Life On A Bike

Somewhere between here and there is a Bose Radio, two refinished boxes and the cushion covers I sewed for the wicker chair. Although the post mistress (Is there another name for that job?) said the packages were expected to arrive Oct 6, I knew better. I’ve lived on the Big Island before. Plan on as long as six weeks for parcel. Trouble with that plan is that instead of using Styrofoam peanuts to pack my stuff I used my clothes. My on island wardrobe consisted of a couple of t-shirts, a pair of shorts and some underwear, stuff I had left on the island back in May. Not being a slave to fashion and having access to a washer and dryer, I’m not hurting unless some good looking guy invites me out for dinner. However, I would like to have my sports bras and swim suit so I can turn my 5 am walks into trots to the Kailua Pier. And I’d like to do some laps in the community pool. If the packages don’t arrive soon I probably break down when the new Sports Authority opens Oct 17th. I hate to spend the money, but…

I’ve made an appointment to tune up my Cannondale mountain bike. At least UPS got it here when they said they would, albeit dinged and damaged. In the days gone by, I would have fiddled with it myself. As a teen I’d tweak the gears on my Schwinn Varsity, the first ten speed in the neighborhood. In those days I had aspirations of riding coast to coast. Instead I joined the Army (that deviation has an untold story) and took it to Ft. Monmouth, New Jersey where it was promptly stolen despite being under lock and key. Because it was responsibly secured, the Army gave my $73.50 for it. Once I got to Alaska I rolled the money into a Schwinn Paramount, a gem of a bike I still have. Classic.

At the Bike Works I armed myself with a spare inner tube, a set of tire changing tools, a patch kit and a CO2 cartridge. I purchased a little seat bag to carry my supplies, insurance I hope I never need. Now I can roam the back alleys of Kona and not worry too much about a flat tire. That is if I have the patience to change one.

I set out on my first shopping excursion once my gears were all aligned and falling smoothly into place. I wish the same could be said for me. My ass was sore from the previous day’s ride and the hill to Safeway and Walmart appeared pretty tall in the noon day sun. I made it up there without dismounting and pushing.

I learned that two quarts of yogurt and 32 ounces of cottage cheese, along with five papaya, three tomatoes, a hunking avocado and a bunch of bananas is a bit heavy when added to a back pack containing a locking cable.

No Solicitation Rules

Condo living is all about rules, but ten year old AJ Albert was on a mission. He appeared at my wide open front door soliciting money for the Kahakai Elementary School. Despite the rule violation and a concern for creating a reputation in the complex, when it comes to kids and their personal causes, I'm a sucker.

I invited the little fifth grader to come in. Like a polite Hawaiian boy, he kicked off his slippers before he entered. I grilled him about his fundraising, while I reviewed his paper work. I feared I might have an emerging Obama on my hands and wanted to nip his reallocation of my resources to his pocket in the bud. However, his credentials seemed in order. I scribbled the name of his school and his teacher on a scrap piece of paper.

“Where do you live, AJ?” I asked.

“Building N,” he replied. In a large complex of buildings that runs twice through the alphabet twice by doubling the letters up, the residents understand that a letter is as good as a GPS coordinate. For example, I live in A103. That’s the first building, first floor, third unit from the right.

When I asked him where the school was located, AJ gave precise directions all without the use of street names, which was more than I expected from the boy who gave clipped answers to all my other questions. This was useful information as Kahakai Elementary is the location of my polling place, and I had no idea where it was. AJ added he took the bus to school.

AJ’s school is having a small race next weekend. A class triathlon. The money was for equipment. "You going to race?"

He thought for a couple of seconds. "Umm, I don't know."

I guess a ten year old doesn’t need to train. They just show up and do it.

I wrote my name down on his log sheet and stuffed two dollars into his manila envelop. That was all I had after dropping a few dollars in the bucket at church that morning. “Anyone ask you as many questions as I did?”

He shrugged as if to save me the embarrassment, “Not really.”

Well, maybe he’ll spread the word that the crazy lady in A103 asks too many questions and then doesn’t give that much. Not worth your time. Hey, some money is better than no money. That's going to be my reputation. Maybe I should have given him a cookie.

Water Station

With another eighteen miles to go, an Iron Man participant grabs a soaking wet sponge and douses himself with water before gulping a two cups of GatorAde.

