Harnessed Electrons

God Kills Moms and Dogs Because He Has To.

2011-08-16T22:07:00.000-07:00

I heard that a long time ago as a kid - some TV show trying to explain to a kid why his mom (or dog) died. Your Grandmother used to think books and TV shows about death would help me understand why my dad died when I was 8. And, at the time, it kinda helped to accept the futility of death. When it happens, you chalk it up to shit happens. Or Insh'Allah. Or whatever. Mourn the loss, but know that God had to do it.

However, tonight is a little tougher. Tonight, while you sleep and while we enjoy the riches of a cool house on a hot summer night, a little boy named Adam lies under a respirator, while his heart pumps through the miracle of modern science. You met Adam when you were seven, playing little league. He was on your team and yes, he hit better than you (which isn't saying much as he got two hits and you only got one - but you could field better than he could, if that helps) Yes, I was embarrassed for you, until I remembered that I sucked at baseball too.

Adam has had a tough life. His father ducked out when he showed up a few months early, underweight, and not likely to live beyond the first days. But he did. He was slow to develop physically, and because he had spent so much of his time under the protective shield of the medical establishment, was just getting into the social aspects of childhood that you have enjoyed for years. Adam had few friends, but you were among them (and probably his best friend).

Unfortunately, Adam isn't doing well. His heart doesn't seem to want to work, and for the second time in as many weeks, he was found unconscious and in just a horrible way. His brain was being deprived of oxygen, and his little body was frankly just pissed at working so hard to stick around. When it happened last week, he came around, but he wasn't the same - He couldn't remember how to put on his shirt. And when it happened today, it doesn't look like he will wake up. The doctors can't find a cause and so if he does wake up there is a high likelihood that this will happen again and again, until his body just says it is time to rest.

Unfortunately, that TV show didn't tell us why God kills kids. I look at you, and I cannot imagine the pain that Adam's mom is enduring. She is a strong woman, but Hercules can't sit at the bed of his dying son and let go easily. Watching a friend's son slip slowly into the black is hard enough, but the TV show didn't talk about dying kids. Because when God kills kids, frankly it just sucks. And there is no reason on heaven or earth why God does it. No reason. This just sucks.

Mentorship

2010-08-01T22:12:00.000-07:00

So lad, I left tonight for another trip to another city. This time it is Tampa, and who knows where is next. A kiss on the cheek and I was gone, this time leaving you with the mandate to build a fortress on the planet Hoth, using all of your Legos. As I left, you were explaining that you had made a dinner table, and the little 1x2 brick was a napkin. I envy your perspective – On the battle for Hoth, I am sure there was a dining facility – probably not as nice as the one I ate at in Qatar, but the rebels probably did their best on the frozen, hostile planet. And I am sure they needed napkins to keep their hands clean for the impending invasion by Imperial forces. I am just taking off, and I already can’t wait to get home to see what abstract battle position you have created. This weekend is BrickLink in DC – A two day convention for Legos. When you finally can read this, I hope you remembered us sneaking out and leaving Mom and Zoe at home.

Last night, we left a party for my nephew Rob, who just graduated high school at 17. Next year he is off to college, and then into the working world. It was a lovely event, and when we left you were ground into powder by running with the big kids all day and night. You fell asleep in the back seat 5 minutes after I started the engine. I was left to think about the young man who kind of watched over you all night. He was a friend of Rob’s and a really great kid.

When I first met him, it was the night of Prom, and the kids had all come to the beach for the next day. He is a pretty typical 18 year old – knows he wants a future but doesn’t know what that future is, or how to get there. When we met after Prom, the boy had no college acceptances, while all of his friends were planning their Freshman year. He had no real plans, and no idea how to even develop a goal. Until this week.

Somehow this young man walked into the Recruiter for the Marine Corps, having seen the ads on television, and heard of the escapades of brotherhood, honor and patriotism. And while all of these traits have my respect, and I hope that some day you will experience even a few minutes of any of these, I was left to wonder how many young men and women, make this decision, without any sort of mentorship.

When this young man – I will call him Jughead – told me of his decision, I was split down the middle – I was thrilled for him – he has made a commitment – a decision, like so many of us. He was swayed by the sound of the guns and the romance of the danger, and he swore that for at least the next 4 years, he would protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and that he will obey the orders of the President, and the officers appointed above him, so help him God – By the way, that was from memory – I suspect I may have missed a word here or there, but overall it says “Welcome to the ”. We all take this oath, and in turn, the US owns us for 8 years. And I was proud of the kid.

But I was also pissed. I know this is going to sound insane, but a big part of me was angry. This young man signed the most important document of his life – and had no idea what he was signing up for. The world of the military offers training in every imaginable field – from shower repair to missile repair, from firefighting to firing cannons, and from medical corpsman to mortuary affairs. The opportunities are boundless, and many of these jobs train you in a field that provides experience which has real value in the civilian sector. Medics leave the Army as EMT or paramedic equivalents. Network engineers leave with certifications in network security, network management and many others. Name a field and you can find a civilian equivalent. Even Combat Engineers. They learn basic construction and advanced demolitions, which can pay well as you level old stadiums. All of these train real skills, except Infantry. From personal experience, I can tell you that when you go to the college-military liaison (Yes, most schools have these), and you tell them what you did, they offer you a handful of credits in Physical Education, and send you on your way, while the other veterans get Computer Science, Biology or other credits for the smart work they did. My point is – Jughead doesn’t even know what job he has yet, but he still signed on the line. And so I was pissed. I wasn’t pissed at Jughead – I was pissed that no one he knew cared enough to tag along with him as his advocate for when the recruiter was dripping honey into his ear.

However, it is tough to be 18. Everyone has advice, and you think you are old enough to know better than everyone else. You are healthy, you are strong enough, and the government tells you that you can vote and selective service tells you that you are old enough to serve at arms. You can lease a car, if someone believes you can afford it. You are indestructible – Just ask all those kids who die racing cars after a couple of beers, like my old friend Dave O’Dell did. But the reality is – and this is a real news flash - YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT. I was there – I thought I knew it all. Off to college, in a major I didn’t understand, because I was told to. I flunked out and dropped into the Army. I didn’t know shit either.

I was lucky though – I had an old salt of a sergeant in my life at the time – close to 30 years of service behind him, and he coached me through the process – I would talk to the recruiter and then talk to Sergeant Franks. And Franks would tell me where I was jacked up and set me back on course. All the way through until I was shipped off to Basic Training – With Franks laughing his ass off at me for choosing Infantry, just like he had 30 years before. And while I loved it, and many do, the reality is that the career field provides nothing except a lot of good stories and real character building. That’s what they call carrying heavy gear for long stretches at a time with limited food and water – Character. And someday when I see old Jim Franks in Valhalla, I assure you I will buy him a pint, smash him in the jaw and then hug him.

My point is that I had a mentor. And my lesson to you is - pick a mentor as well. Hopefully by then I will have helped you enough along the way that you will pick me, but I will understand if you don’t. Parents are tough, and by then, I will have helped you become a young man and probably pissed you off along the way. I will have taught you where I can, let you fail when you need to and picked you up by the belt and dragged you across the line when it requires. I will always be there for you, but its ok to get advice from others you respect – just don’t give away the respect to those who haven’t earned it. I do promise that if you pick me, and you want to do something that I know nothing about, I promise to tell you that I don’t know anything about it, and help you find someone who does.

And when you get to that life’s decision, and you have someone to talk to, make sure you shut up and listen – Even I can do it when it counts. Listen to both sides (Ask old President Nixon what happens when you don’t). Give credence to both sides, mitigate those who argue from a position of emotion, and listen most to those who did what you want to do – especially those who share both the positives and the negatives. Poor Jughead only has seen the best of the picture now, but the recruiter probably didn’t show him the picture of the soldier holding his trooper after he lost his father to cancer hundreds of miles away. Or the picture of the soldier whose wife had their baby while he was 7,000 miles away. There are lessons in the words of these veterans of life that you cannot ignore, whether it is joining the Marines or starting a family or even starting a business. Shut up and listen. And someday, when your son comes to you to talk about joining the Army, shut up and listen to him too. And then give him the number for the Air Force.

Jughead finds out what jobs he is eligible for on Tuesday. I gave him my number - if he doesn’t call Tuesday, I will be home late, as I will have to detour through Sewell, New Jersey for a little impromptu woodline counseling. In the meantime, I will sit back, and wait to see how you defend the Planet Hoth, remember fondly Jim Franks, who is probably already waiting in Valhalla, with some booby trapped plastic spoons (a great trick he taught me), and a pint for me.

The Root of Your Happiness

2010-07-08T22:12:00.000-07:00

Today I find myself flying high above the Midwest in a Boeing 737 on a Southwest flight (I hope they are still around when you are flying on your own – they are the model of customer service, and control of your destiny.) You broke a board in Tae Kwon Do (you call it Karate) and we are about to pack up and move again – you are the model of flexibility.

Last night, I had a great dinner and a better lesson. I met up with an old colleague and friend in San Francisco. We went to a place downtown, called Eddie Rickenbacker’s. Eddie Rickenbacker was an American hero flying in defense of our nation in World War I and World War II, and served our country bravely despite overwhelming risks. He is now “honored” by this restaurant. The bar and restaurant has been on my comrade’s list of places to go, because the interior is uniquely decorated. The interior has an old upright piano that is moderately out of tune but supports the college girl who plays for tips and a modest wage. She is no Billy Joel, but far easier on the eyes. The piano is stained with years of water rings from the pints that have rest upon in, and the audio is nothing short of horrendous, but her voice resonated through, and kept the bar (or at least me) in good spirits.

