Acceptable In The 80's

January 27, 2008

"I've got love for you if you were born in the 80's", says Calvin Harris in his song, "Acceptable In The 80's". I know what he means. He was born in 1984. I'm now 40, and despite feeling the escape of my years quicken slightly, I'm far from becoming one of those stereotypical old codgers who inevitably adopts the attitude of, "Today's generation has it easy compared to mine—they don't know what it was like". In fact, I love this next generation just hitting their 20's: the Y generation. You won't catch me repeating the negative narrative our parents' generation did about my generation, the X generation.

In the 80's, there was a grey cloud over the horizon. And that cloud was a mix of Cold War fears, Aids, the proliferation of "McJobs". There were more, of course, but those are some that come quickest to mind. Some people really feared Jesse Helms, the Christian Coalition, and the Moral Majority. Others feared black helicopters, a UN takeover, and the Council on Foreign Relations. It wasn't a time of innocence and naivette', just because it started nearly 30 years ago. Sure, for a time in the early 80's it was actually fashionable for guys to roll up the bottom two inches of your jeans, which hadn't been seen in the American landscape since, yes it's true: the 50's. But that's where the myth of the 80's being some kind of 'Golden Age' repeat of the 50's ends.

When I entered my teen years in the late 70's, what you heard a lot of (if you were part of the hip "in" crowd, natch'), was this disdain, nay, condescending attitude towards this one illegitimate instrument which rock bands from Led Zeppelin to Queen railed against: the synthesizer. Why? Because the synthesizer created the facsimile of a true guitar, drum, or horn. A synthesizer compressed and recoded the trumpet's natural sound. One man could replace three (or more). For those of us who had been weened on understanding this thing we call music in two ways, the sound and the band, the thought of a couple of keyboards replacing our band was unthinkable.

The element of sound is self-evident. But the other aspect, knowledge of the band, is multi-dimensional. Personalities are involved. Egos compete. And in this aspect, it is illustrative to understand the problems of ego when you notice the divide between the Baby Boom generation and the next. The Baby Boom generation was forged from a 60's decade of deconstruction. It was the first generation to insist that it was more special than any other before it. Other generations met challenges in front of them, and answered when their country's sanctity was in peril. That is what allowed each generation to show great fortitude in improving social and economic conditions from the past.

Take the question of civil rights. When WWII was fought, there was a strong push already old by that point, to integrate the armed forces on racial lines. By 1952, there were mostly-African American units in our Army who fought in the Korean War. After the wars of the 40's and 50's were over, those men who were former soldiers were then in the Senate and Congress, affecting laws and society. The most important US legislation for African Americans in the past 100 years came about in the 1964 and 1965 Civil Rights Acts. They did away with poll taxes, literacy tests, and other barriers to full equality of access to the voting process in this great country. They also made it illegal for businesses to practice prejudice when both hiring and selling to African Americans. The same generation that stormed the beaches of Normandy in their youth grew into the ones who understood the need for a respect for the rule of law.

Survivors of D Day will tell you the truth: draftees made up a large portion of the initial bodies that ended up on the beaches that morning. Does the fact that many of them who may have had questions, misgivings at least, about our involvement with Germany (a country that hadn't done anything to us! And the US was invading-gasp-France, which also didn't have anything to do with 911, er, I mean Pearl Harbor), still put aside their fear and anger with their government and did what was asked of them mean anything anymore? Many of the Bedford Boys were drafted, as they were from farming families who couldn't easily afford to lose another set of hands. But it was those Bedford Boys who survived that horrific day who went on to be part of the clan who made the Civil Rights Acts of the 60's possible. At that time, Baby Boomers were under 25 as a generation, not in places of power such as congress or on town councils.

Our awakening into adulthood, we X-Gen'ers, was ushered in with the Baby Boomers telling us we were a bunch of "slackers". We were a do-nothing crop of brain-numbed, lazy, unmotivated youth. They were already printing nostalgic memoirs of their protest-filled 60's awakening of adolescent to adult. I read quite a few, actually. Some while I was young, myself. That's when all of that fuzzy-headed relativist cotton candy tastes best. When you don't have any idea of sacrifice, servitude, and faith in your whole being, it's easy to mock those of us who take those notions seriously. It's not all relative. And all it takes to realize that is to travel and live in a developing country for a year. Of course, for those who have never done that, this perspective may be lost. But it was important to me when I was 20 years old, entering my third year in the US Army, an infantryman being stationed in S Korea from Jan '88 through Jan '89.

It used to offend me a little to hear my parent's generation have such a low estimation of us. (now, I don't give a damn what they think of us.) My dad's cousin Jimmy belonged to the same hunting club my dad belonged to, and we would all see each other once a year during early trout season. I remember Jimmy extolling his disbelief at my generation. I was 16 at the time, and the drinking age had recently been raised from 18 to 21. Jimmy said that was bullshit, and that if it was his generation (my dad's--Baby Boomers), they'd be out in the streets about it, blah, blah. He said he can't believe my generation, taking it like that. So, in their eyes, I can see why they would consider us, "slackers".

Movies were made with those titles, books were written, and it was allowed to thrive unchallenged. But it is my generation who are the upper NCO's and officers of this latest war, (where the average age of combat death is 27 years old. In Vietnam, it was 23) and the enlistees and young seargants of the last one: the Persian Gulf I, or Desert Storm. My generation has been a quiet return to the best of American qualities: faith in something other than yourself.

We were told that our generation will be the first to be unable to achieve what the previous generation had. They were talking financially. We were coming of age when the notions of "downsizing", and "exporting of jobs" were placed in front of us. Those factors are still all over the ever-changing American domestic workplace. The proper term now is "outsourcing". To know that job insecurity will constantly be your reward until your death keeps you in need of something that enables you to meet each day with an air of gratitude and contentment...and for many it is faith. Faith in something bigger than yourself.

It hasn't been easy for the last 20 years. Moving from job to job, state to state. Relationship to relationship. Hardly time to sit and navel-gaze, wondering how I can think of a new way to protest in the streets for more.

I enjoy the largest free-market existence in the world. A startling experiment in self-government, coupled with a (mostly) free market economic engine. No other country has done so much for so many, in such a short time, while asking so little.

And finally, after a sad display in the 1960's of some of our American citizens and their lack of commitment to sharing in the responsibilities of maintaining this benevolent, reluctant empire, I am proud to be a part of the NEXT generation: a generation who didn't run and hide. I'm proud that we entered these last three wars (Persian Gulf I [Desert Storm], Afghanistan, and Persian Gulf II [Iraq War]) with a proud, determined, soulful acceptance of our place in this whole mix.

It is when you lose the ego that you can truly serve.

It's not hard to see why the Pink Floyd generation, with their Roger Waters-size egos, can't understand what the quiet, determined, focused Chemical Brothers are all about.

Half-Empty Jars

January 13, 2008

"Here, do you want to take these?" I was looking at a handful of half-empty jars of shaving lotion that my grandmother was thrusting in my face, as I sat down in the living room for the first time since he passed, earlier that morning.

"No, that's ok", I politely responded to her. Her nerves are completely shot. I am almost certain that the reason that she is worrying enough to scurry off to the bathroom to collect something as inappropriate for the moment as old, mostly-gone lotion, when I'm just about to sit down to the fact that I've lost the grandfather that I've lived with for the past three years…is because she's still in shock. And that's very understandable. She has just lost the man she's loved and lived with for 64 years.

Even though we've been prepared for this inevitability, we have been even more acutely aware of his frailty of life. He went down in the first week of September, four months ago. It was his breathing at first, but mainly his heart. It was giving out. He was flown to Health Park three times the first month, each for a weeklong stay. His prognosis was extremely grim each time, but he managed to hang on, fighting as any soldier does, emerging in a bedridden condition. He has lived the past four months on his back, in a hospital bed, in our living room. His mind was there, but his body was giving out.

