The Life and Times of a Carolina Parrothead

Confessions of an Unrepentant Space Cadet

2012-01-30T19:25:00.002-05:00

This is a difficult admission for me but recent declarationsperpetrated by a certain presidential candidate who I believe is a sociopathwith megalomaniacal leanings has prompted me to come out of the closet, so tospeak. I freely admit to the world that I am an unrepentant “Space Cadet.” Allmy life I have been an avid fan and supporter of NASA, manned space flight, andthe belief that humanity’s future is out among the stars.

Out of all the nerdy burdens I have had to carry all throughmy life the term Space Cadet is the one that has brought me the most grief andoutright ridicule. The blame for this condition probably rests with me being ahighly impressionable child during the heyday of the Apollo program and theoriginal Star Trek television series. Some of my clearest memories of that timehave me watching American astronauts both walking and later four wheeling onthe moon. Often times by the end of that day I would be tuning into theinterstellar adventures of Kirk and Spock kicking butt and exploring “strangenew worlds.”

When I have had time to ponder what made me this way Iimagine some caveman ancestor of mine sitting outside the tribal cave gazingoff towards the horizon and wondering what the hell is on the other side of themountains he sees in the distance. I have to figure that if my ancient predecessorhad half the wanderlust I feel at some point he probably up and left everythingbehind to go find out. Obviously he survived long enough to hook up and make afew babies with some hot cave lady from another tribe before becoming a snackfor a saber tooth cat or a meal for unfriendly locals but since I am not thesharpest knife in any drawer I doubt he was successful much beyond that.

In other words, theidea and excitement of exploration of new frontiers is encoded in my very DNA. Formy liberal tendencies I figure Roddenberry is the blame since the moral andethical dilemmas Kirk and the rest of the Enterprise crew had to face whileexploring the galaxy were great lessons in human compassion and understandingthat have stayed with me all my life.

For me the cancellation of both the Apollo program and StarTrek was a testament to how the optimistic but troubled 1960’s were replaced bythe overly realistic and preoccupied 1970’s. The overwhelming refrain from thatera involved the argument that federal dollars were being wasted on spaceexploration when we were engaged in the Cold War with the Soviets and fightinga war on poverty and drugs here in America.

Hey I admit it, those voices were largely right, big buckswere going to a whole bunch of questionable projects and in a far more perfectworld all that money would have gone to cure sickness and end poverty. The onlyproblem with the argument about bucks being wasted on space exploration wasthat even in the heyday of sending men to the moon NASA’s percentage of thefederal budget was very small potatoes compared to the money going to defenseand social entitlements.

However, priorities had to be set so I understand why thespace program was paired down to the barest minimum. Just enough was leftoperating so we could save face and not let anyone get the idea we were cedingthe ultimate high ground to the nasty commies. The grandiose plans to follow upthe Apollo missions with a lunar base and sending astronauts to Mars were puton a permanent hold.

The shuttle program has come and gone without any operationalreplacement to get Americans up into orbit. This has forced NASA to cough upabout fifteen-million a person so our guys and gals can hitch a ride in theirold but dependable Soyuz, an embarrassing situation for a country that pridesitself on its extraordinary “Exceptionalism” as compared to the rest of theplanet.

However, while things look bleak for certified Space Cadetslike me things are changing for the better if you look close enough. Severalupstart corporations are pushing the developmental envelop which in a couple ofyears should offer Americans a range of advanced launch systems to get backinto space. On second thought may I should have said things were looking good until the self-proclaimed savior ofWestern Civilization arrived on the Space Coast of Florida last week.

This small and strange man stood on a podium and promised tonot only establish a lunar base within the period of his two-term limit butalso make it an actual colony. He then went deeper into his delusions by saying this settlement could achieve statehoodonce it had a population of thirteen-thousand souls. While that little sanctimoniousbastard has about a snowball’s chance in Hell of being elected president of theUnited States thank God in Heaven for a Constitutionally mandated two-termlimit.

The space program has long suffered from a giggle factor among the general, non-geek, population not enamored with space exploration. The last few years there were some signs that this giggle factorwas dying out as people became more aware of the real benefits associated with thespace program but in one swift move, that little man has returned it all to thesubject of jokes and outright derision. If anyone needs to be sent to the moonto establish a lunar settlement it is that joke of a man and his androidlooking wife.

Just for giggle here are a few Space Cadet organizations that are seriously pushing into the final frontier:

Mars Society
Planetary Society
SpaceX
Virgin Galactic
Bigelow Aerospace
Scorpius Space Launch Systems

Hopefully one will be cheap enough one day for your truly to ride into orbit, that way it will be easier for the Mother Ship to pick me up. Long Live and Prosper y'all.

Feeling under the weather

2012-01-29T07:45:00.000-05:00

Caught some kind of bug and feel about as weak as the water in a dirty mop bucket. Going to sleep most of the day to try and regroup so I can go to work tonight. I will leave everyone with this question, what does it take to get a teenage boy to unload the dishwasher before he leaves another pile of dirty plates, glasses, and utensils in the sink?

An Ode To My First True Love

2012-01-23T19:57:00.000-05:00

As love affairs go it was bad idea from the start, she wasan understated but sincere beauty with sensual curves in all the right placescombined with an air of danger that never failed to turn heads while I was anaïve kid who did not have two-cents to rub together. Her seduction was quickand permanent leaving me no other option but to move heaven and earth to ownher body and soul. Far from being something noble and good like love at firstsight at its heart, my emotional state was nothing more than simple animallust.

I spent days occupied with the thoughts on possessing herbut I had to be patient and carefully lay out my plan. All this happened around1984 and at the time, I was working for the South Carolina Highway Departmentdoing anything they told me to do. I drove huge riding mowers cutting backvegetation encroaching on roads, replaced worn and faded highway signs, and myfavorite, I inspected the undersides of bridges, which could bring me face toface with all sorts of snakes and rats larger than house cats with twice theattitude. All that hard work was done for the paltry salary that was verylittle above minimum wage at the time.

Eventually the day came where I collected my meagerresources and with my grandfather, whose arm was very sore from my twisting, wedrove off to the Chevrolet dealership in my hometown where I signed the paperson the car of my dreams. What, you thought this was about some woman?

My grandfather, who was my reluctant cosigner, looked onwith a combination of amusement and sadness as I drove off with my 1984 CamaroCoupe. It had a grey paint job with just a V-6 engine but to me it was afreaking starship with its sleek lines and soft purring motor. Other peoplewith the more expensive and powerful Camaro Z-28’s looked down on my baby butto me they were trying to overcompensate for something they lacked physicallyand frankly I considered that car style somewhat “whorish.”

For two years, my baby and me plied the roadways of theSouth Carolina Low country staying out of most trouble until I transferred overto the active army from the National Guard. The location of my permanent dutyassignment was Fort Carson, Colorado forcing a temporary separation from my caruntil my grandfather and one of my uncles drove her to me. Once reunited, myCamaro opened up a whole new level of male oriented twenty-something activitiesthat the greater Colorado Springs area offered.

Hey, I never considered myself a Don Juan but in simpleterms, if that car could talk many of the stories associated with thoseactivities would be rated “NC-17.” Since I need to cover all the bases and Iwill not make any further comment about it but I have researched the issue andthe statue of limitations has run out on anything else that might have happenedduring that time.

Through it all that Camaro, which my granddad thought was apiece of junk, kept me out of trouble and brought me safely home although therewere a few times I don’t remember how. This lasted all through my activemilitary career, my time in college, and for a couple of years after I gotmarried.

There are two chief reasons why guys are interested insports cars. The first reason involves a love for speed and the second is toimpress women. For the most part I did not give a damn about going fast;somehow I always seemed to attract the attention of highway patrolmen with apenchant for hassling goofy looking guys with me being the poster child. Forme, my Camaro was about style and being cool, in other words I was only out toimpress women.

However, over the years owning that car became less aboutpicking up some chick and more about how it made me feel. There was an easyfreedom and peace of mind while driving that car that now seems like asomething from a dream I barely remember.Unfortunately, reality being the huge pain in the ass its likes to be mylove affair with that car had to end but only after my wife got pregnant.

That was 1995 with my son, the future Darth Spoilboy, just afew months away from arriving on the scene. For several months my wife had beenon my case about selling my Camaro and buying something more children friendly.I resisted the best I could remembering all the trips and adventures we hadbeen through but after much convincing I finally realized the logic in my wife’s arguments and agreedto let her go. The two main reasons boiled down to a lack of space in thebackseat to mount a baby carrier and the fact that I simply did not have themoney needed to fix her up in the areas she needed some restoration. However, Ijust could not betray my four-wheeled lady so I left the selling of her to mywife.

The best way to sale a used car back then involved listingit in the “Carolina Trader”, a local classified advertisement paper with a verydedicated readership always looking for a bargain. My wife called the paperabout my car on a Thursday with the advertisement appearing in the new edition onsale the following Monday afternoon around four o’clock. Some will no doubt thinkI am exaggerating but I arrived home from work about that time and the phone startedringing less than thirty minutes later. Right then I should have knownsomething was very wrong.

“Hello sir,” the overly eager voice said from my phone, “I’mcalling about the Camaro in the paper, is it still for sale?”

“Yeah,” I said suddenly feeling very depressed, “you’re thevery first caller.”

“Does the car have any tires?” The disembodied voice askedinstantly raising my suspicions that I was missing some important piece ofinformation.

“Ah yeah, all four and they are close to brand new.” I saidstarting to feel irritated at his questions.

“Are you telling me the car is still drivable?” The voiceasked at an increased pitch, so much the guy was starting to sound like alittle girl.

“Dude, I just drove it home from work about twenty minutesago. It drives fine.”

“I’ll be at your house in ten minutes with the money.” Thevoice said urgently before hanging up.

Luckily for me my wife arrived home about the same time thecall ended. This allowed her to tell me what price she listed for my sweetCamaro because if the guy I had just finished talking with had tried to hand mea check for that ridiculously low amount then drive off with my car there wouldhave been blood.

“You listed my car in the paper for three-hundred and fiftydollars!” I screamed at my wife feeling several blood vessels in my head aboutto explode.

To say reality broke down for me right then would have been amonumental understatement, my Camaro was not some rusted piece of junk sittingon cinderblocks it was still an operational and street worthy automobile. Ithad only two real problems, one being the paint job, which was extremely fadedand scratched up, and the other was the ceiling headliner, which was in theprocess of coming unglued and falling down. The engine itself, the mostimportant part still purred like the day I bought the car.

Circumstances being what they were I had little recoursebecause phone dude was true to his word and pulled up in my driveway justminutes after I learned what was going on. Matters were made worse after allthree of us drove to a local bank to get sale paperwork notarized. I learnedthat a similar 1984 Camaro coupe in fair condition, like mine, should have soldfor about fifteen-hundred dollars in 1995.

Call me immature and crazy but I was furious for weeks andif it had not been for my son who was due around November, to this day I amuncertain what I would have done. Nevertheless, as wise men like to say timedid eventually heal that awful wound but it left a serious scar.

Fast forward to just this last December, my wife was in oneof her moods and decided to reorganize the attic on a cold Saturday morning.Having learned my lesson after numerous issues with her instinctive need tomove stuff around I carefully accounted for all my precious crap making sure itdid not go missing. My son was not so lucky, a box containing his Legos andother toys from his early years ended up donated to the local Goodwill. What upset my son in particular were theplastic toy soldiers that he had inside that box.

Darth Spoilboy over the course of the entire Christmas breakbrought up the fact that he had wanted to keep those toy soldiers. Now I meanno harm about this but my wife is not the sentimental type, if anything she isfar more Vulcan than Spock when it comes to getting rid of anything she feelsis useless and just taking up space. God help me, but there have been more thana few times she has given me a very curious look like she was contemplating thelogic in kicking me out onto the street so I told my son to just suck it up.

Now this should be the end of my story except that my wifecame home Saturday carrying several bags from her shopping trip that day andplaced them on the kitchen table I waslying on the couch dealing with a massive headache when I saw her pull a largeplastic container out of one of her canvas shopping bags. I was blown away tosee the words “five hundred toy soldiers” emblazed on the container and herunceremoniously carry it to my son’s room.

My face must have been showing the look of utter dismay Iwas feeling as she walked back out towards the kitchen. It was enough to stopher in her tracks and looked at me as if I was a simpleton. “Please grow up,”she said in a disgusted manor, “you’re not getting your Camaro back so get overit.”

The world felt extremely unfair at that moment,so what is a grown man to do? I went and made a batch of margaritas and spentthe rest of the day silently toasting my first true love.

Making My Own Paradise

2012-01-21T12:45:00.002-05:00

The weather always seems unsettled these days with freezing temperatures one day and uncomfortably warm the next. Leaving the concerns about how humans are changing the global climate for the worse alone for a moment these swings in weather are Hell on my sinuses. Somehow I have avoided the worst of the recent changes but as I woke up this morning I felt the all too familiar throbbing pain of a category five headache building inside my head somewhere between my eyes. Thankfully a couple of Advil, a hot shower, and periodic sessions with a heating pad wrapped around my head seems to be keeping the pain down to a category three.

Of course today is primary day here in the intellectually challenged Palmetto State and while everyone here at the house has gone off I have had scores of people with the IQ's of brine shrimp call here desperately urging me to vote for one of what I feel are morally bankrupt individuals preaching impending doom. These callers have all the righteous zeal of your average suicide bomber and without going into details my exchanges with them have not gone well. Their one commonality is an utter hatred of President Obama and the belief he is singlehandedly destroying the fabric of the country. When I ask one of these political callers why don't the surviving and fearsome Republican four just unite behind one candidate to defeat this evil Darth Sidious-like person living in the White House all sorts of rusty knives are pulled out and plunged into the backs of these supposed knights on shining conservative horses .

Such is life I guess but given my unstable condition preventing coherent thought I have essentially retreated to my mental redoubt. Soft steel drum music is playing on the stereo, I am wearing my favorite Hawaiian shirt, and before long I will be drinking lemonade as I imagine myself someplace tropical. I am hoping my headache will be gone by the time polls close allowing me what I am sure will be a laugh riot as the various candidates spin the results.

F3 (Cycle 63) "A Little Boy's Secret"

2012-01-14T12:24:00.001-05:00

Flash Fiction Friday Prompt: You know something, but you do nothing…ever, no matter what happens
Length: Let’s do it between 500 and 1500 words
Style: Noir, psychological thriller, or horror
Deadline: Wednesday January 18th 9:00PM

“Wake up sleepyhead,” my mom said after gently kissing me on my nose. I was eleven years old at the time and she knew I hated overt contact so I wiggled underneath my covers in an attempt to prevent any further embarrassment. I had come to believe I was an adult and grown men just did not receive kisses from their mothers.

“All right big boy,” she said laughing while trying to tickle me, “breakfast is downstairs and Steven you need to eat and get ready quickly if you want to come to work with me.”

I was still underneath the covers with my body tucked tightly into a protective fetal position when I felt my mother’s weight lift off my worn mattress to be replaced with the sound of her heels clicking on the hardwood floor of my bedroom as she walked out. Throwing back the covers, I laid on the bed for several moments thinking about how my father once came in after my mother and spend a few minutes with me before he had to run out the door.

Funny how pain and heartache fades over the years but I still remember laying on that old bed feeling the intense sense of loss his absence brought. He had died a little over a year before after a drunk driver ran a red light and crashed into him. I never told my mother but I would often dream of sitting beside him as he drove that old Ford truck he got from granddad. It was a pleasant dream and somehow I always knew we were heading towards the Tastee-Freez for a private father and son ice cream cone.

The reason I never told my mother about the dream was that it always turned into a nightmare. At some point, I would no longer be in the truck but standing on the sidewalk watching the huge speeding semi slam into the small truck. The last thing I would see before waking up would be the puzzled and disappointed expression on my father’s face as his life ended and the truck he drove was twisted, smashed, and compacted all at the same time. It was almost as if I could tell he understood what was happening to him and how his small family would be lost without him.

Not wanting to torture myself any longer I thankfully remembered my promise to my mother to be the man of the house, so I pushed the sorrow away and jumped up so I would not make her late for her job. Breakfast was pancakes and bacon and like any growing boy, I gobbled it down without really tasting anything of the food. I was especially happy that morning because a few days before a water pipe had busting on the third floor of my school resulting in all the rooms below being flooded and classes abruptly canceled.

The destruction was so great that both the district superintendent and my principle had decided to keep the school closed until after the Thanksgiving holiday to allow the workmen enough time to repair and clean everything up. It was every elementary school kid’s fantasy come true, not only had the school been closed but all our textbooks, recorded grades, and homework were soggy oatmeal-like sludge being pushed into trash cans.

My mom’s job was in the huge motor vehicles records warehouse located on the southeast corner of Elm and North Houston Streets. She was part of a crew of other women who spent their entire day filing incoming records or retrieving those that might be needed somewhere. The building had seven floors and when I accompanied my mom to work, it was a huge and mysterious playground with all sorts of strange rooms filled with storage boxes that acted as oversized Legos. This was all made possible because my mom’s boss was a kind man who let the ladies working under him bring their children to work occasionally.

The day my perception of the world changed for the second time I was the only child in the warehouse but on the sixth floor I had a fort built from a previous visit and I was looking forward to playing cowboys and Indians with an entire tribe of imaginary Apache warriors out to overrun my stronghold. For a couple of hours I played contently repelling several assaults when I happened to glance outside one of the big windows that lined the wall.

A huge crowd had gathered all along the parts of Elm Street I could see and it appeared to stretch all the way into the park further down. Using all the strength I had I forced open one of the old windows so I could get a better view of what was going on. Before long a cheer rose up in the distance and seconds later I saw a small motorcade approaching.

From below, I heard faint mentioning of President Kennedy with my child brain finally making the connection with the memory of the radio announcer mentioning he was suppose to be in town that day. I grew excited for all the dreams and hopes he inspired in everyone at that time. He was the man that challenged us to go to the moon and stared down the evil Soviets during the scary Cuban Missile Crisis.

As President Kennedy, the First Lady, Governor Connally, and his wife rode past my spot I quickly hurried over to the other side of the building and opened up another window, this allowed me to see all the way down to Dealey Park.

Seeing the president and his beautiful wife pass in front of me was the most exciting thing to happen in my young life but movement in the window of the building across from me that tore my attention away from them. Almost parallel to me I saw two men huddled close together looking out one of the windows. The one in the background was holding something made of wood, which for some reason I took to be a broom and the other in the forefront was looking through a pair of binoculars observing the motorcade.

They quickly changed positions with the man who I had thought was holding a broom taking up what I learned from movies was a firing position. This unknown man with the speed and precision of what was clearly professional training, even to a kid like me, worked the bolt-action rifle three separate times. He was so fast each pop from the weapon almost overlapped the other. I was transfixed with what I saw but the screams that followed were proof enough that he had hit his intended target.

The man with the binoculars pushed the other one out the way bringing them up to his eyes. A maniacal smile appeared on his face as he watched the chaos below and my soul ran cold because I was convinced I was looking at none other than the devil himself.

“Help someone,” I screamed at the top of my lungs while leaning dangerously out the window, “they shot the president.” The entire world, so caught up in the anarchy below, ignored my pleas. All except the devil man who brought the binoculars up to his eyes and looked directly at me.

I froze like a rabbit in the crosshairs and felt death hovering over my shoulder. The devil man just continued smiling and seconds later disappeared into the recesses of the Texas School Book Depository.Within minutes police were everywhere like my imaginary Apache Warriors had been before and I ran downstairs in an attempt to tell them what I knew.

The only one who I was able to stop listened for only a few seconds before I was interrupted by the loud voice blaring from his walky-talky, he then quickly ran off and disappeared. The only adult who listened all the way through was my mom’s boss. He made a few phone calls but later told me with everything so crazy he believed it would be days before anyone came around to talk with us.

Two days later he was killed in what the police claimed was a robbery at his home. As the days passed strange men began appearing at my mom’s work walking the floors looking for something.

Fearful of these men,whenever I accompanied my mother to her work I retreated to an very isolated hiding place deep in the bowels of the building and only left as the work day drew to a close. I would appear at my mother's desk and make her leave as everyone else walked out to the parking lot. For reasons I cannot explain these mysterious visitors eventually faded away like evil wraiths and over time I have come to believe they may have been figments of my imagination, or at least that is what I tell myself. Still though, as I spent long fearful days hiding among all the dusty boxes I made silent prays promising to say nothing more about what I saw if they left my mother and me alone and I have kept that agreement.

Every year as the anniversary approaches, it’s always the same. Scores of documentaries muscle in on the moronic reality shows that infest the so-called historical cable channels like a bad case of fleas on a stray dog. Serious looking men and women holding all sorts of degrees in history and engineering will explain what actually happen and how a lone gunman killed the president. Yes, one man fired the shots but I know he was not alone and this secret will die with me.

Clowns to the left and jokers to the right

2012-01-11T20:35:00.005-05:00

Down here in South Carolina you could feel the shift in reality last night the exact moment the various news networks declared Mitt Romney the winner of the New Hampshire primary. This will sound crazy but I liken it to having the fiery and evil eye of Sauron focus it gaze on the hapless Frodo weary from carrying the Ring of Power.

I am sure the huge army of campaign staff workers and press personnel were already packing up for the trip to the Palmetto State even before some programmer was tasked with downloading the focus group approved victory speech into the newest animatronic Mitt. I watched the speech and I've got to admit those engineers have really made some huge advances in creating lifelike robots. The former governor of Massachusetts for once actually looked like he was a real fresh and blood person. Now he still spoke in halting sentences suggesting a processor upgrade might already be needed and after the first two minutes it looked liked a couple of the gears in his jaw were stuck making his smile look less mechanical and more like something you would see on a jovial skull.

For Newt his very poor New Hampshire showing last night and resulting speech explaining how the combined forces of everything unholy and anti-American stymied his crusade left him looking like a disgruntled Orc and Drawf half-breed if you will allow me another nerdy "Lord of the Rings" analogy. He seethed so much anger and resentment at the podium last night that I half expected his wife, who looks remarkably like a sex blowup doll I once knew, to explode into flames. It wouldn't have been a big deal, given her husband's past behavior she would be foolish not to realize Newt probably already has a replacement for her waiting in the wings.

As for the press they are expecting a death match between the renegade Disney Hall of Presidents animatron and the white-haired megalomaniac convinced he alone can save Western Civilization and South Carolina is the battleground. It is sure to be fun since my home state is such fertile ground for political fruits, nuts and associated moralistic stuff suits. In fact if you add Oops Perry desperate to be taken seriously again and sweater vest Santorum it becomes a huge circus. Although the former senator from Pennsylvania would disapprove of the primary being called that because it would mean animals and fun and we simply can't have that here. People might get ideas and that is never good for those trying to protect the moral fiber of the nation. Someone might be forced to wash all the frothy stuff off their hands.

But it will all be over in two weeks and the traveling circus of candidates and press will then move down to Florida. God help those poor souls and for God's sake will someone please tell Huntsman to just give it up before then. Don't even get me started on Ron Paul, that's a whole separate rant all by itself.

"What Came After" by Sam Winston

2012-01-07T19:47:00.010-05:00

A Carolina Parrothead book review.

There are many reasons a person might read a dystopian novel, but a wild guess about the chief motivation for some would be to taste, ever so vicariously, how bad things can get. This is particularly true for people with a political bent, pundits and futurists from both the left and right of American politics like to froth at the mouth whenever their specific groups are out of power warning us about how the other side is out to crush everything good in the country. Whether these political agents actually believe the propaganda they like to spew or just use it to keep the unwashed masses fearful of the boogeyman they want their members to believe is hiding under their beds is just one of those things that have to be judged on a case-by-case basis.

Since the election of President Obama the right wing has been exceptionally inflamed with fears that he is a secret Kenyan-born anti-colonial/Islamic/socialist out impose the tyranny of Sharia law on the United States or is the actual biological spawn of Satan. In fact after the recent purchase of my Kindle I was browsing the long list of cheap books by unknown authors and found a “novel” that had a ragtag group of true red blooded Americans patriots out to overthrow a fictional president curiously similar in accused background as Obama. At least the author had the good manners to put a disclaimer on the advertisement saying that his work “might be offensive to some.”

I will do something dangerous here and make an assumption that anyone with some semblance of a rational mind will have to admit that the vast majority of nightmarish scenarios that have members of the right wing running around like Chicken Little are simply insane. I doubt I have any conservative readers but before anyone’s nose gets out of shape I will admit my fellow liberals are very good at espousing their own brand of insanity from time to time. Except in the case of many liberal dystopian nightmares, I am forced to write that we have good little bit of evidence on our side that we are dancing dangerously close to the abyss. The final result of what may happen after such a fall can be read about in a book called “What Came After” by Sam Winston, which I recently finished.

You would pretty much have to be living under a rock these days avoiding all news media, or just watching Fox News, not to have heard one of many reports saying that since 1980 a huge majority of American have seen their real worth decline an insane amount. At the same time the richest amongst us, a small minority, have seen a huge Midas-like increase. The same is true for how the national infrastructure of roads, water systems, bridges, power lines and many other vital things that support our ability to stay competitive globally is absolutely falling apart from lack of repair and replacement.

Now throw in the Conservative talking points about how all government and taxes are evil and that the free market is the solution to everything from the ingrown toenail to male pattern baldness. For good measure add the real life worship of corporate profit above all else with the deranged phantom of Ayn Rand floating around infecting certain members of society and the end result is the dystopian world of Sam Winston’s book.

Set twenty to thirty years in the future it would be an understatement to say that the United States has at a minimum fallen to third world status although it would not be pushing it to say that good old America has more in common with medieval, Dark Ages Europe than say real life Haiti or Liberia. The federal government has not just gone broke or been physically taken over by corporations it has been “disassembled.” The main cause for this was a complete collapse of the economy and the persistent, deluded myths of libertarian philosophies and the core Republican belief that government services should be outsourced so it could be done cheaper and better.

The result was a few massive corporations effectively in control of the country. A monolithic banking corporation issues some sort of monetary scrip everyone uses. A pharmaceutical/agricultural corporation that makes medicine, for those that can afford it, and grows heavily genetically engineered crops that if I understand correctly will poison those who eat them if the plants are not processed. What few roads that are still operational are controlled by a corporation called “National Motors” whose main job it seems is to transport supplies that keep the rich comfortable.

The big winner in the United States pulling a full-fledged reenactment of the fall of the Roman Empire is a corporation called “Black Rose.” They provide the lion-share of the security with corporate headquarters in none other than the former United States Capitol building.

Given the hints about extensive life support equipment used to keep the last chief executive of the Republic going it easy to guess that fine stalwart of human compassion Dick Cheney is the man who ushered the United States into that good night freeing us all from the threat of the federal government taking our money. But wait, there is more, the country has not just been liberated from corrupt federal bureaucrats but even state governments have disappeared leaving civilization just along the coasts and in a few scattered spots like Chicago and Houston.

What down home Red State people like to call “Fly Over” country when they want to separate themselves from the nasty liberal elites has been declared Empowerment Zones. I have to admit the exact purpose for these zones was never really explained fully but given the Orwellian speak done these days it has a very uncomfortable ring of possible truth.

In the book as food prices rocketed into orbit as the economy collapsed a huge chunk of the population starved to death and when the dust cleared the result was the survivors barely living at some subsistence level. This is where I have to introduce the main character of the book, a poor but intelligent man named Henry Weller.

Henry is an old-fashioned Mr. Fixit who has created a mechanical workshop from equipment he has salvaged. After one of the very powerful men working for the baking corporation drives his ancient hummer into a ditch Henry is able to fix the wrecked vehicle. Before driving off Mr. Banker makes the mistake of having a picture taken with Henry and his family and writing on it something to the effect that he owes Henry big.

