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Posts Tagged ‘newslaugh’

The Federal Reserve took the unusually considerate step of raising the interest rate again while providing that banks could not raise the mortgage rates on people who already have mortgages with them.

While the banks called foul, the new head of the Fed commented, “I think it’s time to be forthright about how the Fed manages the economy and the consequences of it. As you know, when the economy slows down, we lower the rate to stimulate it, which inevitably results in people going out and buying homes for the simple reason that they can now afford them. Then when the economy picks up, we raise the rates, which has always meant the mortgage rates go right up with it. So a lot of these people can no longer afford their homes. Well, it’s time to end the carnage and come to the rescue of these poor suckers. Banks can raise the rates accordingly but only on new mortgages.”

“Ruined, ruined &ndash we’ll be ruined!” a spokesman for Citibank wailed, as it declared record profits.

“This will break us,” a spokeswoman for Bank of America bemoaned.

Their comments soundly reminiscent of the cries that have until now echoed through the hallways of homes that would otherwise, in the wake of rising rates, be foredoomed to foreclosure.

Startlingly enough, it looks as if the time will soon arrive when the USA will have to play catch-up with Cuba in oil exploration. The diminutive and destitute communist enclave that serves as Fidel Castro’s personal cigar plantation now realizes that it has enough oil reserves under its coastal waters to prop up its no-go economy for decades and, incapable of assembling the capacity to out the oil itself, the island nation has begun to license drilling rights to other countries, including China, the prospect of which alarms us, and Spain, the idea of which invites us to think of tapas.

In wisdom wrought from its neediness, the resourceful islet has also offered to license American oil companies.

Expectedly enough, the very prospect of Cuba scooping oil out of the ocean floor while America has outlawed it for decades has enkindled hot debate in Congress about the present wisdom of our self-imposed interdiction. The debate has rapidly blossomed into a gusher partly because America has even more proven oil reserves in its coastal waters, no doubt principally because it has even more coastal waters.

Persuasively enough in these oil-dear times, there seems to be enough of the black gold there to meet all of our energy needs for about 18 years, or long enough for all the leaders in the Middle East who we aren’t getting along with these days to go the way of leaders everywhere who, we determine, are irredeemably misguided.

Naturally, conservation societies have been galvanized into opposition by the mere prospect of an oil bit chomping into the emerald waters of our abundantly fishy coastlines in search of the liquid treasure below the reefs.

As the debate bubbles on, we can only consider a worst-case, best-case scenario. Worst case: we do nothing while foreign companies who don’t exactly have the most reverential reputations in ecological propriety drill away and, as time allows, send oil spills slithering onto our beaches. Best case: we race to catch up with Cuba and maybe even preempt the ill-advised entanglements that might otherwise drill down into our hemisphere.

Since we’re actually talking about drilling in our own backyard pond, we might also, one hopes, do it in ways that are less likely to lead to the shameful oil blights that fill us all with remorse and send fish and fowl off to tarry death &ndash derelictions that strange countries in a strange land might less assiduously labor to avoid.

While the usual expectation is that we are simple-minded enough to be caught up in the mass-media Tsunami created by The Da Vinci Code, now a movie starring Tom Hanks, so that we might all the better assist Hollywood in carting off its share of megabucks from this transient tempest for historical tots, let us explore how we might, instead, observe the refitted ancient frigate pass by on time’s wide and eternal river, as we lounge on the bank in supine placidity, or, as a generous gesture, consent to turn our eyes toward the flick just for the faux tension of it all.

Since we believe our readers wish us to address every issue that troubles us via the news without flinching, so that we may all find ease in seeing the sanely funny side of it, we assume you’ll allow this attempt to see the book cum movie as, in W. S. Gilbert’s bouncy phrase, “a source of innocent merriment.”

First, let’s consider the tooting of the ship’s horn in the light of history as it has actually come to be agreed on, to the extent that events 1,700 years or so ago can be rigorously sifted. As a soothing antidote in advance for our faithful readers, we advise that, as the council under consideration occurred in 325 AD, Christ had long since escaped to the realm where modification of his life, as the Gospels present it or as a paragraph in Roman history reputedly refers to it, was beyond the debates of ever-contentious humankind.

