In a direct response to the loss of her poll leads in the Iowa caucuses and the New Hampshire primary to the Sanders campaign, Hilary Clinton today made a surprise announcement in a crowded press conference.
"For too long, professional politicians like Senator Sanders have taken contradictory positions on some of our most basic entitlements in the Bill of Rights. That is stopping today.
"In the spirit of bipartisanship and reaching across the aisle to build real solutions for real problems suffered by real people, I am today announcing a major initiative to register and license all news reporters.
"Some of America's most creative ideas come from citizen politicians (such as myself). State Representative Mike Pitts of South Carolina (one of the patriotic states where this Democratic nomination will be decided, rather than by the elites of Iowa and New Hampshire) has proposed a fascinating idea to resolve the problem of irresponsible journalism.
"His proposal would require journalists in South Carolina to apply for registration on a "responsible journalist registry." The South Carolina Secretary of State's office would operate the registry which would be funded by fees from the journalists. Failing to register or acting irresponsibly would incur fines and criminal penalties.
"We have already seen how an irresponsible press can distort democracy. The only people who believe our campaign could possibly lose in Iowa or New Hampshire are the plutocrats of the press who spread lies about polling data and stampede good American citizens to act unpatriotically when they cast their ballots.
"Well, someone has to put an end to this. And, if I am elected president, that is exactly what I intend to do.
"When I am president, we will establish a National American Responsible Correspondents (NARC) registry to be administered jointly by the Central Intelligence Agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the National Security Council. It will have several elements -- that should sound familiar to you from other of my policy positions.
"The registry will make all journalists subject to background checks. There will be no writers' conference loopholes. Anyone who puts opinion to paper, will be required to have a background check -- and to be included on the registry. The registry will be open for inspection by all law enforcement officials with an eye to preventing dangerous people from wielding their irresponsible opinions.
"We have learned in other areas designed to prevent injury to the public that a slow background check by the government should not reward potentially dangerous people. If the government does not timely complete a background check, the journalist will be prevented from reporting. Putting the blame for irresponsible journalism on government inaction is simply blaming the victim.
"The registry must be universal. 'Journlaist' will be defined broadly, by executive order, to include anyone who offers an opinion -- whether in print or orally. The shocking ruse of using Facebook to circulate false stories is coming to an end.
"All statutes, regulations, and Supreme Court decisions that place restrictions on libel suits merely because the person defamed is a public official will be ignored. Just because someone has a family with dicey personal problems does not give the public the right to air dirty linen.
"And here is where the rubber hits the road. If anyone files an irresponsible story or fails to resister, the offender will be subject to a fine of $10,000 and a term of imprisonment in a journalist reeducation camp for up to 69 years -- for each violation or contemplated violation.
"Some of you may wonder if this program somehow violates the First Amendment. Before you journalists start whining -- and remember, 'journalist' will have a very broad definition -- you might want to look at my proposals on gun control. If they do not violate the Second Amendment, then this proposal does not violate the First Amendment.
"I am not going to take any questions. I suggest that the reporters in the audience should sit quietly in their chairs and consider what they have done to bring all of this down on all of our heads.
"On to Sioux City."
The morning email brought this gem to me. From Jack Brock, a friend of several bloggers. He thought I might see a resemblance.
I confess I do like the sentiment. A little bit of research would probably disclose that "Say something clever, but devastating" is a family motto somewhere back in the foggy swamps of time.
The fact that I find the piece funny says a lot about me, I suspect. And it simply underlines why, even though I find Downton Abbey to be boring, I continue to watch it simply to catch one of Maggie Smith's bon mots.
I am not surprised that I do not care for Downton Abbey. After all, it is nothing more than a soap opera tarted up with period costumes. Admittedly, the stories are a bit wittier than the drivel that makes up what passes for writing on As the World Turns or any of its American cousin soaps.
That is why I have great doubts about trying to learn Spanish by watching Mexican soap operas. But the method comes highly recommended by at least two fellow bloggers -- and I respect both of their opinions in most matters.
The only question is where I will watch them. My television set in the library is used solely as a movie machine. And I have no interest in bringing cable television into the house. I went cold turkey on it decades ago.
But Mexico offers some solutions. Almost every restaurant in town features a television blaring some program or other. Soccer. The news. But, most often, a telenovela.