A few weeks later while Henry is looking at the photograph he gets the idea to going on the long and dangerous trip to New York with his young daughter to have Mr. Banker use his influence to cure her increasing blindness. What unfolds is an odyssey that should scare the living hell out of any observant person because while this is just a work of fiction all the elements for a similar future are already here. Needless to say, I highly recommend the book.

“What Came After” is mainly available as an eBook on Amazon for the Kindle but can be bought in the paperback form.

Busch Gardens Facepalm

2012-01-04T10:19:00.002-05:00

After our stopover at Discovery Cove last week on a bit of a whim, we decided to forgo our usual follow up visit to Sea World and use our complementary passes to go see the other sister park, Busch Gardens Tampa the following Thursday. My family and I have been going down to Florida for years making a habit of hitting all the major theme parks around Orlando but for various reasons we had never taken the short drive over to Tampa. My wife and I are big fans of the fantastic animal habitats on display at Disney’s Animal Kingdom Park and we were looking forward to finally seeing what many people had told us were even better ones at Busch Gardens.

After arriving at the park and getting through the entrance, which for an hour proved problematic not just us but for everyone else as well because of faulty ticket scanners the first habitat we came upon was for the chimpanzees. We entered the viewing section, made up to look like a cave and found a huge window that looked out upon the living area for the resident chimps.

Now I understand opinions differ widely on the morality of keeping our closest primate kinfolk captive so a corporation can make a profit but I think there is a bigger picture that needs to be focused on here. While I understand those who think it is wrong the educational benefits of actually seeing chimpanzees, marine mammals, or any other endangered species in person goes a long way to making them real in the eyes of the average American. In this particular case, Busch Gardens was doing its best to add to the educational effect by having one of the chimpanzee keepers give a lecture about the resident chimps and the chimpanzee species in general.

As someone who has read many of the works of the great primatologist Jane Goodall, I was very interested in what the Busch Gardens keeper had to say. Since one of the chimps was in the open playing in the middle of the living area the keeper was having a hard time getting anyone in the crowd to listen to her.

As she struggled to continued, I could actual see the frustration on her face as she tried to describe the various chimps that live at the park then delve into the species native African habitat and how dangerous their existence can be there. Like a champion, the keeper eventually finished the lecture then invited the crowd to ask questions. Of course, the very first inquiry disproved the idea that there are no stupid questions.

“Could you please tell me why do the monkeys just eat bananas? The thirty-something mom asked while trying to take away the Nintendo her son was playing making him oblivious of his surroundings and what was going on.

I actually felt bad for the Busch Gardens keeper who had clearly stated that the chimpanzees were not monkeys but apes and our closest primate relatives. Like the trooper she was, the resident expert backed up and again explained what the chimps are and that they are omnivores, eating both plants and meat that they hunt for in groups.

On our way back out of the park several hours later, we again stopped by the chimpanzee habitat and caught the tail end of the same lecture. There was a new keeper giving the lecture this time and like the one from the morning, he opened up the floor for anyone in the crowd to ask him questions about the chimpanzees.

Right off the bat the first question shouted out caused the keeper to take several very deep breathes and slowly massage his forehead in tired annoyance.

It was an older guy this time who asked, “Why don’t they have tails like other monkeys?”

I felt so bad for those keepers right then I would have bought each and every one of them a case of beer for their troubles.

Safely Being Shark Bait

2011-12-28T12:34:00.002-05:00

Tuesday had us at the beautiful Discovery Cove theme park here in Orlando, a place that limits the amount of people who can visit to about one-thousand a day. Of course it has a laid back, tropical theme with such attractions as a lazy river with lush scenery, an aviary, dolphin encounters, and a tropical reef. The usual way to enjoy the reef has visitors put on a swim mask and snorkel then casually floating around all the brightly colored fish and stingrays.

For those willing to fork out the extra bucks you can don a seventy-five pound helmet with attached air hose and walk along the bottom. Its call "SeaVenture" and while its about as safe anything else you might do at any other there park Discovery Cove like to sell the attraction by saying you will see plenty of sharks and other possibly nasty deep sea creatures. First of all the sharks are separated from people like me by a sheet of plexiglass and the stingrays and Eagle rays that swim freely are fairly benign creatures. There are plenty of tropical fish and and for anyone who has been too scared to scuba dive I highly recommend it to anyone who visits.

One of the sharks that my group saw yesterday, there is just something about that sleek form that thrills me to no end. A long time ago I did scuba dive in the ocean in the waters off South Carolina but never saw the first shark. While I was perfectly safe with no chance for Sammy Shark to sink his very pointy and sharp teeth into me, unless he somehow figured how to jump over the plexiglass barrier, I have to admit I did feel like a kid watching him swim by just centimeters away.

Another great thing about SeaVenture was the near weightless feeling I had walking along the bottom. In fact given my "natural buoyancy"(i.e. body fat) I figure I could have used an extra ten pounds on the helmet to keep me down.

Alas, I was eventually forced to get out and turn over the fancy helmet to someone else. But I found my lounge chair and was soon taking advantage of another of Discovery Cove attraction which is totally free beer. One of them being Buffett's "Landshark Lager" which was on draft. My only criticism is that they forced me to only one beer at a time.

Arrived safely, found poolside bar, all is well

2011-12-26T21:48:00.002-05:00

Monday morning finally arrived with the alarm clock angrily chirping but this time I did not want to throw it out my window. I immediately jumped up, ran over to the kid's room, and tossed the kids out of their respective beds with threats to come back with a bucket of ice water if they did not get moving. Dragonwife was more of a problem to get out of bed but I threatened to get naked, and well lets just say she was up, had her teeth brushed, and was dressed so fast I was highly disappointed.

The drive down was uneventful except for the persistent nagging by Darth Spoilboy about how we were neglectful parents by not buying him the car he so richly deserved. Of course with a captive parental audience Darth Wiggles used the opportunity to begin her assault for not just a cell phone but one of those Android smart gizmos like the one ALL her friends have.

When we got to Animal Kingdom Lodge we ran into some issues at check-in, see they overbooked and while it was a bit of a concern for a few minutes the attack lawyer personality my wife hardly ever exposes to us poor humans became unhinged sending the clerk scurrying off for his life. After that I had dreams of an unlimited bar tab along with upgrades to whatever goes as the celebrity suite in this fine establishment. We did get an upgrade to a room facing the resort savannah meaning we will have nice views of the animals in the morning.

Once in the room Darth Wiggles and I raced down to the pool where she promptly dumped me for some friends she made a few minutes after we got into the water.

No big deal, I soon wandered off to the poolside bar and made several new friends of my own. Off to Discovery Cove in the morning, hope everyone is doing well and I will toast you all tomorrow with all the free beer they serve there.

Ah, it's Christmas again dammit

2011-12-24T09:35:00.007-05:00

My nifty tradition of going on a rabid-like rant about the putrid and undead nature of hyper-commercialized Christmas has fallen flat this year. I guess the blame rests with how my wife talked me into standing in a long and godforsaken line outside of Best Buy Thanksgiving evening from nine o'clock to freaking two o'clock in the morning. The reason for me joining her that cold night was because the Best Buy account is in my name and we were very quickly approaching the end-of-life moment for our seventeen-year old refrigerator.

See, I like the milk with my Chips Ahoy cookies very cold and the old Amana model we inherited from the previous owners of the house we now live was having a hard time keeping a constant temperature. Throw in the door handles that were loose and cracked, a freezer that produced enough frost to create a glacier forcing us to defrost about every two weeks, and even a Bachmann supporter would have had enough sense to know it was time to buy a new one.

Long story short, once we got inside the store the last thing in the world on our minds was buying a refrigerator. For me it became a matter of surviving the consumerist zombie hordes and for my wife it became about a laptop, X-box video games, and an iPod. The Best Buy staff was very professional and friendly but they had their hands full dealing with the untamed mob. I personally would have blasted a couple of rounds into the ceiling from a Mossberg 500 riot shotgun with a tactical stock to calm down their shark-like feeding frenzy nature.Yeah, that was my Christmas wish list but Santa did not go for it despite my warnings of the pending 2012 doomsday.

Afterwards, I felt soiled and corrupted walking out the store with all that booty. Since then my usual outrage at the banal nature of all the luxury car, jewelry, and cell phone television commercials filled with an overabundance of rich and beautiful white people has been dulled.

Thankfully, my spirits might soon be revived with the family leaving for a vacation the day after Christmas. While it will not be a Caribbean cruise or a trip down to my beloved Key West, it will be a Disney vacation with a visit to Discovery Cove, Busch Gardens Tampa, and if the fates allow a swim with manatees. Excessive amounts of travel-related pictures are soon to follow with me doing all the stupid stuff that is sure to bore the living Hell out of everyone. Until then there is one holiday I do enjoy, and I wish everyone a Happy Festivus! Please feel free to state your Festivus annual list of grievances in the comments.

"The Last True Story I'll Ever Tell" by John Crawford

2011-12-19T15:55:00.005-05:00

"An Accidental Soldier's Account of the War in Iraq"

A Carolina Parrothead book review

My half-assed twenty-one year military career ended in 2005 with me joyfully retiring from the National Guard and on my last day wearing the uniform there were no parties, hugs, much less any tears by me or the leadership of the unit I belonged. If anything, I would be willing to bet money that if I crossed the minds of those I left behind it was the passing thought of old fashioned “good riddance.” See I never could adjust to the high speed National Guard where troops gleefully accepted multiple two-week summer camps in one year, went to required army training schools, and did everything an active duty soldier did while supposedly a “citizen soldier.”

I had a wife, kids and a job and as much as patriotism is a mile-wide down here in South Carolina, in the area I live I have never found its true depth more than an inch or two. The best example of this was the day I inadvertently heard a few coworkers at my previous job whining because one of them was going to have to cover my weekend shift so I could attend my National Guard drill. Now this was 2003 with us well into the Iraq War. You would have expected patriotic rednecks to be all about supporting the troops but my service to the country was cutting into their deer hunting time and they had their priorities.

The actual statistics are mind blowing but somewhere around less than one percent of the country served in Iraq or our current conflict in Afghanistan. It is fascinating really, two jetliners flown by terrorist’s crash into the World Trade Center buildings. A third flies into the Pentagon and a forth is stopped by courageous passengers and not only does the president at the time just tell us to travel and shop but only a very few Americans find their way to an Armed Forces recruiting station.

Its far too easy for a civilian to stick a magnetic yellow ribbon on the end of their SUV, say nice things supporting whatever war we happen to be fighting, and believe they are supporting the troops. Many will not like what I am about to write but most Americans are so ignorant about what these men and women have to put up with that it is criminal. Movies portray glamorous fight scenes and non-serving pundits talk about "doing one's duty" without ever serving one day themselves ignoring the the hardships carried by soldiers, Marines, sailors, airmen and their families.

That’s all ancient history now but with the very recent departure of American troops from Iraq I am sure of one thing, it is that given this country’s short attention span various people will quickly try to rewrite this segment of United States history to their benefit, while many will do their best to forget about it all together. For anyone who cares I have to urge you to read a book that will give a first person account of how one guy was swept up into the ill planned and executed madness that cost the lives of nearly 4500 American servicemen and women, an untold amount of Iraqi lives, and trillions of dollars.

The author’s name is John Crawford and like many, he joined the National Guard to pay for college. One semester shy of graduation and very recently married, he finds himself mobilized and soon on the fronts lines in Iraq. Before anyone starts complaining, yes both he and I raised our right hands swearing to uphold and defend the United States Constitution. But we did not enlist to become sacrificial lambs for corporate imperialism or a civilian population overwhelmingly preoccupied with their narcissistic lives.

John Crawford's book offers a view into the weary world and mind of a combat soldier. It isn't glamorous and offers nothing in the way to justify the war in Iraq. It is about one man trying to survive and keep some small part of his sanity dealing with things that are completely alien to the fat and lazy civilians for whom our wars are at best episodes in some low rated reality show. If you want to feel the terror, stress, and utter frustration of a war that many will spend a lifetime trying to figure out I highly recommend you read his book.

F3 Cycle 59 "Under the Golden Arches of Atlantis"

2011-12-13T20:39:00.004-05:00

Flash Fiction Friday Prompt: Road Trip Story
Genre: Open
Word Limit: 1,300

Time had lost all meaning as my hands clutched the steering wheel of my car; my mind whirled in a multitude of other dimensions with minutes being as long as millenniums and eons passing as casually as seconds. The road I was driving stretched before me like a lazy anaconda basking in the sun with me a miniscule ant moving across the length of its body. My journey along the reptilian back had some importance but with reality taking some sort of break everything had lost meaning and purpose.

The road was my only constant, I felt a strange disassociation with all time and space having the ability to be driving across a lonely desert one minute and a crowded city the next. What really worried me was seeing the group of iguana cowboys herding hundreds of kittens across the dry and desolate landscape only to be suddenly replaced by pink flamingo policemen walking their urban beat. Both the iguanas and the flamingos watched me suspiciously as I drove by to the point I would hunker down low to avoid their gaze.

Above me, the sky blazed psychedelic patterns dancing in time to the helium-induced sounds of the Chipmunks singing Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance.” God himself was present watching over my journey in the form of a joyous and smiling Mickey Mouse sitting on a throne off in the distance. Every once and awhile I would hear his wise and caring voice give me directions. “Turn right at the next intersection,” he would sometime say and I would obey without question.

Of course, Donald Duck was nearby condemned to play the part of a disgruntled Satan complete with pitchfork, forever relegated to participate in all events as Mickey’s fall guy. But, Donald seemed bored with the role and when I occasionally passed him on my drive he was always sitting in some beach chair either reading an Archie comic book or perusing James Joyce’s “Ulysses.” A cooler full of beer and a bowl of chips and salsa beside his chair tempted me to stop and visit but Mickey would always chime in giving me new directions.

Even with the Mouse’s diligent guidance, I began to get hungry and decided to get something to eat. The Golden Arches just happened to materialize in front of me at that moment and I quickly turned into its parking lot so I could grab something from the drive thru. I pulled up to the big board showing all the items on the menu and began staring at the speaker mounted in the center waiting for the person inside to take my order, it was then that I noticed this was no normal fast food restaurant.

Stretching out before my eyes was the legendary Atlantis itself and that it was populated with all the great and terrible people who had ever lived. Sitting inside the dining area I saw Bob Marley wearing an expensive Brooks Brother suit talking with Ronald Reagan dressed in a ragged t-shirt and shorts oblivious to his Nancy and Frank Sinatra passionately kissing behind him. I had to figure Ronnie did not care because he was holding the biggest damn joint I had ever seen with the smoke from the burning end circling his awesome set of dreadlocks hanging down from his head.

Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck were outside in the patio area talking with Plato and Julius Caesar while Mitt Romney was hanging down from a tree playing the part of a piñata. Ernest was screaming out hints in ancient Greek to a blindfolded Plato who was holding the sword taking swings at a smiling Mitt. John and Julius were just standing close by and somehow I knew they were talking about Paul Newman’s famous salad dressings.

As much as I wanted to continue watching everything and everyone the speaker finally came alive with some unknown language blaring loudly from it. I had to figure it was the Arches employee asking about my order and I responded by screaming back “sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit.”

Pulling forward to the pick-up window, I immediately understood why I did not understand the Arches’ employee. The worker was a beautiful chicken with a rich and vibrant plumage of feathers who politely handed me my biscuit then motioned me to look in front of my car. Standing there was Satan Donald Duck holding with his arms around two bikini-clad ladies. His smile was as sinister as the ladies were gorgeous and I could feel his words inside my head telling me I could stay and have all sort of fun for all eternity. The “come hither” look Donald’s companions gave me my curled my toes and made me tingle in places best left unsaid.

Just when I felt myself succumbing to temptation Almighty Mickey decided to reassert his presence. “Recalculating,” I heard him say in his magnificent high-pitched voice and with that, Donald went into his normal fit of rage to fade away along with his awesome babes.

Everything slipped by fast now and all sorts of visions came and went, all blurred with the apparent acceleration of time and space. I barely recognized the sound of my dash-mounted GPS say, “You have arrived at your destination.”

Feeling all sensation slip away, I slumped over laying my forehead on the steering wheel. There I stayed trying to make sense of what I had saw and felt in what seemed like a multitude of eternities. My rest was short as I heard my car door open and my wife slap the back of my head.

“Just where in the Hell have you been?” She asked me, “I sent you out to the drug store thirty minutes ago, what took you so long?”

It all came back to me then, my family and I had all been struck down by the flu and I had been given the mission to make a drug store run. I was now in my driveway not only gathering my small and weak collection of wits but the energy to go inside my house. My sick wife staring at me in disgust while wearing her old sweat suit was enough of a motivator for me to find the energy I needed.

Retrieving the shopping bags containing bottles of cold and flu medicine along with several cans of chicken soap from the floorboard of the passenger side I pull myself out of the car and begin to make what the long walk to the front door.

Just then, my daughter Cindy sticks her head out the front door. “Daddy,” she cried out, “don’t forget to bring Mickey and Donald in with you.” Turning around and looking back inside the car I see that both Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck had been propped up in the front passenger seat, something she had done to provide me company on what was supposed to be a short trip down the road.

Pulling my two road trip companions out of the car, I also see copies of “Islands in the Stream” and “Grapes of Wrath” in the back seat, both high school reading assignments for my son. Finally trudging my way back inside I make a mental note to tell my wife she will make the next store run, if I go back out I just may decide to hang out at the Golden Arches of Atlantis.

Police State America, coming really soon

2011-12-10T09:20:00.003-05:00

Talk about inconvenient but it really sucks to high heaven when the soulless husks posing as elected leaders and polishing seats up in Congress actively seek to destroy the United States Constitution right in the middle of the Christmas shopping season. Of course neither the Constitution nor the Bill of Rights can get your average twenty-first century American a fifty-inch LED television at a great price, with most everything in the United States dysfunctional or outright falling apart Americans can take pride that their talent for setting priorities has not suffered. However, that is the very thing happening up in the halls of Congress while Americans lucky enough to have a job or at least a working credit card do their impersonation of rats running the retail maze.

What pray tell are the senile but power hungry minions up in Washington trying to do? It is the National Defense Authorization Act (S.1867) which provides funds for the military allowing them to do all sorts of things from the benign building of family housing on military bases to the unabashedly sinister indefinite detention on American citizens accused of supporting terrorism.

Yes, that is correct; I have not flown off into the nether regions of some really bad Orwellian novel, although I sincerely wish that would was the case. Overly proud stuffed and deluded suits have convinced themselves that the fate of the Republic hangs in the balance unless we betray the very principles that we established the United States to preserve.

The putrid meat of the bill is contained in section 1031which through some intentionally vague wording expands the definition of terrorist activity. A seriously cool thing when you have inconvenient groups running around protesting and members of the powerful elite looking on in disgust upset they could not get to the stock market in time because traffic was blocked. The cops will be even more happy because it will offer them more chances to don their fancy riot control body armor and use pepper spray on college kids.

Personally, I would like to lay all the blame for this on soulless husks I mentioned above with the prime examples being Senile John McCain and his absolute Sweetness Lindsey Graham but truthfully, they are just the distorted reflection of a nation deeply saturated with fear and apathy. Our nation did get this way magically, sometime in the past the American people, totally comfortable in their credit card fueled lives and convinced of their total awesomeness, left the controls of the government open to all sorts of strange and bizarre creatures. The result being an encroaching police state that the American people of the 1970’s would not to have let stand for one single second.

Matt Taibbi of the Rolling Stone has a far better handle on the subject:

Indefinite Detention of American Citizens: Coming Soon to Battlefield U.S.A.

There’s some disturbing rhetoric flying around in the debate over the National Defense Authorization Act, which among other things contains passages that a) officially codify the already-accepted practice of indefinite detention of "terrorist" suspects, and b) transfer the responsibility for such detentions exclusively to the military.

The fact that there’s been only some muted public uproar about this provision (which, disturbingly enough, is the creature of Wall Street anti-corruption good guy Carl Levin, along with John McCain) is mildly surprising, given what’s been going on with the Occupy movement. Protesters in fact should be keenly interested in the potential applications of this provision, which essentially gives the executive branch unlimited powers to indefinitely detain terror suspects without trial.

The really galling thing is that this act specifically envisions American citizens falling under the authority of the bill. One of its supporters, the dependably-unlikeable Lindsey Graham of South Carolina, bragged that the law "basically says … for the first time that the homeland is part of the battlefield" and that people can be jailed without trial, be they "American citizen or not." New Hampshire Republican Kelly Ayotte reiterated that "America is part of the battlefield."

Officially speaking, of course, the bill only pertains to:

"... a person who was a part of or substantially supported al-Qaeda, the Taliban, or associated forces that are engaged in hostilities against the United States or its coalition partners."

As Glenn Greenwald notes, the key passages here are "substantially supported" and "associated forces." The Obama administration and various courts have already expanded their definition of terrorism to include groups with no connection to 9/11 (i.e. certain belligerents in Yemen and Somalia) and to individuals who are not members of the target terror groups, but merely provided "substantial support."

The definitions, then, are, for the authorities, conveniently fungible. They may use indefinite detention against anyone who "substantially supports" terror against the United States, and it looks an awful lot like they have leeway in defining not only what constitutes "substantial" and "support," but even what "terror" is. Is a terrorist under this law necessarily a member of al-Qaeda or the Taliban? Or is it merely someone who is "engaged in hostilities against the United States"?

Here’s where I think we’re in very dangerous territory. We have two very different but similarly large protest movements going on right now in the Tea Party and the Occupy Movement. What if one of them is linked to a violent act? What if a bomb goes off in a police station in Oakland, or an IRS office in Texas? What if the FBI then linked those acts to Occupy or the Tea Party?

You can see where this is going. When protesters on the left first started flipping out about George Bush’s indefinite detention and rendition policies, most people thought the idea that these practices might someday be used against ordinary Americans was merely an academic concern, something theoretical.

But it’s real now. If these laws are passed, we would be forced to rely upon the discretion of a demonstrably corrupt and consistently idiotic government to not use these awful powers to strike back at legitimate domestic unrest.

Right now, the Senate is openly taking aim at the rights of American citizens under the guise of an argument that anyone who supports al-Qaeda has no rights. But if you pay close attention, you’ll notice the law’s supporters here and there conveniently leaving out those caveats about "anyone who supports al-Qaeda." For instance, here’s Lindsey Graham again:

"If you’re an American citizen and you betray your country, you’re not going to be given a lawyer ... I believe our military should be deeply involved in fighting these guys at home or abroad."

As Greenwald points out, this idea – that an American who commits treason can be detained without due process – is in direct defiance of Article III, Section III of the Constitution, which reads:

"No Person shall be convicted of Treason unless on the Testimony of two Witnesses to the same overt Act, or on Confession in open Court."

This effort to eat away at the rights of the accused was originally gradual, but to me it looks like that process is accelerating. It began in the Bush years with a nebulous description of terrorist sedition that may or may not have included links to Sunni extremist groups in places like Afghanistan and Pakistan.

But words like "associated" and "substantial" and "betray" have crept into the discussion, and now it feels like the definition of a terrorist is anyone who crosses some sort of steadily-advancing invisible line in their opposition to the current government.

This confusion about the definition of terrorism comes at a time when the economy is terrible, the domestic government is more unpopular than ever, and there is quite a lot of radical and even revolutionary political agitation going on right here at home. There are people out there – I’ve met some of them, in both the Occupy and Tea Party movements – who think that the entire American political system needs to be overthrown, or at least reconfigured, in order for progress to be made.

It sounds paranoid and nuts to think that those people might be arrested and whisked away to indefinite, lawyerless detention by the military, but remember: This isn’t about what’s logical, it’s about what’s going on in the brains of people like Lindsey Graham and John McCain.

At what point do those luminaries start equating al-Qaeda supporters with, say, radical anti-capitalists in the Occupy movement? What exactly is the difference between such groups in the minds (excuse me, in what passes for the minds) of the people who run this country?

That difference seems to be getting smaller and smaller all the time, and such niceties as American citizenship and the legal tradition of due process seem to be less and less meaningful to the people who run things in America.

What does seem real to them is this “battlefield earth” vision of the world, in which they are behind one set of lines and an increasingly enormous group of other people is on the other side.

Here’s another way to ask the question: On which side of the societal fence do you think the McCains and Grahams would put, say, an unemployed American plumber who refused an eviction order from Bank of America and holed up with his family in his Florida house, refusing to move? Would Graham/McCain consider that person to have the same rights as Lloyd Blankfein, or is that plumber closer, in their eyes, to being like the young Muslim who throws a rock at a U.S. embassy in Yemen?

A few years ago, that would have sounded like a hysterical question. But it just doesn’t seem that crazy anymore. We’re turning into a kind of sci-fi society in which making it and being a success not only means getting rich, but also means winning the full rights of citizenship. I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t see this ending well.

The Indignities of Being a Middle Aged Man

2011-12-03T14:09:00.016-05:00

(Author's note: This story IS NOT autobiographical, like Jimmy Buffett has said this is a story with fictional facts or one with factual fictions. But never the less. like he also said this is my story and I am sticking to it.)

The exam room used by the company doctor was cold, small, and so Spartan it felt more like a prison cell especially designed for solitary confinement. The walls were window-less and painted a cheap and depressing grey/blue and as I sat on the old examination table, wearing the type of patient gown that exposed a person’s rear end I began to wonder if I was part of some physiological experiment attempting to induce stress and paranoia in unknowing test subjects.

After the second hour of waiting, my mind kept drifting to strange visions of armor wearing prison guards storming the small room with truncheons and tazers at the ready, while sporting sadistic gleams in their eyes. Making matters worse the gown I was wearing was a size too small which allowed my naked butt to get to know the cracks and tears in the vinyl pad covering the table very well.

Normally I would have done just about anything to avoid a doctor’s exam but my employer was offering a significant discount on my already high priced health insurance if I agreed to a preventive check up involving several simple and quick tests. The brochure in my annual insurance sign up package assured me it was a minor formality with the whole purpose to help me establish a healthier lifestyle and that I would be in an out of the physician’s office in short order.

Fat chance, during my long ordeal I had been poked and prodded to the extreme along with what had to be a couple of pints of blood drawn from my arms by nurses that seemed to hold a personal grudge against me. And you do not want me to even start to describe the office prostrate exam; I swear the nurse screamed out in joy as her finger went boldly where absolutely none had gone before. The small consolation that I was clinging to tenuously was the idea that the worst had to be over, there was simply nothing left for them to check or examine.

Just when I was beginning to contemplate escaping the company doctor stormed into the room carrying a file folder, grabbed the small stool next the exam table, dropped himself on the equally cracked vinyl cushion covering the seat, and began reading what I assumed was my test results. Since the good doctor had to be pushing close to four-hundred pounds, I silently winced as the small stool he was sitting on creaked and literally groaned every time he changed position.

While I feared the stool could collapse at any moment sending the rotund physician to the floor with a heavy thud it nonetheless withstood the weight as he silently reviewed my results. Enough time passed while he read that I was able to identify several of the stains on his lab coat with the most prevalent being ketchup, mustard, and ample amounts of chocolate. For someone who was suppose to help me develop a better way of life he looked the exact opposite of the stated objective, and I actually snorted in surprise as he reached inside the pocket of his lab coat pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighter.

