The Annointedfig Times

I AM Peaceman, Billionaire Philanthrophist/Musician Sir Ivan

Annointedfig — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 18:37:26 GMT

What do you know that’s larger than life?

And Mitzvah to All!

No, not an elephant. And don’t you even talk to me about sperm whales.

I am thinking of a person — one, with a story as fascinating as the kind of music he makes. And now, allow me to introduce Sir Ivan Wilzig, aka Sci-Fi Channel’s Mr. Mitzvah, aka Peaceman of the Peaceman Foundation, a private nonprofit supporting an array of charities dedicated to fighting hate crimes and treating the victims of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Sir Ivan, the stage name of this ebullient and remarkable man, is an eldest son of multi-billionaire Siggi B. Wilzig, the very first Auschwitz survivor to come to the US after WWII who ended up taking over two publicly traded firms, an oil company, and a bank, while never forswearing his wide-ranging philanthropic interests. And in Sir Ivan’s case, nature certainly hadn’t rested on its laurels in the offspring.

Having earned a prestigious law degree and for 20 years having sat on the board of his father’s bank, Sir Ivan turned his back on his illustrious career and took up something that had to have been on his mind since he’d sung in chorus as a child, apprenticed with a well-known cantor, and participated in drama productions during his college years. Guessed what it is yet?

If you are one of a million unique visitors to the YouTube home of Sir Ivan’s first music video, the Big Brother-inspired single “For What It’s Worth” remade in Sir Ivan’s own inimitable rocktronica style, you’ve undoubtedly said “music” — and you were right.

But did you guess that 100% of the proceeds from Sir Ivan’s album are going into the Peaceman foundation? And did you guess that the caped crusader of “For What It’s Worth” spent the lion’s share of our chat discussing his family’s efforts regarding saving the rainforest and quoting me the little-known statistics on PTSD and its sometimes lethal effect on American soldiers?

Apparently, Sir Ivan said, more of our men and women in uniform commit suicide on American soil upon returning from Afghanistan and Iraq than had died in both combined during combat. There is no known cure for the disorder, but there are treatments, truly life-saving ones - and not everyone who needs them has access. With Peaceman’s tireless efforts, quite a lot more will have received treatment – and will continue to do so.

That said, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the other side of Sir Ivan – the one responsible for the 15,000 square foot Castle, a piece of architectural and designer art, having sprung up in the Hamptons, New York to rival Hugh Hefner’s famed Playboy mansion. Or, for that matter, the grand – and oversold to the point of attendees sneaking in inside the trunks of Rolls Royces – charity parties being thrown on the gorgeous estate that hosted celebrities, fire breathers turning the water of the pool into a lake of fire, and musicians belting out techno-flavored “Hava Nagila” (in honor of Sir Ivan’s character, Mr. Mitzvah, having been chosen out of 10,000 hopefuls by Stan Lee himself to join the cast of Sci-fi Channel’s Who Wants to be a Superhero?).

Or Sir Ivan’s chihuahua, Chiquita, going around in a cape matching the Peaceman’s own. You see, having lost 59 of his relatives to the Nazi regime and now, tirelessly working to reduce violence in the world and prevent something similar from ever happening again, Sir Ivan IS Peaceman. And Chiquita, “like a banana”, Sir Ivan joked, is right there to help him along.

I can’t, also, forget his having climbed up the fire escape ladder into the Kentucky Derby Billionaire’s Club for a tête-à-tête with the then Vice President of United States. Or Sir Ivan’s new reality show, Peaceman, being shopped around by a team of superproducers.

What can I say? I had been awed. There are so many facets to Sir Ivan. But I had one last question to ask. A man who has everything, has done everything, is there anything left to do for this extraordinary person?

Peaceman Cometh!

Turns out, Sir Ivan hadn’t yet seen all the seven wonders of the world. And though having already performed to a crowd of 15,000, he wants to touch a whole stadium-full with his catchy remakes of ’60s legacy songs in his debut album I Am Peaceman coming out in time to commemorate the cultural phenomenon that was the first Woodstock.

“I’m here,” he said. And though some of the original songwriters who had breathed life into such masterpieces as “Imagine” and “Turn, Turn, Turn” aren’t with us anymore, this makes Peaceman all the more determined to keep changing the world with his phenomenal philanthropic drive and his unique sounds.

Yes, We Can!

Annointedfig — Wed, 20 May 2009 00:37:53 GMT

January 20th. It was a quiet afternoon, as most afternoons in Louisville, KY are. Of course, this one was special.

Because a few hundred miles away in a city that is never quiet — where the wheeling and the dealing are known to go long LONG into the night, and the paperwork keeps churning like butter — the noise pollution was such that day, it resonated in Louisville, and L.A., and Berlin, and even Kenya — whose native grandson has just put down his fork after his triumphant and very public first official luncheon.

Damn straight, sparky!

Before which came the equally triumphant Inaugural speech.

Now, I am sure there have been better speeches. There might be better ones on all those January 20ths to come.

But for me, it was this speech that struck…something. Something that gave me the nudge I needed to decide to reach for the stars. Which we all needed to do, caught in the double helix of global recession and unrest.

I am a writer, but before that day…no, not that I was content to hold on to my day job. It is more, I knew what I was doing, and, depending on whom you ask, the comfort of utter surety as to what tomorrow will bring is the prize all its own.

So, I kept polishing my book, and amassing suggestions, and reviews, and cautiously treading the water — and waiting. In retrospect, I had been waiting for our new President’s Inauguration Day.

