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With the possible exception of the cemetery, almost any place would be a welcome escape if it prevented the viewing – the humiliation – of the United State’s three presidential candidates, as portrayed on a popular wrestling program last Monday evening.^[1]

Presumably, there must be many Americans who find this kind of thing amusing, enlightening, perhaps even an aid to resolution for those last-minute undecideds?

Frankly, to this more-conservative liberal, it sets the seal on how low America has allowed itself to sink, while still screaming from the rooftops of its ‘superlative’ world status.

I was spared all this hype, apart from a brief few moments caught on a recording of last night’s Daily Show, because I was in the hospital. Not wishing to bore with minute detail, but suffice to say I arrived at the ER with chest pains and within twenty-four hours my coronary artery was being fitted with a stent, following diagnosis of a 99% blockage.

It happens to thousands of people every week. There’s nothing unusual about it. Frankly, though, it gave me cause to speculate. You see, I’ve always kept reasonably fit; lived an outdoor lifestyle, never allowed my body an excess of things not good for it. Rarely has alcohol been abused, usually sticking to the occasional glass or two of red wine, even less frequent measure of good Scotch whisky. I don’t smoke. There is no whisper of genetic heart defect within my ancestry. In fact, most doctors would agree I was the most unlikely candidate for coronary artery disease.

I even, meticulously, swallowed a low-dose aspirin daily – just to err on the side of caution.

Consequently, when even the slightest exertion brought on a stinging pain behind the breastbone, I wrestled with it; told myself it could only be due to that one problem from which my body has ever suffered: esophageal acid reflux.

I was fortunate; a caring wife, insisting she drive me to the ER, “NOW!” cheated the Grim Reaper as cardiologists rapidly diagnosed a condition they colloquially refer to as the “Widow-Maker”. I was weeks, possibly only days away from a massive, and likely fatal, heart-attack.

It happens to thousands of people every week. I’ve known friends die from it, so suddenly they’re there one moment, gone the next.

I was fortunate. Had I listened solely to my own irresponsible, “That can’t ever happen to me,” I may not be writing these words now.

The truth is it can happen to anyone, however fit, however healthy their lifestyle, however free of heart disease their family tree.

If in doubt, get checked out. It’s a corny slogan, but it’s a damn sight more corny to die when you don’t have to.

You can do as I did, and Obama, Clinton, and McCain: hang about stupidly wrestling, or you can behave as the good US president would, by making when necessary a firm, positive, and right decision.
^{[1] “A Smackdown Among Presidential Candidates?” YouTube.}

Filed under: On the ropes

It could be suggested that the US media is nothing more than a pig trough, or possibly the heap of dung that surrounds one, but to do so would insult the hogs. Pigs have better manners, and a cleaner aspect than the miry, preening, egocentric, swamp rats that infest the public face of American television news these days.

One can only wonder where these mealy-mouthed, insipid, individuals were educated. Surely not in America’s colleges? After all, the American president attended one of those…..

To even suggest Wednesday night’s fiasco, dis-organized by the ABC network, was a “political debate”, would be enough to send any normal, mature, individual into a paroxysm of hysterical laughter.

Is this the esteem with which the US media holds its audience? We may have felt more intellectually stimulated had they screened two hours of the TeleTubbies.

The media regards it audience as big kids, whose only desire is to sit back and enjoy the back-biting and shallow name calling that kids like to do. And, maybe they’re right. After all, according to ABC:

“……it was the most-watched debate of the 2008 cycle, with 10.7 million people watching. ‘For the 8-10 p.m. time period, this marks ABC’s best total viewing audience since 11/28/07, its largest adult 18-49 rating since 2/27/08, and its best adult 25-54 rating since 1/9/08.'”^[1]

Not to be outdone, a bimbo make-up queen of MSNBC stuck her nose out the swamp and attempted to turn an obviously innocent scratch of Obama’s cheek, while he was addressing a rally in Pennsylvania, into some great ‘finger’ insult to Hillary Clinton.

One can only wonder where this country is headed when supposedly responsible media anchors behave in so sick and immature a manner.

Not by any stretch of the imagination, Miss Vacuous Mind, despite much obvious manipulation and editing of the video in a vain attempt to make an innocuous movement appear suspect.

In truth, it’s not the politicians who have used this campaign as a lesson in just how low it’s possible to sink. The media have done the job with no help from them.

Given that the US media is run by those with a vested interest in keeping ordinary folks from learning of, or even showing interest in, the real matters of political importance in this country, it’s little wonder those before the cameras excel at inanity and a serious lack of professionalism.

No doubt, it’s in their job description.

On a final, more positive note, one journalist who rarely disappoints, and whose professionalism shines out as a beacon in the blackness, held a superbly informative interview this week with Leila Fadel, the Baghdad Bureau Chief for McClatchy Newspapers.