“Mr. Logan,” he began after placing a cigarette on the edge of his lips while working the lighter, “ you are thirty pounds overweight, have high blood pressure, and your blood sugar levels are unusually high for a man of forty-five years.” He paused for a few seconds after successfully igniting the cigarette taking several deep drags off it. “Due to company regulations,” he began again,” unless you shed the weight, you will not only lose your insurance discount but be forced to pay an extra fifty-percent penalty fee because of your risk level. The good news you have six months to reach the required weight, the nurses will make an appointment for the weigh-in and I look forward to seeing you again then.”

With that, he was up and out of the office far faster than someone his weight should be able to, but as the door closed behind him, the doctor broke into a coughing fit that sounded like his lungs were trying to abandon the man and skip town. As I put on my clothes, I realized that I could not afford my health insurance, which included my wife and son along with me, if I lost the discount much less meet the expense of the penalty. I had no choice but join a gym and lose the required weight within the six months.

Finding a gym was no problem, as multiple subdivisions full of elaborate and overpriced McMansions began to pop up in my area like rows of annoying but well organized weeds a system of supporting convenience businesses developed on the outer fringes. My locale was once a secluded and peaceful rural area but it now supported a host of upper scale rackets targeting the young and rich professionals who inhabited the subdivisions so they would not have to deal with the stress of driving back into the city for their favorite trendy activity or gourmet treat.

On my way home after leaving the fat doctor behind, I stopped by several of the new and, for me, unfortunately hip gyms looking for one I would like. Almost every time I walked through the doors, the young and nubile babe paid to greet possible new members would look at me and like a deer caught in headlights and attempt to escape. I did not mind for the most part, I realized I did not meet their target demographic. It was obvious I was a very out of shape, balding middle-aged man who looked clearly out of place among all the young beautiful people. Still though, I eventually found a gym that did not completely annoy the living shit out of me with its snobbish attitude and I began working out in earnest.

At first the very idea of being forced to work out on a regular basis annoyed me to no end, I thought myself a very busy man with commitments and demands on my time that would make it difficult but as the weeks began to fly by I found my schedule remarkably adaptable. In other words after returning home from work in the late afternoon my life revolved around dinner and watching television until I went to sleep.

While I skipped the cost of a personal trainer to assist me, I did have a routine setup by one that had me spending forty-five minutes on the various machines working my arms, legs, and torso then doing forty minutes of a cardio workout on a treadmill. Every day I entered the gym I strictly adhered the same exercise machines in hopes that ingrained habit would help me succeed where no other technique had done before. Before long, I was actually enjoying the thought of going to the gym.

During my time working out I would put on my headphones and listen to old 1980’s music on my shiny new MP3 player that my son thought no better than the stuff my own parents listened to when I was his age. Not wanting to embarrass myself too much around people I might know I had chosen a gym on the opposite end of the suburban sprawl I lived. It was for the best and it allowed me to concentrate on my exercise rather than trying to socialize with people more often than not I did not like. That is how I first saw Annette.

She was a regular like me usually appearing ten to twenty minutes after I arrived. In simple terms Annette was the type of woman that had every man sucking his stomach in and trying to stand a little taller as she walked by. It was clear Annette noticed the disruption her entrances caused but she was nice enough to greet any guy who said hello to her.

Without being too drawn out Annette could best be described in mythological terms. She had the body of an Ancient Greek goddess that men clearly would have worshipped. Her red hair was long, wild, and curly like a barbarian or Celtic princess, which was paired with a beautiful but mischievous face. Topping it all off, the skin-tight exercise leotards she wore to the gym gave her the look of a superhero. All she had to add was a golden lasso and bullet-deflecting bracelets and she would have looked like Wonder Woman’s sexier and more scandalous sister.

Annette looked to be in her early to mid-forties but she had clearly aged like fine wine where as the small collection of other middle-aged people like me using the gym were not as lucky. We had more in common with a spoiled, cheap malt liquor. For many of us Annette did carry an air of mystery around her; she wore no wedding ring, something that supplied ample fodder for discussions and fantasies. During my early months at the gym that is about as far as my interests in her went, nothing more than a heavy dose of ogling along with many third-rate fantasies.

But a funny thing often happens to your average guy when he sticks to a regular exercise routine. The increased activity doses the brain with plenty of hormones that over time alleviates stress and increases the metabolism rate but it also begins to build self-confidence. Within four months I had dropped all the required weight and was feeling like a young twenty-something again, the down side was that I had begun to think Annette was following me around.

It started simply enough, I would be working my usual, tried and true exercise circuit when I noticed Annette using one of the machines nearby. Occasionally we would make eye contact and she would flash a pleasant smile my way, which would induce my heart rate to explode. Figuring she was just being nice I did not think too much of it. However, since people are always looking for meaning, even in the most trivial things over time I began to believe she had some romantic interest in me. My delusion was only enhanced as I looked into any mirror I passed and saw the weight I had lost along with the increased muscle tone.

As I cultivated my distortion of reality I began to wonder how I could break the ice with Annette and begin what I figured would be a passionate affair. Being a dedicated family man I had never even considered the idea of cheating on my wife in all my years of marriage. But with enough exercise-induced endorphins floating around my head along with an exaggerated ego supporting a corrupted premise I began to convince myself life was just too short to pass an opportunity to be with a beautiful and sexy woman.

The only way that came to mind was to slow my workout routine to the point she caught up with me allowing us to talk. It was lame beyond all comprehension but in my mind the idea was suave and sophisticated. Sure enough as I slowed my workout we began to make eye contact more often, which only enhanced my delusion.

The day finally came when I had slowed down enough that she was using the machine right beside me making feel like a teenager about to receive his first kiss. Deep down I knew this was going to be the day when my life changed for the better with a universe of possibilities opening up I could have never considered a few months before.

Still though, when Annette finally touched my arm it was as if electricity was running through my entire body. Locking eyes with her I removed my earphones eager to hear the first words spoken directly to me.

“Please sir,” she said with clear intent that she was addressing me like she would a much older man like her grandfather, “ I need to get home and fix dinner for my family, could you let me use this machine so I can finish my work out and get out of here.”

If her words, all cold and impersonal, were not enough to destroy my elaborate but loosely built fantasies, there was absolutely no warmth in her beautiful green eyes. As far as she was concerned I was just another stranger she had to navigate around as she went through her day.

Curiously feeling like both an insignificant bacteria and the biggest fool on the planet I smiled back and silently surrender the exercise machine. Afterwards I quickly left the gym myself but not before stopping somewhere and buying my wife some roses. It took days for me to work up the nerve to return to the gym but when I did I quickly realized that the entire embarrassing episode was confined to my head, Annette still came to the gym oblivious to my stupidity.

The day of the weigh-in so I could receive my insurance discount I passed with flying colors, my achievement was so good that I actually broke through fat doctor’s practiced indifference.

“Damn, Mr. Logan,” he said with a cigarette dangling from his lips while reading my updated file, “this is outstanding. What did you do, join a gym and fine yourself a hot girlfriend?”

“Please,” I said acting disgusted, which was not hard to do since his lab coat seemed to be sporting more food stains. “I’m a middle aged, married man; I have no time for such foolish ideas.”

The View Between Heaven and Earth

2011-11-30T20:02:00.011-05:00

"The most important scientific revolutions all include, as their only common feature, the dethronement of human arrogance from one pedestal after another of previous convictions about our centrality in the cosmos."
Stephen Jay Gould

Watching the cable news networks in this country has become problematic for me. Not only have they largely become one-sided affairs with most discussions involving only supporting members of a particular issue but for the longest time the American news media have taken a jaundice view on global events with the United States the ultimate center of everything in the world.

Everything is viewed in the context of how it affects this country whether it is a natural disaster killing thousands overseas or another country’s government telling the United States they will not go along with whatever foolish, and possibly illegal military adventure that strikes our fancy at the time. Despite this egotistical attitude the truth of the matter is that very little of what Americans worry, argue, and fight about will be remembered a couple of hundred years from now.

This refined American idea of superiority has been around for a long time and partners nicely with the general human arrogance that we naked primates are the center of the universe. While religion lost the war putting Earth at the center of creation long ago, individually that is still how most view their existence. For the affluent our lives have become a neatly contained universe all themselves even if our daily struggle is nothing more dangerous than dealing with the demands of living in a Western consumerist society. A far cry from the small child in Africa wondering where his or her next meal or drink of water will come from or a Mexican father caught in the middle of a drug war and fearing what might happen to his family.

At best our concerns bleed over to our families and maybe a few close friends because for most of our species time on the planet small groups were all we could manage.Tribalism, in various forms, is something we understand and will fall back on instinctively when things start to go bad. Realistically, its not pretty but it is basic human nature encoded into our very DNA since the number one survival trait is to pass on our genes to the next generation. The ultimate struggle we face as an intelligent species will be the need to overcome our primitive instincts and fears and realize that cooperation and inclusion enhances the chances of survival of everyone.

It is my hope and the subject of my weak prayers that similar forces that made us choose civilization over continuing with the hunter-gatherer lifestyle will make us look beyond our narrow and tired concerns. Excuse my semi-intelligent rant but every now and them something comes along that, at least to me, gives a real hint at the true scope of existence. Special thanks to Nance over at “Mature Landscaping” for bringing my attention to this remarkable video.

Thanksgiving? Not for the turkey

2011-11-24T07:41:00.003-05:00

As I was sitting back in my favorite chair yesterday afternoon sipping yet another fine Mexican beer the very attractive and highly intelligent news babe on MSNBC was explaining how President Obama had just pardoned two turkeys from what I am sure they consider the annual Thanksgiving Day Turkey Holocaust. The two birds, both oblivious to the formal ceremony, are to be sent to Mount Vernon to what I am sure for them will be turkey heaven, bypassing the usual requirement of having an appointment with an axe.

It was a mildly amusing scene and as it closed and the news babe went on to other stories I zipped over to the Fox Noise Network seriously figuring the usual sock puppets that appear there would be foaming at the mouth about how those turkeys were evil Islamic/socialist terrorists out to destroy America. Since Obama cannot fart without the Fox crew screaming the sky is falling I was actually surprised at their lack of response. But honestly, as I moved on to other more productive endeavors I figure we will hear of the president's unconscionable and illegal turkey pardon at the next Republican debate. Which is funny since I have never seen a finer bunch of half-assed turkeys ever assembled on stage in my life.

Of course the final real thought I had on the subject as I walked over to pop a top on another beer is that if through voting by republicans or inaction by disgruntled progressives if anyone of those buttholes are elected president the American people will be the turkeys and we will deserve what those fine fattened gobblers usual get on this day.

To all my friends, have a Happy Thanksgiving!

And yes. my ass, along with my daughter Darth Wiggles who I am forcing to go, will be seeing the new Muppet movie sometime this weekend.

F3 Cycle 57 "All in a night's work"

2011-11-20T06:56:00.004-05:00

Flash Fiction Friday Cue: Use a bottle of ketchup in your story.
Word limit: 1000
Genre: Open

“It’s not a fit night for the living to go outside Mr. Chevalier,” the old doorman Thomas said while opening the ornate glass and metal door leading outside my apartment building.

Lost in my own thoughts when I finally comprehended the words Thomas said I found them so odd they froze me in place on the edge of the foyer. I pondered the possible meaning, praying to a God I had long abandoned that this gentle and kind man was not implying anything. Standing there watching the wind and the rain from the stalled tropical storm hovering just off the coast, battering the city of Savannah, Georgia dispelled any foolish doubts that had momentarily crossed my mind.

“Yes, Thomas,” I said adjusting the collar of my trench coat and pulling my safari-style fedora tightly down on my head. “This night is not fit for the living; unfortunately I have important business with someone tonight.”

“Opening another restaurant sir, how many do you own now?” Thomas asked innocently.

“Maybe, if fate continues to be kind to me, and I own four” I said absentmindedly then stepping out into the weather. An awning stretching out from the door to the edge of the street prevented the worst of the weather from pelting me as I walked the distance to my waiting car. Feeling guilty for my brief paranoia I quickly turned around. “Say Thomas, it has been ages since I saw you and your lovely wife at my café on Bay Street. Call Sonya and make a reservation at your convenience, everything will be on the house.” The smile and thumbs up Thomas gave me in thanks soothed my troubled soul, if I have one, allowing me to focus my thoughts on the unpleasant task ahead.

My appointment was with a man in his private residence across the state line in South Carolina. Mere minutes after leaving the city behind the rural nature of the area along with the inclement weather combined to make the night pitch black, so deep was the darkness I began to feel myself transported in time. Driving the empty county roads with the undeveloped woods and marshes fleeting images briefly illuminated by my headlights I felt as if it was possible that anything could jump out in front of me. For various reasons I found that thought strangely funny.

Before long, the GPS system mounted on the dashboard of my car signaled my pending arrival. Turning off the main road, I was greeted by two huge horse statues on either side of the ornate gravel driveway. Minutes later, I was pulling up in front of a similarly ostentatious gate that was no mere ornamental fixture. The gate itself was over twenty-feet tall and was accompanied by what had to be a fifteen foot fence that I easily guessed would run the entire length of the estate. Security cameras, which strangely point both out and inward on the property, ran at intervals along its length.

“State the nature of your business here,” barked from a speaker mounted in a brick column beside the driveway.

“I’m Simon Chevalier; I have an appointment with Mr. Parker.” I responded beginning to feel the hairs on the back of neck tingle.

“When the gates open follow the driveway to the manor, do not stop. When you arrive someone will be at the door to let you in.” The person speaking to me from the speaker said.

With my destination in sight, I cheerfully followed the instructions, which soon had me inside the house and sitting in a comfortable chair in a study whose walls were lined with books. A cup of tea and a fire burning in the fireplace were very dignified touches of hospitality. Mr. Parker even had the dignity to allow me a few minutes to enjoy my surroundings.

“I trust the drive here was not too inconvenient,” Anthony Parker said storming into the room dressed in a very casual polo shirt and slacks, “and that the staff has met your every need while waiting for me.”

“Yes, everything has been fine.” I said, again making a mental note of the staff, they were loose ends that would eventually have to be dealt with.

The exchange of pleasantries was typical but Parker decided to come to the point first. “Please, Mr. Chevalier explain to me who pointed you my way and why I should do business with you.”

“Mr. Parker, we are both successful business men having friends on both sides of the law, which precludes me from disclosing where I heard your name. Just let me assure you I have… tastes that I am sure you can help me satisfy and I am willing to pay handsomely to have them met.“

From the minute I saw Parker walk into the room I knew my information was correct and that I was in the presence of an utter evil monster. The huge book he pulled down from one of the shelves with pictures of little boys for me to choose from only pushed me beyond my limit of endurance. I held back when I slapped him across the room just so he could see my eyes turn blood red and my vampire fangs extend from my upper and lower gums.

***

A few nights later, I am relaxing in the private dining room of my favorite restaurant. The stew placed in front of me is not exactly to my liking, the chunks of meat were stringy and I had failed to add enough red wine to the base leaving it rather bland. When my culinary skills fail, it depresses me but the arrival of Chief Detective Altman of the Savannah police department raised my spirits.

“So,” he began taking a seat at my table, “how did it go?”

“Robert, it went so well that I am now having Mr. Parker for dinner, or at least his remains.”

“His friends and benefactors are in a panic, the governors of three states and a certain United States senator are all asking the FBI to look into his mysterious and very sudden disappearance.” Robert said coyly watching me eat my dinner.

“Well that is why you ask me to look into these indelicate matters from time to time,” I replied after wiping my mouth with my napkin.

“Yeah,” Detective Altman said, “I just want you to know how much I appreciate your help on these problems we are unable to solve.”

“I did them for your grandfather, your father, and when your son ascends to your position I will do my best for him.”

“You’re a good man Simon,” Robert said getting up from my table and given my abilities, I knew he truly meant it. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” he said while fishing something out of his coat pocket.

He placed a bottle of Heinz ketchup on my table, a very old joke that went back to his grandfather. One that never fails to make me again feel my lost humanity.

Observations from a stranger in a strange land

2011-11-17T04:28:00.005-05:00

Sleep proved to be elusive one day last week, it happens, there is just times that my nocturnal work schedule makes any decent slumber impossible during the day. Those days I am reduced to light catnaps with periods of roaming the house trying to find a restful frame of mind like it was some tangible but misplaced item that I could recover. It was during one of my periods of wandering the house that I caught sight of my neighbor across the street from my front door window.

I have lived in the same suburban purgatory for nearly eleven years now and I believe I have talked to the guy no more than three times, and briefly at that. Like everyone else in the increasingly gentrified collection of lower-level McMansions I reside around he is a long time resident caught up in his own life and activities almost to the point we barely exist in the same universe. From what I hear, it is a common occurrence these days across the country and because of my early onset curmudgeon attitude not one that I would even begin to want to rectify. When you realize you are a stranger living in a very strange land you come to appreciate the distance you keep between the locals and you.

Looking from my front door window I caught sight of him proudly marching out of his garage carrying his manly leaf blower like it was some weapon locked and loaded for combat. I forget the manufacture but it was huge and had all the macho bells and whistles for the anal-retentive suburban types ever ready to do battle with autumn leaves that dare to disturb the aesthetics of a clean looking curb or driveway. As expected after two quick pulls on the starter cord the machine roared to life blowing what I am sure was at least category-three level hurricane winds from its ferocious snout.

Like some ancient king might contemptuously review the commoner riff-raff he slowly strolled the curb blowing the leafy detritus onto his yard, every once and a while squeezing the hand throttle of the mighty blower like some renegade biker would do his chopper in an attempt to show off. Once he was done this prime example of a civilized and proper American man looked upon his work as if he had just finished sculpting a fine statue. Obviously satisfied with his work he again proudly walked back inside his garage.

Several minutes later after getting something to drink and wander around the house some more I look back out my front door window and see him atop his riding lawnmower looking for all the world like the Lone Ranger or Roy Rogers. This was no bargain basement model of a riding lawnmower, I have seen the same model at the local Lowes and my first car cost less than that fine mechanical stallion. Like his manly leaf blower it comes with all the neat, upper end accessories like real headlights, cup holder, and a vacuum attachment.

Using the vacuum attachment like those cowboy matinee heroes from the 1950’s caught bank robber or cattle rustlers, he sucked up the leaves in his yard that dared to fall on his uniformly green lawn. Neither Rommel nor Patton could have commanded such precision in how he drove across his yard never overlapping more than an inch from where he had already cleared the offending organic material.

Once done, he meticulously bagged the leaves the same way a hazardous material team might contain and collect toxic chemicals and then threw them into the back of his huge and equally impressive truck. Given the usual habits of local suburbanites, the destination for the bagged leaves was certainly the local trash collection point where they would later be hauled off to the nearby landfill and buried. I imagine hundreds or maybe thousands of years from now eager archeological students will dig up those non-biodegradable trash bags and open them to find those very leaves and wonder what in the Hell people were thinking back then.

With the show over, I finally wandered back to bed and fell back to sleep although it was short. Once my daughter came home a couple of hours later I was back up getting her situated so she did her homework, Soon after that, I was off to pick up my son from school. As I drove away, I noticed that the wind had blown leaves from other yards and along with trees on his property the curb and a large portion of his yard was covered again. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I figured there was some sort of statement that could be said about human stupidity and the fact that Mother Nature gives less than a damn about suburban lawn care.

The Masks We Hide Behind

2011-11-12T11:54:00.006-05:00

Someone much smarter than me once said that we all conceal our true selves behind masks of civilized behavior, that if we showed our real faces and spoke our true thoughts in public our society would dissolve into chaos. I cannot find the author of that statement but I was once naïve, or just plain stupid, enough to doubt the accuracy of those words. After an unfortunate combination of events, I learned all too well how that statement is far truer than I could have ever imagined. The funny thing is that I can now look back at times when the application of basic honesty would have made things much better.

If I have one good and consistent talent, high on the list would be my ability to take a good situation and throw it totally away for one full of uncertainty and stress. I found myself in such a position in March of 2003 after returning to a job I had been laid off from a little over a year before. During my first stint working at what I will call “De Luca’s Telecommunication Widget Factory”, where I had worked from late 2000 until early 2002, I had thought I had made real friends there but I was shocked at the barely concealed contempt I received upon my return.

I returned to the widget factory leaving a great job repairing x-ray machines that had everything you could possibly desire in a career except decent pay. Since I had no formal training in X-ray repair I was literally making about the same as a pizza delivery guy, something that bugged the daylights out of my wife. Formal x-ray training that would have bumped my salary up to widget factory levels involved technical schools that were so expensive my employer would have to flip the bill for the tuition, travel expenses, along with room and board during the classes. Since I was still in the National Guard at the time, standing a better than average chance of being mobilized, the x-ray company I worked for did not want to spend the money only to lose it after I turned up for orders sending my unit and me to Afghanistan, and later Iraq.

Finding myself caught in a nice “Catch 22”, I spent a year of on the job training learning radiology repair, including advanced procedures for calibration, but making less than someone driving around with a load of pepperoni pizzas in his or her backseat on a Saturday night. This dichotomy was the subject of many heated discussions between my wife and me since we were rapidly approaching the date when she and her sister would leave for China to bring the infant Darth Wiggles home. So, when the widget factory suddenly called me about returning, with a pay raise, I quickly jumped at the chance.

From day one of my return to the widget factory, I quickly realized that I had violated some redneck social taboo placing me on the same level as a leper or some other social untouchable. It was so bad that months later that by sheer chance I learned my supervisor had tore my fellow employees’ new buttholes after hearing them complain about my return ahead of some of their buddies. Something I had absolutely no knowledge of until much later, if fact one of the guys who complained the most behind my back of my return had actually talked to me a week before I gave my notice to the x-ray company. Had this fine example of “Deliverance” level inbreeding given me a heads up on the situation I would have stayed where I was and been immensely happier in the long run. Yeah, I still harbor some bad feelings that often bleeds off on my opinion of where I live even now.

Fast forward a few months later and I am working twelve-hour night shifts at the widget factory while Dragonwife is dealing with getting the infant Darth Wiggles and a much younger Darth Spoilboy up for school during the workweek. Throw in alternating weekend shift work, and once-a-month National Guard duty and family life had taken a considerable hit all for more money. On a side note, I did call the x-ray company asking for my job back but that went over like a submarine with a screen door. I was replaced less than two weeks before I called them with someone with accredited training and years of real experience.

To say I was disgruntled every morning when I returned home would have been a huge understatement, not enough to load up on 9mm ammo and go postal with my Sig P226. But I have to admit I regularly dreamed about seeing most of the widget factory maintenance staff on a bus with it flying off a cliff and them dying a horrendous, fiery death as the vehicle explodes upon impact with the ground. Yet even with these feelings I somehow found the strength to greet them nicely each morning as they came into work.

The house was usually empty when I returned home and because of the long shifts I worked, I was required to quickly have a shower, eat, then jump into bed to try and get some sleep before the family come home from work, school, and day care late that afternoon. I had little time to decompress which left me no time to shed the frustration and stress that never went away.

Even with my aggravation, I was usually able to quickly fall asleep but one day I found myself be awoken by a crying baby. Now my first thought was that somehow Dragonwife had, in some insane fit of stupidity, left the infant Darth Wiggles home. Such was my state of mind that I literally ran all through the house looking for my baby daughter thinking all sort of nightmarish scenarios that could have been scripts for some half-assed horror movie.

I eventually collected enough of my meager wits to discover the source of the crying to be the baby monitor receiver in my bedroom, Dragonwife had left it on and I was hearing the howling of some baby in another house. Needless to say, I was greatly relieved even though I was feeling some empathy for the poor kid. Soon enough I heard an adult female over the receiver began to say soothing things, which quieted the baby down.

Over the course of the next few weeks hearing that baby cry became a regular event when I returned home, and when it started I would just turn off the monitor. What changed my instinctive habit of turning off the receiver was the introduction one day of an angry male voice that would cuss the baby and the apparent mother. The arguments between the two adults would become so heated at times the sound of someone hitting the other would not have been a surprise. The words said between the two adults were so bad actual hitting might have been kinder. They made the arguments I had with my wife pale in comparison. Both of these unknown people would curse the day they had met each other and the decision to have a baby neither really wanted.

Lying in bed I could not help but begin to wonder where these inadvertent transmissions were coming from. The baby monitor system my wife had bought was a new but very basic system. The manual for it said its range was very limited but even though I have never been popular in my subdivision, I knew of a few families with newly arrived infants like Dragonwife and me but they were several streets over.

At times, while working in the yard I would see each of these families walking the neighborhood looking seemingly happy with each other while pushing a baby stroller. I wondered about the masks they wore in front of everyone else and how they would have reacted if they knew their true feelings were available for anyone to hear.

Accidental Love In The Tropics (Chapter One)

2011-11-06T08:25:00.004-05:00

Jack Carter knew he was in trouble from the first moment he tried to open his eyes. At that instant, the very act of moving his eyelids was such a painful experience it rivaled the pain he once felt passing a kidney stone. Given the size of what he instinctively knew to be a massive hangover the early morning symphony of birds and other animals he usually enjoyed coming from the jungle outside his cottage became a tortuous amalgamation of sounds that felt like nuclear bombs going off inside his head. Even through his suffering a small segment of Jack’s mind appreciated the irony that he had originally moved to the small town of Alabama Wharf in the country of Belize in part to escape the insane clamor of daily life in New York City.

“Oh my God, I’m dead,” Jack said to himself when he was finally able to focus his eyes on his immediate surroundings. The mosquito netting hanging down from the ceiling and surrounding his bed had created a surreal, milky hue to the world making it seem unearthly. Adding to the effect was the megaton-sized banging in his head and that the rest of his body refused any command to move Jack momentarily pondered an afterlife condemned to haunting a cheap queen-sized mattress.

As minutes stretched into what seemed an eternity of alcohol-induced anguish Jack’s mind completed the reboot process allowing thoughts that were more complex. After realizing he was not actually dead he became aware of the sun peeking through the slates of the shutters covering his windows and the spin of the ceiling fan in the center of his bedroom.

As sensation slowly returned to his body he came to the realization that he was in bed naked, not his usual way of sleeping but given the degree of his current discomfort it was not a big issue at that moment. With his increasing awareness, there was a nagging feeling that something was just not quite right but he just did not yet have the mental capacity to discover the issue.As best he could, he began taking stock of his surroundings in his one room bungalow.

As Jack lay on his right side facing his nightstand he saw Angelina, his scarlet macaw, just outside the mosquito netting standing on it looking at him accusatorily. “Good morning honey cakes,” the colorful bird said while dancing around on the nightstand. “No food for me, no more loving for you,” it squawked harshly a few seconds later obviously upset she did not yet have her usual breakfast of orange and apple slices.

He could also see Tanner, his German Shepard, still asleep on his pillow over next the couch, probably because the damn dog was as drunk as he was from drinking beer last night. The dog had the strange habit of watching tourists and when one would leave the table he or she was sitting at, quickly run up, knock the bottle to the floor, and begin lapping of the spilled liquid. It was a trick Jack and other locals enjoyed since Tanner had the uncanny ability to target the most obnoxious person of whatever tourist group happened to be visiting at that time, usually a white, middle-aged American male.

With everything in his field of vision accounted for Jack made the sudden realization, that whatever disturbance he was feeling was behind him sharing the bed. Ridiculous visions of a lonely jaguar or amorous python that walked or crawled into his house during the night momentarily filled his head but after slowly turning over Jack knew the situation to be far worse.

Much too his shocked but happy surprise Jack found a gorgeous redheaded woman laying next him sleeping on her belly. The unknown woman was naked from the waist up with a light sheet the only thing covering the rest of her body. The fact that a beautiful woman was sharing his bed not the reason Jack was panic-stricken. Mainly it was the idea that he did not remember bringing her home followed by his immediate discovery that she was wearing a specially designed wedding ring with him realizing he was wearing an exact match.

