There are some people that aren’t going to like my column this week. Actually, I hope no one likes reading my column this week—there’s just no way this is a happy subject.
The fourth anniversary has past since the U.S. invaded Iraq, and obviously, despite having deposed and executed Saddam Hussein, we’re still there. And now, we’re about to send more troops, including some from the local area.
That’s about as personal as it gets, when family and friends are asked to bid goodbye, perhaps forever, to those they love that have pledged themselves to the defense of our nation.
But this is no longer about any form of defense. It never was. The lies that led our nation into this mess prove that.
In the land of the free, you’d think we’d have some sort of accurate picture of what is actually happening in Iraq. But unless you’re an Internet research freak with a lot of time to burn, if you’re an average member of the American public, you really don’t have a clue what’s going on over there and how bad the situation is.
I admit, running The Easton News, my time for such in-depth international research is limited. And, it’s horrible, heartbreaking, sad, depressing stuff. So I know I don’t have the entire picture. But I’ve got a lot more than you’re going to see on Fox News.
It’s estimated that the average American child will see more than 10,000 murders and other graphically depicted acts of violence on television before their 18th birthday. But it’s rare to see even a draped coffin arriving home when a soldier is killed on network. And until the scandal with Walter Reed, you never saw American troops with major injuries. (Unless, of course, they were being shown off, like Jessica Lynch. Remember her?)
Why? Because the draped coffin is just too much of a reminder of the grim, inescapable reality of the situation—that this is a horrible war where people are getting maimed and killed.
And, lest the American public feel any remorse towards the Iraqi people, we aren’t shown any real picture of their lives either.
At most, we see optimistic diplomats or angry young men in the street or, occasionally, someone who looks rather poor and dirty. Not really a very good representation of the Iraqi people. In fact, with such a limited, and mostly negative view, it’s pretty good at reinforcing a stereotype.
But casualties in Iraq are so extensive that, combined with a shattered, practically non-existent day-to-day infrastructure, no one really knows how many civilians have been killed. And civilian injury tallies went out the window a very long time ago.
It is being reported that the rate of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is incredibly high among our troops in Iraq, both when they come home and, for some, while they continue on active duty right now. And while the good news is that we can and do save a higher percentage of wounded soldiers than any other war, many, many more of them will live with major disabilities for the rest of their lives.
The best way we can support our troops is by pressuring our leaders to bring them home. The best way we can keep our nation safe is to end this war and try to rebuild the international goodwill that this administration has squandered so carelessly.
(Originally published in The Easton News, March 22, 2007)
Friday, April 13, 2007
Murrow’s observations are even more relevant today
“We are currently wealthy, fat, comfortable and complacent. We have currently a built-in allergy to unpleasant or disturbing information. Our mass media reflect this. But unless we get up off our fat surpluses and recognize that television in the main is being used to distract, delude, amuse and insulate us, then television and those who finance it, those who look at it and those who work at it, may see a totally different picture too late.”—Radio and television journalist Edward R. Murrow, in a speech to the Radio and Television News Directors Association (RTNDA) convention in Chicago, October 15, 1958.
I was planning on writing about “Scooter” Libby and how he was convicted of four out of five counts of perjury and obstruction of justice in the Plame/Wilson case this week. But when I mentioned it to a few different people around me, I either got blank stares, or a “remind me, what was that one about again?”
Yes, the situation in Iraq and Afghanistan, and in this country, the U.S., is a confusing, bombastic mess. And, I know it’s hard to keep track of it all. I also know that when a problem seems huge, overwhelming and insurmountable, when one feels one can’t do anything about it, human nature is to more or less go into denial, to act like the danger isn’t present.
But I don’t think it’s really the problem is so big and insurmountable. I think that we are being failed by the “big” news media outlets, and our steady and ever-increasing diet of meaningless “infotainment” over the past five decades has replaced pretty much all relevant, in-depth news coverage to the point that a lot of average folks don’t even know what real news is any more.
Let’s start with what news is not. (This list is far from inclusive; what passes for news these days is endless.)
News is not:
Today’s tragic car crash on the highway.
What Brittany did to some body part, whether her own or someone else’s.
Some heinous crime in a distant city on the other side of the continent.
The nasty, prolonged divorce of a couple of famous people who weren’t famous five minutes ago.
The latest industry-created fad in breakfast cereals.
Lifestyles of the pets of the rich and famous.
These are just toxic distractions designed to take your attention away from the real issues. They can rightfully be considered toxic because they are sensational stories designed to evoke a response, often a negative emotion such as rage, sadness or envy, without any real purpose.
Fatal traffic accidents and distant murders happen every day, sadly enough. But unless the victim was a member of the community, what good does it do to dwell on something tragic that one can do nothing about?
News is what affects you directly—what your taxes are, what your lawmakers are doing and how it will affect you, how our nation is faring compared to other nations and how we are perceived around the world. It is how our workers are doing as well as the companies that employ them. It is the daily state of affairs in our communities.
Big and small, news is the things that actually, directly affect our lives. And news should be heard, because it is empowering in the telling, that people may be able to affect the things that affect their lives.
Like I said, I was going to write about Libby’s conviction in connection with the Plame/Wilson affair.
For those that need to get up to speed, Valerie Wilson was the undercover CIA agent whose name was leaked to the press a few years ago, by all indications, by someone in or close to the White House.
Joseph Wilson is her husband, the diplomat who was sent to Niger to find evidence of Saddam Hussein trying to get his hands on weapons-grade uranium, one of our justifications for going to war in Iraq. He didn’t find what he was instructed to and provided plenty of evidence that Iraq was not seeking uranium. (Wow, I just realized, the Bush administration doesn’t change its tune much, does it? Isn’t it the possibility of Iran getting their hands on a stash of weapons-grade plutonium the underpinning of Bush’s current saber-rattling with that country? Not real creative.) A grand jury was convened a couple of years ago to investigate the matter of who outed Plame, but when it subpoenaed evidence from the White House, the Bush administration argued that it had the executive privilege to without whatever it wanted. It took a couple more years of legal arguing, but eventually some of the paperwork the Bush administration wanted withheld was entered as evidence.
Some of that evidence points directly to the president and vice president.
But having noticed that very few other people have noticed, I can’t help but think that getting one’s news from TV, and even quite a few print media sources, is a bit like eating Pop-Tarts instead of a healthy meal, for every meal.
Edward R. Murrow was not only a great reporter, but a great observer, so much so that he seems as much prophet as newsman. His words of five decades ago ring quite true today, so much so that I have decided his words will end this week’s column as well as begin it, because he said then much more eloquently than I could ever say today how very worrisome it is that in many of the places this nation relies upon to keep them informed, the news is not the news.
Edward R. Murrow’s words, on a variety of subjects, may be of more import today than when they were first uttered.
“Our history will be what we make it. And if there are any historians about fifty or a hundred years from now, and there should be preserved the kinescopes for one week of all three networks, they will there find recorded in black and white, or color, evidence of decadence, escapism and insulation from the realities of the world in which we live. I invite your attention to the television schedules of all networks between the hours of 8 and 11 p.m., Eastern Time. Here you will find only fleeting and spasmodic reference to the fact that this nation is in mortal danger.”—Edward R. Murrow, in a speech to the Radio and Television News Directors Association (RTNDA) convention in Chicago, October 15, 1958.
“No one man can terrorize a whole nation unless we are all his accomplices.” —Speech to his staff (1954), as quoted in “Edward R. Murrow and the Time of His Time” by Joseph Wershba
“The only thing that counts is the right to know, to speak, to think— that, and the sanctity of the courts. Otherwise it’s not America.” —Speech to his staff (1954), as quoted in “Edward R. Murrow and the Time of His Time” by Joseph Wershba
“If...news is to be regarded as a commodity, only acceptable when saleable, then I don't care what you call it— I say it isn't news...
