Ditch Fish
• David Sherman •

In years gone by, it was common practice for political candidates to hire a wagon with a band to head a parade through town. Bands being rather scarce at the time — even more so bands riding on wagons through the streets of a town — this would invariably draw a crowd. A crowd would follow until the bandwagon stopped, only to find that when the wagon stopped, the band stopped, and the polly-tickin’ began.

Most would listen, at least for a little while, if for no other reasons than curiosity and simple politeness — after all, the man had hired a band on a wagon! Some would stay longer. Nothing else to do. Maybe this guy would be better than the last one. They might even stay through the whole speech in the desperate hope that the band would play again. Some would stay to the bitter end, however many speeches that might entail, and usually just stared at the purdy wagon and that shiny-big-brass-tuba-horn. The curious, the bored, and the slack-jawed, these were the founding members of most modern political parties… and whoever collected the most of them WON! Is it any wonder, with such a system for choosing our leaders, that we bestride an empire whose influence spans the globe?

Note, I do not say “the founding fathers;” that would be an altogether different group. The people in that group were never even in the crowd, nor were they on the wagon. They were not even among those who simply watched the bandwagon go by their homes yet chose not to follow. Truth is, their homes are far away, in another part of town where such a coarse spectacle as a bandwagon would be neither appreciated nor allowed. They can barely hear the band from their homes… But they’re the ones who paid for it, as well as the shiny-big-brass-tuba-horn and the wondrous, purdy wagon on which they ride. They’re also the ones who picked the politician who’s giving the speeches they told him to give.

Here’s the scary part: We, the electorate, have not changed very much over the intervening years. Some of us will follow politics for a little while, just before elections. Hey, it’s a wagon with a band on top! Some of us listen for a long time. Maybe this man (or woman, now that those years have gone by) will be better than the last one. Sadly, the slack-jawed crowd is still in attendance. In fact, in recent years their numbers have exploded. Unfortunately, the largest group of all got no mention above. They are the ones who never even bothered to look out their windows, and that group comprised the overwhelming majority of the town! It still does!

Scarier still: The Founding Fathers (now very well capitalized, thank you very much!) have changed even less, save that their techniques have been somewhat refined over the years. For the most part, the wondrous wagon with the band on top has been replaced with TV ads.  For the lovers of music, there’s talk radio. And for the slack-jawed, you can even buy an entire alleged “News Network” (Fairness and Balance subject to negotiation). Once in while they even trot out a wagon, just to give things that “folksy” air. Of course the new wagon is much purdier than the old one, but this one is also plastered with links to websites, and the band has been replaced by a killer PA system and that shiny-big-brass-tuba-horn in now just somebody’s MP3 player.

Many of the new wagons also now have Bibles, lots of Bibles. I’m not sure why. If I held something to be as Holy as I believe many of these people hold their Bibles, I surely would not want it sullied in the dirty waters of politics. But that’s just me. Hey! What if the Bibles were just put there by The Founding Fathers as a way to lure in those to whom the Bibles are Holy? No, that’s going too far. No one could be so callously disrespectful of the sanctity of someone else’s Faith as to co-opt the words of their Holy Scripture, and thus through their duplicity, many of its followers, just for political gain. Could they?

I think I would check those Bibles for hooks — hooks that might be attached to pole held by one of those Founding Fathers just waiting to reel in another one. (More likely a paid flunky thereof, as Founding Fathers rarely do their own reeling anymore.) I guess the same might be said of their internet links, their radio, their TV, and all the rest of it as well, though I can’t imagine where one would set the hooks.

Lastly, and before anyone gets too enamored with the whole fishing analogy, let me clarify one thing: We, the electorate, are not viewed by The Founding Fathers of either party as sly barracudas or huge and powerful tuna or grouper. We are not fierce marlins ranging the deep open Sea. We are tilapia, and we live in a ditch. For the most part, we have been farm-raised, in very small ponds, on a strictly limited diet whose nutritional essence would make gray water vomit.

Sinclair Lewis, meet Upton Sinclair.

Dark Reflections
• David Sherman •

In the wee morning hours of Memorial Day weekend I sit on my balcony looking down on the lake below. Twin lines of golden fireflies mark the lights of the two piers spanning the water and their shimmering reflection. In beautiful contrast, or perhaps compliment, the scattered yard lights shine a brilliant white with a tinge of blue, like ice on fire. They too have their own reflections mixed among the more numerous gold. Even the streetlights, so often garish and harsh, are beautiful as they cast long swaths of light across the lake. By comparison, the unlit waters between the lights are as black as ink. The incessant tiny footprints of an onshore breeze gives the scene the illusion of motion, making the still waters of the lake appear to be those of a fast flowing river. Countless unseen frogs and cicadas try their level best to drown out the sound of the nearby sea. Their best is not good enough; I hear her still. I hear her always.

I imagine many of you in the days and months to come will find similar beauty in the sea, or the lagoon, or even your own backyards. But as you do as I imagine, I would ask that you also imagine as I do just how fragile such beauty truly is.  Imagine how quickly it could all be cast into ruin.

Perhaps this will help with the visualization: Imagine every single gas station in our barrier island towns turning on their pumps, locking the handles open, and then just dropping them to the ground to spew out into our soil and thence to our lagoon and the sea. Then imagine all the stations on Merritt Island and in the river edge communities of the mainland doing the same. Sick yet? Now imagine all the trucks sent to resupply those stations going instead into your neighborhoods and repeating the same sort of behavior in your own front yards — you know, where your children play. Pissed yet? All of that wouldn’t even be a drop in the bucket compared to what has been done in the Gulf of Mexico.

Hopefully, by the time you read this, the horrific tide of Paleozoic Plague will have been stemmed. I am not that hopeful, mainly because I remember another spill, over 30 years ago.

On June 3, 1979, the oil rig known as Ixtoc 1 experienced a “blowout,” which the ironically named “blowout preventer” completely failed to prevent. This was also in the Gulf, just off the northwestern coast of the Yucatán peninsula. The Mexican government was quick to respond… by putting the oil company itself in charge. (With government supervision, of course!) First they used a heavy cover called a “sombrero” to contain and pump off the spill. It failed. Also attempted was the blowing of mixed debris down into the well to staunch the flow. That failed. Then came burying it under successive layers of mud and concrete. That failed, too. The only thing that worked was the eventual completion of a relief well, and that wasn’t until March 23, 1980, 295 days after the initial disaster. The total estimate of that spill is 140 MILLION GALLONS!

I do hope this travesty of trial and error seems familiar to you all, because it is the exact same progression of desperation that has been laid out as BP’s game plan for our current debacle. What disgusts me, and I would think you as well, is that while the drilling technology has advanced since the days of Ixtoc 1, the cleanup technology doesn’t seem to have improved in the least. Also, the 1979 blowout occurred in just over 200 feet of water, whereas today’s fiasco is at a depth of over 5,000 feet. Apparently BP believes what was useless ignorance in the shallow end of the pool will become insightful logic if reapplied down by the drain at the deep end. Other countries, for this very reason, require that any wells dug in their territorial waters also have a relief well dug at the same time. Or, to put it another way, before the oil companies get to hit the “On” switch, they have to install an “Off” switch. Seems logical, unless the people defining your logic, the people you empower to supervise and regulate the oil industry actually work for the oil industry!

Back to my twisted imaginings, it seems some people might not even freak out when those trucks start pumping, just so long as it’s only on their neighbor’s yard and not on theirs. What they don’t understand is that it’s all their yard! It’s all our yard! This is our country, and Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama are every bit as much a part of our yard as our own beloved Florida. I would even go so far as to say that that entire pretty blue ball orbiting three doors down from the sun is our yard, but some minds, and thus some imaginations, are like thin rubber bands, and I wouldn’t want to break them. If that happened, the whole attached brain might cease to function and the poor people so afflicted wouldn’t be able to do anything but mindlessly chant whatever short, simple phrases someone happened to spoon-feed them, like, say, “Drill, baby, drill!” Personally, I’m more partial to “Arraign, baby, arraign!” and “Incarcerate, baby, incarcerate!”

Note: At 140 million gallons, the Ixtoc 1 spill is the second largest in history. The number one spot — between 240 and 460 million gallons — goes to the intentional mass release of oil from Kuwaiti tankers and wellheads by Iraqi troops in 1991, as ordered by a tyrant too drunk on his own blood-bought power to care about the consequences. (Let’s see, what did we do to him?) Government estimates of the current spill range from 20.16 to 42 million gallons… thus far. That estimate will go up at a rate of between 15.12 and 31.5 million gallons a month. As for those of you who see this as just a matter of greed with no actual blood on anyone’s hands, the families and friends of 11 of our countrymen would disagree.

The Hole in the Fog
• By David Sherman •

I have lived so long by the Sea that I can no longer even imagine not doing so. I would miss the quiet lullaby of the surf at night, the taste of the salt air, the added weight of that air on my skin, so heavy is it with the very Water of Life.

These things are such constants in our lives that we usually take them for granted. Those who are new to the area or just visiting may perceive them as that nagging noise at night, corrosion, and stifling humidity, but they don’t get it. They don’t understand the whole Mother Ocean thing, and so they don’t understand that our Mother sings us to sleep every night. We smell her perfume everywhere. We feel the touch of her kiss our cheek. Without these things in our life — without these things in my life — there would be a hole. The place where my Mother should be.

For me, this place by the Sea holds another allure, as the very same beach that has been a playground for so much of my life is also my favorite Church. Usually, I use it as such at night or at the Rising of the Sun. At such times, my Church grants me serenity. It grants me solace. It Heals my very Soul.  My Sun Rise and Moon Rise are more beautiful than any stained glass windows. The Stars overhead are more majestic than any frescoed ceiling, and the Patterns I see there remind me of a history just as long as any depicted in even Michelangelo’s masterwork. Through those Patterns I am joined to every man, woman, or child since the dawn of Humankind who has ever looked to the skies seeking serenity, or solace… or Healing.

The night of December 18th, 2009 was foggy. Not wispy little tendrils of atmospheric intrigue foggy, but rather an otherworldly, all-obscuring, total visual shutdown sort of foggy, easily equal to any of London’s best pea soup. It offered all the visual acuity of Ray Charles on a three-day bender, but I thought of it as the perfect mood lighting as I recalled a line from a verse that had gotten me through the pain of my first divorce: ”Let the clouds obscure the stars, and the grayness be as my mood…”

With all the “Mother” symbolism I attach to the Sea, it’s only fitting that I should go there speak to my own Mother, to speak to Mom, one last time. This was not that final, teary, sickbed farewell talk over the phone; that had taken place the day before. In the quiet hours of the night that followed, Mom had Gone Ahead. Rapt and wrapped in my shroud of fog, the song of the surf near at hand, I waited for the deluge of tears that I was certain would come. I have known loss before — my Father in ‘85, my first wife in ‘92 — both had left big, gaping wounds in my heart that had taken years to Heal. I always expected that Mom’s passing would be the greatest blow of all, so I stood there waiting for the waves of grief I had held at bay all day to finally wash over me. Ironic that I stood on a beach waiting for a wave that did not come… at least not the wave I expected. I anticipated pain and loss, sorrow and emptiness, a great, gaping hole in my heart; what I got was memories.

A woman who had loved sledding as a girl in Iowa, who when faced with no hills and little snow in Virginia for her children had used a ski rope and a ‘67 Thunderbird down a long driveway. The same woman leading child after child down that same drive on a pony in the stifling heat of a class picnic in June. The woman who filled my house with books, and when I had burned my way through them, always had time to stop at a bookstore for more. The Cub Scout den mother who sewed fringe down the legs of our pants and cut our hair in Mohawks, just like on Daniel Boone, for a whole weekend of Indian wars. The best “Good Cook” who ever lived — her baked beans were high art, her pork tenderloin sandwiches transcendent, her sugar cookies the stuff of dreams. She bought me paints and brushes, she paid for art lessons, she corrected my grammar. I love having Artist and Poet as aspects of myself; both were gifts from her. The memories seemed to go on forever, years of Love compressed into an hour by the Sea.

It is not easy to have spent much of your childhood as a bit of a favorite, only to spend far more of your adulthood out of favor. Trust me on this — there were many years in there when I wore “out of favor” like a martyr’s robe, but all the negatives seem meaningless now. This isn’t about math; it’s about Love, and unlike matters mathematical, when calculating the enduring aspects of Love, negatives have no value. All that has value, all that truly lasts, are the positives, and the list of the positives has no end. Somehow the negatives now seem dim, almost forgotten; they are irrelevant. Perhaps they always were.

