All posts by moonandjess@frontier.com

It’s the Little Things That Matter: At Least That’s What I Tell Jess

Warning: the following post contains innuendo, double entendre, tasteless humor, and disco music references. Proceed at your own risk.

I often wonder how I got so lucky with my wife, the exceptional and clearly-out-of-my-league Jess. Not so much about how I got her (I really believe that was God’s doing, with an assist from alcohol), but how we’ve managed to stay so happy 22 years into it. I mean, let’s face it: I was no prize when we got married, and now, I’m even less so, and even though the still lovely and long-suffering Jess remains my dream girl, the years of living with me have taken a toll on her.

We no longer do nearly as much of the things that we used to do constantly. We don’t drink much anymore, although really that’s no great loss. We don’t travel much due to a lack of funds and abundance of dogs, as well as the fact that we both really like it right here. What we used to refer to as the “carnal Olympics” has slowly shifted from a daily occurrence to a weekly to a “Hey, we oughta do that again before we forget how” basis (although we both spend a lot of time reflecting fondly on all of the gold and silver medals we’ve accrued over the years). It kind of hurts to have to admit that we’ve become boring, middle-aged adults.

 

Still the most beautiful woman in the world
Still the most beautiful woman in the world

Correction: we’ve become happy, boring, middle-aged adults, and I think the key is laughter. We laugh a lot. We laugh when times are good, but we also laugh also as much when times are bad. I’ve always been able to make her laugh (and yes, laughing at me counts), and I’ve always thought she is one of the most genuinely funny women on earth. It also helps that the one aspect of our lives and personalities that hasn’t matured at all is our senses of humor.

I’ll give you an example: A couple of weeks ago, we were getting mom’s house ready for a renter. Now this is the house that we all grew up in, and it was killing me to think of renting it, but I couldn’t afford to leave it empty. So there we were, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, and I was getting more and more depressed the whole time. We had decided that we needed to re-caulk the tub and shower, so I was trying to get rid of the old caulking. If you’ve ever done that, you know it’s no easy task. Lots of rubbing and scraping, rubbing and scraping.

I find that often, when doing a mindlessly repetitive job, my mind tends to wander. I get into a rhythm, and my subconscious will drag some old song up out of the vaults of my memory. So it was that I found myself scrape, scrape, scraping away, with the chorus from K.C. and the Sunshine Band’s disco classic, “Shake Your Booty” running on an endless loop in my head. As if that wasn’t bad enough (have you ever noticed, when this happens, it’s never a good song, or even one you can remember completely?), my subconscious kicked into overdrive, and “shake, shake, shake . . . shake, shake, shake . . . shake your booooo-tayyyy! shake your booooo-tayyyy!” became “scrape, scrape, scrape . . . scrape, scrape, scrape . . . scrape your caulk off! scrape your caulk off!” complete with the horn part.

Not a pleasant thing to have running through your mind over and over again, but I have to admit that, while distressing, the sheer stupidity of it did kind of cheer me up. When we took a smoke break, I told Jess about it, and she thought it was pretty funny. Then we sang a couple of choruses, just trying to get it out of our heads. It didn’t work, but we laughed and laughed. That was it for the rest of the day. Every time she’d come check on me, she’d ask, “Get your caulk all scraped off yet?” and I’d stretch my aching back and say, “No, and all this caulk scraping is getting pretty painful,” and we’d laugh some more. When we’d take a break (and I’ve found that frequent breaks are a key to making a bad job last a really long time), it was because I needed a break from scraping my caulk. When it was time to go back to work, she’d tell me, “You’re not gonna get your caulk scraped off sitting here,” and we’d laugh again.

I suggested, at one point, that perhaps she’d like a turn at scraping the caulk off, but she seemed to feel quite strongly that it was my caulk, and if anybody was going to scrape it off, it was going to be me. She also reminded me that I prefer it when she sticks to caulk application. I conceded the point, and we laughed some more. It really brightened up my whole day. In fact, we got about two or three day’s worth of caulk jokes out of that. It’s a good sign, when the jokes outlast the task.

That, I think, is really the secret to our success. We make each other laugh. A lot. About everything. There is very little that is off-limits. We both recognize our individual and collective shortcomings as sources of humor, and frequently, the more embarrassing the better.

Nothing makes us laugh harder than when we’re outside, having a smoke, or playing with the dogs, and one of us gets that shocked, deer-in-the-headlights look, and full-body clench that signals a sudden, impending digestive disaster (you other middle-agers know what I’m talking about). Of course, when that happens, only one of us is laughing; the other is too busy trying to hurry to the bathroom without actually moving anything between the neck and the knees (it’s funny to them too, but, in a digestive crisis, seal integrity is the paramount concern). For that one, the laughs come later, either from relief or embarrassment.

We spend a lot of time laughing about things that happened years, or even decades, ago; like the fart-heard-round-the-world at Stonehenge, or the time I got her to zap herself with an electric fence (I told you I’m no prize), or the time she gave me a concussion “accidentally” slamming a hatch lid on my head, or the time we both fell through the floor when replacing her mom’s living room floor (it’s really kind of a wonder we’re still alive).

Trying to outrun the camera timer. That hill was a lot steeper than it looks
Trying to outrun the camera timer. That hill was a lot steeper than it looks

We laugh about the way she used to mispronounce zealot (zeelot), or the time I absent-mindedly thought a bunch of calves in a field were full-grown miniature cows (“Why would anybody bother raising those? You’re not gonna get much meat.”). Yes, we are frequently idiots, but we’re happy idiots. And that’s the important thing. Much more important than dignity, or pride, or success, or financial security (thank God, because we’re usually running pretty short on all those).

The best woman in the world, and her biggest shortcoming
The best woman in the world, and her biggest shortcoming

I really think that, if you want a good relationship, find someone who makes you laugh, and thinks you’re funny too.

P.S. Just in case you don’t have that stupid song running through your head, here’s a link: K.C. and the Sunshine Band, “Shake Your Booty” . It’s also funny how easy it would be to make the entire song fit caulk-scraping. Also, now that would make a great video. Enjoy!

On Lost Friends and Heroes – Part One

Hey all, here’s a link to my latest article for the Odyssey. It’s about a tragedy that occurred during my time in a rescue squadron. This was the hardest thing I’ve ever written, and may be the most important, as well (not that anything I’ve ever written has ever been important, really). Anyway, I won’t say I hope you like it, but I hope it makes you think about what’s important when it comes to supporting our troops, and what we require of them everyday.

Anyway, here’s the link: On Lost Friends and Heroes

If it affects you, please feel free to share it. These guys and their families deserve better than to be forgotten, or to become just footnotes in history.

Thanks,

Moon.

I’m Still Here!

In case you’ve missed me (and why wouldn’t you?), or have been wondering why I haven’t posted anything lately, I’ve recently started writing for theodysseyonline.com. I’m still going to be writing exclusively for this blog too, I’ve just been really busy. Anyway, if you’re just needing a little dose of moonsthoughts in a slightly different format, here are links to my last couple of articles for the Odyssey:

Here’s one on finding happiness in a troubled world: https://www.theodysseyonline.com/key-to-finding-happiness

Here’s one on what I think may be the key to fixing America: https://www.theodysseyonline.com/prescription-ails-america

And finally, one on the Anti-Political Correctness craze: https://www.theodysseyonline.com/offend-all-let-god-sort-out

I hope you’ll enjoy them, or that they’ll at least make you think.

One final note: If you do like ’em, please share them with your friends (or enemies, if that’s more fun) on the Facebook, Twitter, or whatever. Apparently the Odyssey people track that stuff, and it’ll make me look good.

Anyway, enjoy, and thanks for reading!