There is a wash of emotions that come over you when someone that close passes. Something you think that would be met with high drama and intensity is actually calm. Sorrowful, numbing, humbling, yes. But simultaneously calm. Perhaps it's the knowledge of his long, rich life that has outlived all the odds. Perhaps it's the gratitude that his long battle is over. Life lived on your back is like a prison of sorts. The chains of emphysema and heart disease were strained against for many years, and he fought to make it for 85 years.

We have all been moving as if in slow motion for the past 4 months, running on adrenaline alone, sometimes. The needs for him were great, and the round-the-clock care was filled, mostly by my grandmother, my mother, and me. But that's what you do when you're in a family—you rally. You meet whatever task at hand you must, and think less of what impact it has on you. Days go by; everyone is clenched, nervous, and spending a LOT of energy in keeping a good front, expecting death at any minute. Then, days turn into weeks. Schedules are formed as to when to pick him up from either the bed or his wheelchair. Or from the porta-potty. That was my job, mainly. Although he'd lost some weight, he was still too heavy for my mother and grandmother to do with great care.

And weeks turn into months.

My mother lives in Va, so she had to fly down when he first went down—it hit us all pretty quickly in Sept. If she had driven, it would have required 19 hours straight on the road, and at the time, we weren't sure he would last that long. She flew back two months later, after living out of a suitcase for all of that time. He was debilitated, but stable for the time being. She stayed back in Va for about a month, then came back in early December. This time she drove.
And it's a good thing, too, because she just drove my grandmother back to Va, where they buried my grandfather yesterday.

He woke up last Tues, January 1st, saying that he wanted to "start the new year off right", by becoming more mobile than he's been for the last four months. He thought that he would try to stand up. He scooted to the edge of the bed, where my mother helped him swing his legs down to a stool at first. He sat there for many minutes, thinking. Finally, he thought better of it. Reluctantly lying back down, he resolved to try a few leg exercises instead. He tried a couple of repetitions, then quit. He complained of, "Not feeling very well."

He started getting grey soon after that. We called the EMS folks, who were there in minutes. "This time it looks bad", one of them said. We were all in the hospital within an hour after it all started that morning, and didn't leave until late in the evening. I had to work the next day, Wednesday. The prognosis wasn't good when I left, but it was undetermined as to exactly when it might happen. Hours, a day, three days…kinda like back in September, but even more certain-sounding. We found out that the loss of oxygen for the past 12 hours had damaged his brain. This wasn't good at all, of course. This was probably going to be his final passing.

I hadn't been asleep long when the phone rang. It was my mother. Very tired, and somber-sounding, she told me that it was probably going to happen soon. I said, "I'll be there in a half hour". She said no, that she and Granny were going to be leaving soon, themselves, and that there was no need to come out expecting him to be alive when he probably won't be. At almost 3am, exhausted myself, knowing I had to be at work in a few hours, I decided to concede.
Minutes went by after I hung up. I was dozing between conscious and unconscious when I was suddenly jolted awake, feeling a definite unexpected rush in my mind, a sudden increase in my heartrate. For minutes I was affected by this sudden reaction. Indefinable, but undeniable.

"They're good lotion; he had a bunch of them. Are you sure you don't want to take them home with you?", she said, her voice starting to trail off, realizing the way she was speaking in the past tense about him.

The Minefield We Walk Through

October 28, 2007

I'm the first to admit that I don't read things as accurately as I should all the time. I've been flat-out wrong about many things in my life. But all of us are guided by that "little voice" inside our head. Whether we choose to listen to it or not is another thing.

The other day I was in my company's small kitchen with three other women. We all work in cubicles throughout the day, so it feels different when you're actually grouped together with one or more people at the same time. Such times allow for a little playful interaction with each other, something to break up the monotony of the day.

It was lunchtime, and I had to leave to run some errands during my break, so I was trying to nuke my lunch, a soft burrito from WallyWorld, before I set out on my trip. Every minute counted, as I don't like to be late when clocking back in after lunch is over.

Out of the three women in the kitchenette with me, two of them were ahead of me for the sole microwave we have there. One was finishing warming up her meal, then the next one, I'll call her 'Jane', had to cook hers, then I would be next. The third woman was behind me in order.

While we were all standing there, the women started to joke with me about how they were not going to be "bumped" out of rotation for their meal, and I'd better get used to it, etc, etc. I was joking right back with them, enjoying the light banter for once. My job is such that I deal with angry, exasperated women on the phone all day, and for there to be a conversation that doesn't start with an upset tone is really a momentary blessing for me.

"Oh, I know better than to jump in line in front of you guys. I've heard you're really cutthroat about that stuff!", I jokingly replied. Two of the women were immediately laughing with me and going along with the joke, adding things like, "That's right, you better watch it", or, "Umm-hmm", and the like. But Jane's tone changed slightly when she chimed in on the lighthearted banter. "What do you mean "you guys"?"

It just so happened that out of the three women, two of them were African American. Jane was one of them.

Let me say right now that I am 40 years old, and I have been around the block a few times. I don't look for things to separate myself from others, as I've spent my life seeing the things that make us all similar to each other. As a white male, being raised in America right after the Civil Rights Acts of 1964 and 1965 were passed, I think it fair to say that I've "seen the light" when it comes to race relations. We all are overwhelmingly deluged with cultural messages which seek to continually portray my white race, particularly Southern White Males, as having "a lot further to go" when it comes to treating African Americans as equals.

It doesn't matter to the race-baiters that I was raised in a family where the 'n-word' was NEVER used. It also doesn't matter to those who see a racially-bigoted component in all facets of American life that as a young adult, I've promoted and advanced African Americans in every station of life in which I've been in a managerial position to do so. To those that are prejudiced against my race, I still am in need of being "taught a lesson" about race. I get the message, and have had to quietly deal with it my entire life.

So, when "Jane" made the exclamation about, "What do you mean, "you guys"", my internal radar immediately went off, assessing her accusatory tone. I was hoping I was wrong, frankly, in hearing what I thought I might be hearing. I have had a great relationship with "Jane" up until now, but her tone and quickness with that remark were almost unmistakable to this man of many years.

I jovially replied, without missing a beat, "Well, I mean 'you guys' who work up here with me". Jane then said back to me, "You cleaned that one up really well". Her tone was slightly less joking at this point, and it seemed to say, 'You may have gotten that one by me now, but I'm watching you'. But what, indeed, did I "clean up"? When I said, "…you guys who work up here with me", how could anyone see that as being 'cleaned up', unless a person was seeing an implied insult by referring to a group of people in my immediate vicinity as 'you guys'?

Now, I hope I've misinterpreted her implications. Like I said above, I'm guilty of misreading things in life occasionally. Some of us are plagued with a sensitive antennae, and have to always be on guard for reading "too much" into signs from people. I mean, after all, Jane could have been angling for me to say, "You women" is what I had really meant, and then the little room would have erupted into a lot of anti-woman, sexist kind of accusations instead of the racist element that ended up just hanging in the air, unclear and unrefined.

I know what I meant, and it wasn't either sexist or racist. It was just a joke that I was going along with from them in the first place. But of course, as a White Southern Male in this modern world, I don't get the luxury of defining what I mean when I talk. It's all in the mind of the minority, these days.

Ann Coulter Strikes Again

October 21, 2007

Well, Ann Coulter has done it again. The "purveyor of hate" has dared to stick her neck out again, making statements which are upsetting to the rest of the civilized world. First, she upsets the tender-hearted Left when responding to Matt Lauer during an interview on the NBC Today show:

LAUER: On the 9-11 widows, and in particular a group that had been critical of the administration:

COULTER: "These self-obsessed women seem genuinely unaware that 9-11 was an attack on our nation and acted like as if the terrorist attack only happened to them. They believe the entire country was required to marinate in their exquisite personal agony. Apparently, denouncing bush was part of the closure process."

