The Russians hacked into both the DNC and the RNC, did nothing with the RNC but used selected information gleaned from the DNC to attempt (and obviously succeed) in tilting the election towards Donald Trump
The Obama Administration convened a meeting to fully disclose this frightening intelligence during which, REPUBLICAN Mitch McConnell downplayed the information, claiming that it was too political to disclose prior to the election;
The FBI Director, James Comey, agreed that the intelligence regarding the Russian attempt to influence the U.S. election was not conclusive and full information should not be disclosed;
The FBI Director, James Comey, did not disclose that the Russians were trying to tilt the election towards Donald Trump, but tilted the election towards Donald Trump significantly by disclosing — 11 days prior to the election — the existence of Anthony Weiner emails that had no bearing on Hillary Clinton or her candidacy for president and that, two days prior to the election, said “never mind.”
“President-elect” Donald Trump announces that his choice for Secretary of State is a man who received the “Order of Friendship,” one of the highest honors a foreigner may be awarded from Russia.
Yet, there are no calls to postpone the vote of the Electoral College. Or the Inauguration. No calls to question the legitimacy of Trump’s “Victory.”
With an artist brother and a sister-in-law, you’d think I’d be more involved in the art world. Sadly, I’m not.
I used to be more of a gallery girl, loved nothing more than spending time in any one of the wonderful museums and galleries near where I lived or worked. And the galleries I got to visit while living in or traveling to Europe could fill a book. Still, going to a museum with either Fred or my sister-in-law, with someone who knows a lot about art, well, it is a wonderful treat.
But with my Crohn’s disease as active as it is these days, I don’t go very often.
For anybody without access to art, though, I recommend following my blogging buddy Mark, of Exile on Pain Street . He works in NYC and frequents museums, galleries and auctions and frequently writes about it on his blog. Mark does it with wit and without the snobbishness that usually accompanies folks who talk about art.
But nobody posts about art quite like I do. Or about art theft, because that’s really what this post is all about. Art theft pure and simple.
Audrey Hepburn and Peter O’Toole in How to Steal A Million (Google Image)
The international art heist I’m talking about occurred in Spain, just outside Madrid. I’m pretty sure it involved neither Audrey nor Peter. Nor, probably, would the stolen object ever find its way into the Louvre.
Still, if you know anything about art, the beauty of an object is all in the eye of the beholder. It may also be dependent on the species. Or on the leash holder.
Torrelodones, a town near Madrid, paid 2,400 euros ($2,726; £1,885) for this sculpture:
Yes, it is a giant, inflatable pile of dog poo. Photo from BBC (although they might deny it)
The three-metre high inflatable bought as part of a campaign to encourage pet-lovers to pick up after their dogs went missing, El Pais newspaper reports. The bizarre inflatable disappeared after it had been packed away in its carry-case and the police are now on the trail of the 30 kilogramme dog poop, town officials say.
Speaking to the ABC newspaper, town councillor Angel Guirao said staff were shocked and perplexed by the theft, and a replacement excrement was already on order because “we know that the campaign has been a great success”.
I wish they’d asked me. I could have provided plenty of models for this piece of art.
Why are you picking on me. Google, eat your heart out cause I took this one!
Don’t hesitate to ask me anything about art. Or poop.
If there is a way for me to lose large amounts of money through no fault of my own, it will happen. Those bucks are history. Or, more likely, my money is in somebody else’s pocket.
Damn.
But when the Volkswagen scandal hit the news this past fall, I will honestly say I breathed a sigh of relief.
You see, we’d been looking to replace my car for well over a year at that point, and a Volkswagen Golf Sportwagen was in the running. (We wouldn’t have gone for a diesel though. Even though I had no inkling of the cheating, I figured sooner or later any diesel was going to smell like my neighbor’s Mercedes Diesel which not only stinks to high heaven, but increases the particulate content of the atmosphere 10-fold every time he fires the damn thing up.)
Wikimedia photo.
When we read about the cheating, Volkswagen immediately came off the list. So did Audi and Porsche, which were only on the “Wish” list anyway.
Why would we want to buy a car from a company that intentionally cheated its customers and damaged the environment?
I felt bad for the folks who’d bought any Volkswagens, though, because surely the value of their cars plummeted, diesel or gas-powered. A car is a huge investment for most of us; this hurts big time.
I knew there would be lawsuits out the wahzoo brought by people who had been defrauded. There are times when lawsuits are absolutely justified. This is one of them.
Later this week, the U.S. House of Representatives will vote on a bill that will screw folks who bought Volkswagens. It will take away the ability of them to file a class action law suit. And of course, class action is the only way that individuals have a prayer of getting any money back for their losses.
H.R. 1927, the hilariously titled “Fairness in Class Action Litigation Act,” was introduced by Neanderthal congressman Bob Goodlatte (R-I’m sure you’re shocked-VA) — and the House is expected to vote on it this week.
The bill states that it will do the following,
This bill amends the federal judicial code to prohibit federal courts from certifying any proposed class seeking monetary relief for personal injury or economic loss unless the party seeking to maintain such a class action affirmatively demonstrates that each proposed class member suffered an injury of the same type and scope as the injury of the named class representatives. (Emphasis added)
In short, that means that every single Volkswagen owner must have identical factors in order for a Class Action suit to be allowed to go forward. That means that, in order to join a class action lawsuit, each and every Volkswagen purchaser must have:
Purchased the exact same vehicle
Paid the same amount for their vehicle
Driven the same amount of mileage
Etc. etc. etc.
