out before he dropped her at her front door.
A cat ran across the road and Jerry slowed down to let it pass. "I can't go any further with you, Jerry," she said, out of the blue.
Before he could so much as turn his head, Mary was gone, the door of the car left hanging open to the cold wind that whipped dead leaves into swirling eddies in the gutter. This was no place for a girl to be out alone, not at this hour, with the streets deserted. Jerry pulled his car over, jumped out, and caught a whiff of the flowery perfume that Mary wore.
He followed the scent like a bloodhound, tracking her across the street and into the cemetery. Probably taking a short cut home, going in off the alley most likely, to slip into the house unnoticed. "Mary, I'll walk you part way," he called out to the wind that threw a cold mist into his face. And he needed his suit jacket back; she'd high-tailed it out of the car with the coat still on her back and he couldn't afford to buy a new one.
The sweet aroma of roses faded and he retraced his steps, back to where the smell was still strong. Jerry stumbled on a pile of rags laying on the ground. He stooped to lift it off his shoes, only to come up with his suit coat, not dropped but folded and left there. Jerry looked up, at the stone marker of the grave where his coat had been left. "Mary Bregovy," was carved in the slab of granite. "Died October 24, 1934."
Jerry ran until his lungs ached, ran until he could jump into his car and fling the coat into the back seat. Accelerator to the floor, he flew down Archer, flew from Resurrection Cemetery. Two years ago. She died two years ago.
Traffic was light on Archer Avenue, but not many people ventured out after eight, and not when it was cold and raining. The headlamps of the car swept around the corner and Jerry caught a glimpse of a woman standing at the corner. She was dressed for a night on the town, in a party dress that was too thin for a night like this. On top of that, she didn't have an umbrella or a rain slicker and if she stood out there much longer she'd catch her death of cold. Ever a gentleman, Jerry pulled over to the curb.
He leaned over and pushed at the passenger door, then called out, "Can I give you a lift?"
"Thanks," she said. She couldn't have been out there hitchhiking for long. She sure didn't look like a drowned rat.
"There's a lady dressed for dancing, I says to myself" Jerry said. "I'm on my way to the Liberty Grove ballroom. Say, if you'd do me the honor....name's Jerry, by the way. Jerry Palus."
"Pleased to meet you, Jerry Palus," she said. He detected a touch of an accent, Polack or Bohunk or the like. "Mary Bregovy. I'd love to go with you. I'm crazy for dancing. My parents, they don't think it's so good, that kind of crazy."
Jerry dismissed all the world's parents with a wave of his hand. "What do they know about being young? All the time, it's the Depression this, the Depression that. You gotta get out and live a little, you know?"
"Yes, exactly, Jerry. Live a little."
By way of conversation, he told her a bit about himself, about his brother who had just landed a job driving a garbage wagon for the city. Mary was a good listener, practically hanging on his every word. Easy to talk to, and even easier to look at. Jerry's pals wouldn't believe it, that he had the prettiest girl from Archer Avenue hanging on his arm. Nice legs, too, a dancer's legs.
Twirling around the floor while the band played, they cut a fine figure, or at least Jerry believed they did. Shoot, the way other guys gave him the eye, every one of them green with envy -- maybe it was meant to be, that he happened to see Mary on the side of the road, looking for a lift. She couldn't get enough dances, on her feet every time, and never once letting some lug cut in.
"Jerry, I have to go home now," she said after they'd practically worn out the soles of their shoes. "Can you take me home, please?"
It was early, but Jerry guessed that Mary had snuck out of the house, to go out on the town when her parents wanted her home, locked up in her room until she suffocated from boredom. He slipped his coat over her shoulders; the poor kid was shivering it was so cold. He drove back the way he had come, yakking up a storm, hoping that he could work up the courage to ask her out before he dropped her at her front door.
A cat ran across the road and Jerry slowed down to let it pass. "I can't go any further with you, Jerry," she said, out of the blue.
Before he could so much as turn his head, Mary was gone, the door of the car left hanging open to the cold wind that whipped dead leaves into swirling eddies in the gutter. This was no place for a girl to be out alone, not at this hour, with the streets deserted. Jerry pulled his car over, jumped out, and caught a whiff of the flowery perfume that Mary wore.
