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Bill O’Reilly has a strong and devoted following. While O’Reilly claims he’s non-ideological, this is an obvious ruse to anyone who analyzes his nightly right-wing diatribes. With his prime time spot in Fox’s nightly lineup and an additional two hours of radio in many markets across the country, O’Reilly commands a sizeable audience.
While O’Relly dares to promote himself as an objective journalist, he actually is a demagogue—a rather ugly and vicious one at that. O’Reilly regularly attacks his guests on his nightly radio and television shows. Anyone willing to challenge O’Reilly, particularly the more intellectually adept guests, receive the harshest treatment.
Some would argue that this is all part of his persona to garner ratings and an audience. I would counter by saying that O’Reilly is a man who has spent his life bullying and intimidating people and getting away with it.
During the past year, I witnessed a particularly ugly exchange involving O’Reilly and Al Franken. Poor Molly Ivins was on a panel with O’Reilly and Franken to discuss their new books. Each one got about 20 minutes to discuss their works and apparently, O’Reilly thought Franken went on too long and that his subject matter, the lying liars in his book, Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right, came a little too close to home for O’Reilly’s taste. For all of C-Span’s viewers, O’Reilly showed himself to be the thin-skinned bully that he really is. All 6’5” of his frame puffed itself up and he began yelling and pointing at Franken. Franken, who stands less than 6 feet, put on his best smart-aleck smirk, which just made O’Reilly crazier. I realized that day what a thug and intimidator this right-wing hate-monger really is. Poor Ivins did her best to try to mediate, but O’Reilly just kept on telling Franken to “shut up.” I seriously thought that the two might come to fisticuffs on live television.
Since then, O’Reilly has attacked the poor, blaming their lack of wealth on their laziness, regularly insulted intellectually superior members of the media for their criticism of President Bush and the war in Iraq, and then, sexually harassed a co-worker (who he consequently tried to intimidate into silence). Now O’Reilly is focusing his hate and vitriol at both Media Matters and Abraham Foxman, the head of the Anti Defamation League. Their crimes? Daring to take O’Reilly to task for the remarks he made on his December 3 Radio Factor about Christmas to a caller during the program.
A caller on the December 3 Radio Factor objected to "Christmas going into schools" and explained that he "grew up with a resentment because I felt that people were trying to convert me to Christianity," O'Reilly informed him that the United States is "a predominantly Christian nation" and declared, "if you are really offended, you gotta go to Israel then." O'Reilly labeled the caller's concerns "an affront to the majority," insisting that "the majority can be insulted too." In his letter protesting the comments, Foxman wrote, among other things, that O'Reilly's comment "plays into one of the oldest anti-Semitic canards about Jews, that they are not full citizens of a country and are not entitled to all of the rights afforded to the majority."
The ever-indignant O’Reilly of course resorted to his usual shtick whenever anyone questions his integrity—lashing out and impugning the character of his attackers. O’Reilly, the self-appointed champion of Joe-sixpack and the guardianof all things virtuous, must annihilate any enemies. Agreeing to disagree wouldn’t be subtle enough for the self-declared protector of the journalistic profession.
While O’Reilly claims he was quoted out of context, it is in the full context provided by Media Matters that one can see the ugly ideology of people like him.
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Jesus: Too controversial for executives
There are a handful of columnists and op ed writers that I never fail to read. While a good op ed writer will pen columns that make you think, some rise above the pack and consistently produce superior writing. Pulitzer prize-winning op ed columnist Leonard Pitts occupies the upper echelons of opinion writing. Week in and week out, Pitts challenges me, makes me laugh, makes me angry, but best of all—he makes me think—and thinking gets harder and harder each day for a variety of reasons, the least of which is the pervasive nature American groupthink.
You can have your Cal Thomas columns, as well as George Will; these men are nothing but apologists for the masters in the corporate suites. I’ll take Pitts, not because he’s some lackey for the left, but a writer who is gifted enough to transcend ideology.
