Eaters Protection and Affordability Act

According to the USA Today’s editorial Wednesday, November 25, 2009, 49 million Americans lack dependable access to adequate food. That’s the largest number of people since numbers were first kept in 1995.

The number is suspiciously similar to the claimed number of people who are dying in the streets due to lack of assess to adequate health care. So as I peeled potatoes for the Thanksgiving dinner, I thought we could add a few more pages to the Health Reform Bills and fix this problem. After all, what is more critical, eating or sitting in queue to see your doctor?

Here’s my proposal. With some bureaucratic creativity this could be expanded to 1500 pages.

Every man, woman and child in the United States of America should have affordable food. To assure equal assess we need a universal food redistribution program. A single provider system. A universal food distribution program would create centers of food sources. They would require today’s high priced food sources such as Price Chopper, WalMart, A&P, Ralph’s, Safeway, etc to compete. We know they don't compete now. And have you every seen a Ralph's in New Hampshire? Food should be sold across state lines.

Because the government won’t have the overhead of advertisement, coupons, or promotional china give-a-ways, and shopping carts which end up under railroad trestles, food would be more affordable for all those who currently are starving in the street. (Ironically, that’s the poor and uninsured. Isn’t this the only place in the world where poor are fat and own their own shopping cart?)

And speaking of hefty, hefty, hefty. I propose a fat tax, similar to the one the airlines tried to impose on their fat flyers. As you enter the food distribution center you are weighed. All family members must be periodically weighed. Weight is entered into a national data base system for monitoring by the Bureau of Weights and Measures. Based on your weight and limits as defined in the Health Care Reform Bill (just another amendment), food will be distributed to each according to their need, or lack there of.

If you happen to be one of the rich people, who has a pantry stocked for three nuclear winters (my sister), there will be a tax imposed on this type hording. After all, why should these people have all this access to food while others have their ribs showing.

The fare at restaurants, fast food joints, and other dining establishments such as workplace roach coaches, will be taxed based on the caloric distribution on the menu and total consumption. A 40% tax on anything over 300 calories should discourage this gluttony.

Death panels? Not really. But certainly the elderly don’t need to eat that much.

To pay for the government run and controlled food redistribution program I propose taxing those people requiring high levels of caloric intact, say consumption over 2000 calories/day. So the NFL, and Michael Phelps will have to pony up. Oh yeah, and Michael Moore.

Anyone who plants a garden will be taxed. That includes Michelle Obama.

Farmer markets will be taxed.

Road side fruit stands - taxed.

Overweight people - taxed.

Any corn used for food - taxed.

Subsidies will be given to farmers who don’t grow food above the set limits, defined in the Eaters Protection and Affordability Act.

Anyone who doesn’t participate in the food redistribution program will be penalized and if participation is not reported to the IRS you will not be penalized, or face jail time. Definitely food rationing there, but adequate medical care.

Which brings me back to peeling potatoes. Damn it, I cut my finger.

Happy Thanksgiving.

My Response

I was asked to respond to an editorial in the New York Times.

“The merged bill would cost $848 billion over the next decade and would cover some 31 million people who would otherwise be uninsured in 2019, bringing coverage to 94 percent of all citizens and legal residents below Medicare age. And it would reduce the deficit by $130 billion over the first decade and by more than half-a-trillion dollars over the next decade, putting the lie to Republican charges that the reforms would drive up deficits.”

Lies? Let’s look at what some bipartisan experts say.

Concord Coalition, a bipartisan group of budget watchdogs says, "The Senate bill is better than the House version, but there's not much reform in this bill. As of now, it's basically a big entitlement expansion, plus tax increases." I can’t disagree with that.

Here's another expert, Maya MacGuineas, the president of the bipartisan Committee for a Responsible Federal Budget: "While this bill does a better job than the House version at reducing the deficit and controlling costs, it still doesn't do enough. Given the political system's aversion to tax increases and spending cuts, I worry about what the final bill will look like." Yeah, me too.

MacGuineas opinion is kind of neutral considering the "budget gimmicks" that made it possible for the CBO to estimate that the Senate’s would reduce federal deficits by $130 billion by 2019. (Have you heard that the deficits are now over $12.2 Trillion?)

Here’s an example of Bernie Madoff record keeping. Perhaps the biggest of those maneuvers was Reid's decision to postpone the start of subsidies to help the uninsured buy policies from mid-2013 to January 2014 -- long after taxes and fees levied by the bill would have begun.

Even with that change, there is plenty in the CBO report to suggest that the promised budget savings may not materialize. If you read deep enough, you will find that under the Senate bill, "federal outlays for health care would increase during the 2010-2019 period.” Hum? Is that in the Bill? Yes. Not decline. The gross increase would be almost $1 trillion -- $848 billion, to be exact, mainly to subsidize the uninsured (Entitlement program). The net increase would be $160 billion.

But remember everyone in Washington can play with numbers. The best thing to do is to look at Washington’s track record. Yes, pass performance doesn’t guarantee future performance, but when Medicare was first brought on board they said that by 1990 it would cost only $10 billion. Let’s try on $65,000,000,000. What do you think that number is today? Do we need more of this?

If you seriously think this bill is going to reduce the deficient you are sadly mistaken and gross under-informed about your government. Remember the $600 screw drivers?

But here is the real gamble. You think Democrats are really going to cut Medicare by $500 billion. When the Republicans tried to do so a few years back the Democrats came unglued. A big assumption in the CBO numbers is that this will pass.. Will future Congresses actually impose the assumed $500 billion in cuts to Medicare, Medicaid and other federal health pro have? I doubt it.

And then there is the 40% tax on high-premium insurance policies (Cadillac plans). Let’s say that goes through. Cha-ching, cha-ching in the government coffers? Do you think any employer will hang on to these plans despite union opposition? Nope. I don’t think Congress does either. So no revenue generated there, but CBO considers this in its number crunching.

Instead, in my humble opinion, the punitive tax is to encourage employers to dump the plans forcing more people onto the government approved plans. Why?

Because this isn’t about health care.

People with insurance tend to go to the doctors. What do you think will happen when 47 million uninsured become insured? All of a sudden there is a huge demand for medical care in a system that can’t provide it. Baby, we won’t be just talking about new regulation on mammograms.

Affordable for Whom?

“I can make a firm pledge. Under my plan, no family making less than $250,000 a year will see any form of tax increase. Not your income tax, not your payroll tax, not your capital gains taxes, not any of your taxes.” Remember who said that and when? That’s right President Obama said this about his Health Care Proposal” as he campaigned in September 2008.

Now let’s look at the Senate Health Care Bill, known as the Patient Protection and Affordability Act.

The Senate Health Care Reform Bill includes an individual mandate that forces any American who does not have a qualified health plan to pay an annual tax penalty of $750 per adult family member and $375 per child, with a maximum penalty of $2,250 per family. This kicks in any time you go without insurance for more than 30 days. Zappo. Report it on your income tax or else. (Wait! 50% of Americans don't file tax returns? How is that going to work? Guess what, I can't find it in the bill. Can you say loophole?)

These penalties are indexed for inflation, which means they are likely to increase nearly every year. And believe me, inflation is going to sky-rocket when this takes effect.

These taxes are fixed amounts based on family size, not income. A family of at least two adults and two children is actually worse off if they make less than $99,350 a year. The only affordability is a “hardship exemption” if the lowest available premium for a bare-bones plan is more than 8 percent of your income. But that saves you money only if your income is less than $28,125 a year. I’m there, whew!

The employer mandate is especially punitive on poor families. Firms that hire an employee from a low-income family who qualify for an insurance subsidy are charged a tax penalty of $3,000. I can’t figure that one out. It’s a job killing mandate.

So a company could save $3,000 by hiring, say, someone with a working spouse or a teenager with working parents, rather than a single mother with three children.

However, companies only have to pay $750 an employee instead of $3,000 if one quarter of employees are low-income. Think about that. This creates a situation where, if a company has a lot of low-income workers, they can actually save money by dropping their health plan and pay the penalty. Instead they just dump all their employees into the federal exchange. And now the low-income family pays a fine for not getting individual coverage. Well, not unless they are below $28,125 and then you get the bare-bone coverage. Think bare-bone coverage includes mammograms?

Small businesses employ 70% of today’s work force. Without small business operating and competing in a strong and healthy economy, unemployment is going to continue to grow. No worries. The Senate is here to help small business.

The bill tries to address this problem by including a “small business tax credit” to minimize the impact of the above mentioned job killing mandates and regulation-caused rises in private health insurance premiums. But the tax credit only lasts two years and largely excludes small business owners, small businesses with higher than average payrolls, and firms with 25 or more workers. After all exclusions, essentially the only eligible firms are those firms with 10 or fewer workers as well as those with low-income workers—the least likely to offer coverage even with a significant price reduction. So where is the credit and where is the coverage?

The bill would increase taxes on all health insurance plans, as well as on brand-name drugs and biologics, and on medical devices. These tax increases would affect anyone who buys these goods.

