Feel like Raisin' a Little Hell?

Cool show today on Diane Rehm – David Sirota, who wrote The Uprising, discussing what might come in future days…

Now, if you’ve read my rants, you’d probably guess that I would be totally up for such an event, and in fact, I would! In an ideal world, I’d be a moderately conservative Democrat, or perhaps a liberal Republican. Problem for me is, they’re all scoundrels and ne’er do wells and I don’t want much of anything to do with either. I think, frankly, that our society is so completely FUBAR that, as intimated, it almost truly is beyond all repair...

So Sirota’s premise is interesting to me, indeed – And it brooks the question, first and foremost, are we really on the verge of populist revolt, or is this just another wave of faux sentiment bullshit? You make the call!

Sirota has explored the American past sufficiently to draw cautious parallels with current times, and maybe he’s right, overall. On one key consideration, he absolutely hits the nail dead on the head: The average American should have no doubt that Big Picture American Politics has not a thing to do with them and not a care for them. The current state of the nation reflects an insane focus on insane profits for the insanely wealthy, and very little else. American politics is in business for one thing and one thing only; self preservation. Anybody who says otherwise is a liar, part of the problem, or both. And God knows the Shrub’s current administration has done nothing but further those goals and truths.

So, has America had enough? Are the common folk getting riled up enough to actually do something potent and lasting? How the hell would we know if they were? (Don’t forget Big Media’s incestuous ties to Big Business – You do know that they ain't gonna tell you, right?). Don’t know, don’t know, but what interesting questions!

I suppose one could try and indict Sirota’s perspective as narrow because he only really speaks to corporate and political injustice, but in all honesty, what else is out there that threatens our very lives so much?

I think this is an important read for us, y’all – As Naomi Klein so aptly put it; “Sirota is a clear-headed and principled hell-raiser for economic justice. More like him, and we’ll have a real uprising on our hands.”

Right on…

Whoa my gosh – Starbucks is in trouble!!!

Am I crushed? Nope. Saddened? Nope. Bothered, even a tiny smidge? Nah…

Wait, let me back up first. I am a coffee snob, and yes, I more or less gained that attribute whilst living in the Great Northwet, Washington State in particular. And yes, we were totally nuts about coffee, although that has abated somewhat today; when it became ultra cool for everyone to be a coffee snob, then the natives quit, because then it wasn’t cool anymore, ya see…

Anyway, during coffee’s Northwest heyday, we had three 24 hour coffee drive through joints in a town of 50,000, and every hardware store and lumber yard had an espresso stand, if they wanted to survive. A good Barista was hard to find and jealously guarded: Stephanie not only saw you coming from 2 blocks away and had your stuff ready when you got there, she was smart, funny, and easy on the eye…

Then came the ‘roiding of Starbucks… When that little shop opened at Pikes Market in the early 80s, it was cool. When they opened their first satellite up on Capitol Hill, and a stone’s throw from my apartment, it was convenient.

When they opened their 6,000+ store, it was oppressive. I’ve had Starbucks in Fort Worth Texas and Salt Lake City, Utah: Neither had good coffee, and at both, the perceived mien for a Barista is over-the-top, hyper-cheerful, AM radio jock morning show horseshit – No, I don’t want a creamy orange gelato mocha frapuccino and how I am is pretty much none of your business, frankly; see, you ain’t earned intimacy yet, and you don’t get it granted to you due to overzealous verbal diarrhea…

At the point that Starbucks became a corporation, all the magic was gone. They were dead meat, they just didn’t know it yet. Ever been to a Red Robin? They also started in Seattle. The first one was at the base of the Montlake cut, right next to the bridge, and it was really quite good; it was and is no Dick’s, mind you, (The truly legendary Seattle burger joint), but it was good. Once it got out of Seattle and was fully corporized, it too was toast.

So am I sad at Starbucks woes? Nope, just wondering what took them so long.

See, I can do all you corporate hotshots a favor, if you’ll lend me an ear for a sec; I can save you a bunch of money and energy and time, if you’ll listen up… You ready?

OK, here it is, in the form of a simple formula to remember:

The depth of demise that anything and anybody will fall to, when you try to multiply their success via incorporation and expansion, will be directly proportional to how great they were and would still be had you left them alone.

Ya got that? Still not sure it's true? How about a quick checklist: Bobby Flay? He’s in an ad as a fucking M & M, for cryin’ out loud! Southwest Airline’s pioneering spirit? Gonzo. Redhook Ale? Urk! J. K. Rowling? 'nuff said Any department store you wanna mention? Please...

Just as the ever increasing waistline of a megalithic entity like G. E. gets worse and worse every year, that burger joint, that coffee shop, that chef, that writer, that store will most certainly go to shit when you try to share it too broadly. Once you’re a corporation, you have no soul, no heart, no cojones, and you never will.

So do us a favor, pencil necks; stick to actuarial and fiduciary, and leave life to us, OK?

Me Thinks Thou Doest Protest Too Loudly...

So;

It is, of course, well known that one of the chief cornerstones of the foreign policy of His Very Righteous Holiness, Mr. George W. Bush, is that, under no circumstances and in no way, shape, or form, would Himself ever deign to actually speak with, let alone negotiate of otherwise work with, a terrorist...

Y'all are well aware of that, right?

Right!

Well then, y'all just might find this little tale nteresting.

It seems the nut has fallen a fur piece from the ol' tree... While what I'm about to illuminate might be considered old hat, (Having been discussed by the co-called 'alternative media before the last election - Although not by the 'mainstream' media for some curious reason...), nonetheless:

Are you aware of the meanderings of The Shrub's fraternal grandfather, Prescott Bush? No? Read on, then! See, on the surface view, (AKA The Mainstream Media), ol' Prescott was a stand up dude and a Captain of Industry: U. S. Senator, Wall street banker, founding partner of Brown Brothers Harriman, (BBH). This Bush learned his chops from his daddy of course, Mr. Samuel Prescott Bush, a railroad and steel company executive, and during WW I, a government flack in charge of coordinating and aiding defense contractors.

Anyway, back to Prescott: While daddy was making sure we had the ordinance we needed, Prescott served as an artillery Captain and fought during the Great War. Now, before you start thinking to yourself, 'well , at least he served honorably; something his kid obviously didn't learn, know this: Prescott sent some letters to home outlining the medals he had won for various heroic deeds in battle, a 'fact' that was picked up by the hometown papers and spread relatively far and wide. Only problem was, well... Fact is, he didn't actually win any medals see, he, ahh... Kinda made that part up, it turns out... Ah well, let's just chalk that up to youthful enthusiasm run amok and move on! Ol' Prescott came home and waded into the big, wide world of business where he... generally failed miserably until his Father-in-Law, George Herbert Walker, (Hadda throw that in so you see where the name game comes from), bailed him out and made him a V. P. of BBH. via A. Harriman and Co., which had been a precursor to BBH that made their fortune in dry goods prior to getting into banking. In yet another sickening aside, it just so happens that Prescott was now surrounded by fellow Bonesmen, (AKA a buncha inbred Yalees...) So by this point, life was pretty durn good for ol' Prescott and his flock, indeed. Gosh, you think, The Shrub is a chip off the ol' block, ain't he?! Yes, yes he is, and like the current incarnation, just wait, 'cause it gets worse - A lot worse...

Now, over there at Harriman, there was this one client see, a German fellow named Fritz Thyssen. Ol' Fritz was a Captain of German Industry by virtue of the fact that his family had been big in mining and steel production for a couple of generations prior. Fritz was an early fan and financier of the Nazis, until he became disenchanted with and ran afoul of 'em around 1940. Fritz had himself some pretty hefty U. S. assets, and his good pals at Harriman, specifically including ol' Prescott, were looking out for his best interests on our shining shores. Trouble was, regardless of Fritz' protestations, when Hitler declared war on the U.S., there was trouble in paradise, and all his assets, along with pretty much every other German company with U.S. assets and interests, got seized by virtue of the Trading with the Enemy Act, signed in December 1941, just after the attack on Pearl Harbor occurred. And what fueled that Act's creation was that the public was made aware of the fact that American companies, (I don't want to name names, but a big one's initials were BBH), was happily and profitably doing business with German companies who were supporting the Nazi war machine. All these suspect company's assets were seized by the U. S. Government, including BBH, and one li'l outfit called Union Banking Corporation, (UBC), of which, strangely enough, ol' Prescott was not only a board member, but a genuine Director. Further poking around revealed that a whole bunch of Prescott's mucky muck BBH pals were also board members and directors, and that, in fact, UBC had pretty much been created by these yahoos solely to provide a nice vehicle for all Thyssen's U.S. held wealth; funny, ain't it? Hey! Why ain't you laughin'?

Well, the bottom line is that it seems Prescott didn't hold tyrants and dictators in such low esteem as his Grandson 'does'. There were, in fact, more companies that Prescott was involved with, such as the Hamburg-America Line, (Ever seen ships or containers marked HAPAG? That's the one...), which was investigated for spreading Nazi propaganda over here during the war.

One can't deny that the money Prescott earned from the Germans helped make him rich, and his wealth made more and more political connections possible, significantly furthering the Bush involvement in politics. As such, whether you like it or not, it's not unreasonable to posit that The Shrub owes his presidency partially to the fact that his grandfather helped fund Hitler.


