Sometimes the thing you don’t expect is the thing you need most.

I’ve been distracted by other issues recently, and I realized today that I’d failed to post an update on the Adam Race story recently.  I apologize for this.  I’m much better at dealing with one miscreant at a time, so the recent surfeit of jackasses has disoriented me somewhat.  There has been news in the case, although it’s not encouraging news at all.

On June 24, Carol Race appeared in a court hearing to defend herself and challenge the restraining order filed by Daniel “Not In MY Church” Walz.  Race represented herself at the hearing, and even had the opportunity to cross-examine Walz on the stand for about am hour, during which time he admitted that many of the accusations in the restraining order were based on hearsay, but that he “believes” that they happened.  Well, at least he believes in something.

The presiding judge one Sally Ireland Robertson, concluded the hearing by saying she would take the matter under advisement and would “rule later.”  This in itself was somewhat disappointing.  The next time my job forces me to make a quick decision, I’d like that “rule later” option for myself.

The following week, Robertson announced her ruling, which surprised no one.  She upheld the restraining order as proper, which actually makes sense to me.  After all, the question was never whether or not Walz had a right to do such a heartless, stupid thing, but instead whether he should have done it.  Using what seem to be very clear-cut guidelines, the judge ruled that Adam’s alleged behavior constituted “harassment.”

Walz’ actions are inexplicable, at least without doing some research involving the DSM.  Faced with objections, outrage, and ridicule from every corner of the globe, he is nonetheless stubbornly maintaining his unpopular position and has not rescinded the restraining order as any intelligent, compassionate man would have done by now.  This is why I do not use his church title when I write of him today.  Actually, something that begins with “Mother” might be more appropriate, but I’ll leave that as an exercise for the reader.

The Race family has started a new web site known as “Project: Adam’s Pew.”  The site is pretty rough at the moment but it’s a good start, and I encourage you to stop by for a look.  Race is encouraging churches around the world to designate a pew specifically reserved for people with autism and other developmental disorders.

Oh, and a special note for our good friend, frequent commenter “Ben” from Minnesota.  Ben, your opinions are welcome here in the comments.  So are everyone else’s.  If you don’t like what someone has said, you are more than welcome to disagree with it and say so.  What I cannot tolerate are your assertions that unless someone is a member of Walz’ flock, his or her opinion carries less weight.  That constitutes an ad hominem attack, and is simply a lazy way of avoiding the hard work of supporting your argument.

As a part of my effort to see that the problem at Woodstock Middle School is properly addressed, the following letter was sent to all seven members of the Cherokee County Board of Education.  When I remembered that there are three contested seats on the school board this year and that there’s an election in mid-July, I sent it to all of the candidates for those three seats as well.

Honorable school board members:

I am a citizen of Cherokee County, and I write to bring to your attention a serious situation.  Cherokee County’s school system has an excellent track record and has historically employed some of the finest teachers and administrators in the state.  This reflects positively upon your strong leadership, and when something threatens that reputation, I know you will want to be aware of it.

Last year, the principal of Woodstock Middle School, one Richard Landolt, was replaced.  I was extremely happy and relieved when I heard of this action, because Landolt had put into place some policies which were at least unethical, and at most illegal.  One of these was a 65% “minimum grade” policy, where teachers were required to falsify a nine week grade if it fell below a 65% threshold.  This also required falsification of IEP documents.  Landolt still works within the school system, but I understand he has not re-implemented the illegal policies at his new school.

I had hoped that Landolt’s replacement, Keith L. Ball, would represent a return to sanity and would bring quality leadership to Woodstock.  Sadly, this has not been the case, and there is some fairly serious trouble brewing at the school this spring.

In my opinion, Ball shows clear signs of inexperience and overconfidence.  A quick look at personnel records will show you that teacher attrition (retirements, resignations, and transfers) were extremely high during and after Ball’s first year of leadership.  This is not a coincidence.  Good teachers are jumping ship.  Ball seems intent on aggressively establishing himself as an authority figure, but does not seem to understand even the most basic tenets of management.  He stifles and ignores experienced teachers from whom he could learn a great deal.  He does not listen to his people, even when they warn him that serious trouble might be ahead.

Ball’s priorities are inexplicable.  He says that there’s no money in the budget for such things as classroom bulletin boards, even when they’re required under his own policies.  He then sends out a flyer to parents and to the community in general, asking for donations not for vital classroom equipment like this, but for repair of tired landscaping, purchase of front office rugs, replacement of window blinds, and the like.

Ball seems to have little or no knowledge regarding special education and the handling of special needs students, and apparently does not care to learn.  He was warned by someone expert in this area that his inaction in one particular case could easily lead to a lawsuit.  The case involved a child with a diagnosed and documented developmental disorder.  He ignored the warning, and now a parent is on the verge of suing.

Perhaps more frightening than the mistakes is Ball’s tendency to duck and cover rather than simply fix a problem.  When the open records request was filed, Ball ordered his employees to destroy e-mails which were required to be delivered.  He then announced his own formal inquiry (into a situation he essentially caused) and threatened employees with disciplinary action.  He so upset these people that one showed up at the inquiry represented by counsel.

Confidentiality prohibits me from knowing the names of the student and parent involved in the above action, nor any more detail than I have already revealed.  I believe that the board would be in a better position to investigate such sensitive matters, and I hope I’ve given you sufficient information to begin such an inquiry should you choose to.

I am aware of this situation because my fiancee’ is one of the teachers who decided to leave Woodstock Middle School this year rather than work under Ball another year.  I am also the author of a personal blog which came under attack, indirectly, by Ball earlier this year.  Unable or unwilling to speak with me directly about some writing he objected to, he instead harassed my fiancee’ and threatened her with disciplinary action if she did not convince me to censor myself.  She has no connection to the blog at all.  This deplorable action clearly shows that Ball has difficulty respecting boundaries.

In short, honorable board members, the principal who will presumably be leading Woodstock Middle School’s staff next year is in my opinion dangerously unqualified for his position.  I would strongly suggest that the board take a close look at Ball’s performance and qualifications before allowing him to cause further damage to the county’s sterling reputation for educational excellence.

Scott Johnson

The pilot-operated relief valve (RC RV 2) at Three Mile Island was supposed to open at 2255 PSI. It did. It was supposed to close at 2205 PSI. It didn’t.

I don’t know how to quantify at what point my personal relief valve let go, but it is open now. It may close again. It may not. I do not attempt to hide here the fact that I am very angry.

This piece is written as an open letter to Keith Ball, principal of Woodstock Middle School. He will probably hear of it by way of a third party, and as you will read below, I consider that fitting as a response in kind.

