Relatively irrelevant relativity, that heretofore ill-documented time-warping phenomenon which most often manifests itself in bubble form encapsulating the Colonel, a man curmudgeoned before his time, demonstrated the never before observed characteristic of “transferability” here at the northern end of southern nowhere the other day.
The Colonel was up in the air, quite literally, walking the high steel... uh, toes clinging to the fiberglass top of a ten foot step ladder…, adding boardage to Semper Field's new tractor shed addition to the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility, one hand on a hammer, the other on a nail, and, you guessed it... no hands left to anchor me and prevent my ultimate reconnection with the hallowed capital grounds of the Tallahatchie Free State, a government in opposition established with hand on wallet as much as tongue in cheek. Said ladder has long since achieved the state of repair that gives the word rickety a whole new meaning, and Miss Brenda, the comely and kind-hearted chairperson of the Tallahatchie Free State Committee on Safety has decreed that the Colonel is prohibited from ascending beyond the first step without her provision of stability and verbal encouragement to "be safe," as if I intentionally flirt with danger and disregard all rules of workplace safety every time I stir from a nap (I mean complete a strategic planning session) and take hammer in hand--okay, I do have a penchant for skirting safety regulations, but that's not important right now. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was providing effective stability for the Colonel whilst I was up the ladder, until the phone rang in the Sawdust Production side of the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
“A phone in the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility?” you ask. But of course. I spend a great deal of time at, around, or in the EMTSASPF, and with the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda’s full social calendar and burgeoning circle of girlfriends in what can only be described as a middle-aged girl gang (hereinafter referred to as her MAGG), a phone in the EMTSASPF allows the Colonel to fulfill his critical responsibilities as the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda’s answering service in her absence.
As the phone continued to ring, I glanced downward at the upturned visage of my best friend and beheld the picture that should be in the dictionary next to the definition of the word, “indecision.” The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was, in a word, “torn.” Her phone answering service was perched above her on the dilapidated collection of aluminum and fiberglass that long-ago assumed a condition inappropriate for assignment of the term, “ladder.” Leaving her post as the Colonel’s safety supervisor, even briefly, would, she was certain, expose her man to the dangers inherent in allowing doufi (plural of doufuss) to operate machinery (hammers qualify as machinery for doufi) at altitude without female (doufi are strictly male) supervision. Not answering the phone would almost certainly result in missing the announcement of the next unscheduled convocation and economic stimulatory shopping trip of her MAGG—a turn of events much too painful for the comely, kind-hearted, and shopping centric Miss Brenda to contemplate.
“Don’t MOVE. I’ll be right back.” The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is nothing if not commanding when it comes to giving direction, and I froze, hammer in mid-swing.
And, then, the bubble of relatively irrelevant relativity surrounding the Colonel, shimmered briefly, popped with a distinct, “pffft,” and reappeared simultaneously around the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda. That visual stimuli to my optic nerve should have provided sufficient warning that I was going to be perched precariously on the aforementioned dilapidated collection of aluminum and fiberglass that long-ago assumed a condition inappropriate for assignment of the term, “ladder,” with hammer frozen in mid-swing, for an inordinate amount of time during which I was certain to observe the hastening approach of winter. However, comma, the Colonel has long and painful experience with disregard of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda’s commands, and I endeavored to persevere in obedience.
At some point in the next seven hours and twenty-seven minutes, during which I maintained nearly inhuman motionlessness while perched precariously on the aforementioned dilapidated collection of aluminum and fiberglass that long-ago assumed a condition inappropriate for assignment of the term, “ladder,” with arm and hammer frozen in mid-swing, a combination of minor muscle fatigue and major attention deficit began to erode the Colonel’s obedient perseverance. There began to creep into the paltry collection of amorphous grey goo lying fallow in a forgotten recess of the bony brain housing group within which my dim consciousness resides the thought that I might very well have been, if unintentionally, abandoned by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, and that I might want to consider engaging in some relatively minor muscle movements designed to reduce the precarious nature of my perch atop the aforementioned dilapidated collection of aluminum and fiberglass that long-ago assumed a condition inappropriate for assignment of the term, “ladder.”
The almost imperceptible of minor muscle movements designed to affect the least bit of readjustment of the Colonel’s precarious perch on the aforementioned dilapidated collection of aluminum and fiberglass that long-ago assumed a condition inappropriate for assignment of the term, “ladder,” resulted in launching the man curmudgeoned before his time from his high altitude perch and into mid-air as if shot from the proverbial cannon. At exactly the same moment, the bubble of relatively irrelevant relativity that had transferred to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda seven hours and twenty-seven minutes previously, reappeared with a shimmering “ding,” around the Colonel and slowed the passage of time to a creep approaching the speed at which sorghum molasses pours from a bottle on a cold day. The Colonel’s otherwise catlike reflexes, on which I would rely for terminal ground approach, were delayed in initiation due to indecision regarding choice of an appropriate landing zone, said choice being complicated by the vast array of mostly pointed and sharp edged tools littering the ground, in strategic order of last use, at the foot of the aforementioned dilapidated collection of aluminum and fiberglass that long-ago assumed a condition inappropriate for assignment of the term, “ladder.”
As the Colonel sorted through the limited and rapidly diminishing collection of available courses of action with regard to clear landing sites, it occurred to me that, due to the lack of airspeed resulting from my previous perseverance in obedience to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda’s “Don’t MOVE” command, said lack of airspeed would have the ultimate result, despite out-stretched and wildly gyrating arms attempting to achieve a modicum of lift, of reducing my glide ratio to that of a bag of bricks. As I drifted earthward, the surrounding bubble of relatively irrelevant relativity provided sufficient time, once I had exhausted the list of available landing sites and accepted a lack of control over same, to contemplate the foot pounds of energy that would be exchanged upon impact with terra firma, and calculate the degree beyond which I was likely to exceed my pain threshold subsequent to gravitational contact.
As I neared less than one half foot AGL, the bubble of relatively irrelevant relativity surrounding me shimmered and disappeared with a barely audible “pffft” and, in the intervening six inches, a radical transition from sorghum molasses time warp to hypervelocity occurred causing me to accelerate to just below terminal velocity prior to impact. In spite of my best efforts to induce lift, and despite a lack of forward airspeed with which to achieve course correction, I managed to deposit my carcass on the one patch of bare ground devoid of the aforementioned vast array of mostly pointed and sharp edged tools littering the ground in strategic order of last use. The resounding thud with which the Colonel’s body made contact with Mother Earth is reported to have registered on seismographs across a three state area.
Evidently the bubble of relatively irrelevant relativity transferred once again, shortly before my hypervelocity and thunderously ground-shaking impact, to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, as I was able to process through a lengthy checklist of skeletal structures and provide myself a preliminary damage control report based on lack of any searing pain registering in the amorphous grey goo passing for cognitive cells lying dormant in the cavernous recesses of my brain housing group, before the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda initiated return to her abandoned post as the Colonel’s worksite safety supervisor. In the intervening interminable period of relatively irrelevant relativity bubble-governed time it took Miss Brenda to pry herself from telephonic conference with her MAGG and respond to the in-flight scream of terror and post-flight low moans of the Colonel, I had completed a thorough diagnostic check of all critical systems and was contemplating initiation of positional readjustment from the very-still prone position to a more dignified head-between-the-knees sitting readiness posture.
“Ed, are you alright!?” A high, querulous voice cut through the ground fog that had suddenly appeared coincident with my arrival ground-side.
“Sure! Never better!” I answered. Aural distortions attendant to the lingering effects of the relatively irrelevant relativity bubble caused the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda to hear my answer as a low moan.
“I told you not to move!”
I didn’t—at least not for several hours.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Drug War
The next war with Mexico is ramping up and this is one could make the Afghanistan and Iraq anti-terror campaigns look like picnics.
Those who are in the business of studying and assessing threats to these re-United States and our allies have been warning anyone who will listen, and not many decision-makers are, that aside from Pakistan, the nation, critical to our national security interests, that is most at risk of political implosion and violent explosion is our neighbor to the south. Some are going as far as to say that Mexico is rapidly becoming a Narco State, with drugs and drug money the political, economic, and military driver. With a trillion dollar appetite for marijuana, cocaine, and other drugs either produced in or trans-shipped through Mexico, the people of these re-United States are directly responsible for the pain and suffering of the Mexican people at the hands of the drug cartels increasingly in control of their country.
Currently, Mexican drug cartels are estimated to have a combined para-military capability of over 100,000 men armed and equipped with modern infantry weapons systems. Flush with far more cash than the Mexican government they are rapidly supplanting, these cartels easily pay their soldiers, many of whom are former members of the Mexican army, much more than they could make in any other occupation, and easily pay off the members of the Mexican local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies. Those they can't buy, they kill.
The Mexican Army has been called up to combat the cartels, but, in all likelihood, the Army has been infiltrated by the cartels to the point that most operations against them will be marginalized. Again, the cartels pay a whole lot better. Watching footage of Mexican soldiers in the attack this week reminded one of the anti-insurgency operations conducted by the nascent Iraqi Army. When the soldiers of your national army are wearing masks to conceal their faces from recognition by the bad guys, you have a serious problem.
My, not so wild and somewhat educated, guess is, just as was the case with the post-Saddam Iraqi Army, the Mexican Army will not be able to eradicate the cartels' fielded forces on their own. My further prognostication is that U.S. decision-makers will dither while the Mexican Army flounders, and will only commit U.S. forces in support once the Mexican Army starts to crumble. At that point it will be too late. At that point we will be facing a failed state on our southern border run by people whose one and only goal is supplying the American drug habit.
Frankly, the magnitude of this threat is greater than any economic recession. And, much easier to successfully combat--if we act quickly. The first step is to SECURE OUR STINKING BORDER!!! That we haven't done this at all post 9-11 is one of the most egregious lapses of our government in its most important function--national defense. We have the most capable military the world has ever seen--this would not be a very difficult mission!
The second step is also a no-brainer, and, since we have the printing presses making cash at the speed of heat, should not be very difficult, either. The Mexican drug cartels wield power and influence primarily because they pay better. Let's outspend them. Let's give the Mexican government enough money to make heroes, very well-off heroes, out of every private in their army. I'm talking serious cash--not just a ten percent pay raise. Let's create a Mexican middle class to rival our own in one fell swoop. Let's give the Mexican government enough money to build a half million-man army, each soldier in which makes six figures. Heck, let's recruit a couple of divisions of Mexican citizens right here in the re-United States and send them home, well-paid, to make their country great like ours. The cost would rival only that which we have wasted trying to keep GM afloat.
Or, we can wait until Mexico collapses and spend untold trillions in treasure and a hundred thousand lives trying to turn back an invasion of up to a quarter of our neighbor's 110 million people attempting to escape the chaos.
Those who are in the business of studying and assessing threats to these re-United States and our allies have been warning anyone who will listen, and not many decision-makers are, that aside from Pakistan, the nation, critical to our national security interests, that is most at risk of political implosion and violent explosion is our neighbor to the south. Some are going as far as to say that Mexico is rapidly becoming a Narco State, with drugs and drug money the political, economic, and military driver. With a trillion dollar appetite for marijuana, cocaine, and other drugs either produced in or trans-shipped through Mexico, the people of these re-United States are directly responsible for the pain and suffering of the Mexican people at the hands of the drug cartels increasingly in control of their country.
Currently, Mexican drug cartels are estimated to have a combined para-military capability of over 100,000 men armed and equipped with modern infantry weapons systems. Flush with far more cash than the Mexican government they are rapidly supplanting, these cartels easily pay their soldiers, many of whom are former members of the Mexican army, much more than they could make in any other occupation, and easily pay off the members of the Mexican local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies. Those they can't buy, they kill.
The Mexican Army has been called up to combat the cartels, but, in all likelihood, the Army has been infiltrated by the cartels to the point that most operations against them will be marginalized. Again, the cartels pay a whole lot better. Watching footage of Mexican soldiers in the attack this week reminded one of the anti-insurgency operations conducted by the nascent Iraqi Army. When the soldiers of your national army are wearing masks to conceal their faces from recognition by the bad guys, you have a serious problem.
My, not so wild and somewhat educated, guess is, just as was the case with the post-Saddam Iraqi Army, the Mexican Army will not be able to eradicate the cartels' fielded forces on their own. My further prognostication is that U.S. decision-makers will dither while the Mexican Army flounders, and will only commit U.S. forces in support once the Mexican Army starts to crumble. At that point it will be too late. At that point we will be facing a failed state on our southern border run by people whose one and only goal is supplying the American drug habit.
Frankly, the magnitude of this threat is greater than any economic recession. And, much easier to successfully combat--if we act quickly. The first step is to SECURE OUR STINKING BORDER!!! That we haven't done this at all post 9-11 is one of the most egregious lapses of our government in its most important function--national defense. We have the most capable military the world has ever seen--this would not be a very difficult mission!
The second step is also a no-brainer, and, since we have the printing presses making cash at the speed of heat, should not be very difficult, either. The Mexican drug cartels wield power and influence primarily because they pay better. Let's outspend them. Let's give the Mexican government enough money to make heroes, very well-off heroes, out of every private in their army. I'm talking serious cash--not just a ten percent pay raise. Let's create a Mexican middle class to rival our own in one fell swoop. Let's give the Mexican government enough money to build a half million-man army, each soldier in which makes six figures. Heck, let's recruit a couple of divisions of Mexican citizens right here in the re-United States and send them home, well-paid, to make their country great like ours. The cost would rival only that which we have wasted trying to keep GM afloat.
Or, we can wait until Mexico collapses and spend untold trillions in treasure and a hundred thousand lives trying to turn back an invasion of up to a quarter of our neighbor's 110 million people attempting to escape the chaos.
Patient Patients
Clean bills of health provided by the doctor with the honor of monitoring the physical well-being of the Colonel and Miss Brenda, at the conclusion of our annual check-up yesterday.
After fifty years of military medicine, it has been a bit of an adjustment for us as we have transitioned from the government collective to a local Family Practice doctor for our primary care. One of the welcome changes has been having adults tend to our health. The medicos in uniform were all to often youngsters still fighting acne--in the main, very effective, but very young and relatively inexperienced. It had gotten a bit disconcerting to be poked and prodded by folks who looked much, much younger than my own very young kids.
When the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and I emigrated from the Redneck Riviera to the Northern End of Southern Nowhere two years ago, we experienced the joy of doctor shopping for the first time in our lives. We settled on one who had the two critical prerequisites--long-past achievement of adulthood and acceptance of Tri-Care (our military retiree medical plan). His office staff were also adults, and even more exciting, long-time members of our new community. Yesterday, as the nurse drew our blood, we talked about an uncle of hers who is a neighbor. Never had that experience with military medicine!
Miss Brenda is proud to announce that, according to our new favorite doctor, she has "the heart of an athlete!" On the other hand, the Colonel, whose internal operating systems are, likewise, in good working order, got no such athletic arterial comparison. The Colonel, as will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me well, has no heart.
