A Nation's Forgotten Shame, A Nation's Courage, Reborn

The summer of 1932 is remembered in most history books as just another summer when the nation – and the world at large – was mired in the throes of what was eventually to be called The Great Depression. The schoolchildren of my generation were shown images of decrepit old trucks, heavily laden with the meager possessions of destitute families, crossing from the desolation of Oklahoma and Texas in search of something far short of the affluence toward which subsequent generations would endeavor. The aspirations of those families were more basic; they were hungry, counting themselves fortunate on those sporadic days on which they could taste the exquisite generosity that manifest itself in a bowl of beans and a crust of bread.

In our nation’s capital however, there was a movement afoot that would mark an even more desperate panorama; a time of growing hope that was to be ultimately and systematically dashed, and of what should have marked the death of our collective innocence and the acknowledgment of a nation’s shame. Had it only been reported, rather than swept beneath the rug of a culture’s illusion.

In early July of that year, the Depression was in full swing in our nation’s capital, though it was far less apparent in the halls and offices of government. Just beyond the grounds of the Capital Building, a legion of some twenty five thousand of our country’s veterans, along with their wives and children, had set up an encampment – really more of a makeshift city – in the sweltering heat to seek an audience with President Hoover. They represented a cross section of the country’s citizens – farmers, merchants, laborers – what would eventually be labeled the Middle Class. Most had served in the first War to End All Wars, and bore the scars of their time spent in the bloody trenches of Europe. Eight years earlier, a grateful government had passed the Adjusted Compensation Act, which promised each veteran a “bonus” of $500 for having so bravely served their country and the world. According to the terms of the Act, the bonus was to be paid in 1945, but these people were beyond desperate, and wanted to entreat their president, to convince him to accelerate the “bonus” payment and thus prevent their families from starving. They called themselves the Bonus Expeditionary Force, but were to become known – to those willing to search for their story – as the Bonus Army.

President Hoover, however, sent word that he was “too busy” to meet with them and hear their requests, despite the fact that in those days, he often concluded his day’s work by lunchtime. Instead, the president secluded himself in his office, and daily grew more impatient with what he saw as a throng of unwashed ne’er-do-wells and beggars who were impeding movement in the capital and offending the tourists. On July 26^th, Vice President Charles Curtis dispatched two companies of armed marines to the scene, only to have them sent away by General Pelham Glassford, who was more sympathetic to the Bonus Army’s predicament, and who tersely reminded the vice president that he had no authority to command military forces. On the morning of July 28, 1932, however, President Hoover had had enough, and wanted this human eyesore removed. His Attorney General, William D. Mitchell, charged the Bonus Army with, in his words, “begging and other acts,” and Hoover ordered the Army’s highest ranking officer, General Douglas MacArthur, to clear the encampment, by force if necessary. At ten in the morning, a couple of Treasury agents were dispatched to a fringe area of the encampment (far removed from its makeshift “command post”), and these agents ordered the people they encountered to disperse.

As would be expected, the crowd took no notice of the two low-level bureaucrats’ command, and the agents left. And within hours, MacArthur took personal command from General Glassford and his aide, Major Dwight Eisenhower, and sent his heavily armed force to rout the troublesome rabble. Randomly flinging gas grenades into the crowd of men, women and children, the forces, along with city police, charged headlong into the crowd, swinging nightsticks, slashing with bayonets, and at some point, the police opened fire, killing two of the fleeing men. The women and children were not so quick to run, for they were cringing on the ground, blinded by the gas. And then came the tanks…

When all was said and done, the two men who had been shot by police – along with two infants asphyxiated by the teargas – had died. In his subsequent public statements, Hoover tried to assert that the assemblage was composed solely of communists, but the incident further tainted his already diminished image. The generals (and those who would later become generals and one, President) who led and executed the massacre, however, would go on to have long and storied careers. And the story of the Bonus Army would somehow be deleted from the history lessons taught to future children.

Fast forward to present-day cities around the country, and the scene that is emerging is alarmingly similar to that which unfolded in Washington, D.C. in the summer of 1932. The protesters that make up the Occupy movement are described by elected officials and some media sources as hippies, socialists… any dehumanizing label they can come up with in their attempts to cast the protesters as a collective, malevolent “them,” who are bent upon destroying everything that is important to a benevolent, more reasonable “us.” As happened so many years ago, the full strength of our country’s law enforcement agencies are just as bent upon silencing “them.” It’s all for their own safety, of course, just as they are keeping journalists from observing their actions for the journalists’ safety. And banning media helicopters from their observation points far above the melee… for the safety of the helicopters.

I cannot help but wonder, will the country ultimately hear what so many are saying, screaming, and putting their own safety at risk in order to be heard? Or will streets tremble beneath the tread of the tanks, and the nation strive once again to sweep another moment of shame beneath the rug of its illusion? And I also wonder at the restraint shown by the Bonus Army. I know that, had I found myself among their number and seen children – especially my own – killed as a result of the government's actions, there would have been more blood spilt, even if it were ultimately my own.

Members of the Bonus Army were the forebears of many who are now involved in the Occupy Movement. How fitting it is that the members of one brave movement can look back upon the actions of their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents and realize that even as injustice still thrives in our great nation, so does the spirit that would cast it out. There is worry, yes, but far greater, there is hope.

In tribute to the Occupy Movement, a video by Bill Gibson:

Some Guy Out On the Street 

Dad's Day

My "Dad," Gordon Penny

It's Fathers' Day, but for me, it is and will always be Dad's Day, and there is a difference. A BIG difference. This is a day for the lucky dads to be cherished, and for the good times they've brought into our lives to be remembered and celebrated. And this is the first Dad's Day since my Dad passed in February. He was not my biological father (or anyone else's, for that matter), but he was my Dad, in ways my own father never managed. He and Mrs. Penny (who fit the bill of second mom quite well) worked 6 days a week, but on their Sundays off, I would sit looking out our front window, waiting for their garage door to open and declare that our day had begun. By the time he had his coffee cool enough to drink, I was there in my usual spot on the garage floor, leaning against the garage door frame. Until he had vinyl siding put on some years later, a spot remained where my Lucky Tiger Rose Oil-covered head would touch and dissolve the paint. He teased me about that (and tried painting over it, to no avail) for years, but I didn't care. I was his Buddy when I wasn't anyone else's (especially not grown-ups), and that was all that mattered.

Discipline from him was gentle but effective; his mere suggestion that something I did (or might be thinking of doing) would be less than ideal was all it took, I wanted to please him so much. It would be years before I would perceive the irony in that. My own father resorted to the belt at the drop of the hat, and still, I paid no heed to what he said to me, and often did the exact opposite of anything he told me to do, just to spite him. With my father, my greatest sense of pride, of coming of age, was when he quit calling me a brat, replacing his favorite term of "endearment" with a new one, more consistent with my pubescent stature. I became a "thug," and the spankings ended, replaced by fistfights which I discovered I could win. But with my Dad, I would never have considered doing or saying anything even cross to him. I knew well what it was like not to have a parent's love, and didn't dare do anything that might push him away. In hindsight, I realize that I wouldn't have been able to push him away, even had I wanted to.

