The Annoyance Police
In these very serious times, it seems that it’s appropriate to get rid of some of the silly or outdated laws that are still on the books. I’m talking about things like its being illegal in Oklahoma to tease dogs by making ugly faces, Michigan’s law that forbids a wife from having her hair cut without her husband’s approval, and in Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, the law that prohibits people from “singing, whistling, or hooting” if it annoys somebody else. Wait a minute. That last one isn’t an old law. It’s an ordinance that was just passed by the South Carolina town.
Before you laugh at this law, I should make it clear that it is not in effect 24 hours a day. That would be ridiculous. It only applies to sounds that annoy somebody between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. It also only deals with these actions if they are performed in public. You can still sing in the shower, and you can still do your indoor hooting wherever you usually do it.
Chief of police, Danny Howard, doesn’t want this ordinance to be fodder for people like me to ridicule. He pointed out that nobody is going to get a ticket just for singing in public. However, if that singing annoys other people, then they might get a $500 ticket.
When I first heard about this ordinance, it struck me that if there were just a slight twist to it, it would be the kind of thing that teenagers would like to be the law. That imaginary twist is that the law would apply only to parents, not to kids. If you’ve ever had a teenager and you started to sing in public, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Typical reactions include the rolling of the eyes, the shaking of the heads, and acting as if they’ve never seen you before. Similarly, if you talk in a normal voice, but they think it’s embarrassingly loud, they would feel that a mere fine would be too lenient of a punishment.
But the law was not written by teenagers to apply to their parents. It was written by adults to apply to everybody. The part I find most intriguing is that it’s not the decibels that are the issue. It’s whether the sounds somebody makes annoy somebody else. The knee-jerk reaction to this law is that it’s too broad. I think it may actually be too narrow.
Why stop at sounds that are annoying to other people? There are lots of annoying things that people do in public that could be outlawed. Here are a few off the top of my head:
In a better world, people who wear T-shirts that read, “I’m with Stupid” shall be committing an offense in all 50 states and the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico. Anyone walking down the street and talking into one of those cell phones with the ridiculous ear things so you can’t tell if they’re talking to you, if they’re crazy, or if they’re just self-important, should be arrested and not allowed to text for 30 days. If you’re waiting for an elevator after you’ve pushed the button and someone joins you and pushes the button as if you wouldn’t have had the knowledge or experience to have done it yourself, that person should be taken to jail immediately. If you’re in a grocery checkout line, and the person in front of you has… You get the idea.
Everyone could make a list of things that other people do that they find annoying. It might even be people who ask you to make lists. Again, the fascinating thing about the Sullivan’s Island ordinance is that the crime is not based on the action of the perpetrator. It’s based on the reaction of other people. So you can “sing, hoot or whistle” as loud as you want if it doesn’t annoy anyone. On the other hand, if people have a negative reaction to what you do between 11:00 P.M. and 7:00 A.M., you’re in trouble. It’s because of this last fact that I must insist that, just in case, everyone in Sullivan’s Island only read my column either before eleven or after seven.
Lloyd Garver has written for many television shows, ranging from “Sesame Street” to “Family Ties” to “Home Improvement” to “Frasier.” He has also read many books, some of them in hardcover. He can be reached at lloydgarver@gmail.com. Check out his website at lloydgarver.com and his podcasts on iTunes.
Galileo and Saturn
In 1609 Galileo made his first perspicillum (see-through device) which we now call a telescope. It was initially used as a spyglass for seeing distant ships and other terrestrial objects.
In late in 1609 he first turned his device skyward and was astounded by views of the Moon, Jupiter, Venus and other heavenly bodies. But nothing confused him more than what he first saw 400 years ago this month. In announcing his discovery, he wrote, “I have observed the highest planet, triple-bodied,” referring to Saturn which was then believed to be the most distant planet.
Elaborating his finding, he stated, “Saturn is not a single star, but is a composite of three, which almost touch each other, never change or move relative to each other, and are arranged in a row along the zodiac, the middle one being three times larger than the other two lateral ones…situated in this form – oOo.”
It was a mystery Galileo never solved. His crude telescopes, inferior even to today’s department store scopes, couldn’t quite reveal what every school child now knows to be Saturn’s rings. It wasn’t until several years after Galileo’s death that Christiaan Huygens, using a larger and improved telescope, solved Saturn’s riddle.
To the naked eye and through most binoculars, Saturn looks like a bright star. But most of today’s telescopes, even inexpensive ones, reveal what Galileo never saw clearly enough to understand.
Saturn is currently visible in our evening sky, so get out that scope tucked away in the closet, or call up a friend with a scope, or attend a local star party — whatever it takes. Then for fun, pretend you’re Galileo getting your first clear view of Saturn and its rings. Eureka!
Sky Calendar.
* July 25 Sun.: The full Moon is called Hay Moon and Thunder Moon.
* 27 Tue. evening: Mercury is a moonwidth to the lower left of the star Regulus near the western horizon at dusk, Mercury being the brighter.
* 31 Sat. morning: The Moon is above Jupiter high in the south.
* 31 Sat. evening: Mars is just to the lower left of Saturn low in the west.
* Aug. 1 Sun.: Lammas, a cross-quarter day celebrating the middle of summer.
* 2 Mon.: The Moon is at 3rd quarter.
* 4 Wed. morning: The crescent Moon is above the Pleiades star cluster in the east.
* 8 Sun. evening: Brilliant Venus (bottom), reddish Mars (upper left), and creamy-colored Saturn (upper right) form a triangle low in the west at dusk.
* 9 Mon.: The Moon in new.
* 11 Wed. evening: The crescent Moon is to the lower left of Mercury in the west at dusk.
* 12 Thu. evening: The crescent Moon is below Venus with Saturn to Venus’ right and Mars to Venus’ upper left.
* 12/13 Thu./Fri. all night: The Perseid meteor shower peaks with virtually no Moon interference all night.
* 13 Fri. evening: The crescent Moon is to the left of the trio of planets.
* 13 Fri.: An unlucky day for the superstitious – glad I’m not!
Naked-eye Planets. (The Sun, Moon, and planets rise in the east and set in the west due to Earth’s west-to-east rotation on its axis.) Evening: Venus is the brilliant “evening star” in the west. Mercury is just above the horizon two fist-widths (held at arm’s length) to Venus’ lower right. Saturn (brighter) and Mars are a fist-width to Venus’ upper left. Morning: Bright Jupiter, now rising before midnight, is high in the south.
Mars Hoax. Regardless of what you might read on the Internet, come Aug. 27 Mars will not appear as large as the Moon. It never has and never will. Some variation of this preposterous Mars hoax has been circulating every summer since 2003 when Mars did come closer than usual. The only thing you need to remember Aug. 27 is the Stargazer’s 70th birthday!
Star Party. The Central Texas Astronomical Society’s free monthly star party is July 31 at the Lake Waco Wetlands beginning at 8 p.m. For directions see my Web site.
Stargazer appears every other week. Paul Derrick is an amateur astronomer who lives in Waco. Contact him at 918 N. 30th, Waco, 76707, (254) 753-6920 or paulderrickwaco@aol.com. See the Stargazer Web site at stargazerpaul.com.
The Lost Art Of Hitching
The other day, I recounted to my son, Pete, a story about hitchhiking while a young undergrad at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale.
In 1972, people were neither particularly freaked out about picking up hitchers, nor too scared to thumb a ride. Songs extolling the praises of riding the asphalt as a free spirit were commonplace (“Me and Bobby McGee”; “Sweet Hitchhiker”; “Hitchin’ a Ride”).
On several occasions, when traveling alone, I played the part of “hitchee.” During a trip to see several of my Army buddies in New York City, the journey became boring, tiresome, and somewhat daunting – not to mention uncomfortably hot during August in a 1965 Dodge Polara with vinyl seats and no air conditioning.
Somewhere in eastern Ohio or western Pennsylvania I spotted two longhairs with their thumbs out. If one hadn’t had a guitar slung over his shoulder, I might have passed them by. (Ignoring the whole Charlie Manson-as-musician thing as an anomaly, I inferred that these guys were essentially harmless.)
As it turned out, they were college students on their way home to Newark, NJ, after spending the summer hanging around the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco.
I had a reservation at a Holiday Inn about midway through Pennsylvania, and (perhaps somewhat foolishly) snuck them into my room. Happy to finally be spending a night inside, they considered sleeping on the floor plus unlimited use of indoor plumbing somewhat akin to luxury accommodations.
When I deposited them near the Newark airport the following day, I was sorry to say farewell.
On the return trip, I picked up a westbound passenger in the same general area.
That guy was a young Frenchman who had spent pretty much all of his money just getting across the pond. His destination was Chicago, but he’d only had enough for airfare to New York.
In true French fashion, he had embarked upon his quest for love of a woman. As it turned out, she lived less than a mile from my North Side apartment; to his great pleasure and surprise, I was able to drop him off right at her door.
Conversely, my own experiences as a “hitcher” were usually of the local variety, born out of necessity rather than for travel purposes.
At 15, I had a job at a McDonald’s about five miles from home. Most days, my Mother wouldn’t give me a ride, requiring that I take the bus. A major problem was that the bus route ended over two miles from the McD’s. So, I generally thumbed the last leg of the way.
I shall never forget the time a woman of 60 or so picked me up in her air-conditioned 1966 Polara two-door hardtop. Unlike the “Plain Jane” version as described above, (originally) purchased by my Father, this car had all the bells, whistles and bling – including a 383 Hemi V8.
It was obvious that this woman smoked like a prohibition against cigarettes was about to begin. She also drove as though automobiles were to be banished the next day.
In all honesty, I never rode with a teenager who had as heavy a foot, or weaved between cars as much – she was Northern Illinois’ very own version of Jan and Dean’s “Little Old Lady From Pasadena”. That woman scared the shit out of me.
Moving forward six years, the occurrence which I had related to my son took place on a blisteringly scorching Saturday afternoon. Without going into great detail, I didn’t have a car at university that quarter because my parents remained mired in the 1940s.
Seeking carnal pleasures and/or a little noble weed, I went along with a pair of young ladies to their trailer in a “park” south of Carbondale. When it became obvious that there would be no success regarding either pursuit, I headed back to town.
The midday heat being almost paralyzing, I sought free vehicular transport. It short order an old school bus pulled up. The driver was a young man who had transformed the conveyance into a most remarkable rolling apartment.
In addition to a kitchen, living area, and sleeping space, he had installed an incredible stereo system with speakers all around – better than most home systems of the day.
The guy was a musician, a modern day troubadour who traveled a circuit of college towns. He was, as Peter Fonda said of the farmer in “Easy Rider”, “…doing his own thing in his own time.”
My point in all this is that, back when I was a young man, beautiful people were found everywhere. We had no logical reason to fear extending a helping hand to, or reaching out for a little help from, our contemporaries.
At 30, in Pete’s lifetime one would not, could not, even consider giving a ride to a stranger; nor would anyone with half a brain think about hitching a ride.
The world has become treacherous, and it has nothing to do with terrorists.
We have lost pretty much all sense of the camaraderie and brotherliness that bubbled up throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s. We tail-end baby boomers, my generation, tried to share love for all living beings and spread the fruits of goodwill throughout the family of man.
These days, most unfortunately, whenever anyone speaks out for peace and understanding, the response is typically virulent and insulting – oftentimes threatening — from those who dwell within the realm of intolerance.
Self-importance has soured mankind’s focus, and our family has become an utterly dysfunctional lot.
How sad.
Shalom.
Jerry Tenuto has earned a BS in Radio-Television and an MA in Telecommunications from Southern Illinois University-Carbondale. In addition to some 25 years in broadcasting, he is a seven-year veteran of the U.S. Army. Since 1995, Jerry has found himself trapped in a “Red” enclave within the middle of the “Blue” state of Illinois, which he refers to as “slow death hell.”
Transplanted Texan Fights Duel With U.S. Senator
California Democrats allowed David Smith Terry, chief justice of the state supreme court, to address their convention on July 18, 1859 after he promised to behave himself.
Nothing was more important to the transplanted Texan than his good name, and he never backed down from a fight. While other 13 year old boys stayed home with their mothers, he risked his life for Lone Star independence. When Texans fought a second war with Mexico, the young lieutenant won the respect of fellow Rangers twice his age.
Bitten by the gold buy in 1849, David Terry joined the army of fortune hunters that invaded California. He soon realized, however, that prospecting was a losing proposition and returned to practicing law.
As a Know-Nothing candidate in 1855, Terry was elected to the highest court of the 31st state. In two short years, he was promoted to the post of chief justice.
With his term due to expire at the end of 1859 and the Know-Nothings no longer an influential force, Judge Terry tried to get back in the Democrats’ good graces. But his old allies held a grudge and refused to reward the defector with a reelection nomination.