I won’t say my Mother died, not because I’m afraid of the word, but because I do not believe it applies. When you move from one home to another, you don’t die, and that is all I believe she has done, all anyone ever does. She’s not gone; she’s just Gone Ahead. I had gone expecting a hole in my heart, but what I found was a place so filled with Love that there could never be a hole. Then I looked up. The fog that was so thick around me that I wouldn’t have seen another person approaching until they were twenty feet away, yet above me was a hole. Through that hole the stars shone through. Did my Church reach out to me through the fog of my Grief? In the center of that hole was Orion, the constellation I have felt most drawn to my whole life, Man at home and at ease in the Patterns of the Cosmos. Just as I was beginning to wonder if it was some sort of “sign,” a shooting star passed right through Orion’s belt.

I know the science behind meteors, but this wasn’t a science sort of night. I know others may have seen that same shooting star. For them it can be science. For me, it was Mom, and she was correcting my grammar yet again. I had been thinking in terms of a period, an end to the sentence. She was reminding me that what was needed was a comma. For where I had thought to have one last talk, I knew then that our conversations would go on as long as I live. Then they’ll continue face to face.

You might think, with Mother’s Day approaching, that I miss her even more, but for me to miss her, she would have to be gone, and that’s just not happening. I was, and have been, and still am well and truly Loved. As is she. And that shall ever endure.

Blessed Be.

SURPRISE!
By David Sherman

My college roommate in the mid 1980s had a younger brother who was a member of The Young Republicans.

I used to love to throw this line at him: ”So long as a single child has to cry himself to sleep at night, suffering for want of proper medical care in the richest country on the face of the earth, something is woefully wrong!” The effect on my Young Republican friend was nothing short of mind boggling; in that instant, an otherwise intelligent and articulate young collegian was reduced to a sputtering, frustrated mass of Does not compute! He looked to be just one twitch away from a full Linda Blair head spin! Ah, those silly college games!

The fact that I enjoyed tweaking him so should come as no surprise to anyone. After all, I have long identified myself as a “Tree-Hugging-Hippie-Liberal-Wackjob,” and proudly so. What will surprise many of you is this: that I am furious about the recently passed, so-called “Health Care Reform Bill.” Where I differ from most of those most virulent in their protests about this legislation is that I hate it because it does not go far enough! I can deal with a mandate to purchase heath insurance, I even expected it, but I fear such a mandate without a viable public option to offer an alternative to the “for-profit” insurance industry will prove a certain recipe for further rate abuse by an industry that already pretty much gets to write its own rules. Where I truly differ from most of my discontented, hardcore Right Wing counterparts is this: I don’t plan on threatening anybody.

Since the recent passage of what the Right has dubbed “ObamaCare,” at least ten House Democrats have received threats to their person, their lives, their families, and even, in some of the more fervent cases, their immortal souls, which apparently Republicans now have the power to damn to eternal hellfire! (Now that’s old school!)

Democrat Suzanne Kosmas, the U.S. Representative from New Smyrna Beach, whose district also includes portions of northern Brevard County, was one those threatened. The messages to her office, as well as to her family and her staff, says she, was that they should look to their personal safety. Apparently someone in New Smyrna is taking political tips from old Smyrna… say 1922.  (Look it up.) In Rochester, NY, a brick was thrown through the window of a county Democratic Party office. The note attached read: “Extremism in defense of Liberty is no vice!” In Niagara Falls, NY, another brick was hurled through the window of the offices of House Democrat Louise Slaughter. (Let’s hope that name’s not prophetic!) The worst, however, came in Charlottesville, VA, where someone cut a propane line leading to the house of House Democrat Tom Perriello’s brother. This, and the threatening letters received at the home as well, was the result of someone publishing the wrong address for the congressman online.

What concerns me even more is that after relating these incidents to several Republicans, just over half responded with, “Well, that’s what you get,” with many even going so far as, “Good! That’s what they deserve!” Only a handful so far have had any problem with such behavior, and only two have seemed to be in any way disturbed by such a turn in the practicing of politics in the United States. Granted, mine is a very limited sampling, and I would like to think that a broader cross-section of self-identified Republicans would yield a more civil array of responses. Still, attempts to sway a political viewpoint through threats or actual physical coercion are the sorts of things one would expect in a police state rather than a respected, once globally revered forerunner of modern Democracy. What I find ironic, in the saddest of extremes, is that those currently utilizing the tactics of a police state are the very ones who decry ObamaCare as the workings of a police state!

If they’re not the same people, they’re certainly in the same far-right political corner, and everyone else in the political ring should stand up and speak out against such behavior. I should think those in the rest of the Right side of that ring would want to speak the loudest, before the rabid zealots of your greatest extremes seize control of your entire political hemisphere, though such thoughts presuppose that it’s not already too late. It will surprise many that I hope such is the case.

I know several good people who are intelligent and rational… and also Republicans. They do not seem to have any problem being all three at the same time. I don’t think they’re bad people, though I do find them “sadly mispersuaded,” which is only fair, as I’m sure they think the same of me. I also know that vigilantism is neither a traditional nor widespread Grand Old Party requirement, though I do wish the current leadership of that party were a bit more outspoken in their denouncement of these threats. The history and honor of your own party should require it! Last surprise: this Damned Yankee named Sherman has a bit of a traditional fondness for the Party of Damned Yankees named Lincoln and Grant. It was also the lifelong party of Stan, my father. So if you won’t speak out for the GOP, speak out for Lincoln and Grant. Speak out for Stan!

If that’s not enough, speak out for the United States of America. Not the Rabid States of America into which some seem to want us to devolve, but the real United States of America, the one that truly is all the things we’d like to believe it could be. If not, we become the nation that strides across the world claiming to build civil democracies while refusing to insist on one at home — in short, a laughing stock. But again, I presuppose that it’s not too late. Sarcasm? Surprise! (I had one left over!)

Many years ago I read the great biographical work “Murrow: His Life and Times,” by A. M. Sperber. Since that time I have owned six copies — each had to be replaced because I kept giving them to journalism majors. Most of these students were specifically hoping for careers in broadcast journalism, and it was my hope that learning more about one of the first, and still the finest, broadcast journalists ever, might inspire them to focus their careers on the pursuit of the Truth rather than the Buck. Then someone turns on FOX News, and I wonder if there are enough books in the world.

Farce News, FIX News, FOX Noise, Vexed Views, Uncle Rupert’s Babbling Menagerie… I don’t care what you call it, just so long as you don’t call it broadcast journalism. Journalists are supposed to report the news, not fabricate it, yet every day that is what they do on FAUX News. Over 30% of Americans still believe Saddam Hussein was behind the attacks of 9/11. Why? It was never proven, in fact it has been fully disproven, but FOX News said it enough that they still believe it. Let’s just look at a few of their other greatest hits:

WMD’s in Iraq: Ran all the Bush White House photos long after they had been debunked. See, this is a satellite photo of a portable sarin gas lab. (No, that’s just a truck!) See, this aluminum tubing is for rockets to carry sarin gas or a dirty-bomb. (No, that’s for a chain link fence!) These papers show that Iraq was buying uranium from Niger. (No, the seals are wrong, the dates are wrong, and four of those people were dead or out of office at the time!)

Katrina: Without a doubt the worst failure of emergency infrastructure since Pompeii, yet they ran stories on how low it was for “the Liberal Media” to capitalize on pain and suffering by criticizing the Bush administration’s response. (Ted Williams has a faster response time, and he’s a frozen head in a jar!) They also ran stories on how the real blame lay with the Democrat Governor and the Democrat Mayor. (Granted, both idiots, but that doesn’t give Brownie’s FEMA a pass.)

Abu Ghraib: This one blew my mind. Do you know who the villain was there? The U.S. Soldier whose broke the story! Not only the villain, but called “traitorous” because her actions would inflame the enemy! I’ve got some non-FOX News for you: It inflamed ME! We used to be the good guys, or at least that’s what we told ourselves and our children. Now we’re one of those countries that tortures prisoners? Which brings us to…

Guantanamo: We hide prisoners away, many of them on the barest of evidence, and deny them any trial. Many of these are also Americans, locked up on suspicion alone, and denied their rights as citizens under the U.S. Constitution! And again we torture! FOX News gives us Jack Bauer stories and jokes about waterboarding. (We tried Japanese prison guards after WWII for waterboarding and shot them — for torture!)

Valerie Plame: An operative of the CIA is publicly outed during a time of war. FOX News trivializes the whole matter, calling her a “secretary.” Did it ever occur that every cover name she used, every fake office or company, every front of any sort associated with her travels were also now compromised, as were any other people also using those same fronts. That’s not just one agent, that’s dozens! Dozens of U.S. Intelligence operatives betrayed during a time of war as political payback? You don’t get a few years for that like Scooter Libby; you get a firing squad. (Mr. Cheney!)

Death Panels: I could go on for hours on the lies spouted on FOX during the Obama campaign, but my favorite is this one: The proposed Health Care Reform bill allows for end of life counseling, something proposed three years ago as a Medicare covered need by a Republican, which would include covering the costs of preparing living wills and durable power of attorney. A lobbyist for the healthcare industry calls it a “Death Panel.” Hell, even Sarah Palin can remember that! FOX News is still repeating — or I should say misreporting — that!

Sarah Palin: Since I just mentioned the Bumbling Bimbo from You Betcha, let’s wrap up with her. This is a woman everyone knew was unqualified for the office of Vice President. The woman thought Africa was a country! They had to explain to her that North Korea and South Korea were actually two separate countries rather than the top and bottom parts of one! How does an allegedly “fair and balanced” news channel handle the subject? They LOVE her! Anyone else who dared to suggest that Bimby wasn’t the sharpest spoon in the knife drawer… well, they’re just part of the Evil Left-Wing Media. The truly mind-numbing part of this one is that after her failed election bid, after recent books have only served to underscore the depths of her ignorance on all matters political, historical, and geographical, FOX News hires her! As (this would be funny, if it weren’t so sad) a POLITICAL COMMENTATOR!

There might be a young Murrow out there somewhere, but he’s damned sure not showing up on FOX News. Right down the line this company has spouted whatever distortions, half-truths, and outright lies the Bush administration fed them, and now they’re continuing the same effort for all Far Right-Wing Conservatives. They are the true American “Pravda,” and just as it was ironic that the name of the propaganda arm of the U.S.S.R. meant “Truth,” so it is now ironic that FOX News hails itself as “Fair and Balanced.”

They’ve never been fair, most of them are imbalanced, and that transparent party line tripe is NOT news. If their bi-polar buffoon Glans Beck wants something to cry about, how about this:

I miss my country. The one that didn’t TORTURE! And if their pet zealot, Pat Robertson, really wants to know who made a deal with the devil, maybe he should look closer to home. In numerology, there are three letters in the English alphabet that have a value of “6.” They would be the 6th letter, the 15th letter, and the 24th letter. That’s right, F-O-X equals 6-6-6!

Who’s made the deal with the devil now, Mr. Robertson?

The parable: The dear, elderly widow, Mrs. Whatever, dies in her sleep at the age of 93. The coroner says it was a heart attack, her doctor concurs, adding that it was her fifth, the police don’t feel any need to investigate. Her only son, Steve Whatever, inherits her vast fortune. Everyone agrees it’s sad, but no one thinks anything is amiss. Enter Squirrely Yates, a local bag lady whose only outstanding features are her addictions to eyeliner, the sound of her own voice, and the sound of all the other voices in her head. She also has a burning and abiding hatred for the young Mr. Whatever. Squirrely Yates says the son killed the dear widow with rat poison. No one with a rational mind believes her, but every community has its share of conspiracy nuts and just plain idiots with nothing better to do. Their town has quite a few, all of whom start protesting, waving around signs calling for an autopsy. Just to shut them up, an autopsy is performed: no rat poison. You would think this would be the end of the matter, but idiots will be idiots so now they add signs claiming the autopsy was a cover-up.

Enter Wm. Tulip, a local politician. Mr. Tulip doesn’t bear any particular ill will toward Mr. Whatever, but he has noticed that all of those idiots with the signs are also registered voters! Thus, despite his country being involved in two wars, and it’s economy just barely pulled back from the brink of a full scale depression and riddled with rising unemployment, Mr. Tulip decides to pass a law requiring all persons purchasing rat poison to provide three forms of identification, and be subjected to a 30-day waiting period. He’s adamant about not implying anything about the Whatever family tragedy, he’s just saying… rat poison, that’s what’s important… and, P.S., all idiots, conspiracy nuts, etc., VOTE TULIP!

