I'm sure we are all ignorant of something. Or many things. But when you reveal and cement your ignorance and it reaches Twitter, you might need to go into hiding.
Take the WikiPedia entry for Rebecca Morris, "a New York Times bestselling true-crime author and a TV, radio and print journalist who lives in Seattle, Washington," who wrote to her Seattle Times about the flag flying in her neighborhood, beneath the Stars and Stripes. She gave enough information that made finding the neighbor's flag easy enough, and therefore photographing the offending flagpole even easier.
The photograph, for all the world to see now, is that the flag flapping under Old Glory was not the Confederate flag that Ms. Morris thought, but rather it turned out to be the Norwegian flag that Ms. Morris thought was flapping under Old Glory, being flown by a Norwegian-American whose father had been a tugboat captain.
Mr. Stangeland was flying the Norwegian flag (thoroughly mindful that if you're going to fly a flag along with the Stars and Stripes it has to go under the Stars and Stripes) to show his pride in Norway's huge success at this year's Winter Olympics games.
When told of her mistake, Ms. Morris explained that she looked it up on the Internet, and was convinced the Stars and Bars was flying. It seems red and blue can be so confusing.
I know nothing about Ms. Morris other than what I read on the Internet. She grew up in Oregon, which means she didn't grow up near the U.N. on First Avenue in New York City, or was taken there on a school trip. She also probably didn't collect stamps, and likely attended a school system that left geography out of its syllabus (not hard to do) and hasn't watched any Winter Olympic games in any quadrennial period. Norway has even medaled in curling, so even that's been on.
Whether late-night comedians inflict further embarrassment on Ms. Morris will probably depend on someone hiding Donald Trump's phone. Someone has already claimed on Twitter that Ms. Morris has withdrawn her petition to have a neighbor's garden statuary removed after it was pointed out it was a garden gnome and not a statue of a Confederate general.
Poor Ms. Morris.
http://www.onoffrmap.blogspot.com
Friday, February 23, 2018
Monday, February 19, 2018
Olympic Curling
Is there anyone in America by now who hasn't seen at least a minute of the Winter Olympics curling competition brought to us by those 'plausible live' folks at NBC and NBCSN by now?
Doubles, mixed-doubles, team, there are all kinds of permutations on how the sport can be configured. Even my wife, who eschews all sports broadcasting, by now has unavoidable seen some curling on television.
This is the sport where someone pushes a stone with a handle on top on an ice bocce court toward the logo of the Target stores, is aided by teammates who are either clearing the path so the stone glides faster, or doing something else to slow it down, so that it stops at just the right spot. Whatever that spot is.
The head-on shots of the "skip" who pushes the stone look like someone getting a floor robot started in search of a contact lens. NBC paid A LOT money to broadcast these games, and devotes TONS of hours on two channels to bring us the "action," so I guess we have to expect curling to be televised.
After all, there are fewer sports in the Winter Games than in the Summer Games, so we get curling, a sport that for four years we hear nothing of. Not even the NYT, which publishes some odd sport results in agate type, brings us curling results in non-Olympic years.
And we have even more reason to pay outsize attention to an otherwise obscure sport: someone tested positive for a banned substance!
That's right, both samples came back positive for the presence of meldonium in a Russian curler's bloodstream. Needless to say, the Russians are annoyed at this, and are opening a criminal investigation to how the curler's sample could have come back positive. Tampering is alleged.
It's like that Willie Nelson song by Chris Stapelton:
Now we have Alexander Krushelnytsky, who with his wife took a bronze medal in mixed-doubles curling competition, testing positive for the drug that does have some performance efficacy . It improves the blood supply, and therefore stamina. The reporters for the NYT tell us, curlers "must be accurate with their shots, sometimes down to the centimeter. Hard sweeping can also take a toll over the outcome of a long match."
Amazingly that they still market it, but Geritol is a vitamin tonic sold for years to improve your red blood cell supply. The red cells we know carry the oxygen. Geritol for years sponsored Lawrence Welk, who must have been on something to stay around with all those champagne bubbles while conducting his orchestra for all those fox-trotting grey heads.
So, now even curling enters the circle of tainted sports. Everyone is snickering that a sport like curling can produce a positive test.
It is probably the last sport on earth that I would expect drug testing to turn up a competitor who has ingested a banned substance. Well, maybe chess might really be the last sport.
Footnote to all this:
The South Korean women will sweep for the gold medal. They are being called 'The Garlic Girls' because the region they are from produces a lot of garlic.
The U.S. men have beaten Sweden for the gold medal. They might be called The Beer League. Can baseball-style trading cards be far behind?
http://www,onofframp.blogspot.com
Doubles, mixed-doubles, team, there are all kinds of permutations on how the sport can be configured. Even my wife, who eschews all sports broadcasting, by now has unavoidable seen some curling on television.
This is the sport where someone pushes a stone with a handle on top on an ice bocce court toward the logo of the Target stores, is aided by teammates who are either clearing the path so the stone glides faster, or doing something else to slow it down, so that it stops at just the right spot. Whatever that spot is.
The head-on shots of the "skip" who pushes the stone look like someone getting a floor robot started in search of a contact lens. NBC paid A LOT money to broadcast these games, and devotes TONS of hours on two channels to bring us the "action," so I guess we have to expect curling to be televised.
After all, there are fewer sports in the Winter Games than in the Summer Games, so we get curling, a sport that for four years we hear nothing of. Not even the NYT, which publishes some odd sport results in agate type, brings us curling results in non-Olympic years.
And we have even more reason to pay outsize attention to an otherwise obscure sport: someone tested positive for a banned substance!
That's right, both samples came back positive for the presence of meldonium in a Russian curler's bloodstream. Needless to say, the Russians are annoyed at this, and are opening a criminal investigation to how the curler's sample could have come back positive. Tampering is alleged.
