Diary of JC

Dear Diary: Thirty-seven months! Wowee!

What can I do with 37 months?

Ask me what I CAN’T do with three years and a month.

No more Monny to bother me.

Darn that judge, though. He could have put her out of my way for 40 months or maybe longer.

No more Monica to embarrass me at the office.

Well, officessss.

Got my office in Washington, D.C., got my House Judiciary office where I’m pretty much the king, and got my office in Detroit and oops! Almost forgot, my Downriver district office in whatchamacallit. Trenton!

No more pistol-packin’ Mon to scare the kiddies.

Trenton,…hmmm.

Where IS Trenton?

I keep hearing about Trenton.

Is Trenton in my district?

Gosh-darn, I’ll have to look it up.

Map, map, map.

I’ve got it!

Have an aide run over to the United States Geological Survey and get me a map showing where Trenton is.

A FREE map.

I know! Have an aide run over to USGS when she takes me to lunch.

Lunch, lunch, lunch. Where should I have lunch?

Better yet, who should I have PAY for lunch?

Yesterday was not so good. I was at lunch and had a credit card in my pocket. That’s a no-no. Hard palming the bill off on my staffers, but I managed it. They didn’t dare NOT pay for me.

I got them their jobs.

Where else could they work?

But I need a staffer to get me a map. Maybe two staffers could do it, one to drive in her car and the other to run into USGS and get my freebie taxpayer-paid map.

They get paid the same.

By the taxpayers.

Nothing like having federally-paid lackeys.

It’s one of the neat things about elected office. You get to hire people and order them around on your personal business.

Nobody bothers you about it.

Not the Ethics Committee.

Not even the newspapers.

Ain’t that neat?

Now, let’s see, where was I?

Oh yes, Monny’s doing hard time.

For her.

It’s easy time for me. No more bar fights. No more brandishing a pistol at our kid. No more flunking the Michigan bar exam.

How many times?

Wowee! Four times I had to get a staffer to drive her over to sit for that test.

Flat on her face four times.

No more tearing the house up and having to live with friends.

Thirty-seven months of sheer bliss!

Hmmm.

Wonder if I’ll have to visit her in stir?

What would be the RIGHT thing to do?

Stop at Milan or whatever federal dungeon they put her in and say “hello,” I guess.

Hmmm.

What if they put her in some pen that’s too far to visit?

Too far even for my federally-paid staffers to drive me in their own cars and paying for the gas themselves, although they’re paid just the same by the federal check-writers.

Would it be nice not to visit Monny in the hoosegow?

Nice?

Nice for me!

Send her to Alaska! Guam!

Hey, don’t they have a federal hoosegow in Bagram?

How about one of those CIA secret lockups?

If it’s SECRET, I won’t know where she is.

Then, how can I go see her?

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That $1.7 million ‘shack’

By Joel Thurtell

shack n. A small, crudely built cabin; a shanty

— answers.com

Back in the eighties, I was called upon by me editor at the Detroit Free Press to write an article about development in the western Wayne County suburbs. I decided to contrast the appearance at the corner of Ford and Canton Center roads of a Meijer megabox store and a country general store still sitting opposite the Shifty Acres. I described Julian’s Store as “dilapidated,” and the presses had hardly rolled before the owner of that long-gone store called to protest. I countered that his store WAS dilapidated, rundown, and in dire need of scrubbing and paint.

“Dilapidated” might have been a better word for the Free Press to use in describing the Lafayette Bait and Tackle Shop near the Ambassador Bridge in its February 7, 2010 article attempting to summarize the situation various governments representing the public find themselves in when dealing with billionaire trucking magnate Manuel “Matty” Moroun.

Instead, the Free Press called the bait shop a “shack.”

Three times, the article used that word. I quote:

1) Meanwhile, Walter Lubienski, owner of the shack that houses the Lafayette Bait Shop, has sued the City of Detroit and the U.S. Customs and Border Protection agency over how his tiny parcel was all but cut off amid the Gateway ramps.

