DOUBLE TROUBLE BUBBLE BOY!

I expected it, didn’t you? Instead of "Hanging Chads", this time we got the instantly infamous “Double Bubbles" on the 2008 L.A. County primary ballot. Independent voters were required to ask for a Democratic ballot, and then required to check a little BUBBLE at the top of that ballot to confirm they wanted to vote in the Democratic primary. What is this, government by Larry David?

*
George; The Bubble Boy was trying to kill me. Susan, tell him.

Susan; It’s a long story.

Donald: Hey, Seinfeld, thanks for

showing up. You know your

little friend here tried to kill

me.

George; Oh, you lying little snot. And

he’s a cheater. Aren’t ya’, you

little twerp?

Donald; Moors.

George; Moops!

Man #1; There’s the guy that tried to kill the Bubble Boy. Get him!
*
If you have ever been in California for an election, and I covered politics there for thirty years, you could sense it coming. It was stupid, redundant to the point of absurdity and typical “LA bureaucrat think”. Republicans and Democrats from almost anywhere else in the nation would never have designed a ballot this way, following the theory that if the voters asked for a Democratic ballot they must want to vote Democratic, and probably did not want their hand held while crossing the street, either. But the LA tradition of protecting voters from themselves is hard to shake, in budget matters as well as elections. And when the first complaints came through some genius activists from out of town went to Rocky Delgadillio, the city attorney, for help, which was like asking Wiley Coyote for help in catching the Road Runner. The obvious is always too simple for him.
*
California voters get a ton of non-partisan info before every election, carefully edited and informative, as the County Registrar, Dean Logan, explained to the out of town press corps. “The manner in which cross over voting was presented in Los Angeles County was no different than that of the last three statewide primary elections (2002, 2004 and 2006). The voter instructions provided in the sample ballot booklets, which were mailed to all voters in the County, highlighted the steps to be taken by nonpartisan voters when voting a cross over ballot. Likewise, poll worker training materials and the actual vote recorder page instructions were consistent with past practice.” Is it a fool proof method? Of course not; fools are much more inventive than you can possibly imagine. That’s what makes them so prolific. But at some point people who wish to take part in the democratic (small d) process have to take responsibility for themselves, to actually read the ballot in their hands, otherwise the jig is up and Vlad “The Polonium inhaler” Putin is the template for the 21st century man.
*
Besides, when 20 people in Chicago were convinced that their ballots were being marked with invisible ink, what hope is there for democracy in this world? We should just name Larry David dictator and everybody go home. But there is a more positive item here, buried in the election results and not mentioned by any of the pundits, except for me.
*

In the California Democratic primary, John Edwards got 163,000 votes, which means he would have come in third in the Republican primary! And anytime a dropped out Democrat can come in third in the Republican primary, it does not bode well for the Repubs, which means it bodes very well for the entire nation!
*
Oh, and Ralph “The Mouth” Nader got just under 2,000 votes. What a bunch of Moops.