He followed the scent like a bloodhound, tracking her across the street and into the cemetery. Probably taking a short cut home, going in off the alley most likely, to slip into the house unnoticed. "Mary, I'll walk you part way," he called out to the wind that threw a cold mist into his face. And he needed his suit jacket back; she'd high-tailed it out of the car with the coat still on her back and he couldn't afford to buy a new one.
The sweet aroma of roses faded and he retraced his steps, back to where the smell was still strong. Jerry stumbled on a pile of rags laying on the ground. He stooped to lift it off his shoes, only to come up with his suit coat, not dropped but folded and left there. Jerry looked up, at the stone marker of the grave where his coat had been left. "Mary Bregovy," was carved in the slab of granite. "Died October 24, 1934."
Jerry ran until his lungs ached, ran until he could jump into his car and fling the coat into the back seat. Accelerator to the floor, he flew down Archer, flew from Resurrection Cemetery. Two years ago. She died two years ago.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Please Return To Baggage Claim
We are pleased to inform you that your garment bag has been found. Thank you for your patience while we investigated this matter.
The missing article did not make it to Atlanta after all, but got only as far as one mile from the airport. Well, technically, one half-mile up and then another half-mile in a plummet to earth, but suffice it to say that you can retrieve your garment bag. Be sure to stop by the railroad yard near the airport and thank the nice man who found your bag somewhere in the acres of tracks and boxcars.
Not to worry, because the very next time that a light in the cockpit indicates that a cargo door is ajar, we'll do more to check out that door and not write off the indicator light as faulty and the door as perfectly fine. We've learned our lesson!
As a passenger, you were never in any danger. The very minute that the pilots heard the wind whistling through the plane they knew that something was amiss. Even though they didn't put much credence in the faulty cargo door ajar light, they had enough alarms going off about the lack of pressurization to more than compensate. And as we already mentioned, they heard that breeze blowing and their keen pilot ears pricked up at once.
Our ground crew did check everything visually and gave the flight a thumbs-up, but we have decided to send them all to a respected optometrist to verify that the ground crew will see things more clearly in the future.
Thank you for flying Atlantic Southeast Airlines, in conjunction with Delta Connection. We look forward to serving you better in the future. If you wish to bring a parachute on your next flight, we will be pleased to accommodate the extra bulk.
The missing article did not make it to Atlanta after all, but got only as far as one mile from the airport. Well, technically, one half-mile up and then another half-mile in a plummet to earth, but suffice it to say that you can retrieve your garment bag. Be sure to stop by the railroad yard near the airport and thank the nice man who found your bag somewhere in the acres of tracks and boxcars.
Not to worry, because the very next time that a light in the cockpit indicates that a cargo door is ajar, we'll do more to check out that door and not write off the indicator light as faulty and the door as perfectly fine. We've learned our lesson!
As a passenger, you were never in any danger. The very minute that the pilots heard the wind whistling through the plane they knew that something was amiss. Even though they didn't put much credence in the faulty cargo door ajar light, they had enough alarms going off about the lack of pressurization to more than compensate. And as we already mentioned, they heard that breeze blowing and their keen pilot ears pricked up at once.
Our ground crew did check everything visually and gave the flight a thumbs-up, but we have decided to send them all to a respected optometrist to verify that the ground crew will see things more clearly in the future.
Thank you for flying Atlantic Southeast Airlines, in conjunction with Delta Connection. We look forward to serving you better in the future. If you wish to bring a parachute on your next flight, we will be pleased to accommodate the extra bulk.
Who Told Yas
The Irish Times reported, before the recent election, that Bertie Ahern had accepted payments when he was the finance minister. It was the opinion of the editor, Ms. Geraldine Kennedy, that the news was of public interest. It was the opinion of the Mahon Tribunal investigating Mr. Ahern's cash transactions that the newspaper was breaking the law.
The back and forth between journalists and lawyers ran up to the High Court, which is about to rule on an issue that has blossomed into a freedom of the press question. Who told yas about the money? asked the tribunal. All documents and records destroyed, so? Can you not just tell the world it wasn't us what done the talking?
What happens in the tribunal stays in the tribunal, at least until they issue their official report. In this case, with the election looming and Mr. Ahern set to claim a third term as taoiseach, the Irish Times got its ink-stained fingers on things that were being said to Mr. Mahon et al. Front page news, that, but someone broke the law when they leaked the story. Someone else implied that it was the tribunal itself what done the leaking, to damage Fianna Fail in the election.
