IT'S ALL ABOUT RACE

IT’S ALL ABOUT RACE

 

 

                Is it me, or is it me? Does anyone remember that just a few years ago the hot debate around town centered on the fate of gambling in New York State: Downstate, represented by Long Island, verses Upstate, with the Catskill region leading as adversary. Native American victories on casino establishments in the northwest of the state served as an enigma to a state legislature anxious to share in uncollected revenues.

                ACT ONE, Scene One:  The Mashantucket Pequot Tribal Nation in Connecticut, under Federal recognition, uses its legal authority to establish a gambling operation that attracts foreign entrepreneurs eager for profit ventures.

                ACT ONE, Scene Two: The Mohegan Tribal Nation follows in quick pursuit and within a stone’s throw of their Pequot neighbors, also garnishing large revenues.

                ACT TWO, Scene One:  In historical sequence, Native American Nations that bear the names of several upstate cities in New York State are quietly attempting to duplicate the Connecticut experiment.

                ACT TWO, Scene Two: Millions in untapped potential state revenues.

 

                Obviously, my historical scenario is abbreviated. As an example, the Foxwoods Casino was founded in 1986 as a bingo hall. The casino was financed by Lim Goh Tong, a Chinese Malaysian who founded the only legal casino in Malaysia. He died in 2007. In 1992, the Mashantucket Pequot Tribe, the casino’s owner, added table games, followed by slot machines in 1993. But, so much for history.

Fast forward to 2007.  Foxwoods Casino agrees to pay 25 percent of their slot revenue to the state of Connecticut, a sum that amounts to $200 million per year. In the year ending 2008, Foxwoods’ 6300 slots handle more than $9.1 billion. Despite twenty years of petitions by our Catskill neighbors for legal entry into the gaming business, the New York legislature kept a deft ear to their cause. Suddenly, the light bulb goes on! Casinos by the names of Turning Stone, Akwesasne Mohawk, Seneca Gaming and Seneca Niagra are now functioning and looking for expansion. And guess what? They are all under Native American control! Unlike the Pilgrim settlers of our country, this movement occurred under the radar of our elected representatives.

When one considers this two decade evolution, the question becomes: What was the spark that ignited Albany legislators, spearheaded by Governor Andrew Cuomo, which led to a re-alignment of priorities and the expansion of gambling? The answer is two-fold: a statewide demand for new revenue and the inevitable Shinnecock entry into the gaming world. The not so subtle maneuver of the governor to facilitate an 11^th hour bill in the Assembly speaks poorly for transparency. However, the bill does speak directly to the state constitution which will require amendment.

Have you heard this before? “Revenue to our counties means one thing: We won’t have to raise property taxes.” Out of the mouth of Assemb. Edward Ra (R-Franklin Square). Believe that and I have a bridge I’d like to sell you. His shield for such a statement was based on the promise of 1,000 video slot machines each for Nassau and Suffolk counties. When it comes to the gaming industry, we have no shortage of corruption and mismanagement; one case in point, the debacle to select a company to run video lottery terminals at Aqueduct Racetrack.  Let us not forget the original premise for the New York Lottery system – dedicated funds for the state education system. By all accounts, no school district in our state should be facing budget cuts with jackpots in the millions. Bottom line, it’s all about the money. Or is it?

As the dice rolls across the table, a new gamer is about to come to town. The Shinnecock Tribal Nation has called Long Island its home long before the Pilgrims. Their reservation rest on the most valuable real estate in the state. Because of that assessment, neighbors have consistently resisted any Shinnecock advancement toward federal or state recognition. That battle has been won by the Shinnecock, but the war continues. Albany’s new threat: Downstate entry into the gaming business by another Native American presence. The slogan, Follow the Money, now becomes Get There First. Albany’s reaction: the race is on! (Pun intended).

A reality in New York State, like neighboring states throughout the country, is a need for new sources of revenue. How and where these sources are collected require more than a midnight escapade with people of questionable integrity. I like to gamble just like the other guy. The suspense, excitement and occasional win (miss those ringing slots) are irresistible. Just don’t put the casino in my neighborhood.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE NINETY PERCENT?

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE NINETY PERCENT?