The Reality: Sen. Barack Obama wins the 2008 presidential election by a popular margin of 53% vs. 46%, or an electoral margin of 68% vs. 32%, thus becoming the 44th President of the United Staes of America. No one felt any need to investigate. There were no hanging chads in Florida, no funky, voting machine irregularities in Ohio, or Supreme Court involvement. Done Deal. Enter Orly Taitz, a Russian born dentist/real estate agent/lawyer/2nd-degree black belt, a woman who is just two curved brush strokes away from Tammy Faye Bakker, and most definitely fascinated by the sound of her own voice (and, I suspect, many other voices as well!). This woman is Zsa Zsa Gabor with better diction, but much less class. An agenda without the impulse control. No Mr. Haney, but a lot of Mr. Cheney.

According to Dr. Taitz (or “Tate,” her Americanized name) our new President was born in Kenya and not the United States and is, therefore, ineligible to run for, or serve as, President of the United States. People checked. Certificate of Live Birth, on file. We’re good. “A forgery!” cries Dr. Taitz, who then produces a Kenyan birth certificate. Those of you packing a full chromosome load can guess what came next: Obama’s Hawaiian certificate, confirmed; Taitz’s Kenyan rag proven to be the forgery. Several subsequent Kenyan certificates follow, each disproven. I think we’re on four or five by now. Mostly by now, this quixotic cause is only still followed by the most frayed of the very, far right fringe. (This is sounding eerily familiar!) They’ve even been given a name, “The Birther Movement,” which I guess does roll off the tongue better than “Cro-Magnon, Tin Hat Freak Show!”

Enter Bill Posey, a local politician. More specifically, the U.S. Representative from Rockledge, serving Florida’s 15th District, which is to say myself and many of you. Mr. Posey’s country is involved in two wars, its economy has just barely been pulled back from the brink of a full- scale depression, and is riddled with rising unemployment. (Again with the familiar!) Yet Mr. Posey thinks that what is really needed right now is a law requiring all candidates for president to produce their birth certificate. On the surface, Congressman Posey’s bill does make sense. He has also said that his bill is not meant to cast aspersions on President Obama’s legitimacy, but rather to forestall any such confusion in the case of future candidates. He’s just saying… birth certificates, that’s what’s important… and, P.S., all idiots, conspiracy nuts, etc., VOTE POSEY! (Eerie off the charts!)

Just as in our parable, it’s hard to pin the politician’s actions down on true intent, but the timing sure sounds like flagrant pandering to the looniest of the fringe. The fringe is certainly taking it that way. Mr. Posey’s bill is being waved all over the news circuits as yet another chapter in the “Birther” saga. What fires me up about it is that I know Mr. Posey is not an ignorant man. He is not a wingnut, cro-magnon or otherwise; he’s actually by all evidence, save this stunt, a very intelligent man. BUT…if that’s the case, then why is he wasting my time, your time — our time — on this drivel? I would love to believe that Congressman Posey is motivated purely by non-partisan patriotism, and that he seeks only to close a loophole in the wording of our must cherished documents. Hell, it’s even a good idea… but not right now! I’d like to buy as much dollar-a-gallon gas as you could find for me, but don’t bring it by while my house is on fire! I’ll have more pressing concerns, and you would only be making matters worse. Surely, Mr. Congressman, you can find something to fix that needs it more than this. Maybe something less divisive, something that won’t just throw more gas on the fire. Don’t be a parable, don’t be a cliché, and don’t be a party hack. Be the person many of us non-Republicans thought you could be when we helped elect you.

As for those of you out there who still subscribe to the Birther theories, I know I’ll get e-mail. Let’s face it, conspiracy nuts and computers go together like meth labs and mobile homes, and we’ll probably never be best of friends. Still, I will offer some advice, spoken directly through those fixed and dilated double doors right into that dingy, dim duplex of delusion and dementia you’re using in lieu of a fully functional brain. Here it is: turn off FOX News, take off your tin foil hat, put on some pants, and move out of your mother’s garage, because if you don’t start talking to people outside your front door instead of the people under the stairs, you’re gonna wind up in a harshly lit place with pastel padding run by people named “Doctor” and “Nurse”; a place where 1 in 4 of your new roommates thinks they’re either a papaya, a pirate, or a panda bear, and the big girl next to you in finger paint class hears even more voices than you! I know that sounds a teensy bit severe, and it would be quieter if I just agreed with you… but then we’d both be wrong! (Oh, and Bill — for most of us, there was never any confusion!)

Blessed Yule to all, and to all a good night.

Everyone has heard this little facetious gem from time to time, some of us hear it quite often; for me, it seems like theme music. It is the “Evergreen” to my “Star is Born;” the “One Tin Soldier” to my “Billy Jack;” the Ba-bah-bump-ba-da-bump-bump to my “Beverly Hills Cop,” and I for one have grown weary of its gross overplay. Thus, I will set the record straight once and for all: To the best of my knowledge, I was never dropped on my head as a baby… For me it was the Jeep.

Glenview was never really a working farm, at least not while we lived there. Thirty-eight acres of mostly woods and marshland with one horse, two ponies, eight Muscovy ducks and one mallard, all with names and none ever butchered, hardly constitutes a working farm. Glenview was more of an expensive hobby than a farm, but even a good hobby-farm needs vehicles: a tractor, two old flatbed trucks, and an early 50’s pickup. But the pride and joy of the Glenview motor pool was a jenyuwine Korean War surplus U.S. Army Jeep. She was named “Elvira,” and she would prove to be a truly spiteful bitch.

Behind the house, the yard, and the corral, were the Woods, the traditional sanctum sanctorum of boyhood. On the far edge of the Woods was the Marsh, a sinister wasteland crawling with water moccasins, man-eating fish, and possibly crocodiles as well. Over the years, I had come to suspect the Marsh was sentient. It certainly abhorred clean clothes, and would contrive all manner of ways to trip unwary boys, thus covering the offending garments in the stinky, black slime that was its very essence. As for getting a mom to believe this… forget it. You cannot win. Come back slimed: “You tracked mud in the house!” Hose off all the slime first: “You tracked water in the house!” Strip down to your underwear before coming in: that’s the day the pastor has dropped by to visit! I’m telling you… you cannot win.

Of course, the more forbidden the Marsh became, the more we would venture into it. One of my best tree houses was on an island in the Marsh itself. Okay, technically speaking, the island was only six feet in diameter and was only separated from the mainland by a three-foot stretch of murky water a foot deep, and the tree house itself only consisted of five rungs worth of ladder leading up to four boards going every which way in two trees. It was still a vast improvement over my first tree house: a cardboard apple crate fastened about five feet up a pear tree with no less that 30 nails. It lasted until the first good rain. (So shoot me; the design needed work… I was five!)

All was well until my father marked about two-dozen trees with a big white “X,” including the trees on my island. How he failed to notice nine pieces of lumber, all painted bright white in said trees is beyond me. I would have preferred camouflage, but the boards were already painted white when I found them …lying around …in a pile of boards …meant for a white fence! No amount of pleading could dissuade him. My appeals exhausted, the final day found me perched in my doomed outpost with two peanut butter sandwiches, a “G.I. Joe” canteen, and dozens of small squares of wood. (All coincidentally about the size of a fence-post cap and painted white.) With food, water, and ammunition, I was ready for a siege.

It was only fitting that the enemy arrived in a jeep, the enemy in this case being Walter Carey, a young black man who did odd jobs around the farm. He was armed with an axe and a chainsaw. Walter was strong as an ox and had the sort of patience that causes most Christians to cite Job, especially where my twin brother Don and I were concerned. Today would prove the greatest test of that demeanor, for as soon as Walter came in range, I opened fire. Which is to say I started whipping blocks of white, rough-cut 1×6 at poor Walter who was just trying to do his job. Don just stood to the side laughing at the whole affair. At times, Don and I got along, but this was not one of those times; this tree house had never been shared territory. If the “No Trespassing” sign didn’t make that clear, the “This Means Don” painted on it certainly did. In fact, Don had been taking great pleasure in this all week, now his laughing only meant he got 1×6s chucked at him as well. For his part, Don chucked them right back along with any sticks he could find. It was a glorious battle …until Walter finally had enough.

One arm up protecting his face, Walter jumped to the island and climbed the ladder, with me raining down a wrath of lumber. He caught a foot and dragged me close until he could grab the back of my belt and then, hauled me down like a sack of potatoes …though a sack of potatoes rarely kicks and screams. Walter plopped me down in the back of Elvira and growled at me to stay there. We’d never seen Walter get mad. I stayed. With tears in my eyes as Walter dropped both trees with the chainsaw, I stayed. As Don taunted me while Walter wrapped a chain around the first tree, and fasted it to the front of the jeep to pull it out of the Marsh, I stayed. When Don caught me across the face with a well-thrown branch just as Walter put Elvira in reverse, I went ankles over elbows… right off the back.

Any earlier kicking and screaming was nothing to what ensued at that point. Walter hit the brakes, and immediately realized that his view of the area was deficient by one boy. The worst part was that when he found me pinned under Elvira, with my arms and legs flailing wildly in twelve directions at once, it only got worse. Walter had not just run me over, he had stopped and gotten out with the back right tire of that damned jeep still on my HEAD! (Hence the flailing!)

Fortunately for Walter (and certainly for me!), the ground was quite soft that close to the Marsh. My hard little head just got smashed down into the muddy soil. Yeah, the thorns under my right cheek dug in pretty deep, and the tire left clear tread-marks on my left, BUT my head did not pop like a grape, as it would have in most other terrain. It was months before Walter stopped apologizing to my parents. Virginia in the ’60s was not a good place for a young black man to drive over little white boys, but my mother eventually convinced him that she blamed Don and I rather than him.

To this day I’m not sure how I was to blame, and after all these years I don’t even blame Don. (Anymore.) You can’t very well blame the enemy for simply returning fire.

I just figure that sometimes JEEPS HAPPEN!

The Eyes…
By David Sherman

Preston looked down at his hands, dim in the flickering light of the lone candle. The water running over them was cool, though he noticed that only the hot faucet was turned. The basin was of antique design, enameled cast iron and chipped on the front edge. He bent to splash water onto his face, and straightening, saw his own reflection in a corroded oval mirror just as ancient in appearance as the rest of the tableau. Sluggishly, his mind tried to make sense of it all. He knew this place… and yet he didn’t.

A flicker of movement in the mirror caught his eye, something in the darkness over his right shoulder. In the deeper shadows beyond the candles feeble reach he thought he could discern the vague outline of a human form, then it was gone. Nothing but anonymous rows of old books and heavy brocade draperies at a rain-spattered window. That must be it, Preston thought, the drapes had moved in the breeze. Then, just as the explanation came to him, so did the certain knowledge that all the windows were closed. That’s why it was so stiflingly hot in this place. A sudden flash of lightning lit the room for a split second even as the simultaneous crash of thunder made the man almost leap out of his own skin. In that moment of illumination, he saw it again!

There was a faint outline of a human form standing just in front of the musty bookshelves. Not just human, but female, judging by the slight build and the wild, disarrayed volume of hair. Rather than turning to confront this person directly, Preston leaned closer to the mirror, as if seeking details in a reflection was somehow safer than a face-to-face examination. It was then that he realized he could still see the books… through the woman! A chilling tide swept over him, raising every hair on his arms and neck. Even his scalp seemed to bristle. Slowly, he raised his eyes to the face of the translucent form. He could feel his pulse racing, the blood pounding in his ears. His knees trembled for a moment and he could feel a new wash of perspiration over his already sweltering body.

Finally, he was gazing directly into the face — into her face — for with effort the details became clear. She was wearing a gauzy, tattered rag, perhaps once a nightgown, with smudges of soot here and there. Her hair was a tangled mass, seemingly dank and matted in some places, while wispy and windblown in others, the whole littered with bits of debris and soot much like the gown. Her face remained vague. Preston squinted, trying to bring it into focus, but only succeeded in reading two titles on the shelf beyond. Then the eyes opened!

All that had been vague was now clear. That which had been translucent was suddenly opaque, and the addition of detail only served to multiply the terror tenfold. Frozen now in his horror, Preston could only watch helplessly as the apparition in the mirror — the woman behind him — slowly raised her arms and began to move toward him. He didn’t notice that the gown betrayed no movement of hip or leg, no hint of walking; he barely even registered the arms now coming up as if to embrace. His gaze, his attention, indeed his entire self, was now hopelessly locked on those eyes. They were blue, so fair as to be piercing even in the dim light of the candle… Perhaps they had once been beautiful, but now they were milky and filmed over. Now, they were dead! Impotent in his fear, Preston could only watch as the dead woman floated toward him, her arms reaching out, her dead eyes locked on his, cold… cold and… hungry! “A-A-A-AGH!”

