Just a Cuppa Joe

We decided to try out the new downtown restaurant, Lulu's, the one that took a former nightclub and turned it into an eatery. Heard good things about it, read great reviews in the local paper, and we've been looking for new breakfast experiences, so we agreed on 8 AM this fine day to try it out.

Multiple pages of menu, but I wasn't all that hungry, so I looked for something easy, light, and less filling: a blueberry muffin. I waited, talking and drinking my coffee, for the meals to be delivered, along with my muffin. However, that was not to be because the highly-touted new diner was out of blueberry muffins, even though we were there when the doors opened this morning. Would I like to enjoy a chocolate chip muffin instead? That would be not only no, but really no.

Had our server come immediately back to the table and told me that there were no blueberry muffins this fine morning, I would have had time to order another meal. But not knowing that the one item on the menu I wanted was not available until the entire table had been served, I was not going to order my meal after everyone else had started eating.

The server said, "Sorry," but no offer of my coffee free of charge because he blew the service, which is customary at most restaurants. So ... no blueberry muffins? No problem; I'll go to a restaurant I know will either serve what I order or let me know in a timely manner that I have to select another meal option.

UPDATE: One of the gals said it was the worst French toast she's ever eaten and another became very ill after she returned home from her eggs Benedict. She said they were runny, but obviously they also were not cooked properly. Yep, LuLu's off our dining list!!

Be the Moneyball

Brad Pitt stars in a recently-released movie, Moneyball, about a GM who forces athletes to become a successful team regardless of how small their salaries are when compared to the rest of the professional league players. The Oakland Athletics is a team that cannot compete with the high salaries paid to players by other baseball teams, and an owner who has no intention of tossing more money into the pot to improve that status.

Pitt plays former pro player Billy Beane, the A's GM who crosses paths with a recent college grad who not only understands the statistical basis for a pro teams’ success, but explains it in terms Billy also understands. Together, they move players like chess pieces around the diamond to create a team that wins 20 games in a row to set a new record, pissing off the coach in the process. Rather than firing his ass and moving on with someone else in his place -- which really needs to happen as the film wastes about 12 minutes belaboring this one point -- Pitt has to force the coach to do his bidding by firing players in the process of suiting up for tonight's game.

Pitt is okay, but not much more than that, as the camera comes far too close to create the appearance of mental cognition, resulting in camera angles that capture more Beau Bridges than Pitt: the whisker stubble, the jowly cheeks, and the well-defined aging facial features belie the usually good looking Pitt. His financial geek side-kick is fat, wears glasses and unfashionable, ill-fitting clothes off the rack, and is an unassuming Hollywood “geek” stereotype that has been featured in far too many roles lately. Cannot geeks be good-looking, personable, interesting, appropriately dressed, and socially engaged? Guess not if you’re in charge of Hollywood casting.

The premise of the movie is based in fact, but the film is more ponderous than pithy, more sluggish than sluggers, with characters who expectorate far too often. At the two-hour mark, I was tired, tired, tired of all the long looks that substituted for acting, all of the excruciating close-ups that aged Pitt well beyond his prime, all of the contemplative long looks that took the place of action, and the close-ups of tobacco being spit into paper cups. The side story of Beane's divorce, wife's remarriage, and his personal longing to be a father to his daughter, demonstrated by prolonged longing looks, is nothing more than a distraction that elongates a movie that really, really does not need to be made longer.

This film easily could have 30 minutes cut without resulting in anything other than a better finished product. If the story has value, then tell it and move on; don’t belabor the littlest points in an effort to justify the lead actor’s salary, such as showing him driving around and around in circles, rather than showing up at the stadium and risk jinxing the team. It works once, but it doesn’t work all the other times it's included in the film.

This is not a film I would see again, but it’s okay to see once as a rental. Feel free to take a bathroom break: you won’t miss anything while you’re out of the theater. While you're at it, stand in a long line and stock up on snacks: you should get back into your seat in plenty of time to see the end of the film which, by the way, turns out just as you expect.

Doo-Doo from Daisy

We just got back from the walk and Mom’s in the shower, so I sneaked a peek at her blog. Boy, she always sees things from HER side, not from mine, so I’m going to set the record straight, once and for all.

You see, Mia and Mom are old, so they like toddle along on our walks. Me? I’m a Jack Russell Terrier, and I was born to run really fast, so walking pretty with Mia and Mom is, well, really boring. Mia and Mom both have hip issues, and I know that slows them down, but really? I finally find someone who will let me run like the wind and Mom complains? Maybe I should motorize her walker so I can get a decent walk each morning, instead of the geriatric stroll. As for Mia? Leave her home. She walks to make Mom happy, but she totally cramps my style.

And, we don’t do the long walks every day, like we used to do. I know Mom has had some physical issues, but she’s supposed to keep active, keep moving, so why the heck doesn’t she do the long walk every morning, instead of every 4th day? M could have done the long walk easily each morning, but, no, Mom wasn't up for it -- again. If she can't give me the walk I deserve, she needs to step up her arthritis meds or find someone else who can! It was totally cool running with M ... .

For a while, Mom stopped walking me altogether and spent every day on the couch, but one day, she said, “Let’s go, girls,” and I thought finally, we’re getting back out into the neighborhood, making our mark on our territory. Yeah, right: she walked up to the corner and back and acted like she was crippled! I hadn’t even stopped to sniff one bush and we were already back home! We are back up to about ½ hour each morning, with the long walk taking about 45 minutes, but you’d think she’s run a marathon the way she huffs and puffs her way through it. We used to do an hour every day and not even break a sweat. What a gip.