Given the opportunity to address the state convention, Terry turned what was supposed to be a swan song into in a double-barreled blast at Sen. David C. Broderick, leader of the party’s anti-slavery faction. The Tammany Hall product was a Douglas Democrat, the Texan slyly conceded, but his hero was black abolitionist Frederick Douglas not presidential candidate Stephen A. Douglas.
A few days later over breakfast with a good friend of his accuser, Broderick responded to the charge. Calling Judge Terry “a miserable wretch,” the senator snarled, “I have spoken of him as the only honest man on the bench in a corrupt supreme court, but now I find I was mistaken. He is just as bad as the others.”
Broderick had impugned his integrity, and Terry would not stand for it. Believing a jurist should not break the law by dueling, he waited until the fall elections to submit his resignation and to seek satisfaction as a private citizen.
Terry wanted to be fair, which meant allowing Broderick to retract his rash remark. But Broderick was not about to apologize, and preparations proceeded for the one-on-one combat.
Hoping to avert senseless bloodshed, a mutual acquaintance knocked on the senator’s door the night before the duel. A cocky crony refused entrance to the peacemaker explaining, “It’s no use. You are too late. The fight has got to come, and this is the best time for it. Broderick never had a better chance. He can hit the size of a ten-cent piece at this distance every time.”
The overconfidence in the senator’s camp went all the way to the top. “Don’t you fear,” Broderick assured a worried supporter. “I can shoot twice to Terry’s once.”
In sharp contrast to the devil-may-care attitude of his adversary, Judge Terry kept
to himself preferring to let his pistol do the talking. His reply to the “good luck” encouragement of a friend revealed grim determination mixed with compassion. “I will hit him, but I do not want to kill him.”
The combatants waited for an hour and a half on the morning of Sept. 13, 1859 for their seconds to work out the details. Terry lost the coin toss and had to face the rising sun.
Six San Francisco newspapers covered the confrontation, the most famous in California history. Their eyewitness accounts told the riveting story.
“Mr. Broderick lost all presence of mind and trembled,” reported the Eco del Pacific. “Meanwhile, his antagonist remained as immovable as a statue.” That was how the correspondent for The Phare saw it too. “Judge Terry was as cold as a marble statue. Not a muscle of his body moved. Broderick was less collected. His cheeks were flushed.”
The Alta described the fateful exchange. “Mr. Broderick partly raised his arm, when his pistol went off prematurely. Mr. Terry raised his weapon deliberately, covered the breast of his opponent and fired.”
Sen. Broderick collapsed with a mortal wound. He lingered at death’s door for three days before finally passing through.
Overnight the slain senator became the martyr of the northern cause. Suitable last words were put in his mouth: “They have killed me because I was opposed to a corrupt administration and the extension of slavery.”
Since saints do not lose their nerve and fire wildly into the ground, a diabolical plot had to be invented. Broderick was handed a pistol with an unusually sensitive trigger fiendishly designed to go off at the slightest touch. The senator’s two seconds, who examined the weapon, disputed the ridiculous claim in sworn testimony.
In spite of the inquest verdict and his murder trial acquittal, David Smith Terry still stands accused of killing Sen. David Broderick in something less than a fair fight. As recently as 1997, a cable-television documentary on dueling presented the hair-trigger fantasy as fact.
“Secession & Civil War” – newest “Best of This Week in Texas History” collection available for $10.95 plus $3.25 postage and handling from Bartee Haile, P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549 or order on-line at twith.com.
We Are ALL Pelicans: The Harsh Consequences Of Environmental Pollution
Last night I dreamed that I was interviewing Oscar the Grouch. But when I woke up, I discovered that it was only a leg cramp that had caused the dream. Do you know how to cure leg cramps? Here’s how. Use an exercise that physical therapists call “The clam shell.”
Assuming that this evil cramp is in your right leg, then lie down on your left side, thrust your right hip as far to the left as you can go, bend your right leg half-way, and then move your right knee up to the ceiling and down to the bed or floor a few times — like a clam shell opening and closing. Voila. End of cramp.
It’s the sideways motion of your leg that does it. The muscles get confused. They think that they are only spozed to move back and forth, not sideways.
And clams got me to thinking about pelicans and all that oil-spill mess in the Gulf. If someone doesn’t contain that spill soon, our oceans could become hopelessly polluted — and if the oceans lose their ability to breath oxygen into the atmosphere and our oceans die, then you and me will probably die too.
When our oceans’ inability to process oxygen is combined with our disappearing forests’ inability to process oxygen plus our reduced oxygen levels caused by car exhaust, air travel and war machines, then any fool can tell that we humans will soon be in big trouble — not to mention that nobody seems to notice the huge amounts of totally dangerous nuclear waste we are accumulating, along with enough piles, mounds and masses of plastic Coke bottles generated daily to be seen from the moon if they were all in one place.
Am I the only one alive today that notices this stuff?
Anyway, after I woke up from the Oscar the Grouch dream, I got to thinking about pelicans. You know, the ones all covered with oil; the ones with the look in their eyes that says, “What happened? What hit me? Help!” And that “greasy-pelican” look could pretty much become ours soon too, in a shorter amount of time than we would like — covered with pollution, wondering what the freak had happened to us and slowly dying.
Not only that but there are approximately six billion people on the planet right now and each one of us has added at least one plastic bottle per (week, day, month, check one) to the landfill — or what used to be our farmland. Dig into the ground almost anywhere 20 years from now and you won’t hit oil. You’ll hit plastic. And rusted-out old cars. And toxic chemical sludge. And nuclear waste.
Unless something changes drastically in the very near future, in less time than we can imagine, we are all gonna be pelicans too.
PS: Actually, the human race does have one saving grace on the horizon — the end of oil. When we are out of oil in a few decades, at least there won’t be so much carbon dioxide released into the atmosphere any more. Who would have thought that being forced to go back to candlelight, horse-drawn buggies, caissons, cavalry and manual typewriters would be just the ticket to save the human race from extinction?
PPS: I was listening to progressive radio talk-show host Mike Malloy the other day and some right-winger commented that, “If only Ronald Reagan was alive today, he would have searched for an answer to the oil spill problem — and to all of our other problems too.” Dream on, wingnut. The only answers that Ronald Reagan ever searched for involved looking for newer and better and more corrupt ways to make him and his rich buddies even richer.
I’m not sure if I got Mike Malloy’s quote exactly right here or not — because I was too busy cleaning my apartment to take notes. Yes, after all these years I’ve finally found a house-cleaning system that works for me! Every weekday between 6 pm and 8 pm, I listen to Malloy’s radio talk-show on Green 960 AM and clean house. Then I get so angry at all the major Republican neo-con screw-ups he tells us about that I take my anger out on my apartment and actually manage to get stuff cleaned up and/or thrown out.
Next I’m going to take on gardening, another task that I hate, and garden from noon to 3 pm every day while listening to Randy Rhodes — taking my anger out on the weeds.
Currently every kind of right-winger you can imagine is busy telling me that if only America puts Republicans back in office, then they will clean up America’s mess. Not! Republicans and their various rich-dude allies are the very ones who made most of this freaking mess in the first place — as well as getting all us poor sweet victims of their nefarious plans to be all scrambling at each others’ throats while they, like the Beagle Boys, clean out the mint.
It’s like the old “Hair of the dog that bit you” theory I guess — that if we only drink more of the Republican neo-con Kool-Aid that got us drunk in the first place, our hangover from the last batch won’t hurt quite so badly? How naive do they think that we are?
If we really want to clean house in Washington, we should do it while listening to Mike Malloy!
****
Ira Chernus nails it (again). We ALL need to be more patriotic: How do we tie progressive positions on the issues together in a story that is simple (because any successful political narrative must be simple, as Lakoff has taught us) and patriotic, a story that feels profoundly American? How do we fight for control of the symbolic meaning of the flag and the story that it represents?
Empathy is certainly a good place to start. In the now-mythic old rural America, which still sets the tone for successful patriotic narratives, people staunchly guarded their individual freedom; they knew how to take care of themselves (or so the story goes). But even the most rugged individuals recognized that they needed their neighbors’ help from time to time. So, they took care of their neighbors, too. They cared about building up their community. That’s hard-core patriotic language in this country.
Summer Time 2010
Ah, summer, the season of lovely, growing things. Summer’s about to kill me.
All around us, there has been rain, but oh no, not here. We often claim we live in some sort of meteorological black hole. Our weather only sometimes resembles the forecast and rarely matches that of our neighbors. An old high school acquaintance posted on Facebook recently that he was so happy there had been no days over 100 degrees — and here it was the middle of June in Central Texas. HELLO — Our thermometers at strategic spots on various decks and porches have registered as high as 109 — and certainly well over one hundred several afternoons. Like I said, we’re in our own zone. So I spend much time watering. I water the garden. I water the flowers. I water the dog.
Ah, the summer garden. I water. I weed. I pick. I wash. I pinch off bugs and worms. I shell black-eyed peas, cut the “spines” from the spinach leaves. I cook squash. And squash. And squash. Don’t get me wrong. I do love squash. It’s just sort of labor intensive, but not nearly so much as the peas and spinach, which I also find delicious. With all the peelings and scrapings and discarded parts, I’m often tempted to start that compost pile I’ve always threatened. But that would be yet another project demanding my attention, and extra time is something I truly don’t have in the bank.
Soon there will be potatoes to dig, wash, and prepare. And onions. And peppers and okra to pick. And tomatoes. And cucumbers. And cantaloupe. And whatever else I forgot. If I don’t go out to pick the asparagus each and every day and sometimes twice, it turns into little trees before I know it. Asparagus and okra are impatient vegetables. I think sometimes they can grow visibly larger in the time it takes for me to walk from one end of the garden to the other.
Although our plums are barely ripe, our kind, generous neighbors offered me enough of theirs to make two batches of jelly. This was a new experience for me, and one that deserves its own story. (Stay tuned). Soon we will have peaches to freeze and grapes for more jelly — and for wine. I can’t think about that yet. So much work. And hot work to boot!
So for all my trouble, I was stung by something in the garden that burned like fire and now itches uncontrollably. But we’re eating well. At least I am. When Zack is hungry, he’s apt to grab the first thing he sees — or want meat and tomatoes as quickly as possible. I warned him if he didn’t start helping eat some of this squash, a garden would not be on my agenda next year. Although Zack does a huge amount of work plowing, tilling, planting and mowing around the perimeters— it seems he always becomes consumed with some other major project just about the time the garden becomes a real chore. Then the weeding, watering, picking, cleaning and cooking all falls to me. And sometimes the eating — unless I put it in front of him and tell him, “You’ll eat it and you’ll like it.”
The ducks and ducklings flew away when our tank dried up. I guess those babies learned to fly just in time – -and I hope they found another home close by. From what I could see, of their newly discovered navigational skills, they might not have made it very far.
A bird has been feeding her little ones — in one of my hanging baskets. She occupies herself, for hours a day, fussing at one of the cats. And he, in turn, spends an inordinate amount of time staring at her and the little “peepers” in the nest. It isn’t the first time a bird had chosen this particular piece of real estate for a home.
The dog seems to need more attention in this weather. He certainly has more baths. I’ve found a trick to keep him still while I shampoo and rinse him with the hose I will share this with you because I’m a true humanitarian. I discovered quite by accident last year that if he has one of those chewy stick things in his mouth, he’ll stand stock still for the entire ordeal until I release him to shake off and enjoy his treat. Other than the drooling, it’s a minor miracle. You’re welcome.
The humans around here need more showers in the summer time too. Spending most of our time outdoors and with the kinds of “job descriptions” there are here, we always seem to be hot, dirty or both. I’m grateful we don’t live in the desert. We might think it’s dry here, but I know for a fact it can be worse.
I also discovered that I can keep the dog still much more easily for his “pedicure” if I sing to him. If you ever heard my voice, you might think he’s betting I’ll stop sooner if he’s still and we get it over with quickly. I prefer to think he’s the only one who truly appreciates my dulcet tones.
Have a lovely, HOT week everyone. Remember the sun block and drink plenty of fluids!
Coaching Kids Starts With Jelly Donuts
As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not very athletic. I made this realization in the third grade, when I was knocked unconscious 32 times playing dodge ball. After that first game, I remember waking up in the nurse’s office and being told of a special program for “gifted” athletes who were so special they got to wear a football helmet during recess. Of course, I eventually figured out there was no “special program,” and openly expressed my feelings of betrayal when I slammed my helmet on the desk of my high school counselor.
After which I was taken to the hospital with a broken finger.
I live with the memory of being an unathletic child on a daily basis. Particularly when I look in the mirror and see a man whose head still fits into a third-grade football helmet. For this reason, when my daughter asked me to coach her fourth-grade basketball team, I smiled, took her hand, and began faking a seizure. I panicked at the thought of providing guidance to a team of fourth-grade girls, any one of whom could take me to the hole. This includes my daughter, who has inherited a recessive “athletic” gene I call the “monkey factor” because, apparently, it leaps entire family trees.