I learned at an early age that a father does his duty, while a Dad cherishes it. While fatherhood can be the result of a fleeting moment's desire, and followed by a lifetime of regret and bitterness, being a Dad is an act of heart and spirit, far beyond the biological mechanism of procreation. What was it that my Dad did that my father did not? There are a thousand little things, seemingly inconsequential acts that, when taken in total, make the most important statements a little boy could hear: "You're a good kid, and your feelings matter to me." He told me that in so very many ways. He took me go-kart racing. Kite flying, with the biggest box kite in the known universe. Flying the model airplane that was designed especially for people like us, because it was held together with rubber bands so we could crash it without breaking anything. And we did. Often.

He showed me my first "men's magazine," a pretty sleazy thing called Adam, which showed me my first pair of Caucasian breasts that didn't belong to Mom or Grandma. Sure, I'd seen the ones in National Geographic, but they weren't the same. He gave me my first beer that was all mine (which was so much better than just getting a sip of some grown-up's). And over the years, he gave me things, little and not so little, the significance of which I would only realize many years later. My first pocket knife, which was summarily taken away when I whittled something that would have been better left intact. My first wristwatch, with a magical "hypnotic" bezel, unlike anything I had ever seen. My first transistor radio, when none of my friends had one. My first television; I was the only kid I knew who had his own TV in his room. It was black and white (of course) about 19", with a round picture tube, and it weighed about 100 pounds. I could watch "Have Gun, Will Travel" all by myself. Later on, when I was a bit older and had discovered "underground" music, he gave me my first FM radio, which I hooked up to an old KLH hi-fi speaker to fill my dorm room with The Doors, Spirit, Hendrix, and the like.

But these were all "things," and as much as I cherished them at the time, the greatest gift he ever gave me was calling me his buddy, and making me feel like he was glad to see me, every time. I wasn't anyone else's buddy back then, and there was nobody else whose welcome was so unerring and so complete. I had friends, sure, but even those friendships were punctuated by the fights, betrayals, and abandonment so typical of little boys' friendships. "Buddy" was unwavering, more certain than the sunrise. When I was with him, the disapproval of other adults just didn't matter, and wasn't even real. Like the woman down the street who would tattle on me for leading her son astray by showing him Playboy magazines, but who would always preface her judgments with, "That Ronnie... Bless his heart." Or the mother of another friend, who would so often "forget" to include me in plans she made for the neighborhood kids. I got their message, all right. I knew I was the "bad" kid. I even realized that the first girl I ever loved was beyond my reach, because she was a "good girl," too good for me. In all fairness, I can't fault the parents of the girls on our block for their disapproval. Let's leave it at that... although "Dad" always wanted progress reports. Nothing creepy or detailed, and not like the teasing I got from the other boys who hadn't yet found anything particularly interesting about the opposite sex; he just wanted to know that I was doing okay with the girls.

He taught me also about what a real marriage can be. He and Mrs. Penny worked together six days a week, but you'd never see them bicker. Mr. Penny had been quite the ladies' man in his youth, and was still a charmer, even right to the end, but it was so very clear that he was, to his core, devoted to his beloved wife, Helen (she was - and still is - a beautiful woman... reminded me of Judy Garland). That devotion was returned in kind. And it was unlike anything I had ever seen, especially in my own home growing up, or even in my marriage. Some lessons take a long time to sink in, no matter how masterful the teacher.

Despite the fact that his mind became somewhat clouded in the last couple of years, he always knew who I was, and always seemed glad to see his buddy again. There were a few times when he thought I was someone with whom he had grown up, but that didn't bother me at all. The bond was there, tested but unbroken, and its definitions mattered little to me. Perhaps we did grow up together, after all. And right up until the end, I pitied anyone who underestimated the sharpness of his mind. They would quickly learn the same lesson that the Cadillac salesmen had learned when Mr. Penny would wrangle unspeakable deals on his cars, while informing the salesmen that he didn't have any money!

After he passed, Mrs. Penny gave to me several things that were important to him, and have now become cherished tokens to me; his prized shotgun (I do wish we had hunted together, but I was wandering in those years), his dress western hat, the professional butcher knife he had bought, but never really learned to sharpen (probably the one thing I could have taught him), and a few things that he held dear through his life, and which I too will hold dear for the rest of my own life.

I don't know whether he regretted never having children of his own, but I can only feel grateful that he chose me to fill that hole somewhat. I only hope that I was up to the task, knowing full well that I was unaware of my role, and would likely have failed him even if I had known what was needed. I was a bad kid, after all. But for all that, I always knew I was loved, without restriction, without demands of perfection, and without the burden of shame. He never once told me my actions were unforgivable, and would chuckle at my misdeeds. I know that I have never been - and will likely never have the chance to be - the kind of Dad to my own children that Mr. Penny was to me. In one way, that is good, because I would hate to think that they would ever feel the pain of my absence the way I've felt since he passed away; a feeling which is growing ever more acute as Mrs. Penny prepares to return to her childhood home in Alabama.

Godspeed, Mr. Penny. And as empty as the words might sound, and as badly as they fall short of expressing, much less repaying what you have always been to me, they need to be said. Thank you. And I think you knew - and know - that I love you.

**********
I think that perhaps experiencing the birth of a child is God's way of sharing His heart with us humans. For a fleeting moment, we step outside ourselves, and our greatest wish and hope is that the child before us knows only laughter and joy. Our only goal in those precious moments is to protect and nurture something we love more than we love ourselves, and thus to touch the very core of Divinity. I suspect that most people who never experience having children are denied this taste of unbridled benevolence, but have no doubt that for my Dad and Mrs. Penny, that greatest gift was never withheld. And to all the Dads out there - including those who fulfilled the spiritual but never the biological - Happy Dad's Day! And know that you may well be the one thing that saves a "bad" kid from turning out really bad.

Real Economic Recovery Requires Common Sense and Knowledge of History, Not Ideological "Purity"

Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke has proclaimed that the 2008 bank bailout, in which Congress voted to spend up to $700 billion to prop up the nation’s financial markets, was effective, and averted a significantly more devastating economic crisis. While most economists agree with the claim, for most citizens, the crisis that threatens them looms as ominous as ever, and the anger they feel is likely to have a big impact on the November elections.

There is no small irony in the fact that while the TARP bailout is frequently described as a Democrat program, it was actually initiated during the Bush administration, and finally passed with an atypically bipartisan final Senate vote tally of 74 in favor and 25 opposed. Only one senator, Edward Kennedy, did not vote due to his well-publicized health problems. Of those who voted to approve the bill, 40 were Democrats and 34 Republicans. Of those voting against it, 10 were Democrats and 15 were Republicans. Yet, as voters’ anger about the bill increases, most politicians are scrambling to desistance themselves from it in preparation for the November elections.

