So Cal Edison's War On Trees.

The Edison Company, despite community complaints, continues to murder Redlands' palm trees. Any palm frond within a few yards of one of their lines warrants, it seems, amputation of it and all neighboring fronds, leading to the death of trees that are fifty to seventy five years old.

Redlands is now scattered with dead and dying trees, thanks to the butchers Edison employs to "trim" the offending palms. Odd, but I don't recall Edison doing this in the distant past, or we'd have many more vacancies along our palm lined streets. On some avenues, the trees have safely managed to grow up past the power lines, and every one of the trees is still intact.

Somebody at Edison, once upon a time, must have actually given a shit. But not now, not these days.

Back To Mac.

I give up.

I'm going back to an Apple computer after a seven year ordeal with my Hewlett Packard PC. Tomorrow we rip out the tower, the mouse, the keyboard, the cords et al and hopefully have our new Mini Mac up and running. The Mini Mac is, well, mini. It's about half the size of a box of Kleenex(R) and yet is more powerful and more reliable (we're told) than the virus-laden machine we've fought with for so long.

Goodbye, blue screen of death. Goodbye, Internet Explorer. Goodbye virus software.

I feel so... hip.

A Toast To The Last Man

A passing of note: the last man to serve in the trenches for Britain in World War I has died. Harry Patch was 111 years old. Of all the tens of thousands who served, of all the tens of thousands who died, Mr. Patch was the last of the last.

Tom Brokaw and others labeled the vets of WWII 'the greatest generation' but the men who fought in that first war suffered the most; it was a ghastly crusade. There are few of any age who can comprehend what horror those men faced. Our nation agonizes over every death in Iraq or Afghanistan. Can you imagine a country the size of England losing thousands every day?

Victoria was still Queen when he was born. I'm sure that I don't want to outlast everyone in my generation. 111 years is a long, long time to live.

$20 A Gallon????

There's a new book out I want to read.

"$20 A Gallon: How the Inevitable Rise in the Price of Gasoline Will Change our Lives for the Better" tells us what we already know but don't want to face. The world's production of oil is pretty much maxed out, but in a few years, growth in demand (e.g. China) will far outstrip supply. How much growth? Get this: in a very near future, the additional demand for gas in China will be the equivalent to adding another USA to the planet.

Here's one intriguing idea postulated in the book: The age of Wal-Mart will be over. Done. Kaput. Eighty percent of Wal-Mart's "stuff" comes from China. It comes off the boat, then gets loaded into something like 7,000 trucks and hauled to Wal-Mart's thousands of stores. Their whole business model is based on the need for cheap oil. No cheap oil -- no Wallyworld.

I'm liking this already.

People are going to move back into downtowns, where they can walk rather than drive. We won't need so many freeways, so we can recycle their right-of-ways for rapid transit.

The author, Christopher Steiner, doesn't see $20 for a gallon gas until about 30 years from now, at which time I will be a vegetable if I'm alive at all. But Steiner breaks the chapters into price points, and speculates on what effect gas at, say $7, $12, $15 bucks a gallon has on the economy and our lifestyle.

All I can say is it makes this house I keep looking at on the west coast of Ireland more inviting and a great investment. It's in a very nice, but not large, town... A block from lots of independently owned shops.... A block from several really good pubs.... Just the kind of place to watch the rest of the world turn itself inside out.

First Michael, Now This...

We've had a rash of celebrity deaths lately, but none so disturbing as the announcement today that the Taco Bell dog has passed away, victim of a massive stroke. Just 15 years old! Too young to die!

I mean, Gidget was a real cultural icon. No dog since Spuds McKenzie (remember him?) received so much attention. Having your own Taco Bell dog in your handbag became a status symbol -- just ask that pillar of good taste, Paris Hilton.

Only now do we learn that despite the heavily-accented Latino voice, the pup was really a bitch. There's something creepily ironic there, but I haven't yet figured it out.

I wonder if the survivors, and their lawyers, are fighting over her fortune. Who will take care of the children? Is it true there is tape of the pooch's comeback commercial? Let the bidding begin...