When our tidy history is over, we’ll also offer a few suggestions on which we may all pillow our world-thumped heads.

To provide historical solidity as a basis for our determinedly placid outlook, as much as a considerate paragraph or so can, let’s recount the facts as they have been bruited about now for some centuries.

When Constantine, later, The Great, became Emperor, the Roman Empire was, we are told, in disarray. The old faith, Paganism, had begun to lose its hold as a credible unifying force. The new Emperor noticed that a widespread heresy called Christianity was gaining more and more enthusiasts, who were by previous emperors, particularly Diocletian, later, The Dunce, rather regularly annihilated by being sent to the flames or fed to the lions. The incalculably optimistic idea occurred to the new Emperor, a fierce general now in the uncomfortable role of a make-nice diplomat, that he might unite the faltering Empire anew by making the nascent faith the official religion of the Empire.

Despite catcalls from the nobles who still adhered to the pagan pantheon, he forged ahead, only to discover that, once in open proliferation, many a Christian theologian began to tear at the sanctimonious fabric he had so carefully draped over the fault lines of the quaking Empire. Growing anxious that his grand tarp might be rent irreparably, he called the diverse debaters to gather at the ancient city of Nicaea to hash out their disagreements once and for all time.

So intent was he to wrest unity from the 300 or so colorfully garbed theologians who assembled there that he deigned to sit among them, on his golden throne, where he harkened to their hair splitting and tearing until he grew, as most imperious people are likely to do on such occasions, impatient.

The principal debate, presented here with appropriate brevity, was based on what continues to be known as the heresy of Arius, which revolved around the unavoidably various word “begotten.” What exactly did it mean that Christ was “begotten” of the Father? Was He actually flesh of His flesh or some sort of discontinuous emanation? There was also extensive rhetorical ping-pong with the equally quicksilver substitute for flesh, “substance.” Finally, Constantine arose from his majestic duff and dictated what the resolution of the conflict would be.

Ever since the landmark Council, and the resultant Nicene Creed, dutiful theologians have fretted their conning brows over such daunting concepts as The Holy Trinity, or “three Gods in one.” The widely admitted conundrum is one reason there has long been a divide less traveled by between acute theologians and devout acolytes of any faith afoot in the contemporary world; while one will deal with facts along with the retention or diminution of faith, the other wishes to profess his or her faith without an uninvited tap on the shoulder.

Now, what have we to offer in terms of peaceful council? First, if you are a believer, we invite you to do as our title suggests. Imagine yourself in The Sistine Chapel, lying on the marbled floor, while you gaze up at Michelangelo’s dramatic and inspiring presentation of God’s hand in the Creation. Venture to St. Peter’s Basilica, where you may stand before Mike’s delicately evocative Pieta. You might also travel to the surprisingly modest church of St. Peter In Chains, where the artist’s mighty Moses is on display, but be forewarned, the last time we were there, when you slipped your coin in the meter to illuminate the statue, all the better to view it, the spots did not shine forth. In summary, we suggest that you rest easy in the long and beautiful rendition of your faith and trust that it will go on.

If, on the other hand, you find yourself, as the dating services provide for the inclination, “spiritual but not religious,” you may make peace with the brouhaha by understanding that religion, beyond one that prudently grows out of an enlightened faith in life itself, is not primarily about what is credible to the strong but about what is helpful to the fragile and, in that inviting sympathy, find your own eternal ease.

Also, as others have noted, the imbroglio over the currently troublesome Code is an opportunity for all attendees to the altar of civilization to show their reverence for toleration as a potentially reformative example to the incendiary throwback of Muslim Fundamentalism, which currently encroaches on, and would very much prefer to incinerate, freedom everywhere.

Finally, remember there are many icons that have been around for so long people no longer care much about what they’re actually made of. They simply either like them or they don’t. And in this preferentially unexamined category we may find reverences as august as religion and trifles as mundane as Heinz Ketchup and Coca-Cola.

So, whatever you believe, we hope we’ve helped you lie back on the bank of time’s tripping river while the ancient-timbered Da Vinci Code slips by, even with its newly outfitted sails and come-hither tooting, without casting even a ripple on your own supine, and, we trust, inspiringly sublime placidity.