Even as his scream still echoed in the night, Preston Lane bolted upright in his bed, bathed in sweat and gasping in a fear more intense and primordial than any he had ever known. No nightmare from his childhood had ever come close to this. Glancing frantically about the dark, unfamiliar room, Preston struggled to understand where he was. Lightning flashed through a window lashed by a heavy, windblown rain, revealing a high ceiling and a four-poster bed surrounded by mismatched antiques. As his fear passed, another sensation shoved its way to the forefront of consciousness. A headache of mythic proportions seemed to grow with every roar of thunder. Along with the pain, glimpses of his day also rejoined the Preston previously in progress.

He’d passed three police checkpoints warning of the approaching hurricane, but had stubbornly continued on, even finding back roads to circumvent the final barrier where the deputy had refused to let him pass. Shortly after noon, Preston had rolled into Sweetwater, Florida only to find the streets deserted and all the windows boarded up. Except for the Cantina Grill and Bait Shop. The pillbox building hadn’t been much to look at, but it was open. Inside the Cantina, someone had simply knocked a large whole in the wall between a filthy, old marina bar and a very small convenience store, using either drunks with sledgehammers or drunks with dynamite. The layer of dust and nicotine said it was not recent work. The stuffed armadillo and the Texaco sign said the money saved had not been spent on décor. The place also smelled as if it had been insulated with dead shrimp and the walls painted with perch. Thankfully, there was no grill to be seen.

If the locals were surprised at a tourist showing up hours before a hurricane, it was nothing compared to their reaction when they heard the address he was looking for. “Did you say 722 Front Street?” one grey-haired old man asked, whipping his head around so suddenly it took Preston a second or two to notice the cleric’s collar peeking out from behind a sweater and a raincoat. “You got some timin’, darlin’,” a vaguely slutty bartender had said, “Movin’ in on Halloween, and with a ‘Cat 2′ on the way!” Muttered phases of agreement rippled through the little bar. Over the next three hours, Preston learned exactly why Welcome Wagon does not encourage a twelve-pack and tequila shots before visiting the nice new people. It was drunken word association with a strong dose of Halloween Mad Libs. One word in particular kept showing up… “Wait, waaait, WAIT!” Preston slurred. By this time, he had learned that everybody was running a tab, to be paid after the storm. This had led to his own twelve-pack and his own tequila. “Did you say ‘haunted’?

As he got unsteadily out of bed and headed for the bathroom, Preston was amazed that drunken drivel could have spawned such a vivid nightmare. He noticed how loud the storm was and allowed that had something to do with it as well. When the switch failed to work, he remembered the power was out, and quickly found the lighter and candle he had left by the sink.

Preston looked down at his hands, dim in the flickering light of a lone candle. The water running over them was cool, though he noticed that only the hot faucet was turned. The basin was of antique design, enameled cast iron and chipped on the front edge. He bent to splash water onto his face, and straightening, saw his own reflection in in a corroded oval mirror just as in… No! The chill bumps raced up his arms and legs… It wasn’t possible! A flicker of movement in the mirror caught his eye, something in the darkness over his right shoulder. NO! In the deeper shadows beyond the candles feeble reach… THE EYES OPENED!

—

A small group of people stood around the old stone. Marilina Armitage. Born Oct 31, 1928, Died Oct 31, 1946. “Wonder who we’ll get next year,” one voice said.” “I’m tired of being the Preacher,” another put in. “Fine, you be the slut next time!” a female voice replied, “I kinda liked hi…” “Don’t! You know if we don’t find somebody to send in, she’ll just start coming out to get one of us again. Hell, there’s only the nine of us left in this damned town,” said a voice, which really shouldn’t have belonged to the preacher.

Big Red Pill

“The Matrix” painted a grim future where humans were grown by machines as a source of energy. We haven’t quite hit that point yet (so far as we can tell!), but I believe an eerie parallel has developed. In our case, the megalithic menaces tending the crops and culling the herd are the Triumvirate of Greed known as The Insurance Industry, The Pharmaceutical Industry, and The Health Care Industry.

Over 47 million Americans currently live without any form of health insurance, and the Congressional Budget Office estimates that number will rise to over 54 million by 2019. This has been called a travesty. I would call it criminal. Many of those who had health insurance find themselves “dropped” as soon they develop major illness. If not dropped, they find that the costs not covered are still so enormous as to bankrupt them. According to the New England Journal of Medicine, health care costs were the main factor in 62% of all bankruptcies in 2007. I could wax for hours on the further depredations of the insurance industry in matters of home insurance (particularly here in Florida!), but we’ll leave that for another time. The point is we pay and we pay, and as often as not, when the time comes, THEY DON’T.

Sinclair Lewis, a demigod of American literature (and my personal favorite), wrote the novel “Arrowsmith” in 1925, wherein he sought to expose the rampant greed and mercenary heartlessness of the pharmaceutical industry. Nothing has changed, unless you count the exponential growth of profits.

Lewis warned of the questionable relationship fostered by the pharmaceutical companies with private physicians as well as hospitals. Today you can find a dinner hosted by a drug company at the finest restaurants available on any given week. They serve the best food, they pour the best booze, they drink the finest wines. Then they pitch their latest products.

If that weren’t enough, we now allow drug companies to advertise directly to the consumer. This has become so widespread that I would like to take the cartoon gremlin which apparently lives in my toes, and using my restless leg apply it to someone’s anal leakage, but that’s just because I found the Chantix I took to stop smoking can cause suicide, which depressed me enough to want Zoloft, which may cause anal leakage as well, and then I would need… Well, you get the picture, leaky as it may be!

Promotional spending in the pharmaceutical industry went from $11.4 billion in 1996 to $29.9 billion in 2005. At the same time the number of notices regarding violations of the rules governing pharmaceutical promotion sent by the FDA dropped from 142 in 1997 to 21 in 2006! These are the people who are supposed to be our watchdogs for this industry? Sounds like our dog is now wearing their leash!

We also pay more for the same drugs. A study done by the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development listed the average per-patient spending on drugs at $401 in 2005. American patients paid an average of $792! Heaven forfend you or anyone you know should get cancer. But if the pain and human suffering inherent in the disease aren’t enough, wait till you get the bill for the meds! Many of the leading cancer drugs costs thousands a month, some over $25,000! I guess when they say say “leading,” they mean leading in profits.

As for the Health Care Industry, and by that I mean the FOR PROFIT Health Care Industry, when did we as a people become so morally bankrupt as to think that making a profit from such a source was acceptable. And make no mistake, I’m not talking about generating enough extra cash to build a new wing on the hospital, or to buy the latest in high-tech diagnostic equipment. I’m talking about TENS OF BILLIONS of dollars in profit! That’s what compassionate giants like Aetna and Blue Cross Blue Shield posted. I guess when a single Tylenol runs $12 and one day in a hospital bed exceeds $1000, it’s got to go somewhere. I once had a broken sewing needle removed from my foot. It cost $1,475, and that was in 1989! (Damned Halloween costume that year = $1,600!) I could not begin to count how many houses and condos are sold by heirs in Cocoa Beach each year just to cover the hospital debts left behind when the parents or grandparents passed.

Which brings me back to my point. We pay as we go… until all of our pay goes. Then we pay more. Anything we thought we had put aside for a rainy day winds up going as well. Whatever we thought to leave our children or our children’s children… in the end they’ll take that also. We live in the wealthiest nation on the face of the planet, yet We the People of that nation continue to be deceived by those who feed upon our very life’s blood. We are deceived into believing that “Socialized” Medicine is the first step to Communism. England, Canada, France, Sweden, Germany all have it, and they’ve not gone Communist, yet we still believe the same old lies? Why? So long as a single child cries in the night for want of proper affordable health care in the richest nation on Earth, something is WRONG!

That is your Big Red Pill. If you want the blue pill, just continue to believe FOX News.

It was a beautiful hypothetical morning. Spring had barely gotten a word in edgewise before an early summer took over the conversation well ahead of schedule, but such is often the case in Flowery-in-Spanish, a fictitious state just south of Tongue-in-Cheek and just short of Sarcasm. The balmy, little seaside town of Native-American-Port-Shore was situated on the eastern edge of this fairytale land, between a tropic lagoon and the deep blue sea. All was lovely, and bright, and right with the world… Except for Joe Citizen.

Joe was late for work. Joe wasn’t really even supposed to work that day, but he didn’t know that. The new schedule hadn’t been posted when Joe last worked, and a friend had told him he was due in at 10:30. The friend meant well, so none of what follows is his fault. Irony sucks just fine all on its own. I know this isn’t ironic yet, but Joe thought he was hurrying to make money, when in fact he was doing exactly the opposite. That’s ironic. Of course the man with the badge and the radar gun who stopped Joe on his way to work didn’t really care about irony.

Joe had seen the two fictional patrol cars parked trunk to hood when he had turned off Highway B4B. He had assumed that radar guns were present; Joe was in a hurry, not a coma. As he turned onto the side street that was his usual route to work, he found himself brought up short by a van moving very s-l-o-w-l-y. Joe glanced at his speedometer. 20 f@#%*&g mph! If only Joe had a week to get to work! Surely they were slowing to turn into the shopping center… No! There went the turn and they were still just crawling along.
“You’ve still got four lanes for a block yet,” thought Joe, “Pass them on the right.” It seemed the only way to make it to work on time. “What about the cops?” thought Joe, “CRUISE CONTROL!” This wasn’t a leap; Joe drove this road every day with his cruise control set at 29mph. It was just too easy to creep up over the 30 line, and Joe knew the cops wouldn’t bother with 4 mph over the limit. Hell, state websites even said so, and county tickets didn’t even begin until 6 miles over!

Joe moved to the right and accelerated to 29, hit the cruise control, and watched the point where the four lanes merged into two. Either Joe was a master of vector mathematics or the two old guys in the van saw him and slowed to let him in. Either way, he made it with room to spare. He checked the speedometer again just out of paranoia. 29mph — YEAH! Joe continued down the road rather pleased with himself…until he saw the blue lights in his mirror.

The man with the badge seemed polite enough. He asked if Joe knew the speed limit. Joe said, “25mph.” The cop asked Joe how fast he had been going. Joe said, “You mean when I passed the old guys?” Joe knew he was safe on this one.

“No,” said the cop, “Before you got to the ‘old guys’ as you call them.” His tone left no doubt that he found the term somehow disparaging, which confused Joe for a moment. He hadn’t meant anything negative by it. He had seen them when he passed. The one was at least in his 70s and the one driving looked to be his father! Damn it, that’s old. Joe knew he had been going 20mph once he got to the van. (Remember he had looked.) But before that? Not a clue. He admitted as much. “38mph,” said the cop. Then the paperwork began. A ticket for 38 in a 25, another for a bad tail light, and yet another for no registration in the car. Apparently even hypothetical cops don’t accept hypothetical registration. Somewhere in the middle of it all Joe’s day had ceased to be beautiful.

Joe went on to work, met Irony face to face, cussed quietly to himself in seven languages, and headed back home. Another light came on as he passed by the turn “the two old guys” had not taken. This light was thankfully not blue. It was, however, quite bright, and it shone down on the speed limit sign directly opposite the road not taken. For the first time in his life, Joe Citizen would fight a ticket.

He thought it would be a simple matter. He drew a detailed map of the road. It showed every detail, especially the speed limit sign — the one he had not yet reached when he cop had clocked him. When Joe had been doing 38 (a number he still doubted) he was still in a 45mph zone! Joe was what many would consider “old school” in some things, among them that he still believed that all cops were made of somewhat finer stuff. They chose to “serve and protect.” They were men of honor. Of course, Joe had never tried to fight a ticket before. Hell, he’d only ever had six in over 48 hypothetical years. Surely in the face of Joe’s map the cop would admit his error and that would be the end of it.

Imagine the shock on the face of poor Joe Citizen, when the officer, having just been sworn in, calmly told the judge that he had been shooting radar that day three blocks in from Highway B4B! He recalled nothing of any van, any old guys, and no cruise control had been mentioned. He could “prove” that because there was no mark on the ticket. He always made a mark if cruise control was mentioned. Apparently in this hypothetical court of of purely fictional law, the complete absence of evidence is considered evidence!

