The Trickle Up Theory.

or, How I solved the economic crisis, and rid us of foreign oil.

 

 

Coming soon.

It’s not just Reproductive Rights…

It’s not enough to blame the victims in the cases of rape, now we charge them for it too?

A May 23, 2000, article in Wasilla’s newspaper, The Frontiersman, noted that Alaska State Troopers and most municipal police agencies regularly pay for such exams, which cost between $300 and $1,200 apiece.

“(But) the Wasilla police department does charge the victims of sexual assault for the tests,” the newspaper reported.

It also quoted Wasilla Police Chief Charlie Fannon objecting to the law. Fannon was appointed to his position by Palin after her dismissal of the previous police chief. He said it would cost Wasilla $5,000 to $14,000 a year if the city had to foot the bill for rape exams.

 

Is that a Christian value?  

 

 

The Waiting…

Many times, the best part of a journey is coming home.

Perhaps, it’s a testament to how wonderful the journey was, or, perhaps, it’s an indication that this wasn’t the dream trip you had hoped. The worst part is the gelatinous time between deciding it’s time to go home, and actually getting there. Whether it’s sitting at the airport, watching them change the On Time notice to Delayed or powering through the San Joaquin valley on the 5, for miles an miles, going home is never as sweet as getting there.

It’s not just traveling- major change can illicit the same anxiousness. Once the decision has been made, and until it actually happens, it’s a dead zone, life becomes suspended. You can distract yourself with advance preparations, but until the actual date is impending, it’s just that, a distraction, and counter intuitively, that breeds inaction, which begets more anxiety, leaving you running in tight little circles, chasing your tail like the cat.

 

Plain and simple, I’m just not a Limbo kind of guy.

Boots. I got ‘em.

I, like John McCain am proud to come from America’s Middle Class.

I, unlike Mr. McCain am still a member of America’s Middle Class, and am still proud of it. Even better, for me, (perhaps worse for everyone else) I’m part of the upper middle class.

It wasn’t always that way, there was a time when, it could be arguable, that my family was barely lower middle class. And, there was also a time, mostly by choice, that I barely managed the poverty line.

It was, at that time, that I ‘lived’ in a place, that had no closet*, no real place to store boots. Can’t really compare to being a POW, and, no way would I try, but boots are very important when you live in a cabin in the mountains of Montana.

A lot of time has passed since then, and I too, feel very grateful, and lucky to live a good life. I have found my way back to the shrinking Upper Middle Class and now, I have three closets. Three. And- in those closets, I have exactly seven pairs of boots. Ironic, isn’t it- seven?**

I really like my boots, they represent freedom to me. My favorite boots might have to be my Redwing steel-toes. They’re the ones I wear when I’m at work, earning that solid upper middle class wage. And, as a union member, I get a 10% discount at the local Redwing shop. And, as if that’s not enough, Redwing will repair those boots for as long as I want to wear them, for free. Can it get any better than that?

So, like Mr. McCain, I too am proud of from where I’ve come, and what I now have. Also, like Mr. McCain, until this past weekend, I had no idea who Daddy Yankee was. But, unlike McCain, I know enough that Daddy Yankee’s song Gasolina probably isn’t about the energy crisis nor is it about family values.

*2:15 into the video.

**At the time I wrote this, the McCains claimed ownership of seven houses.  As of now, it seems they haveeight
.

Monday Mornings

Just before waking
Was dreaming of you, with me
Lovely morning thoughts.

I can’t stop smiling
Thoughts of you distract me now
All weekend, waiting…

Tit for T.A.T.*

I’ve got a titanium augmented spine.  4 lag bolts are imbedded in the bone, 2 tie rods keep it all in place.  Since I’ve had them, I’ve flown maybe 6 or 7 times, and never set off a TSA metal detector.  In fact, the only time I have set off a detector was at the House of Blues.  We were going to seeThe Blind Boys of Alabama.

 

The Blind Boys are a swell gospel group, not nearly as spiteful as the TSA.

 

 

* Total Air Temperature probe (not a step)

December 13, 2007

I wrote this a couple days after my dad died.  It was sudden, and very unexpected.  I hadn’t seen him in several years, L and I were going to go to my parent’s 50th anniversary party the next month.  I had set out to write something funny- in some ways it’s not my best work, in others, it is.

 

I didn’t have the best relationship with my dad.  It was an ongoing source of sadness for me, but I had convinced myself that I needed to accept my dad for who he was, and my parents for who they were, and accept the level of relationship that we had.  Eventually, I did.

My parents made decisions that I didn’t understand, they chose places, remote places, it seemed to me, that I wouldn’t have.  They chose to live in a way that I wouldn’t- or so I thought.

They were living their lives, and they seemed happy. I was ok with that, or so I thought.

Some time ago, I started taking stock of my own experiences. 

Like living in a cabin in the mountains of Montana 7 miles from the nearest road.  Like having an adventure motorcycle, that was always ready to tackle the most difficult terrain, any where in the world-  just knowing it was there, gave me comfort.  Like, I imagine, having an ocean-going yacht might.  Or a fully appointed camper, ready to strike out on a moments notice might.  And with that came a bit of clarity.

