Today is my granddaughter Lisa's first birthday. Here she is at 10 months with her mom, Nicky. Live long and prosper, Lisa.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Here's Indiana Gov. Mitch Daniels (on the right), shooting the breeze with lunchtime patrons of the Spartan Inn, a cafe in Wingate, Ind., that boasts the best breaded pork tenderloin sandwich I've ever tasted. Mitch was on his way back to Indianapolis after a morning speech at Purdue University. He had visited the Spartan Inn last year while campaigning for office and just had to come back for another tenderloin and fries. For the record, the governor likes his tenderloin with mayo, tomato slices and ketchup. He's also a motorcyclist.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
A belated happy birthday
Pete Townshend turned 60 last Thursday.
Since I'll reach that milestone on July 14, I feel a certain kinship with the guy I consider the greatest talent in the history of Rock & Roll and a founding member of the greatest band in the history of R&R.
Just like his creation, Tommy, Pete drew his first breaths while England was still celebrating Victory in Europe. Tommy and Quadrophenia were largely autobiographical works for Pete. I found Tommy a bit too dark and disturbing for my taste, but Quadrophenia hit me right between the eyes, or ears as the case may be. It's my "desert island" album and hardly a month goes by that I don't listen to it in its entirety. It speaks to me in ways I can't begin to articulate and I was delighted to hear Eddie Vedder cite it as a pivotal musical experience in his life.
Every now and then, I get out the Concert for New York City DVD, made in the aftermath of the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks, and find myself smiling through the tears as I watch Pete thrashing and windmilling with all the fire and fury of a guy one-third his age.
"I hope I die before I get old."
Yes, Pete. Me too. But that's not going to be for a long, long time for either of us.
Since I'll reach that milestone on July 14, I feel a certain kinship with the guy I consider the greatest talent in the history of Rock & Roll and a founding member of the greatest band in the history of R&R.
Just like his creation, Tommy, Pete drew his first breaths while England was still celebrating Victory in Europe. Tommy and Quadrophenia were largely autobiographical works for Pete. I found Tommy a bit too dark and disturbing for my taste, but Quadrophenia hit me right between the eyes, or ears as the case may be. It's my "desert island" album and hardly a month goes by that I don't listen to it in its entirety. It speaks to me in ways I can't begin to articulate and I was delighted to hear Eddie Vedder cite it as a pivotal musical experience in his life.
Every now and then, I get out the Concert for New York City DVD, made in the aftermath of the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks, and find myself smiling through the tears as I watch Pete thrashing and windmilling with all the fire and fury of a guy one-third his age.
"I hope I die before I get old."
Yes, Pete. Me too. But that's not going to be for a long, long time for either of us.
Hit the road, Jack
I’m returning Psycho Jack, the red heeler, to the Animal Welfare League shelter this morning.
Jack seemed to be coming out of his shell on Sunday and Monday. His ears and tail were up a fair amount of the time and he seemed to have a spring in his step.
But yesterday, he imploded. He seemed less perky during the morning walk in the park and, as the day wore on, became increasingly morose and depressed. By late afternoon, he didn’t want to come out of his kennel and when I took him outside, he sought out secure-looking spots behind bushes and in porch corners to hunker down and hide.
By dinnertime, he had retreated to a dark corner in Austin’s room and had to be picked up and carried back to his kennel. I’ve never seen a dog so depressed and emotionally shut down.
Ruthie didn’t help any. From the moment of his arrival, she growled and barked whenever he tried to eat or drink, even though it was from bowls we had designated as his and separate from Ruthie’s. She apparently decided there was a real danger that we would run out of food and water and, consequently, all of the food and water in the house belonged to her.
We tried to give Jack a wider run of the house Sunday evening and, when we sat on the couch to watch TV, we invited him and Ruthie to hop up and join us.
When Jack tried to climb onto the couch, Ruthie barked angrily and forced her way between him and us.
Throughout his four-day stay, it was clear he was intimidated by Ruthie and he went out of his way to avoid her.
By last night, we had concluded that Jack is too emotionally fragile to make it in our home as long as Ruthie is here. If he is to be helped, I think it’s going to have to be in a home where he’s the only dog and has no competition.
Maria decided she’ll write a column about our experience with Jack, including a sympathetic photo, and hope that the right people come forward to adopt him.
I hate it that it didn’t work, but maybe we can still be part of the solution by getting him properly placed.
Jack seemed to be coming out of his shell on Sunday and Monday. His ears and tail were up a fair amount of the time and he seemed to have a spring in his step.
But yesterday, he imploded. He seemed less perky during the morning walk in the park and, as the day wore on, became increasingly morose and depressed. By late afternoon, he didn’t want to come out of his kennel and when I took him outside, he sought out secure-looking spots behind bushes and in porch corners to hunker down and hide.
By dinnertime, he had retreated to a dark corner in Austin’s room and had to be picked up and carried back to his kennel. I’ve never seen a dog so depressed and emotionally shut down.
Ruthie didn’t help any. From the moment of his arrival, she growled and barked whenever he tried to eat or drink, even though it was from bowls we had designated as his and separate from Ruthie’s. She apparently decided there was a real danger that we would run out of food and water and, consequently, all of the food and water in the house belonged to her.
We tried to give Jack a wider run of the house Sunday evening and, when we sat on the couch to watch TV, we invited him and Ruthie to hop up and join us.
When Jack tried to climb onto the couch, Ruthie barked angrily and forced her way between him and us.
Throughout his four-day stay, it was clear he was intimidated by Ruthie and he went out of his way to avoid her.
By last night, we had concluded that Jack is too emotionally fragile to make it in our home as long as Ruthie is here. If he is to be helped, I think it’s going to have to be in a home where he’s the only dog and has no competition.
Maria decided she’ll write a column about our experience with Jack, including a sympathetic photo, and hope that the right people come forward to adopt him.
I hate it that it didn’t work, but maybe we can still be part of the solution by getting him properly placed.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Chaos and a 200-mile motorcycle ride
We picked up the red heeler, aka Australian Cattle Dog, at the shelter Saturday morning and brought him home.
As expected, he was pretty freaked out by the ride, new surroundings and Ruthie: ears down and tail between legs.
We quickly discovered he was never taught not to "mark" his territory indoors when he lifted a leg and whizzed on the floor scrubber parked by the kitchen door.
Ruthie decided he posed a grave threat to her food and water supply, i.e. all of the food and water in the house. Much angry barking and growling whenever the new dog - we're calling him Psycho Jack, or just Jack for short - tried to eat or drink from his own bowls.
Ruthie also took to staying in her kennel all weekend so she could guard her supply of food and water.
We had much to accomplish over the weekend - chiefly beginning the massive cleanup for Austin's graduation openhouse next weekend and doing concrete planning for a website for our wedding photography business. We got pretty much nothing done because of drama associated with having a new dog in the house.
Maria's mother had been in the hospital for three days after being diagnosed with a viral pericarditis, an inflammation of the membrane around the heart. That explains why she's been short of breath lately. The treatment was rest, and lots of it. Visiting her Saturday evening and photographing a restaurant our neighbor is revitalizing were piled onto the plate. We got to the photo shoot but missed visiting hours.
She was sent home for a few more days of bedrest Sunday and Maria took her parents some pancakes and other breakfast food.
Having complained about yet another good motorcycling weekend being stolen from me, I proposed to go for a ride while Maria and her daughter catered breakfast.
I headed west on I-74 in glorious sunshine without any particular destination in mind. After a few miles, during which I watched the odometer on my '03 BMW K1200GT roll over 20,000 miles, I decided to find Twin Cities BMW Motorcycles in Savoy, Ill.
With the demise of my local dealership, Twin Cities at a distance of just under 100 miles, is now my nearest BMW motorcycle dealer.
The ride was pleasant, made all the more so by conversations with strangers at a couple of rest areas. At the first stop, I emerged from the restroom to find two guys admiring my bike, which led to a conversation about the various features and qualities of BMWs.
At the second stop, a guy from Peoria, Ill., who was en route home with his wife and kids, complimented my bike and mentioned he had an '04 R1150GS. He was wearing a t-shirt from my late lamented local dealership and it turns out we were both at Spokane for the BMW MOA national rally last July and know many of the same people and places.
I found Twin Cities BMW right where it was supposed to be - on U.S. 45 south of Urbana - and had a quick lunch at a Subway near the dealership. The dealer was, of course, closed on Sunday but the point of my mission was to go for a ride and locate the place.
Having done that, I headed home, somehow missing a turn of U.S. 45 through Urbana and ending up taking a local road east to St. Joseph where I re-joined the interstate.
All systems worked perfectly and the XM radio made the ride all the nicer.
But I was coming home to chaos.
Maria and I had planned to hash out wedding photography stuff after dinner. But the girl laying out Monday's edition of Maria's newspaper called as we were clearing the dishes to announce she had a serious shortage of photos and stories. So Maria ended up shooting photos of the neighbor kids on their backyard trampoline, then dragging me to the office where we prepped the photos and wrote a couple of stories to fill holes in the paper.
On the drive home, Maria sensed something was wrong and asked. I unloaded, saying the new dog in the house has put me into sensory overload, especially coming at a time when our energies need to be on other things - like making money.
She has become very attached to Jack and encouraged by the way he's come out of his shell since arriving at our place, but she especially hates the thought of having to take him back to a shelter which very obviously bums him out.
I agreed to try to give the situation a few more days.
But Jack has spent the morning locked in his kennel because I have much work to do and can't spare the time to walk him or keep him from whizzing on the furniture.
Maria, I fear, didn't think this through to the point of realizing that the burden of keeping Jack entertained, educated and out of trouble, falls on my shoulders, since I'm the one who's at home during the day.
I hope, for her sake, we can make this dog thing work, but I'm not terribly optimistic.
We shall see...
As expected, he was pretty freaked out by the ride, new surroundings and Ruthie: ears down and tail between legs.
We quickly discovered he was never taught not to "mark" his territory indoors when he lifted a leg and whizzed on the floor scrubber parked by the kitchen door.
Ruthie decided he posed a grave threat to her food and water supply, i.e. all of the food and water in the house. Much angry barking and growling whenever the new dog - we're calling him Psycho Jack, or just Jack for short - tried to eat or drink from his own bowls.
Ruthie also took to staying in her kennel all weekend so she could guard her supply of food and water.
We had much to accomplish over the weekend - chiefly beginning the massive cleanup for Austin's graduation openhouse next weekend and doing concrete planning for a website for our wedding photography business. We got pretty much nothing done because of drama associated with having a new dog in the house.
Maria's mother had been in the hospital for three days after being diagnosed with a viral pericarditis, an inflammation of the membrane around the heart. That explains why she's been short of breath lately. The treatment was rest, and lots of it. Visiting her Saturday evening and photographing a restaurant our neighbor is revitalizing were piled onto the plate. We got to the photo shoot but missed visiting hours.
She was sent home for a few more days of bedrest Sunday and Maria took her parents some pancakes and other breakfast food.
Having complained about yet another good motorcycling weekend being stolen from me, I proposed to go for a ride while Maria and her daughter catered breakfast.
I headed west on I-74 in glorious sunshine without any particular destination in mind. After a few miles, during which I watched the odometer on my '03 BMW K1200GT roll over 20,000 miles, I decided to find Twin Cities BMW Motorcycles in Savoy, Ill.
With the demise of my local dealership, Twin Cities at a distance of just under 100 miles, is now my nearest BMW motorcycle dealer.
The ride was pleasant, made all the more so by conversations with strangers at a couple of rest areas. At the first stop, I emerged from the restroom to find two guys admiring my bike, which led to a conversation about the various features and qualities of BMWs.
At the second stop, a guy from Peoria, Ill., who was en route home with his wife and kids, complimented my bike and mentioned he had an '04 R1150GS. He was wearing a t-shirt from my late lamented local dealership and it turns out we were both at Spokane for the BMW MOA national rally last July and know many of the same people and places.
I found Twin Cities BMW right where it was supposed to be - on U.S. 45 south of Urbana - and had a quick lunch at a Subway near the dealership. The dealer was, of course, closed on Sunday but the point of my mission was to go for a ride and locate the place.
Having done that, I headed home, somehow missing a turn of U.S. 45 through Urbana and ending up taking a local road east to St. Joseph where I re-joined the interstate.
All systems worked perfectly and the XM radio made the ride all the nicer.
But I was coming home to chaos.
Maria and I had planned to hash out wedding photography stuff after dinner. But the girl laying out Monday's edition of Maria's newspaper called as we were clearing the dishes to announce she had a serious shortage of photos and stories. So Maria ended up shooting photos of the neighbor kids on their backyard trampoline, then dragging me to the office where we prepped the photos and wrote a couple of stories to fill holes in the paper.
On the drive home, Maria sensed something was wrong and asked. I unloaded, saying the new dog in the house has put me into sensory overload, especially coming at a time when our energies need to be on other things - like making money.
She has become very attached to Jack and encouraged by the way he's come out of his shell since arriving at our place, but she especially hates the thought of having to take him back to a shelter which very obviously bums him out.
I agreed to try to give the situation a few more days.
But Jack has spent the morning locked in his kennel because I have much work to do and can't spare the time to walk him or keep him from whizzing on the furniture.
Maria, I fear, didn't think this through to the point of realizing that the burden of keeping Jack entertained, educated and out of trouble, falls on my shoulders, since I'm the one who's at home during the day.
I hope, for her sake, we can make this dog thing work, but I'm not terribly optimistic.
We shall see...
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Friday, May 20, 2005
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Dog tale
Maria has decided we need a second dog.
And she has decided it should be an Australian shepherd, mainly because she had an Aussie when she was a kid and was very fond of it.
I like Aussies too, but I wasn't feeling any particular desire for a second dog. , Now that she's stopped rolling in backyard poop, Ruthie the Wonder Dog is really all the dog I need.
My friend Skip, who retired from the newspaper about five years before I bailed out, has taken to adopting strays. He and his wife now share their suburban home with seven dogs and it's freaking pandemonium whenever a stranger comes to the door. We toyed with the idea of taking their most recent acquistion - a golden retriever named Belle - off of their hands, but Skip's wife Gloria isn't letting Belle go. Probably just as well, since shortly after her arrival, Belle demonstrated that she knew how to open a regrigerator and remove and devour whatever interested her inside it. She seems to favor dairy products - yogurt and cottage cheese, but finished off a pizza the other night. Skip has blocked the fridge door with planters and barstools to no avail. Belle just moves them and helps herself whenever nobody is looking.
I was taken with the novelty of having a dog that smart, but decided I have enough to fill my days without having to stay one step ahead of a refrigerator-raiding dog.
So when Belle left the picture, Maria began lobbying hard for an Aussie. She called friends with Aussie connections and she made the rounds of the animal shelters.
This week, she called me from work to say the Animal Welfare League had a year-old black Aussie they call Reno. Reno apparenly ran away from home a month ago and spent the last few weeks as a guest in another family's home. Over the course of his visit, his hosts discovered he is very smart and knows a bunch of tricks. Apparently Reno wasn't getting along with the host's dog, so he ended up in the shelter.
Maria and I went over to the shelter at noon Wednesday to meet Reno.
It's horribly distressing and depressing to walk past all of those caged dogs, all of them up on the chain-link begging you to "Get me out of here, for the Love of God! Take me home! Please! Please! Please!"
All but one red heeler, who lay in the back of his enclosure staring at the wall. Turns out his owners moved and left him behind, chained to his backyard doghouse. Neighbors gave him food and water and finally called the authorities when it became obvious the owners weren't coming back.
"He's depressed," one of the shelter workers observed. No shit. I don't think I've ever seen a dog so depressed. He gave us a disinterested sidelong glance and then turned back to his wall.
Dogs who don't appeal to visitors enough to be adopted are euthanized. That's a politically correct way of saying Executed by Lethal Injection. Unless he gets it together, the heeler is a goner.
Reno, however, is guaranteed a home on the strength of his personality. We took him and an interesting looking puppy out into the big fenced play area and he ran and leaped and rolled and had a grand time, his sleek black coat glistening in the warm May sun. He ran with me, came when I called him, jumped so high to greet me that his head was at my eye level and seemed enthusiastic about everything.
He is, in short, a terrific dog.
But he's an Aussie. They're bright, enegetic working dogs who need to herd things and have lots of room.
Our house sits on a 55x165-foot lot and we have nothing to herd, except ourselves. Since Maria works at her newspaper 10-12 hours a day, it would fall to me to entertain the dog and I don't know that I can spare the time. Reno deserves an interesting, fulfilling life and I worry that he would be bored to the point of becoming destructive if he lived here. His entertainment would hinge on how well he would interact with Ruthie. Ideally, they could become friends and entertain each other.
So we're taking Ruthie to meet Reno at noon today and romp around the play area see how they get along. If it's a good match, we can bring Reno home as early as tomorrow.
Maria didn't much care for the name "Reno" and I wasn't crazy about it either.