 

 

            Now that the smoke has settled from the mirrors advanced by band wagon politicians, the real victims of our violent culture are left to confront their personal loss in solitude. That doesn’t mean they will be forgotten. They simply will be replaced by more pressing headlines and kept in abatement until the next senseless atrocity. Senseless is the key word. Legislation has yet to be written that would inhibit the mentally unstable.

            That said, we are now confronted with the issue gun control advocates considered a “slam dunk.” Background Checks was considered the point assault that would issue in a new level of gun ownership restriction. On its surface, Background Checks looked like a good compromising platform in an acidic debate that resembled a tug of war. Both sides had their merits and miss-steps. However, it was the gun control camp with media support that became proponents of the “Ninety Percent” endorsement. As holder of an accounting degree and business management graduate degree, I am familiar with the game of statistics. Immediately, the red flag goes up at ninety percent. Why not go for the whole pie and say One Hundred Percent? Both numbers are equally ludicrous.  I challenge any statistician to show me anything of which ninety percent of Americans will find consensus. Even the horror of September 11, 2001 left Americans trapped in a culture of preconception. Who to blame? Assassins from the Soviet Union? A mysterious Al-Queda? A next door neighbor?

            Let’s, for a moment, assume the Ninety Percent is a valid number. Who would compose that percentile? The answer, of course, is ninety percent of law-abiding citizens who would past the test with flying colors. A convicted felon submitting to a background check would obviously be among the mentally unstable. Statistics are no more than numbers left to be messaged. Example: Two opposing attorneys face a pool of potential jurors. Each samples the pool for the candidate that will be favorable to his/her argument. After sorting and dismissal, a jury is selected. The attorney who did his/her homework will probably win. Taking this concept further, it is only fair to inquire the size and location of the “Ninety Percent.” Rural America has a history of accepting the literal interpretation of the Second Amendment and a reluctance to disarm themselves. Unlike their urban cousins, law enforcement is normally miles away in a crisis situation. Ironically, crime rates are “statistically” higher in the urban arena. So much for statistics.

            Moving on, we are now confronted with should have, would have, could have scenarios.  Obama should have persuaded more democrats to vote in favor of the White House. A more denigrating attack on special interest would have the desired effect on the Senate. The posturing of the Second Amendment as obsolete could have resulted in more converts to the cause. Bottom line: the sound bites remind me of the fallow cries of a spoiled child after being denied his candy.

            Back to reality, I find it difficult to believe a senator would knowingly end his/her career by voting against his/her constituency. Special Interest is an extension of that constituency. It’s called “target marketing.”  Gun-control advocates failed to recognize Background Checks was not the sole reason for Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid’s failure. Deeper concerns contributed to the outcome. Growing numbers of Americans perceive the government as dysfunctional. A much larger number of citizens (Ninety Percent?) reject government intrusion into their homes. And freedom of choice is worth dying for. Exploiting the pain of victims and their families by parading them on TV became another example of indiscretion. When will the advocates of gun-control stop shooting themselves in the foot? Pun intended.

A picture worth a thousand words.

           

THE NRA – ITS WORST ENEMY

 

 

            Guns, guns, guns – it’s all the rage by anti-gun advocates, inner city victims of crime, and of course, the media. Of the most vocal and influential of pro-gun advocates, we have the National Rifle Association (NRA), an organization that boasts as its flag a protector of our Second Amendment rights. Regardless of where you stand on the issue, any proclamation should be enclosed in an atmosphere of reason.

            Recently, it was reported by Newsday (Feb 2, 2013) [NRA lists anti-gun groups, celebs]. The fact that the NRA notes the list was posted Sept 17, 2012 raises the question as to why Newsday decided to report it now. Nevertheless, the list is newsworthy. It names a variety of individuals, celebrities, organizations and corporations the NRA has deemed anti-gun, to include a multitude of religious groups. While some of these individuals/celebrities, corporations and religious groups have actively postured as anti-gun; the NRA’s uncompromising litmus test has defaulted by including many avid supporters of pro-gun rights.  