Of course, none of this mattered to my daughter; she just wanted Dad to coach her team. Knowing this attitude would eventually change (possibly by the end of our first practice), I made the decision to put aside my own petty fears and be her team’s coach. In addition, I also put aside some petty cash for psychological treatment later.
To prepare myself as coach, I read books about fundamental basketball skills. I talked with other coaches. I installed a tiny basketball hoop over the trashcan in my office. Before long, I had gained confidence knowing that with hard work and determination, someone would be able to undo the damage I was doing.
For our first practice, we worked on free throws and lay-ups. I chose these areas because, as everyone knows, they are the most common — and easiest ways — of scoring a basket.
Unless you are me.
As it turns out, repeatedly sending a wad of paper through a six-inch hoop over your trashcan doesn’t mean you’ll be able to sink a regulation basketball from the free throw line. Particularly if your entire team and most of its parents are watching, in some cases using phone cameras to send live images to friends while laughing hysterically. Confident that I had taught my team an important lesson in determination, humility, and the value of having a “shared minutes” plan, we moved on to lay-ups. It was at this point I asked parents to please put their phone cameras away. In addition to the distraction it was causing, there were also safety issues to consider since many parents had now moved under the backboard to get a better angle.
When practice ended a week later (okay, but it felt like a week) we joined hands and reached an important understanding as a team:
The coach has no “game.”
Apparently, my players don’t see this as a problem. What matters to them most is if I can be trusted, as their coach, to coordinate the snack rotation. I assured them I could, and things have gone well ever since.
They bring “game,” I bring jelly donuts.
And my helmet.
Just in case there’s a loose ball.
(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439.)
CENTRAL TEXAS POLITICS: Toll Roads Planned for MoPac (LOOP 1)
“Some Things Never Change
“Mismanagement, special interest pandering, corruption, hidden agendas, misuse of tax dollars and abuse of power continue to run rampant in Texas. It is politics as usual.
There are plans to build two adjacent “managed” lanes, a.k.a., toll lanes, that will tax Texans to drive on the new lanes. Here we have another stupid and costly idea to benefit the wealthy. We need fewer roadways, not more. We need legislators to use available tax dollars more wisely, NOT provide private roadways for the wealthy and to generate more revenue to spend foolishly on other special interest issues.
The plan is just pandering to the wealthy who can afford to drive on their own private roadway, while TxDOT continues to let the “free” (already paid for with taxes) MoPac roadway crumble into further ruin and additional overcrowding.
This simply is Texas politics as it has been for the past several decades. We are being told that the planned toll lanes MAY alleviate congestion in the near future. Toll costs will be “manipulated” to higher costs during hours of increased traffic. Will the tolls be removed after the new lanes have been paid for, say in 100 years? Currently there is no plan to eliminate the tolls and no idea when the lanes will have been paid for.
There are better ways to improve, maintain and repair MoPac and to widen it. It is time to stop diverting gas tax revenues to other special interests and to allow the gas tax to increase proportionately with cost of living adjustments. The gas tax has been frozen for more than 1 decade and legislators continue to divert the gas tax revenue to other interests instead of using the tax dollars to build and maintain our roadways, as was intended.
Too many priorities remain askew here in Central Texas. Soon, there will be many more toll roads built throughout Texas. It is how most things are done, here in Texas, in Washington D.C. and across the nation. Working for the entire community good is forgotten and pushed aside. It really is time to change this attitude and political process especially at our Texas level.
I believe one way to initiate appropriate change is to vote out most incumbents in the next several years of elections, from Gov. Rick Perry on down the line through the Senate and House and down to local government. Perhaps after a while of “voting-out” the special interest motivated, do-little elected and appointed “leaders” we may be able to get back on-track to working in the community’s best interests. I sincerely hope that Texans will get to the polls and do this.
Peter Stern, a former director of information services, university professor and public school administrator, is a disabled Vietnam veteran who lives in Driftwood, Texas.
Commission Sets Sights On CIA, Pentagon Human Experimentation
Surviving & Prospering in the New Economy
FLORIDA – Organizers today announced the formation of the North American Truth and Accountability Commission for Human Experimentation (NATAC). The Commission, nearly eight months in the making, was first proposed after a number of people had read the recently published book by H.P. Albarelli Jr., “A TERRIBLE MISTAKE: The Murder of Frank Olson and the CIA’s Secret Cold War Experiments.” Albarelli’s book details a number of shocking human experiments conducted during the Cold War years. Following a number of meetings in Los Angeles and New York City to discuss both past and on-going human experiments sponsored by the government, it was proposed that a formal commission be formed to further research government-sponsored human experimentation in the United States and Canada and to advocate for the demise of all such programs.
Founding members of the Commission include: H.P. Albarelli Jr., investigative journalist and writer; Charles Bonner, Esq., attorney and author; Vincent Bugliosi, attorney and author; Bruce Caukin, activist and teacher; Judy L. Chucker, graduate student; Kelly Porter Franklin, full time researcher; Helen Garland, CEO, Earth Society; Thomas Kiely, New York talk show host; Dr. Lianne Leedom, psychiatrist and author; David Lincoln, geo-engineer and author; Steve Meyer, activist; Mark Crispin Miller, Professor at NYU and author; Edward Peck, former ambassador to Iraq; William Pepper, Human Rights Attorney; Melinda Pillsbury-Foster, author and talk show host; Jason Rimes, entrepreneur; Melissa Roddy, director of CONFLICT OF INTEREST, a series of short films on Afghanistan; Dr. Collin Ross, Founder and President of the Colin A. Ross Institute for Psychological Trauma; Connie Ruffley, CEO, United Republicans of California; Vera Hassner Sharav, M.L.S., Human Rights Advocate, founder and president of the Alliance for Human Research Protection; Lynn Schirmer, web designer; David Swanson, Founder, War is Crime; Jennifer Van Bergen, J.D., M.S.I.E., investigative journalist, author; Dr. Margot White, professor of bioethics, human rights activist, writer; and Richard Yensen, Ph.D. and Dr. Donna Dryer, Directors, Orenda Institute. The group sates that all Commissioners are drawn from all political viewpoints and many walks of life to provide the Commission with a depth of viewpoints and so to avoid the myopia, which too often accompanies investigations.
NATAC’s principle objectives are to research, investigate, present, examine, publicize, expose, and eventually, hopefully, to resolve the CIA’s and Department of Defense’s past and present illegal human experimentation programs involving North American citizens and military service men and women. By ‘resolve’ the Commission means “to reach closure on prior experimentation with unwitting humans by putting an end to all illegal and unethical human experimentation by government entities.”
NATAC will also explore and investigate human experiments conducted overseas by entities of the U.S. and Canadian governments, either jointly or separately, as well as investigating current torture activities and programs as related to experimentation.
Asked about the formation of the Commission, member and media relations contact for the group, Tom Kiely said, “The truth and accountability process, most notably and partially modeled on the successful efforts of South Africa, Latin America and Greensboro, North Carolina, is designed to examine and learn from a series of divisive and horrible events and incidents conducted in the past, and still conducted today, in order to build the foundation for a more ethical and humane future where human rights are regarded as essential to all facets of government operations.” Kiely stated, “The truth and reconciliation process, used extensively and quite successfully in countries where people experienced officially sanctioned trauma, has developed into an effective tool and strategy for dealing with war crimes, state sponsored torture, violence and other human rights abuses.”
The Commission’s approach seeks ‘restorative justice,’ which differs from the customary adversarial and retributive justice. The truth, accountability and reconciliation process seeks to heal by uncovering all pertinent facts, exposing lies, and allowing for acknowledgment, as well as appropriate private or public mourning, meaningful corrective action, restitution, and healing.
States the Commission’s charter: “By demanding accountability we bifurcate the role of individuals, who enabled human experimentation and torture for their own reasons, and confront their justification and immunization through government. We call into question the power of government to engage in acts, which violate the principles America was founded to affirm. Human experimentation and torture violate both our founding and our very humanity. By so doing the acts covertly carried out by the CIA and Pentagon, in coordination with and support of, select private entities and institutions, destroyed the integrity of American government, shredded the Constitution, violating the inborn rights of countless individuals. “
Said founding member H.P. Albarelli Jr.: “We, as a Commission, are ever mindful of the past and present horrors that have been and are committed in the name of the State. We are vehemently opposed to these horrors and do not see our opposition as being political or partisan in any way. I believe our opposition to human experimentation is a natural and proper human response that has nothing to do with political parties, religions, alliances, or beliefs. Reconciliation is a fundamental goal of the Commission, but before there can be reconciliation there must be truth, and then a sincere, serious, heartfelt intention on all sides to make things right by ensuring that such acts are never repeated.”
Commission spokesperson Melinda Pillsbury-Foster said, “The Commission’s organizing committee is finalizing the form its inquiry will take, and the Commission will be active and proceeding with its work beginning August 1st. The Commission will then delve into the many specific instances where government-sponsored human experimentation has and is taking place for the purposes of naming those involved, and who have profited, provided cover, and other issues, which now remain unanswered.”
Participation and dissemination of information will take place through the Internet, allowing many more people to be involved through the website, which is located at: www.northamericantruth.org.
Why Europe Will Never Let Iran Get Bombed…
Has Europe just been appointed Iran’s designated driver? Is Europe going to keep Iran from getting bombed? And, more important, can Europe take away America’s and Israel’s car keys as well? Yes, yes, and yes.
Let’s talk realistically here. The various corporatists and neo-cons who have seized control of the military decision-making processes in both America and Israel have been making a lot of strong noises lately to the effect that they really really want to attack Iran. Sober up here, guys! Get a grip. You seem to have carefully isolated yourselves — and also your backup crew of citizen right-wingers — from all too many of the realities and facts on the ground that are readily available to the rest of the world.
http://jpstillwater.blogspot.com/2010/07/why-europe-will-never-let-iran-get.html
Has Europe just been appointed Iran’s designated driver? Is Europe going to keep Iran from getting bombed? And, more important, can Europe take away America’s and Israel’s car keys as well? Yes, yes, and yes.
Let’s talk realistically here. The various corporatists and neo-cons who have seized control of the military decision-making processes in both America and Israel have been making a lot of strong noises lately to the effect that they really really want to attack Iran. Sober up here, guys! Get a grip. You seem to have carefully isolated yourselves — and also your backup crew of citizen right-wingers — from all too many of the realities and facts on the ground that are readily available to the rest of the world.
For instance, did you know that people in Europe view the Israel-Palestine situation from a very different perspective than most Americans do? Almost everyone in Europe has been pretty much disgusted by the American-backed Israeli neo-cons’ failed 2006 invasion of Lebanon, its brutal 2009 invasion of Gaza and its recent viscous attack on the internationally-sponsored humanitarian flotilla to Gaza.
Knowing this, what makes Israel’s and America’s corporatist decision-makers think that Europe (and also Russia, China, etc.) is going to welcome an invasion of Iran with open arms? Not gonna happen!
Further, by isolating and restricting our major media to the point where it mainly prints opinions that corporatists in Washington want to hear, Americans and Israelis may be cutting off their own noses in order to spite their face with regard to Iran.
At this point, the media war for America’s hearts and minds needs a serious reality check. Otherwise, Americans may find themselves once again swimming out into the deep end of the pool at their own peril — just like what happened in Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq.
Won’t someone please take our military-industrial complex’s car keys away! They may think that they are sober — but in reality they have drank far too much of the “Endless War” Kool-Aid and are in NO condition to drive. Europe knows this. But apparently we Americans do not.
It seems that if corporatists, neo-cons and right-wingers don’t like reality, they try to make it disappear. And the main difficulty with this approach to reality is that we the people are getting suckered into situations that we might normally avoid like the plague. However, trying to convince Europe, Russia, South America and Asia to go along with these war plans against Iran may turn out to be a hard sell indeed.
And there’s another major factor involved in this facts-on-the-ground equation as well — unlike Iraq and Afghanistan (and to some extent Palestine), many Europeans, Asians, etc. have actually BEEN to Iran.
Who the freak went to Iraq before Shock and Awe? Hardly anyone. Saddam Hussein’s Iraq was not exactly some hot new tourist destination. And tourists hardly ever went to Afghanistan — except for perhaps a few hippies with wanderlust back in the 1960s. But. What Americans and Israelis apparently don’t comprehend or understand is that Iran is a major tourist attraction — for both Europeans and Asians. Think Egypt and the pyramids. Think Taj Mahal. Iran is to Europe what the Grand Canyon or the Great Wall of China is to us. A major tourist hotspot!
