Excuse me, Mr. Trump?

Um, excuse me, Mr. Trump?  You got a minute?

The thing is, I got another email from you today, about the immigration thing, and I’m puzzled.  I think we got our signals crossed, somehow.

The big message today was that you wanted to share the current results of your big survey you commissioned to help us tell the Senate how we felt about all the immigration hoo-rah that’s going on right now, and how you were still waiting to hear from me, and would I be sure and respond by midnight tonight (same thing you said last week, by the way).

The thing is, I already responded to that survey, a few days ago.

You said that 85% of the respondents, so far, think the Wall is important.  That wasn’t me, I think it’s a stupid idea.

You said that 91% of the respondents to that survey think it is important that we eliminate tax credits for illegal immigrants.  I guess I’m in the minority again on that one, but I did take a few seconds to look that up, and everybody says there is no such thing as tax credits for illegal immigrants, which makes me wonder if those 91% of respondents are dumb as a box of rocks, or do they even exist?  Was that, like, a trick question or something?

Then you said that 87% of those same respondents think it’s important that we end chain migration, and I’m, like, wait a minute!  Isn’t chain migration another way to say someone moves here, decides it’s a pretty cool place, then they tell their families to come on over?  Isn’t that the way your grandmother got here?  Mine was already here then, by the way, but that’s ok with me.  I wouldn’t want to lord it over you just because we were here first, just like I think anyone from anywhere who wants to become an American ought to be as welcome as your family was at the time.

But the real question is why are you sending me this latest email, where you say you still need to hear from me, when I already took it?

I must admit, though, that at the end of the survey last time, when I clicked the “submit” button, and it sent me to a donation page that asked me for at least $35, up to $2700 or more, and I clicked on the little x up in the corner instead because I wasn’t giving you one red cent nohow, I kinda had the feeling that my survey results were not going to be received without the donation.

That makes me suspect that your survey is fake, that it’s really all about those donations.  I suspect you want me to pay you money to listen to my opinions, and you’re not going to bother if I don’t.

You said at the end of your email: And I want to be able to give an exact number of how many people back each proposal. This is the Art of the Deal!

So please, take my Responsible Immigration Survey by MIDNIGHT TONIGHT.

I’ll make you a deal, ok?  I’m not gonna give you a nickel, but I will wait to hear from you just exactly how many of us responded to this survey of yours, and where you got your numbers.  I’m beginning to suspect you’re gonna pull them out of your ass, just like you did your immigration policies and the rest of your stupid, racist, misogynist ideas.  Worst.  President.  Ever.  Sad!  :-{)}

Childhood memories

Every now and then, as we get older, something triggers a childhood memory and brings back all the joy and pleasure we had attached to that memory all those years ago, which makes us wonder if those joys and pleasures can be found again if we only had one of those things just like back in the good old days.  These thoughts are dangerous, and should be resisted at all costs, lest we be reminded once again that time waits for no one.

And this is not to bring back other childhood memories, such as the time I found myself staring at an electrical outlet with a hairpin in my hand, wondering what that little slot in the plug did, and how deep it was.  Such memories can be shocking and are best left undisturbed.

So it was that I found myself perusing the latest edition of the Duluth Trading Company catalog that arrives all too frequently in our mailbox since they got their hooks into us, and found, deep in the back pages, that they had revived one of my childhood favorites, Roc’Em Soc’Em Robots.  These are two plastic robots about six inches tall that stand forever nose to nose in a plastic ring with their dukes up and a permanent sneer on their spring-loaded ratcheting faces, controlled by two hands on the plungers that slide out from under the ring and work the hands and fists of the belligerent bots.  A direct hit with an uppercut, the only punches these pugilistic paragons can deliver, to the chin of the opposing puncher will pop the head up on its extended neck and signal a victory of some sort, though often the enemy will land the same punch at the same time, leading to a vociferous argument about who struck first, especially if your opponent is your 11-year-old granddaughter who has just beat you for the eighth straight time.

The Duluth Trading Company, for those of you fortunate enough to have avoided their grasping clutch, is a small company in Minnesota who put out a catalog that shows how they are all just a bunch of good ol’ boys and girls from the Country, and all their foreign-made clothing and related stuff is very high quality (and price), just the solution for a problem you didn’t know you had, like Plumber’s pencil holder, or pants like a cheap hotel, with no ballroom.  I will grudgingly admit that I have a drawer or two full of their stuff, which really is pretty good, as does my wife.

