One reason that authors of dystopian fiction pen such stories is because they hope these dark futures will not come to pass.
Lately, though, dystopian novels are more like Nostradamus-level predictions, and no author’s work more so than Margaret Atwood.
Atwood’s “Handmaid’s Tale” posited a bleak world where a theocratic government suppressed women’s rights and, among other nefarious activities, put abortion providers to death. Regardless of how far-fetched this scenario may have been in 1985, here we are in 2019, facing Ohio’s latest attempt to circumvent Roe v. Wade with a bill that would ban all abortions in Ohio and levy murder charges against doctors who perform them.
USA Today notes the bill has not been formally introduced, although it does have the support of 21 Republicans in the state House. The proposed legislation would likely trigger a lawsuit if passed.
It’s been a clear strategy of abortion foes to introduce more and more audacious and draconian measures in the hopes of gnawing their way to the Supreme Court, where await justices who may be more kindly disposed toward nixing Roe v. Wade than any in a generation.
Ohio Right to Life organizers feel the best chance of curtailing women’s rights — although they don’t couch it in quite that same language — will come from legal challenges to various “heartbeat bills” like the one Gov. Mike DeWine signed into law in April. Last week’s more brazen attempt is the product of an extreme faction of abortion foes, one who will stop at nothing to stop a practice it believes is tantamount to murder.
Of course, these agitators apparently see no disparity between their beliefs about the sanctity of fetal life vs. the possible execution of medical professionals involved in providing access to a procedure that has been legal in this country for 46 years.
For too many conservatives, and especially those at the far right of the continuum, concern about life begins and ends at the womb. Once fetuses are born and become actual, honest-to-goodness children, they — and their parents — must fend for themselves in a world where many of the same people that fought for their right to live now seek to deny them adequate healthcare, equal educational opportunities and living wages.
They can drink polluted water and breathe filthy air, courtesy of repealed environmental laws. They can grow up poor, be swept away by the school-to-prison pipeline, and find their right to vote suppressed. They can be discriminated against because of the people they choose to love, denied rehabilitative services for any addictions, and find their options for food curtailed by a government that doesn’t believe they are working hard enough.
And all this is fine, as long as they had an inviolable right to come out of the womb after nine months. Think of it as pulling themselves up by their bootstraps before they even have bootstraps.
With so many other problems to deal with, it is telling that conservatives so often return to the abortion issue. If they would work as diligently and fervently to address life’s other inequalities, especially economic, they might find that the demand for abortions will drop precipitously, without the need for further laws.
But that’s not really the point, is it?
No, the point for too many of abortion’s foes has more to do with addressing what they perceive as society’s (re: women’s) failure to adhere to so-called Christian morality. For their temerity to have sex outside of marriage and for their insistence that they have autonomy over their own bodies, they must be punished by carrying fetuses to term, and we aren’t too concerned with what happens to them after that.
What we need are more people who are both pro-choice and anti-abortion. Create a culture where people of all income levels and colors are loved and protected from birth to death, where all women have free and unfettered access to all forms of birth control so they can decide when the time is right to have a child, and where doctors and patients have the privacy and autonomy to discuss sensitive medical issues without interference by mostly old, mostly white politicians — and where, it should go without saying (but can’t because of insanity), medical providers don’t have to fear for their lives when they provide options.
When we do that, we take a huge step away from dystopia and toward something sane, sustainable and life affirming.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Going full-foodie for the holidays
Welcome to Day One of The Holifats, Chubbymas, or the YuleThigh season.
For somebody like me, with little to no self-control, the next few weeks will be a wonderful yet miserable orgy of consumption. Christmas cookies, pies, chocolates, pies, stuffing, pies and more pies will call out to me with their sweet, seductive voices, and like a sailor to the sirens, I will be helpless to ignore them.
Last year, I gained almost 15 pounds between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. This year, I won’t gain that much, but only because there is one fewer week between the Scylla and Charybdis of the holiday season. (Bonus points for two mythological references in two successive paragraphs.)
I’m writing this the weekend before Thanksgiving, and the Great Holiday Weight Gain has already begun.