It's like that Willie Nelson song by Chris Stapelton:
The postman delivered
A "past due" bill notice
The alarm clock rang two hours late
The garbage man left all the trash
On the sidewalk
And the hinges fell off of the gate
And this morning at breakfast
I spilled all the coffee
And I opened the door on my knee
A "past due" bill notice
The alarm clock rang two hours late
The garbage man left all the trash
On the sidewalk
And the hinges fell off of the gate
And this morning at breakfast
I spilled all the coffee
And I opened the door on my knee
Oh the last thing I needed
The first thing this morning
Was to have you walk out on me
The drug meldonium first came to light when Maria Sharapova tested positive for it after using it for ten years. Her team didn't get the email that the drug was now added to the no-no list. Sharapova sat out some time.The first thing this morning
Was to have you walk out on me
Now we have Alexander Krushelnytsky, who with his wife took a bronze medal in mixed-doubles curling competition, testing positive for the drug that does have some performance efficacy . It improves the blood supply, and therefore stamina. The reporters for the NYT tell us, curlers "must be accurate with their shots, sometimes down to the centimeter. Hard sweeping can also take a toll over the outcome of a long match."
Amazingly that they still market it, but Geritol is a vitamin tonic sold for years to improve your red blood cell supply. The red cells we know carry the oxygen. Geritol for years sponsored Lawrence Welk, who must have been on something to stay around with all those champagne bubbles while conducting his orchestra for all those fox-trotting grey heads.
So, now even curling enters the circle of tainted sports. Everyone is snickering that a sport like curling can produce a positive test.
It is probably the last sport on earth that I would expect drug testing to turn up a competitor who has ingested a banned substance. Well, maybe chess might really be the last sport.
Footnote to all this:
The South Korean women will sweep for the gold medal. They are being called 'The Garlic Girls' because the region they are from produces a lot of garlic.
The U.S. men have beaten Sweden for the gold medal. They might be called The Beer League. Can baseball-style trading cards be far behind?
http://www,onofframp.blogspot.com
I Swear
Books with profanities in their title seem to be all the rage these days. Specifically, that great Anglo-Saxon word for copulation that Richard Burton said was the greatest word in the English language seems to be the profanity of choice.
Take the current Hardcover nonfiction bestseller list, 'The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck' by Mark Manson. I checked this one out on an online Huffington Post and there's a picture of Mr. Manson, who is far too young for me to be a credible person to wax and wane on how to live life. But he's got a bestseller, for whatever reason, good or bad.
Then there's 'Fucking Apostrophes' with no attempt to disguise the word. Also, no author on the cover of this little baby, which is not much bigger than an address book (remember those?) There is an author, Simon Griffin, and is subtitled: 'A guide to show you where to stick them.'
The book is a guide dedicated to where to put the apostrophe, and might actually be a modern version of 'The Classic Elements of Style' by William Strunk Jr. It is also about the same size.
The examples and suggestions inside are legitimate. It is actually a good reference book, but one I don't leave out when the grandkids are over.
The text frequently adds the f-word to coincide with our frustration on trying to decide where to stick them. Of course, continued use of texting keyboards will eventually erode anyone's interest in using apostrophes at all, let alone correctly. But for now, the Twitter handle @fingapostrophe can be looked at for some posted examples of the misuse of what is probably the most demonic of all the punctuation marks.
Take a recent posting that shows a British tabloid's headline about what I guess is their announcement of the latest sex scandal to befall one of their MPs, member of parliament.
MARRIED MP BONE'S PHYSIO LOVER
Maybe it's me, but I think the headline would have been more appropriate if it turned out that the female was an archaeologist. Oh well. The British.
And since it seems things come in threes, the latest entry in the profanity title war is 'Swearing Is Good for You' by Emma Byrne, a light blue dust jacket with a depiction of a pill in the center with
FUCK
carved in the center. The pill almost looks like one of those NECCO heart-shaped mints that make their way into our lives around Valentine's Day. Imagine a bag full of those with sentiments like
Turns out, the volunteers were able to keep their hands in the water longer when they were swearing up a storm. Swearing to high heavens of course would not have prevented Leonardo DiCaprio from freezing to death in the North Atlantic after he slid off the stern of the Titanic on that fateful night into the frigid, inky drink. There is only so much you can expect when you're letting loose with language.
Ms. Byrne repeats the experiment with a volunteer from the audience in a spirited January 18, 2018 Google talk in the U.K. found on YouTube. Proof is in the stopwatch.
Curing in the workplace is bad? Well, think again. Ms. Byrne reports that "jocularity" amongst team members actually improved team performance. Call your teammate a "Limey bastard," in a non-threatening way, and you might well have established a friend for life. A member of the club, rather than someone who is going to run off to HR and complain about you.
Will swearing extend your life? Consider Sonia Gechtoff, an abstract expressionist painter who has just passed away at 91. Ms. Gechtoff's husband was also a painter, James Kelly, and it led their daughter Susannah Kelly to remark that Ms. Gechtoff was "not an average mother in that we as her children learned to curse form her and to never hold back in our opinion." An email response from Ms. Kelly tells of her mother cursing at the TV whenever Lyndon Johnson was talking about the Vietnam war." (In that, she was hardly alone.)
Swearing and curse words do not cross all borders. The Japanese apparently don't really see a pile of shit as something that is a pile of shit. They think it's so cute they even made an emoji out it, something I wish I knew when we bought our granddaughter a Carvel ice cream cake with a poop emoji on it. So the Japs (jocularity) are creating all those emojis! Who knew?
Do women curse more than men? Where does swearing come from? Is it really okay to sound off? Read the book.
Bottom line is swearing has a place in our lives. Ms. Byrne concludes, "swearing is like mustard; a great ingredient, but a lousy meal."
Variety is the spice of life.
http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com
Take the current Hardcover nonfiction bestseller list, 'The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck' by Mark Manson. I checked this one out on an online Huffington Post and there's a picture of Mr. Manson, who is far too young for me to be a credible person to wax and wane on how to live life. But he's got a bestseller, for whatever reason, good or bad.
Then there's 'Fucking Apostrophes' with no attempt to disguise the word. Also, no author on the cover of this little baby, which is not much bigger than an address book (remember those?) There is an author, Simon Griffin, and is subtitled: 'A guide to show you where to stick them.'
