One Bubble off Plumb: Sutton, Unedited

By Gary Sutton

Sex, God, politics and other trivia, like science and business, get skewered in this selection of Gary Suttons published rants.

But somehow this curmudgeon dotes on relatives.

One column helped a judge decide to overturn a jury verdict. Another caused a CIA operative to show up on his doorstep. Death threats and nasty letters to editors followed several pieces. Whether in the NY Times or Math World, The Wall Street Journal or the La Jolla Light, Suttons thoughts always seem to provoke.

Funny, Outrageous. Never even close to conventional.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 7, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462832545

Gary Sutton

Gary Sutton is a vice president for a leading financial services company. He has built and led high-performing business intelligence and analytics organizations across multiple verticals, where R was the preferred programming language for predictive modeling, statistical analyses, and other quantitative insights. Gary earned his undergraduate degree from the University of Southern California, a Masters from George Washington University, and a second Masters in Data Science, from Northwestern University.

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Why This Book? You Really Should Ask.

These columns, Op-Ed pieces and other verbal debris ran in the Wall Street Journal, La Jolla Light, San Diego Union-Tribune, Daily Transcript, Fortune, the T-Sector, the Greenlee Journalism School Newsletter, Directors & Boards plus the NY Times. Another appeared in Math World.

All ran after my retirement in 2000, except the paraphrased comment under the copyright notice on a prior page. That feeble attempt at humor first appeared in 1961, near the bottom of my paid column for the Iowa State Daily.

So, you see, this abuse of public readers goes way back.

You’ll also find one of my pre-retirement annual reports here, while the short chapter of a homosexual death is the opening scene of a wisely-delayed novel. The alternative GPS pitch to a Homeland Security group used non-bureaucratic language. Maybe that explains its failure to interest them; a failure unless there’s any value to having CIA spooks show up to interview me.

There’s also the letter to a judge, which I wrote and a defense attorney presented. It became public, being reprinted by two publications and lambasted in a third. But the judge did, in fact, do what the letter suggested and overturned a jury decision. I cannot say my message was responsible for his unprecedented act, but it certainly didn’t hurt.

And some of these commentaries, like Pray For Global Warming and Second Hand Smoke Is Good For You caused editors heartburn, but, the facts forced them to publish and duck for cover.

Why compile this crud? Ego. Convenience. Certainly not for sales, since compilations of famous writers rarely pay off, and I’ve been called many things, but never famous.

Yet without fail, every few years, the urge comes for a new computer. So I could tap one key and save this unedited blather onto a disc, before setting up the next machine. Or I could push another button and transmit most to a printer, birthing the book you’re now holding.

It’s so easy, and becomes your misfortune, that I chose the latter. And it solves my need for one more audience, being convinced these pieces were insufficiently noticed the first time.

But there’s another motivation and that’s our grandkids. Cody, Katy, Ryan and Sam; four kids who brighten and give meaning to our world. They might scan what you’re holding, sometime, only briefly I hope, maybe around 2040, when their life patterns are set. That could give them a peek at their ancestors, and, insight into a few kinks in the DNA strands that complicate their lives. Sorry, kids.

What follows is unedited. That sounds exciting… not censored… raw… the way pure ideas got said before being toned down.

But that’s wrong.

Unedited here forewarns you that the grammar stumbles while the thoughts meander. These originals all became sharper when published, after various editors cleaned them up. Most were columns, 800 words, give or take. When I tried to read them straight through, however, one after the other, that staccato rhythm wore me out. So I put in a few short bits between many, plus a couple of painfully longer pieces. I hope that relieves your eyeballs and gray matter with changes of pace.

These rantings were fun. Therapeutic, even, and I received cash for most. Not much. Still, life’s good when you get paid to spout off.

Gary Sutton

July, 2006

Frankenfoods Build Stronger Bodies.

Twenty million people live today, thanks to genetically modified foods.

I helped.

In the fifties, summer work in Iowa meant detasseling corn. This altered the reproduction, modified the genetics and created new varieties that yielded more food per acre. The new seeds also resisted disease.

Of course, this happened way back then, when polio and the Korean War kept the public focused on problems that mattered. So we genetically tinkered with crops, just like mankind has through history, improving lives.

Nobody got upset.

Kruschev visited from Russia. He marveled at how the US shipped grain, simultaneously, to his country, plus India and Brazil. Without those exports, millions upon millions would have starved. We shipped them genetically modified corn, sharing the seeds. They planted. Within two decades, India and Brazil became exporters of food and their populations surged.