2) In hopes of clarifying the mess, here’s a guide to the main disputes:Lafayette Bait ShopBusinessman Walter Lubienski and his partners in a company called Commodities Export own the shack that houses the Lafayette Bait Shop that for decades has operated off 23rd Street north of Fort.

3) A few years ago, Ambassador Bridge owner Manuel (Matty) Moroun’s Detroit International Bridge Co. offered a reported $1.7 million for the shack and the other small parcels. 

“Shack”? I find that usage curious. I’ve stood outside that “shack.’ I’ve walked inside that “shack.” And I gotta tell ya, that “shack” ain’t no shack.

It is a two-story, wood frame house with a facade that is old and worn.

Maybe dilapidated. 

It is not a “cabin.”

It is not a “shanty.”

“Shack” it is not.

Why, then, would a reporter use that word?

“Shack” is the word, I’m told, that Matty’s lawyers used to describe the bait shop. Now, that I could understand. Lawyers wanting to cast a pejorative likeness of something will hunt for some word that denigrates. But wouldn’t a reporter try to distance himself from the lingo of partisans?

“Shack” would be a fine word for an attorney who wants to implant bias against the bait shop, resulting also in prejudice for whomever might want us to think unkindly of the place.

Who might want to taint the public mind against the little nondescript vendor of angle worms and fishing tackle?

Why, that would be none other than Matty. who tore up the streets leading to the shop and made it almost impossible to reach the store through a maze that points the unwary to Canada. Matty did this in order to build a gas station and duty free store which a judge says he built illegally on city-owned property.

Why would the newspaper go along with this jaded description?

In a photo taken by me a year or so ago, the store looks like what it is — an old but still serviceable building. Detroit has lots of buildings worse than this that are still in use. 

I stood in the bait shop  and looked at the minnows swimming in tanks of water; at the showcases with artificial lures; at the racks of fishing poles and reels on the walls.

If it’s a “shack,” why would Matty offer to pay a million point seven smackers for it?

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com

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‘Up the Rouge!’ lectures and photo exhibits

UP THE ROUGE! photo exhibits, lectures with video:

St. Clair Shores Public Library, Wednesday, April 7, 7p.m.; 22500 Eleven Mile Road, St. Clair Shores; (586) 771-9020; lecture and video

Monroe County Community College, Wednesday, April 14, 7:30 p.m., 1555 S. Raisinville Rd., Monroe;  lecture  and video

Canton Public Library, Sunday, May 2, 1 p.m., 1200 S. Canton Center Rd., 734-397-0999; lecture and video

Southfield Public Library, April 1-May 30, 26300 Evergreen Rd.,  26300 Evergreen Rd., 248-796-4200; photo exhibit

Southfield Public Library, Tuesday, May 4, 6:30 p.m., 26300 Evergreen, Southfield; 248-796-4200; lecture and video

Dearborn Heights Caroline Kennedy Public Library, June 1 to July 31, 24590 George Street; 313-791-3800; photo exhibit

Dearborn Heights John F. Kennedy Public Library, Wednesday, May 12, 7 p.m.; 24602 Van Born, Dearborn Heights, 313-791-6050; lecture and video

Brighton Public Library, Monday, July 26, 7:30 p.m., 100 Library Drive, Brighton, 810-229-6571, lecture and video

Dearborn Heights Caroline Kennedy Public Library, 7 p.m., July 28, 24590 George St., Dearborn Heights, 313-791-3800; lecture and video

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Killing the monster

Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public.

— Winston Churchill

By Joel Thurtell

At a book reading in Grosse Pointe recently, Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Marylinne Robinson talked about the almost total immersion she experiences when writing her books. The book becomes everything, the supreme focus. When finished, she rebounds into life and wonders how all those bills went unpaid.

Oddly, it seems to me, as I was forcing myself through the last stages of my journalism textbook, SHOESTRING REPORTER, I found myself fairly often writing columns for JOTR. I managed to pay the bills, though I put off my taxes and viewed most every other household duty as an unwanted intrusion.