"These broads are millionaires, lionized on TV and in articles about them, reveling in their status as celebrities and stalked by griefparrazies. I have never seen people enjoying their husband's death so much."

Then, without asking their permission first, she actually used a word that, heretofore, had mainly been used by homosexuals when exchanging comments about themselves:
"I was going to have a few comments on the other Democratic presidential candidate, John Edwards, but it turns out that you have to go into rehab if you use the word 'faggot,' so I'm - so, kind of at an impasse, can't really talk about Edwards, so I think I'll just conclude here and take your questions,"

These trespasses may be all that you can take, I'm sure. I mean, if you're as delicate and soft as the nation's left-wing bloggers are, and assume that all of us are as well, then you've already spewed your latte all over your parlor-room furniture and choked on your biscotti at the above passages. "Who is this she-devil that spews such vile propaganda and hatred?", I can hear you saying. Or, more accurately, I can hear Kathy Griffith still shrieking. Kathy appeared on the same episode of the Today show that Ann made the above statements about the 9-11 anti-Bush widows. Kathy Griffith, a darling of the Bravo channel crowd, made the absolutely best, most intelligent retort that she and her ilk could when she was trotted out after Ann's segment had ended:

"I saw that nut-bag on the show earlier. What's she doing wearing a cocktail dress at seven in the morning. She got home from the party last night. Doesn't she just make stuff up Al? Who fact checks? You can't just let Ann Coulter…"

Too bad for Kathy, I guess. No one informed her that her 'D-List" savvy wasn't going to hold up when going against an intellectual who is several stories higher than her basement-level mentality. Poor Kathy thought that after her profound insight on Today show dress code was launched, that she'd score a knockout blow with that jab about, "Who fact-checks?"
But when you're just a reactionary, you don't care about arguing intelligently.

Just ask the Left.

They can't manage to defeat this exquisite Siren we know as Ann Coulter on ANYTHING she has ever said. Ann Coulter is not just some airhead fantasy writer like Maureen Dowd. Ann got her credentials the honest way: Graduated with honors from Cornell University; earned her JD from the University of Michigan Law (serving as editor of the Michigan Law Review); clerked for the Honorable Pasco Bowman II of the United States Court of Appeals for the Eighth Circuit and was an attorney in the Department of Justice Honors Program for outstanding law school graduates; practiced law for a private firm in New York City; and she became a litigator with the Center For Individual Rights in Washington, DC, a public interest law firm dedicated to the defense of individual rights with particular emphasis on freedom of speech, civil rights, and the free exercise of religion.

A typical media-type or Washington talking head she ain't. Idiots like Maureen Dowd, Alan Combs, or Michael Kinsley aren't qualified to shine her shoes.

But that won't stop the brain-dead crew from The View from launching into Ann for her remarks during a recent interview on the Donny Deutsch show. In case you're like the other 99% of the world that hasn't seen Donny's show, you aren't missing anything. Donny showcases people who are near and dear to his heart: they're millionaires. He practically fawns over guests as they give their blow-by-blow experience with MAKING MONEY. All the way through it, Donny turns to the camera, telling us average Americans that "You can do this, too", with wide-eyed excitement and near delirious excitement.

For Donny, nothing is as important as MAKING MONEY. He doesn't understand someone who comes by millions of dollars as a by-product of doing something more important: living by their own standards. Ann is just such a person. You only have to read one chapter of her many books to understand that she is a passionate, committed, integrity-filled person, who just so happens to have made it rich because those of us in America are drawn to her pure analysis of the world stage. We buy her books faithfully. Me, included. I have every one of her tomes, and am the proud owner of one which was hand-signed by her. She doesn't have to market herself in the ways that hucksters like Donny Deutsch have made a lifetime of perfecting. She attracts millions of us loyalists by her mind only. No billboards, distributors, or slick packaging cause us to stop and buy her product.

Perhaps this is why Donny ended up turning on Ann by the end of their interview. I watched it from beginning to end, and saw Ann repeatedly try to get it across to Donny that her craft is just that: a skill. Donny kept trying to get her to divulge some simple formula which results in making the millions she does. "Being controversial sells", he kept trying to get her to say. Ann would try to rephrase his statement, correcting his shallow, materialistic analysis of what she does for a living, but he kept interrupting her—as if she was speaking a foreign language to poor Donny:
ANN:"I do what I do without calculating how I can make money from it." You could see those statements hit Deutsch between the eyes, leaving him speechless. He didn't know how to package that one.

After about three or four failed attempts to get some statement from Ann which would fit into a marketing slogan for Donny to wrap his mind around, you could hear the frustration welling up in him. He's getting to the end of his big interview with a well-known provocateur, and he hasn't produced some startling ratings-getter. Finally, he starts to sound desperate to get something, anything scandalous out of Ann:

DEUTSCH: Let me ask you a question. We're going to get off strengths and weakness for a second. If you had your way, and all of your — forget that any of them —

COULTER: I like this.

DEUTSCH: — are calculated marketing teases, and your dreams, which are genuine, came true having to do with immigration, having to do with women's — with abortion — what would this country look like?

COULTER: UMMMMM (pause) ... It would look like New York City during the Republican National Convention. In fact, that's what I think heaven is going to look like.

DEUTSCH: And what did that look like?

COULTER: Happy, joyful Republicans in the greatest city in the world.

DEUTSCH: No, no, no, no, but I'm talking about this country. You don't want to make this country — it's not about Republicans. I'm saying, what would the fabric of this country look like? Forget that the Republicans would be running the show.

COULTER: Well, everyone would root for America, the Democratic Party would look like Joe Lieberman, the Republican Party would look like Duncan Hunter —

DEUTSCH: No, no, no, I don't want — I'm not talking about politically the landscape. What would our — would we be safer? Would people be happier? Would they be more —

COULTER: We would be a lot safer.

DEUTSCH: Would there be more tolerance? Would there be — would women be happier, would the races get along better? The Ann Coulter subscription — prescription. What — tell me what would be different in our fabric of country, because —

COULTER: Well, all of those things.

DEUTSCH: I can give — I can give you an argument there would be more divisiveness, that there would be more hate —

COULTER: Oh, no.
DEUTSCH: That there would be a bigger difference between the rich and the poor, a lot of other — tell me what — why this would be a better world? Let's give you — I'm going to give you — say this is your show.

COULTER: Well, OK, take the Republican National Convention. People were happy. They're Christian. They're tolerant. They defend America, they —

DEUTSCH: Christian — so we should be Christian? It would be better if we were all Christian?

COULTER: Yes.

DEUTSCH: We should all be Christian?

COULTER: Yes. Would you like to come to church with me, Donny?

DEUTSCH: So I should not be a Jew, I should be a Christian, and this would be a better place?

COULTER: Well, you could be a practicing Jew, but you're not.

DEUTSCH: I actually am. That's not true. I really am. But — so we would be better if we were —
if people — if there were no Jews, no Buddhists —

COULTER: Whenever I'm harangued by —

DEUTSCH: — in this country? You can't believe that.

COULTER: — you know, liberals on diversity —

DEUTSCH: Here you go again.

COULTER: No, it's true. I give all of these speeches at megachurches across America, and the one thing that's really striking about it is how utterly, completely diverse they are, and completely unself-consciously. You walk past a mixed-race couple in New York, and it's like they have a chip on their shoulder. They're just waiting for somebody to say something, as if anybody would. And —

DEUTSCH: I don't agree with that. I don't agree with that at all. Maybe you have the chip looking at them. I see a lot of interracial couples, and I don't see any more or less chips there either way. That's erroneous.