In the back of that catalog is always a few pages of interesting tools and handy gadgets, and that’s where I found the robots.  It’s interesting that, in this Amazonian day and age, the robots are one of the few products that Amazon does not carry, probably for the same reason I discovered after I had paid thirty bucks for mine.

Because that is the dirty little secret of many of our childhood memories:  We have the attention span, in cultural terms, of a gnat, and an idea that sounded fabulous when it was first derived quickly loses its flame when exposed to the cold wind of the actual experience.  Roc’Em Soc’Em robots, like Slinkys and Hula Hoops and so many other fads, get boring real fast.  Once you have assembled the kit, which is easy, and admired the simple mechanical mechanism that takes no batteries, needs no oil, but does need an opponent to become something other than an exercise in self-flagellation, you are left waiting for the kid to come home from school, so you can demonstrate the superiority of the good old days once and for all.

Your enthusiasm is almost guaranteed to take a dive after she comes in and sees the new toy, says, “Cool!”, and then proceeds to beat the plastic pants off you with ease.  I should have known.  Today’s children are the second or third generation that has been raised from infancy surrounded by electronic devices, and quickly demonstrate a practiced efficiency with them and an innate understanding of how to make them work that is difficult to grasp for someone who remembers dial telephones with numbers that start with a word.  An eleven-year-old kid already has five or six years of joystick experience, so we have nobody to blame but ourselves.

As for the robots, they are already gathering dust on a shelf while waiting for White Elephant status next Christmas.  Our families started this tradition years ago, where you search around your house for some useless item like a Singing Bass plaque, or the Norwegian Briefcase (a pair of tightey-whiteys with a handle sewn into the waistband), wrap it up in tissue paper (newsprint works), and put it under the tree with the rest of them.  The wrinkle is that, as each “gift” is unwrapped and displayed to much groaning and laughter, the next person in line (you draw numbers) has a choice between one of the still wrapped packages or any of the already revealed items.  The best stuff changes hand several times during the course of the evening, and the loser of the chosen piece gets to pick again, with often hilarious results and comments.  It beats the heck out of Christmas shopping, not to mention the chance to return an idea to the dustbin of memory where it belongs.

So the next time you stumble across a blast from the past, and are handed an opportunity to go there and maybe do that again, think twice, then a third time.  Sometimes those things belong right where you left them, in the past.  :-{)}

Madison Avenue

As I coated my armpits with scented wax this morning, in preparation for a day to be spent mostly puttering about the house, with maybe some interaction with a store clerk later, I found myself thinking about advertising.  Specifically, about the unfortunate side effects of a successful advertising campaign.

Think about it.  What caused many us to do the same thing every morning right after stepping out of a nice cleansing shower (I suppose I must accept the idea that maybe everyone else in the world has caught on by now, and I am the last one, but the size and variety of the deodorant section in any grocery or drug store points out the impetuosity of that logic)?

Has it been thundered down upon us from pulpits across the land:  People, you stink! God wants you to do something about it!?  No. I think not.  Those kingdoms are not of this world, which sorta implies that there are no deodorant counters in the aisles of Heaven, and in Hell, the lack of same could conceivably be part of the punishment.

Has this practice been the result of a long, ordered public process, with committees and hearings and participation, all the things that have in the past resulted in the observation that getting something done in the City is like mating elephants:  It is accomplished at a high level, accompanied by much trumpeting and screaming, and it takes 3 years to see any results (the process is the same at the federal level, but the timelines are extended)?  I don’t think so.  My many years as a bureaucrat and functionary within the belly of that particular beast helped me find my true value to the City, that of making any meeting last 20 minutes longer, and I am sure I would have been notified at some point in that process.  I would have probably written the spec. for the Stink Vote, if not campaigned for its defeat.

I understand the Spanish Conquistadores never bathed, ever, and covered their funk with ever more lavish splashes of scented water or cologne, so maybe there is something to that, some idea that a clever Madison Ave grad seized upon and ran with and brought us to the way things are today.

Probably the issue came to light as more and more people were crowded together in stuffy little offices full of cubicles, with closet sized lunch rooms like on the 52^nd floor of SMT, or gathered in bunches at the local school gymnasium to protest the latest outrage.