“But this nation is now in competition with malignant forces of evil who are using every instrument at their command to empty the minds of their subjects and fill those minds with slogans, determination and faith in the future. If we go on as we are, we are protecting the mind of the American public from any real contact with the menacing world that squeezes in upon us...
“The sponsor of an hour’s television program is not buying merely the six minutes devoted to commercial message. He is determining, within broad limits, the sum total of the impact of the entire hour. If he always, invariably, reaches for the largest possible audience, then this process of insulation, of escape from reality, will continue to be massively financed, and its apologist will continue to make winsome speeches about giving the public what it wants, or "letting the public decide."
“I do not advocate that we turn television into a 27-inch wailing wall, where longhairs constantly moan about the state of our culture and our defense. But I would just like to see it reflect occasionally the hard, unyielding realities of the world in which we live. I would like to see it done inside the existing framework, and I would like to see the doing of it redound to the credit of those who finance and program it. Measure the results by Nielsen, Trendex or Silex-it doesn't matter. The main thing is to try. The responsibility can be easily placed, in spite of all the mouthings about giving the public what it wants. It rests on big business, and on big television, and it rests at the top...”—Edward R. Murrow, in a speech to the Radio and Television News Directors Association (RTNDA) convention in Chicago, October 15, 1958.
The entire text of Murrow’s speech to the RTNDA may be found at: www.rtnda.org/resources/speeches/murrow.shtml
Stuff that qualifies as actual news on the Valerie Plame scandal may be found at: www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0406061libby1.html and www.truthout.org/ docs_2006/013107Z.shtml
(Originally published in The Easton News, March 15, 2007)
I was planning on writing about “Scooter” Libby and how he was convicted of four out of five counts of perjury and obstruction of justice in the Plame/Wilson case this week. But when I mentioned it to a few different people around me, I either got blank stares, or a “remind me, what was that one about again?”
Yes, the situation in Iraq and Afghanistan, and in this country, the U.S., is a confusing, bombastic mess. And, I know it’s hard to keep track of it all. I also know that when a problem seems huge, overwhelming and insurmountable, when one feels one can’t do anything about it, human nature is to more or less go into denial, to act like the danger isn’t present.
But I don’t think it’s really the problem is so big and insurmountable. I think that we are being failed by the “big” news media outlets, and our steady and ever-increasing diet of meaningless “infotainment” over the past five decades has replaced pretty much all relevant, in-depth news coverage to the point that a lot of average folks don’t even know what real news is any more.
Let’s start with what news is not. (This list is far from inclusive; what passes for news these days is endless.)
News is not:
Today’s tragic car crash on the highway.
What Brittany did to some body part, whether her own or someone else’s.
Some heinous crime in a distant city on the other side of the continent.
The nasty, prolonged divorce of a couple of famous people who weren’t famous five minutes ago.
The latest industry-created fad in breakfast cereals.
Lifestyles of the pets of the rich and famous.
These are just toxic distractions designed to take your attention away from the real issues. They can rightfully be considered toxic because they are sensational stories designed to evoke a response, often a negative emotion such as rage, sadness or envy, without any real purpose.
Fatal traffic accidents and distant murders happen every day, sadly enough. But unless the victim was a member of the community, what good does it do to dwell on something tragic that one can do nothing about?
News is what affects you directly—what your taxes are, what your lawmakers are doing and how it will affect you, how our nation is faring compared to other nations and how we are perceived around the world. It is how our workers are doing as well as the companies that employ them. It is the daily state of affairs in our communities.
Big and small, news is the things that actually, directly affect our lives. And news should be heard, because it is empowering in the telling, that people may be able to affect the things that affect their lives.
Like I said, I was going to write about Libby’s conviction in connection with the Plame/Wilson affair.
For those that need to get up to speed, Valerie Wilson was the undercover CIA agent whose name was leaked to the press a few years ago, by all indications, by someone in or close to the White House.
Joseph Wilson is her husband, the diplomat who was sent to Niger to find evidence of Saddam Hussein trying to get his hands on weapons-grade uranium, one of our justifications for going to war in Iraq. He didn’t find what he was instructed to and provided plenty of evidence that Iraq was not seeking uranium. (Wow, I just realized, the Bush administration doesn’t change its tune much, does it? Isn’t it the possibility of Iran getting their hands on a stash of weapons-grade plutonium the underpinning of Bush’s current saber-rattling with that country? Not real creative.) A grand jury was convened a couple of years ago to investigate the matter of who outed Plame, but when it subpoenaed evidence from the White House, the Bush administration argued that it had the executive privilege to without whatever it wanted. It took a couple more years of legal arguing, but eventually some of the paperwork the Bush administration wanted withheld was entered as evidence.
Some of that evidence points directly to the president and vice president.
But having noticed that very few other people have noticed, I can’t help but think that getting one’s news from TV, and even quite a few print media sources, is a bit like eating Pop-Tarts instead of a healthy meal, for every meal.
Edward R. Murrow was not only a great reporter, but a great observer, so much so that he seems as much prophet as newsman. His words of five decades ago ring quite true today, so much so that I have decided his words will end this week’s column as well as begin it, because he said then much more eloquently than I could ever say today how very worrisome it is that in many of the places this nation relies upon to keep them informed, the news is not the news.
Edward R. Murrow’s words, on a variety of subjects, may be of more import today than when they were first uttered.
“Our history will be what we make it. And if there are any historians about fifty or a hundred years from now, and there should be preserved the kinescopes for one week of all three networks, they will there find recorded in black and white, or color, evidence of decadence, escapism and insulation from the realities of the world in which we live. I invite your attention to the television schedules of all networks between the hours of 8 and 11 p.m., Eastern Time. Here you will find only fleeting and spasmodic reference to the fact that this nation is in mortal danger.”—Edward R. Murrow, in a speech to the Radio and Television News Directors Association (RTNDA) convention in Chicago, October 15, 1958.
“No one man can terrorize a whole nation unless we are all his accomplices.” —Speech to his staff (1954), as quoted in “Edward R. Murrow and the Time of His Time” by Joseph Wershba
“The only thing that counts is the right to know, to speak, to think— that, and the sanctity of the courts. Otherwise it’s not America.” —Speech to his staff (1954), as quoted in “Edward R. Murrow and the Time of His Time” by Joseph Wershba
“If...news is to be regarded as a commodity, only acceptable when saleable, then I don't care what you call it— I say it isn't news...
“But this nation is now in competition with malignant forces of evil who are using every instrument at their command to empty the minds of their subjects and fill those minds with slogans, determination and faith in the future. If we go on as we are, we are protecting the mind of the American public from any real contact with the menacing world that squeezes in upon us...
“The sponsor of an hour’s television program is not buying merely the six minutes devoted to commercial message. He is determining, within broad limits, the sum total of the impact of the entire hour. If he always, invariably, reaches for the largest possible audience, then this process of insulation, of escape from reality, will continue to be massively financed, and its apologist will continue to make winsome speeches about giving the public what it wants, or "letting the public decide."
“I do not advocate that we turn television into a 27-inch wailing wall, where longhairs constantly moan about the state of our culture and our defense. But I would just like to see it reflect occasionally the hard, unyielding realities of the world in which we live. I would like to see it done inside the existing framework, and I would like to see the doing of it redound to the credit of those who finance and program it. Measure the results by Nielsen, Trendex or Silex-it doesn't matter. The main thing is to try. The responsibility can be easily placed, in spite of all the mouthings about giving the public what it wants. It rests on big business, and on big television, and it rests at the top...”—Edward R. Murrow, in a speech to the Radio and Television News Directors Association (RTNDA) convention in Chicago, October 15, 1958.
