Me & Rupert

By Joel Thurtell

Never thought an impoverished writer like me would share common ground with a billionaire.

Back in the day when I was a paid reporter, gathering and propagating news for the Detroit Free Press, I took heat for trying to influence the course of political history.

Chief operators of that news organ tried to set me up to be fired if I donated money to a political party — again. Three years before their edict, I gave to Michigan Democrats in hopes of defeating George W. Bush in the 2004 election.

Oh well. We know how that turned out.

Now, my partner in crime, Rupert Murdoch, is being pilloried for doing something similar.

Except that he’s giving to Republicans or their proxies while I gave to the Democrats.

And where Rupert is donating millions to his favorite political charities, my contribution was a piddling five hundred greenbacks.

Still, the principle is the same: Rupert and I wanted to influence the OUTCOME of an election.

Rupert and I know that there are certain political policies and government actions of which we approve, and others that we don’t like or downright detest.

Rupert and I know that we don’t like sitting on the sidelines and watching other people make things happen.

Rupert and I are journalists through and through.

From somewhat different elevations in the newspaper pecking order, Rupert and I have observed the mechanics of governmental workings and we know that individual actions can make a difference.

Rupert and I have heard it said that journalists should stay out of the “playing field of politics,” in order to maintain our journalistic “objectivity”.

Rupert and I know that this notion of “objectivity” and reporters’ alleged obligation to stay aloof from politics are hilariously bogus principles concocted by newspaper owners such as Rupert himself.

Rupert and I know that so-called “ethical guidelines” published by news organizations are conceived to enhance the interests of those who own and control those organizations.

Rupert and I know that ownership and control of news organizations means imposing discipline on individuals who might otherwise exhibit independent thought processes which need to be curtailed at all costs to ensure that news is published that is benevolent to owners of news organizations and interests allied to them.

Thus, Rupert and I are acutely aware that the principles laid down as immutable for lackeys employed by news organizations are not intended for superior mortals such as us.

It is at this point that Rupert and I come to a fork in the road of logic.

For Rupert, it is very important that the flunkies not know this.

For Rupert, it is important to obscure the distinction between giving money to achieve influence, and taking money for the same purpose.

I’m using polite language here.

A person with a crass sensibility might call what Rupert and I are doing a “bribe.”

But in our culture, it is not considered nice to say the truth, which is that our “donations” are intended to sway politicians and the practice of politics itself.

Call it what you will, isn’t there nonetheless a difference between RECEIVING such a gift and GIVING one?

Rupert and I think so.

But Rupert and his friends and fellow billionaires would like for us journalists to CONFUSE these two issues.

Coming as I do from a nether class of journalist, I would like to make the distinction.

I believe there is a HUGE difference between the act of giving money to a political party to influence a desired outcome and the act of TAKING money from politicians who hope you might use your position as a journalist to tilt the political discussion in favor of one side and against another point of view.

Rupert would like his minions at the New York Post, Fox News, The Wall Street Journal, The Times of London and other of his myriad media outlets to believe that journalists must not take part in politics.

Not take part in politics OUTSIDE of work, that is.

Because as we know, those who labor for Rupert must toe the political line for conservative Republican candidates and issues and trash opposing ideas and candidates. That is part of the job description.

Donating money to political causes is not part of the job, except in the case of Rupert.

But TAKING money, even in the form of a salary, is not considered accepting a bribe, even though those who toil for Rupert are professional news-slanters, bias-slingers and prejudice-mongers who actively play on the field of politics.

They think they are objective journalists, but Rupert and I know better.

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com

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Waiting for Rufous

By Joel Thurtell

Still hummin’.

On Thursday, September 30, 2010, ruby-throated hummingbirds still were taking sugar water from the plastic feeders hanging from the eaves of our house in Plymouth, Michigan.

When we left Georgian Bay in northern Ontario late in August, the ruby-throats there were quite aggressive. They engaged in dramatic territorial “dances,” facing off against each other in flight a few inches apart and racing high and low.

On returning to Plymouth, where we’d had no feeders out during our absence, I put out several feeders and almost immediately had hummers zeroing in on them. They are behaving quite differently from the hummers in Canada. There’s none of that aggressive, rapid flight with high swoops and dives and loud buzzing. Our hummers are moving pretty slowly now. You don’t hear any humming.

I suspect it’s a function of the time of year, more than geography. Rubythroats are tanking up with as much food — nectar from flowers, insects and sugar water from humans’ artificial feeders — so they can make the long trip south to Mexico for the winter. I’m guessing that if there still are hummers at our Canada cottage, they must be acting much the same, slowing down to conserve energy and build up fat for the long flight to winter grounds.