As part of the attempt to prove TARP’s effectiveness, Herbert Allison, Treasury’s assistant secretary for financial stability, stated that three-fourths of the money that was loaned to banks has been repaid (see http://www.recovery.gov for actual figures by state). However, repayment of the loan was not its actual purpose. The intent was for banks to feel sufficient relief from pressure to begin lending again, and thus far, that hasn’t happened. What has happened is that financial institutions are reporting significant profits and positive cash on hand. Some, such as Morgan Stanley and Citigroup’s Smith Barney, which received a combined $60 billion in bailout funds, went so far as to award executives with multimillion-dollar “retention awards” – PR spin for bonuses – even as they were preparing to lay off workers. To those workers and millions like them throughout the country who have lost their jobs, the anger is both palpable and justified. And those angry people aren’t likely to be enthusiastic consumers, the most essential element in any real recovery.

The manufacturing sector is another essential element that seems to have been left out of the recovery. Manufacturing companies rely upon consumers to purchase their goods, and banks to provide them with working capital to meet consumer demand and remain competitive. Unfortunately, at this point in the “recovery,” those manufacturing companies can rely upon neither, since both the consumer and the lender remain fearful for the future, and are hedging that fear by hoarding what resources they have, rather than spending or lending. Lacking orders for goods and confidence in the availability of capital, companies aren’t too enthusiastic about hiring, further fueling consumers’ uncertainty about improvement in the employment market.

The end result is that some corporations that dramatically cut expenses – in great part by means of layoffs – during the recession are seeing soaring profits. According to the Federal Reserve, company cash reserves topped $1.84 trillion in the first quarter of this year, up $382 billion from last year. But they are sitting on those reserves as a hedge against potential future crises, rather than investing and re-hiring. They’re also cutting back on dividends paid to investors, further eroding investors’ imperative to further invest.

It has been shown that historically, corporate profits and the stock market rebound earlier than employment figures following a recession. History is certainly repeating itself, only in a significantly more dramatic fashion this time around. According to Adrian Cronje, CIO and partner at Balentine, an Atlanta-based wealth management firm, “There is a record level of cash on balance sheets – something like 15% of the market cap.”

With unemployment approaching 10% nationally, consumer demand remains weak. The job gains of the last quarter or so are encouraging, but not enough to offset the fact that the country has well over eight million fewer jobs than it had before the recession officially began in 2007, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. Obviously, “consumer confidence” is something of a misnomer at this point. As long as consumers continue to hoard what they have, rather than save, invest, or spend, it is inevitable that businesses follow suit to some degree.

Citizens’ anger over the disparity between Wall Street bottom lines and their own financial hardships is certainly justified, made worse by the level of government spending in efforts to turn the recession around. Perhaps borne of a sense of helplessness, a number of very vocal groups – most notably, the Tea Party organizations – are calling for dramatic cutbacks in government activity and corresponding spending, and a significant percentage of citizens are taking up the cry, essentially blaming the attempted cure for the disease.

In Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s inaugural address in 1932, he said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.” Ironically enough, when the nation began to emerge from the Great Depression, Roosevelt – like the current administration – came under tremendous pressure from a fearful electorate to cut back on the programs that had been implemented to turn the nation’s economy around, thereby reducing the tremendous debt which those programs had caused. Ultimately, he succumbed to that pressure, and a rigorous austerity campaign was instituted across the board. Rather than improve the situation, however, in 1937, the country fell into a deep recession; not as severe as the Depression itself, but still bad enough to threaten a return to the horrors of the early 1930s.

The question we must ask ourselves is whether history is likely to repeat itself this time around, and whether we are able (and willing) to learn from history’s lessons. Certainly, there are mechanisms in place nowadays that didn’t exist before the Great Depression, designed as fail-safes against a repeat of such a dramatic fall. However, the sheer scale of our modern economy, along with the complexity inherent in a now globally-interconnected economic structure, renders much of that machinery inadequate. For all our efforts to protect ourselves from economic meltdowns, we have come dangerously close, and aren’t out of danger yet.

Perhaps it is time for us to put logic ahead of fear, and to assign our loyalties to the well-being of our country, rather than to an allegiance to a party or ideology. If our focus remains upon ideological purity and our efforts upon “winning” by making those with whom we disagree lose, we could well experience economic devastation that dwarfs that we experienced during the Great Depression. At no time since have Roosevelt’s words been truer. The only way to move beyond our fear is to set aside our efforts to assign blame for political advantage, to commit to rebuilding the world’s most affluent economy, and to see that the recovery isn’t limited to spreadsheets and stock tickers. The economy is founded upon a system of interdependence, and neither Wall Street nor Main Street can thrive while the other founders. And despite what the most partisan elements in both parties would have us believe, the same holds true in our system of governance. When proponents of one or the other ideology holds absolute sway, our nation suffers. It is only by working together in an atmosphere of compromise, with each side willing to give ground, that we can hope to realize the goal of effective governance so essential to a thriving society.

When "What if..." precedes "If only..."

I was inspired this morning to submit a comment to Steve Salerno's excellent SHAMblog, and thought it only fitting to post my thoughts here on my own blog, as well. The discussion began with Steve's assertion that much of the self help & actualization movement (SHAM) depends upon its followers ignoring not only proven science, but plain old common sense, as well.

Having administrated a psychophysiology of sleep research facility years ago, I found myself daydreaming and remembering what it was like to actually create research studies.  I recalled the research team sitting around a conference table, formulating plans and structure of various studies. Inevitably, one or the other of us would begin a presentation with "What if...?" Recalling these meetings caused a light bulb to go on in my normally dim mind, as I recalled other places where the same phrase had recently found favor: the folks who inspired me to coin the word hustledorks. And I find myself thinking that perhaps one of the most insidious accomplishments of the SHAM industry is the widely successful effort to change public perception of the proper chronological placement of the phrase "what if."

In the scientific method, the phrase represents a starting point, an hypothesis upon which to structure research in order to establish (or discount) the viability of an idea or process. In SHAM nomenclature, however, "what if" is offered as a means to discount the value of actually determining that viability and encourage customers to purchase something that has no demonstrated evidence of efficacy.

If a prospective customer ("mark" is more accurate, IMO) finds a marketer's claim to be inconsistent with available evidence or even common sense, the marketer's typical rebuttal is something along the lines of "What if it works?"

Don't believe that a clipart doll that you buy for $40 and print out on your inkjet has the power to change your life for the better? Don't get all bogged down in all that common-sense-y stuff. Just wrap your mind around the really pertinent question: What if it works? Does it seem like a real stretch to believe that by merely wishing for and visualizing something, it will magically appear in your life, without you even having to do anything beyond dreaming? Again... what if it works?

With such a rebuttal, the marketer attempts - apparently, with an alarming frequency of success - to dissuade the prospective customer from using their brains. It's a technique that predates even the first sleazy used-car salesman's attempt to get a customer to focus on the pretty paint job, and ignore the funny noises emanating from the smoke-bellowing engine. It worked enough times to move a lot of clunkers, and it's moving a lot of clunkers now, it would seem. A lot of folks who bought the paint jobs ultimately found themselves saying things like, "If only I'd had the thing checked by my mechanic..." And an increasing number of people nowadays find themselves with a smaller balance in their bank accounts and nothing real to show for it beyond the need to salvage their pride by continuing their admiration of the emperor's new clothes. Some - such as the several attendees of the recent James Ray sweat lodge in Arizona - have even paid the ultimate price for buying into the spurious logic of, "What if it works?" And their families are the ones left saying, "if only..."