Keith,

Let me be the first to congratulate you. You’ve managed to lose the finest teacher you have ever had the privilege of failing to appreciate.  She has accepted a new position with a school system that will consider her an asset and allow her to apply her knowledge and her talents to the fullest, rather than suppressing her as you have.

I’m confident that you won’t see this as a loss. Your delusions of grandeur will turn this into a victory in your mind. The rest of us know better. As of yesterday, though, my fiancee’ has been released from her contract at her own request, and I rejoice in this.

I gave you the benefit of the doubt when you entered my fiancee’s work environment last year. You were young for the job and inexperienced. There were also rumors of a less than stellar past at a school system in an adjoining county. These things seemed minor at the time, probably because I was so happy to see your predecessor, Richard Landolt, leave. His departure relieved me of the responsibility of calling for an investigation into his grading policies.

Now I’m sure I was mistaken to have put any confidence in you. The doubts began to creep in when you proved yourself incapable of writing something as simple as a principal’s message for your school’s web site without committing (and failing to correct) one or more errors in grammar and usage.

Confidentiality prohibits me from knowing more than the very surface layer of what’s been going on at WMS of late, but I’m quite astute and it’s not at all hard to guess. I will refrain from discussing my theories — for now. The emotional and physical impact that recent events have had on my fiancee’ tells me a more factual and somewhat unsurprising story. In short, it tells me that you’re a coward without a shred of conscience, honesty, or integrity.

Of course, we knew this, didn’t we? A few months ago, there were two blog entries posted here which referenced you directly. I didn’t expect you to like them very much because (aside from some sarcasm concerning yacht maintenance) they were true; no incompetent likes to have his blunders displayed for others to see. Your reaction, though, really raised the bar and set new standards for unethical behavior.

A man of integrity, a man of honor, a man of principle, or for that matter, a man would have contacted me directly to discuss the nature of those posts. If he wanted them taken down, he would have made his case reasonably and logically. After all, there is no question as to the author of anything here. I write this blog, and I am solely responsible for its content.

You took the path of a true poltroon. I received not a single e-mail from you, nor did I get a single phone call. There was not even so much as a voicemail message or a comment on the blog. Instead, you called my fiancee’ into your office. As we both know, she has no responsibility at all for the material. You reprimanded her verbally, caused her to feel her career was being threatened, then encouraged her to pressure me into taking those posts down. Even after she told you in no uncertain terms to take your complaints to the source, you couldn’t find the courage. Instead, you continued to make her life difficult until she finally did ask me to take them down.

I complied, not because I have anything but contempt for you but because I was not going to give you further reasons to harass her. In doing so I compromised my own principles against allowing outside influences to dictate what I write or post here. This was the lesser of two evils and the less selfish of the two alternatives. The posts were never completely gone, of course. They were made private, and access to them was given to a very exclusive group — anyone who asked. A surprising number did ask.

Recently, it has come to my attention that there are copies of those very blog entries in my fiancee’s personnel file. That’s actually kind of nice to hear, because I thought you’d wanted those entries to go away. If you’re preserving them in her personnel file, though, it seems unfair that you and your colleagues and superiors can read them, but that no one else can. You must think they’re worth saving! In light of this, those blog entries have been made public again. I’m even adding updates to reveal a few details that weren’t in the original posts. Those entries are “A Bulletin of Importance” and “A Further Bulletin.”

Oh, by the way, you might also wish to observe the notice on my sidebar which specifically denies you and your colleagues, superiors, and subordinates the right to maintain copies of my work. I would advise destroying your copies before I take the next step, but that’s your call.

Your actions toward my fiancee’ in recent days yet again prove to me that you, sir, are not qualified for the job you now hold. In fact, I don’t think you’re competent to manage a laundromat, let alone something as vital as a school. Your actions remind me of the Wizard of Oz, hiding behind an image of authority and desperately saying, “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.” You’ve made the same mistake as the Wizard, believing that authority can be assumed. It can’t. It must be earned.

It’s time for the curtain to be pulled back. Call me Toto. As a citizen of Cherokee County, it is not only my right but my responsibility to bring this issue to light.

I freely admit that I am not an experienced investigative reporter, but I have several qualities that recommend me for such a task. I’m an engineer; it’s in my nature to look at a system, find the faulty part, determine exactly why and how it failed, and write complete and detailed reports that will ensure the prevention of such faults in the future. I’m also extremely resourceful and knowledgeable, and when I see a wrong that needs to be righted, particularly when it involves someone I love, I am absolutely relentless.

Have a great summer.

There have been some interesting updates of late in the case of Adam Race, the autistic boy who was banned from the Bertha, Minnesota “Church of St. Joseph” by its pastor, Fr. Daniel Walz.

Adam’s mother, Carol, has been taking her family to another church for the past couple of weeks, but she hasn’t given up on Adam or on her desire to attend her local church. As reported by the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, Mrs. Race now has commitments from several parents with autistic children who are willing to drive up to several hours to bring their children to the church. Such a show of symbolic support is wonderful to see, and would that I could be there (along with my fiancee and her son, of course) to see Walz’ face on that Sunday morning.

Also, an earlier article in the same newspaper points out an interesting, ironic fact.

“In 2005, the Roman Catholic Diocese of St. Cloud presented Carol Race, Adam’s mother, with an award, recognizing her efforts to encourage families with disabled children to attend mass, she said. The award cited her “untiring efforts … to educate and advocate for others who have children with disruptive disabilities such as autism and seek to participate as a total family at Sunday mass.”

It’s interesting to note the sudden shift in the winds here. First she’s a hero for bringing her entire family, autistic boy included, to mass every Sunday. Now, two years later, her son is a pariah for the same reason. It’s also sad to note that the Diocese can’t even mention autism in an award without calling it a “disruptive disability.”

My earlier blog on this subject was definitely polarizing among those who commented. Most people seemed to come down on the side of the family, but there were a surprising number of apologists for what Daniel Walz has done.  One, a fellow named Ben from Minnesota who says he attends Walz’ church, even called me and other commenters hypocrites.  (Well, he said we were disrespecting Hippocrates, but I translated.)  Ben apparently fears for my soul because I’m “messing with one of God’s employees.”  If that’s the case, so be it.  God’s personnel department needs work.  I’m mainly glad to see that the issue is attracting attention.  Attention is what autism has not been getting, and the most dangerous thing to a person with autism is ignorance.

One commenter objected to all the bad things that are being said (presumably by me, since my first post was fairly acidic) about Daniel Walz.  I’m sorry if the things I’ve said offend, but what the man has done is inexcusable, and he’s making no move to correct that mistake.  This adversely affects my view of him as a priest, a man, and a human.  When I become that disdainful toward someone, I generally do not hold back; whatever else this blog may be, at its heart it is a vent.

