Gooseberry on Giving to the Brits

President Barak H. Obaaaama is under fire for failing to follow British protocol in his selection of gifts for British dignitaries.

In early March 2009 (just two months into his presidency) he presented visiting British Prime Minister Gordon Brown with a selection of DVDs which: 1.cannot be played on British DVD players, and 2. Brown can’t fully enjoy because he is almost blind.

Then, it was reported on April 1, 2009 (April Fools Day in America) that he presented the Queen with an I pod filled with video footage and pictures of her recent visit to America. That he would make such a blunder, especially given the fact she already had an I pod purchased at the recommendation of her son in 2005, has made him and his wife appear, once again, internationally out of step with stodgy old European types (both at home and far away in places where old Europeans belong, like in Europe). It doesn’t matter that this I pod will be light years better than anything she could have purchased in 2005, she already had one and the Obaaaamas were quite gauche for giving it to her.

What did the Brits give Obaaaama in return? Well, actually, Brown gave him a very thoughtful and dignified dignitary-type gift, an ornamental pen holder made from the timbers of the Victorian anti-slave ship HMS Gannet. The Queen gave him an autographed picture in a silver frame – just like the ones she gives every other visiting official.

I have to admit, the hoopla over the gifting and giving has sparked a bit of support for the Rookie President. It is one thing for fellow citizens (assuming he really was born in Hawaii and not Kenya) to pick on him as a part of the regular give and take of the political process, and it is quite another for one of our economic and social colonies to do the same.

Given the fact that Brown outclassed the deified one during his first visit to America, and that all other allies will continue to be all talk and no backbone, Obaaama should take some steps to set things right with the former rugy-playing Eddie Haskell. He should scour the US for a truly dignified gift, something like a glass hen on a nest candy bowl, or a case of microwave fried pork rinds – you know, the kind of things set aside for special occasions – then he should present it to Mr. Brown along with a note that goes something like, “You caught me early on in the presidency. I wasn’t up and running yet. Hope this makes up for any oversight.”

As to the gift from the Queen – I’d say a new I pod with pictures of her on it is just fine. After all, that’s pretty much the same thing she gave him, isn’t it?

Gooseberry: Sugar and spice

Just more than nine years ago My Wonderful Wife and I faced the single most frightening prospect of our married life.

I can remember exactly where we were when the doctor told us those three words that struck terror into ourhearts and changed our lives forever.

It was January. We were in the hospital. It had snowed the night before and it was shaping up to be a quiet day. We knew, however, that something was up. They had just performed a series of tests on Holly. Her numbers looked good and by all accounts she was in the hospital to have a very routine procedure, but we could tell by the way the doctor was acting that we were about to go through something like nothing we had ever experienced before and that there was absolutely nothing we could have done that would have prepared us for what happened next.

"It's a girl."

And just like that, our peaceful, simple, quiet life was shattered.

Before Sweet Princess was born that cold wintery January day, we only had sons. First we had Son Number One, a caveman. Even now, at age 17, he grunts when he answers questions, wants the potatoes passed, or is expostulating on the finer points of regional economics. Then we had Son Number Two, or Che, as we have taken to calling him because of his selective socialtistic tendencies. Che was very different from Neaderthal. He not only speaks in full sentences, but he speaks in full paragraphs and complete discertations. He rambles ad nauseum on every thought that enters his mind. Once, when he was in second grade, his teacher gave him a test just to make him be quiet. She about passed out when she heard him pick up the paper and say, "Question number one..." We then had Son Number Three. A diabolically precocious child that loves to pull practical jokes, eat fish, play video games and fully expects to rule the world by the time he turns 15. He hates the nickname Chad, so of course that is what we are calling him right now.

The difference between boys and girls goes way beyond plumbing and the tendency of one group to be dirty, slobbering idiots while the other likes to wear pink. There are subtle emotional and relationship differences that make raising girls a most perilous enterprise indeed. For example: If I walk into the room and hand one of my sons a piece of candy and one of the other boys happens to see what I did, I will invariably be met with the question, "Why did you give that to him and not me?" I can answer back "Because I like him better," and Che, or Neanderthal, or Chad, will laugh at me and say, "No really, why did you give it to him and not me?"

If I were to say the same thing to one of my daughters it would be a disaster. Decades later I would still be apologizing and trying to make up to her. And no matter how many ponies, or dresses, or shoes, or hair dohickies I bought her I would still be that mean old man who ruined her entire self image and life.

Girls smell better than boys -- but they also scream a lot louder.

