Thoughts of Karma

I have always been fascinated by the idea of karma, especially when called down on the heads of one's enemies. Case in point:

One malicious miscreant I know, Brent, has called the wrath of karma down on many people's heads, people who have crossed and thwarted his plans and fallen out of grace with him. Time after time he has sworn that he was in the right and karma would get those who flamenco-ed on his toes and he waited for news like a hungry shark waiting for minnow school to let out.

He was moderately successful in his field and chalked up a few points because he was diligent in promoting himself and his agenda. He married a really nice girl who had no idea of his checkered past, except what he told her, and she felt sorry for his trials and tribulations. And then she got a taste of his obsession with an ex-best friend, Max, who he believed had sold him down the river.

Max was unaware of the ongoing drama created or that Brent (also know to friends and foes alike as Bent) stalked him online and in real life. Max just went about his life as if nothing had changed, and for Max nothing had. He had his work, small close circle of friends and family and his hobbies. he and Brent traveled in the same circles but didn't meet: Brent because he got more mileage out of playing the wronged party and Max because he paid attention to his life and didn't get involved in dramatic scenes; he had enough on his plate without borrowing trouble.

Although Max had some difficulties, the way we all have problems from time to time, Brent's initial success began to fade, sputter and look like it was going to die. When his kids complained that he spent too much time cursing Max and that they remembered him as a great guy who treated them like equals and listened to them without talking down to them, Brent blew up. His kids couldn't wait to get out of the house and go away to college, which all three of his kids did without delay. When Brent's wife Penelope told him he was obsessed and that she didn't see anything wrong with Max, Brent accused Penny of having an affair with him.

Each of Max's successes fueled Brent's obsession and his anger and things began to deteriorate. His marriage was in trouble. His work was suffering. He was coasting on his laurels and taking on too much new work that either didn't pay well or faded out of existence because he stretched himself too thin. Brent blamed Max for everything and Max was oblivious.

When things began to near rock bottom, Brent took a look at the past five years and made a startling discovery. Karma wasn't eating Max's lunch, but was having a field day with his blessed and happy life. Could it be that karma was crashing his party because of what he had done to Max?

It is a hard pill to swallow when a person realizes that maybe he was wrong and that all the stories he told were prejudiced in his favor, that he didn't want to admit that the truth was considerably different and that he had been at fault. Karma is touchy and plays no favorites. Even though we all tend to slant things to make ourselves look good or like the victim, the truth is often more than a hair off true. Calling karmic retribution down on our enemies opens us up to being struck by karma's sizzling lightning bolts and having the world crumble beneath our feet. Sometimes it takes a while because karma is usually busy taking someone else down, but karma usually gets around to the real culprit, turning their happy world into a quagmire quickly sinking beneath us and sucking us down.

Want to know the truth of a situation? Watch people's lives. Discount the usual irritations and scattered problems and look for cracks in the idol's feet that no amount of patching repairs. Sometimes the disintegration is slow, but often it is shockingly rapid once it starts.

Brent should have taken a few steps back, cooled off and looked at his friendship with Max with the cold, clear gaze of truth, setting aside his hurt feelings and his tendency to exaggerate the facts. Considering how many people Brent has raped, pillaged and bad mouthed over the years and how many people he has hurt, his realization that karma hitting him wasn't a fluke or a mistake and that he had earned his punishment came too late.

Brent has some good qualities, but they are over shadowed by his insecurities and his need to control everything and everyone around him. He can be marvelously kind and often charming, but they are icing on a manure cake.

Max is slowly gaining respect and success in his field and he has earned it the hard way. He is still an opinionated cuss and has his moments of doubt and laziness, but he is a good and honorable man and that is far more important than being liked by the whole world, as Obamessiah is now finding out to his detriment. Max doesn't talk much, but he walks the talk every step of the way. His opinions and views are often unpopular, but he doesn't care. He has integrity and that counts for a lot.

Karma has a long memory and chases liars, cheats, thieves and politicians down when it gives chase, and karma won't bargain. Pay in this life or for the next 20 lives, but karma will have what is owed -- with interest if it is a long chase. Count on it.

So, if you're wondering whether all the trouble cropping up in your life is the luck of the draw or karmic balance swinging around and you have what you need to take care of your problems without making worse problems, then it's just the statistical probability that shit happens. If not, then check your rear view mirror. Karma is often closer than it appears.

That is all. Disperse.

Freedom of speech: A two-edged sword

My journalist friend in Israel sent me a petition and a link to a cartoon that demonizes Israel. This cartoon.

As I reminded him, and will continue to remind Arab, Jew and Democrat who can't understand the nature of the First Amendment to the Constitution they promised to honor, serve and protect, free speech means the people who hate you have as much right to voice their opinions as you have to voice yours.

That means that when the New Yorker prints a cover that makes fun of Obamessiah or when Danish political cartoonists make fun of the Arabs, and even when the New York Times publishes a political cartoon that portrays Israel as a headless Nazi stormtrooper pushing a Star of David with a shark's head pursuing a woman in chador and her child designated as Gaza off a cliff it is covered by free speech.

The author of the petition is outraged that the New York Times would publish such anti-Semitic filth and calls on everyone to petition the newspaper to apologize and retract the political statement under penalty of losing subscribers and advertisers. Sorry, folks, the Times like most newspapers have enough trouble where subscribers and advertisers are concerned. No petition necessary.

As I explained to my journalist friend, you cannot howl in outrage over a political cartoon that makes you look bad and then howl in outrage when the Arabs are offended by political cartoons that make them look like mad-eyed religious zealots without intelligence or a sense of humor whose only thought in life is to convert or destroy anyone who opposes them. The sword cuts both ways.

The essence of the First Amendment is that you have the freedom to mock and demonize anyone you wish and then stand by and take it like a man when your enemies mock and demonize you. It's the same freedom that saw a Jewish lawyer defend the Ku Klux Klan in front of the Supreme Court to protect their rights even though the Klan would rather burn a Jew than allow him to live.

Freedom of speech is not a light switch you can turn off and on and it is not bludgeon that you can use to punish your enemies indiscriminately. Freedom of speech only works when you can take as good as you give. It means you defend your enemies even when what they say is hateful and degrading and foul.

This is a lesson the Democrats and President Obamessiah and his group fail to understand. You cannot make fun of President Bush without at some point knowing and accepting that people will make fun of you, your policies, your lifestyle and you. You cannot criticize anyone without accepting that people will criticize you. If you shut down any dissenting voice, you shut down your rights as well. You cannot have it both ways. It's time you read the Constitution you promised to honor, respect and defend or step down and let someone who understand the nature of the Constitution and the Amendments that guarantee our freedoms and rights take your place.

Freedom of speech, and indeed all of our guaranteed freedoms, is a two-edge sword that cuts both ways. Defend it or you will find that the sword will cut you equally as deeply as you cut your opponents and enemies.

That is all. Disperse.

The only change you can believe in

They called it Bush's folly and they castigated and blamed and ridiculed him for it, but the proof is in the facts.

With Obamessiah pushing us further and further into debt and blaming it on Bush, it's too bad the numbers don't bear out his story. I'll bet Bush is beginning to look pretty good right about now, especially with a president who is still out there campaigning, probably for the next election in four years, or starting his speaking tour early instead of getting down to work in the Oval Office.

When invited to be the commencement speaker for Notre Dame University, I'll bet the dean and board expected everyone to applaud and stand in line for tickets to hear Obamessiah give another one of his hope and change speeches, but that's not going to happen. Some Catholics are outraged. But the great teleprompter speaker is already busy lining up his next Iranian grovel-fest at the second Alliance of Civilizations forum so he can beg Iran to unclench its fist, especially since so far his groveling and begging have worked so well. Where's a strong president when you need one? Well, if it's Obamessiah, he's probably scheduling another visit to Oprah or Conan O'Brien since he's already done Letterman and Leno.