Here's a smattering of references, just in case some ne'er do well wishes to try and call bullshit on me:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2004/sep/25/usa.secondworldwar
http://www.georgewalkerbush.net/bushfamilyfundedhitler.htm
http://www.rense.com/general40/bushfamilyfundedhitler.htm
http://existentialistcowboy.blogspot.com/2008/04/origins-of-bush-regime-in-hitlers-third.html
http://www.fleshingoutskullandbones.com/P.Bush-Union_Banking/P.Bush-Union_Banking.html
http://www.bartcop.com/421102.htm
http://www.larouchepub.com/other/2000/2733_prescott_bush_hitler.html

Nonetheless, there ain't a gonna be no talkin' to terrorists!

Unless, of course, there's money to be made...

Ay Carumba!

What the hell is wrong with humans? Why is it that every time we coagulate in virtually any form of government, the main aim of said block becomes, almost immediately, their own well being and the complete disregard of everyone else’s?

Right now, I can’t decide who I disdain more, the U.S. Government, or Myanmar’s…

Oh, and by the way, yes, I’m American, born and raised; I love my country, but have absolutely no love lost for my government. If any of you flag huggers read this, before you bother telling me to love it or leave it, just please leave a comment confirming that you’ll fund my emigration to Canada or France and I’ll gladly get out of your hair, OK?

There are millions of people displaced, hundreds of thousands dying, and these fucking idiots want to block those who would help.

Good Lord…

Maybe I should be thankful that they are getting help – When I think of the millions who have died in Africa, where our government does next to nothing above lip service, it makes me ill. Ah, but who am I fooling? They have nothing we want or can get with reasonable ease, so why help them?

Then I read the newspaper or pull up NPR and what do I see and hear? Hillary sparring with Obama, and McCain trying to figure out just how broad a lie he can make of himself to get elected. It all makes me sick.

Meanwhile, excuse me? Did Antonin Scalia really say the Daily Show is “Childish?” Excuse me, Sir? Being Sicilian, are you familiar with the English colloquialism, the kettle calling the pot black? You fat, pompous bombastic asswipe! Please, please, please; for the love of God, get out of bed with Dick and Big Binness long enough to see the light of day, you moron…

One of my band mates, during a recent practice, heard someone describing something they’d heard along these lines recently. He stopped playing, and with a pained expression said, “God humans are such stupid, stupid creatures…”
Now that is true; and damn if ain’t one of ‘em…

Screwin' with the Wrong Dude...

Let me tell a little true story then - If you want to know a Worst Possible Outcome in the real-life realm of ‘Screwing With The Wrong Guy,’ this would be it…

When I was in Narcotics, we would buy and sell dope all the time, of course. If you were on the crew, one or two select folk would do the actual undercover work, while the rest would be perimeter surveillance or counter-surveillance folk…

So, one day, we’re goin’ downtown to sell dope at this nasty downtown bar, that is basically there to serve heroin addicts, sellers, and their associated hangers on… Now, these folk are actually very gentle – They’re not mean, violent, dangerous, or anything even close to that kinda crap – They’re usually musicians, vets, and other assorted ne’er do wells like me, who just got hooked on some powerful shit, truth be told.

So, this is gonna be a quiet, peaceful, routine morning with no bad craziness expected; or so I thought…

Now, for this show, I am perimeter – About as lax and easy going a job in this mien as you can have; I park about 3 blocks away, keep an eye on one side of a row of buildings, and monitor who comes this way and that during the proceedings. As fate would have it, I’m not even on the side upon which any of our players are expected to walk, so I am about as vanilla as a fella can be, right? Wrong…

I am sitting there in my non-descript Nissan SUV, listening and minding my own business when this crappy little sub-contact car pulls into the space beside me. I see two guys step out who immediately set off my Cop Radar and proximity alarms. As they get out, they are like, 100% focused on me, sitting there, hiding my radio under my thigh, wondering why these two hoods are zeroed in on me, right?

I sit there, not looking at them not acknowledging their presence, but they are laser focused on me, so…

Dude Number One comes to my window and knocks on it… I have, by this time, fairly surreptitiously picked up a cell phone and am pretending to be in mid-conversation, but Mr. Butthead ain’t havin’ any of that… I look annoyed as he knocks again, and I wave him away – I don’t know you, go away… It doesn’t work.

I roll down the window, doing my best to look like Mr. Anonymous Citizen, and say, “What do you want?” Mr. Dude No. 1 says, “What are you hiding under your leg?” Fuck me, he’s seen my radio! I think – What to say? “Hey, screw you – I don’t know you, mind your own business!” I try. He’s not buying that either. “Bullshit, motherfucker, you’re hiding something!” He points out, true enough as it is… Meanwhile, his partner has just tried the door behind me, which thankfully is locked.

Dope deal or not, this has just officially become A Bad Place To Be. I’m confused and scared. I don’t know who these dudes are, or why they’ve appeared and focused on me, but they have and they have and this is not good: Time to go. I start up the rig, roll up my window, and bug out. End of story, problem solved, right? We’re The Police, we’re in charge, and we’re workin’ here and… They’re following me.

Oh shit, I think, this has just become truly a not good thing… So what to do? I pull to a light and they pull beside me. So, I blow the light, waiting until oncoming traffic is almost fatally there, and then blowing it bigger than shit, and… They do the same. OK, now this is serious, so I get on the radio. “Zebra three, Zebra One…” “Zebra One.” “Ah, Sarge, I got a little problem here…” I explain the deal, and he goes ballistic. “Where are you right now?” I tell him, and he says, “Stay in front of them until you hear sirens.” Roger that!

I do just that, until, thank the Good Lord above, I see and hear Tim Ferguson burning up the road in a patrol car, heading straight for us. I wait until he tucks in behind them, and I tear a big left turn, swing 180 so I’m out of Tim’s line of fire and we have them in what you would call, in military terms, an enfilading fire; now they’re in a bad place to be…

I jump out of the rig, cross behind to the side away from them, gun and badge drawn, (.45 Sig-Sauer – Nasty weapon….), as Tim starts giving them instructions. If you’ve never seen r been in this position, (I hope and trust you’ve not), it’s called a Classic Felony Stop, and the drill is this: You’re gonna be given clear, simple instructions, and after that’s explained, the nice Officer says, “If you don’t do exactly what I tell you do, you will be shot!” Clear enough for ya?

So what do these yahoos do? They turn on me and start advancing, ignoring the patrol car… I point straight at the lead guy and say, “Two more steps and you’re a dead man…” God’s truth, those were my words; you think I’d forget anything about this? Anyway, Mr. Dude, being bore sited by a .45, with a totally pissed off and jacked up patrol cop, (Ex Narc) behind him, says, “You ain’t no cop, you’re a perpetrator!” Say what?! I swear to God, as He is my witness, this was my response – Yes, I know where it comes from: “I’m a real cop, this is a real badge, and this is a real fucking gun – one more step and you’re a dead sunufabitch!”

He stopped. Tim smeared the second guy all over the trunk of their car, I introduced Dude No. 1 to the pavement and that, as they say, was that…

Oh, and remember, true story – I got witnesses and one of ‘em is in town this weekend – They had five guns in their trunk; two rifle3s and three pistols. Well experienced felons, they had gotten out of prison the week before. After things were explained to them, they allowed that I “looked loaded” and they intended to rob me, and do what they had to do to make that happen.

True story. Now do you think God has a sense of humor? I do.

Oh, by the way, yes; I did also get to say, “OK, now you’ve gone and brought a knife to a gunfight,” but that’s another story…

Cats are Trout

Say whut; you ask? Trout are like cats? I know, now you think I’ve been eatin’ the Nepeta Cataria, but it’s true. I determined this by years of study and a sudden burst of inspiration, provided by my boy cat, Becky, (Never mind, it’s a long story), cruising around below me. He’s down below the chair now, doing the circular pattern around my ankles, trying to figure out if I will pet him, feed him, or let him out: Ever seen a trout patrolling a pool, waiting for bugs to come by? Just like that...

Just look at all the similarities;
They’re both predators.
They both live predominantly to eat and procreate.
When they’re not eatin’, they’re chillin’
They both have advanced degrees in aloofness.
They both cruise their turf with a minimum expenditure of energy.
They both eat first and ask questions later, including bees.
They both are expert tail artists; I mean, just a little flick can mean so much, can’t it?

It’s just that clear. OK, well, there are some differences, but not many...
Trout don’t have fur, but they do both really like their exterior appearances.
Trout don’t like people; well, cats don’t either, really, they just fake it better than trout do.

And last but not least, the biggest possible deterrent to my theory; cats don’t breath in water.

The answer to this one might surprise you; because actually, they can – Why do you think you’ve always been told that cats don’t like water? Is it because they “can’t swim?”

Maybe you just didn’t look deep enough…

I Wanna Red Spruce Top!!

Are you a guitar player? If so, are you an acoustic player, aka steel string, flat top, gut fiddle? If so, do you harbor a secret desire to own a Legendary Pre War Martin, (Hereinafter, LPWM)?

If you said “yes” to the first two questions, but “no” to the second, you’re lyin’… All guitarists have GAS, (Guitar Acquisition Syndrome), and all GAS sufferers want a LPWM.

Everybody who plays steel strings wants one. Why? Because they are The Legendary Pre-War Martins! Because they’re considered the pinnacle of flat top sound and tone. Because all the pros have them. Because there were only so many and they don’t make ‘em anymore. Because at least in theory, you can have one!
Have you ever played one? Ever heard one played live? Again, if we’re answering truthfully, the number of “Yes” answers just decreased exponentially from those in response to the first three questions I asked.
So, with these truths held to be self-evident, let us go forth into the world of reality and myth, and see where it leads. Oh, by the way – I am an Administrator of an instrument making website, a working musician, and a builder, repairer, and modifier of guitars: Does this mean that I am the end all to be all and my word is Law? Not even remotely, but I’m also not talking out of my shirt, OK? Onward…

Myth: All LPWMs sound incredible.
Reality: Some do, some don’t – All axes are created unequally, and no two sound or feel the same. Go to your local Guitar MegaMart and pick something cheap, like an entry level Fender acoustic. If they have 100 of them on the wall, here’s the reality bite for you: Two or three will sound exceptional, “As good as the real thing.” Thirty will suck. The rest will be OK entry level guitars. Why? ‘Cause that’s the way nature and serendipity work! Every piece of wood is unique. Every combination of woods is unique. Some will have it and keep it. Some will grow into it: Some will never be more than a 2 x 4 with strings – That’s reality.

