The picket lines in our future

The new right-to-work law in Michigan has been great political theater and may signal an interesting trend for government, politics and the American labor movement.

President Obama’s election in 2008 was hailed as a victory for organized labor. His administration is the most blatantly pro-union in recent history. Yet unions have been decisively defeated in Wisconsin, Indiana and Michigan. More setbacks for unions appear likely as the economic gap widens between right-to-work and compulsory-union states, and as local taxpayers confront the unsustainable costs of public employee unions.

The union response has been traditional picket-line theater with chanting mobs and thuggish threats of blood and civil war: predictable and so 20th-century. The argument that workers will not join unions unless required by law is an admission of weakness. The invocation of union history and the 40-hour week, etc., makes me wonder whether unions have worked themselves out of a job and what they’ve done for their members lately.

State right-to-work laws are significant because our federal system often makes states the bellwether of change. States are leading on issues such as gay marriage and legalized marijuana, and if this trend continues our dysfunctional national government will eventually follow. Limitations on union power may be on the same trajectory.

I’m no fan of unions, but I’d hate to see them disappear because they play a useful role in the private economy as a check on management stupidity. Unions win about half of certification elections, and the threat of unionization is a potent force in keeping employers honest. But they’re a drag on the economy when they kill jobs, block free-trade agreements and bankrupt cities.

Unions are overdue for reform and have an opportunity to re-invent themselves if they choose. There is no reason why unions cannot thrive in a right-to-work environment if they are accountable to their members and make a persuasive case for voluntary payment of union dues. That would be a big change, however: Unions operate like Third-World governments with far less transparency and accountability than corporations, and their leaders are more accustomed to coercion than persuasion.

Unions won’t reform on their own, of course. Union monopolies finance the Democratic Party, and elected officials will use their considerable power to maintain the status quo. One of the ironies of progressive politics is that folks who are pro-choice on abortion are required to be anti-choice when it comes to joining a union or selecting a public school. That makes no more sense than the conservative coupling of economic freedom with Christian Sharia law.

It’s going to be interesting to see what happens.

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Eating my way through Chicago

I just returned from a visit to my hometown of Chicago. I get back to Chicago about once a year to reconnect with friends and relations and, on this trip, spend Thanksgiving with my kids. My secondary agenda, however, is getting my Chicago food fix.

Probably most of us have an emotional attachment to the food of our childhood. I grew up on hearty European fare with my mother’s Hungarian recipes, my great-uncle’s homemade sausage and the culinary richness of Chicago’s ethnic diversity.

Not that Albuquerque is a gastronomic desert. New Mexico has its own regional variation of Mexican cuisine and a growing variety of other restaurants, but many of the immigrant groups that have nourished Chicago never made it to the Southwest.

So my annual visit to Chicago includes a checklist of my favorite foods that are unavailable or inadequate in Albuquerque. This year’s chow-down included:

  • German food – sauerbraten and strudel at the Brauhaus and lunch at the Berghof. The crusty, ex-Wehrmacht waiters at the Berghof are gone but the food is still great.
  • Greek food at the Greek Islands: lamb with artichokes, Roditys wine and Saganaki (photo at left). This flaming cheese appetizer originated in Chicago. The waiter sets the stuff on fire and everybody yells “Opaa!” which may be Greek for “the cheese is burning.”
  • Czech food: roast duck and dumplings at the Riverside restaurant.
  • Two different Chinese restaurants.
  • A half-pound burger on rye bread with a compressed brick of onion rings at Hackney’s.
  • A new experience with Indian food at the Curry Hut.
  • Italian beef sandwiches, mostly unavailable outside Chicago.
  • And no visit to Chicago would be complete without deep-dish pizza.

Chicago also has memorable Italian restaurants, but so does Albuquerque. I don’t even bother to visit Chicago’s excellent Mexican restaurants… coals to Newcastle, you know.

When I took a side trip to Madison, Wisconsin, my recovering-vegetarian son took me to a lively brew-pub for a hearty Walleye sandwich. Inexplicably, they did not serve bratwurst. You’d think this would be some sort of zoning law in Wisconsin. 