Standing in the shower yesterday morning, running through possible names, I recalled the Simpsons episode where Homer decides he needs a more glamorous name and has his name changed to Max Power. He also suggests that Marge change her name to Hootie McBoob.
So, if the sleek black Aussie comes to live with us, he will become Max Power.
Stay tuned.
And she has decided it should be an Australian shepherd, mainly because she had an Aussie when she was a kid and was very fond of it.
I like Aussies too, but I wasn't feeling any particular desire for a second dog. , Now that she's stopped rolling in backyard poop, Ruthie the Wonder Dog is really all the dog I need.
My friend Skip, who retired from the newspaper about five years before I bailed out, has taken to adopting strays. He and his wife now share their suburban home with seven dogs and it's freaking pandemonium whenever a stranger comes to the door. We toyed with the idea of taking their most recent acquistion - a golden retriever named Belle - off of their hands, but Skip's wife Gloria isn't letting Belle go. Probably just as well, since shortly after her arrival, Belle demonstrated that she knew how to open a regrigerator and remove and devour whatever interested her inside it. She seems to favor dairy products - yogurt and cottage cheese, but finished off a pizza the other night. Skip has blocked the fridge door with planters and barstools to no avail. Belle just moves them and helps herself whenever nobody is looking.
I was taken with the novelty of having a dog that smart, but decided I have enough to fill my days without having to stay one step ahead of a refrigerator-raiding dog.
So when Belle left the picture, Maria began lobbying hard for an Aussie. She called friends with Aussie connections and she made the rounds of the animal shelters.
This week, she called me from work to say the Animal Welfare League had a year-old black Aussie they call Reno. Reno apparenly ran away from home a month ago and spent the last few weeks as a guest in another family's home. Over the course of his visit, his hosts discovered he is very smart and knows a bunch of tricks. Apparently Reno wasn't getting along with the host's dog, so he ended up in the shelter.
Maria and I went over to the shelter at noon Wednesday to meet Reno.
It's horribly distressing and depressing to walk past all of those caged dogs, all of them up on the chain-link begging you to "Get me out of here, for the Love of God! Take me home! Please! Please! Please!"
All but one red heeler, who lay in the back of his enclosure staring at the wall. Turns out his owners moved and left him behind, chained to his backyard doghouse. Neighbors gave him food and water and finally called the authorities when it became obvious the owners weren't coming back.
"He's depressed," one of the shelter workers observed. No shit. I don't think I've ever seen a dog so depressed. He gave us a disinterested sidelong glance and then turned back to his wall.
Dogs who don't appeal to visitors enough to be adopted are euthanized. That's a politically correct way of saying Executed by Lethal Injection. Unless he gets it together, the heeler is a goner.
Reno, however, is guaranteed a home on the strength of his personality. We took him and an interesting looking puppy out into the big fenced play area and he ran and leaped and rolled and had a grand time, his sleek black coat glistening in the warm May sun. He ran with me, came when I called him, jumped so high to greet me that his head was at my eye level and seemed enthusiastic about everything.
He is, in short, a terrific dog.
But he's an Aussie. They're bright, enegetic working dogs who need to herd things and have lots of room.
Our house sits on a 55x165-foot lot and we have nothing to herd, except ourselves. Since Maria works at her newspaper 10-12 hours a day, it would fall to me to entertain the dog and I don't know that I can spare the time. Reno deserves an interesting, fulfilling life and I worry that he would be bored to the point of becoming destructive if he lived here. His entertainment would hinge on how well he would interact with Ruthie. Ideally, they could become friends and entertain each other.
So we're taking Ruthie to meet Reno at noon today and romp around the play area see how they get along. If it's a good match, we can bring Reno home as early as tomorrow.
Maria didn't much care for the name "Reno" and I wasn't crazy about it either.
Standing in the shower yesterday morning, running through possible names, I recalled the Simpsons episode where Homer decides he needs a more glamorous name and has his name changed to Max Power. He also suggests that Marge change her name to Hootie McBoob.
So, if the sleek black Aussie comes to live with us, he will become Max Power.
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
WWJR?
This will probably be the only post you ever see here on my religious views, even tongue-in-cheek, so don't worry about being preached to. At least not about religion.
Paging through the current issue of BMW Motorcycle Owners of America's Owners News while eating my oatmeal this morning, my eyes fell upon an ad for the Missouri State Rally on page 101.
At the top of the ad was a profile photo of an R1100S and under it, in Times Roman capitals, the letters WWJR.
After a few seconds of puzzlement, I realized I was looking at a clever variant of WWJD (What Would Jesus Do). In this case, the question is What Would Jesus Ride?
As much as I'd like to believe Jesus would ride a BMW - after all, he had style and knew about taking risks - I think it's a theologically unsound assertion.
While it might make sense for the Son of God to choose the most exalted motorcycle brand in the world, that's not the image that comes to my mind. After all, we're talking about a guy who rode a donkey into Jerusalem. He wasn't affluent, hung out with the poorest of the poor on the edges of society and didn't have much to do with the rich and powerful.
As much as it pains me to say it, if you force me to pick the appropriate motorized ride for the man from Gallilee, it would have to be a clapped out Vespa or, at best (Lord forgive me) an AMC-era Harley-Davidson.
Paging through the current issue of BMW Motorcycle Owners of America's Owners News while eating my oatmeal this morning, my eyes fell upon an ad for the Missouri State Rally on page 101.
At the top of the ad was a profile photo of an R1100S and under it, in Times Roman capitals, the letters WWJR.
After a few seconds of puzzlement, I realized I was looking at a clever variant of WWJD (What Would Jesus Do). In this case, the question is What Would Jesus Ride?
As much as I'd like to believe Jesus would ride a BMW - after all, he had style and knew about taking risks - I think it's a theologically unsound assertion.
While it might make sense for the Son of God to choose the most exalted motorcycle brand in the world, that's not the image that comes to my mind. After all, we're talking about a guy who rode a donkey into Jerusalem. He wasn't affluent, hung out with the poorest of the poor on the edges of society and didn't have much to do with the rich and powerful.
As much as it pains me to say it, if you force me to pick the appropriate motorized ride for the man from Gallilee, it would have to be a clapped out Vespa or, at best (Lord forgive me) an AMC-era Harley-Davidson.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
A year of blogging
I started this blog a year ago today. According to the profile stats, I posted 159 times - some text, others photos - and cranked out 53,498 words.
Like many folks in Blogland, I've had dry spells.
Looking back on what I've written, I like the travel stuff best. There's a lot of self-absorbed ranting and venting, but that's part of what this is for, isn't it?
I've seen other bloggers come and go as their interest in posting waxes and wanes. I've enjoyed reading it all and am looking for new favorites to replace some that have vanished.
Anyone have a fave they want to share?
Like many folks in Blogland, I've had dry spells.
Looking back on what I've written, I like the travel stuff best. There's a lot of self-absorbed ranting and venting, but that's part of what this is for, isn't it?
I've seen other bloggers come and go as their interest in posting waxes and wanes. I've enjoyed reading it all and am looking for new favorites to replace some that have vanished.
Anyone have a fave they want to share?
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Capt. Kroon's V-E Day letter
Sixty years ago today, Capt. Philip C. Kroon, an artillery officer with the U.S. Army's 144th Field Artillery Group, took pen in hand in the garden outside an Austrian hotel and wrote a letter to his young bride in Redlands, Calif.
It was V-E Day - Victory in Europe Day - and the young captain from Grand Rapids, Mich., had been in combat since his unit came ashore in Normandy a few weeks after the June 6, 1944, invastion. He was looking forward to coming home, but mindful that the war against Japan seemed far from finished and that he might be needed in the Pacific Theatre.
Here is what he wrote on a sheet of Adolf Hitler's personal letterhead, liberated a day or two earlier from the Führer's Berghof retreat at nearby Berchtesgaden:
My adored wife,
Finally the work of the past year for me and over three years for the nation is completed. The war here is over completely. Of course, we are glad it is over, but to us it is sort of an anti-climax. For nearly two months now, we have completely routed the Germans. During the past few days we have seen steady streams of German soldiers marching to the rear. At some places, even the super-highway is jammed. It was a sight never to forget and one that only happens once in a lifetime. I wanted to get some pictures of it, but my camera was stolen some time ago. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. I now have another very good German camera that I took from a German soldier, so am better equipped than before.
Now that we are no longer at war here, I should have more time to write you and expect to get off better than one letter every five or six days. In fact, it's now been seven days this time. I'm sorry, darling. I'll try to make it up to you.
About a week ago I went through the Dachau concentration camp. Any pictures you see or stories you hear are only a small part of the picture. The stench was indescribable as well as the actual scenes. I saw some of the toughest soldiers nauseated. I won't tell you any details for they shouldn't be put on paper. It was the most terrible thing I have ever seen.
In contrast, a couple of days ago I went through one of Hitler's palaces -not the one at Berchtesgaden, but an old Hapsburg palace that he took over. It was a paragon of beauty and symmetry. In the two main floors was not a sign of Nazi Occupation except that most of the furnishings had been looted, mainly from France.
The walls were covered with priceless tapestries, the floors with thick pile rugs. We were nearly the first soldiers in the place and looked through it by ourselves. We went snooping in the cellar and came across two storage rooms. One was nearly filled with medals, of which I have a few choice ones. I also found one silver knife (not table) in the house - the only one there, so I suppose it belonged to Hitler. In another room, we found some stationery, of which this is the choicest. His personal. I have quite a bit of it and will send it home. You can give a sheet to various people, but save some of each kind, especially this with just "Der Führer" on it. I also came across some other excellent souvenirs - One pair of field glasses - the best I have ever seen - fifteen power - this may not mean much to you, but they are two and ½ times as powerful as the ones I and Pop used to have The must be worth three or four hundred dollars. I also have a pair of Luftwaffe swords that are not in the best of shape but will look good fixed up and crossed in my den if I ever have one.
Guess what, Sweets. I shaved off my mustache today - because the war is over. No one noticed it so I guess it couldn't have been so good. I'm not making any plans for a quick return home, beloved, nor am I getting any fancy ideas about it. I would give anything just to spend a few weeks with you, but there is much to be done, both here and in the Orient and I'm sure I'll be one place or the other.
Some will get to go home on their way to the Pacific and rumors are already afloat, but I'm not counting on anything - then we won't have the disappointment.
These Bavarian Alps are really beautiful, dearest mine. They are all snow covered yet, although we are not very high and last week we had snow in Munich. Today was marvelous. The view of the mountains is similar to that from our front yard, though the mountains are much closer and not as high.
During the last mad rush we have been getting practically no mail and I'm way behind, although today I got the letter you wrote on the eve of our anniversary. Sweet - just as they all are - but why not, with the sweetest wife in the world writing them. I wish my letters would get there more regularly. You probably have had a batch since that time, but it is nicer when they come spread over a long time.
Darling, I adore you completely. I don't dream of you often, but that isn't my fault. When I'm awake I can control my thoughts and they always include you. Always I wish you could share the beautiful scenery and the old German cities - Worms, Nurnberg, Augsberg, Munich, Saltzburg and the rest with me. Maybe, in future years, after they are rebuilt we will see them together. Anything we could do together would be wonderful. One thing in particular - I miss you so, Jeanie. I'll always adore you.
Your only Phil
P.S.
A little picture of you know who.
Capt. Kroon came home six months later. He made a career of the army, taking a reduction in rank to sergeant in order to remain in a downsized postwar military. His last duty post was as an instructor in the Reserve Officer Training Corps program at Purdue University. Following his retirement, he worked for the U.S. Postal Service. He died of cancer in 1988. Diane, the first of his three daughters, was born Oct. 30, 1946, and grew up to be my first wife.
It was V-E Day - Victory in Europe Day - and the young captain from Grand Rapids, Mich., had been in combat since his unit came ashore in Normandy a few weeks after the June 6, 1944, invastion. He was looking forward to coming home, but mindful that the war against Japan seemed far from finished and that he might be needed in the Pacific Theatre.
Here is what he wrote on a sheet of Adolf Hitler's personal letterhead, liberated a day or two earlier from the Führer's Berghof retreat at nearby Berchtesgaden:
My adored wife,
Finally the work of the past year for me and over three years for the nation is completed. The war here is over completely. Of course, we are glad it is over, but to us it is sort of an anti-climax. For nearly two months now, we have completely routed the Germans. During the past few days we have seen steady streams of German soldiers marching to the rear. At some places, even the super-highway is jammed. It was a sight never to forget and one that only happens once in a lifetime. I wanted to get some pictures of it, but my camera was stolen some time ago. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. I now have another very good German camera that I took from a German soldier, so am better equipped than before.
Now that we are no longer at war here, I should have more time to write you and expect to get off better than one letter every five or six days. In fact, it's now been seven days this time. I'm sorry, darling. I'll try to make it up to you.
About a week ago I went through the Dachau concentration camp. Any pictures you see or stories you hear are only a small part of the picture. The stench was indescribable as well as the actual scenes. I saw some of the toughest soldiers nauseated. I won't tell you any details for they shouldn't be put on paper. It was the most terrible thing I have ever seen.
In contrast, a couple of days ago I went through one of Hitler's palaces -not the one at Berchtesgaden, but an old Hapsburg palace that he took over. It was a paragon of beauty and symmetry. In the two main floors was not a sign of Nazi Occupation except that most of the furnishings had been looted, mainly from France.
The walls were covered with priceless tapestries, the floors with thick pile rugs. We were nearly the first soldiers in the place and looked through it by ourselves. We went snooping in the cellar and came across two storage rooms. One was nearly filled with medals, of which I have a few choice ones. I also found one silver knife (not table) in the house - the only one there, so I suppose it belonged to Hitler. In another room, we found some stationery, of which this is the choicest. His personal. I have quite a bit of it and will send it home. You can give a sheet to various people, but save some of each kind, especially this with just "Der Führer" on it. I also came across some other excellent souvenirs - One pair of field glasses - the best I have ever seen - fifteen power - this may not mean much to you, but they are two and ½ times as powerful as the ones I and Pop used to have The must be worth three or four hundred dollars. I also have a pair of Luftwaffe swords that are not in the best of shape but will look good fixed up and crossed in my den if I ever have one.
Guess what, Sweets. I shaved off my mustache today - because the war is over. No one noticed it so I guess it couldn't have been so good. I'm not making any plans for a quick return home, beloved, nor am I getting any fancy ideas about it. I would give anything just to spend a few weeks with you, but there is much to be done, both here and in the Orient and I'm sure I'll be one place or the other.
Some will get to go home on their way to the Pacific and rumors are already afloat, but I'm not counting on anything - then we won't have the disappointment.
These Bavarian Alps are really beautiful, dearest mine. They are all snow covered yet, although we are not very high and last week we had snow in Munich. Today was marvelous. The view of the mountains is similar to that from our front yard, though the mountains are much closer and not as high.
During the last mad rush we have been getting practically no mail and I'm way behind, although today I got the letter you wrote on the eve of our anniversary. Sweet - just as they all are - but why not, with the sweetest wife in the world writing them. I wish my letters would get there more regularly. You probably have had a batch since that time, but it is nicer when they come spread over a long time.
Darling, I adore you completely. I don't dream of you often, but that isn't my fault. When I'm awake I can control my thoughts and they always include you. Always I wish you could share the beautiful scenery and the old German cities - Worms, Nurnberg, Augsberg, Munich, Saltzburg and the rest with me. Maybe, in future years, after they are rebuilt we will see them together. Anything we could do together would be wonderful. One thing in particular - I miss you so, Jeanie. I'll always adore you.
Your only Phil
P.S.
A little picture of you know who.
Capt. Kroon came home six months later. He made a career of the army, taking a reduction in rank to sergeant in order to remain in a downsized postwar military. His last duty post was as an instructor in the Reserve Officer Training Corps program at Purdue University. Following his retirement, he worked for the U.S. Postal Service. He died of cancer in 1988. Diane, the first of his three daughters, was born Oct. 30, 1946, and grew up to be my first wife.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Bedtime story
I'm a Cancerian (7/14) and Cancer being a water sign, I've always had a certain affinity for water.
I chose an apartment and later, a condominium, because they were on small lakes. I've always felt a sense of exhilaration and awe whenever I see a large body of water, be it an ocean or one of the Great Lakes - anytime I can see water all the way to the horizon I feel strangely at home.
So it should be no big surprise that I was the first of my friends to have a waterbed when they showed up in the early 1970s.
My first wife (there were times when I called her that while we were still married) was, to a certain extent, a good sport and she went along with a lot of my ideas that she doubtless questioned and later probably regretted. Our first waterbed was just a big vinyl mattress that we filled with water. No internal baffles to inhibit wave motion, no liner, no frame and no heater. Just a big bag-o-water on the bedroom floor with enough blankets on it to insulate us from the chilly water within. We even used it to bring down our 2-year-old son's fever once - just laid him down naked on the vinyl and let the water draw the unwanted heat from his body.
Eventually, we built a frame, then stuck padded rails on it.
Hey, it was a new technology and we didn't really know what we were doing.
