Vino, Veritas and Lucky

05. August 2006 · Comments Off on Vino, Veritas and Lucky · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, History, Pajama Game, Stupidity, Wild Blue Yonder

Unaccustomed as I am to giving a good goddamn about the blatherings of movie stars and other reality-challenged morons in the entertainment industry— we pay these people inordinately large salaries to dress up and pretend to be other people for our amusement, and I have always just tried to think of them as a breed of well-trained performing monkeys— I am a little surprised to find myself even considering a blog-post about Mel Gibson’s drunk-driving arrest and his subsequent widely publicized anti-Semitic outburst, recorded apparently in its very ugly entirety. It’s been all over the entertainment industry media, to which I never (well hardly ever) pay attention, but Blondie does – and if her reaction to the whole thing is anything typical, the very photogenic Mr. Gibson may have a big-post rehab problem. She was honestly revolted by the whole nasty diatribe, will probably not see whatever his next movie is, and is even put off by the thought of watching any of the old Mad Max movies again. In vino, veritas, you see, truth at the bottom the wineglass; she and I have been around long enough to know that an over-sufficiency of alcohol doesn’t really change a person. It just loosens inhibitions, and their grip on whatever façade they maintain over their true personality. Everyone knows people who are kind, funny and amusing sober, and even more so when smashed – and conversely, at least one individual who only appears to be kind, funny and amusing, when sober. When that kind gets a skin-full, the real underlying person comes out, and it is usually a memorably nasty piece of work. So, while drunk on his ass, a movie star who has a public persona of being a rather genial, fairly devout sort of family man is revealed to be – well, something rather less genial, to put it kindly. And since he is in the entertainment business, this has implications for more than just his family, circle of friends and therapist.

It’s enough to make one madly nostalgic for the old studio morality clauses, actually. On the whole and over the long run, we rather prefer our entertainers to have a private life pretty much be congruent with what they play on the screen, assuming that we have to know anything about their personal lives at all. Frankly I’d rather see someone like Meryl Streep or Judi Dench spend three decades or more playing a great many different and interesting characters, and living a dull and blameless personal life out in the suburbs between movie shoots. Or even a Robert Mitchum, who seems to have in real life been pretty much the same kind of two-fisted, hard-drinking brawler he often played. I’m fairly sure that Rock Hudson would never have been as big a movie star as he was, if everyone had known that in real life he played for the other team, although we can now appreciate him being a much better actor than we thought back then, playing all those love scenes with women. If he had been outed in the 1950ies, Rock would have been dropped – er, like a hot rock. What he was in real life, was just not congruent with the roles he played, and the public personality he appeared to be. I get the giggles myself, picturing him in a passionate movie cinch with Doris Day, knowing what I know now. So, how many people will giggle cynically when they see Mel playing a regular guy?

As I wrote here last month, anti-Semitism in the US never quite has attained the virulence that it has in Europe, for a number of likely reasons. Not to say it anti-Semitism never appeared in the American cultural or political body politic; there are plenty of examples to the contrary. But set against that are even more accounts of how in a lot of places, and on a lot of occasions, it was something that, to use an English expression, was just not done, being neither condoned or approved of, and on one famous occasion, it brought down a bigger hero than a movie actor, a man whose credentials for being an American hero were somewhat more substantial than being able to recite lines in front of a camera; Charles Lindbergh, the Lone Eagle, Lucky Lindy himself, who by 1941 had spent nearly two decades in the public eye, after his epic crossing of the Atlantic, solo and non-stop in a single-engine and the ghastly kidnapping and death of his first child and the resulting investigation and trial. Aviator, writer, scientist and traveler, he had become a passionate speaker, and one of the leading lights in the America First Committee, a group formed to oppose any American involvement in what would become the Second World War. Many of the founding members- intellectuals, businessmen, and politicians alike- were honorable, and passionate patriots, who were convinced that the war in Europe was none of our affair, and that involvement in it would not end well or to American advantage, and had the example of the first war to go on. Conventional wisdom of that time had it that America had been suckered into participating in World War One by an unholy cabal of slick politicians and greedy arms merchants, and as war broke out in Europe in 1939, Americans very rightfully felt they’d better not get fooled again. But there were other, less honorable motivations motivating members of America First, traditional dislike of Britain’s imperial and financial powers, admiration for or fear of Germany, deep dislike of President Roosevelt – and as historian David Gardner wrote “Anti-Semitism was the most inflammatory issue in the isolationist debate. Jews had good reason to hate Hitler… Jewish interventionists could therefore be motivated only by a desire to help co-religionists in Europe. To save them, Jews appeared willing to sacrifice American lives. The fact that interventionist sentiment was strongest in the traditionally conservative south and southwest, areas of small Jewish population, had done little to change popular belief that Jews were leading the drive for war.”
And by the fall of 1941, events had skidded way beyond anyone’s control, least of all the passionate anti-interventionalists of America First. Rooseveldt had won re-election the year before, a military draft had been instituted, Lend-Lease aid and volunteers flowed towards Britian, along with considerable American sympathy. After a U-boat fired on an American destroyer, President Rooseveldt authorized the US Navy to shoot back. Passions ran high, as events converged, and Lindbergh addressed an America First rally in De Moines, saying “The three most important groups who have been pressing this country toward war are the British, the Jewish and the Roosevelt administration. Behind these groups, but of lesser importance, are a number of capitalists, Anglophiles, and intellectuals who believe that their future, and the future of mankind, depends upon the domination of the British Empire … These war agitators comprise only a small minority of our people; but they control a tremendous influence … it is not difficult to understand why Jewish people desire the overthrow of Nazi Germany … But no person of honesty and vision can look on their pro-war policy here today without seeing the dangers involved in such a policy, both for us and for them. Instead of agitating for war, the Jewish groups in this country should be opposing it in every possible way, for they will be among the first to feel its consequences� Their greatest danger to this country is in their large ownership and influence in our motion pictures, our press, our radio, and our government…”
Lindbergh had long been a hero to most Americans, even as he had become so deeply involved in America First, and certainly viewed by many, especially in the Rooseveldt administration as an admirer of Hitler, and the Nazi Party, but this speech— described as intemperate and inflammatory — brought down a storm on his head. The America First Committee, fractured and was made irrelevant by Pearl Harbor, and Lindbergh himself was all but made a political outcast by the opprobrium that descended upon him.
Curiously, the speech that killed his political career was made on September 11th.
(More fascinating stuff about America First Committee… much of which seems curiously relevant, these days)

In the Season of Butterflies

01. August 2006 · Comments Off on In the Season of Butterflies · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, General, Pajama Game

Funny old world, that… what with everything else going on in the world, this part of south Texas is being overrun with… butterflies, more of them than I have ever seen in any other year. First it was swarms of small, drab brownish and dark orange things, with wings about the size of a man’s thumbnail. They are called snout-tailed something or others, or so my neighbor Judy told me; not the least bit spectacular, but they are everywhere in perfect swarms. In the evenings, they cover certain trees and shrubs to the point where they make the tree look as if it is entirely covered in small, trembling leaves, and gather around shallow puddles where anyone has just watered. The dogs and I have run thru a perfect whirlwind of them during the morning for the last few weeks, but this last weekend we noticed more than the little drab things.

We walked by a bed of gerbera daisies in a neighbor’s front yard on Sunday, on our way to get the newspaper, and a perfect storm of sulfur-yellow and creamy white butterflies rose up from it. These new interlopers are several times the size of the snout-tailed something butterflies, and much more discriminating. They very much favor the flowering bushes like the gerberas, and the rosemary bushes in the front of my house, which are now covered in spikes of tiny blue flowers and fairs of butterflies. The firebush next door is orbited by a constant mob of yellow, like an animated flock of postit notes. At the DIY home warehouse store on Sunday, we spotted a gold and brown Monarch with wings a big as my hands, lazily orbiting over a table of flowering annuals, along with all the smaller brown, yellow and white sorts.

We have never seen so many, in the time we have lived here, and have no idea why: it’s been hot, but not as hot as some years, not as rainy as others, there are just about as many flowering plants in bloom this year as others… it is a mystery.

Another mystery: one of my neighbors, several blocks up the road have suddenly, and horrifically contracted the urge to decorate their garden with a huge variety of healthy flowering plants and shrubs in an array of containers which have absolutely nothing in common, aesthetically speaking. It is almost as if they hit every nursery and DIY store in town, impulsively buying hand over fist every plant and pot that caught their eye, without consideration of all the stuff they had bought previously. About the only thing to hold plants that they haven’t bought so far is that nadir of low-rent taste, the automobile tire turned inside out, laid on the side, and the top edge cut into zig-zag shapes and gaudily painted. No, the assortment of pots would be quite striking of itself, but the statuary puts it painfully over the top.

Not gnomes, but all those elaborate , sentimental cast-plaster, or concrete statues of Victorian children, sitting on benches, or under umbrellas, or playing with the bunnies and duckies… dozens of them, and Blondie swears there are more of them, mysteriously appearing every day, as if they were replicating themselves in some revolting and not-to-be-closely-considered-by-the-squeamish fashion, partaking in mysterious rituals performed during the darkest hours of the night…. No, the thought of all those statues of creepy children coming alive at night, and throwing off their pinafores and trousers and tormenting the bunnies and ducks with… no, no, no. I’ll bet that when they smile, though, they have needle-sharp teeth, like the little gnomes on that planet in “Galaxy Quest”. During the day, the serried ranks of statuary make it look like a monumental graveyard for hobbits. And that’s the front yard, we don’t like to think of what might already be in the backyard, because at some point, the statuary will overflow their yard entirely, and come marching down the road, and then where will we be?

On, the other hand, the horrible marching army of statues will have to come by the house with the tree full of wind chimes, the place where they have ripped out the lawn, and covered it all pavers, and raised beds full of native flowering shrubs, whirligigs, painted sheet- metal flowers and crystals on metal poles…all very pleasant on a mild day, but what it must be like during a wind-storm, I shudder to imagine. Probably no one can hear themselves think, for the clamor of wind chimes, let alone call City Code Compliance to complain:
“Hello (bonnn-ggg! Bo-nnnn-g!) Code (Bonnnnnnggggg!) Compliance, how may we (BOOOONNNNNNGGG!) help you? (BONNNNNNNNGGGG!)…. I’m so sorry, ma’am, (BOOOONNNNNNGGG!) but I can’t hear you (BBBBBOOOOONNNNNG!) over the wind chimes!” (BBBBBBOOOOOOOONNNNNNNGGGGGGG!)

I love the look of the wind-chime place, but personally, I’m happy to be living a good distance away. I think it would drive my dogs and cats into nervous breakdowns. I blame global warming. Or global cooling. Or climate change, or Al Gore, or somebody. Maybe even Martha Stewart, whom I am happy to blame for anything.