The entire text of Murrow’s speech to the RTNDA may be found at: www.rtnda.org/resources/speeches/murrow.shtml
Stuff that qualifies as actual news on the Valerie Plame scandal may be found at: www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0406061libby1.html and www.truthout.org/ docs_2006/013107Z.shtml
(Originally published in The Easton News, March 15, 2007)
Why a 20 minute computer fix takes a week to complete
The very worst thing that could happen to a news editor in my position happened about two weeks ago. My home computer died.
It was early in the morning, like 5:30 a.m., an unusual hour for me to be voluntarily awake. I was about to transfer a whole bunch of stuff onto a CD for inclusion in that week’s issue, when I heard a small pop and my computer, without even a whine or a whimper, suddenly went dead.
I didn’t immediately panic. The surge protector may have been tripped.
Nope.
Well, maybe it’s a fuse somewhere on the back of the computer.
I check. There isn’t one. But I do notice a faint whiff of ozone, which is not a good sign.
But hey, maybe it’s magnetic lock. I’ve never seen that happen while a computer is running, but wouldn’t that be great? Just unplug everything and replug it back in, and if that’s what’s up, it will work.
That isn’t what’s up.
So now I’m reaching the very unhappy pre-dawn conclusion that I’ve just blown my computer’s power supply. If it isn’t that, it’s worse, and I’ve just fried my motherboard, I figure.
I decide the best course of immediate action is to brew another cup of cappuccino and contemplate the situation.
The power supply is the most likely scenario, which is relatively good, since that means the computer’s memory is intact, and it’s a pretty easy fix, if you’ve got the part.
So I call up “Romeo’s” (so named because that’s what it says on the tower case) architect, my little brother, who built the beast for me a few years ago.
I ask what the specs are for my power supply. He tells me he might be able to replace the part for me sometime next week. I say, “No, no, you don’t understand. That’s really sweet, and I appreciate it, but I can’t wait ‘til next week. I need this thing working tonight. Give me the specs on what power supply I need to buy. I’m hitting Circuit City on my way back to Easton from the office, and I’ve got a date with a screwdriver and Romeo after that. I’m fixing this beast tonight.”
So he gives me the specs—a 20-pin, 300-400 watt power supply should do it. It should be about $15 if I buy it online, and a whole lot more in person. (Yes, compugeeks, I’m still in the dark ages.)
Great. I don’t know exactly what that is, but I’m going to acquire one pronto. (Laugh it up, eggheads.)
The thought of having to rewrite and edit everything that is stuck on my non-operative computer in a dark industrial park office makes the price tag a pretty moot point. I decide that even if it’s $75 at a retailer, that’s worth the night’s sleep.
For the record, at a retailer, it’s about $50. But that’s only if they have such an antiquated item actually in stock. Two Staples and a Circuit City failed to turn up the requisite item.
A phone call to Easton Electronics confirmed that having someone do the repair for me would be in the neighborhood of $125 or a bit more, and still, the repair would not be complete before deadline.
So, I bit the bullet, did what needed doing, and ordered the part online.
It was $12.95. Shipping was either $11.40, if I’d like it to arrive sometime in the next three days, or $8.90 if I didn’t care if it arrived until sometime after the spring thaw. I definitely cared, so I chose the $11.40 option. I’d have paid a lot more than that, if they could have beamed it directly onto my doorstep, ala Star Trek, at that point.
So, four days later, (Why is there a law that dictates that the more you need something NOW, it must be delayed in transit?), a box arrives at my office. I put that week’s paper to bed and tell my boss that I am leaving because I have an overdue date with a screwdriver.
I take the sides off the tower and am immediately glad neither my brother nor a pro is doing this job. There is a carpet of dust an inch thick weaving it’s way among the circuit panels. There is no way I’d have been up for the scolding, though where all that dust came from in the less-than-a-year since my computer was last cleaned is beyond me.
So, before any real sugery can begin, I need canned air.
I call around town to see if a car trip can be avoided. Three likely places fail to turn up results, so it’s off to Kmart.
Nearly $7 and 30 minutes later for a compressed, canned version of a substance we breathe 24/7, I’m back at my apartment ready for business.
First thing, Romeo gets a thorough dusting.
Four screws are all that holds in a computer power supply, I discover. I remove them and put them in my pocket for safekeeping.
The old power supply won’t reach the floor if I don’t remove the big plug attaching it to the processor (or is that the mother board?), but since it’s the only big plug, I figure it’s pretty safe to remove it.
I don’t know much about computers, but having seen the inside of a few, it’s pretty much a bunch of modular parts connected together by various plugs. Ergo, if you can fit the square plug into a square hole, and keep which square plug goes where, all should be well. My plan was to remove one thing at a time, replacing it with the new one in succession so I didn’t get lost.
So I installed the new power supply with it’s four screws. I went to plug in the big plug, only to discover that my new big plug has 24 pins. I was about to lose it, when I noticed that four seemed to be detachable. Whew! A jumper. I remove the extra four and plug in.
Then I went carefully over the octopus of wires and identified the ones that were identical to the ones hooked up in the computer. One by one, I unhooked and rehooked plugs, about 10 in all. The actual replacement process took less than 20 minutes.
Then it was time for the moment of truth. Panels back on the tower, monitor and accessories all hooked back up, kitchen A-B-C fire extinguisher handy just in case I did something really wrong, power supply plugged into cord plugged into wall.
I pushed the switch.
And Romeo was back. Alive. On my first try.
So I sent my fellow editors at work an email. It said, “Victory is mine.”
They had no idea what I was talking about.
(Originally published in The Easton News, March 8, 2007)
It was early in the morning, like 5:30 a.m., an unusual hour for me to be voluntarily awake. I was about to transfer a whole bunch of stuff onto a CD for inclusion in that week’s issue, when I heard a small pop and my computer, without even a whine or a whimper, suddenly went dead.
I didn’t immediately panic. The surge protector may have been tripped.
Nope.
Well, maybe it’s a fuse somewhere on the back of the computer.
I check. There isn’t one. But I do notice a faint whiff of ozone, which is not a good sign.
But hey, maybe it’s magnetic lock. I’ve never seen that happen while a computer is running, but wouldn’t that be great? Just unplug everything and replug it back in, and if that’s what’s up, it will work.
That isn’t what’s up.
So now I’m reaching the very unhappy pre-dawn conclusion that I’ve just blown my computer’s power supply. If it isn’t that, it’s worse, and I’ve just fried my motherboard, I figure.
I decide the best course of immediate action is to brew another cup of cappuccino and contemplate the situation.
The power supply is the most likely scenario, which is relatively good, since that means the computer’s memory is intact, and it’s a pretty easy fix, if you’ve got the part.
So I call up “Romeo’s” (so named because that’s what it says on the tower case) architect, my little brother, who built the beast for me a few years ago.
I ask what the specs are for my power supply. He tells me he might be able to replace the part for me sometime next week. I say, “No, no, you don’t understand. That’s really sweet, and I appreciate it, but I can’t wait ‘til next week. I need this thing working tonight. Give me the specs on what power supply I need to buy. I’m hitting Circuit City on my way back to Easton from the office, and I’ve got a date with a screwdriver and Romeo after that. I’m fixing this beast tonight.”
So he gives me the specs—a 20-pin, 300-400 watt power supply should do it. It should be about $15 if I buy it online, and a whole lot more in person. (Yes, compugeeks, I’m still in the dark ages.)
Great. I don’t know exactly what that is, but I’m going to acquire one pronto. (Laugh it up, eggheads.)
The thought of having to rewrite and edit everything that is stuck on my non-operative computer in a dark industrial park office makes the price tag a pretty moot point. I decide that even if it’s $75 at a retailer, that’s worth the night’s sleep.