So while a huge number of Americans still think that Iran is filled with sand and camel jockeys and harems, most Europeans and more than a handful of Asians have been there, done that. They know, for instance, that Tehran is the Paris of the Near East. They know that the ruins at Persepolis rival the ruins at Karnak. And they know that Estafan’s grand palaces and mosques can easily compete with the coliseum and Vatican in Rome. And Europeans flock to Iran by the tens of thousands annually.
Europeans have been there. Americans have not. You can tell Americans ANYTHING about Iran and they will believe it. You can’t tell Europeans diddly-squat about Iran — because they have actually been there themselves.
For this reason alone, I’m willing to bet the farm that Europeans will never let Iran get bombed.
PS: And I’ve been to Iran too. Here’s Part One of my report on the wonders of Iran. “Iran never disappoints.”
****
Innocents Abroad: On the Road in Iran
October 8, 2008: “I have no idea what to wear to Iran,” I whined. I’d heard stories of women actually being executed there for not covering themselves from head to toe.
“Don’t worry about that,” said an Iranian-American friend. “Just wear long sleeves, long dresses and a headscarf and you’ll be fine.” But I don’t even own any dresses. Crap. This is going to be like dressing up for a trip to the moon. I’m totally out of my cultural depth.
“It’s just not that big a deal,” said my friend. But it is. All I ever wear these days are jeans and T-shirts. Jeans and T-shirts. That’s it. “Jane, get a grip. Jeans are made of cloth. Dresses are made of cloth. Same difference. You’ll do fine.”
But still I worry. I’m not worried about going to Iran during a time-period where that idiot George Bush is threatening to bomb it and being there when the bunker-busters drop. And I’m definitely not worried about getting any tourist diseases over there. No, I’m all worried about clothes and I’m also worried about getting a ticket from the fashion police for looking like a dork.
“Jane,” said my friend, “you went on Hajj and spent a whole month in Mecca. You visited Afghanistan. You even stayed on in Palestine. And you loved every moment. You’ll like Iran as well.” Will I? I’m going to find out tomorrow. I’m leaving tomorrow for Tehran.
October 9, 2008: It’s 4:00 am in the morning, our jet plane is somewhere over Iceland, I just watched a re-run of a movie I saw last spring when I flew to China, I’m uber-tired and I’m stuck in a middle seat with no legroom – but other than that this has been a very smooth flight. I haven’t been reduced to total terror so far.
The man in the seat to my right – 35F – is from Monte Negro and he just gave me a capsulated rundown on the Serbo-Croatian war. “Serbs, Croats and Monte Negrans all speak dialects of the same language,” he added, “but the people from Kosovo speak Albanian, which is a language unto itself.”
“What’s Monte Negro like now?”
“We have a lot of beaches. It’s a tourist destination and we have hydropower and aluminum. Tito was in charge when I was a boy. There wasn’t all that much freedom of speech like there is now but we had excellent free education and healthcare.” Trade-offs.
The woman on my left – 35D – was from India and remembered the days before the partition. “Hindu and Urdu are also similar languages,” she said. I didn’t know that.
Both my seatmates had lived through civil wars. “I spent the entire duration of the Serbo-Croatian war in Russia,” said the Monte Negran, “and the United States.” Good thinking. Avoiding a war zone is always a good idea.
There’s a kind of fugue state generated by flying and I am now definitely in that zone. If I read any of what I wrote here later, will it make sense? Probably not.
After we landed in Frankfurt, a bus came out to our 747 and drove us for about a mile to the terminal, past a very long flight line. “How many wide-bodies do they have in this place!” I exclaimed to the Indian lady.
“Maybe 50?” Or more – all bearing the name “Lufthansa”. Some were being driven from place to place like they were cars. Others sat parked in long parking-lot lines, like they were waiting around for their owners to get back from the mall and drive them home. “Aren’t they pretty!” someone said. Yes.
Then I trundled off to my free Sheraton Hotel dayroom, soaked in a nice long hot bath and slept for five hours. Heavenly – except for the dream. The dregs of society were down by the waterfront planning a wedding. One woman-man had a tongue made of metal and the end of his-her tongue had rusted off. Eeuuww.
Meanwhile back on the plane to Tehran…. We saw a lot of cartoons. “Why are we watching children’s shows?” said a member of our group that I had met at the Frankfurt airport gate lounge while waiting for our flight.
“Because Iranians love cartoons.” Interesting. We watched Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and the Little Mermaid. Since when does the Little Mermaid pass the dress code?
There were two wonderful babies on the plane. More and more, I’ve been noticing wonderful babies – of all races, cultures and creeds. Maybe I just started noticing wonderful babies because of my wonderful granddaughter – or maybe more wonderful babies are being born because there is a greater need in the world now for wonderful babies than there ever has been before. Perhaps they will all grow up and save the world.
We have one hour and eleven minutes before we arrive in Tehran. Is it time to start putting my headscarf on yet?
I met up with the rest of my tour group at Gate 22 of the Frankfurt airport. They all seem very nice – three younger women, several women my age and a middle-aged couple. There’s supposed to be one more man but I haven’t met him yet.
“Do you have a copy of the itinerary?” I asked one of the women my age.
“Sure. We’ll be flying to the northern part of Iran and then driving back down south.” Oh goodie! We’ll get to see a lot of the countryside and not just Tehran. “Yadz, Persepolis, Esfahan.” Tourist hotspots and famous archeological digs. Cyrus and Alexander were here. I may have accidentally stumbled onto the trip of a lifetime – besides Egypt of course…and maybe India. Manchu Picchu? The Potola in Tibet? Shut up, Jane.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very important announcement,” said the stewardess. “All women are required to cover their heads so we ask you to put on headscarves before we land in Tehran.” So I ran to the toilet area to put on my long skirt and coat-dress — and the plane started rocking and the “return to seat” light started flashing and the stewardess kept saying, “Return to your seats,” and there I was, halfway in and halfway out of my costume and bouncing around the toilet compartment and muttering “Oh crap!”
But when I got back to my seat, the Iranian men I had befriended on the flight all smiled and cheered and I was a big hit – except for the man next to me who got all nauseous and rang for the stewardess and was going to throw up – hopefully not because of me.
I’m so glad my daughter Ashley isn’t here. She’d laugh her head off at the sight of me in a skirt. But at least in all the excitement of me coming out of my cocoon as an Iranian butterfly, I forgot to be terrified of the turbulence.
After we got through customs, only our group was made to wait and wait and wait. “Sometimes they hold Americans at the airport for three or four hours – in revenge for all the waiting that Iranian citizens have to go through at American airports.” But as we waited all alone in the now-deserted airport, I noticed that the immigration department computers all had Windows XP screen savers and we were waiting next to a Panasonic advertizing sign.
And then the customs police brought me a chair.
Boy did I misunderestimate the temperatures here. Once we got through customs, the fresh cold air hit us hard – freaking San Francisco weather. I’ve packed the wrong clothes.
“117 million people live in Tehran proper,” said our new guide, “and an additional 22 million live in Greater Tehran. And the airport is one hour’s drive from the downtown .” We climbed onto the bus. It’s now 3:00 am, Iran time.
Our four-star hotel room had all the amenities – hot water, a bed, towels, sheets, cockroaches.
October 11, 2008: “Good morning!” said my new roommate. How does one civilly reply to something like that at 7:00 am after getting only three hours of sleep? I am so freaking tired.
I guess from my first impressions that the only difference between Iran and other places in Europe and America is that the women here wear headscarves and blouses that come down past their hips. But that’s about it. I could be sitting in any other hotel in the world.
“People in Iran are overly polite – that’s the big difference between Iranians and Americans,” said our guide. “In that respect, we are more like the Japanese.” Oh, and you CAN brush your teeth with the tap water.
“We just got word that we will not be meeting with a prominent ayatollah as planned,” said our guide. “He is not feeling well.”
Much to my surprise, everyone here wears western clothes and hardly anyone is in full Muslim drag.
“American dollars are getting stronger in Iran right now so you are lucky,” said our guide, “and a lot of people here actually take dollars.” And apparently inflation has hit here hard in the last year. “The price of eggs has doubled and housing costs three times as much.” The inflation rate is around 500%. Wow. “Gas used to be 40 cents a gallon but now it is 40 cents per liter, and living in Tehran is very expensive. A lot of people work two or three jobs.” The wives work as well as the husbands.
The first stop on our tour was the archeological museum, built in the 1930s as part of a plan to stop the looting of archeological treasures by western collectors. “This museum covers the period of the fifth millennium BC to the seventh century AD – the pre-Islamic period.”
Iran is four times the size of Iraq – which is the size of California. “Iran is approximately one-fourth to one-third the size of the United States, excluding Alaska. The name ‘Iran’ is derived from the word ‘Aryan,’ the people who migrated down from the area which is now Russia. Our national history starts from around 1900 BC, when the Aryans came and subjugated the local people. Cyrus the Great is a descendant of the original Aryans.” And they call all white people Caucasians because that’s the area where the Aryans originally came from, so Americans, European and Iranians all come from the same stock.
“Iranians are basically Caucasians – but because we are located at such a geographical crossroads, we have all kinds of ethnic diversity too.” Aryans, Semites and even Mongols. Then we saw a lot of paleolithic stuff at the museum. That stuff was OLD.
“There’s a museum in Chicago that has more Persian antiquities than this one,” said one tour group member. Still and all, this stuff is nice. Plus it gives us a taste of what we have to look forward to at Persepolis – lots of statues of impressive-looking bearded guys.
I didn’t see many statues of women here. “The role of women in the Middle East has always been secondary, not just since Islam.” I guess that’s right. With a few notable exceptions, Jewish women were secondary to their men in the Middle East back in biblical times, and even look what happened to Mary Magdalene when she stepped out of her place — she got called a whore.
Back on the bus, we passed two churches on our way to a ceramics museum. My idea of a good museum is one that has places to sit down. This one had lots of chairs.
“These necklaces date back to the fourth millennium BC.” Even then, human beings appreciated art. I gotta start appreciating art too. Human beings create art – it’s what distinguishes us from beasts. Less bombs, more art. Let’s spend the Pentagon’s budget on teaching people to paint, draw, write and play the violin instead. Iran and Israel could have a battle of the bands. May the best poet win. There is a peaceful quality about museums. Then I accidentally sat in the museum guard’s chair – but he was extremely gracious about it.
What’s next? Lunch. “We are going to one of a chain of restaurants that serve traditional Iranian food.” Mostly stews. Ours was a stew composed of extract of pomegranate, walnuts, vegetables, dried lemon and kidney beans, served with plain rice. Then we got to talking about fast food. “People here really like fast food – burgers and pizza.”
“Is there a McDonalds?”
“No, but we do have Coca-Cola.” So much for sanctions. I had a Sprite. Someone else had a pseudo-Red Bull. My Sprite can said, “Canned under authority of the Coca-Cola Company.”
Apparently traditional Iranian food includes chicken pasta salad. “And this dish is fried onions, tomatoes and lamb.” Then the shish kebob came! And dates and macaroons for dessert. “Is lunch or dinner the main meal of the day?” I asked.
“Every meal is the main meal of the day.” My kind of people.
Then we got into a discussion about headscarves. There are advantages and disadvantages regarding the treatment of Islamic women. “We sacrifice some things yet we also receive more respect,” said one Iranian woman. In one way I like the headscarves because they grip my skull and keep my brains from rattling around in my head.
When people found out that Americans were at the restaurant, it took on a festive atmosphere as diners from other tables came over and offered us food. “Try this yogurt. Try these olives!” Sure. I wonder what the poor schmucks who think Iran is such a horrible place are doing right now? Probably just stuck at home at McDonalds.
I can see the direction this trip is going in. Once I get back from Iran, I may never have to eat again.
“Next we are going to the jewelry museum. An 18th century corrupt shah was so busy with his harem that the Afghans were able to invade. But then a new shah came to power and kicked the Afghans out and got back the treasury that the Afghans had seized – plus a lot more.” That’s where we are going now – to view the gold and gems once owned by this shah. I’m definitely up for looking at gold.
“The jewels exhibited here,” said our guide, “are priceless.” Imagine a huge underground vault filled with hundreds of thousands of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, gold and other shiny stuff – worth trillions of dollars.
“Are any of the people who owned this still alive?”
“No, all of them are dead.” There’s a moral here – that even a treasure-house full of jewels won’t make you immortal. Deep, huh.
“Do any of the current Iranian state leaders wear any of these jewels?”
“They wouldn’t dare. Their reputations would be ruined.” But there were so many thousands of diamonds that they just seemed like rhinestones, paste and glass beads after a while.
“Diamonds used to be the most valuable stone,” said our guide, “but they are still mining diamonds – whereas there are no more rubies left to be mined and so now rubies are five times more valuable.”