A Taste of the Good Stuff

23. July 2006 · Comments Off on A Taste of the Good Stuff · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, General, History, Literary Good Stuff

This is tasty sample of the latest book, tenatively titled “To Truckee’s Trail”, the one for which I have a complete proposal all ready. The select few who have seen the story so far are fascinated, and I myself think it could be very, very big… could it be “Gone With the Wind” big, or “Harry Potter” big? Let’s see if the blogosphere can make it so…
I want to be able to sit at home and write the rest of it, I am deeply interested in the people I am writing about, enthralled by the process of working out how they pulled off their very daring adventure. I have had enough experience as an amateur “unknown” to know that just sending the proposal off to a handy selection of publishers listed in the Writers’ Guide is a waste of time and postage. Been there, did that, have a large collection of impersonal rejection slips that gave no indication that my submission envelope had even been opened.

I am posting this to show it off, and to get a serious publisher interested. I am bouyed by optimism, and the knowlege that big money has been paid for stuff that IMO is much, much worse than this. (Oh, and I have copyright protection for this. I did not spend three years working for an intellectual property firm for nothing.)

From Chapter 11, “To Truckee’s Trail”.

From Dr. Townsend’s Journal: “14th November, 1844 In the wilderness at the fork of Truckee’s River. This day, I can scarce put pen to paper, being distract’d with grief and worry. Our party is split yet again, this again being of our own decision. My own Dearest Darling is gone ahead with five others, judged fit and sound, and without the care of little ones to attend. Yesterday, our labors brought us to where a tributary came down from the mountains, athwart our path, and leading to the south…We made camp in late afternoon, and Captain Stephens called a meeting….”

“We can’t take the wagons much farther,” said Young Martin flatly, as if daring anyone to argue with him. “Unless we follow the west tributary.” He dropped down onto an upturned cask that he was using as a stool, and wincingly pulled off his waterlogged boots. He peeled off his socks, which were also soaked.
“Out of our way,” murmured Old Man Hitchcock, looking into the fire, past his eternal whittling, and the knife-blade. “The long way around.”
“The long way around, may prove the shortest, “said Stephens gently. “We done well before, always heading straight west. At the Green, and again from the Sink. I’ll wait to hear what Isaac says.” He sat a little way back from the fire on a half-rotted fallen log, Dog at his feet. Her great fawn and black head lay on her forepaws, golden eyes going back and forth as if she was paying intelligent attention to the conversation. The fire was the smallest of the three outside the circle of wagons and tents, set up on the lee side a barrier against the icy breeze roaring down from the high mountains, and the cold that came at sundown, the cold that was most particularly felt when the exertions of the day were over. Allen Montgomery, and the Murphy brothers, Jamie, Daniel, Bernard and Johnny hunkered around the fire. It had the air of an informal meeting of the men, while the women cooked a sparse, but much anticipated meal. The horses and Hitchcocks’ precious two mules were close-picketed for the night, just on the other side of the wagons, inside the circle jostling each other for mouthfuls of tall dry grass bristling up from the day’s accumulation of snow and armfuls of green rushes cut from the riverbank by the women and older children,. Around that fragile shelter of canvas, brush and fires, the snow was trampled to a muddy slush. At other fires, Isabella and Sarah, and the Murphy women moved in an intricate ballet, skirts, shawls and sleeves carefully held back from the fire, as they cooked the evening meal: stew and cornbread that tasted like sawdust with no butter to spread richly on it, dried apples stewed with a little spice Even Isabella’s milk cow had gone dry, months since. Mary-Bee Murphy sat with Mary Miller on a wagon-bench, dandling the baby Ellen, while her sons and Willie Miller and their cousin Mary leaned on Old Martin’s knees, or sat bundled in shawls at his feet as he told them another endless story about miracles, and goblins and old heroes of Erin. It was hard to judge by a casual looking, John thought, of how far along Mary-Bee was, all bundled in shawls as she was, but she still walked lightly. She was not far enough gone in pregnancy to be awkward, but she tired easily.

His glance was drawn finally, as it always would be, to his own Liz, her hair silver-gilt in the firelight, wrapped in two shawls and the buffalo robe that Old Man Hitchcock had traded for her at Fort Laramie, from the tribes. Sitting on another wagon-bench, she had Sadie in her lap, Nancy and Eddie leaning confidingly against her, under the shelter of that buffalo robe. Poor Liz, she had never been any shakes as a cook, had never even had to be, let alone over a campfire. But to do her fair, she tried her best, at a cost of some burnt fingers, scorching her own apron, and upsetting a pot a beans and near to putting the fire out, whereupon Isabella spoke out in tones of mixed exasperation and affection, somewhere back along the trail when the three families had begun to share a campfire. Elizabeth would do them all favors if she could but stay away from the fire and the hot kettles; chop the vegetables, if she would be so kind, and read to the children, give them lessons and keep them out from underfoot. In that mysterious way she had, of seeming to know when he was gazing at her, her eyes lifted from the book and met his for a smiling moment, quiet communion among the crowd around the campfire. He was here, she was there, and yet they were alone together. And then she went on reading to the children, and he was supposed to be also paying attention to the needs of others in the party.
They had all become a tribe, John realized, a tribe of nomads as like to any of the Indians, bound together, sharing hardship alike with those moments in the evening, those rare moments of rest. Across the trampled circle, Moses and Dennis Martin stepped out of the darkness between two wagons, each with an armload of firewood. They piled their burden roughly beside the largest of the fires, and a storm bright burst of sparks flew up like fireflies meeting the stars overhead.

“… tonight, after we’ve supped,”
“A meeting?” John was startled back from his nearly simultaneous contemplation of his own dear Liz, and of Young Martin’s left foot, dead white, nearly bloodless, propped up on his knee. “Pardon…I was lost, considering this interesting combination of foot-rot and frostbite. Dry socks, Martin, dry socks and liniment. And contemplate sealing your boots with tallow and paraffin… other than that, consider staying out of the water, as much as you can…”
There was a dry laugh, shared around the circle around fire. In the last three weeks, they had been forced into the river-bed time and time again, as it provided the easiest, and on occasion, the only passage for the wagons.
“We must consider what we should do now,” “Stephens said. “We might send a party ahead, along the south branch…” He fell silent, as Mary-Bee Murphy came with a basin and a steaming kettle and Isabella, bearing a dry cloth and her box of medicinal salts.
“Doctor, tell him to soak in this for a bit, and dry them carefully. We’ll bring a set of dry stockings, presently, and dry his boots beside the fire.”
“Mrs. Patterson, you are a tonic, “Extravagantly, John caught her hand, and took it to his lips.”And an excellent nurse; I shall see that the patient follows your advice to the letter.”
Isabella gave him a very severe look, as Mary-Bee awkwardly set down the basin and filled it with steaming water. Isabella added salts, and gathered up the socks and the sodden boots. Mary-Bee looked as if she would say something more, but she merely patted her husband’s shoulder and followed in Isabella’s wake.
“See that he does then, Doctor Townsend, see that he does.” Isabella shot, over her shoulder. When she was gone back to the cook-fire and out of hearing, Stephens remarked,
“A good woman is above the price of rubies.”
“I long to meet the man who would play Petruchio to her Kate,” John said, just as Greenwood appeared as silently as a ghost in the circle of firelight, shadowed by Britt, and heralded only by the scent of tobacco smoke. Stephens grinned, a flash of teeth in his whiskered face. “Nearly as much as I’d like to be warm again, and over those pestilential mountains; he must be a formidable man… I imagine a very Ajax.”
“Not so,” said Hitchcock seriously. “M’son-in-law’s a very mild-tempered man. Never has much to say for hisself.”
“Married to her, who’d wonder?” ungallantly ventured Bernard Murphy sotto voice, as Greenwood sank onto his heels, and held his hands to the fire, looking every day of his four-score. Britt took up a seat next to Stephens on the log, and casually gentled Dog’s alertly-raised head. She lay down again, with an inaudible “woof”.
Stephens merely lifted his brows, and Greenwood sighed;
“Not so good for wagons, Cap’n. Not ‘less you had a month of good weather and a hundred strong men and them with an ax in either hand. Horses? Yeah, easy enough. We blazed it, two, three miles, far as we could, ‘fore sunset. Horses and pack-mules. It looks right promising, otherwise… but I’ve always said if you want to be over these mountains by Winterset, you’ll have to leave all your traps and ride hard.”
“No.” It was Isabella’s voice. She had returned unobtrusively to the fire-circle, joining the men, as was her right as a wagon-owner and the head of a family. ”We cannot just leave our traps, as you say. We have chosen out all the most valuable and useful of goods, and brought them all this way; we cannot just drop them by the wayside as things of no consequence. ”
Greenwood shrugged. “They’re only things. You can get back things, or something like them.”
“Things?! Things, as you say, but they are our things! We considered them very carefully; these are things that are not only valuable to us, but things that we need! They are not frivolous possessions, but necessary tools to earning our livelihoods… without those “things” we should be beggars, dependant upon charity.” Her keen hawk-glance went round the circle of faces, and John thought of his books, the case of surgical instruments… Liz’ precious china tea set, that came from her grandmother, whose family had brought it from Germany and cherished through generations.
“And what about the children? Can they ride hard? Can Mary Miller ride, with a baby at breast, or Mary-Bee Murphy, so close to term? The wagon is our shelter, our home! I’ll not be a beggar, I’ll not be destitute. What if any of us fall sick, though lack of shelter? What do you say, Doctor? How many of us would be fit to leave all behind and ride hard?” Her hard, inimical hawk-glance pinned him, challenged him to speak, to venture his opinion.
“The very youngest or those of a weak constitution could not endure very long in such conditions as this without shelter, “John stammered. As many times as he had talked this over with Elizabeth in the privacy of their bed, be was still stuck on the two-horned dilemma, having never come to any conclusion in his own mind, “Nor the very old…” Old Hitchcock snorted derisively at this, and would have said more but for his daughter’s fierce gaze swinging around towards him. “The wagons… they are at least of some shelter. I would not choose to leave them.”
“I do not think we could carry enough food and blankets and tents on our backs for the weeks of traveling we still must endure… not if we had to carry the weakest of us, “ Stephens sighed, lines of weariness and responsibility harshly grooving his features in the firelight. “Our supplies diminish every day that we spend, this side of the mountains… I know that my own do, so I assume the same of you all. Old Man, how far do you think we might be from Sutter’s Fort?”
“I do not know for sure, “Greenwood said, bluntly. “Maybe a week’s journey on a good horse to the summit, maybe longer. Sutter’s place is down in the flatland, on the river, a good piece from the mountains on the other side.”
“What sort of man is he? If we sent for aid for ourselves, would he send it?”
“Aye, he would. I know nothing of him at first hand, though. But he is accounted to be generous, and he has ambitions.”
“As do most men… I’ve a hankering to know what he has ambitions for…” Stephens stood, wearily and stretched, “Doctor, I’d like to call a meeting… not now, after we’ve all supped. Not just the wagon-owners. Everybody. Tell them it’s to consider sending out a small party ahead. He saluted Isabella with a touch to his hat-brim, “Pardon, all. I shall check on the stock. No, “he added as Greenwood looked to get to his feet. “You’ve earned some rest, Old Man. ” Dog’s eyes had snapped open as soon as Stephens moved, and now she lurched to her feet and padded after him into the darkness outside the firelight. John sighed; he was wearied to his very bones, how Greenwood must feel after his long scout today, he could only imagine. The old man must be made of iron and buffalo sinews, to have endured this kind of odyssey for years.