After fifty years of military medicine, it has been a bit of an adjustment for us as we have transitioned from the government collective to a local Family Practice doctor for our primary care. One of the welcome changes has been having adults tend to our health. The medicos in uniform were all to often youngsters still fighting acne--in the main, very effective, but very young and relatively inexperienced. It had gotten a bit disconcerting to be poked and prodded by folks who looked much, much younger than my own very young kids.
When the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and I emigrated from the Redneck Riviera to the Northern End of Southern Nowhere two years ago, we experienced the joy of doctor shopping for the first time in our lives. We settled on one who had the two critical prerequisites--long-past achievement of adulthood and acceptance of Tri-Care (our military retiree medical plan). His office staff were also adults, and even more exciting, long-time members of our new community. Yesterday, as the nurse drew our blood, we talked about an uncle of hers who is a neighbor. Never had that experience with military medicine!
Miss Brenda is proud to announce that, according to our new favorite doctor, she has "the heart of an athlete!" On the other hand, the Colonel, whose internal operating systems are, likewise, in good working order, got no such athletic arterial comparison. The Colonel, as will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me well, has no heart.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
To the rear, MARCH!
Here at the northern end of southern nowhere, that detested four week square month, with its hated attributes, has been ripped from the calendar with relish, if with lack of ceremony. The Colonel likes March a whole lot better, except for one characteristic it shares with February here in the South--the weather roller coaster. When it comes to climactic mood swings, March is February on steroids.
Two days ago a balmy breeze out of the South pushed the temperature up and over the eighty degree mark and the Colonel spent two glorious days outside working on the tractor shed addition to the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility. The men who took this southern boy, with blood further thinned by nearly five years in Panama, and dragged him kicking and screaming through hypothermic practical application of arctic warfare training, taught me to layer my clothing and regulate activity to prevent soaking myself in my otherwise prodigious perspiration. But, with t-shirt temps on hand, I let the sweat pumps kick into high gear and flushed the winter sludge out of my pores as I dug three foot post holes through the Confederate Concrete that passes for soil here aboard the grounds of the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State. Yesterday morning, I sauntered outside dressed for summer and quickly executed a retrograde operation houseward for clothing retrofit.
In the time it takes this big blue marble to complete less than one rotation 'round its axis, the temperature had dropped nearly fifty degrees! There's a welcome rain falling with the unwelcome fall of the temperature, so the Colonel won't complain. The shoreline of Lake Brenda could stand significant expansion prior to the summer dry.
Just doesn't need to be expanded via freezing!
Two days ago a balmy breeze out of the South pushed the temperature up and over the eighty degree mark and the Colonel spent two glorious days outside working on the tractor shed addition to the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility. The men who took this southern boy, with blood further thinned by nearly five years in Panama, and dragged him kicking and screaming through hypothermic practical application of arctic warfare training, taught me to layer my clothing and regulate activity to prevent soaking myself in my otherwise prodigious perspiration. But, with t-shirt temps on hand, I let the sweat pumps kick into high gear and flushed the winter sludge out of my pores as I dug three foot post holes through the Confederate Concrete that passes for soil here aboard the grounds of the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State. Yesterday morning, I sauntered outside dressed for summer and quickly executed a retrograde operation houseward for clothing retrofit.
In the time it takes this big blue marble to complete less than one rotation 'round its axis, the temperature had dropped nearly fifty degrees! There's a welcome rain falling with the unwelcome fall of the temperature, so the Colonel won't complain. The shoreline of Lake Brenda could stand significant expansion prior to the summer dry.
Just doesn't need to be expanded via freezing!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Adding to Ed's Edifice
For the last several days, the temperature here at the northern end of southern nowhere has climbed up to and past the four score mark on Herr Fehrenheit's scale and yesterday the spring-like weather flipped a "let's clean the house" switch in the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's brain housing group. Cleaning house ain't on the Colonel's short (or long, for that matter) list of favorite participation sports, and the strong whiff of Pinesol that jangled my olfactory nerves served as a sufficient catalyst to activate my desire to attack the growing list of projects requiring attention on the grounds of the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State (a government in opposition, formed as much hand on wallet as tongue in cheek).
One of the aforementioned projects, The Tractor Shed, an open-sided, roofed addition to the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility under which to park Semper Field (the Colonel's tractor; not to be confused with the Colonel's pick-up, Semper Fillit, and the Colonel's boat, Semper Fish) between forays afield, has languished as concept in the few remaining cognitive cells in my hat rack for several months now. On the promise and expectation of stimulus funding (an earmark for which I have been promised has been included in the omnibus appropriations bill), the Colonel began construction yesterday on said addition to the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
The preparatory phase of said construction project involved a prolonged period of strategic planning, risk assessment, and work site survey, the predominance of which was accomplished by the Colonel in his open-air office, ensconced in his "thinking chair," eyes closed and shaded from the thought-damaging effects of ultraviolet light. A few short minutes into this vitally important stage of engineering excellence, which, due to the temporal distortion of the bubble of relative irrelevant relativity surrounding the Colonel (see post entitled "Time in a Bucket" for an explanation of this heretofore undocumented phenomenon), seemed more like several hours to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, the mother of my children stepped outside to conduct the regular safety check and supervisory security sweep required of the wives of Gregory men. The Colonel's super-natural situational awareness provided sufficient aural stimuli to warn of the impending presence of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, but, not wanting to startle and traumatize her with a demonstration of my explosive, cat-like reflexes, I remained carefully stationary and motionless in my strategic planning repose and only, and very slowly, responded to my dearest's attention-getting attempts when her gentle nudging escalated to the level of mild shaking.
"What have you gotten done this morning?" The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was interested in her man's accomplishments--how heart-warming!
One of the aforementioned projects, The Tractor Shed, an open-sided, roofed addition to the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility under which to park Semper Field (the Colonel's tractor; not to be confused with the Colonel's pick-up, Semper Fillit, and the Colonel's boat, Semper Fish) between forays afield, has languished as concept in the few remaining cognitive cells in my hat rack for several months now. On the promise and expectation of stimulus funding (an earmark for which I have been promised has been included in the omnibus appropriations bill), the Colonel began construction yesterday on said addition to the Eegeebeegee Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
The preparatory phase of said construction project involved a prolonged period of strategic planning, risk assessment, and work site survey, the predominance of which was accomplished by the Colonel in his open-air office, ensconced in his "thinking chair," eyes closed and shaded from the thought-damaging effects of ultraviolet light. A few short minutes into this vitally important stage of engineering excellence, which, due to the temporal distortion of the bubble of relative irrelevant relativity surrounding the Colonel (see post entitled "Time in a Bucket" for an explanation of this heretofore undocumented phenomenon), seemed more like several hours to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, the mother of my children stepped outside to conduct the regular safety check and supervisory security sweep required of the wives of Gregory men. The Colonel's super-natural situational awareness provided sufficient aural stimuli to warn of the impending presence of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, but, not wanting to startle and traumatize her with a demonstration of my explosive, cat-like reflexes, I remained carefully stationary and motionless in my strategic planning repose and only, and very slowly, responded to my dearest's attention-getting attempts when her gentle nudging escalated to the level of mild shaking.
"What have you gotten done this morning?" The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was interested in her man's accomplishments--how heart-warming!
Monday, March 09, 2009
Monday MOTOs; Vol. II, Ed. 3
Time once again for another installment of the Colonel's regularly irregular Monday Mastery of the Obvious (MOTO) awards, for public pronouncements demonstrating the speaker's death grip on reality. The awards committee, chaired by a man curmudgeoned before his time, will present medals in absentia today at 1300 Tallahatchie Standard Time, on the front porch of the capitol building at Eegeebeegee, Mississippi, capital of the Tallahatchie Free State, a government in opposition formed as much with hand on wallet as with tongue in cheek.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO bronze medal is awarded to Venezuela's President Hugo Chavez (who leads the closely followed TCMM medal count by a substantial margin) for his blustering, "I warn you this revolution means business," (according to Patricia Rondon in a March 4 Reuters dispatch from Caracass). Hugo "Castro Lite" Chavez's government had just announced seizure of a parboiled rice plant owned by the American company Cargill, as the dropping tide of oil prices supporting his "bread and circuses" populism ran him aground upon the shoals of economic reality. The Colonel's source in Caracass (codenamed "Toucan Sam") claims the reporter left off the last part of the Chavez pronouncement: "...and the state will become one and the same." Socialism (aka: liberalism, progressivism) has but one totalitarian aim--consolidation of power in the hands of a few--and conceals its motives in the populist camouflage of social fairness.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO silver medal is awarded to Marti Maguire, staff writer for the Raleigh News and Observer, for the headline, "Tornadoes are not 'to toy with'." Amen, sister! I can testify! Also, for your further mastery, Ms Maguire, I submit the following obvious points: Tigers and chimpanzees don't make good house pets; Marines are trained to kill; and all politicians lie.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO bronze medal is awarded to Venezuela's President Hugo Chavez (who leads the closely followed TCMM medal count by a substantial margin) for his blustering, "I warn you this revolution means business," (according to Patricia Rondon in a March 4 Reuters dispatch from Caracass). Hugo "Castro Lite" Chavez's government had just announced seizure of a parboiled rice plant owned by the American company Cargill, as the dropping tide of oil prices supporting his "bread and circuses" populism ran him aground upon the shoals of economic reality. The Colonel's source in Caracass (codenamed "Toucan Sam") claims the reporter left off the last part of the Chavez pronouncement: "...and the state will become one and the same." Socialism (aka: liberalism, progressivism) has but one totalitarian aim--consolidation of power in the hands of a few--and conceals its motives in the populist camouflage of social fairness.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO silver medal is awarded to Marti Maguire, staff writer for the Raleigh News and Observer, for the headline, "Tornadoes are not 'to toy with'." Amen, sister! I can testify! Also, for your further mastery, Ms Maguire, I submit the following obvious points: Tigers and chimpanzees don't make good house pets; Marines are trained to kill; and all politicians lie.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO gold medal is awarded to pollster John Zogby who explains that President Obama's soaring popularity, in the face of a slew of broken campaign promises and an economy spiralling out of control, is based on his “sheer personality.” I'm more and more convinced, day after day, that there ain't but a handful of us, you and I included of course, that get it. Everybody else can't tell the difference between what's going on in the real world and what happened on "The Bachelor." Leaves this Marine just a tad bit disappointed.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Time in a Bucket
Never have quite understood the logic of Daylight Savings.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the extra hour of sunlight in the evenings. One of the things that was always a downer for me, when I was working for a living, was going to work in the dark and coming home in the dark. I really looked forward to the government-sponsored clock shift in the Spring that would eventually allow there to be some daylight left in the evenings when I got home. Gave me more time to feel guilty about being too tired (read lazy) to go outside and play ball with the kids.
But now that the Colonel no longer wears a wristwatch, having given up the rat race for the seasonal, rather than hourly, governed life of a blogging farmer (and I use the term "farmer" looser than a newborn's diaper deposit), the concept of time has become, with apologies to Albert Einstein, a relatively irrelevant relativity. Time has taken on an entirely different aspect for me than it has for everyone else. Allow me to provide some examples in point:
Case 1. The Colonel is at the controls of Semper Fillit (my red, mud-bespeckled pick-up truck; not to be confused with Semper Field--my red, mud-bespeckled tractor) and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is lightly ensconced in her right seat drive director's position. Semper Fillit is traveling at a rate of speed roughly equivalent to the speed of smell as the Colonel is in no particular hurry, having no particular deadline to meet. A glance in the rear-view mirror reveals a pretty young coed in a brand new daddy-bought BMW, with the ubiquitous cell phone slapped to the side of her noggin, approaching the back bumper of Semper Fillit at a rate approaching a large fraction of the speed of light. As the Beamer and its blond operator close to within pistol range of the Colonel, and enters his bubble of relatively irrelevant relativity, the effects of temporal distortion are clearly evident, manifested by the marked and obviously uncontrollable physical behavior displayed by the aforementioned coed--hands thrown involuntarily upward; pie hole agape and mouthing verbal utterances symptomatic of sudden onset Tourette Syndrome.
Case 2. The Colonel is in his shop, merrily mesmerized by the effectiveness of one of his power tools at turning lumber into sawdust. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda enters the Colonel's domain unbidden and breaks the reverie with a request, "I need some help with [some inane and totally unnecessary nest feathering project intended to soften the rough-hewn facade of Eegeebeegee]. It'll only take a minute." Seven hours and thirty-seven of those aforementioned minutes later, we have reached the approximate half-way point of the [some inane and totally unnecessary nest feathering project intended to soften the rough-hewn facade of Eegeebeegee] and cease labor due to the fast approaching onset of winter.
Case 3. Miss Brenda and the Colonel are wandering the aisles at Wally World doing our part to keep the world economy from collapsing into Stone Age barterdom. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda mentions that she needs to stop in the craft section for a minute. Seven hours and thirty-seven of those aforementioned minutes later... On the other hand, the briefest stop in the sporting goods department elicits an almost immediate round of the foot-tapping, eye-rolling, and heavy sighing indicating that, to Miss Brenda, time has increased its rate of passage exponentially and we are wasting valuable time that could otherwise be spent on completion of the [some inane and totally unnecessary nest feathering project intended to soften the rough-hewn facade of Eegeebeegee].
Think I'll call the physics department at Ole Miss in the morning and offer my services as theoretical genius in residence.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the extra hour of sunlight in the evenings. One of the things that was always a downer for me, when I was working for a living, was going to work in the dark and coming home in the dark. I really looked forward to the government-sponsored clock shift in the Spring that would eventually allow there to be some daylight left in the evenings when I got home. Gave me more time to feel guilty about being too tired (read lazy) to go outside and play ball with the kids.
But now that the Colonel no longer wears a wristwatch, having given up the rat race for the seasonal, rather than hourly, governed life of a blogging farmer (and I use the term "farmer" looser than a newborn's diaper deposit), the concept of time has become, with apologies to Albert Einstein, a relatively irrelevant relativity. Time has taken on an entirely different aspect for me than it has for everyone else. Allow me to provide some examples in point:
Case 1. The Colonel is at the controls of Semper Fillit (my red, mud-bespeckled pick-up truck; not to be confused with Semper Field--my red, mud-bespeckled tractor) and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is lightly ensconced in her right seat drive director's position. Semper Fillit is traveling at a rate of speed roughly equivalent to the speed of smell as the Colonel is in no particular hurry, having no particular deadline to meet. A glance in the rear-view mirror reveals a pretty young coed in a brand new daddy-bought BMW, with the ubiquitous cell phone slapped to the side of her noggin, approaching the back bumper of Semper Fillit at a rate approaching a large fraction of the speed of light. As the Beamer and its blond operator close to within pistol range of the Colonel, and enters his bubble of relatively irrelevant relativity, the effects of temporal distortion are clearly evident, manifested by the marked and obviously uncontrollable physical behavior displayed by the aforementioned coed--hands thrown involuntarily upward; pie hole agape and mouthing verbal utterances symptomatic of sudden onset Tourette Syndrome.
