Saludos Amigos

Mom and Sis are emigrating. They packed up the old house this week and are headed up to Winnebago country, the land once prowled by Black Hawk and his ornery band.

(Well, of course, he roamed that area up until the Bad Axe Massacre of 1832. Ah, don’t worry, I’m not going to get started on that.)

But, in many ways, I am excited about this turn of events. Besides the fact that I will now be relieved of a significant degree of painful nagging in my own local area, this move also signifies the end of a long, full-circle family journey.

They are moving to a spot not far from the grave of the original Bamboo, the first to travel to the United States of America in 1850. He was only buried there some 150 years ago. It hasn’t been that long, I know exactly where his grave is, and I hope to visit that spot for the first time very soon. His untimely death, occurring only a decade after his arrival, was one of those historically seminal events, sending what remained of his clan scattering somewhat randomly across this great country.

Like the original, I am not too sure why Mom and Sis are migrating back up to that neck of the woods. I haven’t completed my survey on that yet.

In fact, no distinct reason exists today for the great immigration of my ancestors to the US and as far as I know they didn’t pass the reason on down through the family. I don’t even know how the original man died since, I am told, any number of cruel things could have caused a sudden death in 1860. But, according to what I read, it typically takes some time to figure these things out.

Even the most recent Big Move is a mystery. For example, it could be due to economic reasons, a new job, looking for better pay, brighter prospects and the like. Maybe Mom and Sis were hounded by an unscrupulous landlord or victims of organized discrimination in the area they left behind. It could be a religious or political statement, I am not too sure.

Maybe they told me but I don't remember. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with Mom and Sis.

When attempting to make sense of this, it comes to my mind that people are often like Gypsy Moths, the Lymantria dismar, flitting around here and there with no great reason for the wide range in their movement. Originally from Europe and Asia, unleashed to infect the continental US in the late nineteenth century, this particular pest spread its wings over a vast area, leaving destroyed American forest trees suffering in its wake.

Because we let it go for so long at first, recent attempts to contain the Gypsy Moth have repeatedly failed and it will most likely come and go, silently continuing its violent expansion no matter what we do.

The endless gift of the Gypsy Moth, by the way, was given to America by Etienne Leopold Trouvelot, born on the day after Christmas 1827 in Aisne, France. Curiously, he had a good reason for migrating to America. It’s said that he came to the US to escape France during the coup d'etat in 1852. That may be true, but I seriously doubt he knew what he was getting into here.

He could have been made more aware if he had just paid attention. Only twenty years or so before Trouvelot quietly settled down in Medford, MA, the defiant Black Hawk was quoted out in Winnebago Country saying something like this:

“You know the cause of our making war. It is known to all white men. They ought to be ashamed of it."

In my mind, wise old Black Hawk, savage as he was, could have easily been predicting the curse of the Gypsy Moth. But, honestly, Black Hawk never knew of Trouvelot’s mistake, Trouvelot probably had never heard of Black Hawk’s omen, and none of us today can share any blame for that.

It’s weird, though. We’ve never been able to contain this Gypsy Moth like we do the Mexican Fruit Fly. The Anastrepha ludens is also not our friend. It does not earn a “Saludos Amigos” from me. It infests the fruit orchards of the lower states with confounding regularity.

The difference is we jumped right on the problem.

As a result, federal legislators speak at length on the pest, pundits offer this grand plan or that, and massive controlling measures are put in place to attack and prevent its spread. These exhaustive efforts are deemed somewhat effective and we have to stay on top of all that because, well, the Mexican Fruit Fly is a voracious pest. It could gravely injure our fruit production and our national economy if we blindly allow it to do so.

Being somewhat of an amateur gardener myself, I worry about all these pests and the effect they have on our economy.

Last year, I grew my own eggplant. Yes, eggplant in the singular, not eggplants in the plural. As it turned out, my highly limited green thumb could only produce a single, solitary fruit. Yet, it was a gorgeous purple color, plump and incredibly delicious. At the end of the summer, after months of high anticipation, I cradled it inside from the garden, sliced it carefully, breaded it tenderly, and then deep-fried the hell out of it. And, of course, I made a huge splash out of the deal. With a glass of wine, a side of pasta and shredded mozarella, to me it was fantastico!

My family wasn’t all that impressed.

Not long after the lovely eggplant dinner that I prepared, Grandmama, my mother-in-law, struggled in one day from an excursion to the local market. She has to go on occasion because she knows I won’t buy the things that she likes, owing to her enormous sweet tooth. She slammed a few overflowing bags of sugary goodies, cookies and potato chips on the counter and uttered another one of her pointed declarations towards me.

“Hey, you honyock,” she began, “have you seen the price of eggplants at the Big V? They are only 99 cents a pound. You probably spent more on just watering that mushy thing out there in that pitiful garden of yours!”

With that, she grabbed a huge bag of salty, sweet nothingness, a gallon of 2 percent, and then waddled down the stairs to her dark lair, her evil laugh echoing in my lonely kitchen.

Now, you see, I am watching the price of eggplants very closely. I am waiting for any indication that the government’s plans to control pests like the Mexican Fruit Fly are failing. If the price of eggplants starts to wander up in scale, I will be ready to act quicker than the CEO of Halliburton.

I have a new plant growing in my garden this very second. It already has 4 or 5 blossoms on it. If successful, I may be the envy of the Ville, owning a bonanza of eggplants by the end of the summer. I might corner the market, here, who knows.

But I still don’t know why Grandmama likes to call me a “honyock”. I have no Hungarian or Polish relatives in my ancestry that I am aware of.

Even stranger, though, like nomadic people and Gypsy Moths, with all our knowledge on the subject of migration which we’ve gathered after years and years of experience, the population of the Mexican Fruit Fly here in the US is still difficult to determine. How many are there? Why are they here? What do they want from us? There are many reasonable, logical answers, plenty of estimates on this subject, ranging from the radical to the conservative. It all depends upon who you believe, I suppose.