His most recent column, “Church’s Call For Unity Turns Off Networks” is another that doesn't disappoint. Writing about his denomination, the very open and affirming United Church of Christ (UCC), Pitts is perplexed about a commercial offered by the UCC that was refused airing by the two of the major three networks—NBC and CBS have refused to accept if for airing. CBS cites that it considers the spot “advocacy advertising” and it violates their “long-standing policy” against such advertising. Ah, the moral-crusading corporate media watchdogs. Makes you get all warm and fuzzy inside.
Both of these corporate entities deemed the ad too controversial to air. Controversial? Here’s the ad: Two bouncers working a rope line in front of a church. They turn away a gay couple and what appears to be a Hispanic man and a black girl. A white family is allowed to pass. The text onscreen says, ''Jesus didn't turn people away. Neither do we.'' A narrator closes the ad, speaking over a montage of old people, white people, black people, Hispanic people, lesbian people, human people.
As Pitts muses in his column, “I mean, work with me here. The maggot eaters of Fear Factor are evidently OK to broadcast. Janet Jackson's nipple somehow makes it to the air. Two half-naked vixens can even wrestle in a pool, arguing over whether their beer tastes great or is less filling. But a commercial that says only that God's love includes us all is too controversial to show?!”
Controversial indeed! I’ll add to Pitts thoughts that I saw an extremely racy ad for Victoria’s secret that bordered on the pornographic during prime time last night. I got to leave early from work due to lack of orders, so I came home, made my dinner and was watching a Seinfeld re-run on TBS when the ad appeared. Yes, controversial only when the executives deem it so.
One other point I want to make and I’ll be on my way; Pitts mentions a study that indicates that many people no longer attend church due to being “angry and alienated.” I confess to experiencing both of these emotions while attending denominational churches, plus several others. It seems logical that the one place that should feel inclusive is church—I mean Xian denominations claim to be following the message of Jesus. Now if Jesus was one thing, it would be inclusive. How else do you explain his embracing the outcasts of his day—the lepers, prostitutes, the Samarian woman at the well—all of which got him hated and eventually killed, by the hypocrites of his day.
Here’s Pitts column in its entirety.
You can have your Cal Thomas columns, as well as George Will; these men are nothing but apologists for the masters in the corporate suites. I’ll take Pitts, not because he’s some lackey for the left, but a writer who is gifted enough to transcend ideology.
His most recent column, “Church’s Call For Unity Turns Off Networks” is another that doesn't disappoint. Writing about his denomination, the very open and affirming United Church of Christ (UCC), Pitts is perplexed about a commercial offered by the UCC that was refused airing by the two of the major three networks—NBC and CBS have refused to accept if for airing. CBS cites that it considers the spot “advocacy advertising” and it violates their “long-standing policy” against such advertising. Ah, the moral-crusading corporate media watchdogs. Makes you get all warm and fuzzy inside.
Both of these corporate entities deemed the ad too controversial to air. Controversial? Here’s the ad: Two bouncers working a rope line in front of a church. They turn away a gay couple and what appears to be a Hispanic man and a black girl. A white family is allowed to pass. The text onscreen says, ''Jesus didn't turn people away. Neither do we.'' A narrator closes the ad, speaking over a montage of old people, white people, black people, Hispanic people, lesbian people, human people.
As Pitts muses in his column, “I mean, work with me here. The maggot eaters of Fear Factor are evidently OK to broadcast. Janet Jackson's nipple somehow makes it to the air. Two half-naked vixens can even wrestle in a pool, arguing over whether their beer tastes great or is less filling. But a commercial that says only that God's love includes us all is too controversial to show?!”
Controversial indeed! I’ll add to Pitts thoughts that I saw an extremely racy ad for Victoria’s secret that bordered on the pornographic during prime time last night. I got to leave early from work due to lack of orders, so I came home, made my dinner and was watching a Seinfeld re-run on TBS when the ad appeared. Yes, controversial only when the executives deem it so.
One other point I want to make and I’ll be on my way; Pitts mentions a study that indicates that many people no longer attend church due to being “angry and alienated.” I confess to experiencing both of these emotions while attending denominational churches, plus several others. It seems logical that the one place that should feel inclusive is church—I mean Xian denominations claim to be following the message of Jesus. Now if Jesus was one thing, it would be inclusive. How else do you explain his embracing the outcasts of his day—the lepers, prostitutes, the Samarian woman at the well—all of which got him hated and eventually killed, by the hypocrites of his day.