For the record, at a retailer, it’s about $50. But that’s only if they have such an antiquated item actually in stock. Two Staples and a Circuit City failed to turn up the requisite item.
A phone call to Easton Electronics confirmed that having someone do the repair for me would be in the neighborhood of $125 or a bit more, and still, the repair would not be complete before deadline.
So, I bit the bullet, did what needed doing, and ordered the part online.
It was $12.95. Shipping was either $11.40, if I’d like it to arrive sometime in the next three days, or $8.90 if I didn’t care if it arrived until sometime after the spring thaw. I definitely cared, so I chose the $11.40 option. I’d have paid a lot more than that, if they could have beamed it directly onto my doorstep, ala Star Trek, at that point.
So, four days later, (Why is there a law that dictates that the more you need something NOW, it must be delayed in transit?), a box arrives at my office. I put that week’s paper to bed and tell my boss that I am leaving because I have an overdue date with a screwdriver.
I take the sides off the tower and am immediately glad neither my brother nor a pro is doing this job. There is a carpet of dust an inch thick weaving it’s way among the circuit panels. There is no way I’d have been up for the scolding, though where all that dust came from in the less-than-a-year since my computer was last cleaned is beyond me.
So, before any real sugery can begin, I need canned air.
I call around town to see if a car trip can be avoided. Three likely places fail to turn up results, so it’s off to Kmart.
Nearly $7 and 30 minutes later for a compressed, canned version of a substance we breathe 24/7, I’m back at my apartment ready for business.
First thing, Romeo gets a thorough dusting.
Four screws are all that holds in a computer power supply, I discover. I remove them and put them in my pocket for safekeeping.
The old power supply won’t reach the floor if I don’t remove the big plug attaching it to the processor (or is that the mother board?), but since it’s the only big plug, I figure it’s pretty safe to remove it.
I don’t know much about computers, but having seen the inside of a few, it’s pretty much a bunch of modular parts connected together by various plugs. Ergo, if you can fit the square plug into a square hole, and keep which square plug goes where, all should be well. My plan was to remove one thing at a time, replacing it with the new one in succession so I didn’t get lost.
So I installed the new power supply with it’s four screws. I went to plug in the big plug, only to discover that my new big plug has 24 pins. I was about to lose it, when I noticed that four seemed to be detachable. Whew! A jumper. I remove the extra four and plug in.
Then I went carefully over the octopus of wires and identified the ones that were identical to the ones hooked up in the computer. One by one, I unhooked and rehooked plugs, about 10 in all. The actual replacement process took less than 20 minutes.
Then it was time for the moment of truth. Panels back on the tower, monitor and accessories all hooked back up, kitchen A-B-C fire extinguisher handy just in case I did something really wrong, power supply plugged into cord plugged into wall.
I pushed the switch.
And Romeo was back. Alive. On my first try.
So I sent my fellow editors at work an email. It said, “Victory is mine.”
They had no idea what I was talking about.
(Originally published in The Easton News, March 8, 2007)
If Easton is so bad, why do they visit us and want to live here?
At the risk of making some instant enemies, I’ve decided to bring up a topic that is long overdue in this humble little sphere of The Easton News—local development (insert scary theremin and organ music here).
I’m bringing this up because if I don’t, I think my head may explode.
Let me start by saying that it is probably fair to say that I am more informed on local zoning, planning and development issues than the average person. I never really sought to be—it just happened. Actively covering nine municipalities and two school districts, which often requires attending three or four evening municipal meetings of various sorts a week will do that to you.
Let me also warn you that, being a loyal resident of Easton, this article is going to be a bit biased that way. In fact, it should be. I may cover other municipalities, but the only one I live in is Easton, and therefore, that is the only one I can really lay claim to.
Not everyone holds that opinion, however, and that is also a bit of what prompted me to write on this subject. It’s an important point, but rather dangerously neglected.
I got a night off from meetings last week and decided to take advantage of my rare freedom at one of Easton’s fine pubs. But instead of enjoying my book as I had intended, I got drawn into a conversation about Easton’s revitalization with some guys who all said they were “local.”
The first was the one who drew me into the conversation. He clearly stated that Easton is a mess and needs a complete overhaul. Drugs, crime, blight, you name it, Easton is falling down, it all sucks, and we should come up with a plan to tear it down and replace it before it’s too late. Also, those folks from Jersey are coming, and there’s nothing we can do about it, so we better get used to the idea of adding some ticky-tack to the city to suit their tastes. We should also invest in some major riverfront “revitalization” like perhaps Baltimore Harbor—it will also help those suburbanites we’re about to be overrun with feel more comfortable. Oh, and we should also take a clue and be more like Hoboken too.
I was more than a little offended at his assessment of the city. Certainly Easton has problems, but this was a bit much. But I decided to stay calm and gather a bit more information.
It turns out the guy does not live in Easton; he lives in—drumroll, please—NEW JERSEY!!
So I ask why, if Easton is so terrible, he is drinking in a bar in Easton. He tells me his mother lives here. Then he goes on about how wonderful Bethlehem is and how they’ve really turned things around and we should be more like them. Then I ask some more about where his mother lives. It turns out she does not live in Easton either, but more west—the direction in which the wonderful Bethlehem lies (that he did not choose to enjoy instead of the evil Easton).
I point this out, but he chooses not to elaborate on this mysterious phenomena. He tells me that no one is doing anything at all here, that even our volunteer organizations are run by lowlifes, at which point I decide the conversation has become so unpleasant that it must end. I just can’t see the point of arguing with a guy that doesn’t know who or what he’s talking about and is convinced everything here must be bad. He decides that if he can’t verbally barrage me further, it is time to go elsewhere (undoubtedly in Easton). Good riddance.
So I attempt once again to read my book, but another gentleman at the bar wants to continue the conversation. He is a construction manager, a transplant from out west who’s lived in Easton, he said, for seven years.
So, being that he’s in the building business and lived in Easton for two years longer than myself, I figure he might know something. He also used the words I brought up earlier, about “being part of the community.”
Well, he’s a nice guy, but it turns out he doesn’t live in Easton either—he lives in Forks. And if he’s been part of the community, I have to ask where he’s been on their zoning and planning issues for the past seven years. The answer? Not at any meetings. He couldn’t even name a single member of either board. And he continued to tell me he lived in Easton.
I got accused of being very negative and not being sensitive of the opinions of others that night. But I can’t really accept that assessment. Refusing to agree with opinions based on no known fact is not negative—it’s prudent. And I can’t figure out how these guys’ opinions, all of who do not live in Easton, somehow, in their heads, have more weight than that of an informed resident who would have rather been reading her book on information theory over a microbrew.
Easton is a jewel of a city, and everyone seems to have an opinion about how it needs to be “fixed.” But the only people whose opinions should really hold any weight are those of actual Eastonians because those are the folks who will have to live with the results and pay the price or reap the benefits of those decisions.
That is the case with every municipality. It would seem that a lot of folks these days don’t actually know what it means to be part of the community—it is definitely more than just coming home at night to the house you bought after your last job transfer and paying taxes on it until your next one, complaining about the neighborhood all the while. And, more than frequenting the neighborhood watering hole, no matter how many buddies you might have there.
It involves actually identifying with and working with members of the community in which one resides, not to mention participating in its growth and management.
And while it is a good thing to keep an open mind and look at ideas that have worked elsewhere, we never want to implement an idea because we want to be another city. I’ve heard all too often about making Easton into New Hope, Manyunk, Jim Thorpe and now Hoboken. But as wonderful (or not) as those place may be, we never want to be them, for the simple reason that EASTON IS WONDERFUL BECAUSE IT IS EASTON.
As one notorious local publisher has stated in a name, “Easton is home.”