By mid afternoon, 12 hours after the race started, the participants passing through the water station were moving slower and growing older. Most family members and supporters were waiting back at the transition area, finish line. Out here, in front of my condo, they needed “Rah-Rah, Go Team” cheering. David and I took up the call.

Perched on my fence for a good view, I used my camera’s telephoto lens to spot runners’ numbers as they came to the water station on Alii Drive. I called the number out to David who looked up the participant’s name, age and hometown in the Iron Man program guide.
When the runners passed my condo we’d yell out their name. Exhausted sweaty faces, cast downward suddenly looked up, surprised to hear their names called out. Each runner wondered, “who knows me?” Of course they didn't know us, but their tired faces turned all smiles as we gave them the thumbs up, yelled words of encouragement and told them we’d leave the light on.

We’d sang Oh, Canada for our friends from the land of the Maple Leaf. David yelled out in Spanish for those who came from South America. And we just did our best not to botch the names of the Japanese runners. With participants from 46 countries, we were a little limited on cheer, but a name is universally appreciated.

We recognized the home town runners from Kona and from the state of Hawaii. We tried to acknowledge the state when we remembered the motto or nickname.

Unfortunately after a 2.6 mile swim and 112 mile bike ride, some of the runners, just two miles into the marathon, were already totally out of it. They never heard us shout out.

Cheese Cutter

My cousin David and his wife Kate, here for IronMan, brought their organics with them. Totally, organic. Mi casa es su casa and they made my place their little hacienda. In doing so, they discovered that my kitchen is a few utensils short of gourmet. Small in size and limited on gadgets.

While scouting the contents of my cupboards, David asked, “You got a can opener?”

"Sure", I replied rummaging around the kitchen drawer. Just where is that thing? I would have sworn I did. After all, Dad was sick in February and I gave him a bowl of chicken noodle soup. How’d I open that? No such luck.

“Do you have a strainer for the pasta?” Kate asked preparing noodles for dinner.

“Ahh, nope.”

“A cheese grater, maybe?”

“That I got.” I proudly produced one I had shipped over in April.

“I know better than to ask for a cheese cutter.”

“That’s right, Cuz.”

And Kate never asked for a potato peeler when she scrapped the horse carrots, as she calls them.

Before they left David asked me if I could use anything. Sort of like a house warming gift. I looked at the living room wall with the inherited portrait of a young Hawaiian women holding a bunch of anthuriums. Every hotel room on the island has a similar poster. “I could use a big screen TV.”

“How about the box that a big screen TV comes in?”

“That’ll do.”

I said good-bye to my Other Side Cousins Sunday afternoon. I turned my attention to laundry and was sitting on the lanai reading the paper when I heard the monster 2500 Ram diesel truck pull into my parking stall. They returned bearing gifts.

Yep, I now own a cheese cutter. I do have a honking piece of cheese in the refrigerator.

Settle In

The first week in Kona, Hawaii has been crazy busy. I rented a car to make the pilgrimage to Costco where I stocked up on salmon, tamales and the ever-haunting king size container of mixed nuts. (I’ve been tossing the filberts to the mongoose lurking in the back yard, but the birds are beating him to the stash.) I registered for a Safeway a membership card and I picked up two quart-size yogurts – two for eight dollars. At Home Depot I culled through the fir one by twos for construction of a divider screen to hide the air conditioner. It would be easier to get rid of the unit, but there will be days that I might break down and use the thing. Meanwhile, the divider will block the view of the hefty appliance that sits in the living room. While cruising the store aisles I picked up some wood stain and finish, a paint brush and sandpaper. Project ready!

All these construction supplies and tools previously purchased has left little room in the small storage closet on the lanai for my bike, which UPS managed to ding up. Despite careful packing, reinforcement of the box and covering the sprocket, Big Brown delivered a damaged box with the bike’s gear teeth gnashing through a wide hole. It looked like an angry shark tried to escape. The skewer was bent and half the quick release was missing. It cost $8.00 to fix but the scrapped paint on the frame will be a permanent reminder that UPS Shipping sucks.

I needed to rent the car after three days. I planned to throw my bike in the back seat and ride back into town, but my Hilo-side Cuz' came over to the Kona-side to volunteer for Ironman duties. 4000 people are needed to support 1800 athletes participating in a grueling triathlon – 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike ride and 26.2-mile run. (Makes my 60 pool laps, and 4 mile trots look embarrassing, except for the fact I can.) On Thursday, Cousin David and his wife Kate coordinated their arrival to meet me at the airport. Considering it was 108 on Saturday out at the Energy Lab, I avoided the 10 mile ride.

