Island Transportation (Part II)

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)

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?

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

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

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 prone 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

1. 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?)
   
2. 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?)
3. 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!

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

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

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

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.”