A horse is a horse...of course, of course...

Mardi Gras (French for "Fat Tuesday") is the day before Ash Wednesday, and is also called "Shrove Tuesday" or "Pancake Day". It is the final day of Carnival. It is a celebration that is held just before the beginning of the Christian liturgical season of Lent. The feast should not be confused with the Polish Fat Thursday, or even McDonalds' Fat Every day.

They are celebrating Mardi Gras in New Orleans this week. Yes, I know there are those of you out there who will pull the "Return to a semblance of normalcy" defense, but the sad fact of the matter is New Orleans is so far removed from "normalcy" right now, it's rather offensive to me to see parades going on with drunken people dressing up like their headed to the largest "Rocky Horror Picture Show" convention on record. Even the Mayor, the fine spokesman Ray Nagin was in on the celebration, decked out in military gear and riding a horse through town. I guess that's what you have to do when you're given $2 Billion and you haven't spent very much of it on little conveniences like buildings, public transportation, and reliable electricity. You ride your horse proudly through the French Quarter, careful not to turn your gaze towards any of the devastation that still exists in 4/5ths of your city. But it's the government's fault anyways, right Mr. Mayor? Today you made a statement to the press. In a recorded sound bite to the question, "What would you have done differently?", you said....and I do indeed quote:

"I've been thinking a lot about that lately, and I would have done 2 things differently. First, I would have hopefully received a call from Max Mayfield advising me of the situation, and secondly...well...the yellow buses you all saw in the photos, those belonged to the school board and they were flooded, so the buses I had - we moved to higher ground and then they were flooded." Ahhhhhh...thank you Mr. Mayor for that - uuuhhhhh - whatever it was you just said. Let's take a few minutes and break this one down, shall we?

Firstly, the Mayors answer was by no means an answer, that much is clear. We're going to take it a step at a time, ok? The first thing HE would have done was receive a call from Max Mayfield. I should tell you that Max is the Director of the National Hurricane Center. Apparently Max missed the Mayor's telepathic request for a ring up. In any case, out of the 270 million or so people in this country, 269,999,999 knew a massive hurricane was going to direct hit New Orleans 4 days prior. Apparently the one person out of the loop was Mayor Nagin. Since Max Mayfield failed to call him personally, the mayor can now claim the "Hurricane? What hurricane?" excuse. Alright, so we've established according to the Mayor's comments that the first thing HE would have done differently was for someone else to do something differently. Hmmmm.

Onward we trudge. The hundreds of yellow buses we all saw. First part of that one: "The yellow buses belonged to the school board". Apparently the mayor of a major city has no pull with the school board on the use of their buses, especially in a time of crisis - which we all know was not a time of crisis for this Mayor because Max Mayfield didn't call him and tell him about a hurricane, so he didn't know about it - but either way, even IF the Mayor had known about some sort of hurricane bearing down on his city, those buses belonged to the school board. Everyone knows the school board would never lend their buses out to save lives, especially children. School boards hate children, we all know that.

Second part of that one, and it goes along with the statement about the buses the Mayor "had": "they ended up flooded like the school buses"...see below, please.

Friday, Aug 27th...the Governor of Louisiana declares a State of Emergency. Saturday, Aug 28 the Governor of Mississippi declares a State of Emergency. Apparently while this was going on, the Mayor of New Orleans was oblivious to these developments because Max Mayfield had yet to call him, which of course was the first thing the Mayor would have done, blah boodee boop. Later on Saturday, both Governors asked the President to declare a Federal State of Emergency. The Mayor, sitting idly in his office wondering why every channel on his TV was doing the weather, went call-less. Sunday, Aug 28th, the Mayor (have I mentioned him yet?) found out there was a pretty big hurricane headed his way and issued the first ever evacuation notice for the city of New Orleans. The buses, stationed "just in case" for the past 48 hours, apparently had already flooded...at least according to the Mayor's statement above. The next morning, Katrina hit as a Cat 4 hurricane, and within hours the levee's started to fail one by one, and about 28 hours later, the city was awash.

It was at this time that the well-documented screw-ups by FEMA and other agencies began. We could talk for hours and hours about the federal government's failures, but it's been done and is still happening now. What bothers me is at this point in time, no one in high authority has taken Mayor Nagin to task, and apparently no one will. Evidently he needed someone to tell him what was about to happen weather-wise, and no one on his staff informed him that he had magic buses that could flood before the storm even hit. Of the 72 hours before the catastophe, he spent the first 48 motionless, then issued a useless decree because the majority of his residents didn't have the means to get out in 24 days, let alone 24 hours. They needed his his assistance, and he couldn't, wouldn't, or didn't provide it. However, he's the first of many to point out the failures of others while deflecting as much away from himself as he can, and he's gearing up for another run for the Mayoral office. Why not? Marion Barry kept getting re-elected in D.C., and he was a crack-head. I gotta tell ya though, the guy sure looks good up on that horse in his fatigues with the purple and gold beads.

Party on dude...it's Mardis Gras.

Feel free to opine. I now declare this blog open for the inevitable bloodshed and tears...let the unravelling of the faint-hearted begin!!!!

Speak to me...

A Shiny Jewell

Some gems awe, some gems bring a smile to the face of a new bride-to-be, and still others sparkle like no other. On a moutainside 2 1/2 hours outside of Torino Italy the other day, the brilliance from one of these gems cast an illumination in the Alps never before seen. This gem was indeed a rare one, a young man who goes by the name Tyler Jewell. You simply add another 'L' and buff it up a bit, and suddenly the Hope Diamond is bowing with respect.

Tyler Jewell made a fashion statement on February 22nd, 2006. He wore a red bandanna.

During these games the past two weeks, it had become common practice for the athletes on these slopes to make statements with their attire. The U.S. Women's ski team was looked upon somewhat skeptically because they had one woman wear a Tiarra, one wear several strings of pearls, and one who wore some sort of Jaguar ears or something similar over her helmet. Not that I care a hoot about what these people wore, but the fact that they performed at a level beneath their presumed capabilities had some folks wondering if they should have spent more time on the hill and in the weight rooms than Neiman Marcus. Whatever.

The snowboarding Parallel Giant Slalom is a relatively new deal for American athletes. In boarding, we have concentrated most of our efforts in the half-pipe and snowboard cross events, and a slew of medals - many of them gold - has been the result. As it were, we only had one competitor in the Men's parallel GS, and that was Mr. Jewell. Racing down the mountain at approximately 35 mph, leaning back on your heals to execute a turn, immediately leaning forward onto your toes to sink your edge and make an opposite turn - all the while doing so against your fellow competitors and the ever-ticking clock - is a very difficult thing to do. It's an extremely difficult thing to do under the strain of Olympic pressure and the personal knowledge of a father who is a vascular surgeon and a brother who is a neurosurgeon, neither of whom can seem to grasp why Tyler, 29, still hasn't gone out and procured a real job.

And then there was that extra weight he was carrying, making it virtually impossible to do the things necessary to win. That was the real problem. That damn red bandanna was weighing him down. Fashion statement, indeed.

On an otherwise beautiful September morning in New York City 4 and 1/2 years ago, Tyler Jewell's best friend from his 4 years at Boston College was in one of those two very tall buildings. Wells Crowther, 24, escaped from his 78th floor office and was safely at the bottom when something inside of him made him do the unthinkable. Donning a red bandanna over his face, Wells went back to the 78th floor and assisted in the witnessed rescue and subsequent survival of at least 10 people. The survivors spoke only of the "man in the red bandanna", and no one ever saw him again. The bandanna was recovered in the rubble at a later date, or at least 'a' bandanna was recovered and given to the Crowther family. Tyler asked permission of the father to wear it during his races.

Our young boarder made it to the quarterfinals before bowing out. Evidently, attempting to execute his skill while carrying the weight of that red bandanna, heavy with the burden of a solitary man - scarf over his face - trying to hold up a building and it's occupants, a building that in turn was trying to bear the weight of an entire nation, proved to be too much. Tyler finished 11th.

11th place. What a loser, huh?

The Man (Really)

He's a Gunnery Sergeant in United States Marines and his name is Michael Burghardt. He's a member of the Explosive Ordinance Disposal Team that is supporting the 2nd Brigade, 28th Infantry Division. It is part of the Pennsylvania National Guard.