But in fact, the book was the boss. Everything revolved around that last super-effort to finish it. In the middle of a conversation, or while driving, or while working on a blog column, I’d suddenly think of some tinkering way to improve it. Then a week ago last Friday, I pushed the key that sent a slew of SHOESTRING files down to the person who will design its cover and interior and set my prose in type.

You see, despite my long hard efforts, as of last Friday, SHOESTRING was still not a book.

This is something it has taken me a very long time to understand.

Maybe I still don’t get it.

I have written several books. Or so I thought. Actually, what I had was piles of pages in consecutive order printed out from computer files. Before computers, I had pages that I produced on a succession of manual and then electric typewriters.

These were, loosely speaking, manuscripts.

I called them manuscripts, yet thought of them as books.

Completed works.

Little did I know.

My first step toward higher education regarding the nature of books came when I got to know Javan Kienzle, a copy editor at the Detroit Free Press when I was a reporter there. Javan had edited her late husband William Kienzle’s murder mysteries and written a biography of her husband. She warned me not to be sending those manuscripts out to publishers or agents without having them copy-edited. Of course, sending them out as-is, the product of my hot little typewriter or printer, was just what I’d been doing for decades. And I’d been striking out.

When you submit to copy-editing, you bare all your big and little intellectual foibles. I thought I was a consistent writer till I ran into the Chicago Manual of Style‘s rules on hyphens. Then I realized I’d been making up my own rules and not always following them. Not always remembering them. That, apparently, is why we have manuals of style.

Two years ago, I went through several intense weeks of copy-editing with Up the Rouge!, the book about the canoe trip Pat Beck and I took up what the subtitle calls Detroit’s Hidden River back in June 2005. Wayne State University Press published the book almost exactly a year ago. I had chafed at what I thought was the tardiness of the Press at getting our book out. Why did it take so long to publish a book?

Well, now I am bringing out my own titles. Last summer, my little publishing firm, Hardalee Press, published two books: Plug Nickel and Seydou’s Christmas Tree. Both are small books, yet required lots of care. They took months to produce. Yet they were nothing compared to SHOESTRING. I estimate SHOESTRING will come to about 200 pages, with a couple dozen or more illustrations.

Oh, those illustrations! I needed, or thought I needed, permissions from other publications to use articles in my textbook. Even my own articles, I learned, would require permissions if I wanted them to appear as they looked in the particular newspaper or magazine. Organizing that whole side of the project seemingly had nothing to do with writing the book, yet it took enormous time.

And then came copy-editing. Long ago, SHOESTRING was copy-edited. But then I started adding chapters. Most recently, the manuscripts was copy-edited twice. Each time I’d mail the hard copy out and receive back handwritten notes on the pages. These were directions for fixing my many inconsistencies and outright errors of grammar and logic.

I couldn’t concentrate at home. I started packing my laptop along with the typescript of the book into a backpack and staking out territory in the library. There, despite some background noise (nothing like working in the chaos of a newsroom), I could concentrate for an hour or two or three and get immense amounts of work done. No telephone, no dog to pet, no household projects to distract. Just get it done.

Early last week, I finished adding the last corrections. I printed a clean copy and determined to sit down and make sure there were no errors I’d missed. Instead, something predictable but preventable happened. I started re-writing. Big no-no. The damned thing is done. Leave it alone!

And finally, on Friday, as I obsessively searched for more errors, I forced myself to stop. Instead of continuing on what was bound to be a perpetual quest for perfection, I pushed the “send” key and the manuscript was out of my hands.

I must leave it alone now.

The manuscript will be turned into book form by the designer/typesetter. When done, I’ll print it and have it proof-read for holdout errors. Then, insert final corrections, send it back to the designer. Then, she will upload it to the company that prints my books. Soon, FedEx will deliver “proof copies” of the book to me. One last read and one last chance for corrections. Then the book will be published. Announced to Ingram’s, Amazon and a host of distributors and booksellers as one more title their customers can order, or not.

Flung out to the public, as Churchill put it.

Now, I’m focused on getting our taxes done. And cleaning the basement. And sprucing up the yard.

Anything, anything but playing with my toys and killing monsters.