And Now . . . One for My Sweetie: Remember, Romance is Not My Forte

This Saturday is June 4th. It marks the 22nd anniversary of my marriage to the lovely and all-round-best-woman-on-earth, Jess, and the beginning of the 23rd year of her life sentence. Through it all, she has never complained, never whined, never asked for anything other than my love (and a new dog every once in a while). She has stood by me through thick and thin (okay, I was never really thin, but compared to now . . .). I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, if it weren’t for her, I’d either be dead or in prison by now. I honestly believe she was sent to me by God, who was apparently tired of having to spend so much time keeping my stupid ass alive.

Jess and her boy Harry
Jess and her boy Harry

She was been there for me through years of a sort of slow-motion nervous breakdown. She’s been there for my kids. She’s been there for my family. She has supported me, advised me wisely, and never hesitated to let me know when I’ve gotten out of control. In fact, she’s the only one who’s ever been able to stop me, once I start to spin. Even though she has often joked that she has absolutely no mothering instinct at all, she’s the most nurturing person I know. She used to make fun of me for giving away pictures to sad-sack kids at baseball tournaments, when the kid didn’t have the money, but she’s just as soft a touch.

I remember the first time I saw her, it was all I could do to keep from climbing through her window to introduce myself. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Fortunately, for once, I showed some restraint, and it paid off. Of course, I pursued her relentlessly; I had to – she wasn’t playing hard-to-get, she really, really didn’t want to be got, at least not by me. She was the first woman I ever really tried to impress, and I’ve got to say, I failed miserably.

Even though I did completely fail to impress her, I did manage to make her laugh, and for once a woman was laughing with me and not at me (actually, it was, and still is, a little of both), but at least she was laughing. We’re still laughing together. We both intentionally say and do stupid things just to make the other laugh. She is my best friend, and I’m hers. I honestly believe that the two of us could live completely isolated from everyone else, and we’d be fine, as long as we had each other.

Jess and I laughing like idiots
Jess and I laughing like idiots. She’s still got the most beautiful smile in the world.

She’s still the most beautiful woman in the world to me, even if 22 years of living with me have taken a toll on her. I wouldn’t trade one night, or even an afternoon, with her for a month with Scarlett Johansson (which I’m sure will be a relief to both of them), or anyone else. My biggest fear in life is letting her down.

I first proposed to her in the middle of the night, over the phone from Italy, phenomenally drunk (me, not her). She was very understanding and told me to ask her again when I was sober. The next day, when I got up, I called her and asked her to marry me again. I think she was only surprised that I remembered I’d asked her. She told me to ask her again when I got home (she is many things, but one thing she’s never been is easy).

The third time proved to be the charm, and she said yes. We decided to get married in the base chapel, so we had to go to the Chaplain for counseling. I think it was supposed to be 5 or even 6 sessions. I was so angry after the first session (with the Chaplain, not Jess), that I was ready to just forget about a church wedding and go to the Justice of the Peace, or whatever it is they’ve got in England. Jess talked me down eventually, because she wanted a church wedding. After the second session, Jess was so angry (again, at the Chaplain, not me) she was ready to go to the J.P. Eventually I got her talked down, mostly because I was pretty sure that if we didn’t get married in a church, we’d both regret it. The third session began with the Chaplain telling us that we might as well just set a date and skip the rest of the sessions, because we were obviously determined to go through with it, no matter how big a mistake he thought we were making. That’s a confidence builder, I gotta say.

The lovely and talented Jess. The strongest woman I know.
The lovely and talented Jess. The strongest woman I know.

When we went to get the marriage licence, they asked if I’d ever been married before. I said I had, so they checked the divorce box. They asked her the same thing, and she said no. They asked her age. She told them she was 25. The woman nodded and said, “Ah, spinster.” I’m not kidding. They actually checked the box for spinster. Now that I think of it, Jess’ life has really been just an unending string of indignities since she met me.

Jess and I immediately after one of those rare occasions that she was the embarrassing one
Jess and I immediately after one of those rare occasions that she was the embarrassing one

I know that no marriage is perfect, and that every couple has rough times, but I honestly don’t ever recall us being unhappy. Sure, there have been tough times, but I’ve never felt anything less than overwhelming love for her, and never felt like her love for me was in question. Everything that’s ever come up, we’ve faced together, and we’ve never let anything come between us. She’s always been there for me, and I’ve tried to always be there for her.

If it sounds like I’m bragging, it’s because I am, about her, not about myself. I’m a pain in the ass, and I know it. She has always been the rock in our relationship, the one person I can always count on, and I’ve tried to be the same for her. The good times we’ve shared are too numerous to count, and the bad times too inconsequential to remember. I love her just as much today as the day we were married. I can’t even imagine my life without her, and I thank God for her every day.

To finish off this wildly inadequate tribute to the love of my life, I’ll add an essay I wrote for my prose class:

Finding My Happy Place

There are some places, some things in the world that demand you stop; stop rushing to the next place, stop worrying about the bills, stop stressing about everything, and just be there; the north rim of the Grand Canyon, the badlands of South Dakota, the night sky over the Indian Ocean or the Arizona desert, Loch Lomond and Glen Coe in Scotland, just to name a few. They are usually lonely places, the kind of place that makes you feel alone, even with a group, and yet strangely not alone, like you’re suddenly intimately connected to something infinitely bigger, wiser, stronger, and more kind and loving than you’re really equipped to understand. They sneak up on you when you least expect them, and become a part of you, forever.

It is June, 1994, and my wife Jess and I are on our honeymoon, touring around Ireland in her little Mazda pick-up truck. We’re doing all the usual touristy things; China and crystal shopping in Waterford, taking distillery tours, exploring the beautiful gardens and ruins of Blarney Castle (as well as standing in line to kiss the Blarney Stone, and, of course, buying the pictures), and drinking gallons of Guinness and whiskey at pubs crowded with tourists just like us. It is the best time of our lives (so far, anyway). We are young, healthy, and wildly in love.

As we drive out along the Dingle Peninsula, on the west coast, I’m in a kind of photographic frenzy; it is some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen. I’m like a starving man at a buffet, so intent on getting it all that I can’t take the time to really appreciate any of it fully.

At every wide spot in the road, I tell her, “Ooh, ooh, pull over baby, pull over!” like a three-year-old begging his mommy for candy in a grocery store checkout line.

“We just pulled over.”

“Well pull over again! We may never see this again!”

“It’s the same thing you just took a picture of.”

“Yeah, but it looks different from here. Besides, you’re driving, you’ll never see this if I don’t get a picture.”

“Okay, fine,” and she laughs at me for being an idiot, and at herself for indulging me, and pulls over and waits for me to jump out and walk back to where I’d originally asked her to pull over. Thankfully, she is driving very slowly, so I don’t have to walk far.

I take several pictures, using several different lenses and shutter speeds, then climb back in the truck and we pull back onto the road. Of course, within a quarter-mile, “Ooh, ooh, ooh, honey pull over . . .” and the whole thing starts again. Sometimes I win, sometimes she does, but really, we both win every time.

As we stutter through the countryside and up into the mountains, the road becomes narrower and narrower, with hairpin turns that force us to slow down even more and stop rubbernecking. On the east side of Conor Pass, there is a small car park with a beautiful view of the valley below. We stop and both get out to look. We have to be careful, as there isn’t a lot of room. If we’re not careful, we’ll find ourselves standing in the middle of the road. Behind us is a steep, boulder-strewn slope that looks to flatten out higher up. We climb up that slope, climbing from rock to rock, until we can peek over the top, and I feel God put his hand on my shoulder and say, “Look. Look what I made for you.” I am awestruck.

