The Guilty Head

The Last Lonely Exception

2009-05-16T21:35:00.003Z

During World War II, the branches of the US armed forces were racially segregated as were most public institutions in this nation. For the military, that meant that Negroes, African-Americans, people of color, were generally not allowed to serve alongside white people in the same company equally.

That all changed on July 26, 1948, when President Harry S. Truman signed Executive Order 9981 which stated, “It is hereby declared to be the policy of the President that there shall be equal treatment and opportunity for all persons in the armed services without regard to race, color, religion or national origin.”

This declaration did not just suddenly transpire overnight nor was it put into practice immediately. Historians note it would be another 10 to 15 years, with all the urgent concerns of a different war in a different place, before this order even started to take root and military officials were held strictly accountable to it. As we recall, our nation tried to officially maintain an atmosphere of “separate but equal” treatment of black citizens for many years. George Wallace was still chanting “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever” to a receptive crowd in 1963.

And, while we're counting, in spite of the “all persons” theme of Truman's edict, add that it would be another 15-20 years again before females in the military would earn similar protective status from the government. Specifically, it wasn't until the 1980's that many traditionally perceived “combat roles” and their associated opportunities for military promotion were finally opened up for women, Female-Americans, people of the fairer sex.

Some may look back to the “All Men are Created Equal” origins of this country to suggest when our most lofty declarations first started to haunt our otherwise ignorant and bullish public behavior. But, tightening the historical screw of segregation a bit, one could point to the orders of President Franklin Roosevelt in 1941 as more visible sparks that eventually fed the freedom fire of Truman's EO 9981.

Still, real events of the post-war years left Truman's administration very little choice in the matter.

The uncomfortable pressure started to build quickly in 1945. Over the next couple of years, African-American WW II veterans returned home to a country that tacitly turned its back on them. At the least, they were herded into demeaning, low-paying jobs. At the worst, the were chased by lynch mobs and beaten by the police. At the very, very worst, they and their families were hunted down and killed by the same citizens that they had once fought so bravely and honorably to defend.

While reports and studies on the use of “Negro Manpower” in the military languished in the halls of the Pentagon, rational people of all colors around the nation began to demand a better deal from our leadership and aimed at segregation in the military as a ground-floor target for social change. But the US Army, fearful of upsetting the vaguely delicate balance of “good order and discipline” in all hastily prepared foxholes, set to marshaling its forces up Equality Hill at barely a half-step march. The Navy and the new Air Force only half-heartedly saluted the band as it went by.

Even George Marshall, famed WW II General but by then Truman's Secretary of State, essentially said that he expected the military would adjust its attitudes on segregation only when American society as a whole changed its conflicting behavior. In a perfect example of Catch-22 bureaucracy, anxious State leaders, most notably the Governors of Minnesota and Connecticut, complained that they wanted to end segregation in their own Guard units but were prevented from doing so by federal regulations.

Congress, being the Congress we've all come to know and expect the most self-serving actions from, was not eager for any dramatic law that might tie the generous hands of their most valued (white) donors.

Finally, in what I would call a bona fide fit of Show-Me determinism and in the style of rapid “the hell with it” decision-making that Harry was famous for, the President asked his legal staff to write a declaration ending racial segregation in the military, signed the order and never looked back.

But we can look back now and see how so much has changed since that day in 1948.

I don't think we have any direct proof that EO 9981 instantly changed our society. Later civil rights acts of government probably had wider impact. But I do think the attitude and awareness that demanded the order in the first place definitely led us down a path to greater equality among the races. Unalterably, a large number of our population, average service men and women, learned to trust one another regardless of their skin color and took that surprising assessment with them back to their homes and families.

Gradually, even slothfully at times, but just as clearly, we regularly witness evidence that our society has grown to be more accepting of racial, ethnic, and religious diversity today than it was back then. At least, I think, the great majority want it to be that way. If nothing else, I can hopefully report that it's doubtful we will ever again sit idly by and watch while citizens of this country are chased down by angry lynch mobs.

Cautiously optimistic, perhaps, the number of hate crimes committed in this large country are now relatively small in number. The FBI statistics from 2007, for example, show that particular crime is low but has not completely exhausted itself. Maybe it is human fate that for ever more we must always be on the lookout for the few insanely ignorant bullies who refuse to conform in our communities. But from these statistics we can thankfully note that each of the categories of deliberate hate crimes are vigorously pursued by our government.

With the exception of one, of course.

But when these hate crimes do occur, the entire public naturally gets involved. After that, people take a hard look at themselves, questioning their abetting behavior while demanding a better accounting of the services of our federal, state and local agencies to ensure no person in this country has to live in fear.

Except for one kind of person, of course.

And by blanketing us with nanny-like oversight, today our national government can maybe be said to have finally stepped up to honor the words of our founders, truly guaranteeing the constitutional rights and equality of all persons of any distinction you can imagine in this nation.

Except for one distinction, of course.

Reviewing this history, I have to laugh at anyone who suggests an order signed by the President is illegal because it spontaneously flies in the face of public mandate or conflicts with constitutional law. I am confounded by those who claim the Commander in Chief should not experiment with the structure of his military forces to the point that it only represents what we want to be, not who we are. And I am regularly confused by the circuitous religious philosophy that holds we are all God's people, put here on this earth to bask in His love and glory ... except for one kind of people, of course.

In fact, as a result of this quick look back, complimented by the excuse of every modern “don't ask, don't tell” compromise, I'm annoyingly reminded of a time when “separate but equal” was a similar explanation for anything but fairness.

Today, I'm more willing to say that the time for another Executive Order has arrived. I think even George Marshal would say that our general society has already turned the corner. Based on what we've experienced in the past, I realize it may take another 15 or 20 years before it really settles in and gets comfortable. But I think we're ready for it, we were ready for it last year, and one day in the future we'll be glad someone finally said “the hell with it” and got it done.

Honestly, if I was President now, I'd probably want to close the loophole on this last lonely exception to national service quickly but also on a day that signified when we renewed a long march to equality in 1948. This year, that would be July 26th , sixty-one years to the day since Harry S. Truman ended racial segregation in the military by signing EO 9881.

Cheers,
Mb

It's A Modern Free For All

2009-05-11T01:54:00.006Z

A conservative pal of mine recently sent me a moving account of Mr. Ted Nugent, claiming that Ted had gradually evolved from a twisted rock star into a national hero, a defender of the common man, and one who has perhaps single-handedly saved more average lives than he really knew.

On the contrary, I think he's turned into a fiery demagogue, only a hero in the standard “cult leader” reference. Ted has an agenda, he's pissed off and he has an oddly frightening way of expressing his concerns.

But I'm not too sure what he's trying to accomplish when he calls Hillary a “stupid bitch” or invites Obama to suck on his machine gun at his recent concerts. It's one thing for me and you to joke casually like that at the pub. It's highly suspicious for a celeb to be that way in front of a paying audience. He's always been a bold showman, I love some of his music, and I wouldn't be surprised to learn his gate receipts have gone up since he started this particular show.

Come on, consider what we know of our own history! Using the stage and notoriety to provoke common people, prodding them with words of hate pointed at other personalities and anger towards vague notions of evil, is no way to deal with honest conflict.

I see after he rants on attacks to the 2nd Amendment, he typically pokes the interviewer in the chest with the forceful words, “Any questions?”

As if to proclaim that he has all the answers. Nobody has all the answers, man! He would be funny if he wasn't so serious about it.

That's the same kind of testy tactics the armies of dictators used to question a citizen's loyalty or the Roman Catholics once used to determine a peasant's unflinching belief in the Pope. To a demagogue, honest questions may bely treason and that's what he wants us to infer.

But I agree, there is a conflict that we need to deal with here. To me, it's not about the Constitutional right to “keep and bear arms” untethered from government oversight. It's really about the right of an individual to choose his own path to personal liberty within the protection of a peaceful society.

In spite of my respect for our Bill of Rights, I do not believe we have any unique rights to life or even the pursuit of happiness divinely bestowed upon us by an unseen Creator. In fact, the proof suggests a different story. People die all the time due to disease or natural calamity, some sooner rather than later, victims of odd virus or weather condition, without any logical way to always prevent it. The vast majority of humans have suffered just to survive on this earth, learning that any vision of constant happiness is like fool's gold just out of their reach, a fleeting and deceitful goal, not worthy of any realistic expectation. But I agree the one thing we all enjoy, if we are lucky enough to be alive for any healthy period of time, is the right to determine just how much personal risk we are willing to endure to secure our liberties while living.

Americans tend to believe and teach their children that they have the inherent right, and in many ways, the personal responsibility, to defend themselves and their family against all perceived aggression. Generally, I see that as an honorable notion but blatantly untrue, really backwards from the only right we can claim as humans. The old “Don't Tread on Me” flag that many like to hide behind doesn't mention family, friends, or community. Even if it might be so widely construed, it still just selfishly says “me” alone.

Well, the isolated “me” has been in danger from the beginning. Fortunately, like most earthly animals, we have learned that there is power and safety in numbers. A circle of like-minded friends, all protecting the peace of the central nest is at least one basis for the ideal defense of a society. But in practice it means that individuals within that community must naturally be willing to give up some of their own personal freedoms. They can't yell “FIRE!” in a theater. They can't take a nap in the middle of sentry duty. And they can't just wander off when they want to. In this way, we say it is a crime to individually violate the rules of a society which is designed to defend the safety of the whole.

Oh, but you can surely step out on your own volition. You can choose to ignore the rules and put yourself and everyone else in greater danger. But if you do, then you deny yourself any protection that comes from staying inside or supporting the circle. You lose no rights but you do forfeit the privilege of collective defense. It is an individual choice to stay or go, either way. And, to me, the right to make that choice is the only right worth a damn in this life.

People make this individual choice every minute of every day. When a soldier enlists in the service of our nation, when a cop pins on her badge, when a fireman pulls on his boots, they know full well that they are risking their personal lives to defend our circle. In this case, they are taking advantage of the only right they truly have.

Alternatively, this is not to demean the lawyer, the mechanic or the plumber who chooses to pay their taxes and remain safely inside because, to me, they are really doing the same. The are just making the choice of personal risk that they feel they can comfortably choose to survive—the only choice they have the inherent right to make—stay or go, contribute or endlessly complain, abide or don't.

As noted before, I have found the modern trend of the general public towards profusely thanking service members somewhat confounding over the last few years. I guess this explains my amusement to some degree. In my view, the old hat ideas of patriotism and nationalism have long since passed us by if they ever existed in the first place. In modern reality, where there rarely exists a clear enemy, those who serve us at the edge of the circle do so for the same reasons they do everything else—predominantly for their own personal reasons, not necessarily for the glory or continued existence of one state, maybe not to salute a beautiful flag that represents all that is good with life, and not always to defend one form of economy over another.

That is not to say we shouldn't continue to thank them because we really should. We should thank our mechanics and plumbers, too. They deserve our recognition since it is painfully clear to most of them that most of us are sadly incapable of defending or taking care of ourselves alone.

Yes, the lawyers are on their own in my little world. I know that's a harsh assessment. But it comes from the heart. (Insert winky-smile emoticon here.)

A long time ago, I chose the circle of American society. Yes, I was born into it. I was lucky that way and it made my decision quite easy. But, if your choice is to go outside the circle wherever it may be, to choose a life of ignorance or crime, then I tend to side with Mr. Nugent. Hopefully your decision will eventually lead you to lengthy stay at a rehabilitative institution, the business end of an Indonesian cane whip or to swift Chinese justice, I really don't care which as long as you don't take me or my friends with you.

On the other hand, to put it just as bluntly, if your definition of society's protection includes a personal demand to walk around with a loaded, fully-automatic M-60 machine gun, I have news for you. Your right to choose your path within the circle does not include that option. The right to arm yourself with an assault arsenal for your personal peace of mind is one those small sacrifices that a society demands you should make for the security of everyone else. In fact, if the rules of a competent society are such that it ignores or allows such unrestrained liberties, then everyone else within the circle should have sufficient cause to reevaluate their personal choices and determine whether your individual needs are truly worth their commonly shared risk.

Thankfully, I don't think that's the conflict. I may be wrong but I don't believe that's what Ted really means even if it sure sounds like that nonsense is exactly what he so passionately says.

Weapons can be very useful tools. But when they're turned against other people, especially otherwise innocent people, the “right” to own them begins to tread on the fundamental purpose of a peaceful nation.

We all want the same thing. We want a society that protects us. We don't want to live in constant fear. We want a way to keep weapons out of the hands of criminals and nutjobs, those who choose to go or are forced outside the circle, without overbearing limitations on a sane, law-abiding citizen's choice for personal risk.

But our majority has let it be, allowed the sore to fester in a way, and no good choice has been made. Out of fear or apathy, whether the populace is freely armed to the tooth or the compromises of law restricts gun ownership in some fashion or degree, nothing seems to satisfy everyone while our communities continue to evolve into veritable kill zones where good people, our friends, our family, don't really know what tragic danger awaits them around the next corner.

In truth, the common lament that I witness, a lament that any demagogue worth his salt should know, is not that our rules overly limit personal freedom but that our society regularly fails in the task of protecting us from thieving thugs and fanatical fruitcakes. And, let's be honest, now more than ever perhaps, we can't do that on our own.

I don't know the answer. Wish I did. But I believe we've networked our nation together for good reason and I imagine that at some point each of us must and will take advantage of the only right we truly enjoy as humans and law-abiding citizens of a great country.

Here's my raised glass in the hope that Mr. Ted Nugent, the people he rants about, and each of you all live long enough to make the right choice.

Cheers,
Mb

Dead or Alive

2009-05-10T15:14:00.005Z

Had the opportunity to spend a few nights near Tombstone, Arizona, last week. There are four bars in Tombstone but I only made it to three. The story goes something like this here ...

When I entered Allen Street from the north, I almost walked in at the fourth bar. But something told me to go on down the road. The place was too quiet. I could see it had perfectly good porch, an excellent view of the center of town, but nobody was there and it was too well lit up. Not my kind of place, I decided.

A few more steps and I saw one of the authentic stagecoaches was sitting idly on the other side of the street. The tired, dry horses still hitched up and shivering quietly, heads down. A grizzled old driver sat on top of the coach, leaning over to the edge while holding the motionless reins in his left hand, his gray-bearded chin resting uneasily in the cup of his right palm. He stared straight ahead and ignored my approach, looking like the most pitiful, forlorn cowboy I had ever seen. Somewhat chilled by this cold welcome, I moved on and felt a gust of wind suddenly whistle up across the the wooden boardwalk but noticed the flattened brown dirt in the road lay curiously unmoved.

After testing the other two bars in town, feeling that the sun would soon make its departure, I eventually pulled into Big Nose Kate's on the west side of the street and was introduced to a tall, dusty fellow in the front corner named Billy.

Lean and strong, with a full reddish-brown mustache crudely hiding his mouth, Billy said he had been a real Cowboy most of his life. He told bold stories of rounding up the wild cattle that roamed the deserted area between Bisbee and Albuquerque. I did not know there were wild cattle out there but he claimed it was true and at one time there had been quite a large herd running free, damn near begging to be gathered up and sold by smart men like him.

“Oh, man,” he exclaimed while reminiscing, “on those long drives we'd have three boys, each towing as many as ten horses a piece 'cuz we'd ride 'em all so hard.”

Billy wore a cowboy hat with what is called an Arizona Rancher's crunch recessed in the front. If you recall what Gus wore in Lonesome Dove, then you know what I mean.

At some point along the trail, Billy said the wild cattle herds started drying up. “Goddamn fences on the free range,” he moaned. “Might as well be a penitentiary out there today!” He spat out the word “penitentiary” several times that evening, as though it might be the only honest word which expressed his full contempt for fences of any kind.

I had driven over to Tombstone from Sierra Vista that afternoon with friends, Chicago Slim and Texas Tom. The sun was setting quickly outside and about this time a karaoke man arrived and started his show at Big Nose Kate's. After a short consideration, I chose the song that I thought Slim should sing, “Wanted: Dead or Alive” by Bon Jovi. I'd heard Slim sing this song before in some bars further east and I knew he could handle it. It was the perfect song for Tombstone, I figured. But Slim was pouting since he was our designated driver so he refused to sing for us right away while he pondered the predictable, annoying loneliness of a sober evening in a wild west karaoke bar.

Tom, who wore his own cowboy hat that night, was enthralled with Billy's stories of true western adventure. Tom lives on a small spread north of San Angelo, up near Grape Creek, and enjoys wandering around his property shooting snakes, raccoons and other little critters with his handgun. Had he not settled down and married a stern Korean woman years ago, Tom would have probably ended up a roustabout just like Billy. And he knew that deep inside, I suppose.

As the night and the cowboy stories wore on, Tom tapped me on the shoulder and stated quietly that he believed Billy may represent the last real cowboy in the west.

I disagreed and firmly replied that modern long-haul truck drivers still had my vote.

Somebody at the bar then jokingly suggested Tom's hat looked like he might be from Little Rock, Arkansas. A proud Texan, that perception made Tom shiver a bit and internally question his own appearance. Billy leaned closer to us and confided that the drunken gentleman who raised that silly point was a dumbass who had never been north of Louisiana so how the hell would he know. That made Tom feel a little better but, still, he Googled his hat the next day and was relieved to learn that his style was correctly known as “The Amarillo” instead.

Besides the existence of wild cattle wandering freely between Arizona and New Mexico, I had no idea that every cowboy hat told a story by itself or enjoyed such geographic distinction. But it makes sense to me now.

The bartender was a young dandily dressed fellow named Bret who wore a more sporty cowboy hat and carried two toy pistols in his belt. He came over to our end of the large bar and began to show off, laughing and spinning his pistols as best he could.

“That ain't no way to do it,” Billy yelled. He reached over the bar with his long arms, grabbed one of the pistols in mid-spin and began to instruct young Bret on the fine art of twirling a gun. After the eastern Arizona-western New Mexico wild cattle industry had soured, Billy had taken up a gunfighting act for tourists near the OK Corral in order to pay his few bills. Once domesticated to some degree by a less rugged form of capitalism, he had quickly learned the best way to turn a handgun around his thick fingers even though he'd never had the need to do so out on the free range. And he was quite proud of his newfound professional skill.

While spinning the gun vertically with great speed, he showed how he taught himself to push his arm forward to cause a momentary horizontal spin where the pistol seemed to hover precariously before he deftly brought his hand back in for the terminal slam into his imaginary holster.

“Whoa!” he bellowed with glee. “That there's how ya do it!”

Dandy Brett, unimpressed, twisted a half smile on his face and sulked back to bartending.

“Dumbass pansy,” Billy said, not so much under his breath, before taking a deep swallow from his long-neck bottle of original Coors beer.

Feeling a bit flushed by that display, perhaps, the drinkers at that corner of the bar silently followed Billy's lead and took a healthy sip, too.

In no time at all, Slim had recovered his confidence and agreed to sing the song. His name was finally called and as he walked to the stage a short man in a black suit, sporting a lengthy western tie and flat black hat, strolled into Big Nose Kate's through the open door behind us. The man's thin mustache was as black as his long rider's coat and it was waxed to a stiff point on each end.

He was the town's Doc Holiday reenactor who wandered around all day graciously taking pictures with the unending throng of shorts-and-sandals tourists. Doc, entirely true to his character that night, was obviously bobbing with the sluggish gate of an inebriated Faro player and carried a certain foul odor of mixed sweat and alcohol with him that confronted us all at the same time when he saddled up at the bar next to Billy.

“Hey, Don,” Billy drawled cautiously, lifting up his reddened stubby nose at the unwelcome stench.

Don/Doc Holiday, lurched a bit as if he hadn't noticed the towering, tanned cowpoke standing next to him.

“Well, well, how was your day, William?” Doc gurgled profusely with a grand wave of his hand.

“Cut the shit, Don,” snapped Billy.

Bret the dandy bartender must have sensed an urgent need as he quickly produced another Coors for Billy and a Miller Lite for Doc. “From the ladies at the table,” he lied.

Doc turned and bowed dramatically to no one person in particular.

Billy tugged the last drop of beer out of his old bottle and, in a single motion, without the slightest look in the proper direction, sent the empty one sliding off the bar top towards a hidden trash can he thought to exist in the corner. The rest of us at the bar watched as the speeding bottle passed us by, missed its target and splashed down hard on the floor.

Overcoming the din of a crashing bottle, Slim was on stage and growling the crucial verse.

“I'm a cowboy ... on a STEEL horse I ride! I'm wanted ... WANTED ... dead or alive!”

Oblivious to his sliding-empty-bottle misfire, Billy turned towards the stage and nodded his approval.

Doc slurred, “Now, William, you know you'll be talking differently to me one day soon.”

Billy straightened up from his bent lean on the bar and talked down to the small man, “I told you not to role play with me. You stay in character with me while I'm drinkin' at this bar and I'll kick your motherfuckin' ass.”

Apparently unconcerned, Doc smiled without a sound.

“You know I will,” Billy added needlessly.

Tom nudged me and quietly advised that Doc Holiday had previously voiced plans to become the new, real mayor of Tombstone. Now, that got my attention and I suddenly felt emboldened to beckon Mr. Holiday from my corner post.

“So, what's this about you running for mayor?”

Doc cemented his polished grin, turned his head to see if anyone else at the bar was listening, and confidently announced, “I am not running for mayor at this moment. But I will if need be. The current mayor is verifiable prick. He's corrupt and everyone here agrees. He even had the gall to have me arrested in the middle of the street for no good reason the other day.”

Doc finished his summary with an audible burp.

Tom poked me again and whispered, “Doc's been in contact with the Stephen Colbert show.”

“So, you're getting some national attention over this,” I offered loudly as if jolted from a sound sleep.

In a very self-assured way, Doc maintained his tight smile.

“If it brings good advertisement to this fine town, then I am very happy to support that.”

“Christ,” Billy muttered as he sucked some more Coors from his bottle.

Ignoring Billy for a moment, I drew closer to someone who seemed more familiar to me than I had first believed.

“Say, where are you from originally?”

“Kansas, sir,” came Doc's answer, his words dripping with haughty eloquence.

“Really?” I said knowingly. “I come from the Missouri side.”

“Perhaps you've attended the Renaissance Fair in Kansas?” asked Doc, suddenly transforming himself into some sort of court jester, waving his arms wide and speaking in a fake British accent. “I was the emcee there for several years. My wife is from the same area,” he added turning around again with a confused look towards the uninterested customers in the room. “She was just here, I thought. Where on earth did she go?”

“Honestly, I didn't spend much time at that place,” I answered dryly. “How did you end up here?”

Doc stiffened, “Well, I bought the theater here in town a few years ago. It was in terrible shape. I've turned it around completely now. It is doing quite well thanks to my efforts.”

Tom whispered again, “He's supposedly trying to start a recall of the current mayor.”

So much new information, and all on the record, of course. I couldn't have been more thrilled to finally be getting somewhere on a quiet night in Tombstone. I searched my mind for some balance to the scene but I couldn't control myself while the beer and the noisy karaoke must have started to drown my typically good senses. I knew I had to get to the bottom line quickly. But, in retrospect, the next question was not well thought out, aimed like one of Billy's empty bottles, more of a blurted shot somewhere over the bow, another untrained volley fading fast into life's container for missed intention and lost opportunity.

Still, taking Billy's cue, I steadied myself and fired anyway, “So, do you think you can do it?”

Twisting like a snake, Doc smiled even wider and delivered his lines slowly, at last not so much for anyone else to hear but in a way to make sure that he said exactly what he wanted the answer to be.

“I have not been asked to be mayor. But if asked to serve, I will gladly do so.”

Billy sniffed at his nearly empty bottle, kept his eyes on the stage where Slim was driving Bon Jovi home, and mumbled to himself, “... fuck me.”

As if he needed to quickly smother Billy's rude rebuke, Doc visibly lowered his chin and raised a steady forefinger before repeating himself with a slightly more serious tone.

“If asked to serve, I will gladly do so.”

With that pronouncement complete, Slim slowed the tempo up on the stage and rode the last verse like a champion.

“...Wanted! ... Dead-or-alive! Dead or Ali-i-ive! Dead or Alive ....”

“WHOA!” Billy hollered and pounded his flat hand on the bar at the last note. “Now, that was a good job!”

Without warning, the next empty Coors bottle went sliding past me in blur but again missed its target with a crash.

“Shit!” Billy realized. “I need a smoke.”

Tom and I followed Billy outside like two motherless calves and leaned up against the wooden hitching posts to light up under a cloudless night sky. I offered my Zippo to Billy but he couldn't get his lit.

It was a very cool evening in Tombstone. In fact, the whole time I was there the weather and the scenery did not exactly jive with the commonly accepted caricature of a one-horse town in the sweltering Arizona desert. I had to remind myself that the picture and the theme had been so carefully rigged to satisfy the tourist trade. Even the main street, I was told, is not what it seemed, covered as it was with Hollywood-fake dirt, some sort of chemical dry sludge that won't dust up in the ever present wind. Dressed up and remodeled to remove any historically accurate layers of grime, everything appeared very tidy for what one would call an otherwise perfectly restored wild west town. Until you kicked it around a little and saw it for what it really was, of course.

Frustrated with his cigarette, Billy pulled off the filter and tossed it to the ground. Judging by how well the local Chamber of Commerce maintained Allen Street, I imagined that was the only grounded cigarette butt for miles around and it wouldn't be long before a feverish night crew came storming in to sweep it up and carry it away from view.

Finally getting a good, straight pull from his skillfully shortened smoke, remarking that he really didn't need the filter anyway, Billy was happy. But from inside Big Nose Kate's, we could hear Doc Holiday entertaining the small crowd with his forged frontier version of “She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain” and Billy's mood turned sour again.

“You know,” I began, stirring the pot in my own way, “where I grew up, people from Doc's neck of the woods are all known to be dicks. In fact, when he said where he was from, I immediately thought, here's just another Kansas asshole.”

“Clearly,” added Tom.

“Well, you Arkansas boys got that right,” said Billy.

“Uhh, Texas ... we're from Texas,” Tom corrected.

“Yeah, well,” Billy said without pausing to reflect on Tom's sensitivity, “either way, I oughta beat the shit out of him right now.”

Tom looked soberly at me and I looked back at him. We both took deep breaths, pondering how quickly Billy's bluster could turn skinny little Doc into a small pile of bloody pulp. Together, we'd been around some and might have witnessed something like that a time or two before.

“He's not what he seems!” Billy blurted. “He's not Doc Holiday and I can't stand it when he stays in character around me. I know what he really is. I saw him slap his wife once ... I should have whipped him right then and there.”

Hearing that, I coolly agreed, saying, “Things are rarely what they seem but I didn't notice anything like that. Still ... probably nobody would blame you on that account if you did.”

Tom's eyes caught mine again, growing wide with a “what the hell are you doing?” stare.

“Well, maybe I oughta just kill him and get it over with. I could kill him,” Billy nodded and looked at us straight with eyes as blank as the dark Arizona night. He stubbed his short cigarette out with the toe of his boot, suggesting this plan to us as he might offer to watch our houses or lend us his car, while numbly repeating, “maybe I oughta just kill him.”

“Hey, uh,” Tom started with a cheery smile, “I don't know about that. If you did, you'd never get to go back out there like you want and round up the rest of those wild cattle. Right?”

“Aw, hell!” Billy hooted, his small teeth barely visible under his drooping mustache. “ Cowboying is done; them cattle's all been took up. Besides, you can't go for a hund'erd miles on the range in any direction without running into a damn fence.” Returning to previous form, he coughed and stammered, “It's like a goddamn peni-ten-tiary out there!”

I took a long drag on my cigarette, trying to think of a way out for Billy while Doc, from inside the bar, was still loudly warning us that she'd be coming around the mountain sooner or later.

“Maybe,” I said, “maybe you could go up to Montana. I bet they still have wild cattle running free up there somewhere.”

“No, no! You're right they do have wild cattle up there but, man, you don't understand at all,” Billy pleaded

“I couldn't show my face up in Montana,” he continued. “There's a Cowboy .... uh, um, ... there's a Cowboy Code, don't ya know? That's their territory and I would not be welcome at all. They'd as soon kill me as look at me.”

He stood for a moment, then rested his butt back on the hitching post in front of the bar. I could sense his rapid agitation at the casual idea of trespassing in Montana was now resolving its way all down his spine, leaving him fatigued like a spent prize fighter. I quietly marveled at the thought that murdering Doc was an option here but a Montana trip was not in the cards.

“Them boys up there'd kill me,” Billy's explained with tired eyes, “flat-out kill me.”

Still desperately trying to change the subject, Tom pointed to a couple young trees on the other side of the street. “Do you think those were here back in the old days?” he asked.

“Naw,” Billy answered softly. “Town Council had 'em planted a few months ago. Don't know why, never no trees on Allen Street before. But I guess they look OK.”

I sighed and realized we had no good way out of this mess. Billy was stuck in an unreal world that he hated, working beside charlatans and hucksters that he despised. But he had bought into the charade, owed his existence to it now, and whether his dreams were fabricated or once a true reflection of his actual experience didn't matter. Chances are, either way, in spite of its glorified motto as a town too tough to die, he knew the Tombstone that he remembered had in fact perished a long time ago and the modern barriers of expedience and comfort would not allow the dirty truth to come to life ever again.

I dropped my cigarette into a large planter on the boardwalk and smiled at Billy.

“You know, Billy, I'm starting to feel like you now,” I said. “Everywhere we go, seems like the fences are all getting nearer, closing in on us or something. Not too sure who I'm sorrier for, the wild cattle or us. But, to be honest, all this talk about killin' and cowpokin' is startin' to make me feel sorta tuckered out.”

Billy folded his arms and passed a toothy grin at Tom. Tom looked at me. Then we all started laughing. Drunken, big belly laughs of relief that probably hadn't echoed authentically down Allen Street in a hundred years.

Since whoever she was had probably long since come around the mountain, Chicago Slim walked out of the bar and shook his head in disgust at three happy drunks whooping it up on the boardwalk in Tombstone, Arizona.

Intuitively knowing it was time, he put both hands on his hips and barked his orders.

“We're done! Let's go home!”

Without complaint, we shook hands with Billy and made our goodbyes.

Walking north out of town, not really trying to keep up with Slim who raced ahead to the rental car, Tom and I moseyed along about as slow as we could go, like we didn't really want to leave. I lit a pre-ride cigarette to get me home and, as we passed the fourth bar again, Tom read the name on the sign out loud but I still can't remember what he said. He mentioned that it looked clean and inviting, though. Maybe we'd have to stop in there next time, he advised.

Tom then nudged me with his elbow like he always does and asked, “So, what'd ya think? Wasn't that fun? I love this place! Probably a good thing my wife won't let me live here, I guess. I'd be in those bars all the time! Did ya think Billy was for real or what? Wasn't he the last of the real cowboys?”

“Hmm ... maybe,” I said, answering everything with one honest word as I tossed my still burning cigarette down into the virgin, fake dirt of Allen Street.

“Then again, maybe not.”

Cheers,
Mb

The Old Fable

2009-03-28T18:59:00.003Z

“Perhaps the time is already come, when it ought to be, and will be, something else; when the sluggard intellect of this continent will look from under it iron lids, and fill the postponed expectation of the world with something better than the exertions of mechanical skill ...”

