United Possums International

The Office Pool

2012-01-04T20:16:00.004-05:00

I meant to put this up on New Year’s Eve, but it’s still early in the month, so we have the rest of the year to get our money down.

If I was still working in an office where real money changes hands based on the outcomes of sporting events, elections, and the imminent deaths of world leaders, this challenge might have more incentive. Alas! I’m squatting in a dusty, smoky corner room of a hilltop retreat, wearing thermal underwear and a tattered sweat suit, with no one to talk to but the dog at my feet and the possum peering in the window.

So, here’s the deal, if you want to play along at home. Imagine you’re handing me a $5.00 bill. We’re going to have an office pool. Pick a month—any month but February—of the coming year. (February’s my pick; I’m in on the action.) It costs $5.00 to play; you have 11-1 odds of winning, which is better than most state lotteries. We have twelve players, so you stand a chance of making a $55 dollar profit, plus your original investment.

What are we betting on? Something more easily understood than the point spread on the Super Bowl or the Iowa caucuses. Select the month you think Iran is going to invade Iraq and finish them off as a nation once and for all.

When World War III was playing out in slow motion from 1950-1990, “our” dictators like Somoza and So-damn Insane had strong armies. We saw to that, just as the old Soviet Union made sure that “their” dictators were nominally well-armed with Warsaw Pact junk. Saddam fought the Iranians to a draw for ten years. Things changed, allegiances shifted, and suddenly Saddam Hussein was on our hit list. We kicked his ass in Desert Storm, and no matter what you think of the cause-and-effect of the last war in Iraq, we finished the job and totally devastated their military potential.

Now that we’ve declared victory and unassed the area of operations—as we should’ve done in Vietnam—the hapless Iraqis are at the mercy of their next door neighbors. Geographically, they possess the finest oil fields on the planet, and that’s vital to a world that hasn’t developed electric cars and solar power to a viable degree. Politically, they’re as much of a mess as they were when the Western powers invented the nation of Iraq at the end of War I. The dissolution of Iraq as a nation, and the dispersal of their tribal factions, is just a matter of time.

Owing, in large part, to political correctness and environmental insanity, America and most of the collapsing European Union is dependent upon the oil that flows out of this region of the world. While the late Mr. bin Laden might have danced with joy in his cave when his thugs brought down the World Trade Center, cutting off America’s oil supply will do more to damage us and advance the cause of the worldwide Islamic caliphate than any tactical horrors involving airliners and skyscrapers. Like a financial neutron bomb, strangling the world’s oil supply will bring The Great Satans of America and Europe to a standstill, while leaving the machinery of capitalism and material production in place, as well as a huge slave labor force to be placed into dhimmitude and forced to provide for the righteous servants of Allah.

Oh? What’s that you’re saying? “It can’t happen here! This is extreme right-wing lunatic raving!”

Really? Then why is Iran bragging about rolling out their first nuclear fuel rods, field-testing ship-killing missiles, threatening to close the Strait of Hormuz where one-sixth of the world’s oil supply must pass, and strategically repositioning their navy? Is China refusing to back any useless “sanction initiatives” against Iran because the Chinese know where the bread’s buttered?

Why does Brainless Joe [Biden] suddenly come out and say “the Taliban are not our enemies”? Why is Jughead making noises about releasing some of the most vicious terrorists on the planet from Guantanamo Bay? (The latter is ostensibly to enhance “peace talks” in Afghanistan; I’m having nightmarish flashbacks of British PM Neville Chamberlain stepping off the plane in London, waving a sheet of paper signed by “Mr. Hitler” promising “peace in our time.” I think we all know how that turned out.)

When Tel Aviv disappears in a cloud of thermonuclear dust, and we don’t have enough oil to fuel the finest military machine in the history of mankind, what are we going to do about it?

Naw, I’m just a drunken, raving lunatic. It can’t happen here. Islam is a religion of peace. The Taliban are not our enemies. Barry O. not only promised “fundamental change” and prosperity for everyone, he’s promised to heal the planet and provide “social justice” for every swinging Richard in God’s creation.

Meanwhile, you can play the odds at home and pick the month you think Iran is going to roll into Iraq and start the party. The $55 you might win will be very useful when the world is involved in a thermonuclear war between barbarism and civilization. It might buy you a gallon of gas.

Jump into the office pool! It’ll be fun, entertaining, and provide some much-needed relief from those Kardashian reruns.

More from "The Social Network"

2011-12-13T16:38:00.003-05:00

I haven't posted in a month. Wow! I love my modest little blog!

I was only joking about being on strike; there were serious personal issues, including the death of a good friend, that precluded venting about peripheral events. I was offline for a week, and found 160 messages in my inbox when I finally checked e-mail last night. (I think that's a record, but I don't keep count.)

So, I wandered over to FaceBook last night, found the following comments, and replied. Just as provocative e-mail provides the impetus for many of my rants, I'm finding that silly statements in the little closed political group I participate in do likewise. This one wound my watch, and I got carried away with a simple reply:

Understanding The History And Purpose Of FOX News
www.addictinginfo.org
"You’d think a thing like FOX couldn’t happen in the United States. Although they’re free to be crazy and free to support the Republican Party, you’d think Americans would be too smart to fall for the made-up outrages, dishonest reporting and relentless appeal to our meaner nature. Unfortunately, man...

It's garbage in garbage out. When MSNBC is told how to act they just ignore talking about something. Faux changes the story and twists the facts, quite often just completely lying about it. They are not even close to news, they are the media arm of the Right, and therefore my sworn enemy."

I could get 3 blog posts of 2500 words apiece on the Rolling Stone hatchet job about the "Fox Fear Factory." Since college degrees are so highly esteemed by Those People, I have a Bachelor's in Journalism [pre-Watergate old-school, factual stuff], and Dickinson's garbage in RS 1132 (9 June 11; Lady Gaga on the cover) is typical of the "I want to change the world" idiocy that's infused the journalistic mentality since Woodward & Bernstein. If I want to cite FOX as a source, I'll fact-check and cross-reference their reportage. I've never caught them in a lie on straight news coverage.

As for FOX commentary, of course they have an agenda. It's the grand perk of owning your own news outlet. The only "UPI" I work for any longer is United Possums International; as the sole proprietor, chief editor, and bottle-washer, I can say whatever I want. I bow to no king, and bend my knee only to God, so if I see something as bullshit, I'm free to say so. These days, I'm drowning in bullshit, and not just from Those People, although they have it refined to an art form.

I thought my eyes were gonna roll irretrieveably yesterday when Whoopi Goldberg started capping on Mr. Newt on "The View" about an alleged statement he made concerning education and "...making kids work as janitors instead of becoming pimps and whores..." (Ya, I'm eclectic about my media inputs, even though I refuse to watch "The View" when there's an outbreak of swine flu.) Whoopi tried a "gotcha" question on Donald Trump later on in the same show, fishing for a comment about Newt's alleged statement. When The Donald said he hadn't seen it, and wasn't aware of it, Whoopi's producers should have had the videotape keyed up and ready to go, so she could've said "Watch this!" With the research staff of a Big Three network at her beck and call, there's no reason she should be "reading" off a 3X5 card and calling it a fact.

This is what's wrong with Dickinson's "Fear Factory" analysis of FOX News. He makes a lot of bold assertions in his paid-by-the-word article, but there isn't a single footnote or citation to back up anything. That's tantamount to Barry O telling "60 Minutes" that "most Republicans" agree with him about raising taxes and soaking the rich. Most Republicans agree that Barry O's got to go, and like me, they'll vote for the mangiest yellow dog before they give Jughead another four years of failed Socialist bullshit.

Braggin' rights (Out of the closet)

2011-11-14T03:24:00.001-05:00

Having gotten my hot little hands on the recently released DVD of Atlas Shrugged, I’ve been tripping on it like a junkie in a police evidence room. I came to a drastic realization the other day: I’m not in hibernation mode, or suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s because I haven’t blogged in over a month. I’m on strike.

Although my intellectual contributions to the cacophony of civilization don’t split enough atoms to light a 40 watt bulb, I’m so tired of the BS coming from both sides of the political spectrum, and so freaked out by the general insanity engulfing everything else, I’ve begun withholding my two cents’ worth of commentary. A PBS documentary about the late, great Steve Jobs led to a long discussion with Ms. Possum, wherein I babbled something semi-profound about feeling a compulsion to inspire others to think, examine their premises, and question the motives of those who, in Jobs’s words, “tell you the world is a certain way, like a box, and that you should live comfortably within that box.” I also acknowledged that I’m somewhat exhausted by the struggle. I likened trying to talk sense to liberals to trying to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig.

Nevertheless, the urge to speak out is like the insatiable thirst of an alcoholic, so earlier this month I wrote a letter to the editor of our local weekly community-booster-rag, i.e., what passes for the local newspaper. The letter was over the stated word-count limit for submissions, and a bit too erudite for the usual bitching and moaning of the op-ed page, so there was no real optimism that it would get beyond giving the editor a chuckle before he deleted it from his e-mail and got back to the important business of making our county commissioner look good.

So, imagine my surprise when I opened up last week’s edition of the North Georgia News and found my letter at the top of the “Letters to the Editor” column. Ol’ Norm printed it word-for-word, and gave me the lead on the jump-page.

Our weekly rag also has a “Viewpoints” column on the op-ed page, where terse anonymous comments—often humorous or sarcastic—are printed. Since I was already signed onto the newspaper’s website, I tossed off a wise-ass crack about starting my own “Occupy Wherever” movement. As if seeing my letter published as #1 on the hit parade wasn’t enough of a shock, I was floored that my off-the-cuff joke led the “Viewpoints” column.

Our little weekly is widely read in the area, since it’s—mostly—free; one of those rags that relies on advertising and large quantities of coupon and super-saver inserts. I guess I’m out of the closet now; my neighbors and an unknown quantity of hillbillies are aware that there is an unabashed Libertarian living quietly in their midst. I shudder to think of what the local tax commissioner thought when he read my letter; I have some problems with back taxes, and as you will see, what follows here was not exactly complimentary to the issue.

Still, I had bragging rights for a week, and my head inflated like a helium balloon with a big, stupid Happy Face printed on it. I’m just glad my phone number is unlisted. I didn’t want any annoyed pigs calling at 0300, taking me to task for singing on key and advising them to follow suit. What follows is the full content of the letter, and my throw-away remark, as printed in the North Georgia News, 9 November 2011 print edition, page 6A. It’s nothing you haven’t read here in the past, only more succinct:

The recent editorial by Norm Cooper about “Does Anybody Really ‘Own’ Property” was a spot-on, bold declaration of fact. A “View Points” commenter attempted to draw a moral equivalency between the US and Russia and Cuba with a rhetorical question to the effect of “it can’t happen here!”

In fact, governmental appropriation of private property has been taking place in America for the past six years. See: Kelo v. City of New London, 545 U.S. 469 (2005). In that case, the Supreme Court ruled that under the law of eminent domain, a local government may seize the privately owned property of anyone, and turn it over to a private developer for “the greater good of the community.” There is an upcoming referendum in Mississippi to pass a law specifically prohibiting this kind of governmental fiat within that state. Mr. Cooper’s point, and the fact is, that it can happen here.

Taxes are taken from you at the point of a gun. If you think this is melodramatic, write a letter to the IRS and tell them you aren’t paying this year, because you disapprove of the way they spend your money. When the Men in Black show up at your door, tell them to go away, and slam the door in their faces. They’ll be back with a SWAT team, and burn you down like the Branch Davidians in Waco or shoot you like Randy Weaver’s wife on Ruby Ridge. Once you’re dead or in federal prison for the next forty years, they’ll confiscate everything you own.

Governments normally don’t have to be that dramatic, though. If you own the crest of one of our local hills, and a governmental star chamber decides your property would contribute more revenue to the local tax base if there was a nice lodge and restaurant located there, they are within the law of eminent domain to seize your property with minimal compensation, bulldoze your dream home, and turn your property over to a developer.

Those who would believe that “it can’t happen here” simply because this is America are in for a rude awakening. For the past thirty years, we’ve sacrificed freedom for security, and obtained neither. A government powerful enough to give you anything you want is powerful enough to take everything you have.

(My full name)

And then there was my sarcastic comment:

I tried to start an “Occupy Blairsville” movement last week. I Tweeted and FaceBooked for a flash mob, then went and sat around on the square for a few hours. About sunset, when it got cold, and nobody showed up, I got hungry and went home. Take that, you evil, greedy capitalists!

I once asked a pioneering journalist—Celestine Sibley—how I might gauge the effect of my writing on others. She laughed and said that the best measure of thoughtful outreach is the amount of hate mail one receives in response. She pointed out that the writers might vehemently disagree with you, to the degree that they’ll respond with hateful rhetoric, ad hominem attacks, and even overt threats, but the fact that they do so indicates they read what was written, and there’s always the offhand chance that they paused to think about what was said.

That’s always been good enough for me. This week’s “Viewpoints” column, with its anonymous responses, will tell the tale.

Fools on a fool's errand...

2011-10-10T17:28:00.000-05:00

Something I said in Flaming Politics on FaceBook™, in response to a posted photo of Wall Street types sitting on a balcony watching the protesters while drinking champagne and laughing their asses off:

I'm quite well aware that there are any number of reactionary right-wingers out there who make stuff up to amuse themselves or vent whatever mindless vitriol they have stored up. Were they quoted or linked here, I would chide whoever did so with the same remark, more or less, that I made about your citing Daily Kos. I don't cite or link to right-wingers any more than I do the left. I prefer the animal instincts of my own shallow intellect to trusting the opinions of others, although I try to keep an open mind and respect their right to babble nonsense. Occasionally one finds a diamond half-buried in horseshit.

As for the champagne drinkers, I'm taking it on faith that it was real—not staged by ACORN temps acting as Democrat dirty-tricksters—and a brilliant piece of street theatre. In my wildest LSD throes, I could not have come up with a better way to mock a gaggle of loons littering the financial center of the world with their bumper-sticker mentality and the detritus of their grungy non-lives. Watching some real news coverage of this non-event, I was struck by one thing: at least when the Tea Party holds a rally, they leave the area cleaner than when they arrived. How much are the taxpayers of NYC—the little people—going to have to pay for the city to clean up those crab-infested mattresses, illiterate cardboard signs, beer bottles and crack vials? Seeing a bunch of drunken transvestites, pale kids emerging from their parents' basements for the first time in months, and lost souls who are wishing the Grateful Dead would mystically appear and channel the [liberal] goddess Iwish convinces me there's something wrong with America, but probably not in the way they intend it.

And, assuming for one moment that these hopeless mopes could contact Iwish and reduce capitalism to rubble, what value system would they offer up to replace it? They can't even pick up their own litter after their be-in; how the hell are they going to gather shattered bricks like the Germans after War II and rebuild their world when it comes crashing down on top of them? They couldn't catch a squirrel in Central Park, much less skin it, gut it, build a fire, and cook it so they'd have something to eat. They're first cousins of those WTO protesters who smash the windows out of Mickey D's, then show up an hour later for a Big Mac and fries because the exercise made them hungry and they have no clue where sustenance comes from.

I'll stick with what Winston Churchill said: “The vice of capitalism is its uneven distribution of benefits; the virtue of socialism is its equal sharing of misery.”

There’s a lot more I want to say about the “occupiers”, but this pretty much sums it up. Instead of straight-up blogging here, I find myself getting too involved with “the social network” these days, and writing cryptic mini-essays in response to stuff other people throw out there. The first comment above was written on 2 October; then, on 4 October I responded to a response:

If sitting on a lice-infested mattress complaining that life hasn't dealt you a fair hand, and begging for a handout, is your idea of what life holds for you, may you have the unadorned pleasure of it being so.

I'll stick by my initial point; these are the idiots who smash out the windows of Mickey D's, then show up an hour later wanting a Big Mac and fries because the exercise made them hungry and they have no idea of where sustenance in any form derives from.

Conservatives define a problem, identify the cause, and reverse-engineer the cause/effect until they arrive at a solution. Liberals identify a problem, define a solution, and go hell-for-leather toward an academic end that disregards humanity and reality.

"WHAT DO WE WANT?" "Er...something." "WHEN DO WE WANT IT?" "Ah...some time before the bars close."

The essence of a revolution is offering up, and fighting for, and possibly dying for, a value system you believe to be a better alternative than the existing autocracy. I agree that money should be out of politics, lobbying should be reformed or banned, and Wall St. needs a good housecleaning, but a bunch of drunken, stoned, anarchistic mooks and brainwashed college grads too proud to flip burgers before occupying a corner office in one of those skyscrapers is not a "movement"; unless you want to liken it to a bowel movement. I can eat alphabet soup and offer up better solutions.

They ought to be in De Cesspool, demonstrating in front of the Federal Reserve palace, or on the front yard of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. Blocking the Brooklyn Bridge with Michael Moore's fat ass isn't going to change a damn thing. (And please don't try to tell me the cops "tricked" them into boarding the bridge. I'm also a veteran of Nam protests, so I have an inkling of mob mentality. What we have today is simply the mindless class warfare that Jughead is fomenting to bolster his failed policies and imploding re-election chances.)

Andy likes my rant!

2011-09-23T03:11:00.002-05:00

I composed this as a Facebook™ post regarding Warren Buffett’s hypocrisy and Jughead’s unabashed gamesmanship taking advantage of a senile old man for the desperate purposes of his re-election. It was originally posted on Flaming Politics in Facebook™, which is a closed group; a kind of boy’s club for political dilettantes. Since I’m lazy, and a couple of liberals liked it, I figured to throw it up against the wall here, and see if it sticks like properly cooked pasta.

Andrew, ol' Warren has already been double-dipped for taxes, and the cosmic, ethereal lives of the senile super-rich aren't the issue here.

My wife works for a community service agency--NOT ACORN! A real service agency--and every day I hear horror stories about old people having their power cut off, disabling their bronchial oxygen pumps, and young couples with babies crying in the food pantry because they never thought the promise of America would come to this.

I'm spending the balance of my life in a wheelchair, and my paltry disability pension hasn't gotten a COLA in two years. Cost Of Living Allowances are pegged to the Consumer Price Index [CPI], and the feds don't figure energy costs and food into the CPI. This year they didn't even bother to send me a form letter re-hashing the same BS they told me in '09. It's kind of like sex in your sleep; you're supposed to just roll over and take it. (I'm still blessed, because I can afford air-conditioning in the summer and a single tank of propane so the pipes don't freeze in the winter. My home nurse tells me about the client she sees after me on Tuesdays; the old lady can't afford to run her ceiling fans, because the EPA regulations on coal-fired TVA plants have priced electricity beyond the means of those who need it the most.)

I don't mind paying the local SPLOST tax on whatever I purchase in my county. I wouldn't mind paying a 7-10% federal sales tax [VAT], but I have one radical stipulation for my adherence. Abolish the IRS, and repeal the 16th Amendment. (Long time since college, but I think that's the income tax scam.)

Let everyone keep what they earn! I'm a simple man; people need stuff, and they'll buy their stuff from those that produce or manufacture it. If the government wants a piece of that action, I can roll with it. Them that produce stuff hire people, and that gives those hired people money with which they, too, can buy stuff. Even a high-school drop-out can figure this out...

Otherwise, every penny of tax revenue currently collected is either stolen from you by that FICA pickpocket, or it'll be taken from you by compulsion at the point of a gun. Think I'm being melodramatic? Try writing a letter to the IRS, informing them you ain't paying for Jughead's lame schemes any longer. The Men in Black will show up at your front door, and if you tell them to go to Hell and slam the door in their faces, they'll be back with a SWAT team and shoot you like Randy Weaver's family on Ruby Ridge, or burn you down like the Branch Davidians in Waco. (Hell, Eric Holder built his political career being the ramrod of the Waco Massacre.) Like the draft resisters of the '60s who got 5-10 years for the misdemeanor of burning their draft cards, activist tax resisters today receive an average of 40 years in federal prison for being proactive on the kind of sedition I'm preaching here. [I think the First Amendment is still in effect.] The government is more scared of a tax revolt than they are of a nuclear incident in NYC. If only 10% of the 315M Americans refused to pay their taxes--and 46% don't, at any rate--where are the feds going to put 3,000,000 new convicts?

The government has a tiger by the tail, which is why I have nothing but pessimism for the future. When Atlas shrugs and their world comes crashing down on the academic, theoretical schemes these mooks are pushing at gunpoint, it's going to be the little people like you and me who have to clear away the rubble. Parasites invariably kill their hosts. The goverment doesn't create jobs, it siphons wealth.

I'm actually glad I'm old enough that I'll outrun the worst of it.

Some clarifying back-and-forth

2011-08-30T22:40:00.002-05:00

This started with a comment reply I posted in a closed group on FaceBook. The thread had some very vicious back-and-forth about the displayed intelligence of Bobama versus the stereotyped perception of George W.’s smarts.

I jumped in with “Can you say corpseman?” regarding a thrice-repeated faux pas by Bobama, who is regarded as a “brilliant intellectual” by his acolytes, but apparently can’t read a teleprompter, or as Commander in Chief, doesn’t know how to pronounce “Marine Corps.” I ended with the following:

“Bobama has almost undone almost 50 years of anti-racist thinking that was counter-intuitive to my upbringing. When a casual conversation with a near-stranger the other day erupted into an amazing outpouring of invective about ‘this is what happens when you let niggers run something!’ all I could do was nod numbly. Al Gore said ‘we won that conversation,’ but watching a geezer older than me explode with rage left me speechless.

“Incompetence is not a racial attribute, and I ain’t playing that card, but hearing that diatribe in the moment left me unable to even shake my head in denial. Shortly thereafter, I realized that my reaction to those remarks about Bobama was a result of unraveling principles that I thought were ironclad. I couldn’t formulate a moderate response, because there is no middle ground left.

“Like a kid telling a dirty joke, I take some amusement away from somebody else’s observation that after Bobama leaves the White House, the only black people who will be allowed inside for the next hundred years will be the janitorial staff.”

I speak and write very cryptically at times, in the mistaken assumption that people are reading my mind, reading between the lines, and somehow mystically know what’s in my heart.

This time, I was out of my element. I was called a racist, and told that “generations need to die before racism becomes a thing of the past.” This was my reply:

“I can't deny who I am, or my upbringing during the worst days of the 1950s & '60s South. I can't deny my grandmother slapping my face for drinking out of the "colored" water fountain in City Hall and setting me to wondering about the status quo, any more than I can deny the black teammate who saved my life in Nam. I can't deny the War I veteran named Dozier who was a sharecropper on my grandparents' farm and taught me about horses and agriculture, nor can I deny hearing the grown-ups quietly saying "Dojah's a good nigger." I can't deny asking the only black girl in the Cherokee High School marching band to the homecoming sock hop, nor can I deny the vandalism to my car that we discovered when we left the dance. I can't deny the explosive hallway fight that erupted the following Monday when a redneck bully came on with taunts of "nigger lover!"

“If you're not old enough to have lived through these times, take my word for it; they tore people apart internally. Children knew there was something inherently wrong, but the adults behaved as though everything was perfectly normal; Ozzie & Harriet as it should be.

“I was raised to be a racist, hence my use of the words ‘counter-intuitive’ in the initial comment above. That defining slap at the water fountain at age 8 was the beginning of my judgment of right and wrong, and I knew the ‘colored’ sign was wrong for reasons I couldn't define as a child. ‘Rosie’ hauling me away from a regiment of NVA 14 years later was the apotheosis of that gut instinct. We called him ‘Rosie’ because he was a dead-ringer for Roosevelt Greer, who you might recall cradled a dying Bobby Kennedy's head that awful day.

“I've been called everything from ‘redneck’ to ‘white trash’ to ‘Grand Dragon,’ and as we say down here, it don't make no nevermind. I've also been called ‘nigger lover’ and ‘race traitor.’ That don't make no nevermind, neither. My three college degrees don't hang on walls in my house, but my membership certificate in Sons of Confederate Veterans does. My family never owned slaves, and were pioneers in instituting the sharecropper system in antebellum South Carolina, which was a dangerous stance to take at the time. I am a product of my upbringing, but no amount of familial or cultural indoctrination has ever affected my ability to think rationally.

“My family has fought in every war from the Revolution—with Francis Marion—through the Civil War with John S. Mosby—through the world wars and every ‘police action’ in between. My war wasn't much, but it was all we had; a nasty piece of work initiated by corrupt politicians for inscrutable ends. [Sound familiar?]

“When that geezer unloaded on Bobama recently, I flinched inwardly. I tried to rationalize that what he was spouting was just another way of expressing disgust with incompetence, idiocy, and hidebound ideology. Normally, I try to chill folks like that out, and change the subject. This time, I just nodded, and realized in the aftermath that my own principles of equality were becoming unraveled because of my personal loathing for the failure of leadership that this—coincidentally—black man has brought to the highest office of the country that generations of my ancestors fought and died for.

“As a Georgia native who refuses to be uprooted, I'll carry both the pride and ‘shame’ of my heritage. I refuse all guilt others may assign for either, and I think my ambivalence on racial issues has earned me the right to make a racial comment once in a while. As a culturally-indoctrinated racist, I saw some smirking humor in the comment about Bobama and the White House janitorial staff; as a rationally functioning human being, I also saw a wider truth in it. Whatever institutional racism still exists in America is going to blow back on every future black candidate who might present for the presidency, regardless of party affiliation or intellectual orientation. Failure is its own reward.”

The individual who called me “a racist” indicated he “liked” that remark. I take that to mean I made myself adequately understood about the fear and loathing I harbor for the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Racial politics aren’t in play here, but the worst failure of leadership in American history certainly is.

And, the social network is simply marvelous!

A fearless stand by a Fearless Leader

2011-08-25T22:53:00.003-05:00

Taking time off from his golfing holiday in Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts today, President Obama donned his “Rolling Plunder” campaign uniform and took a firm stance on the Atlantic beach, facing south where Hurricane Irene threatens the entire BosWash from DC to Manhattan.

“I simply will not allow this storm, caused by the failure of my predecessor to sign the Kyoto Protocols, to take place,” the Supreme Leader announced. “This is yet one more event of bad luck that threatens the economic recovery of our country, and I cannot allow this next step in the terrorist conspiracy of conservatism to take place. With the help of a few of my friends, I have a plan that will counter this reversal of fortune, and bring hope and change to America. The plan will be revealed shortly after Labor Day, when we celebrate the triumph of collectivist unions over the evil, greedy capitalist pigs who have too long monopolized the wealth and resources accumulated by generations of hard working and wisely investing Americans. This storm has the potential to create thousands of 'shovel-ready' jobs, and I'm prepared to halt that debacle in its tracks!”

Elaborating on the president’s remarks, White House Minister of Information Hellish Pelican added: “Our Supreme Leader will fight on the beach, in the air, and wherever else he needs to go to defeat this attempt to hold our greatest metropolises hostage to the whims of mere weather. He will not allow the terrorism of weather to threaten a single foreclosed home, unemployed proletarian, or restricted beach. One blast of his mighty breath will unleash a torrent of hot air great enough to unravel the wind-speed and reverse the direction of this oncoming storm. However, should events prove too stressful, we have the world's finest corporate jet standing by to transport him to safety at a moment's notice. His family will follow sometime thereafter.”

[United Possums International stands by for further updates on the progress of Hurricane Irene.]

The death of "The Manchurian Candidate"

2011-08-21T05:26:00.004-05:00

As long as I’m backpedaling on things I’ve said here, I may as well flirt with my “I told ya so!” moment regarding the current presidency. That exact moment when I’ll officially say it hasn’t arrived quite yet, but it’s drawing closer with every golfing vacation our Supreme Leader takes when crisis threatens.

I'm retracting everything I ever said about Bobama being some kind of sinister Muslim sleeper agent, or a Hitlerian megalomaniac. He doesn't have the chops to be either. He's a cheap "Huggy Bear" pimp wannabe who is so incompetent he couldn't seduce a 14-year-old runaway in a bus station. I will no longer refer to him as "The Manchurian Candidate," because the Muslims wouldn't have any use for anyone as inept as he is. He wouldn't know a conspiracy if it bit him in the ass; much less have the wherewithal to be a party to one. He is even more intractable than Hitler when it comes to hidebound ideology and idiotic ideas, and his grandiose notions are pretty much limited to flying around on the world's finest "corporate jet", indulging in rock-star “Rolling Plunder” bus tours—disguising campaign speeches on the taxpayer’s dime as empathetic photo-ops with “the little people”—and hanging out in “De Big House” with the rich white folks and the celebrities of the moment. He's a reality-TV star-in-the-making, with a record of achievement less than that of Ozzy Osbourne, Anna Nichole, or Snooki. He's "The Situation" without the six-pack abs. (I almost puked the other day when some party hack called him a "brilliant Constitutional scholar." If he ever read it in high school, his policies indicate a total lack of recall or a willful disregard that borders on impeachable conduct.)

I feel positively prescient these days. First, my obsession with "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" paid off, when I learned that Kathryn "Hurt Locker" Bigelow is directing some action/adventure propaganda flick that will open in October of next year, just before the election. So, we’ll all be reminded that Bobama did one presidential thing in four years; giving the okey-doke to trained professionals to kill the most loathed man of the 21st century. Then, last week, a stench started to arise when my speculation was confirmed that the Pakis let the Chinese reverse-engineer whatever was left of that stealthy Blackhawk helicopter SEAL Team 6 had to ditch at "the compound" where Osama bin Laden was allegedly killed. (I won’t believe it until I see a death photo; far as I’m concerned, he’s playing backgammon in Area 51 with Elvis and the Roswell aliens.) Now, some people are having a come-to-Jesus moment about Jughead’s birth certificate and what I told them; the CIA has the best forgers in the world. Convince me it was a coincidence that DCI Panetta got a bump upstairs almost the same day the mysterious "long-form" document miraculously appeared. Can you say "quid pro quo"?

Honest to God, I should rent a cheap storefront in town, buy a deck of Tarot cards, some bleached chicken bones with runes engraved on them, and start telling fortunes. As it is, I'm just a broken-down nobody who's turned into an online crackpot with wild predictions, crazy notions, and juvenile cynicism. But, even a blind pig finds an acorn once in a while. I'm not going to scan my i.d. cards into HAL-9000 and publish them online to establish bona fides, but if I tell you a frog can pull a boxcar, you only have to ask "How far?"

I retired in 2004, but the bizarre institutional intuition that carried me through 30 years of insubordinate hijinks hasn't stopped working.

There are plenty of rational, good-hearted people in this country who only desire the freedom to be left alone to make their own decisions about how best to live their lives. If asked directly whether they would prefer an authoritarian regime that dictates every aspect of their lives, or an un-intrusive government that provides minimal oversight for obvious predations, the overwhelming majority would vote for a government that—as we say in the South—hides and watches. As Gerald Ford said: “A government big enough to give you everything you want is big enough to take everything you have.” (He might’ve been somewhat clumsy, but he wasn’t so dumb after all, was he?)

What was it P.T. Barnum said about fooling some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time?

I said it when the bad pony I now call “Jughead” charged out of the gate in 2009: You—the people—have been hoodwinked. Does anyone still believe the rhetoric, empty promises, and childish blame-casting of the most failed president in American history?

(I keep hearing The Who echoing in what’s left of my mind: “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss,” and “We won’t get fooled again…”)

To be fair, we owe Bobama a small debt of gratitude. He is the catalyst for a second American revolution; one that is long overdue. He isn't the root or sole source of the problems that beset us today, but he is the culmination of one hundred years of their formation. As the capstone of incompetence and failure of leadership in the United States, he may galvanize enough of the apathetic that some kind of radical change will take place next year. Adding to my "I told ya so!" remonstrations, Congress is where the laws are made, not in the star chambers of the King of America. If we rid ourselves of those careerist, do-nothing, power-mongering legislators whose only concern is re-election, we might get a return to a basic Constitutional government where the CEO in the White House is only a part of the equation, not the be-all-end-all of the national concept. The Tea Party's a good start, and if my dire predictions about class warfare, chaos and anarchy in the streets come true, then maybe those apathetic souls drowning in hopeless despair will rise and reclaim the principles this country was founded on.

Coming attractions:

2011-08-12T09:42:00.001-05:00

For those of you with access to Turner Classic Movies on cable or satellite, tomorrow night [Saturday, 13 August, 8:00 EDT] they will be airing "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" as part of their "Essentials" series. I urge you to watch it, as it will explain why I obsessively cited it after Osama bin Laden got his comeuppance.

Oscar™ winning director Kathryn Bigelow—“The Hurt Locker”—is currently working on the remake, featuring Barack Obama in the Jimmy Stewart role, and SEAL Team 6 as John Wayne. Her production company is being given unprecedented access to one of the most highly-classified missions in modern American history, and the movie is scheduled to open in October 2012, just before the November presidential elections.

Did I not tell you this was going to happen?

If you're too skeptical, or cheap, to rent a DVD of "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance," then catch it for free on TCM tomorrow night. Keep in mind my comparison with the Bobama/bin Laden situation, and it'll scare the hell out of you.

Money where mouth is

2011-08-05T15:12:00.010-05:00

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

I think it was a place called “college”, where very few things were related to the real universe, teachers of philosophy tried to explain how “perception is reality”, and young pups with unscarred bodies and unformed minds listened eagerly to the pronouncements of academicians with un-callused hands and perfectly groomed hair…

Someone tried to teach me the concept of a “zero-sum game.”

The prime example used was tic-tac-toe, where it doesn’t much matter where you place your first X or O; if you play often enough and fast enough, your win-loss ratio will even out, kind of like karma or flipping a coin. You’ve gained nothing in the end, and you’ve lost nothing because there was nothing there to lose in the first place.

I’m pretty sure I learned this from my mentor, a genius who should have been teaching advanced math theories at Stanford, but stuck it out in the trenches with us lesser lights who couldn’t balance a checkbook. Then, again, I might’ve heard this concept over one beer too many at an off-campus, high-stakes poker game. (Sorry, “A-Rod,” you learn a lot more about the real world by hanging out with grad students than you do by dating Madonna.)

I don’t remember much about college—I was too preoccupied with getting high or getting laid—but the notion of a zero-sum game came roaring back the other night when I heard two diverse facts that fell into place like a roulette ball hitting “00” and giving the odds to the house.

#1: The national debt has now equaled the Gross National Product for the first time since 1947, when we were struggling to pay off War II. If I understand this correctly, if we shut down the entire nation for a year, and taxed everything at 100%, we’d almost pay off what America owes. I think it’s $14.8 T debt versus $14.3 T productivity, but that’s increasing by $126,000 per second as you read this. [The Ts are for trillions; I’ll break my keyboard trying to enter so many zeroes.] That's a "zero-sum."

#2: With the stock market dive that celebrated the president’s birthday yesterday, every meager gain since the economic meltdown of ’08 was wiped out in a single day. That's a "zero-sum."

(I have a Constant Reader who is a big-money type. Feel free to jump in at any point if I'm wrong about this.)

Okay, my mind is blown. A third disturbing fact that someone ran past me recently is that if you tax the “richest ten percent”—who already pay 70% of the tax “revenues” in this country—at 100%—in other words, confiscating everything they possess, there still wouldn’t be enough money in the federal coffers to pay what we owe.

The evil, greedy rich have no confidence in the future of America. The Asian markets are tanking as I write this. Communist China is lecturing us on economics. Italy is poised to follow France and Greece down the rabbit-hole of entitlement protests. There is a trillion dollars of uninvested capital sitting offshore in foreign banks, earning interest for other people while American businessmen stare askance at the socialist nightmare the US has become. There is an old lady in Gum Log, Georgia gasping for air because her electric bronchial oxygen pump and the ceiling fans in her house were disconnected by the EMC because she couldn’t pay her bill, run 41% higher than last year by EPA regulation of coal-fired electricity plants.

Meanwhile, Fearless Leader celebrates his 50th birthday with yet another fundraiser for re-election, while one of his hacks bitches that he canceled ten fundraisers because he had to stay in De Cesspool and pretend to offer leadership during the “debt crisis” wrangling.

When I graduated college, and eventually enrolled in AA to recover from the experience, I learned another definition of a “zero-sum” game: “Insanity is repeating the same action again and again, expecting a different outcome.”

(I fell out of AA because of this; a lot of us try to drink ourselves to death because we don’t like what we’ve become, and telling people they’re inherently insane doesn’t help matters. I got sober by changing my life, becoming comfortable with who and what I am, and quit listening to gurus and “spiritual advisors.” I’m a nasty, insensitive man, and if godless bastards like Bill Mahr want to bet against me on God’s existence, I’ll take the wager with nothing to lose.)

Got to get a bottom line going here: WE ARE PLAYING A ZERO-SUM GAME.

Capitalism is based on growth. We are not growing; we are shrinking in power and prestige. The government doesn’t create jobs, the evil, greedy rich do, when they re-invest their ill-gotten gains in their exploitative industries. [Sarcasm mode off, but it’s true. Thank God for the evil, greedy rich…they provide jobs.]

We aren’t breaking even; we’re losing. The shenanigans of July weren’t even a start to solving our problems. We have passed the tipping point; the return no longer justifies the investment. As the Brits said, "the game isn't worth the candle." As we say in America, "it ain't worth the batteries in the flashlight to read under the blanket any longer." Say good-bye to the "American century;" it's over and done thanks to the looters and parasites of wealth redistribution. You cannot legislate 2+2=4; no amount of political posturing, rhetoric, or vague promises is going to dig us out the hole we have dug for the past 100 years.

What we are offered is the AA definition of insanity: keep doing the same things, and hope for a different outcome.

(I tried that for two decades, and it only resulted in puking, car crashes, pissing in inappropriate places, divorces, and going to jail repeatedly. Good thing I wasn’t on drugs…)

The salt shaker has spilled onto the tabletop, and no amount of throwing it over our shoulder and inveighing the economic gods is going to change our luck, or the results of the game. When I woke this morning, thinking of what I might write for my handful of readers, I thought of a quote from a Doors song, where Jim Morrison begins with “When I was back there in seminary school, a man put forth the proposition that you can petition the Lord with prayer.”

That’s not really appropriate to anything, I just heard that great lost voice echoing this morning when Bobama wrapped up his latest round of propaganda with “God bless America” before returning to the White House to unfurl his rug in the closet and face Mecca.

There is no solution to a zero-sum game except to quit playing. By its very implication, the inherent nature of the game says you cannot win. It doesn’t matter where the partisan Xs and Os go on the board, the same crap will happen over and over again in infinite variation, with the outcome ultimately the same. That’s a zero-sum game, which the national economy has become. Nothing is going to change, because of inaction on both sides of the issue.

Change begins with catharsis, which my worn dictionary essentially defines as “purging, especially of the digestive tract.” I also recall a quote that “I will spew you out of my mouth, because you are neither hot nor cold, but lukewarm.” I think that means you’ll either stand for something or fall for anything.

By its nature, “compromise” is the abandonment of principles in favor of expediency. This country was not founded on compromise; it is founded on revolution, which that same worn dictionary defines as “A sudden political overthrow brought about from within a given system.”

The American colonists did not negotiate with King George III. They endured defeat, disease, vilification, partisan treason by Tories clinging to the status quo, and signed away their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor for the principles of an untried system of government that has proven to be the best in history. Some died in poverty and obscurity, but they died free. They stood for a principle, not for some mushy ideological party line. They thought before they acted; then they acted decisively. They didn’t play a zero-sum game; they played for mortal stakes.

The picture heading this post states my principles: it is a wager on the common sense of the American people. That scrap of government Monopoly™ money is worth about $20 by today’s standards, but it’s still even up as a bet on next year’s election. It’s a real picture of a real bill that’s been on my gnarly desktop since the last century. I haven’t lost yet, and my liberal friends won’t bet against me.

I’m betting the farm that the American people will not tolerate the failure of leadership that they so blithely fell for in 2008. (Well, you don’t get the castle on Scorpion Hill, but you might get the gummint marker.) Yeah, Bobama’s an historical president, the first African-American, blah-blah… He has a built in voting bloc for that, and the ill-informed who fall for Goebbel’s [look him up!] Big Lie who will show up as mindless “motor-voters”, but I’m betting that anyone with two brain cells to rub together will catch the spark and realize what a disaster our leadership has become. I don’t care if Bobama’s purple…it ain’t about race, it’s about competence. The “racist” label failed with liberals when black Tea Party spokesmen started turning up, so now the ad homs are reduced to “hobbits” and “terrorists.”

I used to carry on about some sinister aspect to Bobama’s presidency. I’ve since downgraded him from “The Manchurian Candidate” to a level below the misguided idiocy of Jimmy Carter. Bobama doesn’t have the wherewithal to be a “Doctor Evil” or a Muslim sleeper-agent. He’s a fool on a fool’s errand, and a wrecker tied to an ideology that wouldn’t fly in my 1960s high-school civics classes.

