DEFEAT FASCISM

 America and the world still suffers from the last time a dim-witted American president got us into an unnecessary war.

We can at least blame a majority of the U.S. Supreme Court for that one. The elected him.

This time thought, 77,302,580 Americans will do the "walk of shame."

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 WORDS

My friend from another galaxy, the Alien C. W. still drops by to see me from time to time. Here is what happened today as I was trying to understand our modern times.

C.W. often becomes confused by our language so so I was scarcely surprised when he showed up at my door dressed as a monk. He smiled and raised his hand in a gesture of forgiveness as I opened the door.

“Sed do absolutionem, fili mi,” he said.

“Get the hell out of the hall before someone sees you,” I said.

He looked confused.

“What is this ‘hell’ that I can remove from your corridor?” he said.

“Give me a break,” I said as I ushered him in.

“How does one ‘give’ an act of forcing a division?”

I grimaced. He sat and arranged his monk’s robe carefully before speaking.

“I have been learning Latin,” he said.

“Marvelous.”

“Your modern English derives largely from that forgotten language, I understand.”

“Quite so.”

“So why all the confusion about word order?”

“Confusion?”

“Yes. In Latin, if one combines the words ‘house’ and ‘cat’ the order would make no difference.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “You have a point there.”

“And the combining of two innocent words for off-pigment purposes is beyond my understanding.”

“How so?”

“For example, you take a valid term used to describe a prolonged period of high winds.”

“You mean ‘a blow’”?

“Yes, my son.”

I ignored him.

“And then you attach to it the term used to describe what one does for a living …”

“That’s quite enough,” I said. “My wife is sleeping in the back room.”

“Speaking of your wife,” he said. “I have heard her on occasion use a term that I find particularly baffling.”

“And that is?”

“She refers periodically to a “Sin Erase Date.”

“Yes.”

“And that means?”

“That refers to the date that a politician with a checkered personal life uses to pinpoint the exact moment when he or she embraced a religious dogma.”

“I don’t understand.”

I explained. “That is the date before which one cannot question the politician’s past since, at that time, he or she ‘found religion’ and was absolved of all previous bad behavior.”

“Sort of a ‘Get out of Hell Free’ card?”

I smiled. “Sort of.”

“Does your so-called ‘news media’ fall for it?”

“Ask George W. Bush.”

He sighed. “I see.”

“Has this been any help?”

He went into repose as I continued with the headlines.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 STEREOTYPES

Interesting day yesterday was. A sitting president finishing his first term and actively campaigning for a second ended his effort. He endorsed his vice-president who is female and of a mixed-race heritage. Most Americans know little about her other than her party affiliation.

That’s all that matters to many.

For the sake of argument, we might for a moment consider that she is, in fact, the chosen candidate to run for the seat in November.

How will the press stereotype her?

The press does that. It stereotyped Gerald Ford as a harmless, but clumsy, nobody when he tripped exiting Air Force One.

It stereotyped Jimmy Carter as a clueless, hardheaded outsider.

It stereotyped Ronald Reagan as America's favorite old uncle.

It stereotyped Bus the Elder as America's rich uncle, but invisible.

It stereotyped Bill Clinton as a lovable rogue. (Yes, they do get close on occasion.)

It stereotyped Bush Jr. as a cowboy. (Go figure.)

It stereotyped Barrack Obama as cool, except in the South. The South viewed him differently.

And Joe Biden as dottery.

Then there was the one who defied stereotyping, one who simply, like a pinball, bounced from one display of idiocy and malevolence to another so quickly that labels didn’t stick.

Now what?

An angry woman out to avenge her sex?

A liberal icon who will sacrifice the future of working families in order to protect the least of those among us?

An accidental president?

A surprise?

A sheep among wolves?

It would be a simple matter of speculation if the future of our planet didn’t depend upon it.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 EGOS AND EMPIRES

I helped win World War Two. I can help free the Cubans.

I’ll not be the first American president to lose a war.

I’ll not be brought down by a third-rate burglary.

I can pardon whomever I wish.

