No doubting American idleness

Yep, America’s Idle … or at least a sizable chunk of it is, if The News & Observer’s relentless barrage of shout-outs to American Idol local fav, Scotty McCreery, is any indication.

It’s ironic to think a decision-making process once claimed as the exclusive domain of the music industry – a sort of record producers’ noblesse oblige, to be hashed out in secrecy behind closed doors – has been transformed into a cash cow and television spectacle consuming millions of otherwise productive hours of viewer time.  Wow, what a racket.

And to think what an opportunity Ed Sullivan missed by not holding elimination rounds between The Beatles, Elvis and The Rolling Stones.  Who can guess what the masses would’ve decided.

Sure glad I have better ways to spend my time.

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War: Made in the U.S.A.

Last weekend, I bought a Sears-brand, Kenmore microwave that wouldn’t even light up when plugged in, as if its circuitry had been entirely omitted. Apparently, the Chinese plant that built it [Have you tried purchasing anything lately that's NOT cheap dross originating from China?!] doesn’t take even the most basic of quality control measures before they box something up.

Today, as I look at an Associated Press photo of a Danish Air Force F-16 fighter jet dispatched to unleash hell on Libya, I’m reminded that the only thing Americans seem to build themselves these days are weapons of mass destruction and warfare.

Is constructing the implements of violence and bloodshed really the only thing at which we, as a people, excel now?

I guess the lesson is, if I want something reliable to heat up my soup, I should just buy an American-made F-16, take aim … and fire.

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Wheeler fends off public with tax-funded gallery Gestapo

It’s no secret Governor Perdue has been frantically searching for ways to trim the fat from state government. To lend a hand, I’d like to suggest a worthwhile, if modest, starting point: Larry Wheeler’s private army of Nazi art guards at the N.C. Museum of Art.

A recent visit – my first since its heraldic reopening last April – revealed Herr Wheeler spares no expense ensuring his darkly clad soldiers are stationed at every turn, ready to disarm or disable we hooligan rabble who, by all indications, are hell-bent on destroying the priceless articles he evidently regards as his own.

While in the new wing, I was often under the vigilant gaze of as many as three steely-eyed watchmen at any given moment. I’m an enthusiast for museums of all sorts, and never have I felt so unwelcome in one; continually under the oppressive cloud of suspicion, an intruder clearly not to be trusted. I remind Mr. Wheeler that the Third Reich seized Europe’s classic art caches with a possessive zeal not unlike NCMA’s gallery Gestapo presides over its prizes, presuming that the masses couldn’t possibly behave properly in the presence of treasured relics.

No doubt, the director will plead his case on the basis of liability. But I’d bet my week’s ration of camp gruel that his underwriter’s actuaries will testify that no security guard ever spared a museum one dollar’s loss due to accident or malice, much less lowered its risks.

The degree of taxpayer-financed waste behind this bloated security force suggests Mr. Wheeler’s fiscal priorities would benefit from the same scrutiny to which he subjects the public. Plus, he’d do us commoners an inestimable service by dialing back the protective paranoia. The artworks, after all, are not his personal property, and I’d venture a guess he and his minions are more likely than I to be careless with them, purely on account of their familiar proximity.

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Fill’er up with AC or DC voltage, officer?

Every now and again, my local paper runs a headline that just cracks me up … like this wire service item from Tuesday’s newsobserver.com:

Sheriff wants Lindsay Lohan charged with battery

Can we safely presume this is because Ms. Lohan can’t handle direct line current?

Gotta love those copy editor holidays!

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Standing her ground

It was a morning not long ago, on a walk in Pettigrew State Park. The doe was part of a group with no less than two fawns in tow, although there was no indication any of the young ones were, strictly speaking, her charges.


Nevertheless, the circumstances put her in no mood to brook unplanned disruption of the group’s browsing routine.  In short, this pretty girl — as dainty and fetching as she might outwardly appear — wasn’t about to yield the path to me if she could help it. This is something I love about deer.