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A Phenomenal Woman

I can clearly see that Ms. Kumari Fulbright is a striking creature, a 5’ 4” tall, 110 pound Midwest born, Texas trained beauty queen with a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of Michigan; currently in her second year at the University of Arizona Law School, and serving on the editorial board of the school’s Journal of International and Comparative Law. She was in training for a clerkship with a Federal Judge, and she also looks pretty good in a bikini. As the poem put it; “I walk into a room, just as cool as you please. And to a man the fellows stand or fall down on their knees. They swarm around me, a hive of honey bees. It’s the flash in my eyes and the flash of my teeth, the swing of my waist and the joy in my feet. I’m a woman. Phenomenally, Phenomenal woman, that’s me.” But poised on the brink of a life of ambition and success, seemingly overnight, Kumari has become media pulp and pabulum. The former beauty queen has been charged with the kidnapping and torture of her ex-boyfriend. The headline appeals to the gawker in all of us, the Paul Harvey devotee who derives comfort from life with a parable attached. Except that parables are always an invention. And in this case perhaps the most favorable invention was offered up by Kumari’s lawyer (who you would hope would proffer such a thing) when he suggested that, “If anything, she's guilty of making poor choices in men." And yes, that is usually a crime, and rightly so. Allow me to explain why.
*
Kumari is Hindustani for “virgin”, and in 2000, when she graduated from The Colony High School, north of Dallas, Texas, she was a varsity cheerleader, a member of the student government, on the honor roll; and Kumari may have still been a virgin but once you are out of high school that doesn’t seem quite so important anymore. While attending Michigan, Kumari entered the Miss Michigan pageant and did rather well, although she didn’t win. But it was also in Ann Arbor that Kumari met Robert Ergonis. They began dating. And shortly after she graduated in December of 2004, she moved in with him in suburban Detroit. Her mother, Valarie, confessed to being worried because Robert was 19 years older than Kumari, and had been married once before, but says she consoled herself that he was a good man – proving once again that what your don’t know can hurt you.
*
In fact the forty-something Robert already had an extensive if not always successful criminal career when they met, with convictions for marijuana trafficking, breaking into vending machines and carrying a concealed weapon and indictments in several states for theft, fraud, drug paraphernalia, and possession, as well as a long series of arrest warrants for “failure to appear”. At one point Kumari had even been threatened with a gun by Robert’s ex-wife. And it was with Robert that in mid-2005 Kumari moved to Tucson, Arizona, and into an apartment in the 1200 block of East Knox Drive. Why Tucson? Well, if I were suspicious I might point out that it is a college town, and that Robert had met Kumari while she was in college, and that college towns are prime territory for drug dealers, filled as they are with naive young recreational drug users – and Robert already had some “ties’ with the town. But that would just be suppositious of me.
*
Besides, this is Kumari’s story, and shortly after arriving in Tucson Kumari began to enter beauty contests, being named in short order Miss Hawaiian Tropic, Miss Pima County in 2005 and Miss Desert Sun in 2006. Such beauty contests often include scholarships in their prize packages for competitors. For her talent Kumari recited Maya Angeleou’s poem, “Phenomenal Woman”; “Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I’m not cute or built to suit a model’s fashion size. But when I start to tell them, they think I’m telling lies. I say it’s the reach of my arms, the span of my hips, the curl of my lips. I’m a woman. Phenomenally, phenomenal woman; that’s me.” And she posed or a "Guns and Girls" calander.
*
In the fall of 2006 Kumari enrolled in the University of Arizona Law School, and like many other scholarship students worked at the UA bookstore to make ends meet. She also helped with the Task Force for Campus Child Care. This girl was on an ambitious track, and she began to realize that Robert had different ambitions than hers. They broke up and he moved out in the spring of 2007. But by the summer she had a new boyfriend, named Conway. He was closer to her age of 25, but like Robert, he also had a history of drug use and violence. Attracting boys never seems to have been a problem for Kumari. But this creep was defiantly a step down.
*
Kumari noticed that some of her jewelry was missing and although she did not report this to the police, she did break up with the creep. And she mentioned the offense to her old boyfriend, Robert. Perhaps they made a plan together, and perhaps he decided to act on his own. But whoever planned whatever, on December 8th, 2007, Kumari invited the creep over for a talk. Then she announced she had to take a shower. And as soon as Kumari had gone into the bathroom two men burst into the apartment. One of them was Robert Ergonis. They roughed up the creep. They took away his gun. They accused him of stealing Kumari’s jewelry – which he had, and which he admitted he had pawned. And then they dragged the creep out to an SUV, and drove him to the home of 40 year old Larry Hammond. There the creep was threatened, robbed of his wallet, about $600, a briefcase and his cell phone. Then he was driven back to Kumari’s apartment. There Kumari held a gun on him while he was duct taped to a chair. After Robert and his co-conspirator left, the creep broke free from his bonds and began to struggle with Kumari over the gun. She bit and scratched him. The gun went off. And eventually he managed to escape. The neighbors deluged 911 with calls.
*
When the cops arrived Kumari wouldn’t answer her front door. But she appeared at a rear window, shouting that the creep had robbed her and had shot at her. The cops eventually had to drag her out the window of her apartment. She was charged with assault and kidnapping. The cops quickly also arrested Larry Hammond, but Robert Ergonis was nowhere to be found. The police suspect he has returned to his native Columbia. And Kumari has been left holding the bag as the "ring leader". Although a small amount of marijuana was found in her apartment, she tested negative for any drugs or alcohol. And that is the most disturbing thing about the entire case; she got involved in all of this odd behavior without the excuse of any intoxicating drugs. Instead he lawyer has fallen on that other excuse; “If anything she’s guilty of making poor choices in men.”
*
And for that offence the lovely Kumari Fulbright will likely spend no small amount of time in jail. “Men themselves have wondered what they see in me. They try so much but they can’t touch my inner mystery. When I try to show them they say they still can’t see. I saw it’s the arch of my back, the sun of my smile, the ride of my breasts, the grace of my style. I’m a woman. Phenomenally, phenomenal woman, that’s me.”