Case 2. The Colonel is in his shop, merrily mesmerized by the effectiveness of one of his power tools at turning lumber into sawdust. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda enters the Colonel's domain unbidden and breaks the reverie with a request, "I need some help with [some inane and totally unnecessary nest feathering project intended to soften the rough-hewn facade of Eegeebeegee]. It'll only take a minute." Seven hours and thirty-seven of those aforementioned minutes later, we have reached the approximate half-way point of the [some inane and totally unnecessary nest feathering project intended to soften the rough-hewn facade of Eegeebeegee] and cease labor due to the fast approaching onset of winter.
Case 3. Miss Brenda and the Colonel are wandering the aisles at Wally World doing our part to keep the world economy from collapsing into Stone Age barterdom. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda mentions that she needs to stop in the craft section for a minute. Seven hours and thirty-seven of those aforementioned minutes later... On the other hand, the briefest stop in the sporting goods department elicits an almost immediate round of the foot-tapping, eye-rolling, and heavy sighing indicating that, to Miss Brenda, time has increased its rate of passage exponentially and we are wasting valuable time that could otherwise be spent on completion of the [some inane and totally unnecessary nest feathering project intended to soften the rough-hewn facade of Eegeebeegee].
Think I'll call the physics department at Ole Miss in the morning and offer my services as theoretical genius in residence.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Second Thoughts
I let my NRA membership lapse 25 years ago because I was growing tired of the gun control hysteria every time some effete liberal yankee politician got birdy regarding firearms.
I'm a bit of a student of our Constitution--it's always a good idea to know what it is you are swearing an oath to defend with your life. I've studied the Federalist Papers; heard and appreciated (if not agreed with) the arguments from all sides regarding the intent of the Framers. I have, as a result, come to a personal interpretation of the Second Amendment; and it ain't in line with the hyperventilators of the National Rifle Association. For those who have egregiously failed to read their re-United States Owners Manual, or have forgotten the contents of the Bill of Rights since they last looked at them sometime in their childhood, here's the Amendment in question:
"A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."
Proponents of unlimited access to and possession of firearms, chief among them the NRA, single out and hang their collective hats on the second half of the Amendment. Proponents of gun control, and those seeking to restrict the types of firearms a citizen may possess, point to the first half of the Amendment as indicating that the Framers' intent was maintenance of an armed and "well regulated militia" for homeland defense. At the time of the writing of its constitution and its first ten amendments, the young country was still beset on every border by clear and present dangers to its security. There was no standing army (the fear of which was ingrained in our European forefathers), and state militia, (the forerunner of our current National Guard) comprised of private citizens who would drop plow, pen, or hammer and take up arms in crises, were the only organized armed force available to deal with the threat of internal insurrection (such as the Whiskey Rebellion and Shays Rebellion) or external uprising on the frontier. That militia, armed and proficient with their own firearms, was clearly what the Framers were addressing with the Second Amendment to the Constitution.
Let me be clear and honest: I own guns--a lot of 'em--and I am, what you might safely assume, rather proficient with them, thanks to my Dad and the United States Marine Corps. But, I'm not as comfortable as my friends and neighbors in the NRA with the concept of unregulated access to and possession of firearms. Frankly, and this is a founding principle of the Tallahatchie Free State (an opposition government formed as much hand on wallet as tongue in cheek), I firmly feel that no one should be allowed to own a firearm--or vote, for that matter--unless he or she has earned that privilege via honorable uniformed military or police service.
With all the above said, I am a bit worried about the concealed intentions of the sponsors of the House Bill H. R. 45, also known as "Blair Holt's Firearm Licensing and Record of Sale Act of 2009" (http://www.govtrack.us/congress/billtext.xpd?bill=h111-45). While seemingly innocuous and reasonable on its face, the bill contains a few worrisome provisions, which, taken to logical extremes, could result in the very restrictive regulation of firearm ownership about which the NRA has heretofore participated in the aforementioned collective hyperventilation. The bill would amend Section 922 of title 18, United States Code to require licensing of any citizen wishing to own or possess a firearm. That seems reasonable enough, you might say. After all, you have to be licensed to legally drive an automobile. Yes, but, there is no license required for ownership or possession of a car or truck. I have no problem with my government reasonably regulating the use of my firearms (it already does that through hunting license requirements and hunting regulations regarding seasons and hours during which, and weapons and ammunition with which, I may unleash my primal apex predator instincts). I do, however, have a HUGE problem with my government's mouth-breathing bureaucratic minions having access to my mental health records--an odious and dangerously Stalinistic requirement of licensure included in the bill in question.
You won't need my mental health records to figure out just how crazy I am if you try to enforce that one!
I'm a bit of a student of our Constitution--it's always a good idea to know what it is you are swearing an oath to defend with your life. I've studied the Federalist Papers; heard and appreciated (if not agreed with) the arguments from all sides regarding the intent of the Framers. I have, as a result, come to a personal interpretation of the Second Amendment; and it ain't in line with the hyperventilators of the National Rifle Association. For those who have egregiously failed to read their re-United States Owners Manual, or have forgotten the contents of the Bill of Rights since they last looked at them sometime in their childhood, here's the Amendment in question:
"A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."
Proponents of unlimited access to and possession of firearms, chief among them the NRA, single out and hang their collective hats on the second half of the Amendment. Proponents of gun control, and those seeking to restrict the types of firearms a citizen may possess, point to the first half of the Amendment as indicating that the Framers' intent was maintenance of an armed and "well regulated militia" for homeland defense. At the time of the writing of its constitution and its first ten amendments, the young country was still beset on every border by clear and present dangers to its security. There was no standing army (the fear of which was ingrained in our European forefathers), and state militia, (the forerunner of our current National Guard) comprised of private citizens who would drop plow, pen, or hammer and take up arms in crises, were the only organized armed force available to deal with the threat of internal insurrection (such as the Whiskey Rebellion and Shays Rebellion) or external uprising on the frontier. That militia, armed and proficient with their own firearms, was clearly what the Framers were addressing with the Second Amendment to the Constitution.
Let me be clear and honest: I own guns--a lot of 'em--and I am, what you might safely assume, rather proficient with them, thanks to my Dad and the United States Marine Corps. But, I'm not as comfortable as my friends and neighbors in the NRA with the concept of unregulated access to and possession of firearms. Frankly, and this is a founding principle of the Tallahatchie Free State (an opposition government formed as much hand on wallet as tongue in cheek), I firmly feel that no one should be allowed to own a firearm--or vote, for that matter--unless he or she has earned that privilege via honorable uniformed military or police service.
With all the above said, I am a bit worried about the concealed intentions of the sponsors of the House Bill H. R. 45, also known as "Blair Holt's Firearm Licensing and Record of Sale Act of 2009" (http://www.govtrack.us/congress/billtext.xpd?bill=h111-45). While seemingly innocuous and reasonable on its face, the bill contains a few worrisome provisions, which, taken to logical extremes, could result in the very restrictive regulation of firearm ownership about which the NRA has heretofore participated in the aforementioned collective hyperventilation. The bill would amend Section 922 of title 18, United States Code to require licensing of any citizen wishing to own or possess a firearm. That seems reasonable enough, you might say. After all, you have to be licensed to legally drive an automobile. Yes, but, there is no license required for ownership or possession of a car or truck. I have no problem with my government reasonably regulating the use of my firearms (it already does that through hunting license requirements and hunting regulations regarding seasons and hours during which, and weapons and ammunition with which, I may unleash my primal apex predator instincts). I do, however, have a HUGE problem with my government's mouth-breathing bureaucratic minions having access to my mental health records--an odious and dangerously Stalinistic requirement of licensure included in the bill in question.
You won't need my mental health records to figure out just how crazy I am if you try to enforce that one!
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Timber!
There's something therapeutic about turning lumber into sawdust; ranking right up there with the life-centering results of turning your own cut and split firewood into heat and light.
If there's one resource I have in abundance on Eegeebeegee, it is timber. The ridges and creek bottoms are covered in hardwood stands, interspersed with mature pine and cedar. Each of my three large fields are edged by stands of planted loblolly pine, ranging between five and ten years old. In short, the Colonel has a long-term renewable resource that could serve me and mine for several generations; if me and mine will stay disciplined in its stewardship. Dawns on me, as I sit here converting electrical impulses into palmar and dorsal interossei movement and thereby into this electronic missive (I know it amazes those of you who know the Colonel well, that he is able to do two things at the same time), that I need to put some unequivocal language in my will to instruct my progeny, and theirs, regarding long-term maintenance of this valuable resource: NO CLEAR-CUTTING.
As those of you who have wasted valuable time reading this voluble vomitus for more than a few months know, the Colonel is a proud possessor of a long-dreamt-of workshop with enough room to house large and multiple projects and the large and multiple power tools with which to accomplish said projects. The really good news in this story is that the Colonel has been doing his part to stimulate the economy by throwing copious wads of cash (well, swiping a magnetic strip) at the local big box hardware store in return for the aforementioned tools to populate the aforementioned workshop. Next on my wish list (purchase pending approval of the spending bill containing the earmark I have asked my congressman to include for improvement of the grounds of the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State) is a radial arm saw (excuse me while I pause for a short session of monosyllabic guttural utterances signifying manproval).
In a former life, the Colonel received some training on systems efficiency. Unfortunately, the wrinkled mass of cells carrying that information has atrophied to an amorphous puddle of grey goo in a shallow recess of my brain housing group. But, I have never been one to allow a lack of intelligence or education (I didn't go to college--I attended Ole Miss) to prevent my progress. So, I have developed a plan for presentation to the Tallahatchie Free State purchasing committee (chaired by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda). Said plan includes a line and box diagram depicting the Eegeebeegee sawdust production system deemed critical to the continued mental and physical well-being of the Colonel (he whose retirement income maintains Miss Brenda in the standard of living to which she has grown accustomed). She has accepted my need for, and has approved purchase of the aforementioned radial arm saw (excuse me while I pause for a short session of monosyllabic guttural utterances of manproval). She will, of course, recognize immediately that there is a glaring gap in the Eegeebeegee sawdust production system processes right between the box entitled "timber" and the box marked "radial arm saw" (excuse me while I pause for...you know the drill...join me).
I need a sawmill.
If there's one resource I have in abundance on Eegeebeegee, it is timber. The ridges and creek bottoms are covered in hardwood stands, interspersed with mature pine and cedar. Each of my three large fields are edged by stands of planted loblolly pine, ranging between five and ten years old. In short, the Colonel has a long-term renewable resource that could serve me and mine for several generations; if me and mine will stay disciplined in its stewardship. Dawns on me, as I sit here converting electrical impulses into palmar and dorsal interossei movement and thereby into this electronic missive (I know it amazes those of you who know the Colonel well, that he is able to do two things at the same time), that I need to put some unequivocal language in my will to instruct my progeny, and theirs, regarding long-term maintenance of this valuable resource: NO CLEAR-CUTTING.
As those of you who have wasted valuable time reading this voluble vomitus for more than a few months know, the Colonel is a proud possessor of a long-dreamt-of workshop with enough room to house large and multiple projects and the large and multiple power tools with which to accomplish said projects. The really good news in this story is that the Colonel has been doing his part to stimulate the economy by throwing copious wads of cash (well, swiping a magnetic strip) at the local big box hardware store in return for the aforementioned tools to populate the aforementioned workshop. Next on my wish list (purchase pending approval of the spending bill containing the earmark I have asked my congressman to include for improvement of the grounds of the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State) is a radial arm saw (excuse me while I pause for a short session of monosyllabic guttural utterances signifying manproval).
In a former life, the Colonel received some training on systems efficiency. Unfortunately, the wrinkled mass of cells carrying that information has atrophied to an amorphous puddle of grey goo in a shallow recess of my brain housing group. But, I have never been one to allow a lack of intelligence or education (I didn't go to college--I attended Ole Miss) to prevent my progress. So, I have developed a plan for presentation to the Tallahatchie Free State purchasing committee (chaired by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda). Said plan includes a line and box diagram depicting the Eegeebeegee sawdust production system deemed critical to the continued mental and physical well-being of the Colonel (he whose retirement income maintains Miss Brenda in the standard of living to which she has grown accustomed). She has accepted my need for, and has approved purchase of the aforementioned radial arm saw (excuse me while I pause for a short session of monosyllabic guttural utterances of manproval). She will, of course, recognize immediately that there is a glaring gap in the Eegeebeegee sawdust production system processes right between the box entitled "timber" and the box marked "radial arm saw" (excuse me while I pause for...you know the drill...join me).
I need a sawmill.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Forward, MARCH!
I've mentioned before that I have a particular disdain for the month of February. It bears mentioning again.
February is a short, miserable, placeholder month. There's no real football being played--the Super Commercial (adds and hype interrupted by bad play) doesn't count. The two other seasons I care anything about--deer and duck--have closed. The weather stinks--alternating rapidly between soft spring-like teases and raw winter blasts.
February is a basketball month. I hate basketball. My hatred for the sport is rooted in its hatred for me. Basketball and I belong to an exclusive mutual acrimony society. I loathe the height-loving, ball-bouncing, no-contact shoe-squeaking and it revels in its enmity for me, putting my lack of court talent on quick display if ever I venture under the hoop.
February is a fallacious feel-good month, with holidays hijacked and invented to promote this and sell that.
February dies today. I'll dance on its grave tomorrow.
February is a short, miserable, placeholder month. There's no real football being played--the Super Commercial (adds and hype interrupted by bad play) doesn't count. The two other seasons I care anything about--deer and duck--have closed. The weather stinks--alternating rapidly between soft spring-like teases and raw winter blasts.
February is a basketball month. I hate basketball. My hatred for the sport is rooted in its hatred for me. Basketball and I belong to an exclusive mutual acrimony society. I loathe the height-loving, ball-bouncing, no-contact shoe-squeaking and it revels in its enmity for me, putting my lack of court talent on quick display if ever I venture under the hoop.
February is a fallacious feel-good month, with holidays hijacked and invented to promote this and sell that.
February dies today. I'll dance on its grave tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Networked Socialist
The Colonel felt like an old, tired wildebeest, standing a little ways off the migration route, watching the rest of the herd stream past towards the river crossing and wondering "why?". I was standing in a nice patch of grass. This side of the river looked just as good as the other side. Besides, there were beastly dangers and horrors lurking just below the surface of the swollen river. Members of the herd were disappearing in frothy, toothy swirls; but the rest continued to plunge ahead toward the promise of something better. And as they went, their frantic communications became more and more unintelligible. I had been at the forefront of other migratory rushes in years past, but the light of desire to plunge headlong into the unknown was dimming. Still, the light wasn't completely extinguished--there was still a flicker of need for adventure. The Colonel might be as old as dirt, but he hasn't become worm food just yet. So, I took the plunge...