I’ll say who uses the tennis courts and when.

Go ahead and sell them the weapons. I can act my way out of anything.

I’ll raise taxes just a bit to straighten out his mess. Who can stop me?

Who will care in the long run? If it feels good, go for it.

I’ll get the man who tried to kill my daddy.

People will love me in a brown suit.

Let them drink bleach.

It’s mine, my precious.

Fiction Friday

Sundown in Zion

Chapter Five

Our hero just finished visiting with a young friend and reading a note from an old friend. It's early and adventure awaits.

After Nelson had cleaned the dining table, he picked a book from a box and sat down to read. He examined the title of the book and the inside cover. Then he turned to the first chapter. As he read, he began to smile. In the narrative, a young child was talking about his parents’ tombstone.

            Nelson read, “The shape of the letters on my father's, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, ‘Also Georgiana Wife of the Above,’ I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly.”

            Nelson lowered the book to his lap. “Also Georgiana, wife of the above,” he said aloud. He closed his eyes drew a deep breath. “Also Georgiana,” he repeated. He put the book aside and stood. He went to the front door and walked onto his porch. The night offered one of those mid-March evenings of balmy weather with a freshening breeze from the north-northwest. Nelson sat for a while in a porch-lounger and watched the street where the truck had parked earlier. Then he checked his watch. It was still early in the evening so he rose and went back into the house. He grabbed light jacket from a rack and secured the house. After checking both ways, he turned north toward Ninth Street, his hands stuck deep in his pockets and his jacket zipped against the night breeze.

            A few blocks from his home, Nelson entered a neighborhood micro-brewery. Although it was early, the place had started to fill. Nelson purchased a house special and took a seat at the last empty table, a small two-seater located in a quiet corner. He sipped his beer and watched the young and lively crowd.

            Nelson appeared deep in thought when a strong feminine voice from beside him intruded.

            “Join you?” it said. Nelson looked around. A tall woman, probably in her early-thirties stared down at him. She had dark auburn hair that fell softly to her shoulders and then curled upward. He skin was flawless and her dark eyes danced for him. She wore a long-sleeved sweater-top of a muted color with crocheted ruffles around the neckline and down the front. It emphasized generous breasts that seemed both proud and comfortable. A dark gray knit skirt extended to mid-thighs of long shapely legs. A small pendant hung from a thin gold chain around her neck. She placed a hand on a hip and smiled.

            “Don’t mean to be forward,” she said. “I’ve just been on my feet all day and I’m bushed.” She looked at the empty chair. “Are you expecting someone?”

            “No,” Nelson said, and he motioned for her to take the chair. She sat her beer on the table and slid into the empty chair, extending a hand. “Tina Barrow,” she said. “No relation to Clyde.”

            He shook her hand. “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “No relation to Baby Face.”

            They both laughed. Tina wrapped both hands around her beer and leaned forward. “Haven’t seen you here before.” She said it as a fact but apparently intended it as a question. She waited for an answer.

            “Just a couple of times,” Nelson said. He took a short drink from his mug.

            Tina said, “Nice place. It’s what passes for a neighborhood bar in Little Rock.

            He nodded. She leaned back and observed the room. “Mostly the young crowd,” she said. “I like it though. I meet some of my students here from time to time.”

            “You’re a teacher?”

            “Sociology,” she said. “UALR.”

            “The University of Arkansas at Little Rock,” he said.

            “That’s the one. You new around here?”

            “Been in the area for a year and a half or so. Just moved to the city.”

            She leaned back toward him. “Now you know what I do. Want to tell me what you do?”

            He smiled. “I recuperate,” he said.

            She looked for a smile but saw none, started to speak but stopped, then nodded. “Don’t we all.”

            They both settled back and regarded the crowd for a few minutes. A young couple entered the bar and the man spotted Tina and waved. She returned it and the two walked to where she sat.

            The man said, “Hey Dr. Barrow. Out slumming?”

            She smiled. “Keeping tabs, Mr. Osterman,” she said, “caring for your sheep is a Biblical injunction don’t you know?”