COULTER: No. In fact, there was an entire "Seinfeld" episode about Elaine and her boyfriend dating because they wanted to be a mixed-race couple, so you're lying.

DEUTSCH: Oh, because of some "Seinfeld" episode? OK.

COULTER: But yeah, I think that's reflective of what's going on in the culture, but it is completely striking that at these huge megachurches — the idea that, you know, the more Christian you are, the less tolerant you would be is preposterous.

DEUTSCH: That isn't what I said, but you said I should not — we should just throw Judaism away and we should all be Christians, then, or —

COULTER: Yeah.

DEUTSCH: Really?

COULTER: Well, it's a lot easier. It's kind of a fast track.

DEUTSCH: Really?

COULTER: Yeah. You have to obey.

DEUTSCH: You can't possibly believe that.

COULTER: Yes.

DEUTSCH: You can't possibly — you're too educated, you can't — you're like my friend in —

COULTER: Do you know what Christianity is? We believe your religion, but you have to obey.

DEUTSCH: No, no, no, but I mean —

COULTER: We have the fast-track program.

DEUTSCH: Why don't I put you with the head of Iran? I mean, come on. You can't believe that.

COULTER: The head of Iran is not a Christian.

DEUTSCH: No, but in fact, "Let's wipe Israel" —

COULTER: I don't know if you've been paying attention.

DEUTSCH: "Let's wipe Israel off the earth." I mean, what, no Jews?

COULTER: No, we think — we just want Jews to be perfected, as they say.

DEUTSCH: Wow, you didn't really say that, did you?

COULTER: Yes. That is what Christianity is. We believe the Old Testament, but ours is more like Federal Express. You have to obey laws. We know we're all sinners —

DEUTSCH: In my old days, I would have argued — when you say something absurd like that,
there's no —

COULTER: What's absurd?

DEUTSCH: Jews are going to be perfected. I'm going to go off and try to perfect myself —

COULTER: Well, that's what the New Testament says.

DEUTSCH: Ann Coulter, author of "If Democrats Had Any Brains, They'd Be Republicans," and if Ann Coulter had any brains, she would not say Jews need to be perfected. I'm offended by that personally. And we'll have more "Big Idea" when we come back.

Isn't it funny when the liberal intelligentsia gets bested at their own game? Donny had to result to ad-hominem attacks against Ann, because she simply answered his Utopian question.

See, there is no right and wrong when you ask a hypothetical like Donny did, but he obviously becomes unhinged when Ann provided thoughtful, intelligent, cogent answers. Up until now, America has had to hear about what "the best that America should be", as defined by the Left.

Well, it turns out that us quiet, patriotic, Christian Americans have got just as much a vivid vision of what America should be, also. And when it comes out as beautifully as what an intelligent, beautiful woman like Ann Coulter says, they become rabid urchins, clawing and screaming that "You insulted me as a Jew".

Relax, Donny, it was a hypothetical question she was respondidng to. You're still safe in this Christian nation, ok? You're still welcome to spit on those of us who call ourselves Christian brothers of yours, who came to your rescue in WWII and gave you a safe place to make your precious money. Go find an easier interview next time.

What Is Love?

September 18, 2007

Thank God for women. Allow me to rephrase that: Thank God for my mother and grandmother, and women like them. There may be a few like them, but I'm not so sure anymore.

You know, we men think that we can do most anything at all under the sun. If we can't do it with our bare hands and our back, just give us the right tool, and we'll figure it out. This much may be true, but not everything worth living for or accomplishing can be done with a circular saw, a wrench, or a computer. We may need to admit that when this whole thing we call Life is over, the measurement of our soul's greatness won't rely on how well we fixed a car, built a house, or wrote a web application.

My grandfather has been the subject of the last few blogs on here, I know. Writing about his sudden cardiac decline has helped me get some of the emotions out of my system, to a degree. I have a good many people I call friends, and a few that I call my closest friends, but I don't completely unload all that I'm going through to these very few. They know some of the details, but they don't know what I'm about to talk about here. Only these two women, my mother and my grandmother, are the ones who are around me the most. They are showing me an example of what it is to love someone.

With the gradual failing of his heart, my grandfather is highly restricted in his movements. A wheelchair is a great blessing to him, but I have to lift him in and out of it every day. From bed in the morning to the chair, then to his soft recliner in the living room. From the recliner to his portable potty chair that we keep in the living room. From the potty chair back to the recliner. From the recliner at the end of the day to his wheelchair, then out of the wheelchair to bed again.

His progress is practically invisible, but my Granny acts like he's making great strides, and kisses his forehead with genuine love. "Honey, you're doing so much better", she says as I laid him in their bed the other night. He needs to hear that. It's an illusion that he's actually getting better, and she knows that. But this woman, who's been in his same bed with him for 63 years, and couldn't lie in front of him even if she tried, sincerely tells him how good he's doing as she excitedly leans in for a kiss.

There is no more shame about seeing my proud grandfather half naked. It's hard to still feel embarrassed when you've had to pick up a man dozens of times, sometimes with his pajama bottoms down around his ankles. Or handing him his urinal as he tugs down his waistband. Then picking him back up to scoot him him a foot back into his resting position in the recliner. The odors begin to collect, especially in this Florida heat.

The potty chair has begun to be optional, now. Stool softeners aren't having their desired affect on him. Suppositories aren't allowed anymore, due to chemical reactions with his poor heart. This is where it begins to get rough. He now feels that the only way he can expel his waste is to lay on their bed. Granny got a plastic sheet recently, and she actually assisted in his elimination the other day. She was completely unphased by it, and all I could do is to look at her with wonder and respect.
She's 85, diagnosed years ago with atrophy of the brain, contracted breast cancer 5 and a half years ago—17 lymph nodes infected with the cancer and removed—and she is completely wound up like a clock with worry at all times. But she shows nothing but love and patience through all of these grueling tasks, saving the worst of her fears and agony for when she's talking to me and my mother out of earshot of him.

She's so careful to treat him as if he was an infant, needing the most delicate of care. And she's been with this same man for 63 years. You'd think she was in their 'courting' phase, with the way that she dotes on him and never lets up. As if she hasn't already proven herself to him over, and over, and over again.

I've seen other elderly couples who bark at each other at every turn. But not her. And not him, either. I've told her many times what a love story theirs is. One for the history books, indeed. Their next-door neighbors just went through a similar ordeal. Tom passed at 89 years old, just two months ago. His wife Emily is a sweet soul who accompanied Tom everywhere. They had been married for over 50 years. His decline lasted for months. She tried to get him to eat better, but his weight just fell off of him, finally succumbing to the grim reaper while weighing maybe one-hundred pounds. She was out playing cards with her bridge club the day after Tom's funeral.

Me and my Granny kind of chuckled about that, but not for long. Poppaw's heart started to give out shortly after Tom died. Granny has been completely focused on nothing but him ever since then. The nurses came today for their scheduled visits. They got him to actually stand up, with their help for support, but that's about it. When I got in this evening I saw Granny sitting on his recliner's armrest like I've never seen her do. She was talking in soft tones to him, which is unusual for her.

I can tell the end is near.

I Support Our Troops...No, Really!

September 15, 2007

My unit from the 82nd Airborne Infantry, 1/325 Bn Mortars, has been deployed in Iraq for 18 months. I've been sending them care packages every few months. It goes without saying that I think of them as heroes. But instead of just paying them lip service, I try to put my money where my mouth is. So many American civilians have become accustomed to deluding themselves by saying the following: "I support our troops, just not the mission." And you can practically smell the smug air around them as they finish that piece of psychological acrobatics, as if to tell us, 'There. There's no way you can call me unpatriotic as I spit on this commander-in-chief and the military war machine I've always hated.'