The book is a guide dedicated to where to put the apostrophe, and might actually be a modern version of 'The Classic Elements of Style' by William Strunk Jr. It is also about the same size.
The examples and suggestions inside are legitimate. It is actually a good reference book, but one I don't leave out when the grandkids are over.
The text frequently adds the f-word to coincide with our frustration on trying to decide where to stick them. Of course, continued use of texting keyboards will eventually erode anyone's interest in using apostrophes at all, let alone correctly. But for now, the Twitter handle @fingapostrophe can be looked at for some posted examples of the misuse of what is probably the most demonic of all the punctuation marks.
Take a recent posting that shows a British tabloid's headline about what I guess is their announcement of the latest sex scandal to befall one of their MPs, member of parliament.
MARRIED MP BONE'S PHYSIO LOVER
Maybe it's me, but I think the headline would have been more appropriate if it turned out that the female was an archaeologist. Oh well. The British.
And since it seems things come in threes, the latest entry in the profanity title war is 'Swearing Is Good for You' by Emma Byrne, a light blue dust jacket with a depiction of a pill in the center with
FUCK
YEAH
LET'S
FUCK
NO
SHIT
SHIRLEY
I'm not sure if someone is missing the market here or not.
But underneath the salty pill is the subtitle 'The Amazing Science of Bad Language' with the author's name. The operative word here is 'science.'
Our oldest grandchild is named Emma, and when I showed the book to my son-in-law I told him that perhaps this is what he had to look forward to: The now 10-year-old who grows into a swearing sailor.
But Emma Byrne is not some potty-mouth for the sake of competing with the most vulgar person you can think of. No. She is from the U.K. and has a Ph.D. in Artificial Intelligence and does work with robotics. She is primarily a scientist who quite seriously takes on the subject of cursing a blue streak.
Who but a scientist would categorize profanities into four categories: religious, copulatory, excretory and slur-based. Imagine those 'Jeopardy' categories.
There are 12 pages of footnotes...10 pages of Bibliography, and an index which does not lead you to the names of any comedians, alive or dead, you might think of who seem to favor salty sailor words in their routines.
My Speech Language Pathologist (SLP) daughter who is familiar with examples cited n Ms. Byrne's first chapter: 'The Bad Language Brain: Neuroscience and Swearing.' You might not think someone who survives a railroad spike going through their brain would give us someone who becomes a great study on where salty language comes from, but in 1848 when Phineas Gage take one clear through the noggin' while setting dynamite charges in a rail tunnel, science is there to pay attention.
In her introduction, Ms. Byrne explains how she was attracted to study the science behind swearing. when she read Dr. Richard Stephens was conducting an experiment on using volunteers to take a version of the "ice bucket challenge." His challenge was how long could they keep their hand in a bucket of ice water without swearing, or with only uttering a neutral, plain word, vs. keeping their hand in the water while letting loose with their favorite swear word, either audibly, or to themselves.
Turns out, the volunteers were able to keep their hands in the water longer when they were swearing up a storm. Swearing to high heavens of course would not have prevented Leonardo DiCaprio from freezing to death in the North Atlantic after he slid off the stern of the Titanic on that fateful night into the frigid, inky drink. There is only so much you can expect when you're letting loose with language.
Ms. Byrne repeats the experiment with a volunteer from the audience in a spirited January 18, 2018 Google talk in the U.K. found on YouTube. Proof is in the stopwatch.
Curing in the workplace is bad? Well, think again. Ms. Byrne reports that "jocularity" amongst team members actually improved team performance. Call your teammate a "Limey bastard," in a non-threatening way, and you might well have established a friend for life. A member of the club, rather than someone who is going to run off to HR and complain about you.
Will swearing extend your life? Consider Sonia Gechtoff, an abstract expressionist painter who has just passed away at 91. Ms. Gechtoff's husband was also a painter, James Kelly, and it led their daughter Susannah Kelly to remark that Ms. Gechtoff was "not an average mother in that we as her children learned to curse form her and to never hold back in our opinion." An email response from Ms. Kelly tells of her mother cursing at the TV whenever Lyndon Johnson was talking about the Vietnam war." (In that, she was hardly alone.)
Swearing and curse words do not cross all borders. The Japanese apparently don't really see a pile of shit as something that is a pile of shit. They think it's so cute they even made an emoji out it, something I wish I knew when we bought our granddaughter a Carvel ice cream cake with a poop emoji on it. So the Japs (jocularity) are creating all those emojis! Who knew?
Do women curse more than men? Where does swearing come from? Is it really okay to sound off? Read the book.
Bottom line is swearing has a place in our lives. Ms. Byrne concludes, "swearing is like mustard; a great ingredient, but a lousy meal."
Variety is the spice of life.
http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com
Sunday, February 18, 2018
The Message is the Massage
There is a good friend who I used to work with who this Christmas got me a Christmas gift. She likes to remain anonymous, so we'll call her Lady M.
Since Lady M. occasionally gets a massage from a local place, she thought perhaps I'd like one as well. Thus, I got a gift card, and even the tip to leave her favorite masseuse, Catherine. Nice. I'll try it. I know all those professional athletes get some time on a table and get a rub down, so why not, I'll try it. I used to be athletic.
After waiting several weeks for the holidays to clear, I called and made an appointment at Feel Well, right near where I live, in very well-maintained corner house. The house could easily house medical offices, and in a way, massages can be seen as therapeutic.
The receptionist led me into a waiting room that I immediately recognized as a great place for a wake to be held. Missing from the room were the corpse, and the mourners in those chairs, but there was soft pink torch lighting at one end of a credenza where a coffin could have be placed, and there were couches and settees along the walls. Easy funeral parlor. Where are the tissues?
On entering, I immediately told the receptionist that the room had all the makings of a funeral parlor; all they needed was the corpse. She laughed. Scattered through the room where fliers and promotional posters for their upcoming Valentine's Day specials.
It didn't take long for Catherine to collect me and take me into the room that was softly lit with a mural drawn on the wall of a forest scene. There might have been a candle here and there, but some kind of soft music was playing, the kind that has no tune to it and no melody. Nothing to hum to.