The bill would allow State insurance exchanges to charge assessments or user fees to participating health insurers, or to otherwise generate funding, to support its operations. That means insurers would pass these “assessments or user fees” through to consumers. Hum? Higher premiums? This would affect anyone who buys health insurance and remember under this plan you must buy insurance or pay the penalty. So you are damned if you do or damn if you don’t.

You got to love it. Oh, there is more, much more. But you can’t handle too much more truth.

Come on. Call your Senators NOW. Email your Senators NOW. The vote for debate is tomorrow night. And let the record show when they vote to discuss a bill, 97% of the time it goes through to the end. Stop the train wreck. We can't afford this kind of protection.

To contact your Senators click HERE . Tell them the debate is over. VOTE NO.

Letter to the Editor: The Saratogian

Scott Murphy Did The Right Thing

The health care reform bill recently passed by the House is complex. Republicans scare us by saying it rations grandma’s health care, cuts Medicare to the bare bone, increases taxes on everyone, vaporizes private choice, jails anyone who doesn’t get coverage, etc. Most of the scare is true and most of it is false. What?

Democrats are quick to point to their studies, which say the bill increases jobs, makes only the filthy rich pay more taxes and gives everyone a chance to have affordable health care. Most of this is false and most of it is true. What?

One side wants to ram it through so badly they don’t care what the long-term impact might be to the individual, to the employer and to the country. The other side wants to derail the process so badly that they offer an equally nebulous package.

The truth is no one really knows what the impact of this bill will be. Few people care what the impact will be unless it supports their side. So what does the American public receive? A bill that creates a monstrous entitlement program and huge new network of governmental bureaucracies that, once unleashed, will never be able to be modified, regardless of the impact.

The majority of Americans agree something has to be done to check the rising costs of health care. The trouble is, the issue has become so politicized that Congress doesn’t care what they serve up, just as long as they get their way.

It took courage for Congressman Scott Murphy to vote against the bill. Those who wish to bash him for his decision should step back and examine what he said no to before they decide to criticize him. Those from the 20th district should be glad to have a congressman who does not lock step to the party, but is truly looking out for his constituents. Few citizens are represented in Congress by such boldness and common sense.

Ms. Perez Goes to Washington Part 4

Home Again, Home Again

Nothing is scarier than driving through a snow squall on the New York State Thruway, even early in the winter season. The bus made it back to Syracuse a little after 3 am. Snow filtered earthward from a low cloud bank that reflected the city’s light. (Ugh. When am I headed back to Hawaii?) I had expected the snow.

Since daylight would break in a couple of hours, I decide to drive back home instead of getting a hotel room. One fellow patriot even offered to take me in for the night, but I was ready to go home. I was tired but drowsiness didn’t catch up to me until I was 18 miles short of the second rest stop on the Thruway.

I pulled into the nearly vacant parking lot surrounded by an armada of tractor trailers. My feet were so swollen that I could barely wear my shoes. I put on a pair of heavy socks, wrapped a fleece blanket around my legs and tilted the Jeep’s seat as far back as it would go. Within seconds I was gone. Twenty minutes later I woke from my catnap.

I managed to cram my feet into my shoes and stumble into the rest stop’s bathroom. From the only opened shop, Roy Rogers, I ordered a cup of coffee. It had stopped snowing, but the wind bit a hole in my psyche as I crossed the still vacant parking lot. A few sips of coffee and I turned the Jeep east. Somewhere soon, I would find the sun.

I had prayed for a safe trip for all the thousands who made it to Washington. Mine was until I walked up the front ramp to the house. The door was locked. In my retreat down the wet ramp and wearing those flat soled shoes I slipped. I didn’t try to fight the fall and stayed upright all the way down the ramp. I was about to think I had it made when I reached the pumpkin sitting at the bottom of the ramp. It was impossible to avoid. I smashed into the squash and topple over into the driveway scraping my knee. I rested. What was the sense of scrambling back to my feet?

Ms. Perez Goes to Washington Part 3

Experiences Behind Opened Doors

I half expected to see at least one Senator. But they were in session. Well, at least Job Lieberman was. He stood speaking before his colleagues on the TV screen in the office of Senator Akaka. I slowly pushed the heavy glass door open and waited for the receptionist to end her phone call. Meanwhile another woman entered the office. Yes there would be two people from the Aloha State expressing concern about the Health Care Reform Bill. Me and Tish.

“May I help you?”

“I’m Valerie Perez, from the Big Island. I’m here to express my concerns about the Health Care Reform Bill and would like to speak to Senator Akaka.”

“He’s not in.” A long silence ensued. Was that it?

When it became apparent I wasn't turning to leave, she added, “You can leave him a note.” But she offered no pen or paper. Did it have to be this difficult? I could be on the other side of the Capitol yelling, “Nannnnn--cy, Nannnnn--cy” trying to make the speaker cry.

I scrawled a note, as neat as I could (not very). When I was just about finished, a young Hawaiian came out and greeted us. He confirmed the reason for our visit and then offered to find a staffer who would take our concerns. I imagined the conversation.

“Who wants to entertain a couple of old ladies who got some issues with the Health Care Reform.”

“Health Care? The House hasn’t even passed anything yet. Did they come all the way from Hawaii?”

“I assume so. Heads, I go. Tails, you go talk some sense into them.”

When I mentioned rationing to the young whippersnapper staffer, named Matt, he said, “What do you think happens under Medicare. Don’t you like Medicare?” Excuse me? Are you serious? It wastes billions of dollars annually. Am I suppose to like that and use that as an acceptable model for this Bill, making rationing okay? He tried to lecture. We didn’t come for no stinking lecture. Shut up and listen. You work for me.

The whole meeting went that way. He interrupted us, we interrupted him and he couldn’t get us out fast enough. In the end, I slowly gathered my coat, camera and backpack. He was at the other end of the hallway holding the door open. Body language: Get Out of Here. They learn to drink the Kool-Aid early.

It went a little better in Senator Inouye’s office, a two floored penthouse arrangement also in the Hart Building. At least the receptionists didn’t object to being in the photo I took of the office. The staffer Michelle was polite, took notes and then asked us specific questions. “How do you feel about the soda tax?” Don’t like, but boy could I use a soda right now.

I was tired and thirsty. It began to rain. I made my way back to the Longworth building to catch up with Maize Hirono, my Congresswomen. I’ve emailed her at least three times about this bill and never got a response, not even a form acknowledgment. The long lines that earlier wrapped around the building were gone. Coming through security someone asked, “Is it raining?” I wiped off my glasses, “Only on one side of the Capitol.” She laughed.

Of course, Maize wasn’t available either. The staffer seemed confused by my presence. She didn’t invite me into the office and ran out of the office after instructing me to sign in. Moments later a prim women entered with legal pad in hand. She introduced herself and sat down at the little table in the entrance way. She didn’t offer me a seat so I asked if I could. “Sure, sure,” she waved dismissing my request as if it was ludicrous. The conversation was rushed and brief. A few notes and three minutes later I dismissed as ludicrous. Oh boy.

By now I was starving. The halls were empty. Most of the riffraff gone. I walked listening to my shoes echo in the vacant corridors. I noticed the offices all had signs that welcomed visitors to enter. Since I was here and I use to write Zack Wamp when I was in Tennessee I decide to visit his office. It was getting close to 4:30 and I had to be back on the bus by 6PM. I knew Union Station wasn’t far, maybe ten minutes. I wasn’t going to sit in the train station for 90 minutes.

I opened the door to the Honorable Wamp’s office. “Hi, is that Zack guy here?” Gone were the formalities. I figured if I acted like we were old buddies, I might get to shake his hand and thank him for his support. When I wrote him, criticisms or compliments, I got a response. After explaining I was no longer his constituent, the receptionist offered to show me his office and let me take a photo, but someone was in there having a meeting. So in lieu, she offered me a pass to the House Gallery. Are you kidding me? I can get in there and see IN GOD WE TRUST right over the flag behind the Speaker’s seat? Hell yeah, but time was limited. I thanked her for the pass and bolted across the street to the Capitol. (My feet were beginning to kill me.)

That’s where I lost my lunch. “Ma’am, you can’t take bottles or food into the building.” The guard smiled, but was firm.

“But I haven’t eaten all day.” I protested.

“Go outside and eat.” I was hungry but running out of time. No time to eat. I didn’t want to get to the station right at 6 PM. I needed time to find the bus, at least fifteen minutes. I gulped some water and crammed the bagel into my mouth. Standing in line again for security I looked like a chipmunk. Chew, chew, chew, swallow.

“Next?” The security guard commanded.

I stepped forward, tossed my backpack, the one I took to Micronesia and have not washed since, onto the conveyor. Swallow. Chew. Swallow. I walked through the metal detector to find a guard rooting around my bag. Crap, he’s going to drop my watch into the bowls of the pack and I’ll have to find it. Need to keep track of time. He found my cough drops, examined them, but let them pass.

Still before entering the maze of hallways leading to the Galley you must check all bags, cameras, personal items, etc.. I knew this. Once done, I followed signs, roped aisles and hallways to my destination. I passed a guard and asked, “Do I come out this way?” Yes, and I’ll be here waiting to be sure you do.” Yikes, I'm lost.