Boys can be destructive. They are like forces of nature. They blow into a room, rumble around the furniture, shake the rafters and break invaluable objects. Girls cause much more destruction, they just do it on a much more quiet way.

Boys are all about themselves, their stomachs, their entertainment, their hair, their latest video games, to the point of being distracted from any emotional or relationship ties to the conversation. Girls are all about themselves, their stomachs, their entertainment, and their hair and you had better not forget any emotional or relationship ties whatsoever.

Boys are happy if you give them food. Girls want you to hold their hands while they nibble on chocolate and tell you they don't like what you fixed them for dinner.

Boys want to be left alone. Girls want you to drop everything you are doing and rush to their sides and protect them from monsters 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

Yes, our lives were indelibly marked that day nine years ago when we found out child number four was a girl. Of course, after that stunning development we did the only thing we could to save us from what surely would have been a fate most dire -- we had another girl.

We had no choice.

The first one had us outnumbered. We had to have another one just to balance things out.

Gooseberry: My son the socialist

All of a sudden my right-wing conservative son has become a complete and total socialist.

And while he would scoff at the idea of state-owned farms, socialized medicine or or other hallmarks of communist nations, he still carries the baggage of being a proponant of redistribution of wealth.

What caused this sudden shift in political philosophy? When did he drink the Obama Cool-Aid and suddenly want those with abundance to give all they have to those without? It was the day his younger brother came home from a community service project with a huge bag filled with stale candy.

"It's not fair," I heard my son, whom I will now refer to as Che, say. "Dad. Make him share."

It didn't stop there. Soon all sorts of items were being discussed as puplic property (meaning they should now be his since one of his siblings had something he didn't).

"You took Chad to Boston Market!! Now you have to take me."

"The girls have to give us all their cupcakes because we want some too."

"Who ate all the cake? I only had five pieces."

You will notice most, if not all, of his socialist tendencies are toward food. He is a growing teenager and all he does now is eat, sleep and email girls on Facebook, but he is still acting as a socialist. How else did socialism start if not by someone feeling inadequate because someone else had more than they did, so they made rules and regulations to take from those who had plenty and give it to the government who squanders it all so no one has anything.

It reminds me of the discussion Che had with his social studies teacher around the time of the 2008 elections. They were discussing Obama resurrecting the old Hughie Long argument of a chicken in every pot.

"We are instituting a new rule in this school," the teacher said. "We don't think its fair some of you are getting A grades and others are just getting Cs. We are going to take the grades away from the A students and share them with the C students so everyone will get Bs."

"That's not fair," the students argued. "We worked hard for our grades. If they want A grades they have to do the work." (Ironically, since we live in the Boulder Valley School District in Colorado, many of the loudest protestors were all good little Democrats, not the hard core Republicans that usually make that argument.)

As I have discovered, in most cases true socialists (or liberals) are people interested most in lining their own nests (or stomaches) at the expense of other people's work. On the other hand, most conservatives are people who work hard for what they get and then work even harder to keep others from taking it away from them.

Personally, I am seeking a happy medium where I have enough to give to other without worrying if anyone else has any more than I do.

Che has a more direct approach.

"What's for dinner?"

Gooseberry: The art of yo

My number three son bought a new yo yo the other day.

He bought from a reputable on line yo yo dealer and had it shipped directly to our home where he waited for a whole weekend before the mailman finally dropped it off late Monday afternoon.

"It's broken," he told me.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"It won't come back."

"What do you mean, won't come back?"

"I throw it down and it just spins and doesn't come back."

"I thought you bought that kind special because it was a good sleeper."

"I know, but sometimes yo yos are nonresponsive. Mine is nonresponsive. Try it yourself."

So I tried it. I know a little about yo yos. I had a Duncan butterfly when I was kid, then a special yellow one later. I was pretty hot stuff. I could make it go down and it always returned.

I threw the new yo yo and ... nothing. It just sat there an spun.

I could have admitted defeat, or blamed the yo yo, but I remembered something My Wonderful Wife said a few weeks earlier when we were cleaning out the kids' toy room.

I was focused on picking up a bunch of legos and she was holding our daughters' hula hoop. I remember she put it around her waste, gave it a toss and then, nothing. The hula hoop did one and a half turns and fell to the ground.

"It's broken," she said.

My Number Two Son picked it up, put it around his hips and began to hula hoop like a Hawaiian dancer. "No it's not. You just have to know how to make it work," he said.

Remembering my wife, and her failure to hula hoop, I decided to check out a couple things about new yo yos and those that don't return.