Our hero today is often called "Iron Mike", and with damn good reason. He's done 3 tours in Iraq, and he's become quite the legend in bomb disposal business. He's a recipient of the Bronze Star for singlehandedly disabling 64 IED, or Improvised Explosion Devices. These are the bombs made by insurgents that kill and maim the servicemen and women we read about every day. Additionally, "Gunny" Burghardt destroyed 1,548 individual devices during his 2nd tour alone.

On September 19th, 2005 things changed. Gunny Burghardt arrived at a rather confused and chaotic scene of an explosion that had taken the lives of 4 soldiers minutes before. In the crater left from the 1st explosion was what could clearly be seen to be a 2nd device. Eschewing the normal bomb disposal protective garments - "You can't move fast enough to avoid sniper fire in one of those" - Iron Mike made his way into the 5 x 8 foot crater. When he got to the device and probed the ground around the it, his foot kicked some dirt aside and he saw the unmistakable red wire of detonation chord. Realizing he had been sucked into a trap, he yelled at everyone outside the crater to get back - and hurry!!

At that exact moment an insurgent - properly stationed where he could view the entire scene - threw the switch on his remote device and sent Gunny up into the air in a violent wave of smoke, fire, and dust. "As I was in the air, I remember thinking, 'I don't believe they got me'. I was ticked off they were able to do it. Then I was on the ground and couldn't feel anything from the waist down".

His colleagues cut off his clothing, and were astonished all Iron Mike's vital parts were still intact. Gunny Mike's dad is a Vietnam Vet and is in a wheelchair. He remembers thinking, "I'm not going to go home and sit next to my dad in a wheelchair and let my dad see me like that". As they cut off his pants sharp pain ravaged his legs, but he was able to wiggle his toes, and he knew he "was in business". They bandaged him and brought him a stretcher to take him to the waiting helicopter, but he said "Screw that. None of my teammates are going to see me hauled off on the stretcher."

Iron Mike stood up on his own, burned severely on both legs, his backside, and "other places", and he looked towards the probable direction the insurgents were hiding when they triggered the bomb, and told them through sign language exactly how he felt about them. A reporter from an Omaha Nebraska newspaper was there and snapped the picture you see below, forever making Gunnery Sergeant Michael Burghardt the damnedest, toughest, and most red-white-and-blue-defiant American of this generation.

And we can all thank our God that guys like him exist.

Owning Up

On February 17th a small thing happened in the world of sports that became an incredible microcosm of some of the things that are wrong with us...or the U.S. if you will. A 20 year old snowboard racer by the name of Lindsey Jacobellis lost a race. She finished 2nd, "winning" a Silver Medal.

So what went wrong, you say? She won a medal didn't she? Don't rush me...I'm getting there.

Our young potential heroine made an egregious mistake. After going through 4 and 5 racer eliminations, quarterfinal and semifinal "heats", Miss Jacobellis was in the finals and the prohibitive favorite to win. As she neared the finish line less than 150 yards from personal historical immortality, she hit a jump and decided inexplicably to do some fancy show-off move.

And she fell.

A few seconds later, the racer that was clearly beaten swished by our fallen hero and collected the top prize. Tanja Frieden of Switzerland became the beneficiary of Jacobellis' gaffe. Blog after blog after blog has Americans everywhere playing apologist for Lindsey. "She's a snowboarder. That's what they do". "She was just doing what makes snowboarding so attractive to everyone". "She was expressing herself". Take a look for yourself:http://macallisterstone.blogspot.com/2006/02/snowboarders.html. And now as the wonderful Paul Harvey used to say, I give you my version of "the rest of the story".

The problem with what Miss Jacobellis did has to do with several factors, the first of which is subsidy. Everything she has done since earning her berth on the US Olympic Team in 2003 has been subsidized. Her training, her food, her housing, and her coaching. She and everyone else also rack up the bucks in Visa television commercials, while everything she wears or uses that has a logo comes at a price, and that money is gleefully placed into the personal bank accounts of the athletes. Now, before you start in on me let me state right here and now that I agree with the subsidies, and I have no problem with anyone getting paid for wearing a certain brand of ski goggle. If a kid is going to represent his or her country, I think the country has the charge of picking up the tab. If a snowboard manufacturer wants to pay a kid to use their board, that's their business. With that said, an Olympic athlete is no different from you and I. We go to work under a pre-arranged agreement with our employer that we will give them an honest day's work for an honest dollar. Once Lindsey was chosen for the team, snowboarding became her job and our country paid her handsomely to do that job. Her having "fun" is a job perk, but should in no way, shape, or form be confused with her goal or her mission. I'll bet you a nickel to $100 she knows that fact as well.

So now you have a new factor thrown in: obligation. We the People of the United States of America have recognized and acknowleged your talent, and in doing so are willing to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to enhance and refine that talent. You will be allowed to reap whatever benefits - financial, fame, or otherwise - that come with your successes, all we ask in return is a solid commitment and effort. And there is the rub that the apologists refuse to look at. Once that subsidy and obligation mate, the offspring is expectation. If Lindsey had been bumped off the course by another racer, failed to qualify legitimately in one of the preparatory heats, or had just fallen because the pressure of the moment was too great, no one would have said a word.

But that's not what happened.

She showboated. She hot-dogged. And she threw away 10 years of blood, sweat, and tears in one brief moment of immaturity. What she did and said afterwards is what caused people in the media and sitting in their homes to blow a gasket. She lied. She said she didn't do what probably a billion people world-wide saw her do on the T.V. Her coach admitted it in an interview later. Her teammates acknowledged the mistake as well. But here we are a week later, and Lindsey still has not. In other words, the case can be made she took the money and ran, shying away from her ultimate responsibility: being accountable for her actions. And so we are now discussing something that should never have been a topic to begin with. Lindsey Jacobellis made a mistake, compounded by her confounding lack of ownership afterwards. She failed to finish what she started and we paid for. In doing so she let down her parents, her friends, her coaches, and her country.

Admittedly, this is minor in the larger scheme of things when placed in context. However, the discussion can go on about the societal influences and problems with the boffo that happened in Italy last week. In any case, the fix is simple. No one forgives more readily or easily than the people of the United States, but Lindsey herself has to buck up and say the magic words, "I'm sorry." Until that time, the apologists are wrong, Lindsey Jacobellis is wrong, and for tolerating another episode of this kind of behavior - to a certain degree the American public is wrong as well.

Simpler thoughts

What ever happened to my youth?

Is this the most asked question of all time, or what? From the days when slaves were building the Sphinx and the Great Pyramids of Egypt, human beings have been asking themselves the same question.

"Uhhhhhh, Sooliman El Samir? Do you remember when all that was here was a couple of paws and half a head? That must have been 20 years ago. Where did the time go?" To which Mr. Sooliman probably responded with, "What's a year?", but I digress as usual.

The other day my son did something that all son's have been guilty of doing for eons: He permanently misplaced something that he shouldn't have. Why? Because he's carefree and careless. And what did I do? I got mad of course, because I was the one who bought the item and I'll probably be the one who pays again to replace it. After having my customary coniption fit bordering on an embolism, I sat him down and gave him a lecture. The item he lost was a soccer ball...small in the larger scheme of things for sure, but at $25-$30 per ball...it gets old after a while. I'm not sure how many this is over the years, but it's been more than a few.

In the lecture I showed him a baseball glove that I used to use when I played little league. Before anyone starts in on me, there is no truth to the rumor that I actually played with Abner Doubleday himself, so save your cracks. The glove was over 40 years old, the leather slippery, cracked, and hard after 4 decades. Inside of it was a ball, presumably from the same era. My mom sent that glove to me a few months ago, and I have to admit I was seriously touched when I opened the package and saw it. I pointed out to my son in impassioned terms how a simple thing like a baseball glove could still be here 40 + years later while he can't find his damn ball that I bought for him in December. I explained to him there was an era when people actually cared about things to the point that they would do anything to hang on to them. I asked him to show me one of his soccer balls that's over 6 months old and still in usable condition. This was a loaded set-up of course, because I knew he couldn't produce such an item...and I closed with the obligatory teenage butt-chewing about accountability and all that dribble.