Apparently, I needed him to tell me to get off my ass and do something. And if that something involved getting myself out there, well, hello world, The Annointed Fig: Metamorphoses is born!

But that wasn’t enough, not after that speech. So, I decided to really take the bull by the horns — which, among other things, meant going and actually vying for a screenwriter-ship at one promising new venture, to which I had previously signed up, but had been too busy — and too chicken — to participate in. And, so I used to tell myself, too realistic.

With zero screenwriting experience to my name, which I have since come to understand is an entirely different kettle of fish from prose, what in the world possessed me to think I was going to win a show-writer’s gig? Why, President Obama, of course!

So, Mr. Antony van Zyl, the fearless leader and the mastermind behind Lombardi Street, that promising new venture that now has me haunting its site, has only his own former neighbor to blame for practically siccing me on him.

Because Lombardi Street, just like President Obama’s message, is addictive. In our jaded day and age, the true promise of change, of revolution, is something as rare as the glimpse of an albino elephant. And Lombardi Street, in a nutshell a full-length serialized college-based drama intended to run on both regular TV and the net (including video sites, blogs, and virtual worlds like Second Life), serves up said revolution in spades with its unique approach to scripted reality — a merging between fictional lives of those hailing from the all too real Happy Camp, CA; Lowell, MA; Midland, TX, San Francisco; Bemidji, MN and those of us actually living in, coming to, escaping these places.

Recently taken to welcoming the unwary with an offered selection of…you guessed it, the Beatles “Revolution” blaring off its front page — no, you don’t HAVE to listen — the L-Street actively practices what it has began to preach in early January.

It throws open the hallowed Hollywood doors to anyone smart and talented and determined enough to enter, and it does so through a series of contests or tasks the entrants are invited to participate in. After all, shouldn’t there be tangible proof that you are not just wanting to reap the benefits, you YOURSELF are ready to be a part of the revolution?

In my particular case, it had been writing, as it has been for many. Making a living AND showing off before the adoring public, we writers are not much different from artists, actors, graphic designers. Of whom there are also hundreds on the site; we’re a multinational, multitalented, multidimensional Hydra.

Farm girls from Iowa set on becoming the next Meryl Streep; skit writers from Sweden inspired to create their answer to the SNL; dedicated community organizers staying up into the wee hours of the morning to help everyone from across the globe settle in, answer questions; talented grad students from India wanting a break; fantastic indie directors bringing their prize-winning expertise to bear teaching and writing; guerrilla advertising professionals promoting something they actually believe in instead of whoring themselves out to their highest bidder; hairstylists giving songwriting a chance; animal trainers giving assistant directorship a stab; even a billionaire tempted to try out for our ambitious marketing campaign.

"Never Follow the Straight and Narrow"

We’re all here, and we are building something great, something we see taking shape before our very eyes, something we can take pride in not for just an eventual payoff (which, let’s face it, who would say no to?), but because it is heck of a lot more ours than anything we join that is already so entrenched, that it has forgotten its roots.

As a friend I met through Lombardi Street has said, the entire concept is practically everyone’s unrealized dream. Yes, it may sound too good to be true, but didn’t President Obama’s message do so when he started running?

He felt he needed to revolutionize the election, the country, the whole shebang. Lombardi is fighting tooth and nail to accomplish the very same for the insular world of entertainment.

No need for studio heads, managers, underhanded distribution deals, that fabled Hollywood meritocracy that has been a pipe dream of many — who ended up settling into becoming teachers, scientists, programmers, housewives, bankers, firefighters, doctors. Great things all to have done with a life, but for those of us wanting our chance at a place, in whatever capacity, in the light of the tungsten lamps? Ultimately unfulfilling.

And it is powered by those of us who have chosen to take the reins into our own hands, those that Lombardi Street is rushing towards filming its pilot. Slated to start airing September 23, 2009, the show is finally taking shape, and based on the cautious response, we are doing quite a few things right.

Lombardi will entertain, it will hopefully engross, it will employ dozens of people, it will introduce new directions in pull- and cause-based advertising to replace the invasive traditional means — and it will unequivocally demonstrate the validity of Mr. Obama’s message.

In a truly democratic society such as the one Mr. Van Zyl envisioned, spurred, no doubt, by example of the former Senator from his home state of Illinois, if you get off your ass, you CAN make something of yourself. Even if that something happens to be in politics — or filmmaking, the mediums so often associated with the very worst excesses of cronyism and the dreaded casting couch. Who knows, you might even change the world in the process!

Learning Pains

Annointedfig — Wed, 20 May 2009 00:35:59 GMT

Yesterday, was the first time I actually got to BE a producer. Funny. I considered myself one for a couple of months, never stopping to marvel at a stroke of luck.

And I think I had done surprisingly well, considering my abysmal lack of experience. No, not abysmal. Not sure the linguists among us would agree, but to me, abysmal implies there is something in my past that’s bad — yet existent. Not so. As relevant experiences went, I was a writer. But I swam right along. Sometimes, you just get in the groove — and do good. Call it…erm, a calling?

Yep, here's hopping!

But talking up celebs and prospective business partners was easy. Nothing but money and contacts in the game, and unless you are the late acting head of Freddie Mac (he’d recently committed suicide, if anyone had missed that cheerful tidbit), you don’t take these kinds of things but with a grain (or even a bucket) of salt.

But, boy…creation?