“Supper’s ready,” said Isabella abruptly. “The table is set… that is, if we had a table.”
John stood, and bowed, elaborately offering her his arm,
“My dear Mrs. Patterson, may I then escort you to… our lack of table and our evening repast?”
Isabella nodded, regally, her lips twitching with her effort not to laugh.
“How very kind of you, my dear Doctor.” She took his arm with a flourish, and they moved with elaborate gentility across the trampled mud to their own fire, where Elizabeth watched them, laughing, while the children stared in baffled astonishment.
“La, Mrs. Patterson, I fear you are flirting with my own husband!” she said, while Isabella dissolved into hearty and infectious giggles.
“My dearest, I am wounded at the heart!” John slapped his chest theatrically, “How could I consider being unfaithful to you, even in thought!” He sank onto the bench next to her, as the children had sprung up to help Isabella pass out tin plates. He added in a low voice, “Although I confess, Darling Dearest, I now can see how Mr. Patterson’s affections might have been drawn towards our own Kate.”
“Because she is altogether splendid, “Elizabeth replied, “But too many men are fools. A pretty face and a kind regard is all that is necessary for their attentions. A strong mind and a stout heart are not obviously apparent.”
“I am properly rebuked,” John said, and they sat together in perfect companionship under the buffalo robe, while Sadie brought around the tin plates and her brother a pan of cornbread. Isabella carried an iron Dutch oven, from which the most savory scents emanated. She carefully doled out a ladle and a half to each. Across the fire, John noticed that Allen and Sarah sat next to each other, but separate. Elizabeth followed his gaze, and intuited his thoughts, perfectly.
“They are not happy, Dearest Darling. I doubt they will ever be. They married in haste, thinking they would come to love each other… but I cannot think how that will happen, under the trials of such a journey as this.”
“Perhaps when we get to California…” John ventured, “It may yet work out….” He took a mouthful of the stew. “Oh, this is truly succulent fare… or am I just amazingly hungry?”
Elizabeth twinkled at him.
“It is a most Luccellian feast, is it not?”
“This cannot be a potato, surely? I thought we had eaten the last of the potatoes months ago… Murphy made such an event of it; I made a note in the trail diary.”
“No, “Elizabeth replied, serenely. “Those things that taste somewhat potato-like are roots of water-reeds. The Indians eat them, even dry and grind a sort of flour out of them or so Mr. Hitchcock says. And we found stands of wild onions when we first came up into the mountains. Truly, this wilderness is a garden if you know where to look.”
“Ah, well… “John looked with new interest into the contents of his tin plate. “We are well served, and well fed, Darling Dearest. I could not ask for better companions in all the world.”
“So…” Elizabeth ate with renewed interest, “What does Mr. Stephens think we should do next?”
“He wants to hold a meeting.” John replied, “I think he wants to send an advance party, following the creek towards the south, whilst we move the wagons west along the main body. We cannot spare too many men, or horses, though. But at least, they could bring fresh supplies and teams from Sutter’s.”
“Who will he send?” Elizabeth looked around the camp. “Who can be spared? Who can be asked to leave their families behind?” John followed her gaze. Across the fire, Moses and Allen laughed together. Sarah’s back was to her husband; she talked quietly with Isabella, who seemed to be listening with half an ear while she supervised the children. A tiny line worry-line appeared between Elizabeth’s level brows.
“He’ll ask for volunteers, first.”
“Moses will ask, I am sure of it.”
“Darling Dear, he is not a child any more. He is a man, or close enough to it. And we will talk it all over tonight after we have supped.” Elizabeth’s merry mood seemed to have fled, though, and they ate in companionable silence, until they could see that other men were drifting to Stephens’s campfire, carrying benches and stools; Old Martin Murphy and his sons and James Miller, Patrick Martin and his boys, young Sullivan, and the various drovers. Sarah and Elizabeth hastily scoured the plates clean, and followed Isabella. John clambered up into the wagon for his little writing-case; he had a sense that he ought to be taking the minutes.

The wagon-owners settled themselves in the first circle around the fire: Stephens and Greenwood, Isabella and her father, Allan, Martin Murphy and his sons, and James Miller, John Sullivan and Patrick Martin. Wives, and older children, brothers, and the hired men filled in the spaces, and spilled over to a second circle, and stood in the gaps behind benches and chairs brought out from the wagons. Coming to the confluence of waters meant a very real decision about what route to take now, a decision with nearly unbearable consequences, now that snow had been falling for weeks. No wonder Old Martin looked particularly worn, and cosseted his grandchildren. Fully half the party was his blood kin, and he the person most responsible for bringing them here, too.

“Aye, we must send for assistance, while we can, “Old Martin agreed. Like Isabella, he would not countenance abandoning the wagons; consensus regarding taking the slightly more open but possibly longer route along the creek was complete. “And how many shall we send? And who can we spare, when we’ll need every strong man to move the wagons, hey?”
“No more than six, “Greenwood replied. “Strong riders, with little gear and just enough food. Eight of the horses are in fair condition, still— six to ride, two for spares and packs.” He cleared his throat and spat thoughtfully into the fire. He seemed almost to hesitate before saying more. “Whoever they be, ‘twill be six less on the foodstuff left to the main party. And they need not all be men, either.”
That was a notion to cause an intake of breath around the fire, and a sudden, thoughtful silence. Old Martin was the first to break it.
“I’d not countenance asking a mother or a father yet, to leave children behind in a place such as this… no, no, never, ‘tis an unnatural thing you would be asking. Not even the heathen savages would ask such.”
“No,” Agreed Old Man Greenwood, “But among the tribes, women without children commonly ride with the hunting parties. They do the butchering and dressing out, and cooking and all.”
“What a wonderful time they must have, doing all the work of it!” Sarah said, in a voice that carried just far enough, and there was a rustle of wry laughter from the women on the edge of the campfire.
“So how do we choose the six; should we draw lots from among those of age, young, fit and without children?”
“Aye,” agreed Old Martin readily, “But it is in my mind; we should first pledge to assist the families of those chosen, in whatever they may require. Our needs might leave them short of a provider, and ready hands.”
“So… are we agreed on that, then? To draw lots for a place and to see to the needs of any family left short.” Stephens’ ugly, lined face appeared more than usually like a grim, fire-gilded gargoyle, looking around the circle. “We are agreed then? Are there any exceptions?”
“None but you, Captain…and the Doctor. You are more needed here with us.”
“I had no intent of leaving this company, until we are all safe,” replied Stephens, dourly. “Nor does Doctor Townsend; so, how many will draw?” He leant down and began pulling stems of dried grass from the brown tufts which were still un-trampled around his log seat.”
The quiet murmurs ran around the campfire, quickly tallying names; Alan and Sarah, Greenwood’s two sons, and Stephens’ young drover, Tom Flombeau, Oliver Patterson, old Martin’s youngest children, Daniel, Bernard and Johnny, and their sister Helen. The four drovers, Edmund Bray, Vincent Calvin, Matthew Harbin, Oliver Magnent, and Francis, John’s own hired man. Joseph Foster, and Moses’ close friends, Dennis and Patrick Martin. Not the Sullivans, though, after some discussion, since John and Mary had the care of their younger brothers. But that left Moses himself… and his Elizabeth. John’s heart seemed to turn over in his chest; all of them, fit and strong and young, and childless, twenty of them, nearly a half of the party. Stephens cut twenty straws, and then cut six of them in half. He set them in his palm so they were all level, and then closed his fist. He held out that fist towards Allan Montgomery first, then Britt and John Greenwood. Allan and John Greenwood drew long straws, and so did Britt. Moses also drew a long straw. His disappointment was obvious, but John hoped that his own relief was not. The hired men drew in a body: the Irish drover boys and Stephens’s drover lad, the dark Louisiana French boy whose name was such a tongue-twister, all drew long straws, but Oliver Magnent, and Francis Deland both drew short. Joseph Foster stepped forward to draw: another long.
“Ach, another two months of this!” he said, in good-humored disappointment. “And all on short rations, too!”
“Daniel… Johnny, ye and Bernard step forrard… and where’s Helen?” Old Martin chided his three youngest into the circle and looked on with a deathly countenance, when Helen, Johnny and Daniel all drew short straws. Oliver Patterson stepped forward into the firelight to draw, and Stephens looked at him with a particularly severe and interrogatory frown.
“Boy, are you of age for this venture?” and Oliver blushed deep red as Isabella said, white-lipped.
“He will be eighteen in three months.”
Oliver drew a long straw though, leaving a pair of wispy straws in Stephens’ fist; Sarah and Elizabeth stepped forward, and John’s heart felt like was turning over entirely within his chest. Sarah drew a long straw, and could not hide the disappointment on her face. And Elizabeth then took forth the last of the straws from Stephens’ hand: a short straw for the horse party.
Elizabeth, not Moses; John was shaken down to the soul. Old Martin looked hardly better. Stephens let the murmurings of excitement and sympathy die down and quietly said,
“Doctor, take down their names into the trail journal… I’ll want to talk to them, all together. They must leave in the morning, as soon as we are ready.” He spoke a little louder, to the gathering at large. “Thank-ee all, sitting out in the cold for this. It’s only trail business we had to settle tonight.” Taking their cue, the women began chivvying away the children who already had not been settled to bed. The younger men and the families of those who had not been chosen drifted away from Stephens’ campfire in their wake; after such a day of travel, a warm bedroll had a powerful and irresistible allure. As the evening meeting broke apart, Greenwood thoughtfully sized up the six chosen.
“You were well-guided, Cap’n… they are well-suited. Among the women, Mrs. Townsend has the best seat, and little Helen is young and strong. It is good that her brothers are among them, they are both good hands with the beasts, and fearless about venturing into wilderness. Magnent and Deland are good shots, and as trail-wise as they come, besides being used to the cold and the snow…”
“For myself, I am glad Mrs. Townsend is amongst them.” John said. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. “The cold and the hardships are so extreme, I fear for her, under these circumstances, and welcome any means for her to escape farther exposure.”
“Aye, it may be best at that.” Old Greenwood sighed, grimly. “Would that I could urge all to travel so light, and escape these mountains. At least, they will be six less appetites upon the supplies we have left.”
Old Martin and his children, Elizabeth and the two French lads, all of the chosen lingered by the fire as they were bidden. In the firelight, Elizabeth looked as young as they; all of them so eager, fired by the prospect of adventure, just as they all had been six months ago at Council Bluffs, when the grass was lush and deep, escaping the drudgery of a mundane existence. Now they looked fair to escape another one, of everlasting cold, and the brutal labor of moving the wagons another mile or so farther up the river, the river whose jaws were closing in on them like a trap. Stephens looked at them, and smiled, wryly,
“No great words… wish I did. Ride hard. Look after each other and the horses. Get to Sutters’ place and bring back help.”
“We shall!” Elizabeth’s chin lifted, and her eyes were fired with determination. “We are leaving our kin and dearest ones, and our friends, knowing that their very salvation depends on us. Depend on us, Captain Stephens, we will not fail.”
And even if Old Greenwood seemed to hide a half-cynical smile, the others; Helen and her brothers, the two Frenchmen, all shared the same look of bright dedication. They could not fail; they would throw themselves at the high mountains, the rocks and rivers and the ice, they would win through it all, they would come through, rescue their families, and John’s heart felt as if it would burst with a combination of pride and dread.