            “It’s Friday night,” the man said. “Students are allowed to howl on Friday night or life ain’t worth living.” The girl with him giggled.

            “Granted,” Tina said, raising her mug in mock salute. She waved it toward Nelson. “Meet Gideon Nelson, a recovering American.”

            The three shook hands all around the couple wandered toward the bar. Tina leaned in close to Nelson, and laughed. “Making students nervous and curious makes it all seem worthwhile. My life’s dream is to catch one doing something truly untoward and cause them to wet their pants.”

            Nelson laughed. Tina raised her mug in salute and he touched it with his. He said, “Here’s hoping you achieve all your dreams.”

            “Now that I’ve shared one,” she said, “do you have any? Secret dreams that is?”

            Nelson thought. “To tell you the truth, I would like to have a college degree someday. Fact is, I’m looking into your university to maybe take a course or two.”

            “Not sociology, I hope.”

            “You don’t like older students?”

            “I love them,” she said. “They actually want to learn.” She took a sip of beer. “But sociology, I’m afraid, isn’t all that valuable in the marketplace. Someone once described it the study of it as ‘an elephant giving birth to ant’ and I find it increasingly difficult to dispute that description.”

            Nelson eyed her carefully. “But,” he said, “you chose it.”

            “I was idealistic. It was the 1990s and things in America were good, probably for the last time. The field wasn’t crowded and besides, my husband was going to make loads of money and I wouldn’t have to worry about supporting myself.”

            Nelson said, “What does he do, your husband?”

            She drank and sat down the mug. She looked at Nelson as if to say something but changed her mind. She looked away and then back at him. “He currently occupies a small patch of ground in a large cemetery on the east side of town.” She sighed. “It’s marked by one of thousands of little white tombstones.”

            “Military.” He said.

            “He owed the army a tour for putting him through med school,” she said. “We had almost finished it stateside when that little prick of a president we had decided to invade Iraq.” She pointed to the diamond pendant on her chest. “This is all I have left of him. It’s from our first anniversary.”

            Nelson drew a deep breath then exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he said.

            “Oh don’t be,” she said. “After all, I will get to march in the ‘Widows of Freedom Fighters’ Parade, if they ever decide to have one.”

            Nelson didn’t react. He waited for her to continue.

            She smiled. “It’s been awhile,” she said. “It comes and goes now—the bitterness.”

            He nodded in a show of understanding.

            “You ever serve in the military?” she said.

            Nelson thought for a few seconds. He seemed to be considering alternate replies. Finally, he looked into her eyes and said, “That’s what I’m recuperating from.”

            She dropped her chin onto her chest. “You men.” She raised her gaze to his. “They say he would still be alive if he had minded his own business.”

            “I imagine they could say that about a lot of folks,” Nelson said.

            She brightened, “Hey,” she said, “I didn’t intrude on your privacy to bring in a black cloud. To freedom fighters.” She raised her mug again and clanked it against his.

            Nelson eased the conversation to a starboard tack. “Are you from around here?”

            “A little postcard of a town a few hours away. Ever heard of Eureka Springs?”

            He thought. “The tourist town?”

            “That’s the one. Ever been there?”

            “It’s on my ‘thinking about things to think about doing list,’” he said. “I have a couple of friends who I think would like it, from what I’ve heard.”

            “Well gather them up some weekend and I’ll take you on the grand tour.”

            “They live in Austin, Texas,” he said. “Maybe next time they are here.”

            “Maybe so.” Now it was her time to change the tack. “Do you like it here? In Little Rock, I mean.”

            “I’m beginning to,” he said. She smiled. He smiled in return. “Let me ask you something,” he said.

            “Maybe a bit soon for my phone number,” she said, “how about my email address?”

            He laughed. “More of an information-seeking question,” he said. “Are you familiar with this place called Connorville?”

            “Connerville?” she said in surprise. “The town up north of here?”

            “That’s the one.”

            “Don’t be going up there,” she said.

            “Why?”

