With two days before Christmas, I thought this quote attributed to our first president about his actions with an axe and the cherry tree, was apropos of the season. After, this is the season of giving, love, family and by the way, the greatest hoax ever perpetrated by such a large group against a similarly large group. I am of course talking about Christmas, and the lie of Santa Claus told by millions of parents to their children and to their friend's children and frankly to any child who will listen.
Now I am not saying I am against Christmas - I love it. It ranks #2 to Halloween (Halloween is much shorter in duration and frankly the Monster Mash may only be heard once or twice per year, whereas the Waitresses' Christmas Stockings, or Springsteen's Merry Christmas Baby will be played exponentially more.) However, I spent some of Saturday observing the behavior of the parents in line to get their children onto the lap of Santa in hopes of snapping the perfect picture. During the 45 minutes I stood with my own child, I had the opportunity to really see who Christmas is for.
First, we see that Christmas is for the vendors. 30 bucks for the picture of my son on a man's lap who cannot hold a real job. Another 10 bucks for the CD. Oh and by the way, you cannot use your own cameras - They can't charge you for that and we won't have that. In the meantime, the store place their Christmas sweaters front and center in the windows. (This will become important later. Pay attention.)
Second, it is for the parents. Everything leading up to the morning of Christmas is for the parent. The child gets the benefit of presents, and may actually get a lesson in giving and receiving along the way (I hope we got that right at least), but otherwise, this holiday has become about getting parents some level of assurance that they are good parents. They must be good parents as their children are happy when they see Santa. They are good parents, because they have a snappy photo with Billy in a staged pose, with his list. They are good parents, because for the 30 days leading up to Christmas, the child is sooo well behaved.
Seriously folks, I am no longer fooled. Billy is good because you told him you would march up there and tell Santa what a turd he is. Billy looks good in the picture, because while your spouse waited in line, you walked over to Children's Place and bought him a sweater for 50 bucks (Which I believe you will be returning after the photo, based on the way you tucked the tag back in, and stuck the label gingerly to the bag. Billy smiles so nicely because you asked him to rehearse it 30 times while in line behind me, his grimace hiding the hatred he feels for you.
So here we are two days until Christmas. I have heard We Wish You a Merry Christmas 4,302 times. I have actually only had to threaten Fletch 6 times that I would call the Elf. The gifts are wrapped with care and gingerly hidden in the closet upstairs, in hopes that Saint Nicholas will soon be here. And I count the minutes until the first wrapping paper is torn from the boxes they camouflage. And when it happens, I will admit to myself that I am no better than the sweater borrower, but until then, I am holier than she, and looking forward to seeing that train wrap around the tree.
Political side note - We are now approaching our 7th christmas since we invaded Afghanistan, and 5 Christmases since I spent mine away in a crappy little country no one cares about. The election of a new president is complete, and we look like our troops abroad will get another lobster tail dinner served as only the military can. I am grateful for everything they do, and I pray that this holiday, we will all think remember them sometime between the unwrapping and the taste of foul egg nog.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
The Media's Abuse of Corpse
In many states, there is actually a law which prohibits the mutilation of a corpse. It seems to have two purposes - to show respect for the decedent, but also to prohibit the destruction of evidence which could be collected to prove criminal acts. You might see this charge in cases involving the burning of a dead body to hide a murder, or in the dramatic alternative, in cases involving necrophilia (ed. note: I am thrilled now that Google will find this post when creepy guys search for necrophila. . .ugh.)
However in recent months, the media has taken on their own attempts to abuse a corpse. The Caylee Anthony murder, while heinous, has received so much media attention, I am numb now to the cute childhood images of a toddler playing at home. The murderess, who now sits in jail pending trial, is clearly involved, if not guilty. The discovery of the child's body will likely bring no serious new evidence, other than the fact the child is in fact dead.
In the meantime, every news outlet spends a good portion of their airtime (a disproportionate amount, given the recency and relevance of this child's death on the world's stage) showing images of the crime scene. Yesterday, for example, I was enlightened to the fact that medical examiner was none other than the famous, Dr G., Medical Examiner, from TV's hit show Dr. G. Seriously, the ME also has a TV show. So, not only is the news media benefitting from this child's death, Dr. G has been upping her ratings by showing up to the crime scene. (She is listed as running the investigation. Whore.)
In the meantime, this kid is dead and the media pirahna feed on the flesh and tears.
The problem I fundamentally have is dependency. My wife and I are "dependent" on the news to tell us of the world's events. So every morning, we turn on the news to see if the market has crashed (again), if GM is getting a bailout while our business does not, or if gay's have the right to marry in Alaska. (It could happen) Therefore, we must turn it on while we get ready for work. Instead, I see the same three-day old images which they replay in case someone was in a cave, the first half of the week.
So, until I cure my addiction, I will be forced to endure through images of a dead kid, and pray to the God of little children for jailhouse justice, and a silent vengence for Caylee. Oh and a huge power spike which takes the nation's media outlets offline for a few weeks. We won't miss anything.
On a related note, I did learn yesterday that many of the same legal whores from the Simpson miscarriage of justice will be making appearances to show that Caylee's mother is not the murderess we all know her to be. I am sure they won't let the facts interfere with a good story. More to follow as the trial begins.
However in recent months, the media has taken on their own attempts to abuse a corpse. The Caylee Anthony murder, while heinous, has received so much media attention, I am numb now to the cute childhood images of a toddler playing at home. The murderess, who now sits in jail pending trial, is clearly involved, if not guilty. The discovery of the child's body will likely bring no serious new evidence, other than the fact the child is in fact dead.
In the meantime, every news outlet spends a good portion of their airtime (a disproportionate amount, given the recency and relevance of this child's death on the world's stage) showing images of the crime scene. Yesterday, for example, I was enlightened to the fact that medical examiner was none other than the famous, Dr G., Medical Examiner, from TV's hit show Dr. G. Seriously, the ME also has a TV show. So, not only is the news media benefitting from this child's death, Dr. G has been upping her ratings by showing up to the crime scene. (She is listed as running the investigation. Whore.)
In the meantime, this kid is dead and the media pirahna feed on the flesh and tears.
The problem I fundamentally have is dependency. My wife and I are "dependent" on the news to tell us of the world's events. So every morning, we turn on the news to see if the market has crashed (again), if GM is getting a bailout while our business does not, or if gay's have the right to marry in Alaska. (It could happen) Therefore, we must turn it on while we get ready for work. Instead, I see the same three-day old images which they replay in case someone was in a cave, the first half of the week.
So, until I cure my addiction, I will be forced to endure through images of a dead kid, and pray to the God of little children for jailhouse justice, and a silent vengence for Caylee. Oh and a huge power spike which takes the nation's media outlets offline for a few weeks. We won't miss anything.
On a related note, I did learn yesterday that many of the same legal whores from the Simpson miscarriage of justice will be making appearances to show that Caylee's mother is not the murderess we all know her to be. I am sure they won't let the facts interfere with a good story. More to follow as the trial begins.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Return of the Alpha Male.
So, a few weeks ago, a friend sent me a test of sorts. It was a litany of male centric tasks which is designed to separate the men from the boys (and the girls to be sure). While I don't pretend that I could or have accomplished all of the tasks, I did fairly well. The tasks ranged from mechanical, like change your oil, to the home ec tasks we all blew off, like sew a button to a pair of pant, to sports, like throw a spiral (which due to two bad shoulders and poor hand eye coordination, i cannot do, nor will I ever be able to.)
This past weekend, however, I was able to come closer to achieving woodsy greatness. We went to the mountains of North Carolina to show my son a train which resembled the Polar Express (if you don't have kids, you will need to borrow some to understand - it is the story of a train which evidently steals children from their homes, takes them to tha fat man's house, gives them trinkets, and then returns the kids without doing any real long term mental damage. Probably.) We rented a cabin in the woods atop of a small hill, and at the end of a dirt goat trail. For more on goat trails, you can read my excerpts from my European vacation, but suffices it to say, they are narrow, winding strips of deforested earth, with a combination surface of mud and pebble (mud on the right and pebbles on the left). This makes for a slick surface, and made worse, by the fact we drove my wife's volvo sedan.
During this three day journey, I discovered a little about myself, and my pursuit for the alpha male status. OK, to be fair, I never really considered this a life quest, but I think it just sort of happens. At one point, I found myself taking a small burning ember, and turning into a blaze Les Stroud (see Survivorman) would be proud of. Just because.
I added a few small items to the man test, and passed a few along the way -
Wilderness Driving - So while this was not on the test, men need the ability to traverse obstacles while in a vehicle. I am not suggesting that they need a HMMWV and a straight uphill climb (which I have also done) but that they should be able to get a car (any car with decent tires) up a mud and pebble hill. Even shale trails would be fine.
Home Maintenance The rental home has a bad deadbolt lock. Within 10 minutes, I had disassembled it with a dinner knife, and had diagnosed the problem. While I lacked the requisite tools to repair it, I at least understood what was wrong and could have fixed it with the right tools. (Needlenose pliers and a cold beer)
Cooking a Steak So for the record, the label said "Roast" which is not a steak. However, with enough marinade and spices, and an hour on the grill, a roast can closely resemble a steak, and feed 7 people.
Home Decor Repair Give three kids a cabin in the woods and something will break. Within 2 hours, the kids had torn the buttons off of a pillow, and tried to hide the damage. Using a travel sewing kit and several punctures to the fingertips later, I was able to reattach the buttons and make it look like new. While the thread is a little fragile, our deposit is intact.
Building a Fire Our traveling companions, another family, thought it would be a great idea to make smores. I mean, we were in the woods, and that's what suburbanites do. So the man takes his daughter out to the firepit and they spend a few hours watching the wet wood smother the flames. More matches, more wet wood, more smoke, more nothing. And so it goes. They drive to the store to buy firewood, which is typical and sold large chunks. Until they finally surrender. Little secret - Wet kindling, and big logs will never catch fire. . .unless. . . Literally two hours later, the fire catches something. Something in the fire blazes up and the wife sees this. We pack all the smores stuff outside, to watch as the fire dies again. And now, this has become my challenge. Because I love smores. Mushy golden brown marshmallows, melty chocolate and graham crackers kick ass.
So I hunker down over the fire and start trying. I find the wet wood in the pit and pull it out. I blow on the few embers and cover them in leaves, getting some flame back. I walk into the darker woods and find any fallen branches propped off of the wet earth, and I go back to build the same teepee style fire that's worked since Sacajawea. And ten minutes later, and lots of blowing, the flames abound and I am knee deep in carmelized sugar, and cocoa goodness.
Fatherly bonding At 60 bucks for the adult seats, 40 bucks for the kid's seat, it was not a cheap train ride. I have gone round trip from Philadelphia to New York City for less. However, watching my son, when he saw Santa was worth the 9 hours of driving and the price of admission. Watching him see the train cars torn from the pages of the book and pulled from the screens of the movie, my boy was in the true meaning of Christmas. I don't mean the religious aspect. He was in the spirit of dreams and beliefs. He was deep in the childhood innocence that we lose as we age. He is fully engulfed in the world's most incredible and long standing hoax that we as parents indulge in, for 30 days a year to take ourselves back to our childhood.
So, now that I am achieving the alpha male status in my own domain, I am enjoying watching over my cub, and hoping that he enjoys every aspect of his youth, and takes his time in taking this status from his father who took so damn long to get there.
This past weekend, however, I was able to come closer to achieving woodsy greatness. We went to the mountains of North Carolina to show my son a train which resembled the Polar Express (if you don't have kids, you will need to borrow some to understand - it is the story of a train which evidently steals children from their homes, takes them to tha fat man's house, gives them trinkets, and then returns the kids without doing any real long term mental damage. Probably.) We rented a cabin in the woods atop of a small hill, and at the end of a dirt goat trail. For more on goat trails, you can read my excerpts from my European vacation, but suffices it to say, they are narrow, winding strips of deforested earth, with a combination surface of mud and pebble (mud on the right and pebbles on the left). This makes for a slick surface, and made worse, by the fact we drove my wife's volvo sedan.
During this three day journey, I discovered a little about myself, and my pursuit for the alpha male status. OK, to be fair, I never really considered this a life quest, but I think it just sort of happens. At one point, I found myself taking a small burning ember, and turning into a blaze Les Stroud (see Survivorman) would be proud of. Just because.
I added a few small items to the man test, and passed a few along the way -
Wilderness Driving - So while this was not on the test, men need the ability to traverse obstacles while in a vehicle. I am not suggesting that they need a HMMWV and a straight uphill climb (which I have also done) but that they should be able to get a car (any car with decent tires) up a mud and pebble hill. Even shale trails would be fine.
Home Maintenance The rental home has a bad deadbolt lock. Within 10 minutes, I had disassembled it with a dinner knife, and had diagnosed the problem. While I lacked the requisite tools to repair it, I at least understood what was wrong and could have fixed it with the right tools. (Needlenose pliers and a cold beer)
Cooking a Steak So for the record, the label said "Roast" which is not a steak. However, with enough marinade and spices, and an hour on the grill, a roast can closely resemble a steak, and feed 7 people.
Home Decor Repair Give three kids a cabin in the woods and something will break. Within 2 hours, the kids had torn the buttons off of a pillow, and tried to hide the damage. Using a travel sewing kit and several punctures to the fingertips later, I was able to reattach the buttons and make it look like new. While the thread is a little fragile, our deposit is intact.
Building a Fire Our traveling companions, another family, thought it would be a great idea to make smores. I mean, we were in the woods, and that's what suburbanites do. So the man takes his daughter out to the firepit and they spend a few hours watching the wet wood smother the flames. More matches, more wet wood, more smoke, more nothing. And so it goes. They drive to the store to buy firewood, which is typical and sold large chunks. Until they finally surrender. Little secret - Wet kindling, and big logs will never catch fire. . .unless. . . Literally two hours later, the fire catches something. Something in the fire blazes up and the wife sees this. We pack all the smores stuff outside, to watch as the fire dies again. And now, this has become my challenge. Because I love smores. Mushy golden brown marshmallows, melty chocolate and graham crackers kick ass.
So I hunker down over the fire and start trying. I find the wet wood in the pit and pull it out. I blow on the few embers and cover them in leaves, getting some flame back. I walk into the darker woods and find any fallen branches propped off of the wet earth, and I go back to build the same teepee style fire that's worked since Sacajawea. And ten minutes later, and lots of blowing, the flames abound and I am knee deep in carmelized sugar, and cocoa goodness.
Fatherly bonding At 60 bucks for the adult seats, 40 bucks for the kid's seat, it was not a cheap train ride. I have gone round trip from Philadelphia to New York City for less. However, watching my son, when he saw Santa was worth the 9 hours of driving and the price of admission. Watching him see the train cars torn from the pages of the book and pulled from the screens of the movie, my boy was in the true meaning of Christmas. I don't mean the religious aspect. He was in the spirit of dreams and beliefs. He was deep in the childhood innocence that we lose as we age. He is fully engulfed in the world's most incredible and long standing hoax that we as parents indulge in, for 30 days a year to take ourselves back to our childhood.
So, now that I am achieving the alpha male status in my own domain, I am enjoying watching over my cub, and hoping that he enjoys every aspect of his youth, and takes his time in taking this status from his father who took so damn long to get there.
Monday, November 10, 2008
And now a brief hiatus from the History of Eastern Europe
So, while lately, I have only posted segments of my life told during a more dull time in my life, the news of late demands my return to the work of writing to no one (or at least to the two people who have honored me by reading the content of these pages.)
In watching this past election, I realized this year more than ever, the two party system failed again to adequately represent the populous. This year the core business issues - the economy, health care, the little heard of war which consumes the lives of hundreds of thousands, gay marriage, immigration - were overshadowed by the politics of race, age, gender, and other issues which we as a people say we are past - until our arrival in the confines of the voting booth.
The masses voted in record numbers, many voting on the latter criteria, and relatively few voting because they believed that the winner policies would work. However the question remains - who do I vote for?
Let's look at the policies and beliefs of the candidate and examine their ideologies against my own - and ask yourself where do you vote?
Economy - Take away the benefits to the large corporations and let the banks suffer who wrote the bad debt. Let the nation have 5 years of suffering in exchange for not charging me for the mistakes made by both the borrower and lender. I know there will be a ripple effect and it will impact me. However, it will impact my son and I if we bail out the failures, and it will teach millions a bad lesson - if you fail, the government will bail you out. This is a fiction and I certainly didn't read this in the constitution.
Healthcare - Nationally available health insurance issued by non-profit organizations who incentivize healthy living, but still support those in need. I know this is a pipe dream, but similar to GEICO auto insurance, if enough people are members, everyone's rates decline. Further, if you don't have $35MM salaries for those at the top and an investor base to be reporting to, you can keep rates lower and pay for those who need the care.
The War - Let's face it, no one is withdrawing this year. We will be there for 3-4 more if we want to leave Iraq better than we found it. (Oh by the way, no one was mentioning Afghanistan - That war must be ok on its own.) We need a serious and reasonable plan which may have a 10 year duration, but McCain (100 years) and Obama (next week) have crappy plans. Get some big brain guys in a room and come up with a plan and milestones.