The Book of Judas, penned by the much maligned apostle himself, has finally found a publisher, at the end of a long search that ended at The National Geographic Society.

No, it’s not Random House or Knopf. But, hey, after a 1700-year wait, any publisher is bound to come as good news.

Now, Judas can at long last be assured that the world will know his side of the story, in which he portrays himself, as author’s are prone to do, in a much more favorable light than tradition has placed him. According to the author, while he was the apostle who betrayed Jesus, he was actually Christ’s favorite apostle and was chosen by Jesus to do the reprehensible deed, so Jesus could fulfill what he considered to be his destiny.

So, as if we didn’t have enough reconsider, now we have to reevaluate our estimate of Judas. Was he really just being Christ’s obedient assistant?

We must sympathize with the most devout adherents to the New Testament. What are they to make of Judas’s revised version of the betrayal?

We assume there will be no shortage of debate.

Nor can we, even if we wish, refuse to acknowledge that a certain reluctance to accept the new author’s version will be due to the unfortunate timing of the publication, since the hopes of the world are presently encumbered by the recent parade of people in the Middle East who seem to think that their destiny requires them to seek their own deaths.

No doubt the author would have preferred a more auspicious time for his book to appear, ideally, of course, way back when it might still have at least have had some chance of getting into The Bible.

Bill Gates announced that he will transition out of his day-to-day role at Microsoft by July 2008 in order to spend more time working on the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, which focuses on global health and education.

His announcement reminded us of the plethora of graduation speeches that eager students imbibed across the land this spring. As we listened to the meritorious goals heaped on the recent graduates, so they might achieve goals the speaker’s generation has found impossible, we could not help but think, why doesn’t somebody come out and tell the youthful aspirants what the real challenge is?

Like it or not, today’s world, as well as many another age, is conducted by two primary forces: wealth and power, and, other than resort to firearms, power springs from wealth.

So if you want to influence the ways of this outrageously necessitous world, consider the stark truth that all power springs from the opening in a fat wallet. It’s called the economic basis of society but, in its current incarnation, in debilitating excess.

When we were recent graduates, we were not aware of such an uncompromising reality and passed up at least two opportunities to make megabucks because we wanted to preserve our mental energy to expend it toward the achievement of our ideals.

Had we been wiser, we would have set aside a few years to stuff our pockets with power and then, like Mr. Gates, have spent the rest of our days placidly pursuing those still-inspiriting ideals.

So we find ourselves, from our own experience, in the unlikely role of advising the most idealistic to enable their altruism by involving themselves, initially, in the activity they undoubtedly are convinced is not the most inviting.

Then, should you be fortunate enough to enable your financial independence, you may, like Mr. Gates, head off into full-time devotion to your undoubtedly meritorious idealisms.

Well, the speech probably would not have been one that would have inspired the administration to invite us back or that the students would have received with endorsement, but the sharp glass on the road through economic necessity is a fact not lightly to be dismissed. Ignore it and you may step on it with painful frequency.

European nations negotiating with Iran over its nuclear program initially offered the upstart threat a free light-water nuclear reactor. The President of Iran, however, responded by becoming petulant, calling the offer a “colonial” insult and demanding to know if we think he’s “a child.”

Determined to reach an agreement in a way that would avoid the unfortunate necessity of bombing Iran’s nuclear facilities, the Europeans then opted to come right out and offer exactly what the fundamentally wrong mullahdom yearns for: step-by-step instructions on how to make an atom bomb, along with enough enriched uranium for its scientists to get to work on it haste post haste.

Unsurprisingly, the offer immediately had irresistible appeal to the cranium of Iranian President Ahmadinejad, who stated, “Thank you, thank you so much! Now, we have everything we want.”

“The crisis is over,” French President Jacques Chirac assured an anxious world. “We have reached an agreement with Iran.” And, with his not infrequent implied backhand to the U. S., he added, “And notice we achieved it without having to go to war.”

The United States, in a surprise move, congratulated both sides, citing a geographical reason. “We think the settlement is just fine,” President Bush said. “After all, our European allies are a lot closer to Iran than we are.”