Catherine talked a bit about our common friend/customer, trying to get to know where to concentrate her efforts on me. Catherine asked if there were any special spots to work with.
Lady M. told me she'd ask this, so I explained there were so many that I figured I might run out of spray paint if I marked them that way. Better for me to tell her.
After naming and pointing to at least five areas of my still breathing corpus, Catherine politely asked me if I got there by ambulance. She patiently told me, "now I'm not Jesus." I replied I didn't think so, inasmuch as she had no beard. Catherine told me Lady M. told her about my sense of humor.
She also asked if I ever had a massage before. I said no. "After 42 years of marriage I've still not had a massage." She said she was happy to be the first one to give me one.
The room seemed to darken a bit and I got between the sheets on a softly padded tabled. I must say, the attention to my back and shoulders felt good. Catherine told me I had a lot of tight spots. No surprise there.
I repeated my funeral parlor observation and after laughing she said she didn't know if the place had actually been one before. There is however no parking. I told her I didn't know, but the houses next to the place were fairly new, so perhaps once upon a time the place did hold a hearse and a corpse. Maybe a few corpses.
Small talk ensued about nasty weather, snow. her husband, Vietnam vet, and other observations, none political, thank goodness.
When I had to turn and and lay on my stomach Catherine told be to put my head in the horse collar at the edge of the table. It does provide comfort and keeps your head steady, but it also made me think of a toilet seat and throwing up.
Of course I shared this, and then launched into the story of how my wife recently got a replacement toilet seat at Home Depot for $4.98.
"4.98? How did she do that?"
"Well, first you pick out the toilet seat for $29.98. In this case a white Kohler, "soft close" seat that doesn't require you to bend down to get the two parts closed. All you have to do is get either, or both of them off the perpendicular, give them a little push forward, and voila, they close down all by themselves. No batteries required."
"Nice. But how does the $4.98 come into play?"
"Well she gets to the register, and it must be slow, because the cashier asks her if she wants to open a change card and get $25 off the first purchase. My wife explains we already have a Home Depot card. The cashier tell her 'no problem, you can have up to 5 credit cards.' My wife of course tells him to sign her up."
"I didn't know you can have so many credit cards from the same vendor."
Well, I guess Home Deport lets you, so next time you're there, if you've got the time and they're offering $25 bucks off with the first purchase, go for the brass ring."
"We will."
This is a typical conversation in the suburbs. What's at Home Depot.
I must say, I think I did relax, and listen to the music and stare off into the forest on the wall. Even though my glasses were off. I could still see the wall.
The 50 minute massage time expired, and I struggled to get up, since one of my spots is a very bad back. I have to leverage myself on and off beds.
Catherine was pleasant, and told me not to be a stranger. Come again. Well, that part is not going to happen, not because I didn't like the attention, but really because I don't need all that "relaxing" stimuli. Soft lighting and meditation music is not for me.
I least no one said "namaste."
http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com
Since Lady M. occasionally gets a massage from a local place, she thought perhaps I'd like one as well. Thus, I got a gift card, and even the tip to leave her favorite masseuse, Catherine. Nice. I'll try it. I know all those professional athletes get some time on a table and get a rub down, so why not, I'll try it. I used to be athletic.
After waiting several weeks for the holidays to clear, I called and made an appointment at Feel Well, right near where I live, in very well-maintained corner house. The house could easily house medical offices, and in a way, massages can be seen as therapeutic.
The receptionist led me into a waiting room that I immediately recognized as a great place for a wake to be held. Missing from the room were the corpse, and the mourners in those chairs, but there was soft pink torch lighting at one end of a credenza where a coffin could have be placed, and there were couches and settees along the walls. Easy funeral parlor. Where are the tissues?
On entering, I immediately told the receptionist that the room had all the makings of a funeral parlor; all they needed was the corpse. She laughed. Scattered through the room where fliers and promotional posters for their upcoming Valentine's Day specials.
It didn't take long for Catherine to collect me and take me into the room that was softly lit with a mural drawn on the wall of a forest scene. There might have been a candle here and there, but some kind of soft music was playing, the kind that has no tune to it and no melody. Nothing to hum to.
Catherine talked a bit about our common friend/customer, trying to get to know where to concentrate her efforts on me. Catherine asked if there were any special spots to work with.
Lady M. told me she'd ask this, so I explained there were so many that I figured I might run out of spray paint if I marked them that way. Better for me to tell her.
After naming and pointing to at least five areas of my still breathing corpus, Catherine politely asked me if I got there by ambulance. She patiently told me, "now I'm not Jesus." I replied I didn't think so, inasmuch as she had no beard. Catherine told me Lady M. told her about my sense of humor.
She also asked if I ever had a massage before. I said no. "After 42 years of marriage I've still not had a massage." She said she was happy to be the first one to give me one.
The room seemed to darken a bit and I got between the sheets on a softly padded tabled. I must say, the attention to my back and shoulders felt good. Catherine told me I had a lot of tight spots. No surprise there.
I repeated my funeral parlor observation and after laughing she said she didn't know if the place had actually been one before. There is however no parking. I told her I didn't know, but the houses next to the place were fairly new, so perhaps once upon a time the place did hold a hearse and a corpse. Maybe a few corpses.
Small talk ensued about nasty weather, snow. her husband, Vietnam vet, and other observations, none political, thank goodness.
When I had to turn and and lay on my stomach Catherine told be to put my head in the horse collar at the edge of the table. It does provide comfort and keeps your head steady, but it also made me think of a toilet seat and throwing up.
Of course I shared this, and then launched into the story of how my wife recently got a replacement toilet seat at Home Depot for $4.98.
"4.98? How did she do that?"
"Well, first you pick out the toilet seat for $29.98. In this case a white Kohler, "soft close" seat that doesn't require you to bend down to get the two parts closed. All you have to do is get either, or both of them off the perpendicular, give them a little push forward, and voila, they close down all by themselves. No batteries required."
"Nice. But how does the $4.98 come into play?"
"Well she gets to the register, and it must be slow, because the cashier asks her if she wants to open a change card and get $25 off the first purchase. My wife explains we already have a Home Depot card. The cashier tell her 'no problem, you can have up to 5 credit cards.' My wife of course tells him to sign her up."