What we need is change we can believe in and so far the only thing I can believe in is what changes I've already seen, like the devaluation of the dollar, bait and switch on the bailouts, Obamessiah and the politicos on Capitol Hill accepting campaign funds from troubled AIG that they refuse to give back while demanding that AIG void previous contracts with their employees and give back bonuses they are contractually obligated to pay, erasing trillions of dollars of toxic assets while printing more and more paper money that will end up in Europe, China and third world countries' vaults while China, our biggest lender, demands the world find any other currency that isn't the U. S. dollar to use as the standard. None of those things happened on Bush's watch, but you can be sure the great apologist and blame claimer, Obamessiah, will quip about it on one of his many public appearances while shucking and jiving and whining that it's not his fault, he inherited this mess.

Yes, Obamessiah inherited the pork fest (Stimulus bill) that he crammed down the taxpayers' throats and called it good and then crammed another pork fest (Omnibus bill) down the taxpayers' throats while he was busy jacking up the national debt to over $3 trillion, and he's sliding for over $8 trillion in national debt. Yes, that's Bush's fault. That's the transparent government Obamessiah promised, except so far the only transparency has been handing over Bush's memos in the wake of 9/11 while stonewalling the press and the American people and hiding behind Pelosi's Machiavellian machinations as the Democratic liberals get out their dusty wish lists and shoehorn them into every bill they're writing and racing through Congress on Mercury's winged feet.

I'll bet you wish Bush was still in the White House now -- or you soon will as Obamessiah and his political shills keep pumping up the national debt.

That is all. Disperse.

Seeing Obamessiah's victory through foreign eyes

Someone forwarded me an editorial purportedly published in the London Daily Mail about Obamessiah's victory. What I read mirrored my feelings and beliefs, but I couldn't indiscriminately send it on without checking out the source and verifying it was published in the Daily Mail. It wasn't. It was part of a column written by Canadian journalist, Michael Coren, for the Toronto Sun on November 8, 2008.

The text follows:

A young student friend e-mailed me on Tuesday night.

"Have locked myself in my room because the place is full of little idiots -- who cannot spell Barack Obama's name and could not name one of his foreign or domestic policies -- running around screaming obscenities about George Bush, conservatives and how Sarah Palin is a bitch. I love democracy!"

Even so, the people spoke. A victory for the hysterical Oprah Winfrey, the mad racist preacher Jeremiah Wright, the mainstream media who abandoned any sense of objectivity long ago, Europeans who despise America largely because they depend on her, comics who claim to be dangerous and fearless but would not dare attack genuinely powerful special interest groups. A victory for Obama-worshippers everywhere.

A victory for the cult of the cult. A man who has done little with his life but has written about his achievements as if he had found the cure for cancer in between winning a marathon and building a nuclear reactor with his teeth. Victory for style over substance, hyperbole over history, rabble-raising over reality.

A victory for Hollywood, the most dysfunctional community in the world. Victory for Streisand, Spielberg, Soros and Sarandon.

Victory for those who prefer welfare to will and interference to independence. For those who settle for group think and herd mentality rather than those who fight for individual initiative and the right to be out of step with meagre political fashion.

Victory for a man who is no friend of freedom. He and his people have already stated that media has to be controlled so as to be balanced, without realizing the extraordinary irony within that statement. Like most liberal zealots, the Obama worshippers constantly speak of Fox and Limbaugh, when the vast bulk of television stations and newspapers are drastically liberal and anti-conservative.

Senior Democrat Chuck Schumer said that just as pornography should be censored, so should talk radio. In other words, one of the few free and open means of popular expression may well be cornered and beaten by bullies who even in triumph cannot tolerate any criticism and opposition.

WEAK TOWARD ENEMIES

A victory for those who believe the state is better qualified to raise children than the family, for those who prefer teachers' unions to teaching and for those who are naively convinced that if the West is sufficiently weak towards its enemies, war and terror will dissolve as quickly as the tears on the face of a leftist celebrity.

A victory for social democracy even after most of Europe has come to the painful conclusion that social democracy leads to mediocrity, failure, unemployment, inflation, higher taxes and economic stagnation. A victory for intrusive lawyers, banal sentimentalists, social extremists and urban snobs.

Also a defeat for one of the weakest presidential candidates in living memory.

Why would anyone vote for a man who seemed incapable of outlining his policies and instead repeatedly emphasized a noble but, if we are candid, largely irrelevant war record?

He was joined by a woman who was defended so vehemently by her supporters when it was cuttingly evident that she is years away from being, and perhaps never will be, a serious candidate for senior national office.

Most of all it was a terrible defeat for democracy and the United States. A politician of nothing defeated a nothing politician and a credulous electorate screamed in adoration. I fear we will all suffer very much indeed.

That is all. Disperse.

Draining wealth and brains

Nothing like hard truth to put things into perspective and to make a lesson crystal clear.

My first solo novel comes out in July and I decided to get the jump on marketing. In order to put over a novel in this market, it takes work, hard work, and a lot of time (there goes my vacation) to talk to people, put together book signings, contests and products as a gift with purchase. I don't expect businesses to host a book signing for free, but I also do not have the money to pay for a lavish book launch, and neither does my publisher. At this time in this world the writer must not only write the books but promote and sell them as well, and that takes ingenuity, time and a lot of work, which brings me to the hard truth and the crystal clear lesson.

The new government is all about hope and change and that means attacking the people who are successful and work hard for their money. I know. It's easy to hate the rich, but not everyone who seems rich got that way by cheating people or manipulating money, stocks and politics. Some people actually worked hard for their money and they're entitled to enjoy it. Why? Because they earned it.

If I am successful in selling lots of books and building a fan base that will keep buying books, then I will end up with a good sum of money, enough money to quit working as a wage slave and work full time as writer. If I'm very successful marketing and promoting my books and gain some name recognition, then I will have earned every single dollar I make, so why would I want to let the government have it to redistribute it to people who don't care enough about themselves or have something to sell, people who will not and do not want to work as hard as I did? Why? Suddenly, I understand what it's like to work hard and become successful just to have the government come along and take away what I worked so hard to earn.

America is a wonderful country full of opportunities to build wealth -- if you're willing to work hard for it. I'm not talking about real estate schemes or pyramid schemes or Ponzis or selling something for nothing, like junk bonds. I'm talking about a real product with real worth, like a book or an electric car or new kind of motor or something tangible. Since the 1960s with the expansion of welfare and food stamps and other government entitlement programs people have expected the government to take care of them instead of working hard and finding their own way to make money. And everyone wants to be rich quick, and you can bet they will hang onto their money as if their lives depended upon it. Wealth looks very different from the other side.

If the current trend to rape and pillage the wealthy in the name of equalization of opportunity and redistribution of wealth continues, America is going to see the world that John Galt created and the brain drain will become a reality here as it is elsewhere in the world were brains and opportunity are just another way for government to rape and pillage their greatest and most prolific resource. No one wants to work hard and watch someone else take their hard work and earnings and give it away to some lazy schlub that would rather be a parasite on someone else's backside than work. Why work when the government will hand it over to you because you need it more? Where's the incentive to work, to earn, to become something more?

I'm as guilty as the next person when it comes to damning the wealthy. I've looked at someone with more than I have who can go out for a meal in a nice restaurant or go on a nice vacation or buy what they want without juggling the budget. And it's not just money or a house or things that I wish I had that someone else didn't, sometimes it's more personal. Why them and not me? It's my fault. I chose to accept less and not to strive for more because -- and here come the excuses, all of which boil down to one thing: because I didn't want it enough.

It's easy to want what someone else has and hard to get off the couch, stop whining and complaining and go get your own. Not everyone who has made a success of their lives and has some money is a greedy parasite out to cheat people out of their money. Some people worked hard for what they have and they shouldn't have to defend it or apologize for it. I see that now as I spend hours on the phone talking to business owners and companies in order to get their cooperation in promoting my books. The long hours of planning and research that go into marketing and promoting a book that isn't even available yet, finding someone to create a stunning book trailer and going over my budget to see how much money I can free up and what I can afford to buy and give away in order to entice people to buy my books take time and effort and brains, and it is a lot of hard and grueling work for someone like me who just wants to write. Every dime I make I will have earned the hard way and the only reason for working so hard is because I want my books to be successful.