The entire purpose of the bill is to prevent Class Action law suits. [For those unaware of what this means, a class action law suit is when a group of normal people who have been injured band together and sue a large entity for redress. Class action lawsuits are the only way a group of normal consumers can maybe, possibly, get some measure of restitution. How we can keep from being screwed.
Earlier today, I wrote to my congresswoman, asking her to vote against this bill. Because while it impacts the folks who bought Volkswagens, it will be used to prevent class action law suits from the time it is enacted onwards. And sooner or later, it will impact all of us.
If you would like to write your Congressman or woman, and tell them to vote against this bill, here is the link to find your Rep: http://www.house.gov/representatives/.
Thank you to my bloggin’ buddy, Mark, at Lean Left for reminding me of this story and inspiring me to write about it.
Since I was a tomboy/ragamuffin hybrid as a kid, nobody called me “Princess.” And the one time I tried to be a princess – the time when I was 4 and dressed up as a princess for Halloween and fell on my face in a Queen-size mud puddle – that pretty much cured me of any princess fantasies I might have had.
But there was one time, one time, when I really did feel like a princess. I felt that like a princess because I stood in an actual ballroom. That’s where princesses hang out, isn’t it?
I looked around the room in wonder. It was, of course, huge. I easily imagined hundreds of beautifully dressed dancers waltzing around the floor. There were floor-to-two-story-high-ceiling windows all along the back of the room, covered in Scarlett O’Hara’s curtains. Thick, heavy green velvet drapes with gold brocade tassels holding them back. And through them, I could see to the sea. Long Island Sound.
This isn’t the actual room, although there are similarities. You see, I had forgotten my cell phone that day in 1965, and couldn’t snap a picture. I had to use Google Images. Thanks, Google!
A balcony surrounded the ballroom on three sides, and it too rose way up. The floor is what I remember most clearly, though: Black and white marble, a massive checkerboard, without a single scuff mark in the entire room.
As was true of all of my childhood adventures (or since it was a princess-thing, perhaps I should call it a fantasy), this one came to me courtesy of my brother, Fred.
You see, Mr. Richardson, the wealthiest amongst our very wealthy neighbors, had invited us to his house. And we were to use the front door! Because we — me and Fred (and our sister Beth) — were heroes. Heroes always use the front door.
Wanna know what happened?
Well, one hot summer day, Beth and I were out in the backyard, when Fred came racing in from the outer limits of our yard, near “the fields.“ The fields was a tract of land owned by Mr. Richardson, located behind our yard. It stretched for several hundred acres. Part of it was meadow, but part of it was made up of small, neatly spaced and impeccably trimmed pine trees.
The Fields Behind My House. I think. Google Image. So really, it could be anywhere.
“Tax haven,” my Dad said, rolling his eyes, when he realized what Mr. R was planting. “A Christmas tree farm.”
Well, yeah. Probably. Whatever.
But Mr. R believed in investing in land, and he bought anything he could. (He was away when our house went up for sale, or according to my Dad, my childhood would have been spent elsewhere. I will always be thankful for that trip of Mr. R’s.)
Anyway, Fred came running in from the fields, shouting “FIRE!” “THERE’S A FIRE IN THE FIELDS!!”
Beth and I didn’t ask any questions, but apparently we rushed into the house, called the fire department, grabbed brooms and blankets and rushed out to where Fred had seen the fire. That’s where the fire department found us. We had contained the fire, and there was very little damage. Without our intervention, well, who knows what might have happened.
So back to the Ballroom.
Mr. Richardson had invited us over to thank us. And he gave us a gift!
“I want to thank you for putting out the fire in my fields. You were very brave, and I am very proud of you both. And as a reward, from now on, for as long as you and your family live in that house,” Mr. R said, “You and your family may take any Christmas tree you want from my field.”*
Before becoming heroes, we had managed to get our Christmas trees for the $2 that Dad bartered with with for as long as we all could remember. But our heroism took us to the upper crust of Christmas trees. Because from that year on my family did, indeed, get our Christmas trees from Mr. R’s field. We chose the biggest and nicest of them all, cut it down, and dragged it home.
But (and you know there’s always a “but” or a “butt” in my stories), it wasn’t strictly Kosher.
You see, not a whole lot of years later, in 1972, Mr. Richardson died. He willed the land to the Audubon Society, and ever since then, the Audubon Society has been selling those very Christmas trees. No mention was made, apparently, in Mr. R’s Last Will and Testament, for heroes who got free Christmas trees. No mention at all. Naturally that didn’t stop us. But we also didn’t mention our prior claim to the Audubon Society.
And there was another issue.
If you guessed that my brother, accidentally started the fire, well, I will simply remind you that the Statute of Limitations is 7 years. We’re way past that. The Statute of Limitations is still 7 years on Christmas tree theft, isn’t it?
* I think there might have been other rewards; at least I hope so. Because I’ve always thought of Mr. R as a really nice guy. After all, he let me be a princess that one time, and, honestly, it was pretty cool even if I was more Cinderella than Snow White. So I don’t want to think he was a skinflint who just gave us kids, who wouldn’t be paying for them anyway, free Christmas trees, for saving them. Then again, it was the 60s. Everybody didn’t get a trophy.
FiftyFourandAHalf 