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com

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A wolf by any other name

By Peppermint Patti

JOTR Columnist

I’m a wolf, Sophie — who woulda known it?

So are you.

It’s right there, in black and white.

My two-leggers told me so.

Must be true, right?

Actually, Sophie, just because two-leggers say a thing, that doesn’t make it true.

Case in point: Do you believe you’re a wolf?

You’re a black lab, Sophie, and if your two-leggers were worth their salt, if they had any common sense, they’d take you into some marsh and let you scare up ducks. Then they’d blaze away with their fire sticks and let you swim out to pick up the duck or goose or maybe another two-legger that they assassinated.

But instead, they let you languish in this little yard where your sole amusement is talking to me through the chain-link.

Not exactly wolf-like, I submit to you, Sophie.

Nor do I feel very wolf-like, either, despite The New York Times, which says scientists have traced our DNA (Dog-Not-Android) to wolves in the Near East ten thousand solar sickles ago.

Do I look like a wolf, Sophie?

Too bad I don’t have my papers to prove I’m a bichon.

My current two-leggers think this is funny.

They laugh and call me a “faux bichon.”

Fake bichon, my tail!

Some joke.

Tell you what, Sophie, they’ve got it easy and don’t know it.

If I were REALLY a wolf, they would truly be sorry.

They think I’m, well, less than perfect when I loot the wastebasket for old chicken bones.

So what if I drag soggy, grease-encased paper towels across the Persian rug?

This is nothing compared to what I’d do if I were a REAL wolf.

Believe you me, Sophie, then they’d respect me.

There’d be no more chit-chat about a “faux bichon”!

As a wolf, Sophie, I’d have license.

License to be!

To totally trash their house.

And then some.

Those leather couches I gave the chew test?

A little white stuffing sticking out the holes I made?

Nothing compared to what Patti The Wolf would do.

Why, I’d chew that entire cow carcass of a leather couch and when I was done, I’d drag all that white fluff through the house, then get started on the second couch.

Garbage on the Persian rug?

How about garbage on their bed?

Garbage in their pantry.

How about poop on pillows?

That’s just for starters, Sophie.

If they want to joke about Peppermint Patti being a wolf, they better look out.

Be careful what you wish for, Sophie.

Patti The Wolf would drum common sense into their heads.

Wolf ancestors, indeed!

It’s baloney, Sophie.

But don’t try to change the two-leggers’ minds.

Not worth the trouble.

Besides, maybe it gets us some respect.

Let the lies sleep, dog!

Shhh!

Behind the shed!

Possum!

 

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Lord of the Lies

By Luke Warm

Professor of Mendacity

University of Munchausen

There comes a time in the career of every Professor of Mendacity — even those of us who have earned multiple PhDs in the fields of Duplicity, Mendacity, Deceit and Diversion — to admit that we have met our match in the wily art of sundering Truth and rendering it into constituent parts which all, all are lies.

Today, my lecture will honor one Bill Donohue, president of the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights.

What a mouthful!

How I admire this man for injecting deceit into the very title of his organization: “Religious and Civil Rights.”

Students, I want you to bow down before Mr. Donohue. This is High Art, indeed. For don’t you see? Mr. Donohue is invoking at the very outset the idea that child-abusers have civil rights, and that those who protect pedophiles — even if the protectors themselves are priests, bishops and maybe even a pope — deserve the right to deflower young boys and get away with it.

This is a master stroke, indeed!

Of course, Mr. Donohue is not at all about civil rights. Actually, he is all about sowing doubt and lies where shining Truth should prevail. And, of course, that is what this class, Media Duplicty 101, is all about. We honor Bill Donohue for that. As students of the deceptive arts, we must pay homage where it is due. Mr. Donohue indeed is a master of the art. In fact, if he were present today in this lecture hall, I’d confer an instant PhD in Disarming Pomposity and Mendacity on Mr. Donohue.