The hope is that when all is said and done I will be financially stable and free to quit a job I tolerate to do a job I love. If all this work and effort makes me successful and I become wealthy, why should I be willing to let the government -- or anyone -- tell me I have to share it with people who aren't so fortunate? Yes, it's selfish. Yes, it's self serving. And I do not care.

Those people who aren't so fortunate have the same chances that I do to dig in, work hard and become successful and wealthy, or at least comfortable, but first they have to stop blaming the wealthy for their problems and get off their dead hind ends and work for it. The majority of the wealthy who didn't inherit their wealth or steal it by shady deals and con games are decent people who worked long and hard. They're decent people who put themselves first and did whatever the work required to become successful. They should be treated as heroes, as evidence that hard work pays off, not as marks or private ATMs for the lazy and shiftless parasites that expect something for nothing. They should be respected and honored and held up as examples of what is possible, not envied and hated.

When -- not if -- my success comes, if the government decides to redistribute my wealth, they will find me gone. Maybe to Ireland where artists and writers pay no income tax or to a country where hard work and wealth are no longer a crime. I'm selfish. I intend to keep what I earn.

We don't need your permission

Is anyone else bothered by the news that Congress voted itself an 11% raise while the military got only a 2.9% raise?

Only in Congress do the workers determine their own wages without asking their employers first. It doesn't work the same way in the private sector.

Oh, yes, I forgot. It does in some businesses where labor unions decide how much work will be done at what rate and for what pay with what benefits without the sanction of the employer. No wonder there are so many liberals in Congress right now. It all begins to make sense.

Too bad Congress doesn't go on strike. We could use the break.

That is all. Disperse.

Redistribute the wealth the right way

The more I read and hear about the way Washington is handling the economic crisis and what's been going on that Congress has done behind the scenes, the more I realize we need a fresh voice to set things right. I am not an economist, but I do know you can't pay off a debt by borrowing more money and shutting down the people that bring in the goods. I have an alternative plan.

First of all, not everyone who makes over $200,000 a year is wealthy. With inflation, that's middle class at best, but the people at the bottom of the middle class and edging into the lower class are furious that some people are making more money than they are. I have news for you. If you want more money, get a better job, go to college, work your butt off and ask for more money when you get the job and prove you have the goods to back up your attitude. Increasing taxes on people who make over $200K is not going to help the economy and it's going to piss off a lot of people. It seems like these people are wealthy because they make in one month what it takes the average American to make in a year, but most of these people have worked long and hard and earned what they're getting.

It's time to step back, check the facts and come up with a better plan, so let's start at the top.

1. All congressmen and senators will no longer be able to vote themselves a raise if the economy is in a slump. If they want a raise, they will have to go to the people who pay the bills, the taxpayers, and let them vote on whether or not a raise is in order.

2. Terms in office will be limited to two. After that, you're out. Pick up your last paycheck and go home, and it will be your last paycheck. The government gravy train is now closed for business. You will also have to pay for your own health care (you make enough money, so stop taking the food out of the taxpayers' mouths and the money out of their wallets). You will no longer get a pension. What you made during your time is office is all you get. There ain't no more. Like I said, the government gravy train is closed. You will be paid during your term in office and not beyond. That also goes for presidents and vice-presidents. Secret service will continue to watch over you for two years after you've stepped down from office. You will make enough from speaking engagements, whatever job you go back to and what you managed to save from your salary while in office to pay for your own security after that. Besides, since you no longer hold office, you won't be a target. Presidents and vice-presidents will also pay for their own health care since their salaries are sufficient to take care of themselves and their families. If your salary isn't enough to afford health care, then maybe it's time to fix the system we have so it works for everyone and not just for you.

3. All businesses knowingly employing illegal aliens will be taxed at a higher rate. E-Check is available to make sure the people you hire have valid social security numbers, so use it, or lost a bigger chunk of your profits.

4. All business and corporations that outsource their jobs and business will be taxed at a higher rate. Tax breaks will be given to those businesses that bring the jobs home and pay decent wages for their people.

5. Illegal aliens must learn to speak English or they will not be eligible for a green card or citizenship or a job. Since most illegal aliens send money back to their home countries, all foreign aid to those countries will cease. Since America is already funding their economy and there will be no more double dipping.

6. Small business owners who make more than $200K a year will be given access to loans and tax breaks to increase their business and hire more employees. All loans will be granted with a low interest rate and will be reviewed annually. Successful businesses will be extended further credit to expand and hire more employees and businesses that fail will be investigated to find out why. Business owners found to have been cheating their customers or running a shell game to get government money will have their loans revoked, all assets seized and be given a government job building roads or making license plates.

7. Individuals who make more than $200K will not be taxed at a higher rate, but individuals who make over $400K a year will be taxed at a slightly higher rate if their income does not derive from their own business. Investment bankers, stock brokers, politicians and corporate execs of businesses being run into the ground and found to be responsible for the failures will be taxed at the higher rate. If they cannot pay the higher rate, their assets will be seized and sold to pay their debt.

8. Military personnel and their families and teachers will be paid at a living wage commensurate with their background, skills and education. No longer will a teacher or military family be forced to live on food stamps. These people are the backbone of this country and will be honored and paid accordingly. Since congressional members will no longer get free health insurance, exorbitant pay raises and live at the taxpayers' for decades, there will be more than enough money to take care of the military and teachers.

9. All politicians at all levels will return all campaign or other funds received from businesses the government has been forced to bail out and all bonuses, regardless of previous contractual commitments, will cease. This includes Senator McCain, certain representatives and other senators in Congress, the Vice President and the current President of the United State who all received in excess of $100K from AIG and other businesses and banks that received bailout money. Effective immediately. There is no reason for any of these people to posture and act indignant when they are just as guilty as executives who received billions in bonuses for doing a lousy job and running businesses into the ground to fund their greed. All monies will be returned to the bailed out businesses, banks, etc. immediately and will be done publicly.

Now that is how you redistribute the wealth.

That is all. Disperse.

Life in three dimensions

It's a struggle whether or not to talk about the fire yesterday at the 7-Eleven just a few blocks from here and the young girl who died or find something more positive. It's always hard to deal with a young person's death, so much possibility and promise gone in a flash, but to know that I heard the sirens and was so intent on work that I didn't even blink is a little surprising to me. I don't chase ambulances or fire trucks, but they have become so commonplace since I moved to the city that it's like a callus worn over tender flesh. It's hard to feel through it. I'm sad for the girl's family and for her friends, but unfortunately -- or fortunately -- it's all part of life. To dwell on it is to miss the best part of life and that's living. Does that sound callous? It's not meant to be.

So many times I get lost in the day to day minutiae of cooking, cleaning, dishes, eating, work and the usual round of chores, so much so that I forget to step outside and just breathe, drink in the sunshine and languish to the sound of birds and children playing. Yesterday when I went out to check the mail, a group of children were sitting on the school steps, on the ground and a couple in chairs and on the short retaining wall with big sketch pads on their laps. Some faced each other, but most of them faced my cottage, sketching like mad, recording the scenes in front of them, freezing a moment or a feeling or both in time and they made me long for a sketch pad and charcoal or pencil or pastels and to just sit in the warm sunshine and feel the flow of nature in my fingers as I sketched and shaded and drew.

I miss drawing. I miss being able to pick up a pencil and catching the expression on an interesting face or feeling a brush moving across a canvas leaving a trail of color, light and shadow behind as details coalesce and become more real, more there, just more. I used to spend hours painting and drawing, lost in a world of color, light and darkness where everything made sense. A line became a curve and a curve defined a face or a momentary smile. There was a sense of order, a cause and effect that resonated. Even a chance drip of paint or a shaky line became part of the whole, a quirk of imagination that lent subtle charm and depth to what could have been a wooden, static representation, and the faces that emerged on the page or the canvas were more than just pictures, they were the essence hiding in the eyes and behind the sardonic smile. They were three-dimensional. Eyes followed and smiles changed from moment to moment. They breathed.

And I wonder if somewhere in an obligatory art class the girl who died in the fire yesterday is captured on paper or canvas where she too breathes and lives.

Excess and eccentricity

One of the best parts about being a book reviewer is being surprised by what books arrive in the mail. One of the worst parts about being a book reviewer is being surprised by what books arrive in the mail.