I was reading one of the many reports on the American effort to control the Mexican Fruit Fly just the other day and highlighted, for your pleasure, the following excerpt:

“Trapping is not a good method to estimate populations of this fruit fly. However, cutting fruit after harvest or late season is a good method of estimating populations. If a fly is trapped in an orchard, then all fruit from that orchard is quarantined for two weeks. More sterile flies are released in the area. If a second wild fly is found then the quarantine is extended for a year (Robacher 1993).”

Things, it seems, have definitely changed since old Trouvelot’s time.

This is understandable. I am told the United States of America was at one time a repository for a number of globally migrating pests and coup d'etat-escaping Frenchmen, a natural sinkhole where all the world’s gypsies, moths and fruit flies could comfortably roost, eventually eliminating the marauding Black Hawk and dramatically eradicating tall forests with equal pleasure. Hell, I heard we damn near invited them in, tragically unaware of the hidden side effects.

Not now. I guess we’ve finally got smart.

Now we boldly speak of trapping, sterilizing and quarantine. We've trained our extensive knowledge of science to nip this problem in the bud. We may not be able to corner the Gypsy Moth, but we’re damn sure going to contain the fruit fly. We’ve saddled up and we’re headed to Mexico. (That means you too, Newt!)

These are tough, drastic measures but absolutely necessary if we are to protect our resources. The future of our country depends on our quick preventive action. We simply can’t leave this fruit fly problem or the potential of staggering eggplant costs for our grandchildren to suffer. Our kids won’t have lived through it and they won’t remember how it all began. They may not find any distinct reason for it, no historical record to analyze completely. They might fail to identify the problem properly or simply choose the wrong course.

We are in a much better position today to compare what works with what doesn’t. We don’t have to look that far in our past to realize our mistakes and the graves of our ancestors are still very close to our own homes. We tread over their dusty old bones every day and with every careful step I am sure we will leave an equally awesome legacy for our grandchildren to ponder.

And I think we’ve known the cause all along, but with regards to the memory of Black Hawk and his kind, we are still conceitedly not so ashamed of it.

Back in backwater Missouri, as Mom and Sis prepared to speed off to the Land of the Winnebago this past week, I grabbed Sis by the shoulders for maybe the last time and bid her farewell on her journey. I told her that, to my understanding, she had nothing to fear from the native population up there, as it was wisely cleaned out long ago. By all accounts, she should be welcomed with open arms and dancing in the streets, as long as she doesn’t transport any fresh fruit or homemade goods.

But I reminded her to have all her identification and papers in order, lest she be detained by one of Sensenbrenner’s black-booted gendarme. Allowing any confusion in this regard, I warned her, would not be bueno.

Finally, I whispered in her ear, “Whatever you do, be like the Gypsy Moth, not the Mexican Fruit Fly. Identifying with the latter could be disastrous.”

Sis gave Mom and The Wife a tired look.

The Wife shook her head and spoke for her entire generation, “Uh, yeah, don’t know how it happened … but we’re all hoping his condition will one day get better.”

Cheers,

Mb

A Duel with Reality

“The mind of man has perplexed itself with many hard questions. Is space infinite, and in what sense? Is the material world infinite in extent, and are all places within that extent equally full of matter? Do atoms exist or is matter infinitely divisible?”
E. Maxwell, quoted in E Maor, To infinity and beyond (Princeton 1991)

Now you know what I’m thinking.

In a fit of recent sobriety, I overheard that there’s an unusual twist to some of the latest findings by our greatest minds devoted to the theories of quantum physics. In hushed tones it was related to me that, based on the results of new experiments, there are indications that distinct pieces of matter may coexist in two separate locations of the cosmos at the same time.

Don’t misunderstand me. This is not about illusion or misperception. I am not describing an exquisitely fashioned or miraculous mirror image. This is about detecting one pure thing standing alone in two different spots simultaneously.

That, to my more conservative friends, seems on the one hand very difficult to fathom while, on the other hand, something that I think I’ve known about all along. The evidence of such a fantastic coexistence, in any case, may be presented to us in casual ways every day.

Journeying through a more accelerated reality, I searched out my old teacher on this subject, a defiant old fellow who once taught me many moons ago how to actually count the infinite sands of time by their distinctively colored “zones” of reflection.

He is an old Professor now retired and bedridden in a government hospital. Secretly located in a normally unreachable and secluded bit of swamp land in the Everglades, he was not well but I could see that my unannounced visit brightened his normally gloomy demeanor.

As I quickly approached his bed in a brightly lit room I spied white-cloaked and gloved physicians swarming around him, injecting his body with sips of the latest miracle drugs, swimming fast here and there like great sharks of the deep instinctively picking at his meatier parts. He saw me and grunted loudly, the sea of hungry doctors frightened off to dark and silent alcoves presumably to return only after my departure.

After a few short pleasantries were shared, multiple tubes and taped hoses ripped from his mouth and tossed to the spotless floor, I realized by the Professor’s apparent condition that I could not dawdle in my quest. The poor old man may have transpired at any second. So, like an anxious school boy, I blurted out the subject outlined above and asked for his immediate reflections on this matter.

He was silent for a moment, only the sounds of a muted rattle in his chest and the various plugged in medical devices echoing in the room, until finally, curiously and almost breathlessly he replied.

“Did you see that Rummy visited Vietnam?” he asked in a raspy voice.

I looked behind me and pulled up a chair. Exhausted from my trip, I sat down beside his bed and told him yes, realizing that I might be there longer than I had suddenly anticipated.

There as I listened to him in that clean room, once again, all the old dirty laundry came flying out of the closet. It was like nothing had changed between us. And the silly subject of Rummy in Vietnam opened the door to all sorts of unpleasant memories.

These were the terrifying stories of personal hardship, difficulty and death from a jungle long ago departed that I had heard time and time again over the years. Here we go, I thought to myself, first it’s all about the French Follies, then here comes the one about Monkey Mountain, next we will get to relive every instant of every rocket attack, and soon, with no remorse, the tears began to flow like they always have.

I couldn’t prevent it. I can’t stop the rain. Neither could this sick old man.

This time, though, this time he wiped off the tears with a vengeful manner and began to name names. Maybe it was the fever, I don’t know, maybe he forgot his own part in the tragedy, but with a sudden deep gurgle he asked loudly, do you want NAMES? I will GIVE them to you, he coughed and spat.