A couple years ago, I saw a hummer on October 7, so I figure there are still a few days when we can watch these amazing birds.

Even when the last ruby-throat has departed, I plan to keep the feeders up.

Some people think that if you keep the feeders up, you delay the hummers’ departure and maybe even endanger them. In fact, the trigger for their departure is the lessening light of the fall, not the convenience of a local food source. The hummers will know when it’s time to leave, and no free lunch will keep them here.

But a relative of the ruby-throat, the rufous hummingbird, might well like a few sips from my feeders. The ruby-throat is the only hummer that summers east of the Mississippi. Several species of hummers spend parts or all of their lives in the West. One of them is the rufous hummingbird, which migrates to the Northwest of Canada and Alaska for the summer. It lives farther north than any other hummer.

Occasionally, a rufous hummingbird will wander through Michigan on its way South for the winter in southern Mexico.

Rufous hummers have wandered as far east as Nova Scotia and Florida and have been seen in Michigan.

If I leave my feeders up, I might have the pleasure of seeing one of these rarities — a rufous hummingbird.

And I might help the little bird on its long haul South.

For more on hummingbirds, see Enjoying Hummingbirds in the Wild & In Your Yard, by Larry and Terrie Gates, Stackpole Books, Mechanicsburg, PA 2008 and The Hummingbird Book; The Complete Guide to Attracting, Identifying, and Enjoying Hummingbirds, by Donald and Lillian Stokes, Little, Brown, New York, 1989.

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com

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Floatin’ bull

By Walker Punt

JOTR dramatist

A play in three acts

ACT ONE

Scene: Impressario Bridge board room. Puppy Dog bounces in and spots The Old Man slumped in an overstuffed leather chair. A large scale model of a suspension bridge sits on a table, but The Old Man seems oblivious. He appears depressed. Puppy Dog is very excited. Sight of his old daddy down in the mouth does not slow him down.

PUPPY DOG: What’s a matta, daddy? Why you so sad?

THE OLD MAN: They got my number, kiddo. That dingblasted judge is gonna make me tear down my lovely gas station and my oh so profitable duty free store that I built on MY PROPERTY that I — heh-heh — heisted from the city of Detroit. We’re in a corner this time, kiddo.

PUPPY DOG: Come on, daddy-o. Buck up! When our back’s to the wall is when we start to fight. Ain’t that right? Huh? That’s what you taught me, daddy-o.

THE OLD MAN: It’s different this time, kiddo. Before, we had all the media eatin’ outa our hands. Either that, or they just plain ignored us when we pulled our little pranks. What a blast it was back then — why, kiddo, we could get away with just about anything. Remember when we closed down the city boat launch? Took years for someone to notice. Back then, we had Mayor Kookoo we could count on. That guy was so crooked, his idea of straight was us, and we’re crookeder than Mr.K’s whole clan.

PUPPY DOG: It’s not as bad as that, daddy-o. We still got some media friends we can count on.

THE OLD MAN: Name one.

PUPPY DOG: Well, we got Stump Damper.

THE OLD MAN: Stump Damper is our man. He’s president of the Impressario Bridge Company. He’s for us cause we pay him to be on our side.

PUPPY DOG: Well, daddy-o, you taught me the only real friends are the ones you pay for. You know, like all those politicians we bought. Same goes for family. Why, daddy-o, if you weren’t a billionaire, I’d be outa here faster’n a tick off a dead flea. But listen up, daddy-o. I got one of my ideas that I think will do the trick. Get us some real positive attention again and make people think we care about the greater good instead of showin’ us up to be the greedy hoods we are.

THE OLD MAN seems not to hear: See, Puppy Dog, back when the press ignored us, nobody knew who we were or what a piece of crap our bridge is. Now the word is out. How do we squash a rep like we got?

PUPPY DOG: Well, we got at least one pal in the press, I’m sure of that.

THE OLD MAN: Does he own the paper?

PUPPY DOG: Oh yeah, right. Whooper Mord. He’s our pal, one of us billionaires. Yes, he helps. But I’m thinkin’ of one of the peons who suck up to us. A lowly reporter. We don’t have to pay them, not leastwise with money.

THE OLD MAN: A lowly, snivelin’ reporter. Those guys are like mange on a mongrel. Scum as bad as us.

PUPPY DOG: Which is why we can use ’em.