One of the books I got this time around was purportedly a humorous memoir. It was also a Christian memoir overflowing with Bible verses, half pages of verses and citations and prayers and, even though some of the prayers were funny, most of them were tedious. Every chapter contained some heavy-handed Christian dogma and, while I understand and appreciate religious zealotry, it was also also a bit much.

At times like these, I focus on the story and the tale being told. I don't share the author's beliefs or his way of looking at and dealing with things, but I respect his right to do so. I'm a reviewer. I don't have to believe or even share a writer's faith, just critique how well he writes and gets his point across. Sometimes it's hard to do, but that's why I get paid the big bucks.

I have to admit there were times I laughed out loud, but Southern writers are all about excess and eccentricity and they put their madness right out on the front porch in the rocking chair with a pitcher of sweet tea close to hand. Southerners are proud of their loony relatives, not like the rest of the country who hide their mad relatives in the attic or in nursing homes and sanitariums, although nowadays they call them spas or treatment centers.

They Popped My Hood and Found Gravy on the Dipstick is as Southern and funny as it gets and in that respect Todd Starnes did a good job. It's a Christian book and that should guide every reader's decision. If you don't mind the constant references to church brothers, sisters and families or Bible verses or the Christian agenda, plow ahead and enjoy yourself. There is a lot to like and Todd's story is an amazing journey from the abyss looking at death to running a New York marathon, a journey that covers the loss of 150 pounds and of both of his parents as he turns his life around, but refuses to give up BBQs and all things pig.

Honeymoon in Tehran

Honeymoon in Tehran is one of the books I recently reviewed, but 300-400 words is not enough to explain what this book contains or what insights it provided.

First and foremost, Azadeh Moaveni's book is a memoir, a history of her more recent time in Iran before and after her marriage. The honeymoon part of the book is not just about her marriage, which comprises the last one-third of the book, but about her relationship with Iran, its customs, political climate and people.

In many ways, Moaveni's honeymoon was part of a continuing cycle in an abusive relationship with Iran, and that relationship, as well as the relationship of most Iranians with their country and its government, is abusive. What else would you call it when the government goes through periods of crackdowns on satellite dishes and dress codes and then ignore those same things just to crack down on them again when the unsuspecting citizens lapse into a feeling of safety and marginal freedom just to be plunged back into terror, fear and paranoia?

The government jams the Internet and satellite television all the time, but having a satellite dish is against the law, and yet millions of Iranians have them, pointing out that in the past when government workers came to kick down the dishes they were rude to the doormen and the families and now they politely march up to the roof and kick down the dishes and take them away. It's the plaintive claim of any abused person who does their best to find something good about the relationship they either cannot leave or are afraid to leave, and it is Moaveni's reaction as well. Iranians know they are breaking the law by having satellite dishes, but they keep buying more dishes and putting them back up in order to have a little freedom and a chance to see something other than the heavy-handed religious and state operated channels they are allowed.

It is the same for dress codes. The chador, a traditional shapeless black, sometimes patterned, garment that covers from head to toe and held together by the hand or teeth, is worn by extremely religious women. The manteau is a long coat that must be worn when a woman is in public, although modern Iranian women who are more secular and less religious wear shorter and tighter manteaus when the government police and Basiji (members of a volunteer paramilitary organization, or civilian militia, mostly populated by young people from poorer sections of the country and Tehran) are less vigilant. And it is the same thing for head scarves. When the government is on a crusade to fine and imprison any Iranian woman not wearing an opaque and voluminous head scarf, women wear sheer and colorful head scarves. The problem is that no one knows when the government will change its tone and mood, but secular Iranians have learned to cope, just as Moaveni learned to cope, dancing along a dangerous razor's edge line between the cycle of rage and honeymoon with the government and her homeland.



Despite what the Western world believes about educated and modern Iranians' devotion and belief in Ahmadinejad, the truth is very different. Ahmadinejad is hated by most Iranians, except for those in the religious right, and suffer under his rule. They are ashamed of his ranting and raging against the Western world and his stance on Israel, but the cannot do anything about it since he is the figurehead chosen by the mullahs (religious leaders) to govern the secular government. During his tenure, Iranians have watched their marginal economy take a nose dive as Ahmadinejad and the mullahs drive the country deeper and deeper into debt by funding Hamas and Hezbollah and other terrorist organizations while antagonizing the West by continuing work on nuclear weapons instead of focusing on providing clean and safe electricity as publicly stated.

Just after Ahmadinejad was elected, Moaveni interviewed a mullah and asked why the people, who wanted a secular government, voted for a man "...who considers cemeteries decorative." He responded, "Do you think the people who voted for him even knew that? He spoke only about jobs and the economy. Eight years of failed political reform disappointed people. It made them indifferent to politics. [T]hey figured that if they could not have real freedom, they might as well have more manageable rent, better jobs." Arising from obscurity, Ahmadinejad's "...campaign slogn, 'We Can and We Will' implied fighting corruption, not building the Bomb..." Despite his belligerent attitude and his naïveté and amateurish fiscal policies that resulted in the further ruin of the economy, many Iranians applauded him -- at first.

Despite the "...cozy regard [for America that] had evaporated under President Bush...no one appreciated Ahmadinejad's party ridiculous, party insulting letter [to President Bush and considered it] embarrassing to Iran and Iranians." And yet Moaveni assured a friend in California, who wanted to come to her wedding that "...[i]t's safe! People love Americans here. You'll get marriage proposals in the street, probably."

Interspersed with the darker side of Iran is the beauty of its culture and the reminiscent glory of its past before the arrival of Islam into the Persia of ancient days and fame. Moaveni's descriptions of her extended family and the world they inhabit make Iran sound like a paradise, or at least dwindling pockets of paradise in a toxic world where people become ill and die from the pollution or take their lives in their hands when they go shopping for food or go for a stroll with their children.

Fruit sellers notice when their patrons are buying less fruit because of the economy and tuck a few extra pieces of fruit in their patrons' bags. Western stores glitter for a brief moment before censors black out objectionable illustrations and words. Uneven sidewalks trip and harm the unwary while in poor neighborhoods gangs of Basiji thugs harass women not sufficiently or modestly dressed and covered. In the distance on days when the pollution isn't a thick smoke-filled haze, the distant mountains glisten with snow and families trapped in ugly cement buildings cut into apartments escape to family estates in nearby rural communities where fountains cool the air of walled gardens and children laugh and play with their families.

Iran is a world of conflicting views, modern urban sensibilities and unstable government pulled by secular and religious concerns and Azadeh Moaveni's Honeymoon in Tehran an attempt to breach the gap between Western ideas of Iran and the realities of its beauty and dangers. Even among her extended family in Iran, Moaveni's Western education and sensibilities and rose-colored view of her grandmother's beloved homeland are naive and overly romantic. As a journalist, Moaveni is competent, but careful in what she says and how she says it to protect herself from the torture and imprisonment that would surely follow if she stripped away the veil and showed Iran as it truly is.

She admittedly spins her stories and articles to please the government and that makes much of what she writes questionable, something to be taken with a grain of salt. In the wake of harassment and the fear of imprisonment and worse, Moaveni becomes a soft journalist, shying away from hot topics and writing what she considers neutral stories, discovering along the way "...that there were no 'neutral stories.' [T]here was no avoiding mention of the regime's flaws." When finishing Lipstick Jihad, she "...confessed to Lily, my publisher friend, that despite all my efforts it ended sorrowfully. 'I want so badly not to write a grim Iran book. Why is it turning out this way?"

"It's not your fault," [Lily] said with a knowing smile. "you can't write the sadness out of Iran's story."

In the end, for all its faults and flaws, Honeymoon in Tehran is a closer look into an Iran most of the West has never seen and would not otherwise know and for that reason Azadeh Moaveni's views of Tehran are well worth reading. The view through cracked rose-colored glasses of a sadder by wiser woman is a view worth experiencing. Moaveni's memoir is a revealing odyssey of the heart and soul.

Make them accountable

The more I think about the subject of redistribution of wealth, the angrier it makes me. Since I choose not to hold my anger in, I let it go driven by the force of logic and a desire to make the oligarchs accountable.