But I think the die was cast in the ‘30s by folks like Fred Astaire, who could dance incredibly for 15 minutes at a time, yet not break a sweat in the process.  Ginger Rogers, another one, who did everything Fred did, but did it backwards in high heels, also without breaking a sweat.

But there is a danger in following this line of thought to its presumably logical conclusion.  The question becomes, “If they have convinced the vast majority of us that we smell bad, and that politeness demands that we hide our natural odor to avoid giving offense to our co-workers, thus spawning a multi-billion dollar industry ($18 Billion last year, says the all-knowing Google), what else have they talked us into?

How about mirrors?  Why do we really care about how we look at a given time?  If we’re really ugly that morning, won’t someone tell us?  And we don’t have to look at us, we’re inside these eyes, so isn’t it more important how we feel?  How often to you ask someone, “How do you feel?”, and have them reply, “I feel good, but I look bad.”  So now everyone has mirrors in their houses, with the possible exception of those few who recognize them as the leaks into alternate universes that they really are and keep theirs taped up.  We all know you can’t break ‘em.  And we all spend money on mirrors, and hair brushes, and spray, and coloring, and makeup, and foundation, and skin cream, and facial exercises, and why?  We have to look in the mirror to see if it worked, don’t we?  So if we got rid of the mirrors, wouldn’t that allow us to dump all that other stuff, too?

So what else?  How about clothes in the summertime?  You know there is only so many times you can wear that favorite t-shirt until it begins to sag and stain, especially in the armpits with the wax and all, then it gets all holey and you toss it.  So ask yourself, “Did Adam and Eve wear clothes? No, not at all, at least at first, and then only a fig leaf or three, if you believe the pictures.  And all the history books show that clothing, especially in warm climates, has always been optional, so it follows that Madison Avenue, paid by the companies that make and sell that clothing, has mounted a campaign over the years to make it logical and desireable that we wear clothes all the time, at least out in public.  When we don’t, they take pictures and spread them all over the internet without sharing the royalties with us, even.  I bet they all lost money in the ‘60s…

Any way, I’m climbing back down off this tree stump for now.  My work here is done.  I’ve planted the seed and will sit back and watch it grow and flower into a vast network of right thinking people who reject Madison Avenue and all it stands for, just like kudzu or, with apologies to Frank Herbert, sentient kelp. Just remember, next time you step out of the shower, to ask yourself, “Do I really need this?”   :-{)}

Political Courage

It takes guts…

I guess you have to admire the courage it took for those 52 Republican Senators to vote for the latest Tax Reform Bill.

In the first place, they had to know it was a con game from the start.  They also had to know that the opposition is on to them, and was going to bring the heat every chance they could from now until 2018, yet they went ahead and did it.  It’s like they have to know Trump is about to bite the big one, and they were running out of time.

It seems to be pretty much out in the open that the Koch brothers and other big donors really do get whatever they want from the Republican Party, damn the consequences.

It’s also pretty obvious, and has been pointed out as recently as this morning, by Danny Westneat in the Seattle Times, that the federal budget deficits they have created with this bill will be the excuse they will use in the future to cut Social programs like Medicare and Social Security.  What they’re trying to tell us is that we’ve gotten a little too fat sucking on the public teat, never mind where the money came from, and that things are going to have to tighten up around here.  It’s all coming together according to plan.

So the Republicans have to know a bunch of them are going to lose their jobs in 2018, unless they can somehow focus the attention of the electorate on something else, off to the side, or talk a bunch of people out of bothering to vote.  Look out, Hillary, we’re really gonna come after you this time, and we’re not kidding!

The problem is, when you get their backs against the wall, and it begins to start to look like it’s all going down the toilet, what will they be willing to try to put off the inevitable?

Pull out the Nazi shock troops that are training together all over the country right now and put them on some targets?  Maye some more mass shootings?

How about a nice hot war somewhere new, like Korea?  Maybe Iran, they don’t have nukes yet, we hope.  It doesn’t take much looking to see how many American and Global companies are making a killing these days on arms and armaments, and the related ammunition and parts supply chains.  Gun shops and tactical supply joints are popping up nearly as fast as breweries these days, and the big guns, the planes and ships, the submarines and rockets, those are coming off the assembly lines in precise order, with backlogs in the years.