Let Hoboken be Hoboken. There is only one. And, there is only one Easton, Pa.
What we need to do is make all the things that are unique and wonderful about Easton even more wonderful and make sure that the new stuff is up to those standards and fits in with Easton’s character. Despite stressed finances, Easton is fabulous real estate in one of the last untapped NYC markets. Yes, they are coming—and we have to make sure that their new development is up to our standards.
We need to never forget that people are moving to the area because it offers a better quality of life than where they are coming from. We need to make sure that the things that made and continue to make Easton great are not swept away or trampled underfoot by folks who don’t understand the value of them, and in fact, many times, are fleeing communities that have been messed up by poorly planned over-development they didn’t take the time to participate in. We need to make sure that the folks who already live here are considered before the folks who we might entice to move here, because they are the people who have made Easton and the surrounding area what it is—the real reason why folks want to move here.
Those from out of state who don’t like it should remember that one must pay a bridge toll to come, but the bridge always has an open eastbound lane, and going back to New Jersey is free, if one decides this side of the river is not to one’s liking.
(Originally published in The Easton News, March 1, 2007)
I’m bringing this up because if I don’t, I think my head may explode.
Let me start by saying that it is probably fair to say that I am more informed on local zoning, planning and development issues than the average person. I never really sought to be—it just happened. Actively covering nine municipalities and two school districts, which often requires attending three or four evening municipal meetings of various sorts a week will do that to you.
Let me also warn you that, being a loyal resident of Easton, this article is going to be a bit biased that way. In fact, it should be. I may cover other municipalities, but the only one I live in is Easton, and therefore, that is the only one I can really lay claim to.
Not everyone holds that opinion, however, and that is also a bit of what prompted me to write on this subject. It’s an important point, but rather dangerously neglected.
I got a night off from meetings last week and decided to take advantage of my rare freedom at one of Easton’s fine pubs. But instead of enjoying my book as I had intended, I got drawn into a conversation about Easton’s revitalization with some guys who all said they were “local.”
The first was the one who drew me into the conversation. He clearly stated that Easton is a mess and needs a complete overhaul. Drugs, crime, blight, you name it, Easton is falling down, it all sucks, and we should come up with a plan to tear it down and replace it before it’s too late. Also, those folks from Jersey are coming, and there’s nothing we can do about it, so we better get used to the idea of adding some ticky-tack to the city to suit their tastes. We should also invest in some major riverfront “revitalization” like perhaps Baltimore Harbor—it will also help those suburbanites we’re about to be overrun with feel more comfortable. Oh, and we should also take a clue and be more like Hoboken too.
I was more than a little offended at his assessment of the city. Certainly Easton has problems, but this was a bit much. But I decided to stay calm and gather a bit more information.
It turns out the guy does not live in Easton; he lives in—drumroll, please—NEW JERSEY!!
So I ask why, if Easton is so terrible, he is drinking in a bar in Easton. He tells me his mother lives here. Then he goes on about how wonderful Bethlehem is and how they’ve really turned things around and we should be more like them. Then I ask some more about where his mother lives. It turns out she does not live in Easton either, but more west—the direction in which the wonderful Bethlehem lies (that he did not choose to enjoy instead of the evil Easton).
I point this out, but he chooses not to elaborate on this mysterious phenomena. He tells me that no one is doing anything at all here, that even our volunteer organizations are run by lowlifes, at which point I decide the conversation has become so unpleasant that it must end. I just can’t see the point of arguing with a guy that doesn’t know who or what he’s talking about and is convinced everything here must be bad. He decides that if he can’t verbally barrage me further, it is time to go elsewhere (undoubtedly in Easton). Good riddance.
So I attempt once again to read my book, but another gentleman at the bar wants to continue the conversation. He is a construction manager, a transplant from out west who’s lived in Easton, he said, for seven years.
So, being that he’s in the building business and lived in Easton for two years longer than myself, I figure he might know something. He also used the words I brought up earlier, about “being part of the community.”
Well, he’s a nice guy, but it turns out he doesn’t live in Easton either—he lives in Forks. And if he’s been part of the community, I have to ask where he’s been on their zoning and planning issues for the past seven years. The answer? Not at any meetings. He couldn’t even name a single member of either board. And he continued to tell me he lived in Easton.
I got accused of being very negative and not being sensitive of the opinions of others that night. But I can’t really accept that assessment. Refusing to agree with opinions based on no known fact is not negative—it’s prudent. And I can’t figure out how these guys’ opinions, all of who do not live in Easton, somehow, in their heads, have more weight than that of an informed resident who would have rather been reading her book on information theory over a microbrew.
Easton is a jewel of a city, and everyone seems to have an opinion about how it needs to be “fixed.” But the only people whose opinions should really hold any weight are those of actual Eastonians because those are the folks who will have to live with the results and pay the price or reap the benefits of those decisions.
That is the case with every municipality. It would seem that a lot of folks these days don’t actually know what it means to be part of the community—it is definitely more than just coming home at night to the house you bought after your last job transfer and paying taxes on it until your next one, complaining about the neighborhood all the while. And, more than frequenting the neighborhood watering hole, no matter how many buddies you might have there.
It involves actually identifying with and working with members of the community in which one resides, not to mention participating in its growth and management.
And while it is a good thing to keep an open mind and look at ideas that have worked elsewhere, we never want to implement an idea because we want to be another city. I’ve heard all too often about making Easton into New Hope, Manyunk, Jim Thorpe and now Hoboken. But as wonderful (or not) as those place may be, we never want to be them, for the simple reason that EASTON IS WONDERFUL BECAUSE IT IS EASTON.
As one notorious local publisher has stated in a name, “Easton is home.”
Let Hoboken be Hoboken. There is only one. And, there is only one Easton, Pa.
What we need to do is make all the things that are unique and wonderful about Easton even more wonderful and make sure that the new stuff is up to those standards and fits in with Easton’s character. Despite stressed finances, Easton is fabulous real estate in one of the last untapped NYC markets. Yes, they are coming—and we have to make sure that their new development is up to our standards.
We need to never forget that people are moving to the area because it offers a better quality of life than where they are coming from. We need to make sure that the things that made and continue to make Easton great are not swept away or trampled underfoot by folks who don’t understand the value of them, and in fact, many times, are fleeing communities that have been messed up by poorly planned over-development they didn’t take the time to participate in. We need to make sure that the folks who already live here are considered before the folks who we might entice to move here, because they are the people who have made Easton and the surrounding area what it is—the real reason why folks want to move here.
Those from out of state who don’t like it should remember that one must pay a bridge toll to come, but the bridge always has an open eastbound lane, and going back to New Jersey is free, if one decides this side of the river is not to one’s liking.
(Originally published in The Easton News, March 1, 2007)
Modern knights in shining armor carry snow shovels, not swords
There are undoubtedly many stories of last week’s snow storm, and in most places the now-graying aftermath is still evident.
Folks that spent many hours stuck on Pennsylvania highways are not likely to soon forget their ordeal, and based on how many complaints PennDOT and local public works departments have received about road conditions, likely local officials won’t forget this one soon either.
But that’s not what will make last week’s storm memorable for me.
Let me preface things by stating that I like snow—a lot. It’s been too many years since I’ve had the opportunity to go skiing, but I hold the opinion that it is one of the better thrills out there.
I don’t look forward to it, but driving in snowy conditions doesn’t phase me either, which is a good thing, because it seems like I’ve been required to drive in more than my share of bad weather.
I fear no snow.
That said, I can’t say I really looked forward to driving in it last Wednesday, and indeed, had it not been a “production day,” the day the newspaper must be “put to bed” (my friends always ask if I tuck it in and read it a bedtime story), there is very little that could have convinced me to not stay in bed for an extra half-hour before enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee.