About 15 years later, in a moment of whimsy, we replaced it with what could only be described as a bordello waterbed: massive pine headboard and footposts supporting an overhead frame filled with six mirrors. I sat on a platform that afforded a half-dozen drawers and came with a heater.
When the marriage came unraveled in the late '80s and my soon-to-be ex found herself with a free hand to decorate as she chose, the monstrous bordello bed went to my son in Cincinnati. He and his wife still have it, sans overhead mirrors, in one of their guest bedrooms.
I bought a more conventional waterbed that I used in two apartments and a condo and eventually moved to the house my new wife and I occupied four years ago.
Over the last couple of years, we noticed the quality of our sleep declining. We'd both crawl out of bed in the mornings stiff and sore. My wife developed a work-related back and shoulder problem because of horrible desk ergonomics at the Gannett newspaper where she worked. It was further aggravated by injuries she suffered in a head-on collision with a blind woman a year ago.
I found I developed back pain if I stayed in bed too long.
We decided it was time for a new bed.
After shopping around and looking at all kinds of exotic and trendy beds - four-posters, sleighs, you name it - we decided we would be better served to put our money into a good mattress and then worry about the furniture side of the equation.
We ended up at the major furniture store in the state where the sales guy gave us a general overview of what they had, then suggested we consider Kingsdown.
Kingsdown has a pretty impressive sales system that includes a pressure sensitive pad you recline on to determine where your individual pressure points are and where you fall on the Kingsdown continuum of softness and firmness. My wife tested as a 2 and I tested as a 3 so the sales guy recommended we flop down on examples of each of the five mattresses to see if those numbers felt right to us.
We agreed upon a #3 kingsize with a basic metal frame.
And we swallowed hard at the final price of about $2,600. It comes with a 70-year warranty, so I figure I'm covered until I'm 129 years old.
It was delivered three weeks ago and I can say in all candor that we've both slept better during this period and anytime we can remember, individually or collectively.
My wife's shoulder pain, which she thought was a permanent feature in her life, is gone. We're both sleeping through the entire night with virtually no flopping around or tossing and turning. And if one of us does roll over or get up, the other remains blissfully unaware of it because there is no motion transfer.
And, of course, our dog loves it (see photo below).
The waterbed went out the second floor bedroom window in pieces and from there into the trash. I can honestly say there isn't anything about it that I miss.
I chose an apartment and later, a condominium, because they were on small lakes. I've always felt a sense of exhilaration and awe whenever I see a large body of water, be it an ocean or one of the Great Lakes - anytime I can see water all the way to the horizon I feel strangely at home.
So it should be no big surprise that I was the first of my friends to have a waterbed when they showed up in the early 1970s.
My first wife (there were times when I called her that while we were still married) was, to a certain extent, a good sport and she went along with a lot of my ideas that she doubtless questioned and later probably regretted. Our first waterbed was just a big vinyl mattress that we filled with water. No internal baffles to inhibit wave motion, no liner, no frame and no heater. Just a big bag-o-water on the bedroom floor with enough blankets on it to insulate us from the chilly water within. We even used it to bring down our 2-year-old son's fever once - just laid him down naked on the vinyl and let the water draw the unwanted heat from his body.
Eventually, we built a frame, then stuck padded rails on it.
Hey, it was a new technology and we didn't really know what we were doing.
About 15 years later, in a moment of whimsy, we replaced it with what could only be described as a bordello waterbed: massive pine headboard and footposts supporting an overhead frame filled with six mirrors. I sat on a platform that afforded a half-dozen drawers and came with a heater.
When the marriage came unraveled in the late '80s and my soon-to-be ex found herself with a free hand to decorate as she chose, the monstrous bordello bed went to my son in Cincinnati. He and his wife still have it, sans overhead mirrors, in one of their guest bedrooms.
I bought a more conventional waterbed that I used in two apartments and a condo and eventually moved to the house my new wife and I occupied four years ago.
Over the last couple of years, we noticed the quality of our sleep declining. We'd both crawl out of bed in the mornings stiff and sore. My wife developed a work-related back and shoulder problem because of horrible desk ergonomics at the Gannett newspaper where she worked. It was further aggravated by injuries she suffered in a head-on collision with a blind woman a year ago.
I found I developed back pain if I stayed in bed too long.
We decided it was time for a new bed.
After shopping around and looking at all kinds of exotic and trendy beds - four-posters, sleighs, you name it - we decided we would be better served to put our money into a good mattress and then worry about the furniture side of the equation.
We ended up at the major furniture store in the state where the sales guy gave us a general overview of what they had, then suggested we consider Kingsdown.
Kingsdown has a pretty impressive sales system that includes a pressure sensitive pad you recline on to determine where your individual pressure points are and where you fall on the Kingsdown continuum of softness and firmness. My wife tested as a 2 and I tested as a 3 so the sales guy recommended we flop down on examples of each of the five mattresses to see if those numbers felt right to us.
We agreed upon a #3 kingsize with a basic metal frame.
And we swallowed hard at the final price of about $2,600. It comes with a 70-year warranty, so I figure I'm covered until I'm 129 years old.
It was delivered three weeks ago and I can say in all candor that we've both slept better during this period and anytime we can remember, individually or collectively.
My wife's shoulder pain, which she thought was a permanent feature in her life, is gone. We're both sleeping through the entire night with virtually no flopping around or tossing and turning. And if one of us does roll over or get up, the other remains blissfully unaware of it because there is no motion transfer.
And, of course, our dog loves it (see photo below).
The waterbed went out the second floor bedroom window in pieces and from there into the trash. I can honestly say there isn't anything about it that I miss.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Saturday, April 30, 2005
You gotta see this
In case you missed it, NBC Nightly News had a story last night on a project undertaken by a jailer with the Multnomah County Sheriff's Department in Portland, Ore.
Jail Deputy Bret King, working the late shift, started looking up the mugshots of meth addicts. Since methamphetamine users tend to compile lengthy arrest records as the drug drags them down to an early death, the department's mugshot collection gives a graphic illustration of each person's disintegration as a functional human being.
It's absolutely stunning and horrifying and every kid or adult who thinks they can do meth and survive needs to see these photos.
They're on the sheriff's department website, along with text from part of the Portland Oregonian's stellar series on meth: Click on this link, check it out and pass it on to all of your friends. You may save a life.
http://www.co.multnomah.or.us/sheriff/faces_of_meth.htm
Jail Deputy Bret King, working the late shift, started looking up the mugshots of meth addicts. Since methamphetamine users tend to compile lengthy arrest records as the drug drags them down to an early death, the department's mugshot collection gives a graphic illustration of each person's disintegration as a functional human being.
It's absolutely stunning and horrifying and every kid or adult who thinks they can do meth and survive needs to see these photos.
They're on the sheriff's department website, along with text from part of the Portland Oregonian's stellar series on meth: Click on this link, check it out and pass it on to all of your friends. You may save a life.
http://www.co.multnomah.or.us/sheriff/faces_of_meth.htm
Friday, April 29, 2005
Ooops, she did it again
Ruthie the Wonder Dog is making me wonder.
I'm beginning to wonder what it will take to make her link the act of rolling in shit in the backyard with spending a lonely day in her kennel, followed by a bath.
I had a long soulful conversation with her this morning about how this disgusting practice makes everyone, including her, unhappy.
I think what she heard was, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."
When I called her in from her morning constitutional in the back yard, she bounced up to the back door with an uncommonly large amount of dog poop matted into her fur.
So, while I wait a guy in Arlington, Va., to return my call to check quotes he gave me for that long-procrastinated airline story, Ruthie languishes in solitary.
Anyone have any dog training insights about how to stop this behavior?
I'm beginning to wonder what it will take to make her link the act of rolling in shit in the backyard with spending a lonely day in her kennel, followed by a bath.
I had a long soulful conversation with her this morning about how this disgusting practice makes everyone, including her, unhappy.
I think what she heard was, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."
When I called her in from her morning constitutional in the back yard, she bounced up to the back door with an uncommonly large amount of dog poop matted into her fur.
So, while I wait a guy in Arlington, Va., to return my call to check quotes he gave me for that long-procrastinated airline story, Ruthie languishes in solitary.
Anyone have any dog training insights about how to stop this behavior?
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
A day for venting
I knew it was going to be a bad day when I caught a whiff of Ruthie the Wonder Dog returning from her morning constitutional in the back yard.
The brown smudge on her light yellow coat told the story - she'd been rolling in shit. This apparently is her idea of perfume - something she can do to make herself more interesting. She's done it at least three times in the past month, each time necessitating a bath before she's cleared to roam the house and share the furniture with the rest of us.
Today, she had the misfortune to do it on a day when the high temperature was only 52. The last time anyone bathed Ruthie in the house, we had to buy an auger and snake out the bathtub drain. From then on, all dog washing has taken place on the deck behind the house. I had plenty to do this morning and no desire to wash a dog in such chilly weather, so Ruthie was banished to her kennel in the kitchen.
Everytime I stirred from my office upstairs, I could smell her stench at the top of the stairs.
I doubt that she knows exactly what she did wrong, but she has a guilty look that tells me she knows she committed some terrible transgression.
I spent a fair portionof the morning editing images from an engagement photo shoot Maria and I did Saturday for a coworker of hers. It's a freebie - we're shooting the wedding gratis also - but once the CompactFlash cards are downloaded to my computer, it falls to me to color correct and size them, something I find increasingly annoying since we're hemhorraging money again.
The rehabilitation of our rotting front porch, which was estmated at $4,000 last summer, is mostly done and I have the contractor's bill for $5,975. Yes, that's a 50% cost overrun and if I didn't like the guy and his work, I'd be freaking livid. He explained that the cost of lumber has risen by 30% since last fall and reminded me that they had the unexpected task of shoring up the foundation where it was blowing out under the porch.
On top of that, they found an active termite colony under the porch. I called the exterminator and their guy estimated it would cost $1,200 to treat the whole property. When I gasped, he explained that it's company policy to do a complete treatment, whether it's needed or not. And then he quietly let me know, based on his inspectiono of the property which turned up no other infestations, that he thought all I needed was about 5 poison traps arrayed around the outside of the porch. And he happened to have a whole bunch of them in the back of his truck and his employer is very loose when it comes to inventory. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. I got his drift and asked if he could be persuaded to treat the porch at a reduced rate and not tell his boss. Sure, he said. So we agreed on $200 cash and I watched him install the termite poison traps.
Of course, there's no warranty here and all I have is his word as a 17-year bug man that it'll solve my problem. But then he has to trust me not to rat him out to his employer, too, so I'm counting on that bit of leverage keeping him honest with me.
I'm unaccustomed to under-the-table deals. The idea makes me very uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable as writing a $1,200 check when I hadn't planned to.
So I edited images and paid bills and stewed about our cash flow this morning.
Just before I left for the bank to shift some money from savings to checking and then on to lunch with Maria, I decided to run some food waste down the garbage disposal. When I turned off the water, I heard major spashing in the basement, a sure sign that something very wrong was going on.
I discovered to my horror that the PVC pipe running straight up from the sump pump to the pipe carrying kitchen sink/dishwasher outflow had broken at a joint midway up and all of the kitchen waste was falling straight down into the sump. Left unaddressed, it will create a terrible rotting stench that the furnace will suck up and distribute throughout the house. So we're cleaning out the sump and repairing the pipe this evening.
And, oh, did I mention that there's a leak somewhere around the downstairs shower? Maria mentioned seeing water on the basement floor after her son Austin showered the other day. I have no idea whether it's a caulking issue or a problem with the drain.
Take all of this stress and pile on top of it the fact that Maria's paper is shortstaffed and she may not be able to take a vacation this summer.
Maybe Ruthie has the right idea.
Maybe I should go out into the back yard and roll in dogshit and see if that makes me feel better. It seems to work for her.
The brown smudge on her light yellow coat told the story - she'd been rolling in shit. This apparently is her idea of perfume - something she can do to make herself more interesting. She's done it at least three times in the past month, each time necessitating a bath before she's cleared to roam the house and share the furniture with the rest of us.
Today, she had the misfortune to do it on a day when the high temperature was only 52. The last time anyone bathed Ruthie in the house, we had to buy an auger and snake out the bathtub drain. From then on, all dog washing has taken place on the deck behind the house. I had plenty to do this morning and no desire to wash a dog in such chilly weather, so Ruthie was banished to her kennel in the kitchen.
Everytime I stirred from my office upstairs, I could smell her stench at the top of the stairs.
I doubt that she knows exactly what she did wrong, but she has a guilty look that tells me she knows she committed some terrible transgression.
I spent a fair portionof the morning editing images from an engagement photo shoot Maria and I did Saturday for a coworker of hers. It's a freebie - we're shooting the wedding gratis also - but once the CompactFlash cards are downloaded to my computer, it falls to me to color correct and size them, something I find increasingly annoying since we're hemhorraging money again.
The rehabilitation of our rotting front porch, which was estmated at $4,000 last summer, is mostly done and I have the contractor's bill for $5,975. Yes, that's a 50% cost overrun and if I didn't like the guy and his work, I'd be freaking livid. He explained that the cost of lumber has risen by 30% since last fall and reminded me that they had the unexpected task of shoring up the foundation where it was blowing out under the porch.
On top of that, they found an active termite colony under the porch. I called the exterminator and their guy estimated it would cost $1,200 to treat the whole property. When I gasped, he explained that it's company policy to do a complete treatment, whether it's needed or not. And then he quietly let me know, based on his inspectiono of the property which turned up no other infestations, that he thought all I needed was about 5 poison traps arrayed around the outside of the porch. And he happened to have a whole bunch of them in the back of his truck and his employer is very loose when it comes to inventory. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. I got his drift and asked if he could be persuaded to treat the porch at a reduced rate and not tell his boss. Sure, he said. So we agreed on $200 cash and I watched him install the termite poison traps.
Of course, there's no warranty here and all I have is his word as a 17-year bug man that it'll solve my problem. But then he has to trust me not to rat him out to his employer, too, so I'm counting on that bit of leverage keeping him honest with me.
I'm unaccustomed to under-the-table deals. The idea makes me very uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable as writing a $1,200 check when I hadn't planned to.
So I edited images and paid bills and stewed about our cash flow this morning.
Just before I left for the bank to shift some money from savings to checking and then on to lunch with Maria, I decided to run some food waste down the garbage disposal. When I turned off the water, I heard major spashing in the basement, a sure sign that something very wrong was going on.
I discovered to my horror that the PVC pipe running straight up from the sump pump to the pipe carrying kitchen sink/dishwasher outflow had broken at a joint midway up and all of the kitchen waste was falling straight down into the sump. Left unaddressed, it will create a terrible rotting stench that the furnace will suck up and distribute throughout the house. So we're cleaning out the sump and repairing the pipe this evening.
And, oh, did I mention that there's a leak somewhere around the downstairs shower? Maria mentioned seeing water on the basement floor after her son Austin showered the other day. I have no idea whether it's a caulking issue or a problem with the drain.
Take all of this stress and pile on top of it the fact that Maria's paper is shortstaffed and she may not be able to take a vacation this summer.
Maybe Ruthie has the right idea.
Maybe I should go out into the back yard and roll in dogshit and see if that makes me feel better. It seems to work for her.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Shirt tale
I'm wearing my Nepenthe denim shirt this morning because it makes me happy.
My girlfriend - now my wife - bought it for me in July 1997 when we were on our first real vacation together.
Nepenthe is a restaurant along the Pacific Coast Highway about a half-hour south of Monterey. It's a magical place along what I've come to call the Holy Road - the most scenic stretch of highway I've found in my roughly 300,000 miles of motorcycling around North America.
The shirt is faded and frayed and Maria won't let me wear it outside the house anymore but I love the look and feel of it. Here's what I wrote about that trip a few years ago in Motorcycle Tour & Cruiser magazine:
I first visited this magical area in 1986 for a BMW motorcycle rally and I've returned several times in recent years, drawn back by that fabulous twisty road between Monterey and Ragged Point.
It dives and soars along the cliffs where the mountains march down to the surging sea in a collision of shapes and colors. The images never fail to amaze me.
Whenever I return to Big Sur and the majesty of this spectacular place, I always long for someone with whom to share the experience.
The longing was fulfilled in 1997 when Maria flew out to join me in Monterey.
I was already a dozen days into my Annual Midlife Crisis Tour at this point. I'd visited my son Sean in Portland, Ore., and we'd done a camping loop of the lush green Olympic Peninsula. From Sean's house, I tore down I-5 on my ’91 BMW K100RS in a two-day run to Palm Springs to visit an Internet friend.
It was early on a Tuesday morning when I rolled out into the mid-80-degree Palm Springs predawn darkness to make my rendezvous with Maria in Monterey.
Weeks earlier, I'd used the Internet to book a room at the West Wind Lodge in Monterey. As I rode through the empty streets of Palm Springs, I knew Maria was already in the air, winging her way west.
The sky was beginning to lighten when I blended into the stream of westbound traffic on I-10.