Joe stood dumbfounded as his map was rendered useless by the lies. To make matters worse, when he told his account of the day’s events, including the passing of the van, the “Judge” (a term used here with hypothetical truckloads of sarcasm) even went so far as to ask the cop, “Is that even possible?” Joe could hear a lifetime’s worth of lofty ideals crashing to the ground as a “Judge” asked one person in an adversarial setting if the other was telling the truth! Joe began to furtively cast about, fearing to see the waterboards any minute! Would they bend him over the ruinous pile of his shattered reality and have at his wallet all at once, or would they take turns?

Joe Citizen’s once beautiful day: Ticket he never should have gotten: $160. Added Court Costs: $60. Civics lesson in just how fragile the fabric of law truly is, how quickly in a state crying out for more money from tickets, in a town doing the same, a cop who may once have known honor will lie through his teeth under oath: Priceless.

As for myself, I still believe as Joe once did. Hypothetically. But I also know that there are a lot of hypothetical travesties in our system. People who serve no purpose but to add all-too-real stains on our collective, and increasingly fictional honor.

“Oh yeah? Well, if the South seceded again today we would win ’cause now we’ve got Fort Bragg, and NASA at Cape Kennedy and Houston, and we’ve got the guns at Dahlgren!”

I remember this exact argument coming from one of my best boyhood friends in Virginia around ‘71 or ‘72. While Fort Bragg in South Carolina is a military installation of major significance, NASA never became the sort of missile super site my friend mistakenly believed it to be. The big guns at the Naval test range at Dahlgren on the Potomac approach to Washington, D.C. were quite impressive. We could often hear them firing from our homes over 45 miles away. But their location, 63 miles downstream, hardly qualified them as the looming threat to D.C. my friend imagined. I countered with, “What about all the missile silos in Nebraska and the Dakotas?” He wisely pointed out that those didn’t really exist. They were just what the government wanted the Russians to think. We would never really let anyone know where our missiles were.

I know this all sounds silly, but we were 10, he was a proud Southerner, I was a damned Yankee, and things like logic and hard facts rarely entered into our debates. He knew in his heart that the South would one day rise again, and I knew just as adamantly that if it did it would be crushed…again. What brings such obvious nonsense back to mind is that more and more of late I have heard a word bandied about that I never thought hear from rational adults in this country: secession.

First the topic of secession showed up when we learned that Sarah Palin and her husband were once members of the Alaskan Independence Party. This organization, rightly dubbed by most as a “fringe group” advocates the secession of Alaska from the United States. Many of us had already suspected that considered forethought might be a trait somewhat lacking in the Palin household, but this was hard to believe even of them. While the affiliation was genuine, and the group sincere, the impact of both facts proved negligible in the long run, proving for once and for all the answer to the age old question: If a group of rednecks dressed in flannel and mukluks, drunk on beer and moonshine, and huddled together in a quonset hut in the middle of Alaska start shouting about secession, and there’s no one with an I.Q. over 100 there to hear them, do they really make a sound? NO!

Most of us just shook our heads and got on with life. For me it was a matter of a Wackjob being able to immediately recognize a Wingnut, and write them off accordingly. For those of you unfamiliar with such technical political terminology, a Wackjob is a Liberal who’s “way out there.” A Wingnut is a Conservative with the same credentials. Each can instantly recognize the other, and both usually spend as much time laughing at the antics of the other as they do shouting down their every suggestion. One of each trapped in a small room and made to listen each other can be wildly entertaining. If the room also contains alcohol, EMTs and police should be on hand. (Preferably in full riot gear.)

If this were the only instance of such babble, I would be content… but, alas, it is not so. Over the last two weeks Governor Rick Perry of Texas has made no less than six public speeches wherein he alluded to the possibility of, you guessed it, secession by the state of Texas! When pressed on the issue, the Governor claimed that “The Treaty” which admitted Texas into the Union allowed Texas, “at its discretion,” to sub-divide into five smaller states. He suggests that the state, in protest of the current administration’s tax policies should exercise this option. At this point Gov. Perry notes that the state of Texas would NOT actually secede, but that Congress, specifically the Senate, fearing the influx of eight new senators from former Texas territory, would vote to reject the treaty and would let them be an independent republic once again.

The first problem with Governor Perry’s “logic,” and I shudder to call it that, is that “The Treaty” which was first proposed to admit Texas to the United States was soundly defeated in both the U.S. Congress as well as the Texas legislature. In the 1840s, the thought of even one slave-holding state entering the Union was a point of great contention. The suggestion that said state would be allowed to effectively clone itself, bringing in not two but ten pro-slavery Senators… Well that’s just stupid! Texas was in fact admitted into the Union by a Joint Resolution of Congress. President Polk called his Vice President, George M. Dallas, back from his Christmas holiday to preside over the Senate and push the documents through in the last days of his term. The actual transfer of authority occurred on February 19th, 1846 at the log cabin capitol of Austin, but contrary to Governor Perry’s version of history there was no treaty involved. The provision for possible later sub-division of Texas was still mentioned, but it was to be at the will of Congress, with the approval of the citizens of Texas, not the other way around.

Now I understand that many fiscally and politically conservative Americans are having difficulty reconciling the actions of the Obama administration. I understand because it wasn’t that long ago that many of the actions of the Bush administration made me frothy at the mouth. So I do get it. Still, the long and short of it is this: You lost. They are now in power. Deal with it. We did. Complain if you must. Protest if you like. Unlike the previous administration we will not call you “Un-American” for exercising what are clearly your rights as Americans.

No American, however, should be so reckless, so shortsighted, as to advocate secession. This was tried once before and led to the bloodiest chapter in our nation’s history. The memory of over 600,000 dead Americans should be sufficient to remind any rational citizen that secession is not an answer. As a Damned Yankee named Sherman, I recall a member of my own family had a rather large hand in the last debate on the topic, and while I doubt it’s even possible to burn a 60-mile wide swath across sagebrush and tumbleweeds, I have little doubt there would truly be hell to pay for any second attempt at such treasonous action.

The Secession of Rational Thought is in reality the Cessation of Rational Thought. I said earlier that I never thought to hear secession bandied about by rational minds. I still haven’t. Unfortunately, rationality is not apparently required for public office, or access to a microphone, for that matter. But when such stupidity rears its head, especially stupidity masquerading as reasoned thought, we should all, as Americans, remind one another that armed insurrection is nothing short of suicidal nonsense. We should also remind each other and ourselves that, “We don’t do that!” We are not some third-rate, third-world backwater that has a coup every time things don’t go our way. We are the United States of America, dammit! We are better than that! We must remind ourselves that as Americans we already have in place the instrument whereby citizens may redress government actions contrary to their wishes. It’s called The Vote. If you don’t like what’s being done in your name, vote to change it.

That’s what we did.

(‘Cause we’re not 10 anymore!)

April’s showers bring May’s flowers — at least that’s how it works in most of the rest of the northern hemisphere. Here in Florida, where “showers” is synonymous with, “Oh, it must be 3:30,” we tend to get a little less worked up over seasonal change. I suppose our version would be, “April’s tourists pay May’s taxes,” though admittedly it’s not the same without the rhyme. One thing, however, does tie us together with our northern neighbors: We are all approaching the First Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox, or as most of you know it, Easter.

Now I could belabor certain similarities to an ancient German festival of Spring called Oester (pronounced “AY-ster”) which included such things as rabbits and eggs as symbols of fertility and rebirth, but we’ll leave that for another year. Suffice it say that for thousands of years, and for much of the planet, this has been a time to reflect on rebirth. The more spiritually preoccupied among us naturally take this to the next step of spiritual rebirth after physical demise, life after death. I wrote in January about my father and how he truly LIVED life, unconsciously milking every minute to its fullest. Now I will tell you what that great radio personality, Paul Harvey, himself only recently Gone Ahead, would term, “The Rest of the Story.”

My father Went Ahead on October 3rd, 1985. What I failed to mention in January was that at the time of his passing we still had many unresolved issues. Most of these stemmed from a very contentious divorce during which parents didn’t do enough to keep the kids out of it, and kids didn’t know enough to keep their mouths shut. It was like far too many divorces, a civil proceeding in which no one was civil. As the years passed, and I attained some level of sentiency, I grew to regret my behaviour more and more. My father had “relocated” to the Bahamas, coincidentally a place where the IRS has no jurisdiction, and I tried through one outdated address after another to write him and repair the damage of my actions years before. I failed.

This all came crashing back in the wee hours of April 10th, 1988. I was in Wuestoff Hospital awaiting the birth of my first child, Michael. My wife had gone through 24 hours of “pre-labor” (though I’ve got to tell you, it looked to me like there was a damned lot of labor involved!) followed by another 10 hours after her water broke. They’d finally given her something that allowed her to pass out between contractions, thus conserving her strength for the final moments. In that room, alone save for my unconscious wife, I realized that this baby, who we already knew was to be a boy, would be the Eldest Son, of the Eldest Son, of the Only Son, of the Eldest Son – The Heir to the Line by old reckoning. I know that sounds silly today, but anyone who’s been there will tell you that in those moments, in those hours, all kinds of bizarre things run through your mind.

These thoughts naturally took me back to all the other unresolved matters of years before, and so keenly did I feel the loss of my father, that I actually said out loud, “Oh, Daddy, I wish you could have been here!” That was when I heard the voice of my father, nearly three years after his “Death.” He spoke quite clearly in my right ear. He said, “I am!”

It was real. I didn’t waste the slightest second on disbelief. What I did do was fall all over myself in my mind trying to say all the things I had put into all of those letters years before — a lifetime’s worth of “I’m SO SORRY,” and years of “I miss you,” all jumbled together. My gibberish, for that’s all it would have been had it been spoken aloud, was cut short by a simple calming, “Sh-h-h,” followed by, “I know. It’s okay.” And suddenly…it was. All the years of guilt and self recrimination just melted away. Then I felt what I can only describe as wave after tangible wave of pure Love washing over me. My father’s Love.

Modern psychologists will tell us that the human mind is fully capable of manufacturing such things for itself in times of great physical or emotional need. But they weren’t there. I know what I heard, I know what I felt, and I KNOW it was real. Faith is wonderful thing, and I deny no one theirs. It is a great comfort to believe. I had always believed, but it is an entirely different thing to KNOW. Since that day I KNOW. I know that the Spirit survives the passing of its physical form. I know that the petty trivialities on which we waste so much of our lives do not matter at all. I know that only the Love survives. My father and mother gave me life, and they gave me love, their generation might have been awkward about expressing it, but I always knew it was there. Then, years after his “physical” death, my father found a way to give me even more. To believe is wonderful, but to KNOW is a whole new world.

The last chapter in this tale took place years later. Michael, then just over 2 ½, saw a picture of my father (the same one that appeared in the January issue). He looked up at me and said, “I remember him.” I told him, “No honey, you never met him…” Before I could finish he said, quite emphatically, “Yea I did.” I suddenly got chills. I asked Michael, “When did you meet him, Honey?” He looked up at me with that innocent look that only the very young still have and said, “When I was in Mommy’s tummy.”

“Who is he?” he asked me. “That’s your Grandfather,” I told him, “That’s Daddy’s Daddy.” My wife had never told him about my experience on the night he was born, and no one else knew. No one else was there. No one but my father… and a child not yet quite born. No one dies. No one “Passes Away.” They merely Go Ahead.

I usually only share this tale with people who have lost someone dear, in the hope that it will help them deal with their loss. Over the years, I have heard similar tales from others as well, stories of the spirits of those recently Gone Ahead speaking to them, sometimes even appearing. Always they bring words of comfort. Thus I am not unique. On a lighter note, and I do not attempt to deify myself, nor is it my intent to blaspheme against the tenets of anyone’s faith, but the Christians among you may smile to realize that for a moment in the early hours of April 10th, 1988 a small room on the 4th floor of Wuestoff Hospital actually held a Father, a Son, and a man who was Wholly Ghost.

As the late Paul Harvey would say, “Now you know… The Rest of the Story. Good Day.”

“What is a Haridopolos?” This question was first put to the voters of Brevard county in 1999. It’s been repeated in every election cycle since. It was a cutsie way for aspiring politician Mike Haridopolos to turn what may for some be a tongue-twisting Greek surname into a catchy campaign slogan. Corny? Perhaps, but it worked. Mr. Haridopolos, a history and social sciences professor from Brevard Community College served as our Florida State Representative from 2000 through the spring of 2003, when he ascended to the Florida State Senate where he languishes still.

Haridopolos’ own website still bandies about the old slogan, playfully citing some who thought a “Haridopolos” might be sea turtle or a dinosaur. It might still be mildly amusing if not for his most recent fantastical forays into the realm of school financing. One would think that a man of his background would know better. Remember, “Senator Mike,” as he likes to call himself, came from a career as an educator, so it’s only fair that his constituents expect him to have at least a working grasp of matters in that field. Unfortunately, Senator Mike’s recent actions have proven this not to be the case.