“Power to the people” doesn’t mean what it used to, but it still means something. My money’s on the table. I’ll bet God against Bill Mahr, and I’ll bet cash on the American people.

Some more "debt crisis"

2011-07-31T00:10:00.003-05:00

The other day, I got the following e-mail, and passed it on to a few people.

Will You Ever Sell Your House?

DID you know that if you sell your house after 2012 you will pay a 3.8% sales tax on it? That's $3,800 on a $100,000 home etc. When did this happen? It's in the healthcare bill. Just thought you should know.

SALES TAX TO GO INTO EFFECT 2013 (Part of HC Bill)
REAL ESTATE SALES TAX

So, this is "change you can believe in"?

Under the new health care bill - did you know that all real estate transactions will be subject to a 3.8% Sales Tax? The bulk of these new taxes don't kick in until 2013 If you sell your $400,000 home, there will be a $15,200 tax. This bill is set to screw the retiring generation who often downsize their homes. Doesn't this stuff make your November, 2012 vote more important than ever?

Oh, you weren't aware this was in the Obama-care bill? Guess what, you aren't alone. There are more than a few members of Congress that aren't aware of it either.
Check it out at the link below.

http://www.gop.gov/blog/10/04/08/obamacare-flatlines-obamacare-taxes-home

Why am I am sending you this? The same reason I hope you forward this to every single person in your address book; because another election is coming soon, be aware!

Then I got a reply from a Constant Reader who checked things out. It was a simple reference to this link:

Snopes.com (a very extensive explanation)

I went, I read, and this was my reply:

Thanks for straightening this out, sorta.

Simpleton that I am, it's still a tax, and still being taken from me at the point of a gun. At one point in my life I was in that vilified "rich-person-who-isn't-paying-his-'fair'-share" category, and had to deal with the nuances and bureaucratic legal-speak of the looters. (And yes, I worked all my life to get there, too!) Thanks to things like alimony, a crooked CPA, my own bad investment instincts, probate "death taxes" on my inheritance, a couple of lawsuits from aggrieved individuals, the bursting of the real estate "bubble" in the '90s, and legal fees to defend myself from the very government I worked for, I'm now a pauper by American standards, which still places me head-and-shoulders above most of the rest of the world.

It really is hand-to-mouth after all these years, but what's mine is mine, as it should be. I am not a slave to loans or mortgages; my biggest problem is local taxes, which will go up this year because they have a $2,000,000 shortfall of wasted extortion money to throw at public non-education. (The millage rate will go up on the property I own, because those state-school teachers have union salaries that must be paid.) According to our local tax commissar [whom I have personally "buttonholed" on the issue] it will literally require an act of the state legislature for me to receive any type of exemption before I hit the mandatory age of 67. This despite the fact my daughters never attended Union County schools, and I certainly ain't gonna have have any more kidlets at 58. I don't mind paying the basic property taxes, a separate entity that supports local infrastructure and our corrupt law enforcement militia. I don't begrudge the 1% SPLOST [Special Purpose Local Option Sales Tax] on intra-county purchases that goes for stuff like the new horse arena, the $10,000 worth of fireworks they popped on the 4th of July, or the new farmer's market pavilion. We have no rail or bus service in this area, so we need the tourist dollars the flatlanders and Floridiots bring up every fall on the federally-funded Zell Miller (D-GA) parkway from the People's Republic of Atlanta to "Deliverance" country. (Local entrepreneurs make good money on canoe expeditions. "Can you squeal like a pig?" The Ellijay Apple Festival and the Blairsville Sorghum Festival are big draws, too. There is apparently a perverse nostalgia for the quaint ways of the mountain folk.)

What I resent is paying the freight for other people's children to receive state indoctrination in whatever politically-correct idea of the moment is entrancing the bureaucrats and union hacks in DC. Our rural school system still retains a few moral values, and is better than most, but state-schooling is what it is. Philosophical differences aside, I've never benefited from this mushy, amorphous entity, and neither have my children. ( [The kids] got their state-schooling in a county much closer to the People's Republic, and if there were do-overs in life, it would have been home schooling at any personal price.) The local "education" tax makes up 2/3 of what the county says I owe every year, and it's getting more onerous every day. Old-school socialist Hillary Clinton said "it takes a village" to educate a child; I think it takes good parenting or a devotion to the welfare of the future if others are going to undertake the task of educating the young. Anyone who still believes an omnipotent government knows what is best for them is a meat puppet for slavery, not a free human being. Your natural, divine right to choose the course of your life ended the moment you abrogated your instincts and will to the governmental plantation owners, and became a statistical drone instead of a free-thinking person.

Alas, the "Bill and Hilly" days are now the stuff of innocent nostalgia. The apocalypse has speeded up, and while it may not be what the Left Wing demagogues are predicting, it's at the gates. We've passed the tipping point; the salt has spilled onto the tabletop, and no amount of throwing it over our shoulder is going to remedy the situation. I heard it put best tonight: "You cannot legislate 2+2=4." That's the basic economic truth, so say good-night to the American empire, Gracie. It's all politics from here until the darkness falls.

A passing line in my last blog post may be our epitaph: "Rationality becomes the nostalgic whim of the elderly."

Good luck, kids! This country was not founded on compromise or political expediency; it was founded on revolution and the concept of individual rights.

Solving the debt crisis and my own little manifesto

2011-07-28T21:25:00.009-05:00

All I know about economics I learned from my father and my grandfather. Dad put it pretty simply, and Papa Bryant backed him up: “Don’t ever borrow money just because you can. If you absolutely have to borrow money, pay it back as quickly as you possibly can.”

Pretty succinct, huh?

In the latter part of the 1990s, I applied for one of those “You can’t be denied” credit cards. I was still working for a living, and making reasonable bucks in the underground economy by not declaring cash for movie work and security consultations. I wanted a piece of plastic to haul around in my wallet, just in case. As a child of the government and state-schooling, I’d never felt the need for such a fallback, but a 40-ish sense of responsibility gripped me, so I filled out the application and sent it in. I had a good credit history with my local bank, so this seemed like a no-brainer.

Imagine my surprise when I got a form letter reply, informing me that I possessed “insufficient credit history.” The “You cannot be denied” credit card people were denying me!

I immediately called my contact at Equifax. I told him what was going on. He put me on hold for a minute, and then came back.

“I have your file here. You’ve had loans in the past?”

“Yes. Couple of car loans and a motorcycle loan through GMAC, a home improvement loan, and a home equity loan.”

“And how’d you pay them off?”

“As fast as possible. You know I do movies as seasonal stuff, and security moonlighting. I got my hands on some extra cash, it went to the bank.”

“So you paid the loans off ahead of time?”

“Sure! Years ahead, by their terms. Whenever I had the money, it went there first.”

“And it never occurred to you that you were screwing them out of their interest on the loan?”

“No. Is that important?”

“Yes! They have you red-flagged.”

“Is that important?”

“Yes. People who lend money make their profit out of the interest they charge you for the privilege of borrowing the money. They lend you money for X number of years, they expect the capital investment plus X amount of money at whatever interest rate you agreed upon. Lenders aren’t in the game to break even.”

“So I screwed the capitalists by doing what Dad and my Grandpa told me to do?” I repeated my ancestral advice.

“Yeah. They had the capital to begin with, or they wouldn’t have loaned it to you. They want you to pay the full-term agreement, so they can get all the interest due. They count on that as profit, and factor it in as to whether they’ll lend you the money. This credit card company figures if you borrow money on their card, you’ll pay it back too quickly, and they won’t get their full interest on the loan. They refused you, and you’re red-flagged on our computer as a bad risk.”

“Because I pay everyone back too soon?”

“Exactly. You need to get another loan—if you can—and pay it back on schedule, even if you have the means to pay it back sooner. That’ll improve your credit rating. Right now, no one wants to lend you money, because there’s no return on their risk.”

“So, my credit’s down the toilet because I followed the good advice of my father and grandfather?”

“Basically, yes.”

“What if I’d borrowed the money and then told everyone I couldn’t repay them?”

“Assuming you borrowed from a legitimate source instead of a loan shark, your inability to repay is bankruptcy, and everyone has to take the pill and like it. You can’t borrow any more money for a while, but if you continue to earn productively, they’ll eventually loosen up. If you borrowed from a questionable source, they might send some tough guys to intimidate you.”

“You know me, Bob. I don’t intimidate. What if I’m tougher than them?”

“Then they go away and take the pill, too.”

“Bottom line, I’m better off being a little in debt than being debt-free too soon, and a default is better than a clean up-front payment?”

“Yep.”

This was my second lesson in basic economics. I vaguely recall some stuff from college about Keynes, Frederich Hayek, and Adam Smith, but it never had a relationship to reality like my paraphrase of my conversation with Bob at Equifax.

He was right, too. Some years later, I asked my local bank to lend me $850 against the income from my pension and the $150,000 equity in my home, which I offered as collateral against the loan. They refused. I’m a bad credit risk, red-flagged everywhere because I paid off too soon.

I learned to live within my means. I take it for granted that no one is going to lend me more than $20 to take Ms. Possum out to dinner, and I’ll repay it in good faith next week. I pay my bills every month, so we can have the basics like water, electricity, phone service, homeowner’s insurance, and even the exorbitant satellite service that brings 280 channels of crap. I even have an automatic deduction program in place, so every month a small amount goes from my checking account into savings. Impulse-buying at the grocery store aside, I can afford about one “goody” a month; things like a new pair of jeans, some new tennis shoes, a flash drive for the computer, or even a video rental or a CD purchase. My last vice—cigarettes—is outrageous, but as long as the government considers me a cash cow for their taxes while hypocritically telling me the increased costs are designed to “discourage” me from smoking, I’ll keep on lighting up, and that, too, fits within the budget.

Point is, I live within my means. I have no credit; I see those TV commercials about “Your credit score” and burst out laughing. Forget 430 versus 775; mine’s a negative, and all because everyone got paid too soon. I live hand-to-mouth, but I live well compared to the rest of the world, and I don’t have to face down leg-breakers showing up at the door demanding the vig on the loan. I bow to no king, and bend my knee only to God.

I’m not sore about this; I make allowances. What’s the real deal that the government can’t do this? I know what the political agenda of the moment is: the liberals want to keep their boy in office, so they’ll resist anything that doesn’t extend the national credit limit until 2013. A Democrat party hack nearly made me shoot my TV this morning. He kept saying that anything that doesn’t kick the debt can down the road until 2013—past next year’s election—is “not in the best interest of the people.”

Bullshit. The Democrats don’t want this debacle coming back to haunt them before election day. A couple of weeks ago, some twink named Plouf—another party hack—said that the public isn’t concerned about the horrible record of failure Bobama can’t run on; the public is only concerned about what affects them this week, so Bobama is a shoe-in for re-election.

Okay, Bubba, you think things are bad right now, how’re they going to be next year?

It’s a shame the Republicans don’t have a candidate with the charisma of Ronald Reagan to stand up and ask Reagan’s question in the upcoming debates: Are you better off now than you were four years ago? (I think we know what today’s answer would be.)

If my home was in a Third World country, I’d have four families and assorted relatives living here. As a retiree receiving federal largesse, I live like a damn king in a three-story castle on Scorpion Hill, and I own it! So, where do I get off bitching about anything?

Simply: Ms. Possum, the love of my life and my Significant Other, works for a local community service agency. She runs the food pantry, works energy assistance in season, and gives referrals to other charitable agencies when her office can’t cover their needs. Those charitable agencies are drying up, unable to offer help to the truly needy. Ms. Possum’s hours have been cut back, and people in her office are being let go. She works for minimum wage through a federally-funded Community Services Block Grant that is in danger of being eliminated to accommodate ObamabaCare with its health-care rationing and death panels. (I’m a smoker, and will be the first to go. The death panels are real; I already fought a war with them last summer.) Every day, I hear horror stories about people coming in for basic foodstuffs, crying because they’re ashamed of having to ask for help. I hear about the “Obamavilles” in our local campgrounds; people who have lost their homes, and are living in their cars. I heard about the old lady who called in hysterics because her bronchial oxygen pump works off electricity, and the local EMC was on the way to shut off her power for non-payment of a bill run sky-high by EPA regulations on the coal-fired plants in this region. I hear about the elderly with leaking roofs being forced out of their homes by mold infestation; the roofs can’t be repaired because the federal money to fund the much-vaunted improvement program was diverted to some union vote-buying scheme.

Enough rhetorical examples. You, the cynical reader, are asking: “You admitted you live like a king. Why do you care?”

Simple answer there, too: I care about people. As a son-of-the-South mountain person—that’s “hillbilly” for you urban types—I understand all too well the nature of those who are suffering the most. These are people who never had the advantages of over-education at Columbia, Yale, or Princeton. Forget even the University of Georgia; all they did was graduate high school in most cases, and go to work. Their school was the school of Hard Knocks, and they never complained, they just got up and went to work every day. They never asked for anything special or extra; they just wanted what they earned. When reduced to dependency on an autocratic, omnipotent government, they are reduced to humiliation, tears, and standing on a—possibly misplaced—pride that won’t allow them to become beggars at the altar of government arrogance. For every sobbing supplicant Ms. Possum sees every day, I’ll bet there are three out there who would rather starve than come and ask what kind of handout they can receive.

This is where the manifesto kicks in. I’m regressing to my young hippie, power-to-the-people days, only this time as a pragmatic conservative with a much broader understanding of the world and how things work.

If I believe the liberal demagogues, next week is the end of the world if we don’t accede to the demands of The Manchurian Candidate. If I believe the Republocrats, compromise is the only solution to the conflict between their divided ideological tenets and the collectivist insanity of the Far Left. If I believe the adherents of the party taking its name from my core belief—the Libertarians—it ain’t the end of the world, but it ain’t going to be pretty.

I’ve lost faith in the political system. I don’t believe anyone who’s currently holding office, no matter what their political affiliation. Ron Paul means nothing more to me than Harry Reid, and I cannot think of two more perfect opposites.

If nothing else I’ve ever said will get me onto a Ministry of Homeland Security terrorist watchlist, this will:

I want anarchy! I want chaos! I want default!

I want every entitlement-oriented jackass in the United States to take to the streets, demand their goodies, and start overturning cars, smashing windows, looting, screaming for entitlements, and otherwise showing their asses. Greece and France are nothing compared to the US; I want millions out there carrying on like the soft-as-cotton babies they’ve become.

WAAH! WAAH!

Bobama wanted to become “Howard Beale” in Network the other night when he urged people to e-mail their congressman in support of his re-election. (A rose by any other name; he called it “compromise on the debt ceiling” if memory serves…) I want to be Howard Beale: forget “I’m mad as hell and won’t take it any longer!”, I want the money where the mouth is. I want the 70%--almost 3 out of 4—of the American populace who receives goodies from the fed to get out there and demand their due. We have impressive riots when someone’s team wins the Super Bowl or Stanley Cup; let’s win one for The Gipper and mount some chaos in the streets that hasn’t been seen since the heady anti-war days of the 1960s. Yeah, I’m advocating actions based on a faulty premise, but the faults cannot be recognized until the actions are undertaken.

“But wait!” the cynical reader says. “You admit to being an entitlement-oriented jackass on the federal teat! What’s your fate if this comes to pass?”

First, I worked and paid into the system all my life. Had I been allowed to keep what I earned, and invested it on my own instincts, I’d be approximately five times wealthier than my current state of poverty. Calling what I earned and gave to this government for all their misguided bullshit an “entitlement” when it comes to returning it to me on the back end—which I thought was the agreement—is an insult. I’ve known Mafia dons who would kill you for a slap in the face like that.

I’ve lived in a shotgun frame house with no insulation and no electricity, cut my own firewood for woodburning stoves that were the sole heat source, bathed in creeks with homemade soap, grown my own food—animal and vegetable—and, although I’m getting old and don’t want to re-live the experiences, I learned something about being an American when I was in a terrifying gray zone between life and death: I caught my breath and said “Hell no! Not yet!” According to the doctors, I was 80% dead. I’m a simple man; what that godless bastard Bill Mahr would call “a superstitious redneck” because of my spiritual values and my empathy for common folk that his arrogance marginalizes. My life is a cautionary tale that runs to negatives: don’t do this, ever, kids. It ain’t worth it.

In other words: Me and mine will get by. Always have, always will.

My federal sugar daddy has already [anally sodomized] me for the last two years without a kiss or a reach-around. I fought an epic battle with the bureaucracy last year to simply retain my basic benefits. The precedents of my case are not allowed to be used in any other proceedings against the death panels. I won my individual battle because I entered it with nothing to lose, which made me dangerous to the status quo. Like economics, I learned a valuable lesson from this: the gummint doesn’t want crazy people with loose tongues and an understanding of what’s going on to appear in open court, even if it’s just in front of an administrative law judge.

I have nothing to lose if the government folds and closes up the shop. Unlike the careerist power-mongers in DC, I will gladly sacrifice my little bit of federal largesse if they will make the symbolic gesture of giving up their Congressional salaries and working for a dollar per year. That is about the only thing that will convince me an elected official is “working for the interest of the people.”

Otherwise, I want all those misguided, ill-informed folks who voted for these corrupt, incompetent careerists to be out there in the streets—like Athens and Paris—demanding the goodies promised to them.

I want burning cars and smashed storefronts with looters running into the darkness!

As for the politicians: I said something in an e-mail today that probably got me red-flagged on an NSA/HLS computer because of key words:

“I'm nearly 60, and didn't give the best years of my life, possibly my immortal soul, and my ability to walk so a bunch of amoral, power-mad mooks could loot the ideals I nearly died for. If Al Qadea ignited a thermonuclear weapon in DC tonight, I'd be Atlas, shrug, and say ‘So what?’ They'd be doing us a favor; giving us a second chance.”

I mean that in the sense that this country needs a slap in the face. 9/11 was the worst thing in my lifetime, and nothing approaching that should ever happen again, but we need to be subjected to a full-immersion baptism in the cold water of despair before rationality becomes a nostalgic whim of the elderly.

And we owe a huge percentage of the national debt to foreign countries, some of whom are not our friends or allies. The doomsayers proclaim the world economy will be thrown into disarray if we don’t fulfill our fiscal obligations.

I’m just a stupid, superstitious hillbilly whose opinion doesn’t mean squat, but I say, the hell with ‘em. Let the rest of the world get along without us. It might be time for a return to pre-WW II isolationism. Let the collectivists, theological fanatics, and tribal warlords perish in the feces of their failed ideologies. If America is so damn evil, we should be cut off from the rest of the world. Let’s go there, do that, and you can tell my great-great-grandchildren how that worked out.

And if the rest of the world shows up at the door with their collective hand out, wanting repayment for what the corrupt politicians of the last 100 years borrowed, tell them “Too bad. We’re broke. Bankruptcy, we’re starting over. Wanna get in line and wait for someday? We’ll repay you eventually, but we ain’t Wimpy and the hamburger won’t get repaid next Tuesday.”

Yes, we can repay them all in good faith; someday. In the meantime, if they want to muscle up, there is a facet of American will that’s forgotten: we are the most powerful nation on Earth. Our wallet may be empty, but like the Roman Empire in its final days, we are the greatest military power on the planet. It would not serve anyone well to mess with us on a strategic global scale, and despite the posturing by China and the former USSR, they knew it. The analogy is my kneecapping Mafia collectors at the front door; you might get paid if I can afford it, but meanwhile go away so’s I can wash dishes and earn a few bucks.

(Disclaimer for the Ministry of Homeland Security: I believe assassination to be morally wrong, and the worst way for succession of governmental power. I believe in passive civil disobedience as defined by Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King, not the violent actions of street rioters protesting “racist” police actions, meetings of industrialized nations, or clamoring for governmental goodies. I advocate change of government in the United States through Constitutional exercise of the right to vote. I do not advocate the overthrow of the United States government by seditious or violent means. However, I think a little housecleaning might be in order, and if others agree with me in more forcible terms, it ain’t my fault. I didn’t put them up to anything. You have better things to do than reading this blog, so get ‘er done!)

This country isn’t founded on compromise; it’s founded on revolution.

The End of the Affair...

2011-07-22T14:04:00.005-05:00

...and a few last words.

Van Hammersly has provided the longest and most thought-provoking comments in the history of this blog. What follows are, I assume, his last words on the affair. They are personal, and contain a bit of R-rated language, but are very cogent. I agree with a lot of what he says. I appreciate the participation and debate, and hope Van Hammersly will remain a Constant Reader.

My own last words on the Jerome Ersland case appear at the end of this post:

VanHammersly has left a new comment on your post "When I'm wrong...":

I am not an ACLU attorney, nor an attorney of any type - although, I've always held a fairly strong, personal interest in law. And, at one point in my life, did seriously consider pursuing a career in law. I never did, however - other interests won out. And, although my current knowledge of law and the legal system does not approach that of a professional level, I do feel confident in saying that it very likely surpasses, by a significant stretch, that of the average person. I'm not, nor have I ever been, involved in law enforcement in any capacity. I'm also not a "gun-grabber" - although, I do identify as being, in general terms, quite "leftist" in my political and social views. However, that being said, I do hold a number of opinions that a good many people who would also self-identify as "leftists" would consider to be fairly right-wing in nature. One of those views, I suppose, would be my opposition to any sort of prohibition of firearms that would keep guns out of the hands of responsible, law-abiding citizens. I am entirely for responsible gun ownership. In fact, at least a small part of my interest in the Ersland case stems from that fact - that those who would attempt to force prohibition could use the case to bolster their argument. And that only by denouncing such cases of irresponsible gun use can one reasonably, and effectively, counter such positions. Lifting Ersland up as some sort of hero for his irresponsible actions only gives weight to the arguments of the "gun-grabbers" - as they may point to the case as a real world, concrete example of what will become common if the other side gets their way. To me, the Ersland case is a clear cut example of someone who went way too far - someone who clearly stepped outside of their legal and moral rights, and it should be those who champion responsible gun ownership who call loudest for the legal system to make clear that such transgressions should not, and will not, be tolerated. In fact, regrettably, I must admit that seeing the disturbing frequency of reactions along the lines of: "Fuck the LIEberal pussies who want to take way[sic] guns. If it were me I wouldn't have been as kind to that punk as Ersland was. I'd have put a couple in his kneecaps and let him think about the choice he made to fuck with me until the cops arrived." (an actual comment I once saw) makes it ever more difficult for me to not re-evaluate my position and side completely with the "LIEberal pussies" on this issue.

However, with that one point aside, my interest in the Ersland case is nothing more than a personal one as an unrelated observer - and, I suppose, has more to do with the reactions of people to the case than with the case itself. I first became aware of the case a day or two after the robbery had occurred. From almost the outset - from seeing the security video, and hearing Ersland's own interviews with local news - it seemed apparent to me that Ersland was at least somewhat in the wrong - he went too far. In the very early goings I wasn't convinced that his actions were particularly egregious, and had it been up to me to decide Ersland's fate based on nothing more than what I knew of the incident at the time, I probably would have decided on some form of fairly light punishment - enough to make it clear that he did overstep his rights, and would have to pay something of a price for doing so, but that he had committed no great, unpardonable affront to civilized society. What shocked me, however, was the commonality of reactions to the case that I saw in those early days. I encountered a ridiculous number of people who seemed to feel that no matter what actions Ersland took, he would have been entirely justified. Often, they knew very little about the case, and felt they didn't need to know anything - to them, it was enough that he killed a bad guy, and, no matter what, that fact alone made him the good guy by any and all measures. I've always held a strong, visceral dislike for that sort of myopic, small-minded, simplistic, it's-either-black-or-it's-white-end-of-story thinking. I consider it wholly dangerous - the commonality of it being one of the base causes for most of the problems we face as a society. And, the Ersland case seemed to cast a lot of light on just how common such thinking is. So, I followed the case right up until present day. As time went on, and more facts came to light, Ersland's guilt, and the extent of his wrong-doing, in my opinion, became more and more clear - Ersland's innocence became more and more indefensible. Yet, I saw no change in the numbers, nor opinions of those supporting him. They weren't interested in facts. They were interested in story-books - in super-hero comics - a guy in a black hat was killed, so the one who did the killing must have been wearing a white hat - and that was that! End of story! Unfortunately, that's not the way the real world works. I, from time to time, engaged the most vocal of these types in debate. And, in doing so, was forced to research heavily into the case so I could have the facts in hand. Again and again I ran into the same types of people - always being Ersland supporters (That's not to say that all Ersland supporters were like this - the owner of this blog being proof of that - but that all such types seemed to be Ersland supporters.) - their attitude was always the same: "I don't give a damn about facts! My mind is made-up, and no manner or quantity of facts that runs contrary to my opinion will ever change my opinion." I hate that attitude. It is the hallmark of stupidity - and I hate stupidity. Thus, my interest in the case was fueled.

I am not, nor ever have been, a lawyer of any type. I'm not a police officer, nor have I ever been involved in any type of law enforcement. I was not a juror in the trial. I'm not related, by blood nor acquaintance, to anyone involved in the case. I've never even been to Oklahoma. I did, at one time in my life, many, many, years ago, while I was in my late teens, have a loaded gun pointed at me by someone who had a very long, and quite violent criminal history. He was looking for information regarding someone else who had an equally long and equally violent criminal history, and he had reason to suspect I had the information he was looking for. I was unarmed at the time, and my reaction was to put my hands in the air and nervously squeak out the answers to his questions as I tried very hard not to release my bladder. Fortunately, I was successful regarding my bladder, and in answering his questions to his satisfaction, and he left without further incident. I'm not sure how I might have reacted had I been armed, but I strongly suspect it wouldn't have been any different. If it had been - if I had perhaps shot him in the head, I hope I would not have left the room and returned almost a minute later to find him squirming on the floor in a pool of his own blood, only to go and retrieve another gun, come back, and shoot him five more times. If I would have done that, I fear I'd be just as guilty of murder as Ersland is.

It is a mistake to think that my opinions regarding Ersland stems from any sort of sympathy for the person Ersland killed - for him, I have very little. He cast his die, and it didn't come up in his favor. Ultimately, it was his own willful actions that led to his death. And, well, "Those who live by the sword..." That does not, however, in my eyes, automatically grant impunity to anyone else who may have unlawfully played a part - and that, of course, includes Ersland.

It is also a mistake to think that I do not feel a citizen has a right to meet a potential deadly threat with deadly force. If Ersland had stopped after the first shot, or even if he'd have fired all six shots into the boy in succession, I'd very likely be among those calling him a hero today. He was within his rights to use deadly force to avert the potential threat to his life and his co-workers. He did that with the first shot. Then, he came back. and, after having ample time to take account of his situation, executed someone when a reasonable threat was no longer present. He did not have, nor should not have had, the right to act as judge, jury and executioner - but it's clear to me that's exactly how he acted. And, like the dead robber, these were his willful actions. He cast his die. And, now, he's suffering the consequences. As he should.

My final words on this matter:

I carry. I fully understand the doctrine of lethal force and its application. (Sometimes referred to as the Rules of Engagement.) I'll do what I have to do, and know how to do it. God help me, I've done it before, and have no illusions or "heroic" fantasies about doing it again. No one should have to go to that place. To want to go there is unthinkable.

'Nuff said...

When I'm wrong...

2011-07-17T21:26:00.003-05:00

…I’m wrong.

What follows are more comments from a first-time reader who got involved in the Jerome Ersland case and took issue with me on my somewhat fervent defense of that individual.

It took longer than I first thought, but I reviewed the links and find compelling arguments and facts. Feel free to copy and paste them into your browser, as I did, and make a personal decision.

As earlier asserted, if I think I’m mistaken, I’ll admit it. Short of actually being on Ersland’s jury, hearing every last forensic detail, and reviewing the surveillance tape frame-by-frame to see if the robber’s Glock actually fires and cycles, I am inclined to recant and retract my earlier indignant defense of Ersland as a clear-eyed, clear-headed hero.

Too often in this era of politically-correct gun-grabbers, anyone who legally and successfully defends themselves with a firearm is subject to approbation and persecution under the color of the law. My initial reaction to Mr. Ersland’s prosecution was, in that regard, a knee-jerk response of the worst sort. Being too lazy to do my own research, and too dependent on general reportage, which also portrayed him as a righteous vigilante, I assumed the liberal surrender-monkeys who would sacrifice innocent lives on the altar of appeasement and submission to evil were at it again, coming after one of those increasingly rare Americans with the guts to make a stand against predation.

I may be wrong here.

“I may be” is equivocal, but I am going to leave it up to the courts to make a final disposition on the balance of Mr. Ersland’s life. I rushed to judgment, reaching my own verdict based on personal empiricism without sufficient factual input, and subjective conclusions and speculation.

Jerome Ersland may, in fact, be a disturbed individual who was waiting for a quasi-legal opportunity to kill someone. Van Hammersly’s recounting of remarks by a detective friend are especially resonant. I, too, have known people with that mind-set the detective describes. I didn’t take this into consideration…another mistake on my part.

The remark the detective makes about people scripting little movies in their head is especially powerful. I, too, re-play little movies in my head, but unfortunately they are re-runs of unscripted events. I’m quite fanatical about movies being a wonderful medium for shared experiences and moments in time that we can live through vicariously, but they seldom capture the intensity, banality, and sheer horror of moments like those caught on tape in that Oklahoma City pharmacy.

I have what is regarded in court as “a reasonable doubt.” In Jerome Ersland’s case, it was initially a doubt of guilt, but now it is a doubt of innocence. I’m glad I wasn’t on his jury.

I stand by my personal remarks that if anyone threatens or makes a run at me, my family, or any innocent bystander in my immediate vicinity, I’ll blow the offender up like a party balloon if they present lethal force. I don’t share Mr. Ersland’s “Clint Eastwood fantasies”, but I have zero tolerance for murderers, thugs and robbers. I’m not Bruce Willis with those two-fisted .45s in “Last Man Standing,” but I have enough real-world competence that if it’s within my power, no one around me dies.

Please read on, and chase the links. This is powerful stuff, and creates a reasonable doubt as to Jerome Ersland’s guilt or innocence. In good conscience, I can no longer defend him.

VanHammersly has left a new comment on your post "Best comment ever!":

Well, I'm glad you like long comments, 'cause here comes a longer one:

Ersland lied about back injury for years:
http://www.newsok.com/jerome-ersland-medical-exam-finds-his-back-is-not-broken/article/3584416?custom_click=lead_story_title

Here's Ersland, himself, on video, telling police that he received his back injury during combat in the Gulf war, and he suffers from PTSD because he "killed a lot of people there."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljctb4KTJss&feature=relmfu

Problem? His subpoenaed military records show that he was stationed as a military pharmacist at a base in Oklahoma throughout the entirety of the war. He never saw a minute of combat in his life:
http://www.newsok.com/oklahoma-city-druggist-jerome-erslands-record-in-doubt/article/3388041?custom_click=headlines_widget

Ersland's 911 call - and interview with local news - claiming that both robbers were armed and "came in shooting." News story confirms Police say no shots were fired by robbers:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXVluaw5bnQ&feature=relmfu

Ersland fabricated evidence:
http://chickashanews.com/local/x1697313489/Ersland-hopes-to-receive-pardon-from-Fallin

Ersland plants a spent .22 shell casing:
http://newsok.com/jerome-ersland-case-has-new-twist/article/3441112

1:40 of video: Ersland lies to police before security video comes to light - says he grabbed both guns at the same time. He also says he shot the last five shots into the injured robber BEFORE chasing the other robber out of the store, because (with a bullet already lodged in his skull) "he was going to hit [Ersland] as he went by". Ersland changed his story after the security video was released showing his story to be completely false.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNjzOBXzlm4&feature=relmfu

0:14 of video: Ersland says it's "unfortunate" that he wasn't able to shoot the fleeing robber "in the back" because of the type of round he had loaded - Evidence he was just looking to kill someone and "self-defense" had nothing to do with it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpGJsi9FRrU&feature=related

0:50 of video: Ersland admits to firing in public at fleeing robber.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YtfqzTHV8A&feature=related

Ersland discharged weapon in the street, putting citizen's lives in danger:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzt0gBaNJg4&feature=channel_video_title

2:28: Ersland admits that he shot the injured robber five more times because "he kept stayin' up" - proving that (a) the first shot was not fatal, (some have argued that the first shot killed the robber, so Ersland couldn't be guilty of murder as the first shot was justified, and its not murder to shoot a dead body) and (b) his firing of the five rounds was with "deliberate intent"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLUtASerBok&feature=related

2:42: Ersland says both other people in the store had gone to the "the very back...in the back room" at the time of the shooting. Proving Ersland was the only witness to the shooting. The 911 call (linked above) corroborates this, as you can hear the five shots on the recording while one of the coworkers talks to the 911 operator. She says there's gun shots and says it "might" be the "pharmacist" shooting as he also has a gun - obviously she can't see what's going on. (in answer to you earlier "all of the witnesses" comment - Ersland was the ONLY witness.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLUtASerBok&feature=related

So, Ersland chased the other robber down the street, shooting at him while he was fleeing. Did Ersland also believe that the fleeing robber posed an immediate threat to his safety that could only be thwarted with deadly force? If so, why did he pursue the threat? Is it common for someone to pursue a person who they fear is going to kill them? This action shows that Ersland was simply looking to kill, regardless of any threat. If he was in fear for his life from the fleeing robber, he wouldn't have chased him. If he wasn't in fear, then he was clearly willing to kill someone by whom he did not feel threatened.

He spent his ammo firing at the fleeing robber, returned to the store, stepped over the injured kid, and with his back to him the whole time (watch the security video) retrieved another weapon from a locked drawer, walked back to the incapacitated kid, and, standing over him, at close range, fired five more shots into him. That's not self-defence. That's a cold, calculated execution.

Ersland claimed that he shot the five extra rounds because the injured robber kept moving. That's how he justified the shooting - the kid wouldn't have been much of a threat had he been laying there unconscious. But, Ersland's claim is also an admission of "deliberate intent". I.e. - he deliberately intended to shoot the robber. He was moving, so Ersland made a conscious decision to shoot him five more times. The act was deliberate and intentional - deliberate intent.

Deliberate intent is one of the criteria needed to be fulfilled for 1st degree murder under Oklahoma law. Ersland admitted to it. So, that part, at least, is not up for debate. The other criteria that needs to be fulfilled is whether or not the killing was justified. That's what was in question in the Ersland case. The killing could only be be a justified killing if Ersland was thwarting an immediate threat of serious injury or death. But, none of his actions, or the available facts of the case, are consistent with that. He pursued a supposed threat down the street, firing at him - a person does not pursue another that he feels is an immediate threat to his life. Would a reasonable person not have felt the robber he was chasing to be more of a threat than the one he murdered? The one he was chasing didn't have bullet in his head, and was armed. He expressed disappointment that he was unable to shoot the fleeing robber - showing that he wasn't interested in negating a threat so much as he was in dealing out a little street justice. And, he showed no caution toward the injured robber - stepping over him, keeping his back to him, leaving him alone with his female co-workers. Think about it - chew it over in your head for a minute - he chased the other robber down the street, was disappointed he wasn't able to shoot him, then, right after that, returned to the store and shot the injured robber. That fulfills, beyond a reasonable doubt, the second criteria - the shooting was not in self-defense, and therefore, unlawful. The killing was unlawful and deliberate.

In Oklahoma (I quoted the statute in my previous comment - from that, you should have all of the information necessary to find the actual law easily yourself online) If you have deliberate intent AND the killing is unlawful, it's 1st degree murder. It doesn't matter one iota how I, nor you, nor anyone else may or may not react if we were in the same situation. If I reacted the same way, I'd be just as guilty as he. The law is the law. If you take a life unlawfully, you're a murderer. If you do it with deliberate intent, it's in the 1st degree.

Ersland committed first degree murder, and he was charged, convicted and sentenced accordingly. The Justice system worked in this case. There were three scumbags in the store that day - only two of them were robbers. All three of them got life sentences (Ersland's being the least harsh of the three.) The system worked.

If you ask me, Ersland is unhinged and a menace. He thinks he's living in a Clint Eastwood movie. My suspicion is that he really thought he'd be lauded as a hero for what he did - he killed the bad guy, just like in the movies. Listen to his testimony, how he explains the double-fisted shooting of the robbers - firing with a gun in each hand from behind the counter, (which didn't happen, of course, he made it up - it's his fantasy he's describing - his own movie, of which he's the star) chasing the other robber down the street, trying to get him and the driver of the getaway car as it speeds away. It was a fantasy to him. He wasn't afraid for his life, he was loving every minute of it.

A good friend of mine is a retired Police Detective. He spent 38 years on the force. I remember him saying to me one time that there are criminals out there who have these stories in their heads that they replay, over and over - what they'll do if a Cop tries to take them down. How they'll go out in a blaze of glory and "give it to the pigs". They visualize the whole thing - like a movie, its like a fantasy for them. They play it over and over in their heads. And, as a Cop, when you run into these types, you've got to be careful that you don't do anything that makes it seem to them as though the first part of their story is coming true, because if you do, they will make damn sure the last part of their story comes true for you. I think that's likely what went on with Ersland - he had this story in his head - what he'd do if any punks came in and tried to threaten him. He had the whole thing visualized. He'd take out the scum, and then enjoy his rewards as a hero for saving the day. He knew, long before anyone came in the store that day, that if someone tired to rob him, some bastard was going to die. In the movies those types of people are sometimes seen as heroes. In real life, they're always just irresponsible, dangerous threats to anything approaching a civilized and lawful society.

P.S. - I'm glad you're pleased with my earlier comment. :) I was involved in another discussion regarding the Ersland case and was searching Google for a reference I'd lost, and in doing so, came across your blog-post in the search results. I've got to say, unapologetically, that I've been running into a lot of Ersland supporters that seem to be genuinely unthinking, reactionary, myopic, hysterical clods, fueled purely by blind emotion and fear. I thought you might be another one of them, and was still a little heated from a recent encounter with such an individual. So, I felt the need to offer some commentary - it's sort of a fault of character that I suffer from - a frustration with such types that I feel I need to alleviate by engaging with them. I see now, however, that I was in error in my initial estimation, as you appear to be an intelligent, reasoned person with whom I may just share a difference of opinion. And, I do enjoy, and welcome, exchanges with such people.

Posted by VanHammersly to United Possums International at July 15, 2011 4:02 AM

Best comment ever!

2011-07-14T22:32:00.002-05:00

And then there is this, regarding the Jerome Ersland case:

"Gunfire is exchanged" - Uh, no it wasn't. There was no "exchange" of gunfire. Forensics proved that Ersland was the only person to discharge a weapon that day.

"Ersland’s watch is blown off his wrist by a bullet" - Ersland lied about that to bolster his story. He bandaged his wrist that he received no injury to - thus, he fabricated evidence. ...just like he lied to Police about being a combat veteran, suffering from PTSD, and being injured during combat in the Gulf. Oh yeah, he also miraculously found a .22 shell casing while alone in the pharmacy, a casing that all of the police that had been through there in the previous couple of days, an entire forensics investigations team that had conducted a thorough search of the site, and all of his co-workers had somehow managed to overlook.

"Ersland rushes to the door behind him" - ...and follows him out, chasing him down the street, carelessly discharging his weapon in a populated area as he went, almost hitting a mother and her infant.

"...but was still moving, according to all the witnesses" - By "all the witnesses", you mean Ersland.

"The dead perpetrator was subsequently found to be unarmed, hence the charges against Mr. Ersland." - The fact he was unarmed had nothing to do with the charges against Ersland. Ersland was charged because, with malice aforethought, he executed the robber while he posed no reasonable threat. That's 1st degree murder. If Ersland would have stopped after the first shot, he'd be a free man today - regardless of whether that particular robber was armed or not. With the first shot, Ersland ended the threat. He then chose to execute the incapacitated robber.

"Mr. Ersland had robbery victims cowering in the back of the store" - That he chose to leave alone in the store with one of the robbers that he apparently felt still posed a real threat.

"...where his buddy was blazing away at an aspirin-peddler." - Again, this was a fabrication on Ersland's part. It was Ersland that opened fire. Nobody, other than Ersland, discharged any weapon that day.

"Jerome Ersland didn’t premeditate anything." - According to Oklahoma law, he did. QUOTED: "Title 21. Crimes and Punishments, Chapter 24 Section 701.7 - Murder in the First Degree - (a) A person commits murder in the first degree when that person unlawfully and with malice aforethought causes the death of another human being. Malice is that deliberate intention unlawfully to take away the life of a human being, which is manifested by external circumstances capable of proof."