One case in point is the classification of ex-game show host Bob Barker as anti-gun. The fact that the octogenarian sleeps with a .38-caliber pistol next to his bed, shoots skeet and donated to the group’s choice of president, Republican Mitt Romney, evidently didn’t come up on the radar. By its own extension the NRA has positioned itself in opposition to wide segments of American society, to include the American Academy of Ambulatory Care Nursing, the National Association of School Psychologists, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (its first president – Martin Luther King Jr.), the United Methodist Church and the Episcopal Church, to name a few. Worry not if you are a member of the Democratic Party; you are at the top of the list.

As a member of the NRA for forty years, I can honestly say, “Move over Bob.” The paranoia emanating from the NRA comes from the top, and if you listen carefully, you’ll notice it matches the chorus from the opposition. The atmosphere of reason has vanished. As president of a rifle & pistol club, I am proud to have witnessed a membership with diversified interests, ranging from target shooting, competitive trap & skeet, to hunting. None of our members would ever hunt with a semi-automatic assault weapon. Some of us actually cheat occasionally and go fishing. Some of us vote Democratic. With all its resources, how can the leadership of the NRA fail to recognize its own constituency?

I don’t plan to give up my membership because of misguided leadership. Alienation of a vast segment of American society is not a proper course to secure the Second Amendment. On the contrary, it serves to divide and dilute the true purpose of the amendment. I’ve been good to the great outdoors, and the great outdoors have been good to me. The ghost of Charlton Heston is alive and well.  In these difficult times, I do hope the NRA will be able to recruit what’s left of the Southern Christians, Methodists, Episcopalians, and Democrats. By contrast, neither Mayor Michael Bloomberg nor his pro-gun control group, Mayors Against Illegal Guns, made the list. Go Figure!

NEWSDAY UNPUBLISHED

 

 

In light of recent criticism of our regional jewel of news reporting, Newsday, I find it only proper to share three of my opinion submissions that failed to make the cut. Admittedly, volume may have played a part, but I cannot dismiss the weight of subject matter. I share this with you, my reading public, to decide for yourselves. Enjoy!

 

OBAMA’S MESSAGE

Regarding “Obama’s Message: Don’t quit” News, Sept. 8], I look forward to the Newsday publication listing the school districts that banned the president’s motivational speech dedicated to the children of our nation.  Among the 56 districts open for business on that day, let those that censured the president bare their embarrassment.

The White House preview of the speech effectively removed suspicion of any political agenda, while receiving endorsements from former first lady Laura Bush and former Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich.  The message: Don’t quit, is a call to our youth to take responsibility for their future while respecting their parents, teachers and mentors in an environment that’s not always friendly. Evidently, there are some custodians of our children’s education who did not get the message. Using the manufactured threat of politics to hide personal bias, these elected symbols of authority committed the ultimate political sin.  They used our children as political ponds. How dare them!

 

OUR CHILDREN, OUR MIRRORS

How often has a parent gloated over an accomplishment by his/her child?  Whether it be a goal scored on the soccer field, touchdown in full armor, academic honors at graduation, not to mention the college commencement film that will last forever as proof of economic sacrifice; on such occasions, parents do not hesitate at taking credit for the accolades afforded their offspring.  This is part of living the good life, celebrating our progeny while investing in hopes of a future destined to survive us.  Commendations to all.

As parents, do we perform in like manner when choices our children exercise are less than admirable?  This is a question growing at fever pace with the advent of front page hate crimes perpetrated by our young.   Unfortunately, many a young person is made aware early the real world is fractured, commonly the result of a fractured family.  That in itself does not provide a “get out of jail free” card, either to the young person or the parent.  Of course there is the other picture, the intact social unit with mother and father present. With due respect, this idyllic life style does not guarantee the yellow brick road. 

Insult to injury; let us not forget the sin of omission, otherwise known as denial.  This is the plateau on which too many parents, social pundits, and elected officials find refuge.  Interestingly, if the district attorney’s office proves correct, many indicted youth offenders are less intrigued with this refuge.  They willingly attest to the scenario of the charges.  We of the parent and grandparent generations will probably find that astonishing; not for their honesty, but for the audacity to throw their actions in the face of authority.  Not to the credit of our legal system, the recent codification of a hate crime deserving its own level of punitive retribution is testament to a history of jurisprudence denial.  Crimes of hate date back to the book of Genesis. 

