Professor versus Policeman

Having been around a few years, I admit to having had some interaction with police officers. For the most part, they were professional and respectful.

xxx

Of course, instinctively, I’ve always tried to be deferential in dealing with cops. And why wouldn’t I? They have handcuffs, tasers, and guns; they can arrest me and put me in jail at their whim. Knowing this, do I feel a certain level of unease and even some resentment for them? Absolutely. After all, they have much power; I have little. In a court of law, in the absence of witnesses, their word would trump mine. So be it; I accept this and act accordingly.

Having said all that; I know we need these guys and gals in blue. I don’t carry a gun—bad guys do—and I know the fact that cops have them is what keeps bad guys from doing whatever whenever to the people I care about. I’ve used this metaphor before, but similarly, sheep are not fond of the shepherd dog that protects them from the wolf.

What brought on the writing of this post is that I just read Officer Crowley’s report of his arrest of Harvard Professor Louis Gates, corroborated by Officer Figueroa. Having read it, I really hope that Gates follows through on his threat to sue Crowley, because if he does, it will come out in court that Gates is a big fat horse’s ass.

The irony is that the reason the incident took place in the first place is due to an earlier break-in attempt at Gate’s house that caused the door to malfunction when he came back from a trip overseas, which only shows that Gates SHOULD have been pleased that the Cambridge police responded to what might easily have been a repeat of the earlier break-in. Instead, Gates took on the air of “angry black man;” in this case, he played two cards: the one for race, and the “do you KNOW who I AM?” card. I don’t know which card is worse—perhaps the elitist card IS the more detestable of the two, but I am contemptuous of anyone who uses either.

Then, I see Barrack Obama on the news, the supposed mender of ALL divisions racial, the one man who SHOULD have stayed out of the fracas completely, and instead of butting out with an appropriate “no comment” he chimes in with his “two cents” at the tail end of a press conference within only a few hours of this itty-bitty incident, describing the actions of the Cambridge Police Department as stupid, because, as he “understood” it, his friend, Professor Gates, was arrested for disorderly conduct “within” his own home.

Obviously, this is a tempest in a teacup, but what it shows once again is that Obama has no business being president of the United States. He’s not only a rank amateur at this serious business of running the country, he’s an imbecilic one. Did he really forget that his constituency is no longer exclusively black people from the cop-hating part of Chicago entertaining real or imagined grievances against all police in general? It would seem that he did.

For me, Obama’s reaction smelled like the OJ verdict all over again. Remember? In a nutshell—white policemen BAD, picked-on black man GOOD. Watching Obama instinctively rally against the Cambridge cops reminded me of the nausea I felt in the pit of my stomach as I watched the scenes of black people across the country celebrate the release of that murdering savage, simply because he was “their man,” despite overwhelming evidence that he did it, since it MUST have been planted by dirty cops, and even if he WAS guilty, so what, since how many other times have innocent black men gone to jail due to the damned deceiving cops?

And now, after seeing Obama’s similar anti-white cop knee jerk reaction, is there a police officer anywhere out there—black, white or latino—who does not now believe that the boss of the nation’s chief law enforcement officer does NOT have their back—at least to the point of giving them the benefit of the doubt?

Crowley should have arrested Gates NOT for disturbing the peace, but plain and simply for being an abusive boorish blowhard. If I had been the policeman on scene I probably would not have arrested him; I would have gently handcuffed him, put him in the squad car for a few minutes to cool his ill-mannered jets, and then released him with a warning. Cops do have that kind of discretion, but I’m also just as happy that he brought the shriekingly-disgruntled cop-hating wannabe-martyr in for a full measure of inconvenient detention.

As much as some people hate the police, and do not include me in THAT number; we MUST cooperate with them in order to maintain a safe society. You’d think someone Crowley’s age, who is older EVEN than ME, would instinctively understand this. In this case, Officer Crowley, responding to a suspected larceny in progress—knowing full well that robbers routinely carry weapons—appears to have acted appropriately and reasonably. Why then would someone supposedly as learned as Professor Gates immediately respond with disrespectful verbal abuse?

Once again, is this Gates guy really the kind of person that Obama proudly counts among his best friends? Sounds like Louis Gates and Reverend Wright are co-leaders of the club of “successful bitter black men of the USA;” they certainly have the same weighty chips on their shoulders.

Michael Vick, off with his head?

The dog fighting controversy swirling around Michael Vick has got me thinking. Allow me to talk this thing out while I freewheel some thoughts on the matter…

Until I met some dogfighters the only thing I knew about their “sport” was what I'd read in the Jack London novel, White Fang.” London dramatizes the horrific stomach turning violence and yet makes the reader unable to STOP reading. There is one chapter about a fight between White Fang, the wolf dog mixed breed, and Cherokee, a bulldog, that absolutely mesmerizes. Just now, I finished reading it again, and STILL it captivates. Check it out here if you dare.

With Vick, the dog fighting charges have turned into a “black thing,” at least for some African-Americans, and they just might have a point, albeit a feeble one. It seems that in recent times dog fighting has become common fare in the hip-hop culture as some kind of twisted status symbol, but all the guys that I knew who fought dogs are white.

In rural Birch Run, which was once as Caucasian as anyplace could be, kids used to talk about the rumors of dog fighting that “might” be taking place thereabouts. Once, a buddy and I made a bicycle trip to an abandoned farmstead in an overgrown woodlot where it was said that fights took place on occasion in the dark of night. We found the perfect spot for a dog-fighting ring in that spooky place within the three-feet tall foundations of a long demolished weed grown ancient outbuilding.

I’m sure a lot of the appeal of such a thing is its forbidden nature. Want to make something popular? Tell people they can’t do it.

The fellows I knew who train fight dogs, as unlikely as it sounds, they love their animals. There’s a macho element to it—the breeding, training and fighting of muscularly fearsome creatures. There’s no appeal in it for me, but I can see why it might to others.