As I crested the pass at Banning, the temperature dropped about 15-20 degrees and I pulled in to a gas station to put the liner into my jacket. The attendant came out to chat and observed that mine was only the second BMW motorcycle he'd ever seen. I smiled and decided against commenting on his powers of observation.
The freeway traffic slowed to a crawl somewhere around San Bernardino. I sat in line briefly, resigned to my fate. Then a motorcycle shot past along the line separating the left two lanes, reminding me that lane-splitting is a way of life for L.A. area riders.
I watched closely, noticing the car drivers seemed to be cooperative. After another rider flashed past, I gingerly eased into the “bike lane” and headed past the slowed or stopped cars and trucks. It got a little tight in places and I took an occasional break by easing back into a lane, but over the next several miles, I figure I saved myself a half-hour or so. Sometime after I-210 swung west, I picked up the Ride Share lane and it was clear sailing all the way back to I-5.
I gassed a short time later and rode over the mountains that form the northern ramparts of Los Angeles, stopping for breakfast at Grapevine where I-5 descends to the floor of California’s great Central Valley.
After consulting a road map, I took Calif. 46 west to U.S. 101 at Paso Robles. It felt good to be back on El Camino Real and I relaxed into the ride up to Salinas. I found the connector route to Calif. 68 and soon motored past the Toro Place Cafe and Laguna Seca Raceway – places I'd gotten to know in 1986.
After a little fumbling, I found Munras Avenue and the West Wind Lodge. Checking in, I was pleasantly surprised to learn Maria was already here. As I dropped the sidestand in my parking place, my lady emerged from the room to greet me with a very welcome hug. We did a brief soak in the motel hot tub, then set out for Maria's first visit to Calif. 1 and Nepenthe, my all-time favorite restaurant.
Leather-clad and eager for the ride, we got onto southbound Calif. 1 and the road I dream about all winter.
The Carmel Highlands were in fog – it was about 4 p.m. by now – but it was still a glorious ride and we soon broke into bright sunshine.
Summer in Big Sur means fog much of the day. It’s not unusual for the coast to be shrouded in marine fog until midday, when the sun burns through, only to yield to fog again as afternoon becomes evening.
Nepenthe is a rare delight – a casual restaurant with a great, affordable menu and a spectacular view of the mountains and the Pacific. It grew out of a getaway Orson Welles built for himself and Rita Hayworth, but the two divorced before they got a chance to use it. The rambling complex that is Nepenthe consists of the Phoenix gift shop, surmounted by the Cafe Kevah on an expansive open deck cantilevered over the cliff. Up the hill from the cafe is an upper restaurant that offers a mix of outdoor and sheltered dining. Over the years, I’ve come to treasure Nepenthe as a perfect spot for a meal or a break. The place takes its name from the mythical Greek drug of forgetfulness and it's a perfect moniker.
The relaxed atmosphere, enhanced by the tinkle of wind chimes and soft New Age music and the subtle scents of sea and shore always lifts my spirits. It helps me shift gears from the rush of the road to reconnect with the silence within and the beauty around me.
The lower cafe at Nepenthe was closed for the day, so we went upstairs and had a wonderful dinner seated outside and facing the sea. I had salmon steak fresh from Monterey Bay and Maria ordered a shrimp and scallop salad. Nepenthe was the perfect welcome back to Big Sur and it put us in a mellow mood.
The ride back was one of the most amazing I've ever had. The fog was rolling in and every bend in the road brought a new fantastic scene: fog spilling into a sun-filled canyon to our right or plumes of mist welling up like geysers over the cliffs to our left.
We got back to the room happy but very tired – we'd both been up since well before dawn and Maria, especially, was running on empty.
We took our time about getting up the next morning, then hiked down Munras Avenue to Denny's for breakfast. We walked down to the harbor where we watched a sea otter preening himself in the water just below the harbor master's office. Leaving our furry friend, we strolled west along the shore, stopping to explore some of the shops at Fisherman's Wharf and sharing a peach frozen yogurt cone.
We continued on through Cannery Row to the Monterey Bay Aquarium where we marveled at the world class displays of marine life from the microscopic to the huge.
The Monterey Bay Aquarium is a must-see attraction for any visitor to the area. We stood mesmerized for what must have been a half-hour, peering through the largest aquarium window on earth at the giant fish that flourish in the million-gallon tank that replicates the offshore world of Monterey Bay. The place also features a spectacular multi-story kelp forest and an always entertaining colony of sea otters.
After a soak in the motel hot tub, we rode back down to Fisherman's Wharf for a generous seafood dinner at Rappa's Seafood Restaurant at the end of the pier. I was reminded anew that the seafood is yet another reason I love this place so much.
We rode back to the motel and bagged it about 9 p.m., very full and very tired.
We were up early Thursday morning and rode out to the Toro Place Cafe for breakfast. This is a pleasant little eatery near Laguna Seca. They serve a tasty breakfast and I love the eclectic décor, highlighted by an old-fashioned glass-topped gas pump that is home to a family of goldfish.
After topping off the tank near Laguna Seca, we returned to Calif. 1 and headed down the coast. The light fog soon yielded to sunshine and we stopped often to admire the colors, examine the plant life and take pictures.
This is not a road for hurrying. With some of the most glorious scenery in North America, this is a road to be savored – a ride to be stretched out as long as possible. The road cooperates with twists and turns that snatch you back from cliff’s edge, deep into a creek-cut canyon before hurling you back up the mountainside to yet another breathtaking view of wave-dashed rocks and swirls of blue and turquoise and aquamarine.
Mother Nature and the Pacific don’t want this road to be here and periodically they conspire to blast it with winter storms and landslides that carry away great chunks of it. The El Niño storms of 1998 were particularly bad and closed the road from February to May. Glancing down and to the right on the last tight switchback south of Ragged Point, we were startled to see a semitrailer truck on its side in the ravine – a grim reminder of why you seldom see big trucks on the Big Sur stretch of Calif. 1.
We made quick work of the 40 miles of sweepers north of Morro Bay and began looking for lunch. We chose the Galley for its view of the harbor and Morro Rock. Lunch was cheerfully served fried shrimp and clam strips. We watched the gulls and pelicans swoop and dive in the afternoon sun from our table by the window.
After lunch, we visited a nearby gift shop were Maria bought a ring for her daughter, Morgan. Standing by the bike, I heard Maria shriek and turned to see her splattered with pelican poop. It caught the right shoulder of her leather jacket, a dab on the top of her head and splashed onto the tank, fairing and handlebars of the bike. One whiff made it clear that pelicans like seafood, too.
We got some paper towels from the gift shop and cleaned things up as well as we could before gassing and getting out of town. The ride north went quickly because Maria was getting more into leaning into the turns. We stopped at Lucia for iced mocha and iced tea before pressing on north.
We reached Carmel and the beach near Point Lobos in time to dance with the surf and watch a golden sun set on a near perfect day.
After shedding our leathers, we walked down to a liquor store and picked up a six-pack of Pacifico beer, a bag of Tostitos and some jalapeno cheese dip for a few hours of television watching.
Another splendid day!
We returned to Denny's for breakfast the next morning and ran into two couples on matching white Honda Gold Wings from Tennessee.
Today's ride would be an inland exploration. After breakfast, we headed down Carmel Valley Road – a county road separated from Highway 1 and the ocean by the coastal mountain range. Lying in the lee of the ocean breezes, Carmel Valley is usually free of chilly maritime fog this time of year. About 10 miles down the road from Calif. 1, we shed our jacket liners.
As we cruised south, the road plunged into twisty canyons, following creeks and over-arched with ancient oak trees. I felt as if I had been transported back to old Spanish California as we rode mile after mile in the dense woods, seeing only the occasional car or pickup truck. We passed an isolated ranch with curious-looking signs requesting, “Please avoid newts crossing the road.” A little further down the road, a sign advised: Cattle Guards Next 11 Miles.
Eventually, the road climbed out of the canyons over vast brown grassy hills, affording vistas that opened onto mountains and valleys for miles. The road was designated G16 and, on an impulse, I turned right at a bridge and followed G17 toward Greenfield, past fields of grape vines flying silver ribbons to scare birds away from the ripening fruit. At Greenfield, we picked up U.S. 101 and rode north a few miles until I saw a sign directing us to Soledad Mission.
We found the mission a short time later west of the main highway. A BMW K75 belonging to another couple out for a day ride leaned on its sidestand in the parking lot.
The day was warm, but it was comfortably cool inside the thick adobe walls of the restored 200-year-old mission. After exploring the mission and wondering at an improbable statue of the Virgin Mary dressed in black lace, we lit a couple of candles and returned to G17. We followed the road north and west through more agricultural land where farm workers were packing lettuce in the fields.
Picking up Calif. 68 just west of Salinas, we returned to Monterey and the West Wind Lodge. We changed clothes and rode down to Fisherman's Wharf for a delicious dinner of seafood provencal at Ablonetti's followed by ice cream cones for dessert.
Even though it was a low-mileage day, these were quality miles.
We gathered up our dirty laundry and spent about an hour at the Del Monte Shopping Center laundromat, then capped the evening with a soak in the hot tub.
We rolled out about 9:30 Saturday morning and headed down Calif. 1 for one last coastal ride.
It was chilly and foggy and delightful.
We passed a large herd of Herefords on the plateau sweeping down to the sea just north of Big Sur. In a corner of the field were a couple of herdsmen, dressed as cowboys – one of them wheeling his mount in clockwise circles as we flashed by. We gassed at the BP station at River Inn, paying a stunning $2.30 a gallon for 92 octane premium.
Then, it was on to Nepenthe where we arrived moments before a large contingent of the California Pantera Club, out for a Saturday morning drive. Intent on beating the car club crowd, we hustled up to the Cafe Kevah, where I had an omelet and Maria had a tostada. We fed much of our sourdough toast to the Steller's Jays and the crows that patrol the cafe deck looking for leftovers or handouts.
We stopped a couple of times to take photos, finally drawing rein at Lucia for drinks and a $3 chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookie. There we passed a pleasant half-hour in conversation with another motorcycle couple from Indiana. Finally, we took our leave and headed back north, stopping a couple of places for Maria to get pictures of me on the bike with the coastline features in the background.
As we approached Carmel, we found ourselves in s-l-o-w stop-and-go traffic, stretching all the way past Carmel Valley Road. After several minutes of crawling, we were passed by a Harley rider on the berm and followed him past scores of cars to the open freeway.
Back at the room, I called a Yellow Cab while Maria changed and we packed her leathers. The cabby arrived within minutes and I followed the cab to the airport, catching up with Maria halfway through the terminal.
We hustled her to the gate and she was off to Los Angeles, Chicago and home.
I rode back to the Lodge, read some of Ted Simon's Jupiter's Travels, watched some TV and dined on pizza and Diet Coke from Domino's.
It was a hurried conclusion to a my best-ever visit to my favorite places and I realized that night that it would be a hard act to follow. I hit the road early the next morning for a ride home that took me through Yosemite, the deserts and canyonlands of Nevada and Utah and the mountain majesty of Colorado.
Solo travel has its merits, but once you find someplace special, it's even better when you can share it.
My girlfriend - now my wife - bought it for me in July 1997 when we were on our first real vacation together.
Nepenthe is a restaurant along the Pacific Coast Highway about a half-hour south of Monterey. It's a magical place along what I've come to call the Holy Road - the most scenic stretch of highway I've found in my roughly 300,000 miles of motorcycling around North America.
The shirt is faded and frayed and Maria won't let me wear it outside the house anymore but I love the look and feel of it. Here's what I wrote about that trip a few years ago in Motorcycle Tour & Cruiser magazine:
I first visited this magical area in 1986 for a BMW motorcycle rally and I've returned several times in recent years, drawn back by that fabulous twisty road between Monterey and Ragged Point.
It dives and soars along the cliffs where the mountains march down to the surging sea in a collision of shapes and colors. The images never fail to amaze me.
Whenever I return to Big Sur and the majesty of this spectacular place, I always long for someone with whom to share the experience.
The longing was fulfilled in 1997 when Maria flew out to join me in Monterey.
I was already a dozen days into my Annual Midlife Crisis Tour at this point. I'd visited my son Sean in Portland, Ore., and we'd done a camping loop of the lush green Olympic Peninsula. From Sean's house, I tore down I-5 on my ’91 BMW K100RS in a two-day run to Palm Springs to visit an Internet friend.
It was early on a Tuesday morning when I rolled out into the mid-80-degree Palm Springs predawn darkness to make my rendezvous with Maria in Monterey.
Weeks earlier, I'd used the Internet to book a room at the West Wind Lodge in Monterey. As I rode through the empty streets of Palm Springs, I knew Maria was already in the air, winging her way west.
The sky was beginning to lighten when I blended into the stream of westbound traffic on I-10.
As I crested the pass at Banning, the temperature dropped about 15-20 degrees and I pulled in to a gas station to put the liner into my jacket. The attendant came out to chat and observed that mine was only the second BMW motorcycle he'd ever seen. I smiled and decided against commenting on his powers of observation.
The freeway traffic slowed to a crawl somewhere around San Bernardino. I sat in line briefly, resigned to my fate. Then a motorcycle shot past along the line separating the left two lanes, reminding me that lane-splitting is a way of life for L.A. area riders.
I watched closely, noticing the car drivers seemed to be cooperative. After another rider flashed past, I gingerly eased into the “bike lane” and headed past the slowed or stopped cars and trucks. It got a little tight in places and I took an occasional break by easing back into a lane, but over the next several miles, I figure I saved myself a half-hour or so. Sometime after I-210 swung west, I picked up the Ride Share lane and it was clear sailing all the way back to I-5.
I gassed a short time later and rode over the mountains that form the northern ramparts of Los Angeles, stopping for breakfast at Grapevine where I-5 descends to the floor of California’s great Central Valley.
After consulting a road map, I took Calif. 46 west to U.S. 101 at Paso Robles. It felt good to be back on El Camino Real and I relaxed into the ride up to Salinas. I found the connector route to Calif. 68 and soon motored past the Toro Place Cafe and Laguna Seca Raceway – places I'd gotten to know in 1986.
After a little fumbling, I found Munras Avenue and the West Wind Lodge. Checking in, I was pleasantly surprised to learn Maria was already here. As I dropped the sidestand in my parking place, my lady emerged from the room to greet me with a very welcome hug. We did a brief soak in the motel hot tub, then set out for Maria's first visit to Calif. 1 and Nepenthe, my all-time favorite restaurant.
Leather-clad and eager for the ride, we got onto southbound Calif. 1 and the road I dream about all winter.
The Carmel Highlands were in fog – it was about 4 p.m. by now – but it was still a glorious ride and we soon broke into bright sunshine.
Summer in Big Sur means fog much of the day. It’s not unusual for the coast to be shrouded in marine fog until midday, when the sun burns through, only to yield to fog again as afternoon becomes evening.
Nepenthe is a rare delight – a casual restaurant with a great, affordable menu and a spectacular view of the mountains and the Pacific. It grew out of a getaway Orson Welles built for himself and Rita Hayworth, but the two divorced before they got a chance to use it. The rambling complex that is Nepenthe consists of the Phoenix gift shop, surmounted by the Cafe Kevah on an expansive open deck cantilevered over the cliff. Up the hill from the cafe is an upper restaurant that offers a mix of outdoor and sheltered dining. Over the years, I’ve come to treasure Nepenthe as a perfect spot for a meal or a break. The place takes its name from the mythical Greek drug of forgetfulness and it's a perfect moniker.
The relaxed atmosphere, enhanced by the tinkle of wind chimes and soft New Age music and the subtle scents of sea and shore always lifts my spirits. It helps me shift gears from the rush of the road to reconnect with the silence within and the beauty around me.
The lower cafe at Nepenthe was closed for the day, so we went upstairs and had a wonderful dinner seated outside and facing the sea. I had salmon steak fresh from Monterey Bay and Maria ordered a shrimp and scallop salad. Nepenthe was the perfect welcome back to Big Sur and it put us in a mellow mood.
The ride back was one of the most amazing I've ever had. The fog was rolling in and every bend in the road brought a new fantastic scene: fog spilling into a sun-filled canyon to our right or plumes of mist welling up like geysers over the cliffs to our left.
We got back to the room happy but very tired – we'd both been up since well before dawn and Maria, especially, was running on empty.
We took our time about getting up the next morning, then hiked down Munras Avenue to Denny's for breakfast. We walked down to the harbor where we watched a sea otter preening himself in the water just below the harbor master's office. Leaving our furry friend, we strolled west along the shore, stopping to explore some of the shops at Fisherman's Wharf and sharing a peach frozen yogurt cone.
We continued on through Cannery Row to the Monterey Bay Aquarium where we marveled at the world class displays of marine life from the microscopic to the huge.
The Monterey Bay Aquarium is a must-see attraction for any visitor to the area. We stood mesmerized for what must have been a half-hour, peering through the largest aquarium window on earth at the giant fish that flourish in the million-gallon tank that replicates the offshore world of Monterey Bay. The place also features a spectacular multi-story kelp forest and an always entertaining colony of sea otters.
