Kitchen diplomacy

I've been reading Honeymoon in Tehran and marveling at the conditions in Iran from an Iranian expatriate's point of view. The Iranian is a U.S. citizen and has been since her parents came to America on vacation just before the Shah was deposed and ended up settling in California. Azadeh Moaveni is a journalist working for Time and has been a correspondent to Iran since 1999. She lived for two years in Iran because she fell in love and married an Iranian whose family owned a textile manufacturing firm and her fiancé was working in the family business and going to university. The book covers the year or so before the marriage and two years after the marriage before she and her husband emigrated to Britain.

While an inside view of Iranian politics and society is interesting, and at times quite informative, it is the food that gave me an idea for a new kind of diplomacy. Cowboy diplomacy didn't work and shuttle diplomacy was eventually a failure, but kitchen diplomacy might be just the thing to break down the walls between religious and political ideologies and make it possible for people to find common ground.

When we understand a region's foods and methods of cooking, we can begin to understand the forces that create and maintain a society. Trace the origin of a food through any country and you will find more similarities than differences and begin to get an appreciation of the ingenuity and creativity that define a people regardless of their origins. Food can also help to trace the origin of race and show the economic health or disease of a country and its people. Trace the origin of any food brought overland or over the sea from distant lands and you will find its relationship to the knowledge, clothing, religion and government of any civilization, its rise, growth and eventually decline.

People show a different face when discussing their favorite dishes and the comfort food of their childhood. It's a softer, nostalgic face that shines with memory and delight. The politics of food are simple. Understand that and the key to any country's heart is yours for the taking.

I propose that instead of negotiations in conference rooms and hotels and the offices of officials, negotiations be carried on in kitchens where world leaders can cook and share their favorite foods. It would, of course, require an open mind to stomach some national dishes, but an open mind is a good thing in negotiations. I've also found that people are less violent and less likely to be violent when their stomachs are full. Wars are conducted on short rations or empty stomachs, which make combatants much more ferocious and blood thirsty. Anyone who has been on a diet can tell you that. Deprive people of their favorite foods and ration what little food is available and nastiness always ensues.

Preparing food in a kitchen full of knifes, fire and heavy pots and pans will also foster a sense of trust. It's difficult to prepare food if you hide all the heavy and sharp equipment and inevitably violence will follow.

Kitchen diplomacy is a sort of stone soup, as described in Grimm's Fairy Tales. Start with a big pot of water heating over a fire and add one stone. It's not very nutritious. If everyone adds a little of what they have to the pot, soon everyone will be feasting on a delectable stew that will leave them fully sated and unwilling (and unable if they're full enough) to fight. Add a bit of wine and the soporific and calming effects of a good meal and everyone becomes more tractable and willing to negotiate. Besides, it's just plain rude and bad manners to shed blood at the dinner table. Even Hannibal Lecter knew that.

What's a few roasted termites or a dish of cold monkey brains between allies when the fate of the world hangs in the balance, especially when we're in no danger of running out of monkey brains any time soon?

That is all. Disperse.

The world is burning

There are a few movies that I enjoying watching again and again. One of the more recent movies is The Dark Knight, the sequel to Batman Begins. Of all the actors to play Batman, Christian Bale is by far the best and the closest to my idea of Batman, and I have had a love affair with the Dark Knight for many decades, starting when I read the comics. Don't get me wrong. I loved Superman, too, but Batman appealed to something dark and forbidden in me that I couldn't name or understand at that young age.

Batman is dark and dangerous, caught in the eternal dance between his own light and shadow selves and the movies starring Christian Bale capture that without camp or high gloss. Before Christian Bale's Batman, I found Tim Burton's Batman Returns to have just the right essence of darkness and light and Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman was superb, as was Danny Devito's Penguin.

What sets The Dark Knight and Batman Begins apart from the rest aren't the villains, although they have been as riveting and on target as Christian Bale's performance, or Inspector (now Chief) Gordon played to perfection by that chameleon actor, Gary Oldman, but Michael Caine who creates a new persona for the ultra British butler, Alfred, by giving him a Cockney accent and a fascinating and varied background. Heath Ledger's performance is as enduring as the movie itself, all the more so because Heath is now dead and his portray of the Joker is a high water mark unlikely to be matched or exceeded in this or any future time.

One of the most memorable lines of the movie is not from the Joker or Batman, but from Alfred when he tells Batman about a bandit he was hired to find and kill in Burma. The bandit had been stealing jewel shipments earmarked for bribes to local village chiefs and no one could find out what the bandit was doing with them until a young boy was seen playing with a huge ruby. The bandit had been throwing away the jewels and not selling them on the open or underground markets. He considered the thefts good fun. He wasn't interested in profit or wealth but in chaos.

When Bruce Wayne asked Alfred why the bandit stole the jewels, Alfred told him that "...some men just want to see the world burn."

"Alfred, how did you catch the bandit?"

"We burned down the forest."

Those lines have haunted me and they remain in my memory as the most prophetic. Nothing else comes close to describing the world in which we live with terrorists on every side and even within our own borders. They can't be reasoned with or bought and the only way they can be stopped is to burn down the forest. I wonder how long it will take before the powers that be realize that.

Waking thoughts

There are times when a book or characters or something I'm writing wakes me in the middle of the night and refuses to let me get back to sleep again. This morning was one of those times, only this time it was a philosophical question that troubled my sleep and set my brain in edge.

Do we choose to be miserable?

I think we do. That doesn't mean I think we should all be Pollyannas and forget that sometimes life is hard, but that we chose to be miserable when there are other options.

Yes, pain hurts and it colors everything in black and bloody red until the only thoughts that get through the morass of pain is getting hold of drugs to make it better. There are other options. You can choose biofeedback or focusing on something else to get through the pain or just pop a few pills. But it is a choice whether or not to let the pain rule your life.

Yes, the world is full of starving and oppressed and tyrannized people, and some of them live in the same town and state and country. Why is it people are more willing to help someone in another country than in their own back yard? Seeing the suffering is more difficult than reading it in a paper and knowing it is happening somewhere else in the world, but in the end, what can we do about it? Governments choose to throw money at it and open the doors to immigrants so they can come here and suffer without thinking how the money could have been used to educate people so they can help themselves. But we choose to allow whatever they do and those people choose to continue suffering. They could rise up and stop the people causing the suffering. They could choose to beg, borrow or steal food and seed and grow their own food. They could choose to leave. They choose.

It seems a harsh way of looking at things, but how is it any different than the way things were done when we didn't have immediate access to videos and films and pictures of the conditions in other countries? How is it any different than walking past a homeless mother and children on the street and choosing not to see them? Why does the idea of a foreigner suffering makes us feel more guilty or more compassionate than the people who share our city streets, highways and byways?

It's a choice. Everything is about choice.

I choose to help those in my path, but I am not going to work hard to spend it all on people in another country or even people in my own town and give everything I've worked for away. I earned it. I've had my trials and tribulations, but I always found a way to survive and to get what I needed. I'm willing to give anyone a hand up, but I'm not willing to give a hand out. If I work for what I have and then give everything away, what have I done but perpetuate the cycle? I haven't helped anyone, least of all myself. I haven't done anyone a service and I have beggared myself in the process. Only an idiot would give away everything they worked for to someone who can work and earn their own way.

I used to carry business cards for a day labor service. Every time someone came up to me and asked for money for coffee or food I gave them a card and told them they could earn enough for food and a place to stay. Most people tore up the cards and cursed me. Some of them waited until I drove or walked away to do so.

