Boston Cod

Eulogy to Virginia Brown O’Brien: A life of Giving

(Note: Virginia Brown O’Brien, the mother of ten children and grandmother to 21,was buried Thursday in North Eastham on Outer Cape Cod—barely four months after her husband of 60 years, Francis Xavier O'Brien passed away after a long, painful illness. A selfless caregiver in every way, Virginia died after an assault of advanced Alzheimer's that she had kept at bay while caring for her husband, letting go in complete exhaustion only near the end of his life. A eulogy delivered by her son, Greg, on May 29. 2008 at Our Lady of the Cape Catholic Church in Brewster is posted here in honor of Virginia, and for extended family and friends, from Cape Cod to California, and others, to know of her bountiful love, faith and devotion. Her life in all ways underscores the devotion of the Greatest Generation of women in recent memory ever to serve their families.) 

By Greg O’Brien

We have to stop meeting like this!

God doesn’t give you more than you can handle, it is said.

But I think the Lord has us O’Briens mixed up with someone else.

Two lives. Two deaths. Two funerals. Four months.

Rips one apart at the seams. My parents were individuals of great timing. Dad died on my brother Tim’s birthday. Mom today is buried on my sister Lauren’s.

Today I, too, want to talk briefly about the superglue that has held us all together. It is an appropriate word indeed.

Two days before my Mom’s death, I sat with her at the nursing home. She had pneumonia and an oxygen tube in her nose. She was scared. I told her not to worry, that we’d all stick by her side.

She turned to me in her advanced Alzheimer’s state, looked me in the eye, and said, “Like glue!”

Virginia Brown O’Brien defined motherhood, and in an age today when worldly accomplishment is all too often the mark of achievement, her selfless devotion to her late husband, Francis Xavier O’Brien, and her ten children are testimony to a higher standard.

A woman of considerable artistic talent and achievement as a schoolteacher, she forever put her family first—whether it was a sacrifice of her time, her resources or her considerable emotion. She was dutiful beyond all measure, and in an era when we honor the Greatest Generation, as we should, Virginia O’Brien stands out among the Greatest Generation of women of her day—mothers who helped shape and define their spouses and children in diverse ways, both in what they were in life and are today in our memories.

Surviving O’Brien family members—her children and a score of grandchildren—will live in her shadow, a wide swath of grace that comforts extended family households from Cape Cod to California.

My mother, Virginia, was forever Irish, as stunning as the fields of Tipperary, and an artist in every way—was the bond of the O’Brien household—the self-sacrificing link, as my sister Maureen describes, that stitched us all together and made us whole. She gave her life to give us life. The caregiver. To my father—a devotion in her “golden years” that would sap the energy of a titan and test the patience of an angel. To her children—a Christ-like complete surrender that sought nothing in return. She gave us the strength to ask for more, never asking of herself. She was a Rock, as my brother Andy calls her. Always in the moment, as Paul would say.

Barely five feet tall and a hundred pounds, Mom could bowl us over—knock us right off our feet—with the largesse of her great intellect, wisdom and ceaseless love. Good love and tough love. Always justified and in abundant measure. For she could burn your corneas with a cold stare when you were wrong, one that penetrated deep into the soul. There were times around her that I felt like Saul on the road to Damascus. But redemption is a wonderful thing. You have to give it to get it, and my mother had infinite capacity to forgive.

Mom, “Ginny,” as my dad and friends called her, was a woman of great faith—in parochial terms a Catholic and a Christian by every test of scripture. And she would often talk freely about her faith, and the peace of knowing that her spirit would always live on. She prayed in dutiful spirit for us everyday. I believe up until the moment she died.

One of three siblings, all now deceased; Mom was the end of the line. She was born and raised in privilege on Manhattan’s West Side, in the shadows of the Museum of Natural History where she played hopscotch on the sidewalk and where milk was delivered in a horsed-drawn carriage. Her father, George, was successful in Manhattan in real estate and insurance. He owned several Brownstones, and during the Great Depression forgave the rent defaults of his tenants, to the point it greatly diminished his resources. Her mother Loretta, was a kind and caring mother, and a loving grandmother to us.

Mom was educated in a French convent school and excelled at the College of New Rochelle, then worked briefly at Bankers Trust in New York City before marrying a young, handsome Navy Lieutenant. The rest is family history. All in Rye, New York. For almost 20 years, she taught second grade at the parochial Most Holy Trinity in nearby Mamaroneck and St. Gregory the Great in Harrison, before retiring to the Cape with my Dad many years ago.