            “Bad actors,” she said. “Are you familiar with the Latin term ‘anus mundi’ by any chance?”

            He thought and the thought produced a smile. “I think so.”

            “That’s the place. It is a throwback to what folks in our state used to call a ‘sundown town’ and those who live there now couldn’t be prouder of the title.”

            “Sundown town,” he said. “What is that?”

            She looked at him closely. “You really don’t know?”

            “I don’t.”

            “Where are you from?”

            “The northwest.”

            She drained her mug and started to rise. “Can I buy you a beer?”

            “Let me buy you one,” he said. “Payment for information about to be received.”

            “Hey,” she said, handing him the mug, “a girl’s gotta live.”

            When he became obscured by the crowd at the bar. She reached for her purse, opened it, and withdrew a small compact. Opening it, she regarded herself in the mirror. She straightened a strand of hair, and smoothed the makeup under her eyes. The she pursed he lips twice and slid the upper one against the other. Leaning back, she regarded herself again before placing the compact back in the purse and lowering it to the floor. When he returned with fresh beers, she took hers and smiled at him with a kind expression. “Merci,” she said.

            “Now,” he said, “tell me what a ‘sundown town’ is.”

Morning Thoughts: April 2, 2018

Over my career as a planning consultant, I’ve worked for many a mayor. I’ve found them to be a honest, hard-working, and dedicated group. Of course, the nice thing about being a consultant is that it doesn’t allow one to judge one’s clients. I may have a slight bias, although I do have a good vantage point.

That said, I’ve seen all kinds, genders, races, backgrounds. A very few traits, predominately back in the day, I could attribute to prejudice of one sort of another. Meantime, I’ve never known one to steal, ignore the law, or collude with foreign enemies. Most do use the political prerogative of prevarication, but almost always to further the common good, scarcely ever for fun, entertainment, or retribution.

A few of them moved to other offices. Several became state reps or senators. One made a try at governor once, but failed. One became a U.S Representative. I think there may be more, and some from other states, but I can’t recall. Lyndon Johnson had been a teacher, an occupation as honorable as that of mayor.

Overall, cities are well run, usually more so than (this is my humble opinion and please feel free to harbor your own) state or federal governments. Of course, (my opinion again) there’s not a city I can think of that isn’t being operated better than our present federal government.

That brings me to this morning’s point, which is: maybe it is time for a mayor to be president. Goodness knows, we’ve tried everything from engineers to vice-presidents to movie-actors to trust-fund babies to professional wrestling promoters. A mayor couldn’t do worse, and, if past performance is any indicator of future probability, could do much, much better.

Attorneys have dominated the ranks of president and have generally served us well. Given the current bias against the educated, though, there are many who don't want to to see another president trained in law, and familiar with the United States Constitution. Betsy DeVoss probably doesn't even want to see a college graduate again as president.

But trend is not destiny.

Back to mayors, though. They understand balanced budgets. They understand diversity in population. They understand public finance. And half of them understand the need to keep a careful eye on the males of the species. That half would also understand that government can never provide the military-industrial complex all the taxpayer money that it wants. Women are much better than men at saying “no.”

To follow the idea further, I even have someone in mind. In the interest of non-partisanship, I can’t name names, but this one is a Southerner who understands a bit about hurricanes and a lot about a city enjoying itself when it isn't being ravaged by a hurricane.

This one denies even thinking about running for president, a fact that historically means one thing:

He’ll run if he thinks he has a chance. Yes, it's a male. Female politicians at the national level still tend to make too many heads explode. He has the current disadvantage of being thoughtful, educated, erudite, intelligent, and an attorney. But we had such a president just one back. There may be hope for us again.

We’ll know he’s serious the day Fox “news” starts producing lies and slanders against him.

I even think that the lack
of hair would lessen the
ridicule from other countries.

Morning Thoughts: February 18, 2018

President’s Day. Lots of things on which to dwell. I’ve been around since FDR but only aware since Truman. Even as a child, I wondered why some people hated him so.