Destination. I turned the corner and found myself walking a decorative tile floor under ached ceiling and entrance ways. I slowed down. I sensed something special. It was quiet because I was there alone with the final security guard and yet another metal detector. I waited to be asked to come forward. Then the heavy door was opened to me and I stood looking directly across from IN GOD WE TRUST. I almost cried.

I prayed. I could have sat there for hours. Not entranced by the proceedings of a thinly occupied room below me, but by the room itself. The place of debate. Great Speeches. Call to action. Decision. Compromise. Agreement. The place of taxes, partisan politics and “you lie”. The place where life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness should be protected.

I looked on as HR 1849 went to electronic vote. The usher asked me if I had any questions. “A million, but I have run out of time.” I want to come back. I stood to leave but noticed the state seals on the ceiling. I hesitated and the usher told me I had to sit back down if I wished to stay in the Gallery. “ I’m sorry. I got captivated by the surroundings.” He smiled and told me I could learn more about the room on line. By the time I left 18 Yeas and zero nays were cast.

I walked toward Union Station in the early twilight. I turned and saw the dome bathed in light. A light of freedom. A fleeting thought danced through my head. “Boy, I like to be a Congresswomen.” That vanished before I could even tell myself I was nuts.

On the bus we listened to the radio. They said a large crowd of protestors were at the Capitol today. Protestors? I didn’t protest. And despite this,”it is almost certain the House will pass the Health Care Reform Bill.”

Listen America, you are about to die a slow death.

Part 4 is coming...

Ms. Perez Goes to Washington Part 2

Standing on Hallowed Grounds

I had no idea how many people would assemble on short notice, or be able to come on a weekday at noon, but I reasoned not many would come from Hawaii. If I were to visit my senators and representatives from Hawaii, I would stand in a small crowd. I decided not to carry a sign which could cause me to be perceived as a fringe loonie. I dressed business casual.

My concern was for my feet. Keep them warm, keep them comfortable. They might have to take me places, quickly. My flat dress shoe looked fine, but I knew by the end of the day they would feel like they pounded concrete…barefoot.

We stepped off the bus at 11:30 am, right in front of the Capitol. People were gathering and moving toward the white dome on the hill. At that time, I estimated the crowd to be a couple thousand, but I’m no Park Service Ranger, so what do I know? I do know that it kept growing and growing. As I edged my way closer to the Capitol, I turned to see the Washington Monument. Many more people had come.

People dressed in red white and blue. The young and old. Men and women. Black, Hispanics. People dressed in business suits. Vietnam Vets with bandanas and biker vests. Many carrying signs. Many picking up the chants “Kill The Bill” or “Nannnncy.” By the time Michelle took the microphone to welcome us to “our House” we were 10,000 strong. There is no freaking way they are going to let us into the offices of our elected officials. But after opening prayer, guest speakers Mark Levine, Jon Vogt, and numerous other concerned legislators and after we sang “God Bless America”, we were dismissed to go visit with our representatives.

I stood among the people and absorbed the moment. The first time I became aware of Washington DC and the sprawling spaces between the Capitol and the Washington Monument was during the sixties. Martin Luther King. I closed my eyes. I listened to his voice. His dream. I imaged the history, the construction, not of just of the magnificent building before me, but of the country that it represents. The labor, the sweat and the blood shed to build this place, this country. The vision, the struggle, the debate, and the demonstrations. The melding of thought and action, the deliberate creation of a country that stated “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed,”

I’ve been to Washington twice before, but as a tourist. The Smithsonian. The World War II Memorial. Other Memorials. Now I stood here as a patriot. I stood as a concerned citizen, as a voice for those who couldn’t come. I came because it was my responsibility, my obligation, my duty. I had a job to do. I can to protect our freedoms.

Pages of the Health Care Reform Bill were distributed. “Take one to your representative and ask them to explain it.” I never got one, but I’ve seen the bill. Four reams of paper. And yes it is triple spaced and the margins are wide, but the language is vague legalizee. It contains more taxes, the creation of a tangled web of government bureaucracy, mandates for coverage, abortion coverage, forced coverage, government committees deciding what coverage will be paid for and which will not, fines for citizens and doctors, employers and companies. It is a financial burden that any rational person knows will become an economic nightmare that con not be paid for. Thus rationing will take place.
I never got close enough to the steps to see a single speaker. But I heard ever speech, every word. I heard every prayer. I sang every song. And when dismissed, I set off to find my Senators.

The crowd was slow to disperse. Like lemmings we followed each other to someplace “over there.” I found myself scaling a wall to free myself from the masses that trapped themselves against. On the sidewalk I encounter a couple of sharply dressed men carrying leather briefcases. They dodged the throngs like a running backs headed for the goal line. Destinations in sight, but all these people were in their way. A look of inconvenience shadowed their squinter eyes. Probably medical device lobbyists.

Ms. Perez Goes to Washington Part 1

I Took It As A Sign

I hate peeing on a bus. The two by two closet could be an amusement ride if not for the commode. Come test your equilibrium as you negotiate hovering over the seat. Two rides for a quarter. Finished, I leaned against the front wall, and I zipped up my pants as the bus lurched around the corner and headed up the ramp to I-81. South bound. Destination: Washington DC. I slammed the seat shut before any tank water could slosh out of the toilet. I checked to be sure no tissue stuck to the bottom of my shoes. Seventeen days through Europe on a bus and not once did I use the bus' toilet. Just an hour and a half into this ride I was using the head, trying to keep my balance, drawing upon my skills honed onboard the sailboat the Cosmic Muffin.

I opened the door. Forty five people sat in the dark. Beneath them the bus engine hummed. Forty-five strangers. Forty-five patriots. Some sleeping, some whispering. I took my seat and stared out the window. Nothing, but darkness.

It was Monday when I heard Glenn Beck’s interview with Michelle Bachmann, Congresswoman from Minnesota. She asked for patriots to call Congress and meet up with her at the Capitol on Thursday, November 5th at high noon. It was time to mobilize. Stop socialized medicine now.

“It's the 11th hour. Let's pay Nancy Pelosi a house call and tell her what she can do with the ‘Pelosi Health Care Plan’”.

Immediately, I wanted to go, but didn’t know how to get to DC on short notice. On Tuesday I would be in New Jersey attended my cousin’s funeral, making it difficult to search the web for options. Amtrak seemed convenient, dropping me at Union Station. The walk to the Capitol would take no longer than the time it takes the House to read their proposed 2000 page Health Care Reform Bill…about ten minutes. My indecisiveness cost me. On Monday a round trip ticket from Albany was $220. By Wednesday it was $280. Assuming the trains ran like Mussolini’s I would arrive just in time for the rally. But the price was a killer.

Wednesday afternoon, my sister emailed me about the Patriots from Rhode Island taking a bus from Providence for $60. “Maybe you could drive there?” I looked for a similar group out of Albany. I’m not saying there wasn’t such a group, but I found nothing on the various websites. However, a group called Central New York Patriots sponsored a bus for Michele Bachmann's Cannon Ball Run to DC from Syracuse. They were leaving at 3 AM from Price Chopper’s parking lot. That’s about 3 hours from Saratoga Springs. The cost, $60.

At 7 PM I called the organizer Joanne Wilder and got voice mail. “I’m from Hawaii. I know this is short notice and you’re probably taking a nap since you have to get up early, but if you have room, I’d love to go.” Joanne called back fifteen minutes later. Five seats left. I had an invitation.

“Bus will leave at 3:00 so be there by 2:30.”

I google-mapped Price Chopper and went on NOAA for a DC forecast, took a shower and headed out for Syracuse by 10PM. That was how I found myself rolling down I-81 through the darkened hills of Pennsylvania.

Watching You Tube

Guilt is a useless emotion. Rarely do I allow it to push me around. If it begins to seep into the edges of my brain and heart, a little bit of logic pushes it back into the darker recesses from which it crept. Lately, I have been bashing it with a shovel, hoping to kill and bury it before it wrecks my idyllic idleness of mind and action. Keeping busy since my return from Hawaii in mid May by engaging in under the table employment in order to climb above the demands of two state property taxes and a medical bill from last December’s anal probe where I didn’t even get a chance to see it on the big screen monitor because they knocked me out even though I requested they not, has been my excuse to stay away from the keyboard and hacking out any blogs, let alone any great pieces of literature. Like that was going to happen.

Just days before the frost hit, I finished painting two sides of the old one room schoolhouse. When I began I knew it would be a race against the weather. A few days before I finished I competed against an oncoming head cold, caught at Passing the Peace in church, the first service I was able to attend because of my work schedule. I hate Passing the Peace and I'll never win a prize for promoting it either.

With the paint brushes cleaned and packed away until I tackled the mantel at my sister’s house, I channeled my energies into making a video. I spent two hours story-boarding the idea at the public library in Saratoga. Then I set up my studio, gathered props and began to shoot a series of short scenes. I sketched out my main character, a squirrel, on a notepad and I was off to production. The hardest shot involved getting a walnut to fall into the black hole of government waste. It is difficult to tie a piece of nylon thread around a nut and Scotch tape doesn’t stick very well on the crevassed surface.