Here’s Pitts column in its entirety.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Christmas cheer
Working a seasonal job has been good for me. The obvious benefits go beyond the economic, although I’m not downplaying that one. As a struggling writer (aren’t we all?), financial issues are often the most common reason for the many who throw in the towel.
The real benefit is seeing firsthand what most American workers experience in the new economy touted by George Bush and his economic supply-side friends. Trickle-down economics doesn’t offer much more than a few crumbs from the table of the wealthy and privileged.
My seasonal call center job pays $10 and change, which is standard for this type of occupation in my area of the country. As our state has seen manufacturing jobs leave in droves, we have become a haven for companies wanting to locate their phone centers here in order to tap an able labor force willing to work for substandard wages. This phenomenon is not the fault of the workers—where does one go in a state where most jobs pay $8-$10 per hours? Most of the people I went through training with are working here as a second job. That means most of us are working 70-80 hours per week over this 6-week gig. It gives me a new appreciation of the term, "working poor."
Within a five minute walk from where I sit in my cubicle under artificial lighting and stale re-circulated air, thousands of shoe shop workers once toiled. Receiving a wage that allowed them to access part of the American Dream, these workers built this gritty working-class city of 40,000 into a community with character. Many of these French-Canadians took pride in their town. During the 1960’s and even early 1970’s, the downtown was filled with department stores and other locally-owned retail establishments. At one time, you could even ride the local bus line from my hometown 10 miles away.
When I was a boy of seven or eight, my grandmother used to take me on the bus with her and we’d go shopping. She’d take me to lunch at Woolworth’s where I’d have a grilled hot dog, french fries (we didn’t call them liberty fries then!!) and even an ice cream cone. I can still picture my Nana counting out change from her purse. With her peasant dress, large handbag that had everything, this fire-plug of a German immigrant provided her grandson with many memories that today’s kids will never experience.
I often express frustration at our media, for lacking the courage and drive to write stories about real Americans and their lives. What occurs to me as I battle the tiredness infusing my back and arms from burning the candle at both ends is that many journalists have achieved a level of comfort that prevents them from biting the hand providing it. A case in point is the fluff piece that my usually solid local paper carried about the call center where I work. There was little or nothing in the article that would force a reader to confront the reality of these jobs and how they ultimately do little to build the local economy. What they do provide is access to cheap labor for a local company that used to have more integrity. Still riding on the reputation of its founder, the flatlanders who now run the company offer empty corporate platitudes to their workers. While the article spoke of the “million dollar hours” that these phone centers ring up, there was no mention that the workers providing the modern day equivalent of assembly line labor are treated to tootsie rolls, candy bars and $35 Christmas bonuses.
A journalist with any integrity would have written something other than an article that was nothing more than PR copy that could have come directly from the company’s marketing department.
As a freelance writer, I often am denied the opportunity to write these types of hard-hitting pieces, primarily because I don’t have a journalism degree following my name. What I’m finding out, the further I go down this rabbit trail called writing is that journalism school doesn’t teach you how to write. What it does is teach you to become a subservient employee who rarely challenges the status quo set by the editors.
If journalism is ever going to become the hard-hitting, muckraking domain of men like H.L. Mencken, Upton Sinclair, Studs Terkel and others again, it needs to get out of the classroom and back into the remaining factories and sweat shops and see how real Americans live, work, and die.
The real benefit is seeing firsthand what most American workers experience in the new economy touted by George Bush and his economic supply-side friends. Trickle-down economics doesn’t offer much more than a few crumbs from the table of the wealthy and privileged.
My seasonal call center job pays $10 and change, which is standard for this type of occupation in my area of the country. As our state has seen manufacturing jobs leave in droves, we have become a haven for companies wanting to locate their phone centers here in order to tap an able labor force willing to work for substandard wages. This phenomenon is not the fault of the workers—where does one go in a state where most jobs pay $8-$10 per hours? Most of the people I went through training with are working here as a second job. That means most of us are working 70-80 hours per week over this 6-week gig. It gives me a new appreciation of the term, "working poor."