Ersland admitted that he had deliberate intention - he admitted malice aforethought. So, that part of the law was fulfilled. The only question was: Was the killing lawful? The jury didn't think so, as to be lawful there would have had to have been a reasonable fear of imminent serious injury or death to himself or others. The Jury felt that Ersland's fear - if he even had one (he CERTAINLY didn't act as though he did) - was not reasonable. They, for some strange reason, felt that it's not reasonable to fear imminent serious injury or death from someone who's lying face down in a pool of their own blood, slowly dying from a bullet lodged inside their brain. Especially after you step over that person, and with your back to him the entire time, go and retrieve another weapon - because you've spent all of the ammunition in your first weapon chasing someone down a populated street, firing repeatedly at them, trying to shoot them in the back - then returning to the "threatening" person, and, standing over them, at close range, pumping five more rounds into their back.

"Please join me in prayer that Mr. Ersland will receive justice at the sentencing hearing." - It looks like your prayers worked! Ersland has been sentenced, and he got life. He most certainly received Justice.

Posted by VanHammersly to United Possums International at July 14, 2011 2:08 PM

That has to be the longest comment I’ve ever received. It’s published in the comments section of “The Strange Case of Jerome Ersland” below, along with my reply:

Mr. VH:

With all due respect, do you have some bona fides in this case? Were you one of the jurors, an attorney on either side, or even an extremely fascinated spectator who followed along from the public gallery in the courtroom or the daily coverage in the newspaper?

My "research" is based on general reportage, speculation, and my own experiences with use of lethal force in unanticipated circumstances. If you will be so kind as to provide public record citations for your assertions, and they prove to be valid, I will offer a public recantation of my proclamation that Jerome Ersland is a "hero."

Like my research methods, his actions may have been "unsound" as to resolving the situation, but I cannot call an elderly man in marginal health a "premeditated murderer" when he is suddenly forced into a thug's game for mortal stakes. I think his response was entirely reasonable.

One of the few things from this article you didn't take issue with or put in quotation marks was my assertion that if faced with a similar situation, I'll "light [you] up like the Fourth of July." I would do this if you pointed a cap-pistol at me or mine. If I'm wrong in the aftermath, it's better to apologize than ask permission, and I'll lay flowers and remorse at your headstone.

My father was murdered by a serial killer, and I have been in military combat and civilian gunfights. Perhaps this colors my perception of whatever happened in that Oklahoma City pharmacy—and I'm sure it does—but unless you've been there and done it, you can have no concept of what it's like.

Thank you for your input on this. If you can go a step further in proving me wrong, and validate your statements, I will admit I'm wrong. Until then, I will stand by my point of view.

Oh, and I left out the doctrine of "equal culpability." If you are a participant in an armed robbery, and your partner kills someone, you are equally gulity of murder under federal and state statutes. If you are an unarmed accomplice and tag along with your homey while he rips off a drugstore at gunpoint, and you end up dead on the floor, well, that's kind of the same thing, ain't it?

I often wonder if I’m writing for anyone besides a handful of Constant Readers and my own amusement and/or therapeutic catharsis. I have no clue who “VanHammersly” is, but I am truly appreciative of his/her thoughtful commentary. The fact that it’s at odds with me, and calls me out on my previous statements, only makes it more interesting.

I write from an egocentric, personal point of view. I’m notoriously lazy about research, and depend on my drug-and-alcohol-addled memory too much of the time. Other factors, like insomnia, inattention, or post-REM, pre-awakening consciousness also serve as filters on my perceptions of reality. (I can’t cop out on the dope and booze these days. Life has gotten strange enough without psychedelic overload or whiskey blackouts.) Still, I try to pay attention when something rings my bell, and I have found myself using the Internet when I’m uncertain of details and need to verify something.

Speaking of verification, if Van Hammersly will supply sources and citations for the point-by-point refutations above, I will be only too happy to vet them and publish them. (The same goes for anyone else who thinks I’m incorrect, over the top, or talking out my ass about any given subject.) Personal, egocentric writing does not mean I have my mind made up, and don’t want to be confused with facts, or that I reject and deny any correction. I’m accustomed to being more wrong than right and I really appreciate it when people tell me I’m going off the rails.

If Van Hammersly—or anyone else—can provide valid documentation that my statements are incorrect, I will gladly publish that documentation and publicly admit I’m wrong. I have no problem with a mea culpa, but as I said in my original comment reply, I cannot and will not regard Jerome Ersland as a murderer who acted out of malice aforethought. He did what he did in the heat of the moment, and my ultimate rule of thumb on his actions is this: If it was happening to me, I’d do the same thing. I wouldn’t be thinking about the police, the courts, getting ugly looks at the next PTA meeting, or what my Aunt Vera might think when she hears about it.

We go about our everyday lives with the reasonable expectation that we will be left alone, free to proceed with whatever we’re doing. When someone steps in with force, the threat of violence, or lethal intimidation, everything changes in an instant. In that instant, you have to decide if you’re going to become a hostage or a victim, or, like Todd Beamer and the passengers of Flight 97, you’re going to accept the fact that you might die no matter what happens next, and take action. If I think a terrorist or a robber is going to kill me regardless of my reaction or compliance, then that individual is going to have his hands full until I’m dead on the floor…or he is. I don’t have a ready statistic on acquiescence versus resistance in hostage and robbery situations. What I do have is a comparison with another drugstore robbery just days after Jerome Ersland was convicted. A gunman entered a pharmacy in Medford, New York, and no one resisted. When the robber calmly walked out, four innocent people lay dead.

Better to apologize than ask permission. If that was a cap pistol you pointed at me, or a comb you were holding under your shirt when you demanded my money or threatened me, then I’ll apologize at your gravesite for the two holes in your chest and the one in your head. I’ll bring flowers and remorse, and for the rest of my days I’ll have pangs of regret that you were stupid enough to try whatever got you killed in the first place. Life is precious, and God’s greatest gift. The only thing worse than throwing your life away in a stupid, reckless act is to be the victim who allows a stupid, reckless punk to take your life.

Even though the juries in the Casey Anthony and Jerome Ersland cases have proven exceptions to the rule, it’s still better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.

"We, the jury..."

2011-07-14T17:36:00.004-05:00

I’ve had interactions with the American judicial system. Not just those pesky traffic tickets I’ve mentioned—although they’re nothing to laugh about; speeding is not a joke, and DUI is inexcusable—but serious business. 2006 marked the 10th anniversary of my troubles, so I no longer apologize or try to explain what happened. It’s complicated, involved a vendetta, and got me indicted and dragged into federal court. A few of my Constant Readers know the story; for everyone else, you’ll just have to follow along at home. If anyone has an itch to know, my e-mail is in the profile here, and I’ll tell you one-on-one.

Suffice it to say that my family was devastated, my life was damn near ruined, and like my father’s murder, I have never recovered from it. My experience with the judicial system affected my entire perception of the government, and confirmed my most cynical suppositions about the lengths bureaucrats will go to in order to justify their actions and cover their asses. I received a fair trial and a just outcome, but I will never trust a politician or a government minion again.

I have a rote speech composed in my head, just in case I ever get called for jury duty again. I would ask to address the court—restraining the urge to address “Your Honor” as “Your Highness” as I once did, to my great misfortune—and inform them that I have no prejudice towards the prosecution, and no particular sympathy for defendants, and would appreciate the privilege of doing my civic duty in a fair and impartial way. (Hey! I’m retired. Jury duty would be an easy way to earn a few extra bucks, and might be interesting. The last time I sat on a jury, I nearly busted a gut laughing. See “The Robbery”, posted somewhere in my archives on this blog.)

All that being said, where are they finding jurors these days? By my standards, I’m late in posting this commentary. That’s the price of growing old: I had to wait for a while, and cool down. I dumped five attempts at this blog post before deciding to embark on another adventure in writing. (The best adventures are when you set out with no idea where you’re going.)

I know where I’m going with this. First, that awful Casey Anthony woman skated away from a murder conviction. What she did to her child was unspeakable, and certain of conviction, I supported life in prison without parole, so she could wake every morning realizing the party’s over, and she could think about what she did to her only daughter. There are worse things than dying. (I joked that she should get the death penalty for monopolizing the news, and that the jury would give her the needle for making them be in court over the July 4th holiday, but bad jokes are often deflections of horror, and my sense of humor is darker than a cloudy day on Uranus.)

Instead, she gets time served and change for lying to the cops. That’s it, folks. The civil suits and investigative-expense liability vouchers are starting to stack up, but that’s money she doesn’t have, and the book deal and movie rights should cover them. Given the depth of hostility against her, I don’t think she can live in Florida any longer, but there are 49 other states where she can hide, with California and Alaska being in the Top Five. America is still a place where people can re-invent themselves, whether they deserve redemption or not.

I want to reiterate what I posted on Facebook™ in the heat of the moment: There is a God. My father’s killer fell under a truck and OJ will—hopefully—die in prison. I will have a passing interest in seeing how this soulless sociopathic bitch’s karma levels out. There’s a final judgment for her to face, but life on earth can get pretty ugly before that if you show up on God’s radar as irredeemably evil.

So, I’m trying to cool down and decide if I should even attempt a commentary on the Anthony travesty, and something else comes along and slaps me in the face.

My last two posts have concerned themselves with Jerome Ersland, the Oklahoma City pharmacist who defended himself against two armed robbers, and saved the lives of innocent bystanders in the process. I consider Mr. Ersland a hero; a man who was forced into playing for mortal stakes, and won.

Unfortunately, Mr. Ersland’s final resolution of the situation he found himself in was brought into question in a court of law. He dropped one of two assailants in a shoot-out, and ultimately gave the wounded thug five goodbye shots. For this, he was charged with murder, convicted of manslaughter, and at a sentencing hearing last Monday, was given life in prison.

This is so wrong!

There is footage extant of Marines on Iwo Jima giving fallen Jappers goodbye shots. I’m sure there is footage from Vietnam of the same actions being taken. A wounded enemy has the bad tendency to roll over and toss a grenade at your feet or shoot you in the back. Sometimes they will get to their feet and charge you with an 8-inch knife and a grenade. If you have the misfortune to find yourself in the lethal force zone, you must finish whatever got started. Those fake-bloody bullshit Hollywood movies are not training films or documentaries. “Down” is not “out”, and death can literally bite you on the ass when your back is turned.

Mr. Ersland’s opponent was down, but still moving. His hands were not visible. The adrenalin dump from an incident like the gunfight he had just engaged in is overwhelming. Mr. Ersland is formerly Lt. Colonel Ersland, and knows the facts of life. I’m obviously at odds with his Oklahoma jurors, but I find his actions entirely justifiable and defensible.

(When I taught combat/home defense shooting, I left out the detail that you always reload and deliver a goodbye shot to the head. If I have to find fault with Mr. Ersland, it’s that he sent five to do the job of one. We lose our edge with age and lack of range time, so it’s understandable.)

A murderess goes free, and a hero goes to prison for life. Like Lord Cornwallis, I want to cue the band to play “The World Turned Upside Down.”

Jerome Ersland has an appeals process. Additionally, the Oklahoma governor can pardon him or commute the sentence, and there is legislation pending in that state to expand their “make my day” law to include places of business and public access, as well as private residences. Hopefully, the Oklahoma legislature will “grandfather” this clause to include Mr. Ersland, and he will receive some true justice that way.

Jerome Ersland will have to live with what he did, and for him, it will be a moral burden only somewhat mitigated by the knowledge he did the right thing. Casey Anthony will have to live with what she did, and for her, it will be a smug assurance that she got away with murder. The party—“la Bella Vita” as her tattoo proclaims—will continue for her, at least for a while. She can move to L.A. and continue her drinking, bi-curious dancing, and flashing gang signs while she negotiates her best book, movie and reality show deals to pay off the civil suits that will follow in her wake.

Hopefully, when her decomposed remains are found under a freeway overpass, the authorities will identify her by that “tramp stamp” on her shoulder.

Hopefully, Jerome Ersland can eventually go home to his family, fade into obscurity and find inner peace. I don’t think he’ll be negotiating a book or a movie-of-the-week on Oprah’s network.

Now, show of hands: how many of you still want terrorists tried in civilian courts?

Hope you saw this, Jerry...

2011-06-23T15:52:00.002-05:00

I have no idea if Jerome Ersland is out on bond—pending his sentencing hearing for manslaughter—or if he’s being held in detention somewhere. Mr. Ersland is convicted of killing a party to an armed robbery at a drugstore in Oklahoma City. He saved innocent lives by acting quickly and deliberately with a firearm. I held forth at length on this affair in the previous post. I hope Mr. Ersland has been following the news coming out of Medford, New York about another robbery at a pharmacy.

Last Sunday, some scumbag walked into this New York drugstore and killed four people. It’s not as sensational as the trial of that horrid Anthony woman in Florida, but it made the headlines. The alleged scumbag in question pilfered a quantity of prescription drugs—all caught on video—before fleeing the scene.

New York has the strictest gun-control laws of any state in the union. Yeah…lot of good that did. When are the gun-grabbers going to get a clue? An armed society is a polite society, and if I have an evil intent, I’m going to find a way to facilitate it.

If Mr. Ersland and his sentencing judge are aware of what happened in Medford, I hope the irony of the situation is not lost on them.

Jerome Ersland saved lives by his actions, and he’s looking at hard time. A suspect has been arrested in the Medford massacre, and his face in the mug shot looks like he might have resisted arrest. Doubtless his lawyers will complain he was “brutalized” by the cops, and he might skate as a result.

In the previous post, I said that my instructions to pupils in my combat shooting courses were to “light up [an adversary] like the Fourth of July.” I didn’t add details like the Wild Bill philosophy that if you know what you’re doing, you remain calm, take a careful stance, and deliver a series of “double-taps”—sending two bullets to do the job of one—while offering the narrowest return profile to an opposing shooter. That works at distances on the range, but police and other statistics show that the average gunfight occurs at a range of seven feet. I’m 6’3”, so a half-foot over my prone body length is how close I’m likely to be from an opponent.

In that circumstance, you’re screaming “Shit! Shit! Shit!” and doing the spray-and-pray, while the blood rushes to your head and the adrenalin is making you want to pass out.

This is assuming you can do anything at all, and not falling to your knees, saying a final prayer while the terror of knowing your life ends here and now descends on you.

I hope those people in New York never knew what hit them. I hope the truth of justice is not lost on Mr. Ersland’s sentencing judge.

I hope the irony is not lost upon you.

The Strange Case of Jerome Ersland

2011-06-01T15:52:00.001-05:00

The only thing strange about Jerome Ersland’s case is the outcome.

I wrote a couple of blog posts defending the actions of Jerome Ersland back in June of 2009. Constant Readers might recall that Mr. Ersland is the Oklahoma City pharmacist who shot it out with a couple of thugs that spring. He was charged with murder for giving the one he dropped five good-bye shots.

Mr. Ersland—formerly Lt. Colonel Ersland—is now convicted of first-degree manslaughter. He conceivably faces life in prison.

I said it then, and I’ll say it now, in the simplest possible way: THIS IS BULLSHIT!

I heard a big-brain legal common tater saying this morning that the judge will have a great deal of leeway in the sentencing guidelines. I sincerely hope so. Let’s put Mr. Ersland on probation for a couple of years, and send him home to his family.

The incident in the drugstore is caught with disturbing clarity on tape. Two teenaged thugs enter, and one brandishes what I identify as a Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol in the fashion they learned from those gangsta rap videos. Gunfire is exchanged. Ersland’s watch is blown off his wrist by a bullet, and one of the thugs goes down. The other one—the one with the visible firearm—flees, and Ersland rushes to the door behind him. There are two women—a mother and her daughter—in the back of the store and they are screaming, obviously terrified. Ersland returns to the interior of the pharmacy, and either retrieves a second weapon or reloads the one he was packing. The downed robber is slightly off-camera, but was still moving, according to all the witnesses. Ersland gave him five good-bye shots, ending the incident for all intents and purposes.

The dead perpetrator was subsequently found to be unarmed, hence the charges against Mr. Ersland.

I taught combat shooting for a number of years. When prospective students said they only wanted to defend their homes, I advised them to trade their handguns for .12 gauge pump shotguns; the slide being racked is an unmistakable deterrent, and will save the moral anguish of the aftermath, when a life has been taken. The dumbest criminal in God’s creation knows what that sound is, and will unass the area PDQ.

For those who persevered with handguns, I think my teachings were sound.

I was a big fan of Clayton Moore as The Lone Ranger when I was a kid. He’d use those silver bullets to shoot the gun out of the bad guy’s hand, and justice would be done without anyone getting killed. In that perfect world of black-and-white TV, that’s a nice way for things to end.

After some initial classroom training—which included the admonition that if you’re not prepared to take a human life, you need to leave now and trade your weapon for a can of pepper spray—I’d break out a basic silhouette target and point to the approximate center. “This is the X-ring. This is dead-center mass. This is what you shoot for. No head shots, no shooting the gun out of their hand. You don’t shoot someone a little bit. You go for this X-ring, and you keep firing until they’re on the ground and not moving, or your weapon is empty. Dead-center mass, and light ‘em up like the Fourth of July. Once they’re down, you reload before approaching.”

Since I taught civilians—normal, decent people to whom the notion of killing ran against every moral precept they’d been taught from childhood—I routinely left out the postscript that you give the fallen adversary a good-bye shot to the head. I also left out the full-security detail that when you’re close enough, you poke them in the eyeball with your gun barrel. A clever, wounded enemy can play dead until your back is turned, but no human being can help flinching when poked in the eye. You learn this stuff later on, in the real world. When Mr. Ersland was Lt. Colonel Ersland, he probably had a competent instructor who taught him all this.

Yes, it’s brutal. When the guns come out, all bets are off. There are lives at stake, and odds are it’s going to be your life against the other guy. There can be no hesitation, no contemplation. You’ll either do it, or you won’t. If you don’t, the other guy wins, and you—and possibly loved ones, innocent bystanders, or military teammates—are dead.

This concept used to be summed up in a single sentence: “Better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.”

I don’t know where they found those jurors in Oklahoma City. Mr. Ersland had robbery victims cowering in the back of the store, and the fallen perpetrator was still moving. His hands were not visible. He may have had a weapon. Hindsight is 20/20; it’s unfortunate the robber was unarmed, but he should not have been a party to a robbery attempt where his buddy was blazing away at an aspirin-peddler. When the guns come out, you’ve bought the ticket, and you’re going to take the ride. It may not turn out the way you expect.

When I lived in Texas in the ‘80s, a Dallas station carried footage of an angry father whose son had been kidnapped and molested by a trusted teacher. In a premeditated act, the father waited in the Baton Rouge airport until the ideal moment, and blew the bastard’s head off with a .44 Magnum on TV. Dan Rather warned us that evening that what followed was not for the faint of heart. The father was sentenced to five years’ probation. Jerome Ersland didn’t premeditate anything. He was counting pills and filling someone’s prescription when these thugs walked in. I would've hung the jury; holding out against conviction no matter what.

I’m not a bloodthirsty psychopath. There is no greater anguish or moral burden than taking a human life. Some people—I want to believe most people—simply cannot do it, no matter what the circumstances. There is no fault or dishonor in this; it’s just likely to have an unfortunate outcome. I’m a simple man, and part of my simple-mindedness is a grudging realization that there may come times in your life when you have to make a stand. Hopefully, for most folks, that’s nothing more dramatic than deciding what kind of topping you want on the pizza, or where to go on vacation.

Conversely, when you’re backed against a wall with a knife at your throat, or staring down the yawning chasm of a gun barrel, there is no time to thoughtfully consider the moral implications of what our parents taught us. If you hesitate to reflect on what God teaches us, you may be meeting the Creator a moment later. Sometimes it’s better to apologize than ask permission.

Please join me in prayer that Mr. Ersland will receive justice at the sentencing hearing. He has a burden to bear for his actions, and he will not carry it lightly. He needs to go home with an admonition: “Don’t do that again!”

What he did was the right thing, but he has to carry that for the rest of his life. That’s enough.

"Jews? We don't need no stinkin' Jews!"

2011-05-20T13:52:00.011-05:00

(Apologies to John Houston for the paraphrase from "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.")

Following President Bobama’s “Middle East” speech yesterday, I was hard-pressed to remember when I ever heard such a stream of hot, steaming puke pour out of the mouth of America’s Chief Executive. I think it might have been during Watergate, or maybe when Willie the Zipper was denying having any sort of meaningful sex with Monica, and parsing the meaning of “is.”

Israel is our only friend in the Middle East. They would have flown nuclear suicide missions on Moscow for us during the Cold War, if it heated up. My father told me about liberating the Nordhausen concentration camp, where the Nazis were building V-2 rockets with slave labor. The Israelis are the most intrepid people on earth. Like America, they haven’t been perfect in forging their nation, and some of their actions—like demolishing homes in the Gaza Strip—made me wonder if they were becoming like the Nazis who tried to exterminate them, but the question was more rhetorical than anything else.

I have never been able to wrap my mind around the persecution of Jews. It has been going on for a millennium, and is still a twisted sort of international sport with most of the world. I have intimate intellectual associations with a variety of Christian “fundies”—an oxymoron if I ever heard one!—but I don’t buy into that business that “the Jews killed Jesus.” Saying that is like saying the Westboro Baptists represent all of that denomination—and I’m a “Babtist” by religious orientation. I’m also conversant with all the conspiracy theories about the Rothschilds and their control of the world’s monetary system, and all the rest of that crap. If Jews run anything, they do so on the basis of merit, creativity, and productivity, not because of some sinister hidden agenda in the Protocols of the Elders of Zion. What I initially assumed were Israeli emulations of Nazi “solutions”—in the sense that abused children often grow up to become abusers—was instead an application of Mitchell WerBell’s maxim that “it takes terror to break terror.” Unlike the theologically-driven caliphates of Islam, Israel is guided by the moral center of Judaism, and that has a direct link to the teachings of Christ. I’ve never had a Jewish person tell me I have to convert to their belief system or die. No Hebrew has ever tried to enslave me.

Before there was an Israel, and the rest of the world was down on Jews either as matter of daily business or just to see the look on their faces, America was—as always—the shining city on the hill where they could find refuge. There was some ugliness and denial in the early years of War II, but when the facts came out, America made an irrevocable commitment to the rights and protection of Jewish heritage. (In telling me about Nordhausen, my father touched on the fact that a number of German soldiers trying to surrender to the Allies ended up dead on the side of the road. I don’t think he was ever a party to a black-flag mentality, but there were a lot of GIs who saw what happened, and weren’t too concerned about taking prisoners.)

Ah, but as usual, I digress.

The bonds between Israel and America are deep, and should be insoluble. Instead, they have become another poker chip for The Manchurian Candidate. He has already played his ace, banking on the legend of becoming “the man who killed Osama bin Laden,” and now he is betraying our friendship and support of Israel for the sake of appeasing those Muslim countries and satraps that will never “like” us under any circumstances. So now, he raises the stakes in the game, and makes his true agenda more obvious. We should have gotten a clue when he left the Israeli Prime Minister sitting in the Oval Office while he—Bobama—went to eat dinner during a summit conference. (Later the gentleman was shown out of the White House via the back door; another clue.)

Okay, show of hands. Who can name one other true ally of America in the Middle Eastern region of the world? Saudi Arabia? Jordan? Turkey? Pakistan?

Yeah, the Saudis like us because we buy their oil. Let’s try trading them food for oil, and see what their response is. Places like Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria are a joke. Turkey tolerated us during the Cold War because they lived next door to the USSR. Pakistan is double-dealing us faster than a back-alley three-card-monte shark, because they like the billions of foreign aid we are trading for passage rights for supplies to our troops in Afghanistan.

Speaking of which, are the Afghanis friendly to anyone? When the Brits were omnipotent empire-builders, they couldn’t do much in there. The ubiquitous, all-powerful Soviets came to bad end in their hopes of conquest, or assimilation, or whatever.

I’m sure the people of Iraq are grateful to us for rebuilding everything we broke in removing Saddam Hussein, but their tribal loyalties are much stronger than the secret treaties that created the country following War I. They fought a stalemate war with Iran for a decade in the ‘80s, but now that we have decimated their military, we will have to be there forever, or relinquish the oil fields to Iran. The Iranians were our buddies when the Shah ran things, and the Cold War was “our” dictators against “their” dictators, but we sold him out, and they became the world’s most dangerous theocracy.

So, who’s our buddy now? Libya? They have a trickle of oil, and the Qattara Depression. If The Manchurian Candidate has his way, their claim to relevance in the 21st century will be as the re-arming point for Al Qaeda, and the irony is that Bobama will be giving them the ordnance.

Israel is our only friend in that region, and to quote Mitt Romney, Bobama has thrown that nation “under the bus.” The Red Herring’s speech was one of the most egregious repudiations of an ally since Winston Churchill gave his “Iron Curtain” speech, and Churchill’s cynical assessment of the USSR had a lot more validity than Bobama’s claptrap about returning Israel to its 1967 borders. Watching him on TV, I started cussing and muttering “Why don’t you just bring them [Hezbollah, Hamas, and Al Qaeda] to the Lincoln Bedroom and [perform oral sex on them]?”

When our relationship with Israel chills, as it certainly will, we will be the poorer for it. The Israelis are no strangers to political turmoil, and I suspect they’re trying to bear with us until we can restore competent, rational leadership to our country. However, they have never depended upon the largesse of other countries, and are big kids who can take care of themselves. They are certainly not going to depend on the cult of personality that has taken precedence in America, despite our mutual history.

If bin Laden was an “ace of spades,” then Israel is the ace of hearts. Bobama has upped his ante, and this ain’t no TV poker tournament.

Ace in the hole?

2011-05-06T21:33:00.004-05:00

As is often the case, I get my best focus from e-mails. With slight revisions, this is my take on the bin Laden situation:

I'm thinking strangely since Sunday night, and folding a new tin-foil hat since I wrote that last blog post about what a "mistake" it was to dump Osama's body.

Here's a notion for you:

What if bin Laden has been an "ace in the hole" since, say, 2007? Word is beginning to leak out that there was a CIA "safe house" nearby the Abbottabad mansion, although the time frame isn't specific yet. We're taking it as a given that the Pakis knew Osama was "hiding in plain sight" and the common belief is that they didn't mention it to us out of sheer obstinacy and bet-hedging.

What if they were cooperating with us the whole time? Emerging details suggest that Osama was under a form of house-arrest since the compound was [mostly] completed and he moved in. Like Howard Hughes, it is being suggested that he never left the top floors of the main building. One "common tater" went so far as to state bin Laden had constructed his own prison.

Is it even plausible that the Paki ISI was holding him under a form of "house arrest" for the past few years? Let's pre-date this notion to GWB's administration; bin Laden was under control, his whereabouts were known, and his continued communication with the outside world was constantly monitored and mined for information yields. Let's assume that GWB was too decent to play the trump card and order the trigger pulled; he was already in his second term by the time Osama was corralled in Pakistan. The cooperation of Pervert Mushrat and the Pakis was more vital than pressuring them into a quick turn-over or a midnight double-tap.

So, bin Laden becomes a Bush inheritance that The Red Herring can't snivel about. His value as an intelligence asset is enormous; he's still allowed to release his ranting audio tapes, and communicate with his acolytes. It's a win-win; the bad boy is right where we want him, and we are tracking his people down every time he reaches out to touch someone. As long as he doesn't leave the compound, he can carry on as a little tin god, and can be snuffed if/when political exigencies demand it. GWB is secure enough with his place in history, his ego, and the insulting allegations of The Far Left that he's too stupid to find Osama. Let's assume Bush knew exactly where he was, but kept his finger off the trigger because he's seen "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" and decided he had nothing to gain.

When The Manchurian Candidate takes office, he gets the information in that legendary classified "inauguration" notebook that bin Laden is a husbanded asset in Pakistan. Suggestions were made for years that Osama was hiding out there somewhere. The fact that he was under house-arrest in Abottabad was a closely-held secret. The Red Herring does nothing besides his public pronouncement that it's "priority number one" that bin Laden be apprehended.

Then Bobama's approval ratings hit record lows. The economy is getting worse, and Donald Trump is giving him hell about that pesky birth certificate. Trump is a wild card; he has enough money to pay investigators indefinitely on the "birther" issue. So, The Red Herring collects on the quid pro quo he spelled out to Leon Panetta upon naming him DCI [Director of Central Intelligence]; dig that agency-forged document out of your desk drawer, and collect your bump to Secretary of Defense.

The approval ratings remain unchanged, as does the belief index. 68% of people still believe Bobama is a socialist, and 34% still think he's a closet Muslim. Time for drastic action...

BOOM! Osama bin Laden is dead. He's given an ostensible hurry-up DNA test, a ritual cleansing and a hasty burial at sea "according to Islamic tradition" even though he's a poster-boy heretic. Bin Laden knew he was a dead man walking from the moment the first plane struck the WTC; why not become a martyr so the greatest sleeper agent in Islamic history can continue his calculated destruction of Great Satan America? The Manchurian Candidate is in a position to cause much more long-term damage than Osama ever could, and a re-election might just be the impetus required to push the nation over the brink into dhimmitude. Re-election frees up The Manchurian Candidate to promote his true agenda, and if a nine-point ratings boost can be sustained, along with the propaganda legend of "the man who killed Osama bin Laden", it's another win-win situation. Bin Laden wanted a final walk in the sun; his legend is he went out like a gunfighter, shoving his fifth wife at the SEALs while he ducked for cover. Bobama's legend is that he killed the most despised man of the 21st century. Losing the body, and the appeasement of not releasing a death photo, just enhances Bobama's legend and conveniently covers the facts.

For all I know, the SEALs threw a black bag over bin Laden's head, and he's being waterboarded at Gitmo as I write this. I'm sticking to the "ace in the hole" supposition until I see a photo of bin Laden's brain leaking onto the deck. The true believers will never buy any of this, and I know chapter and verse about matching meta-data in PhotoShop™ and CGI, so the skeptics will always have something to gripe about regarding verification, and the most clever forgery might be detected if a photo is released. The whole appeasement business about not releasing some sort of photo is suspect, and dumping Osama into the ocean after a 45-minute "Islamic burial ritual" is starting to sound fishy. [No pun intended...or maybe it was.]

By the way, the tail section of that super-Blackhawk is a moot point. By now, the Chinese have taken it apart, re-assembled it, and are reverse-engineering the technology. We'll get it back in a public display of "cooperation" by the Pakis. The real "cooperation" was that they kept bin Laden on a short leash for years. Their current mantra is "don't do that again" regarding the raid, but they knew at the highest levels that one day a kill team would walk into Osama's mansion and stop his clock. The "borrowed" SEALs may think the mission was a straightforward raid, and only the agency tag-along who actually pulled the trigger knew better. One in the face and a good-bye shot in the X-ring is my sort of professionalism.

Bobama's played his ace, and he better hope no one calls him on it.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. (I don't even want to raise the sticky Constitutional question of the president being able to order the murder of anyone the "democratic" lynch mob considers worthy of death; I think the French Revolution gave us a good example of where that road ends.)

I have my tin-foil hat firmly in place, and am immune to alien orders. I hope I see something forthcoming that'll convince me I'm in need of therapy, but until our "transparent" leadership does something affirmative, I thought I'd float the notion.

"The Man Who Shot Osama bin Laden"

2011-05-02T15:56:00.005-05:00

Okay, the boogeyman is dead. In the hours following the telephone call last night, watching the news coverage until dawn, I felt a surprisingly huge weight lifting off my chest. A strange transcendental peace descended. I’ve been madder than a midget with a yo-yo since 9/11, but I didn’t realize that bin Laden’s very existence constituted such a burden on my psyche until it was lifted.

Still, there were some disparate thoughts and impressions that immediately attached to this historic moment. These wildly divergent notions ranged from elation to cynicism. The details of the operation are still coming in, so some of what follows may be subject to revision or reconsideration at my discretion. However, these are first impressions as I listen once again to “The Concert for New York City”—Madison Square Garden; 20 October 2001—at high volume:

It was a mistake to “bury” Osama bin Laden at sea “according to Islamic tradition.” Only a true adherent of the righteous tenets of Islam should be afforded the care and considerations of his religion. Bin Laden forfeited those considerations when he started organizing Al Qaeda in 1988. The moral nature of terrorism precludes acceptance as a civilized human being.

Like the “Elvis sightings” that plagued us after Presley’s death, there is now going to be a hard-core following of jihadists who will insist their little tin god is alive, and immortal. Instead of tossing him into the drink, we should have brought bin Laden’s bloody corpse to New York and put it on display for a week. This would have given the rest of the world a chance to see and believe that he is truly discorporated. The true believers could have filed past, smelled the blood and decay, and accepted the fact that their spiritual guru was dead. Now, no matter how many gruesome death photos are displayed, the hard-core heathens will simply dismiss them with the assertion that they are PhotoShop™ or CGI products.

If anyone took umbrage that bin Laden wasn’t buried within 24 hours of his demise, they could be referred to paragraph three above. Islam is a valid religion, and true believers should be treated with respect and dignity. Those who abuse and twist the Islamic belief system should be shunned and treated as pariahs. If postponing a burial and displaying the corpse of an Islamic heretic will convince others that he has truly received a measure of justice, then Muslims should be just as amenable to this as anyone else.

Feeding bin Laden to the fish was also justified as not establishing a “shrine” for his adherents. Personally, I would have buried him somewhere here in America, in an easily accessible location, and set up full-time surveillance cameras to record and identify all those who came to pay their respects. That would give the Ministry of Homeland Security something to do besides groping grannies at the airport.

Tossing Osama overboard was a mistake.

I was slightly taken aback by the bloodthirsty nature of the spontaneous demonstrations that broke out following the news that Osama had been killed, but only slightly. Watching the—mostly—young celebrants, and deducting ten years from their median age, I wondered how many of them realized the import of what was happening back in 2001. Still, they have grown up for nearly a decade with the specter of jihad, so they’re entitled to revel a bit. Like the cataclysm that made bin Laden the most despised and wanted man of this new century, his death has had a unifying effect on the American people, and this is never a bad thing. In this post-post-modern age of class warfare, partisan political dissonance, and old-school careerist politicians versus a new wave of sincere reformers, a little unity in the general population is a much-needed nostrum.

That being said, what’s with the “I…me…my” rhetoric that overloaded the Manchurian Candidate’s speech last night? A couple of minutes into it, I was talking to the TV, muttering “Hey! You didn’t strap on a cape and fly over there to kill him yourself!”

Osama bin Laden was finally brought down by nearly ten years of hard work by intelligence professionals and dedicated military personnel. The path to Osama’s mansion led straight through the Guantanamo Bay detention center, where our “torture” of known terrorists yielded vital information as to bin Laden’s whereabouts. The existence of “Gitmo” is totally vindicated, despite the Manchurian Candidate’s empty promise to close it down.

Mr. Bobama has done exactly two things that I consider semi-presidential, since he took office. The first was green-lighting the takedown of the Somali pirates who hijacked the Maersk Alabama and held the captain hostage a few years ago. That ended quite badly…for the pirates; thanks to the Navy SEALs. Giving the go-ahead to this black-flag operation that finally leveled bin Laden’s karma was the second executive decision I can unequivocally support. The rest of his administration remains a vacuum of incompetence and a morass of sinister suppositions. Life-and-death decisions, and sending others into harm’s way, are the day-to-day obligations of leadership, not some comic-book heroic grandstanding undertaken for the aggrandizement of the office-holder. Signing off on a risky and morally troubling decision for the greater good should be treated with modesty and self-effacement. Instead, we got a trumpeting of the sprained arm Bobama suffered from patting himself on the ass for finally doing his job.

Finally: I have already splattered this notion all over FaceBook™ comment threads, because I sense it to be at the core of this incident. This is where the cynicism kicks in. The image emerged fully-formed when I saw a makeshift sign one of the “death celebrants” was waving in the pre-dawn hours: “Obama—1, Osama—0.”

I went so far as to post a $100 bet on FaceBook™. When the next Democrat convention rolls around, and the Designated Liberal introduces Barack Hussein Obama to accept his anointment, I am already certain that the rote list of his achievements will be topped by the accolade that he is “the man who killed Osama bin Laden.”

I refer you to a 1962 John Ford movie: “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.” The three stars of interest here are John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, and Lee Marvin as Liberty Valance, a thoroughly unbalanced and nasty outlaw. I don’t want to give spoilers if you haven’t seen this, but after being victimized repeatedly by “Valance”, Jimmy Stewart forces a confrontation that ends with “Valance” dead in the street. Stewart’s “Ransom Stoddard” character is hailed as a hero and goes on to elicit much political mileage from his exploit, eventually becoming a US Senator and considered for higher office. There is a plot twist involved, because in fact, “Stoddard” didn’t shoot anyone. The story is told in flashback, and quite involved.

If you’ve never seen this classic, try to figure it out. I urge you to rent the DVD, as it applies to what I’m saying here. The “punch-line” of the movie is this:
Ransom Stoddard: “You're not going to use the story, Mr. Scott?”
[Newspaper editor] Maxwell Scott: “No, sir. This is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”

“I…me…my…”

In spite of his repudiation of Guantanamo Bay, the Afghanistan mission, the Iraq adventure, and a whining insistence that his failures are an “inheritance” from the Bush administration, Barack Hussein Obama will become legendary as “the man who killed Osama bin Laden.” Maybe Michael Moore will even make a movie about it.

Psalm 109: An Easter epiphany

2011-04-25T02:01:00.009-05:00

A week or so ago, someone quoted Verse 8 of this psalm to Ms. Possum, suggesting it was a portent for the Bobama regime. I was asked to extract the verse in two different translations and print it out. Instead, I read the whole thing, and was blown away by both the power and bitterness of it.

I was shocked and troubled that a man chosen by God for great things could beseech his Creator for such vengeance upon anyone.

Then came the epiphany: I realized that this bit of Scripture applies to The Red Herring and his myrmidons in its entirety. It's brutal, but the Bible is not all warm-and-fuzzy, and not for the faint of heart. The actions of the irrational liberals holding forth today are perfectly described herein.

I'm very careful about wishing death upon anyone, because I think it has karmic implications. Even if someone meets the simplistic criterion that "he needs killing," a hard-line gangster leaves the family out of it. The depth of anger expressed in this psalm upsets me, and I'm a nasty bastard.

I don't wish death upon incompentent, corrupt, megalomanical politicians, no matter how nefarious they are. I want them to live to the fullness of their days, as the Bible puts it, and I want them to live every day in shame and degredation that they are failures as leaders, role models, and human beings. I think this is a worse punishment than death; once you're discorporated, it doesn't matter much anyhow.

I'm thinking of Jimmy Stewart in "Shenandoah," where he is choking the life out of a young Confederate sentry who has just killed one of Stewart's sons. As the boy's eyes are rolling back, Stewart suddenly releases his grip, and tells the gasping lad: "I want you to live to be an old man, and have many children, and when somebody comes along and kills one of them..."

There are things worse than death, and the humiliation of being a one-trick pony and the disgrace that will engulf his children because of his failures is what I wish for The Manchurian Candidate. May he live the life he has foisted upon everyone else. May he live in interesting times.

Psalm 109

Oh God of my praise, don’t stand silent and aloof while the wicked slander me and tell their lies. They have no reason to hate and fight me, yet they do! I love them, but even while I am praying for them, they are trying to destroy me. They return evil for good; and hatred for love.

Show him how it feels! Let lies be told about him, and bring him to court before an unfair judge. When his case is called for judgment, let him be pronounced guilty. Count his prayers as sins. Let his years be few and brief; let others step forward to replace him. May his children become fatherless and his wife a widow; may they be evicted from the ruins of their home. May creditors seize his entire estate and strangers take all he has earned.

Let no one be kind to him; let no one pity his fatherless children. May they die. May his family name be blotted out in a single generation. Punish the sins of his father and mother. Don’t overlook them. Think constantly about the evil things he has done, and cut off his name from the memory of man.

For he refused all kindness to others, and persecuted those in need, and hounded brokenhearted ones to death. He loved to curse others; now you curse him. Cursing is as much a part of him as his clothing, or as the water he drinks, or the rich food he eats.

Now may those curses return and cling to him like his clothing or his belt. This is the Lord’s punishment upon my enemies who tell lies about me and threaten me with death.

But as for me, Oh Lord, deal with me as your child, as one who bears your name! Because you are so kind, Oh Lord, deliver me.

I am slipping down the hill to death; I am shaken off from life as easily as a man brushes a grasshopper from his arm. My knees are weak from fasting, and I am skin and bones. I am a symbol of failure to all mankind; when they see me they shake their heads.

Help me, Oh Lord my God! Save me because you are loving and kind. Do it publicly, so all will see that you yourself have done it. Then let them curse me if they like—I won’t mind that if you are blessing me! For then all their efforts to destroy me will fail, and I shall go right on rejoicing!

Make them fail in everything they do. Clothe them with disgrace. But I will give repeated thanks to the Lord, praising him to everyone. For he stands beside the poor and hungry to save them from their enemies.