Upon reflection some time later, several things became apparent to me. First and foremost, we - yes, WE - live in the throw away times. We throw everything away. Remember your record albums? Still have 'em? Yeah, I thought so. How about that old chair? You know, the one that was tailor made for you because your body shaped it over the years. You held your children when they were infants in that chair, you read to them when they were toddlers, and you delighted in seeing them as teenagers sitting in that same place and remarking about how comfortable it was. As you think back, the real comfort wasn't the chair - it was the fact that the chair was there just as it always had been. Right there where it was supposed to be, waiting for you to sit and take a load off - just like you were supposed to do. When was the last time you sat down with your kids and watched a movie that came out when you were their age? Right. Don't you think it's about time now? And don't give me that "my kid is 25" speech. Rent the movie and watch it with them.

What else do we throw away? Friendships? Relationships? Absolutely we do. We throw away our pride in search of more money, we throw away our dignity by agreeing on something because our political party or membership in some group says we're supposed to, and we throw away our integrity when we make a mistake and don't own up to it.

I have that baseball glove for two reasons. When I was a child I knew I had an obligation to protect that glove. It was mine, and I knew chances were good I wouldn't get another if I was careless with it. The second reason is because when I went through my adolescence and young adulthood, my mom had the foresight to keep that glove because she knew she never wanted to throw away the memories of my youth...which by the way are also the memories of her youth. I have a few snapshots in my memory banks of what it was like to play baseball 40 years ago, but I guarantee you my mom has full length movies. And how do I know that? Because long after the memory of another lost soccer ball has faded, the visions of the magical things my kid can do with one of those balls will still be laser-burned into my brain.

So it took a convergence of three generations and $25 bucks to once again put things in perspective. We trash way too much in search of something bigger, better, or shinier. In the process, we forget to hang on to the truly important things, and the kicker is most of the good stuff doesn't cost a dime.

And what the hey, that Sphinx wouldn't look half as good if it still had it's nose anyways.

The Greatest Christmas (Part I)

3-part story. I hope you not only enjoy, but understand the true meaning.

-JL4

The was a time.

A time that is growing farther and farther out from the current year, causing the memories to fade faster as each passing moment becomes another blur in an ever-expanding landscape of worrying about school, paying the mortgage, and wondering how come I have to lean over to gaze at my Nike's.

It had become cold in recent weeks, the omnipresent heat of August, September, and October finally acquiescing to the rotation of the globe. No one could fully understand how the desert could be so damn cold after being so oppressively hot those first three months. We had trained and trained and trained. Each day the same thing, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing each time we did our thing, we became better at it. As the last week in December approached, I started to realize that I was part of something very special...a group of people, 40 in total, who knew how to do their jobs in an incredibly expert way under the absolute worst conditions possible. To this day, I've never been around a more competent gathering - before or since.

Why shouldn't we have been good? It was all we did; all we had to live for at the time. 1990 in the Saudi Arabian desert was not someplace you could just pack up your things and walk away because you wanted to quit. There was nowhere to go, no one you could complain to. The 100% sentiment was we must practice - again and again - if we wanted to go home in one piece on our own feet. But now the training was over. The time had grown short, and we knew from the newscasts that we all listened to on our battery powered radios there was no stopping the machine now. It didn't really matter whether you agreed or not. In a strange twist, you now knew what the previous generations meant when they told you "There is no right or wrong when you're in a fox hole. There is only what is happening a that moment." We were all a part of the same bond shared by our predecessors, both professional and draftee. We had our link to history, and we knew history was not going to be denied.

I, being one of the higher ranking in our unit, arranged for myself and two others to go on a "road trip" down to the nearest village. Understand now, the nearest village was about 40 miles away, that being 40 miles of the same unyielding landscape of gently rolling sand dunes set against a backdrop of the furthest horizon you could ever even imagine, let alone see. "Nothingness" doesn't even scratch the surface of where we were. We were a thousand miles from nothingness, which might help put it into perspective for you. No TJ Max or Wendy's down this road, which wasn't even a road per se...just a trail carved and then daily re-carved by the endless caravan of brown and tan vehicles making their way north for the eventual...well, for the eventuality might be a better word. The road had to be recarved each day because the night winds would come in, shifting the fragile sands around, and each morning was like a new snowfall in Minnesota - fresh, solitary, a complete rebirth of the landscape. If we were to move for a day or so, when we returned the only lingering landmarks would be our tentage. Without them, we would have never been able to return to the same place. Every morning, each square foot looked exactly like any and every other square foot, something that was incomprehensible until we all first saw it with our own eyes. We all knew once we left where we had been for the last 3 months, within 24 hours there wouldn't be a single reference point, mark, or detail which would mark our physical place in history, an irony not lost on soldiers that knew some of the history of the way returning soldiers have at times been treated in our country.

While I drove the hummer to the village my passengers were dutifully manning their machine guns just in case someone up the road decided to get frisky with us. I allowed myself the privilege for the first time of thinking of those I loved back home. It was Christmas after all, and I'm sure they were somewhere thinking of me. I kind of lost myself for a few minutes, and for the first time in months dropped my guard. It was a nice relief, something I found myself fighting to stop because I knew I had to get back to the present eventually. Back at the encampment, the soldiers were carrying out the orders I had given them for the preparations which would tie into our trip. There was never a doubt they would carry these orders out, and I knew they would carry them out beyond my expectations. They always did, especially these past few months.

The Greatest Christmas (Part II)

The men and women back as base camp were hastily preparing the place for Christmas. We had plenty of those "chem-light" things of various colors. Those are the plastic sticks filled with fluid, and when you snap them in half, they emit a glow for several hours. Dozens and dozens of these were placed in and around the multitude of tents we all lived in. The most adventurous of them were digging a huge pit, while others went on a 2 hour scavenger hunt to try and find 5 to 6 inch round rocks. This was not easy, as the desert floor was 99% pure sand, and they had to hunt and dig to find what they could. You never wanted to dig too far though, because the insects that were prevalent in the area never migrated during the winter, they just dug tunnels and set up shop beneath the surface until the hot sun reappeared in March or so. A couple of mechanics, assigned to take care of our equipment, went to work dismantling a grill from the front of one of our command vehicles, an M-113 Armored Personnel Carrier. Until this moment, those grills never did serve any kind of useful purpose.

Meanwhile, I and my cohorts had arrived at the village, and we were poking around trying to find some sort of food store. Keep in mind, a village in the middle of nowhere Saudi Arabia is just that. Several dilapidated buildings, some of the adobe in nature, scattered around. You might wander into what you think was a Mosque, and it was actually the town hall, and vice versa. Fortunately for us, we all spoke Arabic somewhat fluently, and we soon found what we were looking for. To our surprise, the store contained an abundance of exactly what we were looking for.

The nature of how things are done in a combat zone would be as foreign to the average American as trying to decipher some tribal Australian language. When the food came in to the main supply depot in Daharan, Saudi Arabia - a port town - all the pre-fab meals were palletized by type. Rather than switching and mixing up the various meals, the supply guys took the easy route and just loaded up the pallets as they were and shipped them to the various units. Subsequently, we ate beef and noodles with carrot sticks every morning, noon, and night for over 3 months. Other units were eating chicken and pasta, while still others were eating ham and beans. Every meal; every day. Fortunately, the weekly supply runs included hundreds of loaves of bread, complimented by these plastic filled packets of peanut butter and grape jelly. After a very short period of time, this is what we took to eating. P, B, & J 24/7. We ate it for breakfast, we ate it on 2 am guard shift. It sure beat the hell out of beef and carrots for the 150th straight time.

What my eyes were seeing in this market was almost too good to be true. There were whole chickens, hundreds of them, but not such a big surprise. What surprised us was seeing bags of Lays potato chips and cases of Pepsi, which in Arabic was spelled out the word "Beebza". After some frantic negotiations with the shop manager, I ended up buying 85 whole chickens, and probably 20 or 25 cases of "Beebza", and every single bag of chips he had. He managed to produce a few cardboard boxes and some ice to pack the chickens in, and we happily loaded up the hummvee with all of this and sped on back to camp. The boys stayed watchful in their turret mount, careful to keep an eye on our cargo as well, and we made it back without incident.

Upon arrival, we found the hole was dug, the rocks were in place, lots and lots of loose kindling had been procured (I found out later, some others had done another run and came upon these trees, which they promptly pulled out of the ground with the hummvee's winch, then brought back to camp and hand sawed into hundreds of nice pieces for a fire. With this all done, the logs in the hole were soaked in gasoline, left for a while to stand, then the grill from the APC was placed over the entire thing, and someone threw a match in.