Both gold rings were molded to look like braided rope with a large an obviously fake diamond mounted on top of each. Imprinted on both fake stones were the same color portraits of a smiling young Elvis Presley looking as if he would begin singing “Love me tender” at any second. Memories of his previous marital disaster caused chills to run down Jack’s spine but seeing the face of Elvis gave him an idea of where last night’s events had to have taken place. At some point, the sleeping lady and he had visited the Graceland-inspired Fast Eddie’s Tropical Chapel of Love, a place catering to the sudden romantic desires of any couple, or larger group, twenty-four hours a day regardless of their state of mind.

Not wanting to disturb the woman who may now be his wife Jack eased out of the bed in hopes of locating his cell phone and calling Fast Eddie and talking him into tearing up the wedding certificate. Feeling a heavy dose of fear and anxiety at the thought of being married again Jack skillfully and quietly cleared the mosquito netting only to have the macaw Angelina jump on his back.

“Cough up the goods lover boy,” the parrot chimed in, which was in effect a cross species mugging and the bird’s way of demanding her breakfast. Fighting an urge to swat Angelina off his back, which Jack knew would only result in a vicious bite from her sharp beak he ambled over to his small kitchen as best he could and began cutting up slices of apples and oranges. Whomever the woman was sleeping in his Angelina’s squawking did not even rouse her in the least, she still lay on her belly with her red hair framing a stunningly beautiful face.

While being held hostage to an impatient macaw pacing the countertop of his small kitchen island Jack racked his brain for some memory of the previous day. It all went blank early last evening after he arrived in the small tourist town of Punta Gorda joining his usual group of malcontents at one of the local bars named the Apache Saloon. After several minutes of cutting apples and oranges, enough to placate Angelina, Jack found a worn pair of cargo shorts and began a desperate search for his cell phone, which eventually lead him outside to his chief means of transportation, an ancient army surplus jeep.

Stepping outside from the protective shade of his screened-in porch the shock of the morning sun and tropical humidity renewed the assault on Jack’s alcohol-idled mind and sluggish body. However, after a few minutes of rummaging through his jeep he was rewarded with not only finding his cell phone but a crumpled up marriage certificate from Fast Eddie’s dated from last night. On it, the bride’s name was listed as Rebecca Huntington of Seattle, Washington and for a brief moment Jack actually believed he had the situation under control. The scream of utter surprise and terror that suddenly came from inside his small house cut through him like a knife and sent nearby birds flying into the air and monkeys deeper into the jungle fleeing for safety.

After quickly running back inside, he was rewarded with the sight of Angelina dive-bombing the naked redhead who was trying to avoid the bird while desperately clinging to the sheet she had pulled from the bed in an attempt to cover herself.

“Evil hussy!” the bird squawked, circling the lady before going into a shallow dive with talons extended like an irate eagle. It was obvious the terror-filled woman had never had to fight off a jealous bird but the sight was so surreal that Jack could not help but chuckle, which allowed both disgruntled females to notice him.

“I don’t know who you are but get this damn bird away from me before I find something that will allow me to kill it.” The woman shrieked while huddled on the floor covering herself with the sheet.

Seeing Jack, Angelina landed and began waddling around on the floor with her wings spread out in victory. “Lover boy is mine,” it said possessively. This allowed Jack to walk over and permit the bird to jump to his left shoulder.“Send the hussy away lover boy,” the bird said while giving Jack playful nips on the head with her beak.

“Be a good bird Angelina,” Jack said while letting her jump to a perch above Tanners’ pillow bed. For added insurance, he attached a safety leash to one of her legs to prevent any further conflict with his new bride. For all the wild commotion, Jack was impressed that the dog, while awake, had looked on oblivious to it all, a testament to how smashed Tanner was and how much he was use to Angelina’s possessive fits.

With the bird secured to her satisfaction, modesty became a more pressing concern with and the redhead wrapped the sheet tightly around her body and began collecting her clothes that were scattered about the floor. “I’m going to assume,” she began, “we had a great time last night but would you mind telling me where I am at and who you are.”

“Well, umm,” Jack said slowly trying to think of a way to break the news, “this is going to be complicated.”

“How complicated?” she said nervously looking at Jack. It was at that moment she noticed the strange wedding ring on his finger and the one she was wearing that matched.

Long before Jack left his South Carolina hometown to attend college and eventually move to New York afterward to become an investment banker he remembered his grandmother talking about something called a conniption fit. According to her, it was the worst of behaviors usually reserved for hopelessly spoiled children who desperately needed a good, old-fashioned spanking with a belt until they could not sit down anymore. As a child Jack had never actually seen the nearly mystical seizure put on by anyone but the woman he believed to be his new wife was surely showing him one now.

After looking at the bizarre wedding ring for several seconds, the new Mrs. Jack Carter stuck out her left hand as if she had just discovered an engorged tick implanted on her finger. In a panic, she began rapidly stamping her feet up and down to the point they had become a blur making her look like she was trying to run a one-hundred yard dash in his house. Jack was increasingly dumbfounded and worried as her eyes became huge and her breathing became panicky, so much that the sheet she had carefully wrapped around herself came loose and fell to the floor without her noticing.

Angelina loved the commotion and was doing her best to fly off and attack the strange interloper but was restrained because of the leash Jack attached. “Crazy hussy, crazy hussy!” the bird would squawk before breaking down into what Jack assumed was fits of macaw laughter.

Even Tanner was finally awaken enough to move into a sitting position on his pillow to watch the perplexing show.“Just what in the bloody Hell is going on here?” the dog seemed to say to him as it looked incredulously over at Jack.

However, the show ended soon enough as the beautiful redhead named Rebecca finally fainted and fell to the floor. Being a decent sort Jack rushed over and gently lifted up his new wife and placed her back on the bed. Jack’s first thought was that as soon as possible he would need to contact Fast Eddie to end this mistake immediately. His second thought was that compared to his first marriage this was actually a good start to the relationship.

(Author's Note: In spite of the near certain accusations that will come my way of suffering from a delusion that I can write there will be a second chapter to this story.)

Dona Nobis Pacem: My Hope

2011-11-04T11:15:00.010-04:00

"I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity."
Dwight D. Eisenhower

All through history true soldiers that have seen the rage and senseless destruction of war know it is the ultimate expression of stupidity and waste which only breeds more fear and conflict. But it is an unfortunate, almost tragic, situation that many in the United States have come to associate soldiers, marines, and others who serve in the armed forces with a love of war.

These people live in some delusion world promoted by popular movies and television full of improbable action heroes with clever catchphrases and slick politicians reveling in some false and hollow glory of peace through superior firepower. The delusion being that the enemies of peace and justice can be defeated through the use of "shock and awe" tactics that will send them cowering into dark holes fearful of ever defying the crusading might of this era's current superpower.

Peace enforced at the end of a spear, sword, musket, or rifle depends on how long a soldier is willing to hold his weapon at the ready and his country is prepared to pay the bill in both blood and treasure. History is replete with dead empires who sought to spread their influence and civilization only to find that the cost of maintaining it was far too great.

Yes, there are those in the world even now who wish to conquer, dominate, and spread chaos at the expense of others, and we must stand ready to oppose those who believe the acquisition of power by any means or the killing of innocents is ever justified. But if a real peace on this planet is even remotely possible it must be realized that it will come through an understanding that every human being has an inalienable right to live their life in peace and have access to the things that make life possible.

I absolutely refuse to believe this is impossible despite the fact that most of human history is nothing but one bloody saga after another, we have not survived this long as a species only to fall victim to an ancient caveman mentality of fear and suspicion. In a way the people alive today have what can be considered both an honor or possible curse of seeing a world at peace. With seven billion people on the planet we can no longer live with by old ways that we have carried from the days when our ancestors roamed the planet in small hunter-gatherer groups living strictly off the environment.

We can either change our attitudes and ways and begin to show that we are an intelligent species by treating each other with the respect and dignity everyone deserves along with doing our best to curtail the ignorance and greed that threatens our world. The alternative of course is to continue our usual behavior with wars and destruction of the environment but that will lead only to a peace by extinction of us naked primates. Time is not on our side but in the end homo sapiens have the will and ability to survive programmed in their very DNA and while I have reasons to doubt it more times than not we are an intelligent species. Its damn time we start using the brains God or evolution gave us. I'm sure Darwin and God are looking down wondering what we will ultimately do.

(Author's note: Don't know what really got me in this mood but surf on over to Mimi's place for more of the same. Typos suck, still finding the damn things.)

What in the world am I doing today?

2011-11-02T19:45:00.004-04:00

Life as I know it has increased its already breakneck pace to the point that the only way I can readily determine the days is by what activity I am driving to, whether it involves the kids, my wife, or occasionally me. It has seriously gotten to the point that when I do have time to sit down and write something I am exhausted beyond the point of my already flimsy mental coherence.

One of the best examples of the activities that keep me going is the picture to the left showing Darth Wiggles at her riding lesson. She goes twice a week relatively late in the afternoon and by the time we return home its straight to bed for her. The consolation for me is that she is absolutely in love with the horses and is taking her riding lessons very serious. I'm already having to remind her that there is no way on God's green earth we can afford to own one of those animals.

Here we have the newly minted sixteen year-old Darth Spoilboy sporting his very rough morning look while wearing the family birthday hat. Its a bit of a stretch to say his "morning look" since on the weekends he doesn't usually wake up until eleven o'clock. His big thing right now is finding a job and buying a car. Now the bad news is that even after applying at a bunch of different locations nothing has turned up.

The good news for him is that Dragonwife and I are in the process of buying a minivan for her to drive which will allow Spoilboy to take over the Honda CRV. In all honesty I do not know which will be more expensive, paying for the insurance for him or buying Wiggles a hypothetical horse.

Two Steps Forward But Three Steps Backward

2011-10-27T09:14:00.003-04:00

...Or how I learned to stop worrying about the bomb.

Humans have spent over five-thousand years engaging in organized conflict fighting over such things as resources, religion, and political ideology continually developing larger and more destructive weapons systems along the way in an effort to stay ahead of the “enemy.” In the dusty and stranger regions of my mind, I somehow picture this all beginning with your average Joe Caveman looking down and finding a nifty sharp and pointy rock on the ground. After picking it up, he studies the stone with all his cave man intellect and suddenly realizes that if he attaches it to the business end of his trusty wooden spear it will be a whole lot easier to kill the jerk living in the cave on the other side hill preventing him from taking his woman. Since then it has been a never-ending arms race to build the next awesome weapon.

Hell, in a way I am sure even during cave man days the need for those “high tech” spears was justified in similar terms we use today such as “national security” and “protecting peace through strength” because some nearby tribal bogeymen were surely out to harm God’s true people. Of course, back then some very nasty critters with long claws and jagged teeth were always looking to have Fred and Wilma Flintstone on the menu, which made having a sharp spear an extreme necessity.

Speaking strictly about dangerous and threatening humans it would be severely naïve not to believe that there were times when some primitive version of Hitler did try to dominate the local scene in the name of Lebensraum or some even greater abstract glory like Manifest Destiny. In fact, some people got so good at their empire building they went down in history like the Egyptians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, and several others.

But the weapons used back then were far less destructive and with the world a much larger place the consequences of some glory hound organizing an army with the purpose of conquering the world, while terrible did not endanger the entire planet. The development of our modern versions of spears during the Cold War, nuclear-tipped Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles changed all that.

Now understand while no reasonable or intelligent person could ever considered the leaders of the United States as saints in world affairs the Soviet Union was never govern by innocent and peace-loving men and women either. As much as some rightly condemn American Imperialism, the Soviets were just as power hungry having bathed themselves fully in the blood of countless atrocities in their own country and the repression of Eastern Europe. So in a way I truly believe nuclear deterrence during the Cold War did keep the peace by forcing the more rational individuals in both Washington and Moscow to keep those with a desire for conquest and glory in check.

But like all conflicts the Cold War eventually ended and as amazing as it may seem nuclear stockpiles in both the United States and Russia have been steadily declining even though the number of active nuclear warheads in both countries remains insanely high. So, I have to admit I greeted the news of the United States dismantling the last of its most powerful nuclear weapons with glee.

The nuclear beast, a thermonuclear device designated B-53, had a yield of nine megatons and was designed to destroy command and control bunkers built deep underground. While I have not researched the issue given previous arms control treaties and the one recently ratified in the United States Senate, despite fanatical politically inspired obstructionism from Republicans, I am confident similar dismantling activities are occurring in Russia.

Even with the world still endangered by an overabundance of nuclear weapons it is a very small step in the right direction. Yes, before anyone busts a gut eager to shoot down my humble essay I understand there are still some very dark clouds on the proverbial horizon that have become a greater threats to the planet and humanity than nuclear war.

For me the main danger to the planet does not come from warheads and other weapon systems sitting in some heavily guarded bunker gathering dust. Sure, the money that went to purchase and maintain most of those weapons would have seen far better use in other areas but I believe the threat comes from a mindset hopelessly mired in the caveman mentality equating security with the ability to kill or at least enslave anyone not part of the right tribe or nation.

It utterly amazed me to hear some jackleg blather on about the United States being the greatest, freest, most super-duper special place that God ever graced on Earth. Do not get me wrong, even with an overabundance of idiots and morons messing up the works and refusing to address real problems the country faces it is a damn fine place to live. I just believe that with seven billion people on the planet we have long passed the point of the nation-state being a viable independent political system.

The problems of environmental degradation, pollution, climate change, over population, poverty, and the threat of terrorists using weapons of mass destruction long ago became global issues that individual nations do not have the will or funds to solve alone. Personally, I have to throw in multinational corporations as being a unique global problem in a league all by themselves. With a lot of corporations having operating funds far greater than that of many nations and on average possessing less morals and ethics than that of 19th century European imperial powers they are a threat that would make most gun-wielding terrorists turn green with envy.

So while I am feeling some serious warm fuzzies about the slow but steady dismantlement of nuclear arsenals given the current global situation we seem to be in a position of having taken two steps forward only to have fallen three steps backward. All told, given the size and scope of the problems we now face the 21st century will be even more dangerous and uncertain making the worst parts of the 20th century look like the good old days.

U.S.-made 'monster' nuclear warhead B53 dismantled
from USA Today
The B53 nuclear bomb was made to deliver a 9-megaton blast about 600 times more powerful than the one that destroyed Hiroshima in 1945.

Starting in 1962, about 300 of the 10,000-pound, minivan-size bombs were made, meant to be carried on bombers kept on 24-hour alert at the height of U.S.-Soviet tensions.

"Obviously, this was one of the largest weapons we had. It was a big one," says Greg Cunningham of the U.S. National Nuclear Security Administration's Pantex Plant near Amarillo, Texas. At the plant, a ceremony marked the removal of high explosives from the last of the final 50 B53 bombs held in a reserve after the weapon's 1997 retirement.

"Monster really is the word. It would have created a fireball several miles wide," says noted nuclear history author Richard Rhodes.

"The world is a safer place with this dismantlement," said NNSA chief Thomas D'Agostino, in a statement. "The B53 was a weapon developed in another time for a different world."

The B53 was a thermonuclear device: An atomic bomb set off a larger hydrogen one, creating a tremendously powerful blast intended to annihilate Russian command bunkers deep underground. It was replaced by smaller, more accurate "bunker buster" weapons.

Uranium from the dismantled bombs will be sent to the Energy Department's Oak Ridge, Tenn., facility.

"The good news is we are taking some of our old nuclear weapons apart," says Hans Kristensen of the Federation of American Scientists (FAS), a national security think tank based in Washington, D.C. "On the other hand, it's not like we still don't have plenty." Bomb dismantlement work at the Pantex plant, scheduled until 2022, he notes, has been slowed by weapon modernization work underway there.

Under 2010 treaty obligations, U.S. active strategic nuclear warheads will drop to 1,550 by 2018. About 5,000 nuclear weapons now remain deployed by the U.S. military, Kristensen notes.

Although President Obama has called for lowering nuclear weapons numbers, the administration urged a Senate committee this month to support efforts to modernize U.S. nuclear weapons, an estimated decade-long $85 billion commitment.

"We're not losing any military capability with this (B53) weapon's disappearance," says nuclear security expert Micheal Levi of the Council on Foreign Relations.

F&@king American Insanity

2011-10-22T06:53:00.002-04:00

Truthfully, by now I should not be surprised when it happens but just when I think the insanity that passes as normal civilized behavior here in the United States cannot get any disgusting I am slapped upside the head with something even worse. At least this time it came from a source relatively close to home, the senior senator for South Carolina, his closeted sweetness the honorable Lindsey Graham.

It is strangely funny in a way; his honesty about profiting from war by rebuilding Libyan infrastructure and gaining access to their oil is very refreshing since he left out most of the usual hackneyed propaganda about spreading democracy. The very bizarre Moammar Gadhafi's body is not even cold and you can almost see Lindsey salivating at the idea of his corporate friends making even more profit. For Lindsey and his fellow Republicans America’s own decaying infrastructure is something to be ignored, or at best thrown a few weak platitudes before they divert attention back to some war they want to fight.

The question I want answered is do Lindsey and the others who spout this neocon dogma of eternal war even believe what they say? Have they deluded themselves to believe that Americans can conquer the world and spread democracy or do they understand they are just puppets controlled by multinational corporations?

Flash Fiction Friday (Cycle 53) Over Playing Your Hand

2011-10-16T17:27:00.019-04:00

Instead, “If your enemies are hungry, feed them. If they are thirsty, give them something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals of shame on their heads.” Romans 12:20

Having a front row seat to the second burning of the great city of Atlanta was enough to send a chill down the spine of David Walker as he watched the destruction from the safety of his personal bunker miles away from the actual battle. The bunker being buried deep inside a hill on his estate he both relished the warm feeling of security it provided and marveled at the heavily camouflaged observation deck mounted on the southern side that allowed him to watch the ongoing obliteration of the beautiful city.

The big difference this time was that the invaders were not Union forces from the north but troops from the Chinese Army pushing up from the Gulf Coast after pulling off the largest amphibious landing in the history of armed human conflict. In the back of his mind, thoughts of hatred for the people of Cuba for allowing their island to be used as the staging point for the invasion radiated through his body causing his hand to shake enough to spill the cup of Earl Grey tea he was sipping. Even though he was a Prime Citizen of the Second American Republic allowing him greater access to rationed items such as the tea, David steadied his hand and carefully lowered the expensive porcelain cup to his patio table.

Inside the bunker, computer screens displayed, government approved, data showing the front lines stretching from coastal South Carolina all the way to eastern Texas with a second front on the west coast still confined to coastal California and Oregon. Blinking lines on the screens showed refugee routes broken down in different colors for the levels of American citizenship.

Even with the obviously deteriorating situation with the enemy pushing deeper into American territory everyday David took solace in that the Great Leader up in Washington would set aside part of his valuable time each day to broadcast assurances that final victory would belong to the glorious American people. Being a Prime, David also felt compelled to show the proper level faith in the soldiers fighting the battles to save the nation even though the army ranks were largely made up of worker and underdeveloped citizen classes.

“Please sir, can you help us!” A voice cried out without any warning scaring David to the point he dropped to the floor of his deck.

Taking cover from behind a railing David looked further down the hill from his camouflaged position seeing an adult woman carrying a toddler and a boy in his late teens tagging close behind her. They were walking along an old game trail that he knew several miles back came very close to the main road. While watching the three people approach David knew from their cheap clothes and desperate looks they were at best Working class citizens. He silently cursed the construction company that built his shelter for not fully concealing his deck from any trespassers coming from that direction, it was a huge violation of his rights as a Prime.

“You can’t be here,” David called out after getting up from the floor, “this is private property and if you are refugees there are approved routes for you to travel. You need to turn around and go back from where you came, I have a right to defend myself from trespassers.”

“Please sir,” the woman began again after coming to a stop and almost dropping her small child, “the Chinese have overrun those routes, we only barely avoided being captured after abandoning our car and running into the woods. Please my children are hungry and tired, and we are citizens in good standing with the government with my husband and their father fighting in Texas.”

David eyed the trio carefully taking their gauge as Americans the best he could. The woman and young child did indeed seem exhausted but the teenager looked back at him in barely concealed contempt. Realizing that there were rules even requiring Prime citizens to assist American of any class, as long as they were loyal, David was forced to bring them inside his bunker. As he waved them forward, he mentally calculated the amount of food they would probably consume over the course of several weeks. His one hope was that they would be required to reimburse him, with interest, for the cost of their stay once the national emergency was over.

As David watched the three slowly walk up the side of the hill the thought of actually leaving his safe perch and helping the tired woman by carrying the toddler for her never once crossed his mind. He was a man of power and prestige, someone who had created jobs in the great American Renaissance movement following the final collapse of the decadent First Republic, they should be grateful that he was giving them safe harbor at great cost to himself.

For a brief moment, heactually felt magnanimous with such kindness and humanity flowing from him. But the sudden sound of screeching from above and the explosion that followed soon after interrupted his thoughts.

Looking up David saw a flaming American jet spiraling towards his hidden deck. A Chinese fighter in pursuit was still firing tracers rounds into the damaged craft. As the final rounds impacted the American jet it exploded into a brilliant fireball two hundred above knocking everyone to the ground. As David’s consciousness slipped away, he was at least partially satisfied with the idea that he would not be forced to provide sanctuary to the woman and her children.

***

Much to his surprise David awoke to find himself lying in what was obviously a cot in some sort of medical ward. Disorientation and the mass of bandages wrapped around his head made comprehending the words spoken by those around him impossible. With great effort, David lifted his head throwing his vision in and out of focus to the point he really did not know if what he was seeing was real or some sort of hallucination. Seeing the blur of a man in what looked to be a white medical coat march by the foot of his cot, David raised his arm in an attempt to get his attention and was rewarded with the person coming to his side.

“Hi,” the man said in English while punching up data on a computer tablet attached to the cot, “I’m Doctor Ling of the Chinese Army Medical Corp and I'm the senior physician in this ward. One of our scout units found you, a woman, and her two children while inspecting the wreckage of a crashed American fighter. The mother and older child survived while the younger one did not.”

Enraged that one of the hated invaders was so close to him David ignored what the doctor said while doing his best to sit up preparing to say the words the Great Leader had instructed all Prime citizens to say if captured. “As a duly commissioned Prime citizen of the Second American Republic I formally demand your forces leave American territory and begin to pay reparations to the government of the Second Republic.”

Much to David’s surprise the Chinese doctor began laughing, pulled out a box from underneath his cot, and sat down on it looking at him in the most pitiful manner. “May I ask what earned you your Prime Citizenship? Are you a banker, corporate executive, or a figure in the ruling political party? Ling asked while checking the IV running into David’s arm.

Unsettled by the doctor’s almost friendly demeanor David answered matter-of-factly, “I am an investment banker.”

“Listen sir,” Doctor Ling began after sighing deeply. “You need to understand some basic facts. For decades your country played roughshod with the rest of the world acting like a petulant child when it did not get its way. Your repression only worked because no one had the ability to stop you. But the situation had greatly changed by the time your country brutally invaded Mexico and Canada to overthrow duly elected democratic governments. The rest of the world finally had the will and ability to act. What puzzles me was how the country that once championed democratic rights for the rest of the world devolved into a plutocracy controlled by a bizarre corporate aristocracy.”

“I’ll have your know,” David said enraged, “that the Second American Republic is the greatest and freest country God ever saw fit to grace this planet and free market capitalism made it that way. Your words mean nothing to me.”

“Fine,” Doctor Ling said clearly disgusted, “your army’s lines have collapsed again and this hospital will be moving northward in a few days. Seems many of your Working and Underdeveloped citizen classes doing all the fighting just do not care for the idea of dying for the Primes and your Great Leader. By the time we move you will be able to ride in a regular bus, that will allow you to see what many of your fellow Americans think about your great Second Republic and us heathen invaders. By the way, unlike your government there’ll be no charge for the medical treatment you have received or the food we gave you.”

***

Days later tears of despair rolled down David Walker’s eyes as he saw thousands of his fellow Americans greet the Chinese army convoy as liberators as it drove northward through town after town bringing an end to his world. In the back of the bus he heard cries of joy and happiness coming from the mother and her teenager son who just weeks before had begged him for help. For them a whole new world of hope and possibilities was being born.

(Author’s comment: In recent weeks a truly grassroots movement, Occupy Wall Street, has developed with common people protesting the blatant criminal behavior by corporations, bankers, and their political sycophants. The vast wealth the Wall Street “One Percent” controls has come at the expense of the middle and working class resulting in deteriorating social conditions here in America. Far from embracing this Occupy movement many in the business and political classes have made it a point to question the protesters intelligence and motives. The most shocking is how several of those business pundits (assholes) have stated that to be anti-capitalist is to be anti-American. Excuse the hell out of me but unlike many I have actually read The Constitution of the United States and some bright boy or girl in love with money will have to explain to me where "Capitalism" is enshrined in that document.

While I am liberal I have honestly tried my best to keep some balance to my political viewpoint figuring that no ideology has all the answers. However, if the business classes want to define anyone who questions their omnipotent knowledge and religion of unrestrained capitalism as “anti-American” I will have to state for the record that I accept that title. I seriously doubt I have any more conservative readers at my humble blog but if my declared Anti-American stance offends you please feel free to kiss my pale, hairy ass. Just understand that one day you will have to pay the price for putting money and power above your humanity.)

Flash Fiction Friday (Cycle 52) A Special Kind of Hell

2011-10-11T09:48:00.015-04:00

Flash Fiction Friday Cue: Tell the tale of two people pulling up in a car to a remote lake.
Length: As of 10/14/2011 under massive rewrite sure to exceed the word limit by thousands.
Genre: open

The cold case file that landed on my desk one morning was from the early days of the Cold War. The official investigation had ended back in the late-80's for lack of any leads and had long been assigned to the third-level subbasement of CIA headquarters in Langley,Virginia. A place where dead cases are stored, usually forever, and careers languished under life-sucking fluorescent lights and among a rat-like maze of cubicles. It is where I now find myself confined after a string of unfortunate operational disasters in both Iraq and Afghanistan.

In some ways, I should consider myself lucky that I am still an active agent and not euphemistically running CIA operations in northern Greenland. The agency is not a forgiving place, especially when a disaster embarrasses some elected official to the point he, or she, might lose their privileged position of power and influence. Trying to put an even more positive spin on things, at times I find myself thoroughly engrossed in the old cases that the basement mainframe randomly assigns me to review with me praying one would rescue my career.

Just when I was about to give up any hope of finding redemption a very special case was dropped on my desk. Right from the start, I was intrigued because it dealt with a couple, a male and female, of identified Soviet spies extensively trained in the arts of infiltration and sabotage that had disappeared as the Cuban Missile Crisis began.

Reading the file I learned the male, codenamed “Serge”, during that time was the best agent the KGB ever produced. He was fluent in seven different languages and scores of dialects, a master in weapons, explosives, hand-to-hand combat, and if that wasn't enough was a skilled SCUBA diver. From the ancient picture of him taken at some unknown embassy function I was not surprised to find he resembled a young Sean Connery. Reports also suggest he enjoyed a similarly glamorous Bond-like lifestyle with the ability to melt the heart of any woman. Nearly nothing was known about his life before joining the KGB although it was a given he was probably a member of Red Army special forces.

A little more was known about the female, codenamed “Isidora.” She was a beauty who was a combat aviator back when the very mention of female pilots in the United States Air Force would have ruined your career. The picture of Isidora in the file showed her wearing a tight fitting flight suit and posing next a MIG-21 fighter loaded with missiles. After leaving the Red Air Force, she supposedly married a senior Soviet diplomat but it was a safe assumption that was just a cover.