The names came quickly to him and before I could stop him the crew was identified in full. He started with Johnson and Nixon, then spouted on and on about Westmoreland and McNamara. In a foul breath, he declared that the last two in particular had micromanaged the whole affair and didn’t even give us a fighting chance. We could have squashed them all and we should have, he exclaimed.

In a soothing tone, attempting to quiet the now rapidly sounding beeps from his heart monitor, I said there, there, reminding him that McNamara had at least offered some sort of apology.

Apology, the old man spewed. Apology? He rose momentarily from his recline, paraphrasing The Duke, he said apologies are for pale women and should never be offered by real men, lest they indicate a sign of personal weakness. Besides, he said as he laid back down, even Chomsky, that commie bastard, had quickly and rightfully pointed out that the so-called apology was worthless. McNamara merely implied that reasons were good, the strategy in line, while only the tactics were misguided. Bullshit!

So, quietly then, he pointed a trembling thick finger at me then beckoned to the ticking clock on the wall and whispered, fear this unvarnished result, young man! Fear that brave men may have died in vain since it does not bode well for your future. And remember, remember this long after I’m gone, he said, that it’s acceptable and appropriate to forgive, but never, never forget.

With that final admonishment spoken, a tearful goodbye gave way to a long ride home pondering the imponderabilty of his response and the surreal meaning any or all of it may have had towards my original question.

Yeah, it was just like the old days, man.

Then I asked myself, could it be that simple? Could it be that assured brave men, confident in their place of doing the right thing, have actually sacrificed for an unworthy cause? Could we, as a people, spend the next few generations then lying about that reality to ourselves? If so, is that not an indictment of all patriotic excursions, present, past and future, unveiling them as not only tactically improper but strategically incompetent if not completely misguided?

And what does that say about us humans? What is going on around us and how are we responding? Are we really doomed to repeat the same mistakes, owing to the same old misperception of a dual reality constantly? Can we at some point let bygones be bygones? Can we ever be sure of what the hell we’re getting ourselves into? Can’t we get over this delusional hump of our own design? We can forgive, but why do we forget so easily?

No, I thought, there are times when sacrifice matches up correctly with the moral imperative. It’s proven, there are times when we remember our mistakes, times when we choose a better path and the future of world is better for that. Our decisions and our hopes are not always that clear cut or diametrically opposed.

But could these seemingly disparate thoughts sometimes randomly coexist on the same spot at any one point of time in the thick recesses of the guilty heads of a collectively free society? And, alternately, does that prove that a single reality, left alone to duel with its dark brother and sway in the wind of its own devices, could coexist in two different locations at the same time?

I don’t know but I suspect that is possible.

Cheers,

Mb

The Sport of Men

In a recent fit of sobriety, I recalled that this is the marrying time of year. With that in mind, I’ve resuscitated and remodeled the following for all you muthafuggahs in love out there…

“But what's this to the purpose? you will say.

Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation,

For which my sole excuse is -- 't is my way;

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion

I write what's uppermost, without delay:

This narrative is not meant for narration,

But a mere airy and fantastic basis,

To build up common things with common places.”

Nancy is the fourth Town Tavern bartender I’ve suffered in the last two years. For some reason, Red, the owner, keeps firing ‘em and then hiring new ones on an odd yet regular cycle. I’ve told him he really needs to consider asking some of us before he acts this way, maybe we could help him select better help. I mean, man, it’s sorta irritating to be constantly getting accustomed to a new bartender. I know I am one of the few who pays my tab each month. I shouldn’t have to spell my name for weeks after each new hire. (“Put it on my tab, Nancy … yeah, it’s just like it sounds.”) But that’s what is happening here.

The most recent hire came at the worst moment, too. Betty, the day bartender, went on the DL with a bum ankle, out of action for 4-6 weeks. So, New Nancy has been working double shifts trying to cover. That can only make things worse, in my opinion. I worry about the potential for fast burnout. New Nancy should get some more time to sit on the bench, maybe just pinch-pour every now and then, to get better used to the stress and speed of working the Tavern. This is the big leagues, baby.

Looking back, I knew it was going to happen. About two months ago I came in a bit late one evening and found the old night bartender, she was of German heritage, can’t recall her name, closing up. This German gal had a tight little body, long blonde, with big boobs. Even if she could barely pour a beer without spilling it, she kept most of the populace pleased with her performance as a long as she wore a slim T-shirt.

The place was empty that night but there, helping her clean up behind the bar, was Fat Mack. Fat Mack is known far and wide as a sticky-fingered, unreliable worm who never has any money yet with a penchant for starting fights and going to jail. Hanging with Fat Mack or even letting him near the cash register is not a good move. Not long after that night, the German girl was gone.

“Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet;

Her very nod was not an inclination;

There was a self-will even in her small feet,

As though they were quite conscious of her station”

This New Nancy is a nice enough gal, she’s been around the block a bit at about 45-ish, pleasant but not striking, witty without being bitchy, pretty good ability to keep everyone under control. I can see why Red hired her. But I’ve noticed she “attacks” cooking up burgers and fries for the local turkey hunters with a certain amount of premeditation. By that I mean I don’t think she’s done a lot of cooking in her life. When she cooks, she gets this seriously determined look on her face and she momentarily loses “beer pouring” focus, like she’s made up her mind she’s not gonna fuck this up again, sorta like when I decide I have to change a tire on the car or something. Being one who notices those kinds of things, I’m always quick to order a backup beer when it appears she may move over to fire up the Geo. Foreman.

So, I guess I just question her multi-tasking skills.

But the most unusual thing about New Nancy is that she really doesn’t fit the mold. Now, the German gal didn’t fit either, but like I said she had other attributes. New Nancy, though, is unusual. She’s from Malibu, California and damn proud of it. I nervously watch my fellow turkey hunters at the bar when she happily describes past shopping mall experiences with her girlfriends. She’s particularly pleased to relate the time she visited Costa Rica, the beauty of the rain forest, the solitude of clean beaches, the opulence of $1,000 a week Central American hotels.