The Greatest Christmas (Part III)

The is always a man or two who prides himself on his bar-b-q prowess, and an Army Intelligence Unit is no different. We had plenty of volunteers to cut up and prepare the chicken. Fortunately, the main HQ allowed those guys to raid the mess area and come up with as many spices as they could. Those chickens were marinated in some sort of rudimentary pot, and lord knows what spices were in there. Frankly, I don't think anyone really cared. About 4:30 pm, just as the sun was ready to settle in and the guys were still preparing the meal, a 2 1/2 ton truck from Battalion HQ pulled up on our site. In the back of that truck were probably 20 people, dressed up in all sorts of clothing from desert camouflage to elf hats they had been sent from home. The Battalion Commander himself was in the back, sporting a full tilt Santa costume, complete with beard, black belt, jacket, pants and hat. The truck came to a stop, and everyone in the back started to sing Christmas carols. "We wish you a merry Christmas", "Hark the herald angels sing", "Jingle Bells" and a whole bunch more. Santa had a big sack filled with jolly rancher and starburst candies, and he would throw them down to us as the truck slowly moved through our compound, singing all along and making it's way over the far dune to another unit. As I stopped for a second looking up at the back of the large truck, instead turning my head around and looking at my friends and compatriots, I saw a happiness in every single eye...a happiness normally reserved for the 6 year olds when they come downstairs on Christmas morning and see that Santa is real. He must be right? He came in silently in the night and left me presents. It was at that moment that I realized for the first time in my life Santa is as real as the nose on your face. If he could stand in the back of a camouflaged truck throwing candy, singing songs, and making the desperately tired and scared light up with joy, then I knew right then there is - and always had been - a Santa Clause.

The night was starting to fall, and we were all anxiously awaiting eating real food for the first time since last summer. The guys who volunteered to cook did so without a whimper, and we all ate...and ate....and ate. But we did so slowly. We devoured the potato chips, and sucked down the semi-warm Pepsi's. Practically every person ate two whole chickens themselves, and in the only instance I've ever known before or since - no one asked for white or dark meat. It was all good, and nothing went to waste.

Hours went by, and we kept the fire burning through the night. We suspended guard duty until after midnight, a bonus since even though we were in Saudi, guard and security was still a high priority. We had a mechanic who could play the guitar and sing in our unit, and he mixed in songs like Charlie Daniel's "Uneasy Rider" with "God rest ye merry gentlemen". As the huge fire crackled and the sky opened it's blackness to the brilliance of 10 billion desert stars, the 40 or so of us sat around and sang terribly out of tune for hour after hour. We cracked the chem-lights, all green, yellow, amber, and purple hanging from the tents, and they provided a type of Christmas decoration never before or since seen by me. The time moved towards midnight, and at about 11:55 pm, we all sang "Silent Night". The tears flowed pretty easily at this point, the young and the old...filled with dreams and aspirations just like anyone else. But they weren't all tears of sadness. There was an unspoken message that each and every soldier clearly understood. These are my friends, one and all - to include those that under other circumstances may not ever be my friends. But here, they are. The song waned away, and was finally finished. In complete silence, we all knew it was time to get back to work. Water and sand was thrown on the fire, people headed for guard shift or back to their tents. Others just silently hugged and let others know they would be there when and if the time came to really be there for each other.

Yes. There once was a time.

Sleep in heavenly peace, we sang softly during a single moment in that time.
Sleep. In Heavenly peace.

The Monster (Part VI)

This is the last of a 6-part story. Please see below for the first 5 sections.

Epilogue

I could go on at novel length about what happened, but for the sake of this I'll wrap it up here. I spent 8 more days in the ICU, 7 or 8 days (I think - I can't quite remember exactly) in a post critical care unit, and then about 4 days in an inpatient rehab center. I got to walking with human assistance...then a walker...and before you knew it I was flying around on my walker so much they had to tell me to stop and take a rest now and then. Like everything else in my life, I attacked my rehab instead of waiting for it to come to me. I spoke and spoke and spoke. I got over the embarrassment of slurring everything by taking the attitude if they wanted to hear me talk, they had to put up with the stammering and the incoherence. Interestingly, no one who loved me ever complained at all. It probably took 8 months or so to fully rehab my arm and leg, and of course they're never going to be as strong as they once were...but that's ok. I started to go to outpatient rehab 4 times a week - twice for occupational and physical; twice for speech. I began to reach a point where the rehab was done by me alone, and the wicked witch of the southeast even lent me her zapping machine and a tube of ultrasound jelly so I could personally kill myself with voltage. After a few months my eyes cleared up, and the muscle tissue and structure of my face strengthened and tightened. There is to this day the slightest droop on the right side, but you'd just chalk that up to ugliness and you would never know if it wasn't for this blog.

I had to go through a renaissance of sorts, changing the way I acted, walked, talked, thought, and responded to my surroundings and experiences in life. In short, I had to change the way I behaved. This was a process that took years, and is still on-going now. At times when I'm under stress or tired, you can still hear the slightest of slurs in my speech, something I suppose I notice more than you would. I can tire easily, and I'm on blood thinners for the rest of my life. I visit a hospital every 2-3 weeks to check on the blood thinner levels in my system, and I have days from time to time when my metabolism changes and I feel pretty bad. On those days I'll make a special visit to check my levels, and they'll change them to compensate for whatever might be off.

I have new appreciation for the best things in life...friends, family, and life for the sake of life itself. I know the monster lost the battle, but he hasn't given up on the war. Someday he'll probably fight me for the final time - and he'll win. He's tried to come back twice, once in February of 2001, and once again in December of 2003. Fortunately for me, I was protected enough by the medications to only receive a glancing blow, but they were both reminders that he's out there waiting for me. In each case, I picked myself off the ground, faced the monster again - and told him to kiss my ass.

I went back to work after what was for me a long, long layoff, and my company was kind enough to save my job for me. To them I owe my highest form of loyalty. I made sure I visited the firemen who came that morning, and I bought a box of chocolates for the woman EMT who rode with me in the ambulance. I went back to each hospital and thanked every person, from the head nurse in the ICU to the person who gave me a sponge bath when I couldn't do so for myself. No one was small in importance to me...they all played a pivotal role in my life. If it were freezing rain and 30 degrees out right now, I'd give each and every one of them the coat off of my back for what they did for me those 25 or so days after the monster showed up on my doorstep.

And I'd never ask for the coat back.

Feel free to double click the link below. There are 5 songs...listen to "John J. Blanchard"...you'll know why
http://anthonysmith.com/crankit.cfm?go=1&component=musicplayer-standalone&playList=

The Monster (Part V)

There are in case you haven't noticed, 4 other parts below here.

Therapy

The total amount of my time spent in ICU was 13 days and nights. As the time went by, little flickers of hope popped up now and then. The therapy Nazi's (and I use that term with the sweetest of intentions) were there daily. Three types of therapists worked with me. Occupational, which was my upper body, Physical, which is the lower body, and Speech...without a doubt the greatest child killing, communist, anti-Mickey Mouse, anti-apple pie domestic terrorist of them all.

But for now I speak too kindly of this individual, so later I'll tell you how I really feel about her.

I think it may have been the 3rd or 4th day when the first sign of good things to come happened. Immediately after having my pur'eed pork chop for lunch (for those of you who don't know, that's a pork chop placed into some sort of food processor and ground up until it's a kind of runny paste, which they them put on a plate for stroke victims with no way to swallow properly to eat).

Oh man, can I have another?

Anyways, after my scrumptious lunch, I went for a walk with the Physical therapist guy. Big, football sized dude. He used a length of 4 inch wide strap tied around my waist to anchor me. He then hoisted me up off of the bed, and while holding onto both me and the strap, we began the arduous process of taking a step...1 step. Of course I don't remember being 12 or 14 months old, but I now have new appreciation for the trials and agonies of learning how to walk. However, the child has nothing to fall back upon, and therefore has no preconceived notions of what he or she is supposed to be doing. The adult does, and it gets in the way of progress. The first time we attempted this drill, we went for about 20 minutes, and the therapist got a hell of a workout dragging my 195 lb butt along the hallways. Not a step did we walk, but we tried. Afterwards, in the only public display of emotion that I can remember, I sat on the bed with my daughter beside me and I cried.