What is the foundation for this de facto recognition?  After a century of activism and martyrdom for the advancement of civil and human rights, America has matured in its admission of racial and ethnic atrocities of man against his neighbor.

Hate is not born but acquired.  From the womb we are all a blank canvass, pure in the sight of our Creator and in any court in these United States.  Respect for self and fellow man is taught and learned by example.  The gravity of the fruit from the tree may be simplistic, but proverbs themselves are born from example. School begins at home. For too many neighbors school is out.  Their children are no longer children.  For good or bad, they will be judged accordingly. 

Perhaps gloating at our progeny is an exercise at looking in the mirror.  If we employ the tools of honesty, integrity, and self-assuredness, then we should be happy at what we see.

 

UNFORGIVABLE JOURNALISM

 

If and when this letter is published, the decision regarding the occupant of the Oval Office will have been made. Unfortunately, it won’t alter the journalistic damage emanating from Newsday’s presidential endorsement (Editorial, Nov. 5). It is generally understood the business of a newspaper is to sell newspapers; but, it is expected to do so with responsible journalism.

The tepid endorsement of Mitt Romney was riddled with disclaimers sufficient to endorse his opponent, Barack Obama. Additionally, Newsday’s version of “tale of success” does not accurately match the former governor’s record, particularly in Massachusetts. This reflects a disconnect between its reporting sources and editorial perspective. The final insult is the utilization of Mr. Romney’s deficiencies as reason for endorsement (wavering positions and unspecified plans for solving the nation’s problems).

It comes as no surprise the repercussions were overwhelmingly negative and may lead to cancelled subscriptions. On a positive note, I was pleased to be reassured that perceptive readers still exist in our region and the ghost of Alicia Patterson, Newsday’s founder, is alive and well. I look forward to the restoration of a paper we once held in high standing.

BY LINE: RON SCOTT

WHEN PAIN IS A FRIEND PART 2

                Fast forward to April 2012.  Almost a year to the day of my first diagnosis, a routine follow-up visit to my doctor proves to be not so routine. A bad news gut feeling fills my being when the sonar technician stops chewing his gum and signals my surgeon to look at the screen. Dr. Richard Matano has my upmost confidence as a celebrity of vascular surgery and head of that department in one of the nation’s most renowned hospitals, St. Francis in Roslyn, N.Y.  That said, I would never play poker with the man. He has remarkable body control when delivering sensitive news. He instructs me to get a blood test and CT Scan ASAP, inquires about my kidneys, and sends me home with don’t worry, I’ll call you after I get the results.

            Not so fast. Test and Scan are complete before a week goes by – no call. At this point, I’m operating on the optimistic theory: No news is good news. I find it difficult to accept the fact; I’m not his only patient. Finally, the long awaited call:

“I reviewed your test and I’d like to do another angioplasty. Similar to the last one, it should be no more than a two day hospital stay. Call Susan (his secretary) and have      her schedule the procedure. Take care and enjoy your day.”

            Is it me or what? Has anyone noticed the new substitution of “procedure” for “surgery”? Has anyone noticed “pre-owned” for “used”? Not to be confused with the analogy, sometimes I feel used for a procedure that my HMO will consider a surgery on a pre-owned condition. As anyone who’s been there will attest, non-emergency “procedures” require pre-surgical exams. Mine raises a new “red flag”. My heart rate is low and surgery may have to be postponed until corrected. The decision rest with my surgeon who instructs everything remain on schedule, everything that is, until Friday, May 25^th, the day of my scheduled surgery and the eve of Memorial Day weekend. Again, the “red flag” appears from the anesthesiologist who summons a procession of doctors, including my surgeon, to discuss the risk of going forward. I, being the object of this conference, am beginning to see the risk of a planned bar-be-que.

            Thanks to the head of cardiology who happens to be another celebrity of medicine, my surgery/procedure is now postponed to Sunday. Of course that decision is based on caution, which is the only comfort I’m afforded as my planned two day episode fades in the dust. My sense of smell still intact, I do not fail to detect the aromas of the grill on various staff as they monitor the intravenous connection to my arm. No hard feelings; they are scheduled for their shifts regardless of the presence of Ron Scott. The OR (Operating Room) is a different story.