I should just pick a restaurant that serves up soaps with its sopa, and become a regular customer.
And, if I apply myself, I will soon have a flock of clever and devastating comments dancing around in y head -- all of them in Spanish.
David Sedaris somewhere noted that he never attends any language class unless at least one other student has fewer language skills than he has.
I know what he means. If you are going to voluntarily put yourself in the chicken coop, there is no sense in letting yourself be the bird for which "henpecked" was coined.
Back in August, I decided to get serious about learning Spanish. And I have been rather diligent in my daily studies. Between the Pimsleur Method materials and the amnesia-inducing DuoLingo, I have expanded my understanding of the language spoken around me every day -- especially verbs.
The problem is that I have an understanding of academic Spanish; I have next to no skill in understanding what my neighbors say.
That sounds contradictory, but it isn't. Because of my background in high school Latin, I can read and translate written basic Spanish. The courses I have taken on my own at home the last five months have added to my vocabulary arsenal.
My friends Ed and Roxanne, who speak very good Spanish, have urged me to join one of the local language classes to improve both my vocabulary and my listening skills. On Friday they even introduced to one of their teachers.
So, I signed up. Rather, I just showed up. "Signing up" would be far too formal for our beach-minded crowd.
The Beginner Spanish course meets for one hour each day from Monday through Thursday. Today was my baptism by fire.
The teacher took a rather orthodox path. After asking us to introduce ourselves to the class, she listed Spanish words on the board. Most were review words for people who have been taking the classes; some were new. (The words that is, not the returning students. Well, other than me.)
My home schooling put me in good stead for translating the vocabulary list. I knew most of them.
Then I hit the wall. We were to relate a story based on pictographs the teacher had distributed -- by responding to questions the teacher posed.
And I re-discovered the reason I was in the class. The teacher, of course, asked her questions in Spanish. I could not understand most of what she was saying.
I knew of my limitation. For some reason, my ear hears different consonants than the speaker has actually spoken. "D"s and "t"s are readily interchanged. Unless I see the word in writing, I am at sea.
An additional problem is that three children are attending the course. A very precocious boy shouted out answers (and usually correct ones) before I had time to process the question. The teacher was then off on the next question before I had really grasped what was asked or answered.
The most annoying thing about the boy is that he is a dead ringer for me at the same age. That thought alone was disconcerting. Mirrors are not kind devices.
My experience in the past has been that four students learning together is about the optimum size -- for me. Any larger than that and the hens start looking for stasis in the pecking order.
I considered not returning for tomorrow's class. After all, I would be lying if I said I had learned anything. If I do not have space to understand the teacher's question, I will never learn how to listen in Spanish. And if I cannot listen in Spanish, I certainly will never learn to speak Spanish.
Tomorrow I will give it another go. After all, it is only $50 (Mx) a day. That is $2.69 in good old strong US dollars.
I can put up with a lot of irritation for that type of chump change.
Cathie commented on Thursday's garbage essay that a regular member of the Mexpatriate cast was mentioned in the post, but only photographs of trash appeared -- and none of Barco.
It was a point well-taken. I have attempted to avoid turning these pages into a baby book for my little dog guy. However, I cannot avoid mentioning him now and then. After all, he easily eats up most of my day -- along with anything else he can get his mouth around.
But a couple of photographs are in order. In the month he has lived in the house with no name, he has been sprouting from a puppy into a dog.
I took him to the veterinarian this weekend for a vaccination. In two weeks he has gained more than two kilograms -- almost five pounds. He is now 13 kilograms. He is pushing 30 pounds. With ever-lengthening legs.
And he puts that weight to good advantage when he goes crackers each morning and evening. That mouth of his could find good service in a sawmill. My arms bear proof. I told him he needs to stop biting me or I will humiliate both of us by saying I own a cat.
There is a sports park two blocks from the house. We visit it three times a day. I was under the impression we visited there to take care of nature's call.
Barco thinks nature's call is hunting down every sentient being smaller than a golden retriever puppy and reducing it to lunch. That includes rodents that have long ago made their way to the hereafter.
And we have found a great new diversion -- the beach. The sand and surf turn Barco into Mr Crazy Dog, but Mr. Crazy Dog with charm.
So, there you have it. A few photographs. A bit of commentary.