I cannot imagine a more difficult challenge than the one Mr. Donohue, the defender of priests’ rights to grope and rape boys, has to face. There is an immense mountain of evidence for the almost ritual molestation of kids by priests. In the early 2000s, there was a priests-molesting-kids scandal that rocked American dioceses across the land. Civil lawsuits against the church virtually bankrupted the church in some areas of the U.S. Now, similar scandals have erupted in Ireland and Germany — and again in the U.S, involving the church’s efforts to suppress reporting on a now-dead priest who molested 200 boys in a school for the deaf.

Indeed, it is not a mountain, but an entire planet of factual reporting from a multitude of media, not just one newspaper. The truth is that these challenges to the church are coming literally from the grass roots. We read of boys and their parents trying to get church and civil authorities to recognize that these gross sexual crimes were occurring. First the U.S., then Ireland and Germany. Seems pretty evident that the church, run by old boys, has a problem with some of its old boy priests being homosexual predators. Rather than protect its wards, namely the boys who along with their parents trust the priests to do what is right, the priests lie and cover up and extort pledges of secrecy from the abused kids. Rather than protect and vindicate the victims, the priests further victimize them. They and their bishops punish the victims and let the sodomist-priests off.

As I say, for most liars, that would be a challenge. But not for Bill Donohue. He demonstrates time and again the art of turning culprits into victims and victims into perpetrators. He adeptly turns upside-down an entire planet of reports, few complimentary to the Roman clerics.

There is a wonderful example of Mr. Donohue’s art in the March 30, 2010 New York Times. It is an advertisement paid for by Mr. Donohue’s machine of mendacity, the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights.

To understand the monumental achievement of Mr. Donohue, we must remember that the reports of priestly crimes have come from disparate parts of the globe. It would stretch the credulity of even a Professor of Mendacity to believe that somehow all of these claims are fake reports that have been orchestrated by some one institution.

Yet that is the claim Mr. Donohue so artfully makes. I call it wonderful. Who would have thought to turn the tables on The New York Times and accuse the newspaper of choreographing scores, yea hundreds, of victims’ complaints?

It would seem inconceivable that anyone would believe such tripe, yet Mr. Donohue had the temerity to dish it up and even pay the Times for an ad that bashes the newspaper with false information about its own reporting.

This is the most daring example I can recall of mendacity waxing supreme.

Mr. Donohue in the March 30, 2010 Times:

Here’s what’s really gong on. The Times has teamed up with Jeffrey Anderson, a radical lawyer who has made millions suing the Church (and greasing professional victims’ groups like SNAP), so they can weaken its moral authority. Why? Because of issues like abortion, gay marriage and women’s ordination. That’s what’s really driving them mad, and that’s why they are on the hunt. Those who doubt this to be true need to ask why the debt-ridden Times does not spend the same resources looking for dirt in other institutions that occurred a half-century ago.

One paragraph, yet it contains it all: Classic deceit of the first order. Something for all of us to strive for as we graduate into the world of business, government and private think tanks if we are to achieve the highest order of brain-washing and prevarication.

Few will think to ask what a lawyer has to do with boys’ complaints from separate parts of the world and very different times about priest’s abuses.

Few will think to ask what abortion or gay marriage or women’s ordination has to do with priests’ groping and raping.

These are what we call “red herrings” rotten, lying carcasses tossed across our trail to mislead and dupe.

What masterly sleight of hand!

And the kicker! Wow!

Every piece of scurrilous propaganda must have a potent ending.

But to lard the conclusion with ravings about a newspaper’s financial condition, totally irrelevant, is an absolute stroke of genius.

The critical reader might respond to Mr. Donohue’s query about why the Times doesn’t dig for dirt somewhere else by simply stating, Why bother, when the church has so much dirt to be dug?

I wish we had some prestigious award for mendacity to confer on Mr. Donohue, because with this screed, entitled “Going for the Vatican jugular,” he has turned victims into criminals and criminals into more than victims. For Mr. Donohue and his readers, the priests who molested kids are heroes of the religious civil rights movement that nobody ever heard of until Mr. Donohue turned his creative talent for mendacity to the task.

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Single payer

By Peppermint Patti

JOTR Columnist

Peppermint Patti

Peppermint Patti


When it comes to health insurance, Sophie, our two-legged walkers don’t have a clue.