The tribunal's lawyers have asked that Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Keena be made to speak, largely because the tribunal wants it known that they did not, as rumored, supply the bones of the story. Lawyers for the journalists have argued that they must remain silent because no reporter wants to impugn their source. Who'd ever talk to an Irish Times journalist again? Every confidential source would migrate over to the Independent, and that would be the end.
Will Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Keena be confined at Arbour Hill or the 'Joy until they break? Will the High Court decide that freedom of the press extends its protective arm around them? Reporters everywhere will be watching the proceedings closely.
The back and forth between journalists and lawyers ran up to the High Court, which is about to rule on an issue that has blossomed into a freedom of the press question. Who told yas about the money? asked the tribunal. All documents and records destroyed, so? Can you not just tell the world it wasn't us what done the talking?
What happens in the tribunal stays in the tribunal, at least until they issue their official report. In this case, with the election looming and Mr. Ahern set to claim a third term as taoiseach, the Irish Times got its ink-stained fingers on things that were being said to Mr. Mahon et al. Front page news, that, but someone broke the law when they leaked the story. Someone else implied that it was the tribunal itself what done the leaking, to damage Fianna Fail in the election.
The tribunal's lawyers have asked that Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Keena be made to speak, largely because the tribunal wants it known that they did not, as rumored, supply the bones of the story. Lawyers for the journalists have argued that they must remain silent because no reporter wants to impugn their source. Who'd ever talk to an Irish Times journalist again? Every confidential source would migrate over to the Independent, and that would be the end.
Will Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Keena be confined at Arbour Hill or the 'Joy until they break? Will the High Court decide that freedom of the press extends its protective arm around them? Reporters everywhere will be watching the proceedings closely.
Monday, October 22, 2007
No Ads In The Sidebar
Google would like to scan every book in existence so that you, the researcher, can have access to the most obscure of knowledge.
It sounds so glorious, but then why would the Smithsonian and the Boston Public Library say no thanks to Google? Are they trying to hide something?
All they'd like to hide, or avoid altogether, are the adverts that appear in the sidebar when anything is searched via Google. That's how the mighty search engine makes its money, and Wall Street is keenly aware of just how much money they make.
The Boston Library Consortium is aware that Google exists to make money for its shareholders. As for the highly laudable notion to put all the books on line, that's fine. But Open Content Alliance is out there with the same plan, except for the bit about generating income from advertising revenue.
Several New England universities are allowing this alliance to digitize their vast libraries, making content available to all, and without having to wade through ads popping up. Imagine scrolling through an image out of John Adams' library and being barraged by ads for Sam Adams ale or John Adams on E-bay? Rather annoying when you're busy working and the last thing you need are distractions.
When Google does the scanning work, they also want to have the exclusive rights to the words. If you're searching for an old book, you can only find it on Google, which would tend to make Google even more the search engine of choice. Why bother with something else when you'll not find what you want there?
By going with the Open Content Alliance, libraries are telling Google that they're more interested in broadly disseminating their information. The World Wide Web is forever open and free, as far as they're concerned, without restrictions. Thanks but no thanks, Google. Anyone with a computer get have at their collections. That's what the Internet does best.
It sounds so glorious, but then why would the Smithsonian and the Boston Public Library say no thanks to Google? Are they trying to hide something?
All they'd like to hide, or avoid altogether, are the adverts that appear in the sidebar when anything is searched via Google. That's how the mighty search engine makes its money, and Wall Street is keenly aware of just how much money they make.
The Boston Library Consortium is aware that Google exists to make money for its shareholders. As for the highly laudable notion to put all the books on line, that's fine. But Open Content Alliance is out there with the same plan, except for the bit about generating income from advertising revenue.
Several New England universities are allowing this alliance to digitize their vast libraries, making content available to all, and without having to wade through ads popping up. Imagine scrolling through an image out of John Adams' library and being barraged by ads for Sam Adams ale or John Adams on E-bay? Rather annoying when you're busy working and the last thing you need are distractions.
When Google does the scanning work, they also want to have the exclusive rights to the words. If you're searching for an old book, you can only find it on Google, which would tend to make Google even more the search engine of choice. Why bother with something else when you'll not find what you want there?
