Opinion: Never argue with a junkie

You have to love America. Where else would a a bigoted, hypocritical drug-addict like Rush Limbaugh get the opportunity to vent his vitriol - and get paid to boot? While I can't fault people for expressing their views, I can find serious problems with not applying the same rules to yourself that you apply to others.

Here is an individual that professes to love America and want the best for the country, but would rather see the current President fail in his mission to restore our economy - than admit that perhaps the Republican Party does not have all the answers. Why the GOP does not disavow him I'll never be able to understand, but if there is anything that I abhor is someone that has so little decency left that he will not consider the suffering of so many during these trying times.

Like him, merely tolerate or despise him, Mr. Obama is our President - and was freely elected by the people if this Nation. Do I agree with all his actions or beliefs, no. However, he has a plan and is acting on it quickly - against the opposition of elitists that would rather see working families starve than see him succeed. This is behavior of the lowest form, and should not be dignified with a response.

My advice to President Obama and the Democratic Party: Never argue with a junkie - they never respond to reason. You have more important fish to fry than that lard-mouth bass.

McCain-Palin: Really, no seriously?

You have to give the old man his props, nobody ... and I mean not a single soul predicted Senator McCain's choice for VP. How's that for Maverick Senator? Well, great but ... is he nuts? Open editorial comment - I've been rooting for Senator Obama this time around - however, in and of itself McCain's running partner pick is not what I'm looking for in the Person-Next-In-Line-To-Succeed-The-President.

Ok, so Governor Palin is a bit of a brawler herself, I kinda like that in a woman. I just don't see her taking the reins in the (let's admit it) fairly likely chance that McCain kicks the bucket before his (potential) first term is over. She just is not ready, and if you doubt this just watch the heavily scripted interviews on ABC.

This is not because she is a woman - Senator Elizabeth Dole would have rocked the ticket if he wanted a woman who could also be considered "outside the old-boy network". She has the experience, the reputation and (my opinion) the support of many more folks within the Republican Party. She also has a good level of admiration within the ranks of the Democrats, and has worked accross the aisle on more than one occasion.

So, this might be a brilliant tactical move, as evidenced by the Republican ticket's upsurge in the latest polls. It is a huge strategic mistake, and may cost them the election.

As always, tell me what you think - but keep it clean.

Opinion: Broken Bodies, Broken Promises

This one really makes me angry. The chicken hawks in Washington, the same band of spineless wimps that didn't put their hide on the line when their country called ... and yet enjoy world-class health care; can't do the same for our Veterans, the ones that have sacrificed the most. I'm not saying there aren't any individuals in Congress, the White House or our vast bureaucracies that did serve, and in some cases were wounded. What I'm saying as that there are too many armchair generals in our nation's capital that would not put themselves or their families at risk, but gladly send other's sons and daughters in harm's way; yet do nothing to honor their sacrifice.

Of course, I'm disappointed in the ones that did make the sacrifice and have not fought hard enough for those that followed. They know better than anyone else how poorly we take care of our Veterans. The horror stories of inadequate care, crumbling facilities and general disdain for the well-being of our war-wounded goes back to the Vietnam Era; and probably before that dismal time. Yet it is the callousness of the ones that never experienced combat that grates me the most. Our Vice-President, who does not do that title justice; gladly receives the best medical attention after a life of steak and three-martini lunches. Meanwhile, G.I. Joe and Jane wait for months to receive much needed consultations; often getting treatment that is too little - too late.

What hurts the most is that these Veterans, steadfast and loyal to the end; continue to serve proudly - and honorably - while being slapped in the face time and time again by our ungrateful "leaders". They sit comfortably in their plush taxpayer-funded offices, while some of the nation's best men and women continue to pay the price.

Opinion: More of the same

The democrats, riding a wave of anti-war sentiment; took control of both houses of Congress. Left-leaning media pundits immediately started celebrating the victorious return of "Congress for the People, by the People". So ... by now we should have an exit strategy for Iraq, a solution to the energy problem and a plan for a balanced budget. Let me see, um - no, nope and not just yet - sorry but apparently we can't really get anything done. "It's bi-partisanship", say the old Democrat hands. I say it's another stab in the back for voters.

