Beyond the Sail

The Separation of Church and Transportation

2012-01-28T14:38:00.005-05:00

Hang onto your boarding passes and Bibles. After 30 years of distributing prayer cards to passengers with their meals Alaska Airlines has discontinued the practice. The reason is that some people “didn’t feel religion was appropriate on the plane and preferred not to receive one.”

As a marketing ploy (who says sex is the only thing that sells) Alaska Airlines placed scriptures printed on colorful photos of wispy clouds, mist ladened mountain tops and gently flowing streams on the meal trays of their passengers. The verses included such text as “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good. His love endures forever.” Some people found this offensive. Holy Toledo! We are not talking PETA commercials here.

When airline food hardly passes for more than POW rations, these cards offered more nourishment than the tissue-thin slice of cheese with a piece of limp lettuce slapped between a jaw-tiring roll and served with three ounces of warmed Coke poured over half-melted ice cubes. Since when would you not appreciate wise and kind messages?

Yet, "after carefully considering all sides, it was agreed that eliminating the cards was the right thing to do," said Bobbie Egan, an airline spokeswoman. Implied is that placing these cards on the meal trays was the wrong, obtrusive, insulting, evangelistic thing to do. If you were insulted, made uncomfortable and preferred not to have religion mixed your transportation I must conject about your state of being. After all, it wasn’t like the flight attendants were reciting prayers and scriptures over the PA system as they pushed the beverage cart down the aisle. Nor were they setting down prayer rugs or burning incense. The prayer card was placed on the tray, for the perusal and use of the diner, similar to the evacuation card slipped in the seatback pocket for the need of those who wish to be informed in case of an emergency. Most don’t read the card preferring to deny the possibility that these vehicles do fall out of the sky. And few experienced the Miracle on the Hudson, where I can assure you a lot of praying was going on.

If you were one bothered by the prayer card you must so loathe religion that you wish to destroy it for all. Non-believers think prayer should be a private thing, unlike sexual preferences. The non-believer prefers to deny the believer of the hope, calm and peace that religion can offer. The atheist who is uncomfortable when confronted with "public" displays of faith and belief even in the most benign and subtle forms prefers to deny the believer his faith.

Why so uncomfortable? They are so bothered by something they don’t believe. If the non-believer doesn’t believe in God, why does anything to do with God bother him? God doesn’t exist. Move along with life. They can’t confront with their own atheism. I don’t believe in leprechauns, but the idea that a little bearded man dressed in a green suit sitting at the end of a rainbow with a pot of gold doesn’t scare me, offend me or consume me in such a way that I am propelled to eradicate leprechauns from the face of the earth.

Non-believers argue that they have a right not to have religious values imposed upon them. Then whose values should be imposed? Theirs? With values like “live and let live” guiding their behavior I say, "exactly", even if I prefer to have my principals and values come from a higher, more divine source. Why do those who don’t believe in God or religion oppose it with such venom? Surely, not for our benefit.

I recognize divine Providence every time I get on a plane, even as I practice two boarding superstitions. The first is, I must have something to do the next day. God won’t let me off this earth until I finish His business. The second is that I touch the outside of the plane. When I have done this the plane has never crashed. But after I take my seat, I pray. I pray for the mechanics, the pilots, the flight attendants and all the people involved in getting the plane from point A to point B without incident. I pray for the passengers. I pray for those who sent off the passengers and those who will receive them at the other end. It is pretty broad sweeping, but nothing beyond the ability of God. And if my plane goes down, I’m going to God. My belief extends to the non-believer even if he doesn’t believe.

If Alaska Airlines distributed cards that pictured war, starvation and crime and said there is no God, I would be offended. I might even decide that it was time to get off the plane. It is exactly what those who were offended by the prayer cards should have done. Taken their business elsewhere.

We are nose-diving as a society because the secular whims of the non-believer who screams separation of church and state forgetting our country was founded on Judeo-Christian values. While the founders differed in their religious beliefs and practices they recognized the important role divine Providence played in this country’s creation. Now the offended non-believer is yelling separation of church and transportation and getting away with it.

I am deeply disappointed in Alaska Airlines' choice to “do the right” thing.

Since writing this I have learned that yesterday Dubai-based airline Emirates and Alaska Airlines have launched a new frequent flier partnership that will offer travelers the opportunity to accrue Alaska Airlines Mileage Plan miles when they fly to any of Emirates' 118 destinations worldwide, including points across Africa, India and the Middle East. Maybe this was the reason to eliminate prayer cards?

Economics 101

2012-01-25T15:46:00.003-05:00

Here’s a simple economic example. Let’s say that anyone who wants a loaf of bread is given $100 to spend on bread. All anyone has to do to get the $100 is apply and once you get it spend it only on bread.

Now let’s pretend, I am a bread maker. I now know that bread money is available. So what do I do? I might invest in bread making equipment and hire a couple of people to help me make bread. I’d pay real good money to my new staff because I know my profits on bread will be good. Why? Hang on, I’ll tell you. Meanwhile, everything sounds good.

What will happen to the bread market? Well, if you remember your basic economics law of supply and demand it says that when demand goes up, so do prices. And when supply goes up, prices come down. Economist draw nice curved lines on their charts because there is a law of diminishing return where all things in a free market balance out, sort of.

However, in my scenario is there really a free market? I say no because anyone who wants it, can get $100 for bread. Where did this $100 come from? Why the government, of course. And not out of thin air. Yes, taxes baby.

If money for bread is readily available prices will go up and so will wages in the bread industry. Bread becomes more expensive because money is available only for bread. Want bread get $100 and buy bread. Whether it is that $1.99 loaf white bread or that $8.00 organic hand made gluten free mass of tasteless brick, the prices of these breads will go up. And go up radically because people won’t hesitate to buy bread because they have $100. So as the prices increase to $40, $50 and even $100 per loaf, I the bread maker am raking in the dough. (By the way, it is also human nature to demand today and worry about that $100 bread money phenomenon later.)

Time to worry.

Let’s turn to the State of The Union address. The President would like every poor high school graduate and every child of an illegal alien who was dragged to our borders by their parents to go to college. Anyone who wants to go should. And to do so the government provides loans, grants and subsidizes institution of higher learning.

“At a time when Americans owe more in tuition debt than credit card debt”… wait for it, "this Congress needs to stop the interest rates on student loans from doubling in July.” Was this a secret? This just popped up? Smart college kids didn’t know this was going to happen? Shame on them. Remember all student loans now come from the government. Talk about bad lending practices!

“Extend the tuition tax credit we started that saves millions of middle-class families thousands of dollars. And give more young people the chance to earn their way through college by doubling the number of work-study jobs in the next five years” Sounds like bread money.

Have you ever wondered why the cost of a college education continues to rise? It’s because the government is involved in giving money out to anyone who wants to go. It’s the bread money syndrome. And it is damn similar to the government saying anyone who wants a house can get a loan. We all know what happened to the economy when that bubble burst. Now can we just imagine what will happen when the college bubble bursts? Can you say American Spring?

And the President has the audacity to say, “So let me put colleges and universities on notice: If you can’t stop tuition from going up, the funding you get from taxpayers will go down.” The President is speaking nonsense because he doesn’t have a clue as to why the cost of a college education is outrageous. It is because government funding is involved.

But he does add: “Of course, it’s not enough for us to increase student aid. We can’t just keep subsidizing skyrocketing tuition. We’ll run out of money.” DUH

End of Life Discussion

2012-01-18T23:52:00.002-05:00

Have you had this discussion yet? It is 2012. This is the year the Mayan Calendar ends. However, I’m not sure about what day this happens. I’d look it up but the world of Wikipedia ended nearly 24 hours ago so I, like a lot of other people, are winging it today. We are presently as stupid as we were before Al Gore invented the Internet. Of course, the end was predicted twice (May 21 and then Oct 21 without as much trepidation as the first time – “The Cry Wolf Syndrome” ) in 2011 so I assume “this too will pass”, a saying that is not in the Bible. You can look that up on the Blue Letter Bible site, a website that has not blacked itself out in the SOPA (Stop Online Piracy Act) protest. They want pirates to access the Bible.

The other day I was watching Sleepless in Seattle with a friend of mine. Do you realized that movie came out 19 years ago? Meg Ryan was married to Dennis Quaid and Rosie O’Donnell hadn’t yet gone off the deep end. Life was good; life was innocent. I had a good job. There was no such thing as iAnything. Computer searches were done on data bases that had no window or graphic interfaces. This was pre-Y2K. Snail mail and in person contact were the most prevalent means of stalking. Facebook was nothing but a typo. Back then a little kid could fly alone on a plane and Amber Alerts were not issued. You could meet your arriving party at the gate and security didn’t belong to the government. You could carry to and leave a backpack at the top of the Empire State Building, after convincing an elevator guard to let you go to the observation deck when it had already closed. And from that observation deck you could see the Twin Towers standing proudly over lower Manhattan.

This brought me to wonder about the end of life and having that discussion. I don’t mean what kind of medical care would you want if you were too ill or hurt to express your wishes. Sure that is important and you should have those discussions and have supporting documents in place. But what I am talking about is the end of the way of life in America, as we currently know it. For example, what you want in end of life health care might not be what the government gives you under ObamaCare.

You just rolled your eyes. Yep, most people do. The tendency for government is to slowly chip away at the citizen’s right and just as importantly, the citizen’s responsibilities. Most of the time we talk about what government has limited. We point to the constitution to say, “See, that bill or law violates this right.” Some of us say “this God given right”, but we have allowed others to take that saying away from us because it offends people who don’t have any god. (They do, but should I lose my right to say so when they claim otherwise?)

Government also assumes the responsibility of what the citizen should be doing for himself or his neighbor. That, my friend (sounds like John McCain), makes all of us fat, dumb and lazy when we allow and expect government to tax us to pay for food stamps, housing, unemployment and other socially accepted safety nets. Add in the socially accepted “entitlement” programs (Social Security, Medicare and ObamaCare) and the burden we have yoked ourselves with is staggering.

Current and future taxpayers face an enormous burden in trying to sustain the Medicare program as it is today. If our elected officials refuse to address rapidly rising Medicare spending, then it would perforce require Americans to pay taxes at a level far exceeding anything Americans have paid before. Social Security fairs no better. Fewer and fewer workers fund today’s and future benefit distribution. Most of us think we are entitled to these funds because we paid into it. The truth is if you were to receive all you paid in the benefit it would last you about 2.5 years! So get over it. You are entitled to nothing when nothing exists.

And this is why we should engage in end of life discussions. Because it is coming to an end. Look at Sleepless in Seattle. Would you ever imagine someone saying to you in 1993, “You know those Twin Towers? They will be knocked down by two airplanes in eight years. Gone.”

I’m saying, “You know those entitlement programs? Won’t be there if we don’t buck up.”

When I was a kid my older brother had a replica of the Mayan Calendar. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I remember studying the figures wondering what they said. The Mayan’s were not predicting the end in 2012. It was just that they couldn’t see any farther into the future. Short-sightedness? Naivety? I don’t know. Wikipedia is still down. You’ll have to look it up tomorrow.

But my sister is buying a farm (not buying the farm). She plans on chopping down trees and burning wood, killing chicken, raising trout and having lots and lots of guns. I’m just saying I think she is having that end of life discussion.

The Way We Roll

2011-11-10T13:46:00.006-05:00

First day and all the unknowns. What will my driver be like? As friendly and as beaming as a driver cast and scripted in a logistics commercial? How many 70 pound boxes can I really lift? The answer is a big fat zero. Will my knees and elbow handle climbing on and off the truck? Not if I bounced in and out like a twenty-something. Will I know where to put the packages? In a protected out of street view site. Will I get car sick? Could happen. Yes, I was a little nervous about my seasonal job with UPS.

I grew up in Gansevoort, but never been to McGregor Links. The golf course on Northern Pines Road was the spot where I was to rendezvous with my driver. He pulled up at 1:15 and asked if I was waiting for him. “Yes, I’m Valerie”, and extended my hand. Instead, he jumped out of his seat, slid the cargo door open and grabbed my uniform off one of the metal shelves. “Here. Put this on in the back." The metal door clanged behind me, automatically locking me in the cavernous volume of the big brown truck.

One thin and well worn pair of pants. Holes worn in the pocket where the previous owner kept his wallet. He was bigger with a 31 inch waist. The extra three inches I gathered in using the belt from my jeans. No gang banging look for UPS professionals. No shirts are issued to the seasonable help. It’s November in upstate New York. The winter jacket would cover any shirt. But an unseasonable and late Indian summer pushed the temperature to 70 degrees. I stripped down to my t-shirt and donned the pullover. There wasn’t a mirror to see if I looked like I felt. The Michelin Man. A brown fat Michelin man. I was going to die in the jacket. I yelled through the door and the driver released me from cargo.

Underway. The driver asked, "Ever work as a helper before?"
“No” My voice sailed out the open doors. Mailboxes, trees and houses rushed by. I gripped my jump seat.
"I hand you the package. Point to the house. You take it straight to the door. Just leave it. Don't bother to announce UPS or knock. Just get back to the truck. When you’re buckled in we go to the next stop." I’m sure this was not the way it was done on the training video. Two minutes later, I ran off to my first house. He warned, "Oh, yeah dogs. Don't step on any land mines."

While I delivered packages in the mazed developments behind the golf course, he rooted around for packages, pre-staging upcoming stops. I returned to hear him cussing at the inability of the loaders to arrange the packages correctly. He couldn’t find the next package and finally gave up. He was hot throwing out the f-bomb as we got underway. I just sat there. I wondered if this guy was the jerk one helper talked about in training. "He went through ten helpers. Nobody could work with him." Oh, boy.

I figured I just do what I could do to make each stop quick. I jogged truck to door and back. (Mental note. No more 4 miles walk before work.) To anticipate the next stop, I read the address label and searched for the house so my driver didn’t have to tell me which house. He still pointed and said, “leave it by the red door.” (You know how many houses have red doors?)

After the first hour we were flying down Northern Pines when he said, “I should have went to college.”
“I did. I’m here.”
“By the way, I’m Greg.”
I reintroduced myself. I must have been making a favorable impression. I was thirsty and very sweaty. My hair totally tangled. My eyes watery due to blast of air swirling about the cab. And my fingers numb from hanging onto my jump seat for dear life.

“Don’t worry. I won’t kill you,” Greg said.
“Thanks.” I grinned, but did not relax my grip.

I never tell people I live in Gansevoort. No one outside the Capital District has ever heard of it. I realized my dinky rural town with its Dutch heritage has grown in the past 50 years. We hit houses and places I never knew existed. Yet, we flew by familiar houses tucked between developments I had never entered. I saw people I knew raking leaves, walking dogs, picking up their mail. We delivered one package to a guy whom with I had gone to kindergarten. Two hours later, my test run was done. Greg dropped me off at my Jeep and said thank you. He still had packages left, but my assigned time was over.

That’s how we roll in logistics.

Virtual Baby Shower

2011-10-24T17:54:00.003-04:00

Where do you make friendships? At work or class. In church, around the neighborhood, at your kid’s school. Perhaps at common interest gatherings or reoccurring events such as a pottery firing, an AA meeting or Saturday romp in the dog park with Rockford. But ever since the social networking age morphed out of an AOL chat room, online friendships have been stigmatized. A virtual friendship is labeled as strange, just an entertainment, certainly not real. When I mention my online friends to people, I get that what’s-wrong-with-you look. I know what they are thinking. Don’t you know crazy people stalk other crazy people who are only online because they have such incompetent social skills development that they live in little houses with the curtains drawn only to emerge from behind the glow of the computer screen to feed their 27 cats and go to the mailbox to collect their monthly social insecurity check. Losers.

So when I mentioned I was attending a virtual baby shower this past Sunday I got a few side glances and raised eyebrows. To make things far stranger and more difficult to explain was the attendees were people I met through Twitter postings made by my cat. The logic gets lost on those who are not on social media or limit their online contacts to school mates they have not seen in 30 years.

My cat, Diablo, goes by SouthBoundCat on Twitter has blogged since 2006. That never has been met with any reservations. As long as Diablo conversed with Phoenix, my other cat, on the blog everything was acceptable. But when Diablo reached out to the world and gathered over 2700 followers, well, that challenged the safe realm of plausibility. Opinions shifted from hilarious entertaining acceptance to concern for my mental stability. Seriously my cat tweets.

Try to explain a virtual baby shower for someone I have never met, but who has a cat that twitters with my cat about a feline take over of the world once they get their opposable thumbs from yet another person who has two cats converted to the dark side of tyranny and mayhem and risk raising doubts of one’s social acumen. To be polite some respond, “You have too much time on your hands.” Less polite is the observation, “You don’t have a job, do you?” What is left unsaid I don’t know, but I've watched the listener slowly back away while looking around for sharp objects within my reach.

I am perfectly sane, not in therapy and have good social skills. I know the difference between right and wrong, alive and dead, pretend and real. Sort of.

Virtual means existing in the mind, especially as a product of the imagination. Make believe. I can be guilty of that. After all, I am a writer. In Computer Science virtual means created, simulated or carried on by a computer or computer network. Blame this on technology, making connections with others across 24 times zones and latitudes from pole to pole. Virtual also means existing or resulting in essence or effect though not in actual fact. This applies to literacy criticism. A writer pens with fire and cuts with ice to get people to lose their moments in prose. Very real never discredited and readily accepted when done well.

Those who know me know I am not a party person, much less a person who likes baby showers. Not my style. It began with my first ever shower and reiterated by my last experience. The first was for a sorority sister. I belonged to Mu Rho Sigma. Get it? MRS. We were all married. Anyway, as a rookie I didn’t know the rules and I always played to win. So after winning some lame game someone politely took me aside and told me the prizes where given to the guest of honor. What? But I won! Right there was confirmation that I didn’t like baby showers. If you can’t play for keeps, why play? The last baby shower was a few years ago. I had been church shopping when I stumbled upon a church whose entire female membership was throwing the minister’s wife a shower after the morning service. Oh brother. The overly friendly congregation invited me for cake, games, gifts and laughs. Well, what the hell. Game time and I had no clue what the baby’s room theme was much less what the mother-to-be’s middle initial stood for. Her best friend won that game and gracefully relinquished the prize. Predictable.

I don’t know if this was the first ever virtual baby shower, but it should be the beginnings of a positive trend. There certainly are a few advantages. Armed with webcams and the google+ platform, eight women from Newfoundland to the sunny California coast gathered around their monitors to surprise their soon-to-be-new-mom friend. No driving instructions needed although I was a bit concerned about some technical difficulties. I never used google+. Easy as pie. The only trouble I had was not understanding that the hangout time was on the central time zone. I was an hour early.

I had painted all day. Had paint on my hands, elbows, jeans. I can’t anything without having it in my hair. I took off my paint shirt, donned a head set and never gave my attire a second thought. No shower, no second thoughts about dress, no uncomfortable shoes. Since I was at my sister’s house (known for low thermostat settings) I wore three shirts, a sweatshirt and slipper socks.

There was no fret about what to bring. Something sweet, finger food, dips, chips or pickles? Some had links to punch, snacks and drinks, but a virtual shower entails whatever can be found in the frig and toted into the den or wherever the computer is set up. Could be leftover Chinese, or a chicken leg. Bring a favorite beverage. Either a bottle of wine for personal consumption or in my case a mug of hot chocolate. Don’t worry about the three bean salad you had for lunch, if you get my drift.

Gift giving is easy too since online shopping became as common as Cyber Monday. Pick, click, ship. No wrapping, bows or lame cards with leggy storks and play-it-safe yellow. Sixteen key strokes of a credit card number and done. During the shower everyone opens a linked window to view the gift. Oohs and ahhs unleash a montage of video frames bouncing from one participant to another capturing the delight of all.

In the comfy of home, stories were shared about anything and everything. That's no change from a real baby shower. But with a few key strokes sharing a picture made the story even better. Do that at a baby shower! We wanted a peanut cake and within four seconds we had a peanut cake. Since I met all these friends because of my twittering cat, we used the web cams to see our feline fur balls. Try taking your cat to the next baby shower.

I heard my friends' voices for the first time. Some, faces I saw for the first time. I met a new friend. We talked story like real friends. We laughed like real friends. Laughed so much that my face hurt and the expecting mom nearly peed her pants. She was very surprise and touched.

Virtual my ass. This was very real. Highly recommended.

Moments

2011-09-11T15:05:00.004-04:00

8:48: Flight 11 crashes into the north face of the North Tower of the World Trade Center, between floors 93 and 99.

I sat alone in my living room, clutching a pillow. Like so many Americans I watched the horrific events of this day snuff out the sunlight of a clear blue morning, taking with it the dreams and promises of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, of friends who shared bits of their lives with co-workers around conference tables, water coolers, elevators, cubicles, hallways, garages, or breakfast tables on the 101st floor. The dust never settled harder, thicker on America’s heart and it ushered in a new awareness marked with a new vocabulary – jihad, hajj, imam, al-Qaida, madrasas, Taliban, Sharia Law... We questioned our values, our faith, our God.

9:03: Flight 175 crashes into the south face of the South Tower of the World Trade Center, banked between floors 77 and 85.

There was no mistaking the act, a deliberate thrust of evil’s sword, deep into the underbelly of innocence. And America roared in pain, disbelief, agony and anger, but in calm resolve. We did not take to the streets in mobs and turmoil. We went quietly to houses of worship, to our jobs and to our families, looking for answers. We stepped forward keeping an eye on the world once we discovered the hate.

There are certain things I like about this time of year. Sunlight begins to lay long on the morning horizon drawing dark finger-like shadows into the woods. By dinnertime the day’s warmth quickly recedes and pools of cool air rise out of the wetlands where cattails stand tall and plump. The summer’s humidity is swept away and everything is cleansed by the fresh air that carries a quiet scent of butternuts, crabapples and wild grapes.

It was a perfect morning. During the past ten years there has not been a crisp clear day when I didn’t look toward the zenith and remember 9/11 and the days following when skies were void of contrails.

9:37: Flight 77 crashes into the western side of the Pentagon

2.2 million men and women wear the US military uniform. They serve again and again in places as remote and desolate as one can get on the face of this cursed earth. But their mission is no less diminished for if free men will not fight who will step up, when and for what?

10:03: United Airlines Flight 93 is crashed by its hijackers and passengers, due to fighting in the cockpit 80 miles (129 km) southeast of Pittsburgh in Somerset County, Pennsylvania.

Today, like an old scar—the nasty gash happened so quickly you might forgot how it happened—etched on the surface, it remains tender, red and deep. We touch it to wonder about what could have been and to remind ourselves that on this day we changed. Not because we wanted to, but because forces beyond our borders dictated the change. We took this hard. We took it as an insult. We took it as an attack on the very truths we hold dear. We fought back.

We remember who we were and resolve not to forget. But how many of us remember December 6th, the bombing of Pearl Harbor? Fewer still remember September 2, 1945, when the signing of the Japan’s surrender occurred.

It isn’t about time or place or citizen. It is about appreciating and defending the very thing that makes us great. But if we forget to honor those who reached a hand through the rubble to pull a stranger to safety or if we forget those who ran toward the buildings only to lose their lives in a situation that looked hopeless, we leave ourselves vulnerable to those who will take advantage of our apathy.

9:59: The South Tower of the World Trade Center begins to collapse.

The day after 9/11 I hiked the trails on House Mountain. Just like the previous day, I was alone. I had a running dialogue in my head. It seemed logical to speak with bin Laden, a man I knew I could kill if given a chance. A bold and brave proposition, yes. One borne with hate. I asked God to forgive me for such vile thoughts, but I never denied them either. I resolved to never apologize for who I am. A Christian, yes. But so much more passion emotes in being an American.

Oddly I found myself alone on so many of the September 11th anniversaries that being alone on this day has become my tradition. On the first anniversary, I hiked to the top of the Chimneys in the Smokies and waited for daylight to reach me on my perch. Only the September 11th after I joined the Peace Corps was I not alone. That day with a fellow volunteer, I went to the US embassy in Micronesia to place a mwarmwar near the United States flag pole. With it was a letter to those who lost it all on that day.

10:28: The North Tower of the World Trade Center begins to collapse.

The sun broke the tree tops near the ravine’s waterfalls. Perfect. The recent tropical storms of the past two weeks left the kill running hard over the slick black rocks. The roar deafened the sounds of cars that made the looping curve down the mountain side. I could no longer hear the crickets in the grasses or the songs of the birds that flittered under the hemlocks. I waited for the emotions of ten years to rise. The hatred is no longer there for the man is dead, but the sorrow is still there. Still strong.

The spray dampened my face and mingled with my tears. Alone again, naturally. And a prayer that God hold America, bless her. 180 miles south in New York City the families of those who lost their loved ones gathered near the memorial falls on the footprints of the two great buildings that had buckled and fallen ten years ago. They touched the names carved in stone. It will take 1000 years to erode the memory.

One nation, under God, we remain indivisible.

Kiosk Attack

2011-06-25T20:17:00.004-04:00

So I was dissecting the Mall after my plan to hit Christopher and Banks blew up. Since when did they turn into a chic twenty-something boutique? Or maybe it always was. I just hadn’t been on a hunt for a modest and more conservative look, something between an old lady dressed like a sleaze and a has-been MBA trying to compete with this year’s graduating class. Whatever that look is.