There are a lot of things I will probably never understand about Minnesota. Lutefisk would be one example. I’ve spent only about three days in the state of Minnesota in my whole life. Aside from the 3M plant that seemed to cover about half of the city of St. Paul, the thing I remember most is the stereotypical hospitality and courtesy afforded me by the people there, something that’s come to be known as “Minnesota nice.”

What I’m hearing in the news this morning is not so nice. It involves an autistic child, the Church of St. Joseph in Bertha, Minnesota, and its pastor, Reverend Daniel Walz. I will be dropping the title “Reverend” in the remainder of this piece because it is a title of courtesy, and I intend none. If I had been able to find a photograph of this worthless human being, you’d be looking at it now. If anyone has one, please send it along and I’ll post it; for various reasons, people should know what someone this ignorant and heartless looks like.

Carol and John Race have a son named Adam. That’s him in the photo. Adam is thirteen years old and severely autistic. The Races are dedicated to their son’s well-being, as all parents are, and they understand his disability. They’ve been attending the Church of St. Joseph since 1996, and have always taken care to ensure that their son’s sometimes-disruptive behavior is controlled and its impact on the other parishioners is minimized. They say they’d never had a complaint about Adam until last summer.

Daniel Walz, who has led the church for the past three years, visited the Races last summer at their home, along with another church official.

“He said that we did not discipline our son. He said that our son was physically out of control and a danger to everyone at church,” says Carol Race. “I can’t discipline him out of his autism, and I think that’s what our priest is expecting.”

Some months later, Walz followed up with a letter explicitly asking the Races to stop bringing their son to church. I don’t remember every word of the Bible, but I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in there like this:

“If thy autistic parishioner’s meltdown doth offend thee, and if his mother and his father cannot cure him, thou shalt drive him from thy church, verily, for blessed are the meek but not the autistic, and they shall inherit thy boot to thine ass.”

Daniel Walz seems to have worked that out for himself, though, without need of divine counsel. The Races, of course, dismissed the letter as having been written by a prejudicial moron (which is correct) and continued to bring their son to church. So, two weeks ago, Walz decided to up the ante and smote the Rices with a restraining order. When Adam accompanied his mother to church on Mother’s Day, the result was a citation, and a warning that if she brings Adam to the church again, she will be arrested.

If anything brings to light the problems caused by a complete lack of autism awareness in this country and probably worldwide, this is it. Autism is not a problem that you can fix through discipline. Autism is not misbehavior, it’s not recalcitrance and it’s not something to be locked away and hidden from everyone so that they’ll never understand it. Churches would never dream of turning away a man in a wheelchair or a woman who needs to be on oxygen, but a child with autism (and who reportedly is somewhat quieter in church than most of the babies in the room) is somehow a pariah and it’s okay to simply cast him out. Last time I checked, Christians didn’t deny people worship on the basis of their disabilities. It seems that no one told Daniel Walz.

The only good news here is that I’m fairly certain we’ll see a turnaround in this case soon. Daniel Walz might be stupid enough to turn an autistic child away from his church. The Catholic Church as a whole, on the other hand has just had a hard lesson in the dangers of bad press. Thanks to their coverup of the few priests who liked to play with young boys’ “rosary beads,” the church already has a black eye and has provided material for late-night comedians’ monologues for a year or more. I can’t believe they’d make the same mistake twice, and I might even expect something of a backlash. If Daniel Walz is left swinging in the wind by his superiors and winds up a disgraced layman, justice will be done.

I haven’t had time to talk about this with Allison, my fiancee’ and one of the area’s foremost authorities on the education of autistic children. I feel certain she’ll have input, and if you see a comment below from her, please give anything she might add a great deal more weight than anything you’ve read in this post.

Despite the few things I’ve managed to learn from her through osmosis, I still know nearly nothing about autism. I do know what makes me angry, and I would absolutely love to give Daniel Walz an opportunity to turn the other cheek.

UPDATE: May 22

After searching high and low for a photo of Walz, I found one that looked likely, but because I wasn’t 100% certain it’s the same man, I hadn’t referred to it. I received that confirmation this morning. The photo is on a commercial site and I don’t have permission to use it, so I’ll just direct you there: JeriCo Christian Journeys

Joyce McKibben, Mayor
City of Lithonia, GA

Dear Ms. McKibben:

Let me offer my congratulations. By overstepping your authority under the city’s charter and summarily firing your police chief, you forced your city council to rehire him on the spot. Your actions disrupted a public council meeting and left you looking like a petulant child.

By changing passwords on city computers, you then proceeded to disrupt city business and the payroll of city employees. You wasted the time of a state court by forcing them to issue a ruling on your authority under the city’s charter, which, predictably, was a ruling against you and in favor of the council.

You took your case to the media, too, whining and complaining until you successfully made your city a laughingstock and seriously impacted the success of local businesses.

It’s clear at this point that you’ve lost the respect of your citizens and just about everyone else who has heard of you, now that you’ve put your personal interests before those of your office and your city. Wouldn’t this be a great time for you to step down and just go away, before you do any more damage? Frankly, I’m tired of hearing about your childish rants in every newscast. If you have any regard for your city and its image, or even your own image, resignation is your sole remaining honorable option. Everyone thinks you unworthy of the office at this point; any other action will simply remove all doubt.

I’m posting this as an open letter because your mailbox at JoyceMcKibben@cityoflithonia.com is full, and I can imagine why.

Sincerely,

Scott Johnson

Most Americans remember the little monkey we read about in children’s books. Curious George is probably as much of a national phenomenon as Charlie Brown, at least among those of us who grew up in the 1960s and 1970s.

Let’s travel in time to the late 1990s. Shortly after George W. Bush was elected, someone notices a more than casual resemblance between Curious George and our Commander in Chief. We don’t know who that person is (several have claimed credit), but the collage of photographs he assembles delights many, and quickly spreads across the Internet. We see it everywhere, and once something has been distributed so widely, it’s nearly impossible for it to ever go away.

Fast-forward to 2007. The picture collage is still out there. I’ve just proven to myself that it can in fact be found quite easily by the hastiest of Google searches.

Oddly enough, at the time, no one saw anything terribly offensive about this collage. In fact, to me, the Curious George stuffed animal at left center looks a lot like George Bush, having the same beady eyes, the same slope to his eyebrows, and the same moderately clueless facial expression. Approval ratings were at an all-time low, and people were looking for any comic relief that might mitigate the shame of having elected a man who can’t even correctly pronounce the word “nuclear” to our nation’s highest office. (Oh, right. Again. Carter couldn’t pronounce it, either.)