"Let his years be few and brief; let others step forward to replace him."
Verse 8

(From The Daily Walk Bible modern English translation via The Living Bible.)

Mmmm!

2011-04-13T16:36:00.012-05:00

This took life as an e-mail, but at 1400+ words, I figured "why not?"

I do a lot of crock pot cookery, and the squash ratatouille is pretty simple.

I start with 4-6 yellow squash, a couple of zucchinis, and at least one Vidalia onion. (I love onions, so this frequently expands to 2 onions.) The squash get sliced thinner than the onions. Two cloves of garlic, at least, minced. One can of stewed tomatoes for color, or any cherry tomatoes you have left over in the fridge. A liberal dousing of white vinegar, a few shots of Worcestershire sauce, a dusting of garlic salt, and about six shakes of Tabasco™ sauce. (The cooking will kill the heat in the Tabasco. I like spicy, not hot. Tabasco sauce cooks out well in most things, and tastes great.) The onions should go in first, followed by the squash, the garlic, the salt, and the tomatoes and liquids will distribute the salt evenly.

I have two crock pots, a small one and a larger one. The small one cooks faster, so I use it for the veggies. A high setting for an hour or a low setting for two will probably get you there. Unlike my grandma, I don't believe in cooking veggies to mush, so you'll have to monitor the process and pull the plug when it reaches the desired crispness.

When you de-crock the veggies, keep the broth simmering. I always add an appropriate amount of brown rice, turn the setting to high, and check it in about and hour and a half.

I have a better recipe for rice, though. It takes some work and planning, but people beg me for my pilaf if I'll undertake it.

An experienced cook knows the expansion properties of rice, so start by setting up a kettle that will hold the amount you want: boiling water, and I use the garlic salt to hasten the process. You also want to be pre-heating the oven to 450° before you start. While the oven is heating, take a flat baking pan with sides, pour your rice in, and spread it out. Then pour a liberal quantity of liquid or melted butter over the rice, and work it into every grain by hand. (This is so sensual and tactile!) Once the butter is assimilated, make sure the rice forms a nice, even bed in the pan, and pop it into the oven. (I don't use precise measurements or exact times; I cook by feel and the seat of my pants.) In about 45 minutes, the rice should be browning on top. This means the butter has been absorbed by the grains. Take the pan out of the oven and dump it into the boiling water, which you then bring down to a low simmer. Put a top on the kettle and wait at least 45 minutes without peeking.

The oven bakes the butter into the rice. As the hot water enters the grains, it displaces the butter. What you'll have is totally un-gummy pilaf. No rice balls; every grain a delight. You just have to know when it's ready, though. This makes a great foundation for the squash ratatouille, or you can blanch some shrimp quickly and serve them on top.

Cooking a crepe on the bottom of an omelet pan is more a circus trick than anything else. You start with a basic roux of flour, eggs, milk, and salt. The consistency should be slightly thinner than what you'd use to make waffles or pancakes, but not too much so.

You need a dedicated, virgin omelet pan with a rounded bottom to pull this off. To prep the pan, dip a damp cloth into the cheapest regular salt you can find. (Morton's works fine.) Scrub the bottom and sides of the pan vigorously with the salty rag, re-dipping often. The salt scores the surface, and this will be important when the time comes. When the pan is suitably scrubbed down, rub melted butter over the bottom, and place it upside down on a burner at medium heat until the butter is crusty and beginning to smoke. (You only have to prep the pan once this way; that's why it's a dedicated utensil.) Let the pan cool, scrub the butter crust off, and repeat a couple more times. Pan prep is the key to success versus a huge mess. (Never clean the pan with hot water or detergent; wash it by hand under cold water and air-dry to preserve its integrity.)

When the pan is prepped, take a large dinner plate, a clean towel, and a sturdy rubber band. Secure the towel over the plate so you have a smooth surface on top. Using either melted or liquid butter, saturate the towel. Hint: it's kind of like fueling a Zippo lighter; you don't want the butter gooshing over the top of the towel, but you want it good and soaked.

Set the plate beside the stove, and turn a burner up halfway. Beside the plate, pour some of the roux into a flat container that'll accommodate the width of your omelette pan. Set the pan on the flame, "cooking [top] side" down, bottom up. Wait a minute, then pick the pan up. There's no way to describe it, but when you hold the bottom of the pan near the side of your face, you'll know by the heat emanating off it that the pan is hot enough.

With a swirling motion of your wrist, rub the bottom and sides of the pan on the butter-soaked towel you've set up. Quickly, as it's losing heat! Then gently glide the pan into the roux. You'll hear a sizzle as you do so. Lift the pan straight up, keeping the bottom level. A string of roux will fall off, hopefully in the exact center of the pan. Turn the pan over and put it on the burner. When the edges of the crepe show a light brown crust--1 minute is the optimum time--take the pan off, turn it over, and gently deposit your crepe onto a plate. (All that prep work you did with the salt and butter on the pan should ensure it's absorbed a lot of butter into the scoring, and will release the crepe willingly.)

Rub, dip, repeat; depending on how many crepes you want. If this is done right, you'll have the thinnest, crispiest crepes you ever ate. If it goes wrong, you'll be up to your ass in alligators, rapidly deteriorating roux, and aborted crepes floating in the dip pan. Learning this trick is really a hands-on process; there is no way to demonstrate the correct temperature of the pan, or the consistency of the roux. It's trial-and-error, but it can be done. I'm so good at it that I flip and spin the pans like drumsticks when I'm cooking, and sometimes use two or more pans and burners at the same time.

Crepes are all-purpose. Greek fishermen used to wrap ratatouille in them and take them out on the water for lunch. You can use strawberries and whipped cream as filling for an outstanding dessert. Beef chunks and baby onions in a bourginon sauce make an excellent entree, as does cubed chicken breast, broccoli, and green peppers in a white wine gravy.

The broccoli is a no-brainer. I blanch it in a chef's pot for ten minutes or less, until it has the right consistency. Then I drain it, set it on a plate, and cover it with slices of pepperjack cheese. A minute or less in the microwave melts the cheese, which is then sprinkled with finely-minced fresh garlic to taste.

Yeah, I should have a cooking show on TV, but I'll leave that to people with personalities like Rachel Ray and Paula Deen. It's been an absolute rule for nearly thirty years that if I undertake a cooking project, I am to be left absolutely alone in the kitchen. I also refuse to clean up in the aftermath.

The chef who taught me a lot of this was graduate of the Cordon Bleu school in Paris, and a crazy SOB. He always kept a pan of oily, boiling water on a back burner where he was working; not to cook with, but to toss on any unruly waiters who gave him grief, and he let that be known to all who placed food orders with him. I've seen homosexual waiters tuned up on coke, and they can be a rowdy bunch. I do the same thing with a pot of water in my kitchen before falling into the Zen trance that dedicated cooking induces. ("Not now!" usually suffices.)

Happy cooking! I ain't scared of no cholesterol, and calories, like veggies, are my buddies.

"Living well is the best revenge."

Damn Yankees!

2011-04-12T19:02:00.005-05:00

What follows is a blog post without a “whiz-bang” ending. I wrote it Tuesday and Wednesday of last week, when the story was a headline.

I try to be lyrical when I write, but after the “damn Yankees” part, the article devolved into rhetoric.

My point is the thought that first leaped to mind when I heard the news: it’s time to start hanging some of these motorscooters. (World-wise adults can surmise the synonym for “motorscooters”; you kids can take your best guess.)

And I mean “hanging” literally. Not the dubious “honor” of a firing squad, or the nebulous “humanity” of a lethal injection. I mean the drop of a common thief, a totally dishonored waste of protoplasm that is best returned to his component elements as quickly as possible.

So, for my thoughts from last week, read on:

I’m listening to “The Concert for New York City” as I write this. The double CD set was a gift from a friend who lives in The Big Apple, and though my personal quirks preclude living in an urban area of any sort, the energy and the resilience of the audience comes through with tear-jerking, throat-clogging clarity.

As a people, we have the attention span of a salamander on a hot rock. In case anyone has forgotten, the concert for NYC was an all-star performance by luminaries like The Who, David Bowie, The Rolling Stones, and too many others to name. Their sole purpose was to raise morale after the 9/11 horror, and even though the three acts I’ve named are Brits, it was also their way of assuring us we’re all in this together: civilization, such as it is, against the dark heathen forces that object to us and seek to destroy us.

When I say “us,” I mean civilized people; those who follow a moral compass and don’t regard life as a cheap commodity. I have a lot of fun with my Confederate heritage; tweaking Yankees is second only to NASCAR as a favorite Southern pastime. The War of Northern Aggression, a.k.a. The Civil War was the bloodiest conflict in our history; like a family feud, we had some issues to settle. The hearty people of Dixie are sore losers, and we take great delight in not admitting defeat. Since we did, in fact, lose, and people from the North have been flocking here in increasing numbers ever since, it’s amusing to mess with them. My favorite hat is a gray baseball cap emblazoned with a crusty, bearded Confederate soldier, wielding a pistol and saber, standing beside a cannon. On the top of the cap are two words: “Damn Yankees.” My cap also sports an SCV [Sons of Confederate Veterans] membership pin, and a couple of other pins alluding to Vietnam. I sometimes get strange or hostile looks in public, but I have yet to pause and try to explain myself to strangers.

I like damn Yankees. The love of my life is a damn Yankee, from Detroit. I consider the family feud to be settled, and we are all one people now. I reserve the right to kick damn Yankees around by messing with their preconceptions and acting like a stereotypical redneck, but they’re my damn Yankees, and I don’t take kindly to “furriners” coming around to poach them. Somebody screws with our damn Yankees, you’ve got to fight every mother’s son in Dixie, and that’s a bar fight with bikers that you don’t want to initiate.

Somebody attacked my damn Yankees on 11 September, 2001. I’m still pissed off about it.

So, now comes the news that the nefarious bastards who didn’t die in the attack, and are in custody, will face military tribunals instead of trial by civilian juries. There has been a great deal of controversy about how to deliver justice to these mooks, and a “common tater” described the latest decision as “a total reversal for the [current] administration.”

My personal definition of justice is that people get—or should get—what they deserve. In the case of those associated with 9/11 that would entail being herded onto a jetliner and remotely nose-dived into the North African desert. (My alternative is “flying lessons” from 2000 feet above Ground Zero; one at a time from helicopters so the others can watch, and televised globally. The impacted compost can then be added to the foundation for the new “Freedom Tower” rising on the old WTC site.)

However, since we’re a nation of laws, let’s put the system to work and apply the same standards that we used for the Nazis in 1946 Nuremburg. (There wasn’t a lot of pussyfooting about crimes against humanity back then!) Bring in the big legal brains, appoint advocates for the accused, and get on with it.

I’ve heard arguments from all over the political spectrum that military tribunals, offshore detention of terrorist combatants, and any other circumvention of established law is a violation of the Constitution. I’m not a lawyer—never played one on TV—but it’s my understanding that the United States Constitution was written for the common welfare of the citizens of the United States. (I think there’s something in the preamble about “providing for the common welfare.”) Basic tenets of American law, like the presumption of innocence, a jury of one’s peers, and the confirmation of Miranda rights, apply to citizens of this country, not to enemy combatants captured in foreign countries where they originally hatched their lethal conspiracies.

I live by a simple philosophy that minimizes stress in my life. When I lay it out for others, I enjoy the wordplay of calling it “Robert’s Rule of Order.” It’s very succinct; less than a dozen words: “Don’t wave at the cops, and don’t shoot at the Army.”

The jihadist terrorists who attacked us on 11 September 2001, and continue to attack us, have violated every tenet of human decency. They have no regard for human life, and hide behind their own women and children as they seek to slaughter our own innocents. They thump holy books in the run-ups to their “missions of martyrdom”, then come to America where they swill whiskey, surf porn, and patronize prostitutes. And, breaking Robert’s Rule of Order, they shot at the Army.

Yawp! Help!!

2011-03-31T16:57:00.002-05:00

Does anyone know what’s going on in this country, and if so, can they please explain it to me?

I’m speaking specifically about the apparent vacuum of leadership that has replaced “change we can count on.” I haven’t counted on the government for anything since I was a pup, but today’s headlines are rushing past with a speed that makes me want to reach for the duct tape to keep my head from exploding. Double doses of Zantac™ are doing nothing to calm my stomach as I try to figure things out. My troubling gift of disparate prescience is playing hell with my perceptions of reality; in other words, I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

Let’s start a few years back, and take some liberal assumptions into consideration.

Okay, assumption Number One: the war in Iraq was a bad idea. It was undertaken for noble motives; to liberate an oppressed people. It was commenced in the heat of the moment following the horror of 9/11.

America has liberated millions of oppressed people, and oppressed very few in return. Our track record wasn’t always the best, but we did more good than harm. 9/11 was another Pearl Harbor; even more malign than the bumbled Japanese scheme to establish hegemony in the Far East. I’m conversant with the conspiracy theories that FDR let that attack happen so we could be drawn into War II. It has been postulated that the Iraq war was payback for Saddam Hussein’s putting a bounty on Bush 41’s head after Desert Storm rescued Kuwait. For the sake of liberal argument, let’s say that was a tacit motivation for cranking up the American war machine.

The jury’s still out on our nation-building experiment in the aftermath of Operation Iraqi Freedom. There have been high and low points. At the very least, we have a sizeable strategic force pre-deployed on the western border of Iran for the fourth war in the Middle East. I think we spent too much “blood and treasure” for too little return—although watching Saddam take the drop like a common thief was cathartic, and the world is a better place without him.

During the insurgent reaction to our liberation of Iraq, there were a number of “jihadist warriors” who traveled there to become “glorious martyrs to Allah” and repel the “crusaders.” If you look at a bar graph of Middle Eastern countries identified as providing suicidal terrorists to oppose our troops in the field, the longest bar belongs to Libya. They take their Holy War seriously in Kadaffy-duck’s caliphate.

Can someone please explain to me why we are now re-arming Al Qaeda? These people are our sworn enemies; if you don’t believe me, just ask them. There are “flickerings” in the intelligence community that the myrmidons of the Arab League flashing peace signs and shouting about “democracy” are about nothing more than establishing the global caliphate. We armed jihadists in Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation at the end of the Cold War; one of those we armed and trained was a fellow named Osama Bin Laden. I think we know how that turned out in the long run.

America is an exceptional nation. (Someone took a poll on this question recently; 87% of those participating agreed that we are unique in history.) Ever since the beginning of the last century, when the lights start going out in the world, and things are at their worst, people look to America to step in and solve the problem.

However, no matter how many times we cast ourselves in the role, we are not the world’s policeman. We are not the moral arbiters of sovereign nations beyond our own, nor do we practice a theological superiority over others. Our position of leadership is based upon setting the best example, not upon imposing the will of kings on those less powerful than us.

I don’t know if it’s being the devil’s advocate on liberal perspectives to point it out, but there is a lesson from our Iraq adventure that cannot be ignored: we cannot interject our way of life into feudal, tribal societies and expect a positive outcome. The nations of the Middle East are based upon 16th century theology, tribal territorialism, and cargo-cult expectations. Sure, they have skyscrapers, computers, and the most modern conveniences, but where did they come from? Besides the oil they were sitting on for generations until the nations of the West uncovered it, what do these nations in turmoil have to offer? Putting it in the hip vernacular, what have they done for us lately?

One last liberal assumption: Bush 43 lied to us about the WMD threat in Iraq. I don’t believe it for a second; the intelligence services of France, Great Britain, Russia, and our own CIA all agreed there was something there. If Saddam was being scammed by his own people, who might have told him they were building a viable nuclear program while skimming millions to their own bank accounts, then they did a dandy job. (I think we ought to be digging up the Syrian desert just across the border, and waterboarding some folks named Assad, but, that’s just me…)

Be that as it may, there was a rationale for invading Iraq; one based on the stipulation of the War Powers Act that specifies we may only act with unilateral military force when there is an imminent threat to our national security. George W. made his case to the United Nations; more importantly, he went to Congress for approval of his “cowboy” actions before they were undertaken. The Constitution has been gutted, and congressional power ceded, since FDR became the last president to request a declaration of war from Congress. Still, Bush made a token attempt to comply with the law, and there appeared to be a threat of international proportions with regard to the WMD. There was an arguable case to be made that Saddam’s Iraq posed a clear and present danger to Israel, America, and his own people.

Okay, so taking the liberal, peacenik point of view, invading Iraq wasn’t such a good idea. I don’t think we got too much return on the investment, and two seconds after our last troops leave the country, tribal war will break out anew, and Iran will occupy the oil fields that liberal propaganda postulated were our sole motivation for the war.

One of the unforeseen consequences of our invasion of Iraq was that we scared the crap out of Moamar Qadaffi, and like the French, he surrendered at the first saber rattle. He renounced state-sponsored terrorism, abandoned his nuclear development program, and generally tried to rejoin the civilized nations of the world. He took steps to become one of “our” dictators, instead of one of “their” dictators we opposed so vigorously during World War III; the Cold War.

Like it or not, Libya is a sovereign nation. Yes, they have been ruled for 40 years by a nutcase who has sheltered terrorists, been implicated in bombings and hundreds of deaths abroad, and rules his pirate’s roost with ruthless abandon. I actually agree with Osama Bamalama in principle: Qadaffi must go.

And here I fall out of synch with the power vacuum in the White House. Our president has chosen sides in another country’s civil war. He has stated publicly that “regime change” is not the goal of our intervention in that country’s affairs, but he mixes the message by saying “Qadaffi must go.” Go where? Then he gives over leadership of whatever “humanitarian effort” he claims to support, relying on the bureaucratic largesse of the UN, and the leadership of the cheese-eating surrender monkeys of France to establish a “no-fly” zone. Citing a “moral obligation” to prevent “genocide,” he throws the weight and military power of the United States behind a collection of questionable characters who may be planning worse purges than the madman currently occupying the palace in Tripoli, should they gain power.

Meanwhile, he completely ignores Congress in favor of the nebulous Arab League, dissembles on TV, and outright lies about “boots on the ground” while CIA negotiates with whatever rabble is wandering around the Qattara Depression. Anyone who watches the Military Channel for 30 minutes knows “FAC” means “Forward Air Controller.” When you see all that dynamic footage of Libyan tanks going “BOOM!” who do you think is on the ground painting those targets with laser designators so those smart JDAMS can turn them into rubble? (Hint: it ain’t that disorganized “rebel rabble” clogging the roads with their “technicals” [AAA gun trucks] and spouting rhetoric at the CNN and FOX reporters.) And by the way, has anyone seen a tank fly lately? What does a $550 million “no-fly” zone have to do with ground-pounders?

And also by the way, that F-15 that went down in Libya last week costs $60 million a copy. Your tax dollars at work; at least the crew was rescued.

I guess King Bobama can do whatever he wants, and damn what we think about it. I developed my political consciousness during the Nixon era, and agreed with Hunter S. Thompson that Nixon tried to steal the Constitution, mistakenly thinking it was stored in the DNC HQ at the Watergate hotel. I’ve since become horribly jaded and cynical about what our supreme political leadership is capable of.

Let me go completely melodramatic and rhetorical for a moment. When the class warfare in Wisconsin and Ohio becomes a national crisis, and people start dying in the streets, do you want the Canadians or the Mexicans to intervene with their armed forces for “humanitarian” reasons? Do you want the French Foreign Legion patrolling our streets, or the RAF bombing our National Guard units as they try to restore order?

Like it or not, that is the situation in Libya. If Kadaffy-duck can re-establish his strongman power for a few more years, then we’ll have to deal with it, and him. If the rebels somehow manage to quit wasting ammunition and overcome the entrenched ruling powers, then we’ll have to hope they mean half of what they’re saying about “democracy.” [And never forget, “democracy” in its purest form is just mob rule, i.e. a lynch mob.]

Someone remarked the other day that Bobama has dropped more bombs than any other Nobel Peace Prize winner. I fell out laughing. Gitmo remains open, there was no recantation of the surge in Iraq, the war in Afghanistan continues apace, and now we have wandered into a third war, this time supporting Muslim partisans.

The fourth war is coming, and in the immortal words of Fred Sanford, this is going to be “the big one, Elizabeth!” We are going to have to fight Iran, and it’s going to be nuclear. Destroying our economy and dispersing our armed forces is a key part of The Manchurian Candidate’s agenda, but it may not have succeeded entirely.

"Oh, no! They say he's got to go! Go, go, Godzilla!"

2011-03-25T15:53:00.008-05:00

Until recently, the term “meltdown” was a euphemism for the mental dissociation that Charlie Sheen is suffering from. Then God—or Mother Earth—shook Japan out like a dirty rug, and everything changed.

I don’t have any money to invest, but ever since the 1980s, when I have a spare dollar, I have placed it in bonds supporting nuclear energy. Back in the ‘80s—when Jackson Browne was singing his anti-nuke songs with his electric guitar powered by the much-maligned Indian Point nuclear power plant in New York—I knew that the future, like it or not, was going to be the conversion from coal/oil technology to atomic energy. Hydro-power is fine where you can find the geology to support it, as are wind and solar alternatives. However, the technology still hasn’t caught up to the expectations that began to take root in the 1960s. When you plug an “electric” car in today, where do you think that electricity comes from? Odds are, it comes from a nuclear power plant.

The old hippie moondog in my DNA looks forward to the day when we can achieve peaceful co-existence with our veggie buddies, and convert solar energy as effortlessly as plants do. There is still a lot of flammable, recyclable dinosaur crap around, if only people will get serious about drilling for it. There are a lot of factors behind the reason we haven’t become energy-independent yet. I am not discounting the sinister conspiracy theories that the tin-foil-hat crowd ascribes to the oil industry. I’m a Luddite who can barely use a computer, and still think a horse is the best form of “green” transportation. Despite this, there are people out there thinking outside the box, and doing astounding things every day. That goes back to the conspiracy theory; I think the technology is there, or we’re right on the edge of a breakthrough.

Be that as it may, we haven’t arrived at that point in history yet. Although there will never be anything to equal the rush of unleashing the equivalent of 400 horses with exploding fire to propel a penis-shaped car at 150 miles per hour, I’m pragmatic enough to acknowledge that we need to take seriously the need for change in our energy requirements. Nuclear energy has been around since before I was born, and we have learned to do more with it than make it go “BANG!” Now, the economics of energy have become a matter of national security, and there are enough rogue nations out there with the potential to make atoms go “BANG!” in our back yard.

We don’t need to be in a state of paralysis if/when those Third World nations turn on us because our theology differs from theirs. Becoming a hostage to a cargo cult is not a fitting end for the world’s last empire, and can get nasty on the personal level. Our national integrity has always been supported by our energetic ability to do whatever is necessary to preserve the nation and the culture, but we’re at a tipping point.

No form of energy stronger than animal power is perfect. Everyone is familiar with the Hollyweird clichés of early oil wildcatters standing exalted, with nature’s nasty bounty spewing out of the well onto them. Who remembers “Red” Adair, who made a living putting out those oil wells when the natural gas ignited? The coal mining industry is rife with hazards, from disease from breathing the dust to cave-ins to sudden explosions. Can any casual reader remember why early miners took caged canaries down into the shafts?

A lot of state capitals, especially in the east, are located in the central parts of the states, because that was the egalitarian location for the majority of citizens to reach the capital by horseback. Despite my equine enthusiasm, we shouldn’t have to return to those days when messages were carried in saddlebags. It’s a new age; we’re all wired, and wireless, and micro-plug brain implants are just around the corner. I’m one of those left on the cusp between wood-burning stoves, oil lamps, and touch-screen cell phones. Few days pass when I don’t wonder what my grandmother—born in 1886—would think if she saw what’s happening today. She went from a day when ladies lifted their skirts in the streets so they wouldn’t drag in horseshit to seeing men walk on the moon, and moon-walking is ancient history by today’s standards.

My point is, we have a cheap, lasting, easily-renewable energy source at our fingertips. Nuclear energy isn’t perfect, but we already have the technology to control it safely. I’m wondering why the Japanese haven’t buried Fukushima Dai-Ichi under tons of containment concrete already, and begun taking bids on a replacement facility. They’re going to need it to keep The Rainbow Bridge lit.

So, what’s the deal with all these panicked gasbags here? The same know-nothings who were worried about caribou snuggling up to the Alaska pipeline for the frictional warmth are now suddenly hysterical about the prospect of millions of Americans becoming irradiated. When the decomposed dinosaurs finally peter out, we’re going to have to find another way to keep the I-Tunes and Internet porn coming, and my best bet is that it’s going to be nuclear energy for a while.

Serendipity, as I write this, “Godzilla” by Blue Oyster Cult comes around on the CD. When the first news of the Japan earthquake penetrated my half-awake consciousness, I woke laughing and mumbling “Oh, no! There goes Tokyo!” Then I saw the footage, and joined a prayer posse, because it’s no laughing matter.

Roland Emmerich, the film director, has done Al Gore’s leftist-propaganda version of the end of the world [“The Day After Tomorrow”] and a splendid CGI remake of “Godzilla.” He also turned out a highly-entertaining vision of an alternative end of the world: “2012”, based on the Mayan calendar that ends in December of next year.

He doesn’t always get the physics right, but I’m with Emmerich and the Mayans. If the Earth’s crust becomes destabilized, there is nothing to keep the nuclear power plants from collapsing into glowing heaps of rubble. In the mean time, allowing for tectonic shifts, bad weather, and terrorist efforts, the technology is available to support nuclear power as a viable alternative to burning crapped-out dinosaurs in our energy generators. I have a vague optimism that one day we’ll live in harmony with the universe like H.G. Wells’s Eloi in The Time Machine, and the sun, wind, and rain will provide everything we need, energy-wise.

Meanwhile, we may have to become Morlocks and bash atomic particles into submission for their energy-rich potential. That’s where my money’s at.

In re: Carlos Estevez

2011-03-25T15:36:00.005-05:00

There’s an old joke that goes: “I don’t have a drinking problem. I drink, I fall down, no problem.”

Yeah, once you hit the floor, you can’t go any lower. I tell myself that every time I fall out of my wheelchair. All you have to do then is find something to support your weight, and drag yourself semi-upright until you can fall back to where you were.

I have a drinking problem; I can never get enough. I learned to admit that I have a problem in Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s one of the few things I carried away from the program.

AA never worked for me, which was what gave resonance to Charlie Sheen’s early rants. I reached an armistice with my personal demons through other means—a program of controlled drinking that excludes the hard stuff, i.e. whiskey—and again, Charlie’s self-professed “recovery” efforts carried some resonance. For some, you have to do it on your own.

During my second or third course in driving school—court-mandated for yet another DUI charge—I was continually annoyed by a fellow who constantly challenged the instructor with smart-ass remarks. On a smoke break in the parking lot, full of grandiose self-righteousness, I called him out and asked why he didn’t try out the local AA hall, just down the street.

“It’s trading one addiction for another,” he replied. “You sound like one of those twelve-steppers who hasn’t figured that out yet.”

His speech was slurred, he was staggering, and I wouldn't have ridden in a car with him on a bet, but he made sense.

About the same time—the mid-‘90s—I had some personal dealings with someone who was suffering from the long-term effects of protracted cocaine use. (I tried coke during my rock & roll days, but I always got a better buzz with a fifth of Bourbon and a bag of pot. But…that’s just me. Don’t try this at home, kids.) I was amazed at the level of hostility, paranoia, and aggressiveness that accrued in my friend from his pharmacological frolics. I re-wired my brain with LSD and hashish, but it only left me somewhat stupefied at the progress of life. The long-term effects of cocaine seemed to leave my buddy with a willingness to start fights in public places over perceived affronts that were not only unreal, but outright delusional. I eventually had to beat him down in a Waffle House—over breakfast—because he thought I was sleeping with his girl friend, whom I barely knew. While the horrified waitresses cleaned up the smashed crockery, a mutual friend who had cowered away from the confrontation remarked “It’s not his fault, y’know. It’s all that damn coke he did [in the ‘80s].”

Charlie Sheen is more of a celebrity these days for his prodigious cocaine and alcohol abuse than for his acting ability. He is a child of privilege, and may have had more emotional pressures than the average bear when he was growing up, due to his father’s fame. He has gotten away with everything short of murder—the name “OJ” ring a bell?—but none of those circumstances excuses bad behavior.

I’m so tired of hearing this “WINNING!” crap. Charlie, you are losing. I have some names for you: Michael Jackson. Heath Ledger. Lenny Bruce. Jimi Hendrix. Janis Joplin. Jim Morrison. Charlie “Yardbird” Parker. "Fatty" Arbuckle. I’m a trivia champion, and can come up with a few dozen more. William Holden got drunk, slipped on what I call a “suicide rug,” busted his head on a hotel-room coffee table, and bled to death.

I got taken to task last week because, in the middle of a discussion of media-dominating Charlie, I remarked “He’s going to die. End of story. He’ll be last week’s news.” The conversation came to an abrupt end, because I’m usually right with my off-the-wall prognostications.

I hope I’m wrong on this one. Charlie has kids, and he needs to be a good daddy to them, not some self-absorbed asshole teetering on the brink of an OD.

When my primary goal was drinking myself to death, I was full of myself. I had all the answers to the unasked questions; I was God. No one could tell me what to do, and if you tried, I’d by-God do the opposite just to see the expression on your face. I finally had to come to terms with my own mortality to figure things out. It took too long, and the cost was too great, but at last I can live in my own skin and be at peace with who and what I am. Better late than never.

History suggests that highly-intelligent people turn out to be alcoholics. I test out well for a dumb-ass, and have a lingering suspicion that smart people drink because they know too much, and it hurts. I’ve known some inherently bright people in my life, and they all sought the solace of alcohol or drugs because substance abuse numbs the pain of “knowing.”

(Good place to insert the only Scripture I can quote off the top of my head:

“And I gave my life to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly,
and I perceived that this, too is vexation.

For in much wisdom is much grief,
And he who increases knowledge increases sorrow.”

—Ecclesiastes; Chapter One, Vs. 17-18—)

I still know too much, and it causes me no end of anguish. However, I know that life is God’s greatest gift, and that knowledge is a comfort, not a burden. I kind of like being alive, even if it’s closer to the end than the beginning, and every day is a struggle. My parents were normal people, and the notion of celebrity is totally alien to me. (Sorry, Freudian shrinks!) I brought my troubles upon myself without being an exceptional child of privilege, and while I haven’t “conquered” them with “violent love” and “violent truth”, I’ve learned to deal with them. (And I didn’t need to wave a machete off a downtown skyscraper, either.) I’m no stranger to grandiosity, but when you move past being the cat’s ass of creation, the let-down can be profound. The secret is living long enough to discover that.

If you look on my Face Book™ profile, you’ll see that “Two and a Half Men” is one the few TV shows I list as a favorite. It’s nasty, arrogant, and in touch with the day-to-day reality we suffer through. I also relate to “Charlie Harper,” the lead character. I never had it so easy, but I’ve been a drunken lout with too much time on my hands and a delusion that the world owes me a living.

Charlie Sheen—a.k.a. Carlos Estevez—has lived his whole life under this shelter. As with most people, I want to believe the best about him; he has overcome his addictive demons and come to terms with his life. Okay, AA didn’t work for you, like it didn’t work for me. Maybe that old drunk was right; it’s people trading blackout drunks for meetings. Maybe you found a true path with your “home cure.” Perhaps you have a legitimate industry beef with series writer Chuck Lorre and CBS. Time and the courts will tell on that one.

Lord, what I wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with this guy! It’s my own left-over grandiosity informing me, but I might be able to talk some sense to this squirrel.

Then, again, he may be able to figure it out on his own. But, being wheeled fast on an ER gurney while gasping “Not yet! Not yet!” is not the time or place.

Good luck, Charlie. When the intervention comes, embrace it violently and accept the torpedo of truth. You don’t have too many options left. Let's hope you can fall back to where you were.

"Dude, where's my gig?"

2011-02-28T19:33:00.001-05:00

I don’t agree with much of what Franklin D. Roosevelt stood for. Despite the fact that he led The Greatest Generation—that of my father—through the most decisive conflict of modern times, I consider him to be one of the most dangerous men of the 20th century. He didn’t engage in genocide, and managed to preserve some important remnants of the Founding Fathers’ ideals, but his socialistic beliefs leave me cold, and paved the way for the turmoil that is engulfing America today.

However, I am in accord with him on one thing. When he stated that the notion of public servants engaging in collective bargaining with the politicians who are elected by the taxpayers represents the worst sort of conflict of interest, he was spot on.

Class warfare is breaking out across the United States. Those cradle-to-grave-robbers who have bought the Democrat rhetoric about “the richest one percent” are now taking to the streets because some politicians are suggesting that they contribute to their own future well-being instead of expecting European-style entitlements simply for showing up at the office for a few years. I’m fascinated at how this is going to shake out in the coming weeks.

When I finally stumbled into college, and spent more time playing rock & roll than studying, I got my first taste of union largesse. I got into a band that was moderately successful in the local market—Atlanta; a launching pad for national acts—and we were continually visited by representatives of the musician’s union during the late ‘70s. These erstwhile individuals, who usually resembled Burt Young in the “Rocky” movies with the porkpie hat and cigar, would show up at gigs, stopping us at the stage door and asking if we were members of the union. We weren’t, and would tell them as much. The entreaties that would follow ranged from proffered union cards to threats that we were violating the rights of dues-paying musicians, and should we ever be offered a big-league recording contract, we would never be allowed to sign unless we were card-carrying union members.

The last, and most memorable confrontation, came outside the back door of The Great Southeastern Music Hall, a long-gone but much-revered venue in its day. (Among other events, the SEMH was where The Sex Pistols opened their American tour a week before we opened for the B-52s back in the day.) An ice storm had delayed our arrival for sound check, and since we had no roadies, we were humping several tons of amps, stage props, and drums into the club from a back alley crowded with vehicles. The bulk of the equipment was inside, and Tim Trautman—the composer of our biggest local radio hits, “Disco Chainsaw” and “Pet Rock”—and I were leaning on our trucks, having a smoke before we went in to assemble the R&R paraphernalia.

Suddenly, a shadowy figure appeared, replete with the aforementioned cigar and hat.

“You guys playing here tonight?” he asked. (He might as well have said “Youse” like a movie gangster, to make the image complete.)

We nodded. We’d been here before.

The dark figure launched into a spiel about the union, starving musicians earning fair compensation for our slavish hard work, and how anybody that was anybody belonged to the AFM. [American Federation of Musicians]

Tim brought the conversation to a sensational halt.

“Hey!” he asked the guy. “You gonna get us any gigs?”

“Uh, er, ah, well, no…” came the reply.

“Then what good are you?” Tim walked inside the club to set up his equipment, and I followed a moment later.

We continued to work, opening for national acts like the Ramones, Ronnie Montrose, The Tubes, The Police, Joan Jett, and several times for the B-52s after they hit the big time. We signed a recording contract, I played drums for Joe Walsh on the “Turn to Stone” track on his album “The Smoker You Drink, the Player You Get” before he joined The Eagles, and our vinyl EP got extensive radio play on Atlanta stations. No one from the AFM or any other union ever approached us again. Our band was mentioned in a “Newsweek” article about the resurgence of Southern rock in 1988. Personnel changes doomed the band, not the threat of an amorphous union. Our modest success was based on talent and ambition, not on the collective bargaining of a parasitical entity.

Unions had a place in history and served a useful function in society when they protected hard-put laborers from exploitation and other predations of the robber barons. Those days are long gone, and aside from minimal oversight functions, there is no need for the antiquated “Organized Labor” movement as it exists today. Morons chanting partisan political slogans while blocking traffic and clogging lobbies have nothing to do with the plight of the working man.

And FDR was right: public servants negotiating with public servants is a horrible conflict of interest. Taxpayers elect the politicians, who promise OPM [Other People’s Money] to union members—other public servants, as in the Wisconsin brouhaha—in return for the support and votes of those union members. Somewhere in this loop, the taxpayers are excluded. “Public service” becomes the public serving the elite few, not the other way ‘round as it should be.

This morning’s news contained an item about 200 ill or disabled outpatients in New Jersey kicked to the curb because two-thirds of the [unionized] transit drivers of Monmouth County called in sick so they could attend a “day of solidarity” rally. I keep seeing a sign displayed in Madison: “RNs [registered nurses]…Strong unions protect our patients.” Every time I see that clip, I wonder, when the nurse’s union calls a strike, how many sick people will be left gasping for life in their beds? Who’s going to protect the gravely ill when the “strong unions” are calling in “sick” because their wages are only 25% higher than the private sector?

I don’t even want to get started on the teachers who are not only denying education to their charges in state-run schools in Wisconsin, but are being urged to co-opt children as pawns by dragging them to the partisan rallies. Hillary Clinton was the pre-eminent example of pimping kids for political ends, but today’s liberal agenda goes way beyond her simplistic “It Takes a Village” collectivism. I think there is a viable argument against state-schooling of any sort. There is no constitutional guarantee of “an education.” Back in the day, you got it from your parents, you learned it on your own, or you made your mark and hoped for the best. An educated society is a strong society, but until there is a national system of charter schools, vouchers, recognition of home schooling without governmental intervention, and agenda-free public education for the neediest among us, I don’t want to hear any more bitching about how hard a teaching career is. Like the military and the ideal of politics, it’s volunteer work. If you’re not motivated by a genuine concern for those you serve, then take your degree in basket-weaving and obscure European literature to the private sector, and let me know how that works out for you.

“You gonna get me any gigs? No? Then what good are you?”

Ka-Daffy Duck and the Pirates

2011-02-28T19:13:00.003-05:00

I’m deliberately steering away from the Middle East situations until Muamar Qadaffi is dead or in hiding. There’s too much rhetoric about “freedom-loving people” looking for “change they can count on” for me to be easy about the dominoes tumbling in those countries. The majority of Americans voted for “fundamental change” in this country, and how’s that working out for you?

I see the coming of a unified, global caliphate dedicated to the worst tenets of Islam, not anything resembling our Western ideals of democracy. Remember, “democracy” is the simplest form of majority rule, and the best example of that is a lynch mob.

Bear in mind, also, that a “People’s Republic” is, in theory, a nation of law, but only a chosen few of “the people” get to make the laws.

Pirates weren’t unionized. They didn’t engage in collective bargaining. They took what they wanted, and those resisters who survived their initial onslaught were shoved overboard or sodomized and sold into slavery.

I suppose, in the romanticized sense of pirates, we could classify Qadaffi as one. He took what he wanted, his rule was absolute, and if you disagreed with him, your life was short and miserable. He was a terrorist madman until George W. Bush started slapping dictators and terrorists around in the region; Qadaffi’s rapprochement with the civilized nations of the world after the invasion of Iraq proved that he is also a coward; nothing more. Even when the Muslim Brotherhood takes over Libya, gasoline soars to $7 a gallon, and state-sponsored terrorism becomes the norm, the world will be slightly better off when Qadaffi goes to claim his 27 virgins in heathen’s paradise.

Meanwhile, real pirates are under sail in the Gulf of Aden, the Indian Ocean, and environs. Those who originally undertook the traditions of the Barbary Pirates captured cargo and took hostages; they understood that the weakness of the infidels is our resources and assets, and we will pay any price to recover them undamaged.

Now, the pirate “industry” has been taken over by a new generation. These children of anarchy are prone to panic, and have wasted their assets, most recently murdering four Americans in a blind panic because they—the pirates—were being tracked by a US warship after capturing the yacht the Americans were sailing on to circumnavigate the globe. The pirate “problem” is like the weather; everyone talks about it, but no one seems to be able to do anything about it.

I have a cheap and easy solution to this problem. Private carriers are reluctant to arm their commercial crews. Like bank tellers, merchant seamen operating in the hazardous areas are instructed to comply with hostage-takers. The parent company will pay up, and hope for the best. It’s only a matter of time before we have a repeat of the Achille Lauro horror of the 1980s, wherein a cruise ship was hijacked and a crippled Jewish man in a wheelchair—Leon Klinghoffer—was murdered and shoved overboard by Islamic terrorists.

I had a vigorous argument with a like-minded friend when I first floated this proposition a while back. He insisted that my concept was based upon incidents occurring during War I, and I insisted that at the beginning of War II, similar tactics were employed, with diminished returns. Further research shows that two waves of these specialized ships were dispatched from Germany during the early days of War II, winning my initial argument. (Sorry, Mack!) They had better luck during War I, when the world was a simpler place, but they scored in 1939-41, too.

What we need now is a couple of hilfskreuzers; also known as commerce raiders.

The idea was that these converted refrigerator ships—faster than conventional freighters—would conceal six-inch deck guns and other armaments. Flying false flags of neutral countries, these ships would draw to close quarters with merchantmen of Allied countries, drop disguising panels, raise the German flag at the last moment, and sink the unarmed prey.