Then we went off to buy Islamic dresses. Islamic dresses basically look like overcoats. We all had fun trying them on but the ones that were stylish cost over $50 and the cheap ones didn’t fit at all and were ugly. I finally found a black cotton one for $25 that wasn’t too bad, if a little bit tight. Hey, it had pockets. I look like a sausage. But it was fun shopping for it and I can always move over the buttons.
October 12, 2008: My roommate and I really get along well outside our hotel room but once in our room we (politely) fight about everything – what time to set the alarm for, whether or not to open the window, what speed to set the air conditioning on, when to turn out the light and even where to put the toilet paper roll. Weird. Plus she snores a lot and I certainly don’t want to be the one to tell her that.
Right now, all my extra money is going to the hotel’s internet café. The Iranian government denies me access tohttp://smirkingchimp.com and http://TruthOut.com but gives me access to http://opednews.com. That’s strange. All three sites offer the same articles and all three sites worked their little hearts out to prevent Bush from attacking Iran. I submitted an appeal to whoever manages this kind of stuff to unblock the sites.
I wonder what we are going to do today? I need to buy some T-shirts. I packed five skirts and dresses that I will never use but not enough T-shirts to wear under my manteau (that’s what they call these overcoat dresses here).
Our hotel is one block away from the Petroleum Ministry. That probably contains more gold than the jewelry museum.
“In a few minutes we are going to pass the former U.S. embassy. You are not allowed to take photos.” But mostly it was just a view of a wall, you couldn’t see the embassy itself, nothing strategic. But I figured it was okay to take pictures of the wall. It had lots of anti-American phrases and murals that had been done back in the 1970s and were now almost the only place in Tehran that you could see anti-American slogans. “Iran will outlast the American superpower,” said one section of the wall. At this point that might not be very hard to do. The reports on BBC News this morning about the American economy were really bad.
Then we drove through the old Armenian quarter. It looked like the Lower East Side of New York City.
“Tehran is 4500 feet above sea level. The population went from 3.5 million in 1978 to 17 million now, creating a population boom as people streamed into Tehran searching for jobs and creating large ghettos and sections of poverty. Plus over a million people died in the Iran-Iraq war, which also affected Tehran because people came here to be safe.”
To the east of the city, high mountains suddenly rise. I know that the mountains are in the east because I always carry a compass – but you know that I still always manage to get lost.
“We are now going to a palace complex that belonged to the former shah. The closer you get to the mountains, the more expensive the neighborhoods get.” Lots of 20- and 30-story condo towers – with helicopter pads on their roofs. “A two-bedroom condo in this area goes for a million dollars. There is a lot of construction going on and, unlike in the USA right now, housing is still a lucrative business here.”
Iran has 30 provinces but Tehran is the most popular place to live at. “They are trying to transfer the capital to Esfahan to lower the congestion here but that move is still in the works.” Then I got the sneezes from all that air conditioning last night.
“You can find the best-paying jobs in Tehran but you have to spend more to live here.”
Then we passed through a lovely tree-lined boulevard. “It is not allowed to cut down trees in Iran. There’s a $20,000 fine. This street is the Champs de Elysees of Tehran.”
We passed some Starbucks wannabes here, only they had changed the name to “Starcups”. Many brand-name stores are coming to Iran now, such as Versace and Baskin Bobbins. “Tehran is not an ancient city, only about 200 years old.” We will try to see three palaces today. King Reza, the founder of this dynasty, had four wives. And his son, the last Shah, had three wives. The last shah had 18 palaces but we are only going to see three of them. And after the palaces, we are going to go shopping at Nordstrom’s.”
Tourist buses were lined up at the palace entrance and little girls in lavender cupcake uniforms sat on the steps of one of the palaces and said good morning to us in English. Third graders.
Then I tripped over nothing, fell flat on my face and screwed up my left ankle. Crap. It really hurts. I feel like a horse that needs to be taken out and shot. “Are you okay, Jane?” No. But, hey, I tripped on the same path that one of the cruelest dictators in the whole world used to walk on daily.
Next we went to a museum for the paintings of Mahmoud Farsachian. My initial reaction was “kitsch” – but technically well-executed kitsch. I’m such a snob. I couldn’t have possibly drawn or painted any of his stuff. Would I hang any of his work in my home? Sure. I’ve already inherited about 20 other kitsch paintings from my mom. These would fit right in.
Then we found a restroom with options besides a squat toilet. And the men’s side was cleaner than the women’s, giving me a whole new respect for Iranian men. Men’s rooms in America suck eggs.
Then we went off and got our photos taken in ancient Persian dresses while sitting in front of a Cinderella-style carriage that used to belong to a shah. I think. And then we toured the last shah’s palace with a group of Korean tourists and the women in the group wore the most beautiful headscarves, all covered with sequins. The shah had a lot of fabulous Persian rugs.
Then we went off to the Black Palace which is now an art museum. Lots of stairs, no chairs.
“These are paintings of Persian nobility from the 17th century.” I’d hang any one of these in my home any time. I loved them. Who ARE these people? And where do they shop?
One portrait showed two young men, six young women and an old lady, fondling each other. “Back in those times, relations between women were not uncommon and were considered normal.” Why not? There was probably nothing else to do in the harem.
And that was our day, spent flitting through the palaces of the former shah. Back on the bus. “About 60 years ago, you wouldn’t see any houses around here, only lawns, gardens and trees.”
Time for lunch.
We drove up a winding street up on the hillside of the poshest part of town. “That home there costs 25 million.” Dollars. This is the Beverly Hills of Tehran. “Here is our restaurant.” Men sat outdoors on carpets. We sat outdoors too, under trees, in a garden – but not, thankfully, on the floor. Barley soup, eggplant anti-pasta with dill sour cream – just for starters. I’m already full. Lamb kebabs, chicken, potatoes, dates and tea.
Then we went off to an upscale mall. Not quite Rodeo Drive – but close. “Don’t think of this as window shopping,” I told someone in our group. “Think of this as anthropology!” Exploring how the Tehran upper class lives. Incredibly stylish ways to wear black dresses of course, but also Dior, Tommy Hilfiger, Benetton, Yves St. Laurent, Givenchy, Mont Blanc, D-Squared and Elle! I was all in a daze.
I also found an ATM machine at the mall. Good. I was running out of money and had $200 less than I thought I had. But my card was rejected. “This machine will not accept your card.”
“Where can I get money?” I asked one of our guides.
“There’s no place that you can get money from America here.” Wow. The banking and credit system has gotten THAT bad? The dollar has sunken that low? “No, it’s just that there are no commercial ties between Iran and America.” Tell that to Coca-Cola and Tommy Hilfiger.
“What about Western Union?” I’d seen a Western Union sign near our hotel.
“Yes, you could do that.” But how?
“No tourist has ever been killed here in the past 200 years,” someone said. Good to know — but not surprising. Tehran is an extremely civilized town. I wonder, however, if any tourists have ever died of starvation due to access to an ATM machine. And I also wonder if I will have enough money to be able to buy a soccer jersey for Ashley or a doll for baby Mena. And maybe a small Persian rug for Joe?
One Iranian explained the gas situation to me. “We don’t have that many gas stations here so there are always long lines. Some people get up at 3:00 am to buy gas. And it’s rationed too. And if you don’t have a ration card, gas costs four times as much.”
Then we went off to a carpet museum. I’m assuming that they have a bathroom.
“There are two different types of carpets: Tribal rugs and urban rugs.” They showed us a rug from 500 BC. Awesome. A whole museum full of carpets. I wonder how many people went blind weaving these rugs?
“Urban rugs are more valuable if they are perfect but flaws in tribal rugs are acceptable, even expected.” Persian-type knots, natural dyes. “144 knots per (something, I didn’t hear what, perhaps inch?) is the highest amount you can get.” And it is illegal to import Chinese rugs into Iran. Then we looked at the rugs themselves. They were stunning, impressive. But I still like my little prayer rug better. It’s been in my purse since 2005, followed me everywhere, been around the world with me, kept me company. Just like the nomadic rugs.
Next stop – the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, featuring an exhibit by art instructors in some of the local colleges and design schools. Nice building. Nice exhibit. My feet hurt. Can I go back to the hotel and use the internet yet?
“None of this stuff is political,” someone commented, “and none of it reflects the horrors of the Iran-Iraq war.” I get the opinion that almost everyone in Tehran is trying to forget it.
The sofas in the museum are incredibly soft – but hard to get out of. So I sat in the one by the door, waited for someone in our group to walk by and pull me out of the sofa, and listened to an Iranian Muzak version of “Sketches of Spain”. I used to listen to Miles Davis’s version of that in college back in 1963. I’d play it again and again – that and a whole ton of Joan Baez – and now I am sitting here listening to it in Iran.
Then we went off to a park where I saw the first man I have seen since I got here who was wearing a thobe — the traditional Middle Eastern white nightgown worn by men. “That isn’t a typical Persian item,” said a guide, “and, also, Tehran is such a new city that everyone here wears Western garb except the mullahs. That man was probably a Pakistani.”
This park actually has park benches! Whew! And we also found a bunch of Nautilus-like exercise machines. And I got to sit down on the stationary bike.
Speaking of exercise, someone here told me that, “The girls in Iran eat very little until they get married and then after that….” The day after the wedding day they say goodbye to their diets.
(To be continued when I get back from the Netroots Nation convention in Las Vegas at the end of July)
****
Here’s my ad for chickens on Craig’s List (guess I’m not very maternal after all): I just got three little chickens at the county fair. They are totally sweet — and are hens so they won’t crow. But I have to go off to Las Vegas to the Netroots Nation convention next week and can’t find anyone to take care of them while I’m gone. Would you like some urban chickens all of your own? They will (eventually) lay eggs and eat your snails!
Jumping Through Hoops
Are you tired of the way nominees are grilled by Senators before they get the job? Well, get used to it. Because of today’s economy, an employer can subject prospective employees to just about any kind of interview. I managed to acquire a transcript of one of these interviews – I’m not saying I got it from a Russian spy at a kid’s soccer game last Saturday — and I have printed it below. It is the story of a young woman who has applied for a cashier’s job at a neighborhood super pharmacy.
HERBERT BARRINGTON: Mrs. Coogan, on behalf of management, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to sit down with us to answer a few questions.
ELLEN COOGAN: You’re quite welcome, Mr. Barrington, but it’s Ms. Coogan, not Mrs.
ROGER MARSHALL: And representing labor, I’d like to welcome you too, Ms. Coogan.
COOGAN: Thank you, Mr. Marshall.
BARRINGTON: When you say you like to be referred to as Ms., is that just because you have no respect for traditional marriage, or have you decided to never get married?
COOGAN: I’ve never been married, but what does this have to do with the job?
BARRINGTON: So you hate men?
COOGAN: I don’t hate men. I just haven’t gotten married yet. I’m only 22.
BARRINGTON: What are you suggesting? That my 21-year-old daughter got married because she was pregnant?
COOGAN: I didn’t say that.
BARRINGTON: (MUMBLING ALMOST TO HIMSELF) We sell condoms in our own stores. She had to know that. She used to work here in the summers.
MARSHALL: Mr. Barrington.
BARRINGTON: (COMING OUT OF HIS OWN WORLD) Uh, yes. How do you feel about the rubber thumb issue?
COOGAN: I beg your pardon.
BARRINGTON: Many cashiers wear rubber thumbs over their God-given, real thumbs so they can separate bills more easily for counting. How do you feel about this practice?
COOGAN: I guess I feel it should be up to the individual to choose a rubber thumb or not.
MARSHALL: Good for you. She’s pro-choice.
BARRINGTON: (AGAIN, IN HIS OWN WORLD) We don’t even hide them anymore. We put them right out in the open, next to the batteries. How hard could it have been to …
MARSHALL: Ms. Coogan, were you involved in some volunteer work while at college?
COOGAN: Yes, I read to blind veterans.
MARSHALL: How admirable. I’d like the record to show that, I too, served my country by mowing the lawn in front of the post office and…
BARRINGTON: Let’s move on to a subject that concerns all Americans: Paper or plastic? If a customer has no preference, would you bag the purchases in a paper bag or in a bag made from the best plastic in the world produced by American trading partners?
COOGAN: Since you put me under oath, I’ll have to say I’d go with paper. Better for the environment.
BARRINGTON: The environment? So, you admit you’re a tree-hugger. I have here a copy of a paper that you wrote that is an example of radical environmentalism. You wrote this, did you not? (HANDS HER THE PAPER)
COOGAN: Yes, it was about putting pizza boxes in the recycling bin, and yucky leftover pizza in the regular trash. I wrote it in the fourth grade.
BARRINGTON: Have your views changed on this matter?
COOGAN: Not my views, but my spelling. Now I know that pizza has two “z’s.” Can we get back to talking about the job? How about benefits?