Despite the fact that monkeys, during less enlightened times, were used in many contexts as derogatory symbols for black people, no one seemed to catch on to the racist overtones of this comparison. Of course, there weren’t any racist overtones, but that’s never stopped people from freaking out over this sort of thing before. It always puzzled me, each time I thought about this image, that not once did anyone play the race card in reference to it. Even today, when the image shows up on message boards or on someone’s office wall, no one says, “Oh, that’s RACIST! Take it DOWN!” They laugh, or they frown, but they eventually just move on.

Something interesting happened in the last few days. In Marietta, Georgia, a suburb of Atlanta which I pass through on my daily commute, is a small bar and grill known as “Mulligan’s Food and Spirits.” Located at 698 Roswell Street Southeast, Mulligan’s is not the sort of place you’d take a woman on a first date. The crowd is blue-collar and a little rough around the edges. Smoking is encouraged, not just permitted. The sign out front generally expresses the feelings of bar owner Mike Norman. “I WISH HILLARY HAD MARRIED O.J.” and “BORDER PATROL EAT FREE” were on the sign recently.

The trouble started when Norman started selling a mock campaign T-shirt featuring an image of Curious George and the words, “OBAMA IN 2008.” The image used is a classic one of George eating a banana. Here’s a picture of the shirt.

When I first saw this, I laughed. I took one look at Curious George and the photo of Obama the newscast displayed, and I could immediately see the resemblance. In this case, it’s the ears, the hairline and the smile that really make the comparison work. Here are two images I chose which seem to bring that home:

Of course, I didn’t laugh very long before the rest of the news story registered in my mind. People were objecting, but were also staging protests demanding that the sale of the shirts stop. Bloggers were calling for the bar’s sign to be censored, too, now that so much attention had been called to it. The consensus among all the news outlets seems to be that Mike Norman must be a racist, and intended to use a 1940s-era racial slur against Obama.

Despite the rapidly-accelerating downhill snowball of condemnation rushing toward my computer over the Internet, I did not and still do not see this as racist. It might be in bad taste considering how some rabid hair-trigger anti-racist activists have interpreted it, but comparing a man to a monkey is neither racist nor offensive. Minstrel shows featuring end men in black-face are racist and offensive. Lynchings and slavery and discrimination are racist and offensive. The N-word is racist and offensive. Norman himself, asked whether he had any racist intentions, said that he didn’t. He pointed out the resemblance and said he thought the shirt was “cute.” I have a gut feeling that if the shirt had been racially motivated, Norman is the sort of man who would make no bones about admitting it. He’s certainly never bitten his tongue before.

Playing devil’s advocate, though, let’s assume that I’m wrong. Let’s assume that Mike Norman, in a fit of racial anger, decided he’d call up the most hateful simian racist symbol he could imagine and put it on a T-shirt with Obama’s name. Does he have a right to do that? Yes! I hate racism. I hate prejudice. However, I hate the suppression of free speech even more.

While I don’t think the T-shirt is racist, Mulligan’s, thanks to a lot of activists and receptive media, has now become a symbol (at least for me) of free speech under siege. By writing this blog, I’m leaving no doubt as to my opinion. An apparently innocent monkey joke has turned into a cause for a ridiculously large number of easily-offended, clueless people desperately in search of something to stand for. I think I’ll go by Mulligan’s on my way home from work, have a beer, buy myself a T-shirt, and thumb my nose at the protesters. Someone’s got to do it. Mike Norman’s going to need money for a lawyer if the crazies get their way.

I am in the control room of a recording studio in Florida, a cool oasis of air-conditioned comfort in a land otherwise enveloped in muggy unpleasantness. My hands rest on the cool aluminum of the mixing console, and beneath them, motorized faders glide smoothly and silently in their slots, repeating my previous movements. The mix has become a living, breathing thing. It responds to my gentle corrections but possesses a spirit and a consciousness through the silicon mind of the computer and the voice of the singer. It’s her part I’m concentrating on now. Forty-seven faders move autonomously while my finger rests on just one, the one with a small star drawn on its scribble strip.

She’s not here, of course. Not physically. The little room beyond the soundproof glass is dark and empty, but the magic of two-inch analog tape ensures that her performance lingers. I constantly make small adjustments, keeping the level of her voice precisely balanced with the other tracks.

The last note trails off into the fade. For a moment, the room is silent. Motors whir, the big reels of tape rewind, and the faders snap back to their starting positions like soldiers coming to attention. Another pass. Refine. Hone. Sweeten.

Sing to me.

I am on a tall scaffold, looking at a stage a couple of hundred feet in front of me. Beyond it, the office buildings of downtown Orlando slowly empty, and people migrate toward the open-air concert. Already a large crowd stretches out beneath my perch, and the music is well underway.

The singer is blonde and wears a black leather outfit that doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination, but from my mix position, she is just a blur. Besides, I’m too busy for sightseeing. My hands are full keeping track of the combined output of eight band members and four backing vocalists, not to mention the siren herself.

Her voice is neither sweet nor subtle. The notes fall like the blows and strokes of a hard, stimulating massage, pounding the audience with pulses of staccato horsepower. I look down and all around me, the growing ocean of humanity is moving in time with the music. I see smiles and laughter. Hands clap. Heads bob. I notice that I’m moving right along with them.

The cop with the sound level meter standing beside me is moving too. Momentarily I catch his eye, and he smiles. The crowd’s responses intensify. Smiling myself, I move my finger a few millimeters and unleash a few thousand Watts more.

Sing to me.

I am in a room constructed of concrete block, situated beneath the steeply terraced seating of a megachurch. I can see nothing other than my console and what’s displayed on the two nineteen-inch video monitors in front of me. Behind me sits my A2, a high-school senior wearing a headset that connects her to the director in the television control room two floors up. On the monitors I see, from two different angles, a church leader introducing a guest who will be singing today. I know who she is, and with every fiber of my being I dislike her and what she stands for. She is an obscenity, a makeup-covered monument to insincerity, greed, and apostasy, Jezebel in nylons.

My A2 taps me on my left shoulder. “She’s on Cindy’s mic.” Instinctively I reach for that channel strip and immediately dial in equalization settings that I think will match her voice, line up an appropriate effect, and take a quick guess at the proper trim setting. I solo the mic and make sure I hear room tone. As she steps forward to sing, I quickly forget who she is. I don’t see a woman on my monitors; I see performance cues, microphone technique, and phrasing. It doesn’t matter who she is, not now. She is a singer, and I am a mixer. My fingers fly; my concentration becomes absolute.

A moment later, there’s another tap on my shoulder as my A2 relays another message from the director. “Your mix sounds hot!” I nod my thanks without looking away from my work. At least it’s a good song, and she does sound clean, clear, and powerful. Into the chorus, I lean into the console, and notice that I’m tapping my foot.

Sing to me.

