#275 Chet Currier

Chet Currier was the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he hid that – although not too well.

There was the shambling walk, the shock of unkempt hair always falling over his forehead, the soft, throaty “aw shucks” kind of speech, a little bit of confusion. Until he sat down behind a microphone or a computer keyboard. What came out was not only sheer brilliance, but sheer brilliance you could understand even if you didn’t know thing-one about his subject, mutual funds.

And behind that farm-boy facade, he was almost always right.

We’d kid each other, thus: he was the new Norman Vincent Peale, I was the emotional grandson of Dostoevsky. He was free marketer, I was the commie. And he liked to say that Marx would be shocked to learn that through mutual funds, American workers now own the means of production – and they did it without a single drop of blood being shed.

Good times. Fun journalism. We shared the microphone for five years. One day, out of the blue, and off the air, he said “…you know I’m a dead man.” Huh? Cancer. Not likely to survive.

And then he turned on the recording apparatus, spoke for the allotted 6 minutes and 19 seconds, about exchange traded funds. Got up, walked out, waved.

“Wait a minute. What about that dead man stuff?”

“Oh, things are more or less okay now. But I have maybe five or six years left.”

That was maybe in 2003. He was pretty close to right when he closed his eyes for the last time in that hospice in Southern California the other day.

He was almost right.

What do we make of all this, a 62 year old guy who knows he’s going, but keeps on going? That may have been the Norman Vincent Peale thing – get it done while you still can.

Two columns a week for Bloomberg News, which was less work than he had to do as a financial news grunt at the Associated Press – which made him write three a week, plus cover Wall Street. Probably for much less money.

In between all that, he wrote a bunch of books. And he wrote crossword puzzles. Wrote them. We mere mortals consider ourselves lucky and smart when we solve one. Chet made them up and sold them. If they hadn’t sold, he’d still make them up, he said.

The day after his death was announced, there were long obituaries on the Bloomberg website and the AP wire. They ran everywhere. The New York Times, Newsday, all the chain papers where his column appeared. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

The outpouring would have made him uncomfortable.

He wanted to call attention to the subject, not to himself. But, of course, he DID call attention to himself, if only because millions of readers and listeners knew that what went on the page or on the air was almost always right.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2007 WJR

File Manager

#274a File Manager

Nice title, don’t you think? Or would “Vice President and Chief File Officer” be better? There’s always “Deputy Director, Filing.” Maybe “File Commander.” Or even “Secretary of Filing.” Oh, but that would make it a Cabinet-level appointment, so File Manager it is.

That’s also what they used to call the part of your computer where you kept data, or information or both. But this is about real files. Paper, in real folders.

A day ago, there were almost one thousand of those folders in this room. No more. Down to a select few hundred, and pretty much in order and pretty much legible.

Still, there’s something sterile about this reworked system of keeping stuff. It just doesn’t feel right.

It’s too obvious. It’s not artistic. It’s pretty, in a way. It might even be useful. But there’s something wrong about it.

There really wasn’t a good reason to do it, except maybe for avoiding real work around the house on a Sunday afternoon. After all, the file cabinet is made from sturdy wood, and only the fourth drawer was bulging to the point that we might have to call in the duct tape.

That bottom drawer has stuff in it that could head for the shredder, but stays there so the cabinet remains balanced. Heavy stuff. Old stuff. Really, really old stuff. But if too much is removed, the cabinet might fall over. So the bottom drawer has become a tribute to the Old Ways. It’s not as full as it was. But it’s not terribly well organized, either.

One must, after all, take these things slowly.

Now, about that shredder: we’ve already gone through one and have doubts about the current model, too. They call it “heavy duty” but don’t be too sure. There’s a ton of old files sitting on the floor awaiting shredding. A true test of its heavy duty-ness. How much will shred before the thing overheats?

But is that a job for a Chief Filing Officer? Probably. Or maybe there should be a Director of Document Destruction, or DDD.

Of course, calling that rubbish pile “documents” is kind of Orwellian or maybe Huxleyan.

The U.S. Constitution is a document. The deed to your house is a document. Your car insurance. Your 1997 tax return. But old rundowns for TV newscasts? Copies of these Wessays? Credit card offers? Hardly.