The restaurant’s tables were definitely antiques from their years of service to diners and drinkers alike – Dark brown inlays on heart pine table tops, long fading as their protective finishes had been sanded off by plates, elbows, and silverware. But they brought character to the place, reminding the patron they were there before we were born and will likely be there after our carbon has been recycled.

However, that simply wasn’t enough. The bars plaster ceiling, paint flaking from its surface, holds even more history. From this plaster surface are dozens of antique motorcycles – the kind you don’t see on the road as their value is high and their ride is far too uncomfortable. They sit in cable slings hooked to the ceiling and walls, and float lightly in the air like a Knievel over the Snake River (or as you might think of it, like Indiana Jones and his father in the motorcycle chase).

The motorcycles are magnificent representations of the motorcycle culture over the decades and nations it spans – Moto Guzzis from Italy, Triumph from England and Indians and Harley Davidsons from here in the US. There was even a motorcycle that was built by the predecessor to the Schwinn bicycle company – truly an exhibit to behold and on each motorcycle was a brief history as well as a rough value to show the onlookers of the wealth the owner had.

But that wasn’t truly the centerpiece of the establishment. In the front corner of the bar was a well cushioned and well-used love seat upon which sat a lump of a man. Age and fatigue and years of cigar smoking and hate have formed Lump (his real name is Norman Hobday, courtesy of Google) into an oxygen sucking mass whose role has become to shift positions on the couch while overseeing his establishment. On the dining table in front of him, is an ashtray with a well chomped cigar, and some plates with an assortment of foot scraps. Between him and the table is an old orange tabby cat whose proportional weight is matched by this lump of a man, and I suspect one is racing the other to their grave.

Beside the man are two more modern devices – a television running mysteries on A&E with subtitles and volume roaring over the din of the crowd, and below that is a little pump that seems to pull in air and convert it to oxygen which connects via a hose to Lump’s nose. Beside the pump are a series of askew oxygen tanks that lie dusty and either ready to step up, or recently exhausted.

So – I hope I paint the picture. In the meantime, our piano singer continues to bang at keys singing a tune and showing no formal training, and waiting for salvation through either a job that pays better than tips or an emir from the Gulf region to buy her and take her away for sexual slavery that would be sweet release from the pseudo-job she has today. The bartender and the waitress are periodically beckoned to the lump who now sits behind me at my seat at the end of the bar. I believe these are their names – waitress, bartender – as this is how he refers to them. There is a loathing in his voice that stems not from any incompetence on their part, but from years of a life spent likely wasted as he erodes into his tomb.

These women – these heroines – come to his aid, lifting his lethargic legs onto the comfy but worn love seat, or to prop pillows under the hot dogs of neck fat that roll off of the back of his head. They do so with some compassion or some distinct affection for a man who only treats them with contempt. Remarably, each woman here is lovely in their own right – a little punky, but certainly more normal than not (that morning I saw a 6 foot tall tranny (7 feet with the heels) crossing the street – so who is to say what normal is here or anywhere else anymore).

So my friend and I began to chat with the staff as the bar cleared out and learned more about the scene – but certainly far from all there was to say. Many of the young women were friends and had gotten each other jobs – and bartending paid well for summer work. But they knew of our lump's personality quirks. The one girl told us her name was Charleston, after her home town, but she suspected Lump didn’t know her real name. Bartender stood next to me and wrote “I’m not gay” on a cocktail napkin. When I asked her what the hell that was about, she simply replied “[Lump] likes people to know we’re not gay”. She continued to write on the napkin, adorning the text with shading of different colors and preparing it to be worn proudly. Though you know she didn’t like it, she accepted it as part of her work there, and well, you know, it pays well. Soon the other two women were wearing the signs, and showing off their hetero-pride and perhaps a little humiliation.

We also learned that Norman is alone. And he will die like this. Oh Norman has family – all of whom seem to have walked away or been walked away on. The story is that he has 2 children he never sees, and brothers and/or sisters who have long since shunned him. I suspect that this bar is all he has (plus some mansion paid for by the bar’s revenue, or a shanty above the inn, where he lays on a bed of hay, I imagine). But Norman will die soon, leaving an empty legacy and a bar that will go for sale with all of its contents at auction to pay for his soon to be growing medical bills.

And so we sat there for a few hours, sipping cold beer and I enjoyed a great filet mignon, some potatoes and little corn and peas with a great flavor, and I enjoyed watching this scene unfold. But I am sure by now, you are asking yourself, “But why would you stay.” A fair and good question – I consider myself open minded to all sorts of people. (Except for people with two colors of eye – they freak me out). I think of myself as someone who doesn’t take part in homophobia (I mean seriously, I have a gay friend, so I must be tolerant, right) or this sort of anti-people behaviors. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t like a lot of people – but not because they are gay, or black, (I know a black guy or two) or Catholic (I even married one of them) or whatever. I have long had friends of many backgrounds. But the people I don’t like are in this category because they don’t contribute, or they aren’t open minded to change or because they push their views on me, without respecting my thoughts on things.

However, Norman was an interesting slice of reality, and he was dying. And I think that when you are dying, you get to live like you want to live – I just hope that when I am dying, I am surrounded with friends and not customers, and people and not things. Moreover, I hope that my things I do have bring me joy and not bitterness that transforms into hate and insecurity where I keep them on shelves to be watched instead of using them to bring the delight for which they were designed. The reality is that the pale horse will ride into town for Norman soon enough, and when Norman rides out with Death, I think it would be better, as we bounce along on the ass of the horse, tied to the saddle, to look back smiling at those left behind and not with a dead stare and anger and all of the things he should have done right.

The compassion of the women who worked there was remarkable – they knew Norman was dying, and much like the nurse who helps a criminal on his death bed, these angels helped Norman through his disease, and tolerated his behavior to pay the bills. And once out of earshot, which for Norman was measured in inches, they would lean over to the customers and let them know that behavior that would humiliate most, was tolerated to help keep the lights on, and to give an old, dying man a perception of control. Their eyes belied a sadness – but not for themselves – it was for a man whose hair dropped in clumps to the floor covered with orange cat fur and spilled beer and who would soon leave here and leave a legacy of a great bar with a great environment, and with Norman Hobday’s name written in a foot note buried beneath names and years of the hundred motorcycles, the age of the building and even the color of the paint on the walls – for after Norman dies, he will just be dead.

I also think that if you serve a damn good steak, and a cold pint, it might be worth one night of my life. Besides, my tab probably bought him another cigar and another tank of oxygen.

Coming home again.

2010-06-22T22:36:00.000-07:00

Son,

I have missed our talks - it has been far too long. I suppose the toughest part of the blog is the commitment - it truly requires constant feeding and care, and I have ignored it. My failure has likely resulted in some deep chasm in your learning, but you are sharp - I am sure you will overcome. Sometimes life simply gets in the way of what is important. And sometimes, what is important takes precedence over writing notes which won't get read until you are older and have already begun ignoring my advice.

Much has changed in our lives, but I suppose you have seen that - you have a little sister now, cherubic and rotund as all healthy babes are. She is the image of your aunt Hannah but lesser educated folk will tell you she looks like your mother. I suppose time will tell. And you have handled it brilliantly. Rather than be a snotty brat, chomping for attention, you have found attention comes when you are attentive and you exemplify the protective brother in every way. I could not be more proud.

A week after she was born, we uprooted you and moved you to New Jersey - I promise - it wasn't as bad as it sounds (the move, or living in New Jersey). You handled it well, and today, I joined you for lunch at school, and you were surrounded by a room full of kids - all of whom looked like they had known you for years. I was too proud. But in the coming weeks, change is on the horizon again - another move, another town, and another school. I am sure that this comes with its own pains, but I know too that your mother and I will make more out of it than you ever will. You are a champ and soon you will have a room all your own again, strewn only with your clothes, your toys. So clean up will you?

And this weekend, I too am coming home, in some ways. This weekend is the closing of the Armory where my National Guard unit met for one weekend a month. Located in the heart of North Philadelphia, between some tough neighborhoods, and LaSalle University, the Armory was never much to look at, but inside it housed a history of stories that shall never be repeated. And from these stories, I learned a great deal about life - its value and its bonds with others. Not all of the stories were good, but everything had a story to it.

There are too many to tell here and many are still likely to get some old friends divorced, killed or jailed, but suffice it to say, I will miss that place after it has been bulldozed (after the EPA cleans up the oil leaks and asbestos which no doubt floats through that place.) The musty smells of the basement, the scent of gun oil in the arms room, and even the stench of the urinals that never seemed to be clean will all stay with me forever. I remember coming in for drill one weekend to find a drug addict sleeping in a wrecked car in the parking lot, and I remember taking your cousin CJ on a tour of the tanks and machine guns inside the fenceline. Tonight, I can even remember back to my first drill weekend at the armory after returning from Basic Training - I was late because no one told me what time to be there, I got my first counseling statement from Tony Gray (you will meet him someday, I promise), and I met my Platoon Sergeant, Ted Stowell, who taught me more about being a man than anyone I ever knew. Some day I will even tell you about Kevin Hall - a story too long for any blog, but one which is exemplified by the statement (about your mother) "Damn, Sergeant Port, your wife got a phat ass". (I think she secretly liked it) While many of my ramblings will apply to your sister as well, I suspect that she won't appreciate this like you will.