But that day was over, and we were on to a new day of dragging my toes upside down along the freshly waxed ICU hallway floors. Something happened this day. As every other time me and my therapist weighlifter buddy went for a stroll, he was constantly encouraging me to use my mind to make my leg move. For the first few days...it did not. Then this day, something remarkable happened. In the middle of the drag, my right leg suddenly shot out perpendicular to my body, as if I was Jackie Chan throwing a lightning quick flying kick at a three-foot tall Chinese drug dealer. It was a totally involuntary movement, initiated by some sort of central nervous system jolt. It was a good sign. The nerves were working and that represented hope.

Somewhere around the 5th day, I was slowly but surely starting to take these awkward and disjointed - but nonetheless wonderful - steps. The blood thinner was working to reestablish blood flow to the brain, the massages to the leg and constant reassurance by my therapist that we would not quit - was working.

We had similar progress with the arm, with one small side tracking event. On one of the early days, the nurse came in and I asked her if I could sit up. She said no problem because she had to change the sheets anyways. I'm not quite sure where I was put, but I think I was just sort of propped up in a chair at an angle where the left side took all the weight so I wouldn't fall. Hell of a way to run a railroad, eh? In any case, when she put me back in the bed and propped me up, somehow my paralyzed right arm got pushed or just sort of fell underneath and slightly behind my buttocks. Naturally, I had no feeling whatsoever, so I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. It had to have been at least a hour...maybe more....when she walked back in and noticed with an excited gasp that my arm was where it was. I thought it was hysterical at the time, but she wasn't amused at all. I received a serious rubdown/massage trying to get the blood flowing back into the limb, and a potentially disastrous event was avoided. We all took great care from that point on to account for each limb specifically.

Finally, there is my friend the speech therapist. Her job may have been the most difficult, for her tasks were plentiful. She had to repair all the muscles in my throat, mouth, jaw, and neck...and a large part of those were still paralyzed. She had to teach me to pronounce the simplest of words all over again, while working with a severely damaged psyche. She had to repair my gag reflex, or it was going to be pur'eed pork chops for life, and finally she had to teach me how to refocus my attention span through reading. The things I had to read were single page coloring book pictures of sheep, cows, rabbits, etc...with the word written above the picture in large print. In other words, I went back to pre-toddler to learn how to walk, and I was back in pre-K to learn how to read and enunciate.

In order to accomplish her goals, she would rubber glove it up, lean my head back and stick her fingers down my throat, rather vigorously massaging and somewhat assaulting my throat muscles. She also had this really neat machine that would send 20 milliamps of electric voltage through my skin, muscle tissue, and rattle the roots of my teeth in an effort to stimulate activity. As soon as she would reach for that ultra-sound jelly, I knew I was in for it. She'd rub it on my face, bring the machine up to cheek level and....ZAP!!!!

Yes, it hurt. Three times a day she came in and did these things to me, all so I could accomplish the goal of saying SHYUEIPJFP, which of course we all know is "sheep" in the official stroke language manual. All things considered, she was a nice person, and if she ever needs me to speak to the warden on her behalf, I'd be more than happy to.

Life was being breathed into my damaged body and brain, and things were getting better by day 5.

My kids snuck me in an ice cream cup. Yeah, baby!!!!

The Monster (Part IV)

There are three other parts that have to be viewed first in order to appreciate the whole story...please scroll down

ICU

Nights in an intensive care ward are dark. The ward I was in was a series of glass enclosures, very modern in appearance, and very small. The life monitoring equipment dominates the room. The bed with the patient is darn near an afterthought to the technology surrounding it. The nursing staff is crack, and on top of their game at all times. But even with the knowledge that your care is technologically and personally as good as you can receive, the nights are long and lonely.

The lights are kept very low in the ICU. Even outside at the nurses station where the staff can visually monitor each glass cubicle, the lights are lower than normal. There is the ever-present glow of the LED's on each of the electronic pieces monitoring the patient, to include the IV that is in your arm. Everything has a system attached to it, attached to you the patient, and tied in to a set of monitors at the nurses station. Nothing is left to chance, and nothing should be.

Even with all these "eyes" on you, the feeling of being alone is overwhelming. My family had been there all day, and they were now at home and hopefully sleeping. Relatives had been alerted, and all was now eerily quiet, save for the steady and silent hum of power to machinery. Every once in a while, someone would come in and check my blood, for they had me on a blood thinner known as Heparin to ward off any potential return of the monster. They would come in at odd hours, stick me with a needle, and take what they needed. Damn Vampires. Others would come in and perform ultra-sound tests on my legs and carotid arteries (they're on each side of your neck), and leave when they were finished. Sometimes I would be awake...sometimes not. It's amazing how pitiful I was, totally reliant on everyone else I came into contact with. I couldn't do anything without assistance. After whoever came and went, it was just me again...alone with my thoughts, unable to speak to convey my feelings, unable to move anything from the top of my head to the tip of my toes on the right side. Depression was my enemy at night, and quite a few times in the first few weeks depression won the battle. "Stay positive" was my mantra, but the fact of the matter was I didn't have as much faith in my own beliefs as I tried to tell myself and others. I cried a quite a bit those nights in the ICU, though until now I've never publicly admitted it. I felt sorry for myself and I couldn't shake it. Twice I had a serious anxiety meltdown, frantically hitting the call button while hyperventilating and thrashing about. Each time it was the same nurse who was on shift, and each time she rolled me onto my side, rubbed my back softly, and spoke words of encouragement and empathy until the anxiety passed.

I can't remember her name any more, but she deserves a medal of some sort. She certainly has my life-long thankfulness, and I hope she is doing well.

The Monster (Part III)

Please scroll down and read parts I & II first

New Beginnings

So the Monster was upon me, and I had come to the realization that he wasn't going to get off for quite some time. I was about to enter an entirely different dimension, with new terminology and knowledge that was going to be a necessity to learn.

And class was in session from day 1.

There are 3 types of strokes: Hemorrhagic (brain bleeding), Thrombolitic (a clot), and Ischemic (some sort of blockage other than a clot). In my case, after months of analysis by neurosurgeons, they determined the smallest vessels in my brain were not large enough to carry the blood effectively, and after a matter of time, they clogged. This could have been something at birth or something that developed over a period of time. In any case, that put my stroke in the category of Ischemic...or Ischemia on a broader perspective.

I remember having difficulties in the CT machine that morning. For some reason my sinuses were very clogged. Throw in the fact that my neck muscles on the right side were inoperative, and together it proved to be a tough challenge for me to keep my head still as they did the scan. Eventually, the technician grew exasperated and he mounted these black plastic blocks that were placed on either side of my head to stabilize it. He was in a rough mood, and evidently my inability to "freeze" was irritating him. I do remember thinking to myself, "Do you want to switch places?", which of course made me start laughing again and well....he got mad again.

Honestly, the rest of day 1 is pretty much a blur.

I went through a battery of pretty much every possible test known to modern science, and I'm grateful they not only have these tests, but that we have the skilled people to make the correct analysis based upon the results. Even in this advanced state we find ourselves in, much of medicine today is still dependent upon informed, calculated guesswork, and the people at the hospital I was in guessed correctly that day and in the succeeding days time and time again. I'm living proof of that fact right at this moment.

By nightfall, everyone concerned knew pretty much what happened to me. In simplistic terms, the lower left quadrant of the back of my brain clogged up, causing the stroke and paralyzing my entire right side. This part of the brain is called the Cerebellum, and it controls all muscular movement and coordination, as well as speech. My inability to speak was called "Acute Aphasia". I couldn't eat because I had no muscular structure that would work, and therefore no gag reflex, an essential part of swallowing. I had limited speech capacity, and was so incoherent it wasn't worth trying. I couldn't focus, and would forget what I said seconds after saying something to another person, or just forget what I was thinking of trying to say. I was a very discouraged man, and all I could see at this point was a long tunnel.

Before I went to what amounted to sleep, a nurse held a mirror in front of my face. For the first time, I was face-to-face with the monster, and I had become him. All of the skin and muscle tissue on the right side of my face had fallen. Literally, I was sagging close to a full inch. My facial features - although still distinguishable - were rather ghastly. Add to this the fact that both eyes were bloodshot, but the right eye especially looked as if it had been stabbed. It was so deep a red, it was nearly purple in spots.

As I drifted off to sleep, this was the image I had of myself. Strange...I always thought there would be pain associated with a stroke. Obviously, I had no idea.

