Looters will be shot on sight

I sometimes am amazed at the capacity of people to do harm to each other. Not as much anymore are I used to be. With age comes wisdom, or cynicism I suppose.

I have been watching the coverage from New Orleans in the few brief moments that I get a television to myself these days. What has happened there goes beyond anything that could have ever imagined. I cannot be the only person in the world that has wondered what would happen if a Cat 5 hurricane ever hit the US. I can't be the only person that kind of roots for the storm to climb in strength just to say that we withstood the max that nature could throw at us.

What a foolish thing to wish for.

I have a friend in Mississippi that had a house three blocks away from the ocean. His house is now ocean front property because everything that was there before has been swallowed up by the hurricane. His house was lifted off the foundation, and set back down on a skew. By the time he gets back to it, it will be a total loss.

The same TV news show that I was watching showed looting and vandalism. Rampant looting and vandalism. The radio at lunch reported that the looters have armed themselves with guns they stole from Wal-Mart. Its too bad that I am not the King. The looters had better thank their lucky stars that I am not.

As King, I would do the following:
1. Declare immediate martial law in any of the affected counties/parishes in Mississippi and Lousiana,
2. Mobilize every national guard unit that was not already in Iraq, and request whatever units that were available in neighboring states.
3. Begin round the clock overflights of the flooded areas using helicopters with loudspeakers and leaflet drops ordering all civilians to report to evacuation areas or signal for pick up by whatever means are available.
4. 24 hours after the air campaign begins, start overflights with helicopter gunships loaded with rubber bullets, bean bag shot guns, or other non lethal means to deter looting.
5. Those that return fire, or resist dispersal will be dealt with using lethal means
6. All looters that can be will be arrests and placed into tent city type camps, similar to those in Arizona.
7. All looters will be forced into chain gangs to remove debris and help rebuild the city. The term of the chain gain service will be the cities are restored or the prisoner is dead, whichever comes first.
8. Any and all property belonging to the looter will be forfieted to the state to pay for food and clothing the prisoner consumes/uses.

Gawd people make me sick

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Ten Things I hate about Wal Mart

#10- Wal Mart moves in, the little Mom and Pop stores move out. The same can be said for Meijers, Lowes, Home Depot, Staples, etc

#9- If I wanted to go the the freak show, I would go back to the county fair

#8- They have a million items in the store, but almost never what I am looking for

#7- In order to keep the prices down, the help seems to be barely literate and semi sentient. I could swear that the girl that rang up my purchase tonight could barely put two words together in a sentence

#6- Wal Mart substitutes quantity for quality. You won't find a lot of high end stuff there, but you certainly can walk out with a cart load of junk

#5- Wal Mart forces their pricing philosophy on to their suppliers. Of course being the biggest in the world has its privileges, but I never liked a bully

#4- For whatever reason, I always feel dirty when I leave. The store does not feel clean. Call me crazy.

#3 - I watched a program that told " the story of Wal Mart". A company that has its own cheer ( at least in the US) creeps me out. The forced excitement and rah rah crap that went on at their stock holders meeting reminded me an awful lot of a cult. Hope they didn't serve Kool Aid....

#2 - I really don't think that they truly have the customer's interest in a high priority. That same show that I watched had a vignette with a woman demonstrating how if she gave away only a thumbs width more cloth with each sale, how much it cost the store in "shrinkage". The mom and pops store that I mentioned above never worried about that. So what if they cost a little more. The service and attention that I got, always made me feel as if we both profited from a sale.

#1- I think in general that the company has a great dead of hypocrisy in its treatment of its employees. I don't want to comment on the whole union, non union deal. That's an entire blog of its own. What bothers me is (again from the show), how the company purposely schedules events early in the morning, and purposely forces management to work weekends and go out of town a lot. I was under the impression that Wal Mart strove to be a family oriented company. IF that is that the case, then the managers should be home with their kids, not at a managers meeting that starts at 6:00 AM with the company cheer.

Lastly, I really feel that Wal Mart is the next variation/flavor of communism/Welfare/Big government. Think about it. Wal Mart dictates how much profit that its suppliers can make, going as far as demanding access to the suppliers books. Wal Mart uses its world wide distribution ability to bring in cheap knock off items into its stores, and by doing that, I feel they fleece the less sophisticated people out of their money. Wal Mart offers banking, doctor, groceries, auto care, etc. The next thing you know they will have wedding chapels and funeral parlors.