I really have to wonder if there's any real difference between an entrenched Republican or Democrat in either the House or the Senate. So far the only typically Democrat pronouncement we've heard is "We're going to have to raise taxes". Of course, unlike the wealthy political donors supporting one or both sides of the aisle; most of us cannot enjoy the benefits of corporate welfare, tax shelters and capital concealment enjoyed by the "top 1%". I don't know about you - but to me this looks like more of the same.

Story: Three Blind Mice

Vitaly puffed on his cigarette, an expensive import mild by Soviet standards. His receding hairline glistened with sweat, the lights in the room baking his forehead mercilessly. The room was fairly sparse, a table and a few chairs its only furnishings. His hands were free, which was a good sign perhaps. This being his first time, “answering a few questions” from the Special Investigation Committee, he knew little of what to expect. Fedorov, Pushkin, Bulnikov … all good engineers, good party members, loyal Soviet citizens … and now gone, dead if they were lucky. He wondered how it would happen. A shot to the head, beat to death, poison or maybe would they just send him to a gulag. No … death would be better, he would goad them into it.

The door opened slowly, and behind it he could see the outlines of two men. One was obviously a guard, his size and demeanor intimidating in a brutish way. The other must be his interrogator, he thought. As he stepped closer, details emerged. His face was blank and impassive, but Vitaly thought that he must be of at least a mid-rank officer. A Major for sure, his coat and hat were not something a mere Lieutenant could afford. This meant they wanted to get information from him first, and if he answered appropriately, there might be a chance. Sure, he’d have to work menial jobs, and would never enjoy the pleasures of the state-sponsored dachas near the Black Sea again. But at least he would still see Natalia, if she would have him.

The guard remained near the door, a club at the ready. Not that he needed it, but the message was clear – “move and I pummel you”. Vitaly needed no reminders of his current status, having being dragged out of his flat in Cosmos City by two State Security goons in the middle of the night had made his position clear enough. His survival depended entirely on his submission and he had no intentions of making the situation worse – unless they decided to send him to the re-education camps. That he could not and would not bear.

“I am Colonel Arkady Vichuk, do you recognize that name?” Vitaly’s eyes widened, his heart raced and he almost fainted. If he had not been so thirsty he would have wet himself in front of the Colonel. He nodded meekly, his eyes looking for anything on the floor he could concentrate on. His heart sank, his hopes were dashed. He knew now what lay in store for him – months of torture and then a slow wait for death in a mental institution. He sobbed quietly and contemplated biting off his tongue, hoping to choke on it. He tried, and yelped in pain as blood spurted from his mouth. The guard at the door immediately raced to Vitaly and shoved a rubber mouthpiece into his mouth, splitting his lower lip in the process. He then gagged Vitaly to keep him from spitting it out. Surprisingly, he never used the club and returned to his post beside the door.

The Colonel looked at him for a few minutes, and let him whimper while he read a thick dossier that must have held the despondent engineer’s personal records. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke again. “You must understand, I am here to both gain and provide information. This is my task. I will not allow you to cause me to fail. This need not be painful, unless you prefer it. Nod once if you understand.” Vitaly assented with a quick nod. The Colonel continued, “Good, as I said before, I am here to provide and obtain information. Some of the items we will discuss might seem surprising, even unusual. You will refrain from commenting about the … technical possibility of some of my lines of questioning, and from repeating what you hear. Failure to do so will result in your death and that of those you speak to.”

He considered the Colonel’s words. After measuring his options, which were none, he nodded his consent. The guard removed the mouthpiece and half-heartedly wiped his mouth with a dirty rag. For a moment, Vitaly worried about an infection, and then smiled at the irony. “A joke at my expense”, more of a statement than a question from the Colonel. This was not unusual in those he questioned, usually as they realized the hopeless situation that had befallen them. “No…no, comrade Colonel…forgive me for showing my self-pity.” For a brief moment, Vitaly thought he caught a glimpse of humanity in his interrogator’s steel-gray eyes, but that quickly passed.

After another period of quiet, clinical measure by the man in uniform, the interview continued. “Good then,” asked the Colonel. “Your name is Vitaly Novobrym, a Senior Engineer at the Baikonur Cosmodrome.” More a statement than a question, but Vitaly assented quickly so as not to receive another dose of the guard’s special touches. “You have a wife, Natalia – a schoolteacher and may I add a very attractive example of the modern Soviet Woman.” Vichuk’s lascivious sneer as he muttered the sentence almost caused Vitaly to rise up in indignation. Fortunately, years of oppression had taught him better. If the Colonel noticed anything he did not let it show, and continued his questions “5^th in your class at the Moscow Technical Institute, not politically connected but a loyal citizen. You fulfilled you military service quietly, without much distinction, but efficiently.” A small measure of disdain could be heard in the Colonel’s voice, the ribbons on his chest showing a somewhat more distinguished military career.