The President's base salary is $400,000. That puts him and the First Lady in the salary bracket that requires their taxes to be raised. The question becomes, does this redistribution of wealth include them? It should. If the point is to redistribute the wealth, then the wealthy -- all of the wealthy -- should be included, especially the leaders and proponents of this plan. That includes all government workers, senators, representatives and justices on the Supreme Court. Not only should they be included, especially since this is their plan, but it should include all past presidents who are still raking in salaries paid by the taxpayers and their spouses. Leaders should lead by example and this is one example that should be a very public and transparent example for the country to follow.

I come from a military family and have always believed that a good officer doesn't ask his troops to do anything that he would not do. The same should go for government. Think of all the wealth that could be redistributed back to poorer taxpayers if the President, Vice-President, Speaker of the House, Cabinet members, senators, representatives, justices and past presidents, like Clinton with his hundreds of billions of dollars of Arab money flowing into his library and foundation, and Vice-Presidents, like Al Gore, were to kick back a bigger chunk of their income. Now that would really be a redistribution of wealth. And Obamessiah should lead the charge.

There has been a lot of talk about biting the bullet and the President not being able to fix the country by himself. He called on all Americans to sacrifice for the good of all. I notice that he didn't include himself in that sacrifice as he tools around the country on Air Force One every week, hosts a party at the White House every Wednesday night and wines and dines his supporters, cronies and friends so often that the White House is becoming the big White Holiday Inn where every day is a holiday. I don't see much sacrifice. Do you?

There was one big sacrifice when Obamessiah gave British Prime Minister Brown a collection of 25 DVD classics that he won't be able to play on his UK Region DVD player and the First Lady handed over a replica of Air Force One she pulled off the shelf in the White House gift shop for PM Brown's children that took less thought than choosing paper or plastic at the grocery store. That was a huge sacrifice.

If we're going to bite the bullet, then it's time for Obamessiah to show us the way and bite the bullet first. Hand over a big chunk of his salary and book royalties and makes sure the First Lady does the same. Then the VP, Congress, Cabinet members, etc. can follow suit in a public show of solidarity and sacrifice. Congress should also include their brand new 11% raise they just voted themselves in the package and give up their taxpayer subsidized health care plan and go on the proposed health care plan waiting in the wings to be implemented. The First Lady said the taxpayers were going to have to give until it hurts and the hurting should start on Capitol Hill. It's time to make them all accountable for the free ride they have been getting all these years.

And if Obamessiah is so good at raising money, how about raising money for his own salary instead of saddling the taxpayers with his White House bashes and Air Force One trips around the country. That's the way a leader shows the way.

I like the idea so much I used the very slow and ponderous White House web site to tell the President that he should stand up and be counted, as should all the oligarchs on Capitol Hill. After all, they are the leaders and it's time to follow the leaders.

That is all. Disperse.

Review: My Daughter's Deli

I'd heard about My Daughter's Deli and finally went inside yesterday morning. I wanted some hot chocolate and a quick breakfast. I got more than I bargained for.

The walls are plaster with patches of brick showing and people have written all over the plaster walls beside, below, above and around the original art work featured on all the walls. There are tables and cozy seating areas in niches and the atmosphere was quiet and relaxing in spite of two gentleman having a friendly discussion. Sharon, the owner, was courteous and moved with a quick efficiency.

I ordered a cream cheese and lox bagel and a large cup of hot chocolate. The best part of the visit was the food. Expecting a bagel with cream cheese schmear and a bit of lox, I was amazed to get tomato, fresh sliced red onion and a bit of lettuce on the bagel, which was fresh and toasted to perfection. The hot chocolate was heavenly with a generous dollop of whipped cream on top.

I was surprised to find the place so empty, especially with such good food. Sharon told me business has fallen off in the past two years because Old Colorado City is not being promoted as it should be. Over the past three years, I have watched business after business pull up stakes and move out in an area that should be teeming with tourists and locals visiting this historic corner of Colorado Springs for the antiques, shops and ambiance of the more relaxed and friendlier west side of town.

Sharon did tell me that two writers come in every Friday at 1 p.m. and stay until 4 p.m., leaving one hour before the deli closes. They bring their laptops and write sitting in the back among the art work and wonderful graffiti decorating the walls, sharing the muse and the food. The food is wonderful and the prices moderate. If you are looking for somewhere to relax and recharge and get a little something to eat, My Daughter's Deli & Espresso is the place to be.

Missing writing tools

I ran out of stationery a few weeks ago. I write a few letters from time to time -- by hand. I went back to Papyrus to buy another box or two of stationery and they had none. There were cutesy cards and cards for writing quick notes, but no letter sheets. Not one single set.

Since then I have run search after search and found nothing to my taste. All I want is 100 sheets and 50 envelopes without embossing or fancy/silly/comic designs. A deckle edge would be nice, but not absolutely necessary. And I do not want pink. White or ivory or even lavender would be perfect. I'd even settle for a pale powder blue, but no pink. I don't want animals or sayings or personalization. I want a box of plain stationery with plain envelopes that doesn't end up costing over $200. Even if I had the money, I wouldn't pay that much and $416 is out of the question.

I have checked everywhere, even manufactures in China and the Middle East, and nowhere can I find what I want. Does no one make plain boxed stationery any more?

I have a few foldover notes with designs in a mint green, and I have used them (I have one left), but I wouldn't use them at all if they hadn't been free and I was out of stationery. There's plenty of ink jet printer paper, but I want something with a linen feel to it, something that has a touch of class and the feel of something that will last for years. I don't want to type and print out a letter, but write it by hand with my fountain pen.

When I talked to my cousin Ellen on the phone this afternoon, I mentioned that I had written her sister, Bobbi Jean, a note. Ellen said everyone likes getting letters in the mail. I didn't realize she felt that way, even though I do and always have. There's something personal and friendly in a handwritten letter on quality stationery that gives even the most mundane news a sense of quality and class.

Email is easy and quick. Typed and printed letters seem colder and more businesslike than a handwritten letter, so why is it so difficult to get what I want? I'm not hard to please, except for not wanting pink stationery, so why does not one make what I need any more? Barnes & Noble had almost what I wanted, and I could've lived with the scalloped edges that scream "girly girl". They had a picture of the set, but no stock, except for an ugly blue and an even uglier pink. Ivory would have been nice, even with the girly scalloped edges, but no joy.

It's true. I'm old fashioned. I'm a dinosaur sinking ever faster into the tar pit. But as long as I have ink and my fingers work, I will continue to write letters in longhand and need linen or at least quality recycled stationery in a neutral color, preferably with a deckle edge, but definitely simple, plain quality stationery. If anyone knows where I can find my correspondence crack, please let me know before I sink forever into the tar pit of lost correspondence for dinosaurs.

Addendum: A couple of wise friends sent suggestions and they turned out to be good ones, so this, this and this (as a last resort) have solved my problem. I knew I could count on them. Thank you.

That is all. Disperse.

Words of a prophet

Thomas Jefferson in some cases could be called a prophet.

When we get piled upon one another in large cities, as in Europe, we shall become as corrupt as Europe.

Thomas Jefferson

The democracy will cease to exist when you take away from those who are willing to work and give to those who would not.
Thomas Jefferson

It is incumbent on every generation to pay its own debts as it goes. A principle which if acted on would save one-half the wars of the world.
Thomas Jefferson

I predict future happiness for Americans if they can prevent the
Government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense
Of taking care of them.
Thomas Jefferson

My reading of history convinces me that most bad government results
From too much government..
Thomas Jefferson

No free man shall ever be debarred the use of arms.
Thomas Jefferson

The strongest reason for the people to retain the right to keep and bear
Arms is, as a last resort, to protect themselves against tyranny in government.
Thomas Jefferson

The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of

Patriots and tyrants.

Thomas Jefferson

To compel a man to subsidize with his taxes the propagation of ideas which

He disbelieves and abhors is sinful and tyrannical.

Thomas Jefferson

Very Interesting quote

In light of the present financial crisis, it's interesting to read what Thomas

Jefferson said in 1802:

'I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than

Standing armies. If the American people ever allow private banks to control

The issue of their currency, first by inflation, then by deflation, the banks and

Corporations that will grow up around the banks will deprive the people of all

Property until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered.'