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"Is this Heaven?" "No- Its Iowa"

That line from Field of Dreams is something that I have pondered off and on again for a long time. One of the things that I imagine Heaven will be like will be a grand reunion with all of those that have gone ahead of me. Although I can imagine a Heaven where I am entirely focused on the Presence of my God, I hope it will not be that way. So much of my life and faith has been shaped by other people, I hope that I would not have to spend eternity without them.

Another thing that I hope for in Heaven, is that it will be a place that is familiar to me. There have been places that are like Heaven on Earth for me. The one that comes to mind the most is a camp that I spent a great many summers at. This is not to say that there are no other places that hold a special meaning to me, but Fort Scott is a place that I considered hallowed ground.

It was there that I showed children how to ride a horse, or how to build a one match fire. It was there that I could spend an entire summer and not worry about the outside world. There was no air conditioning, and I didn't miss it. There were few private bath facilities, and I didn't care. There was little or no down time, and it didn't matter. I was surrounded by some of the best people I had ever known, and I was in the midst of God's creation.

At night, I would take cabin duty for others who missed the bright lights and big city. I would sit out at the flag pole and watch the stars come out, and listen to the night noise of the forest. We would try and guess who was walking around the camp by their silhouette in the moonlight. During the days I would walk through a 300 acre forest that was both familiar and magnificent. I never failed to see or hear or smell something that was new.

In the heat of the summer I would spend days on horseback, and the evenings were spent cooling in the pool. During night swims, the steam would swirl off the water and the reflection of lights would dance on the boughs of the pine trees nearby.

If you sat quietly you could hear the cheers from the nearby soft ball complex, or you could smell the smoke from Doc Schroeder's campfire as he listened to a Reds Game or consoled a homesick camper.

I can no longer walk into a forest without missing Fort Scott. Being close to a horse and rider brings back into focus that which I miss so badly. The smell of leather and animal and fly wipe transports me back to a time when the world was so much simpler.

When I was away at college, I was almost never homesick. I missed my family, yes, but they were only a phone call away, or at worst, a 45 minute drive South.

Fort Scott will never happen again. It was closed to placate the insurance companies or the opponents in the archdiocese. It was sold to pay for the sins of the clergy, that could not keep their hands off little boys. And now it will be destroyed to satisfy the peoples appetite for big houses in neat little rows. All of them filled with people who will not appreciate that they are living on sacred ground.

I long for my home in the sun. I miss the sound of children playing. The thought of standing under the water tower as it overflowed on a 90 degree day fills my eyes with tears. I have been so blessed with a good life, a wonderful family and more good fortune that one man deserves. But sometimes we are defined more by what we have lost than what we have gained.

If I had the power to write the ending to my life, I would have been buried there, under the pine trees, in that sacred ground. Now it is all gone. Perhaps in Heaven I will be allowed to visit once more, the one place that I would choose to spend eternity.

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The Electronic Leash

It all began innocently enough, nearly 12 years ago. I decided that when my wife was nearing her due date to give birth to our son, that it would be a good idea to wear a digital pager. Not only would a pager be a convenience, but for a young professional, it was instant credibility. Now, I don't know who I was trying to kid, I was a young, professional laborer for a construction company, but having a pager, I was running with the lawyer crowd.

I don't remember when I relented and started carrying a cell phone. I really didnt want one because I knew that it really was an electronic leash. I no longer could disappear for an hour when the trip to the store should have taken 15 minutes. I no longer could claim that I forgot what time it was when I was playing cards with my buddies, or staying late at rehearsal. Mind you, things have gotten better, but I am still like Pavlov's dog, in that if the damn thing rings, I am compelled to answer it.

Which bings me to today...

I lost my phone two days ago. I searched the entire house. I looked in my truck. At least 5 times. My son helped me look. My daughter helped me look. The good people at the grocery store and the Bobcat dealership have my phone number in case it shows up.

So I went to the Verizon store in the local mall. Jonathon was a bright looking lad, who expertly told me that I couldnt afford the phone that I really wanted. I explained that I wanted a simple phone that would remember telephone numbers, addresses, and link to my computer to sync to Outlook. He told me that I could have all of that for a mere $300.

