Hung-Goi

(67) Hung-Goi

This is not an easy name to say and not an easy girl to think about.

The first, think Elmer Fudd telling you he wants to eat. He wants dinner. He’s ’s Hugwy.

Now, think of a three year old girl. She speaks two languages fluently, Mandarin and English. She’s from Hong Kong, but now she is in Boston, Massachusetts, USA, and she is dieing a slow and terrible death.

She is pretty in a way only young Chinese girls can be pretty. She is bright – intelligent to a fault. She is lying in a bed in Boston Children’s Hospital. The Intensive Care Unit. Thirteen different monitors attached to her tiny but bloated and scarred body.

She is the only known living example of something tough to say, even if you don’t have Elmer’s speech problems.

Here is what it is called: kaposiform Lymphangioendothelioma with Kasaback-Merrik Phenonenon.

Don’t even try. You can’t do it. Her doctors can’t do it.

This girl is almost four years old.

She is in the ICU with 13 different monitors attached to her long, lank but swollen body.

She is alert, personable, bi-lingual and on her death bed in that Boston hospital, where only the hopeless go and they do miracles. But not in this case.

Her father is Chen Sho-Mao, a highfalutin’ lawyer with a JD from Stanford and a BA from Harvard. Her mother is Chen-Ku Jenny, with an MA from the London School of Economics and a BA from Queens College of the City University of New York. Her Aunt is Aileen Ku, with a Masters Degree from Syracuse University. Her grandmother is Richards-Want Ying Chi, with a nursing degree from a prestigious university in Taipei. Her grandfathers are Michael Ku of Taipei and Wes Richards of State College, PA. There’s a lot of brains filtering into this girl.

And she is on her death bed. And she knows it. And she knows what that means.

The doctors in Hong Kong and Taipei say “pull the plug.”

The grandparents – except for the American ones -- say “pull the plug.”

The parents say “not yet.”

Maybe there is a God. Maybe He or She is merciful. Maybe there will be a miracle in Boston, where the doctors also say “pull the plug,” which is not something they say a lot at Boston Children’s, home of medical miracles.

The tall little three year old’s heart works fine. So do her lungs. Everything else has failed. Kidneys. Bowels. Digestive tract. Bones. Blood. Kidneys.

All of this is being done by machine. But the mind works and so do the senses.

You kill the electricity for two minutes, and this is a dead girl.

But we’re talking about Boston Children’s. Generators. Nothing would happen to the electricity even if there were a tornado, an earthquake, a hurricane.

So what would YOU do? Kiss her goodbye, or pray for a miracle.

The votes are “goodbye” 3, Miracle, 3. In this case, the “ayes” have it.

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

©wjr 2006

Jet Lag

(66) Jet Lag

Leon Hess was an oil guy and owned the New York Jets football team. A miserable crew most years. More soap operas than wins. One Super Bowl ring, and that was in 1969.

When Leon died, his will said, in effect, “Sell the team. No one in my family cares about football, and no one gets the money if they keep it.”

So, natch, they sold the team.

The Jets do not have a home of their own. They play at Giant Stadium in New Jersey. A little green in the Meadowlands swamp.

But they train at Hofstra University’s campus on Long Island. It’s a New York presence that keeps us from completely laughing off the “New York” part of their name. (Why the Giants keep “New York” in their name is a total mystery, since they DO have a home and it is Giant Stadium, that very same Giant Stadium in which the Giants play.

And when that place is rebuilt, both teams will occupy it.

The team’s relatively new owners say they’re going to put the headquarters in New Jersey, too – sometime soon. So now the team can train, do paperwork and lose football games all in the same state. Elegant.

Roll this one around your tongue: “The East Rutherford Jets.” Or this: “The Florham Park Jets.”

It will be a little less painful when Florham Park keeps losing. After all, it’s Florham Park, not New York City – which doesn’t breed losers, generally if you don’t count the ’06 Knicks and most seasons’ Mets.

