In boca al lupo

Rivaling Rocky Balboa, is this next installment of “An Innocent Abroad.” Now, I know some of you have been rather smug, thinking the ordeal of being assaulted by my miscellaneous musings had died a deserving, if not peaceful death. But, proof that no good deed goes unpunished, I am back….

Chapter One: It’s not called that for nothing

For those of you who never opened your history book in school, Rome has been called the “Eternal City,” among other things. I can attest to the veracity of that moniker: new residents (the legal kind) are supposed to register with the local police (“questura”) within eight days of setting foot on this peninsula. We have been here four months, and I am the only one who has had the dubious privilege of having had my fingerprints taken twice (once digitally – so to speak, and once the old-fashioned, ink-on-everything way). Lest you think that four months is just special treatment, I would point out to you, Gentle Reader, that it took nearly a year for us to get the visas to come here in the first place. Rome is called the Eternal City because it takes forever to get anything done.

But, I am getting ahead of myself….

Chapter Two: All Roads Lead to Rome, even the very long ones

When I was told that my services were no longer required in Budapest, I was not also given any idea of what the day after looked like. What was after Budapest? Well, it seemed that it was time to brush off the resume and start knocking on doors; which was part of the rationale behind the visit to Seattle over The Holidays in 2006. However, the phone rang on December 13, telling me that my application to the rep’s position in the Rome Field Service office had been accepted, and that I should start the process of applying for visas and plan on arriving June 1, 2007.

Talk about a Merry Christmas! After having read Latin in high school and learning more than Russell Crowe about Roman generals, I have dreamed of Italy. The Marine Corps, in its infinite wisdom saw to it that I spent a considerable time on terra firma during my Med Cruise of 1981. Yeah, it was all true; especially the food. Then, years of famine. Years of dreams and no action, despite being in Norway for three years, then Hungary….

Hungary? Yep, I spent forty-four months in Budapest after Beijing, Shenyang, and Ulaanbaatar – which was after Bucharest, and “Drum Bum” which started this travelogue. Some of you will recall my missives from Mongolia. Nope, no correspondence from China, so you didn’t miss anything. I finally landed in Budapest in January 2004; and, when I left, I shook the dust off my feet.

Where was I?

Oh yeah: So, Nara and I spent Christmas 2006 in Seattle (didn’t need to look for a job, after all), and then two weeks in January in Miami (777 school) – damn the bad luck, and then two weeks in Tulsa (MD-80 school) – talk about payback! Back in Budapest, we started the visa application process.

Could there be anything more painful? Maybe passing a kidney stone the size of a basketball. The visa service hired by my employer never did figure out that Nara and Anuka were Mongolians, not Chinese. Of course, their confusion was understandable since we had to go to Beijing to get the Italian visas. Uh huh, right. But, that was after they insisted that the three of us stay in Budapest until the visas were issued; somehow conveniently forgetting that the Hungarians never did grant Anuka a visa, and so she wasn’t with Nara and me. Did I mention that our Hungarian residence permits expired the end of September? Oh, sorry, minor detail.

There we are: we can’t stay in Hungary, we can’t go to Italy. We could have gone to the States (Nara got a ten-year visa about four years ago), but Anuka didn’t have a visa. For those of you that can read faster than I can type, you’ve already guessed we went to Ulaanbaatar – which actually makes perfect sense (well, in this saga, “anything goes” pretty well became the theme).

Chapter Three: Back in the USSR

No, not really; but, the official language of Mongolia is written with a version of the Russian (Cyrillic) alphabet. Although the city of Ulaanbaatar has really grown over the years since I lived there, it is still a hard place to live, and there we sat until the Italians issued the summons to apply for Nara’s and Anuka’s visa. I kept busy rewiring Nara’s mother’s clinic, building shelves, and generally trying to keep away from the table. Nara was enjoying her family (of course). And Anuka was trying to figure out who I am (still is, but at thirteen years old, she’s only just embarked on that journey – UPDATE: she’s 18 now, has graduated from high school, and has absolutely no use for me; i.e., a typical teenager). And sat. And sat. Longer than the rains fell on Noah’s pate we sat. No, not until the cows came home; just until the snow began to fall.