That will hold us all for a bit.
Cats are an environmental disaster.
This is not my usual swipe at Lord Lloyd-Webber's musical productions -- even though they are easy targets. This time it is the four-legged variety. Feral cats.
The current edition of The Economist features a story about what can go wrong wrong when domesticated cats (if there is such a thing) revert to their basic nature as predators in the wild.
Cats are not native to Australia. The accepted story is they came as hitchhikers on early ships and thrived without competition on the Australian continent. "Thrived" does not really capture the sense of how well the cats did. The estimate of their numbers range between 4 and 20 million, with some of them weighing as much as 30 pounds. 30 pounds! (That punctuation mark is entirely for the amusement of Felipe.)
Anyone who has owned a cat knows they are efficient killing machines. Of the 29 Australian species that have gone extinct since Britain started dumping criminals in Australia two centuries ago (Yes. Yes. I know. They stopped doing that long ago. They now put them in the House of Lords.), 27 have been Auschwitzed by feral cats.
The Australians have a common sense approach to life. Just look at their immigration policy. To cut back on the killer cat population, they are fencing ten huge reserves for endangered species, and hiring aborigine women to hunt and kill feral cats in the sanctuaries. Jobs for minority women while protecting wildlife.
I thought of the article yesterday while reading a very heated discussion on our local message board about feral cats in our little "paradise" by the sea. One post caught my eye.
The author fell in the anti-feral cat camp, but his piece was passionately well-reasoned. What caught my attention, though, was this:
I don't have rat or mice problems and I'll tell you why ... it has
nothing to do with wild cats. The residents of my street are vigilant
about keeping it clean. Nobody uses 5 gallon paint buckets as garbage
bins, which are left out exposed on the street every day. All of us have
real actual closable garbage cans, which we lock up until the morning
of trash pick up.
Well, that is not my neighborhood. I have a garbage can that I put out twice a week after Dora cleans the house. The garbage men toss the contents into their truck, and I take the can back into the utility area. That has worked perfectly for me during the past sixteen months.
My neighbors do not have garbage cans. Instead, everyone else on my street bags up their garbage in flimsy plastic shopping bags and places them in either a five-gallon paint bucket or in plastic crates on our street corners. All at the perfect height for a dog buffet.
And that is exactly what happens. During the night, the local dogs forage through the garbage tearing open the plastic bags. In the morning, the corners look as if a garbage truck collided with a plastic bag delivery van.
I have learned to live with the fact that garbage is as frequent in the street as sand. Or I had. Barco has changed my perspective.
He loves running in the field teasing what their Mexican owner calls "birria on the hoof." He may have a pedigree, but Barco is still a dog. His nose rules his world. And anything vaguely smelling of food goes into his mouth.
There are two problems. The first is his propensity to swallow small plastic bags. Usually, they work their way out the other end -- leaving his poop handily-wrapped in plastic. But, not always. The other morning I heard him chewing something on my bed. It was a plastic bag he had regurgitated.
The second problem is a bit more worrisome. Some rather nasty stuff ends up in our garbage. And there are some mean-spirited people who think it is their duty to poison street dogs. In the process, pets sometimes eat the same poison. And die just as painfully as their Mexican street cousins.
So, we are now a leashed family. Whenever he leaves the front door, Barco is leathered to my right hand.
He hated the leash when we started our lead training. But he likes his walks. The first day out, he got the hang of it. He is now a heeling pro.
I also discovered a sports park two blocks from our house where I can let him run. But carefully. Because this is Mexico, there are plastic bags strewn across the soccer fields and basketball courts. And it is a perfect site for poisoners to ply their trade.
Those measures mitigate Barco's chances of treating these garbage treasures as the to-go window at Burger King. But it does not solve the garbage on my street corner.
Later today, I am going to pull out a couple of large garbage bags. I will then police the field and the street corners picking up other people's garbage. Rather than despair, I will simply act.
The last time I did that, two neighbor women, who live in the small apartment complex next to my house, stood and glowered at me while I picked up their trash. When I tried to engage them in conversation, they turned around and left.
I have no idea what that was all about -- even though I can guess. As I have been told repeatedly in Mexico, "neighbor" is merely a description of place, not relationship. I may wish it was otherwise, but I can live with it.