The people who come to Hempstead, Long Island to watch the Jets train will have to find something else to do. Like going to Islanders Hockey games. They should feel right at home there. These guys don’t win a lot, either. Not only that, but the hockey season has many more games than football. Double your pleasure, double your fun.

The nearby Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts probably won’t feel much of a loss. They have the school kids and the travelers to count on. The village of Hempstead certainly won’t notice a difference. No one goes there now, so there can’t be a decline in auto or pedestrian traffic and business.

So, the Jets take off for New Jersey, and no one but a handful of die-hard fans notice.

Good luck, New Jersey. Claim this team entirely for your own, instead of just mostly.

And Leon? You did the right thing, posthumously. You should have done it sooner.

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

©wjr 2006

The Reference Library

(65) The Reference Library

Does anyone still miss the Sears catalogue? They stopped printing it in 1993 and a huge outcry arose, largely from Middle America where the book was a standard reference, on the shelf right next to the Bible and the phonebook. Sometimes, it was the only actual book in the house.

Now, who cares, right?

After all, the stuff that made Sears and the catalogue unique just don’t sell anymore. Modular homes are all the rage. But “Sears Homes,” their predecessor, haven’t been available since the early 1940s. Farm and work clothing? Franklin Stoves? Inexpensive “store brand” musical instruments? All stuff you either don’t want or don’t need or can buy on any corner.

In killing the catalogue, they killed what was unique about them. Yeah, it didn’t generate much business. But it was still the centerpiece.

Kind of like GM saying “okay, we’re still General Motors, but we’re not going to make cars anymore, since no one really wants them, anyway.”

Kind of like DeBeers deciding to mine only potatoes.

Traditions die every day, and new ones arise to take their place.

What’s disturbing about the vanishing catalogue is what it might foretell.

Like the end of the telephone book.

Who needs a phone book, right? You have all those internet search engines, all willing to give you numbers, reverse numbers, addresses, business listings.

But it ain’t the same.

The Yellow Pages is one of America’s favorite bathroom books. And it gives you a good snapshot of your community. It’s not the same on the internet.

What reference material will be next to go. The World Almanac? The Old Farmer’s Almanac?

The PDR? The manual of baseball stats?

All stuff you can find on the internet. But you can’t bring the internet into the bathroom. At least not easily.

Of course, someone will figure out a way to make a bathroom computer. It’s only a matter of time before you’ll have a waterproof screen on a little stand right next to the sink.

Speakers built into the wall or the shower.

They’re turning paper goods into electrons every day. But there are some kinds of paper that they can’t replace.

Virtual toilet tissue just won’t make it. Nor virtual napkins.

Did you know that while Sears no longer has catalogues, it has catalogue racks for sale? Something on which you can rest and view your… um… what?

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

©wjr 2006

Buck Owens, The Movie

(64) Buck Owens, The Movie

Never gonna happen.

Unlike Johnny Cash and Elvis, this guy’s life was not a soap opera… or at least not a soap opera that would sell movie tickets and DVDs.

No question he was a huge star and an innovator. But if he had drug or booze or Jesus problems, he kept ‘em quiet. Counted his money. Bought regular businesses. Kept to himself. Didn’t do a whole lot of touring or other performing after the end of “Hee-Haw.” Sold a gazillion records. Most of them sounded aike – the Fats Domino/Frank Sinatra /Abba school of hit recording: got one decent song, change it around a little every few months and you’ll soon have a dozen good songs and they’ll all sell.

And continue to sell for decades. And why not? They were (and are) damned good.

Owens did some rebellious things. Like putting Bakersfield, California on the map and not hanging out in Nashville like the rest of the country crowd. Didn’t call his stuff “country music,” either. “American Music” was his phrase. And to back that up, he played a red, white and blue guitar.

He had a nasty snarling face without a trace of down home country good natured beer brawler in it.

Was he a nasty snarling guy? Who knows. Who cares. You like his stuff or you don’t. There was a lot to like.

But there’s no movie in it.

Who would make a movie out of a guy who showed up for his bookings – on time and ready to work? Where’s the dramatic tension? Where’s the tragic-comedy? Where’s the PLOT!