The first stop Bon-Ton, the anchor store I have never been in because since it has been in Saratoga, I haven’t been. And when I returned to my hometown, I wasn’t dressing for my success any longer. Painting houses and protecting the general public from errant thoroughbreds doesn’t require Evan-Picone. But with a real career interview looming in North Carolina next week and any clothes remotely acceptable were long ago donated to Goodwill or tucked away in a Tennessee storage locker. I had to find that look.

A twenty pound weight loss wasn’t helping the situation. In the petite section, which really means short and not little, I couldn’t find a thing. I stood in the dressing room looking at my reflection and watching the skirt slide to the floor from my hips. Size 4P. The Gang-bang sag wasn’t going to cut it. After a laboring search I found a sharp black jacket with an acceptable sleeve length and a decent price tag. I hung it back up and headed off to the other end of the Mall.

JC Pennys. Same name brands and same sales. Thank God for the suck economy.

I have a patience quotient for this sort of shopping and it is very low. To beat the quotient, I’m a grab and run shopper. The technique proved fruitless. I had to slowed down. I began to leaf through the racks as if I were reading an instruction manual. Painful. One item at a time, looking at size tags. Praying something had been misplaced as the sizes bogged down in the twelves and fourteens. Score. I found a skirt that fit nicely and would go with the black jacket. I trudged back to the other end of the Mall.

Here’s the story. I had already blown off the lady at Seacrets, the kiosk hawking little packets of hand lotion containing some sea-cret ingredient found only in the Dead Sea. But her partner, a young man in slim legged blue jeans called after me with the greatest of sincerity in his voice, “Hey wait a minute. I want to ask you a question.” I fell for it. Okay, I gave the kid with a middle eastern accent my time of day. I humored him and he must have thought, “Sucker, I got you.”

He pitch was good. Smooth and charming. He caressed my hand and used some buffing tool with three distinct sides to put such a high glossed shine on my ring finger’s nail, he made me promise not to scream in delight. Okay, it looked like a professional nail job. He applied a little lotion to my mechanic and painter worn cuticles. I was almost embarrassed. They look masculine. Thinking job interview, I listened to the pitch and considered the product.

“How many thousands of dollars,” I asked?

“For you, just two thousand.”

He smoothed down the ridges on my thumb. Nice, I was thinking. “And you can use this on your toenails too.”

Finally, the price. “$59.00 for a year’s supply. Consider how much you pay for a whole year on your nails.” A whole freaking year? That’s zilch, buddy. I considered the price and my need for a jacket.

“I’m afraid not.”

“No, no, for you my first customer of the day, I’ll give you a deal.” He looked over his shoulder and moved in close. I could see every stubble on his young face. I could smell a faint hint of cigarette smoke. Putting a finger to his lips he said, “You must not tell anyone. I give you a deal. Normally this is $89. I will let you have the kit for $59. But for you I will add in another kit. What is your favorite fragrance? Sea or Cucumber?” He offered each smell to me.

I didn’t bite. I said no thanks. He pressured. “A gift for a special women in your life. Your mother or sister perhaps. A free gift for Christmas or someone's birthday.”

I said, “ no.”

“Would you pay cash or credit card?” He walked over to his computer like he was going to make the sale.

“Neither.”

“You’re killing me. What are you Jewish?”

The words stunned me. Not much I can do about the big shit in life, but I sure can between me and you. “You almost had me until you banged that one.” Ass hole. You lost me there. What are you? Fucking Muslim?

And I walked away.

Open Letter to Senator Roy McDonald

2011-06-15T08:48:00.004-04:00

Dear Senator McDonald,

Your decision to support gay-marriage in New York State is disappointing. For 5000 years of human history the institution of marriage has been defined as one man united with one woman. Great philosophers down through the ages have defined marriage as the union between a man and a woman. Now in some new enlightenment we have discovered something no other civilization has ever discovered? That marriage should be redefined and our governmental representatives should be empowered to do so? What a shame and what a peril.

The slippery slope on which you intend to put the great State of New York and ultimately the country is both steep and the decent is fast. If government can redefine marriage based on compassion what else can be justified? Yes, compassion sounds so right. Compassion and bringing us all together sounds so warm and fuzzy. What is a better course to take? To feel good or to do the right thing?

You have now been pressured by individuals who want to feel good about things while neglecting what is right. Right is about moral behavior and moral behavior is not defined by one man or government. It is defined by God. Otherwise, we suffer the consequences of government defining rights, liberties and ultimately truth based on law defined by man. That is a dangerous ledge to stand upon.

You are neglecting your obligations as a representative of the people to hold us all to a high moral standard. These morals are defined by our Creator. No man or government should define these standards.

Defining marriage based on compassion is wrong. How can you deny a brother from marrying a brother, a sister a sister or even a sister and a mother? Would this not be in the name of compassion when these individuals love each other or have a good economic reason to be “married”?

Mr. McDonald, I ask you to reconsider your decision. Gays and lesbians should be afforded the same rights as heterosexual individuals. That’s where compassion as well as morality lays. Marriage is a human institution established to perpetuate the society, and that is done by making the morally correct decision. Making moral decisions and the consequences for doing otherwise must be borne by all, gay and straight.

May God bless you and your family

Demons and Angels

2011-05-13T15:05:00.005-04:00

Demons come in all sorts of forms, shapes and identities. But fortunately so do angels.

The attack came calmly, an older gentleman with disheveled hair suffering from an early onset of Parkinson’s disease. Dressed in a faded Hawaiian shirt that reeked of stale body odor he huffed up to me, hands shaking. He asked for the number of the main office. In the back of his pickup neatly stacked sat 860 beer bottles in their six packs or cases of twenty. My Wingman had explained our policy. We only count to 200 and weight anything over that amount. This did not make the older man a happy camper, but i suspect life didn't make him happy.

People who have emotional issues tend not take responsibility for their own actions. For them, blaming others is a more reasonable approach. When he had asked to see the supervisor, little old me, looking just as dirty as the next employee, wasn’t going to satisfy him, especially when I wouldn’t engage in a shouting match.
“Who can I call? Where is the number?” I provided both.
“Where is this policy? Is it written down somewhere?” I pointed to the posters explaining the process. “You expect people to read that?”
“This is not what I was told at the other site.”
“Sir, you are here. I have nothing to do with the other sites on the island.”
“Well, I am running out of time. I’m tired of arguing with you. Take two hundred and give me my money.” As we did so, the insults began. “You people are so stupid. You have the stupidest polices. You don’t even know what you are doing.” I processed his ticket, and politely directed him to the cashier. He stormed off to the recycling bins. I needed a walk.

Moments later he returned. My Wingman looked at me and said, “Let’s treat me like we never saw him before.” After a fist bump, we went to work. The man came out of his truck still griping, “What a ridiculous waste of time. Take 200.” My Wingman greeted him with “How ya doin' today, brawh?” As he filled four barrels of glass each containing 50 beer bottles Wingman discussed the weather. "Is it going to rain?" Our target looked at us like we were indeed so stupid we hadn’t remembered him from five minutes ago.

I decided to weigh his bottles to show him he would get a little bit more money. That should make him happy.

Wingman was shocked. Why bother? Because if we are to treat him like all others I'll try to educate him just like I would for anyone else. Except for plastic and pony glass bottles you’ll get more. I weighed the last barrel. “Sir, if we weigh your 200 bottles you’ll get $10.48 for them instead of $10.00 by the count.
He gave me a suspicious look. “I don’t believe you.”
I invited him to view the computer screen. Line by line I went through the ticket: the weight, the barrel tare, the net amount, the price and the final total.
“Then give me the forty-eight cents for my other 200.”
“I can’t do that. You signed for the material and it is disposed.”
“You people are so stupid.”
“Sir, if you don’t like doing business with us, there is another recycling center down the street. You are welcome to go there.”
“I will continue to come here and torment you. You are so stupid. I don’t know how much you are making but you are making too much.”
Not enough to deal with you.
My Wingman had enough of his yelling at me. Other customers were shifting around for a good view of the character.
“Okay, that is enough,” Wingman interrupted. For the first time his voiced was raised.
“You get away from me,” he replied.
A couple more posturing statements were exchanged.
I asked, “Do you want your money?”
“Give it to me.”
“Then please sign for it.”
His shaking hands signed the signature pad. I stepped back so I couldn't smell him any more.
“I want the rest of my bottles weighed.”
Oh brother.
Wingman went to unload the rest of his stash. They were stacked far out of reach in the back of the pickup bed. I reminded Wingman not to reach into customer's vehicle. Policy. The man’s feebleness showed as he struggled to get into his bed. As we emptied the bottles into the weigh barrels, he asked if we disposed of the cardboard. Unfortunately, we do as a courtesy. He proceeded to dump all the cardboard on the ground making no attempt to avoid hitting me in the head. Another customer rolled in and Wingman went to greet them.
“Hey, we aren’t finished here", he growled at Wingman.
“Sir, I’m still helping you."
I told Wingman not to dump any of the glass until the customer was gone. And sure enough after it was all weighed he refused to sign. He went to his truck and returned with the count. “How much is 860 times five cents?”
"$43.00." Quick math in my head and I confirmed he made more money on the weight.
“Why didn’t you tell me this in the beginning?”
"What? Why did you start yelling at me in the beginning? You insisted on the count. Remember?

At lunch, Wingman and I sat down and grinned at each other. I was upset. I was about to post on Facebook, “the dumbasses are out in full force”—there had been another incident the day before—when an angel rode up on a scooter. Unexpected. Unplanned. Before he left he prayed for me.

After lunch Wingman said, “I hope the rest of the day is better than this morning.”

I said it would be. And it was.

Shameful

2011-04-28T20:58:00.003-04:00

This latest issue of Time Magazine features a letter to the editors in bold print. It is a response to a recent article that questioned if God is good how could there be a hell? If you are a believing Christian you know that our good God is also a just God. How can you have reward without punishment? A reader was compelled to express his opinion about hell. And Time Magazine showed no shame. Not only did they print the comment, but featured it in bold text. Hell is easy to define. It would be spending eternity with Evangelicals.

I suppose this was to show what a witty staff and readership this magazine sports. However this letter was shameful. I ask would Time Magazine dare publish a letter that defined hell as spending eternity with Jews? Or how about Muslims? Could they dare be so ignominious to claim spending eternity with Catholics be hell? While the subject of hell is a religious one could hell be defined as eternity spent with blacks or gays? How much more insensitive could the editorial staff and management of Time Magazine be? Oops, I forgot they are of the secular left.

The secular left claims to be all about inclusivity. Being warm and fuzzy, rallying around the social justice cause whether it's global warming or gay marriage. They cry, "Why can’t we all get along?" It is obvious it is all a façade. The gregarious welcome only goes so far. As long as you believe as the secular left believes, then you are a protected class, a class not to be offended. That's the rule.

Evangelical Christians, more than any other group, challenges the secular left. That makes us fair game. We are attackable. The secular left’s tactic is to attack those who take issue with their positions. This is not done on any level of logic, reason, debate or intelligent discussion. The tactic is to demean those who are not on their side. Mock and ridicule. How else can this shameful “joke” be published in Time Magazine? As a Christian I’ll wear it as a badge of honor.

There is one other explanation. Christians are reasonable. Attack a Christian and there is no demonstration in the street. They don't don headbands and chant "Death to Time Magazine". They don't go around issuing death threats or declaring Holy War against those who are non-believers. Instead, they pray for their enemy. They forgive their persecutors. They are in peace with God. One would be damned lucky to spend eternity with a Christian. But that won't happen unless you believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God who saved you by His grace.

I suggest Time Magazine feature the present day percussion of Christians in the Middle East and Africa. It is something mainstream media just won't do.

Strike 2

2011-04-26T01:32:00.003-04:00

So what part was I responsible for? The president of the company was on my cell phone and she chewed my butt. I’m so thankful in moments like these that I have God to rest upon. I let him take control of the situation and my emotions. I felt like she was baiting me. If she could push me far enough and make me explode, she's have grounds to fire me. But I laughed instead. At least that was what Paul said I did. I don’t remember doing so. She went on and on. About how important this was. Important enough to keep a driver waiting (why hadn't someone told me this?). I walked into the field behind the redemption center and listened until she seemed to be finished and somewhat came to her senses saying she would see if she could do something. I doubted that would happen.

As an employee I really didn’t care if she had been up to 1:30 am, nights in a row trying to get things done. As an employee I really didn't care that she was just one person handling a work load doubled in size. As an employee I really didn’t care that she had just gotten the forms herself on Friday. As an employee all I cared about was my two crew members and I just get screwed out of medical coverage because the company tried to force us to make a decision that we all believed was too important to make without the proper information. As a person, I tried to care.

Here’s what happened. On Saturday my supervisor called. It’s a four day Easter weekend, but stupid me answered my phone. She wanted to meet me. She had the insurance forms that needed to be turned in on by Monday. They were due. Had to be in. Urgent. I agreed to meet her but wondered when she was going to arrive. I wanted to go to an Earth Day concert. At 3 PM (concert is over) she called and said she was running late. On top of that she couldn’t get a hold of my two team members. Of course not. One is just one step away from homelessness and doesn’t have a phone and the other has a cell plan that’s anemic. Her instructions were that she'd leave the paperwork at the redemption center. When we come in on Monday we are to fill it out and give it to a driver.

Simple enough, but I got visions of Nancy Pelosi and “have to pass the bill so you can know what’s in it.” When was the last time you enrolled in an employer health plan with two carriers to choose from? Remember how much packet info there is? I wanted to know my options. The co-pay, the deductibles, the benefit plan, the doctors, their locations... just the small details. And how much is going to come out of my paycheck. As a former HR manager we use to have enrollments that lasted a whole month. Well, maybe the driver won’t come until mid-morning. Maybe we will get a few minutes to look the stuff over.

Each day when I arrive at work I have to literally set up the office because everything is shut down, and locked away each night. My desk folds up, the chairs, the laptop, the printer. Sometimes even the power has been be “set up”. And there is all the money to count. I pray everything works after I get it all plugged in and I log on to the computer. Sometimes Windows wants to make 20 updates. It takes nearly thirty minutes to get everything done, so I get come to work 15 minutes early. It's my spaz prevention plan.

When I arrived today the driver had already gotten his loads and was waiting. Now how was I suppose to set everything up and familiarize myself with insurance plans and complete enrollment forms? By 8 am? Sorry, I couldn’t make that happen and neither could my coworkers. It was unfair. It was not reasonable. I apologized to the driver. I held him up. He said he would wait. I’ve had drivers get huffy if I make them wait. I told him we couldn’t get the forms done. The customers began to roll in.

It was busy. We paid out just under $2000. Remember that is at five cents a whack. We averaged a customer every five minutes. That’s a customer coming in, sorting his material, weighting the material, making the computer entry, paying the customer and dumping the material into the bin. I was able to sit down at lunch time for 30 minutes at 1PM. By then the driver was long gone.

Fortunately, we were busy because if I had time to think about getting chewed out for not filling in the forms and sending the driver down the road, I would have exploded.

Why was this done at the last minute? The president had all the excuses. She even blamed me for not coming in and getting the paperwork on Saturday as if I knew where my coworkers were this weekend.

Something about wanting to make an intelligent decision. I believe that decision is to get back to NY as planned.

The Details

2011-04-16T18:15:00.002-04:00

Besides stuffing the laptop and 40 feet of cables, USB cords, power stripes and printer into a tool box every night after I print out and call in the end of the day reports to the office answering machine, I count the money in the safe and balance out with the cashier all the money we have on hand. I’ve learned I hate counting money unless it is in my basement done under the dim of a single naked light bulb in the wee hours of the night. All with a pencil tucked behind my ear.

The other day, I was fifteen dollars short in the safe. Not only was this not logically possible, it was not practically possible. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, my brain, normally fried, could not find the simple math error. The mistake laid hidden and I was holding the crew over as no one is to be on site alone with the safe open.

I called the missing fifteen dollars in to my supervisor. She went through the process of the day, but without numbers in front of her, she couldn’t see the problem either. I went home wondering what I screwed up. The next day, despite my day off, I had to go to the redemption center to give the one and only set of keys to the oncoming lead. It was an opportunity to grab the week’s paperwork and hunt down the missing fifteen. Sure enough with a refreshed set of eyes I immediately found the error. Three rolls of dimes equals fifteen dollars, not thirty dollars. There was my fifteen dollars. Ugh. Obviously, in my lifetime I have not worked as a cashier in retail.

I corrected the mistake and took off to run errands. By noon I swung around to the bank and checked my account balance at the ATM. It was payday and I expected big things in my account which ran a grand balance of $44.20. The amount was that large because I got sixteen dollars and change back from Lowes after I returned a pair of safety glasses. However, my balance had not improved. I thought about the rest of the employees who were depending on this first payday. Despite my paltry balance, I wasn’t. Thank God.

I learned years ago as a first line supervisor in an automotive manufacturing plant that you don’t mess with an employee’s family and you don’t mess with their checks. If this happens the employee's reactions are not pleasant and it impacts an entire crew once the shop talk gets fired up.

I called my supervisor. Before I could say anything she was overly apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I know you worked more than 41 hours in the past two weeks. Margret is working on the corrections. I want you to know we do know what we are doing!” Not only had my check not been deposited, apparently it was short about thirty hours.

“No worries,” I said. But what had gone wrong? Margret is the company owner. She handles the HR stuff and processes the payroll. I laughed to myself as I jumped back on my scooter to head home. Margret had been to my site last Sunday night and left us a note to clean up the office. I was puzzled. Each night after the barrels are hosed down, we stack them in the office so they don’t walk off in the middle of the night. Once they are crammed inside it is nearly impossible to reach the alarm system let alone make it to the desk where the cashier had left a few scraps of paper and a rubber band. House keeping has always been a priority in my manufacturing career. Despite the oils and machine shavings, the floors and machinery, were clean and parts in process were always stage properly. Her note stabbed me in my gut. I felt like I failed a surprise inspection.

It’s three days since payday and my bank account is still short. I now realize why I am working here. Soli Deo Gloria.

The System

2011-04-16T02:30:00.006-04:00

When I joined the Army I actually thought the war was over, but not until Saigon fell did the war end. By then, I had been in the Army a little over two years. I got to wear The Everybody Button on my dress uniform signifying that I was in the United States Army sometime during the period of time from November 1, 1955 to April 30, 1975. That makes me a Vietnam Era Vet.

After my discharge I applied for the GI Bill. All of my undergraduate work at Georgia State was paid via the benefit. I had a full scholarship and stipend to the University of Michigan so the checks from the government made ends meet while I pursued my MBA. That was the last time I applied for or used any veteran benefits-26 years ago.

As a person of limited income since returning from the Peace Corps in 2005 I have eked out a living relying on my rental properties, and odd employment opportunities. When I moved out of Tennessee health insurance got too expensive so I dropped it about three years ago. Next month as a result of my new job at the redemption center, I’ll pick up coverage once again.

As a fiscal conservative I have been reluctant to apply for any governmental assistance. At any moment I could get off my ass and get a real job. I’ve been lucky to be healthy. I watch what I eat, watch my weight, and regularly exercise. I maintain my body in a way that is responsible. My only vice is Chap Stick. For my aches and pains I say screw it and work through the creaks complaining to my doctor every year that it sucks to get old.

But getting old is a reality. So before I landed my job I applied to the Veterans Administration to see if I might qualify for VA insurance. Last week I was notified that due to my limited income I am qualified, but due to my assets I must pay a small co-pay for doctor’s visits, and specialists. Prescription drugs are $9.00. The only prescription I have is for migraines and I buy them out of Canada. Otherwise each pill cost $35.00.

This afternoon with my recently received Letter of Eligibility in hand, I attempted to enter the Veterans Affairs “the system.” In the Kona office I signed in and as instructed I slid the little shield over my name for privacy purposes. The security guard and I recognized each other from the redemption center. I live on an island. What are you going to keep private?

The lady behind the sliding glass window smiled politely as I explained that I had my eligibility letter and I wanted to get my photo ID as the letter instructed. “No problem’, she smiled. I was in luck because they take photo IDs only four days a month and I showed up on the afternoon of the great photo shoot. Immediately, I was escorted back where the young male photographer dressed in a Hawaiian shirt asked me for my last four. Last four what? DUI’s. Children? Addresses? Books I read? I gave him the last four digits of my social security number. Except, he couldn’t find me in “the system.” Not even with my full nine digits.

Back to the front desk. And, of course, back to the back of the line. Approach glass window. The receptionist re-examines my letter and notices my New York address. “New York? You’re in Hawaii now.”
“Yes, but I thought I was in the United States.”
“It’s a different district. That’s why you’re not in ‘the system’. No worries. I need a little information.” She handed me a one page sheet, after highlighting all ten questions on the page. There’s nothing on the back. Name, next of kin, emergency contact, Medicare information and my DD214 discharge papers. I return to the line after I complete the required information in about 42 seconds, printing as neatly as possible. She took my paper. “Okay, please have a seat.”

Less than 30 seconds later she called me back to the window. Now everybody knows I’m here. “I don’t have enough information.” She handed me a four page form very similar to the on-line form I completed weeks ago when I first applied. Highlighted are previous year’s income, total spent on unreimbursed medical including dental, assets from real estate to stocks and bonds, other valuables and again, next of kin. Do they know something I don't?

When I completed the on-line application I had my tax information in front of me. Now I was guessing. I looked at the line wanting other valuables. I thought of the homeless guy who drown last week in the Kona boat harbor—one fishing pole, a box full of lures, a bike and a pair of shorts. I wrote estimate all over everything. I’m sure nothing matched the on-line application. Why do they need this again?

I return the completed form. The receptionist dismissed me while she began to enter more information in “the system.” Getting me “into the system” for a photo ID was proving difficult.

Once again she called me to the window.
“Ms. Perez.”
Oh brother. Truly, I tried not to roll my eyes.
“I need more information.”
“I don’t have my DD 214,” I blurted out.
She replied, “That might be a problem.”
“I’m already classified as 7c. I’m eligible. I have a letter.” I wasn’t upset or anything, just stating the facts. I noticed the security guard eyeing me from his desk in the corner. Quickly, I look away.
“I’ll try to get you into ‘the system.’ It is now asking me for some more information. Branch?”
“Army.”
“Service date?”
“March 27, 1973.” One’s enlistment date is never forgotten.
“Date discharged?”
“March 26 1976.” A date of significant importance in my life.
“Type of discharge?”
“Honorable.”
“Okay. I think you are in. Please have a seat.”
The young photographer asked me to follow him back to his digital camera perched on a tripod in a room not bigger than a linen closet. He repeated his request, “Last four?”
I spew out four numbers.
“Valerie Perez. Got you. ‘The system’ says you are pending. I can’t take your photo. Can you come back next week?”

Now I remember why I haven’t approached “the system” in 26 years.

Change You Can Have

2011-04-09T16:08:00.005-04:00

It’s amazing how we all wanted change during the last presidential election (are you through with that stupid slogan?), yet when introduced to a seemingly inconsequential change there is a tendency to spazz-out. That’s human nature. Take the person who washes their aluminum cans and plastic bottles then meticulously counts each item. He shows up at the redemption center announcing, “I have 117 aluminum cans, 27 glass bottles and 26 plastics.”
“Sir, if I weight them, I’ll pay you the scrap value for the material.” It’s more.
“But I’ve counted them.” To prove his efforts, he thrusts a scrap paper with his scribbled counts in my face.
“If you want them counted, we will count them, but I guarantee you’ll get more if I weight them.”
Not convinced of this, he says, “I have the count right here.” Again with the paper.
“I appreciate that, but if you want to be paid for the count I must verify the count.”
“You didn’t do that before.” (there’s another change)
“That’s because I never did this before. We are a new company (change) and we must verify counts. Anything up to 200. (change) Then we only weigh (change).
“Well count then.”
Now I am thinking, “shit.” I hate counting. I always lose track of my numbers.
I finish the count. My numbers match his. I take note of the smug look on his face. I carry the bins to the scales and enter his counts into the computer.
“That’s $8.50.” I give him his receipt and direct him to the cashier. Then I weighed his material. He would have received $10.01 for the scrap value. That’s change I could live with. It’s money my company keeps.

Working: Day Three

2011-04-04T01:20:00.004-04:00

After working a full day at the redemption center I wasn't so filthy to be embarrassingly caught in the grocery store buying bread. Nor was I dead tired. But my brain was definitely fried. Never had I been so nervous for an enter day.

Before buying the bread I let the cashier know that Allen, the bakery dude, said that the prices were marked wrong on the bread, but ring them up per the coupon price. Sure enough the register misread the price. The cashier calmly whipped out her cell phone with slide keyboard from her bra (no lie) and manually calculated the refund. Then she went through an elaborate series of keystrokes – more than what would be used to write a short story - on the register. As she performed this amazing feat I looked at the other cashiers and elevated my appreciation for the job.

Presently I feel doomed to run back and forth to the dump for four days a week to face computer programs that are filled with glitches. The customers have been impressed to see our new portable office, a computer system run on solar and the “local material” bamboo structure that serves as the staging area for the operation. But I know I am using a system that has no mistake proofing and more bugs than the cockroaches that wander around the center. I can just about enter anything in any input field and the computer will let me get away with it. And since I am the lead, I’ve slowed the sorters down so that I’m sure I enter everything correctly. Due to one typo I made, the guys had to reweigh over 300 dollars worth of glass. And you only get twelve cents a pound. That’s a lot of glass. It was my fault. I felt really bad. I apologized to them and the waiting customer, but as I explained, “otherwise, you owe me seventy cents.” Because that was what the computer said.