By going with the Open Content Alliance, libraries are telling Google that they're more interested in broadly disseminating their information. The World Wide Web is forever open and free, as far as they're concerned, without restrictions. Thanks but no thanks, Google. Anyone with a computer get have at their collections. That's what the Internet does best.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
The Tangled Web
And so you see, dear readers, he was a she and time should have been reversed and he should have been she from the start and as for the two children she fathered as a he, well, life's a bitch, ain't it?
Dr. Lydia, originally Donal, Foy has won his/her/its case at the High Court. Mr. Justice Liam McKechnie has agreed that the European Convention on Human Rights says she/he/it is correct and the laws of Ireland are all wrong. So now, the Republic must find a way to backtrack, to reverse time, and correct the doctor's birth certificate.
Dr. Foy must surely grant that he/she/it was male at one time, for example, at birth. The obstetrician didn't get it wrong, nor did the registrar. And Dr. Foy must agree that he/she/it was male when his/her/its marriage was celebrated. The wife didn't get it wrong when they were courting and she certainly didn't get it wrong she turned up pregnant. Dr. Foy was, at that time, a man of the masculine persuasion with fully functioning sperm cells that swam mightily and contributed half the DNA of two children. Takes a man to do that, no matter what the European Convention might like to legislate.
Then Donal decided to become Lydia, and so he/she/it entered a legal swamp. Lost all human dignity after that sex reassignment surgery, what with the big 'M' on the birth certificate and the girly cosmetics on the manly face. People would be thinking Dr. Foy was a transvestite or some other sort of perverted creep, when in reality the doctor was anatomically female. It's the damned 'Y' chromosome and the error-ridden birth certificate causing all the trouble. Can't get rid of the genetic material, but that piece of paper can be altered.
Very soon, Bertie Ahern will have to go to the Dail and tell them that they have to craft new laws so that Lydia Foy can have her birth certificate altered to reflect her altered state. That will then lead to even more legislation that will protect the rights of his/her/its two children, because the way the laws stand now, they'd lose a great deal if they never had a da. And if Dr. Foy is declared a girl, the children are made bastards and Mrs. Foy has some frightening legal problems.
Ireland will be forced to change its birth registration process so that it is in keeping with European Convention conventions, and Mr. Justice McKechnie has suggested that they take a page from British law, which was also recently changed on the heels of a court case. That would take care of Dr. Foy's distress, but the family will then be left in legal limbo and a solution to that problem will take months of debate.
At last, Dr. Foy can be spared the indignity that is visited upon the sex changed. So be warned, ladies, if you run across someone you'd swear is a transvestite in the toilets, don't go running to the gardai to have the pervert arrested. It just might be Dr. Foy. You wouldn't want to infringe on her/his/its human dignity, now, would you?
Dr. Lydia, originally Donal, Foy has won his/her/its case at the High Court. Mr. Justice Liam McKechnie has agreed that the European Convention on Human Rights says she/he/it is correct and the laws of Ireland are all wrong. So now, the Republic must find a way to backtrack, to reverse time, and correct the doctor's birth certificate.
Dr. Foy must surely grant that he/she/it was male at one time, for example, at birth. The obstetrician didn't get it wrong, nor did the registrar. And Dr. Foy must agree that he/she/it was male when his/her/its marriage was celebrated. The wife didn't get it wrong when they were courting and she certainly didn't get it wrong she turned up pregnant. Dr. Foy was, at that time, a man of the masculine persuasion with fully functioning sperm cells that swam mightily and contributed half the DNA of two children. Takes a man to do that, no matter what the European Convention might like to legislate.
Then Donal decided to become Lydia, and so he/she/it entered a legal swamp. Lost all human dignity after that sex reassignment surgery, what with the big 'M' on the birth certificate and the girly cosmetics on the manly face. People would be thinking Dr. Foy was a transvestite or some other sort of perverted creep, when in reality the doctor was anatomically female. It's the damned 'Y' chromosome and the error-ridden birth certificate causing all the trouble. Can't get rid of the genetic material, but that piece of paper can be altered.
Very soon, Bertie Ahern will have to go to the Dail and tell them that they have to craft new laws so that Lydia Foy can have her birth certificate altered to reflect her altered state. That will then lead to even more legislation that will protect the rights of his/her/its two children, because the way the laws stand now, they'd lose a great deal if they never had a da. And if Dr. Foy is declared a girl, the children are made bastards and Mrs. Foy has some frightening legal problems.