Reporting from home is actually easier, since my apartment is in Easton, but my office is in Allentown.
But such snowy morning niceties were not to be, so I and the Swedish Prince (my Saab) hit the highway Wednesday morning.
I may not have had the opportunity to sleep in, but apparently the plow guy that is supposed to do the parking lot at my office building did. So after a very slow, white ride to work, I arrived only to find that I couldn’t get my car into the parking lot, despite 25 minutes of trying.
Eventually, I gave up, parked the car by the (plowed) roadside and hiked in.
It wasn’t thrilling, but I figured at least I wouldn’t get stuck in the parking lot.
I was entirely wrong.
A couple hours later when I hiked back out to the car, I found myself going nowhere quickly, though all around me had been plowed. I hadn’t even gotten plowed in. The snow had drifted, leaving the Swedish Prince buried past the running boards.
But I said I fear no snow, and I don’t, so I popped the trunk and got out the gear.
Unfortunately, I only got the car a few months ago, and snow wasn’t the highest priority in August, so my gear consisted of a small but sturdy metal collapsible shovel and a few spare floor mats that could get the car some traction, in theory, at least.
It wasn’t long before I came to the conclusion that in an ongoing blizzard my gear was about as effective as attempting to clear the Jersey shoreline with a teaspoon.
But I was determined to free my car. “I and the Swedish Prince ARE going back to Easton today, together,” was my singular thought.
So I dug. And dug some more, all the while subscribing to the minimalist theory that if I could just get the car a little traction, my ordeal would be over.
But it was becoming evident that I had a losing battle on my hands. A five-foot-two, 105-pound woman armed only with a mini shovel in a foot of continually drifting snow in an ongoing blizzard is not a perfect model of efficiency, unfortunately.
And just when I was about to lose it and hike back to the office to demand that a professional be called to pull me out of that drift, a big, shiny pickup truck stopped on the other side of the roadway and a man got out.
I hesitated asking for help. I couldn’t imagine anyone would be out in such unpleasant weather unless they already had something important to do, but getting stuck at an office park that was quickly becoming a cold white ghost town was a pretty distasteful prospect, so I asked if perhaps I could get a push.
They did far more.
It turns out one of the men was driving by earlier and saw that I was stuck. So he went back to the building where he works for Gerhart Scale, about a mile down the road from my office, picked up two shovels and a buddy and came back in a blizzard just to help dig me out. That’s what they were doing when I asked for a push.
I am still flabbergasted at their thoughtfulness. It seems such a rare thing these days for anyone to take the time out to help another, even when it’s easy. And this was not easy.
Mike Shank and Steve Iles are rare guys. They wouldn’t even let me help with the rest of the shovelling and told me to get warm in the car instead.
I only met them for a few minutes, but I won’t forget Mike and Steve any time soon.
Modern knights in shining armor don’tcome along often and they don’t necessarily carry swords—they might just carry shovels.
Thanks again, Mike and Steve. You made my day, which, though I had forgotten at the time, was Valentine’s Day.
(Originally published in The Easton News, February 22, 2007)
Folks that spent many hours stuck on Pennsylvania highways are not likely to soon forget their ordeal, and based on how many complaints PennDOT and local public works departments have received about road conditions, likely local officials won’t forget this one soon either.
But that’s not what will make last week’s storm memorable for me.
Let me preface things by stating that I like snow—a lot. It’s been too many years since I’ve had the opportunity to go skiing, but I hold the opinion that it is one of the better thrills out there.
I don’t look forward to it, but driving in snowy conditions doesn’t phase me either, which is a good thing, because it seems like I’ve been required to drive in more than my share of bad weather.
I fear no snow.
That said, I can’t say I really looked forward to driving in it last Wednesday, and indeed, had it not been a “production day,” the day the newspaper must be “put to bed” (my friends always ask if I tuck it in and read it a bedtime story), there is very little that could have convinced me to not stay in bed for an extra half-hour before enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee.
Reporting from home is actually easier, since my apartment is in Easton, but my office is in Allentown.
But such snowy morning niceties were not to be, so I and the Swedish Prince (my Saab) hit the highway Wednesday morning.
I may not have had the opportunity to sleep in, but apparently the plow guy that is supposed to do the parking lot at my office building did. So after a very slow, white ride to work, I arrived only to find that I couldn’t get my car into the parking lot, despite 25 minutes of trying.
Eventually, I gave up, parked the car by the (plowed) roadside and hiked in.
It wasn’t thrilling, but I figured at least I wouldn’t get stuck in the parking lot.
I was entirely wrong.
A couple hours later when I hiked back out to the car, I found myself going nowhere quickly, though all around me had been plowed. I hadn’t even gotten plowed in. The snow had drifted, leaving the Swedish Prince buried past the running boards.
But I said I fear no snow, and I don’t, so I popped the trunk and got out the gear.
Unfortunately, I only got the car a few months ago, and snow wasn’t the highest priority in August, so my gear consisted of a small but sturdy metal collapsible shovel and a few spare floor mats that could get the car some traction, in theory, at least.
It wasn’t long before I came to the conclusion that in an ongoing blizzard my gear was about as effective as attempting to clear the Jersey shoreline with a teaspoon.
But I was determined to free my car. “I and the Swedish Prince ARE going back to Easton today, together,” was my singular thought.
So I dug. And dug some more, all the while subscribing to the minimalist theory that if I could just get the car a little traction, my ordeal would be over.
But it was becoming evident that I had a losing battle on my hands. A five-foot-two, 105-pound woman armed only with a mini shovel in a foot of continually drifting snow in an ongoing blizzard is not a perfect model of efficiency, unfortunately.
And just when I was about to lose it and hike back to the office to demand that a professional be called to pull me out of that drift, a big, shiny pickup truck stopped on the other side of the roadway and a man got out.
I hesitated asking for help. I couldn’t imagine anyone would be out in such unpleasant weather unless they already had something important to do, but getting stuck at an office park that was quickly becoming a cold white ghost town was a pretty distasteful prospect, so I asked if perhaps I could get a push.
They did far more.
It turns out one of the men was driving by earlier and saw that I was stuck. So he went back to the building where he works for Gerhart Scale, about a mile down the road from my office, picked up two shovels and a buddy and came back in a blizzard just to help dig me out. That’s what they were doing when I asked for a push.
I am still flabbergasted at their thoughtfulness. It seems such a rare thing these days for anyone to take the time out to help another, even when it’s easy. And this was not easy.
Mike Shank and Steve Iles are rare guys. They wouldn’t even let me help with the rest of the shovelling and told me to get warm in the car instead.
I only met them for a few minutes, but I won’t forget Mike and Steve any time soon.
Modern knights in shining armor don’tcome along often and they don’t necessarily carry swords—they might just carry shovels.
Thanks again, Mike and Steve. You made my day, which, though I had forgotten at the time, was Valentine’s Day.
(Originally published in The Easton News, February 22, 2007)
How to get even with companies that ‘fee’ you to financial death
I went to pay my slightly overdue phone bill the other day. I know I should get to it earlier, but working as many hours as I do, sometimes it’s hard to keep track of the days.
So I attempted to rectify the situation immediately and pay my phone bill in full by phone on my debit card. It seemed like the fastest, most reliable way to make sure they got paid. No muss, no fuss—right?
You’d think I’d just call them up, type in a whole bunch of numbers, and that would be the end of that. It should be even cheaper for the company for me to pay them that way, since it’s not even necessary for me to take up the time of one of their paid customer service representatives. I type in all the numbers for them, saving them the trouble and expense, and their computer does the rest. They might have to pay some IT folks to maintain their computer system, but it’s far less than paying customer service representatives to each individually take care of people like me who want to pay by phone, so they undoubtedly save money. The automated system is also more secure and makes it nearly impossible for someone to casually get hold of credit and bank card numbers, reducing the chance of identity theft and therefore liability for the company.