Man On The Moon - Plus 40 Years

How odd to sit in my den and watch Neil and Buzz walk on the moon again. Some cable channel is rerunning all the old CBS footage. I'm sitting in the same room I watched them the first time, 4o years ago. I couldn't imagine then what the next 40 years would bring; I can't imagine what the next 40 will, either. It was a grand time, though; think of the contrasts, and the parallels to today. Next up on the nostalgia front: Woodstock.

...And That's The Way It Was.

I'm glad to see the attention paid to Walter Cronkite's passing. In this day of 24 hour news cycles and incredibly short attention spans, it's good that so many people recall Cronkite's contributions, even though he's been off the air for a generation.

Cronkite told it like it was. He knew how to edit; how to keep personal opinions and hype out of the story and stick to the five W's -- who, what, where, when, and why.

As towering an influence in media as he was, it's sad that once he was gone, the floodgates that held back news-as-entertainment opened and flooded us with crap like Fox News. Younger Americans avoid the evening news like the plague, and the Internet, not the networks, shape our perception of what's important and what we should care about.

All we have left of quality journalism can be found in a handful of sources. The New York Times; The Washington Post; National Public Radio, and PBS. Even 60 Minutes isn't what it once was. That's about it for consistently good reporting. At least we had Uncle Walter -- he was the man for the age. We won't be seeing his like again.

Coors: Mentally Out In The Cold?

Why, oh why, do we need a "cold activated can"?

Coors apparently thinks their new can, parts of which turn blue when the can is chilled, is really, really important enough that it deserves a mammoth advertising campaign.

Are people who prefer Coors so frequently and totally inebriated that their hands (or brains) no longer can tell the difference between warm and cold?

Is there a larger than previously known segment of the beer drinking public that have nerve damage to all their fingers, and deserve a beer they can call their own?

Perhaps the new can is to aid alcoholics who buy their beer, immediately put it on ice, and, salivating like Pavlov's dogs, repeatedly grab the cans every ten seconds, hoping by some miracle their suds have suddenly gone cold?

Or those who, so absolutely bored with life, find this technological advancement fascinating to watch? ("Lookie here, Helen! Watch...here it goes! Whooee! What they gonna think of next!")

This marketing gimmick makes anything ever pitched by the late, but not lamented, Billy Mays look as revolutionary as the electric light. Gimme a break.

(Thanks to the wife for pointing out this bit of lunacy.)

What's Next For Government Motors

So, GM came out of bankruptcy this week, ridden of debt, a few brands, hundreds of dealers, and solidly in ownership of the taxpayers of the United States and Canada.

Well, who-ray.

None of this solves the true problems of General Motors.

The suits have kept telling us it is because they were burdened with the so-called "legacy costs" of union retirees -- pension and health care. They said they couldn't compete with Toyota, Honda, et al because it cost them too much money to build cars.

Bullshit.

People will pay more if you give them more, and GM continued to offer us less for the same money. Why would anyone buy a car from a company that creates ugly, unreliable machines, even if (wave the flag!) they're made in America.

So here's my fix for GM:

Fire everyone in the design departments of Chevrolet and Buick, with the exception of Corvette. Not a single vehicle coming out of those brands has had an iota of great design.

Go hire a bunch of recent design school grads, all of whom probably have never driven a GM vehicle. Give them a fleet of European and Asian cars to drive for the next year and tell them they are their benchmarks.

Make every Suit in GM go undercover and try and negotiate a car purchase with their dealers. Then have them go to a Honda store and do the same thing. Same goes for the service department. Tell them they have 90 days to fix their dealers, or find themselves unemployed.

Make an honest effort to change public opinion about the new GM, once these changes are made. Cut up a Toyota and a new GM car on TV, little by little, every night, and compare side by side how GM's welds are better than their welds; how your widgets are better than their widgets. If they're not better, fix them.

No magic, no razzle-dazzle, just facts. Over and over and over and over and over. Put a fleet of cars and trucks on the road 24/7, with web cams attached, and let the public see just how many miles these cars can go before something serious goes wrong. Let's see if you can get a Chevy Cobalt to go an average 35 miles an hour, every hour, for a year... that's 306,600 miles, by the way. Let the public wager on how many miles it'll go; winner gets a new GM car or truck of their choice.