Everyone has options, some good and some bad, but there is no degradation unless a person chooses to feel degraded. There is no degradation in working for a temp or day labor service, and there is the satisfaction of knowing, at least when working for day labor, that you will be paid at the end of the day. It's not as lucrative as begging on the streets and expecting the world to take care of you, but it is honest. It is a choice.

A long time ago, someone told me that I chose to be unhappy or sad or angry. I told him he didn't know what he was talking about. I didn't choose to hurt myself or treat myself like dirt. But I did. Anyone can hurt me -- if I let them. Anyone can treat me like dirt -- but that doesn't make me dirt. Anyone can steal from me, but that doesn't make me poor. Anyone can lie to me, but I don't have to believe them. I have a choice. I choose to make the best of my situation and be happy that I can go on one more minute, one more hour, one more day, one more week, one more breath.

I choose.

Global warming debunked

My connection to the Internet went down at 3 p.m. yesterday. I went to bed early with Atlas Shrugged after spending a couple of hours on a Honeymoon in Tehran by Azadeh Moaveni. I recently read a review of Moaveni's previous investigative memoir, Lipstick Jihad, which seemed more about promoting herself than about real journalistic fervor and reporting. I'll reserve my judgment on this until I've finished and am ready to write my review. Nothing like a trip to Iran to make things more interesting.

I do find it interesting that in reading Atlas Shrugged I have come to the part where the scientific community, in this case a scientific institution funded and its policy dictated by the government, is in violation of scientific principles. Science is supposed to be politically neutral and yet it is being used as a political tool to drive the last remaining functioning engines of growth and change and prosperity out of business to fuel a socialist agenda. And then this morning I received an email about a stunning piece of environmental science news that Japanese scientists have broken with the IPCC and publicly stated that "...recent climate change is driven by natural cycles, not human industrial activity, as political activists argue.

Choosing the link to the UK newspaper, The Guardian, is deliberate since many people will claim that it is a conservative agenda. I had many links to choose from but I doubt anyone will take the time to search them out and this news will likely be conspicuously absent from liberal news sources or soft pedaled.

In essence, the recent global warming "crisis" is due not to man made greenhouse gases but to the recovery of the earth from the mini ice age that spanned from 1400 to 1800, reaching its height in the 17th century, which was a direct result of a Maunder Minimum, a period of minimal, or near nonexistence, sunspot activity on the sun, something that we are about to experience once again. Sunspot activity has been diminishing since the end of 2008 and it shows no signs of cranking up with the new cycle.

What this all boils down to is that scientists with a political agenda, or co-opted by politicians and liberals, have lied. They knew their data was spotty and that they had not included all the factors that go into the warming and cooling cycles of the Earth, but they opted for half-baked ideas with no valid scientific proof and began scaring the world with their doom and gloom predictions. The three Japanese scientists who came forward and said it has all been a lie and that temperatures have been falling since 2000 instead of rising as current climate models indicate have just highlighted and underlined what Ayn Rand said in Atlas Shrugged. Science should be apolitical and not subject to political agendas. Scientists who use data for a political agenda or stand aside and allow their work to be used to further political ends are looters.

Say what you will about Ayn Rand and her objectivist theories, but she was right and the future she eerily predicted is happening before our very eyes. Increasing welfare states. Bailouts. Science being corrupted by politicians. Failing economy. Crumbling infrastructure. Taxing the engines of industry and a healthy economy out of existence. If the liberal left agenda is allowed to continue, we are going to see Atlas shrug in person and the results are going to be ugly and lasting. It's time to stand up and be counted, protest and throw the liberal Left's tea in the harbor or we will soon find our freedoms disappearing one by one and we, like the frog sitting in a pot of water on the stove, won't realize the heat has been rising all along.

That is all. Disperse.

Further adventures in plumbing

You really don't know how much you take something for granted until you lose it as I lost the toilet nearly a week ago. The ordeal is over. I have flush. It did not, however, happen easily or quickly.

After using the usual equipment, the team of plumbers finally decided to bring in the big guns, a pressure hose that blows clogs out with a combination of air and water pressure, and it worked. I don't know where the problem came out, just that it came out and the loud chugging and groaning and sound of mechanical muscle ended abruptly. All this happened after the plumbers once again pulled up my toilet and tried their massive snakes through the hole in the floor to no avail.

One of the younger plumbers came into my office and told me they found the problem and sketched in the details. There were roots growing in the line, but I at last had a working toilet. I went to see this marvelous miracle and tried the handle for myself while the grinning crew of grimy plumbers watched. I pushed the handle down and the water went bawhoosh and out with its usual dispatch, leaving the toilet bowl clean and free of debris. I had flush and life is good again.

They asked if I wanted to see what was stuck in the line and it turned out to be a rather large root ball, about 16-18 inches long. What compounded the problem is that the only way to get at it was -- I told them so -- through the vent on the roof. The line from the toilet, a solitary line not hooked into the rest of the plumbing, leaves the house under the deck and converges with the main line from the house about 20-30 feet beyond the house under the parking lot. To get to the line the plumbers would have needed a backhoe to dig down and excavate it. To fix the big hole would take a paver to lay more asphalt over the gaping wound once it was covered up again after the new plumbing was installed. Right now, there is still a gaping hole and several evergreen hedges drying out as they lie on their sides with their delicate and tenacious roots bare to the elements lying amidst piles of dirt and paving stones and bricks.

I don't know what the landlord has planned, but the lines should be cleared out about every 1-2 years because roots will get in the lines and will grow and create another clog. A new clean-out for the toilet line should be installed, but I have no idea what's going to happen at this point. I can only hope for the best, but I am much more optimistic than I was over the weekend since some normality has been restored inside the cottage.

One good thing about having the hedges torn out is that when the planter is refilled, I can plant rose bushes and flowers and maybe even some vegetables, herbs and tubers. I have options. Somehow the idea of the rain-washed and sun warmed scent of flowers and herbs and the prospect of fresh vegetables and provender makes me feel excited and anxious for spring. So many possibilities lay ahead.

In the meantime, I need to go enjoy the bawhoosh that comes with a fully functional toilet, a sound I doubt I will take for granted any time soon.

Resistance is futile

There are some movies I resist seeing on principle, that principle being that everyone is talking about it and tells me I should see it. It's what my grandfather called me being mule-headed, and he was right. I get that way on occasion, digging in my heels and refusing to do what is expected. When I finally do follow the herd to see what is so fascinating about the movie, I'm usually glad, as I was when I recently watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

The movie sounded like the usual fare of stereotypical immigrant jokes and a child appalled and embarrassed by her immigrant parents as they clung to old traditions and out-dated ideas, and I wasn't disappointed. There was the obligatory elder member of the family who had never been assimilated into American culture, clinging to her prejudices and language like a tick on a dog. The father of the clan was man of the house and his wife adept at thwarting his most antiquated plans for his children. American Romeo meets Greek Juliet and the Americans and Greeks try to find some common ground while failing to understand the others' cultural differences, like one very Greek aunt who invites American Romeo, who is a vegetarian, to dinner and saying, "It's okay. I fix lamb". Second City alumna do the usual ethnic jokes and caricatures and the main character, Toula, the Greek Juliet yearning to be more American, provides comic and wry narrative.

Toula, who looks like a 50-year-old spinster, undergoes the Ginger Grant makeover, changing her from frumpy woman old before her time into young and attractive date bait with the application of makeup, hair rollers and new clothes. It's amazing what waxing, plucking and contact lenses can accomplish.