This 12-day pig-out was culminated with my daughter’s Thanksgiving dinner. Now that I’m back home, I will be spending next week at the gym. Then I’ll be ready for a green chile fix.

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How I learned to love the bomb

I grew up in the nuclear age. My grade school had duck-and-cover air raid drills, and as the Cold War intensified nuclear weapons had a pervasive impact on popular culture with films such as Seven Days in May and the black comedy Dr. Strangelove.

It was in this environment in 1964 that the Navy assigned me to Sandia Base, a joint-forces nuclear weapons headquarters in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Even though my duties were administrative, much of our work was classified Top Secret. At the end of each day, every piece of paper (and even the typewriter ribbons) went into a safe. Every office was checked and doublechecked to make sure no classified information was in desk drawers or wastebaskets. One of my chores was to make the final security check of the admiral’s office after he left for the day, including opening every drawer of his desk. Security teams conducted random inspections at night, and there were consequences if they found an unlocked safe or a combination jotted on a calendar pad.

Working with such tight security was surprisingly painless once I got used to it. The base did a clever job of boosting security awareness with slogans on posters, napkins and coffee coasters.  At one point they had a guy in a suit of armor walking the halls shouting security slogans. Hi there, Sergeant Adams. Shh—I’m supposed to be Sir Guard.

Many of the walls in the headquarters building were decorated with color photos of nuclear detonations. I found this disconcerting at first but soon got accustomed to looking at mushroom clouds every day. Hey, that’s a pretty one!

Even though our work was secret, everybody in Albuquerque knew what Sandia Base was all about. I was the duty officer one night when the Shriners put on a noisy fireworks display in town, and we got lots of phone calls. No, sir, we are not testing nuclear weapons here. One caller asked in a hushed voice: Is everything all right?

The duty office had an extra telephone for the nuclear weapons hotline. It was an ominous-looking RED phone with a light that flashed whenever it rang. The phone was special because every military unit worldwide that handled nuclear weapons had instructions to call that number immediately in the event of a nuclear accident or incident such as the 1966 crash of a B-52 bomber in Palomares, Spain.

There was nothing special about the phone line, however. It was an ordinary, local telephone number, and once in a while someone would dial it by accident. This would scare the bejesus out of the duty officer, who would follow instructions by picking up the red phone and saying: Do you have a nuclear accident or incident to report? Which would scare the bejesus out of the hapless civilian who just wanted to order a pizza. What size bomb was it, lady?  Pepperoni?

 

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Press freedom and the election

If a tree falls in the forest and the news media ignore it, does it make a sound?

What constitutes news, and how that drives daily editorial decisions, is the subject of philosophic rumination in schools of journalism and daily argument in newsrooms. The foundation of news coverage is the public interest and the right of citizens to know what affects them. This principle is enshrined in countless newspaper mission statements, and even in the code of ethics of the Public Relations Society of America.

Freedom of information is fragile. Repressive governments routinely shut down independent news outlets, reporters are an endangered species in a growing number of countries and some governments are seeking to censor the Internet. One of the pillars of American democracy is the skeptical zeal of journalists and their traditional adversarial relationship with government.

That’s why it’s distressing to see news media in the U.S. squandering their freedom through politically motivated self-censorship. The most flagrant example is the lack of coverage of the terrorist attack on the U.S. consulate in Benghazi, Libya, that killed our ambassador and several others. I’ve come to accept biased and slanted news coverage, but this is more serious: a conscious decision to ignore the questions surrounding a significant incident and effectively suppress the story.

Even if you ignore the political overtones, there is much to question. Instead of issuing the customary noncommittal statement while the facts were being sorted out, the Obama administration immediately blamed the embassy attack on an obscure Internet video. Even though the remarks of the President and other officials were carefully worded enough to avoid outright lies, it appears that their objective was to advance a narrative that is proving to be false.

The major news media accepted that explanation, and the story would have disappeared had it not been for the persistence of Fox News and Republican members of Congress. It’s now apparent that the Libya attack was premeditated, that the U.S. was aware of the danger, and that security and rescue efforts were bungled.