Shooting the scenes in sequence kept the editing task from being a chore. After sleeping on a draft movie, more creative ideas evolved. I reshot a couple of scenes and quickly spliced the shots into a two minute video. I even had time to go down to the local dump with Dad to recycle bottles, plastics and my empty paint cans.

I expected voiceover to be a nightmare, listening to my voice drone on again and again. I combed out stutters that occurred when my brain froze or pauses because I couldn’t find the next thought even with a script in hand. I slapped on the headphones and I found it amazingly easy to do the voiceovers once I heard my voice sounding eerily like my sister. I reasoned I could blame everything on her. In the end, ad lib turned out to be best.

I laughed out loud when I saw the first movie make. Finally I understood the insanity of cult movies and actors delivering the dumbest jokes. They actually think the lines are funny. But what is really hilarious is that some big studio paid for the project.

I, however, operated on a two day schedule and a financial budget of $17.58. A charcoal pencil, two pads of tracing paper, a box of crayons and two boxes of pudding. I needed five boxes, but I found three in the cellar pantry with expiration dates of 2007.

Posting it on YouTube was as easy as attaching a document to an email. Small wonder why there are so many trash videos out there. Any buffoon can do it with a click of a mouse. Kind of like writing a blog.

A day later I had 90 views. That’s it? In a world where a six year old kid hoaxes a flight across Colorado and gets a million hits in 24 hours? I worked two long days on that video! I asked all my faceBook friends to watch it. I even had Diablo, my twittering cat, hawk the video. After all she has nearly 800 followers.

So I came crashing back down to earth and not in a Jiffy-Pop helium balloon. Guilt won’t motivate me to get back to writing. The reality is it is hard work and after spending two years writing the next book, no one will read it anyway. But I still have something to say. That’s what will motivate me.

Anyone want some pudding? Enjoy some while watching the video. Click on this YouTube link to view it. 2 minutes! That is all I ask. For now.

How to Take a Life

You are never truly ready. There isn’t much that prepares you. Resolve and fortitude crumble when loss touches your heart. When the time comes, second guessing tough decisions only confuses, as doubt tumbles in your head. Did I do all I could? Is it really time? The mind is flooded with emotions running so deep that fond memories and joys of yesterday become blurred like vision through a veil of tears.

I whispered her name in her ear. With each breath I took I felt her relax until the once sinewed muscles grew limp in my arms. I held her as I knew my own mother would have done. I was instructed to place her on the cold steel table where the warmth of her life melted my hands. I wouldn’t let the sterile metal steal the heat of her life. To preserve the little bit that remained I lifted her tiny head and shoulders in my hands to feel the last breath, the last heart beat, the last flame of life extinguish. I tried to absorb the essence of the miracle, the power that allows us to be alive. I could give her nothing but peace and it seemed such a little gesture. Boots, surrendered from this world, her limp body, a fragile mass of silky black fur rested on the table. Everything happening in the universe, the world, my life stopped.

I have read that animals will tell their owners when they are ready to pass on, as if their mission had been completed and now they move on from this world to the next. Boot had it backwards. She waited until we were ready to let her go. But like I said, even when you know the inevitable the end is never easy. I watched my tears moisten her face and pool on the table. If it had only been tears I was losing.

Known as Bootsie, or Booter and sometimes fondly referred to as BooterHead, the black long-hair cat with a smart white bib and painted paws, was my mother’s cat. This was another piece of Mom gone missing. It broke my heart even more.

It is just two weeks beyond three years since Mom passed away. There have been many things I wanted to tell her during this time. Putting that BooterHead down is not one of them.

How to Save a Life

It was mid afternoon, hot as dog breath. The Moreau Lake echoed the cloudless sky. No ripples, no defects. I was on my quest to video my feet near the shoreline of the lake when I noticed a disturbance on the water, about thirty feet from shore. What was that? Since Moreau is not known for sea monsters I stared at the wake trying to figure out the commotion.

The poor little guy was drowning! He tried hard to get to shore, but he wasn’t going to make it. He was doomed if help didn't arrive soon. I quickly ran back to Dad who also noticed the flailing victim. "God, why am I carrying so much shit in my pockets," I muttered, tossing keys, camera, pens and a Mike’s Lemonade bottle top into the Saratoga Track give-away chair. Okay, I had been drinking a little, but I wasn't going in over my head. However, I forgot to dump my wallet so I waded into the water with my wallet clenched between my teeth.

It was a small bird. It struggled to keep a float. Since birds are made to fly, I imagined he would float on the surface until completely waterlogged, but as I head out Dad yell, “He went under.” It was just a bob. The little guy was on the surface as I neared.

From reading "Boy’s Life" and my older brother’s Scouting manuals I knew that you should approach a drowning person from the back to prevent being taken under by the panicked victim. I didn’t expect the bird to give much of a fight, but to keep it from further alarm I put my hands under the water before I reached the little guy. I scooped him up without him pecking at my fingers. What was he more scared of - me or drowning?

He was too exhausted to care. I lifted him out of the water. Immediately, he closed his eyes and gave up his fight. I began to wade back to the shore with the drenched bird shivering in my hands. I took him to a sunny spot and watched him breath. He was going to make it, but he needed to dry out, warm up and gain some strength.

After a few minutes he opened his eyes, peeped once and went back to his resting mode. I figured that was "thank you." It certainly wasn’t the bird poop that covered my hand. I waited and watched him begin his recovery.

When I rescued him his wings and tail feathers had been spread eagle. He seemed so broken and fragile. Now he ruffled his wings and tucked them back into position. His tail feathers laid flat and smooth. Each little bit of recovery required rest. He'd peep and close eyes. His crown began to dry. A mat of wet feathers began to lift and fluff, revealing the soft down of a young gold finch.

I suspected it was his first flight. Who teaches a bird not to land in water? It is an experience few learn, never getting a second chance. This guy was luckier than most.

The shivering stopped. He became more alert. Once he turned his head to the lake as if to look at the waters that nearly stole his life. A few more shakes and he seemed nearly perfect, except for a few damp feather near his belly.

And then... he took off to the low branches of a nearby maple. There he adjusted his feathers, and preened a little before flying to higher branches.

That’s how you save a life.

Entitlement Program

“They spend three dollars to get into the place and they think they own the joint.” So is the observation of one of my fellow Peace Officers.

Upon walking through the gates at Saratoga Race Course some people morph into monsters of entitlement. The transformation is not flattering. For a mere three dollars the average pleasant person who would smile and say "excuse me" if you accidentally bumped your shopping cart by the potato bins at Price Chopper becomes wrapped in an attitude that would embarrass the South Park kids. Most carry the attitude in their coolers, while others have it tucked into their billfold.

To Be Rude

The New York Racing Association ( NYRA) stations a red vested hospitality corps at the gates. Armed with smiles, maps, brochures and a wealth of information these people can direct you to the nearest ATM, bathroom or any other location on and off site. They provide instructions on where to find your seat in the clubhouse, where to buy a cigar, or how to place a bet and where to celebrate or commiserate afterward. Never-the- less people stream pass this help and wander aimlessly through the grounds in search for information. When unable to obtain answers their three-dollar attitudes emerge.

By the time they find me aimlessly strolling through the grandstand to my post their patience is gone. The first race is still an hour and a half away. “Where do I get clubhouse tickets?” It’s a big ass building, how can you miss it?

Clearly agitated he went on, “I’ve had five different people tell me five different things. Do you know where to get clubhouse tickets?” He waved three general admission tickets under my nose.

What I know is that reserved seats are purchased at the main gate and general admission tickets can be exchanged at the gate to the clubhouse. So I asked, “What are you trying to do?”

Answering a question with a question frustrated him and he snarled, “If you can’t tell me, I’ll find someone else.” How's that been working for ya?

“I can tell you, but I need to know what you want to do. I hate to give you the wrong information. After all, I’m afraid you might hit me. I’m headed to the clubhouse entrance, but that might not be where you want to go. If it isn’t the right place, I’ll take you to where you can get a seat in the clubhouse. I’m just a little scared I might make you more frustrated.”

I saw him calculating a thought behind in his eyes. “I’ve got a couple of other people with me. Let me get them.” He disappeared into the crowd. When he initially approached me, I had been talking with a security guard. She now scurried away. Minutes went by and I began to think he wasn’t coming back. What did he look like? I can't remember. Make a mental note. Undress these people describing attire. When he returned, his mood had improved.

“I’m Bob,” he introduced himself as if we were meeting for the first time at a cocktail party.

I engaged in small talk as we walked to the clubhouse admission gate. When we arrived I offered, "If you need anything else, my post is right by the horse crossing.” He offered to bring me a beer. I declined but said, “Lemonade would be great.”

I never saw him again.

To Be Greedy

It’s a well-respected tradition to reserve a chair by leaving a newspaper on the seat. A picnic table can be held by placing a cooler on the table. Security will not resolve any disputes over claims. But we will toss people out who disturb the festive atmosphere of a summer afternoon at the races.

The amount of space a patron claims is inversely proportional to the knowledge one has about horseracing. Thus when someone comes to Saratoga and spreads out three acres of blankets to “reserve” lawn space near the horse crossing (prime real estate), it is an immediate signal that they have no horse sense, will smoke fat stinky cigars and will most likely place their bets prior to seeing the horses parade to the track. In other words, they will act like fools.