The Monster (Part II)

If you haven't read part I, please go there now before you read this.


Serendipity

Websters defines Serendipity this way:

1)The faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident.
2)The fact or occurrence of such discoveries.
3)An instance of making such a discovery.

My definition of Serendipity is when a confluence of events occur simultaneously, and the end result is good fortune on your part.

Luck, in other words.

I lived in a home that was no more than a half mile down a residential street from a fire station. A fire station that in fact also had an EMT set-up. My wife - a registered nurse who always works the nighttime shift, was off the night before and was subsequently sleeping next to me. My daughter - 18, intelligent and fast becoming responsible, was living with us while she went to college locally. This my friends, is serendipity at it's finest.

I'm told that within a matter of 3-5 minutes, the ambulance and fire truck were at my front door. The reason this happened so quickly is in no small part related to the fact that I had a medical professional lying next to me...someone who kept a cool head, called 9-1-1, and calmly assisted in the disposition of one rather frantic patient - me. Time IS of the essence in a stroke or a heart attack, and the lack of even a single wasted minute could very well be part of the reason I'm sitting here typing to you today.

I have no recollection of the arrival of the ambulance at the hospital (again - less than 6 minutes away), so I can't go into specific detail. My first memory is how bright the fluorescent lights were in the emergency room. I knew where I was because I saw some sort of a sign as I passed under it while drifting in and out of consciousness. The first words I heard were that of a female saying "the code is here now". I can only assume she meant me, because I was suddenly transformed into a race car with the pit crew pouring over me attempting to find out what was wrong with the engine. I remember a rather somber (maybe she was tired) female doctor asking me to open my eyes and talk to her. I attempted to speak, but what came out was a gibberish of slurred, mispronounced, and totally destroyed words. I couldn't speak.

And I was horrified.

I remember trying to tell her the lights were hurting my eyes, but I couldn't. My frustration was mounting, and she could obviously sense that. While the doctor attempted to reassure me, I suddenly felt a hand close around my right hand - the first sensation I had on my right side in...in....how long had it been, by the way? I didn't feel the skin touching my skin. I felt the warmth of the other hand. I turned my head to the side, and it was my daughter. Suddenly I started to calm down. I asked (this part took fully 3 or 4 minutes to get out), where everyone was. My daughter told me she had brought my son to school, and my wife was registering me in. I think we tried to have a conversation, which we both quickly knew was an impossibility. I started to laugh. She started to laugh. The next thing you knew, there I was on a hospital gurney, tubes in me and paralyzed, and I was laughing harder than I ever had in my life, and I couldn't stop.

Sunovabitch, I had the giggles.

I kept on laughing and laughing, and I remember one point where the doctor came over and gave me a disbelieving look. To be honest, to this day I feel as if it was a look of condemnation. Here is what she didn't know. While laughing uncontrollably, my mind was still functioning fairly well under the circumstances. I had made a commitment to myself right then and there. You see, I knew the deal, and I knew what an uphill battle I had just inadvertently become a combatant in. Given that knowledge, I had two avenues I could go down. I could give up, give in, and call it a day - permanently. Or I could accept the facts, deal with the issues, and fight back hard. I chose to fight, and step one was re-instilling my self-deprecating nature, and with it laughter at my own predicament. When you think about it, what was the alternative?

That's right. Crying.

The Monster (Part I)

The Monster Cometh

There is no pain.

I'm told from talking to a few friends and/or acquaintances who have unfortunately suffered a heart attack that there is a great deal of pain involved. Shooting left arm pain soon morphs into bone-crushing chest pain, enough to subdue even the strongest of the strong. Terrifying probably doesn't come close to describing the ordeal. I consider myself fortunate to have not yet experienced something like that.

It started innocuously enough with a strange feeling in the arch of my left foot at work. It was a Wednesday in April, 2000. The phenomenon we parochially phrase "my leg fell asleep", kept on sleeping most of the day. After much prodding by my co-workers, I went to the doctor. Upon entering the examining room I explained my symptoms, and she did a cursory examination, which included sticking my finger for a cholesterol test. Mine came out 217, a bit high but nothing to sound the alarms over. My leg was still asleep, and the arch of my left foot still seemed to be the focal point. I went home, took off my sneakers, and laid down on my bed. An unusual thing happened when I removed my foot gear - the tingling sensation went away. Thinking awkwardly as one is prone to do in a perplexing situation, I suddenly felt quite stupid. The brand new sneakers had a rather high arch, and I put what I thought to be 2 and 2 together and assumed the tingling was the higher-than-normal arch pinching or somehow irritating a nerve. All was well and I felt a lot better about myself. Imagine being silly enough to be fooled by a new pair of Nike's.

Exactly two weeks went by. Each afternoon for those 14 days I felt sick to my stomach, lethargic, and tired.

Very tired.

In the 2nd of those two weeks, I ashamedly had to ask my boss if I could go home early each day. I felt awful physically and mentally, as leaving work for illness was something that was new to me. I spent a lifetime "working through it", but this time it was different. It wasn't a cold or some version of the annual flu that so many seem to get. Something was wrong with me. On the evening of April 18th, I was sitting in my recliner reading. My wife, a registered nurse, dropped a piece of paper on my lap and said, "you may not want to listen to me, perhaps you'll read this and get a clue". It was a single page document titled "The 8 Warning Signs of an oncoming Stroke".

The very next morning - April 19th, 2000 - will forever be a mixture of cloudy visions and for some inexplicable reason clear and concise snapshots & mini-movies of the events of that morning. If I may, let me scour my memory damaged noggin in search of a nearly 6 year old event.

I opened my eyes (or eye as it were) and was startled at the time on the annoyingly beeping alarm clock. 7:05 am. I never arose that late, and I was a bit panicked at my tardiness. I tried to lift my head off of the bed and get my day started, but my head wouldn't move. I was lying on my right side, still peering out at the clock as I attempted to get my head up. Again I failed.

The clock changed to 7:06.

"Tweener". That's the word I'm looking for. Do you know of that moment we all experience from time to time, that period between knowingness and naivete? It's no more than a second or so in length. There you are still baffled - but clarity is beginning to take hold. It was at this moment in time, 7:06 am to be exact, where I experienced the "tweener" effect. I was still unaware, but that was changing by the second.

I tried rolling over. Nothing. I couldn't move my head, and I couldn't roll over naturally. I did a quick assessment. I could hear the alarm, I could see the red LED lights of the time. I was still with the living as far as I could tell. I tried rolling over again. Nothing. Being that I was still on my right side, I could sense that my left arm was moving, as was my left leg, but for some reason I still couldn't rise from the bed. With all the strength I could muster, I threw my left leg and arm simultaneously over the side of the bed, and the rest of my body followed. There, that's better! I was off the bed.

Unfortunately, I was on the floor. And I really had to pee!

What happened in the next 30 to 45 seconds is total conjecture on my part, based mostly on conversations I had with my wife and family over the succeeding months. Apparently, I fought my way to my feet and managed to drag myself to the bathroom and take care of this major bladder inconvenience I was having. I have no idea how I accomplished this feat. I recall that I came to the additional realization that I wasn't breathing normally, or quite possibly not breathing at all. I was somehow standing on the opposite side of my bed now, and my wife was yelling at me to "LIE DOWN!" I think I caught a glimpse of her with the phone in her hand, but of that I wasn't sure. What I was sure of was the fact that I now knew I couldn't breathe, and this was causing me to panic. In the best traditions of the keystone cops movies of old, my wife and I carried on this running routine. I'd lug myself up to my feet struggling to catch a breath - just one thank you very much - and she in turn would yell at me to lie back down. I have no clue how many times this happened, but it was more than a couple

I just wanted to BREATHE, and I would have given anything to feel my chest rise and fall a time or two. At some point while lying on the bed, the very rapid thought "stroke" entered my head and exited just as fast. No way! This was all a bad dream, and soon I would wake up to that damn incessantly beeping alarm and get dressed to go to work.

I looked up and saw the fireman standing over me, lowering an oxygen mask onto my face. Sweet Jesus, it was true! But at least I was breathing fresh clean air again. I started to relax and give in to the now undeniable fact that I wasn't dreaming, and that two very strong firemen were hoisting me up onto a gurney. As we rolled quickly out of the house, I remember looking up and seeing the concerned look on the face my late-teen aged daughter, and the utter confusion of my then 8 year old son. I could tell he had no earthly idea what was happening, and he was scared.