What can I say, in the past couple of days, it truly came home to roost how everyone does not — and should not — go automatically along with your vision, and pushing what YOU think is the Jesus fish of it all means stepping on the toes you not only respect, but are, quite frankly, intimidated by to a certain extent.

Let me just say, it wasn’t easy. And getting a final product I believe IS heck of a lot better than the sum of everyone’s contributed parts, a project anyone can live with and hopefully send along to their online buddies… Somehow, it didn’t make me happy. Rather, it did. It, also, made me sad. And relieved. And humbled. And mildly scalded, as though through a baptismal by fire. And a gamut of things in between. Well, why not?

I am not sure if I am an assertive person. Whenever I say something, I constantly look back and ask myself, did I hurt this person? Could I have conveyed my point across in other ways?

But what can you do if the point IS going to justifiably piss off your collaborators? Bringing to fruition an artistic vision, which I can attest to myself, is an intensely personal and very heartfelt process. And here, I come in, demanding my version of perfection. There are many truths. What gives me the right to think mine is the one with an inherent right to see the light of day?

And then, it all comes back to the title. To the one man trusting me enough to get me to a point where my words have now the weight to be the rock to another’s scissors (or however that analogy goes, I was never entirely clear on the game). And with that comes the responsibility to be judicious with my feelings. These are mine, and boy, do I have to be careful inflicting them on anyone. No more an impartial observer or a cog in someone’s wheel, I am one of those winding the clockwork, and I very, very much value every part making our great, exciting, revolutionary nose-thumb at Big Ben.

I think a great take-home lesson to me was: careful, CAREFUL preparation. A lot of talking, ironing out every little tidbit beforehand — and then, through the editing process. Put that way, every project is not unlike getting married, though with - HOPEFULLY - less lawyers and governmental intrusion involved.

We each have our unique thoughts, and temperaments, and experiences, and visions, and I would be a fool to trust that people would easily, smoothly see eye to eye when something so important, yet ephemeral is being carved out of ether and an HD tape. Perhaps, it might have been easier had we all been telepathic and foregone the imperfect medium that is speech to convey where each one of us is coming from.

But we are not, and to tell you the truth, it is probably good for our peace of mind — and, certainly, for that incomparable sensation of getting on our own high horse.

Which brings me back to talking things out. And knowing that once I’m granted power to veto or add to or subtract something, the very first thing I should do is step away from myself and view it with an impartial eye. The final product is a child raised by a village, but those that are ultimately going to judge it don’t even know that little hamlet’s zip code. At least, not yet — but, perhaps, soon enough, once Libretto Dreams succeeds at its intended purpose.

Hardly following the straight and narrow -- as promised. :-)

I will now approach everything armed with this understanding and hope that the next project sure to follow the success of this first (even at my most introspective, turns out I am an optimist) will be a sail if not smooth, then marred far less with the learning pains of this first.

And I want to thank everyone who has come together and who had donated so generously of their time, and energy, and talent to create Lombardi Street’s very first video piece. It is now being polished and will soon be made public.

I anticipate there will be those that might not find it to their liking, but on the whole, I want to think we have done the best we can. And, frankly, that it is damn GOLDEN stuff!

A Hanging Offense

Annointedfig — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 13:23:29 GMT

There are drug overdoses, medical mistakes, murders.

Then, there are suicides, and in comparison they seem… no, not worse, but rather more…senseless, somehow.

Do we have something in common?

We are wired to protect our lives. Our fight or flight response is definitely a part and parcel of our genetic makeup. If we didn’t have that, our species would long have gone the way of the dodo. So, to me, every single suicide is a slap in the face of evolution.

But when a child commits suicide, a 7-year old, to wit, how do you calculate that into the equation?

Certainly, Broward County officials have dropped the ball on Gabriel Myers’s case — failing the victim, the victim’s family, and even the school system, into which the boy had been integrated by ChildNet, the county’s private foster care organization, without the school system’s knowledge of the boy’s escalating patterns of deviant sexual behavior.

Having been sexually molested himself, upon having been removed from the custody of his drug-abusing mother, the boy had proven himself too intractable for his uncle and aunt to handle. But, at least, they did recognize when they were outgunned.

The ChildNet, having ostensibly offered the best the modern psychiatric sciences can boast of, including psychotropic meds to a boy as young as Gabriel, has finally hit upon the bright idea to introduce the budding sexual predator into a regular school, where he was to learn to control his urges.

Considering the boy’s mental state went downhill fast (now including violence on top of continuing sexual acting-out), it stands to reason why earlier this week, Broward County’s Department of Children and Families head, Jack Moss, has used the blanket federal medical privacy laws to excuse his refusal to shed light on any and all sex abuse allegations.

There really isn’t much to say. No explanations would cut this. The boy had, obviously, been severly abused. Unfortunately, we will never know if he stood a chance of leading a normal life with proper psychiatric and social supervision.

Unfortunately, too, it is one less human to add diversity to our communal gene pool. But most unfortunately of all, it is one less little boy who will be watching kiddie yogurt ads and gulping up the latest offerings from the prolific Disney animation arm.

Should a child with such severe and deep-running mental issues have been allowed the independence that he was? Probably not. Are we taking our basic freedoms too far, in not protecting those with pronounced mental illnesses from themselves? I don’t know. But I can say that it is clear we need a sweeping review of modern socio-psychological welfare standards.

Please, NO get out of jail free card!

Annointedfig — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 11:01:42 GMT

What exactly makes a “mother”? It this someone who ovulates? Gives birth? Trails an “it’s a boy” balloon while wheeled out onto the hospital loading dock with her bundle of joy across her knees?