But all this hardly tells the story. It is as impossible to capture the spirit of this woman, as it is to command the wind, or order the tides. Mom’s spirit is with us today. You can feel it.  It is in this church. It is in the homes of her children. It is on the beach at Coast Guard and Nauset Light in Eastham where she loved to bodysurf. Her spirit is in our hearts. Forever. And nothing can take that from us.

When Alzheimer’s made its numbing assault in the last year, Mom was captivated by yellow trucks and cars as we drove her around. “See that yellow car,” she would say. “Look, there’s another one. I can’t believe this!” We, too, began seeing them. My brother Tim and I now drive yellow cars. Yellow is the color of angels.

Say what you want, think what you must, but I believe the Lord sent his angels to cover Mom in her final days after she had poured her spirit out on our father. On the day, not long ago, when my brother Tim and I took Mom to Epoch nursing home in Brewster, perhaps the hardest day of our lives, I noticed as we pulled out onto Route 6 in Eastham that there were two yellow cars in front of us. And two yellow cars behind us. I called my wife on the cellphone to tell her about it. As we drove along Route 6 and one yellow car peeled off, another took its place. It happened several times, all the way to Brewster. “There’s another one! I can’t believe it!” Mom said.

What we can all believe about Mom today is that she is a peace—with Dad, her sons Martin and Gerard, her parents, and with her God. Perhaps all surrounded by yellow cars.

In her final moments, we told her it was Ok to go. We gave her our blessing. We told her we’d stick together. She took us at our word. She lived in the moment.

Rest in peace, Mom. You deserve it.

A final brief postscript: Mom knew how I hated flying because the airlines always lost one of my bags. We’d talk about it all the time. When I flew back from North Carolina yesterday after attending my daughter Colleen’s graduation from Elon, sure enough one of my bags was missing at Green Airport in Providence. After a computer check, US Airways determined that the bag, under another name, had been sent to Akron, Ohio. Someone at the counter had put the wrong sticker on it. The airline checked the passenger name on the misplaced sticker: It was Brown. My mother’s maiden name.

Even in death, Mom. You’re still the boss; you’re calling the shots. You knew I liked a good ending to a story, and you gave me one. Now wipe that smile off your face, and please find my bag!

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From Cape Cod To San Juan Capistrano: There's Nothing Super About Superdelegates

By Greg O’Brien, Codfish Press

And you thought your vote counted. Hey, wake up and smell the superdelegates!

By any current measure of Democratic politics, the 2008 Democratic presidential nominee could be chosen by party insiders—about 20 percent of the delegates to the party’s national convention in Denver this August who can vote as they see fit. That’s 796 privileged “superdelegates” out of 2,025 needed to win—mostly a bunch of middle-aged white guys who comprise the party’s congressional members, governors, mayors of large cities and towns and state party leaders. Hanging chads have nothing on these boyos. So much for the Democratic process and the party of inclusion that adopted the superdelegate rule 1982 to shore up the power of party leaders during the freewheeling primary and caucus season, and to prevent the nomination of an unelectable rube from outside the mainstream. Loosely translated: give us your tired, your poor, your hungry and disenfranchised, but don’t expect them to run our party. No way!

And don't be misled by front page New York Times headlines that the lunch pail masses have spoken: “Obama’s Support Grows Broader: A Surge Past Clinton.”

Braying Hilary Clinton—a superdelegate herself with an Associated Press delegate projection of 1,262—is hoping the superdelegate structure will break her freefall of 11 primary loses to Barack Obama, who has a slight AP delegate projection lead with 1,351 delegates. Quoting Clinton’s communications director Howard Wolfson, the Boston Globe reported that “Clinton will not concede the race to Obama if he wins a greater number of pledged delegates by the end of the primary season, and will count on the 796 elected officials and party bigwigs to put her over the top, if necessary.”

Said Wolfson, “I want to be clear that neither campaign is in a position to win this nomination without the support of the votes of the superdelegates.” Clinton now has a projected 241-to-181 edge over Obama in declared superdelegates.

Not to be outdone when it comes to manipulating party politics, Republicans have a patrician system of their own with 463 unbound delegates, all elite elected officials and party leaders in a primary system that requires 1,191 delegates to secure a presidential nomination—irrelevant with John McCain’s AP projected 957 delegates to Mike Huckabee’s weedy 254, which gives the former Arkansas governor about as much chance of winning the White House as Gomer Pyle had of going to Harvard. Shazam!