The open sea is a huge place, and a modern warship is distinguishable for miles. (The median visual distance to the horizon from sea level, i.e. standing on the beach at water’s edge, is 18.5 miles.) A cruiser, destroyer, or fast frigate is not going to sneak up on anyone. Besides, the point isn’t to go after anybody. What we want to do is run a “honey trap.”

The trend among the modern pirates is to go after oil tankers, with yachts running a close second. Container ships are also high-priority, as they carry millions of dollars worth of goodies. The crews are invaluable, and the pirates count on our regard for human life as a weakness they can exploit, too.

I’m sure that somewhere on the world market, there is a disused oil tanker, container ship, cruise liner, and yacht. While we, as a nation, are spending billions of dollars for liberal vote-buying schemes, surely we could spare a few million to buy some of these derelicts. Those ships could then be run into northern shipyards—languishing since our foreign trade deficit has destroyed the shipping industry—and a few jobs could be “created” by the government to refit these hulls into commerce raiders. Lots of rust scraping and painting, and while we’re at it, installation of drop panels on the sides, high-velocity 105 mm deck guns, 40 mm Bofors quad guns, and some suitably disguised 20 mm radar-guided Phalanx Gatling guns. Oh, and some M-2 .50 caliber Browning “Ma Deuces” that can quickly be carried on deck and dropped into rail mounts for the small stuff. The heavier weapons can be deck-mounted behind the drop panels, ready for the crew service of regular-service US sailors upon command.

It is arguable that you don’t want to put cruise-ship passengers or civilian merchant seamen at risk by arming them and encouraging resistance to boarding by pirates. The response of the crew of the Maersk Alabama two years ago proves that merchant seamen will fight when hijacked, but I am advocating a strict military response; short, fast, and to the point.

Once equipped, put these false-flag vessels out into the region of piracy. Move them covertly to ports of origin for many of the favored pirates’ targets, then have them sail slowly past the coast of Somalia (since that’s where most of the lawlessness seems to originate.) When the seagoing cowboys ride out in their speedboats and fire the first shots at their “easy” prey, heave to in the water, drop the sides, and sink the bastards. Problem solved.

Yes, modern pirates use GPS technology and sophisticated radio communications. The first few assaults may be sunk so hard-and-fast that they may not have time to get a radio message off, but the word will get out. There are ships out there that are not what they appear to be. Suddenly, the odds have gone up dramatically for the quick-buck artists. That oil tanker may only be carrying water for ballast to make it ride low in the water, and the only passengers on that cruise ship may be the Marines bunking below deck. That yacht they thought carried four innocent civilians may suddenly separate into two components like the Disco Volante in “Thunderball”, and come after them on hydrofoils with guns blazing.

I used to dissuade wild game hunters with the remark that if the rabbits and deer could shoot back, a lot of those fearless hunters would suddenly take up needlepoint. If we possessed the national will to undertake my proposal, the world would be a safer place, and lawless savages would have to think of another scam. The ships would be manned by volunteer military personnel, and all acts of aggression would transpire in open [international] waters. A lot of governments and families would be spared a lot of grief without raising a finger. As in the past, sit back and relax. America will take care of it.

Unfortunately, this is just a juvenile maritime fantasy. More people are willing to apologize for the conditions of poverty that allegedly drove the pirates to their way of life than are willing to do something about the “problem” of lawless savagery.

Still, I’d have the commerce raider’s PA blaring Cheap Trick’s rendition of Fats Domino’s “Ain’t That a Shame” when the sides dropped and the deck guns swung to bear. That might give somebody something to think about.

Summertime Blues/Wintertime Blues

2011-02-03T16:33:00.004-05:00

I find myself caught in that strange purgatory that results from Seasonal Affective Disorder, a.k.a. SAD, combined with depression, hibernation instinct, disgust with the world, and a mild amusement at the disintegration of Life As We Know It.

There is a birthday coming up; not a significant one, but every year at this time, I feel that I should poke my head out from under the flat rock and look at the world I’m still living in.

It is not a happy place.

The blood had not dried on the floor of the Tucson Safeway before the gun-grabbers and the speech police jumped out of the woodwork with their inevitable proclamations. Those People never learn, and they never let a catastrophe go to waste when there is political mileage to be made. The “memorial” pep rally that dishonored the dead was more upsetting than the actual fact of the shooting of Congresswoman Giffords and the others. I wanted to write something timely about it, but gave in to the inner voice that cautioned me to wait a while. The Manchurian Candidate was passingly presidential in his call for civil discourse; a call that was promptly ignored by his myrmidons. I prayed for that woman, and God gave her a break. I know way too much about the secular aspects of the incident; a 9mm is a high-velocity bullet, and at a range of thirty inches, passed through so swiftly that it had little time to do damage. I keep getting bad vibes and resonance off a recent remark about not assigning too much credence to “the supernatural,” but thank you anyway, Lord. Gabrielle Giffords will continue to enjoy your greatest gift of life for a while longer. If he goes up, may her husband fly and return safely from the last mission America will fly in outer space.

I looked up “deranged” in my American Heritage dictionary, and there was a picture of Jared Loughner; the grinning, shaven-headed mug shot that has confronted us for over a month. I am making this up, of course, but he is the poster boy for lunacy for the foreseeable future. The opportunistic hypocrites who seek to make him out to be a product of free speech and “vitriolic rhetoric” will reap what they have sown. Hopefully, so will he. After a thorough grilling by forensic shrinks and profilers, he will get the Really Big Shot and cease to be a waste of protoplasm.

As for the caliber of intellect that guides our country, I refer the Constant Reader to Charles “Chuckie-doll” Shumer, the senior senator from New York. This dork is on record as saying that the three branches of government are the Congress [House of Representatives], the Senate, and the White House.

Before I dropped out of high school, I already knew that the three branches of government are the Legislative [House and Senate—where the laws are made], the Judicial, and the Executive [that CEO office in the White House that we pay way too much attention to].

I got an e-mail the other day about “common tater” Chris Matthews believing the Panama Canal is the primary waterway of the Middle East. (I saw “Lawrence of Arabia” and happen to know that’s the Suez Canal. I think Panama’s down south somewhere on this side of the world.)

My reply was this: “What do I expect from a blow-dried plastic banana mouthing the party line on the liberal network? Exactly what I expect in the way of decisive action from The Manchurian Candidate in dealing with the tumbling dominos in the Middle East...nothing.”

I love a revolution as much as the next radical, but I don’t see anything good coming out of Egypt or any of the other tumbling tyrannies in the Middle East. There is no such city-state as “Terror,” and the whole “war on terror” has been an unfortunate euphemism for a fact of life that no one wants to face up to: the terrible clash of cultures and beliefs that we are involved in. A few years ago our interventionism in Iraq and Afghanistan was called “the new Crusade” by radical Islamists. It goes far beyond that. When Nikita Khrushchev banged his shoe at the UN and said “we will bury you,” he was talking trash. Those who preach the inevitability of sharia law and the dhimmitude [slavery to Islam] of the “infidels” are far more serious and determined than the communist utopians of my childhood.

What big brains like Chuckie-doll Shumer and Osama Bamalama refuse to realize is that events since War II have been determined by brush wars between “our” dictators and “theirs.” We already fought World War III in slow motion on this premise. Now, we are in War IV. Hosne Mubarak rose to power literally soaked in the blood of Anwar Sadat when the Egyptian military blew Sadat’s hapless ass away. The United States has depended on the allegiance of erstwhile dictators in places like the Philippines, Panama, Vietnam, and numerous South American countries since America became an empire. When those dictators—Manuel Noriega comes immediately to mind—wandered off the reservation, we swatted them down. JFK told Fidel Castro to take a hike when the latter approached the US for recognition, driving him into the bosom of the Soviet Union. Does the name Salvador Allende ring a bell with anyone? (Can any state-schooled American still find Chile on a world map?)

And make no mistake about it, America is the last empire. What differentiates us from those of the past is that—as a people—we never sought some imperial aspiration. It devolved upon us as a kind of karma for being the last, best hope of humanity. There is much in our national past that still brings shame to this very day, but those were the growing pains of a great nation. As someone much wiser said a long time ago: “Never apologize. Just move ahead and do the best you can.” (What, you want a quote citation? Okay, I said that. So there…)

Maybe it’s just the gloom of the weather, the winter blues, and all this snow that has me so down. There was a flash of hope last November, when the people made their voices heard at the polls in a massive rejection of the current administration’s policies. For a brief moment, it seemed that I was in step with the majority who spoke out against the socialist utopian fantasies that have determined our national policy for the last two years. I thought that the United States of America had a fighting chance to survive.

Now, I don’t think we’ll survive the next twenty-three months.

I had hoped that we could weather four years of incompetent leadership and avoid a major shit-storm until we turn The Red Herring out late next year. Alas, events have overtaken us.

We have lost.

Call it “the war on terror,” call it the “holy war,” call it anything that makes you comfortable enough to watch “American Idol” instead of the news. We have lost. There is no national will to win, as with The Greatest Generation when War II engulfed us. In our guilty rush to “inclusiveness” and “diversity” we have laid ourselves bare and become helpless. The enemy of humanity is not at the gates; it is inside the compound.

Maybe it’s seasonal nihilism, but the only solution I can see to the problem is to break out the nukes and burn the house down to rid it of a cockroach infestation. This is untenable and unthinkable; it recalls a reproach from my war-gaming days: “If you want to move from tactical to strategic nuclear response, you might as well pour lighter fluid on the map and set a match to it.” [This from Ye Olde Days when war games were played with cardboard counters and paper maps.]

As I said in my e-mail about Matthews and his ignorance, I’m glad I’ll outrun the worst of it. If my cancer comes back tomorrow, I don’t think I’ll seek treatment again. I’d rather draw my last breath remembering America as it was than acknowledge the nation becoming some caliphate of a heathen devolution into a past where unquestioning obedience to the “supernatural” was the law, and venal “sins” are punishable by death or mutilation.

Like Puxatawney Phil, the groundhog, I stuck my head up for a moment. The shadows I see don’t portend another six weeks of winter. They are harbingers of the end of civilization, and the onset of The New Dark Ages. If you’re a woman, better get started sewing your burqhua, and if you’re a man, get ready for submission or death by stoning if you’re not a True Believer.

We have lost.

Someone else's murder Part II

2011-01-18T20:43:00.002-05:00

The end of something horrible took place on New Year’s Day. We start each new year with high hopes, and plans for a better future.

A few years ago, a girl named Meredith Emerson went hiking in Vogel State Park, a few dozen miles from here next to a place unfortunately called Blood Mountain. She was picked off by a predator who had wandered up here in search of easy prey, which he found. He led arresting officers to Ms. Emerson’s body, and will spend the rest of his life in prison…we hope.

On 11 August 2009, a woman named Kristi Cornwell left her parent’s home and went jogging on Jones Creek Road, also not that far by country miles from where Ms. Possum and I live.

She was talking to her boyfriend in Atlanta—150 miles from here—when she was heard to say “Please don’t take me.” Her cell phone was found later, even closer to where we live.

The story of Kristi Cornwell’s disappearance made national headlines. Exhaustive searches were conducted. Locally, the efforts to find Ms. Cornwell were heroic and untiring. Community awareness was kept at a heightened stage.

Last November, Ms. Cornwell’s abduction was the subject of an hour-long episode of Discovery ID’s series “Disappeared.” My refrigerator still has a pinned-up sketch of the suspect and a “vehicle of interest” that was being sought by the GBI.

Kristi’s brother never gave up. The day she disappeared, he was up here from Atlanta in two hours, and he never left. I surmise I saw him more than once, flying up and down the Dooley Creek flats in a helicopter that continually prowled the area. Volunteers combed the extensive woodlands and national forests of this vicinity. Cadaver dogs, profilers…nothing was spared, as it should be.

Nothing was ever found.

On New Year’s Day, acting on a tip from the GBI that a prime suspect’s cell phone had “pinged” a tower off Moccasin Road—about six miles from here—Ms. Cornwell’s brother entered the woods. Less than 100 yards from the road, he found her charred, skeletal remains. The killer burned and partially buried her body. An autopsy is pending to determine the exact cause of death, but forensic examination has positively identified her.

As someone with a passing acquaintance of the cynical nature of law enforcement, I did not maintain the family’s hope that this ordeal would turn out otherwise. It was not a question of “if,” it was a question of “when.”

That question has been answered. It is hard to write about this without crying. I know exactly how Kristi Cornwell’s family feels. My father was murdered by a serial killer in 1985. No arrest was ever made, although the authorities knew the identity of the killer. Knowing something and proving it in a court of law is apples and oranges.

My father’s killer fell under a truck in the 1990s, proving that there is a God. The prime suspect in Ms. Cornwell’s murder killed himself in 2010. Cornered by law enforcement seeking to apprehend him for a kidnap/rape in an adjoining county, and suspected of an attempted snatch not far from here in North Carolina, the creature put a gun to his head and possibly did the world a favor.

(Although I know his name, I maintain a policy of not mentioning the names of killers, nor will I deign to call such an animal a man.)

The case will remain open, as is my father’s. There is no statute of limitations on murder, and until there is a conviction, there is no so-called “closure.”

In fact, there is never “closure” in a murder. People who speak of such an academic, abstract concept are just that: academicians or talk-show hosts who are educated way beyond their intelligence. There is no nostrum for the next-of-kin; there is no balm we can rub in our chests and wake up in the morning not thinking about and missing those taken from us. My father would have been 103 this past month. It’s doubtful he would have made it that far under normal circumstances, but his killer robbed him of God’s allotment of days. His killer took from me the chance to hug him and say “good-bye” under the peaceful conditions of our appointed times.

Ms. Cornwell was decades younger than my father. She has a son who is old enough to understand the horror of what has happened. Her parents must suffer the agony of burying a child, which is never supposed to happen in the natural course of events. My prayers are with them, that they may find the peace and strength to carry on.

The community at large will never know if that mook who took his own life was the one who murdered Ms. Cornwell, or if there is another predator living among us.

(Just days after I wrote this, some lunatic shot an Arizona congresswoman. I looked up “deranged” in my dictionary, and his grinning mug shot was in there. More on that in a bit.)

White Christmas/Black Christmas

2011-01-06T23:19:00.008-05:00

25 December 2010

0900: The alarm clock goes off; classical music and a repeating tone from Hell. I unglue my eyes and stare at the unnatural brightness reflecting in through the bedroom windows. It has snowed during the night, as predicted. For the first time since 1882, we are going to have a white Christmas in Georgia.

This is going to be cool.

0930: The special gourmet Christmas coffee is brewing. The snow is continuing to fall. It’s already four to six inches deep on the fence, but it’s still cool. I’m a Georgia native, and totally enamored of white stuff falling from the sky.

1030: The older daughter calls. She and her husband flew in from the Left Coast the day before, getting into Hartsfield just ahead of the oncoming weather front, and driving 150 miles from Atlanta into the mountains. This is going to be the first full-family Christmas gathering in 13 years. Presents have been wrapped, and Sicilian banana bread and fudge has been made in anticipation. Carpets are vacuumed, walls have been painted, and appliances are humming with anticipation.

1100: The younger daughter calls. She and her fiancé are on the road, driving up from Ft. Benning in the middle of the state. The snow continues to fall, but we are assured that the roads are fine and the People’s Republic of Atlanta is a deserted wasteland.

1130: The older daughter calls again. They will be leaving the Holiday Inn Express shortly. They plan to fly low and slow, timing their arrival with that of the younger kidlet and her beau.

1140: I call the neighbors who share the entrance of the goat-path driveway up Scorpion Hill, asking if they are going out, and if not, will they mind if the kids’ cars block their driveway? I am advised that they were out in their Jeep 4X4 that morning; the roads were already treacherous at 0800, and they have cancelled a planned journey to Atlanta. Hindsight says this should have been my first clue. I am further advised that perhaps our visitors should park in Gary and June’s driveway, across the road from the base of Scorpion Hill, since it is flat and level with the roadway. Gary & June are in Florida, and won’t mind a bit.

This should have been my second clue.

1215: The younger daughter and her fiancé are turning off the four-lane from Atlanta onto the major artery that serves this end of the woods. Minutes later, the older daughter calls to state that she and her hubby are departing the Holiday Inn in town. In normal conditions, it takes about thirty minutes to drive the fifteen miles from in-town to here.

1245: The younger daughter calls to announce that she and her fiancé have encountered what is now referred to as “the hill from Hell” and have gone off the high side. They are nose-down in a ditch, but the vehicular damage is described as “cosmetic.” They are given a number for a reliable towing service.

1315: The older daughter calls to say they turned off the US highway to encounter people standing in the secondary road waving them down. An intrepid 4X4 is flipped over in a ditch. “Don’t even think about trying to cross the dam or go any further!” they are told.

Did I mention that the snow is continuing to fall during this elapsed time from 0900 to 1300? It’s now up to eleven inches and counting.

1330: Ms. Possum and I venture onto the deck to watch the falling snow and reflect on the muffled silence. At one point, I remark that “it sure is pretty.” I get a dirty look from the lady who grew up in Michigan, where it apparently snows on a regular basis.

1345: The older daughter calls to say she and her old man are backtracking down the four-lane to join the younger daughter and her beau while they wait for the tow truck. It is a seller’s market on towing services, and the waits may be interminable.

1400: Ms. Possum and I retire to the warmth of the house. She moves to the non-smoking area of the house, and I settle in with a cup of the gourmet Christmas coffee and a cigarette to brood on the events of the day.

1410: The power goes off. My first remark? “Oh, perfect!” The rest is unprintable.

1411: I call the EMC to report the outage. The line is busy, and continues in this mode until 1630.

1500: I try to light the gas logs in the living room. The piezeo-electric starter refuses to strike a spark. When I bought the house, the owners said “Even if there’s a power failure, you’ll have heat.” They lied.

1631: I reach the dispatcher at the EMC, asking simply “How bad is this?” He replies that 50,000 customers in five counties are down. “It’ll be about six hours before a truck can get to your neighborhood to even see what’s wrong with the line.”

1700: After a conversation about how symptoms of exposure can set in at less than 50°, I inform Ms. Possum that we may have to evacuate. The older daughter has called, saying that they spent four hours waiting with her sister for a tow truck, but are now back at the Holiday Inn Express, where the power is also out.

1702: I call 911. I ask the dispatcher a simple question: “What is your plan for evacuation of the aged and disabled if this massive power failure continues?”

His reply: “There is no plan.”

“So old people are going to freeze to death, and I have to go skiing in my wheelchair?”

“I can send an ambulance or a patrol car, but from what you’re telling me, they won’t make it up your driveway.”

Faced with the specter of two deputies carrying me down Scorpion Hill, then returning for the three-legged cat, the dog, Ms. Possum, and my wheelchair—in no particular order—I tell the dispatcher we’ll call him back.

More heavy winter clothes are broken out, and grins are exchanged at the prospect of bunking in fully-clothed to conserve body heat.

1800: Hunger becomes a concern. The plan was for everybody to go to the Tin Loong Chinese restaurant for the all-you-can-eat buffet, followed by home-made fudge at The Possum Den for dessert. We have not eaten all day in anticipation of this plan. I mutter that we have plenty of canned corn beef hash, beanie-weenie, and other survivalist-type rations in the boxes in the hall closet.

1805: We open a box of home-made trail mix gifted from one of Ms. Possum’s co-workers. It is washed down with cheap box wine and some of the aforementioned Sicilian fudge.

1930: We go to bed under four layers of blankets. So much for Christmas…

2350: As I lay in bed, trying to remember the coldest night I ever spent—ironically, sleeping on two bales of hay under a Confederate greatcoat in Olustee, Florida—the power pops back on. Everything in the house roars back to life…except the big TV in the living room.

26 December 2010

0930: Ms. Possum receives a text message from the younger daughter. After getting out of the ditch, they have made their way back to the four-lane, cut over to Chattanooga, and after picking up I-75 and driving all night, are an hour away from reaching Michigan and her fiancés’ parents’ house.

1130: The older daughter calls to say the she and her husband are going to make another run at Scorpion Hill. They didn’t fly 3000 miles from Sodom by the Bay, and drive 150 miles ahead of a blizzard, to be rebuffed by the last 15 miles.

1230: The older daughter calls again, to announce that they have gone into the ditch at the corner of our subdivision road, and they will be walking the last mile. Ms. Possum grabs her ski poles, and despite my admonitions, goes out to meet them. I sit uselessly on the deck in my wheelchair and stare into the white silence.

1300-1430: The older daughter and her husband spend some quality time with us.

1430-1445: Six different towing services are called to extricate the car from the ditch at the top of the hill. The older daughter keeps whispering: “Tell them we’ll pay cash, and bonuses!” One finally replies, and says he’ll be there in an hour. The older daughter and her husband gather their Christmas gifts, and all the clean cat litter we can spare, and head out for the corner.

1600: As it gets dark and we begin to worry excessively, the older daughter calls to report the following: The cat litter not only didn’t provide traction, it caused their car to slide further into the ditch. When the tow truck arrived, it promptly got stuck. After the driver winched himself out of trouble and gave the kids a ride back to the Holiday Inn, the older daughter handed him three $20 bills and whispered: “Don’t forget us in the morning.”

Monday 27 December 2010

1030: The older daughter calls to say that tow truck driver didn’t forget them. He brought chains, rock salt, and a come-along winch, and got them on the road. She and her old man beat feet to Atlanta to visit friends there before returning to the Bay Area on Thursday.

1100: It is discovered that the external appliance surge protector, leased at considerable expense from the EMC, did not shield the large TV from the surge when the power popped back on Saturday night.

1130-1730: The back-up 19” TV is brought out of retirement, so the some-times sports fan can squint at the final football game of the home team’s season. The Falcons lost. Perfect…

Monday 3 January 2011

0830: The holidays from Hell are over. The flood damage from back in September has been repaired, and there are few dealings pending with the insurance company. There are bills piled up on the side table. Time to take care of business: a couple of calls, fax the personal property loss inventory, and pay a few creditors off by check or phone call. But first, a cup of the last of the gourmet Christmas coffee, and the first cigarette of the day. Ten or fifteen minutes worth of news, to make sure we’re not at war with anyone new.

The back-up tiny TV is on, the coffee is brewed, the heater is warming the room. I set my mug down, transition from my wheelchair into my easy chair, dig out a smoke, and sigh. I flick my Zippo, and as I do so, the small TV goes “pop” and refuses to come back on.

Perfect.

"Mein Fuehrer, I can walk!" (Dr. Strangelove; 1964)

2010-12-07T00:15:00.005-05:00

Upon his return from a surprise visit to the troops in Afghanistan, President Obama unveils the new salute he will soon make mandatory for all military personnel, and optional for “all citizens who are not our enemies.”

The president emphasized that the new tribute to forward-thinking, unilateral bi-partisanship is based upon “an Old-World European model” of the last century, and represents “a proper degree of respect toward the ideals of progressive, strong leadership” as well as “a role model for the world to admire in days to come.”

White House Chief of Protocol Otto Schieskopf has issued a public memorandum that for the salute to be properly executed, the fingers must be firmly pressed together, and the arm extended rigidly at a 45° angle.

“The precise rendering of the salutation is only mandatory for those offering tribute to our leader,” Minister Schieskopf stated. “He may return the greeting in whatever casual manner suits his temperament of the moment. He is a busy man, and cannot be distracted by details."

'Tis the season to be stupid...fa la la la la...

2010-12-06T23:44:00.003-05:00

I learned this from a person of questionable character some years ago:

Now that we’re into the season, here’s a way to increase the take on your Christmas Club Fund, no matter how bad the economic times are…

This requires some capital investment, as most entrepreneurial enterprises do. It also requires some sales expertise, and some manual labor, especially the legwork involved with the getaway.

1. Rent a truck. A single-axle U-Haul will do; nothing too large, but big enough to hold a few dozen large boxes. Pay cash, and use a false name.

2. Find a manufacturer, and buy a couple dozen cardboard boxes of sufficient size to hold an average large-screen television. Having a brand-name electronics logo—like “Sony” or “Magnavox”—printed on the box is optional, but can’t hurt. Credibility is essential, and again, you want to pay cash for this and all other commodities.

3. Cruise around in your rented truck until you locate a deadfall of tree stumps, or a stash of tumbled boulders. The closer to the roadway the better, as you have to hump these to the truck and place them inside the cardboard boxes you purchased. Size matters; there can be no bulges or protruding edges on the boxes. The weight of the rocks or stumps should approximate that of an average large-screen TV. Go to Target or Wally World and heft a display model for a general idea of the weight range.

4. Truck down to ACE hardware or a similar purveyor and buy a box-bander; one of those torque-wrench things that tightens metal strips around a cardboard box. Use at least two strips per box, and seal all the boxes containing the stumps and rocks you have collected.

5. Go and rent the finest quality large-screen TV you can afford. Beg, borrow, steal or rent a portable generator that will supply the 120 VAC power to plug the TV in and make it work.

Conceal the generator behind the boxes you have arranged in the truck. Place the TV facing out, so that when you open the rear door of the truck, the screen is visible to anyone walking past the back of the truck. (Note: in case of reception problems with local stations, add a DVD player and a couple of recently released popular movies to your set-up rental list. Again, pay cash for everything!)

When the TV is displaying properly off the back of the truck, drive to the nearest shopping mall and pick a parking space at a strategic distance between the outermost reaches of the parking lot and the nearest entrance to the mall. Crank up the generator, turn the TV on, open the cargo door of the truck, and turn the volume up.

The human eye is attracted to: (a) motion in any environment, and (b) anything that flickers on a picture tube or LCD display. (If you don’t believe this, turn on a TV at a crowded party, and see how quickly the conversation dies as the revelers become distracted by the on-screen antics.)

When a small crowd—no more than six at a time—gathers, pick your mark and tell them how you bought a truckload of these fine TVs at cost, only to discover that your end-use purchaser was recalcitrant about the deal, so you’re stuck with these ($2000) sets for ($1000) a copy. You have to get rid of these burdens, and you’ll forgo any profit by making these fine products available for what you paid. For ($1000—I don’t know what a new TV costs, so let’s guesstimate) you’ll haul one off the truck and place it in their car. (A good salesman can not only pick his customer, but is willing to go the extra mile and hump the box to the waiting vehicle.)

Entranced by the dancing figures on the screen, and frustrated by the fervor of Christmas shopping in the adjacent mall, and the rudeness of the corporate salespeople therein, one out of the six will go for it. They hand you a thousand dollars in cash, and you, in turn, put an appropriately labeled box in the trunk of their car.

(If anyone asks, you don’t have a pair of cutters to snap the bands on the boxes and show them that they contain identical models of the display TV chirping merrily in the background. Besides, that would void the warranty if the box was opened.)

Timing is of the essence; 45-90 minutes is the max time for remaining in one location. A savvy salesman is an observant one; if you notice a mall security person talking into their blazer cuff, it’s time to shut the back door and calmly drive away. Metropolitan areas of any substance have numerous malls, and they do not communicate and share data with each other.

When the satisfied customer gets home, opens the box, and discovers that they bought a moss-covered stump or a lichen-encrusted boulder, the odds are approximately 9-to-1 that they won’t even call the police. There is pride involved here, and no one wants to admit that their avarice got the better of their common sense. Bad kidlets get a lump of coal in their Christmas stocking; dumb kidlets get a rock in a box.

I am reliably informed that this little pre-Christmas exercise will substantially increase your gift-giving capability. At worst, you break even on the capital investment, but profits are guaranteed, given human nature. I learned this scam from an individual who was convicted of federal mail fraud for something far more sophisticated than back-of-the-truck rock-in-a-box games.

I think there’s a lesson here about the true nature of Christmas, and the weakness of human nature.

I know we have more important things to think about, like tax hikes/cuts, nuclear proliferation, the inability of anyone to keep secrets any longer, the sad state of the country under the incompetent leadership of the Manchurian Candidate, and the ever-present myth of global warming. And, as always, there are lions and tigers and bears…oh, my!

But, in the spirit of whistling past the graveyard, I just wanted to digress and wish my Constant Readers a MERRY CHRISTMAS and a HAPPY NEW YEAR! UPI will soon be back up to full-throttle…

PRESIDENT OBAMA'S NEW JOBS PROJECT

2010-11-19T16:01:00.002-05:00

Following their return from the Denial of Reality Tour of Asia and the Indian subcontinent, President and Mrs. Obama pose in front of an architect’s model of the proposed remodeling of the White House.

“Michelle was really inspired by the Taj Mahal,” the President said in a brief statement to the press. “We feel that the exterior renovation will make the aesthetics of American culture much more accessible, and therefore palatable, to the rest of the world.”

When questioned about the estimated one billion dollar cost of the renovation, President Obama replied: “Hey, with all the wild spending that’s been taking place, a billion dollars is quite a bargain when it comes to improving our image in the world. Besides, we promised that we would create jobs, and this will employ a number of construction workers for quite a while. It’s a shovel-ready project.”

Construction is scheduled to start in early spring of 2011, and is expected to be complete in time for the 2013 Coronation Ceremony.

Down to the wire

2010-10-27T19:40:00.015-05:00

This ‘n that…

Let’s not screw around here. I’ve alluded to it in past columns, and people who know me intimately know it to be true: for about twenty years I had a drinking problem. I won’t go into details about the cause-and-effect, although those factors have been analyzed endlessly in contemplative moments the last few years.

I tried AA; I tried rehab. They didn’t work; I didn’t “get it.” I told myself I’d quit for my loved ones. Then I told myself I’d quit for myself. Then I’d go out and get drunk, so I could get some sleep. In the course of my depravity, I crashed two cars, got my clock cleaned in bar fights, and engaged in some extremely reckless behavior involving drug dealers and a shotgun. (Gunfire was exchanged. My pet phrase for this is “playing for mortal stakes.”)

Recovery demands honesty. I offer the above tidbits to establish “street creds” for what I want to say next.

I know a thing or two about insane behavior, deranged grandiosity, and denial.

We’re down to five and a wake-up ‘til election day. My ballot has been in for over two weeks, adhering to the maxim of “vote early and vote often.” I had the luxury of voting my Libertarian principles this time, as opposed to the hold-your-nose contests being slugged out amongst the members of the ruling class: the careerist Republocrats comprising the alleged “two-party” system. Locally, the attack ads between the Democrat and Republican candidates for state senate have become amusingly ludicrous. Forget issues and values; I’ll be surprised if there isn’t bloodshed on the town square during the Halloween Festival this weekend if these guys stumble across each other.

Back to the alcoholic revelations: nowhere—outside of an AA meeting where a newcomer shows up drunk, demanding help—have I seen the depths of denial that Democrats are going through right now. Outside of their traditionally liberal enclaves, they have actually deluded themselves into believing they have popular support for their socialist agenda. What they don’t realize is that—short of armed insurrection—there is a revolution going on. (I hear the Jefferson Airplane singing “Look what’s happening out in the streets…” as I write this.) It took over 40 years, but we ‘60s remnants finally have the uprising we sought, albeit in a different context from the fist-in-the-air “Power to the people!” days.

Back in the day, we sought to dismantle the status quo; the “system.” Now, next Tuesday, we are going to take that same system, shove it up the collective nether regions of those seeking to destroy America, and give it a firm twist. If you agree with this prediction, do your part, and get out to the polls on Election Day. Exercise your most precious right; the hot word has it that a lot of illegal non-citizens are going to be voting, thanks to the current regime’s flagrant disregard for the Constitution. Make a difference: go somewhere, be somebody, and do something!

Shifting gears:

I never paid too much attention to Juan Williams. I listened to National Public Radio from the late 1960s until the start of the war in Iraq, when they began playing a funeral dirge as a lead-in for “All Things Considered” in the afternoon. (I like classical music, and until he replaced his homey style with polemics, I loved Garrison Keillor.) I knew Williams as a “common tater” on FOX News, especially “The Factor”. (He once addressed a PC issue of a perceived “racist” statement by a prominent politician by saying “he’s a member of Sons of Confederate Veterans.” I was quick to fire off an e-mail to O’Reilly, demanding an apology for Williams’ equation of SCV with the racist trash that has appropriated the Confederate flag. I was angry for weeks that Williams never cleaned that one up.)

Juan, you don’t have to apologize for anything! Not any longer!

I saw “The View” when Whoopi Goldberg and that horrid Behar bitch stalked off on Mr. Bill. (Ms. Possum gave me a heads-up that O’Reilly would be making an appearance to tout his new book.) I saw the unedited "Factor" segment when Williams voiced the remarks that allegedly got him fired from NPR. I’ve subsequently seen Behar melting down like the drunken alcoholic at an AA meeting when old-timers try to escort said drunk into a private space for counseling.

I also listened to vituperous liberal yammering on NPR for approximately 40 years. All of their current claptrap about “bigotry” and “journalistic standards” as justification for firing Williams just won’t fly; they are stifling free speech, pure and simple. The propaganda arm of the Fourth Reich is far more advanced than you might think. They can’t stand on their record; I’ve heard too much liberal nattering and nasty rhetoric from them over the years. Garrison Keillor—whom I once cited as a modern-day Mark Twain—has become an embittered hack. Saturday nights used to be exclusively reserved for “A Prairie Home Companion”; now I just put on a CD of Irish folk music, or Megadeth, depending on my mood. I never took NPR news reportage as serious journalism; now it’s out in the open as a Doctor-Goebbels-like operation, endlessly flogging the so-called achievements of Fearless Leader, and jumping when George Soros cracks his whip.

Finally, there was a small victory on the home front. It’s meaningless in the context of larger issues, but I am personally empowered by it. In fact, I’m so full of myself at the moment, my head hurts.

In an offhand remark, griping about illegal aliens being allowed to vote in some precincts, Ms. Possum expressed despair that “the system” is so unassailable. I sighed and agreed, but added “I’ll fight them ‘til I die.”

Constant Readers know that I have been embattled over a 50% cutback in my health care services, owing to the vote-buying scam perpetrated last July. On Monday, matters came to a head. The previous Saturday, I had received a letter stating that my appeal hearing was to be held on 23 December in a burg called Dawsonville, which is way-to-hell-and-gone over Blood Mountain, and pain-in-the-ass to get to. The letter also suggested telephonic arbitration between a bureaucrat named Hazel J…. who was somewhere on Peachtree Street, deep in the heart of The People’s Republic of Atlanta, and me.

The lawyer who called me on Monday said she had received a copy of that same letter, and was inquiring what I was going to do. I told her that Monday is a bad day for government workers, as they are playing catch-up on all the work they ditched Friday, so they could leave the office early. I informed her that I was planning to call Hazel J…., and failing an informal solution, request a change of venue for my hearing. (Verbatim—“change of venue.” I’m not a lawyer, and never played one on TV, but my various misadventures have resulted in standing before too many judges, and a working knowledge of the applicable vernacular is always handy.)

Then she asked me a rote question: “Do you know why your health services are being denied?”

When I stopped laughing, I launched into a detailed diatribe about the malfeasant Democrat vote-buying scam of last summer, which robbed federal funding for Medicaid, community services, and food stamps. I interrupted her to add that I already knew the parent agency of my health-care benefits had lost state funding in 2008 when the economy tanked, and that pursuant to federal funding, they were given a choice of cutting (a) the aged and infirm, (b) the mentally disabled, or (c) the developmentally disabled from their benefits roster. They chose the aged and infirm, which unfortunately includes me and my rusty wheelchair.

While she stammered, at a loss for words, unable to deny my assertions and unable to formulate a reply, I added that what was happening was the inverse of Rep. Alan Grayson’s infamous remark—complete with graphic sign for C-SPAN—that the Republican plan for health care was to “die quickly.”

Ma’am,” I told her, “I’m only 57 years old, and plan on being around for a while. If my only purpose in life at this point is to call y’all out on screwing people worse off than me, then so be it.”

She promised to look into alternative sources for my home nursing care, lifeline monitor, and supplementary food programs. When I hung up, the timer on my phone told me I had talked for 24+ minutes.

On Tuesday morning, the lawyer called back to inform me she had had a sit-down with the head of the parent agency—SOURCE—and, upon further review, they had decided that I meet the level of health-care requirements for continued services, contingent upon dropping my appeal. Documents were being drawn up for my signature, and the entire unpleasant business could be disposed of in the next few days.

A person with a trained voice and a poker-face can inflect anything into a conversation, but the tone of this bureaucrat’s voice said “I don’t want to face you in open court before an administrative law judge.” When I got off the phone Monday morning, Ms. Possum, who had been sitting beside me and privy to my side of the conversation, remarked “You spoke well.”

Today I received an e-mail copy of the release, signed it, faxed it back, and mailed my snail-mail copy. The actual document contains a confidentiality clause, and the wording also contains ambiguities that “new information” had been revealed about my disability, thus qualifying me for continuation of my services.

In other words, it confirmed that they don’t want an articulate madman appearing in court—on the public record—babbling about corrupt misappropriations of federal funds for the purpose of partisan vote-buying. It’s a bribe, and I took it. At no point has any bureaucrat denied my assertion that the robbery of $26 billion last summer was anything but a payoff for the state-school teacher’s union and the black-shirted thugs of the SEIU union.

In speaking with the lawyer, I further stipulated—another “legalese” word these folks are enamored of—that I retain my right to file an appeal at any future date if my services are reduced, cancelled, or otherwise denied. That stipulation is Article 4 in the conditions of the final document.

By way of comparison, today my meals-on-wheels driver relayed to me that another of her clients was told that if her appeal was denied, she would have to repay the cost of whatever food she had received in the interim between filing the appeal and the ultimate outcome. This is an outright lie, intended to buffalo those hapless folks with less knowledge of bureaucracy and legalisms than my own scanty experience.

I’m full of myself today—I scared the system, not the other way around. Even a blind pig finds an acorn every once in a while. I don’t think I’m touched by God, and my past behavior suggests He ain’t smiling on me too often. Still, sometimes He sends a soft breeze my way, allowing me to pull myself together and rise to whatever occasion is presenting itself. By my reckoning, I should have been dead years ago. I attribute the lag time to Divine Purpose, but I have no clue.

Bottom line: when next Tuesday comes, and you’re feeling cynical or lazy, trying to justify not voting with the old lie that “my voice doesn’t count,” think of the aforementioned information. I think it was Franz Kafka who said “in the battle between man and the world, bet on the world.” Roy Harper sings a song including the lyric “I’ll fight you ‘til I die.” I’ll include another cliché: stand for something or fall for anything. Instead of bopping down to Subway on Tuesday for a sandwich already regulated by the Food Police for fat content, take twenty minutes to exercise your most precious right, go vote your conscience, and THROW THE BASTARDS OUT OF OFFICE!

If I can defeat a foregone bureaucratic decision, then you can do whatever you set your mind to do. Make it so.

An open letter (slightly edited)

2010-10-11T22:25:00.005-05:00

On 26 September the primary intake water pipe for The Possum Den shattered at the reduction joint, which was on the wrong side of the main shutoff valve. For approximately 30-40 minutes, the fully-finished basement took on an estimated 50-gallons-per-minute of Notla Water Company's finest vintage, until an intrepid guy from the water company showed up to close the valve at the meter. (You try charging down Scorpion Hill at 2130 in the dark in a wheelchair; fearless people balk at driving their cars, trucks, and motorcycles up here!)

Looking back on it, I joked that I felt like Gene Hackman in "The Poseidon Adventure," wrestling with the high-pressure gusher and shouting "close the [laundry room] door!" as though the house would suddenly list to starboard and capsize. I'll be writing a blog commendation for ServPro™, who has been on-scene since day one, and is indeed trying to make it "Like it never happened."

Needless to add, I am up to my ass in alligators, insurance adjusters, mold-remediation specialists, contractors waving estimates, and various other distractions. This is not conducive to jotting down the thoughts that occur to me as I watch Those People spout denial, like a blackout alcoholic in his first AA group, about the upcoming election.

Nothing has been posted at United Possums or Facebook for a while, and this is the first time in many days I've even checked e-mail. Nevertheless, my site meter reports that 23 of y'all checked UPI last week; presumably to see what the madman had to say. Thank you for that. Your faith will not go unrequited; my attention is somewhat, shall we say, fragmented these days. After a few years of retirement, my nerves of steel are somewhat rusty, and the decision-making process requires more attention to detail than it did back in the day.

I suppose that electoral ballots were designated as "privileged" in Ye Olde Days because many potential voters feared reprisals if they voted the "wrong" way. I don't fear the SEIU or the Black Panthers...I bow to no king nor bend my knee to anyone but The Higher Power. I'm proud to say that my [absentee] ballot is already in, and I had the luxury of voting my principles this year. With the exception of three key Republicans - a Senator, my Congressman, and a state representative whom I know personally - I voted a straight Libertarian ticket for every partisan race, and against the incumbents in every non-partisan contest. (Yeah, that's a bit of a cop-out on principles, but the aforementioned Republicans are, as Edmund Burke suggested, "associated with the good." Pragmatism still rules, and the alternative was unthinkable. We are at a critical juncture in history. Besides, every pig needs a turn at the trough.)