Met a wonderful Roman Catholic priest there, so the time wasn’t a total loss.

Chapter Four: The Road to Rome goes through Beijing

The Italians don’t have a diplomatic mission in Mongolia, so their embassy/consulate in Beijing handles visa applications for Mongolians. But, while staying in Mongolia was free (with Nara’s family), staying in Beijing in a hotel was not (can we say, “ka-ching”?). Eventually, we got the magic piece of paper, and booked a flight to Peking (or, Beijing – just wondering if you were still paying attention). Of course, we couldn’t have a flight just into the PRC; they (and everybody else) frowns on people with one-way tickets, so I had to guess how long the actual processing in Beijing would take, and decide on when the flight from Beijing to Rome should be. In the year this whole thing took, that was the one choice that was pretty well spot on: nine days. Great, tickets in hand (ULN-PEK-FCO), we embarked.

My long time (long-suffering?) readers will be scratching their heads thinking this all sounds so deja-vu-all-over-again. While I was scratching another part of my corpus, this did seem like a replay of the first time I left UB, back in 2003 – on my way to Europe that time, too. Even to staying in the Holiday Inn Lido Hotel (I never have figured out where in Beijing the hotel is located). Unfortunately, the Holiday Inn got rid of the cute little “Italian” restaurant in the interim; but, we had more than one meal at “Texan” – you can guess the cuisine.

I was afraid we’d have to settle for Peking Duck for Thanksgiving (seems so un-American, doesn’t it?), but the hotel came through with…well, not honestly sure; but, there was lots of it (no, I did not notice a sudden absence of cats and dogs on the city streets). Remember that we were supposed to have been in Rome by June 1? At this point, “Christmas in China” was looking like a distinct possibility.

Chapter Five: Your Papers are not in Order

Sorry, I skipped a little something. Documentation. Well, not a “little” thing. Not really.

You see, in order to apply for the Italian family visa, we needed a few pieces of paper. We needed all documents notarized and translated into Italian. Or, was that “translated into Italian, and then notarized”? That depends on whether you’re standing on your left leg or your right. And, of course, not just anybody would do either. No, that would have been far too simple.

The Italian consulate was resolute: not just anybody could translate the marriage and birth and adoption certificates. Oh no. Only one company in UB could do that. UB? You mean the company in Budapest – the one and only company in all of Hungary that was permitted to do this sort of thing – couldn’t manage that? Nope. No sirree. Keeping in character, the visa service that was “in charge” (it pains me to put “visa service” and “in charge” in the same sentence – it implies competence), somehow neglected to get the name of the one – the one and only – company in all of UB that the Italians in Beijing would accept a translation from.

Yes Virginia, finding out that the translations had to be done in UB came after we had already had the translations and the notarizations done in Budapest. The Hungarians do a really fine job of making pretty documents, though; thinking of framing them and hanging them on the living room wall. Worthless, but pretty.

So, in May, Nara flew back to UB, had the Mongolian Ministry of Foreign Affairs notarize the three documents, then had them translated into Italian, then flew to Beijing and had the Mongolian Consulate notarize them, then had the Italian consulate take a look. Then, she flew back to Budapest – after a month in Seattle for my annual Home Leave. Did I forget Anuka? Nope: I had to fly to UB to apply for a US visa for her (yes, I had to be physically present at the US Consulate in UB to apply for her visa; what a crock) – for her first ever trip out of Mongolia; but, that’s a different story.

Chapter Six: “I’m confused: your wife and daughter don’t have US passports.”

You know I’m not making this up: I’m an engineer with a severe case of The Knack. We finally get to the Italian consulate in Beijing (after going to the wrong building to apply for the family visa – courtesy of the visa service which ‘was in charge’) where the consular officer (clerk?) didn’t understand why Nara and Anuka didn’t have US passports, since the computer showed them to be US citizens. Huh? Would we be in Beijing if they were? No, we’d already be in Italy.