I joined Facebook.
A friend of Number 1 Son summed up the incredulity that most of those who know me must be feeling at this point when he wrote the following on my wall (oh, there is a whole new lingo replacing the acronym-spiced speech of the cold warrior turned money-grubbing capitalist turned blogging farmer): "Facebook and a blog? What happened to the Colonel I used to hear stories about? The angry Marine lecturing a bunch of tech happy Air Force guys on how to use a pencil and paper..."
I replied with the lame "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" excuse. Truth is I've always been a closet techie. The internet sucked me in the first time I typed in a search. That first search--my first plunge into the swollen, crocodile-infested watercourse, some 15 of 16 years ago--returned just three hits. The hits to the same search today, unfiltered, would take a month of Sundays to peruse. But, once I got that first mainline hit of information on demand, I was hooked like no other junkie. Instead of going to the library, the library came to me.
So, now I'm on Facebook. Like a good Marine, I still follow directions to the letter and when the sign-up instructions said to enter my full name, I did: Thomas Edward Gregory. Mistake. Nobody knows Thomas.
If this Facebook thing takes off with me, I might just have to break with five generations of family tradition and start going by my first name.
But, you can still call me The Colonel.
I joined Facebook.
A friend of Number 1 Son summed up the incredulity that most of those who know me must be feeling at this point when he wrote the following on my wall (oh, there is a whole new lingo replacing the acronym-spiced speech of the cold warrior turned money-grubbing capitalist turned blogging farmer): "Facebook and a blog? What happened to the Colonel I used to hear stories about? The angry Marine lecturing a bunch of tech happy Air Force guys on how to use a pencil and paper..."
I replied with the lame "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" excuse. Truth is I've always been a closet techie. The internet sucked me in the first time I typed in a search. That first search--my first plunge into the swollen, crocodile-infested watercourse, some 15 of 16 years ago--returned just three hits. The hits to the same search today, unfiltered, would take a month of Sundays to peruse. But, once I got that first mainline hit of information on demand, I was hooked like no other junkie. Instead of going to the library, the library came to me.
So, now I'm on Facebook. Like a good Marine, I still follow directions to the letter and when the sign-up instructions said to enter my full name, I did: Thomas Edward Gregory. Mistake. Nobody knows Thomas.
If this Facebook thing takes off with me, I might just have to break with five generations of family tradition and start going by my first name.
But, you can still call me The Colonel.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Tallahatchie Free State Ministers Emeritus
Pending receipt of ministerial nominations, selection, and confirmation by the Colonel's esteemed panel of one chaired by a man curmudgeoned well before his time, the following ministers emeritus are hereby declared exemplary for the ethical and effective conduct of the affairs of the Tallahatchie Free State, a government in opposition, capitalled at Eegeebeegee, at the northern end of southern nowhere.
Foreign Minister: Alexander the Great--no other man in history made so many allies of former enemies in so little time.
Minister of Defense: Lieutenant General Lewis B. "Chesty" Puller, USMC--no other military man more clearly understood the opportunity present in being surrounded and outnumbered by the enemy (will be an important attribute for the near-term conduct of military operations in defense of TFS borders).
Assistant Minister of Defense: General Anthony C. McAuliffe, USA, who, as commander of the 101st Airborne Division, eloquently responded with "Nuts!" to the surrender demand of the German commander whose forces surrounded the Americans at Bastogne during the 1944 Battle of the Bulge. In addition to his example of loyalty and mission focus, such brevity, clarity, and decisiveness in inter-governmental communications will be a TFS requirement.
Minister of the Interior: Theodore Roosevelt--responsible for the creation of the greatest and most effectively maintained collective expanse of national parks and wildlife preserves on the planet. Teddy's effectiveness in foreign policy and national defense also make him an example to bolster those named above.
Minister of Agriculture: George Washington Carver--considered the Leonardo da Vinci of American agriculture and perhaps most responsible for the resurrection of post-Southern War for Independence farming following the collapse of the cotton monoculture.
Minister of Education: Socrates--the father of modern western philosophy and credited with the Colonel's favorite pedagogic method (asking questions to draw out discussion). Reportedly short and unattractive (attributes near and dear to the Colonel), Socrates was also a battlefield hero and a staunch defender of the Athenian constitution (for which he gave his life).
Minister of Justice: Solomon, whose symbolic sword of justice shall remind the citizenry of the TFS that Right and Truth are principles worth fighting for.
Minister of Finance: Robert Heinlein, whose use of the science fiction literary form does not diminish the brilliance of his economic thought, conceptualized in several of his novels as the principle: TANSTAAFL ("there ain't no such thing as a free lunch").
The Tallahatchie Free State minister emeritus positions above and those enshrined in them carry no policy making or enforcement power, and exist purely at the pleasure of the Colonel, subject to his whim and wit, if lack of wisdom. Nominations to ministerial positions, both temporal and emeritus, are encouraged for the Colonel's consideration and are subject to arbitrary approval, condemnation, or curmudgeonly criticism.
Foreign Minister: Alexander the Great--no other man in history made so many allies of former enemies in so little time.
Minister of Defense: Lieutenant General Lewis B. "Chesty" Puller, USMC--no other military man more clearly understood the opportunity present in being surrounded and outnumbered by the enemy (will be an important attribute for the near-term conduct of military operations in defense of TFS borders).
Assistant Minister of Defense: General Anthony C. McAuliffe, USA, who, as commander of the 101st Airborne Division, eloquently responded with "Nuts!" to the surrender demand of the German commander whose forces surrounded the Americans at Bastogne during the 1944 Battle of the Bulge. In addition to his example of loyalty and mission focus, such brevity, clarity, and decisiveness in inter-governmental communications will be a TFS requirement.
Minister of the Interior: Theodore Roosevelt--responsible for the creation of the greatest and most effectively maintained collective expanse of national parks and wildlife preserves on the planet. Teddy's effectiveness in foreign policy and national defense also make him an example to bolster those named above.
Minister of Agriculture: George Washington Carver--considered the Leonardo da Vinci of American agriculture and perhaps most responsible for the resurrection of post-Southern War for Independence farming following the collapse of the cotton monoculture.
Minister of Education: Socrates--the father of modern western philosophy and credited with the Colonel's favorite pedagogic method (asking questions to draw out discussion). Reportedly short and unattractive (attributes near and dear to the Colonel), Socrates was also a battlefield hero and a staunch defender of the Athenian constitution (for which he gave his life).
Minister of Justice: Solomon, whose symbolic sword of justice shall remind the citizenry of the TFS that Right and Truth are principles worth fighting for.
Minister of Finance: Robert Heinlein, whose use of the science fiction literary form does not diminish the brilliance of his economic thought, conceptualized in several of his novels as the principle: TANSTAAFL ("there ain't no such thing as a free lunch").
The Tallahatchie Free State minister emeritus positions above and those enshrined in them carry no policy making or enforcement power, and exist purely at the pleasure of the Colonel, subject to his whim and wit, if lack of wisdom. Nominations to ministerial positions, both temporal and emeritus, are encouraged for the Colonel's consideration and are subject to arbitrary approval, condemnation, or curmudgeonly criticism.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Monday Morning MOTOs; Vol. II, Ed. 2
Greetings to one and all, patriots, rebels, freedom-fighters and frauds, from Eegeebeegee, captital of the Tallahatchie Free State, here at the northern end of southern nowhere. The purpose of this morning's press release from the Colonel's government in opposition, established not so much tongue in cheek as hand on wallet, is the publishing of the next edition of the regularly irregular Colonel's Corner feature foisting notables and disreputables upon the petards of their own pronouncements proclaiming their steel trap grips on the obvious. The Colonel's Monday Morning Mastery of the Obvious awards are hereby irrevocably, irreverently and irrepressibly presented in ascending order of MOTOness, as determined by an esteemed panel of one, chaired by a man curmudgeoned well before his time:
The Colonel's Monday Morning MOTO bronze medal is awarded to El Presidente por Vida Hugo Chavez of Venezuela, who, following the victory of a referendum to allow him to run for reelection for indefinite terms, proclaimed, "Those who voted 'yes' today voted for socialism, for revolution." Seems the Venezuelan people have more in common with the citizens of these re-United States than anyone realized.
The Colonel's Monday Morning MOTO silver medal goes to that paragon of bi-partisanship, and Pinko House chief of staff, Rahm Emanual for his own assessment, as reported by the AP, of the White House cabinet post vetting process that has resulted in a handful of nominees pulling their names from contention for reason of little things like tax evasion and strong opposition to the new administration's socialist policies: "Some would call it amateur hour." Some would, Mr. Emanual. The Colonel, on the other hand, believes it is symptomatic of the hubris with which H and his crew have come to the seat of power. They believe, as does the bronze award winner this morning, that they have a socialist mandate, and one of socialism's unwritten rules is that the ends justify the means.
The Colonel's Monday Morning MOTO gold medal is bestowed upon Republican Senator Mitch McConnell who, in assessing the $800 billion bill passed this week, according to the AP, proclaimed, "This is not the smart approach. The taxpayers of today and tomorrow will be left to clean up the mess." Senator, you have a death grip on the obvious! And, you and your party are just as responsible for this mess left to our children to clean up as the democrats. When given the opportunity to reverse forty years of socialist slide, you and the Republicans took the reins in Washington and became even bigger spenders on social programs than the socialists you replaced. Shame on you! Instead of demonstrating restraint, you set a higher bar for largess from our larders over which the re-empowered Democrats are now gleefully leaping.
The Colonel is taking applications for cabinet positions in the Tallahatchie Free State opposition government. MOTOs need not apply.
The Colonel's Monday Morning MOTO bronze medal is awarded to El Presidente por Vida Hugo Chavez of Venezuela, who, following the victory of a referendum to allow him to run for reelection for indefinite terms, proclaimed, "Those who voted 'yes' today voted for socialism, for revolution." Seems the Venezuelan people have more in common with the citizens of these re-United States than anyone realized.
The Colonel's Monday Morning MOTO silver medal goes to that paragon of bi-partisanship, and Pinko House chief of staff, Rahm Emanual for his own assessment, as reported by the AP, of the White House cabinet post vetting process that has resulted in a handful of nominees pulling their names from contention for reason of little things like tax evasion and strong opposition to the new administration's socialist policies: "Some would call it amateur hour." Some would, Mr. Emanual. The Colonel, on the other hand, believes it is symptomatic of the hubris with which H and his crew have come to the seat of power. They believe, as does the bronze award winner this morning, that they have a socialist mandate, and one of socialism's unwritten rules is that the ends justify the means.
The Colonel's Monday Morning MOTO gold medal is bestowed upon Republican Senator Mitch McConnell who, in assessing the $800 billion bill passed this week, according to the AP, proclaimed, "This is not the smart approach. The taxpayers of today and tomorrow will be left to clean up the mess." Senator, you have a death grip on the obvious! And, you and your party are just as responsible for this mess left to our children to clean up as the democrats. When given the opportunity to reverse forty years of socialist slide, you and the Republicans took the reins in Washington and became even bigger spenders on social programs than the socialists you replaced. Shame on you! Instead of demonstrating restraint, you set a higher bar for largess from our larders over which the re-empowered Democrats are now gleefully leaping.
The Colonel is taking applications for cabinet positions in the Tallahatchie Free State opposition government. MOTOs need not apply.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Liberalism's Totalitarian Tendencies
Rush Limbaugh is a punk prankster masquerading as a serious social sentinel. Keith Olberman is a cheap shot artist whose rhetorical diarrhea was tiresome even before he left the sports desk for political punditry. The Colonel has no patience for the self-serving political hacks at either end of the spectrum providing prodigious propaganda bloviation, not so much to support a position as to promote themselves. The Colonel has even less patience for the elected politicians whose service to their constituents in particular and their nation in general is all too often suborned to their desire to ensure their re-election--that goes for the self-serving sorts throughout the political spectrum. With that said, lets look at what history tells us will likely be the arc and consequences of the progressive policies being rushed into effect by the congressional totalitarians in Washington.
The last progressive president and congress to consolidate so much power was FDR and the congresses that took the oath of office during the Great Depression. That crisis was used to great effect by a charismatic president and a malleable congress to institute socialist governmental programs and policies. Most were sold to the public as the only way to pull the nation out of the economic depression, and did no such thing. Most historians and economists agree that many of the social programs FDR championed actually had the effect of deepening and prolonging the Great Depression. There are already glaring signs that H intends to lift a page from FDR's play book to further the progressive agenda no matter the cost to our nation.
The so-called stimulus bill garnering all of the attention at present is only the tip of the iceberg. It does indeed have some redeeming elements, arguably needed to take the sting out of the current economic crisis, but the vast majority of the bill is just old-fashioned pork. The President's Chief of Staff Rham Emanual was quoted late last fall as saying that this crisis provided a great opportunity to get spending approved for lots of programs that wouldn't ordinarily get funded. He is right on target from a tactical point of view--crises are great opportunities for change. Effective (not necessarily, scrupulous) leaders have always used crises, real or manufactured, to effect change that THEY deem in the best interest of their organization, community, or nation. The danger is that socialists believe they need to take care of us, even if we don't need or want to be taken care of. They push through programs and policies that increase their power over our lives because they know better than we do what is best for us. I, for one, beg to differ.
When the nine justices charged with preventing unconstitutional laws and policies rejected many of his programs, FDR attempted to "pack" the Supreme Court by appointing more left-leaning justices who cared more about the enactment of socialist policies than a strict and proper interpretation of the Constitution of these re-United States. The extra appointees to the court ensured that FDR's unconstitutional programs were deemed "constitutional." It was a totalitarian move more like those of Stalin or Mussolini than Washington or Jefferson. It was a repugnant disregard of the Constitution and our nation has been on a socialist slide ever since. President Obama may not be planning to pack the court--probably doesn't need to. He is, however, planning something just as insidious. He intends to move responsibility for oversight of the national census to the office of none other than that paragon of political bi-partisanship, Rham Emanual. The desired end-state is obvious to all but the most oblivious observer--control the census and you control the apportionment of seats in the House of Representatives.
President Obama has the eloquence and hip hype to dull the eyes of all but the most vigilant. I'm listening to him address a crowd in Fort Myers as I write this and I'm almost persuaded. He is good.
So was FDR, Stalin, Hitler, and Mussolini.
The last progressive president and congress to consolidate so much power was FDR and the congresses that took the oath of office during the Great Depression. That crisis was used to great effect by a charismatic president and a malleable congress to institute socialist governmental programs and policies. Most were sold to the public as the only way to pull the nation out of the economic depression, and did no such thing. Most historians and economists agree that many of the social programs FDR championed actually had the effect of deepening and prolonging the Great Depression. There are already glaring signs that H intends to lift a page from FDR's play book to further the progressive agenda no matter the cost to our nation.