In a recent form letter sent to every public school principal in Brevard county, our illustrious Senator so misrepresented the state of Florida’s public school system funding, specifically that of Brevard County, that I, for one, am left with only two possible explanations. Either his understanding of school funding, indeed even simple mathematics, is so grieviously lacking as to be laughable — or, he’s just flat out lying through his teeth. I have heard Mr. Haridoplos speak on several occasions over the years, and I’ll admit he has an easygoing, affable manner about him. He comes across as a likeable young guy, so my first instinct is to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Unfortunately, even though every single graph and assertion made by the Senator in his recent letter has been thoroughly refuted by the very principles he sought to slip it past (as well as the financial offices of the Brevard County School Board. ) Mr. Haridopolos still has these false and misleading figures posted on his website. That benefit is wearing thin.

Specifically, Senator Mike maintains that in the last two years the state’s funding of the school budget has been cut by only 3%. The reality is 6.1%, or $445 per student. If that’s not depressing enough, School Boards throughout the state have been told to expect another 2% before June 30th, this year, (another $140 per student), and as much as 16% in the coming year (a staggering $1,120 per student!). All of this in a state which already ranks 48th in the nation in public school funding. The reality, Senator Mike, is that from 1989-90 to 2004-05 our “Sunshine State” went from 20th in the nation to 42nd, and we are now one of only three states in the union whose public schools are so woefully under-funded that we don’t even qualify for the education stimulus package recently signed by President Obama. The sun might shine on our beaches, but the forecast for our schools is “dark and stormy with no end in sight.”

As noted above, funding for public schools is a consitutionally mandated resposnibility of the State. In 1985, before the Lottery, the state of Florida devoted 61.48% of it’s General Revenue to funding education. We were told that all Lottery funds would be added to that amount, but the truth is that same portion today (without Lottery funds) is 50.93%. So I guess they lied, huh? As for those Lottery funds: in 1988, just under 60% went to K-12 public schools; that has now dropped to 36%. I guess they lied again. If only we knew who “they” were. Oh yeah,”they” includes you, Senator. Perhaps instead of cherry-picking data or twisting numbers beyond reason to support an indefensible position you and the rest of “they” could start closing the corporate loopholes in the Florida tax codes, and start to actually fund our public schools as you are required to do by our own Florida State Constitution!

What is a Haridoplos? Now we know. It’s just another politician who talks the talk, but refuses to walk the walk. It’s a creature possessed of Hari-brained logic and a very bad grasp of Mathemopolos, who looks on the world through Grand Old Party-colored glasses. Thus far it has shown no ability to buck party dictates and actually stand up for what’s best for the children of this State. I had remained hopeful. Perhaps it would evolve. Perhaps that likeable guy with the toothy smile that we elected so many times would surprise us yet. Alas, this was NOT TO BE. On monday Feb. 23rd, our Senatoropolos showed up in front of 10,000 concerned parents and educators at a town hall meeting at the King Center in Melbourne and had the TEMERITY to trot out the same DEBUNKED charts and graphs. His reaction when his gross misinformation was again shown up for the tripe it is… Well, suffice it to say “CHILDISH” would be an understatement! Had he come to listen, I would have held out out hope. I would have remembered. Instead he behaved as a petulant demigogue, and I assure you, Senator, that I WILL remember. As will the 10,000 concerned parents and educators in attendance. As will the both the 8000 employees of the Brevard County Pulic School system and the 1000 teachers and service personell who will be potentially unemployed if this trend is not reversed. As will every parent and grandparent with a child in our public school system.

I have always thought that a good measure of the moral priorities of a society is how well they treat their Teachers. I myself usually capitalize the word Teacher at all times, out of respect. (I only chose not to do so in this piece because it would have made my editor’s head explode!) This country pays it’s Teachers on a par with it’s garbage men. What does that say about our priorities? Do we truly value our children so little that we care nothing for those noble individuals who dedicate their lives to the education of those children? The United States of America now ranks 39th in the world. That’s 39th and FALLING FAST! I know such a trend is not revesed overnight, but it has to start somewhere. One child. One Teacher. Perhaps, (Dare we dream?) one politician? Obviously, not the politicianopolos!

To Mr. Fumero, Ms. Bryant, Ms. Howard, Ms. Scott, Ms. Collier, and all the rest of you ( Even you, Doc): This one’s for you!

Fortunately for me, thinking of any numbers usually leads to thinking of ALL numbers. This may very well be adult ADHD at work: “O-o-oh, im getting old… LOOK, a puzzle!” Don’t panic. No one’s going to start talking about math, especially fractions, though it may get a little metaphysical here and there. The numbers I usually tend to focus on are 11s. By that I mean any set of numbers that adds up to 11 — like the year 2009; Aquarius: the 11th House; my own birthday, the 29th, or more specifically my entire birthday: 01.29.1961. I’ll also note as important any multiples of 11, like the upcoming holiday on February 2nd (Imbolc for some of us), but numerologically: 02.02. I also can’t help but point out the 44th President.

This is not just me going off some twisted algebraic deep end. This is Numerology. Pythagoras, the Greek philosopher and mathematician, called numbers the “Music of the Spheres,” and if he was correct, we are in for quite the ride. You see, in Numerology, 11s and multiples of 11 are Master Numbers, and carry with them a higher vibration, if you will — a greater potential. That greater potential can be for either success or failure. There has always been but a razor-thin edge between genius and madman. Great potential, especially in times of great chaos or opportunity may be used to for salvation and positive leadership, or oppression and tyranny.

Certainly the current state of affairs in the world would qualify as great chaos. The very pillars of our financial institutions are at best shaky, where not actually crumbling. Much of our energy, industrial, and transportation infrastructure, once the marvel of the entire world, lies in shambles, rotted by apathy, greed, and neglect. The Fires of War, the quintessential embodiment of Chaos, burn in several places with no immediate end in sight, while sparks which threaten to set off others smoulder in many more. Many scientists even warn that our planet’s very ability to maintain life life as we know it, on the scale we know it, is so threatened that we may even now be very near the “tipping point.” That sounds bad enough in a canoe, let alone when we’re talking the whole planet.

Still, I choose to counter this laundry list of dire concurrence with the knowledge that, thus far, when most threatened by chaos, the United States has persevered. In fact, on every such occasion, we have come out of the smoke and the rubble stronger than we were when everything started going to hell in a handcart. Indeed, this entire nation was founded during such a time. For us, chaos has always been turned into opportunity. We must take care, however, to not get so wrapped up in our well deserved patriotism that we forget there have been missteps along the way as well. The refusal to acknowledge a mistake only robs you of the chance to learn from it, and often increases the chance that the same mistake will be made again.

Yes, we survived the Civil War, (or “The War of Northern Aggression,” for my southern friends!) but we followed it with the years of oppression and economical rapine that were the Reconstruction. We ended slavery, but it took us another hundred years to pass laws to insure even the most basic of civil rights to black Americans, and in many areas, we’re still a long way from making equality anything more than a hollow promise heard around election time. We didn’t even truly reunite as one nation after the Civil War until the stupidity of the Spanish American War and the necessity of World War I. We went from a third-rate military force with less than one armored division at the outset of World War II to being the greatest military force on the planet by that war’s end. But we also locked up innocent Americans in places like Manzanar solely because of their race. We have seen markets tremble several times. We have seen them all collapse. BUT WE ARE STILL HERE! And this metaphysical, tree-hugging, patriotic, liberal wack job has no doubt that, just as the United States survived all of those dark yesterdays to make it to today, so shall she weather these stormy days to see a brighter tomorrow.

All those 11s just underscore the certainty of it. They just serve to remind me why I literally wept on January 20th. They remind me that 2009 is a Master Year, and in a time of such staggering challenges We the People have a Leader again, and I stress that as “Leader” with a capital “L.” I wept tears of Joy that in such a time such a man stands as our 44th President. As someone who chided his political rivals on so many occasions for “drinking the Kool-Aid,” it certainly sounds as if I’ve now had a healthy dose of that served up by the other camp, but… Oh, who am I kidding? Guilty as charged! But I also remember that, just as I mentioned, such potential can go either way. Trust me, with all my 11s, I have seen just as many shadowed valleys as I have sunny mountain tops. But however dark this valley may seem now, I’m telling you, I feel a mountain top coming on!

So I will listen for Pythagoras’ Music of the Spheres and wonder as the notes of a dirge are slowly transferred into a hymn of rejoicing.

Enjoy the Music, and Blessed Be.

This is not me being maudlin. The most important part of any sentence is not the period at the end. “Going Ahead from a sudden heart attack while living on a 50′ Hatteras in Freeport, The Bahamas after coming home from the golf course?” That’s not exactly a bad period for most sentences. Hell, it’s probably what my Dad would’ve picked for himself, had there been a menu! Either way, it’s not the period that’s important; it’s the sentence. The sentence that was my Father’s life read like a globetrotting adventure/comedy.

Racing hydroplanes as a kid: Adventure. The series of old black and white photos showing that kid launched over 60 feet through the air while the boat cartwheels after him: Pure Comedy. U.S. Army Air Corps: Adventure. Having to bail out of two trainers: Comedy (Crashing that Piper Cub over 20 years later: Both.) Boating every creek and minor tributary river off the Mississippi for 300 miles, and later the same for the lower Chesapeake: Adventure. 42,612 bent prop shafts, 1,204,785 fried water pumps, enough various gaskets and fan belts to carpet the entire earth to a depth of four feet, all lovingly swathed and fervently embraced in a ribald blanket of profanity whose intricacy and artistry would make Botticelli weep: Highest comedy. It was a rip-roaring, laugh-’til-you-cry sorta life. John Wayne and Jackie Gleason were equally revered, but I think he channeled Bogart and Red Skelton! The best thing about my Father’s life was that he LIVED.

There is a vast difference between just being alive and actually living. I know. I’ve done woefully even amounts of both; I’m sure many of you have. The tricky part is that, so often, if you don’t focus on the latter you usually wind up settling for the former. You put off that book, that movie, that nice dinner. You put off that trip. Then suddenly you’re using phrases like, “Where did the year go?”

Fortunately, the solution is simple, and it doesn’t have to cost anything. You don’t have to travel or risk your hide in small aircraft. (Though it is a rush!) You don’t have to be Lewis or Clark. What you do have to do can be as simple as just talking to people. I mean really talking to them — not at them — and really listening when they talk to you. Read a book. Call a friend. Do anything, but do something! Most importantly, whatever it is, REVEL IN IT!

As I flip through the scrapbook of my own admittedly cluttered mind, I see far too many wasted moments, far too much of my past that just… passed. I also see the high points, shining like a string of coastal lighthouses amid a fog of apathetic, self-imposed mediocrity. Just like lighthouses, many of those bright spots occurred when I was sailing far to close to the rocks, but as lighthouses are supposed to do, they often pierced the darkness just in time for me to avoid dashing my hull to bits. I also note that most of those brighter points cost nothing at all. One sunset that you take the time to truly enjoy is worth 50 that you just happen to see. One brilliant, starlit night, truly considered, is worth 100 barely glimpsed. Birdsong and the laughter of children are free smiles granted by a universe littered with joy, but only if you take the time to hear them, to appreciate them — and “Free” is an excellent price for just about anything.

I will always treasure the memories of the trips to Quebec, and Nova Scotia, and Bermuda that my parents were able to provide in my youth, as well as the ponies, the seasonal migrations to Florida, and more boat rides than I could ever count. But I will also treasure Scrabble and Chateauneuf on the beach at Canaveral, lost weekends in St. Augustine, and many sunsets and bottles of champagne spent with that special someone. The chess games at the Hut with an 84-year-old Brit on holiday, the mockingbird near my house on Johnson Ave., and the weekend camping trips at Sebastian. The first time I held my children. Every single time Jacquie looks at me and smiles.

My point is simple, and it is the one New Year’s wish I would wish for you all (regardless of who you voted for!). That you not settle for just being alive, but rather that you should LIVE every day to its fullest. For, contrary to the popular old saying, Time is NOT Money. Money not spent is money saved, and can usually gather interest, but time not spent is not time saved, but merely time wasted, and thus of very little interest at all. I don’t care if you’re 20 or 70, any day when they still refer to you in the present tense is a gift. Treasure it as such.