Ralph Waldo Emerson
Divinity School Address, Essay On the American Scholar
July, 1838

Do you find it odd that most writing, and ultimately, oratory, is fiction? In other words, does it bother you that the human mind regularly conjures up utter bullshit and employs its finest arts to paint it up as sunlit truth so easily?

Hope you're not offended or misled by that fact.

The Merciless One asked me to review Emerson's words today. His recent research on transcendentalism brought him to it.

I accepted the challenge but found that exercise to be like watching a proverbial train wreck, man. Fascinated by the speed and sheer power of an imaginary engine, moved by a fanciful gust of wind from unseen mass, yet disturbed and repulsed by the mindless and pointless result.

“... The mind of this country, taught to aim at low objects, eats upon itself. There is no work for any but the decorous and the complaisant.”

Spoken, I thought, like a self-absorbed man who was spared the drudgery of common existence for most of his life. I would dare Emerson to join me at the local pub, entertained by the enduring philosophy of long-haul truck drivers, tire salesmen and carpet installers, just to find out how “decorous and complaisant” today's society really is.

Hey, he asked for it ...

The problem with Emerson is that his opaque, romantic tongue makes what he once said almost indecipherable. He croons an antique Herman Melville chorus that's more like the unsure distance from a low rumble of thunder rather than a violent strike of lightening which torches an exact spot in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Not really his fault. Looking back, the time and the context of his words demanded no less gilded obscurity.

But I agree it should be recited at least once a year, accompanied with a complete reading of “Civil Disobedience”, perhaps with the tune of “Pomp and Circumstance” playing softly in the background.

There are important lessons in all that.

To me, the hitching post he leans on is planted in the Vedic mud of Kantian concepts, “Mind is the law-giver to nature”, we are unique because of our instinctive A Priori gland, and so on. His philosophy invites Plato, “reason is everything”, to conduct a secret wedding ceremony for Descarte, “we think therefore we are”, to an unwilling Hume, “seeing is believing.” And the ultrasound shows that the child of this marriage is standing alone at the intersection of Rio Rationalism and Empiricism Avenue, nothing but an unwelcome and shadowy mistake, delivered to the ages by the inebriating effects of one fancy man's fancy.

“... The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that there is One Man—present to all particular men only partially, or through one faculty, and that you must take the whole society to find the whole man ...”

In a distinct way, I tend to side with the curious foundation of this wobbling idea. For some reason I have for a long time sensed that there is no human individuality of any great, cosmic importance. (That does not surprise you, I know.) Even if so, then it's not a matter of American intellect that brings me to such a conclusion since my personal in-grown faculties are known to often mimic the anatomical equivalent of a soiled Missouri mule's butt.

Meanwhile, Emerson cried for an American voice but his chant sounds remarkably unable to echo beyond the polished, marbled halls of his own Victorian influence.

Hmm ... thankfully, I think, Sam Clemens met that supposed “postponed expectation” to find a witty and wise voice without Emerson's help. (Perhaps “To the Person Sitting in Darkness” is what we should better review today.)

I know how it goes. For a while, a couple years ago, I was deep into another humor-less visitor to Walden: HDT. Read a lot of his bogus invites to dewy-eyed knowledge. In the end, I realized he was just mindlessly commenting on the constantly changing weather conditions while meticulously reporting on the age rings of naturally fallen trees. He was a faker, an overstuffed literary pussy, just like his mentor.

The chest-thumping proof is always easy to see. If Emerson was so taken by his own “declaration”, he wouldn't have talked so loudly about it.

That's my bullshit for the day.

Cheers,
Mb

Son of Money Ball

2008-12-13T16:40:00.003Z

The Counselor recently submitted the following quote:

“When the English migrated over to the United States in the 17th century, they brought with them the earliest form of cricket known as 'rounders'. The game of 'rounders' incorporated a pair of stumps, two bases, a bowler, and a batsman. However, because the game became more popular, it evolved into baseball in order to accommodate the increasing participation and interest.”

Then, in a hushed but shocked tone, he discretely asked, “Do we have definitive historical evidence that baseball was not invented in the United States? That it is in fact a derivative of rounders?”

Hmm ... Well, I suspect there's quite a bit of bogus crap splayed out in that short quote. But we've been fed a lot of lies (*) over the years regarding the origins of baseball. Just like the thin layer of dust covering our own national ancestry, which didn't form all that long ago relatively speaking, it's sometimes hard to uncover the truth.

Sounds like another cleaning job for Bamboo ... time to crack open a few books of the dead.

Ahh ... Actually, it says here what the Europeans brought to American shores in the 17th century was a lighthearted game called “stoolball”. Stoolball originated around the Sussex area and typically used milk stools or even tree stumps as wickets. Like Cricket, Rounders and Baseball, Stoolball players slapped at pitched leather balls with a wooden bat of sorts and scored runs by running around the wickets. (So, yeah, they are all versions of the same game...the first recorded being called Stoolball.)

Stoolball remained an informal young person's game until the late 1800's. Because both male and female players often played this game together, gaily frolicking about in the English countryside or whatever, the name of the game also applied as a sexual euphemism for a while.

Soon after, formalized and manly Cricket took off as a fancier hybrid of lowly Stoolball and it was popularized by British aristocrats. Cricket quickly became a betting game for the wealthy like the horse races that were so stylish at the time. Thus, to put some order behind all the wagers, the Laws of Cricket were codified in 1744. By 1840, there were even several “professional” Cricket clubs in NYC, Philly and Chicago.

Sometime before 1800, a Stoolball descendant called Rounders was played by English school kids. It was not the same as Cricket and was never adopted by the elite English landowners. By the end of the 1800's, informal Rounders rules often called for a 9 man teams which batted around in innings but sometimes allowed 6 man teams and offered all kinds of other odd exceptions. The bats were more like today's baseball bats rather than flat cricket bats. Still, it was loosely based on Stoolball, as well.

About the same time, along the east coast of the US, the kids there took up a casual version they called “Town Ball” or “Goal Ball” or “Base”. Town Ball replaced the wickets with bases or goals formed by the natural surroundings and allowed any kind of stick for a bat. Truly another distant evolution of Stoolball, it was called Town Ball in America mostly because the kids often played it on the nearby city greens while the older folks met for Town Hall meetings.

American Town Ball, sometimes also called “One Old Cat”, was essentially what we know today as an informal pick-up game like stick ball. It could be played in a field like Stoolball, in an open lot or even on the streets. It could be played with one pitcher (or bowler), one batter, one catcher and one base. If more kids showed up, then it became “Two Old Cat” and more bases were added and so on.

Now, see that the original quote is wrong on several counts. Cricket did not directly descend from Rounders. It came from Stoolball along with Rounders. And neither the game described in the quote nor the fashionable Town Ball game we have just defined is Rounders because there aren't enough players. If there were enough kids to make sides, which could and did occur, then I agree the game begins to mirror Rounders more or less with or without wickets. So, in the first place, let's be straight that the originator of all this playing around on the American eastern seaboard was Stoolball, not Rounders.

Today there are a few confusing differences to hang our ball caps on between Stoolball, Rounders, Cricket and American Town Ball. Town ball, staying just a kids game, did mix some select rules used in Stoolball and Rounders. (Kids around the world think these kinds of rules up naturally, as I recall.) In some circles, runners could be called out if the fielder could hit them with a thrown ball (sometimes known as “soaking”). Stoolball versions sent wicket runners running like cricket players but Rounders and Town Ball runners ran their bases either clockwise or counter-clockwise. In each, the pitch was typically underhand and the batters could hit the ball off the bowler's bounce like modern Cricket. No gloves, the balls were fashioned to be softer and cruder than Cricket balls.

In the early 1800's, this kids game casually known as Town Ball naturally became the latest fad at those places most known for advertising the latest fads: American colleges. A Boston man named Robin Carver even published the rules of “Goal Ball” in “The Book of Sports” in 1834. Screwing up the clinical definitions for many generations to follow, according to at least one ref, Carver basically took a previous publication of British Rounders rules and reprinted them word for word.

But the rules of modern Baseball were guided more by the childhood fondness for the informal pick-up game Town Ball of the early 1800's while borrowing bits from all of these Stoolball descendants and was definitively not created just to “accommodate increasing participation” blah, blah, blah.

The first modern rules for American Baseball were written and published by a man named Alexander Cartwright in 1845 while he was a member of the NY Knickerbockers Club. This fact is indisputable and makes the earliest true version of baseball as the world knows it a purely American child, born apart from its various British cousins.

My fellow Americans, please, there's no reason to get all snooty about this undeniable proof. Not surprisingly, the facts suggest Cartwright was somewhat of a common, impulsive American vagabond for those heady times of change. Not satisfied with his invention, a few years later he urgently followed the California gold rush and finally ended up in Hawaii.

(But let me just conveniently add evidence in the middle here as I return to the historical first page of this story. The honorable Wm. Bradford, early Gov of Plymouth Colony, is on record declaring that “stoole ball”, along with other frivolous pastimes such as “tossing ye barr” [throwing javelins], was banned from “ye streets” of New England in the 1640's. As I feared, if it had been up to the predominately British puritans who settled the east coast in the 1600's, I'm confident we would have no sporting games in this country at all. As it turned out, we owe a lot of our gaming spirit to the rebellious Dutch of New Amsterdam, instead. So, not sure where the source of the quote got such misinformation, but any arrogant English bastards can take a hike on the subject of baseball's origin, as far as my boiling Norwegian blood is concerned!)

The very American Cartwright got rid of the dangerous soaking rule once and for all in 1845 but probably the most significant thing he defined was the size of the field and pitch. For the first time, even if decided rather arbitrarily, the bases were firmly set out in a diamond shape 90 feet apart. He gave such precise symmetrical order to this because his game, rather than relying on the casual rules for some afternoon diversion, was soon going to borrow something more tangible from professional Cricket.

In 1845, it was decided, Base Ball was going to be a money maker.

He had to codify the rules because the club needed to earn enough money to pay rent for their new ball park at the Elysian Fields in Hoboken, New Jersey. Clearly, just as in Cricket and any other old horse race, you can't have everybody playing by different rules with somebody else's money on the line.

This collaborative intent is probably most evident in brothers George and Harry Wright who both traded in their pro club wickets for later starring roles with baseball's Gothams and Red Stockings. Their father, Harry Sr., ran NY's St. George's cricket club which also played and practiced at those same Elysian Fields in Hoboken at the same time ... the damning early influence of pro cricket on the greed-infested, money-grabbing future of today's pro baseball cannot be discounted.

Thinking about it now, I imagine it was a bit of a struggle as more refined and distinctive baseball rules were developed over the course of this sanguine era. In one ref, I noticed a Knickerbockers box score on 6/19/1846 where the first batter in the line up, a man named Davis, was at some point in the game “fined 6 cents for swearing” ... as I feverishly poured over conflicting accounts of baseball's origins in the books of the dead, I could easily feel his pain.

But, of course, that's not the end of it. The modern game's 9 innings standard wasn't settled until a Player's Association meeting in NYC in 1857. Before that, games often went on for a cricket-like 21 innings. While increasingly popular, even the name of the game still took some getting use to and would be vaguely argued about for several years to come. Just a couple years before that inaugural rule-setting player's meeting, a modest American journalist complicated the matter by writing, “Base Ball, which is essentially Rounders or Town Ball ... has promise to become our national pastime.”

(Following that revelation, I scribbled a barely legible note which I think says, "Right. Many thanks for clearing all that up for us, Jerkwad.")

As we all know, by whatever name it was called, the grand old game soon traveled cross country, Civil War units gladly carried it around with them, the original Cincinnati Red Stockings were established in '69, we were all lied to (*) repeatedly about Abner Doubleday, and yada, yada, yada.

Baseball owes its ancient roots to Stoolball, as do the games of Cricket, Rounders and Town Ball. The influence among them is circularly contributive, surely at one time more Town Ball than Rounders, eventually wagered on to be more Cricket than Stoolball, but the Immutable Law of Baseball is definitely an American child. With the emergence of Japanese and Mexican Leagues, professional players in places like Korea, Cuba and the Dominican Republic, the modern game can't be called purely American any more than the cricket played around the world can be called purely English. But, from whatever far-off corner you may be sitting in right now, let this truth be known—baseball grew up in Hoboken, not Sussex (*nor, for that matter, was it ever born in Cooperstown).

Cheers,
Mb

Legacy of False Positives

2008-11-01T23:20:00.004Z

Let's review the empirical facts together.

About 3:30 this morning I was in the middle of another nightmare, right? But this time I was able to initiate a trusted procedure. Just as the dream was getting really hot, the scene paused. I saw myself down below me and a little word box popped up above my head. The word box read:

A. Continue
B. Fast forward past previously experienced events
C. Skip to another theme
D. End and wake up

So, I chose D and immediately shuddered to an awakened state.

I'm being honest here. I've had to work very hard over the years to train my imagination to do this.

(Truthfully, “C” rarely works correctly but it's worth trying. And you might ask, why would I ever chose “A”? The answer is that some nightmares are actually rewarding in an odd way. I also have another option for less disturbing dreams which is “Return to previously experienced events” which I sometimes select in an attempt to “perfect” the sequence of the dream and my responses to it. I find that a very satisfying tactic since, after a few successful do-overs, the dream eventually leaves me forever.)

I crawled off my cot into the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee, then dragged my tired ass back to the computer. Opened the mail, deleted all the Viagra offers, paid my respects to fabulous Studs Terkel, and then read a Newsweek selection passed to me from a devout Rocky Mountain Atheist.

Word of caution, empty room in a drafty little house, 3:45 am is not a good time to read that article. There are better times of the day to come face to face with the fuzzy conclusions which hide between delusion and illusion. And there's some frightening parts in there that I had to skip through rather quickly otherwise scare myself shitless.

Naturally, I agree with the concept that atheists and skeptics are abnormal across the broader population. And it does not surprise me that the authors of this article searched out California to discover a “professional empiricist” who is convinced he is the reincarnated spirit of John Adams.

No real news there.

I had to read page 3 several times in order to squeeze out the point of the “legacy”. Hard-wired to identify the strange, trained defensively and evolved in way to remember the unusual rather than the routine, that all makes sense to me. Still, that summary seems incomplete or somehow not fulfilling. One would think we ought to have a better reason for being so inclined to see the profile of Jesus on burnt toast.

But, then again, maybe not.

One of the reasons I couldn't sleep was that I was fortunate to be busy in Orlando this past week. On Wednesday, I stopped in a small place just outside the gates of the University of Central Florida for lunch. With all the campaign activity, the climate was admirably invigorating. During my lunch of eggs and toast, which formed no remarkable religious profile that I can recall, I read the political highlights in the local paper. The front page described several events including an appearance by actress Alicia Silverstone in which she urged the young folks to get out and vote. In the article, the quotes included her description of younger voters as concerned and eager but she wanted to do everything she could to encourage them because, as she warned, “they might forget”.

Finding this quote rather curious, as I was paying for my tab, I read the Silverstone quote aloud to the young waiter and asked him what, exactly, did she mean? Was she saying they would forget who to vote for or just forget when to vote or even maybe forget where to vote?

The young waiter, about 23-ish, lowered his head and grimaced painfully. Without looking at me, he handed me my change and said, “Sometimes I am so embarrassed by my generation.”

I gave him a good tip and reminded him that shame is a darkened corner where every generation has found itself rudely settled from time to time.

But rather than Orlando, the shameless February study referenced on page 2 of the Newsweek article surely must have transpired in Great Britain.

“... scientists induced feelings of loneliness by telling (the subjects) that a personality questionnaire they filled out revealed that, by middle age, they would have few friends and be socially isolated. After this ruse, participants were more likely to say the believed in ghosts ... (etc, etc)”

Now that excerpt is comical on many fronts but suddenly I couldn't stop laughing. To me, the premise sounded like a twisted scene from Monty Python.

“Yes, Mister Winston-Evans, thank you so much for assisting us with our study.”

“Oh, my pleasure, sir!”

“Right. Everything regarding the questionnaire was satisfactory from your viewpoint, I presume?

“Absolutely, yes, and I am very anxious to hear ...”

“Umm, very well, let's get on with it, shall we? Ahh, I see here that according to your answers our researchers have determined that you will die a homeless wino.”

“What?”

“It's true, I'm afraid, but before your sudden demise you will earn a small fortune ...”

“Well, I guess that's, at least something ...”

“Before losing it all in a real estate scheme, just after your wife snips off your little willy with garden shears in the middle of the night. Tell me, now, how does that make you feel?”

“Well, I, I, I'm shocked, I would say.”

“I see. Stuttering, difficulty interpreting your emotions ... fascinating! Say, do you now more or less believe in Big Foot?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sasquatch, the Yeti, you know, giant abominable snowmen and the like ... answer quickly before the ruse wears away, please.”

“The ruse? Are you saying this is a put on?”

“Damn! Not again! We thought we almost had you there.”

“Eh? What kind of people are you, anyway?”

“Scientists, my friend, with much work to do. Please disregard the results and move on ... note to research screening department, please try harder to find more gullible introverts, thank you .... NEXT!”

Cheers,
Mb

A Night at The Sherwood

2008-10-25T05:46:00.005Z

A couple weeks ago I stopped in the Sherwood Lounge on a Friday night. I'd been there before. A quiet hole in the wall but a very clean place, almost clinically clean. They serve frozen, monstrous, Texas-sized mugs of draft beer for $3 a pop and I needed one of those badly that night.

There's an old guy named Charlie who runs the Friday night karaoke scene there. Charlie grew up in the area but once lived in New Mexico and then traveled to Las Vegas. He grew tired of the rat race in Vegas and eventually returned to the quiet life. Divorced, about 60 years old, he sports a white cowboy hat and his long sleeved shirt is always sharply pressed. He has a few songs that he sings to warm up the crowd and, let me tell ya, when he sings “Long Gone Lonesome Blues” he puts his whole body into it.

Fortunately for everyone, I'm not much of a karaoke guy (altho, I admit, on my second tour to Okinawa, there was one little joint near Gate 2 that I used to go with a buddy .. .we occasionally did a duet of Sinatra's “My Way” to the delight of the crowd). But I like listening to it and if it's bad, I like it even better. But this Charlie's a real card and not a bad showman. And he introduced me to Dee, for Dierdre, who works behind the bar.

When I first met Dee I thought we might be related. She looks like an aunt I have on my father's side who lives in Wichita. Sort of a square jawed look, with a flat nose, high cheeks and beady eyes. Very western plains, no nonsense, the stern housekeeper meets Calamity Jane kinda thing. It sounds much worse than it is when I spell it out. She's actually kinda cute and cuddly.

But Dee told me her family is from Arkansas, instead. Close enough I guess, since we hit it off right away. Of course, I did spend a small fortune in the place so that might have influenced her graciousness to some degree as well. After some earnest inquiring, she informed me that the Sherwood Lounge did not have a license to serve liquor. But she allowed that thanks to the generous foresight of the city council, I was permitted to bring in my own bottle to enjoy if I chose to do so.

And I did choose to do so on this night. I really did.

Learning this, I quickly ran to Pinkie's Liquor Store and found the bottle of my desire. Perhaps you haven't tried it, maybe you're not of this inclination, but if I may, let me suggest that you indulge in the sweet taste of Wild Turkey's American Honey some day. Just a shot, purely for sipping, it goes down damn good with a frozen, Texas-sized mug of Budweiser beer.

Freedom isn't free and we must always remain vigilant but American Honey and beer is about as close as you can get to unregulated joy. Trust me.

So there I was in The Sherwood with my perfect combination of American Honey and Budweiser, listening to old Charlie belt out a strained version of George Jones' “Bartender Blues” and just loving the good life! Soon, a small crowd had formed around me at the end of the bar, eagerly wanting to know what I had hidden in the brown paper sack.

“Dee,” I called out, “bring some shot glasses for all my friends...they need to try this.” At the risk of injecting the evils of socialism into West Texas society, I decided then to share a little bit of the wealth.

Suddenly I was popular and dare say I was almost cool. Thin ladies were passing me their cell phone numbers and men, darkly tanned men who labored all day for a few dollars of weekend entertainment were inviting me over to meet their families and sit on their back porch and smoke imported cigars. I was king for a day, brother!

So, I fanned out. I took my bottle of Honey traveling around the bar to make sure everybody got a little sip. Down near the middle of the bar, I noticed my pal Kenny was without.

Kenny is a funny guy. I love talking to him. Maybe I should say I love listening to him because, truth be told, I rarely say much around him and he his pleased to get most of the speaking done for me. He's a large man, ex-marine and a housing inspector for the county. He's also damn near blind and when he looks at a person he squints in a strange way that I find amusing. When he speaks, which he does quite often, he has a way of grinning in the midst of his Texas drawl that I can only describe as “frontier” style. Don't know if you've ever noticed a person like this, but he has this sorta side to side head motion and slight, tight-lipped grin on his face that suggests he's thinking while he's talking to you. And generally, based on the grin, one gets the feeling the thought in his head is probably something like, “now, I know you don't believe what I'm saying because, obviously, you're a city-slicker idiot who's never had mud on his boots, but I'm tellin' ya the truth and I'm ready to prove it and if ya don't believe me then I can kick your ass or you can go straight to hell, you're choice!”

As I said, I really like Kenny a lot. So I poured a shot and walked behind the bar to lay one down in front of him. Although he had to squint real hard to see the little shot glass, he gladly accepted whatever was put in front of him. Secretly, I was sorta hoping he would get a bit looped and sing his favorite song, Haggard's “Silver Wings”. Last time I was at The Sherwood he destroyed that song, absolutely shredding any worthwhile grace from it, but he made me laugh.

Still the king, I returned to my seat at the end of the bar and took in the loud party going on around me, the party that in my mind I had proudly helped sponsor.

Just then, Dee waddled up next to me and asked, “What's your name again?”

“Bamboo,” I answered, thinking, “She doesn't remember my name? I already told her my name. She's a bartender. I am the king! Why doesn't she remember?”

“Bamboo?” she confirmed.

“Yeah,” I said, thinking, “What the fuck is going on here? How can she not remember who I am? I brought the goddamn American Honey in The Sherwood, for crying out loud. This is a night they'll be talking about for years to come!”

“Uh, Bamboo,” she began haltingly, “don't go behind the bar.” Then with a swish of her beady eyes over towards the opposite end of the room she added, “It's illegal for patrons to go behind the bar.”

“Right, right,” I answered coolly, thinking, “Lady, have you any idea how many bars I've been behind around the world? Do you have any idea who the hell you're talking to? I am the goddamn king, man! Don't tell me about what I can and can't do behind bars, little missy, whatever you're name is.”

Admittedly wobbling just a bit from the compound effects of beer, whiskey and painful karaoke, about that time my unfocused eyes wandered towards the end of the bar and there I saw the source of my displeasure. Hunched over at the other dark end of the room was The Owner of The Sherwood, a skinny, bald and spinelessly mute old man eying me back in his sinister fashion. I stood up, placed my Texas-sized mug of beer slowly on the bar and tried to give the old man the fiercest stare I could muster. “Bring it on, mother fucker,” I thought. “The Man! Why is the Man always tryin' to ruin my fun every where I go?”

Bobbing and weaving visibly, I quickly turned back to see Dee nodding at me, that understanding nod that all good bartenders have when a customer has clearly gone over the edge.

“Don' wurry, Duh-eedrah,” I slurred, “I got-it unner control.”

But I could see she didn't believe me. Her beady eyes burned two pin-sized holes in the back of my throbbing brain. With a stunning moment of sobriety, I sat on my barstool and realized how foolish I had been. The people of The Sherwood had just used me to get what they want. Dee was not my aunt from Wichita. She couldn't even remember my name. Those losers probably didn't even own any imported cigars and she still owed it to The Man. Once again, I'd fallen into the trap and I had no idea what was happening around me. Based on Dee's look, I thought she might as well take a sturdy two-by-four and start whacking my numbed skull right there, grunting and announcing loudly to the public with each swing of the board, “Dumb! ... when! ... will! ... you! ... ever! ... fuckin'! ... learn!”

So, now, a few weeks later, I'm looking out from my cell, reading and maybe learning something more.

In one particularly concise message from the past, I see a numbered list of summaries which question the ease which I regularly make the jump from assumptions to conclusions. Yes, yes, right, correct, GUILTY, I admit to each and every accusation. Mistakes were surely made, as they say. It's what I do best.

In my defense, I could argue that “criminal intent” was never a question before the court. They certainly admonished and rebuked the defendant for impropriety but, as far as anyone was concerned, yeah, everything could be attributed to a fleeting clerical error. The action was punishable, ignorance was no excuse, property rights were infringed upon under questionable circumstances, but there were never any fines involved. Experienced judges, it seems, can make quick work of easy assumptions.

Disenfranchised or disrespected, it probably makes no difference. In other circumstances, no doubt the accused would have wore union blue instead of rebel red one hot summer night. And please notice that the defendant honorably stood before the court and took the heat in person. That, at the very least, still means something to me.

But it comes to mind that if true friends would come around a bit more often to remind and admonish in their own way, long before the courts get involved, things would go a lot smoother around here. Then cigar-offering scalawags, evil landlords and fake relatives wouldn't have to get so personal. We could meet in the pub for a brew and conversation, arguments could be sounded off the uncritical walls, and then urgent, baseless assumptions might one day lead to easier conclusions after all.

After second and third thoughts, steer clear of American Honey. And don't blame me. It's just not always as sweet as I once believed it was.

Cheers,
Mb

The Effect

2008-10-18T15:17:00.002Z

Somewhere between birth and death, depending on one's point of view, there seems to be a contiguous existence called life. Appearances are often misleading but it's hard to argue against that conclusion.

While no one can say precisely when the first egg was fertilized, the snowballing effect is obvious. Driven by intuitive impulses, life relentlessly begets life and all its baggage. If we could accurately measure the speed of the earth over the course of its flat spin through silent space, surely it has gradually slowed not only due to the deteriorating effects of momentum but also due to the dragging weight of an ever-growing population.

Gratefully, all forms of life must confront natural enemies and no single form has any proven right to outlast any other. Larger populations are not typically sustainable for very long. In fact, there is no cosmic regret in the extinction of an entire species since tragic disaster is regularly the hopeful fuel for future generations. Add to the design that plentiful little fish are the perfect meal for bigger ones.

In the human ocean, disease, ignorance, and endless desire are perhaps the most formidable man-eaters, always lurking in the deep, ready to consume those who swim too close. Our scientists and priests tirelessly conspire to defend us against the first two but it is that ambitious last one which attracts my attention again and again. No doubt, given the course of natural events, mankind may categorically satisfy every known human need on earth, yet a person can still be born who will be eaten whole by the yearning for something more and we will all be drawn along to that burning beacon of desire like blind moths in the night.

Well, manifestations of disease and ignorance are clearly not extinct yet but wanting power and control over others will not wait. That's probably because normal life does not offer us the regulation we want most, the power over time. Life is short and until we can make it last longer, last forever, we will not be satisfied with just swimming in the ocean. And, if that is true, then I suspect we will never be satisfied.

But if we did slow it down or if time somehow gave up and let us go on with no limiting consideration, how would we change? Would glorifying the self-serving “leadership” and “vision” of kings and queens be suddenly unnecessary? Would we outlaw falsehood and insincerity? Would humility finally take root and would all the purples, reds and golds be replaced by the softer, earthly hues of green, blue and brown? Would we at last admit that we can't be someone we're not and just be pleased with who we really are?

(On a timely note, I smile at today's gracious nod to Joe Six-pack. I served with Joe. I know Joe and Joe's been a good friend of mine for many years. Frankly, political candidates are no Joe Six-pack...at least not like the Joe I know.)

Youth's inexhaustible facade of invincibility may serve a curious purpose just as the cold realization of how time was spent may embolden the more mature. Eventually, though, if my calculations are correct and time is gradually reigned in, humility will get the best of us. And, by most modern accounts, that particular man-eater wants us a lot more than we want it.

So, this year my vote is with the humble. It reflects upon this life better than the other predators. I think it is really where we are, if appearances are worth anything. In time, it's likely where we will end up if all goes well.

And as far as time goes, the sooner the better for that result, in my opinion.

Cheers,
Mb

Echoes in the Arroyos

2008-09-28T23:24:00.004Z

Missed the first debate completely. It wasn't clear that the party would begin as scheduled when I left the ranch and before it got underway I was already deep in the bowels of the River Walk in San Antone. Got stuck at Mad Dog's for a few hours before winding up in front of The Original 1899 Mexican plate ($10.99) with chili and a kick-ass El Patron margarita sometime the next morning. I can only report that, as expected, all honorees are now duly enshrined.

According to what I read, though, I didn't really miss anything.

Except for the confident clues to this money thing, man.

Been doing a lot of research the last couple of weeks. Found a few good, authoritative books on Texas history. According to the story, our old-monied founders pretty much jumped off the deep end of the free market scale as soon as 1860. Land, which occasionally bloomed from all manner of mispronounced wilderness like enduring turd blossoms, was the basis of wealth much like it is today. And even back then immense parcels of this frontier, greased and bartered for worthless script, changed hands among men of fancy letters with incredible speed. Those who moved quickest made the most of it. Those who dallied never saw their opportunity return again. And bailouts didn't need legislation in those days – seems they came with territory.

Lawyers and carpet-bagged Texians of the Confederacy made sort of a good game of it all, in fact. They boldly defended their swindles in front of the highest courts and rose up indignantly in the manner of their gentrified peers when family pride was sullied by lawless vagabonds, their legacies questioned by petulant immigrants or ungrateful slaves. Such righteous willingness to fight to the death for deeds to the the stuff God gave us was what went for “leadership” and “foresight” back in the good old days.

Now, in the end, they may have left this land depressed and childless. But they inscribed their personal ambitions upon miles and miles of barren desert. And, in the chilled air of another dawn over 100 years later, one can still hear their deep foreign accent in the echoes of the arroyos.

In between the smooth Patron and the cool lime, I drove through the middle of most of that giant patch of dirt this weekend. In just a few hours, I covered the same ground that once took the hardiest rangers 3 or 4 days to cross. I saw plenty of prime, “controlled” hunting ground that buffalo hunters like Cheney have surely visited and lusted for more than once. I guess I can say be happy that it's still there and still available for the right price to the right person.

In a strange fit of sobriety, along the road I did some more reading and thinking on what the phrase “Confidence Game” really means. In order for the game to be played properly, there must be someone known as the Confidence Man. This is the guy who gathers rainwater in his backyard, rainwater which is normally free when we are lucky enough to receive it naturally. He adds a few drops of syrup then claims it is the undeniable cure for what ails us. Out of kindness and service to his fellow man, he sells it for just a dollar a bottle.

If the public seems unsure, the Confidence Man may employ the services of a “shill”. That's the dude who stands up in the crowd and says something like, “I tried this stuff, it made my wife happy and my kids proud. I gotta have some more of that!”

Now, it may look like I'm hiding out here “down in the bowels”, running away from my civic duties. But, ya see, I'm really just watching both sides of the same road that's been passed many times before, even while I'm speeding numbly along to a brave new future. And I'm constantly listening now for murmurs in the wind from the obvious “shills” who are just setting up the game, the next swindle of the century.

Who knows? Some day one of these Confidence Men may offer exactly what I truly want. But I'm cautioned that in these matters, time and time again, history says it's only the “mark” who pays for unrestrained gullibility.