At the tender age of twenty-six, Ms Fadel is as far above the US media’s general standard of journalism, as Heaven is above the Earth. If you want to know the true situation in Iraq, rather than the distorted, blatant propaganda generally aired, be sure to watch Bill Moyer’s Journal.^[2]

Leila Fadel also has a blog called simply, “Baghdad”, and her staff in Iraq write the blog, “Inside Iraq”. Links to both can be found in the “Blog Nest” of Sparrow Chat’s sidebar.

Of course, you could always watch the Fox News Channel, but only if truth is secondary to biased sensationalism in your sad and wasted life.

^{[1] “How Much Did You Loathe ABC’s Debate Coverage?” San Francisco Chronicle, April 18th, 2008.}

^{[2] “Leila Fadel Interview”, Bill Moyer’s Journal, April 18th, 2008}

Filed under: Media manure

There are probably far worse situations than sitting stark naked on the toilet just at the moment the earth decides to move, but if so I have yet to encounter them. Some may say that, given the likely bodily reaction to being suddenly shaken out of one’s wits by an earthquake, it’s probably the best place to be, but being a man not given to nervous colonic convulsions, I would have to disagree.

The earthquake that hit Illinois in the early hours of Friday morning (4.37am, to be precise) was not actually the one responsible for me leaping off the loo and into my trousers faster than an Aussie with a Great Red-Back Spider lunging at his privates. It was a more minor after-shock that caused that pandemonium.

The real quake occurred long before, while everyone – including the Adam’s household – was still abed.

J C Penney has a lot to answer, not least of all, for importing their bedroom furniture from China. When my wife and I considered it was time for a new bed we decided to go big, but not too expensive, so ordered the J C Penney Chinese mammoth king-size. It wasn’t until I was laboriously fastening the darned thing together that I realized it really wasn’t all that well made. The bolts were undersized, the headboard attachments flimsy, and however tight the screws and bolts were ratcheted, it squeaked and rattled at every bodily movement.

Jacking the top end up by six inches, as per my reflux-specialist’s advice, just made matters infinitely worse.

It took a year or so, but we eventually adjusted to the odd squeal and groan, never quite managed to incorporate the earplug insertions into sexual foreplay, but accepted our bed’s occasional, gentle, vociferations as part and parcel of normal domestic life.

Until, that is, around 4.37am this Friday morning.

To be awoken from deep slumber by a cacophonous rattling, banging, and squealing, coupled with the vibratory effect of a hundred jack hammers simultaneously concussing concrete inside one’s bedroom in the early hours, is hardly conducive to greeting the dawn with a gratified smile and cheery, “Good morning, you wonderful world.”

Miracles occur in the unlikeliest circumstances, however, and our Chinese bed did survive intact, which is less than can be said for our tattered nerves. In twenty seconds it was all over. The bed reverted to relative silence, until prodded into an occasional groan or squeak by the shifting of its occupying bodies. Peace reigned once more in the Adam’s household.

The last time I encountered such a geological shuffle was back in the early eighties, on the edge of a small lake near Wolverhampton, a town situated in the English Midlands. I was fishing one early morning with a mate, who occupied a peg some fifty or so yards further up the bank. We had both tackled up, cast our lines, and settled back into our folding chairs to await the first bite of the morning, when I shot upright as something grasped my chair and shook it violently. Assuming my friend had sneaked up and played a prank I spun around, only to find no-one there and my pal still sitting in his chair, though staring at me in a similarly perplexed manner.

Had we not been so engrossed in mutual accusation, we would have noticed the water’s agitation, like a garden butt when suddenly impacted by a heavy wheelbarrow.

On that occasion, there were no after-shocks. Earthquakes are not a feature of English rural life and this one was the subject of public house conversations for years to come.

Consequently, after experiencing Friday’s nocturnal tremblings, it never occurred that more might follow, so after returning to slumber for a few hours, I rose and retired to the bathroom for early morning ablutions.

Bill Bryson is one of my all-time favorite writers, and a well-thumbed copy of his “Short History of Nearly Everything” sits atop the bathroom cabinet shelf for those times of dalliance while nature takes its daily course. I was plumb in the middle of the chapter dealing with super-volcanoes and the likelihood of Yellowstone Park erupting with the force of a trillion billion megatons, when history decided to repeat itself. Only this time, it wasn’t my fold-up fishing chair that shook violently, but the bathroom toilet bowl on which my buttocks casually rested.

Imagination can be a wonderful thing. Without it writers, painters, and other artists would have a hard time making a living. But sadly, it has its negative side. This Friday morning it was the thought of rushing, stark naked, out of a collapsing building and into a street already occupied by neighbors, all fully dressed and well amused by my lack of attire, that burned its fanciful image steadfastly onto my mind’s eye.

It was only a mere 5.2 on the Richter scale, and it occurred some three miles under the earth’s surface, but that’s quite sufficient for this English Illinoian.

According to Bill Bryson, the San Francisco “Big-One” is now well overdue. If our little Illinois 5.2 is anything to go by, Californians might well consider the expediency of fitting seat belts to their toilet bowls.

Filed under: Shake, rattle, and roll