Individually, from the mid-1950’s until they finally fell off the face of the earth they were extremely effective agents successfully counter scores of Western intelligence operations. In fact they had caused so much trouble that both the CIA and MI6 still had active “kill on sight” orders issued for both.

After reading through the file, the crux of the whole affair came from a reliable report from one of our Russian moles back then of a list of KGB operatives chosen for training as sleeper agents with Serge and Isidora’s names at the top. These”sleepers” were to infiltrated a western country and live there quietly for years without drawing any attention to themselves. But, if war ever broke out they had specific orders to assist the Soviet Union by aiding other agents or performing active sabotage on their own.

From corroborated reports inside the Soviet Union Serge and Isidora were given the granddaddy of all sabotage missions. Their training involved the placement of a duffel bag-sized nuclear weapon inside the Washington D.C. area in an attempt to behead as much of the United States government as possible.

My assignment was, of course, to locate and capture if I somehow found them still alive although given the problems they caused the West I am sure my supervisors would reissue the kill on sight order if I asked.

Given the nature of their talents and with the reports that their mission was to nuke Washington the entire spectrum of American intelligence agencies began moving heaven and earth to find them after they disappeared. During those tense and dangerous years rumors surfaces that no less than two assistant directors had heart attacks because of the stress coming down on them from the White House to find and kill those two. After the Cuban Missile Crisis subsided the pressure to locate Serge and Isidora eased to the point that some clever bureaucrat was able to sweep the entire affair under the proverbial rug with the case being suspended until new leads developed. Except that no new leads ever appeared and after the Soviet Union fell the case was mostly forgotten until it fell into my lap.

At first the situation seemed hopeless, after reviewing seemingly countless reports neither of the two Soviet super spies had ever reappeared, even briefly. I went as far a to contact long retired American and British agent asking their opinions with the consensus being that the two were probably dead. But it was technology that supplied the new lead that made locating them unbelievably easy.

Being sleeper agents trained to act as a “normal” American married couple for however long it took before World War 3 began it was a safe assumption that they had kids. Rightly or wrongly Soviet trainers back then believed that spies working under the cover story of being married had to produce children, otherwise they might be tagged as "odd" drawing unwanted attention which might endanger the mission.

Finding Serge and Isidora meant running the pictures of Virginia and Maryland high school students of the 1970’s through facial recognition software designed to find characteristics of the two suggesting they did indeed have offspring. It took a couple of weeks but I eventually narrowed it down to a group of siblings whose aging parents still lived fifty miles outside Washington. Which made sense Serge and Isidora would need to live close to Washington to respond in time if orders came down to fulfill their mission. Researching the parents, I knew I had hit pay dirt when under close examination their personal histories fell apart before 1962.

After winning approval to proceed with the investigation from my bosses I located their home in a gentrified subdivision in northern Virginia. Given what I read of their glamorous lives among the powerful before becoming sleeper agents it was quite the shock to see two highly skilled Soviet spies that in their day utterly terrified Western intelligence agencies living a mundane suburban existence.

After bugging their house, I discovered not a nest of cunning spies still await orders from a country that no longer existed but a bickering old couple who hated the sight of each other. Serge, far from the dashing spy of the 1960’s, now looked like a permanently disgruntled old man whose best days had long since passed him by. The beautiful Isidora had become a hypercritical old woman whose grandchildren avoided her at all costs.

How do I know they even remembered their days as glamorous and dangerous spies? The thing I found extremely curious while I had them under surveillance was their habit of driving to a nearby lake and just parking in front of it for hours without saying anything to each other. The look of utter misery that took over their faces was overwhelming. After days of surveillance, I was struck by the thought that the lake represented some sort of escape from their wretched existence.

That caused me to scan the lake with a radiation monitor were I found the nuclear weapon they had smuggled inside the country. A team of Navy SEALs secretly removed the watertight container holding it soon after. As for Serge and Isidora, I thought long and hard on their ultimate fates. It was clear from their recorded conversations that their covert assignment had become its own special kind of Hell. I suppose that if I wanted to be merciful I could terminate them both but some sick side of me realizes letting them live is a far worse punishment.

The Burdens Most Americans Ignore

2011-10-08T18:55:00.002-04:00

“I fear they do not know us,” Adm. Mullen said of the nation’s civilians. “I fear they do not comprehend the full weight of the burden we carry or the price we pay when we return from battle.”

Call me antiquated but I grew up actively listening to first-hand accounts of the World War Two era from people who lived through the events leading up to the attack on Pearl Harbor, during the war, and as the dust settled with the defeat of Germany and Japan. I would be echoing very tired clichés saying that it was a horrific yet incredible time that saw both the absolute worst of the human species and our best as we sacrificed much to defeat fascism. The problems with clichés is that they are essentially true, while people all over the world gave everything to make the world a better, safer place it is the stories of those here in the United States that I know best.

Looking from our vantage point back to that ear it is very hard to fathom the collective state of mind of Americans before the attack on Pearl Harbor. The horrors of the First World War were still very much alive back then and with the nation still overwhelmed with surviving the Great Depression very few people wanted to get involved with another European war. I guess the world was viewed as a much bigger place with two massive oceans safely separating the North American continent from the bloody carnage going on over there.

All that changed the day after December 7th, 1941 with the news of the Japanese attacks on the Hawaiian Island, men who a few days before wanted nothing to do with war found themselves standing in lines for hours in an effort to sign up and defend their country. My own grandfather attempted to enlist twice but was declare “4F” both times because he was completely deaf in one ear after suffering through a severe case of the mumps as a child.

During those uncertain years, Americans pulled together in ways that even now have become legendary. Everyone sacrificed whether it was the men who fought overseas or those who stayed home working in the factories, organizing scrap metal collections, buying war bonds, or just dealing with the hardships of rationing and shortages. It was truly a unique, unselfish age in American history where everyone shared in the adversity the situation demanded.

Wow, things have really freaking changed since then! Where once we had a unified response earning the people who lived through those years the nickname the “Greatest Generation”, we now have a hollow, self-absorbed nation full of squabbling idiots. Even after attacks arguably worse than Pearl Harbor with only a few exception the vast majority of “patriotic” Americans have decided to sit out this war and just cheer from the sidelines.

Poor Winston will have to excuse me but never in the American history have so few suffered the mental and physical injuries for so many who while being all for fighting the latest evil horde out to destroy the republic and defile our woman just never found the local recruiting office themselves.

Now you would never really know there was such a huge military-civilian gap if all you looked at were the magnetic yellow ribbons adoring the bumpers of American SUV’s. An entire damn industry has arose so civilians can buy placate that almost non-existent conscious nagging them when they just happen to be caught in traffic as a military funeral procession slowly drives by.

Living here in the South, which prides itself on having true blue patriotism encoded in its very DNA you would figure we would be bending over backwards to support the members of the Armed Forces and their families. Now since all things are relative yeah, I would have to say that on average goodwill and pride towards the troops is overabundant but it pretty much stops there.

Case in point was at my last job where two times a month I had to work Saturday and Sunday, which often conflicted with my weekend National Guard duties. This was a manufacturing plant and my associates loved mouthing off about the evil bad guys and how super-duper great our glorious troops were at blowing them up. Their support of the troops last only as long as they did not have to cover my weekend shift. See my service to the country at a time of war disturbed their hunting and fishing time and they resented the Hell out of it.

Being an astute observer of the ever worsening American condition I have come to accept this “Patriotism Light” as just another symptom of madness marking the decline of the United States as a great power. American patriotism has become a form of Japanese Kabuki dance where style and appearances triumph actual form and function. The country can go to war and as long as the majority does not have to send off their kids or pay higher taxes, they will gladly wave their tiny, Chinese made, American flags during parades and shed tears at the singing of the national anthem but do not ask any more of them.

The following is a NPR report from today on this very subject:

Veterans, Civilians Don't See Eye To Eye On War

Veterans and the general public have different views on the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the value of military service and even the subject of patriotism, according to a new survey by the Pew Research Center.

The United States has never seen a moment like this one, with sustained combat for a decade, and a small fraction of American men and women in uniform, the Pew Center says.

"At any given time in the past decade, only about one half of 1 percent of the public has been on active duty in the military," says Paul Taylor, who edited the Pew study. He contrasts that number to another generation. "At the height of World War II, nearly 9 percent were on active duty."

'Patriotism Light'

Pew interviewed 4,000 veterans and civilians and found that the civilians largely agree that soldiers and their families are bearing much of the sacrifice of the two wars. So Taylor says Pew asked whether it's fair that the military is making the sacrifices when the public is not — or whether it's just part of being in the military.

"The public says, 'You know what? It's just part of being in the military,'" Taylor says.

He says that answer gets at the title of the study: The Military-Civilian Gap. That gap even extends to whether you'll recommend that a young person serve in uniform. Eight in 10 veterans say they would suggest a military career; just half of the civilians would.

Mac Owens, a professor at the Naval War College and a Marine platoon leader during the Vietnam War, says that amounts to what's been called "patriotism light" – the idea, he says, "that it's real easy for folks to praise the troops and thank them for their service, but turn around and say, 'But my kid's not going in the military.'"

Those ritual forms of patriotism — bumper stickers and yellow ribbons and greeting troops at airports — don't require sacrifice. Contrast that with World War II when all civilians sacrificed, at least through rationing. What's different today is the only civilians affected are the spouses and family members of those who serve. And more and more, the military is becoming something of a family business, says Owens and other experts. Many officers say fathers or uncles have served before them.

A Sacrifice Others Aren't Making

But putting on that uniform and serving during the past decade has taken its toll.

More than one-third of those who served in Iraq and Afghanistan say they've suffered from post-traumatic stress, whether or not they were diagnosed. That's why, the study says, nearly half of those coming home from those wars say it's been hard adjusting to civilian life.

"There's a very heavy psychological and emotional component here," Taylor says. "They've had strains in their family life, frequent outbursts of irritability."

Among those veterans polled, grueling and repeated deployments reflect a love of country. Two-thirds see themselves as more patriotic than other Americans. That doesn't surprise Owens.

"The military guy is saying, 'Well, I put on the uniform and I subject myself and my family to all these sorts of things, so yeah, I guess I am,'" he says.

The vast majority of those civilians polled acknowledge that the troops are bearing a large burden. As for sacrifice by the rest of the nation? Fewer than half think the American people have had to do much.

Technical Difficulties

2011-10-06T21:44:00.004-04:00

Once upon a time, just last Saturday morning actually, this delusional social critic and half-assed story teller sat down at the kitchen table with his laptop and was typing out a pretty good story. It was going to involve yet another heroic loser living abroad in Belize, a beautiful but confused red-head, a jealous scarlet macaw, and a twenty-four hour marriage chapel made up like Elvis' Graceland whose minister is an ex-mafia type hiding from former employers, the FBI, and MI6. Unfortunately, last Saturday morning was such a beautiful day Dragonwife got up wanting to do yard work, after all the effort and gnashing of teeth by me when it was over I was lying on the living room floor after pulling something in my back. Long story short, As I was cutting down dead limbs from one of our trees it fell in a zig fashion while I twisted around in a zag manner. As I returned to writing my story later that afternoon the pain whenever I sat down in a chair ranged about a 230,120,516.21 on a scale of zero to ten.

After a couple of doctor visits and even a seriously awesome massage by a red-headed lady who could be the female lead in my story I can finally sit down and concentrate long enough to string more than two sentences together. As for my story, just because I am stubborn I plan on posting it when I am done even though the Friday Flash Fiction topic has passed. All things being equal, this past week just confirms my belief that yard work sucks and that I need to live faraway from any suburban setting where such activities are eventually unavoidable if not outright mandatory.

Walking the Arthur Ravenel Bridge

2011-10-02T07:29:00.006-04:00

Since my Friday Flash Fiction story at this moment appears to have run aground on a small island called "Lost Plot Cay" I am posting a few pictures of my abortive trip down to the coast last weekend. Like most of my trips to the coast they are essentially unplanned excursions which tend to make them huge successes or total failures. At least this time I have a real reason why this one failed. With the passing of my dad-in-law back in late August Dragonwife has been spending most weekends with her mom in Manning, South Carolina leaving me to hold down the fort at home. Up until the very last minute it looked like last weekend was going to be another trip to her mom's to help organize things. When it fell through I had my chance to head down to the coast for a much needed session of rest and relaxation, especially since my usual travel companion my daughter Darth Wiggles wanted to stay home since she had invited a friend over.

It started out good with a rough idea of heading down to Charleston and finally visiting Fort Sumter, something I have never done in all my years of living in the Low Country of South Carolina. But like the saying Prior Planning Prevents Poor Performance I did not check times and arrived at the Patriot's Point Naval Museum a couple of hours early. Making matters worse I do not have a cell phone and did not think about calling my cousin who lives in Charleston until I was strolling in the Patriot's Point gift shop. Compounding my mistakes I called his house rather early and left a message on his answering machine with no way for him to call me back. After so many mistakes what does one do? I started walking the Arthur Ravenel Bridge connecting Mount Pleasant, South Carolina with Charleston. Something I have wanted to do since the bridge was opened back in 2005.


I know next to nothing about bridge architecture and design but have always loved how graceful some bridges can look. This one is in a class all by itself since I already have such an affinity for the Holy City. At first the day was glorious with a nice steady breeze and enough clouds in the sky to block the worst of the sun. It had already rained several times, something that would eventually ruin the trip, leaving a partial rainbow in the sky. Click on the first picture above to enlarge it so it can be seen. Had to quickly learn the rules of the bridge because when I started up I noticed a dividing line which I took to mean the same rules of the road applied to those walking the bridge. As I was walking the right side of the walkway I noticed a guy on a bike heading straight for me. Figuring he was wrong I stood my ground forcing him to move, just a few yards later I see symbols painted on the cement below me showing that walkers go on the left side of the dividing line while bikers stay on the right. Oh well, I know now. The picture above was taken at a rest area about a third of a way across heading into Charleston. It is a remarkable location and if I was smart I would have just stayed there longer soaking up the view.

A photo of the USS Yorktown, the center piece of the Patriot's Point Naval Museum. Patriot's Point did have a retired navy destroyer and Coast Guard cutter on display as well also but for reason I can only guess at the have been removed leaving only a very old diesel-electric submarine as the only other vessel on display. I have some vague knowledge that the Patriot's Point is having some funding issues which may have required the other ships to be sold. I know from a newspaper article hanging in the museum gift shop dated sometime in 2009 that the US Navy has told Charleston county the Yorktown herself needs massive and expensive restoration. On a side note the ominous clouds hanging over Charleston harbor are the main reason my trip was a bust.

A view of Charleston Harbor overlooking a crab boat in the water and a nice portion of the city itself.

A shot of the "Easy Lady" using my camera's zoom feature. Now if there was a job I would lave to try it would be on that boat.


This a picture of an ACTIVE US Navy vessel docked on the other side of the harbor. I just thought it was cool and did my best to get a decent shot. After walking about halfway across the bridge I returned to Patriot's Point with all intention of doing the trip over to Fort Sumter. What stopped me was an already very crowded boat loaded with families and groups. Since my daughter usually accompanies me on these trips a crowded boat would have been no issue but something just did not feel right about going with her not with me. The back up plan I came up with would have had me traveling over to nearby Sullivan's Island and the Isle of Palms and just walking around on the beaches and seeing what trouble I could get into. Later I would have gone into Charleston, found a bar serving She-Crab soup, and called my cousin again. Just as I arrived on Sullivan's Island and got out of my car it started pouring rain. As luck would have it not two minutes after getting back in my car the rain utterly stopped and the sun came out. Oh well, I figured the I would drive over to the Isle of Palms and hang out there. Just as soon as I parked it started raining again and this time my frustration level was getting to the point that I considered calling off the whole thing and going home. Long story short, while heading back into Charleston I developed a headache and it started raining again. By this time I figured it was best to abort the trip and head home since I had spent little of of my mad money slush fund. I figure I can come back down in a month or so, of course after making a real plan and calling my cousin first.

A Much Needed Imaginary Key West Vacation

2011-09-27T21:07:00.008-04:00

Being that I have a deeply embedded moral override in my head that prevents me from putting my foot up someones butt no matter how desperately they need it I sometimes suffer from an affliction akin to delirium tremens. Like most stories I could write a very long winded tale but the best way to describe the situation involves a sleazy dude ratting out another in an attempt to garner brownie points and make himself look good.

However, the wise and knowledgeable Jimmy Buffett has written, " ...good times and riches and son of bitches I have seen more than I can recall." The only known cure for such frustrating situations usually has to be pursued on the weekend since it involves about a gallon of Margarita mix and cheap tequila, along with chips, salsa, and several hours of Jimmy Buffett's best music.

Since it is Tuesday night with the weekend a distant and dim beacon of hope and relaxation I am forced to cruise You Tube looking for the next best thing. This imaginary vacation will either defuse my growing frustration saving me from financial ruin and possible jail time or my next post will actually be from Key West. Stay tuned for the forthcoming answer.

Chips Ahoy Cold War

2011-09-23T17:07:00.002-04:00

Like any good father when my son, Darth Spoilboy, was born almost sixteen years ago I wanted to pass down certain cultural traditions that I felt important. However, being hamstrung by our location and the conflicting nature of my work hours and National Guard duties during those early years many activities were either greatly curtailed or had to be abandoned.

I will admit there were times I was close to being outright depressed at not being able to share activities like spontaneous trips to the beach with my infant and later toddler son similar to the ones my uncles took me on at the same ages. Now to be honest my uncles, who at the time were in their late teenage years, were using me as bait to attract the attentions of bikini-clad ladies they knew in high school.

Despite the many cynical remarks by my wife, I never for a minute intended the spur-of-the-moment trips down to the coast I wanted to make with my son for the same reason. Now if any attractive ladies out on the beach felt drawn to my young son because of their raging maternal instincts that was something beyond my control and since I was raised to be a Southern gentlemen I was required to be friendly and responsive to their interest in my son.

Nevertheless, because of certain circumstances, namely the audio recorder/tracking device called a wedding ring my wife forced me to wear, it became necessary to share less exotic activities with my son like my utter devotion to Chips Ahoy cookies. Spoilboy could not help but eventually come to share a similar religious zeal to those glorious cookies but unfortunately, in recent years our mutual affection for them has evolved into a cold war with increasingly desperate attempts to hide the Chips Ahoy bags from each other.

The actual memory of my first exposure to the luscious and pure all American goodness that is Chips Ahoy cookies faded away long ago but the story I like to remember involves my grandmother and her desire to keep her house clean.

Decades ago here in the South, during a far simpler age, there was a common philosophy that no good whatsoever could come with “youngins” staying inside a house during the day. This belief was so extreme that during summer months when school was out kids were often shooed outside by their mothers and not allowed back indoors until dinner later that evening. The only real exceptions to this policy were for a short period at noon for lunch and very severe thunderstorms. Any other time gangs of kids could often be found wandering through neighborhoods like hordes of bipedal locusts looking for something to do. Those in my age group were experiencing the very last years of a golden age of adventure and innocence for kids and I was lucky to have experienced any of it.

The first of many societal assaults that eventually brought an end to that ear began when local televisions stations started their insidious broadcast of several hours of kids programs in the afternoon. The endgame of it all eventually lead to soul crushing cable cartoon channels filled with crass commercials and mind numbing video games.

Being a ravaging horde of bipedal locust looking for stimulation my siblings and cousins using a hive-like sixth sense invariable made our way to our grandparents house in hopes of watching Bugs, Daffy, and Roadrunner, and after that “The Three Stooges.” For about an hour our Granny welcomed such visits until we began reenacting the rambunctious antics of Moe, Larry, and Curly endangering her clean house and sanity. Now Granny was cunning and after decades of using Pavlovian training techniques on her own children knew exactly how to chase away her over stimulated grandkids.

When Granny could not take it anymore, she would pull out the famous blue Chips Ahoy bag and after giving us one cookie each, would toss the rest outside on the front porch. With our sugary instincts primed like sharks smelling blood we would rush outside and begin the frenzy. No one should be surprised that given our crazed state we never once heard the clicks of our grandmother locking both the front and back doors.

***

My son’s first exposure to Chips Ahoy began when he was a toddler, after we returned home at the end of the day a bag of the cookies would sit between as we both sat in from of the television watching the evening news. Icy cold milk was the beverage of choice with his in a Barney the Dinosaur sippy cup and mine in a quart-sized tiki mug. After Spoilboy chewed on a couple of cookie he would grow bored with the news and doze off leaving me with the entire contents. As it can be expected that was my chance to relive my youthful fantasies of having a complete bag of Chips Ahoy all to myself.

All through the period of our ravaging horde visits to my grandmother’s house, I had to contend with three younger siblings and several cousins each battling on the porch for as many cookies as possible. During Spoilboy’s early years, I was still a lean, and very mean fighting machine so a whole bag could disappear in the space of thirty-minute news broadcast along with nearly a gallon of milk. Now things have greatly changed.

My lean and mean army trained body has morphed into that of a middle-aged civilian and Spoilboy has long since gone beyond being satisfied with just two cookies. The trouble began when one of us, I am not saying who, found the quantity of Chips Ahoy dangerously low. The natural male knuckling dragging thought was to protect the supply by hiding it from the person who might take what was left, then deny any knowledge of their whereabouts.

Since my son and I know each other very well this subterfuge was successful for only a very short time, after that it became a contest to find where the cookie were hidden. Early hiding places were easy for both of us to uncover, I normally picked high places requiring him to climb and he would locate redoubts in the far corners of low cabinets. Places where my wife stored her exotic and outright scary kitchen appliances that were at best used once a year.

On a side note, so rare are these bizarre culinary appliances ever used that there has been several occasions we when we have forgotten we owned them and have mistakenly gone out and bought duplicates. Only to rediscovered the original appliances after searching for a place to store the one we recently bought. My wife finds such occurrences outrageously funny, for various reasons I fail to find the humor in those situations.

Anyway I digress, in recent years this Chips Ahoy cold war with my son as escalated to the point that Dragonwife, my lovely spouse, has become drawn into the conflict. Feeling that my middle-age spread has become an issue she has begun restricting the purchase of Chips Ahoy to times we have discount coupons. Dragonwife treats these coupons as classified materials and only shares this information with Spoilboy in an attempt to curry favor with him.

Since my only skills at espionage have come from spy novels and television shows like “Burn Notice” I will admit that I have been caught a couple of times sneaking looks through Dragonwife’s coupon folder. But such desperate actions are required because if Dragonwife is able to make the purchase and then pass the Chips Ahoy over to my son I will pay a steep price for even one cookie.

When will this cookie cold war ever end? It is hard to say since I am quite proficient at concealing the cookies when I am able to get my hand on them first. For years Spoilboy never found my hiding place behind the washing machine until recently when he searched in that area looking for a missing shirt.

Now a good cold warrior would not have said a word but feeling he had scored a massive coup in our frosty conflict Spoilboy danced around the house in victory. Like the proud father I was I saluted his momentary triumph and just smiled. I did not say a word about the fact that a few weeks before I had found his own Chips Ahoy hiding place but had left his stash untouched.

A Brilliantly Simple Idea-A Liter of Light

2011-09-18T12:11:00.004-04:00

Brilliant ideas that are cheap, effective for the long term, and greatly improve the conditions people live under are very rare. Whenever discussion of helping those in underdeveloped regions of the planet are brought up we are use to a whole range of logistical, technical, procurement, and political problems frustrating even those who dedicate their lives to helping people in need. But sometimes inspiration strikes with an invention so simple and inspired it wipes away all problems and obstructions.

Here in America the vast majority live with the benefits of electric light significantly enhancing living conditions not only at night but also during the day. We have become so accustom to having our homes illuminated at the flip of a switch that we only really notice when it is absent because of power failures. So great is our dependency that when we lose lighting in our homes it often becomes an insane scramble to find working flashlights or candles to try and make up the difference.

The remarkable discovery, at least for me, during these times of power failure is that when blackouts extend into the daytime unless a window is nearby the house is still largely left in the dark. Like a typical American, I never made the connection between losing lights in my house for a short time and that of people living in third world countries for which darkness is the usual state of affairs making their lives even more difficult. However, someone has come up with a plan to fix that using discarded plastic bottles and other simple and cheap items. My only hope is that this video at the bottom of the post reaches a wider audience.

A little further research on this subject suggests some have gotten their noses bent out of shape because of the ubiquitous multinational corporation jumping into the mix trying to take some credit for the idea. Yeah, it does appear that way and while I detest those actions since this design is so simple but can help so many people I will ignore the typical corporate behavior.

Lighting Up Homes With A Plastic Bottle and Some Chlorine

Isang Litrong Liwanag

If you live in a home without electricity and few or no windows, it's always incredibly dark inside, even at high noon. Isang Litrong Liwanag (A Liter of Light) is a sustainable lighting project that is trying to help people overcome that problem with extremely simple technology: a plastic bottle, water, and a few drops of chlorine and salt is all they need to light up the inside of homes that have no electricity. Designed and developed by MIT students, the Solar Bottle Bulb is now being distributed throughout the Philippines, and the MyShelter Foundation plans to light up a million homes by 2012.

Friday Flash Fiction (Cycle 48) Falling Up

2011-09-13T19:48:00.016-04:00

Friday Flash Fiction Prompt: Use music in a short fiction piece
Genre: Any
Limit: 750 words
Deadline: 9/14/2011 at 8:00 p.m. ET

(Author's note: The Discovery Channel show "Curiosity"recently ran a serious episode with experts in varying fields discussing the possibility of an alien invasion. I have based the story on that episode and my musical influence came from listening to the "Linkin Park'" song "What I've Done". A video clip from that "Curiosity" episode can be found at the bottom of the story)

Looking up into the sky watching the derelict starship pass over me I realize why the young these days have no idea what the world and Humanity went through sixty years ago and how it utterly changed everything. At best, the only concern they have for the now dead alien ship is its gradually decaying orbit and the attempts by the world government to push it further away from the planet. More than likely, they only see it as some historical remnant associated with their aging grandparents and the boring stories they tell of the era before its arrival.

Humanity is on a different course now, gone are the wars over religion, ideology, and resources. Discounting the titanic efforts by the United Earth Peacekeeping Forces and the economic development teams working to stabilize the various underdeveloped regions of the planet there is simply too few of us left to even consider sliding back into our pre-first contact barbaric ways.

My grandchildren consider me insane for speaking aloud my thoughts on how we got this way, but until the day they finally lower me into the ground I believe we have the squids to thank for Humanity’s second chance. But after what I saw in the final days of the war all those years ago, I keep to myself the even crazier thoughts that it could have been so much better.

***

“The thermal image shows both the port and starboard cannons on the squid tank are dead cold along with the engine Lieutenant Stevens. We have a HEAT round loaded, you want me to light it up?” Specialist Thomas Hunter said to me over the intercom on the Abrams tank I was commanding while looking at the targeting screen. He was my gunner in the last days of the war and we were just outside the ruins of Chattanooga running cleanup operations with the rest of the Second Armored Division.

“No,” I responded, “hold your fire and order Sergeant Rivera to dismount the infantry squad in his Bradley to scout the area. I want to get a closer look at that thing.” A few seconds later, I was out of my Abrams and on the ground walking towards the alien tank.

Despite traveling untold light-years in a six-kilometer long starship the squid’s idea of an armored tank was the same as Humanity’s. It was a tracked vehicle with a rotating turret on the top. The two visible differences were that the squids had two main cannons on either side of their turrets and that their tanks were made of a stainless steel looking alloy giving it the appearance of a maniacal work of art. In all the years I had been fighting I had never been this close to a squid tank without fearing for my life. M1A2 Abrams tanks and their crews could defeat the alien armored vehicles but it was done on sight and usually from the extreme end of effective range.