Cheers,
Mb

Cain and Abel's Non-Debate

2008-09-07T14:47:00.003Z

Judging by the transcripts, if Cain and Abel had met for a face to face debate last week, it might have sounded a lot like this...

After acknowledging the audience, Cain thanks his candidate rivals for supporting him, thanks the current president and his ex-president father and mother for their national service (neither are mentioned by name) and specifically thanks Laura Bush. Meanwhile, Abel also thanks his rivals, naming Hillary, Bill, Ted Kennedy and Joe Biden.

Abel says he “loves” his family, namely his wife and children. Cain “treasures” his family, not naming each of his 7 children, but acknowledging wife Cindy for her inspiration.

Cain then pays tribute to his 96 year old mother, accepts his nomination and reaches out to undecided voters, promising to earn their trust, too.

A knowing smile on his face, Abel quickly accepts his own nomination before launching into a brief history, suggesting America's great promise and his life have both dramatically merged to unveil this “defining moment".

Chin up, Cain then acknowledges Abel's admirable rise but insists Cain will be the victor. Cain's first theme is thus announced: reach out to all, make government work for all, and “get back on the road to prosperity and peace.”

Abel lists a few of the more notable speed bumps on this particular road, says it's not all the government's doing, but puts the blame for “the failure to respond” to these problems directly on the shoulders of Bush and the old Washington crowd. Abel's first theme is presented as well: America is “better than that”, roundly suggesting Cain and the Republicans are just more of the same bad ending, and says that to recapture “America's promise” we must demand that eight years of this failure is enough.

Abel then pays tribute to Cain's past military record and warns that the Republicans will surely highlight Cain's reputed independent zeal. But Abel holds that the record shows Cain and Bush are truly cut of the same partisan cloth. Abel hints that a vote for Cain is a vote to reelect the failed Bush policies of indifference to America's most serious problems and, again, invite a continued romp over America's solemn promise.

Selecting the subject of the down-turned economy, Abel notes that Cain paints a far rosier picture than most average people and Cain's own economic advisor once casually dismissed anxious Americans as “a nation of whiners”. Abel says that's not what he hears from the people he's met, not in line with the Promise, and says this is proof that Cain, while not entirely careless towards the concerns of average Americans, is clearly out of touch.

Cain says he understands that people are worried about a lot of things but he claims his administration will fight for everyone and not against anyone, in the same way that he has fought for things before. He notes just how much his promising VP selection is in touch with average America and predicts she will help him “shake up” the Washington crowd with the heady warning, “Change is coming!” Cain promises they can and will deliver “change” because they have done it before.

As predicted by Abel, Cain raises his “maverick” banner then runs through a short, non-specific list of greedy lobbyists, corporate crooks and “union bosses” who he has successfully fought during his career and who are obviously not in the business of putting Country First like he consistently does.

Abel lectures about the clear difference between Republicans and Democrats. Abel notes that Republicans expect people to fend for themselves with trickle-down policies and their underlying theme of an “Ownership Society” for individuals, governing failures that will continue under Cain's leadership. Democrats, on the other hand according to Abel, rely on how well their policies satisfy the historical “American promise” that he likes to talk about, again, the foundation of his own life. Abel then retells his own list of personal American anxieties that relate directly to his family and his earthly non-celebrity upbringing. Abel declares that his job as President will be to defend and guarantee that promise of America for every citizen.

Still hammering on his independent streak, Cain points out talk about the difference between the parties is pointless, that he's not really tied to any single party or personal agenda. He reminds that he alone stood against the rising tide of both parties to support the now successful strategy in Iraq. Again, Cain reminds that he his a fighter, who likes to fight, who knows what to fight, how to fight and why to fight. He then carefully describes three typical American families who he intends to fight for in a general way because they matter to him.

Undeterred, Abel then describes exactly what he thinks the American promise really entails. Abel says that while government is not a savior, echoing that it must “help us, not hurt us”, he says it must do the protection and infrastructure details that we can't do for ourselves as individuals and provide opportunity for everyone “who's willing to work.” Abel repeats his claim that we are in this nation together and part of the Promise means we must meet our responsibilities as “our brother's keeper”.

Taking a curious side step, Cain admits that, by giving in to the temptation of Washington power, his party lost the trust of the American people. Oddly countering his own independent streak, contrary to his original claim that he is not tethered to partisan ways, a specific change Cain says he will fight for is to restore the “pride and principles” of his party. Cain says he will do that by standing up for the “values that Americans admire.” Expecting that phrase to be understood by all, he says he will lead us from this currently unprincipled condition back to the basics of Lincoln, Roosevelt and Reagan.

Cain leans harder on his party, describing Republicans by saying they believe everyone has “God-given potential” and the inherent right to profit from that as individuals while still respecting the values of communities. Cain says the basics of Republican government unleashes individual initiative and creativity while guaranteeing the vast freedoms of personal choice. Cain then lists out all his tax and health care initiatives that will be good for the country while noting that every alternate Abel tax and health care plan will result in disaster. Cain says his plan is to reduce wasteful government spending so that “you keep more of your own money” to spend or save or invest as you please.

Talking over the party side-track, Abel spells out what he means by change. Abel says his tax code will reverse any corporate incentives to move jobs overseas, give breaks to small and high-tech firms for future job growth and reduce taxes for 95% of all working families. Abel then declares his goal of eliminating “our dependence on oil from the Middle East” within the next 10 years by investing federal funds in a host of renewable, cleaner energy platforms. Abel then lists his own “promise” of affordable college education, hiring a new army of well-paid teachers, accessible health care, revised bankruptcy laws, protected Social Security funds, and guaranteed equality in the workplace. Like Cain, Abel claims he will look over the federal books, “line by line”, and will close tax loopholes and reduce wasteful government spending to pay for all his plans.

Then Abel invokes the ghost of JFK to defend against any Republican criticism of his grand social plans. Finally summarizing what lies at the foundation of the American promise, marking the line between Democrat and Republican domestic policies for all to see, Abel says we find not just a an obligation of the individual but a mutual responsibility as well.

Cain declares that education is the singular “civil rights issue of issue of this century” and says that he will attack economic woes by assisting the education of a new workforce. Rather than “wishing away the global economy” like Abel, Cain says his government will help people afford the education necessary to profit from it. Painting Abel's plans as more bloated “union” and government bureaucracy, Cain says he will get rid of bad teachers, ease government constraints and empower parents with educational choices for their children.

Cain states his “most ambitious national project in decades” will be to eliminate $700 billion in handouts to foreign countries that “don't like us very much” and carry on to “attack the problem on every front”. Quickly trying to connect the point of this national project, Cain says his plan will produce more energy at home and then he lists essentially the same kind of clean, renewable energy projects described by Abel with the notable exceptions of more drilling for offshore oil and increasing nuclear power plants. Cain insists that Americans know better than Abel's position on energy and Cain's plan is in line with the history of American leadership on the world's toughest problems. Cain declares that “this great national cause will create millions of new jobs”.

Cain says he alone knows we must face global threats with our historical “confidence, wisdom and resolve”. He says we must support Georgia and work with Russia while not turning a blind eye to any inherent threats. He says he's not afraid of threats from around the world but is prepared for them instead. Cain says he knows the military, knows the world, and knows how to “secure the peace”.

Abel says he is ready to debate Cain regarding the temperament and judgment required of the Commander in Chief. He says a widespread terrorist network can't be defeated in Iraq while we choose to only “muddle through” Afghanistan as Cain has stated. Abel points out that his opposition to the war in Iraq as a distraction against “the real threats we face” and was in contrast with Cain's “stubborn refusal to end a misguided war”. Abel suggests we can't properly support Georgia after “straining our oldest alliances” elsewhere. Abel says the he, unlike Cain, will not follow “George Bush with more tough talk and bad strategy”.

Cain says he will use all the powers at his disposal to work for peace and that change in Washington is needed and inevitable for every generation. In a philosophical twist, he says “we have to catch up to history.” A trusted agent of that history, he remarks that he has a unique record of going against partisan politics, not arguing who gets the credit for good ideas but working with everyone, and he will continue to do that.

Abel reminds that the Democrats are the party of Roosevelt and Kennedy and have a strong background in defending the nation. He says that the most recent “Bush-Cain” foreign policies squandered many admirable legacies of both Democrats and Republicans. Abel says, as Commander in Chief, he would “end the war in Iraq responsibly”, ensure that future battles are engaged with “a clear mission” and proper equipment, and that diplomacy and partnerships will be strengthened to defend against threats while restoring America's “moral standing” around the world.

Cain recalls the events that led to his capture as a POW in Vietnam and tells some painful details of his horrid ordeal. He reminds that he did not take the easy way when offered early release but stuck it out because of his comradeship with his fellow prisoners. As a result of this personal life-changing event, Cain says he learned to love America beyond anything else, committed himself to Country First as “a cause worth fighting for” and dedicated his life in the field of his country's service.

Abel says that one of the things he wants to see change in American politics is stopping honest disagreement from being reduced to “challenging other people's character and patriotism”. He says everyone who serves this country does so not by a “partisan playbook” but under the shadow of the same national flag. Abel wags his finger and admonishes, “I've got news for you, Cain. We all put our country first.”

Cain humbly says he does not consider himself especially anointed by history to save our country but that, on the contrary, he was once saved by our country and feels driven to “fight for her for as long as I draw a breath, so help me God.”

Abel says he “gets it”, he sees what we all see. He says he realizes he does not fit the traditional mold of typical Washington careerists. But he says those who find fault with him and his projected policies don't understand that this election campaign was never about him personally, saying to voters instead, “It's been about you.”

Cain counters along that same line, saying that if you've got a complaint about America, you must get up, take part and fight against it just like he does. He says “nothing brings greater happiness in life than to serve a cause greater than yourself.”

Nodding in agreement, Abel says what we have actually lost over the last 8 years is that sense of a common, “higher purpose”. He says we may not all agree on things like abortion, gun control, same-sex marriages or immigration policies. But he reminds that part of the American promise that he himself has enjoyed includes the quality of finding the “strength and grace to bridge divides and unite in common effort”.

Expecting some people to dismiss that, Abel suggests that “if you don't have any fresh ideas, then you use stale tactics to scare the voters” and “if you don't have a record to run on, then you paint your opponent as someone people should run from.” Summarizing, he adds, “You make a big election about small things.”

Cain smiles broadly, lifts his hands and declares that he will “fight for my cause every day as your president.” He says he will fight so that every person can “thank God” like he does and he urges everyone to join with him by chanting, “Fight with me! Fight with me!”

Hands close to his chest, Abel lifts our “defining moment” back up. He says it is really about people across the nation demanding we bring change to Washington, not expecting needed change to come from it by the hands of the “same old players”.

Cain calls out, “Fight for what's right for our country! Fight for the ideals and character of a free people! Fight for our children's future! Fight for justice and opportunity for all!”

Ignoring the call to arms, Abel suggests that our national strength is not based on our great wealth, our strong military or our admired universities. He says our strength is founded and advanced by our “American spirit – the American promise” of a better future, the concept he describes as our greatest common inheritance.

Cain urges, “Stand up, stand up, stand up and fight!”

Calmly bringing his American promise to a close, Abel reminds that “a young preacher from Georgia” spoke to us forty years ago and instead of anger or discord, fear and frustration, people around this country heard him say we all have a dream for the same thing.

Cain finishes loudly, “Nothing is inevitable here! We're Americans, and we never give up. We never quit. We never hide from history. We make history!”

Abel quoted softly: “'We can not walk alone,' the preacher cried. 'And as we walk we must make the pledge that we will always march ahead. We cannot turn back.'”

Then both Cain and Abel rode a wave of applause and vowed to the audience, “Thank you, God bless you and God bless the United States of America.”

I suppose, when they do meet, we'll hear more words like these. They are the words of two brothers, one raised up on the American Dream of the future, one obsessed with fighting others to defend it's history.

If their words are honest, then I find it hard to accept that they'll argue with each other for very long.

Cheers,
Mb

Big Party

2008-08-09T14:30:00.002Z

When The Wife and I were younger, we often had people over to the house for little parties. Dinner and drinks, ya know, conversation and music, maybe share in a friendly game of cards or something like that.

At first it was about having fun but over time we realized that if we didn't do that then we probably wouldn't clean up the place as often as we'd like. Spending an off day sweeping and dusting never seemed agreeable to us. We refused to be like our parents who would obsess over little things constantly, polishing up their self-pride along with the end tables. We needed a sure-fire reason like potential humiliation or public embarrassment to spruce the place up and having family or friends over always did the trick.

In fact, I can distinctly recall several times where I would find The Wife standing in the kitchen, one leg in front of the other, hands on hips, looking sternly about and announcing, “We NEED to invite some people over this weekend ... otherwise we'll never get this place cleaned up!”

These days, since the “happy hour” neon sign of life went dim several moons ago and little feet no longer tumble across the living room floor with such abandon, we don't have the need for so much of that. We keep up appearances mostly for ourselves now. Maybe we slowly turned into something more like our parents but maybe we also learned over those leaner years that cleaning windows or making the kitchen inspection ready actually made us feel better.

But the reason behind all the washing and mopping hasn't changed. It's still all about holding our head up high among our community, a common cause which may enlighten even our most stubborn neighbors around the world.

The job of hosting the world's biggest and only worthwhile party, the Olympics, is passed around to different nations regularly. Typically, today, that honor goes to the highest bidder. As we know, along with the glory and pageantry comes a lot of responsibility to get the house in order.

I admit, as this year's Games in Beijing approached, I dreaded the entire affair. I'm always glad when somebody else has to do the housework but it's been a long time since I took anything more than a trifling interest in the Olympics anyway and I know a lot of people are the same way.

I once followed it all religiously when I was a kid. The pureness of the competition seemed to have more meaning to me then. I might be more jaded and cynical now ... yes, that might be true for many of us ... but the game, modernly qualified as much an economic as athletic opportunity, has changed as well. In the case of Beijing, I expected even less pure spirit and more political propaganda from the strict government of the People's Republic of China.

Looking back, those like me were really fortunate to grow up when we did. We were raised before the Super Bowl was super, before March Madness lasted for 3 months, when sporting games weren't televised 24-7, when you couldn't TiVo a midnight tennis match and then watch it at your leisure. The Wide World of Sports only came on once a week. That meant when we did get to see even time-delayed bobsledding or month-old replays of boxing matches, we took “the thrill of victory ... the agony of defeat” to heart and we took notice.

Yeah, we also took notice that East German female swimmers had shoulders as large as your average adult buffalo and we had our suspicions about that, too.

But it's got to be hard for kids today to take notice. All they may see now is fanfare, visions of Hollywood, and overwhelming commercialism. It's probably very difficult for modern American kids to see the difference between the Olympic Games and the WWF.

Gratefully, for my generation, we know the difference. And we expect whoever hosts the Games to take notice and act accordingly. We know the Games are not Little League and are not just more of the same crap that oddly passes for sporting events on midnight cable. These are rare, special parties where all the world's neighbors come together and that means we expect the host to take out the trash, dust off the end tables, and prepare the kitchen for inspection just like we would do.

As we've witnessed, while I was dreading it, the People's Republic Of grew more and more anxious as the Games approached and they started doing exactly what we've come to expect. And, I gotta say, they attacked their preparations not unlike The Wife and I did in those last few frantic moments just before the big party.

“Where do you want this beach ball?” I would ask.

“Throw it in the closet!” she'd reply.

“What about these wooden shoes? Who the...why do we have wooden shoes in the living room?”

“IN THE CLOSET! Just throw it all in the closet, dammit!”

I wasn't surprised when the Chinese locked up unruly dissenters and tightened access to dangerously free internet sites. It made sense to me that they shut down their smog factories and made driving in the streets a crime. I even understood when they started building brick walls to hide unpleasant views of the poorest corners of the city. I knew they were in a pinch. They've been in a tight spot for some time now so I didn't find it unusual for them to take our lead as time started getting short. Throwing all the old, scattered, embarrassing stuff in the closet at the last second was something I did for years.

In fact, as I watched all this go down, I became quite pleased with myself. You see, Bamboo, I told myself, these communist, socialist tyrannies, or whatever they are, are all the same. They don't give a damn about the spirit of the games, the guts and human determination it takes to play in them, they're just painting a happy face on their own personal shit cake. It's all a facade, a political masquerade ... they're all just phony, poor, pitifully phony creatures...

Yes, I was so very happy that the evidence proved for once modern life had finally caught up with my cynical foresight.

So, this weekend, when I clicked to read Olympic Games Begin in Beijing, by Jim Yardley for IHT, I gleefully expected to read about all the stuff the Chinese had been busily hiding in their closet.

And I read of those who came to the Games ...

“One of these people, Yang Bin, a disc jockey, had traveled more than 500 miles from Chongqing and was playing hip-hop music along the city's most famous shopping street, Wangfujing.

'I came to Beijing last night to celebrate the Olympics, even though I don't have a ticket,' Yang said. 'China is never more glorious than Friday. The whole world is watching us.'”

Well, you're damned straight, Yang. We are watching and you better do it right. And you ... you ... you know the world is watching you? Really? You're playing hip-hop tunes on the street?

Really?

“This is a great honor for my culture,” said the famed composer, Tan Dun, whose score will be played during the gold medal ceremonies. “This is a lot more than about China. If we think this is only China's moment, it's a big mistake. It's the moment of the world.”

Ehh ... yeee ... whadhesay?

Oh, that's just pointless words from some superfluous fancy, just another inbred communist cadre. He's probably been paid by the Chinese G-Men to say that kinda thing. Surely the average rice farmers are pissed off about the way the communist jackboots are clamping down on normal life just to provide security for this silly political show.

“Anyone who tries to disturb the Olympics now by arousing social instability should be severely punished,” said Ma Jie, 53, a taxi driver. “What could be more despicable than that?”

Despicable? What? Who the ...? Taxi driver? How the hell did he get in here?

Dammit! As a general rule, I may disregard disc jockeys and famed composers but I respect the hell out of taxi drivers, especially those in Beijing. The sincere honesty of Taxi Driver Wisdom is a magical gift to the world.

I once talked to a college professor who had recently returned from China and he told me about a conversation with his Beijing taxi driver. The professor asked the driver, if he could drive any style of car, which would he choose? The professor expected to hear Mercedes Benz or some other classy Euro import. Instead, the driver answered without hesitation, “a Volga”. For those who don't remember, the Volga was a symbolic Soviet automotive engineering disaster that looked sorta like a bulging 1950 Plymouth sedan.

Surprised, the professor asked, “Why would you want to drive a Volga?”

“Because,” the driver answered, “they always break down and I could spend more time with my family.”

Brilliant! Do you see what I mean about Taxi Driver Wisdom? I can't deny this guy, Ma Jie. He's winning me over.

But those scary, secretive goons who hold positions of power in the People Republic of China, the shriveled up ogres of human rights who get wheeled out for public viewing every few years, the ones who regularly trample on the freedom of their own people, surely they have no idea what the Games are about and they just planned this extravaganza as a boost for their state-sponsored propaganda machine. They're not gonna talk about what the games mean to the world. They're gonna spin it as proof of the wonders of their inglorious regime like they always do.

“The historic moment we have long awaited is arriving,” President Hu Jintao said earlier Friday at a luncheon with visiting heads of state, including President George W. Bush. “The world has never needed mutual understanding, mutual toleration and mutual cooperation as much as it does today.”

Goddammit! I wonder if he really means that?

No, no, no.

Ehh, geesh, ok, maybe I was wrong. Again!

Maybe hosting the Games is more deeply enlightening than I thought. Maybe the requisites for hosting need to be reconsidered by the Olympic committee. Instead of the highest bidder, maybe only those nations who really need to clean house should ever be allowed to host the party. Maybe they'll never clean it up if they don't get that chance to have the world watching them. Maybe, after a while, after they spruce up their own kitchens, they'll get to liking that and keep 'em clean just to make their own people feel better. Maybe we should let China host the next one and the next one after that until they get used to it.

Why not? For once, on appearances anyway, the Chinese rightfully seem to be holding their head up high.

Cheers,
Mb

Wary and Weary

2008-08-03T16:42:00.002Z

I almost posted a verbatim copy of some telling “point-counterpoint” from the Standard Times last week. The case for McCain was spelled out in West Texas terms and I though it was hilarious in some ways. The gist was, “Obama can't win, he ain't gonna win, and that's all there is to it.” The main thrust of that position was founded on the belief that the only people backing him are lefties and liberals who are “ashamed” of America. And, as all good people know, those pansy-ass folks are losers from the get-go who don't appreciate how good it really is to live in McCain's land of the free, home of the brave.

It is essentially what is often whispered in the low hills of my own state, where urbanized week-end turkey hunters who may be accustomed to deeper soul searching are greatly outnumbered.

Written by the big dog of the Tom Green County Republicans, after painting McCain as one of our country's greatest heroes, in the lower half of that opinion he finally offered something other than his own say-so. He listed out some generic conservative fears about Obama's smooth-talkin' facade authored by Thomas Sowell and sorta said, “Now if ya don't believe me, ya gotta believe that guy cuz he's smarter'n most of us.”

True, in my opinion. Sowell is as smart as they come.

He's also blacker than most of us. No hidden codewords implied by the honorable man from Tom Green? It sort of reminded me of my dad who in the late 60's would go on about black agitators and say something like, “Hell, even the niggers at work don't like that loud mouth.”

Well, yeah, Dad, that's what they had to say around you.

As this ugly campaign moves on, I keep hearing earnest news people asking about how Obama's people respond to this bold attack and that. How can the Obama campaign swing the pendulum back, how can they balance all the fear, ignorance and false internet accusations that he somehow attracts? As if it is somehow his inherent patriotic duty to do so.

Honestly, that's not my concern. I don't hate McCain and I don't really care that his circle of Kovian Mercenaries have obviously decided to pronounce every Obama strength as if it actually were a weakness. As one who recalls childhood rather clearly, I don't find the tactic unusual or remarkable except that it garners such a high wage for those who manage it. (If I only knew then what I know now.) But I am convinced that at some point in every young Kovian's life, a stern mother figure chastised her brood with the dire warning, “You don't want to eat that candy, son ... it's too sweet.”

What pisses me off is that stupid people actually believe this nonsense and they look for educated others to confirm it. This tells me we don't need campaign reform in this country. What we really need is VOTER reform. This wide-spread public virus of honoring the pragmatic, practiced words of self-serving statesmen or blindly purchasing whatever crap we are sold is shameful and downright embarrassing to me. Whatever happened to “buyer beware,” motherfuckers?

Yes ... it does bother me that fish oil salesmen like those in the Rep Party choose to use Tom Sowell's words to boost company profits. I respect this guy Sowell for the way he does things. I understand what he's saying. He actually takes the time to read between the lines, tries to make empirical sense of shit, then generally bases his arguments on factual evidence. All the toadies of the world could do worse than read this guy.

And I think if you read Sowell you'll find an instructive toolkit for arguments against Obama along with studious, extensively described reasons why the minimum wage is the greatest evil ever levied on the world's community of civilized nations.

Isn't it odd, then, that after reading Sowell I find myself even more certain? Suddenly, I don't care if Obama is a closet lefty with no moral backbone, a secretive Muslim waiting for his chance to eliminate capital gains cutbacks, turn oil windfalls into public charity and generally ruin this “robust” economy we now enjoy. Thanks to Sowell and the dubious leaders of the GOP attack machine, it's not about ambiguous change in government, hero worship, diplomatic flip-flops, cutting the defense budget, Iraq or even the Canadian threat of socialized medicine. Now, I know why I will vote for Obama.

As an American voter, I just don't want to be embarrassed anymore. At least not for a while. Isn't that enough?

Cheers,
Mb

The Perfect Companion

2008-06-28T21:18:00.003Z

Many people are haunted by something which seems like a dead memory.

I hear ya back there. If a memory is a memory then how can it be dead?

Ehh ... you know what I mean. It's a memory, it's there, you can sense it somehow rotting away in your brain, but maybe you can't describe it completely or something like that.

No, really, it has nothing to do with the whiskey. This is the good stuff, trust me.

Ok, very well, then it's not really dead. It's just slumbering, patiently waiting for the brain to excrete a precise combination of neural juices to suddenly, naturally re-energize itself. Such a reposing memory might be like the original Rip Van Winkle, the old man who when roused awake was surprised to learn that he had slept quietly under a tree for twenty years.

When encountered through the curious process of vivid reminiscing, these Van Winkle visions may come back to us as if they happened yesterday and excite heartfelt emotions of regret, self-doubt and longing, even prodding us to shed a tear of joy or sadness for what was once and what might have been.

It might be easy to assume these resting memories are hidden in the folds of the brain like yellowed photos of childhood, layered by an endless dance of images and mature experiences and only revived in case of urgent emergency.

But that wouldn't be true.

These memories aren't like lost credit cards, rarely used left-handed scissors in the back of nick-knack drawer or ancient oil lanterns buried in the basement. They are with you constantly, even when asleep, behind everything that you see and do, whether you actively conjure them up or not. They are waiting there in a dark hole just to guide you and nobody else, sometimes only partially revealed by unconscious brain activity or when you bump into half-familiar surroundings.

Maybe while digging around these sorta things the wiser energy saver does not turn on the light down there. But the less fortunate, the vast majority and the more energy-challenged among us may have no choice but to just softly, carefully step over any dangerously undisturbed reminders like these. We know that once tripped over they may offer some consolation, perhaps even encouragement regarding what difficulties may be overcome.

But often, typically when least expected, they awake only to fearlessly barge in our house, plant their wide butts on the sofa in our living rooms, and boldly declare that they'll be spending the entire summer with us.

As Old Rip could surely attest, it's hard to get any decent sleep when that shit happens, man.

So, then, this is not about belief. You can believe whatever you want and whatever you want may or may not have anything to do with what you truly remember. This is more about the certain things that you know, that you have experienced and for some reason covertly forgotten. You can spend every waking day trying to deny them but part of my duty is to inform you that these memories of things and events, no matter how brilliantly concealed, no matter what you do, will nag you as long as you live.

In that way, these distant, sleeping memories are our perfect companions. They are the mothers of our minds. They're part of our evolving consciousness and they've been with us since birth. They are our secret counsels, our loud naggers, our mute defenders and our silent keepers. They warn us of old storms and disasters, feed us with nourishment from what we previously digested and, when the cold comes as it always does, they plead with us to wear those scratchy winter mittens that we packed away so long ago.

When we do suddenly awake to recall those nasty old mittens, the blanketed memories that are truly far from dead, I think it's only natural that we fear what other curious recollections may be folded, packed away and desperately hidden among them.

Fear them or not, we are programmed by our memories in strange ways. Yes, we are.

If you remember that guy Pavlov, while watching hungry dogs drool, decided that we all have what he called conditioned reflexes. Well, he may have been right. Memory may be just a reflex, after all. My question is a reflex to what?

Events? Thoughts? Intelligence?

What comes first, the tadpole or the frog?

That bit of Cartesian nonsense signals it's time to refuel for the next leg of the trip, boys. I definitely need some more ice here. Everyone please stay on the bus.

Ahhh ... thank you.

Now, I admit, as a life-long student of the Chinese language, I keep getting lost in the translation aspects here. But as a one-time student of Japanese, I do remember an instructor who scolded me with the following admonishment: “You may learn Japanese ... but you will never BE Japanese.”

I suppose Pavlov in his own way reminds me that while I may drool, I will never be a dog. Likewise, while I may shake out an odd recollection from the alcohol-stained recesses of my brain every now and then, I may never be intelligent. For an even better example, Searle argued within The Chinese Room that the computer, with all it's fantastic memory, may communicate in a way that in the end resembles a human fashion but it will never BE human.

That all seems so easy for me to agree with but I honestly can't remember why.

It's true that I and the computer may be able to use a book or a developed program to help form the syntax of Chinese (or any other known language) into a sentence that says “The moon is bright tonight.” But, today, only I remain able to place those words into a human context, or semantic meaning, that results in my happiness, sadness or fear, and only I can use those words to imagine what the moonlit sky must look like from the darkness inside my little box.

I believe Searle is right in a way. Linguistic syntax alone will not transfer complete context of the human experience. Perhaps computers will one day combine that ability with the power of complex semantics. But I would argue that until computer programs can replicate total human awareness, assuming we can even break that code, then Strong Artificial Intelligence will remain “bai ri zuo meng”(literally, having dreams in the bright light of day ... or, as the say in Texas, a day dream).

Let me start again ... not because you will listen but because I find this topic fascinating. BTW, I think this thing called intelligence is perfectly philosophical but I find it impossible to point at and shoot rapid fire like some others ... just need more time than most to swirl it around a bit, I guess.

What is Strong AI?

I believe the definition of general AI was once compared to an easy human standard. But today I'd argue that there's more to Strong AI than just language translation or even the appearance of language comprehension. Although one can argue that historically it didn't come quickly or easily to us, today language translation is closer to displayed AI than to our evolving vision of Strong AI. That's why I don't completely accept Searle's argument even if I do find it inventive and curiously attractive.

Does Strong AI match the maximum limits of human intelligence and consciousness?

I don't believe that it does. Certainly a debatable topic but I think even humans regularly fail this standard. Have we met anyone who reached this goal lately?

Does Strong AI match the minimum limits of human intelligence and consciousness?

That's probably closer to the truth. Perhaps we know of a few brave humans who have crossed this lofty threshold.

Somewhere back there, beyond the digressing frog's croak, I recall an intruding reference to Turing. Sixty years ago this Turing guy tried to describe intelligent machinery (brilliantly leading future discussion into artificial neurons, etc.). His test called for a computer-like machine that can fool a human with human-like answers to random questions.

Has anyone called your insurance company lately? If so, were you fooled by the mechanical answers to your questions? Please press 3 if you were satisfied. Yet, as a parent, any computer that answers my questions with a droning song of “I dunno” might fool the hell outta me!

But there ya go: What is the cutoff point for the minimum limits of human intelligence?

Well, I can remember back to events when I was about 2 years old. But the routine ability to store and recall data does not define the minimum limit of our intelligence today, does it? If so, then my automatic coffee pot displays Strong AI (however randomly ... it's a cheap one.)

On the other end of the scale, how about when I became cognizant of my self, not just superficially sensory or just recognizing my physical reflection but into my apparently non-physical consciousness, aware of what some would call my soul?

Does sentience occur at the same point of growth for everyone, everything? If no, then maybe that's not an equally or even fairly reachable standard for everyone in every circumstance.

But doesn't a deep awareness of one's self, regardless of how or when it occurs, indicate that a brain is sufficiently, if not magically, human-like?

Yes, drooling dogs and amoeba may somehow “feel” themselves... but do we know of any other being or organism that truly reaches this sentient human standard? If consciousness is not part of the minimum standard for acceptance in the intelligent human club and for Strong AI, then what is?

Can a non-human (artificial brain, computer, tadpole, whatever) match even the minimum limits of human intelligence and consciousness or, in other words, if we accept that confined but still vague definition, can a non-human display Strong AI?

I sense that the proper answer to that question is not detected by memory or language translation but well hidden by our poor definition of human consciousness. Consciousness, IMHO, is profoundly related to intelligence, this remarkable, and maybe up until about 10-15 years from now, unique capacity of the human brain. We may not be unique in the universe, but we are still certainly unique beings on Earth.

So, regardless of how it communicates, if a tadpole can sense its own existence with the same depth and understanding as a human, then I would say even it is more intelligent than the most modern computer ... as far as I know.