They yammer on about “free enterprise.”

The death knell of “free medicine.”

I hear enough from my two-leggers to know they don’t get doctors for free.

No, Sophie, they pay through the sneeze holes, believe you me.

They pay the doctors.

And their doctors send them traipsing to more doctors.

They pay those doctors, too.

And all the doctors send them to drug stores.

That’s where they pay again, to the druggists.

They do that to themselves, Sophie. Think of it. All that two-legger currency paid out, for what?

We dogs have a better system, don’t we?

If I get sick, they take me to the pet doctor.

I need heartworm pills?

Back to the pet doctor.

I need a rabies shot?

Pet doctor.

Each time, my two-leggers write a money paper.

Or they show the card.

To the pet doctor.

Need your teeth cleaned?

Two-leggers go to a tooth doctor.

Me?

They take me to the same old pet doctor.

Whatever I need, I get.

Remember that old gent of a dog that used to live with me. Toby? Big black brute with a heart of gold. Well, he fell down, couldn’t get up. Very sad. I saw his eyes. He said, Patti, it’s my time, my time.

Off to the pet doctor for the Big Shot.

Same pet doctor.

Write a money paper.

One two-legger gets paid by another two legger.

Every time, same thing.

Cradle to incinerator.

My two-legger pays the doggie doc.

Know what I call that, Sophie?

Single-payer.

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Matty’s last grasp?

By Joel Thurtell

You can say this about Matty:

The guy does not give up.

Even if his behavior puts him smack in the Land of Hypocrisy.

The latest gambit of Manuel “Matty” Moroun in his long effort to build a new bridge link between the U.S. and Canada has a certain raw logic.

Matty’s been blocked by governments on both sides of the border, therefore it follows that he should sue those governments for having the temerity to tell him “no.”

No matter that he started construction on his new bridge without owning the property it would stand on or securing a permit to build.

Those are minor issues for the Billionaire Who Can Do Anything.

I doubt the troll under the bridge honestly expects to win his latest court battle.

Suddenly, at this late date, his lawyers have uncovered a law that supposedly prohibits governments from building a bridge that would compete with Matty’s monopoly.

But hey, why not tie both Canada and the U.S. up in yet another court duel?

It’s only taxpayer time and money he’s wasting.

The advantage for Matty is that given the governments’ refusal to allow him to build a “twin” to his old privately-owned Ambassador Bridge, he is in no hurry.

What’s time to a pig?

Except for one thing. I’ve said this before. Two can play the same game. Isn’t it time the governments stopped playing nice to Matty?

Why not waste HIS time?

The governments have the power of eminent domain. They can condemn private property if they have a public purpose: Fix a fair, lowball price, compensate Matty, seize the bridge and move onto their projects.

Why not condemn the Ambassador?

For no other reason than that the ancient span is in “fair to poor” condition, it deserves to be condemned. Matty’s been a lousy custodian of this historic piece of architecture.

Tie Matty up in court. Force him to defend his rotten stewardship.

Pay Matty what it’s worth — not three billion smackers, as he demanded from Canada, but some figure that would be reasonable for a decrepit piece of soon-to-be-replaced antique infrastructure.

The governments could then proceed to repair and operate the Ambassador while building a new bridge downriver, or they could build the new bridge and turn the Ambassador into a tourist attraction.

It’s true that it’s a landmark, so you’d hate to see it torn down.

But…

Some have proposed hiring Matty to operate a new bridge.

Forget that — he’s shown what kind of partner he’d make.

Better to join up with a rattlesnake than partner with Matty.

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com

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Remembering the ‘Party of No’

By Joel Thurtell

Have Republicans lost their brains?

President Obama is poised to sign the long-awaited health reform bill into law today, March 23, 2010, and not one single Republican voted for it.

I think I understand their reasoning, such as it is: They were counting on killing health reform, then heading into the November elections as self-styled dragon-slayers.

Big gamble.

They lost.