Squid tanks were fast and their two main cannons were electromagnetic rail guns that fired off kinetic energy rounds which could punch through the best human tanks like a hot knife through butter. Even with those advantages, the rail guns effective range was less than the Abrams and their armor, despite its appearance, was not all that good. To have one abandoned just a few meters away and completely intact was an opportunity I could not pass up.

Six years before that the squids had entered orbit around Earth and within the space of nine months had come damn close to wiping us out. In the first week, they had destroyed every civilian electrical grid on the planet using electromagnetic pulse satellites. A week later, they caused massive tsunamis across the planet wiping out the mass of humanity living along the shore by bombing the oceans with kinetic weapons. The final attempt at genocide was engineering, then letting loose various plagues to kill us off. The result was the human race seemly broken into scattered, isolated pockets and reduced down to a little over two billion people. However, we pulled together somehow and fought back, the result being our own use of very crude but massive kinetic weapons launched from Earth that destroyed their huge ship in orbit leaving it a crippled hulk.

By that time, the squids had setup forts and small colony towns on the surface and fought viciously to protect them. After the first squid settlements began appearing it didn’t take rocket scientists to figure out that they were guarding what amounted to nurseries for baby squids. But Humanity had lost so much and after we were able to organize on a global basis it just became a question of how long the squids could hold out.

Before their arrival I never considered myself the soldier type, in fact when I thought about it the idea of killing any living creature it turned my stomach. Now after what they had tried to do to the human race and the planet, I reveled in every squid I ran over with my tank.

Lost in my in my own thoughts while examining the alien war vehicle I was surprised by an adult squid coming out of the destroyed remains of one of their buildings not ten feet away from me. One of its three legs was injured so it’s unusual step by human standards was made even worse. In two of its arms, it carried what was clearly a dead squid larva and it held the smaller creature with a tenderness bordering on recognizable human emotion. In the hand of its third arm it was limply carrying a large machete-like blade.

“Hold your fire!” I yelled when I heard the pounding boots of infantry troops running in my direction. In every encounter with squids, they had treated humans as if we were cockroaches but this one was looking straight at me as if I was an equal. If it had wanted to kill me, it could have long done before it came out in the open. So with a surreal calmness I stepped closer to the creature and took the blade away from it.

“It didn’t have to be this way you sorry bastard!” I yelled feeling overwhelmed as I looked it in the face. “You could have asked for help, any number of nations would have fell all over themselves to assist your people. We could have learned so much from each other!”

The squid fell to its knees, gently laying the small dead creature on the ground. The adult's feeding tentacles at the base of its head were limp, a strange behavior that I somehow attributed to despair. It then looked at me and while they had never once tried to directly communicate with humans, I knew what it wanted.

“Thank you,” I said to the thing knowing that their arrival and actions had utterly changed Humanity forever. Its eyes showed no further emotion or awareness of me but after it lowered its head, I raised the massive blade and brought it down hard across its neck.

The Terrorists Have Won

2011-09-12T15:00:00.001-04:00

God help this poor country when consenting adults cannot sneak into the cramped confines of a commercial jetliner restroom and make whoopy. Never having the opportunity of a such an encounter myself I have got to admit to some admiration in how any couple can maneuver themselves into such positions as to accomplish the desired carnal tasks. When I fly I can barely complete the primary mission the microscopic restroom was designed for in the first place. In some jets I have to struggle to close the door because my damn knees stick out too far when I have no other choice but to take a "seat" since I cannot wait until we land.

My biggest concern is with the fighter pilots who were scrambled and forced away from the comfort of the ready room couch and their endless watching of SpongeBob reruns. This terrible incident could redefine the term "wingman."

Sure, it's the tenth anniversary of the September 11th attacks, and you're flying on a day when there's extremely heightened security, but if you don't seize the opportunity to join the Mile High Club now, doesn't that mean Al Qaeda has won? Such apparently was the reasoning (or lack thereof) of an amorous couple on a Frontier Airlines flight from Denver to Detroit yesterday. After they slipped into the W.C. for an intimate encounter, their "suspicious behavior" was reported to the TSA, and F-16 fighter jets were scrambled to chaperone the plane to Detroit.

A Frontier spokesman tells the AP the couple was in the bathroom for "an extraordinarily long time," and law enforcement sources tell ABC they were totally "making out." When the plane landed in Detroit at 3:30 p.m., it taxied away from the terminal to a remote spot on the airfield. The 116 passengers waited about a half hour, and then passenger Belinda Duggan tells the AP, "All of a sudden, a SWAT team went through and saying, 'Please place your hands on the seat in front of you.' " (Also, get dressed.)
Three unidentified passengers were detained, and eventually released. An airport spokesman tells the AP that the response wasn't unusual. "Regardless of why it was triggered, whenever we get a radio call of a security problem on board, our response is the same one we would have had yesterday, tomorrow," Wintner said. "We always react as if it's the end of the world. If it isn't, so be it."

The incident took place around the same time that fighter jets were scrambled in response to another report of suspicious activity aboard an American Airlines flight from Los Angeles to JFK. This one was also bathroom-related—ABC reports the pilot became spooked by passengers' frequent trips to and from the restroom. Three male passengers—two Israelis, one Russian—were reportedly drunk and refused to follow flight attendant instructions. But after the plane landed at JFK, they were questioned and released.

UPDATE: The AP has heavily revised their initial report, in light of a statement sent out by the FBI this morning insisting "there never were two people in the bathroom at the same time." The FBI tells the AP a man who was not feeling well went to the bathroom and another man followed. ABC, however, has not issued a correction; their sources told them two people were "making out" in the bathroom.

Poor Mexico, so far from God....

2011-09-07T18:22:00.012-04:00

Being the eternal oddball that I am the perpetually unlucky nation of Mexico has always held a certain fascination for me. The blame probably rests with any number of Jimmy Buffett songs and old movies making Mexico in my mind an exotic land of adventure and mystery.

When Jimmy, or any of his tropical rock-singing buddies, croons about the country south of the Rio Grande, I think of ocean breezes, beautiful senoritas, and easy living. Given my early onset curmudgeon-like behavior and my growing nausea at anything to do with American culture and politics that alone is enough for me to idle away even more hours dreaming about permanently flying south like some pissed off goose desperately seeking a tequila drenched Margaritaville.

The old movies that influenced me generally portrayed Mexico as a refuge for heroic losers running from bad memories, lovers, or crimes they may or may not have committed. The movie I remember best setting that mood ended with Humphrey Bogart in a white linen suit standing by a balcony overlooking a Mexican beach waiting for the beautiful Lauren Bacall. The two had spent the greater part of the movie set in late 1940’s Los Angeles trying to figure out what Bogart’s amnesia suffering character had done to draw the ire of the local mafia and cops. I only saw that movie once but the closing scene made such an impression that I often imagine myself as a Bogart-like character sitting in some Mexican bar overlooking a tropical beach awaiting a gorgeous woman whenever I need to tuned out the whining of someone bitching about how unfair the universe is to him or her.

Despite these romantic notions idiots like me cling to, Mexico is a country that even in its early years seemed cursed in many ways. One of my college history professors put it best about Mexico’s misfortune, “Poor Mexico,” he would say with a theatrical air, “so far from God and so close to the United States.” For the 19th century and at least a third of the 20th, our fine neighbors to the north the Canucks had the benefit of the British Empire blunting the worst of American imperial dreams of a true continental Manifest Destiny. Poor Mexico with no powerful protector got close to half of its area sliced off and incorporated into the United States and was damn lucky not to be totally carved up like Poland found itself in the late 18th century.

Adding insult to injury, White Anglo-Saxon Americans have always looked down upon anyone they considered not to their standards and proper ethnic breeding. Over the centuries, this promoted a very high level of American meddling and outright domination of the entire Latin American world. This created enough bad feeling that ultimately the United States had to deal with the likes of Fidel Castro coming to power in Cuba and inviting the Russians to grow a garden of nuclear tipped missiles on their soil. That brouhaha almost toasted the entire planet in a multi-megaton nuclear fire complete with a radioactive fallout icing.

At least we Americans were gracious enough to allow our Mexican neighbors to cross the border and work in the broiling sun picking our vegetables and fruits, clean our nasty toilets, and take care of rich Anglos children allowing them plenty of free time for the country club. Despite the widespread use of this cheap and dependable source of labor padding the pockets of many who would otherwise have to shell out huge bucks paying for American labor we have not always treated these people kindly.

I believe this has largely to do with the fact that we do not want them to stay in this country, if they do it might upset the delicate balance with it getting so bad that daughters might come home to introduce some “Juan” or “Miguel” to daddy while explaining about the growing bulge in her belly.

Well, in the fine tradition of reaping what you sow the United States has once again created a situation that is well on its way to blowing up on our doorstep. And wonder of wonders, those nasty Muslim terrorists that many Morlock-Americans are convinced are out to impose Sharia law on us good Christian folks have nothing to do with it at all.

It all starts with a population here in American that loves to get high on illegal substances, now do not get all defensive or high and mighty, this crosses all ethnic and race lines here in the Unites States, in short we are the proverbial demand. After that throw in the nation of Colombia, which exports drugs like China ships out electronics and you have a supply anxiously wanting to meet the waiting demand up north.

In the middle, you have Mexico who is now embroiled in a horrific war trying to stop the flow of drugs to the land of the free and the home of the brave. All they are seeing for their efforts to stem the tide is an Afghanistan-like breakdown in society with many government officials dropping everything and running away in hopes of saving the lives of their families and themselves.

Of course, this war is going largely unnoticed here in the United States. Hell, we spend damn little time paying attention to our own ongoing imperial adventures in southwest Asia. We have two-hundred satellite television channels available here with a wide array of shows devoted to the latest in narcissistic celebrity escapades, groveling political pundits, and any sport under the sun. What is it to us that some banana republic is undergoing yet another civil war?

Thank you for asking because I am here to answer that trillion-dollar question.

At one point early in this war, largely inspired to pass the American drug problems on to someone else, it was concentrated in the northern Mexican states along the border with the United States. This has allowed many gringos to sit back and go tisk tisk and push even harder to “build the dang fence” like McCain grumpily complained in his frantic bid to be reelected back in 2010.

Now the violence has begun to spread rapidly throughout the rest of Mexico. For the American assholes who think the world is their private playground and for those for whom Profit is the one true god this chaos will put a big crimp in their vacation plans and cut into the corporate bottom line. Since I consider myself to possess some small fragment of a conscious I get sick to my stomach knowing innocent people are dying and suffering because Americans cannot pull their collective heads out their asses and come up with a more effective way to combat substance abuse. But then again it all goes back to having a relatively informed American public and at least a semi-competent United States government. However, the former is laughable and the latter is something from the realm of extreme science fiction bordering on fantasy.

Since Americans like to live under a cloud of fear and threat there is one avenue I can think of that might goad them into action, if the drug-related violence continues to spread and grow it will ultimately push a wave of refuges northward across the border. The good gringos, ever worried about their tax dollars, will be forced to live up to their supposed Christian credo. They might even have to raise taxes a little cutting into their golf club budget.

Few Americans are even vaguely aware that in Mexico’s last presidential election they came very close to electing their own version of Hugo Chavez. The American backed guy, Felipe Calderon, was able, somehow, to snatch victory from the jaws of electoral defeat but many Mexicans openly questioned his legitimacy. Now I know as sure as God makes little green apples the fair and just United States government would never interfere with another country’s elections but living under a real state of daily terror Mexicans might not want to keep Uncle Sammy satisfied by putting his man in office next time.

God save us from the hysteria that would erupt here in United States if Mexico elected a certified commie unfriendly to American corporate interests, Given the current mindset that may leave our government no choice but to invade and spread "real" democracy again. However, before America goes and does something seriously stupid again, in my humble opinion it would be better for us gringos to rethink our attitudes and policies concerning our fellow North Americans before we have an Afghanistan just on the other side of our southern border.

Enough of my insane rambling, Fred Reed, an American expat living in Mexico has the real scoop on what is going on:

Fred On Everything: Scurrilous Commentary by Fred Reed

An Intrusion of Reality

Never a Good Thing

Things change, usually for the worse, and always against the innocent. (This truth is a principle of curmudgeonry.) When I came to Mexico some eight years ago, it was a peaceful, moderately successful upper-Third-World country—middle-class, barely, literate, though often barely, and as democratic as the United States, which is to say barely. Things were improving, though often they had a long way to go. The young were visibly healthier than preceding generations. The birth rate was in sharp decline. Women entered the professions in substantial and growing numbers.

And it was safe. Expats sat over coffee at the plaza laughing at people back in the States, insular, fearful, ignorant of the world outside their borders. (For recent college graduates, Mexico is a country south of the United States. “South” is down on maps.) Mexico, they believed, was most astonishing perilous. Don't drink the water, avoid ice. Salads were thought especially lethal. The Federales would kill you for sport, like squirrels. On any given day, you would probably be shot several times by bandidos. It was nonsense.

Then Vicente Fox left office, and Felipe Calderon came in. He declared war on the narcotraficantes. Why he did this, I don't know, since Mexico didn't have a drug problem. My guess is that Washington pushed him into it, but I don't know.

Unfortunately Mexico, which neither produces nor uses a lot of drugs, lies between Colombia, which produces vast amounts of drugs, and Americans, who want vast amounts of drugs. Washington does not want Americans to have vast amounts of drugs. Neither did it want to lose votes by imprisoning white users of drugs, such as college students, high-school students, professors, Congressmen, lawyers, and blue-collar guys driving bulldozers. The answer was to make Mexico fight Washington's wars.

But Mexico couldn't fight the narcos, because the United States was actually on the side of the traficantes. Does this sound counter-intuitive? What happened was that the narcos gave the Americans the huge quantites of drugs they wanted, and in return Americans gave the narcos huge amounts of money and military-grade weaponry: chiefly AKs, but also grenades and the occasional RPG. The Mexican police, lightly armed, barely paid, and utterly corrupt, could do nothing against these odds. The narcos had a further argument: Do what we say, and we will give you money. Otherwise, we will kill your family.
You figure it out.

The Mexican army doesn't do a whole lot better. It is chieftly a disaster-relief outfit since it has nobody to fight. Mexico doesn't want to invade Guatemala, and has not for some time been openly invaded by America, though truculo-louts north of the border urge this bright idea.

So Washington, to keep Americans from doing what in fact they are contentedly doing with no restriction and little inconvenience—using every drug known to man or beast— is wrecking yet another country.
The killing was for some time largely in the northern tier of states, Chihuahua, Tamaulipas, Durango, and of course Sinaloa, but now the states of Mexico, Guerrero, Michoacan and Jalisco have decapitated bodies strewn about like cherry blossons in spring.

Jalisco, a state in west-central Mexico, contains Guadalajara, Lake Chapala, and me. Along the north shore of Lake Chapala lie Chapala, Ajijic, Jocotepec, and lesser towns inhabited by lots of expat gringos. These towns, as I say, were quiet when I arrived. You could wander home at two in the morning with little concern and a beer in hand. But now the narcos have arrived. Ergo:

A few weeks back in downtown Chapala there was a firefight with automatic weapons. A few days ago a police car on the local by-pass was attacked with automatic weapons. A few days more ago three bodies, buried by kidnappers, were found in Joco, and three local police were arrested for complicity. Various beheaded or chopped-up former people have surfaced locally, as well as a couple of meth labs. I could go on.

So far, gringos have not been targets. This may last. It may not. Still, things are out of control and getting crazier. For example, in Guerrero the narcos told the teachers in the schools of Acapulco to hand over half their pay in protection money, at which point many dozens of schools closed as teachers declined to attend. This comes close to qualifying the country as a disaster area which, without the narco wars, it wasn't even close to being.

What does this mean for Americans? It depends on the Americans. If gringos begin to be attacked here, there will probably be a mass exodus back to the Northern Rubber Room. A few are already bugging out.

For Mexico, such a remigration would be a catastrophe. To simplify and approximate vigorously, Mexican law requires expats to have incomes of a thousand bucks a month. Most have a lot more. I have read that a million gringos live in Mexico. So, a thousand times a million times twelve is, well, a bunch of money annually. Losing it would unhelp the local economy, and probably send people toward the Rio Bravo in bathing suits.

Most Americans don't care at all what happens in Mexico, or anywhere else they can't actually see. However, it is hard to figure the advantage of having a major trading partner turn into Afghanistan with better music.

Conservative bozos of immoderate idiocy fantasize, as mentioned, of sending the Marines. Oh sure, that will work. The Pentagon couldn't win a rigged lottery, much less a war. Mexico, especially in the godawful, broken, infernally impassibe mountains where the dream-weed grows, is perfect for displaying the clownish incapacity of the Nintendo military. The GIs don't know the territory, most don't know the language, the people, or the culture, but they can yell “Ooo-rah!”really well. That's because it has only two syllables.

Nothing can change things except the utter collapse of the US economy and the burning of its cities, a singularity the other side of which is not visible. Any possible sollution would require a decision. The US no longer does decisions. It can neither stop the drug traffic nor legalize it. It can neither win wars nor abandon them, neither make money nor stop spending it, neither stop immigration nor assimilate the immigrants. Washington can beat its thumb with a hammer, yes, and notice that it hurts, but it can't stop beating its thumb. That would take a decision, and Washington doesn't do decisions.

People email me, asking where I would go if I were trying to get out of the crumbling US before the roof falls in. Argentina. Thailand. Viet Nam. China. Pederably to a country without oil. Chile. Maybe Uruguay. Almost anywhere in Europe if you can afford it. Mexico is a fine place, but getting dicey. Very dicey.

Flash Fiction Friday (Cycle 47) Bright Eyes

2011-09-03T18:54:00.008-04:00

Flash Fiction Friday Prompt-Look at the photo, look into the child’s eyes. Some children are lost before they have even started living. Some children are a throw-away commodity like a burger box that’s left to blow down the street in the wind and rain.
Genre – open
Length – 700 words
Topic – look at the photo, look into the child’s eyes.
Deadline – Wednesday September 7th at Midnight EST. The stories post will go up Thursday morning.

(Author's note: This is a true story.)

After working my part-time pizza delivery job for a little over six months, I had come close to hating the aroma drifting out of the tightly packed insulated carrying bags located on the backseat of my car. Even worse, while I had been on the clock making deliveries for close to four hours since getting off work from my full time job I had less than twenty dollars in tips to show for my efforts, not really enough to cover the cost of the gas I had used driving around.

The section of town I found myself driving through offered no hope that I would hit the jackpot with a customer serving up an above average tip. The streets were lined with the type of cheap but rundown houses people reside in when their lives have not lived up to the popular but largely delusional belief Americans cling to about the country being a land of boundless opportunity. My ultimate destination was especially bad with huge patches of paint crumbling from rotten wood walls and makeshift cardboard patches covering busted windows.

Out of all the months of playing delivery boy I had never felt nervous walking up to a door, but this time the hairs on the back of my neck were standing straight up, namely from the odd chemical odor I could tell was coming from the house. After learning the doorbell did not work, I respectfully knocked on the door several times trying to get the attention of those inside. Just when I breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of a response and was about to turn around and leave the door opened and I was greeted by the cutest African-American girl whom I guessed was about six years-old, the same age as my own daughter at that time.

“Did you bring the pizza?” She asked with a dazzling smile and bright eyes that could have cheered up the dead, and given the person that showed up a minute later I believe that was the case. The adult male that now stood in the doorway looked like a real-life version of an undead zombie. While African-American, his skin had a visible gray pallor and was so loose it appeared to be struggling to stay attached to his hideously underweight frame. Adding to the effect, his soulless eyes reminded me of a clothing store mannequin.

“Sir, I have the pizza you ordered.” I said after several seconds of watching the zombie standing in the doorway saying nothing.

Some semblance of sentience appeared briefly after that with him mumbling, “Oh yeah, I’ll go find some money.”

After he disappeared back inside, I was left looking at the little girl and dealing with the overpowering chemical stench now pouring out of the house. She was now sitting on the floor with crayons and a coloring book obviously to the smell that was almost making me gag.

“How much money do you need?” She asked looking at me with innocent eyes that made me more uncomfortable than the chemical smell.

“About eight-dollars,” I replied absentmindedly, which caused her to flip the coloring book to a blank page and begin drawing intently. It took several minutes, which was no problem since the zombie had yet to return, but she eventually showed me her work. It was a crude drawing of various dollar bills and coins very roughly adding up to eight dollars.

“Do you like it? I colored all the money, even the coins.” She said visibly proud of her efforts.

“Yeah sweetie, it’s perfect.” I said feeling a growing sense of dread. Given what I was seeing and smelled I was worried that zombie dude was not going to show up and that the pizza was suppose to be her dinner. Feeling both disgusted at the adults in that precious girl's life and powerless to do anything about it I just gave her the pizza free of charge, walked back to my car, and drove away.

***

About a month later, I made a delivery to a different house in the same neighborhood. On the way back out I rode by that house and saw that it had burned completely to the ground leaving nothing but the foundation.

Just Another Suburban Nightmare

2011-08-31T20:41:00.003-04:00

Despite my passionate hatred of suburbia and all things associated with it I will grudgingly admit that at one time it was a good idea before things got out of hand. I am old enough to remember the numerous shanty-like dwellings all too common in the South during the 1960’s which had the desperate look of something from a Third-world country. Please excuse my admittedly socialistic tendencies, impinging on purely capitalistic motives, but during those years suburban housing developments of relatively low-priced homes did much to foster a sense of community and responsibility.

While I call it a “neighborhood” in the old sense of the word, I largely grew up in a subdivision. Made up of modest homes where families were raised and people actually knew the person living down the street. It also boasted the now strange idea of having things like stores and even schools within easy walking distance.

Now, as I have written about ad nauseam, things have changed. Up until the concept largely self-destructed under the weight of its unsustainably, houses were thought of as investments. You bought a “starter home” and after it increased in value, you sold it and bought an even bigger house. With everyone desperate to not only to move up the social-economic ladder in terms of showing off an increasingly affluent lifestyle but attempting to ensure their retirement by buying as large as house as possible then cashing in on the value. This strange and greedy mutation of the American Dream eventually created the modern concept of the subdivision and the term “McMansion.”

For your average suburbanite the next house had to be further out in the country away from the riff-raff and other social malcontents that they invariably had to spend more money on gas just to return and work amongst these same people most days of the week. These suburbanites also wanted larger kitchens for more assorted fancy and overpriced food processing gizmos so they could look like culinary experts when in actuality the overworked microwave was the center of most food preparation. And of course, my favorite bugaboo, elaborate and overpriced McMansions always come with yards that require countless hours and money for even basic upkeep. This brings me to my latest clash over my resistance to this modern serfdom.

While my current house does not quite meet the McMansion standards, it is far more ostentatious then any house I lived in as a kid. In an effort of full disclosure my wife and I were required to purchase a bigger home to meet the prerequisites needed for the adoption of my daughter, baby Darth Wiggles. At the time, I was exceedingly naïve about the degree of commitment required to keep the beautifully landscaped yards we purchased up to standards.

The previous owners made their living from an in-home business and for them it was simple, they could just step outside when they had free time. Since I even now work complicated shifts and still do not own all the extravagant and upscale lawn tools some things simply slip my attention, not that I have ever based my existence on how my lawn looked. The one thing that I sort of thought was cool was the automatic lawn sprinkler system complete with its own electrically powered pump that drew water from our own well.

Now the sprinkler heads are a pain, at the beginning of warm weather each year I always had to replace several non-functioning heads and while not budgets killers by themselves throw four or five in a Lowes shopping basket and they start to add up. This does not include the three larger type sprinkler heads used in teh backyard my son, Darth Spoilboy, has ran over at times resulting in an artificial geyser shooting thirty-feet into the sky showering everything nearby until I turned it off. Those bad boys are twenty bucks a pop. At least the pump was dependable and something I could always rely on so I could meet the very minimum of lawn care standards for the subdivision, not anymore.

Even before the recent passing of my father-in-law I had noticed something slightly off about the yard as I drove home early in the morning after getting off work. The grass was looking even more sickly than usual but since I largely do not give a rat’s ass what my neighbors think of me, or my yard, I just conveniently forgot about the whole thing. It was not until my wife sufficiently increased the level of nagging to the point of it being painful that I finally looked into the problem.

Concluding this long story, I have discovered that the submersible pump supplying well water for the sprinklers has burned up. The first clue was the fact that I could not reset the 20 amp breaker after that it was a simple trouble shooting procedure using my trusty multimeter, a device that measures voltage, amperage, and resistance on electrical equipment.

At the very least, I am looking at five-hundred dollars just to replace the pump by myself. Since I am lazy and feel this lawn care crap is egotistical bullshit I looked into having it all done by a local landscaping company. The attractive lady in charge of giving such estimates brightly smiled at me saying they could have me up and running for the paltry sum of fourteen hundred dollars. With her sitting at her desk and me standing at least I got to see a whooping amount of her very nice cleavage before I got dizzy thinking about all that money flying away.

Because of the defunct pump and the lack of any significant rain in two months my yard is a small sample of the Mojave Desert surrounded by pretentious recreations of English manor homes. Even with the desert-like appearance I am serious thinking about waiting until next spring before I do anything. Maybe I can use this to talk Dragonwife into moving out into the country where there is some real distance between houses, Hell the neighbors might even help on this one just to get rid of me.

The Obama Conundrum

2011-08-26T10:39:00.007-04:00

Once again, I am feeling the strange need to wax philosophically about something significant and important affected the nation. I have no idea why I want to do this, blame it on some disturbing but curious character flaw, a desire to shake off my suburban malaise brought on by the dog days of summer, or just my need to join my fellow Americans in collective whining, the only thing we excel at in the twenty-first century. With that out of the way what will allow me to properly grovel in the verbal emissions of my pomposity? How about something I have been pondering about for several years, the performance of Barrack Obama as president and liberal short sightedness and the conundrum they present for 2012 election.

For conservatives Obama never stood a chance once he vanquished Hillary in the 2008 campaign, they immediately tagged him as something akin to the Antichrist with a certain segment actually believing he is the spawn of Satan. On the other hand, within a few months after taking office progressives began to go rogue when he did not whip out his magic wand and instantaneously transform the country into a social utopia.

Call me a sleazy sycophant but for the longest time I cut the guy significant slack given the dire situation the country faced. For starters, I can mention the two wars going on with billions disappearing into a black hole that had Dick Cheney’s Cheshire cat-like smile superimposed over the event horizon. We also faced a financial apocalypse caused by the finely dressed banking rats eating holes into the nation’s economic ship of state forcing the previous president to bail them out leaving Obama to finish cleaning up the mess and to be call nasty names by the moronic masses for doing so. Top it all off as if two southwest Asian quagmires along with a monetary disaster were not enough millions of Americans lose their jobs before and after he took office.

So excuse me for not jumping early on the progressive bitchy bandwagon and castigating the man for his failure to have unicorns and rainbows sprout from his and Michelle’s ass and cover the country in sweet rose pedals and happiness. The only problem with my early high optimism that slowly morphed into pragmatic realism then to impatient frustration is that while Obama was a great campaigner in all honestly we seem to have gotten a hybrid cross of Hamlet and Mr. Spock of Star Trek. He appears to be a president more interested in contemplating his existence while casting unemotional observations about how Washington is broken rather than getting involved in the dirty business of politics.