Myth: The sound of the LPWMs is due to the extreme care and higher level of craftsmanship Martin Luthiers had back then; it’s a dying art.
Fact: As the ol’ song says, it ain’t necessarily so! Have you ever looked inside a LPWM? Or an old Gibson for that matter? They’re a mess! They look like Mrs. Smith’s 5th grade class put ‘em together with Lincoln logs and paste! Ok, that’s exaggerating a smidge, but not much – If and when you do look, you usually find unsanded or refined braces, rough wood, pretty decent tolerances; it ain’t anything like the inside of a BMW, trust me. LPWMs were great shapes, great proportion, good wood, and good, solid craftsmanship; they’re not magic, and they’re not totally unique. Martin started X bracing guitars in the 1850s. Gibson, to my knowledge, began doing so in the early 1930s. Now, everybody does.

Myth: The LPWMs “forward shifted X Brace” is the secret to their sound.
Fact: If it was so great a design development, how come they stopped doing it after a few years? Answer; Martin got some axes back with bowed bellies in the lower bout and attributed that to their having shifted the primary top X brace legs closer to the soundhole, so they stopped, (Although they started again when producing their vintage series stuff). Does shifting the X brace as described change the tone of the axe? You bet your sweet bippy it does! Is that the secret? Nope, it’s just different – Go back to those 100 guitars hangin’ on the wall – Does shifting the X brace change the stats on those? Nope, not one bit…

Myth: The old growth Brazilian Rosewood, (BRW) and Honduran Mahogany is the key to the LPWMs sound.
Fact: Wrong again, campers! Sure, those woods have sound attributes, and sure they’re wonderful, but I gotta ask again – Show of hands now; how many of you have played a BRW or old growth Mahogany axe? I thought so… BRW rings like a bell, feels like glass, and is very, very sexy, period. Old Growth Honduran Mahogany is dripping with warm, deep, syrupy mids and is drool worthy; these things are true, but: Ever heard of Antonio de Torrez Jurado? You classical players hanging out this long have, right? Torrez was a player and builder from Spain in the 19th Century, and is basically the Stradivarius of the classical axe. He had always stated that guitar sound came from the soundboard, and in 1862, to prove his point, he made an axe with paper mâché back and sides, and asked prominent players and listeners to compare it to a wood sides guitar, (Also his, of course), blindfolded, and declare which was which: They flunked. Get the picture? Sure, back and sides color the sound of a guitar; heck, everything on, near around the guitar colors its sound! Your ear and what you like or don’t colors the sound as much or more than any other factor, capice?

I’d love to build with Old Growth BRW, but I can’t afford $5,000 for a prime back and side set, and truth be told, neither can most of you. And you do know that BRW and Honduran Mahogany are CITES listed, right? (If you don’t know that, or what CITES is, get up right now, go Google it, read a bunch, come back and know in your heart that we can’t afford to treat the planet this way anymore, we have to move on material wise, and that all this is OK. Besides, there are plenty of alternative tonewoods that can and will sound every bit as good as those legendary standards. Ever heard an axe made with quarter sawn Sycamore? How about Canarywood? Osage Orange? Myrtle? Mango? Claro Walnut? No, none of the above????!?! Me and my pals around this wonderful world make axes out of those every day, and they rock, believe me – If you don’t, hit up Ken for a listen to one of his, and you’ll get the picture. I was having a tonewood email exchange with one of America’s Legendary Luthiers not long ago. He wishes to remain unnamed in this attribution, but trust me when I say that, if you’ve got GAS, you’ve heard his name many times and in many places, and you’ve coveted his amazing instruments. I asked about Canarywood; he answered, “The best sounding guitar I ever made was Canarywood, but nobody cared because they hadn’t heard of it.” Now that, friends and neighbors, is just plain goofy…

Myth: OK, then, Mr. No Fun; The Old Growth Adirondack Spruce tops, those are the secret to LPWMs!
Fact: Ummmm, not, sorry. My formal education is in Forestry, BTW, so I am especially not talking out of my hind end herein… Let me start by asking you this; what exactly is Adirondack Spruce? Google that exact question, and see what you get. You get a whole bunch of discussion thread and guitar maker’s sites, all claiming to know exactly what Adirondack Spruce is: And you know what? 99% of them are wrong… Ok, I hear you already; “99% of them are wrong, but you’re right, uh huh, Mr. God’s gift to Dendrology…” Yes, I repeat, they are wrong, and I am right; know why? ‘Cause they’re lookin’ to sell you something and I’m looking to educate you; there’s the difference. Still don’t believe me? Ok, try this; here is a link to the U. S. Forest Service’s Center for Wood Anatomy. Go there, click on North American Softwoods, and show me the Genus and Species that comprises Adirondack Spruce. What’s that? You say you can’t find it on that page? Really? Must be a typo, huh? What’s with that?!

OK, let’s go back to the wood sellers, guitar makers and chat forums and take a closer look... Ok, OK, here’s something, they use terms like “AKA Picea Rubens, Red Spruce,” and stuff like that – Aha!! So, Adirondack Spruce is really Red Spruce, Picea Rubens!! And if you look under Red Spruce on the USFS page, you see an AKA of Adirondack Spruce too; mystery solved, right?! Umm, not so fast… See the fact is, Adirondack Spruce, is like German Spruce, is Like Italian Spruce, OK. Have you heard of them as well? Go to those guitar makers and wood sellers and you’ll see that most of them carry or offer these two and that they are also fabulously expensive tonewood. But there’s trouble in paradise here, gang, and it’s this; all this titling is a marketing ply and nothing else. Got that? Read it again, and say it with me now; all this titling is a marketing ply and nothing else. Good, now let’s get on to learnin’ why that statement is true. Do you know where ‘German Spruce’ tops come from nowadays? The Balkans, mostly. Italian Spruce? Some from Italy, but mostly from the Carpathian range between Transylvania and Hungary, truth be told:

Wait, wait, if this is all true, you ask, why do they get to call it German or Italian? Answer: Why does Sears get to re-label LP appliances as Kenmore? Marketing, nothing more than marketing – You think Carpathian Spruce has as sexy a ring as German Spruce? Want to know what top wood the LPWMs really had on ‘em? OK, here you go then, I’ll let you in on the secret known to all those folks trying to sell you up scale tops for your next custom axe: Some of the LPWMs did have Red Spruce Tops; some had White Spruce Tops, (Picea Glauca), and in the day, might even have had Black Spruce tops, (Picea Mariana). There are roughly 30 species in North America that go by the genus Picea. Back in pre-WW II America, there were a lot more trees in the Adirondacks than there are today: And they used any and all of them for tops that they could, and with which they felt their quality and tone needs were being met. Don’t believe me, email Chris Martin – I bet he answers and I know he’ll second what I just said; I’ve heard him speak about it, personally. Here’s the fact on those axes: Anybody, and I mean anybody, that tells you they can look at a top on a guitar of any age and discern Black Spruce from White Spruce from Red Spruce from Englemann Spruce from Sitka Spruce from any other Spruce without seeing the bark and needles of the live tree is thoroughly, completely, 100% full of it. Those old saws about German Spruce being ‘golden hued,’ Sitka being ‘white’, and Adirondack having ‘distinct grain and coloration’ is generalization at its finest.

I have maybe 60 or 70 tops in my shop right now, cut and separated and stacked. Most of them came from one source, but not all; in fact, I have genuine Italian Spruce from the valley that Stradivari got his stuff from, as well as Carpathian stuff, American stuff, Canadian Stuff, all kindsa stuff – Neither I nor you nor anybody else could identify them with certainty or accuracy by site of those cut tops alone, period, and that’s the truth. Short of detailed genetic analysis, nobody can. So don’t buy the Adirondack myth – Tops from everywhere are wonderful. The right top for the right back and sides is what makes the magic – Remember those two or three out of a hundred, OK?

OK, so now I’ve gone and shot holes in all your comfortable LPWM myths, what are you left to do? Easy. Are you a serious player? Do you need a LPWM or just want one for investment and bragging rights? If you had one, would you play it out and about? Think the pros take theirs on tour; think again… The LPWMs, in all honesty, represented the last Golden Age of guitar building, when great shapes came together with good people and nice wood to generate some fantastic axes. Thank God it happened, and that we have the wherewithal and presence of mind to save some of them. That said, I want to let you in on a little secret. Ready?
This is the next Golden Age of guitar making. Right now: We’re in it, although y’all might not know it. Don’t feel bad, mind you; these Golden ages are kinda like recessions; you usually don’t know you’re having one until its well over. Back in ’39, workers weren’t sitting around at lunch whacking each other on the back for being part of a Golden Age, OK?

Right now, the enlightened makers, guys like Chris Martin, Bob Taylor; the middle sized guys, like Dana Borgeois, and the small shops, like Bill Cumpiano and Mike Millard, all these folks and thousands of others are making fantastic guitars that folks 50 years from now will be swooning over, guaranteed. Back in the 30’s, there were not thousands of cottage industry instrument makers cranking out guitars. There are now. By my reckoning, the last time that happened was in the 19th Century when things first bloomed for what we generally know of today as an acoustic guitar. And now, friends and countrymen, it’s time for the plug.