Since I left in 2004, much has changed. Many of these men are out of service now, or have come and gone to Iraq, Afghanistan, Egypt, or some other country long abandoned by civilization or Gods. I am going back these weekend to see these folks for perhaps one last time, before I etch my service into my memoirs, but that place will never be forgotten even after it has been replaced by condos, or projects or a supermarket. The camaraderie that comes from a crew of guys who have no one else who appreciates their stories is unlike anything else you will ever experience and it is not soon forgotten. I hope you experience it and I hope those friendships last you as long as mine have. For me, my relationships in high school, grade school, college and beyond, pale in contrast to the brotherhood I was so fortunate to build in that old building in North Philadelphia.

Lessons Learned

2010-01-04T15:00:00.000-08:00

Son,

I have rarely found a description of what "Army Life" was like better than this one. Pull this article out someday when you are considering flunking out of college, or looking at skipping class in the 11th grade. If you can do items 1-50, I will let you drop out and sign up. Otherwise, get your ass back to work, or get into the Air Force.

For the record, I don't know who wrote this - It isn't mine, but damn is it funny.

How to Simulate Life in the Army

1. Dig a big hole in your back yard and live in it for 30 days straight.

2. Go inside only to clean the house. On weekends, you can eat in the house, but you can't talk.

3. Pour 10 inches of nasty, crappy water into your hole, then shovel it out, stack sandbags around it and cover it with a sheet of old plywood.

4. Fill a backpack with 50 pounds of kitty litter. Never take it off outdoors. Jog everywhere you go.

5. Every couple of weeks, dress up in your best clothes and go the scummiest part of town, find the most run down trashy bar you can, pay $10 per beer until you're hammered, then walk home in the freezing cold.

6. Perform a weekly disassembly and inspection of your lawnmower.

7. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays turn the water pressure in your shower down to a trickle, then on Tuesday and Thursday turn it up so hard it peels skin. On Saturdays and Sundays declare to your entire family that they can't use the shower in order to keep it clean for inspection.

8. Go inside and make your bed every morning. Have your wife tear the blankets off at random during the day. Re-make the bed each time until it is time to go back outside and sleep in your hole.

9. Have your next door neighbor come over each day at 5am, and blow a whistle so loud that Helen Keller could hear it and shout "Get up! Get up! You are moving too slow! Get down and do push-ups!"

10. Have your mother-in-law write down everything she's going to do the following day, then have her make you stand in the back yard at 6am and read it to you.

11. Eat the raunchiest Mexican food you can find for three days straight, then lock yourself out of the bathroom for 12 hours. Hang a sign on the bathroom door that says, "Unserviceable."

12. Submit a request form to your father-in-law, asking if it's ok for you to leave your house before 5pm.

13. Invite 200 of your not-so-closest friends to come over. Have them all dig holes in your yard to live in. After 30 days, fill in the holes and wave at your friends and family through the front window of your home as you set out for a 25 mile walk and After-Action-Review.

14. Shower with above-mentioned friends.

15. Make your family qualify to operate all the appliances in your home (i.e. Dishwasher operator, blender technician, etc.).

16. Walk around your car for 4 hours checking the tire pressure every 15 minutes. Write down on a piece of paper everything you want the shop to fix the next time you bring the car in. Give your wife the list to throw away.

17. Sit in your car and let it run for 4 hours with the windows down before going anywhere. Tune the radio to static and monitor it while letting the car run. If it is cold outside, don't run the heat. Sleep on the hood or roof of your car.

18. Empty all the garbage bins in your house, and sweep your driveway 3 times a day, whether they need it or not.

19. Repaint your entire house once a month. Paint white rings around all the trees in your neighborhood. Paint all curbs yellow. Paint all rocks red.

20. Cook all of your food blindfolded, groping for any spice and seasoning you can get your hands on.

21. Use eighteen scoops of budget coffee grounds per pot, and allow each pot to sit 5 hours before drinking.

22. Have your neighbor collect all your mail for a month, read your magazines, and randomly lose every 5th item.

23. Spend $20,000 on a satellite system for your TV, but only watch CNN and the Weather Channel when you are inside to eat. Tune the tint on the TV to green.

24. Avoid watching your green tinted TV with the exception of movies which are played in the middle of the night. Have the family vote on which movie to watch and then show a different one.

25. Have your 5-year-old cousin give you a haircut with goat shears.

26. Sew big pockets to the legs of your pants. Don't use them.

27. Spend 2 weeks sleeping in holes in your neighbor's lawns and call it a deployment.

28. Spend a year sleeping in holes in your local area and call it world travel.

29. Attempt to spend 5 years working at McDonalds, and NOT get promoted.

30. Ensure that any promotions you do get are from stepping on the dead bodies of your co-workers.

31. Blast heavy metal music on your stereo and conduct Ranger PT, grass drills, and sprints on your front lawn after your neighbors have gone to bed.

32. When your children are in bed, run into their room with a megaphone and shout at the top of your lungs that your home is under attack, and order them to man their fighting positions. Don't let them eat or sleep again for two days.

33. Make your family menu a week ahead of time and do so without checking the pantry and refrigerator.

34. Post a menu on the refrigerator door informing your family that you are having steak for dinner. Then make them wait in line for at least an hour. When they finally get to the kitchen, tell them that you are out of steak, but you have dried ham or hot dogs. Repeat daily until they don't pay attention to the menu any more so they just ask for hot dogs.

35. When baking a cake, prop up one side of the pan while it is in the oven. Spread icing on real thick to level it off.

36. In the middle of January, place a gate at the end of your street. Have your family stand watches at the gate, rotating at 4-hour intervals.

37. Make your family live with you in your hole for 6 weeks. Then tell them that at the end of the 6th week you're going to take them to Disneyland for "block leave." When the end of the 6th week rolls around, inform them that Disneyland has been canceled due to the fact that they need to get ready for Individual Skill Certification, and that it will be another week before they can go back into the house.

38. In your hole (refer to #1), with 200 of your not-so-closest friends (see para. 13), get the flu.

39. Sleep in a thicket of blackberries or rose bushes. Tie a string to your foot that runs to the house. Have your wife yank on the string about 3 hours after you go to sleep. Crawl out of the bushes and go to the house to see what she wants. She should then shine a flashlight in your eyes and mumble "Just making sure you're okay."

40. Do not sleep from 1:00 a.m. Monday mornings until 3 p.m. Wednesday afternoons. Tie a branch around your neck and chew on sand to stay awake.

41. When there is a thunderstorm in your area, dig a trench into your hole so that it fills up with water. During the worst part of the storm, get out of your hole and go for a 12 mile walk.

42. Don't change your socks for a week. After they disintegrate off with pieces of your feet, put on an unbroken pair of new boots and go for a 12 mile walk.

43. For mechanized infantry or armor types: leave the lawn mower running next to your hole 24 hours a day. When you get an opportunity to sleep in your house, put lube oil in your humidifier and set it on high.

44. Have the paperboy give you a haircut.

45. Set up a port-a-potty in the corner of your yard. Once a week, have the service truck back into your yard and pump it out. Make sure the wind carries the smell into your neighbors house. Ignore his complaints.

46. Every other month pull every single possession you own out of your house and line everything up on your lawn from smallest to largest, front to back. Count everything and write it down to file with your insurance company. Give your wife the list to throw away.

47. Lock wire the lug nuts on your car.

48. Buy a trash can, but don't use it. Store the garbage in your hole.

49. Get up every night around midnight and stroll around your yard to "check the perimeter."

50. Run the garden hose to your hole and turn it on. Set your alarm clock to go off at random during the night. Jump up and get dressed as fast as you can. Run out into the backyard and get in your hole.

51. Once a month, take apart every major appliance in your home and put them back together again.

52. Build a scale model of your yard. Make your children draw sketches of it including little arrows indicating what they are going to do when they go out to play. Post these sketches on a bulletin board for reference.

53. Remove the insulation and widen the frames of your front and back doors so that no matter how tight you shut the door, the weather will still get inside.

54. Every so often, throw the cat in front of your hole and shout "Enemy in the wire! Fire Claymores!" Then run into the house cut off the circuit breaker. Yell at the wife and kids for violating security and not maintaining good noise and light discipline.

55. Put on the headphones from your stereo set, but don't plug them in. Hang a paper cup around your neck with string. Go sit in your car. Say to no one in particular "Lost-One, this is Lost-Three, are you lost too, over?" Sit there for three or four hours with the engine running. Say again to no one in particular "Negative contact, Lost-Three out." Roll up your headphones and paper cup and place them in a box

A friend in need -

2009-11-19T11:10:00.000-08:00

Looking for Land
My wife, Timi, and I, Chris Pieretti, are looking for a little underutilized land. We are researching the development of a food service. You grow it; you cook it. It’s called Kitchen Harvest. Think you can’t afford organic food? If you have a little space, yes, you sure can! You can grow it yourself. The idea is to help communities naturally grow their own food and prepare it simply, deliciously and elegantly. One of the most basic key components to this venture is the ability to efficiently amend our soil types to successfully grow a variety of crops. Our soil amendment would be the richest and most naturally nutritious compost around! The compost would be a mix of natural waste products from the community like leaves, coffee grounds and vegetable waste. It requires some science, some labor and a little land to rapidly produce such fertile compost. I’ve got the science and the labor, but I need the land. Our ¼ acre home lot is plenty for us and our garden needs, but to service a larger community I need a bit more space. A 30’ x 30’ square would be a great start.