Once again, I do not completely blame him, there were disturbing signs and omens during the 2008 campaign that liberals were building him into something he was not. I remember some lady on MSNBC that literally had a religious look of utter rapture talking about how super duper things would be right after Obama took office. Cartoons of Obama wearing a Superman-like costume regularly appeared with him beating up corporate villains and fixing global warming as an afternoon project. In my ever-humble opinion liberals and progressives placed Obama on far too high a pedestal expecting far too much of him given the rules Washington works under.

Another problem that liberals/progressives created for themselves at the expense of Obama was the utter failure to counter the Koch brothers and Fox Noise sponsored Tea bagger movement that sent the country spiraling off the cliff to near default status. We had close to two-million people in Washington attending Obama’s inauguration and had that group stayed organized and vocal the assorted right-wing rubbish that arose to run such fine American intellectuals as Sharron Angle and Christine O’Donnell would at the very least been blunted. Even better had right-wingers carrying assault weapons at town hall meetings during the health care debate screaming slogans about the tree of liberty needing to be refreshed by the blood of tyrants been met with liberals passing out flowers the public would have freaked at the visual dichotomy.

Now I have come to the point where I have to express my disappointment with Obama. For someone who was the visual definition of high-energy charisma and dynamic action while running for president his lackluster leadership since taking office has been depressing and unexplainable. During the Republican drive to renew the Bush Tax cuts, something that created much of our current deficit, he shrugged off all suggestions to tie the agreement with an extension on the debt limit. The resulting uncertainty the prolonged and ugly battle to increase the federal debt limit threw the country into yet another crisis. This was a failure of leadership on Obama’s part that bordered on a George W. Bush level of incompetence.

One criticism the Republicans have tagged Obama with that I believe hold some merit is that he appears to be quite infatuated with his own celebrity. During the worst of the Gulf oil spill crisis Obama came down to Louisiana on one visit just long enough to have some pictures taken before jetting back to the White House so Paul McCarthy could give a personal concert to him and the family that evening. He did not talk to any locals and never got his nicely pressed khaki pants and bright white dress shirt dirty. Hello! Rule number one to all those hoping to be elected to any office and stay there is to press the flesh and feel the pain of the lowly minions.

My biggest disappointment with Obama has to be his inaction on the unemployment front. Millions of Americans languish with no job or doing their best with underemployment and once again, the president is playing the dithering Hamlet. Several people light-years smarter than me like Paul Krugman of the New York Times and Chris Matthews of MSNBC have been screaming for months about tactics that the president could use to outmaneuver the Republicans on getting a jobs program going. But only very recently have we been rewarded with a pronouncement from the vacationing president that he will present a jobs plan after Labor Day. I just pray that many of the unemployed have the luxury of electricity then so they can hear about his wonderful path to salvation.

Here is where my conundrum comes into play. The Republicans running for their party’s presidential nomination make the aliens in the Star Wars cantina scene look like a white folks country club social gathering. They are the finest collection of paranoid fanatics, religious extremists, and sleazy flip flopping toadies ever assembled and given the comatose American economy Democrats would be suicidally insane to think the eventual nominee could not win the election.

Therefore, the question is do we reelect Obama despite his faults and failures or do we surrender the country allowing the Republicans to continue their assault on the working people? Because while I am seriously asking the question I feel many in the liberal/progressive movement are equally at fault for their apathetic laziness to the tea bagger movement and narcissistic infighting over their own special interests at the expense of the country as a whole.

Dealing with the aftermath

2011-08-24T05:48:00.001-04:00

Despite some descriptions to the contrary, for me when death comes to visit it carries a sickening sweet tinge much like the aroma of something made of sugar about to go bad. Because no matter how unwelcome and unwanted at times, it is a natural part of life and something we will all have to face in the end. This became especially true to me back in 2008 after my grandmother, mother, and Uncle Gwen all passed away within the span of thirteen months. While their individual passings were heart-wrenching age, health concerns, and long-term sickness made each expected on some level.

That did not make coming to grips with their departure any easier, but we still had to pick up the pieces and began to structure a life around the gaping hole that is their absence. The worst thing for me in many ways is to this day there are times I still think of them in the present tense and have to remind myself they are gone. It’s bizarre on so many levels to feel how important a particular person is to your existence and then remember they are no longer around.

The situation was hugely different and yet strangely the same last Saturday. It was my daughter, Darth Wiggles, birthday and the entire family, including my son’s girlfriend, were at the mall letting her spend the collection of gift cards she had received. I’d like very much to claim I felt something wrong, like someone might feel that subtle change in the weather heralding the coming of a rainstorm but it was a clear, sunny, and actually pleasantly warm day. If anything all signs pointed to yet another boring day becoming a boring evening sitting at the house with me wishing I could run down to the coast.

All that changed when we returned home and I made the perfunctory run upstairs to check the answering machine. As I mentioned in my very brief post my father-in-law’s passing was sudden and very unexpected. While a senior citizen, his health could have been considered excellent especially since he golfed several times a week and did all of his own yard work.

I have to be honest here and write that I have never mixed entirely well with my in-laws. This fact has to do with my blood kinfolk and me being the spontaneous beer and barbeque crowd at the beach and them being the deliberate wine and cheese set at the country club. That does not change the fact that they are all quite accomplished and talented people, at times irritatingly so, which in many ways made it more painful to watch them deal with such a sudden loss.

This going to sound trite as Hell but in the end I came away with the idea that with this insane world mired in a continuous set of disasters pulling everyone apart about all we seemingly have tying us together these days is the finality of death. It’s the lowest of the common dominators we all have and something I found beyond excessively depressing. If we had any sense as a species its something we would work damn hard at changing for the better.

Death in the family

2011-08-21T19:24:00.000-04:00

My father-in-law passed away very suddenly yesterday. Would appreciate all prayers and good vibes sent to my wife, mom-in-law, and the rest of that family. Will be away for a couple of days, best wishes to everyone.

This one is for Sharon

2011-08-19T21:59:00.005-04:00

The cool breeze that greeted me as I walked out of the employee gym this morning was a very welcome relief from the stifling humidity that has the been the usual state of of the weather all this summer. This being the first Friday since the kids returned to school my plan was to start my weekend by getting several errands done that I had been putting off with them stuck at the house during the school break.

Despite the unsettling thought of eating what is passed off to the general public as food in the hospital cafeteria I decided to go grab something before setting out since I figured I would not make it home until early afternoon. The cafeteria was still crowded with the morning rush as I walked in but I quickly grabbed and paid for a breakfast sandwich and bottle of orange juice before heading back out.

Right before I walked out the doors I caught a glimpse of an attractive lady with raven hair staring at me from across the room. Somewhere in the back of my mind the face registered but not enough to make me turn around and go back inside to see if I actually knew that person. I literally see hundreds of individuals in the cafeteria at times with many of them resembling people from my past so I did not think too much of it, plus my mind was on getting my chores done so I could go home and sleep.

A couple of hours later as I was sitting in customer lounge of the car dealership waiting for technicians to finish installing the new tires on my car I finally realized who that person was in the cafeteria. I am sure it was a very dear friend of mine who left my life years ago. Forces we could not control ended our relationship and the last I heard from her several years ago was that she had finally found some happiness.

Needless to say I am more than slightly bummed out about not recognizing her, but my one microscopic conciliation is that when we last talked I told her about the strange habit I had just started and where she could find my insistent ramblings on the internet. After remembering that I further realized that on a couple of the widgets I have installed on my blog telling me the general locations of people visiting that I have occasionally seen her very small South Carolina town pop up several times.

If it is my long lost friend dropping by and reading my stuff I wish her the very best and hope for her continued happiness. It goes without saying that I hope her reason for visiting my workplace isn't serious.

Sharon I am drinking one for you right now, enjoy the song, its one of my favorites and is perfect for this occasion.

Flash Fiction Friday (Cycle 44) Amongst the ruins of our souls

2011-08-14T12:41:00.004-04:00

Flash Fiction Friday Prompt: A story about unrest.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1500 words (or fewer).

"Nature is indifferent to the survival of the human species, including Americans." Adlai E. Stevenson

The odors of rotten meat from the defunct freezer and spilled cherry syrup from the snow cone machine assaulted the nose of Irvin Washington as he hid behind the checkout counter of the long looted convenience store. The slight gasoline smell coming from the full five-gallon container he clutched only made things worse and it was all he could do not to puke in spite of the danger making any sound might bring him. Through force of will alone, he stayed completely quiet listening to the words of the seven militia personnel across the street as they interrogated the Hispanic teenager they caught sneaking out of the equally looted grocery store.

“Where’s the rest of your gang Jose?” One of the more verbally belligerent members of the irregular militia asked for the fifth or sixth time. The terrified kid mumbled something about being alone and looking for food for his family. A chorus of laughter and disbelief was all he got for his fearful honesty before the sounds of multiple blows impacting a helpless human body drifted back over to Irvin.

Irvin desperately wanted to look over the counter and see what was happening to the boy but if he were discovered there was no doubt the militia types would turn their attentions on him. As far as they were concerned anyone they ran across was guilty of looting until proven innocent. Irvin’s black skin would only make his presumed illegal behavior that much worse.

Still, the screams of the unarmed teenager being beaten clawed at his soul, so much that he pulled his old M9 army service pistol from his shoulder holster while forcing himself to get up and look over the counter. Irvin played with the insane idea of attacking the seven heavily-armed men with his pistol or walking over and demanding they stand down and submit to his authority as a former US army major, anything that might save the kid’s life.

But it did not take a military genius to realize neither idea would work, the seven men, dressed in mismatched camouflage clothes, were armed with an odd collection of assault rifles ranging from the leader carrying a tricked out, high-priced civilian version of the army’s M4 carbine to several with cheap AK-47’s.

All were working under the auspices of the ad hoc Committee of Public Safety based out of the secure area around Greenville in the upstate. The committee was the only thing South Carolina had close to a state government since everything went to shit after the president federalized the National Guard and deployed them up north to assist in controlling the insurrection in the northeast and Midwest states. Helpless against the overwhelmingly armed psychos Irvin, now just a simple high school science teacher, could not help but marvel at how far the once nearly omnipotent United States had fallen in the twenty years since he left the service in 2006.

***

Since the start of the twenty-first century, the United States had suffered a steady stream of mainly self-inflected military, diplomatic, and economic disasters that deeply strained the fabric of the nation. The catastrophe that finally pushed it over edge was the 2024 election where the political machine of one party was discovered to have rigged the presidential election in favor of the daughter of a former vice president.

The voting manipulation was so blatant in thirteen states that the governors took the issue to the federal courts, only to see Supreme Court uphold the results. The riots that soon erupted quickly became pitched battles so intense that regular army and National Guard forces from across the country had to be called in an attempt to restore order.

The violence was made even worse as gangs used the chaos to spread out from the cities and start attacking the suburbs. Once it became too dangerous to transport goods on the roads store shelves became bare and with that, the remaining social structure of the country fell apart.

***

Peering over the edge of the counter Irvin watched as the Hispanic boy was pulled to his feet. Somehow, he found the ability to stand on his own as the militia leader with the fancy M4 broke away to say something over the radio in the truck they were using. It was then that Irvin realized the boy had been one of his high school chemistry students a few years back. His recognition came right before the militia leader walked up to the boy, placed the barrel of his rifle a few inches from his head, and pulled the trigger. The body fell to the ground like a wet sack.

“The command post,” the leader said, “in Columbia has confirmed sightings of gang activity a few miles from the coliseum, load up and prepare for battle.” A chorus or rebel yells met the news and a minute later the odd collection of armed men were gone leaving only a dead body and silence in their wake.

Irvin wanted to do something for the dead boy but the smell of gasoline brought him back to his own needs. The gasoline he was able to scrounge from the virtually empty underground tanks might be just enough to allow him and his family to make it down to Manning, South Carolina and the relative safety of his brother’s property.

Quickly Irvin lifted his precious load and left the convenience store from its rear exit. He darted from behind one building to another staying out of sight as much as possible, with any luck he hoped to be home by nightfall and then after refueling his car leave his suburban home the next morning during the brief time the local militia allowed people to travel.

Even with his most determined efforts to make it home, just a couple of hours later a sudden thunderstorm with severe lightning forced Irvin to take refuge in the ruins of a strip mall. The respite was welcome along with the luck of finding an untouched vending machine inside what was once a nail salon. Irvin sat in the small office in the back listening to the pounding rain and the crackle of lightning while gorging on small bags of corn chips.

As the rain fell, Irvin used the sounds of falling water to think of happier times before Americans abandoned hope, reason, and compassion for apathy, rage, and selfish desire. In the comforting darkness of the small office, he was unable to understand why such a destructive road had been taken by a people who had so much.

Over the days and weeks as the violence grew, Irvin and his family would huddle together at home and listen to the reports over the shortwave radio as a stunned world watched America fall apart. His more fearful thoughts made him wondered how far he might have to fall to get his family to safety. The answer to that question came the next morning.

The thunderstorm that had forced Irvin under cover persisted through most of the night. Sleep came softly but when it did, it was heavy, so much he barely awoke up in time to aim his pistol at silhouetted figure standing in the doorway.

“Back the fuck off or I will shoot!” Irvin yelled.

“Irvin Washington is that you?” The dark figure said before backing off from the doorway a few inches and into the feeble morning light coming from the broken windows at the front of the store. “It’s me Peter Jacobs.”

The recognition was instant, it was one of his neighbors from his own subdivision who lived a couple of streets over. Even in more civilized times they did not consider each other friends but with children the same ages they had talked many times at school social functions and the community pool while watching their kids play in the water. Now all motives carried a possible sinister side and the two suspiciously eyed each other while not making any sudden moves.

“What are you doing here Peter?”

“Same as you I guess,” he said easing forward back into the office doorway, “looking for food or fuel to get the family and me through another day.”

The same time Peter said the word “fuel” Irvin saw his eyes dart to the five-gallon can of gasoline next him, probably drawn there by the smell. Back in the 1990’s, when Irvin was a young lieutenant in the army he served peacekeeping duty in Bosnia. He never understood the stories of how people who had lived next door for decades could overnight begin to slaughter each other.

In a flash he finally understood as Peter’s right hand began to move for something in his pocket while still looking at the gasoline. The shot from Irvin’s pistol was so surprising both men were startled by the sound. The only difference between the two was Irvin leaving for home minutes later while Peter died alone with a gunshot to his neck.

(Author's note: First, I'm actually under the word count for a change. Secondly, this is part of a series of stories I have written about a second American Civil War. "After the House of Cards has Fallen" is the first and "When the Center Cannot Hold" is the prequel. This story sets somewhere in the middle of the two time wise.)

Flash Fiction Friday (Cycle 43) The Best Show of the Summer

2011-08-09T18:33:00.014-04:00

Flash Fiction Friday Prompt: A story involving your hometown. Make us believe we’ve been there.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 2000 words

(Author's note: This story is largely true, well as true as I can remember. Names were changed and characters compressed, the unabridged version could truly be a book. No offense was meant to anyone of faith. Excuse the typos, I'll get them as soon as possible.)

Seeing the ushers open the double doors at the rear of the church sanctuary that early August afternoon in 1973 created a much appreciated and eagerly awaited exit for all the children, including myself, who had just sat through another of Preacher Simpson’s long-winded sermons about the fate of all sinners. The preacher was a good man by all accounts with himself living a virtuous life as prime example of the saving power of Jesus Christ who in his own words had spent his younger years chasing strong whiskey and loose women. However, even the older and more dignified folks of the Georgetown Church of the Nazarene would sometimes whisper complaints that if running off at the mouth was a sin the old man was sure to spend eternity sniffing brimstone and swimming in the lake of fire.

That particular Sunday the entire adult congregation was aggravated even further by the stifling heat of the sanctuary because of the preacher’s refusal to turn on the newly installed air conditioning system. “Christ,” he said at the beginning of his sermon, “suffered far worse to save our souls and the least we can do is sacrifice our own comfort for a short time.”

A murmur rippled through sweaty people sitting uneasily on the wooden pews but Preacher Simpson never said anymore about it and quickly walked off the pulpit at the end of his sermon smiling manically. Much to the chagrin of my grandparents, I was the second kid to scramble out the doors to freedom that day confirming the suspicions the uneasy worshipers whispered during the service. Standing outside with the other kids we saw the huge circus-like revival tent being erected by a group of black men in the vacant lot next the church.

Thus began the unannounced annual week of revival, which would be seven days dedicated to the reawaking of the Christian faith of the good members of Simpson’s flock complete with impassioned preaching, public testimony, live gospel music and inadvertently some young adult drama. Seeing the tent being setup the now disgruntled Nazarene congregation knew from tradition older them all that they bore the responsibility of providing the food for the revival that would start later that evening. Despite the inconvenience of Old Preacher Simpson’s surprise, meant to shake what he saw as the congregation’s lethargy, everyone rushed home to prepare the food they would bring.

Above all else, by the early 1970’s Georgetown, South Carolina had become a mill town demanding clockwork precision twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Since the ending of the Civil War, the people who lived there largely made their livings through the growing of tobacco or from what they could haul from the ocean. The work was seasonal and the fates and livelihoods of most everyone was dependent on the price of the green leaf and whether shrimp nets pulled out of the water were empty or full. This created a way of life based on a foundation of religious faith with everyone coming together in the off months to pray for salvation and prosperity. For a long time this made the various preachers and ministers of the community unelected leaders and anyone who defied their guidance virtual outcasts.

With the opening of the new steel mill three miles away for the long-standing paper mill the majority of the people who lived in my hometown during my childhood were now earning their living from those two huge companies or from the secondary businesses that cropped up to supply their needs. Because of that, the rhythms of the Georgetown and its people changed to accommodate the needs of those workers.

This meant those people who observed the Sabbath as a day of worship and rest had to adapt to the changing times. Most people in my hometown did not mind this near heresy since their 24/7 operation meant dependable incomes and a growing affluence allowing a better standard of living for them and their children. For those who welcomed the growing affluence the changing times brought certain other cultural side effects were difficult to deal with, for those determined to live by the old ways the actions of young people were impossible to understand.

As much as the congregation was initially put off by Preacher Simpson’s surprise, it only took a few hours for attitudes to change. While revivals were meant to renew a church’s commitment to Christ, for poor southern folks they also served as the equivalent to a huge Broadway stage production complete with music and the drama only the saving of lost souls can offer.

The music would be provided by a gospel group called “The Singing Kings”, a North Carolina family who made their living singing for the Lord as far north as mysterious New York State and west as the wilds of New Mexico. Given the introverted worldview back then such places were as exotic as northern Outer Magnolia and Patagonia are now. Even more amazing to me at the time was that they lived in and traveled the country in an old converted school bus. The Kings family consisted of Samuel the father, Helen the mother, the twins Peter and Mary who were around my age, and the oldest daughter Rebecca who at the age of seventeen was the epitome of the chaste young lady working to save souls through music while saving herself for the man she would marry. As gospel groups go they could not hope to equal the energy of African-American singers but could easily put us poor white folks to tears by singing “How Great Thou Art.”

The drama for the revival would be provided by the middle-aged veteran of saving souls Preacher Calhoun Murphy and his new protégé, the young and charismatic Preacher Daniel Barnes. The likes of Calhoun Murphy do not really exist anymore, while a true man of the cloth he was also an intelligent and very well read person who could quote the likes of Homer, Sophocles, Plato, Shakespeare, Voltaire, and many others to the point he scared some less sophisticated folks for whom reading is akin to witchcraft.

Daniel Barnes on the other hand was a harbinger of the coming age of shallow and ambitious televangelist preachers for whom the only education they cared about looking good and maximizing the profit margin. Right from the start it was easy to tell Murphy did not like his young student but it was their job to energize the congregation and get them dancing in the aisles and motivated for entire year.

***

By Sunday evening, the amazingly resourceful ladies of the Georgetown Nazarene church had thrown together a remarkable collection of home cooked dishes, which now sat on several tables underneath the large revival tent. My grandmother’s contribution to the menu consisted of a heaping plate of fried chicken, her special potato salad, and twelve ears of freshly cooked corn, which she took great care of placing well away from similar items so they would stand out. After she was satisfied, she joined the other ladies of the church who were ogling the handsome young Barnes but trying not to seem lustful about it. Dressed in a tailor-fitted black suit with brilliant white shirt and razor sharp black tie for the older ladies he was as dashing as Rock Hudson or any other handsome American actor.

Now my grandfather and I slipped out of the tent to pay our respects to Preacher Murphy who was holding court behind the church building sipping cold beers with the rest of the guys, a scandalous behavior sure to draw condemnation from the wives if they were not so enchanted with Barnes. Murphy looked the aged and tired opposite of Barnes dressed in a similar but rumpled black suit with a stained white shirt and wrinkled blue tie. His appearance was so scruffy he looked like he made a habit of sleeping in his clothes. Topping it all off in a way he actually resembled Albert Einstein in the face, who Murphy claimed to have met on a train in 1949.

After the required socializing was over the business of saving souls began with the King family beginning a series of gospel songs to set the mood. Samuel and his wife Helen each sang with Peter playing the guitar and Mary the tambourine with the beautiful Rebecca singing backup while playing a portable piano.

When the sermon began an hour later, Preacher Murphy took it from Matthew 19:24 about how it would be easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. Even though I was only nine years-old at the time I remember his words as clear as day even now and figure if some pastor attempted such a near socialist sermon now in the south a bunch of white folks would immediately run that preacher out of town, if not lynch the guy.

When it came to the altar call for people to rededicate themselves Preacher Barnes took over with his own sermon, which included the laying on of hands to heal the sick and infirmed. Swooning old ladies quick fell in behind each other with a couple actually tussling over their place in line.

“In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ I command you foul demon to leave the body of this servant of God!” Barnes would yell out while placing both his hand on the head of the person in front of him. So charged was the atmosphere with spiritual energy that the person seeking healing would let out a deep and loud moan then scream before passing out on the floor. Ushers would then come forward collecting the apparently unconscious person so the next in line could receive the same treatment.

As the night progressed dinner was the last thing on the agenda and by that time with everyone was so hungry that nothing of the huge amount food brought was left to put away. It was during these feasts that nearly all formality was forgotten. Kids ran and played games like hide-and-seek all over the church grounds, ladies gathered around and gossiped despite the glaring looks from Preacher Simpson who had kicked back and relaxed all night, and the men folk collapsed in the chairs underneath the tent patting their full stomachs.

The only real problem came when it was time for some of the men to go and get ready for work. Since the ladies wanted to stay longer to socialize the men began to depart sharing rides with the ladies and children leaving a little later. After everyone left the Kings would retire to their bus, Preachers Murphy and Barnes would sleep on cots in the church with everyone ready to do it all again the next night.

That was usual plan for the entire week but by Wednesday night it was obvious to everyone that the twenty-something Barnes and seventeen year-old Rebecca King had taken a strong liking to each other. Barnes had clearly staked what amounted to a claim on the young lady and with his authority as a preacher had effectively run off the boys her age. This being the 1970’s the general belief among the group was that it was a harmless infatuation that would end once the revival was over and everyone went their separate ways. No one for a minute believed the young ambitious preacher nor the beautiful young woman would do anything to soil their purity. But times were changing with all sorts of assumptions were being proved wrong every day.

Thursday night right before dinner was served Samuel King began looking for his daughter; he felt the urge to play more songs and wanted to get his family back together on the small stage they were using. The trouble was that after looking in the family bus and all through the offices on the first floor of the church he still could not find Rebecca. Eventually Samuel approached Preacher Murphy and Simpson who were seated close to each other under the tent with Bibles open discussing theology to ask if they had seen his daughter. That was when my friend Timmy Gibson and I walked by and mentioned that we believed Preacher Barnes was laying hands on Miss Rebecca in private given how he was screaming and she was moaning up in one of the classrooms on the second floor of the church.

Remember these were different and far more innocent times so neither Timmy nor I understood why Murphy and Simpson went running towards the church or why Mr. King came back by a few seconds later with a shotgun. We finally did understand when a much less handsome and happy Preacher Barnes, his wife Rebecca, and baby Barnes returned with the rest of the Singing Kings the following year. Overall Preacher Simpson was still quite happy the revival, and everyone else thought it was the best entertainment they had all summer .

Dreams of Goofy

2011-08-04T09:47:00.006-04:00

Last Saturday Dragonwife, my lovely spouse, was once again struck by the overwhelming urge, probably encoded in her very DNA, to reorganize some aspect of the house whether it needs it or not. During such compulsions its best just to leave her alone as she takes every last item out from where it is stored, determines it usefulness, then with an attention to detail approaching that of a master sculptor places it back with an eye towards total efficiency and ease of retrieval. I am sure if a professional sport for such talents existed, she would be in the major leagues.

Usually, she targets one of the kid’s closets and to be honest, there are times when such reorganizations are desperately needed. In my son’s case on several different occasions after my wife reorganized his closet we found three missing textbooks, two empty pizza boxes complete with fossilized crust and cheese inside, an expensive graphing calculator, and once even an X-box gaming system that went missing one Christmas. However, last weekend the attic was her target for uber-reorganization and because of her efforts, a box of my stuff that I had forgotten about turned up.

Now her first idea was to trash the entire container and its contents naturally assuming that if it belonged to me nothing inside was important. I was able to save my precious but unknown crap by promising to look through it and then finding a place to store it were it did not take up valuable space. Of course, sometime in the forgotten past I am sure we had nearly the same conversation with me storing the box in the attic, which was my intention all along of repeating. But at the time of the discovery I was pursuing my muse writing some insightful and provocative piece of thought so I just pushed the box underneath my bed for investigation at a later date.

This morning after much cajoling and renewed threats to send the box to the trash dump I finally got around to looking through the contents. Truthfully, there was not much inside for me to get excited about,some paperback books, redundant National Guard forms, and a couple of old music CD’s. The one exception was a business card from an employment recruiter for Disney World that brought back some pleasant memories.

***

My family and I have for years been a part of the Disney Vacation Club, it is a timeshare that allows us to stay at the Disney resorts right next the parks and those outside the Orlando area far from the mouse and its usual domain. One of these offsite resorts is located in Hilton Head, South Carolina and it is there that I unknowingly met a Disney employment recruiter.

Because we are only a couple of hours away from the Disney Hilton Head Resort my family and I often spend an extended weekend down there when we have the required points for a room and the free time allowing us to get out of town. With it being well away from the parks, it has a far more relaxed and easygoing atmosphere with plenty of activities for the kids and because of this, grownups can carry on conversations with other adults while drinking certain types of beverages children cannot partake.

During one of these extended weekends several years ago, my wife and I met Diana and her husband Mark while we were all soaking in the resort hot tub. The hot tub that day was especially relaxing for both couples since both our respective teenagers like my son Darth Spoilboy were walking a nearby nature trail and those around my daughter Darth Wiggles age were in the mud chasing terrified fiddler crabs.This allowed us adults to loosen up without having to worry about some sulking teenager intruding and begin whining about missing their friends or the younger kids demanding we all go and play putt-putt golf.

The conversation floated around a whole manner of enjoyable and intelligent subjects and to be honest I kept expecting it all to come crashing to an end with the kids mutinying on the counselors and showing up at the hot tub looking down on us with clear looks of disdain on their faces. Somehow, God even saw fit to smile down on us preventing any disturbance and things were so good that the four of us were able to make several trips to the conveniently nearby tiki bar so we could recharge our empty glasses. It was while I was returning to the blessed hot tub with a full container of an orange smoothie concoction complete with two shots of high-grade tequila that Diana hit me with a weird statement about my appearance.

“Ron,” she said only slightly slurring her words while watching me approach, “you would be a great Goofy.”

Even with the pleasant buzz going on behind my eyeballs, this struck me as quite the curious thing to say. “You have the perfect height and gait to pull it off along with the ideal Goofy personality for dealing with young children.” Diana said further with me totally at a loss for what she meant.