No big crusade for getting your high school GED, like Waylon Jennings. No amusement park like Dolly Parton.

No Buck Owens impersonators.

No mob ties.

This space has long spoken the idea that everything you need to know about an artist is contained in his or her work, and that the more you know about their personal side, the less you like or respect them.

Not much danger of knowing the guy better either from his obituaries or even from his fan friendly website.

Don’t expect a movie and don’t expect the erection of a Graceland style shrine. Tour buses. Pink Cadillacs. Nah.

Unlikely you’ll even get to see the original lyrics to the songs he wrote. He didn’t write them down. Said if he couldn’t remember them, the songs weren’t worth doing.

Of course the lyrics are out there for the reading. But not in his handwriting.

You wanna know about Buck?

Play “Act Naturally” or “Waiting In Your Welfare Line” or “Tiger By The Tail.” That’s all you need to know.

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

(c) 2006 WJR

The Road to Hell -- or is it From Hell?

(63) The Road To Hell

There was a little problem on the Jersey Turnpike the other year. That was about cops who routinely stopped Black and Hispanic drivers in nice cars, figuring they had to be drug runners.

Sometimes they were and sometimes they weren’t. But the head of the cops got up and said something like “well, we do that because these are the people who run most of the drugs.”

He lost his job the next day.

“Driving while Black,” or Hispanic or whatever.

The practice, of course, hasn’t stopped. It’s just gone a little more subtle.

But leave it to the free market to solve the problem, and it looks like it has.

They’re about to privatize the ‘pike.

Yes, they want to sell off part of the road or the running of the road or somesuch to private industry.

One of two things will result: either the private cops who will patrol the newly-private highway will decline to stop minorities suspected of drug running out of fear of lawsuits and EEOC violations, or they will have a separate but equal lane for all such drivers. Private road, after all.

Of course, the REAL drug runners are a few steps ahead of both the cops and the road segregationists.

Ask yourself this: if you were a cocaine exporter from, say, Colombia or Mexico or Lithuania, would you use local young men and women in Beemers as mules?

You’d have to be an idiot.

You’d use two kinds of older people. Who would suspect a business type, riding in the back of a Bentley or a couple of blue haired women driving a K-car?

You might even use a couple of guys in suits driving a Crown Victoria bristling with antennas. No cop’s going to stop a couple of other cops in a black four-door Ford with mesh grating between the driver and the back seat.

Back to Pike Privatizing for a moment.

What do you suppose they are going to call the newly acquired road? If the naming rights to stadiums and the naming of merged or acquired companies is any indication, you’ll likely find Route 95 will become Northrop New Jersey Turnpike. The Time-Warner Turnpike? The Altria Turnpike? The Pfizer Pike (It IS New Jersey, afterall.)

The new owners could make even more money by selling naming rights to the rest stops and other parts of the road. The Ortho Overpass. The Nets Scenic Overlook. The ExxonMobil rest stop.

Then, there’s a question of the speed limit. Most of the road, it’s 55. Some spots, 65. But why have a speed limit? After all, private property. Owners can do what they want on it.

A free market in velocity. What a concept.

Just be careful of those blue haired women drug runners in K Cars. Heavy footed on the accelerator, and they don’t see so well.

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

(c) 2006 WJR

Magical Tools

(62) Magical Tools

Some inanimate objects seem to have powers we can only ascribe to supernatural intervention of some kind.

It hasn’t snowed here in Moote Pointe recently, and that’s probably because no one has put away the snow shovels yet. Should they, we can expect another storm.

Notice how often it doesn’t rain when you take the umbrella along – and how often it does when you don’t.

Your coffee, your sugar and your milk hold secret conversations devising ways to make sure you run out of each at different times, assuring multiple trips to the supermarket where one should do.

The color and black ink cartridges in you home printer have similar conversations, and count on this: you have never run out of each at the same time. Of course, with the printer, you can expect such conversations because the ink cartridges are right next to each other.

The heating oil and electric bills engage in another kind of conspiracy. They talk while in the mail to make sure they both arrive on the same day, or at least in the same pay period.

