Only MY Gazillionaire, NOT!

• In reference to a comment that I made about the unintentionally humorous and ironic rationale of Justice Kennedy in the recent 5-4 decision on affirmative action and the opportunity to use that rationale to easily overturn both "Citizen's United" and "McCutcheon" (and all other Supreme Court decisions), an acquaintance from high school with whom I had not conversed in well over forty years (he is not my FB friend, but the "friend" of the FB friend to whom I was commenting), said the following:

  
  

  "Oh Puleez. Stop pretending this is principled. The only gazillionaires you want to have free speech are those who agree with you."

  
  

  To which, I responded:
• 

  Tim McMullen Hi, xxxxx. I find it rather amusing that you can infer my desire to stifle one side of "civil discourse" from the comments above. You do not appear to be speaking to anything that I actually said in my analysis of the recent Supreme Court decision, and I am not certain as to which "this" you are suggesting is unprincipled. Nonetheless, I would be happy to attempt to respond to your comment and, hopefully, disabuse you of your erroneous assumptions.
  
  The original post was about finding a way to overturn "Citizen's United"; you might have rightly concluded from my comment above that I find the underlying rationale of that decision to be either disingenuous, fatuous, or brazenly hypocritical. I am unwilling to claim to know their actual motivation; I can only attempt to consider possibilities. 
  
  The decision, like so many of this court—including its followup in "McCutcheon," appears to be predicated on "free market principles" (if that phrase is not an oxymoron). I would suggest that thousands of years of history have proven that even if Adam Smith's conjectures about a "freer market," the simple rationale of which boils down to the magic of supply and demand, are true in principle, they are not and cannot be true in fact. More importantly, since Milton Friedman and Arthur Laffer's contributions in the early 70's, like the misappropriated fragments of Ayn Rand's hypocritical idolatry of selfishness, the "free market" rationale is merely code for a social Darwinism intended to bilk millions out of the "suckers," i.e., consumers and citizens, in the name of "free" enterprise.
  
  I am guessing, from your brief and seemingly unrelated dismissal of my argument about the irony and illogic inherent in Kennedy's affirmative action decision, that you are not really interested in a discussion of the merits of the case. Perhaps I am wrong, and I welcome the dialogue. 
  
  The Supreme Court has decided that the free speech provision in the Bill of Rights protects the free and unfettered use of money in the political system. I would argue that this interpretation (like Scalia's flagrant, hypocritical and self-serving error in Bush v. Gore) misunderstands the equal protection under the law premise as well as free speech in our political system. Thomas Pinketty's new book (which I have not read; I have only seen summaries, but the conclusions, though based on extensive research and analysis, should be obvious to pretty much anyone who has lived through the last forty years) shows how the moves to deregulate industry have created significantly disproportionate gains in wealth for the few and actual loss for the many. The point is that a true free market is an unachievable fantasy because it will always be manipulated and misappropriated by fraud, misdirection, and political tampering. Always. Therefore, predicating our democracy on the rights of the wealthy to unlimited access to the tools of persuasion and governmental manipulation cannot be based on justice, fairness or equality. 
  
  Here is an example of a legitimate attempt to make access to political funding more equitable and egalitarian. I offer this only as a simple example. Limit political contributions to $100 dollars per voting age citizen. It can all be given to one candidate or one cause, or it can be distributed to as many as twenty different causes or candidates. Some people will choose not to participate at all merely out of disinterest, and poverty will still be somewhat restrictive on participation, but that amount, if the individual is interested, would be achievable for nearly all. Yes, this will drastically limit the profit of media conglomerates, but why should the political process in a democracy be a profit making enterprise? We have also completely lost track of the premise of "public airwaves" through radical deregulation, again sacrificing the public good on the altar of a profiteering free market. Carve out a brief time, prime time, for a certain amount of weeks or months prior to an election during which candidates and causes can put forth, for example, two minute radio and TV ads at a prescribed time. People can tune in or tune out as they are so disposed. A person running for office has the right to commit the same $100 dollars as anyone else, but no more. They may use it on themselves or on any campaign of their choice. 
  
  Granted, these ideas are simplistic, arbitrary, and radical, but they come much closer to the democratic goal of "one person, one vote" than either the system as it had evolved either before or after the "Citizens" and "McCutcheon" decisions. As you may have noticed, such a plan does not favor one side's gazillionare over another, and it is, in fact, predicated on an attempt to be principled in achieving a desirable goal. And if my guy wins, more's the better (that's a slight nod to humor), but such a scheme would not favor wealth or poverty, the right or the left or the center. It might actually engender a more active and interested populace, and it might actually promote MORE "FREE" and more creative, thoughtful, and engaged speech in the process. "Puleez."
  
  "The Greatest Threat to Democracy is Hypocrisy! Seek Truth! Speak Truth!" Tim McMullen

The Attack - A Short Story

I was inspired to post this today by a great little video of a kid playing imaginary games and the video maker (I am assuming that it was his father) using video magic to enhance the results of his game. 

The story came, in part, from a line in my song, "Michael," and from a wonderful story I stumbled upon years later by Roald Dahl, called "The Wish." Another story with a similar premise (it was once the second part of this story) is entitled "Crack-up." Both are from my collection of short stories, So It's All Done With Mirrors, That's No Reflection on You!

THE ATTACK

A Short Story by Tim McMullen

“YAH-YAH-YAH-YAH-YAH!” The shrill whoop pierced the afternoon haze; like deer put to flight, six Indians shot from the scrub brush and circled the fortress, their banshee cries echoing across the dying summer grass. 

Within the beleaguered outpost an uneasy silence reigned. The courageous, but weary, faces looked anxiously around, trying to conceive of some idea, some plan, that might halt the onrushing doom. 