The jokes are obvious and often funny. Greek Granny spying on the neighbors and spitting on the Turkeys is irritating at times and Greek dad's death hold cling on tradition, although it does not come close to Tevya's Jewish angst over seeing his daughters falling away from the tried and true rutted path, did make me laugh a few times. I do think the whole arranged marriage with the horrific and stereotypical bachelors for dinner was completely unfunny and done to death once again, but there were moments when the movie transcended genre and triteness.

We laugh at immigrants coming to America to find a balance between the ingrained traditions of their homeland and embracing the laissez faire attitude and new traditions of their new country, but I was especially touched by Greek dad's gift to Toula and her American Romeo (played by John Corbett who is great eye candy). Even though American Romeo came from a well-heeled family from the country club set, it was the generous gift of a house for the newlyweds from Greek Ma and Pa that left the most profound impact in this uneven and sometimes funny movie. It was an old world gesture and the embodiment of the American dream.

One thing is certain. I will never look at Windex in the same way again.

Adventures in plumbing

Yesterday was scheduled and planned. There was the usual morning house cleaning, vacuuming and dish washing, dying the roots of my Pepe le Pew do and taking a shower so I'd smell nice when my favorite Luddite came to visit at one. A plumber from Roto-Rooter was coming between 8 and 10 a.m. and he would probably get here early to unclog the stopped up toilet that resisted plunging, bleach and drain cleaner, but he'd come and go and I'd still get finished before company arrived.

That's how it was supposed to go.

I got up early, cleaned the kitchen and started the dishwasher, vacuumed the rugs and sorted the laundry before the plumber got here, snaked the toilet and proclaimed he'd have to pull the toilet to the tune of $200. Not going to happen. I suggested the vent on the roof might be stuck and he climbed up onto the roof with his heavy duty electric snake and snaked the vent, pulling up tree roots. He's still going to have to pull the toilet. I called the landlord who told me he had a plumber on contract and to tell Roto-Rooter to go home. The plumber from Roto-Rooter took the news very well and didn't charge me for the work he'd done because he didn't unclog the drain. Now that is a nice guy. I thanked him and contemplated taking a shower just as the new plumber arrived.

He snaked the toilet and called the office who called the landlord who called the plumber and said he was coming over. When the landlord, Mark, got here the plumber told him the toilet had to come up and he quoted the price at $235. Mark signed off on the order, thus saving my meager bank account from rape and pillage, and left. The toilet came out, the snake went down and the toilet refused to flush. The plumber called in the big guns, a bigger electrical snake than the previous plumber lugged up onto the roof, and snaked the toilet. The machine made horrible sounds and so did the plumber. His snake was stuck. He called in reinforcements who arrived moments before my guest, who came over to give me a belated birthday gift, and they and the electric snake made horrible noises, conferred, and finally pulled the snake free (about 30 feet of which had been stuck in the drain somewhere down the line) by taking the screen out of the bathroom window and pulling from there. The head plumber called the landlord who came by again because the problem was bigger than expected and they would have to dig up the parking lot to replace the pipes and put in clean out vents outside so they wouldn't have to drag their heavy equipment through my house in the future.

The second plumber put my toilet back together and cleaned the bathroom so it was difficult to tell anyone had torn it apart. The toilet now has a brand new bright white band of caulking sealing it to the floor but is inoperable. The diggers aren't available until sometime late next week, but a compromise was reached. The landlord will hire two guys with shovels from Labor Ready on Monday and when they have uncovered the pipe, the plumbers will come back and replace them with new clean-out vents. On Monday.

I am now without a toilet. A Porta-A-Potty was suggested, but 2 o'clock on a Saturday is not the time to order one. Everyone was closed or had none available. Mark called and gave me the bad news and suggested I go to the grocery store, which is open 24 hours a day, when I need to go to the bathroom. I go to the bathroom about every hour. I'm saving the gas and the trips for more solid needs.

Through all of this circus of frustration, the Luddite was a rock of calm. He was sensitive, funny and caring throughout the whole ordeal even though he only witnessed the last hour of it (it started at 8:30 a.m.). He was worried that I was too stressed, but I have weathered more difficult storms and made like a bear in the woods when I was out in the wild. When you're hunting or hiking or just out for an autumn walk sometimes there are no other options. My Luddite was upset for me and thought Mark should have made some sort of alternative arrangements, but I was more sanguine about the situation. I usually am.

Once the plumbers were gone and my Luddite was calmer and relaxed, I took a shower and spent the rest of the afternoon feeling more relaxed, calmer and cleaner than earlier in the day. My Luddite helped with that, too, giving me the wonderful gift of his time and laughter. He also replaced two bulbs in the ceiling in the kitchen for me and jumped me just before he left (the car battery -- get your minds above the waistline).

Two more days of inconvenience -- well, 1-1/2 days -- and things will be back to normal. Mark, the landlord, is taking everything in stride, but, as he explained to me when he called about the Porta-A-Potty situation, mine is a relatively minor problem.

The only mystery, besides why the toilet decided to quit working without having to handle more than the usual traffic, is what the plumbers brought up when they snaked the drain: paper towels and feminine hygiene products (tampons). I don't use paper towels. I use linen towels that I wash and reuse because they create less waste and are less expensive. Since I had a hysterectomy about 12 years ago, I have no use for feminine hygiene products. The only thing I can figure is that Ms. Stilettos across the parking lot flushes her paper towels and tampons down the drain and they washed up in my broken drain. I don't want to know how the plumbers knew they were recently flushed, but it's obvious they didn't come from here. Since I do not plan to check Ms. Stilettos' garbage tomorrow morning (if she puts any out) for tampon boxes and paper towel rolls, this too will have to remain the mystery in this adventure in plumbing.

What's in a name?

Exotic names surprise me and I always ask, "What does your name mean?" I don't get the same question in return, as if my common non-exotic name doesn't have a meaning. Why is it that people from non-western civilizations know the meaning of their names and the rest of us usually don't?

My birth name is Jacklyn and it is Hebrew for supplanter. In other words, one who takes over, which is something I've done since birth. I don't go by that name and it is not on my driver's license or any of my legal papers. I go by Jackie, which is the feminine for John and John means "God is gracious". In my case, the gods have been very gracious with me. I've been through the wringer many times and I'm still here.

I've also been blessed with talent and intelligence (no heckling from the peanut gallery) and an easy disposition, as well as many good friends and a family that isn't too reprehensible most of the time. Once in a while they do surprise me, but that is a rare occurrence. Like most families, we are a strange mix of personalities, abilities and prejudices.

In checking the meanings of my brother and sisters' names, I found out that James's name is also Hebrew and means supplanter. He certainly supplanted his sisters in Mom's affections when he was born and he is still at the top of the heap. I guess it's only fair since I supplanted the rest of them as first born, even though I was brought in and not born into the family. Carol is next in birth order and her name is German and means "free man." I'll bet Carol wishes there was a free man in her life, or at least one with enough money to keep her in the style to which she has long been accustomed. James comes after Carol and then comes Tracy (otherwise known here as Beanie), and her name means "Thracius's place". It's Roman in origin and means "of Thracia," or Thrace, which was a region of Greece that is now divided between Turkey and Greece. Spartacus was Thracian and look what trouble he caused for Rome, not that he didn't have his reasons or good cause.

Carol was born in Germany, so it's probably fitting that she have a German name. I won't even begin to get into the middle names because they're all over the place and we don't go by our middle names unless Mom is upset with one of us and wants to give us no doubt as to her murderous intentions.