So, when it’s presumably cheaper, safer and easier for the company to process automated credit and debit card payments, and also presumably, reflected somewhere in my bill are overhead costs for that system and also any customer service from a live representative I might actually require, why do they charge an additional $3.50 fee to pay my bill by phone? This is not part of any late fee; this is a charge for the “convenience” of getting them their money as quickly as possible.
This is sort of similar to the gambit banks have been getting away with for the past bunch of years—charging exorbitantly for ATM use.
At one time, banks often charged either a flat monthly fee or a per use fee for ATM usage. But still unsatisfied with the elimination of having to pay the salary of a live teller for many common transactions, banks now often charge a fee for using an ATM that is owned by anyone other than themselves. In addition, the ATM owner may charge a user fee, so the consumer pays both institutions for the “privilege” of accessing their own cash.
While it may seem petty to complain, large corporations make a ton of money on such transactions. Such fees may seem small—a dollar here, 75 cents there, a surcharge of a few more dollars there, but over time, it really adds up, and from a percentage standpoint, it’s beyond exorbitant.
Take very a typical ATM transaction as an example—you need quick $20 cash. So you hit the ATM, but a branch of your own bank isn’t in sight. When you put your card in the slot, the “foreign” machine tells you that an extra $1.50 will be deducted from your account—do you agree? Probably not, but you also probably have little choice since you want your money. Later, when your bank statement arrives, you may notice you’ve been charged again, this time by your own financial institution, for using that “foreign” ATM that has already charged you. Let’s assume your bank is more “merciful” than the ATM owner and “only” charges you 75 cents for accessing that $20. You’ve now paid $2.25, or more than 10 percent of the amount to access your own money—which may be more than your credit card charges in interest for a cash advance that’s paid back promptly.
Assuming a person takes money out under those circumstances just once a week, more than $100 will be paid out annually just for accessing one’s own money—all while saving those banks a ton in salaries for live tellers.
And, the idea to charge a fee for live teller transactions has been kicked around (and even implemented in some places) leaving consumers to pay every time they do anything at all with their own money. Depositing? The bank gets a little bit.
Want some of your money back? They get a little bit more. Need help figuring out your account balance? We bet you do—and it will be a little less still when we charge you a teller fee to tell you how much money you no longer have. What a great idea—at least, if you’re a bank.
It’s enough to make one want to skip financial institutions entirely and revert to the mattress method.
But getting back to my dilemma with the phone company, I did the next best thing—I hung up instead of agreeing to their $3.50 fee and paying them. I decided to call them back and have a nice long, free chat about my dissatisfaction with their system with the a real, live, salaried member of their customer service department.
I made sure it took 15 minutes to very politely tell them I felt their $3.50 fee was a bit unreasonable and that I would be stopping by their office in Bethlehem on my way to work to pay them in cash. It was very entertaining, even if the representative was a little confused.
I figure since a portion of my bill is undoubtedly earmarked for such overhead that I pretty much never use, I need to rectify the situation and balance things out. I am considering making a habit of it, and calling my phone company (and any other service institutions I do business with that overcharge for basic functions) on a monthly basis just to say “hi” and see how things are going. I may not be able to charge them a fee back, but I can make sure I get my money’s worth, and perhaps a little entertainment too, at their expense.
(Originally published in The Easton News, February 15, 2007)
So I attempted to rectify the situation immediately and pay my phone bill in full by phone on my debit card. It seemed like the fastest, most reliable way to make sure they got paid. No muss, no fuss—right?
You’d think I’d just call them up, type in a whole bunch of numbers, and that would be the end of that. It should be even cheaper for the company for me to pay them that way, since it’s not even necessary for me to take up the time of one of their paid customer service representatives. I type in all the numbers for them, saving them the trouble and expense, and their computer does the rest. They might have to pay some IT folks to maintain their computer system, but it’s far less than paying customer service representatives to each individually take care of people like me who want to pay by phone, so they undoubtedly save money. The automated system is also more secure and makes it nearly impossible for someone to casually get hold of credit and bank card numbers, reducing the chance of identity theft and therefore liability for the company.
So, when it’s presumably cheaper, safer and easier for the company to process automated credit and debit card payments, and also presumably, reflected somewhere in my bill are overhead costs for that system and also any customer service from a live representative I might actually require, why do they charge an additional $3.50 fee to pay my bill by phone? This is not part of any late fee; this is a charge for the “convenience” of getting them their money as quickly as possible.
This is sort of similar to the gambit banks have been getting away with for the past bunch of years—charging exorbitantly for ATM use.
At one time, banks often charged either a flat monthly fee or a per use fee for ATM usage. But still unsatisfied with the elimination of having to pay the salary of a live teller for many common transactions, banks now often charge a fee for using an ATM that is owned by anyone other than themselves. In addition, the ATM owner may charge a user fee, so the consumer pays both institutions for the “privilege” of accessing their own cash.
While it may seem petty to complain, large corporations make a ton of money on such transactions. Such fees may seem small—a dollar here, 75 cents there, a surcharge of a few more dollars there, but over time, it really adds up, and from a percentage standpoint, it’s beyond exorbitant.
Take very a typical ATM transaction as an example—you need quick $20 cash. So you hit the ATM, but a branch of your own bank isn’t in sight. When you put your card in the slot, the “foreign” machine tells you that an extra $1.50 will be deducted from your account—do you agree? Probably not, but you also probably have little choice since you want your money. Later, when your bank statement arrives, you may notice you’ve been charged again, this time by your own financial institution, for using that “foreign” ATM that has already charged you. Let’s assume your bank is more “merciful” than the ATM owner and “only” charges you 75 cents for accessing that $20. You’ve now paid $2.25, or more than 10 percent of the amount to access your own money—which may be more than your credit card charges in interest for a cash advance that’s paid back promptly.
Assuming a person takes money out under those circumstances just once a week, more than $100 will be paid out annually just for accessing one’s own money—all while saving those banks a ton in salaries for live tellers.
And, the idea to charge a fee for live teller transactions has been kicked around (and even implemented in some places) leaving consumers to pay every time they do anything at all with their own money. Depositing? The bank gets a little bit.
Want some of your money back? They get a little bit more. Need help figuring out your account balance? We bet you do—and it will be a little less still when we charge you a teller fee to tell you how much money you no longer have. What a great idea—at least, if you’re a bank.
It’s enough to make one want to skip financial institutions entirely and revert to the mattress method.
But getting back to my dilemma with the phone company, I did the next best thing—I hung up instead of agreeing to their $3.50 fee and paying them. I decided to call them back and have a nice long, free chat about my dissatisfaction with their system with the a real, live, salaried member of their customer service department.
I made sure it took 15 minutes to very politely tell them I felt their $3.50 fee was a bit unreasonable and that I would be stopping by their office in Bethlehem on my way to work to pay them in cash. It was very entertaining, even if the representative was a little confused.
I figure since a portion of my bill is undoubtedly earmarked for such overhead that I pretty much never use, I need to rectify the situation and balance things out. I am considering making a habit of it, and calling my phone company (and any other service institutions I do business with that overcharge for basic functions) on a monthly basis just to say “hi” and see how things are going. I may not be able to charge them a fee back, but I can make sure I get my money’s worth, and perhaps a little entertainment too, at their expense.
(Originally published in The Easton News, February 15, 2007)
Modern knights in shining armor carry snow shovels, not swords
There are undoubtedly many stories of last week’s snow storm, and in most places the now-graying aftermath is still evident.