The plateau is a large bowl, holding a small lake of crystal-clear water like a beautiful secret. There are no signs down below, telling of its presence. It is a surprise reserved for only those adventuresome enough to climb this slope out of curiosity, or the desire for a better view of the valley below. And what a view it is; the broad valley stretched out below, lush and green, the kind of green you only get in Ireland, crisscrossed by ancient stone walls, holding at least three lakes, and bounded by more mountains, stretching off to the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. The valley is even more gentle and pastoral in contrast to the boulder-strewn ruggedness of the highlands we stand on. We sit on a rock by that little lake for some time, not even talking, just happy to be here in this place together. Jess takes her shoes off and soaks her feet for a bit.  There may be other people up here, in fact, there probably are, but, in this place, they are reduced to mere wraiths, flitting on the edge of our consciousness, barely registering to us, and I’m sure we’re the same to them. I don’t remember anything but Jess and I, and the lake, and the countryside. We have never just been anywhere, as completely as we are here. We sit here, unwilling to break the spell, time seeming to stand as still as ourselves.

Sadly, time is not standing still after all. The sky has become overcast, the clouds are lowering, and we still have to get over the top of the pass, now shrouded in the clouds. As we work our way down the slope, I pause to take a picture of the valley below. The sunlight has found a hole in the clouds, and a single beam shoots through, illuminating the lakes in the now shadowed valley. That picture hangs on the wall in our kitchen, and I pass it dozens of times a day, almost always pausing to look at it and remember that day.

On the way down the slope, we happen upon a small, actually tiny, waterfall. Jess sits down on a rock next to it, and I take her picture. I will use that picture as a bookmark for years. It’s probably still in one of my books somewhere, and I’ll find it again someday. In the picture, she looks the way I still see her, beautiful and happy, with a gorgeous Mary Tyler Moore smile that never fails to make my heart beat a little harder.

We make it over the pass without a problem, and on down the mountain to the village of Dingle, a lovely little town with live traditional Irish music in nearly every pub. The next day, we take a dolphin-watching boat ride, along with dozens of other tourists, in the harbor, and drive the tourist-burdened road around the Slea Head loop, visit prehistoric forts and miles of beautiful coastline, but after Conor Pass, they all feel a little touristy and anti-climactic. On our way out of Dingle, we stop at Conor Pass once again, and feel the same magic as before.

We follow that up with a visit to the Cliffs of Moher, and a drive through the Burren. The Cliffs of Moher bring much the same feeling as Conor Pass, but it is too crowded, and just too immense. Our attention is split between the cliffs, and the tourists crawling up to the edge, wondering which one is going to fall off first. The Burren, with its weird, other-worldly landscape and prehistoric dolmen, or tombs, also brings those feelings, but it is so unsettlingly strange, and almost sinister, that it is just a bit like seeing what happens when God gets angry. Impressive and wonderful, yes, but also ominous and haunting. If the Cliffs of Moher are a big, flashy gift to the world and the Burren is a warning glance from a stern parent, then Conor Pass is a gentle, warm, and loving hug from your daddy.

Jess at Pedlar's Lake in 2013
Jess at Pedlar’s Lake, at the top of Conor Pass, in 2013

We will return at least twice after this first trip, once around our tenth anniversary, and then again for our twentieth. Both times we have either friends or family with us, and it affects them all the same way. The last time, we find a girl skinny-dipping while her boyfriend sits on the shore watching. It’s funny and a little bit awkward, but it is also fitting; after all, what could be more appropriate in that rugged Eden than a pretty nymph unselfconsciously enjoying, and being a part of, all that beauty? At least, in my mind she is pretty; we politely keep our distance. To tell the truth, I envy them. Jess and I are too conventional, too inhibited to allow ourselves that kind of freedom, that kind of joy, and to be honest, the sight of me skinny-dipping would certainly mar the sense of wonder for any other passers-by, so it’s probably just as well.

The wonderful thing about these lonely places is that, once you’ve been there, they become a part of you. All you have to do to visit them again is think about them, and you’re there again, feeling their magic for the first time, again, and again, and again. They become your “happy place”.

On our second trip, I take a new picture of Jess by that little waterfall, to replace the bookmark one. In it, she’s ten years older, ten years heavier, but her smile is just as bright and joyful as it is on our honeymoon. Although the years of living with me have taken a visible toll on her, she is just as beautiful as the day I met her. She has a magic of her own that affects me the same way Conor Pass does. Every time I look at her, it’s as if God lays his hand on my shoulder and says, “Look. Look at what I made for you.” Conor Pass may be our happy place, but Jess is mine.

The United Colonies of Corporate America

There is a sentiment that often pops up in a meme posted by veterans, that says something along the lines of “I swore an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. That oath has no expiration date.” Although, it is normally posted by my more right-leaning brethren, I actually believe the same thing. I just disagree with them on who our enemies really are.

I was reading an article earlier today, from Atlantic magazine by David Frum, about the impending collapse of American Democracy and the rise of Donald Trump (no matter how I try, I just can’t seem to help myself). It was a pretty good article, but there was one thing that really struck home to me; in the section on foreign policy, it quotes a statistic from the Pew Research Center that says that 66% of Republicans polled, and 75% of Trump supporters polled, said that things have gotten worse for people like themselves over the last 50 years. Much as it pains me to agree with anything Trump supporters believe, I have to admit I agree with them. Where we seem to disagree on this is on the WHY.

They seem to believe it’s the fault of foreigners, minorities, Muslims, gays, Democrats, liberals, socialists, progressives, the poor, career politicians, the U.N., and, of course, OBAMA (Duhn, DUNH, DUNNNNNNH!). I believe that most of it is because we’re being colonized by inhuman forces. That’s right – Corporations. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. Corporations are merely the mechanisms through which we are being colonized. The actual colonizers are the people at the top of the corporations, like the Koch brothers, and the same bankers and brokers who caused the collapse of the economy in 2008.

Definition of Colonization:

First, let’s take a look at what colonization is. Out of sheer laziness, I’ll quote my own paper, “Colonizing Shakespeare,” written for a class:

Mel Brooks’ 1974 comedy, Blazing Saddles, unintentionally contains perhaps the most practical definition of colonialism ever, when the villain, Hedley Lamarr plots to take some extremely valuable land from its rightful owners. His henchman Taggart suggests a “number six”:

“‘Well, that’s where we go a-ridin’ into town, a-whompin’ and a-whumpin’ every livin’ thing that moves within an inch of its life. Except the women folk, of course.”

‘Oh, you spare the women?’

‘Naw, we rape the shit out of them at the Number Six Dance later on.’

‘Marvelous!’” (Brooks).

The “number six”, although crude, is more realistic than the bloodless and inane definition provided by the Oxford English Dictionary: “The colonial system or principle. Now freq. used in the derogatory sense of an alleged policy of exploitation of backward or weak peoples by a large power” (“colonialism, n.” 2). European colonization followed a very simple pattern: find a place with ample resources, overpower the indigenous people, force the indigenous people to gather those resources or import cheap slave, prisoner, or indentured laborers to gather them and push the indigenous people out, collect said resources and ship home to the mother nation. Mixed in with that was usually the importation of missionary workers to subvert the local religions and convert the indigenous people to Christianity. European colonialism was ultimately all about increasing the power and wealth of the mother nation and its rulers, both politically and commercially; in other words, a large-scale “number six”.

It doesn’t really matter where you look; the Spanish in South America, Belgians in the Congo, or the Romans, and later the British, pretty much everywhere, or even little old us, right here at home, they pretty much all follow the same pattern. Find something you want, kill or subjugate anyone or anything that stands between you and “it”, keep as much of “it” for yourself as humanly possible while vilifying anyone who questions your right to have “it”.

What makes this corporate colonization harder to spot, is that “it”, in this case, is not land, or resources, or even a particularly physical property; “it” in this case, is simply money (and, if you would argue the fact that money is no longer a physical property, ask yourself, when was the last time you cashed a paycheck, or even held more than a couple hundred dollars in your hand). Money has become less and less familiar to us. Now money is a little plastic card in your wallet, a bank notification in your email, a button on your computer screen. It doesn’t pass from hand to hand anymore, it flies invisibly along wires, and even through the air. Oddly enough, our current unfamiliarity with it has made it even more important, more mystical, more God-like.