But, in Searle's favor, he may have inadvertently defined a system sufficiently complex to develop something that approaches the capacity of a human mind. (I choose to say that then leave that drooling dog lie right there because I'm going elsewhere ... you can thank me later.)

That being the case, then the universe, if “sufficiently complex”, may have a mind of its own?

Eh? What could possibly prevent it?

In terms of intelligence, artificial or ... natural? ... organic? ... if men and computers can both be programmed to say “I calculate, therefore I am”, or if asked for the reason behind their existence both recite, “I am here to do my master's will”, or if asked about fundamental reality, they both reply, “I do not know what I do not know”, then are they not equals and is AI not achieved to some degree?

If not, what is the difference?

Does the system of planets, the Chinese Room, or the modern machine have any instincts at all? Is there any fuel for a competitive fire? Does it want to communicate or feel a need to survive? Does it dream? Does it hate what it fears? Does it evolve with every new bit of information? Does it invent and apply tools to explore uncharted waters? After such rapid advances in memory capacity as we've seen in the last 50 years, is the computer still anything more than an in/out processor?

What is still missing from the otherwise “intelligent” machine?

It is not inconceivable to me that man will one day create what seems like the perfect human companion machine. Perhaps this companion will converse in any language, recall every historical fact and look just like Elizabeth Hurley.

(My humble tribute to her beauty ... please don't take it the wrong way, Elizabeth.)

The machine, “sufficiently complex”, may be developed with an artificial instinct, calculating and anticipating every known human desire, fooling even Searle into believing that the machine actually cares. (We are, after all, most easily fooled by our emotions.)

This twist on Mary Shelley's nightmare may at first prove that artificial companionship is at least as agreeable if not more desirable than the unpredictable human version.

But, then again ...

“Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavor to mock the stupendous mechanisms of the Creator of the world...”

Hmm ... mmmm ... yes, well, let's move on as quickly as we can here.

Being the cautious animal that he is, eventually man my find this perfect companion more bothersome than he ever dreamed. Artificial instinct, imagine it built on a backbone of boolean queries and extended algorithms, endlessly sifting 1s and 0s for the next logical response, may evolve into an annoyingly demanding toy with an undisciplined appetite for affection and no reliable off switch.

Man is as fickle as the day is long. He always wants more but sometimes wants less. He is never satisfied and he has a habit of changing his desires for no logical reason. Even humans do not always understand the curious behavior of other humans. Thus this artificial devotion may very well be overloaded and end up breeding nothing but life-like models of blue screens of death and utter human contempt!

(Again, Ms. Hurley, I sincerely apologize.)

But if survival of mankind is somehow important, which, as you can probably detect, I'm not so sure it is, then I would find that frightful and contrary outcome naturally explainable. What's missing is obvious. The machine may have a remarkable brain but it still has nothing as unpredictable or even comparable to a human heart. And we just can't live without that, can we?

Still, as long as man doesn't find his “perfect” machine sitting alone on the beach at night complaining of a migraine, looking out into the dark sky and asking “WHY?” over and over to a universal mind that refuses to clearly answer, then I suppose man can thank his lucky stars that AI has its limits. Ya know, when it ya boil it all down, who am I to question the steady advance of modern technologies?

Yeah, thank the Gods for good whiskey. It was at the heart of what I was trying to remember after all.

Cheers,
Mb

A Violent Truth

2008-04-26T14:03:00.007Z

I was washing dishes and cleaning counter tops in the kitchen one rainy and muggy afternoon.

Rising up from her dark lair, I heard my mother-in-law's voice beckoning to me:

“Bamboo, are you up there?”

“Yes,” I yelled.

“Did you see Hilary won Pennsylvania?”

“Yeah, it don't mean nuthin',” I replied loudly.

“It does, too!” said the urgent voice. “That Obama can't handle it!”

And then she cackled that laugh of hers.

I stretched out my damp tea towel and noticed from the kitchen window a pair of disturbed blue jays jumped from their naked perch and began circling the house, spinning faster and faster as ominous thunderheads beat their low rumbling drums slowly on the other side of the river, still miles away into eastern Kansas.

“Shit,” I thought, “it's going to be a long summer.”

Before the summer, just a moon or so ago I was finishing up another serene walk-about among the native tribes in the sacred Indian Nations. The libations were cooler then, as I recall, but that trip did end rather violently. It was the kind of violence you see when dreams dispatch themselves from the truth, kind of like when the giant fuel tanks on the space shuttle separate from the mother ship upon escape from earth's steady pull, saying a slow and graceful goodbye to their beloved payload as an unstoppable momentum thrusts their old friend deeper into outer space.

Hmmm...

What is true and what is a lie? Truth and lies. What's the difference? Are these qualities like atomic particles, one positive and one negative, constantly attracted to each other? What of the neutron in this ethical formula? Where is it hidden? When instantly unbound from each other like a nuclear explosion, is there any less detectable violence? Is there anything more understood or more universal in this cosmos than a perfect lie? If so, does that indicate that its timelessly silent partner, universal truth, is still a ghost, hiding in a cosmic material-eating black hole, always there just outside of our grasp?

Well, I did speak with a few wise beings along the way and I fortunately recalled the hard lessons of my youth. It always seemed then that conflict and rejection only occurred when I opened my mouth. Had I kept my mouth shut on certain occasions, young life might have gone a bit smoother.

Finally putting that previously proven theory to some alternatively good use, one day I made a promise to lie to everyone I met. My secret purpose was to separate fact from fiction, to see if I could trick the truth into showing its ugly head as if the black hole might be suddenly visible only from the spot where light does not exist. Those few wise men in my path were only unwitting pawns in this dangerous game...

Inside a typical sweat lodge only several miles beyond the border, I settled down with a group of fine fellows who once knew me. Before the first few tears of recognition had dried, they asked me who should be the leader.

“I don't care,” I replied.

Two of them sang at once, “Ehh...what?”

Realizing my honest mistake, I corrected myself.

“Only a man should be president,” I said.

It is the opposite of what I believe but such unflinching statements are demanded by many in the Nation. Fashionable lies allow access to evidence of the drifting river that one might not be allowed to observe otherwise and this instance was no different.

Wooden Eagle grinned and patted me on the shoulder. I was pleased that he was happy with my answer.

Together, they asked me why I came to see them.

“I wanted to hear about your latest dreams,” I answered with a shallow smile, as if I was betting the house on a pair-of-deuces bluff.

Wooden Eagle nearly blurted, “Sasquatch is real...I dreamed of him once then I saw his giant foot prints in a creek bed near the mountains!”

Carries Big Stick calmly said, “I believe anything is possible. He may exist or not, I don't know for sure. I have not dreamed about him.”

The renegade Cherokee Chuck replied, “Bigfoot doesn't exist. We haven't discovered any carcass or bones of this creature, have we?”

I knew then I was warming to this burden of proof concept but I wondered who was trying to convince who on this matter. The “proof” may or may not be convincing or even true since history suggests our people are easily misled by deception, error and indistinct dreams. To combat that, I think the honest burden of proof is at least a two way street, in both a positive and negative flow...in other words, the “receiver” is just as responsible to repute any claim of truth, questions naturally subject to the scientific degrees between a theory which may only explain the path and a law which may only predict the future result.

That's what I heard, anyway.

I may have missed the point but, to my confused thought, it would have been a mistake to choose sides in the Big Foot debate. I found each stance equally unjustifiable...not just open to the accusation of “no proof” but all deserving of a healthy critique. I couldn't bring myself to lie on this.

I wanted to report that Science has spent a lot of effort, particularly in the last 150 years or so, trying to better define life around and within us. Newer microscopic understanding, down to the gnat's ass, evolves almost daily now. But I certainly have no platform to argue with any of that.

Escaping the limits of Science, I could have admitted that I've dwelt on surreality the last few years, wasting a lot of pleasurable life contemplating it's existence while detecting very little evidence of it. Perhaps, for all I know, that is the realm of Big Foot. Alternately, when trying to see and feel reality, I have been constantly reminded by Epicurus how my senses are so easily deceived. Hume told me that all proof is in the pudding but Descartes, that dickhead, showed me that my thoughts and dreams, as accurate or incorrect as they may be, are perhaps the only 'things' worthy of an honest, true existence. And Sartre, that guy, he said that I may not even exist or be aware of anything without the helpful construct of others. My life is dangerously frail without their dreams. And practically every one of these sad fellows told me that universal truth about reality, if any of that does exist, may be unfathomable to my ill-equipped mind.

But none of that would be a lie so I held my tongue, thinking that unlike rapidly advancing biology, it seems where reality and general existence fails me is in a study of human philosophy still mired in criticizing old concepts and dressed in tired semantics sewn together over the course of two centuries or so.

So, this common thread of discussion only kept the truth just outside of my grasp once again and the questions of “What is?” and “Who is?” began corrupting my attention and, at the risk of falling into an endless Cartesian death spin, I stopped listening entirely.

Speckled Bird, who noticed my silence but said nothing of it, rocked for a moment in his spot and then he spoke.

“I awoke from a dream one night and I was all twisted, my body was bent over and I felt as though I was coughing up buckets of bad water. As I came to, I realized I was not sick. My anguish was a result of the love I have for other people. They hurt, these people who I love, and so do I. Their pain is mine, and it all came to me in this one frightening nightmare.”

“Love, I am told, is the noble emotion that occurs when two become one. If you love somebody and you wrap your arms around them, and you hold them tight, and if you love them enough, in spite of the brief warm goodness you feel, you will soon feel every stab of pain, every prick of embarrassment, everything bad that those loved ones may have felt in their life. I know now it will all transfer to you and you have no choice but to accept it. In fact, if you love them too much, you will find yourself spent, wiped out, wadded up in a ball of pulsing hot blood and flesh, writhing alone on the floor in torment.”

We listened but did not look him in the face.

“It gets worse,” he continued.

“I was confused at first because even though we all may be perfectly capable of such consuming emotion, many of the people who walk on earth don't give this kind of unconditional love all the time. Maybe they are too alarmed by the deepness of it. Maybe they shy away because they are afraid to get too close to the things that are really scary.”

“But for a just a moment there in my nightmare, outside of my dream, the Speckled Bird you all know came to realize my experience was something else. It was not one of the people.”

And then Speckled Bird leaned forward, whispering so only the few closest to him could hear.

“This was the experience of a god,” he said in a trembling voice, “and love is not perfect.”

After a long breath, he went on.

“Do you think it's odd that I believed that so easily?”

“But I was taught that if there really is a god whose image we represent, who loves us like a father beyond any love we can imagine, then for a very short dream in my life I knew what He has endured. I knew that God did not rule as a king in magical white kingdom but has surely spent many moons like a hungry bear in a cold cave of His own making, curled up in a fetal position, His arms wrapped around himself, His hands desperately grasping His shoulders, screaming in agony, giving Himself up for His true love and yearning for release from this horrifying experiment in people that He alone created.”

“I realize now if I was a god, I'd think that I should have saw this coming. It would be difficult to say, well, things were going along just fine for many moons and then all of a sudden these people and the Devil started ruining everything and chasing away the buffalo. I'd have to say that I created all of creation, including the Devil, for the same reason that guides all walking things, and I gave buffalo to the earth not because I was afraid or even because I wanted to. No, it was what I had to do, even knowing that the buffalo would not survive, I had to race after the midnight coyote and I had no power to stop even though I knew it would leave me full of pain and regret as a result. Guilt, regret and pain are all part of the world and anyone who has ever created anything knows that all too well.”

“And God surely knew all that from the very beginning. He knew true love brings pain and pain is the sign of imperfection. And it is this guilt, regret and pain, the imperfections of love that represent us all. If we are truly made in His image, then those are the things He has bequeathed to us and what we return to Him. This is what all our brothers and sisters share.”

“It makes perfect sense to me now,” he said quietly.

“So, after my dream, not knowing why I was allowed to see it, I think we will likely never hear from this god again. He is engulfed in the endless fit of his own creation, tormented by ungrateful sons and daughters who question everything, refuse to accept the proof and constantly break his rules.”

A pause, a bit of smoke and tilted ear to the spring war drums outside allowed him to finish.

“We shouldn't worry about that, though,” he said and we all nodded in shaded agreement.

“We can't help but live exactly as He desired and He must be exactly where He always wanted to be. He loves it this way. But that means God can't be perfect and therefore he can't be a god, after all. He is, in fact, imperfect if we believe that he loves.”

We all sat there quietly for some time, smoking and drinking and thinking about Speckled Bird's dream.

I finally arose from my seat feeling that I had heard enough even though it was not the lie that I wanted to hear. I shook their hands firmly and said my goodbyes then fell slowly, gracefully, violently back away to the place of people.

Cheers,
Mb

The First Flathead of Spring

2008-03-24T05:41:00.002Z

Below the cotton white puffs of thick mist hanging in the sky, cool gray bubbles rise and float under a long, flat blue. Deep down a plump womanly flathead lies suspended in the motionless rhythm of the early spring pond, empty eyes wide open, slick skin breathing and tasting the waterborne muck, her gentle black feelers dragging lightly over the rocks on the bottom.

Her powerful hunger grows stronger every minute. That hunger makes her mad. Although her senses are tuned to the flavor of her surroundings, she does not savor the fantastic din of madness outside and above her, the waiting madness of beings who drink by the sounds of a dry air, wildly craving even more than she can imagine. She slumbers with her numb desire, unaware that the dull beat of an approaching screw signals her fate. Her murky silence is doomed to collide with the light and sound of an unapologetic, alien world.

So it is that one day soon the slight aroma of pig fat will drift along the water from an unknown distance, enveloping her body in a tingling warm bath of magnetic rush. She will surge left, then right with a shift of her tail and before long she will have the source of the sweet scent effectively surrounded.

She will lunge uncontrollably for the bite but she will not see what is attached. She will not taste what is tethered to her attraction and, even if she could, she could not fight her compulsions. She will swallow quickly without a second thought, without a first thought, and when the tarnished shock of the moment sets its barbed hook in her cheek she will run as fast as she can.

But she can't run forever. No one thing can. After she tires of the escape attempt, with luck, she and I will meet face to face. And then, for a moment that may last us both a lifetime, her silent existence below the surface will tragically balance on how happy I am to finally see her arrive so loudly above it.

Silly, I know, even before the splash of the battle has dried, I will release her if she is the first.

I know the pond would not miss her. I know there would be no hole left in the water, the boiling surface will swallow back into itself nearly as quickly as she is removed from it, and there are surely plenty of fish in the sea. If I kept her I might even be doing her peers a grand favor.

But, if she is the first, I will send her back to where she came from and hope that my gift is returned some day. She will dash away and hide for a time before our hungers again drive us mad. By then she will have no painful recollection of feeding on dangerously sweet pig fat and she'll have no memory of that crazy, hard to see creature who once rudely plucked her from her home only to delight in his enjoyment as she flopped around in a tasteless, suffocating air. By then I will forget my short-lived honor to nature. I will be overcome by the thrill of the chase and the pleasure of simple food.

And then we will all go back to the fluid beginning, the endless waiting and the cold craving, just like we always do.

Cheers,
Mb

The Cause

2008-02-17T15:45:00.002Z

Fifty one people reportedly died in Brooklyn in one week in June, 1850. The official recount given by the Health Inspector's office detailed the deaths of 32 males and 19 females, 18 adults and 33 children.

The reasons of death included the term “causality” which, I can only assume, meant there was a nondescript if not tragic human act that proceeded the end result. Other presumably less human-inspired causes included constipation, drowning, dysentery, heart disease, hooping cough, hemorrhages, old age, premature birth, teething, something that looks like “sprue” but I can't really make it out, congestions of the brain and lungs, croup, various inflammations of the body, convulsions, still birth, and three people, specifically, of “dropsy of the head”.

I'm still confounded by this term “dropsy” but this is the kind of muddy information I waded through as I was pondering what suddenly took the life of my ancestor who first came to this country in 1855.

I know where he is buried. I know that he was barely 40 years old when he died. I accept the family story that he and his family all wandered into the USA in New York sometime in the year 1855. I assume he landed a few months before the opening of Castle Garden since I can find no customs record or ship's manifest which lists his name. I understand that chances are good he and his family just stepped off a boat at the pier, gathered their meager belongings and walked on into the American wilderness.

There is no good explanation of why he chose his final destination. Again, I can find no land deed with his name on it. I assume he rented a spot of farmland and worked it the best he could. He was a practiced farmer, I do know that. I expect that he was a creature of stern habit, that he struggled in this vast country as he had in his crowded homeland. I imagine as he began his new life in freedom that he lived the American Dream like every diligent immigrant before and after him, saved what little extra income he acquired, and hoped to someday purchase his own spread.

But I don't know why they buried him 5 years later.

There were many good excuses to die in 1860 America. Numerous sad excuses were remarkably cataloged and stored by official inspectors. Flipping through all the common explanations makes one think it was a rather tough time back then. People were regularly kicked in the head by bulls or mules, dropped to their death from the roofs of barns, or were overcome by the flames and fumes of burning buildings. Of course, there was a number who met the wrong end of a bullet or canon ball as the nation turned against itself and even some who had unfortunate meetings with curious natives.

Many of the descriptions from that era are a bit maddening. I read one story from around this time of a young farm hand who accidentally fell down to the bottom of a deep well he had been digging somewhere in Virginia. Rescuers managed to snare him and lift him by rope to the nearly the top of the well before he slipped from their grasp, vanishing again into the dark abyss and was never heard from or seen again.

Oh, so close ...

Dying as my otherwise healthy ancestor did in Wisconsin just 5 years after arrival in the US, with no remarkable or fantastic family story passed down amongst his descendants, with no references to violence at the hands of savages or vague altercations with stubborn animals, I assume that he succumbed to one of the prevalent diseases of the day. The era of his death was a few years before a practical microscope was even available to doctors and odd diseases were not easily explained, sometimes merely attributed to God's greater plan. If there ever was an understandable excuse given for his death, it most likely sounded close to “he got sick and died” and that mildly confusing explanation of “dropsy” could easily be lost or forgotten over time.

The reason, like the endless Health Office reports concerning the nameless, faceless children of antique Brooklyn, was not really important to anyone at the time. (I say faceless but I expect any person like me can imagine exactly what these children's faces looked like.) I know the cause of my ancestor's death in Waterloo, Wisconsin, a few weeks before the end of 1860 is only important to me. As a result of my research, I realized it is the seminal event in our history which sent his sons and daughters scrambling across this country in search of their own greener pastures.

But even now, when death does not necessarily instigate the uprooting of established families, as a person's death is reported I often hear shocked parties ask an earnest question: “How did it happen?”

... Although I can't quite put my finger on it, somewhere hidden in this curiosity surrounding The Cause lies an important lesson for us all ...

Just as this new year began, my computer's hard drive crashed. Instead of spinning up as normal, it would just hum a pitiful and repetitive tune when urged to awake. To my naïve musical ear, the irritating noise was somewhere between the familiar “My Sharona” beat of an old Wang that I used to work on and the more intimidating opening percussion of a “Red House” version by the great Jimmy Hendrix. But The Cause was quickly dismissed in this case. Taking advantage of the opportunity, I purchased a new, bigger hard drive rather cheaply and have been happily filling up it's virgin memory with more and more bits of pointless and unpublishable blather. But, for a hellish gap there, I was also without internet access.

About the same time, I crossed the treacherous Indian Nations to visit my fabulous cousin in Texas, one of the few souls in this world who fearlessly confronts my unsociable behavior with an often dramatic passion, on the occasion of her 50th birthday. It was an extravagant and opulent affair, not the kind of seedy, drunken seafarer's festival that I'm accustomed to but I had a good time seeing all the relatives, new and old, in any case.

While boarding in the secure upper loft at my cousin's mansion on the comfortable east side of the Big City, being the thoughtful host that she is, she offered me her laptop and free access to her rarely used Ancestry.com account. (I hope spilling those beans doesn't get her in trouble ... it's hard to speculate what amount of typical human kindness can get people into trouble with copyright lawyers these days.) But while I was head-down, anxiously cruising through massive crew lists of whaling ships in 19th century Bedford, MA, I took the opportunity to read some backed-up email that I was previously unable to access.

It was then that I learned that my good friend for many years, the man I have called The Padre, at one time my own personal spiritual adviser and a tireless fanatic of the White Sox baseball club, died suddenly during my travels to Texas.

I read the straight-forward email from his wife and was immediately submerged in a cold sea of shock, confusion, guilt, sadness ... eh, you know that simple human tune.

Instantly, I began rummaging my brain for some consolation. I recalled our very first encounter in Monterey many moons ago and how I foolishly pleaded with him, of all people, to just loosen up a bit. I remembered his constant easy manner that I witnessed over the years, his quick chuckle, the way he would shake his head when I said or did stupid stuff. When we were together, he was the calm and respectful one while I could let my hair down completely. I remember once in Omaha, while I was dragging him through some of the rowdier establishments in the Old Market, how shocked I was to hear him ask what I was drinking before ordering the same for himself. Of course, he would not drink as much as I would but such common acceptance just further cemented our lifelong bond. I remember when the talk turned to personal imbalances, he would often remind me that my afflictions were merely behavioral, perhaps he would encourage, simply curable, while his were more deeply rooted. I recalled the last meeting we had in Chicago back in July of last year, a brisk evening of ball between the Sox and the Tigers at the Cell, the casual talk between us, the most excellent beer and tostadas con queso we shared. That night, like most of our hastily-arranged encounters, was particularly enjoyable ... no concrete result, vague plans to go fishing together in the spring, best wishes for the rest of the year ... a fitting end to our relationship, perhaps.

I came home and looked at the haunting books on my shelf, among them the few books that he “loaned” me over the years. Most of them neatly conspire to balance the spiritual with the non-spiritual, whatever that may be. He was a brilliant fellow, far smarter in the world of mathematics and science than I'll ever be. But some elementary things seemed to come easier to me and he would always remark on his admiration for the silly stuff he thought I had accomplished. He was by all means a devout believer in the certainty of things and I am not but he never tried to hound me on that point. He would listen to my arguments and I could detect the frail hint of uncertainty in his. He carried on well with his own calculable diseases and I know at times he suffered the loneliness and the selfishness which all our brothers share. We were good friends and it pains me to even spell out how much I will miss him ... at least that's what I think I am pained about.

As the event unfolded, his wife wrote me to explain how his death occurred. She and I are close only in the sense that we shared a friendship with The Padre and I assume she thought that I, like all the normal people out there, would be interested and consoled in that so I belatedly opened the emails and I read all the recorded details as patiently as I could.

She described how he became ill on a Sunday and was admitted to the hospital for tests on Monday. She explained how the doctors came to understand that he had a serious gall bladder infection and performed emergency surgery on Tuesday. She said the surgery went well and he was recovering satisfactorily when a blood clot formed and seized his heart on Friday. She confirmed it was very sudden and took everyone by surprise.

Well, in the end, I didn't find that description very consoling at all. Being the nerd that I am, I wondered how his death would have been defined if he had died in 19th century instead of the 21st. Would he have been assigned The Cause of a various infection or perhaps the latest statistical case of unusual dropsy?

Honestly, after consideration, The Cause, the specific medicinal nature of it, doesn't matter to me anymore.

What I now find important is that people like my good friend The Padre, just like my ancestors, lived and loved and hoped and dreamed. They succeeded rarely and failed often. They burst onto the scene of the passion play--and in a flash--they were gone--and they may live again only in our distant memories.

It's true that sometimes this life and death struggle encourages others to do bold things, to pack up and move, to look for greener pastures. Sometimes, though, it has no reportable impact. It simply once was and is now not no more. The Cause of it all may still disguise a far more important lesson and the pain may be more directly about the relevance to our own certain mortality ... but I just can't put my finger on it.

Not yet, anyway.

Adios Padre,
Mb

Book of Rules

2008-01-25T08:33:00.000Z

After a few late-night toddies, things get clearer to me for some strange reason. Among other (expletive deleted) things, I realize tonight that The Wife often calls me “Mr. Rulebook” for a good reason. It is true, I have lots of rules and I generally try to abide by them. Over time, the list of rules has grown longer.

I'm sure you've heard some of these rules before. Perhaps you've even followed a few of them. Maybe you just need a reminder every now and then.

But, here ya go. Without any further explanation, I will now pass a few of Bamboo's Rules on to you. Feel free to call me out if you wish to quibble or disagree.

In no specific order:

Rule: Never say never but never hold a grudge and never do what other people want you to do.

Rule: Amsterdam, New York City, Athens, Sturgis and New Orleans...places like these, don't ask why, just drop everything else and go when able.

Rule: Don't ask and you will learn; don't wish for heaven and you will go there; dishonest ambition and earthly desire distort the balanced beauty of simple truths.

Rule: If you say you are an Independent, then always vote Democrat...if you can't vote Democrat, then don't even bother to vote.

Rule: Say “I love you” often but only to those who you truly do love.

Rule: Don't do shit that you don't really want to do...if you don't know what to do, wait and wait some more and eventually you will do the right thing.

Rule: Know yourself and be honest about it; don't try to be someone you're not.

Rule: Assume every day is your last day on this earth...assume every human act is final, there's nothing after this life, no chance for redemption, no paranormal path to greater awareness...assume the same for your family and closest friends.

Rule: Avoid improper or unethical charity; give whatever you can to others but don't expect or ask for anything in return.

Rule: Don't ask for celebrity autographs...offer to shake hands instead.

Rule: Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Never take wooden nickles from a gift horse. Don't you stick your arm up a gift horse's ass but if you do then by all means never turn your back on a gift horse. In fact, I recommend avoiding gift horses altogether. They are nothing but trouble.

Rule: Humility is the most advanced human virtue; shut up and listen to what other people say...you can't help but hear how foolish you really are.

Rule: Nothing in this world is more important to all of mankind than a peaceful afternoon nap.

Rule: Think ahead; plan on doing what you say you're going to do or don't even say it.

Rule: Figure out some way to backup your computer files...if you blow off all the rest of this stuff, trust me on that one.

I think that's enough for now.

Cheers,
Mb

Awkward Gifts

2007-12-18T18:22:00.000Z

There was a time many moons ago, long before Play Stations and I-Pods, when practical gifts where the expected norm among adults during the holidays. Women looked forward to new robes and slippers to replace the old ratty ones they wore the year before and men were, well, satisfied with gifts like six-packs of tube socks and tiny nose hair trimmers.

It’s highly likely that somewhere on this planet those kinds of common expectations linger. Christmas is much more of a diverse cultural celebration than it once was, if you didn’t know. Many people around the world, irregardless of their individual differences, do observe the yuletide season in their own ways. It’s not unusual anymore to find Japanese-speaking Santa Claus impersonators or even Turkish bazaars hawking the latest Chinese-made-battery-operated gizmo for the kiddies this time of year.

But here in America we are just more experienced with the issue of gift giving than most of the other corners of the world. Unlike most other humble nations, we also have a Texas-sized reputation to maintain when it comes to personal extravagance. For these reasons we, perhaps better than others, understand that even the simplest gift may come with a lofty price tag.

While many of us may attempt to put a cap on the price, to sort of level the playing field among the practice of giving, there are still those who refuse any such practical discipline. Cotton handkerchiefs and bubble bath just won’t do for those few whose egos and stock portfolios demand they spend lavishly to prove their love for their fellow humans.

Consequently, this unequal state of seasonal giving between the common American gifter and giftee may often result in something less than global peace and joy, rather an awkward silence, embarrassment, and even a confusing degree of mutual self-doubt.

Take, for example the latest lavish gift given by the Commissioner of Major League Baseball to the game, the nation, and the Major League Baseball Players Association (MLBPA).

No average holiday shopper can read the sprawling title of this gift, “The Report to the Commissioner of Baseball of an Independent Investigation into the Illegal Use of Steroids and Other Performance Enhancing Substances by Players in Major League Baseball”, without feeling a bit overwhelmed.

The nearly 500 page report was initiated by retired Senator George Mitchell at the behest of Commissioner Bud Selig back in March, 2006, and was finally, luckily delivered by the busiest little elves on December 13, 2007, just in time for holiday reading.

Some say that over the 20 month span of Mitchell’s investigation the report cost about $1 million a month to research and finalize. Most American gift givers, even those leathery oil barons who camp their mansions along the Brazos in the Republic of Texas, would enviously call that an extravagant price.

In fact, this particular Christmas gift is so big and so consuming that General Issue citizens were apt to look away as it was opened, shuffling their feet and talking fast, trying to hide the awkward embarrassment as it settled among the ribbons and brightly colored wrapping paper. Some, presumably humbugs who bristle when faced with such profound indulgence, refused the gift, saying the giver was just being pompous, overly generous or clearly ill-informed.

In the case of the Mitchell Report, the revealing tone of the holiday era is established with the first sentence of the summary: “For more than a decade there has been widespread illegal use of anabolic steroids and other performance enhancing substances by players in Major League Baseball, in violation of federal law and baseball policy.”

Obviously, that confounding summary could frustrate the festive mood of our most stubbornly merry citizens.

But, if we choose to ponder the intent of this report, we could say there is a truth about holiday gifts which seems to be just outside the strike zone for many of the avid humbugs and detractors of our times. Maybe they’ve forgotten the Ghost of Christmas Past or refuse to accept that often The Wife gets a new electric filet knife or Craftsman table saw for perfectly good, if not obtuse reasons. The American Male, in particular, is prone to giving innocent children gifts that are fondly remembered but that the children neither want nor know what to do with. Electric train sets and Lincoln Logs immediately come to mind …

One can’t help but feel that, like Lincoln Logs, this particular gift of The Mitchell Report is one of those that keeps on giving but is definitely more significant to the giver rather than the receiver.

We can all imagine the Commissioner’s predicament. All he wanted for Christmas was a unique gift that nobody was willing to give him. He needed a little proof to help reign in the runaway sleigh. He asked for just a few white snowflakes of evidence to grease the skids. So he went out and bought it all for himself.

Can we blame him?

The problem is that this unique gift smells really bad. Perhaps the expiration dates for whatever this turkey was stuffed with were not clearly documented. The foul scent of what the Commish bought may be detected in an icy insinuation buried deep within the summary which expands frozen details in regard to the scope of the lengthy investigation: “The Players Association was largely uncooperative.”

Well, as American Christmas gift-giving experts, we’ve all seen that kind of childish reaction before, haven’t we? Clearly the MLBPA was expecting something less dramatic and more practical for the holidays.

Yeah … probably tube socks.

Cheers,

Every Day Above The Green Grass

2007-12-01T08:29:00.000Z

Here’s a story that defied me the last few months of this past summer. I tried to put it into words three different ways yet I find it still lies dormant in a few mixed up files on my hard drive. Recent correspondence implies I must get rid of it now even if it’s just crudely recalled from rapid-fire memory.

The story is presently titled “Every Day Above the Green Grass” and, according to my scattered notes, the motivation behind it goes like this…

ONE SUNNY AFTERNOON IN JUNE, I had grown tired of aimlessly fishing and hanging around the house so I stopped in one of my favorite local watering holes.

No big surprise there, I know.

I sauntered in and bellied up beside my next door neighbor who just happened to be there, too. We were the only two yahoos in the place on a hot summer’s day.

This is in a small town where everybody knows everybody. When a person walks into an establishment around here, it’s just natural that greetings are spoken. Strangers and out-of-towners often tell me that it’s rather unnerving to walk into these places. They feel as though all eyes are upon them when they come through the door. They tend to feel like they’re interrupting some private party or something.

