Another ‘Conversation? Really? / Bill, Huma and Jennifer / Let’s Go with Fracking...

‘Conversation’: Enough Already… Too much has been written lately about Trayvon Martin, so Mr. Gripes will not foist onto readers his own tedious scribblings about that tragedy, except to make two distinct points:

First, we Americans don’t need any more ‘conversation’ about race in this country. It’s become a useless exercise. A ‘conversation’, after all, is a convenient excuse for no action, akin to all those committees set up during the past decade to figure out budget deficit reduction.  It’s very evident the situation we’re in, and it’s obvious to all but the most wishful thinkers that nothing’s going to change. The well-heeled white upper middle class – and this is not a criticism, per se – is not going to give up one inch of social status or one dollar to ameliorate the racial divide in this country. 

As long as black people, or, more generally, poor people, are out of sight, they’re out of affluent, upper-class consciousness, too: that is the actual dynamic going on. The United States, for all its purported progress – and we do have, miraculously, a black president – is still very much segregated, especially within our urban environs: the root cause may be more economically based at this point than color-based, but the reality is that the poor and blacks live in virtually walled-off ghettos away from the more well-to-do, white populations. Integration, except at the margins, is a myth.

Mr. Gripes recalls, during the embarrassingly innocent times of the ‘60s and ‘70s, there was a lot of high-minded puffery that income redistribution was a viable solution. I can only laugh at this notion many years later, proposed as it was by well-intentioned people, who, in retrospect, were incredibly naive: there’s no stronger human instinct than holding on to what you possess and own, especially money.  [Sure, a Mark Zuckerberg can give away millions, but he’s got billions in reserve.]

There’s no Great Society around anymore to inject money into the inner cities like LBJ did during the late 1960’s – the country right now is essentially broke. Jobs are scarce, too. So, it’s business as usual, as the economic chasms get wider, and that means the race situation continues to stagnate and fester. The last thing we need is more soul-searching, pointless conversation, leading nowhere.

One more point: in the immediate aftermath of the Trayvon trial, guess which two relics, like a pair of ancient, tired and irascible crocodiles suddenly springing out of the Everglades tall grasses, show up on television networks to vent their rage? None other than Jesse Jackson and the Rev Al Sharpton.  It’s remarkable at this late date these two jokers are still referred by newscasters as ‘spokesmen’ for Afro-Americans. 

‘Spokesmen,’ my ass. 

Who decided these two were kingmakers, anyway? Mr. Gripes would wager that Jesse Jackson has, at this point, basically no standing among Afro-Americans; Jackson’s still furious that Barack Obama, in possession of  a rancor-devoid, Harvard-Law-School-trained composure, stomped on poor Jesse’s firebrand head, and made him irrelevant. Al Sharpton? A shiny-suit salesman who built his brand – and makes a lot of money – by stoking the race card. He’s essentially a one-trick pony who somehow managed to catapult himself into hosting a prime time cable talk show and heading up an organization called the National Action Network [It’s ‘non-profit.’ Wink-wink. No worries for Big Al, though: The IRS wouldn’t dare pull an audit.]  Amazing what good old American hucksterism and hustle can accomplish.

A Match for the Ages – Jennifer, Bill, Huma and Twitter: Mr. Gripes has ignored all news reports of New York City mayor candidate Anthony Weiner and his Twitter escapades: I find the details too sordid, too creepy and too loopy. I’m genuinely uninterested in Mr. Weiner and his assignations.

There is one aspect of the story, though, that I must confess I follow voraciously: the repercussions of the l’affaires d’Weiner on that most formidable of alliances, Bill and Hillary Clinton, the ‘Franchise.’ For those who may not know the connection, Mr. Weiner’s wife, Huma Abedin, was, until very recently, a close advisor to the aforementioned Mrs. Clinton, both during her State Department tenure and since her departure. And, as you can imagine, the pictures of Huma standing ‘beside her man,’ when her husband confessed to his multiple online dalliances, reminded us of that iconic image of Hillary standing next to Bill, during the 2000 Presidential race, as he denied vehemently indignantly reports of an affair with that lovely blonde, Jennifer Flowers. It felt like ‘déjà vu, all over again,’ as Yogi Berra put it.