As I've frequently stated, humans are the only creatures in the animal kingdom who can hope to survive to maturity and be stupid. The stupid examples in all other species die off at a relatively early age. We humans are coddled and protected by various societal mechanisms and institutions, and can live well beyond our genetically-provided ability to survive... barring being sold on some expensive, death and common-sense-defying shortcut to "enlightenment."

BTW - Over the next few days, we'll be putting up the new and improved website for Schmidt Kaye & Co (our day jobs). Stop on by when you get a moment... just don't antagonize the webmistress. As she says on her Twitter page, "I won't be mean to you, but sometimes I like to play with my food before I eat it."

Wounded Warrior, Madman, or Psychopath...
or perhaps all three?

In the months since the tragic events at the "Spiritual Warrior" retreat in Sedona, you can't swing a dead e-cat without reading something about James Arthur Ray. Many have condemned him as a dangerous psychopath, willing to spend followers' lives in pursuit of profits. Some describe him as merely inept, having given little or no forethought to the possible negative effects of his programs. And somehow, there remain those who look upon him as a highly-evolved sage, unencumbered by the "negativity" with which others ascribe to recent events. As we've observed on the political scene of late, there seems to be little room for compromise in our judgments, and I think we're serving ourselves poorly by adopting such myopic attitudes.

I'll be the first to admit that my own judgments have leaned toward the "psychopath" definition. Like many others, I wanted not only justice; I wanted blood. After all, how could anyone but a narcissistic psychopath proceed merrily upon his way while people are dying as a direct result of his programs? Late last night, however, in one of those just-awakened moments of clarity that can only occur when we're not coherent enough to construct our agenda around our feelings, another thought occurred to me: perhaps the man is a melding of all the above descriptions, with deeper dimension than can be packaged within one descriptor. What if...

In recent days, Ray has been a frequent contributor to his Twitter page, offering mostly obscure ramblings that have, at best, been insensitive toward those who have suffered profound loss. Who but someone categorized as having an antisocial personality would be so brazenly callous as to rub salt into the fresh wounds of his victims and their families? I - along with many others - have derided him for his callousness, for offering obscure platitudes in an obvious effort to distract observers from the seriousness of the situation. If I wanted blood before, I really wanted it after reading some of the swill he was bandying about.

My ah-ha moment arose from remembering that a psychopath will first and foremost act in his own interests, oblivious or unconcerned as to how his actions will affect others. A true psychopath, therefore, would act in such a manner as to foster sympathy for himself. A textbook scenario would have him portraying himself as someone who struggled to rectify the situation in Sedona and ease the suffering of those who were injured, those who died, and those who were left to grieve. Someone who was suffering as deeply as anyone, and more than most. Surely, such a person would avoid doing anything that might make him appear unfeeling and unsympathetic. So what the heck is Ray doing, issuing his platitudes, while ignoring the cries for penance, regret, and even punishment? Is he an unfeeling monster, or is he just crazy as a peach orchard boar?

I think that there may be a number of factors guiding his behavior. I'm certain that his attorneys have advised him to avoid saying or doing anything that might be considered an admission of personal responsibility for the tragedy. They might even be advising him to act in such a way as to support an assertion that he lacks the mental competence to act in his own defense. His recent public postings have certainly given evidence that he has dissociated himself from the pain that so many have suffered. The real question, as I see it, is whether that dissociative behavior is genuine, evidence that he has suffered a psychotic episode as a means of dealing with his own sense of guilt, or perhaps a calculated ploy to insulate him from civil and criminal repercussions.

My own compassionate side would reach out and comfort a man who has broken under the weight of his own self-incrimination and feelings of guilt. Yet there remains a more cynical part of me that, having studied his actions over the past few years, thinks this is just another in a long pattern of manipulative games being played at immense cost - to others. Truth is, neither I nor anyone else outside a small circle of therapists can really be certain. And even within that small circle, there remains the realization that even the most astute professional can often be played by an intelligent psychopath. I think that only time will tell us who is the real James Arthur Ray.

I also find it interesting to observe how the rest of the New Wage hustlers are reacting to Ray's situation. Some who once claimed him as friend and mentor have quietly removed any mention of him from their public offerings, counting upon their followers' short attention spans and memories. Still others have come forward and publicly disassociated themselves from their one-time colleague, attempting to show that they knew all along that he had "strayed from the path to enlightenment." In short, throwing him under the metaphysical bus, and defining their own integrity in the process.

And what about those fellow hustledorks who have praised Ray in the past, and who brush aside as irrelevant the whole sequence of events, claiming that even discussing them is "negative thinking" to be avoided at any cost. These are the individuals who refuse to even acknowledge that something went horribly wrong, preferring to "wait until the facts are in" before admitting that there was any kind of a problem. I'll leave it to others to decide for themselves whether this kind of person is worthy of being listened to or followed.

As I said before, I think that only time - if even that - will tell us who is the real James Arthur Ray. What I think is more important than our judgment of him (or the eventual ramifications he faces) is our willingness to look with open eyes and common sense at the practices that some would claim to be essential to our spiritual evolvement. No matter what happens to Ray, even if he is allowed to continue pursuing a livelihood that endangers others, a populace that is more informed and objecitve will be infinitely safer than one which ignores or rationalizes destructive behavior. If people began using good common sense, and looked beyond wishful thinking on their journey to greater awareness, even the most skillful sociopath would be unable to harm anyone.

I don't propose establishing a system of strict regulation to oversee the self-help industry, mostly because it wouldn't work. Remember: You can't idiot-proof the system; they'll just come up with better idiots! The scammers would simply find ways to work around the rules, and their marks would just rationalize that some malevolent "they" are trying to deny humanity of its birthright. If you doubt the second statement, just go to your favoirite "guru's" website and compare the bold-headline promises with the fine-print (and frequently difficult to find) disclaimer statement. What you'll find is a deft volley, in response to the FTC's latest serve. And if you're willing to lend as much credence to the former as you are willing to put "faith" in the latter, there's little chance you'll be hoodwinked, wounded, or even killed.

Welcome to Political Jonestown!

Well, the talking heads are all abuzz, what with the big upset in Massachusetts. The Republicans see it as a clear sign that they're just an election away from re-assuming their rightful majority status. The Democrats see it as a warning that they need to shift more to the right if they hope to maintain power. I suspect both groups are in for a big surprise. Big.

The tea-baggers claim the outcome of the Mass. election as proof that America is ready to give them the keys to the car & let them drive. But what would you expect from a group that inflates the head count at rallies from a few thousand people to a couple million, or who actually believes that screaming obscenities and threats through a louder megaphone makes you powerful? Rush has been telling them what's gonna happen for years now, but they haven't seemed to notice that he's been pretty universally wrong. Perhaps they're taking the same stuff he is.