Through hype and flagrant lies, the GOP (not those outliers in the Tea Party, but the mainline Republican party) tried to brainwash Americans into believing that what would be GOOD for them would instead be BAD for them.

That is an age-old Republican gambit, and it came close to working.

Had health reform been reduced to a shambles, Democrats would have headed into the off-year elections severely embarrassed. Not only would they have failed at achieving health reform, but their failure would have appeared to confirm Republican prognostications that health care was a loser for the American people.

But thanks to the heroic efforts of President Obama, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid and most of all, House Speaker  Nancy Pelosi, we have a health reform law.

Now that the immediate battle is over, Democrats and those proponents of health care reform who championed this cause will have some breathing room to begin explaining its ramifications in a reasoned way.

It is Republicans who are in shambles.

They don’t know it.

Yet.

They invested in tons of negative hype, but now health reform is soon to be law and we can wait and see who is right. The answer won’t come before the elections.

I wonder if Republicans have lost their brains, because now, two days after the big House vote, it’s sinking in that NOT ONE SINGLE REPUBLICAN VOTED FOR THIS LAW.

Compare that to 1964, when President Johnson and the Democrats pushed through landmark legislation like the Voting Rights Act. It could not have happened without a Republican who had no vested interest in civil rights, but who believed in them nonetheless This was Bill McCulloch of Ohio. The following year,  I was a $75-a-week clerk-intern in the U.S. Capitol office of then U.S. Rep. Gerald Ford. Ford, the future President, had just been elected by the Republican House caucus as Minority Leader. I well remember his opposition — and general Republican opposition — to Johnson’s proposal for Medicare.

But in those days, the collective Republican brain was not as lame as it is today. In the 1964 presidential election, their candidate, U.S. Senator Barry Goldwater, lost to Johnson by a huge margin, in part because Goldwater and his GOP base espoused racist innuendo that alienated black voters, whose ballots until then often were cast for what was perceived as the Party of Lincoln. Goldwater was just too far out for most Americans. Republicans of that era figured it out and backed away from “extremism in the pursuit of liberty is no vice,” one of Goldwater’s favorite refrains.

In 1965, Republican leaders like Jerry Ford knew that it was not cool to be against civil rights or health care for seniors. Republicans then knew that to win some elections, they needed at least the appearance of sympathy to the have-nots and even the middle class. And some of them, like Bill McCulloch, genuinely believed in the cause of civil rights.

Republicans were loud in condemning Medicare back then, and they predicted the same doomsday scenario they were repeating recently.

I remember hearing then U.S. Rep. Melvin Laird of Wisconsin proclaim that Medicare would be “the death knell of free medicine.” Ronald Reagan in 1961 warned that if Medicare were not stopped, “One of these days you and I are going to spend our sunset years telling our children and our children’s children what it once was like in America when men were free.” George H. W. Bush called Medicare “socialized medicine” when running for the U.S. Senate in 1964. In 1964, Barry Goldwater said, “Having given our pensioners their medical care in kind, why not food baskets, why not public housing accommodations, why not vacation resorts, why not a ration of cigarettes for those who smoke and of beer for those who drink.” Bob Dole boasted in 1995 that he was one of a dozen House members who voted against Medicare:  “I was there, fighting the fight, voting against Medicare … because we knew it wouldn’t work in 1965.” (In fact, 116 House members voted against, with 307 in favor; there were 290 Democrats and 136 Republicans.)

Although he was on board with civil rights, McCulloch opposed Johnson’s Great Society. Still, he became more liberal thereafter. Can you imagine a Bill McCulloch in today’s Republican caucus? He’d be drummed out.

Despite Republican doom-saying in the sixties, the Johnson bills were enacted. Actually, the Medicare law was an amalgam of Republican and Democratic ideas. Republicans voted for it.

At the end, the Johnson-era social reform laws were bi-partisan.

Those days of political arm-twisting to achieve Medicare are a distant glimmer. Who remembers which congresspeople voted for and against it? Enough Republicans voted in favor to give the party cover in future years. Sure, Johnson pushed it through. Sure, it was one of the pillars of his Great Society. But Republicans could share credit, having contributed ideas and cast enough votes in favor to be perceived by future generations as having been on board when legislation fundamental to Americans’ well-being was passed. No matter that they would have killed it if they could.