After a soak in the motel hot tub, we rode back down to Fisherman's Wharf for a generous seafood dinner at Rappa's Seafood Restaurant at the end of the pier. I was reminded anew that the seafood is yet another reason I love this place so much.
We rode back to the motel and bagged it about 9 p.m., very full and very tired.
We were up early Thursday morning and rode out to the Toro Place Cafe for breakfast. This is a pleasant little eatery near Laguna Seca. They serve a tasty breakfast and I love the eclectic décor, highlighted by an old-fashioned glass-topped gas pump that is home to a family of goldfish.
After topping off the tank near Laguna Seca, we returned to Calif. 1 and headed down the coast. The light fog soon yielded to sunshine and we stopped often to admire the colors, examine the plant life and take pictures.
This is not a road for hurrying. With some of the most glorious scenery in North America, this is a road to be savored – a ride to be stretched out as long as possible. The road cooperates with twists and turns that snatch you back from cliff’s edge, deep into a creek-cut canyon before hurling you back up the mountainside to yet another breathtaking view of wave-dashed rocks and swirls of blue and turquoise and aquamarine.
Mother Nature and the Pacific don’t want this road to be here and periodically they conspire to blast it with winter storms and landslides that carry away great chunks of it. The El Niño storms of 1998 were particularly bad and closed the road from February to May. Glancing down and to the right on the last tight switchback south of Ragged Point, we were startled to see a semitrailer truck on its side in the ravine – a grim reminder of why you seldom see big trucks on the Big Sur stretch of Calif. 1.
We made quick work of the 40 miles of sweepers north of Morro Bay and began looking for lunch. We chose the Galley for its view of the harbor and Morro Rock. Lunch was cheerfully served fried shrimp and clam strips. We watched the gulls and pelicans swoop and dive in the afternoon sun from our table by the window.
After lunch, we visited a nearby gift shop were Maria bought a ring for her daughter, Morgan. Standing by the bike, I heard Maria shriek and turned to see her splattered with pelican poop. It caught the right shoulder of her leather jacket, a dab on the top of her head and splashed onto the tank, fairing and handlebars of the bike. One whiff made it clear that pelicans like seafood, too.
We got some paper towels from the gift shop and cleaned things up as well as we could before gassing and getting out of town. The ride north went quickly because Maria was getting more into leaning into the turns. We stopped at Lucia for iced mocha and iced tea before pressing on north.
We reached Carmel and the beach near Point Lobos in time to dance with the surf and watch a golden sun set on a near perfect day.
After shedding our leathers, we walked down to a liquor store and picked up a six-pack of Pacifico beer, a bag of Tostitos and some jalapeno cheese dip for a few hours of television watching.
Another splendid day!
We returned to Denny's for breakfast the next morning and ran into two couples on matching white Honda Gold Wings from Tennessee.
Today's ride would be an inland exploration. After breakfast, we headed down Carmel Valley Road – a county road separated from Highway 1 and the ocean by the coastal mountain range. Lying in the lee of the ocean breezes, Carmel Valley is usually free of chilly maritime fog this time of year. About 10 miles down the road from Calif. 1, we shed our jacket liners.
As we cruised south, the road plunged into twisty canyons, following creeks and over-arched with ancient oak trees. I felt as if I had been transported back to old Spanish California as we rode mile after mile in the dense woods, seeing only the occasional car or pickup truck. We passed an isolated ranch with curious-looking signs requesting, “Please avoid newts crossing the road.” A little further down the road, a sign advised: Cattle Guards Next 11 Miles.
Eventually, the road climbed out of the canyons over vast brown grassy hills, affording vistas that opened onto mountains and valleys for miles. The road was designated G16 and, on an impulse, I turned right at a bridge and followed G17 toward Greenfield, past fields of grape vines flying silver ribbons to scare birds away from the ripening fruit. At Greenfield, we picked up U.S. 101 and rode north a few miles until I saw a sign directing us to Soledad Mission.
We found the mission a short time later west of the main highway. A BMW K75 belonging to another couple out for a day ride leaned on its sidestand in the parking lot.
The day was warm, but it was comfortably cool inside the thick adobe walls of the restored 200-year-old mission. After exploring the mission and wondering at an improbable statue of the Virgin Mary dressed in black lace, we lit a couple of candles and returned to G17. We followed the road north and west through more agricultural land where farm workers were packing lettuce in the fields.
Picking up Calif. 68 just west of Salinas, we returned to Monterey and the West Wind Lodge. We changed clothes and rode down to Fisherman's Wharf for a delicious dinner of seafood provencal at Ablonetti's followed by ice cream cones for dessert.
Even though it was a low-mileage day, these were quality miles.
We gathered up our dirty laundry and spent about an hour at the Del Monte Shopping Center laundromat, then capped the evening with a soak in the hot tub.
We rolled out about 9:30 Saturday morning and headed down Calif. 1 for one last coastal ride.
It was chilly and foggy and delightful.
We passed a large herd of Herefords on the plateau sweeping down to the sea just north of Big Sur. In a corner of the field were a couple of herdsmen, dressed as cowboys – one of them wheeling his mount in clockwise circles as we flashed by. We gassed at the BP station at River Inn, paying a stunning $2.30 a gallon for 92 octane premium.
Then, it was on to Nepenthe where we arrived moments before a large contingent of the California Pantera Club, out for a Saturday morning drive. Intent on beating the car club crowd, we hustled up to the Cafe Kevah, where I had an omelet and Maria had a tostada. We fed much of our sourdough toast to the Steller's Jays and the crows that patrol the cafe deck looking for leftovers or handouts.
We stopped a couple of times to take photos, finally drawing rein at Lucia for drinks and a $3 chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookie. There we passed a pleasant half-hour in conversation with another motorcycle couple from Indiana. Finally, we took our leave and headed back north, stopping a couple of places for Maria to get pictures of me on the bike with the coastline features in the background.
As we approached Carmel, we found ourselves in s-l-o-w stop-and-go traffic, stretching all the way past Carmel Valley Road. After several minutes of crawling, we were passed by a Harley rider on the berm and followed him past scores of cars to the open freeway.
Back at the room, I called a Yellow Cab while Maria changed and we packed her leathers. The cabby arrived within minutes and I followed the cab to the airport, catching up with Maria halfway through the terminal.
We hustled her to the gate and she was off to Los Angeles, Chicago and home.
I rode back to the Lodge, read some of Ted Simon's Jupiter's Travels, watched some TV and dined on pizza and Diet Coke from Domino's.
It was a hurried conclusion to a my best-ever visit to my favorite places and I realized that night that it would be a hard act to follow. I hit the road early the next morning for a ride home that took me through Yosemite, the deserts and canyonlands of Nevada and Utah and the mountain majesty of Colorado.
Solo travel has its merits, but once you find someplace special, it's even better when you can share it.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Stupid reporter tricks
There was a bank holdup Tuesday morning in a small town in the coverage area of my wife's newspaper.
The reporter for the competing daily - a pathetic, ineptly run rag that began publication about 5 months ago and only has a circulation of about 400 - is a clueless young woman in her first newspaper job out of college.
Rather than checking with police outside the bank, the girl walked into the bank, getting her fingerprints all over the place and pretty much mucking up the crime scene.
For those of you who don't know, this is a professional blunder of epic proportion. Any competent reporter knows you don't violate the integrity of a crime scene and that the worst thing you can do is interfere with investigators doing their work. Conversely, competent police investigators recognize that reporters also have a job to do and take care to give them whatever facts they can divulge without compromising the investigation. The detective handing this case for the local sheriff's department has an exemplary record of cooperating with the media, especially with reporters (like my wife) who have a proven record of accuracy and trustworthiness.
The detective gave the girl his card and asked her to call him on Wednesday to arrange to come in and be fingerprinted - just like all of the bank employees - so investigators could eliminate their prints and perhaps isolate those belonging to the perp.
Wednesday passes and she doesn't call.
This morning, she calls the detective to ask questions about the case. He says, "I thought you were going to call yesterday and arrange to come in and get fingerprinted."
Silence.
He goes on to explain in a non-confrontational way that she's not a suspect and it's just part of the normal procedure of eliminating all of the irrelevant fingerprints.
She finally tells him her editor said she didn't have to do it and if he has anything more to say about it, he should say it to their attorney.
No apology for compromising the crime scene or for not calling yesterday - just a brutally stupid refusal to cooperate.
I fully expect her and her paper to try to frame this situation as a Freedom of the Press issue. However, there is absolutely no basis in First Amendment free press rights or any other traditional journalistic practice to justify her non-cooperation.
In fact, she could be charged with tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice. And nobody, not even the American Civil Liberties Union, will be able to mount a credible defense.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The reporter for the competing daily - a pathetic, ineptly run rag that began publication about 5 months ago and only has a circulation of about 400 - is a clueless young woman in her first newspaper job out of college.
Rather than checking with police outside the bank, the girl walked into the bank, getting her fingerprints all over the place and pretty much mucking up the crime scene.
For those of you who don't know, this is a professional blunder of epic proportion. Any competent reporter knows you don't violate the integrity of a crime scene and that the worst thing you can do is interfere with investigators doing their work. Conversely, competent police investigators recognize that reporters also have a job to do and take care to give them whatever facts they can divulge without compromising the investigation. The detective handing this case for the local sheriff's department has an exemplary record of cooperating with the media, especially with reporters (like my wife) who have a proven record of accuracy and trustworthiness.
The detective gave the girl his card and asked her to call him on Wednesday to arrange to come in and be fingerprinted - just like all of the bank employees - so investigators could eliminate their prints and perhaps isolate those belonging to the perp.
Wednesday passes and she doesn't call.
This morning, she calls the detective to ask questions about the case. He says, "I thought you were going to call yesterday and arrange to come in and get fingerprinted."
Silence.
He goes on to explain in a non-confrontational way that she's not a suspect and it's just part of the normal procedure of eliminating all of the irrelevant fingerprints.
She finally tells him her editor said she didn't have to do it and if he has anything more to say about it, he should say it to their attorney.
No apology for compromising the crime scene or for not calling yesterday - just a brutally stupid refusal to cooperate.
I fully expect her and her paper to try to frame this situation as a Freedom of the Press issue. However, there is absolutely no basis in First Amendment free press rights or any other traditional journalistic practice to justify her non-cooperation.
In fact, she could be charged with tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice. And nobody, not even the American Civil Liberties Union, will be able to mount a credible defense.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
M-i-c, k-e-y...
Doreen Tracey, one of the original Mickey Mouse Club Mouseketeers, is 62 today.
We've been acquainted since I did a story on her for my newspaper about 30 years ago.
I just got off the phone with her and am delighted to report she's happy and healthy and living large in her hometown of Burbank, Calif.
She's got a few pages in Paul Auster's book of true life stories titled I Thought My Father Was God. Auster, you may recall, has a program on National Public Radio.
Just for the record, Doreen says she doesn't plan to start drawing Social Security for another five years, even though she became eligible today.
We've been acquainted since I did a story on her for my newspaper about 30 years ago.
I just got off the phone with her and am delighted to report she's happy and healthy and living large in her hometown of Burbank, Calif.
She's got a few pages in Paul Auster's book of true life stories titled I Thought My Father Was God. Auster, you may recall, has a program on National Public Radio.
Just for the record, Doreen says she doesn't plan to start drawing Social Security for another five years, even though she became eligible today.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Monday, April 11, 2005
Procrastination
I’m procrastinating and I know it.
I accepted a freelance writing assignment a month ago to do a piece about the future of airlines and how that will impact the myriad businesses that serve the airlines.
We’re talking about folks who build and sell airplanes, dealers in avionics equipment, spare parts, food suppliers – all the people the airlines turn to for the stuff they need.
Even though I have an American Airlines frequent flyer Master Card that earns me a frequent flyer mile for every dollar I run through it, I’m nowhere close to what you would consider a frequent user of airlines. I know very little about airlines and the problems they face, much less have a crystal ball to divine their future.
In short, I don’t know Jack about airlines.
But I do know about words, so I figured this is just a simple piece of journalism – figure out who has the information I need, call them on the phone and ask them to say a few words on the subject, lash the quotes together into some kind of coherent narrative, e-mail the sucker off to the publisher and watch my mailbox for the check.
But (at least) one thing is holding me back: fear of embarrassing myself with a piece that betrays a lack of knowledge of the subject. The last thing I want is to write something that will cause people in airline-related businesses to chuckle over my ignorance.
So, I’ve been putting off making those calls to high-level management types in the airlines – guys whose biographies have appeared in Fortune magazine. I hate to admit it, but it’s just flat intimidating.
I realize that they’re just people – mostly my age – who happen to have specialized in something outside my scope of knowledge. I expect I know more about motorcycle safety, long-haul motorcycle touring, journalism, the edged weapons of the Third Reich, and certain forms of meditation than they will ever know.
But I remain stuck and use other tasks and responsibilities to avoid making those calls.
A contractor was scheduled to have a crew here this morning to begin rehabilitation of the porch and balcony on the front of my 1903 Queen Anne Victorian house. The previous owners had a penchant for using untreated lumber, which led to water damage and rot that must be dealt with before the porch disintegrates.
Consequently, I waited and I waited, reasoning that I don’t want important telephone interviews interrupted by a contractor punching my doorbell button.
Well, the crew showed up about a half-hour ago and went to work without bothering me. I can hear the sound of nails being pried loose and of boards being ripped off and tossed to the ground.
Now that they’re here and the work is underway, I need a new excuse not to work on the piece.
I’ve run out of ideas for blogging, so I’ll have to look elsewhere for important alternative jobs.
Oh, yeah. I need to go to the bank and the postoffice.
That’s the ticket.
I accepted a freelance writing assignment a month ago to do a piece about the future of airlines and how that will impact the myriad businesses that serve the airlines.
We’re talking about folks who build and sell airplanes, dealers in avionics equipment, spare parts, food suppliers – all the people the airlines turn to for the stuff they need.
Even though I have an American Airlines frequent flyer Master Card that earns me a frequent flyer mile for every dollar I run through it, I’m nowhere close to what you would consider a frequent user of airlines. I know very little about airlines and the problems they face, much less have a crystal ball to divine their future.
In short, I don’t know Jack about airlines.
But I do know about words, so I figured this is just a simple piece of journalism – figure out who has the information I need, call them on the phone and ask them to say a few words on the subject, lash the quotes together into some kind of coherent narrative, e-mail the sucker off to the publisher and watch my mailbox for the check.
But (at least) one thing is holding me back: fear of embarrassing myself with a piece that betrays a lack of knowledge of the subject. The last thing I want is to write something that will cause people in airline-related businesses to chuckle over my ignorance.
So, I’ve been putting off making those calls to high-level management types in the airlines – guys whose biographies have appeared in Fortune magazine. I hate to admit it, but it’s just flat intimidating.
I realize that they’re just people – mostly my age – who happen to have specialized in something outside my scope of knowledge. I expect I know more about motorcycle safety, long-haul motorcycle touring, journalism, the edged weapons of the Third Reich, and certain forms of meditation than they will ever know.
But I remain stuck and use other tasks and responsibilities to avoid making those calls.
A contractor was scheduled to have a crew here this morning to begin rehabilitation of the porch and balcony on the front of my 1903 Queen Anne Victorian house. The previous owners had a penchant for using untreated lumber, which led to water damage and rot that must be dealt with before the porch disintegrates.
Consequently, I waited and I waited, reasoning that I don’t want important telephone interviews interrupted by a contractor punching my doorbell button.
Well, the crew showed up about a half-hour ago and went to work without bothering me. I can hear the sound of nails being pried loose and of boards being ripped off and tossed to the ground.
Now that they’re here and the work is underway, I need a new excuse not to work on the piece.
I’ve run out of ideas for blogging, so I’ll have to look elsewhere for important alternative jobs.
Oh, yeah. I need to go to the bank and the postoffice.
That’s the ticket.
Another loose end accounted for
It’s hard for me to stay on track when I write.
I think of tangential stuff that might elucidate or amplify a point I’m making, but I worry that it actually detracts from the piece because it can spiral off into infinity.
So when I wrote the post about my first real girlfriend turning 60 this month and my fondness for connections with my past, I was tempted to throw in this story to illustrate the point:
Sherman, set the Wayback Machine for the spring of 1956. (Yes, I know that was almost a half-century ago. And yes, I realize that a reference to the 1960s cartoon series Rocky and Bullwinkle is lost on younger readers. And yes, I know this is one of those parenthetical digressions.)
I was recovering from a broken leg – the consequence of an unfortunate bicycle-car encounter in which my left femur was broken on the front bumper of a doctor’s Cadillac.
I was in plaster from waist to left ankle and spent the final month of my fifth grade year at home.
I don’t recall who it was but some friend of my parents decided I could use a pen pal to occupy my time. They hooked me up with an Australian kid named Winston Sleaford who lived in Kabra, a short distance from Rockhampton, which is situated where the Tropic of Capricorn crosses the east coast of Australia.