The so-called stimulus bill garnering all of the attention at present is only the tip of the iceberg. It does indeed have some redeeming elements, arguably needed to take the sting out of the current economic crisis, but the vast majority of the bill is just old-fashioned pork. The President's Chief of Staff Rham Emanual was quoted late last fall as saying that this crisis provided a great opportunity to get spending approved for lots of programs that wouldn't ordinarily get funded. He is right on target from a tactical point of view--crises are great opportunities for change. Effective (not necessarily, scrupulous) leaders have always used crises, real or manufactured, to effect change that THEY deem in the best interest of their organization, community, or nation. The danger is that socialists believe they need to take care of us, even if we don't need or want to be taken care of. They push through programs and policies that increase their power over our lives because they know better than we do what is best for us. I, for one, beg to differ.
When the nine justices charged with preventing unconstitutional laws and policies rejected many of his programs, FDR attempted to "pack" the Supreme Court by appointing more left-leaning justices who cared more about the enactment of socialist policies than a strict and proper interpretation of the Constitution of these re-United States. The extra appointees to the court ensured that FDR's unconstitutional programs were deemed "constitutional." It was a totalitarian move more like those of Stalin or Mussolini than Washington or Jefferson. It was a repugnant disregard of the Constitution and our nation has been on a socialist slide ever since. President Obama may not be planning to pack the court--probably doesn't need to. He is, however, planning something just as insidious. He intends to move responsibility for oversight of the national census to the office of none other than that paragon of political bi-partisanship, Rham Emanual. The desired end-state is obvious to all but the most oblivious observer--control the census and you control the apportionment of seats in the House of Representatives.
President Obama has the eloquence and hip hype to dull the eyes of all but the most vigilant. I'm listening to him address a crowd in Fort Myers as I write this and I'm almost persuaded. He is good.
So was FDR, Stalin, Hitler, and Mussolini.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Jack Bauer is a Snivelling Wimp
There are ten reasons why the TV show "24" is bad for America.
Never watched the show until Miss Brenda ordered it from our mail order movie subscription. For the last month or so, we have watched the first two years and have been watching the current season at our leisure via the magic of DVR. The Colonel is far from impressed. In fact, I'm increasingly convinced that the show is an insidious, insipid, installment of entertainment insanity. Here's my ten point dismissal of this disreputable drivel:
1. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp.
2. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who breaks his oath of office to "support and defend the Constitution" an average of once every ten minutes.
3. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who places the welfare of his flighty family above that of the nation and its constitution, for which he took an oath to defend against all enemies foreign and domestic (and which implicitly requires suborning of personal and family concerns to the greater good of the people of these re-United States).
4. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who resorts to torture at the drop of a hat.
5. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who possesses less self-discipline in his entire body than the average nineteen year-old Marine lance-corporal has in the tip of his little finger.
6. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who maintains less situational awareness than a soon-to-be-road-kill armadillo, as evidenced by his propensity for capture by bad guys an average of twice per episode.
7. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp whose firearm carriage and safety would result in court martial were he under the Colonel's command.
8. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who possesses less leadership ability in his entire body than the average Marine second lieutenant has in the tip of his little finger.
9. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp whose fictitious (thankfully) organization, CTU, couldn't find their own backsides with both hands, let alone a terrorist with mass murder on his mind. (Homework for the three of you who read this blog: Ask ten people this week whether CTU is a real or fictitious organization.)
10. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who the Colonel wouldn't trust with the keys to his pick-up, let alone the security of our nation.
Obviously, no one writing, directing, producing, or acting in this intolerable excuse for programming has ever taken (and lived under) the oath of office of these re-United States. Thankfully, the real Americans who have taken the oath, by and large live by and execute their defense of our nation's security in accordance with the constitution on which it stands.
Gotta go, Miss Brenda has the next episode fired up on the DVR--need to see how many rounds it takes to dispatch Nina.
Never watched the show until Miss Brenda ordered it from our mail order movie subscription. For the last month or so, we have watched the first two years and have been watching the current season at our leisure via the magic of DVR. The Colonel is far from impressed. In fact, I'm increasingly convinced that the show is an insidious, insipid, installment of entertainment insanity. Here's my ten point dismissal of this disreputable drivel:
1. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp.
2. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who breaks his oath of office to "support and defend the Constitution" an average of once every ten minutes.
3. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who places the welfare of his flighty family above that of the nation and its constitution, for which he took an oath to defend against all enemies foreign and domestic (and which implicitly requires suborning of personal and family concerns to the greater good of the people of these re-United States).
4. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who resorts to torture at the drop of a hat.
5. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who possesses less self-discipline in his entire body than the average nineteen year-old Marine lance-corporal has in the tip of his little finger.
6. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who maintains less situational awareness than a soon-to-be-road-kill armadillo, as evidenced by his propensity for capture by bad guys an average of twice per episode.
7. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp whose firearm carriage and safety would result in court martial were he under the Colonel's command.
8. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who possesses less leadership ability in his entire body than the average Marine second lieutenant has in the tip of his little finger.
9. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp whose fictitious (thankfully) organization, CTU, couldn't find their own backsides with both hands, let alone a terrorist with mass murder on his mind. (Homework for the three of you who read this blog: Ask ten people this week whether CTU is a real or fictitious organization.)
10. Jack Bauer is a snivelling wimp who the Colonel wouldn't trust with the keys to his pick-up, let alone the security of our nation.
Obviously, no one writing, directing, producing, or acting in this intolerable excuse for programming has ever taken (and lived under) the oath of office of these re-United States. Thankfully, the real Americans who have taken the oath, by and large live by and execute their defense of our nation's security in accordance with the constitution on which it stands.
Gotta go, Miss Brenda has the next episode fired up on the DVR--need to see how many rounds it takes to dispatch Nina.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Tecumseh's Temblors
Was an earthquake responsible for JFK's death?
On this date, the 7th of February, in 1812, the last in a series of four mega-quakes emanated from the New Madrid fault between Memphis and St. Louis. The first, estimated at an astounding 8.1 on the Richter Scale, struck on December 16, 1811 with its epicenter in northeast Arkansas. Six hours later, an aftershock estimated at 7.0 rocked the region. A third powerful earthquake, estimated at 7.8 and epicentered in the Missouri bootheel, jolted the region on January 23, 1812. The final act in this earthshaking play 197 years ago today was an 8.0 temblor that struck New Madrid, Missouri.
These four major earthquakes and the countless accompanying aftershocks occurred along a failed mid-continent rift (where tectonic plates began to pull apart eons ago and then ceased), had incredibly far-reaching effects, and left indelible geologic evidence still visible today. Amazingly, the four major quakes were felt as far away as the major cities on the eastern seaboard--the jolts rang church bells as far away as Boston! The course of the Mississippi River was dramatically changed in numerous locations along a 200 mile stretch. Whole islands in the Big Muddy simply disappeared. Thousands of square miles of adjacent forests were felled. During the final quake a large expanse of land in northwest Tennessee subsided suddenly, flooding to create Reelfoot Lake. Sandblows, mini-volcanoes of sediment under pressure, jetted into the atmosphere through fissures in the earth. One major such sandblow near New Madrid is still extant and is referred to by locals as The Beach. Eyewitness acounts of the final quake claim that its shaking could be felt lasting for nearly an hour!
The sparse settlement of the region at the time limited the death toll and property loss. Were such a quake to strike the region today (some geologist estimate that they do every 200 to 500 years) the loss of life and property would be staggering. St. Louis and Memphis would be reduced to rubble piles that would rival Hiroshima and Nagasaki in mid-August 1945. Infrastructure damage and destruction would virtually stop commercial traffic--all bridges across the Mississippi River from St. Louis to well below Memphis would likely either drop or be so badly damaged to be unusable. Several million people would be left homeless and several million whose homes still stood would be without power and potable water indefinitely. The nation's ability to respond and provide relief would be overwhelmed without question. But, let's not dwell on that scenario--it is too terrible to contemplate..., and the Colonel's long-awaited great American novel will be based on the aftermath of such a future event.
What is even more fascinating to consider are the historically significant men whose fortunes rose and fell attendant to the 1811/1812 quakes. One man in particular, seems to have actually predicted the quakes. His name was Tecumseh, a leader of the Shawnee in the Midwest. Tecumseh sought to stem the tide of white migration west into Indian lands and participated in armed resistance to the American settlers and the troops sent west to protect them. In 1811, Tecumseh, allied with the British who were also trying to prevent the young American nation's westward expansion, travelled to tribal councils from Canada to Alabama in an attempt to rally all of the disparate native American tribes into a great confederation to confront the United States. Encountering widespread skepticism, Tecumseh told each tribe that resisted his call to arms that he would return to his own council fire and stomp the ground so hard that all of the skeptics' houses would fall. He even went so far as to tell them that the earth's shaking would be the signal for all of the tribes throughout the region to rally behind him for war on the whites.
William Henry Harrison, governor of the newly-formed Indiana territory, spent considerable energy bilking the native American's of their land with broken treaties and other swindles. Fearing the threat of a pan-Indian confederacy led by Tecumseh and fueled by a religious movement behind Tecumseh's "prophet" brother, Harrison attacked and destroyed Tecumseh's village near what is now Greenville, Ohio while the Indian leader was still in the south. Harrison's action in early November 1811 became known as the Battle of Tippecanoe (which became Harrison's nickname) and combined with his actions in the War of 1812 against the British and their Indian allies, vaulted him to national prominence. He ran for president twice, losing in 1836 and winning with his vice presidential running mate John Tyler in 1840 under the slogan "Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too!" Harrison, the oldest president elected until Reagan (a moment of silence for the Gipper, please), died in office after serving only 32 days.
Tecumseh did not see the rally to his cause by the southern tribes for which he had hoped, even with the great earthquake signs he predicted. He warred against the United States on the side of the British in the War of 1812 and was killed fighting against an army led by Harrison at the October 5, 1813 Battle of the Thames near present-day Chatham, Ontario. Legend has it that Tecumseh's "prophet" brother put a curse on Harrison that took effect upon his election to the presidency in 1840 and extended to every president elected thereafter in a "zero-year." Harrison died in office, and so did every other "zero-year" president (Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Harding, FDR, and JFK.) until Reagan (elected in 1980) survived an assassination attempt and apparently "broke the curse."
Even a Paul Harvey "Rest of the Story" couldn't top this one!
On this date, the 7th of February, in 1812, the last in a series of four mega-quakes emanated from the New Madrid fault between Memphis and St. Louis. The first, estimated at an astounding 8.1 on the Richter Scale, struck on December 16, 1811 with its epicenter in northeast Arkansas. Six hours later, an aftershock estimated at 7.0 rocked the region. A third powerful earthquake, estimated at 7.8 and epicentered in the Missouri bootheel, jolted the region on January 23, 1812. The final act in this earthshaking play 197 years ago today was an 8.0 temblor that struck New Madrid, Missouri.
These four major earthquakes and the countless accompanying aftershocks occurred along a failed mid-continent rift (where tectonic plates began to pull apart eons ago and then ceased), had incredibly far-reaching effects, and left indelible geologic evidence still visible today. Amazingly, the four major quakes were felt as far away as the major cities on the eastern seaboard--the jolts rang church bells as far away as Boston! The course of the Mississippi River was dramatically changed in numerous locations along a 200 mile stretch. Whole islands in the Big Muddy simply disappeared. Thousands of square miles of adjacent forests were felled. During the final quake a large expanse of land in northwest Tennessee subsided suddenly, flooding to create Reelfoot Lake. Sandblows, mini-volcanoes of sediment under pressure, jetted into the atmosphere through fissures in the earth. One major such sandblow near New Madrid is still extant and is referred to by locals as The Beach. Eyewitness acounts of the final quake claim that its shaking could be felt lasting for nearly an hour!
The sparse settlement of the region at the time limited the death toll and property loss. Were such a quake to strike the region today (some geologist estimate that they do every 200 to 500 years) the loss of life and property would be staggering. St. Louis and Memphis would be reduced to rubble piles that would rival Hiroshima and Nagasaki in mid-August 1945. Infrastructure damage and destruction would virtually stop commercial traffic--all bridges across the Mississippi River from St. Louis to well below Memphis would likely either drop or be so badly damaged to be unusable. Several million people would be left homeless and several million whose homes still stood would be without power and potable water indefinitely. The nation's ability to respond and provide relief would be overwhelmed without question. But, let's not dwell on that scenario--it is too terrible to contemplate..., and the Colonel's long-awaited great American novel will be based on the aftermath of such a future event.
What is even more fascinating to consider are the historically significant men whose fortunes rose and fell attendant to the 1811/1812 quakes. One man in particular, seems to have actually predicted the quakes. His name was Tecumseh, a leader of the Shawnee in the Midwest. Tecumseh sought to stem the tide of white migration west into Indian lands and participated in armed resistance to the American settlers and the troops sent west to protect them. In 1811, Tecumseh, allied with the British who were also trying to prevent the young American nation's westward expansion, travelled to tribal councils from Canada to Alabama in an attempt to rally all of the disparate native American tribes into a great confederation to confront the United States. Encountering widespread skepticism, Tecumseh told each tribe that resisted his call to arms that he would return to his own council fire and stomp the ground so hard that all of the skeptics' houses would fall. He even went so far as to tell them that the earth's shaking would be the signal for all of the tribes throughout the region to rally behind him for war on the whites.
William Henry Harrison, governor of the newly-formed Indiana territory, spent considerable energy bilking the native American's of their land with broken treaties and other swindles. Fearing the threat of a pan-Indian confederacy led by Tecumseh and fueled by a religious movement behind Tecumseh's "prophet" brother, Harrison attacked and destroyed Tecumseh's village near what is now Greenville, Ohio while the Indian leader was still in the south. Harrison's action in early November 1811 became known as the Battle of Tippecanoe (which became Harrison's nickname) and combined with his actions in the War of 1812 against the British and their Indian allies, vaulted him to national prominence. He ran for president twice, losing in 1836 and winning with his vice presidential running mate John Tyler in 1840 under the slogan "Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too!" Harrison, the oldest president elected until Reagan (a moment of silence for the Gipper, please), died in office after serving only 32 days.
Tecumseh did not see the rally to his cause by the southern tribes for which he had hoped, even with the great earthquake signs he predicted. He warred against the United States on the side of the British in the War of 1812 and was killed fighting against an army led by Harrison at the October 5, 1813 Battle of the Thames near present-day Chatham, Ontario. Legend has it that Tecumseh's "prophet" brother put a curse on Harrison that took effect upon his election to the presidency in 1840 and extended to every president elected thereafter in a "zero-year." Harrison died in office, and so did every other "zero-year" president (Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Harding, FDR, and JFK.) until Reagan (elected in 1980) survived an assassination attempt and apparently "broke the curse."
Even a Paul Harvey "Rest of the Story" couldn't top this one!