Not all the problems are mine. This morning, my first solo day as lead, the computer and the scale refused to communicate. I’m getting way to familiar with the software tech guy in New Hampshire. He walked me through all sorts of troubleshooting but to no avail. Meanwhile we were swamped with customers. Maybe it was because the local paper ran a little write up about the new business operating the redemption center. Everybody and their auntie came to recycle and check us out. Don’t these people go to church? Thank God I wasn’t talking to a guy with an Indian accent. My two-man sort crew resorted to weighting the barrel and manually computing the scrap values for aluminum, glass and plastic. Not as simple as .05 cents a can.

Finally the owner’s son arrived. He set up the computer so I could manually enter the material, weight and tare weight. The rest of the day smoothed out after lunch. At the end of the day I came up $10.00 short. Piss. I couldn’t find the error and by 5 PM I was blinded by an eye migraine. I couldn’t even see the numbers.

At least I didn’t have to jump into a bin of aluminum cans to retrieve plastic. I did that on my first day. Wading up to your waste in – well waste – isn’t something you get to do everyday. Getting into the bin was easy. Getting out was difficult. Mixed recycled material can result in a ten grand fine by the state.

And the cops didn’t come and take my scooter away like they did to one of my coworkers. He bought it on Craig’s List two weeks ago. A customer recognized it was his and called the cops. It had been stolen. Now my coworker is out $900, a scooter and a ride to work. But because the ad was still posted on Craig’s List, they nabbed the guy who sold it to him.

And yesterday the cops showed up looking for a homeless guy named Frank who had been by the day before. Apparently, after he collected a few bucks recycling, he used his redemption money to buy a few pills and booze, then fell off the rocks at the harbor and drown.

If I were a writer, would I have material!

Island Transportation (Part II)

2011-03-31T22:30:00.004-04:00

The sliver of the moon had been erased by the rising sun. Clear nighttime skies left the morning air damp. I put on my sweatshirt and looked down Alii Drive. Traffic was still light when the HELE-ON bus rolled to a stop in front of my condos. Very convenient and very free, at least for a little bit longer, before the county in it’s never ending quest for more funds increases the rate to a buck.

The coach-like bus released a hiss of air pressure and the doors swung open. The driver, a plumb local lady wearing a faded green jacket greeted me with clipboard in hand. “Where are you going?” she asked. Did she just lick the tip of her pen?
I replied, “The Kuhio Plaza,” the shopping mall in Hilo, the last bus stop on the line. 104 miles from my condo. She scribbled down my destination.

It was 6:30 am. Scheduled arrival time was 10:10 am. Three hours later, at 1:10 pm the same bus returned to Kona. I slipped into a seat two rows back behind the driver and opened the morning paper. I settled in for the long ride.

The day was all about logistics. I had no idea if the bus had a bathroom or if the bus stopped anywhere long enough to use a restroom facility. So I drank nothing before boarding. At the other end of the trip I would have to pee in a cup, for my employment drug screen. I didn’t want to show up with the plumbing bone dry, but I didn’t want to burst either.

I packed a lunch-a roast beef sandwich, banana, ginger snaps and a Kashi TLC snack bar. I’d have only a couple of hours at the company’s office. To use every minute constructively, I thought I would get all the paperwork, documentation and instructional training done in those two precious hours of time. Then on my return, I’d eat my lunch.

I didn’t know you couldn’t eat on the bus until we stopped at Kmart. There the driver got out and lit up a smoke. A young couple boarded. Hauling large backpacks, they carried an open box of cereal.
“No eating on day bus,” the driver growled at them.
“Oh no, we won’t. It wouldn’t fit in our packs,” the young man with dreadlocks explained.
“If I catch you eatin’ on day bus, believe me, I’d throw you off day bus.”
Gulp. When was I going to eat lunch? I would not have thought about it again, but I kept hearing a rustling sound. It was the driver, diving into a bag of candy. She popped gummie bears all the way to Waimea.

In Waimea, the bus pulled into Parker Ranch Mall. It seemed like a perfect place for a pit stop. A food court, restrooms and a Starbucks. Not that I’d dare smuggle food or drink onto “day bus” for fear of being thrown off by the four foot six 150 pound chain smoking driver. But the bus cruised through town stopping just long enough for the driver to hit a few drags from her cigarette.

We made a pit stop at the Honokaa Recreation Park. A thirty minute stop in the middle of almost nowhere. No place to buy a cup of coffee or a donut. The cinder block restroom near second base was modest to say the least. Inside the stalls were so short that my head appeared over the top of the warped plywood door. There was one cold water sink, no paper towels. Before re-boarding I grabbed my Kashi bar and took a few sips of water from my pack. The driver managed two phone calls and three more cigarettes.

We got back on the road and headed down the Hamakua Coast toward Hilo. There must have been a couple sides of beef onboard because the air conditioner was turned down so far that the weather report from the back of the bus called for snow. By Hilo, the passengers packed tighter than a Hindu transport in New Delhi blew warm air into their cupped hands. I sat on my hands and pulled my hood over my head.

The return trip should have been so mundane.

Gordon (his real name because there is no innocence to protect) volunteered to take me and another guy back to Kona. This was despite the fact that he lived in Captain Cook, a town about a half hour south of Kona. Gordon seemed harmless enough. A local guy, he had an outgoing personality and a good sense of island humor. He was on my team when we assembled our office desk. Maybe the speed in which we completed the task should have indicated his thirst for moving faster than glass shatters. But, that was only half the story.

On the long stretches of island road I’ve driven 70 miles an hour. Everyone does. But Gordon drove like a maniac. Not since I was in Micronesia had I seen such crazy driving. There the taxi drivers opened the cab’s doors, leaned way out over the road, head down and spit beetle nut juice. It was a honed skilled done without slowing down or missing a curve, but it scared the living crap out of me the first time I experienced it.

Gordon cranked up the island gang bang music in his early model Honda. He claimed he knew a shortcut and lit out for the other side of the island. I expected a Hawaiian secret route. His shortcut was to take distance out of the road by hugging every turn and corner along the southern coast. With every four letter word booming from the speakers just inches from my ears - a rap ghetto beat straight from the wickedness of Hades – he ran right up to the bumper of the car ahead of him until there was a gap in oncoming traffic. A sharp snap of the wheel and he’d veer into the oncoming traffic throttle bleeding speed. Gordon turned back into the right lane microseconds before the oncoming car reached us, just a hair width in front of the passed car. I froze expecting to hear metal on metal.

After the third such maneuver, I closed my eyes and prayed to my God. If I prayed out loud Gordon never heard me. My prayers drowned in the deadly beat of rap. I don’t know how he knew his cell phone rang. Half the time he talked on the phone, the other half he scanned his Ipod for the next musical classic, “my girlfriend won’t let me f…. I need to bust my nut…” And if there was any conversation it was about his pregnant daughter expecting his grandchild any minute now. If we live...

I planned not ride back with Gordon the second day. I planned to discreetly tell the staff that his driving scared me. I planned to insist on riding the bus back. But before I could say anything to the staff one of the instructors asked for volunteers to drive me back home that afternoon. Gordon immediately volunteered again. It might have been because the night before I gave him $10.00 for gas money. But the second time around I just thanked him for not killing me.

The Opportunity (PART I)

2011-03-30T17:19:00.005-04:00

I wasn’t against taking the bus to Hilo. It just didn’t make a whole lot of sense. An eight hour round trip for 2.5 hours of training that most likely included a lunch break? Two days in a row? After all, I had been offered a job at the recycling redemption center. How difficult can that be? I’m sure I know the difference between plastic, aluminum and glass. Give me a pair of gloves and I’ll go to work.

When I saw the ad posted on Craig’s List it looked like the perfect job to make some spare cash. Let’s face it. Craig’s List? How “professional” can the job be? The company’s name wasn’t even posted with the ad. The posting said to email for an application. No link? I wrote a little cover letter and requested the application.

The reply came quickly. It was suggested I submit the application soon. Interviews were being scheduled in the near future. A couple days later I got a call for an interview at the recycling center in Kona. When I showed up, the place was closed. The sign out front said Out of Cash. Under a tarp, five people sat around a fold down banquet table. It was 12:15 pm so I assumed the employees were on their lunch break. Probably had a good game of dominoes going. I’ve seen them play when I’ve returned cans and bottles for redemption. But I discovered I stumbled on a four-on-one interview in progress. I returned to my scooter, listened and waited my turn.

I've utilized the team interview process many times as a manufacturing manager. I wasn’t expecting it here. Their methodical approach asked questions to assess qualities deemed important: team and social skills, conflict resolution and honesty. However, I almost laughed when first asked, “Tell me a little about yourself.” When I coach people for job interviews I told them to prepare a two minute pitch that doesn’t involve marital status, age, religion, ailments, weird hobbies or flat out denials of drug use and tendencies to fight. Pet peeves are also not a good idea.

To be honest,I didn’t reveal my entire work experience on my application. The fact that I once hired and fired hundreds of employees, made strategic decisions for large corporations, or owned a consulting business didn’t seem to be relevant to picking through a barrel of aluminum cans looking for rocks. I simple wrote I had been a security guard for the past three years. The honesty card. But at the end of the interview Shon asked if there was anything I wanted to share that wasn’t on my application. I sighed and quickly summarized: Director of Human Resources, Manufacturing Manager, Business Owner, Landlord. I stayed away from house painter, bathroom remodeler, and certainly I never told them I wrote some book.

I got the offer contingent upon passing the drug test. Okay, I can say no problem, but you'd be amazed at how many positive test results there are after people say, "no problem." Here's a Hawaiian statistic: One out of ten drivers coming toward you down the road is under the influence of something they shouldn't be.

My problem was that the training was in Hilo, the other side of the island and over a 100 miles away. I didn’t understand why I had to go to Hilo to learn how to sort cans. Sure the company had to make sure the chain of custody was not broken in handling the urine sample. Sure they got to verify employment status. Okay, issue uniforms and safety equipment. And review the handbook rules. And discuss customer service issue. And watch a safety video. And teach the best way to sort a barrel full of recyclables.

I arrived in Hilo and stepped off the bus at the last stop. Margaret was waiting. My assumption: she had tidied up the morning mail distribution, made the coffee for the guys in the office, completed the payroll and then she was sent to pick me up. On the ride to the plant I engaged in small chitchat.
“How long have you worked with Hawaii Business Services?”
“Oh, I don’t work for the company. I own it.”
“Then you work,” I quickly recovered.
She explained that 25 years ago her sister and she had a truck. Her sister drove. She picked up the trash. They had 40 customers. “And now,” she swept her hand out to the building coming up on the right, a huge warehouse without a visible scrap of rubbish in sight.

Inside a meeting room, 35 people were wedged around two long tables. All new hires. What I didn’t know was the company was doubling its workforce from 30 to 60. They had been awarded the redemption contract for the island of Hawaii. They needed to man ten sites. And the antiquated pencil and paper system used by the old company was being upgraded with a new computer/weight and tracking system.

If I were to get home that night, I had to catch the 1:10 pm bus, but I was able to stay longer when one of the other new hires volunteered to take me home along with another guy who had been on the bus. (Island Transportation PART II). Staying the afternoon gave me the opportunity to take a plant tour. I wished I had my camera when a truck load of plastic returnable bottles were dumped into a conveyor belt that herded them into the BADGER, a press that crunched them into a 1000 pound bale. Put me in a plant and I’m excited. That’s why I got into manufacturing.

At the end of the day we were assigned to one of the newly constructed portable offices. We assembled our glass topped desk. A team project. We finished first. I joked it was a Survivor exercise, except we were already in redemption. We split up and helped the other teams. The competition wasn’t even close.

At the end of the second day, the company staff (the same people who had interviewed me) made their assignments: cashiers, sorters or leads. I got lead. I get to operate the scales and computer and make sure the team functions as one cohesive unit. Oh, Boy! I thought I was sorting recyclables.

Mission Accomplished?

2011-03-26T16:53:00.003-04:00

A couple days after the Christmas plunder of bacon for breakfast and lamb for dinner and a week before heading off to Hawaii, my doctor called and said something like, “Your cholesterol is 238. You better cut the cheese and drop 15 to 20 pounds.” I heard, “your mother died of a heart attack.” Granted, the scales didn’t moan under my weight, nor would anyone call me fat, let alone chunky. I'll never solicit or receive much empathy from Overeaters Anonymous. When I told my sisters that the doctor told me to lose weight they both asked if the doctor had actually seen me.

I hate those mechanical scales where after stepping on the pad you must “guess” at your weight. It's like having your weight guessed at the circus. First, you slide a weighted block across the rail to the one hundred pound notch, an easy given. Then the smaller weight slides over to the point where the balanced arm raises or lowers the tiny arrow when a perfect balance is achieved. The stupid little arrow clanks the upper bracket. It's always further to the right than you expect. The more you move the block to the right, the heavier reality becomes. The process forces you to stand face to face with the fact that your body isn’t that toned, lean machine it might have ever been. Thank God I have yet to see one of these scales placed in front of a mirror. They usually face a wall, where you can't see your eyes roll to the back of your head.

I knew what the scales had been whispering. I had joined the YMCA to lose ten pounds during November and December. I actually gained weight. Muscle, my ass. I was 122 pounds of middle aged post menopausal jiggle. And now the doctor claimed I was full of heart stopping cholesterol.

I’m not a junk eater nor am I a couched potato even in the throes of dark winter days and subzero temperatures. Yes, I grumble a whole lot during every outside venture. It is so easy to slump into a cabin fever depression. And the doctor’s news had done just that, for about 30 minutes. It was so bad that outside the YMCA I sat in the Jeep contemplating my resolve. I never made it into the building. Damn if I would swim one lap or trot my ass around the upstairs track counting light fixtures out of shear boredom.

Recovery from my self-defeat came quickly. I cranked up the Jeep, blasted the defrost on the windshield and headed downtown to Borders. I had to prove that I wasn’t eating cholesterol ladened food (Christmas feasts are not the norm.). I had to prove I had been dealt a cruel set of genes.

The diet section in bookstore was busy with those toying with New Year Resolutions. Three women chatted about their latest diets, and the successes and failures of others who had been on crashes and regimes.
"Have you seen her?" one sniped. It wasn't complimentary. I took a quick glance at the trio, their physiques concealed by massive coats and scarves. You got to love upstate New York this time of year. I bought two books, the Lose Weight Fast Diet Journal and The Ultimate Calorie, Carb and Fat Gram Counter.

Counting calories wasn’t going to be enough. I needed a complicated goal that required me to research what I was about to do and then to set specific targets for calories, fat, cholesterol, protein and fiber. Tracking my exercise and calories burned was also important. My ultimate goal was to prove I wasn’t eating a poor diet and to lose 15 pounds. The cholesterol level may or may not fall below 200.

Since December 29, 2010 I have written down everything I have eaten. When I prepare meals, I measure every portion. In restaurants, I look up their nutritional information, although I have yet to find the data on a Costco hot dog. At the end of each week I track the totals of my consumption against my exercise goals. I graph the weight lost and assess my energy levels. I make little notes about challenges, obstacles and courses of action. My sister would be amazed that I even track water consumption. She calls me the Desert Flower because I drink so little of it.

This week I hit the 107 mark. Minus fifteen. Only twice during the past twelve weeks have I gone over my 200 mg or less cholesterol goal. Most days I don’t even come close. Similarly, I have ranged well below my daily saturated fat target of less than 16 grams per day. If there is a target I can't hit, it is fiber. When I crank it up towards my goal, I pay for it the next day. It's the way my system rolls.

To celebrate I bought low fat ice cream after carefully reading the labels. Then I measured out the ½ cup serving and ate it out of the measuring cup, not to waste a lick of it. I thought I died!

The end of June is still a long way off. That’s when I get the cholesterol rechecked. Meantime, I must add calories back into my diet so I don’t drop any more weight. My swimsuit is sagging.

Today's News

2011-03-25T14:27:00.004-04:00

My one week moratorium on news ended today when the front page of the West Hawaii Today caught my eyes. It wasn’t about Obama in South America, the no fly zone in Libya, a nuclear meltdown in Japan or that Hilo ranks number one in America for drunkenness (page 9). The photo sent shivers down my back. A huge colored picture of an older man and two women gutting a mastodon in Austin, Texas about 16,000 years ago. Yes, even back then a news blackout would have served a purpose.

By Thursday of last week, six days after the tsunami and in the throes of a nuclear meltdown hysteria in the US media I couldn’t handle the bombardment of speculated doom. When I received emails and phone calls from friends that radiation was headed to Hawaii I snapped under my own post traumatic tsunami syndrome. I became depressed and angry.

I needed to decompress, to step back from the all the chaos. My life had hardly been impacted by the 9.0 earthquake and the generated tsunami. I did evacuate. I spent a tense night following the wave across the Pacific. I waited all morning for the all clear. I knew something had happened in Kona. But with no loss of life Hawaii’s event wasn’t worthy of a mention on the world wide clutter of headline grabbing information. Nor should it have been.

After all, in Japan entire communities and families were lost. The real tragedy is that a typical Friday routine for one person had not only been disrupted, but had vanished from the face of the earth. To think that someone vanished and everyone who knew that person and everything associated with that individual--from entire families and friends, to a house, car, place of employment, a simple routine of going to the local market for a bowl of noodles--had disappeared was unfathomable. Irreplaceably gone. Multiplied tens of thousands times more. How do you pick up from that?

That was the real tragedy. Yet the media focused on the what ifs. The remote perhaps, maybes, and possibilities of a radiation leak drifting the west coast. Run and buy your iodine pills. A typical American response, a pill for every ailment. I’ve seen Godzilla movies. If radiation were so easily cured give the lizard a pill.

I was bombarded by too much news. So was everyone else. I couldn’t do much about that, but I could withdrawal. I decided to go on a news break for one week. I don’t have a TV so to curb my viewing habits was easy. But the radio, newspaper and internet became the challenge.

The word went out to family and friends. Unless Israel gets nuked, the President gets shot or a tsunami was headed to Hawaii, I didn’t want to hear it. I turned off the radio. I didn’t stop the newspaper delivery, but I carefully edited my way to the comics, the crossword puzzles, the sports section and the classifieds. At first, I read Anne’s Mailbox, the advice column. Keenly aware of the human condition in Japan, I found the drone of unfaithful husbands, ungrateful kids and dissatisfied wives lacking in intellectual depth.

The biggest challenge to the news blackout was the internet. On social media sites like FaceBook and Twitter friends post more than “What’s on Your Mind?” and “What’s Happening?” They post news stories or comment on news items. When I read comments about what a great lady Elizabeth Taylor was, I concluded she died, because nobody says those things while you are alive.

Back to today’s news, the gutted elephant in Texas. The headline: Discovery of Artifacts in Texas May Rewrite Human History. The news I missed this week will be analyzed, rehashed, editorialized and eventually rewritten. It might go down better the second time around. 16,000 years from now.

Photo: Butchering a Mastodon, 2. A older man and two women butcher a mastodon, an Ice-Age elephant. It may have taken several days just to carve the beast into manageable pieces and then many more days to dry the meat and prepare the hide. Painting by Nola Davis, courtesy Texas Parks and Wildlife Department.

Staying Connected

2011-03-13T20:46:00.004-04:00

It was just after five Saturday morning when I hear the flip-flop padding of the newspaper deliver man. I was wake, but hadn’t flex any muscles except to test the soreness of my butt. Too much sitting around yesterday. The newspaper landed with a whack against the front screen door. I wanted to see the news, but I dozed off again. The sun’s light filtered over Hualalai and through the thin wisps of vog stretched over the summit by the time Dad called. The last time we talked had been about 4 the previous morning. “I think we dodged the bullet,” a phrase he is more pone to use for missing forecasted snow storms in upstate New York. “That’s good news, Val.” he replied.

It was good news. Not only for me, but for the whole state of Hawaii which had sent its entire coastal population and visiting tourists inland after a 8.9 earthquake rocked the coast of Japan.

I put off writing about the tsunami because I felt the whole experience paled against the tragedy in Japan. An hour after I called Dad with the good news, a six foot wave crested the sea walls in down town Kona. The damage crippled 51 businesses. Rocks, sand, tangled rebar, sign posts, concrete, tires and dead fish littered Alii Drive. Bubba Gump’s furniture floated out to sea. Chunks of the sea wall peeled away, discarded on the graceful curve drive in front of the harbor. The pier was reported condemned and the King Kamehameha Hotel which recently completed a renovation was left covered with a sticky coating of sea salt after the waters receded. The small town beach lost all of its sand. Lava rocks and old tires jutted forth as if Davy Jones had left his watery tomb. The ghoulish eye sores reminded me of what we don’t know about what is at the bottom of the ocean. And eleven homes where destroyed, most near Kealakekua Bay where Captain Cook first anchored.

The inconvenience of the 18 hours of evacuations, the 36 hours without sleep, the tsunami and the wait was nothing but an inconvenience for me. Across the Pacific, thousands of people in Japan could only wish they had one more day with loved ones who were swept away by the twenty-two foot waves that came minutes after the great earthquake.

Technology played a crucial role in keeping me informed. The ability to get information eased concerns, reduced anxiety, and filled dark voids the mind would otherwise fill with crap of pending doom. My sisters rag on me for the time I spend on Facebook and Twitter. Honestly, sometimes I can’t argue with them. In my defense, I argued that if they had been on Facebook last year, they would have known what was happening with Dad and me when we evacuated after the Chilean earthquake. Sure it is a social network, but it is a great tool as well. Just ask any Egyptian.

My youngest sister joined Facebook a couple of months ago, but uses it …never. However on Friday, after she woke up on the east coast and learned of the evacuations, she called me and then stayed with me the rest of the day, via Facebook. I took comfort in knowing people around the world were with me. I was never alone even though I was by myself (by choice).

Last year I was immediately aware of the Chilean quake because of Twitter. This year was the same. In less than 20 minutes after the quake I knew what had occurred and the dangers that could fall on Hawaii. Three neighbors knocked on my door to warn me of the tsunami. I would venture to guess I knew before they did. When I told one I had seen it on Twitter she looked unsure of what I said.

I reactivated my broadband account with Verizon before leaving the condo. Hopefully half way up the mountain the signal would be better than at seaside where I was forced to use DSL. It worked beautifully. I lost connection only once during the twelve hours I was hooked up. A few times I had to wait on buffers. A minor annoyance. With laptop and internet access I watched Honolulu TV news and listened to local radio. I switched back and forth to catch the latest updates on the tsunami’s arrival, severity and damage. And I caught information that was relevant to the Big Island and was able to relay this info to friends and family.

At one point before the tsunami’s arrival I switched to BBC. Video of the waves in Japan were too disturbing for me to watch. It looked like the earth puked. The whirl pool was mind-bogglingly surreal, and the footage of the series of waves stretching horizon to horizon left me dazed by its perfected beauty while knowing the powerful terror it was about to unleash. I thought, “This could happen here.” I could not handle that thought. I stopped watching news out of Japan.

My body and mind reacted strangely. I misinterpreted one piece of video. A wave entered a Japanese airport. To me it looked like the building comes to the wave instead of the wave washing over the tarmac. Too tired I guess. Even today I don't know why I thought that. The thought was not fleeting.

I was also extremely hungry and very cold. I had no reason to be either. I huddled in my hoodie under a fleece blanket. I wore socks. I ate the thick peanut butter sandwich I packed as a supplement to my three days of emergency food and water supply. I never shook either physical need completely until it was all over. Two days later I am still tired.

My refuge was outside an office building where electrical outlets kept my computer and five-spot charged and my phone juiced. Baby, I was connected. At mid-morning when the tsunami danger was down graded to an advisory, the office staff, a bunch of realtors, poured out of the building. They were off to check on their rental properties. “It’s all clear,” several told me. I watched them dash off in their cars wondering how far they would get. As the vagrant on their side walk I didn’t argue, but I was listening to Mayor Kenoi say the evacuation was still in place for the Big Island. We had been hit hard, but no TV station in Honolulu reported this. However, local island radio, KAPA was on top of it.

Fifteen minutes later, they returned. “It’s not clear.”
“I know,” I replied.
“Why didn’t you say something?” I thought this was a ploy to get rid of me.

Shortly thereafter one office employee came out and asked, “What are you listening too? You obviously have better information than we do.” I removed my ear buds. "You’re watching TV?"
“Yeah,” she replied.
“It’s Honolulu. It is clear there. You must listen to local. I’m on KAPA.” She thanked me and returned inside.

By 11 am, after being up since 5 the previous morning, I was so hungry I began to consider the cat food left by the AdVoCat lady for the ferals. I had to get something. I disconnected my information source to wander among the thousands who were going about their day as if nothing happened. Truly I entered a world as a displaced person. And felt lost among those who were not impacted. After all, if you were not in the evacuation zone you stayed home. You went to bed after filling your bathtub. Because we never lost power, everyone outside the coastal areas got up the next morning and yawned.