The fat cats who run those companies make money no matter who wins or loses the war, or who gives up their child in sacrifice to that money, a process that has been going on since the Gilded Age, and today’s Rupert Murdoch is yesterday’s William Randolph Hearst. So a war could be in the offing

I guess you have to hand it to the Republicans this time, all right.  Their strategy seems to be: “Let’s stab the majority of our constituents in the back while we take their money and give it to our patrons, then cover up the mess by throwing huge piles of bullshit on it and see if we get away with it.  Even if we lose our seats, we’ll still have our pensions, of course.  We’re not touching those…”

You’d think it would take a lot of guts to bet the farm like they’ve done here, that if they could invent some high principle upon which they were willing to stake their political futures to achieve, come up with some new words to replace “taking away from the citizens benefits they have bought and paid for all their lives”, they’d be quick to trumpet that.  You’d think so, if you didn’t suspect they were merely acting on orders from above, which also explains what happened.  Either way you look at it, it boils down to two things:  We’re screwed, and they’re toast.  :-{)}

Letter to Donald Trump

January 11, 2018

Dear President Trump,

Your Team Trump folks sent me an email yesterday, and I have to admit that I’m a bit confused.

First, they asked me if I thought January 20^th, 2017 was a fantastic day, because it was the day We the People elected Donald Trump president (I didn’t, but that’s neither here nor there), and whether I would like to join the president and whichever of his children were most likely to not be in jail for dinner on January 20^th of this year.

Under that they invited me to contribute one dollar to be automatically entered to win, the prize being a chance for dinner with you, Eric and Lara at a place in Florida!

Under that, in large white letters on a red background is a button to click that says: “Contribute $1”

They said you asked that all of your loyal supporters be told about this opportunity, to join the whole family at the most beautiful spot in Florida for an evening we’ll never forget!  Then it asked me to contribute $1 right now to be automatically entered to win an exclusive trip to Florida for Dinner with the President and His Family!

Thank you, Team Trump.  Contribute 1$

Then, underneath all that, is a forwarded message from you, Mr. Trump.  It says the same thing, basically, with one small change:  before it raises the stakes by saying I get to bring a friend, and that dinner is at Florida’s “Most Exclusive” Club, and we get to pose for a picture (!), you lowered the boom on us.  The price went up to 3$.

You make it all clear when you say, “All it takes is any contribution of 3$ or more before the deadline to be automatically entered for this once-in-a-lifetime chance…”

Under that is a stack of suggested contributions, ranging from $200 down to $35, ending with “Contribute Other Amount”, which could be 3$, I guess.

Then at the bottom you add a few details.  The most exclusive club in Florida is in Palm Beach, apparently, and the deadline is 11:59 PM on January 17, 2018.  That’s cutting it mighty fine if the dinner is on the 20^th.  That only leaves me 3 days to buy a suit and get my hair done.  Are you sending Air Force One or Two to pick me up at Sea-Tac?

But no, I found the link in the email that led to the fine print, and read all of that.

First thing, I see you’re bringing me in on an airline of your choice, putting me up in a hotel of your choice. That’s ok, but I’m surprised you’re going to have me in Coach.  You ever fly Coach across the country?  I doubt it.

Then I see that all meals and ground transportation is up to me while I’m there.  So much for “all expenses paid”.  Then I see that this deal is going to pick 50 winners!  How exclusive is that, I ask?  Then I see that I get to pay the taxes on all this, too!  How much is that photo-op worth to the IRS?

Then I see that the Secret Service has to do a background check on all 50 winners, not to mention their friends, and get it done in 3 days, and I gotta wonder, how much is that going to cost the American Taxpayer?  Are the results of those checks going to be available under the Freedom of Information Act?  I guess not, according to the fine print in the email, I have to send an SASE with return stamp to your campaign hq in Massachusetts after February 15, 2018 to get the answer to that question.  I’m half tempted…

Then we get to the nitty gritty.  If I don’t, for any reason, pass this background check, the whole deal is off.  Beyond that, the 50 winners will be selected from a pool of eligible contributors and selected using criteria supplied by the Sponsor “…to provide for an appropriate range of views, backgrounds, and interests.” 

In other words, your people are going to cherry pick out of the pile 50 people and their guests that have passed the Secret Service background checks and, since the drawing is going to be held on January 18, and the winners notified the same day, and the dinner is in Florida (at Mar-A-Lago?) two days later, I’d say you’ve got your work cut out for you.