The other thing I want to get off my chest is that she let the dog next door stay with us for about a month and he came into the house like he owned it. I didn’t tell Mom, but he sprayed and peed on her furniture legs! I warned him that if she ever caught him, he’d be gone and never come back, but he didn’t believe me. Well, she did, and he is, and life is much better with him gone! Mia doesn’t bug me like Brownie did, and she lets me kinda get the house the way I want it, so I’m cool with Mia, but especially because I’m back in my soft, comfy bed with Mom again. Brownie actually thought he owned the bed and took over one of Mom’s pillows! I could not believe that she let him do that, but she must be getting softer in her old age. She’s washed the sheets and changed the bedspread, so it no longer smells like Brownie, and I totally appreciate that.

So, yeah, I’m missing M. She knew how to walk a JR Terrier the way a JR Terrier wants to walk, and here I am, back to the old folks' Sunday stroll. Maybe it’ll be cool enough soon that we can start going back to the dog park and I can run with the pack and get the kinks out. I like Mia and I like Mom, but I sure wish they could walk me like we used to walk when I first moved in. Walk me like M did!!

Ah, for the good old walking days.

Droopy Daisy

For the past 4 days, Daisy has been walking with my daughter-in-law, who was here for a visit. She’s not a dog-lover, but she agreed to go on the morning walk, so she got Daisy’s leash. Daisy, realizing that she could get away with stunts I don’t allow, pulled at the leash, dragging M behind her, tangled the leashes, conned M into running with her (Daisy’s favorite thing to do; the faster, the better), and tricked M into stopping at every single bush along the way, rather than the select few bushes on the various routes we travel throughout the neighborhood. Daisy was in her element and loving every single minute of having her own personal walker!

This morning, J/M left to return home, and Daisy is bummed out. She watched M eat her b’fast, tried to figure out why things were happening before the sun came out, then ducked her head and cowered when Daisy realized that J/M were leaving. I put Daisy into her canvas casita so she wouldn’t charge the door and take off running, and she cried. J petted Mia, then M ducked down the tell Daisy good-bye, and they left for the airport.

Daisy’s ears are drooped, she’s curled up into a little ball, and she’s sad. Even though it’s now 6 AM, our get up and get ready for the walk time, Daisy isn’t budging. She crawled back into her snug casita, and she’s sulking, but we cannot change the fact that J/M have gone back to their home and it’s just me for the walks again.

Sigh.

TOO White!

WOW: people have gone crazy with teeth whitening products! While watching DWTS last evening, I cringed when the performers smiled. Tony D looks creepy with teeth so white in contrast with the olive complexion of the rest of his face. Rick Fox was on a TV show premiere last night, Body of Proof, and his teeth looked not only far too white against his dark complexion, but twice the size he needs to fill his mouth.

Lightening teeth is good, but going for the artificial overly bright white is simply going too far. Isn't there a compromise, with teeth that are less of a bright white and more natural? It's hard to get past the REALLY WHITE TEETH and see the face behind the smile!!

Man Up

There is a special on Showtime, The Pat Tillman Story, that I’ve watched twice. The first time through, I was taken aback by the apparent (political) chasm between what was made public and what was known privately. The second time I watched the documentary, I became angry because the simplest truth is that telling the truth is never worse than selling the lie. Pat Tillman was killed by “friendly” fire, not by enemy combatants in Afghanistan, but there was nothing “friendly” about his death, nor about the aftermath.

The Tillman family has pushed relentlessly for the truth to be as well-known as the lies because they believe that the lies, especially awarding a medal for valor posthumously, defame the memory of their beloved son/brother/spouse. Tillman may have been heroic, but he was not a hero who died valiantly during battle: he was ruthlessly murdered by a band of brothers wearing the same uniform he wore, soldiers who evidently had come looking for enemy kills – but, instead, fired on their own ranks.

It strains credulity to think that the men firing on Tillman and the other soldiers with him did not know they were shooting at their own because Tillman reportedly threw a smoke grenade to attract their attention, then stood tall in front of them and shouted “I’m fucking Pat Tillman” repeatedly to let the shooters know they were aiming their weapons at members of their own patrol. The killers’ response, however, was to move their vehicles closer to their targets and continue firing.

Not only did the cover-up begin on the battlefield, but it continued into the halls of Congress as the highest military officers averred that they did not remember or could not recall exactly who knew what and when it was known. A soldier standing with Tillman provided those details from the moment of Tillman’s death, but he was ignored, his military career threatened if he told the truth. Both the military and the politicians determined that Tillman’s death could be used to re-ignite American patriotism and support for a war that far too many, including Pat Tillman himself, had come to realize was horribly wrong. That decision made, rather than doing the right thing, the military and the government spun Tillman’s death for their own benefit. When the truth began to seep through the cracks, both the military and the government disavowed it and continued to spin the lies they had created.

The Tillmans are disgusted by their experience with the military, and I stand with them: there is no excuse for the conduct unbecoming that occurred following Pat Tillman’s death. The very soldiers/ officers/ politicians who attended Tillman’s military funeral were the same ones who covered up the cause of his death and lied face-to-face to the Tillman family in the process. The direct statements of the men involved in the incident provided enough factual evidence to charge those responsible for it, but the officers who made a series of poor decisions were simply the recipients of letters of reprimand, rather than a military court martial. The military justification, that a letter of reprimand effectively ends an officer’s career, is little comfort to a family whose son died because the officers did not do their jobs.