Ireland will be forced to change its birth registration process so that it is in keeping with European Convention conventions, and Mr. Justice McKechnie has suggested that they take a page from British law, which was also recently changed on the heels of a court case. That would take care of Dr. Foy's distress, but the family will then be left in legal limbo and a solution to that problem will take months of debate.
At last, Dr. Foy can be spared the indignity that is visited upon the sex changed. So be warned, ladies, if you run across someone you'd swear is a transvestite in the toilets, don't go running to the gardai to have the pervert arrested. It just might be Dr. Foy. You wouldn't want to infringe on her/his/its human dignity, now, would you?
Friday, October 19, 2007
What's The Deal With Platforms?
Why does one author get selected for publication and another gets rejected?
It's the platform, of course.
Missy Chase Lapine wrote a cookbook that provided dozens of recipes for mothers to use. It seems that some people are obsessed with getting their children to eat vegetables and Ms. Lapine was offering plenty of hints to hide those nasty food products in things kids like to eat. (Wonder if there's a recipe for colcannon. Tough to get the wee babes to eat cabbage unless its buried in a mound of mashed potatoes swimming in butter.)
She submitted the book to HarperCollins and was promptly rejected. She got herself an agent, who submitted to HarperCollins, and was promptly rejected yet again. Running Press bought up the cookbook, and the next thing Ms. Lapine knows, there's another cookbook coming out from HarperCollins that same month, and it also provides recipes for tricking children into eating vegetables by hiding them in other foods.
What the ...?, Ms. Lapine was surely thinking at this point. Why not publish my book? Why is a book penned by Jerry Seinfeld's wife and agented by Jennifer Rudolph Walsh (powerhouse agent with powerhouse agency William Morris) all the rage at HarperCollins while I was yesterday's trash? And therein lies the answer to the author's quandary.
Mrs. Jerry Seinfeld has a platform. Her platform is made up of various planks, not the least of which is the fact that she is married to a celebrity. Who wouldn't want to book Mrs. Jerry Seinfeld on their talk show, and who the hell is this Lapine woman and who cares about her? Having a high-end agent makes a difference, and Mrs. Seinfeld got her agent because her husband is famous.
Who's book is better? That's not the point for HarperCollins. They'll move more copies because of the author's name and her connection to a popular comedian. The recipes could be wretched and it wouldn't matter. After all, an author's platform isn't constructed of the actual words on the pages.
It's the platform, of course.
Missy Chase Lapine wrote a cookbook that provided dozens of recipes for mothers to use. It seems that some people are obsessed with getting their children to eat vegetables and Ms. Lapine was offering plenty of hints to hide those nasty food products in things kids like to eat. (Wonder if there's a recipe for colcannon. Tough to get the wee babes to eat cabbage unless its buried in a mound of mashed potatoes swimming in butter.)
She submitted the book to HarperCollins and was promptly rejected. She got herself an agent, who submitted to HarperCollins, and was promptly rejected yet again. Running Press bought up the cookbook, and the next thing Ms. Lapine knows, there's another cookbook coming out from HarperCollins that same month, and it also provides recipes for tricking children into eating vegetables by hiding them in other foods.
What the ...?, Ms. Lapine was surely thinking at this point. Why not publish my book? Why is a book penned by Jerry Seinfeld's wife and agented by Jennifer Rudolph Walsh (powerhouse agent with powerhouse agency William Morris) all the rage at HarperCollins while I was yesterday's trash? And therein lies the answer to the author's quandary.
Mrs. Jerry Seinfeld has a platform. Her platform is made up of various planks, not the least of which is the fact that she is married to a celebrity. Who wouldn't want to book Mrs. Jerry Seinfeld on their talk show, and who the hell is this Lapine woman and who cares about her? Having a high-end agent makes a difference, and Mrs. Seinfeld got her agent because her husband is famous.
Who's book is better? That's not the point for HarperCollins. They'll move more copies because of the author's name and her connection to a popular comedian. The recipes could be wretched and it wouldn't matter. After all, an author's platform isn't constructed of the actual words on the pages.
With A Side Of Hubris
Food in Ireland is not what it once was, which was dreadful. There are fine dining establishments in Dublin, places where an excellent meal can be had and a certain special someone lavishly entertained. There's even places to dine where the manager will take your money and heap abuse upon you.