I stilled needed information but by 11 am local radio had resumed regular broadcast. Two Hawaiian melodies followed by an old Civil Defense bulletin. I lost my information.

At Costco I got a hotdog and a 16 oz soda for $1.58. Feeling slightly recharged I did my own reconnoiter to see if Alii Drive was accessible. Downtown was still closed, but south Alii was opened. I went home at 1:30pm. However, the road was not officially cleared until 4:30 pm. Just like last year no sirens communicated the all clear.

So what if I had not had access to the internet? Well, in my survival kit that I assembled after last year's evacuation is a hand cranked – solar powered radio. It works fine. My sister suggested that I get a solar charger for my phone. Excellent Christmas idea. Hint, hint.

Speaking of phones. For those on ATT, you might want to seriously consider Verizon. It never went down.

Two Events, Two Reactions

2011-02-10T13:19:00.006-05:00

Two weeks ago while I rode on my scooter through town, I had the driver of a huge white Ford pickup ride so close behind me I could feel the heat coming out of the engine. Speed limit is 15 mph and that was what I was doing. If you need to get through Kona fast, think twice, because it doesn’t happen.

On this day a cruise ship was in harbor. Foot traffic was heavy, with pedestrians dropping off the sidewalks and crossing the street wherever and whenever they saw a gap in the line of cars snaking between the tourist shops.

Every time traffic halted the pickup driver brought his monster truck right up on me and revved his engine. The only thing I could see in my mirrors was silver grill and the Ford emblem. At an intersection cars were backed up far enough to block off the merge to the left turn lane. However, there was enough room to slip through on my scooter. I thought I would lose the jerk, but he veered out into the oncoming lane and got back on my tail.

I turned and he followed in close pursuit, laying on the horn as we came through the intersection. I gunned the engine to 25 mph, the speed limit and he stuck to me like a bad reputation. At the next intersection he got in the right turn lane. As he passed he felt compelled to share his limited vocabulary.

Now I was pissed. For one brief moment I decided to pursue this jerk. But for only a moment. What was I going to do? Throw my helmet at him? Then what?

I was on my way to the pool. When I arrived every lane was full. Unusual, but I needed the wait time. I was shaking furious. I tried to calm down. I prayed to calm down. I swam to calm down. I prayed some more. Even told God I forgave the idiot, but I knew I hadn’t. Of course, He knew that too. That afternoon I went on Craig'slist and ranted. (I've never done that.) I was a mess, thinking this guy in his rage, could have killed me.

Now when I ride in town I’m looking for white Ford pickups. I also have forgiven him and prayed that he got safely to where he was going and that he too calmed down.

Yesterday, car nearly sideswiped me when the driver pulled from the driving lane to the turn lane where I was. This time I was in a rental car. The driver decided to turn left at the last minute. He was very startled to hear my horn blast a warning that we were on a collision course unless I hit the brakes and he pulled out of the turn. Fortunately, on a very busy road, no one rear ended us.

The older driver was upset. He kept apologetically shaking his head and looking at me in his side mirror. We waited for the oncoming traffic to clear and then proceeded through the intersection. He pulled over. I passed by and tried to give him a quick, “Oh, well” glance.

I was never upset, but couldn't figure out why. Until now.

Senator Standing Down

2011-02-02T15:27:00.002-05:00

In his last form letter response to his constituent who fires off letters and emails to the Senior Senator of Hawaii with some regularity, Senator Daniel Inouye took a very defensive position defending his long history of filtering earmarks to his state. His December 17th letter outlined numerous projects funded with earmarks.

The East West Center
Preventing the extinction of the “Monk Seal”
Establishing the Rural Economic Transition Assistance Hawaii program as an alternative agricultural enterprise to replace the dying sugar industry
Establishing the Barbers Point Harbor Facility which serves the development of Ewa and adjacent areas, like Kapolei
Maui Supercomputer Center
Pacific Basin Agriculture Research Center
Imiloa Astronomy Center
Preventing the demise of Pacific Middle Range Facility
The Restoration of the Island of Kahoolawe
Native Hawaiian education programs, cultural programs and health programs

Mr. Inouye argued that he has always believed that Hawaii is a very unique state, with special needs. Without earmarks many of Hawaii’s crucial programs would go unfunded. (I need to look up the definition of crucial). Obviously, without earmarks many of these programs would go unfunded.

In a state that defines itself as independent and desires to be self-sustaining, Hawaii citizens have long drank from the trough of the federal government and the citizens of all other 49 states. I’ve been to all but a handful of states and know that each is unique. However, none are more exceptional than the whole, the United States of America founded on the principles of freedom, defined as a smaller, less intrusive government.

Mr. Inouye, the self-proclaimed King of Pork titled himself, “Number one earmarks guy in the US Congress.” And without retracting their outstretched hands, the citizens of Hawaii reelected him last November. Shameful disgrace.

But the good news is Mr. Inouye has finally caved to pressure. Sadly, not pressure from me or his other concerned constituents, but from his congressional peers.

The handwriting was on the wall. Many funded programs in Hawaii had begun preparing for the loss of the gravy train.

One such company suffering from the loss of fund is Oceanit, a company developing a traffic control system for space junk. The company says it will develop the technology anyway, just not as fast. Probably because the commercial demand is zero. I would love to here Senator Inouye’s rationale for this program.

Yes, it can be argued that every program has a benefit. An employment opportunity here or there, a lesson plan for letting kids know meth-labs are not our friends and monk seals are cute, but if we can’t cull the wants from the needs and prioritize the “crucial” from the “niceties”, we’ll never be able to address the core fiscal issues that face this county.

Let’s hope Hawaii can be a little smarted in 2012 when Senator Akaka is up for reelection.

The Lack of Technical Support from DELL

2011-01-31T01:41:00.002-05:00

Okay, you'll never read this, so I highlighted the stupid stuff.

Now you get to Dell's tech support by putting in the your computer's service tag number. That identifies the computer and all its great operating systems. So, how did I get the wrong department is my first question.

01/30/2011 11:13:36PM Session Started with Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495)
01/30/2011 11:13:48PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Thank you for contacting Dell Chat for Optiplex and Latitude Systems under the Corporate and Business Group. My name is Jet, how may I help you today?"
01/30/2011 11:15:24PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Hello Valerie"
01/30/2011 11:15:28PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Please give me two minutes to pull-up your account and update if necessary before we get started. Would that be okay with you?"
01/30/2011 11:16:08PM valerie perez: "yes"
01/30/2011 11:16:13PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Thanks"
01/30/2011 11:19:08PM Agent (CEBg_Johan_223495): "Thank you for waiting. To verify, this is for an Inspiron 710M? I'm sorry you've been routed to the wrong department. We handle Optiplex and Latitude systems, Let me transfer you to the correct department"
01/30/2011 11:19:43PM valerie perez: "Oh, okay"
01/30/2011 11:20:15PM Session Transferred to Queue (US.SMB.TS.CORE.Inspiron)
01/30/2011 11:20:20PM Session Started with Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433)
01/30/2011 11:20:43PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Thank you for contacting Dell Small and Medium Business Hardware Support. My name is Mark. How may I help you today?"
01/30/2011 11:21:08PM valerie perez: "Hi"
01/30/2011 11:21:22PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Hello Valerie."
01/30/2011 11:21:31PM valerie perez: "I've just set up wireless router and now my computer's network connections - the wireless network connection - doesn't work. It is disabled at the moment and when I try to enable, it says connection failed. It won't even pop up a menu to let me chose which wireless connection to connect to. Therefore, the router is useless. Talked to Netgear and after some crap diagnostics, which I had already done, they sent me off to download new driver for wireless. I found them at dell support. I assumed I downloaded
and installed, but I think maybe not. There were 9 of them listed under network. And it still doesn’t work.

So my question is how do I get the wireless network connections working again? (Simple question with a simple answer)
01/30/2011 11:22:21PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Thanks for sharing me that issue."
01/30/2011 11:22:34PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Kindly please give me 2 - 3 minutes to pull out your records. Thanks!"
01/30/2011 11:22:50PM valerie perez: "You guys are so polite"
01/30/2011 11:24:27PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Thanks for waiting Valerie."
01/30/2011 11:24:38PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "I am sorry that, that issue happened to you."
01/30/2011 11:25:02PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Can you confirm the system that you would like to have support with is Inspiron 710 with Service Tag:1T8BT91 ?"
01/30/2011 11:25:18PM valerie perez: "that is correct"
01/30/2011 11:25:40PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "To give you an update, your Hardware Warranty and Technical Support contract expired last April 19, 2007."
01/30/2011 11:25:55PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Unfortunately, you will be required to purchase a one-time incident support fee of $59 for any troubleshooting assistance that you may need."
01/30/2011 11:26:06PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "However," (Wait for it...)
01/30/2011 11:26:51PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "You can also have an option to call the Expired Warranty Service."
01/30/2011 11:27:48PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Do you want to have the hotline?"
01/30/2011 11:29:17PM valerie perez: "No thanks , I have a friend who works at Apple. I'll ask him to help me first."
01/30/2011 11:29:33PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Alright. no problem then." (maybe not for you. But you hardly utilized those tech support skills.)
01/30/2011 11:29:50PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Well, you can call Expired Warranty Service for any query :)"
01/30/2011 11:29:53PM valerie perez: "Maybe I'll buy a new Apple. Hell, I'm just asking how to download a driver."
01/30/2011 11:30:31PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "I apologize for the inconvenience but your warranty has already expires that's why."
01/30/2011 11:30:43PM Agent (CLKsmb_Mark_Lester_224433): "Would there be anything else Valerie?"

The answer to my question was to go to the Device Manager and turn the damn thing back on! Since I don't routinely go digging into my computer I couldn't remember what I needed or where it was. I just knew it was simple.

I hate Dell. I really do.

Scooter er... Motorcyle Registration

2011-01-13T15:13:00.003-05:00

A year ago on the same day I witnessed a horrible and deadly motorcycle accident outside my condo, I bought a Honda Metropolitan scooter. The accident punctuated my nervousness on my ride home with no more instruction than how to turn it on and off and get the kick stand up and down. With a whopping 49cc engine that produces lightening fast speed of 35 mph going all out on the flat I can kill myself on it, but statistic show it is more likely someone else will kill me. Like my mother would say you can drown in a teacup of water. That never prevented me from bathing.

To assure I purchased a worthy ride, I took my new-to-me-scooter to the local Honda dealer, Kiser Motorcycles. A good once over and a couple of electrical fixes, (brake and head light bulbs) and they slapped an inspection sticker on the back. For five dollars I registered it with the state, as required for such a vehicle that is regularly passed by those training for Ironman’s bike leg.

Now with my inspection sticker about to expire, I took the scooter to the Honda dealer. There I was told I couldn’t pass inspection because I had not licensed the vehicle and carried no insurance. I leave town for six months and return to a whole new set of rules. Oddly no one can tell me exactly when it happened. The vague response has been sometime last year. (duh!) My scooter apparently grew in might and power during my absence and is now classified as a motorcycle. It doesn’t look like one. It doesn’t ride like one, but it cost like one.

In order to get insurance I had to get a motorcycle endorsement. Oh brother. Thank God I have a Hawaii driver’s license; otherwise, I would have to return to my home state to get the endorsement. After paying $9.00 for an inspection I couldn’t pass, I headed down to the DVM. It was closed because it was Friday and a scheduled furlough day. State budget cuts and all.

I returned on Monday and stood in the long line of those needing to register their cars, get new plates and transfer titles. When it was my turn I stepped forward and told the clerk I needed to get a plate for my scooter. "You mean motorcycle," she informed me. She proceeded to process the new Certificate of Registration. I had $38 in my pocket and assumed that would be a sufficient amount. After much number crunching and referral to several manuals, she said pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, "$56.86." I almost blurted out, “For a scooter?” Instead I had to embarrassingly admit I was short on funds. She let me run off to the bank and return directly to her window without waiting in line. (Okay, that was the good part.)

Next stop was Ace Hardware to get a pair of nuts and bolts to secure my $56.86 plate to the "motorcycle". $2.43. I got those that require a wrench, since me and two other guys are the only people on the island in compliance. I don’t want anyone stealing this piece of tin.

I ran around town trying to find a Motorcycle manual so I could study the rules of the road and other necessary information I needed to know to pass the written test. After I passed the test I could get a temporary learner's permit to ride a "motorcycle" I have had for a year. I went to Hawaii’s need-anything-get-it-at-Long’s drug store, but they didn’t have it. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I even went to Border’s. There a young girl gave me the web address for the manual. The URL was bigger than my "motorcycle".

I had no ink in my printer so I made a stop at Office Max to get a new cartridge. A $17.00 pop to my plastic. With manual in hand and a yellow highlighter, I went through it until I was blind with boredom. It was all about motorcycles! Shifting and swerving and braking and passengers and drinking….None of the stuff that applied to me and my "motorcycle". Nevertheless, I absorbed the information just long enough to regurgitate it for the 25 question test. I aced it, which is far more than I could say I scored when I got my Hawaii driver's license. This cost me $11.00. I was issued a temporary license good for one year. I got to say, this is my second license issued by the state and both photos are great, making me look far younger than I am.

I contacted the insurance company I use to cover my condo, but since I don’t have a car, they would not insure me. My choice was the gecko or that high-pitched voiced lady in the white apron. I went with Progressive only because I was on their website last. Either way, the choices were 100 bucks.

Now I must return to the Honda dealer to pass my inspection. Then the road test conducted behind the community pool. However, the DVM is moving to the new civic center this month so they are not scheduling any more exams until after the move.

Total unexpected damage is $198.29 and a lot of running around on the “illegal” scooter. To add to the financial woes of my transportation issues, my bike’s front wheel needed to be replaced. The spokes were breaking under the stress of rust. I also need a new pair of Tevas.

The State Department

2011-01-09T22:28:00.002-05:00

I want to take a moment to lament the fact that I didn't asked to be born. That is a rather stupid thing to say. I sound like a teenager, angry at mom or dad or in this new age, parent number one or parent number two. Nevertheless, when life dishes out the hard stuff and dumps a load of crap on you, particularly when you're not in charge of making the rules, it is easy to blurt out something that has little relevancy to the issue. In this case, a teen thinks it would be better not to have sucked in one deep gulp of air. What doesn’t occur to the irked kid is that not one soul on earth was ever asked. None of us got that choice.

Biologically, to the best of my knowledge, it takes two individuals from both sexes to produce a child. At least, in most of the world outside Jurassic Park. With few exceptions, we don’t get to select who our parents are. So it would be just as insane to say, "I didn’t pick you as my father, or mother, or parent number one or parent number two."

Now if you are following along, you’ll ask, “What’s the deal with this parent number one and parent number two business?”

The State Department is now giving you a chance to identify your parents on gender neutralize passport application forms. The change is made to recognize the different types of families. Instead of identifying a mother and a father you can now identify your parents as parent number one and parent number two.

This is awesome. I can now regrow my whole family tree. Who needs an old Mexican immigrant anyway? (No offense Dad.) As parent number one I chose Bill Gates, the wealthiest man alive. It is such a no brainer. It doesn’t matter that the guy is a year younger than I am. Now, I won’t have to run around in my 1989 Jeep Cherokee with 345,000 miles on it. I could buy a new one, but honestly, I’d like to fully restore it. You see, I won’t abuse this opportunity.

My dilemma is the choice of parent number two. Who needs two parents when the first can provide for all my wildest needs? Er, make that wants. Money can buy everything in this case. But I don’t want to leave any blanks when I fill out my application forms. The State Department might interpret this as an incomplete submission, and this could delay issuing my new passport. I’m obligated to pick another parent. A tough choice.

Since my parent number one, God love 'em, is a liberal, I feel compelled to create a fair and balanced environment to promote my well-rounded development. So I got to go with Glenn Beck. He too is younger than I am, but again makes no matter. And certainly the fact that my choices are both men... I'm just not sure I want him reading bed time stories to me every night.

But to give myself a chance at a good upbringing I wish the State Department would add parent number three. I’d go with someone a older, maybe my father! I’m just saying, it takes a village.

I’m still working on my new name.

Broke Part 2: Glenn's charts, my words

2010-12-09T16:14:00.008-05:00

I intended to get this one posted yesterday, but damn it, I had to clean the bathroom and refrigerator. How come I can't I get the government to do this?

What is a better government than one formed under the verity: We hold these truths to be self-evident, 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? I say there is not one, for when men proved to be free of the whims of others, whether they were kings, dictators, oligarchies, potentates or democracies, men secured in life and liberty thrived in the pursuits of freedom. (5000 Year Leap)

Are we free? Some of you have yet to make the connection between bigger government and smaller individual. We are no longer free when the government dishes out “entitlements". What the government gives, and we depend on can be taken away. Entitlements are not free. They come out of our very souls, robbing us of our self-determination.

Let’s look at some numbers. Some scary numbers.

In this chart compliments from that right wing radical organization called the Heritage Society, but based on data from The White House and Treasury Department (who are you going to believe?) the following organizations are examples of big government spending. All for your benefit.

Department of Education: Our kids now place 30 to 40 nations behind China in math, science and reading. I saw this on the news last night. On ABC! It's not "no child left behind", it is "everyone left behind."
The Department of Housing and Urban Development: Have you been to Detroit lately?
Department of Homeland Security: Been to the airport lately?
The Department of Agriculture: Can you say Monsanto?
Department of Labor: Can you say SEIU?
Environmental Protection Agency: Here’s a good one. Carbon Dioxide is a pollutant.

Supporting all these programs cost you your freedom, because you have less and less of your own hard earned money to spend. In essence, you've traded your sweat, your time, your efforts for a bigger government. (Oh, by the way House Democrats just turned down keeping your takes from going up January first. Lame Ducks, aren't they great?)

But the kicker is that the government spends more and more of your money on servicing the national debt. It is one thing to say you traded your dollars for a poorly run education system. It is quite another to say you gave up your pay check for interest.

Notice that the middle bar is in red. That’s because that is a monthly number, not annual like the others. In other words, multiple that by 12. Yes, servicing the debt is $31.9 billion dollars a month or $382,800,000,000 a year.

But wait. The big entitlement programs everyone is talking about is Social Security and Medicare. And coming soon to a government-run clinic not so near to you, ObamaCare. But let’s just look at the old pieces of this sweet entitlement deal.

Medicare and Medicare along with Social Security costs about the same amount of money as most nation’s economies. Okay, let me not exaggerate. Let’s just say we spend more on these programs than Russia’s entire economy. And that is just this year. By 2020 we will dish out over $2.5 trillion for these goodies.

You see when our rights come from God, they can never be denied when government’s job is to protect those rights. But when government declares you have a right to an education, and housing and food and the damn internet….

So I ask, “do you think we might be in some serious shit?” Don't be afraid to say yes. Be afraid to deny it. By the way, did you see the riots in England today? Why? They raised tuition three fold. What government gives...

What you can do about it, next. I know the suspense is killing you.

Broke Part 1

2010-12-07T16:01:00.004-05:00

I went to the Glenn Beck Broke presentation last week. Now for my liberal friends, before you choke on your health care, I want you to know that I make no apologies for doing so. (gasp)Your perceptions of Mr. Beck and his rhetoric are as firmly glued to your psyche as the long standing despise a Red Sox fan has for the Yankees. Nothing said or done will change your mind. Unfortunately, the crisis our country faces is hardly as trivial as a fan rivalry.

You can go back to sleep now, but for those who would like to know what was presented beyond his usual hate-mongering (not), fear-baiting (not), Christian smashing(not) drivel (not), you might want to read on.

My sister wanted to attend, but she had been feeling crummy, so she asked me to send her my notes. Well, really, now. You know my hand writing is as legible as a faded Egyptian Hieroglyph. During the satellite presentation, I sat in a darkened theater just below the projector’s booth. It added nothing to the legibility of my script. Therefore, I'll summarize here.

The first half of the presentation was Shock and Awe. A stab was taken at Michelle Obama’s quest to curb our trans-fats appetites when Glenn wheeled in 400 Primanti’s sandwiches, Pittsburgh’s distinctive staple by the inclusion of coleslaw and fries inside the sandwich. The sandwiches illustrated the insanity of a diet when a worm size piece of lettuce is removed from the mound of calories. Similarly, this is government’s response to rein in spending and the deficit. It ain’t going to happen using this tactic when the problem is so huge.

Now you may feel that Chicken Little is merely yelling that the sky is falling to scare you. There is no need to fear the troubling deficit. Perhaps you have heard of the European Union’s crisis and have surmised that the bail outs and riots in the streets in Greece just won’t happen in America. After all, this is the good old US of A, not Europe, despite liberal attempts to make us like Europe.

Consider the following. The EU’s debt is $16 trillion. Greece, the 27th largest economy in the world, had only 2.5% of that debt. When Greece was about to default the EU feared that it would cause the rest to falter. The EU bailed them out. The EU which is the largest economic collective couldn’t let other countries fall like dominoes. Disaster! Imagine, little old Greece crashing the EU’s economy. Combine Greece with Portugal and Spain, which are burdened with debt and rumored to be the next bail out recipient and you got $1.96 trillion of the EU’s debt.

Bored yet?

What has this got to do with you? After all, burning cars in the streets of Greece don’t mean jack in Detroit.

Let’s look at the US which is just under $14 trillion in debt, smaller than the EU. Yet in our collective economy of 50 states California, New York, Illinois and New Jersey make up $4.007 trillion. That’s twice the debt of those at risk of failing next in Europe. The monster we have is California with 13% of the debt. It’s economy is the 9th largest in the WORLD. If the EU was so worried about little old Greece bringing down the house, should we not be petrified that California will destroy us? And how are you going to feel when your taxes go to more social welfare programs in California, where many on such programs belong in Mexico.

But it can’t happen here. Back in May I wrote a blog disputing Paul Krugman’s claim that we are not Greece. I wrote: I’m not a liberal intellectual like Paul Krugman. I can’t get away with speculating about the economy with unproven theories and flat out denial about the economic situation. I’m just a smuck like everyone else who experiences reality.

I realized I had to deal with reality. Back then, I decided to build an ark. Oddly, I heard Glenn Beck say the same thing the other day. Now who is following who?

Next Up: More scary numbers and what you can do.

Aracely Gonzalez-O'Malley

2010-11-18T20:19:00.008-05:00

When young men and women enlist to serve their country the effects of their decision seem not to extend beyond the stress and anxieties, and the pride and the gratitude that their families, their friends and their fellow service members hold. Dad has often commented how so many Americans go about their lives a safe distance from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Unlike when he served in WWII, there is no rationing of raw products, or food. In many non-military communities few may even know a soldier. It is easy to compartmentalize the wars, to safely put them aside. On most given days, the wars don’t appear on front pages of our local newspapers. Rarely is there a mention on the nightly news. The wars are as remote as the snow capped peaks of Hindu Kush.

Lost is the impact a young soldier’s life may have on one citizen. How could one have such an influence? Sure there are those who find themselves engaged in battle throwing themselves into peril for buddies, for unit, for God and for country. Take Staff Sgt. Salvatore Giunta, who was a 22-year-old Army specialist when he raced head-on into an enemy ambush to save the lives of two American soldiers during a deadly fire fight. The humble hero received The Medal of Honor. On the flip side there is Army intelligence expert Bradley Manning, 22, who boasted he downloaded hundreds of thousands of documents which were then posted on Wiki Leaks. Two men. Two soldiers. Both received media attention for their actions. One man made me proud. One man caused disappointment.

Then there was Aracely Gonzalez-O’Malley (1979-2010). Aracely Gonzalez-O’Malley, 31, passed away on Thursday October 21, 2010 in Homburg, German. She was born February 19, 1979 in Brawley, California. I never had the honor to know her.

Aracely served with the U.S. Army as a Communications Staff Sergeant for eight years. She had served in deployments to Iraq, Afghanistan, and Africa. She enjoyed music, photography, scrapbooking, dancing and San Diego Chargers Football.

One person. One solider. This list hardly defines who she was or who she became to me.

What follows is from Face Book's the Military Wall Of Honor posted on Monday, November 1, 2010 at 10:23pm

Aracely loved her husband, Ryan, and her family very much, but made a career in the military assigned to the 307th Integrated Theater Signal Battalion, 311th Signal Command based at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, to fulfill her wish to serve her country and protect those who weren’t able to protect themselves. Aracely not only left behind her husband, Ryan P. O'Malley; but her children, Sidney, Riley and Sean; parents, Armando and Juanita Gonzalez; brothers, Santiago and Armando Gonzalez; and sisters, Lizbeth and Paulette Gonzalez.

On April 11, 2010, Aracely posted on her MySpace page that she was getting back her pre-pregnancy body and was very happy about it, but was also hoping that she could keep her shape through their vacation. Life was good for her and her family. Her name was announced on the Staff Sergeant promotion list on April 30th. She was deployed to Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan in July of this year.

On July 27th Aracely posted on her MySpace page “that her unit was in an area where they were living in tents, and the showers for the soldiers are trailer showers which do not always have water. The power being used for the tents are 110. They were able to drop off their laundry and pick it up when it was done. The amenities that we so often take for granted were minimal. They had refrigerators with freezers, but no microwaves, and she was representing the Battalion as the BOSS representative.” Her last post was the 24th of September. Her last day as the BOSS representative was the next day.