If I wanted to take fuzzy pictures, useless movies, play GI Joe with the walkie talkie function, and walk around like one of the trailer trash junior high school girls that get carpal tunnel syndrome from all of the thumb work they do, texting their kewl dood friends, those options I could have for free because I was due for an upgrade.

I counted to 5- I didn't think I could make it all the way to 10- and told him to just get me a phone that was similar to what I had lost.

After a short time, we determined the model that I needed, and he graciously offered to throw in the leather carrying case with the phone. Then we got down to the business of making the change and updating my account.

I have never had a personal telephone account, but I understand that all you need is a social security number, and a credit card. To get the work done on a corporate account,

we needed the name of the company,

the name of the company bank,

the tax id number for the company,

the account id number,

a contact person at our bank, and finally,

the coup de grace, OUR BANK ACCOUNT number.

This was to simply replace a telephone, on an existing account, that pays Verizon Wireless literally thousands of dollars per year.

I asked young Jonathon why I had to produce all of this information, for an existing account. He apologized profusely, explaining that for some reason the computers a not linked or something.

The ads on TV claim that I can call Alaska from Arkansas, using the handy dandy walky talky, but the computer in the store cannot call up the required account info.

It gets funnier. All of the info except for the bank acount number, I had memorized, and gave to the now sweating Jonathon. When he asked for the Bank ID, I told him there was no way in the world that I could remeber that. He was trying to be helpful when he suggested that we could log on to the bank website, and get it from there. It really wasnt his fault. He was there to make a sale, and be helpful.

Calmly I told him that there was "no fucking way" that I would access the bank account number from any computer but my own.

I left without my phone, after spending an hour as the guest of Verizon Wireless. Whats worse, I left while considering actions that are a felony in the state of Ohio, all over a telephone that I didnt want in the first place.

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Hot summer nights at the Hotel California

I have been pondering this next thought for a long time, and have come to the decision that I really pity the kids of today.

I was cruising around town in my really rad pickup truck and YYZ Live by Rush came on the radio. I actually sat in the driveway until the drum solo finished and relished every second of it.

I realized that one of the best times of my life was sitting on the front porch with my best buddy Tim, and listening to the night fall. This was before everyone learned that they could not survive without central air conditioning. The windows of the houses in the neighborhood would be open, and you could hear the TV in the house across the street, or the rednecks up the block having an arguement. We would sit in the darkness talking about things that young teenage boys would talk about, girls, cars, rock bands, radio stations, or whatever. You could hear the hotrod coming three blocks away. Some hopped up Mustang, or Camaro, with the guys in the front seat, and the girls in the back. Almost always the song on the radio would be Stairway to Heaven, or Hotel California.

We would lapse into silence admiring the car, and wondering where they might be off to. We were young enough to suspect that they might go make out, but too niave to speculate at what might come next. The worst we figured they would do is maybe drink some beer or drag race. We were so lucky never to have heard of AIDS, or Crack. Gangs were undheard of in our little town, let alone a drive by shooting or other nonsense that seems to be so common place.

Girls were a mystery then. I was in my 20s before I had to suffer through my first feminine hygene commercial. Sex on TV was limited to what happened behind closed doors in 3s company, or else it was on past our bedtime on HBO. I actually thought that Richard Pryor had a filthy mouth. My how times change. Now all I have to do is turn on the local rap station, and it would have embarresed Richard himself.

Music was also a great adventure. It was like opening a treasure chest to pull the plastic wrap off a new album. There was not all the pre release publicity, and you couldn't immerse yourself in the newest hits on demand at MTV. I didn't get a stereo until I was 14. My eight year old daughter has more CDs and videos right now than I had until I hit college. I actually pity her for it. I can remember night after night, staying up until the ungodly hour of 11 PM to hear the results of the Top Ten at 10:00.

There is a lot of truth to the saying, "Those were the good old days".

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Hobbies that border on obsession

Everybody needs a hobby. Or two. I have actually lost count of all the things that I like to do that could be considered a hobby.

I sing in a barbershop quartet. The wife of the baritone in this quartet warned me before I started, that quartetting is not just a hobby, it can become an obsession. I should have believed her from the beginning. I doubt that I would have done anything different. Making music has been a part of my life since my mother would play classical music on the record player, and I would sing along with Mr. Rogers on TV. I guess it was only natural that I would get here in my exploration of music sooner or later.