Robert Kennedy wished to impress his significant other on her birthday and what better place than Shanahan's on the Green. No word on what the couple ate, but the tab at the end of the evening worked out to 300 euros. Not likely to have been a plate of boiled bacon and cabbage with a side of pratai at those prices.
This being the modern era, Mr. Kennedy whipped out his credit card and a gift certificate that had been given to him by his sister. Sounds quite straightforward, a simple transaction, but the attractive young couple had not even made it out the door before the restaurant's manager called them back.
This isn't your gift certificate, the manager informed Mr. Kennedy, in full range of numerous ears. Bad enough to be humiliated in front of your sweetheart, but to know that a gaggle of strangers are listening in makes things that much worse. No indeed, the manager continued, this particular certificate was lost in the post and was cancelled. How you came into its possession, Mr. Kennedy, one cannot imagine. Unless you are a thief, the other patrons could readily surmise.
Christ, here's my credit card again, Mr. Kennedy may have said under his breath, feeling the hot flames of embarrassment singing his neck hairs. But while the transaction was being amended, the gentleman noticed that the gift certificate ledger showed that his sister had indeed purchased the gift certificate, and the number in the book matched perfectly with the number on Mr. Kennedy's certificate.
My bad, says the manager, and he credits Mr. Kennedy's card and restores the certificate's value and everything's lovely now, isn't it, terribly sorry, thanks for dining at Shanahan's, good evening. Will another gift certificate for 150 euros make things all better?
Shanahan's has been ordered to pay Mr. Kennedy 5000 euros for slander. That should be enough to treat his lady friend to a few meals at Gordon Ramsey's soon-to-be-launched Dublin digs.
Robert Kennedy wished to impress his significant other on her birthday and what better place than Shanahan's on the Green. No word on what the couple ate, but the tab at the end of the evening worked out to 300 euros. Not likely to have been a plate of boiled bacon and cabbage with a side of pratai at those prices.
This being the modern era, Mr. Kennedy whipped out his credit card and a gift certificate that had been given to him by his sister. Sounds quite straightforward, a simple transaction, but the attractive young couple had not even made it out the door before the restaurant's manager called them back.
This isn't your gift certificate, the manager informed Mr. Kennedy, in full range of numerous ears. Bad enough to be humiliated in front of your sweetheart, but to know that a gaggle of strangers are listening in makes things that much worse. No indeed, the manager continued, this particular certificate was lost in the post and was cancelled. How you came into its possession, Mr. Kennedy, one cannot imagine. Unless you are a thief, the other patrons could readily surmise.
Christ, here's my credit card again, Mr. Kennedy may have said under his breath, feeling the hot flames of embarrassment singing his neck hairs. But while the transaction was being amended, the gentleman noticed that the gift certificate ledger showed that his sister had indeed purchased the gift certificate, and the number in the book matched perfectly with the number on Mr. Kennedy's certificate.
My bad, says the manager, and he credits Mr. Kennedy's card and restores the certificate's value and everything's lovely now, isn't it, terribly sorry, thanks for dining at Shanahan's, good evening. Will another gift certificate for 150 euros make things all better?
Shanahan's has been ordered to pay Mr. Kennedy 5000 euros for slander. That should be enough to treat his lady friend to a few meals at Gordon Ramsey's soon-to-be-launched Dublin digs.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
C'est Fin
The glamorous couple, the French Jack and Jackie, are finished.
President Sarkozy and his wife have officially separated, and most likely would have divorced formally if not for some quirks in French law that prohibit Monsieur le Presidente from engaging in judicial actions. As far as the world is concerned, the couple is no more, they are thoroughly split apart.
What a romance it was, two married people finding one another, divorcing their spouses and joining hands in a new marriage that was meant to last forever but only made it for eleven years. No one ever said it was easy to be be married to an up and coming, ambitious politician. The position of First Lady is not something to be entered by the faint of heart or the shunner of the public spotlight.
With transportation unions set to strike, Mr. Sarkozy has more to worry about than the fall-out of a second divorce. There was enough speculation during the campaign season, when Cecilia Sarkozy was rarely seen in public with her campaigning husband, and the word got out that she didn't even bother to vote for him in the second round of balloting. Today's announcement merely confirms what was rather apparent.
So that's over with, and now Mr. Sarkozy can focus his attentions on the striking workers, the dismal economy, economic reform, immigration problems....the list just goes on and on.