Friendly fire deaths do occur, but these tragic incidents deserve to be acknowledged with honesty, the facts ferreted out regardless of who has to accept responsibility, and the victim laid to rest with dignity. There is no honor in the public presentation of a medal that shines on a cover-up, rather than the truth.

Vintage is Just Another Word for Old

Ten miles from my home is an air museum, home for many WWII aircraft and pilots, although the number of surviving WWII vets is diminishing. Several times each year the planes take to the sky – often with pilots well past their flying prime. It is unfathomable to me that anyone believes that an airplane manufactured during the early 1940s is still structurally sound: has no one ever heard of metal fatigue? These vintage aircraft are well-maintained by qualified mechanics, but you can only safely retread tires so many times because the rubber ages and disintegrates underneath the retread. Ditto aircraft.

The pilots shine as they recreate fierce air battles of long ago, maneuvering in the skies above the museum, which is next to the local airport. Bi-planes, fighter jets, bombers, and large cargo airplanes take to the skies and amaze the crowds watching from the sand. However, the faster those old planes go, the riskier the flight becomes, especially when so many of the pilots -- and their planes -- are age 60 and older.

Accordingly, the FAA instituted the Age 60 Rule* that first prohibited all pilots from flying commercial flights upon reaching age 60; however, currently a pilot may continue to fly an aircraft with a younger pilot sitting in the co-pilot’s seat when the primary pilot is age 60 or older. A young fighter pilot driving a plane through the sky at 450 mph enjoys the rush of pushing both his ability and his aircraft to the max, but an old pilot has an old body, which may mean undiagnosed medical issues, slow reaction times, visual misjudgment of distances, mental fatigue, and other problems that create deadly plane crashes, two of which happened this past weekend at air shows.

"Older pilots are crashing in disproportionate numbers," claims Stephen Irwin (20 Mar 2006), based on an AP review of 2000 through 2004 NTSB records related to general aviation, a category that encompasses private, recreational and corporate pilots. Also checked were FAA files covering all pilots.

Among the findings:

Pilots age 60 and over accounted for 23.6 percent of all general aviation accidents even though they represented just 14.7 percent of all licensed pilots. Those in the 50-59 age group were responsible for 26.4 percent of accidents; they were 22.1 percent of all licensed pilots.

Pilots 50 and older were involved in 55.8 percent of all general aviation accidents that led to fatalities, although this group comprised just 36.8 percent of all licensed pilots.

I don’t want to take away from the thrill so many pilots, as well as the public, enjoy while watching these events, but, on the other hand, a 74-year-old pilot pushing a 60+-year-old plane at 400-500 miles an hour less than a thousand feet off the ground at last weekend’s Reno Air Show simply does not make sense to me.
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*The Federal Aviation Regulations (FAR) (14 CFR § 121.383(c)) prohibits any air carrier from using the services of any person as a pilot, and prohibits any person from serving as a pilot, on an airplane engaged in operations under Part 121 of the FAR if that person has reached his or her 60th birthday:

"No certificate holder may use the services of any person as a pilot on an airplane engaged in operations under this part if that person has reached his 60th birthday. No person may serve as a pilot on an airplane engaged in operations under this part if that person has reached his 60th birthday."

Buffet Tax for Millionaires

PREFACE: Mark Twain wrote The Prince and the Pauper, a story about two people living each other's lives for a brief, but informative, time. Twain's purpose was to illustrate the social injustices that existed then -- and, we could argue, are occurring now. As Twain concluded, "It may have happened, it may not have happened, but it could have happened."
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President Obama has often said that he wants “millionaires” to pay their fair share in taxes, and I agree with that statement; however, his prior interpretation is that a “millionaire” is anyone who earns $250,000, which is, as most of us know, a quarter of a million dollars, a far cry from being classed with the real millionaires. This week, Obama is going to explain his take on what is being called the “Buffet Tax,” based on a speech Warren Buffet, a multi-millionaire, recently made that urges Congress to tax America’s highest earners at the highest rate. Due to loop holes in the tax codes, those who make money in the financial markets pay tax at 15%, while workers who earn money working on the job may pay as high as 33% in taxes on $50k in earned annual income.

That is patently unfair, a disparity that penalizes the working class while rewarding the investment class. Obama’s perception, however, that a family income of $250,000 equates to a millionaire’s income is equally unfair because the wage-earner loses 33% of that income immediately to taxes – and the rest of that annual income pays for the mortgage, car payment, utilities, food, child care, and discretionary spending. The millionaire, on the other hand, can roll over the gains on investments to build more income that is then used as collateral for more investments with even bigger tax write-offs. The endless circle for the wage earner is taxes, taxes, and more taxes, while the endless circle for the investor is profit, profit, and more profit.

Go after the millionaires and give those who have not achieved that benchmark tax relief and you’ll have my support.

I over-heard two young people talking the other day, one of whom was using Obamath to explain how “the Republicans are hoarding all their money, while Democrats are being forced to spend to save the economy.” He clarified that if more Republicans would spend their income, it would create more jobs and get us out of the recession. I wanted to jump in and offer that this is much more a personal issue than it is a political party issue, but there is no conversation with anyone who has such a sophomoric view of world economics.

My generation may be the last to believe in saving for a rainy day, of planning for the future, of not living beyond one’s means, and that scares me. Successive generations are much more inclined to borrow to the limits of their income to enjoy a lifestyle that used to take at least a decade past one’s last educational milestone to achieve and was limited to what the job the person qualifies for pays in salary.