Can I just say, "Hear, hear!"

Or is it someone who doesn’t let her baby scald himself in the middle of giving a bath? Oh, I know, it’s gotta be one who, immediately upon realizing it happened despite her very best efforts, snaps to action and doesn’t spare neither expense nor strength taking her little one in for treatment!

Well, if that is the definition, what does this make Erica Davis? What does it make her partner, Jake Fisher III?

How can someone calling themselves a parent, indeed, a human do that? How can you just let a baby, any baby, let alone your own, suffer?

Apparently, one fine Thursday, March 26th, the father of the year was giving his 5-months old son a bath in a sink, turned away to attend his 1-year old who pooped next to him on the floor, didn’t notice his 2-year old playing with the faucet, and voila, the baby is toast — or, rather, a boiled lobster.

The hospital photos taken weeks later showed the baby had burns to the stomach, thighs and butt area, and do you think Mr. Fisher III called 911? Or rushed his kid to the hospital, ASAP? If the answer’s “yes”, ha, you’re coddling your baby.

Mr. Fisher did think to call his son’s mom, who agreed with his assessment that since the boy wasn’t bleeding, it was fine. “Didn’t want to pay the $700″ for the ambulance to take their infant to the hospital, said Davis, when later questioned by the police. Makes sense, right? Life’s steep, gotta economize!

So much so, the parents hadn’t taken the boy for any medical help until the wounds didn’t start “looking moist”. Which they apparently did not until April 22nd.

They had been detained by police on charges of child endangerment, tried to lie their way out of the charges — and, I can only hope, will be castrated within the inch of their miserable lives.

Unfortunately, however, that is not in the books. But, at least, I want to be able to expect their children would remain the wards of the state — or, better yet, adopted out when the birth monsters are let out on parole. A few years in jail might discharge their debt to the society as a whole. But will they really to that little boy?

Hitler, Adolph Elizabeth Hitler

Annointedfig — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 10:51:00 GMT

I am sorry, but some things just make you sick. Baby seals being clubbed. Nursing home inmates indulging in orgies. And Hitler paintings being sold at an auction house at Ludlow, England for the combined value of over $140K.

Yes, we can - put on the world's most tasteless auction!

One of them, for instance, a $15,000 1910 self-portrait of a boy sitting on the bridge is going to hang in the home or office of one Mr. Ratledge.

Why, I ask you? Would you want a dictator’s watercolor in your home? How about a nice framed postcard of Dachau? There might be a discount for purchasing in bulk.

Oh, and another question if I may? What’s with pictures of farmhouses and cats and roses? The man liked his realists, sure enough, so much so that abstract paintings were burned, but rose bouquets? Please! Writing his Producers, was Mel Brooks right? Was the Fuhrer REALLY called Adolph Elizabeth Hitler?!

Fiery rage

Annointedfig — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 10:29:40 GMT

When I was a teen, I used to — LITERALLY — beat the stuffing out of my debonair pink flamingo in a black top hat whenever I was feeling pissy. Those hormones raging like Cali wildfires stoked by Santa Ana winds, let me tell you, that flamingo suffered.

Rageholics Beware. Cometh stiff competition!

But not as much as the tires on 54-yeard old Serena Sutton-Smith’s Vauxhall Nova. What the quiet country road in the Cotswolds between Weston sub Edge and Mickleton in Gloucestershire, UK had done to the woman to provoke that fatal incident of road rage is completely beyond me. I, also, don’t know if the woman had kids, but if she did not, I cannot fathom the better candidate for a Darwin award. Even if she has procreated, I would still nominate her, as an honorary recipient, if need be. An end such as hers deserves a fiery tribute.

Long and short of it, the woman rammed Paula Small’s stationary Fiat Punto, ground to a halt, and sat there, flooring the gas pedal. The onlookers apparently begged her to step out of the car, but Serena, known to suffer from violent mood swings associated with her bipolar disorder, told them to “F..k off!” and continued spinning her wheels — no pun intended. Spinning them until the tires burst apart, and the sparks from the naked metal rims started flying around, and when they ignited the engine, and when the fire mixed with the fuel.

And yes, you can see where this little story is going.

Life is precious. And losing it, senselessly, with no greater reason than to feed your range — when I just heard from a friend of mine who is mourning another friend killed in the line of duty with two kids and a young wife left behind — this seems like such an utter, fundamental waste! Life should be worth more than that. But, maybe, it’s just the anger in me talking.

Just State-ing My Case!

Annointedfig — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 00:05:23 GMT

I am an agnostic and…well, not proud of it. I just am. I think that’s the whole point of being an agnostic.

I don’t know for certain if there is something indescribable out there, but an idea of there existing a being greater than myself, whom I can thank / blame for the glories — and horrors of Creation appeals. At the same time, I cannot dispute the findings of archaeologists, paleontologists, physicists. And that’s OK, I don’t think faith necessarily excludes the accepted scientific model.

Sometimes separation is a GOOD thing!

But what doesn’t in any way dovetails with my belief system is forcing one or the other down my throat. I want to hear from both sides of the divide, and I once I know enough, I want to enjoy the freedom to make my own decision.

And that is exactly what the graduating students at Elmbrook, Wisconsin schools were being subjected to for the past 9 years. Certainly, it might not have been skin off most backs, but the basic premise of it makes my fur bristle.