Good things come to those who wait--

-- or not.

I'm beginning to be wary of good things happening because they are often followed by problems, like having to pay for major repairs on my car. It's wearing on my usually optimistic nature and dragging me back into a more realistically pessimistic arena that makes me uncomfortable. Granted, I seem to have led a charmed life, and in many ways I have, but it has not been without cost.

For example: Yesterday, the CEO of a website read my post on looters and producers and contacted me to ask if I would let them run the post as a column on their website for which I would be paid. That's the good news. I'm still waiting for the bad news.

That's what I mean. Most of the time when I receive good news I enjoy the moment and get back to work making more opportunities for good news to come my way: raises, selling stories, articles and books, etc. But last week's unexpected expense has undermined my usual attitude and I wonder when I'll be able to get back to normal.

Death affects me this way, especially when the death is in my family or among close friends, hitting me with sharp cracks on the jaw, followed by hard body punches that leave me reeling and out of breath. I know this feeling will pass because it always has in the past, and I'm still here. My only recourse is to rely on the benchmarks that get me through each and every day: work, meals, paying bills, writing, spending time with family and friends and sleep, blessed sleep where I plunge gratefully into the dream stream to work out plot points, characterization and go to those places that remain out of my reach in the waking world. In dreams I am not hampered by anything but imagination and my imagination is a fertile and productive ground where anything and everything is possible.

For now, there is work and the daily round of mundane activities that ground and center me, reminding me that no matter what happens, it too will soon pass.

Looters and Producers

There are two kinds of people: looters and producers. The looters expect to get paid for not working and producing, riding on the coattails of the producers. The producers are the people who actually use their brains to create music, art, industry, jobs and literature, among other things.

Looters blame their misfortunes on not getting a break or having bad luck or, more often, on someone else ruining their chances. They want to squeeze out all the competition so they can rake in all the rewards -- regardless of where those rewards originate. In fact, they are after the rewards the producers make because it's only fair that they should get a piece of the pie.

Producers don't mind competition and they don't get upset when someone they respect in their field is better than they are because they can learn from their competitors and will work to put them out of business. They don't mind the competition even if they lose. They recognize a better producer and aren't shy about congratulating them. It's the same in writing.

There are writers who blame their failures on other writers who have better chances, better luck or who know someone and have sold her soul (or their body) for their success. They are looters.

And there are writers who are producers. They may not start out with much: an article here, a newsletter there and a few stories or contests. But they are learning and producing and getting better, honing the craft of writing. One day, seemingly overnight, the producers are writing books and doing interviews and getting noticed for their hard work, especially by the looters who want to either ride on their coattails or point to them as greedy hacks who never had an original thought or wrote anything that didn't come from someone else's brain. The looters feel they are entitled to take a piece of the action and the producers should pay. Karma is thrown around a lot.

The most telling way to distinguish a looter from a producer is how they treat the competition. Looters will cozy up to other looters or to producers and pretend to be helpful. They aren't being helpful. They want the producers and other looters to fail to prove that Karma is proving them right. It's the old saying that you keep your friends close and your enemies closer -- until the writers the looters have named enemies catch on and realize what the looters are up to.

Producers are different. When they criticize another writer, they are calling a spade a spade and tripe simply tripe. Producers nurture other writers and welcome them with open arms because they truly like having someone else's writing to read, someone who's a really good writer. It's competition, but it's healthy competition because the producers are always learning and growing and incorporating what they read and see and do into their work to make it better. Doesn't mean the producers don't fail from time to time or get a little lazy or just plain tired. It means that producers don't stay down long. Instead producers get up and get back to work writing and welcoming new writers, new producers, into the field. However, producers do not pander to anyone's ego and are not hesitant to let another writer (looter or producer) know that the writer failed or was lazy or is repeating herself. It's not the same as a looter's criticisms dressed up as compliments and containing enough venom to fell a woolly mammoth in 3 seconds flat.

You will know a tree by its fruits.

What all this boils down to is this: Good writers are hard to find and good writers who look forward to shepherding other writers into the field are becoming rarer and rarer. It has become a dog-eat-dog world where most people, writers included, want to make sure that everyone but themselves fail. And the worst of the looters are those who spend too much of their time blaming other producers for their failures, unwilling to acknowledge that they had help from those very same producers.

Every writer begins by incorporating what she reads and admires into her own work. The writing is derivative at first, but eventually begins to change and evolve into a style and voice all its own. We imitate what we love.

I discover new writers, some of whom are very old writers, all the time and I recognize their influence in my own work. Edgar Rice Burroughs, Plato, Homer, Andre Norton, Stephen King, Anne Rice, Blake, Ayn Rand, Sir Walter Scott, Bram Stoker, Steinbeck, Hemingway and so many others, including many new voices and good writers too numerous to name here. Except for Homer and Plato, most of the other writers fell short of the mark a few times, but even their mistakes are well worth reading, providing a manual on what not to do and how a good story and a good producing writer can go wrong. Nothing is without its value. Even looters have value; they are a blazing 60-foot high sign in eye searing neon that show what not to do.

So, if you're a writer and intent on improving, cast nothing aside. Read everything. Accept challenges. And never forget that other writers are not the enemy but competitors that will help or hinder your work. Rely on no one and accept nothing for free because there is always a price. I don't help anyone for free. I expect return on my investment by having something good to read and someone to show me a different view of writing and the world from which I can learn and grow and evolve, so get busy. I'm running out of good books to read.

And now a word from our sponsors

Pat Dollard and Freshman Representative, Alan Grayson.



News Flash: Immigrants to get TARP jobs and Star Parker: Back on Uncle Sam's Plantation

We now return you to your regular programming.

Close encounters of the celebrity kind

I was pregnant and living in Tucson. Dave was at the base and David Scott was restless so we took a drive out to Old Tucson. I hoped walking around would tire him out so he'd go to sleep and then I could rest. Actually, just getting around the house was enough to tire me out because the baby was dropping and I felt weighted down, but I was at my wit's end. David Scott wasn't sleeping and neither was I.

It was a beautiful winter morning. The sun was bright and warm and it felt good to be out of the house where the breakfast dishes and laundry waited to be done.

We wandered down the wooden sidewalks where countless actors had walked before us while making movies. David Scott thumped down on the sidewalk and wouldn't move, so I picked him up and carried him into the general store. I wasn't watching where I was going and came to a dead stop, nearly dropping him. Suddenly, he was out of my arms and I grabbed for him, thinking he was falling. A man in cowboy clothes held him in his arms and smiled down at me. David Scott pinched the deep cleft in his chin and giggled. I was mortified as I recognized Kirk Douglas holding my son. I apologized and he smiled and laughed. "No need to apologize. He's a fine healthy boy."

"A little too healthy sometimes," I said. I reached for my son and he waved me off, holding tighter to Mr. Douglas.

"You look tired. How about some lunch?"

"I couldn't, Mr. Douglas. I-I don't want to impose."

"It's Kirk and you're not imposing."

He started out the door, bouncing David Scott in his arms and chatting with him as if my son were his own child. I followed him out the door and down the street to the edge of town, all the time asking Mr. Douglas to let me have my son. I near stumbled and fell and Mr. Douglas -- Kirk -- grabbed my arm with his free hand and guided me into a building where people and some actors I recognized stood in groups or fussed with lights and cameras while others helped themselves from a long table filled with food. Kirk told a young girl to fill two plates and guided me to the table. "Take whatever you'd like," he said as he walked over to a table where another man dressed as a cowboy held court.

I took some fruit and turned away from the table when a deep voice behind told me I needed more than that and piled some more food on the plate. "Go sit over there and I'll bring you some coffee."

"Thank you, but I don't drink coffee."

"How about a coke?" I nodded. He patted my shoulder. "Sit down before you fall down," he urged.

Kirk waved me over to a chair next to him. I placed the plate on the table and sat down. I looked up at the man next to me and he smiled a smile I've seen hundreds of times and introduced himself. I was sitting between Kirk Douglas and John Wayne having lunch while they took turns bouncing my son on their knees. They introduced me around to the other cast members and the director and some of the other staff while we ate and then invited me to stick around while they shot a few scenes. Afterwards, Kirk walked me back to my car, fastened David Scott in his car seat and helped me into the car.