I would be completely responsible for all permitting and other legal requirements for the use and operation of a small composting facility in accordance with the Department of Environmental Protection (DEP) and all other relevant governing organizations.
The ideal area of perhaps 900 sq. ft. would satisfy the following:
· Truck access for loading and unloading
· A well-drained area with a workable surface and a slope of 2-4%
· The working surface is firm, uniformly graded and dry
· Area is not located (DEP permit WMG017 for On-Farm Source Separated Composting):
o In the 100-year floodplain of waters of its Commonwealth
o In or within 300 feet of an exceptional wetland
o In or within 100 feet of a wetland other than an exceptional value wetland
o Within 100 feet of a sinkhole or area draining to a sinkhole
o Within 300 feet measured horizontally from an occupied dwelling unless the owner would provide a written waiver consenting to the facility being closer than 300 feet
o Within 50 feet of a property line unless the owner would provide a written waiver consenting to the facility being closer than 50 feet
o Within 100 feet of a perennial stream
o Within 300 feet of a water source unless the owner would provide a written waiver consenting to the facility being closer than 300 feet
o Within 3.3 feet of a perched, seasonal or regional ground water table

The compost pile would be free of offensive odors (unless you don’t like the smell of a forest floor), attractively enclosed on three sides and, if all goes well, perhaps twenty feet high. This land might be found in the corner of a school or church parking lot, the side of an underutilized city lot, the unused bay at a nursery or the small divide of a pasture. It is our intention to work along with nature to provide healthy food for our families, to responsibly nurture our environment and to reconnect to our Earth.

The bitter taste.

2009-11-18T07:53:00.000-08:00

Son, as I write this, our nation's top lawyer is deciding whether to press charges against 5 people who helped plan the 9/11 attacks. Hopefully as you read this, the history books are written and this is a distant memory for your generation, much as World War II was for me. But for me, and millions of American's like me, this is not the case. This was our generations defining moment, much like Hitler of the 40's, or Kennedy's assassination in the 60's.

I remember that morning at work. Beautiful fall day in Philadelphia. I had ridden my bike to work. Blue skies. Perfect. After I got settled at my desk, your mother called me. She told me to get to a TV - and we had one in the lobby. I turned it on, and watched in disbelief as the 2nd plane hit the second tower. And I stood there as Katie Couric of the Today show tried to make sense of it. Ten minutes later, I was surrounded by co-workers all of whom were confused by the scene as we all were. The downside of an HD media - We were all getting it at once. And being 3 hours away, we all had friends living in New York City. And living in and around a city we all were wondering who was next.

By ten am that morning the air was void of planes, and our nation had suffered the worst attack of our generation. Within hours we were galvanized against the enemy, but within years, many had forgotten or the weekend patriots had gone home. By today, we have a new problem, which should have been handled long ago.

I believe in our Constitution, and especially in the 8th Amendments. I believe that all criminals deserve a right to trial. However, I also believe that those who organize into an equivalent nation state are not criminals but rather warriors, and these warriors of this new, threat nation state are not subject to our laws, our Constitution, or rights afforded to those who live within those constructs. In short, if you fly some planes into 5,000 innocent people, and if effects our country, you don't get to play the fair trial. And don't ask for anything other than cruel and unusual punishment. We are forever scarred by your actions, and you deserve nothing more than the most deviant, violent, and painful stuff I can imagine. And my imagination is vivid.

You see on that day, those men attacked my family. This country is a conglomeration of all types, but the nation is above all. We must protect it like our family and for those who attack the family, the response must be swift and metered to leave an impact which deters others from delivering similar blows. In turn, these 5 men, these warriors, deserve nothing but the same brutality, and callous disregard for the peaceful remainder like that which they plotted and delivered on 9/11.

But because these men plotted as a conspiracy against the United States and because they acted as represetatives of this nation, I am willing to turn away from the Constitution which applies to us and apply a more coarse, and more just law of land warfare, where enemy combatants are subject to trials for war crimes - where the punishments are more severe and the justice more swift. I hope that rage prevails this time, and that we get what this nation needs to put this behind us - and give us something to blame, and something to destroy. Let it be put to rest, and let's move on with the healing.

A great night, and a brief post

2009-09-11T19:02:00.000-07:00

Son, right now you are approaching sleep, as your mother tucks you in. Tonights lecture has nothing to do with leading nations, freedom of speech, civil rights, or even hot girls (That is for tomorrow at the pool). Tonight the focus is on you.

Tonight, you and I got a chance to hang out under the stars, by a roaring fire while swinging in the hammock. Many years from now, this memory will have long passed for you I am sure but it will still be vivid for me long into my senility. However, when you read this, the lesson I want you to take away is to make sure you make these memories for you with your own son - or daughter. The time is invaluable, and while you sat there talking of your days events, I watched the embers glow orange and the stars shine bright white against the deep, dark sky above. I hardly notice the blood draining into the invisible mosquitoes, or the houses that envelop our neighborhood.

That time, that precious time, which slips through our hands as you get older, and taller, and smarter, and just grow into being you, stops as we sit there under the sky, and I am grateful for those moments. I could listen your stories for hours. Tomorrow, I will bring the marshmallows, and the tent - You bring more stories. And in a few years when I spent this time with your little sister - don't be jealous - I promise I will make enough time for both of you.

Another day of heated debate

2009-09-09T17:11:00.000-07:00

Well son, today I inspired a day of heated debate by my friends, colleagues and patriots. People who love their country - who love their fellow man, stepped up to kick down those who don't believe in their one true approach to American government. And when bright minds differ, we have evolved to name calling, exaggeration and flexing of the truth to where it is no longer recognized.

As you grow older, I am sure our nation will mature, but in what direction I am not sure. Interestingly, in 1992, I was in and around London, England, with the British Army. During that time, I learned a few things. First, and most important, I learned that it is possible to train hard all day, shooting, marching, more shooting and more marching around a town called Thetford. I also learned that after all of that you can drink from around 10 pm until 3-4 am and then continue the training, if you really try and push through the pounding in your head.

Most importantly, I learned of the importance of tradition and respect. During this visit I was informed by our US leaders not to ever question the role of the queen. Seriously, a matriarch in the 20th century, who had no real power and whose only authority has been derived from being born from the "right" uterus. However, to the English people, she and her family represented the elite. The aristocracy had a role, and she acted as a model for all people on behavior, on culture, and being a lady, when all about are losing their head. In fact, I probed the subject with my peers in their Army and it cost me dearly in pints of warm bitters. They are serious about it.

Again in the military, I learned these important lessons. Despite the several leaders I had over the years who failed me, I knew I had to follow the rules that required I follow, as those who may have disagreed with me had to follow me at times as well. While not a perfect system, it allows a unit to operate under extreme duress, when the chips are down and when all about them are again losing their heads. Certainly not the best approach, but we lack a hive mind, so this will have to work. And it surprisingly does. It works even better when the leader you have knows how to get the best from you. By now you have met your uncles Greg and Dave and others and know what I mean.

So onto my point. We are a nation in crisis. We have a failed economy. A failed corporate America, where greed, and deregulation of key industries married to destroy economic prosperity. We have two wars, plus a globe in humanitarian failure. We have an illegal immigration problem, coupled with a disease of sloth among many of our citizens. We have a pseudo democracy as a form of Government, where money can drive the incompetent or expired into power term after term after term, and where the truly competent leaders of our generation run fleeing into private industry. We have a Government which is bloating like a corpse in the river, but where our people turn in times of crisis. And lastly, and likely the worst, we have a long outdated two-party system, which likely represents only a minority of citizens and that has disenfranchised most of the middle and lower-upper classes by representing those who are not them. So what do we do? We eat our leadership.

Now, before I continue, I want to remind you of two recurring themes to these missives. First, the Constitution is our nation's guiding beacon. There is nothing else that matters, and the measure of a nation is how it behaves in light of this document, when the chips are down. Second, critical thought is a key factor in your success in life. When people bring you ideas, you must always consider them carefully before making a decision. Life is about the choices you make, and not the crap you acquire. Therefore, always look at what is in it for all involved and not just what will you get out of it.

So, let's look at our current state. The far right would tell you that our current leader is to blame. That he is evil and that he is trying to indoctrinate our children. (I would say that we could do a better job of indoctrinating our children into being a little more pro patria). The right would argue that his programs are socialist. That his behavior is driven by racial motives, or that he represents the interests of terrorists. All of those things and more have made it to Fox News. And been spoken by Republican leadership.

On the other hand, our more liberal representatives would blame our current crisis on the former President. They would focus on the last administration, and attempt to evade any criticism for their own significant failings as the Congress who deregulated housing, a key market driver in a society which produces nothing (seriously son, our country produces exactly nothing, except services, porn and some other useless crap - everything else comes from Asia - Thanks Unions!) The left will push issues the nation is likely not ready for while hiding behind a black man shouting "racist" at every critic of his administration.

So where is the solution? I suspect if your mother and I are still in this country as you reach adulthood, the solution is like everything else. In moderation. The reality is that the truth is in the middle, and yes, it shall set you free.

Is our President socialist? Perhaps more so than we are used to. Socialist in the sense of post-depression activities like welfare, and food stamps, but perhaps to a more significant degree. However, this guy inherited a train wreck from his predecessor, and this train had the brakes release before President GW Bush took office. Wanna blame someone? There are plenty of targets to go around.

Does that make him evil? A guy named McCarthy say around called all of the people in Hollywood "Communists". Were they? Probably not. Did it make them evil? No. Was McCarthy an ass? Yep, but was he evil? No. We just arrested a guy who locked up three women in his back yard for over 18 years. He was evil. I watched two towers collapse in New York, on live television, while those below and above died. That was evil. Giving healthcare to poor people? I don't like it but it is far from evil.