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DOCTOR IDIOT, MEET PATIENT IDIOT

I see this story as proof that even idiots can graduate medical school, specifically Dr. Adam Hansen, who was, until last December, the chief resident of general surgery at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix, Arizona. It seems that Doctor Idiot was performing gall bladder surgery on 37 year old Sean Dubowik, and as Doctor Idiot was about to insert a catheter he couldn’t help but notice that Sean had a rather bold tattoo on his penis; the words “Hot Rod”. The doctor was so entertained by this unusual physical adornment that he whipped out his cell phone – which was, presumably, sterilized – and snapped a quick photo. Post-op, in the locker room, Doc Hansen showed this photo to several of his colleges, presumably for their amusement and edification. It’s the same reason doctors keep X-rays of various objects found stuck in rectums and virginals. The only difference is that an X-ray of a bottle of Jack Daniels floating in a ‘pubic symphysis’ has no identifying details on it other than the bottler’s label, whereas there are so few tattooed penises in this world that even a low quality cell phone image of one of them could easily be traced back to its owner, and that is a clear violation of HIPPA
*
One of the primary purposes of the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 2004 is to make it an actual federal offense for anybody to release any information about any patient without their written consent. The Mayo Clinic boasts they have over 100 policies protecting a patient’s privacy. And according to HIPPA consent for the release of information to non-staff (i.e., the public) must be hand written, printed in block letters, and explicitly list the information to be released, and authorizing the spokesperson and/or physician by name, and any partners in their medical practice. These restrictions cover doctors, nurses, pharmacists, technicians, the clerk who prepares your bill and the accountant from your insurance company who rejects payment, as well as all of the office staff for those folks and all their assistants, the hospital housekeepers, cooks, crooks and bottle washers. Should you get caught violating a HIPPA privacy restriction you can find yourself talking to a Federal Prosecutor. And the Mayo Clinic claims they spend “… millions of dollars each year to comply with and exceed government requirements”.
*
All of which made it a big deal when one of Doctor Idiot’s colleges dropped a dime on him and called The Arizona Republic newspaper and told them about the impromptu photo op. (Do you think it could have been a scrub nurse, or maybe a housekeeper?) And when the paper called the hospital to confirm the tip, the administration had a little talk with Doctor Idiot. And Doctor Idiot then called his tattooed patient, Mr. Dubowik, who shall henceforth be known as Patient Idiot.
*
The term “idiot” as used here is not intended as a derogative definition but, like the term “genius”, as an adjective to describe a certain level of achievement. One man or woman can, at various times in their lives be either one or both. The first human to apply paint on purpose to a cave wall at Lascaux, France, 16,000 years ago, was a genius. And probably the very next day the very same genius probably tried use his new invention as a food additive, which may be why his or her name has been lost to history.
*
Sean Dubowik is the owner and operator of the Centerfolds Cabaret and Sports Fever Bar at 2031 West Peoria Avenue in Phoenix. It is described as a “topless bar”, or a strip club, where for a $5.00 cover charge and an over priced beer you can enjoy nude and semi nude female dancers on stage, on your tabletop or “in private” (extras are always extra). The club also features a “full kitchen”, but last summer the board of health issued them 12 critical violations, so it is probably safe to assume nobody goes there for the fine cuisine. Sean says he acquired his tattooed penis to win a $1,000 bet, and because at the time he was drunk as hell. And that anecdote, plus his choice of business, probably tells you just about all you need to know about The Patient Idiot.
*
When Doctor Idiot called Patient Idiot and confessed about the photo shoot I cannot believe that Patient Idiot was surprised. You have a tattoo on your tummy to draw attention to your abs. You get a heart imprinted on your chest to draw the eye to your tits. And a tattoo on your penis is almost self explanatory. So Patient Idiot might have been embarrassed but he could not have been surprised. And yet he claims to have felt “betrayed, violated and disgusted.” It sounds to me as if someone is laying the foundation for a lawsuit. But really, is a jury going to believe that a man who makes his living paying naked women to hitch their heels behind their ears for the entertainment of strangers, would be embarrassed by a grainy photo of his own flaccid penis? I don’t think so. But I do smell a mid five figure out of court settlement coming from the Doctor Idiot’s malpractice insurance company.
*
There will be ramifications, so to speak. Doctor Idiot is no longer working at the Mayo Clinic, but it is not clear if he was fired, suspended or decided to go into photography. As Chic Older, from the Arizona Medical Association, put it, “HIPPA is not even the point. Many ethical boundaries were crossed. He just made a stupid error in judgment.” And the truth is that no one in Arizona has ever been charged with violating patient privacy under the HIPPA laws, and besides, such a “crime” would be a mere misdemeanor, a medical traffic ticket .
*
In other words, Doctor Idiots do this kind of stupid thing a lot more often than the public is aware of. And the only reason this one made the papers is because of the presence of a tattooed penis. Which brings us back to the Patient Idiot…He had a tattoo needle used on his penis! What an idiot!