"I didn't know you can have so many credit cards from the same vendor."
Well, I guess Home Deport lets you, so next time you're there, if you've got the time and they're offering $25 bucks off with the first purchase, go for the brass ring."
"We will."
This is a typical conversation in the suburbs. What's at Home Depot.
I must say, I think I did relax, and listen to the music and stare off into the forest on the wall. Even though my glasses were off. I could still see the wall.
The 50 minute massage time expired, and I struggled to get up, since one of my spots is a very bad back. I have to leverage myself on and off beds.
Catherine was pleasant, and told me not to be a stranger. Come again. Well, that part is not going to happen, not because I didn't like the attention, but really because I don't need all that "relaxing" stimuli. Soft lighting and meditation music is not for me.
I least no one said "namaste."
http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com
Friday, February 16, 2018
I Spy
Anyone who is a fan of spy novels had to love the front page, above the fold article in the NYT on Saturday, February 10.
U.S. Spies Paid Russian Peddling Trump Secrets
This was a real-life account of the meetings, handoffs, deception, betrayal, and payoffs of spies in action. And a contemporary one as well. Even the picture after the jump shows a bleak landscape of what it looks like around N.S.A. headquarters in Fort Meade, Virginia— a chilly nighttime expanse of an empty road, glowing street lights and a fire hydrant. It is dystopian. Is the microfilm in the pumpkin nearby?
The reporter, Matthew Rosenberg, so immediately saw the story's similarities to all the spy stories ever written, that he describe the principals meeting in small German towns, "like those described by John Le Carrè." As most people know. Le Carré did once work for MI6, and has written more than a few classic spy novels. His last, 'Legacy of Spies.' can however be skipped.
The story basically revolves around the hacking of N.S.A. computers and the theft of cybersecurity software, and the N.S.A.'s attempt to get it back, or at least find out how it was done.
Without knowing more, it does seem odd that there would be a pursuit of stolen software and an attempt to get it back. Can't is just be copied, even if it is given back?. You wind up trying to buy the pictures back, but not the negatives. (When there was film.)
It seems there was this Russian who told N.S.A. he could deliver. There were meetings in isolated German villages, handoffs in swanky hotels in Berlin. The individual was tracked back and forth to Berlin, and to Vienna, where he rendezvoused with his mistress. Spy stories usually have a dose of sex.
The Russian also went home to St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg, Vienna, Berlin, the Bermuda Triangle of spy cities. You can see the letters being typed across the screen now, in all those Bourne franchise movies, and in all those copycat TV series, Berlin...Vienna...St. Petersburg, accompanied by postcard shots of the cities.
This is straight out of the latest spy novels to emerge, those by Jason Matthews, a man who did once work for the C.I.A., and who has now produced a trilogy, Red Sparrow, Palace of Treason, and the just published, The Kremlin's Candidate.
Red Sparrow has now been turned into a soon to be released movie starring Jennifer Lawrence in the role of Dominka Egorova. It will remain to be seen if Ms. Lawrence attempts a Russian accent. The trailer gives us no clue to what accent she might affect other than her body.
Perhaps a year or so ago Mr. Matthews and his wife, who also worked as an operative for the C.I.A., were on a morning show with the now fired Charlie Rose.
The banter went back and forth with Jason telling the story of how he wanted to name the book Red Swallow, but the Sparrow title was thought to be better. Dominika is a former Russian ballerina who was spitefully injured by a rival, (Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding?) who climbs through the ranks of the Russian secret service, the F.S.A., the K.G.B. replacement agency.
After her ballerina career is over and Dominka joins the F.S.B. she is sent to Sparrow school, where she is trained on how to use her obvious feminine charms to trap rival agents in "honey pot" compromises. So, a movie with sex is guaranteed.
The C.I.A. operative is Nate Nash. Mr. Matthews's wife told Charlie Rose and others on the show that she was hoping Ryan Gosling would be cast as Nat. Apparently didn't happen. Joel Edgerton gets the nod.
Mr. Rosenberg's story after the page one jump gets a full six columns for more than half a page. The narrative is pure Le Carrè or Jason Matthews.
Apparently, the information peddling Russian was not acting in good faith, which in that line of work is something I'm sure is hard to expect. He delivers "chicken feed" and annoys the C.I.A and the N.S.A.
The story is a great read, with damaging Trump stories woven in. As for the blurb for Mr. Matthews's latest tale, The Kremlin's Candidate tells us, it is "ripped from today's headlines," Mr. Rosenberg's tale is the headline.
And how does it end? Not with a bang, but a whimper. All the stereotypical expectations of spies is somewhat deflated when the final meeting with the Russian operative is described.
"The Russian...took a sip of the cranberry juice he was nursing..."
Cover blown? No, the image.
U.S. Spies Paid Russian Peddling Trump Secrets
This was a real-life account of the meetings, handoffs, deception, betrayal, and payoffs of spies in action. And a contemporary one as well. Even the picture after the jump shows a bleak landscape of what it looks like around N.S.A. headquarters in Fort Meade, Virginia— a chilly nighttime expanse of an empty road, glowing street lights and a fire hydrant. It is dystopian. Is the microfilm in the pumpkin nearby?
The reporter, Matthew Rosenberg, so immediately saw the story's similarities to all the spy stories ever written, that he describe the principals meeting in small German towns, "like those described by John Le Carrè." As most people know. Le Carré did once work for MI6, and has written more than a few classic spy novels. His last, 'Legacy of Spies.' can however be skipped.
The story basically revolves around the hacking of N.S.A. computers and the theft of cybersecurity software, and the N.S.A.'s attempt to get it back, or at least find out how it was done.
Without knowing more, it does seem odd that there would be a pursuit of stolen software and an attempt to get it back. Can't is just be copied, even if it is given back?. You wind up trying to buy the pictures back, but not the negatives. (When there was film.)
It seems there was this Russian who told N.S.A. he could deliver. There were meetings in isolated German villages, handoffs in swanky hotels in Berlin. The individual was tracked back and forth to Berlin, and to Vienna, where he rendezvoused with his mistress. Spy stories usually have a dose of sex.