The e-mail that follows says it all.

I have more bubble gum than I can chew on tomorrow's agenda. Thanks again for your faith, interest, and check-ins. I'll try to have something more substantial when I dust off the keyboard next time.

Meanwhile, happy birthday to Red Liz and Cal Girl. I'll try to send cards, but things are happening fast.

Oh, and like the man said, get out on 2 November;
Vote early and vote often!

Confederately,

Robert

-------Original Message-------

From:
Date: 11-Oct-10 7:33:58 PM
Subject: FW: Indian Wanting Coffee

Sorry no photos sent to me, however it's a great truth!
nick

Indian Wanting Coffee:

An Indian walks into a cafe with a shotgun in one hand, pulling a bull buffalo with the other.

He says to the waiter:

"Want coffee."

The waiter says, "Sure, Chief. Coming right up."

He gets the Indian a tall mug of coffee.....
The Indian drinks the coffee down in one gulp, turns and blasts the buffalo with the shotgun, causing parts of the animal to splatter everywhere.

And then he walks out.

The next morning the Indian returns.

He has his shotgun in one hand, pulling another male buffalo with the other.

He walks up to the counter and says to the waiter:

"Want coffee."

The waiter says, "Whoa, Tonto! We're still cleaning up your mess from yesterday. What was all that about, anyway?"

The Indian smiles and proudly says,

"Training for position in United States Congress:
Come in, drink coffee, shoot the bull, leave mess for others to clean up, disappear for rest of day."

VOTE 'EM ALL OUT!

And my last word at three weeks until the election:

"When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle."

Edmund Burke

a.k.a.

“All that is required for the triumph of evil is for good men to stand by and do nothing.”

A Call to Arms (sort of)

2010-09-07T19:53:00.010-05:00

I called the office of my local voter registrar this morning.

I wanted to be sure I get my absentee ballot, since I don't travel well these days. I figure cripples will be the next denied the right to vote...we can't even walk straight, y'know, so who's going to vouch for our thinking?

It is eight weeks to the day—56 of ‘em, to be exact—until we get our last chance to rescue America on 2 November. Time flies when you’re having fun, doing stuff like preparing appeals for the death panels cutting health care benefits left and right.

Back in the ‘90s, owing to numerous traffic convictions and some DUIs, I lost my right to vote for a while. I was always conscientious about going to the polls, and the day a bureaucrat told me that my repeat-offender-scofflaw behavior had cost me the right to vote for a while, I was devastated.

I love to complain about the government, despite my intimate associations with it. All of my adult life, I have scolded the apathetic and inconvenienced: “If you don’t vote, don’t bitch about it later. You get the government you deserve.”

To suddenly be told that I had been convicted of a crime of “moral turpitude”, and thus had my small voice removed from the public forum, was a demoralizing blow.

I behaved myself, kept the pedal from the metal with the huge, fast sports car, got sober, and my voting rights were restored some years ago. Since then, I have cherished them like a refugee from Eastern Europe. I’m still a scofflaw and troublemaker, but I stay off the radar these days, and my geezerdom precludes street fighting and other forms of ill-advised behavior.

The point here is short and sweet: your vote counts. America is at a tipping point of no return. This may well be our last chance to rescue this country from oblivion. My knowledge of the past says I’m being melodramatic, but my perceptions of the present suggest I’m too on-target for my own good.

I recently outlined a tentative blog post about ethnic and cultural breeding patterns in the world, but thanks partly to input from Constant Readers, I abandoned the idea. The considered article was based on an e-mail, and in a subsequent letter, I told a friend that it isn’t my place in this world to save France—or Germany, or Spain, who are also doomed to cultural extinction as Europe becomes Eurabia via Muslim immigration and influence—but to address the issues of the moment God has placed me in. I can’t save anyone. I’m practicing the old precept that it’s better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness. I’ve long since abandoned the alcoholic’s grandiose, messianic notion that I’m afflicted with terminal uniqueness, and have it in my power to save anything or anyone from their destiny. Trying to remain true to my Libertarian principles, I have to concede that people are going to do whatever the hell they want to do, and no amount of legislation or counseling is going to stop them.

On the other hand, I’m still free to disapprove, and not participate in self-destructive madness. I think I’m still free to speak my mind on any given issue, although I have to choose my words carefully these days. I have no delicacy or tact in dealing with racial or cultural politics, so I must by default leave these issues unaddressed.

The freedom to sit out irrational behavior—sometimes saying “let’s not do it, but say we did”—comes from being a citizen of America, and a beneficiary of the remainders of the Founding Fathers’ principles. Freedom to live by my own spiritual lights and moral compass has been constantly eroded since before I was born, usually in the name of some vaguely-defined collective “security.” Nevertheless, my right to vote freely and privately—often swallowing my tongue, holding my nose, and mumbling “the lesser of two evils is still evil”—is one of the few as-yet untrammeled rights I have left.

The old Soviet Union had elections, and a national constitution. The electoral candidates were approved in advance by the ruling party, and their constitution—modeled on our own—was largely ignored. You could draw a curtain on the voting booth, but the polls were guarded by thugs in leather jackets carrying truncheons and “suggesting” who you should vote for once you were inside the polling place.

Sound familiar?

It’s just my humble opinion, but I consider us, as a nation, to be at the make-or-break point. Off-year elections are notoriously low in voter turn-out, but 2010 is a referendum on our leadership, and the course they’ve chosen for the ship of state. Our ideologically-driven Fearless Leader promised “fundamental change” when he campaigned as a moderate Manchurian Candidate; he has certainly delivered that change. According to even the most liberal of spin-question polls, a majority of the American people are not happy with the projected outcome of this “change.”

So, those with an iota of political consciousness, and the politically apathetic who are being strangled by the delusional political maneuverings of Those People, are turning out in unprecedented numbers to protest peacefully and make their voices heard. A lot of the disaffected, politically unaffiliated folks belong to the vaguely-defined “Tea Party.” Like Marlon Brando in “The Wild One,” when asked what they’re rebelling against, they ask “What’ve you got?”

They are rewarded for their participation in the democratic process by being called “racists” and “potential terrorists.” A sovereign state—Arizona—is being sued for enacting a local law that mirrors federal immigration legislation already on the books for years, but ignored by the Ministry of Justice in its selective enforcement of national law. Veterans of the armed forces are being labeled by the Minister of Homeland Security as potential terrorists because this country trained them to be the best soldiers in the world. Now, those who are serving abroad are being denied the right to vote by absentee ballot in some states, due to a loophole in the federal law that says they should be receiving their ballots within 45 days of the next election.

Yeah, you read that last part correctly.

The kids with their belt buckles in the mud—a full generation removed from my peers in our little “police action” in the Garden Spot of Southeast Asia—are being screwed out of their right to vote by the careerist power-mongers who sent them into harm’s way. Excuses like “Our [primary] run-off date is too close to the deadline for mailing ballots, so we can’t list the candidates yet” are rife, and exemptions to federal law abound.

Those People are notorious for stealing elections with endless recounts to the point of exhaustion, disallowance of absentee ballots, and most recently in the Minnesota senatorial race of ’08, finding a sack of absentee votes hanging in a tree in St. Paul, or some such nonsense.

People in the military traditionally vote as a majority for conservative values. This makes them a liability for the elitist ruling party, who consider people in uniform to be nothing but automatons at best, and as John Kerry remarked, “…terrorists who come by night to kill civilians in their homes” at worst. If their votes can be disallowed for any reason, no matter how nebulous, then Those People gain a slight advantage at the polls, and the coming election is going to be razor-thin.

Neal Boortz—a great American, hard-core Libertarian, semi-national-celebrity, and my sometimes mentor—offers a caveat whenever someone asks him about the content of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged:

“If you think everything is hunky-dory, and you’re satisfied with the way things are going today, don’t read this book. It will change everything you think you know.”

I now offer the same caveat about the election coming up in eight weeks. If you think everything is hunky-dory, and this country is going in what you consider the right direction, then don’t vote. Stay home, or go to Mickey D’s for a cheeseburger on your lunch break November 2nd. Tell yourself the Big Lie: my vote doesn’t count anyhow. Let yourself be lulled and brainwashed by the false promises of “security” in return for freedom.

I think the best of most people, until they prove otherwise. Most people have consciences; vote yours.

I have a rule of thumb—love that phrase; has to do with wife-beating and how thick the stick can be—when it comes to elections. If I’m undecided about a candidate, I always vote against the incumbent. There is simple, illogical reasoning behind this: every pig needs a turn at the teat.

I see a political bloodbath in the offing come November. Stick a fork in the incumbents; they’re done!

My partisanship lies in the goodness of traditional human values and the natural desire of people to do right by their fellow men, not in the mythology of political parties. No matter what your ideological persuasion, when the day comes this fall, get out and VOTE!

I’ll close with lyrics by my favorite singer, Roy Harper. I hear them this time as having relevance to the coming election and this call to arms:

“But it makes no difference where I am, I’m in the game first hand.
There are no certain answers, and no time to understand;
The rules are set to paradox, coercion, and blind faith.
The goal’s a changing paradise a moment out of date;
The dream is righteous grandeur fit to flood the universe.
The fact is more than meets the eye; but less than runs the earth.”

The Other Shoe Drops (Sequel to "The Chickens Wander Home")

2010-08-27T13:10:00.011-05:00

Yesterday, I got a phone call from my case worker at the parent agency that administers half of my health-care benefits; specifically, home services including a visiting nurse, a meals-on-wheels program, and my Lifeline service—the infamous “help-I’ve-fallen-and-can’t-get-up” button that I wear around my neck.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “The determination has been made that the level of care you require doesn’t meet the revised criteria for continuation of your services. You’re being dropped from the program.” There was some rote blather about filing a time-sensitive appeal, but it was obscured by the roaring of blood as my head exploded.

I’ve outlined this situation before, in a previous blog post: “The Chickens Wander Home.” [21 July; below]

Now, the other shoe has dropped, as the old saying goes. (I love platitudes and old sayings!)

After assuring the case worker that I don’t kill the messenger, I made some inquiries about the funding of the programs that have improved the quality of my life for the last six years. As I suspected, they are an adjunct of a federally-funded state assistance program, known in Georgia as PeachCare. My federal benefits had automatically attached me to these programs, and just as bureaucracy expands to fill the space allotted to it, so my parasitism over the years has grown to include complacency.

Keeping my voice under control, I asked the case worker if PeachCare had gone begging because of the recent $26 billion—$26,000,000,000—payoff to state-school teacher’s unions as a quid pro quo for Democrat votes in November. The answer was a reluctant affirmative. The inept and outnumbered Republicans in Congress insisted that any further federal spending be paid for up-front, so the Dems robbed already-funded programs to assure payment on their union bribes. A great deal of this came from federal funds previously allocated to state Medicaid programs, including PeachCare on the home front, and whatever they call themselves in the other 49 states.

When I received my annual review back in July, the case worker warned me that this was coming. She told me of people much worse-off than I am already being denied services because of lack of funding. Basically, according to the new tenets of ObamaCare, anyone who doesn’t require nursing-home-level care is out of luck.

Since the case worker had mentioned special-needs children requiring daily care by home nurses being denied services, I got to thinking about the implications of this. What I came up with sounds like a Zen circle-puzzle.

Say two young parents are raising a special-needs—retarded—child. Most likely, they have a house, and a mortgage, so they’re both working. The kidlet can’t be dumped into day care, because the local day care center can’t afford a special-needs teacher, or the child is too young or too dysfunctional for state schooling, and needs home care on a daily basis from a visiting nurse/CNA.

Suddenly, the state can no longer afford this service, and the home care is discontinued. Depending on who earns less, one of the parents has to quit work, and stay home to care for the child. That halves the family’s income, and possibly reduces their ability to make their mortgage payments. The tax-extortion money from their paychecks is also halved. Because only one parent is working now, they may have to apply for food stamps and other forms of public assistance—including federal mortgage bail-out funds—increasing their burden on the tax liabilities of others. Suddenly, a job is forfeited, and in some small increment, other people are living their lives for the sake of these parents, involuntarily shouldering some of their burden. The parents didn’t want to become wards of the “nanny state”; by working and paying their taxes, they were fueling the government infrastructure that provided care for their special child while they toiled to channel taxes to said government for half the fiscal working year.

Now, take this a step further. Imagine a single mother in the same situation. She quits her job to care for that special child, she’s on welfare, living in public housing, collecting food stamps, and using Medicaid for the child’s—limited—health care requirements.

I ain’t Buddhist, but I appreciate the wisdom of Zen thought.

The current regime’s answer to this conundrum is to magically increase federal spending for the agencies that would supply the services these parents need to continue their working careers. Unfortunately, due to malfeasance, nonfeasance, and misappropriation of funds, the federal nanny state has a reduced revenue base for their social “it takes a village” experimentation. Revenues are down, the credit line is maxed out, and funding has to be cut. Taxes are increased, further reducing the number of jobs, driving revenue down even further. More people become dependent on the nanny state, even as it becomes more dependent on a shrinking number of people who produce the sustenance the state requires for social welfare programs.

The traditional “safety net” has a huge, gaping hole in it, and thousands of people are dropping into oblivion.

I can live without meals-on-wheels; they are a convenient luxury. I can crawl around on the floor and eventually get the sheets changed on my bed, and wrestle my vacuum cleaner into submission so the floor isn’t too dirty while I crawl there. I’ve fallen down my stairs more than once, and only broken a thumb during one bad tumble. The loss of those services that alleviate these inconveniences won’t kill me; as Nietzsche suggested, it will make me stronger.

What angers me is the plight of those I described above. I am blessed, but many are facing despair, and are trapped in the situation I postulated. I am blessed, but many are without hope.

The cycle enslaving them must be broken on 2 November. Your vote counts, and this may be our last chance to reclaim the America we grew up in. It ain’t perfect by a long shot, but it’s the best we've got.

"Woof! Woof!" (The dog days are upon us!)

2010-08-17T05:24:00.006-05:00

A few weeks ago, I began developing symptoms of severe stress. This started on or about 21 July, when I wrote my last full-length article here: “The Chickens Wander Home.” If you haven’t read it, it’s about the pending denial of some health-care services because the government is bankrupt and can no longer afford my burden on society. ObamaCare looms.

Those symptoms included acid-reflux [heartburn] so severe that it resembled an incipient heart attack, insomnia, nightmares when I did sleep, total loss of appetite, and a feeling that I was carrying around a five-pound rock lodged in my chest. Oh, and there was the return of the paralyzing depression that turned me into a blackout alcoholic thirty years ago. (I thought I had those demons vanquished, but I guess they never go away.)

Since getting drunk and screaming until my throat bleeds isn’t an option these days, I sat quietly and figured out why I was in such piss-poor shape.

I’ve been watching/reading/chasing too much news. From cable TV to the Internet to old-school written publications, there is too much information available. I no longer get input from firsthand assets, so I rely on television or computer screens, and turning pages, to keep me marginally tuned into the world in which I live.

Now, a well-informed, post-modern person will avail themselves of these media assets to form rational opinions about the state of the world. I like to think I’m one of these people. I don’t think I reached the point of “news psychosis”, but dealing with physical symptoms of stress made me realize that current events are, indeed, making me crazy.

Just as, during the lowest points of my life, I never entirely lost faith in God—preferring to proclaim “I don’t know!”—I have never lost faith in America. Oh, we’ve had our ups and downs; this country and my cynical self. I’ve never trusted the government, even when I was in thrall to it, and I’ve seen manifestations and abuses of power that will haunt me until my dying day. However, I always seemed to maintain some inherent patriotism and belief that the concept of America—if not always the practical reality—is the last, best hope of humanity. No one has come up with a better idea than the original concept The Founding Fathers staked their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor upon, and I don’t think anyone ever will.

That being said, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this nation in such a time of crisis. I’m sure that people who lived through The Civil War, The Great Depression, War II, and all points in between all thought the same thing, but I can only speak for the moment in which I find myself.

I used to make an oblique joke about wanting the parking concession for The Apocalypse. It was an amusing notion when I was a college sophomore, but I never dreamed that I would be a witness to the decline and fall of the last great nation on earth. America itself was something “too big to fail”, and I knew I could count on the country to be there for me if my puny efforts at self-sufficiency fell short. I’m not speaking of the “nanny state” here, but of the land of opportunity, where one can always remake oneself and start over afresh with an iota of ambition.

What we are faced with, and afflicted by today, is the collectivist alternative to the notion of individual achievement. Everyone is lumped into groups, and like George Orwell’s postulation that “some animals are more equal than others”, so are some groups more equal than others. Everyone is declared to be dependent on everyone else, and so must live their lives for the collective good of others.

I’m getting too philosophical here. Such thinking runs counter to my simple man’s approach to life. I ain’t a big brain, but I have a gift of eerie prescience, and know what’s happening when I see it unfolding. My grandmother spoke often of “common sense”, and one of the starkest debates I ever had was with my best friend and mentor about the very existence of “common sense.”

There is no commonality in the sense of a common digestion, whereby you eat and I am no longer hungry. There is, however, a common intellect, in that every person God ever made knows what is right and wrong for themselves. This is known as “selfishness”, and it is not an evil word. When people do what’s right for themselves, those around them are automatically taken care of. When people condescend and patronize others, they become tyrants.

Ah, but what’s all this got to do with my acid indigestion of late?

Just this: I have never seen a more malfeasant, incompetent bunch of wannabe criminals actually hold positions of power in this country. Faced with the common sense of the majority of Americans who want to expel them like phlegm from infected lungs, these careerist politicians and grifters live in denial and lash out like savage animals at those who wish to shun them and relegate them to obscurity. While fomenting their lies and pursuing their hidden agendas, these people have ripped apart the fabric of this country, all the while proclaiming “it’s for the good of everyone!”

Bullshit!

“Public service” means you are there to serve the public, not the other way around. The public is not here to serve you. In the non-collectivist sense, this means “Get the hell out of my way!”

The next four-and-a-half months are one of the greatest times of peril this country has ever faced. If there isn’t a political bloodbath in November, with vast numbers of scoundrels being sent packing, then America will have forfeited our last chance to redeem ourselves as that last, great hope of humanity. The rat race will be over; the rats will have won.

Even if we—the rational people—win, there will be an interlude of what The Bible calls “tribulation.” If Those People lose power and common sense reasserts itself, there will be “lame duck” sessions of Congress wherein the collectivists, in clearing their desks, will make one last attempt to ram through every destructive piece of legislation they’ve brainstormed since 2006.

This is my first call for you, the Constant Reader or the drive-by dilettante, to get out and vote come November. As Edmund Burke supposedly said: “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” What he actually said was: "When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle."

A great many people may be sitting the elections out this fall, too cynical or apathetic to take a half-hour and go vote. Maybe you think your vote doesn’t count, or it’s yet another hold-yer-nose election. My rule of thumb is that the lesser of two evils is still evil; my other rule of thumb is vote against the incumbent unless they are proven to be, as Burke states, associated with the good. My third maxim is: If you don’t vote, don’t bitch about it later. You get the government you deserve.

Maybe it’s the summertime blues, or just following good advice, but I have backed way off the news. My stomach quit burning, my breathing is easier, and the depression went away without resorting to Zoloft, Paxil, Effexor, or whiskey. I’m sleeping six hours a night on average, without violent, bloody dreams. I feel like steak and eggs for breakfast today.

There is a sense of optimism in the air, and I still have that $100 bill on my desktop, wagered on the common sense of the American people. No one bets against me, and only a fool will bet against the people.

Whatever happens between now and this November is up to you. I’m only watching enough news to reassure myself we’re not into a nuclear war yet.

Do the right thing.

A guest editorial (I get mail)

2010-08-05T01:30:00.006-05:00

I'm either constipated, have a case of the summertime blues, or my pancreatic cysts are acting up again. Whatever, I don't feel much like writing this week; body chemistry affects mood, and I feel out of whack.

At any rate, I don't like dealing with racial politics, because I consider them irrelevant and hypocritical in today's world. "Playing the race card" is a cheap trick employed by liberals to divert public attention from Those People's real agenda, which is usually something nefarious and sinister. There was the notorious "beer summit" when more attention needed to be paid to the health care bill then under intense debate. (Hence one of my milder names for Bobama: "The Red Herring.") All last month, and still ongoing, racial politics are being played by our "post-racial" president and his myrmidons to keep us from fully realizing the impact of the "financial reform" bill that slipped through almost unnoticed in all the brouhaha about Black Panthers, the NAACP, and allegations of racism in the Tea Party movement.

So, without further bloviating on my part, here is a thoughtful and well-reasoned analysis from a Constant Reader. It's verbatim for content, with only a couple of buffs for style and one grammatical correction. There were some links, but not everything translates well directly from e-mail. (The recipients list and Hank's e-mail address are deleted for privacy.)

From:
Date: 03-Aug-10 7:38:15 PM
To:
Subject: NYT: Black Caucus Members Lied About Tea Party protestors

Actually, the editors at the Gray Lady didn't exactly use those words but that's what they meant. They just couldn't bring themselves to that level of frankness.

I find it extremely troubling to see allegedly Christian black American Congressman - who may have indeed suffered racial discrimination in the past - engage in such bald-faced lies in such a partisan, race-hustling manner in hopes of discrediting those politically opposed to Mr. Obama's radical, Neo-Marxist agenda ("from each according to their ability, to each according to their need.") - in this case the HealthScare Obamanation. And it comes as no surprise to those of us who have suffered the slings and arrows of militant liberals, unprincipled liberals are very adept at ending debates going badly for them by calling their political opposition (us) homophobes/bigots/racists/sexists blah, blah, blah. Right? It happens all the time. And in this sphere of the debate, with liberals it's "all race, all the time."

As I've stated before, on a private and individual level, the Marxist screed, "from each according to their ability, to each according to their need", is simply a recapitulation of one facet of human charity. Sometimes people can extend a charitable hand even when it’s beyond their ability to give or when they aren't giving out of an abundance. In either case, there's nothing wrong for individuals to embrace Marx's charitable philosophy, but it does become wrong when under penalty of law governments adopt such a coercive "spread the wealth" philosophy, though Marx certainly wouldn't have seen it that way since the seeds of tyranny and despotism are strewn throughout his philosophy of government.

The taxation "charity" that is required by the government is nothing more than warmed-over tyranny and is anything but charity freely given. Unfortunately a lot of well-meaning liberal evangelicals have gone brain-dead regarding this distinction since they seem to believe Jesus taught that government should be in the business of "charity" when indeed charity begins and ends in the home - from one home to the next or from one home to the homeless. When Jesus was asked by his disciples who would feed the multitude, he did NOT say, "Get Caesar to feed them" or "Get the Pharisees to feed them." Rather Jesus said, "YOU feed them." And it's no mystery why the more arrogant liberal evangelicals have unrighteously condemned (to the applause of Christian-hating secular/liberal humanists) their conservative brethren for embracing the more biblical "hand-up" charity as opposed to the more corrupting "hand-out" tenet of liberal religionists' social gospel.

One of the most immoral propositions of our generation is the superficial contention that it is somehow a virtue to empower big government to levy ever higher levels of confiscatory taxes under the guise of "charity" in order to grow what is essentially a welfare plantation. After all, wouldn't that be the most "compassionate" thing to do for the poor and the homeless? NO! Human experience demonstrates that those kinds of political arrangements merely enslave the most vulnerable to a political thought or a political party which proposes such handouts from the public largesse. In reality, we are witnessing an institutional slavery that has given rise to third and fourth generation welfare families! Now that reality should tell any informed and honest person something about the alleged efficacy of such a political abomination which goes against everything an honest patriot of freedom understands about true liberty.

The most direct means of charity - one person to another or from a private philanthropic/religious institution to an individual - is the most moral and superior means by which to redress inequalities. The idea that government should involve itself in what is supposed to be the private affairs of its citizens in relation to their neighbors is not only an abuse of power but in fact can only lead to full-blown tyranny since bureaucracies can justify any government program under the pretense of "the public good" or "income redistribution." A government big enough to redistribute money is clearly a government big enough to take private wealth. A government big enough to build a welfare plantation, is a government that is too big! A government big enough to create a "right", is a government big enough to take away a right.

To this seductive proposition we must be vehemently opposed since it creates in those who support such despotism a self-righteous smugness, a fealty to corruptible government, and a captive class to this welfare plantation. Those who recklessly define even a part of their "compassion" by empowering government in this manner only deceive themselves since their "goodness" does not flow freely from their own resources but rather is predicated upon how much bureaucrats they've emboldened can remove from the backpockets of hard-working taxpayers who may even be conscientiously opposed to such a program - particularly a program or a power not clearly enumerated in the U.S. Constitution. After all, the Constitution was the People's means to limit government, not the other way around.

In effect, liberal/religious humanism has become a veritable religion that is turning our constitutional republic into their version of a theocracy by forcing everyone to contribute to a government passing around a collection plate in support of extra-constitutional powers and expecting everyone to contribute under the penalty of law. This state of affairs is neither "charity" nor "compassion". And it is precisely that kind of coercion to which the American founders were uniformly opposed - government collecting money under penalty of law for items other than pure government.

The Constitution clearly states the federal government is empowered to "promote the general welfare" of the People, and that only according to the powers clearly enumerated. The Constitution does NOT say the federal government is empowered to "provide welfare."

And you can quote me on this, dear reader.

Hank

STORY BELOW:

The New York Times Issues a Correction

August 3, 2010 - by Ed Driscoll

The Gray Lady slices up this year’s plastic turkey of a false meme:

The Political Times column last Sunday, about a generational divide over racial attitudes, erroneously linked one example of a racially charged statement to the Tea Party movement. While Tea Party supporters have been connected to a number of such statements, there is no evidence that epithets reportedly directed in March at Representative John Lewis, Democrat of Georgia, outside the Capitol, came from Tea Party members.[Emphasis added by author.]

Andrew Breitbart, who, as the president is wont to say, got in the MSM’s faces, and punched back twice as hard against these lies, responds:
• The Times is admitting that there is absolutely no evidence that any epithets were shouted at the Congressman by any member of the Tea Party.
• This correction demonstrates we have finally proven our point to the nation’s most eminent and influential liberal media organ: that Rep. Andre Carson lied when he told the AP that members of the Tea Party hurled the “N-word” 15 times during the March 20 health-care rally that took place at the U.S. Capitol.
• That’s great, as far as it goes – a thorough vindication of the Tea Party — but it doesn’t go far enough.
• It’s not enough for the Times to make a correction having let that calumny sit out there unrebuked for weeks and months and then, way after the fact, issue a correction.
• It’s not enough because the Times continues to imply that something racially charged might happened on the steps of the Capitol, when we have shown conclusively, via multiple videos of the moment in question, that nothing of the sort occurred.
Andrew adds:

It’s not enough because the Times correction is just the beginning. The same correction needs to come from every other major media outlet that blithely repeated this defamation, including the AP, the Washington Post, The Hill, and MSNBC – not just in their news columns, but in their editorials, op-ed and opinion columns and shows as well. Until then, there will be no closure, because the Tea Party will not stop in its pursuit of vindication until the same media effort that went into propagating this lie goes into dispelling it and giving the millions of Americans – 23% of whom are minorities, according to Gallup — their good name back.

Which media outlet is going to have the courage to air the exculpatory videos?

Which will be the first to admit that Congressman Carson lied about the events of that day? That he slandered the Tea Party and had his charges believed by a gullible press corps that did no reporting and pursued no corroboration from among the 400 people and the Capitol Police officers whom Carson claimed had witnessed the event?

Why? Because it didn’t “fit the narrative.’

We are not going to stop until, in our pursuit of justice for the falsely maligned Tea Party, the MSM airs the exculpatory evidence. And to air them is just to expose a massive government-crafted fraud, it shows the moral emptiness at the core of the media. Those videos are the elephant in the room.

What’s at the center of this national racial mess is a cynical political ploy created by President Obama and elected Democrats, and executed with the help of their media allies and activist groups like the NAACP and the Congressional Black Caucus, to gin up the base for 2010 and take the spotlight off a faltering economy, a bungled Gulf oil spill cleanup, a soaring national debt, and a deeply unpopular health care bill.

Which, as Hot Air notes, paraphrasing Gerald Seib in the Wall Street Journal, “Now it can be told: ObamaCare has little political benefit for the left.”

The Chickens Wander Home

2010-07-21T23:56:00.013-05:00

I want to make something perfectly clear.

I am a parasite.

A succinct definition of a parasite is that of a creature that lives upon, and feeds upon, a host creature. My worn, tattered American Heritage Dictionary says a parasite is: (a) an often harmful organism that lives on or in a different organism; and (b) a person who takes advantage of the generosity of others.

Owing to the twisted path of my life, I am a child of the government. That is to say, for a majority of my adult life, the federal government has housed, fed, and clothed me. Oh, I had to give some things in return—possibly including my mortal soul—but most of the money that went into my pocket, the food that went into my stomach, and the doctors who looked down my throat and into my other bodily orifices were paid for by the government.

In simple terms, the things that benefited and sustained me and mine were paid for by your tax dollars. Every week, when Uncle Sugar and that mysterious Mr. FICA picks your pocket, as delineated on your paycheck stub, a tiny portion of that rolls downhill into my wallet.

This causes me no end of personal anguish, since I frequently rail about “nanny state” collectivism, the expansion of government, and entitlement mentality. Ten years ago, when I was first crippled and began collecting benefits on the public’s dime, I went to my preacher and told him about the conflict. I still harbor his advice close to my heart: “You paid into the system all your life, and now you need it. Learn how to accept help, smile, and for God’s sake learn how to say ‘thank you.’”

I am no stranger to working for a living. Back in the day—starting when I was about 14—I prided myself that if I needed a job, I could leave early in the morning and come home that evening preparing to start work the next day. The jobs may not have been career-level quality, but they were an honest exchange of labor for recompense. Those jobs included washing dishes in a restaurant, pumping gas, managing a convenience store, being a garbage man and a striker in a lumber yard, driving a truck, busing and waiting tables, bartending, painting houses, slaughtering chickens and other aspects of working in a processing plant, bookkeeping for a furniture factory, being an industrial-grade chef for a daily average of 1000 people, and raising cattle for my grandfather. At times I invented my own jobs: growing and selling organic sprouts for chain restaurants; operating a stable for other people’s horses, and being a partner in a company that supplied equine logistics and other considerations—like stunt work—to movie productions.

I know what the sweat of my brow smells like, and it’s pretty stinky. Still, at the end of the day, it showered off, and there was food on the table and a roof over our heads.

Somewhere along the line, I hitched my wagon to the monolith I refer to generically as “the government.” Like two drunken strangers in a bar, I’m not sure who picked up whom, but it happened. I won’t give great details, but I gave what is proverbially called “the best years of my life” to services that were a wholly owned franchise of the federal government. In return, I thought I had defied my father’s advisory lectures, and perhaps the world did owe me a living. I figured it was a “win-win” situation: I lack the imagination and courage to be an entrepreneur, so if I did the bidding of others, I would be taken care of from the cradle to the grave.

What a young fool I was!

I am blessed, no doubt about it. There are two adult children wandering around out yonder; I own a three-bedroom home on a small mountainside—The Possum Den on Scorpion Hill—and the love of my life is reconciled with me after a lot of ups and downs on both sides. There is a check that arrives at the bank every month, so the electricity stays on—most of the time—the furnace pumps heat in the winter, the water flows when the faucets are opened, the telephones ring and there is food in the refrigerator. There are several thousand books piled up in the basement. I have had the thrills of driving a Corvette and several motorcycles at over 100 miles per hour. I’ve been exalted by having several thousand people applaud and scream when I played a few large venues in my rock & roll phase. I have shaken hands with famous people, and had interesting conversations with some of them. A movie star once saved my life. I eat steak once a week, and enjoy the comfort of new pants and shoes on occasion.

I’ve also been shot, stabbed, severely burned, blown up, beaten up, and been in five car wrecks that I can remember. I’ve had a one-ton horse roll completely over me and plant my face firmly into Mother Earth. My nose has been broken four times; a couple of those were from punches thrown by people who disagreed with me about something. I have shrapnel fragments in my neck too close to my jugular vein for surgical removal, and scars in my scalp from over 30 stitches for blunt instrument trauma. I have played for mortal stakes on occasion, and at the age of 57, I am continually amazed that I have made it this far.

So…these days, I’m a little feeble. 2 July marked my tenth year in a wheelchair. I got hurt along the way, from a totally unexpected source, and my life changed. I can still stagger around on what’s left of my legs, and my “social” life wasn’t affected, so I continue to be blessed.

I don’t know what I did to deserve all this goodwill from God. I went through a time when I questioned the existence of a Higher Power, because I had seen a lot of ugliness, and convinced myself that a “real” God wouldn’t allow such things to exist. I still have the lingering notion that God has left me around this long to serve some as-yet undefined purpose and further recant my agnosticism, but despite my prayerful entreaties to set my foot on the right path to that end, I remain baffled. However, I regained my faith, made the leap, and have seen prayers answered. I like the image of a lump of coal passing through fire and intense pressure, and becoming an unpolished diamond. Let’s leave it there. God exists.

Y’all paid a lot of the freight for this lifetime. I rant a lot about the government, but the bottom line is that “the gummint” sustained me for a great many years. I suspect I have developed my own “entitlement mentality”, without having to claim victim status. I’m a heterosexual Christian WASP who was crippled relatively late in life, so where can I go to sign up for official victim status?

Full disclosure and too much background having been stated, I got shelled today.

I related a little vignette last winter about getting a prescription filled for antibiotics to treat a respiratory infection. I presented it as a cautionary tale and a precursor of what socialized medicine might mean for us all. It was just the prelude to current events.

Today the chickens came home to roost, as my grandmother used to say.

Part of my government-subsidized health care includes an annual review by the parent agency that provides my weekly home nurse visits, non-emergency medical transport, and meals-on-wheels, as well as peripheral services like wheelchair accessories and safety rails and a chair for my shower. My case worker with this agency called and showed up today for said review, which is usually simple paperwork and a few questions. This time, before she even clicked her pen, she prefaced our dialogue with a dire pronouncement.

“Funds have been cut drastically. People who don’t require nursing-home-level care are being dumped off the client list.”

Then she flinched, as though I was going to erupt into a tantrum of rock-throwing and cursing. Later in the interview, after I’d initially reassured her that I understood it wasn’t her fault and I don’t kill the messenger, I joked that if it would make her feel less disoriented, I would be glad to cuss and throw furniture in her direction. She gratefully declined the offer.

Something the case worker let slip during the conversation was that she had already been required to tell families with “special needs” [i.e. retarded] children who cannot dress or feed themselves that they will henceforth be denied home nursing services. This was by way of reply to my assertion that I already know there are people out there who need personal care much more than I do, and what’s up with that? In some instances, the case worker had been cursed, screamed at, and possibly threatened with physical violence. She obviously expected a more vociferous reaction from me—and was grateful for the respite—but I am a cold-blooded mammal; I don’t get mad, I get even. Today’s bombshell was not completely unexpected, but in my pantheon of doom-and-gloom, it was a worst-case scenario. For most of the past decade, the quality of my life has been enhanced by the services I receive. There are a few things I can’t do for myself. I have taken my preacher’s advice, and learned how to say “Thank you!” when someone does something for me. If I believed the lies attending the foisting of Obamacare on the nation last spring, I would think that every living person in the United States would now be receiving the same attention and personal care that I have been blessed with because of my parasitism. Instead, I hear that those less fortunate than me are already being cut off, and I’m next.

I took a left-handed cheap shot at the erstwhile case worker before she left. I calmly remarked that if she thought it was distressing to tell people that essential lifestyle services are now being denied because the government has spent itself into a hole, what was she going to do when the death panels start denying treatment to people with terminal conditions?

What I got was a bleak look of such despair that I instantly regretted what I’d said.

When Obamacare became law, a progressive fan of collectivism publicly remarked that “it ain’t the end of the world.” Okay. Losing the services of my home nurse and those ersatz meals isn’t the end of my little world. I have made conscious attempts to never abuse the few perks that have rolled in my direction in life. I am an excellent cook, as Miz Possum reminded me this evening when I told her what had transpired this afternoon. We know where to find the raw ingredients for meals, and I openly admit those frozen, pre-cooked dinners are a luxury. I am a notoriously slovenly housekeeper, but with one or two exceptions, there isn’t anything I am incapable of doing in that regard. Answering questions for the case worker about my ability to dress, feed and wash myself, I joked that I was further damning myself with competence. She smiled weakly and promised a favorable write-up of case notes, but my own experience with bureaucracy leaves me no illusions.

I can transcend my own “entitlement mentality” fairly easily, but I shudder to think of those truly needy people who are going to go begging because “funds have been cut.”

Quoth Madame Nancy Pelosi: “We have to pass the bill to know what’s in it.”

Now we know.

Some Top Tens

2010-07-20T06:12:00.013-05:00

I suppose the madness started about 4 July, with the movie “marathons” on various channels that cross carrier-waves with my satellite dish. The Reelz™ channel teased an episode of “Hollywood’s Top Ten” about a segment on their ten best war movies, and that captured my fractured attention. I can’t seem to catch this particular episode to compare notes, but as a relief for the political insanity engulfing us, I got in touch with my inner movie buff and started making my own lists.

I consider list-making to be anal-retentive behavior of the worst sort; a sure sign of senility. Still, David Letterman has gotten mileage out of Top Ten lists for years, and since the comments sections at UPI have been flagging lately, a sure way to get responses is to push a cultural button. It’s cheap, easy, and keeps me from going ballistic with comments about the “race card” politics that are wreaking havoc on what’s left of my mind.

What started as a mental amusement to occupy myself during endless commercial breaks—since all I seem to do in my geezerdom is watch TV—finally found its way onto paper. I began to make a mental list of Vietnam movies that possessed verisimilitude, and the exercise expanded into different categories: Nam movies, War II movies, gangster movies, and Westerns. Then, for good measure, the genres broke down into cop movies, crime thrillers, science fiction, alien movies, and love stories. A simple three-minute exercise turned into a few weeks of musing between bouts of rhetorical abuse by ersatz politicians. Certain standards began to assert themselves. “Honorable Mentions” suggested themselves.

The bottom line was fairly simple: to make a Top Ten in any category, a movie has to do one thing; it has to bring something new to the viewer every time it is watched. No matter how many times it’s been seen—and I have watched some of these flicks dozens of times—there has to be a new twist, a different element that applies to the moment in which it is viewed. With this consideration in mind, I discarded a lot of potential candidates, although I love movies for the sheer fun of the visceral experience most of them bring.

There are too many categories for a single blog post, so let’s start with the original inspiration—Vietnam movies—and my favorite Westerns. Readers will have their own favorites and opinions, and I await your feedback. Here, in semi-favored order, are some cinematic favorites and notes on why they made the cut:

VIETNAM MOVIES

1. “Apocalypse Now” [1979] When I think of a Vietnam movie, this is the first, defining title that comes to mind. This is the only Nam movie I dragged my parents to see in the theater, because it explains the sheer madness of that war more clearly than I could. My father told me afterwards it gave him nightmares; my mother remarked that there certainly was a lot of profanity in the movie.

2. “Full Metal Jacket” [1987] Before he got into movies, Stanley Kubrick was a photographer for Look magazine. He is a visual perfectionist as well as an outstanding storyteller, and the combat scenes are the most chilling I have ever seen. I wasn’t a Marine, but R. Lee Ermey is every drill sergeant every veteran ever knew. This is the second title that comes instantly to mind when someone mentions movies about Nam.

3. “Casualties of War” [1989] Allegedly a true story, albeit from a notoriously anti-war director. People who are profligate with war stories are suspect in my book, so the origins of the incident are dubious. I only tell two war stories: how I got a medal for running away, and one involving dueling machine guns, tracers, and LSD. Brian DePalma gets the details right, and the last scene, where the Vietnamese girl tells Michael J. Fox “You had a bad dream...it’s over now” makes me cry every time.

4. “Hamburger Hill” [1987] This B-list classic could be a documentary. Soldiers climb a hill at great cost, then give it back to the enemy. The characters are sharply drawn, and the cost of what they give to duty is breathtaking.

5. “We Were Soldiers” [2002] Before he fell into cussing drunkenly at his girlfriends, Mel Gibson could touch on truth. Based on Joe Galloway’s book and General Hal Moore’s memoirs, this is a documentary.

6. “Go Tell the Spartans” [1978] This is a little-seen drama set in the earliest days of American involvement in Vietnam. I can’t vouch for a lot of the detail, but it feels right.

7. “The Boys in Company C” [1978] R. Lee Ermey’s first movie—portraying a sergeant; now there’s a surprise!—and a sort of feeble follow-up by Hollyweird when they realized that “Apocalypse Now” was hitting a nerve in our collective consciousness.