It was about as far away as one could be from my small Midwestern hometown – a land of exotic marsupials where everyone except a few Aborigines conveniently spoke English. Being about a year older than I, Winston was born during World War II and was doubtless among tens of thousands of boys throughout the British Empire named for wartime Prime Minister Winston Churchill.
I don’t remember much about our correspondence other than that his first effort was on a commercial note card with a pen and ink sketch of a koala on the cover and that he included about a dozen eucalyptus leaves. I’d never seen or smelled eucalyptus leaves before, so it was pretty cool.
We corresponded for a year or two before he got busy with other stuff and stopped writing.
Over the years, Winston’s name and simple address - Kabra via Rockhampton, Queensland, Australia – popped into my consciousness whenever I thought about that part of the world.
Then, around Christmas 2000, I got an e-mail from Winston. He’d tracked me down with an internet search engine, apologized for being the first to stop writing and was eager to catch up.
He’d had a career with the Postmaster General's Department in Australia, had a wife and kids and grandchildren and was enjoying his retirement. I responded with a catch-up e-mail and photos of myself and my family.
Since then, we’ve exchanged holiday e-mails and I get the feeling that the re-connection has given him the same sense of tying up a loose end that it has for me.
How often do you get to renew a 50-year-old friendship with someone you’ve never met?
I think of tangential stuff that might elucidate or amplify a point I’m making, but I worry that it actually detracts from the piece because it can spiral off into infinity.
So when I wrote the post about my first real girlfriend turning 60 this month and my fondness for connections with my past, I was tempted to throw in this story to illustrate the point:
Sherman, set the Wayback Machine for the spring of 1956. (Yes, I know that was almost a half-century ago. And yes, I realize that a reference to the 1960s cartoon series Rocky and Bullwinkle is lost on younger readers. And yes, I know this is one of those parenthetical digressions.)
I was recovering from a broken leg – the consequence of an unfortunate bicycle-car encounter in which my left femur was broken on the front bumper of a doctor’s Cadillac.
I was in plaster from waist to left ankle and spent the final month of my fifth grade year at home.
I don’t recall who it was but some friend of my parents decided I could use a pen pal to occupy my time. They hooked me up with an Australian kid named Winston Sleaford who lived in Kabra, a short distance from Rockhampton, which is situated where the Tropic of Capricorn crosses the east coast of Australia.
It was about as far away as one could be from my small Midwestern hometown – a land of exotic marsupials where everyone except a few Aborigines conveniently spoke English. Being about a year older than I, Winston was born during World War II and was doubtless among tens of thousands of boys throughout the British Empire named for wartime Prime Minister Winston Churchill.
I don’t remember much about our correspondence other than that his first effort was on a commercial note card with a pen and ink sketch of a koala on the cover and that he included about a dozen eucalyptus leaves. I’d never seen or smelled eucalyptus leaves before, so it was pretty cool.
We corresponded for a year or two before he got busy with other stuff and stopped writing.
Over the years, Winston’s name and simple address - Kabra via Rockhampton, Queensland, Australia – popped into my consciousness whenever I thought about that part of the world.
Then, around Christmas 2000, I got an e-mail from Winston. He’d tracked me down with an internet search engine, apologized for being the first to stop writing and was eager to catch up.
He’d had a career with the Postmaster General's Department in Australia, had a wife and kids and grandchildren and was enjoying his retirement. I responded with a catch-up e-mail and photos of myself and my family.
Since then, we’ve exchanged holiday e-mails and I get the feeling that the re-connection has given him the same sense of tying up a loose end that it has for me.
How often do you get to renew a 50-year-old friendship with someone you’ve never met?
Remembering the first girlfriend
My first real girlfriend, the first girl I ever kissed, turns 60 this month.
As Hunter S. Thompson liked to say, it gives a man paws.
(I’ve got three months left in my 50s, but that dubious milestone has been looming large in my awareness lately.)
Her name was Ann and we met on Monday, July 9, 1959. I know the date because I kept a diary during that period.
We were at a Presbyterian youth camp and it was the summer before our freshman year in high school. I was from a small rural county seat town of 2,500. She lived about 20 miles away in a Big Ten college town of about 25,000. My dad was an independent insurance agent and Realtor. Her father was a professor of agronomy.
I had no way to know at the time, but the relationship formed the template for a series of unfortunate long-distance relationships later in my life.
But I was a week shy of turning 14 and all I knew was that I liked her looks and personality and we found each other interesting enough to begin a correspondence at a time before Zip Codes when First Class postage was a measly 3 cents.
We saw each other only rarely, being too young to drive and being at the mercy of our parents for mobility. My parents had relatives and shopped near where she lived, so I’d call her on the phone whenever I was in the neighborhood and got the chance.
Later it was car double-dates with older buddies who had a driver’s license, then solo car dates and “parking” at the university football stadium lot – a popular make-out location where you could steam up your car windows without fear of interruption by police.
We dated off and on until about the middle of our sophomore year when I got distracted by a girl who was a Candy Striper (volunteer nurse wannabe) in the hospital where I had minor surgery in October. The Candy Striper went on to become a nurse, my wife for 26 years and the mother of my two sons.
So, yes, I dumped Ann. I’m not proud of it. I’ve never taken pride in hurting people’s feelings.
We had a high mutual regard, but we just weren’t on closely parallel life paths.
The last time I saw her, she was a senior at a Quaker-founded college and I, having flunked out of college twice and earned a medical discharge from the U.S. Air Force, was in my first real job as a reporter on a small-town daily newspaper.
She married a college football star who went on to be a banker in a major – make that the major – Midwestern city. And she became an ordained Presbyterian minister and counselor.
My somewhat more profane path led me to a 34-year career as a journalist at the largest evening daily in my home state. I also renounced my somewhat nebulous Presbyterian faith and converted to Catholocism 12 years ago this Easter.
Some time ago, I Googled her up by doing a search for her rather unusual German surname. I found she's kept it, forming a non-hyphenated double last name including her husband’s more common surname.
I found her brief biography and a photo on a counseling center website and, despite the nearly 40-year span of time, immediately recognized her.
One of my most sharply defined Cancerian traits is my attachment to the past and to the significant people of my past, even if I lose contact with them for decades.
I’m fighting a strong urge to send her an e-mail, just to say, hello, happy birthday and remark on what a long strange trip it’s been.
I have no desire to see her or even have a phone conversation – just an impulse to check in and report that I’m still on the planet and that I remember her.
Should I let this blogpost serve as the resolution to that impulse or should I dash off an e-mail? Anyone out there have an opinion?
As Hunter S. Thompson liked to say, it gives a man paws.
(I’ve got three months left in my 50s, but that dubious milestone has been looming large in my awareness lately.)
Her name was Ann and we met on Monday, July 9, 1959. I know the date because I kept a diary during that period.
We were at a Presbyterian youth camp and it was the summer before our freshman year in high school. I was from a small rural county seat town of 2,500. She lived about 20 miles away in a Big Ten college town of about 25,000. My dad was an independent insurance agent and Realtor. Her father was a professor of agronomy.
I had no way to know at the time, but the relationship formed the template for a series of unfortunate long-distance relationships later in my life.
But I was a week shy of turning 14 and all I knew was that I liked her looks and personality and we found each other interesting enough to begin a correspondence at a time before Zip Codes when First Class postage was a measly 3 cents.
We saw each other only rarely, being too young to drive and being at the mercy of our parents for mobility. My parents had relatives and shopped near where she lived, so I’d call her on the phone whenever I was in the neighborhood and got the chance.
Later it was car double-dates with older buddies who had a driver’s license, then solo car dates and “parking” at the university football stadium lot – a popular make-out location where you could steam up your car windows without fear of interruption by police.
We dated off and on until about the middle of our sophomore year when I got distracted by a girl who was a Candy Striper (volunteer nurse wannabe) in the hospital where I had minor surgery in October. The Candy Striper went on to become a nurse, my wife for 26 years and the mother of my two sons.
So, yes, I dumped Ann. I’m not proud of it. I’ve never taken pride in hurting people’s feelings.
We had a high mutual regard, but we just weren’t on closely parallel life paths.
The last time I saw her, she was a senior at a Quaker-founded college and I, having flunked out of college twice and earned a medical discharge from the U.S. Air Force, was in my first real job as a reporter on a small-town daily newspaper.
She married a college football star who went on to be a banker in a major – make that the major – Midwestern city. And she became an ordained Presbyterian minister and counselor.
My somewhat more profane path led me to a 34-year career as a journalist at the largest evening daily in my home state. I also renounced my somewhat nebulous Presbyterian faith and converted to Catholocism 12 years ago this Easter.
Some time ago, I Googled her up by doing a search for her rather unusual German surname. I found she's kept it, forming a non-hyphenated double last name including her husband’s more common surname.
I found her brief biography and a photo on a counseling center website and, despite the nearly 40-year span of time, immediately recognized her.
One of my most sharply defined Cancerian traits is my attachment to the past and to the significant people of my past, even if I lose contact with them for decades.
I’m fighting a strong urge to send her an e-mail, just to say, hello, happy birthday and remark on what a long strange trip it’s been.
I have no desire to see her or even have a phone conversation – just an impulse to check in and report that I’m still on the planet and that I remember her.
Should I let this blogpost serve as the resolution to that impulse or should I dash off an e-mail? Anyone out there have an opinion?
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
More encouraging words out of Iran
The deadly (to despots) contagion of freedom continues to spread:
Iran Press News: According to received reports from various cities in Iran, today which marks the first celebration of the Iranian New Year's Festival of Fire was met with celebrations as well as huge protests and demonstrations against the Islamic regime of Iran. The protestors chanted: "We need no Sheikh or Mullah, we curse YOU - RUHOLLAH!"
A report from Tehran: Young celebrants today set scarecrows in the likeness of various Mullahs, such as Khamenei, Rafsanjani, Khatami, Sharoudi, Jannati, etc. on fire in the streets. They cried out slogans such as: "Referendum, referendum, this is the people's dictum."
In various parts of the capitol, celebrations and parties rage on. As a part of this celebration which is held on the very last Tuesday night of the year, dry bundles of bramble and shrubbery are set on fire and people jump over them. This is in order to purge their spirits of all the sins and tribulations of the passing year, in order to start the new year, with a pure heart. This is an ancient Persian (Zoroastrian) tradition, one that the Mullahs have done their best to eradicate since their takeover in 1979.
An eyewitness reported that despite severe crackdowns by the Revolutionary Guards and storm troopers, people bravely came out of their homes to celebrate. The sound of bursting firecrackers (which is a part of the celebrations), fireworks, toy rockets, confetti and various other celebratory trajectiles can be heard all over Tehran and smoke has filled the streets.
In one of the grassy knolls, in a suburban area of Tehran, large bonfires were lit and people danced around it and continued chanting the various slogans in defiance of the Mullahs and their henchmen. It is reported that the local Mullahs in various areas of several areas have locked themselves in their mosques fearing the crowds who continually and collectively shout out their slogans.
In several other parts of Tehran, revolutionary guards who have blocked off roads in order to stop cars carrying passengers of various groups from joining others. However people have begun parking their cars and have joined their fellow celebrants on foot. The guards however have become frightened by the force of the people. In this specific area several non-Iranian journalists were also present with their film crews, reporting.
In another area of the city people took to setting the French flag on fire while chanting: "Europe is finished and so are their Mullahs." OR "Bush, Bush, where is Bush?" (In Persian this rhymes: Bush, Bush, kush, kush!).
Like last year's celebration, the brave women who also participating in the celebrations removed their headscarves, stomping and dancing.
In the town of Karaj, near Tehran, people chanted: "Death to Khamenei" as the brutal revolutionary forces took chains and batons to people, severly beating and injuring many.
In the Southern city of Ahvaaz, on the Iran/Iraq border and the surrounding townships celebrants also came out in droves, confronting the regime's thugs. In the Shi'ite holy city of Mash'had, the city closest to the border of Afghanistan, where anti-regime and anti-Mullah fervour has always been most impressive, large groups of celebrants were arrested and detained.
Iran Press News: According to received reports from various cities in Iran, today which marks the first celebration of the Iranian New Year's Festival of Fire was met with celebrations as well as huge protests and demonstrations against the Islamic regime of Iran. The protestors chanted: "We need no Sheikh or Mullah, we curse YOU - RUHOLLAH!"
A report from Tehran: Young celebrants today set scarecrows in the likeness of various Mullahs, such as Khamenei, Rafsanjani, Khatami, Sharoudi, Jannati, etc. on fire in the streets. They cried out slogans such as: "Referendum, referendum, this is the people's dictum."
In various parts of the capitol, celebrations and parties rage on. As a part of this celebration which is held on the very last Tuesday night of the year, dry bundles of bramble and shrubbery are set on fire and people jump over them. This is in order to purge their spirits of all the sins and tribulations of the passing year, in order to start the new year, with a pure heart. This is an ancient Persian (Zoroastrian) tradition, one that the Mullahs have done their best to eradicate since their takeover in 1979.
An eyewitness reported that despite severe crackdowns by the Revolutionary Guards and storm troopers, people bravely came out of their homes to celebrate. The sound of bursting firecrackers (which is a part of the celebrations), fireworks, toy rockets, confetti and various other celebratory trajectiles can be heard all over Tehran and smoke has filled the streets.
In one of the grassy knolls, in a suburban area of Tehran, large bonfires were lit and people danced around it and continued chanting the various slogans in defiance of the Mullahs and their henchmen. It is reported that the local Mullahs in various areas of several areas have locked themselves in their mosques fearing the crowds who continually and collectively shout out their slogans.
In several other parts of Tehran, revolutionary guards who have blocked off roads in order to stop cars carrying passengers of various groups from joining others. However people have begun parking their cars and have joined their fellow celebrants on foot. The guards however have become frightened by the force of the people. In this specific area several non-Iranian journalists were also present with their film crews, reporting.
In another area of the city people took to setting the French flag on fire while chanting: "Europe is finished and so are their Mullahs." OR "Bush, Bush, where is Bush?" (In Persian this rhymes: Bush, Bush, kush, kush!).
Like last year's celebration, the brave women who also participating in the celebrations removed their headscarves, stomping and dancing.
In the town of Karaj, near Tehran, people chanted: "Death to Khamenei" as the brutal revolutionary forces took chains and batons to people, severly beating and injuring many.
In the Southern city of Ahvaaz, on the Iran/Iraq border and the surrounding townships celebrants also came out in droves, confronting the regime's thugs. In the Shi'ite holy city of Mash'had, the city closest to the border of Afghanistan, where anti-regime and anti-Mullah fervour has always been most impressive, large groups of celebrants were arrested and detained.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Maybe they'll fix it themselves
I just read a report about the Pink Revolution in Iran in which more and more Iranians are expressing their disapproval of their Islamist rulers by adopting colorful clothes and styles and mannerisms more suited to the modern industrial world than to Middle Eastern feudalism.
Those brave folks who defy the mullahs must surely be encouraged and inspired by the democratic elections next door in Iraq.
With any luck at all, they'll throw out the Islamists and install a more enlightened (maybe even democratic) regime, thus ending the developing need for us to step in and shut down Iran's nuclear program.
One can hope.
Those brave folks who defy the mullahs must surely be encouraged and inspired by the democratic elections next door in Iraq.
With any luck at all, they'll throw out the Islamists and install a more enlightened (maybe even democratic) regime, thus ending the developing need for us to step in and shut down Iran's nuclear program.
One can hope.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Yanked back
I had lunch with a longtime friend yesterday - a guy named Skip who started his career at "our" newspaper in 1967, the same year I did. He's a fellow Cancerian, also divorced from a Scorpio, who will mark his 67th birthday within days of my 60th this July.
Skip died about a year ago. Really.
He had a bizarre heart episode in which his heart suddenly jumped from 72 beats/minute to 270 bpm. Minutes after his wife got him to the ER, his heart spazzed out, went into flutter mode and then flatlined.
The ER doc hit him with 100 volts across the chest to no effect. Then she recalled reading about the effectiveness of putting one paddle on the right side of the chest and the other on the left hip.
She cranked the machine up to 200 volts, yelled, "Clear!" and let him have it. His wife said he leapt about six inches straight up and, when he came down, his heart started beating again.
His next recollection was waking up much later with tubes down his throat.
But, as you might expect, he had an interesting experience during that period he was without a heartbeat - a point where a lesser doc would have called it and declared him dead.
His recollection is of a white featureless background out of which his long-dead father emerged.
Skip's dad died an old, enfeebled man, ravaged by diabetes that cost him a leg. But the father Skip saw was as he looked in his 40s - muscular and fit and in the prime of life. He stood there at a distance of what seemed like 20 yards, staring at Skip with his arms crossed over his chest. Neither spoke a word.
Then Skip's dad turned to his left and stepped into the white nothingness.
Presently, he reappeared with Skip's maternal grandparents, looking as they did late in life. The three of them stared across the void at Skip and he stared back, no one speaking. Then they turned and walked into the whiteness.
"Those were the three closest people to me when I was growing up," Skip said, adding he spent every summer on his grandparents' farm in southern Illinois.