Way back, months ago, like, I don’t know, April, May, something, some clerk in Italy gave Nara and Anuka US citizenship. How the clerk did that, looking at copies of Mongolian passports, I really don’t want to try to guess. Nara’s name was spelled correctly, but not her nationality (and nobody is going to believe there is a statistical possibility of spelling “Narangerel” correctly). But, The Computer in Beijing said they were US citizens, and all the paperwork in our possession to the contrary couldn’t persuade the clerk otherwise (including the actual Mongolian passports).

The consular officer, however, did believe us – maybe it was the deer-in-the-headlights look of utter disbelief – apparently believed Nara and Anuka really were Mongolian citizens; but, you know, The Computer said…. What to do? Contact Alitalia and have them contact the Italian police and have them make the correction. Contact Alitalia? That’s like grabbing on to the anchor of a sinking ship (at that time Italy’s flag carrier had about three weeks of cash left). How long will it take? Days, weeks, months. What should we do? Go back to Mongolia and wait.

“Our” plane to Rome left two days later. Yes, we were on it.

By the way, “In boca al lupo” is the Italian version of “good luck.”

(The above was originally written in April, 2008 – before I had even heard about “blogs”.)

2013
06/19
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Temple Grandin – Vision

She sees the world in ways others can’t. Simple, succinct and seminal. Well, the first two for sure; only time will tell how seminal her story will be for me.

Another thing I got out of the movie was that of “connection”.

Already, I have too much for one posting; and what I learned about my daughter who just graduated from high school is yet another story. So this might be a multi-part posting; I’m sure my loyal readers will humor me?

We all see the world in a unique way – our own way; unfortunately, for the most part, we want others to see it the way we do. This is self-defeating for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it shows that we persist in living in our own illusions, for the simple fact that we want everyone to see what we see – this, all-by-itself is an illusion. We give ourselves the mantle of being “special” and “unique” but expect others to give up their own and worship ours.

According to the movie, Temple had difficulty with roommates in college. I can imagine myself in a close, daily relationship with someone who had pretty much no social skills at all. Maybe that would work because I don’t have much use for people, either (and I know I’m not autistic, for I am brilliant at absolutely nothing at all: “hopelessly average” as my sister has put it). But, she finally got a roommate who was blind. Two things there: One, the blind roommate spent her whole life being different and living in a world that was not the least bit accommodating to her “other than ‘normal’ needs”. And two, the roommate “saw” the world in voices and sounds – not really so much different from how Temple said she saw the world, tho for her, in pictures.

So, first “a-ha moment”: How do I see the world, and how can I appreciate how others see it? I’ll go way out on a limb here and propose that we, each and every one of us, want to make the world fit our perception, our mold, our “reality”. But, if we stand back a minute, be the director and not one of the actors on the stage, we will quickly come to the realization that the world is bigger than us, and has been and will be, around longer than each of us, and that we need to fit the world. In my previous life of being a military aviator, we used to say “strap on the airplane”; and I had some brilliant colleagues (I hope they don’t mind me calling them colleagues) who seemed to become another entity entirely – a good thing when coming aboard a pitching deck at night (NORDO, too). Yes, I am a tailhooker (and proud of it). The actor lives on the stage, the aviator lives in the sky, but with its own – inviolate – rules (actors can “break a leg” and return; military aviation is less forgiving).

While Temple (and “all” austistics?) can’t understand why we “normal” folk can’t see the world as they do, can we, at the very least, give up our illusions? Maybe Temple could never learn how to hug; can I? She certainly understood how necessary some sort of hug was; just not from people, thank-you-very-much. Give up that First Illusion; that the world is as we see it. As we see it, not as how others see it; and finally, not how it really is.

Second, try to see the world as others see it. Well, maybe appreciate that they do see it differently; then move on to “walking a mile in their shoes”. Crawl, then walk, then run. First, aim, then shoot. Engage my brain before I open my mouth (conveniently ignoring that, often, there aren’t any brain cells to engage).

I earn a paycheck from a company that espouses “diversity”. Recently, it hijacked that term – formerly used for ethnic diversity – and has promulgated “geographical diversity” (what do you expect from a huge engineering company?). During a recent “webcast” (I suppose that term makes as much sense as “broadcast”?) five executives explained their new corporate strategy. All five were: white, male and middle-aged. Three of the five were grossly obese. I am white and male, which I can’t change, and wouldn’t change, even if I could. And, I am past middle-age; not much I can do about that, either. The obese is entirely w/n my control. That said, I am reminded of Groucho Marx’s famous: “I would never join a club that would have me as a member.” Temple Grandin is probably as brilliant as all five of those stuffed-shirts put together; but she would never be allowed into that club; and thankfully, most likely couldn’t care less. And the company I work for is less for the incest.