“And we will not fail, “Elizabeth whispered, when they lay tucked together in their bedroll of blankets and quilts, and the trusty buffalo robe, all spread out on top of the platform of boxes and flat-topped trunks in their wagon. The drawstrings and flaps were drawn tight against the cold, and a kettle of coals taken from the fire lent an illusion of warmth to the tiny, canvas-walled room. A pair of flat stones heated in the fire, wrapped in a blanket and tucked in the bottom of their bed produced a slightly more convincing degree of warmth, together with the warmth of each other, curled into each other, spoon-fashioned. Around and outside this fragile shelter, came the quiet, near-to sleep voices of Isabella’s children, Allan Montgomery’s irritated voice, raised and quickly hushed, a quiet crunch of regular footsteps in new snow, the horses pawing the frozen ground, searching for more of the thin dried grass. Under it all, a nearly-imperceptible yet menacing rustle, the constant sound of more snow falling, brushing the canvas and pine branches; fat flakes like feathers, like falling leaves.
“I wish…” said John, into her hair, hugging her dear and familiar self into the shelter of his own body, “…I wish that we…”
“Had not taken this journey?” Elizabeth picked up the thread of his thoughts as expertly as she had always done. “Dearest Darling, never wish that. No, never. For I am glad that we have, even if this would be the last night we spend in each others’ arms… and it will not be, “she added firmly, and took his hand in hers, and held it first to her lips, and then her cheek. After a moment, she continued, thoughtfully. “I almost feel as if my life before we started this journey was lived in shadows, a sort of half-life, and then I came out into bright sunshine. Did not we decide upon this great adventure partly because of my own health? And now I am in good heath, and have shared your life in a way that I never could before… in our present emergency, I am accounted strong enough to be given a great task, a responsibility? There should be no greater reward, I do not ask for any such. My Dearest Darling, there is nothing to regret… I love you all the more for having made this possible. Have no fear for me… I will be safe, and we will not fail.”
“I pray that shall be so, “ John tightened his arms around her, at once wishing for this night with Elizabeth never to end, full knowing it would be the last they would spend together for months, and yet wishing that it were tomorrow already, and the agony of parting already over. He was torn between pride in her courage, and worry for her that shook him down to his bones. “We should go to sleep, Dearest Darling, you’ll need as much rest tonight as possible.”
“Mmmm. Don’t stay awake yourself, watching over me, “Elizabeth said, teasingly, but John did try to fight off slumber for a while, until sleep claimed them both. And then too soon it was dark morning, and snow still falling, and he was standing, wretchedly tongue-tied in front of people, for once. He had promised Elizabeth, back in the desert, that he should not have to go on a long scout again, and be separated from her. And now, ironically, she was riding on a long scout, leaving him to plod behind. “Promise me rather, that wherever one of us will go, the other will follow after in a little while,” she had said, and so he would be following after, but it was bitter, bitter. Moses and he had saddled Beau, had rolled up the buffalo robe and two or three blankets around a pitiful bag of dried meats and hard-tack, and a little ground coffee and strapped them behind her saddle. Isabella and Sarah had fussed over what to send with her, just as the Murphy women had fussed over Helen, Johnny and Daniel. Old Martin had tears rolling down his cheeks as he gave his youngest daughter a boost into the saddle. Daniel’s paint pony danced impatiently, crunching the fresh-fallen snow underfoot; the lads were eager to be away.
“Dearest Darling, I must go now.” She leaned down from the saddle, and brushed his cheek with her lips, and then she was gone, following the rest of the mounted party. They were veiled in falling slow before they reached the first bend and were lost to sight, but he was almost sure she turned in the saddle and lifted her hand in one last farewell.

Adventures in Unemployment

20. July 2006 · Comments Off on Adventures in Unemployment · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, General, Working In A Salt Mine...

Well, this is one of these good-news, bad news things— I was let go this afternoon from my latest job. I am wondering it it isn’t a case of cosmically being pushed before I could work up the nerve to jump, because for the last two months or so, I have been thinking constantly about how I didn’t want to be doing this, and I didn’t want to be there. The whole place and the duties inolved it bored me rigid … and I would rather be at home, writing.

I had worked up a proposal for a book, and I was spending every minute that I could working on it. The “book” is something– and about people that I would just rather be spending time with. I’ve been thinking about this— how increasingly discontented I have been with the pink-collar wage slavery. I am at a stage in my life when I want to do what satisfies me, what I feel good about doing 24-7. I hate the thought of stealing a little time to work at what I am good at and keeping it as a sideline, a hobby, when I know that working at something boring keeps me from what I am good at, and could concievably earn a living from.

Well, I need that living, now. I have a severance, and a pension, but I am just old enough to want to spend my time and energy at what I am really rather good at, and want to spend my time doing. Any good offers will be carefully considered, of course. And I have a Paypal account. Writing prospects greatfully accepted, or at least carefully considered.

Don’t worry about my long-term economic survival, I have a spare job and an AF pension and am hooked up with a couple of temp agencies, who offer me enough of a paycheck… I just would like to spend time, doing what I really want to be doing. I went to a sort of executive job counselor last year, when my last job went under, and the counselor there told me flat out that I should be doing what I really love, and am good at.

At this point, I really agree.

(Additional Note added the following morning)

Looking back on my most recent stint of employment, it strikes me now that there were a lot of people let go, while I was working there. Whenever the combination on the employee entrance was changed, we’d all be looking at each other and whispering, “OK, who got the chop this time?” One of the last things I took off the fax machine was a couple of resumes… it appears that a new receptionist was being advertised for. And I completely overlooked one of the key warning signs: a great deal of turnover in the position I held until yesterday afternoon, and none of them staying in the company or moving up. Hmmmm…

Natural Sympathies

17. July 2006 · Comments Off on Natural Sympathies · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Israel & Palestine, Pajama Game

I suppose a lot of midnight oil is being burned, in the Manchester Guardian editorial offices, at the UN and other various Euro-Transnational entities, the various offices of CAIR, and departments of Middle East Studies at universities everywhere, where the denizens thereof are trying to figure out and explain just why the general run of Americans— despite every inducement; intellectual, political and economic— continue in their stubborn, sentimental and persistent attachment to the State of Israel, and ensuring it’s continuing, if perilous existence. (Hey, wow! Totally complicated sentence— do I get any prize for this from the 19th Century literary appreciation wonks? No? OK, then, on with the explanation.).

I think there are a great many reasons for this; chief among them being that Jews have been part of the American scene, and more or less integrated into the great nation-building adventure since Colonial times. There has always been— depending on the time, place and social caste— a certain degree of social anti-Semitism, but generally achieving nothing like the degree of virulence it takes to achieve a pogrom, a Dreyfus Affair or a Holocaust. Congress making no law respecting a particular religion left us in the habit of seeing ones’ particular religious beliefs as a personal one, however outre they might be. Frankly, more political outrage and general suspicion was expended on Catholics— Popery! The Bishop of Rome! The Whore of Babylon! — at the time of the great Irish migrations in the mid-19th century. It was pretty difficult to work up much alarm about off-standard religious beliefs when Jews were compared against groups like the Shakers (no sex, communal living, workshops and free enterprise!) and the Mormons (plural marriages, communal living, free enterprise and separation!) and a whole other range of non-standard and extremely creative social and religious communes. All our base impulses leading towards rioting, lynching and intermittent attempts at genocide were pretty much focused during the 19th century on parties other than those of the Jewish persuasion; towards blacks, Hispanics, Mormons, and Native Americans, mostly. From reading various 19th century American writers, one gets the general impression that they knew of anti-Semitism, but didn’t quite grasp what all the fuss was about and relegated it to the intellectual back burner. Some time ago I had read of a famous American literary personality — I believe it was General Lew Wallace (the author of “Ben Hur”) who was asked what he felt about Jews, and he replied in all seriousness (IIRC) that Jesus had been born a Jew, and for him that pretty much settled the matter.
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Goin’ to California (and back)

29. June 2006 · Comments Off on Goin’ to California (and back) · Categories: Ain't That America?, Eat, Drink and be Merry, General, Pajama Game

Not being a regular visitor west of the Rockies (my last trek was to Pasadena on 9 Sep 01 – a whole other story), I always find California to be an experience worth commenting on. As I write this I realize that I may not be able to make the post until my return. I am staying at the Atrium Hotel in Irvine, which purports to have free high speed Internet in every room. Sounds good in theory, but I have spent 3 hrs. so far on the phone with the hotel’s Internet provider trying to get the “automatic” connection to work – with no luck so far. This is a pet peeve of mine because usually, in order to get connectivity away from home, I must go through a process of iterative setting changes that render my home and work connections inoperative on my return. And, of course, because the changes were iterative (and not recorded – my fault), reversing the process involves an equal dose of frustration. I see a Blackberry in my future.