Gay Marriage - It is a state's rights issue for sure, as both candidates spoke about. The federal government has a need to stay out of this. Licensing is handled at the local level, so I understand that the candidates could push this down. However, let's be realistic. Marriage is a bond between two people. Frankly, I don't understand this bond between two men, but I know a few gay people and honestly, their relationships are often better than many heterosexual couples. Let's call it a day and endorse it from the federal level. If they want to be miserably bound for eternity, then give them the "Marriage License" as it says on my license issued by the city of Philadelphia (Ha! It is not a religious institution as the candidate framed it making it reasonable to push it to civil unions in lieu of marriage.)
Immigration - Make this country back to what it was - If you come here, work hard, care for your family, and learn English, then I welcome you. But bring value. And when you do, you get the green card and citizenship. And when you do, I will find one person who has been on welfare for a decade and ship them back to where their geneology says they are from.
So, with that being said, I am for small government, some social assistance, reasonably open borders and I even align with Pelosi on the gay rights thing, so long as she stays away from my firearms. So where do I vote?
Instead, I listen to the many Americans who voted. Many voted republican, despite being in the lower or disadvantaged class, not because of the candidate, but rather because they believe in the pundits. Limbaugh, Hannity, you have destroyed critical thought. Instead, white males who bitch about welfare and social programs and "the gays" think you are right. Ironic given that they make less than $150,000 and will see less financial benefits under a republican administration. On the other hand 94% of the black populace voted for Obama. Why? Well, I am certain than many took the vote as a matter of advancement. I watched Oprah cry for Obama and then comment later about the pride of her ancestry at this moment. However, on the issues, she was fairly quiet.
Now truthfully, there was no scientific poll in the development. I should also say that I voted for Obama as well, because I did more closely align with his policies, and I was deathly afraid of McCain's less than liberal running mate. However, for those of us who think critically, where was our true choice?
The concept of a real third party needs advancement. For too long, people who believe in:
- small government,
- pro-choice,
- pro-death penalty,
- pro-gay rights,
- pro-national healthcare reform,
- pro-alternative energy
- pro-defense
- pro-fair tax
- term limits for all
have been overlooked. People who want straight talk - not the McCain version, but real straight talk which doesn't involve calling the opposition names or spouting half truths. We need a catchy name, an understanding of the needs of the people, and a realization that our nation has lost some of its lustre in the eyes of the world and in the eyes of many of its people. And that at the end of the day, if we won't repair it, someone else will. And then we will have failed.
In watching this past election, I realized this year more than ever, the two party system failed again to adequately represent the populous. This year the core business issues - the economy, health care, the little heard of war which consumes the lives of hundreds of thousands, gay marriage, immigration - were overshadowed by the politics of race, age, gender, and other issues which we as a people say we are past - until our arrival in the confines of the voting booth.
The masses voted in record numbers, many voting on the latter criteria, and relatively few voting because they believed that the winner policies would work. However the question remains - who do I vote for?
Let's look at the policies and beliefs of the candidate and examine their ideologies against my own - and ask yourself where do you vote?
Economy - Take away the benefits to the large corporations and let the banks suffer who wrote the bad debt. Let the nation have 5 years of suffering in exchange for not charging me for the mistakes made by both the borrower and lender. I know there will be a ripple effect and it will impact me. However, it will impact my son and I if we bail out the failures, and it will teach millions a bad lesson - if you fail, the government will bail you out. This is a fiction and I certainly didn't read this in the constitution.
Healthcare - Nationally available health insurance issued by non-profit organizations who incentivize healthy living, but still support those in need. I know this is a pipe dream, but similar to GEICO auto insurance, if enough people are members, everyone's rates decline. Further, if you don't have $35MM salaries for those at the top and an investor base to be reporting to, you can keep rates lower and pay for those who need the care.
The War - Let's face it, no one is withdrawing this year. We will be there for 3-4 more if we want to leave Iraq better than we found it. (Oh by the way, no one was mentioning Afghanistan - That war must be ok on its own.) We need a serious and reasonable plan which may have a 10 year duration, but McCain (100 years) and Obama (next week) have crappy plans. Get some big brain guys in a room and come up with a plan and milestones.
Gay Marriage - It is a state's rights issue for sure, as both candidates spoke about. The federal government has a need to stay out of this. Licensing is handled at the local level, so I understand that the candidates could push this down. However, let's be realistic. Marriage is a bond between two people. Frankly, I don't understand this bond between two men, but I know a few gay people and honestly, their relationships are often better than many heterosexual couples. Let's call it a day and endorse it from the federal level. If they want to be miserably bound for eternity, then give them the "Marriage License" as it says on my license issued by the city of Philadelphia (Ha! It is not a religious institution as the candidate framed it making it reasonable to push it to civil unions in lieu of marriage.)
Immigration - Make this country back to what it was - If you come here, work hard, care for your family, and learn English, then I welcome you. But bring value. And when you do, you get the green card and citizenship. And when you do, I will find one person who has been on welfare for a decade and ship them back to where their geneology says they are from.
So, with that being said, I am for small government, some social assistance, reasonably open borders and I even align with Pelosi on the gay rights thing, so long as she stays away from my firearms. So where do I vote?
Instead, I listen to the many Americans who voted. Many voted republican, despite being in the lower or disadvantaged class, not because of the candidate, but rather because they believe in the pundits. Limbaugh, Hannity, you have destroyed critical thought. Instead, white males who bitch about welfare and social programs and "the gays" think you are right. Ironic given that they make less than $150,000 and will see less financial benefits under a republican administration. On the other hand 94% of the black populace voted for Obama. Why? Well, I am certain than many took the vote as a matter of advancement. I watched Oprah cry for Obama and then comment later about the pride of her ancestry at this moment. However, on the issues, she was fairly quiet.
Now truthfully, there was no scientific poll in the development. I should also say that I voted for Obama as well, because I did more closely align with his policies, and I was deathly afraid of McCain's less than liberal running mate. However, for those of us who think critically, where was our true choice?
The concept of a real third party needs advancement. For too long, people who believe in:
- small government,
- pro-choice,
- pro-death penalty,
- pro-gay rights,
- pro-national healthcare reform,
- pro-alternative energy
- pro-defense
- pro-fair tax
- term limits for all
have been overlooked. People who want straight talk - not the McCain version, but real straight talk which doesn't involve calling the opposition names or spouting half truths. We need a catchy name, an understanding of the needs of the people, and a realization that our nation has lost some of its lustre in the eyes of the world and in the eyes of many of its people. And that at the end of the day, if we won't repair it, someone else will. And then we will have failed.
Monday, November 3, 2008
My war story -
So this isn't the scariest war story ever written, but I still think back and laugh about the time I almost shot a guy who was so old and beaten he was already dead. . .
Well, some time has passed since my last de-briefing and I thought this might be the time to write. Emotions are running high around the nation and around the camp today. We are having a flag raising ceremony for soldiers today so that they can raise a personal American flag over the compound here in Bosnia, which they serve and protect. There is also a service today of remembrance for the US personnel here. (It is a canned service distributed to the Chaplains of the Army in Europe, but it will be my first religious service, which I actually wanted to attend since I was 8 years old.) It is at 1430 local time, which is 8:30 NYC time.
It’s pretty remarkable that a year has passed. While my family is inundated with news reports and increased threat levels, and the country moves faster towards war, my knowledge of the world back home is limited to cnn.com and snippets on CNN television. I actually like being limited in my news intake, as I tend to think that the modern media has taken a tragedy and made it still worse by whoring out footage that has been viewed a countless number of times.
While we tend to look back on that day with remorse, as we should, I hope that we remember the progress and unification since then. People in general became more united around our common interests, and for a while at least everyone was a little friendlier. Hopefully we can take that lesson and move on without requiring a repeat of that morning.
The event struck everyone differently.
Changing topics. Thirty years ago, US soldiers walked through villages looking for weapons caches in Southeastern Asia. They tread lightly fearing booby traps, considered everyone a risk, and oftentimes found nothing. Yesterday, I saw the European version of the same.
We received a report of a weapons cache near a farm, from a nearby resident. We drove two and a half hours to a town near the farm, where we met our information provider. (Informant). The most risky thing to date has been the other local drivers. Wrong side of the road, passing on the shoulder, and oncoming collisions are among the greatest dangers, not to mention the mines on the sides of the road, left by farmers, as they find them in there fields.
Once we arrived, we met our Finnish, Polish and Latvian counterparts. They seem like US troops, only a little more insane. I hopped into their roofless-trucks (Think my jeep wrangler, on steroids), and the three truckloads bounced down a goat path to the location of the “weapons cache”. On the route, the Lieutenant in charge, a poster boy for the Finnish Army, stern jaw, ruddy complexion and shoulders capable of carrying more than a pack mule, calls his follow-on trucks on the radio. "If anything happens, be prepared to back up really fast". I hear this, and realize that he is the Explosive Ordinance Disposal guy. The bomb squad guy, who is just a little too high on adrenaline.
We arrive at the farm, and begin working on the owner. The farmer is over 80, and his wife is too. The lead a tough live, with one pig, two chickens and a dog, farming a small plot of land by hand, growing enough food to survive on.
However, the farmer is not shaken. This man has seen enough soldiers in his 80 years, to know that we will not be the last, and some, like the local militia who are hiding the cache, have more lenient rules of engagement. He denies any knowledge of weapons in his area.
So we search. Not like the Vietnam style of searching. We are more cautious, but also more respectful. We walk around his land, and we walk through his buildings. We walk and we walk. The informant has told us that the weapons were there, but had been recently moved to within 800 meters of the farm. An 800-meter circle is a lot of ground to cover, when you can't leave the roads. (Mines).
Once we got about 1000 meters away, the rain started. Hail, the size of bullets, fell, and the rain swept sideways. The temperature dropped 15 degrees in 1.5 minutes, and I have only been this saturated in the combat water skills survival test, when they throw you into the pool. (The Army calls it drownproofing; I called it being wet with your clothes on.)
On our return from our walk around the farm, we found one disposable rocket of Soviet make in one of the many outbuildings,. They call it disposable, because once it is shot, like a Kodak disposable camera, you throw it away. Unlike the camera, the thing you shoot the rocket at becomes a cloud of fire and pink mist. This is the red herring, designed to make us leave and not come back.
So now, I am soaking wet, freezing cold, and we have found only a needle in the haystack, when looking for the sewing kit. I am loving the job, but I could see how the soldiers in Southeast Asia, grew angry, being lied to, powerless to affect change, and knowing that their job was as much a part of helping protect innocent civilians as it was to protect themselves. In short, the elder was lying. There was more there, but we'll never know now.
He invited us in for coffee, which we have to accept (I declined), and we came into the house, if for nothing else, just to warm the frostbitten pieces. (Of course, we have no rain gear with us, and no gloves (It was nice outside when we left. . . (See Blackhawk Down, by Mark Bowdon for lessons learned the hard way))
Then we left, or tried to. The goat path we came in on, had more hills than all of Great Adventure’s roller coasters. And they were now all covered in mud. I hopped into the open topped truck, as the hail pelted my Russian (Latvian) driver and I. We began our trek, but were stopped 10 feet into it, when the Finnish lieutenant slid off of the road, into a cornfield. (Note - The Finnish Lieutenant has the rocket on the roof of his truck, for um, safety.) My driver spins our truck and tried easing into a ditch. He started easing, but easing became sliding too.
Next thing I know, I am in a truck with no roof, and no seat belt and the left side began lifting. We settle to a stop, without rolling, by the forces, of God, gravity or just plain fate. He juices the truck out of the ditch, and I bail out.
I can’t bail out because I don’t want to be perceived as the scared American, no matter how scary it seemed.
He maneuvers this thing like a child’s Tonka toy truck, and tows the other truck out. And now the adventure begins. We lead the escort out of this valley, bouncing down the mud covered goat trail, as the hail pelts us and the driving rain blinds us. I am laughing my ass off, as a fear has been displaced by resignation, and the kid next to me, who only speaks key words in English – mainly profanities and “ouch” - has regained the color in his face which he lost during the near rollover. I drain my sleeves every few minutes as the water collects in my shirt, and we finally get back to the road where my patrol was waiting. Dry. The weather, 1000 meters away had been light misty rain, and some lightening in the distance.
That's what I was doing one day before the one year anniversary of September 11. Jumping out of planes is probably as thrilling, but at least you know what can kill you. Rolling into a suspected arms cache, down a road, which is not cleared of mines, with lunatics, and returning in a mudslide, gives you too many ways to die. This is the ultimate adventure seekers trip. Now, someone please call Amy and let her know it’s not that risky.
And all for one rocket.
Well, some time has passed since my last de-briefing and I thought this might be the time to write. Emotions are running high around the nation and around the camp today. We are having a flag raising ceremony for soldiers today so that they can raise a personal American flag over the compound here in Bosnia, which they serve and protect. There is also a service today of remembrance for the US personnel here. (It is a canned service distributed to the Chaplains of the Army in Europe, but it will be my first religious service, which I actually wanted to attend since I was 8 years old.) It is at 1430 local time, which is 8:30 NYC time.
It’s pretty remarkable that a year has passed. While my family is inundated with news reports and increased threat levels, and the country moves faster towards war, my knowledge of the world back home is limited to cnn.com and snippets on CNN television. I actually like being limited in my news intake, as I tend to think that the modern media has taken a tragedy and made it still worse by whoring out footage that has been viewed a countless number of times.
While we tend to look back on that day with remorse, as we should, I hope that we remember the progress and unification since then. People in general became more united around our common interests, and for a while at least everyone was a little friendlier. Hopefully we can take that lesson and move on without requiring a repeat of that morning.
The event struck everyone differently.
Changing topics. Thirty years ago, US soldiers walked through villages looking for weapons caches in Southeastern Asia. They tread lightly fearing booby traps, considered everyone a risk, and oftentimes found nothing. Yesterday, I saw the European version of the same.
We received a report of a weapons cache near a farm, from a nearby resident. We drove two and a half hours to a town near the farm, where we met our information provider. (Informant). The most risky thing to date has been the other local drivers. Wrong side of the road, passing on the shoulder, and oncoming collisions are among the greatest dangers, not to mention the mines on the sides of the road, left by farmers, as they find them in there fields.
Once we arrived, we met our Finnish, Polish and Latvian counterparts. They seem like US troops, only a little more insane. I hopped into their roofless-trucks (Think my jeep wrangler, on steroids), and the three truckloads bounced down a goat path to the location of the “weapons cache”. On the route, the Lieutenant in charge, a poster boy for the Finnish Army, stern jaw, ruddy complexion and shoulders capable of carrying more than a pack mule, calls his follow-on trucks on the radio. "If anything happens, be prepared to back up really fast". I hear this, and realize that he is the Explosive Ordinance Disposal guy. The bomb squad guy, who is just a little too high on adrenaline.
We arrive at the farm, and begin working on the owner. The farmer is over 80, and his wife is too. The lead a tough live, with one pig, two chickens and a dog, farming a small plot of land by hand, growing enough food to survive on.
However, the farmer is not shaken. This man has seen enough soldiers in his 80 years, to know that we will not be the last, and some, like the local militia who are hiding the cache, have more lenient rules of engagement. He denies any knowledge of weapons in his area.
So we search. Not like the Vietnam style of searching. We are more cautious, but also more respectful. We walk around his land, and we walk through his buildings. We walk and we walk. The informant has told us that the weapons were there, but had been recently moved to within 800 meters of the farm. An 800-meter circle is a lot of ground to cover, when you can't leave the roads. (Mines).
Once we got about 1000 meters away, the rain started. Hail, the size of bullets, fell, and the rain swept sideways. The temperature dropped 15 degrees in 1.5 minutes, and I have only been this saturated in the combat water skills survival test, when they throw you into the pool. (The Army calls it drownproofing; I called it being wet with your clothes on.)
On our return from our walk around the farm, we found one disposable rocket of Soviet make in one of the many outbuildings,. They call it disposable, because once it is shot, like a Kodak disposable camera, you throw it away. Unlike the camera, the thing you shoot the rocket at becomes a cloud of fire and pink mist. This is the red herring, designed to make us leave and not come back.
So now, I am soaking wet, freezing cold, and we have found only a needle in the haystack, when looking for the sewing kit. I am loving the job, but I could see how the soldiers in Southeast Asia, grew angry, being lied to, powerless to affect change, and knowing that their job was as much a part of helping protect innocent civilians as it was to protect themselves. In short, the elder was lying. There was more there, but we'll never know now.
He invited us in for coffee, which we have to accept (I declined), and we came into the house, if for nothing else, just to warm the frostbitten pieces. (Of course, we have no rain gear with us, and no gloves (It was nice outside when we left. . . (See Blackhawk Down, by Mark Bowdon for lessons learned the hard way))
Then we left, or tried to. The goat path we came in on, had more hills than all of Great Adventure’s roller coasters. And they were now all covered in mud. I hopped into the open topped truck, as the hail pelted my Russian (Latvian) driver and I. We began our trek, but were stopped 10 feet into it, when the Finnish lieutenant slid off of the road, into a cornfield. (Note - The Finnish Lieutenant has the rocket on the roof of his truck, for um, safety.) My driver spins our truck and tried easing into a ditch. He started easing, but easing became sliding too.