During support of Operation Enduring Freedom, in a non-combat related incident, Aracely was injured on October 12th. She was flown to Homburg, Germany, for treatment. She was receiving treatment for several days, but on October 22nd, Aracely’s battle ended.

Her husband, brother, and family members were devastated. Friends, family members, and patriots have posted their heartfelt sympathies and memories of Aracely on numerous sites. Some mention that her smile and laugh was always contagious, and she had a wonderful sense of humor. Others state how full of life she was and that she will forever remain a Hero in their hearts and minds. SSgt Aracely Gonzalez O’Malley will never be forgotten.

The Patriot Guard Riders attended the memorials and services. California Governor Schwartzenegger ordered the flags on all the State buildings to be flown at half-staff in SSgt O’Malley’s honor and issued a message of sympathy to her family in her hometown of Brawley.

Aracely gave the ultimate sacrifice for the betterment of others with bravery and without hesitation. She leaves behind many family members, friends, and fellow soldiers who will forever miss her. Salute SSgt O’Malley.

So why does any of this matter?

SSgt O’Malley received two packages from my sister, Jennifer. Jennifer has been sending packages to soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq for years. Jennifer quietly clipped coupons to buy packages of cookies, puzzles, bottles of shampoo, and numerous other items. She stored a huge supply of "things" for them. She even cut crossword puzzles out of the newspaper. When she collected a half dozen or so boxes full of "stuff", she'd mail them off to foreign lands to unknown soldiers. Nothing send was of huge value, but everything became priceless to those on the receiving end. (Don't I know when I received similar packages when I was in the Peace Corps.)

Jennifer always knew she could lose one of her soldiers, but that never deterred. Each package was her way to say thank you. To let them know that they were not forgotten. That they were appreciated for their duty. She never lost any soldier, until this week.

SSgt O’Malley wrote two letters to my sister, thank you notes for the packages she received. Jennifer read each word trying to imagine the conditions in which it was written. And like the letters from all her soldiers she saved every precious piece of paper.

In early October, Jennifer sent another package to Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan, bound for SSgt O’Malley’s unit. On Tuesday when she came home she found the package sitting on her front porch. She knew something was wrong.

History remembers the causes, and its wars, but it is the individual who remembers the pain. She wept. And I cried too when I heard of my sister’s loss.

One could argue our grief is tiny compared to the sorrow that the Gonzalez-OMalley families suffer. But that misses the point. As a soldier, SSgt O’Malley’s life reached beyond the circle of her family, friends and fellow soldiers. Her life, dedicated to serve those who daily enjoy their freedom, also reached far beyond her what might be considered a circle of influence.

Many times have I caught a member of the Armed Forces off guard when I extend my appreciation. Whether in the airport, grocery store, the mall or the YMCA their response is the same. A huge smile, a firm handshake, and a humble "you’re welcome." I wonder if they teach that polite humbleness in basic training. We part and they vanish or paths don't cross ever again. They continue their lives. Of the hundreds of thousands that serve many return home, safely.

Not so for SSgt Aracely Gonzalez-O’Malley. I won’t forget how she touched a patriot when she said thank you. No SSgt O’Malley, thank you.

Veterans Day 2010

2010-11-11T09:52:00.005-05:00

Dad and I will head out to the Veterans Day Ceremony at the Gerlad B.H. Solomon National Cemetery in Schylerville, NY. The usual suspects in attendance. The aging heroes of World War II and the prisoners of wars will be seated in a neat row of white chairs planted in the frosty lawn amidst the now naked pear trees. In front of these aging icons the American flag will smartly snap in the November wind as an honorary speaker addresses the assemblage of family, friends, and citizens.

Sprinkled through those who gather will be those who once served their country. Some come in anonymity. You’ll never know that they gave a part of their youth to the military. Some come in black vests and biker bandanas carrying flags over their shoulders, the lost Viet Nam vet. Others wear ball caps that display their War, their ship, their branch of military service.

An honor guard will present arms. Taps will drift over the headstoned fields, the lonesome notes disappearing into the thick woods where revolutionaries once fought the British. After a brief proclamation made on behalf of an absentee governor and a few patriotic songs the crowd will disperse. Like Christmas after all the presents are open, the holiday is over.

There is nothing particularly exciting about these ceremonies. There are no lights and action is slow. There is nothing that makes the jaw drop or eyes pop. Nothing that tantalizes and pushes the adrenaline. The speeches can be so-so. The entertainment marginal. Even the prayers can lack inspiration. And yet, people come. Every year, they come. Somehow people drop busy lives and make their way to the cemetery. For an hour people of all ages gathered to wade into a pool of history.

For a moment, you can stand in the very presence of greatness. Not the sensationalized greatness made of media blitzes and much fanfare. But greatness made of humbleness. They will be there. The one with an untold story. The story of laying on the beach for 30 days at Iwo Jima and not seeing one Japanese solider but instead thousands of dead Americans. Of the night chopper landing in a damp jungle while fighting vertigo but, determined to resupply the guys on the ground. Or securing 10,000 detainees at Abu Ghraib. Of 26 missions over Germany before being shot down. Of one night in a sleeping bag buried in a snow cave thinking the whole damn exercise was stupid.

We come to say thank you for doing something we never could have done, or couldn't ever imagine.

Go Vote, Wisely

2010-10-18T16:01:00.002-04:00

We are living in a truly momentous time. On November 2, you will cast one of the most important votes of your life. Don’t stand on the side lines scared of where the country is headed. You are part of the solution. This is truly important.

Don’t be confused. This fall’s key issue is not about the economy. Surely, it is disheartening and discouraging to be out of work and trying hard to make ends meet. It appears that there are two choices: believe that jobs are yet to come because of the stimulus program or the promise of yet another one, or believe the stimulus is not going to employee you in any of the never-really-was shovel ready projects. Providing for one’s family is foremost on the minds of Americans who carry that responsibility. But don’t be fooled, this is not what November’s election is all about. It's much bigger.

Too much is at stake. America is an exceptional country, threatened by an ever increasing federal government. As the government gets bigger, the citizen’s liberty becomes smaller. Nothing illustrates this more than when the individual works for themselves. That is liberty. When the government takes more and more of your wage in taxes, it curtails your freedom. You have less and less left to spend as you see fit. Therefore, your decisions, your choices, your freedoms are diminished. Instead your money goes to the government to be redistributed.

Staggering debt, increasing payments to government workers and their pensions when the private sector is squeezed, the use of czars to increase governmental power usurping congressional constitutional responsibilities, and the use of executive powers to threaten passage of burdensome cap and trade laws are crushing your freedoms. It is out of control and ever growing. With Social Security, Medicare, and debt service projected to comprise 90% of GDP by 2020, how are we to afford mundane services like the defense of the country and border security?

Today, the bottom 50% of wage earners pay just 3% of collected income tax. Real America is no longer vested in themselves, but into a system of perverse behavior. When participation in the income tax becomes a minority enterprise we create a moral hazard. We are creating and our children will inherit a bigger government with ever shrinking tax base. Do you really believe this formula can be sustained? And when it does crash, what will you have but your sold liberties?

We can’t dodge the consequences of dodging our responsibilities any longer. It is time reexamine what our government is suppose to do for us. That is as little as possible.

The strength of our country is based on three values that are under attack.

It is God-centered not secular.(Do you believe it is wrong and unconstitutional for students to be told, "God bless you" at their graduation?)
It is E pluribus Unum, from many one.(Do you believe bilingual education for children of immigrants, rather than immersion in English, is good for them and for America?)
And it is liberty. (Do you believe the government should fine its citizens for not purchasing a consumer product?)

When you vote on November 2, please consider your candidates’ beliefs. It is not about their platform on tried and failed litmus issues. It is about preserving our exceptional country and the liberties provided to all. It’s time to slash the tyranny of big government and the lurch to the left.

Nuts!

2010-10-17T19:06:00.002-04:00

I now add a new skill to my resume, the ability to make acorn flour. The application of this skill won’t land a corporate job in Human Resources with any company other than NOLS or Outward Bound. And even that is doubtful.

Last week when visiting my sister the bombardment of acorns on her deck, barbecue grill, the roof, backyard, neighbor’s RV etc., resembled a siege. The pinging non stop. Ventures outside seemed full of peril. And all those nuts had to be good for something more than cute leprechaun craft figures with painted faces. I gathered a bucket load and toted them back to New York.

Mom always claimed the nuts were poisonous. Actually they are not, but the tannins contained within the meat make the little nut about as bitter as a New York State Gubernatorial race. The nut is edible, but if something tastes that awful, then what is the true definition of edible?

Acorns have long been a favorite nut, because of the memories. One of my earliest recollections of the little nut with the cute tam-like cap was on McGregor Mountain. It was a family outing with Uncle Harold and Aunt Doris who had come to visit from New Jersey. In the short walk through the woods to the place President Grant once lived and to where the silent sentry cannon stood amid tall oaks, I discovered the origin of trees. Yes, they came from little nuts. I could hold a whole forest in my cupped hands. But my discovery of a forest-in-hand waned when I was told the nut was poisonous. What a bitter pill to swallow after such an amazing discovery. Squirrels and worms could eat these things presumably because they were immune. More like they would starve otherwise.

Knowing the resourcefulness of the Native Americans, I could never imagine that such an autumn harvest couldn't be used for anything more than pig or squirrel bait. And indeed, I was always right.

Yet, I was never compelled to make flour because I don’t bake much and when I need flour, I stick with the Gold Medal. Now with too much time on my hands and a sense to prepare for the day of doom when economic markets collapse and governments run amuck, I’ve decided to acquire skills that would entice others to pick me for their survival team. Or maybe one day CBS’s Survivor will cast a show in the Adirondacks and I can wow national audiences with my wilderness prowess that doesn’t involve a bikini.

Meanwhile, Dad’s electric bill will be July-high from the hours of boiling the tannins out of the shelled nuts and more hours drying the meal out in the oven. Will I now whip up a batch of acorn raspberry muffins the size of cat heads? Guess what my sisters are getting for Christmas?

No ID Required

2010-09-13T20:21:00.002-04:00

The other day morning we lost power at the house. There were no ice storms, high winds or other weather related calamity associated with living at the forty third parallel. Earlier the scream of sirens ran through the woods, escaped sounds from Route 9, the road down the hill from the house. The disturbance mixed with the stuttered chatter of leaves, conversations of fall arriving on the fresh breath out of Canada. “A car most likely wrapped around a telephone pole,” I told Dad. We cranked the generator so I could take a shower before work.

I left for work. At the bottom of the hill an EMT flagged me when I signaled to head south. I rolled the passenger side window down to let the man dressed in rubber boots and a huge yellow jacket explain.

“Road is closed.” I imagined a mangled car fused to a pole. The jaws of life munching metal. Probably some tourist. Maybe a drunk, but it wasn’t even noon.

“How are far down Northern Pines do I need to go? Worth Road?” I knew the detour. Northern Pines was a parallel route, and once a back road that now carried a volume of traffic to and from the condos and fabricated homes that sprouted in the old corn fields and abandoned dairy farms. Springtime dandelions didn't grow as fast.

“No, The accident is at Worth.”

Hell, I thought to myself. If I got to do that I might as well go all the way into town pass the elementary school and come out by the mall. Do I need anything? Before I could compile a list to pick up at Wal-Mart, the EMT asked, “Are you a Perez?”

Okay, here’s the point of my blog. I was eighteen when I left Saratoga, and although I have lived here part time for the last three years I’m more recognizable than the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted. If I didn’t know better I’d say my face was pinned to a wall in the Post Office. It’s certainly not my one-book authorship or my blog reader ship, or my run-away twittering cat or even my right wing conservative hate monger activities in Washington DC that promotes my fame. No, it’s my genes.

That’s right, I look like my father. Everyone tells me. No matter how causal the relationship people will tell me this. The greeter at Wal-Mart. An ancient member of the Wilton Historical Society. All the Bank of America tellers. The owners at Allerdice, the local hardware store. They all recognize me as Manny’s daughter. I even have people I don’t know, like the clerk at Lowes, ask me “How’s your dad?”

With this kind of recognition who needs to carry identification? It won’t get me through any airport security, but it gives me the privilege of using his credit card anywhere in town, no questions ask.

The EMT explained he was a Hellenek. Since he looked a good ten years younger than me, I figured he had to have been eight when I left town. I didn’t recognized him. Oh well.

Being told I look like my father isn’t bad unless I take it that I look like an 86 year old man.

Lest We Forget

2010-09-11T08:38:00.006-04:00

On the street, a row of middle class homes, no flags dance on the front porches in the early morning breeze. The skies are as clear and blue as they were a distant nine years ago. We may not want to admit it, but we are forgetting. Memories faded away like the flags I once posted in the windows of my Jeep. The very fabric of our lives was torn that day, September 11, 2001. We are somehow different, although we won’t admit it because we are tangled in our own righteousness. It's a change no one promised.

Some things have been mended over the past nine years, but like a tear carefully woven back together it never is the same. The thread’s hue is slightly off, a bit brighter than the original and that’s not right. The texture a bit softer and that’s not right. It smells a little fresher than the old and even that isn’t quite right. Yet somehow, the cloth is stronger where the tear had been, exposing the entire fabric as weak. The flaw is unnoticed by the wearer, but seen clearly by the enemy.

In a country of "me, me, me" we excuse ourselves and make amends by saying "you, you, you". And that clearly doesn’t work. Nine years later we have the fractions of protests and outrage instead of consolidated reflection and prayer. What united the country as one nation under God, indivisible has been able to expose naivety about our very history, principles, values and worth.

It’s not about me. It’s not about you. Lest we forget, and we have, we are doomed when we forget to hold ourselves to the higher standards and principles on which this country was founded. It’s not about our first amendment right that frees us from a government that makes “no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech,”

When free men assemble in prayer and in voice they know that such a privilege is given to them by other free men. Both know and acknowledge the freedom is not owed to them, but given to them by the other, without interference or precious price. It’s called respect. It’s not a right, it is an obligation borne by all. It's not about what feels good. It is about what is good.

So when mosques are built in sacred places or Korans are burned by fools remember each has that right, but sadly each has forgotten their obligation as free men to his fellow citizen. And sadder still we have leadership that inconsistently addresses both, reminding us of one man's rights, admonishing the other for exercising his and ignoring the obligation of both.

May our Lord never treat us in the same way that we treat each other, in an arbitrary selfish manner.

I thank my God, He doesn’t.

Good-bye to those MIA

2010-09-07T20:09:00.004-04:00

It seemed like everyone knew everybody. Obviously, that wasn’t true. I was new and so were many others. I recognized some from my training class, a cursory explanation of duties and responsibilities, the dos and the don’ts, some legal stuff and the difference between a misdemeanor and a felony. Totally useless stuff. The day had been mostly a rambling tale of incidences that had happened at the Saratoga Race Track. It could have taken ten minutes to summarize what they really wanted us to do. Above all else, as a security patrolman all situations are handled in the following manner. Call your supervisor. On my own I discovered what I needed to know. Where the phones were to make this call. And all the other needed stuff—where the bathrooms, the ATMs and the Customer Service booths—were located. Other than that, amuse yourself for a security guard is nothing more than a uniformed information booth to assure patrons have a good time, don’t get hurt or destroy any property.

When I showed up to my station everyone was settled in. I started later than others so introductions already had been made. And even if they were in my class, they were already working, learning the ropes. They had the basics…your name, where you were from, what you did before the track, how long you had been here and who’s that?

Yeah, everyone knew everybody. But at the end of the six weeks, I was part of the family of track hires saying goodbye to co-workers who dispersed to engage in lives beyond the red and white canopies set between Nelson and Union Avenue.

Yesterday ended my third year. We didn’t count down like we had previously. Sure Peter, the on-track judge, came down the horse path waving three fingers, then two, then one indicating the last races- The Hopeful, The Glens Falls and a conglomeration of maidens trying to leave Saratoga broken.

And then it was over. The goodbyes and the hugs almost taken and given as an obligation. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. I’ll see you next year. As casual as “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Taken for granted.

But then this year we missed several who never came back.

There was John Salerno, the overweight ticket taker at the restaurant called At The Rail. For two decades he serenaded beautiful women with his charm and his voice, breaking into song for any good reason. And there were many. His rendition of the Star Spangle Banner filled me with great pride and humbled my patriotism. And yet he could growl to reminded me that I was just a security guard, I had a place, and it wasn’t to casually mingle with the big shots that he could surround himself with. John died a day before Thanksgiving. Heart Attack.

There was Security Guard Dave, who become known as my Boy Friend. He would mysteriously appear at the gate coming out of the crowd like a Gila monster out of the desert. He carried the poison, a hot tip on a horse. Yet his tips were good as gold. If I wasn't there when he showed up, Dave never gave the info to anyone else. The other guards teased me, “Your boyfriend was here.”
“Who?” I would ask.
“The guy with two teeth and three missing fingers.”
Dave would return later, staying just long enough to stick five dollars in my hand and relay the info, “the five horse in the next race.”
I never knew how Dave knew. He just knew.
He and his wife changed their shifts and I never funded my retirement this year.

There were the Mount Rushmores, the name I gave the two old stone faced maître d’es. Slip them a fifty and you could enter their domain. Be dying of thirst and they would invite you to drink out of the bucket left for the outriders’ ponies. And there was the guy I called Joe Montana, because he looked like Joe Montana. He was the maître d' at the paddock tent of fine dining. It was replaced by the Blue Smoke and Shake Shack, the two hot snack venues flanked by a mutuel bay and a tented bar with beer on tap and no bathroom. Economic times took this Centerplate crew out.

And there was Lois, a sweet lady who quietly played the horses, something her husband had done years earlier. She came alone. Occasionally she came with her son who looked nothing like her and was engaged to a person not interested in horse racing. Lois watched all the races except the steeple chases. To watch the horses and riders sail over the hedges made her too nervous, afraid of the consequences should one hoof not clear the hazard. She sat away from the fence at the clubhouse horse crossing in a little blue chair tucked in the smallest space by the oak tree. I coaxed her to the fence to watch the post parade. We shared picks and hunches. At the end of last year’s meet she gave me a gift card from Target. "For making my time so pleasant." I used it in Hawaii this January. Lois never returned to the track this year. I never saw her son either. I may never know what happened.

On Friday afternoon I stood outside the Main Gate watching the race enthusiasm fizzle through the wrought iron. Yet I wished good evening to all and bid them good bye. There wasn’t much else to do out there, so I assumed myself, just like I had been taught. I asked a few if they funded my pay check.

A middle aged couple (okay, about my age) passed through the gate speaking French. At the last second, he turned and asked in English, “What time do the races start tomorrow?”
“1 PM.”
“And on Sunday?”
“1 PM.”
He was delighted with this information. I learned they were from Quebec. By then his wife was taking a photo of the entrance. I offered to take their picture. While doing so I continued to wish the other patrons a good evening. More times than not, my bid was briefly acknowledged.

As I handed the camera back to the woman she said, “You know everyone.”
I laughed, “Just about.”

Victor Peterson from Minnesota

2010-08-15T08:36:00.002-04:00

I walked by him. Dressed in a long sleeve khaki shirt and pants, he looked like an old safari hunter with white hair and wind blown sideburns. He had been invisible, like so many others like him today. But Nancy saw him sitting in the lobby.

“Where?” I asked.

“Back there, sitting by himself.”

I wheeled around to return to the lobby. There he was with a red lanyard hanging around his neck, suspenders draped down his short torso and his World War II hat. Would anybody but a WWII vet wear such a hat?

He watched the hotel guests check out and arrange for the valet to retrieve their cars, or ask the concierge for advice - the best places to go, to see and to experience New Orleans, to cram as much as possible into the morning, before the temperatures scorched 100, before they wilted into the sewer drains beneath the broken slate sidewalks in the French Quarters.

I offered my hand. “Thank you for your service.” He shook with a firm grip, similar to my father’s. (My theory is those with good handshakes are due for a long life.) And like Dad, he humbly thanked me and declined to accept that what he had done years ago was anything special. He “just got on with life.”

But life almost didn’t happen for young Victor Peterson. He had left home when he was fifteen. He took to the trains. Flat broke he never asked for a handout, but knocked on doors and asked for odd jobs. This way of life took him to Alaska where he helped build the Alaskan Highway. But when the war broke out, he came home and he went to his draft board.

“They asked me if I was married. I told them yes. They asked me if I got married to get out of being drafted. I said no. So the stamped my papers.” He became a cook onboard the ship to England. When he got there they asked what he did. He said he was a cook. They said they didn’t need cooks, so they put a rifle in his hands. Two weeks later he was a sergeant and headed to Czechoslovakia.

As a squad leader, Victor saw himself as a mother hen, responsible for younger soldiers, boys who had never been away from home, away from mom. He was 22. So he never let his charges go into the woods first. He was point and that was how he got shot in the head. He pointed to his head. Was that to emphasize the place he got shot or to show me where in the head he took the bullet? I don’t know. His finger landed on his forehead above his right eye. There was no visible scar.

Was he a real New Orleans’ saint? He was shot in the head. As if he knew what I had been thinking he explained, “I yelled at the Germans that they couldn’t shoot me. Those SOBs. I was cocky. Then I took one. My platoon couldn’t get to me. They thought I was dead. I lay on the ground. Then I sat up. My men couldn’t believe it. The docs said just this much further…” Victor had head aches for three years after that.

It wasn’t Victor’s time. He came home and raised seven children with his wife who passed away a few years ago. His eyes filled when he spoke of her. I fought back my own. Now he visits his wife’s grave on the 8th day of each month. “I got ten more years until I’m 100. Then my wife and I will go for a walk together." I believe this will be true.

Victor was in New Orleans to attend the annual 90th Tough Hombre Division. The division has gathered ever since World War I. While we talked, a couple came up and thanked him for playing the piano last night. He entertained the group with a collection of hymns. “I can play for hours. Non stop. Until I played Lili Marlene. Then my wife would yell, ‘don’t play that.’ She’d excuse me of thinking about the war. I guess I was.” He laughed.

Somehow time moved rapidly forward. He shared a story about a trip he took to Texas. He was lying in bed eating peanut brittle when his stomach acted up. Diarrhea. He had it for 4 months and lost forty pounds.

Okay, Victor, I got to get back up to my room. I thanked him again for being a hero.

“No, I’m not.”

“What you did back then, made me who I am today. That makes you a hero.”

Graveside

2010-08-13T20:56:00.004-04:00

“How much further you got to go?” It was meant to be a joke. Something told me he wasn't going to say, "to China." He looked at me, his black eyes on the same level as mine. With a shrug he dismissed my question. The crowbar thumped into the earth with the hollow sound of a summer melon. He stood knee deep in the neatly shaped rectangle.

For the past hour I listened to his rhythmical thuds followed by a short series of metal biting into dirt. Now the shovel speared the grass. His wet t-shirt clung to his torso like a burial cloth. The interruption gave him the opportunity to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. He readjusted his ball cap. “If I was working over in Franklin, I’d be done by now. This is nothing but fill. I even find bits of old cans and glass.” He stepped out of his hole. A harvest fly’s complaint scattered the still air.

The ground behind the church pitched the headstones in short waves and trailed off down a slope. There he had dumped wheel barrels of dirt and returned with small rocks.

“I guess you have to dig that by hand.” It was a statement as much as a question. He wasn’t a grave digger, but instead a headstone placer. Something about the hole fascinated me. I figured there must be a special machine to dig these holes. A bobcat maybe? Like steak I never think about the process beyond the butcher saran wrapping the Styrofoam. Head stones don’t grow at gravesides, but I never saw anyone put one in before.

“You got a business card?”

“Nope. If you need me, contact the church.” He didn’t offer his name.

“My cousin needs a headstone. I pointed to a marker just a few feet behind me.”

“Ramirez?"

“Perez.”

“When did he die?”

“Last October.”

“No offense, but you should wait a year. The ground needs to settle. It’s better to wait, although the guys here do a good job packing.”

He noticed my license plate. “You from Tennessee?”

“No, Hawaii. I was cleaning the moss and lichen from my grandparents’ headstone.”

“You got to be careful. Some stones are limestone and bleach could eat away at it.”

“I used a paint scraper and a brush. A dry cleaning. It’s still stained, but at least you can read the dates.”

“Some get worse than others.”

“The west sides are worse than the east. That seems strange.”

He wandered down a couple rows and agreed with my observation. Then he picked up his crowbar and returned to his hole.

Stupid, NYRA, Stupid

2010-07-31T09:40:00.004-04:00

It’s a long standing tradition for the track to sponsor a Give-A-Way when some nearly worthless promotional item draws people to come to the races. The idea is that once they are there, they will place a few bets adding to the take. In past years, stein mugs, collector plates, blankets, coolers, chairs and umbrellas sporting the Saratoga Track logo have been featured. Nice items indeed. But as the economy soured, and the New York Racing Association moved closer to bankruptcy the items have been come less frequent and cheesier if not suspect of being made by child labor in some third world country like Honduras or Pakistan.

Recently – like Thursday – the track gave away a thin white t-shirt with a single color logo that wasn’t even Saratoga red. Okay it was a St Patrick’s Day celebration in July. And the people came, as usual, even on the unusual Thursday Give-A-Away. (It’s normally Sunday.)

I always said that if I ran the Zoo, this is how I would do it, but, yesterday was a clear illustration that I’m not in charge. Nevertheless, as it was I stood before the not so happy public as a public relations disaster unfolded.