End the rebate madness, too. It's not good for GM, it's not good for the consumer, who still ends up paying taxes on the rebate.

Out With The Old...

We went to Carlson Hardware last night, and all I got was a pizza.

The new Ramano's restaurant occupies the old Carlson's building, and it's quite the showpiece for little old Redlands. A great deal of thought and expense went into converting the place into an upscale bar and restaurant, and the food and atmosphere are very good.

Still, I miss my old hardware store. It was a place where you could always find the odd bolt or fitting or gadget that the big chains just didn't have, probably because there was no profit in it. Carlson's filled that niche, but their business model just doesn't make sense any more in today's world. You can't make a living selling wood screws for nine cents a piece.

Alas, you can get a lot of people to fork out fifty bucks for pizza and beer. Which is why Ramano's exists and not Carlson Hardware.

The same goes for the building next door. Some (!) of you will remember when it was occupied by Harry's Stereo. It was rendered obsolete by the big chain electronics stores, which now are themselves faltering. Harry's shop is now the home of a very trendy eatery as well. One of Harry's nicest stereo receivers probably cost less than a dinner for two with wine and an appetizer.

Go figure.

Fresh Look, Same Old Crap

I thought I'd tweek the design elements of Another Day, and this is what you got. Hope you like it. Check out the stuff at the bottom of the page, too.

Another Independence Day

There are certain things common to all wars, for all of history. Besides death, injury, and the hardship of battle, there has always been, and always will be, the silent fear of the loved one left behind at home.

This Independence Day, I can sense this first hand. My youngest daughter's boyfriend is a Marine, engaged in battle for the first time. He and 4,000 comrades swarmed into Helmand Province in southern Afghanistan a few days ago to fight the Taliban. The Taliban control this area, as it provides a huge source of money for their operations. This is where the poppies grow. Poppies that excrete juice for making heroin.

My daughter knows all this; she knows why we as a country fight; why her boyfriend must fight. And she must live with the fear that her man might be killed or injured; that he might never come back the same guy she fell in love with.

For most of history, loved ones never knew on what day their soldier faced danger. There was no TV, no satellite telephone, no Internet to provide real time information. Now the mothers and fathers and wives and lovers of the warrior can see and know everything the media and the military will allow, almost as it happens.

It must be hard to be a soldier in a distant place to think "today is the fourth of July" and not remember other fourths of July when they and their friends went to the beach, ate hot dogs, and watched fireworks and parades. They may even contemplate our own war for freedom over 230 years ago. But the thoughts must quickly pass, as there are more immediate things to be concerned with, deep within war's arena.

Not so for the loved one left behind. They have the time to think, long and often, about such things, and to mourn that life is not as it was a few short months ago. They wonder if the next Independence Day will be a celebration, or a reminder of tragedy -- just as others have silently wondered from decade upon decade, war after war.

Congressional Comedians.

At last, Minnesota has a new Senator, and his name is Al Franken.

It took eight months to determine, but Franken was declared the winner of last November's election by taking a commanding 300-some-odd vote lead over his incumbent Republican rival.

Franken first came to national attention many years ago, thanks to his contributions on Saturday Night Live. Now, the leap from comedy to Congress isn't that far a jump as it once was. After all, we've had an actor as President of the United States, and two as Governor of California.

It's my theory that comedians, especially those with careers in stand-up comedy, are perfectly suited for moving on to, let's say, the Senate. They have polished their writing skills so they can come directly to the point -- perfect for the media's need for sound bites. They can stand before an unruly audience and turn every insult hurled their way into a laugh at the originator's expense. They are unflappable at the unexpected, and quick with the quip.

Here are some nominees for certain states to consider:

New York: Jon Stewart -- brilliant, actually knowledgeable about politics, and... Jewish!
Also for New York: Lewis Black -- outraged at damn near everything, and...Jewish!
California: Paula Poundstone -- sharp, family oriented, and... gay!
Texas: Ron White -- rotund, alcohol loving, and... white!
Alaska: Tom Bodett -- keeping the light on for us
Michigan: Michael Moore, defender of the little guy.
Connecticut: P.J. O'Rourke -- our lone neocon in a sea of liberalism.
Florida: Jimmy Buffet -- not a comedian per se, but a very funny guy never the less.