Of late, there have been repeated calls from the middle of the political spectrum and some from the left and right to eliminate superdelgates and unbound delegates, permitting presidential nominations to more precisely reflect the popular vote. A primary ballot in Roxbury or the Bronx ought to count as much as a vote cast in abounding Westchester, Fairfield and Middlesex counties without added weight from party leaders in the heat of a convention fight.

Our Founding Fathers certainly didn’t have superdelegates in mind when they fashioned the republic. The thought of such would have revolted them.

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Bush Taking Aim On A Spy Satellite: Shoot To Kill!

By Greg O'Brien, Codfish Press

Tom Clancy couldn’t make this stuff up; even Buck Rogers would be hard pressed to deliver on it: take out a spherical toxic fuel tank–about 36 inches wide in a failing 5,000-pound spy satellite the size of a school bus hurtling toward earth about 150 miles up–with a single shot from a Standard Missile 3 that was initially designed to intercept a ballistic projectile in flight, not a spacecraft. And if you miss, 1,000 pounds of deadly hydrazine, a lethal fuel used to maneuver the errant satellite launched in December, 2006, will be spread out over “an area the size of two football fields, and anyone caught in it could suffer lung damage and possibly die, warns Graham Candler, a University of Minnesota aerospace engineering professor, in a USA Today report.

You won’t have to wait for the DVD. The Pentagon, in spite of international protests and second-guessing in the homeland, plans to fire the intercept this week from a navy cruiser in the North Pacific. Sounding like roughneck Harry Stamper (the indefatigable Bruce Willis), who “never, never missed a depth that I have aimed for, and by God, I am not going to miss this one,” President Bush gave the order Thursday.

“This is all about trying to reduce danger to human beings,” asserted James Jeffrey, deputy national security advisor. 

Well, not exactly, say critics, borrowing a line from the movie Independence Day when it was determined the government had lied about an alien presence at Area 51 in Roswell, New Mexico. Detractors and some foreign governments insist the U.S. is just showing off—an excuse to test an emergent anti-satellite weapon, rather than saving innocent lives or shielding classified information, a show of American muscle that could set back disarmament talks the U.S. seems to be resisting. “Similar spacecraft re-enter the atmosphere regularly and break up into pieces,” reports the Associated Press, quoting Ivan Oelrich, vice president for strategic security programs at the Federation of American Scientists.

Perhaps Bush is trying to prove he’s a better shot than Dick Cheney. Be that as it may, there is enough intrigue in this plot over the demise of spy satellite US 193 to spin off sequels in the way of more space junk. While most of the debris, if lightening strikes its mark, is expected to burn up in the atmosphere, some is sure to add to the collateral damage floating in space–estimated at more than a million bits of wreckage with more than 10,000 assorted pieces of junk of all sizes in low orbit whizzing around at average speeds up about 22,000 miles-an-hour. Fast-forward to the next generation of communication and spy satellites and the earth begins to resemble an asteroid belt.

So next time you gaze up at the sky on a starry night, realize you’re looking into the landfill and shooting gallery of the future. Aim straight, George, and you’ll win a stuffed doll.

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Iowa Caucuses: High Winds And Bluster Predicted For The MidWest

Have your shovels ready. We're getting a good blow tonight!

By Greg O'Brien, Codfish Press

The fact that a single digit turnout in a rural Midwest state to elect delegates to a county convention designates the pole position in a presidential race is proof positive that the campaign for the nation's highest office is far more about spin than substance.I'm Greg O'Brien and I approved this message. While the media waits today, as political storm clouds gather over Iowa, to coronate the next Republican and Democratic presidential frontrunners, derailing the candidacies of not-ready-for-prime-time players and boosting the campaigns of second place finishers, the vote will likely have more to do with political grit than ideas or a statewide consensus. But by the time the cameras rolls and headlines roar at the finish line, an attention-deficit American public will assume the winners embody the best of field. Perception, as the late Tip O'Neill would say, is reality, and reality-real or imagined-has wings to the Granite State.