Within a five minute walk from where I sit in my cubicle under artificial lighting and stale re-circulated air, thousands of shoe shop workers once toiled. Receiving a wage that allowed them to access part of the American Dream, these workers built this gritty working-class city of 40,000 into a community with character. Many of these French-Canadians took pride in their town. During the 1960’s and even early 1970’s, the downtown was filled with department stores and other locally-owned retail establishments. At one time, you could even ride the local bus line from my hometown 10 miles away.
When I was a boy of seven or eight, my grandmother used to take me on the bus with her and we’d go shopping. She’d take me to lunch at Woolworth’s where I’d have a grilled hot dog, french fries (we didn’t call them liberty fries then!!) and even an ice cream cone. I can still picture my Nana counting out change from her purse. With her peasant dress, large handbag that had everything, this fire-plug of a German immigrant provided her grandson with many memories that today’s kids will never experience.
I often express frustration at our media, for lacking the courage and drive to write stories about real Americans and their lives. What occurs to me as I battle the tiredness infusing my back and arms from burning the candle at both ends is that many journalists have achieved a level of comfort that prevents them from biting the hand providing it. A case in point is the fluff piece that my usually solid local paper carried about the call center where I work. There was little or nothing in the article that would force a reader to confront the reality of these jobs and how they ultimately do little to build the local economy. What they do provide is access to cheap labor for a local company that used to have more integrity. Still riding on the reputation of its founder, the flatlanders who now run the company offer empty corporate platitudes to their workers. While the article spoke of the “million dollar hours” that these phone centers ring up, there was no mention that the workers providing the modern day equivalent of assembly line labor are treated to tootsie rolls, candy bars and $35 Christmas bonuses.
A journalist with any integrity would have written something other than an article that was nothing more than PR copy that could have come directly from the company’s marketing department.
As a freelance writer, I often am denied the opportunity to write these types of hard-hitting pieces, primarily because I don’t have a journalism degree following my name. What I’m finding out, the further I go down this rabbit trail called writing is that journalism school doesn’t teach you how to write. What it does is teach you to become a subservient employee who rarely challenges the status quo set by the editors.
If journalism is ever going to become the hard-hitting, muckraking domain of men like H.L. Mencken, Upton Sinclair, Studs Terkel and others again, it needs to get out of the classroom and back into the remaining factories and sweat shops and see how real Americans live, work, and die.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Forgetting the tide
It's easy this time of year to get caught up in the day-to-day routines of work, family and shopping for Christmas.
For the past week, I've found it comforting to tune out the "world" and politics. I've welcomed the brief respite from the drumbeat of bad news and corporate power grabs. Whether one wants to ignore them or not however, the powerful never sleep.
President Bush just nominated a pro-agribusiness former governor to head up the department of Agriculture. As governor of Nebraska, Johanns worked persistently to undermine a law, passed by a citizen initiative in 1982, that protects family farmers in Nebraska by banning most corporate agriculture. President Bush, as he is want to do, claims one thing while knowing full well it is a bold-faced lie. About Johanns, Bush called him " faithful friend of America's farmers and ranchers". With friends like that......
As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm reading Trudy Chambers Price's book, The Cows Are Out! Two Decades on a Maine Dairy Farm. It's men like Johanns who drove Trudy and her husband out of farming. They are the reason that in 1950, there were 4,950 dairy farms in Maine; today, there are less than 400! Just since 1989, almost 300 dairy farms have gone out of existence!! As these farms go out of production, so does the way of life that goes with it--a way of life that gave states like Maine their unique character.
When I look at people like Mike Johanns, George Bush, and the rest of his corporate marauders, I'm reminded of the beach when I was young. As a youngster, my sister and I would build elaborate sand castles that took hours to construct. No matter what we did, eventually, the tide rushed in--nothing we could do to divert the onrushing surf prevented it from pounding and flattening our handiwork. After a few passes of the surf, our castles were indistiguishable from the rest of the shoreline.
Corporate control is the powerful surf and the rest of us and our way of life is the sandcastle being pounded by the rush of sea.