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Storm Soldiers
Storms are temporary; the effects are long-lasting.
A year ago this evening, while the rest of the nation was deciphering the results of the Super Tuesday presidential primary, the good folks here at the northern end of southern nowhere were digging out from under the debris left behind by a tornado. Some crawled out from under fallen sheet rock to find that their homes, some that had stood shelter and sentinel for over a century, were completely gone. The timber-felled swath of the storm is still a vivid scar across the hills and bottoms on a line stretching for miles. Here on Eegeebeegee, the Colonel has a dozen felled trees yet to render useful with a chainsaw. Pieces of tin and former house trim still reveal themselves to be picked up on my daily security patrols.
In its wake the tornado created a sort of rural renewal. New, modern, homes replaced the older homes erased by the wind. The community, close-knit as country can be, formed a tighter weave of care and inclusion--even the Colonel and Miss Brenda, the ultimate outsiders, found our threads pulled into the whole cloth of country clan. It is a welcome embrace.
One of our neighbors is hosting a party this evening in the new home that replaced the old farm house swept aside a year ago. My guess is it will not be a pity party. Rather, the Colonel is quite sure it will be more of a victory celebration. These people here in the hills of north Mississippi are real Americans, with spine and grit and good humor. When the storm scoured them clean last February, they immediately went to work rebuilding on the cleared spaces. Their sorrow for loss was short-lived. They didn't wait for someone from the government to bail 'em out of their troubles. They rolled up their sleeves, pulled together as a community, and put their own lives back in order.
If the re-United States doesn't survive the current mess, the Tallahatchie Free State will. Maybe the Colonel can reprise the role of Baron von Stuben.
A year ago this evening, while the rest of the nation was deciphering the results of the Super Tuesday presidential primary, the good folks here at the northern end of southern nowhere were digging out from under the debris left behind by a tornado. Some crawled out from under fallen sheet rock to find that their homes, some that had stood shelter and sentinel for over a century, were completely gone. The timber-felled swath of the storm is still a vivid scar across the hills and bottoms on a line stretching for miles. Here on Eegeebeegee, the Colonel has a dozen felled trees yet to render useful with a chainsaw. Pieces of tin and former house trim still reveal themselves to be picked up on my daily security patrols.
In its wake the tornado created a sort of rural renewal. New, modern, homes replaced the older homes erased by the wind. The community, close-knit as country can be, formed a tighter weave of care and inclusion--even the Colonel and Miss Brenda, the ultimate outsiders, found our threads pulled into the whole cloth of country clan. It is a welcome embrace.
One of our neighbors is hosting a party this evening in the new home that replaced the old farm house swept aside a year ago. My guess is it will not be a pity party. Rather, the Colonel is quite sure it will be more of a victory celebration. These people here in the hills of north Mississippi are real Americans, with spine and grit and good humor. When the storm scoured them clean last February, they immediately went to work rebuilding on the cleared spaces. Their sorrow for loss was short-lived. They didn't wait for someone from the government to bail 'em out of their troubles. They rolled up their sleeves, pulled together as a community, and put their own lives back in order.
If the re-United States doesn't survive the current mess, the Tallahatchie Free State will. Maybe the Colonel can reprise the role of Baron von Stuben.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Climate Change Pre-nuptial Pairings
The temperatures are still bouncing ten to fifteen degrees either side of the freezing point of the ubiquitous combination of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen, but it is becoming increasingly evident that spring is just around the corner here at the northern end of southern nowhere. Don't need a groundhog to tell the Colonel what's gonna happen outside amongst the flora and fauna. Daily security patrols throughout the Eegeebeegee Area of Operations provide the Colonel all the information needed to develop an intelligence picture of the seasonal shift shuffling in from stage left.
The earliest clues of the coming climate change are the anticipatory avian antics discernible by the Colonel's ornithological observations. There's a whole lot of sky-dancing going on. The elder members of a resident flock of canada geese have paired up and split off from the cackling crowd to begin a honking hookup that will ultimately result in an increase of goose poop on putting greens. A pair of red-tailed hawks entertained the Colonel yesterday with their high altitude circling and crying, the male soaring skyward and then tucking wings for a mouth-dropping dive to impress ladyhawk with his daring-do. Even the members of the Caw Crew have extended their raucous reveille to a day-long cacophony of mating proposals.
But there is one undeniable hint of the coming of spring: the shelves in the sporting goods department at Wally World are loaded with supplies for turkey season. There'll be six more weeks of frustratingly cold weather before the six frustrating weeks of the spring turkey season arrive.
The earliest clues of the coming climate change are the anticipatory avian antics discernible by the Colonel's ornithological observations. There's a whole lot of sky-dancing going on. The elder members of a resident flock of canada geese have paired up and split off from the cackling crowd to begin a honking hookup that will ultimately result in an increase of goose poop on putting greens. A pair of red-tailed hawks entertained the Colonel yesterday with their high altitude circling and crying, the male soaring skyward and then tucking wings for a mouth-dropping dive to impress ladyhawk with his daring-do. Even the members of the Caw Crew have extended their raucous reveille to a day-long cacophony of mating proposals.
But there is one undeniable hint of the coming of spring: the shelves in the sporting goods department at Wally World are loaded with supplies for turkey season. There'll be six more weeks of frustratingly cold weather before the six frustrating weeks of the spring turkey season arrive.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Exceptional Expansion
A southern president responded to non-state actors' terroristic activities on U.S. territory by invading the country from which they came and was denounced by a congressional minority led by a little-known orator from Illinois who rode the wave of the war's unpopularity to his eventual election to the presidency. Not talking about W and H; the pandering politicians (apologies for the redundancy) posited in this post are James K. Polk and Abraham Lincoln.
One hundred and sixty-one years ago today, the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo concluded an expansionist war with Mexico predicated on trumped up territorial grievances. The treaty's terms were disastrous for Mexico. With an American army occupying Mexico City, the Mexican government was forced to give up 525,000 square miles of territory that would later become the states of Texas, California, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado and Wyoming. Coupled with the 285,000 square miles within the Oregon territory (later to become the states of Washington, Oregon and Idaho) extorted from Great Britain on the threat of war earlier in his presidency, the three quarters of a million square miles of territory acquired by Polk fulfilled his political platform of Manifest Destiny and established the contiguous continental boundaries of the United States whose map outline (with a future minor adjustment--the Gadsden Purchase of a small chunk territory between the Gila and Rio Grande rivers, needed for a transcontinental railroad right of way) is the one we know today.
Polk's territorial achievements were overshadowed by the north-south slavery issue which, upon the election of Lincoln in 1860, resulted in the secession of thirteen southern states from the Union and a much more horrible war than the piddling scrap with Mexico that had made Polk so unpopular by the end of his presidency. Polk died of cholera shortly after he left office and was maligned for decades for the methods by which he advanced his vision of American expansionism. He is recognized in a much better light today. Along with Thomas Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan, James K. Polk is on the Colonel's short list of the greatest presidents in the history of these re-United States. The Colonel's criteria is simple: advancement of American Exceptionalism or enlargement of the American Empire.
Expansion of the socialist nanny-state agenda does not qualify.
One hundred and sixty-one years ago today, the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo concluded an expansionist war with Mexico predicated on trumped up territorial grievances. The treaty's terms were disastrous for Mexico. With an American army occupying Mexico City, the Mexican government was forced to give up 525,000 square miles of territory that would later become the states of Texas, California, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado and Wyoming. Coupled with the 285,000 square miles within the Oregon territory (later to become the states of Washington, Oregon and Idaho) extorted from Great Britain on the threat of war earlier in his presidency, the three quarters of a million square miles of territory acquired by Polk fulfilled his political platform of Manifest Destiny and established the contiguous continental boundaries of the United States whose map outline (with a future minor adjustment--the Gadsden Purchase of a small chunk territory between the Gila and Rio Grande rivers, needed for a transcontinental railroad right of way) is the one we know today.
Polk's territorial achievements were overshadowed by the north-south slavery issue which, upon the election of Lincoln in 1860, resulted in the secession of thirteen southern states from the Union and a much more horrible war than the piddling scrap with Mexico that had made Polk so unpopular by the end of his presidency. Polk died of cholera shortly after he left office and was maligned for decades for the methods by which he advanced his vision of American expansionism. He is recognized in a much better light today. Along with Thomas Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan, James K. Polk is on the Colonel's short list of the greatest presidents in the history of these re-United States. The Colonel's criteria is simple: advancement of American Exceptionalism or enlargement of the American Empire.
Expansion of the socialist nanny-state agenda does not qualify.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Isthmian Iron
When the Panama Canal opened in 1914, its chain of mechanical locks lifting ships from sea level to lake level and back down again to cross between Atlantic and Pacific was considered (and still is) one of the greatest technological feats of all time. The fifty-five mile waterway halved the distance American commercial and naval shipping had to travel to trade coasts, negating the need to loop way south through the stormy oceanic junction at the lower tip of South America.
One hundred and fifty-four years ago today the Panama Canal's cross-isthmian predecessor officially opened. The Panama Railroad's completion through malarial swamps and snake-infested triple-canopy jungle owed its impetus to the California Gold Rush. Forty-niners headed from the East Coast to the gold fields were taking ships to Nicaragua and caravanning cross-country in an arduous foot and boat journey through that country's mountains and lakes to reach shipping waiting for them on the Pacific coast, and thence on up to California. This trip was still considered preferable to the much shorter distance across Panama at its narrow waist due to the aforementioned malarial swamps and snake-infested triple-canopy jungle. The Panama Railroad effectively by-passed Nicaragua, taking that country off the commercial trade route like an American small town center left aside and dried by an interstate. Nicaragua lobbied hard for the American canal to be built there instead of Panama, but a Nicaraguan postage stamp (I kid thee not) showing a smoking volcano was used to convince the decision-makers that Panama would be a safer location for the canal.
There was a trail across the isthmus that the Spanish had built a couple of centuries previous to carry their gold loot between ships plying the Atlantic and Pacific. Cobble-stoned segments of the Las Cruces Trail are still visible--or at least were when I hiked the trail as a Boy Scout in the early 70's. Whole segments of the trail, (and lost gold shipments, local legends say) now lay below the surface of the man-made Gatun (hosts the between-locks shipping channel across the isthmus) and Madden (controls the water source for the locks, impounding the upper Chagres River during the wet season to provide water during the dry) Lakes created by damming the Chagres River. In its glory days, nearly four centuries ago, the Las Cruces Trail carried the wealth of a nation. It is all but forgotten, today. Likewise, the Panama Railroad, carrying fortune seekers west and east between oceans, created an economic boon at each port terminus.
The glory days of the Panama Railroad ended with the completion of the American Trans-Continental Railroad which took the freight traffic previously carried between the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. The Panama Railroad continued to carry passenger traffic between coasts until the re-United States gave control of the Canal Zone to Panama in 1999. It fell into disrepair, shortly thereafter. A cross-isthmian highway system now carries that traffic.
I last traveled aboard the Panama Railroad in 1979, while on a training deployment with the 2d Battalion, 2d Marines to the now, sadly, defunct Jungle Warfare Center at Fort Sherman. It was a short trip--less than two hours between Colon on the Atlantic and Balboa on the Pacific--but its route through the largely uninhabited interior of Panama was like going back centuries in time. Hadn't thought of the connection until this morning, but my trip on the Alaska Railroad last May was a similar experience--riding the rails through history.
One hundred and fifty-four years ago today the Panama Canal's cross-isthmian predecessor officially opened. The Panama Railroad's completion through malarial swamps and snake-infested triple-canopy jungle owed its impetus to the California Gold Rush. Forty-niners headed from the East Coast to the gold fields were taking ships to Nicaragua and caravanning cross-country in an arduous foot and boat journey through that country's mountains and lakes to reach shipping waiting for them on the Pacific coast, and thence on up to California. This trip was still considered preferable to the much shorter distance across Panama at its narrow waist due to the aforementioned malarial swamps and snake-infested triple-canopy jungle. The Panama Railroad effectively by-passed Nicaragua, taking that country off the commercial trade route like an American small town center left aside and dried by an interstate. Nicaragua lobbied hard for the American canal to be built there instead of Panama, but a Nicaraguan postage stamp (I kid thee not) showing a smoking volcano was used to convince the decision-makers that Panama would be a safer location for the canal.
There was a trail across the isthmus that the Spanish had built a couple of centuries previous to carry their gold loot between ships plying the Atlantic and Pacific. Cobble-stoned segments of the Las Cruces Trail are still visible--or at least were when I hiked the trail as a Boy Scout in the early 70's. Whole segments of the trail, (and lost gold shipments, local legends say) now lay below the surface of the man-made Gatun (hosts the between-locks shipping channel across the isthmus) and Madden (controls the water source for the locks, impounding the upper Chagres River during the wet season to provide water during the dry) Lakes created by damming the Chagres River. In its glory days, nearly four centuries ago, the Las Cruces Trail carried the wealth of a nation. It is all but forgotten, today. Likewise, the Panama Railroad, carrying fortune seekers west and east between oceans, created an economic boon at each port terminus.
The glory days of the Panama Railroad ended with the completion of the American Trans-Continental Railroad which took the freight traffic previously carried between the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. The Panama Railroad continued to carry passenger traffic between coasts until the re-United States gave control of the Canal Zone to Panama in 1999. It fell into disrepair, shortly thereafter. A cross-isthmian highway system now carries that traffic.
I last traveled aboard the Panama Railroad in 1979, while on a training deployment with the 2d Battalion, 2d Marines to the now, sadly, defunct Jungle Warfare Center at Fort Sherman. It was a short trip--less than two hours between Colon on the Atlantic and Balboa on the Pacific--but its route through the largely uninhabited interior of Panama was like going back centuries in time. Hadn't thought of the connection until this morning, but my trip on the Alaska Railroad last May was a similar experience--riding the rails through history.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Shameful Shams
Sometime late yesterday I began my fifty-fourth revolution around ole Sol. Is it just my imagination, or has time been passing with increasing rapidity lately?
One thing for sure that increases with each passing day is the amount of unsolicited offers I receive from companies who have begun to equate my advanced age with a decline in the ability to discern value in their offerings. I have no doubt that an entire rain forest has disappeared to provide the paper making up the bundles of marketing basura (my espanol word of the day) that jam my mail box daily. I can only imagine the copious amounts of greenhouse gases spewed into our atmosphere in order to transport the tons of trash to my doorstep here at the northern end of southern nowhere. There's not a modicum of doubt in my military mind that we could erase the national debt and pay for all of us to have $35,000 commodes with a nominal tax on junk mail.
Gotta go. My double order of sham wows just arrived.