In fact, the more I think about it, I’d say the whole “contest” is as phony as Trump University ever was.

I’d have to say you can kiss my ass for 1$, let alone 3.  I’d say you’d  have to be a dumb-as-a box-of-rocks Redneck to fall for this one.  :-{)}

Restaurant Review - Wingstop

January 6, 2017

Now I have always thought highly of Richard Sherman, ever since he came out of Stanford University to the Seahawks.  Because of our son’s experience there, we know how they prepare students to take their places on the world stage and make something happen, and we’ve seen it over and over.

So when we heard that Richard had joined a partnership in a new restaurant based on various types of chicken wings, we put it on the back burner as something to check out.

Well, be that as it may, my fellow intrepid explorer of the depths of White Center, Marty Etquibal, and I were footloose and fancy free today, and decided the time was ripe for a venture into the wilds of Westwood Village, where the one and only WingStop holds forth on a pedestrian corner between Sleep Country and the 24 hour fitness joint (motto:  Come work out here, then pig out on some wings on the way out!).

We’re here to join forces and tell you, don’t.  Much as it pains me to pan anything with Richard Sherman’s name attached, if invisibly or in any other way, I must in all honestly rain a reality blast down on this particular endeavor, and tell my friends, “Don’t go there.”

Philosophically, I realize that you can not critique the entire menu of any given restaurant  without eating there many times, to allow for hidden gems in the menu.  It’s like, when the nurse asks you, “are you allergic to any medications?” all you can say is, “Well, I haven’t taken them all yet, so I can’t rightly say… got any you want me to try?”

In this case, such hope is soon dashed, and the clues that shout themselves as you walk in the door are undeniable.  First, it’s the middle of rush hour, and the place is empty.  There’s exactly one other person inside, and she’s from the Post Office, so she’s probably on break.

The décor is heavy on fast food chic mixed with IKEA frills, with great views out into the empty parking lot and vacant sidewalks.  The menu is brief, very brief, and really only wants to know one thing:  boneless, or boned?  There are lots of sides available, but it really boils down to what kind of sauce you want on your wings?

I ordered the combo in bone with French fries and smoky barbecue sauce, while Marty asked for the same sauce over boneless wings, with potato salad on the side.  We both got a tall paper cup to fill at the fountain, which surprisingly contained no diet sodas, or even water.   I poured a cup of ice and waited for it to melt, and talked into it to speed up the process.

It took a surprising amount of time to prepare two small orders in an empty restaurant, but my ice was not even half melted when we dug in.  That was where reality set in.

The barbecue sauce was unmistakably none other than Sweet Baby Ray’s, off the shelf at Costco, and I would swear to that on a stack of the wimpy brown paper towels they supply for napkins, which is unfortunate, because they dump enough sauce on the poor wings  for you to eat your lunch three times over and still make chili with the leftovers.  The boneless wings turned out to be the most severely over-breaded Chicken Un-Tenders out of those 47 pound bags of thrice frozen remnants with the Foster Farms label in the Costco bulk foods section.    And Oh, Look, over there the huge tubs of Kirkland potato salad look just like the formless wad served to Marty in an overstuffed paper tub, probably less than a week old.  At least the bony chicken wings had real meat on them, all six of them for $10, I must grant that.  The “boneless” wings could have well included some tofu, if not a lot of beak parts, not that you could tell under all that breading.  My fries were good, until I ate one and discovered they were covered in toxic levels of sodium chloride.  At least they were real potatos.

To sum up, the Wing Stop restaurant is a prime candidate for a new reality show, “Costo Gone Wild”, but not one that we can recommend for our friends or any other discerning palates.  If you feel piqued by this, if your hopes were dashed because you were thinking the same thing as me but hadn’t found the place yet, feel free to check for yourself.  I’d suggest soon, though, restaurants that are empty at lunchtime are soon empty all the time.  Marty and I deserve a medal of some sort for exposing ourselves to this experience, so you don’t have to… urp.  :-{)}

Bread and Roses

People forget in this time of conservatism and division how things used to be, say, back in the Thirties, during the Great Depression.  People learned to get together, and to make do, and to get by.

My mother used to tell how, on a trip to town, they would throw a couple of the best spare tires, along with some tubes with the fewest patches on them, and the patch kit, into the back of the truck before leaving the farm.  With war rationing on and rubber in short supply, a couple of flat tires per trip on the old country roads was typical.