It’s been some time, but they spoke of their animals like coaches referring to athletes. I asked about dogs getting hurt or killed and they scoffed, saying there’s no way they’d let their animals get too injured. The fights are supposedly stopped before anything too damaging happens, or so they claimed.

I HAVE seen cockfights though. Well, just one; because one is all I could take once I learned that its more about gambling than chickens, and I can’t think of anything more boring than gambling. I once went to a horseracing track with a fellow marine someplace in the Bay Area. After the first race I went stir crazy. I hated it—I spent most of a day at that track; but without the gambling, there was no real reason for me to be there.

I CAN tell you this—people who engage in fighting roosters or dogs are very passionate about it—that’s the commonality. They are obsessed with the training, feeding, and breeding of their animals, and continuously think ahead to the next matches. For these guys, animal fighting becomes a habitual lifestyle. They make bets with each other, go on trips together, and it’s all they talk about. They enthusiastically go over past matches as if speaking of the World Series or NFL playoffs.

The stuff Vick was supposed to be doing—the killing of his losing dogs—I’ve never heard tell of it. That seems to be a special kind of gratuitous cruelty reserved for meaner circles. Such a thing would seem unlikely for most, because those dogs are not cheap. Only someone with a lot of bucks would ever consider destroying their animals so nonchalantly. Vick probably did it to show off his wealth and how “bad” he is. Some men think the more cruelty they show the more street credibility they rate. It’s that “gangstah” thing again.

It’s now a foregone conclusion that Vick’s going to go to jail—perhaps for years. The way law enforcement works they start loading up on laws and statutes violated, in this case for such things as transporting fight dogs across state lines, illegal gambling, conspiracy, or any one of the other dozens of illicit possibilities of which he came within smelling distance. Once the feds “want” you, they WILL get you.

Here’s where all those comparative morality and philosophy classes I’ve taken over the years start to kick in. Those courses taught me to look at matters more than just on the surface. For instance, because of the “animal life” that Vick destroyed, his own “human” life is now finished. He KNEW he was breaking the law, but did so anyway. Even more damning is that it’s certain that he knew of another sports figure, another NFL player, who was imprisoned a few years back for similar offenses and STILL Vick did it. So, its cut-and-dry right? Well, not so fast...

Now for the tricky part! I personally don’t understand the existence of laws with penalties that can put a man in jail for years, in Vick’s case as many as five, when it’s for killing or being cruel to animals. It seems disproportionate and hypocritical. I’ll explain.

I’m not belittling laws prohibiting animal cruelty, but there seems to be a proportionality and duplicity issue when there are scads of other legal activities that involve the killing, maiming and “torture” of animals.

Is it that only “certain” animals are deemed worthy of society’s protection and ONLY in certain situations? For instance, we eat chickens by the millions, so why is it against the law to fight them? Would it be illegal to fight other non-human animals, such as beetles, crickets, mongoose, snakes, etc? No one will ever go to jail for trying to get two mice to fight. Why are dogs different than, say, crickets? Is there some kind of animal kingdom hierarchy written into law decreeing that we imprison people for certain activities involving only specific animals? It seems that there is. My question is why?

Think about this: It’s legal to fish and hunt. If you’re familiar with hunting you know that many animals don’t die directly after being shot by bullet or arrow. Many are gut-shot or wounded non-lethally and so escape the coup de grâce, only to die a slow agonizing death elsewhere. It happens a lot.

When fishing, anglers don’t kill the fish as soon as they catch them. To keep them fresh, they put them in a creel or on a stringer where they linger on in apparent agony for hours. Shouldn’t we start sending people up the river for that? I’ve heard people claim that fish don’t feel pain, that all that flopping around as they die is just involuntary muscle spasms. Is that not a ridiculous assertion?

Those who scream for the head of Vick for his cruelty and “murder,” are just as likely to be completely comfortable with defending a woman’s “choice” to end the life of her fetus. As long as it’s sheltered unseen within the woman’s body then it must not be a living being. Science shows with utter certainty that a fetus IS living. Within a few weeks of conception it looks, moves and reacts like a human. In fact, to many of us it IS a little human and every bit as important, if not more so, than ANY of Vick’s dogs.

The "choicer’s" sputtering retort goes, “Well, THOSE are just unconscious “reflexes,” and do NOT reflect the presence of cognizant life!” My answer: Okay, so YOU say, and the law is on your side at this point. Still, the abortion controversy provides one more example of how subjective ALL these “life” laws truly are; including those Vick is charged with.

Every year, animal shelters and pounds across the nation “put down” hundreds-of-thousands of unwanted pets. Why aren’t all the people seeking the scalp of Michael Vick also up in arms over the slaughter of all those innocent animals? Admittedly, many of them are, but society as a whole is NOT.

If it’s the violence that is objectionable, shouldn’t we also end organized fighting sports between humans as well? Men die every year in the ring trying to beat each other’s brains out. Why is that legal while cockfighting and dog fighting is not? Boxing aficionados say the difference is free will, but put two fighting cocks together and they WILL fight; the same is true for fighting dogs. At least with chickens, if they die in battle we can eat them. In fact, that’s EXACTLY what I did—though it was a little on the tough side.

Obviously, Vick is being made an example just as Martha Stewart was. When the opportunity presents itself, prosecutors seek to take down celebrities. By doing so they become celebrities themselves. I don’t believe the feds are going after Vick so earnestly because he’s black; nope, it’s because of his celebrity status. Prosecutors are primarily politicians. How do you think Rudy Giuliani began his political career?

Personally, I hope this case causes society to reexamine all aspects of this issue. I eat meat, but I don’t hunt for the same reason I don’t collect firewood. That hunting is called a “sport” shows the true nature of its current place in our culture. Simply put, MOST people hunt for the “pleasure” or the “sport” of it. They feel empowered by the act of killing. They argue that “they eat what they kill” as if that makes it okay. They also contend that they are conservationists because without hunting, animals would over populate and starve. Those aren’t strong arguments but weak excuses designed to rationalize the same sort of bloodlust that drove Michael Vick to do what he did.