Now I am relying on my bike to motor around town. This sets my ass in the chair in from of my new desk. Time to write.

Salt on the Rim

“I need to see some ID.”

Some ID? How much? My passport, NY State Non-driver ID, Tennessee license, Social Security card. How about my Saratoga Springs Library card? Birth Certificate? She’s just doing her job. I smirked and released a little laugh, but reached for my wallet.

“I’m sorry,” the waitress, an Asian women wearing a floral shirt, said.

“No problem. You’re not the first person who asked me for it.” It was mid-afternoon, but the airport lounge was packed with travelers corralled into the front section of the bar. The back tables had been barricaded off with a rope drooped from three chairs. Huge flat screen high definition TVs filled the dimly lit room with Vikings and Saints. Monday Night Football at three in the afternoon, Honolulu time.

The old rules for flying don’t apply to the surviving competitor airlines that shuttle passengers between the Hawaiian islands.

“It will be $50.00 to change to an earlier flight,” the service counter agent for Hawaiian Airlines said.

“I can buy a nice meal for that price.” I ordered a sliced tomato topped with thick mozzarella cheese drizzled with a vinegar and oil dressing. On the side, a ciabatti that soon would turn rock hard after being zapped in a microwave. I hunkered down for the five hours layover.

“And a margarita on the rocks with salt on the rim. Make that top shelf,” I added.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She gave me a slight bow and hurried off, but soon returned to verify I was of the drinking age. Either that or she wanted to confirm I was Valerie Perez, the author of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. NOT.

The margarita went down as easily as the penalty flags were falling in favor of the Vikings. I killed the two hours it took the New Orleans team to make the first two quarters look like a high school scrimmage. At the half, I wandered downstairs to the Japanese gardens and found the pagoda with a vacant bench. Surrounded by mottled Koi, I stretched out on the concrete bench. The sun had already disappeared behind the buildings. Fourteen hours of travel behind me, six time zones away from where I started and a touch of tequila made it easy to fall asleep.

The stiff neck woke me. I slowly nudged my head off the backpack, working the kinks loose from my neck. I’ll pay for that. My flight was scheduled to leave within the hour so slung my camera bag over my shoulder and set off to the far end of the airport. Estimated arrival time in Kona - 8:30 PM.

That was a week ago. What the heck have I been doing?

Re-Do?

Considering how the “bailout” was suppose to be just that and how the stock market has “responded” since it was signed into LAW, don’t you think we should stop payment on the $700 billion for services not delivered?

I'm going to be pretty darn upset if I have to go out and get a real job at a time when nobody can find one. "Retirement" is going to suck for many Boomers.

Putting Away Summer

This weekend, Dad packed away with air conditioners that were harnessed during one hot week in June. And in the afternoon of one brisk, but sunny Saturday we covered the RV that made one quick trip around the block to test a new battery and a short drive to the garage to get the annual inspection. We spent more time blasting dead mouse stink out of the Rig this week than the entire summer. Before Dad threw the tarp over the carriage, I swabbed the roof of tree pitch and dead leaves. From my perch I listened to short tempered blue jays squabble over the sumac berries. Chipmunks, their tiny mouths packed so full of nuts and seeds look like they just returned from a painful trip to the dentist. From one dead tree branch to another woodpeckers harvested the last of the seasons insects.

During a walk around the block before escaping from what is inevitable – winter – I pulled the hood of my sweat shirt over my head. A raid on the neighbor’s raspberry patch where the occasional bumble bee drifted searching for nectar yielded a few berries summer forgot. In the brush behind Grey’s barn, a tangle of wild grapes offered a flavorful spike on my tongue, and a memory of afternoons after school drinking in the long rays before the Hadadorn’s Mountain enhaled the last warm breath from the air. Only then would I come home with a blue tongue and stained fingers.

It’s the color that spins yesterday in my head. Apricot, pumpkin and carrot. Plum, eggplant and beet. Cinnamon, nutmeg and mustard. But this year, like the economy, the feast is leaner. Even the trees that traditionally display God’s brilliance – the maples at the far end of Parkhurst Road – have yielded to a wet and cool summer.

Boys In The Band

The smooth voice of Tim McGraw tinged through the cheap speakers of the salon at MasterCuts compliments of a country station out of Corinth, New York. Since half of this one horse town burned to the ground back in February, I thought it odd that they even had a radio station. But then the town had two Stewart’s convenient shops until the fire.