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SIMPLE SIMON MEETS LARRY HART

I am the proud father of a six month old kitten named Simon. Okay, I’m not his real daddy, and I didn’t name him, but I am the human (along with my wife) responsible for feeding and caring for the small brain and great big eyes and constant energy that is our Simon. I take this responsibility seriously. It was I who taught Simon the invaluable lesson about open flames when both of his eyebrows were singed off (they grew back enormously long and oddly shaped). But thanks to my inattention Simon now knows to give the fireplace a wide berth. My wife spotted Simon chewing on an audio cassette of Stephen King’s “Dark Tower”, abandoned years ago on a dusty bookshelf, and pulled two feet of audio tape out of his little gullet. But the next morning it was I who pulled another 12 feet of poop covered tape out of his ass. Simon now knows to insist we examine every aspect of our lives in terms of what Simon might eat, poke, scratch, chew, shed on or chase. And part of that responsibility is teaching Simon that he has a name.
*
Years ago I worked with Harry Anderson, who was then staring in the TV show “Night Court”. Harry was in my living room every Thursday night, so of course I knew who he was. Still, when I first met him, Harry shook my hand and introduced himself. It was typical of Harry, who was a gentle, shy and polite man. But it made me think; having a name is a little odd, and it stems not from the recognition of “self”, but the recognition of “others”. You don’t require a name. It is others who don’t know who you are, and they require you have a label. And it is not until you realize this “other” factor that you achieve the “age of reason”.
*
Which raised the question; how do you teach a “dumb animal” that he has a name? Do they come when you call them? That may simply mean they associate the sound that we call a “name” with food or a reward. A name is a much more complicated concept than that. I chose the rhyme/song approach to teach that concept. Whenever I pick up Simon for a bonding moment, as I pet him, I repeat the nursery rhyme, “Simple Simon”. We all know it but did you ever hear all of the verses? The details vary, as they do with any oral tradition (that is why writing was invented), but basically this is how it goes;

*
Simple Simon met a pie man going to the fair.