Such an invasion is tolerated by the regulars to a point in hopes the greenhorns will enjoy their experience and not interfere too much with theirs.

When one of the rookie interlopers staked out a piece of real estate that extended into the horse path a security guard moved the blanket. Thinking one of the other near-by patrons interfered with their claimed territory, a confrontation ensued. I foolishly found myself standing between the two shouting parties. I sounded like Arlen Specter for a moment. "Wait a minute Wait a minute." I suggested if they didn’t calm down I would show them off the grounds. (There was no freaking way I was going to kick the regular out because he provides water and cookies to the security guards and he places my bets.)

In typical juvenile fashion the response from interloper was, “Well you better say something to the other guy.”

I didn’t fall for that crap. With my best Peace Officer authority I bluffed, “I’m addressing you at the moment. Understand I’ll show you to the door if you don’t calm down.” Hell, I couldn’t move them off the ground any more than I can pick a winning horse.

Shortly thereafter, everyone kissed and made up. The interlopers eventually “snuck” into the clubhouse and we all said good riddance. Sometimes it is better to give up a little to gain a whole lot of peace.

To Be Privileged

Even in this tight economy, companies sponsor a day at the track, hosting their party in the “tents” where guests can eat and bet in for comfort of air conditioning. Admission is pricy and for that price the patrons are tagged with a tracking device placed around their wrist. With the bracelet they can roam freely in and out of the tents.

One door is no more than four feet from the horse path. On the other side the entrance to the horse path is surrounded by five foot high bushes. Patrons flow in and out of the tent on the tide of the races and horse likewise go u and down the path. It is an intersection made for disaster, especially because the outriders park their horses in the shade two feet away from the gate. People and horse often get very up close and personal. Visibility is restricted by horse butts and bushes. There is lots to watch out for, including the monitoring of glass bottles which are not suppose to cross the path.

Keeping people and horse separated is a challenge. I usually step into the middle of the path so I am visible to incoming horses and people crossing from my left and right. I eyeball the horse and rider to let them know that I know they are there and I make eye contact with people who are approaching. Most of the time people are preoccupied with the program, their winning tickets, their drinks or their cellphones.

I held up my hand to halt a patron’s return to the tent. He responded by showing me his bracelet. He apparently thought I was preventing him from entering. He snipped, “I have a gizmo.”

Just as a 1200 pound animal passed behind me, I responded, “I have a horse. Just saved your life.” That will be three dollars, thank you.

Fame and Fortune

It’s weird to be identified by someone whom you have never met. It’s what famous people deal with everyday. The other day, I yelled hello to the mayor of Albany, who doesn’t know I live in Hawaii, but probably thinks I am one of his constituents. "Hey, Mayor Jennings, you keeping the fort down?" Whatever the hell that means.

I stood at the clubhouse horse crossing waiting for the first race to start when a well-dressed, rather good-looking man approached me. “Excuse me," he began. Now I was expecting a stupid question like, "Can you tell me where the horses are?" Instead he asked, "Are you the person who wrote the book?”

I’d never seen this guy in my life. I smiled but responded, “Who put you up to that?” I looked around expecting to see seven co-workers tee-heeing in the paddock. Except, this guy didn’t look like he would play any part in a juvenile prank.

My little brain raced to zero in on how this guy knew me. Someone I met last year and didn’t remember? Before I could ask or get that quizzical expression off my face he said he had heard me on the radio. That was a month ago and it was on some obscure niche market radio station in Knoxville, Tennessee. But how would he know me from that? My voice?

I still looked stumped until he mentioned Al Roney. Al is the morning talk show host on 810 WGY in Albany.

Holy Cow! That was nearly two years ago. I called the radio station because Al Roney had gone off the deep end about man caves, as if he invented the concept. At first, I wrote him an email and then went off to work on my taxes. An hour later, Al was still talking about a man’s need for that off limits place where he can put the moose head over the ratty plaid Lazyboy and the woman in his life can’t do anything by roll her eyes. I finally had it. I called the station and told him I had been in the ultimate man cave. It was Shep’s boat, the Cosmic Muffin. I had the privilege of sailing across the ocean with this guy in his custom designed man cave that didn’t even have a bathroom. I had to use a bucket. Al thought that was a hoot. And so did this guy standing in front of me. He went on the internet, found my website, emailed me and ordered a book.

From the little photo on the back of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin he picked me out of the crowd and was able to identify who I was. Unbelievable. The fact that he even approached me is even more unbelievable. Just a few weeks ago I was eating dinner at the Everglades when I spotted someone I thought was an old high school classmate. Did I approach him? Hell no. But later, via faceBook I asked him if he had been at the restaurant.

That makes this guy a very good salesperson. He is in real estate. I had not remembered his name, but I certainly remembered his purchase. In fact, the first book never arrived, but fell out of its package. I sent another. It was a hard winter.

I just thought the whole meeting was remarkable. So I played a few horse and got the first place horse in the first three races.

Ah, there is nothing like a little fame and a little fortune to make the day.

Thanks Bruce.

Fire, Fire...

There is no typical fan at Saratoga. There is the horse groupie, the person who goes up and down the east coast tromping from one dingy track to another, following horses whose granddaddy's greatness has been spread as thin as the Track’s give-away blankets. There is the jockey groupie who saw the Cajun win the Kentucky Derby on a long shot and now hangs on the fence outside the paddock hooting at the goofy grinned jockey as if they had been life long friends. Wearing thin Italian shoes, orange checked shorts, and a linen jacket, there is the fan who talks horse, combines the oddest mix of horses for a Super Trifecta and swears to God dinner at Siro’s cost him nothing. The “I’m a player” loser. There is the dad who totes his son who clutches a stuffed gray pony and a pair of jockey goggles. And there is the guy so old his tattoo says, “Lincoln Sucks.” He brings some friends who have never been to the track and ends up getting separated and spends the next four hours searching the crowd. Finally, desperation drives the track veteran to ask security for help.

Joe looked for Billy who was a “little not right in the head. He had an accident.” I made a few notes and took Joe to the phone located near the Porch Reservations. The desk sergeant answered the phone and I explained I had a gentleman missing his party. When I began to describe the missing man the sergeant barked, “I’ll ask the questions.”

“What kind of shoes is he wearing?” Even Obama would have thought that was a pretty stupid question to ask because I would have looked for a forty-four year old white male with a blue pullover shirt about 5’ 10” with short gray hair and dark pants. But he’s the sergeant and I, the patrol officer who doesn’t have a clue as to how to become a sergeant.

“When was the party missing?” I wanted to say after he couldn’t find him, but instead I said, “since 1 PM.”

“What? And he is just reporting him missing three hours later?”

Yeah that’s right. Stupid and irresponsible, huh? I’ll tell him he didn’t make the report in a timely fashion and we can’t do anything about it. Statue of limitations and all.

After I answered all the sergeant’s questions describing the missing person, he asked me who was making the report.

“Joe DiLeo.”

“Who?”

“Joe DiLeo. D-I-L-E-O.” Joe was impressed that I pronounced and spelled his name correctly. Hey, I might be wearing this uniform, but I do have an MBA.

“Not Joe DiLeo. You got to be kidding me. Is he 80 years old?”

I asked Joe how old he was and sure enough he was 80. One thought ran through my head. Is this guy an annual prankster who reports someone missing and I haven’t heard about it. I’m going to be pissed.

The sergeant explained, “Joe DiLeo has been reported missing by HIS party.” Good, we will have a quick and happy ending.

“His party is at Gate A. Where are you?” Once again I told him I was at Porch Reservation.

“Wait there.” Click.

The rain was coming down in buckets. Standing under the cover was okay by me. "Just a few minutes," I told Joe. We struck up a little conversation while we waited. Joe was one of twelve children all boys except for the oldest who basically raised the family. Two of Joe’s brothers served in WW II, but Joe served in Korea. He had five kids, eighteen grandkids and fourteen great grandkids. Except for a bad back because of a car accident, Joe was in fairly good health. Took no medication.

Fifteen minutes rolled by and I was beginning to wonder where the hell the sergeant is. I called the desk and explained I was still waiting.

“Where are you?”

“Porch Reservations. Clubhouse.” In training they told us to be specific. There is only one Porch Reservation booth at the Track and it is a four by six booth. I couldn’t have been any more specific with a GPS.

“Okay, I am sending someone.”

Fifteen minutes later, I knew the names of Joe’s attorney and accountant, but I was still standing at the Porch Reservation with an 80 year old who needed to sit down. I found a folding chair for him and called the desk.

“We can’t find you.” I didn’t know what to say. I had on a bright yellow rain slicker that said NYRA on the back. It was so large it covered everything but my shoes. Joe was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with canoes. If I were reporting a fire, the building would be a pile of ashes by now.

Another fifteen minutes went by before a sergeant showed up. “We lost the other party.” Did I roll my eyes?

At that very moment Joe piped up, “There he is. In the blue shirt.” He pointed and all I saw was a sea of blue shirts.