My hairstylist asked if I listened to country. “Use to,” I replied. I watched her reflection in the mirror. She concentrated on the torture inflicted on my scalp as she pulled my hair through the tiny holes in the cap. I confessed that I didn’t listen to much music. These days I can’t tell you what group has the latest hit, what the current trends are, and when some celeb shows up on the front cover of a checkout counter tabloid, I don’t have a clue who it is unless it's the tired old face of OJ Simpson trudging off to jail.

When I joined the Peace Corps, I listened to CDs of my “in the day” favorites. That, by the way, didn’t include medleys from Men at Work. I never made the transition to I-Pods or MP3 players. In my Jeep, all presets are on talk radio, Christian Rock or, I confess, NPR, but only so I can enjoy those crazy Magliozzi Brothers of Car Talk fame.

Coincidentally on the same day I confessed my musical abstention I received a head’s up that the Gordon Stone Band was playing at the Parting Glass in Saratoga Springs, New York.

The first time I heard the Gordon Stone Band I had been in Bourne, Massachusetts. It was August 2006 and I had just started out on my book tour for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin in Mom and Dad’s RV. Camped on the banks of the Cape Cod Canal, I was determined to meet as many people as possible on the East Coast. My attempt to promote the book.

That evening I sat on a park bench and absorbed a New England summer listening to the sweet bluegrass tunes. It wasn’t your ridge- running Tennessee pickin’ bluegrass. Combine a unique flavor of hip-cat Jazz, with a tangy taste of the islands, a dash of an Irish toe tapping jig and a sweet aroma of Vermont mountain air. No, I won’t even pretend to be a music reviewer, but these boys are good.

New to the group since I last saw them at the Albany Tulip Festival in 2007 is Sean Preece, on drums and percussion. Sean brings an electric enthusiasm to the instrumentals of Gordon Stone and Jon McCartan. His pure, unadulterated freedom makes him just about as fun to watch as to listen to. Totally uninhibited Sean is as animated as a cartoon character with facial expressions as wide ranging as his talent. Next to the youthful veteran trance of Jon McCartan on bass, who is a mere year older, Sean is as different as a running brook is to an ocean wave. Gordon Stone attracts God-given talented youth with good heads on their shoulders. Sean is as a humble as any well-groomed-newly-called up pitcher to the big leagues for the October Classic.

If you find yourself in the Vermont taking in the fall colors, or the ice-blue ski slopes on a crystal day be sure to check out their website to find a local venue. You won’t be disappointed. For me, I’m taking this music to Kona, Hawaii next week.

All the best to the Boys in the Band and to Deb, one proud Mom.

Debate

Here’s my theory. In order to have a rookie candidate blindside the opponent send her out on a couple of interviews to purposely look weak, confused and unprepared. Soften up the bias media and let the competition drop his guard. Take a very biased moderator and you got planned ambush. She’ll come out smelling like a rose, looking like a killer, and no one is going to second guess Sarah Palin’s being a heart beat away from the Presidency.

It's An Emergency!

If it was such a freaking emergency, why did all this garbage get into the Emergency Economic Stablization Act of 2008? If we had a credit problem, how do all these add-on provisions help? The answer - it doesn't. They tack these on to sweeten the pot for the vote in the House. Yep, you can put lipstick on a pig and pork in a bill, and it still isn't a luau. No wonder Muslims don't mess with swine.

Sorry for turning my blog into a political vent, but this stuff is impacting me. My head is about to explode and I haven't been able to get through to my representative. See the last line. I think I am a tax indifferent party.