BARRINGTON: “Benefits?” The benefit would be that you’d have a job.
MARSHALL: Have we mentioned that she did community service work while she was in college?
BARRINGTON: Yes, and I was not impressed. Maybe some of those blind veterans would have learned to read on their own if she hadn’t taken away their initiative by reading to them.
MARSHALL: What?!
BARRINGTON: I believe in the maxim that if you give a guy some fish, he’ll have something to eat, but if you teach him to fish, uh, then he can always go fishing with his buddies.
MARSHALL: What does that have to do with Ms. Coogan?
BARRINGTON: I just think… hey, where are you going, Ms. Coogan?
COOGAN: This interview is just too much for me. I’m going to apply for a job that’s a little easier to get. There must be a Cabinet post that’s open.
Lloyd Garver has written for many television shows, ranging from “Sesame Street” to “Family Ties” to “Home Improvement” to “Frasier.” He has also read many books, some of them in hardcover. He can be reached at lloydgarver@gmail.com. Check out his website at lloydgarver.com and his podcasts on iTunes.
Sam Houston Odd Man Out In Love Triangle
On July 12, 1839, Sam Houston wrote his favorite pen pal, who was young enough to be his daughter, to say how much he missed her and his beloved Texas.
The three sides of the best known romantic triangle in Lone Star history first laid eyes on each other in 1833. Fourteen year old Anna Raguet had settled recently in Nacogdoches with her father Henry. Dr. Robert Irion, 15 years the beauty’s senior, had buried his wife the previous year, and Sam Houston was at 40 only four years removed from the scandalously short marriage to a teenaged debutante that led to his resignation as governor of Tennessee.
The night before Houston left to assume command of the rebel forces in January 1836, he was the guest of honor at a dinner hosted by the Raguets. Hearing the dashing hero grumble that he lacked a belt for his sword, Anna fashioned one from red cloth and presented it to him at his dawn departure the next day.
As soon as the Texans’ crushing victory was secure, the victorious general sent a sprig of laurel by special messenger to his young admirer. An enclosed note made clear the thought behind the gift: “These are the laurels I send you from the battlefield at San Jacinto. Thine, Sam Houston.”
Like most educated men of his day, Houston was a prolific letter writer and corresponded on a regular basis with dozens of individuals. But he seemed to take special pleasure in the steady stream of mail from the blond maiden. In October 1836, an astonished aide watched him plant a score of kisses on the latest letter from Miss Anna.
Up until then, Houston had shown little interest in severing the legal tie which still bound him to Eliza Allen back in Tennessee. But divorce suddenly became a pressing priority, and in April 1837 the republic he served as president issued the necessary decree.
Houston’s infatuation was such common knowledge that friends and those keen on currying his favor kept him well informed on Anna’s hectic social life. While admitting the parlor of “the brightest and loveliest star of Texas” was the busiest place in Nacogdoches, an accomplished flatterer gave the many suitors no chance against “the Conqueror who gave our banner to the breeze.”
Houston often wondered why Anna did not wed this or that young man and went so far as to review the qualifications of each candidate. His sincerity was clearly suspect since the real question may have been whether she considered him husband material.
He once came right out and asked the junior miss why she did not marry their personal postman, the good doctor Irion. Was sly Sam unaware of their mutual affection or giving her the opportunity to deny the rumored romance?
Nowhere in the extensive correspondence, which has survived the wear and tear of a century and a half, did Houston ask Anna to be his wife. But a letter penned in June 1838 implied that he had proposed marriage because it contained his pledge never to raise the subject again.
By contemporary standards, Houston was acting the fool and an old fool at that. He was 45 in the summer of 1838 – three years older than Anna’s father – and she was still in her teens. Even though the union of middle-aged men with females young enough to be their daughters was more widely accepted in those days, Houston’s conduct made him a laughingstock in some quarters.
Houston was between presidencies in 1839 and treated himself to an extended vacation. Passing through Alabama, he was introduced to Margaret Lea, a southern belle the same age as Anna with matching blue eyes.
In a letter to Dr. Irion soon after the chance encounter, Houston wrote, “You have basked this summer in the sunshine of Miss Anna’s countenance and must be very happy. She is a great woman! Who will marry her? If she were out of the way, I would be better off in my feelings.”
Eight months later, Anna was no longer on the market thanks to Robert Irion. They eloped over the objections of her father, who had a rich Philadelphia businessman all picked out, and exchanged vows on March 30, 1840.
While it is true that Houston did not exactly marry Margaret Lea on the rebound, the fact remains he tied the knot for the last time six weeks after Anna ceased to be available.
The two couples maintained a close and treasured friendship despite any lingering emotions from the three-sided relationship. The Irions honored the odd man out by naming their first son Sam Houston.
Anna Raguet Irion outlived her husband, who died on Houston’s birthday in 1861, by 22 years. She never mentioned much less discussed the carefully preserved private papers discovered after her death.
So if Miss Anna never loved Sam Houston, how come she held onto his letters for nearly half a century?
Bartee Haile welcomes your comments, questions and suggestions at haile@pdq.net or P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549. And come on by www.twith.com for a visit!
Bend Over And Take It From The Supremes
“A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.”
Well, the activist Right-wing “Gang of Five” in control of our Supreme Court, led by that tower of uberconservatism John Roberts, continues its insurgency against sense, sensibility, and all who comprise regular American citizenry.
Whenever convenient, these nabobs toss the concepts of “state’s rights” and “local mores” out with the bath water… along with anything else even remotely resembling rational thought.
It has become painfully apparent that nary a one is capable of comprehending even the most simple, logical and obvious examples of the written word.
This gross defect in their collective make-up becomes increasingly evident with each new decision; so far, the Roberts’ Court has a near-perfect record of ruling on the side of either big business or Conservative extremism, both of which are generally joined at the hip.
In decision after decision, these five mountebanks have head-butted Middle America silly and thrown us to the wolves.
The latest salvo was the trashing of Chicago’s longstanding ban on handguns – a law that stood for 30 years, upended because of a suit brought about by one solitary paranoid old man.
The idiocy of his suit in the first place was that the guy already owned long guns; he just wanted to have a handgun.
In a clear-cut case of stupidity run amok, any erstwhile “law abiding” Chicago resident (or anyone in any municipality anywhere) may now keep a handgun in his or her home.
The reasoning behind this paranoia to own a pistol is that the “gangbangers all carry with no restrictions whatsoever”.
This is the blatantly moronic whine of racists who resent our “Negro President”, and fear young “Negroes” who commit crimes against other African American citizens.
(Okay, so the geezer who brought forth the suit is himself Black. It doesn’t take a law degree to realize, however, that the NRA sponsored this man’s litigation all the way to the Supremes because of his race and age.)
That said, anyone who knows anything about Chicago (of which the “Gang of Five” is wholly ignorant), or pretty much any other major U.S. city, knows that gangbangers tend to operate only within their own ‘hoods. It is rare for them to venture into areas where they are more “noticeable” and cannot function under the aegis of fear, i.e. predominantly white neighborhoods, or those controlled by gangs other than their own.
Hell, the typical gangbanger is a frightened little putz who, when taken out of his own “comfort zone”, will wilt like the proverbial wallflower at a junior high school dance.
Hence, the “gangbangers” of whom the paranoid gutless gun-crazies are so frightened almost never commit crimes against “stable” white folks.
Meanwhile, the penile-challenged gun-crazies fail to realize is the damage that a bullet can do. The majority of them were most likely never in the military, and I sincerely doubt any of them ever saw the aftermath of a gunshot.
Virtually everyone I’ve spoken with who either was in the military or law enforcement is against the proliferation of handguns among the masses.
The Chicago City Council, in one of its more lucid moments, voted 45-0 to make certain requirements necessary:
One handgun per person per month (in perpetuity);
Registration fees paid up front;
Mandatory training at an approved facility;
All but one handgun in the home locked up at all times;
Handguns remain in the home, unless secured in a vehicle traveling to or from a range;
Insurance.
Of course, the fanatical paranoiacs filed suit against these restrictions immediately upon their passage. It approaches the insane to want to purchase 12 pistols per year, but they want to buy more, and in addition they don’t want proper training… and they don’t want to pay registration fees… and they don’t want to be insured against any damage that bullet does once it leaves the barrel…
And they want to carry a piece whenever they venture out of the house… in a city of 3,000,000 people.
Let’s face it, the only people who want handguns in Chicago are angry paranoid wusses.
I am still trying to read into the Second Amendment where it says “handguns” for “individual personal and family protection”.
The activist Righties of the Roberts’ Court are full of shit, and we Americans are getting the overflow shoved right up our backsides.
Shalom.
Jerry Tenuto has earned a BS in Radio-Television and an MA in Telecommunications from Southern Illinois University-Carbondale. In addition to some 25 years in broadcasting, he is a seven-year veteran of the U.S. Army. Since 1995, Jerry has found himself trapped in a “Red” enclave within the middle of the “Blue” state of Illinois, which he refers to as “slow death hell.”
JEWISH TERROR ALERT — 7/22/10 “King David’s Day”
HOUSTON, 7/22/10 — Before you shoot angry email at the publishers of this article, consider the reason they let you read it: America is at risk from an insidious terrorist nation. Does this seem like a bit of wording straight out of Fox News? So be it. Sometimes the most exciting news comes from the most unexpected sources …
HOUSTON, 7/22/10 — Before you shoot angry email at the publishers of this article, consider the reason they let you read it: America is at risk from an insidious terrorist nation. Does this seem like a bit of wording straight out of Fox News? So be it. Sometimes the most exciting news comes from the most unexpected sources …
“Fox News: Israeli Spyring”, Fall 2001, http://100777.com/node/180
Carl Cameron’s four-part investigative series is compelling journalism, and exposes Israeli fingerprints all over 9/11. Fox pulled it down from its website shortly after it aired, offering no explanation. Good thing the Internet had copied and could post it.
After the Fox report, consider these words of warning from the U.S. Army, published the day before 9/11 about the Israeli Mossad intelligence agency:
“Wildcard. Ruthless and cunning. Has capability to target U.S. forces and make it look like a Palestinian/Arab act.”
“U.S. troops would enforce peace under Army study,” Washington Times, 9/10/2001, http://www.public-action.com/911/sams.html
Afterward, take a look at this:
Report: Netanyahu says 9/11 terror attacks good for Israel”, Haaretz, 4/16/08, http://www.haaretz.com/news/report-netanyahu-says-9-11-terror-attacks-good-for-israel-1.244044
Speaking of the Israeli prime minister, read what the British had to say about him:
“British anger at terror celebration”, The Times, 7/20/06, http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/middle_east/article690085.ece
Is it really so far a stretch to be alert to Jewish terror? Really? To be perfectly honest about it, had this article been headlined with “Muslim terror” or “Arab terror,” would it have seemed strange at all?
“I don’t care if Americans think we’re running the news media, Hollywood, Wall Street or the government. I just care that we get to keep running them.”
“How Jewish is Hollywood?”, LA Times, 12/19/08, http://articles.latimes.com/2008/dec/19/opinion/oe-stein19
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Captain May, a former army general staff officer and later NBC editorial writer, is the founder and commander of Ghost Troop Cyber Militia, an all American group of veterans and activists. CNN did a widely read “hit” story against them a year ago, which helped the unit to recruit more Internet activists:
“Some suspect conspiracy in Holocaust Museum case,” CNN, 6/16/2009, http://edition.cnn.com/2009/CRIME/06/16/museum.shooting/
DANGER: Tisha B’Av Israeli Attack 7/20-7/22 (Caveat HOU CHI)
HOUSTON, 7/20/2010 — Information from Wall Street chills the blood of the Bayou City. Our number came up in the lottery of manufactured terror events, with that same devil’s mark that presaged 9/11: an inexplicable stampede away from a public service stock through put options. Pre-9/11, the craze had been to dump airlines, but now it’s the Houston power company:
HOUSTON, 7/20/2010 — Information from Wall Street chills the blood of the Bayou City. Our number came up in the lottery of manufactured terror events, with that same devil’s mark that presaged 9/11: an inexplicable stampede away from a public service stock through put options. Pre-9/11, the craze had been to dump airlines, but now it’s the Houston power company:
“Interesting Options Volume for CenterPoint Energy,” Market Intellisearch, 7/13/2010, http://www.marketintellisearch.com/articles/1028750.html
“NEW YORK (Market Intellisearch) — Unusual volume of put contracts was traded today. There were 713 puts contracts versus the ten day average volume of 55. On the calls side, 27 calls contracts were traded. Today’s traded Put/Call ratio is 26.41. There were 26.41 puts traded for each call contract. — Posted on 07/13/2010 by Leo Goldman”
This financial bull horn should have brought half a dozen officials at a gallop, but none of the hounds of justice showed nose for hunting conspiracy. They lend considerable weight to the increasingly plausible theory that they are in league with the conspirators.