“No matter, your technical brilliance was duly noted. You were immediately sent to Baikonur upon completion of your service in the Strategic Rocket Command. There you performed admirably, earning a commendation for your work on the Soyuz Crew Module.” Such is it with these interrogators, first they remind you of your position, and then they build you up thought Vitaly. It had been the same in his conscript training, except the humiliations there had been more perverse and individual, since they had no other goal but to amuse the training cadre. Vichuk wielded his skills like a surgeon would a scalpel instead of a butcher and his cleaver. For this Vitaly was thankful, he had no desire to antagonize his captors, only to survive.

“Tell me more about your work in Baikonur.” the Colonel asked. “Where should I begin comrade Colonel?” replied Vitaly, worried about infuriating his interrogator with useless information. “Start with your specific duties, then provide more insight into the relationship dynamics within your work group.” Vitaly was apprehensive about speaking with regards to the latter, as their discussions had not always been an example of Soviet patriotism. Nonetheless, he would answer truthfully, knowing the Colonel’s reputation for thorough questioning. He suddenly felt a pang of remorse and worry, remembering how headstrong they could be. Bulnikov – Sasha – especially, his youth and connections made him reckless at times. How he must have suffered.

Vitaly quickly ran through these emotions, and started to answer as soon as he heard the guard shuffle his feet. “My job was to design, build prototypes and validate production versions of the life support systems of the Soyuz Crew Module. In this capacity I worked to ensure that systems such as air recycling, cabin heat, door seals and crew telemetry performed their functions as expected with minimal problems and a very small risk of total failure.” The Colonel listened, seeming to absorb every minute detail. He than asked, “Would you say that your work was satisfactory?” already knowing the answer. “Why yes, comrade Colonel, at no time have any of the systems under my care suffered a malfunction while undergoing testing or in flight operations.” Vichuk considered this, but did not voice an opinion. He gestured for Vitaly to continue.

“My superiors were happy with the quality of our work, the whole team …” the Colonel interrupted then “Tell me about the team.” After a pause, Vitaly squirmed in his seat and spoke “The team did its duty, please I … these were my friends.” The blinding pain of the brutish guard’s kick took Vitaly by surprise, as did the slow trickle of blood he could feel behind his left ear. He lay on the floor whimpering, while Vichuk lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His assailant returned to his post as quickly as he had come to inflict his dose of punishment. The Colonel finally said quietly to the crumpled engineer “Perhaps some time for reflection will allow a more open discussion, remember this - comrade.” Vichuk left the room, his enforcer a few paces behind. The door opened, and two jailers in soiled overalls picked him up like a rag doll. As he lay in the windowless cell they placed him in, he slowly fell asleep to the nightmares that had tormented him for the past week.

It always started the same way. It was morning in the Baikonur technical worker’s village. He awoke at dawn, Natalia by her side warm and inviting. He rolled into her and slowly began to nuzzle her chest. She wakes up with a smile, and then rolls over so he can caress her back. Then the phone rings and he is up, out of bed and out the door while she blows him a kiss and waves through the window. The cottage grows smaller and smaller in the rear window of the van. The driver stops three more times, Vitaly greets his teammates. Pushkin passes a flask of tea around, while Fedorov boasts of his wife’s enormous tits, enlarged by her latest pregnancy. Bulnikov sulks in the front passenger’s seat, wondering aloud whether this was just another stupid drill. His fellow engineers laugh it off, more for the benefit of the driver who is sure to inform his superiors of the comments of the impertinent young engineer.

Soon the Cosmodrome’s main gates open to let them pass, and everyone looks in quiet admiration at the massive engineering complex looming in front of the van. The driver parks, Vitaly hands him a pack of imported cigarettes as they leave, hoping they will help silence any stories he would want to tell the motor pool commissar. As they walk through the entrance to the building, the large bust of Gagarin – Hero of the Soviet Union – smiles on them with a mixture of pride and encouragement. They walk up to the large flight of stairs that will take them up to their second floor workroom, and in a fit of adolescent exuberance, decide to race to the top.