As a Peace Officer without a permanent post, I get assigned to fill unmanned spots or special situations. Give-A-Ways are special situations. My first duty was to assist in directing the flow of humanity that seeped toward the tables where boxes of t-shirts were stacked. Here patrons redeemed their vouchers received free at the gate with paid admission. Managing the crowd was like fighting an oil spill with a dishrag. People disregarded instructions to exit left insisting on going out the entrance or by ducking under the yellow rope, as useless as a containment boom in a hurricane. They grumbled about the long wait, seeming unaware of the fact that no one required them to stand in line and get the t-shirt. Very optional. A free choice. Admission is just Three Dollars! There is no requirement that forced them to get one give-a-way, let along an arm load of them. Grumble, grumble, nevertheless.

Upon receiving the shirt many will unfold and inspect the item to consider the hell they just went through measured against the value of value of the shirt. Trust me it doesn't hold.

But this was the unfolding PR nightmare. On any Give-A-Way Day the track can expect forty to fifty thousand. The long standing tradition is those enterprising if not totally greedy individuals who “spin”, that is those who repeatedly go through the turnstiles gathering vouchers for the give-a-way. It mobs the gates. So a few years ago the track set up a multiple ticket booth inside where the admitted public could buy five-at-a-time vouchers. Of course people “spin” at the booth and collect upwards to fifty or more vouchers. You’ll see people leaving the track with arm loads give-a-way items. Once the vouchers are gone not even those who come in with paid admission can get a voucher. In Thursday's case they had only 18,000 vouchers. The spinners gobbled them up by 12:05 pm.

I watched the t-shirt supply dwindle by 1:30 pm. Yet, a lot of people with multiple vouchers were still coming for t-shirts. Not wanting to catch their wrath when they discovered no more t-shirts, I began to back away, but the sergeant corraled five of us to be stationed behind the tables where the irate and stressed customer service people were handing out shirts one at a time. The mob of now anxious and desperate shoved vouchers at the customer service personnel. A few managed to get on the other side of the tables. Images of Haitian refugees waiting for food floated through my head. Sad, but this crowd was mad, not starving. Lots of pushing and shoving. Shouting and complaining. A few actually did a snatch and run, grabbing a shirt offered to another. Too much paperwork for the sergeants to engage in a pursuit.

Once the last shirt was gone the customer service people disappeared and five guards were left standing to answer questions about a situation we had nothing to do with.
“I bought all these vouchers, where do I get my money back?” It’s like betting on a horse...
“I didn’t get a vouchers, how do I get a shirt?” You don’t.
“How come you gave out more vouchers than t-shirts?” If I’m wearing this uniform you think I had anything to do with that?
“What do you mean there are no more t-shirts? I got a bus load of people who need t-shirts.” Are they naked?
“My dad has been getting t-shirts for fifty years. You people should know better.” You’d think your dad would have enough t-shirts by now.

Okay, that was what I was thinking.

Security guards get lots of questions, mostly about the location of the nearest bathroom. It got worse when the hottest tip of the day leaked that there were shirts in the Guest Services office. A mini-give-a-way ensued. I spent the rest of the afternoon among the irate individuals outside the door of Guest Services listening to them explain something that had no good explanation other than We Screwed Up.

The afternoon waned as customer complaint forms morphed faster than losing tickets on the grandstand floor. Bold Victory crossed the finish line, last horse in the last race that day. Hardly a victory for NYRA either. Yes, if I ran the Zoo, I would have done this differently. If I indeed ran the Zoo, I’d take every one of those complaints, call the person and invite them back to the track on one special day for a private party hosted At The Rail and take my lumps. Wasting an opportunity to make amends is worse than making a disaster in the first place.

By the way, if you didn’t get that t-shirt, it is now on sale for $12.50 on Ebay. Here’s the link.

Where's Joe?

2010-07-27T20:16:00.004-04:00

By the end of the fifth race I started to believe I stood in the place of a legend. I was at the historic Saratoga Race Track, the place of racing greats like Man O War, Sea Hero, Gallant Fox and well, somehow, Joe fit into the tradition.

Not Injun Charlie. Joe. Just plain old Joe. Everyone – and as a writer I know never to use the extremes like never and every, but I’m not exaggerating – everyone asked me where Joe was. They assumed I knew. Few know that there are over 200 security personnel at the track. Everyone (oops) assumes we know each other. It’s kind of like assuming everyone (oops, again) who comes to the track knows who Sea Biscuit was. Anyway, I began to pretend I knew Joe too, rather than I look like a fool. Turned out it was easier to pretend than to explain I didn’t know.

My assignment was on the fourth floor of the Clubhouse, the upscale seating a horseshoe toss from the finish line. Table linens, waiters dressed in black and white, over priced shrimp cocktails, and stray pigeons in the rafters. But a great view of the green turf courses, the infield lake speckled with geese and a heart stopping vantage to see your horse miss by a nose. Perched at this elevation are the race stewards, the press and Tom Durkin calling each race. My duties: keep out the riff-raff, the impostors and anyone violating the long standing rule – no short. It’s hardly enforced accept when you’re going to eat and I’m on the job.

It began as soon as they stepped off the elevator. “Where’s Joe, the guy who was here last year?” I politely shrugged a reply as I opened the gate for a couple fire marshals with the tough tour of hanging around the air conditioned hallway leading to the announcer’s booth.

The wait staff, his pants rippled over the top of his shoes like the neck of a Shar-Pei and his shirt hung like a sail without wind offered an explanation, “He said he wasn’t coming back. Said it was his last year last year.”

“Gee, imagine that,” responded one of the fire marshals. “Joe finally got sick of the place.”

“Good for him.” His companion said, like Joe just robbed the mutuel bay, made off to Florida, sticking it to The Man.

I settled into my post to find out more about Joe. "Been here for three years." "Been here since 2001." "Been here ever since I was here. 15 years." Throughout the afternoon, I wove pieces of information together and later bounced my theories around when asked.

“What happened to Joe?”

Deciding to offer some good news about Joe I said, “Retired to Florida.”

The man dressed in a yellow plaid jacket grabbed his heart. He staggered, but looked relieved, Fred Sanford style. “Whew, I thought maybe he died. Joe has been here for 28 years.” That number increased as the afternoon's card dwindled. I finally pegged the number of years Joe sat outside the elevator door at thirty-two. I would be lucky to be back there the next day. When asked if I would be Joe’s replacement I said, “For today.”

I bet Joe knew the details of each person who worked there. Kid’s names. Spouse. Where they had gone to school. Where they lived in the off season. Medical ailments and other aches and pains. Whether they voted for Nixon. Yankee or Red Sox fan. Joe had been on a personal detail gathering mission of 32 years. Yet, only the kid with the shirt tail knew Joe wasn’t coming back. Only he paid attention to what Joe had said.

After all the inquiries about Joe, I felt a little like the last race’s losing ticket crumpled, tossed and trampled beneath humanity's driving urge to continual move ahead. They accepted Joe’s absence too easily. A few shook my hand, introduced themselves with an expectation that I was to remember them. After all, they will be back tomorrow.

I walked through the grandstand after the races. No more crowds, stewards, or wait staff. Tom Durkin had jumped on his yellow scooter and headed off for a cold one. Spanish conversations accompanied the swishing sounds of brooms. Dust rose in the air. Tree tops captured the long afternoon rays. I thought about Joe. Thirty-two years sitting outside the elevator. I wasn’t going to come back this year. Two had been enough for me. But here I was. Could that be me three decades from now? Well, I like to be alive, but not be a security guard.

I hope you got a new dream now Joe. Good luck, where ever you are.

Communist Among Us

2010-07-25T10:43:00.002-04:00

Okay, okay, I’ve heard just about everyone complain how tired they are looking at Greece. It's been so long I almost forgot my UserName. So here’s the first blog about the next forty days. (You’re crazy to think I’ll write a daily blog about the going-ons at the Saratoga Race Track. I’ll leave that to the insiders like Injun Joe.)

Leaving Greece and coming back to America. I got to ask. How can you walk into a crowd of twenty thousand people who suddenly stop dead in their tracks, drop conversations and turn attention to the nearest flag as “Oh say can you see” ripples through the oaks and maples surrounding America’s premier racetrack? Only the limp flutter of Old Glory itself high above the Travers’ canoe and the pages of the New York Post reserving the benches under the mutual bay stir in the stilted summer air. The pause is as noticeable as a cough in a concert hall. Yet some will continue to meander through the hush, oblivious. It’s not surprising when a kid acts the fool, but it is curious to witness a senior clutching his absorbed thoughts as the National Anthem asks if the Flag is sill there.

Do major league ballplayers notice the Star Spangled Banner before every game or is it such a part of the 160-plus-game season that routine numbs its representation? At ten minutes before noon the Francis Scott Keys composition signals that another day of thoroughbred racing is about to begin. Post time is 1 PM, so the Anthem, played an hour before the first race catches most people off guard. At a ball game the Anthem is played just before the beginning of the game and the crowd has their attention turned toward the field in anticipation. Those at the track generally are not in the grandstand an hour before the first race. Instead, they mill about the yard searching for a picnic table, thumbing through the program handicapping the first race or fishing deep inside a cooler looking for a Bud Light. They are getting ready for the day, but not ready for their attention to be drawn elsewhere.

Nor is there any announcement. “Ladies and gentleman, please rise for the playing of the National Anthem.” Indeed, some must be told. Even I can miss the first drawn notes if I’m standing away from the PA systems. Nevertheless, there are those who refuse to take notice and act respectful. There is a loss of appreciation to pay tribute and respect to the National Anthem. The question is not if the flag is still there, but we could ask if there are any free and brave left among us.

My noon shift begins with the National Anthem. I’ll stand and salute. I’ll do it everyday of the meet. Forty Days of racing. Forty days to reflect on my God, my Country and my Founding Fathers. There is something that stirs my heart when I heard the Anthem. In my head I’ll sing, for the tune is difficult to carry and I have difficulty with the simple stuff like Itsy Bitsy Spider. I could cry when I hear the National Anthem if I wasn’t watching commies walk past me.

We Are Greece

2010-05-16T17:03:00.003-04:00

Why do we argue if we are Greece or not? That’s as stupid as standing in the middle of a burning house with a pack of matches in your hand and saying, “but I didn’t light it.” Who the hell care? Your standing in the middle of a burning house. Got out.

I’m not a liberal intellectual like Paul Krugman. I can’t get away with speculating about the economy with unproven theories and flat out denial about the economic situation. I’m just a smuck like everyone else who experiences reality. If I don’t have enough money coming in, I must either earn more money or cut my spending. I’m responsible to do this because no one is going to bail me out. I can safely say I’m not Greece. I get no bailout. And you probably aren’t like Greece either.

I do know that the US Debt to GDP ratio is over 10%. (For the economically challenged this is not healthy.) The United States is 13 trillion in debt. And here comes Congress – like a seagull to shit over everything – to add another $500 BILLION in spending on top of everything else. This could happen by the end of the month. Are you serious that my concerns about the debt are only a ploy to attack Congress' spending on social welfare? Well, hell yeah. Otherwise it is the same as your spouse saying in response to your lay off, “It’s okay honey. Let’s go and get that new car and take that vacation anyway. We’ll just borrow more money and worry about it later.” Later is now.

No the US is not like Greece. California which must close a $20 BILLION dollar budget deficit is. Huge slashes welfare, school spending, hospital programs, etc. are needed. Not little cuts, deep cuts. It hurts all. But it slaps those who have grown dependent on government created ballooning bureaucracies, the government union.

80% of workers in the US have defined pension plans. Those plans are in the market. They have already taken a wallop in the debt crises of 18 months ago. Unions held firm on their strangled hold on government and you the taxpayer. Public sector employees represents just 15% of the workforce, but they are paid by federal, state, and local governments who are all at risk when these governments go belly up.

Begin to dump this workforce into the 10% already unemployed and what do you think won’t happen? Riots in the street? Because we are not Greece? I’m sure Greece didn’t even think this would happen. We are humans and we are all greedy. Give us something and then try to take it away. What will happen? Greece? Isn’t New Jersey getting a little contentious?

Interest rates are going to rise. The economy is going to choke on new taxes. What we need is a credible solution and that does not include $500 BILLION more in spending. Spending needs to be reigned in now or we will face drastic cuts. Congress hasn’t the stomach to do it. Idiots like Jack Krugman say we are not like Greece. If we don't get a grip, we will be. Please, you can hide under a rock if you want. I’m building an ark.

Callie

2010-05-12T15:54:00.005-04:00

This may cause some of you to scoff, “Valerie, you need to get out more.” Scoff if you will, but this clearly illustrates the amazing power of the Internet’s social networks.

Throughout the ages man has been able to stir emotions through the use of various media. It would seem impossible to compare emotion caused by “art” to that caused by life. Nevertheless, the protagonist portrayed in novel or film suffers a loss, we feel that loss. He experiences triumph; we too bask in the glory and success. Every emotion is possible to evoke by word, photo, painting, music, etc. We never discredit the emotion as fake, but applaud the artist for the skill to capture our heart and soul, for bringing us along on the escape, an escape that brings us right back to the reality of human experience, an emotional connection to our world and others. (Aren’t we all going to cry when the last episode of Lost airs?) Friendships borne on the Internet suffer no loss in the ability to tap into a connection of human experience.

For the last year I have been on Twitter communicating with those who responded to the insane, poignant and humorous musing of my cat Diablo, known as Southbound Cat. My twittering cat is not novel. Millions of others do the same. For Southbound twittering was the next step in the evolution of expression. Diablo and her—yes Diablo’s online persona is a male, an often confusing point for others when I discuss my cat—companion, Phoenix, have blogged since my book tour in 2006.

There were only so many observations the cat could make in the confines of the house, and since my imagine lacks at times, I allowed Diablo to escape and begin a four month journey across the country. Ultimately, she would end up in Hawaii just about the time I would leave.

Along the way Diablo has brought with her a pile of followers, mostly other felines, the occasional airport, marketing firm and a few XXX’ers. I can’t explain it. She kept her reciprocal following to a minimum to filter out the drivel and concentrate on a special few who regularly have something entertaining to say. I am socially challenged and can not keep track of much more than a couple hundred others. Diablo’s cadre of followers is now over 1000. By the way, my own twitter account has only 23 followers.

She has developed some unique friendships with equally feisty if not wittier felines, cats with cat-titudes suffering the embarrassment of living with humans just because they can’t operate a can opener. It is an opposable thumb, not a lack of intelligences issue. Of equal attachment she has a community of humans with a fondness for the felines.

Diablo conspired to take over the world with the help of a few other felines. They have developed The Code, and have weaseled enough Tuna out of their humans to put Charlie the Tuna out of business. Diablo has been invited to stay with numerous feline and human friends and even a hedgehog during her transcontinental traipse. While most communication has been banter from a cat’s perspective behind the scene real life occurs. And that is were the connections rest.

Diablo shared in the joys of new kitties and loveable adoptions. "He" laughed out loud at hilarious antics and comments. "He" especially enjoyed taking stabs at foibles. Diablo shared the pains of illness and death, which included Boots, my mother’s cat. Some cats twitter the daily tribulations of their battles with disease and sickness. We watch, listen and pray. Others never mention their woes. Humans share their experiences in the similar fashion. Diablo offered sympathy to those whose pets have crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. In Direct Messages Diablo has come out of character to extend prayer to a friend whose father-in-law is gravely ill. While the adventures and tales of the Twitter characters are unreal (come on, a typing cat?), their personas, created by the person behind the keyboard are no less real.

Of this group, Diablo’s best friend and partner in crime has been a cat named TooncesCat. Toonces helped develop Diablo’s bad ass yet, loveable male character. As Diablo morphed on Twitter a connection to other fellow Twitterers, both cat and human grew. You may say virtually, but that does not diminish the resulting friendships.

I acknowledge all the emotions I have experienced on Diablo's behalf, yet I was caught off guard this morning, when I received a message that one of Toonces’ sibling house kitties passed away with kidney failure. Sadness met my heart and filled my eyes with tears. A real loss. I so felt the loss of a cat I had never met, never twittered to, and rarely discussed. But this cat belonged to Toonces’ owner. My heart goes out to The Human of Toonces on the loss of Callie, a beautiful 15 year old calico, the sister of Toonces, the friend of Diablo.

Weird yes, but that little bit of me that hurts is no less real.

$75 Tomato

2010-05-08T15:08:00.004-04:00

The only thing I’ve ever been good at growing has been my toenails. As a little kid, my first gardening attempt involved peas. I netted five pods and ever since I’ve never been a fan of peas. When I attempted tomatoes I lost the battle to cutworms the size of hotdogs. In January, when I was making a salad I sliced open a tomato and found little sprouts. I decided to see what would happen if I planted them.

It started as a simple whim, an experiment in my backyard, kept it simple and inexpensive, after all, condo rules state no fruit bearing plants. Something about attracting rats. If I got caught and had to remove the plants, I didn’t want a lot of money sunk into a few illegal plants.

It began with some dirt taken from beneath my palms and a cottage cheese container. No big investments. Four days after I planted them I took off for two weeks. I stuck the plastic container in one of my ti pots hooked up to a drip irrigation system. I placed the pot in a shady area of my lanai so the sun wouldn’t fry them. The tiny sprouts were not given much chance to survive. When I returned I had two dozen plants about three inches tall. That’s when I got emotionally involved in the experiment. And that cost money.

My nursery of little seedlings needed something larger than a cottage cheese container. And they needed more dirt. My Hilo cousin, an organic fruit and sheep farmer explained dirt was what you get on your clothes. What I needed was soil. I bought two bags soil and a window box size flower container, although I was advised I needed bigger containers. I transplanted the tiny plants expecting to lose some to shock, but all twenty seven seedlings made the first transplant. Surprised me. I knew I had to thin the herd, but like I said I got emotionally attached to the little guys. Pulling some of them up by the roots seemed criminal.

Over the course of the next few weeks they grew to be a foot tall. I needed more dirt and more pots. Cha-ching, cha-ching. I culled some of the plants and transplanted the rest into four more pots. Again, I expected some to die in the process, but all made it. In the culling process, I pulled one plant up and then decided to jam it back into another pot. The next day it lay limp. I continued to water it and it regained its upright posture, although stunted. Eventually it began to grow. In all I kept ten. They grew. I purchased tomato cages. (That was a sight. Traveling home on my scooter with four cages strapped to my basket. Looked pretty much like a scene from Bangkok, minus five other passengers.)

Bugs attacked the leaves. I bought a biological insecticide. Later the leaves started to yellow. I began to feed them Miracle Grow.

The plants are on the west side of the condo. By the afternoon, when they could get direct sun, the clouds have moved in. They are lucky if they get two hours. When I read that tomato plants need 6-8 hours of sunlight I went all out and bought a 120 watt grow light which are damn expensive in Hawaii.

My experiment was a measured success. I harvested my first tomato today. It cost about $75, not counting the cost of the original tomato purchased at the local farmer’s market back in January.

PHOTOS MISSING

2010-03-29T14:13:00.003-04:00

Welcome to my blog. As of this morning, morning Hawaii time, there seems to be a major blogger problem. Photos are missing. I've communicated with others and they are experiencing similar losses. I hope this gets fixed soon. At least the words have not gone missing. CRAP if they do as I have never backed up posted documents.

American Evil Exceptionalism

2010-03-25T03:14:00.010-04:00

Last week, I attempted to tackle the subject of evil as a chapter in my book. Yeah, I go after the big stuff. This is why it is taking so long to write it. I had no intentions of writing a blog about the passage of the health care bill. I made it plain last summer and fall where I stood. You know the saying about the dead horse.

After dinner and the crossword puzzle on Sunday night, I began to jot a few random thoughts on the subject of evil. Suddenly, I began writing about health care. I wasn't going to post any of this, but a friend asked what I disliked most about health care reform. Unfortunately, my answer wasn't very succinct.

An Evil Solution
The role of government is to protect its citizens’ God given rights. For some, the concept is hardly indisputable, particularly given the fertile ground plowed for government’s expansion through the recent passage of the Health Care Bill. It saddens me that people are now beginning to wonder what health care reform will mean to them. Kind of like the horse and that proverbial barn door. I’m not a scholar nor an intellectual, but I do know when something doesn’t smell right. This may be one thing not considered: the expansion of government expands evil throughout the world.

A wise man knows evil exists. Evil is a normal part of life. Evil makes us understand the full vibrancy and richness of life. Not the crazy and insane shit, like torture and genocide, that’s not normal although certainly evil. I’m talking the whole realm of human experiences including the fact that life is not fair: you can’t have everything you want, losers don’t get trophies and women generally live longer than men. It’s no bed of roses. Yet a growing number of people feel the need to rectify injustices through government intervention, regulation and defining rights. To rid the world of injustices citizens increasingly turn to their government, unaware and uninformed of the consequences.

Some may take exception to the usage of the word evil to describe injustices. Too strong? You may also believe green is a value. Green is not a value. It's a color.

American Experiment
Our founding fathers wisely recognized the source of man’s rights. They are God-given. It was a huge deviation from the previous courses throughout history. Never before had a nation been founded on the premise that the individual was created equal by God, and the individual was responsible for his own destiny in a nation that protected his life, his liberty and his pursuit of happiness. Never before was a nation founded on the guiding principles that government was formed by the people, controlled by the people, for the purpose of assuring that his God-given rights were not diminished. Never before had a nation been established uniting the values of E Pluribus Unum, Liberty and In God We Trust. Keep government small with a clearly defined role to protect liberty, not provide equality (God already did), and the individual flourishes.

Thus was born a nation that spawned individual aspirations and dreams. To experience one's own success and failure. Yes, even failure. It was a risk, but for that risk, man was free, unburdened by the whims of a few elite who could take away anything whenever they decided.

Government's Creep
To sway its citizens and seize an opportunity the government had to paint a picture of great atrocities. Instead of recognizing the US medical care system as a leader in developing technology, and a system where it was illegal to deny medical care to its citizens, the government trotted out every hardship case they could find to demonstrate the evils of the system. The case was made that insurance companies were villains without considering the free choice people had in a market less regulated by government. People suffered economic hardship accessing medical care, but few recognized that when hit by a car, shot or fallen in a ditch medical attention is given and THEN someone asks, “how are you going to pay for this?” Premiums were too high, but who addressed doctors who in fear of malpractice suits order unnecessary, but ass-covering procedures? Profits were too high, but who acknowledged the slim profit margins that actually do exist? And horror of horror, young adults kicked off their parents’ plans. Perhaps it is time to grow up, get a job and buy their own insurance. Oh, yeah, people are dying in the street. I know this for a fact, I saw two people die in January.

While I realize that there was a need to reform the medical system, reform was promoted by the government’s twisted versions of reality in order to convince the people that health care should be a right. Or, it maybe it is the right to have health insurance. I’m not sure. You see, when the government gives the citizen a right, it isn’t as clearly defined as God-given rights. God-given rights: Five words-Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. Government-given right: 2700 pages of health care voodoo.

If health care is a right, why not food? Isn’t that important? How about housing, jobs, transportation, education (actually the government has been messing with this) and reproduction? Will we need a 5000 page bill to clarify that any consumption over 1500 calories/day will be taxed unless you can prove that your state job requires a higher intake? You know them fat people are burdening the medical system. (Oh, is that a far reaching scare tactic?)

However, expecting the government to solve social and economic shortcomings is not the problem, nor is it that once government defines citizens’ rights the government can take away those rights, at any time, for any reason. The real problem is how this erodes the character of the individual and ultimately society. The true problem is what this does to man.

Imagine No Responsibility. It's Easy If You Try.
“If anyone does not provide for his relatives, especially his immediate household, he has denied faith and is worse than an unbeliever.” Yep, right out of the Bible, 1 Timothy 5:8. With God-given rights comes God expected responsibilities. But when we deny our responsibilities, why fret about our God-given rights?

Many believe that if evil does exist its roots are in social shortcomings caused by poverty, economic disparity, lack of proper nutrition, inadequate housing, poor education and lack of health care. Since the days of President Hoover this view has been growing. If only these disparities could be eliminated by providing equal access for all. Combined this belief with a man who takes less responsibility for himself and we have the coming of a societal train wreck. Man turns to government to take care of everything. It is an arrogant, self-centered idealism, more evil than the evils it pretends to address. For man wrongfully assumes that evil can be controlled and fixed through laws, rules, and regulations.

Give a dog a stick and he will never fetch it. Man by his nature is similarly lazy. Give him something for nothing and he becomes a self-center individual waiting for the next hand out, even demanding the next hand out, while all along appreciating it less and less. If he doesn’t have to scratch for his own living, he won’t. Create a dependent relationship on his government and it is a slippery slope to his own demise and a far cry from eliminating evil.

A self-centered person doesn’t care about anyone but himself. That includes making generous donations to charitable organization, (statistics show conservatives donate a far greater percentage of their income than liberals), or enlisting in the armed services to defend the freedom in his own country or around the world (ditto). A self-centered person stays home, selfishly waiting for the next distribution. It is delusional to think otherwise.