I find it interesting that my name is Hebrew because many people have asked me if I'm not Jewish, most of whom are Jewish, but I am neither Xian or Jew and am considered a heathen by my family, all of whom are Xians. It's all right. I'm used to being different. It's hard to supplant anyone and be noticed if you're just like everyone else. I'm definitely not like everyone else -- or anyone else for that matter.

In mythology and magic and the occult sciences, names have power, and everyone knows your protect your true name. Your true name changes as you change, evolve and grow and that is something Native Americans knew. They gave babies a name and when the babies grew to be adults they took another name, a name that defined who they were as adults, casting aside their baby names. It's hard to know the right name for someone until you get to know them and it's almost impossible to know a newborn babe whose drawn its first few breaths. Of course, a birth name that changes at the attainment of adult status would throw the IRS into a panic, especially if at some point people decided they needed a new name for every stage of their lives. However, I'm all for throwing the government, and especially the IRS, into a panic at every possible turn. They do, after all, work for us.

So, what's in a name? I guess that depends on whether or not you feel like a Tom, Dick or Harry instead of a Sabu, Wolfram or Bob.

That is all. Disperse.

Lawyers and libertarians

I like the movies that have been made of Agatha Christie's mysteries, especially Death on the Nile. There's one scene where the heiress is getting ready to sign some legal papers but wants to read them over first. Her lawyer, Uncle Andrew, doesn't want her to read them because he has slipped a document in among the mergers and other legal papers that absolves him of stealing her money. He's been embezzling from the heiress's riches since her father died and now that she has come of age and married, she will be in control of her fortune and is going to notice that good old Uncle Andrew has been stealing her blind. She still has enough money to buy a country, but not five countries as she could have before Uncle Andrew's fingers got stuck to her money.

The heiress's new husband says he never reads what he signs and urges his wife to just sign the papers so they can continue having their honeymoon fun, at which point, Colonel Race, Hercule Poirot's best friend and sleuthing colleague, butts into the conversation to tell the heiress she is right and she should read all legal documents before she signs them. Colonel Race knows old Uncle Andrew is up to no good. Old Uncle Andrew tells the heiress she can look at the papers later. There's no rush, old Uncle Andrew, the shrew lawyer knows, because his time will come . . . very soon.

Let the murders begin.

If it isn't lawyers out to trick you into signing the papers before you have the time to read the small print, then some smart college student still wet behind the ears who knows how the world works gets a taste of her own medicine.

A young woman was about to finish her first year of college. Like so many others her age, she considered herself to be a very liberal Democrat, and was very much in favor of the redistribution of wealth.

She was deeply ashamed that her father was a rather staunch Republican, a feeling she openly expressed. Based on the lectures that she had participated in, and the occasional chat with a professor, she felt that her father had for years harbored an evil, selfish desire to keep what he thought should be his.

One day she was challenging her father on his opposition to higher taxes on the rich and the addition of more government welfare programs. The self-professed objectivity proclaimed by her professors had to be the truth and she indicated so to her father. He responded by asking how she was doing in school. Taken aback, she answered rather haughtily that she had a 4.0 GPA, and let him know that it was tough to maintain, insisting that she was taking a very difficult course load and was constantly studying, which left her no time to go out and party like other people she knew. She didn't even have time for a boyfriend, and didn't really have many college friends because she spent all her time studying.

Her father listened and then asked, "How is you friend Audrey doing?" She replied, "Audrey is barely getting by. All she takes are easy classes, she never studies, and she barely has a 2.0 GPA. She is so popular on campus, college for her is a blast. She's always invited to all the parties, and lots of times she doesn't even show up for classes because she's too hung over."

Her wise father asked his daughter, "Why don't you go to the Dean's office and ask him to deduct a 1.0 off your GPA and give it to your friend who only has a 2.0. That way you will both have a 3.0 GPA and certainly that would be a fair and equal distribution of GPA."

The daughter, visibly shocked by her father's suggestion, angrily fired back "That wouldn't be fair! I have worked really hard for my grades! I've invested a lot of time, and a lot of hard work! Audrey has done next to nothing toward her degree. She played while I worked my tail off!"

The father slowly smiled, winked and said gently, "Welcome to the Libertarian Party."

That is all. Disperse.

The power of the Internet

Last night I wrote a post about fan fiction and giving away writing for free because of a conversation I had with a friend. It was that conversation and talking about Chelle's talented writing that made me think about that long ago episode when I was naive and young and completely focused on a television show, in this case M*A*S*H. I had completely forgotten about the incident, although the letter is buried among a box full of correspondence I've kept over the years (decades), until yesterday.

The purpose of the post was to illustrate what happens when you play on someone else's playground, and also to share some advice about the writing world. There are opportunities out there and so many people waste their time on doing things for free because they don't know they have options.

There was no Internet in 1974 and people communicated by letters (paper covered with typewritten or handwritten words, placed in envelopes, addressed, stamped and sent). I lived in Tucson, Arizona at that time so it took very little time for my letter to get to California and back, but it still took time, not like the Internet where communication is almost instantaneous, as evidenced just a few moments ago when I received and email that someone left a comment on the post.

The comment came from a blog owner named Nick, ostensibly from Glendale, California and posting by means of an Apple computer, probably a MacBook, but it was signed Larry Gelbart and asked what year that was and what idea he had supposedly stolen. Obviously, Mr. Gelbart has Google Alerts, too, and, like me, keeps track of when his name or his projects are mentioned.

I was stunned, to say the least.

I responded with two lines: one with the basic idea of my long ago letter and the comment that the post wasn't about what I sent but how good writers of fan fiction can break into the very shows they love by writing a spec script (script on speculation). It's one way to play on someone else's playground, do it legitimately, and (if you're good enough) get a job as a full time paid writer.

Mr. Gelbart also asked me the year when it happened. It was in 1974, which I just remembered, 35 years ago. And he taught me some valuable lessons about writing. Protect your work. Learn the rules and guidelines and follow them to protect yourself and your work, especially when you want to play on someone else's playground. Anything you do well should be compensated. In other words, don't work for free. (I learned that one from Harlan Ellison.)

The Internet is a powerful tool. It connects people all over the world in a matter of cyberseconds. It grants access to words and ideas and opportunities few dreamed were possible when I was young and naive, but with that access comes responsibility for yourself, your words and the work you take the time to put out there. Don't sell yourself short simply because access to this cyberworld of connections at the speed of light over fiberoptics is quick and fairly easy. Make your hard work pay. You might not get through the door on the first try, but if you persevere and you work hard with the talents you've been given, there is nowhere you cannot go -- even into someone else's playground -- and create a world and a job of your own.

That is all. Disperse.

The wages of buried talents

I was wrong, Spike's Leman. I do understand what it's like to play in someone else's world. It's just been so long ago, I forgot about when it happened to me. Over 30 years ago, no one called it fan fiction. It was watching too much TV.

I was about 21 years old and I never missed an episode of M*A*S*H. I even saw the movie before it became a TV show and I really enjoyed it. I knew the characters inside and out and could tell you what was going to happen on any episode. I'm sure someone would have called me obsessed, but not to my face.