For starters, one has to admire their unrivaled skill distinguishing the unfamiliar and out-of-place in a sprawling wall of trunks and undergrowth. Hunters often laud the turkey as a master of threat detection, their unbroken cloaks of camouflage donned in deference to the bird’s keen perception. But in my experience — and I’ve crossed paths with both deer and turkey many times — the turkey’s gift is nearsighted by comparison to the deer’s.

Even at distances far exceeding one-hundred yards, a whitetail will perceive irregular objects in the woods when no movements would clue it otherwise. This is, in fact, the most plausible explanation for why deer, when suspicious of the unknown, try to provoke unidentified objects into moving, for the very purpose of confirming or allaying their suspicions. Such skill requires uncanny vision, but so much more; it demands a precise knowledge of the landscape, and the shapes, patterns, and colors that do and do not jibe with it.

It was those perceptual resources that lay behind my lovely “opponent’s” behavior. Click on the image, and at full-size you’ll observe her left foreleg poised for a defiant stomp. Combined with a snort, it’s a whitetail’s proud but harmless attempt at intimidation, the only weapon in its arsenal to provoke revealing movement. The gesture only serves to make these wild beauties all the more winsome, in my opinion.

I’ve often thought, if I were going to date a forest animal, the doe would be my choice. It’s encounters like this that incline me toward that charmed, if eccentric, declaration.

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Separated at birth

Elena Kagan .......... and .......... Nathan Lane

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Independent thinking

We are already greater than the king wishes us to be, and will he not hereafter endeavour to make us less? To bring the matter to one point.  Is the power who is jealous of our prosperity, a proper power to govern us? Whoever says No to this question, is an independent, for independancy means no more, than, whether we shall make our own laws, or whether the king, the greatest enemy this continent hath, or can have, shall tell us “there shall be no laws but such as I like.”

Thomas Paine, Common Sense (1775)

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What’s in a name? Why, sales potential!

Raleigh’s city council has been needlessly unimaginative confining the field of naming sponsors for our spiffy new amphitheater to one maker of a low-cal beer.

[For those who aren’t fully briefed, Anheuser-Busch has bellied up to the bar with $1.5 million to claim naming rights for the 5,000-seat facility in the heart of downtown, which makes its debut in June, tentatively as the Bud Light Amphitheater. (The jury is still out on that one, by the way, because it so happens it violates state ABC law.)]

Truly, the sky’s the limit when it comes to potential concessionary sales, as illustrated by these venue names:

The Kotex Maxitheater, for the gal-on-the-go who’s lost track of the days in her mad rush to claim a front-row seat.

Pfizer Viagritheater. After all, guys, you wanna be ready when the band starts in with Marvin’s moody, “Let’s Get It On.”

Preparation ampHitheater. (The seats there aren’t padded, you know.)

Trojan Prophylactitheater … because we should all do it responsibly.

And lastly, for our burgeoning senior population, the Depends Incontitheater, so you can drink Bud Light to your heart’s content and not miss a note of the show.

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Just chillin’ with the squirrels

Rare moment: a squirrel quietly taking in the evening view from his front porch.

Wild animals are full of surprises.  Just when you thought you knew all their habits, live long enough and keep your eyes open, and one will startle you with some behavior you’ve never seen before.

Case in point, this handsome young rodent. I’d only gotten home from work and was headed out to sweep off the front porch when I spied him through the window, in repose on the arm of my rocking chair.

In my lifetime of experience enjoying the antics of gray squirrels, I’ve yet to see one come to a full, sustained stop. I place them on the behavioral continuum somewhere between hummingbirds and black-footed ferrets. In short, they are perpetual motion machines, always on the move and forever up to mischief.

But here was this furry gent, simply chillin’ (to use the vernacular) on the front porch rocker, in no particular hurry to go anywhere. Not one whisker poised in the slightest for action. Indeed by all appearances, he seemed interested in nothing more than simply basking in the lovely evening, letting the breeze fluff his coat, and watching whatever action was out there pass him by.