Naturally, news got out that Bill was apparently very ‘disturbed’ that the Weiner debacle may ‘blowback’ on Hillary, because it brings back all those memories of Ms. Flowers, Paula Jones, Monica Lewinsky, and the seemingly hundred other ‘romances.’

Let’s have no misconceptions about the Clinton plan: Hillary is running for President in 2016. Mr. Gripes, six months ago, had his doubts – not any longer. The Clintons obviously don’t appreciate any bumps in the road, and this is one hell of a bump. So, it’s no coincidence that Huma has now taken a leave of absence from her job with Hillary – don’t think for a moment that the redoubtable Clintons didn’t orchestrate that move. 

So, Bill, of the quivering lip, Mr. Gripes has some advice for you: just keep your big trap shut, for once, hide out in the Hamptons for a couple of months, and keep your head down. The last thing Hillary needs now is for you to bring up Mr. Weiner:  ‘the pot calling the kettle black’, eh?

Oh, one more thing, Bill: you should get down on your knees every night and thank your God that there was no such thing as the internet, Twitter, Facebook, et al when you were running for President. Can you imagine? TMZ wouldn’t just be on for an hour every evening: it’d be on 24/7, with nothing but stories of ‘Bill and His Babes.’ Your old girl friends would come out of the woodwork, visions of sugarplums and riches in their heads, equipped with videos, tapes, photos, phone conversations, everything. Cable television would be orgasmic at the tsunami of material they’d be showered with.  And, you never know, there’d probably be a delectable sex tape or two. There is no chance in Hell you would have been elected President. You’re one hell of a lucky dude, Billy boy.

Let’s Not Dawdle on Fracking – Mr. Gripes, despite his otherwise saturnine opinions on virtually any modern human endeavor, has always been rather hopeful about the Middle East. Reasoning? If the Brits and Irish could resolve their intractable, bloody IRA war, then any conflict, including the Middle East religious wars, can be settled.

I don’t think so any more. The events over the past couple of months in Egypt, arguably the one Arab country most capable of setting up representative government with a modicum of bloodshed, prove that any kind of peace over there is nothing but a delusional fantasy. It’s just not going to happen. The killing and violence and sectarian hatreds will go on and on.

The United States must extricate itself from that part of the world. We must. Over the past 50 or 60 years, what have we accomplished, besides squandering billions and billions of dollars propping up tyrants, in countries like Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Lebanon, Iraq, Bahrain, Iran [the Shah, remember?]. The dictators then used that money to build up their repressive forces to crush, imprison and murder their own citizens. At the end of all this time, after all the failures, why do we stay when we have nothing to show for it?

There’s only answer of course. Oil, oil, oil. America would exit the Middle East tomorrow if we didn’t have essential oil interests over there. Every base would be closed, every aircraft carrier would sail home, and there’d be no more arm shipments supporting psychopathic thugs. 

So, what’s to do? Environmentalists aren’t going to like my solution, but I say there’s one simple option: Fracking. Fracking is a recently discovered method of extracting natural gas from shale rock. Formerly, those deposits were completely inaccessible. Not anymore. Simultaneous with this new process is the fortuitous discovery that the United States has huge gas reserves trapped in the shale rock. There’s so much natural gas reserves in the ground here that our dependence on the Middle East may cease to exist in a matter of decades.

So, let’s not wait: let’s get fracking. Right now, environmental concerns have held up full-blown production, but there are some states currently which are already experiencing a ‘gold rush’ in gas extraction.  Andrew Cuomo, governor of New York, is at the moment deciding whether to permit fracking upstate, a depressed area absolutely in need of jobs and infusions of money. On the national level, President Obama has already come out in favor of fracking.

Again, I say full speed ahead. Fracking is going to happen on a huge scale in this country. There’s no way it’s not going to happen. Politicians will not dare refuse the huge tax receipts, and the boom to depressed areas that will ensue as the gas is extracted, as well as the thousands of jobs that will be created for constituents.