Food for thought, Temple: how do I see the world, and how do others see it?

Thanks to Claire Danes for her portrayal in the HBO movie. Dr Temple Grandin is on the web; well worth your time to look her up (I guess I should say “Google her”, shouldn’t I?).

2013
06/16
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A tough nut to crack

Actually, reading ALL of Pope Benedict’s “Regensburg Lecture” (2006 Sep 12), and not just the quote that Muslims chose to hear (“Show me just what Muhammad brought that was new and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached.” Manuel II Paliologos, 14th century), I can find no fault. Almost seven years later, observing the behavior of the Muslim world, I’d have to say that Benedict was too kind by far.

Our current pope, Francis, when he was Archbishop of Buenos Aires, apparently thought Benedict destroyed 20 years of Pope John Paul II’s efforts in 20 seconds. I’m not sure the Muslim world paid that much attention to JP2.

Has there been a day go by when you’ve seen any kind of sign (literal or figurative) that seems to originate from any Muslim of any stripe that promotes peace with anyone? Starting with Muslims of different stripes, continuing to the secular world, and on to the Christian sphere. It goes w/o saying that Islam will never stop its unilateral war with Jews.

So, now we have the diplomatic envoy to the grand imam of Al-Azhar asking (demanding – do Muslims ever “ask”?) that Francis declare Islam a peaceful religion. What is this guy smoking? How about Islam doing something – Dear God (Allah) ANYTHING – that might be remotely construed (confused?) as peaceful? How about walking the talk?

There is no doubt that the Catholic Church wielded the sword plenty – in the past. That was then and that is to be regretted. However, Muslims still go out of their way to kill, maim, destroy. This is now. Thank God the Catholic Church has put the sword where it belongs (yeah: about time); I just don’t see Islam doing the same.

I look around me and I can only conclude that Manuel II’s words have proven timeless.

2013
06/13
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Malachite – Chapter 3 – Outward Bound

A modern Christopher Columbus? Gulliver? I hope the natives are friendly. He shuddered again: from what he had read, there wouldn’t be any “natives,” and if there was anything On Top, whatever it was wouldn’t be friendly – that’s why he grew up underground, that’s why everyone he knew had been born underground, lived underground, and died underground. Nothing On Top was friendly. Good to remember.

He started digging in the stinking mud, fashioning a shallow grave. Finally, content that it was deep enough – Surely this is deep enough? – he lay down and pulled the piles of mud on top of his shoes, his legs, his torso. So, what do I do about my face? Good question. He sat up, and pulled his t-shirt off. Lying back down, he made a tent over his face by holding the thin material just off his face. Feels like I’m finally going to drown. He took one last look at the river, and closed his eyes. Did the girls make it this far? And what happened to them – what was the noise that made them split up? Do I try to return? And how do I do that? Do I sit here? And for how long, a week? Do I try to find The City, and Jade? Well, that’s why this journey began, right? Had he been able to stay awake, he might have come up with some very discouraging answers.

As the sun went down, the drop in temperature woke him. Trying to move, he discovered that the t-shirt had been baked solid and his arms had gone numb. He also discovered that he had pointed his feet facing the rising sun, so his head faced the setting sun; his right arm, therefore, pointed south. And nobody around to notice how clever I am. Pushing up the hard shell of the t-shirt, he tried to sit up. Not so fast! He beat the baked clay that covered his body into shards and looked south and found a landmark – a knob of a hill on a ridge in the distance was still visible in the twilight. Twilight? I guess I have survived my First Day on the surface? He looked around. Well, I’m here, I might as well get on with it. He began walking. He started to shiver. Wow! Not used to this cold! To where, he could not guess; but there was no shelter here on this flood plain. Dunno what I’m going to do when the sun comes back up.