Younger generations began the trend of wanting to live beyond what one is prepared to earn, which has led to high school graduates wanting to live like CEO’s. Yes, we all know that no one can actually live well while earning a minimum wage, but the person who wants out of that rut must be educated beyond high school, have a special skill/talent that is market-worthy, or work multiple jobs. The alternative, living on credit, cannot sustain anyone over the long-run, as our economy has recently experienced.

Willingness to live on credit leads to buying-up, spending more money to get “what I want,” rather than living within one’s budget and buying what one can afford. The willingness to spend more and save less artificially inflates the cost of items and services, which results in all of us paying a higher price for an item that really is not worth what it costs. Those pesky “Republicans,” the ones who are hoarding their money, often decide to make-do with what they have, rather than paying far too much for an item with an inflated price, while younger generations have learned to just charge it.

Visit Costco, Sam’s Club, and other club stores and you’ll see the older demographic shopping there (using the current political logic, probably all Republicans), buying in bulk to save money. On the other hand, go to the mall and watch the parade of the ages 20-40 demographic (Democrats?) going from pricey store to pricier store, purchasing far beyond their means to pay for the goods and services available there (and, I guess, saving all of us from economic failure). I hear it all the time from young people that they go the mall to shop because they will not wear what is sold at the big box stores: it’s too cheap. I used to think that meant an item, such as a garment, was not made well, but I’ve learned that bragging about how much one spends on an item has its own cache. Designer jeans make a bigger impact than Levi’s if one’s goal in wearing the jeans is to impress others, not to get the best value for the money.

Inflation causes all of us to require more income to meet the same basic living limits that the generation before us achieved, and inflation comes when individuals artificially inflate the value of themselves, their job performance, and their product. The old saying is to charge whatever the marketplace will pay, but that only applies to some careers. Teachers have traditionally been under-valued, while more “valuable” individuals, such as actors, professional athletes, singers, real estate agents, and other public persons, have inflated their value; thus, teachers at the top of their profession seldom earn $100,000 annually, but a professional athlete can command multiple millions of dollars per season to suit up, show up, and play their game, a star actor can demand multiple millions per film, a star singer can earn multiple millions per concert, and a real estate agent can make a killing with just one sale.

You may argue with me until the cows come home, but in my world view, there is NO athlete, NO movie star, NO singer/rapper, NO real estate agent, NO reality star who is actually "worth" multiple millions of dollars. Medical personnel, fire fighters, law enforcement officers, and educators are another story: they hold the future for their clients in their hands, so pay them whatever it takes to save a life, protect lives and property, and/or prepare generations for future success.

I’ll listen to President Obama’s speech, primed to hear the specifics of his plan, as well as his current definition of the target demographic, millionaires, but I’ll admit that my expectations are pretty darned low for his actual performance. Based on past public presentations of his ideals, he will demand change we can believe in without providing any specifics for how to get the job done. He will demand that we tax the millionaires using Warren Buffet as his expert witness, then target individuals who earn a quarter of a million dollars because that has been his hue and cry since taking office.

He’ll want everyone to pay their fair share, but his interpretation of “everyone” is spelled R-E-P-U-B-L-I-C-A-N-S.

In the Eye of the Beholder

My community needs a face-lift: with all the empty properties, it looks pretty grim during the morning walk, with dead lawns, entire front yards taken over by weeds and the remnants of dead shrubbery, and bare front yards of landscaping rocks migrating into the roadways. Code Enforcement has been making the rounds, trying to keep the worst at bay so realtors can show properties to potential buyers, but it's a daunting task. Thus, when a buyer purchases a home and begins reno, as well as landscaping, we all breathe a huge sigh of relief because it makes our property, as well as our neighborhood, looked lived in and cared for.

Except for one local resident who decided on an artistic take to his landscaping based on the devastation caused by the volcanic eruption at Mt. St. Helens.

(photo at mydesert.com) His artistic aesthetic is unusual, but it's a work in progress, with the bare tree remnants representing the trees left behind from the lava flow forming the foundation of the art piece. His goal is to add desert rocks, as well as appropriate plantings, throughout the landscape he's creating, but Code Enforcement received a complaint, so the project has been halted.

If you were to walk down my block, you would see a wide range of landscaping, from bare sand to bare lanscaping rock to planned vignettes to desert landscaping to total neglect, but Code Enforcement went into the archives to pull out the original code as a reason to require the homeowners to rethink their landscaping plan. Originally, we all were required to have lawn and a minimum of two trees in the front of each property, which is what I found when I moved into my residence. It did not take more than one summer of increased water rates and constant mowing to realize this was not going to work for me. My yard is now all desert landscaping, which requires minimum care, so I am no longer in compliance with the original code.

However, residents (after I finished my landscaping) were encouraged to remove the lawns and replace landscaping with more drought tolerant plantings, with the prize for so doing a check for $3,500 (which I would love to have received to offset the cost to me out-of-pocket!). So, it appears on the surface that the City is not in compliance with its own Code and the homeowner has the right to become more drought resistant, which this artistic landscaping certainly is: it does not require any water presently! Not so, says the Enforcement Officer, because it does not blend with the landscaping at other homes in the neighborhood.

Okay, if I want to "blend" with the other homes in MY neighborhood, I'd have to let my yard go fallow or cover it over with weeds or bare landscaping rocks! That argument is weak at best, but it appears that the City has the right to force this homeowner to remove all the bare limbs and come into compliance with the current thinking by the City and the randomly-implemented other landscaping on his block so he blends.

Do we NOT have more important items on the to-do list, such as paving all our roadways? My street is a stream of potholes, with no curbs and no sidewalks: how about putting as much effort into "blending" that problem as accommodating a busy-body neighbor who has forced the City into dealing with an artistic landscaping?

