Labor
From an article by Jessica Chasmar at foxnews.com, in my own words: A female California professor trying to rally voters to the side of Governor Gavin Newsome in his recall election referred to his main opposition as “… a Black face on White supremacy.” What has she said of Quid Pro Joe’s woeful racial history? I should have ignored this, as selective outrage is the norm.
Here’s an appropriate snippet for the day from an article by Mark Mix at foxbusiness.com: “The 27 Right to Work states that don’t allow forced union dues have far better job growth. In the decade since 2010, the total number of people employed in Right to Work states grew at more than quadruple the rate of forced unionism states.”
Here’s a fun FN headline: “Rachel Maddow, liberal media figures slammed for ‘taking the bait’ on false story about ivermectin overdoses.” There were none.
I’ve always cherished independence, which fostered a natural resistance to union membership. Of course, unions were necessary back in the day and made things fairer and safer for workers. These days they are as greedy as the businessmen they used to and still excoriate. I often see union decals on cars and considered putting one on my rear bumper that read: “Non-Union And Proud.” Fortunately common sense prevailed. It would have invited vandalism. Anyway, I belonged to one once, when I was a paraprofessional for a bit less than four years at John Dewey H.S., beginning in 1977. One day all the aides — I hated the hifalutin’ term assigned to us — were gathered in a room doing paperwork when the school’s delegate, smiling, pretending to be fair, asked: “Would you like to join the union?” I believe my response was: “No, I don’t believe in unions.” I should have said, simply, no. It’s a fact of life that a lot of people are afraid to stand alone and need representation. I don’t object to that, only to the staggering cost overruns and fraud that comes with them. Smile gone, the woman responded: “You will join. We will have one hundred percent representation.” I was silent. There are a lot of things I wish I’d said, some unpleasant. I felt like a coward for not speaking up. Many times I’ve regretted not having walked out. I didn’t want to be there in the first place. I took the job in large part to keep the hope alive in my mom that I would become a teacher, although I knew I never would. I was buying time trying to figure out what else I would do besides writing, which I knew would never pay the bills. I’d hated school since the first day I set foot in St. Mary’s Mother of Jesus elementary. Lafayette H.S. allowed more freedom, so it was okay, but it was something that needed to be gotten through, and I cherish my Redmen football memories. I was as fake a college student as can be but put in the four years — actually four-and-half — to get the degree. The best part was the friends I made, several of whom I’ve remained in contact with, especially since the advent of social media. Anyway, getting back to the day I punked out in that test of beliefs, it occasionally pops up in my memory. I wouldn’t say it haunts me, but it does rankle. I remind myself that, had I walked out, I would not have met the unrequited love whom I’ve included in several of my novels and short stories. I don’t know if my life’s work is any good or more than ordinary, but it would have been diminished considerably without that woman’s presence. I hope I never cease to appreciate how fascinating life is.
To start, the old Hyundai was in the fourth best spot in terms of the floating book shop, near the food cart. It has a major drawback — I will not leave the car there overnight because it doesn’t fit, sticking out three feet past the sign. My main parking rule is: Don’t give them a reason to write a ticket. The spot is also a bit too small to accommodate the entire inventory. I put the Russian stuff on the other side of the driveway of the apartment building, where the prime parking spot is. To my delight, about an hour into the session that spot was vacated and I backed my car into it and moved everything there. Fortunately, it wasn’t hot or humid, and a cool wind was blowing along Avenue Z, so it wasn’t that taxing. Since I was tired after I closed shop, I debated whether to go to CVS. Luckily I did, as the delay worked in my favor. As I was walking home I saw The Frenchman approaching. I told him about the pictorials I had in French on Byzantine art and the work of Seurat, and he bought them. My thanks, and also to the gentleman who purchased a CD compilation of French icon Edith Piaf; and to Lynn, who asked for Irish-related lit and took home Bloodland by Alan Glynn; and to the man with the little boy’s voice, who chose the screenplay of Stalag 17 (Billy Wilder & Edward Blum, based on the play by Donald Bevan); and to the woman who selected three hardcovers in Russian; and to the gentleman who parked his bike and picked out a book on Hinduism.
Here’s a work by Seurat, a post-impressionist, la senna alla grande-jatte:
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