One thing for sure that increases with each passing day is the amount of unsolicited offers I receive from companies who have begun to equate my advanced age with a decline in the ability to discern value in their offerings. I have no doubt that an entire rain forest has disappeared to provide the paper making up the bundles of marketing basura (my espanol word of the day) that jam my mail box daily. I can only imagine the copious amounts of greenhouse gases spewed into our atmosphere in order to transport the tons of trash to my doorstep here at the northern end of southern nowhere. There's not a modicum of doubt in my military mind that we could erase the national debt and pay for all of us to have $35,000 commodes with a nominal tax on junk mail.
Gotta go. My double order of sham wows just arrived.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Gitmo Solution
One of the first acts of the new administration has been to begin the process of closing the terrorist detention center at our naval base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. The debate since has centered on what to do with those currently held there. On the political right, the argument has been that we dare not trust the detainees' disposition to our criminal-loving criminal justice system. At best, the terrorists would be convicted and incarcerated in our prison system where they would be free to recruit a legion of domestic terrorists. At worst, the terrorists would be set free and would rejoin the jihad.
In my not so humble opinion, we should take all of them to the Iraq/Iran border and point them in the direction of Teheran. The mad mullahs paid for them--they get 'em. "But, wouldn't they show back up on the battlefield?", you ask. They probably would. At which point we kill them. Problem solved. Any questions?
If our new, kinder, gentler administration would rather keep the terrorists here in our homeland, I'll take two of them. I'm sure there's 500 or so good-hearted retired Marines like me out there who would volunteer to take one or two in. We have plenty of practice molding hearts and minds to our will. Riding herd on scores of testosterone-fired teenagers well-trained to fight at the drop of a hat certainly qualifies us to keep a close eye on a couple of poorly-trained jihadis.
Heck, give me three of 'em.
In my not so humble opinion, we should take all of them to the Iraq/Iran border and point them in the direction of Teheran. The mad mullahs paid for them--they get 'em. "But, wouldn't they show back up on the battlefield?", you ask. They probably would. At which point we kill them. Problem solved. Any questions?
If our new, kinder, gentler administration would rather keep the terrorists here in our homeland, I'll take two of them. I'm sure there's 500 or so good-hearted retired Marines like me out there who would volunteer to take one or two in. We have plenty of practice molding hearts and minds to our will. Riding herd on scores of testosterone-fired teenagers well-trained to fight at the drop of a hat certainly qualifies us to keep a close eye on a couple of poorly-trained jihadis.
Heck, give me three of 'em.
Monday Morning MOTOs; Vol. II, Ed. 1
Good Monday Morning to all! It is time for yet another installment in the sporadic series of the Colonel's Monday Mastery of the Obvious (MOTO) awards. The Colonel's Monday MOTOs are gleaned from a plethora of possible award winners for comments demonstrating their steel-trap grip on reality. As this is the first installment of the Colonel's Monday MOTOs in 2009, and because the Colonel's pea-sized brain could conjure no other reason, this will be codified as the first edition of the second volume of the series.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO Bronze medal is awarded to the egomaniacal governor of the state of Illinois, who, while otherwise continually displays a complete lack of touch with reality, commented quite lucidly at a news conference last Friday that, “the heart and soul of this has been a struggle of me against the system.” Yes, Governor, it is you against the system, and the system will prevail. The wheels of justice turn slowly, but anyone who fights what is right is eventually ground to dust.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO Silver Medal goes to Eric Holder, President Obama's nominee to serve as Attorney General, who declared during his Senate confirmation hearing that, "waterboarding is torture." It is indeed! Those who would justify such torture and other "enhanced interrogation" techniques as necessary to save American lives miss the whole point. American lives are not more important than American ideals. Whole armies of patriots have fought and died for those ideals. Some even died under torture believing that their deaths were righteous because America would never treat anyone like they were being treated.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO Gold Medal goes to President Obama who answered, "I won" when confronted by a Republican congressman with concerns about the obvious socialist direction the new administration's "stimulus" bill takes with, among other odious inclusions, the provision for giving tax rebates to those who paid no taxes in the first place. Yes, Mr. President you did indeed win. But that doesn't answer the question or assuage the concern of those who chose to live on this side of the Iron Curtain precisely because socialism is a morally and intellectually bankrupt political/economic model.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO Bronze medal is awarded to the egomaniacal governor of the state of Illinois, who, while otherwise continually displays a complete lack of touch with reality, commented quite lucidly at a news conference last Friday that, “the heart and soul of this has been a struggle of me against the system.” Yes, Governor, it is you against the system, and the system will prevail. The wheels of justice turn slowly, but anyone who fights what is right is eventually ground to dust.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO Silver Medal goes to Eric Holder, President Obama's nominee to serve as Attorney General, who declared during his Senate confirmation hearing that, "waterboarding is torture." It is indeed! Those who would justify such torture and other "enhanced interrogation" techniques as necessary to save American lives miss the whole point. American lives are not more important than American ideals. Whole armies of patriots have fought and died for those ideals. Some even died under torture believing that their deaths were righteous because America would never treat anyone like they were being treated.
The Colonel's Monday MOTO Gold Medal goes to President Obama who answered, "I won" when confronted by a Republican congressman with concerns about the obvious socialist direction the new administration's "stimulus" bill takes with, among other odious inclusions, the provision for giving tax rebates to those who paid no taxes in the first place. Yes, Mr. President you did indeed win. But that doesn't answer the question or assuage the concern of those who chose to live on this side of the Iron Curtain precisely because socialism is a morally and intellectually bankrupt political/economic model.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
God's Gift Refused?
Men of good conscience may indeed differ in opinion. But in our efforts to further civility in our discourse we should not become so open-minded that our brains fall out.
Thirty-six years ago today, the Supreme Court of these re-United States handed down one of their most controversial and divisive decisions, declaring that the "right to privacy" -- a right theretofore (and still) not explicitly found in our constitution -- prevented the States from restricting the use of infanticide as a method of birth control. Since 1973, the abortion industry's own statistics indicate that 50 million pregnancies have been terminated within the first six months following conception.
Let's put that number in perspective.
Fifty million is 8 times the number of people put to death in Hitler's death camps.
Fifty million is 30 times the number of people killed on our nation's highways since 1973.
Fifty million is 40 times the number of men and women in uniform who died in ALL of the wars in which this nation has participated.
Who knows but in that vast multitude of slain children was not the future scientist who would have discovered a cure for cancer or the secret of cold fusion, the future novelist whose prose would inspire a generation, the future composer whose music would lift our spirits, the future leader who would lead with an eye on what is right for our nation not re-election. But our future has been truncated and diminished for the sake of our present convenience.
On the other hand, if you are going to draw your right to life line in the sand and convince a young lady to have the child she is carrying, you had darn sure be ready to support her and her child materially as well as spiritually.
The position of right to life carries the responsibility to love.
Thirty-six years ago today, the Supreme Court of these re-United States handed down one of their most controversial and divisive decisions, declaring that the "right to privacy" -- a right theretofore (and still) not explicitly found in our constitution -- prevented the States from restricting the use of infanticide as a method of birth control. Since 1973, the abortion industry's own statistics indicate that 50 million pregnancies have been terminated within the first six months following conception.
Let's put that number in perspective.
Fifty million is 8 times the number of people put to death in Hitler's death camps.
Fifty million is 30 times the number of people killed on our nation's highways since 1973.
Fifty million is 40 times the number of men and women in uniform who died in ALL of the wars in which this nation has participated.
Who knows but in that vast multitude of slain children was not the future scientist who would have discovered a cure for cancer or the secret of cold fusion, the future novelist whose prose would inspire a generation, the future composer whose music would lift our spirits, the future leader who would lead with an eye on what is right for our nation not re-election. But our future has been truncated and diminished for the sake of our present convenience.
On the other hand, if you are going to draw your right to life line in the sand and convince a young lady to have the child she is carrying, you had darn sure be ready to support her and her child materially as well as spiritually.
The position of right to life carries the responsibility to love.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Change the Fight
Don't know if my television and computer screens will survive much more of this ignorance. Every time I hear or read about the "two wars" I want to send some nearby solid object hurtling in the specific direction of the purveying display. For the sake of convenience we have settled for simple stupidity as the appropriate level of intelligence in our discourse.
We are not, I say again, NOT, fighting two separate wars--one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Our limited combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan are, at most, separate CAMPAIGNS in a larger war. The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language defines a (military) campaign as "A series of military operations undertaken to achieve a large-scale objective during a war: [i.e.] Grant's Vicksburg campaign secured the entire Mississippi for the Union."
Of course, the foregoing definition applies to our current limited military operations if you accept that we are fighting a "war." I do not.
Make no mistake, we are involved in a war--have been for nearly three decades--with Islamic totalitarian fundamentalists whose goal is the subjugation 0f the world according to their perverted interpretation of the Koran. These zealots, yet lacking control of a state with the wherewithal to conduct conventional military operations to achieve their objectives, have resorted to terrorism as their tactic. They have, at least, tacit approval and support for their actions from several nation states; Syria and Iran chief among them.
In reaction to the attacks of September 11, 2001, our nation responded in righteous anger as if attacked unprovoked and for the first time. It was not unprovoked, any more than Japan's initiation of open armed hostilities against us on December 7/8, 1941 was "unprovoked." Japan did indeed surprise us with their attack of our fleet at Pearl Harbor, but we had provoked that fight with our correct, in my opinion, economic and political pressure on them for their expansionist rampage in China. Our Islamic totalitarian fundamentalist enemies have been under pressure from our correct, in my opinion, attempts to expand democratic republican ideals in the Middle East, and they fought back with increasing effectiveness until we could not ignore them any longer.
But, we are not fighting like we are at war. We are behaving as the Romans did when Palestine revolted--sending a couple of handy legions to put down the rebellion, with hardly a ripple of effect on the lives of the citizenry of Rome. I do not intend to disparage the efforts of our military--they have been magnificent--but they have not been fighting a war.
A WAR would have been declared as such by a congress with a spine and an eye on the future of our nation--not their next election. A WAR would be fought, not against our enemies' tactic--i.e., The Global War on Terror--but against the nations supporting the Islamic totalitarian fundamentalists as their proxy army. Only when the totalitarian ayatollahs and hereditary totalitarians are replaced by some form of rational representative government will terror recede to the level of street crime.
A WAR would be supported by the sacrifice of every member of our great nation. A nation truly at WAR, our nation truly at WAR, would overwhelm our enemies in a matter of months--not in the ambiguous generational "long war" by which the previous administration sought to balance war aims with societal ease. When we went to war against Germany and Japan, we marshaled every ounce of our national will and strength, lifted our nation out of a debilitating economic crisis, utterly defeated our enemies with stunning rapidity, and created incredibly stable democracies and invaluable trading partners in their wake.
Mr. President, that's Change we can believe in. Mr. President, that's the way to bring us out of this economic mess and bring prosperity lapping back on our shores--and the world's.
We are not, I say again, NOT, fighting two separate wars--one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Our limited combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan are, at most, separate CAMPAIGNS in a larger war. The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language defines a (military) campaign as "A series of military operations undertaken to achieve a large-scale objective during a war: [i.e.] Grant's Vicksburg campaign secured the entire Mississippi for the Union."
Of course, the foregoing definition applies to our current limited military operations if you accept that we are fighting a "war." I do not.
Make no mistake, we are involved in a war--have been for nearly three decades--with Islamic totalitarian fundamentalists whose goal is the subjugation 0f the world according to their perverted interpretation of the Koran. These zealots, yet lacking control of a state with the wherewithal to conduct conventional military operations to achieve their objectives, have resorted to terrorism as their tactic. They have, at least, tacit approval and support for their actions from several nation states; Syria and Iran chief among them.
In reaction to the attacks of September 11, 2001, our nation responded in righteous anger as if attacked unprovoked and for the first time. It was not unprovoked, any more than Japan's initiation of open armed hostilities against us on December 7/8, 1941 was "unprovoked." Japan did indeed surprise us with their attack of our fleet at Pearl Harbor, but we had provoked that fight with our correct, in my opinion, economic and political pressure on them for their expansionist rampage in China. Our Islamic totalitarian fundamentalist enemies have been under pressure from our correct, in my opinion, attempts to expand democratic republican ideals in the Middle East, and they fought back with increasing effectiveness until we could not ignore them any longer.
But, we are not fighting like we are at war. We are behaving as the Romans did when Palestine revolted--sending a couple of handy legions to put down the rebellion, with hardly a ripple of effect on the lives of the citizenry of Rome. I do not intend to disparage the efforts of our military--they have been magnificent--but they have not been fighting a war.
A WAR would have been declared as such by a congress with a spine and an eye on the future of our nation--not their next election. A WAR would be fought, not against our enemies' tactic--i.e., The Global War on Terror--but against the nations supporting the Islamic totalitarian fundamentalists as their proxy army. Only when the totalitarian ayatollahs and hereditary totalitarians are replaced by some form of rational representative government will terror recede to the level of street crime.
A WAR would be supported by the sacrifice of every member of our great nation. A nation truly at WAR, our nation truly at WAR, would overwhelm our enemies in a matter of months--not in the ambiguous generational "long war" by which the previous administration sought to balance war aims with societal ease. When we went to war against Germany and Japan, we marshaled every ounce of our national will and strength, lifted our nation out of a debilitating economic crisis, utterly defeated our enemies with stunning rapidity, and created incredibly stable democracies and invaluable trading partners in their wake.
Mr. President, that's Change we can believe in. Mr. President, that's the way to bring us out of this economic mess and bring prosperity lapping back on our shores--and the world's.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Patriot's Pride
Forty-two times in twenty-two decades, over a dozen generations, the American people have taken the baton of power from one leader and handed it to another. In most cases, the ballot box, the supreme (and sublime) symbol of our democratic republic, has determined who the new leader became. In some tragic cases, our constitution has determined the new leader to whom OUR power peacefully passed even before the previous leader was buried with honor. As contentious as each electoral contest is, the wonder, the strength, the greatness of America is our peaceful transition of power.
As you witness the forty-third such peaceful transition today, please remember that nearly a million graves hold the remains of patriots whose ultimate sacrifice was for this day.
As you witness the forty-third such peaceful transition today, please realize how rare it is in the experience of man.
As you witness the forty-third such peaceful transition today, please remember that a continued strict interpretation of our constitution is the only thing that will preserve our nation for forty-three more peaceful transitions.
As you witness the forty-third such peaceful transition today, please remember that nearly a million graves hold the remains of patriots whose ultimate sacrifice was for this day.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Gridiron Irony
A key ingredient in many a success is having your chin strap fastened even when you aren't a starter.
Forty years ago this date the third annual installment of the championship game, and advertising promised land, pitting the champions of the then two separate National and American Football Leagues, was played between the NFL's Baltimore Colts and the AFL's New York Jets. This was the first game bequeathed the moniker--Super Bowl. The previous two such games were retroactively dubbed Super Bowl I and II. Nineteen point underdogs, the Jets were considered a mere speed bump on the way to the coronation of the Colts as professional football's kings and enshrinement as one of the best teams ever to play the game. The Jets had other plans. Joe Namath famously "guaranteed" a win for the Jets, and even though Broadway Joe was named Super Bowl III's MVP, his team's defense delivered, intercepting the Colts' Earl Morrall three times.