Kids shouldn’t have been forced to graduate at a local megachurch. Not that I have anything against Christianity. I would have said the same of any venue whose primary function is a religious gathering site of any organized religion. Because our country has been built on the principle of the Separation of the Church and State, in fact, it could be argued that it came to be because in the olden days, Britain hadn’t quite gotten the memo on that, subjecting kids to participate in what is a purely social function at a place geared to a specific purpose by a religion they might not even subscribe to seems a surefire way to draw some much deserved backlash.

I recognize an argument by the school board may be made that this venue is probably the best equipped to take in the number of folks sure to attend the events, but there are stadiums, and failing that, there are always public parks and football fields. Graduation here in US is by and large a summertime activity. If there was no comparable indoor location to be had, outdoor ones could have easily served as well.

As for a lawsuit. Yes, it is frivolous, and economic conditions for the municipalities being such as it is, it can only place an unneccesary burder on the system. At the same time, there is an abiding need for checks and balances even outside the hallowed halls of Capitol Hill and the White House. And so far for an average Joe, court action seems an only feasible recourse.

Does That Lady Come With Crabs?

Annointedfig — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 00:03:23 GMT

No, seriously? Can I get a side of crab sticks, small Coke, and this here blond, that one, with a mole over her upper lip?

Oh, all right, I am sort of kidding - but only because I am nowhere near the Berlin’s “Pussy Club”, a venerable German establishment employing 3o permanent sex workers.

Don't be a boob! Those deep discounts are going, going...gone!

Germany is one of the few counties in the world where prostitution, advertising thereof, AND pimping are totally legal. Its compatriots in regulated sex are Netherlands, Austria, Switzerland, Hungary, Greece, Turkey, parts of Australia, and the U.S. state of Nevada. To wit, in Luxembourg, Latvia, Denmark, Belgium and Finland, prostitution itself is legal, but brothels and pimping are not.

Considering German ladies and gentlemen of the night (or day, whatever strikes your fancy) are, as of 2002, eligible for health insurance AND bennies, you’d would think the sex workers there have it golden. Alas, we’re in the middle of a global depression.

Cars are not getting sold, Borders is in its death throes, Circuit City is the thing of the past — and without a cent of governmental stimulus packages heading its ways, the oldest profession in the world is one of those carrying the brunt of the economic slowdown.

But whatever the job description, people in need are nothing if not inventive. Hence, the 70 euro all you can eat, drink, and…erm, you KNOW on the table at the Pussy Club between 10 AM and 4 PM. Which, the manager Stefan says, is helping to keep all the ladies employed full time.

And Stefan isn’t the industry’s only innovator. There are group sex specials, discounts for seniors — and golfers. No, I really have no idea how golf comes into play, but nonetheless, apparently, these folks come off as a plump collective cash cow. Same, incidentally, goes for taxi drivers.

What can I say? Better everyone takes advantage of the governments looking the other way while the girls are forced into the unconsiousnably deep discounts. If the plans floated by the G20 prove the answer to the world’s prayers, I can see the rates once again heading the way of a septugenarian’s business end once he scores a hit of Viagra.

Who You Gonna Call? Guinness World Records!

Annointedfig — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 00:01:53 GMT

Who hasn’t heard of Guinness World Book of Records?

A conversation-starter if nothing else, since its humble beginning at a May 4, 1951 shooting party attended among others by an opinionated Sir Hugh Beaver, then the managing director of Guinness Beers, it has prompted a slew of daredevils to try their hand at spending hours in isolation with scorpions, rubbing their eyes with ghost chilies, dangling a heavy weight off a swallowed sword, lifting 71 kilos with an ear, balancing a car on their head. You name it, people probably tried it. Or if not, dollars to donuts, someone somewhere is thinking about giving it a stab.

Dive headlong into anything you do, is what I always say!

And though I personally think these are all a waste of perfectly good bodies — considering how many diseases, accidents, acts of nature are already lying in wait to make mincemeat of the mass of cells, electrolytes, and water somehow hanging together and pretending to be a coherent whole — at least, those daredevils are doing their worst to themselves.

What Berks Technical Institute alumni Nick Andes, 29, and Doug Klinger, 30, attempted is…interesting, perfectly useless — and is going to cost, however little, to everyone currently enjoying their cell phone service through T-Mobile. In a nutshell, the duo exchanged over 217,000 text messages in the period of one month.

Not to say they were all THAT prolific. Mostly, the messages consisted of hello’s, LOLs, and, as the gentlemen themselves admitted, a whole lot of repeats. Exhibiting commendable technical prowess, the pair managed to rig their phones to spit out multiple messages. During a February test run they learned they could send 6K-7K of those awesomely articulate missives daily, and the quest for world domination…sorry, the latest Guinness Book record was on.

Previously, it has been set at 182,000 sent in 2005 by one Deepak Sharma in India, and our wise guys couldn’t leave the well enough alone.

As we can see, they have succeeded — and one of them got settled with a $26K bill that cost over $25 to mail out. Considering both were on an unlimited service plan, the charges were quickly rescinded and the internal T-Mobile investigation was launched.

But if the T-Mobile execs asked me, I would have said the best recourse would have been to send a similar folio to the man’s partner in crime. I would have even picked up the tab for the mailing. Because, you know what immediately occurred to me reading about this amazing feat?

The text messaging rates are calculated according to usage, and obviously, a duo of doofuses can’t significantly affect the multi-million bell curve. At the same time, “can’t significantly” doesn’t stand for “wouldn’t”, so, however infinitesimal the resulting increase in the rates for every regular user after the accounting team gets through adding these charges to T-Mobile’s own monthly bill, it would still be a fraction of a cent too much.