My wife is busy making some delightful Thanksgiving pudding desserts, mixing pumpkin, Cool Whip and Oreo crumbs into plastic cups. Because I’m utterly inept in the kitchen, my job is to wash the dishes that accrue like weeds in the sink between batches.
This is where my dilemma begins.
I’m a batter licker and raw-dough-aholic. If it’s stuck to a spoon or a spatula, it goes directly into my mouth. Do not pass Go, do not collect Salmonella — at least not yet.
So while I’m washing my way through this Mount Everest of dishes, I’m licking utensils like a dog licks its ... uh, paws, gaining more calories with each swipe of the tongue than I burn off with all that scrubbing and sanitizing.
Last year, my wife went full Betty Crocker and whipped up about 100 batches of cookies. I might be exaggerating that number, but not by much.
The initial goal was to give them all away to family and friends. But these wonderful holiday packages, sealed so nicely in Saran Wrap, seldom reached their intended targets. Instead, I gobbled them up for breakfast, devoured them as full-meal snacks after work, and made them the centerpiece of double and triple desserts after dinner.
One sweet, delicious cookie at a time, except for the times when I double-fisted. So many cookies that they made my stomach hurt and then swell from all those excess calories.
By the start of 2019, my pants no longer fit. My belt broke. My shirts were riding up on the curve of my expanding belly.
And it was all because of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s. Well, it was all because of my lack of willpower and dearth of good sense.
The only good outcome was that I started exercising in earnest in January and lost all that excess weight, along with a few extra pounds I’d accumulated over the last few years. And I guess I can do it again if I have to.
But here’s a fun fact: To burn off one pound, a person has to burn about 3,500 more calories than they take in during a week. Running, my exercise of choice, burns about 550 calories an hour when the runner keeps a 6 mph pace, something I never do.
I’m closer to about 500 calories per hour, which means that if I allow free rein to my inner Gastrointestinal Grinch again this year, I will have to run the equivalent of 105 hours just to burn off my Yuletide indiscretions, provided that I’m able to return to semi-sane eating habits once the last ornament has been tucked away and the final carols sung.
Of course, all I really have to do is avoid sweets, which sounds so easy until I realize that in the 20 minutes I’ve been typing these words I have licked two chocolate-covered spatulas.
All I can say is that it’s going to be a long, hot 2020. I hope Santa leaves me a new pair of running shoes under the tree.
But he might not, because chances are good I will eat the cookies we leave for him.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
For somebody like me, with little to no self-control, the next few weeks will be a wonderful yet miserable orgy of consumption. Christmas cookies, pies, chocolates, pies, stuffing, pies and more pies will call out to me with their sweet, seductive voices, and like a sailor to the sirens, I will be helpless to ignore them.
Last year, I gained almost 15 pounds between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. This year, I won’t gain that much, but only because there is one fewer week between the Scylla and Charybdis of the holiday season. (Bonus points for two mythological references in two successive paragraphs.)
I’m writing this the weekend before Thanksgiving, and the Great Holiday Weight Gain has already begun.
My wife is busy making some delightful Thanksgiving pudding desserts, mixing pumpkin, Cool Whip and Oreo crumbs into plastic cups. Because I’m utterly inept in the kitchen, my job is to wash the dishes that accrue like weeds in the sink between batches.
This is where my dilemma begins.
I’m a batter licker and raw-dough-aholic. If it’s stuck to a spoon or a spatula, it goes directly into my mouth. Do not pass Go, do not collect Salmonella — at least not yet.
So while I’m washing my way through this Mount Everest of dishes, I’m licking utensils like a dog licks its ... uh, paws, gaining more calories with each swipe of the tongue than I burn off with all that scrubbing and sanitizing.
Last year, my wife went full Betty Crocker and whipped up about 100 batches of cookies. I might be exaggerating that number, but not by much.
The initial goal was to give them all away to family and friends. But these wonderful holiday packages, sealed so nicely in Saran Wrap, seldom reached their intended targets. Instead, I gobbled them up for breakfast, devoured them as full-meal snacks after work, and made them the centerpiece of double and triple desserts after dinner.
One sweet, delicious cookie at a time, except for the times when I double-fisted. So many cookies that they made my stomach hurt and then swell from all those excess calories.