Israel continues to be the only holdout, expressing a geographical inconvenience. As Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert maintained, “Unfortunately, we’re even closer to Iran than France.”

Although a resolution of the standoff with Iran is now in hand, European nations still remain uncertain about the errant nation’s true nuclear intentions.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, having recently agreed to return one of the finest vases in its collection from the Classical Age of Ancient Greece, has also consented to return the collected toilet seats from the ancient Cretan port city of Ephesus.

The decision has come as a welcome relief to the Greek tourist board, whose embarrassed guides annually answer the same question that tourists ask approximately a thousand times a day. The innocent travelers behold the long cement benches with curious holes that grace an area of their walking tour.

Philippe de Montebello, Director of the Metropolitan Museum, stated, “I felt returning the priceless vase was the correct step for us to take. It was a pirated item, and I dress far too nattily to be imagined with a piratical patch over one eye. As far as the return of the toilet seats is concerned, we had kept them in storage, because space at the Met is limited, particularly in regard to items I personally prefer not to put on display. So, hearing about the plight of the tour guides, I decided that shipping these less-than-priceless thrones back to Greece is the thoughtful thing to do.”

Tour guides cheered the decision. It remains to be determined if the Greek government will consent to put one on display at Ephesus or will, as the Met did, insist on keeping them private.

In the wake of having reported that God told him Tsunami-like storms were likely to hit the U. S. coasts this year, Pat Robertson appeared on his TV program visibly shaken, and announced, “God has told me something else, and it’s something I didn’t want to hear. He said, ‘Pat, you lost your mind.’

“Naturally, I was surprised and asked why he would ever think such a thing of me.

“God went on to ask, ‘Did you report that I told you America should assassinate Hugo Chavez, the leader of Venezuela?’

“’Yes, I did,’ I confessed.

“’And did you recently tell people I told you that this year I’m going to send fearsome storms to batter the coastlines of America?’

“’Yes, I did,’ I confessed again.

“’But, Pat, ask yourself, if I’m the benevolent being people expect me to be, how could I have said those terrible things?’

“You mean, you didn’t say them?’ I asked.

“’Heck, no! I’ve got my reputation to consider. What I actually told you is, on the first point, that America should invite the President of Venezuela to Washington to talk things over.’

“’You did?’ I replied, swallowing hard.

“’Yes, Pat. And on the second issue, I told you I felt Katrina was enough of a Category 5 hurricane for the time being and I intended to hold off on such destructive whirlwinds for years to come.’

“’Really?’

”’Yes, Pat. But what has happened? You misheard every message I delivered. Now, since I know you would much prefer to be my dutiful servant, I can only assume you’ve lost your mind.’

“Yep,” Pat continued to his enthralled audience, “that’s what God told me and, let me tell you, His mighty words gave me pause. So I said, ‘In the future I’ll listen more carefully.’

“But God wouldn’t have anything to do with that. He was just too upset with me.

“’I appreciate your good intentions, Pat, but I can’t take anymore chances. My reputation is already too damaged.’

“Then the Lord told me the most hurtful thing I can imagine.”

“’Pat, I’m not going to show up and talk to you anymore.’

“’Oh, God, no, please,’ I told him. ‘I’ll listen to your every word more carefully with all my heart and mind.’

“’I know you’ll have the best of intentions, but, I regret to say, the next time we talk is when you arrive at the Pearly Gates. I have to find somebody to appear to who can get the story right. But listen to me, Pat. If you do exactly as I say, I, in my infinite mercy, will forgive your every misinterpretation. And here is what I say. If you ever think I told you something in the future, tell yourself it can’t be true and you made it up. Do you hear me, Pat?’

“’Yes, God,’ I told my Lord and Master. ‘Not only that, I apologize for any damage I might have, through no conscious intent, done to your magnificent and forever undamaged reputation.’

“’Good, Pat, good,’ God told me, and put out His hand. “’I look forward to seeing you again in ten or twenty years.’

“’Thanks, Your Worship, see you then,’ I told Him.

“Then we shook hands and he disappeared.