As if the blunt fact that people were betting something bad was going to happen were not bad enough, there was the emphatic coding, just what you would expect from cutthroat gangsters. The H-town area code, 713, was matched by the bizarre 713 put options effected on 7/13 (713).
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It never ceases to amaze me that we watch baseball games in which players and coaches use weird hand signals, watch football games in which they bark number-filled nonsense, watch shows about prison or street gangs (which all use secret codes to communicate), then stare dumbly at anybody suggesting that the elites of Europe and America have their little clubs and codes, too.
We delight in convincing children that Santa Claus, Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy reward their accomplishments — or that bogeymen haunt them for their failures. We talk over their heads, tease or distract them if they ask probing questions, and menace anyone who interferes with the fun.
How dare we jeer anyone who suggests that conspiracies are part of life! Here’s a theory for the thinking reader …
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At present, Israel is the only nuclear power this side of Pakistan in the Middle East — until the Iranians bring their Bushehr nuclear plant to life in September, that is. Israel’s pugnacious prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu came to see Barry Obama on July 6, and next day Joe Lieberman had two other senators (McCain and Graham) in Tel Aviv, pledging to go to war for Israel. The American People, alas, don’t see the “vital American interest” of fighting a war for Israel, but there might be a provocative event that roused their ardor …
The three amigos of Israel thought ruefully of the squandered opportunity of the USS Liberty, which LBJ sent into the Eastern Mediterranean just in time for Israelis to attack it shortly after initiating their 1967 regional war. They tried for half the day to sink it and kill all survivors, near Egyptian waters, then blame it on the Egyptians. It was a great false flag plan, and came near to success, with Johnson keeping the Navy vessels in the area from rendering assistance. Liberty proved more difficult to destroy than they had expected, though, so they had to go into damage control mode, saying that it all had been a terrible mistake. They knew that they could count on Admiral McCain (John’s father) to sweep it all under the carpet of an understanding investigation. The three amigos each thought of Liberty often, and each thought that he could do a better false flag on a far larger scale.
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“Take the BP Horizon,” Joe was saying to John and Lindsey, somewhat officiously, “since now we have it on our national Horizon.”
John grunted at the pun.
“We can do a million things with it, fellas, and it’s all for one for one basic reason …” Joe added, “… we plan!
“What if I told you that nothing about BP was an accident. Not the body count of 11 that our friends in the media reported. Not the unreported fact that it was the 11th anniversary of the Columbine High School massacre, which happened on Hitler’s 110th birthday. Not the fact that BP happened on Hitler’s 121st birthday — which is 11 x 11.
“Now let’s add some time perspective, the fourth dimension. For three months now, we’ve kept the American Sheeple fixated on the Gulf of Mexico while we brought three nuclear subs and three nuclear aircraft carriers into the Persian Gulf. No one in the States knows about it! Now we’ve got everything moving right.”
… More to come later from the Gulf Coast, I hope. — CM
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For Captain May’s most recent article:
“Texas City Exposes BP Explosions,” Al-Jazeerah, 7/20/2010, http://www.aljazeerah.info/Opinion Editorials/2010/July/20 o/Texas City Exposes BP Explosions By Captain Eric H.htm
Texas City Exposes BP Explosions
The U.S. Government’s Homeland Security , FBI and Coast Guard have teamed up with BP’s security police in Texas City, Texas to roust journalists who ask questions or take pictures (i.e., do journalism). Claiming Patriot Act powers, they confiscate whatever they want, whenever they want, wherever they want, and from whomever they want.
HOUSTON, 7/15/10 — The U.S. Government’s Homeland Security, FBI and Coast Guard have teamed up with BP’s security police in Texas City, Texas to roust journalists who ask questions or take pictures (i.e., do journalism). Claiming Patriot Act powers, they confiscate whatever they want, whenever they want, wherever they want, and from whomever they want.
Enter the Health Ranger, Mike Adams, editor of NaturalNews.com, to do battle with “Brit Pee,” as Texas Citizens are now calling it. He wrote a 7/7 column, still going viral, in which he considered the possible reasons for BP’s platoons of goons. He close with thought-provoking ideas about the BP “nuclear option” to fix the catastrophe along the Gulf Coast. He wrote:
“There is a conspiracy under way right now. It’s a conspiracy between the U.S. government and British Petroleum to cover-up all evidence of what’s really happening in the Gulf Coast.”
“See, rather than tell the truth about what’s happening in the Gulf, BP has resorted to police state tactics to threaten the media and intimidate journalists, threatening them with arrest, detainment and felony crimes if they get close enough to snap photos of what’s really going on in the Gulf Coast.”
“Perhaps BP and the federal government are about to unleash a nuclear explosion to stop the oil outflow, and they don’t want anyone knowing about it until it’s already done.”
“Perhaps the U.S. government is planning a multi-state roundup and evacuation of the population to clear out the entire Gulf Coast region in anticipation of something big and dangerous (such as a nuke, or an oil-soaked firestorm of a major U.S. city, or a dangerous new chemical being dumped in the Gulf by BP, etc.)”
“Gulf Coast now a BP police state,” Natural News, 7/7/2010
http://www.naturalnews.com/029153_British_Petroleum_Police_State.html
Adams does a good job proving that BP, especially in its “Toxic City” backyard, is a criminal conspiracy posing as a cowboy company. I’m a lifelong Houstonian and journalist whose experience with BP confirms his worst fears — in every particular.
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The Iconoclast has been receiving emails and calls from anxious employees of BP and other Gulf Coast oil companies since we published a report of bizarre high atmosphere explosions over Texas CIty on the night of July 28, 2005. These occurred only three hours after the third major BP Texas City refinery explosion in 15 months, and only two days after the first NASA space shuttle launch since Columbia’s destruction 30 months earlier. NASA was in Clear Lake City, just a quarter hour away, causing many witnesses to suspect that NASA and BP were up to something together.
The insider report below reached us last year, and it shows exactly what Big Oil is trying so hard to silence with lawyers, guns and money.
— On Thu, 7/30/2009, a BP employee wrote:
From: Izzi Ixxi (a pseudonym — CM)
Subject: BP playing anniversary games
To: The Lone Star Iconoclast
Date: Thursday, July 30, 2009, 12:22 AM
Hello Captain,
I’ve been watching their moves at work. I have a plant radio and get to hear everything on the Refinery side and the Chemical side. In the last two weeks a lot of Refinery units were evacuated. Everybody had to leave except the skeleton crew. There is one thing that especially gets my attention, an email sent out to the Chemical side. I’m cutting and pasting it for you to read:
“On Thursday July 30 the fiber optic communication line to the TCC docks will be taken down for mandatory maintenance. This means no e-mail, internet, fax, or land line based phone service. Communication must be done through the docks radio or the cell phone numbers below. The work is planned not to exceed 16 hours and the contractors are dedicated to return service as soon as possible.” (BP)
Since the 2005 ordeal with the Shelter In Place for 16 hours, I just thought this was something that needed to be brought to your attention. What’s the shuttle doing this week? I tried to look on their website today, and it said landing is to be determined!!! Are they waiting on us?
I know the guys that are running this cable tomorrow morning. I asked the guy who decided what day it would happen. He said, “They are ready for us.” That sounds like BP is calling the shots. Is this just business or are we being set up? Time will tell. I just wanted to keep you informed. You ARE the expert. I’m just telling you what I’m hearing. — Izzi Ixxi
Like many an editor, I keep late hours, so by the time I opened the alarming email it was high noon, and Ixxi’s intelligence was half a day old. I pondered whether there were anything specific enough to warrant exposing Ixxi’s life or living to a killer company. We had never met or even spoken, but I had come to trust the BP Deepthroat who was so aware of the security details in Texas City, including that, in the aftermath of 9/11, Israeli Mossad agents had come to town to set up a counter-terror program for Texas City. The Iconoclast only recently obtained confirmation of this claim, from a senior member of Marathon Oil’s security.
I was just about comfortable with my decision when I leaned that I had made the wrong one. At one o’clock a news alert about Bryan, Texas broke. The college city that provided for Texas A&M was just an hour northwest of us, and it was on fire. Next came a jolting number: 70,000 people were evacuating. The El Dorado fertilizer factory, reportedly chock-full of ammonium nitrate, might blow up like earlier amonium nitrate explosions in the Oklahoma City bombing of 1995, or the Texas City explosion of 1947. A military HAZMAT team just happened to be training in the area, and it rushed in to help. The Aggies, whom the rest of us Texans accuse of being a bit slow-witted, were quick to salute their saviors.
BRYAN Chemical fire prompts massive evacuations, KXXV, 7/30/2009, http://www.kxxv.com/global/story.asp?s=10819714
Not long afterward I caught another report that clarified things better still. At the time that this potential national-level emergency was playing out, Barack Obama was sequestered with his top military aides to participate in National Level Exercise 2009 (NLE-09).
“Obama Participates in Terror Preparedness Test,” CBS, 7/30/2009, http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-503544_162-5198249-503544.html
Later Obama kicked back with some buds to drink a few Buds, and the media spent the rest of the day discussing the drinking. They forgot to tell us more about the near-disaster out by Texas A&M, where the George HW Bush presidential library stood, and where Defense Secretary (and former CIA chief) Robert Gates had been the university president for years.
“Beer Summit Begins: Obama Sits Down With Crowley, Gates,” Huffington Post, 7/3/2009, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/07/30/beer-summit-begins-obama-_n_248254.html
Joe Biden showed for the festivities, a nice touch, and I thought the pre-brew photo-op went fairly well, although BO didn’t seem particularly festive. It was the Kenya Kid’s first time in the driver’s seat, after all, and for a military exercise in the vital petrochemical core of Southeast Texas. That’s the very area that had become so strangely accident-prone since 9/11. Obama may well have had a bit of NLE-09 PTSD.
Just thinking about his maiden mission must have given him the chills. If that fire in Texas Aggie turf had touched of a fertilizer-filled factory, lots of college kids would have died, and the cause would never have been ascertained. People might have supposed that foreign terrorists had done it, and clamored for more war. The personnel and equipment would be hard-pressed to hang on until the Obama nation mobilized. If the terrorists were American, say some Internet insurrectionists who published conspiracy theories, then he would have to invoke secret emergency powers that W had drawn up for himself in 2007, and refused to show to Congress, NSPD-51. Crazy people had to be kept in check if you were leading your country from a global to a world war, he mused. He smiled his first real smile of the day.
Given time, the Obama nation he was chosen to create would materialize, one way or another. 9/11 had worked wonders for W years ago, and a 9/11-2B could give him the advantage he needed to move the ball in the court of public opinion. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, really, if something like that occurred to refocus America, where people are so cynical about following their leadership.
Biden smiled with avuncular ease. Everyone knew that he could be counted on to step up if they had to replce KK (code-name for “Kenya Kid”). For now, at least, there was still time, and no one was thinking of Plan “Biden. In Obamalot, he was as loyal to Barry as Launcelot was to Arthur, and he liked Barry a lot more than Lyndon ever liked Jack.
+ + + + + + +
Unfortunately, the danger of a BP nuke is not remote. Two years ago, Iconoclast Publisher W. Leon Smith demanded a Congressional investigation of our efforts to defend the Texas Gulf Coast from Big Oil. I exhort all concerned citizens to read his editorial, and the links that it references, as a matter of life and death:
“Time to Investigate Houston Is Now”
The Lone Star Iconoclast, 3/3/2008
For the most complete collection of my articles, books and interviews:
“Capt. Eric H. May Index”
America First Books, 2003 – present
In the articles section are my latest work on world war and false flag prospects, particularly in Chicago and Houston. At the site as well is the Mission of Conscience history by my former unit XO, Major William B. Fox (USMC). His research into the Ghost Troop missions is invaluable, as it documents our development of cyber-cavalry tactics to save countless lives in the BP explosions of 3/30/2004 and 7/28/2005, and in the Texas City nuclear incident of 1/31/06 – 2/2/2006.
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Captain May, a former army general staff officer and later NBC editorial writer, is the founder and commander of Ghost Troop Cyber Militia, an all American group of veterans and activists. Shortly after the Texas City mission of 2006, he developed ALS, a rare, fatal neurological disease, and the former martial arts films instructor is a quadriplegic. The Iconoclast has joined the growing Internet calls for him to be awarded the Medal of Honor:
“Captain Eric H. May Deserves Congressional Medal of Honor,” The Lone Star Iconoclast, 2/2/2010, http://iconoclastnews.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=472:captain-eric-h-may-deserves-congressional-medal-of-honor&catid=31:editorial&Itemid=71
* To join Ghost Troop write unit executive officer, Lt. Pat Woodard, at ghosttroop@spiritone.com
Looking At Washington: The Right Question
An 89-year-old regular at presidential press conferences recently asked President Obama the right question at a session he was having with the press—more a speech than a traditional press conference.