By the start of 2019, my pants no longer fit. My belt broke. My shirts were riding up on the curve of my expanding belly.
And it was all because of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s. Well, it was all because of my lack of willpower and dearth of good sense.
The only good outcome was that I started exercising in earnest in January and lost all that excess weight, along with a few extra pounds I’d accumulated over the last few years. And I guess I can do it again if I have to.
But here’s a fun fact: To burn off one pound, a person has to burn about 3,500 more calories than they take in during a week. Running, my exercise of choice, burns about 550 calories an hour when the runner keeps a 6 mph pace, something I never do.
I’m closer to about 500 calories per hour, which means that if I allow free rein to my inner Gastrointestinal Grinch again this year, I will have to run the equivalent of 105 hours just to burn off my Yuletide indiscretions, provided that I’m able to return to semi-sane eating habits once the last ornament has been tucked away and the final carols sung.
Of course, all I really have to do is avoid sweets, which sounds so easy until I realize that in the 20 minutes I’ve been typing these words I have licked two chocolate-covered spatulas.
All I can say is that it’s going to be a long, hot 2020. I hope Santa leaves me a new pair of running shoes under the tree.
But he might not, because chances are good I will eat the cookies we leave for him.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Tuesday, November 19, 2019
Capes and criticism hound prestigious filmmaker
Martin Scorsese finds himself in the crosshairs of cape fans.
The famed director caught hell from some superhero aficionados recently for his opinion that Marvel movies — epics about Captain America, Thor, the Avengers, and the like — are not “cinema.” He clarified those comments in a Nov. 4 op-ed for The New York Times in which he said that, while he recognized Marvel movies are skillfully made by talented people, they are ultimately little more than product.
“What’s not there is revelation, mystery or genuine emotional danger,” Scorsese writes. “Nothing is at risk. The pictures are made to satisfy a specific set of demands, and they are designed as variations on a finite number of themes.”
He also likened Marvel movies to theme parks, presumably because audiences get the same programmed thrills while watching them that they get from a good roller coaster — some predetermined highs and lows, a few screams, but ultimately a safe return to the ground.
Nothing in Scorsese’s comments indicates he is dismissive of Marvel movies, just that they aren’t for him, that they are indicative of a larger trend in movies and culture in general where singular efforts by auteurs increasingly take a backseat to entertainment by committee, where the goal is less about an original experience than about selling audiences more stuff at a later time.
Part of the problem, too, is that Hollywood, book publishers, the video game industry and television networks prefer serial fiction, where characters are chess pieces and where the board is eventually reset for the next match.
Spider-Man must always be angsty and tormented in his personal life, no matter how many triumphs he experiences when he puts on his costume. Superman must always fight for truth, justice and the American way. The Shadow has to know.
This is hardly new. Sherlock Holmes, whose first adventure was published in 1887, must always emerge triumphant and ready to solve the next crime or else forfeit being Sherlock Holmes. In which case, the stories stop, and the money to be made from new stories stops, as well.
This is a truth that Holmes creator Arthur Conan Doyle learned all too well when he killed the character in an attempt to transition to other types of writing. Reader response was so critically vocal that Doyle relented and brought the great detective back from the dead — and the cash cow continues to give milk today.
Sure, writers can upend the status quo and stretch the premise a little. Captain America might stop being a superhero for a year or two, Superman might reveal his secret identity to the world (something he is scheduled to do this month in the comics), and Iron Man might go broke.
But changes in serial fiction are, by and large, more about the illusion of change than about real change. Which is why secondary characters in various Marvel movies are often more interesting than the heroes themselves. These B-level characters can really evolve. They can take surprising action. They can die and stay dead.
The real heroes cannot, because if they do, they can’t be back in their appointed places a month or a year from now, ready to entertain in the next big saga — and to sell more toys, games, breakfast cereals and Happy Meals.
As a longstanding superhero fan, I accept these limitations as part and parcel of the experience, but it does affect my emotional investment in whatever big epic is currently conquering the box office. Iron Man’s death in the latest Avengers’ movie is emotional, sure, but I’ve seen him die, and come back, before, so I know that even if Robert Downey Jr.’s contract is up, somebody will eventually be Iron Man again.