“So let me just announce to my faithful listeners, that’s it, folks. I won’t be making anymore announcements about what God told me. I have gotten the message from on high that I am now out of personal communication with the Infinite. From now on I am as much a creature of the finite world as you all are.

“And I am confident that, because of this decision, God loves me and you more than ever. So please donate more generously than ever.”

Remember the MG? Worse yet, did you ever own one? Then cower in fear. The Chinese bought the MG brand name and are about to open a plant to build the malfunctioning suckers in Oklahoma.

The Nanjing Automobile Group, which acquired bankrupt MG Rover Group last year, plans to be the first Chinese automaker to open a factory in the US. The product will be called the MG TF Coupe and will be out in 2008.

Let’s hope they do a better job with the racy brand than the Brits did.

I never did own an MG, but I owned another British car, a venerable Jaguar, that I had repaired at a place that specialized in servicing MGs.

Here is my story, with one caveat. I understand now that Ford bought the Jag brand, it works better.

My old Jaguar XJ 6 sedan was a beauty, prettiest car on the road. Only trouble is the mechanical aspects brought home the idea of a hornet’s nest. There were always at least five things going wrong at the same time.

To save money on the upkeep, I used to take it to place that worked on MGs instead of to the Jag dealer. I asked the guy who ran the shop, a wily Irishman, why the cars always had problems.

“Well, you know the limeys,” he replied with a ornery glint in his eyes. “A bunch of socialists. So they’re on the assembly line, and they see an engine with a loose screw. So Frank looks at Harry and says, “Harry, would you look at that? A loose screw.”

And Harry says, “Why, yes, I believe you’ve got that right. It is a loose screw. ”

But do either one of them bend over and tighten it. No. The engine just keeps moving along the assembly line.

Then there was the day I was parked outside the shop, waiting for a space inside the busy place, so I could pull my car in for repairs, when suddenly I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Then there was a huge thump on the side of the car near the sidewalk. I turned and an otherwise normal-looking businessman in a suit had a furious look on his face and was actually kicking my car.

I rolled down the window and, in keeping with the British spirit of the car, I asked calmly, “Excuse me, sir, but why are you kicking my car?”

“I used to own one of these damn things,” he shouted, “and every time I see one I think how many problems I had with it and I get upset.” Then he quieted down, as if the confession let the hottest steam out. “I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I couldn’t help myelf.”

“That’s OK,” I said, “I might decide to kick it myself.”

Then there were the two worst problems I had with it. The drain in the dashboard for the air conditioner used to get plugged. Apparently, it was too small. Anyway, the condensation would build up, and pretty soon I could hear water sloshing in the dashboard. The real problem was, when I turned a corner, the water would rush to one side and pour out of the vent onto my lap or, worse yet, onto the lap of the person who was unfortunate enough to be on the passenger side.

The other rather inconvenient problem was, when I’d be driving down the highway at night and a car would come my way, and I’d push on the button on the floor to dim the headlights, they’d go out completely. That’s right. I’d be hurtling down the highway in pitch darkness, except for the scant illumination provided by the distant oncoming lights. So I’d quickly start slamming at the button, and, after three or four desperate shots, back on would come the headlights.

When I brought the problem to the attention of my world-weary mechanic, he referred to the name of the manufacturer of the electrical setup, as he informed me, “You now what they call the Lucas electrical system, don’t you? The prince of darkness.”

To add insult to injury, I went to the automobile show at the old New York Collesum one year. When I saw the Jag on display, I went up to the dealer in attendance and asked, “Why can’t they make a Jaguar that works right?”

He smiled slyly and gestured toward the sleek, gleaming grey sedan, and just said, “But look at it.”

Yep, if you liked the design, you were expected to put up with the malfunctions.

Last, when the time came that I could no longer stand the wreck, primarily because the radiator wouldn’t stop leaking, I looked in the yellow pages for the places that buy used cars. I saw an ad that said “2000 Cars Wanted.”

I called. The guy who answered was very receptive till he asked, “What kind of car do you have?”

“A Jaguar,” I confessed.

“Oh,” he said, his voice growing recessive, “that’s the only car we don’t take.”