TITLE I—ALTERNATIVE MINIMUM TAX RELIEF
Sec. 101. Extension of alternative minimum tax relief for nonrefundable personal credits.
Sec. 102. Extension of increased alternative minimum tax exemption amount.
Sec. 103. Increase of AMT refundable credit amount for individuals with longterm
unused credits for prior year minimum tax liability, etc.
TITLE II—EXTENSION OF INDIVIDUAL TAX PROVISIONS
Sec. 201. Deduction for State and local sales taxes.
Sec. 202. Deduction of qualified tuition and related expenses.
Sec. 203. Deduction for certain expenses of elementary and secondary school
teachers.
Sec. 204. Additional standard deduction for real property taxes for nonitemizers.
Sec. 205. Tax-free distributions from individual retirement plans for charitable
purposes.
Sec. 206. Treatment of certain dividends of regulated investment companies.
Sec. 207. Stock in RIC for purposes of determining estates of nonresidents not
citizens.
Sec. 208. Qualified investment entities.
TITLE III—EXTENSION OF BUSINESS TAX PROVISIONS
Sec. 301. Extension and modification of research credit.
Sec. 302. New markets tax credit.
Sec. 303. Subpart F exception for active financing income.
Sec. 304. Extension of look-thru rule for related controlled foreign corporations.
Sec. 305. Extension of 15-year straight-line cost recovery for qualified leasehold
improvements and qualified restaurant improvements; 15-year straight-line cost recovery for certain improvements to retail space.
Sec. 306. Modification of tax treatment of certain payments to controlling exempt organizations.
Sec. 307. Basis adjustment to stock of S corporations making charitable contributions of property.
Sec. 308. Increase in limit on cover over of rum excise tax to Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands.
Sec. 309. Extension of economic development credit for American Samoa.
Sec. 310. Extension of mine rescue team training credit.
Sec. 311. Extension of election to expense advanced mine safety equipment.
Sec. 312. Deduction allowable with respect to income attributable to domestic production activities in Puerto Rico. ???
Sec. 313. Qualified zone academy bonds.
Sec. 314. Indian employment credit.
Sec. 315. Accelerated depreciation for business property on Indian reservations.
Sec. 316. Railroad track maintenance.
Sec. 317. Seven-year cost recovery period for motorsports racing track facility. I can't believe there isn't a pitch for horse racing by NYRA
Sec. 318. Expensing of environmental remediation costs.
Sec. 319. Extension of work opportunity tax credit for Hurricane Katrina employees. Enough already!
Sec. 320. Extension of increased rehabilitation credit for structures in the Gulf Opportunity Zone.
Sec. 321. Enhanced deduction for qualified computer contributions.
Sec. 322. Tax incentives for investment in the District of Columbia. Taking care of the "home front"
Sec. 323. Enhanced charitable deductions for contributions of food inventory.
Sec. 324. Extension of enhanced charitable deduction for contributions of book inventory. I've got 600 copies of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Does that count?
Sec. 325. Extension and modification of duty suspension on wool products; wool research fund; wool duty refunds.
TITLE IV—EXTENSION OF TAX ADMINISTRATION PROVISIONS
Sec. 401. Permanent authority for undercover operations.
Sec. 402. Permanent authority for disclosure of information relating to terrorist activities.
TITLE V—ADDITIONAL TAX RELIEF AND OTHER TAX PROVISIONS
Subtitle A—General Provisions
Sec. 501. $8,500 income threshold used to calculate refundable portion of child tax credit.
Sec. 502. Provisions related to film and television productions.
Sec. 503. Exemption from excise tax for certain wooden arrows designed for use by children.
Sec. 504. Income averaging for amounts received in connection with the Exxon Valdez litigation.
Sec. 505. Certain farming business machinery and equipment treated as 5-year property.
Sec. 506. Modification of penalty on understatement of taxpayer’s liability by tax return preparer.
Subtitle B—Paul Wellstone and Pete Domenici Mental Health Parity and Addiction Equity Act of 2008 I'm going to need this one.
Sec. 511. Short title.
Sec. 512. Mental health parity.
TITLE VI—OTHER PROVISIONS
Sec. 601. Secure rural schools and community self-determination program.
Sec. 602. Transfer to abandoned mine reclamation fund.
TITLE VII—DISASTER RELIEF
Subtitle A—Heartland and Hurricane Ike Disaster Relief
Sec. 701. Short title.
Sec. 702. Temporary tax relief for areas damaged by 2008 Midwestern severe storms, tornados, and flooding.
Sec. 703. Reporting requirements relating to disaster relief contributions.
Sec. 704. Temporary tax-exempt bond financing and low-income housing tax relief for areas damaged by Hurricane Ike.
Subtitle B—National Disaster Relief
Sec. 706. Losses attributable to federally declared disasters.
Sec. 707. Expensing of Qualified Disaster Expenses.
Sec. 708. Net operating losses attributable to federally declared disasters.
Sec. 709. Waiver of certain mortgage revenue bond requirements following federally declared disasters.
Sec. 710. Special depreciation allowance for qualified disaster property.
Sec. 711. Increased expensing for qualified disaster assistance property.
Sec. 712. Coordination with Heartland disaster relief.
TITLE VIII—SPENDING REDUCTIONS AND APPROPRIATE REVENUE RAISERS FOR NEW TAX RELIEF POLICY
Sec. 801. Nonqualified deferred compensation from certain tax indifferent parties.