And, as a result, while I enjoy the heck out of Marvel and DC movies, not a single one of them has ever cracked my top ten list of favorite films and probably never will, because nothing in them is ever permanent, and the only event that will ever truly kill these heroes is audience indifference.
Ultimately, low readership and poor box office receipts are a much bigger nemesis to superheroes than Martin Scorsese will ever be.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
The famed director caught hell from some superhero aficionados recently for his opinion that Marvel movies — epics about Captain America, Thor, the Avengers, and the like — are not “cinema.” He clarified those comments in a Nov. 4 op-ed for The New York Times in which he said that, while he recognized Marvel movies are skillfully made by talented people, they are ultimately little more than product.
“What’s not there is revelation, mystery or genuine emotional danger,” Scorsese writes. “Nothing is at risk. The pictures are made to satisfy a specific set of demands, and they are designed as variations on a finite number of themes.”
He also likened Marvel movies to theme parks, presumably because audiences get the same programmed thrills while watching them that they get from a good roller coaster — some predetermined highs and lows, a few screams, but ultimately a safe return to the ground.
Nothing in Scorsese’s comments indicates he is dismissive of Marvel movies, just that they aren’t for him, that they are indicative of a larger trend in movies and culture in general where singular efforts by auteurs increasingly take a backseat to entertainment by committee, where the goal is less about an original experience than about selling audiences more stuff at a later time.
Part of the problem, too, is that Hollywood, book publishers, the video game industry and television networks prefer serial fiction, where characters are chess pieces and where the board is eventually reset for the next match.
Spider-Man must always be angsty and tormented in his personal life, no matter how many triumphs he experiences when he puts on his costume. Superman must always fight for truth, justice and the American way. The Shadow has to know.
This is hardly new. Sherlock Holmes, whose first adventure was published in 1887, must always emerge triumphant and ready to solve the next crime or else forfeit being Sherlock Holmes. In which case, the stories stop, and the money to be made from new stories stops, as well.
This is a truth that Holmes creator Arthur Conan Doyle learned all too well when he killed the character in an attempt to transition to other types of writing. Reader response was so critically vocal that Doyle relented and brought the great detective back from the dead — and the cash cow continues to give milk today.
Sure, writers can upend the status quo and stretch the premise a little. Captain America might stop being a superhero for a year or two, Superman might reveal his secret identity to the world (something he is scheduled to do this month in the comics), and Iron Man might go broke.
But changes in serial fiction are, by and large, more about the illusion of change than about real change. Which is why secondary characters in various Marvel movies are often more interesting than the heroes themselves. These B-level characters can really evolve. They can take surprising action. They can die and stay dead.
The real heroes cannot, because if they do, they can’t be back in their appointed places a month or a year from now, ready to entertain in the next big saga — and to sell more toys, games, breakfast cereals and Happy Meals.
As a longstanding superhero fan, I accept these limitations as part and parcel of the experience, but it does affect my emotional investment in whatever big epic is currently conquering the box office. Iron Man’s death in the latest Avengers’ movie is emotional, sure, but I’ve seen him die, and come back, before, so I know that even if Robert Downey Jr.’s contract is up, somebody will eventually be Iron Man again.
And, as a result, while I enjoy the heck out of Marvel and DC movies, not a single one of them has ever cracked my top ten list of favorite films and probably never will, because nothing in them is ever permanent, and the only event that will ever truly kill these heroes is audience indifference.
Ultimately, low readership and poor box office receipts are a much bigger nemesis to superheroes than Martin Scorsese will ever be.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Monday, November 11, 2019
Machine malfunction calls drunkenness into doubt
Australian broadcaster and author Clive James once said, “It is only when they go wrong that machines remind you how powerful they are.”
The words will resonate with readers of a recent investigation into alcohol breath tests, which help to label, shame and incarcerate thousands of people each year. Yet the devices can sometimes present results that are 40 percent too high, The New York Times found.
The report by Stacy Cowley and Jessica Silver-Greenberg looks at multiple instances where the ubiquitous breathalyzers, a go-to roadside tool of police departments across the nation, have proven to be unreliable. Reasons for the inaccuracies include programmer errors, poor maintenance and various anomalies of human metabolism.