“Billy, Billy, Billy”, he yelled out, but his old voice didn’t get too far in the crowd.

I yelled out, “Billy, Billy, Billy,” expecting someone in the crowd to wheel around. No dice, but I managed to get ten other patrons to take up the chant. And Billy turned around.

First Flight

In early July, I noticed a robin’s nest built on a lower branch of the tulip tree. The robin sitting in the bundle of twigs and grass kept a wary eye on me as I passed numerous times on my way to the schoolhouse. I stopped parking my Jeep under the tree to give her a little peace. When I brought out the telephoto lens to photograph her, I startled her with the flash. She took off. Attempts to take other photos of her resulted in her quick departure.

About a week ago, I noticed a baby robin hopping down the road. A chirping robin flitted in the lower bush along the side of the road. When I returned with my camera I found neither bird. In the nest sat one little robin. I assumed the baby fledged, or attempted.

Each day I watched the baby. As it got bigger the nest began to deteriorate. Bits and pieces dangled from the branches as the bird outgrew its home. The adult robin was seen less and less, but I could hear her chirps in the near by trees.

On Tuesday, the speckled chested baby sat outside the nest that had fallen apart. The bird perched on a branch looked angry. He lost a home, a mom and was faced with an expectation to fly. Life spread out before him and the ground a good twenty feet down, where an equally angry machine gobbled up grass and spit it out with a roar. I'd be a little reluctant to spread my wings.

I got the camera, took a few photos and went back to the schoolhouse.

When I returned later in the afternoon, he was gone. I would have loved to see the first flight. I assumed it was successful. Either that or Dad hit it with the lawn mower.

Mission accomplished. Mom's work done.

No Fashion Statements

There are some legal differences as defined by New York State, but as far as the New York Racing Association goes, the only difference between a Peace Officer and a Security Guard is the pants. Both jobs require you smile at the patrons, don’t escalate a situation and keep your shirt tucked in. Oh yeah, and it is critical that your t-shirt doesn't show at the neck.

Since I promised to go through Peace Officer training, I was issued the ubiquitous gray pants with the blue strip. But tight budgets prevail at NYRA (aren’t the maintenance guys running around in new crisp cyan shirts), so the size selections are slim pickin’s. In the gun cage the smallest on the rack was a men’s 32. They were so old they had pockets. Years ago in an attempt to make the Peace Officer force look a little more authoritative, they eliminated all but the hip pockets. NYRA wasn’t going to have their Officers standing around with their hands in their pants. These pants had pockets, thread bare around the openings.

The issuing sergeant said I could take the pants to Roxy’s, the local dry cleaners, to have them taken in. I could jam a truckload of doughnuts into those pants. A lot had to be altered. However, when you try to take that much out of the waist, the back pockets end up sitting on top of each other. The cleaners promised they would leave about a quarter inch between the pockets. The best they could do.

A week later I picked up the pants. Neatly pressed, with a crisp crease down the legs they once made some officer look sharp. At home I tried them on. The waist fit comfortably. Add a belt and from the front they looked good. I came out to show Dad, but when I turned around, even he noticed the snag in my drawers. Now Dad has never been known for having any great flair for fashion, being one who would wear plaid with stripes, but fashion faux pas was so bad, it even caught his eye.

In the ass the pants drooped like a gang banger’s attire. I comes from da’hood wid trooper pants. I could have tucked a couple of Depends in there and still had room for my assault rifle. It would have been a total embarrassment to wear these to work. Who would take me seriously when I asked them to remove their beer cooler from three foot line by the white fence? But when I complained to the sergeants they looked at me like my cat looks at me. What? Back at the cleaners I received hands-up-in-the-air shrugs. (I have purposely not suggested the cleaners was a tailor.)

To the sewing room I went. Yes, I can swing a hammer and run a needle through my fingers. I couldn’t make them look any worse. Armed with a gross of pins I gathered up the bulk. Gingerly, I stepped into the legs and pulled them up. Much better. I managed to take in the droop without leaving the couch below my knees. That would compromise my ability to run after bad guys. In the end, I wouldn’t look like a middle-aged women with a medical condition.

The track issues one uniform for the summer (This is why I let my t-shirt show...a protest of sorts)and the wool pants must be dry cleaned. The first hot day of the summer occurred on opening day. I could feel the sweat run down my legs. These pants were not going to work. So this morning I went to WalMart to find a dark blue pair that would be acceptable uniform attire.

In the boy’s department I found an eleven dollar pair that fit like they were made for me. Who knew that at 55, I could wear Boy’s 16?

Getting Older

This afternoon returning home from Price Chopper where I just spent enough money to get twenty cents off my next twenty gallons of gas, I admired Mini Cooper Clubman. The little car zipped by me, a pretty shade of blue rarely seen this summer in the skies of the Northeast. Of note was the rear door that opened a little like a double door refrigerator, or a large cargo van, expect of course this car was the size of a large toy box.. Or woodshed.

From out of nowhere, much like being side-swiped by a tractor trailer, a thought slammed into me. As nice as the car looked and I thought I might enjoy driving one of those little economical, easy on gas cars, it suddenly looked very vulnerable. There I sat behind the wheel of my 333,000 mile Jeep Cheokee, feeling safe. I have no airbag, but I felt safe. Dumbly safe, but safe.

At fifty-five I finally grasped the concept. I preferred safe to small. I understood something my older friends had been expressing for years. They like their big cars. My Jeep isn’t huge, but it is a little monster compared to a SmartCar or a Mini Cooper.

It was a good feeling. I don’t have any cash for a new car. And I just squashed any glimmering desire to buy a small new one. Yayh. Now about that scooter in Hawaii…

Obama Care

It is easier to listen to the political pundits debate, breathing scary tales and spreading fear in the hearts and minds of the impressionable than to read a piece of House legislation. Who wants to read 1017 pages of anything, unless it is the latest Harry Potter adventure? Believe me HR 3200 is as full of political wizardry as any of JK Rowlings’ books.

Okay, you voted for the Big O and you are a die-hard trooper who stays loyal to your Lord. Good for you. But let’s look at Health Care Reform for the fun of it.

Obama promises you choice? Read page 16.

If you don’t have private health insurance when the bill becomes effective, you will no longer be able get it. That seems to limit some choice right out of the gate. And if you are part of a private plan, the insurer can no longer enroll any one in the plan. It’s closed. So much for free enterprise. The limits on private options soon dry up and private options will disappear. It will be impossible to get your own insurance. If you are covered by an employer plan and your employer folds, like GM as an example, you can’t get a private plan. Your only choice is to enroll in the government plan. Whew, saved by the government, unless...

You decide not to join any plan because you are young, healthy and hell, you haven’t seen a doctor since one slapped you on the ass at birth. Think twice. You’ll be taxed for not ponying up. I guess you could consider this a choice. Pay for not joining the government plan, or pay for joining. Read all about it on page 168.

Your privacy becomes yet another matter. Think everything is between you and your doctor? Nope. Everything is going to be tracked by the government. Read pages 445, 454, 479.

And who will actually make decisions about your health care? Not your doctor, but one new bureaucracy, the National Coordinator of Health Information Technology, will monitor treatments to make sure your doctor is doing what the federal government deems appropriate and cost effective. The goal is to reduce costs and "guide" your doctor's decisions. Don’t believe me? Read pages 442, 446. Your choice about your care is gone.

And when you get a little older, there is something called "comparative effectiveness." Sounds great if you got a big denominator. The older you get, the smaller the denominator. Oh yeah, that is about choice. Living or ending your life choice. It’s all about going through end of life counseling (Is this something Ted Kennedy is going through? I doubt it.) As a senior you will be required to go through counseling about end of life decisions. Every couple of years, unless a huge medical issue arises and then you’ll go more frequently, you’ll be required to get counseling about “end of life”. Maybe, as an elder you should kick the bucket instead of having medical care because you have dementia. Why waste money on your medical care when a 20 year old needs a new spleen because he was in a car wreck as a result of an underage drinking binge? Check out page 425. But I suppose if you are some important law Harvard law professor you can cry a little louder and live a bit longer no matter what your crank old age might be.

The United State is the leader in health care. People come here for health care. They don’t go to Canada. Not Mexico, not Cuba (unless you are dimwitted Michael Moore) and certainly not to Europe. News bulletin: You can get some dynamite face lifts in Africa and see a safari while you recover.

But for all our country’s great research and leading technology this bill will limit future research in order to cut cost. The Federal Coordinating Council for Comparative Effectiveness Research ( read pages 190-192) will have a goal to slow the development and use of new medications and technologies (because they are driving up costs). And here you were guessing lawsuits were doing this.

But, you’re so young. So free. So why worry? You shouldn’t. Take a look at social security. It won’t be around by the time you retire. Medicare will also be busted in a few more years. And this plan? It won’t be affordable for you or your government by the time you decide to have that funny little lump checked out. Like SS and Medicare it won’t exist when you need it. Hey, come to think of it, then what am I worried about?

I could be doing something else. Heck, I haven’t written a blog all month. But I thought this might be important. If you really want to be informed and quit making decisions like one of Obama’s sheep, look it up. You can find the House and the Senate bills at defend your health care.