“Well, Joe, we may be done for,” whispered the captain, “but we're gonna' take a few of them with us.” He motioned for them to step closer. “Look, here's the plan.” 

“You, too, Runt! Listen up!” Joe spat the words out cruelly at their diminutive companion. Then all three knelt down and huddled together; one whispered orders; the others nodded assent. 

After a sinister quiet of several minutes, it came. 

“YI—YI—YI—YI—YIEEEEE!” 

Over the ankle deep grass they ran, raising their dreadful yowling to the waning day as they descended upon the enemy fort. 

“YAH-YAH-YAH!” came the harrowing howl, “YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-EEE!" 

The captain motioned silence to his companions, bade them wait for the right moment, and then prepared himself. He crouched down and made as if to check his ammunition. Reassured, he held himself ready and waited. The little fellow saw Joe grimace disdainfully in his direction; it was Joe's way of visually reaffirming his often-repeated conviction that the Runt was a worthless liability. 

When the Indians were within ten feet of the outer wall, the Captain gave his men the sign. All three sprang as one. Lifting his part of the roof aside, "the Runt" raised his hand and bellowed. 

"P—KEW! P—KEW! P—KEW!" the sound rang out. 

A wave of pride and relief swept through the young soldier as a surprised Indian clasped his hands to his chest and begrudgingly fell dead before him. As he ducked beneath the safety of his covering, he realized that he had seen two more Indians fall, one each for Joe and the Captain. The sun, he knew, was on their side now; the Indians would probably not try another attack before sundown. 

Suddenly, with God-like intervention, it was over. 

"JOHN—NY! RA—ALPH!" rang the cry. 

"AW...!" cursed one of the dead Indians. "Okay!" he shouted as he rose and headed toward the porch of the yard four doors down. Ralph, or "Joe," as he was known to his cavalry buddies, emerged from the lawn chair and tree branch fort and shot a frustrated frown in the direction that his younger brother had taken. 

The Indian braves and the clever cavalrymen began to drag reluctantly off to their respective homes. Quickly then, the plains and hills of the Indian badlands succumbed to the curbs, lawns and driveways of a suburban afternoon. 

Steven, "the Runt," began to fold up his father's lemon-colored lawn chairs. His flaxen hair floated about his four-year-old face in wispy curls. Heaving a work-laden sigh, he pushed his hair back with an exaggerated sweep of his arm like a longshoreman wiping a sweaty brow. The delicate pallor of his broad forehead made his skin seem almost transparent while the acute angle of his chin completed his elfin triangle a face. 

He jerked hard on a branch that was tangled in one of the folding chairs; the knobby bark jabbed sharply into his palm, and he let go with a yelp. The force of his tug and his unexpected release sent him sprawling backward toward the curb. A yip like an injured and terrified puppy escaped his lips, and he plopped ignominiously in the grass. 

He had often watched proudly as his brother Anthony, "The Captain," led the other kids in Cowboys 'n' Indians or Follow-the-leader. Because he was the youngest, and small for his age, little Stevie would bring up the rear. He chased and trailed after them as they trampled through an obstacle course of fences, bushes, planters, sprinklers, and other outdoor paraphernalia. But invariably, when the pack came to dance at the curb's edge, Steven suddenly ceased the chase. 

It was only when he got close to the curb, and even then, it was only occasionally, that he felt the change. Inexplicably and without warning, the asphalt and concrete of the little cul-de-sac would surge and stretch and swirl until the cliff and the sea appeared. The houses were gone, the cars were gone, and the laughter and the shrieks of the others were submerged and drowned by the growling roar of the crashing waves against the cliff face. 

Whenever the change happened, he would hurl himself back and cling to the ground. If any of the children noticed his reaction, especially Ralph, who perpetually tormented him when Anthony wasn't around, they would sing out, "Scaredy Cat! Scaredy cat! Runty is a Scaredy Cat!" This chant broke the spell of the ocean, and he listened shamefacedly to their jeers and laughter. 

Now, as he lay sprawled on his back, he heard someone shout, "The cliff! Watch out for the cliff! Don't fall in the ocean!" 

He tensed, but he breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that they were teasing. There was nothing but curb and gutter and cars and houses as he looked toward the street. 

"AW, he's a 'fraidy cat! He won't come to the cliff and look down…he's afraid!" taunted Ralph, still angry at being called in. 

"No, he's not!" Steven heard Anthony say. "He's my brother, and he's not afraid. He'll do it. I'll betcha'!" 

"Yeah, how much?" said Ralph. 

"Five puries and a cat's eye, okay?" 

"Okay!" 

"C'mon, Stevie!" said Anthony coaxingly. "Tightrope walk the curb." 

Steven looked at his older brother who stood in the driveway motioning for him to cross. He had never discussed the cliff with anyone, not even Anthony. 

"C'mo-o-on, Ste-e-v-e-e," goaded Ralph, wiggling his finger in an exaggerated "come-on" sign. 

Stevie looked around. All the other kids had gone in except for Ralph and Anthony. He looked back at his brother and then down at the curb. Reassured, he said, “Sure!” He wasn't about to lose Anthony's marbles if he could help it. 

He came to the curb slowly. Hesitantly, he placed his right foot near the curb and looked down. He saw some foil from a gum wrapper and some dry grass clippings in the gutter. There was a trickle of water left over from their running through the sprinklers earlier in the day. With his eyes forward, he confidently walked the distance of the curb from driveway to driveway. 

Having completed his ordeal, he beamed proudly, not only because he had shown Ralph that he wasn't chicken, but also because he had added six great marbles to his brother's collection. 

"Good boy!" said Anthony patting him on the head. "Told you, Ralph!"