Easy come, quickly gone

I had plans for the tax refund. They didn't include handing it over to the guys at Peak Auto Service to fix my car. Scotty had warned me he'd gouge me later. He was true to his word.

I had planned to get a tune-up and maybe a new battery, both of which would put a small dent in my windfall, but I didn't plan on handing over the whole amount, and yet that is what I did yesterday. Now my car fires as soon as I turn the key and I don't have to crank and hope the battery will last long enough and have enough power for the engine to fire. I'm looking on the bright side. I'll save gas and might not have to fill up for six months instead of every four. Then again, maybe not, since Scotty warned me that I have to start the car and let it run for a few minutes at least twice a week to keep the battery in good condition. Like Beanie said when I told her how much it would cost, "At least you had the money." There is that.

I walked over to Peak Auto after I finished work and drove the car home to pick up my wallet (I didn't want to carry a purse), got back into the car and drove over to Mountain Mama's to pick up a few things. I had originally planned to treat myself with a Subway sandwich, but thought better of it. Healthy organic food is what I needed, if not what I wanted. I really need to make a list before I go so I'm not so overwhelmed by all the choices. I wandered around the aisles, picked up some incense (no more rose-scented incense because it's a bit too cloying and sweet and makes me sneeze), some almonds and a piece of vegan black bottom banana cream pie. On the way home, I marveled at the smooth sound of the engine and the way the car started with the first turn of the key in the ignition. I still have a few dollars left and I get paid next week. Since I've already paid the rent and most of the bills, the outlook isn't too bleak and I can go back to Mountain Mama's with my list in hand and get the tahini I forgot last night to go with the garbanzo beans simmering on the stove this morning. I already have lemons and some roasted red peppers and garlic, but I should stock up on olive oil. The bottle on top of the refrigerator is almost gone. There's plenty of celery in the crisper and some homemade pita bread would just about hit the spot. Maybe I should get some oil cured olives and some walnuts and more garlic to make tapenade for a real Mediterranean feast. There were some lovely eggplants cooling under the lights in the produce section, smooth purple skins humped together next to the leeks and mushrooms.

Time to get showered and dressed. I'm hungry.

Apple pie memories

My grandmother was a great cook. She made egg noodles by hand and made the best peach cobbler with a double crust in a cast iron skillet. My brother does a good imitation, but it doesn't have the same warm sweet taste that my grandmother's did. He learned as I did, standing side by side with Gram, rolling out leftover spirals of dough, spreading on jam or jelly, rolling the dough into fat loafs and sprinkling the top with sugar before placing them carefully on the pan Gram placed in the oven alongside her pies and cobblers before hugging us and helping us clean the table where we worked.

After my divorce, I moved back to Ohio from Utah with my three young boys to live with my parents (joy, joy). There were some wrinkled apples in the refrigerator and I decided to make an apple pie. I felt adrift on a stormy sea of working two jobs, seeing little of my children and having no home of my own. Baking was my drug of choice.

Like my grandmother had taught me, I cut Crisco into a bowl of flour, added some ice water and turned the dough onto the floured surface of the counter, rolling the dough into a rough circle and fitting it into an old glass pie plate Gram had given Mom when she got married. Mom never baked pies, but Dad did. As the dough rested, I peeled and cored the apples, sliced them, added a little flour, salt, cinnamon and lemon juice to the apples, mixing slowly until they were all covered. I wished I had had a little red wine and some raisins, but that wouldn't have been welcome in my mother's house. After spooning the apples into the crust and draping the other circle of dough on top, crimping the edges and slashing the crust in four places, I brushed the top with milk and sprinkled sugar over it and popped it in the oven.

While I cleaned up the kitchen, the air filled with the sweet and comforting scent of baking apples and spices. Dad drifted through the kitchen, sniffing the air and nodding appreciatively. The boys, sweaty and red-faced from playing in the yard, descended en masse. "Will it be done soon?" For the first time in weeks, they seemed to feel more at home. Mom plopped her shopping bags down on the counter. "I hope you washed your hands." She rifled through the bags, eyeing the counter. "Give me the dish rag. This counter doesn't look clean." She wiped down the clean counter and threw the dishrag in the sink. "You didn't need to make such a mess." She grabbed her bags and went into the dining room to sort through her booty while I checked on the pie.

The pie crust was golden and cinnamon laced juices bubbled through the slits, filling the kitchen with the aroma of apples and cinnamon. I placed the pie on the counter just as the boys, drawn by the aroma, crowded around me. Eddie reached a finger toward the pie. "It's still hot," I said as I caught his grubby hand, "You'll get burned."

"When can we have some?"

"Later. Now go wash your hands and get ready for dinner."

Gram had promised to bring beef hash for dinner and she arrived shortly after. "Smells good," she said.

The boys were like tightly coiled springs held in place by crumbling rust all through dinner, barely tasting the food they shoveled into their usually chatty mouths, silent as the air before a storm. Quiet. Waiting. Barely held in check. Holding their breath, uncertain of the future.

I sliced the pie, serving my parents and Gram before I served the boys. Their forks pricked the edges, gathering up glittering crystals of sugar and placing them delicately on their tongues, their eyes closed as they focused on the taste, lingering over the first bit of crust, licking the tines of their fork of apple and cinammon-laced juices, making each morsel last as long as possible.

When dinner was over and I rinsed the dishes and put them into the dishwasher, Gram sat down at the counter and handed me the empty pie plate. "Your crust is better than mine," she said. I held the words carefully, afraid they would break and vanish, tears glittering in my eyes.

"Thank you, Gram."