Anyway, my mission is to evaluate a new technology in which my employer is considering an investment. The entrepreneurial community here always amazes me, along with what its interaction with “old industry” is like (when it goes well). Not in a bad way, but rather in the sense that we old liners are impressed with their vision, and they are impressed with our ability to point out the obvious legal/market/reality checks. We spent about 14 hrs. brainstorming at their Santa Ana office, located in one of many complexes with small office spaces arranged not unlike large self storage facilities – relatively cheap rent, undoubtedly high turnover. The mind is boggled by the amount of venture capital discussed within each “unit”, and the dreams and disappointments that accompany each change in tenancy. I long ago resigned myself to a life of servitude, albeit fairly compensated, but not these people. Dot com bust – what was that? A fourteen-hour day in my business usually equals mind numbing grind, but not when I do these meetings. Not a stupid person in the room, with the possible exception of yours truly, and get this – no bringing in Subway sandwiches! Lunch at the Cheesecake Factory and a (very) late dinner at some great seafood joint – I think McCormick Schmidt (although I could have done without the karaoke).

I arrived yesterday afternoon and decided to chill at the Atrium. It’s a pretty cool hotel that I can heartily recommend (as long as Internet connectivity is not a priority) at $139/night. It has been around for a while and the blush is somewhat off the rose, but it seems to capture the essence of this part of California. At only three stories, it is a rambling place that surrounds a rather nice courtyard with palm trees aplenty and a nice pool. I love the lizards too. Navigating the complex can be a challenge, but once getting the feel for the place it seemed that the meandering is one of its charms. After spending the three hours trying to achieve connectivity, I wandered to the bar and grill for a double scotch and a steak sandwich – both of which, by the way, were excellent. I struck up a conversation with the barkeep and some locals, who told me that it was unseasonably hot and humid – at 83 deg. and not-so-bad humidity! Having lived in west central Illinois for so many years, where 95 – 100 deg. and 90% humidity is not unusual, I was a little (lot) surprised. After all, L.A. always seemed like a hellhole to me -–much like Phoenix. It turns out that their proximity to the ocean results in a normal high of around 80 deg., but with little humidity. One of my new friends, an Irvine native, BEGGED me to not tell anyone about the true state of the climate – he says there are too many transplants as it is. Sorry Carl – this is newsworthy and the American public has the right to know. You should appreciate this based on your vocal support of the NY (and LA) Times of their exposure of the insidious terrorist wiretapping and financial record tracking. Anyway, I expect Carl will still greet me as an old friend the next time because I doubt that he is a regular reader of this august blog.

I was in Washington DC three weeks ago, and did write a piece called “Foggy Bottom” that I intended to post, but it seemed too cynical upon further reflection. The memorials and monuments were great, but the landscaping sucked and the people were either tourists or overflow from K street lobbyists. At least the SoCal people freely admit that its about the money. Funny though, once they get it a lot of them decide that money (but not theirs) is the root of all evil

Anyway, later that night I was sitting in my room’s balcony watching the flight attendants arriving, and casually eavesdropping on their conversations as they came through the parking lot. The content was not memorable, but the tone, and the manner in which they made their way to the check-in area, reminded be so very much of TDY’sThe and overnight trips this young airman took so many years ago, when the world was not a place to be wary of, but rather a kingdom to be conquered. It is good, I think, to sense a glimpse of that, from however far ago, while in a tropical climate.

Trouble brewed on the home front with both Red Haired Girl and Real Wife when I mentioned that I was about 10 – 20 minutes from Disneyland (God as my witness – I did not know this when I planned the trip). I am searching for a t-shirt with the legend “My Dad Went To Disneyland And All I Got Was This Crappy T-Shirt” Links would be appreciated.

UPDATE – I am now home, and have at least reintroduced the IBM X41 to the home wlan. I feel younger, helped a bit perhaps by being in the aisle seat as a self-appointed guardian of two young ladies aged 11 and 9, travelling alone by plane for the first time to visit their grandparents. With their necklace-displayed credentials and travel papers, and the question “Mister, have you done this before?”, I knew it would be a good plane ride, and it was. The noise and sensation of landing gear and flap motion etc. gave me an opportunity to explain engineering principals (including the Bernoulli principal); topics long since banished from our normal family discourse for reasons unknown to me (Real Wife and Red Haired Girl don’t want to hear about entropy anymore either – go figure) I even got free snacks and headphones from the flight attendant (now $4 and $2 respectively on AA). That whole experience was a not-so-small serendipitous gift that, although reminding me of my grandfatherly age, also reminded me of how the world looks to the young.

As I write this, I am back in Illinois; on the patio with a cold beer and Springsteen on the box. Grilled cheese sandwich for supper. Life is good. I don’t see myself ever living anywhere with palm trees, but visits to such places, and often the transit to and from thereof, makes life worthwhile.

With regard to Disneyland, Red Haired Girl on the way home from the airport lamented that she once again missed a ride on a “real” rollercoaster, to which I argued I didn’t like the odds of 1-2 fatalities per year on said rollercoasters. Got home – another twelve year old killed today at Disneyworld. Am I missing something here?

Lastly, 13 June marked fourteen years of wedded bliss with Real Wife. For our anniversary, I traded her Barbie Jeep on a new Grand Cherokee – red – with a Hemi. Of course, the main selling points were back up sensors, extended warranty, etc. Did I mention that it has a Hemi?

By the way, for any computer whizzes out there, during my California Internet hell, I was able to connect, but if it took longer than a few short seconds to bring up a web site, everything timed out and the connection went dead – any ideas on why?

Radar

Lady and gentlemen, start your engines

26. May 2006 · Comments Off on Lady and gentlemen, start your engines · Categories: Ain't That America?, Fun and Games, General, That's Entertainment!

Since our company got involved in torque sensing for F1 racing a few years ago and the divorce between Champ cars and Indy cars played itself out, the only open wheel racing that I follow outside of F1 is the Indy 500. Before it was televised, I remember listening to it on the radio even as a child, having lived in a family with a long history of involvement in stock and super-modified racing throughout NY, PA and New England in the fifties and sixties. Women drivers have been an on and off presence at Indy since 1976 (previously Janet Guthrie, Lyn St. James, and Sarah Fisher), but, in my view, were more of a novelty than a serious trend.

Last year’s Indy 500 was absolutely GREAT because Danica Patrick showed, finally, that a woman driver could mix it up with the best the IRL had to offer. Although finishing fourth, she led for several laps and showed a degree of cool fierceness that was lacking in those of the fairer sex who preceded her (Sgt Mom and Cpl Blondie, I am being careful here). This year she starts somewhat lower in the field (inside row 4), but I am confident she will put on a great show. Check it out (Sun. 1:00 CST)

Next week the Indy teams will race at Watkins Glenn, former home of the U.S. Grand Prix. Back in my day, I worked a food concession there all through high school and got to (sort of) see the Trans Am (Camaro, ‘Cuda, Mustang), Can Am (anybody remember Chaperral?) and F1 races from ’68 through ’72. What a dream job. After having been closed for a couple decades, Nascar has raced stockers and trucks at the Glen the last few years, but it will be great to see open wheel racing there again.

Also note that the Monaco F1 Grand Prix is Sunday morning – televised early on SpeedTV. I personally think that Monaco is the premier F1 event because of (a) the difficulty of the street course and (b) the decadent wealth that permeates the entire event (including the 100+ ft cruisers in the harbor).

See you at the track.

Radar

Memo: Royal Families

07. May 2006 · Comments Off on Memo: Royal Families · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, General, History, Media Matters Not, Pajama Game, Politics, Rant

To: The Usual Media
From: Sgt.Mom
Re: Use of a Particular Cliché

1. I refer, of course, to the lazy habit of more than a few of you to refer to the Kennedy family, of Hyannisport, late of the White House, and Camelot, as “royalty”, without use of the appropriate viciously skeptical quote marks. Please cease doing this immediately, lest I snap my mental moorings entirely, track down the most current offender, and beat him/her bloody with a rolled-up copy of the Constitution. This is the US of A, for god’s sake. We do not have royalty.

2. We did, once, as an agreeable and moderately loyal colony of His Majesty, Geo. III, before becoming first rather testy and then quite unreasonable about the taxation and representation thingy, but we put paid to the whole notion of hereditary monarchy for ourselves some two centuries and change ago. There is a certain amount of respect and affection for certain of Geo. III’s descendents, including the current incumbent; a lady of certain age with the curious and old-fashioned habit of always wearing distinctive hats, and carrying a handbag with no discernable reason for doing so. (What does Queen E. II have in her handbag, anyway? Not her house-key to all the residences; not her car keys; not a checkbook and credit cards, not a pocket calendar or business card case, not a spare pair of stockings— I understand the lady-in-waiting takes care of that— handkerchief, maybe? In the case of her late mother, a flask of gin? William once had the chance to ask that question, I harassed him unmercifully for not having the nerve ). Oh, anyway, back to the subject: royalty, or why we, a free people, should feel any need to grovel before the descendents of particularly successful freebooters, mercenary businessmen, and social climbing whores of both sexes.

3. We do still have all of the above, BTW, but locally grown. Sort of like the Kennedys, come to think on it, but without coronets and courts. Considered in that sense, perhaps they could be construed “royalty”; descendents of an energetic and ambitious and wildly successful (and not too scrupulous) progenitor, given to hubris, excess, degradation and (with luck) an eventual downfall, usually a drama that takes place over centuries. But around here, unless the descendents are competent and careful, and wily, or failing that, in posession of an enormous trust fund that they can be kept from frittering away, without the aid of a political structure that enforces the power of an hereditary aristocracy and monarchy , our native versions tend to fade away after three or four generations, sort of like we hope Paris Hilton eventually will.

4. We do have, however, in many places and professions, certain old and established families. There are business and banking families, show business families, military families, even newspaper families. Over generations, they produce more of the same; entrepreneurs, bankers, actors, generals and newspaper magnates, some better known than others. There are also regional “old families”, those associated with certain towns or counties, prominent in a quiet local way, sometimes wealthy, most often not. Describing any such as “royalty” ought to be punished by something painful, as a grim offense against small “d” democratic ideals.

5. There have also been from the very beginning of this nation, political families: Adamses and Rooseveldts, continuing to this present with Bushes, Gores… and of course, the Kennedys, who were pungently described by humorist PJ O’Rourke some years ago as “ sewer trout (who) managed to swim upstream into our body politic”. How they ever got to where they did is as mysterious as Joseph Kennedy, Seniors’ business dealings. We can be sure of it involving brutal ambition, lots unsavory back-room dealing, and a lot of money, though. If the whole Kennedy saga were one of those operatic, generational tele-novelas, what we have seen working out ever since is the result of an implacable curse old Joe earned on himself for wronging some old gypsy witch in the 1920ies.