If you’re a player, and you feel in your heart that it’s time for that next axe, for the axe, the right one, the legendary one, the one that you’ll go to your grave hoping and praying the right person picks up and plays on after you; here’s what you need to do. Go Google guitar makers in your area. Go find one and meet them and talk with them. Chances are, you’re gonna walk into a cramped little shop somewhere, with sunlight filtering through dusty windows, the smell of fresh cut exotic wood heavy in the air, clamps and chisels strewn across benches, and here and there, there will be wood you’ve never heard of, amazing eye candy and parts of amazing guitars… You’ll start talking about what you play now, and how you play, and what your guitar dreams are. And at some point, the maker will come out of that glazed eye, drooly look they get when their describing their passion to a new player, and they’ll say, “Hey, what was I thinkin;’ you wanna play one?”

And you will, and you’ll be hooked, and that is the way it is meant to be.

Tenderfoot

I’ve always been a tenderfoot, always; wish I wasn’t but I am and that’s that. Growing up in rural Massachusetts, there were plenty of barefoot moments – Fishing or canoeing, running in the backyard grass – There, I could get away with bare feet, but when push came to shove on the hot cement of a downtown sidewalk, the burning sand at Truro beach, or the rough gravel back by the railroad tracks, others could hoof it, but I had to resort to flip flops at least, if not shoes.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, I can tough it out with the proper amendments. Seven years of wildfire fighting was no problem, but then I had White’s, very good boots custom made in Spokane. Last time I picked them up after their first complete resole, (They’ve been through 5 partials and are now 29 years old and going strong), and the guy behind the counter, looking at me funny, asked, “What do you do with these boots?” We talked about who made them, (This was in Bellingham, Washington 20 years after they were made), he knew who Whites was and of the legendary “Old leather” that they used to use that can’t be had any more… Eventually I mentioned they’d been through all those wildfire fighting seasons and he stopped looking suspicious and smiled; “That’s what it was – The entire mid sole was burned and we wondered what the heck you’d been doing with them!”
And now I live in Texas, and there are even fewer places I can hack the barefoot walk. Grass is tougher and meaner down here, and we replaced our backyard with lovely river rock, but I have the hardest time walking on it barefoot. Even if I’m only making the short trip from patio to veggie garden for some peppers or a little Basil, I stumble and curse as my tender feet suffer the indignities of the unpredictable surface…
I sat out back on a chair dug sturdily into that river rock, thinking of this early this morning, under our lovely Maple tree, surrounded by happy plants artfully arranged and tended by Monica, a Nicolas Freeling book across my knees and a hot cup of good coffee in hand…
I watched my eldest cat saunter into the back yard, wherein she spied me comfortably seated; meowing a greeting, she made her way over in a leisurely fashion, no doubt looking for a skritch and perhaps to flop down in the shade. It was with some satisfaction that I watched her cross onto the rock, whereupon she displayed all the grace of a drunk reeling across a midnight alley, or a fighter describing a last pirouette, having taken a final uppercut to the chin.
“Been walking long?” I chuckled, scratching her behind the ears.

Nothin' But Nets

This ain't drivel, it's serious business, so please take a sec and read on, OK?

I'm participating in Nothing But Nets, a campaign to help prevent malaria across Africa.

Millions of people die each year from malaria, predominantly in Africa, even though the disease has been controlled in much of Asia and Europe… More than 200,000 Chadians and other refugees have been displaced as a result of the spreading crisis in Darfur. As the rainy season continues, those living in temporary camps, (The majority of whom are women and children), are gravely threatened by malaria; an estimated 25 percent of children under five in these camps will die of malaria if they don't receive nets.

There is, however, a simple solution: All it takes is $10 to buy a bed net, distribute it to a family, and explain its use. And every contribution to this emergency appeal will be matched dollar for dollar, net for net, by Humanity United.

You can help support the NBN Campaign by making a secure online donation:

Click on this link to contribute:

BTW - 100% of all donations will go to providing nets for children in Africa, no portion of your donation will be diverted for administrative costs. Nothing But Nets, a program of the United Nations Foundation is a registered public charity under section 501(c)3 of the U.S. Internal Revenue Code.

We work with work with the Measles Initiative, (One of the most successful vaccination efforts ever undertaken), to purchase bed nets and distribute them in countries and communities in greatest need. Using its proven distribution system, (Which in just five years has vaccinated nearly a quarter billion children, )the Measles Initiative will distribute bed nets along with measles vaccinations and other medicines to at-risk countries. It’s an effective and cost-efficient way to get the nets to the people who need them.

For more information on the campaign, please visit www.NothingButNets.net

It’s the best $10 you’ll ever spend!

Peace

Passings...

Our last living Gramma, Palma Hoover, passed away peacefully in her sleep on Wednesday, May 30th. She was 97 years old. Palma did a lion's share of raising Monica when she was a little girl in Washington State.

She was born Palma Solvang in Norway, on the family farm, one of 11 children and the last born in Norway before the family emigrated to the US; she was still very young when they came over. She was the last surviving member of her Norse family. Her father moved the family to a 480 acre homestead he had proved in the Tolt river valley, near what is now the town of Carnation, (Palma's dad and his brothers had gone to Alaska during the gold rush and did quite well: Working in those conditions was not such a long stretch for farm boys from northern Norway...) She remembered with great clarity walking miles to the eastern shore of lake Washington, where they would catch a ferry, and then on the far side, a trolley to the city of Seattle.

She was educated through the Washington State schools system and received her teaching credentials in 1930. Shortly thereafter, she married Joe Hoover of Centralia Washington. They moved around the state for a few years, and Palma taught in one-room school houses. In 1933, they moved to Centralia, where Joe joined the Police force and Palma resumed teaching. Joe passed away in 1992 having spent several decades on the P.D.

Palma lived in the same house until she went into hospice care a few weeks ago. She always had an amazing garden, full of vegetables and flowers. Her large yard is planted with apples, plums, and grapes that she and Joe made wine from. She could tell you where each tree came from and when it was planted; some of the apples had been transplanted from the family's homestead and were still thriving.

I loved talking with Palma whenever we got together. While her hearing deteriorated, her mind certainly did not. She remembered pretty much everything from her life vividly and was happy to discuss them with someone who was genuinely interested. There is much more I wish I could have asked her.

Palma was tough, loving, smart, and just a wonderful woman. We will miss her greatly. We're glad she went peacefully after a long, full life. May she live now in that land of peace where this no pain and only joy.

Horror and Context

I really don't know what to say that hasn't been said about this week at Virginia Tech. Anger, dismay, hopelessness, fear, anguish, all those things come and go. I've prayed and will continue to pray for the folks who were impacted, and I'll continue to ponder what could possibly poison a human to the extent that they'd do such a thing.

I'm aghast that none of the events in this young man's life leading to this tragedy clued in the powers that be, but then again, as an ex-cop, I'm not surprised. I'm blown away that a 'right to privacy' dictates that warnings can't be effectively heeded, and yet again, I'm not surprised.

had they kicked Cho Seung-Hui out of Virginia Tech, would it have stopped what happened? I'm afraid not: He'd have done it at a community college, or a business, or a library, or a McDonalds. His fate was set, and short of locking such a person away in solitary, we're not likely to come upon something that's going to derail this kind of thing. It is a sad, but probably true statement that this kind of savagery, this kind of anger and violence is all too often at the core of human hearts, and when it can do so, it will come forth.

It is also not lost upon me that, a couple of days after Cho's bad craziness, a truck full of explosives in a Baghdad market kills 128 people and wounds over 300 more. The primary difference, of course, is that over there, this sort of thing happens almost every day: In fact, almost every day, a massacre of the magnitude of Virginia Tech is happening in Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Rwanda, The Democratic Republic of Congo, Somalia and too many more to name now.

In Africa alone, it's estimated that something like 9.5 million people have died violently, as a direct result of conflict and war. Globalissues.org points out that, were this to be occurring in Europe, "then people would be calling it World War III with the entire world rushing to report, provide aid, mediate and otherwise try to diffuse the situation," and they're absolutely right. Why that is the case, and why things aren't being done is a subject for another time.

Here and now, I'm writing all this because these are the thoughts and considerations running through my head. What happened at Virgina Tech is a horror, plain and simple, and I have no doubt that things will be done, steps will be taken, laws will be made or changed, to try and stop such things from ever happening here again.

And yet, I gotta say: The heart of darkness is spread all over this world, so what about everywhere else? Cops have a saying about burglary: If a bad guy really wants to get into your house, he's gonna find a way. In other words, locking the door ain't gonna cut it.

He is risen, Alleluiah!

"We are witnesses to all that he did both in Judea and in Jerusalem. They put him to death by hanging him on a tree; but God raised him on the third day and allowed him to appear, not to all the people but to us who were chosen by God as witnesses, and who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead. He commanded us to preach to the people and to testify that he is the one ordained by God as judge of the living and the dead. All the prophets testify about him that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name."

Acts 10, 39 - 43

To all, a Happy and joyous Easter - Pray for peace in our world, in our time.

Molly T Ivins 1944 - 2007

She was born Mary Tyler Ivins on August 30th, 1944, in Monterey, California. She grew up in Houston. She earned a Degree in Journalism at Smith College, in my home Commonwealth of Massachusetts. After that, in the mid ‘60’s, she wandered to Minnesota and got her first reporting job, as a police reporter for the Minneapolis Tribune. How many great journalists started in the police beat, anyway?