It turns out, the biggest problem with a defective yo yo is the weak toss. My son has a very slik bearing yo yo that is designed to be a good sleeper. Before it can return, it has to have enough momentum to grab the string. Armed with this knowlege I attempted the yo yo again. It still didn't work. But I passed on the information to My Number Three Son and in about 15 minutes he was able to make the yo yo work.

Feeling accomplished I walked over to the hula hoop and gave it a twirl. Sure enough, it was still broken.

Gooseberry: Getting things right

I am finally becoming the kind of father I would like to be, or rather, that I started out being, but didn’t become because I got sidetracked by other things I thought were more important.

In all honesty, it was more a failure to properly address a conundrum than it was a total failing altogether. I have always loved my kids and done the best by them that I have known how. What I ran into, however, was a misplaced sense of what was best for my family.

Shoes are important. So is food, and school, and soccer, and scouting, and piano lessons and all those things that parents feel they need to make their children’s lives complete. These things require resources. Resources don’t grow on trees. Resources require a profession, which requires a job, which requires a certain commitment of time and effort or the job thing seems to go away.

It all started when I decided a good education would make life so much easier for my family. A few years of sacrifice followed by a lifetime of high hog livin’. But three years of going to school full-time, working three jobs and having highly active callings in church exacted its toll.

My Wonderful Wife and I had two children at the time, two boys who are now in the last couple years of living at home. They didn’t know they didn’t have things as well as other, more wealthy and established families. To them, life was great. One son even felt sorry for his classmates at school because they lived in such small houses and didn’t have a house as big as he did (he then drew a picture of our apartment building to drive home his point). I was driven, however, to be a good provider. After I graduated from law school I spent the typical 12 to 16 hours a day working on Capitol Hill. I would leave home in the morning when my kids were in their pajamas and then wouldn’t get home until after dinner when they were all ready for bed. Once, when my timing was right and I was able to eat dinner with the family and we had spaghetti, I wondered why the food didn’t taste right. That was when I realized I was used to only eating meals after they had been warmed up in the microwave.

Three kids later and a total of 9 years on the job I finally moved off the Hill and into corporate America. But I still didn’t get it right. I spent more than 80 percent of my time on the road. I thought I had to do it for my job and that my family would understand. They did, but it didn’t make things any better.

Finally I was forced to wake up and I stumbled across a great job that now allows me to spend more time at home. It has taken a year or two for me to unwind a little, but I am finally not only being home for dinner, but I am able to cook and help with the dishes, to yell at my kids when they get bad grades and to “encourage” them to do better. I am also able to go on campouts and bike rides and go cross country skiing.

I don’t know if my five children like having me around or not. Sometimes its hard to tell with teenagers, but I like being there to embarrass them and rub their noses in the dirt.

So in other words: when I started, I had these plans of being a great father, like the one I had growing up. I got sidetracked thinking being a great father meant being a good provider. Now I am beginning to realize that being a great father also means being available to smack down a six foot plus teenager because he thought turning in his assignments late was a fine thing to do.

Gooseberry on Tortious Behavior

I woke up this morning at 5 am to do two things:

1. Buy Krispy Kreme donuts for all of the lobbyists attending the 2009 Wyoming Legislature; and

2. Attend a hearing on a bill that would make job site owners strictly liable for any accident caused by a contractor's employee.

The donuts were good (even though I didn't eat any, they were still warm when I delivered them in Cheyenne).

The hearing was a mess. The attorney speaking in favor of the bill, who we will call Rectum to protect the innnocent, was a prevaricator and general liar. When asked if the bill would apply to anyone but the oil and gas industry he said, "No. It will only apply to oil and gas, and then only to wrongful death situations."

I know how to write bills. If you want a bill that only applies to one class of people you: a.) place the statute in a section of law that only applies to that class of people, or you b.) say directly in the bill "it only applies to this specific class of people." Rectum's bill was written to be inserted in the general tort section of the Wyoming statutes and makes no mention of oil and gas or wrongful deaths.

Then Rectum went on to say the bill only codified existing Wyoming tort law. Unfortunately for Rectum, this explanation stinks just as bad as his previous explanation of to whom the bill may be applied.

Under current law, a job site owner is only liable for injuries 1.) when he acts in such a way as to take over the responsibilities for directing the work from the contractor, thereby standing in the place of the contractor; or 2.) when he fails to perform on a duty of care created by some statute, contract, lease, regulation, etc.