Do we need socialism of the core providers like healthcare, the auto industry and banking? I suspect not. However, the systems as they are today are screwed up. They fail to provide to the masses. They fail to provide, even for those who can afford to pay. Period. I almost had to pay $6,000 in medical bills for you my boy, because the insurance company put a check in a box where there should be no check. But this is not a reason to Federalize these services (For the record calling these services socialized or Socialist is a great term to inflame thanks to 40 years of the Cold War - Just ask Charlie McCarthy)

Should we just figure it all out without the taxpayer "buying" the failures? I am sure we should - But I didn't get elected on 11/4/2008. So you know what? I am not sure these are the solutions, but the people have spoken. Therefore those who oppose have two choice, really. Wait until 11/4/2012 and make some changes, or take up arms against the tyranny of a Government to be unjust. I suppose there is a third option, but it is unpopular. Step up to the plate, and go to their congressman. Get involved. Take a real stand but without hiding behind the bitter rhetoric of ratings whores. Better still - volunteer to help children who are without because of lazy parents to become more than their parents accomplished. Help those who cannot help themselves to become better so that someday they will help those who are in need.

Did our congress screw up? Definitely. Was our former president out of his depth? Sure was. Is our current one? Maybe. However, I will say this one important thing. It is easy to be an armchair president. It is easy to second guess. Those who take that job likely have some personality quirks that I don't care for, but most importantly, I know I don't want the job. In our immature culture, it is too easy to sit back though, and say I don't want the job, and still bitch about the job the guy is doing. Another lesson from my friends from the British Army - "Any cunt can criticize." (Sorry readers, you may find this objectionable, but I do so love the 1st Amendment.) This phrase is as applicable to a light infantry platoon making mistakes as it is to leading a nation. We will make mistakes - these guys have to figure out how to fix them.

A last question for you. Do we in the middle and lower-upper classes live in a bubble? We definitely do. As you get older, I encourage you to see the worst parts of this great land. While our pundits shout down opposition, many of them have never spent real time with a family whose house burned to the ground after they lost insurance, after the husband lost a job, because we have to more industry. I found a house not far from where we live, where the two women who lived there were descendants of slaves, and had never bought property of their own. They were evicted, when the owner of the property, whose grandparents had invited the slave family to stay in the home on the property after the emancipation proclamation. Before you were born, I had coffee with a man whose home had been blown apart except for the one remaining room, where he lived, until he could rebuild. And he paid for the coffee. My point is that while we shout at each other, write checks to charity and drive our German cars around, we keep a blind eye to the Mexican woman who cleans our hotel rooms, or the dirty white kid who washes our car. Or even to the World War II veteran who served his four years fighting Nazis and liberating nations, but today has to split his pills in half, because the job he worked for decades lost his pension funds and now finds himself on limited income, but too proud to take Government assistance. Go out son, and meet these people, for they are where the truth lies. Great Americans who work so their children can see a brighter future.

When we look beyond this bubble and realize that "There but for the Grace of God Go I," we realize quickly that we must find a national solution. That while the guy who is in charge is in the elected position authorized by our founding documents, that he is in charge. That it is time to shut up and march and shoot and fight like hell to get through this, and that your dissent is past critical thought and that both sides are being cunty (Thanks Color Sergeant Mick, I will never forget this lesson, though I have forgotten your last name). It is frankly time for sacrifice. To pick up and fight, and to get this nation back to where it should be. And frankly a place for my many friends to realize that the other side is not entirely wrong and that their own side is not entirely right, but rather that the solution will only be found when we can sit down at the table, over some beers, and discuss - without name calling - the facts and the objectives. And perhaps in the morning through hangovers we will find that our sight pictures are a little more crisp as the fog lifts, and those who are on our left and right sides are a little more close to brethren and a little farther from being the enemy.

The Right to Keep and Bear Arms - An idiot's guide

2009-08-24T18:17:00.001-07:00

Son,

By the time you read this, you will likely have been given my pellet rifle, and probably my old .22 rifle. I got a version of this same pellet rifle when I was 6 (it was the 1776 commemorative issue when I got mine) and the .22 I got when I was 8. It came with lessons in responsibility, safety and common sense, but most of all it came with a little fear - which in the case of a firearm is a good idea. Hopefully, as you read this, you will look back on our times target shooting - the patience, the skill, the perfect shot - and you will have come away with some basic lessons, like -
- Never point it at anything you aren't willing to destroy
- Always treat a firearm like it is loaded, even when you are 99% sure it isn't
- Once the bullet is fired, you can never, ever put it back and you can never repair what it destroys.

But on the other hand, there is nothing like the power, the adrenaline, and the release of firing a weapon. The skill it takes to hit targets; the power of holding a controlled explosion - All of it pretty much develops a confidence which few other events can develop. You truly hold life and death in your hands and it is a power and responsibility which should never be taken lightly.

In our country we have the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution of these United States. In it, it attempts to preserve the right to keep and bear arms, a phrase consistently abused, stretched and tormented by the gun lobby and the manufacturers, as well as a few extreme members of our society. Over the years, regulators have tried to take away rights, limit rights and even take guns from the hands of their owners. While I suspect they will never accomplish this, a few extremists went over the top and placed these rights onto a slippery slope into a shredder by being foolish in the eyes of the international press, and the local anti-gun lobbyist.

During a recent "Town Hall Meeting" - Republican speak for opportunity to scream and Liberal speak for chance to spin the truth, members of the Arizona community came to the meeting armed - carrying assault rifles slung over their shoulder. This was done under Arizona's Open Carry law which permits residents of the state to carry a loaded firearm in the open, without being concealed. I suppose the logic is that the bearer of the weapon is letting everyone know he is carrying so others can leave him alone. I can find only a half dozen lessons here for you to take away with you.

First, remember this - Just because you have a right, doesn't mean you have to exercise it. People who abuse these privileges mock the very purpose behind the law. I suspect that the intent of this law was to help farmers who were trying to deter coyotes from taking livestock, and it has been bastardized to this purpose

Second, if you are the strongest man on the beach, someone will try and test you. Similarly the guy with the assault rifle is only a bad day away from someone trying to take it from him. And any fool who wears a shiny assault rifle on his shoulder is sure to have it taken from him.

Third, firearms kill indiscriminately. Combustion, velocity, friction, momentum, and a variety of factors weigh in to determine where the round goes after it leaves the chamber. Carrying an assault rifle in public is not for self-defense - It is a show. And if that carrier shoots someone in a crowd, they will likely kill the person behind the target. Remember, you cannot control where the bullet stops, and who it kills along the way.

Last, and most importantly, our founding fathers felt reasonable men (and women) could arrive at a conclusion through open discourse. The 2nd Amendment was not designed to end arguments. Bringing a firearm to open debate closes the discussion through fear - exactly the type of despotic influence we have fought since 1774, and which we shall always continue to fight. Tyranny through force is never the solution, especially within our own borders. And for this reason, these extremists have placed our collective rights in jeopardy through their abuse of rights.

I hope this is valuable, and I hope someday, you will look at your son, across the range, knocking holes out of the 10-ring while you teach him these same lessons of responsibility. Know that our nation was founded on certain beliefs and we must sustain these without distortion and abuse.

Where oh where did my little blog go. . .

2009-07-18T18:14:00.000-07:00

So son, since my last penning, a lot has changed. And a lot has stayed the same. By the time you read this, the history books will tell of a man, a black man, who was elected President of the United States. He has been in office about 7 months now, and people are expecting miracles, and he has yet to deliver. However, he has been delivering. Unfortunately, the population of these United States take and they seldom return anything, except their unwavering ability to be contrarian. I will say that at least he seems to have restored the title President to the office, but that is a far cry from turning the nation around. He has my faith and support still today, but there are many who would armchair quarterback and cry "Socialist" than stand up and offer a different, unselfish plan.

Interesting is that the thing you won't learn from the school book that you will someday read about our Nation, its first black President and our current leadership is that unlike when Washington and the many other framers of our Government sat down at the table to create this nation, they did so with the intention of doing something great. Something larger than their collective. Today, we have representation from each state - all motivated by their own desire to be popular and not to serve the greater good. Today, we have a fourth estate - the media - who sit by and criticize, without an inkling of how to solve for the problem our nation has created. So I beg you, as you read the books someday of how we persevered through these times, remember your father's belief in critical thought, and wonder aloud about those who lead you during your generation. Always ask, "what is in it for them," before you make a decision to support their actions.

Right now, I write this from our front porch, while you rest upstairs watching Spongebob and drift groggily off to sleep. A few weeks ago, Rich returned home from Iraq. He spent his time there leading young men whose mission was to maneuver prisoners around the battlefields of Iraq. He worked tirelessly, often overnights and always far from home and in harm's way. I hope you will meet him someday, as he is a great guy who your father spent too much time with when I was a soldier.

Today, John returned home from Afghanistan, having spent a year there training members of the Afghani Police how to be better police. John is a soldier on the weekends, but full time he is a police officer in Las Vegas. Remember this when you do something stupid during a college road trip to Vegas. "Officer, I would really like to speak with Captain John Woosnam," as it may get you out of jail. By the time you can do something like this, John will be in charge of the whole state's police department.

I hope that by the time you read this, we be deep in another 2 decades of peace as the burden war brings to a country is tough to imagine especially when people you have considered brothers are pulled back in - over and over. Rich has gone three times in his career, and that is frankly three too many.