These guys she’s serving talk about NASCAR, they know the difference between a 1980 and a 1990 version Johnson two-stroke outboard motor and they can give scientific, detailed responses when asked how much cement it takes to do the average driveway. When faced with an insider’s view of Malibu and Costa Rica, they all nod, they all smile, but they have nothing to say about that. It just doesn’t click, ya know? But just being there, waiting behind the Tavern bar, makes me think twice about New Nancy.

“Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought;

Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed

It might be seen, with diligence was sought,

And when 't was found straightway the bargain closed;

There was no end unto the things she bought,

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused;”

I’ve come to the opinion, though, that none of my concerns will stop Long-Haired Ned.

Ned is everybody’s big brother. He’s loud, opinionated, stubborn, and rules over every bar in town. He attracts people. He loves to argue but even when he says things that make no sense, people are still naturally prone to agree with him. He has a force, like a powerful personal black-hole in the local universe which pulls all known matter into it. He could probably run for Mayor and win, even though he has no ambition for such responsibility.

He shakes hands with people all the time, sometimes several times a night with the same people he met earlier in the evening. It starts when he enters the bar as he works his way down the hall, past the pool table, in front of the juke box, shaking hands with everyone along the way, interrupting dart throwers and beer drinkers alike. He does that on purpose. Being a construction laborer who has wielded wooden-handled tools for all of his life, he has big and strong hands with a grip like that of a large scaled mammal of some sort, leaving the uninitiated with the odd impression that they just shook hands with a man wearing 120-grit sandpaper gloves. Even with all his loud grandstanding, those worn, burred hands are his trademark and I think it pleases him to see the hint of an eerie reaction show on another person’s face when they touch him.

“The scars of his old wounds were near his new,

Those honourable scars which brought him fame;

And horrid was the contrast to the view --

But let me quit the theme; as such things claim

Perhaps even more attention than is due from me:”

But Long-Haired Ned’s incurable downfall probably lies well hidden in his heart. He is, in spite of his rough bravado, a romantic. Twice divorced, he’s picked up every new bargirl since I’ve been here. Sometimes he takes on new girlfriends in between and during each particular affair. And Red, the owner, keeps Long-Haired Ned very busy sorting out all these new hires.

At one point he was seeing a scrawny young lady known to be a coke addict. None of the local women were impressed during that period and all were pleased one day when she showed up alone at the bar. She sat there drinking, making occasional yet lengthy trips to the restroom, only to return more angered and in tears. That night, for once, Ned entered quietly to sit at the other end of the bar and sip his beer in silence, only now and then nodding that he didn’t give a damn while the very public display of maddened, drug-fueled passion went on in front of us. Aw, it is really a difficult order to stay up with all his wanderings.

“At length, in an imperial way, she laid

Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes

Which needed not an empire to persuade,

Look'd into his for love, where none replies:”

Yeah, not that long until New Nancy and Long-Haired Ned began to see each other. Could it have been any other way in this world? I think it may have taken about 3 days, which might be a new record for him.

Another fortnight and New Nancy would be sitting at the bar with Ned, his hand on her lap, both pleased to be in such good yet conflicting company.

Eventually, all these affairs caught my attention. As you know, I am not always quick to catch the significance of such things. But soon I began to wonder what drove Ned to do what he constantly does. I also wondered why New Nancy, with all of her polished Southern Cal ways, would even bother with a tough guy like him. Was she serious about old Ned, who apparently had no serious “attachment” to his body, or was she playing his game even better, casting her net further than him in a such dangerous competition?

“Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell;

I wish she had: his book's the eleventh commandment,

Which says, "Thou shalt not marry," unless well:

This he (as far as I can understand) meant.

'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell

Nor canvass what so "eminent a hand" meant;

But certes it conducts to lives ascetic,

Or turning marriage into arithmetic.”

I am appreciative that Ned and I have had several philosophic barroom discussions over the last few months. After a few brown ales, I have told him on more than one occasion that I know him, that I’ve seen his kind before. He typically scoffs and bellows, “Don’t give me that psycho-analytic bullshit!” But then, not so oddly, he quickly withdraws from the verbal fray and buys me a beer, changing his tack against the stormy winds of his own distinct personality whenever possible. And, typically, he recognizes when I do the same.

I even took him to personal confidence and asked him if I should attend The Wedding of The Great Counselor in New York, giving my slight credit to whatever advice he could offer me. After the details and the connections were all laid down, he laughed and agreed it would be impossible for me to do that. So, I think he is not un-wise. But, I admit, his addiction to constant affection is still difficult to diagnose.

New Nancy, on the other hand, rapidly came into focus. Over the course of several nights, humorously under the suspicious gaze of Long-Haried Ned as he sat next to her at the bar, I swung my old dialectic machete honed by Anheiser-Busch and family. Deftly cutting through the thickly overgrown underbrush of her Costa Rican travel stories, I finally found her hidden secret desire and recognized it as such immediately.

“When Adeline, in all her growing sense

Of Juan's merits and his situation,

Felt on the whole an interest intense, --

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation,

Or that he had an air of innocence,

Which is for innocence a sad temptation, --

As women hate half measures, on the whole,

She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul.”

Oh, yeah, a story as old as time itself. I saw something in Nancy, something that Ned had blindly misunderstood. After that, I knew it was time for me and Ned to take a drive.

Two things had gone wrong. First, one of the cables that support the tailgate on my truck had snapped. Secondly, I chose to transport a 250-pound piece of sheet metal a few weeks before. The metal was too large for my truck bed and had bent one of the hydraulic lifters on the bed shell. I knew that was going to happen but I stupidly did it anyway. Within a few days, all the fluid had drained from the lifter since the bend had broken the fluid seal and the top gate had become completely useless. I kept bumping my head on the shell every time I tried to put any load back there. Such irritating issues are the bane of delivery drivers everywhere, I suppose.

Not knowing about these kinds of things and having no practical mechanical ability to speak of, I enlisted the help of one very willing Long-Haired Ned. The weather had turned rainy that week, placing him and his chosen profession in a convenient holding pattern. So, I picked him up one Saturday morning and off we went in search of fresh auto parts to resolve my problems.