The bill drafted by Rectum creates a "nondelegable duty" that arises, not from a failure to perform on the duty of care, but from the underlying statute, contract, lease, regulation, etc. In this instance, nondelegable duty means a "vicarious liability," or in other words, it creates a strict liability for another person's actions (Strict liabiltiy means there is no finding of fault, or duty. Fault is assumed and created by the statute itself). So -- the new statute would mean anyone who hires a contractor and signs a contract would, without doing anything themselves, be at fault without any review for a total 100 percent cost of any injuries.

Rectum says the goal of the bill is to make things safer. Unfortunately, the way the bill is written it makes companies do things to absolve themselves of any duty of care. They no longer will do things that require safety from their contractors. It, therefore, shift sthe burden of responsibility for safety from the contractor (the person in the best position to make sure a work place is safe) to the job site owner and then incentivizes the job site owner to drop all contractors like a hot potato.

What job site owner would want to hire a contractor to do anything if it meant taking on that kind of liability? There is no existing insurance to cover that kind of liability.

So the bill, instead of making people safer, makes job site owners do things like not sign contracts, which means no safety clauses and no more contractors.

One wonders, therefore, why Rectum was making such a big stink.

Gooseberry on Being Human

I ran smack dab face-first into my own mortality today. I wish I could say it came from a life threatening event, or a sudden shock of reality by finding a horrid age spot on my body, but I am not that deep.

For one thing, I’ve known for some time now my beard is getting gray. My body went lumpy and old about the time I turned 25. I don’t like near death experiences so I take great pains to avoid them, and my children, Lord love them, make me feel old every day so that is a pressure I am getting used to (even the fact that my oldest son will turn 17 on January 30 doesn’t really phase me).

I hate to say it, but my mortality was revealed through the fact that I still do stupid, everyday things that I should have out grown years ago. I caught myself being human and couldn’t help but wonder, am I going to die like this? Am I going to work and work at being a better person, then turn around and revert back to junior high just as they turn the ventilator off just after my body has outlived all its warranties?

My darling wife is very much aware of my humanity. She patiently points out some of the rough edges that she would rather stop explaining to her friends. “He comes from Wyoming. They do things differently there,” I’ll hear her say. “Where he comes from, that sort of thing is normal. They just have different standards than the ones we had in my family.”

Once, when we were in church I tried to explain that, although Mormons have high standards, we still act human. “We just don’t swear when we yell at our kids,” I said.

My wife leaned over and gave me THE LOOK.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Let me change that. We don’t swear at our kids most of the time.”

I’d rather not wallow in my sins right now, so suffice it to say that my human side is stupid, and petty and probably more embarrassing than criminal. But the important thing is that I keep trying. I haven’t given up yet. My tactics are not the best, if they were any good I probably would have been translated by now, but I don’t think there is any fear of that happening any time soon.

The most discouraging part of my foibleishness is that I waste so much time and energy kicking myself for not being as good as I should be that I wonder how I ever get anything done at all. If I spent as much time working on my writing or playing my saxophone as I do on repenting, I would have been a bestselling author of books about how to play the saxophone by now.

Once again, there is hope. There is a chance that all those two-by-fours that I get smacked with will knock off enough rough edges that someday I won’t be an embarrassment to my wife. My kids, they will always be embarrassed no matter what I do.

Gooseberry: Don't look a gift Democrat in the Mouth

I watched the inauguration with much interest last week.

I wasn't going to do it, but my conference call (on a bill about tax audits and refund requirments) was cancelled. I found myself wandering down to the break room at my office and stood with a floor full of fellow employees and watched history in the making.

All I can say is it looked a lot like history repeating.

What was most interesting about the television channel we were tuned to is that it was one of those 24 hour business channels where the stock ticker was running constantly during the show. Every single stock was plummetting during the swearing in and speach of now President Obama.

There were many impressive moments. I believe he really means it when he says he wants to help other nations. He had a hard sell on being worried about global warming, especially when everyone around him was bundled up against the freezing weather (incidentally, Pew just released a poll stating that global warming is at the bottom of the list of issues anyone, anywhere cares about). The one thing that scared me, however, was when he said something to the effect of "Times are hard and we are going to have to grow up and make tough choices."

When a Republican breathes those words that usually means we are going to increase military spending and the schools will have to pander on the streets to buy books. When a Democrat says that (and the last time I checked O-baaa-ma was a Democrat) he means, "Somebody is going to have to pay a lot more in taxes. And guess what, it ain't going to be me."

In case you haven't figured it out, that was O-baaa-ma speak for REDISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH.

Gooseberry on Scout Ski Day

Today I got up early, filled the car with gas, and drove five young men to Copper Mountain to enjoy a freakingly cold day skiing. It will be my only day of skiing this year.