How charming. How unexpected … for a squirrel, that is.

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No room for fun in rules of road

Everybody’s favorite transportation reporter and mine, Bruce Siceloff, issued a call to readers for input as he prepares a piece about a nascent bill headed before legislators to address clashes between cars and group cycling in the Old North State. As he works on the story, I’d urge Bruce to keep one question uppermost in mind.

Can a society function in an orderly, safe fashion where its members lack consensus about the fundamental purpose of its road systems?

The situation is rife for conflict whenever cyclists and motorists come together on the highways at cross-purposes. Roads are a serious business, too. They were created expressly for the purpose of transportation, not for recreation. (I would challenge anyone to build an even mildly compelling case otherwise.) And when bike riders gather in large numbers on the street, riding two or more abreast, it’s pretty much always for the purpose of recreation. Their actions amount to mob rule, with the pedal-pushing mob redefining the purpose of the transportation network by sheer presence of numbers. And that makes light of the seriously bad things that can happen out there on the pavement.

As both a commuter cyclist first and foremost and a recreational cyclist occasionally, one who’s been in the game off-and-on more than two decades (very much “on” at the present time), I have no qualms saying that cycling behavior which is consistent with and characteristic of recreational use absolutely must yield to the singular function of our roads, namely that of transportation.

All our related statutes — whether addressing the movement of cars, trucks, bicycles, or pedestrians — are commensurate with the goal of transportation, and there’s no room in the law, and shouldn’t be, for cyclists to form recreational gangs to claim the roads for their own purpose and, in effect, rewrite the rules ad hoc for themselves and everyone else.

If you want to ride a bike on the street, then you willingly submit to the jurisdiction of the law in the intended use of that transportation system. Our laws make provision for slow-moving vehicles while according cyclists their due measure of rights and responsibilities as commuters on that system. However, where the law is lacking — because it never anticipated recreational group bikers — is in regulating the organic formation of massive obstructions to the flow of every other kind of traffic.

Any bill proposed by the General Assembly, if its remedy to the problem in view is single-file formations when bicycles are being overtaken by motor vehicles, will largely miss the mark by failing to remove the root cause of the conflict.

In the same way we have statutes governing the use of public spaces, establishing limits to public speech, and prescribing procedures for peaceful assembly, all in the name of common order and safety, whatever steps our lawmakers take on this topic must cut to the heart of our roadways’ intended use.

The facts make it clear: group riding isn’t a road sport.  There’s simply no way around it.

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Begging his pardon

Governor Beverly Perdue’s doggedly worn excuse for sloth in the pardoning of wrongfully imprisoned Greg Taylor is the most insufferable pitcher-full of poppycock I’ve ever heard. (See The News & Observer articles, Taylor’s exoneration prompts police to reinvestigate case, Mar. 17, and Taylor will have to wait for pardon, May 8.) What seems indisputably evident is the true motive behind her inexcusable dawdling: she’s simply reading the tea leaves for omens of political backlash, because legal integrity could hardly be the issue of concern.

Governors and presidents are notorious for their last-minute pardons — both deserved and undeserved — liberally dispensed in the final hours of office, and Perdue will likely do the same on her way out the door. Which makes her indefatigable foot-dragging in Taylor’s situation all the richer with disingenuous irony.

You have the authority, Bev. Stop playing it safe and just pardon the poor man.

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Energy Star fraud dim on paper’s radar

Talk about reporting in stovepipes! I can’t recall a more glaring example of staff writers donning blinders than Wednesday’s News & Observer article-cum-advertisement on the Energy Star appliance rebate campaign (Shoppers may snap up state’s appliance rebates), wrapping up its final day of misguided consumerism-gone-wild in North Carolina even as I post this.

One of ten bogus products successfully submitted for Energy Star certification by the GAO. It's rebate eligible, too!