“But it’s not the same thing!” I hear hunting proponents protest, but I beg to differ. History shows that it’s easy to justify just about ANY wanton behavior, from killing whales, to slavery, to genocide. I’ll be honest, I’m not totally against hunting—it would be unreasonable to even attempt to ban it; but I AM against kidding ourselves as to WHY people hunt. NO one NEEDS to hunt anymore. We can get meat at the grocery store.

The idea that we allow thousands of amateurs with firearms—which most are—to stream out into the woods during certain “seasons” to theoretically winnow out populations of wildlife is ludicrous. I can’t imagine a more inefficient and dangerous way to do such a thing. If we must cull animals then it should be done professionally by people who are not just as likely to shoot each other ala Dick Cheney.

Heck, in Cheney’s case, he was on a “preserve” where birds are bred for hunting—so much for “hunting for conservation.” Watching a bird fall dead from the sky is what drives hunters like Cheney. I’m sorry if this offends hunters, but I only address these issues in the context of speaking argumentatively to the charges against Michael Vick.

Vick, and animal cruelty violators like him, shouldn’t serve time behind bars, at least not until we come to grips with all the other social discrepancies involving the way “we” treat “nonhuman life.” I despise his cruelty and his conceit, but to end his career, and thus his life this way is every bit as wrong. Considering the millions he’s made and could make, why not fine him instead of jailing him? Let him play ball; and let him continue to earn his millions. Then fine him for at least half of the millions he would make while he would have been jailed. How much more good could be done by giving those millions to an organization like the SPCA? Now that would be real justice.

In my opinion, effectively ending Vick’s life is more of a tragedy than what he did to those dogs. Come on, he didn’t murder people; he killed animals. Society LEGALLY kills millions of animals every year in all sorts of horrible ways. Until animals have the same rights as people then we need to rethink how we punish misguided idiots like Michael Vick.

Poor Laurnen Caitlin, Poor Us

For some, poor Lauren Caitlin Upton has become the poster child for our allegedly "poor" American education system, and I’m not talking about “Special Ed.” (No pun intended Ed Abbey.)

Jokes aside (for now), when I first saw this doe-eyed "deer in the headlights" beauty from South Carolina trying to answer her simple beauty contest question, I honestly thought she might be "challenged" in some way, other than being a pageant participant that is.

I shouldn’t say that. In fact, I take it back. One of the smartest gals I’ve ever had the pleasure of hanging out with was Miss Arkansas 1992, Shannon Boy. That girl was sharp, and so nice and down to earth that I didn't hold it against her that she was studying to become a lawyer. By now, I'm sure she is one and probably very successful. Oh, and she has some very interesting "Bill Clinton is a horny dog" stories.

Anyway, back to poor Lauren Caitlin. I know I'm not being fair to her, or to our much maligned education system. After all, it seems pretty obvious that the question in question was really just a way to prompt commentary on the poor state of education in the United States, wasn't it? And being unable to speak well—or in Lauren's case, to speak intelligibly—in front of several million people does not necessarily reflect one way or another on her erudition or on the system that made her that way.

I must say though, whenever I try to watch that beautiful, yet in THAT moment, pitiful, creature trying to answer the simple question: "Why can't twenty percent of Americans find America on a map?" I find myself as uncomfortable as when I watch the "rumbling, bumbling, mumbling, stumbling" President Bush speak to an audience, and I like the guy. Some people just do not express themselves well in public.

For Lauren, her mind was trying to work, but all it managed to do was spit out bits of disjointed half thoughts and fragments of nonsense. Plain and simple, she became tongue-tied. As a childhood stutterer myself, I know exactly how that feels. Time slows down to an excruciating crawl and no matter how much you try to unlock the words they won't come.

In fact, the harder I tried, sometimes, the worse it got. You figure that saying something, ANYTHING, is better than the deathly silence. Just fill up the dead space with words—never mind that none of them make any sense.

I don't think Lauren is a stutterer. She sort of knew what she wanted to say, maybe, but couldn't quite get it out; but I don't think it was her tongue that got tied—it was her brain. In the vernacular of sports, she choked.

Getting past the poor girl’s inability to express herself, she attempted to respond to a question that only had one or two obvious answers anyway. As a bullheaded contrarian, and due to natural orneriness, I tend to answer questions exactly the opposite of what is probably expected. I like to call it "thinking out of the box," or being “original.” Others might just call me a smartass—all three metaphors are accurate.

Looking deeper, the pageant writers of Caitlin's rather leading question probably weren’t looking for the obvious answer that would probably be something like, “It apparently shows that Americans didn’t study their geography in grammar school.” What they were REALLY looking for was some kind of social commentary—like they do for every beauty pageant. Surprise, surprise!

If it had been smart-aleck me, I would have said, “Well, it seems to show what I’ve suspected for years—that a lot of Americans aren't smart enough to find their OWN butt with BOTH hands!”

All right, that’s too earthy for a Teen USA pageant, but if you could read my pretend beauty contest thought cloud that’s exactly what it would say.

Getting back to Miss Upton—she’s supposed to have graduated from high school not long ago with a 3.5 average. Given that, and her public speaking aside, she's probably a fairly intelligent girl. But, some will use her ramblingly incoherent answer to make a point, which might be that Americans are morons and our schools suck. Well, according to the study used in crafting Caitlin's question, apparently, many of us are! And, our schools do! Personally, I've known both for decades.

Continuing to look at the question itself makes me wonder a thing or two about the people running the Miss Teen USA pageant. Why in the world would they want to embarrass their own nation by using a question that disparages us? Who are these people? It seems more and more lately that certain persons in positions able to do so LOVE to take cheap shots at their own. I don't get it.

I’ve watched a couple of “post pathetic answer” interviews with the beautiful blond, like on the Today Show, and honestly, in those venues she STILL came off as being a cross between a ditzy valley girl and a southern “Dukes of Hazard” babe. I wonder what courses she took in high school that she was able to pull off those straight A's? Oops, there I go again. It’s just hard not to bash her—she makes it too darn easy, especially when she says something.