I tell them that the regulars aren’t trying to be rude. They just don’t want to be caught not saying hello to somebody they recognize, lest they be considered arrogant or stuck up among the members of the community.

So, when I opened the door and entered the bar that day, I was immediately greeted with the standard line, “How’s Bamboo doin’ today?”

I guess it’s sort of an odd way of asking, maybe a bit detached but it is the accepted familiar fashion for around here. The customary replies are equally uncertain, I suppose, never much more than a “Good, how are y’all doin’?” response expected.

As it is in the typical manner of human speech around the world, nobody really wants an honest answer to that question. It’s just the local way of saying hello.

People surely have their own way of talking in these parts. I’m sure the particular style has evolved over the years, settling in for everyone in a way that is comfortable to them. For some unknown reason, as with greetings, the detached, second-person style also fits well for the standard local rebuke, “Fuck Off”, which is regularly spoken more like one drawn out word rather than two separate ones, the hard “off” sounding more like a curved “awwf”, and it’s usually met with laughter, not having nearly the same sinister intent that most out-of-towners are accustomed to expecting.

My neighbor is called Duke. He’s a short, thin guy who talks very softly. He’s about 45 years old with a long black pony tail tied back tight behind his head and sports an uneven, stringy beard on his chin. His family is large and well known in these parts. For the last 25 years he’s worked four nights a week, twelve hour shifts as a printing press operator for a big outfit. He generally wears an old Sturgis ball cap on his head and, except for funerals or weddings, is never caught in anything but blue jeans. When he’s not working or tending to his family, Duke’s generally drinking Coors Light bottled beer somewhere.

The afternoon bartender at this place is named Henry. His voice is a loud baritone. He’s a tall, lanky sort with wire-framed spectacles. Short-haired and single, he’s in his mid-30’s and works a day job as an overpaid, on-call computer geek for a large telephone company. Henry is prone to wearing nylon basketball shorts, free t-shirts and old tennis shoes for everyday professional wear.

I can’t think of a more happy-go-lucky pair of guys in this county. I get along with both gentlemen just fine.

Well, I did argue with Henry once when I thought he was putting too much liquor in my drink. I do not prefer to get instantly inebriated from a single swallow. I quickly learned, though, that he knew more about what he was doing than I did.

This particular afternoon played out as it normally does. Outside the sun was shining while Duke and I made quick work of sports topics and the conflicting politics of the day before jumping directly into our routine trivia contest.

Duke is a well-versed on mid-20^thcentury rock and roll. He can also pull out a few sports zingers on me now and then. I, of course, tend to be more generalized in my trivia knowledge but I can beat him at geography and world history since I am more of a vagabond. Henry, being a bit younger, is a great help because he can always bring us both up to date on the latest fads.

The conversation went along quite well for a while, drinks were traded back and forth, and before we knew it, it was shift change. Trish, the evening bartender, entered the scene to relieve Henry.

Trish is a squat, rounded gal, mid-40ish with thick arms and a short, dyed-black, bobbed-style hairdo. She’s very touchy-feely but straightforward and speaks in what ends up as a loud squeak. Twice divorced, she heavily spices her language with common vulgarities that would redden the ears of most drunken sailors. Trish definitely can be described as a confident, independent and quick-thinking person.

They swapped the till in a flash and then Henry, seeing no good reason to leave, saddled up next to Duke and me to continue the trivia game and drink an after-hours Budweiser with us.

A few minutes later, before Trish had a chance to spruce up or really get settled in behind the brightly lighted bar, a huge man known as Sugar Ray barreled in the front door with his oldest son.

Ray worked as a short-order cook at a country restaurant out on the highway. It’s a popular kind of old-fashioned place which serves an entire menu of deep fried goodies, all covered in dangerously thick gravy. Obviously a life-long fan of that style of food, Ray stood about six feet tall and probably weighed in somewhere near 300 pounds. He was very recognizable but not often seen in the bar as such regularity was not within his means.

A few years back, when I had dabbled as a part-time tax man, I had completed Sugar Ray’s annual return. Married with three grown children still living with him, I confess he earned the grand sum of $14 thousand that year. I recall I had actually fudged quite a bit of his return once I realized he owed the government way too much money on such a shallow income. I even short-circuited the usual cost of the paperwork and short-changed the corporate dividend by a few pennies for my services. He never realized that and I never let on what the hell I was doing. He was somewhat happy to numbly pay about a quarter on the dollar and went on with his life and so did I. (I suppose if the Homeland Security nazis sink their teeth too far into this lengthy story then I may be welcomed by anxious IRS agents any day now.)

Anyway, the scene now set, even as limited in their recreational funding as they may have been, Sugar Ray and his muted, free-loading son approached the bar and ordered two Busch Light beers.

Duke, in his typical low-key but familiar greeting, asked, “How’s Ray doin’ today?”

Sugar Ray, pulling a few wadded, greasy dollar bills from his pocket, growled his reply in the breathless style of a grossly obese 55 year old man, “Ahh, you know, I guess any day above the green grass is a good one.”

With those words spoken, before he even touched his cold bottle of beer, Sugar Ray’s eyes rolled up into their sockets. He wavered for a moment before toppling over back from the counter like a giant tree felled by a swift axe. A loud crack echoed in an eerie silence as his wide, balding head smashed into a short wooden wall that separated round dining tables from the bar area.

Duke, Henry and I shared astonished looks. At first we thought it was a joke, I guess. An odd confusion crossed Duke’s face as we sat there contemplating the curious last words of a dead man.

Then, seeing the frozen stance of his son, Henry and I rushed over to Sugar Ray’s limp body as he had fallen in an uncomfortable pile on the floor. We stretched Ray’s massive, lumpy frame out as best we could and rolled him over but the death rattle had already begun, Ray’s lungs instinctively grasping for air that his body no longer needed.

We gave a few obligatory whacks to his thick chest area but, as we later conferred and agreed, his heart gave up quickly and he was most likely dead before he hit the floor.

Trish, visibly shaking and spewing every profanity that’s ever been hastily uttered from behind a bar, immediately phoned for emergency services. Her squeaky yet frantic tone of voice was clearly effective since damn near every cop in town, firefighters and the EMTs were on the scene in less then eight minutes. (Another benefit of small town life, no doubt.)

By my count, the EMTs gave Sugar Ray a total of seven shocks with a portable defibulator but they received no natural response. I gritted my teeth as one of the cops who I am familiar with stood back, looked at me and shook his head knowingly.

It took the whole crew but before they were done lifting his lifeless, whale-like body on the gurney and removing him forever from the bar, Ray’s entire family arrived on the scene.

News, especially bad news, travels quickly around here.

The boys all huddled around their fitful mother and held her back while she trembled and screamed, “Ray! Ray! Wake up!”

It’s generally at this point that I have a hard time recalling further details of this story…Duke, Henry and I have privately discussed the course of this event several times now but some of it remains a bit of a mystery to us.

We’ve wondered if what we often hear is true. We wondered if Sugar Ray’s spirit floated above this scene in the bar, looking down on us from a shining light while we pounded and zapped his body with electricity. We wondered if he still wanted that cold beer or if it suddenly didn’t seem so important to him. We wondered if his soul realized what had happened, if he remembered what he said seconds before his heart exploded. We wondered if he felt our anxiety and anguish, if he read our thoughts. We wondered if he heard his wife and children calling to him, if he wanted to answer us but he couldn’t, if his life’s events played out before his eyes and if he was happy or he was sad. We wondered if he was just afraid or curious enough to go where the light or the dark would lead him, if he suddenly felt like a stranger or an out-of-towner as he entered a new realm or if some thing or someone else recognized him and greeted him with a better offer than we had given him only moments before … and we wondered if his senses truly died before he hit the floor, if he never knew what hit him, if his memory, his emotions, his spirit, his soul all just instantly ceased to exist along with his earthly life.

And we wondered why he chose that moment to say what he said.

We know those questions will never be answered, of course. We have no way of knowing the truth. And, like common everyday greetings, maybe we think we don’t want an honest answer to any of those questions. Not yet, anyway.

But, even without Sugar Ray or his deep fried delicacies, with his last spoken admonishment to us still curiously lingering fresh in our minds, we do know the living went on with their lives as they always do.

About a week later, after Sugar Ray’s body was buried under the green grass two city blocks from the site of his demise, I returned to that same establishment on another beautifully lazy summer’s afternoon. I felt somehow that it was the only right to continue on at my normal lethargic pace even in the face of such fearful reality.

When I entered the bar, I was not shocked to find Duke sitting at his preferred corner stool and Henry dutifully cleaning a few glasses back behind the counter. Once again, just like the last day of old Sugar Ray’s life, lounging only a few steps from the spot where he took his last breath, we were the only yahoos in the place.

Henry and Duke eyed me cautiously as I entered but they didn’t say anything.

Henry gave me his practiced, “You want a drink? The usual?” look and I silently nodded, “Yeah, sure.” He then poured me a stronger than usual 7&7 and deftly placed the full glass in front of me.

Then Henry stood back and smiled silently.

Then Duke smiled.

I looked at them both, unable to control a growing grin on my own face, but I squinted my eyes and said firmly, “Don’t even say it, Duke.”

“I know, I know,” he laughed easily.

Henry relaxed, hung a bar towel over his shoulder, leaned on the counter, then smiled wider, “We’re not saying nuthin' to people who walk in the door anymore.”

“To tell you the truth,” I replied while grabbing my glass, “if Duke had said a word to me, I was going to tell him to fuck-awwf.”

In a very relieved way, we all laughed loudly at that.

Cheers and thanks for letting me get that off my mind for now,

Anonymous Issues

2007-11-18T13:27:00.000Z

The voice of Dr. Donald Kerr, Principle Deputy Director of National Intelligence, was intercepted recently speaking to a gathering of muckety mucks at an intel symposium held somewhere in the bowels of San Antone, Texas. The knees of some of the more aggressive liberals in the land instantly jerked in harmonic response to an excerpt of his prepared remarks regarding modern anonymity.

“Too often, anonymity is equated with privacy…Anonymity, or at least the appearance of anonymity, is quickly becoming a thing of the past…protecting anonymity isn’t a fight that can be won.”

Ehh…it’s sorta hard to conjure up what the Doc is talking about. Most of the turkey hunters around these parts like to think they disappear when they don their cammy’s in the woods and, well, if you tell ‘em there’s a fight they can’t win then you better stand back because fisticuffs will most likely ensue.

But then, just to stir up even more confusion, Dr. Kerr finished it off with the following bit of wisdom:

“I think people here, at least people close to my age, recognize that those two generations younger than we are have a very different idea of what is essential privacy, what they would wish to protect about their lives and affairs. And so, it’s not for us to inflict one size fits all. It’s a need to have it be adjustable to the needs of local societies as they evolve in our country. Eventually, we can only hope that people’s perceptions – in Hollywood and elsewhere – will catch up.”

Let’s see, now, that statement should be perfectly understandable to everyone here. People’s perceptions, in Hollywood and elsewhere, need to catch up to…ahhh…catch up with….err-umm…maybe, oh, catch up to the perceptions of the G-man’s perception of what the young folks are thinking.

No, most likely the Doc was trying to say that all confounding and opposing concepts of essential privacy will soon merge into one humongous, new and undeniable perception that spreads across “local societies” like a plague of indiscriminate locusts.

Yeppir. Uh-huh.

Well, rather than relying on an idiot who cuts and pastes little bits of speeches somewhat randomly, to fully gather the context of Dr. Kerr’s remarks, you may need to read the complete text of his talk here.

Some may be relieved to read all of his speech. You may find that his emphasis on the difficult balance of safety and privacy is not nearly as scary as some of the more aggressive among us might suggest.

It’s hard to deny that anonymity is not a factor in our everyday lives. We traded off anonymity, if we ever had it, for something else a long time ago. Once, there was only the paper trails of P.O. boxes, personal checks and credits cards, the antique can of worms which delayed the unfolding of hidden identities and which only true professionals could untangle. Today, with every link, every purchase, every cell phone call, every text message, with every word typed pointlessly and needlessly in every medium, the anonymity of your average American dolt is unveiled forever and it doesn’t necessarily take a G-man to figure that out.

Of course, personal identities are easier to figure out if you are a G-man. Cutting out most of the red tape, a simple signing statement from the Big Guy will expeditiously do the trick.

But even if you’re just a mild mannered CEO, all it takes today is a timely subpoena from your well-paid legal department to get phone company or internet service provider executives shaking in their boots, turning over private membership records and subscription details, ratting out the disgruntled employees, dangerous Libertarians and annoyingly unnamed whistle blowers of the world quicker than you can say, “I didn’t do it, man!”

Taking that object, economical lesson a step further, it seems our CEO’s and Superstars don’t need or want anonymity so why should we little people cry about it? (Really, if they want that, they can take it to the Caymans or Austria or some other UnAmerican place where it belongs, right?) So what makes us so special? Can you imagine if we could all count on a certain degree of anonymity…what the hell would we say?

Some might recollect openly on what privacy once meant in this nation. Some might say without anonymity some good calls might have never been made and some good stories might have never been told.

Then again, based on our history, others might wax on about how old notions of anonymity were rarely bueno anyway. Perhaps the only ones who ever truly enjoyed all the benefits of anonymity were communists, gangster-types, hooded bigots and their legion of innocent victims. Today, sifting through everybody’s trash is the only proper way to ensure the evil doers, wing-nuts and whack jobs will ever be removed from the gene pool and anonymity has naturally evolved into the Dodo bird of personal privacy.

Maybe we didn’t need anonymity amongst our neighbors if we did have it. Hey, the vast majority of us law-abiding citizens who humbly exist somewhere below the CEO/Professional Athlete strata still have nothing to hide and nothing to fear but fear itself. But, Dog, if you ever believed that all Americans once enjoyed that small comfort of individual confidentiality known as the right to anonymity, be advised that they don’t anymore.

That’s really the drift here. How much privacy are we willing to trade for safety? This is the honest, open debate that we need to have in this country. Like Dr. Kerr says, we don’t need to hold back any longer. We can see where this is going. We know everything we need to know about the subject right now and we have no reason to be afraid of speaking privately among ourselves about this. We don’t need to wait for G-men, self-righteous talking heads, Hollywood brow-beaters or our nation’s attention-starved teenagers to show us precisely what essential privacy means to all of us.

But, umm, correct me if I’m wrong, that seems to be exactly what we are doing...makes you wonder why, doesn't it?

Cheers,

Anon

All Together

2007-11-08T18:25:00.000Z

World War I started in July, 1914, after the assassination of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

At that time Paul W. Tibbets Jr. was not yet alive. He was born seven months later on February 23, 1915 in Quincy, Illinois.

When Paul was still three years old, an armistice was signed which ceased hostilities between Germany and the Allied powers on the 11^th day of the 11^th month of 1918.

The Treaty of Versaille, officially ending World War I, was signed on June 28, 1919, when little Paul was just over four years old.

Before Paul was five, before he knew what it really meant, American President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed November 11 as the first commemoration of Armistice Day with these words:

“To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country’s service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations…”

WWI was so huge that it was romantically considered “the Great War” to some, optimistically thought of as “the War to End All Wars” by others.

Reflecting the relieved mood of a grateful nation, a site for the Liberty Memorial was dedicated in Kansas City, Missouri in 1921. Today, that towering downtown monument with eternal flame also holds the National World War I Museum. The monument is inscribed with these words:

“In honor of those who served in the world war in defense of liberty and our country.”

With typical speed and after-the-fact thoughtfulness, the U.S. Congress officially recognized the end of WWI by passing a resolution in 1926 which invited everyone to honor and remember November 11^th.

By then, Paul Tibbets Jr. was 11 years old.

In 1937, at the age of 22, Tibbets enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Corps. That same year, Japan’s Imperial Army invaded mainland China, bombed Shanghai and raped Nanjing.

When 2^nd Lt. Tibbets turned 23, Congress happily passed 52 Stat., 5 U.S. Code, Sec. 87a in 1938, which made November 11 a legal holiday, a day called Armistice Day dedicated to the celebration of world peace.

A year later in 1939, Germany invaded Poland.

By 1940, Germany had acquired Denmark and Norway, was engaged in North Africa and across the Mediterranean, and had already initiated the air battle over Britain. Japan had spread across China and attacked into Southeast Asia.

While Germany turned its attention to the Russian Front, advancing Japanese forces caught Pearl Harbor off guard on December 7, 1941.

By then, 26 year old Paul W. Tibbets Jr. was known as one of the finest bomber pilots in the U.S Eighth Air Force. He was in the lead on the first bombing raids over Europe.

About four hard years later, the Germans surrendered to the Allies in May, 1945.

The then 30 year old Colonel Tibbets piloted a shiny B-29 named after his mother, Enola Gay, from tiny Tinian Island in the Pacific. On August 6, 1945, the Enola Gay with Tibbets in the pilot seat dropped a 500 pound bomb christened Little Boy which brutally flattened Hiroshima, Japan. The estimated death toll from that single bombing attack is still debated but no denying this devastating first military use of a nuclear weapon razed the entire city, instantly vaporized several tens of thousands of the lucky, and painfully maimed a few tens of thousands more.

Two days later, the Russian Army attacked Japanese positions in Manchuria. The next day, on August 9, 1945, the Fat Boy nuclear bomb destroyed Nagasaki, Japan.

The Japanese surrendered on August 15 and the Japanese Instrument of Surrender was signed on September 2, 1945.

World War II was over before Paul Tibbets Jr. turned 31 and he’d had a hand in it.

On June 1, 1954, when Tibbets was 39, the U.S. Congress passed Public Law 380 renaming Armistice Day as Veterans Day, in honor of all American veterans of all American wars.

In 1966, at the age of 51, Brigadier General Paul W. Tibbets Jr. retired from the U.S. Air Force. During his nearly 30 years of service he had been rated as a Command Pilot and earned military awards including the Distinguished Service Cross, the Distinguished Flying Cross (which is only awarded for acts subsequent to November 11, 1918), the Air Medal and the Purple Heart.

Tibbets reportedly remarked later in life that he had no regrets about his historic mission over Hiroshima in 1945 and that he “slept fine at night” in spite of the horrific loss of life as a result of that single attack.

He may have been confident in the way he completed all of his duties yet he was dogged by that lone act for all his remaining days. He may have truly believed he was just doing his job well, a job that ultimately prevented even greater tragedy, but other people saw him differently. He was singled out not in the least because he was the first to employ a nuclear weapon. Wild rumors about his sanity chased him. Pointed accusations, confounding historical revisions and “damn big insults” were traded back and forth around him for years.

A week ago, on the first day of the 11^th month in the year 2007, his trail ended. At that age of 92, retired Brigadier General Paul W. Tibbets Jr. died at his home in Columbus, Ohio.

According to family and friends, Tibbets requested his remains be cremated. He asked for no public funeral ceremony. He wanted no headstone and declined any monument to his life or any further recognition of his service to our nation. He wished for no gravesite to become a rallying point for war protestors or anti-nuclear activists. As secure as he was with his legacy, he knew others were not. So he made his final sacrifice, that being his right to even a common burial.

Fortunately, Paul Tibbets Jr. doesn’t need a grave or a headstone. He has his day, instead.

Veterans Day: A celebration to honor America’s veterans for their patriotism, love of country and willingness to serve and sacrifice for the common good.

For America’s veterans…remember all of them…all of us.

Cheers,
Mb

The Big Dip

2007-11-06T20:49:00.000Z

Yes, I like Hitchens’ writing. But I refuse to buy his book. I’ve read what free excerpts I can find on the net, followed his debates and have self-righteously concluded that if his theme is so understandable and personally heart-felt, then he needn’t write a book about it or hold public debates. It smells like selling out to the man to me. I’ll read it entirely someday later, I suppose.

That said, I do think he hit a nerve.

That throbbing nerve has two shared branches. One end points to religion as the cause of or at least an abetting culprit to all humanity’s grinding turmoil. The other points to a kind of American Rebel angle on the Golden Rule: Believe what you want, but please leave me and my children alone.

I read the Freud versus C.S. Lewis series compliments of the Padre a couple years ago. Lewis, like Anthony Flew, had one of those “it must be” moments on a public bus near Oxford or someplace and it changed his views forever. Freud presumably remained in disbelief until his ego disappeared from this earth. I found neither man very compelling.

And I agree with you precisely, again, that a thinking person’s disappointment is always at the end of this story no matter how it’s told. What we’ve laid out among our lives seems like the perfect agnostic argument. As you can tell, I’ve searched long and hard for something to replace my agnostic ways…guess I’ll just have to wait a while longer.

But all of that has had me thinking this past week about God in the same way that I think about something we call luck.

Of course, I can’t just say that luck exists although I know many people want to believe it is real along with their beloved ghosts, leprechauns, ET and Big Foot. Still, I sense in this empirical world that good fortune is a 50-50 kind of deal. Half the time it seems people make their own luck and the other half of the time it seems there is no reasonable excuse for it. That statistic curiously reassures me that even Plato was wrong to call Reason our highest savior.

When pressed, I’ve known nearly as many people who would turn down a healthy dose of good luck as I’ve known true Communists or Christians. That is to say, I have known none. I know a lot of people who like to say, “I’d rather be lucky than good” but I admit I’ve never really understood what the hell they mean by that and I rarely ask for expansion. Any argument about it is pointless. I am forever at a loss to determine who wins and who loses when it comes to luck or God.

Bringing it up to date, this week saw the two best teams in the NFL playing against each other. The incessant hype of this game, like that of luck and God, was such a waste. I felt all along that as football fans we should just keep our mouth shut on this one. Only the players had any business getting in the middle of it. When the sports channels came to the point in the show when they were forced to say something about this game, they should have just shown a picture of the two corporate-funded mascots and breathed a pregnant, heavy sigh. I won’t even mention the teams’ names now. You know damn well who I am talking about. If there was a regular season game that should have been left alone to stand on its own merit, perhaps in the last 5 or 10 years, then this was the game. In the end, when the smoke cleared, we could all then tally up the scorecard and argue about luck versus talent and human skill versus God’s will.

Rather than during a ride on the public bus, these thoughts all came cascading down on me Sunday afternoon as I watched the vaunted Packers defeat the lowly Chiefs.

I was standing in a crowded little tavern in the blood red heart of Chief’s Nation among a horde of cheese-eating, sausage-grilling, beer-swilling, obnoxious yellow and greenies as Favre worked his magic once again. There were side-bets galore, the man-made arbitration of blind luck versus an all-knowing God if you will, and I sheepishly admit I personally contributed a case of ice cold Bud Light to the contest, but most significant to me was the Vegas-like showdown between a man named Stroke and a man named Earl.

Stroke, 55-ish, works as a grounds laborer for the county and originally hails from some small town near Milwaukee, Wisconsin. A simple, single man, he has little to show of his life other than a quick wit and an endless smile. But his pride in the Pack also knows no bounds and he saw fit to bring along a posse of like-minded thinkers with him to watch the game at the tavern. This unquenchable crowd invaded the tavern in a way that for a moment I thought they might actually drink it dry.

(I knew this would happen. I was forewarned. As everyone knows, I typically do not observe The Game with others as I tend to get irritated by obvious inattention to the details. But I made a notable exception in this case.)

Earl, 75-ish, is a revered man among children. Married several times over, he now is known to commute often with a not a few different fair ladies in the town. He is leathery, lean, and fearless to a fault. When asked what contributes to his longevity, he will demurely reply that he made a few wise investments when he was younger. I have witnessed him ride his motorcycle in the fiercest weather, under the most dangerous road conditions. I once joined him and his oldest son for another drinking contest deep in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The bet that night was that the first man to give in and use the facilities would pay the bar tab. Many hours later, I stumbled down a dark dirt road back to camp beside the ramrod winner, my shallow pockets emptied by the old man’s stamina and pain-defying persistence.

To me, Earl is like a Zorba of the Midwest.

“Earl,” growled Stroke before the game began, “is your oldest son’s backyard pool still uncovered?”

“Why, yes, Stroke, I do believe it is,” replied Earl smoothly.

“Well, then, Earl, I’ll bet you a dip in the pool after the game that the Pack wins.”

With little apparent hesitation, Earl answered, “Stroke, you’re on!”

The crowded tavern heaved and shivered as we looked out on the blustery autumn street, dried leaves blowing in the gusty wind towards a pool of nearby water which surely registered a temperature near the middle 40’s.

Towards the end of the battle, as Favre plunged for the kill, Stroke sat at the bar laughing loudly to himself, clutching a mug of warm beer in one hand while numbly stuffing his mouth with maraschino cherries from a grain-alcohol laced jar, the meaty fingers of his other hand stained and dripping with a vile pink juice.

No sooner than Favre’s business had ended, a giddy throng of gabbing drunks gathered themselves and marched two blocks to the house of Earl’s son. With no kind announcement of our arrival, we barged in through the front door, past the silent big screen tv and the coffee table covered with chips and dip. We poured through the kitchen and into the back yard where we circled the frigid-looking pool of anticipation. A couple of thoughtful cheeseheads dragged an inebriated Stroke from out of the crowd and held his head up so he could maybe focus better on the honest culmination of a wager. Always a quick study himself, Earl’s son picked up a long-handled net and scooped out some of the pesky floating leaves from the water’s surface, careful to not make any waves. Earl’s daughter in law stood cautiously in the kitchen doorway, clutching her bare arms around her middle and trembling at the sudden cool breeze which just blew so rudely through her home.

As the drunken natives bounced in rhythm and chanted his name for all to hear, Earl quickly stripped to his skivvies and took his position on the diving board. He beat his hairy chest like a wild ape, took a short step back then raced forward to the edge where a young man’s daring soul catapulted a 75 year old body high into the air above the chilly water.

It was at that frozen moment in time that my mind—ha!—a wandering thought that now I think one day may just come back to haunt the dreams of this week’s latest proud victors—my mind caught a glimpse of the beaming smile on Earl’s worn face as he dove majestically into the icy pool and a cold confidence splashed in my direction, speaking bold words so clear to me then…

“Sometimes, little boy, losers are luckier than winners after all.”

Cheers,
Mb

Smells Like Vengeance

2007-10-02T12:48:00.000Z

In his piece The Iraq Oil Grab That Went Awry, author Dilip Hiro takes one quoted line from Alan Greenspan’s book, The Age of Turbulence, and then presents his case that Iraq is in fact all about the oil.

The Greenspan quote:

"I am saddened that it is politically inconvenient to acknowledge what everyone knows: the Iraq war is largely about oil."

Not having already written books with exciting prefaces titled “Secrets and Lies” or “Blood and Earth”, I had a different response than Dilip Hiro. Instead, I was dumbstruck by a sudden depressing thought that the bureaucratic Greenspan might be truly saddened by any political inconvenience.

But I admit that sometimes I have all the informed insight and Wall Street compassion of your average Kansas wheat farmer.

It is curious though how some folks have been trained to respond quickly to any casual comment by Greenspan. And I suppose he’s accustomed to people hanging on his every word. But it seems people everywhere are waiting anxiously for someone, anyone close to the halls of Washington power to admit some painful truth.

Well, technically speaking, Greenspan wrote “largely about” not “all about” oil.

Still, I suppose what he wrote is relevant to some degree. I can’t forget the common fear of Iraq being a speed bump on the road to American oil access as it was expressed on the Arab Street in 2003, a boulevard known for submission to wild speculation and conspiracy, perhaps only matched by Wall Street itself, not to mention the selfish demand for cheap gas by industry and angry Americans like me over the last 30 years or so.

In fact, I knew people in 1991 who openly questioned whether the Kuwait Imperative was really about Purple Hearts more than it was about the crazy dream of $1.50 a gallon.

I haven’t read the whole thing but I get the impression from the general summary of his book that Greenspan, who I obviously hold in no remarkable regard, was in no better position to know what Iraq was/is truly all about than you or I.

And perhaps there lies the problem.

The tired indictments of the faithful opposition--Bush lied about Iraqi WMD, access to oil is a matter of U.S. national interest, plundering of Iraqi antiquities was overlooked while the Oil Ministry was secured, etc-- all of these oil grabbing justifications may indicate misguided, mismanaged or even deceptive actions committed by our government.

On the other end, I don't dismiss the hint that the Bush/Cheney neocons truly believe they are engaged in a Biblical experiment to save the free world from itself. If so, then Condi’s threat of mushroom clouds becomes less based on common Western empiricism and more justified in the symbolical terms of the classical fear of an unknown future. That might motivate even such a widely respected man as Powell to take one for the Gipper. That could explain the Strangelovian “no holds barred” attitude of Rummy. That might even help mitigate Feith’s practically criminal attempt to tie together Tenet’s slam-dunk evidence which existed only in the frenzied realm of institutional group-think.

But even these curious extremes are only supported by hearsay and more speculation. Oil money, God’s plan, or even the MAD Saddam excuse we’ve been offered doesn’t seem to pay the full bill in any case. (Other than beneficial retirement implications, I can't explain why Tenet and Greenspan wrote their books unless it was to muddy the waters even more.)

Is demonizing Cheney’s hunting buddies akin to Hitlerizing Saddam’s Republican Guard? Do French and Russian business revenues help explain their acquiescence? Does British sea-locked dependency help account for their more direct support? Is Bush or UBL the chosen one or the false prophet? Well, all these mysterious versions do sell ad space in the papers, don’t they? But there exists a naïve, 20^th Century sentimentality to both dramatic ends and in my small philosophical world, forgive me, there’s an argument which suggests the truth is typically hidden somewhere nearer the middle of these extremes.

Maybe we’re still too close to the sequence of events. Maybe not enough history has elapsed so that the reasons become obvious. Or maybe, as I’ve already accepted, this administration failed in every way possible to explain it to us clearly in the beginning (a frustrating aspect that still exists today). I can’t say for sure why but I know we continue grasping for some logical truth, leaping to any odd conclusion based on the latest rumors, insider revelations and tell-all memoirs.

But it is that original uncertainty which leads us to the unsatisfying definition of our present situation. Adding fuel to the blaze, next we may be jumping headlong into Iran for reasons that can best be described as “to be determined.”

Today, I’m quickly growing irritated by the “war” characterization of our occupation in Iraq but I don’t know how else to name it or how else to possibly justify the billions it costs every month. Is it a political or military-police action? Does it linger as a half-hearted response to the religion-based genocide we unleashed? Is it the essence of the vague Military Operation Other Than War made blandly famous in 90’s military terms? Why do the shadowy priorities of victory, success and benchmarks seem to regularly change direction with the unpredictable blow of the desert wind? How did we go from the honorable crusade of GWOT to a crude street fight for power in Baghdad? If it’s so goddamned important to the future of the free world, why should we care how many innocent lives are sacrificed in the process? Why are we not convinced of the necessity and why isn’t every facet of our combined strength completely, strategically leveraged toward its resolution?

Thanks primarily to a befuddled Bush administration, I believe, we certainly have no better answers for those questions than we did 4 years ago. It seems we are reduced to sifting the ashes of polished memoirs of the recently retired and searching through Cold War spy novels for any relevant reply.