As the ambulance pulled away with the siren running, a female paramedic was asking me what my name was, what day and year it was, and who the President of the United States was. I have no idea if I answered correctly or even answered at all. I do remember that I was again tired and I believe I drifted off to sleep while noting how smooth the ride was in this ambulance. As of this moment I have no recollection of talking or attempting to talk. I was told later I gave it my best shot to communicate, but that it just wasn't happening.

All I knew as I fell asleep is I felt no pain whatsoever.

The lost art of patriotism

Played or sung at it's normal pace and rhythm, the National Anthem of the United States of America takes an average of 1:06 from start to finish. That means out there in the country, we are asking folks to stand still and be quiet for approximately 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000th of their life. I have no idea what that number that I typed represents, but I think it's fair to say I mean the Star Spangled Banner (and your obligation to show some respect for it) is something like 1:buzagoojillionth of your lifetime. I know, I know...you're all very busy out there, and that's asking a lot of you. But as a matter of courtesy (another lost art), you probably could be quiet, put your nachos down for a minute (literally) and stop fidgeting around.
Pictured above is the flag that flew over Ft. McHenry on September 13th, 1814. So inspired by the scene he witnessed - men giving their lives fighting for a principle - Francis Scott Key actually wrote a three stanza poem. We all know the words to the first stanza, which is the accepted version of "our" nation's song. Actually, the poem was written to match the meter of the English song, "To anacreon in Heaven". I'm not sure what any of that has to do with the poem itself. It probably was a favorite of Mr. Key's, and he went with what he liked.

In 1776, 1814, 1917, and 1944, men and women fought and died for their principles. Then I guess the way we as a country viewed this kind of thing changed. Back in those days men and women were called "revolutionary". Now the same guys and gals - doing the same thing - are called lots of different stuff, but certainly not revolutionary. Back then we supported the troops with letter-writing campaigns and songs like "Over There". Now we "support" them with arguments on talk TV. Back then we rolled bandages by the tens of thousands. Now we roll caravan's into rallies to stop the "insanity" of chasing after those who attacked us. Back then we fought the Nazi's. Now we call people in our highest office Nazi's.

How far have we fallen?

I too have some heartburn with some of the decisions made of late. But that doesn't mean I say absurd things like the President is a Nazi. For the love of Pete, the guy might not be the shiniest bubble in the bathtub, but he's not Hitler. To me, wantonly confusing the two when you know better is a much more unpardonable sin. However, defending the President was not my focus here. Instead, I was hoping to refocus some of you.

Wanna "fix" the country? Okay. Start by tending to your own garden. The next time you go to a sporting event and the national anthem is played, take the time to explain to your children why it's important for them to show their 1:06 of respect. Tell them about places like Pearl Harbor, Valley Forge, and the World Trade Center. Have them stand up at a parade as the main "Colors" pass by. Tell them it's ok to act as if nationalism isn't dead and gone. If we don't start telling them this, there won't be enough with this type of belief structure around in 50 years to pass anything on to the succeeding generations.

Oh...and while you're at it...tell them to take their hat off.

Sometimes you can only ask "why?"

It was a cold and rainy day, the kind of day that chills even the hardened bones of people who live in places like Kansas, Missouri, and Nebraska. The wind was howling as it almost always is, and the two men were trying to keep safety in mind as they headed to the airport. They were excited about the fact that they were headed to watch the Super Bowl in an obviously more moderate climate. It was January 23, 2000.

Today, 4 February 2006, the names of the Pro Football Hall of Fame inductees for this year were announced. Missing from that list, in his second year of eligibility, was the passenger in that SUV that was rolling down that road 6 years ago.

Derrick Thomas was born in Miami, FL on New Years day, 1967. His father, Robert James Thomas, was a B-52 pilot in Vietnam and was listed as missing in action when Derrick was 5 years old, in 1972. Although officially unaccounted for for over 20 years, with the help of several State Senators and the influence of Lamar Hunt, the owner of the Kansas City Chiefs, in 1993 the family was finally given closure and Robert James Thomas' status was officially changed to KIA.

Derrick was a good boy and an unbelievable athlete, and he rose to national prominence as a linebacker for the University of Alabama in the mid-80's. He graduated in 1989, eschewing the chance to run off to the NFL and become an instant millionaire before his schooling was finished because his Mom asked him to stay. In the 1989 NFL draft, he was selected in the first round, 4th overall by the Kansas City Chiefs. He played 11 seasons for those Chiefs, loyalty being one of his greatest assets. He was voted by his fellow NFL players to the Pro Bowl (the NFL's version of the All-Star game) 9 times. He ended up 9th on the all-time list of quarterback sacks, and still holds the single game record of 7 against the Seattle Seahawks. He twice received the NFL's most prestigious awards for citizenship and humanitarian efforts, being voted the NFL's Man of the Year in 1993, and the Byron "Whizzer" White humanitarian award recipient in 1995. He holds the all-time Chief's team records for sacks, tackles made, fumbles forced, and fumbles recovered.

In 1999, Lawrence Taylor was inducted into the Hall of Fame on his first try.

Derrick was considered undersized for his position, but of course the size of a person's heart dictates his success. He was often compared to Lawrence Taylor of the NY Giants, a terrific but troubled soul who had several brushes with the NFL hierarchy during his illustrious career regarding illegal substance abuse of several kinds, as well as some suspicious mandatory drug testing incidents where there was doubt cast upon the dubious nature of him never getting caught. Taylor retired and found himself consistently in trouble with the law after his playing days were over. Several arrests and convictions for possession of drugs were followed by an admission of tax evasion in 1997. Gambling and having notorious figures around him further tarnished his image.

In 1999, Lawrence Taylor was inducted into the Hall of Fame on his first try.

Derrick Thomas had none of the social or personal problems of the fine Mr. Taylor. Derrick had two children's foundations; 1 in Kansas City and 1 in Miami. He never took performance enhancing or illegal drugs. He was never involved in a bar fight at 2 am. He was never arrested or in trouble for anything as a matter of fact. He didn't complain about not having a dad growing up (although his closest friends acknowledged he was privately bitter), and he honored his mom all his life. He never said a single bad thing in public; never uttered an unkind word about his coaches or teammates. Like any other superstar, his face was in front of that microphone a lot, too. But he maintained a professional and social demeanor for all to emulate. In looking at a current NFL talent, Terrel Owens won't go to practice without an entourage and his very own press agent.

In 1999, Lawrence Taylor was inducted into the Hall of Fame on his first try.

In the era (and by that I mean the last 25-30 years) of the pampered, petulant, obnoxious athlete, Derrick Thomas stood out as a model citizen and breath of clean fresh air. For some reason though - the sports media types who complain daily about the antics of these idiot athletes - haven't taken the final step to right the wrongs and voted in someone that we can all feel good about. As of today, I'm clicking off the TV when someone from the inner sports circle who didn't vote for Derrick's enshrinement starts complaining about an athlete who isn't acting right. For two years now, they've had their chance...and for 2 years they've blown it.

The wind howled across the highway in a ferocious gust. The road - covered with a sheet of ice from the rain - was impossible to hold onto. The car slid sideways, hit something low on the ground, and flipped up and over. The driver died instantly.

Derrick Thomas...superstar human being...was paralyzed from the chest down. After a week or so in a Kansas City hospital, he was sent back to a hospital in his native Miami. 16 days after the accident, with his mom sitting in a chair next to his bedside watching Derrick try to recover from surgery to remove an accident-induced blood clot, his heart suddenly exploded. He thrust his chest forward- let out a gasp - and closed his eyes for the final time. At long last he was reunited with his dad.

Derrick Thomas was 33. Shame on you Mr. Sportswriter.

Thingy's and shingspoof adapters

This is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and I'll go to my grave knowing so.

Many years ago, in a galaxy far far away, I was coming out of a convenience store near Savannah, GA. I saw a woman who worked in the same company I did, and she was kneeling down peering at the undercarriage of her brand new canary-yellow Chevy Cavalier. I said hi to her and and asked if she needed any help. She explained this was the first automobile she had ever owned, and she was concerned about the puddle of water forming under the center of the engine.

It was mid-summer. In Georgia.