Reality TV

Design Star is one of my favorite reality TV shows, and David Bromstad is my absolute favorite host, winning the first Design Star competition. His Color Splash show amazes me as he never ends up with tacky, no matter how much color he brings into a space, and he always personalizes his design work with an original piece of art that completes the job perfectly. David served as the mentor for this year's competition, providing insight into what separates outstanding design from average, as well as smoothing out the presentations for the camera challenges.

David has grown so much since he won the first competition, and he is the one designer I would not hesitate to leave in my home to do his magic. Antonio, on the other hand, fagetaboutit! His designs remind me of a chainsaw massacre!! Emily? Too much turmoil to get to the end product that still looks like a tossed-together melange of whatever happens to catch HER fancy!!

I watched the latest series and was interested first that Kathy stayed on the show as long as she did: her best design plan was “I’m going shopping,” which left her teammates in the lurch on every single project assigned to her. Kathy personifies the catch phrase “throw under the bus” as she made it very clear to the viewer that her plan was to do her own thing, ignore any ideas from her teammates, and win based on her past experience on-camera. I sighed with relief when the judges finally caught on that she was outstanding on camera, but not as either a designer or a team player. I knew from the git-go, however, that the judges’ favorite was Meg because they forgave her faults that others left the show for making. I was surprised, on the other hand, that Carl made it to the finals, but pleased at the same time because he truly designed, while Meg merely redecorated.

Carl, in the final challenge, brought design features from the building veneer into the space to make it not just unique, but a reflection of the architecture of the neighborhood. This was Carl’s strength throughout: architectural design. I thought it would be the quality that gave him the win, but his camera presence was not professional – and Meg, although her work was much more frantic decorating than design, glowed on camera no matter how many takes it took for her to get herself together and film the spot.

I always hope that the HGTV execs realize the talent they have available and give second place something to do, so I’m going to continue to look for Carl, but probably won’t tune in to Meg’s show because she simply did not show me anything I could not have figured out for myself and done at least as well as she did it during the contest.

I also watched America Has Talent, an interesting show of some of the weirdest contestants ever to make it to a stage. Perhaps “talent” is as the individual defines it, but I would think that a person would have to do whatever it is that s/he designates as a “talent” better than anyone else, not worse. Last evening’s wrap-up finale featured the Top Ten Worst, every one of which was more than deserving of being included on that list. OMG, as if it weren’t bad enough to sit through their performance the first time, highlighting them as a performance group was painful.

In the end, however, the singing talent of Landau gave him the top honor, as well as a million dollar prize and a show at a Las Vegas venue. Landau can sing across genres and his voice does credit to any song he performs. Last night, he rocked it out with Patti LaBelle, and it was magic, truly a million-dollar performance.

Next week, the Sing-Off begins, and I cannot wait. This is choral performance, with voices making the sounds of musical instruments, as well as vocalists performing the actual songs. Last season was amazing, and I’m looking forward to an even better season this year. Nick Lachey is the right host for the series, and the judges all have the creds to back-up their critiques. Good show, good music, good time watching.

See Something? Say Something!

During the past month, I’ve both seen and heard potential crimes involving domestic violence within a block of my home. The first time was during an early morning walk, after I passed a home outside of which a woman was standing next to a car in her driveway, evidently talking to someone inside the car. After I passed by with the dogs, she began shouting, “No, James! I won’t get into your car! No! Every time I go with you, you HURT me! I’m not going with you!”

I looked back and saw that she was in distress, but there was no way I was going to walk back toward her and get involved in what could become a violent situation. As I grabbed my phone to call the police, I realized that I didn’t know the name of the street, so I had to walk to the corner to read the sign, which took several minutes. I did call the police, and two cars responded, but I really didn’t have specific details for them because I was past the locale before the woman began shouting. Perhaps the presence of the cop cars on the street in front of the house was enough to cool things off and send James on his way, but just in case he came back, I stayed off that street for well over a week.

Last week, I was on the final leg of the morning walk, up at the corner, when I saw a black car driving fast toward the stop sign 2 blocks down. A white car appeared to be racing it, so I thought it was the street racers who live at the end of my block. The white car rear-ended the black car, then pulled alongside it. A passerby in a third vehicle pulled off to the side of the road while the black car roared forward, screeched to a stop, and a female came out of the vehicle with something in her hands. Whoever was driving the white car accelerated through the stop, turned the corner, and sped off after the driver of the black car smashed the windshield with a golf club, then threw it onto the shoulder of the road. She got back into her car, which had all the windows busted out, made a u-turn, and headed back toward the center of town.

I was going to call 9-1-1, but the driver of a vehicle that had pulled to the shoulder knew what was going on, so I left it to that driver to make the call. However, as the older female driver came up to me, she asked if I had seen what happened, and I told her somewhat, but not really. She said, “Someone should call 9-1-1,” to which I replied, “Well, you were right there, so you should make the call.” She responded, “Oh, no. I’m not going to get involved in a domestic dispute!” and drove off. I started to call, then decided just to mind my own business and go home.

Today, I opened all the doors and windows because we have rain, which means cooler temps and fresh air. I had the radio on, but heard shouting coming from outside, so got up to investigate. I turned off the radio and heard the couple behind me engaged in what seemed to be a violent argument. They were inside their house, but sounded as if they were in my backyard. The argument moved outside, to the front of their home, and the female shouted that she was calling the police, so I came back inside and let it be. However, the argument continued off and on for the next 2 hours, so I guess either no one called the police or no one needed to do so.