Enough already. Why spend so much time talking about and obsessing over an inarticulate 18-year-old pageant winner wannabe who came off sounding like a complete idiot on national TV? Good question. Primarily, because she put herself out there and then MADE the very point that her over-simple pageant question was begging to make in the first place. To paraphrase, “Why are so many Americans so ignorant?”

Her response was perfectly ironic—it was the pot answering why the kettle is SOOO darned black, and with southern valley girl inflection.

So this whole silly affair has nothing at all to do with our education system. It’s about Americans finding someone really beautiful; certainly tons better looking than they are, but coming across as a complete imbecile.

Since uttering her blooper from hell, well over a million people have accessed it on the Internet. Why would they do that? It’s obvious—because now 60,542,005 Americans (1/5th of us) who can’t find the United States on a map, suddenly have someone who makes THEM look smart.

Poor Lauren Caitlin. But she DOES have her uses.

The dogs of North Carolina

My first assignment in the U.S. Air Force was in the Midatlantic State of North “Kack-a-lackey,” as some of us airmen stationed in North Carolina used to jokingly refer to it. Why we called it that, I have no idea. Regardless, it was a beautiful place for enjoying outdoor activities, like running, and I was in my running prime back then at the very start of the 1980s.

I’ve run back roads, trails and streets in lots of American States, many of them breathtakingly gorgeous to behold—and I well remember that North Carolina is definitely one of those. But, it was not without its drawbacks. For instance, I found that without a doubt NC was also the worst in terms of “mean ass dogs per mile."

It was my experience that NC dogs were bigger, toothier, fiercer, and more aggressive than in anyplace I’ve EVER lived, bar none. To make matters worse, all those nasty Carolina canines were also THE most unchained and untied, also bar none. Even so, that didn’t stop me from venturing away from the comparative dog-free safety of Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, my home.

In the style of those “ancient” bygone days, I hit the streets wearing little shorts, a tight tank top, baseball cap and running shoes. With so little on, I was as vulnerable to a dog attack as I possibly could be; and I wasn’t the only one to feel that vulnerability. Rick Chandler, a shopmate whose disc-jockey name was “Slick Rick,” was a 6-foot African-American. He loved riding his 12-speed bicycle long distances over the rolling North Carolina country roads. After suffering several scary “chasings by dog,” he began to ride with the protection of a heavy chain linked with a bike lock around his shoulders and neck. During an attack he could wield it to deadly effect against almost any dog foolish enough to nip at him. It wasn’t long before I learned for myself how crazy-mean the dogs were in that area.

Being in pretty good running shape meant that I could cover some pretty long distances, and like Rick, I disliked doing all of it within the confines of the air force base. I could run 15 miles easy on a long slow day and I did exactly that 3 or 4 times a month; but usually, I did more prudent runs of between 6 and 10 miles. It was on one of these shorter routes that I found myself in mortal canine combat.

One spring afternoon, after my shift at the component repair shop, I headed out on a run from our place at 206 Kenly Road in base housing. I started off briskly, and in ten minutes I was through the back gate and heading straight up the road to East Ash Boulevard, as I remember, a 4-lane major thoroughfare about a mile up from the gate.

Twenty or so minutes after the start of my foray, I popped down, into and through a 6-foot ditch, across the busy 4-lane East Ash, and into a gas station lot that may or may not still be there some 25 years later. Just behind the gas station was a low rent trailer court. My plan was to cut across a gravel access road that teed off of one from the trailer court; and then I figured to jog across an open grassy field into a large municipal nature park, which was actually my ultimate objective all along. The park, a favorite of mine, was all trees and grass, laced with plenty of trails, and absolutely perfect for what I liked more than anything, cross country running. However that’s not quite how it turned out.

“GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

My spine went cold and my legs weak at a sudden fearsome rumbling coming from my right and slightly behind me. It was a deep angry reverberating growl, and whatever its source it was approaching fast. I knew that because upon snapping my head around I saw that the growling snarl was issuing from the throat of a large and charging German shepherd.

I had a life and death decision to make, because that mad dog monster was sprinting right at me up the middle of the gravel road from the trailers. 10 feet of chain snapped wildly behind it from its thick leather collar; he must have snapped the chain with a mighty lunge upon seeing me. Some dogs see a runner and its chasing instinct kicks in; it’s the wolf genetics, and in this case, I was irresistible fleeing prey. Well, this was one human “deer” that was going to fight back.

I knew not to try to run away; all that would do was inspire it to tear out the backs of my legs. No way! Not my legs! A runner’s legs are his life. My brother claims that all anyone has to do in that situation is to point forcefully at the charging animal and yell as loud as possible at it, “NO!” That might well have worked in this case, but by the time I saw it, the dog was almost on top of me. And besides, I had never seen anything like this crazily intense animal. He wasn’t barking, he wasn’t blustering, his only intent to close with and kill me horribly. I knew this instantly; I FELT it in my gut.

Skidding to a stop on the gravel and turning quickly to face it, I had only a moment to assume a classic fighting stance—legs apart with the right foot slightly behind as a brace, body crouched, and fists held high with the right one pulled back. In this case, I also pulled my chin as far down to my chest as I could get it—I’m sure I did this because I could feel its intense gaze locked onto my throat.

In far less time than it’s taken to read this sentence, the deeply growling animal swiftly closed in. I was shocked that he continued his furious charge, as most dogs will check up and cautiously circle before coming in for the first snapping bite. I think this one had some training though, because there was no pause in him at all; he was a freight train and I was Pauline atrussed upon the tracks. Like a Looney Toon animation character, the rampaging beast’s scrabbling paws and claws threw a shower of gravel and dust behind it.