And, equally important, America, the day the last serviceman and ship leave for home, will finally and definitively declare to everyone over there, ‘Kiss my fat butt. We tried like Hell to help you, but the killing has never stopped. So, sayonara to all of you ungrateful bastards. We’re not coming back. You’re on your own now.’

Jim Israel
Mr. Gripes
August 21, 2013

‘See Ya,’ Bin Laden – Trump’s Skunked – X-Rated

The End -- Mr. Gripes, awoken at the ungodly hour of 5:45 by his always insistent cat Seamus, stumbles into the living room, and clicks on the television. Half-asleep and bleary-eyed, he does notice along the ESPN ‘crawl‘ at the bottom, words far removed from the normal sports lingo: ‘dead,’ ‘Bin Laden,’ ‘raid,’ ‘American forces.’ Wait a damn minute. The brain begins to comprehend one of the great surprises of his life: America, ridiculed, maligned and laughed at for a decade, has located and killed the bastard.

Mr. Gripes couldn’t have cared less that two dozen Navy SEALs entered that house and shot an unarmed Bin Laden in the head. Mr. Gripes had not forgotten the 3,000 civilians, including Muslims, simply going to work at the World Trade Center, who were murdered by that monster. Good riddance, and, with all due respect to my Buddhist friend Alan R., may Bin Laden burn in hell.

A few days later, a whining Michael Moore on CNN complained that Bin Laden should have been arrested and brought to trial, rather than killed. He asserted a trial would have demonstrated to the world that ‘we are different than the terrorists.’

Mr. Moore has some nerve suggesting that this country, by eliminating Bin Laden, is somehow on an equivalent moral ground as Al Qaeda. Michael Moore has not only enjoyed enormous freedom doing nothing but being critical of America, but he’s become a multi-millionaire in doing so. He can complain about this country until the cows come home, yet no one lifts a finger to stop him. Michael Moore is a very fortunate man to live in the United States.

If he were to reside in China, or Russia, or Singapore, or Thailand, or Vietnam, or anywhere in Africa or the Middle East, for examples, he’d be whisked off to jail immediately and harshly. Dissent is simply not tolerated in most places.

In China, they’d lock him up with that poor artist who was arrested two months ago, and whose relatives still don’t know where he’s been taken. Mr. Moore would be sweating off that rather commodious behind of his picking mica flecks out of some rock pile in Manchuria for 25 years.

Besides, can you imagine the circus that a trial of Bin Laden would devolve into? It’d be 15 years before there would be a verdict. And, knowing how the justice system operates here, it wouldn’t surprise Mr. Gripes in the least if Bin Laden’s lawyer, some leftover from the ‘60’s who defended Abby Hoffman, asserted that Bin Laden wasn’t read his Miranda rights, and Bin Laden gets off. 

Those SEALs did kill Bin Laden, but obviously took pains not to hurt the nineteen children living in the compound. The women there, who could very well have possessed information about the Al Qaeda network, were nevertheless neither harmed nor imprisoned [except for one who resisted]. You know why? So those children, certainly already traumatized by what had transpired, could be comforted by their mothers. Mothers and children remained together. Think about that for a moment. That’s a policy of a civilized and humane nation.

The gloating Bin Laden, who could barely conceal his glee that he killed 3,000 Americans, in his megalomania figured he was going to get away with it.  Mr. Moore, come down off your holier-than-thou perch and join the rest of us who celebrated raucously and joyously the death of this evil malignant son-of-a-bitch, OK? As Mr. Obama said, the world is now a safer place. 

Oh, Those Clever Devils…. Donald Trump. One moment the greatest thing since sliced bread to Republicans, the next instant he’s deader than a Gloucester codfish that’s been left out in the sun. What happened? Generally, Mr. Gripes is chary of casting aspersions on political strategists, like David Axelrod, and he’s reticent about denigrating the President of the United States, but I just have a hunch they laid a big trap for The-Mouth-Whose-Casinos-Went-Belly-Up.