Then, there are the file folders themselves. The drawers are too wide for the standard “letter” files, so you have to use hanging files. But that’s not efficient, so you stick several regular files inside the hanging files just so they’ll stay in place.

But that obscures the names on the Letter-size files.

The new box of file folders, which says “multicolor” on the cover is only right if you count the fact that the interior of the folders is a slightly lighter hideous shade of red than the outside.

But Sam’s Club was having a sale. No wonder why, either. No one buys that particular kind of folder more than once. Either that, or Sam is color blind.

As will be anyone who uses them.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2007 WJR

More On the Political Monopoly

#273 More On The Political Monopoly

Guy serves in the legislature for a gazillion years and decides that’s tiring so maybe he should become a judge. In Nassau, New York, that would be pretty easy. Here’s what they’d do.

The guy would go to the Republican Party boss and say “boss, I would like to be a judge.” The boss would then say one of three things: (1) Sure. (2) Nah. Or (3) let’s see how contributions are coming in from your district and then we’ll talk.

Meantime, if the answer was (1,) they’d find a judge who was nearing retirement, ask him to step down early – which, of course would help his retirement plans, this being one of the few places and jobs where early retirement is seriously rewarded, and then they’d get the Rep. appointed to fill the unexpired term. Happens all the time. And not just with judges.

In Moote Pointe, PA, things are a little different.

They have actual primaries here. Looks like an exercise in democracy. The bosses say “You want this job? Go out and fight for it.”

So our Guy runs in a Republican Primary, spends a boatload of money and wins. So far, so good. He’s the candidate.

The guy who thought he was going to get the Republican nod runs in the Democratic Party primary and wins. So now we have two Republicans, one running as a Republican (our Guy,) and the other running as a Democrat.

Our Guy, as it turns out, is not a lawyer. But around here, that’s no problem. All you have to do is take a course at Famous Judges’ School of The Judiciary, pass a simple test, and then get back to your real job, electioneering.

One day, a few months before the election, he calls the area’s reporter together (that’s not a typo) and announces he’s not running, after all. Gives no reason.

The reporter reports.

This leads to all kinds of speculation. Is he dirty? (Most questioned don’t think so.) Is he sick? (Most questioned don’t think so.) And we have none of the usual clichés to play with – things like “I want to spend more time with my family,” and “I want to explore other options.”

A bit later, Our Guy thinks he needs to explain what he’s doing. So he adds to the story by saying he’s gotten a better offer and then names the offer, which is one of those non-jobs, those vague things that political types do and are well paid for and you never know quite what it is.

Meantime, the smoke-filled-room speculation is the guy flunked the Famous Judges’ School of the Judiciary final exam.

But, of course, that cannot be.

The school’s run by a bunch of politicians of every stripe. If a guy flunks out, they probably give him the option to drop out retroactively. And the exam, as Nixon would say, gets deep sixed.

Like it never happened.

Now, the Republicans choose someone to run in Our Guy’s place. And you get to choose which Republican you want for judge, the Republican Republican or the Democratic Republican.

Ah, democracy.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2007 WJR

Mass Transit

#272a Mass Transit

The local mass transit system here in Moote Pointe, PA, just got a bucket full of money to spend. Here’s a suggestion: conduct random rump tests.

Then, compare the results with the size of what passes for seats in your buses. And when you spend that bucket full of money on new rolling stock, consider making the measurements closer than they are now.

This small seat thing started in the New York City Subway system when the cars were designed and built in Japan. The average Japanese derriere is considerably smaller than that of the average New Yorker. It’s no fun seeing the big Mamas and Papas get on the #1 Train at 125^th street and try to squish themselves into those seats.

When the skinny kids get on the subway, they take up two seats, too – but that’s just claiming personal space.

New York, as usual, started a trend. Small seats. They don’t work there, and they don’t work here.

Another suggestion: try aligning the schedule with the movement of buses. That would be a big help. Although it’s possible they arrive and leave early on purpose because it’s endlessly amusing to watch your rearview mirror as passengers try to catch you, and you roll away, pedal to the metal.

The drivers meet in the Driver’s Lounge each day and swap stories about who they made chase them today. Then, at the end of the month, there’s a prize for the best story. Last month it was a little old lady in a walker, who went tearing after an earlier-than-scheduled bus, tripped, and her upper plate fell and rolled into a storm drain when she fell. That one might get “story of the year.”