A Little Evidence:

One thing I have noticed throughout all this political season’s finger-pointing, patriotic, flag-waving, hyperbole about income and wealth inequality is this; there really hasn’t been all that much. Seriously. Except for Bernie Sanders, the rest seem to pretty much just ignore it, or at best, poo-pooh it as the whining of undeserving whiners. Nobody however, seems to really want to dispute that it exists. I googled “American income over the past 40 years,” and in every chart I saw, the line representing the income of the top 1% looks like my heartrate after 5 minutes on a treadmill. It looks like a rocket trajectory from the ’80’s to today. On the other hand, every chart’s lines representing lower- and median-income earnings since the ’80’s looks like my heartrate if I tried to do 20 minutes on a treadmill (a flat line).

I haven’t heard anyone dispute this. Even Fox News acknowledges that it exists, but even they can only sugar-coat that turd so much. John Stossel wrote that yes, incomes for the rich have increased by 200% over the last 30 years, but don’t forget that the poor’s income has increased by 50 percent over that same time period. I’m not even going to argue with his numbers. Let’s just look at it mathematically. Let’s say the average rich guy made $1,000,000 a year, 30 years ago. Today, that same rich guy would be making 2,000,000. Not too shabby. Let’s say the average poor person made $20,000. Today, he’s making $30,000. Meanwhile, the price of hamburger has gone from $.99/lb. to $4.68/lb. That’s an increase of 472%. Bread was $.50, now it’s $1.98 (almost 400%). In other words, according to Fox News, the only people keeping up with the cost of living are the wealthy. As a side note, we all know that I suck at math. Feel free to let me know if I got it wrong.

How They’ve Done It:

In the old days, the imperial powers used a literal “number 6” approach. Take the U.S., for example. We wanted the land, the gold, the timber, the silver, etc. “What the hell,” we said, “the Indians aren’t even using it. God wants us to have it.” So we took away their food sources, and forcibly moved them to land we didn’t want. If they resisted, we killed as many of them as as it took to make them behave the way we wanted to. We told them, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you now,” and then just as quickly forgot about them, at least until we found that their was uranium in that worthless land we’d put them on. Then, we claimed imminent domain, and took that too, and poisoned the water while we were at it. Then we promptly forgot them again. If you doubt me, go to an Indian reservation sometime.

The Corporations’ approach is more subtle. They legislate it, through lobbyists who write the bills Congress passes. Through corporate welfare, where employees (including many military members) earn so little that they rely on food stamps, WIC, and other assistance to make ends meet. Through extortion, threatening to move operations to other states or even overseas if their conditions aren’t met. That way, we get union-busting Right-to-Work laws that puts even more power in the Corporate hands.

At the same time, they find, create, and promote other “enemies” to distract us. Those evil unions, all those unnecessary regulations that stop them from turning this country back into a veritable Garden of Eden of freedom and free enterprise like it was in the ’60’s and ’70’s; you know, those halcyon days when our rivers used to catch fire from all the crap they dumped into them. They promote the idea that what’s good for business is good for America, and to show their patriotism and dedication to the American way of life, they hide their money in the Caiman Islands and other places.

They, through their political shills promote the idea that government is the enemy, and convince many to forget that our government is designed to be a “government of the people, by the people, and for the people,” (Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg Address). That’s right, you and I are the government. At least, we’re supposed to be. If we’re not any more, it’s our own damned fault. We’re the ones who bought into the bullshit fed us by people only interested in siphoning all the money to the top, AKA Trickle-Down Economics, or, as I think of it, “Let’s piss down their backs and tell them it’s raining” economics.

We are complicit in our own colonization. We’ve turned ourselves into a group of people so stupid that we’re perfectly willing to accept a Facebook meme that is easily disproved with even the most rudimentary amount of research, yet completely unwilling to accept the findings of the scientific community. Until we get sick that is. Then we’re all about the science. The more sciencey, the better. Heart, kidneys, or liver gone bad? Sign me up for a transplant. Hard-on’s a thing of the past? Have some viagra. Yay science!!!!! And all the while we ignore the fact that the same scientific process that made these things possible has also amassed a mountain of evidence that points out that climate change is devastatingly real.

An intelligent, thinking population is necessary, yet we allow our schools to deteriorate. We support our teachers by sharing memes on the Facebook, and elect politicians who gut school programs to cut costs. We’re not going to get really upset as long as they’re only cutting band, music, and arts programs, lunch programs, or things like that. No, we’ll save our wrath for when they start cutting the important stuff, like sports. Well, boy’s sports that is; the only people who care about girl’s sports are the girl’s parents. We NEED boy’s sports. They’re the primary feeder system for college and professional sports. We’ve got to keep those things strong and healthy, so we can keep building new stadiums with tax dollars so our teams won’t move somewhere that will build one.

Because professional sports are important. Without them, what would we do on Sunday afternoons? Spend time doing something with our families? Read a book, maybe? The horror! Besides, without sports merchandise, what would we spend what little money we have on? How would anybody know what team we root for? How would we know what people are just not right? Granted, it’s easy enough when they’re clearly different, but what about the ones who look and act just like me? How else would I know that my neighbor is a Steelers fan, and so, clearly not to be trusted (this is COLTS country, dammit!).

We’ve bought into the idea that the American people are the villains; well, not you and I, we’re the good guys, us and the small group of like-minded, right-thinking individuals like us. The bad guys are all the rest; all those “takers”. The poor, the immigrants (legal and illegal), the gays, the liberals, etc., etc. They’re the ones who are getting rich off of our tax dollars. They’re the ones who are bringing America down with their laziness, their immorality. Hell’s bells, they won’t even take care of their own children! And especially now that there are so many of them.

We want to get back to the good old days, the ’50’s, ’60’s, and 70’s. Back then, people lived right. Men went to work, and women stayed home and took care of their children. Parents taught their kids right from wrong. Parents were there to discipline their kids. That’s what we need to get back to. Except we can’t. Back in those days, in most cases, a man could make enough money working full time to feed, clothe, and house his family, so mothers could stay home and be mothers. Nowadays, and for the last 30 or so years, it takes both parents working to make ends meet.

Back then, if a mother needed, or even wanted, to work, the places where most of them work were closed at night, so they worked while the kids were in school. Now, everything runs 24 hours a day. Often both parents work different shifts, and the kids spend their time with grandparents, friends, or baby-sitters, or at day-care that costs almost as much as the parent makes.

Poverty, just like wealth, is inherited, as are their attendant attitudes. Just as wealthy people become more “entitled” and spoiled the farther removed from actually having earned their wealth they become over generations, accepting their wealth as their due, the poor become more and more accustomed to hopelessness, more and more resigned to living on hand-outs. We see this with every trip we make to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. We middle-class white folks go out there and are shocked at the living conditions. We can’t believe that people actually have to live like that, here in modern America.

But the same thing is happening to us. The middle class isn’t shrinking so much as it is falling into poverty. The economic collapse in ’08 was the biggest bang in our colonization, and it wasn’t even enough to wake us up and make us take action. Seven to 10 million people lost their homes in the mortgage crisis, and not only did none of the people responsible go to jail for their predatory and irresponsible lending practices, WE BAILED THEM OUT! We called them job creators, even as they moved operations overseas to save money, as they gutted and pillaged our industrial and manufacturing base.

I know that some of you will say that I’m being ridiculous, that if they drive us all into poverty, then we won’t have the money to buy their products. In answer to that, I say, the guys at the top don’t care. They just want the money. They’ve already proven to themselves that even the poorest of us will go to ridiculous lengths to buy their crap, especially if they can drop the price by making that crap overseas. All they have to do is keep making minor “improvements”, and we’ll just have to have the newest Xbox, or IPhone. Even on Pine Ridge, they’ve all got cell phones.