The room is large and comfortable, drafting tables are laid out to take advantage of the natural light that streams in through the large picture windows. They congregate next to a table on which a schematic diagram for the cabin pressure system of the Soyuz capsule is depicted in minute detail. Every connector, pipe, valve and control is listed along with a reference number that can be used to ensure that proper maintenance has been performed on each device and part. A nervous excitement builds between them, as the launch of the latest space mission, Soyuz 11, is scheduled for this evening. Even thought the capitalists have laid claim to the moon, it is the Soviets that have spent more time in space. They have a large working space station, while the Americans can barely keep SpaceLab funded thanks to their foolish incursion into the affairs of the socialist peoples of South-East Asia. So much the better thought Vitaly, let’s show the World who really leads in Space.

They verify the safety checklist one more time, and call the head maintenance supervisor to ensure that all the steps in securing the capsule have been followed. He assures them that yes, everything is in order, and thanks the engineers for the gifts sent after the last successful launch. After ending the call with the supervisor, they walk down to the cafeteria for some food before heading out to the launch site. As on any launch day, an impressive buffet is arranged for the benefit of dignitaries, foreign press and military brass; who usually descend on the site like vultures for every such occasion. The Cosmodrome’s Operations Director is there in his best suit, his medals on display for everyone to see. As usual his wife is there, displaying her definitely un-socialist predilection for fine French couture. No matter, the food and drink are too good to pass up, and one never knows which politburo member may need a personal guide for the event.

After lunch, the team heads back to the office where they collect their packs and satchels and head out to the motor pool. Their assigned driver is waiting patiently, and is pleasantly surprised by the lunch items that the crew brought him. In a society of equals some are less so than others, and the delicacies brought by the engineers will bring joy to his wife. Perhaps she might even be thankful enough to warm his bed tonight. This was an all-too-infrequent visit; ever since she had caught the hapless driver peeking through the door of the shared bathroom in their floor of the cinderblock apartment building at Katerina – the neighbor’s deliciously shaped young wife. Maybe the liter of good vodka and the luscious caviar would help … if not he would get drunk and full and fall asleep, pleasure is pleasure.

As they boarded the minibus, he could sense the excitement in the engineer’s voices. He too was glad, especially for this group. They were the sons of good working men such as himself, and had not forgotten the importance of kindness. For this he conveniently forgot much of what was said every morning and evening when he picked them up and dropped them off after a day’s work. Even the young one he forgave, although his temper often got the better of him. He would age and mellow in time, and as the son of a politburo member it was good to be in his graces. He too had a young son, a conscript in the Red Army who would soon need a sponsor after his mandatory service. He was bright – maybe he too could be an engineer. Oh! What a thought! The son of the lowly motor pool driver an Engineer working alongside these men and the Cosmonauts! He smiled at this, his daydream, and absentmindedly laughed at one of the jokes of the portly one, the one with the bosomy, pregnant wife.

They drew near to the operations building; the driver stopped a few feet from the staff entrance and bid good luck to his wards. They walked into the building, instantly feeling the intense energy of the crew getting ready to launch the massive Proton launch vehicle, a large and reliable multi-stage rocket that would launch the Soyuz 11 mission. Already the three Cosmonauts of the backup crew - Dobrovolskiy, Volkov, and Patsayev – had been strapped into their seats and were performing the final system checks before launch.

A kick to the groin abruptly ended Vitaly’s nightmare. The bear like visage of Vichuk’s bodyguard grinned baring nicotine-stained teeth. Two caretakers pulled him up and ordered him to strip. Vitaly did so clumsily, hands shaking from a mixture of anger, pain, helplessness and fear. He seem surprised that he had not lost more weight, but then again he was not sure how long he had been a distinguished guest in the Colonel’s “country dacha”. At least he lived, and life was hope. One of the jailers pushed him out towards the door and then pointed down the hallway. He shuffled along, staring straight ahead – looking at nothing. At the end of the hallway he noticed a door, once opened the smell of disinfectant stung his nostrils. A green tile-lined room – a shower room of some sort – was visible beyond the door. He stepped in after the brutish guard encouraged it with a poke to the kidneys. “Clean up and become presentable” the Sergeant, he finally recognized the insignia, uttered.