Johnny Unitas, one of the best pigskin passers to ever line up under center (and my childhood hero), was the Colt's starting QB in 1968, but was injured early in the season and replaced by journeyman Earl Morrall. Still, the Colts nearly ran the tables that year behind the MVP performance of Morrall, losing only to Cleveland in the regular season--a loss they avenged by blistering the Browns 34 to 0 in the NFL Championship Game. Morrall, a veteran of 12 years in the NFL during which he had never earned a permanent starting position on any of the four teams for which he played, performed so well that even after Unitas was healthy enough to return to duty, Colts coach Don Shula kept him in the starting line-up.
Four years later, the 1972 Miami Dolphins lost their starting QB, Bob Griese, to an injury early in the season. Dolphins coach Don Shula (yep, same one) turned to his 38-year-old back-up, Earl Morrall (yep, same one) and this time his team did run the tables, finishing the regular season without a loss. Griese returned to duty to lead the Dolphins through the play-offs and into NFL immortality. But, Morrall, so old that his teammates had a rocking chair placed in the locker room for him, was the true hero of Miami's yet unequalled undefeated season.
Forty years ago this date the third annual installment of the championship game, and advertising promised land, pitting the champions of the then two separate National and American Football Leagues, was played between the NFL's Baltimore Colts and the AFL's New York Jets. This was the first game bequeathed the moniker--Super Bowl. The previous two such games were retroactively dubbed Super Bowl I and II. Nineteen point underdogs, the Jets were considered a mere speed bump on the way to the coronation of the Colts as professional football's kings and enshrinement as one of the best teams ever to play the game. The Jets had other plans. Joe Namath famously "guaranteed" a win for the Jets, and even though Broadway Joe was named Super Bowl III's MVP, his team's defense delivered, intercepting the Colts' Earl Morrall three times.
Johnny Unitas, one of the best pigskin passers to ever line up under center (and my childhood hero), was the Colt's starting QB in 1968, but was injured early in the season and replaced by journeyman Earl Morrall. Still, the Colts nearly ran the tables that year behind the MVP performance of Morrall, losing only to Cleveland in the regular season--a loss they avenged by blistering the Browns 34 to 0 in the NFL Championship Game. Morrall, a veteran of 12 years in the NFL during which he had never earned a permanent starting position on any of the four teams for which he played, performed so well that even after Unitas was healthy enough to return to duty, Colts coach Don Shula kept him in the starting line-up.
Four years later, the 1972 Miami Dolphins lost their starting QB, Bob Griese, to an injury early in the season. Dolphins coach Don Shula (yep, same one) turned to his 38-year-old back-up, Earl Morrall (yep, same one) and this time his team did run the tables, finishing the regular season without a loss. Griese returned to duty to lead the Dolphins through the play-offs and into NFL immortality. But, Morrall, so old that his teammates had a rocking chair placed in the locker room for him, was the true hero of Miami's yet unequalled undefeated season.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Depression Darwinism
"Our Country won't go on forever, if we stay as soft as we are now. There won't be any AMERICA left because some foreign soldiery will invade us and take our women and breed a hardier race!"
When Lt. Gen. Lewis B. "Chesty" Puller, USMC, the Marine with whom all others who bear the title compare themselves, proclaimed the foregoing he was passing judgment on the precarious position of the American way of life TWO generations ago. If he were alive today, he would be amazed that our citizenry's hardiness has declined so dramatically and that we, and our women, have yet not fallen prey to an invading foreign army. If there is any good to come of the impending economic depression, it may be that it will give birth to a 21st century great generation to match the one that came of age in the crucible of depression and war in the 1930's and 40's.
The Greatest Generation's parents could be compared to the young generation bearing children today. They were enjoying unprecedented luxury and leisure in the wake of great technological and cultural advances that had ushered in their new century. Some of that generation had fought briefly in the First World War, but the vast majority were spared any hardship let alone military service. Yet, there was an unwarranted feeling throughout American society of having suffered and survived that war, and that feeling led, in part, to an attitude of deserving to party--the excesses of the "Roaring Twenties" ensued; the Great Depression-heralding "Crash of '29" resulted. Sound familiar?
No doubt anyone of my generation, and later, reading this will feel that I have "dissed" them. Yep, they'd be right. I'm listening to a growing chorus of whining and wimpering from an over-privileged generation and the politicians pandering to them, and I can't help but believe that they haven't seen nuthin' yet! Even if "H" and the lefties that will be in charge are able to take decisive action over the next few months, the cure is liable to be just as painful as the disease. Either way, a deflating depression or a hyper-inflated recovery, the spoiled simps thumb-texting their way through life are in for a very rude awakening. There will be great sacrifice required if our nation is to survive. Those that answer that call to greatness will gain self-respect, and mine.
The rest will never get either.
When Lt. Gen. Lewis B. "Chesty" Puller, USMC, the Marine with whom all others who bear the title compare themselves, proclaimed the foregoing he was passing judgment on the precarious position of the American way of life TWO generations ago. If he were alive today, he would be amazed that our citizenry's hardiness has declined so dramatically and that we, and our women, have yet not fallen prey to an invading foreign army. If there is any good to come of the impending economic depression, it may be that it will give birth to a 21st century great generation to match the one that came of age in the crucible of depression and war in the 1930's and 40's.
The Greatest Generation's parents could be compared to the young generation bearing children today. They were enjoying unprecedented luxury and leisure in the wake of great technological and cultural advances that had ushered in their new century. Some of that generation had fought briefly in the First World War, but the vast majority were spared any hardship let alone military service. Yet, there was an unwarranted feeling throughout American society of having suffered and survived that war, and that feeling led, in part, to an attitude of deserving to party--the excesses of the "Roaring Twenties" ensued; the Great Depression-heralding "Crash of '29" resulted. Sound familiar?
No doubt anyone of my generation, and later, reading this will feel that I have "dissed" them. Yep, they'd be right. I'm listening to a growing chorus of whining and wimpering from an over-privileged generation and the politicians pandering to them, and I can't help but believe that they haven't seen nuthin' yet! Even if "H" and the lefties that will be in charge are able to take decisive action over the next few months, the cure is liable to be just as painful as the disease. Either way, a deflating depression or a hyper-inflated recovery, the spoiled simps thumb-texting their way through life are in for a very rude awakening. There will be great sacrifice required if our nation is to survive. Those that answer that call to greatness will gain self-respect, and mine.
The rest will never get either.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
The Lost Platoon
Thirty years ago this week I took command of my first rifle platoon--a position, privilege, and responsibility for which I had been preparing for the better part of the previous four and a half years. Frankly, I wasn't really fully prepared for the challenge of leading combat Marines. Thought I was. Considered myself the reincarnated combination of Puller, Patton, and Pickett. The sad truth was those Marines needed a leader who would inspire them to better themselves, not battle their enemies. And I needed as much bettering as they did.
On the books a Marine infantry platoon consisted of forty-two Marines and three Navy hospital corpsmen. The platoon--3rd Platoon, Golf Company, 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marines--in front of whom I stood for the first time on the 7th of January 1979, numbered not much more than half that. Of the thirty Marines in my first platoon, there were three, count 'em, three high school graduates--and I was one of them. When we went to the field the next day for a three-day exercise, I took 7 Marines--the rest found other places to be, authorized and not. To say that I was disappointed would be just a bit of understatement. Where was the March on Moscow Marine Rifle Platoon I had been promised?!?
I busied myself in those first few weeks of taking charge with attempting to single-handedly turn that platoon into the text-book fighting machine I had been trained to lead in combat. I concerned myself with every tiny detail of those Marines' equipment and deportment, earning the nickname "Fly." I thought it was in reference to my diminutive size and reflexive quickness. Found out later it was because my Marines thought I ate crap and bothered people. It was at the end of that first month that I learned my biggest and most valuable lesson in command. I walked back into the broom closet that passed for my platoon office one afternoon to find my platoon sergeant sitting with his boots propped up on the desk. I asked him, not so politely, what he was doing. He swung his feet off the desk, sat up straight, looked me dead in the eye, and said, "Well, I figured if the Lieutenant was gonna do my job then I had better do his."
My last and lasting memory of Sergeant Herrera is standing behind the barracks at Camp Lejeune listening to him conduct close order drill with our platoon. He had been a drill instructor at Parris Island before his assignment to Camp Lejeune, and had an almost melodic way of counting cadence and ordering movements. I remember reading the summary of his court-martial for "assaulting" a recruit in his service record book. He had been a staff sergeant, selected for promotion to gunnery sergeant--his punishment had been reduction in grade to sergeant. I was lucky to have him.
Never saw my first platoon sergeant or any of the Marines in that platoon again during the rest of my career. I have often wondered at that. It is as if that year was only a dream.
They probably thought it was a nightmare.
On the books a Marine infantry platoon consisted of forty-two Marines and three Navy hospital corpsmen. The platoon--3rd Platoon, Golf Company, 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marines--in front of whom I stood for the first time on the 7th of January 1979, numbered not much more than half that. Of the thirty Marines in my first platoon, there were three, count 'em, three high school graduates--and I was one of them. When we went to the field the next day for a three-day exercise, I took 7 Marines--the rest found other places to be, authorized and not. To say that I was disappointed would be just a bit of understatement. Where was the March on Moscow Marine Rifle Platoon I had been promised?!?
I busied myself in those first few weeks of taking charge with attempting to single-handedly turn that platoon into the text-book fighting machine I had been trained to lead in combat. I concerned myself with every tiny detail of those Marines' equipment and deportment, earning the nickname "Fly." I thought it was in reference to my diminutive size and reflexive quickness. Found out later it was because my Marines thought I ate crap and bothered people. It was at the end of that first month that I learned my biggest and most valuable lesson in command. I walked back into the broom closet that passed for my platoon office one afternoon to find my platoon sergeant sitting with his boots propped up on the desk. I asked him, not so politely, what he was doing. He swung his feet off the desk, sat up straight, looked me dead in the eye, and said, "Well, I figured if the Lieutenant was gonna do my job then I had better do his."
My last and lasting memory of Sergeant Herrera is standing behind the barracks at Camp Lejeune listening to him conduct close order drill with our platoon. He had been a drill instructor at Parris Island before his assignment to Camp Lejeune, and had an almost melodic way of counting cadence and ordering movements. I remember reading the summary of his court-martial for "assaulting" a recruit in his service record book. He had been a staff sergeant, selected for promotion to gunnery sergeant--his punishment had been reduction in grade to sergeant. I was lucky to have him.
Never saw my first platoon sergeant or any of the Marines in that platoon again during the rest of my career. I have often wondered at that. It is as if that year was only a dream.
They probably thought it was a nightmare.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Counting Coup
Unseasonably warm today here at the northern end of southern nowhere. The chances of deer moving before dark on a day when the mercury pushes 70 degrees on Herr Fehrenheit's scale are pretty slim. But with southerly winds bringing rain later this evening, I reasoned that just maybe I'd see something heading for the chow line before the weather got wet. And, I was right...barely.
With just minutes of legal shooting light left, I heard the unmistakable slight footsteps of deer moving purposely from my right and turned my head to watch two does make a beeline for the food plot in the field in front of me. As they approached, I heard a crunch to my left and turned to see the eight point I call Lucky Buck standing front and center at no more than fifty paces. He's a nice buck, but not as nice as he will be in a year or two. Many hunters would have taken him without a moment's hesitation and with no shame. But, I decided before the season started that if given the chance at him I would let him pass. There's a much older and better buck on the property that is my target.
As I watched him feed through the scope on my muzzle-loader, I felt as if I were standing next to him and could reach out and touch him. Mentally, I tapped Lucky Buck on the shoulder. The Chickasaw warriors who inhabited this land up until 200 years ago were known for their ferocity in battle. They and many of the other tribes had a practice of purposely touching their enemies in battle without the intent of delivering a maiming or killing blow, and kept a tally of the number of their enemies they had so touched in battle. The French explorers and traders who first witnessed this called it Counting Coup.
When I got back to the house this evening I told Miss Brenda that I had seen the nice buck and had counted coup on him. She said I'm just getting old and didn't want to drag the deer out of the woods.
I like my story better, but she's probably more right than I care to contemplate.
With just minutes of legal shooting light left, I heard the unmistakable slight footsteps of deer moving purposely from my right and turned my head to watch two does make a beeline for the food plot in the field in front of me. As they approached, I heard a crunch to my left and turned to see the eight point I call Lucky Buck standing front and center at no more than fifty paces. He's a nice buck, but not as nice as he will be in a year or two. Many hunters would have taken him without a moment's hesitation and with no shame. But, I decided before the season started that if given the chance at him I would let him pass. There's a much older and better buck on the property that is my target.
As I watched him feed through the scope on my muzzle-loader, I felt as if I were standing next to him and could reach out and touch him. Mentally, I tapped Lucky Buck on the shoulder. The Chickasaw warriors who inhabited this land up until 200 years ago were known for their ferocity in battle. They and many of the other tribes had a practice of purposely touching their enemies in battle without the intent of delivering a maiming or killing blow, and kept a tally of the number of their enemies they had so touched in battle. The French explorers and traders who first witnessed this called it Counting Coup.
When I got back to the house this evening I told Miss Brenda that I had seen the nice buck and had counted coup on him. She said I'm just getting old and didn't want to drag the deer out of the woods.
I like my story better, but she's probably more right than I care to contemplate.
Case for a 4-Loss Champ
Looks like we won't have a two-loss National Champion this year--how about a four-loss one?
Allow me to make my case for the Ole Miss Rebels. Regardless who wins the Florida--Oklahoma match-up next week, my Rebels have a legitimate claim to the title. If Florida wins, the choice of Ole Miss for number one in the polls is an easy one. Reference September 26th in the Swamp: Ole Miss 31; Florida 30. At the very least, the men in red and blue should get a number two ranking behind Florida, out of respect for their assist in motivating Tearful Tim and the Gators to rededication.
An Oklahoma win over Florida next week is a highly unlikely occurrence. Seems that Big Twelve coaches are so in love with high-powered spread offenses that they neglect one little thing--Defense. Now, I'm not a fan of the defense. I'm an offensive-minded (Miss Brenda would leave off the hyphenated ending, were she describing me) sort. Defense is the enemy. Winning is accomplished by killing, er, scoring on the enemy. But, even I know that you gotta have a defensive capability to hold the line when your offensive culminates. Big Twelve offenses look so great because they just don't play defense out there. So, Florida should roll. But, if that pointy-ended ball bounces Oklahoma's way, there is still a case, however circuitous the logic, to be made for Ole Miss as National Champs. Texas beat Oklahoma; Texas Tech beat Texas...and, in case you missed it...
Ole Miss beat Texas Tech yesterday in the 73rd playing of the Cotton Bowl!
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