The next impression he can retrieve was of a gray iron bar about 2 inches thick and 18 inches shooting through his chest and another piercing his left hip.
The point of our lunch meeting - I hadn't seen him since our paper was chloroformed by the parent corporation in the late 1990s - was to talk about motorcycles. Skip had bikes when he was in his 30s and is getting back into motorcycling. He wanted my thoughts on what bikes might be right for him.
He's signed up to take the Motorcycle Safety Foundation's novice rider course next month and I'll bet he's the oldest student they'll have this year.
But my friend Ted Simon rode a BMW R80 G/S around the world - yes, around the entire planet - in the two years following his 70th birthday.
I think Skip will be just fine on a bike and I hope to ride with him this summer when he decides on a machine.
Skip died about a year ago. Really.
He had a bizarre heart episode in which his heart suddenly jumped from 72 beats/minute to 270 bpm. Minutes after his wife got him to the ER, his heart spazzed out, went into flutter mode and then flatlined.
The ER doc hit him with 100 volts across the chest to no effect. Then she recalled reading about the effectiveness of putting one paddle on the right side of the chest and the other on the left hip.
She cranked the machine up to 200 volts, yelled, "Clear!" and let him have it. His wife said he leapt about six inches straight up and, when he came down, his heart started beating again.
His next recollection was waking up much later with tubes down his throat.
But, as you might expect, he had an interesting experience during that period he was without a heartbeat - a point where a lesser doc would have called it and declared him dead.
His recollection is of a white featureless background out of which his long-dead father emerged.
Skip's dad died an old, enfeebled man, ravaged by diabetes that cost him a leg. But the father Skip saw was as he looked in his 40s - muscular and fit and in the prime of life. He stood there at a distance of what seemed like 20 yards, staring at Skip with his arms crossed over his chest. Neither spoke a word.
Then Skip's dad turned to his left and stepped into the white nothingness.
Presently, he reappeared with Skip's maternal grandparents, looking as they did late in life. The three of them stared across the void at Skip and he stared back, no one speaking. Then they turned and walked into the whiteness.
"Those were the three closest people to me when I was growing up," Skip said, adding he spent every summer on his grandparents' farm in southern Illinois.
The next impression he can retrieve was of a gray iron bar about 2 inches thick and 18 inches shooting through his chest and another piercing his left hip.
The point of our lunch meeting - I hadn't seen him since our paper was chloroformed by the parent corporation in the late 1990s - was to talk about motorcycles. Skip had bikes when he was in his 30s and is getting back into motorcycling. He wanted my thoughts on what bikes might be right for him.
He's signed up to take the Motorcycle Safety Foundation's novice rider course next month and I'll bet he's the oldest student they'll have this year.
But my friend Ted Simon rode a BMW R80 G/S around the world - yes, around the entire planet - in the two years following his 70th birthday.
I think Skip will be just fine on a bike and I hope to ride with him this summer when he decides on a machine.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Apropos of nothing
I've got a Gibson without a case,
but I can't get that even tanned look on my face...
but I can't get that even tanned look on my face...
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Monday, February 28, 2005
The tide is turning
Washington Post columnist David Ignatius wrote about conditions in Lebanon last Wednesday and included comments from the leader of the Lebanese intifada, Walid Jumblatt.
Jumblatt, he said, "is the patriarch of the Druze Muslim community and, until recently, a man who accommodated Syria's occupation. But something snapped for Jumblatt last year, when the Syrians overruled the Lebanese constitution and forced the reelection of their front man in Lebanon, President Emile Lahoud. The old slogans about Arab nationalism turned to ashes in Jumblatt's mouth, and he and Hariri openly began to defy Damascus..."
This paragraph virtually leaps off the page:
"It's strange for me to say it, but this process of change has started because of the American invasion of Iraq," explains Jumblatt. "I was cynical about Iraq. But when I saw the Iraqi people voting three weeks ago, 8 million of them, it was the start of a new Arab world." Jumblatt says this spark of democratic revolt is spreading. "The Syrian people, the Egyptian people, all say that something is changing. The Berlin Wall has fallen. We can see it."
Jumblatt, he said, "is the patriarch of the Druze Muslim community and, until recently, a man who accommodated Syria's occupation. But something snapped for Jumblatt last year, when the Syrians overruled the Lebanese constitution and forced the reelection of their front man in Lebanon, President Emile Lahoud. The old slogans about Arab nationalism turned to ashes in Jumblatt's mouth, and he and Hariri openly began to defy Damascus..."
This paragraph virtually leaps off the page:
"It's strange for me to say it, but this process of change has started because of the American invasion of Iraq," explains Jumblatt. "I was cynical about Iraq. But when I saw the Iraqi people voting three weeks ago, 8 million of them, it was the start of a new Arab world." Jumblatt says this spark of democratic revolt is spreading. "The Syrian people, the Egyptian people, all say that something is changing. The Berlin Wall has fallen. We can see it."
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Bad acid flashback
There are few things more odious than having to endure a performance review by someone who is your professional and intellectual inferior.
Most journalists who have worked for Gannett know what I mean.
Most journalists who have worked for Gannett know what I mean.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
What he meant
Washington Times
February 7, 2005
Pg. 19
'Intimate Killing'
Close combat and the art of war
By Robert H. Scales
On Wednesday, I had the pleasure of moderating a panel on the future of warfare. Marine Lt. Gen. Jim Mattis was one of the panelists. During his remarks he made a statement about the pleasure that young soldiers and marines feel when killing in close combat, a statement that seems to have gotten him in trouble with the fourth estate — prompting an apology and some counseling by the Marine Corps Commandant.
First, a confession: I know Gen. Mattis. He is a central figure in the book I coauthored with Williamson Murray, "The Iraq War: A Military History." For those of you who might have the image of a knuckle-dragging troglodyte, let me assure you that he is one of the most urbane and polished men I have known. He can quote Homer as well as Sun Tzu and has over 7,000 books in his personal library.
Jim is the product of three decades of schooling and practice in the art of war. No one on active duty knows more about the subject. He is an infantryman, a close-combat Marine. He is one of those very few who willingly practices the art of what social scientists term "intimate killing." Those of us who have engaged in the act understand what he was trying to explain to an audience of defense technologists and contractors.
Intimate killing is a primal aspect of warfare unchanged since the beginning of civilization. It involves a clash of two warriors, one on one, armed with virtually identical weapons. The decision goes to the soldier with the right stuff, the one with the greater cunning, strength, guile, ruthlessness and will to win.
For a moment put yourself in the place of a young soldier or Marine fighting house to house in the mean streets of Fallujah. Burdened with over 60 pounds of gear, sweat dripping constantly into your face, you can't stop shaking from the fear of what the enemy has in store for you around the next corner. Just ahead is a darkened house with doors and windows closed and shuttered. The only sound is the crunching of your boots on the trash and broken glass as you move in slow motion to surround the dwelling. You watch as the sergeant signals you to cover a side entrance. Through the faint haze you can see your buddy kick in the door and immediately come face to face with an insurgent who greets him with a burst of AK-47 fire that tears a hole in his chest. Your buddy doesn't die. The terrorist wants him to live just long enough for his buddies to rush in for a rescue and become additional trophies to be laid at the altar of heaven.
Now, it's your turn. You use your superior discipline and skill to approach the insurgent such that you're detected just at the last second. Both of you raise your weapons simultaneously and open fire in a crushing tear of bullets that scatter and ricochet wildly across the room. One bullet finds the bad guy and he falls in a bloody lump just inches from your boots.What exactly do you "feel" at this moment? Relief, to be sure, but also something else that cannot be explained to anyone who hasn't committed an act of intimate killing. It's not joy, exactly, more like exhilaration and an enormous sense of self-satisfaction that in one of the most primal challenges — where all the satellites, planes, ships and smart weapons are of no use whatever — you prevailed, one on one, over a diabolically evil enemy.
Who should be offended by the emotions of "joy" or whatever one feels at the moment of a successful kill? It's a fair fight, you win and the bad guy loses. It's that simple. One more terrorist will not threaten your unit or your buddies. Remember, this isn't a reality show. There are no retakes. Donald Trump doesn't fire you and the price for second place is death.
My point simply is this: We must celebrate the fact that we have men like Jim Mattis willing to devote (and give) their lives when necessary to commit an act that most of those in our society would be horrified to even contemplate. If you are offended by these emotions, then seriously consider joining an Army or Marine infantry unit so that you can demonstrate how to kill an enemy in a more humane and politically correct manner.
Until such an unlikely day occurs, we must all remember that leaders like Gen. Mattis and the men he commands are the rarest commodities that a protected society like ours can produce. All they want is the opportunity to serve a country that truly appreciates the difficulty and dangers inherent in the duties they perform, duties that very few are willing even to contemplate.
Retired Maj. Gen. Robert H. Scales is a former commander of the Army War College
February 7, 2005
Pg. 19
'Intimate Killing'
Close combat and the art of war
By Robert H. Scales
On Wednesday, I had the pleasure of moderating a panel on the future of warfare. Marine Lt. Gen. Jim Mattis was one of the panelists. During his remarks he made a statement about the pleasure that young soldiers and marines feel when killing in close combat, a statement that seems to have gotten him in trouble with the fourth estate — prompting an apology and some counseling by the Marine Corps Commandant.
First, a confession: I know Gen. Mattis. He is a central figure in the book I coauthored with Williamson Murray, "The Iraq War: A Military History." For those of you who might have the image of a knuckle-dragging troglodyte, let me assure you that he is one of the most urbane and polished men I have known. He can quote Homer as well as Sun Tzu and has over 7,000 books in his personal library.
Jim is the product of three decades of schooling and practice in the art of war. No one on active duty knows more about the subject. He is an infantryman, a close-combat Marine. He is one of those very few who willingly practices the art of what social scientists term "intimate killing." Those of us who have engaged in the act understand what he was trying to explain to an audience of defense technologists and contractors.
Intimate killing is a primal aspect of warfare unchanged since the beginning of civilization. It involves a clash of two warriors, one on one, armed with virtually identical weapons. The decision goes to the soldier with the right stuff, the one with the greater cunning, strength, guile, ruthlessness and will to win.
For a moment put yourself in the place of a young soldier or Marine fighting house to house in the mean streets of Fallujah. Burdened with over 60 pounds of gear, sweat dripping constantly into your face, you can't stop shaking from the fear of what the enemy has in store for you around the next corner. Just ahead is a darkened house with doors and windows closed and shuttered. The only sound is the crunching of your boots on the trash and broken glass as you move in slow motion to surround the dwelling. You watch as the sergeant signals you to cover a side entrance. Through the faint haze you can see your buddy kick in the door and immediately come face to face with an insurgent who greets him with a burst of AK-47 fire that tears a hole in his chest. Your buddy doesn't die. The terrorist wants him to live just long enough for his buddies to rush in for a rescue and become additional trophies to be laid at the altar of heaven.
Now, it's your turn. You use your superior discipline and skill to approach the insurgent such that you're detected just at the last second. Both of you raise your weapons simultaneously and open fire in a crushing tear of bullets that scatter and ricochet wildly across the room. One bullet finds the bad guy and he falls in a bloody lump just inches from your boots.What exactly do you "feel" at this moment? Relief, to be sure, but also something else that cannot be explained to anyone who hasn't committed an act of intimate killing. It's not joy, exactly, more like exhilaration and an enormous sense of self-satisfaction that in one of the most primal challenges — where all the satellites, planes, ships and smart weapons are of no use whatever — you prevailed, one on one, over a diabolically evil enemy.
Who should be offended by the emotions of "joy" or whatever one feels at the moment of a successful kill? It's a fair fight, you win and the bad guy loses. It's that simple. One more terrorist will not threaten your unit or your buddies. Remember, this isn't a reality show. There are no retakes. Donald Trump doesn't fire you and the price for second place is death.
My point simply is this: We must celebrate the fact that we have men like Jim Mattis willing to devote (and give) their lives when necessary to commit an act that most of those in our society would be horrified to even contemplate. If you are offended by these emotions, then seriously consider joining an Army or Marine infantry unit so that you can demonstrate how to kill an enemy in a more humane and politically correct manner.
Until such an unlikely day occurs, we must all remember that leaders like Gen. Mattis and the men he commands are the rarest commodities that a protected society like ours can produce. All they want is the opportunity to serve a country that truly appreciates the difficulty and dangers inherent in the duties they perform, duties that very few are willing even to contemplate.
Retired Maj. Gen. Robert H. Scales is a former commander of the Army War College
Tower Talk
Delta 351: "Give us another hint! We have digital watches!"
==========================================
"TWA 2341, for noise abatement turn right 45 Degrees."
"Center, we are at 35,000 feet. How much noise can we make up here?"
"Sir, have you ever heard the noise a 747 makes when it hits a 727?"
==========================================
From an unknown aircraft waiting in a very long takeoff queue: "I'm
f...ing bored!"
Ground Traffic Control: "Last aircraft transmitting, identify yourself immediately!"
Unknown aircraft: "I said I was f...ing bored, not f...ing stupid!"
==========================================
O'Hare Approach Control to a 747: "United 329 heavy, your traffic is a Fokker, one o'clock, three miles, Eastbound."
United 239: "Approach, I've always wanted to say this...I've got the little Fokker in sight."
==========================================
A DC-10 had come in a little fast and thus had an exceedingly long roll out after touching down.
San Jose Tower Noted: "American 751, make a hard right turn at the end of the runway, if you are able. If you are not able, take the Guadalupe exit off Highway 101, make a right at the lights and return to the airport."
==========================================
There's a story about the military pilot calling for a priority landing because his single-engine jet fighter was running "a bit peaked." Air Traffic Control told the fighter jock that he was number two, behind an eight-engined B-52 that had one engine shut down.
"Ah," the fighter pilot remarked, "the dreaded seven-engine approach."
==========================================
A Pan Am 727 flight waiting for start clearance in Munich overheard the following:
Lufthansa (in German): "Ground, what is our start clearance time?"
Ground (in English): "If you want an answer you must speak in English."
Lufthansa (in English): "I am a German, flying a German airplane, in Germany. Why must I speak English?"
Unknown voice from another plane (in a beautiful British accent) "Because you lost the bloody war."
==========================================
Tower: "Eastern 702, cleared for takeoff, contact Departure on frequency 124.7"
Eastern 702: "Tower, Eastern 702 switching to Departure. By the way, after we lifted off we saw some kind of dead animal on the far end of the runway."
Tower: "Continental 635, cleared for takeoff behind Eastern 702, contact Departure on frequency 124.7. Did you copy that report from Eastern 702?"
Continental 635: "Continental 635, cleared for takeoff, roger...and yes, we copied Eastern. We've already notified our caterers."
==========================================
One day the pilot of a Cherokee 180 was told by the tower to hold short of the active runway while a DC-8 landed. The DC-8 landed, rolled out, turned around, and taxied back past the Cherokee. Some quick-witted comedian in the DC-8 crew got on the radio and said, "What a cute little plane. Did you make it all by yourself?"
The Cherokee pilot, not about to let the insult go by, came back with a real zinger: "I made it out of DC-8 parts. Another landing like yours and I'll have enough parts for another one."
==========================================
The German air controllers at Frankfurt Airport are renowned as a
short-tempered lot. They not only expect one to know one's gate parking location, but how to get there without any assistance from them. So it was with some amusement that we (a Pan Am 747) listened to the following exchange between Frankfurt ground control and a British Airways 747, call sign Speedbird 206.
Speedbird 206: "Frankfurt, Speedbird 206 clear of active runway."
Ground: "Speedbird 206. Taxi to gate Alpha One-Seven."
The BA 747 pulled onto the main taxiway and slowed to a stop.
Ground: "Speedbird, do you not know where you are going?"
Speedbird 206: "Stand by, Ground, I'm looking up our gate location now."
Ground (with quite arrogant impatience): "Speedbird 206, have you not been to Frankfurt before?"
Speedbird 206 (coolly): "Yes, twice in 1944, but it was dark, and I didn't land."
==========================================
While taxiing at London's Gatwick Airport, the crew of a US Air flight departing for Ft. Lauderdale made a wrong turn and came nose to nose with a United 727.
An irate female ATC ground controller lashed out at the US Air
crew, screaming:
"US Air 2771, where the hell are you going?! I told you to
turn right onto Charlie taxiway! You turned right on Delta! Stop right there. I know it's difficult for you to tell the difference between C and D, but get it right!"
Continuing her rage to the embarrassed crew, she was now shouting
hysterically:
"God! Now you've screwed everything up! It'll take forever to
sort this out! You stay right there and don't move till I tell you to! You can expect progressive taxi instructions in about half an hour and I want you to go exactly where I tell you, when I tell you, and how I tell you! You got that, US Air 2771?"
"Yes, ma'am," the humbled crew responded.
Naturally, the ground control communications frequency fell terribly silent after the verbal bashing of US Air 2771. Nobody wanted to chance engaging the irate ground controller in her current state of mind. Tension in every cockpit out around Gatwick was definitely running high.
