God Kills Moms and Dogs Because He Has To.

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

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

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.

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

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 -

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.

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

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

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

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. . .

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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.