Five feet to my front, it gathered itself for the final leaping lunge and threw itself headlong, paws first, up and at my face. I noticed things in that split second that still spill into my memory—its chest broad and muscular, the fur there a lighter brown than the shoulders, legs and body; glittering dark eyes half-closed in a black face; teeth yellowed and glistening with saliva, every single pointed one of them; and at the end of the attack, I recall a mouth as gaping as a hippo’s, apparently to facilitate the ripping out of my windpipe. I observed too that it cocked its head slightly, exactly like a person does to adjust for biting into a taco. Funny the things one notices in stressful moments.

In an instant, all traces of trepidation disappeared from my trembling gut. I became as enraged as my attacker. I WANTED him to attack. I pulled my right fist back a little further to create more leverage and threw the hardest twisting punch of my life. It was a right cross, and it was perfect.

In golfing and baseball the most powerful hitting and driving strokes feel absolutely effortless when performed. It was like that with that right cross. I caught that shepherd directly on his gaping lower jaw and suddenly his world flipped upside down. The rumble in his chest turned into a whimpering shriek, as my crashing right fist unexpectedly unhinged and dislocated his lower jaw. Of course it was a lucky punch—a dog’s jaw muscles are some of the strongest of any creature its size.

The yelping would-be-assailant collapsed in a thumping crash to the ground on his broad furry side; his dislocated jaw stuck over a good inch to the right. His pain must have been enormous. However, I wasn’t done with him. I roared obscenities at the stricken animal and kicked and stomped its struggling body as it lay writhing in agony. I really wanted to kill it and I was dead set on accomplishing that task when a plaintive voice in the most exaggerated southern black accent I’ve ever heard interrupted me.

“Whet yo dewin ta MAH dohhhg?”

It was the fallen dog’s owner, an ancient black woman in curlers, slippers and a bathrobe, and none too happy with my treatment of her “pet.” Anyway, her question brought me out of my berserker rage and back to my senses, slightly.

At that moment I was surprised to hear cheering and horns honking from a multitude of cars. All four lanes of traffic on the busy avenue had halted upon seeing the huge animal bearing down on me. The drivers must have been amazed and probably relieved at how quickly the tables had turned. Many of them, broadly grinning, pumped their fists at me, while others waved, nodded approvingly and gave me the thumbs up. Some had even gotten out of their stopped cars right in the middle of the avenue, probably to lend assistance if need be. Still stunned, I just stared at them and gave them a feeble return wave. I can imagine the stories told around some dining tables that night.

Adrenaline still coursed through me like a freshly injected speedball, and turning back to the old woman, I answered her loudly and angrily, “I hope I hurt your damn dog BAD lady, because he was trying to KILL me! You’d better keep him chained up, or next time I WILL kill IT!”

I spun around and continued my run, not waiting for her response. I really didn’t care what she had to say anyway.

But as I said, there were lots of mean dogs in North Carolina…

Later that winter, on a bitterly cold and windy day, I found myself jogging in a part of Goldsboro where I’d never been before. It was semi-rural, with widely spaced houses built well back from the road. Passing a split-level, I heard before seeing an outraged dog, another shepherd, which soon set itself upon me. It had charged, barking irately the entire time, across a large expanse of snow-dusted yard; and it paused only momentarily before trying to bite my legs through my sweat pants.

I tried kicking at it while continuing a running escape, but it was almost impossible to make any headway, so unremitting were his snapping attacks. I could hear the alarming sound its teeth made as it repeatedly strove to snap them shut into me. In a moment my baggy pant legs had several tears and rips from the effects of the toothy attack.

I had retreated to the center lane of the road when lucky for me a Good Samaritan in a sedan slowed down and yelled at me to use his car as cover. It worked. I was able to keep the slowly moving vehicle between the dog and me until I could make good my withdrawal. The man saved me from a sure mauling. I gave him a heartfelt high sign as he drove away.

But, now I was pissed! I wanted revenge. I planned another run for the following weekend that would once again pass by that spiteful animal. Only this time I was determined to turn the tables like I had done with the first evil shepherd. I owned a knife that looked like a stick when sheathed. The 5-inch blade was sturdy, pointed and sharp and it had one good cutting edge. For a week I dreamed of exacting some payback. The idea that I should have to suffer an assault while running on a public road was not something I was willing to accept, from neither man nor beast. That dog would have to pay—by bleeding, and hopefully, dying!

My goal was to draw it in close before jumping on it, grappling it and stabbing it repeatedly in the chest and head. I figured I was going to take some damage as well, but I accepted that as part of the wages of war, a war that it had started and one that I was “doggedly” determined to finish.

It was a Sunday afternoon; I found myself almost to the house of my four-legged enemy. I slowed down at the place where its owner’s yard first came up to the road and pulled out the knife. Removing the wooden sheath, I hid the knife up along the inside of my left arm. Then, I heard the dog take up its mad bark and start its charge.

‘Yes! Here he comes!’ I thought eagerly. ‘Come on! Come and get your medicine!’

I slowed down even more, feeling a jolt of thrilling energy surge through me. I was ready for Freddy! ‘Come on Freddy!’

Then, suddenly, it stopped. I glanced to my right to where I thought the animal would be and it wasn’t there. The dog had stopped about 20 feet from me and was just barking weakly, refusing to come another step. I stopped and turned toward the now cowardly beast.

“Well, come on you piece of dog sh*t!” I yelled goadingly. I even took a step or two out onto the brown winter-dead grass of its yard, but it only retreated. It looked like the same dog, but it sure didn’t act like the same snarling snapping creature of only a week earlier. My long imagined fantasy of being locked in a death struggle with it was not to be. I think I was disappointed AND relieved, maybe mostly relieved.

The shepherd must have smelled or sensed something different about me. I had never shown it even a glimpse of the knife, but it knew something was up for sure. I carried that knife with me on all my runs for the rest of my Air Force tour in North Carolina, always hoping that I might someday get a chance to use it. Only problem is that every time a dog seemed willing to come at me it would suddenly stop its attack, look confused and skulk away.

Well, maybe not every time….