And the Democrats? They seem to think that the only way to stay on top is to pretend they're more like the wingnuts, and to capitulate to the far right's demands. Never mind that the majority of Americans want a public option included in the healthcare package, or that the last thing the majority of Americans want is a return to the same kind of corruption that got us into our current mess in the first place. Nope... the answer, as they see it, is to Lieberman-ize en masse, and to abandon the principles that got them elected, all in the name of a "bipartisanship" that exists only in speeches.

So here's what I see happening in the next round of elections. On the Republican side, the wingnuts and tea-baggers will be energized. They'll gather up enough money to wage high-profile primary campaigns, all with getting rid of the incumbents as their primary focus. As usual, they won't offer any real platform beyond an, "aren't you pissed off at [insert incumbent of choice]?" The incumbents, of course, will feel the need to defend their records, even if those records consist of nothing more than saying "no" to anything the other party suggests. End result? A circular firing squad, where all candidates are so damaged, and their coffers so depleted, that there's little ammo left for the war of the general elections.

While that might look good for the Democrats, we've seen too many times how adept they are at clutching defeat from the jaws of victory, and I suspect they won't disappoint this time around. Massachusetts scared them. Many of them are actually starting to believe that the dittoheads might be gaining traction. And they'll do what they've always done when they feel threatened: pretend that they agreed with the wingnuts all along, but were simply misunderstood. Just like their friends on the far right, they'll pay more attention to the noisemakers than to the people who actually elected them, and stage their own version of mass suicide.

So who will be left standing after the smoke clears? Well, you can bet that the industry lobbyists & PACs won't be hurt that badly (at least, not right away), because they aren't stupid enough to let something as mundane as political ideology compromise their interests. They'll throw money at whomever they think will do their bidding. Lots of money.

I think that the independents - the real ones - stand to gain the most from all the infighting and shape-shifting. Even those who have meager records of accomplishments, or who might have previously been perceived as being too marginal in their views, will find themselves the darlings of the hour once all the dust settles. There's so much anger - both at the ones who screwed things up in the first place, as well as the ones who didn't provide an instantaneous fix for all our problems - that the devils we don't know will end up looking like the angels we long for. We might see some real progress toward populist programs (perhaps even health care) that most Americans want. But most importantly, we'll see a significant erosion of the dominance long enjoyed by the two major political parties, as well as the big-moneyed interests on whose tit the Dems and Repubs have suckled for such a long time. Massive amounts of money will be spent in their attempts to delay their death dance, but the effort will prove futile. The only ones who'll buy into their scheme are the same ones who failed to see the writing on the wall in the first place.

Ultimately, I think that the American people will be the real winners. Sure, there'll be whining, screaming, and widespread gnashing of teeth among the more entrenched partisan groups, along with their protestations that they're the ones who will offer "real change." In the end, though, the fringe element on both sides of the aisle will find themselves marginalized to the point that they can no longer claim relevance with anything even remotely resembling authority, and the most powerful players of the past will find themselves not only marginalized, but vilified by the vast majority of voters.

Of course, there is one very major caveat to these predictions: the intelligence of the American people. There's always the chance that enough will listen to the rationalizations and finger-pointing, and leave the same impotent scoundrels in place. As we learned in 2004, millions of Americans can indeed be that stupid. Ironically, the very recession that has caused so many of us real pain these last couple of years may well be the greatest gift this country has gotten in a long, long time. No matter how loudly the old guard protests, they won't be able to avoid the truth of the matter: that they dug the hole in which the country finds itself. And even the most blindly partisan voter will, I think, finally listen to and vote his or her own self-interests, rather than the interests of those who have done our country so much harm.

Much like in The Wizard of Oz, the Republicans need to get a heart, and the Democrats need to find courage. It's up to the rest of us to get a brain. We'll see how it goes.

RINOs, DINOs, and CINOs

There was a lot of noise being made yesterday about how MLK was actually a Republican, and I think that the assertion bears some scrutiny. While Rev. King was, indeed, a Republican back then, there's no way he would relate to the party of today. Heck, even I found myself more closely aligned with GOP principles at one time, but Nixon effectively ushered in a new set of principles with which I disagreed. And some of the more recent actions by some Democrats have inspired me to abandon that party, as well.

It is worthy of note that many groups have aligned themselves with Christianity, yet engage in actions and promote ideals that are diametrically opposed to Christ's teachings. From the Crusades to the current actions of people who bomb Planned Parenthood clinics or claim that the poor are merely lazy and should therefore be left solely to their own devices, I seriously doubt that Christ would align himself with groups that would abandon - much less, kill - the very people he would embrace.

By the same token, in China, the Dragon of Retribution Tong was originally a noble organization, comprised of Shaolin priests who devoted themselves to protecting the temple against the warlords who would destroy it. Over time, the Tong evolved into the Chinese equivalent of the Mafia, killing at whim to enforce its own power, and was ultimately banished by the priests.

The focus and imperative of groups can and does change at will, whereas the core ethics and principles upon which the groups were founded do not. When those imperatives change as significantly as have the groups mentioned above, they forfeit the right to portray themselves as instruments of the original, noble principles. And that applies to all political parties, religions, and even governments. Martin Luther King was indeed a Republican. In today's political environment, he would likely be ashamed to be so aligned - with either party.

If you meet the Buddha on the 'net... You've been punked!

Many years ago, I met and became friends with a man who did more to bring Zen Buddhism to the west than any other. He was a prolific writer, lecturer, and teacher, who could create clear images from the most obscure Zen concepts, and turn koans into poetry. His name was Alan Watts.

I met the man while attending a disciples' retreat at Tasajara Zen Center in the early '70s. Emerging from my first semi-successful experience of shikan taza (just sitting) meditation, I opened my eyes to see his loving face, gazing down at me, both of us seemingly oblivious to the gentle rain that wafted down upon that verdant hillside. All he said was, "It's a beautiful place to be, isn't it?," and I knew he wasn't referring to our location in the woods south of Carmel. The man saw me. Clearly. And touched that place in me that understood. We spoke for some time, and I knew that I had a new friend and teacher.

I never saw Alan again after that retreat, and was saddened to learn, barely a year later, that he had died. His legacy, however, lives on, offering a taste of clarity to those who seek to understand the paradox of Zen.

Now that we're well into a new century - a new millenium, for those who find such things important - a new type of teacher has emerged, claiming to bring the Eight-fold Path to bear upon the world of commerce; a self-proclaimed "Buddha of the Internet," who preaches that the Buddha wants us to have everything we desire, and begs his followers to send him money, so that he can purchase everything he desires, such as an ever-expanding collection of expensive cars, a mansion... well, you get the picture.

This would-be guru also teaches that in order for one's spirit to truly evolve, it is necessary to focus one's gaze only upon positive things, and to turn aside from anything painful, disturbing, or otherwise "negative." He claims that by even acknowledging such "negativity," the seeker blinds him or her self to truth.

Any student of Buddhism knows the fallacy of such teachings. Siddhartha himself grew up in a life of privilege, shielded from the "negativity" of the world by his parents. Somewhere inside, he knew that there was much more to existence than what was visible from his pampered life, and ultimately fled the comfort of his parents' home to find out what it was.