This very morning, a young couple was smooching at a bus shelter, and the driver made a wide turn and didn’t stop. Jokes on the distracted couple. At least usually. But this couple was different. They’re track team and they caught the thing at the next stop. Oh well, can’t win ‘em all.

The Bus Authority is going to put global positioning systems on all their vehicles. Then it’s going to put the GPS signals on an internet map of the town so everyone can see exactly where every bus is – and how close it is to your stop.

Great idea. Expensive. But a great idea. Gives riders that Military Science and Tactics course they missed when the peaceniks got the Pentagon to stop ROTC programs.

But those fun-loving drivers will find a way to retaliate. Perhaps they can adjust the GPS transmitters to show false positives. Or, when they roll up to a stop, they can flash on those famed “Out of Service” signs that most of them sport most of the time.

To their great credit, though, the Authority uses a lot of buses that run on natural gas (unnatural gas would be a gas.) Of course, they’re environmentally correct, and doing conspicuous good. (The nouveau goode are the new nouveau riche.) Plus, someone’s brother-in-law probably owns the gas company.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2007 WJR

Noah's Time Share

#271 Noah’s Time Share

Finally, an answer. In autumn, we have squirrels for a month or two. In summer, we have Gypsy Moth caterpillars, and then the moths themselves for about two weeks. In winter, the “snow-shoe” rabbits move in for awhile, and sometimes a deer.

The woods in back of the Wessays Secret Mountainside Laboratory are a time share. These animals are subletting their parts of the woods for vacation, or in preparation for the next flood – the one Al Gore says is about to result from the melting of glaciers.

This was only an assumption a few days ago. But careful research shows it’s a valid working theory. First, there are two of most species. Other than the caterpillars and the moths, which all seem to look alike (is that racist?), the animals are in obvious pairs. Two deer. Two snow-shoe rabbits. Two squirrels.

Two humming birds, two robins, two Monarch butterflies.

Then, there are the ads. This from the Weekly Rodent:

Stonewall County PA Timeshare

Enjoy the cool Autumn breezes of Central Pennsylvania while escaping the nose and bustle of New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh or Baltimore. Hospitable climate. Clean air. Enjoy treetop or underground accommodations. Write to PO Box 499, Moote Pointe, Pa 16803.

That’s a dead giveaway.

There was a similar ad in the magazine “American Antelope,” though no one seems to be responding. Perhaps in winter.

There was an ad on the HBR, too, the Hummingbird Radio Network. Probably, hummingbirds can’t read. Or, if they can, they flit so fast they don’t have the attention span to take in an entire classified ad. (Hence the term “bird brain.”)

It makes you wonder, is there something to the Al Gore Prediction after all? If the North Pole melts, all the water will come down this way. If the South Pole melts, where will the water go? Maybe to Sao Paulo? What’ll happen to the Amazon Rain Forest? And all those long runways at the airport?

You know dogs and cats act funny before a storm hits. Their radar is better than ours. So maybe the animals in our little woods, here, know something we don’t. On the other hand, maybe they’re just a bunch of hard working rodents and birds and insects and deer and rabbits.

It’s tough to communicate with them. And it’s tough to read their publications and hear their radio stations. But modern science has at least gotten a handle on such things. The translations are rough, but they’re mostly accurate. Or at least that’s what we’re told by human-speaking creatures.

One of them, Alan “Blues Bird” Crow, a year-rounder here in Stonewall, says he’s heard through the grapevine that end times are coming. When pointed out to him that it’s hard to accept that sort of prediction from a guy named Crow who’s really only a blackbird, he says that this season, the time shares are way up over last year. Probably, he knows, in as much as he has spent his entire life in these parts.

When the giraffes and elephants arrive, we’ll get really worried.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2007 WJR

The Intoxicated Rat

#270 The Intoxicated Rat

That was a song sung by such as Cisco Houston, and later, the New Lost City Ramblers and still later by Doc Watson. This column, though, maybe should be called the Intoxicated Brat.

In the song, the singer comes home three sheets to the wind, gets tangled up in the door mat, falls over. His bottle of rum falls with him, slips out of his coat. The cap comes off and the rat comes out of the woodwork for a drink.