Next thing I know, I am in a truck with no roof, and no seat belt and the left side began lifting. We settle to a stop, without rolling, by the forces, of God, gravity or just plain fate. He juices the truck out of the ditch, and I bail out.
I can’t bail out because I don’t want to be perceived as the scared American, no matter how scary it seemed.
He maneuvers this thing like a child’s Tonka toy truck, and tows the other truck out. And now the adventure begins. We lead the escort out of this valley, bouncing down the mud covered goat trail, as the hail pelts us and the driving rain blinds us. I am laughing my ass off, as a fear has been displaced by resignation, and the kid next to me, who only speaks key words in English – mainly profanities and “ouch” - has regained the color in his face which he lost during the near rollover. I drain my sleeves every few minutes as the water collects in my shirt, and we finally get back to the road where my patrol was waiting. Dry. The weather, 1000 meters away had been light misty rain, and some lightening in the distance.
That's what I was doing one day before the one year anniversary of September 11. Jumping out of planes is probably as thrilling, but at least you know what can kill you. Rolling into a suspected arms cache, down a road, which is not cleared of mines, with lunatics, and returning in a mudslide, gives you too many ways to die. This is the ultimate adventure seekers trip. Now, someone please call Amy and let her know it’s not that risky.
And all for one rocket.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Off to Germany
After a long hiatus, during which I had the opportunity for a visit with my wife, I find myself writing again. One of the few free moments I have captured and I am stuck doing laundry. Its just like one of those you see on any street, except that there is no sorting. Everything goes in, with extra soap, on “COLORS”. When almost everything you wear is green, black brown or some mixture of those three, laundry is almost mindless.
It is funny the things you take for granted at home. Stuff like the washer and dryer being in the same building, or the food being available to you 24/7 in the fridge. Here, my food is kept in a blue container, and the laundry is a ten minute walk. I can sympathize with the city-dweller, who has to tote 30 punds of crap (laundry, soap, quarters, etc) to wash clothes. I spend this time quietly playing games and watching. Some people read, others call home. Interestingly, many here are trying to learn some form of the language over there. (Bosnia, Hungarian, Serbo-Croat, depending on the bookstore where they bought the book.) While many of my peers are really bright, not everyone has the ability to learn a language by book (I certainly don’t). I look forward to the day I am called to quell a disturbance because someone asked directions to the farmer’s daughter’s crotch.
On July 30, we left the United States. And everything human. But not before we had a “Family Day.” Family Day is the military’s form of an office party. It has the usual uncomfortable moments; the semi-inappropriate jokes, the overly drunk guy, and the boss who everyone’s lips are attaching to. However, the military’s form of the office party has one thing, the office doesn’t have: It usually concludes with the disruption of the family. I have to admit, among the toughest problems for me, was the young soldier whose wife was there, dressed in her best, showing her pride in her husband. Her husband happens to be among my best troops and dedicated to country as much as to family. When she turned around to look at the guy responsible for her husband’s well-being, all of this hit home.
Among the many people there was a remarkable woman named Jean Campbell. Her mission was not as an immediate family, but as a supporter of family members. Her son is serving overseas in Oman currently, and she volunteered with an organization called Blue Star Mothers. This organization was originally developed on the backbone of the blue star flag which hung on the windows during World War II to symbolize the family’s member serving in the war over seas. The flag would hang until the soldier returned, or the star was changed to gold, to show that the family member was killed in action.
Jean’s cause was not remarkable in and of itself, but rather that her resolved and dedication was representative of what I think this country should be about. The Pennsylvania chapter of this organization was being run by a woman older than her fifties. She also had two knees in braces, and carried that 75 pounds of weight, I am sure she would have rather lost. Ultimately, Jean’s resolve was what drove my wife to tears, and us to join her cause. If she believed in car sales like she believed in these flags, I would now be the proud owner of three. It’s pretty remarkable what one life altering incident in September can do. Her son now serves proudly in Oman, while she does her part in the States.
People like Jean came out in droves after the 11th of September 2002. But I think people like Jean existed prior to that fall. She made me remember what being dedicated and proud meant. And she reminded me that for every soldier out on the front in Germany, in Bosnia, or in Afghanistan, there are 2 – 3 people in the States, waiting for their return. Wives, mothers, fathers, and husbands all sit by the television, waiting for news, hoping nothing comes by telegram, and trying to live their lives. My wife sits at home, going to work, and trying to enjoy her free time with friends, but every person she sees, and every news story on the television comes around to me, sitting thousands of miles away.
I hope my wife realizes that while I sit here, passing the time, writing in this journal, I know the sacrifice she makes is exponentially greater than mine.
Now, I sit here trying to think about how to describe the relationship I have with my wife. Words like loyalty, dedication, and pride come to mind. I have never known someone who is more dedicated and so intensely proud of what we have done together. The love we share seems to have gone beyond that of when we first saw the stars in the eyes, and the romance, and all of those things which lovers start with. We have been good at keeping these things alive, but what we have been best at is growing together, in tandem.
I see couples whose passion and feverish love burns so bright at the start that they soon lose that flame, and rapidly fizzle. Others have fallen into a groove of life, and exist day-to-day. However, Amy and I seem to have as strong a passion as when we started. (Not the same passion, just the same strength.) And yet our groove is that of a partnership. We make decisions together, we reach common goals, and together we have found common success. This isn’t Oprah, this isn’t Dr. Phil. This is just the way we have worked it out over the time we have been together.
But we never fight. Ok, we fight, to the point where the neighbors think we’re insane. We fight until we’re blue in the face, and we rant and rave like lunatics. Probably not the best approach, and when I return, I think this is one area where I would change our relationship. However, at the end of it, we often realize that we are better together than apart.
I am nothing more than a person, and yet I know her love for me is without question. We have survived problems, and pain, and fights and tears, and through all of this we have managed to remember where our love lives. Over the years, we have tried many different tricks to minimize the anger which comes after a fight. For years, we subscribed to the theory of never going to sleep angry. Then, we heard that it is ok to sleep angry, so long as you confront the problem and resolve it. Then, we realized that whether we sleep angry or not, so long as our feet were touching when we went to sleep, then we still loved each other. (We saw that last one in a movie, or television.) Despite the resolution to the problem, we found only one thing which pulled us through. Our dedication to solving the problem, and our ability to communicate through the issue, generally at the top of our lungs, lead to the success we have seen.
It sounds weird that sometimes we communicate through yelling, but it has worked so far. The yelling is our way to get heard. As I write this, I again realize how insane this must sound. I plan to revise this communication strategy as soon as I get home. I really do miss her.
It’s funny the things you miss the most. I call it her “Remember to breathe,” stuff. It’s the little things she does which I can’t see here but I know she does, even when I am not there. The way her face gets a worried look on it, when she doesn’t understand. The way she tries to undertake arduous tasks while waiting for dinner to cook, thereby allowing the chicken to harden beyond well done. The way, once in a blue moon, the dinner comes out perfectly. The way she routinely fails to remember how great she is when she has a bad day at the office. I especially miss the loving reminders, her telling me to be careful, or be safe, or some other reminder to breathe, as her parting words, just hoping to have one more sentence before we separate. Most of all, I just miss her.
Now, back to reality. I am sitting in a tent right now. The date is August 4, 2002. The time is approximately 2000. (8:00, normal human time, 2:00 home time.) The 15’ x 30’ rubber and aluminum tent is a throw back to the field days of Washington, at Valley Forge, only bigger. There are probably 50 tents surrounding me at 4’ intervals. The tops leak through the pin holes formed over time, so we have used green packing tape to hold the water back, but we have to replace it pretty routinely.
At night the temperatures fall into the 50-60 degree range, which is in the -50,000 Celsius, I think based upon some rudimentary math conversions. During the day, the temperatures climb into the 90’s, which is comfortable here as the humidity is lower than Pennsylvania. Comfort is relative to the surroundings in which we survive. When you live in tents, and on an aluminum and canvas cot, with concrete and dirt floors, good weather goes a long way.
We are about 30 minutes from a nearby town which is off limits to us. I drove around the German countryside today, visiting a soldier in the hospital. The country here is a strange dream. I don’t understand why, but as I rode along the autobahn, everything seemed covered in a haze. The people aren’t real. They talk funny, and while I understand them and can speak their funny talk, I can’t appreciate them as I don’t see them routinely.
While at the hospital, I went to the gift shop looking for some antacid. However, I don’t remember learning the word for “Oh Jesus Christ, there is an inferno in my belly, and I am begging you to piss on it to put it out,” in German. So I sat there, bumbling through, and pleading for help. What a day. . .
It is funny the things you take for granted at home. Stuff like the washer and dryer being in the same building, or the food being available to you 24/7 in the fridge. Here, my food is kept in a blue container, and the laundry is a ten minute walk. I can sympathize with the city-dweller, who has to tote 30 punds of crap (laundry, soap, quarters, etc) to wash clothes. I spend this time quietly playing games and watching. Some people read, others call home. Interestingly, many here are trying to learn some form of the language over there. (Bosnia, Hungarian, Serbo-Croat, depending on the bookstore where they bought the book.) While many of my peers are really bright, not everyone has the ability to learn a language by book (I certainly don’t). I look forward to the day I am called to quell a disturbance because someone asked directions to the farmer’s daughter’s crotch.
On July 30, we left the United States. And everything human. But not before we had a “Family Day.” Family Day is the military’s form of an office party. It has the usual uncomfortable moments; the semi-inappropriate jokes, the overly drunk guy, and the boss who everyone’s lips are attaching to. However, the military’s form of the office party has one thing, the office doesn’t have: It usually concludes with the disruption of the family. I have to admit, among the toughest problems for me, was the young soldier whose wife was there, dressed in her best, showing her pride in her husband. Her husband happens to be among my best troops and dedicated to country as much as to family. When she turned around to look at the guy responsible for her husband’s well-being, all of this hit home.
Among the many people there was a remarkable woman named Jean Campbell. Her mission was not as an immediate family, but as a supporter of family members. Her son is serving overseas in Oman currently, and she volunteered with an organization called Blue Star Mothers. This organization was originally developed on the backbone of the blue star flag which hung on the windows during World War II to symbolize the family’s member serving in the war over seas. The flag would hang until the soldier returned, or the star was changed to gold, to show that the family member was killed in action.
Jean’s cause was not remarkable in and of itself, but rather that her resolved and dedication was representative of what I think this country should be about. The Pennsylvania chapter of this organization was being run by a woman older than her fifties. She also had two knees in braces, and carried that 75 pounds of weight, I am sure she would have rather lost. Ultimately, Jean’s resolve was what drove my wife to tears, and us to join her cause. If she believed in car sales like she believed in these flags, I would now be the proud owner of three. It’s pretty remarkable what one life altering incident in September can do. Her son now serves proudly in Oman, while she does her part in the States.
People like Jean came out in droves after the 11th of September 2002. But I think people like Jean existed prior to that fall. She made me remember what being dedicated and proud meant. And she reminded me that for every soldier out on the front in Germany, in Bosnia, or in Afghanistan, there are 2 – 3 people in the States, waiting for their return. Wives, mothers, fathers, and husbands all sit by the television, waiting for news, hoping nothing comes by telegram, and trying to live their lives. My wife sits at home, going to work, and trying to enjoy her free time with friends, but every person she sees, and every news story on the television comes around to me, sitting thousands of miles away.
I hope my wife realizes that while I sit here, passing the time, writing in this journal, I know the sacrifice she makes is exponentially greater than mine.
Now, I sit here trying to think about how to describe the relationship I have with my wife. Words like loyalty, dedication, and pride come to mind. I have never known someone who is more dedicated and so intensely proud of what we have done together. The love we share seems to have gone beyond that of when we first saw the stars in the eyes, and the romance, and all of those things which lovers start with. We have been good at keeping these things alive, but what we have been best at is growing together, in tandem.
I see couples whose passion and feverish love burns so bright at the start that they soon lose that flame, and rapidly fizzle. Others have fallen into a groove of life, and exist day-to-day. However, Amy and I seem to have as strong a passion as when we started. (Not the same passion, just the same strength.) And yet our groove is that of a partnership. We make decisions together, we reach common goals, and together we have found common success. This isn’t Oprah, this isn’t Dr. Phil. This is just the way we have worked it out over the time we have been together.
But we never fight. Ok, we fight, to the point where the neighbors think we’re insane. We fight until we’re blue in the face, and we rant and rave like lunatics. Probably not the best approach, and when I return, I think this is one area where I would change our relationship. However, at the end of it, we often realize that we are better together than apart.
I am nothing more than a person, and yet I know her love for me is without question. We have survived problems, and pain, and fights and tears, and through all of this we have managed to remember where our love lives. Over the years, we have tried many different tricks to minimize the anger which comes after a fight. For years, we subscribed to the theory of never going to sleep angry. Then, we heard that it is ok to sleep angry, so long as you confront the problem and resolve it. Then, we realized that whether we sleep angry or not, so long as our feet were touching when we went to sleep, then we still loved each other. (We saw that last one in a movie, or television.) Despite the resolution to the problem, we found only one thing which pulled us through. Our dedication to solving the problem, and our ability to communicate through the issue, generally at the top of our lungs, lead to the success we have seen.
It sounds weird that sometimes we communicate through yelling, but it has worked so far. The yelling is our way to get heard. As I write this, I again realize how insane this must sound. I plan to revise this communication strategy as soon as I get home. I really do miss her.
It’s funny the things you miss the most. I call it her “Remember to breathe,” stuff. It’s the little things she does which I can’t see here but I know she does, even when I am not there. The way her face gets a worried look on it, when she doesn’t understand. The way she tries to undertake arduous tasks while waiting for dinner to cook, thereby allowing the chicken to harden beyond well done. The way, once in a blue moon, the dinner comes out perfectly. The way she routinely fails to remember how great she is when she has a bad day at the office. I especially miss the loving reminders, her telling me to be careful, or be safe, or some other reminder to breathe, as her parting words, just hoping to have one more sentence before we separate. Most of all, I just miss her.
Now, back to reality. I am sitting in a tent right now. The date is August 4, 2002. The time is approximately 2000. (8:00, normal human time, 2:00 home time.) The 15’ x 30’ rubber and aluminum tent is a throw back to the field days of Washington, at Valley Forge, only bigger. There are probably 50 tents surrounding me at 4’ intervals. The tops leak through the pin holes formed over time, so we have used green packing tape to hold the water back, but we have to replace it pretty routinely.
At night the temperatures fall into the 50-60 degree range, which is in the -50,000 Celsius, I think based upon some rudimentary math conversions. During the day, the temperatures climb into the 90’s, which is comfortable here as the humidity is lower than Pennsylvania. Comfort is relative to the surroundings in which we survive. When you live in tents, and on an aluminum and canvas cot, with concrete and dirt floors, good weather goes a long way.
We are about 30 minutes from a nearby town which is off limits to us. I drove around the German countryside today, visiting a soldier in the hospital. The country here is a strange dream. I don’t understand why, but as I rode along the autobahn, everything seemed covered in a haze. The people aren’t real. They talk funny, and while I understand them and can speak their funny talk, I can’t appreciate them as I don’t see them routinely.
While at the hospital, I went to the gift shop looking for some antacid. However, I don’t remember learning the word for “Oh Jesus Christ, there is an inferno in my belly, and I am begging you to piss on it to put it out,” in German. So I sat there, bumbling through, and pleading for help. What a day. . .
“Crime” and Punishment
Tonight was one soldier’s 21st birthday. Interesting the memories we have of this monumentous day. Some spend it throwing alcohol into their bellies while friends help keep their hair from the foul toilet water. I spent my day, planning how I would go to Operation Desert Storm, as I played Operation Just Watch. Also known as sitting on the bar stool, watching the news. I am sure some warriors spent their day walking into the desert, while some Iraqi troops spent theirs trying to figure out a way out.
Well, in the interest of Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR, the Army’s form of forced fun), the unit took up a collection, hired some dancing girls, acquired a building, rigged a stereo system, and threw one hell of a party. Until the police showed up. That’s when the real party started.
Some facts about this particular evening. Cover charge for the event was $10. There were two women whose ages were in the 22-28 range. The “blonde” was the younger of the two, though her leathery skin, too tanned from the booths at Hollywood Tans, and whose abdomen was covered in strech marks from child[ren] delivered recently. She was attractive. Right up until the time she smiled. Then you see the quality of dental coverage in the region. For a definition of attractive, please see the starving man’s definition of an oyster cracker. When you haven’t seen anything female in four days. . .
Her business partner was a shorter brunette. She was Italian, or from somewhere in the Mediterranean, and about 10 degrees from being beautiful. But while she may have been on the beautiful path at some point in her life, she deviated about ten degrees, left or right of center. Putting her smack dab in the middle of mediocrity. Fifteen pounds overweight, all centered on her belly, piss poor wardrobe, and a boredom in her work performance, only equaled by the quality control employee in the lint factory.
Now, all of the women’s rights and empowerment zealots are angry. I have valued a woman on her looks alone. Things I don’t know about these women –
1. Education
2. Family responsibilities. (financial and other)
3. “Inner beauty”
4. Other information I didn’t bother to gather.
In short, what I don’t know about these women could just about fit into the Grand Canyon. But, with all of the unknowns, what I know is that these women trade on their bodies, and therefore their bodies are their workplace. I would complain that same if I entered a store with a filthy floor, or a doctor’s office with diplomas from Jo-ellen’s school of colorectal surgery and engine repair. You have to have the skills to pay the bills.