What he found was a world of untold suffering, of people in deep despair and pain, and the discovery left him frantic, devastated. One day, sitting before the river, watching how it flowed so effortlessly, he awakened to a fundamental truth: The suffering we experience is a direct result of our efforts to change the course of our own life's flow. The river flows effortlessly across the face of the earth because it does not strive. It merely flows, guided by natural elements, to its destiny of mingling with the sea. And in that release, the river knows no suffering. If we are to find joy, we must flow like the river, observing the banks, the deeps, and the rapids as we pass, yet not striving to change our own course or the nature of the universe through which our life flows. Our place in the sea awaits, oblivious to our desires or efforts. Siddhartha realized that our suffering is an inescapable product of our desire. Let go of the desire, and suffering ends. With that simple yet profound realization, he achieved true Buddha-hood.

Unfortunately, this new "teacher" is many people's only experience of Buddhism, and they follow, blindly hoping for some morsel to fall from the table of abundance and joy that he claims to experience. While I have no doubt that he has acquired wealth as a result of his teachings, I know the man personally, and know that the joy he dangles before his followers eludes him. Faced with a challenge, be it from someone who doesn't agree, or with the fear that arises from his need to sustain an image, he bears little resemblance to the face he presents to the world at large. He becomes again that frightened little boy who lurked at the fringes of his childhood world, taunted, teased, abused, and feeling unloved and unworthy.

For that little boy that lives inside him, I feel only compassion, and would hug the fear out of him if such were within my power. Yet for the man who enriches himself by distracting and misleading others from their quest for truth, for joy, and for awakening, I feel only disdain. The man knows the fallacy of his words; he has studied enough to understand truth. Yet he chooses illusion, because illusion is easier to sell.

And yet, he does teach me lessons I need to learn. My own disdain is borne of my desire to see truth realized, amplified by my own judgment of those whom I liken to the money changers of Biblical stories. It is my own desire that I must conquer, not the behavior of others. I know this, intellectually, yet that knowledge fails to penetrate to that part of my consciousness that needs no words. And it is little comfort to me to realize that even the Christ grew enraged at the money changers of his day. He obviously had his human moments, times when his Christ-hood eluded him. How could I, a deeply flawed human, far removed from anything resembling Buddha / Christ consciousness, expect to rise above the desires that even those awakened beings felt? Truth is, I can't. My teacher once told me that as long as my footfalls were upon the earth, I wasn't finished yet. He was right. Yet I hunger for that awakening to fill every moment of my life, rather than dancing in and out to the tempo of its circumstances.

Perhaps the time will come when I will look upon those who would spread illusion and wish them well. Perhaps one day, I will know, in every fiber of my being, that those being misguided are at the perfect place on their path. Perhaps there will come a time in my life when I do not strive to right the wrongs I see, or even name them wrongs. I have a little secret to tell you, though. If I ever do get to that point, I won't be here to tell anybody about it, and I most certainly won't be trying to sell it to anyone. I will have joined those wise teachers who have brought truth to us, demanding nothing in return. To flow with my brother river, and to sit again with my friend Alan, delighting in the sound of rain...

---------------------------
Drawing courtesy of a talented old friend, with whom I've (sadly) lost touch - Jennifer Zimmerman

"I hope he fails"

As expected, President Obama is getting slammed by the far right for everything he does. The same thing happened during the entire Clinton administration, but I actually thought that the fringe element would have gotten a clue - given the results of the last election - that the public has lost patience with partisan sniping at the cost of good governance.

It's been implied that Daschle's failure to pay all his taxes is a failure on the part of the president. First of all, someone in Daschle's position doesn't even do his own taxes, and probably doesn't even look very closely at the returns that are filed, yet the president is somehow supposed to know the details. Such an expectation is obviously agenda-driven, and I think we need to look more closely at that agenda.

We need to ask ourselves some hard questions, and look for some honest answers. For years, our country has been controlled by people we didn't elect, and who operated in an atmosphere free of real oversight. Corporate CEOs and industry lobbyists actually drafted legislation that eliminated government constraints upon their activities, then paid our elected officials to pass those laws for a willing president - whose "success" throughout his career was entirely beholden to the same CEOs - to sign.

The results? Insurance companies no longer have to actually pay valid claims. Credit card companies can charge pretty much whatever they want, literally trapping even honest cardholders into being responsible for paying exhorbitant additional fees, for actions over which they have no control. Oil companies post record profits, even as they drink deeply from the well of government subsidies. Corporations get tax breaks for eliminating American jobs and replacing them with foreign labor. Those same corporations are even given incentives to move offshore, where they are exempt from paying a significant portion of their taxes. Daschle's situation - even if it represents intentional avoidance, which nobody has established - is a drop in a very large bucket by comparison.

Mortgage lenders and financial firms have been freed of the constraints that prevented them from taking ridiculous risks and strongly encouraging their customers to spend money those customers couldn't remotely afford. Sure, those customers who bought homes beyond their budgets or made pie-in-the-sky investments share responsibility, but no more than does the industry that prodded them into making commitments that the industry knew would likely be broken.

Now that the bottom has all but fallen out, the right has plainly stated that they want a hugely popular president to fail, even if it means the destruction of the country's well-being. Rush Limbaugh, of all people, has come to be the titular head and spokesman of the far right. The very "conservatives" (and I use the term very loosely, with tongue firmly in cheek) who dug the hole in which we currently find ourselves are demanding that we give them back the shovel.

I think that the controversy over the capping of CEO salaries is a pretty good metaphor for the overall attitude of the right. They seem to feel that a CEO who has led a business into failure should justifiably be given millions of dollars in salary & bonuses, even as he (or she) dictates the elimination of thousands of citizens' jobs. Even worse, that CEO has the gall to literally demand that the government fork over billions of dollars to bail the company out, yet have no voice in what the company does with the money. Banks took $350 billion, with the intent that the money would be used to free up credit and stimulate the ecopnomy. Did they free up credit? No... they simply did what they thought would enhance their own bottom lines, and then refused to disclose what they did with the money. We took a real screwing on that one, and the banks are laughing, all the way to... well, you know.

Our elected officials are sworn to uphold the Constitution, and to defend it from all enemies, both foreigh and domestic. I say it's time we enforce that oath. If an elected official is complicit in drafting and enacting laws that enrich donors and lobbyists at the cost of constituents' well-being, they will have aided and abetted the criminal acts of a domestic enemy, and should face the full force of the criminal justice system. Same goes for officials who subvert the Constitution for their own cynical purposes. We've sat idly as our "leaders" have sold our children's future in order to line their own pockets. It's time to stop. If we don't do it now, things will just get worse. Better to fix a problem now, before the culture we so cherish is destroyed. Fixing it later will be infinitely more painful.

Just Sitting...

Some years ago, I taught several series of classes at a local church, presenting the principles of ZaZen meditation in a manner comprehensible to and practicable by the Western mindset. The instruction began by encouraging participants to recall childhood memories wherein external social/parental influences were absent (ie: daydreaming).

As children mature and are more effectively socialized, they learn to respond to "appropriate" stimuli with "appropriate" behavior, the result being that they are conditioned to ignore or set aside such frivolous activities in favor of more "productive" behaviors. "Don't waste your time! Get up and do something... Clean your room... Do your homework!" The message is clear: Put aside childish things. And the comforting silence we once knew is displaced.