Take the Intoxilyzer 8000, which sounds like the latest model of Terminator from a James Cameron movie and works about as reliably as the robots in those films. Engineers diagnosed improper air flow in the devices as the culprit behind inaccurate results. The solution? Drilling holes into the exhaust valve, a practice that was soon adopted for all machines that Kentucky-based CMI sold to Florida police departments.
As it turns out, the only reliable way to determine if a motorist’s blood-alcohol content is 0.08 grams per 100 milliliters (legally intoxicated) is “to draw blood, which requires a warrant,” Cowley and Silver-Greenberg write. “Breath tests are simpler.”
Of course, test inaccuracies likely don’t just flow in just one direction. If the tests are registering too high in some cases, it stands to reason they are registering too low in others, allowing drivers who are legally drunk to crawl back behind the wheel.
That’s more than just problematic. It can be downright deadly.
Getting a handle on how much alcohol is too much for drivers is difficult. Yes, “drunkenness” is determined by how much a person imbibes, but body weight and the type of beverage they consume are also factors.
How long to wait after drinking before driving is also more complex than the old “one hour per unit of alcohol” yardstick because some drinks contain more units of alcohol than others. Additionally, weight, age, sex, metabolism and general health impact how soon a motorist may be “road worthy” again.
A more important question might be to ask why any level of impairment is considered acceptable for a person operating what is, in effect, a 3,000-pound battering ram. If impairment varies so greatly from person to person based on a series of difficult-to-quantify factors, why not just say “no drinking and driving” across the board, that any level of alcohol is one’s system is too much to drive?
The answer, of course, comes down to money. People like to drink, and businesses like to profit from that habit. Establishments that serve alcohol responsibly, which is most of them, would cry foul.
The alcohol industry, too, which has benefitted from the positive public image generated from “drink responsibly” campaigns, would be less enthusiastic about a restriction that would actually cut into profits.
So Americans are left with another broken system where our trust in the supposed infallibility of technology has been misplaced. File this alongside computerized voting, Facebook ads, and hacking schemes.
If there are any silver linings in the dark cloud of breath testing, it is this: Motorists who are just slightly over the 0.08 breathalyzer threshold would be wise to request a blood test. They might just walk on a drunk-driving charge.
Of course, they should have been walking, not driving, with that much alcohol in their system in the first place.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
The words will resonate with readers of a recent investigation into alcohol breath tests, which help to label, shame and incarcerate thousands of people each year. Yet the devices can sometimes present results that are 40 percent too high, The New York Times found.
The report by Stacy Cowley and Jessica Silver-Greenberg looks at multiple instances where the ubiquitous breathalyzers, a go-to roadside tool of police departments across the nation, have proven to be unreliable. Reasons for the inaccuracies include programmer errors, poor maintenance and various anomalies of human metabolism.
Take the Intoxilyzer 8000, which sounds like the latest model of Terminator from a James Cameron movie and works about as reliably as the robots in those films. Engineers diagnosed improper air flow in the devices as the culprit behind inaccurate results. The solution? Drilling holes into the exhaust valve, a practice that was soon adopted for all machines that Kentucky-based CMI sold to Florida police departments.
As it turns out, the only reliable way to determine if a motorist’s blood-alcohol content is 0.08 grams per 100 milliliters (legally intoxicated) is “to draw blood, which requires a warrant,” Cowley and Silver-Greenberg write. “Breath tests are simpler.”
Of course, test inaccuracies likely don’t just flow in just one direction. If the tests are registering too high in some cases, it stands to reason they are registering too low in others, allowing drivers who are legally drunk to crawl back behind the wheel.
That’s more than just problematic. It can be downright deadly.
Getting a handle on how much alcohol is too much for drivers is difficult. Yes, “drunkenness” is determined by how much a person imbibes, but body weight and the type of beverage they consume are also factors.
How long to wait after drinking before driving is also more complex than the old “one hour per unit of alcohol” yardstick because some drinks contain more units of alcohol than others. Additionally, weight, age, sex, metabolism and general health impact how soon a motorist may be “road worthy” again.
A more important question might be to ask why any level of impairment is considered acceptable for a person operating what is, in effect, a 3,000-pound battering ram. If impairment varies so greatly from person to person based on a series of difficult-to-quantify factors, why not just say “no drinking and driving” across the board, that any level of alcohol is one’s system is too much to drive?