THE OLD MAN: Well, we got judges stickin’ it to us for stealin’ roads and parks from the city of Detroit and of course it’s true, but we got lawyers sayin’ it’s six ways of bullcrap and grindin’ us all kinds of smoke and it ain’t doin’ us no good, Puppy Dog. It worked once, but not no more.

PUPPY DOG: We gotta shift people’s eyes off the truth, daddy-o. People are stupid, you know that. If we can fire up some great big phony piece of crap and get some ink, get everybody talkin’ about it, the public will forget what’s true and follow our lead.

THE OLD MAN: How you gonna stoke this lie, kiddo?

PUPPY DOG: Ever hear of a blue herrin’? Like the color of our bridge. Wait till you hear this one. Okay, we’re getting crap for havin’ a piss-poor bridge that can’t pass the mustard. They say, What if there’s an emergency, what if somebody torpedoes our bridge or what if one of our gas tankers that’s illegally crossing the Impressario blows up and takes the bridge? Or what if all that gas we keep under our illegal duty-free store goes up and takes the bridge? What’re we gonna do?

THE OLD MAN: Good question, what’re we gonna do? We’d be in deep shit, that’s what.

PUPPY DOG: Not if we had a spare bridge.

THE OLD MAN: I didn’t get to be a billionaire payin’ for spare bridges, kiddo.

PUPPY DOG: Like I said, it’s a blue herrin’. A diversion. We don’t really do nothin’. We just say we’re gonna do it, which is build a spare bridge.

THE OLD MAN: What kind of a spare bridge?

PUPPY DOG: Well, I’m wingin’ it here, but this is what we’ll float to the press. Hey, that’s it! Float! We’ll float that we’re gonna have a floatin’ bridge!

THE OLD MAN: A floatin’ bridge? Are you nuts? Who ever heard of a floatin’ bridge?

PUPPY DOG: The Army does it. It’s called a ‘pontoon.’

THE OLD MAN: The Army don’t put pontoons over the Detroit River! Why, Puppy Dog, there’s a stiff current and we got thousands of cars crossin’ our bridge. Whoever heard of a floatin’ bridge like that?

PUPPY DOG: That’s what’s so cool about it. And I know just how to float it. Watch this.

Puppy dog punches buttons on telephone.

ACT TWO

Scene: Newsroom of Detroit Filibuster, a newspaper. Telephone rings on City Desk. Writer Bob Kneecap reaches for phone.

KNEECAP: Hello, Detroit Filibuster, City Desk. Bob Kneecap speaking.

PUPPY DOG: Bobby-o, what’s shakin’?

KNEECAP: Oh, hi, Puppy Dog. That’s my question. What’s shakin’ in the world of crappy bridges?

PUPPY DOG: Bobby, I am not offended. I know you must appear to your newsroom cronies to be an objectively cynical, jaded news hound who doesn’t give a shit except for a hot story. No bitterness here. Because I come bearing a gift. How’d you like an exclusive?

KNEECAP: Exclusive what?

PUPPY DOG: Story! An Exclusive story.

KNEECAP: What’s it about?

PUPPY DOG: We’re gonna build another bridge, Bobby-o.

KNEECAP: So what’s new?

PUPPY DOG: A floatin’ bridge.

KNEECAP: A what?

PUPPY DOG: It’s gonna float!

KNEECAP: What’s it gonna float on?

PUPPY DOG: Float on? Hmmm. Hadn’t thought that far. Hmmm. Hmmm. (Pauses. Looks at model of bridge. Sees model of truck. Eyes fall on tires.) Inner tubes!

KNEECAP: A bridge that carries thousands of trucks and cars a day is gonna float on inner tubes? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of.

PUPPY DOG: Exclusive story. Want me to fax you the press release?

KNEECAP: Press release? I thought this was an exclusive.

PUPPY DOG: Okay, nix on the release. You want the story?

KNEECAP: A bridge that floats on inner tubes is an architectural absurdity. If I swallowed that story, I would look like an idiot and so would the Detroit Filibuster.

PUPPY DOG: Exclusive to the Filibuster.

KNEECAP: Nobody else has it?

PUPPY DOG: You my man.

KNEECAP: Total idiocy, Puppy Dog. What’s The Old Man say?

PUPPY DOG: Total idiocy. But you can’t print that.

KNEECAP: What CAN I print?

PUPPY DOG: That we’re as usual thinking of the public good and have surmounted the problem of emergency bridge traffic with a portable bridge that will float. When a ship comes along, we’ll simply move the inner tubes out of its way.