6. I do not care for the Kennedys, the whole Camelot thing, the whole lot of manufactured glamour and I mean glamour in the old, fairy-tale way; an elaborate fraud practiced on the American people, with the aid of journalists and intellectuals who should have known better. Just about everything about JFK was a pretense and fraud, from the state of his health to the state of his marriage. He was a handsome showboat, with a court of paid lickspittles, whose’ political ascension was stage-managed by his father. The rest of the clan has been coasting on that bought reputation, and shreds of illusion ever since.

7. They are not royalty; they are only a rich, recklessly self-indulgent political family, with a predisposition to think that consequences are just something that happens to other, lesser people. Get up off your knees, and shake off that old Camelot spell. You’ll feel all the better for it.

Thank you for your attention to this matter
Sgt Mom

(Slightly edited at 5:3o PM to make some sentances a little clearer.)

Channeling Lewis Black (060505)

05. May 2006 · Comments Off on Channeling Lewis Black (060505) · Categories: Ain't That America?, Rant

I. Am. Confused. (Insert pointing and bending fingers here.)

When exactly in our twisted American culture did it become more socially acceptable for a man to be a drug addict than a plain ol’ drunk driver? When did it become “a better spin” to admit to addiction to pain killers?

Are hippies becoming cool again too? ‘Cuz seriously, I can’t handle all that patchouli.

Bibliothek

19. April 2006 · Comments Off on Bibliothek · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, General, Pajama Game, World

Of all the American towns and small cities I have ever had much to do with, two stand out as interesting hybrids of America and the European homeland… well, three if you count Savannah, the other two being Santa Fe, and Fredericksburg. All three are, to be honest, a little self-consciously touristic with the charms, a touch too dressy for the occasion and location… but charming.

Fredericksburg is the smallest and the least-known of these three, and of course it is the one I am the most familiar with, although there are other Hill Country towns just as pleasant— Comfort, Wimberley, Kerrville— tucked into the limestone hills and steep valleys braided with that dear commodity in South Texas— clear, cold streams of water. William and I sat in a small courtyard this last weekend, sharing a bakery cinnamon roll, and marveling at how it had a definitely European feel— a sort of cloisterish ambiance, sheltering buildings along four sides, well and fountain in the middle, nice comfortable benches, stone paths and all… but three of the sheltering buildings around this small courtyard were the generic Texas clapboard and metal-roofed structures, only the fourth building had any claim to stone and mortar permanence.

My mother always said, after visiting the Hill Country, that it looked more like Pennsylvania… not just geographically, all rolling hills and oak treks… but because it was settled by the same sort of people; stolid Anglo-Saxon or Germanic farmers, devoted to hard work but the higher things as well…learning, free-thinking and libraries being amongst them.

The public library in the town of Fredericksburg is on Main Street, right next to the Gillespie County Courthouse, on an open green square— the Marketplatz that is the heart of town. The police and fire departments have a building along one side, most of the old, major churches are not far away, the Pioneer Museum and the Pacific War museum are in walking distance, and one can happily while away an afternoon just walking around and looking at lovely old houses, and shops and sampling local foods and wines. I have done so many times, since I moved to this area ten years ago; William is very fond of the place, and it is only an hour or so drive from my house; we drive up in the springtime, enjoying the fields of wildflowers on the hillsides and highway verge, and a nice meal and meander through some of the shops. (William also takes the opportunity to check out any interesting developments at the War Museum. He is a docent and man of all trades at an air museum on the West Coast— and it is always good to see what is going on in the field.)

The library presents a most arresting appearance— pure and lavish late 19th Century Beaux Arts style, all porches and tall windows, steep-domed towers, ornate iron lacework along the roof ridges and balconies— the whole effect being something that one can imagine would be the Addams’ Family local public library branch. It is all the more amusing, since the courthouse next door is one of those severely 1930ies Moderne efforts, like a table radio of the era, made large. I’ve never been inside either building, but I just know that the courthouse has WPA murals and industrial linoleum floors, and both of the buildings must and should have those heavy, blond oak tables and chairs that used to be an institutional staple before Bauhaus-style clubbed us all over the head and left us all aesthetically the poorer for it. But the library… ah, the library must have something more special.

It must have shelves, and shelves of books, and not on those nasty modern industrial metal-grade bookshelves that dent as soon as you look at them, with shoddy adjustable shelves. No, the Fredericksburg Public Library should have heavy, bespoke built-in shelves, as solid and permanent as the building itself, none of those laminate moveable shelves that will begin to sag after a decade or two under the weight of books and books, and books, and more books. This library should have odd little nooks and corners, with window seats and carrels built into them, where a child could curl up with a book and become lost in another world for hours, given access to a place where every volume is a doorway and a passport to that magic land of imagination. Such a perfect place to read, and read and read, all those wonderful worlds accessed through books.

I told William that the Fredericksburg Public Library would be the perfect venue for a kids’ adventure book. It looks from the outside as if it could contain every one of those elements for a perfectly ripping yarn, juvenile division. A secret room, or hidden passageway, a benevolent ghost, a hidden treasure, a mystery… a story that should encompass friendship and adventure and a sense of the wonderful things that lurk just beyond this all too prosaic world… things that are just barely imaginable just beyond the doorway of a place like the Fredericksburg Public Library… or any other public library, any other town in this seemingly unimpressive but potentially magical world of ours.

Host Nation Sensitivities

17. April 2006 · Comments Off on Host Nation Sensitivities · Categories: Ain't That America?, Fun and Games, General, Military, sarcasm, World

So, it seems from this article, there is a push to get Americans to behave more… well, to blend in more, when traveling overseas. Sounds like more of the same that the military audience used to get, and no doubt is still getting; speak softly, don’t get into discussing politics, avoid certain places and situations. It was all very good advice, especially since there were places where it might save your life, never mind the social embarassment of being— oh, the horror!— snubbed.

After a couple of years of being lectured about host nation sensitivities, and how to play down your service status and nationality, and all that, some of us used to try and work out the most offensively possible one-liners; a line absolutely guaranteed to get straight to the point of pissing off any member of our various host countries to whom they might be said.

So, without further ado, here are the top three…. More »

Thoughts of Summer

14. April 2006 · Comments Off on Thoughts of Summer · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Pajama Game

This posting is brought to you live from The Patio, my second home during the warmer months. Some 20 by twenty-five feet, screened on all but the side that adjoins the house, and with a view of the south end of my dominion, it is indeed a nice summer hangout – topped off with wireless internet and a stereo. Just to the east is a fifteen-foot square concrete pad for the smoker and grill, with an adjacent smallish shed that houses the freezer, golf clubs, etc. The previous occupant kept a hot tub in the shed, which she offered to sell to us at a reasonable price when we bought the house in ‘94. I am not a hot tub person, but Real Wife thought it would be splendid indulgence. That was until said previous occupant, a dowager well into her seventies, confided to us with a sly grin that she and a few of her friends from the local dowager club enjoyed spending time with hot toddies in the hot tub together – nude. Real Wife and I agreed that we simply could never bring ourselves to use it with those images in our mind. I still have nightmares. More »

Art Appreciation

06. April 2006 · Comments Off on Art Appreciation · Categories: Ain't That America?, Fun and Games, General, Pajama Game

No, I can’t say I appreciate modern contemporary art all that much, even though I work in two places that are full of stuffed full of it. Most of it leaves me… ummm, completely under-whelmed. Especially the three panel job in the hallway at the radio station, which looks like the worlds’ most incompetent dry-wall specialist had been allowed to cut loose with a 5-gallon bucket of auto-body filler and a dozen spray cans of silver paint.

Mind you, it is an interesting effect, and it would be very striking as a wall-covering; say, large panels of it interspersed with dark, stark modern Neo-Classical columns, and a plain ceiling and dark marble floor. As a wall-treatment, it might be quite impressive, in such a room as that, but as three large unframed canvasses covered in Bondo and silver paint, hanging in a corridor, it lacks a certain something. Like appeal, to someone who doesn’t have to pretend to see a deep meaning in it. The station had an art benefit auction a while back, of donated objects d’art, and we speculate viciously that the place is decorated in items that didn’t sell and that the artist refused to take back.

My parents had one of those framed oil modernistic things on the dining room wall, for years and years, mostly because it was done in very nice shades of blue (which matched Mom’s décor of the time) and a good friend had given it to them… no, not the artist. It was a bit of set property— the friend worked for one of the Hollywood studios; a lot of times, props were given away to the crews, rather than take up storage space. We were inexpressibly thrilled sometime in the late 1960ies to have spotted this picture, on a repeat of an absolutely ancient Perry Mason show… on the wall of the studio of an artist, supposedly the corpse du jour. It was actually a horrible pastiche, of a moonlight ocean, and some shoreline rocks and pier, with half of it being vaguely Impressionist, and half irresolutely Cubist. Cruelly, Mom and Dad used it to gage the artistic judgment and flattery-administering capabilities of anyone who remarked on it. Anyone lavishing compliments was instantly condemned — married couples have such a way of exchanging knowing glances. Another person, who would become a very dear friend, earned credit immeasurable from Mom and Dad, for finally asking if he couldn’t sit on the other side of the dining room table, just so he wouldn’t have to look at the horrible thing.

No, modern art doesn’t grab me at all, and if it tried, I’d slap it’s face and prefer charges of ungentlemanly behavior. The stuff that gets written up, and displayed everywhere just looks more and more like an over-the-top joke. It’s as if they are trying to top each other, on what they can get the so-called aficionados to swallow and come back for more, and somehow missing the whole point of art. That is, it should fill up a blank space of wall, intrigue or interest your friends and neighbors, and be something that you yourself can stand to look at every morning for a couple of decades. Or even, look at every morning for a couple of decades with a hangover. (Or make your dinner guests look at it, over the course of a fine meal.) Bonus, if the colors in it match something else in the room. Oh, and if possible, it should be something that appeals to you, and to you personally. Frankly, the average Jackson Pollock makes me think of nothing so much as the unspeakably disgusting sidewalk underneath trees where grackles have been roosting.

Say, that’s an idea!! I could get a grant from the NEA, and park huge canvases under the trees, and feed the flock something different every night that would turn their poop different colors! At the end of the week… it wouldn’t be enormous canvases covered with multicolored grackle poop, it would be Art with a capital “A”! Hey, if half a cow in formaldehyde can wow the art world, this has a better than even chance, especially if I can wrap it in layers and layers of vaguely progressive explanations, and slip in a couple of stiletto-slices at the bourgeoisie.

It is to giggle at, though, that the bourgeoisie— well, that part of it who has money to spend on art that they like and are past being dragooned into subsidizing something that they really don’t care for at all—- are buying Thomas Kinkade The Painter ™ of Light.