He walked all night. He couldn’t navigate by the stars because, not ever having seen stars before, he didn’t know how. At least, for his subterranean eyes, the night didn’t get all that dark. Piss poor planning, pal. And he was thirsty. He walked and walked – for hours and hours – and it just now hit him that he had no water and no food. Great: no water. So, I guess I have about a week, tops, before I go nuts and die. Might as well enjoy the sights while I can. He looked around for a place to lie down for awhile. His best traveling would be at night. At night, when he could use his eyes without having to squint and shield them. At night, when he could use his ears. At night, when smells were sharpest. At least he was dry; that was something.

+++

He laid down and tried to make himself a little comfortable on the rocky soil. It wasn’t really sand; rather, very small stones. But, he managed. He stared up at the last of the stars in the pre-dawn sky and eventually closed his eyes. And dreamed. Dreamed of a scene from a movie. Must have been from a movie, for he dreamed of a very large, gray ship pulling away from a dock. On board was a young man in a military uniform, on the dock was a young woman holding a very young girl in her arms. Clearly from a movie; but which one, and why, and why now?

Malachite had survived his first day and night in this new world on the surface of the venerable old globe of the Earth.

Again, the sky began to lighten, over there – and he was out in the open. Keep the morning sun on my left? Well, why not? He had nothing else to go on. He had to find shelter – any kind of shelter. I should not be out here in the sun! I should be hiding from it! He quickly became warm, then hot. Wish I had some clothes on. A lot of clothes. As the mud flaked off, he noticed that it had stained his skin. Maybe a good thing? There were people in the settlement whose blood was definitely from darker stock, maybe they would fare better up here? Didn’t much matter now: his skin was so white it was almost pink. And, if he didn’t get out of the sun, and very soon, he would go blind – if his skin didn’t peel off, first. But, the further away from the river that he walked in search of shelter, the further away from drinking water he got. It was a toss-up: die from the sun, or die from thirst. He had no idea which was better.

The climbing sun, forced him to trade the “too cold” of night for the “too hot” of day. Too hot and too bright. He stood still and closed his eyes. Still too bright. He covered his eyes with his hands and

felt the sun attack the skin on the back of his hands and arms. Definitely damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. Opening his eyes beneath his hands, he began walking again. Eyes that could penetrate the eternal darkness of the subterranean world he lived in. Had lived in. Eyes that could not possibly handle the sun’s brightness, even on a cloudy day. So, he searched for shelter; he felt instinctively that, as useless as eyes were down below, they were absolutely essential here on top.

He had walked far enough away from the river to see some sort of plants (or what he thought must be plants) in the distance. He couldn’t stay where he was, as the sun rose higher and higher against a brilliant blue sky. So, he noted where the sun had come from, rotated his head 90 degrees and found a landmark in the distance. I guess that’s south? He found himself scratching the spots on his skin that the sun was not so slowly destroying.

How far have I gone? Does it matter? Where am I, anyway? Or, am I someplace at all? Without any hope of surviving, he was really more of a tourist, looking at all the strange and mysterious sights; for everything he could see was new to him. In fact, everything he could see would have been new to anybody who might have also been walking there. In fact, he was the first human being to walk there in a hundred years. Native or otherwise.

He made the scrub brush, about waist high, as the sun was setting. A brilliant sunset with every hue in the red end of the spectrum. His first, vibrant, painfully vibrant colors. Down there – what used to be home – there were no colors, not really. Just various shades of gray. And not many of those. His growling stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything since, since when? And, he was already getting cold again.

2013
06/04
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There is nothing new under the sun?

Really? Whoever said that* hasn’t seen the latest to come out of Hollywood.

I can’t say that I cared about either entertainers or pianos when I was growing up; I was mostly into whatever my parents chose for evening tv. Having been out of my parents’ house for ages now, I not only don’t watch tv, I seldom go to movies, and I certainly have never given Liberace a second thought.

So, I really don’t care about the new movie about him. I would not likely have wasted any time at all watching it, even if the actors weren’t no-names, which they now are in my book.