And I will continue to pick up the garbage. After all, it is no longer an activity motivated solely by altruism.
Today it was time to pay the piper. Foot the bill. Pony up the cash.
There is a cost for living in a civilized community. And I do not mean the usual utility and maintenance bills for my house.
Our public infrastructure in Barra de Navidad is not much. But the little we have needs pesos to keep it running.
Today was the day I settled with the local government for the coming year. Car registration. Property tax. Sewer and water. A list that would be familiar to any northerner -- but with some twists.
We pay our car registrations annually here. On the same month (January). In person at a very small office in our county seat of Cihuatlán.
The process looks far more daunting than it is. My friend Lou and I decided to make a joint trip because he needed to stop at two of the places I had on my list. When we arrived at the registration office, there were probably a dozen or so people in line in front of us.
Registration renewals were all in one line. I learned last year that the clerk processing renewals has developed a very efficient method of scanning a bar code from last year's receipt into his computer. That triggers the printer to add the necessary information on this year's decal. While the decal is printing, he prints out a receipt, takes the payment, hands over the decal, and the customer is out the door.
Once I got to the window, he processed my request in what seemed to be less than a minute. And the cost? $458 (Mx) -- $25.20 (US) -- for one year. Not a bargain in some states. But owning a car in Mexico is a relatively expensive proposition.
Our next stop was the county building to pay my property taxes. Paying property taxes in Oregon was always one of the most painful and expensive days of the year. In fact, it was the looming payment of property taxes year after year with absolutely no return that caused me to sell my Salem house below market price.
Not so here. The payment is rather painless -- even though the process is something out of another century.
There are no tax bills. At least, I have never seen one. I showed up with my receipt from last year. With that information, the clerk located the hand-written ledger from a bookcase of notebooks that would have made Bartleby smile.
He then gave it to another clerk who created an invoice and receipt on her computer. The first clerk directed me to another room filled with people who looked as if they were part of a rugby scrum. They were just waiting for their names to be called.
A third clerk then took my money and gave me a receipt that I will use next year to start the process all over again.
I have no idea what your property taxes cost where you live. If you live up north, I am willing to bet I may have paid less this year than you did. Property taxes are one of the true deals of living here.
My 2016 taxes were $1,345.50 (Mx) -- $74.05 (US). But it was a 10% increase from last year. Even so, a good deal.
Amazingly, even though the taxes are relatively low, a large portion of property owners do not pay them. And, in Mexico, the government has no recourse other than to recover the taxes when the house is sold.
Or some of the taxes. I have it on good authority that the local government can recover only the past 3 or 5 years (I cannot recall which) in arrears.
It almost makes me wonder why anyone would pay.
While I was in Cihuatlán, I stopped by the bank (Bancomer) that holds the trust deed for my property. Because I live in the restricted zone and I am a foreigner, I cannot own property in fee simple. The Mexican government has created a legal fiction that the bank is holding the property in trust for me -- even though I can do almost everything a fee simple owner could do.
The bank, of course, does not perform its trustee duties for free. Every year I must pay a fee to the bank. For reasons I do not understand, that fee is denominated in US dollars, but payable in Mexican pesos. (For Canadians, during this strong US dollar stretch, that means paying a hefty premium.)
I paid the first year's fee during the fabled house closing in September 2014. Bancomer has not sent me anything further. Not even an account number. Even though my payment is well past due.
When I stopped at the bank, I had all of the numbers in my deed and a fistful of pesos. But I did not have the six-digit account number. Without it, the bank could not help me.
A very pleasant executive told me I could get the number by calling a fellow at Bancomer in Puerto Vallarta. She helpfully provided me with his name, telephone number, and email address.
When I asked her why she could not call him and get the number while I was at the bank, she informed me that was impossible. Thinking it was a matter of cost, I offered to let her use my mobile telephone. She declined telling me I would need to do it.
I should have called right then. But I hate telephones. I will call this week and return to the bank later. After all, the payment is already four months late. What is one week more?
My last stop was in Barra de Navidad at our city government office to pay my water and sewer bill. I told you about this process last year. Hand-written ledger. Manual typewriter from the 1950s. Very helpful clerk.
Once again there was a price increase from $1,367 (MX) -- $75 (US) to $1500 (Mx) -- $83 (US). That is for a full year of service. In Salem, I would have paid that for one month.