8. “Good Morning Vietnam” [1987] For every soldier in the field, America deploys ten soldiers in support roles. Not a front-line piss-ripper, but the expressions of attitudes and emotions are genuine enough.

9. “Off Limits” [1988] Again, not a front-line look at the war, but the overall tone of madness and the ambiance of Saigon are resonant.

10. “Platoon” [1986] Oliver Stone was there, has the tee-shirt, and knows whereof he speaks. I don’t buy the overall plot and some of the characters, but there is an emotional truth that can’t be denied. The closing narration is a tear-jerker that makes me overlook Stone’s junky trash movies.

Honorable mentions: “Bat*21”—the real thing came down differently, but it catches the moments. “Flight of the Intruder”—the frustrations of pilots forbidden to bomb strategic targets in North Vietnam were very real, and a final scene of an A-1-A “Sandy” seeming to rise out of the ground to strafe some NVA troops is alone worth the price of admission. “The Deer Hunter”—yeah, we all got worked over emotionally by the war. At least the actors played Russian roulette with revolvers…like that really happened. The few times I put a pistol to my temple, it was a magazine-fed semiautomatic, and I knew what the outcome would be if I pulled the trigger. Visually stunning, but puzzling in its message. Michael Cimino fared better with his failed Western.

Speaking of WESTERNS…

I grew up spending my summers on my grandparents’ cattle ranch. Granted, it was in eastern Georgia, and the cattle were tasty Black Angus cows, and not the fabled and dangerous longhorns of the Wild West, but the horseback riding and general cowboy mentality was somewhat similar. The cinematic image of the cowboy is as uniquely American as jazz is to the music world, and my Western selections are chosen accordingly:

1. “The Wild Bunch” [1969] As with the previous genre, this is the defining title when someone says “Western.” The themes of honor, loyalty, dignity, and dealing with the twilight of one’s place in changing times are indeed timeless. Sam Peckinpah was a tortured genius and a visionary philosopher.

2. “The Searchers” [1956] No mention of Westerns would be complete without mention of John Wayne. He should have won his Oscar for this John Ford classic, instead of for “True Grit” in 1969. “Grit” is very good, but this one is outstanding.

3. “The Shootist” [1976] The Duke’s last movie was a perfect summation of his life and career. He’s still playing himself onscreen, but the self-effacement of his legend and the terrible irony of his death from cancer are poignant to the max. Miz Possum and I still choke up at the last scene.

4. “Open Range” [2003] Proving that the cowboy ethos is timeless; this modern take on it has surprising emotional impact. The simply expressed notions of right, wrong, and love rock my socks off every time. The climactic gunfight—with its misses, wild shots, and pauses for deep breaths and “What are we doing here?” moments, is one of the most realistic I think I’ve ever seen. Kevin Costner won multiple Oscars for the next movie on the list, but when he says “People are going to die here today, and I’m going to kill them,” I shudder from the base of my spine.

5. “Dances With Wolves” [1990] A modern classic, pure and simple. If only it t’were so. No cowboys and Injuns, no good guys and bad guys…just people doing what they hope is right, and trying to survive, change, and adapt.

6. “The Outlaw Josey Wales” [1976] Again, not so much good guys and bad guys as people trying to live, find redemption, and be free. Clint Eastwood has done a lot of Westerns, but this is an epic tale, and Eastwood's favorite movie. I always get something fresh out of it when I watch it. It should be #2 on the list.

7. “The Long Riders” [1980] Aside from the inspired casting, this is the most accurate recounting of the Jesse James legend ever made. The screenplay falls short on filling in all the blanks, but if you read books, know the details and the history, and catch the onscreen references, it is a masterpiece.

8. “Tombstone” [1993] A meticulously-researched, mostly accurate re-telling of the Wyatt Earp legend. At the OK Corral, Virgil Earp really announced “This isn’t what I want!” just before the shooting started. During the 45 seconds of gunfire, Wyatt really screamed at Ike Clanton to “Get a gun or get out of the fight!” Dying of tuberculosis, Doc Holliday really regarded his bare feet and remarked “This is funny!” with his last breath. The Earps were Republicans, by the way, and John Holliday was from Georgia. Outstanding.

9. “Unforgiven” [1992] An unrelenting examination of the dark side of the cowboy ethos. The basic story could be morphed into any given time period, because it’s an examination of spiritual values. The second-best Western Clint Eastwood ever made.

10. “Ride the High Country” [1962] When Joel McCrea explains to Randolph Scott why “I want to enter my house [in Heaven] justified”, it says it all. Sam Peckinpah had it going on in terms of dealing with moral ambiguity, dignity, honor, loyalty and duty, all set in the context of the old West. This was the forerunner to #1 on this list, “The Wild Bunch”, but the theme and overall message is the same.

Honorable mentions: “Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid” [1973]—another Peckinpah classic, and originally #4 on the list. Again, honor, duty, and who you give your word to. “Heaven’s Gate” [1980]—Michael Cimino did better with his studio-bankrupting Western than with “The Deer Hunter.” Although the acting is superb, there is too much set-up and back story for the apocalyptic climax. Still, any movie that has a Harvard graduate showing Russian immigrants how to build Roman siege engines so they can throw dynamite at marauding cowboys gets high marks in my little black book. “Major Dundee” [1965]—a failed movie, but Peckinpah was orbiting around his themes from “Ride the High Country” before he succeeded in expressing them with “The Wild Bunch.” Unlike “Heaven’s Gate”, there is not enough back story on the characters, and both the director’s cut and the original release suggest that too much was left on the proverbial cutting room floor.

Speaking of which…

I have a final advisory, should you somehow be gripped by a desire to see any of the movies I’ve listed here: the director’s cut is always better. Movies are communal enterprises and perhaps the best realizations of “group-think” in modern society, although they speak to us, the viewers, individually. This might explain the collectivist mind-set of Hollyweird, but on the other hand, movies are singular visions passed from screenwriters to producers to directors, with realizations of character achieved by actors.

There is some overlap of directors and actors on my lists. That is simply because they are the best at speaking to what affects me when I sit down in the darkened house, dip my fingers into the buttered popcorn, and catch my breath when the curtain parts and the lion roars. (Sorry, Warner Brothers, you United Artists, Twentieth Century Foxes, and folks on that spinning globe at RKO, but I like the MGM logo and Clarence the cross-eyed lion.)

I know that through neglect, indolence, or personal preference I have left out some of your favorite movies. Feel free to chime in and correct me on what’s good and bad in cinema. Just as the movies offer us momentary escape from the harsh world we live in, I’m just biting my tongue and making lists.

I Rode Through the Desert on a Post with No Name (apologies to the '70s group "America")

2010-07-18T02:06:00.006-05:00

How hard it is to overcome a writer’s block dating back to 1989 when one is torn between gales of hysterical laughter and fits of angry cursing because, to paraphrase a line from “Apocalypse Now”, the BS is coming so hard and fast it’s like trying to hand out speeding tickets at the Indy 500.

The original title for this ramble was “The Imam in the Moon.” I had a few choice observations about the announcement that NASA has been directed to begin some sort of bizarre “Muslim Outreach Program” to thank those stolid folks for their contributions to the invention of algebra while the rest of us were living in caves, or something like that.

Then the title shifted to “Let the Games Begin!”, when the Democrat party began their inevitable implosion last week on the heels of mealy-mouthed Robert Gibbs—the White House Press Secretary—admitting the obvious; the Dems are going to lose both houses of Congress in, oh, about 100 days.

I’m better at writing headlines than I am at following a coherent thought. Newspapers actually pay people to do nothing but read the stories that are being pasted up as they go to press, and try for summations in as few words as possible.

Other headlines occurred to me during the past week; including some scalding racial invective concerning the Ministry of Justice’s refusal to prosecute thugs for violating civil and voting rights because said thugs are black. Then there was Ben Jealous—great name!—of the NAACP calling a black entrepreneur beaten up by SEIU thugs an “Uncle Tom,” and his further assertion that those ubiquitous “Tea Klanners” are racists who want to lynch President Obama from the nearest, tallest pine tree they can locate.

There was also VP Joe Biden sounding off at the Grand Ole Opry, blaming Bush for the failure of the current administration to produce more than hot air. That’s sort of a no-brainer gimme, though, like Biden himself.

Then there was Fearless Leader, saying the other morning that “we” have capped the Deepstar Horizon, or whatever that blown-out well in the Gulf is called. He kept using that third-person possessive tense, like he had gone down to the ocean floor and screwed the damn cap onto the pipe himself.

Madame DeFarge-Pelosi busied herself chewing poor Bob Gibbs a new one for speaking truth to power and hinting that this fall might see American Marxism cut off at the knees. Meanwhile, Harry Reid said there are no illegal aliens working in Las Vegas, and Congresswoman Shirley Jackson Lee of Texas channeled Sarah Palin’s faux pas by bloviating about North and South Vietnam—even though that country has been unified since 1975. I mention the latter because the vile Kathy Griffin took a cheap shot at Governor Palin—something about trying to teach “that nutbag” there was a North and South Korea—before Ms. Griffin called Massachusetts Senator Scott Brown’s daughters “prostitutes.”

As I used to mutter in a bemused tone in the throes of powerful LSD-marijuana-whiskey psychoses, when the world was literally swirling around me at a dizzying pace: “Wow…things are happening fast!”

I haven’t used recreational drugs in decades, and I quit drinking hard liquor. Who needs them? The world is so twisted these days it’s all I can do to maintain a center of sanity with a cup of coffee and a cheese muffin under my belt first thing in the morning.

The last headline leapt to mind when Bobama showed his hatred for the South by his choice of vacation destinations. Despite all the rhetoric by British Petroleum and El Presidente about the rest of the country hauling ass down to the Gulf of Mexico and availing ourselves of the unpolluted beaches that remain, when it comes to taking Plethora, Urethra, and Diarrhea—the First Family—out for a day at the beach, they chose a place that was as far from the Gulf of Mexico and potential tar-balls as they could travel without leaving the continental United States. (Apologies to the Obama kids; they couldn’t choose the circumstance of their parentage any more than Chelsea Clinton, Amy Carter, or Tricia Nixon. My mama was a possum, and my daddy was a junkyard dog, so I know about the accidents of birth.)

I suppose I should address some of the aforementioned madness in order.

I thought “The Imam in the Moon” was a cute lead-in, but frankly, the whole concept of a “Muslim outreach” concerning the space program befuddles me. Do people grounded in 16th-century theology really care about the exploration of the universe? They may have come up with some ground-breaking mathematical formulas back in the day, but somewhere along the line, they stalled out. My general idea of “Muslim outreach” concerning the space program is simple: Bobama made a lot of noise about closing the terrorist detention center in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and finding another location to hold the ters pending trial. How about we refurbish the space shuttles for a couple more trips, send the squirrels to the moon, and issue them space suits and shovels? They can be the first Muslims into space, and when they get to their destination, they can lay the groundwork for the first international colony on Luna. (I feel particularly nasty about this one; if they act out on the moon the way they have at Gitmo, we delay sending oxygen re-supplies. We could also delay the return of their lawyers, thus promoting true “tort reform.”)

Madame Pelosi chewing on the hapless Robert Gibbs is just the opening act. She is the modern equivalent of Cleopatra: the Queen of Denial. I have postponed putting up dire warnings that anyone passing this way who disagrees with the current regime needs to register and vote this coming November. Like the rest of the swirling world rushing past, I am overridden by circumstance, and don’t yet feel a compulsion to do so. Mind you, the right to vote is one of the few untrammeled rights remaining in this country, and no matter how apathetic or cynical you may be about how much your voice counts in the cacophony of an election, it does count. The polls are on my side; if you want real change, the time to start is in 100 days, on 2 November. There is a radical housecleaning coming; it’s traditional for the opposing party to gain congressional seats according to which party holds the White House, but this year is different. My principles dictate that I should vote for something, but come November, a lot of people will be going to the polls to vote against something, i.e. the socialist megalomania that has gripped America for the past few years.

Oh, did I mention that the government took over the banking industry this week? Let’s see, automotive, health care, and now Wall Street. Once again, the ruling party decreed that we have to pass the bill to see what’s in it. I had more situational awareness when I was stoned, tripping, and drunk, simultaneously. It’s boring stuff, and didn’t get the attention the health-care takeover did. “Ho- hum. There’s the government again.”

The Biden-Blame-Bush thing is, as I mentioned, a gimme. Does Joe “The Plagiarist” Biden have a shred more more credibility than, say, Dan Quayle? The standing joke when Bush 41 chose Quayle as his VP was that it made President Bush impervious to assassination. No one wanted Dan Quayle to step up to the plate, because he couldn’t spell “tomato.” (Or was that “potato?”)

(I still have trouble deciding whether to place punctuation marks inside or outside of quotation marks. I guess that disqualifies me from government service. I do know there is a North Korea and a South Korea, because there is only a cease-fire between those countries since the year I was born, and Vietnam, like it or not, is a single country today. I also know Scott Brown’s daughters are a model and an athlete—basketball player—respectively.)

As for the President’s choice of vacation destinations, I have only a few closing words:

Back in the 1990s, I tried AA and the twelve-step stuff. I came to realize that full embrasure of the program was trading one addiction for another, and eventually made my own separate peace with the demons that possessed me. I learned stuff from twelve-stepping, but just as godless secularists regard the Ten Commandments as “The Ten Suggestions”, I found it difficult to hang my life around someone’s earthly commandments that I have to live a certain way or die.

(This approach works for many, and I say more power to them. I am not denigrating AA and the positive influence it has wielded over so many lives.)

One of the life lessons I learned in AA was the most succinct definition of insanity that I have ever encountered. “Insanity is when you keep doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different outcome.”

When Bobama turned up on TV hiking in Bah Habah, Maine, I had to raise that 12-step question: "What did you expect, really, Robert? He hates the South more than we ascribe to Billy Sherman marching through Georgia, so what did you really expect?"

By that strict definition, I have been insane for a good portion of my adult life. Not just in dealing with the subtle influence of alcohol, but because I keep seeing politicians who promise something besides the same old song-and-dance. I want to believe them, just as I want to believe that if you set a quart of bourbon in front of me, I won’t try to drink it all in one sitting.

Optimism is in the air, and a sea change is coming. The American people are waking up to the hard fact that the “change you can count on” was a fraud; a manipulation of hopes and dreams by Chicago machine politics as cynical as the “good will” of Al Capone’s Mafia-funded soup kitchens during The Depression.

Call me crazy, but I expect a different outcome this year.

(I have deliberately overlooked the “race card” politics of recent days and the aforementioned outrages. If I go there—which I will—I’ll be getting in touch with my inner redneck. I’ll be channeling the worst of what I grew up with, and it’s going to be ugly. I’ve never had a Constant Reader “unsubscribe”, but if I write what I’m thinking about the racial politics in play today, I’m betting some of you will abandon this site because you’ll decide I’m an irredeemable racist.)

Red Liz revisited (I get mail)

2010-07-02T13:52:00.009-05:00

I love and respect my liberal friends, but sometimes I try too hard. Case in point:

Date: Thu, 1 Jul 2010 23:19:55 -0400
From: Possumtrot@ellijay.com
To: [Red Liz]
Subject: A serious question

You're still my best source for an unabashed liberal point of view on things.

How's this Bobama thing working out for you?

Robert

From: [Red Liz]
Date: 02-Jul-10 7:30:24 AM
To: possumtrot@ellijay.com
Subject: RE: A serious question

A hell of a lot better than McCain and Palin would be.
But seriously though...I wish Pres. Obama would be stronger against the GOP in Congress and not be so willing to compromise. In this violent new political climate, I fear that compromise = weakness. If he was more trenched in and stuck harder to his principles, maybe more things would be resolved. But that's just me.

And if you think I'm an unabashed liberal...my parents make me look like you.

Hope all is well with you and yours.

From: Possumtrot
Date: 02-Jul-10 2:38:03 PM
To: [Red Liz]
Subject: RE: A serious question

What the hell? The man has had an unprecedented opportunity in Congress, with majorities in both houses. He never had it so good! (And he never will again, come November. That's about 124 days, give or take a couple.) I haven't seen him "compromise" on anything so far; his goal has been to advance his socialist agenda. The only thing that's slowed him down has been bureaucracy and the machinations of the career politicians who place reelection over the common welfare. That "bipartisan consensus", "post-partisan" crap of the campaign was just that: bullshit.

I was rather hoping you'd state a realization that Bobama's policies are running contrary to the will and welfare of the people. Unemployment is at a record high. Housing—and the ripple effect—are at a record low. Even the socialist utopian leaders of Eurabia cautioned Bobama at the recent failed G-20 summit that he must rein in spending; he can't continue writing checks with his mouth that our asses can't cash. Instead, I'm gathering an implication from your reply that you think a little more federal spending is suddenly, miraculously going to solve everything.

If you want to see something more disturbing than the web-cam at the BP well, go take a look at the national debt clock. [Google™ it!] We're rapidly reaching a point where the balance will tip, and the national debt will become totally un-repayable. When we declare bankruptcy, we'll have to back that declaration with military force, and the entire world will be thrown into chaos. (You can't collect a debt when someone shoves a gun in your face and says "F--k you!", and we still have the biggest guns.)

You know that I have an ingrained disdain for both of The Big Two. There's not a nickle's worth of difference between Dems and the GOP. They're all a bunch of careerists who seek nothing more than a lifetime sinecure, and screw anybody whose ass they have to step on to climb a bit higher and retain office. Their only thought of tomorrow is the next election result. Their notion of "public service" is that the public is here to serve them; not the other way around. The cynicism and ruthlessness of politicians makes my career as a paid assassin look saintly in comparison.

By the way, when you speak of "this violent new political climate", who exactly is being violent? Was it the Black Panthers, who stood outside the polls in '08 with truncheons and ran white folks away from exercising their constitutional rights? Was it the SEIU thugs who trashed an independent entrepreneur for handing out American flag pins and bumper stickers at a Tea Party protest? Was it the misguided youths smashing storefronts at the G-20 confab in Toronto? (I thought not. Are you buying into [Minister of Homeland Security] Napolitano's myth that disaffected Army vets are potential terrorists because we can manufacture an IED and hit what we aim at? No one wants Bobama dead, but 59% of the people in this country don't want him to be president any longer.)

Bobama has already conceded the loss of Congress this year; he's looking to 2012 for his own reelection. The massive housecleaning that's about to take place, and the one that will follow year after next, reflects the true will of the American people. Bobama is already floating proposals of amnesty for illegal aliens, to expand the Dem voting base. He has lost the moderates, the independents, and even the far Left—who, like you, don't think he's moved fast enough to cement the death grip of socialism on what's left of the country.

Oh, yes, and a recent poll indicates he's lost the Jewish vote, owing to his alienation of Israel and pandering to the Islamic fanaticism of his ideological brethren. Talk about "weakness"! The only straw he has left to grasp is the gratitude of the wetbacks for an amnesty and open border, and last night's gunfight near Nogales should tell you how that'll work out in the long run.

That $100 bill is still under the paperweight atop my desk. I'll put it up this far in advance that Bobama is a one-trick pony; he won't get reelected in '12.

I am astounded—but not completely surprised—that you continue to hold faith with this failed president. As Hunter Thompson said: "Buy the ticket, take the ride." It speaks well of you personally that you'll stand by what you believe, but it's shocking that someone of your intelligence will continue to believe in the false promises borne of a political campaign. Campaign promises are like parking tickets; the longer you take to pay them off, the more expensive they become.

Dangerous though assumption may be, I'll assume you know this may be fodder for the next blog post. As with General McChrystal, nothing is personal or totally off the record. (After all, I learned my journalistic standards from Rolling Stone.) Please keep me posted, and let me know when the epiphany arrives regarding our new messiah.

I'll take that comment about the liberalism of your parents making you look like me as a compliment. I'm sure the Rosenbergs meant well when they handed over the nuclear secrets in the 1950s. It was all done for a better world, and utopia is a common dream.

Let me know when the betrayal hits home.

Robert

Patton, McArthur, McChrystal

2010-06-26T19:19:00.012-05:00

I’m not a betting man, because I hate to lose. Nevertheless, on Tuesday afternoon I started to send an e-mail to UPI’s Constant Readers, offering even money that General Stan McChrystal would be fired. This impulse was prompted by the breaking news that he was being called home by the president after details of a Rolling Stone article revealed that the general is not happy with our current leadership. He is not The Lone Ranger—no pun intended—in this regard, but I digress.

I decided to wait the story out, and instead of jumping on it, I made guacamole-and-bacon sandwiches, opened a cold beer, and watched “The Friends of Eddie Coyle” instead. The conclusion of the breaking news story seemed certain at any rate, and I really like this gritty little ‘70s-flashback movie that no one has seen. No one bets with me because of my eerie prescience on current events and election outcomes, so why waste their time with a rhetorical challenge?

The McChrystal affair left me somewhat conflicted. I have a special place in my heart for Special Operations soldiers of any rank or branch. They are mavericks by nature, and independent initiative has always served them well in accomplishing missions that don’t conform to standard military doctrine. Insubordination in all walks of my working life has occasionally served me well, although there have been stare-downs and reprisals after the fact. Leaders—no matter how competent they may be—need a clown standing to one side to occasionally shout “You’re full of it!” and do something completely off the books.

In this respect, George Patton was one of those clowns. When it came to leadership, he was one of the best generals in American history when it came to winning battles. But, as Omar Bradley told him in 1944, “George, you just don’t know when to shut your mouth!” Patton was busted down repeatedly and relieved of commands; as the oldest general in the American Army in War II, he figured he had nothing to lose, and so said whatever was on his mind. He had a unique, somewhat eccentric way of looking at things, and “eerie prescience” or not, he had a way of exasperating those above him in the food chain of command.

Douglas McArthur was another top general whose leadership abilities were extraordinary. Like Patton, he was an exceptional egotist. Maybe that’s a prerequisite for top leadership command in the field. They came from the horse-soldier traditions of leading from the front. A commander on horseback directing a mass of troops was a priority target back in the day; the dark side of the leadership tradition is that they were quickly cut down. Like Patton, McArthur had a politically insubordinate manner of sounding off to his superiors when he thought they were wrong. Both men paid the price for their temerity. I think it’s still mentioned in high-school history classes that McArthur was fired by president Harry S Truman for bucking the system on the conduct of the Korean War.

(Should you care to learn the lessons of history regarding what I’m talking about here, read William Manchester’s American Caesar, an outstanding biography of McArthur, or Ladislas Farago’s Patton: Triumph and Ordeal, a biography that chronicles the flaws and gifts of George S. Patton. Both generals were also authors; Patton’s War As I Knew It and John Gardner’s On Leadership—highlighting McArthur’s principles—are excellent reads. For those challenged by the written word, there are the bio-pics, respectively titled “Patton” and “McArthur”. Hint: read the books before viewing the movies. Get some real context.)

All that being said, I have a stunning admission to make: Bobama was right, this time. He had to fire General McChrystal. There are some lines that can’t be crossed. Like it or not, a key factor that distinguishes us from Third World banana republics is our constitutional tenet that the civilian government maintains ultimate control of the military. Whether you subscribe to Benjamin Disraeli’s notion that “war is too important to be left to the generals,” or Patton’s obverse view that “war is too important to be left to the politicians,” we are, by virtue of The Founding Fathers’ design, not subject to military coups by commanders who may consider their geopolitical views to be the ultimate opinion on any given matter.

I keep flashing back to hushed conversations over pitchers of beer in NCO clubs in 1974 Germany. Watergate was at its height, and the sergeants who really ran the modern army were concerned that the Commander-in-Chief [President Nixon] might go completely off the rails, declare a delusional state of emergency, and order the armed forces into defensive—and possibly offensive—postures that would call into question the legitimacy of his orders. No soldier in the American army is required to obey what he might consider an illegal order, no matter the rank of the person who issues it. However, if called into question for disobedience, you’d better be darn well prepared to defend your perception that said order was immoral or illegal.

What we discussed in theoretical terms in 1974 bordered on mutiny or sedition. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time, but as sworn defenders of our country’s values, we had to draw the line between politics and the common welfare we took an oath to defend. If Tricky Dick Nixon ordered tanks onto the White House lawn, declaring a state of national emergency because “sinister forces” were trying to remove him from rightful leadership of the country, would we obey those orders? If he ordered us across the wire into the Soviet Union—provoking a war to cement his office as a “wartime presidency”—would we gather the troops in our charge and roll?

It sounds ludicrous these days, but those were real concerns at the time. The previous year, the world had come perilously close to thermonuclear holocaust because of the 1973 Yom Kippur War. Saigon had not yet fallen. Chaos and uncertainty were not concepts that were invented day before yesterday.

We had several schools of thought on the matter. Whether we came down on the side of blind obedience to orders or desertion under fire, we kept our voices down and our conversations personal. Fortunately, we were never put to the test. Watergate resolved itself on the home front, and we never had to break the chain of command.

General McChrystal broke the chain of command, as did Patton and McArthur. I can understand the reasoning in every instance, but as a former soldier, I know this is wrong.

What I don’t understand—and I am not alone in this questioning—is why in the hell General McChrystal would allow anyone from Rolling Stone magazine within a hundred yards of himself.

I used to subscribe to Rolling Stone. To my great chagrin, my mother-in-law used priceless first editions of the magazine to light fires in a wood-burning stove. Rolling Stone was my cultural touchstone, keeping me current on entertainment trends, musical milestones, and cultural values. I learned my skepticism of social mores from Hunter S. Thompson’s observations, and cultivated what I consider a healthy sense of anarchy from the general tone and reportage of the magazine.

Rolling Stone also confirmed what I had learned from my own early forays into journalism: the power of the written word, whether true or false, is a far more powerful concept than many of its practitioners realize. Celestine Sibley, an old-school journalist from the 1940s through the 1980s, once told me at a seminar that I could judge the efficacy of my writing by the volume of the hate mail I received in response. “They may say they hate you, but the fact that they responded at all means you reached them on some level, and that’s what matters.”

General McChrystal is about my age, give or take a few years. That means he is old enough to remember the lesson that was hammered home about the same time Ms. Sibley gave me a life lesson. Wikipedia—the dubious online encyclopedia—has a version of the incident that is at variation with my own spotty memory, so I’ll try to recite what happened according to the faintly firing synapses of what’s left of my memory.

Richard Nixon had a Secretary of Agriculture named Earl Butz. Flying back from some political event that required his presence, Mr. Butz found himself in the company of singer Pat Boone, and John Dean, the Nixon staffer who later gave a lot up to the Watergate committee. My memory has it that a Rolling Stone reporter was also present.

The gist of the conversation is uncertain, but thinking they were “off the record,” Mr. Butz made an infamous comment. Asked something about black people, Butz replied: “The only thing the coloreds [sic] care about is loose shoes, tight pussy, and a warm place to shit.”

Sorry, kids. That’s verbatim, and the kind of remark that sticks for a lifetime. It found its way into the mainstream media, with a lot of euphemisms for “good sex” and “a warm bathroom.” Within 48 hours, Earl Butz was out of a job. Whether he believed what he said, or thought he was making an off-color joke, or wanted to shock Pat Boone, he was a public figure, a person of responsibility, and directly associated with the presidency. In his own way, he broke the chain of command.

When the McChrystal story broke, I thought immediately of the Butz scandal of so many years ago. It was one of those “What was he thinking?” moments. He’s old enough to remember what Rolling Stone did to Earl Butz. He’s certainly old enough to remember Rolling Stone trashing Bill O’Reilly a while back. Two years ago, the magazine was totally in the tank for Obama, publishing pictures of him on the beach in Hawaii and gushing over his bare torso like a teen magazine fawning over Justin Beaver or Leif Garrett. I led this column with a cover from the presidential campaign where [RS publisher] Jan Wenner channeled “Star Wars” with claptrap about “A New Hope.” Was all this not enough of a clue for General McChrystal that he was in the presence of the enemy? Every casual TV viewer knows the basic Miranda rights, especially the part that says “anything you say can, and will, be used against you.”

As the blame-fixing makes the inevitable rounds, I’m hearing that these importune remarks attributed to General McChrystal were actually utterances of lesser staff functionaries, delivered in the haze of a world-class drinking bout in Paris while they waited for an airline flight delayed by volcanic ash emanating from Iceland. Dissect that last sentence; does any part of it excuse the breach of protocol that occurred?

General McChrystal is a fine soldier, a hero of past endeavors who was tasked with trying to fight a war in a country where wars cannot be won, with one hand tied behind him. His frustrations are obvious. No matter what branch of government service we may be engaged in, we can think what we want about those who hold higher offices. To a degree, we may remark upon the incompetence of our nominal leaders to those peers we trust and confide in. If we have perfected the art of sarcasm and tacit insubordination, we may speak truth to power in rare moments of ethical conflict and moral certainty. However, you can’t badmouth the boss to his face and not brace for retribution.

General McChrystal was relieved of duty as theater commander, and consequently has resigned from the Army. He did not have the resilience of George Patton when it comes to demotions. Few modern commanders possess that tenacity. On Tuesday, when I considered offering my wager, I thought that The Red Herring would replace McChrystal with some incompetent political hack. (Assertions to the contrary, there is no shortage of these critters in the officer corps of all service branches.) Instead, Bobama has made what I consider to be only the second truly presidential decision since taking office: he appointed General David Petraeus as General McChrystal’s replacement. General Petraeus is largely responsible for turning the war in Iraq into a nominal victory, and is the sort of skilled ground commander we’ll need to affect some sort of stable solution to our announced withdrawal from Afghanistan.

I can say what I like about the bumbling, cynical egomaniac who occupies the White House, at least until he orders Cass Sunstein to shut down the Internet and throttle free speech. I don’t represent anyone except the millions of possums hanging outside bedroom windows worldwide, and we’re not beholden to politicians. I refused OCS [Officer Candidate School] twice, preferring to be a gentleman by nature of my upbringing, and screw the “ossifer” part.

General McChrystal chose his path, and walked it with dignity and courage. I hope that Stanley McChrystal, the civilian, will become a voice for reason and positive change in the uncertain days to come. His future is not denied or uncertain; he has only to master the virtue of what Bradley said to Patton: “You can’t keep your mouth shut!”

Keep talking, Stan!

"W"TF?

2010-06-17T04:05:00.003-05:00

Duct tape is amazing stuff. The “Mythbusters” crew has manufactured a working cannon, a passable suspension bridge, and a seaworthy sailboat out of it. Until last week, it was used to repair the worn-out armrests of my high-mileage wheelchair.

I finally had to break down and order replacement armrests for the chair. It was either that, or re-upholster the old ones with more duct tape. You see, two Sundays ago I had an emergency that required me to rip the duct tape off my armrests and wind it around my head to keep it from exploding. Subsequently, it took the better part of last week to stem the flow of blood leaking from my eyeballs.

No, I wasn’t physically injured. I willingly subjected myself to what I knew would be a harrowing, unpleasant ordeal, and to pay the price for my foolishness.

I watched Oliver Stone’s movie “W.” for the first and last time.

I doubt I will ever watch another Oliver Stone movie.

As a writer, producer, and director, Oliver Stone has created some outstanding works. His screenplays for “Salvador”, “Talk Radio”, “Scarface”, “Year of the Dragon” and even “Conan the Barbarian” are excellent. “Platoon” and “Wall Street” are regarded as minor masterpieces. “World Trade Center”, “The Doors” and “Nixon” were honest enough looks at history. The man has an impressive résumé, and is capable of consistently producing entertaining, thought-provoking movies.

Oliver Stone is also capable of producing bombs like “JFK” and “Alexander” and pornographic trash like “Natural Born Killers.” He’s nothing if not eclectic in his movie-making.

(Yes, I said “Natural Born Killers” is pornographic trash. Portrayals of graphic violence in the context of telling a story on film is acceptable; Sam Peckinpah was a master at this. Stringing together endless vignettes of random, senseless bloodshed, and then justifying it by saying it’s a commentary on the glorification of mindless violence in our culture, is akin to saying that skin flicks by John Holmes, Linda Lovelace, and Marilyn Chambers are commentaries on love, affection and morality.)

I thought Stone had scraped the bottom of the barrel in 1994 with “Killers”, but I was wrong. “W.” is the scum that leaks through and collects on the underside of the barrel’s bottom. If ever there was a movie that didn’t need to be made, this was it. At least in “Nixon” Stone had the decency to portray that unlikable president as a man with a tortured, conflicted soul. I know that Stone is an unabashed liberal given to some wild-eyed ideological leanings, and this spills over into his movies. Most of Hollyweird has a left-leaning bias, and discerning moviegoers who don’t agree with it simply take it in stride and ignore the source. James Cameron’s anti-capitalist, anti-military themes in “Avatar” didn’t detract from his entertaining—if derivative—story. Even unrepentant, unforgiven “Hanoi Jane” Fonda has made some good movies. When talented moviemakers exploit their celebrity and make clueless personal remarks about politics, it is normally to be transcended. Sometimes, as with Alec Baldwin and Meryl Streep, they learn to shut up and go back to doing what they’re good at.

I knew from word-of-mouth and other sources that I would not enjoy watching “W.” I knew the movie was coming out of left field, so to speak, and was a partisan ideological screed. Like a looky-Lou at a horrifying traffic accident, I also knew I had to see this. (The fact that “W.” and 2007’s “Lions for Lambs” have turned up on Encore™ so quickly speaks ill of their box office success. Most Americans don’t want to pony up their hard-earned dollars for crap, unless it’s mindlessly entertaining crap like “Iron Man II” or those “Twilight” turkeys. Liberals dismiss the reticence of average Americans to pay good money to see their country trashed as further proof that the general public is too ignorant to accept the intellectual “truths” of their boring movies.)

What I wasn’t prepared for when I sat down to watch “W.” was the outright character assassination of our 43rd president. I visited liberal blogs and saw countless other outrageous examples of the hatred progressives had for George W. Bush, including the thinly-veiled calls for his assassination, but I let it slide as freedom of speech and clueless idiocy. I’m certainly not shy about trashing our current president, who I just referred to in a previous post as “an inept dipshit.” However, I don’t present my opinions as anything more than what they are, and I don’t particularly care if my two dozen or so readers agree with me. I don’t run ads on this blog, and I don’t charge admission. I just say whatever sparks to life in what’s left of my mind, without the expectation of influencing anyone or convincing them that my interpretations of reality are so profound they should be accepted as some modern-day gospel.

Oliver Stone portrayed George W. Bush as a nose-picking, drunken, megalomaniacal buffoon who couldn’t find his dog when it was standing at his feet. In the world according to Stone, Bush was a failure at everything in life, and only achieved the presidency because of his family’s wealth and influence. Yes, George W. had a drinking problem. So what? The last time I counted, I have nine DUI convictions on my record. Yes, George W. floundered about in his formative years, searching for a sense of purpose, and failed at some of his youthful enterprises. Haven’t we all done that? Stone interprets Bush’s fundamental spiritual faith as some kind of hillbilly delusion that God is speaking to him from the burning tumbleweed. I talk to God every day, but I don’t handle snakes or roll on the floor babbling in tongues when I do so. My table manners at home aren’t the best, but I chew my food with my mouth closed and only pick my nose when no one is around. Stone’s “W” chews and picks simultaneously in one scene, with chunks of a sandwich dribbling out of the corner of his mouth while he speaks and wipes boogers on the tablecloth. (Supposedly approving the Patriot Act with Dick Cheney at the same time.) And I always know where my Ninja terrier is at any given moment…most of the time.

There were two things I appreciated in “W.” Josh Brolin looks amazingly like George Bush in some scenes, and Richard Dreyfuss bears a disturbing resemblance to Dick Cheney. Veteran actor James Cromwell doesn’t look anything like George H.W. Bush, but he has the only good line in the movie. I paraphrase: “Junior, you got another DUI, and now you’ve got this girl knocked up. This is unacceptable! Who do you think we are, Kennedys?”

About fifteen minutes into the movie, the pressure inside my skull reached a crisis point, and I had to scavenge the duct tape off the armrests of my wheelchair to keep my head from exploding. That containment made the blood run out of my eyeballs. I used to have the bad habit of hanging up on aggravating phone callers, and when they called back, I’d apologize and tell them my bullshit sensor had overloaded and kicked me out of service. Thus it was with “W.” My BS meter spiked, and several gaskets blew a leak.

Thank God for duct tape!

(P.S. While I am currently convinced I’ll never watch another Oliver Stone movie, I see from my research at the IMDB—Internet Movie Data Base—that Stone is currently working on a movie titled “Travis McGee.” I am a great fan of the late John D. McDonald, and read every one of the “McGee” thrillers as fast as he wrote them. I may have to rethink a total boycott of Stone movies. If he can come up with something entertaining that is true to the title character, Stone may find a measure of redemption in my book. However, the very concept of redemption is totally alien to Stone, as he so vividly asserted in “W.” I’ll have to cogitate on this a while.)

Addendum: "Suck it up with a straw!"

2010-06-17T00:46:00.004-05:00

One thing that I totally failed to mention in the previous post was the culpability of the “green” crowd in the current ecological disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. As long as there is rampant finger-pointing making the rounds, I nominate radical tree-huggers as largely to blame for the oil spill, because of their opposition to any form of shallow-water drilling in the last twenty years.

An oil rig blow-out in shallow water would have been a cinch to fix, compared to the logistical difficulties of trying to fix a boo-boo a mile deep in the ocean. The best analogy I’ve heard to attempting this is fixing a fire hose upright, turning on the water, and sitting on the resultant stream with a coffee can to try and stop the output.

And then there is the alternative of dry-land drilling, which—according to the bunny-huggers—is completely out of the question because it might disturb a few of the caribou who nuzzle up to the Alaska pipeline for its frictional warmth as the oil passes through.

I wonder how much attention will be paid to the eight scientists who claim their report to The White House on the Gulf oil spill was altered to falsely allege they supported a moratorium on offshore oil drilling, when in fact they suggested no such thing?

My opinion on furthering America’s foreign-energy-dependency was stated in the previous column. I’ve lived “rough” with nature most of my life, and believe me, nature can be rough. As those web-cams in the Gulf graphically illustrate, Mother Nature can be unforgiving when rudely disturbed.

I’ve gathered water samples for the EPA where a manufacturer of telephone cable was dumping crap into a local watershed. I don’t hunt animals for sport, and I winced when the only way to control the growth of ivy up the side of my house was by widespread dissemination of herbicide. I capture and throw most non-lethal insects out of the house, as opposed to swatting them. I have weathered severe thunderstorms in a jungle hammock, and felt the tingle of nearby lightning strikes. I don’t know if any of this makes me an environmentalist, or ecologically correct, but in every instance I felt a harmony with the planet we live on. I respect the power of nature, and regret that the bozos at BP upset that equilibrium with their arrogant disregard of environmental protocols. While we have exploited the ecosphere in the past, I think that given the power of modern technology, we can utilize natural resources without destroying them or defiling the planet we have to live on.

That being said, “alternative energy sources” are still some years away from becoming practical realities. All these surreal “green” advocates saying the Gulf oil spill is our wake-up call to “switch to alternative energy sources” are ignoring the inconvenient fact that the technology isn’t here yet. Yes, there are electric cars. Yes, there is solar and wind power generation available, but as stable, reliable alternatives, the technology isn’t quite there. I am reminded of Jackson Browne and other anti-nuclear rock stars singing their protest songs, blissfully unaware of where the juice that powered their electric guitars likely came from. The upshot of their protests against nuclear power has set that industry so far behind in development that it, too, is unviable as a way of off-setting our dependence on oil.

That brings us to a final aspect of the oil spill crisis that I failed to touch on the previous post. While pursuing his latest photo-op in Louisiana last weekend, Bobama inadvertently admitted his mortality. Meeting with anguished local community leaders, he stated “I can’t go down there and suck [the oil] up with a straw.” Did I just hear the resounding “thud!” of an inflated ego crashing to earth? Was this a hint that our Maximum Leader might occasionally sit in a darkened room in The White House, holding his head in his hands and muttering “This is a lot tougher than I thought it would be!”

It took eight years for the Bush presidency to sink into the 40 percentile approval rating. Bobama has accomplished this astounding feat in only eighteen months. His own fervent acolytes are turning on him now. Those who hailed him as the new messiah are now realizing that Bobama is just a little tin god, and a cynical, inept one at that. All the arrogance in the world won’t prevent your feet of clay from further erosion, Mr. President.

Suck that up with a straw.

Greasy people; oily thoughts

2010-06-16T18:36:00.009-05:00

The noted sportswriter Red Barber once remarked that his job in journalism was easy. “All I have to do is roll a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter, sit there, and wait for the blood to come out of my forehead.”

This isn’t journalism, and I haven’t played a journalist on TV for years, but I know the feeling Mr. Barber spoke of.