As the facts emerge, the major national media are beginning to give the story minimal, reluctant coverage, perhaps shamed by competition from Fox News. Contrast this with the intense media coverage of the Valerie Plame CIA leak scandal in 2003, when TV crews camped on the front lawns of Bush administration officials. The only explanation for this uncharacteristic lack of curiosity is that the news media are declining to cover the story because it might jeopardize President Obama’s re-election campaign.

One result of the unprecedented romance between this president and most of the news media is the Pravda-like docility of the White House press corps. President Obama has held fewer news conferences than his predecessors, and it has become customary for the Prez to bypass Washington reporters in favor of journalism-free entertainment programs. If Presidents Clinton or Bush had tried this, the press corps would be out for blood.

Even in this environment, the lack of media interest in the Benghazi incident crosses a new line: subordination of the public interest to political advocacy.

The good news is that freedom of information in the United States is self-correcting. If President Obama is re-elected the ideological corruption of the news media will continue, but not for long. Sixty percent of the respondents in a recent Gallup poll now distrust the “mainstream” news media, and the three major networks are losing their audience to Fox News and an army of bloggers. Sooner or later, economics will force the media to return to honest journalism or go out of business.

If Governor Romney is elected, the White House press corps will awake from their slumber and the news media will immediately revert to their traditional adversarial role… just as the Founding Fathers envisioned.

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A lawn grows in the desert

I bought a rain gauge for my garden a month ago and finally got enough rain to measure: almost two-tenths of an inch. That’s a big deal because Albuquerque averages only 9.4 inches of precipitation a year – compared to 36 inches in Chicago and 64 inches in New Orleans. This year we’re in a drought with only 3.44 inches by the end of the summer monsoon season.

Scarce water means that xeriscaping, or low-water gardening, is popular. Decorative gravel is more practical than big lawns, and drip irrigation systems pipe measured amounts of water to each individual plant. Because most Midwestern flowers and shrubs do not thrive here, I am learning high-desert horticulture and getting acquainted with native plants such as Russian Sage, Chamisa and Yucca.

One of the things I like about xeriscaping is that if there’s a spot where nothing grows, all you have to do is put a rock there. I bought more rocks last year.

I became a big fan of xeriscaping when the Navy stationed me in Albuquerque many years ago. I was the staff assistant to an Air Force colonel named Wild Bill, a hard charger who was bucking for general but did not have enough work to keep him fully occupied.

When the colonel had nothing to do he would make his presence felt in the time-honored way of senior officers: by raising hell and getting others to scurry around. At random intervals he would gaze out his office window and notice that the grass on the parade ground was turning brown. Then he would summon me and demand that I do something about it.

I initially had tried to explain to the colonel that grass was not really native to these parts, but he did not want to hear that. So I would call the maintenance department, which would dispatch a couple of guys with a hose to look busy for a while outside the colonel’s window. In the fullness of time, Wild Bill eventually was promoted to general and the Navy finally sent me to sea.

My yard is mostly xeriscaped but I have a tiny lawn, about 25 feet square, as an accent to all the gravel, rocks and shrubbery. I lost about a third of it this year because my sprinklers were not aligned properly. I briefly considered replacing it with $5,000 worth of artificial turf, but instead spent an arduous day putting down new sod and expect a hefty water bill this month.

Overall, however, I spend less time on outdoor maintenance here than I did with a smaller yard in Chicago. Smaller trees mean fewer leaves in the fall, lawn mowing is a snap and I squirt herbicide on whatever weeds poke through the gravel.

I drove through the military base the other day and noticed that the parade ground is still there. Now it has a sprinkler system.

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The desert Navy

I started my Navy career in Albuquerque, New Mexico. People do a doubletake when I tell them that.

When I graduated from Officer Candidate School in Newport, RI, the Navy apparently had a bunch of shore billets to fill.  A number of my classmates were assigned to communications stations, instructor duty, etc. and I got orders to Sandia Base in Albuquerque.

Nobody at Newport could tell me what Sandia Base was or what the Navy was doing there. A popular movie that year, Seven Days in May, involved a secret base in the desert and that heightened the mystery.