Thank you, guys! Looking forward to future feats of daring. But, please, could you limit them to your own bank accounts from now on?

On the side of the angels!

Annointedfig — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 09:09:49 GMT

What wouldn’t you to do to protect someone you love? And doesn’t this, whatever it is, sometimes carry a ringing name of “justifiable homicide“?

Good old Abraham! Always on the side of the angels.

An abused woman can kill in self-defense. A dog won’t be put down for tearing out an intruder’s throat and thereby saving her owner. A pregnant mother has a right to any means necessary if she perceives a threat to her fetus. A soldier is expected to kill in the name of his country.

And yet, as soon as there is a disagreement on the defendant of choice, the rescuers misusing the same whatever-goes format triumphantly make it onto the FBI’s Most Wanted Terrorists List. Rather hypocritical, really.

No, you won’t find me defending bin Laden — or the celebrity criminal du jour, Daniel Andreas San Diego. They should be caught, tried, and put behind bars. Having lived through 9/11 (albeit nowhere near the epicenter) and personally done animal research, I can tell you an announcement about either of these men having been detained would definitely make me feel better.

At the same time, I have to ask myself. Why does their violent actions in the name of something as dear to them as anything we may hold close to our hearts put them on the wrong side of the law? Of course, we may discuss the legalities of overstepping the rigidly defined bounds, but it would by no means be a debate. Society places these bounds upon itself to guard against pure Lord of the Flies chaos, and I most definitely appreciate having a barricade to huddle behind.

There are those, though, who emphatically do not.

An imposing elder straight off the pages of the Old Testament, Bin Laden is supposedly fighting for the liberation of the Muslim world. And if it’s to be achieved by the destruction of Israel and its allies, well, so be it. I do not agree, I do not sympathize, I abhor everything he stands for, but I do hear what he’s saying — providing he’s telling the truth, and not just spouting convenient rhetoric. He does need a pulpit and a cause, otherwise, what sort of leader is he? One mocked for certain deficiency by his ex-Western girlfriends? Or was it for purported sexual relations with goats?

And the handsome clean-cut master sailor / computer scientist proficient in Linux and setting up e-mail accounts, Daniel San Diego, 31, is blowing up research facilities in California to punish the demon-faced scientists at Huntingdon Life Sciences for wantonly abusing the defenseless critters. Is he right in his radical stance? Certainly not. He would not have been even if he and those of his ilk proposed a better way to conduct medical research. Because even then, PETA’s statement at the US Senate hearing aside, parroting President John F. Kennedy in stating “those that make peaceful change impossible make the violent revolution inevitable”, the violence is never an answer.

Or…considering the implacable speech by Michael J. Heimbach, Assistant Director of our Counterterrorism Division at FBI Headquarters in Washington, DC, “We have added San Diego to the Most Wanted Terrorists list to increase public awareness about this domestic terrorist fugitive and to aid in his arrest. We will not relent until San Diego is apprehended and his potential for future acts of violence and destruction is eliminated.”…is it?

Any violence done against Daniel San Diego, the first domestic offender on the FBI’s Most Wanted Terrorists List, would, after all, be in defense of something WE love — our own peace of mind, that of our nearest and dearest.

What then puts us, as a society, that far from what Daniel, and Osama, and Abu Gharib’s now-infamous torturers were doing? Just the fact that we are on the right side of the fence?

Tell you what, for the safety of myself and mine, I sure am glad I’m on the side of the angels!

How To Get a Louse Outta Your Hair?

Annointedfig — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 23:00:54 GMT

See, I have this friend…

Boy, after “it was a dark and stormy night”, this has got to be the most overused line on the planet. And nonetheless, there ARE stormy nights — and there actually ARE genuine friends with genuine problems.

FBI'S Most Wanted: Considered Stinky and Dangerous. Feed Slops On Sight!

Like my friend, for instance, that I will call Jane Doe — to protect the guilty, in this instance.

Now, by all accounts, Jane is tops at what she does. She is funny, loyal, happily married. And she needs money. Well, who does not? Unfortunately, neo-con claims regarding the new administration notwithstanding, this ain’t socialism yet.

To finish setting up the stage, Jane is a hairdresser. And apparently, not many stylists get paid a guaranteed salary these days. Like Jane tells me, “50% commission off of northing’s still nothing”.

Not too long ago (certainly, less than the trial 90 days), Jane has found a new job. Not a Paul Mitchell salon (those of its ilk incidentally requiring an unpaid internship BEFORE initiating the same generous 50% commission agreement), but a nice enough place with a steady non-commission paycheck. “Not many of them,” says Jane. “Most stylists are staying put.”

Which Jane would have loved to do — and is still doing (minus the loving) - if not for the crude, rude, slovenly, thankless, talentless piece of cow dung that had a good fortune to come from the same country as the salon’s owners. Now, apparently, the gentleman (and I do apologize for so abusing the term) had been marginally more tolerable before his divorce (scuttlebutt says he was altogether responsible for) has become finalized last year. Upon which, the man has really fell off that “civilized behavior” bandwagon.

A man, whose customers rarely come back, who doesn’t even take pride in his work has an unmitigated gall to yell at the lady stylists trying to help him. He steals their food. Berates them. Skirts the edges of sexual harassment. Demands the women scrub the john — and clean up after him once he’s done abusing his customers’ hairdos.