It’s right at two months into the Gulf of Mexico disaster, and my thoughts about it have been as murky as beachfront property in Louisiana. I tried to send an audio bonus to Constant Readers last week; a 13-minute song to tell them I was still on the job, and listening to what I considered significant music while I chased my muse. The song had too many megabytes for most ISPs, and was rejected by everyone’s server. Copies of the lyrics went out with notices that this post is up on UPI. (If you’re a drive-by and would like to become a Constant Reader, send me an e-mail saying so. The link is in my profile, at right.)

Let’s start with an e-mail from a Constant Reader:

-------Original Message-------

From:gatsbyetal
Date: 14-Jun-10 2:34:36 PM
To:
Subject: The ineptness is criminal

“If you read the comments at this link, the devastation of the Gulf becomes clearer. Federal delays and red tape, mismanagement, failure to use proffered help from the beginning, etc., have destroyed southern Louisiana's (and the nation's) economy i[n] multiple ways. The six-month moratorium has compounded the problems. ACORN-like paid volunteers spend more time taking breaks than being effective while genuine, knowledgeable volunteers are being turned away by the feds.

http://hotair.com/archives/2010/06/14/obama-administration-suddenly-discovers-the-virtues-of-foreign-assistance-in-gulf/

I am furious. Top-down criminal negligence and dithering cannot be tolerated. How many economic sectors does this adolescent playboy want to destroy?”

From: Possumtrot
Date: 16-Jun-10 4:20:41 PM
To:
Subject: Re: The ineptness is criminal

I like the term "adolescent playboy." I think it's a totally inadequate term for the gravity of what's going on; JFK and RFK were adolescent playboys when they were handing poor Norma Jean around like a joint at a '60s rock concert. Willie the Zipper was an adolescent playboy with his "bimbo eruptions."

Bobama is a sinister entity trying to single-handedly destroy America, or at least weaken us to the point that his Muslim/Communist masters can gain irrevocable power over our ability to determine our future.

I no longer give the benefit of the doubt that Bobama is an inept dipshit. I have an institutional mind-set for conspiracy theories, and so tend to self-skepticism, but I've become convinced that the SOB is either waging a racist, one-man jihad, or acting on alien orders. My apolitical significant other is even more certain of this, and actually surpassed me in ruthlessness the other night when she said she wouldn't flinch if Bobama got himself assassinated. Maybe my past has softened me, but I think impeachment is the order of the day. I'm already reduced to a Third World mentality, because I wouldn't flinch if a coup was in order.

We have gone that far into the gutter.
R

I’ll stand by what I said in that e-mail. China now owns 900 billion dollars [$900,000,000,000; lots of zeros, huh?] of our national debt, and is willing to accept payment in mineral and other natural resource rights, and probably some prime real estate. Does anyone remember the 1980s, when there was a sudden realization that the Japanese were buying up huge chunks of America?

You ain’t seen nothing yet.

Last night, the president was on TV, breaking his own precedent for never giving an address from The Oval Orifice. I have a game board called “Obama’s [Bullfeathers] Bingo” that someone sent me. I printed it out, put it into a document protector, and gathered a cup of quarters to mark the squares during a presidential pronouncement. It sounds childish, but playing along at home at least makes it tolerable to listen to Bobama’s utterances. (The board consists of frequent clichés deployed by The Red Herring; when you get five in a row horizontally, vertically, or diagonally, you win the prize of being empowered to stand up and yell “BULLSHIT!” at the top of your lungs.)

I had nine quarters on the board last night; four of them were placed in the first five minutes of his “reassuring” speech. I didn’t get a “bingo”, but I still muttered “bullshit!” numerous times as he babbled on in his best Harvard rhetorical style. Skilled demographic analysts showed that I am not alone in my disdain for the efficacy of Bobama’s speech, but given my predisposition to loathing of petty, tin-god socialist despots, it doesn’t take much to trigger my disaffection.

Going back to the e-mail reply I’m standing by, allow me elucidate a couple of points:

I sincerely believe Bobama—my newest moniker for El Presidente; not as disrespectful as the Ted-Kennedy-inspired “Osama Bamalama”…without the “.” behind the “B”, it is his name, after all—is embarked on a conscious crusade to weaken this country. Whether he believes that the humility borne of weakness would serve us better diplomatically, or he is acting on behalf of a more sinister purpose embodied by radical Islam’s long-term goal of global domination, his means and end remain a detriment to America.

When the BP oil rig blew up in April, Bobama immediately declared a moratorium on offshore oil drilling, rescinding his previous announcement that new permits for such drilling would be issued. Now, outcries are beginning to be heard that this moratorium will harm the Gulf region—and ultimately America—as much as the oil spill itself. The bottom line is, by refusing to explore and exploit our own natural resources, we become even more dependent on foreign oil supplies. Besides Russia, who controls most of those petroleum resources? Why, the predominantly Muslim Arabs, of course. It’s become a stereotype: when you think of “petrodollars”, you think of a swarthy guy wearing a bathrobe, with a tablecloth wrapped around his head and a camel in the parking lot. Although these guys were something of a joke until the late 1960s, the OPEC embargo of the ‘70s woke us up to the fact that they hold a great deal of power, and if they get off the ideological reservation, this can become a problem. The Islamic tenet of dhimmitude—subservience by infidels who are not liquidated in the name of Allah—is not a joke. Just as Soviet Premier Khrushchev proclaimed the inevitability of communist domination, so do today’s radical Muslims swear that the domination of Islam will occur. Owing to whatever missteps of history and circumstance you’d care to ascribe, those people are now in a position to make it happen.

Diplomatic and economic bargains are best arrived at from positions of power. If both sides have “nothing to prove”, so to speak, then they can arrive at mutual accommodations. If one side is dying of thirst, face down in the desert sand, then the other side, holding the canteen, becomes a god. Self-preservation should be based upon self-sufficiency, not begging for mercy.

There is not, nor will there ever be, any proof that Bobama is a closet Muslim. As I told a “birther” a while back, even if there is anything tenable to such a far-fetched idea, steps will have been taken to make discovery and disclosure impossible. Still, his do-nothing attitude toward Iranian development of nuclear weapons, and his proactive inactions toward increasing American dependency on foreign oil largesse, do nothing to dispel the notion that he is acting on behalf of forces that are totally antipathetic to the idea and ideals of America. Four trips to the Gulf coast, and the subsequent photo-ops, have not stopped one barrel of oil from gushing into the water there. Why is it only today—16 June—that he is meeting with the chairman of BP? Why have other oil companies—like the Dutch and Norwegian enterprises—who have a great deal of expertise in controlling oil spills, not been contacted? Why has there not been an executive order rescinding the prohibition on foreign-flag vessels sailing into Gulf waters and pitching in on capping this horrendous gusher?

A pundit gave a very succinct summation last night, after the “reassurance” speech: “The only affirmative action proposed by the Obama administration is increased taxes and a takeover of the petroleum industry.”

“I no longer give the benefit of the doubt that Bobama is an inept dipshit.” Yeah, I’m on the fringe of going from “PG-13” to “R” with my rhetoric, but, you the casual reader have never perused my personal communications. I save my big words for these columns, and use the shorthand of thug-prose for my casual speech. I do tend to self-skepticism when it comes to conspiracy theories of assessments of “the bigger picture”, but my gut is telling me that Bobama is not a bumbling idiot trying to affect the ivory-tower theories of his ideological mentors. There is something darker in play here.

Jimmy Carter was an inept dipshit. He got to The White House on the basis of being an outsider in the wake of Watergate and Gerald Ford’s placid caretaking. Carter was an absolute disaster, paving the way for the greatest presidency of the 20th century: Ronald Reagan’s administration.

Much has been lost since then, especially the path of greatness that America trod for the previous 200 tears. Compared to Bobama, Jimmy Carter was a paragon of ethics, morality, and efficiency. I think perhaps Mr. Jimmy meant well, but he got eaten alive by the sharks that swim in De Cesspool.

Finally, it was pointed out last night that blaming the previous administration may play well in the election campaign, but if you get elected, continuing to blame the previous administration implies that you are going to rectify the problem. I have seen nothing forthcoming from any corner of the current government except suggestions about increased taxes, expansion of said government into the oil business, and a lot of finger-pointing and demonization of capitalism. Yes, BP is to blame for this disaster, but as I pointed out long before the TV pundits seized on it, when it was stated to me that “It’ll be a long time before I fill my car up at BP station again”, if we give in to collective—and mainstream-media-generated—anger and boycott BP into bankruptcy, we, the taxpayers, will end up footing the bill to clean this mess up.

I haven’t said half of what I wanted to here, and not nearly as clearly as I’d like to have said it. However, if you read between the lines, I think you’ll get my drift. At least it’s not as dense and murky as the oil scum drifting in the Gulf of Mexico tonight while Dudley Do-Nothing makes meaningless, reassuring speeches as he leaves huge carbon footprints with his four trips to the Gulf shore for photo-ops and PR damage control.

Memorial Day

2010-05-25T21:11:00.006-05:00

Back in the day—not so long ago—I thought Bill Clinton was one of the worst presidents in modern history behind my homeboy, Jimmy Carter. I thought electing an amoral, draft-dodging quasi-socialist was about the worst the American public could do.

I was wrong.

Ol’ Bill was simply taking to heart Henry Kissinger’s maxim that “power is the greatest aphrodisiac.” Psychopathic murderers are chronicled to reach orgasm at the moment they kill their victims; I suppose being the Supreme Leader of the nation that can end life on earth as we know it carries the same thrill, in a more general sense.

Time softens many things, and I suppose we can count ourselves lucky that President Clinton was only obsessed with satisfying his own personal quirks and lessening the testosterone madness that gripped him. If we could tolerate a leader who was satisfied with non-reciprocal sex in the Oval Office—as opposed to the thermonuclear incineration of a Third World country—then we were still sort of on track as the paragon nation of individual achievement.

When former president Clinton underwent heart surgery a few years ago, I made a public statement to the effect that I never thought I’d be in the position of saying a prayer for him. There are any number of people I personally dislike, for any number of reasons, but wishing death upon anyone is a karmic stance that I have reserved for only a couple of people; neither of them are public figures. The National Day of Prayer—recently outlawed by the courts—stipulates that we should ask God for favor on our national leaders. Unlike totalitarian theocracies—where failure to acknowledge the Supreme Leader is an offense against God punishable by death—we are asked to reach into our hearts and consider benevolence for those tasked with making the hard choices that attach to the unenviable task of leading us, as a nation, into an unforeseeable future.

I think we peaked with Theodore Roosevelt, but I digress.

I miss Bill Clinton. Like praying for him, I never thought I’d see the day. Once, being picked up off the floor, a cop gave me a consciousness exam by asking “Who’s the president?” I replied “That reprehensible hillbilly!” When the cop holding me up by the armpits stopped laughing, he said “He’s all right, let him go. I think he knows what ‘reprehensible’ means.”

The main reason I considered Bill Clinton reprehensible was that he was a draft-dodger. He went to England and did the college thing when working-class mooks like me were dying in Vietnam. I had my walk in the sun protesting against the war, but once I quit high school, I had no privilege or deferment to hide behind.

Veterans have a long and harsh institutional memory in matters like this. Clinton happened to be the first of the baby-boomers who fulfilled my long-ago threat to my Green Beret cousin Weyman: “Someday we’ll have political power, and then things will change.”

They certainly did.

Every year that Clinton showed up at the Vietnam Memorial Wall in DC to lay a wreath, there were protests. I half-remember a folk song of the time: “On Memorial Day/the bands will play/soldiers will be marching on the Mall…don’t care what you say/please stay away…please stay away from The Wall.”

Or something like that. Point is, for better or worse, the Commander-in-Chief showed up, laid the wreath, and said something in praise of those who died far too young. At least Clinton had the cojones to say publicly that he thought the war was immoral when he was a young punk waving a sign on the streets of London. The question of receiving lectures on morality from a cigar-smoking rube that didn’t have the common courtesy to give his barely-legal concubines a reach-around I’ll leave to the individual reader.

During the late 1970s, when the scars of ‘Nam were still fresh on our consciousness, I helped a few expatriate draft-dodgers regain their citizenship, after they’d fled to Canada. I never had a problem with doing this, for one simple reason: they acted out of principle. They gave up everything: family, friends, citizenship in the greatest country on earth, and all its perks. Yeah, they ran and hid, but however questionable their motives, they acted on conscience.

This gets you a lot of points in my book.

Bill Clinton took a somewhat different tack, and doesn’t get Brownie Points for conscientious objection. Nevertheless, when he weaseled his way into the White House, he showed up on Memorial Day and honored those who died without questioning their duty as soldiers.

Now, we have an outright self-avowed socialist, suspect closet Muslim, consummate machine-politics incompetent—to be gracious—narcissist who is turning the office of the presidency into a jumping-off point for wannabe reality show celebrities. Like the pathetic mooks who sign onto blogs with “First!” and nothing more substantial, the Manchurian Candidate seems more centered on parlaying an historical “first”—first president of color—into either an ongoing celebrity payoff or the most suicidal leadership role in history.

A few years ago, I became embroiled in a semantics issue with Bill O’Reilly. He kept saying the terrorism conflict is “World War III”; I kept insisting that War III was our proxy war with communism in low-level battles around the globe, and this is technically World War IV. Call it what you care to, we are faced with two—actually more—crises. The domestic economy is in the tank, nuclear–capable nations are facing off, the worst environmental disaster in modern times has its own real-time web-cam, a totalitarian nation of religious zealots continues hell-bent on development of thermonuclear weapons, America is overrun with illegal refugees from a corruption- and poverty-stricken nation that dares to criticize our way of life in our halls of government…

And what is our Supreme Leader doing?

Well, according to the hot word off this morning’s news, Osama Bamalama plans to spend the weekend hanging out in Chicago with his pals, whose corrupt political machinations launched his Manchurian candidacy. I wonder if this weenie roast will be open to Bill Ayers and “Reverend” Jeremiah Wright, the anarchist and the racist, respectively. On 2 June, when business resumes in De Cesspool, he plans a grand fiesta for Sir Paul McCartney. Hey, I love the Beatles, but they are essentially a British thing. A number of Americans died breaking us off from England to start this grand enterprise in human rights. Nowhere in this itinerary is an allowance for making even a token appearance at The Wall, or laying a wreath anywhere in Arlington Cemetery for any of our fallen veterans of past wars.

This is what I miss about Bill Clinton. He may have been a bumbling, horn-dog, poll-driven opportunist, but at least he acknowledged the gravity and meaning of the office he inhabited—when he wasn’t leaning against the desk getting momentary gratification. Whether he meant it or not, he at least showed up and went through the motions of paying respect, possibly even to the man who died for him in Vietnam. People—including me—didn’t like him, but at least he adhered to the principle that is sort of timeless to doing one’s duty: You don’t have to like it, but you have to show up.

The arrogance of our current leadership is breathtaking.

This is the time of the year we lift a toast to absent friends. For all who served, and continue to do so, I have two words:

“Thank you.”

Spring fever and small outrages

2010-05-25T18:11:00.003-05:00

When I was a couple of decades younger, I devoured science-fiction/fantasy books by the box load. Literally. I had some close friends who ran a used book store, and they would occasionally box up a few dozen sci-fi paperbacks and pack them off to whatever godforsaken corner of the world I currently inhabited.

While sometimes living with Third World accommodations and standards, I always enjoyed visiting distant star systems, conversing with aliens, and reveling in philosophies that differed from the strict standards of reality that I marginally accepted. Alternative histories—such as the Confederacy winning the Civil War, and the futurism of Phillip K. Dick—were especially resonant. I never used mind-altering substances at work, but the theater of the mind can be a powerful thing, especially when you’re bored.

Never, in all my misbegotten voyages to those alien universes, did I dream I’d be living in one. I think of my grandmother—born in 1886—who saw the advent of widespread rural electrification, the proliferation of telephones, the sinking of the Titanic, two world wars, manned flight going from the Wright brothers’ first jaunt to supersonic jets, and men walking on the moon. Any time I read or see a comprehensive history of events from 1886 forward, I am in total awe of what can pass during a single lifetime. (Mother Mamie lived until 1986; dying just after her 100th birthday.)

I gave up science-fiction in the mid-1980s. (I also gave up pro wrestling in 1985, after my father’s murder. Pretend violence was an amusing diversion until then, but despite my acquaintance with the real thing, I lost my stomach for steroid freaks talking smack, tossing each other around, and playing like the battle of good versus evil can be settled with a folding chair upside the head.)

I gave up drugs about the same time. Alcohol had a stronger grip, but in time its insidious influence was reined in. I still enjoy a cold beer or a glass of wine, but I no longer have the compulsion to finish a bottle of smooth bourbon ASAP, just because it’s there. Reality caught up to me; I came to realize that as strange as things might become when viewed through a haze of hashish and whiskey, they are just as diverting when viewed in the comparatively clear light of sobriety, and you don’t fall down as much. The cosmic enlightenment of LSD—which I can’t deny, but don’t recommend—had peaked; the evolution of the human race had become a psychedelic fantasy of the worst sort.

One of my role models was Gonzo author Hunter S. Thompson. I wonder if his lifetime on the edge culminated with reflections like this, and that’s why he put a .44 Magnum to his head and pulled the trigger.

Fear not. I’m too mean to kill myself. It would make too many people happy. In the tradition of Thompson’s “fear and loathing”, I figure living well is the best revenge.

So, what’s all this about?

Well—spring fever and inherent laziness about writing notwithstanding—there was a plethora of outrages this month. I’ll preface listing them by saying I’ve never seen anything like this in my damned life.

Let’s see: four students in a Californication high school got suspended on 5 May because they wore American-flag-logo tee-shirts to class, to counter all the Mexican-flag paraphernalia that was on display by their culturally alienated classmates.

A 6th-grader in Texas was sentenced to a week of detention because she was in possession of a single Gummy Bear, in violation of the state school’s “zero-tolerance” policy.

A War I memorial, in the configuration of a cross, was finally freed from its plywood cover after the Supreme Court ruled it is legal to display on public property. A few days later, it was stolen.

In spite of only running about ten pages—depending on what font you use to print it out—the Arizona law has not been read by The Red Herring, “Tex” Holder, the attorney general, or Minister of Homeland Security Napolitano, among others. Nevertheless, they keep up the “Nazi!” police-state rhetoric, along with numerous city and state governing bodies and influential cultural voices like Will Ferrell, Jay Leno, and that godless Mahr bastard. Those meaningless boycotts are going to hurt the 500,000 wetbacks already living in Arizona, you idiots…

(When I refer to thespians from a specific family, I summarize by saying “one of those Baldwin guys.” You, Mr. Bill, have relegated yourself to the status of “that godless bastard”. If I don’t buy Ayn Rand’s atheism, I am certainly not accepting your “well-reasoned” arguments against spirituality. Remember: religion is for people who don’t want to go to hell; spirituality is for people who have been there and don’t want to go back.)

So, we slam Jan Brewer and Arizona domestically, then apologize to the Chinese, of all people, and allow Mexican president Calderon to stand before a joint session of Congress and bad-mouth us for “racial profiling” when his government depends on the millions of dollars those wetbacks send home to their families every year.

Meanwhile, I think the Gulf of Mexico has stopped burning, but the level of toxic “oil dispersants” is rising by the hour. Environmentalists are praying for a hurricane, saying Mother Nature can cope with a little oil everywhere, but concentrations are disastrous. I think there is a web-cam down by the leak, for the existentially-challenged who want to watch muck pouring out by the hour.

Dudley-Do-Nothing, after waiting a week longer than Bush 43 to respond to Louisiana on any level to crisis in the South, is pretending to crack down on the arrogant morons who run British Petroleum. I was reminded of his self-anointment; “the day I take office, that’s the day the earth will begin to heal, and the skies will begin to clear.”

I wonder how many of his hard-core believers are still clinging to that messianic myth.

And how does all this tie together? I think you’ve figured it out by now. We are living in surrealism. My dictionary defines surrealism as “…fantastic imagery and incongruous juxtaposition of subject matter.”

We need drugs and booze for this? I don’t.

When I hit 50 years of age, I convinced myself that nothing could surprise me any longer. I regretted losing that child-like sense of amazement—which keeps us alert and fresh—but growing up in interesting times seemed to have negated the ability of time and circumstance to tweak me with new tricks for old dogs.

Politically speaking, I grew up with childhood threats of “I’ll tell Ike you’re a bad boy,” weathered the Kennedy assassination, began to get a clue with LBJ, came to loathe and then respect Nixon long after Watergate, took a last swing at fervent devotion with Carter, suffered and griped through the Clinton years. Oh, yeah, there were Bushes, Fords, and some guy named "Ronald" in the mix, too. Somewhere along the line, I thought I had become inured to incompetence and corruption in the governing process.

Or so I told myself.

As I became an adult—a maturation process that took longer mentally than physically—I vowed that I would never lose my grasp on that child-like ability to be astonished by the world around me. I was convinced that this was the Peter-Pan notion that would keep me forever young and invulnerable.

I still tear up when I hear any version of Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young”, and I now grimace when I hear The Who’s “My Generation” with that refrain of “hope I die before I get old.” I waited in line for the first “Star Wars” movie in the ‘70s, and took acid a half hour before the show started so I could journey out into an alternate reality.

Nothing—not the most optimistic visions of George Lucas, or the grimmest prognostications of Phillip K. Dick—could have prepared me for what we’re living through today. Food police, thought police, subservience by the greatest power on earth, religious persecution and 16th century holy war, leaders obsessed with becoming reality-show celebrities, dynastic totalitarian nuclear threats, and planetary upheavals like volcanoes and oil leaks. Incompetence is a virtue, faith is a vice, reality is a politically malleable entity, and common sense is a myth.

I’ve never seen anything like it in my damn life.

"Reductio ad Hitlerum" (Parts I and II)

2010-05-06T13:57:00.003-05:00

My notes—the junk I clutter up my computer with, especially other people’s notions that sometimes strike me as relevant—indicate that “Reductio ad Hitlerum” roughly translates to mean “Just because Hitler had an idea first, it doesn’t necessarily mean it was a bad one.”

However, another take on this term is an essay by Jonah Goldberg in National Review a few years back, citing a postulation from a friend of his to the effect that once Nazis are referred to in any context in a discussion, intellectual discourse is out the window, because there can be no moral equivalency between the evil the Nazis perpetrated and any behavior—no matter how savage—since then.

I favor the latter notion.

I am hearing a lot of moral equivalency lately. It’s attached to the passage of the new immigration law in the state of Arizona, whereby any person having contact with a law enforcement officer may be asked for proof of citizenship, and can be detained and possibly deported if they cannot produce said documentation.

The milder objections to this law include allegations that it promotes racial profiling, invades privacy, and is opening the door to a police state tantamount to Nazi Germany. Right away, the doctrine of “Reductio ad Hitlerum” kicked in; almost from the moment Arizona governor Jan Brewer signed the bill into law. Any rational discussion of the ramifications of this legislation was pre-empted by open-border advocates screeching “Nazis!” and rioting in the streets. The issue is reduced to chanting bumper-sticker slogans, acts of wanton vandalism, and violence directed at police officers trying to maintain public order.

A sane person cannot compare any type of contemporary behavior to the institutionalized genocide practiced in Nazi Germany. The results of that nation being hoodwinked by a charismatic leader, and enslaved to his ideas, are unparalleled in human history. Nothing else in modern times compares to the depraved actions of the National Socialist Worker’s Party that held sway over Germany after World War I and throughout War II. (I find it odd that comparatively little mention is made of the Stalinist purges or the racially-rooted savagery of the Japanese during this same time period, but the Nazis ended up being the poster children for absolute evil.)

I’ve employed comparisons to Hitler and Nazis as a rhetorical tool. There is no better verbal shorthand than to conjure up the analogy between someone I perceive as a bad pony and an SS storm trooper in a black uniform. Unlike leftist radicals of a few years ago who offered up Photo-Shopped images of George W. Bush as Hitler, and some fervent right-wingers of today who do the same with pictures of The Red Herring, I will not resort to putting Barack Obama or any other public figure’s visage into a visual Nazi context. I am somewhat ashamed of comparing Obama to Hitler in print; not because it had no historical precedent—which it does, in terms of the politics of the Weimar Republic of post-War-I Germany and the fraud of “change you can count on” today—but because my employment of Nazi imagery of any sort detracts from the legitimacy of my arguments.

With this concept of absolute evil in mind, let’s take a glance at Arizona. This is a state that is overrun by illegal immigrants on their southern border. Some of these immigrants resort to crime when the American dream they risked their lives for doesn’t pan out right away. Phoenix is the home-invasion and kidnapping capital of the nation. Arizona is in the top five states of murders per capita, in spite of its relatively sparse population. The straw that broke the camel’s back appears to have been the murder of Robert Krentz, a prominent rancher who confronted some illegals on his property, and was shot to death for asking what their business was. The depredations of the lawlessness of Mexico have spilled over onto American soil. This has been happening for quite a few years, and has finally come to a head.

One of the most telling signs of the frustrations of Arizonans on the border was the statement by Governor Brewer that she had written to President Obama five times, requesting he take definitive steps to secure our southern borders. Those letters were ignored and unanswered by anyone in the White House. The Arizona law was passed, in part, to force the federal government into some sort of action. The reality of domestic crime is bad enough; there is also the threat of Islamic terrorism coming out of left field and infiltrating our borders amidst the hordes coming north unimpeded.

I want to be very careful about what I say on this issue. I am honored to know a number of people from Mexico, Central and South America. The Latinos I know are among the most decent, hard-working, and righteous people I have ever met. I would never deny any of them the opportunity to come to America to have a better life, or, better still, the chance to stabilize their home countries and pursue the ideals that made this nation great.

I have one stipulation, though: let’s do it legally.

America has a checkered past on matters of racial equality, immigration, genocide, territorial expansion, legislation of morality, and almost any other subject of social relevance you’d care to name. We haven’t always gotten it right, and have ourselves done grievous wrongs in the past. As a nation of immigrants, we applied diverse solutions to complex problems, and sometimes came up totally wrong-headed in our approach. Like raising children, we made it up as we went along.

Taking it by the numbers, here are a few items where you’ll get no argument from me that we’re guilty as charged:

1. Although we’re 95% color-blind as a nation, there is still racism in America. The positive changes in my lifetime have been breathtaking, but there are still those who consider people “who ain’t like us” to be inferior by virtue of their race. There are no inferior people; just inferior behavior patterns. Our history is rife with racial persecution, but anyone living today who attempts to play a “race card” as justification for anything is as guilty of racism as rabid as that of our ancestors. I am always careful to ascribe the proper meanings and distinctions to the misused terms “prejudice,” “bigotry,” and “racism.” Each word has a proper meaning, but more and more often, they are lumped together as a general denigration for anyone who doesn’t agree with the politically correct philosophy of the moment.

2. We didn’t like the Irish, the Chinese, the Jews, Latinos, or the free blacks when they arrived here at various times after us WASP types did. Every ethnic group that has arrived en masse in America has expressed a desire to shut the door on those who may follow. Those who embrace and assimilate the American ideal prosper in the crucible of democracy. Those who cling to tribal mores and cultural bigotry become slaves to the nanny state, and as they gain political influence, their social policies destroy the society they embraced in thought, if not in deed.

3. Like the aforementioned Nazis, we are guilty of genocide. Within a few decades of first arriving on America’s shores, we illegal refugee immigrants—mostly from Europe—decided that there could be no accommodation or co-existence with the native peoples of this land, so we set out to exterminate them. In the course of a couple of hundred years, we almost succeeded. By the start of the 20th century, we had the “heathen Injuns” reduced to a handful of cowering survivors whose very survival was as much up for grabs as the extinction of the indigenous herds of buffalo that once fed them. Government doctrine at the time was “the only good [one] is a dead [one].” (Phil Sheridan to George Custer, circa 1869.)

4. Large parts of this vast country—from sea to shining sea—were bought, stolen, or conquered from others who were here first. In places like California, Texas, the Philippines, Puerto Rico, and parts of the Bahamas, as well as Manhattan and Florida, “we stole it fair and square” as the saying goes. What we couldn’t obtain by bribery, coercion, opportunism, or default-as-godforsaken-wilderness, we occupied as spoils of war. It is human nature to desire territory; Hitler and his Nazis claimed all of their expansionism, especially in Eastern Europe, was to provide “living space” for the German people.

5. One of the unfortunate offshoots of any type of societal organization is the tendency of those charged with running things to overstep their authority and usurp the right of people to determine what is personally proper for them. Just because I live a certain way, it doesn’t confer upon me any special authority to tell you how to live and behave in your personal life. As long as you acknowledge that your rights end where the rights of others begin, then a truly free person should be allowed to make any decision concerning health, sexual preferences, libido-feeding [i.e. drugs, alcohol, etc.], child-raising, and spiritual values. Since the original American refugees were mostly fleeing poverty or religious persecution, once the nation was formed, one of our first acts was to ensure spiritual freedom—that is, the right to believe in whatever works for you. However, once it was determined that this would be a nation of laws, endless attempts began for some folks to decide what was right for other folks; those in the deciding position were and are elected to public office and make the laws. Spectacular examples of the failure of those wishing to enact their will upon others are the Volstead Act—the original alcohol “prohibition”—and the current “war on drugs”—the second unviable prohibition, resulting in billions of wasted dollars and ruined lives beyond those of the actual consumers. I don’t think any state actually has laws still on the books prohibiting homosexuality, miscegenation, or sexual acts other than procreation between man and woman, but frankly, I don’t care enough to look it up. People are gonna do what they’re gonna do, and now that we’ve arrived at the fiscal realization that there is only so much tax revenue available to fund enforcement of any of the myriad of laws we’ve passed, I believe the money could be better spent. The attempted legislation of morality is another of our great failings, producing only a criminal underclass and millionaires among those bold, ruthless or stupid enough to defy the laws of the land.

So, we’re all collectively guilty as charged.

So what?

I consider myself a patriot, loyal to my country and what it stands for. I am not a “blind” patriot of the “love it or leave it” ilk; I am not one of those who considers America without flaws and guiltless in every past action we, as a nation, have taken. However—and this is paramount—what I do believe in is the idea of America; a nation where people are free to determine for themselves the way, shape and fashion of their own lives. Our Declaration of Independence declared “all men are created equal,” but failed to note that stupidity, avarice, or laziness might kick in later for a lot of people. God gave you the inalienable right to succeed or fail; the rest is up to you. In our less-than-perfect society, we have done better than anyone else in history to level the playing field and protect the right of people to be somebody, do something, or suck fumes and die in the gutter if that is where their personal compass directs them. This notion may sound brutal on its face, in light of today’s nanny-state socialist mentality, but if you think about it, that’s about all you’ve got coming from the universe: a chance to be somebody on your own merit, or die trying.

God gave you a free will, and a brain. The rest is up to you.

[END OF PART 1]

About the only Latin phrase I can paraphrase with certainty is “Non ome licitum honestum,” which is my personal motto: “All that is allowed is not honorable.” I don’t live by this maxim any longer, but I see it all around, so it must still be applicable to contemporary life.

Back in the day, when state schools still aspired to the remnants of a “classical” education, they tried to teach me Latin and Spanish. I was a “C” student and sucked at both electives, but, I never studied. Teachers, guidance counselors, and my parents all warned me I was too smart for my own good, and pressured me to excel scholastically, but as long as I passed into the next grade advancement and got to pester the girls I grew up with, I was a happy camper. Later in life, after time and circumstance had slapped me around a bit, I realized this happy-go-lucky attitude had not served me well, but, hell, teenagers know everything.

If anyone can provide a more concise transliteration of “Reductio ad Hitlerum,” please do so. My readers are a lot smarter than I am; I just instinctively know a few big words and their synonyms.

So, where were we?

Oh, yeah. God gave you and me brains and free will, and the right to be as much of a failure as we’d care to be. I’m something of an expert on betraying God’s gift of life and ability based on initiative: I consider myself blessed in the extreme to have someone in my life who loves me after much travail, and to be sitting on a couple of acres of land that I own outright. Like the Latin and the Spanish, I didn’t work hard at obtaining either goal in life.

Yeah, I’m bragging a little bit.

It isn’t that hard to make it in America, especially if you’re born here. My daddy always cautioned me against the attitude that “the world owes you a living,” but, being an American child of the 1950s, I considered it my birthright. (There is something in The Bible about a feller named Esau, a birthright, and a bowl of grits, but we won’t go there.)

I seldom count my blessings aloud, but when I have presented a testament to others, I always mention that in Third World countries, my shabby little home would be considered a palace. It’s two stories with a finished basement; in many parts of the world, there would be a minimum of four families living here, and transients sleeping over in the loft.

The proof that our Founding Fathers knew whereof they spoke when they said “All men are created equal” is evident in two givens:

God gave us all brains and free will, and a right to be free if we so desire it.

Anyone born in this world since 1776 who aspires to any personal ambition beyond being a slave to a collectivist state, a monarchy, or a theocracy has risked life and limb, and sacrificed personal fortune, to somehow get to America.

In the 1980s, I had a bad habit of pointing out to anti-apartheid advocates that if they wanted a rebuff to their arguments, all they had to do was look at the border between South Africa and the rest of the African continent. The minefields were raked over to reveal fresh footprints, but the remains of those who didn’t make the far side of the killing field were left there as a warning, and, perhaps, a broader statement. In spite of their segregationist, oppressive national policies, pre-Mandela South Africa offered the promise of the best way of life on that continent. People were literally dying to get into that country when the rest of the politically correct world was urging its inhabitants to get out.

If you think that point is brutal or irrelevant today, all you have to do is look at the border between Mexico and the United States. We don’t leave skeletons rotting in the sun—they get decent burials when we find them—but the fact remains: people are dying every hour of every day to get into this country. No matter what their race, ethnicity, or national origin, people born with brains and the God-given ability to think for themselves are dying to get into this country, which they regard as the last, best hope of humanity. We don’t have the minefields of South Africa or the automated machine gun nests of East Germany; all we have is a cadre of overworked Border Patrol officers who pick up interlopers where they can and send them packing in the other direction, to try again another day.

So far, an estimated twelve million (12,000,000) interlopers have successfully eluded detection, and crossed into America unhindered. They live in a twilight zone of paranoia and furtiveness. Many pay taxes under assumed names, and try to fit unobtrusively into American society. They are good people; they just can’t deal with the bureaucracy that determines who stays and who goes. They are criminals by default, and they know it. Escaping from whatever personal hell of poverty and political oppression they left behind, the knowledge that they are on the wrong side of the law in the last, best haven on earth can’t sit easily with them.

It hurts to say it, but they are still wrong. They have broken a fundamental law. Like my speeding tickets, it’s an easy enough law to comply with if you care to. An Arizona politician put it succinctly a while back: “I won’t allow you to break into my house, and I don’t take kindly to you breaking into my country.”

Get in line!

If you want to be an American, go through the process. Learn English. Learn civics—how the system works—and history, so you’ll have a deeper appreciation of where this nation is coming from. As a Confederate offspring, I know a couple of things about separating my heritage from my sense of citizenship. If you started here illegally, register, pay the fines that might attach to an amnesty program, and seek to assimilate. Be prepared for a pop quiz before you recite The Pledge of Allegiance. Tolerate the nasty-assed bureaucrats with a sigh and a shrug. Fill out the paperwork. There’s more of it today, but the payoff is just as great as it was 200 years ago.

The alternative is being a pawn to coyotes [human traffickers], smugglers, and terrorists. Yeah, you see that torch of freedom and opportunity glowing just to the north, but how free are you really when the course of your life is dictated by border scum and the ever-present threat of detection and deportation, to start the cycle over?

Back in the early 1980s I had some dealings with human traffickers. A couple of coyotes—one Mexican; one American—had been running mohados [wetbacks] across the border by air for a few years. When they decided to retire and terminate their business, they flew one last planeload of men, women, and children deep into the Arizona desert without interdiction by border authorities. Once there, the crew of three disembarked and got into waiting Jeeps. They told the confused passengers that trucks would eventually arrive to carry them to their destinations further inland.

They lied. The women and children died in the vicinity of the airplane. The desiccated bodies of the men were scattered in all directions up to 16 miles out. They died trying to find help for their families. Overflying the scene, the local sheriff remarked “I’ve never seen anything like this in my 26 years in this office.”

It looked like Jonestown. There used to be justice in the world; the American is still serving a life sentence in a federal prison. The Mexican is still dead because “an instrument of policy” delivered a 240-grain copper-jacketed message south of the border. Back in the day, America had a president who didn’t equivocate, apologize, or welcome disasters as photo-ops.

Elian Gonzales saw his mother drown in the Florida Strait ten years ago, trying to bring him to America for a better life. Not all the Cubans on the infamous Mariel boatlift were insane, criminals, or spies; most are now living productive lives as American citizens. Last Sunday, “60 Minutes”—which I almost never watch—ran a piece about the All-America Canal, where hundreds of people have drowned trying to run the border. The mortality statistics along the Rio Grande in Texas are so staggering as to be mundane in reportage. I’ll bet even money that any Border Patrol officer who’d care to speak out can tell more harrowing stories than the one I’ve cited here.

My heart goes out to these people who only want a better life for themselves and their children. I have seen the dirt floors of the haciendas, and the 50-pound bags of rice and cases of tomato soup that make up an entire month’s cuisine for families of four or more in the Third World. I lived “rough” with my first wife when I was young; I also knew that things could and would get better the moment I got off my ass and applied myself, however slightly, to achieving something better and more stable in life. That was the promise of the idea of America, and it hasn’t quite died in 235 years.

All this being said…

Running the border is wrong. It’s against the law. You want to live in a nation of laws, you have to respect them. Running the border is unfair. There are a great many good-hearted people out there waiting patiently for the bureaucratic gears to grind, knowing that eventually they’ll be handed a little American flag, hold their hands over their hearts, and begin that mantra of “I pledge allegiance to the flag…”

Finally, there is the joker in the deck.

Although the current regime refuses to admit there is such a thing as “Islamo-Fascist terrorism”, there are wild-eyed fanatics out there who want to kill us for no better reason than the facts that we exist, and worship the Higher Power in a manner that is unacceptable to them.

An ADM—Atomic Demolition Munition, a.k.a. “suitcase nuke”—weighs about 90 pounds in the man-portable version. The super-sized, crew-served, Jeep-portable variety weighs 180 pounds. These devices have been around since the 1950s; about as long as I have been here. The totalitarian Islamo-Fascist nation of Iran will possess the capability to produce these weapons by the end of this year. Once they have tested one, and joined the ever-growing “nuclear club”, they will “lend” theirs to any wild-eyed fanatic as readily as I’d let my neighbor borrow my lawn tractor.

By mutual agreement and common sense, the US and Soviet Union gave these ill-conceived weapons up in the 1960s. You might have to build one from scratch these days, but such things can still be had. (Try to un-ring that bell, boys and girls!)

If all these destitute, hopeful people are hiking unimpeded across our borders en masse on a daily basis, then given time and tide, sooner or later some intrepid jihadist will tote one of these puppies into Phoenix, San Antonio, or El Paso, and light the fuse. In the chaos following such an event, there will be retaliation without too many questions being asked, and a lot more innocent people will be incinerated.

The borders of America must be secured. I have been catering to my puke factor, and staying away from this week’s brouhaha about the Times Square car-bomber. That Shazam! feller was a piss-poor student in his Taliban training; a McVeigh ANFO device would have been much more effective.

If outrage over the Arizona law can motivate Dudley-Do-Nothing and his myrmidons in Congress to address the issue on a national level, then the state’s passage of that legislation will have served a noble purpose, even if it’s overruled by the Supreme Court.

I can vaguely recall a hilarious audio skit by Firesign Theatre involving “May I see your papers, please?” (Anyone who has never taken LSD and laughed until they peed their pants will have to Google™ this.) Who would’ve thought it would really come to this? (I am flashing back on Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention singing “It can’t happen here!”)

For those morons—or maroons, as Bugs Bunny called them—who are screaming “Nazis!” and plastering swastikas in refried beans on city hall, spray painting “Burn this racist city!” on the sidewalks of Phoenix, chanting “Racism!”, or any of that other silly-ass shit, I have three words: CUT IT OUT!

As the Useful Idiots of The Left informed the rest of us ignorant peons when Obama-care was ramrodded into law: It ain’t the end of the world. You ain’t gonna die right away, so get over it!

Even though I’m obviously an American of German-Irish extraction, with a pronounced Southern accent, if carrying and producing on demand my identity papers will for one moment impede the activities of the border predators, then my markedly Libertarian self will be glad to oblige. The government is stealing so many freedoms on a daily basis; this is one I’ll gladly hedge on if some good may come of it.

(And yes, I know what Benjamin Franklin said about the difficulty of regaining a relinquished freedom.)