Each time an event happens, I feel that I should make the call because if something happens more than what I witness, it’ll be on my conscience. On the other hand, I read an article in the online newspaper this evening: a 3-year-old child was shot and killed by a man seeking revenge on a neighbor who called police and reported an active incident of domestic abuse involving the neighbors. The male neighbor was hauled off to jail, but when he got out, he came back to the caller’s home and fired from the street into the house, killing the child.

See something? Say something! is a good PR motto, but the truth is that the people involved in the violence always find out who reported it – and they find ways to make the informant pay for calling the cops. I’ve felt guilty for keeping my mouth shut, but I think that’s probably the best tact for me to take. I don’t gain anything from being a tattletale, but I could lose everything for being a snitch.

WARRIOR

Some movies teach a lesson, while others merely let us learn the lesson, and, sometimes, learn it the hard way. I’m not a fight fan, but had read good reviews for the movie Warrior, so spent this afternoon sharing a big tub of buttered movie popcorn with my movie buddy and a sprinkling of other viewers. Good decision: good film. Nick Nolte deserves at least an Oscar nomination, if not the award, for his portrayal of a father estranged from his son’s lives, sons who do not forget nor forgive.

Brothers brought up the hard way learned to fight for their lives against an alcoholic father, Nolte, who uses all of his personal history to become Paddy, the Drunk Daddy. Physical abuse, psychological abuse, spousal abuse – the family shared it all, culminating in a split between brothers, as well as husband and wife. Years later, everyone has physically moved on, including Paddy, who celebrates 1000 days of sobriety, to which his sons respond that it doesn’t change the thousands of days they spent with him while he was drunk. Shit happens for all of us, but what we do with it makes the difference between tossing it in the trash or hiding it in a paper bag and lighting the bag on fire: someone still has to deal with it.

Tommy joins the Marines and goes to war, a continuation of his childhood lifestyle. He knows how to fight, and he fights to win, but he has no idea how to become himself. Brenden is a former fighter-turned-physics teacher, who marries the love of his life, fathers two little girls, and faces the potential loss of his home through foreclosure. When Brenden turns to fighting at parking lot matches to earn extra money to get current on the bills, he is suspended without pay from his teaching job, which leaves him with few alternatives except what he knows all too well: more fighting. The brother’s personal battles become public when they face-off for a $5 million purse in a Mixed Martial Arts event called The War at the [Jersey] Shore. The odds against them are what they have already faced throughout their lives, insurmountable, but they begin with “let’s do this” and end with a win neither expects.

The story is outstanding; it is well-cast (Nick Nolte, Tom Hardy, Joel Edgerton), totally believable, and flat-out engrossing. It may be another "Rocky" fight story, but it’s a great fight story! Interwoven is the battle between Captain Ahab and Moby Dick, but that is nuance the majority of audiences will not understand. The primary distraction to enjoying the film is that it is shot with a hand-held camera, a technique that makes those of us with vertigo slightly nauseous. At times, I shut my eyes or looked away from the screen as the camera zoomed in and out, in and out randomly, while moving side-to-side, as well as up and down throughout the scene. I longed for the good old days, when the cameras were fixed in position, rather than being part of the action of each scene.

This is a “must see” movie on my list this year, and since it’s already September and I have no other movies with that rating, it must also be outstanding.

Perspective

Usually, the local media is filled with complaints from Valley residents who object to the "constant" military air traffic in the area. The most consistent complaint is that "I didn't move to this resort area to hear military jets day in and day out." Today, however, there is increased military traffic, perhaps at 9-11 memorial ceremonies, perhaps simply beefing up the availability of fighters just in case, perhaps just doing routine patrols of the SoCal/Arizona air space.

Whatever the reason, those jets can fly over my home any time, even break the sound barrier if they want to show off, and I'll stand and salute their presence!! For the protestors who want the fighter jets rerouted, I hear there are nice resorts in other countries, especially those run by unscrupulous politicians and drug lords who rely on American tourist dollars to finance the terrorism of their own citizens.

Via con Dios.

Night Terrors

I went to bed last night dreading waking up this morning because no one knows if the threats of terrorism will mar this day of remembrance.

On CNBC this morning, prior to the start of the first remembrance ceremony, one of the commentators was moved to tears as he explained to listeners that the families of the women who were pregnant on 9-11-2001 were asked if they wanted the words, “and her unborn child,” inscribed with her name on the New York City Memorial. It was a minute before he could continue, and when he did, he said that is the true terror of this day, that those men, in the name of their god, could join the early-morning crowds at American airports, stand in line with their victims, board planes with their victims, look their victims in the eye – men, women, and children – and know that not only were they going to die that morning, but that their fellow passengers would also die in a heinous act of mass murder committed in the name of a foreign god most of them did not know exists.

This is the first time that I have heard bold truth, rather than apathetic appeasement, for what happened, the truth of a person who says what others believe, but are afraid to say outright in a politically-correct environment of feigned tolerance of that which is intolerable.

The terrorists lived among US, they blended in with US, they singled US out because they would not be US, even though they used our religious tolerance as the foundation for their terrorist attacks. And they still live among US, still plan attacks against US, but we are too afraid of public opinion to publicly recognize that reality and accept that the US has to do whatever it takes to protect its citizens from foreign acts of war committed on our soil.

And, while it is true that not all Iraqis, not all Afghanis, not all people of foreign descent attacked US, when you attack one of US, you attack all of US, and you become the enemy for the rest of your country. When an act of war is committed against a country, the citizens of that country strike back: that is the nature of war. We may call the attacks of 9-11, as well as the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 terrorist attacks, but they were acts of war – and those acts of war result in battle. As so many authors remind us, including John Hersey in his account of Hiroshima, during war there are no innocent civilians, just the enemy we are fighting.