That is what I did, because next month I won’t have health insurance and you know what? THAT’S MY CHOICE and I don’t want the government taking that choice away from me or interfering in my private relationship with my doctor. I have a doctor's appointment next month. I’ll choke on the cost, but again, it's my choice and it is one of the best.

Remember, anything the government can take away is not a right.

Forty Years Later

I was fifteen years old when Neil Armstrong took the huge step for mankind. Mom pooh-poohed the event and went to bed. My siblings always went to bed. But I wanted to see the historic step onto the surface of the moon. It was late and the only light in the living room came from the glow of the black and white TV. I was absorbed in a dream and challenge of President Kennedy. The fantasy came true and I took pride in my country's achievement, something so miraculous the milestone would become the measure all frustrating challenges, “If we can go to the moon, you think we could…”

The only person to share this event with me was Dad. When I asked him if he remembered watching the landing he say he didn’t. Oh well.

Forty years later, I’m sitting in the living room with Dad. Maybe neither one of us has budged since.

Opportunity Lost

I never got to go sailing with Walter Cronkite.

Are You Still Blogging

Apparently not.

The Vinyl Frontier

Throughout history mankind has left traces of his culture embedded in a variety of medium. As he walked across the mudflats of Africa he left his footprint to dry in the day’s hot sun. He marked cave walls with primitive images of animal hunts. He discarded pieces of pottery, jewelry, bits of clothing. Whether accidentally or intentionally, each whisper left held his legacy, a story, a simple means of recording who he was, what he did, what was important and how he survived. As he walked his path he became more sophisticated with his breadcrumbs. Stone tablets, papyrus, books. They told of his life, his thoughts, his ideas, his longings. They contained his dreams, his music.

But what he didn’t leave behind was his sound, at least not until two Frenchmen Leon Scott and Charles Cros photoengraved smoke traces onto metal. It resulted in the replay of sound. A few months later in the same year, 1877, Thomas Alva Edison discovered a method of recording and replaying sound having followed a somewhat different line of research. In less than thirty years, recorded sound began to emerge as entertainment.

Last night I was invited as a guest into the studios of WDXV, Knoxville for The Vinyl Frontier a radio show which recaptures the sounds of an era lost. The sounds of needle on vinyl eking out the scratches, pings and tings of music recorded on flat black disks spun on turntables. The sound captured was that of artists famous and obscure during a time when music in the south stretched its wings after WWII.

The show is hosted by Bradley and Louisa Reeves, a team of archivists who spend time preserving old music, some never released to the public. They scour the landscape hunting for old recordings in hot attics, musty basements, along country road sides at flea markets or in the back bins of second hand stores. If they can’t find the artist they hunt down family members, and friends who relate stories of the men and women whose voices or musical instruments were etched on the acetate disks. This was often done in the home of the musician, not in fancy soundproof recording studios. Bradley and Louisa uncover some sad stories of musicians who lost their dreams to others who preyed on their talents.

I have to admit I am a music dummy. This is illustrated when I was asked to bring a favorite CD to the studio. I like Josh Rouse, but can’t tell you the name of his albums or the title to any of his songs despite the fact that I listened to them endlessly when I was in the Peace Corps. So last night was quite an experience. I listened in awe to the backgrounds, connections and history spun by Brad and Louisa about the musicians who once ruled the streets of Knoxville’s music scene. I knew Elvis.

The two hours flew by. We laughed about some of the cheesy stuff, listened in rapture to some of the talent clearly ahead of its time, and lamented the fact that some of these never were contenders despite their gifts. At one point I danced, doing the twist and then inventing a dance called UT. But I had to admit when a group called Zebra from the 70’s came up on the play list, I felt a little old. This was my generation.

Today without much effort I can get a video out on YouTube, leaving my mark on the pages of humankind’s journal. It should have been that easy for some of the artists of the past. Fortunately, we have people like the Reeves who recapture lost bits of music history. Catch them on WDVX.com Monday nights at 9 PM Eastern Time. You’ll be in for a real treat.

Crap-py Attitude

In our culture we generally avoid going around stinking to high heavens. So we bath, use deodorant, brush our teeth, run a comb through our hair and try to keep the grime from collecting under our finger nails. And generally we don’t run around with bare feet. It is a matter of politeness and there is an assumption that we are personally responsibility for our own hygiene so that we don’t offend others. Or be a total embarrassment to ourselves.

I also believe we have a personal responsibility not to put our moods on others. Like bad body odor we should not offend others with a stinky attitude. We are obligated to act happy, even if we are not.

At 5 am I reported for duty at the track. I actually looked forward to a day of being outside, watching the horses at the St Clement’s Horse Show and shooting the bull with other guards. Easy money compared to swinging a sledge hammer and hauling concrete. Under the glorious mist filled sunrise over the Oklahoma Track, I listened to the crows squawk as they zeroed in on bread crumbs and French fries tossed to them by the nighttime guard.

The nighttime guard warned me about the on coming guard’s toxic behavior. His reputation preceded him. I didn’t know his name, but I had witnessed his actions at Belmont. There he called a group of Asians chinks when they moved a few picnic tables around, he threw a chair when he “lost” a confiscated case of Heinekens and he strutted around the park muttering complaints about the crowd’s stupidity, NYRA’s incompetency and the bullshit of life in general. I immediately figured out who he was. I was going to have the pleasure of working with him for six hours. Maybe four if we both got breaks.

When he showed up at 7 am he immediately rearranged the signs posted at the gate. The speed limit and the posting to show your credentials were not in the “right place.” They worked fine for the previous two hours. Each of the three parking cones was then re-positioned. Next, the two chairs in the security hut switched and I couldn’t figure out why he wanted to sit on the one with the broken back.

When a horse van pulled in, the driver had to wait for him to complete the required paperwork because he insisted it was his job to check credentials and wave cars through the gate after removing the cones. I wasn’t doing anything at the time because there were no oncoming horses to hold traffic for. But as soon as I walked over to the gate and reached for a cone he barked, “That’s my job.” I feigned no intentions of touching his cone then watched the inefficiency of his strutting back and forth from hut to gate while keeping everyone waiting. It would have been humorous if he wasn’t muttering profanities every step of the way and pretending to be so put out by the inconveniences of everyone else one, who were all stupid idiots of questionable lineage.

Not once during the shift did he make eye contact with me, or acknowledge my existence, but once in his flurry to open the gate he nearly ran me over. No apologies and I'm sure at the moment I was a stupid b*. He kept his newspaper on the other stool. He made sure that he returned it there whenever I got up and left to hold traffic for the horses. Upon my return I removed his papers and sat back down.

I had been offered a cup of coffee by the night shift guard and was told that my day shift partner would attempt to throw it away. He didn’t but complained about the possibility of spillage on his paperwork, even though he had a large hot tea. I had no intentions of drinking the 3 AM coffee, but occasionally took a sip to hold my right to have it in the shack.

About mid-shift a horse owner came by and stopped to talk to the guard. By then I had positioned myself across the street no longer able to take his under the breath rants and cusses. I paid little attention to their conversation. When the owner drove off, my buddy had a muffin and a hundred dollar bill, gifts from the owner. “It’s a f’ing bran muffin,” he griped wiping the crumbs away from his mouth. He tossed the remainder into the trash and he showed me the Ben Franklin.

What could he possibly complain about? He took another hundred from his wallet and held it up to the sunshine. Squinting into the sunshine, he flipped it over. Then he took the gifted one hundred and did the same thing. “Just making sure it’s not a g---damned counterfeit,” he said. About that time I wanted one of the crows to shit in his eye.

Seedling

At the water’s edge I rolled my pant legs to my knees. I watched hemlock needles dance in the shadows of an eddy. Four days of rain had swollen the shallow creek that carried twigs and leaves from upstream. As I crossed, my bare shuffled on the smooth shale rock bed. It felt like a sheet of ice.

I smelled summer at the edge of the woods where the brown pine carpet gave way to a thick underbrush. The sun warmed the air that lifted the scent of rich earth decay. The aroma lingered where the forest fought to recover from the scars of logging that had raped the north side of the streambed. In this place the smell was full of mid-season memories, of play of excertions and expeditions to these woods. But it is too early for plump red berries, the sweetness of local corn or warm tomatoes taken directly from the garden’s vine. The smell seemed out of place.

I came to rob the earth again of what it struggled to claim. Last year I found the seedling near the rotted stumps and discarded cider blocks. A tulip tree at the beginning of its journey. Here I could find no mother tree, no sire to claim the sapling as its own. The closest kin was two miles away, a tall straight and solid tree, not common to the area sitting in my parents’ yard.

Taking note that no one else was in the little preserve, I dug a large ring around the tree and a neighboring beech that grew three inches away. Their roots too tangled to separate, I put both in my backpack and carried them to the Jeep. Theft completed.

At the house, I dug a hole, chopping through old roots from the elms that were lost to a bark bettle. Three trees have been removed from the area between the house and old schoolhouse in the last three years. Two were over 70 years old.

I won’t see the tulip get that old, but I hope that someone will find enjoyment in the tree’s journey toward the sky.