As adults, we westerners are usually taught to access that meditative state by struggling to suppress all external stimuli, which is very difficult. The more we attempt to set aside random thoughts, the more we focus upon them. "Do not think of a white horse." What image is in your mind as you read that admonition? Inevitably, a white horse.

An alternative - and simpler, more effective - method is to allow the stream of collective stimuli to wash over us unchecked and un-responded-to. The internal "conversation" merges into little more than mental "white-noise," and we once again experience the sense of stillness / peace that we knew as toddlers, gazing up at the clouds, and turning them into grand galleons. The "matters of consequence" that so fill our minds diminish into a communal flow, with no single thought being any more prevalent than any other. It is during this process that we are able to look objectively, dispassionately at our life, to make pragmatic decisions and take truly productive action. Thus, allowing the free-flow of consciousness becomes every bit as important to our well-being as is cleaning up our room or doing our homework. We act with integrity, freed from the "issues" that cloud our reason and, ultimately, freed from the expectations borne of past hurts and lingering fears.

The ultimate goal of the practice of ZaZen meditation (at least in our physical state) is for the galleons to dissolve, and for even our thoughts to fade into white noise. Such a state is called Shikan-Taza, or "just sitting." The elation of perceived "victories," as well as the hurts of perceived "defeats" hold little sway over us. They, too, have dissolved into a place of balance, and the discord that once ruled our lives loses its power.

Of course, this state isn't permanent, at least, not so long as we're here being humans and getting what we need from our human journey. What does linger, however, is our memory of that sense of peace, and our deepest hunger is to return to that stillness. In our anger, we recall that serene place. In our sadness, we remember moments of joy. And even in the manic elation that so fills us in moments of supreme "success," the silent seed of "just sitting" beckons. The more we heed that beckoning call, the less time we spend in the illusion of discord. We learn that the only "Truth" is a place that transcends even our limited perception of Love. And in that sweet space, we REALize how profound is the statement that Love leaves nothing undone.

And even when we're being fearful, obnoxious a**holes, the memory of that stillness lingers a mere heartbeat below the turbulence. Not demanding. Just sitting...

Namasté

Upon the wings of forgotten music...

Sometimes, when the mood strikes, when boredom precludes other ventures, or when something in me longs for remembrance, I drag out my little Ipod and see where it will take me. It still amazes me that something the size of a postage stamp can hold a full day's worth of music. It should come as no surprise to those who know me that the music I have loaded into the diminutive machine is, for the most part, of a generation that is now slipping rapidly into old age. My generation.

As I listen to the anthems of my youth, I am transported back, to a time when so many things really mattered, and when my passions were never too far below the surface of my thoughts. I find myself filled with a deep longing, not for a return to those times, but rather to the consciousness and passion that so filled me then. And to the sense that there was something more to me than my functionality, my accomplishments (or lack thereof), and my many mistakes and failures. There was so much before me back then, and I find myself wondering where all that potential went, and how much of it is left. And most poignantly, I find myself hoping that there might still remain some spark of the best that I thought I could be.

Some songs fill me with a bittersweet sadness. "Child's Song" by Tom Rush reminds me of the time when I finally sought a path apart from my parents', and departed without the anger that had become such a predominant part of our relationship. Another of his songs, "Old Man's Song," reminds me of a rapidly approaching Autumn. Yet I do not feel the hopeless frustration he describes; perhaps I have simply not reached that feeble time. Or, perhaps I have found a path that will keep the regrets of old age at bay. Only time will tell.

Other songs remind me of loves past; the beautiful muse who held such a huge part of my soul for most of my adult life; the lovely "platonic" friend in college - we only acknowledged having been in love with each other as our paths were to diverge forever, her to Alaska, and me to serve in the Navy. There were the many random infatuations that touched me over the years, each returning for a moment of silent acknowledgment. The wife who bore me the greatest blessings any human may experience. I can barely recall the anger at our ending, for clinging to the pain serves me no purpose. Better to simply love and let go. And there was the one woman to whom I finally shared the core of my ugliness, and who loved me, nonetheless. Taught me, at long last, not to hate myself. To each of these, I can conjure only tenderness, and recall only love. There is no need to go back, and no longing to do so. I have been graced with their presence, and hold the sweetness of that presence still. The woman who shares my life and my heart nowadays knows the stories. Knows their place at the table of my reverie. And is herself touched that I now choose to give my love to her.

Perhaps I am trapped in a time-warp of sorts. Few examples of modern music touch my soul as do those shining moments we now call "classic rock." I have no doubt that each generation clings tightly to "their" music, not so much for the inherent genius it represents, but rather for the instantaneous transport it provides, a free ticket to dreams nearly forgotten. A rekindling of potential, to remind us that it has been neither lost nor wasted.

And then, just as I feel so fully immersed in sweet melancholy, the wisdom of my Ipod hears the beating of my heart, and shifts completely the mood of its offerings. Jethro Tull, Hendrix, Bugs Henderson, Crosby Stills & Nash, and finally, the greatest hard rock band of all time. Funny... as "Whole Lotta Love" screams through my head, I might as well be sitting in the back of Michael's old yellow van as we - loves of our semester in tow - careen through the winding paths of the Piney Woods, in search of a perfect sunset (or at least a couple cases of Boone's Farm from the liquor store across the county line). Makes my eyes red every time I hear it. And wouldn't you know it? It just now began to play. The Ipod knows, and is all-wise. And I am compelled to listen, and again to follow those forgotten paths. Perhaps even to "go into the kitchen, make me something good to eat..." as that fine troubadour Jonathan Edwards used to say. It's a good place to be, and I thank all those who have joined me on that journey, even if only for a moment.

Ya just can't make this stuff up!

Well, our newest political rock star has done it again, sticking her expensively-shod foot in her perennially open mouth. I'm referring to her having fallen hook, line, and sinker for a prank call from a well-known Canadian radio personality, posing as French Prime Minister Sarkozy.

I won't include the text of the entire call here, since it is available elsewhere. However, I think it worth noting that, given the McCain / Palin's vehement (and misleading) rejection of what they claim to be Obama's willingness to meet with foreign leaders "without preconditions," it would seem that one essential precondition to engaging in a discussion with any foreign leader would be knowing who you're actually talking to! Palin apparently disagrees.

I'm certainly not in a position where anything I say (or write) might affect American policy, much less, national security, but if I received a call from someone I didn't know well enough to immediately recognize, I certainly wouldn't discuss my own or a client's personal matters without at least verifying the caller's identity and the appropriateness of their call. And perhaps I'm just a bit too careful, but I consider any dialog with a head of state to be at least significant enough to warrant a modicum of caution. Apparently, Ms. Palin doesn't share that sense of caution.