But if I were an average Kansas wheat farmer, I would take a step down from the perch of my John Deere and coolly twist the kernels of truth between my fingers in plainer terms. I’d probably mutter something about it being as obvious as the dried mud on your boots and the smell of warm manure in the field. I might even say while international investment in Iraqi oil fields and secular democracy in the Middle East all sound like lofty ideals, making good business sense if not wily headlines for the latest tabloid, there’s a simple reason why the death photos of the Hussein boys were once splashed rudely across the front pages and all that had little to do with marketing strategies, defeating Satan’s armies or even the unstable price of gasoline in Hooterville.

Once we separate the shady chaff of self-important creatures like Cheney and Saddam, rejecting the hastily propagandized match pitting classical good versus unthinking evil, then the consequences of our actions become less confusing, the original man-made intent less obfuscating, and everything more perfectly in tune with the naturally dog-eat-dog design of this cruel world. Then the slightly more unsophisticated among us tend to reckon that maybe somebody just wanted to teach somebody else (and his brother) a lesson in old-fashioned revenge, a lesson that nobody would soon forget.

The question, asked in every Greek tragedy but omitted from the latest biographies and ironically unspoken in the wheat farmer's analysis, is who learned his lesson better?

Cheers,
Mb

Private Lessons

2007-09-21T15:15:00.000Z

Listening to statements by local residents concerning recent newsworthy events, I guess it’s time to be brutally honest with each other about what we are secretly doing in the assumed privacy of a restroom, among other places and other things.

A few months ago, a copy of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road found its way to my downstairs bathroom. That book was purchased for me a couple years ago but I hadn’t finished it until recently. And, honestly, I probably never would have finished it if the book had been languishing in the most expected spot, like in my office or on my bed stand.

The truth is I find reading in the potty to be a wonderful escape. I can’t control it. I sleep in the bedroom and mess around in the office with old tax forms and phone bills or whatever so there’s little time for serious reading in those places. Yes, I do often crap in the crapper, that is part of the honesty coming out here and, as Hitchens neatly pointed out recently, that blunt admission may be unusually notable for the adventurous minority who scurry hastily from one international airport to another.

But my forays into this private abyss have always had a literary and educational if not a pragmatically time-saving theme. Rather than in search of a risky rendezvous, instead I’ve been known to stoop for the advertisements on the back of a tissue box, routinely and thoroughly peruse the instructions on plastic bottles of household cleaners, and have been curiously consumed by the government warnings against improper use of lye and other specific chemical additives. In fact, if not for these sacred moments of solitude, I would have no earthly knowledge of something called FD&C Blue #2.

The Wife believes this practice may have dangerous, life threatening consequences but reading something, anything is a pleasant and necessary diversion for me while occupied in the facilities.

Fortunately for all of us, On The Road was near and available during the brilliant summer of 2007. Historically speaking, I can’t think of a more perfect time to read that book than over the course of natural events in the crapper this year.

In the end, as the dog days went by, I was not secretly surprised to detect certain similarities with A Moveable Feast. Paris can be Frisco for some. To others, the sloping countryside of the American Midwest might as well be the hills of northern Spain as the lazy tongues spoken in both forests seem so foreign to our patiently observing heroes. Beatniks and Flappers were surely born of the same wandering mother. Wild young men on urgent and pointless missions, brainlessly compliant women and strong drink or the powerful drug of choice typically make the perfect trail mix for a long and winding road. These timeless characteristics, not to mention the repetitive if not misplaced epiphanies of those attractive, wealthy few who have nothing worldly or unique to say, all add up to make an addictive story.

But there was one other common aspect that, honestly, I will never forget.

The next time some bonafide bozo tries to tell me that our words must form a clear pattern and that particular pattern must take proper sentences into a proscribed institutional style of paragraphs and meld themselves with identifiable transitions which leap from page to page, forcing the reader to want more and impressing the reader with tales of memorable drama and marketable excitement, rather than just relate ordinary things as they happen around us in all their instantaneous heat and blind misery of the numbing human moment, then I will tell that fool to take a short trip from Frisco to the New Jersey shoreline where the classic glimpse of a dim oceanfront sunrise may lead that person to think of Dean Moriarity, think of Father Dean Moriarity who we never knew, and to think of Dean Moriarity.

But, rather than aimlessly trotting around the countryside, denying our own previous admissions, I expect that simple yet brutally honest secret could be learned in the privacy of one’s own restroom and probably should be known by all.

Cheers,
Mb

Sunflower Obsessions

2007-09-21T15:05:00.000Z

Another new year’s summary:

The word “depression” has such a familiar ring to my ear. It reminds me of all the words I’ve ever heard that hide more meaning than what is displayed up front in the sequence of those simple letters. The Germans and French may arrogantly believe they set the world standard for words which belie a face-value description but I am particularly blessed to understand to some degree how the Greek and Chinese civilizations humbly set the antique wheels of our western semantics in motion.

In easy Texas-Twang English, two truths were revealed to me in the last few years.

One, rational people agree that my personality is chronically passive-aggressive which I can’t deny. Two, now, they highlight my behavior which is somewhat typical of the clinically depressed. (I can read between the lines of the lower third of most letters, by the way. I’m rather good at weaving my confrontational points into a spot where nobody will find them, too, so I recognize those kinds of hidden verses quite easily.) But if I was a believer in the face-value of all words, then I’d definitely be in trouble.

I fortunately choose to debate such simple distinctions as well as the “goodness” or “badness” of them. I once spent a good day in Greece, as a matter of fact, arguing with a friend about the existence and meaning of any word which sounds like “surreality”. That mindless effort expended a lot of excellent local wine, I might add. My pal prefers that word though I do not. We agree to disagree.

But even if I don’t like that word, I admit I tend to try and project it as often as possible. In other words, don’t confuse a distressed Bamboo with a melancholy me. They are different monsters.

I once met up with a different old friend in Amsterdam and, after a night of routine carousing in the districts, we toured the Van Gogh museum together. I highly recommend that place, if you’ve never been.

Luckily, that week the Van Gogh had a special showing, a comparison of sorts between the forever-connected works of VG and Paul Gauguin.

It’s a lightly guarded secret that long after beloved cousins vacated the house across the street, somewhere later in High School I think, a freshly sullen I discovered Gauguin. His life story affected me deeply and in some ways I probably set out on a path to relive or capture at least a bit of what he sought. In that sense, I became a fan of his art. Not for its intrinsic face-value but more for his passions that inspired it all. So, you can probably imagine how excited I was to finally stand in front of his crude paintings.

If you one day read my true life story, you will most likely see a pattern of what appears to be scenes of escape, “The Run Away, Pt II”, and so on. There is a deceptive but calculated intent to that pattern, I think. I’ve always chose the opposite of any predicted path and I got especially nervous if the expectation implied any hint of success.

(While I was in the service, I knew people who would speak of routine military assignments, visible tasks destined for promotion and so on, and then describe unique underground positions that were cryptically described as “my” kinds of jobs. I didn’t always know what I was doing in all those cases but it is the way I went and most of it turned out well, I guess. It comes to mind that I would never want to be governor of a state but dutifully working behind the scenes as Lt Gov could be my dream job. I recall once thinking I might be pleased to be a professional butler, a humble man-servant serving tea and crumpets to the rich and powerful, warmly tucking the blissful elite into bed each night while murmuring, “Perhaps a little charity is in order, sir.” Maybe that’s just past lives speaking to me across the cosmos or something but, hey, the world needs people like me, too.)

In one favored speech that I save for young lads who are thinking of finding the perfect life partner, I promote the idea of listing out precisely what they believe men are searching for in women and then recommend marrying the first woman they meet who completely fails the test. That method may not lead to instant happiness, I tell them, but it is surely the recipe for eternal curiosity and satisfaction. Such advice is the True Gauguin coming out of me, I suppose.

Anyway, I recall two memorable displays at the Amsterdam museum.

The first display was a line up of the sunflower paintings. For a short while, Vince and Paul shacked up in France or Belgium, I think, and vainly attempted to perfect their art merely for art’s sake. (Another admirable concept, IMHO.) In that tight atmosphere, Paul agreed to Vince’s obsessive, insane game so the simple sunflower was chosen for painting and painting and re-painting. Vince would paint it his way, then Paul would do it his way, and then eventually they would do it all over again. There must have been a least a dozen sunflower creations by each master side by side on one wall of the museum.

Looking at the art side by side like that, it was very difficult to decide which style was better. I naturally gravitated toward Gauguin at first but each had their strengths and their weaknesses. The debate over who had actually perfected the depiction of a sunflower remains unresolved in my view. (Of course, I know that it was this kind of close confrontation among them that eventually drove them apart. Gauguin who saw little value in boring repetition would soon retreat to the South Pacific and Van Gogh would then return to the relative safety of his family’s stewardship. Sure, there’s more to the story. But who really cares?)

The second display, however, laid it out for everyone to see. On a far wall of the museum, over in a dim corner, one particular painting pulled me in. As I neared the painting, it magically changed in a way that forced me to stop my advance towards it. Curious, I recall I had to back up and approach it again.

Sure enough, I found that this enchanting scenic painting of a milk-green swampy everglade almost moved with me as I wandered around the room. It was not a barren still-life snapshot, not the same painting up close as it was far away or even when viewed side to side. It was then that I realized only Van Gogh’s obsession could come close to perfecting such timeless art. It was only through the light of his diseased eye that another person from a different generation could perceive such a dimension. I resolved that my hero Gauguin, in spite of an admirable attempt to be marketable, to use the cliché, was flat and pale in comparison.

So, to the point, both of these characters were obsessed. Their obsessions took different forms, as did their art, as did their methods of ultimate retreat and escape. When evaluating their genius, they may be characterized as chronic but not debilitated or even dysfunctional in any sense of those words. Their unrelenting pursuit of art’s attraction may define our fixation with a form of life-long Su Doku (a curse which I share with Cousin Charlie) as the mathematical gray area between a “love” and a “nuisance”. In fact, it is such shadowy obsession that drives men to recreate lasting beauty in their own remarkable style.

That is my take on all that, anyway. This is all about beauty, chased about in the naturally sad and contemplative way of human beings. And this is a story of beauty hidden in the simple, repetitive vision of a sunflower as a way of obtaining the perfected vision of a silent milk-green swamp. A vision that in some ways has the double-meaning word “I” written all through it while magically removing that word at the same time to the extent that the “I” in it looks different to everyone no matter from which direction they may approach.

As I’ve said before, I once believed my first book would have to be titled “The Most Often Used Word”. But recently, perhaps in memory of Van Gogh and Gauguin, I’ve begun to think that the depressed-action word “Denying” must preface the title in some unusual way.

Don’t know if you’ve ever tried to write 2,000 joined words without using the words “I” or “me” but I purposefully have and believe me it’s not easy.

(It is at this point in the speech that I typically recommend a classic book titled “A Soldier of the Great War” written by Mark Helprin, who is one of the finest writers of our time.)

I agree with you, though. Looking back over this past year, chances are good that Bamboo will take the aggressive path of Vincent. But maybe in silent tribute to Paul, “I” will still passively long for that tiny tropical island home away from home.

It remains very deceptive but please don’t use the word “fear” in any case. These sunflower obsessions are manageable, brought about by more philosophical and rational internal debates rather than any pointless faith in “surreality”, and in many ways positive adaptations with regards to the current “real” environment.

In other words, yeah, this year's production, meager as it may have been, was just as cathartic as the last...

Cheers,
Mb

Every Mother's Lesson

2007-09-08T10:21:00.000Z

Some days it is hard to understand why we do things. Other days, it’s hard to understand why we don’t do much of anything at all. And on the Friday Afternoon of Life, as the crude indulgences of happy hour begin to have their unrelenting effect, the fact that few lasting resolutions ever unleash from most human inquisition can be a real pisser.

Over the past few months, a great deal of time was wasted while thinking about this little problem. This particularly irrational interlude slowly spun out of control as questions grew upon questions like the gradually emerging branches of a desperately clinging vine. The damning light of worldly existence alternately flashed on and off in its self-serving, self-contained corner but never gave more than a shadowy clue to the cosmic uncertainty hidden everywhere else. It was enough to make one curious son wonder what, exactly, did our mothers ever teach us about the give and take of our action and inaction, the yin-yang of our doing and undoing, our delicate tip-toe dance on the balancing beam of a brain limited only by its own innate blindness.

Yeah, that’s exactly what it was like this past summer. Whew! Man!

Naturally, this low period saw The Wife regularly shake her head with displeasure, The Man angrily demand his pint of blood, and The Weary Fool silently withdraw to safer, cooler confines. A cautious retreat was deemed necessary and we all know that story.

But from this momentary drought of thought a fragrant blossom did bloom. The idea was then finally settled upon that, when speaking generally of most things in the universe, of course, what it is and what it is about is not nearly as significant as why it is in the first place.

Well, it’s obvious to most old dogs that bold action is required in many scenarios where inaction is admittedly dangerous. Calculated intervention, smartly designed to thwart certain threats and quickly prepared when catastrophic omens are revealed, is the legendary stuff of human progress.

But, hopefully now you can see, it is comforting for many seasoned turkey hunters and cave dwellers alike to agree that pure, indifferent laziness has its time and place as well. Without such indolence, any uncontested agreement like this would be impossible.

Thus, the truth of “the why” is in the hardened, crusted pudding, so to speak.

What is described, then, is a lesson in heavy patience and slothful endurance stirred with not the least bit of tireless dedication. Only within a strict framework of painful lethargy does the mind finally clear itself for true enlightenment, anyway. To understand why, one must cease what it is and divorce from what it is about to really get to the heart of the matter.

But perhaps writing is not just a foolish pastime of the chronically idle as I once feared. Perhaps the codified methods of art, style and content of what is written are not nearly as critical as I was once led to believe. Perhaps, if I had read Dr. Maryanne Wolf’s words earlier in life, I would know that writing is simply a part of an intricate and evolutionary process. Perhaps, then I would have more quickly understood how the uneasy balance of writing and reading advances our miraculous development in ways that we can only dream about or view from a microscopic level.

In fact, after reading more of Dr. Wolf, perhaps I might lazily agree that writing is the magical fuel of our dreams, that the act of reading quenches our natural thirst for wisdom, and one day this unique give-and-take practice will be known as the original elixir of human awareness itself.

Without a book or two to support us, I might suggest, what would we really know to say about our own lonely, muted soul?

Maybe then I could say the ancient concept of human wisdom was inaccurate if not immature, that the fears of old Socrates were misplaced. Maybe then I could say that writing, no matter how bad, is truly good.

Some may claim “rationalization” but I prefer to name it a “deduction of inquiry” and I find that selective position incredibly, finally encouraging--especially since I’ve been happily out of work for the last few months.

Honestly, it may leave one to think that the universal answers are not nearly as important as the unending questions, not to mention the slowly unwinding or chaotic paths we may follow as a result. Such questions lead the laziest among us to agree that it is not the cold words in the book but the warm analysis which comes after it that counts. And preferably, in my case anyway, that profound analysis will come sneaking in on the heals of a decent afternoon nap.

So that Proust quote, “that which is the end of their wisdom is but the beginning of ours", may very well be the only reasonable and permanent lesson that every mother should teach her child in the beginning.

Cheers,

Simple Choices

2007-04-21T10:06:00.000Z

Look, it’s pretty simple.

Our government is only as good as the protection it provides to us. That’s the reason we have a government in the first place.

History proves that some governments haven’t always been founded in the defense of average people. In fact some past governments were designed only to protect those who governed. That situation always left average people scrambling to fend for themselves.

But that’s not what the American experiment is about.

In this republic we don’t expect neighbors, farmers, business owners or school administrators to keep us safe from anything much less safe from ourselves. Individuals, acting freely upon their own desires, are not bound to keep common interests in mind while exercising the profound liberties which are at the core of our beliefs.

We elect our representatives to enact laws designed to keep us safe. We fund police forces and a judiciary to enforce those laws and maintain order. We establish a national military to defend us from external enemies and we create state guards to defend us from within if the need arises. We collectively train and equip large agencies of public servants to ensure fairness, equality and safety in every corner of our country.

We, the people of this nation, are and always have been the deciders. We oversee and fund the whole deal. We empower our representatives to take care of this business of protection. Our founding fathers chose long ago to place individual liberty in the highest regard and relegate our collective defense to the concern of our caretakers. Even the arming of our population was at first designed more as a bulwark against tyranny rather than as a promise of individual safety.

So today we may be held hostage to our concept of personal liberty.

When we can’t go to work, go to school, or even wake up in our own beds without wondering where the next attack will come from, then this concept has failed us. When all our laws, our police, and our courts can’t keep lethal weapons out of the hands of rogue malcontents, violent criminals and psychotic nut-jobs, then this system has failed us. When our own representative decisions regularly come back to haunt us, when things are not fair for the majority, when protective equality is only enjoyed by a minority and when we all are constantly on guard then our government has failed us.

Judging current events, we could say our government fails to keep us safe and in many ways we have allowed it to fail.

Now we may have another simple choice to make.

As the deciders, we can end the experiment. We can take back the responsibility of our own individual safety. We can unfurl our “Don’t Tread on Me” flags in each yard and build fortified walls around every town square. We can take individual liberty to its extreme end point. We can arm every man, woman and child in this country to defend against the rogue malcontents, violent criminals and psychotic nut-jobs who lurk in our society. We can give up on the repeated failures of our institutions and go back to the time when governments only existed to defend and enrich themselves.

Or, as the deciders, we can start over. We can demand that the system adapts to more adequately meet our present needs. We can elect fresh representatives who see it as most of us see it. We can change the laws. We can thoughtfully write over the anachronistic constitutional explanations for the rights, privileges, and benefits of responsible citizenship in our nation. We can devote more time, effort and resources to enforcing newer laws. We can take lethal weapons from the hands of those who only want to harm us. We can say a “well-regulated militia” is still important, in the sense that all citizens may form a militia against potential tyranny, but that the regulations in question should be more tightly defined and more strictly controlled. We can choose to sacrifice some old concept of individual liberty for the modern higher price of collective security. We can restate the declaration of our independence to explain that there’s no bestowed right enjoyed by a few which outweighs the beneficial safety of the many.

Or we can just lock our doors, draw our curtains, return to warily minding our own peaceful business and hope our mercenaries of democracy someday do the job we hired them to do.

The choice seems simple. Doesn’t it?

Cheers,

The High Price of News

2007-04-08T15:25:00.000Z

This is a short post about an article written by David Corn, The Nation’s Washington editor. In a piece titled “Who Will Pay for the News?” Mr. Corn wrote about Main Stream Media (MSM) reporting versus “free” news and the avalanche of independent internet news sites.

In Mr. Corn’s piece, he describes modern students who regularly get their news from an array of the well-known MSM avenues. Yet, he says, barely a handful of those students admit to actually paying for any of it.

Mr. Corn warns that much of what we comment on and what we learn about in our world comes to us “because of the work of journalists toiling within mainstream media environs” and that we forsake the MSM at our own peril. It takes money to make that happen and in the end he encourages us to “support your local MSM”, in other words “Pay for It”, otherwise risk losing access to seasoned, educated reporters who know how to dig for the truth.

In this case, the truth is I doubt Mr. Corn’s concise revelation is news-worthy. If you are like me, then for the last few years you have dragged your butt out of bed each day and read “the news” from numerous sources which you technically did not pay for.

Now, I’m talking about comfort levels here. Personally, I do prefer printed versions. I found myself struggling to read an excellent New Yorker on-line piece on Wolfowitz recently. It was well written but 12 full pages of internet reading goes a bit beyond even my limit of interest.

Yet, anyone who fashions themselves as an average modern American, in tune with our addictive technology, would probably say that only a fool would pay for something that is made available for free. I quit subscribing to my local newspaper a long time ago. If a “news site” requires subscription fees, I simply don’t read it.

But I agree with the statement that information, specifically factual information, is not free. There is a price for it all and somebody has to pay for it.

Generally speaking, facts are valued by the variable qualities of timeliness, relevancy and accuracy. Perhaps you may claim the facts have a different quality, as well, but that pretty well sums up the issue for me.

I know that a misplaced emphasis on any one of those qualities instantly devalues the fact in question.

Mr. Corn makes a good case that there are indications when the timeliness of MSM reporting is lacking. On one hand, the MSM quickly relayed the claims of the Bush administration regarding WMD dangers in Iraq. On the other hand, the MSM “delayed” reporting that those claims were utter bullshit—and took a mighty wide track around that delayed summary, I might add.

We may gather many clues from this mainstream example but we, the readers, may specifically note how a perfectly accurate and relevant report can lose its common value in terms of misplaced timeliness.

Mr. Corn also makes a good case regarding the galaxy of independent “free” internet sources, particularly the hated and feared “bloggers” who provide unqualified and unpaid reports of a different nature, presumably undermining the profitability of traditional MSM resources. Here, as you are most likely painfully aware, independent people may now outpace traditional media in terms of timely reporting on many issues such as government intrigue, political shenanigans and cover-ups, and rumored conspiracies of all colors. As Mr. Corn notes, these revelations often take the form of a meandering “rant” which has little basis in vetted, researched truth, the kind of truth that only “journalists toiling within mainstream media environs” are capable of uncovering.

From this independent example we may note how a perfectly relevant and most timely claim of “the news” may be worthless in terms of accuracy.

Now, there’s the curious part.

You see, I am doing this for free. I am posting this without being paid. What I’m doing is not “news” in the traditional sense. I am commenting on something that Mr. Corn does for a living. He brought the subject up. Without him, without somebody paying him to write things like this, my comment about it would have even less of an impact than it does now. I understand this.

And I wonder, but not too often, about who actually is getting paid. Who makes money providing blogspot service, for example? I don’t know but it’s not me, I can tell you that.

But it is no wonder to me that I do not pay money to Mr. Corn’s vaunted MSM for factual reporting. If anything, the only way I do pay is in being lead by the nose to read “news” which is not new. I can read the Kansas City Star any day of the week, for example, and not be surprised how the concocted headlines and AP articles all read word-for-word the same as those in contained in the USA Today or CNN on-line.

I don’t think I could go a week now without reading alternate views and reports from Asia Times On-Line or the International Herald Tribune which have magically become more trustworthy, technologically advanced and “freer” versions of my local MSM. It is only from these avenues that I learn of remarkable writers like Howard W. French.

http://www.howardwfrench.com/

Mr. French is employed by the MSM. But it is only through his independent web site that I get the true and relevant glimpse of his world.

From the mass of free independent sites on the internet, from the global disease of graphomania, I get a perspective that I can’t otherwise purchase and one that simply doesn’t exist consistently in the heavily controlled output dictated by the Westernized, AP-ized MSM conglomerates.

Mr. Corn may cry that traditional journalists lose their jobs as a result. But I expect many will take up new employment as free, independent contractors of the world’s news.

We all may pay indirectly for timeliness at the cost of accuracy via non-traditional sources, or more directly for accuracy at the cost of timeliness via traditional sources. But who or what, exactly, should we pay for relevancy?

In this case, it seems we may already be getting something for nothing.

Cheers,

Hot Buttons

2007-03-31T15:08:00.000Z

From the desk of The Chairman, re: Hot Button Issues of The Day

To: ALL

Salutations and so forth …

Recent BBC report: “A move to provide free internet access to native Indian tribes to help protect the Amazon rainforest from illegal logging has been announced in Brazil.”

Astounding news! Amazing technology! Curious, and I’m still attempting to decipher the meaning of those words, but I don’t think it’s a joke. Could be some sort of South American prank but I don’t think so. (Please have someone, anyone, read the full report and notify our agent in Rio that me and The Wife will be visiting/inspecting again this spring … umm … standard rules of engagement, and so on.)

But it is as if very few folks are in a laughing mood right now, anyway. This new year is about a third of the way through already and, up until now, the annual theme seems to hinge on an agonizing list of “non-binding resolutions” piling up in the Out Box.

Well, I agree, it is all very confusing, it has little to do with our bottom line and there’s no time for laughter. We have too much work to do. Allow me to briefly recap.

For example, I see here this note that we need some new laws. Indications are the old ones aren’t doing their job. From the Seven Deadly Sins to the Twelve Commandments, nobody -- nobody – seems to be paying any attention.

Murder? Oh, that’s a good one. That’s a perfectly written law, another Thou Shalt Not declaration which seems to make sense and one that’s been in the books for a long time. Yes, it can be mitigated to lesser crimes like manslaughter and justifiable homicide but, to my recollection, the rule generally states that if you kill a person then you must be punished in some way.

Maybe PR should spin up on that again. I hope it comes as no surprise to anyone.

It seems so simple, I am not suggesting that law is bad and I’m sure the punishment comes in more forms than just one. But I agree, maybe it just needs a little selective reinforcement. I always thought that laws of the land were written to codify the most beneficial desires of society, OUR society. Perhaps, judging an earthly society of mankind which appears so intent on killing each other off in one way or another or so determined to destroy its natural environment, the language of the laws should be restated to reflect the truth of the matter. It’s almost as if it might be better to just go ahead and say the law only applies to those under the law, excepting those who are above it from any unduly or rude concern.

(Please contact our Legal Dept. on this subject; I need to speak with someone, anyone, down there.)

“What is the point,” to paraphrase Missus Secretary of State, “what is the point of having it if you don’t use it?”

Well, she was talking about something different but that is my point exactly.

Maybe murder is such an inbred condition of man that only those who are held below the demarcation line of purchased discipline and knowledge should ever be held accountable. We can’t expect the cautious caretakers to be responsible for the indiscrete actions of their humble servants. We, the ruling class, do not drive or take the bus to work. We tele-commute or are chauffeured. To my recollection, the moneyed elite do not cook their own meals, they are served their feasts. Our corporate leaders do not wallow in dim, smoky bars watching televised sporting events, they attend lavish galas and calmly observe the game from posh executive suites. These are honest expectations of the status we hold in the community.

I am a firm believer that all should be judged by a jury of self-righteous peers and holding the elite to the same standards as the underprivileged just doesn’t seem fair.

What’s this? Abortion, gay marriage and gun control? Who put this in here? Hot button issues to some, perhaps quick and easy political choices to others, but humdrum concerns to only those hungry fish who swim just below the thermo layer of privilege, those who will never sense the warm enlightenment of a sun created to shine upon them. Fun topics to chat about with your neighbor across the rustic picket fence, I suppose, but murky issues for our suntanned elite to casually ignore. Please!

Universal health care and education? Aha! Finally some good news! These may only be pipe dreams for the destitute and the working class but beneficial tools already bequeathed by the corpulent fathers of fortunate sons and rightfully so. We know about this. At least a few of our many earned these rights and we can and should take some pride in that!

Ehhh … The environment? The ENVIRONMENT? This is where I draw the line, folks. The environment is a resource to be managed and programmed for steady future growth. A diet of pristine beauty that once existed can be fed to the ignorant masses but all the laws must be changed immediately if not sooner to reflect the interests of the shareholders. As a result, I regret to inform you all that one day the water may be colored orange and the trees may be burnt black. But fear not, the sky will always be blue somewhere. Think nothing more of it.

(Those jokers at Legal … are they in today or not?)

Well, that really only leaves me two notes to consider: taxes and a balanced-budget.

Please, people, pay your taxes and pay them on time. I don’t really think I need to remind you that Accounting has done a heck of a job trimming the fat. I see some concern about where the money is all going, indictments regarding certain flamboyant expenditures and so on, but trust me, it all goes to serve your better interests. And if any of you think that I’m going to answer another 2 AM phone call and be driven in to bail you out, well, you’re wrong. I am not doing that again! Word to the wise, you know. As to the balance of things, well, until we see some improvement in the numbers (SALES! ARE YOU LISTENING?) or until the planned takeover in Austria goes through, we will be subsisting on credit for some time to come. So, be prepared to operate under austere conditions, limited funding for future programs, and so on, and so on.

Umm … of course, it’s all very non-binding, to be sure … hope this finds you all well … looking forward to the annual roundup in Houston this fall … warmest regards … The Chairman, etc, etc.

Cheers,

Nixonian Moments

2007-03-24T14:39:00.000Z

In August of 1973, Vice President Spiro T. Agnew said, “I am innocent of any wrongdoing.” A young lad I knew back then listened to that statement and believed it.

The young lad then listened to President Richard M. Nixon tell the world how he still supported his vice president. The young lad believed that, too.

Oh, back then, that young lad was what they call naïve.

When Agnew resigned in October of the same year, after pleading nolo contendere in federal court to various bribery charges, the young lad was rudely enlightened to the truth which hides behind fancy words. Suddenly, it seemed to the young lad, all the words he had spent so much time and effort learning up to that point changed in a big way.

They did not lose their meaning but simply reflected the opposite of their original intent. With this understanding, ‘yes’ was forever ‘no’ and ‘no’ was forever ‘yes’.

A month later, on November 17, 1973, a date which should live in infamy, the young lad listened closely as 400 Associated Press folks were told that President Nixon had not profited from public service.

"I have earned every cent. And in all of my years in public life I have never obstructed justice. People have got to know whether or not their president is a crook. Well, I'm not a crook."

President Nixon, 11/73

It was somewhat comforting then for the young lad to learn a few months later, in April, 1974, that the White House announced Nixon would pay $432,787.13 in back taxes plus interest as a result of investigations into his finances.

This policy of using words with opposite intentions, thought the young lad, was a very effective tool, indeed. It seemed every time it was employed, it signaled that a nolo contendere truth was about to be unveiled. And Nixon and his particular crowd, the young lad noted, had mastered this policy with great effect.

What would life be like in this world where all spoken words only represented their opposite meanings? It was not known but, as time flowed on unflinchingly, the young lad grew to anxiously await the declarations of proud men. As each statement of opposite nature was spoken, the young lad dissected it, glorified it, and transcribed it for posterity in a small notebook he titled “Nixonian Moments in History.”

"Our government has a firm policy not to capitulate to terrorist demands... We did not—repeat, did not—trade weapons or anything else for hostages, nor will we.”

President Ronald Reagan, 12/86

A year later, in response to accusations that he really did know public funds were being secretly diverted during the Iran-Contra affair, President Ronald Reagan said, “I just didn’t know.”

Such brilliance, gushed the young lad! This journal entry reveals his joy: “How perfect, how succinct, how utterly Nixonian!”

When it came to words of opposite intention, the young lad then expected nothing less from a man called the Great Communicator. The young lad later noted that even if President George H.W. Bush was able to keep a straight face and say “No new taxes” without a waver in his voice, Reagan was still the King.

But the truth would be restrained and the big wheel of illusion kept on rolling.

Speaking to the media, President Bill Clinton’s voice did waver as he declared, “I want to say one thing to the American people. I want you to listen to me. I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky."

With a raised clenched fist, he went on: "I never told anyone to lie, not a single time, never. These allegations are false and I need to go back to work for the American people."

That was in January, 1998, and for some the era of words with opposite meanings was just beginning. To the lad, who by then was a young man already wet and weak with unclenched fists, it was more than just what “is is or isn’t” but it was at the same time all just more of the same game.

Honestly, though, even this young man who had devoted his adult life to the study of words with opposite meanings was not prepared for what would happen next.

“Again, I want to thank you all for -- and, Brownie, you're doing a heck of a job. The FEMA Director is working 24 -- (applause) -- they're working 24 hours a day.

Again, my attitude is, if it's not going exactly right, we're going to make it go exactly right. If there's problems, we're going to address the problems. And that's what I've come down to assure people of. And again, I want to thank everybody.