Along comes the cat who “makes a pass…” sending the rat scurrying back into the woodwork.

Same with the intoxicated brat. He’s maybe 22, 23. Charged with Driving Under the Influence. The Hon. Judge I. Hardley Shutzup is presiding. And in comes the I-B and his girlfriend Salacia Grimm.

She walks. He kind of strolls and limps. Sits down. Wavers. Sits down. Still limping, even seated. This raises some concern among the court officers, the guys who keep order in the court. They notify the probation department, which sends a guy down to look things over.

“Any you guys have a breathalyzer?” says the guy from probation. One materializes. The reading is 0/37. In these parts, you’re considered drunk with an 0.08.

From the bench, Judge Shutzup asks what should be done with the I-B, who is now slumped in the seat, but still seems to stagger. No one answers, the His Honor declares that they can take the I-B to jail, or hold him in the courthouse until he sobers up. The jail rep doesn’t want him, so the guy from probation puts him in cuffs, and frisks him. It takes a long, long time.

Understand that in order to get into the building, the I-B has to go through a metal detector and whatever he’s carrying has to go through an x-ray machine, and he’s in the building, so what could he be carrying?

Maybe a bottle, like the guy in the song who got “tangled” in the doormat. Maybe contraband narcotics. Maybe the key to the mystery of life.

None of this stuff shows up.

In the meantime, the I-B has slipped his left hand out of the cuff, but doesn’t seem to realize it.

One of the court officers does, however, and he’s quickly returned to prisoner status and led off.

The guy was supposed to get released in his own custody… or that of the ever so serious Ms. Grimm. The Assistant District Attorney informs “..all who have business before this court…” that the deal is off the table.

Shocking.

Judge Shutzup takes about ten minutes of uninterrupted verbiage that someone with an instantaneous translation machine says “…that means he’s going to lunch.”

The probation guy is politely berating Ms. Grimm about her pal’s drinking problem. She has one of those allergic-to-reality problems and denies he’s been drinking.

But the I-B is so deep in the bag he couldn’t climb out with the help of a tank full of helium.

In the song, the encounter with the cat makes the rat sober up, pronto. The encounter with the justice system did not have the same effect on the brat.

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2007 WJR

Elevators

#269 Elevators

So, who decided that "ding ding" means down and "ding" means up when the elevator gets to your floor. It could have been the other way…. Like "ding" for down and "ding ding" for up. But somehow, somewhere, someone decided that "ding" means up and "ding ding" means down.

Sometimes in newer buildings, they get it wrong. This is very confusing for most of us, because either we're unable to see the little arrows atop the door or we think the sight and the sound conflict and we don't know which way the car is going to go. Unless, of course, we're in the penthouse or the basement.

Once in the elevator, where is the elevator music? Half the reason to get into an elevator in the first place is because it's the last public place on earth you can hear a Living Strings or Percy Faith record (except for the latter's "The Stripper," which is used as production music by many a small-town radio and television broadcaster.)

No more elevator music. If that's the case, why not just take the stairs. It's good exercise and you never have to figure out what the little bell means because there isn't any little bell.

You say you HAVE to take the elevator because it's too many floors from the lobby to the observation deck in the Empire State Building? Then, you may ask, why if they can put a man on the moon, conquer Iraq and make a "Lite" beer that still tastes like beer, why can't they make an elevator that doesn't make your stomach travel after the rest of you stops?

And those little arrows above the buttons – they're almost as confusing as "ding ding" for up and "ding" for down. Why the little arrows? Why not a little sign that says "doors open," and "doors close?"

It's downright frustrating is what it is.

It was a lot easier when there were elevator operators - guys in uniform and wearing white gloves who told you where you were headed, announced what was on the floor at which they stopped, opened and closed the doors by hand and occasionally allowed all of your internal organs to arrive at your destination at the same time.

And you could have a conversation, or listen to The Norman Luboff Choir's latest hit.

Further, when you got to a floor, the operator would say “Going up,” or “Going down.” There never was any confusion.

The elevator operators came in two general varieties, the over-friendly and the over-cranky. Or maybe they were all schizophrenic and the attitude depended on some internal chemistry that's a mystery to the rest of us.

But those days are gone forever. After all, elevator operators get health benefits.

Ding Ding!

I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.

(c) 2007 WJR