Bobby Burns’ poem, “Auld Lang Syne,” literally means “Old Long Since.” It is a caution that the memories of the good old times not be lost in the bustle of the new. I would also ask that you remember when they sing Auld Lang Syne, that old acquaintances NOT be forgot. Remember those who have Gone Ahead, but do so with joy for their lives and for the things they had to share with us. Perhaps with each such remembrance you will find, as I have here with my Father, a new lesson to be learned, something new that they can still teach you. “Gone Ahead” doesn’t have to mean gone away. Tears should be fleeting, while smiles and laughter should last forever.

Happy New Year to you all.

(You, too, Dad.)

That’s how it feels. Against all odds, in spite of some of the most hateful, bigoted, and despicable lies I’ve ever heard in a presidential campaign, in a country where far too may people still believe that “White makes Right,” we finally elected the smartest man in the room. Oh yeah, he also happens to be black. Okay, “technically,” he’s half black, but that’s enough to make the Bigots in Bedsheets go completely frothy at the mouth, even in a year when Linens and Things is having a huge going-out-of-business sale!

For those of us who prefer to look beyond such external details and weigh the true worth of the man, it feels like the dawn of a new day. Of course after the last eight years under the bumbling partisan “leadership” of George W. Bush, a night light would seem like the dawn of a new day. After a President whose only grasp of economics upon attaining office was how much to pay for an 8-ball and a bottle of Jack in 48 states, a man who referred to the country to the north as “Canadia,” a man who gave us such immortal moments as “My Pet Goat,” “Mission Accomplished,” and “Brownie’s doing a fine job,” a trained ferret would be a quantum leap up the intellectual food chain!

Let’s face it, “Dubya” could only make Smartest Man in the Room if the room were filled with broccoli, cauliflower, and brussel sprouts — and even then, I’d have to lean toward one of the vegetable contenders (and that’s my list of Most Hated Vegetables!). Lentils he could beat… Well, one lentil. Maybe. Just so long as it didn’t talk too fast, or bring up complex topics like “vegetable protein.” You know he would still call it a little brown pea.

As for Darth Cheney, I’ll still only believe him truly gone when I see it. I think he’s going to lock himself in that man-sized safe and go rogue. Only in America can you mix cocktails and quail hunting, shoot an old man in the face, avoid the police until you sober up, and then have the old man publicly apologize to you! That may be a bit misleading. “You” could not do any of that and not go to jail. What I should have said is that only in America could a politically connected, corporate mogul with Evil Super Powers from the Dark Side do those things! Also, only in America could a man stand up before the nation and explain all the reasons for NOT invading Iraq, including that it would take decades to fix it once it was smashed, and then, just 8 years later, orchestrate that very same invasion, and THEN act shocked that reconstruction was not an overnight affair.

I know. The fans of Kool Aid’s new “Bushie Berry” flavor, are near apoplectic hearing me continue to cast aspersions on their tag-team champions, but I remember hearing “Slick Willy” jokes loooong after the end of the Clinton administration; so fair is fair. I will ask that they understand we never “bashed” Bush and Cheney as stupid and evil just because we hated them. We did it because they WERE stupid and evil (Hell, they still are! ). The hatred was just a bonus. A spoonful of sugar, if you will, to make the taste of bile go away.

It’s also not as if the hate hasn’t already begun on the other side for Obama. I don’t recall the world hanging on every word of a President Elect before. It took the Republicans under Dubya and Darth Cheney 8 years to gut environmental controls, ravage public schools and universities, steal the nation blind, start a war on false pretenses, and drive our economy to the very brink of ruin, yet now voices from that side of the aisle (or the bar) are snidely saying, “What change? I don’t see any change!” Come on, people! The man’s not even in office yet! You’re filling out his First Year Performance Review and he hasn’t even clocked in? Now that’s some bull feces !

My latest favorite is the sarcastic commentary on Obama’s proposed Public Works Program. “That’s nothing new! Whine. Whine. We saw that with Roosevelt. Whine. Whine.” Really? If you get caught out in the rain and I hand you an umbrella, are you actually going to refuse it just because you’ve seen it before? News flash: IT’s POURING OUTSIDE! Just take the damned umbrella! Or would you rather have the guy who tells you that his Pet Goat likes it when Jesus makes the clouds cry?

I know many people only wanted one thing in their stocking this year: Bimbo Barbie with the Caribou Kung Fu Grip. They also assumed it would be brought by a really, really old white guy who’s not sure whose house he’s in. Me? I’m looking forward to a Holiday Season when I already know I’m getting the one present I wanted more than anything else. The Smartest Guy in the Room will be in charge! (Oh, and this year, my present… It’s not being brought by a white guy! )

So Blessed Yule, Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, and a Joyous Kwanzaa. May whatever God you embrace embrace you as well, and may you embrace others in turn. (And may the clouds only cry when the grass is thirsty.)

Many will wonder just how much racism could have really touched a little white boy and many will wonder why it remains such a burning issue for the white man that little boy became, but if I said that my neighbors had been beaten, that my neighbors had been raped, and that my neighbors had been killed, they would understand. What if it were members of my own family? Everyone could appreciate the lasting nature of such scars should close neighbors have been involved; they would certainly get it had my own family been subjected to such horrors. But that’s the point. They were my neighbors. They were my family. They still are.

We would not dream of condoning random beating of our neighbors; we would be livid to think of a rapist getting off scot-free. That a murderer in our own neighborhood should go unpunished is out of the question. The problem lies in how very small many of us perceive our neighborhoods to be. Here are few simple rules to put it into perspective:

We are ALL neighbors.

We are ALL family.

The child of any man or woman is the child of EVERY man and woman, to be cherished and nurtured and protected as their own.

Now do you get it?

The teenage boy jumped on his way home from work and savagely beaten by a dozen grown men with baseball bats was my brother. That his skin happened to be black does not change that. The young mother repeatedly raped by her landlord while the local police ignored her repeated cries for help was my sister, as was her daughter who suffered the same fate. The fact that they were black does not change that. The harmless old man caught out alone on a back road at night and hung was my brother as well. That he was also black does not change that. All of these actual crimes, as well as the countless thousands like them that occurred in those idyllic “Good Ole Days” were perpetrated on people who were at the very least my neighbors, at best my own family. The fact that my own logic has me related to the gang with the baseball bats, the landlord, and the faceless cowards with the noose as well sickens me. It should sicken us all.

As I write this, the presidential election is just three days off. If events unfold as every single reputable poll indicates, we will elect a black man as President of the United States of America. Many herald this as a breakthrough for us as a nation, a point I certainly will not dispute. But this is, in reality, just a baby step in the right direction. The real breakthrough will come when a candidate’s race isn’t even considered worthy of mention. The real breakthrough comes when we, as a nation, have finally learned that the measure of a man or woman has absolutely nothing to do with the color of their skin, the shape of their eyes, what church they attend, or where their parents or grandparents came from. We are all a long way from that day.

The danger lies in believing that now the work is done. The work is only beginning. Much of our nation has been stolen from right before our delusional eyes, those few tattered scraps that remain are being systematically choked to death. Prying the gnarled claws of corporate power and greed from our very throats will be no small task. Many politicians remain, on both the state and national levels, who are little more than the paid and pampered watchdogs of one industry or another. Rooting them all out will take time. Teaching their replacements that such behavior will no longer be allowed will take even longer. But we can get there.

We can rise up in numbers never before seen in this nation and effect nothing less than a revolution, and we will do it one vote at a time. Once the votes are cast, however, is NOT the time to stop taking an interest. Watch what’s being done on your behalf by those you have elected. Call them, write them, let them know you are watching. Most importantly, let them know you will remember come the next election. And while we’re at it, let’s throw a few of the worst offenders in jail. Those who have knowingly allowed, if not actually assisted, one defrauding of the nation after another.

Politicians are supposed to be our watchdogs. They are supposed to answer to us. We hold the leash. Those who have chewed through that leash, those who have slipped that leash to run groveling to the feet of some other monied master, have gone rabid. It is time for them, or at least their political careers, to be “put down.”

I have always hoped that I might see the day when my Nation grows up. I have dared to dream of a day when we value each other based on our deeds and on our potential for greatness, rather than an antiquated and vile agenda of petty hatreds. There is still much to do to overcome such thinking, but now, God willing, that day is before us.

It’s also DAMNED LONG OVERDUE!

With November just around the corner, I will tilt one last time at the GOP windmill. This should not come as a shock; I’ve hardly been shy of late. Sarcastic? Yes. Truthful? Absolutely! But shy? Me? Never! I would still ask that those of you who are undecided to read on. I will even ask that those of you who plan on voting a straight Republican ticket to read on as well, in the fervent hope that you might come to see the truth about the Emperor’s New Clothes.

Barack Obama was raised by a single mother with some help from her parents. None of them were rich. Today Barack and Michelle Obama own one house and one car. John McCain is the son of a four-star admiral and the grandson of a four-star admiral, all wealthy. Today John and Cindy McCain own eight houses and thirteen cars! So how does McCain still get away with calling Obama an Elitist?

Barack Obama went to Harvard on a full academic scholarship, and graduated magna cum laude. John McCain attended the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, and graduated 5th from the bottom of his class of 899. Again, that’s 894th place out of 899! So how does John McCain expect us to believe that he understands so much, but Obama doesn’t know the difference between a strategy and a tactic?

Barack Obama wants to stop the existing tax breaks and loopholes for the very wealthy and for corporations. He wants to end the war in Iraq. He also wants to stop letting Wall Street run amok with our  money and no government oversight. John McCain wants to continue the G.W. Bush tax plan AS IS; his campaign is riddled with lobbyists for the same corporate interests that backed Bush. He says he will stay in Iraq for 100 YEARS if need be. He also helped to remove the very government rules and regulations in 1982 which led to both the savings and loan crash of 1987 as well as the disaster facing us today. So how does he get away with claiming to be the obvious choice for CHANGE?

Barack Obama provided his medical records: Four pages covering his entire life. John McCain provided only those records covering the last eight years: 1,200 pages. In all fairness, the earlier part of McCain’s medical history was lost due to the poor quality of the papyrus! So how does McCain get to say he’s ready to hit the ground running? If he hit anything running, he’d drop dead! Then we’d be left with the Pretty Puppet with the Pompoms!

This is the one that will make some people’s heads explode, but were the political roles reversed, the Republicans would have been SHOUTING it for years! 9/11 HAPPENED ON THEIR WATCH! The Clinton White House got daily briefings on Bin Laden. They knew something was up and were hunting hard after the details. They told the new administration repeatedly! Yet two weeks into the Bush Regime during a briefing, Donald Rumsfeld yelled at George Tenet, the head of the CIA: “Will you SHUT UP about Bin Laden!” This was reported and confirmed by three different men present, two of them high-ranking generals. So how in the HELL do the Republicans get to claim that they are the ones who can keep you safe?

Yes, John McCain was in the military. But the details of his early military career show an endless series of drunken parties and womanizing by a spoiled son of a powerful military family. He passed flight school despite crashing on a test flight. He then crashed a plane he had borrowed to fly up to the Army Navy game. Next, he flew one into power lines over Spain. The result of this stellar air record? Promotion to — wait for it — FLIGHT INSTRUCTOR! Yes, he endured five-and-a-half years of nightmarish captivity at the hands of the North Vietnamese. But when he returned, he was promoted to Executive Officer of Replacement Air Group 174 out of Jacksonville, a post normally given to a man with at least Squadron Commander experience. During all of this, he repeatedly took planes for flights to parties often with subordinate female military staff — WHILE MARRIED! These should have been courts martial offenses, as the Uniform Code of Military Justice is quite clear on forbidding adultery and fraternization with subordinates. This is the man who claims his military service qualifies him to be Commander in Chief?

The TRUTH is that John McCain’s military career qualifies him for only three jobs: Pimp, bartender, or falling object! The fact that he was instrumental in stopping all further government efforts to locate POWs or MIAs still in Vietnam should disqualify him from even mentioning his military career! Yes, John, we know. You refused early release until the rest of the men with you were released as well, BUT YOU ABANDONED ALL THE REST!

(Note: Stealing the White House AGAIN for your corporate backers so you can continue to let them have their way with our nation’s resources and economy is a “strategy.” Claiming to be against corporate influence in government to mislead the voting public is a “tactic”!)

The political world… Scratch that. The entire world was rocked, shocked, and flat-out dumbfounded on Friday, August 29th, when John McCain announced Alaska Governor Sarah Palin as his Vice Presidential running mate. Low flying satellites, alien observers, and all those guys tapping phones for Michael Chertoff were all amazed to hear more than two thirds of the planet say, “Huh?” at the same time. Only slightly less surprising was that they all did it in Scooby voice! This was followed, quite understandably, by, “R-r-r-who?” Personally I think McCain should have saved us all from several minutes of confusion by adding, “That’s right. I said it! Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska!”