So I loaded the radiator of the embarrassingly rejected beast up with fresh water and drove it to the nearest dealer in American cars, swearing I’d never buy another import. Fortunately, I arrived before the thing started to smoke and managed to make a halfway decent deal.

I drove out in a new American car. While it didn’t turn out to be a flawless mechancial achievement, either, it was at least a hundred times better than the Jag.

Obviously, this article strayed from MGs, but the car was cut from the same carelesss cloth as the Jag. Both brands help account for why, in these sleekly robotic times of exact Japanese assembly, English cars now own even less of the road than Detroit’s.

Recent exploration of sediment deep beneath the Artic Ocean has led geologists to estimate that approximately 1/4 of the world’s untapped oil and gas reserves are located there. After evaluating the impact of the news, the U. S. may seek membership in OPEC.

President Bush, smiling and joking with King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia at a press briefing in Nome, Alaska, stated, “Since it looks like we’ve got about as much oil off Alaska as our good friend the King here has in the Saudi desert, it seems like a pretty good idea for America to consider membership in OPEC. The least you can say is, maybe then we’ll have more influence on prices at the pump.”

King Abdullah, who flew in to tour the newly oil-rich region with President Bush and Vice President Cheney, commented, “Until now, I thought a country had to have a lot of sand to have oil. Now, I see it can also have a lot of snow. If America wants to join OPEC, we will be very happy to consider the application. But, of course, we only have one vote.”

Reaction across the Middle East was not unmixed, even in Saudi Arabia. A member of the nation’s delegation to OPEC, speaking on condition of anonymity so he could remain in the employ of the King, cited Allah’s usual ways to man in terms of the oil trade, saying, “The eternal wisdom of Allah has provided that no part of the world is able to have more oil than Saudi Arabia. But our King likes to visit George Bush at his ranch in Crawford or wherever he is, so if we see enough gushers blacken the Artic Ocean, I suppose we will bring ourselves to consider U. S. membership.”

The Iranian representative was, expectedly, evasive while definite. “If the U. S. wants to join OPEC, we may say no or yes, never or maybe, later or now. There is, of course, more likelihood that we will say yes or maybe sooner if the U. S. agrees that our proud and progressive Islamic nation has the right to develop nuclear weapons for peaceful purposes.”

When asked about possible opposition to U. S. membership in OPEC, President Bush made no maybes about his intentions, turning to the King first, and saying, “Excuse me for saying this, but you how I’m always forthright.” Then he turned to the reporter, and stated, “We have a backup plan. If the other nations who control OPEC vote against American membership, we intend to form an oil cartel with Canada, which, like our own state of Alaska, borders on the Artic Ocean. Greenland, which also has a presence there, has indicated interest in the cartel, which, by the way, we’ve given the working name of APEC, with the “A” standing for “Artic.” I also plan to invite Russia, which, as you know, borders on the other side of the Artic Ocean, to consider the benefits of membership in APEC.”

Vice President Cheney, flashing his usual fleeting acidic smile at the King, took his turn at the skillful conduct of international relations, adding, “It’s quite a relief to know we’ve got as much oil up north as we do, and frankly, I kind of like the idea of APEC. So just let me say that, with all due deference to the King, the choice for OPEC is clear. It’s their cartel or ours.”

Environmentalists were widely distressed. A leading researcher of the multinational team that extracted the deep cores which indicated the vast reserves said, “It’s disheartening to think that our discovery of how much oil and gas lie under the Artic has led to a desire to extract it. I would have thought everyone would just appreciate the wisdom of leaving it there. Now, I shudder to think how much the combustion of the reserves will contribute to global warming, which, unfortunately, will make it even easier to pump out the oil, since there won’t be any ice left to get in the way.”

Eskimos generally applauded the news, with many expressing an eagerness to trade in their traditional garb for Arabian dress. One Eskimo confided, “If you want to know the truth, I like global warming. We’ve had it cold long enough.”

Everyday Americans at the pump were ecstatic about the prospects of a domestic oil glut. “Wow, just think,” an American SUV driver, who was at a gas station pumping out his wallet, said, “if the U. S. is part of OPEC or forms its own cartel, I might even be able to keep my gas guzzler.”