The steam from the shower heads restored him slowly. He lathered with the anti-bacterial soap he found lying on a bench next to some towels and what seemed to be Army-issue underwear and overalls. While not as comfortable as the clothes he had worn, they at least were clean and did not reek of the urine-soaked floor of his cell. There were some plastic rubber sandals as well – he used these even though they seemed to be a couple of sizes too large. In any case they were better than bare feet, he thought. Perhaps the Colonel had gotten what he wanted, and he would be free to go.

As he turned around to leave the washroom he was startled to see Vichuk standing impassively less than a meter away. He had not felt the Colonel’s presence and wondered how long he had been there. “There is something you must see,” said Vichuk, “then perhaps we can continue our chat.” Vitaly followed him out of the washroom and through a doorway that led to what seemed to be an underground corridor. He did not know it, but instinct and the earthy smell of the walls seemed to confirm this. At the end of the corridor there was a metal door flanked by two impressive-looking guards armed with Kalashnikovs. What ever was behind that door would not be seen by many people.

Vitaly felt oddly privileged by this – although his fear was undiminished. Anything could be behind that door, death, more torture or worse – his fellow engineers, mangled and betrayed. For a moment he panicked, what if Natalia, his beautiful Natalia was there? He froze and was reminded of his condition once again by the Sergeant. One of the guards opened the heavy metal door and a blast of cold air immediately hit his body. He shivered at once, unprotected as he was. The Colonel and the Sergeant were obviously comfortable as evidenced by their heavy fur-lined coats. He had not noticed them before, having been in a haze after the warm shower.

One of the guards opened the door, and they entered a dimly-lit room, which was lined on one side with what looked like over-sized drawers. In one corner of the room Vitaly noticed a large sturdy table with some sheets thrown over oddly shaped lumps, like potato sacks but not as neat. A peculiar smell wafted into his nostrils, and suddenly he remembered the source. Formaldehyde – they were in a morgue. He started trembling and the Colonel – sensing his fear – smirked and said “Don’t worry, these are not your friends – meet the heroic Cosmonauts Dobrovolskiy, Volkov, and Patsayev.” Vitaly lost what remained of his composure. Surely this is why he was here; they were being blamed for the accident.

“Officially, these brave young men died due to the sudden decompression of the capsule’s atmospheric system, brought about by a defect in a release valve. This defect should have been found by you and your colleagues.” The Colonel’s accusation stung Vitaly, yet he could only turn away. Vichuk continued, “This lack of proper oversight has caused not only the regrettable death of the Cosmonauts, but more importantly great embarrassment to the Soviet Space Program’s Chief Designer – Comrade Mishin. He has placed the blame directly on you and your team.” Vitaly knew what came next. Their failure would be quietly concealed, and they would be sent to the Siberian “re-education” camps. If he was lucky, he would freeze to death soon after arriving there.

“This will be the official story.” Continued Vichuk, “After a reasonable amount of time, at seemingly random intervals you and the others will be listed as dead. Your families will be notified, and you will cease to exist. Meanwhile, you will work under my direction in determining not only the real cause of the men’s deaths – but also in investigating other events surrounding this mishap. For the married men, there will be one chance to contact their wives. They must convince them to come along to your final destination. They will leave everything behind, and assume new identities – as will all of you.”

Vitaly’s head reeled – Natalia, his beloved – how would she react? Yet here was his chance, “Yes Comrade Colonel, we will do as you indicate. But please – what … why? … ” He pleaded. “You will be told more later on, but for now I will show you a few things. Come closer to the examination table.” The Colonel beckoned. His visage turned somber, as if puzzled by what he was about to reveal. Vichuk removed the sheet from the corpses of the Cosmonauts. Warily, Vitaly approached the table. The Colonel prompted him, “Tell me Comrade, what are the physiological impacts on the human body when subjected to rapid atmospheric decompression at extreme altitude?” Vitaly replied in his best textbook fashion, “When the human body is exposed to the vacuum of space, the internal pressure of the air in the lungs causes these to expand until bursting, as do the intestinal tract an other open cavities. The eyes bulge out but usually do not explode as people believe; the capillaries do expand creating a red-eye or bloodshot effect. The eardrums burst. Finally, the capillaries in the skin expand until rupturing, creating bruising throughout the body.”