For example, there was the time our family attended a rodeo in my hometown. Remember those “fill-in” jokes where the clown and the announcer bounce lines back and forth? Try this one:

Mary had a little lamb.

Its face was almost human.

And every time she raised his tail,

She’d look at Harry Truman.

I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, but I remember that joke. There were others, like the postcard that pictured a man just knocked to the floor by a cowboy, the man saying “I said Truman was raising taxes. I didn’t say Truman was raised in Texas.”

Years later, I learned the source of much, if not most, of the hatred: fair housing and the integration of the military.

I don’t remember much about Eisenhower. He didn’t get to be a good president until sometime in the 1980s.

We viewed John Kennedy as a great president from the day he was elected. His star has dimmed a bit over the years but, hell, he just looked like a president.

It was easy for me to hate Lyndon Johnson. I blamed him for my having been sent to Vietnam. With more reading, (I’ve read all of Caro’s work so far, along with Dalleck, Doris Kearns Goodman, Arkansas’s own Richard Wood, plus others). I probably know more about him that I do any other president. He gets more complicated with each paragraph. He’s what I call an “Ansel Adams” figure. Like Adams’ photographs, Johnson’s image in history goes from pure white to pure black, with all tones in between. The result is a masterpiece of contrasting elements.

Richard Nixon would have been a good man had he not been such a despicable person. He left many legacies for us to untangle. We’ve accepted the bad ones and we are now dismantling the good ones.

Poor Gerald Ford got the “double-whammy” of history. The first was being typecast as dense and clumsy by Saturday Night Live, and the second was for pardoning “Tricky Dick.” I, for one, thought then, and still do, that he did the right thing. We had, as a nation, been through enough.

Jimmy Carter was, without a doubt, among the best human beings we’ve had in the White House. He walked into a partisan ambush, the first of many to come and he was an unlucky president, in my opinion. He didn’t handle it all well, particularly when his upcoming opponent seems to have been working behind the scenes to bring him down. I suspect JC, like U.S. Grant, had a hard time believing in the baseness of some people.

His opponent, Ronald Reagan was … what can you say? He may have been not only what the country wanted, but what it needed at the time. He was the crazy old uncle that tells funny stories at family reunions and then goes behind the barn and teaches the kids bawdy sea songs. Of all the conspiracies this country is supposed to have endured, his administration actually had one, called “Iran-Contra.” It unfolded in short order, and still stains our national conscious. He further proved, to our current dismay, that Americans don’t mind deficits and a huge national debt as long as they get what they want. He left his next-in-line an economy in tatters.

Thus, the Elder George Bush had to raise taxes to clean up the mess. America has never forgiven him.

Then there was Bill Clinton, the man from Arkansas. If he had only “kept it in his pants,” they might be carving his image on Mount Rushmore by now. He had the opposition party warning us of a coming economic catastrophe if the deficit and debt got too low. This I remember: if you couldn’t make money during the Clinton Administration, you’ll never make money. I’m financially comfortable today because of the peace and prosperity of those years.

What next? When the Supreme Court of the United States elects your president, you have to take what you get. I still imagine that a look of complete surprise comes across his face when the Junior George Bush learns that he was President of the United States for eight years. He was the first to establish what I call a “Salvation Date.” That’s when you have had a checkered past, but find the date of your last arrest and claim to have found salvation next day. Then the press can’t ask any questions about your life before that date. Its value in politics is that it allows religious fundamentalists to vote for scoundrels and say their god told them to.

Then America elected a man referred to around here as “our n****r president.” Among other things, he inherited a “credit card” balance that had paid for the cost of two wars off-budget. For eight years, members of his opposition party used political ads showing a photo of their opponent on one side and a photoshopped-darkened photo of Barrack Obama on the other with a few code words translating as “they are coming for your daughters.” His election shook the foundations of our country with such fury that entrapped racial rage spewed to the surface like a volcanic gas, soiling and staining the very heavens. Its noxious fumes are still settling upon us.

Those fumes helped get us where we are today.

Just my take on things. Ignore it if you don’t agree.