So how did everything go? Much better than this year's Turkey Bowl. While I am still in pain, I can function.

The painful part has nothing to do with being old, and out of shape, and overweight ... well maybe the overweight part is a contributing factor.

None of my sons had ever skied before last year. Last year I took them out on the slopes and showed them how to walk up the hill, do the snowplow and fall down then stand up again without dieing. We were able to go on several runs before time ran out and we all went to the lodge to eat chili out of very small bowls.

This year we started with many great prospects. My number two son had two friends along and they were going to spend the day together. I was going to spend my time with my number three son (an 11-year-old), and my number one son was going to do his own thing.

On our first run down the bunny slopes we learned that number one son's ski boots were causing a "stress fracture" on his foot. (His foot only hurt, however, when he was skiing. Not when he had the boots on and was walking, but only when he skied.) He went to the lodge to wait for the rest of us.

Number three son did one more run then decided the sub zero weather was too much for him. He went to the lodge to hang out with son number one.

Number two son was having fun, but one of his friends "got hypothermia and passed out from the cold." (He actually had none of the symptoms of hypothermia, but hypothermia is much more dramatic than saying, "I got cold and whimped out.") I met them in the lodge as well, but not before my feet slipped out from under me on the resort bus and I landed square on my not so square keister. I now have a bum rear. It only hurts when I stand, sit or lie down, however. I think I will live.

I don't know if I bruised it, and no one has accepted my request to check it out for me.

Finally, after another round of small chili bowls at the lodge, I took number two son and his friends back to the slopes for a couple more runs. I ended up hanging back watching my boy ski carefully down the hill. I think he is finally getting the hang of it.

That made the sore bottom worth the whole trip.

Gooseberry on Gooseberries

Back in the days before television, folks had to resort to other means of entertainment. Most of the activities, like spitting, whittling, quilting bees and country dances, required direct personal interaction. This meant people would get close together, which, if you think about it, is probably why people invented television in the first place, because not only did people spend a lot time entertaining themselves in each others' company, but they also didn't bathe a lot.

Which begs the question, how did our greatgrandparents get together in the first place? Did they like the way they each other smelled? Did they not even notice? Were there other things that attracted themselves to each other, things like neat greasy hair dos? Extra hairy arms, or even super snazzy teeth problems?

Regardless of the obstacles, we know that the urge to populate the planet was stronger still and they found their way to become our ancestors.

What does this have to do with Gooseberries?

Back at the turn of the century in the fine state of Kentucky a family with three young ladies drove into the yard of a family with three young men. The family of girls were moving into the neighborhood and, for a reason lost in the mists of time, they drove into the Wirtham family yard. As the girls looked out and saw the young men, each of the girls in turn staked their claim on one of the young men.

"I get that one," one of the girls said pointing to one of the brothers.

"I get that one," her said, pointing to another brother.

"And I get that one," the last sister said pointing to the last brother.

And thus did my greatgrandmother and her sisters find their men.

Why did great-grandma pick great-grandpa? He was the one with a mustache, of course. The irony of the situation is that Great-grandpa's name was Eureka and everyone called him Reke.

We must ask the question once again, what does this have to do with Gooseberries?

A few years later the transcontinenetal railroad was being built across the state of Wyoming. Reke took a job as a muleskinner and helped build the railroad. While he was working he wrote the family back home and had them move out to the new state so they could homestead. They settled in the Big Horn Basin, an agricultural region located in the northwest corner of the state. The specific district in which they settled is, to this day, called the Gooseberry District.

Gooseberry: Long Live the Underwear Fairy

My wonderful wife announced she was officially changing the name of the underwear fairy.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"You know how your daughter always goes up to complete strangers and tells them we leave candy for the underwear fairy?" she replied.

"Yeah, so?" I said.

"No one knows what the underwear fairy is, so I have to spend five minutes explaining it to them so they can stop looking at me like I was sick or something."

"What do you propose calling her?"

"The sock fairy."

At this point my other children chimed in with their opinions. But before I get into their comments, I think it is important to explain exactly what the underwear fairy isn't.

The underwear fairy is not a mythical creature that wanders around leaving presents in peoples' underwear. Nor is it a being that goes around only in its underwear, or one who picks up underwear left under someone else's pillow. The underwear fairy is not a sick and twisted individual in any way. In fact, the underwear fairy is quite helpful.

You know how you use up all your underwear and put into the wash then suddenly one day it all miraculously appears back in your drawer? How exactly do you think it gets there? The underwear fairy, of course.