            The head of a medical department has authority, power and clout. To be a member of a team of authority, power and clout entails sacrifice on many occasions. Sunday, May 27^th was such an occasion. During my final prep for surgery, I noticed no other patients in the usual assembly line. I also noticed familiar faces from the first attempt to send me on my way, including my anesthesiologist. What was unmistakable was the lack of smiling faces. Mine was not the only bar-be-que in jeopardy! I prayed they wouldn’t take it out on me.

If you are reading this, you know the procedure/surgery was a success.  I’m in recovery when I receive information clarifying the reason for the original delay – over-medication from a drug I’ve been taking for years (Toprol XL). Now the irony begins. Before I can be released from the hospital, a completely unrelated medication, Coumadin must be given time to restore my blood level to its desired level. For the uniformed, this medication is a controversial blood thinner used to prevent blood clouts. Serving its purpose, it requires regular monitoring which disturbs many doctors and patients. Privately, I’ve heard it referred to as rat poison by an unnamed physician. After eight extended days and innumerable blood samples, I am granted my release. Okay, so maybe it is rat poison, but it prevented me from becoming one of those statistics: The operation was a success, but the patient died.

          

WHEN PAIN IS A FRIEND

WHEN PAIN IS A FRIEND

By Ron Scott

            It’s been a long time between posts, and I’m not one for excuses, but this once, I have a tale that may serve as an excuse (other than procrastination). Many of us are familiar with back pain. Almost everyone I meet of my generation is well acquainted with some form of this discomfort. In my case, discomfort is not the appropriate word – outright severe pain is more like it!

The war in progress is not new. At first, which is many years ago, I dismissed back pain to the rigors of a strenuous day, something probably common to all of us. Then in the wee hours of one night, nature called. My feet hit the floor and that’s all she wrote. My entire body became frozen in pain as fear took control of my brain. What is happening to my body? With the assistance of a good wife, I survived the night and was delivered to the first of many doctors to come. Oh, the doctors, doctors, doctors. Oh, the pain, pain, pain!

Next in line was a stint in physical therapy – not all bad, not all good. I learned how to cope using various exercises, with no cure in sight. As time went on, a couple of years, actually, other body parts required attention – just like my automobile. We did have a lot in common. My eye-lashes were equated with windshield wipers; an anemic blood sample indicated an oil leak; and, an irregular heartbeat was compared to a malfunctioning timing chain. Despite the blood thinners, blood pressure meds, and prostate monitoring, back pain continued its debilitating course. Finally, my orthopedist ordered an MRI after exhausting x-rays. True to form, the results verified two herniated disks, the source of my pain, and one unexpected surprise – an abdominal aortic aneurysm. And away we go!!!

The choice was simple. I could live with my back pain, but an aneurysm could make today my last. Thanks to modern technology, surgery went well and the patient went home on the second day. Ten years ago, it would have been a different story: major surgery with a guaranteed ten day hospital stay before home recuperation. Needless to say, I credit my well-being with my unrelenting back pain. Unlike my auto, I did survive to tell the tale which is Part One. Part Two will follow to satisfy all my soap opera fans. In the meantime, I have plenty of What’s Up tid-bits to gather for your perusal. In the meantime …

Keep on keeping on!

GOODBYE TO AN ICON

The news reached me midday, July 7, 2011: John Mackey died today. For many current fans of the now Indianapolis Colts Football team, the name John Mackey conjures little more than stories passed down from seniors who lived and witnessed a legend in the making. I’m proud to add my name to that list.

Once upon a time, a football team known as the Baltimore Colts served as one of the dominant forces in the National Football League. Despite franchise issues that plagued the team in the early fifties, fate smiled on Baltimore. Talent waited in the wings. One was named Johnny Unitas. Another was years removed from college and pro football, but a recognized talent in his home town of Roosevelt, Long Island. One among several siblings and the son of a prominent minister, John discovered early the pursuit of his dreams faced road blocks. His father was committed to the building of a congregation with his sons following in his footsteps. John Mackey faced the first crossroad of his life. He took the advice of his coaches and accepted a scholarship to Syracuse University.