In the midst of one season I got an idea for the show. I wrote it all down, found out where to send it (and to whom) and I sent a rundown of the whole story line in a letter to Larry Gelbart. A few weeks later I received an answer from Mr. Gelbart thanking me for my letter and my idea. He also said he didn't accept unsolicited queries. The following year when the new season started, lo and behold, the story line I had outlined and sent to Mr. Gelbart showed up in the new season. I was furious and hurt. He told me he couldn't use what I sent and there it was on the screen, everything I had written. I learned a hard lesson that day and it has nothing to do with stealing ideas or copyrights. It has to do with playing on someone else's equipment in their playground.

It no longer matters to me whether or not Larry Gelbart took my idea and used it for his show or if we both had the same idea at the same time. What matters is learning from my mistake and sharing that information.

There are many people who write fan fiction and play on someone else's equipment on their playground. Many of those people relate to the characters and enjoy taking them in different directions. A few of those people take the time to carefully research story lines and the information, but they don't think what they write is worth anything so they post it in journals and on private websites for free with the disclaimer that they are not infringing on copyrighted characters, worlds or material. They don't think they have what it takes to create characters and worlds, so they borrow what they love and invest their time and talent in playing on someone else's playground, never realizing they are missing an opportunity that could change their lives. How? By getting paid to play on that playground.

Most television shows are created by a team of writers, overseen by producers, some of whom also write. Good shows sometimes go downhill for lack of creative talent and new directions, and the material they need might be posted on some obscure fan fiction website.

Maybe you don't have what it takes to create characters and situations and believable worlds, but you do know the playground where you spend so much time and talent. Why not take a chance? Do a little more research, find out how to put together a sample speculative script (spec script), where to send it and to whose attention, write the script and send it in. You have nothing to lose but your time and a bit of paper and ink (or electrons). How do you think most of those writers got their start? By learning the guidelines and taking a chance.

You have to begin somewhere, so why not with your favorite show. Even if your script is turned down, provided you followed the rules and guidelines, some bright enterprising producer might see what you can't -- that you have talent and can write. Writers are a commodity we can never have too much of -- as evidenced every time a network pays for a reality television show. So many good shows die from stagnation and lack of good writers.

If I had known what to do and how to approach Larry Gelbart when I was 19, I might have ended up living and working in Hollywood or moved on to writing novels sooner than I did. I had no one to tell me how to do it properly or that there was a proper way. I was married with one child and another on the way. In some parallel universe, the smarter me has been a paid writer for decades, starting with a spec script to Larry Gelbart that earned me a writing credit on M*A*S*H.

Remember the parable about the two servants whose master gave them ten talents? One servant buried his talents and when his master returned his wages for his careful protection of the master's wealth were zero. The wages for the other servant who invested the ten talents and earned many times over that were the profits of his daring. Although the parable doesn't say, I always believed that the smart servant ended up a free man while the other servant remained a servant. Fortune favors the bold.

In other words, take a chance. What do you have to lose? You might end up with nothing or you might end up with a credit on the show where you've buried your talents writing for free. You'll never know if you don't take a deep breath, close your eyes and take the plunge.

That is all. Disperse.

One wrinkle in a perfect seam

First, I'd like to thank all of you who took time out of your busy mornings to call me and wish me happy birthday this morning. It's all right that you forgot there are things called time zones that mean what was mid morning for you was barely past dawn for me. It's the thought that counts.

I'd also like to thank all of you who called to sing "Happy Birthday" to me. Your efforts, if not your vocal skills, are much appreciated. And to everyone who emailed, posted and otherwise offered birthday greetings, thank you all. You've made this a very special and memorable day and I appreciate all of you. Even my mother remembered my birthday; usually she only remembers my brother's birthday. Must be something about having a penis that makes it easier.

On another more somber note, it seems that the Authors Guild has decided to sue Amazon over the Kindle 2's new function: text to voice. I read about the flack over this new feature and how it affected the copyrights of audio books, but I never though it would get to this point. The Authors Guild didn't kick up nearly as much of a fuss when Amazon decided to disable the buttons for all books not published by their own in-house POD publisher and that was something they should have fought. Instead, the AG left it to POD publishers to stand their ground. It's nice to know that when it doesn't count the AG is willing to go to the mat to sue over a function that is no different than computers with functions that change text to audio for vision and other handicapped people so they can hear the text they cannot read. By suing Amazon over the Kindle 2 they are, if they win the suit, setting a precedent that will affect millions of handicapped people and people who read books aloud to their children, families and other people. What's next, suing Starbucks because you're so clumsy you dropped your hot latte in your lap while you were driving?

What amazes me the most is that this is obviously more about money and less about copyright infringement. Did they think intelligent people wouldn't notice or that the dollar signs would affect people's ability to see clearly? Probably. After all, in a world of entitlements and earmarks, it is, after all, all about the money.

It is a beautiful world and today many of my friends and family (and quite a few strangers) reminded me of how beautiful a world it is, so it's a bit difficult to be brought back to the hard earth with such a bone crunching stop, but into every life a little fly is bound to end up in the ointment if you leave the lid off long enough -- or some mouse will decided that your stash of Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate is just what they need to round out their evening meal after stealing the bait out of the trap. No one said life would be easy -- or even make sense most of the time -- but it's a terminal disease that sometimes offers glimpses of breathtaking beauty and awe inspiring wonder that makes the journey mostly worthwhile if you ignore the idiots blocking the view.

That is all. Disperse.

Wild Hunt

Every once in a while I get stumped for something to write, so I sit down and let my fingers skip across the keys and see what comes out. It's going to be one of those nights tonight.

Maybe I have exhausted all the current subjects or maybe it's just the wild wind outside shaking the trees and sending garbage cans flying that has me on edge. It could also be the weight of work and things needing fixed and my car not cooperating when I want to go somewhere (a problem that will be fixed when my solar powered battery charger arrives). It could also be the approach of the solar return when the stars and planets are in the exact same alignment as the moment of my birth more than half a century ago that is throwing everything out of kilter. It's on nights like this when the Wild Hunt gallops past the door calling my name to join them as they whirl on the screaming winds past unsuspecting souls that something inside clamors for release and the urge to throw open the door and greet the night is too strong to resist.

It's at times like this I remember all the tales of the Wild Hunt and the dark serpentine forms of coursing hounds after prey and the Hunter moves from his quiet stance in the star crusted night to run down the night. I admit my imagination takes dark and shadowy forms on nights like this and I am anxious to throw open the doors of memory, let loose the guards and settle into sleep to follow my dreams wherever they lead. Tonight there will be no dreams of half naked men who clean rooms and whisk away the debris of the previous night's revelry or passions rising to be spent and spent again. Tonight there will be dreams of haunted feverish yearnings where desires are unveiled and fulfilled beneath the lash or riding crop or taunted, teased and stroked to the very edge of madness before the final shuddering release that is the prelude to excess and excitation brought again and again to the heights when muscles, nerves and flesh tremble in anticipation of orgasmic relief.

Spring is close and I feel the rising tide flowing warm and deep within.

The death of democracy and freedom

As a child, one of my favorite books was The Arabian Nights, 1001 tales purportedly told by Queen Scheherazade to the Sultan who had vowed to take a wife, sleep with her one night and then kill her. Scheherazade was the last queen because she saved her own life by captivating the Sultan with her stories. My ideas of Islam were born among those tales of Djinn and Mamelukes and flying carpets.