Soon, the details came out. During the muted drive along Highway 29, I steered the truck over and around the rain-filled potholes and slick hills while slowly edging the conversation in the direction of my delicate destination, the place where truth hides around the corner from the local Ford dealership.

“He was a Greek, and on his isle had built

(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)

A very handsome house from out his guilt,

And there he lived exceedingly at ease;

Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt,

A sad old fellow was he, if you please;”

And, then, just as the bottomless gaps were being filled in, as the road magically leveled and straightened out ahead of us, where muggy sunlight poured between threatening thunderclouds to shine brightly in the recently plowed corn fields, before we made it past the junction of Highway 16, he asked me to stop.

I pulled the truck over on the muddy shoulder along the road and he told me to follow him as he hurriedly got out.

We walked about 20 feet behind the truck and there the ass of a doe stuck up from the tall thick grass, gaunt legs broken and mangled, horse flies gathering loudly for an open spot on her bloodied head buried in the ditch.

Ned reached down to touch her immobile flank with his large, coarse hands and whispered, “She’s still warm … whatchya think?”

Now, honestly, I wouldn’t boldly compare one’s uncontrollable human passions to the avid hunter’s misplaced attraction for road kill. But standing there alongside that quiet country road, listening to Long-Haired Ned talk excitedly about the gruesome possibilities of an endless future, I admit, the thought did cross my mind.

"But droop not: Fortune at your time of life,

Although a female moderately fickle,

Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wife)

For any length of days in such a pickle.

To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle:

Men are the sport of circumstances, when

The circumstances seem the sport of men."

With congratulations to you all and apologies to Byron,

Cheers,

Mb

Open Letter to the Counselor

Suppose a young, enterprising business law grad with a dark recent past, who ambitiously climbed the corporate ladder only to find that perch less satisfying than he once thought, suddenly fed up with the temporary comfort of consumerism and lack of lengthy attention to the concept of a civil society, is driven to escape his western surroundings to travel east in search of unrequited love and religious, immutable truth, unaware that his holiday destiny was lying in wait for him, back at home, the entire time.

Suppose, as he chases his casual desire, worrying in his heart that what he wants is always just out of his reach, dejectedly feeling that whatever he’s done always turns out wrong, struggling with his own false perception of what is his place in this world, he inadvertently stumbles upon a different and unwelcome truth.

Suppose, through the momentary embrace of a nonchalant harlot who once caught his wandering eye, he finds that a certain organization, full of harlots of every color, overtly painted as a defiant obstacle to capitalistic empiricism, an enemy of the West which he at one time so anxiously defended, is in fact funded and resourced by the Empire itself.

Money, bags full of it, washed through unidentified off-shore accounts, virtually hand-carried by the harlot and those like her, funneled into Shanghai to support the growth of the Red Dragon, secretly skimmed and dispatched from the hidden coffers of The Beacon of Democracy to terrorists and the like who unknowingly do the dirty work for the conspiracy every day of the week.

Suppose he realizes then the punch-line of the big joke, how the elite have hedged their bets under the cover of darkness, assuring their unlimited profit no matter how the mass of fools may suffer along the way, and how the love he so desperately wanted, like pointless thoughts of world peace and good faith in the ultimate inspiration behind the human condition, was all just a viscous tease, haunting him forever, leading him blindly to even further despair, and never, never intended for his poor grasp of reality in the first place.

That might be a real slap in the face, eh?

I wonder if that would be a good story. And I wonder how that guy would wind up in the end?

Cheers,
Mb

The Blue Rogue

If this were the People’s Republic of China, we’d just throw them in prison like Zhao Yan.

Zhao is now all but convicted of fraud and leaking state secrets in Beijing. (Makes me wonder how the Chinese government separates charges like these. Did he lie when he told these secrets or were the secrets all lies to begin with?)

Oh, sorry, by “them”, I mean the members of the press. Especially the ones who ask biting questions of our leaders, questions that may have a threatening, disrespectful tone to the ears of our genteel, elite and powerful class.

Now, if the PRC was more like Nepal, then they wouldn’t just pick at the problem like they do in Beijing. Instead, they would outlaw all journalists who are not members of the government’s own trusted team. Outlaw them, you know, and then beat them up a bit with batons just to get their attention. You would think that would be a pretty effective one-two punch to stop the incessant questioning of government policy.

Strange that it doesn’t really do that.

Complete suppression may have some odd motivational qualities but it does offer some of the desired effect. Speaking on the situation in Nepal, Christopher Warren, president of the International Federation of Journalists, says, “It is unacceptable to treat independent media and journalists as the enemy and not as independent observers.”

See, I guess ya gotta be careful what ya say about Nepal, but if you read his words carefully then you might get the impression that he’s sorta pissed off about the deal there. I don’t think he’s too happy with things down in Nepal at all … as they fall … off the wall … with such gall.

Hmmm … thank you, it’s so nice to be King.

But back in the PRC, according to a recent AP story, the battle against nosy journalists is slowly being won. They now have over 40 journalisitic snoops and snitches locked up and silenced. They muzzled another one, Yang Xiaoqing, just the other day for writing about corruption.

Again those nosy people at AP reported that outside the courtroom some Chinese citizens protested Yang’s sentence. It’s said that one protestor held a sign which read, “Corrupt officials should not bully reporters and the people!”

(Hey, hold on a minute. Think about what the AP reported here. What kind of guts does it take to publicly protest anything in a Communist country? I salute you, unknown Chinese protesting citizen! You got some balls, man!)

Well, anyway, that, as they say down in Texas, is some lousy PR work there, boys. The PRC might learn a few things from the good ol’ USA on this one. We deal with this kinda shit all the time around here, although we tell ourselves we do it more conservatively and with a bit more compassion. Short of jail time and physical assault, there are several approved American methods for stifling rude inquisitors.

One of the first rules on how to squelch any rude questions in the USA is to cherry-pick the audience. This helps keep the rally upbeat and the presentation on message. Deny them access and they won’t have the opportunity to ask offensive questions. If the audience becomes disruptive, gavel the meeting to an end quickly.

