Sunday, January 16, 2005
There is no sweeter sound than the crumbling of your fellow man
Minor annoyance du jour is the constant schnorring for charity for the tsunami victims. Frankly, I'm really, and I mean really reluctant to give any money that will be distributed by the UN or any related agency, because you know as well as I do that it will go to keeping some third world tinhorn pontificators in the nearest five star resort to the danger zone and that precious little will get to actual relief. To be brutally honest about things, Indonesia is a loose cannon of a country, a huge fraud center (a cursory perusal of eBay will confirm this), lots of seriously anti-Semitic and anti-Christian rhetoric there, plus a whole bunch of nasties at best in sympathy with the Islamofascists and at worst in leage with them. Sri Lanka? The folks who popularized suicide bombings as a political tactic? Spare me. Thailand? Sex tours and catering to real sickos? No thank you. If our military appealed for aid from us, something along the lines of what they do with Toys For Tots, I'd probably cough up a few shekels to help out the true innocents and unfortunates hurt by this horrible disaster, but with countries like this bearing the brunt of it, and Kofi's Merry Band Of Thieves wanting to ahem, coordinate, the thought of karmic retribution being involved somehow seems appropriate.
It wouldn't bother me to the point of blogging about it had it not been for the indoctrination of the little ones at school, hitting them up for a chunk of their lunch money to help the poor unfortunates. I learned my lesson about school charities with the constant "For The Children" refrain back in high school. As a kid in grade school, we were constantly bugged to contribute to Rosa Luxemburg's (the school's leftest left-leaning teacher) favorite charity cases, the types of charities where a donor "adopts" an underprivileged kid. The school had adopted three underprivileged kids, two in Vietnam, and one Native American. Needless to say, the war took its toll on the two kids in Vietnam, but when I was in high school, years later, I got a call from Rosa Luxemburg, knowing that I was somewhat of a guru with video (remember, this was the early 70s, and very few schools knew how to use the Sony reel video gear that was coming down the pike). It seemed that my old grade school had raised enough to bring the Native American kid to Brooklyn for a visit, and my services as a videographer were requested to record the event for posterity. I dutifully agreed, and found myself playing video auteur at my old school, recording every moment for an epic worthy of Eisenstein. The de rigeur ceremonies at the beginning of the program over with, the "adopted" kid was placed on the hot seat and made to answer questions. I noticed the kid was quite well-dressed. Not just neatly, but stylishly. One of the kids prompted to ask a question asked how the "adopted" kid got to New York, and the kid noted that she was driven to the airport by her parents in their car. A Caddy. For some reason my cynicism went into overdrive at that moment and I made sure the rest of the video was as unflattering as I could make it. I did however get a name-check in one of the big New York tabloids who dispatched a junior factotum to immortalize the event on page 72 opposite the ads from Waldbaum's.