So, as soldiers will do, the men of the Cavalry threw the party. I personally came early and left shortly thereafter. I’m no saint. I intended to return within the hour but frankly wasn’t into the girls. Reasons for the departure could have legitimately been any of the following – (Pick all that apply)
1. Exhaustion
2. Filth, (Needed a shower)
3. Filth, (the girls needed a sand-blasting)
4. Didn’t need another reason to be hornier.
5. All of the above.
On my way back, clean, and carrying two airplane bottles of Jack Daniels, I see the members of the social event standing outside of the barracks, and in the distance I can make out the reflections of red and blue lights off of the warehouse in the background. Being the keen detective I am, I knew something was amiss.
Years ago I would have gone forward, to see if I could help. At 32, some self-preservation and some intelligence kick in. At this point in my life, I realize a few things. I am not here as a lawyer, and I am not here to be a scapegoat. So I turn around and hang out with the other cowards in the shadows. From the groups comes a lot of bravado, spoken in hushed voices. Everyone is a big man outside of the reach of the law. I would have liked to seen these guys while they were in front of the man.
So the police begin their investigation. The next morning, I am at the police station working through a more minor unrelated incident for a soldier, and I get to meet the “Chief” of Police here at Ft. Indiantown Gap. The Chief is a small man, in every visible manner. His height, his mind, and he department are all on the small side. When you meet him, you can immediately sense why. He gives you all of the comfort of a weasel, with his beady eyes, wanna-be-tougher soldier haircut, and “different” uniform. He wears a grey woolen shirt, which I’m sure the vendor told the buyer was “summer” weight, but over its many washings seems to have grown thicker. Above his left breast pocket is a military style name tape, printed in block letters, CHIEF WORLEY. It reminds me of the movie Blazing Saddles, where Mel Brooks in his role as the governor, has the word GOV displayed on the back of his robe. I’m no genius, but you can generally tell who the chief of a police department is, by when he says, “Hello, I am CHIEF So-and-so.” I really doubt I need to see his name tag.
So we chat about the business I am there on, and then we begin to move on to what else is new. While we haven’t ever met, I am nosy, and people seem to tell me stuff when I ask. Chief Worley begins to enlighten me on the activities on post, and the events which transpired in the make-shift strip club. Things to mention were the cover charge, paid at the door, the strippers who were gyrating wildly, and the two beds, “which had space to walk around them, as though they were there for people to gather around. The beds were made, but not in a military style.” His implication was clear here. People were planning on some form of orgy. That’s what city folk do. His crack investigative team discovered these beds, in a building surrounded by barracks, with sheets on them, no other evidence of sexual inter-relations (besides the strippers), and they immediately conclude that the beds were to be used later by the strippers and the men around them.
Someone once told me that the explanation for a situation is usually the most obvious explanation for a situation. The “cover charge” at the door was being charged, but not because anyone was trying to make a profit. The beds were not really made, but had their hygienic cotton slip covers over them and while there were strippers and while the desire of the crowd was probably there, there was in fact no orgy, actual or planned. The corollary to this problem is that when you couple the risqué dancers with the other facts, and mesh in a police department whose entire blotter consists of underage drinking, DUI, speeding and some domestic battery and incest, this is what you get. The most egregious wrongdoing here is the police’s inexperience. I don’t fault the police. It just might have been nice to figure out what was going on, before they leveled the accusation gun.
Well, in the interest of Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR, the Army’s form of forced fun), the unit took up a collection, hired some dancing girls, acquired a building, rigged a stereo system, and threw one hell of a party. Until the police showed up. That’s when the real party started.
Some facts about this particular evening. Cover charge for the event was $10. There were two women whose ages were in the 22-28 range. The “blonde” was the younger of the two, though her leathery skin, too tanned from the booths at Hollywood Tans, and whose abdomen was covered in strech marks from child[ren] delivered recently. She was attractive. Right up until the time she smiled. Then you see the quality of dental coverage in the region. For a definition of attractive, please see the starving man’s definition of an oyster cracker. When you haven’t seen anything female in four days. . .
Her business partner was a shorter brunette. She was Italian, or from somewhere in the Mediterranean, and about 10 degrees from being beautiful. But while she may have been on the beautiful path at some point in her life, she deviated about ten degrees, left or right of center. Putting her smack dab in the middle of mediocrity. Fifteen pounds overweight, all centered on her belly, piss poor wardrobe, and a boredom in her work performance, only equaled by the quality control employee in the lint factory.
Now, all of the women’s rights and empowerment zealots are angry. I have valued a woman on her looks alone. Things I don’t know about these women –
1. Education
2. Family responsibilities. (financial and other)
3. “Inner beauty”
4. Other information I didn’t bother to gather.
In short, what I don’t know about these women could just about fit into the Grand Canyon. But, with all of the unknowns, what I know is that these women trade on their bodies, and therefore their bodies are their workplace. I would complain that same if I entered a store with a filthy floor, or a doctor’s office with diplomas from Jo-ellen’s school of colorectal surgery and engine repair. You have to have the skills to pay the bills.
So, as soldiers will do, the men of the Cavalry threw the party. I personally came early and left shortly thereafter. I’m no saint. I intended to return within the hour but frankly wasn’t into the girls. Reasons for the departure could have legitimately been any of the following – (Pick all that apply)
1. Exhaustion
2. Filth, (Needed a shower)
3. Filth, (the girls needed a sand-blasting)
4. Didn’t need another reason to be hornier.
5. All of the above.
On my way back, clean, and carrying two airplane bottles of Jack Daniels, I see the members of the social event standing outside of the barracks, and in the distance I can make out the reflections of red and blue lights off of the warehouse in the background. Being the keen detective I am, I knew something was amiss.
Years ago I would have gone forward, to see if I could help. At 32, some self-preservation and some intelligence kick in. At this point in my life, I realize a few things. I am not here as a lawyer, and I am not here to be a scapegoat. So I turn around and hang out with the other cowards in the shadows. From the groups comes a lot of bravado, spoken in hushed voices. Everyone is a big man outside of the reach of the law. I would have liked to seen these guys while they were in front of the man.
So the police begin their investigation. The next morning, I am at the police station working through a more minor unrelated incident for a soldier, and I get to meet the “Chief” of Police here at Ft. Indiantown Gap. The Chief is a small man, in every visible manner. His height, his mind, and he department are all on the small side. When you meet him, you can immediately sense why. He gives you all of the comfort of a weasel, with his beady eyes, wanna-be-tougher soldier haircut, and “different” uniform. He wears a grey woolen shirt, which I’m sure the vendor told the buyer was “summer” weight, but over its many washings seems to have grown thicker. Above his left breast pocket is a military style name tape, printed in block letters, CHIEF WORLEY. It reminds me of the movie Blazing Saddles, where Mel Brooks in his role as the governor, has the word GOV displayed on the back of his robe. I’m no genius, but you can generally tell who the chief of a police department is, by when he says, “Hello, I am CHIEF So-and-so.” I really doubt I need to see his name tag.
So we chat about the business I am there on, and then we begin to move on to what else is new. While we haven’t ever met, I am nosy, and people seem to tell me stuff when I ask. Chief Worley begins to enlighten me on the activities on post, and the events which transpired in the make-shift strip club. Things to mention were the cover charge, paid at the door, the strippers who were gyrating wildly, and the two beds, “which had space to walk around them, as though they were there for people to gather around. The beds were made, but not in a military style.” His implication was clear here. People were planning on some form of orgy. That’s what city folk do. His crack investigative team discovered these beds, in a building surrounded by barracks, with sheets on them, no other evidence of sexual inter-relations (besides the strippers), and they immediately conclude that the beds were to be used later by the strippers and the men around them.
Someone once told me that the explanation for a situation is usually the most obvious explanation for a situation. The “cover charge” at the door was being charged, but not because anyone was trying to make a profit. The beds were not really made, but had their hygienic cotton slip covers over them and while there were strippers and while the desire of the crowd was probably there, there was in fact no orgy, actual or planned. The corollary to this problem is that when you couple the risqué dancers with the other facts, and mesh in a police department whose entire blotter consists of underage drinking, DUI, speeding and some domestic battery and incest, this is what you get. The most egregious wrongdoing here is the police’s inexperience. I don’t fault the police. It just might have been nice to figure out what was going on, before they leveled the accusation gun.
Army Training, SIr!
While I haven’t written in two weeks, it doesn’t mean I am not having fun. It is just a coincidence. Sitting here in limbo, we train as we intend to fight in training.
Our training has moved from the basics, thing which we learning in Basic Training, to more advanced infantry fighting. While the basics showed us how to move as individuals (crawling, for laypersons), we have learned now how to crawl as a group of 18 soldiers. These soldiers can now “fire and maneuver”, a principle where some of the group sits and shoots while the others crawl or charge, forward or backward to their objective. We begin this by talking it through, then we practice. And then we run it with “fake” blank ammunition. And then we run it live ammunition. The training is designed to build confidence in your buddies, without requiring you to lay your life on the line.
Every day, we encounter a similar set or facts and circumstances, which we approach with the same method as the day before. We find then that while the facts of the situation are the same, the approach we must take is different, as the evaluator has changed.
I think one of the most magical parts of my life today is knowing the technical advances our society has made. When my old neighbor Joe Patrizio came to Ft. Indiantown Gap for his training prior to World War II (same barracks, different paint, probably), he came without much contact from home. Letters were few and far between, and the people who wrote him were trying to ration their stamps, paper and other commodities. I think, as my history is terrible.
On July 8th, I realized how far we have come. I received a “care package” of the most disturbing sort. Those cardboard storage boxes, businesses use for their long term storage of files, and other materials, was the transport of choice in this case. It would seem that some co-workers of mine discovered exactly how much stuff could be shaken from the candy machine. The amazement from technology stems from the potent chemicals which kept the krimpets, coffee cakes, and other pastries alive for the several days the package was in transit and the several more it sat in a military post office, as they don’t deliver mail while I am attending to the important bar-b-ques over the July 4th weekend. Patriotism only goes so far.
While I am thoroughly grateful for everything that was sent, and for the effort that went into the package, I found a few more notable items.
Rocco Albano – Rocco is a quick talking, Mercedes driving, South Philadelphian with a fast wit, and an even faster way of getting himself in trouble. Rocco’s contribution to the Bosnian Comic Relief effort was four quarters. ($1.00). He either got this money from my desk prior to my departure, or from trading illegal playing cards on eBay.
Emily Goodwin – Emily is pure of heart and dedicated to the many social causes designed to protect our earthly existence for the next million years. Low emission vehicles, and preservation of life are among the causes she fights for. She is the truest of patriots as her dedication extends beyond the nation and to the planet. He contribution was a die cast metal HUMMER, the kinds Rap Stars and wanna-be-outdoorsmen park in their driveways, so that lesser men can ogle their shiny trucks. I loved it as it had the message inscribed in 3M Post It notes – The freedom I am defending is ‘. . .cheap gasoline for SUV owners.” I laughed out loud.
Richard Schwartz – Rich is intensity. Occasionally unbridled and unrestrained, but intensity. While I can’t directly attribute the Kodak disposable camera to Rich, his last words to me as I left three weeks ago were “Just do me a favor. Send me a picture of you sitting on the hood of the HUMM-VEE, wearing nothing but your boots, your helmet, your rifle and a smile. I got his smile.
Other notable items which made the box, but went un-signed –
The sign of a former co-worker – My disturbed habit of collecting peoples former name plates seems to have outlived me, and even in my absence will hopefully live on. Beware any new people. If you sign shows up in my old cell, I mean office, you should consider packing your things. Bad things are in your future.
The airline bottle of Jack Daniels – I have strong reason to believe that this was stolen from aboard a plane during a sales call to the west coast. I am worried that my former brethren (sip) think I may (sip) have a problem controlling my (sip, sip) consumption.
The Can of Whoop Ass – A soda orders by another former MBC employee through a perverse catalog, Whoop Ass is a sick cocktail of amphetamine, caffeine and soda water. (Not really, but don’t drink this if you intend on sleeping. Ever.)
I know I didn’t mention everyone, but this is not an Emmy acceptance speech, and I only picked on those I love. (No, really Rocco, I mean it.) I know that among the many loving signatories, there were a few who really went the extra mile. I really appreciate it, and on my return, please know that I will repay the favor. If someone would clue me in on who they were, I will save the last drink for them. Thank you. And if someone could please explain to Andrew that no matter how many times I tell the Army, I am not really gay.
The really great thing about the care package concept is the surprise. It is one of the few last surprises in my life as I enter my mid-thirties. The surprise comes from not knowing when it is coming or what is inside. I had heard rumors through e-mail of its contents, and the occasional call, but when it arrived I tore it open with more passion than many of my high school girlfriends dresses. I was told later that I have been the only care package so far this year and the post office here on base hasn’t seen one in memory.
A lament running through this monologue is the re-kindled annoyance at technology. I can remember the last time I was away from home for longer than two weeks. In 1990, I entered US Army Basic Training, at Ft. Benning, Georgia. Phone calls with the outside were a seldom provided privilege. Mobile phones were not around, in full force, and e-mail was something still in development. However, the mail system worked. For pennies, and some free time, you could mail a missive across the country to where your sweetie, or mother, or sister could feel your love, stories, and homesickness as though they were next to you. I learned to appreciate the written word, and savored every letter. (In fact, the cost of receiving a letter was ten push-ups. One kid received ten letters in one day, and had to have his suits altered to fit his increasing chest).
My girlfriend at the time wrote almost daily, and I would reply with discussions of love, the future, and our plans. Some poetry found its way in, and she would reply with even greater zeal. I think to this day, one of the reasons why she pops in my head is that commitment we shared being separated, and the dialog we had 1,500 miles apart. Like prisoners separated by a wall who tap messages to each other, we had our letters, mine often written under the sheets by flashlight, and hers written during any free moment.
Now I have a cell phone that only leads to arguments with my wife, homesickness so heavy my belly feels like it holds a stone balloon, and inadvertent comments which cause me worry.
But I also have the internet. Housed in a building where temperatures hover consistently in the 100’s, the state-of-the-art Compaq computers run at sub-par speeds while their internal mechanisms fail from the heat. I refuse to look at the news, as information comes out daily, and I can use none of it for now. A notable piece of human psychology: When each day is planned to the minute, and when the next six months of days are planned with 90% certainty, world events have no bearing on your life. And when these event have no bearing, then apathy grows. The only thing I am certain of at this point about the news is than barring WW III, we are going to Bosnia. Any other world news is simply noise.
Our training has moved from the basics, thing which we learning in Basic Training, to more advanced infantry fighting. While the basics showed us how to move as individuals (crawling, for laypersons), we have learned now how to crawl as a group of 18 soldiers. These soldiers can now “fire and maneuver”, a principle where some of the group sits and shoots while the others crawl or charge, forward or backward to their objective. We begin this by talking it through, then we practice. And then we run it with “fake” blank ammunition. And then we run it live ammunition. The training is designed to build confidence in your buddies, without requiring you to lay your life on the line.
Every day, we encounter a similar set or facts and circumstances, which we approach with the same method as the day before. We find then that while the facts of the situation are the same, the approach we must take is different, as the evaluator has changed.
I think one of the most magical parts of my life today is knowing the technical advances our society has made. When my old neighbor Joe Patrizio came to Ft. Indiantown Gap for his training prior to World War II (same barracks, different paint, probably), he came without much contact from home. Letters were few and far between, and the people who wrote him were trying to ration their stamps, paper and other commodities. I think, as my history is terrible.
On July 8th, I realized how far we have come. I received a “care package” of the most disturbing sort. Those cardboard storage boxes, businesses use for their long term storage of files, and other materials, was the transport of choice in this case. It would seem that some co-workers of mine discovered exactly how much stuff could be shaken from the candy machine. The amazement from technology stems from the potent chemicals which kept the krimpets, coffee cakes, and other pastries alive for the several days the package was in transit and the several more it sat in a military post office, as they don’t deliver mail while I am attending to the important bar-b-ques over the July 4th weekend. Patriotism only goes so far.
While I am thoroughly grateful for everything that was sent, and for the effort that went into the package, I found a few more notable items.
Rocco Albano – Rocco is a quick talking, Mercedes driving, South Philadelphian with a fast wit, and an even faster way of getting himself in trouble. Rocco’s contribution to the Bosnian Comic Relief effort was four quarters. ($1.00). He either got this money from my desk prior to my departure, or from trading illegal playing cards on eBay.
Emily Goodwin – Emily is pure of heart and dedicated to the many social causes designed to protect our earthly existence for the next million years. Low emission vehicles, and preservation of life are among the causes she fights for. She is the truest of patriots as her dedication extends beyond the nation and to the planet. He contribution was a die cast metal HUMMER, the kinds Rap Stars and wanna-be-outdoorsmen park in their driveways, so that lesser men can ogle their shiny trucks. I loved it as it had the message inscribed in 3M Post It notes – The freedom I am defending is ‘. . .cheap gasoline for SUV owners.” I laughed out loud.