After slowly reentering the hot water trying not to spill my precious drink I looked over at my wife and saw her giggling senselessly. Feeling like I was on the wrong end of some joke I could sense the most unwelcome feeling of irritation displacing my warm orange smoothie assisted buzz. “Excuse me,” I said, “someone please let this poor fool of a country boy in on the joke.”

For some reason my confusion only made the situation even funnier for the other three. It took Diana’s husband Mark to explain what was going on. “Diana is a recruiter for Disney, she hires upper end talent for the shows but at times she has also hired for the costume characters. While you were away she told your wife that you were perfect for Goofy.”

With the situation explained, my bewilderment was replaced with an entirely different feeling. “Really? That’s freaking awesome because Goofy is my favorite Disney cartoon character.”I said to her with visions of quitting my job and heading down to sunny Florida and becoming a willing minion for the evil corporate Mouse. Now Diana went on to explain that they prefer hiring retired gentlemen because the pay for a costumed character was not that great, which was a slight bummer with having kids to raise but at least I have something fairly realistic to look forward to in my old age.

***

Yes dear folks, since that day in the hot tub I have a deep seated ambition to retire, move to Orlando, and walk around one of the huge Disney theme parks and be Goofy. My very supportive spouse assures me it is the one position in life that I am exceptionally qualified for without any formal training.

The Dummy

2011-07-30T13:26:00.007-04:00

Early in March of 1990 Specialist Chuck McKenzie arrived at Fort Carson, Colorado with a group of other soldiers returning stateside after spending a year stationed in South Korea. For those of us already assigned to Alpha Battery of the 1st Battalion, 3rd Air Defense Battalion our first impressions of him were underwhelming to say the least. Unfortunately, after being assigned to my Stinger platoon my cohorts and me soon learned our first appraisal of the short and obnoxious dude was a gross underestimate of his true nature.

Right from the start it was obvious McKenzie was a supreme kiss ass looking to score as many brownie points as possible with any officer or senior noncommissioned officer that made the mistake of talking with him for more than twenty-seconds. Believe it or not kissing ass is actually an underappreciated form of art and McKenzie was so blatantly bad at it, he quickly became a joke to most of the leadership in the battalion. Whenever he appeared with his customary greasy smile after a few minutes of tolerating his latest ravings, he would be dismissed and become the butt of several minutes worth of bad jokes.

If that was McKenzie’s only fault the rest of my platoon would have quickly forced him to adapt to a more proper form of behavior, but after realizing he failed at brown-nosing the decent officers, he took a different tact and became a snitch to those in the battalion leadership like him. Holding the junior enlisted rank of specialist, a non-leadership position between a Private First Class and Sergeant, he never the less had some influence with the privates under him and he used it to the fullest by squealing on them whenever he spotted the smallest infraction.

At that point in time I held the rank of corporal, the same pay grade as specialist but it is a noncommissioned officer rank and has more weight, so McKenzie was of little concern to me. In fact, right from the start both McKenzie and I knew instinctively we disliked each other and because of my leadership rank and size he made a point of avoiding me. Which was fine with me, my enlistment would be over in July of that year and I planned on leaving the army, going home, and attending college. McKenzie on the other hand had dreams of becoming Command Sergeant Major of the Army, the highest enlisted rank possible, and bored everyone to the point of suicide talking about what he would do when he held so much power and prestige.

As much as I did not give a damn about him and liked the fact I could ignore his ass, sadly when you are in the same platoon with someone you eventually have to interact with them no matter how much of an ignorant twit they can be. That day came when I was in the battery offices on business and was snagged by the First Sergeant and ordered to give McKenzie a ride home because his own car had broken down. When the top enlisted dog in your unit tells you to jump, you immediately jump right then and hope to God you go as high and fast as he wants.

After McKenzie took his sweet damn time getting his gear together we loaded up in my car and headed off post with me hoping the twit lived nearby. He did not, but while on the long drive out in the boonies, I made a remarkable discovery.

The South is heavily blamed for its overabundance of ignorant rednecks, while many rednecks seemly do talk with a southern drawl during my forced company with McKenzie I discovered that there is such a thing as a Yankee redneck. As we attempted to carry on a conversation in my car, I learned he was from Indiana and that his hometown was South Bend. For exactly twenty minutes, I actually considered the possibility that McKenzie was not such a bad guy as he told me great things about the place he grew up. McKenzie was even polite enough to act like he was listening when I started describing my hometown of Georgetown, South Carolina. The problem came when out of the blue he asked me if southerners had indoor plumbing now or did we still go to the bathroom in things like outhouses.

I realize I have tons of faults and that I am ignorant of many things but the utter stupid nature of his question was so mind blowing that I was stunned for several second when I realized he was seriously asking. Top it all off when I assured him that the vast majority of southerners not only had indoor plumbing but such a thing as water heaters he looked dubious. Even worse when the conversation drifted over to other members of our platoon when McKenzie asked me about one of my friends, Jody Vaught, I explained that Jody would be soon leaving the army to return to college so he could become a psychologist. Somehow, McKenzie confused “psychologist” for “psychic” leaving me to explain for the last segment of my torture of driving him home the difference between the two. My relationship with McKenzie only went downhill from there.

By then I had no desire as I once did to pursue the army as a career and had long given up trying to achieve higher rank. I have no idea how they may do it now but back in the late 80’s the active army had a points system for awarding rank starting at sergeant and higher. Despite it all and like some lame April Fools ’ Day joke I somehow had enough points and found myself on the promotion list the first day of that month. Sadly, for McKenzie despite all his ass kissing and pronunciations of his imminent advancement from the day he arrived at Fort Carson he was not. The day they pinned the sergeants stripes (E-5) on my collar I could see his skin tone was a bright puke-pea green and that our casual dislike had blossomed into a fine growing hate. It was the fact that after only six months on the list I made sergeant while McKenzie was on it for close to two years had a lot to do with it.

The very next month McKenzie made sergeant (E-5) and word quickly got back to me that in a fit of supreme and unjustified arrogance he declared that I was one of the people in the Stinger Platoon he was going to see do an actual day’s work. Like the heat seeking Stinger missile I was trained to fire, I searched out that bastard and with him pushed up against a storage container I informed him I had him on time in grade, meaning I still slightly outranked him, and that he could kiss my short timer ass. The little weasel then ran off to our platoon sergeant who informed him just to leave me alone. McKenzie’s overblown idea of superiority did get the best of himself before I left earning him the award of the biggest fool of record.

Late in May my air defense battalion had our annual live fire exercise where we wasted a couple of million dollars in taxpayer funds launching what amounted to thirty-foot bottle rockets that we shot down with live Stinger missiles. It was great training and second only to skydiving as having as much fun possible with your clothes on. The results afterward were several brushfires downrange that threatened to explode into full-fledged uncontrolled wildfires. My platoon sergeant was in charge of range control during that exercise and formed up six teams with the new sergeants like McKenzie and myself in charge and after putting us in humvees sent us off to fight the fires.

Several hours later, all six teams had returned but there were only five vehicles back at the firing point. Sometime while the teams were fighting the fires, McKenzie sent half of his people to help another sergeant then for some reason a little later parked his humvee and with the other half of his team got on another sergeant’s vehicle leaving his behind. In the process, he forgot where he parked his humvee. Making matter worse after a couple of hours of searching the sun had set behind the nearby mountains and it was pitch black night with no moon in the sky offering up any pale illumination.

McKenzie by his actions had long since made his bed with the other members of the platoon and we all ragged him senseless over loosing an object as freaking large as a damn humvee. It took hours of driving around and looking but sometime a little after midnight someone in one of the remaining five vehicles spotted the missing humvee behind a cluster of bushes.

For McKenzie this was just slight bump in the road to further ass kissing and glory, within days he had forgotten the incident and after a while, even the other members of the platoon stopped messing with him over the issue even though his misplacement of a humvee became something of a legend in the battalion. Now my relationship with the twit stayed the same, we hated each other for different reasons but because of army protocol had to be civil and at least respect the rank we both held. That still did not prevent us from messing with each other covertly.

As my last day in the United States Army rapidly approached, I started receiving good-natured razing from everyone in the unit in an attempt to get me to reenlist. Feeling what was then an unusual need to twist the proverbial knife in McKenzie one last time I went out an acquired a twenty-foot length of thin nylon cord, somehow the evil little demon in my head said it was certain to bring down the house.

Soldiers and Marines carry a bunch of small pieces of equipment like compasses, extra ammo, a side arm, canteen, and back in my day a codebook containing radio frequencies that allowed a person to access the communications network. We kept it all close by storing it on something called our LBE, or Load Bearing Equipment, which was a belt connected to a harness that came over our shoulders. Since the codebook, sidearm, and compass were vital items that needed to be secured at all times they were often attached to something called a “dummy cord,” a length of thin nylon cord that was secured to the equipment on one end and the LBE a soldier wears on the other.

Like one of those strange events where the planets and stars have to properly align along with the moon being a deep blue both the battalion commander and the battalion sergeant major showed the day I got McKenzie for the last time. It was late afternoon, close to end of the day and my entire platoon were just hanging around the motor pool waiting for final formation. The battalion commander was talking with me about the huge reenlistment bonus I could receive for another four years commitment. Feeling left out McKenzie decided to chime in about how much I would be missed the resulting sarcasm apparent to everyone. Remembering the cord was nearby I quickly grabbed it telling everyone I had a going away present for McKenzie and the rest of the platoon.

Strangely enough, McKenzie truly looked puzzled as I handed him the twenty-foot piece of nylon cord but everyone else was as silent as the dead. “What’s this for?” he asked dumbfounded.

“Sergeant McKenzie,” I said as formally as possible, “this dummy cord is a token of our friendship and it is for you to attach to your vehicle so you never have to go look for your humvee in the middle of the night ever again.”

For a few seconds the silence hung in the air like a lead weight being dropped, when the laughter hit every member of the platoon, the platoon sergeant, and battalion commander had tears rolling down their eyes. The battalion sergeant major was laughing so hard he was hunched over the hood of a humvee trying to catch his breath.

McKenzie’s face turned a deep shade of red with him turning completely around looking at everyone while trying to figure out what to do. Eventually he stormed off and surprisingly gave me a gift in return, for the three weeks that remained of my enlistment he stayed completely out of my sight.

Massive Summer Suckage

2011-07-26T21:25:00.003-04:00

This summer has entered the realm of massive and unprecedented suckage. The unrelenting heat and near constant demands on my time trying to maintain the putrid remains of what mindless drones still call the "American Dream" is close to shredding what few active synaptic connections I have in my brain. I've had only one trip to the beach and my current schedule makes it improbable that I will make it again before Labor Day. Boys and girls, I ain't called "Beach Bum" just because I'm a handsome fool on a surfboard, my mental health is very dependent on burying my feet in warm sand while smelling the salty ocean air and seeing the waves crash on shore.

Throw in the Nero-like idiots up in Washington fiddling while the country burns and I have to wonder about the old adage that says God looks after fools and the United States of America. Given what is going on and that the republicans are attempting to piss on us all and claim its rain maybe the big guy has decided we ain't worth the hassle anymore. Please forgive the following video, it is my attempt to restore some jovial balance to the damaged grey matter between my ears. Plus, I like the dancing crabs.

Accidental Backwoods Road Trip

2011-07-22T09:19:00.008-04:00

Every person on God’s green Earth forgets and misplaces things at times so please understand I am not trying to act like a jerk on purpose blissfully living in the proverbial glass house unconcerned about hypothetical stones being cast my way. This is just a recounting of past events and the uncomfortable situation I found myself several years ago while being sent to reclaim Dragonwife’s, my spouse, ATM card from the people who found it after she left it in the bank ATM machine.

Somehow this became an inadvertent and unwanted quest for me which started on a Friday in the middle of spring with the hero, yours truly, going about his daily business at peace with himself and content with the world. Truthfully, if I remember correctly I believe I was doing yard work that particular morning cussing up a storm about serfdom and asshole neighbors but you all have heard that stuff before so just go with the crap I wrote about peace and contentment.

Whatever the case when I finally came back inside I remember the answering machine chirping indicating that while I was hard at work my wife found the time to call me. Given her tendencies, such calls usually meant she had remembered another thing for the Honey-do-list so understand I was indifferent at best about listening to her message. Since the list was long enough already, I decided to ignore the call and claim I did not hear the answering machine when she asked about it later that evening. At the time of this incident, I was working third-shift and without going into a deep explanation of my work hours my weekend had already started and I did not want to spend any more of it working in the yard.

That plan came apart thirty minutes later when the phone rang again and while I let the answering machine take it, I could hear my wife as the machine recorded what she said. “Ron,” she whispered in panic, “I lost my ATM card someplace, look around the house and see if you can find it. Just call me as soon as you get this message, I may need to cancel it.”

Well that presented quite the conundrum, my plans after I cleaned up involved going to the movies then sipping a cold one at a nearby bar but visions of some slimy villain skipping through town with my wife’s ATM card buying anything he wanted seemed to suggest I should reconsider. Truthfully, given my strange luck I figure there was a real possibility I could end up sitting on my favorite barstool after the movie talking baseball scores with the very person who found her card and was buying beers with it. Much to my chagrin, I called my wife back and after conferring with her began looking for ATM card but came up empty.

After turning the house upside down, I called Dragonwife to inform her she needed to move with all haste and cancel her hopelessly missing ATM card. After that, I figured the situation was solved, the card was now cancelled and would be rejected if anyone tried to use the thing. In about a week she would have a bright and shiny new bankcard and I was sure she would rush out to use the minute the nondescript envelope it was sealed in arrived in the mail. If I had any concerns it was that a week without a frivolous purchase of any kind might result in such pent up anxiety she might melt the new card the day she received it. Dear Lord in Heaven I wish that was the case because a completely new can of worms opened up the next morning.

During this period in the lives of my family Saturdays were even more laid back than now. Darth Spoilboy’s best friend lived next door and the two would be out and about as soon as the sun popped over the horizon. Darth Wiggles was a toddler and she and I would spend a good portion of the morning watching SpongeBob Squarepants before going off to the zoo or state museum. Dragonwife would pursue her favorite habit of reorganizing a closet that absolutely did not need it.

Later that afternoon would have us all going out for lunch then spend a couple of hours at the local mega-book store. All things considered, it was a pretty sedate and comfortable suburban life and if we had not answered the phone that morning it would have stayed that way.

Around nine o’clock the phone rang and since that usually meant it was my mother-in-law calling I let Dragonwife answer it. While it will surprise a few I really like my mom-in-law, I find her a fairly rational person to talk with except on the days when she gets this strange urge to turn every statement I make into some question with psychoanalytic overtones. For example you cannot believe the frustration level involved one time when I had to slowly explain to her once why I was going to the beach one cold February weekend. Somehow, the fact that I have family on the coast, had the free time and money, and simply love the solitude of having the beach and the ocean largely to myself did not compute to her.

So, as the phone rang that Saturday morning I felt this surreal psychic foreboding connected with it and figured my wife should answer it. That is the problem with psychic warnings, you can never figure out when they are counter-intuitive. Had I answered the phone I would graciously thanked the person calling and then promptly forgot to tell my wife that someone had found her now cancelled ATM card.

Just a few minutes went by when Dragonwife entered the living room explaining the situation and that she was sending me to go pick the card up in a couple of hours. Now for anyone wondering how in the world they found our phone number you have to understand Dragonwife being an attorney kept her maiden name when we were married and her last name is rather unique and alone in the local phone book. Still I was rather puzzled why I was volunteered to go after the defunct card.

“Tell me again why I have to go for your bank card?” I asked while eating the wilted remains of my daughter’s frosted flakes and drinking what was left of the chocolate milk from her sippy cup.

Dragonwife rolled her eyes and I got one of those looks that signified she was again wondering how she had ever hooked up with such an uncouth barbarian with absolutely no manners. “Because they were nice enough to remove my card from the machine and look up our phone number so they could return it to me.” She said now taking on this stern look that I am sure people like Stalin used whenever they are about to make someone disappear. Since I had an inkling that I might get laid that night I quickly capitulated and got ready to leave. Had I looked at the slip of paper with the directions to where I was going sex be damned I never would have left the house.

In less than thirty minutes after leaving my neighborhood, I departed the comfortable and dignified world of middle class suburbia with its ornate McMansions and perfunctory American flags calmly flapping in the breeze and entered the world of rednecks with cluttered trailer parks and Confederate flags snapping arrogantly in the wind. Now this did not bother me at first, I get along well with most rednecks and in fact, I am a bit of a celebrity among some of them because when I practice a little I can shoot a fly in the left butt cheek while chewing on a piece of venison jerky. What can I say? They seem to enjoy talking with a liberal that owns weapons and does not shy away from good deer meat. No, what bothered me as I continued my journey was that I was quickly leaving the province of roughhewn but decent country folks and moving into dangerous territory.

The area I was nervously entering sends students to a local high school where one of my best friends teaches and I could not help but remember a little story he told me once. My friend “Pete” is a decent guy who bends over backwards to help his students and be available to their parents if they have any questions or requests. This won him the respect of the people in that area even although he is originally from far out of state making him a "foreigner" in their eyes. Over beers one night he told me a story about how the grandmother of one of his best students, who at the time was suffering health issues, invited him to a fund raising benefit being held for her grandchild by one of the local civic organizations.

Pete was seriously considering going until this delightful little old lady mentioned offhand the name of organization sponsoring the benefit. To avoid name-calling let us just say that this group really likes it when white sheets go on sale. Making matters worse my friend Pete while not having an ethnically obvious name is Jewish so as diplomatically as possible he had to turn down the gracious offer by the old lady.

With this in mind I followed the next step in the directions and turned off onto a dirt road then a few miles later turned off on another dirt road that was actually more a path if you wanted to get technical. It was at this moment that scenes from the movie “Deliverance” began running through my mind. Questions abound as to why I did not say screw it and turn around and go home, all I can say is that I am stupid and figured my wife was going to owe me so big she was going to have to break out the cherry flavored joy jelly that evening once the kids were asleep. Before long the trailer that marked my finally destination appeared and after that it was too late.

The trailer and it’s outlying buildings had a very rustic nature that would have fit well in either a Great Depression or post-apocalyptic movie. It was nice to know that the residents were politically active given the number of bumper stickers on the array of broken down cars that were scattered about, the mildest being one questioning what species other than humans liberals prefer for sexual relations.

Beginning to feel bold for some insane reason, I grabbed the small wrapped present that contained a thank you gift from my wife before getting out of the car and walking up to the front door. The first person to come out was my worst nightmare, a young guy about my size but who looked as unbalanced as a hungry Hannibal Lecter. The person after that was an older lady who I guessed was his mother.

After going through the required chitchat with the lady she handed me my wife’s defunct ATM card and I gave her the small present. After five minutes of idle conversation with his mom the big guy had stayed eerily silent, this was really bothering me to the point I was wishing I had brought my pistol. Now the mom was nice but was ripping through my wife’s excessive gift wrapping on the present just like a five year-old on Christmas day.

You really can’t judge people at first sight because as soon as the lady pulled the scented candle out of the box her pleasant nature evaporated like a snow cone in the Mojave Desert on a summer day. “What the Hell is this shit.” She said with the best look of sudden disgust I had ever seen on a person.

Oh crap, I thought, I figured big guy was going to get all belligerent since I had pissed off his mom and would make me the evening meal for the nice sized sow and her piglets I now saw in a pen behind the trailer. However, like I said you can’t judge people, the big guy broke out into a huge smile and snatched the present from his mom. “Now this is precious, I smell lilac.” He said taking a sniff of the yellow candle now pressed up against his nose.

The big guy began thanking me intensely and inviting me to stay for dinner, which I turn down. Being as gracious as possible, I said my goodbyes and raced to my car to get the Hell out of Dodge before everything went to shit. Once in the car I turned it around and noticed the mom was still standing outside giving me dirty looks but her son was nowhere to be seen. Right before driving away I noticed the rainbow flag bumper sticker attached to one of the newer cars on the property and almost drove into a tree laughing at my own sheer stupidity and preconceived notions.

A fitting postscript to this rambling but very true story would be that Dragonwife never again drove off leaving her ATM card in the automatic teller. However, to keep the story factual I cannot write that, just a few weeks later she came home in a fluster looking for the card that was the replacement to the one she sent me out to retrieve. Luckily, this time no backwoods Samaritan called to say they found it, at least that is the story I told my wife.

Flash Fiction Friday (Cycle 40) Visions of who I did not want to be

2011-07-18T09:48:00.011-04:00

Flash Fiction Friday Prompt: Use the photo for inspiration.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1000 words

The New York Subway system is an unforgiving place and if you are smart, you quickly adapt to its way of life. I came to the city six years ago and learned the ropes by riding the system in the early morning hours from my apartment in Flatbush to my job at an accounting firm in Upper Manhattan. The basic rules were simple, never make eye contact with anyone and ignore everything that goes on around you unless your life is in danger. If it is someone else’s life being threatened then it then becomes a judgment call but I have been told several times by cynical native New Yorkers even then its best to look the other way. It went against everything I was raised to believe but like everyone else, I soon realized getting involved brought more problems than it was worth.

After a promotion I moved to Jamaica Estates in Queens and began my established routine even earlier, which had the benefit of me riding the trains before they became unbearably crowded. Each morning I saw the same small group of people at the station reading the morning paper or working on their laptops as we waited for our ride. When the train arrived and the doors slide open like programmed ants we would invariably spread ourselves as far apart as possible staying locked up in our own little worlds. I either ignored those around me by transporting myself to some faraway and isolated land where angry ocean waves crashed upon rocky shores or by working on one of my novels I was writing that I hoped would make me famous and do the same thing.

I easily adjusted to the new route and in some subconscious way felt I was accepted by those around me even though we never looked directly at each other. We were all quite the featureless professional bunch, nicely dressed in some sort of business attire, each carrying some form of briefcase and maybe if the weather was bad, a matching trench coat.

Some part of me hated this existence, the money I was making was great but I felt as if my soul was slowly being corrupted. Feeling an ill-defined hopelessness, I figured this would be my life unless something drastically changed. Another promotion resulting in a transfer could be that that change, although improbable, or by actually getting one of my books published with it making the bestseller list would work as well, although that was a joke for several reasons. Change did soon come and as usual it came from an entirely unexpected and nearly unbelievable direction in the form of a grubby old man.

It was a spring morning when he first appeared. He was small in stature with a baldhead and long white beard he never the less had intense eyes that marked him either absolutely crazy or very smart. His clothes at best were tattered consisting of dirty sneakers, baggy brown pants, and a faded t-shirt with the word "Navy" written on the front. He contrasted sharply with us well-dressed riders preparing ourselves for the onslaught of another day being good, productive citizens racing against the clock to constantly beat some arbitrary deadline only to have another replace it.

For my fellow rider and me his appearance was so sudden that we all committed the gravest of sins by looking him directly in the eye. Callously indifferent to the stares he was receiving; the old man took a seat and gazed right back with disdain.

While his sudden appearance that first day was a surprise, the problem he brought came from him disrupting the neatly crafted territories that separated the people on the subway car. Usually we all had an empty seat on either side of us, just enough to allow everyone an illusion of personal space but the old man threw that out of whack forcing someone to move which caused a ripple effect throughout the car. No matter what though, by disgruntled wordless acclamation the accepted orthodoxy had to be maintained forcing each member of the commuter collective to move whenever the old man boarded.

Months passed and despite it all the old man became an unwanted fixture daily taking a different seat in the train forcing yet another wave of movement as people adjusted their personal spaces. Somehow, I was immune to the irritation he caused choosing to return to my imaginary storm tossed coastline or again dreaming about being a bestselling author after I my turn came to adjust seats.

The change the old man brought to my life occurred one morning when I got off the train far earlier than usual. I had an appointment of the east side of Manhattan and in the rush to get off in time I left my briefcase on the subway containing not only work related files but one of my novels on a flashdrive. Realizing this I turned around in time to see the train speeding away with just about all my hopes with it.

Fortunately, the accounting paperwork could be easily restored but the version of my novel on the flashdrive was nearly irreplaceable and it would take months at least to bring an earlier version up to the same level. Waiting in the subway station for the return home that afternoon I was almost despondent until the old man plopped down beside me on the bench I was sitting then handed me my briefcase saying the words that I needed hearing.

“Listen son,” he began, “you don’t know me from Adam’s housecat but I was very much like you once. I played the game everyone told me I should participate in while deep down I knew none of it was right for me. I hated it and over the years it ate me alive, by the time I couldn’t take it anymore I was responsible for a wife and two kids. So, I started playing fast and loose with my job and family trying to cope and lost it all. I’ve watched you for months and you are not like those mindless drones, just look at me as what your future could be and run as fast and as far away as possible and find something you love to do.” Right as he finished he handed me my flashdrive with a huge smile on his face.

Completely stunned by his words and feeling I was indeed seeing the person I could become I thanked the old man and ran away from it all despite the stunned disbelief of many. Will it pay off? I have no idea but I now happily watch the wave’s crash ashore on the coast of Maine awaiting some answer.

(Author's note: Okay I have no idea if this story works, but I wanted to do something without gun play, detectives, starships, aliens, or hinting of the great and awesome Jimmy Buffett. Comments are very much welcome, so tear it a new one.)

Looking in the face of madness

2011-07-13T10:01:00.005-04:00

Despite the surreal dance of death being performed by the Republican Party over the distraught body of our Union I have found it hard to find my voice and comment on the situation. Hell I'll be up front and admit this shit makes no sense to me. It started after November 2008 as American politics descended into even darker regions of human conduct with barely coherent masses enraged over Obama’s clear electoral victory.

Even as John McCain was getting ready to give his traditional speech congratulating the new president-elect voices in his camp were already questioning Obama’s legitimacy. From charges of Kenyan birth certificates being hidden, allegations of secretly being a Muslim, to even shrill screams of him being the Antichrist by a few there has been an unbelievable level of irrational fear over one man who in any other circumstance would be held as the highest example of American success.

Far beyond the surreal fears of ignorant masses, what the expensively dressed elected officials from the once honorable party of Lincoln are doing goes beyond normal sycophant behavior and is devolving into a form of insanity. Listening to them on the news channels call for massive cuts in programs working and middle class Americans depend on while gnashing their teeth in panic over the mere mention of their rich benefactors having to share some of the burden is like watching an episode of the Twilight Zone.

Madness is one of the most curious afflictions that Humanity can suffer. On an individual level, it can be relatively easy to identify allowing someone detached from reality to receive some form of help. However, when madness starts affecting large groups it not only becomes easy to justify but also begins to grow exponentially like a virus. Strange rumors and half-truths become hard, unquestionable facts along with anyone outside the group who refuses to join and march lockstep in mindless agreement becoming the personification of utter evil.

It is my belief that much of the insanity that permeates our society today is based on an inability by a huge segment of Americans to come to grips that the all powerful United States of the 1950’s with its comforting absolutes is dead and gone. This is made worse by sniveling little fearmongers who are using this uncertainty for their own profit or for the simple fact they want to see the world and nation burn.

I would like to believe things would eventually get better as the ethnic and age demographics of the country changes to the point the close-minded and selfish people representing the older generations rooted in the twentieth-century passes into history but I have my doubts. From my own personal experiences, I have met many young people for whom hate has become engrained in their soul. Their fear of change is so deep that they live in a delusional mindset where even the most basic commonsense fact that goes against their worldview is not only discounted but is probably part of some grand conspiracy out to impose a terrible tyranny on them.

As the world moves on leaving these people further behind they will blame others even more for their increasingly untenable position and American politics will become even darker and my belief ultimately bloody.