Besides, these champions of capitalism don’t really believe in capitalism. Henry Ford, as anti-union an industrialist as they come, insisted on paying employees enough that they could afford his cars, raising their pay to almost double the standard. He knew that well-paid workers were loyal, and good for the economy. I once worked for a relative, a staunch conservative and capitalist, in a small skid-making business. He paid an excellent wage for a part-time job, and every year the business did well, he paid me a bonus. This was entirely his decision. I had no idea whether he was even making a profit. In return, I did my best to streamline the operation, drastically reducing production time and costs.

These guys, however, only believe in getting theirs. They know it’s not going to last, so they get in, grab all they can, as fast as they can, all the while ensuring that, if it all goes tits up while they’re in charge, they’ve got their golden parachute in place. Henry Ford was making cars. He was doing it to make money, and he made a lot, but he was making sure he took care of his people (granted, a lot of his methods were reprehensible, but the point stands). He was a capitalist. My relative was making skids. He also was doing it to make money, and he made some, but he also felt a responsibility to me. He is a capitalist. These guys are only making money. They only feel a responsibility to themselves. They aren’t capitalists, they’re opportunists.

But we still see each other as the enemy. We share memes about how fast-food workers want $15 an hour, pointing self-righteously to the fact that EMT’s, and other skilled workers don’t make that much, without ever asking ourselves why, since our GDP grows every year, are EMT’s, teachers, soldiers, police, fire-fighters, and medical personnel payed so poorly? Nobody chooses to work a low-skilled, minimum wage job at McDonalds, or WalMart. They take those jobs because often, they’re the only jobs available, particularly to a population that is poorly educated, and trained not to think, but just to believe. To believe what they’re told by the pundits, and the advertisers, the creators of memes.

The real value of education lies not in just the memorization of facts, but in the development of the ability to think, and to think critically. But if we learn to do that, then we won’t be such easy marks for con men disguised as business leaders, and our prospective overlords just can’t have that.

The question is, what’s it going to take to wake us up, and start us questioning these things? I understand completely if you think I’m off-base with a lot of this stuff, but why do you think that? Where’s your evidence? Do you have any, or is your disagreement based on how you feel?

Feel free to tell me what you think.

What’s Wrong with Me? A Little Overdue Self-Examination

There is an anecdote, perhaps apocryphal, that G.K. Chesterton once responded to the question, “What is wrong with the world?” from The Times of London with the answer, “I am.” Now, Chesterton was a very, very smart writer, critic, and theologian, so who am I to question him? However, he died in 1936, and the world is still very, very messed up. Clearly he was not all that was wrong with the world or, maybe he was just answering for every single one of us, which begs the question, “What is wrong with us?” Chesterton went on to write an entire book, “What’s Wrong with the World”, in 1910, examining the question more deeply. I don’t have time to write a book, but, I feel that a pretty decent small-scale answer can be found in simply answering the question, “What’s wrong with me?”  Sadly, I am also no match for Chesterton’s brevity, so please bear with me.

At first glance, it shouldn’t be too hard. After all, I’m a military retiree, born and raised on an Indiana farm, and raised to behave and live according to the traditional values of my family, church, and nation; all men are created equal, do unto others . . . , etc. I mean, how bad could I really be? Generally, I think I’m a pretty good guy. My wife and friends tell me I’m a good man. Still, I know I’m not perfect. Some of my faults are obvious; I eat too much, smoke too much, don’t exercise enough. I procrastinate both habitually and accidentally (for example, I forgot this essay is due). I am self-destructive in any number of ways. I’m also fundamentally childish, petty, arrogant, vain, judgmental, insecure, wasteful, and, in all likelihood, not nearly as smart as I think I am. I guess I’m probably pretty much just like you and everybody else on the planet.

But all those things are really just the symptoms. They’re the things that I, along with you, and most of the rest of the world are aware of, and work to overcome every day so that we can be the people we’d like to be. To just stop there would really be premature. To get to the root of these symptoms, deeper self-examination is required.

One of the great things about going back to school late in life is that it has really made me at least try to be a critical thinker; to think deeply about things that I would normally just take for granted, or never think about at all. For example, I’ve been thinking about race a lot lately, which led me to ask myself, “Am I a racist?” Normally, I would just say no, of course not. After all, I don’t associate with members of any racial minorities now, but that’s because none live around me, or are in class with me (I really don’t get out much). I did spend 20 years in the Air Force though, working with people of many different ethnicities and nationalities. Many were friends, and I got along with virtually all of them. I did dislike some, but it was based on work, personality, and behavior, not their skin color. Clearly the answer was no. Emphatically no. I felt really good about that.

Then that critical thinking thing kicked in, and I really looked at my life. Just that sentence above about how I don’t associate with any minorities now, essentially admits that I don’t because I don’t have to. That’s kind of disturbing. Do I avoid places that might cause me to have to interact with minorities? Were there parts of town that I avoid? I realized that the answer to both those questions was yes. I’ll drive through the north side of town, but that’s it. When I need a haircut, I go to a chain salon on the east side, even though it made me uncomfortable. It just seemed unmanly (more on that later) to go to a salon instead of a barber, but the only barber shop I knew of is in the black part of town. I’ve driven by it literally thousands of times. It is by far the closest and most convenient barber shop in town, but I had never even considered going there for a haircut. I had to ask myself why not? The more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I got about myself. Why not go there? I’m not picky about my hair. I just want it shorter. I’d even had it cut by black barbers in base barber shops. I had to face the fact that I’d never considered it simply because it’s a “black” barber shop. This was not a happy realization for me. It undermined a lot of what I’ve always believed about myself, and I decided I needed to do something about it. The next time I needed a haircut, that’s where I went.

I was uncomfortable walking into Wright’s Barber Shop. What would it be like? Would I be the only white guy in there? Would they all look at me? I imagined walking into something like the movie Barber Shop. Rap and Soul music playing, black people laughing and joking and having a good time. Then I walk in, and it all goes dead silent, every face turning to stare at me in shock. Maybe somebody drops a pair of scissors, and their clatter is as loud as Notre Dame’s bells ringing. Maybe it would even all happen in slow motion.

I was a little nervous as I opened the door. I walked in, and one of the ladies there asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, please. I need a haircut.”

“Okay, have a seat. It’ll be a few minutes.”

That’s it. No gasps of shock, no funny looks, barely a break in the conversation. I felt like a schmuck. I sat down on a sofa and looked around me. Okay, kind of what I expected; some velvet paintings on the wall, Aretha on the radio. Jet and Ebony magazines on a coffee table. After a few minutes, Mr. Wright came out, and gave me a great haircut. We had a lovely conversation, and he made me feel not only welcome, but like I belonged, like there was nothing weird about a white guy coming into his place for a haircut. Because there wasn’t.

I walked out of there feeling pretty good about myself; Apparently I wasn’t racist after all. But, if I wasn’t at least a little bit racist, then a simple haircut wouldn’t need all this thinking, all these feelings and worries, however small, would it? At least I was only a little bit racist. Of course, being a little racist is like having chlamydia: It’s better than having syphilis, but still not good. That’s a problem I’m going to have to do something about.