Of course, in Salem, the sewer system actually processed sewer rather than just swirling it around in pipes as happens here. And the quality of the water? It is good enough for showering. And that is about it.
A wise man once said you get what you pay for. And when it comes to local government services here on the Mexican coast, we pay very little and get very little in return.
But what we do get keeps the veneer of civilization tucked closely around our ears. And that is good enough for a liberatrian soul like mine.
Alan Rickman is dead at 69.
To someone who just turned 67, the number in that last sentence is mind-focusing. But my mortality is not something on which I dwell. Even though the topic does show up here almost as often in a Bergman film.
Before I moved to Mexico, Laurie, while she was still in Honduras, wrote a piece about the people with whom she would like to share a dinner. Alan Rickman was on her list.
When I told her I had enjoyed dinner with him long ago, I promised to tell her the rest of the story. This is probably as good a time as any to keep that promise.
After I failed in my run for a seat in the Oregon legislature, my law partnership broke up. That left me looking for a law job.
Early in 1989, my friends from my days at Oxford, the Culbertsons, telephoned me to ask if I would be interested in working in London for a rock musician. Entertainment law was not my specialty, but I was willing to give it a go.
We auditioned one another and concluded that only one of our egos could fit into any given space at one time. Even though that job was not on, I had a great time in London with the Culbertsons. They had done quite well for themselves by investing in the entertainment world.
Somehow we ended up at an opening night cocktail party in Mayfair. I do not remember what the occasion was, but the room was filled with B and C list actors. Janet squired me around the room introducing to the people she knew -- and that was most of the crowd.
Amongst them were Alan Rickman and his politician-partner Rima. I knew him from the recently-released Die Hard where he played one of his most memorable roles as the sneering elitist Hans Gruber (labeled as "Eurotrash" by one of the other characters) pitted against the populist blue collar cop played by Bruce Willis.
We exchanged only a few words. Rima did most of the talking -- especially about my recent political loss.
We stayed for only about an hour. As we were leaving, Alan and Rima (and two other couples) caught us at the door and asked if we were interested in having dinner at Langan's with them. If the Culbertsons were not interested, I certainly was. So, off we went.
I wish I could tell you all of the details of the dinner. I don't even remember what I ordered. But I do remember the conversation was laden with the types of entertainment anecdotes that always tantalize Americans.
Rima and I spent most of our conversation discussing politics. Our philosophical differences. The campaign structures of both countries. Our shared interests as political animals.
During the 1990s I traveled to Britain almost every year. Before their untimely deaths, the Culbertsons always came up with a fascinating guest list in London and Oxford. But that dinner with Alan Rickman has always been one of the most memorable.
Well, that and dancing with one of the Rolly-Pollies in Blackpool -- a venue provided by Robert and Hilary Wells, instead of the Culbertsons. But that really is a tale for another time.
Other roles would soon follow Hans Gruber's turn on the screen. Saving Kevin Costner's Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves with a sheriff of Nottingham that could be used as an actor's workshop for chewing scenery. A treacherous Éamon de Valera in Michael Collins. The Voice of God in the highly irreverent Dogma. And, the ambiguously menacing Severus Snape in the Harry Potter franchise films.
I must confess to a guilty pleasure, though. My favorite Rickman role is his portrayal of Sir Alexander Dane in Galaxy Quest -- a Star Trek parody where the crew of the Protector, through a series of circumstances no more incredible than the show it mocks, end up on a star ship defending the universe against evil.
Rickman's character is a Shakespearean-trained actor who feels trapped opening shopping centers with the rest of the cast. One of my favorite lines is his challenge of the Kirk-like character who is fighting a rock monster, with this line delivered in solemn thespian sincerity: "See, that's your problem, Jason. You were never serious about the craft."
Alan Rickman was serious about his craft -- even when acting in pieces of fluff like Robin Hood and Harry Potter. And that is the sign of a true actor.
By the time I met him, he had abandoned the legitimate theater in favor of films -- with a dalliance back on stage occasionally. I wish I could have seen him in live theater.
But I can see him on film. Tonight, in honor of his career, I am setting aside my Friday night reading of The Economist to watch Galaxy Quest and Die Hard.
I suspect I will find it more enjoyable than churning up the dining table at Downton Abbey.