The answer, of course, comes down to money. People like to drink, and businesses like to profit from that habit. Establishments that serve alcohol responsibly, which is most of them, would cry foul.
The alcohol industry, too, which has benefitted from the positive public image generated from “drink responsibly” campaigns, would be less enthusiastic about a restriction that would actually cut into profits.
So Americans are left with another broken system where our trust in the supposed infallibility of technology has been misplaced. File this alongside computerized voting, Facebook ads, and hacking schemes.
If there are any silver linings in the dark cloud of breath testing, it is this: Motorists who are just slightly over the 0.08 breathalyzer threshold would be wise to request a blood test. They might just walk on a drunk-driving charge.
Of course, they should have been walking, not driving, with that much alcohol in their system in the first place.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Friday, November 1, 2019
Musing over monsters for Halloween
Fans of “The Twilight Zone” may remember the line by Dan Aykroyd from the 1983 movie based on the classic TV show. Aykroyd delivers it right before he transforms into a werewolf/monster/ghoul and eats his traveling companion.
And if I’ve ruined the first five minutes of a 35-plus-year-old movie, I’m sorry. But it’s Halloween, a good time to ponder stuff that’s really scary.
As a kid, monsters really scared me, and I spent more time than was healthy watching them late on Fridays courtesy of WJW’s Hoolihan and Big Chuck Show, when I could stay awake, and on Saturday afternoons via WUAB’s Superhost, when I could convince my mom that creepy movies were more important than chores.
My favorites were the old Universal monsters. Bela Lugosi as Dracula, Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s monster, and Lon Chaney Jr. as the Werewolf were among my earliest exposures to “classic” cinema. The later Godzilla movies were all right, and they were the go-to programmers for Superhost, but I always preferred a more human scale for my monsters, thank you very much.
I read about monsters in comic books, magazines and those funny little paperbacks available only at school book fairs. I imagined monsters coming out of the woods behind my house, sneaking up on me while I played in the yard. I shivered at the thought of monsters lurking beneath the pine tree outside my bedroom, when every scrape of a branch on the window was some creature scaling the suburban heights of a one-story ranch house, eager to devour me.
I imagine my monster obsession is echoed by many kids, although perhaps not with the same fervor. (I’ve always been obsessive.)
Eventually, though, we grow up, and those pleasant shudders from tree branches on the shutters are replaced by more prosaic fears. The Creature from the Black Lagoon is transformed into anxiety over a flooded basement. Dr. Frankenstein’s lab in a lightning storm becomes dread over a higher-than-usual electric bill. Igor’s midnight prowling for body parts is overshadowed by distress over one’s own body — slowing down, malfunctioning, stopping completely.
I’m still a fan of monsters and, more properly, horror fiction and movies, but it’s harder now to miss the real-life connections in what once seemed like simple escapist fare. How those latex monster masks from films in the 1930s and ’40s reflected the country’s anxieties over returning veterans, some horribly scarred, from two world wars. How Godzilla is Japenese trauma over nuclear annihilation writ large and exported to the very nation that dropped the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Or how “The Exorcist” at some level, is about the widening generation gap, and the inability of parents to comprehend these strange, smelly hippies that used to be their sweet children.
All genre fiction, at some level, codes beliefs and concerns about the present into symbolic language, even when the authors don’t recognize they are doing it. Maybe especially then. In horror, fear of the “other” — a different race, religion, ideology, or worldview — is at the bloody, beating heart of many a monster, and characters don’t rest — and audiences aren’t satisfied — until such creatures are beaten, burned or bombed into submission, and the prevailing order is restored.
At the risk of being accused of injecting politics into everything, I would argue that monsters have a tendency to be liberal, while monster movies (and books, comics, and whatnot) have a tendency to be conservative. It’s an interesting dynamic, endlessly exploitable, and no less true just because we never thought about it while watching or reading such stories.
Some of the best horror stories have politics and philosophy baked in — or, at least, half-baked. “The Twilight Zone” is a good example.
“Wanna see something really scary?” Dan Aykroyd asked. He could have been talking about the nightly news.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
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