When I reported for duty I learned that Sandia Base was the field headquarters of the Defense Atomic Support agency, which administered the nuclear weapons program for the Armed Forces and worked with Sandia National Laboratory. Members of all three services worked together. I had a staff assignment reporting to an Air Force colonel and supervised two Air Force sergeants.

The 200 or so Navy people at Sandia literally were fish out of water. Some compensated by using more nautical jargon than I ever heard at sea. A hapless visitor who asked a sailor for directions would hear something like: Take the ladder to the second deck and follow the starboard passageway aft past the scuttlebutt.

Since Sandia was a joint-forces base, the annual Army-Navy football game was an excuse for otherwise dignified senior officers to act like sophomores. An admiral had a Beat Army sign erected on the roof of one office building; a general countered with a Sink Navy sign on another building. A colonel complained to the base housing office that the lighted Go Navy sign on a commander’s lawn was shining into his windows. I did not attend the academy and did not much care who won, but enjoyed the free beer at the officers’ club during the game. I sat with the Air Force guys.

Because we were in the nuclear weapons biz, much of our work was classified. At the end of each day all our work went into a safe. Everything we did was on a need-to-know basis, so I did not know much about what my friends in other offices were doing.

When people we met around town asked what the Navy was doing in Albuquerque, we obviously couldn’t tell them. So we made up stories about a subterranean channel under the Rio Grande and a secret submarine base.

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Where are the responsible Muslims (and Christians)?

When radical Muslims commit acts of terrorism or mayhem, we are assured that the Jihadists do not represent the billions of moderate, law-abiding Muslims around the world. I am sure these folks exist, but can’t help wondering why we hear so little from them when their religion is used as an excuse for violence.

Although the Islamic Society of North America held a news conference condemning the attacks on U.S. embassies in the Middle East, most of the Muslim authorities interviewed by the news media have been quick to explain why Muslims’ feelings are hurt but tepid in their condemnation of the violence. We also have seen little or no reaction from mainstream Muslim clerics around the world, or from the leaders of moderate Muslim nations like Turkey and Indonesia. The U.N. has been pretty quiet, too.

I would like to believe that the majority of Muslims are as peaceable as your average Methodist, but I have to wonder why they allow the Jihadists to represent their religion.

Christians have been pretty quiet, too. Everyone agrees that the Koran-burning Rev. Terry Jones and the sinister folks who produced an obscure YouTube film have a right to free speech. But I have yet to hear any condemnation of these wingnuts from the National Council of Churches, or from leading Evangelicals such as Rev. Franklin Graham or Mike Huckabee. Their silence plays into the hands of the Jihadists who want their followers to believe that all Americans go around trashing Muhammad.

We also need to clarify that the right to free speech does not confer immunity from its consequences. No one wants the government to go after whoever produced the film, and the government’s request to YouTube to “review” the offending video is a little creepy. But I’ll bet a lawyer for the families of the murdered diplomats would have no trouble convincing a court that these folks have blood on their hands.

Finally, I’m getting a little tired of hearing that we should be sensitive toward Muslims’ fragile religious feelings because they tend to kill people when they get riled up. Perhaps it’s time to communicate that Americans are just as passionate about our flag as Muslims are about their Prophet. And we have cruise missiles.

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A flying fish story

Flying fish were a common sight when my Navy ship was in the South China Sea. The fish don’t fly so much as glide:  They propel themselves out of the water to escape predators, spread wing-like dorsal fins and glide a few feet above the water for as much as 100 yards or so. Since our ship probably looked like a predator, we often saw flying fish pop out of the water near the ship and take flight.

Since the main deck of our tiny minesweeper was only about six feet above the water, flying fish would land on the deck occasionally. Late one night one of the engine-room guys was sleeping on the deck (a cooler spot than his bunk) when a flying fish joined him. He subdued it and walked into the mess deck carrying the dead fish.

On the mess deck he encountered the ship’s hospital corpsman. What are you doing with that fish? I dunno, maybe the cook can do something with it. The Doc had a better idea: They tiptoed into the berthing compartment and slipped the fish into the cook’s bunk.