The Consequences
In the quest to cure societal ills through government intervention two things happen. We arrogantly believe that the problem and the solution are in our control, turning away from the faith-based nation created by our founding fathers. From God, we turn to government to grant new rights and we neglect our responsibilities, not only to ourselves, but to others. At the same time, we lower the bar of excellence: excellence in the individual who will strive in a society free of government handouts; excellence in industry created by the most talented individuals who recognize opportunities, and excellence in society, for welfare states don’t fight evil, they create it (Mao, Stalin, Che, Hitler). I won’t outline the differences of socialism, communism or progressiveness, as this is not the point.

When rights are determined and defined by government, the citizen doesn’t get more rights without incurring a deep cost. The most obvious cost is the loss of liberty as an ever-increasing portion of the individual's sweat-equity goes to the state to fund the ever-increasing entitlements for others. But I’m more concerned with diminished spiritual freedom. Not the I-go-to-church kind of freedom, although historically that is lost too (China, Russia, Cuba, Germany), but the freedom to be valued in a society that recognizes this as a gift to itself. (When a German solider comes home from Iraq, he is jeered. When an American solider returns home, he receives a standing ovation. Why is that? For the time being, it is because service is recognized as a contribution, freely sacrificed.)

The premises on which America was built built strong character which is not inherent in a fallen man separated from God. To have an accountability to a power, higher than government, instills a purpose to serve others. It creates a needed individual. But for those who are dependent on government, they horde dearly the crumbs received from their master who must ration limited resources produced in a society built on fears. Hardly inspiring, hardly a society that will take up the causes of the oppressed, the down trodden, the tired. Yes, the bar of human excellence becomes dramatically lower.

The trade-off between God-given rights and government-granted rights is huge for all nations. For America to be a nation like all others is to lower the standard of excellence and generates citizens with little concern beyond the disparities between him and his neighbor. It will doom all nations. We just took one giant leap toward government sponsored laziness. That's evil.

Nettle Cats

2010-03-15T17:54:00.004-04:00

I noticed the other day that I had not written a blog on Beyond the Sail since the end of February. (Diablo has written several at SouthBoundCats.) I resolved for the New Year to write three or four a week. I’m hardly upset about it. I’ve been plugging along in my book, so the keyboard efforts are alive and somewhat well. I say somewhat because I reread something I wrote in mid-Feb. What a piece of crap.

But this morning my writing routine was postponed due to an urgent mission to search and destroy the Stinging Nettle Caterpillar. As I write, I fight an urge to scratch a tormenting itch on the back of my hand.

A couple of weeks ago I discovered my ti plants and areca palms were vanishing nearly before my eyes. Some unknown pest chewed the leaves to the stems. Two years ago snails made dinner of my ti plants and last year little worms built nests from the leaves they chewed. After some research and discussion with the kids at Ace Hardware in the middle of the pesticide aisle, I significantly reduced these two invaders. It wasn’t all pesticides that helped. With the vigilance of a North Korean solider on the DMZ I patrolled the garden, examined foliage and earth for the insurgents. The organic approach was tedious, but I enjoyed pushing through the mini-jungle to find the foe. The snails were either flushed down the toilet or tossed over the fence to die in the middle of the busy road. The worm-leafhouse bugs were crushed under foot. I proved to be formidable predator, proud of my top-of-the-food-chain intellect and cunning.

When I discovered the caterpillars among the stalks of once green leaves I knew I had found a new enemy. I recalled a brochure the condo association sent out a couple of years ago on a particular caterpillar with a sting. I paid little attention to this information, for at the time, my areca were about two feet tall and my daily pest patrols yielded no caterpillars of any sort. Plus I was under the impression that these imported pests from Indonesia were on the Hilo side.

Yesterday while I reviewed the decimation and culled through the remaining foliage for the caterpillar, I accidently made contact with one of these spiny bugs. I cussed out loud in pain. With a sharp flick, the caterpillar sailed off the back of my hand. Its spiny hairs caused an intense pain, far greater than the “fiberglass-like” irritation described in the brochure I down loaded from the internet.

This morning my hand is slightly swollen, has a series of small blisters and madly itches. I called the agricultural hotline for invasive species to report the infestation. Expecting they would send out the National Guard and require an ten acre evacuation zone when they doused everything with chemical insecticide, I was disappointed when told they would make a note. A note? No wonder the coqui frog is hopping all over the island. I was told that Neem Oil might be a good non-chemical way to eliminate the caterpillar.

I bought Neem Oil from the same kids at Ace Hardware (one claiming he played with the caterpillar as a kid. My first thought was no way. But second thought he could have been a kid when this first arrived in Hawaii in 2001.) I tested the natural oil on a few captured caterpillars. They flinched. They later died.

Dressed in a sweatshirt, hood pulled over my head, a bandana over my face and gloves I entered the battle zone, spray bottle in hand. The spray smelled like dog shit. No, I don’t mean it smelled bad, I mean it smelled like dog shit. Hours after I finished the odor still drifts in the air. Just, terrific. I await the results.

Now, there is a whole other issue of the illegal plants in the back yard. That’s another blog.

Tsunani Event

2010-02-28T20:07:00.004-05:00

I’m exhausted. It’s tough work, this evacuation business. Doesn’t matter that nothing happened. I say nothing happened, but a lot really did. It began last week when I went to Hilo to visit the Pacific Tsunami Museum with my cousins and Dad. The tiny museum holds a great collection of tsunami information, including videos of first hand accounts of the 1960 and 1947 tsunamis that hit Hilo. Fascinating and sobering information. I emailed my sister that Hawaii was overdue for a major volcano, earthquake, hurricane, tsunami event.

The last big tsunami was back in 1960. It wiped out Hilo, forever changing the water front and town. The wave originated off the coast of Chile, after a 9.1 quake rocked the coast. Fifteen hours later, traveling at speeds of over 500 miles an hour, a 30 foot wall of water slammed into the town located on the west side of the Big Island. This wasn’t the first time. Hilo has been repeatedly hammered by tsunamis as if the bay rolls out a welcome mat for the water.

On Friday night, I was on Twitter. A little after 8:30 HST, I started seeing tweets about a huge earthquake in Chile. Immediately, I wondered if a friend of mine, Rodrigo was okay. But my stream of thoughts shifted to what I learned at the museum. If this was a 8.8 magnitude quake, we could expect a tsunami in Hawaii. I researched the quake, even getting to sites in Chile that carried early video of damage in Santiago. All in Spanish of course, I learned little, but a picture is worth a thousand words. This quake was located in a similar spot to the 1960 quake. Shit, tsunami, for sure. I collected important papers, writings, camera gear, water and a pair of socks and staged the stuff in the living.

About 11:30 I discovered a huge ant colony moving its headquarters into my bath shower. An early evacuation? I had heard the whales were disappearing ahead of the tsunami.

Following the trail I discovered the origins in my closet, in an old bathing suit. Yes, that’s where they were. Thousands of them and an equal number of eco-skeletons. I cleaned up the mess drowning them in the bathroom sink. (A sign of things to come?) Finally, I headed for bed. I slept fretfully, thinking of ants, not tsunamis.

At 5:15 I woke. I felt something different. There was more traffic than normal,less cars in the complex. Over night we went from a tsunami advisory to a warning. The expected time of arrival was 11:19 am, no change from the night before. First tsunami sirens blared at 6 am. I went to wake Dad and gave him the news. Today, we get to have a unique Hawaiian vacation experience, an evacuation.

Before leaving I cleaned the dishes and sprayed the shower down. Both acts I thought silly if indeed a wall of water crashed into my place. (My condo is the first building on the opposite side of the road from the beachfront.) If a wave didn’t come, I didn’t want to return to another ant invasion nor did I want to scrub soap scum off the shower walls.

In Florida I was prepared for hurricanes. With my camping gear I could easily live for days off the grid in the rubble of a disaster. Not so much here, where my part-time living never seemed to warrant the accumulation of survival gear. I figured an evacuation meant I had to immediately move to higher ground. No time to grab anything, just hightail it to higher ground as quickly as possible, and on foot. I never expected an official five hour warnings for impending doom.

Public officials advised to take five days worth of food and water. Get real. Do you really know what five days worth of water is? I don’t even have that many days of food at any given time in my condo. I threw together crackers, granola bars, raisins and every drop of liquid I could muster - soda, Power-ade, water. Maybe three days for both Dad and me if we weren’t too thirsty. At least in Hawaii one doesn’t have to worry about packing snow boots, parkas, mittens and other cold weather gear.

Dad and I left by 7:30 am. Early, but we were hardly the first. The upstairs neighbor sent his two teens off to higher grounds with the instructions, “Don’t come back until it is all clear.” It must have been a rare public display of affection for Dad. He yelled out, “I love you.” Both teens, a brother and sister, paused and eyed each other. The teens then jumped on their scooters and disappear into the predawn darkness. Shortly thereafter, the parents got into their car and were gone.

Once you leave the evacuation area, you’re out. Road blocks appeared at every intersection manned with police officers who casually slumped on the hoods of their cars. The atmosphere was a quiet abandonment. Everyone seemed to move in slow motion, in orderly fashion. Whether on the road or in line at the grocery store, everyone was relaxed, having no sense of urgency. Few people acknowledged that something might happen. After all, this was the Kona. What was going to happen here?

We picked up a hitch hiker along Alii. He looked like he desperately needed a ride into town. He did, to retrieve his dive gear. He was a master diver. In town, Alii was blocked so we dropped him off at the farmers market and turned up out of the evacuation zone. No going back.

I joked about going to WalMart. Its high and out of the zone. From the retaining wall there is a good view of the town and the harbor. Choice seats to view the inundation of Kona. But it is also exposed to sun and held a mob of people. Cars clogged the parking lot as shoppers came for toilet paper, bread, beer and other essentials. Instead, I drove a bit higher to an empty office parking lot. Now I could view the mobs below.

For most of the morning Dad and I sat there alone. Later a couple leaving on a 2 PM flight pulled in to wait. Then an elderly couple arrived. And finally a traveling man from Chicago who had been in Hilo that morning. These were my lifeboat occupants. The quieter, more private group, we kept to ourselves not even exchanging names. Our conversations were minimal. I had the internet feed going and provided sparse updates as the uneventful tsunami began.

Times passed slowly. The ocean calmly waited. The crowd below calmly waited. The expected time of arrival came and went. Where was it? Watching Channel 2 out of Honolulu dragged on. Because Hilo closed the airport at 6 am, no reporters from Oahu were in Hilo to carry the expected surges live on TV. However, Skypers, a video camera internet service, called the station ready to deliver blow by blow coverage of the destruction. I saw lots of fuzzy, unclear video of what appeared to be Hilo Bay and the ocean. Ah, the technology. At least I knew what was happening in Hilo. I didn’t care about what was going on with the sand bar on Waikiki.

Finally, an oceanographer said wave two just passed. What? Where? When? At that point I knew we dodged a huge bullet. No thirty foot wave. No six to eight foot wave. A sloshing of a couple feet. Whew. Then the wait for all clear. That seemed like eternity.

I had a head ache and butt ache. I was exhausted. Today, I'm still exhausted.

It was a good exercise and reminder of what is needed to be safe and survive. Fortunately, no damage occurred on any of the islands. I have a new reference. I know where to find a less crowded evacuation spot with the conveniences of electricity for charging phone and laptop, a good internet signal, running water and shade - all within the stones throw from Safeway, WalMart, Subway and Lowes.

But this event doesn’t mean the next will be the same. Time and circumstances could change everything. Nevertheless, over the course of the rest of my stay I’ll begin to assemble my survival gear. There will be a next time because yes, we are still long over due.

When we returned home that afternoon, after pulling into the parking lot Dad hi-fived me. I think that was a first.

Sammy Lu II

2010-02-13T01:02:00.004-05:00

From the shore all Captain Jeff could do was stand and watch. The Sammy Lu II moaned under the torturous twist of Pele’s stones as they gnashed at the hull. Bits from the underside of the bucket-of-a boat drifted in the surf. Unable to break free of the crush of water and tangle of lava, the 39 foot craft outfitted for a fishing expedition endured the battering.

The Sammy Lu II was out of Honokohau Harbor. A tired boat, her hull coated with algae and slim, what was once white now a shade of pale green and rust as prevalent salt in the sea, she had known better days, but they were long ago. The smell of sea, and fish punctured the air and mingled with the odors of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee and sour beer. Her diesel engine coughed hard every morning, dying a slow death for her Captain's attention to her needs was as shallow as the tidal pools where he flung his nets for bait fish. Though he spent his days at the helm and his nights in the cabin sprawled out on two planks stained with sweat, he promised her tomorrow, but delivered more of the same.

Captain Jeff was an expert, an expert at sinking boats. Sammy Lu II was the third boat under his command that took its last voyage. He now watched helplessly, hindered from retrieving any gear. The Coast Guard and Harbor Crew stood near-by and would not permit him to re-board the dying boat.

The morning had promised a prosperous day. Fishing had been good. A bride and groom hired him to provide a catch for their wedding reception. He was armed with five poles and plenty of bait fish. A twenty-four pack of Bud sat on ice in a large cooler that was intended for his take. Before setting out he topped the tank with enough diesel to take him beyond the horizon where mahi-mahi blazed through the deep waters off the Kona Coast. As he loaded the supplies, Sammy Lu II’s engine complained. There just wasn’t enough time or money for maintenance. He thought, “Tomorrow, when I get back.”

A north and west swell broke on the rocks just outside the channel mouth. He’d seen this slop before. But when the Sammy Lu II dipped her nose into the spray, she paused and her engine choked. The Captain found the boat wallowing in a six foot swell. It didn’t take long before the fishing vessel fell into the grasping claws of the lava rocks.

At quarter past the nine am hour word went out that the Sammy Lu II was sitting high off the swell and taking a beating. Each wave licked at the hull as if searching for the sweet spot, that place where boats are the weakest. She took the pounding for four and a half hours before one single high-rolling swell lifted her port side and dropped her. Fiberglass splinted and Captain Jeff turned away in pain. The next series of waves torn the bow from the stern and toppled the cabin’s canopy into the water where two sea turtles leisurely cruised.

To add insult to injury when the life raft box hit the water it self-inflated bobbing casually in the surf that began to disperse the contents of the boat and the boat herself. A paddle boarder rescued four life preservers and towed the raft into the harbor.

When I left the bow was behind the stern and the groom’s family gathered to retrieve boat pieces from the shore line. The bride's family was probably at Costco's buying fish.

Looking for Work

2010-01-29T14:23:00.006-05:00

Last year, I had a hard time accepting the truth. Looking back through my notes I had a miserable time. My economic situation was dismal. I accumulated an unexpectedly large medical bill. My apartments needed some electrical work that rang up to $700. Then a tree fell on my roof. There was a major increase in property taxes and I can’t forget Uncle Sam coming after my life savings. I looked for work while on island and turned up nothing. Fortunately, I landed three jobs back in New York and worked June through September with little respite.

This year I’ve come back to Hawaii with all bills paid in full, again debt-free. I’m recharged to write, with the mission to finish the first draft of my book. Nevertheless, I pursue the classified looking at jobs, out of curiosity. You know, what if.

I’ve found some good ones this past month. I’m not serious, but if I was...

The Royal Kona Resort wanted a human resource professional. The work was temporary. Perfect. Of course every time there is an HR job on island, they want someone with hospitality and labor experience. It doesn’t sound like those two go hand in hand. I think union; I think steel.

Hawaii is one of the most unionized states with 23.4 percent of workers belonging to a union in 2007, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. Only New York and Alaska are more unionized. How did that happen? After all, in a major study of unions and the American workplace, Professor Barry Hirsch of Georgia State University (my old school) found that unionized companies suffered not only lower profits but lower investment in physical and intangible capital and slower growth. It makes perfect sense to throw in a union in the mix when your economy is dependent on tourism. Maybe my manufacturing background would not be a good fit. I’d expect too much out of labor, and management.

Looking elsewhere… It’s that time of the decade. The Census2010 needs enumerators, those door to door knockers who show up to ask you about Jesus. Oops, those are Jehovah Witnesses.

The other day I took the online sample test, because I was seeking mental stimulation after I got only three clues on Saturday's crossword. I needed some reaffirmation of my mental abilities. I aced the test and celebrated by dancing around the condo(not really).

Posting for Census2010 jobs are popping up on telephone poles, bulletin boards at the co-op, on the Hele-on buses. Maybe I could get a job posting these bulletins. I can use a staple gun. Training for enumerators is on Oahu. I’m not spending $200 to fly to Honolulu to take a test for a job. I’ve done that twice with the New York Racing Association to be security guard.

Now here is the perfect job. The Fair Wind has an opening for deck hands. Since 1971, Fair Wind has been the leader in snorkel cruises on the Big Island of Hawaii. I’ve been in two cruises. My last trip was a night manta dive. Awesome. The job requires a four day workweek, 10-12 hours/day. Ninety percent of the time is spend outside and most of it on a boat helping people with their fins and snorkels. Some boat cleaning and taking orders from the captain required. Hell, baby, have I got experience. This would be a blast, except for the small fact that I get sea sick in elevators. And I hate getting my hands wet.

The airport was looking for security guards. Did I ever tell you that I took the TSA exam and failed it? Makes you think twice about those people in the blue uniforms doesn’t it? I don’t think I failed, but they told me I did. There was some snafu the day of the exam. The tester didn’t show. I and another person waited 90 minutes for someone to administer the exam. This required a log-on within a certain time frame(Can you say, "Be on time?"). I think we got booted because we missed the twenty minute window. That’s my theory anyway.

I know I didn’t fail the math and English, but I did have some difficulty deciphering the scanned images. Everything looked like a bomb. Trust me, reading those scans is about as convoluted as interpreting a baby's ultrasound. A boy? That thing? Right, it's a bomb.

Finally, the West Hawaii Today wanted photographers and writers do to community interest stories. All I had to do was summit samples of my writing. I’m sticking to my book. I’ve reworked the outline and assembled my notes and random pieces I’ve written over the past year. Boy, it's no way to make a living.

RIP JD Salinger.

image from: http://www.changeairportsecurity.org/

Back to Micronesia

2010-01-27T12:10:00.003-05:00

They are invading my sanity. So tiny, they are almost invisible. But I know they are there. Little ants, piss ants, the shade of cream soda, and the small enough to crawl through the eye of a needle.

While in the Peace Corps, I came to accept these ants, even in my food. My Mom cooked French Toast on occasions, a delightful treat sprinkled with ants that had invaded the cookware that sat in the outdoor cook nahs. At first, I picked them off, with the tinge of my fork, a utensil not used by any other family member. Later, I adapted a stickier approach and used my fingers. It wasn’t long before I just sighed and ate them with imitation maple syrup.

When you live in a jungle, ants come with the décor. These ants were everywhere including on me. Because their size made them difficult to see I lived by the axiom, if it feels like an ant, it must be an ant. When it feels like something is crawling on you, you brush it away even when you don’t see anything. This also served to retain sanity. If it feels like an ant, it must be ant was more acceptable than, if it feels like a cockroach, must be a cockroach. That happened too. Fortunately, the ants didn’t bite, or at least I never felt a bite.

Here in Hawaii, I’m being plagued by a similar ant. If I were a slob and left food and crumbs everywhere, I could understand the invasion. But I learned long ago that if I leave anything out my cat gets it. Although Diablo is not here, I apply the same principle, only on a greater scale. After preparing food, I clean up and wipe down everything My garbage is kept in the refrigerator until the bag is full. (Actually this is not gross. In fact, my garbage is fresher than most because it doesn’t begin to rot and it doesn’t stink like that can of beans you opened two months ago.)

There is nothing for these ants to pillage, except water. It hasn’t rained in this decade, so they are on patrol in my kitchen and the bathroom.

This is most annoying. I dry off everything. The kitchen is as arid as the Sahara. Now think about that. No water in the kitchen, including the sink. It drives me crazy and I’ve done all I can think to do this side of bombing the condo to get rid of them.

The worst annoyance is the tea pot. They love the tea pot. It’s a 24/7 liquid way station. And they know it. I see them communicating. One ant leaves, meets his buddy along the invisible trail back to somewhere beneath my cabinets and reports, “Hey Joey, the distilled stuff is in the lid. No deposits, no chlorine.”

Swirling the water around the inside of the pot, I flushed 24 ants out the other morning. I now dump all the water and dry the inside to discourage the ants from congregating in the kettle. It’s a pain in the ass.

This morning I regressed to Micronesia. I inspected the kettle before I filled it with just enough water for one cup. Despite this I found two ants swimming in my brewed cup of tea. I rolled my eyes, tried to fish them out but they sank into the abyss.

I drank. There feels like I got something caught in the back of my throat.

Massachusetts

2010-01-21T02:56:00.003-05:00

After hearing the liberal pundits explain Scott Brown’s victory in Massachusetts, I am angry at being called angry. I, like many Americans, am concerned about the socialist experiment Congress is bent on conducting. I’m not angry. I am alarmed. The people in the Commonwealth didn’t vote for Scott Brown because they are stupid. They didn’t vote for Scott Brown because he is good looking, drives a pick up truck and wears denim well. They didn’t vote for Scott Brown because they like their state's health care and selfishly want to deny the same to the rest of the country. If you believe that, pack your bags come November. You have no clue.

Scott Brown took basic conservative substance,a moderate, above-board, positive tone and campaigned to reclaim America’s founding principles. The Senatorial race’s outcome was about Congress trying to ram 2000 plus pages of staggering laws, taxes and fines down America’s throat under the guise of Health Care Reform. It was about the government’s attempted to replace America’s free enterprise system with socialism. It was about government taking control over 1/6 of the US economy.

Despite what liberals think, Obama wasn’t given a mandate to turn this country into a European-style polity. He won because he offered some nebulous change when America became disillusioned with President Bush. Let’s be honest, Mussolini could have beat John McCain.

In September, the people of Massachusetts began to reinvest in America. At first quietly, but purposefully. Nobody was paying attention. The fact was clear: this was blue state Kennedy territory. Yet, the people stood on street corners with hand made signs. They went to Washington and pleaded. They went door to door. They attended town hall meetings. There wasn't anything angry about it. Last night, at of the end of Obama’s first year as President, a new shot was heard around the nation, if not the world. Call them Tea Baggers. Call them crazy. Call them misguided Independents, or fed-up Democrats. Massachusetts citizens were energized and ready to battle, tired after a summer and fall of no response out of Washington.

America dodged a torpedo. The loss of a key seat in the Senate now gives Republicans the power of a filibuster. We came close to sinking the ship. Mind you the Democrats still command Congress and the White House. While the battle might have been won, the war is hardly over. We must not abandon our positions. All hands need to remain on deck. Back door deals, lack of transparency, favoritism to special interest groups, outrageous debt creation, bigger government spending, irresponsible taxation is not acceptable. One man won’t stop that. The movement must continue.

When the Democrats lost the New Jersey and Virginia gubernatorial races they denied what this meant. The losses were pushed aside, as if not important. The question is will they continue to sleep despite this epic defeat?

Up in Flames

2010-01-17T19:31:00.003-05:00

I’m sorry, but this time I got to laugh. Call me insensitive, but when Jaison’s road side memorial went up in flames yesterday afternoon, I thought it was hilarious. Stupid hilarious.

I helped get it started, not the fire but the memorial. Last Sunday night, after Jaison and the motorcyclist were pronounced dead, my upstairs neighbors bought flowers, a lei. I just got back with my new moped. They caught me in the parking lot and asked if I cared to join them. I parked the bike and we, with little fanfare strolled to the place where Jaison landed.

On the bougainvillea along the side of the road we placed the flowers, briefly shared our common disbelieve about the event and adjourned. Every mindful of the traffic, Maria tugged at me several times to pull me closer to the bushes, away from the street. I smiled, every time she did. We came back into the complex, and that was that.

Except the next day, more flowers appeared. Then candles and mementoes were placed on the bushes. A box, a poster, more candles, a few bottles and cans of beer. More candles. A couple tiki torches. And where ever a motorcyclist passes, they blast their horns. More for the other guy, not so much for Jaison.

One morning after I crossed the street to retrieve the newspaper from the minimart, I noticed the candles were still lit. Apparently they burned all night. Of course, there was a potential disaster sitting in those bushes. It hasn’t rained here all year. Okay that is two weeks. But it hasn’t rained in Kona in a very long time. So I wasn’t too surprised when the memorial went up in flames. Now, a charred reminder remains, a scar in the bushes that will take time to recover, much like the scar Jaison left his family and friends.

Maybe I laughed as my way of coping with the week's events. I lost a couple nights worth of sleep. I chilled for two days. I plowed through a friend's first draft to keep my mind occupied. I was moved to renew my CPR and first aid training. I had to chuckle, especially when the conflagration got more coverage in the local paper than the accident itself.

Life is funny.

Speak English?

2010-01-16T14:03:00.003-05:00

The other day I went to register my Honda Metropolitan moped at the Department of Motor Vehicles. For those who are not following me on faceBook, you do get the news a few days late. But this blog is not about my expanding world of transportation. It’s about accommodations and you can draw the conclusion if this is about your money.

I had been to the office a day earlier to check on the procedure of registering my new ride. I purchased the moped from an airline pilot who was currently laid off from the soon to be, if not already be (said purposefully) defunct Mokulele Airlines. It is tough to compete against the dominate player, Hawaiian, but it is an uphill battle when your name can’t be pronounced, remembered or said, by your potential clients. It was bad marketing. Most visitors look at this word as a foreign language. It is. Most adults tune out foreign words. If they can’t or won’t pronounce it, they won’t fly it. Mokulele is not hard, to say or pronounce but Hawaiian and Go. Now that is familiar and easy.