Then, I had to ask myself, why would getting my hair cut at a “salon” strike me as unmanly? Why would it even bother me? Deep down, I knew that men go to barbers, and that salons are for women, metrosexuals, and homosexuals. This has led me to realize that I am apparently a little bit homophobic. This is disturbing on a number of levels. Quite a few of my favorite people are gay, both friends and family. These are people that I genuinely love and respect. Even some of my favorite fictional characters are gay. I’m in favor of gay marriage, and I’m completely against these “religious freedom” laws that are so popular now, and seem to be nothing more than a thinly-veiled excuse for discriminating against gay people. I find them (the laws) offensive and distinctly un-American, so to realize that deep-down, I harbor some of these same sentiments, no matter how insignificantly or superficially, is frankly, shameful. It’s not that I have anything against them, I just apparently just don’t want to be mistaken for one of them. I was really starting to feel like a jackass, and rightly so. I’m going to have to do some work on this too. I realize that, if I were to go to a black barbershop for a haircut to explore my previously unsuspected racism, then perhaps I should try a similar experiment to test my level of homophobia. It occurred to me, however, that I don’t know of any gay barber shops. There are salons, but that’s how I ended up with this dilemma. I suppose that the next logical step at this point would be to go hang out at a gay bar. I’m just not sure that that is a step I’m ready to take. For one thing, I just don’t go to bars. I don’t really go anywhere. I like to stay home. Then there’s the whole “being in a gay bar thing.” What if someone asked me to dance? How would I react? I wouldn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings. It would just be an uncomfortable situation. Or, maybe even worse, what if no one asked me to dance? I’m an overweight, greying 50-year-old man teetering on the verge of a mid-life crisis; I don’t need that kind of rejection. Clearly, this is another area I’m going to have to work on.

At least I’m not sexist. I love women. Most of my favorite people are women. I’m all for equal rights, equal pay, women in any job they want to do. I’d certainly vote for Elizabeth Warren for president. I may even vote for Hilary Clinton. I think of myself as a feminist. I try really hard not to objectify women, although I have to admit that that’s gotten a lot easier as I’ve gotten older. I just don’t seem to have the energy. I even asked my wife if she thought I was possibly just the slightest bit sexist, and she assured me I was not. “If you were, I wouldn’t be with you,” were her exact words, although she did acknowledge my penchant for some sexist jokes. Then I realize that, when I go to a bookstore, I automatically reject almost any book written by a woman. While I have enjoyed a number of books by women, they were virtually all books I was required to read, and not read voluntarily. This is a hard thing to have to admit, and I strongly recommend not having this particular revelation in a college literature class full of aspiring female writers like I did. While I survived that little indiscretion, I am at a loss to explain my dismissal of women’s writing. I know there are a lot of really smart, talented female writers out there. Why don’t I want to know what they have to say? It obviously points to yet another fundamental fault in my psychological and emotional makeup.

I take comfort in the fact that at least I’m not a religious bigot. I am a Christian, but I have no problem with Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, or any other religion. I believe we all have a right to believe whatever we believe, and I see the numerous parallels between most religions and my own, and realize that we’re all looking for the same God. I don’t for a moment believe that all Muslims are either overt, or closet, jihadists, that they are all out to get me. I certainly don’t believe in carpet-bombing countries to kill ISIS. I don’t believe we should have a “kill them before they kill us” brand of foreign policy. Except why do I feel a little frisson of concern when I see a guy in a turban getting on my flight? Why do I feel a little weirded out when I see a woman walking around with a hijab? At this point, I’m beginning to wonder if there is anyone I’m not at least a little prejudiced against.

I guess what’s wrong with me is that I am, to some degree, everything that I loathe people like Donald Trump and Ted Cruz for. I am (apparently) everything that I rail against. Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living,” and I have apparently gone almost 50 years without really examining my life. I don’t think I’m alone in this. Really examining your life takes time. It’s uncomfortable. It, at least in my case, shattered my illusions about myself, those same illusions that we all spend our lives carefully building and protecting. Once you really start thinking, you realize that there are no answers, at least no easy ones, only more questions. Once I realized that I am, in reality, a bigot; racially, genderally (?), sexually, and religiously (and don’t kid yourself, being even a little bit bigoted is like being a little bit pregnant), I’ve had to ask myself why am I all these things, which has led to numerous even less flattering revelations, both about myself, and about those who have, and do, influence me. Even worse, I’ve had to realize that there are no easy answers as to how to fix all these things that are wrong with me. I’m going to have to be an ongoing project.

It has been really hard to write this without providing some sort of defense for myself; like I said before, I like to think I’m a good guy, and at this point, I’m really feeling like a jerk. I know that life isn’t easy for these folks. I’ve been the object of baseless distrust and discrimination myself, although not nearly to the level of minorities, women, gays, or Muslims. As a middle-aged, white veteran attending college full-time, I’ve gotten the hairy eyeball from many of my fellow students. Although there are very few minorities at my school, there are a lot of females and LGBTQ folks, and it took a while for a lot of them to accept me. I made a lot of them uncomfortable. The point, though, is that they did accept me. Many of them have become good friends, and I like to think they feel the same about me. Hearing the stories about their struggles, especially the LGBTQ kids with their families has made me a lot more conscious of the problems they face. I can’t imagine how painful it must be to be rejected by my family just for being me.

Conservatives make a big noise about universities being bastions of liberalism. I say, “Good.” College maybe the last place these kids will be able to let down their guard and openly be themselves, particularly if the vast majority of us don’t get over ourselves and learn to treat those who are superficially different the way we ourselves insist on being treated. If I get a few wonky looks, so be it. I’m a middle-aged white guy. There are lots and lots of people who will be more than willing to accept me and treat me decently, based solely on the way I look. It’s not an issue for me. It’s just that it shouldn’t be an issue for Muslims, LGBTQ folks, minorities, or anyone else. Not in this country.

In the end, Chesterton was right about what’s wrong with the world: I am.

I take some small comfort that at least now, I know it. I’m just one guy. I can’t fix the whole world, but I can at least try to fix myself. I’m certainly going to try. If you should happen to bump into me on the street, have a little patience with me. I’m a work in progress. I’ll try to be a little patient with you too. Maybe that’s the key to the whole damned thing.

Bernie Sanders: Why I’m Feeling the Bern (As Stupid As That May Sound)

I am kind of proud to support Bernie Sanders. Granted, I’m only kind of proud because I’m having a hard time believing that there’s a politician out there that I can support, that I can vote for, as opposed to voting against the other guy. I’m a firm believer that a person has to be nuts to even want that office, and the last thing we need in that office is a nut. That said, Bernie Sanders is my kind of nut. I’m proud to support Bernie Sanders for two simple reasons: because I’m a Christian, and because I love this country. I’ll wait while some of you log off, or plan your outraged response.

There, that should be enough time. Please note that, although I claim to be a Christian, I make no claims to being a good one. Frankly, I suck at it. I’m certainly no theologian or Biblical Scholar, God hasn’t tapped me on the shoulder and told me anything personally. I don’t even know if God really even cares who wins the election. I do know this though; Jesus told us to feed his sheep. If we love him, we’re to feed his sheep. We’re to love God first, and second, we’re to love one another. We’re to do unto others as we would have them do unto us. We’re to care for the poor, the down-trodden, the sick. We’re not supposed to feed only those sheep who deserve it, we’re not to love only those who agree with us, or look like us, we’re not to do unto others before they do unto us. We’re not supposed to care for the poor, the down-trodden, and the sick once they’ve earned our help. We’re just supposed to do it.

I don’t remember anything in the Bible that says to shun the refugee, to persecute the immigrant. I’m pretty sure that it even says something in there about loving our enemies. I’m having a hard time finding the part about carpet-bombing potential or even current enemies back to the stone age. Perhaps I need to find the translation that all the Republican candidates seem to be using.

Now I know that Bernie Sanders is not a Christian, he’s not even a christian. As far as I can tell, from what he himself has said, he’s sort of a semi-Agnostic Jew. What I do know is that the things he stands for represents the Christian values that I try so hard to stick to far better than any other candidate I’ve ever heard from. Ever. In any election, with the possible exception of Jimmy Carter. Now, even I don’t think that Carter was a good president, but I think he was a good man, which is more than I can say for anyone else (besides Bernie) running this year.

I’ve seen people posting things about what good Christian men Cruz, Rubio, and even Trump (Trump!) are, and I’ve seen Cruz and Rubio blathering on about their strong faith, but every time I do, I think about that bit in the bible that talks about not praying in public like the hypocrites do, about not making it a public spectacle, so I have my doubts. It strikes me as more about image and votes than devotion to God (also, I refer you to the bit above about the things Jesus told us to do). When I compare their feelings about God with their feelings about their fellow man, there seems to be a major disconnect. As far as Trump goes, he may be the only professing Christian on the planet with a shakier grasp on biblical matters than me (but at least I’m not using it to get a job).