Well, I definitely don't want to be confused with these self-righteous, dangerously-misguided Americans. When I say that "I support our troops", I really mean it. I support their mission, them, and our commander-in-chief. And I want to show it, too. Not to the idiotic Americans around me, but to the brave men of 1/325 Batallion Mortars. That's the only men who matter, to me, at this point. Trying to impress upon the leftist pacifists that this mission is more important than "weapons of mass destruction", or whether or not "Iraq caused 9-11", has become a losing battle.

It's amazing that the same people who can look ahead for the sake of a young child in Head Start, saying that if he is deprived of this pre-school program that he will live a life of diminished possibilities…can't look ahead to realize the fate of America if we shy away from answering the Islamic Fascists who have been hitting us for at least 35 years without appropriate answer.
I just received an e-mail from my unit's platoon leader the other day. His name is Captain Hank Reardon, West Point graduate. He and the platoon have recovered from a mortar attack last year that left 8 WIA (wounded in action), and 1 KIA. They have been soldiering on, unable to come home from their injuries, while some American people actually wish for our failure in Iraq so that they could smear President Bush.

Here's what Capt. Hank Reardon just wrote me:
John,
I dont really have much new to tell you. Everyday is pretty much a groundhog day for us. We got your package. It had everything on the
list, and the guys all really appreciated it. I posted your letter up and made everyone read it again. They really appreciated that too. I know one of the guys emailed you some pictures and stuff. Let me know if you want some more. They dont want any mail coming after October 1st if you decide to send anymore. Thanks again.
Sincerely,
Hank

Here's the letter I sent with this latest package that Hank was talking about:

HHC 1/325 Bn Mortars
Current Deployment

John Galt
Aug 8, 2007

Hello Men,
Thank-you once again for what you have been doing for me, our great nation, and the rest of the free world. I don't think there will ever be enough praise laid at your feet for what you do for us. This is yet another small gesture from me to try to show you what it means to us all.

There is a lot of distraction going on back here in the States concerning the upcoming election next year. Candidates from the left are flopping all over themselves to try to be all things to all people. They are saying things like "I will bring our troops home immediately in order to save them and to make our country more safe." It would be funny if it weren't for the fact that there are men like you in the middle of the fight, and a nation at home who desperately needs your bravery, dedication, and sacrifice to prevent the fight from arriving at our shores.

Hell, it already HAS arrived at our shores: Airplane hijackings in the 70's; Beirut US Marine slaughter in 1983; German nightclub bombings where off-duty American servicemen were known to hang out in the late 80's; civilian airplane bombings in the late 80's; World Trade Center bombing in 1993; Riyadh bombings, Kobal Tower bombings, American Embassy bombings, and the USS Cole attack, all in the 90's; and of course, the World Trade Center attack of 2001. All of these were committed by Islamic fundamentalists. They ALL had the same mission and goal in mind: destruction of the West/convert or die.

What you are doing will go down in the history books as a dramatic turn from how we used to respond to this terrorism. Thank God for men like you. You make me proud to be an American man, my friends. And you make me even MORE proud to be a veteran of HHC 1/325 Mortar platoon. I carry that intense pride with me to this day, 21 years after I volunteered as an Airborne Infantry soldier. I will never forget my experience there, and I will never forget you great men.

I am getting ready to graduate from night school with an AS in Microsoft Network Engineering in one month. I'm excited about my change of careers, and if I ever am in a position to hire new employees, I certainly hope that I get the privilege of accepting any one of your applications. I don't yet know where I will end up soon, but rest assured, I will never forget any of you.

Send any pics/letters you can—they are very much appreciated. I have the ones from last year's deployment still, but would love to see some new ones from your current deployment. You guys are heroes to me.

Godspeed, Men, and keep safe. Your time there is almost done. Me and millions of grateful Americans are anxious for you to return home.

Sincerely,
John Galt

The Kids Are Alright

September 14, 2007

Where I grew up, it was common to see kids living in the same house with their grandma's, great aunts, or both. I lived with my grandparents for a year in a little mountain community called Pilot when I was 8 years old. They were in their 50's at the time, and I was part of the old-time formula that said, "Children are to be seen, not heard." I remember asking my grandmother often 'why does Poppaw hate me?', because I was not used to such a stern attitude from a man who had just retired from 31 years of Army Infantry life. "Oh, Honey, your grandfather certainly doesn't hate you. He's like that because he had to be in charge of lots of men and had to keep them in line all the time. I try to tell him he needs to show his love for you boys more often", she would tell me.

I became a young boy who would actually listen to his grandpa, and do what he said, then feel bad if I didn't measure up to what he'd said. There were several times I disappointed him, but I was a child then, of course. As I got older, I was able to put things in better perspective, looking at him with a total view, instead of just the view from a waist-high kid. A lot of the blanks were filled in when I enlisted for 4 years as an Infantryman with the 82nd Airborne in Ft Bragg, NC. "Why in the world would you want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane", Poppaw would ask his 18 yr-old grandson back then. It was a common refrain that I came to hear from Army personnel who hadn't volunteered to go to jump school. Kind of a "You're nuts", comment without saying it. It had been around in the Army's lexicon for at least 40 years at that point, one that my Poppaw had said a few times himself to others before me.

I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. Too embarrassed to say something like, "To test myself". Here was an accomplished Command Sergeant Major with most every medal and badge the Army can bestow upon an Infantry soldier on his dress greens…except for jump wings,… good-naturedly asking an E-1 private why he's doing such a fool-hardy thing as to jump out of airplanes at midnight. It was a good moment for me, because, in his veiled comment, he was also saying to me, "I'm proud of you, Son". Meant a lot to me because I never heard those words from my own father.

With this backdrop, it may become more clear as to why I look at those older than me with respect. Or, at least, I try to. When I see a head full of grey hair on a man, I'm instinctively attaching a lot of respect and desire to hear his stories of bravery and valor, even though I'm 40, and have accumulated my own stories of bravery and valor in my travels. I still assume that that man has been through a lot, has interesting stories to tell, and has lead a respectful life. These naïve notions still haven't been beaten out of me, despite having lived all over the world, and having seen my fair share of things that are quite the contrary. I still have faith, yet I have a friend who is my age who hasn't ever left the state he was born in, doing the same line of work he started in as a kid, who sometimes treats me like I need to learn something about people. It's funny, but I let him talk down to me because it would be too long of a conversation to say just how shallow his perception of me really is. Plus, he's my friend.

But I quickly lose my naiveté about that anonymous grey-haired man when he opens his mouth to say certain things. Things like, "I don't know what's wrong with today's youth. They aren't taking to the streets to stop this war machine." I used to almost do a double-take when I heard these things coming out of elderly men's mouths. Back a few years ago, that is. Now, on our 6th anniversary of 9-11, it is sadly all too common to hear this alarming comment coming from men who think that they've done something patriotic or at least honorable in their lives, like 'take to the streets in protest'.

See, I'm someone who assumes that we men in America share a common experience. 'What I went through is what he went through', kind of sentiment. I assume that men in their 50's and 60's (and beyond), have done the same things to conquer their fears as I have. If they haven't served in the military as I have, then at least they have respect for the men who did sacrafice themselves for us throughout the history of our great nation. Surely they feel the same way I do when they read the same article in the newspaper, detailing the life of Jason Dunham. He is the first Marine to (posthumously) receive the Medal of Honor since the war in Afghanistan and Iraq began. Frankly, while reading the story from Peter Benesh, reporter for Investor's Business Daily, I almost started to cry. And that doesn't happen much for me.