Anthony laughed, put the marbles in his pocket, and ran toward the house. Ralph shrugged his shoulders and turned to follow. Reaching back, he gave Stevie, the cause of his defeat, a little shove. 

The shove, coming so unexpectedly, startled Stevie and sent him hurling toward the curb. In that instant, the old fear raged through him. He tried to stop his momentum by throwing his arms out and grabbing at the air. Below him, the churning ocean crashed, and the sea spray spattered his face and arms. 

Hovering on the edge of the cliff, he tried to scream but could only gasp. His fingers clawed madly. Ever so slowly, ever so desperately, he felt himself going over. With one final effort, he twisted his body and grabbed for Ralph, who stood laughing at his childish terror. His frantic grab at Ralph's sleeve allowed Steven to right himself, but the tug upset Ralph's balance. In an alarmingly comical aerial ballet, Ralph somersaulted forward, flailing and shrieking in rage and despair. 

When questioned later, little Steven, staring intently at the gum wrapper and the grass clippings in the gutter, admitted truthfully that he really had no idea where Ralph was. Then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

©1985 Tim McMullen

All Rights Reserved

That's What Makes You Strong—The Passing of Jesse Winchester

We have lost one of our very finest. Jesse Winchester has left the building. 

Such exuberant joy, such tender innocence, such melancholy longing, such wit and whimsy, such deep philosophical and spiritual wisdom all served up in a two to three minute song with the most delightful and moving melodies and powerful performances.

Whenever we go on a road trip, we make sure to have at least one or two Jesse Winchester cd's in the mix. I once collected his first seven albums into five CD's rearranging his songs into a two-CD collection—"The World According to Jesse"—which contained 46 of his philosophical and spiritual musings; and three single sets: "Mock and Roll" (his humorous songs, his rock songs, and his songs about music), "Pop and Cover" (his own "pop-style" songs and his renditions of other people's songs), and "Love and Loss"
(the contents of which are obvious). I have never done anything quite like this with any other artist. This, I must point out, was before the days of digital playlists and mp3 players.

Jesse Winchester is also my primary example of why a live, solo performance of a truly great songwriter is better than the best recordings. Jesse's albums are pure joy, but his live performances shared an immediacy, intimacy, and intense interpretation that was nearly impossible to capture in the studio.

I love the work of many great songwriters and performers, but if I were doomed to choose only one performer whose catalogue I could listen to, I don't hesitate to say that it would be Jesse Winchester's.

"When I do fall, I will be glad to go," Jesse sang, and I hope that it was true for him. There are many of us who are not glad that he had to go so soon. But as Jesse Winchester sang,
"I wave bye bye
I pray God speed
I wish lovely weather
And all the luck that you need"
Ihttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_yoD-7QpcqI

Reviews of Rotten Tomatoes, Walter Mitty, Inside Llewyn Davis, and American Hustle

I have been using Rotten Tomatoes for years now—it is a very valuable tool— but I have not felt compelled to comment until today after watching "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.”

I have been noticing a specific phenomenon lately; it is somewhat alarming but still useful. Mediocre films by "top level" directors get absurdly high "critic" ratings, but the audience’s “liked it" ratings run well below those percentages. Whereas some fine movies get mediocre reviews, and some mediocre movies get complete trashings (“47 Ronin”), yet those critical reviews are countered by positive audience responses.

Take, on the other hand, films like “Inside Llewyn Davis” or “American Hustle,” both of which received 93% from the critics. I lived through and loved the folk era—I recognized the Dave Van Ronk album cover and the obvious Tom Paxton references. I also saw the Mark Spoelstra reference (The Five and Twenty Questions album) which no reviewer seems to have noticed, and the Peter, Paul and Mary and Al Grossman references as well. I was a fan of Jim and Jean and the Clancy Brothers as well as Van Ronk and Dylan, and I loved Dave Van Ronk’s wonderful autobiography, “The Mayor of MacDougal Street” upon which this movie was purportedly based. Unfortunately, the movie was tedious and lifeless with a complete disdain for the real musicians and the music scene of the time. The Coen’s have every right to create a story about a crass, selfish, self-important loser, but it is wrong to make so many direct references to real individuals while making no attempt to make that depiction have any basis in reality. The bit with the cat was the only redeeming virtue in this piece with the possible exception of a couple of song performances and John Goodman’s obligatory Coen Brothers’ cameo. This is either a mirthless comedy or a pointless, mean-spirited dramedy, but clearly the filmmakers could not make up their minds. The audience, of course, could make up their minds and only gave it a 75%, which is still rather generous.

“American Hustle”? More mediocrity: unfunny slapstick; aggressive scenery chewing by nearly all cast members (as much as I enjoy both female leads); missing motivation and inexplicable actions; a painfully predictable plot—even if you don’t know the “history”— with no real tension or suspense (unlike, for example, “Argo”); and nothing at all noteworthy about the actual style of the film. Critics: 93%  Audience: 81% (I would argue highly overrated by both).

“The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” is, on the other hand, quite a masterful piece of movie making. The fact that it has much more in common with the Danny Kaye movie of the same name than with the James Thurber short story is forgivable. It would be nearly impossible to film the actual story today. For one, it is extremely short (only a few pages); for another, it is a very harsh and sarcastic, though amusing, attack on a daydreaming nebbish who is a menace to himself and those around him. There is not one whit of romanticizing about foolishly fantasizing Walter and his necessarily domineering wife.