To my thinking, Bernie Sanders seems to know Jesus far better than any of the rest.

As to my second reason for supporting Bernie, that I love this country: Bernie Sanders is the only candidate who seems to think the good ol’ USA can do anything other than huddle in fear. Fear of terrorists (they want to kill us!) fear of blacks and other minorities (they want our stuff! and they probably want to kill us too!), fear of gun control (they want our guns!), fear of immigrants (they want our jobs! and to kill us!), of the poor (they want our money!), of non-Christians (they want our religion!), gays (they want us!), fear of unions (they want to cripple industry!), frankly fear of everything.

Okay, so I’ll go along with everybody else on the terrorists (they do want to kill us, but to fear them is to give them power), but I believe that as far as the rest go, what the blacks and other minorities, immigrants, poor, non-Christians, gays, and unions want is what this country has always promised; a fair chance at the American dream. And honestly, if you think they’ve been given that already, then nothing I say here is going to change your mind, but I do have to ask, why are you still reading?

We’re even supposed to be afraid of our own employers; if we don’t let them do what they want, they’re going to pack up all the rest of the jobs and move them overseas! To me this sounds like capitulation to corporate extortion, and it makes me pretty stinkin’ angry.

Bernie Sanders wants to rebuild our infrastructure. Is there really anybody out there who doesn’t think this is a good idea? Our roads and bridges are falling apart. How is commerce supposed to happen without transportation, and how is transportation going to happen without roads, bridges, railroads, etc?

Bernie Sanders wants to make college possible for every American. Do you think that having a more educated population will hurt this country? I know people who are $50,000, $60,000, or more in debt to graduate from IU East. Single mothers, trying to make a better life for themselves and their families. I know that if I couldn’t have gone to school thanks to the GI Bill, I’d be looking at a pretty bleak and dismal future. I certainly wouldn’t have gone into debt, or at least not that much debt for it, and I know that my future is much brighter, with more possibilities than it would be without this education. Pro-lifer’s used to talk about all the unborn Hemingways, and Beethovens, and Einsteins and Curies who were being aborted. I’m not going to argue with that. I’m going to take that argument one step farther. What about all the budding Hemingways and Beethovens, and Einsteins, and Curies, who are born, but will spend their days working at Walmart, or McDonalds, or on an assembly line because they never had a chance to break out of poverty? To be trained? Our caring shouldn’t stop at birth.

Bernie Sanders wants universal health-care. You think that’s a bad thing? I have a brother who died as an infant because Dad couldn’t afford a doctor, and so he waited too long. That was almost 60 years ago. That, in this country, should not still be an issue. Yes, there will be problems, but it is do-able. It’s already being done. All over the world. By countries who don’t claim to be exceptional. If they can do it, we should be able to, and, I believe we should be able to do it better. I also think about this; yes people can receive care in any emergency room in the country, but that’s emergency care. How many of those emergency room visits could be avoided if people could get preventative care? What about all the communicable diseases that could be curbed by preventative care? I think it could drastically improve the lives of millions of Americans, particularly those in poverty, if done right. I think we can do it right. Maybe not perfectly, but better than anyone else, or at the very least, as well as anyone else.

Bernie Sanders believes in diplomacy. So do I. I’m pretty sure we’re not the only two. Only a complete idiot would believe that carpet-bombing would do anything more than make a bad situation worse. We’ve been wasting the greatest military the world has ever seen in pointless wars with virtually no end in sight, but the Republicans would have us believe that more of that is what we need. Escalation certainly worked in Vietnam, didn’t it? I served in the Air Force for 20 years, and I don’t believe, I know that we have the best military on earth. But military force is not the best tool for every situation, and the old tactics may not work in every situation. To just use our military as the de facto solution to every problem does the men and women in our services a huge disservice. Even the best tool will break when misused. I saw that in my own career, and I’m still unbelievably angry about it. I’ve tried writing about it a number of times, and I just can’t do it.

Think about this; we get our panties in a bunch every time N. Korea, or Iran, or Russia start rattling their sabers. How do you think a shop keeper in Syria, or a student in Iran feels about Cruz, Rubio, Trump, et al’s promises to the American people that we’re going to wipe them out? Knowing that we actually have the capability to do it? Think that might make them feel a little bit leery, a little bit hostile toward us?

Now obviously, there are going to be times when putting our troops in harm’s way will be necessary. But when we do, we need to make sure they have the tools and equipment they need, we need to have a clear plan, and we need to take care of them when they come home battered, bruised, and wounded, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Bernie Sanders believes in that too.

I personally think that income equality is a far greater enemy to the safety and security of this country than ISIS, or any other foreign power or force. Every chart I’ve seen shows the poor and lower-middle class wages have stagnated since the 80’s or 90’s, while the income of the guys at the top of the fiscal food chain looks like the trajectory of a rocket. If a poor man robs a gas station, and hurts no one, he’s going to jail. The big banks have robbed the entire country, and we bailed them out. No one went to jail, or at least no one important. Something’s got to change if we’re going to keep Karl Marx from turning from a radical boogeyman into a prophet.

Bernie Sanders is in favor of implementing renewable energy, like wind and solar, which are becoming more efficient every day. Other countries, like Germany, are making huge strides in this. We, on the other hand, are fracking, breaking up the foundations of the earth, and poisoning our own water, to suck a little more gas out. That’s fracking nuts. Oil, gas, and coal, are the past. I don’t believe we’ll ever completely replace oil and gas, especially in heavy industry applications, but a move to wind and solar could significantly reduce the demand for them, and the hazardous pollution they create, and they could make life so much more livable, especially for the poor. On the reservations in the west and southwest, where every year people freeze to death because they can’t afford fuel, wind and solar power could make a huge difference.

Bernie Sanders wants to do a lot of things that I’m highly in favor of. Do I think he could accomplish them all? No. I’m no starry-eyed dreamer. No one could accomplish all of them. But he could start them. They said the world was going to end when Teddy Roosevelt broke up the trusts and monopolies. It didn’t. They said FDR’s New Deal would reduce the country to wreck and ruin. It didn’t. We used to believe we could do things, great things, things that would make everyone’s lives better. We can believe it again. The best weapon in the war on terrorism and extremism isn’t guns or bombers. It isn’t money. The best weapon in that war is the American Dream itself, making America what it has always claimed to be; a place where any man, woman, or child, can get a fair shake, can become anything they want. A place where everyone can live, a place where even the little guy has a fair chance.

That seems to be what Bernie Sanders stands for, and that’s why I support him.

One last thing; the other candidates seem to think that we need to fear our own government, that the government itself is our enemy. It wants to enslave us, it cripples the economy with unnecessary regulations, it is a greedy, grasping vulture, feasting on the remains of our country. Gun rights wonks swear we need guns to protect us from our own military, the same military that we all, including guns rights wonks, swear we love. This presumes a willingness on the part of the government to order the military to use force against us, and the willingness on the part of that military that we all love, to follow those orders, and on a national scale.

The problem with that line of thinking is that the government is US! At least it’s supposed to be. If it’s not, it’s because we’ve allowed it to be taken out of our hands, usurped by powers that shouldn’t have it. You know what, we can take it back. That’s what voting is for. As Jim Wright says, “If you want a better country, be better citizens.” Get out and vote, even if it’s not for Bernie Sanders! But you should vote for Bernie Sanders. I am.