Twenty years ago, I didn't have the perspective to understand the Aging Baby Boomer as I do now. I just wrote them off as being fun-loving hippies. I was, at most, resentful of those who treated our country with disdain as draft-dodgers, and the men and women who insulted, even spat upon, returning Vietnam veterans. See, I was in the Army with NCO's who were IN Vietnam during the war, and remained as career soldiers when the war was over in 1975. I knew those stories from many men who made me proud to be an American man.

Twenty years later, I still prefer to assume that the Baby Boomer generation has seen the error of their ways, and realized that it's best to face down your fears. 'With age comes wisdom', I still believe.

The truth is, however, despite my naivete', that as many of these Boomers get into their mid 60's and 70's, they are still holding on to the same emotions that they covered themselves with in their late teens and 20's. They haven't progressed. They haven't lead a brave life, and they probably hate themselves because of it. At the end of their lives, as they reflect on the terrible injustices they committed against our great nation, they are so weak and cowardly that they STILL can't admit they were wrong. So they turn their anger on my generation, and try to act like THEY can teach us something about being an American. It is common to hear one of these grey-haired children say, "Patriotism isn't defined as protecting this country, it's defined as PROTESTING against this country".

If that's what they need to tell themselves, so be it. The irony is that the only reason they CAN make their misguided protests against this country is because of us quiet, strong men who didn't think twice when our country needed us.

I am more proud of my X generation right now than I have ever been. When I was through with my 4 years with the 82nd Airborne Infantry, 2nd Infantry Division, and finally at the 101st Air Assault, I left with a strong sense of accomplishment, and much older than the 4 years I'd spent with the US Army. After 8 months as a civilian, who thought he was free and clear of the death-defying training I completed honorably, I received a Western Union telegram, taped to my door one day in January, 1991. It was orders to come back into the Army. I wasn't in the National Guard, the Reserves, or anything similar. I just happened to be a former infantry soldier, and as a fine print part of my enlistment, all of us men who join are part of a pool of people whom the US government can exhaust before America starts up the draft again.

I was given seven days' notice before I was to report to Ft Benning, Ga. I had no forewarning that this emergency recall would take place. It was a shock to me, my family, my girlfriend, and everyone who knew me. During that week before I was to rejoin the Army, two friends of mine from high school, a married couple by now, took me out for a short breakfast to say goodbye. What I thought was a nice gesture on their part, to show support and solidarity with me, turned into an effort to "talk me out of it".

"John, this is a war of blood for oil", I remember one of them saying to me. I was in another world, mentally, at the time. I had already started a mental preperation of fortitude and resolution. (We all know how brief that war was, now, but at the time, all we were told was that Iraq had "the 4th largest army in the world", their spokesmen were saying that they will fill the streets with "rivers of American blood", and so forth. What was in my mind was the way nerve gas kills a person. Here I was, an infantry soldier [not a cook, a motorpool mechanic, or a finance clerk], suiting up to do battle with a monster who gassed his own people. What do you think he is going to do to the infantry soldiers of the opposing Army?)

"Blood for oil?", I asked. "Do you really believe that?"

THEM: "John, it's just not right that you have to go. Couldn't you just not show up?"

ME: "Well, let me ask you something, Marc. If I didn't show up, and my brothers I served with didn't show up, who would they have to replace me with—you?"

That seemed to quiet their tone a little bit. But the look of determination and mission was still in their eyes. In another setting, I could have been mad at them. Here I was, having to suddenly quit my dream job as a DJ at a great radio station, drop out of full-time college I was enrolled in, and the only thing that my two friends here could think to say to me was their own unpatriotic notions of "setting me straight". Again, though, I was in a different world, mentally. I was preparing to do battle, and that meant that I was resolving to die. Nothing like these two in front of me was going to get me angry. I was already past them, and the cowardly impulses they were trying to fill me with.

Little has changed in my spirit or my being since those days.

If you can't see a reason to defend and protect this Great Nation, then it's because you aren't looking. If you don't see that it's best to fight these jackals in their own backyard instead of ours, then you're a fool. For a great country like ours, with all of its military technology and armament, to send in brave countrymen to do surgical, room-to-room fighting with the enemy instead of simply dropping any of the mighty bombs at our disposal…makes me weep with admiration for the men who volunteer to continue this noble fight for our way of life.

The break with our former generation, the "Woodstock Generation", is a very clean, deep, deliberate break. I will forever go to my grave looking forward at the Y Generation and beyond as the best answer to the dangerous cowardice we all had to endure from these idiotic Baby Boomers. What could have been a definite careening over the cliff for the vehicle we call America, was rescued when the X and Y generation grabbed the wheel, and steered it back on course.

Yes indeed, the kids are alright.

I Got My Choppers In

September 09, 2007

As far as Sundays go, this one is nice. The Florida weather is usually stiflingly-hot through these months, and only tolerable in the winter, but this afternoon, at 1pm, it's only up to 88 degrees. Usually by this time it's in the low 90's. Perhaps the tilting of the Earth is about to bring some relief.

I hope so for my grandfather's sake. I'm hoping that he can remain as comfortable as possible in these days of his twilight. He was supposed to see one of his three doctors this past Wednesday, but instead it turned out to be the day he finally gave in, allowing my grandmother to call for EMS. He was succumbing to the fluid collecting around and in his lungs, completely immobilized at this point. His heart can't take much longer of this. I was trying to do something, anything, but I was completely helpless, watching my poor Poppaw turn grey, losing consciousness.

The EMS people came quickly. A team of five of them were strangely quiet and grim as they tried to prepare him to be moved. Watching them made me realize that poor Poppaw should have been in a hospital at least a week ago, before Labor Day's incident. It took them a half hour to get him out of his chair. His breathing was preventing him from the smallest of movements. My Granny was starting to become inconsolable. Frantic, panicked, and beside herself. I have been her watchdog and pincushion. I'm trying my best to build her up and console her through all of this. As they wheeled him out, I was standing there, holding onto my grandmother, as she called to him for what seemed like one last time. He didn't respond.

I saw him trying to throw back his head, involuntarily trying to make a gasp for air. The EMS folks had trouble rounding him by the corner on our patio, and I was a little upset when they just muscled him through it, jostling him to the point of visibly shaking his frail body. I told myself that they were probably worried about getting him to the ambulance quickly. Otherwise, in my mind, I saw myself grabbing the one who was pushing him, and throwing him through a window. Pure emotion at this point. "Don't you know that's not just some sack of potatoes, there?"

He took even longer in the ambulance to be transported to Cape Coral Hospital. After several minutes of standing with Granny, watching nothing but the side of the ambulance, I realized that I needed to take her upstairs to sit down. I guided her there, and we spoke about it all. She began to tell me everything that needed to be done. After letting her recite everything she needed to say, I saw her getting up, saying she was gonna drive herself to the hospital. She was worried about me being able to make it to my last night class that night, to take my last finals exam in order to graduate.

It was a silly concern to me, but I acted like it was kind of her to be worried about me, but that I was going to take her to the hospital. She gave in to allow me. "Granny, you need to change your slippers, and put on a pretty face for Poppaw in case he becomes cognizant. Give him something nice to look at." She got a look of determination on her face, and told me she'd be downstairs in ten minutes.

We got to the Cape Coral hospital, me carrying my grandmother's night bag and shawl. We came up to the lady behind the desk, and I could feel the trepidation from Granny as she asked about where he was. Would he be safely in a room, or already expired? The nurse behind the desk began to flip through paperwork on a clipboard, obviously not finding his name. Suddenly, a man appeared from behind her. They compared notes, and the lady looked at us. "He's not here, ma'am." I was alarmed. "He's at Health Park—they had complications along the way, and diverted him. It's his heart, isn't it?", she asked. "Well, it's his lungs, but I don't…", my Granny stammered back to her.