In the meantime, remember that you and those like you will be the future of this nation. I know this is a hearty burden. Unfortunately as I watch many of this nation's parents sit back and allow the school systems to pass them along, and as I watch the children play sports where everyone gets a prize, I know that we as a country are in for a hard lesson which will become your burden. Know that your father will love you always, but the trophies you earn from hard work will be when I am proudest. And when you don't get one even though you played hard, when get up and play again, I will be even prouder still. Just think back to all the times you shook it off and rubbed some dirt in it. Now, off to pull your covers up tight to make sure you sleep soundly in the freedom we have thanks to the great Americans like John and Rich, who sleep with their loved ones tonight again after too long.

Turning 5 - Again

2009-05-09T18:52:00.000-07:00

On Monday, May 11, Fletcher turns five. For those in the dark - readers who trip over this in search of sanity, guidance and council, Fletch is my son. For the record, I don't know how he has lived this long - He is as clumsy as his father, and seems to seek adrenaline in every feasible way. Today was his party, where friends from school, from the neighborhood and just friend in general converged on my home, took over for a few hours and left us in post-party euphoria.

During the party, Mom and Dad played referee, nurse, and babysitter to about 15 kids and some of their parents. We were unusual as we were only the second of about 15 parties to host at our own home. It seems that an entire industry has emerged here in North Carolina where family after family is coaxed, cajoled, and peer pressured into the next big event - all for the reasonable cost of 299.99. Kidding. It is unreasonable. In the past year we have attended parties of all shapes and sizes, ranging from a childrens museum (which is the most reasonable of all), to bowling, to the bouncing festival, some of which exceed $400. We looked at this, and discovered nothing we could do which hadn't been done, especially in the southern end of the price range. Oh and by the way, while taking them all to Transformers 2 was my suggestion, it was shot down for two reasons. 1 - Megan Fox. and 2 - The kids are only 5. Waaah.

So we hosted at home. the opening salvo from my son was that he wanted a reverse party. People arrive, we open presents, we eat cake, then dogs, then we run around. A little Jason, obviously - driving to the point, and relegating all the other crap to just fluff.

We decorated the house with Star Wars paraphenalia. We boiled about a million hot dogs (a little too long) and we opened the doors to throngs of fans of Fletcher. Despite some of my son's five year old drama (I don't wanna play red light green light I wanna knock opened the Vader pinata so rebuild it daddy everyone can leave now so I can open presents) the party was a success overall - no fatalities and lots of presents.

And then I get to turn 5 again. As people left, Fletch and I got to opening the boxes containing those sweet little, logical, uniform, modular blocks. Heaven in heat sealed bags. And as we tore into each bag of Legos, we raced through the instructions, building starship and droid one after another. And when my son would get distracted, his brother, I mean his father would carry on, building, so that we could destroy the evil Empire promptly and with great mayhew and discontent.

I was fortunate tonight, as while I am unsure that these memories will carry forward for my son, and while someday when he is nearing forty, his memory of these times may have faded, I know that when I am eighty, these images will be etched into my brain and be pulled back to remind me of those great times with my son. Today, I was able to transport back to a time of innocense where good and evil were defined by terms of Jedi and Sith.

I also hope that as he gets older, and I still live vicariously through him, he and I will do other things together - like cruising for girls in college bars - hopefully we can do that for his 6th birthday.

The Right to Bear Children

2009-02-19T18:53:00.001-08:00

So, in the headlines today, among the stories of economic stimulus and changes in the government, there is a current which continually to stimulate our need to judge people. The news provides us persistent status of Nadya Suleman, the mother of 14, Angolina-look-alike-lips, who in no way is capable of raising 14 children. And she has our attention.

Nadya went through fertility treatments no less than 7 times. Her first 6 kids were all the result of science, and the provision of semen from a close personal friend. In turn, she had an additional 6 embryos, which she had fertilized, and then placed in her womb. Naturally, because nature has a sense of humor, 2 of Ms. Suleman's embryos split, giving her a total of 8. At which point she delivered all 8 a few weeks ago. Since then, she has run the media circuit, telling the world of how she will raise these 14 kids with love and student loans. A plan which can certainly not fail.

Since then, while denying she was on welfare, she has taken food stamps, and disability for 2 of her first 6 kids. In addition, her family has looked at the situation, and metaphorically and literally shaken her head, wondering what the hell went wrong in their own child rearing. Her doctor fails to see what was irresponsible for implanting the final 6 in a mother without a job.

However the latest was societies response to her 14 kids. In recent news there have been calls to remove the children from her home. Naturally, I would agree, that a person's belief that they can raise 14 kids is certainly a possible symptom of insanity. However, I would suggest that our nation's laws provide no limit on numbers of children or who can raise them. My issue is that the suggestion was made that the children be removed subject to an investigation, which seems to put the cart before the horse. And frankly, if this is legal, your author is in deep trouble. I will certainly be arrested for something that I have thought of doing.

As I mentioned above, the evidence is strong that this mother may not appreciate the needs of 14 children. Further, in watching her responses on the Today show, while she is incredibly well spoken, and says the right answers to the questions, I would submit that these answers were entirely too correct and too well spoken to not have been scripted. Further, when the financial plan is to live on student loans until she graduates to be a social worker, at which time they will be on easy street, the evidence begins to build. Today, her father and mother are beginning to show signs that this is a real issue. Lastly, while Ms Suleman believes that her community and her church will surround her with love and assistance. That had better be one large church. The reality is that the facts of this story are the precursors to the story which reads, "Mother smothers 14 then steps in front of traffic". But folks, we need to do the investigation first. And fast. And final.

At the end of the day, I have no doubt that an investigation will result in 14 kids finding new homes, better homes, and homes where they are not starved. In watching my sister and her husband today, who have a 3 week old son, Gage, it is obvious that I was right 4 years ago, when I said to myself that parenthood is the hardest job you will ever have. Nurturing one child is hard work, often thankless, spattered with happiness, sadness, and sleepless nights. My sister and her husband are handling it like most new parents, figuring out what works, and what doesn't. I watched her calculate the number of ounces of milk Gage ingested today. I laughed out loud. While they are doing and awesome job, the parents both have exceptional intellects and deep passion for doing a great job. Ms Suleman lacks the intellect, and has a passion for craziness and no real appreciation for what she has brought into the world. I wish only the best for her children, and I only hope that this disaster is mitigated by quick action of the state.

I am less of a Patriot

2009-02-07T21:42:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I joined my fellow Americans in what looks to be a repeatable, frequent activity. I stood alongside my brethren - Black, White, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, Asian, and every other imaginable flavor. We walked through the tiled miles, watching, hunting, and at times even fighting for our rights to obtain food cheaply. No, we were not in bread lines, nor were we in some post-apocalyptic scene from Mad Max. We were in Walmart. Yes, Walmart, Friday night, for food shopping. And I am less of an American because of it.

I am not a snob. Walmart is no better nor worse than any other big box store, though the brand of loser in Walmart on a Friday night is indeed special. I had never been on a Friday night, and will likely choose better in the future. But we wandered the halls of Walmart looking for the best China has to offer. We found aisle after aisle of bargain, and we spent about 2/3 to half of what we normally spend on groceries, and found everything, if not more than in our normal supermarket. And for this, I should lose my right to a veterans funeral.

I say these disparaging remarks not to take away from the millions of American shoppers who frequent Walmart - I too will be going back. We have been forced into these conditions by economic challenges, and the realities that saving at times like these is all that much more important. I make these remarks because I am angry - I know, big surprise - that Walmart has taken such a share of the market, that they can afford to be so low in cost, and in turn that they can pressure their suppliers to be so much lower for Walmart that they make it impossible to compete, fairly and freely. How does a local supermarket ever open their doors when Walmart is cutting them 50 cents on the dollar? Impossible to start right from the beginning.

In addition, when Walmart squeezes their vendors so tightly, the vendor is forced to ship their manufacturing overseas. Once they transfer the manufacturing for Walmart overseas, they ship all of it there - It fails to make sense to do anything here, if they have to do any manufacturing there - which in turn castrates American manufacturing. Even if we could make it better here, we wouldn't, simply to save a few pennies. Interesting to note, while sitting over lunch a few weeks ago, I was talking with an MBA and a PhD candidate - two fairly smart guys. I posed the question, what do we as a nation still produce and product well. My MBA friend, whose family was in textiles, pointed out that his family still produces some of what they did many years ago (surprisingly nylon stockings). However, we couldn't name anything else, besides cars (and they didn't really make the "Produces Well" category. This is shameful.

Worse still is the fact that everything is found in Walmart was disposable. There was nothing which seemed to have an enduring quality - Clothes were fairly single use - no handmedowns. Furniture was pressboard, and would look lovely for 4 years, and then look lovelier in a landfill. Toys lined the shelves, and the video game areas far outsized the sporting good areas (at least the baseball, football type sporting goods) and the toys for the most part would not survive the attention switch of a four year old, let alone pass from an older child to a younger one. Tags on all of the products read "Made in Somewhere Else". And the icing on the cake was Walmart's weak attempt to sell us a non-plastic bag for our use to carry crap into our homes, hung at the check out below eye level, and out of the way. I guess the profit on those is lower.

While this began years ago, Walmart exacerbated the issue by controlling so many diverse vendors from televisions to TV dinners and left us with an additional economic catastrophe to deal with. Their sole saving grace is that they do in fact pass on these savings to customers, and this does help many Americans. I found myself watching the people in line as we checked out. The old black man, with US Army Retired on his baseball cap. The young Hispanic couple, he in his work clothes, and mom carrying the young infant, with their daughter in tow. The stereo-typical 40-something, single mother, white woman with her cigarette pack in her back pocket of the too tight for her age jeans, smacking candy from her kids hands while they waited in line, and us, another couple in this sea of hundreds, just trying to save some money, in hopes of finding an American dream, and watching Walmart push it just a little farther out of reach.