From this to "I'm the
Greatest" in one lifetime.
Remarkable.

Sailing To Oblivium: July 3, 2017

Just mentally connected some dots that help explain why the current administration troubles me so. It’s all about renovating old houses.

Say what?

Let me explain. Early in our marriage, my wife Brenda and I, in what now seems like fit of collective insanity, decided to try our hands at renovating a Victorian cottage in the legendary Quapaw Quarter district of Little Rock. It sat immediately north of the iconic “Egyptian Revival” (Fordyce) house.

Built in 1898, and “remodeled” shamelessly, it needed a lot of work. Naturally, we let our friends at the time know that assistance would be appreciated with smiles, and rewarded with mass quantities of alcohol.

Oh, and when I say “a lot of work,” I mean a prodigious amount of work. For example, the previous owners had converted the dining room into a sound-proof film studio.

Don’t ask.

Just take my word that it need gutting and rebuilding. Enter the friends. With crowbars a’flashing and sledgehammers a’swinging, they came and destroyed. They were quite good at it, the process of destruction. I think one reason was that it took no talent, knowledge, experience, or forethought at all. It was a process devoid of any nuance, requiring no planning or expertise, just anger and energy born of the need to destroy.

Did I mention that our friends, people from all works of life, were good at it? Oh yes, they were. Soon there were piles of plaster, dirt, splintered wood, and other detritus covering the floors. Tired and dirty, we loved the mess and hated anything associated with the previous owners. Any remnants of their habitation had to go. We stood among the ruins and smiled, proud with our friends.

Then they left.

We were alone. Our friends had reveled in the destruction and despising of the previous owners, but our friends had left when the cleanup started. Most never returned. Those few who did usually came only to offer comments along the lines of “Ya’ll sure are taking a long time, aren't you?” Some bragged about how they could have done it better by simply demolishing the old house and building a modern one on the site. We chose, though, to stick with the charm, strength, and history that the old girl represented.

The experience taught us that hate and destruction do not equate to either building or progress. Those require positive, and sometimes painful, work. So, we worked. Many nights we would patch ceilings until near midnight and report at our jobs the next morning with plaster dust on our clothing. But we stuck with it.

Oh, we had help, because we had new friends. These were neighbors who had muddled through the same experience, gaining expertise, and learning about the pitfalls and mistakes that are concomitantly associated with positive action and progress. They knew how to build homes, neighborhoods, and cities: one act at a time. We learned much from them. Most important of all, we learned how much can be accomplished through mutual cooperation and the avoidance of personal rancor.

It took us ten years to rebuild a livable home from the piles of junk. I often think about that and realize how it took eight years to rebuild our nation from the debacles of the first presidential administration of the 21^st Century.

On this eve of our national celebration of our country’s independence, it is with profound sadness that I wonder how long it will take to clean up the effects of the current spasm of hate and destruction. I’m thinking we’ll do it, though. After all, we did gain independence despite far greater odds.

The old girl, second from the right, still stands today.
Alas, the median is gone.

Reconciliation: 25

Regulations derive from laws. I’m not sure a lot of us understand that. For example, regulations involving the protection of the air we breathe are designed to carry out or protect the provisions of the Clean Air Act of 1970 and the Clean Air Act Amendments of 1990. These were signed, respectively, by those famous flaming liberals Richard M. Nixon and George W. Bush. As things are progressing, the current leader of their party is not likely to sign any such laws, but that is a story for another day.

The point is, if we deplore regulations, we should go back to the law that spawned them. In our current examples, they were laws designed to protect the air being used to keep humans, including the newborn, alive. If we don’t think that is a worthwhile goal, we simply need to elect politicians who feel the same way.

Oops. Belay my last.

So that is where my friends on the other side of the political spectrum and I must agree to disagree. I stood on the balcony of an apartment in Los Angeles in 1967 and felt my eyes burn to the point of producing tears. I could only wonder what my lungs were thinking. I like clean air. Sorry.