Stiller’s “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” is a thoroughly engrossing new take on the theme of breaking out of one’s box and taking a chance on life and love; an old story but nicely envisioned and reinvigorated. From the first instant of the very clever opening credits, the viewers understand that they are in an unusual world, a world that is an overlapping of fantasy and reality. The filming of both the “real life” and the fantasy scenes are truly noteworthy. The intertwining conceits of online dating and a mystery surrounding the final cover of the iconic Life Magazine create a compelling premise that takes the viewer on a nice set of turns along the way (and I don’t just mean the skateboard). The action sequences and the wonderful vistas are legitimately breathtaking while comfortably fitting the outlandish story. This movie is gentle in its humor—plenty of chuckles but few guffaws—yet certainly funnier than either of the other movies with which it is compared above. This movie, though, was not going for guffaws, it was going for heart, which it has in abundance. I defy anyone to find any real heart in either of those “top rated movies.”

“Walter Mitty” has only a 49% rating from the critics, but a 79% from the audience, and I predict that this assessment will rise as word of mouth allows the Stiller film to overcome both the completely unjustified critical “write-off” as well as the “I just don’t like Ben Stiller” prejudice. This is extremely well written, well acted, well filmed, and well directed, and it deserves a much wider audience.

Saving Social Security: Both the program and the larger concept of SOCIAL security.

My friend, Ben Rich, wrote the following comment on a post that I shared about Social Security:

This is a very serious problem, not only for our generation, not only for senior citizens (now). Think about our children, now working, looking toward their own retirement. I certainly think that people should save and invest. But, real incomes are in decline making it harder to save and invest. What will our children face after 30 - 40 years of work?

You are right, Ben. We really need to come at this problem from both ends. Workers used to have pensions; after working for forty years for a company, they had expectation of a modest pension and their Social Security. In other words, part of what might have been their "pay" went into company pensions and another part of their pay went into Social Security. CEO's made ten to fifteen times what an ordinary worker made.

Then, in the late 70's-early 80's, everything changed. People who had worked their way through the company from the stock room to the board room became irrelevant because knowledge of the particular business was supplanted by knowledge of "business," and rather than spending forty years with a company, top level executives could move from running a cardboard box manufacturer to a soda company to a pharmaceutical company without any knowledge of that particular business. More importantly, those changes were made more and more often so that the "boss" had no real familiarity with the company or its personnel. Employee loyalty was no longer valued, and the perks that helped to engender that loyalty, like pensions, health benefits, etc. were rapidly eliminated.

As a result, companies immediately had much more profit and fewer responsibilities to the employee. Rather than sharing this largesse with the workers, that increased wealth went to the management and stockholders. Then, under Reagan, corporate mergers, creative bookkeeping, and contract breaking under Chapter 11 bankruptcies, tax havens, drastically lower tax rates for corporations and the wealthy allowed even further erosion of income for the middle class and the working poor.

The so-called "market" has become a rigged game that has nothing to do with Adam Smith's conception of capitalism. Those at the top agree to give themselves an ever larger share of the pie while reducing everyone else's share, and they pay politicians to grease the wheels for this unjustified transfer of wealth.

The cap on Social Security at barely over $100,000 dollars has the average worker pay a significant percentage of their income into the pool while the truly wealthy pay a pittance in comparison. Furthermore, those who make much of their income from investments pay a much lower tax rate than those who do the work of this country. At present, companies are rewarded for outsourcing jobs or downsizing, when "downsizing" merely means those who are left do much more work for the same or less pay.

We need a real movement to regulate financial markets, make boards and CEO's responsible to both stockholders and employees, get unlimited anonymous money out of politics, make corporations and industries responsible for the actual damage that they do to the environment and prevent that damage from continuing, and drastically strengthen the social safety net for children, workers, retirees, the infirm, and the downtrodden. We need to stabilize the banking and financial industries so that fraud and foul play cannot jeopardize a lifetime of savings in one quick downturn. We need to control medical costs so that one illness cannot destroy a lifetime of savings. We need to have a fair wage so that people can even begin to accrue a lifetime of savings.

The irony and the tragedy of our current state of affairs is that we were on a hundred year run toward realizing these progressive ideals when we were train-wrecked thirty years ago by uncontrolled greed. We can set the train back on the tracks, but first, we have to realize that it has actually jumped the tracks. The current powers that be are doing their utmost to convince those of us on the train that despite all these bumps and crashes we are still on the tracks. A vast majority, of course, realize that the profiteers and exploiters are wrong, but we are not yet convinced that it is within our means to right ourselves. It is within our means to set things back on the correct, progressive path, but the longer we wait, the harder it will be.

Honoring OUR Veterans on Veterans' Day

 Mel McMullen, WWII gunner 

                         Jim McMullen, WWII pilot and career USAF officer

Mel and Jim with their father, our grandfather, James McMullen, WWI veteran.

 Jennifer and Mel McMullen, former National Commander of CBI (China, Burma, India) Veterans' Association and member of the Distinguished Flying Cross Society.

Today, and everyday, we honor you, not merely for your military service, but for being who you are and for helping to make us who we are. Thank you!

Happy Halloween—"Through the Darkness"

Through the Darkness (Nosferatu)

Through the darkness eyes came shining

Like a torch to guide her way—

Like a fire through her soul—

And they seemed somehow to say,

“Through the darkness I will lead you—

Only trust and you will know

Just how much I really need you,

And why I can’t let go!”

Through the darkness of the shadows,

Something tapping at the pane;

Though her heart begged her to run,

She knew she would remain.

The hunger in her lover’s eyes:

Like a dream inside a dream—

Like a knife blade through the silence—

Like a scream inside a scream!

In the mirror in the moonlight,

She can see her trembling face.

In the mirror she’s alone in an empty room,

But she feels his warm embrace.

“Through the darkness I will lead you—

Only trust and you will know

Just how much I really need you,

And why I can’t let go!”