Not 30 days ago, print media were awash in stories about what was, essentially, a Government Accountability Office sting that exposed EPA’s Energy Star program for the vacuous sham and transparent greenwashing skeptics [yes, that includes yours truly] had long suspected. Only last week, The N&O itself ran a follow-up wire piece on the mad scramble at EPA cause by the embarrassing GAO report. If that’s not germane to a feature article about an upcoming sales promotion based on Energy Star appliance ratings, then the newspaper’s reporting is as half-baked as a gas-powered alarm clock.

I don’t know which prospect is worse: that this flagrant omission was driven by deferential pandering to the interests of retail and manufacturing, or that it’s the consequence of just plain ignorant journalism and lackadaisical editorial oversight.

C’mon, N&O staff! Don’t you folks read the news first before you start writing about it? We expect greater independence and attention to detail from you than this.

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Be counted, early and often

Well, I received my U.S. census questionnaire in the mail this week … again!

I mailed the first one back weeks ago, two days after it arrived, in fact. But now I suppose Uncle Sam’s not content to count me once; he feels my presence and participation is so vital to the nation’s future that he must be doubly sure I’m on the rolls.

When I saw the second mailing in my box, my first reaction was bafflement. Why was I getting this thing again? Perplexity was immediately followed by consternation; not at the implied allegation I hadn’t returned the first survey form. No, I was mad because now I was saddled with the unfair burden of deciding whether mailing the second one back was the numerically sound and responsible thing to do.

It’s bad enough I have to count myself citizen of a country whose lamentable fall from deliberative constitutional democracy and rapid descent toward brutal capitalist oligarchy has me gazing dreamily at world maps and wondering if Australia has tough immigration laws. But now I’m compelled to second-guess my own Federal government’s competence in the matter of administering its $300 million decennial census. Now I’m forced to decide, on behalf of the responsible agency, if it’s the proper thing to fill out the second questionnaire, and what might be the statistical consequences if I do. (I don’t have even one stats course on my college transcripts, so this goes waaaay beyond my pay grade.)

Then on the other hand, there are the legal implications if I don’t return it, but should have. Because after all, as the envelope boldly threatens, my response is “REQUIRED BY LAW.” It doesn’t matter that I already responded weeks ago. No, the mere possibility that the first survey form was lost in delivery emblazons Disaster! all over my heretofore stellar record as a law abiding citizen.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I minded answering those ten questions in the first go-round, or that it’s a major inconvenience doing it all over again. Heck, I even weighed the moral and ethical implications of responding a second time just out of spite. I mean, if those knuckleheaded bean counters in Essex, Maryland can’t see how repeating this second mailing tactic with all 115 million households in America royally screws up the statistical validity of the whole darned process of census taking, then why should I give a white-guy’s-checkbox-of-a-damn just how messed up the numbers are on account of my personal contribution!

In all fairness though, I should explain that the redundant mailing contained a powder-blue, half-page note acknowledging the government’s mailing of the first census form. And furthermore, it goes on to caution how godawful earth-shatteringly crucial it is that households only respond to the census once. But … just so there’s no confusion about my civic duty, the warning is prefaced with a stern reminder that this second question form is my last chance to respond by harmless, impersonal mail, and if I don’t fess up to consuming oxygen within the boundaries of the ‘ol U.S. of A. this time, then the Census Bureau will have no choice but to dispatch an official G-man posse to my door, presumably to slap me around my livingroom and beat the 10 answers out of me, if that’s what it takes to get me to take this whole census business seriously.

So I say, ease up with the threats, fellas. Just keep those census forms coming and I’ll gladly let you count me as many times as you’d like.

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Narrow and hard the path to vegetarianism

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then the path to an ecologically conscientious faith is vexed with misleading dead ends.

News & Observer religion reporter Yonat Shimron’s profile of one local church’s stab at environmental ethics during Lent illustrates how easily parishioners drift off momentarily on a tangent, often motivated by misinformation or transient fads.  The result being that many simply retrace their path, then forever abandon the journey forward.