KNEECAP: What happens to the cars and trucks that’re on the bridge when you shuffle the inner tubes?

PUPPY DOG: Covered by insurance.

KNEECAP: You sure it’s all mine? No leaks to TV or the other papers?

PUPPY DOG: You my man!

KNEECAP: Fax it over.

ACT THREE

Scene: Impressario Bridge board room. Puppy Dog is unloading doughnuts from cardboard boxes. The Old Man lines them up alongside the model of his bridge. When he has a string of greasy doughnuts stretching beside the bridge model, he picks up model cars and pretends they’re driving over the doughnuts.

THE OLD MAN: Vrooom! Vrooom! This is fun, Puppy Dog! And this floatin’ bridge works to my satisfaction. The idea, after research and development, proves to be sound, after all.

PUPPY DOG: I’ll tell Bob Kneecap our engineers tested it and it works.

THE OLD MAN: Nice job handling Kneecap, Puppy Dog. I’m proud of you. This goes to show, Puppy Dog, what I taught you. Too bad Whooper Mord never learned this. It would have saved him a lot of money and grief. Rule Number One In The Newspaper Biz: You don’t have to OWN a newspaper to CONTROL it!

END

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Rattlesnake defense

By Joel Thurtell

Doesn’t the Detroit Zoo keep current snake antivenin on hand?

Or do they just hand out-dated medicine to dogs, keeping the current supply for people?

Those were some of the questions raised and not answered in a Sunday, September 26, 2010 Detroit Free Press article about an alleged attack on a dog by an Eastern Massasauga rattlesnake.

Never mind that the word is “antivenin,” not “antivenom” as repeatedly and mistakenly printed in the story.

There are bigger lapses in this yarn.

What bugs me is the whole idea that the poor dog was “attacked” by the snake.

How, I’d like to know, did the dog provoke the snake?

Massasaugas are shy, reclusive creatures.

Most times when people are bitten by Massasaugas it’s because they either tried to handle the snake or stumbled upon it without seeing it.

Their venom is part of their digestive system — it not only kills food prey, but breaks down the cells as the snake ingests it.

When a Massasauga strikes, it is a defensive act.

The snake is under attack, or perceives that it is.

That’s why I wonder what this dog did to the snake.

The story doesn’t provide an answer, though it suggests one: The dog’s snout seems to have taken the bite.

Maybe the dog tried to grab the snake?

Why not say that? Because the answer might reverse the sympathetic flow of the story?

“Dog attacks snake, learns hard lesson,” would make a very different story.

People feel sorry for dogs. They don’t like snakes.

But in the case of this dog, let’s be fair. The dog weighs how much?

A hundred fourteen pounds.

Even if the snake, as described by the dog owner, was three-and-a-half feet long and as thick as a person’s arm, its weight would be what — maybe two pounds?

That’s a 57:1 weight ratio in favor of the mutt.

But I don’t believe those measurements. Massasaugas tend to be much much smaller than that. Show me the snake, dead or alive. Otherwise, it’s a fish story.

Bull fish.

How about this whopper:

Encounters with the Eastern Massasauga rattlesnake are rare, but anecdotally seem to be on the rise, said Jeff Jundt, curator of reptiles at the Detroit Zoo.

Somewhere in the training program of this “curator” there must have been a smidgeon of scientific study. Didn’t anyone teach him that observations like “anecdotally seem to be on the rise” are meaningless? What would you count, “encounters” or “anecdotes”?

Or zookeepers telling tall tales?

Helps the story, though. On a bright Sunday morning, it gives readers pause about walking across their lawn barefoot.

Might be a three-and-a-half-foot zookeeper out there telling tales about the rise of snake attacks.

Another question: Why do newspapers print such bunk?

Here are some things to keep in mind about Massasaugas:

Drop for drop, their venom is more toxic that that of larger rattlesnakes like the Western Diamondback.

Massasaugas are born with venom. Baby Massasaugas can inject a lethal dose of venom. Some years ago, a girl died in Georgian Bay from being bitten by infant Massasaugas.

While shy and reclusive, Massasaugas are not an animal you want to mess with.

And if a snake bites you or your dog, it’s because you or your animal threatened it.

Massasaugas don’t attack. They defend.

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com

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Slow worker? Off with her head!

By Rival Pong

JOTR Labor Writer

Finally, a solution to the worker productivity problem.

If only Henry Ford had known this trick.