People calling themselves libertarians might say, well just move to a state where they regulate such things as air quality. I’m afraid they fail to understand, among many other things, that the forces of weather and climate neither recognize nor reflect state boundaries. We’re all sort of in this thing together.

So, I respect regulations while realizing that regulators can and do run amok from time to time. Fining a corporation for not painting, “Do not stand here” on the top of a stepladder seems, to me at least, to deny humankind some small measure of hope for improvement to the gene pool. I believe, along with my conservative friends, that regulations should, from time to time, be forced to fight for their lives, so to speak.

That having been said, what concerns me now is the number of mean-spirited laws being passed or proposed at the national level and state levels. These are not laws designed to protect any aspect of health, safety and welfare, but rather to make a statement that we don’t love—in what seems to me to be in direct contradiction to the words and life of The Galilean—everyone around us.

Further, these laws are neither policy-based nor evidence based. For example, some states are rushing to require drug testing for certain recipients of public financial assistant. Not farmers, corporations, churches, or home-mortgage holders, but food stamp recipients, the vast majority of whom are children.

Meanwhile, according to state data gathered by ThinkProgress, in the seven states with existing programs — Arizona, Kansas, Mississippi, Missouri, Oklahoma, Tennessee, and Utah — statistics show that applicants actually test positive at a lower rate than the drug use of the general population. The national drug use rate is 9.4 percent. In these states, however, the rate of positive drug tests to total welfare applicants ranges from 0.002 percent to 8.3 percent, but all except one have a rate below 1 percent.

The fact is that some of the politicians we have elected lately find it nauseous that we, as a society, should assist “the least of those among us.” Go figure.

As regards drug testing, one recent proposal in particular makes me nauseated: a proposal to require the unemployed to submit to drug testing in order to receive benefits for which they are entitled. Yes, I mean unemployment benefits.

Friends, on November 11, 1970, I was honorably discharged from the United States Navy after four years of service. I had no idea when I might find employment because the draft-dodgers had all the good jobs. So, as a matter of precaution, I filed for unemployment. It was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life, not because of any feelings of guilt, but because of the way they treated applicants.

It turns out that I found a job within a couple of weeks. It didn’t pay much to start but it launched me upon a successful career. At any rate, I never needed any unemployment benefits.

I can’t begin to tell you what I would have felt if I had needed unemployment assistance after serving my country for four years—one of which was in a war zone—and some knuckle-dragging, Bible-thumping, mean-spirited sonof …moron had suggested I be drug tested.

Okay, Okay, I’m all right now. I simply want folks to think about what it means to thank someone for their service. Actions do speak louder than words.

    

Torture

Before shipping out for overseas duty in 1968 (gosh it sounds so much more pleasant when you say it that way), I was sent to Survival Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE) training. Part of it involved a mock POW camp where trained “captors” had the authority to beat the hell out of you if you crossed them. I didn’t, but still got slapped around, thrown naked into a pile of dead tree limbs, had paper from the floor of a latrine stuffed in my mouth and was kicked in the ribs after being knocked down. I was pretty lucky. They were mean to some of those guys.

I didn’t protest when they locked me into a “potato-bin” looking thing just large enough to hold me while on my knees with my body folded over as far as it would go. I knew if I showed any fear or concern they would leave me in longer. So I waited them out and listened to some of the other guys yelling to be let out. Kinda scary. I decided then and there I didn't want really to be captured.

We all made it through except two. One was a known malingerer, maybe a plant. The other was this tough-talking warrant officer who babbled constantly about eating rattlesnake and how he looked forward to killing “natzies,” oops, so sorry … “gooks.” He fell apart when they started telling him what his wife was doing while he was gone. Must have hit a nerve. Anyway, they led him away and we never saw him again. They let the malingerer stick around and help guard us.

So when someone says we should torture prisoners, I’d sorta like to see them go through SERE training first. It still wouldn’t give them the right but it might sober them up a bit. It's funny how the only conservative senator against torture is the only one who has ever been tortured, isn't it?

 

Reckon whether he would
"soldier up" or squeal like a pig?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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