We believe that if you commit the act of war, you’ll get war not just against those who acted for you, but against your nation, because when one of yours attacks US, you all attack US.

It is ten years since the acts of war committed by foreign terrorists against US on 9-11-01, and nine years of solemn ceremonies mark that anniversary. The names of all those who were killed are read, one by one, to remind US of all those people who showed up at the airports that morning, stood in crowds waiting to board with those who planned to kill them, waited in slowly-moving lines to find their assigned seats along with those who were committed to kill them, perhaps smiled as they were seated in proximity to religious zealots who believed that their god would smile with favor upon them for the heinous acts of mass murder they were about to commit. And innocent civilians screamed in terror as those planes took them to their deaths.

It is the ultimate irony that religious America begs US to pray for those who are committed to annihilating US in the name of their own religious beliefs, but pillories Chaz Bono for accepting the invitation to participate in Dancing with the Stars. Focus the prayers on citizens who are still the targets of terrorists, who are still at the mercy of those who are committed to kill US to protect their own religious rights.

Today's headline: 77 US troops wounded in attack on Afghan base. Pray for our service members who stand and fight while America's religious zealots kneel and pray for Chaz to see the error of his life.

Stranded at the Gas Pump

On the way to teach class yesterday, I stopped first at the gas station down the street so when I headed back home at 6:30 pm, I could just go. Had to jockey to access the pump because cars had entered from both directions, making ease of pumping challenging. Filled the tank, hung up the hose, got into my car and nada, nothing, nil. Bupkus. Not only would the key not turn, but nothing else worked either, including putting the car into gear (it may have helped). I got out again, locked the door, unlocked it, got back in, strapped on my seat belt and gave it another go. Nope.

Stranded at the gas pump with long lines of irate customers wondering what the hell was taking me so long to get the hell out of their way!

I went inside to explain to the attendants why I would be blocking access to the pump for a while, but (it’s a guy thing) the male attendant said confidently, “Let me take a go at it.” Nah, that didn’t work either, but in the process of his trying to do something to help me, he mashed the brake pedal to the floor, ignoring my “Please don’t do that!” warning. My RAV has the anti-skid feature, which means that if the brakes are suddenly stomped, the car locks up tighter than a drum and will not move until I push the magic button on the dash. Didn’t matter in this case because nothing worked and the RAV was not only not moving, but absolutely dead, too.

Triple A was instantly responsive to my plight and assured me that a tow truck would be there within 45 minutes; however, with a class starting in 20 minutes, other phone calls had to be made. The school locks the doors at 2:30, which seems an early end to a school day, but no one was there to answer the phones, so I called the college and explained my plight. Not to worry: someone would call the high school site and tell the custodians that I would not be there for my class. As I hung up from that call, the tow truck arrived on-site.

Basically, the Triple A employee jumped the battery and, as the car roared to life, it rocked forward a bit – which may have unlocked what was frozen. Perhaps it was the anti-skid mechanism, but whatever it was, I was not only on my way in about 15 minutes from making the call to Triple A, but I made it on-time to the classroom filled with students who did not get the message that I was stranded.

Neither did the custodians: no way to contact them by phone either, which adds to the safe, secure feeling of teaching at that site!!

Family Mythology

I learned first-hand about family mythology when a brother and my sister refused to accept the childhood memories I shared at the kitchen table the weekend before my mother died. It was offensive and disrespectful, as well as the accusation that my whole life is a lie that lives only in my imagination. It has been challenging to accept that other people’s perception can instantly become my reality just because they say so, but my siblings effectively dismissed my memories in the flick of a smug smirk, and that reality stays with me.

Tess Gerritsen writes the Rizzoli and Isles novels, the basis for the current TV show featuring Angie Harmon. Gerritsen’s latest work is entitled The Silent Girl, a story that finds its foundation in Gerritsen’s own Far East family history. I usually find little gems hidden in any storyline, and this reading is no exception. In talking about family descendents, Mrs. Fang, a lead character, explains to Detective Frost, “You could be descended from King Arthur or William the Conqueror. If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on believing that. Because family mythology has far more meaning to us than the truth. It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives” (chapter twenty-nine).

The profundity of a lifetime encapsulated in a few sentences struck me silent for a minute, and then I reread, contemplated, finished reading the chapter, then went back several times to revisit the last two sentences: “Because family mythology has far more meaning to us than the truth. It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives.”

First, the assumption is that our family memories are mythology, and then that the mythology means more than the truth, which is certainly the case in my family. Both of my parents are dead, but I have four brothers and a sister. When people say that death brings out the worst in people, it is truer beyond anyone’s imagination, as I found out up close and personal after my mother's death. What is clear before the death is muddied by family mythology afterward, as each individual in the family holds firmly to his/her own myths about what life was and especially about how the family heirlooms should be shared.

But Gerritsen’s second sentence, “It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives,” profoundly affects me as I struggle with that concept on an almost daily basis: my own “sheer insignificance” is a deeply-felt truth that has lived within me since my earliest memories. My entire life has been focused on being someone, doing something, making a difference and being significant, all the while feeling profoundly insignificant as, time after time after time, my presence, my effort, my determination to be significant simply doesn’t matter. When it’s really important to be someone, to do something, to make a difference and be significant, my own insecurities will not be denied.