The Russian also went home to St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg, Vienna, Berlin, the Bermuda Triangle of spy cities. You can see the letters being typed across the screen now, in all those Bourne franchise movies, and in all those copycat TV series, Berlin...Vienna...St. Petersburg, accompanied by postcard shots of the cities.
This is straight out of the latest spy novels to emerge, those by Jason Matthews, a man who did once work for the C.I.A., and who has now produced a trilogy, Red Sparrow, Palace of Treason, and the just published, The Kremlin's Candidate.
Red Sparrow has now been turned into a soon to be released movie starring Jennifer Lawrence in the role of Dominka Egorova. It will remain to be seen if Ms. Lawrence attempts a Russian accent. The trailer gives us no clue to what accent she might affect other than her body.
Perhaps a year or so ago Mr. Matthews and his wife, who also worked as an operative for the C.I.A., were on a morning show with the now fired Charlie Rose.
The banter went back and forth with Jason telling the story of how he wanted to name the book Red Swallow, but the Sparrow title was thought to be better. Dominika is a former Russian ballerina who was spitefully injured by a rival, (Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding?) who climbs through the ranks of the Russian secret service, the F.S.A., the K.G.B. replacement agency.
After her ballerina career is over and Dominka joins the F.S.B. she is sent to Sparrow school, where she is trained on how to use her obvious feminine charms to trap rival agents in "honey pot" compromises. So, a movie with sex is guaranteed.
The C.I.A. operative is Nate Nash. Mr. Matthews's wife told Charlie Rose and others on the show that she was hoping Ryan Gosling would be cast as Nat. Apparently didn't happen. Joel Edgerton gets the nod.
Mr. Rosenberg's story after the page one jump gets a full six columns for more than half a page. The narrative is pure Le Carrè or Jason Matthews.
Apparently, the information peddling Russian was not acting in good faith, which in that line of work is something I'm sure is hard to expect. He delivers "chicken feed" and annoys the C.I.A and the N.S.A.
The story is a great read, with damaging Trump stories woven in. As for the blurb for Mr. Matthews's latest tale, The Kremlin's Candidate tells us, it is "ripped from today's headlines," Mr. Rosenberg's tale is the headline.
And how does it end? Not with a bang, but a whimper. All the stereotypical expectations of spies is somewhat deflated when the final meeting with the Russian operative is described.
"The Russian...took a sip of the cranberry juice he was nursing..."
Cover blown? No, the image.
Sunday, February 11, 2018
Least Wanted
Ever have your picture taken? Silly question to ask of anyone who is living in an era when people are pointing phones at themselves to record themselves in front of something, or with someone. Selfies.Certainly passports and drivers licenses bear an image of you. But if the police take your picture it is a mug shot and is because they suspect you did something. One of the most ironic of these mug shots is the picture of Kitty Genovese, the unfortunate woman who was stabbed repeatedly one night in Kew Gardens in 1964, in a crime that became synonymous with witness apathy, when it was erroneously reported that 38 people witnessed the stabbings and did nothing, called no one.
In the documentary 'Witness' Kitty's younger brother Bill, who spent years sifting over the events and producing a film, explains that the widely circulated photo of Kitty, seen above, after her murder was when she was arrested for holding numbers receipts, policy slips. Her brother explains that a close look at the photo reveals the lanyard that was around her neck that held the arrest number, name, and other identifying information.
It just shows you that whatever happens to you, there can sometimes be a mug shot that is hauled out to identify you.
Take today's online story by the NYT reporter Dan Barry, who gives us a great piece, complete with mug shots of the Rogues Gallery that was part of NYC policing in the late 1800s. It would seem Mr. Barry's muse for the article might be his watching 'The Alienist' on TNT, the mini series version of Caleb Carr's 1994 novel of the same name.
It is a dark series because it was a dark book, that took over 20 years to hit a screen of some kind. But the depictions of New York in the late 1800s are so enthralling that anyone who has their eye on the city's past can't wait for the next episode in the series.
In the story, the New York City police are faced with a serial killer of boy prostitutes. The groan of the precinct's floors leave you thinking you are transported to the era when Theodore Roosevelt was the head of the police, not the commissioner per se, but President of the Police Board. An appointed do-gooder. A "goo-goo" in the parlance of the day.
The muse bites Mr. Barry well enough that he collects an array of mug shots and gives us a story about the police detective Thomas F. Byrnes who starts techniques that add what would be considered modern procedures to the usual ones of beating suspects into confessions. Confessions, absent eye-witnesses, were the one means the police secured convictions. The forensic incriminating evidence was just germinating. Fingerprinting was only just gaining traction.
Of the few comments Mr. Barry's piece produced there is a great one from New York's current Chief of Detectives Robert Boyce, who tells us Detective Byrnes could have a place in his office today, but would have to reform his interrogation techniques.
Another comment is one that can only be considered astounding. A reader from New York, Narcieri, tells us the woman shown on the left at the beginning of the article is their grandmother's aunt, Sophie Lyons. Narcieri doesn't tell us why the mug shot was taken. There is no caption to the picture in the article, so one might assume Sophie's mugshot might have been framed and placed on the mantle or piano in an ancestor's home. Your mug shot defines you.
Not all mug shots taken by the police are official records. In one of my first blog postings I tell the story my son-in-law's father, a retired NYC detective, told at one Christmas gathering of the technique his mentor used to keep crime down in the precinct.
When he encountered a neighborhood trouble-maker who he wanted to make a crime deterrent impression on, he took the subject to Woolworths. Woolworths was everywhere, so no one had to go far.
Woolworths had everything including what today we would call taking selfies. There was always an instant photo booth where you could get a wallet-size strip of black and white pictures taken of yourself, or yourself with others, serious, joking, sticking your tongue out, whatever amused you, for a quarter. I think today these booths can be hauled out at weddings. Why I don't know.