On a side note, there is something ironic about buying ammunition and food at the same time. Where our forefathers worked the North Carolina landscape into crops and hunted food with their ammunition, I now buy ammunition to forget about the economic and other life challenges we face today, and I buy my crops with labels from Peru so I can have my blueberries in February. As I have said in the past, Globalization is grand, but better still is that I am so far from the hunter/gatherer that I don't think I know my place in the food chain anymore. . .

I hate off shore call centers (or why I should just read the directions)

2009-02-04T16:52:00.000-08:00

So today, I spent 30 minutes on a chat session with Linksys technical support. The lag was remarkable between the time it took me to type my question and the time it took to receive a response. I have no doubt that this was because someone trascribed it to postal mail, and then mailed it to Bangalore. (Home of the torpedo). They ran me through the script. Painfully slowly. "Is the power light on?" This only makes me angrier, because I know there is someone in BF that answers "Ooops, you're right". I explain my issue to them in great detail. They then ask me specific questions which demonstrate that they have not read any of my typing. Which only angers me more. I then realize I want to do something else, and the game begins. I respond with another answer, and then let them know that they have 8 minutes or I am returning the product. Nothing like a little pressure to add some fuel to the fire.

We continue down the path. Open the device manager. "Is your device there?" My reply "I don't know, the device manager is pretty big. Wanna give me a hint where it is?" For the record, "Wanna" might not translate so well. We look. Not there. 6 minutes, I tell them. "Is the device plugged into the computer?" "Yes" Really? You asked if it was in the Device Manager, but thought I might not have plugged it in? Seriously dude, the script is meant to be read top to bottom. 4 minutes, I type. Another minute of diagnosis fails, and finally I surrender. I eat my egg salad, and start again. This time, when the installation gets to the point where I got stuck ( a point which my overseas friend never discovered in his script, I find that there are more words than I saw before - An option which I should have chosen. And I click next. And next again. And oh my, guess what - Next again. And suddenly I could connect to the internet.

So now, I have completed the task of connecting my Xbox to the internet again, with blazing fast speed. And I realize, I don't really hate the linksys products I have bought over the years. I hate the product service which I have received. And to be fair, so have millions of other Americans. I just saw a story on the news the other day, where people are pushing the companies from which they buy into moving their operations for call centers back to the continental US. Clearly with 11 million unemployed we can do a better job. Companies like Cricket, who make a cell phone for the elderly actually tout their on shore call centers on their television ads. Many more, like Dell are moving back, having failed to serve their customers from afar, and realizing that their customers will simply go to best buy and buy from the Geek Squad, because these kids speak their native tongue while reading the script.

I do recognize that it is not Linksys' fault that I don't read directions, but when I call for help that you brag about, I would really like the person to answer the phone having read them before I call.

Medical Malpractice

2009-01-18T07:04:00.000-08:00

This morning, I find myself in the waiting room of one of North Carolina's larger medical centers. My wife is undergoing a last minute out patient procedure, and while I sit here holding her hand, I find myself wondering why we are so broken in this particular area of our lives. OK, to be truthful, I am not holding her hand right now. She is in recovery, zonked out on the one thing we do well - get people high. So while I wait, I thought I would make a few observations, and maybe one of my readers can help fix what is broken.

So first, I should point out - The people here for the most part have been terrific. From the woman we met at reception at 6:55 AM who guided us to our room, to the IV nurse who patiently worked with Amy to try to get her IV started, to our doctor, the team here has been wonderful. The care they brought literally had me in tears, and I wondered where these people can find the compassion in the bureaucracy to which our legal establishment has perverted our hospitals. It was remarkable, and at a low point in our lifes, it was comforting like warm blankets and labrador retrievers.

Unfortunately, the inefficiency born of litigation have come to take what should be a routine procedure and make it unbearable. We were here 2 hours prior to the procedure, and received no less than 6 separate visitors, 3 of whom asked the exact same questions. Yes, she is allergic to penicillin. Yes, she has been in the hospital. Yes, she is under stress and in nervous. Yes the sky is blue, yes, get the fuck out of our room. Oh and yes she is 5 foot 4 inches tall. If you really brought me into a hospital to ask me how tall she is, we are surely broken. So, we go through the battery of questions. Twice. (Which I thought was nice; I am sure people undergoing open heart surgery hear this same barage 12 times.)

Then the woman comes in to draw blood. She is a linebacker of a woman with the compassion of someone doing a cavity search. After rooting around in one of my wife's arms, I watched her do the other. And my stomach began churning. I have never had an issue with medical stuff. I watched them sew up my hand (I even considered sewing my hand myself that time), I have seen pretty bad wounds, and I even like medical TV. However, while I watched the woman dig for a few minutes, I felt that wave of nausea that comes at sea during a bad storm, or while watching someone you love sit in pain, while you are helpless to kill the beast causing the pain. As the blood finally, mercifully began to flow, I felt the sickness subside and I was able to plan an alibi for the murder of a linebacker. But then the room was filled with more questions from new faces, and with this many witnesses, my plan for revenge was thwarted. Remember - I said most were wonderful here. This woman was just wrong.

The man came while the IV nurse still struggled to find a vein, and he wanted to take Amy down. Now, I know I mentioned above that the people were wonderful, but this woman was above and beyond. She was patient with a sobbing patient, gentle when the times were toughest, and above all professional, while loving. In the case of a large scale hospital, where lives are saved and lost all day, her role was to set up IV inputs for patients awaiting surgery. She comes in for the harder cases where the vein is less than obvious and the floor nurse is unable to help. Some would see her job as small, given that most patients will likely not remember what she did for them on a busy day, and she will seldom be heralded as saving a life, and less often receive the glory she deserves for her work. However, to me today, she was a hero, as without her, I was one straw away from a broken back. Thanks Beth. I will send a letter to Rex hospital, and maybe you will get the praise you deserve.

The gurneyman (I know this isn't the right term, but it sounded funny to me) arrived to take Amy down to the OR, but Beth hadn't been lucky in finding that vein. Amy needs more heroin to make those veins more pronouced. We're on that starting next week. Beth tried everything from smacking my wife's arm, like a junkie on pay day to a little blue and red flashlight which highlights the vein. It was pretty cool. The gurneyman tried to goad her into releasing Amy to him, so and I could see Beth feeling rushed. I then learned a valuable lesson. The patient actually has rights. I told her, but loud enough to hear for the gurneyman, that I didn't care that the OR was ready. We'd move when Beth was ready. And Beth went back to work and the gurneyman stood like a soldier on the parade ground - silent. A few minutes later, Beth finally looked up and called it a day. She explained that the OR could dilate the veins and she was stumped. I can live with that. But patients need to stop moving for schedules, and hospitals need to start moving schedules for patients. The professionals I met today are in this business for the care they get to give - the pay is a bonus.

And so we went - to the elevator - then to a set of door which act like the giant curtain of Oz. And now I sit, and wonder.

Sorry for the break. While I was out, the doctor came out to talk to me. A great guy. After this is all over, I would by him dinner, but he has seen my wife in a way I haven't so I don't know if we could look at each other over steaks and try to erase that thought from my mind. Amy is fine - though completely stoned - lucky. She is in recovery.

It is 1030 now, and despite all of the annoying factors of the visit here, she will be fine. And orderly just came into the waiting room - she clearly has Downs Syndrome, but is high functioning, and she gives me a smile to tell me my wife is back to her room. And so I am off, to find her. And in a few weeks, we will be trying again, and again, to give my boy a little brother or sister to abuse mercilessly as I did to my wonderful sister.

A True Warrior

2009-01-12T18:49:00.000-08:00

So, tonight I will depart from my normal rant on some subject which no one cares about and talk about heroism - the kind of heroics which often go ignored by the media and are referenced in speeches by figureheads who use these heroes as bullet points towards re-election. Tonight, I talked to my friend Rich, who sits today in Camp Liberty, Iraq. Rich has a mission in Iraq, which I won't talk about, but suffice it to say it is frought with danger and provides safety to the people of Iraq and to the people of the US.

Rich found me tonight, on IM, while I sat here reading Facebook updates and Googling starlets and harlots. In the background, Bear Gryllis lives a life of adventure, and my couch snuggles my bottom into its Jason-made divot. Rich sends me a note, beginning like any he would have written me from his home in New Jersey - "Yo!!!" - Rich is devout Italian, a religion unto itself.

Rich and I grew up together during our service, and while I left after my deployment to Europe, Rich signed on - again and again, to Kosovo, to Iraq, and again to Iraq, setting his civilian life aside to serve proudly in the face of danger. And despite my sage advice, just re-enlisted again while he is currently away, for another 6 years. While this will take him beyond the 20 years needed for retirement and bring him again at least once to a foreign land, he does so, out of love for his nation and pride in his service. And so he serves.

Today, he leads 50 men on a tough and high-risk mission, though I doubt many in Iraq today would not describe their missions as tough and high-risk. Suffice it to say that his is, and theirs may be less so. He chats me tonight though to ask me about my family. About my job. About my son, and my wife. And I want to beat his ass, but I understand. He wants to focus anywhere but where he is, and the stresses of his life, and just for a few minutes be transported to Cary, North Carolina, and get the sand out of his hair, and just leave it all behind.