From what my friend tells me, it’s gotten to the point where she’s considering calling in sick the day she needs to spend more than a few minutes in the company of this singular representative of the male species (working with others, and being a daughter and wife to two more, I can with all surety say he’s altogether NOT a representative of the entire gender). But what he lacks in company, he certainly makes up in virulence of his behavior. Supposedly unable to even fathom what he’s doing wrong — yet consistently ignoring all attempts to correct his NUMEROUS faux pas, he has singlehandedly managed to make even a manager’s life a fun slice of hell. Need I clarify she’s also a woman?

The problem, Jane explains, is that the owners, confronted by their female employees wanting recourse from the incessant abuse, blithely suggest they shake his hand. Really, they shrug, he isn’t doing anything wrong.

To my suggestion the lady stylists get the regulars to complain about his shoddy work and unpleasant environment in the salon, courtesy of theirs truly, Jane gathered some people had. Considering, the donkey’s uncle is still around, the customer is king — just not at that particular venue.

That said, guys, I’m open to advice. I really wish I had something to pass along to Jane. All of mine thus far fell through: the women are afraid to lose their jobs. Economy being as it is, I can see why. They don’t know if they should go to the police. Deliberately sabotaging him doesn’t seem like a safe — or kosher thing to do. And befriending him, after many years that he has been spiffying up the joint seems both transparent — and stomach-churning.

Anything else? Anyone? Jane and I could use some creative thinking!

Pigging Out!

Annointedfig — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 07:31:09 GMT

When it oinks like a pig, looks like a pig, wields a gun like a pig, is it a pig?

PC John Ablett seems to think so. Though a fan of self-criticism, I do think asking fellow policemen to arrest a neighbor in a nighttime raid for — ready for it? — a 12″ porcelain pig domiciled in Robin Demczak’s backyard for the past 8 years is taking a commendable character quality (and familiarity with slurs) in somewhat of a wrong direction.

If he's baying for blood, does that make it a Bay of Pigs?

Considering the young traffic cop, John Ablett, lived next to an ex-pig farmer Mr. Demczak for only 4 of those years — and their feud over a footpath (who cares about Gaza Strip, these guys have their own no-man’s land!) lasted for just 18 months, it seems Mr. Demczak had a remarkable foresight to first start breeding pigs solely to be able to stop and put up a sign proclaiming to ex-customers, “No Pigs”. And here we go Uri Geller for evidence of psychic gifts. Fat load we know!

Mr. Demczak’s new “no pigs” house rule was grossly violated when PC Ablett’s herd-mates entered the premises and took him from his bed into police custody lasting over 6 hours. And the best part: he was let go without any charges filed in conjunction with what is being treated as a “harassment incident”, but nonetheless ordered to rid himself of the swine offender AND stop calling his now empty shed a sty (for all it still retains all the characteristics thereof).

If the Thames Valley police force is so concerned with a common dictionary word, I am surprised it feels comfortable en masse entering its own precinct after perverting justice to quite this extent. After all, how would you call a dwelling housing a herd of swine (all the decent cops excluded)?

Yeah, kinda thought so!

I am usually against what seems like a lot of extraneous civil court law suits creating excessive bloat in the system. But in this particular case, man, I would give my eye tooth to be on the jury, if Mr. Demczak decides to sue. Not that I know why anyone would want an eye tooth. Unless they are the Tooth Fairy.

Soylent Green is Pets (for now)

Annointedfig — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 02:05:03 GMT

Unlike Agur, son of Yakeh, whom King Solomon supposedly credited with not understanding only 4 basic truths (dealing with the vectors of a bird’s flight, snake’s slither, ship’s glide, and a man’s path to the heart of a woman), I know if there were a WQ (Wisdom Quotient) test, I would draw a blank at a hell of a lot more than 4.

Betcha he would have made a yummy Sunday brunch! And his dove, too.

While I could do with some wisdom in my ripe old age, some truths — if that’s what they are — I really don’t want to get. I am just stubborn that way.

I will be in a minority, I bet, but hey, even the Supreme Court puts out a dissenting opinion. And though I am not nearly so lofty an authority as that, I have my soapbox, and I’m not afraid to use it.

And so, to bring this matter full circle, you know one of those things I don’t get? It’s putting your pets down. I already wrote about my contempt for PETA’s sweeping euthanasia practices. And though I have received an initial response from one of PETA’s functionaries, espousing its humane methods of dealing with its rescuees, to my offer to interview its head and founder Ingrid Newkirk, to get PETA’s side of the story, so far, there has been radio silence.

But really, this isn’t even the point of this post. PETA has its own problems, and though it’s overweening intentions are probably good, touching on all of those accompanying issues — not the least its increasingly radical reputation that, even in my limited experience, makes other parties leery of doing business with this powerful non-profit — would take more than a single blog post to address. And to be honest here, more than a single blogger.

Here, all I want to talk about is our own pets — and our own individual choices. That, and the stand of every, even the most progressive constituency, on human euthanasia. Certain countries, and in the last couple of years, even a couple of states here in the US, have permitted the limited use of euthanasia. But the main and thus far uncontested caveat is that the euthanasia can only be performed if the victim has asked for it — and has retained a sufficient use of mental faculties to, if need be, prove to the courts that said procedure is being requested out of her / his free will.

I do not see our blind handicapped senile members of society being volunteered for the mortician’s services on a regular basis. Well, I don’t — with the exception of such sterling authority figures as Baroness Warnock, 84, of Britain. Duly concerned with the drain on UK’s nationalized health care put on it by its neediest recipients, the first government-connected expert to speak in favor of euthanasia, she really puts a foot in her mouth — and calls for something very similar to the Soylent Green premise — minus consuming the forcibly euthanized folks.