My eyes hurt. I’ve been staring at a computer monitor for hours, editing. The tracking session the day before had been a miserable experience for the poor singer. He’d had an off day and had not been able to get through a take without going off key, missing a lyric, or just running out of steam. We’d come away from the day with a stack of takes, more than a dozen of them, all lacking one major element or another. My assurances that we’d fix it at mix time did not seem to reassure the poor fellow, and he’d left feeling like a failure, his shoulders slumped and his voice gone.

Starting in the early morning, I’d taken all twelve takes and listened to them critically. I’d chosen the best parts of each, sometimes cutting elements as small as a syllable or two. I had then reconstructed the entire lead vocal from these bits and pieces, Frankenstein-style. Now I’m running down a rough mix of the whole song, working entirely in the computer to save time. Just as I finish, the singer walks into the room, fearing the worst. I greet him and invite him to take a seat as I patch in the big control room monitors and adjust the volume to a comfortable level.

“It’s just a rough,” I remind him. I tap the space bar and sit back as the intro begins to play, and watch his face.

As the verses go by, I mentally tick off every edit in my mind. His expression changes. After the first two completely inaudible edits, his face registers mild confusion. Four or five edits later, when the expected gaffes aren’t heard, the confusion gives way to incredulity. Then he breaks into a grin, and then an outright smile as it dawns on him what I’ve done. By the time the song ends, he’s laughing.

“Dude, you totally pulled that out of the fire! You rock!”

People sometimes ask me why recording, mixing, editing, and sweetening vocals is such a passion for me. There’s really only one way to completely understand the answer.

Sing to me.

Exhibit A:

This morning, an eight-year-old second-grader was arrested, put in handcuffs, and taken to jail for punching his teacher. The story is here. The headline for it, on news aggregation site Fark:

Grandmother of the year says that if second-grade teacher can’t take a punch to the face from her eight-year-old grandson, she should find different work.

Exhibit B:

Larry Langford, Mayor, issued a proclamation Tuesday on behalf of the City of Birmingham, Alabama. People often wonder why Alabama has a reputation for having a somewhat illiterate population; wonder no more. You can read the proclamation here, but the first paragraph should suffice by example (all typography is precisely reproduced):

“The City of Birmingham Like the City of Nineveh has experienced violence and murder that pails in comparison to the City of Nineveh of the Old testament, Book of Jonah; and has become the fourth violent city per capital in the United States of America; and…”

Exhibit C:

Proving that insanity isn’t purely an American phenomenon, the British Treasury recently decided to update the image of one of its offices by giving the Office of Government Commerce (OGC) a new logo. The logo, a simple, geometrically regular merging of the letters O, G, and C, looks innocuous enough until one rotates it ninety degrees clockwise.

A spokesman for the office, who wisely declined to be identified, said, “…it is not inappropriate to an organisation that’s looking to have a firm grip on Government spend.”

I haven’t written anything here in a while.  I’ve had some mixed feelings about the blog, but I decided to leave it up, if for nothing but historical interest.  However, I’ve noticed something today that has moved me to write, mainly for the purpose of finding out if I’m the only person in the world to notice that we’re being treated like slow children.

A couple of weeks ago, it was announced that a US spy satellite, which had been drifting uncontrollably in low earth orbit since 2006, was about to re-enter the atmosphere, and that at least half of its mass was expected to survive re-entry and impact the earth’s surface at some unpredictable location.

Yesterday, President Bush ordered the U.S. Navy to use a missile to shoot down the satellite before it re-enters.

My bogometer (a delicate instrument which detects the presence and extent of bogus information) went off-scale high the instant I heard this, despite the fact that others around me seemed to accept the news with practically bovine detachment.

First of all, you can’t “shoot down” a satellite.  Satellites orbiting the earth do so in a “coasting” mode.  There’s no power holding them up there other than their own momentum.  If you shoot a missile at an orbiting satellite and hit it, you haven’t shot the satellite down.  You’ve simply turned it into several smaller satellites which are all still in orbit.  Changes in velocity as a result of the missile explosion will boost the orbits of some pieces, lower the orbits of some pieces, and change the orbital planes of other pieces, but none of them are going to simply fall to earth or cease to exist.  I’m appalled that people don’t understand this.

Another problem with the story is the explanation.  We’re being told that the satellite needs to be “shot down” because the hydrazine fuel it carries is a hazard to humans on the ground.  Let’s think about that for a moment.  If the satellite re-enters the atmosphere in one piece, it’s going to be one very hot piece.  What the government would like us to swallow is that somehow, a very thin-walled, delicate tank containing a highly unstable fuel under pressure is going to survive re-entry and present a hazard at ground level.  Hydrazine fuel in similar quantities was aboard Space Shuttle Challenger when it disintegrated in 1986, and I don’t remember hearing any concerns about hydrazine then, nor did anyone seem concerned about the hydrazine fuels remaining aboard  Columbia when it broke up during re-entry in 2003.

The truth is probably that the government doesn’t know where this highly secret satellite’s remains are going to land, and they can’t have even melted secret technology falling into the wrong hands, so their priority is to blow it to unrecognizable shards before it re-enters to ensure total destruction.  This makes sense, is believable, and is even understandable.  Why, then, can’t they simply release that story to the media instead of a completely fabricated, obviously deceptive, paper-thin cover story?  It insults my intelligence to even ask me to believe this garbage.

I have seen this story in dozens of places on the internet, and I’ve heard it on every television and radio news report over the past 24 hours.  No one has questioned it, even though it’s patently ridiculous.  I never before believed the conspiracy theories about the media being tightly controlled with respect to what they’ll release, but those theories are starting to hold water because of this sort of blind compliance.  It would restore my faith a bit if just one journalist or one TV reporter would grow a pair and mention that the government’s explanation of this action is bullshit.  We’ll see.

It was announced today that self-caricaturing idiot Cynthia McKinney will run for President of the United States.

Some of you may have followed her semi-illiterate ramblings, her adventures allegedly assaulting security guards with cell phones, and her ridiculous court challenge of her election defeat in 2002. She has a talent for making remarks that seem to embarrass everyone but her.

I went to her web site today to leave a comment, but I found that impossible to do. When I saw why, I laughed for ten solid minutes at the so, so characteristic stupidity of it.

Then I took a screen shot of it. Look, laugh, and appreciate that while Cynthia McKinney will never get into the White House until the U.S. starts employing court jesters, we’ll all get to watch her embarrass Georgia as she fails.

If you think the blog looks very different now, it’s not your imagination. It was brought to my attention last night that Internet Explorer 7 didn’t like my previous, heavily-modified theme at all.