For the past week, I've found it comforting to tune out the "world" and politics. I've welcomed the brief respite from the drumbeat of bad news and corporate power grabs. Whether one wants to ignore them or not however, the powerful never sleep.
President Bush just nominated a pro-agribusiness former governor to head up the department of Agriculture. As governor of Nebraska, Johanns worked persistently to undermine a law, passed by a citizen initiative in 1982, that protects family farmers in Nebraska by banning most corporate agriculture. President Bush, as he is want to do, claims one thing while knowing full well it is a bold-faced lie. About Johanns, Bush called him " faithful friend of America's farmers and ranchers". With friends like that......
As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm reading Trudy Chambers Price's book, The Cows Are Out! Two Decades on a Maine Dairy Farm. It's men like Johanns who drove Trudy and her husband out of farming. They are the reason that in 1950, there were 4,950 dairy farms in Maine; today, there are less than 400! Just since 1989, almost 300 dairy farms have gone out of existence!! As these farms go out of production, so does the way of life that goes with it--a way of life that gave states like Maine their unique character.
When I look at people like Mike Johanns, George Bush, and the rest of his corporate marauders, I'm reminded of the beach when I was young. As a youngster, my sister and I would build elaborate sand castles that took hours to construct. No matter what we did, eventually, the tide rushed in--nothing we could do to divert the onrushing surf prevented it from pounding and flattening our handiwork. After a few passes of the surf, our castles were indistiguishable from the rest of the shoreline.
Corporate control is the powerful surf and the rest of us and our way of life is the sandcastle being pounded by the rush of sea.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Christmas shopping excursion
I should have known better; I should have realized how much I loathe Christmas shopping. Instead, I decided to venture out on Saturday morning, of all days.
Since I am working for a still unnamed catalog retailer, one of my few perks of employment is a hefty employee discount on their merchandise. While much of what they sell falls outside my qualifying parameters for merchandise (American-made or made by workers that are paid a living wage), there are a few things that they carry that I could purchase.
Badly in need of some Christmas cards to send out to friends and family, as well as a gazetteer and a gift certificate, I bravely made my way to my seasonal employer’s retail empire. This shopping mecca draws tourists far and wide to the small coastal community which has been irreparably altered to cater to this retailer.
Parking was my first challenge, but I felt fortunate when I found a parking space about one half mile away from the store at 10 o’clock. From there I managed to dodge fellow shoppers as they did their damned well best to try to run me over in search of their own parking spot.
Once in the store, I was confronted with a maze of shopping "zombies"—people that have apparently lost their abilities to orient themselves to their surroundings. You’ll be able to tell them by the confused expression on their faces as they whirl around in place looking high and low for god knows what. One particular woman, going up the wrong side of the stairwell, managed to cause a major traffic jam. This middle-aged woman, god love her, was straining to gallantly negotiate the final five stair treads to the top. Once she reached the 2nd floor riser, the crowd blew past her, nearly sweeping her aside like a river breaking through a levee. I’m still puzzled why she didn’t take the elevator—while I commend her spunk, mixing in a little aerobic exercise into her shopping day, this stairwell during a shopping rush hour may not have been the most appropriate locale for her newfound fitness regimen.
Fortunately for me, the location of the cards and gazetteer were in the same department and amazingly, not heavily populated. I quickly gathered my items and dashed for the first floor registers. I was amazed that there were only three people in the queuing area waiting for a cashier. Before I knew it, my items were bagged, my gift certificate purchased and in less than 30 minutes, I was back out to the parking lot where my vacated spot was quickly snatched by a car sitting five deep in the developing waiting line.
I was now bitten by the Christmas shopping bug. Infused with newfound confidence that I could do this, I was off to the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance book sale and author signing at The Portland Public Market.
If one has to do any shopping, this is the place to do it. The patrons have a more relaxed pace. I envision that this is how people may have shopped when open air markets and similar venues were part and parcel of urban landscapes. While there has been a trend recently to bring back the public market concept, many are gentrified and dressed up and lack a certain gritty authenticity of the markets of days gone by. Yet, even in their yuppified state, these offer a welcome respite from the sterile environs of the local mall, filled with corporate Christmas cheer and numbing holiday muzak.