Tim's mentor woulds plop the subject down in front of the booth's camera, extract a quarter from the subject themselves, and take a series of photos for his own mug shot collection. He would write identifying things on the back of the film strip and tell the now 25¢-less miscreant that if there was any trouble, he'd know who to look for.
The number of laws this would now break would be considered a field day for a defense attorney, but back then, the 50s and 60s, it was "community policing."
And since everything reminds me of something, I emailed Mr. Barry to tell him of the book 'Least Wanted' a 2006 collection of mug shots compiled by Steidl Kasher and Mark Micealson.
The mug shots are from all over the country, usually of those who were not famous then, and who didn't become famous after, the 'Least Wanted.' No Billy the Kid, John Dillinger or Patty Hearsts here. Most of the photos have no captions, but are explained in the back.
Clearly the photos are from a bygone era, but some are accompanied by their index cards that give height, weight characteristics, and any other significant features, like tattoos, scars, etc. One of my favorites are three pages of photos accompanied by pink index cards. The crimes? Communist and Communist (Red Literature) Source of the term pinko-commie? Likely.
Not all the photos are accused of petty crimes. There is one suspect whose crime bears an eerie resemblance to the perpetrator of the Ettan Patz murder.
The mug shot for G.B. Westel, a waiter, also known as Franz Joseph at Rankin's on the Bowery is a suspect in the murder of Katie Tritschler, a 8-year-old girl whose "terribly mutilated" body was found in a cellar at 203 First Avenue, NYC on July 25. There are newspaper clippings accompanying the photo of the suspect, but it is hard to determine a year. However, the digital Times archive tells us it is 1907.
And while most of the crimes are of the variety of what I guess would now be called "quality of life," like "contraband dice, weapon and obscene pictures," there is one for someone who certainly was not 'Least Wanted.'
There is a mug shot of Bruno Richard Hauptman, age 35, carpenter, who was arrested on March 19, 1934 for the kidnap and murder of Charles Lindbergh's son. A dapper Bruno, photographed on September 21, 1934 in NYC, is seen in a double breasted suit with shirt, tie and hat, standing next to a measuring stick which would put his height at 6' with his hat on.
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The $5 Million Punctuation Mark
Is there an alert reader out there, who before reading this any further, can tell us what does the revised Maine state law that lists exempted tasks from being eligible to be paid at time and a half rates to truckers, and David Berkowitz, the still living, incarcerated serial killer who called himself 'Son of Sam' have in common?
Give up? Semicolons.
Maybe you need to be a New Yorker to have latched onto something the Daily News Pulitzer prize winning columnist Jimmy Breslin said of the anonymous letters that were being forwarded to him in the summer of 1977 by the self-described 'Son of Sam' as he was carrying out his serial killings through NYC.
After the apprehension of David Berkowitz for the 'Son of Sam' murders Jimmy declared that David was the first serial killer he knew who knew how to use semicolons.
Maine, in an effort to plug up a punctuation loophole that led a Portland dairy to pay three truckers who sued the Oakhurst Dairy in 2014 for $5 million for unpaid overtime pay over a four year period, inserted a series of semicolons to replace commas in the text of what became an issue that reached the United States Court of Appeals for the First Circuit for a ruling last year. That's right; it became a Federal case.
Because of what was ruled a missing Oxford comma, the court ruled that there was enough ambiguity in the exemption language that the court was siding with the truckers.
For those who don't know what the Oxford comma is, Daniel Victor's lively piece in today's NYT tells all. In short, the comma is seen as required by certain keepers of the flame when you're creating a list, a series of items, such as:
...red, blue, and white. The second comma is the Oxford comma named after the Oxford University, an arbiter of such things.
This makes me think of anyone I was in school with who might have written the second comma when tested, only to have points taken off in red ink (usually 2 points) by a teacher who was subversive to the Oxford comma, and did not abide by the University Press.
This also reminds me of the George Carlin routine that had people in Purgatory for eating ham sandwiches on Fridays before the Vatican's Ecumenical Council revised some of its rules for Catholics to eat by. Do they get released upward now that rules have changed? Do my penalized classmates get their grades revised for their heresy?
Mr. Victor gives us the Oxford comma rules as stated by another arbiter of style, the NYT. The Times takes the stance of saying there is no need for the second, or last comma before the conjunction. Thus, red, blue and white is all right. (For the record, I don't agree.)
Years and years ago I remember James Thurber's 'My Years with Ross,' his remembrances of life with the legendary editor of The New Yorker, Harold Ross. Thurber and Ross apparently had opposing views for the inclusion, or the exclusion of the comma. They had titanic arguments over it, likely over scotch. (I don't remember which side either man was on.)
The NYT Style book that Mr. Victor refers to states on page 67:
And as with anything to do with grammar, there is a comma used, when for example you might be writing:
I remember the teachers telling us in the 60s the jury was out on using, or not using the comma. Just be consistent. If you use it, use it throughout whatever your writing. This seemed like good advice.
No writing about the comma can proceed without mentioning Mary Norris who wrote the book, 'Between You & Me, Confessions of a Comma Queen.'
Ms. Norris's book, although fairly recently published, was written before the dairy/overtime case in Maine became a Federal case. Ms. Norris, like all worthy New Yorkers, came from somewhere else, in her case Cleveland. The employment that probably financed her life and provided her with enough material to write the book springs from working in the copy department of The New Yorker for over 30 years. Those years however did not coincide with the Thurber/Ross years.
Ms. Norris, on page 93 of her book declares she is a "comma apostate." She feels a comma preceding and is redundant. "Isn't the and sufficient? After all, that's what the other commas in a series stand for: 'Lions and tigers and bears.'"
She doesn't feel ambiguity is present or not present when the comma is used or not. She goes on: "Pressed to come up with an example of a series that was unambiguously ambiguous [meaning definitely ambiguous] proved so elusive that I wondered whether perhaps we could do without the comma after all." This of course would put her on the opposite side of the First Circuit Federal Appeals court.
The original passage in the law concerning overtime went as follows:
The canning, processing, preserving, freezing, drying, marketing, storing, packing for shipment or distribution of:
Give up? Semicolons.