The theme I’ve chosen to replace it is called Copyblogger, and it was designed by Chris Pearson. It is a theme built for writers, and is designed to render typography in a pleasing and professional manner above all else. It’s not as colorful, slick, or graphic as the old theme was, but I think it has a pleasant, understated look. I’ll be slowly customizing it to bring back some of the features of my old theme that I can’t live without.

For now, though, the blog should be looking fine and readable on all browsers.  Comments are welcome as always.

It is a day that we remember, and a day that we should remember. President Franklin Roosevelt pronounced this day “a date which will live in infamy.” On this day sixty-six years ago, at a naval base nestled in the islands of an archipelago some consider the exemplification of “paradise,” a surprise attack by a desperate and hungry empire left over two thousand, three hundred Americans dead and more than a thousand more wounded.

The attack ignited a deep anger in the American people, an anger which burned strongly enough to propel the United States into World War II. That anger, heated to incandescence by four years of war, ultimately exploded in fireballs of nuclear fury over two Japanese cities, marking the first and last time that nuclear arms have been used as weapons of war.

Pearl Harbor today remains an active Pacific Fleet port, home to more than two dozen US Navy ships and submarines. Beneath the waters of that sheltered harbor lie the submerged relics of a day so horrific that few can imagine what it was like to be there. Unlike many of the bloody wars in the storied history of man’s inhumanity to man, this one has survivors, and we don’t have to imagine. We can listen to the stories of those who lived to tell them.

MCPO Al Cory was a fireman on the USS Tennessee, which was tied up next to the USS West Virginia and directly ahead of USS Arizona. He spent 36 hours in the fire room listening to the explosions, the concussions of which would travel down the stacks and blow out the fires in the fireboxes, which he would then have to re-light. He describes wading around the fire room knee-deep in asbestos, the dangers of which were unknown at the time.

Marine Corporal Edwin Knapp, like many, thought he was witnessing a mock attack or a drill when he saw aircraft attacking the air field. Only when a Marine gunner shouted at him to get his rifle and get away from the airfield did he and his comrades realize they were seeing a Japanese attack. He recalls shooting at any plane he saw in the air after that, firing until the planes disappeared. He remembers the second wave strafing barracks, offices, labs, and the mess hall.

CPO Al Bruene was a gun captain on the USS Arizona. He is fortunate to have not been in his turret that morning; the timing of the attack put him on the quarterdeck awaiting relief when the first wave of the attack came in. Minutes later, the ship’s forward ammunition magazine was hit by a bomb, and exploded. More than a thousand men died in an instant, and Bruene was ordered to abandon ship as it rapidly sank beneath the waves.

More than half of the lives lost at Pearl Harbor were aboard the Arizona. Due to the extensive damage to her hull and the number of sailors entombed within her, it was decided that she would be left in place. As a national shrine, the submerged wreck serves as a memorial to those who died aboard her, and as the final resting place of those men. A memorial has been built astride her, and visitors to Pearl Harbor can board a U.S. Navy ferry to visit and remember. Looking down at the war grave of slowly corroding steel, one can still see small droplets of oil rising to the water’s surface. The survivors call them “black tears,” and hold that the oil will continue to leak until the last survivor dies.

I have written here in the past about other military remembrances. Memorial Day and Veterans Day are days to be remembered, and days on which we celebrate our fallen and our surviving heroes. I never fail to recognize these, but I have often been guilty of forgetting Pearl Harbor. In early December, our thoughts are often on the approaching holiday season. We’re busy shopping, planning, preparing, traveling, and anticipating the upcoming celebrations. Let us take a moment, just a minute or two out of our busy hours, to remember the thousands of families for whom Christmas of 1941 was not merry. Let us remember and thank the many heroes, sung and unsung, who gave what Lincoln called “their last full measure of devotion.”

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— John McCrae

It’s been some time since this blogger found himself tagged; that is to say, tasked with a blog entry whose topic is preordained by the poor unfortunate who was tagged before me. Today, I find myself twice blessed in that way, having been tagged by Loretta and The Merman nearly simultaneously.

My mission is to report five random or weird facts about myself, and then pass that honor along to five fellow bloggers, leaving comments on their blogs to speed the message along, and hoping that they will not send ruthless thugs to assassinate me as a way of saying thanks.

Here, then, are five little-known, odd, strange, random, off-the wall facts about this writer.

1. I once amazed myself (and left a barmaid wishing she’d not used her favorite challenge on me) by tying a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue.
2. Because my fiancee’s specialty is dealing with autism and related disorders in kids, I have taken several online tests to find out where I am on the “autism spectrum.”  If the scores are to be believed, I’m neither autistic nor Aspie, but I have definite tendencies in that direction.
3. I have never seen even one of the Rocky movies.  This means that all the Stallone references I hear go pretty much right over my head.
4. I have seen the movies “Wargames” and “Iron Eagle” so many times that I can almost recite every line from memory.
5. I was almost arrested once, as a teenager, when a friend and I decided to build a black powder potato cannon and test it in a nearby farmer’s field.  The field, as it turned out, belonged to a deputy sheriff. :(  On a more ironic note, my partner in crime later became a police officer.

There you are, then.  Five completely useless facts.  A real blog about a real subject will follow closely on the heels of this one.  Stay tuned.

I have just been informed, much to my great relief and surprise, that I am not the World’s Worst Person. Certainly I ran a good race, but it seems that to take first place with style requires more than I’ve got. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution (through the oddball news site FARK), reports that an Atlanta man has gone the extra mile to earn that coveted distinction from New York web site gawker.com.

I have always thought that in the interest of scientific accuracy, the term “meteoric” should describe a descent, rather than an ascent. Let’s take it from the top, then, and follow John Fitzgerald Page’s flaming, meteoric re-entry into the atmosphere of public disdain. We’ll begin with his decision to post a profile on dating site match.com using the screen name, “IvyLeagueAlum.” Subtle, isn’t it? One young lady, who now admits she should have known better, sent him a wink, which is just a signal of mild interest on Match.

In response to the wink, our hero sent an amazingly arrogant, chest-pounding, come-hither (if you think you’re worthy) e-mail to the young lady. In it he boasted of his high-rise condo, his Ivy League (Penn / Wharton) undergrad and graduate degrees, his workout regimen, and his job with Limited Brands. He also immediately asked about the lady’s educational background, height, weight, and exercise habits.

The lady, smart one that she is, used a built-in form letter on Match to send him a “Thanks, but no thanks.” Most guys would have just moved on, but not our World’s Worst Person. Instead, he blasted back with the following missive, which I reproduce in its entirety purely because my own meager writing skills could not begin to do justice to its description.

I think you forgot how this works. You hit on me, and therefore have to impress ME and pass MY criteria and standards - not vice versa. 6 pictures of just your head and your inability to answer a simple question lets me know one thing. You are not in shape. I am a trainer on the side, in fact, I am heading to the gym in 26 minutes!