Richard Schwartz – Rich is intensity. Occasionally unbridled and unrestrained, but intensity. While I can’t directly attribute the Kodak disposable camera to Rich, his last words to me as I left three weeks ago were “Just do me a favor. Send me a picture of you sitting on the hood of the HUMM-VEE, wearing nothing but your boots, your helmet, your rifle and a smile. I got his smile.
Other notable items which made the box, but went un-signed –
The sign of a former co-worker – My disturbed habit of collecting peoples former name plates seems to have outlived me, and even in my absence will hopefully live on. Beware any new people. If you sign shows up in my old cell, I mean office, you should consider packing your things. Bad things are in your future.
The airline bottle of Jack Daniels – I have strong reason to believe that this was stolen from aboard a plane during a sales call to the west coast. I am worried that my former brethren (sip) think I may (sip) have a problem controlling my (sip, sip) consumption.
The Can of Whoop Ass – A soda orders by another former MBC employee through a perverse catalog, Whoop Ass is a sick cocktail of amphetamine, caffeine and soda water. (Not really, but don’t drink this if you intend on sleeping. Ever.)
I know I didn’t mention everyone, but this is not an Emmy acceptance speech, and I only picked on those I love. (No, really Rocco, I mean it.) I know that among the many loving signatories, there were a few who really went the extra mile. I really appreciate it, and on my return, please know that I will repay the favor. If someone would clue me in on who they were, I will save the last drink for them. Thank you. And if someone could please explain to Andrew that no matter how many times I tell the Army, I am not really gay.
The really great thing about the care package concept is the surprise. It is one of the few last surprises in my life as I enter my mid-thirties. The surprise comes from not knowing when it is coming or what is inside. I had heard rumors through e-mail of its contents, and the occasional call, but when it arrived I tore it open with more passion than many of my high school girlfriends dresses. I was told later that I have been the only care package so far this year and the post office here on base hasn’t seen one in memory.
A lament running through this monologue is the re-kindled annoyance at technology. I can remember the last time I was away from home for longer than two weeks. In 1990, I entered US Army Basic Training, at Ft. Benning, Georgia. Phone calls with the outside were a seldom provided privilege. Mobile phones were not around, in full force, and e-mail was something still in development. However, the mail system worked. For pennies, and some free time, you could mail a missive across the country to where your sweetie, or mother, or sister could feel your love, stories, and homesickness as though they were next to you. I learned to appreciate the written word, and savored every letter. (In fact, the cost of receiving a letter was ten push-ups. One kid received ten letters in one day, and had to have his suits altered to fit his increasing chest).
My girlfriend at the time wrote almost daily, and I would reply with discussions of love, the future, and our plans. Some poetry found its way in, and she would reply with even greater zeal. I think to this day, one of the reasons why she pops in my head is that commitment we shared being separated, and the dialog we had 1,500 miles apart. Like prisoners separated by a wall who tap messages to each other, we had our letters, mine often written under the sheets by flashlight, and hers written during any free moment.
Now I have a cell phone that only leads to arguments with my wife, homesickness so heavy my belly feels like it holds a stone balloon, and inadvertent comments which cause me worry.
But I also have the internet. Housed in a building where temperatures hover consistently in the 100’s, the state-of-the-art Compaq computers run at sub-par speeds while their internal mechanisms fail from the heat. I refuse to look at the news, as information comes out daily, and I can use none of it for now. A notable piece of human psychology: When each day is planned to the minute, and when the next six months of days are planned with 90% certainty, world events have no bearing on your life. And when these event have no bearing, then apathy grows. The only thing I am certain of at this point about the news is than barring WW III, we are going to Bosnia. Any other world news is simply noise.
So here is comes.
So I haven't posted anything interesting in a while (perhaps ever). I fell into a writer's funk I guess, as having watched our political system degrade, I haven't really felt like ranting. However, I also found a little piece of history. The original blog if you will. These writings were written over a period of months while sitting in the sweltering heat of the Summer of 2002 near Harrisburg, PA, and into the bowels of eastern Europe (lower bowels, pretty much in the worst condition of their history. . .) So, without further adieu, I am posting the dispatches from the "front" so that my son can read "what Daddy did during the war" which can be summarized as "sitting on my ass."
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
I am Jason's red hot rage
As I sit here watching the potential leadership of our nation debate the issues of today, I find myself in bewildered disgust. While I am certain a fan of neither candidate in toto, I am now completely against the Senator from Arizona. His thought on mortgage buys outs and fear mongering coupled with his annoying whistle when he speaks sends chills up my spine. While I am certain he brings volumes of experience, but he brings a twinge of insanity as well.
As I think back to my wife and I, when we sold our home near Philadelphia, we sold at a premium based on market demand. We sold to a young couple who were just starting out, and who took out a 100% mortgage on the property. Now, Amy and I knew at the time, that their collective income was no more than $50,000 per year, and that their mortgage payments would be somewhere in the neighborhood of $2,500 per month. Now, I am no mathematician, but I am certain that at this rate, with normal taxes and normal expenses, this couple would not be eating for the next thirty years. And they had their friend and mortgage broker to thank for it.
Senator McCain proposed this evening that couples like this would be bailed out by the federal government so that they could keep their home and get it at a discounted rate. Great plan, but let's look at what could happen.
The property was sold for $312,000 three years ago, with a 100% mortgage. Let's assume that this property now has a fair market value based on comparable properties and the tax assessor, of $250,000. The Senator proposed tonight that the federal government buys out the mortgage, at 312, and re-issues it for $250,000, the remaining balance (or something near that. Remember that the capital on many mortgages is relatively unaffected until year 5 or later on a 30 year mortgage.) So, the buyer of my old house now has a $62,000 gift from the federal government. Further, let's assume something else. Let's pretend that this bailout saves the economy. Huzzah! Now this property is worth 312 again. Or more. Does this couple repay this gift? Of course not. Let's pretend again that in ten years the property is worth $400,000. The couple now walks away with $150,000 from the party, thanks to our government. This is a blatant purchase of the vote.
Now, let's look at those this effects. This impacts people who bought homes, who simply could not afford it, and rather than wait or find a cheaper property, or have a commute longer than 30 minutes. Tough. Read my article on economic darwinism.
However, let's look at others who are in less dire straits. Let's assume you have a couple in Philadelphia who bought a $900,000 home 7 years ago. Let's assume they mortgaged it for 100%. Four years later, the property is worth $1MM and they refinance the mortgage for $990k to add a pool to the back. Nice place. I wish I lived there. Now the market tanks two years later, and their property is worth $700k. Do they get the benefit? What if the owner lost their job? What if they make $1MM per year? Does it matter? Probably not under the McCain plan. . .
Now, I am going back to the debates - To watch both of these guys not answer the questions. . .
The Senator from Arizona has taken a stance which will cost this nation hundreds of millions of dollars within days of his potential inauguration
As I think back to my wife and I, when we sold our home near Philadelphia, we sold at a premium based on market demand. We sold to a young couple who were just starting out, and who took out a 100% mortgage on the property. Now, Amy and I knew at the time, that their collective income was no more than $50,000 per year, and that their mortgage payments would be somewhere in the neighborhood of $2,500 per month. Now, I am no mathematician, but I am certain that at this rate, with normal taxes and normal expenses, this couple would not be eating for the next thirty years. And they had their friend and mortgage broker to thank for it.
Senator McCain proposed this evening that couples like this would be bailed out by the federal government so that they could keep their home and get it at a discounted rate. Great plan, but let's look at what could happen.
The property was sold for $312,000 three years ago, with a 100% mortgage. Let's assume that this property now has a fair market value based on comparable properties and the tax assessor, of $250,000. The Senator proposed tonight that the federal government buys out the mortgage, at 312, and re-issues it for $250,000, the remaining balance (or something near that. Remember that the capital on many mortgages is relatively unaffected until year 5 or later on a 30 year mortgage.) So, the buyer of my old house now has a $62,000 gift from the federal government. Further, let's assume something else. Let's pretend that this bailout saves the economy. Huzzah! Now this property is worth 312 again. Or more. Does this couple repay this gift? Of course not. Let's pretend again that in ten years the property is worth $400,000. The couple now walks away with $150,000 from the party, thanks to our government. This is a blatant purchase of the vote.
Now, let's look at those this effects. This impacts people who bought homes, who simply could not afford it, and rather than wait or find a cheaper property, or have a commute longer than 30 minutes. Tough. Read my article on economic darwinism.
However, let's look at others who are in less dire straits. Let's assume you have a couple in Philadelphia who bought a $900,000 home 7 years ago. Let's assume they mortgaged it for 100%. Four years later, the property is worth $1MM and they refinance the mortgage for $990k to add a pool to the back. Nice place. I wish I lived there. Now the market tanks two years later, and their property is worth $700k. Do they get the benefit? What if the owner lost their job? What if they make $1MM per year? Does it matter? Probably not under the McCain plan. . .
Now, I am going back to the debates - To watch both of these guys not answer the questions. . .
The Senator from Arizona has taken a stance which will cost this nation hundreds of millions of dollars within days of his potential inauguration
Community Service
When I was around 12, still idealistic, and hopeful that there was redemption for a soul I knew I would surely torture, I volunteered through my school to work with local community institutions. I went to what we today call an "elder care facility", but back then we called it a retirement community. I sat with older people and watched soap operas, and kept them company while their own children squandered their future inheritance on novelties like the personal computer (this was 1982 afterall.).
I then worked for a home for what we now call "special needs" children, who were really truly and completely without an ability to do anything for themselves. These are for lack of a better term the "worst of the worst" of mentally retarded. Disadvantaged or disabled barely scratched the surface. I don't mean to be harsh; I just want to paint a real picture here. The people who worked for the center full time were the noblest of the noble.
During these formative years I realized the importance of service to the greater good. Don't get me wrong. There is nothing heroic about what I did - I pulled my share - but it taught me that no matter how tough life can be, there is always time to give a little back, and that someone always has it tougher than you. However, we today have a generation which appears to be somewhat directionless. I remember on September 12, 2001 a college student from my alma mater, Temple University, was interviewed. His comment (paraphrased slightly) was 'it was horrible, but I don't know if it is worth dying for.' At that moment in time, the one galvanizing event of our generation was wiped away, like dust in an eye for many. The more mature of our population cried. We got angry. We saw people join the Army and Marine Corps, leaving jobs paying hundreds of thousands to live below the poverty level, but the masses remained behind thinking that its bad, but not enough to interfere with their lifes. I mean, 3,000 bankers, businessmen and lawyers? Well, they were rich, right? Not worth dying for. Oh brother, what a message.
Our current populace en masse between the ages of 17 and 50 have never really had a common cause to unite a nation. World War II galvanized a nation to action. Sacrifice. Loss. Victory. We saw people sacrifice sugar for their cakes at home, so our soldiers overseas could have sugar in their coffee. We saw people forego the purchase of a new automobile so that our soldiers could ride in the protection of the Sherman tank. We had an enemy who needed to be dethroned, and we did it. Victory. Unification.
Today, more than 60 years later, as the last World War II warriors take their place in Valhalla, we have a new generation of Americans, forged in the history of Vietnam and Korea, where war was unpopular because we lacked a unifying cause. We have a generation where the gap between the haves and have nots have grown exponentially, and where many of the haves have chosen to move from public service into the private sector. And in turn we have a nation where the military is at war and many of the remainder are on vacation.
7,000 miles from the United States, we have over 160,000 servicemen and women standing in harms way, and no one here is giving up their sugar for them. Where people can still buy the HUMMER H2 and fuel it on the back of these people and pay homage to them with an occasional magnet or flag sticker. They ask for little in return, and the people of our nation has been great at giving them very little. So I propose a plan to pay them homage.
I submit that Community Service is the road to unifying our nation. When I failed out of college and had to join the Army to pay for school, I learned the true value of an education. I believe that when something is earned, something is truly gained. If I had to earn my right to vote at 18, then I would take it more seriously. If I lost my citizenship because I simply existed here, I would do more than just exist. Unfortunately again, this generation of residents has yet to earn its citizenship. Robert Heinlein, the sci-fi author who was the impetus behind "Starship Troopers" imagines a society where service equals citizenship, and this is an idea whose principles need to be embraced.
I am not suggesting that the only form of service is military - quite the opposite. The draft is a failed idea of a time of desperation. While we should encourage military service, it should no more or less required than participating in non-military service to the nation. Conscription of civilians into military service is a horrible idea which results in lower acceptance standards, high risk on the front lines and an overall reduction in discipline.
Instead, I would think that for the vast majority of residents, citizenship is retained through services to the greater good. Work for a non-profit? The service counts. Work for a non-profit that preaches anger, hate and violence? Sadly, while I would try to dissuade you from this path, the service counts. Work on a campaign for state senator? Counts. Pick up trash on a weekend? Peace Corps? USAID work? Time in El Salvador, teaching english to spanish speakers? Still good. Play video games on Saturday until your thumbs are sore? Sorry, here's your one-way ticket to Mexico City.
We have come a long way since June of 1944. Many would point to our technical advances, our strong position in foreign affairs and our historically strong economic markets and say that we as a nation have advanced. However, I would submit that if I compare the average 22 year old male of today against that of 64 years ago today, I would suggest that we have devolved from where we should have been with 60 years of "advancement". When you don't have to work for your rights, you lose the appreciation for them. And eventually you will lose them entirely. While our best Americans serve around the world in many of these military and non-military roles, our majority remains secure behind the service these men and women provide and a little shake up would help us get together again, before someone seizes our rights to freedom entirely.
I then worked for a home for what we now call "special needs" children, who were really truly and completely without an ability to do anything for themselves. These are for lack of a better term the "worst of the worst" of mentally retarded. Disadvantaged or disabled barely scratched the surface. I don't mean to be harsh; I just want to paint a real picture here. The people who worked for the center full time were the noblest of the noble.
During these formative years I realized the importance of service to the greater good. Don't get me wrong. There is nothing heroic about what I did - I pulled my share - but it taught me that no matter how tough life can be, there is always time to give a little back, and that someone always has it tougher than you. However, we today have a generation which appears to be somewhat directionless. I remember on September 12, 2001 a college student from my alma mater, Temple University, was interviewed. His comment (paraphrased slightly) was 'it was horrible, but I don't know if it is worth dying for.' At that moment in time, the one galvanizing event of our generation was wiped away, like dust in an eye for many. The more mature of our population cried. We got angry. We saw people join the Army and Marine Corps, leaving jobs paying hundreds of thousands to live below the poverty level, but the masses remained behind thinking that its bad, but not enough to interfere with their lifes. I mean, 3,000 bankers, businessmen and lawyers? Well, they were rich, right? Not worth dying for. Oh brother, what a message.
Our current populace en masse between the ages of 17 and 50 have never really had a common cause to unite a nation. World War II galvanized a nation to action. Sacrifice. Loss. Victory. We saw people sacrifice sugar for their cakes at home, so our soldiers overseas could have sugar in their coffee. We saw people forego the purchase of a new automobile so that our soldiers could ride in the protection of the Sherman tank. We had an enemy who needed to be dethroned, and we did it. Victory. Unification.
Today, more than 60 years later, as the last World War II warriors take their place in Valhalla, we have a new generation of Americans, forged in the history of Vietnam and Korea, where war was unpopular because we lacked a unifying cause. We have a generation where the gap between the haves and have nots have grown exponentially, and where many of the haves have chosen to move from public service into the private sector. And in turn we have a nation where the military is at war and many of the remainder are on vacation.
7,000 miles from the United States, we have over 160,000 servicemen and women standing in harms way, and no one here is giving up their sugar for them. Where people can still buy the HUMMER H2 and fuel it on the back of these people and pay homage to them with an occasional magnet or flag sticker. They ask for little in return, and the people of our nation has been great at giving them very little. So I propose a plan to pay them homage.
I submit that Community Service is the road to unifying our nation. When I failed out of college and had to join the Army to pay for school, I learned the true value of an education. I believe that when something is earned, something is truly gained. If I had to earn my right to vote at 18, then I would take it more seriously. If I lost my citizenship because I simply existed here, I would do more than just exist. Unfortunately again, this generation of residents has yet to earn its citizenship. Robert Heinlein, the sci-fi author who was the impetus behind "Starship Troopers" imagines a society where service equals citizenship, and this is an idea whose principles need to be embraced.
I am not suggesting that the only form of service is military - quite the opposite. The draft is a failed idea of a time of desperation. While we should encourage military service, it should no more or less required than participating in non-military service to the nation. Conscription of civilians into military service is a horrible idea which results in lower acceptance standards, high risk on the front lines and an overall reduction in discipline.
Instead, I would think that for the vast majority of residents, citizenship is retained through services to the greater good. Work for a non-profit? The service counts. Work for a non-profit that preaches anger, hate and violence? Sadly, while I would try to dissuade you from this path, the service counts. Work on a campaign for state senator? Counts. Pick up trash on a weekend? Peace Corps? USAID work? Time in El Salvador, teaching english to spanish speakers? Still good. Play video games on Saturday until your thumbs are sore? Sorry, here's your one-way ticket to Mexico City.