Legislating poverty

"You cannot legislate the poor into freedom by legislating the wealthy out of freedom. What one person receives without working for, another person must work for without receiving. The government cannot give to anybody anything that the government does not first take from somebody else. When half of the people get the idea that they do not have to work because the other half is going to take care of them, and when the other half gets the idea that it does no good to work because somebody else is going to get what they work for, that my dear friend, is about the end of any nation. You cannot multiply wealth by dividing it."



~~~~~ Dr. Adrian Rogers, 1931

First impressions

A novice writer answered a message I sent her last month and asked me a question. She wanted to know how long a novel should be. She had looked for the answer but couldn't find anything concrete because there is no concrete answer. A novel is as long as it needs to be. There are some conventions, however. About 40-45K words is considered a novella (little novel), 50K words is an average novel and 60-75K is the usual length, while 75K and above are longer novels (super sized). Some publisher list their preferred length.

She had picked out a title for her novel and knew what the story was about but she was stuck. She had been told that the first sentence must be the best and brightest sentence of the novel if it is to have any chance getting out of the slush pile. Yes, a first sentence draws the reader in, but if the rest of the writing isn't just as good editors, publishers and readers will throw the book in the trash. Getting the story down, letting the characters live and breath and take on flesh and blood and bones is more important than not writing because you don't have the perfect, bright and glorious first sentence. It's an excuse for not moving forward.

The best thing about writing a story or a novel or novella is that when you're finished getting it all down on paper you can go back and polish the first sentence. You had better polish the rest of the novel while you're at it. Writing a novel is half the job. The rest of the job is editing, tightening plot points, tying up all the loose ends, clarifying, rewriting and polishing. You don't have to have the perfect first sentence until you send it out the door or out on the cyberwaves.

First impressions are important. People never forget first impressions. They do, however, remember what people do after that and there is always room for change. It is the one constant in the universe. People -- and impressions -- change.

Decadence, physics, walkabout

Getting hooked on Lost was not my idea, but I caved out of curiosity. I'm glad I did. It's a great show with a lot of subtle threads woven into its fabric that is just now becoming clearer, but I was hooked the moment the show opened with a shot of Jack's eyes opening. I've hung on through thick and thin and remain utterly entranced, which doesn't happen often. I usually figure out the killer or mystery early on and then spend the rest of the time bored and reading emails or cruising the net or just simply shut it off out of disgust. That is the case with Heroes.

One thing that was evident from the beginning is that Lost is based in quantum physics and that is one of my favorite things to read about and discuss. I'm working on the background for a series of novels based on quantum physics and the possibility of changing the past. Don't ask. I'm not going to say any more about it. Very hush hush.

In the meantime, I'm ordering some new books on physics and plan to spend as much of my upcoming vacation as possible with my nose buried in the books or my fingers busily typing out words for the new books. I've even decided to take myself to a secluded spot to perform these acts so that I won't be bothered by phones, visitors or my Internet addiction. Keep that in mind when I'm missing from March 19-30. I've decided that seeing the sun rise in Chaco Canyon, as I've been promising myself for four years, is the best plan for using my refund this year. My little retreat is on the way back in a wooded area along the banks of the Colorado River. Breakfast delivered to the door, followed by a walk along the river into the woods and back and right into writing and reading mode, although I will probably do the reading outside in the fresh air with the music of the river and the conversation of animals and trees as background. My car battery isn't the only battery that needs recharging.

I will still spend my nights sleeping with physicists, philosophers and authors of all sexes and persuasions; there are some habits I am unwilling to break.

That is all. Disperse.

Not snail mail, storage mail

When I went out to put something in the mailbox and bring in the mail the box was slightly open. I still hadn't received the latest shipment of books from Authorlink so I was worried. I live across the street from a middle school and have been warned by the post office that sometimes kids steal mail. That's why the mailbox should be on my porch and not all the way across the parking lot and down on the street where I can't keep an eye and both ears on things, but we must make sure that the mailman doesn't have to walk too far from his vehicle to deliver the mail. After all, he's not getting paid that much money. Right.

Worried that my review books, and thus my income, had gone astray, I called the post office this morning, asked if they would check for the package and see if the carrier remembers delivering the books. The post office left a message. The package was there and would be delivered today.

Not so long ago (in human time and not post office time), the books were sent from Ft. Worth, Texas, about a week ago. Last year it took about three days to get from Texas to Colorado. It now takes a week? When I emailed my supervisor at Authorlink to let her know the books were being delivered today I mentioned that the post office must be using real snails and the cold has made them slower and more sluggish than usual. She replied that she finally had an answer for why the postal rates are so high. They're charging for storage. I think she's right.

This morning I checked the status of an item I ordered from Amazon two weeks ago. I found out they sent it on the 25th from Coffeyville, Kansas and that it took four days to get to Denver -- where it still sits waiting to be delivered on the projected date of March 5th. Denver is now four days away from Colorado Springs evidently. I then checked the carrier. The United States Postal Service. Yep, the higher postal rates are for storage because they certainly are not for service or speed or anything approaching accuracy, except when it comes to delivering bills and junk mail.

When Lynn and I talked a couple of weeks ago she asked me if I remembered back when the mail was delivered twice a day -- morning and afternoon. Yes, I do. And the postage rate was three cents for a first class letter and it didn't take two weeks to get from one side of town to the other. Letters sent within the city were often delivered the same day they were posted if mailed in the morning and the very next morning if mailed in the afternoon. That was first class service. Now carriers will not pick up a package that weighs more than 13 ounces even if it has the proper amount of postage and you can't just drop it off in a local mailbox because there are none. You must drive or bike or walk to crawl to the local post office and mail it in person. What happened to service? What happened to the mail carrier's creed? What happened to the mail?

Being a bit cynical and unhappy with the lack of service, I'd have to say that when the post office was run by the government it was better run and the costs were lower. That was before the unionization of the postal service back in the day when service was customer oriented and no one slowed down because the highest prices weren't paid for overnight delivery. It's not a new concept. I came across mention of it in a book I recently reviewed: The Devils' Paintbox.

A young man, devastated by the death of his sister, buries himself in work at a logging camp. He knows nothing about logging, but he learns quickly and he throws himself wholeheartedly into the work, numbing his body and his mind. There are quotas to maintain in order to keep the job, but he exceeds the quotas as his body and mind adjust to the heavy labor. He wants to be too tired to think at the end of the day and the natural rhythm of the work lends itself to greater output. The other loggers, little more than indentured servants working for the company store, aren't happy with the young man's output, so they beat the hell out of him and tell him to slow down so he doesn't make the rest of the loggers look bad. Sound familiar?

The book is set in the years immediately after the Civil War, so this is not a new concept and it was before the advent of the labor unions. I've worked in businesses where some of the jobs were union and the attitude was -- and continues to be -- that anyone who is working harder and better has to be reined in so as not to get anything done too quickly. I've been on the receiving end of quota hatred because I worked in data processing where pay was based on output and minimum quotas had to be maintained. I made good money because I focused on the work and didn't spend all my time gossiping at the water cooler or going to the bathroom every 10 minutes or out for a smoke. I did not and do not smoke. I really don't care to take breaks. I want to focus on the work and get it done. Other employees didn't care for my attitude and made it plain that they were not happy with my resulting output. I've even had supervisors and bosses tell me to slow down, not because I was making mistakes or doing the jobs wrong, but because they wanted to squeeze more money out of the clients by taking more time to get the job finished. And that is the bottom line -- money.

If you get paid the same amount no matter how much work you get done, why rush? Why exert yourself? Why get the job done in half the time when you can take more time and relax while making the same money. It's not about the job. It's about the money and it stinks. It's the wrong attitude and we're paying for it. That's why the post office is jammed with lines out the door; mailmen are taking their time processing the mail because it's only going to go into storage for a few days before it's actually sent. Something's wrong with this picture and changing the frame isn't going to make it any better, but you can be sure the rates will go up again this year just like the past three years and the quality of service is going to go down, and the trend will continue until someone -- a whole bunch of someones -- stand up and say ENOUGH.

That is all. Disperse.

Splinter memories

I was fine until she called and asked me if I knew what day it was. "March 1st. Dad died two years ago today." There was no hesitation in the answer. It had been lurking under the surface of my day like a wooden splinter I was reluctant to dig out, silent, waiting, not painful unless I moved the wrong way. "It seems like yesterday and like it happened a long time ago," she said, and she was right. I moved the wrong way and the splinter reminded me it was there.

Dad's picture is on the end table. He's smiling and young and wearing his Army uniform. I see it every day and take a moment to smile with him no matter what is happening. It always makes me feel good the way he made me feel when he was telling me a story of his childhood or regaling me with his chickens' or pigeons' antics or telling me about the trees, flowers and plants he was growing. He sometimes gave me an update on the avocado pit I sprouted in a glass in the window of my apartment in Columbus about 30 years ago and how tall and leafy it is. Ohio is too cold for it to set fruit, but it's still alive and growing for him. He kept all the plants I started or sprouted, caring for them as he cared for me when I was a child, talking to them, singing, playing music and tending them with loving care. Those plants were his connection with me, his wandering daughter, as other plants were his connection to all of his children and grandchildren.

Every winter he'd tell me when the Christmas cactus bloomed, the one Eddie deflowered when Dad first got it. The flowers were yellow and my 18-month-old son made a bouquet for me out of them. Dad never forgot or forgave him for that and every year Dad was sure the cactus wouldn't bloom again, but it did. That cactus is over 30 years old and the blooms are still yellow.

I told John about the second anniversary of Dad's death and he reminded me that Dad loved me and that I loved him and, although the memories were sometimes painful, they would give way in time and all that would remain were happy memories of phone calls and conversations, letters and time spent together. He was wrong about one thing. Dad left a few holes in me, too. The holes aren't big ones, but they're there, holes Dad couldn't fill, failures and silences that I don't probe too often. They're like that splinter, quiescent and quiet unless I move the wrong way. They're not as big as the holes other fathers left in their children, holes so big they swallow up the good times and the smiles and happiness and holidays and vacations, holes so big they feel like a vast emptiness or hot needles searing memory into painful twisting scars. The holes Dad left are much smaller than that and beginning to fill with memories of love and caring and big callused hands twisting fine dark hair around into perfect curls on a little girl's head and dancing while holding those same hands in the golden light of California evenings before television and school work, boyfriends and dating were even distant thoughts.

In the bright morning sunshine, in a picture on the end table, Dad wears his Army uniform and smiles his eternal smile and the memories are good ones.