Selective breeding, you see, began with cave dwellers. Neanderthals started by feeding scraps to hungry wolves lurking nearby. Over hundreds of centuries, domesticated wolves were renamed. Now we call them dogs. Manipulating further, we bred up to St. Bernards and down to Chihuahuas. Way later, our American Indians taught the pilgrims to plant fish guts under corn seeds. Decomposition threw off nitrogen, growing bigger plants.

Tampering with food led to radical changes, pioneered by evil geniuses like Dr. Louis Pasteur, who taught us to tinker with milk, saving more lives. Another nasty scientist, George Washington Carver, added to this monstrous mess of modified foods, cross-breeding yams and potatoes to create a strain of sweet potato God never conceived. Our anti-biotech protesters probably chew and swallow this abomination, never knowing. And that doses them with beta-carotene, reducing their cancers.

An automobile accessory from my youth disappeared, but should come back and this proves the effects of bioengineering. It used to be that mid-western drivers attached bug deflectors to their hood ornaments. This device looked like an open paperback, made from plastic. It altered the airflow, so flying insects missed your windshield.

This quirky item disappeared in past years. Why? No more bugs. If you walked a bean field twenty years ago, the silence startled. Birds and insects had vanished, while farmers sprayed herbicides and pesticides everywhere. In recent years, that background chorus started to return in some fields.

The reason?

Genetically modified crops need less tilling, saving topsoil and they don’t require herbicides or pesticides. If we’re lucky, our windshields may get spattered again.

These new strains also save fuel. Genetically modified cotton, alone, reduced oil consumption last year by five million gallons, thanks to less tilling needed and fewer pesticides sprayed.

Remember how the media shrieked, Green Weenies wailed and our government spent millions recalling products that were suspected of containing a batch of genetically modified corn? Two trainloads of taco shells were trashed, in a world where not every belly is full. First reports suggested eighteen possible cases of allergies. More careful follow-ups concluded not one cough, not one rash, not one headache resulted from this new crop.

When a country enjoys several decades without a real war, no plagues, and growing prosperity, those who need to fuss and worry over something, anything, seize the stage. They don’t understand that broccoli, cauliflower, and brussel sprouts never occurred naturally. If they read history, they’d understand tomatoes came to Europe as a decorative plant, with red bulbous fruits thought to be poisonous. Now that we ladle tomato sauce over pizza and squeeze ketchup on our burgers, the incidence of prostate cancer drops, thanks to those toxic tomatoes.

If you want to eat genetically unmodified carrots, stick to the purple and white varieties. Those were the only colors carrots came in, back when they grew wild.

Yet irrational fears and shallow thinking still delay progress.

Right now scientists in Switzerland are developing a rice strain that contains Vitamin A, unlike natural varieties. A third of the world depends on rice for their diets. Over a million die annually from infectious diseases that this vitamin fights, while a half million go blind from lack of Vitamin A. In Japan, another group of genetic manipulators chase a different rice strain, one that puts more iron between the chopsticks. This reduces death and mental deficiencies. Let’s hope these groups get the seeds planted, before our feel-deep-and-think-shallow hand-wringers riot again.

These fear mongers don’t understand the deaths that better foods eliminate. They march and protest at comfortable biotech conferences in Seattle and San Diego, smashing a few windows. These underemployed alarmists worry less about starvation in distant lands, among people whose skin may not match their chalky shades.

And they don’t get economics. The average European height increased by two inches during 500 years of Roman rule, when food, clothing and shelter became more available. These same Europeans shrunk several inches during the misery of the dark ages, as life expectancy dropped. When material comforts fade, the people suffer. In our own times, suicides and tranquilizer sales boom during recessions. Stopping economic progress extracts a human price.

One recovery step came when the European textile industry developed, mostly with woolens, in the 18th century. Of course the Luddites smashed their looms, fearing, but merely slowing, this advance. Yet feeding these machines required greater wool outputs. Cheviot Hill sheep were genetically modified by crossing Lincoln Long Wools with Rylands. These two species rarely dated before, but introducing them created a furrier animal. So wool fabric became available to the masses, which then stayed warmer and lived longer. With domestication, sheep horns grew shorter. This happened because the shepherds stopped the longest-horned males from driving away the lesser endowed. Before, that bigger-horned animal kept all the fems for himself, spawning kids in his own image.

Some argue that gene-splicing is different than selective breeding. They’re right, of course. Gene-splicing is safer.

Cross-breeding alters thousands of genes to change just one characteristic. You might invent a golden lab retriever while ruining their hip joints. When moving a single gene, with known functions, it’s never risk-free, but gets a bit safer. Side effects are less.