Despite what any thinking person (or at least, one not blinded by their own ambition) would recognize as clues as to the absurdity of the call, Ms. Palin marched right along... a challenging task, what with both feet, and the greater portion of her lovely legs, now firmly implanted in her gullet. Asked about hunting wolves from helicopters and the joy of killing things, she just palled up to the idea. Offered a degree of sympatico at the veracity of being able to see another country as a requisite for knowing anything about that country, one could virtually see Palin nodding in agreement. Even when the fake Sarkozy spoke approvingly of a porn flick starring a Palin lookalike, Palin didn't blink. She never blinks, remember?

Now, I'm sure that even as her handlers and spin-meisters try to present her as "just being a good sport," they're undoubtedly wishing they could just slap a muzzle on her. Beyond the inevitable giggles this latest faux pas will incite, and the addition of another challenge to a campaign that has been brilliant in adding to its own challenges, this latest incident begs - and sadly, answers - one very serious question: Is this woman qualified and prepared to step into the role of vice president, much less, president?

I would challenge anyone to put aside the partisan spin - from either side - stop the giggling, and answer that question honestly. Their answer should reverberate in their mind as they stand in the voting booth on Tuesday, poised to make a decision that will itself reverberate throughout the world for at least the next four years.

Myself, I want someone who blinks. Or thinks about blinking. Or at the very least, thinks.

Where from here?

As the sun sets golden behind the western peaks of the Sangre de Cristo, lines of celebrants stream down from the mountain, their torches dancing and flickering in the whisper of dusk's breeze. Far below, the throng awaits, their chatter silenced as the torch-bearers approach.

From the silence rises a lone cry, "Burn Him!" Then another. From a few scattered voices, the cry is taken up until the din of it is literally deafening.

BURN HIM!!

In closely choreographed movements, the torch-bearers cast their flaming brands at the feet of the effigy, and as the flames consume it, screams issue from the loudspeaker in the marionette's head. And in mere moments, once the figure is consumed in flame, the crowd squeals and screams with orgasmic delight. Zozobra is dead.

Of course, this is just a big, harmless party, its attendees bent upon casting out the demons of gloom that have haunted them during the year, and bidding that gloom to be gone from the year before them.

Leaving the desert, we enter an arena, filled with revelers clutching "America First" signs. From somewhere in the midst of the crowd arises a cry of "Traitor!" From across the room, "Socialist!" And from another section, "Kill Him!" as the host of the party simply - and silently - smiles.

The similarity between the two scenarios is chilling. One can only wonder when the torches will begin streaming down from the far reaches of the stadium, and whether, given their preference, the celebrants might delight in the screaming agony of a black-faced effigy, bedecked in a three-piece suit, as it is engulfed in that cleansing flame.

God Bless America. What have we become?

McSocialism defined

The McCain campaign has gone to great lengths to paint Barack Obama as a socialist, in hopes of frightening undecided voters. What they apparently fail to realize is that at least some of those undecideds actually know how to use http://www.factcheck.org to verify the truth of their accusations. Furthermore, they seem to think that Americans are either too stupid or lack memory capacity sufficient to recall the McCain campaigns own words and actions. As noted in a New Yorker article penned by Hendrik Hertzberg*

"During the 2000 campaign, on MSNBC’s “Hardball,” a young woman asked him why her father, a doctor, should be “penalized” by being “in a huge tax bracket.” McCain replied that “wealthy people can afford more” and
that “the very wealthy, because they can afford tax lawyers and all kinds of loopholes, really don’t pay nearly as much as you think they do.” The exchange continued:

YOUNG WOMAN: Are we getting closer and closer to, like, socialism and stuff?. . .

MCCAIN: Here’s what I really believe: That when you reach a certain level of comfort, there’s nothing wrong with paying somewhat more.

For her part, Sarah Palin, who has lately taken to calling Obama “Barack the Wealth Spreader,” seems to be something of a suspect character herself. She is, at the very least, a fellow-traveller of what might be
called socialism with an Alaskan face. The state that she governs has no income or sales tax. Instead, it imposes huge levies on the oil companies that lease its oil fields. The proceeds finance the government’s activities and enable it to issue a four-figure annual
check to every man, woman, and child in the state. One of the reasons Palin has been a popular governor is that she added an extra twelve hundred dollars to this year’s check, bringing the per-person total to $3,269. A few weeks before she was nominated for Vice-President, she
told a visiting journalist—Philip Gourevitch, of this magazine—that “we’re set up, unlike other states in the union, where it’s collectively Alaskans own the resources. So we share in the wealth when the development of these resources occurs.” Perhaps there is some meaningful
distinction between spreading the wealth and sharing it (“collectively,” no less), but finding it would require the analytic skills of Karl the Marxist."

C'mon, John & Sarah... at least give voters credit for being intelligent enough to observe and remember what you say and do before you accuse the other guy of doing it!

Barn Dogs

Update: Finally able to get a shot of this sweet elderly lady.
Her name is Truffles.

This is a wolf-Malmute hybrid named Muncher,
so named after killing a goat & calf. He's now our official garage wolf!

And this is a hound called Buddy, who was the first to "adopt" us.

I'm going to depart from my regularly scheduled rant, and talk about something that brings me real joy. Out here on the ranch, there are quite a few dogs and horses - most of them rescues - who owe their well-being (if not their lives) to the compassion of a woman named Amy, daughter of Tennessee Titans owner Bud Adams. (We seem to have a tendency to live next to sweet dog-lovers. Our last neighbor is the President of the Homeless Pet Placement League in Houston. Another sweetheart!) Many of the dogs live in fenced-off yards, but the most sociable are allowed to roam free on the ranch. And a few of them have adopted Connie and I.

I say adopted, but what has actually happened is that they have grown accustomed to the 6PM suppers we offer, the morning treats, and the affection we bestow upon them. They have us pretty well trained.

At first, we felt sorry for them, since they didn't have warm houses, soft beds, or people they could claim as their own. But that perspective was based more upon our own preconceptions than upon actual circumstance. No, they don't have warm houses; what they do have is a collection of barns and garages where they can huddle together against the cold, or hide from the sun on the most blistering summer days. Their beds are wherever they want them to be, frequently in our garage, or on the soft grass of our lawn. They wander as they please (and seem to know that the road is not a good place to go), with no demands placed upon them. They swim in the pond when they feel like it, play in the pastures, and grace us with their presence when they see fit. Oh... they also manage to show up at 6 on the nose every afternoon, and announce their availability for the feeding ritual. Most nights, Muncher stays the night on a bed we've prepared for him. When it's cold outside, Truffles lets us know it's time to bring her into the warm house for the night.

Our feed bill has gone up considerably since they made us a part of their routine, but I can't imagine anything we could spend that money on that would give us so much in return. You see, these guys are living the life that most people only dream about. Their needs are met. They are loved (probably by more folks than we are aware of). And they have the kind of freedom that we humans only know as children, and most, not even then.

We like to tell ourselves that they love us as much as we've grown to love them. Might be little more than a fantasy, but I doubt it, because even when they're hungry, they still belay their feasting for as long as one of us offers a kind word and a scratch behind the ears. Ever since losing my beloved Rex, shortly after moving to the ranch, there's been an empty place that only a big, friendly dog can fill. And these guys do a great job of filling that hole in my heart. I only wonder if they know how precious they have become to us. I hope so.