Here’s how the Machiavellian mind of Mr. Gripes – and any competent strategist -- works:

Mr. Obama holds a press conference to refute definitively the tiresome and noisome question of his birthplace. A more informative birth certificate from a hospital in Honolulu did the trick – no more nonsense about his being born in Kenya, and being spirited back to Hawaii to claim American citizenship. Mr. Trump, who certainly must have suspected this whole fairy tale of the President’s African birth was indeed a canard, acknowledged that Barack Obama was a naturally born American. Then, he actually took credit for ferreting out the truth.

OK, Mr. Trump did take a hit, but not a terrible one at this point. Not yet. Here’s where it gets interesting: Mr. Obama, upon releasing the certificate, demonstrates some petulance and annoyance – perhaps feigned – that’s he’s wasting his time with a trivial issue like this. He asserts, “I’ve got better things to do.” He repeats, almost indignantly, “I’ve got better things to do.”

[An aside: of course, within a couple of hours, his next ‘better thing to do’ that day was to catch a plane to Chicago and appear on Oprah, but that’s a tale for another day.] 

Just keep in mind at that very moment he’s in the final planning stages of approving a plan to raid Bin Laden’s compound and killing him.
And, sure enough, within 48 hours he’s announcing the death of Bin Laden by Navy SEALs. 

Bingo. I’ll wager Messrs. Axelrod and others orchestrated the synchronization of these three events: the press conference to obliterate the birth question; a couple of days after, the previously-scheduled Correspondents’ Dinner at which Donald Trump was made a fool of, and immediately after that, the successful elimination of Bin Laden. Trump never saw it coming.

I’ll describe the chain of events in boxing lingo: ‘Southpaw Obama lands a tremendous left hand to the solar plexus of Donald Trump, who stumbles backwards, gasping for air’ [Obama asserts he has more important matters to work on.]  Trump’s on the ropes, defenseless, taking a rapid-fire barrage of rights and lefts. [Trump, at the Washington Correspondents Dinner, is the recipient of many nasty, astringent comedic barbs. Trump, stone-faced, is not amused.] ‘As Trump tries to stay upright, the President unloads a huge left hook right under his chin, sending him to the canvas, flat on his back, and out cold, with only his left foot twitching.’ [Obama announces triumphantly that Bin Laden is dead, unleashing riotous celebrations around the country.] ‘Donald Trump is motionless.’

Boom….Boom….Boom.

We have not heard a squeak out of Donald Trump since. He’s now at 8% popularity among, get this, Republicans  only – no Democrats were polled. Donald Trump is as dead as that possum I saw last weekend splayed out in the middle of Taconic Parkway.


X-Rated … Leave it to the irrepressible New York Post to hammer the final nail into the coffin of Bin Laden. A day or two after it was revealed that pornography was discovered in Bin Laden’s compound, the Post, exhibiting perfect pitch, printed on page one the now-familiar image of a seated Bin Laden viewing his television set. Emblazoned on the screen is the movie title, Debbie Does Abbottabad. Long live the New York Post.

Jim Israel  
Mr. Gripes
May 22, 2011       

Mister Gripes: Sarah Palin, Random Rants, Little League...

Ex-Governor Palin – Put yourself in her shoes [$500 Manolos, of course, compliments of the NRC] – you’d probably do the same thing: it’s a couple of days after the November election, you’ve spent the past 90 days crisscrossing the country speaking to frenzied, adoring crowds, even upstaging the party’s Presidential candidate, flying on private jets, staying at $1,000-a-night hotels, adorned in $150,000 worth of Neiman clothes purchased with a Republican Party credit card, with no heavy lifting for months.

And, now you’re disembarking from a plane in Anchorage, to no cheers, no crowds, no nothing, just an unsettling quiet on a cold, misty evening. Tomorrow you’re governor again, and it’s back to dealing with simpleton legislators and mind-numbing issues like mineral rights and highway funding; plus, those damn Democrats and their ethics committee want to look at your per-diem expense accounts, of all things. Besides that, in a half-hour, you’ll have to get reacquainted with that slacker husband again, clean up after all those squealing children, and, to top it off, deal with that lazy bum, Levi, who not only knocked up your daughter but now sits around the house doing nothing but eating pizza and drinking beer.