Mom would talk about how, with Dad out in the fields early in the morning, there would be a knock on the back door, and there would stand a starving young man who had just jumped out of a boxcar at the crossing, asking for work.  Grandma would invite the young man in and seat him at the kitchen table, then put a glass of fresh milk in front of him, along with a big ham sandwich on homemade bread, surely the best meal the man had seen in a few days.  After he ate, she would send him out behind the shed, where a pile of unsplit firewood lay in wait, so he could recover a shred of his dignity by splitting a few pieces of it before going on his way.  She always packed a bit of lunch for them also.

If you had a farm, you did not go hungry, in those days, and neither did anyone who crossed your stoop.  You darned your socks over and over, and made new dresses out of old, you did what you had to do, and you got by.

This is why I don’t get too concerned about the real fear that America can disintegrate into the same kind of chaos we lived through then, because we have shown that we will pull together in our communities and realize that we can get things done if we get together and work at them.

Look at what came out of the Thirties and Forties, as we survived war, starvation, and political upheaval, and formed Unions, fought the rich guys for a piece of the action, won that battle, and built the Working Class into the Middle Class.  Over the years, we got too complacent and secure in our positions, then we started feeling threatened by newcomers, forgetting that we were all newcomers once, too.  This led to the tendency to arm up, build fortresses, and man the ramparts against all comers, real or imagined.  This led inevitably to the conservatism that demands walls, and borders, and snoops into the neighbors back yards looking for enemies.  It’s no wonder the middle class is fading back into the workers again, always looking up at a carrot that is pulling away.

The tendency of Capitalism to always search for the lowest operating cost was best summarized by Karl Marx, when he said something like, “the price of labor, or the wage, will, in other words, be the lowest, the minimum, required for the maintenance of life." The class struggle is based on the tug-o-war across that line.

But nowadays the product of labor is more often an idea, in the form of a program, or a service generated on and by the Internet.  Furthermore, the increase of robotics in manufacturing and customer service applications has become a geometrical progression, to the point where an article in today’s Seattle Times http://www.seattletimes.com/business/technology/automation-could-replace-one-out-of-three-us-jobs-within-about-15-years-report-says/  says that 38% of American jobs can disappear due to automation in 15 years.  Now is not the time to consider a career in driving truck, for example.

But maybe now is a good time to start the conversation going on the concept of a guaranteed minimum income for all people.  Imagine, if you will, the potential savings to the companies, which translates into earnings per share, as robots take over.  In trucking, for example, you could program the robots to always stay in the right lane, leave plenty of room in front of them for cars to merge in and out (or even in a separate lane just for them, when we get going on the idea), and drive all day and all night, stopping only for fuel or recharging their batteries.  All the money those robots would make as they drove down the public highway could either go into the pockets of the owners of the companies who bought the robots, or it could be shared evenly with all the displaced truck drivers, so they could go do what they want to do.  Each owner-operator could buy just one truck, send it out to work for him or her, and sit back and manage the operation from the home computer.  Trucking companies as we know them will disappear.

I see no reason beyond technology that we could not ultimately, as a human race, decide to use technology and robotics to make life easier for literally everyone on the planet, starting with the poorest and hungriest and working our way up to the wealthiest, who by that time will be getting hard up for household help and personal servants, so we will let them belly up to the public trough with the rest of us.  If you look closely at anyone who thinks this is a bad idea, you might see a big ol’ hog with his trotters already in the trough up to his hocks, just trying to avoid competition.

Imagine a world where the robots have freed the people to restore the planet to the original pristine condition in which we found it, and build the means to explore outer space, and pull our material needs from the asteroids that are the crumbled remains of a different planet, or the gaseous upper atmosphere of Jupiter, where the countries are so peaceful, because nobody is starving anymore or feeling like they have to steal or kill to get ahead, so you can go anywhere and visit in peace.  Imagine what we could accomplish if we decided collectively to make that world our goal, and work for it determinedly.  Some already have.

But, you say, what about the rich elites who already suck up the vast majority of the income in this world for themselves?  Don’t you think they might have an opinion about such a goal?  And that will lead us right back to the old tug-of-war, and the final question that everyone must answer at some point:  Which side of that line are you on?  :-{)}