The cook woke up with the dead fish in his bunk, immediately blamed the mess cook and transferred the fish to the mess cook’s bunk. The mess cook blamed someone else, and so on. During the night the fish visited about half the bunks in the berthing compartment.

Years later the tale of the flying fish became a bedtime story for my kids with the refrain: WHO put the flying fish in MY bed?

 

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The next round of class warfare

We’re hearing a lot of complaints from the punditry about class warfare in the current presidential campaign. Get used to it. We’ll be seeing a lot more class warfare in the next few years.

John Edwards started it in 2004 with his “two Americas” speech that demonized the wealthy, and President Obama made it his signature issue with a boost from the Occupy movement. But conflict between rich and poor is mostly political fiction.

The real class divide is between people who work for the government and those who do not. Government employees have evolved into a privileged class thanks to powerful unions, irresponsible public officials and the good intentions of voters. Public employees, once underpaid, have become significantly more prosperous than their counterparts in the private economy.

Now the cumulative impact of public employee pension and benefit largess is forcing cities to reduce services to pay their retirees. Some have been forced into bankruptcy, and this may spread to states like California and Illinois.

At the same time, the recession wiped out millions of private-sector jobs while the vast majority of public employees kept theirs. Diminished retirement savings are forcing more private-sector employees to defer retirement while state and local government employees continue to retire early with defined-benefit pensions.

The public-private divide is becoming a dominant force in politics, with public employee unions supporting the Democratic party and business interests aligned with the Republicans. A Wall Street Journal column characterized this as a fundamental conflict between two economies.

The Obama administration sharpened the class divide by devoting most of the 2009 federal stimulus to state and local government jobs rather than infrastructure projects that would have increased private sector employment. Some politicians are calling for a second stimulus to re-hire government employees who were laid off when the first stimulus ran out.

The public-private disparity is erupting into conflict as voters push back in places like Wisconsin and California. Unions are compromising in a few cases but largely resist any attempt to ask their members to share the community’s sacrifice. The high esteem in which teachers, firefighters and police officers are held may erode as the intransigence of their unions drives cities into bankruptcy and blocks school reform.

Whooping up the voters to increase taxes on the wealthy may score a few political points. The more potent pocketbook issue is how much voters are willing to sacrifice to support government employees who are wealthier and more secure than they are.

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Psychological warfare

Another sea story…

My two cruises to Vietnam on a Navy minesweeper consisted of uneventful coastal patrol, boarding and searching fishing junks as part of Operation Market Time to prevent the North Vietnamese from shipping arms and supplies to the Viet Cong.

These encounters were nearly always friendly. We gave away lots of cigarettes, our hospital corpsman tended to any aches and pains among the fishermen (they loved pills) and once we towed a disabled junk back to port.

When we moved into a new patrol area I went ashore for a briefing and was issued what they called a psychological warfare kit. So what do we do, insult their mothers? No, you give them these here leaflets. The leaflets were printed in Vietnamese (which none of us spoke). The accompanying English translation sounded a little awkward, as translations always do, but the gist of it was that we were there to rid their peaceful land of the hated Viet Cong.

The last line of the leaflet translated as “May the sea spirit powerful catch for you many fishes.” This sounded a little odd, but we knew the Chinese painted eyes on the bows of their boats for good luck and it was plausible that the Vietnamese believed in sea spirits. We figured the guys at headquarters in Saigon had studied Vietnamese culture and knew what they were doing.

Boarding a fishing junk

When we next boarded a junk I eagerly passed out leaflets. The fishermen squatted down on the deck and studied the leaflet carefully, making approving sounds as they read. (They did not like the Viet Cong, either.) But when they got to the last line they burst out laughing. They were convulsed with laughter, rolling on the deck, pointing at us, pointing at our ship. “What’s with these guys?” we wondered.

So we tried the leaflets on the next junk, and the next. Same reaction: The Vietnamese got to the last line of the leaflet and burst out laughing.

We never figured out what the leaflets really said. I threw the rest of them overboard.

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