There would have been no slow-downs, no work-to-rule, no strikes and indeed no contracts between management and labor.

It would have trimmed the sails of labor unions.

In fact, this solution would preclude the very concept of a union, since it would at last recognize the primacy of management and the utter degradation, humiliation and complete descent of labor to a bottomless pit of powerlessness.

The solution, so brilliantly and audaciously executed by a Wayne County Circuit judge in Detroit?

If they can’t keep up with the pace you the boss have arbitrarily set, toss ’em in the slammer!

Give ’em some time to think about who is in command here.

Now, some readers may be a bit skeptical of a labor writer so blatantly taking the side of capital.

Come on!

News organizations are owned by capitalists, don’t you know?

If I were to write my labor reports in a balanced way, pretending to see some merit in labor’s point of view, showing the tiniest sympathy to workers, why, I would be a crass and loathsome hypocrite.

This is a news organization. Ergo, I write for the bosses.

‘Nuff said.

Now, back to Presiding Wayne County Circuit Judge Timothy Kenny, one employer with the guts to cut through all the hypocrisy and pretence and use the power he possesses.

It is, after all, a limited power.

Even a judge can’t go all the way and terminate a recalcitrant worker with extreme prejudice.

Leave that to your henchmen.

Harry Bennett may be dead, but you get the idea.

A whisper here, a nod there.

Jail may be too good for some work-to-rule knotheads.

Yessir, that court reporter a little slow finishing a transcript?

Thirty days in jail!

For good measure, plant a one-sided story in a trusted newspaper.

Won’t get the work done, of course.

May indeed seem arbitrary and capricious.

Some may say it’s a raw abuse of power.

Others may decry it as sheer stupidity, done out out of anger and spite rather than motivated by a will to help.

Why not show some compassion, the bleeding hearts will cry.

Why not counsel the slow court reporter?

If she has family problems, why not lend a helping hand?

Why take the extreme step of jailing her and calling your newspaper lackeys?

Hey, hey — stop right there!

What’s wrong with stupidity?

What’s terrible about spite and anger?

What’s bad about being a lackey?

I have no problem with being a management stooge — I get paid the same.

The point is to make a point, not be nice.

Who’s the boss?

The judge, that’s who.

By extension, Judge Kenny has lent a hand to managers and business owners everywhere.

He has lighted the way to a better method of handling disrespect, disobedience and recalcitrance.

It is, to be sure, a single step.

Modest, moderate and far from radical.

It sends a message to workers everywhere.

You will get no sympathy in the courts.

Yes, indeed, today it’s the courthouse.

Tomorrow, it will be the factory, the office, wherever workers congregate and fail to work at a speed that pleases those in control.

For my own taste, jailing the laborites is a bit too modest, a tad overly moderate.

If 30 days won’t wake her up, I say, off with her head!

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Letter to The Times

To: Editor, The Rodent Times

From: Bertha Rat, Chair-Rodent, Rat Anti-Discrimination League and Executive Ratperson, National Academy of Research Rats

To the Editor:

I have addressed my concerns to the editor of joelontheroad.com about a recent slur against all ratkind published recently on his blog.

I am sorry to say this presumably worthy human has not been so kind as to reply.

Perhaps he feels it’s beneath the dignity of a highfalutin human blogger to have the decency to answer the plea of a lowly rodent like me.

Whatever the JOTRman’s true motives, I feel I have no choice but turn to The Rodent Times as the pre-eminent publication for and defender of self-respecting rats.

I am referring to the JOTR article in which the author decries the greed and lust for control displayed by three Gannett newspaper potentates who garnered more than $10 million for themselves while firing six thousand fellow humans, cutting the pay of thousands of others and demanding slave-style sacrifices.

Despicable behavior, no doubt.

But why compare these reprobate humans to us noble rats?

There is no justification in all mammaldom for such a likeness.

The indignities expressed on this human blog, the self-styled JOTR, typify not only the entire anthropoid misunderstanding of the rat persona, but they go far to deepen the prejudices humans hold against rats for no good and many bad reasons.

Worse, this blogger maliciously and intentionally confuses the lowest, basest of human motives with the identity of us rats. Frankly, this kind of journalistic misbehavior does us rats no favors, and it defuses readers’ (human and rat alike) repugnance for some of the worst human motives, namely greed for power and money.

I am at one with the blogger for being angry at these Gannett hoodlums for stealing — yes, it is legalized theft! — from their fellow humans. Moreover, it is clear from the blog and I don’t know why this point was not raised that the three punks may well have defrauded owners of company shares who trusted them to further corporate rather than personal interests.