We have come a long way since June of 1944. Many would point to our technical advances, our strong position in foreign affairs and our historically strong economic markets and say that we as a nation have advanced. However, I would submit that if I compare the average 22 year old male of today against that of 64 years ago today, I would suggest that we have devolved from where we should have been with 60 years of "advancement". When you don't have to work for your rights, you lose the appreciation for them. And eventually you will lose them entirely. While our best Americans serve around the world in many of these military and non-military roles, our majority remains secure behind the service these men and women provide and a little shake up would help us get together again, before someone seizes our rights to freedom entirely.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Flying Sleepless from Seattle.
I originally posted this to Craigslist in Rants and Raves, and didn't want to lose this nugget.
To the middle seat airline passenger from Canada who shared a 3 hour and 30 minute ride from Seattle to Houston as I made my way to Philadelphia. I want to thank you. You made my trip notable, even though it was miserable. I can't wait to get back to my new home town Raleigh
First, when you sat down and started chatting, I understand. We’re going to share a few hours together. You regaled me of international Latin American travels. Stories of great living in Canada and discussed US politics. Not horrible. When you started describing your work and told me of the 30-40 million dollar properties your clients buy through you, my bullshit flags triggered off, and I began to zone out. You sell to the Canadian elite, and you are here in coach with me. Nice play, Trump.
However, when we passed 10,000 feet and you opened your laptop, to show me your modern day equivalent of family trip slide shows (without your family within), I pretty much realized I would not be sleeping. As you browsed through which image collections in your 10 year old bootleg copy of Photoshop Elements, I worried the show would never begin, and therefore never, ever end. But then you opened the “People” folder, and I was greeted with images of a nude, overweight woman perhaps in her 50’s or 60’s at which point my own manhood leapt up in to my abdomen. Her bloated belly, floppy tits and beaten posture were enough to make me want to start an investment portfolio designed to keep my wife in plastic surgery for the next 30 years. When I finally see my wife on Sunday, rest assured sex won’t come into play thanks to those horrid images of what gravity does to the body. I suspect the next time I see an erection we will have either an African American or woman president. I know, your photography makes you an “artist”. And my sense of decorum and personal space makes me a human with decorum and personal space. You should focus on these latter traits and let people with talent be artists. I just pray that isn’t your wife, or I will never erase this disturbing piece of my personal history from my memory.
But the second strike was when you played an audio track of some tribal music as you showed me your third rate imagery on a legacy laptop which was built sometime around the time the B-52s were popular, and microprocessors could do amazing things like add integers. The music sounded great over the deafening roar of turbine engines and babies crying. Yes, you told me about the amazing photo gear you have in your cool carry-on bag. And just like my amazing golf clubs don’t make me a decent golfer, clearly your equipment has outclassed you. The difference is that I don't make people watch me suck at golf. Great random pictures of seaside towns in Latin America. Got it. I am sitting next to Magellan. You discover people of color that no one has seen before. Oh wait, that kid in the photo is wearing a Phillies jersey. Some f*&$ing discovery, Ponce DeLeon. It was great when the lesbian couple turned around, with that annoyed look that you deftly ignored. When I asked you to turn down the music, to help assuage their pain, you simply pretended not to hear. It wasn’t until I told you I needed some rest that the show ended and the next phase of my indoctrination into hell began.
But then swing number three and you tip the ball, so I don’t want to kill you yet (out of sheer bewilderment. Like a car accident I am prevented from looking away). You try to describe to me what is happening in the photos. But surprise, I am not pretending not to hear you. The god damned engines we sit above drown you out, so while you attempt to describe the scenery and how you took these Ansel Adams-like masterpieces, your non-audible drone simply added to the din, and now, all I want to do is turn on my Zune and ignore you. Christ, why didn’t the skinny, hot co-ed get the damned E seat and stuck you against the window. Karma sucks. I never killed an innocent, never kicked a kitty and all of my impure thoughts remain in my head, so why do I get punished. I am not saying anything would happen. Quite the opposite – Like all 20 something hotties, they simply don’t talk to me – or touch me – and I would get the needed sleep. Everyone wins. At least me.
But my favorite part comes after you doze off into the slumber which now escapes me. Flying Continental Airlines the seats are already small, like some form of torture designed to create body odor and uncomfortable situations. But somehow you were able to infringe into my personal space so far (as well as to the pretty college girl sitting in the window seat) Your elbow rested comfortably on my love handles and allowed you to sleep deeply, while my disdain for the touch of total strangers kept me from sleeping, let alone sitting with any reasonable comfort. Sure, I understand you are in the middle seat, and therefore, I will give you the arm rest. That's fair. However, jerkoff, it is for your elbow, and not your wrist. Take your elbow and shove it.
So instead of sleeping, I am writing this pseudo-personal fuck you to the internet for all to read. However, I will say you aren’t entirely to blame. The woman in front of me is easily six foot six and 250. Her tryout with the Dallas Cowboys is tomorrow, and she clearly needs her sleep. Every time she does her grizzly bear stretch, she crushes my laptop closed on my fingers. It is amazing, because I can hear the frame of the chair bend with every yawn. Her pitiful chair creaks like an aluminum garden chair from my aunt's 1970's collection of cheap, crappy chairs. (the kind that gave you tetanus.)
I really miss Southwest airlines.
Sleepless flying from Seattle.
To the middle seat airline passenger from Canada who shared a 3 hour and 30 minute ride from Seattle to Houston as I made my way to Philadelphia. I want to thank you. You made my trip notable, even though it was miserable. I can't wait to get back to my new home town Raleigh
First, when you sat down and started chatting, I understand. We’re going to share a few hours together. You regaled me of international Latin American travels. Stories of great living in Canada and discussed US politics. Not horrible. When you started describing your work and told me of the 30-40 million dollar properties your clients buy through you, my bullshit flags triggered off, and I began to zone out. You sell to the Canadian elite, and you are here in coach with me. Nice play, Trump.
However, when we passed 10,000 feet and you opened your laptop, to show me your modern day equivalent of family trip slide shows (without your family within), I pretty much realized I would not be sleeping. As you browsed through which image collections in your 10 year old bootleg copy of Photoshop Elements, I worried the show would never begin, and therefore never, ever end. But then you opened the “People” folder, and I was greeted with images of a nude, overweight woman perhaps in her 50’s or 60’s at which point my own manhood leapt up in to my abdomen. Her bloated belly, floppy tits and beaten posture were enough to make me want to start an investment portfolio designed to keep my wife in plastic surgery for the next 30 years. When I finally see my wife on Sunday, rest assured sex won’t come into play thanks to those horrid images of what gravity does to the body. I suspect the next time I see an erection we will have either an African American or woman president. I know, your photography makes you an “artist”. And my sense of decorum and personal space makes me a human with decorum and personal space. You should focus on these latter traits and let people with talent be artists. I just pray that isn’t your wife, or I will never erase this disturbing piece of my personal history from my memory.
But the second strike was when you played an audio track of some tribal music as you showed me your third rate imagery on a legacy laptop which was built sometime around the time the B-52s were popular, and microprocessors could do amazing things like add integers. The music sounded great over the deafening roar of turbine engines and babies crying. Yes, you told me about the amazing photo gear you have in your cool carry-on bag. And just like my amazing golf clubs don’t make me a decent golfer, clearly your equipment has outclassed you. The difference is that I don't make people watch me suck at golf. Great random pictures of seaside towns in Latin America. Got it. I am sitting next to Magellan. You discover people of color that no one has seen before. Oh wait, that kid in the photo is wearing a Phillies jersey. Some f*&$ing discovery, Ponce DeLeon. It was great when the lesbian couple turned around, with that annoyed look that you deftly ignored. When I asked you to turn down the music, to help assuage their pain, you simply pretended not to hear. It wasn’t until I told you I needed some rest that the show ended and the next phase of my indoctrination into hell began.
But then swing number three and you tip the ball, so I don’t want to kill you yet (out of sheer bewilderment. Like a car accident I am prevented from looking away). You try to describe to me what is happening in the photos. But surprise, I am not pretending not to hear you. The god damned engines we sit above drown you out, so while you attempt to describe the scenery and how you took these Ansel Adams-like masterpieces, your non-audible drone simply added to the din, and now, all I want to do is turn on my Zune and ignore you. Christ, why didn’t the skinny, hot co-ed get the damned E seat and stuck you against the window. Karma sucks. I never killed an innocent, never kicked a kitty and all of my impure thoughts remain in my head, so why do I get punished. I am not saying anything would happen. Quite the opposite – Like all 20 something hotties, they simply don’t talk to me – or touch me – and I would get the needed sleep. Everyone wins. At least me.
But my favorite part comes after you doze off into the slumber which now escapes me. Flying Continental Airlines the seats are already small, like some form of torture designed to create body odor and uncomfortable situations. But somehow you were able to infringe into my personal space so far (as well as to the pretty college girl sitting in the window seat) Your elbow rested comfortably on my love handles and allowed you to sleep deeply, while my disdain for the touch of total strangers kept me from sleeping, let alone sitting with any reasonable comfort. Sure, I understand you are in the middle seat, and therefore, I will give you the arm rest. That's fair. However, jerkoff, it is for your elbow, and not your wrist. Take your elbow and shove it.
So instead of sleeping, I am writing this pseudo-personal fuck you to the internet for all to read. However, I will say you aren’t entirely to blame. The woman in front of me is easily six foot six and 250. Her tryout with the Dallas Cowboys is tomorrow, and she clearly needs her sleep. Every time she does her grizzly bear stretch, she crushes my laptop closed on my fingers. It is amazing, because I can hear the frame of the chair bend with every yawn. Her pitiful chair creaks like an aluminum garden chair from my aunt's 1970's collection of cheap, crappy chairs. (the kind that gave you tetanus.)
I really miss Southwest airlines.
Sleepless flying from Seattle.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Curing the Disease
Disclaimer – The content of this article is extremely sensitive, and will likely offend. If you don’t have a strong stomach and won’t be able to finish, don’t start. There is a point to everything I write but sometimes you won’t get it until you get to the end.
In recent days, Senator McCain released some advertising accusing Senator Obama of promoting sex education to kindergartners. As a father of a soon-to-be kindergartner, I found myself skeptical of this ad, and did a little (and I mean very little) research. It turns out that Senator Obama was promoting education to young children to teach them about stranger danger, a program I can support, again as the father of a soon-to-be. However, this brings me to my point. This is again a mechanism to protect against sexual predators. Some great stuff, but these approaches never strike at the fundamental problem. Educating our kids doesn’t really address the defect which places them in danger in the first place.
In many of our states, we have capital punishment. Execution for certain crimes because their nature is so heinous, and we believe that these criminals lack the requisite ability for rehabilitation. This is a policy I have always supported, in defense of a society free from the animal among us. Serial killers. Traitors. Rapists who kill while in the act. Typically, these are serious crimes and often have an additional factor which places them into a category of more egregious acts. Shocking, if you will. In turn, we find these cases at the bar of the court, with a little kicker available to the judiciary as an option for punishment.
However, the breadth of the availability of this punishment is actually extremely limited. For example, no one has been put to death for jaywalking in a long time. Further, burglary (stealing from an occupied premises), or robbery (stealing from another person), while dangerous are not of this same nature. For good reason – These crimes in and of themselves are not of the same tier of crimes. Yet there is an entire category of crimes which do meet the “shocking” threshold, but which we fail to apply the same standard of punishment. I submit if we did, there would be a dramatic decline in the statistics.
Sex crimes (those criminal acts involving some form of crime involving genitals or sexual pleasure) seem to meet this threshold. The crimes often –
· Require no escalation to become shocking. Rape, molestation, and other sex crimes begin at egregious and climb rapidly to driving me to want to go on a man hunt when I hear of one occurring. Anyone with a daughter (I don’t have one personally) would likely join me with pitchforks, torches and ire.
· Involve a victim who will never recover. Many victims are never able to feel safe again,
and because the violator is often a member of the opposite sex, it forever impacts the victims ability to readily maintain a healthy relationship.
· Involve a criminal who is untrainable or “unrehabilitatable,” Many of these predators are predisposed towards these unhealthy attractions, and I believe from some reading a long time ago that there are indicators that they can never be “cured” by modern standards. (read more for my tirade against Megan’s Law.)
Therefore, I would implement a plan for my state (capital punishment is state legislated), which expanded the options for this punishment, but before I wrote this into law, I would begin with overhauling the legislation around sex crimes in general. For example, the 18 year old who has intercourse with his 15 year old girlfriend is not “raping” his date. Yet in many states this is how the law is written if the father of the 15 year old presses charges. We need to fix these issues.
However, the line is less blurry for me, for many other cases. For example, if you are 60 and the victim is anything less than 18, have a seat in my chair. Digital penetration (using the finger) of a minor is just as bad as rape in the eyes of the victim. Both are permanently scarring and both result in a devastated future. Many rape victims have reported that they would rather have been killed in the process of the crime. I suspect that the 12 year old victim of a neighbor is in the same boat.
All of these crimes are heinous and need to be dealt with. However, there needs to naturally be a level of indisputable proof. While I believe that these crimes are heinous, I also know that sometimes people lie. I know that some cases of rape are not true. I know that sometimes people make things up. Under the normal burden of proof, the judge or jury must have no reasonable doubt. Let’s call this 90% of more certain that the crime was committed by the defendant in the manner described. For this purpose, I will even require that the burden of proof is 95% or higher. For example, the defendant saw the assailant, picked him out of a lineup, DNA confirmed he was the guy and she is still covered in bruises. Oh and they never met before the attack. Or little Timmy goes to school and tells a story about his Uncle Bob who touches him in a bad way. Then mom confirms the Bob was alone with Timmy for four hours on the day of the assault, and that Timmy was bleeding from the same bad place. And Bob has no reasonable explanation. Please Bob, lay here on the table, while I get your injection ready.
And here is where I will really offend, I am sure. If you are in a position of power over a minor, (priest, coach, teacher, parent or step-parent) and you commit one of these acts or if we can demonstrate multiple cases of the crime before you were caught (serial rapists, repeated pedophiles), I have a special place in hell for you. The punishment is not as simple as the other death penalty cases. We will impanel a second jury just to determine a punishment for you. Not a jury of your peers today, but a jury of your peers in hell, so I am thinking we recruit 4 members of a motorcycle gang, four members of the Crips, and four others with an extreme sense of honor. I am thinking Marines, or Navy SEALS. They get to pick a punishment for you, before the execution. I have a list which I have in my head already, but I will let them get creative.
The reason I am so passionate about this issue is simple. I believe in the Constitution of the United States and the Bill of Rights, and law’s like Megan’s Law simply crap right in the middle of it. The 8th Amendment prohibits cruel and unusual punishment (so I might have to reconsider my point immediately above), and Megan’s Law, which requires registration and effectively branding of convicted sex criminals seems to run contrary to the purpose of the 8th Amendment. What we are essentially saying with registration is that we are not sure you are “cured” when we release the offender back on society, so in order to better protect our citizenry, we are going to put you on a list – forever – so that your neighbors can keep a watch on you.
The cruel and unusual part arises when we realize that our system is ill-equipped to handled these deviants with treatment and “repair”, but that our system is overcrowded, and these people have served their judicially appointed term. This is a term set by a judge who is somewhat motivated to keep the sentence shorter in the interests of not further over-crowding jail cells, or the state’s Supreme Court comes in and opens the doors to release the general prison population back onto society. So, we release criminals back onto society as keeping them in prison is doing nothing to rehabilitate them, and placing the society in general back into harm’s way. Cruel and unusual punishment arises when we release these people back into society with a “normal” stamp on them, and then brand them and others on a list. (The list, by the way, fails to clearly discern between the 18 year old boy with a 15 year old girlfriend, and the priest who rapes 12 teenagers.)
Again, this is not an attack on poor Megan Kanka and her family. My heart really goes out for that family. I am simply trying to solve the problem with a longer term, more effective solution.
So once my state has this wonderful legislation, it will have two immediate impacts. (You can do a study to prove this as I am sure it will bear out my conclusion – I am just saving time). First, it will greatly reduce the number of these crimes. Rape, a crime which is as much about power as it is about ejaculation, loses the allure of the power exchange when the criminal knows that the punishment results in his loss of power, and the victim has the full weight of the states power’s behind her. When the punishment is this permanent for a crime which involves a great deal of forethought, the executioner’s chair will be an image included in the mind of the offender before the offense.
Second, many of these potential offenders will leave the state. Sorry for all of you other states, but I really care most about where my soon-to-be kindergartner lives. In many states, where capital punishment is not an option, I suspect it will be back on the books within 18 months of enacting my plan. Why? Because those few states who fail to follow suit will have nothing but those who wish to try to continue this bad behavior. Tragic for your, but not to worry – Your good citizens will be moving out soon, and then we can just put up a big wall around you Vermont. (I don’t actually know if Vermont is a non-capital punishment, but there state is just so pretty, it seemed a waste not to take them down a peg or two.)
Now, if you are pedophile reading this, I have two pieces of advice. First, you can still go visit Thailand and other southeast Asian nations where pedophilia is still available for a price. Just note, if my Immigration Tsar finds out that you have 3 or more visits to Thailand, and you don’t work for a high-tech company, or are actually of Thai descent, have got some explaining to do.
My second piece of advice. If you see me coming, run. I have less to fear in prison than you do.