And, look what’s out there if only you were unencumbered with a governor’s responsibilities and prohibitions: oodles and oodles of cash. Low-hanging fruit like book deals and speaking engagements all over the world at $50,000 to $250,000 a pop. Millions and millions.

Mr. Gripes is certain Governor Palin, ostensibly a proponent of never giving up on the tough tasks, looked at what was in front of her, and, with not a moment’s hesitation, said, “I’m out of here.” The next Presidential election did not factor into her decision at all. After a national campaign, being governor was ‘dudsville’. And, let’s face it, 2012 is a millennium from now.

To her credit, Ms. Palin possesses tremendous confidence and ambition – those qualities permit her to overlook her faults, and take big risks. Her timing, too, is exquisite, so she pounced at the opportunity.

That’s not to say she’s done with a run at the Presidency. Her ambition will never let that notion disappear. With her vaulted self-esteem, she just knows she’d be a superb President. In fact, a poll of Republicans was conducted by Gallup right after the election, and Mr. Gripes was astounded by one finding: 72% of Republicans indicated they’d vote for Sarah Palin for President. Yikes. Or, as the old sportscaster Mel Allen would exclaim after another Yankee home run, “How about that!”

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Random Rants…

The ‘foot-in-mouth’ act of Joe Biden is sure wearing thin.

I’m really tired of Don Imus constantly pleading for money for his rodeo camp for kids. New Mexico officials, shut it down.

The Daily News sports columnist Mike Lupica has the textbook persona of the pipsqueak he is: pugnacious and obnoxious. Mr. Gripes cannot read or listen to him any longer.

One thought jumps out whenever I observe Bob Woodward of Watergate fame: he’s lost his fastball. There is no cache to Mr. Woodward any longer. His smug countenance says it all: I’m famous, I’m rich, and I’m in tight with the political establishment. Mr. Woodward is a classic American sell-out.

John McCain’s ‘maverick’ days are over. He’s once again nothing but a war-thirsty, ‘let’s commit another 100,000 troops’ conservative. Mr. McCain’s face tells it all: anger, frustration, humiliation and a thinly veiled hatred for the guy who whipped his ass, President Obama.

The hip-hop music craze seems to be fading. Thank God. The complete collapse of Western civilization has been pushed back a few weeks.

Clothes don’t always make the man: David Gregory, who dresses as if his underwear were Armani, can’t hold a candle to the late Tim Russert, who looked like he bought his suits off the rack at Burlington Coat Factory, at 2 for $199.00.

Whenever I see Diane Sawyer on her morning show, I’m reminded of how a New York Times entertainment reporter once described her act: she exudes a “creamy insincerity.” Perfect.

After observing Alan Greenspan testifying before a Senate committee a couple of months ago, I figured out the character defect that very nearly brought down the American economy: he is a man who does not take counsel from anyone kindly – he listens only to himself. Hubris, I think the Greeks call it.

Forget the garment business – it’s relocated to Bangladesh now. New York City’s largest growth industry these days is traffic tickets. It feels like there are a million of those parking ticket maidens out there every day writing summonses at 8:01 am. Shame on you, Mayor Bloomberg. Nothing new though: New Yorkers have been treated with contempt by its leaders for decades – we’re long-suffering fools.

If David Letterman’s intent was to make light of his affairs with staffers by intentionally evoking laughter on his show, he’s nothing but a low-rent skunk.

Roman Polanski forced a 13-year-old to ingest Quaaludes and drink champagne before he raped her. Twenty-five years in maximum security seem a just prison term. And, throw into the cell Whoopi, Penelope, Marty and Woody while you’re at it.

Since 2002, there’s been a net loss of 700,000 automobile manufacturing jobs in the Midwest alone. I traveled through Cleveland and Detroit this summer: a tableau of desolation and empty buildings, America circa 1931. We’re in a heap of trouble, folks.