Monday Morning: A Success Story – Sort of

It’s Monday Morning!!!!! Yaaaaay!!!!! Okay, honestly, I feel like a lot of you are not sharing my enthusiasm. I don’t blame you, it’s not your fault. You’re probably having a regular Monday like I usually have: you wake up tired, drag yourself out of bed, stumble through your ablutions, probably cut yourself shaving, remember that you forgot to do laundry over the weekend, so now you’re sniffing your way through the pile of last week’s work clothes, trying to find the least wrinkled and most olfactorily acceptable ones (because you have just enough work clothes for 1 week). Finally ready, you stumble off, bracing yourself for the slings and arrows of outrageous stupidity that you know you’ll have to face throughout the day at your soul-crushing job.

I know your pain. That’s usually how it is for me. In fact, that’s how I thought today was going to be: just another freakishly horrible start to another run-of-the-mill week. My wife, the hard-working and sunnily optimistic Jess, woke me up at 6 a.m., in the morning! Let’s face it: That’s a terrible way to start any day, much less a Monday, and, just 6 hours into the new week, my spring was already sprung. Instead of springing out of bed, I oooooozed out, like chubby lava reluctant to leave it’s nice, warm, comfy volcano.

I was even less enthusiastic about this Monday morning than usual, because I had to take a math test. Well, technically, I didn’t have to take it until next Sunday, but I am trying to get ahead in my math class. You see, I suck at math. When I went back to school, I had to take a math placement test. The test confirmed what I had always known; I  am extraordinarily mathematically incompetent. I thought, “No big deal, I’m going to school to study English.” Ah, those were the days . . . I was young(er) . . . I was naive . . . I was wrong . . . so very, very wrong. It turns out that, even if you’re studying English, you still have to take math and science classes and foreign language classes.

Now, two and a half years later, I’ve bluffed my way through all of them – Environmental Science, Geology, and not one, but two, semesters of Spanish, getting A’s in all of them (which, quite frankly, gives me cause for concern regarding the quality of the education I’m getting). And when I say bluffed, I do mean bluffed. I’m pretty sure that I now speak less Spanish than I did at the start of the first semester, all I learned from Environmental Science is that we’re killing the planet in a multitude of ways, but that’s okay, because in Geology, I learned that the planet is trying to kill us in a number of ways, most of which involve lava and rocks.

That just leaves math; my old nemesis. My dad was amazing at math. He could do stuff in his head that I still can’t do, even with a calculator. Fractions, decimals, algebra, all that stuff, he seemed to be just naturally good at it. Sadly, the math gene apparently skips a generation, at least in the males. My sister is an accountant, so she is, presumably, pretty good at it, but neither I nor my brothers could do simple addition without a calculator. What can I say? We’re word guys.

Anyway, to make a long story truly endless, I’ve been working very hard to get ahead in math because I know that I suck at it. Also, because this is no ordinary math class. It’s called “Math for the Humanities”, and, as explained to me by numerous advisers, it’s a math class designed for mathematically-deficient English and History majors like me, to give us the math credits we need to graduate without over-taxing our math-challenged little minds. THEY LIED!!!!! I’ve had to spend the last two weeks converting Babylonian numbers, Mayan numbers, even Egyptian numbers into Hindu-Arabic (which is apparently what our numbers are called) numbers, and vice-versa. Ironically, the Egyptian numbers are the easiest, and they’re not even numbers, they’re pictures. A typical Egyptian number looks like: fish fish fish squiggly thing squiggly thing curleque curleque curleque hooky thing stick stick stick, but at least they give you a chart.

There’s also multiplying, dividing, adding, and subtracting in bases other than 10. I’m not going to even try to explain what that means (to be honest, I’m not even sure what it means, much less why it’s important to know how to do it). In high school, I was one of those kids who was always asking, “Why do I have to learn this? When am I ever going to need this?”, which is fairly common, even today. However, now, I’m 50 years old, and I know, excuse me, I KNOW I’m never going to need to do any of this!!!

Why else would I be an English major? If I was any good at math or science, I’d be studying them. There’s actual money to be made in math and science. My sister asked me what I’d be qualified to do after graduating with an English degree, and I told her, quite truthfully, “Be a stripper.” Then my wife, the very funny and needlessly cruel Jess, chimed in with, “Honey, you’re not qualified to do that either.”

So anyway, I’ve been struggling with this math stuff for two weeks now. I sit here at the computer, straining my brain, cursing at the computer, and talking myself through these math problems: “Okay . . . so 8 x 6 is 42 . . . ” while the much more mathematically capable Jess sits in the living room watching Pit Bulls and Parolee’s shouting, “No it’s not!” and giggling. Finally, last week, after going through the practice exercises for four hours, I felt like I was ready to take the test. I clicked on it (the whole class is on-line), and the computer said I couldn’t open the test until February 1st.

You probably heard me screaming.

So, this morning, February 1st, I ooooozed out of bed, took care of the critters, and sat down to take the test. I thought about going through the practice exercises again, and then realized that I just don’t care enough. So I clicked the thing, and took the test . . .

. . . And kicked it’s ass! (cue fanfare) That’s right! I killed it! I beat that thing like a rented mule! I showed it who’s boss! I got . . . wait for it . . . an 86%!!!!! Okay, I’ll wait a moment for you to stop laughing.

There, finished? No?

How about now?

Okay, that’s enough. Listen, 86% might not seem like much to crow about, but for me, it’s like . . . well, it’s like me almost qualifying to be an Olympic gymnast (those of you who know me and have heard me straining to tie my shoes even back when I was thin will know how surprising that would be).

What, you thought I was kidding about how badly I suck at math? If you’re a regular follower of this blog, then you know that I am, if anything, a master of the understatement, and that my humility is outshone only by my absolute honesty.

Anyway, not only did I experience an absolute and unqualified triumph over that horrible test, I also managed to get a load of laundry done, peruse the Facebook a little bit, fold and put away the laundry, and write this little gem. Not bad for a Monday morning. Of course, it’s only 11 a.m., and I still have to go to class, but I’m feeling uncharacteristically optimistic today.

How was your morning?

Thanks, and A Shameless Plug

First, I just want to say thanks to all of you who were gracious enough to read and share my latest post. When I looked a few minutes ago, that post had gotten over 5,000 views, and total views for the entire blog were well over 6,000. That’s just since last night, and, I believe more views than the blog has gotten, cumulatively, since I started it 2 years ago, so frankly, it’s a little overwhelming, and I just want to say thanks for reading!

I’m also going to take this golden opportunity, this bully pulpit, as it were (although those of you who know me know the last place I should ever be allowed is behind any kind of pulpit), to plug Nape Na Si Ministries. (pronounced Naw-pay Naw See. It means “Hands and Feet” in the Lakota language)

 

Our Logo
Our Logo

 

NOTE: Don’t stop reading now! We’re not asking for money! We’re asking for something much more valuable.

Nape Na Si is a mission organization that started in my home church, Whitewater Christian Church, by Ray Vance, the minister at that time, and my niece, Sarah Roberts (now Hartlieb). Ray wanted to get our church involved in missions personally, as opposed to just sending money to missionaries. Sarah had some connections of Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, so they and several others from our church went out there on a mission trip, where they all died (okay, not really, but from the stories they tell, I’m pretty sure they thought they were going to). They survived camping rough, tent-eating horses, and what sounds a lot like dysentery. They also made some deep connections on the Rez. This was in 2003, and some iteration of that group has gone back every year since.

We do a daily VBS/Street Ministry for the kids, a basket ministry for the adults, mow playgrounds and parks, and do construction work as funds and personnel allow. Our goal is to eventually acquire land out there and establish a full-time presence out there. However, for the time being, we’re just plugging along the best we can.

 

This is why we do what we do.
This is why we do what we do.

 

Here is a link to the Nape Na Si blog/website: http://www.napenasi.com

Anyway, as I said before, we are not asking for money. We’re asking you to get involved yourselves. Not even necessarily with us. Just get out there and help someone. However, if you’re not sure how to get started, check out NapeNaSi.com, and if you want to, give us a holler.

Okay, shameless plug over. Thanks again for reading!