In recent days, Senator McCain released some advertising accusing Senator Obama of promoting sex education to kindergartners. As a father of a soon-to-be kindergartner, I found myself skeptical of this ad, and did a little (and I mean very little) research. It turns out that Senator Obama was promoting education to young children to teach them about stranger danger, a program I can support, again as the father of a soon-to-be. However, this brings me to my point. This is again a mechanism to protect against sexual predators. Some great stuff, but these approaches never strike at the fundamental problem. Educating our kids doesn’t really address the defect which places them in danger in the first place.
In many of our states, we have capital punishment. Execution for certain crimes because their nature is so heinous, and we believe that these criminals lack the requisite ability for rehabilitation. This is a policy I have always supported, in defense of a society free from the animal among us. Serial killers. Traitors. Rapists who kill while in the act. Typically, these are serious crimes and often have an additional factor which places them into a category of more egregious acts. Shocking, if you will. In turn, we find these cases at the bar of the court, with a little kicker available to the judiciary as an option for punishment.
However, the breadth of the availability of this punishment is actually extremely limited. For example, no one has been put to death for jaywalking in a long time. Further, burglary (stealing from an occupied premises), or robbery (stealing from another person), while dangerous are not of this same nature. For good reason – These crimes in and of themselves are not of the same tier of crimes. Yet there is an entire category of crimes which do meet the “shocking” threshold, but which we fail to apply the same standard of punishment. I submit if we did, there would be a dramatic decline in the statistics.
Sex crimes (those criminal acts involving some form of crime involving genitals or sexual pleasure) seem to meet this threshold. The crimes often –
· Require no escalation to become shocking. Rape, molestation, and other sex crimes begin at egregious and climb rapidly to driving me to want to go on a man hunt when I hear of one occurring. Anyone with a daughter (I don’t have one personally) would likely join me with pitchforks, torches and ire.
· Involve a victim who will never recover. Many victims are never able to feel safe again,
and because the violator is often a member of the opposite sex, it forever impacts the victims ability to readily maintain a healthy relationship.
· Involve a criminal who is untrainable or “unrehabilitatable,” Many of these predators are predisposed towards these unhealthy attractions, and I believe from some reading a long time ago that there are indicators that they can never be “cured” by modern standards. (read more for my tirade against Megan’s Law.)
Therefore, I would implement a plan for my state (capital punishment is state legislated), which expanded the options for this punishment, but before I wrote this into law, I would begin with overhauling the legislation around sex crimes in general. For example, the 18 year old who has intercourse with his 15 year old girlfriend is not “raping” his date. Yet in many states this is how the law is written if the father of the 15 year old presses charges. We need to fix these issues.
However, the line is less blurry for me, for many other cases. For example, if you are 60 and the victim is anything less than 18, have a seat in my chair. Digital penetration (using the finger) of a minor is just as bad as rape in the eyes of the victim. Both are permanently scarring and both result in a devastated future. Many rape victims have reported that they would rather have been killed in the process of the crime. I suspect that the 12 year old victim of a neighbor is in the same boat.
All of these crimes are heinous and need to be dealt with. However, there needs to naturally be a level of indisputable proof. While I believe that these crimes are heinous, I also know that sometimes people lie. I know that some cases of rape are not true. I know that sometimes people make things up. Under the normal burden of proof, the judge or jury must have no reasonable doubt. Let’s call this 90% of more certain that the crime was committed by the defendant in the manner described. For this purpose, I will even require that the burden of proof is 95% or higher. For example, the defendant saw the assailant, picked him out of a lineup, DNA confirmed he was the guy and she is still covered in bruises. Oh and they never met before the attack. Or little Timmy goes to school and tells a story about his Uncle Bob who touches him in a bad way. Then mom confirms the Bob was alone with Timmy for four hours on the day of the assault, and that Timmy was bleeding from the same bad place. And Bob has no reasonable explanation. Please Bob, lay here on the table, while I get your injection ready.
And here is where I will really offend, I am sure. If you are in a position of power over a minor, (priest, coach, teacher, parent or step-parent) and you commit one of these acts or if we can demonstrate multiple cases of the crime before you were caught (serial rapists, repeated pedophiles), I have a special place in hell for you. The punishment is not as simple as the other death penalty cases. We will impanel a second jury just to determine a punishment for you. Not a jury of your peers today, but a jury of your peers in hell, so I am thinking we recruit 4 members of a motorcycle gang, four members of the Crips, and four others with an extreme sense of honor. I am thinking Marines, or Navy SEALS. They get to pick a punishment for you, before the execution. I have a list which I have in my head already, but I will let them get creative.
The reason I am so passionate about this issue is simple. I believe in the Constitution of the United States and the Bill of Rights, and law’s like Megan’s Law simply crap right in the middle of it. The 8th Amendment prohibits cruel and unusual punishment (so I might have to reconsider my point immediately above), and Megan’s Law, which requires registration and effectively branding of convicted sex criminals seems to run contrary to the purpose of the 8th Amendment. What we are essentially saying with registration is that we are not sure you are “cured” when we release the offender back on society, so in order to better protect our citizenry, we are going to put you on a list – forever – so that your neighbors can keep a watch on you.
The cruel and unusual part arises when we realize that our system is ill-equipped to handled these deviants with treatment and “repair”, but that our system is overcrowded, and these people have served their judicially appointed term. This is a term set by a judge who is somewhat motivated to keep the sentence shorter in the interests of not further over-crowding jail cells, or the state’s Supreme Court comes in and opens the doors to release the general prison population back onto society. So, we release criminals back onto society as keeping them in prison is doing nothing to rehabilitate them, and placing the society in general back into harm’s way. Cruel and unusual punishment arises when we release these people back into society with a “normal” stamp on them, and then brand them and others on a list. (The list, by the way, fails to clearly discern between the 18 year old boy with a 15 year old girlfriend, and the priest who rapes 12 teenagers.)
Again, this is not an attack on poor Megan Kanka and her family. My heart really goes out for that family. I am simply trying to solve the problem with a longer term, more effective solution.
So once my state has this wonderful legislation, it will have two immediate impacts. (You can do a study to prove this as I am sure it will bear out my conclusion – I am just saving time). First, it will greatly reduce the number of these crimes. Rape, a crime which is as much about power as it is about ejaculation, loses the allure of the power exchange when the criminal knows that the punishment results in his loss of power, and the victim has the full weight of the states power’s behind her. When the punishment is this permanent for a crime which involves a great deal of forethought, the executioner’s chair will be an image included in the mind of the offender before the offense.
Second, many of these potential offenders will leave the state. Sorry for all of you other states, but I really care most about where my soon-to-be kindergartner lives. In many states, where capital punishment is not an option, I suspect it will be back on the books within 18 months of enacting my plan. Why? Because those few states who fail to follow suit will have nothing but those who wish to try to continue this bad behavior. Tragic for your, but not to worry – Your good citizens will be moving out soon, and then we can just put up a big wall around you Vermont. (I don’t actually know if Vermont is a non-capital punishment, but there state is just so pretty, it seemed a waste not to take them down a peg or two.)
Now, if you are pedophile reading this, I have two pieces of advice. First, you can still go visit Thailand and other southeast Asian nations where pedophilia is still available for a price. Just note, if my Immigration Tsar finds out that you have 3 or more visits to Thailand, and you don’t work for a high-tech company, or are actually of Thai descent, have got some explaining to do.
My second piece of advice. If you see me coming, run. I have less to fear in prison than you do.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Remedial Math
When I was a kid, word problems in math class were all the rage. We spent our days tracking trains meeting in the middle, based on velocity and distance. We tried to identify how much older a girl was than her brother based on data around her parents reproductive cycle. So, let’s shift forward thirty years to 2007, and we can see how an MBA awarded mortgage broker can screw up remedial math so badly that they need to move back to third grade in Mrs. Schnorr’s arithmetic class.
Sarah is a recent college graduate who has immaculate credit. She is now a school teacher in Northern New Jersey – Let’s say Hoboken. Sarah makes $52,000 per year gross. She wants to buy a condo in Red Bank, a nearby trendy community. The condo costs $350,000. How many mortgage brokers will it take to approve her for this 100% mortgage with a 7 year adjustable, interest-only loan with a balloon at the end? 2007 answer? 1 broker. Any one broker. 2008 answer? Good luck Sarah, get back in the apartment, if you can find one.
The above exaggerated story is only a story. I made it up on a plane. However, I bet there is a real Sarah, and I bet she was foreclosed on this year. The reality is that when my wife and I bought our current home, we found a place in Cary, North Carolina. Based on what our mortgage broker told us, we could take a loan for up to $500k or more. This payment would have been in the range of $3,500-4,000 per month. This was after I told him we have almost $700 per month in student loan debt. He also knew I would be unemployed and that my wife was starting a new sales job in a new market and she was predominantly commission based. I mean seriously, if there was a couple with a higher risk profile, they would be legally dead. So we took the initiative and set our upper limit based on what we have paid previously, and sent our house target price accordingly.
But those brokers were out there for the past decade, and when bad things happen to good people, like unemployment, illness or life in general, these loans are defaulted on, and Sarah is out on the street in the heat. But on the news, on Monday morning. we are told we are in an economic crisis (and congress is shutting down until after 11/4. People are losing their homes, because they are over-extended in a market of shifting interest rates. And honestly, while I feel for them, I know that they can re-bound with a life lesson. I really do feel bad for them, but I too have made bad investments. Like losing about 10k in the dot-com collapse. I felt like an ass, but I had no one to blame but me. However, as an American, as a taxpayer, and as a voter, I do have someone I can blame on behalf of all of us.
Underwriters for these loans, investors in these loans and those who gamed the markets or allowed them to be gamed are responsible. And today, we announced a $700 billion bailout to shift the momentum of the markets and pull us out of this mess. Nice idea. I can solve a lot of problems with that kind of money. Really, that is a heck of a party. (Like the size of our total investment in the war in Iraq, or the amount of money we send overseas every year for foreign oil.) But I will play along. Let’s assume that it will take $700 billion dollars. I want some strings attached. For example –
Employee Salaries - If you are an employee of one of these companies, you are capped at 200,000 per year from now until your company pays off the bail out. This isn’t a gift, as I doubt you all have paid $700 billion in taxes collectively since the industrial revolution.
Put these measures in place and you can have my $2,000 (my share of the bill). However you can’t have it all this year, or they get my house too. Just add it to the other 11.3 trillion dollars in debt we have. By the way, on a personal note, I wonder how you spend 11.3 trillion dollars. Ever. I would like to try to spend 11.3 million someday.
My favorite quote of this entire debacle summarizes it sweetly. If you bail out these companies every time, you remove the downside to capitalism, so there must be controls on these bail outs. My wife and I own a shoe store for kids. We plunked down our savings on red, and right now the ball is still spinning, bouncing through black, green and red. Every day, we see the risks and the potential rewards. However, if the company succeeds, it is our profits, and if it fails, I have no expectation that Uncle Sam will get me a check for my investment. This is the beauty of America, and if tomorrow Bill Gates fell flat on his hindquarters, I doubt he would be there for a hand out. Richard Branson. Donald Trump. None of these entrepreneurs would do this. They would knock the dust off, and go figure out a different manner in which to generate wealth.
So, at the end of the day, this is my plan, which no one will read. However, again the therapy of writing this has made me less likely to move to England today (more on my pending move overseas later). I now resign myself to the regularly scheduled programming of Continental Airlines flight from Portland to Newark. Yes I am writing this in the air at around 0130 EST, but it was either this or watch an Ashton Kutcher movie about marriage in Vegas. I would rather get out of the plane right now.
Sarah is a recent college graduate who has immaculate credit. She is now a school teacher in Northern New Jersey – Let’s say Hoboken. Sarah makes $52,000 per year gross. She wants to buy a condo in Red Bank, a nearby trendy community. The condo costs $350,000. How many mortgage brokers will it take to approve her for this 100% mortgage with a 7 year adjustable, interest-only loan with a balloon at the end? 2007 answer? 1 broker. Any one broker. 2008 answer? Good luck Sarah, get back in the apartment, if you can find one.
The above exaggerated story is only a story. I made it up on a plane. However, I bet there is a real Sarah, and I bet she was foreclosed on this year. The reality is that when my wife and I bought our current home, we found a place in Cary, North Carolina. Based on what our mortgage broker told us, we could take a loan for up to $500k or more. This payment would have been in the range of $3,500-4,000 per month. This was after I told him we have almost $700 per month in student loan debt. He also knew I would be unemployed and that my wife was starting a new sales job in a new market and she was predominantly commission based. I mean seriously, if there was a couple with a higher risk profile, they would be legally dead. So we took the initiative and set our upper limit based on what we have paid previously, and sent our house target price accordingly.
But those brokers were out there for the past decade, and when bad things happen to good people, like unemployment, illness or life in general, these loans are defaulted on, and Sarah is out on the street in the heat. But on the news, on Monday morning. we are told we are in an economic crisis (and congress is shutting down until after 11/4. People are losing their homes, because they are over-extended in a market of shifting interest rates. And honestly, while I feel for them, I know that they can re-bound with a life lesson. I really do feel bad for them, but I too have made bad investments. Like losing about 10k in the dot-com collapse. I felt like an ass, but I had no one to blame but me. However, as an American, as a taxpayer, and as a voter, I do have someone I can blame on behalf of all of us.
Underwriters for these loans, investors in these loans and those who gamed the markets or allowed them to be gamed are responsible. And today, we announced a $700 billion bailout to shift the momentum of the markets and pull us out of this mess. Nice idea. I can solve a lot of problems with that kind of money. Really, that is a heck of a party. (Like the size of our total investment in the war in Iraq, or the amount of money we send overseas every year for foreign oil.) But I will play along. Let’s assume that it will take $700 billion dollars. I want some strings attached. For example –
Employee Salaries - If you are an employee of one of these companies, you are capped at 200,000 per year from now until your company pays off the bail out. This isn’t a gift, as I doubt you all have paid $700 billion in taxes collectively since the industrial revolution.
Leadership - If you are currently among those in charge of anything related to this fiasco, like you have a title with president, director, head, board member or the like, then guess what. You owe us. First you owe us collectively an apology. The market didn’t do this to you; you did this to the market. You get no pity, no sympathy. Second, your parachute? Your retirement? Sorry, you lose until you fix this. You collect the $200,000 per year maximum, no more than the President of these United States that you are ruining, and you work until the problem is fixed. As voted upon by the American people. Or you go to jail (I am seeking a sharp prosecutor to find the correct charge, but there is something here). This is the equivalent of gross misconduct by a military officer or economic treason.
Repayment - You're paying this back in a profit-sharing system. The US Government now gets 50% of all profits until you pay this back at 4% interest. Sorry, this is the downside of a capitalism that pays you for failure. . . Again, if my wife and I want a loan, we pay you interest, and at 4% you are doing better than we would. And right now, your collective credit rating is worse than ours. We haven't asked for a bailout - ever.
Oversight – I don’t want Congress watching this. Frankly, they didn’t see this coming and I doubt they would know how to balance a balance sheet, let alone figure out how to manage these guys. I want a panel of 5 smart economists/accountants watching who belong to a third-party watch dog group. They are paid out of this $700 billion and are incented financially to report red flags.
Put these measures in place and you can have my $2,000 (my share of the bill). However you can’t have it all this year, or they get my house too. Just add it to the other 11.3 trillion dollars in debt we have. By the way, on a personal note, I wonder how you spend 11.3 trillion dollars. Ever. I would like to try to spend 11.3 million someday.
My favorite quote of this entire debacle summarizes it sweetly. If you bail out these companies every time, you remove the downside to capitalism, so there must be controls on these bail outs. My wife and I own a shoe store for kids. We plunked down our savings on red, and right now the ball is still spinning, bouncing through black, green and red. Every day, we see the risks and the potential rewards. However, if the company succeeds, it is our profits, and if it fails, I have no expectation that Uncle Sam will get me a check for my investment. This is the beauty of America, and if tomorrow Bill Gates fell flat on his hindquarters, I doubt he would be there for a hand out. Richard Branson. Donald Trump. None of these entrepreneurs would do this. They would knock the dust off, and go figure out a different manner in which to generate wealth.
So, at the end of the day, this is my plan, which no one will read. However, again the therapy of writing this has made me less likely to move to England today (more on my pending move overseas later). I now resign myself to the regularly scheduled programming of Continental Airlines flight from Portland to Newark. Yes I am writing this in the air at around 0130 EST, but it was either this or watch an Ashton Kutcher movie about marriage in Vegas. I would rather get out of the plane right now.
Monday, September 22, 2008
And now a word from our socialist sponsors. . .
So, over the past several years, I have watched as I pay more in taxes, and get less of a return on my investment. I pay things like the Alternative Minimum Tax, and yet I haven’t taken a vacation in four years. My student loan debt far outweighs (like 100-fold) the amount I can save at any one time. Now, I am not seeking sympathy, but I am setting the stage for the root of my frustration and the subject of my entry this week. So now, learned reader, I invite you to hate me for my “wealth” as I am about to rant on the non-working members of our society who are not of my elite, wealthy means.
I noted socialism in my subject for a reason – for those who won’t get the connection as you read. My frustration is at the lack of working among many in our society. From those sit at home milking unemployment, to people who claim they need welfare as a way to sustain their family – this is targeted to you. Get to work.
