CSotD: This Changing World
Skip to commentsGranted, David Rowe is an Australian and not a proper Brit, but I take some comfort in not being the only person who has had enough of all this, and, after all, she is on his money. IMHO, he’s right on the money as well.
I saw a promo for live coverage of the Queen’s catafalque and, while I suppose a curtain might move in the breeze, “live” coverage seemed a bit of an oxymoron.
Still, as Pat Chappatte — who is not even somewhat British — observed, there are lessons to be taken from her life, we’re just not certain what they are.
She was, to be sure, a very nice young woman who drove trucks during the war, but it’s not clear that she had any real historical impact beyond a fairy tale element of keeping Britain from falling apart.
And now suddenly everybody seems sure that Charlie is going to screw it all up, so it’s obviously not a belief in the power and prestige of the monarchy. They’re furious that he acts like he’s the bloody King.
They all seemed dutiful enough back in the days when kings had people’s heads cut off and their lands confiscated. Now they get in an uproar if he wants a tray of pens moved out of his way.
Wat Tyler and Guy Fawkes must surely be rolling in their graves. Get some live coverage of that.
Anyway, if there is a lesson in all this, it seems best presented by another Aussie, Cathy Wilcox.
I suppose it’s easier to be a monarchist from 10,560 miles away, but, then, it’s also easier to be an anti-monarchist at that distance. A cat may look at a king, but a kangaroo doesn’t even have to.
Meanwhile, Alex plays with changing times on the London business scene, which reminds me to toss a few masks in my luggage before I head for the AAEC Convention next month. The pictures from SPX showed everyone wearing them and the pictures from the NCS Convention showed nobody wearing them and you never know where you’ll end up.
The strip mostly reminded me of taking a job at a newspaper in 1999. About two weeks in, a fellow in khakis and a polo shirt walked in, put some papers on a colleague’s desk and asked me how it was going, then said, “Oh, we haven’t met.”
Turns out he was the publisher, and neither wore a tie nor expected anyone else to. It was glorious for a year or so, until we were sold to Lee Enterprises, who ordered him to make some draconian cuts, instead of which he packed up and left and they replaced him with someone who would. And did. Repeatedly.
I stuck around as long as I could take it and today the newspaper appears to have one-third the circulation it had when I bailed.
If I could find my old necktie, I’d use it to wipe away a tear for them.
Lee Judge (KFS) notes another venue where things are changing, and if Wat Tyler and Guy Fawkes are mystified by what’s happening in Britain, Paul Hornung and Pete Rose must also be astonished to see things for which they were suspended now becoming central to sports.
I’ll confess to some prejudice: I was a baseball fan until I found myself stuck in a newsroom full of fantasy league players. I gave it a shot but found that having bets scattered throughout the league left me in the position of occasionally (as in “often”) rooting against my own team.
Moreover, I never heard anyone say, “Did you see that catch?” anymore. Instead, they were toting up their statistics, seemingly indifferent to the game itself.
Fortunately, football didn’t seem infected, until fairly recently, when NFL Network and others began full one-hour shows for delusional people who think they own football teams. Now Draft King has been announced as “The Official Daily Fantasy Partner of the NFL.”
This is because having people pay $400 for a pair of tickets, two hot dogs, two beers and two t-shirts to see a game live really isn’t enough. We need them pissing away their money at home, too.
There are, of course, wonderful inducements to give it a try, like getting $200 to bet for free if you just put up $5 of your own. This is based on the same theory that says everybody who goes to Vegas wins and that those enormous glittering casinos spontaneously arise from the sands of the desert.
Fortunately, the Watchdog Press is on the job, looking out for the best interests of its readers.
Besides royalty and neckties and love of the game and other anachronisms, Mt. Pleasant (Tribune) harkens back to a day when part of Physical Education involved learning about personal hygiene.
We were not only given time to shower after gym class, but we were given orders to shower after gym class, and any teacher in a roomful of 12-year-olds knew what a gift that was, if only by comparing gym day to non-gym day.
Times changed, however, and there’s no time in busy schedules for such sanitary fol-de-rol. Nobody has calculated the cost to taxpayers of having the paint blister off the walls from the stench of unshowered kids, but it may be one more reason teachers are being driven away.
And then McKee and Sligh come back with a second shocker in the same story arc, and, as a parent and grandparent, I have no reason to think they’re wrong.
But when I took a mandated Coaching Effectiveness Program to be a youth league coach nearly 40 years ago, one thing they emphasized was to never use laps or pushups as punishment. Exercise and fitness, they reminded us, were the point of sports, not the drawback.
Warm-ups are crucial for injury prevention — a habit best acquired before puberty changes that rubbery cartilage into pullable tendons — and endurance is the key to victory.
And victory, and teamwork, are fun, which is why we were supposed to stretch and run with them, not stand in the middle blowing a whistle.
Punishment? Fitness isn’t punishment.
Fitness is how you avoid punishment.
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