I don’t know if acres of cozy ginger-bready cottages sagging under the weight of sun-set colored icing are much of an artistic improvement over half a dead cow, or a an acre of multicolored paint splatters, but it must be easier to contemplate over a meal, unless you are diabetic. And at least, Kinkade has made a bundle selling what people actually, you know, really want… not begging for grants and sucking up to people with more money than confidence in their own taste, just to stick us all wish something that we don’t really care for. I predict that he will be this era’s version of a Rogers’s group; enormously popular, than drop out of fashion as something embarrassing and old-fashioned (you’ll be able to buy prints at yard sales for nickels) and then there will be a revival of interest in about 100 years.

They’ll last longer than grackle poop, anyway.

Bordertown

03. April 2006 · Comments Off on Bordertown · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, General, Home Front, Pajama Game

It’s part of the tourist attraction to San Antonio, besides the Riverwalk and the Alamo. Even though this part of South Texas is still a good few hours drive from the actual physical border between Mexico and the United States, the River City is still closer to it than most of the rest of the continental states. It falls well within that ambiguous and fluid zone where people on both sides of it have shifted back and forth so many times that it would be hard to pin down a consistent attitude about it all. This is a place where a fourth or fifth-generation descendent of German Hill-Country immigrants may speak perfectly colloquial Spanish and collect Diego Riviera paintings…. And the grandson of a semi-literate Mexican handyman who came here in the early 1920ies looking for a bit of a break from the unrest south of the border, may have a doctoral degree and a fine series of fine academic initials after his name. And the fact that the original settlers were from the Canary Islands, and all non-Hispanic whites are usually referred to as “Anglos”, no matter what their ethnic origin might be, just adds a certain surreality to the whole place.

San Antonio is in fact, about half Hispanic: surnames like Garcia, Martinez. and Gonzales with an s or Gonzalez with a z being so common they fade into ordinariness. In this bordertown, Garcia and Gonzalez are your next-door neighbors, or your co-workers, everyone knows what a quincianera is, and loves breakfast tacos, and faijitas, and believes with the faith of holy writ that the hotter the salsa is, the better, and knows a smattering of Spanish. Quite often, in fact, it’s the kids named Garcia or Martinez who have to learn it as a second language in high school… just another surreality of life in a city where at least one place on every block of every main avenue serves up takeaway breakfast tacos… and some of them feature drive up service.

The cross-border flow is neither one-way or steerage class, either. Mexican and American shoppers and entrepreneurs criss-cross every day… it’s pharmacy visits and surgical care in both directions, bargains on clothes and garden pottery, and high-end gadgets. North Star Mall, close by the airport has been for years a shopping destination for wealthy Mexicans. During Santa Semana, the Holy Week between Palm Sunday and Easter, you could walk the main floor from one end to the other, and not overhear a word of English in conversation among the throngs. The wealthy Mexicans who come and go sometimes mesh uncomfortably with the local middle and working class Hispanics; the mother of a friend of mine grumbled about how they were so rude, and left the sales tables in such a mess, and left rejected clothes crumpled all over the floor in the dressing rooms at Talbots. Local people most always made a stab at putting them back on the hanger, instead of assuming that someone would come along and straighten out the mess after they were quite finished.

There was a small protest, this week, by mostly high school students— just old enough to be aware of of the problem, but not old enough to grasp the very real ambiguities. We are all immigrants, one way or another: many of us can name the ancestor, and the country he or she came from, and make some intelligent guesses as to why they climbed out of the ancestral rut and lit out for the new territories, the new world, the frontier, the north . Most of us suspect that those ancestors improved their lot; if not immediately for themselves, then for their descendents. I know that my own immigrant grandparents certainly found much nicer weather and better plumbing than what they variously left behind in Three Mile Town, Reading and the Merseyside, and I can’t grudge some dirt-farmer or shade tree mechanic in Jalisco having a chance at something a little better in their turn. I can’t, I really can’t. What a country this must be, when they are willing to risk their lives in the desert, or in the packed back of an 18-wheeler after paying money to a coyote–a people-smuggler— all for a chance to work in the fields, or packing plant or stapling asphalt tile in the hot sun of late afternoon in a Texas summer… and how crappy is the situation they are leaving. Even if all they want is a couple of seasons to work in the North, and send money back home, why do they have to come north in the first place?

What is with Mexico, that they must bleed off their most ambitious and hardworking, but frustrated citizens to the North, that part with paved roads and factories? Why is there nothing for them, back where they came from in some dirt scrabble- village? Why do the “activists” at Aztlan demand that the Southwest be turned back to Mexico, when it was Mexico setting the conditions that made their parents or grandparents head north in the first place?

Tejanos, Chicanos, Mexican-Americans, citizens of the borderlands, call them whatever; they have pulled their weight always: a good proportion of the Alamo defenders were actually native Tejanos, and Juan Seguin might have been their commander, instead of William Travis. (It was an item of crushing historical stupidity and Anglo arrogance that the Alamo Tejanos and Seguin were never given proper credit and attention during their 19th century lifetimes.) They enlist in large numbers generation after generation; machismo is untrammeled, and makes for a large proportion of soldiers who are admiringly described as “crazy-brave”. Citations for battlefield heroism run well above the norm for other ethnicities. Mexico ought to be a military powerhouse, with all that raw soldiering talent, but somehow, that never works out. They did beat the French once, but then hasn’t everyone? The Garcias and the Gonzalezs come north, as they always have; the suspicion on this side of it, is that the Border is Mexico’s safety valve, bleeding off the potentially politically restless and/or economically ambitious.

And the fear has become, this, this year along the borderlands, and in other places, is that the situation is out of hand. Ranch owners along the border, who had heretofore dealt with the illegal transients by sympathetically looking the other way, are fed to the teeth with aggressive trespass, with gates being left open, taps left running and fences cut, with not being able to go about their properties after dark without being armed. Law enforcement along the border are similarly fed to the teeth with well-armed gangs operating across the border, apparently with the connivance of Mexican authorities, whether authorized officially or not, with finding dying border crossers in the back of trucks, and alone, dead of thirst and exposure in the desert. Hospitals in border towns are being driven close to bankruptcy by medical care which they must give to the illegal, and for which they are not reimbursed. And legal immigrants everywhere, who have gone through the hassle and expense of doing the proper paperwork, and waiting patiently in line, are apoplectic at seeing that not playing by established rules may be rewarded.

And so, that is where people of good intent are stranded. De Nile is the river that runs through Egypt… but Ambivalence is the other name of the river that runs through the Borderlands.

It’s Got a Good Beat, You Can Dance to It

02. April 2006 · Comments Off on It’s Got a Good Beat, You Can Dance to It · Categories: Ain't That America?, Politics, That's Entertainment!

Bush Was Right!

Via The Headmistress.

War Kids Relief

31. March 2006 · Comments Off on War Kids Relief · Categories: Ain't That America?, Iraq: The Good, Veteran's Affairs

Jeff Harrell over at The Shape of Days has a great story about one of the Gunners from Gunner Palace who came back from Iraq and couldn’t get the kids out of his head.

After reading the emails from Sergeant Niece and seeing the pictures of her and the kids in Iraq, I can completely understand.

Don’t skip the story, but if you’re short of time, just go check out WAR KIDS RELIEF.

The Day I’ll Burn The Flag

30. March 2006 · Comments Off on The Day I’ll Burn The Flag · Categories: Ain't That America?, Politics, Rant

Looking back on Timmer’s post, Oh No They Didn’t: I see there are two issues at play here. The main issue is, of course, illegal immigration. And then there is the matter of the “student protests,” which, while they might make for great cable news footage, are little more than side shows.

To refresh your memory, Timmer’s post was centered upon an American flag being flown beneath a Mexican flag, and upside-down. By my own measure, while I find that incredibly stupid, I am not offended. However clumsily stated, I think I get their point.

And I think it was our Brit. reader, Al, that commented something like “it’s just a bloody piece of cloth.”

I’ve had this conversation with several Brit. friends in the past, I think I’ve got a handle on it. And here’s one key place where we Americans differ from our cousins across the pond. To the Brits, the Union Jack just represents the nation – it’s little more than a corporate logo. And this is true for the people of most nations of the world. But the Stars and Stripes is different for Americans Just as the United States is different from any other major nation of the world. That flag doesn’t represent a King on a throne, or 545 pompous egocentric blowhards in Washington D.C., a collective of the population, or even a really big chunk of real estate.

No, it represents something quite different: it’s an ideal, a set of principles, and a dream for a higher order of existence for all mankind. And many, many Americans believe (quite justifiably, IMO) that the ideal, and this nation, were divinely inspired. And, to them, the Stars and Stripes are as the Koran is to a Muslim.

But then, there are those (like these student protesters), who choose to denigrate or desecrate the Stars and Stripes. I will hazard a guess that few of them are saying they have lost faith in the ideal. What they are saying is that they think the actualization has fallen far short of the ideal. Pity we don’t have a flag for the government of the United States. POTUS has a flag, but Congress doesn’t – neither does the Supreme Court. We should have a flag for the federal government – wipe your ass with that one – you’ll likely get a cheering section.

But there are those in Congress, as well as various and sundry Statehouses, who are as fanatic about the Stars and Stripes as some Muslims are about the Koran. However, here is the paradox which certifies the Stars and Stripes’ divine nature: unlike the Koran, EVERYTHING that the Stars and Stripes represents is embodied in the individual’s right to do with it as they please – no matter how offensive it might be to some, or even all.

So, the day I burn the Stars and Stripes, will be the day a flag desecration amendment to the Constitution is ratified – hopefully, I will do it on the steps of Congress. Because that’s the day when the ideal will have been lost, and the Stars and Stripes becomes worthless.

Globalization of Taste

29. March 2006 · Comments Off on Globalization of Taste · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, General, Pajama Game, World

Sgt/Cpl. Blondie stumbled across evidence of this, at a local chain grocery—the one I always call the Humongous Big-Ass Grocery. It is truly one of the glories of living in Texas, a local chain which has run practically every other big grocery chain out of town with a combination of unparalleled customer service, quite good prices on their house brands, and an unimaginable variety of fine grocery items for the discriminating foodie. I firmly believe that the Iron Curtain would have slipped off its’ rod and collapsed even sooner if selected members of the Politburo could have been given guided tours of the average HEB store… the sheer lavish glories of American grocery stores are legend, and HEB does that all one or two steps better. They pay really close attention to their local market. I have a theory that you can calculate the average per capita income in a neighborhood (before taxes) by counting up how many varieties of olive oil are on the shelves at the local HEB… so many varieties X so many $ thousands in income, and there you have it. I haven’t worked out the exact figures yet (I’m only an English major, you know!!!!), but the greater the variety of olio d’ olive, the higher the income. The HEB nearest Lackland AFB, I’ll have you know, had only 2, and one of them was that nasty yellow Pompeii brand drek, which was all that was on the major grocery markets for decades, before anyone acquired any taste in the matter at all.