Certainly, I sympathize with the blogger’s rage at human miscreants who bully and bilk fellow humans while lining their own pockets. But in his ire, the JOTR writer seeks to portray the malcreants in an unfavorable light by likening these loathsome humans to us rats.

Rats do not deserve such mistreatment!

Rats do not have pockets to line!

As for the blogger’s supposed “proof” of rat perfidy, by which I mean his notorious reference to “rats deserting a sinking ship,” I say, “Come on! Did anybody tell the rats the boat was going down? Huh? Did anyone think to manufacture, let alone hand out, life preservers for rats? Huh?”

Rats at sea as everywhere are first and foremost volunteers. They serve at will — their own will. That means they arrive and depart when they please.

Rats do not “desert” a sinking ship. Like their human counterpart crew members or passengers, they may abandon the ship — when it suits them.

And when they choose to take their leave, are they not, pray tell, signaling to humans that it might be prudent for them also to jump? Don’t tell me it has never happened that human crew members have sought to save their lives by grabbing lifeboats and leaving passengers to sink or swim.

Save yourselves, humans — look to the rats!

Just because humans are capable of monstrous and outrageous behavior against their fellows is no excuse for pretending these human bullies, dictators and criminals are somehow related to rats.

Rats are pilloried in spite of the good they do.

Think of all the human drugs that have been tested and found safe and effective for curing humans.

Who gave their countless lives so a few humans could survive and fluorish?

Rats!

Let’s have no more badmouthing of rats, please. If human beings behave like thugs, thieves. crooks, hoods and common criminals, say so.

But don’t lay the blame for humans’ poor behavior at the mouse hole of us rats.

It has come to my attention that the JOTR blog has actually issued an apology to the pigs for comparing hogs to these greedy Gannett scoundrels.

Why say you’re sorry to pigs but not to us rats?

Are rats such mean, lowly and deplorable creatures that they alone must bear the burden of comparison to human dregs?

C’mon, JOTR! You told the pigs you’re sorry.

Time to tell the world you wronged us rats.

Posted in Joel's J School, Unions | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Italic-Merical prejudyse

By Peter Pizzicato

Wannabe JOTR Music Critic

From: Peter Pizzicato

To: Noo Yawk Tam

Dear Tam Editor:

I wat to think you fer wunerful enlightnin articl re buy-ass gin Italic-Mericals like I is.

Now I no why editer joelontheroad.com no want prnt mi musik revoos.

Not cuz I bad writer!

Not cuz I spell for shit.

Not cuz lousy gramer.

Not cuz I dum eye-d-ot

No weigh!

It cuz I be Italic-Merical!

He prejudysioed!

QED.

(Quota et dum).

What a gud Italic-Merical gonna do?

I no!

I right nesty letr Noo Yawk Tam but no male.

I sho letr to editor joelontheroad.com.

I till him wut heppin he no prit mi revoos.

He gonna give me munney, two!

Cuz he no want firmativ eggshun.

I blekmale da bum!

He git scerred n prit mi artikl.

No want trubel wid Italics.

So think yu ver moch Noo Yawk Tam fer hep mi blekmale boss.

Sencirli,

Peter Pizzicatoes (sp)

Editor’s note: I would like to clarify a couple points. First, there has been no discrimination by JOTR against Mr. Pizzicato or Pizzicatoes because of his Italian-American, or Italic-Melical, orientation. Secondly, Mr. Pizzicato should know that it’s no use trying to shake me down, either to bully me into publishing his music “revoos,” or to shame me into paying him for anything of his that I publish. As an editor, I have by definition no shame. In addition, Mr. Pizzicato is fully aware that the only member of the JOTR staff who receives pay is our star columnist, Peppermint Patti, who receives daily food and treat alotments and has the fringe benefit of fully-paid health insurance.

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Apologia

By Joel Thurtell

I want to apologize for a recent blog column in which I compared three Gannett honchos to pigs for splitting 10.6 million in salary and bonus bucks while firing 6,000 workers and asking the ones who remained to take unpaid leave and 12 percent pay cuts.

It is a fact that I likened Gannett CEO Craig Dubow, Gannett CFO Gracia Martore and USA Today boss David Hunke to swine for their selfish behavior.

Such a comparison is just not fair.

Not fair to the pigs.