I’m not saying there’s nothing meritorious in the good folk of United Church of Chapel Hill denouncing their carnivore habits for the duration of the Lenten season.  Only that doing so for the sake of reducing carbon emissions is about as convoluted a line of reasoning as one could concoct.  Furthermore, it smacks of hopping aboard a popular bandwagon which, these days, is inordinately obsessed with global warming at the expense of addressing a root problem of overconsumption, an issue where Westerners shamefully lead the world’s parade to destruction.

You see, the environmental pitfall in eating meat really has little to do with CO2, methane, or gaseous emissions of any sort.  The sticking point with meat is that the agricultural industry generally pours ten times more energy into producing 1 kcal of animal meat as it does 1 kcal’s worth of a grain product like wheat, rice, or corn.  So for what it takes to feed and care for the one Angus, you could feed ten adults for much longer than the bovine’s lifetime.

If you step back and look at the physics and physiology of what’s going on, you see you’re devoting considerably more resources just keeping a cow alive long enough to satisfy your preference for the taste of cow flesh.  And the operating principle is no less true for other living creatures like fish and chickens or scallops.  You expend extra energy maintaining the life of the animal just long enough to eventually kill it.

Naturally, I haven’t even touched on all the other ancillary ecological issues that swarm around livestock farming — things like land use, antibiotic overuse, animal wastes, and perhaps most damning of all, the horrendous conditions to which industrial farming systems subject the poor creatures they churn out of their meat mills.

In turn, this raises the ethical questions that come with saddling an already economically disadvantage and socially oppressed people — namely, the unfortunate slaughterhouse workers — with the gruesome task of personally butchering thousands of animals week after bloody week.  If we don’t have a Christian obligation to consider both the physical and psychological damage that imposes on our neighbors, then what’s Christianity good for?

So a token Lenten effort to abstain from eating animals is only about as good as the 40 days it covers.  Void of a sounder rationale for the enterprise, if one simply returns to his previous habits, the few pounds of carbon emissions spared won’t mean much juxtaposed against the lifelong commitment to rape and pillage the planet while condemning its creatures, be they humble or human, to an endless cycle of savagery.

I hate to come across like a killjoy, but if conserving inanimate carbon, the sixth element of the periodic table, is the strongest incentive the congregation at United Church of Chapel Hill can find to compassionately steward Yahweh’s planet, then perhaps their time might be better spent getting to know a few live chickens the other 325 days of the year.

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Distracted beyond reason

It seems the much-distracted, father-daughter driving duo who openly confessed their mutual cell phone addictions in the pages of The News & Observer last month has stirred up no end of commotion among the local rabble.

Far be it from me to exonerate this featherbrained pair of motorists, the junior member of which racked up three phone-instigated car wrecks in as many years.  (By all accounts, her inability to properly estimate public sentiment at this revelation just about evenly matches her overall lack of judgment and self-control.)  But if ever readers needed evidence to explain why there’s senseless tragedy, injustice and unabated evil in the world, I’d be more inclined to point them in the direction of the convoluted blathering of the two women who defended their obsessive need for cell phone distractions behind the wheel in yet another recent installment of the same Road Worrier column (“They call from the car, carefully,” Jan. 19).  I haven’t a doubt that neither entertains the slightest suspicion of how absurd her arguments sound in the court of public opinion.  And by comparison, they give Buckley and Tyler Strandberg the aura of self-flagellating saints.

One mark of an adult mind (as contrasted with the juvenile version of that equipment) is its ability to extrapolate actions into the future to contemplate possible outcomes and their implications for all concerned. But by their shortsighted rationalizations, Gilda Branch and Susan Jancuski reveal that neither age nor motherhood has contributed a scrap of maturity to either’s thought process.  Each places her own interests and priorities squarely at the center of the excused misconduct without a shred of consideration to civic responsibility for the welfare of others.

Perhaps one day these ladies will share with us whatever measure of comfort her twisted justifications might confer waiting at the car wash while the blood of an eight-year-old she’s run over in a school crossing is scrubbed from her front bumper.