We drove twenty more minutes to Park Health, with my grandmother in a mix of emotions. "That's a good place, we've been there before", she was saying. "We wasted 30 minutes by going to Cape Coral! I don't know why they didn't call to let me know!", she said. I was trying to offer anything I could to keep her from losing it. "Maybe they called home while we were on the road", I said.

We made it to Park Health, and went past the grand piano player, who was set up in their atrium. They volunteer to come and play for us, I was told later. Nice touch, I thought. We were given sticky badges and allowed to enter the double doors into their critical care unit. Deep breath as we neared the rooms. I entered behind Granny, and was relieved to see him alive. Hooked up to massive amounts of machinery, but alive. We made it, I thought.

He looked pitiful. A once-proud, strong, Indian, shaped by 31 years of vigorous training in the US Army, resulting in a quiet, spiritual man who was thankful for his life, and always tried to look at the good in people. But also a man who would reach across a desk and put the fear of God in you if he thought you were doing him wrong. He was now shriveled, paralyzed, and had so many tubes keeping him alive. I eased myself around to the other side of his bed as Granny was seeing if he was in any pain. After a few hospital folks had come in and out, and Granny wasn't talking to him, it was ok for me to try to speak to him. His oxygen mask muffled his words, making an already-awkward moment even more so. I tried to keep a pleasant expression on my face while I had his attention, but I was awash in fear.

"How are they treating you, Poppaw?", I said, forcing something out of my mouth. "Oh, not bad, son", he said back to me. It was hard to make the words out through the mask. He suddenly looked at me with a sign of life and energy in his eyes, and wanted to say something to me.

"I got…chopper…in", he said with a smile, and it became obvious to me that he must be on some painkillers, because he didn't have enough consciousness an hour ago to even recognize me and Granny telling him goodbye as they wheeled him away. I didn't know what he meant by choppers, but didn't want to ask him to repeat it, due to his lack of oxygen. So I just smiled back and nodded to him. I assumed he meant that he had his upper teeth in ("I got my choppers in"). He hadn't been able to get them in for the past week, having lost so much weight that they wouldn't form correctly in his mouth.

About that time, my grandmother started talking to him again. They exchanged a couple of words, and then Poppaw repeated what he had told me, almost like an excited kid who's telling everyone that he's got a new tooth in. "I got choppered in", he said. Granny and I looked at each other with wonderment. The doctor explained that the ambulance had to call in for an airlift to meet them on the side of the road to transport him even quicker to a better facility. His heart had gone into arrhythmia within a few minutes of the ambulance ride, and the EMS folks were worried that they'd lose him on the way to Cape Coral Hospital.

Luckily, it's not just me and Phoebe here to help, anymore. My mother flew in that day. It was very questionable as to whether she'd make it to the hospital in time to say goodbye to him. The long and short of it is this: he can't walk, and his time here is short. The doctors are saying that if he can't walk, then he should be heading to a rest home. He is against that, and is preferring to die at home. His vitals are weak, but miraculously (their words) almost stable. They can't believe he hasn't passed, given his condition on Wednesday when he was admitted. He may come home in a wheelchair within a week.

The Buddhist Bell

September 03, 2007

Today is Labor Day. My regular AM talk shows won't be live on this holiday. Except for Dennis Prager. Dennis makes a point of working on most holidays throughout the year. It's more of a feat than it sounds, really. Performers who get behind a microphone every day for a living are doing something that rare and few people can achieve successfully: they present a consistent mental attitude EVERY day, on cue, without fail. Can you imagine doing that? How often is it that you come to work with a less-than-positive attitude? How about occasionally being mentally distracted while you go about your workday? It happens, doesn't it? It's understandable, too. We're only human, and it's next to impossible to come in 5 days a week to our workplace and be the exact same person, day in and day out, year round. And I'm not even mentioning the added pressure of being a performer on a stage in front of thousands or millions. Could you open your mouth and have every syllable scrutinized for 3 or 4 hours a day without occasionally sounding like you're running out of things to say? Do you have a mastery of facts, and enough well-rounded knowledge to speak in an entertaining fashion without missing a beat for hours on end?

Few of us do. And that's why I say that these guys on the airwaves deserve a break when they can take one. Those of us who enjoy their shows can almost immediately tell when we're listening to a recycled broadcast. For many of us who don't like to listen to reruns, we're left with little alternative to occupy our minds while we go about our day.

That's not the case for me this Labor Day, though. My grandfather is dying. He's upstairs right now, in his bed, struggling to draw his next breath. My morning started with my grandmother's voice piercing the stillness of my sleep, as she yelled into the intercom we installed a few years ago. I hopped out of bed immediately after responding back to her, and then hustled outside to climb the stairs to their front door. I live in their hurricane room downstairs, a 12 x 12, with my dog Phoebe.

As I scaled the stairs, I barely had time to anticipate what I would find when I got there. All I could think about was my poor grandmother's state of mind. She sounded awful on the speaker. I was roused from a sleep, so it all was a cloudy mix of fear, panic, and sorrow. When I got there, she was wide-eyed and frantic. He was in bed, reaching upwards into thin air, with a look of someone who was submerged in the water, trying to surface to the top. "I'm OK", he was saying, with a dazed, far-away look in his eyes. My grandmother was trying to catch her breath, explaining to me that he was slipping away, unable to breathe when she called me. She had apparently startled him back to consciousness when she screamed for me into the intercom by his bedside.

The EMT people called within the minute after I was there with them. Granny had mashed his 'life alert' button that he wears on his wrist amidst the whole ordeal. They were calling to see if they needed to send a rescue unit to our house. She was nervous on the phone to them, but told them it wasn't necessary to send one out at this time. My grandfather kept saying, "I'm OK, I'm ok", in an effort to keep her from sending them out to get him.

He's a proud man who doesn't like for people to make a fuss over them. At 85, he's well outlived his expectation for at least 10 years, by now. He's been on oxygen for 8 years, has heart disease and emphysema, and was an Army infantry soldier for 31 years. He smoked unfiltered cigarettes for 40 years, a pipe for ten years after that. Between the stresses that are inflicted on a body from infantry training for thirty-one years, and all of the smoking with heart disease, it's obvious that the only reason he's still with us is because of Granny's constant care and feeding of him. She tries not to take any credit for it, saying that he's held on this long because he doesn't want her to be left alone. And that's true, too.

I stood around and tried to ensure that this was indeed a false alarm. After it became obvious that my grandfather was conscious and somewhat cognizant, I tried to ease myself away from the room, not wanting to alarm my proud grandfather or embarrass him. We men are like that, and I can feel it from Poppaw that he's still a proud Indian, not wanting to admit weakness or that he needs others to do the simplest of things for him. I turned my attention to my grandmother, who was easing out of the bedroom with me, telling me of his symptoms just before she called for me, keeping a furtive eye back towards the bedroom the entire time.

The conditions and details are grave, and I can't bring myself to write them out at this point. Let's just say that the doctors have diagnosed him as of Thursday as being in the "end-stage". The end for him is near. I thank God that it is at least somewhat peaceful for him, and that he's not in some sterile hospital room, being attended by nurses he doesn't know. My grandmother warns me that it still may come to that, but at this point we're not so sure. He is pretty immobilized in his bed after not sleeping too well last night. For the past week, he has been in his recliner, unable to make it into his bedroom at night. The fact that he made it to the bedroom seems almost ominous, being in a horizontal state for perhaps the last and final time.

I went to the Winn-Dixie down the road to get Granny some food for lunch. She didn't ask me to do it, but I know she's too petrified to leave the house at this point. When I asked her what she wanted to eat, she grabbed her stomach and made a gesture to say that she didn't feel like eating. I said, "I know, Granny, but I'll get something that you can put back in the fridge to eat later if you can't finish it." After saying that she'd made some meatloaf yesterday that didn't turn out that well, I said, "Granny, I'm going down to the store anyway, so I'm gonna get you something from the deli—fried chicken, roast beef, or something." She told me that her and Poppaw like the chicken tenders they make there.