Helen Thomas (at presidential press conferences with the writer as far back as the sixties!) got in one of the limited number of questions after President Obama had used up most of the time defending his reaction to the Gulf oil disaster. She asked:
“Mr. President when are you going to get out of Afghanistan? Why are we continuing to kill and die there?”
President Obama attempted to defend the war—now the longest war in American history. It has not claimed the lives of many American soldiers, compared to past wars (just over 1,000).
So this relatively small-scale war is not ruining the families of enough Americans in this country of over 300 million to produce a major reaction against it. But even one more death in Afghanistan is too many. We don’t know what the final result of our (and NATO) invasion of this Muslim nation will be. More and more estimates are that we can’t pacify this country and eliminate the Taliban.
The death toll in nearby Iraq has reached 4,401.
There were over 54,000 deaths in the Korean war. At least giving up the lives of 54,000 Americans accomplished something, though historically, Korea is none of our business—and we still have troops stationed out there.
Vietnam was a tragic waste of major proportions and that war shattered more than 58,000 families—for nothing gained.
There is a possibility our Afghan war will also produce no permanent gain. Taliban forces reoccupy areas in Afghanistan after our occupation to end Taliban influence.
A recent picture on the front page of the nation’s major newspapers showed a young wife who had lost her husband, killed in Afghanistan, brought the real horror of war into perspective—she was kneeling at the tombstone of her dead husband, in tears.
That’s what should have been remembered more on the recent Memorial Day. But too much emphasis on Memorial Day was glamorization of military units, and bravery.
The suffering of survivors should get more attention, and cause more hesitation on wars such as the gamble in Afghanistan, where we now provide half the NATO force, not a fourth, as when we entered the war. Many European allies have pulled their troops out.
Weapons Economy
As the Obama Administration searches for ways to reduce skyrocketing deficits, which must be reduced if the country is not to become an economic disaster, some fail to see how much money can be saved in military spending.
The first step could be to get out of the Muslim Middle East.
U.S. military officials say we have managed to defeat Iraqi based terrorists organizations. Thus President Obama’s plan to begin withdrawing many of the over 80,000 U.S. troops still stationed there should begin.
One hopes he will also begin withdrawing American troops from Afghanistan next year—whether or not the war against terrorists there is completely victorious. Many see that requiring many years.
There’s the question whether we should continue the deployment of so many troops in the Far East, especially the more than 40,000 in Japan where the prime minister has just resigned, in protest to the continued presence of American troops in his country.
Another sure method of reducing defense spending is in the field of weapons. The nation currently maintains a stockpile of nuclear bombs numbering over 5,000. Many estimates conclude that in any future war, if nuclear weapons are ever used, a big if, less than a hundred would likely be enough to accomplish whatever the goal is, to bring about peace.
The huge stockpile is a relic of our Cold War competition with Russia, but even if a war with Russia had erupted, most believe the use of several hundred nuclear bombs would have been sufficient to achieve victory. After that—if it was a mutual nuclear bomb war—they would have effectively wrecked both countries.
One recent estimate is that our nuclear bomb stockpile should be 311 bombs, or at most 500. Russia would have to agree to a mutual reduction—which some Russian leaders have already contemplated.
Many now believe we can’t justify current enormous spending on several new weapons, such as the F-35 fighter, estimated to cost over 500 billion dollars before the current procurement is completed!
There are suggestions that we equip a number of our submarines with D-5 Trident missiles, which carry a nuclear warhead. Deploying 24, which has been suggested, on each of 12 submarines would translate to 192 missiles which could be positioned all over the world.
Our B-2 Stealth bombers could also be equipped to carry a nuclear weapon. All this would enable us to reduce the maintenance costs of a 5,113 nuclear weapons arsenal by many millions of dollars, some estimating a total savings at billions annually.
The Texas Perimeter Hike —Installment #10
“A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”
— John Steinbeck, “Travels with Charley”
Outside of Fabens, Texas, on the morning of my birthday, an unexpected thing happened: a little black puppy jumped out of a bush and wagged its tail. There was no identification and no one around to claim her. When I put some water in front of her, she lapped it in seconds. The more water I gave, the more she drank. I made a firm, lasting, and immediate decision between refills: this dog was coming with me.
A dog has to have a name, of course, so being that she was small, dark, and dehydrated, I named her Raisin. Not content with just a first name, I added a last: d’Etre. It’s a small play on the French “raison d’etre,” but it’s true, too: Raisin is a purpose larger than myself.
This impromptu adoption soon created several complications. We couldn’t enter restaurants together, nor grocery stores, nor many motels. Raisin overheats easily and can’t hike in the middle of the day, and if she’s tired, I have to carry her.
So what do I do? I lug.
Raisin has opened my eyes to some of the smaller wonders of this trek. She chases butterflies and birds and barks at horses, cows, and antelope. At times, when cars are rare, she walks the white line of the road because it’s the coolest place around. When we arrived at the shallow waters of the Rio Grande, she ran sprintingup and down the shore, happy to be on sand.
After nearly 300 miles of hiking together, we showed up at the Terlingua Ghost Town porch. A bastion of old-style society, the porch is a safe space for locals and strangers to sit and mingle. At about 70 feet long and 10 feet wide, it accommodates a hefty number of folks.
I
frowned when I saw the “No Dogs on the Porch” sign. I had hoped that, if anywhere, my pup and I would be welcome in the far flung regions of Big Bend country. As it turns out, the sign was more of a deterrent than a strict rule, mainly because no one cares to enforce it.
Raisin and I were the first to sit on the porch that day. As people arrived, she put on a show, welcoming strangers with the wagging of her entire body. Though still only a puppy, Raisin seems to have memorized the phrase, “Oh, isn’t she cute!” and doubles her body gyrations at the sounds. I’m a little jealous of the attention she gives others, but she makes me smile, nonetheless.
Dogs are important here in the desert, both for company and security. People seem to know the names of all the local dogs. There’s even a homeless dog named Brown Dog that belongs to no one but manages to hang on
by bumming food and rides off locals. Everyone knows him. People have woken up to find Brown Dog in their beds, not understanding how he got there or even how he opened the door.
The desert is not an ideal place for a puppy, but Terlingua has proven to be an oasis. In our short time, people I don’t even know by name know who Raisin is. She’s accepted here, a welcome diversion from the heat, bearing the common story of a traveler just passing through.
And so we move on, as is our purpose, six feet making scattered steps across these barren lands. We don’t know what lies ahead, but we are married to it anyway, finding comfort where it can be found, water where it can be had, and love baked in the desert sun.
Smatt is the penname of S.Matt Read. A writer, inventor, baker, and hiker, he is currently hiking the entire outline of the state. Follow his adventure here and
at and .
Bees!
Zack has fond, childhood memories of helping to rob honey from the bees his grandfather kept. Later, Zack and his father kept a few bees as well. So for years, Zack has talked of having our own bees here at the ranch. There have always been bees in various trees here. But we’ve never “cultivated and managed” them. I rather hoped he’d only talk of this and never actually do it. But oh no, not Zack. When he plans a thing, it happens.
Early this year, Zack started ordering supplies. His father delivered the supplies he still had, passed down now to the third generation (like the wine-making supplies he gifted us with a few years ago). For weeks, we had a pile (including two hives and “supers”, several smokers, hats, veils, and other equipment) growing in our living room. In April our bees arrived (thanks to someone locally who picked up his own bees — over a hundred miles away. He very kindly offered to pick ours up, too).
We donned our safety gear, prepared sugar water to calm the bees (keeps them busy eating), and readied the hives. Zack was excited. I was terrified. But when we started the procedure, I didn’t even think about all those potential stingers buzzing around us. The bees weren’t aggressive, and we were as protected as possible. No one was stung.
We prepared the hives and frames, and opened the two “traveling boxes” (not so easy) that contained our two complete sets of bees, each with a queen. We “poured” them into the new hives (interesting to say the least), placed the queens, inserted the frames, provided sugar water for them to eat until they found their own food, and left them alone. They seemed to like their new digs, and as far as we know, they’re just fine. We see plenty of bees visiting various flowers all around the ranch. Zack checks the hives periodically (without all his gear now), and we hope to have honey in a year!
About a month after our bees arrived, a neighbor called to ask if we could clear a water meter box where bees had taken up residence. (Small town, news travels fast). Zack, always optimistic, readily agreed and ordered a third hive. While we awaited its arrival, spring rains flooded the meter box. By the time the hive arrived, the bees had deserted for higher ground. I was secretly relieved, but Zack was terribly disappointed. He’d been looking forward to yet another new experience — and a third batch of bees to add to his growing little apiary.
A couple of days ago, there was another call. A different friend asked if we’d like to remove bees that had invaded his pump house. None of his ranch hands wanted to go into the building. This time Zack was ready. (I was again terrified). So today, in the heat of the summer, we packed up crowbars, smokers, buckets, hats, veils, etc., donned all the protective gear and dove into our next adventure. We located the bees within a wall of the small structure, turned off the electricity, and (with great difficulty) pried loose several boards. This did NOT please the bees. We set a rag on fire in a smoker (which has a small bellows-type device on one end) and calmed the bees somewhat with smoke. (The sugar water only works if they’re hungry. These bees had an established honeycomb and plenty of summer flowers to visit).
It was difficult, hot work in the little building, and by the time we had pried enough boards away to uncover the honeycomb (and several hundred bees), Zack was starting to cramp up badly. We robbed some honeycomb and decided to return another day to finish the job. Several bottles of Gatorade later, we squeezed the comb through cheesecloth and enjoyed some honey for our day’s efforts. I’ll let you know later if we’re able to capture the queen!
The Texas Perimeter Hike — Big Bend National Park
Installment No. 11
“I am twenty miles or more from the nearest fellow human, but instead of loneliness I feel loveliness.”
— Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire
I have learned to enjoy being by myself, welcoming chance conversations where they might be found, but I wasn’t always so comfortable. The beginning of this trip was a misery. Those early days and weeks came attached with a profound societal rejection of my station. I was a bum, a pariah, someone to avoid. Though I put on my best face in interactions, I saw the fear in people’s eyes, the anxiety in their movements, the open disdain, the pity. Though this was far from a universal reaction, I hadn’t anticipated its everyday occurrence and was forcibly ushered into a kind of solitude I hadn’t been prepared to handle. Coupled with my own insecurities about life and the immensity of my hiking goal, I’d never felt more needy and alone.
Solitude isn’t meant to be like this. While it can lend itself to loneliness, over-reflection, or boredom, its allure lies in its tranquility and equilibrium. I started my trek wildly off balance, but as my experience and confidence have grown, I’ve come to accept my time alone. I also attribute some of this stability to the countless supportive and nice people I’ve met along the way as well as my puppy Raisin who licks me several times a day.
A couple of weeks ago, I had the chance to walk over 120 miles in Big Bend National Park. The summers are scorchers in West Texas, and some points in the south of the park regularly reach temperatures above 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Because of the heat, the park’s attendance is sparse, and we had the place to ourselves. However, Raisin couldn’t accompany me on any hiking trails, so I temporarily turned her over to a dogsitter.
I was alone again.
The Chihuahuan Desert, a sandy, cactus-filled, and usually dry area is not the best place to experiment with the merits of solitude. It regularly humbles the strongest of athletes, and a simple bad decision can be a traveler’s undoing. Like many a nimrod before me, I charged into the wilderness, aware of the dangers but unconcerned, like that stuff couldn’t possibly happen to me.
And it didn’t. But I paid a price nonetheless.
I drank water from mud puddles. I crossed a high trail near Mariscal Canyon and ended up getting blown into a cactus. I attempted to hike 40 miles in a day, and several times nearly wobbled off the trail due to fatigue. I disturbed a mean-looking rattlesnake and shortly thereafter intruded upon a couple of bears scrounging for dinner.
On the
fourth day, I sat high up on the South Rim of the Chisos Mountains and looked across the land. It was still morning, cool and crisp at 7,000 feet, the trees lending a fragrance not found in the desert below. In the distance I saw my starting point and followed the sandy, dusty contours from west to east,
then northwest to where I was sitting.
I hadn’t seen a soul in three days, but I didn’t feel alone. I didn’t even consider my solitude. I was only aware of my immediate world – birds chirping, a light breeze, the sweet air, calm – and that I was there in it, feet dangling in the loveliness.
Smatt is the penname of S.Matt Read. A writer, inventor, baker, and hiker, he is currently hiking the entire outline of the state. Follow his adventure here and at www.texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com and www.twitter.com/perimeterhiker.
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Check out The Long Way Home at www.texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com! Also, check
for up to the minute updates at www.twitter.com/perimeterhiker!