I vouchsafe no pity and spare no contempt for those who value human life less than their own personal comfort and convenience.

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U.S. military as sick as Hasan

Under the classification of “throwing in my two cents worth,” I can’t resist commenting on the unfolding revelations about U.S. Army personnel evaluations of Nidal Hasan, the psychiatrist under indictment for mass murder at Fort Hood last November.

The Associated Press reports detailing Hasan’s evaluation irregularities and the erratic, inconsistent assessment by various supervising officers comes as no surprise whatsoever.

Without hesitation, I can verify that the military uses performance evaluations as a technique and device for managing and manipulating careers rather than objectively documenting performance and on-the-job behavior. The subjectivity of these HR processes is notoriously well-known among the ranks, and many enlisted soldiers and officers accept this with varying degrees of ascent, depending on the favorability of their own specific evaluations.

So it’s no shock the military brass now chooses to throw its peons under the bus, even those — perhaps especially those — who made honest efforts to document the deficits, warning signs, and outright misconduct swirling around Hasan earlier in his career.  This is so typically Army … nay, so typically military!  (I have experience working professionally among Army and Air National Guard as well as U.S. Navy personnel.)  These are organizations for which self-preservation is the inherent mission.  Consequently, they’re populated with officers and NCOs who instinctively circle the wagons to defend their own job security when hostile forces arise, and they won’t hesitate to cut anyone down who might threaten their comfortable stability.

Invariably, that means the gutless homebodies at the highest levels freely exercise their prerogative to slice and dice up those with smaller … well, let’s just not go there.  This is pretty much guaranteed whenever there’s no hope to be gained by standing together, which of course is clearly the case, we now plainly see, where Hasan is concerned — no startling tactic when it comes to administrative mismanagement, as opposed to, say, when the actual lead bullets are flying wildly about the troops.

There’s no organization like the Pentagon to operate by the principle that the finest, most upstanding and honest deeds will not escape unpunished.  And if you ask me, the rueful fact of it is that Nidal Hasan’s unfortunate targets were, in the final assessment, several levels of rank below their rightful mark.

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Public Relations Defined, Part II

*    *    *

Public relations is the systematic study and strategic design
of organizational identity and behavior in relation to all else,
human or otherwise.

*    *    *

So, what is public relations?

It’s a question I’d vowed to answer in a post made many months ago.  There, I offered the definition for PR I had developed while in graduate school.  It wasn’t to be found, strictly verbatim, in any textbook or journal, but it upheld fundamental principles of the public relations profession commonly shared by many scholars and practitioners alike.

To aid present readers, my now-discarded definition went like so:

Public relations is the strategic management of relationships with stakeholders essential to an organization’s success.

The key element that ties this definition to what’s taught in post-secondary institutions is that of PR’s management function within an organization.  It emphasizes the role of relationships with defined “publics,” and the goal of improved outcomes by consciously shaping that interplay.

But I’ve found this definition wanting somewhat, over the years.  Most notably, it fails to adequately represent the mission of public relations practitioners in particular.

Granted, public relations manifests itself in the doings of everyone within an organization.  But by that measure, PR is something in which everyone is engaged, and so my old definition neglects the preparation unique to the field as a scholarly discipline, and essentially implies that anyone with a company ID and access to clientele is a PR practitioner.  To a certain extent, that’s indeed true.  But in the same way that anyone with a head cold and access to an aspirin bottle isn’t necessarily a physician, neither is the trained public relations professional simply another cog in the PR machinery.

Sadly, however, the reality of commerce might be found resistant to claims for PR any greater than just that very thing, though, if one were to judge by management’s traditional relationship with PR directors, agencies, and consultants.  For, in fact, pretty much all PR pros — even in those rare instances when they’re given a seat in the board room — function as little more than toadies and mouthpieces inexplicably eager to take a bullet for the company or get thrown under the bus of public opinion, all for the sake of a steady paycheck.