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‘Privacy’ for snitches

A clerical error appears to have allowed Mr. Withers’s identity to be divulged: In most cases in the reports, references to Mr. Withers and his informant number, ME 338-R, have been blacked out. But in several locations, the F.B.I. appears to have forgotten to hide them. The F.B.I said Monday that it was not clear what had caused the lapse in privacy and was looking into the incident.

“Civil Rights Photographer Is Unmasked as Informant for F.B.I.,” The New York Times, September 14, 2010

By Joel Thurtell

Odd definition of “privacy,” it seems to me.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation hires someone to gain trust from law-abiding people so the snitch can report on the private musings and doings of his or her victims.

But when it comes to protecting privacy, it’s the stool pigeon the government worries about, not his victims.

In the case revealed by The Commercial Appeal in Memphis, Tennessee on September 12, 2010, the snitch was revered civil rights photographer Ernest C. Withers, who managed in the late 1960s and early 1970s to worm his way into the confidence of important civil rights leaders like the Rev. Martin Luther King. He took their pictures and sold their private lives to the feds.

Thanks to The Commercial Appeal’s Freedom of Information inquiry and the FBI’s response, we now know that Withers was a paid FBI informant who passed on to the agency, according to the Times, “photographs, biographical information, and scheduling details to two F.B.I. agents in the bureau’s Memphis doimestic surveillance program.” He often met with FBI agents to pass on purloined information.

The government doesn’t consider this a violation of those citizen-victims’ privacy.

But when it comes to revealing who the stool pigeons are, suddenly we run into a privacy wall.

It seems that the FBI neglected to black out (“redact” is the euphemism) enough references to Withers and his informant number that The Commercial Appeal was able to figure out that he was an FBI mole.

Now, the FBI is looking into that lapse, considering it a violation of Withers’ privacy.

Ain’t that neat?

Withers along with the FBI betrays the privacy of civil rights workers.

For the government, this is no problem.

But giving up the Judas IS a problem.

Well, of course. Few of these sneaks and backstabbers would be willing to snitch if government didn’t guarantee their “privacy.”

Why, some injured person might sue the stoolie for invasion of privacy. Or the victim might think of some private punishment.

That’s why the names of betrayers were kept secret some years ago when Michigan courts ordered the “dissemination” of Michigan State Police Red Squad files to those who had been spied on.

The victims were contacted and offered copies of their Red Squad files.

Good luck trying to find out the names of the lowlifes who turned them in.

One day in the early 1980s, I received a letter from the “Intelligence Division” of Michigan State Police inviting me to appear at their Paw Paw post if I wanted a copy of my Red Squad file.

It was a surprise to me that I’d been under surveillance by Ann Arbor and state police.

According to my file, I was a member of the International Socialists branch in Ann Arbor, Michigan. This was not true. I went to an IS meeting once to hear a speaker, but I never joined the group, never paid dues, never signed up. Somehow, though, the International Socialists had my name in their files as a member.

It would be interesting to know who put my name on that list.

My state police file consisted of two pieces of paper. One was an index card with my name, address and the fictitious “fact” that I was a member of the socialist group.

That I was not and never had been a member of the International Socialists is only further evidence of the danger of these undercover operations.

The index card also had the name of “Deputy Chief Harold Olsen” of the Ann Arbor Police Department.

The second piece of paper was a page from a membership list of the International Socialists. It had my name along with the names of other people with surnames from the end of the alphabet.

None of the names of the other supposed International Socialist members had been blacked out. Thus, in my files, I have a sheet of paper containing the names of a dozen or so alleged dangers to society like myself.

Presumably, at least some of those people named on that sheet picked up their Red Squad files and now possess the same list of unredacted names, including mine.

The government called it “dissemination,” but there is another word for it: publication.

By photocopying the International Socialists’ membership list and handing it out to each individual it named, without inking out the names of others, the government effectively published the victims’ names.

The government didn’t care a rip about the privacy of victims of its spying.

But they kept the informers’ names secret.

How did the Ann Arbor police and eventually the Michigan State Police get copies of the International Socialists’ membership list?

I have no concrete information about that betrayal.

I would hypothesize that police had an informant with access to the group’s records.

It would not surprise me if the snitch was getting a pay check from the cops.

As I say, I have no concrete information about how the International Socialists office was infiltrated by police.

But in 1990, I wrote an article about Red Squads for the Detroit Free Press Magazine. I interviewed Benton Truhn, a onetime detective sergeant in the Michigan State Police who ran the state’s Red Squad operation in Ann Arbor from the basement of City Hall.