“Good,” said the Colonel, “now tell me, after looking at these men … do they show signs of having died from rapid decompression?” “No Comrade Colonel, they do not.” replied Vitaly. “Correct,” affirmed Vichuk, “they do not. In fact the capsule landed following its carefully programmed automated sequence. All systems performed flawlessly, and there was no valve malfunction. As you can see, the Cosmonauts have suffered some trauma. If you examine their eyes, or specifically their eye sockets, you will notice that their eyes are missing and there are burn marks around the eyelids. Tell me, what do you believe caused this?”

Vitaly forced the bitter taste of bile back down his throat. The horrifying injuries to the Cosmonauts were unlike any he had seen before. “I cannot be sure without some medical expert opinion Comrade Colonel, but I do not think these are radiation burns” he finally said. “Why?” asked Vichuk. “The rest of their faces do not appear to be affected, and neither do the rest of their bodies. In fact only their eyes appear to have been removed.” The Colonel pondered Vitaly’s answer. “Very well, your observation is noted. Come, let’s meet your colleagues. You will begin work immediately.” Vitaly was glad to leave the morgue, the Cosmonaut’s blackened eye sockets seared into his mind.

Opinion: Hypocrites At The Helm

And I'm back. Not that anyone missed me, but what the heck - freedom of speech is worthless without exercise. So let's review the past 9 months in the News:

- Iraq
- Democrats vs. Republicans
- Congressional Scoundrels
- North Korea
- Iran
- Global Warming
- U.S. Automakers Reap What They Sow
- Wildfires In The Western U.S.
- Hollywood Remains Clueless
- The Rise Of The Personal Media Mogul
- Etc, Etc, Etc ...

So, just in time for the elections and another sign that we're going to hell in a handbasket - Mr. Foley, Florida Republican is the latest "Chester the Molester" to be uncovered. Figures - he's the guy that up until last week was in a non-stop crusade to rid the world of pedophiles.

Talk about throwing rocks in a glass house, although the cynic in me wonders whether he was set up. As it turns out, he's one more in a long line of closet gay Republicans, bashing other homosexuals by day while playing the nights away. Makes you wonder what the election will look like this November. As it stands the conservative radio talk show phone lines are buzzing, and the Republican media manipulators can't seem to find an easy way out of this one.

Time to bring Osama out of the freezer ... can't save him for the '08 general election anymore.

As always - tell me what you think.

Opinion: America Needs Competent Leaders

I'm disappointed. Angry. Frustrated. How can we hope to succeed and overcome the difficult times ahead when our "leaders" are so inept, corrupt and uncaring? I'm not excluding Republicans, Democrats, (or any politicians), heads of major corporations, media pundits, judges, clergy of any denomination ... you name it, the manure has hit the ceiling-mounted ventilator and its spreading like gossip at a high school reunion.

Is there a way out of the multiple crisis that currently exist and will likely pop up soon enough? Yes, but I just don't see anyone in office that we can trust to lead us when the going gets really tough. What's really sad is that the folks that most would consider qualified to lead this nation are too afraid to step up. I can understand it, none except the truly power-hungry would subject their families or themselves to the media grinder.

I know - I'm being pessimistic - there's always a better day ahead. But here's my point (yes there is one): The first requirement for anyone aspiring to a position where their decisions affect the lives of thousands or millions is COMPETENCE. I'm talking brains, guts, a sense of humor, integrity and a really thick skin. So how do we find such a person. Well ... it's going to be hard. Our society has been focused on the amassing of wealth by any means for so long that the pool of folks with both the skills and experience to be effective at guiding the rest of us is small and shrinking.

I don't think that they need to be perfect, but a core of personal integrity is a must. There are enough scoundrels out there doing the anti-Robin Hood thing. Military service is optional, but does increase the odds of having some "cojones". The same can be said of any activist, especially one that has cleaned-up a tough neighborhood. If you can stand up to punks when no one else can really protect you, the odds are good you are both brave and intelligent. Smarts is a tricky qualifier, street smarts are good, but in today's world are not enough. Some of the snobs out there will not give you the time of day unless you have some credentials of note. The person would not have to be a rocket scientist - but should be able to converse with one.

Sense of humor and a thick skin are both important, because the pundits will tear you apart before you know it. Their job is to entice folks to their media outlets, so that advertisers can pummel you with their inane messages. So I'm off my soapbox for now, as always tell me what you think but please keep it fairly civil.