Working the Summer

Diablo ate my birthday cookies. They were a present from the lady whose bathrooms will have my tile signature all over them. The result of the cookie theft was a severe case of diarrhea. Coconut is not good on kittie stomachs. She’s bouncing around on the prowl for Phoenix right now so she is no worse for it. I had left them on the table when I got home from work. I took a shower and went back into town, completely forgetting about them. Dad said he found nothing but crumbs scattered on the dining room floor.

I’m surviving the physical demands of the job. Swollen knees from crouching and kneeling all day concern me as I trot up and down the stairs to the wet saw where I cut the measured and marked pieces of tile. Work isn’t hard. Well, too hard. Most of the stuff I can figure out, but since I am working on someone else’s clock my time is now someone else’s money. When I’m projecting around my apartments as wasted day trying to figure out something is just another day.

Other ailments are the usual blisters, nicks, cuts, scrapes, bruises. And an occassional hand cramp. Killers.

My boss is a pretty good guy. His name is Steve which of course I wish it wasn’t, but I’m getting over that. He’s just a couple of years younger than me so there are times when we both are grunting and groaning after we manage to contort ourselves back into upright positions. I told him he really needed to hire a twenty one year old, but he said his girlfriend would not like that. I meant a twenty-one year old guy.

Steve is ex-navy and hires women with military backgrounds. “They are neater and more reliable.” Our only disagreement is the radio. I like to listen to talk and he prefers classic rock. The radio is mine, but he is the boss. Since more and more I am working alone, it is not a problem. The house does however have an Obama yard sign in the garage.

Summer seems to be disappearing. I’ll wrap up bathroom 1 this week and we will dive right into bathroom 2 at the same house. I’m dreading the part where I get to haul it downstairs. We really need to just throw it out the window.

Yesterday Steve asked what I was doing this summer. “Working at the track.” Steve has two more bathrooms in the Albany area. The money is one third as much and no taxes, but the drive adds two hours to any day. Plus gas. Hopefully a good portion of one bath can be done in July. That still leaves August and the track. But the next thing I know...there’s my summer.

Thank goodness I live in Hawaii.

As far as writing….forget about it.

I paid my taxes today. OUCH. But that's it.

It's My Birthday

At Belmont, I had these guys play Happy Birthday to me. FYI=55

Documentary

I am creating a documentary of where my feet go this summer. You can catch clips of my feet's exploits on faceBook. Become a fan.

Day of The Bird

In the Park at Belmont Racetrack, where the highly intoxicated cooler-toting spectators watched the closed circuit monitors an omen had already been cast. If the alcohol hadn’t flowed so heavily more might have taken note when a decapitated bird fell out of the sky moments before the start of the race.

It nearly struck a woman who had passed out inches from the pathway, beer in hand. Her awkwardly strewn body caught the eye of every passerby who looked at her then at me, standing five feet away and guarding the mutual bay doors which as much credible authority as the Big Bad Wolf would give the front door of the Three Little Pig’s house.

They don’t pay me enough to pick up dead birds dropped by a hawk. Perched in a tree it must have lost its grip when the partying fans let out a roar for an encore to a departing band. Those who were taking note of the passed out victim saw the bird drop within inches of her face. Those taking video which I am sure must be on YouTube stepped back. On cue the crowd let out an "ewwww" as loud as the little girls in the movie Lilo and Stitch after Lilo showed them her deformed dollie.

Moments later in the grandstand, the crowd rose to its feet as Mind That Bird pulled into the lead. Dunkirk battled to stay in the lead. Cheers filled the stands when Borel seemed to have done it once again, gone from last to first. It looked like he was to become the first Triple Crown Jockey done onboard two different horses. But the anticipation was short lived when Summer Bird also sired by Birdstone drew up and passed the contenders to take the third leg of the Triple Crown. An upset, once again at Belmont.

Dead bird disposed of and the passed out women rousted from her repose by friends, it had been a long day. Starting with a bus ride to Belmont. It was 2:30 AM when I reported in at the guard house in Saratoga. Thirteen races in the bag and time to sweep the yard of straggling racing fans who had no desire to leave the track. Wishing them a safe journey home was the most diplomatic way of saying, “Get the hell out of here, I want to go home.” Arrived home 24 hours later. How much money did I make?

Honestly, for all the Belmont horror stories I had heard, its unruly crowds, its dirty facilities and ungrateful staff I found none of this the case. The local staff I worked with were professional, the crowds despite their tipsiness were pleasant and the grounds where no more trashier than Saratoga’s after the end of any racing day. In fact I thought the ground’s keeping crews were far more professional and did a better job at keeping the trash in check.

I was good to see those I had not seen in a year. I reminded myself, "These are your primary colors. Blend them."

Tax Vomit

Two months ago I decided I wasn’t going to play the game. I contacted my financial planner and we decided where to take $51,000 out of my portfolio. Not that it really makes a hill of beans. Finally the checks arrive and because I am slaving away on bath remodel, I asked dad I get the checks into the bank so they can clear as soon as possible. My plan was to write the check for the balance and get this mess behind me.

Since I need to know exactly what the interest and penalties are I called the IRS. Mistake.

In April the agent I spoke with outlined the interest as $285.82 and penalties as $510.00 for a 60 day extension (which by the way is merely a formality and I never received any paper work on this.) Since it is a few days less than 60 days, I thought the amount would be slightly less.

The first agent I spoke with could not process my request because she wasn’t authorized to handle this large amount. Suddenly I felt I was in the company of John Kenny and Tim Giethner. Big rollers.

Once transferred to the “non-stream line” department, I was told that my 2008 filing had not completed processing. Two months?

Last year when I owed $420 and was due a $420 "stimulus check" the IRS notified me two weeks after April 15th that my taxes were overdue and I owed an additional $7. They were not overdue. They misplaced my checked. Or more accurately they had my check but didn’t know what to do with it. And despite not knowing what to do with it they cashed it. Once the IRS figured out what they were doing, the seven dollars was dismissed and a couple months later I got my $420 stimulus check. Yahoo.

Today, the agent representing the IRS apologized, but he couldn't tell me how much I owed. Funny, how come the agent two months could tell me? He didn’t know. He suggested I send an extra $4000 when I said I would like to stop incurring additional interest and penalties. Like money grows on trees? Or better, I got my own printing department? Or I can get this from China?

There was a point when he got a little smart assed. “Well you should have paid your taxes to avoid the interest and penalties.”

“That is what I am trying to do and you can’t tell me what I owe. Yet, you keep hitting with with interest and penalties”

So I’m going to send them a check for the amount I was first told in April. Anyone want to bet this is the end?

Labor

Someone with a civil engineering degree could tell me how much a cement floor one and a half inches thick by four feet by sixteen weights. Bucket by bucket I carried broken bites of concrete, tile and wire mesh down a flight of stairs through a kitchen and out to a trailer sitting in a garage. Dump and lug. I lost track after I shoveled nine buckets of debris. Dump and lug. And trudge back upstairs, which I interpreted as my break.

It poured all day and never got much about sixty outside, but in that upstairs bathroom I was sweating.

First business of the day was to lay ground clothes throughout the path from bathroom to garage. That was easy.

Then I went to work on the unscrewing a couple of fixtures from the wall. That too was easy. Next the boss asked me to crawl under the sink and shut off the water. Hum? As hard as I turned the water still flowed. Down in the basement I shut the water off to the house before returning to my place under the sink. I unhooked the plumbing. Not too bad.

Next I tackled the toilet. I had removed one from my own bathroom in one of my rental units. So that wasn’t too bad until I got to that last floor bolt. It did nothing but spin. My boss, swung a hammer, cracked the footing and I helped him cart it down stairs along with the vanity. Okay.

I took the sledge hammer to the vanity and destroyed the box placing the pieces in a nice flat configuration in the bottom of the trailer, going to the dump. Back upstairs it was time to remove the four by four walk-in shower insert. My instructions were to take the reciprocating saw and cut out the three walls and floor. My boss had to run to Home Depot.

My only experience with the saw involved a baseboard in my kitchen remodel. The baseboard was one of those old fashion solid pieces of wood about twelve inches wide. I never used the saw before nor had Iever seen anyone use one. It's the tool of the devil. It scared the living crap out of me. I ended up hand sawing through the wood. Took all day.

So I was a little apprehensive about this task. I was on my own. Nothing like a good prayer to get you through a task with all fingers, toes, and eyes. But I should have had hearing protection and a mask. I had the shower cut into pieces, screws removed and my mess swept up by the time he returned with coffee. I needed a drink.

Kind of proud of myself, I took the crowbar to the trim and it popped off like I was trimming my fingernails.

But then we moved to the floor. I could only manage to chew little pieces off with my crow bar and sledge hammer. With an eighteen pound bar, the boss dug into the floor and I assumed the responsibilities for lugging and dumping.

By 2:30, six hours after the start we were done with the demolishing. I folded up with drop clothes, put away the tools and dumped by body behind the steering wheel of my Jeep. Actually, I didn’t feel too bad. That was because I couldn’t feel my arms any longer.

Was this how Studs Terkel felt after his research escapades? Still waiting for the Saratogain to call me about a writing job. Mom always said college gave us options.