When I met my wife, that clarity became even more defined.  I began to understand that perhaps my dad, my parents, were not so much rejecting those that weren’t there with them, but instead celebrating those that they were with. The love I have for my wife made it that much easier to understand some of those decisions that my father had made, judging by the love I perceive him to have for my mother.

I find myself in that unenviable position of being that guy who waited too long to sit down with my dad.  I always figured there’d be a time.  Perhaps we’d find ourselves living closer by, or perhaps there’d be some kind of gathering, like a 50^th anniversary, and we’d find the time to chat, he could ask me the questions that I knew he wanted to, and I could some of him. 

Instead we’re here now, and my dad isn’t.

In the few dark moments that I’ve allowed myself since last Thursday evening, I’ve feared that as my dad sat there, in his chair, taking his last breath, far too soon- he might not have realized how much I loved him, how much I respected him- for who he was, for what he had accomplished, how he had taken care of his wife, my mother.  I feared that as smart as he was he might have taken my quietness as a judgment and as his big, generous, but ultimately tired heart gave way, he might not have known exactly how I felt about him.

I know, like me of his, he hasn’t always understood all my decisions I’ve made. Despite all that, I always knew I could be at home with him.

As hard as it is, I have to believe that as his big, generous, wonderful, yet ultimately tired heart struggled to take it’s last beat, he knew.

My dad was a wonderful, wonderful Man.  Strong, principled, loving, warm, funny, imperfect.

Just the kind of man I aspire to be.

Harvey

No, I’m not James Stewart but I do have a 6′-3 1/2″ invisible rabbit.

 

He’s almost always around, he might wander off, but rarely far.  We’re not friends, exactly, but partners for sure.  I get the impression that most are skeptical about his “realness,”  some offer various suggestions for getting rid of him- odd convolutions and exorcisms that worked for them, to some degree or another.  Some try some more radical methods, some offer support- wanting me to stay away from rabbit centric activities.

 

 

The thing is, more and more, it  seems that rabbits are very active enjoying doing pretty much everything I do.  I guess it’s only natural that rabbits, being very industrious, like to hang out at construction sites, ready to jump in when ever I have to lift something, eager to be there for me when I’m squatting, bending, hanging upside down, I get that.  But, who knew they’d like watching tv?  Cooking?  And my favorite, sleeping.  I know my wife appreciates having a 6′ plus rabbit sleeping with us.  He tosses and turns a lot, fitful sleeper.  I’m not a fan either.  I mean, I would be, if we had reversed schedules-  Harvey could clean the kitchen while I’m trying to sleep, I could deal with the noise, more so than him constantly waking me with his sharp nails stuck in my back.

 

There are some rather effective chemical rabbit repellants, but I guess rabbits have strikingly similar constitutions to humans.  Either that, or I get so depressed when Harvey’s gone that all I want to do is sleep.  I’d really rather convince him to go of his own accord, I don’t like the idea of having to constantly use rabbiticides.

Sometimes, as I said, Harvey does to take off for a bit.  I don’t always know when he’s leaving, or gone, he’s pretty stealth about that, it might be for an hour, maybe even a day or two.  Once I realize he’s gone, I might get a bit giddy, then, oddly enough, maybe a tad panicky.  I start to miss him- I want him back. Maybe it’s because we’ve been together for so long, or, maybe, if he doesn’t come back, then I’ll start to doubt Harvey exists as well.

 

If Harvey doesn’t exist, then I’m just faking.

Door to Door

It was a day of firsts.

 

We had our first campaign volunteer visit last night.  I wanted to invite her in for tea, and discuss what I thought were her candidate’s high points and flaws were, to ask her why I should vote for him.

But it was late- she was more interested in asking for money, her pitch came strong and fast, with few breaths.  And the kicker was, she bounced like Tigger, non stop.  

 

I give her credit though- going door to door alone in this neighborhood, asking for money for a cause.  I got a small taste of the door to door thing, as a union organizer in rural North Carolina.  I wasn’t cold calling though, I had a list to work from.  I knew that regardless of their politics, gender or race, every person I visited worked at the same fiber glass plant*.  That didn’t mean I didn’t run in to suspicion or even hostility, but for the most part, I got a free pass because I was doing ‘gods’ work- helping the workers better themselves.

Tigger, on the other hand was going door to door in a somewhat mixed, basically well off neighborhood, where a good percentage of the residents hide behind gates and intercoms.  Neighbors barely know each other and we don’t even get many trick or treaters, and those we do come from some other neighborhoods.  At best, we sometimes get a couple of well dressed kids claiming to sell magazines, I’d guess Tigger receives the same response as they do.  

 

Maybe she knows the neighborhood better than I do, when we were saying our ‘good byes’ I told her to be careful, and she scoffed, not rudely, but a scoff none the less. 

 

*One thing that 51% of the fiberglass plant workers had in common, they didn’t believe God wanted them to be union.

First post

The problem with writing the first post, is that I want to put everything in it, and won’t have anything left for the next posts.

 

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