Far too many times I have wondered why I even try, why I go the extra mile, why I do more than many people know, why I struggle to make a difference when far too often I regret my effort.

An example leaps into my mind, a day when a student was killed in an automobile accident on his way to school, his chair empty when I took attendance that morning. A few minutes into the class, the door opened and the principal stepped into the room to declare bluntly that [student’s name] was dead. There was absolute silence as the students began to process what they had heard: their classmate was dead and some of them, staring at his empty chair, didn’t have a clue who he was beyond his name. My mind kicked into “do something” mode, so I found poster board, markers, a box of photos – and let the day’s lesson be remembrance. When the project was finished, we displayed the tribute on the wall outside my classroom so other students could “picture” the student and share memories of their classmate.

Imagine my surprise when the local newspaper came out that week: the principal was in a front-page photo, standing behind students seated at a table “working on” a poster in memory of the student who had died in the accident. She had taken the poster off the wall, invited two students to join her in the back room after school, and staged the photo to focus on her involvement in the students' grieving process, a process made much more difficult by her tactless announcement that he was "dead."

Why did she do that, pretend that she had done something right that day, rather than handle a difficult situation badly? Simply because she could? Perhaps, after reading Gerristen’s words, her motive was far more complex: having this power truly helped her cope with the “sheer insignificance of [her] own life.” It was not right, it was not fair to take the focus off the student’s death and put it onto herself, but there is no do-over in the real world, no saying sorry for becoming the moment, rather than living it.

Gerritsen's quote takes me on a mental meander and realize that the older I become, the less significant my life is to me. I think about who I think I am, the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done, the people I've met, and all pales in comparison to those around me. I am not heroic; I have not overcome great tragedy; I have not struggled mightily against negative odds and triumphed. I simply awaken each morning, put my boots on the ground, and keep on keeping on, completely lacking significance in who I am and what I do.

Inside, I’d like to be significant, but I’m not: there will be a slight ripple with my departure, but a ripple that will quickly close as life moves on without me. Some will remember for a while, but far more will never know that I existed. I enjoy more than some, less than others; do more than some, but far less than others; touch some lives in a positive way, but mess up just as many times with my stumbling and fumbling to try to do the right thing at the right time for all the right reasons. It’s not that I am insignificant, but that I am not significant that strikes me most deeply.

My family mythology is not a huge help in allowing me to cope with my “sheer insignificance” because so much of what I think I know within myself -- if my siblings are correct -- is pure rubbish. However, again quoting Gerritsen, "If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on believing that." It’s easier to believe the untruth of personal perception than it is to probe the truth of someone else’s reality, and that’s where my thoughts wander this fine Sunday morning.

Brownie Points

Brownie is still with us, at least until his own mommie comes back from her vacation. Brownie is the daughter’s dog, but he’s spent the summer with the mom, who definitely does not like dogs in any way, shape or form. She tolerates Brownie, but she wants as little to do with him as possible.

Because I am one of those annoying people who butts in where I am not needed, I volunteered to take Brownie during the day so he could socialize with my dogs and play in our big yard, rather than spend the days locked in a bathroom until someone comes home. Hearing his barking and whining during the day, as then continue all night long, got on my nerves big-time: I’d rather have him quiet and content at my house than whining and barking at his.

Brownie is tiny, about 5 pounds, but he has an attitude bigger than all outdoors. Mia tolerates him, but accepts him, Daisy is not so happy to be sharing the spotlight with him (and refused to be in the picture), and I am adjusting to the constant tug-o-war between them. Brownie has taken over my bed, much to Daisy’s dismay, and he is not willing to share. He climbs all over Mia, settling down so close to her that she cannot move away. Mia acts annoyed, Daisy growls, and Brownie is oblivious. But, he’s happy. He follows the girls as they go in and out, he waits his turn for a little treat, he curls up either on my lap or along my arm, depending on where I’m sitting and what I’m doing. He runs outside like he’s on fire when he hears a noise in the neighborhood, then comes back inside to let me know he’s assessed the situation and we are all secure and safe, just as my other 2 dogs have trained him to do.

When it comes to the morning walk, Brownie is obviously in charge. As the smallest of the three, he takes point, barks warnings about all the other dogs in the neighborhood, wants to select the corners at which we turn, and stops at new bushes along our route that my dogs have not already vetted. Brownie struts, Daisy trots, and Mia lumbers alongside me, shooting me that sideways look that says, “Really? You are letting him be the walk director?”

We are going for shorter walks because I’m not sure Brownie can do our full 45 minutes each morning, and neither of my girls is happy with that as they barely get the kinks out before we are pulling back into the driveway. My girls want to walk through the entire neighborhood. They need to know who’s here, who doesn’t belong, and where the potential problems lurk, and that takes serious commitment every morning, not a little Sunday stroll. If Brownie stays around, I'm going to have to find out whether he can actually do "our" walk, rather than forcing us to do his walk each morning.

Brownie’s mommie will be home Saturday, and I know he will be glad to see her, but school is back in session, so she’ll be gone from 7 am until about 6 pm because she’s working as an aide with her mother at an after-school program. So, even though Brownie’s owners will be back home together, he’ll still spend most of his existence locked in the bathroom. I don’t want another dog, but it breaks my heart to see such a sweet little guy spend his life in isolation for a crime he didn’t commit.

We’ll see what happens after the weekend, but I suspect that Brownie is going to be at least a temporary member of our family even after his owner comes home this weekend. She’ll play with him over the weekend, but I’m betting dollars to donuts that she’s going to ask me to keep him while she’s at school during the week. Guess I’d better come up with an answer for that.