Just then an unknown pilot broke the silence and keyed his microphone, asking:
"Wasn't I married to you once?"
==========================================
"TWA 2341, for noise abatement turn right 45 Degrees."
"Center, we are at 35,000 feet. How much noise can we make up here?"
"Sir, have you ever heard the noise a 747 makes when it hits a 727?"
==========================================
From an unknown aircraft waiting in a very long takeoff queue: "I'm
f...ing bored!"
Ground Traffic Control: "Last aircraft transmitting, identify yourself immediately!"
Unknown aircraft: "I said I was f...ing bored, not f...ing stupid!"
==========================================
O'Hare Approach Control to a 747: "United 329 heavy, your traffic is a Fokker, one o'clock, three miles, Eastbound."
United 239: "Approach, I've always wanted to say this...I've got the little Fokker in sight."
==========================================
A DC-10 had come in a little fast and thus had an exceedingly long roll out after touching down.
San Jose Tower Noted: "American 751, make a hard right turn at the end of the runway, if you are able. If you are not able, take the Guadalupe exit off Highway 101, make a right at the lights and return to the airport."
==========================================
There's a story about the military pilot calling for a priority landing because his single-engine jet fighter was running "a bit peaked." Air Traffic Control told the fighter jock that he was number two, behind an eight-engined B-52 that had one engine shut down.
"Ah," the fighter pilot remarked, "the dreaded seven-engine approach."
==========================================
A Pan Am 727 flight waiting for start clearance in Munich overheard the following:
Lufthansa (in German): "Ground, what is our start clearance time?"
Ground (in English): "If you want an answer you must speak in English."
Lufthansa (in English): "I am a German, flying a German airplane, in Germany. Why must I speak English?"
Unknown voice from another plane (in a beautiful British accent) "Because you lost the bloody war."
==========================================
Tower: "Eastern 702, cleared for takeoff, contact Departure on frequency 124.7"
Eastern 702: "Tower, Eastern 702 switching to Departure. By the way, after we lifted off we saw some kind of dead animal on the far end of the runway."
Tower: "Continental 635, cleared for takeoff behind Eastern 702, contact Departure on frequency 124.7. Did you copy that report from Eastern 702?"
Continental 635: "Continental 635, cleared for takeoff, roger...and yes, we copied Eastern. We've already notified our caterers."
==========================================
One day the pilot of a Cherokee 180 was told by the tower to hold short of the active runway while a DC-8 landed. The DC-8 landed, rolled out, turned around, and taxied back past the Cherokee. Some quick-witted comedian in the DC-8 crew got on the radio and said, "What a cute little plane. Did you make it all by yourself?"
The Cherokee pilot, not about to let the insult go by, came back with a real zinger: "I made it out of DC-8 parts. Another landing like yours and I'll have enough parts for another one."
==========================================
The German air controllers at Frankfurt Airport are renowned as a
short-tempered lot. They not only expect one to know one's gate parking location, but how to get there without any assistance from them. So it was with some amusement that we (a Pan Am 747) listened to the following exchange between Frankfurt ground control and a British Airways 747, call sign Speedbird 206.
Speedbird 206: "Frankfurt, Speedbird 206 clear of active runway."
Ground: "Speedbird 206. Taxi to gate Alpha One-Seven."
The BA 747 pulled onto the main taxiway and slowed to a stop.
Ground: "Speedbird, do you not know where you are going?"
Speedbird 206: "Stand by, Ground, I'm looking up our gate location now."
Ground (with quite arrogant impatience): "Speedbird 206, have you not been to Frankfurt before?"
Speedbird 206 (coolly): "Yes, twice in 1944, but it was dark, and I didn't land."
==========================================
While taxiing at London's Gatwick Airport, the crew of a US Air flight departing for Ft. Lauderdale made a wrong turn and came nose to nose with a United 727.
An irate female ATC ground controller lashed out at the US Air
crew, screaming:
"US Air 2771, where the hell are you going?! I told you to
turn right onto Charlie taxiway! You turned right on Delta! Stop right there. I know it's difficult for you to tell the difference between C and D, but get it right!"
Continuing her rage to the embarrassed crew, she was now shouting
hysterically:
"God! Now you've screwed everything up! It'll take forever to
sort this out! You stay right there and don't move till I tell you to! You can expect progressive taxi instructions in about half an hour and I want you to go exactly where I tell you, when I tell you, and how I tell you! You got that, US Air 2771?"
"Yes, ma'am," the humbled crew responded.
Naturally, the ground control communications frequency fell terribly silent after the verbal bashing of US Air 2771. Nobody wanted to chance engaging the irate ground controller in her current state of mind. Tension in every cockpit out around Gatwick was definitely running high.
Just then an unknown pilot broke the silence and keyed his microphone, asking:
"Wasn't I married to you once?"
Murphy's Laws of Combat
1. If the enemy is in range, so are you.
2. Incoming fire has the right of way.
3. Don't look conspicuous, it draws fire.
4. There is always a way, and it usually doesn't work.
5. The problem with the easy way out is that it has already been mined.
6. Try to look unimportant, they may be low on ammo.
7. Professionals are predictable, it's the amateurs that are dangerous.
8. The enemy invariably attacks on two occasions:
when you're ready for them.
when you're not ready for them.
9.Teamwork is essential, it gives them someone else to shoot at.
10. If you can't remember, then the claymore IS pointed at you.
11. The enemy diversion you have been ignoring will be the main attack.
12. A "sucking chest wound" is nature's way of telling you to slow down.
13. If your attack is going well, then it's an ambush.
14. Never draw fire, it irritates everyone around you.
15. Anything you do can get you shot, including nothing.
16. If you build yourself a bunker that's tough for the enemy to get into quickly, then you won't be able to get out of it quickly either.
17. Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself.
18. If you're short of everything but the enemy, you're in a combat zone.
19. When you've secured the area, don't forget to tell the enemy.
20. Never forget that your weapon is made by the lowest bidder.
21. Friendly fire isn't.
22. If the sergeant can see you, so can the enemy.
23. Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, never stay awake when you can sleep.
24. The most dangerous thing in the world is a second lieutenant with a map and a compass.
25. There is no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.
26. A grenade with a seven second fuse will always burn down in four seconds.
27. Remember, a retreating enemy is probably just falling back and regrouping.
28. If at first you don't succeed call in an air-strike.
29. Exceptions prove the rule, and destroy the battle plan.
30. Everything always works in your HQ, everything always fails in the colonel's HQ.
31. The enemy never watches until you make a mistake.
32. One enemy soldier is never enough, but two is entirely too many.
33. A clean (and dry) set of BDU's is a magnet for mud and rain.
34. Whenever you have plenty of ammo, you never miss. Whenever you are low on ammo, you can't hit the broad side of a barn.
35. The more a weapon costs, the farther you will have to send it away to be repaired.
36. Field experience is something you don't get until just after you need it.
37. Interchangeable parts aren't.
38. No matter which way you have to march, its always uphill.
39. If enough data is collected, a board of inquiry can prove ANYTHING.
40. For every action, there is an equal and opposite criticism. (in boot camp)
41. The one item you need is always in short supply.
42. The worse the weather, the more you are required to be out in it.
43. The complexity of a weapon is inversely proportional to the IQ of the weapon's operator.
44. Airstrikes always overshoot the target, artillery always falls short.
45. When reviewing the radio frequencies that you just wrote down, the most important ones are always illegible.
46. Those who hesitate under fire usually do not end up KIA or WIA.
47. The tough part about being an officer is that the troops don't know what they want, but they know for certain what they DON'T want.
48. To steal information from a person is called plagiarism. To steal information from the enemy is called gathering intelligence.
49. The weapon that usually jams when you need it the most is the M60.
50. The perfect officer for the job will transfer in the day after that billet is filled by someone else.
51. When you have sufficient supplies & ammo, the enemy takes 2 weeks to attack. 52. When you are low on supplies & ammo the enemy decides to attack that night.
52. The newest and least experienced soldier will usually win the Congressional Medal Of Honor.
53. A Purple Heart just goes to prove that were you smart enough to think of a plan, stupid enough to try it, and lucky enough to survive.
54. Murphy was a grunt.
2. Incoming fire has the right of way.
3. Don't look conspicuous, it draws fire.
4. There is always a way, and it usually doesn't work.
5. The problem with the easy way out is that it has already been mined.
6. Try to look unimportant, they may be low on ammo.
7. Professionals are predictable, it's the amateurs that are dangerous.
8. The enemy invariably attacks on two occasions:
when you're ready for them.
when you're not ready for them.
9.Teamwork is essential, it gives them someone else to shoot at.
10. If you can't remember, then the claymore IS pointed at you.
11. The enemy diversion you have been ignoring will be the main attack.
12. A "sucking chest wound" is nature's way of telling you to slow down.
13. If your attack is going well, then it's an ambush.
14. Never draw fire, it irritates everyone around you.
15. Anything you do can get you shot, including nothing.
16. If you build yourself a bunker that's tough for the enemy to get into quickly, then you won't be able to get out of it quickly either.
17. Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself.
18. If you're short of everything but the enemy, you're in a combat zone.
19. When you've secured the area, don't forget to tell the enemy.
20. Never forget that your weapon is made by the lowest bidder.
21. Friendly fire isn't.
22. If the sergeant can see you, so can the enemy.
23. Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, never stay awake when you can sleep.
24. The most dangerous thing in the world is a second lieutenant with a map and a compass.
25. There is no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.
26. A grenade with a seven second fuse will always burn down in four seconds.
27. Remember, a retreating enemy is probably just falling back and regrouping.
28. If at first you don't succeed call in an air-strike.
29. Exceptions prove the rule, and destroy the battle plan.
30. Everything always works in your HQ, everything always fails in the colonel's HQ.
31. The enemy never watches until you make a mistake.
32. One enemy soldier is never enough, but two is entirely too many.
33. A clean (and dry) set of BDU's is a magnet for mud and rain.
34. Whenever you have plenty of ammo, you never miss. Whenever you are low on ammo, you can't hit the broad side of a barn.
35. The more a weapon costs, the farther you will have to send it away to be repaired.
36. Field experience is something you don't get until just after you need it.
37. Interchangeable parts aren't.
38. No matter which way you have to march, its always uphill.
39. If enough data is collected, a board of inquiry can prove ANYTHING.
40. For every action, there is an equal and opposite criticism. (in boot camp)
41. The one item you need is always in short supply.
42. The worse the weather, the more you are required to be out in it.
43. The complexity of a weapon is inversely proportional to the IQ of the weapon's operator.
44. Airstrikes always overshoot the target, artillery always falls short.
45. When reviewing the radio frequencies that you just wrote down, the most important ones are always illegible.
46. Those who hesitate under fire usually do not end up KIA or WIA.
47. The tough part about being an officer is that the troops don't know what they want, but they know for certain what they DON'T want.
48. To steal information from a person is called plagiarism. To steal information from the enemy is called gathering intelligence.
49. The weapon that usually jams when you need it the most is the M60.
50. The perfect officer for the job will transfer in the day after that billet is filled by someone else.
51. When you have sufficient supplies & ammo, the enemy takes 2 weeks to attack. 52. When you are low on supplies & ammo the enemy decides to attack that night.
52. The newest and least experienced soldier will usually win the Congressional Medal Of Honor.
53. A Purple Heart just goes to prove that were you smart enough to think of a plan, stupid enough to try it, and lucky enough to survive.
54. Murphy was a grunt.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Monday, February 14, 2005
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Wrong number
I just got a wrong-number call on my cell phone from a woman at 317-357-1121.
Feel free to call her and say, "Oooops. Sorry, wrong number."
Feel free to call her and say, "Oooops. Sorry, wrong number."
This is Florida?
It's 57 degrees, but the wind chill makes if feel like 52, with a heavy overcast and spitting rain here in beautiful Palm Coast, Fla.
Sunshine State, my ass.
It was like this yesterday and will be this way tomorrow.
If I wanted sunshine, I shoulda gone to Colorado.
The Honda del Sol performed splendidly on the drive down, delivering 34.6 miles per gallon. The addition of XM satellite radio to the entertainment options made the trip an easy one, even with a 45-minute crawl through a construction zone on I-75 north of Valdosta, Ga.
I'd envisioned driving around down here with the roof panel stowed in the trunk, but that's not gonna happen until Friday at the earliest and maybe not at all.
Took my friends to see Sideways last night. I enjoyed it and would give it at least an 8 on a scale of 10. It goes deeper into the dynamics of relationships than most movies do and is considerably more thoughtful than 99% of the films out there today. At the same time, there are outrageously funny moments. Whether it's Oscar material is another matter entirely, especially if The Passion of The Christ doesn't even make the nomination cut.
Whatever. It was worth the price of admission.
When we stepped up to the ticket booth, the cashier - a woman I'd judge to be in her 60s - asked if we wanted the senior citizen discount. I glanced up at the ticket price list and noticed the cutoff was 60. Only one of us - Susan's boyfriend - is over 60 and Susan just had a facelift that makes her look early 40-something, but I thought, "What the hell? Why not?"
Judging from the other theater patrons around us, I figured most of them got in at the geezer rate.
So our three tickets came to a modest $18.
I spent much of yesterday helping Ed, Susan's boyfriend, research ways to get his neighbor to stop parking his electrical contracting business vehicles in front of his (the neighbor's) house.
It's obvious the neighbor is running his business out of his home and, under local regulations, that means he cannot park vehicles with painted business signage, in front of his home.
We've determined that he has his business registered at an address in St. Augustine. Turns out he owns several residential rental properties in a white trash neighborhood up there, but our reconnaisance determined there is no electrical contracting business being done at any of them, including the one listed on his St. John County (St. Augustine) business permit.
This scheme to get around Palm Coast ordinances is made all the more interesting by the fact that the guy serves on a town council-appointed technical board for construction review.
So what he have is a government official flaunting the laws of his own community.
My suggestion is to pull together all this information, along with photos of the offending vehicles parked illegally in front of the house, and turn it over to some eager young newspaper reporter.
In the meantime, I need to get out and do some photography for our stock photo business.
*********************
I just answered the doorbell - Ed is out rescuing a buddy whose car broke down on I-95 a few miles from here - and found myself being schmoozed by a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses women. I closed the door in their faces as pleasantly as possible, explaining that I'm Catholic and am quite satisfied with my religion.
Crappy weather, evangelists, strategizing against a sleazy neighbor and now I have a sinus headache. What next?
Sunshine State, my ass.
It was like this yesterday and will be this way tomorrow.
If I wanted sunshine, I shoulda gone to Colorado.
The Honda del Sol performed splendidly on the drive down, delivering 34.6 miles per gallon. The addition of XM satellite radio to the entertainment options made the trip an easy one, even with a 45-minute crawl through a construction zone on I-75 north of Valdosta, Ga.
I'd envisioned driving around down here with the roof panel stowed in the trunk, but that's not gonna happen until Friday at the earliest and maybe not at all.
Took my friends to see Sideways last night. I enjoyed it and would give it at least an 8 on a scale of 10. It goes deeper into the dynamics of relationships than most movies do and is considerably more thoughtful than 99% of the films out there today. At the same time, there are outrageously funny moments. Whether it's Oscar material is another matter entirely, especially if The Passion of The Christ doesn't even make the nomination cut.
Whatever. It was worth the price of admission.
When we stepped up to the ticket booth, the cashier - a woman I'd judge to be in her 60s - asked if we wanted the senior citizen discount. I glanced up at the ticket price list and noticed the cutoff was 60. Only one of us - Susan's boyfriend - is over 60 and Susan just had a facelift that makes her look early 40-something, but I thought, "What the hell? Why not?"
Judging from the other theater patrons around us, I figured most of them got in at the geezer rate.
So our three tickets came to a modest $18.
I spent much of yesterday helping Ed, Susan's boyfriend, research ways to get his neighbor to stop parking his electrical contracting business vehicles in front of his (the neighbor's) house.
It's obvious the neighbor is running his business out of his home and, under local regulations, that means he cannot park vehicles with painted business signage, in front of his home.
We've determined that he has his business registered at an address in St. Augustine. Turns out he owns several residential rental properties in a white trash neighborhood up there, but our reconnaisance determined there is no electrical contracting business being done at any of them, including the one listed on his St. John County (St. Augustine) business permit.
This scheme to get around Palm Coast ordinances is made all the more interesting by the fact that the guy serves on a town council-appointed technical board for construction review.
So what he have is a government official flaunting the laws of his own community.
My suggestion is to pull together all this information, along with photos of the offending vehicles parked illegally in front of the house, and turn it over to some eager young newspaper reporter.
In the meantime, I need to get out and do some photography for our stock photo business.
*********************
I just answered the doorbell - Ed is out rescuing a buddy whose car broke down on I-95 a few miles from here - and found myself being schmoozed by a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses women. I closed the door in their faces as pleasantly as possible, explaining that I'm Catholic and am quite satisfied with my religion.
Crappy weather, evangelists, strategizing against a sleazy neighbor and now I have a sinus headache. What next?
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