And I'm not looking forward to this trip. I got a feel for it when I flew over before. It -- for those who have not -- trying to conceive what we're talking about, it's as if the entire Gulf Coast were obliterated by a -- the worst kind of weapon you can imagine. And now we're going to go try to comfort people in that part of the world.

Thank you. (Applause.)”

Applause, indeed, wrote the young man in September, 2005. Applause, applause, applause! Every item covered, every truth befuddled, every word magically crucified and exposed for what it is.

Could it get any better?

Yes, there was still something lacking, thought the young man. It was no time to ease up.

In this critical period, we need more, he thought.

“Secretary Rumsfeld's energetic and steady leadership is exactly what is needed at this critical period," President George W. Bush said in a written statement in April, 2006.

Good. That was close! Could not have said it better myself, thought the young man.

Then, the Washington Post reported that during a recent news conference on Capitol Hill, when asked about the declining support for his Attorney General Alberto Gonzales, Bush interjected: "He's got support from me."

How strange! How oddly indirect and passive!

Yet, the now old man cautiously entered that quote into the last page of Nixonian Moments and closed the book. ‘We have now come full circle,’ he thought to himself.

Gonzales is doomed and Nixon would be proud.

On the death of Nixon, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson offered the following dispatch:

“Some people will say that words like scum and rotten are wrong for Objective Journalism--which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objective rules and dogma that allowed Nixon to slither into the White House in the first place. He looked so good on paper that you could almost vote for him sight unseen. He seemed so all-American, so much like Horatio Alger, that he was able to slip through the cracks of Objective Journalism. You had to get Subjective to see Nixon clearly, and the shock of recognition was often painful.”

Yeah, thought the old man, the Doctor was right about that. When judging words with opposite meanings, a Subjective approach is absolutely necessary. The “built-in blind spots” of Objectivity prevent us from acknowledging the illusory content of unintended meaning. The ultimate and intoxicating nolo contendere result is only possible in the minds of people who are led by the nose to drink from the stagnant waters of a frothy subjective analysis.

Here, as the old man sadly noted in his last chapter, we may have a democratic republic still inebriated if not suffering a wickedly enduring hangover from the final words of one dark gatekeeper of the curiously subjective, words which may never be overshadowed in their ironic tribute to the truth in opposite meanings:

“There is one cause above all to which I have been devoted and to which I shall always be devoted for as long as I live.

When I first took the oath of office as President 5 1/2 years ago, I made this sacred commitment, to ‘consecrate my office, my energies, and all the wisdom I can summon to the cause of peace among nations.’

I have done my very best in all the days since to be true to that pledge. As a result of these efforts, I am confident that the world is a safer place today, not only for the people of America but for the people of all nations, and that all of our children have a better chance than before of living in peace rather than dying in war.

This, more than anything, is what I hoped to achieve when I sought the Presidency. This, more than anything, is what I hope will be my legacy to you, to our country, as I leave the Presidency.

To have served in this office is to have felt a very personal sense of kinship with each and every American. In leaving it, I do so with this prayer: May God's grace be with you in all the days ahead.”

The resignation speech of Richard M. Nixon, 8/8/74

Cheers,

The Story of Our Lives

2007-03-17T23:13:00.000Z

As I walked into the Two Dogs Café, I braced myself for the possiblity that the patrons of the bar would be drenched with gloom and despair. If my fears were founded, I knew it would not be a happy day.

But before I could even sit down or get a feel for the atmosphere, a short and dark Carlos of Sturgis waved to me from the corner of the bar.

“How’s Bamboo today?” he asked cheerfully in his standard third person. I’ve noticed that this removed acknowledgment is his favorite and, being the charismatic leader he is, he has encouraged many others in the area to speak in this same fashion.

I gladly realized my fears were misplaced and then thought that it was curious how a selected reading of Hemingway had so easily encouraged me to reconsider time. But that week I had a lot of time to reconsider it.

At some point, long before I reached the bar, I also read about the modern scientists who now claim time travel to the past is impossible. They reported nothing new, of course, about travel to the future.

Fools, I thought. Had they not read Hemmingway? Had they not traveled in their minds to days gone by to learn from anyone? Had I not learned their own claim only after they had spoken it?

Earlier that afternoon I sped up the ramp onto the tired, looping interstate. Approximately two minutes after I began my trip down the highway, I slowed to a stop in between exits. The traffic had clogged and I could see that an accident had occurred only moments before about 300 meters in front of me. Soon, other stopped cars and trucks surrounded me there in between the off ramps. I switched off the truck’s engine and sat there helplessly watching as a screaming ambulance, fire truck and other emergency vehicles all responded promptly to the scene.

I could see that soon after the emergency crews arrived their urgency was replaced with a more methodical pace. Bad news here, I thought. Yet it was a well orchestrated response, no doubt one that took considerable practice to perfect.

Crash scene photos were taken, crucial distances were measured and witnesses were isolated and interviewed. Paramedics first scrambled with heavy gear and then walked with a brisk understanding of their task and the nonchalant tow tuck driver stood quietly near his truck and smoked a cigarette. As their orderly routine progressed, I realized I would be there a while.

So, I retrieved The Sun Also Rises from its secret hiding spot and proceeded to finish the book there on the highway while the fatal accident was cleared away a few hundred meters in front of me.

I only had about 70 pages remaining. Honestly, up to that point, I found the story meandering and filled with pointless dialogue. Perhaps, I thought, it was only pointed in how it had once affected and altered American literature. Had it been written today, though, I doubted it would have found a publisher.

Semantics is alive and the words in this story are so old. Sound cautions for any future author, I suppose, but I wondered how any modern child could understand them now. The words “sore” and “tight”, for example, were employed in a very trendy way for the time but in uncommon way for our reference.

After the first few chapters, I had to ask young D$ to confirm the style in which the word “rather” is spoken by major characters in the book. To my mind, whether you are prone to the harsh Midwestern “r” or the softer coastal version, you would never properly voice that word in the tonal way Hemmingway heard it if you hadn’t been fed a steady diet of high-browed movies from the 1940’s.

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Lady Ashley.

The catchy little tune “pity and irony” was sung by the entire chorus throughout but, in fact, I discovered little irony rising to the surface.

But then I entered the arena and was finally introduced to the bull fight and the grand festival of Pamplona. It was the part of the story that I was anxiously awaiting but it still took me by surprise. As the scene went on, I wondered about all the possible ways to describe it and the unlimited endings it could have had. I expected that if it was like a modern American novel it was at this point that the plot would twist and turn into something more intriguing than what had proceeded. I halfway pondered how the bullfighter’s painful goring and bloody death would be described. I wondered how his unfulfilled love would bear up in the face of such tragedy.

Then the story ended with only the slightest tribute to what might have been.

Ha! What I thought for moment might be allusion to Hollywood, turned out to be more like testimony to Kansas: Waterless and flat -- very flat.

I closed the book and put it back in its secret hiding place. I wanted it to end differently but concluded my summary would end the same nonetheless. I thought that if I had been around at the time I would have urged an alternative. But it was very real, I guessed, and the author was shaped by his own perceptions of reality like we all are. In fact, I believed, those practiced, dishonest perceptions are what define our reality. If we just realized that effect and practiced it some more, maybe we would one day find a way to alter our reality just by thinking about it. Maybe we could then travel anywhere to any time and change the endings to better suit us. Maybe if we really wanted peace and justice in a world full of hate and crime, all we had to do was think about it really hard. I thought about that as I sit there frustrated in the traffic jam and I closed my eyes and tried to visualize myself driving happily down the highway towards my destination in the near future. Maybe, I thought, if I could just picture it clearly then the sea of cars would part and my vision would become reality.

The cars didn’t move and neither did I, or so it seemed.

And that’s where I’m stuck now, I thought, perfectly confusing the past while not seeing the present for what it is. Maybe all our individual perceptions work against each other. Maybe it was only in someone else’s reality that I was where I wanted to be while my present perception remained stalled. Maybe, I thought, it’s this little problem I have with the true now that keeps our perceptions from ever agreeing.

Finally, I awoke without any great fanfare and the line of cars and trucks ahead of me began to hum and creep forward so I started my engine and slowly followed the line, noting with surprise that I had sat there reading and thinking at full stop on the highway for nearly an hour and a half.

As I inched past the surreal scene of the wreck, my eyes quickly scanned the red and blue flashing light for clues to the devastation of the modern bullfight. In spite of my mild irritation for the delay in my travel, I quickly understood that I had nothing to complain about. I realized that then, at nearly that precise moment, shocked family members were just being notified of a terrible tragedy. More sad news from the past, more maddening reports from a now that had already happened, I thought.

And then the wrecked vehicle came into my view.

A crumpled motorcycle with mangled handle bars and dented fuel tank leaned on the road. I could tell only that it was a soft tail body style and its color had once been a dark purple. The tow truck driver shoveled fluid absorbent under the wreckage to mop the spilled oil and gas.

Suddenly, I fought with an unwanted and frightful thought as it crossed my mind. “It looks like Carlos’ bike,” I reluctantly told myself as I crawled slowly past the scene.

Soon, I was speeding down the highway, leaving the wreckage behind me, exactly where I wanted to be at one time. But try as I might to dismiss the idea that Carlos had lost his life on the road, that distressing thought lingered in the back of my mind. Once I completed my trip, I raced back to Two Dogs Café to anxiously read the past news and hoped I would arrive there long before my false perceptions did.

“Bamboo is fine,” I replied to Carlos as I sat down at the bar. “And it’s good to see Carlos alive and well.”

“Hey, I do what I can,” he answered with a sly smile while tipping his glass towards me, “but I can only do so much.”

That may be the story of our lives, I thought, the story of our lives.

Cheers,

Children of the Lost Gen

2007-03-10T13:17:00.000Z

“…Time is a tyrant, a menace that spares not one … Time becomes little more than a question of what? What is time? Modern thought is based on this question of time. And from an inquiry of time has gone a question of the nature of time. In modern literature, the thought of time has spawned from the works of St. Augustine, Joyce, Woolf, Kafka, Mann, Eliot, Sartre, Proust, Conrad, James, and Faulkner. Each writer chose to explore time and problems relating to time.”

Stolen from the hidden files of D$

In our time, it’s safe to expect the days will grow longer before they grow shorter. Or is it the other way around?

Whatever circular method you may choose, last week was a pleasant and delectable Movable Feast when all things were wonderful, just wonderful, and the smallest details unveiled great insight. With no better preparation than that, this week welcomed a reluctant realization that the Sun Also Rises on every corner of this earth. A slow and plodding realization, more like a very long letter home rather than a brisk read of current conditions and perhaps if Lady Ashley had only disciplined herself more, somehow found a way to keep her witty little mouth shut every now and then, things would have turned out completely different.

Unlike most other chains of events studied under modern man’s stern microscope, Hemingway’s unusual life is best reflected in reverse order. It’s laughable to suggest that the first chapter, written decades before, could even begin to approach the weight of those that came later. To understand a man and his lost generation, it seems, the last chapter always comes first. The wise reader must start the reading with his death.

That way certainly eliminates the guess work and saves a considerable amount of time.

Using every predictable device known to our literary detective, it’s clear now that the puddled mass of warm wax on the dinner table once proudly stood in the form of a long and slender candle. Measuring its current temperature, it is believed that this brilliant object exhausted its energy not that long ago. We can really only imagine how that flame once flickered, shedding its uneven light unto the consuming dark, waving stubbornly between warm romance and cold rejection.

Now, as to when it all began, it might be easy to conclude that an unknown hand simply struck a match and touched a fire to the wick, igniting a predetermined and unpreventable flow of events. But that simple deduction would overlook the complex fact that the candle and the match needed to be manufactured from a steady supply of natural and man-made resources. Somewhere along this line of evidence, beneficial desire forced the hand to select these tools for a reason. Without a doubt, the decision to light this candle occurred long before it ever burned.

And, obviously, such combustible materials should be handled carefully.

In my mind, these stories are just more lessons in the unpredictable nature of seemingly predictable events in a world where even “now” is truly not known. We are always a few moments from the real “now” while the blinding light bends its way toward our faces. It takes years of “now” to turn the page over to “then” but the process can appear almost instantaneous. Trust me, these words you are reading now were already read by you then even though you just began to comprehend them. Our understanding of a remote “then” is far more accurate than it is of any intimate “now”. Strangely, although it was impossible to know then what we know now, through the miracle of the mind we can still feel like we did. When that happens, a grand table is set and we find a delicious feast at the end of our wishes.

In terms of books of the dead, it seems “then” was an odd place where men and women once spoke in foreign tongues and basked in a luxurious sense of chaotic nowness. Forgettable characters were always remembered back then. Real bastards were given whole chapters, frighteningly dull conversation was spelled out to the letter and common public bus rides were worthy of ornate description.

Rather than the entire generation, only the expatriated slice of discarded royalty, whores and gold diggers ever rose to prominence. Georgette and Lady Ashley were only distinguishable by the color and deteriorating stage of their teeth.

Perhaps for the first time, time tended to stand still and any frail human responsibility to recognize it was cast aside. This new age then ushered in a new people who replaced time, wandered the hillsides in search of daytime gratification and lived their nights by the creed that the best time was only spent when one couldn’t remember where it went.

If Miss Stein had been more acutely aware, she would have noted in her concise way that this generation was not so much lost as it was merely following headlong in the path of its leader. If endless time flows, then it flows in both directions. As children of that generation and children of time, who are we to criticize that?

Now and then, we know there’s a lot to consider when sifting the scattered ashes of history. Sometimes, we may be distracted for a while and return to find that the flame extinguished itself, a hopeless wick bent and charred and buried, a tiny light which drowned itself in its own unforgiving fuel. That sad state is easily explainable as a helpless victim of the environment, a brief and subtle tribute to our candle maker’s skill; to our eyes, nothing miraculous there.

Other times, we may fall into a sound sleep and awake to be alerted to a more dramatic result. That cruel fire may rage for days on end. It may destroy our homes and cities and forests and weave its destructive path all the way to the nearest river. We can only hope that the river will be wide enough, its flow swift enough, that no fire will pass over it.

When an unthinking river forgives our mistakes and our distractions, then we can say that is truly a miracle.

We can casually say “He was a man of his times” and leave it at that, thinking we have no better way to explain the brutal yet healing aspects of time.

Yet these words fail to describe Time properly. No words meet the test of Time. Time is the strange universal glue that keeps the sun rising. We can enhance our vision of all known things but once we take the constant of Time out of the equation we are left with very little. We can’t think of defining the events of our lives, the speed with which we shuffle through them, or the energy we expend in such pursuit without a shallow guess of what Time may actually be.

The Sun Also Rises is the main course at the Moveable Feast and Time has a relentless appetite for all matter. If it is true that only opposites attract, then stubborn Time will continue to defy our explanation because it is the exact opposite of everything we know under that Sun.

But we can detect from the remnants of a fast life violently consumed by Time, from the small drops of dried pieces left here and there on the diner table, Hemingway’s particular flame must have given off one hell of a light. And we can rest assured, judging by what we know now of our past, that one day Time will come asking for another sacrificial meal, a brilliant flash of equal if not greater significance.

Cheers,

Who you calling nigger, nigger?

2007-03-04T05:55:00.000Z

“Nigger. And so this one night I decided to make it my own. Nigger. I decided to take the sting out of it. Nigger. As if saying it over and over again would numb me and everybody else to its wretchedness. Nigger. Said it over and over like a preacher singing hallelujah...Saying it changed me, yes it did. It gave me strength, let me rise above…”

Richard Pryor, Pryor Convictions

“Imagine a white person saying that. It wouldn't make a lick of sense. Is that a double-standard, or a reflection of two totally different cultural and historical perspectives? That's what I meant by ‘Plain and simple, the word means something completely different when uttered by a black person as opposed to a white.’

History is a double-standard, a kaleidoscope-standard: In America, that history means one things for blacks, another for whites. The usage of "nigger" is the one word I'm gladly willing to allow that so-called double-standard because it is the one word that reflects the historical double-standard. What I'm really saying is it cannot be a double-standard because white and black come at the word from totally different perspectives.”

Geoff Sherwood, Uncommon Commentator of The Tropaion

Ok, I think I’m starting to get “IT” now. That last reply from the author of the Tropaion helped me a lot. I hope you realize, I am not agreeing with anyone who thinks this silly word should be outlawed. But it does bother me, no matter who says it, and I think the purpose of this exercise is to help me explain to myself why it should not be outlawed in the first place.

In order for me to understand, I have to imagine it differently, though. Instead of vague black on white, I need to give “IT” a face.

Snoop Dogg: “I call myself nigger because that’s who I am.”

Mister Boles: “I calls them niggers cuz that’s what they is.”

Or, as my dad used to subtly describe, “Old Joe’s a nigger but everyone likes him anyway.”

If you read on in Pryor’s writings, he claims to have a specific definition of the word. To him, as The Trope says, it defines a persevering perspective among blacks about themselves, a perspective that I am unqualified to even describe. To whites, I don’t know, maybe that could equate to the overbearing “average” quality that whites try so hard to define and maintain about everyone of their color. Snoop has his version, Boles and my dad had their own, and all these differing versions seem to never compromise.

In Pryor Convictions, he says again that he went to Africa where he didn't see any niggers. He came back “regretting ever having uttered the word 'nigger' on a stage or off it. It was a wretched word. Its connotations weren't funny, even when people laughed. To this day I wish I'd never said the word. I felt its lameness. It was misunderstood by people. They didn't get what I was talking about. Neither did I … So I vowed never to say it again."

Pryor Convictions

“When the underlying motivation is different, the true double-standard is in the heart of the white person who expects to be treated the same for saying, technically, the same thing that black people say all the time, while meaning, unbeknownst to themselves, something very different. This is why blacks have such a visceral reaction to white attempts to steamroller all nuance out of it and expect them to accept some white-defined universal standard for using ‘nigger.’”

Sherwood

Pryor eventually called his word “lame” which he even misunderstood but I called it “hypocritical” which even I can admit is a rug too large for my own sweep.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think we are all still speaking the same language.

Today, in spite of Pryor’s vow, we struggle on with two distinct definitions for this word which are based on opposing perspectives that can only be described as Whites-only and Blacks-only.

As we know from our history, that may be a dangerous situation but “IT” would only be a double-standard if we all enjoyed the same definition, which we clearly do not. Thus, I regret to say, the argument of general hypocrisy is lost.

My bad.

So, the original Tropaion article, which all should read, points out the misguided reasons behind outlawing this word “nigger” in NYC, even if that means allowing the most hateful Whites-only definition to linger. Personally, I am left in this murky semantic swamp where every time I hear the benign Blacks-only version, I am immediately and painfully reminded of the ignorant Whites-only version and I just want it all to stop.

Ahh … finally … there is my key to unlock this mystery.

Clearly, outlawing any words in this country should be a crime in itself. I remain steadfast in my first conclusion that the civic-minded souls on the east coast who first concocted this strange unenforceable legislation should clean off their desks, turn out the lights and lock their office doors behind them. They are not needed in this country.

Beyond that, there’s no good reason to penalize or criminalize modern youth, for example, for saying this word “nigger” if, based on a modern black perspective which I do not understand, it is deemed more a compliment rather than an epithet.

If any person merely offends another by saying the word “nigger”, then perhaps that offending person should reconsider. But the fact is that it’s only offensive when white people use the word in contrast to an acceptable black definition that whites can not even begin to fathom.

Most importantly, any legislation or moralizing against the use of the word “nigger” will only suppress a painful truth which we should not allow ourselves the comfort of ignoring. And this is the point. That truth is that as this silly word can only be defined by distinct Whites-only and Black-only perspectives, it only symbolically arises from a nation that truly remains segregated by a distinct Whites-only and Blacks-only cultural divide.

If struggling to cross over that divide means suffering the hurtful sound of the word “nigger”, then so be it.

You see, that’s the road I was going down with Willy and Dink. I have a decent idea of how and when the Whites-only definition took hold. I was hoping the brothers would show me in Part II how the Blacks-only version was first developed.

Now, after reading The Trope’s article, I don’t think I’m able to contemplate how that journey ends. But, who knows, I might learn enough to finish it some day in the future.

Cheers,

Willy and Dink, Part I

2007-03-04T05:49:00.000Z

Thud, thud, jingle, thud, one hoof after the other, the old brown mule rhythmically snorted and clomped as it ambled slowly down the narrow dirt road between the darkened bean fields. The damp dust of the already humid morning barely moved in the air as each hoof hit the ground with a shuffling thump. The tiny silver bell on her harness hung in balance mostly throughout the mule’s limping gate and only sounded out when her third step pounded forcefully into the hard ground.

From his saddled perch atop the old mule, the reddened and plump Mister Frederick Samuel Boles could see about a half mile in any direction across the smooth farm land that expanded out from the road around him. Although his accurate navigation was sometimes questioned by his neighbors, he was sure he would reach his destination well before 5:30 in the morning. He lifted the brim of his fine straw hat and wiped the day’s first drop of sweat from his pink brow with the back of his right hand while holding on firmly to the leather reigns with his left. The air smelled thick with the heat of his desperate world but he pushed on toward the stream and prodded the wobbling mule to keep moving. He felt the old mule’s back muscles quiver violently now and then underneath his legs and he expected she wouldn’t go much farther than that once the sun came up anyway.

As the orange-blue sky announced the new sun’s approach, Mister Boles glanced forward to notice muted brothers Willy and Dink in worn overalls and dirty sleeveless shirts, heads down and each carrying a wooden handled shovel on his shoulder, walking barefoot side by side on the dirt road in front of the lumbering mule.

Occasionally Dink, the taller and blacker one on the right, would turn his head while walking ahead and have a nervous look back at the mule’s face. Dink’s distraction greatly disturbed Mister Boles.

“What you lookin’ at, Dink?” asked Boles loudly.

“I’s worried about ol’ Molly,” Dink said in his deep yawning drawl. “She don’t sound so good.”

Boles’ heavy jowls jiggled with irritation as the mule tilted and took an awkward step into a shallow hole in the road. He grimaced with momentary shock until the mule straightened out and then he barked back at Dink. “You keep your ungrateful eyes to the front and let me worry about ol’ Molly,” he said.

“Yessuh,” Dink answered politely.

“We only got a short more ways to go,” Boles explained steadily while squeezing his puffy eyelids toward a line of trees in the dim distance, speaking more to himself rather than addressing Willy and Dink.

Mister Boles stiffened in his saddle as the team was about fifty feet from the line of tall, thin River Birch, each dry limb unbending in the calm of the windless morning.

“Ok, ok, I think we stop … right … about … here,” he said, puffing the word “here” out through his nose as if he was fighting the urge to sneeze.

Willy and Dink stopped and faced the trees but noticed in the corner of their eyes that the old mule continued dragging on a step or two, her slow but steady momentum leaving her broad nose on a line evenly in between their opposite elbows. They shuffled forward silently as the warm, moist exhaust of her panting breath unnerved them both and they turned to face the fat white man in vest, light coat and wrinkled trousers, a dyed white straw hat sitting as uneasily on his rounded bald head as he himself sat uncomfortably atop his shuddering and spent mule.

“Now, we gonna dig,” Boles began to excitedly squeal his instructions while removing a folded piece of paper from his vest pocket, “we’s gonna dig a shallow trench from the side of this avenue on down to the crick, there behind those trees. Once we’ve done that, we’ll be bringin’ Mister Jones’ con-tramp-shun on down to run crick water into that ditch. From there, we’ll be runnin’ some pipin’ on out to try and fortify this God-forsaken spot of dirt on either side of this here road.”

“Now, uh, I knows,” Boles continued while scanning his unfolded paper for clues, “I knows, considerin’ the sad state of this crap for earth, this effort will most likely take you boys a while to complete but I have confidence it will be done. And Mister Jones assures me your efforts will not be in vain. Now, I, uh…”

Boles turned the folded paper to the side and pulled his head back to better see the note.

“Damn,” he said as continued to turn the paper upside down and around again.

“Here is, uh,” he sniffed again, “Damn!”

Willy, the shorter and lighter one on the left, let his shovel slide off his shoulder and allowed the business end of it to sink slightly into the cracked, sun-baked dirt road. He turned to silently look at his brother Dink who now had his lips pursed together, his large brown eyes staring up into the gradually bluing sky. Old Molly the mule then rang her harness bell as she shook her head and sent a thin white rivulet of drool streaming toward him, nearly evaporating before it landed and forming the tiniest darkened spot of spitted mud on the ground that he’d ever seen.

“Damn!” said Boles again as he refolded the paper and slid it back into his vest pocket.

“I’m afraid Mister Jones’ note has omitted one critical detail. His plan does not specify which side of the road is most appropriate for diggin’ the trench. Seems I have no choice now. I must return to his guv’ment office at Fishin’ River immediately and clear up this confusion. I’m afraid, boys, this will set us back a little.”

Boles spoke while turning his stout body to look around him as the sun inched up above the low hills to the east.

“I reckon it’s nearly a three mile ride to Fishin’ River, so I’ll be along as quick as ol’ Molly will allow. You boys can sit here and wait until I git back.”

With that pronouncement complete, Boles began wildly kicking and prodding Old Molly but she refused to move a leg. Willy and Dink dropped their shovels on the road and took up positions on either side of her, pushing and slapping her flanks until she hesitantly turned around to face in the opposite direction she had just walked.

“Yaw, mule!” Boles yelled and her harness bell rang out and then she took one shaky step and then another and then another. Thud … thud … jingle, thud … thud, thud, jingle, thud. When Boles was satisfied that she had built up enough stubborn steam to be headed down the road in the right direction, he turned and yelled back at his two slaves who stood still on the road behind him.

“Willy! I’m talkin’ to you now since you’re the clever one of the litter. Either one of you niggers goes to runnin’ off and you knows what will happen! You stay put until I git back, you hear?”

“Yessuh, don’t you worry none about us,” Willy yelled back at Mister Boles.

End Part I

Neighbors In The Know

2007-03-03T14:11:00.000Z

At first I doubted my neighbors would know that I didn’t pay my 2006 county property taxes until the last day of February. But if they did, I wondered, would they think any less of me?

Would they just expect I suddenly came to the guilty realization that an extra $20 late fee would be added if I waited another day before I rushed home in a fit on a stormy evening and dumped a year’s worth of mail on the floor of my office and cried like a little baby because I couldn’t find the misplaced tax statement? Would they know that in such a dreadful state I would call The Wife and promise her anything if she’d hurry and help me find the damn thing? Would they assume that before I got home I would stop at the county courthouse a half hour before closing and speak with an uninformative Arlene at the information desk and plead for a copy of the lost document to no avail? Would they know that Arlene would just bat her large pitying eyes and tell me to pay it online or stand in line at the cashier’s window like everyone else? Would they then guess that I’d stand in a crowded queue which didn’t move an inch toward the window for 14 minutes before the woman and her three screaming kids in front of me made the small bones in my right ear rattle like dangling car keys? Would it not be surprising to them that I then ran from the courthouse like a madman and raced home with the windows down in my truck and yelled “Dumb! DUMB!” out loud frightening innocent road travelers at each stop light? Would they then believe I sprinted in the house from the drive and shut the doors to my office and briskly advised the affection-starved dogs in the hall to fend for themselves? Would they fully understand that while sprawled on the floor of my office, paging through old 1998 bank statements, The Wife would suddenly open the office door, stroll in with her coat still on and close her eyes, literally close her eyes, and with two well-placed fingers lift the errant document from the pile of yellowed papers and casually ask, “Is this what you are looking for?” Would they know that I then wasted the next 22 minutes frantically searching the online county assessor’s page before finding the correct user-friendly link to pay the tax and then go back and forth from the tax document to the web page nervously looking for something called a “Parcel ID #” before finally, finally paying the tax in full at 3:36 PM PST on the last day in February?

No, I don’t think any of that would surprise them at all.

I know the neighbors witnessed The Wife and I abruptly leave the house shortly after that ordeal. They saw The Wife driving the car and me leaning back uncomfortably in the passenger’s seat wiping the sweat from my brow. They certainly welcomed us with the routine salutations as we both entered the Two Dogs café on Main Street after the short drive down the hill.

They saw Heather, the bartender, knowingly reach for the Canadian as soon as I waddled in the pub door and they heard me remind her that two glasses would be needed since The Wife was in tow. They listened as Heather and I scientifically calculated how many drinks would be required prior to ordering two KC strip dinners. She was positive that it would only take Rodney the cook 15 minutes or so to prepare the steaks so we both openly agreed that a couple figurative rounds of pre-drinking were well within the indistinct realm of possibility.

After the first drink washed away the latent anxiety, the neighbors eavesdropped as The Wife and I recovered the facts. We said that once Mom was out of the hospital and the boys were on their way and the sun came out again that we needed to get back on the road to somewhere. A long journey was at first considered but, no, I said, this wasn’t just one of those things you talk loosely about at the bar, we needed to purposefully plan a trip that was within our means, a real walk-about some place within a 3-hour drive where we could spend a weekend and have some real fun and enjoy ourselves and forget everything we left behind for a while.

And then the second round of drinks came and with future plans still hanging in the smoky air Heather looked at me and I nodded. She looked at me again and confirmed, “No sour cream on the potato; Italian?” and I replied in the affirmative. She asked The Wife’s desire and then wrote on her order form, “The Works with Ranch.”

As the sun outside had set and the clouds of another threatening early Spring thunderstorm began to brew to the West, the neighbors began wandering into the pub two by two and my salad magically appeared before me at the bar. The Wife hugged and kissed and spoke to them all the while I waved a stiff hello from my perch occasionally and tightened my lips in the acute manner of my painful smile. The Wife chatted with a pair of ladies while I poked at my limp leafy salad with horrid shredded yellow cheese and dreamed of acidic ripe tomatoes, slices of pungent onion and gorgeously black fresh olives smothered in oil and feta like the traditional Greek ‘horiatiki’ which was once my staple on an island far away and long ago.

Another round of Canadian and the steaks were served and The Wife talked while eating and I ate while thinking. And The Wife was gossiping on with another pair and she said something and they said they hadn’t heard that and she said, “Oh? Didn’t Bamboo tell you?” and I felt the sting as they looked at me with devil eyes but I tried to ignore them as I pushed the phony butter away to coarsely chop my naked baked potato then stabbed another chunk of medium pink meat from my plate.

“Well,” laughed the one, “He doesn’t always say much.”

And the other said happily to The Wife, “But that’s why we talk to you!”

And they all gladly agreed to The Wife’s beautiful charm and personality and I chewed my steak and nodded my head to confirm that the overheard characterization was well spoken. In the end, when one thinks about it, I assessed as I sliced my steak, one needn’t say much when so much is already understood so well by so many.

Then the one said, “But he is a good dart thrower.”

“Yes, he is,” said the other.

“Yes,” said The Wife.

I ignored that last pointless summary and finished my steak. Heather came to take my plate away and recharge my glass, smartly saving the whiskey-drenched ice in the bottom as I had previously instructed her to do.

The Wife was now fully engaged with others and the loud chatter around the bar was reaching a new crescendo and I lighted a ciggy and strained to hear the sitcom playing on the TV in the corner. Confused, I suddenly couldn’t understand the muted language of the show. An old man at the bar growled at Heather, “Hey, why are they speaking Spanish?” She said she didn’t know, that earlier the weather report on the inbound storm front was in English but maybe somebody was messing with her.