I had a wonderful conversation with genial Maine writer and poet, Richard Foerster. As someone given more to writing prose than poetry, I was interested in his thoughts on the difference between the two. Like many writers, he enjoyed discussing his craft and sharing insights that I know will prove invaluable to me as I continue my life as a writer. I purchased Double Going, a book of his poems about coming to terms with family and the dynamics involved with that. Foerster graciously signed my book, and I was off to visit the downstairs vendor area of the market. It was here that I met a sausage-maker from my home town of Lisbon Falls. We talked about his craft, small town life and my newly-made sauerkraut curing in my basement. I promised to stop by and drop off a sample in the next few weeks.
It was now time to dash home and grab my gear and lunch and head off to work my eight hours on the telephones. The evening went well and I even got to go home early because our call volumes were down.
Since I am working for a still unnamed catalog retailer, one of my few perks of employment is a hefty employee discount on their merchandise. While much of what they sell falls outside my qualifying parameters for merchandise (American-made or made by workers that are paid a living wage), there are a few things that they carry that I could purchase.
Badly in need of some Christmas cards to send out to friends and family, as well as a gazetteer and a gift certificate, I bravely made my way to my seasonal employer’s retail empire. This shopping mecca draws tourists far and wide to the small coastal community which has been irreparably altered to cater to this retailer.
Parking was my first challenge, but I felt fortunate when I found a parking space about one half mile away from the store at 10 o’clock. From there I managed to dodge fellow shoppers as they did their damned well best to try to run me over in search of their own parking spot.
Once in the store, I was confronted with a maze of shopping "zombies"—people that have apparently lost their abilities to orient themselves to their surroundings. You’ll be able to tell them by the confused expression on their faces as they whirl around in place looking high and low for god knows what. One particular woman, going up the wrong side of the stairwell, managed to cause a major traffic jam. This middle-aged woman, god love her, was straining to gallantly negotiate the final five stair treads to the top. Once she reached the 2nd floor riser, the crowd blew past her, nearly sweeping her aside like a river breaking through a levee. I’m still puzzled why she didn’t take the elevator—while I commend her spunk, mixing in a little aerobic exercise into her shopping day, this stairwell during a shopping rush hour may not have been the most appropriate locale for her newfound fitness regimen.
Fortunately for me, the location of the cards and gazetteer were in the same department and amazingly, not heavily populated. I quickly gathered my items and dashed for the first floor registers. I was amazed that there were only three people in the queuing area waiting for a cashier. Before I knew it, my items were bagged, my gift certificate purchased and in less than 30 minutes, I was back out to the parking lot where my vacated spot was quickly snatched by a car sitting five deep in the developing waiting line.
I was now bitten by the Christmas shopping bug. Infused with newfound confidence that I could do this, I was off to the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance book sale and author signing at The Portland Public Market.
If one has to do any shopping, this is the place to do it. The patrons have a more relaxed pace. I envision that this is how people may have shopped when open air markets and similar venues were part and parcel of urban landscapes. While there has been a trend recently to bring back the public market concept, many are gentrified and dressed up and lack a certain gritty authenticity of the markets of days gone by. Yet, even in their yuppified state, these offer a welcome respite from the sterile environs of the local mall, filled with corporate Christmas cheer and numbing holiday muzak.
I had a wonderful conversation with genial Maine writer and poet, Richard Foerster. As someone given more to writing prose than poetry, I was interested in his thoughts on the difference between the two. Like many writers, he enjoyed discussing his craft and sharing insights that I know will prove invaluable to me as I continue my life as a writer. I purchased Double Going, a book of his poems about coming to terms with family and the dynamics involved with that. Foerster graciously signed my book, and I was off to visit the downstairs vendor area of the market. It was here that I met a sausage-maker from my home town of Lisbon Falls. We talked about his craft, small town life and my newly-made sauerkraut curing in my basement. I promised to stop by and drop off a sample in the next few weeks.
It was now time to dash home and grab my gear and lunch and head off to work my eight hours on the telephones. The evening went well and I even got to go home early because our call volumes were down.
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