In an effort to thank the underwear fairy for all she does, I have taken to leaving candy in my drawer specifically for her use and enjoyment.

"What? Change the name of the underwear fairy?" My oldest son, a terrific young man of great poise and stature, summed it up best. "We wouldn't call the tooth fairy the tongue fairy. That just wouldn't be right."

My second son, also a terrific young man, but one who tends to go off on tangents from time to time, put in his two-cents. "The only thing worse than the taste of blood in your mouth is the taste of your own blood in your mouth."

My wonderful wife and I are still trying to figure that one out.

Gooseberry on Nixon v Bush

The incredible political mind of Hollywood producer and director Ron Howard has adroitly drawn the connection between the secretive power abuses of Richard Nixon and the bumbling defensive rearguard actions against terrorism of George Bush.

Christening the past eight years as an "imperial presidency" Howard and his associates have climbed onto the Hollywood elite bandwagon where they: 1. assume because they are involved in entertainment that they know anything about real life, and 2. assume the rest of us actually care what they think.

Ironically, there are two professions in the United States that survive solely on the behest, acceptance and blessing of the unwashed masses, namely, politicians and celebrities. Both exist because the rest of us allow them to. And yet too often, once an individual rises to the pinnacle of recognition, they turn on those of us who got them there and consider themselves above anything common (the irony is that there is nothing so common as things popular to the populace, which by their very definitions are celebrities and politicians). They think we are stupid and tacky, but unlike Groucho Marx who honestly refused to be a member of any club that would have him as a member, today's celebrity forgets that we, the stupid and tacky, picked them to be a celebrity.

So how do we distinguish Nixon from Bush? Once again we look to the popular press. Nixon's imperical presidency was created through a group communications process called group think, which is defined as "a pattern of thought characterized by self-deception, forced manufacture of consent, and conformity to group values and ethics." (Merriam Webster) Nixon created a presidential atmosphere where there was no scrutiny, no argument and no opposing opinions. In short, he did everything in the dead of night with a posse of zombies who thought Nixon could do no wrong.

Bush, on the other hand, has not had a moment of peace from critical review since even before he took office (arguably, no other president has suffered from the same scrutiny as has Bush 43). Nothing Bush has done in the name of national security was done in a spirit of self-deception. When he made his first state of the union address after September 11, 2001, he clearly outlined that the road ahead would be hard, and long, and that it would involve actions and reactions that many would not agree with. He also prophetically stated that he would be abandoned by most of the nation before his task was completed. In other words, he has done what he has done knowing full well it would not always be right, but it would be done anyway to keep America safe.

To summarize: Bush is not Nixon. Obama is not the Messiah. Bill Clinton is not Satan. And Ron Howard is not an intelligent political type.

Gooseberry’s Rules on Politics #7

Never write a perfect bill.

“When I started, I wasn't even a bill, I was just an idea. Some folks back home decided they wanted a law passed, so they called their local Congressman and he said, "You're right, there oughta be a law." Then he sat down and wrote me out and introduced me to Congress. And I became a bill…”
--Schoolhouse Rock “I’m Just a Bill”

Never write the perfect bill. If you do, I can guarantee someone will muck it about and fiddle with it until it resembles something no one can live with. Most of the time they do it just to smear their fingerprints on it.

Leave something for the committee to fix.

Require someone to do something outrageous they never would be able to do under normal constitutional circumstances. Require direct federal payments, or include a class of people that should not have even been considered -- someone like old people. Push the envelope, and then make it obvious you are willing to negotiate and let the committee make its counter proposal.

Chances are the bill will still not be perfect, but it will be something they will be willing to support. And it’s all really about getting the committee to support your bill because bills that don't have committee support go no where at all.

If you are not working with the committee, or if they direct you to a specific member’s office as in “we won’t move on that subject unless we get the support of Congressman X,” then do whatever you can to get Congressman X to come to the table and discuss the bill, even if he directly opposes it.

Once you get him to the table, give him the opportunity to make changes, any changes. Preferably lots and lots of changes. In fact, you want him to make so many changes and to invest so much time in the issue that he assumes personal responsibility for its very existence. With enough blood, sweat and tears invested in the process he will feel obligated to not only support the bill, but he will even be willing to lie down in front of a bus to get the committee to take the bill up for consideration.

Fortunately for you, the committee will be looking at an imperfect bill (that the Congressman X messed up greatly). Here you can be a great help to the committee by giving them an alternative draft (once again with an obvious fault that the committee can “fix” on its own) which the committee will undoubtedly adopt as its own personal proposal (make sure none of your fingerprints are on this particular draft). You then help Congressman X see the value of working with the committee draft in developing a “compromise” solution, one that will allow him to get a fantastic win on an issue in which he has already invested a boatload of time and effort . At this point, he won't even care what the final bill looks like, he will only want to demonstrate leadership on the issue.