Wooden Arrow

The experienced archer usually has a good idea of what an arrow should be whether it's a piece of artwork, a tip of the hat to primitive construction, a simple unadorned arrow with pure function in mind, or a combination of these factors. Prices can range from $80/dozen for stock arrows to $300+/dozen for primitive arrows.

A majority of arrow buyers are more concerned with function over art. It makes sense to consider the type of shooting you expect to do and very little sense to head out and loose and break a set of $300 arrows! To this end you should supply yourself with arrows of sufficient quality that will eliminate the aspect of "equipment error" in developing your proficiency. With archery tackle well matched to itself and your stature, inconsistency is reduced to "pilot error" - at which point your questions along the way will have more direct pertinence to your actual technique.

I’m in the market for a good wooden arrow. Yes, I need an arrow to poke the pork (including wooden arrows) in the BailOut Bill passed by the Senate last night. I think we should all arm ourselves with a few good wooden arrows and put a siege on Congress. Boy, did we have the wool (yeah, that’s in the bill too) pulled over our eyes.

See the crap in this 451 page bill at http://money.cnn.com/2008/10/01/news/pdf/index.htm. But you probably don’t have time. Just like you don’t have the money. That is unless you are in the wooden arrow business.

Fire those arrows at your representative in the House this morning. Its our last hope.

Robin's Rose

This photo was taken this today. I also picked raspberries this morning after last night's fresh rain. When I went out to pick up the paper, the air had been rinsed clean, as clear as glass and oddly reminded me of Micronesia. Yes, it is the first day of October in Upstate New York.

Someone suggested I raise bean sprouts in my bathtub. La Choy. I bring this up for I was wondering what some one might do to earn money during a great depression. People have to eat and bean sprouts might be easy to grow, cheap to buy.

Study of Snook Kill Waterfall

The Common Sense Fix

We are at a crucial time in our country's financial history. Congress defeated the $700 billion bailout plan on Monday. However, they are revising it and trying to push it through again. I'm supporting an alternative plan that will keep our nation from going even deeper in debt, and I've been on TV and radio all week telling people about it. We need everyone's help! Follow the instructions below. Together we can change history.

1. Pray for them to resist a spirit of FEAR and to embrace WISDOM. Even if you don't like them or agree with them, pray for them and tell them you are praying for them. There is a spirit over this problem that must be broken. Also, most of the media personalities are afraid as well and that is affecting their reporting. Pray for fear to be removed from them; they are making this worse.

2. Send The Common Sense Fix to your Representatives and Senators and tell them how you expect them to vote, and that if they put this nation in $700 billion of debt, that you will vote them out. It's their job to listen to us! (Whichever presidential candidate or political party that champions this plan from their leadership down will likely become the next president. That is because this plan fixes the crisis while going along with the wishes of the vast majority of Americans.) First, read this blog. Next, copy the plan . Send it to your Senators and representatives by copying and pasting the text in whole. *Note: If their websites are down, that means we're making a difference! Keep refreshing the page until you get through. You can also go through Congress.org, though we don't endorse this site.

3. Forward this message to everyone in your address book and tell them to urgently follow these 3 steps TODAY. The more people we have supporting this and contacting their elected leaders, the more likely we can turn our economy around!

Now is the time to buckle down, quit pissing around and fix this economy. And YOU have your part to do. Please send this plan to those who hold your future in their hands because you have their futures in yours.

Years of bad decisions and stupid mistakes have created an economic nightmare in this country,but $700 billion in new debt is not the answer. As a tax-paying American citizen, I will not support any congressperson who votes to implement such a policy. Instead, I submit the following threestep Common Sense Plan.

1. I. INSURANCE
   a. Insure the subprime bonds/mortgages with an underlying FHA-type insurance. Government-insured and backed loans would have an instant market all over the world, creating immediate and needed liquidity.
   b. In order for a company to accept the government-backed insurance, they must do two things:
   
   1. Rewrite any mortgage that is more than three months delinquent to a 6% fixed-rate mortgage.
   
   
   a. Roll all back payments with no late fees or legal costs into the balance. This brings homeowners current and allows them a chance to keep their homes.
   b. Cancel all prepayment penalties to encourage refinancing or the sale of the property to pay off the bad loan. In the event of foreclosure or short sale, the borrower will not be held liablefor any deficit balance. FHA does this now, and that encourages mortgage companies to go the extra mile while working with the borrower—again limiting foreclosures and ruined lives.
   