As he knelt there at her bedside,

She knew her will was gone,

And she felt just like a stranger looking on.

The hunger in her lover’s eyes:

Like a dream inside a dream—

Like a knife blade through the silence—

Like a scream inside a scream!

In the mirror in the moonlight,

The door is broken down,

But they can’t explain how the lady died...

Or the blood at the neck of her gown.

But through the darkness

Her eyes come shining

Like a torch to guide your way—

Like a fire through your soul—

And they seem  somehow to say,

“Through the darkness I will lead you—

Only trust and you will know

Just how much I really need you

And why I can’t let go—

How much I really need you...

I need.........”

© 1979  Tim McMullen ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Performance from the Steve Gillette Songwriter's Workshop, Saturday Evening Concert, March 25, 2012

Don't Let the Cons Con You into Decimating Social Security

We need to stand strong and united. The assaults on Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid are real, and they come from both sides of the aisle. The excuse for attacking these essential, social safety net programs is the "dreadful deficit," which, of course, was created from a budget SURPLUS and was the direct result of many errant policies.

Though some Democratic Representatives have endorsed a few of these policies, most are the direct result of Republican ideology and policy: unjustified military actions and unnecessary military spending (often on programs and equipment that the military has explicitly said that it does not want or need); huge tax decreases for the wealthiest corporations and individuals; unnecessary and unwarranted subsidies for some of the wealthiest industries; egregiously unfair tax loopholes—available only to the wealthy—that allow many of the wealthiest corporations and individuals to avoid warranted taxes; totally misguided and faulty deregulation of the financial sector that lead to several drastic economic downturns, especially the most recent "great recession"; the "no-strings-attached" economic bailout of those most directly responsible for the economic collapse which has left the worst actors in better shape than before their fraud-induced collapse while leaving most of the country still devastated by economic loss; a completely unrealistic cap on Social Security contributions; six years of political sabotage and stalemate from the minority party outspokenly intent on destroying any chance of significant job recovery or health care reform merely to gain political advantage; and very significantly, a cynical media assault on Social Security, Medicare, and government in general, designed to mislead several generations into believing that there will be nothing for them in the future, that they should abandon all interest in wider society, that privatizing everything gives them a better chance, and that they should care about nothing but their own interests, and, of course, by example, that lying, cheating, and stealing are simply necessary methods for success and that the rules limiting these methods should be loosened or eliminated.

The chained CPI, a method of conscientiously miscalculating downward the needs of retirees so as to significantly reduce their benefits in the future, is actually a drastic, negative change. Before Social Security is touched, before Medicare and Medicaid and a hundred other programs that have already been diminished by political blackmail, extortion, brinkmanship, and disingenuous compromise, we need to rebuild the middle class and our social safety programs by reversing all of the failed policies mentioned above. Only after we have raised the income threshold on Social Security; only after we have reduced our outrageous and unnecessary military spending, including bringing the "Big Brother" surveillance regime under control; only after re-regulating and better regulating the financial sector; only after significantly reducing tax loopholes and subsidies for the wealthiest should we even begin to consider cuts to social programs.

Should we attempt to eliminate fraud in social programs and tax policies? Absolutely. That naturally requires more regulation and regulators, not less as the Republican congress and media echo chamber have advocated and accomplished for many years. Furthermore, we need to bring real criminal charges against those who actually committed or condoned fraud and worse, offering jail time, not just pittance penalties—people have been out of work for years now as a result of this malfeasance, and these criminal corporations are asked to pay only a few days income in fines? There is real injustice here, but many of those in Congress have fought tooth and claw to prevent their financial backers from being held accountable, choosing instead to wreak havoc on women, children, the elderly, workers, immigrants, and the poor. If we all demand that they make other more fair and equitable changes before tampering with the few programs actually designed to benefit the common man, maybe they will listen.

I encourage you to sign the petition from Bernie Sanders whether it comes from Sen. Bernie Sanders, Alliance for Retired Americans, Campaign for America's Future, Campaign for Community Change, DailyKos, Democracy For America, The Other 98%, Progressives United, Social Security Works, USAction or any other organization or politician endorsing the protection of Social Security and Medicare.

"The Greatest Threat to Democracy is Hypocrisy! Seek Truth! Speak Truth!"
Tim McMullen

A Nod to Walt Kelly & I Go Pogo—"We have met the enemy, and he is US!"

My last post on Facebook included a video about the media distortions and mob think to which we are so easily lead; when posted elsewhere, it got the response, "Well, I guess that's why the govt. sees us all as sheep."

My response— I think that you are right: many in the government do see the people as sheep. This story is the very opposite of government manipulation, but it may expose, as you suggest, why so many politicians and those who pull their strings think of us as such.

Although some jury awards have seemed overboard, and although frivolous or nuisance lawsuits can be used unfairly, the "Tort Reform" movement is cynically motivated by the same treacherous greed and perpetrated by the same corporate criminal interests that oppose all regulation of business. In a society ruled by true laissez faire (let business do whatever it wants with no government interference) and caveat emptor (let the buyer beware), the scoundrels and the sociopaths always have the upper hand.

Tort reform; deregulation; term limits; the "religious" right to refuse insurance protections to employees; union busting; the corporate right to intrude on employee's personal lives; gag orders in legal settlements; the absurd but shrewd idea that corporations are people and money is speech; the gutting of the Voting Rights Act; the unscrupulous purging of voter roles; the enactment of new registration and voting requirements that intentionally suppress voting; "No new taxes...ever!"; the cutting or eliminating programs for those in need while heaping incredible subsidies or bailouts on those who illegally foreclose on peoples' property or pollute and destroy the environment; unjustified and illegal wars pursued on false pretenses: All of these are part of the same movement, aided by the corporate controlled media, designed to decimate the middle class. A peasantry set at one another's throats for the few remaining crumbs really is a sensible goal for a ruthless, anti-social, plutocratic oligarchy.