There WAS another terrifying time that my little sheathe knife would have done me very little good. It was a balmy Saturday morning, and I had asked a buddy to drive me out to a State park some 15 or 20 miles out into the countryside so that I could run back on the straight.

Less than three miles into my return and I saw something in the distance that made me sick with dread. Way off to my left, out across a field planted thick with tobacco, was a pack of about a half-dozen farmer’s dogs. I could see that at least two had the distinctive shapes of Dobermans, while the others were just BIG.

‘Oh SH*T! I’m dead!’

I pulled the sheath off my knife, but I knew it wouldn’t do squat against a pack of those baying wolf-like creatures. My only chance was to GO! I kicked into the fastest gear I had and began to pump out a fear-powered mile that I hoped would put me out of whatever territorial range they had.

I knew I couldn’t outrun them if they were determined to catch me, even though they did have a very steeply inclined slope to negotiate to get to me. I looked down that slope to my left and saw them begin to lope across the field in my direction. Apparently they had done this before, because they weren’t running directly at me, but were angling towards the place they figured I would be once they got to the road. Smart creatures.

I put my head down and ran like the wind. I continued to take the occasional leftward glance as they drew ever nearer, but stopped looking for them after a half-mile when I came to the end of the expansive tobacco field where a long patch of thick woods crowded both sides of the two-lane country asphalt. I could still faintly hear their excited howls, but I began to relax when I realized they probably weren’t going to catch up to me. Nevertheless, I continued a fast pace until I was sure I had gotten away. Thank you God!

Anyhow, running in North Carolina is like that—lots of big mean dogs with rows of sharp teeth in their loudly barking salivating mouths.

Run there at your own risk—and if you must be on foot, carry a weapon.

Believe it or not, as a kid, I loved dogs. That changed when, as a youngster, I took up the “double dog” whammy of both running AND delivering newspapers. From harsh personal experience I can say positively that dogs don’t like runners and they HATE paperboys even more. So, I learned to hate them right back. In fact, when it comes to dogs, we’ve been mortal enemies for a long time. Of course I realize that there are a lot of dog lovers in the world, and if you are one, lets agree that if you keep your animal away from me then I won’t fight to the death with it!

I should have entitled this post “Man Bites Dog!”

The 107th U.S. Open and my Beef with Tiger Woods

I don’t know when I’m going to be able to post this. One thing about living in the Philippines, when things break or everyday services like power, cable and telephone cease; you just never really know when you’re going to be able to get them operational again.

My Internet has been FUBAR for almost a week now. I’ve called the service reps going on dozens of times; they are always very pleasant, and twice they sent repairmen out who seemed to have a handle on the problem; but then, well, I’m STILL offline.

Living here, it helps to be languidly retired with no overly developed sense of urgency, …OR, you can get drunk and take lots of deep breaths—either way. My advice: leave back in the States your American-style need to have everything fixed IMMEDIATELY, ...Or...risk acquiring hypertensive disease or some other stress-related disorder. To keep one’s sanity here in the islands, especially if you are not from here originally, it’s best to be very patient (longsuffering?) and happy go lucky. In other words, “be like the Romans, …OR, …get soused.

Anyway, at least my cable TV is working and for me that’s even more important than the cable Internet. I stayed up the whole of both Saturday and Sunday nights tuned in to the 107^th U.S. Open. Starting at 1 a.m. I watched fascinated through the wee hours until well after sunup, till around 6:30 or 7 both mornings. Now its 8:15 Monday night Philippine time and I’m still a little groggy from my self-induced “jet lag.” Just the same, I NEED to get some of my “post U.S. Open” thoughts and bitches off my chest.

You know, I don’t get to watch Tiger Woods as much as I’d like. It seems most of the golf on cable here is either the U.S. women’s pro circuit, or broadcasts of one of the lesser men’s PGA tournaments. I can take or leave most of that fare, but whenever one of the four major opens is on, I’m there for almost every second of play.

No matter what the golf venue, if he’s playing, I root for Tiger. I was analyzing why I do that, since I normally pull for the underdog in any other sport. With his #1 ranking, which he seems to have retained uninterrupted for the last decade, Woods can seemingly never be considered the underdog. But, he’s so incredibly good and impossibly consistent at being good that I can’t help myself; I yearn to see him squash his “unworthy” competitors every time he plays, to witness as he continues to rack up the wins. Its incredibly riveting, the idea of seeing someone like him, a living sports legend in the midst of his best playing years; and knowing that it might be another 3 or 4 generations, or even longer, before his like comes along once more. Go Tiger!

Okay, having said that, having made my obligatory tribute to the altar of Woods, now I shall carp a little. His putting! What the heck? I tuned in a little late on day 3 and missed his two early and ONLY birdies. What I DID see was some very ordinary and unimpressive putting from him. It can certainly be argued that he wasn’t all that bad, since he managed to have so few bogies, and over the last two days I can’t remember him suffering any double bogies at all. But just not screwing up is NOT what we expect from a champion like Tiger Woods. I want, I expect, perfection from my golf deities.

Announcer Johnny Miller commented late in the day during the Saturday round that Woods’ command of his driving, his ability to hit the lean fairways at will, and his near perfect rate at sticking “greens in regulation” portended that Tiger was SURE to win the tournament. As Miller pointed out, no one else came close to hitting as many fairways and greens. By the middle of the final round though, the writing was on the wall for me. Tiger’s putting was NOT getting any better; in fact, it seemed to get, if not worse, certainly more and more ordinary; and ordinary does not win championships.

The frustrating AND fascinating thing about golf is its nuances. The muscle memory required to stick a 320-yard drive is a whole lot different from that needed to make a tricky putt or a touchy chip or flop shot. From what I saw this week of Tiger Woods, it appears that he’s been working harder on perfecting shots requiring large fast-twitch muscle and sinuous tendon; watching him muscularly swing through his drives and long irons was breathtaking. Obviously, he’s been hitting the gym nonstop—what a body! He probably has THE most impressive build in professional golf. But here’s a newsflash, someone needs to tell him to lay off the protein shakes, let go of the “lat” bar, and GO for some balance. Muscles and putting evidently don’t mix?