So next time you meet a guy of my caliber, instead of trying to turn it around, just get to the gym! I will even give you one free training session, so you don’t blow it with the next 8.9 on Hot or Not, Ivy League grad, Mensa member, can bench/squat/leg press over 1200 lbs., has had lunch with the secretary of defense, has an MBA from the top school in the country, lives in a Buckhead high rise, drives a Beemer convertible, has been in 14 major motion pictures, was in Jezebel’s Best dressed, etc. Oh, that is right, there aren’t any more of those!

Regards,

John

Isn’t that charming? He wrote one paragraph dedicated to pointedly insulting a woman who would dare to reject him, and followed it up with a second paragraph dangerously overpressurized with slimy, narcissistic self-promotion. When that paragraph burst, it splattered Fitzgerald’s excuse for a personality over every blog, tabloid, and newspaper in the country.

The AJC, in fact, attempted to contact Fitzgerald for an interview. Predictably enough (do you see this coming?), he asked if he’d be compensated, and when he was told no, he declined to comment, mentioning that Inside Edition was offering him cash for an exclusive on the story.

Congratulations, John Fitzgerald Page, for beating out tough competition like me, and proving yourself truly worthy of the title, “World’s Worst Person.” May God have mercy on your dates.

In my last post, which was some weeks ago, I lamented how the Cherokee County schools were unable to afford something as simple and inexpensive as a bulletin board, after the hundreds of thousands they spend every year keeping the principals’ yachts maintained.

Today, a bold new plan is being presented, and as it turns out, there is money for bulletin boards after all! The problem is that the school really would rather not spend it, and is asking local businesses, families, and individuals to pony up the cash instead.

The following (horrible formatting, garish colors and all) came from principal Keith Ball. Keep reading; I have further comments below the text.

Facility Improvement Plan for

Woodstock Middle School

• Rotunda Data Chart – WMS to fund $669.25
• Rotunda Count-Down Board – WMS to fund $490.97
• Staining of the Outdoor Classroom – damage and vandalism – currently it cannot be used until this is completed. WMS to fund $2,300
• Blinds for Media Center – damaged; not dark enough.

WMS to fund $3,712.16 - $5,643.04

• Main Office Area Rug Replacement – original rug from 1996.

WMS to fund $639 (1 needed) PAID 10/18/2007

• Entrance way Mats – currently only some doors have them.

WMS to fund $1,228.37 (6 needed)

• Bulletin Boards in Hallways to Preserve New Paint – WMS to fund $727.16

(7 needed)

• Landscaping – “tired”, many dead shrubs, overgrown plantings, needs new mulch. WMS to fund
• Rail Chairs in Rooms with Tile – have damaged the new floors. Pipe insulation bought from Home Depot to preserve the floors WMS to fund

~$50 per classroom x 12 = $600.

• Teacher Mini-Grants – Teachers apply to the PTSA for a monetary grant towards continuing education or supplies for their classroom. PTSA to fund
• Student Scholarships – Students apply for a monetary reward based on need and a criteria set by the PTSA. PTSA to fund

Adopt-a-Project:

• Companies that provide services and/or funds for any of these projects will have an advertising banner hung in the WMS Gym and will be listed on our website as an Official Partner In Education.
• We welcome any individuals or families who would like to donate to any of these projects.

Also note the odd logic the principal uses. “To preserve new paint.” It sounds like a great justification, except that teachers are already forbidden to attach anything to the walls. The paint is already being preserved. The bulletin boards will allow things to be displayed in the hallways, which doesn’t sound quite so essential.

No one, of course, can dispute the educational value of a front office rug. I hear it’s oriental and very nice. For that price, it’d better be. “Tired” landscaping and “not dark enough” blinds are also clear impediments to the educational process, and we can’t expect students to learn in the presence of such things.

That last bit, the part in bright purple, is interesting too. WMS will hang advertising banners in the gym for businesses that donate and become “partners in landscaping and paint preservation.” My question would be this: who’s buying the banners, and who’s paying the county maintenance guy to come hang them?

Update: Principal Ball apparently wasn’t at all happy at first with his document finding its way onto the internet. Given its appearance and content, I can’t say I blame him. It was when he discovered this blog entry that he attempted to censor this blog in the most cowardly way possible, by putting pressure on my fiancee’, a third party having no control or accountability for my writing. He even went so far as to violate my copyright by illegally printing this blog and placing it in her personnel file.

“It will be a great day when our schools have all the money they need, and our air force has to have a bake-sale to buy a bomber.” — Robert Fulghum

Times are tough all over. Despite a new law in Georgia requiring that 65% of education funds be spent in the classroom, it seems that funds for actual classrooms are hard to come by.

At Woodstock Middle School in Cherokee County, Georgia, for example, school regulations require that certain items be posted in the classroom for students to see. Most teachers also tend to post class materials, exemplary work, and motivational materials in their classrooms. Most classrooms have bulletin boards for this purpose; very few do not. In the latter rooms, teachers have a real problem.

You see, walls at the school were recently painted. Because of this, proud principal Keith Ball has decreed that nothing is to be posted directly on the walls using adhesives, since these could damage the nice new paint. One teacher has already been disciplined for ignoring this order. Another one is struggling with the stupidity of being stuck between breaking one rule and breaking another.

What to do, then? Well, any reasonable person would say that a bulletin board should be installed. A bulletin board was requested last year on more than one occasion, and the requests were denied because there were no funds. The same request has been made twice since the start of this school year. While it might seem odd for a school system that can afford to pay a middle school principal $90,000 - $109,000 per school year to have trouble scraping up $100-$200 for a bulletin board, apparently things have been that badly managed.

Of course, it’s even more stomach-churningly political than that. Someone has to install the bulletin board. Yes, there are paid custodians on the school staff, but they have been given strict instructions that they’re not allowed to install anything. Instead, a county maintenance person must be called from headquarters to do that, and paid by the school from its own budget. This is, I’m told, to keep the numbers looking good and show that money is being spent in the classroom.

I saw the movie “Evan Almighty” this weekend. In it, a man dreams of changing the world. Along the way, he learns that the world isn’t just changed suddenly by great floods and divine intervention, but also gradually–one small, random act of kindness at a time. I have been told that if I attempt to contact the school and tell them I want to pay for a bulletin board and its installation, I will get someone I’m close to in trouble because they’ll think she put me up to it. I cannot sit here and do nothing, however, so I’m blogging about it in the hope that someone will see and understand how ridiculous this situation is. I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do. My gift is my blog, and this one’s for you. Sorry, Elton.