Maybe you need to be a New Yorker to have latched onto something the Daily News Pulitzer prize winning columnist Jimmy Breslin said of the anonymous letters that were being forwarded to him in the summer of 1977 by the self-described 'Son of Sam' as he was carrying out his serial killings through NYC.
After the apprehension of David Berkowitz for the 'Son of Sam' murders Jimmy declared that David was the first serial killer he knew who knew how to use semicolons.
Maine, in an effort to plug up a punctuation loophole that led a Portland dairy to pay three truckers who sued the Oakhurst Dairy in 2014 for $5 million for unpaid overtime pay over a four year period, inserted a series of semicolons to replace commas in the text of what became an issue that reached the United States Court of Appeals for the First Circuit for a ruling last year. That's right; it became a Federal case.
Because of what was ruled a missing Oxford comma, the court ruled that there was enough ambiguity in the exemption language that the court was siding with the truckers.
For those who don't know what the Oxford comma is, Daniel Victor's lively piece in today's NYT tells all. In short, the comma is seen as required by certain keepers of the flame when you're creating a list, a series of items, such as:
...red, blue, and white. The second comma is the Oxford comma named after the Oxford University, an arbiter of such things.
This makes me think of anyone I was in school with who might have written the second comma when tested, only to have points taken off in red ink (usually 2 points) by a teacher who was subversive to the Oxford comma, and did not abide by the University Press.
This also reminds me of the George Carlin routine that had people in Purgatory for eating ham sandwiches on Fridays before the Vatican's Ecumenical Council revised some of its rules for Catholics to eat by. Do they get released upward now that rules have changed? Do my penalized classmates get their grades revised for their heresy?
Mr. Victor gives us the Oxford comma rules as stated by another arbiter of style, the NYT. The Times takes the stance of saying there is no need for the second, or last comma before the conjunction. Thus, red, blue and white is all right. (For the record, I don't agree.)
Years and years ago I remember James Thurber's 'My Years with Ross,' his remembrances of life with the legendary editor of The New Yorker, Harold Ross. Thurber and Ross apparently had opposing views for the inclusion, or the exclusion of the comma. They had titanic arguments over it, likely over scotch. (I don't remember which side either man was on.)
The NYT Style book that Mr. Victor refers to states on page 67:
- In general, do not use a comma before and or or in a series. Thus, no Oxford comma.
And as with anything to do with grammar, there is a comma used, when for example you might be writing:
- A martini is made of gin and dry vermouth, and a chilled glass is essential. Note the comma after vermouth and before and.
This of course gives you insight into what the editors at The Times are thinking of come 6 o'clock and it's time to make plans for the evening.
I remember the teachers telling us in the 60s the jury was out on using, or not using the comma. Just be consistent. If you use it, use it throughout whatever your writing. This seemed like good advice.
No writing about the comma can proceed without mentioning Mary Norris who wrote the book, 'Between You & Me, Confessions of a Comma Queen.'
Ms. Norris's book, although fairly recently published, was written before the dairy/overtime case in Maine became a Federal case. Ms. Norris, like all worthy New Yorkers, came from somewhere else, in her case Cleveland. The employment that probably financed her life and provided her with enough material to write the book springs from working in the copy department of The New Yorker for over 30 years. Those years however did not coincide with the Thurber/Ross years.
Ms. Norris, on page 93 of her book declares she is a "comma apostate." She feels a comma preceding and is redundant. "Isn't the and sufficient? After all, that's what the other commas in a series stand for: 'Lions and tigers and bears.'"
She doesn't feel ambiguity is present or not present when the comma is used or not. She goes on: "Pressed to come up with an example of a series that was unambiguously ambiguous [meaning definitely ambiguous] proved so elusive that I wondered whether perhaps we could do without the comma after all." This of course would put her on the opposite side of the First Circuit Federal Appeals court.
The original passage in the law concerning overtime went as follows:
The canning, processing, preserving, freezing, drying, marketing, storing, packing for shipment or distribution of:
- Agricultural produce;
- Meat and fish products; and
- Perishable foods.
Mr. Victor explains that "what followed the last comma in the first sentence was the crux of the matter: "packing for shipment or distribution of."
The court ruled that is was nor clear whether the law exempted the distribution of the three categories that followed, or it exempted packing for the shipment or distribution of them."
Huh? As many times as it read it I can't see the ambiguity. In programming, when using Boolean expression the use of the word and means that both condition on wither side of the word and have to be true for the instructions to proceed.
Thus, select balls when = to blue and white means the balls have to be blue and white (true on both sides of the and to be selected. If they aren't, they don't get selected.
If the statement reads select balls when = to blue or white the condition is much broader. Less restrictive. The balls can be blue or white white to be selected.
I've read it described as if you use and, then two bridges have to be crossed. If you use or, then only one bridge has to be crossed.
Given that logic, it would seem the law as originally written has no ambiguity. If any of the described conditions on either side of the word or are true, then overtime pay does not apply.
Apparently the court did not come down with a ruling that would cement the need for an Oxford comma in all wording. A $5 million settlement was achieved, and everyone seems happy that the wording now makes use of semicolons (thus the commonality with the serial killer Son of Sam). Semicolons! Can you believe it? Probably more bedeviling than apostrophes.
The text of the new wording goes:
The text of the new wording goes:
The canning; processing; preserving; freezing; drying; marketing; storing; packing; for shipment; or distribution of:
- Agriculture produce;
- Meat and fish products; and
- Perishable foods.
It is probably too early to tell if we will now have the "Maine semicolon" to contend with. The lawyer for the truckers, David G. Webbert, readily admits that if there had been a comma after "shipment" the meaning would have been clear. "That comma would have sunk our ship."
Lynne Truss, the author of 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves" whose book humorously tackled punctuation rules, dedicated her book:
"To the memory of the striking Bolshevik printers of St Petersburg who, in 1905, demanded to be paid the same rate for punctuation marks as for letters, and thereby directly precipitated the first Russian Revolution" (She undoubtedly purposely leaves the period out after St. to see if we're paying attention.)
For the want of a horse the kingdom was was lost. For the want of a comma the Oakhurst Dairy had to cough up $5 million in back overtime pay.
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