She tired of real winters, (As did Monica and I), pining for the warmth and by spice of Texas food and politics. She moved to Austin and became the Co-Editor of the Texas Observer, a paper famous as the “Liberal conscience” of Texas. According to her long time friend, Nadine Eckhardt, she soon became a regular in the Austin political and party scene. "That's where she became the Molly Ivins as we've come to know her," said Eckhardt, “Molly was always right in the middle of everything."

She most certainly had a way with words, and regardless of one’s political bent, nobody could or would deny that fact. Next came a stint with The New York Times, where she even penned the obituary for Elvis in ’77. She later admitted that the toney Times wasn’t her cup of tea: New York sensibilities simply don’t mix well with Texas common sense, Ivins style…

So in ’82, she returned to Austin and started writing for the Dallas Times-Herald. She hooked up with her buddy Ann Richards, who would later become Governor, and Bob Bullock, the hard-drinking state Comptroller who would eventually become the Lieutenant Governor.

Her column gave her wide freedom to speak as she saw fit, and that she did. I’m proud of what are referred to as ‘Ebenisms’, but I don’t hold a candle to her in that regard. To call her language colorful would be putting things mildly: She referred to Ross Perot, as a "runt with an attitude." And perhaps most famously, she dubbed Gubernatorial candidate George W. Bush, the "Shrub," and never grew tired of calling him that. "Whomper-jawed," meant surprised, and getting P.O.’d was "throwin’ a walleyed fit."

She never married, and never had kids. She got breast cancer in ‘99, and let everybody know it in her inimitable style: "I have contracted an outstanding case of breast cancer, from which I fully intend to recover," she wrote, "I don't need get-well cards, but I would like the beloved women readers to do something for me: Go. Get. The. Damn. Mammogram. Done."

She wrote three books and co-authored a fourth. She was a three-time finalist for a Pulitzer Prize and served on Amnesty International's Journalism Network. Given all that, she said more than once that her greatest honors were being banned from the campus of, (The quite conservative), Texas A&M University, and having been named the Mascot Pig of the Minneapolis P.D..

She’s survived by a sister, a brother, two nephews and two nieces.

Here’s a smattering of Mollyisms for the uninitiated:

"I believe politics is the finest form of entertainment in the state of Texas: better than the zoo, better than the circus, rougher than football, and even more aesthetically satisfying than baseball."

"Yes, I've called myself a little-'d' democrat. I am a populist, maybe even a left-wing Libertarian. It used to be if you didn't have a hyphen in your definition, you clearly had not thought about it."

"He (Democrat Jim Mattox) was a wonderfully good attorney general. And somewhere underneath all that ruthless-pol, no-holds-barred fighter stuff there lurks a decent human being."

If you’ve never read any of her stuff, go find it, get a bottle of bourbon, pour one, crack the book, and dig in. She’d like that.

This I Believe

Is a radio series that began in 1951 under the auspices of Edwin R. Murrow, and recently revitalized by NPR. Since they were inviting entries, I thought I might as well throw one in. The theme is familiar to anyone reading this blog; here it is:


“I have fought the long defeat and brought other people on to fight the long defeat, and I'm not going to stop because we keep losing.” So says Doctor Paul Farmer, a wonderful human profiled in Tracy Kidder’s book, Mountains Beyond Mountains.

While Doctor Farmer’s statement might be considered radical, or even inflammatory, to me it was an awaking of hope and a call to action. His words reflect a straightforward acceptance of purpose and conviction in the face of overwhelming resistance that I find deeply moving. In a world where it is all too easy to find signs of decay and despair, Farmer’s statement is a clarion call to salvation. Because of his example, I believe humankind will survive.

The hard truth is that the world is a mess. In such circumstances, it is easy to speak of hopelessness. I have questioned myself, my faith, and human nature in search of the cause, the root of what makes us drive ourselves to the brink of destruction. Finding no answers, I was in dire need of hope, and in response, God moved in mysterious ways and lead me to Kidder’s book.

It is truly hard to find hope and sustain it in this world: Doctor Paul taught me that the fight is fought no matter what, that we never quit, even if we’re loosing. To not fight is to give in, and giving in is unacceptable. After reading Mountains Beyond Mountains, I heard of Bill Gates and Warren Buffett contributing much of their wealth to causes such as Dr. Farmer’s Partners in Health. I learned of U2 lead singer Bono’s One Campaign, and the U.N.’s Millennium Development Goals. From these wellsprings came fresh energy, focus, and hope.

And finally, the lessons sunk in and ushered me to action. What can an itinerant writer and guitar maker from Fort Worth do to contribute to the cause? He can make guitars and donate them to people who have none, or sell them and donate the funds to charity. He can organize an U2charist service at his church, raising funds for Episcopalians for Global Reconciliation. He can help facilitate a benefit concert for a church and a community in Mississippi wiped out by Hurricane Katrina.

And he can have hope, and sustain hope, and believe that we all can make a difference. Just as Partners in Health ministers to the poorest of the poor, and not to governments or agencies, so we all can hope and help and believe, one by one; and in so doing, we can change the world. This I believe, that as Doctor Farmer noted to friends in Haiti, the invitations for what to do are there for the taking, if we, “Listen to the messages from angels.”

Serious Deja Vu

I used to fight wildfire, way back when, in my adrenaline junky days… Looking back, it’s amazing how blessed I was with cool things to do for work in really beautiful places. I would start my year in Grand Canyon, first at the south rim, and then usually we’d wander over to the north rim to do stuff over there. From there, we’d head north to Yellowstone in the late summer, for Montana’s fire season. When that was done, it was off to Santa Monica for the California fall fire season. Yeah, Santa Monica, as in Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area: We lived at a former Nike missile site converted to barracks for us and a training facility for L.A. County Fire. The Santa Monica pier was right down at the bottom of our road. Debby Reynolds’s house was at the top. Chris Christopherson ran with us a couple of times. Weird, huh?

And it was there that I experienced one of the weirdest incidents of déjà vu I’ve ever had.

There was actually a fire, you see, in the Santa Monica Mountains in ‘82, and we were sent to work it. We were digging line through the Manzanita and whatnot, working up and across a little hill through what was pretty much uninterrupted brush with some little paths than here and there. We took a brief break to assess where we needed line to go, so the Crew Boss and I walked to the top of the little hill to see where we were headed. Down below us was an area on the right which had been partially burned over, with unburned brush to the left. We looked at the site and got the ‘I’ve Definitely Been Here Before’ feeling. We were kinda staring at things, trying to figure it out, when one of the sawyers came up and said, ‘Holy shit, it’s MASH!”

And indeed it was. We were working on the Malibu Creek State Park, which was also known as the Paramount Ranch – Yeah, that Paramount Ranch, which had been donated to the state some time previously. In front of us was the familiar rock circle where the flagpole stood, the outlines of the tents. the whole shebang…

We had been here before, many times in fact. The fire was actually incorporated into the final episode, since, to use the familiar outdoor sets, they didn’t have a bunch of choice, did they?

Somalia

How much do you know about Somalia? As we say here in Texas - I’ll tell you whut: If y’all ain’t aware of their history, listen up…

Oddly enough, Somalia has been occupied predominantly by Somalis for the last 2500 years or so. Islam became prominent long ago there, and Mogadishu was founded around 900 as a result thereof. Then, in the 1500s, a long-term war broke out between Somali and Ethiopians and things really started to unravel. The Somalis won, initially, but that prompted the Portuguese to come help, and the once strong central Somali state crumbled. The land wasn’t colonized with any vigor, however, until the late 1800s.

Then came the Brits, the French and the Italians in the late 1800s. In keeping with the colonial spirit, all three took a chunk of the poor country and stamped their brand on the locals, none of which went over very well. National hero Mohammed Abdulah Hassan rose to prominence during the long war for colonial independence, which lasted over 20 years. Unfortunately, superior military technology won out and the British kept their fiefdom until World War II, when Mussolini’s Fascists took over briefly. In a sick twist of fate, the fledgling U.N. assigned Somalia to Italy as a protectorate, where it remained until it declared independence in 1960, (Sort of; the Brits and French kept their little chunks out of spite, malice, or pride, depending on who you ask, and didn’t give ‘em all up until 1977)

The period following 1960 can be called, unfortunately, the age of coups. As is all too common in many small, poor countries, military takeovers began, culminating in the rise to power of Mohamed Siad Barre, who declared himself leader kin ’69 and stayed there until ’99. Though he was brutal and ruthless to opponents, he did some good works, building a national infrastructure and raising literacy rates. In the late 70’s, Somalia fought a war against neighboring Ethiopia, ostensibly to regain lands lost during the colonial period, but probably realistically started due to age old animosities. Originally backed by the USSR, the Somalis did quite well, maybe too well, because in mid stream, the Soviets changed sides and the Somalis suffered greatly as a result. As the Soviet block fell, the Somali government became more and more dictatorial, and that, as it often did, lead to a very active resistance movement.

In the early 90’s, the country began to split up as factions declared independence, and the U.N. stepped back in trying to help – Those efforts failed miserably, and the whole scenario has spiraled into horrific internecine fighting that continues to this day. On top of the manmade problems, Somalia suffered from the great Tsunami of 2005, and has experienced debilitating floods since then.

Hence, the bottom line is that this place is a complete mess, and the ones who have suffered, as usual, are the people, who have little or nothing to do with wars and politics, and who’s interests are focused on surviving; where do they find food, water, shelter, and medicine, in a place where even the U.N has given up?