   
   2. Cancel ALL golden parachutes of EXISTING and FUTURE CEOs and executive team members as long as the company holds these government-insured bonds/mortgages. This keeps underperforming executives from being paid when they don’t do their jobs.
   
   c. This backstop will cost less than $50 billion—a small fraction of the current proposal.
   


2. II. MARK TO MARKET
   a. Remove mark to market accounting rules for two years on only subprime Tier III bonds/mortgages. This keeps companies from being forced to artificially mark down bonds/mortgages below the value of the underlying mortgages and real estate.
   b. This move creates patience in the market and has an immediate stabilizing effect on failing and ailing banks—and it costs the taxpayer nothing.



3. III. CAPITAL GAINS TAX
   a. Remove the capital gains tax completely. Investors will flood the real estate and stock market in search of tax-free profits, creating tremendous—and immediate—liquidity in the markets. Again, this costs the taxpayer nothing.
   b. This move will be seen as a lightning rod politically because many will say it is helping the rich. The truth is the rich will benefit, but it will be their money that stimulates the economy. This will enable all Americans to have more stable jobs and retirement investments that go up instead of down.

This is not a time for envy, and it’s not a time for politics. It’s time for all of us, as Americans, to stand up, speak out, and fix this mess.

I hope you take the time to be heard.

Linear Accelerator

For every weekday during the last two months, Dad has risen each morning to trek to The CR Wood Cancer Center in the Glens Falls Hospital, Glens Falls, New York to lie beneath a monstrous machine called a dual high energy linear accelerator to bombard cancers cells located in his prostate.

It was just a year ago I was in New Hampshire for Jerry and Jesse’s wedding. I learned that Dad’s biopsy returned not looking so good. Cancer. And while most men if they live long enough will get prostate cancer, Dad had an aggressive form the cancer. The initial bone scan seemed to indicate the cancer had already spread. As vividly as yesterday, I recall where and when I learned that further review of the scan and x-ray revealed arthritis and old WWII wounds, not the disease. Fortunately, although I was in a very public place surrounded by sailors of all things, I found a seat behind me were I could collapse in joy, tears and prayer. Still I knew there was a battle to fight which Dad and family were up to.

In those early days of diagnoses, Mike, Robin and Jennifer took turns accompanying our father to the doctors' and researching data. Men whom I have known for years came forward to tell me of their treatments. I had no idea! Dad immediately went on hormones while the family sifted through second opinions. Treatment options ranged from doing nothing, seed implants, even surgery. Dad wanted to hit the cancer with everything he could. In the late winter and early spring his PSA levels had dropped, a sign that the hormones were working. He elected radiation, determined to rid himself of the cancer and the hotflashes they caused. I had no sympathy.

The word radiation has always striked a bit of fear. Chernobyl, Three Mile Island, Godzilla, bad black and white alien movies and images of Navajos digging in the mesas of Utah for Uranium come to mind.

I can’t really recall the specifics of why the treatment didn’t start earlier than forty-four weekdays ago. Something to do with the math. Calcuations one doctor did, confirmed by another and redone by a third. They wouldn't be rushed. They knew the seriousness of the prcedures. (If only Congress could operator this way.)

I wanted to get back to Hawaii in early September, but I didn’t want Dad to face the daily routine alone, especially when potential side effects could leave him fatigued beyond his extraordinary energy of 84 years. So I took a job at the track to kill some time, earn some money and be available each morning to accompany him to his appointment with the “radiation machine.”

Except every Monday during consultation with the doctor Dad seemed perfectly “normal”. He had gone kayaking or he chopped down another tree or he walked around Moreau Lake when he wasn’t moving the yard. Neither one of us could pull a chin up on the monkey bars in SPA Park, so I had to laugh whenever he complained about being tired and loosing some strength.

The only side effect he experienced was some bowel problems. In his one bathroom house Dad chased me out of the facilities enough mornings that I postponed taking a shower until he left for his “shot” as he called the dose of radiation.