Anyway, my pilot buddy was liquidating assets to move to Newark. He had a moped with a registration signed back in September 2008 by the previous owner. Uninspected and unregistered. I wondered how the DMV would handle this. Registration transfers are suppose to be done within ten days or the fine is up to $100.

I wasn’t going to purchase the moped if I couldn’t resolve this matter without another $100 coming from my pocket. But the lady at the DMV after a brief consultation with unknown persons behind partitioned walls said, “no worries."

A current inspection was needed before they would transfer the registration for $5.00. Such a deal. I wondered if I needed to get that in writing.

The inspection cost less than ten dollars. I needed to replace a light bulb in my head lamp, which I knew about because I arrived home the day I got it, in the dark. The mechanic discovered my brake lights were not working and fixed that using pliers to unjam the wire at the hand brake. He also instructed to change the oil every 1000 miles and check air pressure in the tires every two weeks. With inspection done, and two new stickers slapped on the back of my moped, I returned to DVM.

A different lady. I should have gotten this in writing. In the entrance way I fished the necessary documents out of my backpack.

“Whenever you are ready, I can help you,” she politely offered. So far, so good. Set the tone.

I sat down at her desk. “I would like to transfer this registration.” I handed her the papers. She was pleased that I had the inspection. “Yes, I was in here yesterday to find out what I needed. I was told there would be no fine.”

She accepted this and proceeded to process the paperwork. “Color of the moped?”

It’s not a true blue. It’s sort of between a blue violet and a slate blue. Depends on the light. “Hum, purple and white.”

“Purple? I’m going to have to look up the code for purple.” Moments later she officially sanctified my moped as M, the code for purple. Magenta maybe? If it ever gets stolen I’m reporting it as slate blue.

As she typed up the paperwork, I looked around her desk. If Mokulele went belly up because tourist wrestled with the name, then rest assured that the DVM in Hawaii will never fold.

There was a sign that said if you need an interpreter point to the language and the department would provide one. Maybe this is what Mokulele needed.

Apparently the DMV has access to people who will help you register your vehicle in twenty-one languages, including Pohnpeian.

Idih wasabt ma ke anahne soun kawehwe ni lokaia wet.

If you can’t say it in English, maybe you shouldn’t be driving it. If you can’t say it in Hawaiian, maybe you won’t fly it?

Moving On

2010-01-12T17:53:00.002-05:00

It’s not like I am able to just walk away. Not only was I there, but it happened here, where I live. It didn’t happen to total strangers. I knew one. He lived upstairs, but over one unit. What I saw is imprinted in my head.

I had a hard time engaging today. Yesterday’s accident haunted me into the night. I stayed up until I was so tired sleep would not elude me. To help, I struggled through Sunday’s crossword puzzle. It was almost two in the morning before I surrendered.

I woke to the sounds of my neighbors. I stared at the ceiling listening to their day begin: the sound of water running in the shower, the blender making a smoothie in the kitchen, footsteps moving across the living room. Despite what happened, today was here and it was going to happen, despite shock, grief, pain and death. As long as God was creating time, the next day was coming.

A friend had given me a first rough draft to plow through. I was honored to be the first and only person to read it, but she wanted it back within a week. I made no promises that I could make my way through the 50,000 word document. But last night and today I was grateful to pour though the pages, offering suggestions and critic. A healthy distraction, to concentrate on someone else’s work.

When I wasn’t reading, I tended to my palms and ti plant, but even then I was keenly aware that on the other side of the fence two make shift memorials had been erected. On the far side of the street the telephone pole was cluttered with photos of the motorcyclist, an array of flowers, a San Diego Charger football jersey. On the bushes along the roadway in front of my unit sat a cluster of flowers, candles and torches. A Raiders’ plaque was tucked into the shrine. On each memorial, the names of the two men were posted. Between the two memorials investigation marks in white, orange and yellow dotted the street.

I mourned. This afternoon, Jennifer called and asked how I was doing. I had called my aunt on Maui last night to talk about the accident. Jennifer and I talked for almost an hour. I felt better after wards. Just talking. What cheap therapy we should all engage in more often.

At sundown I crossed the street stopping to look at each memorial. Oddly, I hold the motorcyclist at fault. But does it matter?

At the ocean’s edge, a huge winter surf pounded ashore. An angry red sun drop slowly through the clouds. I sat feeling the waves roll in and crash on the lava. An off shore wind caught the crest and blew a mist off the arched neck of each wave, like a flowing horse’s mane. The roar absorbed everything around me. I was lost.

As the sun hit the horizon, a humpback whale fully breached. To no one I exclaimed, “Whoa.” Others look, but he was gone. I waited for the encore. He never came back to the surface. I didn’t even see a blow hole mist. He completely vanished, but in that one moment he reconfirmed the power of life. I knew I would be alright. It was time for me to move ahead.

Hot Tamales

2010-01-11T18:06:00.004-05:00

This is how I got forty tamales in my freezer. Actually, there are only thirty seven. Confused? Of course.

Early on, I recognized I had a mission in life. Everyone is put on earth for a reason. Mine is to find the best-grandma-tasting tamales in the world. Yep, they’re out there, and in unusual places. I have found them Cleveland, Ohio and Rogersville, Tennessee. I suppose if I lived in the southwest, or hung out in LA, I’d have retired by now with an unlimited supply of pork stuffed masa wrapped in a corn husk. But my roots are from upstate New York, and from the day when being of Mexican didn’t bring to mind “illegal alien.”

When I came to Kona to purchase my condo I slipped into a little establishment called Habaneros for a bit to eat. Fortunately, it was a Wednesday, the only day of the week that they serve tamales. I ordered a couple and headed back to the resort where I had a rented a very nice condo on a golf course near with ocean.

It had rained most of the week and second thoughts about relocating to Hawaii haunted me. I needed to enjoy something, so the anticipation of munching down on the tamales made my mouth water. I sat on the lanai to watch golfers trudge the back nine as they tried to sneak in a round on an iffy afternoon. I felt for them. At least I wasn’t on vacation. One bite and my weather woes disappeared. I only regretted that I wouldn’t be on the island come the following Wednesday.

I won’t say I moved to Kona because I found the perfect tamale, but it is a good reason.

Being without motorized transportation requires a good deal of planning and it seems I’ve spent too much time on transportation. My first week on the island has been busier than I expected. And I pounded the pavement on foot and on bike. I try to plan the day, and minimize the number of hills I must ascend because I hate climbing hills, I’m lazy and I always arrive drenched with sweat.

Most everything I need is within a short distance and doesn’t require a hill: the library, the farmer’s market, the church, community pool, hardware store and now with Target on the island, I can even get some groceries without trucking up to KTA, Saveway or Wal-Mart. But when I have to climb, like to go to the bike shop, the hills albeit short are killer steep. Okay, maybe not for a sixteen year old, but for a 55 year old woman on a mountain bike, they require a bit of muscle. I got it. I can do it, but my knees are beginning to feel the pain.

Tamales are down the road about five miles and then up a hill, a killer hill. I ordered twenty to freeze for dinners. (Planning dinners reduces the need to ride up hills. So does not eating dinner. I've done that too.) On Wednesday morning I went to pick up mu order. Hermando, the owner was surprised I showed up on my bike. The tamales had to be repacked to fit in my back pack.

Do you know how much twenty tamales weight? As much as a fat cat. Do you know how much warmth is emitted from twenty fresh tamales sitting on your back? As much as a fat cat.

I considered the mission a success until I got home and decided to eat one. Sure it was before ten am, but it wasn’t a beer. Disappointment registered when I tasted one very salty tamale. The tamales either fell into the ocean on the way home or absorbed a lot of my sweat. Neither happened. Someone goofed in the kitchen.

Frankly, I chalked it up and individually wrapped each tamale in foil and tossed them pile of them into the freezer. I figured with a bit of rice and beans, topped with salsa, the masa would be okay.

That evening, I got a call from Hermando. “I’m sorry. We not taste them and we discovered the tamales are too salty. We already made you more. Come by, tomorrow, yes, if you like and pick up.”

Oh my knees. But worth the trip.

Death on Alii

2010-01-11T00:16:00.004-05:00

WARNING: NOT AN EASY READ

The only thing Jason ever said to me was, “Sorry, sister.” In my head I sneered back, “I’m not your sister.” The apology lame. Issues with my upstairs neighbors.

His friends parked their cars in my parking space, even after I told them that the guest parking was just across the parking lot. While I don’t have a car or any use for the space, it is directly in front of my condo. The visitors brought loud music and conversations that filtered into my bedroom window, some times past midnight. The irritation pushed me to complain to the condo office. It wasn’t the first complaint. Before I arrived on island, the police had been called to quell a domestic disturbance.

Every day life carries all sorts of challenges. My challenge was to keep peace with my neighbor. But, Jason faced greater demons, ones I can only imagine and then not very well. His “sorry sister” apology was delivered with too much friendliness, a type of familiarity that drifts through the air when someone is intoxicated. Jason and his parade of friends were a nuisance. Yes, I lost a little sleep, found oil stains on my parking space (I'm responsible to keep it clean), but the crossing of our paths left my life unscathed.

Until this afternoon. I only heard the impact, a loud yet muffled sound, the type of sound a baseball bat makes when striking a pillow. Something wasn’t right about that sound right outside my condo. It happened fast and stopped suddenly. The sound of flesh meeting metal, flesh crashing on pavement.

On the asphalt heated by the mid afternoon sun, Jason laid bleeding. Struck by a motorcycle, carried down the street, his body bounced off the pavement, not like a rag doll, but like the body of a man, twisted and confused. He came to rest face down. Seconds later a stream of blood ran out from beneath his head. Slight gasps of air gurgled as his body tried to do what it had instinctively done since birth. Breathe.

My towel cradled his head soaked in red. It was all I could offer. Others got there first. I turned to my Lord and prayed.

It could have been a gun battle, except the motorcycle laid wrecked further down the hill. Twenty feet away from Jason the motorcyclist, also drunk and doing sixty in a 30 mile per hour zone, was sprawled face down. His blood looked like Jason's, thick and dark as it seeped away from him, no different than a bad oil leak.

A woman dressed in a short black dress check for a pulse. She yelled over, "Does he have a pulse?" I looked at Jason's wrist. I didn't answer. I don't know if anyone did. In the distance sirens screamed. She turned the motorcyclist over and began to administer CPR. The sirens were too far away, on an island that suddenly seemed so big. He’d never know who he struck.

There was too much blood. The thickness crawled along the pavement, as if it tried to escape the place it had always been. When they rolled Jason over to allow air to reach his brain, his mouth was filled with blood, his face smeared with flesh. The indignity of force stripped his pants from his waist exposing him. But he would never know the embarrassment.

I've never seen a body so broken. I turned away and clutched my chest. I felt my heart beat, but how fragile it was.

It is not often that Alii Drive becomes a quiet street. Traffic in both directions halted. The sounds of Sunday afternoon became muffled whispers of speculation. Residents, joggers, walkers, bikers all stopped to study what had happened. As if we could understand and put it back together. One moment a man, standing in the middle in a wide center turn lane, carrying a bag of ice is displaced when motorcyclist coincidentally arrives in the same time and place. Two lives collide with such force life is knocked right out of both.

I never heard the ambulance leave. Jason and the motorcyclists were pronounced dead before it arrived at the hospital.

Tonight, the neighbors set a lei on the bougainvillea near the spot where Jason's bag of ice landed. Two men lost their lives just outside my condo. I don’t suppose you see souls rise from catastrophe. Too bad. I waited. If I saw Jason's soul standing there I would say, “Sorry Brudah.” And mean it.

A Decade in Review

2010-01-02T22:46:00.018-05:00

I didn't know the end of a decade was so important. Seems like everyone is summarizing the past ten years. So I rummaged through the old memory banks, computer files and the internet to find my personal highlights.

2000 Chile
On the eve of Y2K we expected planes to fall out of the sky, ATM machines to stop working and electric grinds to spark wildly through the night. Boy wasn’t that ho-hum? The New Year did find me wide awake at midnight. With twelve others whom I had met just a week earlier I ate lamb cooked over the coals of a campfire. It never tasted so good. Somewhere deep in the mountains of Chile my trekking crew and I from North Carolina Outward Bound paused for a little rest.

Later,I wrote in my journal…
"Tonight, the moon rose over the shoulder of Osorno. Standing on the shore of Lago Llanquihue, I stare up at the summit in self-amazement. I must tell myself I was there - just last night, descending from the peak under the star-filled sky, following my moon shadow down the slopes. Time is a funny thing, for tonight last night seems like a lifetime ago.

My presence on this mountain when measured in time and size is merely a spec compared to its age and its stature. I guess today's bright sun melted my foot prints and all traces of my being has been erased from the surface of this great mountain. In this regard, Osorno appears unchanged. I can not say the same for me. To any stranger my feat is just another mountaineering yarn. And if I must tell myself I was up there on Osorno's slopes, how will anyone believe me? I know I was there. I can feel it."

2000 Chilean "Millennium" Mountaineering alumna, 32 days
Posted on North Carolina Outward Bound

2001 Ecuador and Peru
Somewhere in my past I saw a photo of Machu Pichu where emerald green mountains touch the sky. A five day trek and I found myself looking down to the stone city. I was invited to spend the night at the hotel near the summit. After the last bus shuttled the tourists from the peak, I walked among the ruins in a solitude. Few get to experience this.

The next morning I climbed Huayna Picchu in an hour. I’ve got a great photo of me at the top taking by a couple of Germans. Alas, those were the days before digital and that photo is buried somewhere in the archives of my storage unit.

I combined this trip with another Outward Bound adventure to Ecuador. Something about the mountains. I climbed to 19372 feet, dragged through the fog with the help of an angel. I got my sorry ass to the top to see absolutely nothing. Fog threw a thick blanket around me. Complete white out. A month later National Geographic’s Adventure magazine had a photo spread of the mountain. Couldn’t believe what I missed!

2002 Singapore, Katmandu and Bangkok.
My first experiences in Southeast Asia. Overwhelmed with language, smells and sounds, and that was in Singapore. I ventured out alone to see the Royal Palace, hire a longboat captain to take me across the river and a private guide to show me the ancient capital. The people in Nepal taunted my life long dream to join the Peace Corps.

My last evening in Bangkok, feeling adventuresome I ordered a chili bass and nearly gagged when the fish arrived with head and scales. It was delicious.

Little did I know I was headed to Micronesia in a year where my host father would offer the raw heart of a tuna and I would see a young man spear a fish and eat it while hanging off the back end of my boat.

I puked in the Sheraton Katmandu lobby after a wild ride in the backseat of a Landrover. I told them I wasn’t feeling too good. And I cussed like a sailor on the accent to Kala Pater. My guide, Anna Griswald, insisted everyone drink two quarts of water during our treks. And every night I had to get out of my sleeping bag, don my frost covered jacket and pee. One night I stepped out of my tent to see the full moon kissing the Himalayas. I couldn’t help but reach out and touch the white light. No one saw me do this.

Later I road an elephant and went looking for tigers. I’m still looking for tigers.

2003 Federated States of Micronesia
“Downstairs the youth group practices Christmas carols in Mwoakillese. Over and over again, they sing with no less enthusiasm than the first time. This morning after digging the tree ornaments out of the closet in my room, I helped my little sister, Juliet, decorate a four-foot fake Christmas tree. The presents sent by my mother and father arrived and I have placed them under the tree. If I could only smell pine instead of the ubiquitous island mold, I might convince myself it is Christmas time.

In town, the lights are hung on the all the store fronts. From the PA system in Wall Mart, an endless supply of Christmas music spills out on aisles of Spam and Ramen. In the freezers, air filled Santa balloons accompany the shipments of turkey tails. Next door at Senny’s, a small retailer where you’ll find everything from rice to mattresses, a life sizes Santa wiggles his hips and dances to the techno beat found on the CD decks of most Micronesian cars.

It’s Christmas time in Micronesia. Hardly feels like it. I feel like this one is going to be a tough holiday for me.”

2004 Slogged through Micronesia
Okay, it was a lifetime dream, turned into nightmarish experiment of boredom. If it had not been for the other volunteers and my cool new family I would have lost my sanity. My assignment consisted of waiting for someone to show up to work. That usually happened on pay day when the staff of four seemed to magically appear before running off to some relatives forty day funeral.

Many a morning I sat in a burnt-out cement block building with windows boarded in plywood. Then I found a project on the island of Nukuoro. I poured my heart and soul into researching and writing a grant to built a library equipped with solar powered computers hooked up to short band radio for email. Clever me.

Clever until I asked for technical support from a salty sea captain.

2005 The High Seas
When the New Year rolled in I was rolling in the belly of the Cosmic Muffin. Remember puking in Katmandu? That was little league. Sailing from Micronesia to Majuro turned out to be a sixteen day roller coaster ride. You would think I would learn, but a promise is a promise and so I found myself sailing from Hawaii to California once again on board the Cosmic Muffin.

My July 29 journal entry
"Took the 8:30 p.m. to midnight watch. With music to listen to, a book to read, stars to gaze at, and the job of sailing a boat using crib sheets, time passed quickly. These hours usually do, especially when the alarm clock is set for every twenty minutes. We should all be nervous tonight, for I am in control using my trusty cheat sheet to keep the boat a sailing.

It is a warm night and the weather is clear, so the captain is sleeping on the foredeck. Maybe he is covered with flying fish? I don’t know.

Don’t accuse me of having a dull, uncomplicated life. "

2006 East Coast
It was on the high seas that I decided to turn my journal into a book. I scribbled out The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and I self-published my first book.

While I worked on remodeling one of my apartment kitchens, I devised a marketing plan for my memoir. I wrangled a radio show host into following my exploits then jumped into my parents' 20 year old RV and peddled the book in seaports, campgrounds, farmer’s markets and even a roadside corn stand.

The best of plans can't prevent life from happening. Mom passed away and suddenly becoming a famous author didn’t seem too important.

2007 Florida
In my never- ending search to stay warm, I packed my two cats into my Jeep and headed south. I had a whim that I would go to Key West, to pick up where Hemingway left off. Instead, I ported in the Greek sponge diving community of Tarpon Springs and joined three writers groups.

I met up with some old friends and made a few new ones. And at the end of the year, after kaykig, swimming and biking all year, I got to go sailing again. But never let land get out of sight.

Considered the year a total success.

2008 Europe
I've always had a lot of places I wanted to go, but Europe was never on the radar. I was never too impressed with the French, finding them rude even in my own country. Why go chasing after that?

But then my brother Mark thought it would be cool to go to Europe and tromp around where Dad did some of his World War II campaigning. My Uncle David, Dad and I joined a tour and set off to see Paris.

I wrote a blog excerpt...
"The soldier was aware of the constant threat of death. It slept beside him. He merely had to reach out to answer its call to end the misery. Somehow he resolved to ignored it. It wasn't mind over matter. Will-power could not have been enough. Each day he’d take slow crucifying steps toward his enemy, his only companion fear and anxiety. His backpack heavy with despair, yet he continued to grip his bayoneted rifle and a hopeless sense to live.

In this place where death piled up in layers of bones there was one refuge, a fountain. At the only source of water for either side a soldier met his enemy whose thirst had brought him to the same piece of heaven on earth. In misery, he dared not meet the enemy’s eye, for he would see the same fading light of hope. The two would silently dip their canteens in the pool, then slip over the hillside where the smell of burnt horses and gangrene filled their throats."

Lost in the Paris Metro with map in hand a French man, speaking no English, offered to help. Somehow, I managed to tell him where I wanted to go and he managed to give me directions. And suddenly, I thought the French weren't so bad after all. Nothing like a good life experience to prove yourself wrong.

2009 New York
Uncle Sam made me pay for my island retreat in Hawaii, so I worked my ass off at odd jobs to pay a few tax bills. He has no record of such activities. And when he reads this, like everything else I write, I'll claim it's pure fiction.

That’s a good way to bring 2009 and the decade to a close.

New Year Resolutions

2010-01-01T19:01:00.004-05:00

Boy my ass is sore. I had an extremely busy first day in Hawaii and some of that time included riding my bike farther than I had intended. Once I figured out the free trolley was no longer free and the schedule had changed, I returned home to ride my bike into town to go shopping, the bank and the farmer’s market. Except I discovered a spoke broke on my front tire and that needed immediate attention, more immediate than the leaky toilet tank, which wasn’t really leaking.

That cylinder thing in the tank was acting more like the two fountains Spic and Spac in Congress Park (Saratoga Springs,New York)spitting water out of the tank. In my attempt to fix the errant water flow, I caused a leak at the shut off valve. Without a car to fetch replacement parts and with a jet lagged head that couldn’t reason where the condo water supply shut off valve was, I enacted plan B. Except the plumber wasn’t available until Monday. Plan C was to put into action: a pan underneath the leak. I went to get my bike fixed.

Bike Works were pretty busy and the guy at the shop couldn’t guarantee he’d get to me, until I told him it was my only mode of transport. During my wait, I constructively used the time to jot a few New Year’s Resolutions.

I resolve not to do a job, unless I have the tools. That ought to make the New Year much simpler. If the job needs to be done I’ll…

Buy the tool
Hire some one with the tool
Leave well enough alone.

I like the last option best, but honestly, it isn’t too practical when it comes to plumbing.

I resolve not to go outside unless my face has a thick coating of sun block 15. This resolution was made twenty five years too late, but I figure I have at least thirty more good years ahead of me, so why look like a prune? People say I favor my Dad, but I didn’t inherit his skin. Have you seen a less wrinkled 86 year old man?

I resolve to refurbish the rifle in my Dad’s basement. The gun has been hanging on the wall for years. A couple of weeks ago, something made me reach over the freezer take it off the two inverted deer hooves where it has been collecting dust since dust has been collecting.

I got to pause here and explain those deer hooves. It frankly fits no décor in my father’s house (thank God) except my older brother’s bedroom during those years when he was still young enough to sport a Daniel Boone raccoon cap. Anyway, with gun in hand I was so tempted to pull the trigger. If the cats had not been lurking in the basement, I probably would have.

To the best of my knowledge, there has never been any ammo in the house, but as I stood there with my itchy trigger finger I couldn’t recall where the rifle had came from. Mom hated guns even to the point that she thought toys guns at Christmas should be outlawed. There’s a Democrat for you.

Dad’s M15 from WWII was upstairs in his bedroom and Grandpa’s squirrel rifle was hanging over Robin’s kitchen sink. Where did this one come from?

I completely understood how little kids accidentally shoot other little kids. I was dying to pull the trigger and assuming the gun wasn’t and never had been. That’s when I decided to take it to a gun shop and have them look the thing over. Not just for bullets but, to put it in good working order. Sorry Mom, I think it is time to bear arms, but only if they are lathered with SPF 15.

I resolve to add gold to my portfolio. What portfolio?

I resolve to eat organic at least once a week. No make that once a month. Have you seen the price of organic beets in the supermarket? It's an outrage. You'd think I had money to invest in gold or something.

I’ve been itching to write. All through December, I would not allow myself. I liked the feeling of wanting to get back to the keyboard. I had lots of ideas. But I hung onto the feeling that had not been there all summer and fall. I blamed work for not writing. Truthfully, it has been me. When I applied for a real HR job in Malta, New York I was kind of serious about it. My brother in law asked, “What about your writing?”

“What writing?” I replied.

Well, I didn't get called in for an interview, so I'm back to writing.

I’m pacing myself. When I got back to Hawaii I decided to make sure I put things in order first. This morning I spent three hours cleaning the jungle out of my back yard. I don’t know how it grew because the maintenance guys turned the water off. However, the plants in the pots are just hanging on. I filled two large trash bags with dead leaves. Tomorrow, the aphids die.

Maybe I’ll write about that. My resolution on writing is three fold:

Diablo is running away and will Twitter (Southboundcat) about her five month exploits as she makes her way from Saratoga Springs to Kona, Hawaii. That’s one determined cat. Occasionally, she’ll blog at SouthboundCats.blogspot.com.
I will reactivate Beyond The Sail, shooting for at least three times a week.
Yes, the book. I’m not leaving the island without a book. Even if I have to buy one.

There's a resolution worth keeping.

Now about that leak...

Eaters Protection and Affordability Act

2009-11-26T12:32:00.008-05:00

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

2009-11-21T12:43:00.001-05:00

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?

2009-11-20T15:54:00.005-05:00

“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

2009-11-18T08:34:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-07T15:44:00.005-05:00

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

2009-11-07T10:30:00.006-05:00

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

2009-11-07T10:02:00.004-05:00

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

2009-11-06T21:43:00.005-05:00

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

2009-10-17T12:09:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-08T18:14:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-19T21:07:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-15T10:16:00.005-04:00

“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

2009-08-06T22:09:00.003-04:00

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...

2009-08-03T10:29:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-31T10:10:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-30T08:38:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-26T21:54:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-26T21:19:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-20T18:02:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-19T19:57:00.000-04:00

I never got to go sailing with Walter Cronkite.

Are You Still Blogging

2009-07-14T06:12:00.001-04:00

Apparently not.

The Vinyl Frontier

2009-06-30T19:15:00.002-04:00

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.