The fact that so many of those elected to positions of power actually subscribe to a conflation of Ayn Rand's hypocritical social Darwinism and a misinterpretation of MIlton Friedman's "business has no moral responsibility except to make money" is due, for the most part, to the carefully cultivated cynicism, apathy, and cowardice of the American people who have come to care more about the new "American Idol," the latest "Survivor," or the latest irrelevant sexual scandal or lewd celebrity pictures on the net than they care about the running of our government or the welfare of our society and our world.

As a result of willful ignorance, intellectual ennui, and a nagging but indefinable sense of aggrievement, the populous is easily manipulated and roused to incomprehensible and often uncontrollable anger over calculated and intentionally distorted or spurious claims by demagogues (Ted Cruz being the latest puppet of the Right, though the left have theirs as well). After a few hours or occasionally even days of engagement, of course, the angry mob subsides to its disinterested apathy once again.

 WE ARE the GOVERNMENT, but in so many ways we have allowed our selfishness, cowardice, ignorance, and apathy to turn over our responsibilities and our interests to those who care little for the actual needs of the country but for whom ruthless self-interest and self-righteous hypocrisy are most useful tools.

"The Greatest Threat to Democracy is Hypocrisy! Seek Truth! Speak Truth!" Tim McMullen

Making it Look EASY!

An early celebration of Jennifer McMullen's birthday with Carolyn Swanson and Mel, Kevin, and Tim McMullen at Scott's Seafood Restaurant in Costa Mesa last Thursday. 

As we were leaving the establishment, the young hostess who had initially been informed of Mom's birthday (hence, the free chocolate cake and candle) came running over to Carolyn and said, "Is that her? Look at how fast she moves. There's no way that she's 89!" 

Way to set the bar higher for all of us, Jennifer. 

Here's to a great 89th Birthday, Jennifer... Aunt Marie... Granma... Mom!

A Monumental Docket of Minimal Rulings from a Hopelessly Divided and Partisan Supreme Court

There should be a lot of justified rejoicing in California and around the country with the striking down of the grossly and ironically misnamed "Defense of Marriage Act" (DOMA) and allowing the striking down of Prop 8 in California to stand (due to a technicality of legal standing).

"The AC-DC Sock-It-To-Me Talkin' Blues"

I, too, am gratified that they didn't make some irrational, indefensible, contrary decision, as they so often do, but these are really just manipulative cop-outs as were their other decisions this week. Narrowing of rights and protections of the individual is the basic approach of this court. First, they sent back an affirmative action law. They didn't rule that affirmative action was unconstitutional; they simply continued to narrow the circumstances in which it can be used; i.e., they can't ignore or deny the racism and discrimination that continues in this country, but they repeatedly narrow the remedies for protection or restitution.

"The Governed's Mental Getcha'"

Yesterday, the court admitted that racial discrimination and voter suppression continue to occur; they simply said that since the original list was made so long ago, and even though Congress re-approved it only six years ago after lengthy and detailed analysis of the current situation, Congress will have to create a new list. Until the new list is created, any state, no matter how bad their record or how recently their attempts to disenfranchise minority voters, can implement any schemes they devise to prevent minorities from voting, and the only way to stop them is through a lawsuit which can take many years to move through the courts. The courts recent rulings on class-action suits makes this method even more suspect as a way of preventing voter disenfranchisement.

This is the most activist and partisan, pro-business/anti-individual court in the last fifty years, and they are absolutely aware of the political implications of their decisions. They have calculated that under this demonstrably dysfunctional Congress that new list cannot be updated, perhaps for decades, so, while declaring the Voting Rights Act constitutional, they have, for all intents and purposes rendered it useless.

On the surface they appear to have done the right thing with DOMA and Prop 8, but again, their underlying machinations are problematic. DOMA was flagrantly discriminatory and unconstitutional, and they acknowledged this fact. This will be a huge boon to same-sex couples when it comes to federal rights in states that accept same-sex marriage, but in this decision and in Prop 8, they appear to have declared this a "states-rights" issue; therefore, according to these rulings, it may still be constitutional to ban gay marriage in individual states, and it may be constitutional for those states to continue to refuse to recognize same-sex marriages from other states. As a result, the federal government may also be able to deny federal protections (pensions, tax benefits, etc.) to same-sex couples in those anti-gay states. In other words, the Feds can't make a law outlawing same sex marriage; that would be unconstitutional; but the states can ban it, and the feds could create regulations that mimic the states.

"Talking Herstory"

These "narrow" rulings on clearly national issues are disingenuous, manipulative, and cowardly. "States' rights" rulings use the same rationale that recognizes Griswold v. Connecticut and Roe v. Wade as the constitutional law of the land, a right to contraception and abortion that cannot be taken away by the government, yet they allow the individual states, as when Missouri attempted to limit birth control, or as Texas attempted last night to all but eliminate access to abortion as a practical reality, while not altering its constitutionality per se.

In many ways, this Roberts' Supreme Court majority, as bad as they are on protection of individual civil rights, is a group of scurrilous toadies when it comes to the interests of the national Chamber of Commerce and the corrupt corporate cabal that have recently overwhelmed our political system. Besides the absurd Citizens United decision that gave carte blanche to corporations to corrupt the political system, they have now banned nearly all class action suits for any kind of discrimination claims, thus taking away the only effective way for individuals to protect their rights when facing the behemoth legal structures of corporations. These are patently irrational decisions from any viewpoint except the dystopian, Ayn Rand, Arthur Laffer, Milton Friedman world in which corporations and their investors have free reign to exploit both workers and the environment at will, and the individual worker, citizen, human being is merely fodder for the personal acquisition of wealth by the corporate elite.