None of this is new. And it’s for the better. Get real, protesters. Walk the wild side. If you ever picked up a Kiwi fruit, or a cactus leaf at the grocers, that’s progress. You’re alive, and neither of those delicacies ever received FDA testing or approvals. Enjoy a seedless watermelon sometime, but don’t overthink it.

Good News, Praise God.

November 25, 2004: GoldenPalace.com purchased a ten year old, partially eaten grilled cheese sandwich this Thanksgiving. The online gambling casino paid $28,000.

The sandwich, when toasted, emerged with an image of the Virgin Mary, and has become a religious icon. It’s framed and now goes on tour.

The Associated Press photo reveals a sandwich which seems more burned than toasted, and a facial-like image does appear on the surface. Fortunately, like many miracles, this Rorschach pattern isn’t precise. Therefore, those of lesser faith may be denied the satisfaction that we true believers can enjoy.

I see her. Really, I do. Her features, interestingly, look more Anglo-Saxon than Jewish, but that’s consistent with the portraits we see of Jesus, so it’s probably her.

Is it not a wonderful world when GoldenPalace preserves such a treasure and shares it with the public?

Many of these viewers, paying to see the holy sandwich, are also registered voters. But then again, so are a majority of the thirty million who watch professional wrestling every week.

I love democracy, but it’s not always pretty.

Fathers’ Day Hurts.

Good-bye, Dad.

We scattered you across the Iowa State College farm last year. It was Father’s Day. The wind gusted, your ashes blew back across my eyes and it seemed you were irritating me one last time, but in your good-natured and teasing way.

It’s okay son, you said. Somehow.

I’m ready to talk now and have learned a sad thing about your life since then. You might handle this news better if we first recall some good memories.

College gave you a window to the world. It makes sense that you, a farmer and teacher, rest now, mixed into the school’s soil. Your father dug ditches for twenty-three years, starting with each spring thaw, shoving his spade into the dirt, over and over, until the fall frost. Then he stoked furnaces at the tuberculosis sanitarium through the cold months, finally saving enough for our farm. Grandpa’s life was less than joyful.

Your mom met Grandpa at the sanitarium. An indentured servant, she picked up the consumption on a converted slave ship that brought her over from Ballybunion. Her rasping cough and blotched handkerchiefs convinced Grandma’s masters to release her from the normal seven years of servitude. And your mother’s early passing was an escape from the labors of farming.

You were proud to win the Dows County cattle-judging contest. When you told Grandpa that winning qualified you for the state competition it angered him. This is where the story got fuzzy. You never talked about it much. Your brothers and sister said less. Maybe he beat you, maybe not, we know he refused to help and wasn’t beyond making a point physically. Your brother slipped two quarters into your hand and whispered You go on now. Just go. I’ll handle the chores here. Every time you told that part of the story a smile creased your face. You never lingered on the darker side.

The finals were at the college. Iowa State College looked like the Magic Kingdom or Shangri-La to you, Hollywood and Utopia. You had never seen a paved road before and marveled at how much unplowed land covered this college. In a few years you found a way to attend and pay your way through.

Your father died two dozen years later, long after grandma. And seven decades after you enrolled at Iowa State your own body yielded to diabetes, Parkinson’s, prostate cancer and a brain tumor. You often smelled of DDT and 2,4D. I suspect those farming chemicals contributed to your afflictions.

Anyway, here’s the story.

Your sister poked through some boxes in her attic, months after your death and found a stack of documents. She came across a letter from Iowa State, addressed to grandpa. It was taped shut and buried under some bank statements. Those papers had stiffened and yellowed over the years but the careful penmanship reminds us of how different things once were.

The letter announced that you won the statewide cattle-judging contest.

It turns out that you scored more points than had ever been awarded up until that time. The letter suggested that your high school or village might celebrate. But Grandpa tucked it away without telling you. Or anybody. I am sorry. You deserved better.

At least now you know. You won, Dad!

While driving towards the college farm with your ashes, we noticed a bumper sticker. It proclaimed that My Child was Citizen of the Month at Franklin Elementary. The times have changed, eh?

You and mom moved us near Iowa State in 1957, hoping your kids could sample a bigger world and it worked. I had seen paved streets, of course, but never a cloverleaf intersection or four-lane road. We entered the town from the north, turning west on Lincoln Way towards campus. This took several minutes, we dropped beneath an overpass and were rolling along a four-lane road, two for each direction, with cars moving right alongside us. This amazed me. We could almost lip-read what people in those cars alongside us were saying and it seemed surreal.