I have a cork board here in my office. I use it, and so do many of my co-workers. I consider bulletin boards to be firmly within the realm of current (rather than advanced or obsolete) technology. The third bullet point in Woodstock Middle School’s mission statment is:

• Students and staff should have current technology and resources to enhance learning.

If (and only if) you personally feel the need to remind them of this, Keith Ball’s e-mail address is keith.ball@cherokee.k12.ga.us , and Woodstock Middle School can be reached at 770-592-3516.

It’s about the kids.

Update: A bulletin board was eventually delivered to one of the classrooms which needed one.  Some weeks after it was grudgingly delivered, it was even actually installed.  In the intervening time, the cardboard carton it came in made a dandy place for posting required classroom materials.

We’ve known, I guess, since April that former CNN news anchor Paula Zahn and her husband of 20 years, real estate mogul Richard Cohen, were separating. We’ve also known that she had an affair. Celebrity marriages come and go like fashion trends, so I guess no one was very surprised. I don’t think I reacted at all, nor did I really even take notice of the news story when it unfolded.

Now, however, some additional facts are coming to light which actually do amaze and disgust me. First, the affair wasn’t a transient thing, but had been going on for at least two years. Second, the affair was with family friend and ContiGroup CEO Paul Fribourg, who often played golf with her husband. Third, Fribourg is himself married and has four children who are no doubt now learning what sort of man their father is. Fourth, to add insult to injury, Zahn wrote about her affair in lurid detail in a manuscript which her husband discovered; this is how he learned of the affair.

The media’s treatment of this is even more maddening. From TV Guide’s Ileane Rudolph:

Has Paula Zahn’s love diary finished her? A journal detailing her extramarital affair with billionaire Paul Fribourg has put the former CNN anchor in the news. Zahn’s husband, Realtor Richard Cohen, discovered the incriminating chronicle “a while ago,” a friend of his tells TV Guide, but it was only leaked after Zahn sued her estranged spouse for mismanagement of more than $25 million in investments. His friend insists Cohen intends to honor their prenup, worth “tens of millions of dollars” to her. So what will the scandal do to Zahn’s career? “If she had been successful at CNN, it could affect her as a lead person,” a media consultant says. “At this point, I’d say she should look to be part of a news team.”

The very idea of Paula Zahn as part of a news team now is completely laughable. Here is a woman who has shown in so many ways that she has no integrity or credibility to speak of, yet we would have her reporting the day’s news or entrust her to bring us accurate information without distortion, concealment, or bias? What a joke! I’d rather hear a news program starring Ollie North or G. Gordon Liddy.

I reject all the arguments that apologists (who seem to come out of the woodwork every time a celebrity screws up) are offering to excuse her actions. Her marriage to Cohen was sexless and unsatisfying? That’s what divorces are for. She had a prenuptial agreement with Cohen that would have left her a very rich woman if she’d done the honorable thing and said goodbye to him before indulging herself. Cohen mismanaged her earnings? Suing him is acceptable, sleeping around on him is not, and that’s clear to anyone with a conscience.

I had some respect for Paula Zahn once as a journalist, but these actions go to her lack of credibility, and I hope no one even thinks of putting this reprehensible, morally bankrupt woman on the air anywhere!

Well, wait. That’s hasty. She might do just fine on a reality show, if they ever bring back something like Temptation Island.

LONDON (AP) — Hundreds of thousands of commuters struggled to get to work Tuesday by bus, bike, cab and on foot as a subway workers’ strike stretched into a second day, disabling three-quarters of the sprawling Underground.

The planned three-day strike by 2,300 members of the National Union of Rail, Maritime and Transport Workers started Monday evening, with nine of 12 lines shut down.

The union said it would meet for talks later Tuesday to try to resolve its demands for protecting jobs and pensions of workers at Metronet, the maintenance consortium forced into administration by a financial crisis.

“This is a positive development, and we hope that Metronet and its administrator will now take our members’ legitimate concerns seriously,” said the union’s general secretary, Bob Crow.

The strike forced commuters to find another way to work.

I don’t think I’ve ever posted a link to this before, but it was written and produced by a couple of physicians who call themselves “The Amateur Transplants” during a previous tube strike.

The song, accompanied by a brilliant flash video, can be seen here.

Recently, Allison has been struggling rather badly with an organization known as Vocational Rehabilitation. Her son is autistic, and while he’s extremely high-functioning, he’s going to require some assistance as he prepares to begin college and take his first steps toward getting and keeping a job.

We join the story at a point where it has already been a frustrating comedy of errors. A meeting was held in order to discuss the results of an evaluation. While Allison, like most teachers, can read, these folks thought it best that she take a day off from work, requiring her to find her own substitute teacher and risk making an already touchy administrator unhappy, so that the report could be read to her. To add insult to injury, the information that was most needed and most time-sensitive was not available, although no one mentioned that.

After several fruitless communications aimed at getting better service, Allison wrote a rather strongly-worded but still quite professional e-mail to the Vocational Rehabilitation counselor, who would probably not want me to mention that her name is Lisa Engelhart. There was no harsh language, but she made it very clear that she was dissatisfied with the constant missed deadlines, wasted time, and lack of urgency since there were college registration deadlines involved.

In a moment, the following disclaimer, which appears at the bottom of Engelhart’s e-mail to Allison and is therefore included in Allison’s own e-mail, will take on a certain significance.

**********************************************************************************************
GDOL CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: This transmission may contain confidential information
protected  by state or federal law.  The information is intended only for use consistent
with the state  business discussed in this transmission. If you are not the intended
recipient, you are hereby  notified that any disclosure, copying, distribution, or the
taking of any action based on the  contents is strictly prohibited.  If you have received
this transmission in error, please  delete this email and notify the sender
immediately.Your cooperation is appreciated.
**********************************************************************************************

Here’s where it gets interesting. Lisa Engelhart apparently has a personal therapist, who would probably not want you to know that his name is Ron Fisher, Ph.D. or that he is founder and director of the Center for Professional & Personal Growth, Inc. Lisa Engelhart forwarded Allison’s E-mail as well as her own to her therapist, complete and unedited.

As if that weren’t a stupid enough mistake, Dr. Fisher apparently got a great chuckle out of the whole thing and replied, calling Allison the “parent from hell.” Unfortunately, the therapist from hell managed to hit “Reply All,” and the reply went to Allison, too.

You know that feeling you get when someone’s just tripped and fallen in a comical way? That feeling that you really are sorry and hope no one got seriously hurt, but that sure was funny! That’s about the feeling I’m getting now. Engelhart has been caught with her pants down forwarding confidential correspondence to a third party, and Fisher just broke doctor-patient confidentiality, so he’s in hot water with both Engelhart and Allison!

Ah, the joy of life in these United States.