"The Greatest Threat"

I continue to predict that this court, whose intellectual spearhead is the hyper-hypocritical Antonin Scalia and whose pro-business mentor is Chief Justice John Roberts, in its attempts to roll back the rights and freedoms of the individual in favor of the ruling elite, will become the most overturned Supreme Court in American history.

Tim McMullen

The "Eyes" Have It...Celebrating Sixty-Seven Years of Marriage!

Carolyn and Tim had the pleasure of Mel and Jennifer's company all last week (and vice versa). As you know, M & J do everything together, so when their eye doctor told them that they both needed cataract surgery, they scheduled them for the same day. Tim picked them up and brought them to Rowland Heights on Monday, took them to the surgery in Ontario on Tuesday (They were quite a hit in the Kaiser outpatient surgery), and to the post-op check-up on Wednesday. Thursday and Friday they relaxed: Mel worked on the video of their recent trip to China, Tibet and Mongolia on their laptop. Jennifer caught up on e-mails and played games of chance on her iPad.

 On Saturday, Mel, Jennifer, Carolyn and Tim went to the Mark Taper Forum to see an excellent version of Joe Turner's Come and Gone directed by Phylicia Rashād.

After the play we had dinner at Babita's in San Gabriel (a great, gourmet "Mexicuisine" restaurant) to celebrate the McMullen's 67th wedding anniversary. We had a delicious dinner, and we all enjoyed the complimentary anniversary flan. 

As you can see they both seem completely recovered from the surgery and in high spirits. Today, May 13, is the actual anniversary of their wedding.  Married 67 years and still going strong. They are an inspiration to us all.  Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

Yet Another Story From the Past for the Present

HAPPY HOUR, NO HOST

A short story by Tim McMullen

“It's just a buzz... a kind of gnawing sound, that's all. I can't explain it. I just feel it... buzzing…here!” He lifted his torso from the couch and thrust his outstretched fingers against an area on his forehead just above his nose, disturbing the beads of sweat that had collected there; his eyes sought Weston's with an angry plea. “You gotta' help me! It's getting worse!”

It was a torturously hot day, and, typically, the air conditioner was out. Dr. Philip Weston had just opened the windows of his fourteenth floor office when Fanning had entered. The fellow had been in the office nearly five minutes, and he had been raving continuously since he'd seated himself on the psychiatrist's couch.

Weston was experiencing the same reaction he always encountered with a new patient. He wished that they could all be like the "old timers,” the long-term patients who had learned not to expect so much. If they could just accept the process and not be so hung up on "the cure”—but it was always the same: the same old denial, "I'm not crazy! There's nothing wrong with my mind!"; and the same old whine, "Help me, Doctor! You've got to help me!”

Slowly, he realized that his imagined words had coincided with the words and tone and supplication of Fanning, his new patient. He opened his eyes just in time to meet the intense and painful gaze of the man. He looked to be in his early to middle forties, with close-cropped dark hair; flecks of grey salted his temples and crown. When he wasn't speaking, Fanning's mouth drooped open peculiarly, almost as if it were trying to speak against his will, and his eyelids, though apparently closed, fluttered uncontrollably. For most of the last five minutes, however, he had been speaking, albeit in an agitated, stumbling cadence. The words lurched forth three or four words at a time, and his rambled narration was anything but lucid.

Thus far, in fact, Weston had not really decoded any of the man's exposition. Instead, he simply sat and stared at the man's eyes. The eyes themselves were very unremarkable; they were a typical light brown, and the shape and size were also ordinary. But the look.... Deep in those eyes Weston saw something that both gratified and alarmed him. He had probably read the phrase a hundred times in stories and novels, and perhaps even in a case study or two, but he had never actually encountered such a phenomenon. Now, however, he had no doubt; if there was such a thing as "tortured eyes,” this fellow definitely had them.

“Well ... " Weston drawled and then paused as he tried to pull his attention back to his patient's still unidentified problem. After all, the fellow was paying for the hour. Holding his pencil and pad near his chest, Weston flapped his arms a couple of times in an effort to get air to his perspiration-soaked armpits. "It really is a scorcher, isn't it, Mr. Fanning? Sorry about the air conditioner...Isn't that just the way, though?" 

Fanning remained motionless on the couch and did not speak.

"Well," said Weston, trying another tact, "sometimes it helps to run through the details a second time. It helps us make certain that the facts are straight, and it helps you to articulate more clearly what you feel is the problem.”

"I told you the..."

“Yes, I know, but slowly and calmly now,” interrupted the doctor. “Start at the beginning and just talk it through again."

"Look, I'm a neurobiologist! I'm not some loon off the street!" replied Fanning.

No-No...not you, Weston observed silently, but his face was a mask of reassurance.

“I've never been to a psychiatrist in my life ... and I never needed to, either!" Fanning made a move to scratch his head, but his hand halted in mid-flight; apparently puzzled, he gazed at it for a moment then laid it back at his side.

“I've tried five doctors, and they all say the same thing: 'No reason for that bleeding, Mr. Fanning. You're fine. Nothing wrong with you ... physically! Nothing a little peace and quiet won't cure." Fanning spoke calmly and quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, but his eyelids and his fingers twitched convulsively. "Peace and quiet," he sneered, raising his voice. "Doctor, I haven't worked in nearly two months. I haven't seen any friends for weeks. Christ, I haven't done anything for days but sit and listen to it gnawing away. I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!" Fanning clenched his graying brown hair in his fists, threw his head against the twill beige of the couch, and let loose a sob.