Quite unfairly, I think, our current President gets a bad rap for over-employing this tactic. By my count, presidential administrations have been busy staging and spinning public debates ever since antique TV cameras detected the first bubble of sweat that formed on Richard Nixon’s upper lip.

As a current example, the Governor of Missouri recently held a little office party in Columbia to celebrate his signing of a state bill that requires all potential voters to present a government-issued photo id at the poll booth. The Kansas City Star reported one aspect of the grand event this way:

Illustrating the fierce partisan sparring over the bill, Blunt's staff prevented a Carnahan staff member and a Democratic activist from attending the bill signing in the governor's office. Spokesman Spence Jackson said such events are limited to the media and invited guests "to keep the process free of disruptions."

The banned Democratic activist, Roy Temple, considers himself a self-styled “journalist” to some degree and maintains this fiery website:

http://www.firedupmissouri.com/

If you wish, you can read his fired up version of events there. You can also read on that website precisely why Roy Temple is not all that welcome in the Governor’s office. (By my reading, Mr. Temple is far more a political operative rather than an independent reporter, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is that his take on the photo id issue is definitely not in line with the Governor’s so he was not allowed to interrupt the party.)

See how it works? Hey China, hey Nepal, check it out, dudes! You don’t need to bash their head in or toss them in prison. Do it the USA way and just shut the damn door! It’s not arrogant or smug to grab them by the arm and walk them out of the office if you do it smartly. Only let the Yes Men and the Gravy Train Riders snake their way through the front entrance. That will keep your “process” moving and “free of disruptions”.

And when you put it that way, who is going to deny you the ability to free your processes of disruption? Even the coldest capitalist, the most cynical Chairmen of the Boards among us can understand the desire to inject a vague reference to “freedom” in any justification for suppression of opposing opinion. That’s not arrogance, that’s some sweet international music to our freedom loving ears.

I’ll tell you what’s arrogant. The other night at the dinner table, The Wife asked about the purchase of the Blue Rogue. She knew what she was doing and I could tell immediately that she had a partisan agenda to her question.

I tried to explain, yes, the Blue Rogue is an expensive fishing lure but one that was deemed absolutely necessary for my most recent excursion into the Indian Nation. Besides, I said, all purchases for that trip were approved and funded long before the event ever occurred. This was not the time to go back over all of that. We had to stay the course and would she please pass the gravy.

Then she asked, “So, did you use it?”

See, she knew damn well that the Blue Rogue never saw the light of day, it had remained in its protective wrapping, secured in my tackle box throughout the entire trip. She had probably been snooping around in the garage after I got back and found it in the box, pristine as the day I bought it.

You don’t understand, I countered, the Blue Rogue doesn’t need to be actually “used” to be effective. The fish know when it’s in the boat. They can sense it. If one simply touches it or dangles it threateningly near the water, the fish know they are in for some big trouble. That makes fishing with other, less powerful lures all the more successful.

Then the real nagging began. Hey, all I know is, I was trying to have dinner and it was impossible for me to keep that “process” free of disruption while she was carrying on.

For a moment, I considered revoking her dinner pass.

See, back closer to home, I read that Kansas City Royals officials recently revoked the press credentials for a couple of sports talk radio personalities who dared to ask rude questions to the owner during a press conference that was planned to introduce the new general manager. (Oh, dear reader, rest assured, I am aware just how confused and irritated you are by all of this Royals banter so I will not describe to you all the petty details behind this scene. You may thank me later.)

In the end, according to the Royals website, team officials and other unnamed audience members were offended by the “uncivil tone” invoked by the affected reporters during the conference.

Believe me, I know what they are talking about there. And that kind of tactic, taking away their creds, preventing them from even getting past the parking lot, that is old school to me. No access, no job, no paycheck, asking fool questions will get you in some deep trouble. How you going to pay your rent, pal? Communist countries and backwater dictatorships, listen up! That is how we do it in Middle America, baby.

But, Nepal and China, I tell you this in all sincerity, there is bit of a unique problem with this tactic of barring the curious, intrusive press from your dinner, news conferences or bill signing extravaganzas. If I did ban The Wife from the dinner table, she would probably stand outside the house with a sign that read, “Stupid husbands should not bully nagging wives!”

See, it sorta makes YOU look like a bad guy, a bully, a guy who is hiding something, a guy who doesn’t want something dirty to come clean via public speculation or among members of the press. So, for that, I can understand why your first instinct is to jail them quickly or bash their heads in a little bit, you know, to save face and all that.

Really, the best option may be to take YOU out of the equation. It may be better to make the situation a little less personal, in my opinion. Gently and subtly push the thrust of any unwanted inquisition into someone else’s corner. If you’ve got some bad stuff in your pocket, wait a few days, let the fog of indecision and worry clear up a bit, then hire an experienced PR guy or simply find a good friend to deal with all those who wish to shackle your freedom from disruption.

After sprinkling the dust of doubt here and there, go on TV and explain your heartfelt regret about any mistakes that were made. I tell you, whether it’s leaked state secrets, shooting an old hunting buddy, or just blasting a hot round into your own foot, this is a more acceptable, more refined, and more modern way to keep the hounds of the press at bay.

So, when The Wife kept pressing on the subject, with my dinner cold and ruined, I had no choice but to say, “Honey, I didn’t even want the Blue Rogue! Dan made me buy it.”

That shut her up for a while, long enough for me to finish my dinner and I didn’t even have to threaten her with jail time.

Word to the wise, China and Nepal, you guys may want to get your own Blue Rogue. You can blame me, if you do.

Cheers,

Mb

A Nerd's Nerve

Normal people often wonder how the mind of a nerd actually operates. You know, what are the overlapping layers of thought involved and how are complex and ridiculous conclusions reached? It’s all very fascinating, let me tell you.

This nerd effect is well documented. Unlike normal people, nerds have a special nerve hidden somewhere in the cortex. I admit I am afflicted with this odd condition. This is why even my Ice Fishing Excursions to the great north, events that should remain manly and spiced by tales only related to brutal survival in a frozen wilderness, often curiously descend into long-winded orations at the bar regarding the particulars of the 1837 treaty between the United States and the Mille Lacs band of the Ojibwe.