One of my chief complaints against those trained in the PR field is that they’re content to take public relations just as it’s handed to them in the world of commerce.  Rather than behaving like professionals trained and educated in a classroom, who might seize an opening to define public relations in its fullest expression of potential and the manifestation of what they professionally believe it ought to be, they accept it as expressed in the ignorant expectations of managers, who have no formal training in PR whatsoever, and are unlikely to have devoted even a second’s critical thought to what it is, let alone what it should or could be.

In other words, Ms. or Mr. PR Pro’s definition of public relations amounts to an empirical one, and the Empire’s definition is hopelessly steeped in stupidity and ignorance and random chance.  Therefore, PR practitioners are usually consigned to nothing greater than honing their writing and public speaking skills, and of course, to love and court the news media — a dreadfully misguided romance if ever there were one.

So, without further delay, I offer my new and improved definition of public relations here for public scrutiny, so that, in the same way open-source software can be tested and refined by the critical fire of many programmers and users, my definition can foment the seeds of professional discontent and provoke a quest for PR’s future betterment.

Public relations is the systematic study and strategic design of organizational identity and behavior in relation to all else, human or otherwise.

My new definition remains broadly inclusive, so as to acknowledge the relations-building function of everyone in the organization.  Yet it makes room for the PR professional’s unique contribution as one intentionally tasked to open the eyes of the organization’s members to the character of those impressions and relationships, and to suggest their intentional deconstruction and refashioning within the framework of organizational values.

On the other hand, this definition makes no presuppositions about the responsibilities any specific organization delegates to its PR staff or consultants.  Instead, it projects the scope of public relations as an academic enterprise which can offer meaningful insights with or without the consent of those examined.  As a profession, it needn’t be limited by management’s or labor’s narrow mythology of public relations.  At the same time, its insights remain pragmatically applicable and imminently useful.

By my definition, as a scholarly enterprise, public relations is introspective, it’s unflinchingly critical.  It is a discovery of organizational self through the eyes of others, and portends a truer understanding of who is doing the looking.  But it cannot be undertaken by the layperson, and so it is a discipline in the truest academic sense.  It requires study and structure, as well as natural gifts predisposed to social sciences, but with the philosophical humanities at their core.

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One rat lost in the race

They ran him down that’s what they did right in front of my very eyes this morning they just drove right over him without a thought or a pause and they just ran the little guy down.

No, he wasn’t big, as rats go, and might’ve been difficult to see in the pouring rain if your weren’t driving cautiously.

He was quick, too, but not quick enough. He must’ve scurried only inches past my feet as I approached the curb where I catch the morning bus, when I saw it coming.  I gasped out loud, “Oh no, oh no!”  But it was no use.  No one was slowing down.  No one seemed to notice or to care.

He dodged one car.  He dodged a second.  Then he and his luck expired with the third.  It was horrible.

It was obvious the little fella was only trying to get someplace dry.  The rain was coming down furiously and he was running from an open parking lot with no shelter of any kind.  He only wanted to get out of the wet and find a dry spot, so he made a mad dash.  Instinct told him to go, but he never stood a prayer of a chance.  And he lost his life, just trying to find a dry place.

That wasn’t much to ask, it was nothing at all, but it was more than anyone was willing to give him.

*    *    *

We make it hard on animals at every turn, we do.  Every activity of our rat race lifestyle seems designed to doom the rodents and any other helpless creature in our paths to the point where we won’t even let them get out of the rain without killing them.

I hope, one day, there’s payback.  We deserve it.  This is one rat race we deserve to lose.

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Lessons from a small bug

Profound, far-reaching truths are to be discerned in nature, provided we aren’t so arrogant as to dismiss any schooling that lacks a grand campus as its setting.

In recent days, I was relaxing on my porch soaking in the warmth of one of our autumn Piedmont afternoons, when a small bug — a beetle, by my best approximate description — landed close by me.  I watched him for a minute or two while he explored the flat, gray slab that served as both our resting places that moment, when he went aloft again for a few inches and landed on his back.