Oh, fine! A screamer, thought Weston. He turned his back and rolled his eyes. Recovering himself, he cooed, in his best couch side manner:

"NOW, now, take it easy. Take it easy, Mr. Fanning. We can't help you unless you're willing to help yourself. We have got to work as a team." He reached over and patted the man's shoulder, an expedient to which he resorted only in extreme cases. He noticed a wad of cotton stuffed in Fanning's ear. "Now then, let's go back to the first time you heard this...uh...uh...buzzing."

Fanning turned back and lay with his eyes closed; his body was more relaxed, and he spoke now in a hoarse, whispered monotone.

"It's quieter now ... not so bad... I can think. What ... what did you ask me?"

"I asked you when the buzzing began,” replied Weston.

“Oh, yeah,” Fanning said, but he gazed off distractedly with a puzzled look, as if he were a student trying to work out a difficult mathematical problem. His face was uplifted and his eyes were nearly closed so that Weston could see only the whites peeking from under the still flickering lashes. “Funny,” Fanning continued, “When you touched my shoulder.... " His voice trailed off, and he looked at Weston.

“Yes?" said Weston.

"Oh, yeah. I've been thinking about when it started. I'm not sure. It kind of crept up on me, you know? One day, about two months ago, I realized there was this noise. I figured it was the air conditioner or the fluorescent lights or something. Stevens and I were in the lab. It was real faint, but piercing ... you know ... like fingernails on a blackboard from a half-a-block away. It just kept... A-A-A-H-H! A-A-A-A-H-H-H!"

Fanning's eyes slammed shut as he screamed, and his face went ashen. He squinted so relentlessly and clutched at his brow so furiously that, for a moment, he looked as if his entire face was being sucked into his eyes.

Philip Weston viewed the stricken man with alarm. Fanning had been so calm, so lucid, that Weston had nearly forgotten the seizures. He reached out, almost instinctively, for an unprecedented second time. Much to his surprise, the tortured man's writhing subsided at the touch. Weston felt an ominous tremor run through his own body, and he was forced to fight back a wave of nausea as he removed his hand.

Appearing even more drained and vacant than after the previous seizure, Fanning whispered rapidly.

“Stevens...Stevens and I used to talk. It bothered him sometimes. 'You and I both know it's the only way,' I'd tell him. 'They're doing it! You think they're worrying?' He'd close his eyes and say, 'Yeah, I know.'“

"Uh, excuse me, Mr. Fanning. I take it you and Mr. Stevens work together. Just what sort of work....”

“I'm sorry, Dr. Weston, that's classified military information. Besides, Stevens doesn't work anymore, doctor. He's dead.”

“Oh, I'm... I'm sorry,” said Weston, slightly mortified.

"How long ago were these conversations to which you were just alluding?”

"Stevens died nearly ten weeks ago ... Just about the time.... "

Fanning suddenly beat at his scalp with his clenched fists. “IT KNOWS!” he shrieked.

The pad and pencil dropped from Weston's hand, and his mouth gaped open as he stared at his patient. Fanning jumped up from the couch and stood babbling, his eyes fluttering spasmodically. The cotton wad had dislodged from Fanning's left ear and had fallen to the floor. Blood spilled out of his ear. It ran down his shirt and onto the carpet. Fanning continued his crazed, stumbling monologue.

“I watched him die. 'No host!' he screamed. I saw him...out the window... screaming....”

Fanning's eyes darted around the psychiatrist's office. Frantically, they searched and searched, seeking but not seeing. Then he moved. Weston felt pinned to his chair. Despite his confusion and alarm, he had been piecing together small fragments of sense that he had gleaned from the poor creature's ravings.

“AAAAHH! AHH! AHH!” shrieked Fanning. He threw his head back in agony. “It knows...“ he whimpered, blood gushing now from his nose as well as his ears. “Stevens ... Stevens must have succeeded, but he never had ti ... AAAIIIEEE!”

Fanning dropped to his knees. Only then did he notice the blood pooling on the carpet. Like a phantasm from some Vietnam vet's nightmare, his blood-spattered, tear-drenched face grimaced convulsively then suddenly relaxed.

“Stevens...I understand! No host ... can't live ... “

Philip Weston saw the man move, and he understood his intent. Hurling himself from his chair, he moved to intercept Fanning's flight.

Fanning screamed. Then, with miraculous agility, he coiled and lunged through the window, screaming, "Yes! Y-E-E-S-S-S! N-O-O-O-O-!”

Weston had reached the spot in time to grab at Fanning's leg as he disappeared, but not in time to save him. His hand had merely grazed the man's leg, but in that instant, he had heard Fanning's triumphant "Yes" transformed into a “No” of despair. In that same instant, as his fingertips grazed the dying, flying man, he, too, felt it!

A million chalkboards and a billion fingernails screaked through what had been his brain. Weston peered wildly around the room. Chainsaws ripped his cranium, choking and chomping their way through the bone. He flicked his tongue over his suddenly moist upper lip and perceived the peculiar, salty taste of blood that had already begun to trickle from his nose.

“Janet!" he shrieked into the intercom. “Call the Paramedics!" Instantly, the heroic examples of his two tragic predecessors, Stevens and Fanning, entered his mind, and he realized his deadly error. He tried to scream, "Don't come in…Don't let them come in," but he could not lift his hand to press the button of the intercom. As he lay, aware that his consciousness was rapidly waning, he realized that he was perhaps the only man still alive with the knowledge and power to destroy the deadly virulence, but even as the thought insinuated itself upon his mind, he knew it was already too late ... much too late....

 ©1985 Tim McMullen

All Rights Reserved