In truth, this is the most challenging musical endeavor of my career. Good barbershop is un accompanied, and un directed. A good quartet relies solely on the musicianship of each of the members along with the individual instincts of the members to produce the "ring" that all barbershoppers seek. Good barbershop singing requires that the singers match how their sound is produced, how long it lasts, how it balances against the other members, and how it fits in the chord. Good barbershopping requires that all of the vowels match among the four members, all the diphthongs and tripthongs match and are evenly energized. There are a million and one things that are involved in the barbershop technique and they all must become automatic before you can successfully "sell" a song. One of my musical heroes, Jim Miller, likened it to the perfect golf swing, except that he said the golf swing was easier. This all sounds like I am complaining, but I am not. When a quartet finally gets a chord to ring, it is nothing short of exhilarating.

We are getting ready for our first contest, in September. I literally cannot wait. Worst of all, I want to practice three times a week so that we can do the best we possibly can. Course to do that something will have to be sacrificed. I guess my job will have to be the first thing to go. KIDDING I was just kidding.

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Things I wish I had said

Because of misunderstandings that frequently develop when Easterners
and Californians cross states such as Illinois, Ohio, Indiana,
Wisconsin, Michigan, Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa, Missouri, Minnesota,
North Dakota, and South Dakota, those states' Tourism Councils have
adopted a set of information guidelines. In an effort to help
outsiders understand the Midwest, the following list will be handed to each driver entering the state:

1. That farm boy standing next to the feed bin did more
work before breakfast than you do all week at the gym.

2. It's called a 'gravel road.' No matter how slow you
drive, you're going to get dust on your Navigator. I have a four wheel drive because I need it ... not just to keep up with the neighbors.

3. We all started hunting and fishing when we were seven years old.

Yeah, we saw Bambi. We got over it.

4. Any references to "corn fed" when talking about our women
will get your butt whipped .. by our women.

5. Go ahead and bring your $600 Orvis Fly Rod. Don't cry to us
if a flathead catfish breaks it off at the handle. We have a name

for those little trout you fish for -- bait.

6. Pull your pants up. You look like an idiot.

7. If that cell phone rings while a bunch of mallards are
making their final approach, we will shoot it. You might hope you

don't have it up to your ear at the time.

8. That's right. Whiskey is only two bucks. We can buy a fifth
for what you pay for one drink at the airport.

9. No, there's no "Vegetarian Special" on the menu. Order
steak. Order it rare. Or, you can order the Chef Salad and pick off
the two pounds of ham and turkey.

10. You bring Coke into my house, it better be brown, wet,
and served over ice!

11. So you have a sixty-thousand dollar car you drive on
weekends. We're real impressed. We have quarter of a million dollar
combines that we use two weeks a year.

12. Let's get this straight. We have one stoplight in town. We
stop when it's red. We may even stop when it's yellow.

13. Our women hunt, fish, and drive pickups, trucks and
tractors because they want to. So, you're a feminist. Isn't that cute.

14. Yeah, we eat catfish. Carp too -- and turtle. You really
want sushi and caviar? It's available at the bait shop.

15. They are pigs. That's what they smell like. Get over it.
Don't like it? Interstates 70, 80, & 90 go East & West; Interstates
29, 35 & 55 go North & South. Pick one and use it accordingly.

16. The "Opener" refers to the first day of deer season. It's
a religious holiday. You can get breakfast at the church.

17. So every person in every pick up, waves. It's called
being friendly.

18. Yeah, we have golf courses. Don't hit in the water hazard.
It spooks the fish.

19. That Highway Patrol Officer who just pulled you over
for driving like an idiot .. his name is "Sir"... no matter how old he
is.

Now please, enjoy your visit. Just don't overdo your stay, we
have corn to plant.


And one more....


The lady who wrote this letter is Pam Foster of Pamela Foster and Associates in Atlanta. She's been in business since 1980 doing interior design and home planning. She recently wrote a letter to a family member serving in Iraq. Read it!
WHAT'S ALL THE FUSS? "Are we fighting a war on terror or aren't we?

Was it or was it not started by Islamic people who brought it to our shores on September 11, 2001?