When I messed up, and I did, you insisted that this new high school should give me a second chance. They did, on the condition that I cut off my ducktails. Mom tried to teach me to dance so I wouldn’t feel so embarrassed at the school sock hops. Within a year I was modeling clothes on Channel 5 every Saturday, leading the responsive readings at Collegiate Methodist, working as a research intern at the Atomic Energy Commission and being paid as a standup comic.

You opened some wide windows.

Grandpa improved his lot in life, so did you and so did I. Grandpa had no parental help and you didn’t get much.

It was different for me. Thank you for that.

Go on now, Dad. Just go. I’ll handle the chores here. We shall talk again, soon enough, on those grounds at Iowa State.

We visited three homes recently that have the latest and greatest convenience; elevators. Two of those homes also had workout rooms with stairmasters.

I remain confused.

Elephants And Donkeys Are Tough On Lawns.

It began drizzling at noon. Lois, a retired librarian, drove across the Connecticut countryside at a respectable 45 mph, headlights glowing as the sun dropped. Her right rear tire blew. Despite arthritis that stiffened both wrists, Lois nudged the car safely onto the shoulder. The Jersey Turnpike hissed just a block ahead.

Now what?

She stepped out, holding a newspaper over her head. It kept her hair dry less than a minute. The tire had shredded, cords and black strips of rubber flung into the ditch and wrapped around a wheel.

James B. Hampshire III rolled along in his Lexus sedan; wife Betsy buckled safely in the passenger seat while Sissy and James IV sat in back, strapped down snug.

People, James III muttered, if they’d only check their treads. The Lexus whisked past Lois, spraying water across her skirt and shoes. She beckoned. The Hampshires rolled on.

Those who plan ahead, get ahead, James III said. Sissy nodded. James IV listened, not quite understanding.

Moondoggie Schultz and his companion, Pam Pam, squinted through their windshield. Their wipers barely touched the water.

Bummer, Moondoggie said. Their brakes squealed. The VW bus screeched to a stop just past Lois.

Pam Pam stuck her head out the window. Nasty, nasty. Want some help?

Oh, thank you, dearie me, Lois replied.

Moondoggie looked at her flat tire and lit a wrinkled cigarette.

Maybe we should get our bus off the road, dude, Pam Pam said.

Cool, Moondoggie replied and sauntered back to the bus. Got the keys babe?

Nope.

Hah! They’re in the ignition, Moondoggie said. The VW puffed blue smoke while he teetered it onto the shoulder.

Pam Pam found the jack. Moondoggie crawled under the bumper and wedged it in place, coating his tie-dye shirt and bluejeans with mud. He slid out, Pam Pam laughed and Lois covered her face.

Oh, I feel so bad, Lois said. Your shirt’s ruined.

Peace through music, woman, Moondoggie said. We are a family beyond humanity, all living things together in harmony. He hugged Lois, smudging clay across her sweater.

What did you say? Lois asked.

Breathe in hatred, Pam Pam replied, and exhale flower petals.

What? Lois asked.

Pam Pam tired of cranking the jack. Moondoggie took over. Lois watched her car’s bumper raise until its rear tires hung free. The car leaned, lurched and slammed into the ground. The jack punctured its gas tank. Fuel spilled across the ditch.

Oh, man, we’re going to miss the opening act for sure, Moondoggie said.

This matters more, dude, we’re here, Pam Pam said. Be where you are.

Lois covered her eyes.

Gas spread across the puddles. Pam Pam flipped her cigarette into the ditch. A blue flame swept back. Yellow fire billowed under Lois’s car. With a huge crump sound, her vehicle filled with flame.

Oh Lordie be, Lois said, saints have mercy.

No crap, Pam Pam replied.

Sumbitch, look at that would’ja, Moondoggie said.

Lois watched her car blaze.

Those capitalists did it again, Moondoggie said.

Can you believe the car companies? Pam Pam asked.

What? Lois asked.

They drove to Summitville, a mile ahead. Moondoggie raged at the gas station, asking for an attorney. They got three names. Two sounded establishment but the third, a Hermine Spector Esq., seemed like she might play for the people’s team.

We’re suing the jack company, Moondoggie said to Lois.

Who is? Lois asked.

Absolutely, Pam Pam said, and don’t forget the car company that put the gas tank too close to the bumper. Teach them a lesson.

I just wanted a tire fixed, Lois said.

Screw that, Moondoggie replied, don’t sell out now. You’re a victim of capitalism.

The drizzle turned to rain. Hermine Spector’s office was closed.

I’ll bet Spector’ll be back soon, Pam Pam said. I like that she’s got an old Mondale sticker on her window.