Well, all is not lost – There are NGO’s, (Non Governmental Organizations), who, thank God, fill in to the best of their ability when everything else fails. The Somali Support Secretariat is a collection of agencies trying to do what no one else will do.

And we can support the outfits and people who sacrifice much to do this work, and we can pray for the people of Somalia – Both are really good ideas.

2007

I wish everyone a new year of peace.
May it bring changes for the better.
May those who are truly in need, be heard and served.
May your world be a better place.

Turn left, NOW!!!

Ever seen animal hatred manifested in humans before, first hand, up close and personal? It’s a very hard thing to understand. I’m not talking about a drunken fist fight, or nasty words and flying fingers during the morning commute – I’m talking about the offended party following the perceived offender until they stop, and then shooting them, point blank, in the head, for cutting them off in traffic. I’m talking about stepping out of a car with an automatic weapon on the campus of your soon-to-be-ex wife’s college campus and indiscriminately cutting loose at anything living. I’m talking about wanting, more than anything, to kill someone because they’re of a different faith, or color, or nationality, or political affiliation: That kind of hatred - I have, and I don’t understand it at all. I don’t think that anyone really does. This is the kind of hatred and violence that dismays God…
There are many, many books written about these things, past and present – The holocaust, the Middle East, the Balkans, Darfur, Stalin’s pogroms, Mao’s social cleansing, and on, and on, and on… There are first hand accounts, scholarly treatises – I’ve read some of them. The first-hand accounts are shocking, sickening, and heart breaking. The scholarly accounts strike me, (In general, with a few notable exceptions), as exercises in presenting the intelligence and wisdom of the author, rather than vehicles for change or healing… I’m sure that a few tenured positions have been won on the merits of these works, but what does that do for us in the big picture view? Not much, apparently – Granted, it’s vital to be aware of it, to acknowledge it and to the best of our ability, try to understand it, if we are to make any serious efforts to keep such things from happening again.
Writing about the Bosnian conflict, the military historian John Keegan, called it, "A primitive tribal conflict only anthropologists can understand:" That to me is probably about as intellectual as one can get regarding such events and still be on the mark.
What does this say about human beings, that when the facade of civilization is stripped away and we are reduced to our basest instincts, our predilections are for violence and homicide? How do we counter, fix, or help fellow humans who truly believe that if they act in this way, the world will be a better place? What’s the cure? Is it science, or faith, politics or diplomacy, or some alchemical mix thereof? Whatever the cure, if we’ve genuinely been seeking it, we’ve not found it yet.
I’d love to be able to point at our sick society, the ills we’ve plagued each other and the earth with, as the culprit for this, but it ain’t necessarily so – This kind of horror has been visited on humans and human society since the get go – It’s older than our current problems, without question. It’s apparently ingrained in humankind, like our forgotten 6th sense and vestigial tails…
So, is there a way out? Well, in fact, I believe that there is – And in fact, I think that we can indeed blame this problem on society, or civilization, or to be more precise; a distinct lack thereof. See, I think the reason we’ve never outgrown this horrible manifestation is that we have never actually formed the society or civilization along the lines of the one we are truly called to be. I think that the answer is so simple, it’s just plumb evaded us all these millennia – I think a lot of other people know this, too.
Here it is, although, actually, I’ve already mentioned this here, in a rant about politics: It’s called a human civilization, or a humanistic civilization, if you prefer: It’s called a world where we care for each other: A world where the aim is to live with and for one another. A world where we take aim at our problems; hunger, disease, poverty, and ignorance, and we fix them. A world where what we do is not strive for more profit, more waste, more politics, more business, more this and that and everything, but a world where we realize we can feed everyone if we work at it. A world where we aim to do what we’re called to do – To cure the sick, feed the hungry, clothe the poor, and end the hatred - To care for this earth and everything on it.
Now, go ahead, call me simplistic, naïve, ignorant, blah, blah, blah – But you know what? If that’s what you believe, you’re wrong; dead wrong. Not believing it is why we are where we are. Not believing it is why we don’t try. Not believing it’s necessary is why we’ll kill this planet and go the way of the dinosaurs as a species. Not stopping all this soon and very soon and changing course radically is why Darfur, and Bosnia, and Auschwitz will happen again, and will keep happening, popping up here and there and everywhere, until we do get a clue - or not...
So what, you ask, got me on this rant this morning? Well, let me tell you – It was an NPR piece about the competition between two top American research labs to produce the newest nukes for our submarine fleet. They are going to design these without having to test them. One of the spokesmen called the design they were working on, “Classic,” and “Elegant.” A nuclear device – Elegant and classic – I’m sorry, but how completely fucking sick is that?
So, ask yourself this; do you want to keep going merrily down the path we’re on, or is it time for a hard left turn?

Christmyth Time

OK, as mentioned numerous times, I are a devout Christian. That said, this does not mean that I’m not aware of the machinations of politics that lead to Christianity as we know it today. This is especially true when it come to the celebration of holidays, and probably nowhere more than around Christmas.

Perhaps the first controversy that comes to mind is the day itself, December 25th. Historically, there’s no indication whatsoever that Christ was born on this day, of course. The current date of Christmas was supplanted from earlier faiths, without a doubt – Many peoples and cultures celebrated winter solstice, and in the 4th century, the early Christian church snagged the holiday to knock down Mithras and all them other Pagan upstarts.

Interestingly enough, Christmas didn’t take hold right away in America - Our forefathers, the Puritans, disdained the common celebration of Christmas as "the heathen traditions," and railed against all things Yule log, holly, mistletoe, etc. The late, great Oliver Cromwell preached against Christmas carols, decorated trees and any joyful expression that desecrated "that sacred event." The celebration itself was briefly illegal in my birthplace, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Ok, so how about this Xmas thing? I can’t count how many Christians have expressed disdain at this, “Modern bastardization of the Christian holiday.” How wrong y'all are, eggnog breath! Xmas actually derives from the Greek word for Christ, Xristos. So, the fact is, it was waaaay back in the 16th century when Europeans began using that first initial of Christ's Greek name in place of the word Christ as a shorthand expression of the holiday. UNfortunately, somewhere between then and now the dark ages erased knowledge of Greek and the origins of this shorthand, and "Modern Christians" now mistake Xmas as a sign of disrespect...

Next come trees - Christmas trees, that is. In the last 24 hours, on NPR, I have heard a Christian conservative knock them because they’re “Clearly a Pagan symbol,” and a Rabbi do the same because they’re, “Blatant Christian symbolisms.” - So, who’s right? Well, potentially both, or neither, actually… Fact is, the Pagans did not cut down trees, drag them into the house, and decorate them: They revered nature, and doing the tree thing would have been antithesis to their reverence. They would, however, decorate trees with metal and such, and put boughs in their homes during winter solstice as homage to the gods and a celebration of all things living. Now, in the Middle East, centuries before Christ, trees were cut down, carved into images of the Gods, and gilded and such. Such habits things mightily pissed off the prophet Jeremiah, as he attests herein:
"Thus saith the LORD, Learn not the way of the heathen, and be not dismayed at the signs of heaven; for the heathen are dismayed at them. For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of the forest, the work of the hands of the workman, with the axe. They deck it with silver and with gold; they fasten it with nails and with hammers, that it move not."
Jeremiah 10:2-4
The fact is, Christmas trees as we know them didn’t really come into vogue until the 19th century, around 1850, which also happens also to be the point in American history wherein the first White House Christmas tree appeared, courtesy of President Franklin Pierce, (President Who? Don’t feel bad, nobody else remembers him either – Suffice it to say that for a bunch of reasons, he is generally considered one of the worst presidents in our history – Right there with Millard Fillmore – But I digress…). Fat boy Calvin Coolidge performed the first National Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony in 1923.

Oh by gosh by golly, it’s time for mistletoe and holly, which are indeed blatant rip offs from Paganism - Centuries before the birth of Christ, Druids used mistletoe to celebrate the coming of winter. Scandahoovrians dug it as a plant of peace and harmony associated with their goddess of love, Frigga: The kissing under the mistletoe thing most likely came there from. And Holly, you ask? Well, it's those pesky early Christians again: They banned the use of mistletoe for the reasons detailed above, and suggested holly as an appropriate substitute greenery.

So, how about Poinsettias? Well, like good Tequila, they’re native to Mexico. The plant was named in honor of America's first ambassador to our southern neighbor, Joel Poinsett, who brought ‘em back north with him in 1828, (No, I ain’t makin’ this up - He was an avid amateur botanist!) The Mexicans of that age, (Having been forcibly converted to Catholicism by the gentle hand of the Conquistadores), thought the plants were symbolic of the Star of Bethlehem, and there you have your Christmas connection. By the way – The flowers of said plant ain’t big and red or white – they’re small and yellow – The big red and white things are leaves surrounding Mr. flower, not petals.

And candy canes? Well, frankly, this here candy has been around for centuries, but it wasn't until around 1900 that they were decorated with red stripes and bent into the shape of a cane. They were sometimes handed out during church services to keep the brats quiet. One story often told about the origin of the candy cane, this deal about a 17th century Indiana candy maker who wanted to express the meaning of Christmas through a symbol made of candy, blah, blah, blah – Whatever…

Okay, best for last – Sandy Claws: Ok, fact, as we know it – Around 270 ad, St. Nicholas was born in Turkey. He devoted his life to Christianity and became widely known for his generosity to the poor. He is especially noted for his love of children and for his generosity. In 16th century Holland, Dutch children would place their wooden shoes by the hearth in hopes that they would be filled with a treat. The Dutch spelled St. Nicholas as Sint Nikolaas, which became corrupted to Sinterklaas, and finally, in Anglican, to Santa Claus. In 1822, Clement C. Moore composed his famous poem, "A Visit from St. Nick," (Which transmogrified into "The Night Before Christmas.") Moore is generally credited with creating the modern image of Santa Claus; the jolly fat man in a red suit. There is some consensus that the first department store Santa in this country appeared in the 1840’s in Brockton, Massachusetts. R.H. Macy began creating his famous window displays in the early 1870’s, and in 1873, Louis Prang made the first American Santa Christmas card. Norman Rockwell followed suit in 1922, and in 1931, Coca Cola ran their first Santa ad campaign. The rest is history...