Gooseberry on the cost of climate change

It’s official, global warming is finally becoming enough of a pain in right rear pocket that most people don’t consider it worth the predicted personal sacrifice.

An international poll, conducted by a conglomeration of environmental groups and the financial institution HSBC, has determined the majority of people polled do not want to make any personal sacrifice to stem the tide of slightly warmer weather in subarctic regions of the world. The poll was conducted in 11 countries, including: the United States, Canada, Australia, Brazil, China, France, Germany, India, Malaysia, Mexico and the United Kingdom. Only 47 percent of people polled said they were prepared to make personal lifestyle changes to reduce carbon emissions, which is an 11 point drop from last year when 58 percent said they were prepared to make the switch to a cleaner but much more expensive lifestyle (I’m willing to bet very few of the 58 percent considered giving up their Ipods or cappuccino machines when they considered exactly what a lifestyle change would mean).

Of course, when asked, the majority, or 55 percent, still felt the government should do something like increase the cost of energy by investing in unreliable renewable energy resources such as wind, solar or wave power (Which makes sense when you realize most people polled believe little fairies magically create all of the government’s money in little solar powered factories where they eat only organic bean curds and meditate twice-daily to increase the world’s consciousness to the plight of the inability of gay seals and polar bears to get married because they are trapped in oppressive regimes in the Tibetan rainforests).

So what has caused such a dramatic change in just one year? Could it be more people are aware of the fact that glaciers are growing, we have more polar bears than ever, or that the same people who predicted the dramatic effects of climate change are same ones who said September 2008 was the warmest September in recorded history when in fact most of the US was reporting record cold? (They had actually goofed and mixed in August temperatures for a huge part of their sample, a mistake that apparently is not uncommon for NASA’s crack climate change team).

Nope. But give people leading marks for consistency. Just as the facts had little to do with the groundswell of support for climate change policies, they have also had little to do with the shift back toward less personal commitment. The real reason so many people aren’t interested in climate change is simple -- $4 a gallon gasoline.

Finally, the majority of the people have woken up to realize that the only way climate change policy will ever be implemented is on the backs of the consumer.

Gooseberry on Presidential Flavors

If presidencies could be assigned an ice cream flavor, Reagan would be pralines and cream. He brought us a rich, creamy presidency with a nice hint of sophistication. Other presidents don’t come off as well.

Carter, for better or worse, would be tutti fruiti. Tutti fruiti is a pretentious, micromanaged flavor that leaves a nasty after taste.

Bush 41, the older, more prudent Bush, is tin roof sundae – mainly because of the nuts.

Bush 43 needs a tasty, but misunderstood flavor. Something like chocolate chip cookie dough. Is it a cookie, or is it ice cream? Who knows? Who cares? The Democrats will blame him for everything anyway.

Nixon is pistachio, a flavor too-smart by halves, and one that thinks it can get away with anything.

Washington wouldn’t be an ice cream. He would be a pie, cherry pie, of course. Lincoln would be hot fudge cake. Not much to look at but very rich in flavor.

One would think Obama would be a nice chocolate or mocha almond fudge, but that would be too obvious and would pander to things that don’t really matter. Presidential flavors are more about policy and the way they do things than who their parents were. For that reason Obama would be the remarkably popular but intellectually bland vanilla. So far, in his political life, he has stood for everything and yet delivered nothing. We look for more of the same in the future.

Gooseberry on King Obama

The rain may never fall till after sundown.
By eight, the morning fog must disappear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot.
-- Alan Jay Lerner, Camelot

I hate to burst anyone's bubble, but the impending Obama Administration can hardly conjure the image of King Arthur or any of the roundtable knights. For one thing, the glamour, the sparkle and the innocence of the JFK administration is gone, done, caput.

In its place is a partisan sqabble manned by people like Barbara Boxer, Dick Durban and Chuck Schumer. Even Shakespeare couldn't have dreamt up a more convoluted coven.

"By the pricking of my thumb something hardly worth mentioning comes, but we'll muck it about enough to make it look horrible, when in fact it is simply good government."

"I'll get you my pretties and your moderately priced energy plans too."

"I'm going to kill you, George Bush. I'm going to destroy you. After tonight, no one will ever again question my power. After tonight if they speak of you, they'll only speak of how you begged for death. And how I being a merciful Lord... obliged."