Depending on what polls you read and how one discerns the methodology, both the Republican and Democrat contests are as tight this morning as a Des Moines cab ride to the airport on Friday. Conventional political wisdom has Democrats Sen. Barack Obama, Sen. Hillary Clinton and John Edwards all close to the margin of error, and Republicans Mitt Romney and upstart Mike Huckabee in a snowball fight, with Romney hurling ice balls and a ducking Huckabee citing scripture about turning the other cheek. "If a man gains the whole world and loses his soul, what does it profit him," the former Arkansas governor and Baptist preacher told reporters, a passage from a politician on the lip of a defining caucus that appears to come more from a political playbook than the Good Book.

In spite of one of the most completive fields since the first Iowa caucuses in 1972, today's turnout is expected to be underwhelming; fewer than six percent of the state's eligible voters turned out in 2004 to gather in livings rooms and school gyms to select delegates to county conventions-"the next step," as Reuters puts it, "in a drawn-out process that ends in the spring with selection of state delegates to the national nominating conventions next summer." On the surface, at least, this is about as meaningful as planting corn in February, and yet the candidates with the biggest snow shovels, largest fleet of vans, most sophisticated phone banking and best get-out-the-vote stratagems will somehow be (mis)perceived nationwide as the ones with the winning strategies for extricating ourselves from Iraq, stabilizing a volatile economy that is foreclosing on home mortgages at an distressing pace, and protecting the homeland from further terrorist aggressions now in the planning stages. "In the history of these caucuses, no candidate who has ever finished worse than third among the candidates has even gone on to win the nomination," David Yepsen, veteran political consultant for The Des Moines Register, told ABC news.

The fact that a single digit turnout in a rural Midwest state to elect delegates to a county convention designates the pole position in a presidential race is proof positive that the campaign for the nation's highest office is far more about spin than substance. Have your shovels ready. We're getting a good blow tonight!

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Reflections On The Holidays

The Evil Within

Ever since Cain whacked his brother, Abel, as detailed in the Book of Genesis, the presence of evil in the world has been debated. Does evil exist and, if God created everything, did the Almighty create evil? To some, the answer is as shapeless as the count of how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.

Years ago, a young student was challenged by his university professor to prove the existence of evil. The student, we are told, responded, “Evil does not exist, sir, or at least it does not exist unto itself. Evil is simply the absence of God.”   

The student’s name was Albert Einstein, and he later remarked that “the world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it.”

As we embrace Christmas and Hanukkah and other forms of holiday celebrations, the prickly subject of good versus evil is upon us yet again — a universal conflict that is a common thread of human nature, expounded throughout the scriptures and in literary works from Sophocles’ Oedipus the King, to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. In traditional terms, this eternal clash is embodied in the conflict between God and Satan, the ultimate good and evil in Judeo-Christian belief, a clash that ultimately ends in the triumph of what is pure over what is wicked.

But what about today? In the wake of mass murders, rapes, bombings and other horrific terrorist acts, or simply the genetic codes and milieus that make each of us good or evil, as Time magazine pondered last week, how do we discern evil and what do we do about it?

 “If the entire human species were a single individual, that person would long ago have been declared mad,” Jeffrey Kluger writes eloquently in Time. “The insanity would not lie in the anger and darkness of the human mind—though it can be a black and raging place indeed. And it certainly wouldn’t lie in the transcendent goodness of the mind … The madness would lie instead in the fact that both of those qualities, the savage and the splendid, ?can exist in one creature, one person, often in an instant.”

In an instant, we all have capacity for good or evil that runs the gamut from cheating on an exam, to cheating on a spouse, to corrupting or harming a life.

Some suggest science may hold the answer to turning from evil; others advise that it is a matter of the heart for most of us — something to consider at this hallowed time of year. So, how do we define evil in our own lives? To paraphrase the late U.S. Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart when asked to decipher pornography: We should know it when we see it.

The question, as Einstein would ask, is what were we going to do about it?

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Winning Is Everything!

By Greg O'Brien, Codfish Press

As the New England Patriots redefine greatness on their own terms, the subject of winning has crept into the national psyche with all the understatement of a down and deep Tom Brady-to-Randy Moss exchange.  "We are trying to kill teams," Brady declared last week on a WEEI radio interview. "We're trying to blow them out if we can."

Not so fast, says Washington Redskins linebacker Randall Godfrey; the Patriots "need to show some respect for the game." Whines MSNBC contributor Steve Silverman, "The Patriots have gone against unspoken NFL etiquette." Their sin: winning at all costs when playing against millionaires who rank among the best athletes in the world.