The clothes dryer eats socks. You put in 14 and 13 come out. Or eleven. Never an even number. Most socks aren’t very nutritious, so the dryer will eventually spit ‘em back to you. But not until you’ve spent a frustrating washday morning searching for the missing in action.

Books arranged in alphabetical order – like the dictionary or the telephone directory change the order as soon as you start looking for something.

Then there’s the telephone. You know it’s going to ring while you’re in the shower, or doing something else that makes it tough to answer. And usually, it’s a wrong number.

The cure would be to take the cell phone or the wireless into the bathroom so that when it rings you can still answer it. But this raises another issue: telephones like to swim, but can’t. So you run the risk of the thing leaping into the tub to its death.

And don’t even START to think about metronomes.

How does this all happen? Is there some great invisible force guiding our appliances, rain and snow obliterators, books, food, bills, paychecks, telephones and rhythm machines?

It’s troubling. We don’t know what to expect next. Drawers that stick at random times and don’t at others? Appointments in your Palm Pilot appearing at random? Decoy ducks that fly? Razors that nick you even when you don’t use them?

Will your Sinatra collection start playing Mozart or Led Zeppelin when you slip the discs into the changer or turn on the iPod?

And don’t even think about maps.

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

©wjr 2006

Pharm-Aid

(61) Pharm-Aid

Will someone please help the poor pharmaceutical companies?

These sorry folk have dug themselves into a horrible and expensive hole.

No, it’s not the price of research or taking your doctor to lunch every three months. It’s not the cost of distributing samples or forcing prices up in the US so they can force them down, off shore.

It’s certainly not lack of money.

It’s the television ads.

Here we are bopping along in a pretty-picture commercial promising us a good night’s sleep.

“Take Socrates and enjoy a good night’s sleep,” intones the announcer, Oozin’ Susan, who sounds more like phone sex than pitchwoman.

While she’s saying stuff like that, you see a guy sleeping with a smile on his face. Or a woman. Sometimes even a couple – but they’re not actually touching.

Butterflies alight here and there. Dreamy music plays in the background, and all the while, Oozin’ is cruisin’ along with her narration.

But at some point, Oozin’ has to sit up straight and tell you:

“All sleep medications can be habit forming. Side effects include serious stroke risk, foul breath, itching toes and in rare cases, death. So talk to your doctor before taking Socrates, and make sure it’s right for you. (slouches back in her chair, hugs the microphone and oozes) So wake up refreshed and energetic, take Socrates tonight.”

There’s no way in the time allowed for a buffer between the opening ooze, the disclaimers and warnings and the closing ooze. The center part is the disease we’ve come to call Socratitis.

We have to help these people.

Situation is the same in pitching Medicaid drug plans.

Oozin’ doesn’t do this one, Oil Can Harry does.

Oil can has a grey comb-over a chalk white moustache and is dressed like the rest of the old goats who lunch at the golf club three days a week.

He strolls out from a stack of prescription bottles, each big enough for a day’s worth of water for a family of ten, holds up a regular size version and promises us that his company will cut the confusion down to size.

Really!

No one knows how part D works. Not even the people who invented it. ESPECIALLY not the people who invented it.

But Oil Can is assuring us he’ll cut the red tape if we just give his 800 number a call and sign up. Friendly operators will even fill out the paperwork for you “…right on the phone.”

This disease is catching. Even aspirin, simple, plain-old aspirin has caught it. They can sell the stuff for headaches and other pains. But when they get into the heart attack prevention aspect, they get Socratitis: “Aspirin isn’t for everyone, so check with your doctor blah blah blah.

The next substance we can freely abuse will be those cereals that say they lower cholesterol. They haven’t caught the disease yet. But you can see the day coming when they picture a table full of kids having breakfast and in the background someone is chirping “Oatmeal isn’t for everyone, so be sure to check with your doctor. Side effects include a sinking feeling in your stomach and bowl crust that you can’t remove with a blow torch. So have a Cheery Morning and control your cholesterol with our warm and friendly cereal.”

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

©wjr 2006