When I read The Infidel by Georgia Elizabeth Taylor, I got a different view of Islam, the view of beautiful blinding white cities in exotic Spain where women were educated and even taught in colleges, owned property and had the run of the city. They were intelligent and beautiful and free and had converted from Christianity under the spell of the beauty of Islam's fair laws and generous heart. By contrast, medieval Christianity was barbaric, a religion that espoused filth as the way to heaven, where bathing was a sin and reading, writing and learning punishable by pain, torture and even death, especially for women. Islam was an enlightened religion that protected the rights of slaves and women among luxury and beauty unknown anywhere in the world. Astronomy, mathematics and medicine were nurtured in the greenhouse under Islam's warm glow.

And the decadent Spanish Muslims were persecuted by the Christians who plundered their cities, raped their women and slaughtered thousands as they took Islamic gold and luxuries. Spanish Muslims were also persecuted by their militant African and Middle Eastern brothers who looked upon the wealth and beauty of their cities and their just and flourishing society as apostasy, sin of the highest order, and they were either converted or killed. It is the same world in which we live today.

There are peaceful Muslims who deal openly and generously with those who do not share their beliefs, but more and more the world is being overrun by Muslims intent upon the absolute conversion or death of all infidels -- the rest of the world. Jews are first on the list and then Christians, but you can be assured that no one will escape unscathed. No one is safe. That is the Islam of today, a world in which radical Muslims are taking over countries from within, spreading their religion of hate and destruction assured of a place in Paradise by their sacrifice -- and no sacrifice is too great, not even the lives of women, children or themselves. To die in the service of spreading their message of hate is the highest honor.

Geert Wilders, a peaceful man and a film maker from The Netherlands, made a movie and wished to show it in Parliament in Britain, one of the oldest homes of a living democracy in the world. Wilders was declared persona non grata, an unwelcome person, by the leader of the Labour Party and met at Heathrow airport by security. He was manhandled and taken to a holding area where he awaited the next plane back to The Netherlands. He was invited by Parliament to return and show his film, Fitna, about Islam. It takes about 15 minutes, but the images and the information are worth the time.

Fitna is about the Quran and about the radical Muslim agenda. The World Trade Center, the Atocha station bombing, the bombing of a triple decker bus in London and all the other atrocities committed in recent years by Muslim extremists are part of an agenda of hate aimed at spreading Islam's message of hate throughout the world. No one is safe, not even peaceful Muslims.



It is at times like this, after viewing radical Islam's plan for the rest of the world, that I understand why, in the wake of Pearl Harbor, thousands of peaceful and law-abiding Japanese were rounded up and sent to relocation camps. We could not as easily round up and imprison Nazis in our midst because they were indistinguishable from people and families they knew all their lives. In retrospect, the all pervasive fear that created those camps is understandable. America had been touched by the Nazis and their allies the Japanese, came to our country and attacked Pearl Harbor. Was the rest of mainland America next?

Muslims have spread to nearly every country in the world, their slender minarets climbing into the heavens, their shadows spreading across the land and darkening all that falls beneath its influence. Muslims have been welcomed into the government and a Muslim took his oath of office on the Quran before becoming a Member of Congress. As radical Islam spreads its message of terror, death and destruction everywhere it goes, how can people not be afraid that the smiling face across from them at work, in the store, at the bank or even reading the evening news does not hide the heart of a terrorist?

In a land of democracy and freedom, we believe in the inherent decency and honor of all races and religions -- as difficult as that sometimes proves to be. We allow the hateful rhetoric of neo-Nazis, black Muslims, black Christian preachers and would-be terrorists because the very essence of the freedom is the freedom to embrace different ideologies and religions and openly speak about it. Messages of hate stand alongside peaceful protest and opinion in the pages of books and newspapers and on the Internet and each message, regardless of its intent, is protected by law, laws enacted in the democratic process that ensures every adult one vote. And yet, can we ignore the danger in our midst? Will peaceful and educated Muslims stand against their radical and murderous brethren to protect freedom and democracy, stand with Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists and every other religion or nonbeliever when the time comes to make a choice?

Freedom and democracy are dangerous in a radical Muslim society because they guarantee the right to think and believe and act against the dictates of hate. Radical Islam is bent on the destruction of freedom and democracy and their weapons are hatred, terror, intolerance, torture and death. Who will stand for democracy and freedom in the face of torture and certain death? Could you?

Ants and grasshoppers

Do you know the story of the grasshopper and the ants? It's a fairly simple one.

In a field one summer’s day a Grasshopper was hopping about, chirping and singing to its heart’s content. An Ant passed by, bearing along with great toil an ear of corn he was taking to the nest.
“Why not come and chat with me,” said the Grasshopper, “instead of toiling and moiling in that way?”
“I am helping to lay up food for the winter,” said the Ant, “and recommend you to do the same.”
“Why bother about winter?” said the Grasshopper; “we have got plenty of food at present.” But the Ant went on its way and continued its toil. When the winter came the Grasshopper had no food and was dying of hunger while every day the ants distributed corn and grain from the stores they had collected in the summer.

I remember an old cartoon in which the grasshopper danced and played a fiddle while the ants worked and stored up food for the long winter ahead. Come winter, the grasshopper fell at the doorway to the ants' home in the midst of a blizzard. He was nearly dead of starvation and hypothermia. The ants took him in, revived and fed the grasshopper and he repaid them by playing his fiddle and dancing with the ants in the warm comfort of their winter home.

I'll bet that when spring came the grasshopper went back out into the greening world and played his fiddle and danced the warm months away while the ants went back to working and saving. He hadn't learned a thing. He wasn't going to waste his time working throughout the warm and beautiful days; he knew the ants would follow their nature and store up food that he would share all winter long. They'd been generous with him before and he no doubt thought they would continue to be generous and there'd always be a handout waiting for him, so why change and give up having a good time?

That is all. Disperse.

Politics, guns and money

I'll keep this short since most of you are probably tired of all the politics and talk about money. Still, knowledge is power so power up.

New Deal vs Reagonomics.

http://spectator.org/archives/2008/09/05/memories-of-wasilla/1">Politics made interesting -- for a while.


Here's a thought to warm some of your hearts . . ...
From: Ed Chenel, A police officer in Australia


Hi Yanks,
I thought you all would like to see the available data from Down Under.
It has now been one year (12 months) since gun owners in Australia
were forced, by a new law, to surrender 640,381 personal firearms to
be destroyed by our own government, a program costing Australian
taxpayers more than $500 million dollars.

The first year results are now available:
Australia-wide, homicides are up 6.2 percent;
Australia-wide, assaults are up 9.6 percent;
Australia-wide, armed robberies are up 44 percent (yes, 44 percent);
In the state of Victoria alone, homicides with firearms are now up
300 percent as compared with the last one year period when
private ownership of a firearm was legal. (NB: the law-abiding citizens
did turn in their personal firearms, the criminal element did not and thus
criminals in Australia still possess their guns.)

While data for the 25 years preceding the confiscation of
privately owned guns showed a steady decrease in armed
robbery with firearms, this has changed drastically upward in
the past 12 months as criminals now are assured their
victims will be unarmed.

There has also been a dramatic increase in break-ins and
assaults of the elderly, while the resident is at home.
Australian politicians are at a loss to explain how public safety has
decreased, after such monumental effort and expense was expended
in successfully ridding Australian society of guns.

This story of well intentioned government intervention in the rights of
lawful individuals to own and possess firearms won't be seen in the
mainstream US media or on the American evening news.
President Obama who advocates a similar confiscation in the US will not
be reporting any of this to you.

But, the Australian experience speaks for itself. Guns in the hands of
honest citizens save lives and property and, yes, gun-control laws affect
only the law-abiding citizens.

As emotional as the above is, the facts don't bear it out completely, so check out the statistics for yourself.