Were people from all over the world, mostly Americans, not brutally murdered that day, in downtown Manhattan, across the Potomac from our nation's capitol and in a field in Pennsylvania?

Did nearly three thousand men, women and children die a horrible, burning or crushing death that day, or didn't they?

And I'm supposed to care that a copy of the Koran was "desecrated" when an overworked American soldier kicked it or got it wet?

Well, I don't. I don't care at all!

I'll start caring when Osama bin Laden turns himself in and repents for incinerating all those innocent people on 9/11.

I'll care about the Koran when the fanatics in the Middle East start caring about the Holy Bible, the mere possession of which is a crime in Saudi Arabia.

I'll care when Abu Musab al-Zarqawi tells the world he is sorry for hacking off Nick Berg's head while Berg screamed through his gurgling, slashed throat.

I'll care when the cowardly so-called "insurgents" in Iraq come out and fight like men instead of disrespecting their own religion by hiding in mosques.

I'll care when the mindless zealots who blow themselves up in search of nirvana care about the innocent children within range of their suicide bombs.

I'll care when the American media stops pretending that their First Amendment liberties are somehow derived from international law instead of the United States Constitution's Bill of Rights.

I'll care when Clinton-appointed judges stop ordering my government to release photos of the abuses at Abu Ghraib, which are sure to set off the Islamic extremists just as Newsweek's lies did a few weeks ago.

In the meantime, when I hear a story about a brave marine roughing up an Iraqi terrorist to obtain information, know this: I don't care.

When I see a fuzzy photo of a pile of naked Iraqi prisoners who have been humiliated in what amounts to a college hazing incident, rest assured that I don't care.

When I see a wounded terrorist get shot in the head when he is told not to move because he might be booby-trapped, you can take it to the bank that I don't care.

When I hear that a prisoner, who was issued a Koran and a prayer mat, and fed "special" food that is paid for by my tax dollars, is complaining that his holy book is being "mishandled," you can absolutely believe in your heart of hearts that I don't care.

And oh, by the way, I've noticed that sometimes it's spelled "Koran" and other times "Quran." Well, Jimmy Crack Corn and --- you guessed it --- I don't care!

Troubador

August 12, 2005

What a difference a day can make. Midnight last night, I didn't think I could deal with one more problem. Dad was facing angioplasty, the doctor's appointment with Joe was a disaster, and everything else going on with the company was weighing so heavily on me, I didn't know what to do.

As I write this, Dad is in recovery with 4 stents in his heart, and feeling fine. Joe has been abducted by aliens, and someone resembling my son has been left in his place, and the bid I was worrying about has been delayed two weeks. God is really looking out for me today.

I have been pondering the format of this journal ( I guess it really doesnt count as a blog because I am not going to spend my time checking out websites), and have decided that it will have a different theme each day, but the themes will rotate. I also think that I will allow Google to post advertising here. I know its a pain, but if the things that I share can generate a couple of bucks, anyone would understand that.

Last night the chorus went into our second recording session for our latest CD. People who have never been in a recording studio or recording session have absolutely no idea how difficult that really is. Imagine first of all that you have sing a song with your best diction, attention to detail, energy, and performance level. Then repeat that effort three times. Then do the song with 65 other people who need to perform at that same high level. Then factor in that you are standing on risers that creak if the wrong person shifts his weight at the wrong time. Sound hard yet?

It gets better.

Any cell phone or watch or pager that goes off ruins the take. We have established a relationship with a local retirment center, and they allow us to use their big hall. There is a large grandfather clock out in the hall. When the clock chimes, it can be heard by the microphones. If Edna and Rosie want to walk down the hall and argue about Bingo, that will scrap a take. ( That happened last night.)

Still want to be a recording star? You havent heard the best part yet.

The room that we use is airconditioned. Or was. The microphones are so sensitive that the sound of the air rushing through the vents can be heard. So no AC. So there we are, on squeaky risers, with 65 sweaty old men, for 4 hours.

Now here is the best part. Add to the whole mix that I just described, some of the old timers seem to like to eat deviled eggs and drink beer or some other gassy food products before coming to the recording session.

Need I say more?

Still want to be a recording star?

Troubador

August 10, 2005

Well, here goes, my first attempt at a Blog.