Well, tomorrow is the last shot. The routine of lying on his back while he counts the machine’s cycle and listens to the changing positions comes to an end. In a few weeks he’ll have the PSA level rechecked. And before November, the doctors and Dad will confer to see if he really need to take the next scheduled hormone shot. Dr. Alex Frank says, "Good have a good life." Let's do.

Fossils in the Making

Pee-U

“E-gads Dad! What the hell is that?”

“I thought something smelled queer”, he replied.

Queer? “Something died.” I gagged falling out of the RV. We had an appointment for its annual inspection. I was suppose to drive it into Saratoga, but I could hardly manage to keep breakfast in my belly. The intensity of the odor brought images of animals the size of elk, moose or bear, but I knew the suspects were either chipmunks or mice. Maybe a squirrel?

Dad went to retrieve a flashlight. Inside the darken cavern of the 1986 Toyota Sunrader I began to fling cupboard doors open in search of the foul carcass. The smell intensified in the over-cab bunk. Under the mattress tucked into a corner under the window, I found the stinker. My eyes squinted in disgust as I wrapped an anti-static dryer sheet around the matted gray body of a field mouse. An imaginary fur ball tainted with the smell of rotting flesh grew in the back of my throat.

There is a reason why death’s smell is so offensive. In days of old it was suppose to scare the heck out of us. A grave warning to stay far, far away. Disease lingered close by and it was best to give a wide berth to the mystery surrounding the stench. It is no wonder why the Hindus flavored their meat with curry.

The trip to Saratoga made my head swim. Windows wide open, air cranked to the max all to loosen the embedded smell from the cab. It didn’t work and I felt a queezy as I pulled into Kost. Too bad for the mechanic who had to smell the interior.

Once back home I searched for more culprits. Finding none, I cleaned up the mess where the dead mouse laid down with a belly full of rat poison Dad has laced the RV with. Now I have to wait for the Resolve and Fabreeze to dry and see what lingers in the air.

Yes, I have been doing other things than watching the foolishness of Congress.

Strike Two

I can’t imagine the flurry of emails to my Congressman Zack Wamp (R-TN) has made the difference, but I’m pleased that the House shot down the bill to bailout the mortgage companies, banks and investment firms with money I don’t have. Late this morning I fired another email to Honorable Wamp, just before the vote went down. I urged him to go back to the drawing board and take the crap like directing money to the labor unions out of the bill.

Last night I downloaded the 107 page document house committee had been hammering out. My, my, my. It had grown from the original three pages to 40 plus pages on Friday to the bill that was struck down faster than lightening can even rip through the sky.

I’m afraid Congress will not get it right. If they do, I’m more afraid they wouldn’t recognize the solution. Nor would they have the balls to pass it. We need a true leader to step forward, cut the bullshit, the kingdom making and present the real solution to the problem. If they can put their eyes on the ball and not look out for special interests, maybe, just maybe, Americans might trust Congress to get it right. But that is hard to do when you come to bat with a 9% approval rating.

So now we will watch the economy crumble. Do I want to see it? Hell no. But I think I can recover from an emotional reaction to this lack of confidence far quicker than a falsely made promise from Congress.

Screwed

Did you wake up this morning not feeling so good about something? Harbored deep inside a feeling that something wasn’t fair? You played by the rules. You flossed your teeth every before going to bed, not just the week before your dental cleaning. You bought Girl Scout cookies not because you liked them, but because you supported the cause. You picked turtles out of the road so they wouldn’t get crushed. And you when a homeless man asked you for spare change, instead of sticking him with an Obama campaign pin, you handed him the two carryout boxes full of leftovers from the Italian restaurant that you planned to eat for dinner the following night.

And when it came to paying your bills, you never bought anything on a credit card you couldn’t payoff at the next billing cycle. And every month you paid the mortgage, on time and in full, on the house you intended to live in, patiently expecting the value to increase over the life of the mortgage, not greedily expecting it to balloon by the end of the week.

What happens to you in the proposed bailout? You watched the value of your home tick southward as foreclosed signs popped up on the neighbors' lawns like mushrooms after a fall rain. Yet every month you signed the check to pay the loan you took out after putting a hard saved twenty percent down. You are the good guy about to be left on the curb with the recyclables. Feeling green huh?

Okay, you hate the banks, the mortgage companies, the investors who stole your American Dream. You don’t want to see these predators walk scot-free. “Make them pay,” you think. But you know too well that what is being saved, is the “way of life”, that economy that let you down when you played by the rules.

Is that worth saving?