No one’s going around trumpeting their net worth these days, are they?

Baseball has traditionally been played by ‘boys of summer,’ yet If the 2009 World Series goes to a seventh game, the game will take place on the night of November 3^rd. Insane.

I miss very much my best friend of 45 years, Gerry Z. Wherever you are, Big Z, I hope you’re at a piano, playing Bach, and looking forward to a blissful Sunday afternoon of watching football. Life is so unfair and painful when close friends die.

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Little League – It’s all too much. Too many television cameras, too many anxious ‘my-boy’s-gonna-sign-for-a-million-bucks’ parents, too many perfect playing fields and pristine uniforms, too much pressure, too much exposure and too much cloying ‘Mom-and-Apple-Pie’ sentimentality. Little League’s gone the way of so many other American institutions – a kid’s sheer elation at playing the game of baseball has been smothered by officious parents and, yes, corporate interests. Once upon a time, Little League was a small-town civic responsibility, set up so a locale’s young boys could simply play competitive baseball on placid Saturday afternoons. Now? It’s on television for weeks on end, with competing teams from as far away as Sri Lanka. The fun has been bleached out.

America’s moved so far and so fast from its innocent days of 50, 60 years ago. Allow me, kind readers, to recall Mr. Gripes’ own momentous first day of Little League. Asked to appear for a tryout at a local elementary school, I dutifully showed up, a shy, eager, energetic and, above all, frightened boy of 7 or 8, with about fifty other boys. We were told to get in line, as one of the coaches proceeded down the queue, writing down names. When he was in front of me, the coach, who was, I dimly remember, a rather aggressive, loud type, screamed out, “Son, where’s your glove?” My parents, adherents to a decidedly benign-neglect approach to child-rearing, had forgotten to purchase a baseball glove for their eldest son. To my eternal mortification and humiliation, of all the kids at this tryout, I was the only boy -- and a doctor’s son, to boot -- who did not have a glove.

The coach, who knew my father in passing, just stood there, incredulous, shaking his head slightly, further embarrassing me. In retrospect, I suspect he was contemplating a riddle Mr. Gripes has been pondering ever since, “What planet do these Israels come from?” I have little memory of anything else from that day, except I took my fielding trials at shortstop with a first baseman’s mitt borrowed from my cousin, did not mishandle any ball hit to me, came in first or second in all of the sprint races, and didn’t hit badly either. The smirk on that coach’s face disappeared. Following the tryout, I was handed a note to be taken home and given to my father. I didn’t have the nerve to examine it, but I’ll bet it went along the lines of, “Jimmy appears to possess the instincts to be a pretty good ballplayer, but please for God’s sake, buy him a goddam glove, will you, Doc!” Two days later, I received a brand-new, gorgeous Bobby Richardson infielder’s glove. From that day on, I never stopped playing baseball for twenty years.

My point – too long, I know – is this: In those days, boys played baseball all the time – on school playgrounds, in friends’ backyards, on streets, everywhere, until nightfall, when we couldn’t see the ball any longer. We chose sides, and played and played. There were no adults around to supervise, to organize, or to schedule. We simply played because we loved to swing that bat and run those bases. For Mr. Gripes, it was the great passion – by far – of his childhood. And there were not any meddling parents around. Yes, there was Little League, but essentially until the age of 13 or 14, it was strictly for Saturdays, with a practice or two during the week. It turned out we were given the gift of time and space to learn the basics of cooperation and fair play on our own. And, above all, baseball taught us about getting back up after failure – maybe it’s the pitcher forgetting about the monstrous home run he just gave up, and mustering up the nerve to face another batter, or the hitter completely overmatched a couple of times at bat, yet not giving up when he gets up again. That’s a great lesson, the idea of failing, rising off the mat and moving forward despite formidable obstacles. And, boys then played the game in total anonymity; sure, parents came to Little League games, but for the most part we were left alone. That’s Mr. Gripes’ advice: allow children to find their own passion. Parents and coaches, sure, enjoy your child’s Little League games, but try not to interfere – just let the kids be kids. That way, the love for the game will endure.