I'm sure you can name many more.

Let's go all the way here, and come up with an appropriate Leader Of The Free World.

Somebody everybody can get behind. Somebody who believes in family values. Someone who believes we all can pull ourselves up by our boot straps. One who holds a Doctorate. He's even black! Beloved by millions for two generations... ladies and gentlemen, I give you the next President of the United States:

Bill Cosby.

Donny Osmond And The Road Not Taken.

Just imagine if Donny Osmond had taken Michael Jackson's career path.

Both Osmond and Jackson were bubble-gum pop heroes with their respective family groups in the early 1970's. The Osmonds were far more familiar faces on TV then, having made a name for themselves even before Donny was born, singing barbershop music. Their super-straight, clean-cut image worked against them in certain quarters -- they were just too uncool to many of the Woodstock generation, including myself. Just how cool could anyone be as a regular on the Andy Williams Show?

The Jackson 5, though, wore their Afros with pride and reflected the gritty urbanity of their Gary, Indiana hometown. Their outfits looked like a cross between your average Motown group and big-city pimpwear.

Oddly, the music both groups made around the time Donny was starting to get media attention sounded a lot alike. Listen to "One Bad Apple" by the Osmonds and it would be easy to think of it as a Jackson 5 tune. (Late edit: "One Bad Apple" actually was written for the Jacksons, but MJ's first number one record was "Ben" a year earlier -- written for Donny Osmond.)

But soon the spotlight was on Donny and Michael's solo careers.

Donny chose a TV show with sister Marie ("A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll") and still managed a few more popular records.

Michael, a few years behind Osmond, hooked up with Quincy Jones, a hugely-talented producer just as MTV was gaining a wide audience. John Landis produced some extremely creative videos, and there was no looking back. Michael Jackson was the hottest pop star on the planet.

Then Jackson got weird on us. Very, very weird on us.

The face lifts. The makeup to look white. Hanging with Liz Taylor. The crazy Sargent Pepper-in-Harlem outfits. Marrying the daughter of Elvis Presley -- for about a week. Sperm donor children. The accusation's of child molestation. Creating the Neverland amusement park for himself and his little friends. More accusations of child molestation. Wild shopping sprees for the most gawd-awful stuff man ever made. Dangling a kid over a hotel railing. Fleeing to Dubai, of all places.

It took a You-tube video of people dancing to "Thriller," at a wedding reception, of all places, to simultaneously make the sheer mention of Michael Jackson both a punchline of a joke, and yet, strangely cool again.

And now we have an early death, bags of prescription drugs, and a media frenzy all on what was to have been the eve of Jackson's farewell tour.

Donny, Donny, Donny. What opportunities you missed by being relatively normal. Think of it, Donny. Had you dyed your skin black, fondled a few kids, talked like Marilyn Monroe, and OD'd on something stronger than that permitted by the Mormon Church, you could have been the King of Pop.

Pyrric Victory.

The other night, out of boredom, I decided to look at the web sites of the newspapers I once worked for.

I couldn't find the web site for the Eastside and South County Journals outside of Seattle, where I worked, and suffered mightily, back in 1997 and 1998. The place damn near killed me.

A little digging turned up the news from two years ago that, after losing money for more than a decade, the owner pawned it off to a newspaper chain from Canada. They promptly shut the joint down, keeping the profitable commercial printing division.

Ha, ha.

While I hate to see a newspaper close, I find the news gratifying. Working there broke my spirit.

I've compared it before to the hot-shot test pilot who takes on a new ride, only to find that everything that worked for him in the past no longer holds true, and he's in an unrecoverable flat spin. Everybody back at the base is going to blame him for losing control and crashing the plane. Oh, and did I mention that the ejection seat's broken?

Well, in my case, I was able to bail out in time, though suffering severe burns of a sort. The scars are still visible if you know where to look.

So, to my departed comrades who built that vehicle of terror, I say:

You got what you deserved. Fill in your favorite string of expletives here on my behalf.