So there you go – Ho Ho Ho!

Fingernails on a Chalkboard

Everyone has met someone whose voice just absolutely grates on you, right? Of course you have; in fact, each of us is probably one of those people for somebody else – It’s a prevalent phenomenon… Now, for me, there are certain strategies involved in dealing with such people: If the person in question close to me, say, from church or work, I will make a real effort to curb whatever autonomic function that stirs up such a reaction within me. If, however, the person is somebody with whom my relationship is casual, I’ll just avoid contact with them like I would a plague rat. This latter strategy is effective for people like Rush Limbaugh, Fran Drescher, the guy who sells Oxyclean on TV, or, say, our President and Commander in Chief.

Why, you ask, would I raise a blog with such a topic? Because on the way to work this morning, I was subjected to the President’s press conference, that’s why. At first, I was just gonna put it on ignore, but suddenly recalling James Baker’s adage that it is important to communicate with your adversaries, I decided to listen in. And then I started taking notes based on what I heard…

The first thing that struck me is was the reason that The Shrub’s voice bothers me so much, (Which is probably the reason that John Stewart has such a good time poking fun at it): It is, quite simply, because the voice of our President, the leader of the greatest super power in the world, always sounds strident, pissy, rude, and petulant, although not necessarily in that order. I listened to Dubyah speak to the reporters, wondering if he had any of their names right, or if they just roll their eyes and ask anyway when he appears to be pointing at them. I heard him get a question he didn’t like, to which The Leader of the Free World responded, “Nice try,” and “You think you can just ask whatever you want.” Uhhh, I thought, is this a trick press conference? Is this the U.S. of A.? Do we have a free press? You mean our reporters aren’t allowed to ask whatever they want? Really? Dang, I feel silly now, I mean, heck, I’ve been buying this openness bullshit for some time now!

I listened also to see if he would actually answer any of the questions, and of course, he didn’t – Oh, don’t get me wrong – He spoke after a question was asked, but it was done in latter days Reagan style; “What a beautiful country is this land of ours…” When asked if he was concerned about the fact that public opinion seems squarely against our involvement in Iraq, he worked that into a statement indicating that failure in Iraq will doom future generations of Americans to lives filled with terror… He then added that, regardless of what the poles say, he was only “Interested in the path that leads to victory,” and that “Most Americans believe that we can win in Iraq,” and that said conflict is, “The calling of our generation.” Now, other than from deep up his Presidential ass, I have no idea where he came up with those “facts.” A question about what specifically he intended to do to keep the economy on track in light of the huge costs generated by the Iraq conflict brought a rambling response about how nuclear energy was “Renewable,” and ‘Generates not one greenhouse gas, that commuting Americans “Don’t drive more than 20 or 40 miles,”, and how new battery technology will allow those commuters to travel, “Without using any gas.” What all this illuminates, clearly and brightly, is that our Fearless Leader is dangerously delusional and completely out of touch with reality: There are, of course, other possible analyses, but my supposition seems, sadly, to be the most accurate scenario.

There was more, but it was, for the most part, similar to this… What this tells me is that it is dangerous for us to discount this man, and to not pay attention to what he is saying and doing. Those that made him will not go quietly into the night. They will find another stooge to throw up in ’08, and if we want to get out of this house of horrors, we’d best pay close attention and be ready to act. It may be like listening to fingernails on a chalk board, but nonetheless, we’d better listen.

I Miss Glenn Mitchell

I really do. It’s been over a year now since he passed away, and I feel his loss every day. I suppose that’s strange, considering I never met him in person, and as such, never knew him personally. I was, however, a loyal listener and a regular caller, especially to the Friday Anything You Ever Wanted To Know shows. I believe that Glenn recognized me as a caller, and knew that when I was calling, I had something genuine to contribute – He had the ability to make you feel that way, even if you were just a caller – That’s probably one of the reasons he was such a celebrated interviewer.

If you’re not from the Dallas – Fort Worth Metroplex, you probably don’t know of Glenn. He hosted his radio show from KERA for many years. His interviews were always excellent; the only person I can think of who comes close in preparation or knowledge is Terri Gross of Fresh Air. His interests, experience and education were eclectic, and his interviews reflected that: He might go from a Harvard scholar to a leading author to a local musician in one week – In each instance, he would know more than enough to not only ask excellent questions, but to have an uncanny knowledge of his guest's place in things as well. Glenn’s long time friend, Don Mason, said Glenn was, “An incredibly deep, well-rounded, thoughtful man. It’s important to understand the depth of this guy. He can cover a baseball game or write an essay or do a brilliant interview with another smart person. Combine all that with a great and wicked, and often quite sick, sense of humor, and you have a pretty remarkable package.” That’s an honest to goodness Renaissance man, indeed.

Fridays were always Anything You Ever Wanted To Know shows, the origin of which outlines Glenn’s humor and smarts – in the early 80’s, while covering for another KERA host, his guest, Linus Pauling, stiffed him at the last minute. rather than panic, Glenn calmly invited listeners to “Call in with any question and I’ll answer it.” This wonderful diversion became a much loved regular event, wherein people might call to ask the origin of a word, the best Indonesian restaurant in Fort Worth, or what those people are doing in the grassy area beside a local highway interchange. On occasion, he’d host the Friday shows live from the Dallas Public Library, allowing him to add “Professional Smart People” to the show's mix.

His Annual Christmas Blockbusters made that holiday an extra special treat. A mélange of music, interviews, commentary and features, the Blockbuster was always unique and never boring. In keeping with his sense of humor, Glenn seemed to delight in finding the worst possible renditions of popular Christmas songs that he could, (And believe me, he could find ‘em), nowhere else could you hear so many songs that would make you cringe and laugh at the same time…

Glenn grew up throughout the American heartland; Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Kansas, and Illinois, tagging along with his Registered Nurse mother and sister. He chose SMU for college because it was the farthest away from his Chicago area home, (As did I with the exotic University of Washington).

Glenn worked for KERA from the day it opened until his passing, with a couple of years’ hiatus at a local am station. He loved radio for what it best offered, what he referred to as, “The immediacy of broadcasting.” He listened to his own station, but also haunted the local sports am station, which notably hosted Howard Stern. When asked how a guy like him could listen to such shock jock schlock, he answered, “That intellectual stuff is a bunch of bullshit; I don’t see why you can’t listen to The Ticket in the morning, read Proust in the afternoon and go to a ballgame at night. I’ve never understood that kind of attitude.”

Maybe that’s why he could always make you feel welcome, and a part of his world.

Into The Wild Blue Yonder

My parents were political, and by that, I mean they were staunch Democrats in the staunchly Democratic state of Massachusetts where I grew up. In fact, one could call them Liberals and not be casting aspersions. My father, an Economics Professor at a pretty liberal school, (Harvard), was once accused of being a Communist at a Fellows dinner. I don’t know what it was he said to elicit that response; he never told me that: He only allowed a sour expression and stated, unequivocally, that the accuser was, “A horse’s ass,” and that was the end of story.

I grew up in this environment, in the 60s, (Kennedy, Nixon, Vietnam, Summer o’ Love, Etc), thinking that my folks were pretty cool and right on politically, and I still do. I do admit to probably being the most conservative member of my family. I have been called before, (More than once), by a sibling on the eve of a national election to, “Make sure you’re not going to vote Republican,” which, despite my predilections, I find somewhat insulting. There is strong probability that my dad, of all people, actually voted for Ronnie Rayguns his second time around, (He wouldn’t admit it, but he wouldn’t deny it either, which is the strong probability part…) I do not vote straight party ticket, ever, although you can in Texas. I don’t know if that’s unique in these 50 United States, (Probably not), but it was to Monica and I. Just check Democrat, Republican, Independent, or Libertarian at the top of your ballot and you’re done. Oh, and for the record, no, I never have voted for a Republican presidential campaign, but I might have if Bob Dole, Libby Dole, or John McCain had ever made it that far… My first Presidential election was 1980, and I got in my beater Datsun and drove 20 something miles into Forks, Washington to vote for Carter, even though that was the year that the press screwed the whole thing up and he’d already conceded before the western states poles were closed. I still find it hard to understand how even democrats say Carter was, “A bad President.” This was a man who was honest, forthright, Christian in his manner and bearing, who spoke his mind, was kind, caring, and compassionate, and he was a “Bad President?” That tells me that the problems lie not with the man in question, but with those who form the criterion of good and bad as far as Presidents are concerned…

And so although I was only 12, I remember vividly election night in 1972, when our hopeful household became a sea of woe as state after state declared for Nixon. Our little Commonwealth, Massachusetts, became the “Lonestar state” that year, because we were the only ones to weigh on for George McGovern. I did not know much about him then, other than that my parents and their friends approved of him. I knew that what I saw and read and felt, I liked.