Yeah, really.

For more in-depth research into the specific matter of the “nerd-nerve effect”, I will provide the following example from my own maligned brain, such as it is. Sit back, take your shoes off, grab a cuppa, and marvel at the following twisted line of thought.

Here in the Village, the astute members of the Honored Veteran’s Quilting Bee gathered a few days ago to share some stories, review the past and ponder the future. Their routine charge is to keep things light, not to offend, and to steer clear of any overt political or religious ravings. Yet, at this particular meeting, a sly controversy pushed its way in through the squeaky screen door of the clubhouse. (I know this to be true. I was sitting outside on the porch sipping spiked lemonade underneath a hot sun at the time, listening intently to the crusty banter going on inside, and I witnessed this controversy make its shocking entrance.)

On this day a speech was repeated in the halls of the Bee. This speech was regarding the events that led to 9/11. The theme suggested that it was time for America to wake up. The speech went on to proclaim that Americans and different presidential administrations had ignored or refused to accept the truth for too long. The speech stated that 9/11 wasn’t the start of something as it was just another event in a line of American tragedies which all pointed to the start of World War III. And, as relayed in this speech, the start of that war actually began during the Iran Hostage affair in 1979.

The thrust of the speech was to inspire the audience to “wake up” and join the fight. Sort of like a high school locker room speech, it urged the listeners to get off their duffs, play as a team, get out there and kick some ass.

Of course, the Honored Veteran’s Quilting Bee applauded and cheered. But almost as quickly as the last hurrah had subsided, one of the more distinguished members of the Bee rose to speak. While not belittling the intent of the speech, he began, there might be a bit of concern with the accuracy of some of the selected dates of tragedy. In fact, he suggested, perhaps the origins of this war could be found somewhere further back in our history.

Yeah, I thought to myself, and this subject definitely broke the golden rule of no religion or politics. This went way beyond the line. And, hey, don’t you need to offer up some tragedies other than American to qualify as a “World” war? And, yeah, didn’t I hear the speaker errantly misuse the verbs in a couple of the lines? Didn’t he know he couldn’t start out in one tense and end in another? Didn’t he have some odd dangling participles here and there? Oooh, I would never offer that kind of mistake in front of my peers, how embarrassing! And, when he was talking about the presidents, wasn’t he completely off, assigning events of certain dates to Presidents who weren’t in power at the time? What kind of crap was that? Does he think we are fools?

But, with an irritating force, my “nerd nerve” locked and focused on the accusation that WWIII started with the events of 1979. Soon my nerve was agitated, throbbing out of control. Naturally, after that I was sent spinning on one of my unusual trips for a few days, as I typically do without any overt purpose, putting off more reality-based concerns to read and review the virtual Books of the Dead.

The wife and the boss were, to put it simply, not impressed or pleased.

But, in the end, from a compilation of many different sources, my nitpicking mind pieced together the following unconnected clues.

My first conclusion, like that of the honored member of the Bee, was that we could go way back beyond 1979 to find the origins of modern strife in the world as well in the Middle East. There is a lot of written and deduced history to cover so it’s hard to even know where to start.

I am reminded of a recent debate with my friend Mr. Big. He described to me how he had recently received instruction from a professor of Asian studies regarding the earliest known civilizations of man. Mr. Big now firmly believes we can trace such beginnings back some 10,000 years. That is his hard and fast conclusion, anyway.

I argued that what we know of the first civilizations, from digs in Sumeria and the Fertile Crescent, etc, is somewhat less clear than what he believes. I suggested that perhaps, based more on what we don’t know rather than what we do know, he might be off by a scant thousand years. Mr. Big wouldn’t hear any of that.

But, no matter, I doubt ancient dust from some buried wine jar will really help us define our situation and the dawn of civilization seems a bit too wide for the origin of WWIII. Ya know what I mean, we could say, well, with no Universe, there would be no Galaxy, then there would be no Earth, then there would be no Man, then … pretty meaningless train of thought, don’t you think?

With little doubt, I think many agree on this, we could point to the births of Christianity and Islam as starting points for the grand finale. At least with these two points we know which one comes first.

But to me those points remain unsatisfying in this quest because, truly, our current problems seem far more modern. I guess I’m downplaying the problem from an ancient historical standpoint. But, honestly, how can we today be held accountable for actions that occurred thousands or even hundreds of years ago?

With that in mind, I limited my search to more recent events, sometime within the last couple of hundred years. I instantly locked on to the establishment of Israel, knowing that plays a part in the whole mess. There’s a lot of pain associated with that history, lingering anger and distrust among different parts of the world, but it sort of left me wanting a little bit more at the same time.

And, then, I stumbled upon the name Roosevelt.

Theodore Roosevelt’s mother and wife died on the same day, February 14, 1884. In his diary, Roosevelt drew a large X on that day’s page and wrote, “the light has gone out of my life”.

Two years later in 1886, Roosevelt married Edith Kermit Carrow. Teddy’s third child, Kermit Roosevelt, was born from this marriage on 10/10/1889.

Kermit fought in WWI, traveled with his father on the big hunts, was described as brilliant and imaginative, arguably the closest child to Teddy and one of his staunchest defenders. He was also often moody, chronically depressed and driven to drink. He killed himself while on active duty in Alaska in 1943 while holding a remote war-time position that was arranged for him, in part, by his cousin Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

During his spirited life, long before his dispirited death, Kermit had married Belle Willard, daughter of a US Ambassador to Spain, in 1912. Kermit and Belle had four children and their first son, Kermit, Jr., was born on February 16, 1916, in Buenos Aires, Argentina, some 32 years after Teddy had summarized his mother’s and wife’s death in his diary by penning, “For joy or sorrow my life has now been lived out”.

Ironic words, as we know, since Teddy’s life was far from over. Out of his more temporary recession, he rose to energize a nation and encouraged a sleepy government to wake up and whip the world with a big stick for years to come.