No round tables here. Maybe a few pentagrams or even a torure rack. If they need something round, maybe they could use a cauldron. Cauldrons are round.

And while President-elect Obama is not quite cut from the same cloth as the Senate Snipers, he and his wife also are not cut from the same cloth as JFK or Jackie, either. But he is in effect the legal heir to one of the biggest kingdoms the world has ever seen. What kind of king will he be?

Let's see: He is all image. A bit stiff (although nothing like Al Gore). He has a friendly face. And has a plan to distribute things to everyone, kind of like that King guy on the burger commercials.

That's it! He's not Camelot, but he his the BK dude. (If you say BK really fast it kind of sounds like Barak.)

He's even kind of creepy, like the BK dude. (Can you imagine him standing outside your window, handing you a sandwitch, staring at you in that plastic grin while hundreds of birds poop all over?)

I'll even bet that within the first year of his term he will deliver the entire country one big whopper.

Gooseberry getting over it

It is time to confront one of the most important issues of our time.

I know what you are thinking, "surely he is not going to go there?"

To be honest, it is not the sort of thing one likes to think about, or talk about, but ignoring it will not make it go away and letting this sort of thing fester just leaves a heap of oozing puss.

I am of course talking about the extreme use of the word "over" in the English language.

Writers make this mistake all the time.

"Over," just like the word up, is a preposition. It denotes location, a place, a position. When used as a descriptor for increased amounts, however, it often leaves one wondering "how'd they do that hover thing anyway?"

Example: The bill was over four dollars.

Question: Did the author mean someone slid four dollars under the bill, or did the bill total more than four?

Here's a hint on how to avoid this ambiguous situation. Whenever you find yourself using the word "over" and you really meant "more than," please, for my sake, remove "over" and insert "more than" in its place. It will clean up your meaning and will make me feel much betterer about the situation.

This is Gooseberry keeping things real and signing off. Over.

Gooseberry on HD 22

With all the close races around the nation it is important that we don't forget the little guys. In Wyoming's House District 22 there is a run off election scheduled for November 25 between Democrat Jim Roscoe of Wilson and Republican Charles Stough of Pinedale. In the first go round, Roscoe won by four votes. It turns out, however, 11 voters got confused and voted where they shouldn't have. But only in Lincoln County. That means the voters in HD 22 that live in Sublette or Teton Counties will not have to worry about showing up at the polls, again.

Unless anyone gets too confused, I would like to point out that Lincoln County, Wyoming is not anything like Florida. For one thing, you'd be hard pressed to find any retirees in Lincoln County running around in shorts this time of year.

Gooseberry on the next generation

One of my terrific children decided he would be funny by imitating me the other day. He put on one of my coats (which fit him frighteningly well) then he put my bluetooth headset in his ear and commenced to march around making profound statements like, "I'm young and hip. Although, the only time I should ever use the word hip is when I talk about my latest replacement," or the ever famous, "I may not always be bigger than you, but I'm meaner and better looking." The one that got me, however, was when he grabbed a glass of water and sat down on couch only to proclaim, "This place is a mess. Steven, clean it up."

The most eerie part of the whole scene was the striking similarity to what had happened 25 years earlier, when I was 15 and tormented my own father with a similar show.

I am proud of my kids. They do many wonderful things that totally amaze me. Where did they get it from? Not me, I work too hard and am not at home as much as I should be. Not from my wife. She is the sweetest person I ever met and would never do anything that would be considered improper or juvenile. I hate to say it, but no matter how much you try to control their lives, your children will become their own people. It's almost as if they come to this earth with their own unique personalities already programmed in...

On election day this same son wore a Blackwater hat to school and a t-shirt that proudly proclaimed to all the world that he was a Proud Republican. He is also known for his tenacious debate tactics which he is willing to engage at any time, at any place, on any subject.

Once again, I can't for the life of me figure out where he gets it from.

Gooseberry on Veterans Day

Today I sat in on a meeting filled with political types who were meeting for the first time since the election just one week ago (was it really just one week ago? It seems almost like a lifetime). The room was quiet.

"Why is everyone so glum?" somebody asked.

"It's veteran's day," I said.

"Isn't Memorial Day the somber day? Aren't we supposed to be happy and jump around and cheer today?"

"I don't know," I replied. "My dad used to always tell be to be quiet and stop jumping around all the time and he was a veteran."

I have only one thought about veterans day -- my father was the greatest man I ever knew. He served as a forward observer for mortar fire during the Korean War. In his memory I honor and respect any person who has ever worn a uniform in defense of my freedom.