Not so today.

Republicans chose to cast themselves literally as the Party of No right through the end.

Don’t forget that under President George W. Bush, Republicans tried to eviscerate Social Security. That would have been a treat for their pals on Wall Street and a big kick in the pants for the rest of us.

Republicans are the party of the rich, make no mistake.

This time, there were no last-minute vote switches to make Republicans appear to have the interests of common people in mind.

No, Republicans will be remembered now as the party that thought health reform was a terrible idea.

I depend on my monthly Social Security payment.

I just got it, and I’m relieved to be carrying my Medicare ID card.

Don’t anybody try to water them down or take them away!

I know which party fought to enact those bedrock entitlements.

Democrats.

Republicans hitch-hiked onto those historic bills only when they perceived they were going through. They knew that history would not absolve them if they appeared to oppose what was good for all because they served the wealthy few. In the end, a few at least dropped the sham.

Descendants of those former-day Republicans are not so smart.

As time moves on, as health reform takes root, as people come to depend on their new right to health care as they depend on Social Security and Medicare, they will not take kindly to Republicans raving of repeal.

And they will remember which party tried so hard to kill this good thing.

The Party of No: Republicans.

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com 

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The future of Riverside Park

By Joel Thurtell

Ever been to Riverside Park in Detroit?

It’s a pleasant place for a walk, or just to sit.

A short distance across the Detroit River lies the Windsor skyline.

Nearer than Canada are the freighters, tugs, speedboats, tour boats, barges and other watercraft that ply the river.

Like to fish or just sight see from the water?

The park has a fine public boat launch.

Sorry to say, the boat launch is closed.

Henchmen for Matty Moroun deny that the billionaire who owns the Ambassador Bridge next door to Riverside Park closed the boat launch. Since his minions posted a phony “Homeland Security” sign on the boat ramp fence and placed bridge company padlocks on the gate, that claim is a bit hard to swallow.

And although I keep hearing a persistent rumor that the mayor is talking to Matty about a park sale, the mayor’s office has denied it, after first sending me an apparently erroneous e-mail confirming that a deal was underway.

Meanwhile, I’m waiting to see what the mayor’s spokespeople have to say to my question whether the city might swap — not sell, but trade — the park to Matty for some other property.

Right now, though, I have to believe the park is NOT in play.

Which means the city still regards it as a place for rest and recreation.

Now, I have my biases, and one of them is that I LIKE BOATS.

I’ve never seen Riverside Parks’ boat launch, because it is locked. I’ve looked at aerial photos of the launch on Google Earth. What I see is a very fine launching area complete with docks for tying boats.

It’s a great boat launch, except for the fact that it’s been closed for years.

And that is the purpose of this essay: To explore the possibility that the boat launch might again serve the public interest rather than the private purposes of Manuel Moroun, one of the richest albeit most selfish men on the planet.

While the padlocks are Matty’s, for sure, we’ve also heard that the city is too poor to re-open and maintain the boat launch. It’s a bit hard to believe, since the state of Michigan operates dozens of public boat ramps, charging a nominal fee for each boat that goes in and out of the water.

But if poverty is the problem, there are other solutions.

Why not have the state operate Riverside Park’s boat launch? Or Wayne County?

That kind of arrangement is not unheard of. While the state owns the Fort Street drawbridge over the Rouge River, Wayne County has a contract to operate the span. Why not have Wayne County or the state contract with Detroit to operate Riverside Park?

Or maybe the Huron-Clinton Metroparks could lease or purchase the park and operate the boat launch. There might be other park functions, such as a food concession and additional recreational activities that could generate revenue — and public interest.

If the city can’t manage to do it, let another public agency with a PURELY PARK AGENDA give it a try.

The best option, though, would be to have the City of Detroit keep this jewel of a park and develop it as a park, with an operational boat launch.

Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com

Posted in Me & Matty | 1 Comment