That is all. Disperse.

Violence in the Age of Aquarius

Mike and I were discussing the perpetuation of violence and that there may not be a way to end it. I suggested a virus that targeted whatever hormones or DNA responsible for the violent response in humans, but that might end up in like Captain Kirk in Mirror, Mirror when he was split into the two halves of his personality (one violent and one passive reason), neither of which could live without the other. The same situation was used in Buffy the Vampire Slayer when Xander was hit by a demon's weapon and split into smart and confident Xander and silly, immature Xander, both of which would die if they weren't reunited. Instead of a transporter fusing the two, Willow reversed the spell. Willow said that it was the natural state of the two halves of Xander to be one. In both situations, the writers were saying that we are darkness and light, violence and reason, good and evil combined in one package.

The dichotomy of the two halves of human nature -- dark and light -- is the central theme in many stories throughout history and is most prominent in Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Nowhere is the search to end violence and divide human nature more obvious than in Jekyll and Hyde, and that is one story that has been told and retold and cast in many different ways, even making the two halves of human nature male and female (Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde). So what is the answer? How do we control violence without cutting ourselves in half or castrating the population?

FINDING A WAY

The tendency toward violence is inherent in all of us and religion certainly isn't the answer. Organized religion has fomented more wars, murder and destruction than any other catalyst in the history of mankind, and it's much harder to persuade a fervent believer that violence in the name of his god is wrong. After all, he has a mandate from heaven and he is the instrument of god's will, the results of which can be seen in radical Muslim suicide bombers. They have the force of Allah behind them and to deny Allah's will is unthinkable. Christianity isn't without its holy wars either and it's not even necessary to go back to the time of the Crusades in the Dark Ages to find proof. Hitler used religion to his advantage by targeting Jews, Gypsies and Christians that didn't follow the same beliefs. Even the Jews in their early days destroyed cities and put whole populations to the sword in the name of G_d. Instances of murder in the name of religion are very easy to find: Jim Jones, the Holy Inquisition, Joan of Arc (although Joan carried a sword, she never killed anyone, but her troops did), Cromwell, El Cid, Saladin, Richard the Lionhearted, the Children's Crusade, the Reformation Wars, David Koresh, Saddam Hussein, etc. I could go on for pages.

It is doubtful that violence can be reliably obtained through external means (drugs, religion, government) because each can be so easily perverted and turned from helping to fueling a more intense and destructive violence once removed or perverted. At the Battle Creek Sanitarium in Battle Creek, Michigan, John Harvey Kellogg believed he had conquered the inherent predatory nature of a wolf by raising him to be a vegetarian, but I've little doubt that given a plate of raw meat the wolf would have reverted to type and become a dangerous predator. That much is evident in cats. A vegetarian cat will still chase, torture and kill any mouse that crosses it's path, its predatory nature hard wired in its DNA and its brain, and the same can be said for any predatory animal, including humans.

The only possible chance to curb the violent nature is to focus on the personality, the basic human psyche. Some people are more predatory than others (serial killers, abusers, murderers, etc.) but the instinct is in us all. It is the instinct to survive at all costs, as the members of the Donner party found when they were stranded in a snow storm while crossing the Rocky Mountains on their way to Oregon. The soccer players in the plane that went down in the Andes quickly turned to their dead fellow passengers to sustain them until they were found. The survival instinct is strong and I doubt it would exist without the inherent violence in human nature.

Humans can be tolerant and charitable and driven and reasonable, but given the right circumstances a mild mannered individual can become Superman or John Wayne Gacy.

As much as I would like to see peace on earth with good will toward all men, I doubt it will happen quickly and definitely not with religion, drugs or government intervention. You can lock up the criminals, but the most successful criminals never see the inside of a prison. We may not be ready for peaceful co-existence, as Kirk and Spock found out when they leapt through the time arch in The City on the Edge of Forever, which I discovered was written by Harlan Ellison. Edith Keeler had to die because her plans for peace were ahead of their time or it may be right around the corner.

At dawn on Saturday, February 14, 2009 the Age of Aquarius dawns when the Moon in Libra enters the seventh house of relationships, and Jupiter and Mars are aligned in Aquarius in the twelfth house of spiritual transformation. Sound familiar? It was a very popular song when I was growing up.

Whatever happens, we must find a way to use the violence inherent in the survival instinct, and the instinct to compete for mates, territory and possessions, to propel humanity into a new age of peace and prosperity without castrating human nature or ending up as ineffectual, weak-willed, intellectuals on the verge of fading away into nothingness. There has to be a way. Maybe the dawning Age of Aquarius marked in the eternal skies above this beleaguered planet will guide the way. The hippies of the 1960s were ahead of their time, like Edith Keeler. Maybe we have finally reached the time when peace will reign and violence will enhance our strength without robbing our minds and hastening the end of the Age of Man.

When the Moon is in the seventh house
And Jupiter aligns with Mars.
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars.
Harmony and understanding
Sympathy and trust abounding
No more falsehoods or derisions
Golden living dreams of visions
Mystic crystal revelation
And the mind's true liberation
Aquarius!
Aquarius!

I'll gouge you later

Since I work at home and everything I need is within walking distance, I don't usually drive my car. That means I save lots of money on gas (haven't filled the tank since October and I'm still at half a tank), wear and tear on the car, tires and machinery, and the battery tends to run down when it's cold. It was cold today and the battery was low.

I gave it some time to recharge but I still couldn't get the engine to turn over, so I called an auto repair shop that's about two blocks away and asked how much he would charge me to jump my battery. "Five thousand dollars," he said.

"Sorry, I'll have to call AAA. They're cheaper."

"Where are you?"

I gave him my address and he said he'd be right over and we could discuss it then. I knew he wouldn't really charge me $5,000, but he didn't give me enough time to ask if he took credit cards. I went to the bathroom and when I got outside he was getting out of his car with a portable battery charger, a sort of charged battery with cables. Since I've been eyeing a solar battery charger about the size and thinness of a mouse pad, I didn't let my eyes linger too long on the nifty tool. In less than five minutes, my car was running like a champ. I asked him what I owed him. "Nothing. I'll gouge you later on something else."

I appreciate his candor. I also told him I have some things that need to be done (flush & fill, A/C recharge, and tune-up), and he just smiled as he rolled up the cables and reminded me to leave the car run for a while to recharge the battery.

I've dealt with his company before and they are reliable and reasonably priced, so I don't take his gouging comment seriously. Then again, you never know quite what someone will do when you need their help, like my dad.

Adventures in driving

It was bitterly cold the night Dad drove his truck up to Worthington from Hilliard to see if he could get my car started. It wasn't the battery. He jumped the car and the engine sounded sick and run down. It just clicked. Alternator or starter -- or both. Dad had a heavy chain in the back of the truck and he affixed the heavy hook to the bumper of my 1978 Gran Torino to tow me back to Hilliard down I-270, one of the busiest freeways in the city. Even at night, cars whizzed by us, rocking the heavy Torino.

I had no brakes and the power steering was out since the engine wasn't running and there was no charge in the battery. Dad seemed to forget I was back there or that I was freezing. No engine means no heat and I was wearing a skirt. Even in pantyhose, my legs quickly turned to blocks of ice and I lost all feeling below the waist as I instinctively braked every time the chain went slack and the rear end of Dad's truck loomed in front of me. Just before I hit the back end of the truck, the chain would snap taut and we'd be off again, Dad driving at top allowed speed.