He tells me his leave (military vacation) may be scrapped, because he wants his 50 troops to get home before him. He tells me that he needs nothing because Christmas has come and go, and they are overwhelmed with care packages - Though I tell him I will be shipping him one full of gay pornography and sex toys, with a letter on the outside telling him to open it in front of his troops (This is funnier than it sounds - my room mate in Bosnia who was with the Philadelphia Fire Department received a similar package, and I have never laughed so hard - however, some of the toys disappeared mysteriously. . .)

And shortly, thereafter, our conversation ended. It was 5 am Baghdad time when we started and Rich had a mission outbrief at 0600. For those not paying attention, this means that Rich's commander wanted a debrief from the mission he just finished. At 5 in the morning. Ask yourself, where were you at 5am today?

And so concluded my conversation with an old and most excellent friend. And one of our nation's many heroes. A man, like the many men and women who keep going back. Who put duty into their lives while many here make it the punch line to a joke (courtesy of Jack Nicholson). Who put their own well being in front of the men they lead, and who lead the men and women who put their own well being ahead of all of our own. Today, in a nation where only 1 in 10,000 Americans is personnally affected by the effort overseas, I wanted to write this to remember a great conversation with a hell of a guy. And Fletcher, when you read this some day - take a lesson in patriotism, and join the air force. Their jobs are safer, and dad won't have to worry as much.

Breaking – I mean, Broken - News – Nancy Grace is the wife of Satan

2009-01-05T13:47:00.001-08:00

So, during my copious time off last week, I had the opportunity to drive my television’s remote control. As I was taking it through its paces – powering through the turns and burning up the straights - I found myself running through the several news channels. While each seems uniquely biased, and this bias level is adjusted based on who is sitting behind the desks, I came to the realization – There is no more reporting. There is only delivery of opinion.

While I have never been a fan of censorship, I found myself watching Nancy Grace, mesmerized with the fantasy of finding use for a ball gag. She rambled on, spewing pseudo-legal opinions on how to handle the trial of the Kaylee Anthony defendant (seriously, I cannot escape the story of this wretch). Beneath the talking read scrolled repeated facts about the case, and subtitles of the images of the defendant on her jailhouse intercom phone. While nothing new came from the story, the blonde head drooled over the digital corpse of a story, enlightening those who lived in a cave that the mother was talking to a visitor and mentioned anything about the case. (I suspect that if I were in jail for murdering a child, there might not be much else to talk about with any visitors).

Finally, when the wave of nausea was reaching its peak, my thumb slammed a series of keys taking from the channel to SpongeBob – A far more credible and newsworthy story (He and Patrick found the lost city of Atlantis – I am sure this will be covered by Geraldo Rivera, but he will naturally take credit until he realizes that this is one more hoax in his pathetic career as a journalist.) And then I returned to surfing the stations.

Wave after wave passed your surfer by, waiting patiently for something. And then it happened. I stopped surfing and I was swept into a killer wave. I stopped flipping to answer the phone, and there he was. Bill O’Reilly. Satan himself. (And he must be married to Nancy on some plane of hell) I watched opinions roll out of his mouth, wondering whether he has Helen Keller checking his facts. (My apologies to Ms. Keller – She was a remarkable woman, but not the best fact-checker to be sure). As his guests appeared in front of O’Reilly’s oral firing squad, the more liberal guest being shot first and most often, they quickly fell to his salvos of “loudest speaker wins”, and they slowly crept from their remote camera shots, to be replaced by another in search of their 15 minutes.

Again, I felt the sickness growing, and I ran screaming. I went back to Patrick and his spongy friend in the search for the streets of gold. However, I quickly recalled another of these pundits who suffered from a disease of the poor (and typically liberal) – drug addiction. The mentally and physically bloated Mr. Limbaugh, whose addiction to Hydrocodone was made somehow less serious than a heroin addiction, and which was quickly swept under the rug. This is a guy who I am sure thrashed Marion Berry for his snowy habits, and who has certainly basted the bleeding hearts for their positions on these social issues. Hypocrisy. Horse’s ass hypocrisy, of a level heretofore unseen.

The reality is that these heads can say whatever drives the ratings higher and punished for these crimes against our social fabric go undelivered. They drive fear and panic when they make statements about our “crashing” economy. They drive division when they pit artificially inflated groups against one another (the entire right against all of those die-hard liberals), and in doing so eliminate the middle two-thirds of us who are really neither. They make us numb to the death of a little girl, because they play it so often, it becomes the background soundtrack to our lives – and desensitizes us to the violence and tragedy in the American fabric. Unfortunately, there seems no respite from these jesters, except to shoot our TV which Americans cannot seem to do (I know I can’t).

However, I hope that as my family gets older, we as a nation become tired of the sludge and move past it, back to real news. In the meantime, I intend to teach my son (and soon a second child) how to think critically, and act responsibly in viewing television, and the media in general. In the meantime, I have to find something else to discuss, as by keeping them as part of the conversation, they find their power growing and our resistance waning.

Resolutions for 2009

2009-01-02T07:02:00.000-08:00

The other night, my wife asked me if I had any resolutions yet for 2009. At the time, I winced, thinking that resolutions were typically made and surrendered by those who were willing to save all of their commitment to the end of the year and expend it on those few things which would be really life altering, rather than make slow course corrections during the year. And then I thought about it more, and realized that maybe I should make a few in order to publicly commit, thereby doubling my resolve and improving my odds of success at a few things which I have struggled with accomplishing in the past.

1. Lose that damn 30 pounds of fat. Yes, a weight loss commitment. How trite. Rest assured that this will be the only one you see here which you will find on many other’s lists. However, I need to get off my ass and lose this damn tire.

2. Treat work more like a game and less like work. I realized the other night that my competitive spirit on the playing field, in those few sports I enjoyed, brought me great pride and success, and if I treat my work more like that, I should be able to enjoy similar benefits. Unfortunately for my co-workers, they will have to hear me yell a little more and hug a little less. The reality is that a great team is regularly pushed, not constantly coddled.

3. Walk five hundred miles. So I turn 39 in a few days. I will be one year from 40, and one year from the beginning of my journey along the Appalachian Trail (A subject for another day, but I committed this past year to walk the AT in pieces once I turn 40.) To do this, I need to get out and walk. And walk. In the spirit of training for this vision quest in 12 months, I need to get physically and mentally ready. The journey begins with the first step, but I would rather it didn't end with a herniated disk.

4. Buy two houses. So, despite many times trying to buy stocks and make money, or trying to start a small business, I have never found much success in those endeavors. However, two out of three properties I have invested in property, I turned a significant profit in short terms. Therefore, this year, I endeavor to test this again. Look out slums, here I comes.

5. Change the world, build some karma – So I haven’t figured this out, but we need some change. I am thinking volunteer work, but who knows. The reality is that the opportunities abound, but my attention span is often lacking. Perhaps I will spread my beneficence across a variety of needy groups. And no, I am not thinking free breast exams. I am thinking mentoring a struggling kid, or building homes for the needy. (By the way, I re-wrote this sentence three times trying to find the politically correct terms)

6. Be a better dad and better husband in 2009 – While I don’t think that I was a bad dad, and usually not a bad husband – usually - I think there is room for improvement. This parenting thing isn’t always easy, and while we seem to be figuring it out, I look back on 2008 and can see a few areas where I could have done better. While he will likely be in therapy some day, he won’t be sitting on the couch at 30 living in my house wondering what life has in store for him, but rather out there grabbing it by the horns while his peers sit on their parent couches wondering what’s next.

I have others which I need to commit to, but which should require less effort -
- Stop listening to JLo,
- Stop shopping at WalMart, a blight on the visual and economic landscape of society
- Visit my mother and sister more. I know they miss me, but they should move closer
- Watch fewer crappy movies, but I wish the movie companies could produce anything else
- Remember to breath

So those are my seven core resolutions along with a few others for 2009. I will be starting many of them shortly, so watch out for attitude changes and mood swings. (I mean more than are there today.) Otherwise I look forward to reporting back in 12 months how I made out. I am sure that no one will care, except for me, but I plan to treat each of these like the game from number two above, and if I lose at any of them I will have no one to blame by myself.

I cannot tell a lie.

2008-12-23T18:20:00.000-08:00

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.

The Media's Abuse of Corpse

2008-12-19T07:36:00.000-08:00

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.

Return of the Alpha Male.

2008-12-08T18:35:00.000-08:00

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.

And now a brief hiatus from the History of Eastern Europe

2008-11-10T07:43:00.000-08:00

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.

My war story -

2008-11-03T18:53:00.000-08:00

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.

Off to Germany

2008-10-28T18:22:00.000-07:00

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. . .

“Crime” and Punishment

2008-10-28T18:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Army Training, SIr!

2008-10-28T18:13:00.000-07:00

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.

So here is comes.

2008-10-28T18:07:00.000-07:00

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."

I am Jason's red hot rage

2008-10-07T18:27:00.000-07:00

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

Community Service

2008-10-07T08:23:00.000-07:00

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.

Flying Sleepless from Seattle.

2008-10-06T17:47:00.000-07:00

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.

Curing the Disease

2008-09-28T19:25:00.000-07:00

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.

Remedial Math

2008-09-24T20:13:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

And now a word from our socialist sponsors. . .

2008-09-22T19:11:00.001-07:00

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 am Jason's overwhelming shame at pop culture

2008-09-17T17:32:00.001-07:00

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.

Opening Salvo

2008-09-15T19:57:00.000-07:00

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. . .