But, while other institutions, like the military and universities and large corporations have had to implement a governmental policy that their composition reflect that of society (can you tell I grew up during the 60s?), Hollywood (specifically the film industry, but also the entertainment industry in general) has pretty much gone its own way. Until recently, when it became popular to pay attention to what the celebrities were saying. Now, thanks to the crowing of actors of every stripe (most abysmally bad at their chosen professions), society has adopted a policy of reflecting Hollywood’s values. If there was ever a more blatant example of the tail wagging the dog, I cannot, at the moment, think of it.

Consequently, the irony of the film studios refusing to distribute this movie in the USA about a ho-hum piano player because the movie portrays a lifestyle that really is not palatable to the 97% of us that might buy tickets, is, as the title of this commentary suggests, something that really is new.

What is also new is that internet technology provides a lot more entertainment than Hollywood ever did. Oh, Hollywood has always been very good at cranking out movies, as a one-time movie theater projectionist (back in the days of carbon rods and changing reels), I saw more than my fair share of pure, unadulterated crap. Far more than my fair share. But, if you wanted the movie experience, you were at the mercy of what the local theater was showing. And, growing up in the Midwest, there was precious little else available.

Of course, now, you can have a “tv” screen in your living room that your neighbors can easily watch from across the street, and the programming is beyond comprehension. A sign of the times: “How do you know when you have enough channels? When you can’t find anything to watch.” Har-dee-har-har-har. The joke may be on John and Jane Doe; but they are not spending their dollars on Hollywood entertainment, they are spending it elsewhere. They have options, and they are taking full advantage of them.

I used to know people who went to the movies “all the time”; for a few, it was a weekly ritual. I don’t know anybody now who goes to the theater without first going on line to see what’s playing and where and what the ticket price is. When I do see a movie, it is at a $3 theater, and it is a movie I have researched; sometimes for hours. As to my home video library, I have such titles as “The Way” and “For Greater Glory” and “Taking Chance” (none of those were produced and distributed by a major Hollywood studio).

As far as I’m concerned, most of the film coming out of Hollywood should have stayed on the cutting room floor.

* Ecclesiastes 1:9

2013
06/04
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Fast forward thru the boring parts

My niece and a friend just completed a coast-to-coast drive (little car, big highways) from Sunny Seattle (GF in BC can relate) to, um, Fayetteville, North Carolina – 13 states in four days (some 2,900 miles). My niece wanted to sightsee, her fellow traveler (and, owner of the car) wanted to get to Ft Bragg as soon as possible because her new husband was waiting. While my niece got an appreciation of this country that you can get only by driving it, I came to appreciate the updates in Facebook (frankly, I don’t know why I have bothered with it – I seem to spend more time clicking “Hide” than anything else – for once, tho, I really did want to know all about “Chicago Pizza pot pies” and how they are more “real” than “real food”).

I was also reminded of all the “summer vacations” my family took while us kids were growing up. Not too long ago I needed a reality check, so I asked my Mom if we did, in fact, take a trip EVERY summer – like I remembered. Yep, sure did. Every summer, my Dad took his two weeks of annual vacation, we all piled in the car (a station wagon w/o seatbelts) and spent two weeks getting from Point A to Point B, so we could turn around and reverse the process. We always stayed with family. I know now, that I did not appreciate the gift at the time. Later in life, I got to see Mt Rushmore and the embryonic Crazy Horse again; now my niece has. I hope to show them to my wife someday….

While talking about teens with a neighbor today, he recalled Mark Twain’s quip about how smart his father got in just the few years between age 14 and 21. All I could do is nod my head and hope. And wonder why each and every generation has to discover (sometimes called “growing up”) for themselves what every previous generation has already spent time and tears learning. With all the toys at hand, will the current crop of youngsters shorten Twain’s seven years? Or, will their obsession with talking with everyone who is NOT present in the room delay their development? In any event, I’m glad I grew up with rock-n-roll and not rap.

Finally (for this post has rambled on long enough), I have been notified by email that I now have a “follower”. OH! The Pressure! Dunno if “follower” is just the New Age term for “critic” and I should be worried about being responsible, or if I can continue to write just because I feel the need to express myself. Not to be dismissive, but what I really feel the need for is coffee and chocolate 😉

2013
05/30
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I’m glad I was sitting down when I read this

A co-worker sent an email to all of us hapless souls last week; here are a few excerpts:

“sitting more than six hours in a day can increase your risk of dying by 54 percent”
“Women who sat for more than six hours a day were 40 percent more likely to die. And men increased their risk by 20 percent.”