"If winning isn't everything, why do they keep score?" coach Vince Lombardi once asked."If winning isn't everything, why do they keep score?" coach Vince Lombardi once asked.

Silverman is unimpressed. "The Patriots are playing with a special edge not seen in the NFL since George Halas's 1940 Bears eviscerated the Washington Redskins 73-0 in the NFL championship game," he writes. The Patriots, he insists, "are becoming less popular around the league than a Red Sox fan in the middle of Times Square."

And your point, as my 19-year-old son, Conor, would say?

There is nothing wrong with winning in such competitive forums. It is difficult to imagine beating up on grown men the size of trucks. The lesson for the ages here is excellence, not winning for the sake of pounding the snot out of someone. And when all the hype settles on critics' arguments to the contrary, the Patriots are making a statement about life: pursue excellence. Pursue it until it hurts.

This is not a new concept, and should not be lost on the younger generation-from those in Pop Warner, to Little Leaguers, to AAU basketball and soccer, to high school seniors competing for the college of their choice. The pursuit of excellence and the will to win are the cornerstones of any existence-simply trying your best wherever your best takes you.

Observed Lombardi, "Winning is not a sometime thing, it's an all time thing. You don't win once in a while, you don't do things right once in a while, you do them right all the time. Winning is habit. Unfortunately, so is losing."

So what's wrong with "going for it" on fourth down with a big lead in the fourth quarter?

 "What did you want us to do?" laments Patriots coach Bill Belichick. "Kick field goals?"

Field goals in life are often a substitute for calculated risks. Next time someone says winning isn't everything, cite Winston Churchill on the subject: "As long as we have faith in our own cause and an unconquerable will to win, victory will not be denied us."

Certainly nothing wrong, as Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, with winning "as if you were used to it."

On fourth and short, Bill Belichick and the Patriots, showing great faith in their own cause and "an unconquerable will to win," have redefined greatness in a way that all of us, in every aspect of our lives, should buck up and take note.

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Praise The Lord And Pass The Gravy—And A Drumstick Or Two!

By Greg O’Brien, Codfish Press

Pack it on for the winter; put another Butterball on the barbie. The government, no stranger to bloating, now says in a new study released in time for the holidays that 25 extra pounds of personal cargo doesn’t appear to raise your risk of dying of cancer or heart diseases. But appearances, as we know, can often be misleading, and in the case of additional body fat, hard on the eyes for a spouse or significant other.

Before you reach for the drumstick, understand that overweight people, the study concludes, have a higher chance of dying of diabetes and kidney disease, and those 30 pounds or more overweight have a greater risk of dying from other ailments. But the conclusions are clear, and “seem to vindicate Grandma’s claim that a few extra pounds won’t kill you,” the Associated Press reports.

“This is a very puzzling disconnect,” says Dr. JoAnn Manson, chief of preventive medicine at Harvard’s Brigham and Women’s Hospital. “That is a conundrum.”

Far more of an enigma, we suspect. Results of the study, published in the Journal of American Medical Association, also conclude that overweight people were in some cases 40 percent less likely to die of such illnesses as emphysema, pneumonia and various infections, and that the those benefiting most from extra love handles were ages 25 to 59.

Sweet!

Publication of the study was followed by news reports about the food industry’s ongoing imbroglio with the government over labeling and the definition of what is “natural,” a classification that has been stretched like saltwater taffy. With all the dangerous additives, preservatives, sodium lactate and high-fructose corn syrup dumped into our food, “natural” these days ought to be limited in scope—perhaps only defined as Roy Hobbs of the New York Knights igniting the vapor lights with his legendary bat “Wonderboy.”

To government and industry types, however, the definition is far more obscure. “It’s worth bringing in the rabbis to analyze these situations because it’s complicated, it’s subtle. You can argue both sides. It has fine distinctions,” Michael Jacobson, executive director of the Center for Science in the Public Interest, states in the AP report.

Like weighty issues as food consumption, the definition of “natural” is sure to shift, as the food industry distends the definition and the government folds to pressure. “At stake,” notes the AP, “is the estimated $13 billion-a-year market for ‘natural’ foods and beverages.” So often in life what comes around, goes around. What’s harmful today may good tomorrow.

Let the buyer beware. Maybe someday smoking will be deemed acceptable, even therapeutic, for your health. Light up. May it be as good for you as it was once for me.