But he, being of a beetle sort with wings tucked behind a hard, split carapace, was finding that righting himself on this broad, flat, unyielding surface was more difficult than one might have first estimated.  And after several seconds watching him struggle in that task, it appeared he was likely to exhaust himself before he ever succeeded.  So I took mercy on the capsized fellow and helped him back on his six feet to resume his explorations elsewhere.

Reflecting on his situation, though, it struck me that in an environment undisturbed by man, where it’s almost impossible to find natural surfaces that are so uniformly planar and solid as the concrete slab of my porch, the awkward position in which this little invertebrate had just found himself would probably never occur.  And doesn’t this improbable clash of circumstances aptly describe the very same faced by many a misplaced person in this hard, hostile world which is so unfit a habitation for many.  We’re thrust into situations we’re not properly outfitted to overcome because they represent artificial constructs completely alien to our natural gifts and survival skills.

In short, man’s parochial shortsightedness has constructed a world where those not suitably designed for it can fall flat on their backs, incapable of getting right-side up.  It’s a lesson we’d do well to consider the next time we pass someone asleep on a heating grate or park bench.  It might even lend serviceable insight toward comprehending those among our casual acquaintances who live out turbulent lives in search of a friendly landing place where their natural graces are sufficient and they can feel at home.

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No easy solutions

House sparrow

A male House sparrow, not unlike one to whom I gave brief refuge this day.

I gave brief sanctuary to a little male House sparrow today.  He was a wet, raggedy mess when I found him on my front lawn — the neighbor who lives above alerted me when his dog spotted the sparrow on the ground and started to investigate.

Scooping the fellow up in a towel, I got him dry after several hours in the warmth of my desk lamp.  I gently smoothed out his feathers with a camel’s hair paintbrush, and eventually he revived, looking vastly more handsome than at first meeting.  In fact, he revived enough so that I realized I hadn’t the necessary enclosure to keep him safe indoors.  (He kept fluttering off into the worst possible places he could flee in my apartment.)  Nevertheless, it was encouraging to witness that he could actually fly, because his outward condition didn’t give much cause for hope.

My first observations led me to wonder if he might’ve been paralyzed from a spinal injury.  But as the hours passed and he finally flew about inside, it appeared to be his left leg that was injured, probably broken.  He can fly, but he can’t land well, and is apt to roll onto his back, then struggle to right himself; then sometimes tipping forward, flat on his beak with tail spread wildly skyward.  It’s a pitiful, heartbreaking sight.

After five hours indoors, I finally relented and set him free, his fear of captivity so readily obvious.  First thing he did after hobbling his way out of the box was grab a piece of nearby peanut fallen from a feeder.  When I tried to set more seed in front of him he flew into the neighbor’s holly tree.  A few minutes later, I spied him from the front window in my tray feeder.  So he’s clearly hungry and going after easy food.  I poured more out on both the ground and porch hoping it would make easier pickings, for every flight and landing add to his risk of further exhaustion and injury, and the resistance and terror were plain in his disposition whenever he felt compelled to take to the air.

Appetite notwithstanding, he’s still in bad shape, though, and I don’t expect him to survive.  The weather forecast for the next two days doesn’t bode in his favor.  It’ll be cold and wet — the very conditions from which I rescued him knowing he wouldn’t stand a chance left on his own.  Besides that, there’ll be constant threats from other animals both wild and domestic, his vulnerability worsened all the more by his debility.  But as I say, I don’t have what’s necessary to keep him dry, warm and safe in my apartment as long as he has flight capability.

All this takes me back to childhood when — like so many children do — I discovered a baby bird prematurely outed from his nest.  It was on the eve of a family trip, and I will never forget the helpless agony I felt watching this tiny creature’s life slowly ebb away inside the shoebox I cradled in the backseat of our car that summer.  Although I’m much wiser now about the grim realities of the natural world, it doesn’t make the likely outcome any less painful to imagine or to witness.

You’re in my thoughts tonight, little bird.  I’m rooting for you.

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Filed under man bites bear, meaning of life