The senile, says the baroness, “have a duty to die”, but does not specify just how they are to acquiesce to the the procedure, limited as they are by the very condition that’s making them “eligible” for the “final solution” in Lady Warnock’s argument.

And the media, just as we journalists and bloggers like to do, is all over that — I would like to hope — slip of the tongue like white on rice. Yet that same media is keeping nicely quiet — where it is not outright supportive — on the subject of putting to sleep elderly, handicapped, or sick animals that still have a chance of leading some kind of life. And perhaps even overcoming their condition with enough dedicated medical treatment — or even simple TLC.

There is no medical insurance for pets to speak of. No good clinics. There are no high-tech machines in most cities to perform the necessary medical tests and human hospitals would never allow an animal in as a patient, the ending of one of my favorite movies, K-9, notwithstanding. There aren’t many procedures in use for pets with chronic disorders — which is ironic, because most of these life-saving techniques have been extensively tested out on our furry or snouted friends before ever crossing into the primate genus, let alone being introduced for human use.

So, what is it about the most innocent members of our society that makes them not just easy to abuse, but, also, easy to let go of under the guise of doing them a favor?

Would we really be doing a favor to our affectionate, scared, loyal, mostly healthy 17-year old furbaby Rhett by putting her to sleep because we cannot stand to see her puttering around the house walking into everything because she’s had… some kind of intercranial event, impossible to tell which without an inaccessible MRI test? Such indignity she’s been subject to! Such emotional hardship for us — and physical, too. After all, while she can sniff out the food just fine, she DOES need help finding water so that she can be kept hydrated.

How about another furbaby tearfully terminated because he lost control of his bladder and bowels, and it was ever so demeaning for him. Why, can’t have him feeling less than a man, can we?

I imagine the proprietors of nursing homes across the country going bankrupt if we spared our human relations the same indignity of disease or old age not yet correctable by science.

Yet, we do not. And the press, unless something drastically changes in our collective psyche, is, and would continue baying for blood if anyone truly pushed such an agenda forth.

Soylent Milk is... people?

Why then it is all right to “let go” of not yet comatose pets without THEIR express permission? Because, you would say, they are incapable of giving it? Since the senile of Lady Warnock’s unfortunate speech lack the same quality, are they to, also, be relegated to the same social rung? How about little babies?

Just because someone lacks the capacity of having a say, it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t want to have it if the circumstances permitted. As such, from my very own soapbox, I call for assuming a default “no” unless there is a signed living will — or a scientifically translatable meow begging the caring owner to hurry the non-human member 0f the family to his or her grave.

United Airlines. Flying the Unfriendly Skies.

Annointedfig — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 22:59:53 GMT

I remember 9/11.

Fly United!

I was ready to step out to go to school / work — I was in grad school, and it was my first semester as a TA. Insert me all being puffed up and leave it at that.

But my inner glow dimmed that day. The statistic I kept hearing looping over and over on CNN and the briny smell of tears can do that to a person.

I hadn’t known tears had a briny smell, though it stands to reason, considering the chemical makeup.

And I hadn’t known that though I was never much of a jet-setter, flying the friendly skies until then had been a given, like sweets. Still is, despite the belief both having been shaken and stirred. I might not want to have a cake (or rather I won’t, because in watching my figure, I’m going to get others to follow suit — and yet stave off the attentions of any, even the cutest one, doctor in his / her professional capacity). But the thing is, I COULD eat it.

Same with my reliance on aviation. It’s there, and a child of the late 2oth century that I am, I expect it to get me where I want to go. Or desperately need to.

Unfortunately, just as I had been in for a rude personal awakening 8 years ago, a young woman in San Francisco had her own (or had it reinforced) by United Airlines employees.

This girl’s mother had lived in Portland, Oregon, and just prior to an enviable display of humanity on the part of the ticketing agent, Mike, the girl’s boyfriend, received a call from her father asking the couple to fly in. The girl’s mother had been close to death.

Now, in the situation like that, who wouldn’t actually do everything they could to help? Certainly, the fellow passengers had — letting them get in to the front of the queue, no questions asked.

Not so the agent. Though Mike and his girlfriend had their reservation numbers and explained their situation, the agent looked them in the eye and said that regardless of them trying to make the flight, she was going on break, sorry. She had no choice, she said, and hadn’t even bent whatever rules she might have been in violation of to call the gate agent and ask him to wait for the couple.

Long and short of it, they didn’t make that flight, though when they ran up to the gate, the plane was still there and the gate agent was busy turning away the stragglers, including those that just stepped off a connecting flight that had arrived late. The gate agent even excused the fellow ticketing agent. “The management makes us work some unreasonable schedules.” Ah, OK, AND?

By the time they got to Portland on the next flight, departed two and a half hours later, it hadn’t been too late, but the young woman’s mother did pass away a very short time after. And certainly, those hours probably wouldn’t have done anything. But they would have been there. And sometimes, it is the most important thing in the world.

I don’t wish anyone at the United Airlines to experience for themselves what that young woman had been going through just so that they can be a tad more empathetic next time, but I would very much hope its upper management sees fit to give its employees some much needed customer service training.

What the 9/11 had done was make the very act of taking to the skies a roll of the dice. What this incident has added to it, is that you don’t need terrorists to make you feel alone. And yes, betrayed. Kudos to the corporate culture!