Said Simple Simon to the pie man, “Let me taste your ware”.

Said the pie man to Simple Simon, “Let me see your penny.”

Said Simple Simon, to the pie man, “Sir, I have not any.”

*

Simple Simon went a-fishing, for to catch a whale.

All the water he had got was in his mother’s pail.

Simple Simon went to look, if plums grew on a thistle;

he pricked his fingers very much, which made poor Simon whistle.
*
He went to catch a dickey bird,

and thought he could not fail,

because be had a little salt to put upon its tail.

He went for water with a sieve,

but soon it all fell through,

and now poor Simple Simon bids you all “Adieu”.
*
Obviously the first stanza records the joint invention of capitalism and fast food, some time in the early middle ages, and a dickey bird is any small bird. But on a more fundamental level the poem records the creation of a Mother Goose stock character, the buffoon “Simple Simon”, who would eventually (1930) be the lead character in the Rogers & Hart musical, “Simon Says”, which produced the melancholy ballad, “Ten Cents A Dance”, containing a typical Lorenz "Larry" Hart internal rhyme; “Fighters and sailors and bowlegged tailors can pay for their ticket and rent me. Butchers and barbers and rats from the harbors are sweethearts my good luck has sent me…Sometimes I think I’ve found my hero, but it’s a queer romance. All you need is a ticket. Come on, big boy, ten cents a dance.”
*
And it occurs to me that Larry Hart, that diminutive and tragically flawed genius, could have written the original “Simple Simon” had he lived in 12th century Europe, rather than 20th century New York. Of course, when Larry was first presented with the idea of a musical based upon the American West, he complained, “I can’t write about cows.” And that is why it was Rogers and Hammerstein who wrote “Oklahoma”, and not Rogers and Hart. But, perhaps Larry would have chosen a different melue for Simon; rather than a story about a baker and an idiot, perhaps for the last 700 years children would have memorized the story of a baker and Sleepy Simon, or Sexy Simon, or Sneaky Simon. And that would have been a different world.
*
The point is that Simon the kitten has no idea who Simple Simon is, nor even the vaguest curiosity. Cats do not construct a narrative out of life. Life to them is not sad, it is not melancholy, and it does not require a punch line or stock characters. It is not a nursery rhyme nor a Broadway musical nor even a television mini-series. If life were any of those things we humans would not require the invention of those things. And what a tumultous world that would be. If you know anybody who is a drama queen or king, you know what I mean.
*
From a cat’s perspective, life is crushingly simple. Simon does not care if he has a name or not. He is indifferent. I am the one concerned with the name game, me and my wife and Harry Anderson and Larry Hart. And darn it, Simon is going to learn his name. Is it a waste of time? Well, as Einstien says, time is bent. And a story of the universe with a begining, a middle and an end is an illusion, a soap opera written to an outline prepared by a producer with an agenda that has almost nothing to do with the plot line. In other words, God may have all the answers but what the hell makes you think knowing the answers would do you any good? At least that's how it must look to Simon's little kitty cat eyes.

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A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY

I would call it a case of personal mistaken identity, as in “you are not who you think you are.” Curtis Hamilton, age 26, was a civilian employee of the Atlanta Police Department (motto, “Pride, Productivity, Professionalism and Participation”) and had been accepted for training at their police academy. As is done with all new recruits, Curtis was subjected to an ID search through the Georgia Information Net and the FBI Identity Search. And that was when his photo popped up, with a fur parka hood tightly bound around his head. The photo was taken at 11:03 AM on January 25, 2007, as he robbed the Wachovia Bank branch on Concord Pike, in Wilmington, Delaware. Curtis had told the teller he had a gun and left behind a package he claimed was a bomb. It was not. But Curtis’ new career in law enforcement was a real bomb, and he is now being extradited back to Delaware to face a 1st degree robbery charge. Perhaps next time Curtis should try a little more professionalism and a little less participation.
*
And speaking of bombs, last week a janitor found a suspicious package in the parking garage of an apartment building in Goteborg, Sweden. When he put his ear near it, the package seemed to be faintly humming and vibrating. He called the cops and they called in the bomb squad. Such discoveries were once a reasonably common occurrence for a city known for anarchist street brawls and Death Metal music; a dull ugly industrial port town of half a million people at the mouth of the Gota River. It’s the kind of town where Swedish efficiency meets a high suicide rate, and it would have been no surprise if someone wanted to blow up one of the mass produced apartment complexes that house workers for the Volvo or Hasselblad plants. But in this case there was no bomb. What was vibrating in the package was… a vibrator. And now that I think about it, there are some very lovely parts of Goteborg, with the wide canals and that death metal music can be very enchanting, at times, and then there is that whole healthy Swedish attitude toward sexual freedom. Still a police spokesman said that they don’t expect anyone to claim the abandoned vibrator. Perhaps there are some needy poor Swedish sex addicts who could us one? It will need new batteries. But it has been used just once; by a bomb squad.
*
It’s not often that a farmhand gets swallowed up by his work, but it happened in Australia recently. Normally Zac Fitzgerald along with Jason Green cares for and feeds the huge unpredictable “salties” for the entertainment of tourists at Marrakai Station Crocodile Farm, about 75 miles west of Darwin. They call them farmhands because to call them croc-hands would invite derision. Anyway, at about 5pm two of these experienced “farmers” were searching the salt water marshes from a boat and a small helicopter, and collecting eggs from nests of the notoriously bad tempered wild saltwater crocs. The eggs are collected to restock the farms with a diverse gene pool.
*
It takes two to do the collecting because while one worker grabs the eggs the second watches for the momma “saltie”. But in this case, just as Jason was finishing a nest, momma managed to sneak past Zac and clamp her jaws down on Jason’s arm and began “…crushing about very violently”. Zac immediately pulled his pistol and fired. Unfortunately before the bullet hit the croc (if it hit the croc) it hit Jason first. The croc let go either because of the noise or the bullet, and Jason was immediately flown to the Royal Darwin Hospital. A Hospital spokesperson tactfully described his wounds this way; “His elbow is completely shattered…and he’s got a bite from a crocodile.”
*
Jason will require a second surgery to repair the damage to his elbow. But in typical Aussie fashion he told his boss, “I don’t think I’ll be at work for a couple of days.” And then, in regards to his deadeye mate, Zac, Jason wryly observed, “Thank God he’s a good shot” When “farmer” Nick Burns returned to the scene of the great egg snatch he found the momma “saltie”, as happy and healthy as a reptile can be, squatting atop her nest and hissing her disdain at the hovering humans. Burns explained, “She was…alive and well and looking us straight in the eye.” And she was also apparently uninjured by any gun shots.
*
Not so lucky was the owner of Arthur, a chocolate Labrador retriever, who was evidently fed up with his master’s annoying habit of letting the brave dog dive into ice cold water, swim hundreds of yards, grab a dead duck or goose, drag it back to dry land and then suffering the insult when the human claimed the carcass for himself, as if he had had been the hunter, and not the dog.. As Texas police reconstructed the crime scene, the human owner, 46 year old Parry Alvin Price, had just placed yet another dead goose fetched by Arthur into the back of his pickup, next to his loaded shotgun, along with Arthur, when, suddenly Parry was cut down by a shot gun blast right through the closed tailgate. Parry later died from blood loss at a Houston hospital. And nobody suspected the innocent enthusiastic doggie until some cat lover noticed that Arthur’s paw prints were all over the trigger guard. Bad doggy, Arthur, bad dog!

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