And I thought, well, this could be great discovery. Perhaps I had been missing out on quite a bit at the old pub. Maybe once things quieted down somewhat, maybe I could sneak nearer to the TV and learn some Spanish and then maybe I wouldn’t consider the day lost. Maybe, I thought, I will go to Spain or Mexico some day and be endlessly welcomed by those who speak that language just because I had put in a little effort while drinking whiskey at the bar.

As I sipped my fresh Canadian and pondered that idea, Heather quickly forgot the Spanish sitcom and came to me and asked if the steak was good. I looked at her, swallowed cleanly, and then placed my glass squarely on the bar and said as quickly and clearly as I could in English, “Perfect”, unfortunately not remembering the correct word to say in Spanish.

She smiled but she knew it was perfect in any language before she had even bothered to ask me. She knew how to accurately sum up one plus one. She knew what I would drink, she knew what I would eat, and she knew what I would or wouldn’t say. She knew I wanted to go somewhere but I didn’t know where. She knew I was a good dart thrower and she knew what adventures I would consider while watching sitcoms in Spanish. She probably also knew that I would forget to pay my personal property taxes until 3:36 PM PST on the last day of February.

All the neighbors knew me that day. And I don’t think they thought any less of me.

Cheers,

Crazy and Crazier

2007-02-25T14:36:00.000Z

“Go crazy, folks! Go crazy!”

Jack Buck, 1985 NLCS

Old Jack nailed that one. In baseball, sometimes all it takes is people to go a little crazy.

Of course, he was talking to the Cardinal’s folks but, hey, who won the Series that year? Jack most likely didn’t mean it that way but it doesn’t hurt if the First Base Ump goes a little crazy and blinks at the right time, too. Going crazy can be a good thing for some people.

Hi. My name is Bamboo and I’m a KC Royals fan. It’s been 22 years since our last title. I’m not just crazy. I’ve been insane since the 21^st century began.

You see, most baseball folks are technically wrong in the way they pity poor small-market KC. They like to point out that the KC Royals have a ridiculously low payroll and lost 100 games or more in 4 of the last 5 seasons, suggesting that the team hasn’t been very good lately. When I read or hear stuff like that, I get this little nervous twitch in my left eye, my lips tremble and I start weakly stuttering too myself, “You-you, you don’t know the half of it, man!”

I know those paltry 94 losses in the ’03 season are the problem. That year is really misleading. It short-changes me and the average 17, 158 of my closest friends who attend these games which end before they begin, collectively numb in our disbelief of such certain and repetitive failure, insanely watching the long nights of the last few summers drift away from us at The K.

It’s only the end of February now but I’m sitting here with my old KC cap on my head. I’m wearing a tired Buck O’Neil Monarchs t-shirt. It’s easy to hide my disease here in the office but I know what will happen a month from now. I’ll be making midnight calls to compatriots in Denver and Tampa Bay just to feel better about myself. I will go around town on business wearing my cap, declaring my faith in the team with no chance while somber men and women will occasionally stop me, shake my hand, look directly in my reddened eyes and say, “Hang in there, pal, we’re with you.”

It’s so hard to maintain. We toyed with the 1915-1916 Phillies who lost 226 over two consecutive seasons. We respected the Mets’ 340-loss record over the three years from 1962-1964 but we’re not giving up on that lofty goal just yet. The truth is the KC club has lost a total of 681 games since we partied in Y2K. That’s an average of 97 losses per year over the last 7 years. Nobody knows what that feels like, man. The Royals haven’t been just bad recently; they’ve been historically bad for several years now. They’re so bad, in a crazy way they’re almost funny.

Just in this century we’ve seen 3 different managers, 2 GMs, and an annual parade of new pitching coaches. We’ve witnessed busted plays, foolish base running, routine fly balls dropped, and players hit in the back by thrown balls from the outfield. Our first baseman once injured himself by running into the rolled up infield tarp while chasing a short pop-up in foul territory. A starting pitcher was lost for the season due to “personal reasons.”

We moved the outfield walls in a few feet but we might move them back out before it’s all over. We had a manager who just quit one day and never came back. If any of our players ever get “good” then they suddenly turn into the MLB equivalent of Cuban boat people, escaping the oppressive failure and low pay of The K to go wherever the nights might be shorter, the days sunnier and brighter. I once watched Jermaine Dye, Johnny Damon and Carlos Beltran play in our outfield. Now, every time one if not all three of those guys are in a playoff game, vying for Series MVP in some other town’s uniform, I’m so confused I don’t’ know whether to cheer or cry.

We’ve grown accustomed to the madness now. We expect to lose and lose often. While quietly sitting in our standard seats in the left field corner of The K, the boys and I don’t expectantly replay scenes from “The Natural” in our mind. Instead, we’ve memorized the lines to “Major League”, that 1994 comedy about the hapless Cleveland Indians. When an opposing player blasts another home run, one of us will calmly say, “That’s too high” as the white blur arches into the night. “Yeah,” another will mutter dejectedly, “that’s way too high.”

Last year, a play that everyone saw as another contestant for “the only time I’ve ever seen that” category, our center fielder ran and leaped blindly against the outfield wall to make a Sports Center highlight homerun-stealing catch while we in the stands groaned to watch the batted fly ball land quietly and harmlessly in front of him, bouncing a few feet short of the warning track.

A few feet short of the warning track accurately describes the last seven years in KC.

Our starting pitchers are usually lucky to survive the first three innings. Our relievers can’t ease the pain or stop the bleeding. Before their new uniforms are soiled, even before the hopeful spring dew completely evaporates, The Baseball Season in KC is typically over now sometime around the middle of May.

We may not hold the record for the worst ever yet but it’s probably been at least a century since another team was quite as bad as the modern Royals at any given time.

Those crazy Cleveland Spiders had a magical year in 1899, losing 134 games while only winning 20. But it was different game back then. Balls hit into the stands counted as singles and the pitchers could approach the plate at acute angles taken from a wide box. That was when ball clubs often had two different guys nicknamed “Pop” on the roster, a center fielder called “Ginger” whose real first name was Clarence and an Irish right fielder nicknamed “Patsy”. That was the year that Jay Parker pitched in his only major league appearance for the Pirates, quickly pulled from the game after walking two who later scored, eternally left with a record-setting lifetime ERA notation of “infinite”.

Setting infinite records for ineptitude was easy back then. Those lucky days are long gone now.

Today, the Royals have to work at being lousy. The have a lot to overcome. They are entering Spring Training with a new GM and a 21^st century attitude that only comes from practicing in Surprise, Arizona. They won the Gil Meche sweepstakes during the off-season, signing a man who will by 2012 earn more than the entire team was paid last year. Beside the usual suspects, they’re also hosting a crazy crew of talented wannabes in Surprise this year. That kid Alex Gordon is expected to make a name for himself at the hot corner in ‘07. Zack Grienke, the remarkable kid from a couple years ago, seems to finally have his head on straight. Mike Sweeney’s back feels better than it’s felt in, er-umm, a long, long time.

In fact, the 2007 Royals have a lot more going for them than the old Cleveland Spiders ever had. One can’t deny that over the first seven seasons of this century the Royals did manage to win a lot more than 20 games per season. Even through the tough times, they somehow won an average of 64 games each year. I don’t remember how they did it but they even blew a few teams out here and there. When you witness something like that, then you know how insane this game really is. In spite of all this madness, in honor of their potential success or maybe assuming the worst is over, management is even raising ticket prices at The K for the ’07 season. Now that’s crazy.

And, on the only sane and promising note for the start of this season, Royals’ veteran radio broadcaster Denny Matthews recently earned the Baseball Hall of Fame’s Ford C. Frick award. I was 11 when Denny first started calling games for the brand new 1969 KC Royals. I grew up with him and I’m very happy to see him honored. When I hear his voice, I’m mostly reminded of the good times. Maybe Denny’s special recognition will spark an unusual and crazy fire under the lazy butts of this year’s team.

Well, why not? Who knows? Anything is possible, right? With a little help, with a little luck, maybe with a little lunacy thrown in between, maybe some of these new boys in Royal Blue shoot out of Surprise and end up turning a corner in history.

So, it’s still early but I know what you’re thinking. In the immortal words of Lloyd Christmas … you’re saying we have a chance.

I have to agree. I hate to say it. It’s a four-letter word that starts with “H” and I can’t believe I’m saying it. I can’t just conveniently forget every Royal blunder I’ve witnessed during the first seven years of this fresh century but I’m going to say it anyway.

Call me crazy, Jack, but I’m a KC baseball fan in spring and I have hope!

Cheers,
Mb

First Sense

2007-02-21T23:56:00.000Z

"Death is nothing to us; for that which is dissolved is devoid of sensation, and that which is devoid of sensation is nothing to us.”

Now, that is something called a maxim of the man named Epicurus who lived sometime around the 4^th century BC. This man divided his philosophy into three parts, the Canon, the Physical and the Ethical. As Diogenes Laertius later wrote, in his Canon which can also be described as his Truth, Epicurus said that the criteria of truth are the senses, their preconceptions, and the passions.

The Canon and the Physical concern how nature works and his ethical concerns were choice and avoidance, the good in life. Epicurus wrote 37 treatises on natural philosophy and numerous letters regarding his other concerns.

The senses were everything to Epicurus.

His preconceptions told him what to call things based on his sense of them. He knew the difference between an ox and a horse by his senses, and felt he only knew what to call them through his preconceptions of them.

His passions were pleasure and pain.

This is our first encounter presented with gratitude to the Sophia Project …

Look, I came as close to the end as a man can get. It doesn’t really matter how or when, or why. Imagine the worst. Gun shot, train wreck, falling from a rooftop, it all applies. Think of the most horrible event you can think of and plug that in. Take yourself right up to the edge of the soul’s doorstep. That’s where I was and that’s what I endured.

Where you conscious of your situation?

I was aware of the changes happening around me; let me put it that way.

What? Are you saying you had one of those out of body experiences?

You may laugh but that is not far from the truth. I suppose for me, though, that I have never left my body. How would that be possible for me anyway?

Did it hurt?

I have felt every pain imaginable.

They say your life passes before your eyes.

Yeah, the whole rapture idea, right? The visions, the bright light and all that; is that what you want to hear? Well, there’s some truth to that as well.

You don’t sound all that certain.

Oh, I’m certain enough. I would just say now that our words and our senses always leave us in somewhat of a gray area. Once the senses decay then the clarity or the fogginess of it are really just choices we make after all. Whatever makes you comfortable, you know?

But our senses are everything. That’s what you said. How would we know anything without them? How could you describe your experience without your sensation of it?

Well, it’s been a while but let me ask you, how do you now the difference between an apple and a strawberry? If I blinded you and put both objects under your nose or in your mouth, would you smell or taste the difference?

Yes, of course.

If I blinded you and placed both in your hand, could you feel the difference between them?

I expect so.

If I blinded you and held them to your ear, would you hear their difference?

No, certainly not. I don’t think so.

Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean that your senses are untrustworthy or that there’s no difference in the sound of a strawberry and an apple but it does suggest that not all of your individual senses are appropriate for every situation. This I had to learn the hard way. And, remember, if you had never tasted a strawberry before I put one in your mouth, how would you know what to call it in the first place? Do you see what I mean?

No, not really. Why can’t you just answer the question? Is it that hard?

Well, yeah, as a matter of fact, it is kind of a hard question. I mean, before I can describe to you my understanding of the soul, I have to set some ground rules on the words and our senses, how I came to my conclusions and so forth. Look, I once wrote some 37 volumes on natural philosophy, had numerous pages devoted to my maxims and Canon and so on. I should at least get a few select words on the subject now. Unless you’re willing to suspend your belief in all that, I can’t say that you will understand my answer anyway.

I am not tethered to those old definitions.

Ok, then, you know modern science, long after I kicked the bucket, mapped out certain parts of the brain in an attempt to visualize how much of the brain is devoted to our five senses. It’s all very curious and I wish I had more time to study it. But I now realize that if we were to magically reverse that image, give the sense receivers in our body a proportion similar to the work which the brain devotes to them, then we would look very odd, indeed.

Umm-hmm.

Well, take young Jay, there for example. You know him well, maybe you’ve known him as long as he’s lived and you have a fairly good idea of the way he thinks and how he senses and responds to things. Tell me, based on what you know of him, which part of his body should be the largest based on the effort you believe his brain expends toward sensing it?

Jay? Are you kidding?

Well, maybe he’s not a good example.

Jay is a dog, man! If his penis was as big as he thinks it is, we couldn’t get in here, we’d have to sit outside in the rain right now.

Yes, yes, a dog, excellent choice of words there, definitely not a good example, I’m sorry. How about Ruby there?

Ah, Ruby, she’s, uh, she’s all touchy and everything, constantly hugging everyone and all that. I expect she’d have hands the size of toasters.

Yes, something like that, a toaster, yes, I think I know what you mean. In fact, most people would have very large hands. And that makes sense now, right? Think where we would be without that fine sense of our hands and fingers. We couldn’t use the tools we have invented. We wouldn’t really be human, we’d be something else. Our brains are really focused and committed to a detailed sense of our hands.

So, what does that tell us?

Here we go. Maybe we should order another drink. It took me a long time to get here, my friend, but now I know it’s not what it tells us but what it doesn’t tell us that matters.

How’s that?

Look at your eyes, not your hands. We blindfolded them earlier but we haven’t talked about your eyes lately. Did you notice that? The sense of sight is so highly complex and developed in your brain that it’s really very hard to describe or talk about. This is astounding to me but what if I told you that from clear sun light you could see all the colors in the rainbow? Would you believe that? And, let me ask you, how would you go about slicing one individual color from that rainbow? Have you ever tried to do that? I’ll wager you can’t say you have but, in truth, you do it all the time. What if I told you that when you see the color green your eyes are actually seeing every color but green, would you believe that? What if I told you that in the same way when you try to see your unique soul, a sense that your brain is only barely committed to actually sensing to begin with, that then you are really sensing everything but your soul, would you believe that?

Wow, you are one screwed up dude, man!

Yes, easy to say now, but you should have seen me 2,400 years ago.

Cheers,

Read My Joke ... please!

2007-02-17T13:40:00.000Z

So, a monkey wearing a red hat walks into this bar and says…

A pal of mine recently wondered aloud, “Why do we write?”

I’m always mesmerized by such simple little questions. Those innocent bits of inquisition will send me wandering around in a daze for days.

In time, I think, I’ve come to believe that I write only to amuse myself. It’s an incredibly selfish pastime. Perhaps this is a self-defeating method for any amateur but it always seems to me that the practice of amusing others is not so much fun.

The honorable editors of the GH, of course, are not amused or pleased with the last few submissions. In fact, they are convinced that the author should be more focused on amusing our audience.

Our mission is to amuse not inform, they said.

Well, that would be fine, replied the cynical author, except for that fact that nobody reads anything anymore anyway. If you want, I’ll break the more tedious parts into bite sized chunks for easier digestion but, believe me, there’s nobody out there to amuse.

So, what’s the dea-uhl with all these French people, huh?

In a beautifully concise article published in the International Herald Tribune on 2/14/07, Stacy Schiff, author of "A Great Improvisation: Franklin, France and the Birth of America", wrote about a completely different book titled “How to Talk About Books You Haven’t Read” written by Professor Pierre Bayard.

http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/02/14/opinion/edschiff.php

Ms. Schiff delightfully points out that even though she is convinced we will not read the good Professor’s mysteriously titled book, not the least of reasons being it is written only in French, the exquisite double-irony is that we may still talk about it!

Mon Dieux! I tell ya, man, I like that a lot.

Hey, I tried to learn French once. I spent a whole month watching TV5 and even took short phrase-book lessons from a French-Moroccan barmaid for a while. (Until one day she forced me to eat boiled sea urchin, which is another story altogether …) I like the fact that the language is mumbled a lot but in the end found too many unvoiced syllables even for my taste. Besides, with vast experience on my side, I can order a beer, ask directions to the restroom, and say thank you in a half-dozen languages already.

When you think about it, what else does one really need to say?

But the primary reason we won’t read the good Professor’s book, according to Ms. Schiff, is that we do not read anything anymore anyway. With the advent of the internet, we have devolved into beings who replaced reading meandering context with searching for condensed content a long time ago.

She’s right and I know if any suntanned surfer read this far they probably didn’t click the link to her article so let me force upon you this critical little bit of what she wrote:

“Say what you will about Bayard, he forces us to confront a paradox of our age. By one estimate, 27 novels are published every day in America. A new blog is created every second. We would appear to be in the midst of a full- blown epidemic of graphomania. Surely we have never read, or written, so many words a day. Yet increasingly we deal in atomized bits of information, the hors d'oeuvres of education. We read not in continuous narratives but by linkage, the movable type of the 21st century. Our appetites are gargantuan, our attention spans anorectic. Small wonder that trivia is enjoying a renaissance. We are very good on questions like why men fall asleep after sex and why penguins' feet don't freeze.”

That’s a stab in the heart, ain’t it? I showed this excerpt to the honorable editors and they were just aghast, all screaming out loud, Oh, Lord, what have we done? Graphomania epidemic! Really? Yeah, I told ‘em, she nailed that description of “anorectic” attention spans, too.

So what did the farmer say when he lost his tractor?

It’s really a good thing that nobody’s paying attention or bothering to read this stuff on the GH, in my opinion. The truth is I was never very amusing to begin with and, for the life of me, I can never remember a good joke. That’s because through hard-earned experience I know my timing of the punch-line will always be off a hair or two.

And that’s what they all tell you in those public speaking courses, too, ya know, if you’re no good at telling jokes then you shouldn’t even try to be funny.

The Wife has a rather annoying way of reminding about that. When she has a close friend nearby, she will point at me and coldly demand, “Bamboo, tell your joke!”

I know she’s treating me like some kind of unsocial freak show exhibit when she does this. She knows that I only have one dry, lousy and uniquely unfunny joke that I’ve remembered throughout my whole entire life.

I’ll turn red in the face and say, no, man, I don’t wanna tell my joke and she’ll say, aw, c’mon, it’s funny, my friend wants to hear it, just say it, and I say, no, no, I can’t do that.

That goes back and forth for a while with her friend sitting there uncomfortably until reluctantly in my typical deadpan style I go ahead and I tell it just to shut her up.

Then she makes that face, a sort of knowing and pitiful forced smile, discretely pokes her friend with her elbow and whispers, “See? I told you so.”

Take my wife … please!

But the honorable editors are adamant about this. They want more amusing things, whatever those things may be. They like the idea of modern movie reviews or trivia contests, ya know, maybe inserting questions here and there about Celebrity Fashion Trends or something like that for the casual surfer to divert himself during one of my drier 4,000 word essays on the cultures of extinct tribal nations.

Perhaps, they suggested, a small joke every now and then would please the masses. How else, they yelled at me, will we be able to market this crap?

Hey! I try to do what I can but I can only do so much. And I’m not into marketing anyway. The GH is merely my personal workshop, a retreat for an intense study in the artistry of foolish words, where the exercise of questionable and even worthless content is always free.

Here you can watch the amateur author at work, you can have a browse, but you can’t buy.

If I somehow did spin in a bunch of blatant jokes in between the real stuff, who would I be poking fun at? Myself or the readers? That’s some dangerous juju, man. The GH is no practical joke and this not a verbal confrontation with the reader. I’m no Dirty Harry. I can’t chase readers down the streets of San Francisco, tackle them and force them to have fun at the end of my literary .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world.

Besides, as I tell everyone I know, that thing called fun is vastly overrated.

Common jokes are agonizingly weary clichés to mask the point, to hide the irony. I hate repeating clichés over and over and over again. I know what the readers are thinking and I can only hope that anyone who is daring enough to look inside the GH for context will be lucky enough to discover that before the end there was a middle and a beginning to the story line and then, when the inevitable questions arise after all the excitement is said and done, with all the screaming and shouting and writing and blathering on that even confuses me, then, then they can ask themselves do they really feel lucky?

Well, do ya, Punk?

Thank you, thank you, people; I hope you enjoyed the show … thank you and good night.

Cheers,
Mb

Macho American Minimalist Haiku

2007-02-17T13:35:00.000Z

Love dogs

Hate cats

Remember We Were Wrong, Intro

2007-02-17T13:06:00.000Z

Purposeful Americans once defiantly yelled “Remember the Alamo” and “Remember the Maine” to stir up national emotions. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday our children’s children yell “Remember Iraq” for similar reasons.

To me, the only question is what will they remember? What will we try hard to not let them forget?

I know it’s painful but we have to ask ourselves these questions now about Iraq. Whether mismanaged or misguided, the historical depth of the quagmire can’t be ignored. Because it has become such a brutal mess with no good end in sight most everyone now wants to hear that it was a mistake and that we were wrong to invade Iraq in the first place.

Maybe the honest answer is not correctly worded or maybe we just haven’t found a comfortable way to respond yet. We will leave Iraq behind us soon enough but maybe we need to better understand what happened before we pack up the tents so we will remember it properly.

I can not and will not speak for the world, an entire nation or much less the whole American military. In fact, I am the last person to claim any hidden insight or knowledge of modern political consensus. But with the aide of 20-20 hindsight, allow me to at least explain my lonely perspective as a citizen of this country and as a single member of the US armed forces at the time of the invasion of Iraq.

If nothing else, by writing these words, I can get it off my mind for a while.

Armed only with a thin shred of credibility, I confess I am no general, no politician, and no celebrity. My only platform is that I am an average nobody. You need not listen to my opinion and you are free to have your own. As a certified nobody, the linguistic demon I’m about to publicly wrestle with is something called “wrong”. I hope you agree that its best we leave the deep discussion of what truly defines “wrong” and its antithesis for another day. For the purposes of my meandering opinion which follows, let’s accept a common understanding of this word and just assume that there really is such a thing.

Regarding events in Iraq today, there is no question about IF we were wrong. If we open our eyes, we can see the proof in the devastating scene before us, a devastation that did not exist before we began this affair. The important question now is WHY were we wrong?

I don’t think we can simply blame Bush and Cheney for this tragedy in Iraq. The votes of our elected representatives in favor or against were mere reflections of our own confused opinions. As citizens, we all must accept our responsibility. You and I are just as much to blame as anyone else. There’s plenty of blame for everyone. Whether actively or passively, by vocal demonstration or tacit agreement, most of us allowed this war to happen. That is the essence of a democratic republic and most of us agreed to it even if we did pray for a far better result.

Individual American citizens, generally speaking, did not choose to go to war with Iraq. Even our elected representatives in Congress can all honestly say they did not choose this war. In the beginning, only my brothers and sisters in the military had a clear and defining choice to make. Practically every one of them chose the path of honor and integrity rather than jail time. The vast majority chose to follow the lawful orders of their Commander in Chief.

As Americans, we were all led or ordered into it by the Bush administration. I remain convinced the members of the Bush administration allowed themselves to be led into it by the endless recalcitrant threats of Saddam Hussein.

With all the best intentions but still the question lingers. Why were we so wrong?

We must remember this. Before 1998, it was not the slippery policy quest of America to remove Saddam Hussein from power. Long before 1998, it was Saddam Hussein’s stubborn policy to one day make America and her allies pay dearly for misjudging him.

Between 1992 and 2002, the American public and their leaders did not openly panic about Hussein’s threat. It seemed as though we had beaten him once and we could beat him again if necessary. Some of us waited patiently for our chance to do exactly that. I admit, during that long decade, I was anxious for the cards to play out.

Even though he spoke the pragmatic truth, I recall once I was most disappointed to hear Prime Minister Blair use the phrase “containment policy” in reference to Iraq. I felt we were really not resolving anything that way, only pushing the inevitable confrontation off for a later date. But, honestly, after hearing Blair speak, I reluctantly felt I could live my entire life without that confrontation ever taking place if that’s what everyone wanted.

I believe our British allies up until 2001, although I can offer no direct proof of this, were most insistent that Iraq remain contained instead of directly confronted in a prolonged way in spite of Hussein’s determined attempts to subvert that policy. Perhaps the British leaders didn’t think their public would be as easily convinced as their American cousins. However justified, American leaders at the time seemed to agree while I and those like me were stuck in a forgettable revolving door of miserable deployments to Saudi Arabia and Turkey, trying to contain Hussein.

I understood the reasons. Containing Iraq with relatively little funding and manpower year after year made it easy for American and British citizens alike to live a normal life, forget Hussein’s threat or to assume that it had been effectively eliminated.

But the governments of America and her allies could not forget because our armies faced this persistent menace every day for years. He tested our patience and our restraint constantly during this time. Even if seriously hampered, rumors and insinuation continued to swirl across the oceans suggesting Hussein still intended to someday make good on his threat.

It’s tempting to say all that changed after the events of 9/11/01 unfolded. It’s tempting to say that on that day we tragically realized the urgency of Hussein’s threat too late.

But that isn’t true.

On the contrary, in spite of official arguments, without unveiling a single damn thing you don’t already know, I can confidently confirm to you that Hussein’s threat remained as determined, viable and unfinished on 9/12/01 as it was on 9/10/01 and our reasonably accurate awareness of that danger remained constant the whole time.

So what did change?

The only changes that I could see occurring as a result of 9/11 were our government’s response to it and the heightened fear or willingness of our citizens which allowed them to respond in the panicked and vengeful way that they did.

We all know what happened next. First, we allowed the speedy cleansing of Afghanistan and the violent search for Osama bin Laden’s head in the mountains of Tora Bora. Then, instead of just containing Iraq, we all allowed our government to unleash our military forces on Saddam Hussein in a display of shock and awe. And we allowed them to do this unilaterally, with only the slightest nod towards the diplomatic concerns of other nations around the world.

We may now say and prove how we were misled but I know how many Americans felt. I can tell you during that time I was supervising part of the effort to train, equip and organize manpower for some of these operations. When Afghanistan started, I had no shortage of motivated volunteers. I even had retired service members calling me, begging me to overlook the standard administrative and physical requirements so they could squeeze back into a flight suit and join the battle.

We were all pissed off and rightfully so. We found some quick if uneasy comfort in the fact that those who had directly harbored bin Laden, the peasants of Afghanistan, the foolish and the wise, the guilty and the innocent alike, all paid the price for our anger.

But, if we were any way right about Afghanistan, why were we wrong about Iraq?

Before I finish this, let me say that I do not accept the inside-job conspiracy theories that abound on the internet. If you search for such fodder, then you might as well get off the bus now. I have nothing for you.

I think it’s proven that members of the fresh 2001 Bush administration had long been on board with the concept of forced regime change in Iraq. Still today, I’ve seen no evidence to suggest they had a correct understanding of what it would take to actually push that idea through to the end. I also think it’s clear, based on their inept and bumbling activities in the months leading up to 9/11, that they were in those days uniquely incapable of mounting an effective attack much less convincing a wary public of the need to do so.

In fact, they were only later deemed worthy in that last area of propaganda exploitation.

I think it’s also reasonable to assume that these folks in the White House had some warning that something bad was about to happen although they were not sure of when, or where, or how. Regardless of the details, they certainly guessed the correct result of a 9/11-style event long before it happened. They knew their world would be turned upside down if it did happen and their precious political skins would be judged, rightfully or wrongfully, by their immediate response to it.

As far as their ability to secretly initiate the issue, do the detailed thought and planning necessary to force anyone’s hand and then carefully cover their tracks, I see no evidence before, during or after 9/11 to suggest they were even remotely capable of any of that.

In my opinion, we hired the wrong folks to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and that's something we should definitely remember.

On to the Beginning ...

Remember We Were Wrong, Beginning

2007-02-17T12:58:00.000Z

For our children’s children, please remember that our attack on Afghanistan wasn’t about one man. Yes, bin Laden was the head we wished to snare and detach but it was the organization, Al Qaeda, that we wanted to squash and kill. The proof of that idea lies in the fact that once we had them scattered and scurrying for the hills, the urgency of the Osama: Dead or Alive mission instantly waned.

Afghanistan was the first strike in the unglamorous and so-called Global War on Terrorism, code words for the dirty fight against a dangerous network of men driven by their fanatical ideology and violent hatred of Western materialism. They did and they do threaten the entire Western world with their insanity.

That struggle goes on as I write but Iraq was not about that.

Our government tried to convince us that Iraq was about terrorism but it was not. Our government tried to convince us it was about Weapons of Mass Destruction but it was not. When all else failed to convince us, adding to the list of things that Iraq was not, they tried to make us believe that it was about democracy and freedom. It wasn’t even about the Iraqi people harboring a dangerous threat to the world. To many of us at the time, none of those deceptions mattered.

It was, in the end, about Saddam Hussein, a devious man who held a divided nation and a turbulent spot on the world at gunpoint, eternally hostage to his ruthless plans.

Would he carry out his threat? Given the opportunity, I have no doubt he or his sons would have.

Could he carry out his threat? Probably not without significant help from others; I believe we had him effectively cornered.

But he was there in that corner and he had worried us for a long time. Iraq was all about this one man.

In his book, Against All Enemies, Richard Clarke wrote that during his years as the “terrorism expert” in the White House he had found no Al Qaeda connection in Iraq. He wrote that in a cabinet meeting shortly after 9/11 he curiously listened to Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld openly advocate bombing Iraq and then had President Bush ardently urge him behind closed doors to find the Iraq connection. The White House maintains that no record of such pressure exists.

I have no evidence of my secret urges at that time, either. But I will admit this to you without offering any further proof.

Only minutes after the smoke began to billow from Ground Zero, I thought to myself that here was our golden opportunity to finally straighten out a host of messes in the Middle East and elsewhere around the world. I thought this was our chance to fix our mistake of 1991. To be more specific, I hoped … I actually hoped that an Iraq connection to this tragedy would be discovered. I really wanted 9/11 to signal our response to the world that the patient approach to Saddam Hussein was over.

I was in no position to make such a determination. I was just an average peon following orders. But I can’t imagine I was alone in those thoughts. I did not hear it spoken but I believe there were many who felt like I did on that horrific day.

In retrospect, the facts did not support those angered thoughts. Anyone who thought like I did during those first few fearful moments was wrong. In our defense, we were so mad we couldn’t rationally predict the outcome of our revenge; we couldn’t fathom the consequences of our actions.

I was wrong to think that way so quickly and I admit that now.

But, even after we were disappointed by the facts of the matter, I think anyone who had those first thoughts and then says those secret urges didn’t linger would be a liar. There were many who wanted that connection to be real regardless of the facts. It is reasonable for me to assume that is at least in part why we so readily glossed over the deceptive justifications.

There is one other complex and expedient aspect of our decision to attack Saddam Hussein for which I can offer no direct support except the sum of my recollections.

Part of Osama bin Laden’s argument, if you will, against America and her allies was that our infidel troops engaged in containing Hussein were defiling holy Muslim land by their very presence in Saudi Arabia. To my understanding, bin Laden later graciously granted this same consideration to the land of other Muslim nations on the peninsula as well.

I remember this because delivering our troops out of the sweltering Arabian desert was perhaps the only thing that Osama bin Laden and I both regularly prayed for.

There seemed obvious and infinite diplomatic concerns with carrying out an attack on Baghdad from bases in Saudi Arabia. There seemed a strange urgency in the timing of relocating our forces out of Saudi Arabia while concurrently coordinating the attack. There seemed an understandable worry about how to continue containing Iraq from somewhere other than where we were had grown accustomed, even if uncomfortably so. The expeditious nature of all these moves lent an air of now-or-never desperation to the events which, looking back now, only adds more fuel to my belief that we did this for all the wrong reasons.

On to the Finale ...