President Sarkozy and his wife have officially separated, and most likely would have divorced formally if not for some quirks in French law that prohibit Monsieur le Presidente from engaging in judicial actions. As far as the world is concerned, the couple is no more, they are thoroughly split apart.
What a romance it was, two married people finding one another, divorcing their spouses and joining hands in a new marriage that was meant to last forever but only made it for eleven years. No one ever said it was easy to be be married to an up and coming, ambitious politician. The position of First Lady is not something to be entered by the faint of heart or the shunner of the public spotlight.
With transportation unions set to strike, Mr. Sarkozy has more to worry about than the fall-out of a second divorce. There was enough speculation during the campaign season, when Cecilia Sarkozy was rarely seen in public with her campaigning husband, and the word got out that she didn't even bother to vote for him in the second round of balloting. Today's announcement merely confirms what was rather apparent.
So that's over with, and now Mr. Sarkozy can focus his attentions on the striking workers, the dismal economy, economic reform, immigration problems....the list just goes on and on.
Two Stations, Four Stations, Eight Stations More
The FCC is thinking about changing the rules about television station and newspaper ownership, but is it a valid argument at all these days?
Sam Zell would like to close on his purchase of the Tribune Company, but then he would need a variance because the firm owns the largest newspaper in Chicago and one of its larger television stations, in addition to a number of other newspapers and television stations in five major American cities. Chicagoans think of WGN-TV as their local outlet, but thanks to cable television, the station reaches nationwide. WGN Radio is a major outlet, even though they eliminated the noontime farm report program, but the signal reaches far and wide, beyond the borders of Chicago. Rise above the confines of Chicago and look down. The Tribune Company, owned by Sam Zell, would amount to one man deciding what is printed and broadcast in five major American cities.
One man controlling all the news that's fit to print....and watch. One opinion. One side of any issue. The rule governing media empires was put into play for a good reason, but is it true these days?
Does anyone read newspapers anymore? Circulation is down in every major city.
Does anyone watch local news anymore? With the advent of 24/7 news programming on competing outlets, Katie Couric's low ratings are hardly shocking. The ratings for all of the Big Three networks are sinking like unwatched stones.
The mega-media providers grow too fat and powerful, the special interest groups announce. You can read all about it....on the Internet.
A previous attempt to change the ownership regulations failed when the Third Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that the FCC had not justified a rule change. And there are plenty of special interests who are adamantly opposed to the suggested changes, including the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (who urge you all to contact your cable provider and demand Eternal Word Television).
The public will have their chance to express their opinions, and the media barons will have their say. Is it a good thing for different forms of communication to be consolidated into a single provider? Are there too many outlets these days to make the FCC rule useful? Will Rupert Murdoch eventually take over the media world and turn everything he touches into Fox gold?
Sam Zell would like to close on his purchase of the Tribune Company, but then he would need a variance because the firm owns the largest newspaper in Chicago and one of its larger television stations, in addition to a number of other newspapers and television stations in five major American cities. Chicagoans think of WGN-TV as their local outlet, but thanks to cable television, the station reaches nationwide. WGN Radio is a major outlet, even though they eliminated the noontime farm report program, but the signal reaches far and wide, beyond the borders of Chicago. Rise above the confines of Chicago and look down. The Tribune Company, owned by Sam Zell, would amount to one man deciding what is printed and broadcast in five major American cities.
One man controlling all the news that's fit to print....and watch. One opinion. One side of any issue. The rule governing media empires was put into play for a good reason, but is it true these days?
Does anyone read newspapers anymore? Circulation is down in every major city.
Does anyone watch local news anymore? With the advent of 24/7 news programming on competing outlets, Katie Couric's low ratings are hardly shocking. The ratings for all of the Big Three networks are sinking like unwatched stones.
The mega-media providers grow too fat and powerful, the special interest groups announce. You can read all about it....on the Internet.
A previous attempt to change the ownership regulations failed when the Third Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that the FCC had not justified a rule change. And there are plenty of special interests who are adamantly opposed to the suggested changes, including the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (who urge you all to contact your cable provider and demand Eternal Word Television).
The public will have their chance to express their opinions, and the media barons will have their say. Is it a good thing for different forms of communication to be consolidated into a single provider? Are there too many outlets these days to make the FCC rule useful? Will Rupert Murdoch eventually take over the media world and turn everything he touches into Fox gold?
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