Olive oil— it’s a small thing, but something I noticed, because of being in Greece, where it was the font of all civilization (according to legend), and then in Spain where Alcampo, the Spanish equivalent to Walmart, with every imaginable item under one roof, and at next to wholesale prices, offered an entire aisle of olive oil, of every quantity and quality.
I came home from Spain with six 1.5 liter bottles of a good and faintly greenish brand of the stuff, which lasted me for barely a year.
That’s the trouble with being stationed overseas a lot; eventually you sample the local stuff- something that is a local taste, and hardly ever exported, and when you come home, you are bereft… sometimes. A year or so after I came home from Japan, my friend Marsh (She of the marvelous engine-mount challenged car) were overjoyed to discover a small Japanese-American eatery that offered… Katsudon!

Katsudon; a dish all the more luscious because it is very good, and filling and cheap, and most marvelous of all— available everywhere. (And when you said it, the waiter/waitress understood it!) It was the hamburger, or the meatloaf of Japan, a bowl of rice topped with a breaded and friend pork cutlet, and a savory glob of poached egg and onion, all the juices seeping down to flavor the rice with sweet liquor. You could go— or so said the Japanese lady who taught the “Intro to Japan 1A— into any casual eatery in Japan, and ask for “katsudon” and get some variant of it. There is of late in one of my cooking magazines, a recipe for such, which shows how adventurous the foodie population may have become— two decades ago, practically no one who hadn’t done a tour in Japan had ever heard of it at all. People who have served overseas have heaps of examples— lovely and particularly local foods which they became addicted to, and could never find again, or if they could, at great expense, once they came “home”.

Which gets me back, however circuitously to HEB, and food items from Japan. Blondie found an import item at a local HEB store, and fell on it joyfully; a particular brand of Japanese soda. It came in very distinctive blue-green glass bottles, sealed with a blue-green glass marble in the neck of it. A bulge in the neck, and a pinch molded into the glass on one side kept the bottle from rolling back into the top opening if you drank it holding the bottle in a certain way. Vendors kept a particular punch at their stand, to open it by pushing the marble back into the neck— where it had otherwise made a tight seal against force of carbonation. The soda was otherwise fairly indistinguishable from ginger ale, or some other clear, mildly sweet and carbonated drink… but still. Neither of us expected to see it on the market here, but whattaya know. Here it is.
Street Fair 1977
This pic of me (center) and two other girls from the barracks (Sorry, I can’t recall their names!) was taken during a local festival, about 1977, when all the traffic on Misawa’s main street was cut off, and it was decorated with lanterns and banners, and stalls. All of us have a bottle of this particular soda in hand.

Oh No They Didn’t

29. March 2006 · Comments Off on Oh No They Didn’t · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic

Whittier area students from Pioneer, California and Whittier high schools walked out of classes to protest the proposed federal immigration bill March 27, 2006. The protestors put up the Mexican flag over the American flag flying upside down at Montebello High. (Leo Jarzomb/Staff photo)

Stolen from Malkin.

Ya know, up until this past week I’ve been pretty much for some sort of immigration reform that allows some way for illegal immigrants, especially from Mexico, to become legal citizens with some sort of ease. After seeing the shenanigans going on at the protests and especially after this incident, I’m starting to side with the folks who want to round ’em all up and shove ’em back across the border. Apparently these folks don’t want to become Americans, they’re trying to re-fight a war they lost over a century ago.

Memo: Just So You Know Where We Are Coming From

28. March 2006 · Comments Off on Memo: Just So You Know Where We Are Coming From · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Good God, World

To: Those Insisting Upon A Death Sentence For Apostasy
From: Sgt. Mom
Re: The Case of Abdul Rahman

I would refer you to the matchless words of the “Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom- 16 June 1786”: Read them, heed them, commit them to heart, for this is where we are coming from.

Whereas, Almighty God hath created the mind free; that all attempts to influence it by temporal punishments or burthens, or by civil incapacitations tend only to beget habits of hypocrisy and meanness, and are a departure from the plan of the holy author of our religion, who being Lord, both of body and mind yet chose not to propagate it by coercions on either, as was in his Almighty power to do…. More »

Things that make you go hmmm….

28. March 2006 · Comments Off on Things that make you go hmmm…. · Categories: A Href, Ain't That America?, Domestic, General

Baldilocks points us to a UPI story about one of former president Bill Clinton’s chauffeurs.

Seems that while 3 cars were waiting for Clinton to arrive at Newark Airport, a Port Authority cop checked their license plate numbers. Turns out one car belonged to a Pakistani native who was a wanted man. He skipped out on his residency hearing six years ago, and has a deportation order against him.

Hmmmm…….

Easter Bunny Deemed Offensive… In St. Paul

26. March 2006 · Comments Off on Easter Bunny Deemed Offensive… In St. Paul · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Stupidity

This from Different River:

Don’t they know that their city was named after one of the main founders of Christianity? And that by calling that person a “Saint” one makes a specific religious claim about that individual?

[…]

This is not “being sensitive” – this is implying that non-Christians are stupid and/or inconsistent and/or outright hypocrites, who are happy to live in a city named after a Christian saint, but offended by one little stuffed rabbit.

First it’s cartoon pigs, then fictitious rabbits. As Napoleon said, “from the sublime to the ridiculous, is but a step.”

Hat Tip: Clayton Cramer

Volunteer Fire Departments

25. March 2006 · Comments Off on Volunteer Fire Departments · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Pajama Game

I grew up surrounded by my mother’s family, which included eleven other siblings. Of the males in the clan, there were 3 Navy vets (2 in WW II), and two Marines. This is not about the military service though, but rather about another form of service that, in some respects, directly affected far more lives. It all started in 1947 when Grandpa was heading up the stairs of their modest home in upstate NY. My mother, then eighteen years old and a telegrapher at Western Union in Syracuse (where, by the way, she met my father a year later), was smoking a cigarette in the girls’ bedroom – a practice forbidden by Grandpa despite his proclivity toward cheap cigars every evening. To avoid detection she threw it out the dormer window whereupon it immediately started the wooden shingles ablaze. More »

I, Personally….

25. March 2006 · Comments Off on I, Personally…. · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, General, General Nonsense

…welcome our puppycat overlords.

One of the comments noted: “Feh. Call me when they make a dog that acts like a cat.”

Consider yourself called, sir. I have a dog that seems to think it is a cat; the Lesser Weevil spends a lot of time sucking up to the cats, attempting to get the cats to play with her, trying to curl her 50lb body up on the same surfaces and perch on the same spaces that the cats occupy, and spending most of the day sleeping and snoring/purring.

I can’t get her to use the damned litterbox, though. Pity

The Buick Lucerne Commercial

23. March 2006 · Comments Off on The Buick Lucerne Commercial · Categories: Ain't That America?

I’m sure you’ve heard it – as boring as the car itself:

“It’s always the same ones… the quiet ones… They sit in the back of the class – never ask any questions… And then the test comes…”

Alternate ending:

“And then they pull out an AK-47, and blow everyone in the school away.” Then we have a Lucerne spinning donuts around Lexus’ and Infinities. But, instead of Led Zeppelin “Cadillac’s theme music”, we have Def Leppard.

Yeah baby – that’ll build some brand excitement. 😉

Personal Responsibility Takes Another Shot

23. March 2006 · Comments Off on Personal Responsibility Takes Another Shot · Categories: Ain't That America?, Air Force, Pajama Game, Stupidity

I went to Boyo’s TaeKwonDo class at the Youth Center tonight to watch like I do on most Thursday Nights. Beautiful Wife watches on Tuesday Nights. We all enjoy that…for the most part. Other parents with smaller children often-times let their hellions run wild and they get in the way of the class and are generally disruptive. They’ve been talked to. Other parents have tried to calm the offending kids only to be glared at by the parents. It’s no worse than any other place with kids who can’t or won’t behave with parents who can’t or won’t parent, but yeah, it kinda sucks.

Tonight I noticed that there were a few parents in the snack bar and as I entered the gym I noticed there were no parents watching the class in there. One woman who is in the class and acts as a sort of liaison walked up with a letter on letterhead in her hand. She told me that parents were no longer allowed in the gym to watch the class. That was the solution. I found the Director of the Youth Center and told her that I understood, but I wasn’t happy about her solution. She looked annoyed that anyone would question her GS-ness and informed me that it’s ALWAYS been the policy that parents couldn’t be in the gym while class was going on. Okay, myself and other parents have been watching our kids for over a year in there and no one’s ever said a word before this, I knew I wasn’t going to get anything like a straight answer out of this self-important twit. She cited safety concerns and yadda-yadda and I stopped her and asked, “Why not just ban little kids who aren’t in the class from the gym and solve the problem? There’s like four kids who’s parents won’t discipline them, simply ban them.” She looked horrified. “We couldn’t do that, it wouldn’t be fair if we didn’t do it across the board. Besides the instructors can decide on SOME nights that parents can watch.”

Okay, I was done. When they have an across the board hard policy that isn’t an across the board hard policy…

So because a few parents won’t discipline their brats, none of the parents can watch their kids in class anymore.

Crap like this makes me livid. Everything I’ve learned in 22 years of service about responsibility and culpability is trashed at the Youth Center. These are the people who are watching my boy after school. Don’t hold the responsible parties to a standard, simply punish all the parents and kids who want us there watching. The very last thing I expected from any organization on an Air Force Base.

Personal responsibility has always had a decent stronghold in the military, and it’s eroding at the edges.

Set a standard. Enforce the standard. When did this become hard?

The twist of lime to this story is that I found out today that it wasn’t even the brats in OUR class that caused the action. It was ONE kid in an entirely different class. One parent who wouldn’t control one kid completely ruins things for at least a dozen other parents.

Sooo….

21. March 2006 · Comments Off on Sooo…. · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, General

I’ve been off-line since Sunday midnight, when a thunderstorm rolling through fried my Time-Warner provided modem. We have been waiting all day (and growing steadily more discontented with the service provided) awaiting the arrival of a skilled tech, with a replacement modem… who was cheerful, apologetic and competant, when at last he finally arrived.
I had sworn an oath in blood to find another internet and TV service provider, if we were not back on line by 9 PM tonight. Thanks to Orlando, I do not have to deliver on that threat. This time, at least

So, I’m back… did I miss anything?

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