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Inquiring Minds Want To Know!

By Greg O’Brien, Codfish Press

Psst! Hard to keep a secret these days. Your privacy has become everyone’s domain, and outfits like Google, YouTube, MySpace, Facebook and others are making your personal space their business. Then there’s the government, the menacing older sibling, the Big Brother who’s watching your every move where possible — and sophisticated new technologies have made the possible more probable. The party line is just that these days: the government, as evidenced by the Bush administration’s contentious emergency surveillance, may be tapping in.

Wrong numbers and suspected plots to blow up the universe may be no more than the tawdry details of a night on the town.

And don’t try to hide behind e-mail, a firewall is as impervious as tracing paper. The government claims it can subpoena stored copies of your e-mails, and last month the United States Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit in Cincinnati conceded to the government’s request for a full-panel hearing on the issue, writes Mark Rasch online in The Register.

Bare all, literally, as there is hardly a Puritan among us today. “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life,” Oscar Wilde, Irish playwright, poet and novelist, once wrote. Wilde might have thought otherwise if he had lived in a glass-cubed, “curtains-optional” condominium or apartment in Manhattan where “urban exhibitionism” is the rage. In its Sunday edition, The New York Times offered an intimate “Yours for the Peeping” gaze at a proposed glass-walled condominium tower to be built in Manhattan’s financial district in 2009. The expansive glass walls of “W Downtown” will “allow … residents to see, and be seen by, passers-by” below.

“Goldfish, by inclination, at home in a YouTube, Facebook glass-apartment world,” the Times notes.

So, what’s all the fuss? If someone wants to shows all, who cares?

Depends on who’s watching — whether it’s shadowing the streets below, stalking the Internet or Uncle Sam with too much time on its hands.

“Our right to be left alone has disappeared, bit by bit, in little brotherly steps,” suggests Time Magazine, noting that technology and culture may have “outpaced the law.” “The technology is getting ahead of our ethics,” Kevin Kelly, executive editor of Wired Magazine, is quoted in Time as saying. “What’s gone out of whack is we don’t know who knows about us anymore. Privacy has become asymmetrical.”

Some have called for tougher legal restrictions to safeguard privacy, but others fear that could open Pandora’s Box. And, in a voyeuristic society, many can’t wait to see what’s in the box. So, beware — eyes wide open. Big brother, sister, mother and father are all watching your every move. Inquiring minds want to know!

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Bush In The Bully Pulpit

By Greg O’Brien, Codfish Press

Read the history books. George. We all know Teddy Roosevelt, and you’re no Teddy Roosevelt. In response to the submission that Congress “has rendered him irrelevant” as his second term wanes, President Bush insists there is still plenty to do to be an effective leader, USA Today reports. “I’m doing it right now,” the paper quotes him as saying. “It’s called (using) the bully pulpit.”

Bush’s latest sermon forewarns the risk of “World War III,” if Iran continues its uranium enrichment programs designed, many observers caution, to develop nuclear weapons. “I’ve told people that if you’re interested in avoiding World War III, it seems like you ought to be interested in preventing them (Iran) from having the knowledge necessary to make a nuclear weapon,” Bush said last week during a press conference in an apparent pushback at Russian President Vladimir V. Putin’s declaration that any use of military force in the region, even to halt a nuclear energy program, was unacceptable.

Enter trigger-happy Vice President Dick Chaney, who said Sunday in a speech that the U.S. “will not allow Iran to have a nuclear weapon,” and suggested “serious consequences” if Iran pursues the course.  Some in Washington have interpreted this as the threat of a military strike—Cheney’s “fondest pipe dream,” as Sen. Jim Webb, a Democrat from Virginia, was quoted in the Associated Press as saying.

The problem with all this bully pulpit stuff is a matter of etymology and oversimplifying a world crisis that awaits us, for which we need a thoughtful strategy, not one-liners from a President about to leave office. The “bully pulpit” according to the C-SPAN Congressional Glossary, “stems from President Theodore Roosevelt’s reference to the White House as…a terrific platform from which to persuasively advocate an agenda. Roosevelt often used the word ‘bully’ as an adjective meaning superb or wonderful.”

There is nothing superb or wonderful about a foreign policy—as we have in Iraq and appear headed to in Iran—that oversimplifies a crisis without a proper exit strategy or an accounting of potential losses. It may get the flag waving in the Mid West, but does little to confront the realities of the 21st century. As we did in Iraq, are we going to invade every country that threatens our national security? Are we going to bomb into oblivion any hostile government that develops nuclear weapons? And as a nation, are we to feel safe, just because a White House administration purports to do so?