In all fairness, I will admit the “entire world” might be stretching it a bit. Many glassy-eyed Republicans just smiled and nodded. Outwardly, many could be heard to say things like, “Oh yes, I hear she’s good,” or “Excellent choice!” and “Ooh, pretty!” But let’s get real; most of them would say that if the GOP told them they were going to be voting for Lulu the Dancing Chimp! Inwardly they were all murmuring, “Yes, Master. We hear and obey!” This is the effect of drinking wa-a-a-ay too much “Grand Old Koolaid,” while listening to a 24-hour loop of Gay Bashing Svengali Speak and Creationist Siren Song punctuated by the Greatest Hits of the NRA all brought to you by FOX News and sponsored the good folks at Halliburton, Exxon and Pfizer.

But for the rest of us, the shock is only now giving way to… well, laughter. This has got to be the single most transparently desperate political move since… since… Okay, EVER! Sarah Palin spent two years as a city councilwoman, followed by another two years as Mayor, all in the booming metropolis of Wasilla, Alaska, population 6,700! Don’t worry though, she’s had two years as the Governor of Alaska. You know the state with 120,000 fewer people than JACKSONVILLE? Oh yeah, she’s ready to be one heartbeat away from being President of the United States. Especially when that heartbeat is the thready pulse of John McCain. In McCain’s defense, his first choice was a boyhood friend with great experience in government, but he was crushed to learn that Ramses I had died chasing Hebrews into the Red Sea.

McCain is apparently no slouch, though; he has already started referring to his running mate as “a partner and soul mate.” I wonder how comfortable Cindy McCain is with that terminology? Even I couldn’t make this stuff up! In addition to her staggering political resume, Palin is also an Evangelical Christian who is staunchly anti-abortion. I can deal with that. Her rights. Her choice. What I can’t deal with (see last month’s Resident) is that she is also in favor of teaching Creationism in the Public school system! Could this pick be any more about sucking up to the hardcore right-wing fundamentalists who want to drag us all kicking and screaming right back to the Bronze Age?

Far and away the most obvious reason for such an outlandish Vice Presidential running mate is that she is a ploy to attract some of the more disgruntled female supporters of Hillary Clinton. I would expect women to be far more upset about this than me, because it implies that you will vote for your gender with absolutely no regard to whether or not the woman is qualified for the office. It implies that you think below your waist, which is exactly what women have been saying about men since the dawn of time. Are you really going to take that?

Many will reply here that Obama is counting on “the black vote,” and they would be right. BUT Barack Obama has a BA in International Studies from Columbia, and a J.D. (Law Degree) from Harvard — Palin has a BA in Communications/Journalism from Idaho. Obama used his stellar education not for a high-paying corporate job, but to help Chicago’s inner city poor. Palin worked the TV News sports desk. Obama served as an Illinois State Senator for seven years, then as a U.S. Senator for more than two years. Palin was on the City Council of a town 1447.7 times SMALLER than Chicago for two years and served as its Mayor for another two, whence she ascended to the lofty post of Governor of Alaska, a state 14.5 times SMALLER than Chicago! Yeah! She’s got it all!

The whole “who has/should have a lock on which demographic” argument can be summed up quite simply. If Barack Obama were white and named Bob Johnson, he would be up in the polls by probably 25%. If Sarah Palin were a man named Jimmy Palin, he would still be the most unqualified candidate for vice president EVER ! (And that even includes Dan “Potatoe Boy” Quayle!)

I will give her credit on one point, though. As a popular bumper sticker in Alaska says, “Coldest State — Hottest Governor”! She is a stunning woman, and she’s doing things to a pants suit that Hillary can’t even remember. But is that truly the only criteria for the Presidency of the United States? If so, I’m nominating Halle Berry and snagging every demographic there is! Let’s face it: John McCain is 71, and he has a medical history longer than… MEDICAL HISTORY! The odds are his VP may very well see some game time, and there is no way anyone can honestly say that the G.I.L.F. is up for for the BIG game. G.I.L.F., for those of you who don’t know, means Governor Intended to Lure Feminists!

Why? What did you think it meant?

I was recently talking with someone in my home when the subject of trilobites came up. This led me to rush to a nearby curio cabinet and produce one of my most prized possessions, my very own trilobite! (Thank you, Dinosaur Store!). I showed it to my guest, and explained that it was not a replica, but an actual fossil dated at about 525 MILLION years old!

“Ah… 525 million years?” came the somewhat bewildered response. I mistakingly took her hesitation to be skepticism at the object’s authenticity, so I proudly displayed the little sticker on the back of the stand as irrefutable proof. Instead of the begrudging acceptance I had expected, I got a reply that rocked the very fossil-riddled strata of my world: “The Bible says the Earth is only a little over 6,000 years old.”

“WHAT?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. My guest just looked at me with what I now know to be the serious expression of a fervent believer fully prepared to defend her Faith. I had already known the young lady in question was devout, but it had never even occurred to me that she held with such literal Creationist interpretations. I was floored! Flat out GOBSMACKED! As I had no wish to embarrass this charming 17-year old girl in front of others present, I quickly returned my Cambrian-era treasure to its place of honor and deftly changed the subject. To what, I can’t recall, so flustered was I at the time, but knowing me, it was probably the platypus. One does tend to fall back on the classics in times of crisis.

I still had no intention of debating theology with her when I brought the subject up again some days later, but I just had to know how deep this ran. You see, this young lady had just graduated high school two years early — and as valedictorian of her school — thus earning a four-year college scholarship as well. Hence, my shock. I knew it was a church school, and in New Jersey, (apparently now the Garden of Eden State!), but I had not been prepared for a total refutation of globally accepted scientific FACT! Determined to keep the discussion respectful, I tip-toed up to the topic, but two sentences in she hit me with: “Darwin denounced his Theory of Evolution on his deathbed and sought salvation in Christ!”

“THAT’S A LIE!” Again with the blurting. “I’m sorry, dear, I don’t know who told you that, and they may even believe it, but THAT is a total LIE!” The conversation did taper off at that point after assurances by me that it was not my intent to dispute or disprove her Faith, but I was concerned when she offered up learned falsehoods as evidence. Many may question my right to broach the topic at all, but suffice it to say that the young lady in question is a close relative and I know her parents VERY well. Both used to serve in the U.S. Air Force; Mom’s now a nurse, Dad’s in medical supplies, and Step-Dad is a “Teacher of History” at the very same school where she apparently learned all this.

My shock has not diminished in two weeks. I had heard of such people, but I suppose to me they were like UFO’s or the Loch Ness monster. One hears stories, but never really expects the personal experience. Somehow I guess I had always envisioned the “6,000-Year Old Earth Crowd” to live back in the hills and play banjoes. If there were really an urban variety, I would have guessed that aluminum foil hats would figure in there somewhere. I never saw it coming from an intelligent young person like her. Now, it just PISSES ME OFF !

Don’t get me wrong. I love her dearly. Always will. I’m angry at whoever decided for her that she would be raised to ignore logic and modern science for religious dogma in something so fundamental. I’m angry at the recent trend to indulge such mindsets to the point of allowing a “School” to use Religious Scripture that predates the Bronze Age as a SCIENCE TEXT! Do you wonder why American students now rank 17th in the world, below such traditional scientific powerhouses as Finland, Canada and New Zealand? THIS is why! (Positive note: We just edged out Slovakia!)

Do you wonder why we can’t get our government to move on global warming? Because they’re afraid of offending voters who can’t believe 350 million years of evidence could come from 6,000-year old ice! This is the same level of technology that told us that if you dunk a witch she won’t drown, or that anyone who marries and is then found not to be virgin should be STONED TO DEATH! These are our new “Science Geeks”? Good thing they can’t drown me!

** Note: The “Darwin Lie” was originated shortly after Darwin’s death by the evangelist Widow of Admiral Sir James Hope, who claimed to have been at Darwin’s bedside at the time of his death ministering to his Soul. It was immediately denounced as a lie by Darwin’s daughter Henrietta and other family and friends who actually WERE present. The truth was Lady Hope never even saw Darwin in the last months of his life, and his last words were, “I am not in the least afraid to die.” Jimmy Swaggart was kind enough to trot it out again in 1985. I say just because I know how a light bulb works, doesn’t mean I can’t believe in Thomas Edison, and a Faith in the Ultimate Source of all Light and Love and TRUTH in the Universe should never have to resort to lies.

We, as a nation, have become little more than a gaggle of fat little children whose father owns a candy company, and though Papa works night and day, still we whine and wheedle for more of the very sweets that have already turned us into the doughy physical equivalents of so many asthmatic 90-year-olds. We want everyone else’s candy, too! We’re thick, and we only want to get thicker! Why? I told you. We’re THICK! Papa needs to put us all on a diet…toot sweet! The only problem is that dear Papa and his friends are also in business with all the other candy makers, as well as every dental group and dietary clinic in town, and when we’re not around they laugh themselves silly at the thought of how much money they make off us. Papa, for shame! Your own children?

Unfortunately, as with most addictions, the first step is often the most difficult — admitting you have a problem in the first place. And no, people, $4 a gallon for gas is NOT the problem. That’s like a crack addict saying their only problem is that crack costs too much! The problem is the addiction itself, NOT the rising price of a fix! Once we admit the need to change our lifestyle, the next step is not that difficult. All we need are politicians with enough spine to TELL the oil companies and the power companies that they do not run this country. Please note, I said TELL, not ask! You don’t ask drug pushers and rapists to play nice. You TELL them to STOP! These industries have collectively fed an addiction that has both crippled and enslaved our economy. They have furthered their crimes by having their way with our defenseless wallets for decades. ENOUGH is ENOUGH!

You do not just ask FPL to put lines underground along a hurricane-prone coast line. You TELL them. You don’t ask every power company in the nation to reduce their toxic emissions. You TELL them. You don’t ask the power industry to spend the money required to finally update an infrastructure that still operates on technology and equipment from the 1950s! You TELL them. And they can bloody well do it on their dime, NOT ours! Hell, they’ve already got most of our dimes anyway! If the big ones won’t shut them down, smaller, more forward thinking companies will swarm to buy up their assets and gladly make the investment just for a slice of the new pie. You also initiate massive government incentives for the development of new solar and wind technologies. Use the money we’ve been doling out to the oil industry for doing nothing at all.

We already have sufficient wind and solar resources in this nation to provide all of our domestic electric needs. We’re just not using it. Why? Because the power industry is in collusion with the coal and oil industries. In most cases, they’re the SAME FIRMS! Massive submersible turbines dropped off the coast of Florida to harness the energy of the Gulf Stream could power our entire state as well as much of the rest of the southeast. We already have the technology for that as well. We just don’t have anyone with the political stones to pull the trigger.

As for our oil consumption, I say it’s time for another massive government public works program along the same lines as the TVA and the Federal Highways Act. The TVA employed millions during the Great Depression providing sorely need jobs, and injecting millions into local economies, and when it was all said and done the nation had a system of hydro-electric power plants that are still running today. The Federal Highways Act of 1956 built the interstate highway system we all now take for granted. If you doubt the usefulness of that little investment, try driving from Key West to Portland, Maine on only two-lane roads sometime.

This time what we need are trains. Yes, TRAINS! Not the archaic choo-choo’s of our grandparents’day, but the sleek, high speed, ELECTRIC, mag-lev super trains that are now commonplace everywhere else! We are the only major industrialized nation on the planet without a modernized internal passenger rail system. Ford, GM, and Chrysler can re-tool some of those plants they’re closing down to build the cars. All of those airline people getting laid off can crew the cars and handle the baggage and maintenance needs. I imagine quite a few former NASA engineers will find that a familiarity with on-board computer systems will suddenly be in big demand in a new industry. As will system routing, technical support and maintenance, and a host of aerodynamic design disciplines. What goes better with trains than engineers? That’s not even beginning to calculate the boon for the construction trades. The iron workers alone will get giddy at the employment prospects.

We don’t even need to pay for more land. Just elevate them and run them right down the median or along side the existing interstate highway system. Lose a job at the Cape? Don’t panic. You don’t have to move. You just hop the monorail to Miami, or Tampa, or Atlanta in not much more time than it took you for the car commute from Palm Bay. Oh, yeah, I forgot the best part. Your kids can BREATHE again! And your house won’t need to be fitted with a SNORKEL in 20 to 30 years!

All aboard!