And his grandson, Kermit Roosevelt, Jr, known as Kim, followed his family tradition to become the muscle behind Operation AJAX, the CIA covert plan that brought the Shah of Iran back to power in August, 1953.

In 1951, the Iranian parliament nationalized the oil industry. The Anglo-Iranian Oil Company thus lost control of the world’s largest oil producer at the time and the 85% profit it enjoyed due to the 60-year D’Arcy Oil Concession of 1901. (The AIOC changed its name to British Petroleum in 1954 and is now called BP Amoco.)

The British were pissed off by this event. The British embassy in Iran closed in 1952 over the rift. Britain wanted to forcibly take back control of the oil fields but felt it needed US help, which was denied by Truman who did not consider the Iranian government a threat and placed a higher priority in Korea.

Eisenhower was then elected and was soon convinced that this nationalization of oil companies signaled Iran was leaning towards communism. The Dulles brothers were ready to engage and Kim, a senior CIA Middle East operative, was dispatched to Tehran to initiate TP-AJAX.

That fact is, Kim Roosevelt helped the US and Britain overthrow a freely elected, Democratic government in Iran in 1953. (See Kim Roosevelt’s book, Countercoup: The Struggle for the Control of Iran, published ironically in 1979.) He and others at the time may have been convinced that it was a fight against communism but, in my review, it seems more clearly a fight for greedy US and British control of the world’s oil resources and corporate profit.

(There is, I believe, a Vietnam corollary to this but I will omit that discussion for now.)

One point here is that the modern fairytale of US international affairs guided by the high minded spirit of spreading democracy and equality around the world is thus called into question if not completely unveiled for what it truly is.

And, as quoted on the Wikipedia website, Stephen Kinzer, in his book All the Shah's Men, asserts: "It is not far-fetched to draw a line from Operation Ajax through the Shah's repressive regime and the Islamic Revolution to the fireballs that engulfed the World Trade Center in New York."

So if WWIII has started, my friends, then its origin does go past 1979. In fact, we had our greedy hands in its development as far back as 1953, not so long after the “last” World War ended. If we were roused from our global slumber on 9/11, then we were blinded to our own actions for much longer than we may think.

But, in my nerdy, romantic mind, I am thinking the trouble really began in February, 1884, when Teddy Roosevelt’s life lost its light and turned to a new, different kind of energy. And that leads me to suspect this entire period, the last 100 years or so, will one day be historically judged less as a myopic time-line of evolving, distinguishable “World Wars” as much as it was a living, lasting legacy to the Era of Roosevelt.

Cheers,

Mb

Adrift

You know, when the weather was fine and the sailing was smooth, the Good Ship Inflexible was constantly brimming with anxious passengers. Partying every night, staying up to all hours of the day; it was a non-stop festival. We laughed and sang songs, toasted the starry skies and often wondered aloud just how long the good life can really last.

One particular evening, we stayed up until sunrise the next morning to marvel at the annual meteor shower, dancing and emptying an ancient barrel of wicked hot peppery wine in the process, telling each other bigger and better lies about the finest whores we’ve ever known.

Ahhh … then, sometime around noon the other day, I woke up and found myself alone.

Everyone had disembarked, jumped like rats I suppose or otherwise having taken their leave. I felt immediately constricted and blinded somehow, as if the bastards had left me sightless and tied me up or somehow restrained me before making their getaway.

But, as the cobwebs faded, I realized my favorite straw hat was now broken, its beautiful wide brim now hanging down in my eyes and my T-shirt was ripped into several long vertical sections, leaving only the crew neck holding it together, which had allowed the more lengthier pieces to wrap around me tightly while I was sleeping on the deck underneath the captain’s chair.

Oh, yeah, oh, yeah, I said, as I began to unwind myself from my constraints and painfully remember the nature of the rumble which caused my salty air solitude.

I found my smokes and sat there on the deck listening for a while as the empty old ship rocked and heaved in the waves, the sea slapping the hull with a purpose, odd squeaks and clunking noises coming from below. I watched as the multicolored party streamers and empty martini glasses were all washed off the deck into the ocean and I could tell she needed a new paint job.

I grabbed an empty bottle that was rolling past me and dropped my still burning ciggy butt to the bottom. A muted sizzling sound escaped as a thick white-brown smoke ascended up the barrel to the sky, past the curved lip of the bottle which once held so much promise beneath it. I turned the bottle around to read the sun burned label.

Ah, I remember you, I said.

Nah! The hell with it, I thought. Why put myself through all that? Quickly, without looking back any more, instinctively knowing I could never cross those same waters again, I decided that I’d just turn her around, take her back to port and trade her in on a new one. That is, after all, the American way and I am not one to forsake my own heritage.

I stood up and fear raced for a moment when spying the control console, as it was apparent that the compass suddenly had a mind of its own. Oooh, we are dreadfully off course here mates, I told my one man crew.

I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, the fleshy part of my own fist, and began wailing away. The echoing sound of my pounding surely carried across the sea, distant and alien whoomphs registering with unknown receivers at remote points all around the globe. Thankfully, after a few hard whacks, the needle responded and chose to point in the proper direction.

My gratitude to Neptune was never so intense.

But it comes to mind that as these particular points in life start to turn, so do men have an ironic way of turning on each other. It was then that the one man crew began to seriously argue amongst themselves.

First there were a few moans of discomfort and suspicious looks to the side. Soon, when they realized the captain was unwilling or incapable of making a decision, it became a virtual free for all. Sails or engines? Engines or sails? Order us, man, order us to action now! What are you waiting for?

Saddened, I stepped forward to speak, with the backdrop of gentle waves lapping and ravenous seagulls squawking all around me. First, I rebuked them all. Our situation was tough enough as it was, I explained. We had to stick together. It was just pitiful to see us behaving this way. Must, I asked, all committees be so shitty? It was time to put our differences aside and be respectful of each other’s concerns. But, be there no doubt, if that’s the way they wanted it, I would make my course clear for all to hear.

Engines, you fools! What, are you all crazy? I know nothing about sailing!

With that, I lit another ciggy, cramped the remains of my favorite straw hat firmly on my head, and switched the ignition key to the ON position.

Engage!

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