Hands on the wheel, sweat freezing on the palms of my hand and sticking to the plastic steering wheel, I rode behind my demented father's truck, jerking and slowing, slowing and jerking, trying to maintain a straight line with the power steering no longer working. It was like trying to turn a Mack truck with a kiddie car steering wheel and it didn't work very well. Teeth clenched, nearly frozen solid, I fought the wheel and prayed continuously until suddenly Dad's truck pulled away and my car slowed. I managed to get to the side of the road before the truck disappeared over the hill and I waited and waited and waited.

After what seemed like hours, someone tapped on the wheel just before hypothermia set in and my eyes had slid completely shut as I gave myself up to a long -- very long, terminal -- winter's nap. I jerked awake and rolled down the window. Dad laughed at me. "I got all the way to Roberts Road before I realized you weren't back there any more. I'll hook you back up and we'll be on our way."

I don't know what was worse, sitting there as the winter night wrapped subzero arms around me or being jerked at high speed down the freeway behind Dad's truck, but I survived, obviously. It was a night of terror for me and a big joke for Dad. Roberts Road is the turnoff about one mile from Dad's house where he was towing my car and me. He had nearly made it home before he figured out I wasn't back there and I nearly frozen to death. Getting warm again was a new experience in pain that sears those harrowing moments in my mind as I fought to stay in my lane, almost getting hit several times, and futilely hitting brakes that didn't work to keep from smashing into the back end of the truck. Sometimes power brakes and steering are more of a hazard than a help. But I made it through, although even after all these years (nearly 30 years), I still don't think the experience is funny. I don't think I ever will. Near death experiences seldom are, at least not to the one who nearly died.

It seems dramatic to say it that way -- I nearly died -- and it is in way, but it's also true. Some stubborn core inside me refuses to give up no matter what and that stubborn core has kept me alive more times than I care to count, which means I will probably end up in hell after all and will spend eternity in a world ruled by cockroaches, moths and Mom.

It's a matter of experience

As I was reading about the latest in the POTUS's saga, I was struck by a sense of déjà vu. When Clinton ran for president his character and moral integrity were an issue -- at least for a lot of people. Clinton's backers said none of it mattered and America found out that character and moral integrity do matter. Fast forward to today when we have a president for whom people voted because they said his inexperience didn't matter and we are in the midst of Amateur Hour in a complex environment where government leaders around the world are licking their chops and rubbing their hands together because the POTUS's inexperience makes America seem like a lamb waiting its turn for slaughter. Kathleen Parker says it best. The first however-many days of Barack Obama's presidency have been a study in amateurism.

Experience, like character and moral integrity, matter, as I found out this morning. Chicken Soup picked up another of my stories for a new book to be published in October 2009: All in the Family. They wanted stories about family and I gave them the late Esther Sherwood, my ex-mother-in-law who died before I married her son, who in many ways is like my own mother who is famous for being late, although I doubt Mom will be late to her funeral. She chases Death just like her father did.

I can remember Grandpa saying he wouldn't be around much longer and I felt like he stayed around for me. I coaxed him with food and promises of firsts: first date, first grandchild, first time driver, first time honor student, first graduation, first wedding. I have one cousin older than I am and she was the first driver, first high school graduate and first bride in our family. I remember all her firsts because I was there and amazed my hair didn't turn white.

I was in the car when Uncle Bob let Laura drive their station wagon (this was before SUVs) on the I-71 freeway from Columbus to their house out in the country. In the back were baskets of mildew-smelling laundry, her brother and two of her sisters, and me. Laura was skittish at the wheel but anxious to prove to her father that she was a competent driver and could handle rush hour traffic on one of Columbus's busiest freeways. Uncle Bob urged her to speed up and keep with the flow of traffic and she did, the back end of the station wagon fishtailing wildly across three lanes of traffic while I sat in the back seat with her sister Bobbi Jean facing the oncoming traffic and praying I wasn't about to die. Laura finally got control of the car, but not before the rest of us found out what it was like to see our all too short lives flash before our eyes. It took all our strength and courage not to fall to the ground and grab up handfuls of earth and kiss them when we got out of the car, our legs shaking and our hearts still pounding after more than 20 miles. I don't think we even breathed until we turned onto to Old State Road where traffic was scarce on the two-lane country road that led to their little house across from the dairy farm. We all took deep breaths of fresh country air laced with manure and new mown green fields and released our white knuckled hold on each other and our seats.

I've had quite a few adventures in cars when someone else was in control of the wheel, like the night my father towed me from Worthington to Hilliard behind his truck on the I-270 freeway in the dead of winter. Dad loved that story and laughed about what happened, but I have never found frostbite and near death experiences all that humorous.

Experience matters. Whether it's to tell a good story that recreates a moment in time or someone's life or in knowing what and how to do what's necessary, even when it means people will revile and hate you when you make an unpopular decision, it's nearly impossible to get through the difficult times if you've never been through that way before. We all have to crawl before we can walk and then run. Fresh from the egg, we are little more than turtles racing to the sea beneath a sky full of ravenous and experienced predatory birds.

A new Holocaust! Are you next?

I love solving puzzles, but I need to kill Chili Bob for sending me this. It is supposed to tell the age of your brain. His was 33 and mine is 15, but I can't seem to get lower than that so I will have to remain teenager. Someone claims to have a brain the age of 3 years, but I suspect that's because she never grew up, despite her advanced age of 60+. Cheryl is the eternal child who demands the world revolve around her, so that's not a big surprise. I'd be interested to find out how all of you did with the test/puzzle/frustration. I suspect taking the test after a good night's sleep (something I haven't had in ages) would make a difference, and you can be sure I'll keep trying -- just not today. I have to work for a living.

I have my rituals in the morning -- playing one word game (I said I love puzzles), reading and answering email, checking up on the news and checking out other journals, but it seems I have less and less time to read blogs because I've been caught up in the Israeli elections and the news from the European front as Biden proves that the POTUS is just as much a prisoner of American policy as Bush was. Some things do not change and I wonder if we are caught in a data loop that no one will be able to break, but I suspect I'll find out a lot more when I check out George Friedman's latest foray into forecasting in The Next 100 Years. The interview I listened to on Authorlink was eye-opening and that piqued my interest. I may become a news junkie yet.

As an example, I read about the widespread violence against Jews in Britain that has ended with several universities giving in to Muslim demands to give scholarships to Gazan refugees with reciprocity between those same universities and the university in Gaza (the one that has been--and continues to be--used as a training camp for terrorists) and changing the curriculum to marginalize Jews and focus more on Muslim studies, a move that changed the focus of curriculum in at least one department. Even small Jewish children are being terrorized, having to run a gauntlet of their classmates who shout, "Kill all the Jews," a chant that is being repeated from Malaysia to Denmark and France and throughout the world where Muslims have a significant presence among the population. It is the same chant that began the Holocaust under Hitler and plunged the world into a costly and devastating war that targeted Jews, Gypsies and homosexuals. It seems that people just don't get the meaning of the words, "Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat the past." It ought to scare everyone that any group of people are being targeted in such a widespread way. Who's next after the Jews? Will it be the Gypsies and homosexuals or will it be you? We are all different in some way, but in a world where the courts uphold a middle-aged Saudi settling his debts by selling his 8-year-old daughter into marriage and terrorists use women and children as shields and human bombs, no one is safe.

In the meantime, there are new books to read, food to buy, bills to pay and work to do so I can pay the bills. Life keeps moving on with or without me and I really hate to be left behind.

That is all. Disperse.