Folks that spent many hours stuck on Pennsylvania highways are not likely to soon forget their ordeal, and based on how many complaints PennDOT and local public works departments have received about road conditions, likely local officials won’t forget this one soon either.
But that’s not what will make last week’s storm memorable for me.
Let me preface things by stating that I like snow—a lot. It’s been too many years since I’ve had the opportunity to go skiing, but I hold the opinion that it is one of the better thrills out there.
I don’t look forward to it, but driving in snowy conditions doesn’t phase me either, which is a good thing, because it seems like I’ve been required to drive in more than my share of bad weather.
I fear no snow.
That said, I can’t say I really looked forward to driving in it last Wednesday, and indeed, had it not been a “production day,” the day the newspaper must be “put to bed” (my friends always ask if I tuck it in and read it a bedtime story), there is very little that could have convinced me to not stay in bed for an extra half-hour before enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee.
Reporting from home is actually easier, since my apartment is in Easton, but my office is in Allentown.
But such snowy morning niceties were not to be, so I and the Swedish Prince (my Saab) hit the highway Wednesday morning.
I may not have had the opportunity to sleep in, but apparently the plow guy that is supposed to do the parking lot at my office building did. So after a very slow, white ride to work, I arrived only to find that I couldn’t get my car into the parking lot, despite 25 minutes of trying.
Eventually, I gave up, parked the car by the (plowed) roadside and hiked in.
It wasn’t thrilling, but I figured at least I wouldn’t get stuck in the parking lot.
I was entirely wrong.
A couple hours later when I hiked back out to the car, I found myself going nowhere quickly, though all around me had been plowed. I hadn’t even gotten plowed in. The snow had drifted, leaving the Swedish Prince buried past the running boards.
But I said I fear no snow, and I don’t, so I popped the trunk and got out the gear.
Unfortunately, I only got the car a few months ago, and snow wasn’t the highest priority in August, so my gear consisted of a small but sturdy metal collapsible shovel and a few spare floor mats that could get the car some traction, in theory, at least.
It wasn’t long before I came to the conclusion that in an ongoing blizzard my gear was about as effective as attempting to clear the Jersey shoreline with a teaspoon.
But I was determined to free my car. “I and the Swedish Prince ARE going back to Easton today, together,” was my singular thought.
So I dug. And dug some more, all the while subscribing to the minimalist theory that if I could just get the car a little traction, my ordeal would be over.
But it was becoming evident that I had a losing battle on my hands. A five-foot-two, 105-pound woman armed only with a mini shovel in a foot of continually drifting snow in an ongoing blizzard is not a perfect model of efficiency, unfortunately.
And just when I was about to lose it and hike back to the office to demand that a professional be called to pull me out of that drift, a big, shiny pickup truck stopped on the other side of the roadway and a man got out.
I hesitated asking for help. I couldn’t imagine anyone would be out in such unpleasant weather unless they already had something important to do, but getting stuck at an office park that was quickly becoming a cold white ghost town was a pretty distasteful prospect, so I asked if perhaps I could get a push.
They did far more.
It turns out one of the men was driving by earlier and saw that I was stuck. So he went back to the building where he works for Gerhart Scale, about a mile down the road from my office, picked up two shovels and a buddy and came back in a blizzard just to help dig me out. That’s what they were doing when I asked for a push.
I am still flabbergasted at their thoughtfulness. It seems such a rare thing these days for anyone to take the time out to help another, even when it’s easy. And this was not easy.
Mike Shank and Steve Iles are rare guys. They wouldn’t even let me help with the rest of the shovelling and told me to get warm in the car instead.
I only met them for a few minutes, but I won’t forget Mike and Steve any time soon.
Modern knights in shining armor don’tcome along often and they don’t necessarily carry swords—they might just carry shovels.
Thanks again, Mike and Steve. You made my day, which, though I had forgotten at the time, was Valentine’s Day.
(Originally published in The Easton News, February 22, 2007)
Folks that spent many hours stuck on Pennsylvania highways are not likely to soon forget their ordeal, and based on how many complaints PennDOT and local public works departments have received about road conditions, likely local officials won’t forget this one soon either.
But that’s not what will make last week’s storm memorable for me.
Let me preface things by stating that I like snow—a lot. It’s been too many years since I’ve had the opportunity to go skiing, but I hold the opinion that it is one of the better thrills out there.
I don’t look forward to it, but driving in snowy conditions doesn’t phase me either, which is a good thing, because it seems like I’ve been required to drive in more than my share of bad weather.
I fear no snow.
That said, I can’t say I really looked forward to driving in it last Wednesday, and indeed, had it not been a “production day,” the day the newspaper must be “put to bed” (my friends always ask if I tuck it in and read it a bedtime story), there is very little that could have convinced me to not stay in bed for an extra half-hour before enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee.
Reporting from home is actually easier, since my apartment is in Easton, but my office is in Allentown.
But such snowy morning niceties were not to be, so I and the Swedish Prince (my Saab) hit the highway Wednesday morning.
I may not have had the opportunity to sleep in, but apparently the plow guy that is supposed to do the parking lot at my office building did. So after a very slow, white ride to work, I arrived only to find that I couldn’t get my car into the parking lot, despite 25 minutes of trying.
Eventually, I gave up, parked the car by the (plowed) roadside and hiked in.
It wasn’t thrilling, but I figured at least I wouldn’t get stuck in the parking lot.
I was entirely wrong.
A couple hours later when I hiked back out to the car, I found myself going nowhere quickly, though all around me had been plowed. I hadn’t even gotten plowed in. The snow had drifted, leaving the Swedish Prince buried past the running boards.
But I said I fear no snow, and I don’t, so I popped the trunk and got out the gear.
Unfortunately, I only got the car a few months ago, and snow wasn’t the highest priority in August, so my gear consisted of a small but sturdy metal collapsible shovel and a few spare floor mats that could get the car some traction, in theory, at least.
It wasn’t long before I came to the conclusion that in an ongoing blizzard my gear was about as effective as attempting to clear the Jersey shoreline with a teaspoon.
But I was determined to free my car. “I and the Swedish Prince ARE going back to Easton today, together,” was my singular thought.
So I dug. And dug some more, all the while subscribing to the minimalist theory that if I could just get the car a little traction, my ordeal would be over.
But it was becoming evident that I had a losing battle on my hands. A five-foot-two, 105-pound woman armed only with a mini shovel in a foot of continually drifting snow in an ongoing blizzard is not a perfect model of efficiency, unfortunately.
And just when I was about to lose it and hike back to the office to demand that a professional be called to pull me out of that drift, a big, shiny pickup truck stopped on the other side of the roadway and a man got out.
I hesitated asking for help. I couldn’t imagine anyone would be out in such unpleasant weather unless they already had something important to do, but getting stuck at an office park that was quickly becoming a cold white ghost town was a pretty distasteful prospect, so I asked if perhaps I could get a push.
They did far more.
It turns out one of the men was driving by earlier and saw that I was stuck. So he went back to the building where he works for Gerhart Scale, about a mile down the road from my office, picked up two shovels and a buddy and came back in a blizzard just to help dig me out. That’s what they were doing when I asked for a push.
I am still flabbergasted at their thoughtfulness. It seems such a rare thing these days for anyone to take the time out to help another, even when it’s easy. And this was not easy.
Mike Shank and Steve Iles are rare guys. They wouldn’t even let me help with the rest of the shovelling and told me to get warm in the car instead.
I only met them for a few minutes, but I won’t forget Mike and Steve any time soon.
Modern knights in shining armor don’tcome along often and they don’t necessarily carry swords—they might just carry shovels.
Thanks again, Mike and Steve. You made my day, which, though I had forgotten at the time, was Valentine’s Day.
(Originally published in The Easton News, February 22, 2007)
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