Which is worse: that someone wrote this trash, or that an otherwise halfway intelligent person bought into it (and felt compelled to share it)? Basically, the gist of the article is that if you never sit down, you’re never going to die. Fabulous thot, eh? But, the end of all this joy is one of the greatest gifts I can think of. Ok, so name one person you know who is, say 90 years old, or even 80 years old, that is having the time of his/her life. Find a really old fart who is in the pink of health (you might have to go down to the 40-somethings for this one). I had two cousins who probably died of agoraphobia, neither all that old, as far as candles on the cake is concerned. But, as sure as Death, afraid of Life.

I couldn’t have said it better. The point is, this fun ride we’re on has a price. Oh? and you think it doesn’t? How do you connect the dots? Absolutely everything you do in This Life has a price, but the sum total of the days of your life don’t? You spend your days, five out of seven, I’ll wager, trading the minutes and hours of your life for fun tokens that you then exchange for, well, I guess it’s called “fun”. Either “fun”, or “stuff”; in any event the same fluff. And that “stuff” is mostly the Madison Avenue definition; for if it had a meaningful definition, you wouldn’t be so eager to chase after the next fashionable bit of “fun”. But, no one ever says the car, the house, the dream vacation were “free”. Nobody with two cents to rub together.

I thought it was all about “immediate gratification” – that was last week. Now, I think it is all about the lack of accountability. Getting something for nothing. Enjoying the ride w/o buying a ticket. Somehow being the one bloke who’s figured out how to cheat the system – w/o getting caught, of course.

It all adds up to the same: a distraction. This Life is not the sum total of all the little activities that most people fill it with. Or, let’s hope not. How many episodes of “Wheel of Fortune” make a life? (thank you, Charlie Babbitt) Most definitely not the real thing. The distraction is buying into the idea that death can be avoided. Hell, you think taxes are inevitable? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet! Tell ya what, let’s thaw out James Hiram Bedford and listen to his first words. Nope: no one cheats Death.

Why persist then? Why continue running the race? Well, even if you’re in last place rounding the final turn, the fat lady hasn’t sung yet (only in America? Not!). No one asked you to lace up your spikes, no one forced you into the starting blocks, but there you are: in the race of (for?) your life. Gotta finish it. Euthanasia is just another name for loser. Quitters got to what circle of Dante’s Inferno?

Yeah, This Life is an every day sort of thing. Every day. Every day you put your gloves on and enter the ring. Or, you sit in the first row and get sweat and other body fluids showered down on you. Or, maybe you’re up in the nose-bleed section? Or, still outside trying to decide whether to buy tickets? News Flash: Life ain’t about the tailgate party. Participate or spectate – your choice.

But, you better choose, and choose soon: no telling how much time you’re going to need. No way to know if just this last straightaway is going to be long enough. Wanna bet you really do need more than one more round or inning?

‘Course, you can take the position that there is no final reckoning. This Life is all there is. Some live charmed lives and some don’t live a life at all. Some get all the breaks, and all the wrong people die young or live long. So, what difference does it make? There is no one to pay, anyway. I thank God for people like you: you are something else I don’t want any part of.

2013
05/28
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Memorial Day 2013

I’m still in shock to see people at the recent Rolling Thunder rally in DC that are neither citizens, nor “legal” visitors. Not that I don’t want THEM there, rather, that there aren’t more of “us” there. You know “us”: those born in this country, or naturalized citizens who are just too busy reaching for the next shiny thing to show any sort of gratitude to those who have served, and on this day, those who have fallen.

No surprise at all to see my left wing “friends” (using the word in the Facebook sort of way) completely blowing off the one thing – the one and only thing – that gives them the freedom to utter (or, not) the most senseless bilgewater (if you think bullshit is bad, you ain’t been aboard ship). I’ll betcha there weren’t any Volvos or Suzukis with bikeracks and Obama stickers at the rally.