It would be at Syracuse that our paths would converge. John was beginning his junior year as an established star on the elite Division One contender. I was a mere freshman, forced to wear a humiliating cap that comes with tradition. A freshman colleague, gifted with his own athletic scholarship (wrestling) and signature cap entered my room with the news: Ron, come quick. We gotta get to the Savoy. They’re there!

“Who?”

“John, John and Ernie. Damn, man, don’t you know where you are?”

In fact, I wasn’t sure where I was at the moment. My primary concern centered on the number of sweaters in my inventory before the upstate glaciers made themselves prominent. Nevertheless, I followed my new found friend to the Savoy. John, John and Ernie were maintaining their seats of honor as they held court. In keeping with protocol, I and my freshman colleague waited our turn as the crowd increased. Unable to contain himself longer, the introduction flowed without warning: Ron, this is John Mackey and this is John Brown. Over here, is Ernie Davis. Having reduced me to the lowest level of adolescent embarrassment, I watch my friend gloat in self congratulatory praise of name recall. He obviously expected his actions to earn points in the Syracuse hall of fame.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” quizzed one of the Johns. Which one I do not know. I was preoccupied with the mass of humanity that sat before me. The size of each man dwarfed my presence.

“Looks like two frosh to me,” answered Ernie. “Don’t lose those hats. We like to see you coming.”

Rub it in, why don’t ya.

After a brief inquisition: hometown, age, dormitory address, upper class friends, the question came from John Mackey. “Either of you two play ball?”

“I’m here on a wrestling boat.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Lew Roberts. Remember, John, we met this afternoon.”

“Right – the wrestler from Amityville. What about you, Ron?”

Not bad on name recall.

“A little in high school – not much to talk about.”  Water seeks its own level and I was about to drown.

Mackey’s facial characteristics seemed to inflate with color while his associates appeared to recede into the background. “Let me tell you something, frosh. There are over twelve thousand students here at Syracuse and less than fifty soul brothers and sisters. We need to be seen and heard. A little in high school is a lot to me. Don’t sell yourself short. Come on down to practice; let coach see you.  I’ll walk you through.” Options – none.

The following afternoon, I faced a catharsis. Sitting on the bench in nondescript whites, equipped with body armor, sans number, I became witness to Division One football. True to Mackey’s promise, I was not restricted and allowed to partake in the practice. Important business was the first order of the day. The varsity team would scrimmage against the freshman arrivals. Fortunately, my status as walk-on did not merit that recognition. It did, however, offer the opportunity to observe. And observe I did when a 230 pound freshman fullback by the name of Jim (Bo) Nance broke through the line of scrimmage on his way to significant yardage. That is until he met the one man left in his way. The collision was a blur from my vantage point, but the clear image of an orange helmet flying through the air was no illusion. The freshman prospect was assisted to his feet as John Mackey returned to the bench.

“Where you going, frosh? Coach hasn’t seen you yet.”

“Thanks, John, for the invitation, but not this time. No hard feelings, but I think the man upstairs would like me to see my next birthday.”

“Hey, Ron … no hard feelings. Thanks for coming out. See you again, soon. Remember – less than fifty.”

I expected more resistance, another pep talk – something. Lacking the capacity to read minds, I accepted my continuance into obscurity as a gift. But life is never that simple. A message was sent, a message not to be revealed immediately, but a message that would define both our characters. John Mackey and I would meet and address the Soul brother/sister issues on many a subsequent occasion. The sparse number of our community demanded a family attitude. Perhaps, that was the birth of advocacy for John.

Our careers took divergent paths. Hall of Fame statistics awaited Mackey as did credit for the establishment of the NFL Players Association. He took particular pride in the 1971 Super Bowl victory over the Dallas Cowboys. Vietnam awaited me along with a variety of business ventures, a not too ordinary life. We both met our wives of today at that upstate campus and time has played its tricks on all of us. I never classified our friendship as close, but I did think of family when the name John Mackey was spoken in my home. And finally, I understand the message, John’s message: What happens on the field is not important. The important thing is to show up, weigh the options and take action.