His wear of the tight muscle/golf shirts is clearly designed to show off his perfect V-shaped back and superman-like protruding pecs. Even his pants are in on the showoff game! I’ll stay above the waist and keep it clean (NOT!) by not overly mentioning his well-developed buttocks; they clearly strain the seams of his perfectly tailored form-fitted trousers! (Ahem!)

Seriously… Simply put, Woods missed out on winning lifetime Major #13 today because he’s forgotten how to putt to WIN. I watched him “manage” most of his putts instead of trying to seriously “make” them. I’m sure it had a lot to do with the trickiness of those greens (more on that after this little bit of critical analysis), but he seemed to purposely lag anything over 12 feet away; while I watched a host of other supposedly lesser golfers drain plenty at that length and longer. So my bitch with Tiger is that he putted “NOT to lose” instead of going for it, and “going for it” is what he’s always been all about. I hear him in his interviews talk about “course management” and all that cerebral malarkey, but sometimes he just needs to get inspired like he used to and just GO FOR IT.

Maybe it’s time for a new caddy—one that can READ putts. His longtime caddy, Steve Williams, is one of his best buddies and he’s a great cheerleader, but apparently he and the Tiger are on the same WRONG page when it comes to reading greens. Most of the many birdie putts he missed over the weekend resulted from a severe lack of greens instinct. Typically the putts didn’t drop due to a serious inability to read the direction and speed of the break.

Most of those missed putts were easily “called” and “read” by the announcers who could tell before the putt was even struck that he was lined up and aimed at the wrong spot. THAT is the caddy’s job, and he shares the blame when his guy lines up on the spot that DOESN'T drop the putt. And it wasn’t JUST a putt or two; it was one after another. Tiger, you make a lot of money—get off the pot, put loyalty and friendship on hold, and hire a caddy that can read the break! I’m really getting impatient with your majors winning rate; you’re slowing down mate!

Okay, we ARE talking Oakmont, a course with the most ridiculously tough greens anywhere. Now I want to bitch about THAT. I hated it! Those aren’t greens; those are slippery tracts of slate laid spitefully over the sides of treacherously sheer mounds. I just don’t understand the concept of making the surfaces so slick as to be impossible to roll a golf ball across it to a predictable stopping point.

If I want to see golfers humiliated I can go to any course anywhere and see amateurs do that. Why would I want to see the best in the world put into a situation that makes them look like everyone else? Lets get REALLY silly…why not blindfold them, have them golf using only one arm, and forced to use only a total of three clubs? We could make it a driver, a wedge and a 7 iron. How about that? I mean we can figure out all kinds of bizarre ways to make golf more difficult than it already is.

So I’m watching these guys flail around a course so impossible that some of the best in the world can hardly manage to shoot less than 15 over. My beef is that these guys don’t golf or practice on greens like those at Oakmont for the rest of the year, mostly because it would be a waste of their time. So what happens with a place like Oakmont is the PGA creates these stupid “trick courses” that makes golfing in THAT tournament seem an entirely different sport. Those pros were so out of their element at this Open that it was about like watching football players from Texas try to play outdoor ice hockey in Canada. Sure, it’s entertaining for a bit, but soon it becomes just a cheap stunt.

To me, Oakmont’s greens are just plain gimmicky. They are gratuitously challenging, almost arrogantly so, but believe it or not, that’s my only grumble about the course. I like the longer narrower fairways, the thick roughs, and the stacks of deep bunkers and devilishly placed fairway traps. All those complications exist on all PGA courses to some degree or other and can be compensated for based on typical golfing skill. But as far as I know, there are no greens anywhere else on the tour like Oakmont’s, except for maybe at the Masters at the end of a long drought on an exceptionally hot, dry and windy day! Even so, I’ll bet Tiger and his PGA pals could STILL actually putt for score on them.

And that reminds me… Remember Tiger’s first Masters win? He putted back then like he wasn’t human, as if HE WAS THE BALL, like he was “a golfing god of the putting kind.” I miss THAT Tiger! I hope we see that one again at The Open next month.

Care to make a bet?

Some interesting U.S. Open sidebars:

Jim Furyk’s caddy, Mike "Fluff" Cowan, was Tiger’s caddy before Tiger fired him and hired his current caddy, Steve Williams. Jim Furyk finished just behind Tiger because he made a foolishly unnecessary error by going for the green off the tee on the par four 17. I wonder if Fluff tried to talk him out of that idiocy? If he hadn't gone with driver on 17 he probably would have won the Open.

Angel Cabrera, the winner of this year’s U.S. Open is from Argentina. That nation lost its war with the U.K. over possession of the Falkland Islands on the 14^th of June 1982. Exactly 25 years later, Cabrera began his epic struggle to win Argentina its first U.S. Open. Viva Cabrera!

Paris, back in the Hilton...

What a world we live in.

It looks like more than half of the news today on the stateside channels is going to be about Paris Hilton's premature release from jail. This, while what SHOULD be the far more important news of the Immigration Bill's languishing death in the Senate ALSO takes place. Kind of makes me feel sorry for the poor Immigration Bill--to be upstaged by something and someone so trivial. Yet, that's the world we live in.

I wonder how the troops feel in the war zones as they watch on CNN and FNC, and see for themselves what most Americans truly find important back "in the world?" Skewed priorities? No wonder so many people in the military feel so much contempt for their civilian citizen counterparts. I wonder if civilians know how many troops feel this disdain? Believe me, they do! Even now, 5 years after my discharge, I don't like to think of myself as a civilian. I watch how flittingly weakwilled our average citizens are and it makes me wonder how in the hell we are ever going to keep our enemies at bay when the average citizen's attention span is no better than a puppy's in a field, flitting from one fanciful subject to another?