According to Truhn, he had a budget that allowed him to recruit undercover informers who were paid $15,500 a year in the late 1960s and early 1970s. That was more than he earned as a state police detective.

Truhn told me he hired students, often children of conservative and wealthy Detroit area people. They entered the University of Michigan as freshmen and pretended to be politically liberal or radical. They would join whatever political organizations the police found interesting and work their way into responsible positions. That way, they’d be given, or maybe even produce, the paperwork such as membership lists from which police could generate their own lists and files.

A salary of $15,500 a year in 1970 would have been wroth $84,691 in 2009. That’s a lot of money for letting your hair grow, donning frayed jeans and hanging out in some obscure political group’s office.

Helluva lot of pizzas.

Truhn’s account renders phony the apology given in the Times article by Pulitzer Prize-winning historian David Garrow, who tried to poo-poo the money angle.

According to the Times, “Although Mr. Withers’ motivation is not known, Garrow said informants were rarely motivated by the financial compensation, which ‘wasn’t enough money to live on.’ ”

The Times partly rebutted Garrow by quoting Marc Perrusquia, author of The Commerical Appeal article, who wrote that “Mr. Withers had eight children and might have struggled to support them.”

Well, a salary of $15,500 — worth nearly $85,000 today — would have made that “struggle” a lot easier.

Now, we don’t know how much Withers got from the FBI. But I suspect it was significant.

Like the names of stool pigeons, the government also stays silent about how much it pays them.

It  might be easier for the government to make its case for undercover informants if the targets were truly a danger to society and the state.

But the vast majority of people being watched at the time Withers did his spying were innocent.

Innocent at least of crimes.

Sometimes, those who unwittingly become targets of government surveillance attain that recognition because they hold political views that government officials find suspect. Any political movement or organization on the left during the civil rights and Vietnam war era could count on being suspect in the view of government.

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

How much clandestine spying on citizens with legitimate political views is government doing today?

Eventually, the Red Squads and the FBI’s program to sabotage and discredit institutions and organizations it didn’t like were discredited and deemed illegal. Yet a key component of those activities — the identities of paid informants — was considered too sacred to be revealed.

I believe that the government has a duty to divulge the names of people who helped it wrong fellow citizens.

In the case of Withers, the federal government has earmarked hundreds of thousands of dollars to pay for a museum in honor of a photographer whose commitment to the civil rights movement we now know was a sham covering his real motives — to snitch on civil rights leaders and others for pay.

Had that information been public all along, I doubt anyone would have supported a Withers museum.

If for no other reason, the history of the United States will never complete until the identifies of these secret snitches are revealed.

And yes, if some of them are subjected to lawsuits and court judgments that cost them money, well, they will have gotten what they deserved.

Snitches are not heroes and don’t deserve to be protected.

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com

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Noisy food joints

By Joel Thurtell

Older I get, the more I can’t stand public places with loud music or concentrated high levels of chatter.

Know what I mean?

Stopped going to a wonderful little Italian joint in Northville, Michigan because I couldn’t hear the people I was with, who were sitting just a foot or two away from me. The acoustics in the small room aimed all the decibels at me.

Well, tonight Karen and I were having dinner with Donna Z and her pal, Bob. We were sitting at a table outside. Very pleasant, temperature just right for short sleeves. I’m nursing a bottle of Bass Ale and wishing I could take an ax to the loudspeakers. Rock music was playing, and it forced us to talk louder.

We got to know Donna Zajonc last summer in McGregor Bay. Her place is just about within sight of ours if you know where to look between a couple of granite islets. It’s a small brown cottage with a big screened veranda on the way to Blasted Channel. She tools around the Bay in her big Stanley utility boat with a shiny 20-hp Merc. As we got to know DOnna, we realized that she lives in Ann Arbor.

Why not get together near our other homes, the ones outside the Bay?

As I say, the music was a bit on the loud side, but you get so you set it aside. I mean, what can you do about it? Just crank up the volume on your voice box and cup a hand around an ear.

Not Donna Z.

Waiter stopped with menus and Donna stopped him.

“We’re all old,” Donna said. “Would it be possible to turn the music down a bit?”

Thirty seconds later, the electronic noise didn’t just diminish.

It vanished.

What a great idea!

Try it out: “We’re old — would you please turn down the volume?”

I love it.

You don’t have to be old to use this line, either.

So what if you’re twenty-something? Say you’re tired of the racket in your favorite dive. Call the wait person and tell him or her you’d like the sound turned down.

“We’re all old, don’tcha know?”

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com

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