When I was a cop, I was formally introduced to the concepts of “Loud thinkers” and “Cop 6th sense:” These are nothing more than attuning one’s senses to the lingering manifestations of traits all humans once had and shared with the other animals: The ability to perceive another’s general intentions, bearing, and mood based on subtle signals that we all most definitely radiate, but few are able to receive any more. If you doubt these things exist, try this simple experiment: Go out and try to shoot a crow or a magpie. Be as sneaky as you like; you’ll get the idea…

Anyway, I’ve always been able to hear and sense perfectly well on a subliminal level, and at the time, I knew without question that George McGovern was a good man; honest, calm, caring, forthright and intelligent. In other words, like President Carter, McGovern possessed all the traits that would assure that he was to loose in a landslide to one of America’s most crooked and notorious politicians.

But what I didn’t know at the time, because it was virtually unmentioned, is that he was a decorated World War II B-24 pilot. Oh, yes, there was mention that he was a vet, and I recall him being accused of having been a coward by the far right, (An accusation that was quickly shot down, no pun intended). The gist of the matter is that McGovern did not want to use the fact that he had flown bombers and received the Distinguished Flying Cross as a political tool. He wanted the campaign to be about the times, the issues and the men in question – Who they were and what they stood for then, not about past laurels. A unique idea, indeed, for American politics, and one that obviously fell flat on its face.

I bring all this up because I just finished Into the Wild Blue Yonder, Stephen Ambrose’s book outlining McGovern’s time in the U.S. Army Air Force, flying B-24s out of Cerignola, Italy in ’44 and ’45.

I don’t know if you’re aware of the B-24, and if you’re not a buff as I am, you’re probably not. There were more B-24s produced than any other World War II aircraft, but unlike the others, they were not poular and there are very, very few left: Three fly, and 2 are in museums, and that’s it. Unlike the relatively celebrated B-17 and B-29, the B-24 was not pretty, although you’d probably best not say that around the men who flew them. With it’s twin tails and boxcar like profile, the B-24 was utilitarian, built to bomb, and that’s what it did. It carried more bombs and flew farther than any other bomber in WW II, but they were largely scrapped immediately after the war. McGovern, in Ambrose’s postlude to the book, recalled seeing the very plane he had flown the most in a scrap yard being smashed by a caterpillar, on a news real shortly after the war: He said he almost stood up in the theater to tell people how wrong that was it bothered him so much.

McGovern’s experience was probably no better or worse than most of the aviators who survived the war. He flew through flack, fighter attacks, malfunctions, accidents, and pilot errors that almost killed him and his crew, and did in fact get others killed. He nursed more than one badly wounded B-24 back to the field, and in 35 missions, his men never had to bail out of an aircraft. He never failed to bring everyone home when they flew with him. As I’d seen in ’72, this serious, thoughtful, conscientious son of a preacher took his job very seriously. According to the men who flew with him, he was always calm, never panicked, never even raised his voice in the heat of battle. This while flying though what more than one A.A.F. vet described as “Hell on earth.” Flack, or Anti Aircraft Artillery, is basically a high explosive charge surrounded by steel that is designed to turn into razor sharp shreds of metal, which, when exploded, are basically moving at the speed of sound or faster. In the WW II era, when planes were basically think aluminum shells, flack could and did shred aircraft like a hot knife through butter. Issued flak vests after the early war years, savvy veteran flyers sat or stood on them when in combat, since most of the danger came from below… As the war progressed, high altitude bombing broke into two camps, one British, and one American: The Brits carpet bombed at night, as was being done to them, and as such used bombing to cause general terror as they did to hit specific things. The Americans “Precision Bombed,” meaning they flew in broad daylight and tried to hit specific targets. As things got worse for the Germans, they contrived more efficient ways to hit aircraft with flak. The scariest of these was The Box: The Box entailed shooting a specific amount of flak into a box 2000 feet high and 2000 feet wide, filling that area with hot, fast moving twisted steel. They would overlap the boxes around a target, and trust the Americans to fly right into it, which indeed they did. On a bomb run, there’re no evasive maneuvers of any kind; you made the turn at a designated turning point, and then following the lead plane, you flew straight into hell…

McGovern did that 35 times, as did all the A.A.F. fliers in W.W. II. He did so keeping in mind his responsibilities: bring everyone home alive, and drop bombs where they’re supposed to go, which also did.

I imagine that politics, while potentially as stressful at certain times, cannot have matched the terror of combat. I also easily believe that he might have found Presidential campaign politics in ‘72 less savory even than flying into The Box.

War! Huh! What is it good for?

Absolutely nothin’, say it again… So why am I so fascinated by war? Not sure, really, but it is the history I tend to read more than any other. Dan Brown in the Da Vinci code had a character state that history is written by the winners, but I don’t think this is always true. In the olden days, when the victors basically wiped out the losers, Brown’s contention is substantially true, but in the last few centuries, not so much so… Nowadays, war history is written by people on all sides, or not on any side, or somewhere in between. Look up the Battle of the Bulge, and you can find accounts by Americans, English, French, Belgians, and Germans, to name a few: Read them all and you have a pretty good idea of what really happened.

Of course some of the most fundamental flaws that can impact the writing of history are the unknown biases and practices and skills of the historian/author: Do they have an agenda they’re forwarding and using the book as a platform for such? Are they lazy, or presumptive? Is their first-hand research really that? How accurate and thorough is the job they’ve done? Sometimes we know and sometimes we don’t…

This brings me to one of the most powerful books of history I’ve read in a long time, and one that largely bypasses those concerns. It’s called War Letters, and it was written by Andrew Carroll. War Letters is just that; letters from people in and around American wars, from Revolutionary to Desert Storm. Not all are from soldiers. Some come from peace activists and conscientious objectors, others from politicians and civilians – But most are from soldiers, and needless to say, not all of them survived. The content is poignant, shocking, sad, joyous, funny, thought provoking, and never dull. Writers run the gamut from semi-illiterate to polished, educated to not, and come from all classes and races. Their words reflect the pride, fear, hate, disgust, wonder, doubt, love, and anguish that war brings: Their sights are amazing, the insights are stunning, the reflections terrifying and fascinating. I’ve not read anything like it before.

It is surprising, or perhaps not, that people seem to have changed very little over 200+ years of history. Their fears and desires remain pretty much the same, although their words and surroundings change somewhat. A young soldier from the Revolution was no less scared than one crossing the Iraqi desert. The technology of war changed, but the combatants really didn’t notice that, per se – They noticed their own fears and concerns, and those of their buddies. And one thing certainly remained the same throughout – The group, be it platoon, regiment, flight crew, or artillery company – The group is key. Whether the people beside you came from your neck of the woods, level of education, or strata of society meant nothing – It really didn’t matter if you liked them or not – You trusted them, and they you, because without that, you wouldn’t survive.

War in and of itself reflects the worst of human society; within war, actions may and have reflected the best of humankind: War Letters is all that and more.

Hear Yer, Hear Ye!!

Da Dem’s Got Da Powah!! Now this’ll be a test, indeed… See I am a Democrat, always have been, although specifically speaking, I am socially liberal and fiscally conservative, for what that’s worth.

Nonetheless, I have been generally disaffected and disgusted with all politics and politicians, as you might have guessed from me li’l blog here. But I must admit, somewhere within my internal Chamber o’ Smugness, I am pleased that the Dem’s got the house, and as I write, maybe the senate. Oh, and for the record, my man Kinky didn’t win here in Texas, but he fought a good fight – The Empty Suit was reelected, which is too bad, but as I noted previously, if it’s true that all one needs to be a Governor is to look good and maintain a very low profile, Rick Perry is your guy!

Of course, the shift in House and possibly Senate occurs with Da Lame Duck Shrub in da White House, so it’s unlikely that anything will happen – Not that it did or does in any other circumstances, mind you… It will be interesting to see, from an experimental perspective, if anything different actually happens at all. From my jaded view, this simply means that the folks at the top of the heap switch places with those below, but the shit still flows downhill, ya know?

It’s depressing when you’ve lost faith in The Two Party System, because it really doesn’t matter who won the fight… I think that politics simply mirrors politics, and not the people, places and things they are supposed to represent – And as such, they don’t really have a function other than feeding themselves, caring for their future, and performing an ongoing series of really bad theater…

Now if one were to wax philosophical, I guess the question would be, does politics work at all, in any form? Winston Churchill is widely credited with having said, (In paraphrase), that Democracy is the worst form of government imaginable, except for all the others that have been tried, but I think you could say that about any and all forms of the game. Democracy, Theocracy, Oligarchy, Monarchy, Socialism, Militarism, Dictatorship, Fascism, Communism, Plutocracy, Anarchy, take your pick – Do any of those strike you as desirable? Not me – And while I am glad and proud to be of and for this country and its people, I’m not proud of our government and have not been for a long time.

Ok, you say, whiner boy – What do you want? Bitch, bitch, bitch, all you do is bitch and point out what you don’t like from your pseudo-intellectual stream of drivel –What’s your solution? What should our government be doing, Eben, to make you happy?

Oh, heck, that's an easy answer; thanks for asking. I believe in government of and by and for the people. I believe government should provide those things that we really need in an ever-deteriorating world. Our concerns should be to save a planet that we’re destroying by leaps and bounds – To use technology and smarts to repair and save this fragile planet and not to blow it away. Our concerns should be for the people – All people, everywhere, because if we are a First World Country and a World Power, then we owe the world our power to heal, save, feed, teach, care for, and safeguard – Everyone, everywhere. People should be our business, and nothing else. Adopt the Millennium Development Goals as a party platform and run that up the flagpole for your next campaign. Cure the world’s ills, heal its sick, feed its hungry, clothe its naked, teach its unschooled, provide food and clean water and shelter for everybody who is here and coming.

That’s what politics can do to make me happy – That’s politics for the future – if you need a name for it, let’s just call it Humanism.