What about the specter of terrorist dirty bombs, chemical weapons, and biological weapons, like the spread of deadly, antibiotic-resistant staff infections that infect more than 90,000 Americans annually, according to a government report? The bully pulpit ought to expound on superb ways of attacking these problems, not just offer chest-beating, dead-end, veiled threats that play well on the six o’clock news.

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Another View From Brewster: The Blabbermouths Of New York

By Greg O’Brien, Codfish Press

New York has a way of upstaging Boston in most ways other than schooling. Even when these New Yukers come to the Cape, they think they own the place. The braggadocio can be nauseating. For in the city that never sleeps, where those “little town blues are melting away,” the supposition is that if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

Flash to Joe Torre. Apparently, Torre didn’t cut it in New York, according to the “Boss” George Steinbrenner. Torre on Thursday rejected a pay cut and a one-year “performance- based” contract after a 12-year run as Yankee Sipper that raised memories of Ruth and Gehrig and Mantle and Maris. Paraphrasing Torre’s response to loudmouth Steinbrenner—no longer the  “king of the hill, top of the heap,” in ol’ blue eyes, the Chairman of the Board’s words—the New York Daily News shouted Friday on its front page: “4 Series Wins, the Playoffs every year, now you dis me. So George, take this job and shove it!”

The American Heritage Dictionary defines the term blabbermouth as “one who talks indiscreetly or incessantly.” Beyond all doubt, New York has two of the world’s biggest blabbermouths since Ralph Kramden’s harassing stereotypical mother-in-law dressed him down for his weight, shortcomings as a provider, and for Alice’s missed opportunities to marry a better man. In the classic scene from “The Honeymooners,” Kramden in recounting his mother-in-law’s not-so-subtle disparagements slowly boils to a blather. Bang. Zoom!

“I will never have a heart attack. I give them,” blabbermouth Steinbrenner once told former Yankee general manager Bob Watson, a comment recounted on ESPN’s Classic’s SportsCentury series and noted in a piece written by ESPN’s Mike Puma.

 Steinbrenner and fellow big mouth Jim Dolan, chairman of Cablevision, dysfunctional parent of Madison Square Garden and the Knicks, aren’t giving us heart attacks these days, not even mild angina, but they are the root cause of aggravating dyspepsia that collectively turns the nation’s stomach. Their arrogance and swagger, real or imagined, and their proclivity to harass and abuse is childish, nauseating and malevolent. 

Steinbrenner’s rants on Yankee manager Torre—who has coached a near perfect game with 12 consecutive post-season appearances and deserves serious consideration for manager-of-the-year—had about as much to do with motivation as our Iraq war plan does with inspiration. It was babble, and it’s getting old—as old as the Boss himself. Remember, this is the guy who in 1989 paid gambler Howie Spira $40,000 to dig for grime on former Yankee star Dave Winfield, and who pled guilty 33 years ago to illegally tossing coins into Richard Nixon’s collection plate.

Yankees are out, and maybe for years to come, so  enter blabbermouth Dolan, the “Ritchie Rich” of the corporate world, as one writer called him, a spoiled man-boy who doesn’t know the difference between make believe and real life because he has never had to live in reality. Until now, that is—the cold reality of a recent $11.6 million judgment against him in punitive damages for discriminating against former Garden executive Anucha Browne Sanders. Clown prince Isiah Thomas, the foundation stone of the case, doesn’t have to pay up, but his chances of ever coaching again beyond the Knicks are  about as good as Wilt Chamberlain having another 100 point game.

“Jim Dolan gives poor little rich boys a bad name,” writes sports columnist Ian O’Connor. “Poor little rich boys can be spoiled, arrogant and dismissive, and…Charles Dolan is all of that. But thanks to their gene pools and trust funds and prep school educations, poor little rich boys aren’t dumb. Jim Dolan? He’s dumber than a Game 7 technical.”

Dolan has fouled out with his actions and contemptuous demeanor in the Browne Sanders case, as has Steinbrenner whiffed again with his tongue. These are breaches of class behavior that both sports and corporate executives should observe closely and discern from.

Blabbermouths in Ralph Kramden’s world go to the moon. Bang. Zoom!

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