I asked her if she had been running the air conditioner in the car, and of course she said "yes". I then went on to explain how it was the result of condensation and the normal overflow that all car air conditioners have. She looked at me quite baffled. "You don't know a heck of a lot about your car do you?", I asked. She said she felt bad that she didn't.

I let her know that I too found myself in that position many times in the past, and I said to her, "really fast - cuz I gotta go - here's how it works:"

"You know when you're sitting in your car, the air on full blast, and you feel the delightful coolness wafting over you? Well, the truth of the matter is due to a reverse physics phenomena who's official name escapes me at the moment, the air isn't really blowing out at you"

She kind of looked at me with her head cocked to one side, much like a dog when you make a strange noise with your mouth. It's a combination inquisitive look mixed in with a good helping of confusion.

"So here is the deal. Inside the engine compartment is a thing called a compressor. This device creates the needed force of air that causes this phenomenon to occur. What you think is the cold air coming out at you is actually the compressor working at full capacity sucking the warm air out of the cab of the car and into the engine compartment, but doing so at such a high rate of speed it sends the cold air towards you, when in fact - the warm air is rushing past you at such incredible velocity it creates the illusion of cold air coming out. That warm air is turned into water by the compressor, and released underneath the engine compartment. In any case, it works...so who cares how, right?"

With a twinkle in her eye, she thanked me and told me she had to get going. I said "see ya later", and off we both went our separate ways. I've often wondered how many times she tried explaining that one to other people while they were quietly thinking to themselves, "This woman needs a CAT scan".

In any event, I'm sure she's figured it out by now. If you're out there, please don't hate me. I was just having a little fun.

The Best

We all have friends. At least I hope we do. Most are the passing variety; the people who enter our lives at different stages and spend some quality time with us. We love, laugh, and if we're smart - learn from these irreplaceable assets. A passing friend can be with you months or years, but inevitably the changing times and situations of our lives dictate our separation. We still hold them dear in our hearts and thoughts, but we talk no more. E-mail and the internet has allows thousands - perhaps millions - to reconnect with our lost brethren, but for the most part our passing friends are forever stored away in that hidden space in our minds where we put the memories of things "former". I have been blessed with many of these friends over the years.

The long-term kind are a different animal altogether. These are the people we connect with in ways we've never connected before. They are the souls that we can always count on for the good shoulder to cry upon, or a healthy dose of "get it together" speeches when those moments arise when we need someone to tell us to stop acting like an idiot. These friends are the ones who share with you the most important human qualities in a friendship - loyalty and ultimate trustworthiness. We all have far too few of these kinds of friends, in part because they are difficult to find, and in part because it's just too damn difficult to trust. I have maybe 2 or 3 of these friends left in my life, and I suppose I'm lucky to have that many. It's these friends that fall head-long into that category of people we actually love; not in a romantic or even platonic way, but in a caring, deeply moving way. They are the ones we vent towards (and at times about), but they are also the ones we keep coming back to, sheepishly asking for permission to once again enter their lives. We have an eternal get out of jail free card with them - and they have the same with us.

But hopefully for each of us, there is the one, the ultimate friend...the person we call "the best". If we're totally lucky, that's the one we spend the rest of our lives with. This is truly the greatest friend. So great that we choose to make another human being with them because we like each others traits so much we want to see it duplicated and perfected. So great that the loss of - or just the thought of the loss of - the other would be as devastating a blow as we could possibly absorb. Sadly, every so often we read of the 80 year old husband who dies shortly after his 80 year old bride passes, and vice versa. We see the anguish and agony on the faces of those who lose this most special of friends, their lives never again to be as happy or paved with positive expectations. This is the friend I speak of. The one person that will defend you in all your glorious incorrectness, then cart you off privately and tell you what a horses ass you just made of yourself. The person that forgives your shortcomings...revels in your silliness...and would be just as happy sitting on the bed holding your hand while you watch TV as they would be sunning themselves on a beach in Tahiti (okay, maybe that last statement about Tahiti is a bit over the top), but I think you get the idea.

Seventeen and a half years ago I found such a friend, and in the wisest move I've ever made, I asked her to marry me and refused to take "no" for an answer.

It was genius on my part...pure genius.

Broken stuff

Little boy: "Dad, why do things get old and break off?"

Dad: "You mean like tree branches?"

Little boy: "No...well, yeah...but I mean like my brother's scooter. It's older than my new one and the back wheel just fell off."

Dad: "That happens. As something gets older it becomes more fragile. Do you know what fragile means?"

Little boy: "Yeah. It means you have to be careful with it."

Dad: "Correct. As something is getting older - like your brothers scooter - we have a tendency to forget to take very good care of it. The scooter gets thrown in the corner of the garage until the next time it's needed, and eventually it breaks."

Little boy: "What about tree branches? Do we cause them to break too?"

Dad: "Tree branches get old of course, and sometimes they get bugs in them that eat away slowly and make them die. The good thing is a new branch usually is born to replace the old branch."

Little boy: "When my scooter gets older, I'm not going to ride it too hard because I want it to last forever."




(Rrrring, rrrrrring)
"Hello?"

"Hi mom, it's me."

"Well hello there stranger. I haven't heard from you in a long time. Is everything ok?"

"Yeah...yeah...everything is fine. I was just calling to say hi. Dad feeling ok these days...?"

You say potato, I say potahto

I woke up one morning about 12 months ago and the strangest thing happened to me.

I felt "violated". I had no idea how much until later that day.

As recently as today I've been in a long-running discussion of civil liberties with various people of differing opinion. Apparently while I wasn't looking, the President snuck in and stole my civil liberties right out from under me. I seem to remember my grade school history pretty well, and I do believe prior to the American Revolution noted statesman Patrick Henry spoke of liberties and said, "Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing."

Wait, that may have been Vince Lombardi. I'm always getting those two mixed up. But speaking of getting things mixed up....

Lets see. We have freedom of movement, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and freedom to ignore Janeane Garafolo.

Shall we discuss? Lets start with this freedom of movement thing. That morning last year I arose early because I had to go to the airport to take a flight. As I re-read this, I can see the stupidity of my last sentence. Where the hell else would I go to take a flight? In any case, I had to wait in line approximately 3 minutes to get through the screening. Needless to say - I was furious. Think of the things I could have done if I didn't have to spend all that time in line: I could have been setting the world's fastest mile record; I could have boiled an egg; I could have exhausted my time limit in a rousing round of the Parker Bros. game "Taboo". But not on this morning. No siree mister...I had to wait in line forever just so some person could check my shoes to see if I had a bomb. How silly is that??? No one would ever try to hide a bomb in their shoe. How come these people don't seem to know this? I'm beginning to think there may be something to this civil liberty theft after all.

Freedom of speech. The night before the airport debacle, my wife told me to shut up. I was pretty upset about it, especially after she informed me that the new provision in the Patriot Act covers spouses telling each other to zip it. That incident wasn't the clincher though. Another strange thing happened. As I was getting in my car to go to the airport, I was talking to myself. For the record, I'm prone to talking to myself a lot. This time it was different though. I distinctly heard the whir of a camcorder, a tape recorder, or possibly even both. In discussing this later while attending a toothpaste taste test focus group, others in the room said they had a similar if not exact situation happen to them. It was starting to add up. The bastards were up to something, but I was on to them...or so I thought.

I was on here blogging the next day. Every time I typed the word "Rumsfeld", it came out on the screen "Dean". I typed R-u-m...the monitor said D-e-a. I checked my keyboard (right where I knew it would be), and unplugged and re-plugged every cord I could find.

After I got the lights turned back on, I re-typed the name again. R-u-m-s...D-e-a-n. Unreal. And theeeeeeeeen, it hit me. I wasn't on to them. They were on to me. I no longer could control my keystrokes. I ran down the hallway and entered the office of my "Save the naked Sea Otters" co-worker. I pushed him out of the way, spread out the expanse of organically grown ferns, and typed on his keyboard: R-u-m-s- and looked at the monitor. R-u-m-s-.

Oh my God. They had me. Frantically, I ran to the bathroom and tried to compose myself. Exiting the restroom in a cold sweat I was wondering if they had some kind of James Bond type mini-camera hidden in the two-way mirror. They had me from all sides now - why not there as well?

And that was just me...and I'm a conservative. Imagine how the rights of others are being crushed every day.

Yes ladies and gentlemen. I'm here to tell you first hand about my experience. I woke up one morning about a year ago and the strangest thing did happen to me.

Nothing.