Memorial Day is a day to be aware of our roots. Oh yeah, the Fourth of July is fine, but it’s supposed to be a party – it’s a birthday for heaven’s sake. Party hearty, Marty. But, Memorial Day, and Veterans’ Day are our opportunity to take a minute out of our self-indulgent lives and look to the contributions that others have made to our way of life. It is no wonder there are no “policitians’ day” – esp considering the present incumbent of the White House.

I fly my flag every day. When it looks tired and torn, it gets replaced; I’m averaging one a year hanging from the front of my house (the worn ones line the walls of my garage). I have a 12 inch Marine Corps sticker on the back of my jeep; if my spare tire was larger, I’d find a larger sticker.

I salute those that I knew. May 26 is the day a horrendous crash occurred on the USS Nimitz; a crash that took 14 lives, and “gave” me a berth on that cruise. Several more, including my best friend on board, would pay with their lives before that cruise was over. Several more have not returned from patrol since then.

I am not an “ex-Marine”; I am not a “former Marine”. I am a “Marine no longer on active duty”. Those who put on the uniform write a blank check to John and Jane Doe, and we have to be satisfied with that. That we are willing to give our all for a largely ungrateful nation and a hostile world. Because we are willing to die – and to kill – to protect a way of life that is the envy of the rest of the world. If you think the US sucks, then you haven’t been out of Kansas.

To all those who gave, to all those who didn’t come back: Semper Fi. We will never forget. Well, some of us, anyway….

2013
05/27
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Say wha?

I recently received the newsletter (old fashion PAPER-type newspaper – didn’t know they made these anymore) from the “Regional Fire Authority” that I happen (thru no fault of my own) to live in. Two items caught my eye:

1. We now have “traffic calming interventions”. It’s been a few days, and I still have no idea why anyone would think that communication and not confusion has occurred. I am usually able to “tune out” (can we still say that?) gobbledegook, but I just could not shake this one off. Like a smidge of honey (or something else) that seems to get transplanted onto absolutely everything, this “traffic calming” phenom has stuck with me all week. Fortunately, the article gave an example: speed bumps. I suppose there are other “interventions,” but I really – no, really – don’t want to know. In any event, I have never found speed bumps to be particularly “calming” – “infuriating” is the first word that usually penetrates my thick brain. And, “intervention” sounds like there is something terribly wrong that, if left to itself, will result in the destruction of the known universe (the destruction of the unknown being somewhat hard to document, you understand?).

2. Not to be outdone, in the same newspaper, was the shocking statistic that “36% of all pedestrians killed in traffic crashes were legally drunk….” Clearly, when drunk (if that is not an oxymoron, it does not belong in the “Regional Fire Authority” newspaper), one should not walk. Clearly, walking drunk carries with it a 1 in 3 chance of being killed. Clearly, the only alternative is to drive – there was no mention in the newspaper about driving while drunk, so that must be much safer. It only stands to reason.

3. However, in an effort to prove that “Dilbert” is a documentary, the work-group to which I belong issued an email (no paper, here) that included the statement that “leadership” (obviously a very loose use of the term) was “engaged in the process and very excited by its ability to provide transparency.” Of course, one is nothing these days if one is not engaged, to someone (gender de jour) or something, so it goes without saying that leadership is engaged. Slightly more difficult to comprehend would be the prospect that leadership is excited about anything, other than preserving their own little fiefdoms. But, to note that the possibility of “transparency” might exist is truly noteworthy! I am ever so grateful that I was sitting down when I read that. I shudder to think how my world will change, knowing that the powers-that-be are excited about transparency! Also, they intend to keep a record of all decisions; truly a short treatise, that.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Lewis Carroll

2013
05/24
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Zach Sobiech

‘Nuf said.

+++

I had something else in mind for today’s post; but a friend posted this video on his Facebook, and I went there (you can trust friends). You can go to YouTube and find “My Last Days” as well as Zach’s song, “Clouds”. Not only did Zach teach us – those willing to listen – perspective, but also attitude. I can only imagine what it must have been like to know him personally; but, I am sure I have missed someone. Thank you, Zach. In your short 17 years here, you made this world a better place. I will try not to disappoint you. God bless.

2013
05/23
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