When I got back home, she seemed glad that I'd made the trip. Poppaw was awake, and almost lucid. I went in to talk to him briefly. I could tell that he wanted to say something to me as soon as I entered his room. I tried my best to relax, and to lean against his dresser, as if it was just any old day. What was it he was going to say to me? Was he going to have an awkward talk about how he's dying, right in front of me? Was he going to say the things one thinks might be said just before we pass? I listened intently as he asked me for some peppermint hard candy. "Sure, Poppaw", I said.

I got right back into the car and drove back down the road to Winn-Dixie. Peppermint candy. In a way, I was somewhat calmed by this request. Kinda Zen. With all of the obvious things in the air at this moment: tension, fear, panic…and my dying grandfather just wants some simple candy. I hope it's this way for me when I'm about to go. He's a model for me. Always has been. His precarious health is the reason I moved down here almost three years ago. It is now time to be there for both Granny and Poppaw.

I sat with my Granny in the living room as she ate one of the chicken tenders. I listened intently as she ran through all of her worries, nearing tears all the time. I tried to remain strong for her sake. "Granny, don't worry about everything that's about to come—I'll be here to help with the house, the paperwork, and everything else. You just need to watch out for your health, and don't worry about more than you need to right now." My attempts to reassure her were only mildly calming for her. She's a sharp woman, and has waited on my Poppaw all of his life. It's instinctual for her to be a chronic worrier, especially with his bad health for the past 10 years.

"You know, Granny, his life has been a blessing because of you. He wouldn't have made it anywhere near this long without you taking such good care of him." She tried to deflect my sentiments, but she and everyone in the family knows it's true. "I just don't think I can live here, in this house, if he…" she says as she begins to cry. "I know, Granny. There's no reason why you'd have to. Momma has plenty of room back in Virginia, and so does Aunt Erlene in North Carolina, and you could easily divide your time between both…"

Just about that time, we hear a little 'tinkle-tinkle-tinkle.' I looked at her with a quizzical look. She stopped eating, and a look of purpose quickly came across her face. "That's your Poppaw. He must be awake. That's his Buddhist temple bell I told him to ring if he needed to go to the bathroom."

Leading A Double Standard, er, I Mean Life

August 29, 2007

Yes, we've all heard about it by now. Idaho Republican Senator Larry Craig was caught signaling an undercover policeman in a Minnesota airport bathroom for sex. Sounds kinda seedy, doesn't it? Especially if you're a heterosexual male. Hell, it's really gross, if you want to get down to it. Guys like me can't even understand the attraction to another male's genitals, but that's a topic for another blog, I guess. When regular guys hear about a sex scandal, we're at first thinking, A) someone got caught cheating on their wife; or B) some teacher got caught having sex with an underage student; or something along those lines.

And for the brief seconds before we hear the details in a "sex scandal" like Senator Craig's, our mind has already calculated the possible scenarios (see above), and in our mind we're already seeing the genitals of a man meeting the genitals of a female. It's something that regular heterosexual men have to deal with every day, several times a day. It is our curse to have to beat back the urge to tell the little cute brunette working behind the counter at Starbucks that morning that she has a nice blouse on today, while really, we're seeing our hands and mouth all over her chest. Instead, we politely get our coffee, never acknowledging our lustful thoughts about her. That thought has barely left our mental fantasy by the time we arrive at work, halfway-anxious to see what outfit the excellent blond down the hall has on today, and the cycle repeats itself…over and over and over again.

We aren't EVEN calculating man-on-man. It throws us into some other-world of ugliness to calculate the conclusion of what Senator Craig could have been trying to accomplish when he stands at the door of a guy who's already using the stall, peering through the doorjamb crack for minutes on end, fiddling with his pants while peeping, then entering the next door stall. We don't even understand why a man like us would then take his nearby foot, and repeatedly tap the foot of the same guy while he's supposed to be sitting down to do his business and get the hell out of there. What NORMAL guy does those sequences of events? And, as if that isn't odd (queer?) enough, he decides to stick his hand beneath the dividing wall between the two, and turn his hand palm-up, to repeatedly 'wave' at the guy. What the hell??

Indeed, 'what the hell', we guys think. Is that how they do it? How creepy! How sloppy. How indiscriminate. How unsafe. How disgusting.

Now, I can hear some people right now, saying, "John, how would you like to live in a society where you were forced to take such measures to express your desires?" Frankly, that kind of an unrealistic comment has no bearing on me. I've known my fair share of homosexuals in my life, and I'd say that at least half of the ones I know are more oversexed than my friend Jason, the most sexually-busy heterosexual friend I have and know. The homosexual man doesn't have to negotiate for sex ANYWHERE near as hard and unsuccessfully as we heterosexual men do. Women need to have a reason to have sex—men just need to have a place. Does anyone ever see the heterosexual equivalent of a bathhouse for anonymous sex in most major cities across this great country? I've lived all over this world, and I've yet to see one. How about the amount of public parks, rest areas, and truck stops that are the prime markets for New Jersey Governors and those like him?

Swinger's clubs aren't the same thing, and you know it. It was common for San Francisco bathhouses to have something known as a "fantasy wall" in their establishments, where a plywood wall in the back of the establishment had waist-level holes cut into them. Depends on whether you wanted to pitch or catch as to what side you got on. Swinger's clubs are nowhere as anonymous, plentiful, or as indiscriminate as these meeting grounds for homosexuals. Most swingers' clubs I've known of were exclusive to members only or at least by invite-only. And you couldn't show up alone, either. Not that I've gone to any.

Nope, there's no similarity between the amounts of anonymous sexual contact a heterosexual man can get, versus the amount that homosexuals live with. My 40 years of experience with men doesn't compute with this sympathetic talk about how poor Senator Craig was forced into bathroom stalls to express his feelings. That's female sentimentality, and it doesn't hold up in comparison to the reason why us men have sex. We men have the same amount of testosterone coursing through our veins, whether we're homosexual or heterosexual. It's just that we heterosexual men are forced into negotiating for it from another person who attaches a LOT more conditions to it.

So Senator Craig turns out to be a married man who trolls bathrooms looking for homosexual sex, eh? Well, before I can even figure out if it's ok for me to express my reaction that he 1) cheats on his wife; and 2) engages in something I can't relate to (see, I'm a Southern White Christian Male, and the American culture says that I'm the reason that gays are forced into such a second-class status), the Leftist blowhard Chris Matthews takes the criticism even further than I was ready to say: he's a "sexual deviant", according to Matthews.

How about that! The Left has the best of both worlds! When Barney Frank gets caught running a male prostitution ring out of his apartment as a sitting US Representative, the Left says, "Hands off, you right-wing moralists! We're so proud of poor Barney's alternative lifestyle that we're going to promote him to committee chairman and re-elect him for the next 20 years! And we just DARE you to bring up Gary Studds for committing statutory rape of a sixteen year-old boy when he was a sitting US representative!" But let there be a Representative Mark Foley who answered racy e-mails from a teenage male congressional page, or a Senator Larry Craig who waves at another man beneath a bathroom stall, well…it's time to act OFFENDED and INDIGNANT!

Sorry, I just don't believe all the hype. The Left has tipped its hand WAY too much about this stuff for the past 50 years for me to believe their hyperbole. Don't tell me about how hypocritical it is for Senator Craig to be a right-wing moral crusader against gay rights while he's secretly knocking on stalls, and I won't tell you how hypocritical it is for Bill Clinton to be a crusader for women's rights while he's secretly raping and objectifying them.