However, I understand some of the challenges you might face, so I am here to eliminate road blocks and help you on your way. My plan is simple – it only has a few moving parts, but I will type slowly so that the dimwitted can keep up – government administrators.
First, if you are on any public service, there is an immediate test, effective the day you apply for the services. We test aptitude and skills (physical and mental). The bottom line is that everyone can do something. When I served in the army, much of my personal gear was put together by something called the [Something] Lighthouse for the Blind. If a blind man or woman can sew a canteen holder together, an able bodied person can do something as well. This test will identify a temporary career field for you, from child care to bed-pan cleaner. You should be motivated to score well on this test, because if you don’t, you get the jobs routinely seen on Mike Rowe’s Dirty Jobs. You can catch it on Discovery, I think, and you won’t ever want to score low after one episode.
This first step (testing and evaluation) is critical, as it removes the road blocks. If a parent can’t work because they can’t find affordable child care, then guess what – The state will provide it with other parents who scored fairly high in these skill areas. We can likely staff all aspects of the day care with people who are currently on public programs. Wait, you claim the care is substandard? No problem – Work harder to find a better job, and pull yourself out. Otherwise, state day care is what you get. (However, with the right safeguards, State child care will be on par with many private programs very quickly.) Road block removed.
Second step – Enable the search for jobs. So we have a tested workforce, who we train for all of the work that no one else wants to do. Apply these test results against the larger employment opportunity set and start scheduling interviews – In five hours a week – and we will even pay you for your time. For example, take Bill. Bill is on welfare. I don’t know why, he just is. He takes the test and he is qualified for quite a bit. High school diploma, no criminal record, can lift heavy stuff, and wants to go to college. He has two boys who the state will care for during his shift at the hospital. We put him to work at the hospital re-stocking supplies for the ER. He works for 35 hours a week, paid by the Federal Government (and not hospital coffers) as a contribution to the hospital and the hopes of reducing health care. Bill has 5 hours during the course of the week, where he has to find a job – but we will help him here. We search the database and find that Bill is well suited for a position at the prison as a guard, a full time job at the hospital managing inventory or something else. Bill interviews and does well on all three interviews. He has to take one. But let’s assume that Bill is socially inept – it could happen. Bill fails all three interviews. Each interviewer has to provide Bill feedback and the US Government can help with career training. Why? Because Bill is providing a service to his nation by working for the hospital instead of just living on the dole.
So, we train Bill and in four months he gets tired of looking for new work. Sorry Bill, you have six months. Six months, or we down grade you. Down grading is horrible, because the lower tier of jobs – those reserved for our lowest scorers – are really low. Scooping muck from police department horse stables. Or cleaning out sewer drains. Or cleaning public toilets – which really need cleaning. This program is really an Out or Down program, meaning get off of the services b y finding an opportunity or get pushed down the ladder so someone else can have clean clothes at the end of the day.
Third – Monthly drug testing. Pretty simple step – Certified drug testing, for all people collecting public dollars. Smoke weed once? Warning. Second offense? Off the program entirely for a year. Best of luck, but we don’t need to pay people who break the law. Prisoners don’t get paid well, why should you? However, I will throw an exception – If you announce up front that you are an addict – We send you to 30 days of treatment plus an extra 5 hours per week for NA/AA meetings. And then you work. By the way, if you fall off the wagon with this sort of help, then you are out of luck. And off the program.
Fourth – Enforcement. This is fairly simple, and can be a real cost savings. Many of the companies who can benefit from this program by getting free or low cost labor will be motivated to help us enforce this. They get free labor and all they have to do is attest that Bill is showing up for work. And be subject to inspections. In addition, we track it mostly digitally. For example, another person, let’s call him Dave, goes on unemployment for the first six months. Fine, so he gets a short-term state-sponsored vacation. At the end of six months, when he reapplies for benefits for another 12, he joins the program. If you couldn’t find a job in six months of trying, then maybe you need an incentive, and mucking sludge can help you find that desire.
So, where Mr. Wealthy elitist do you find the money to pay for this, people might ask me. I don’t know but I have a hunch. My hunch tells me that if you take people off of welfare faster, you reduce costs. If you make welfare less attractive, then you reduce costs. If you make unemployment a short term help instead of a long-term vacation, then you reduce costs. And if you enforce this overall, costs drop as well.
I write this inspired by a friend from Bulgaria. He and I were talking (at work, no less) and he was laughing because a guy I let go was going to be able to collect unemployment. I didn’t understand his laughter, and so I dug deeper. His simple reply was – “I will never be unemployed”. I knew exactly what he meant. If it came to it, he would be at McDonalds earning $8.00 an hour before he would ask the government for help. His pride was too strong to accept handouts so long as he was able-bodied.
But wait learned author – What about those who are disabled – Again, I go back to the test. I know there are people who simply are so physically and mentally crippled that they cannot go to work. However, my baseline for who can and cannot go back to work is set fairly high. There are soldiers returning from Iraq, missing a leg – who return to command six months later. There are elderly people with deep arthritis but a deeper work ethic who sew flags for their sons and daughters. And don’t forget the blind people who made my canteen cover. If you are in crippling pain, then I understand. But the State doctors judge this, not the local quack.
So this is my simple plan – Inspired by many of the Philadelphia Project’s residents who own Lexus and BMWs and have big screen TVs visible through their cracked windows. Enough is enough – it is time for change and it starts with America getting back to work – Whatever that job is to make this country great. While I have never been truly poor, I have never been afraid of hard work. I earned my “status” in the wealthy class, so I only ask of those what I expect from myself. No excuses and hard work. . .
I noted socialism in my subject for a reason – for those who won’t get the connection as you read. My frustration is at the lack of working among many in our society. From those sit at home milking unemployment, to people who claim they need welfare as a way to sustain their family – this is targeted to you. Get to work.
However, I understand some of the challenges you might face, so I am here to eliminate road blocks and help you on your way. My plan is simple – it only has a few moving parts, but I will type slowly so that the dimwitted can keep up – government administrators.
First, if you are on any public service, there is an immediate test, effective the day you apply for the services. We test aptitude and skills (physical and mental). The bottom line is that everyone can do something. When I served in the army, much of my personal gear was put together by something called the [Something] Lighthouse for the Blind. If a blind man or woman can sew a canteen holder together, an able bodied person can do something as well. This test will identify a temporary career field for you, from child care to bed-pan cleaner. You should be motivated to score well on this test, because if you don’t, you get the jobs routinely seen on Mike Rowe’s Dirty Jobs. You can catch it on Discovery, I think, and you won’t ever want to score low after one episode.
This first step (testing and evaluation) is critical, as it removes the road blocks. If a parent can’t work because they can’t find affordable child care, then guess what – The state will provide it with other parents who scored fairly high in these skill areas. We can likely staff all aspects of the day care with people who are currently on public programs. Wait, you claim the care is substandard? No problem – Work harder to find a better job, and pull yourself out. Otherwise, state day care is what you get. (However, with the right safeguards, State child care will be on par with many private programs very quickly.) Road block removed.
Second step – Enable the search for jobs. So we have a tested workforce, who we train for all of the work that no one else wants to do. Apply these test results against the larger employment opportunity set and start scheduling interviews – In five hours a week – and we will even pay you for your time. For example, take Bill. Bill is on welfare. I don’t know why, he just is. He takes the test and he is qualified for quite a bit. High school diploma, no criminal record, can lift heavy stuff, and wants to go to college. He has two boys who the state will care for during his shift at the hospital. We put him to work at the hospital re-stocking supplies for the ER. He works for 35 hours a week, paid by the Federal Government (and not hospital coffers) as a contribution to the hospital and the hopes of reducing health care. Bill has 5 hours during the course of the week, where he has to find a job – but we will help him here. We search the database and find that Bill is well suited for a position at the prison as a guard, a full time job at the hospital managing inventory or something else. Bill interviews and does well on all three interviews. He has to take one. But let’s assume that Bill is socially inept – it could happen. Bill fails all three interviews. Each interviewer has to provide Bill feedback and the US Government can help with career training. Why? Because Bill is providing a service to his nation by working for the hospital instead of just living on the dole.
So, we train Bill and in four months he gets tired of looking for new work. Sorry Bill, you have six months. Six months, or we down grade you. Down grading is horrible, because the lower tier of jobs – those reserved for our lowest scorers – are really low. Scooping muck from police department horse stables. Or cleaning out sewer drains. Or cleaning public toilets – which really need cleaning. This program is really an Out or Down program, meaning get off of the services b y finding an opportunity or get pushed down the ladder so someone else can have clean clothes at the end of the day.
Third – Monthly drug testing. Pretty simple step – Certified drug testing, for all people collecting public dollars. Smoke weed once? Warning. Second offense? Off the program entirely for a year. Best of luck, but we don’t need to pay people who break the law. Prisoners don’t get paid well, why should you? However, I will throw an exception – If you announce up front that you are an addict – We send you to 30 days of treatment plus an extra 5 hours per week for NA/AA meetings. And then you work. By the way, if you fall off the wagon with this sort of help, then you are out of luck. And off the program.
Fourth – Enforcement. This is fairly simple, and can be a real cost savings. Many of the companies who can benefit from this program by getting free or low cost labor will be motivated to help us enforce this. They get free labor and all they have to do is attest that Bill is showing up for work. And be subject to inspections. In addition, we track it mostly digitally. For example, another person, let’s call him Dave, goes on unemployment for the first six months. Fine, so he gets a short-term state-sponsored vacation. At the end of six months, when he reapplies for benefits for another 12, he joins the program. If you couldn’t find a job in six months of trying, then maybe you need an incentive, and mucking sludge can help you find that desire.
So, where Mr. Wealthy elitist do you find the money to pay for this, people might ask me. I don’t know but I have a hunch. My hunch tells me that if you take people off of welfare faster, you reduce costs. If you make welfare less attractive, then you reduce costs. If you make unemployment a short term help instead of a long-term vacation, then you reduce costs. And if you enforce this overall, costs drop as well.
I write this inspired by a friend from Bulgaria. He and I were talking (at work, no less) and he was laughing because a guy I let go was going to be able to collect unemployment. I didn’t understand his laughter, and so I dug deeper. His simple reply was – “I will never be unemployed”. I knew exactly what he meant. If it came to it, he would be at McDonalds earning $8.00 an hour before he would ask the government for help. His pride was too strong to accept handouts so long as he was able-bodied.
But wait learned author – What about those who are disabled – Again, I go back to the test. I know there are people who simply are so physically and mentally crippled that they cannot go to work. However, my baseline for who can and cannot go back to work is set fairly high. There are soldiers returning from Iraq, missing a leg – who return to command six months later. There are elderly people with deep arthritis but a deeper work ethic who sew flags for their sons and daughters. And don’t forget the blind people who made my canteen cover. If you are in crippling pain, then I understand. But the State doctors judge this, not the local quack.
So this is my simple plan – Inspired by many of the Philadelphia Project’s residents who own Lexus and BMWs and have big screen TVs visible through their cracked windows. Enough is enough – it is time for change and it starts with America getting back to work – Whatever that job is to make this country great. While I have never been truly poor, I have never been afraid of hard work. I earned my “status” in the wealthy class, so I only ask of those what I expect from myself. No excuses and hard work. . .
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
I am Jason's overwhelming shame at pop culture
A brief rant which my fan base of 1 (who I probably will alienate with this post). America's Got Talent is on in the background while I am trying to get some work done. A young girl of 5 or 6 is on stage, singing her heart out. She is adorable. She is key chain cute as a friend used to say (as in small enough and cute enough to fit on a key chain). She is still signing, and I am nauseous with how sweet and cute she is. And then she finishes, unsure and cautious about how she interacts with the judges. And the first judge is some foreign puppet who in short tells her that while he thinks she is cute she is not ready for the big time of Vegas. Ugh. The crowd boos. The 6 year old stands like a deer in the headlights and at that moment you can almost see her insides crumble. How does a six year old interpret someone of authority (with an accent no less) saying something she doesn't understand, and then be boo-ed. The synapses in her brain barely are capable of learning lyrics and now she has to figure all of this out.
Someday, her parents will ask themselves, "why is our daughter bulemic?" or "what are all those cuts on her arms", or better yet, "how does she get up so high and spin down that brass pole?" I hope to be there with a copy of this video tape, because at that moment tonight, I watched the hopes of a six year old collapse after being aimed far too high for any six year old.
We have created a culture for parents to live through their children at early ages. Thanks Tiger Woods. We have created a culture where public humiliation in the hopes of fame are accepted, and applauded by audiences everywhere. Thanks Chuck Berris, and the Gong Show. We have created a culture where 12 year old girls have a more fictitious body image than ever before, and we can thank Paris Hilton.
Someday, her parents will ask themselves, "why is our daughter bulemic?" or "what are all those cuts on her arms", or better yet, "how does she get up so high and spin down that brass pole?" I hope to be there with a copy of this video tape, because at that moment tonight, I watched the hopes of a six year old collapse after being aimed far too high for any six year old.
We have created a culture for parents to live through their children at early ages. Thanks Tiger Woods. We have created a culture where public humiliation in the hopes of fame are accepted, and applauded by audiences everywhere. Thanks Chuck Berris, and the Gong Show. We have created a culture where 12 year old girls have a more fictitious body image than ever before, and we can thank Paris Hilton.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Opening Salvo
So, first I want to make it perfectly clear, that I am no physicist. If you are here because you think I have anything to do with electrons, go somewhere else. I don't really understand how a cell holds itself together. I barely passed high school science and I faked my way through Physics. If ever elected to office in the United States, I promise to have a great science advisor, who will make most if not all of my decisions.
I named this Harnessed Electrons, as I lovingly refer to kids with ADD (attention deficit disorder, not a mathematical problem) as unharnessed electrons. As a guy who was once a kid whose favorite past time was screwing off in class, I know these kids well. This is my attempt at harnessing some of my own ideas, and putting them in writing. Some day, my son Fletcher will find these ramblings and realize what a total kook his father was.
Second, if you find yourself reading this blog, you have my empathy. I am sure that over the years this will evolve into a periodic car wreck where the reader cannot look away no matter how many more interesting things they have to do. I asked a friend of mine, "what do people who rip movies and post them on bit torrent get out of doing this. There is no financial gain, a great deal of risk and at the end of the day no tangible benefit." His response? "What do people who blog get out of it? Mostly, they just get some limited recognition and people get free movies." I still don't get it. So now I blog. And I wait for a reader, and then look out.
Last, is my disclaimer - A long time ago I was a lawyer. And this makes me worry about everything I write. I have no doubt that in the coming years, I will offend some people. I am curious to see exactly how many. However, I hereby post this disclaimer to the web, to have effect from now until 21 years after my death - The works contained herein are not intended to be based in fact and are actually only the opinions of the author. All similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental. The author in no way has any actual animosity for any group - religious, racial, social, or political, but rather only finds humor in most of these organizations and the nonsense which comes from when we self-segregate (more on this later). Any statements which indicate any animosity should be construed as group neutral, as the author actually has an equal level of animosity for all groups. And trust me I have animosity. . .
So this concludes my opening remarks. You should really be excited and tantalized now at the prospect of what prose shall now spatter across the web like blood at a murder scene (Did I mention my wife and I really like Dexter?). So, stand by. No seriously, it might be a while. Remember? I have ADD. Hey look, something shiny. . . I think I want to go ride my bike. . .
I named this Harnessed Electrons, as I lovingly refer to kids with ADD (attention deficit disorder, not a mathematical problem) as unharnessed electrons. As a guy who was once a kid whose favorite past time was screwing off in class, I know these kids well. This is my attempt at harnessing some of my own ideas, and putting them in writing. Some day, my son Fletcher will find these ramblings and realize what a total kook his father was.
Second, if you find yourself reading this blog, you have my empathy. I am sure that over the years this will evolve into a periodic car wreck where the reader cannot look away no matter how many more interesting things they have to do. I asked a friend of mine, "what do people who rip movies and post them on bit torrent get out of doing this. There is no financial gain, a great deal of risk and at the end of the day no tangible benefit." His response? "What do people who blog get out of it? Mostly, they just get some limited recognition and people get free movies." I still don't get it. So now I blog. And I wait for a reader, and then look out.
Last, is my disclaimer - A long time ago I was a lawyer. And this makes me worry about everything I write. I have no doubt that in the coming years, I will offend some people. I am curious to see exactly how many. However, I hereby post this disclaimer to the web, to have effect from now until 21 years after my death - The works contained herein are not intended to be based in fact and are actually only the opinions of the author. All similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental. The author in no way has any actual animosity for any group - religious, racial, social, or political, but rather only finds humor in most of these organizations and the nonsense which comes from when we self-segregate (more on this later). Any statements which indicate any animosity should be construed as group neutral, as the author actually has an equal level of animosity for all groups. And trust me I have animosity. . .
So this concludes my opening remarks. You should really be excited and tantalized now at the prospect of what prose shall now spatter across the web like blood at a murder scene (Did I mention my wife and I really like Dexter?). So, stand by. No seriously, it might be a while. Remember? I have ADD. Hey look, something shiny. . . I think I want to go ride my bike. . .
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