We’ve got those on our bus, Moondoggie said.

Not really, the ‘Save the Whales’ stuff went over them.

Is there a whale problem? Lois asked.

Oh, woman, the industrialists suck Mother Nature’s blood, Moondoggie said, and you doze?

Have you heard of global warming? Pam Pam asked. Genetic engineering? Dead white guys dominating history? McDonalds?

Where could I go to get my car towed? Lois asked.

Moondoggie and Pam Pam glanced at each other. Hermine should be back soon, Pam Pam said. We count on you to act against this injustice. We’ve already missed the Grateful Dead’s opener.

But we’re proud we did, Moondoggie added. He started their bus, spewing oily smoke. Don’t let them off easy, he shouted as they pulled out. Don’t tow the car. Leave those ashes for the pigs to clean up.

Lois stood in the rain. Pam Pam flashed a V sign from her window.

His congressman stepped into James Hampshire III’s office.

What’s up? the politician asked.

We’ve been a consistent supporter, James III said, and never ask a favor. We happen to agree philosophically, so it makes sense to raise campaign money for you.

That makes for mutual comfort, the congressman said.

There’s a special situation I must bring up, however, and that’s where our free trade emphasis, which I support in general, hurts the American public more than it helps.

Do tell.

It is this, congressman. As you know, the Yankee Jack Factory has been a mainstay of Connecticut employment for years.

I am fully aware and appreciative of that.

But we are now threatened, and not by fair competition, James III said.

Tell me more.

Because foreign content in cars doesn’t include removable accessories, car jacks can now be made anywhere.

I didn’t know that.

This, in itself, is fine. We can compete with the best. No problem.

My understanding, the congressman said, "was that you now do most of your manufacturing in China.

James Hampshire’s face flushed red. Technically, that’s true, he said. But our critical labor, packaging the jack, writing the instructions and so on, all happen right here in Connecticut, work done by your voters. And your donors. Other jack makers let foreigners even write their instructions.

What brings this up? the congressman asked.

We have a typical example, James III said. A retired librarian, a Lois somebody, had a flat recently. Her car was destroyed and we’re certain it was because the jack instructions were written by an oriental who probably studied English for a month.

That’s awful, the congressman said.

There’s more, James III replied. After her car burned to the wheels, she made her way to the nearest buildings, but it was raining, she was elderly, waited for help, caught pneumonia and died.

I’m mortified, the congressman said.

Foreigners killed her, James III said. Now, I hate tariffs and restrictions as much as the next guy, but, there’s a unique situation here, don’t you think?

It seems so.

Thank you, congressman. Democracy works.

And works well. Is your company’s fund-raiser scheduled?

Would next Thursday be good? James III asked.

Perfect. We’ll dedicate it to Lois and sensible tariffs.

To Lois!

Open Space Doesn’t Matter.

So Mayor Bloomberg wants open space offices?

Man the ramparts! Economies swoon, unemployment jumps, and government deficits blossom, but nothing upsets management like the thought of losing their doors and walls.

And by taking this stand, hizzoner, a man who won’t disclose his weekend whereabouts, but wants a weekday desk in an open area, touches a schizoid feeling we wrap around privacy.

Unlisted phone numbers just passed 35% of the total in some areas. Does this prove the public wants privacy? Maybe, but you can’t land in a plane today without somebody in the next seat instantly chatting about personal things on a cell phone. We’re schizoid.

Opinions run strong on cubicles vs. offices, and both sides are wrong.

Proponents of open space offices, or cubicles, argue that this automatically reduces frivolous activities. They suggest there are only rare moments when a discussion needs to be private, and by placing conference rooms throughout any open office space, those needs are met. There’s a feeling of egalitarianism, everybody’s on the same team, and interactions happen easier and more spontaneous.

Makes sense.

Opponents state that the distractions and inability to concentrate cost more in productivity than is gained. They view open seating or cubicles as demeaning.

Understandable.

Let’s back up to remember how faddish business is. When we thought the Japanese had all the answers, say in the seventies, every year we embraced a different idea from across the Pacific and made it into a bestselling book. Japan, Inc. talked about how that country was superior in their cooperation between industries and the government. Then Quality Circles showed that making it right the first time, and involving everyone, made better products cheaper. Kan Ban, explained how their Just-In-Time inventory system boosted quality and reduced costs.

America was in a Six-Sigma grab for answers from Japan. Until Japan stumbled and we didn’t. American business embraces fads. This is not all bad; at least we’re searching.

Meanwhile, in balmy Palo Alto, this thing called Silicon Valley started to gain significance in our economy, so we studied and copied it.

These