Looking at the latest Paris Hilton development, it does remind me of at least one good thing about the US--our semi-egalitarianism. I love how we go after our rich, powerful and famous. I love how how we put them up on pedestals and then wait anxiously and expectantly for them to fall off, so that we can then slap 'em in irons and throw 'em in jail. It certainly doesn't happen that way in oligarchies such as the Philippines and Mexico, where money and power means never having to say you're sorry.

You'd never see a senator war hero like Duke Cunningham go to prison for what amounts to the rest of his life in most of the world, unless a coups took place first to make it happen. You'd never see a high ranking aide of a sitting president, like Scooter Libby, go to prison for what amounts to fibbing to a judge. You would never even see a national sports hero, like an O.J. Simpson, go through even the semblance of a trial for murder, although he DID get away with it! Nope, in most places in the world, a movie star like Mel Gibson would have been quietly escorted home instead of being arrested for driving drunk.

The way I see it, so what if Hilton only served less than 3 days of 45, then of 23 for what she did. If she had been a Filipina or even a European celebrity she NEVER would have gotten in trouble in the first place. The very fact that we are so much in arms over it at least shows that we are TRYING to make sure no one is above the law. I like that...

Now, Gretta Van Sestran, Geraldo, Anderson Cooper, et. al., can we now get on with the REALLY and TRULY important news? Please!

“Sanctuary” for illegals? "Open Borders?"

Recently I watched a cable news show interview with a Catholic nun involved with “sheltering” some Mexican or Latin American illegal aliens in her church. The crux of her argument in defense of her own unlawful actions is the New Testament passage where Jesus says, “When I was hungry you fed me…, when I was thirsty you gave me drink…, when I was homeless you sheltered me…”

It seems that Catholic churches across the country are now buying into what I think is a defective moral argument that “the church” should be providing “sanctuary” for illegal immigrants. Even though she is helping people break the law, the unapologetic nun said her actions and that of her church are all about being humane. I couldn’t agree with her less.

I’m not heartless. I’m all for helping people in need, but I’m also for upholding the law, especially our more-than-reasonable immigration laws. After all, these aren’t unjust laws worthy of civil disobedience like slavery or “Jim Crow.” To a reasonable person it makes sense that all countries have a natural right to control their borders and their immigration flow. Doing anything else amounts to anarchy and the eventual end of our civilization, as we know it. I’d love to ask that silly nun if that’s what she really wants.

And then there is the “family card!” People who break ANY of our laws do so at their own risk, AND in doing so, THEY put their families’ well-being at risk as well. The rationale that illegal immigrant families should not be made to suffer once they are in-country is deeply flawed. If we go by that reasoning then we would never “inconvenience” any perpetrator of any crime with imprisonment, since nearly everyone, even common criminals, have families. Therefore, using the “family card” as an excuse not to prosecute illegals establishes an unworkable precedent that if followed, protects ALL criminals.

Unfortunately, the US Constitution helps to facilitate this “family card” argument, particularly when we do not pursue illegals for years and then over those years they have children. Our statutes are somewhat unique in the world in that anyone born on US soil is considered a US citizen. It’s a loophole used by many to justify their own continued unlawful presence. They point to their American-born children and use those little jus soli citizens to justify their unauthorized stay. It sounds callous, but that’s not our problem. Once again, THEY made a decision that harms THEIR family.

Few countries besides the USA concern themselves with these types of factors when making immigration decisions. For instance, try having a child in a country like Japan (and a host of others) and see what happens. Both you AND your non-Japanese citizen baby will be “shown the door,” and rightly so.

Living outside the United States, I am well aware that if officials stop me for any reason that I must identify myself as a foreigner and provide documentation of my status. I find it maddening that the United States is the ONLY place where it is common policy in many of its cities and counties NOT to request proof of lawful residency of a person detained by police. Are we nuts?

I pass by the American Embassy frequently, and the lines of hopefuls applying for US entry are ALWAYS there, rain or shine. For the most part, these people’s applications are denied, usually on the capricious whim of some bureaucrat. Just the same, the lines never stop forming. This is true at American embassies and consulates all over the globe, and yet, because we have a long, difficult-to-protect border, people south of it figure they can just jump in line ahead of all the thousands of worldwide applicants duly waiting their turn. I find this maddeningly unjust, Geraldo Rivera be damned.

Fox News’ Rivera continuously makes the passionate contention that most of the millions of illegal immigrants are good people and thus should be allowed to stay. In effect, his argument is basically one of statue of limitations; to all intents and purposes he says they should be allowed to “get away” with their law breaking by simply waiting out the system. The problem with this is that the world is filled with “good people,” so why don’t we just let them ALL come? Should there be no limits Geraldo—no controls over whom and how many are allowed to enter?

The nun responded to a final question, and her astonishing answer made me feel like becoming a Baptist.

“Sister, do you believe the United States would be right in protecting its borders from further illegal entries?”

Without a moment’s hesitation she answered with complete self-assured sanctimony:

“NO!”

When I heard what seemed to me to be a most unreasonable response, my blood ran cold with indignation and dread. The indignation is easy to explain (at least to sane people!), but the dread comes of the nun’s casually spoken irrational answer. Her views may well reflect those of a sizable demographic that basically advocates “open borders.” As far as I know, no other nation of note has such a thing in place—how could they and continue to exist?

And THAT is exactly my point!

Do any Baptists or Presbyterians believe in that kind of harebrained pap? If not, where do I sign up! (Just kidding Mom).

Both Lawyer AND College Prof, a "Double Dipper"

I just read a William F Buckley article decrying the high cost of college. Funny how sometimes reading the opinion pages can “lead to the need” to write my own.

A couple days ago I was in my local gym struggling away on the orbital machine trying to get in a little aerobics. I heard an American voice coming from the guy behind me who had just walked in and was now talking to the counter girl. He was finagling a cheaper student rate out of her while showing some kind of membership card.

“See, now do you believe me? Remember, I was here last January and I told you then that I was a student. …I go to the University of California.”

He got his reduced rate, and me being the nosy bastard that I am, I glanced behind me to catch a look at him. He was Asian, definitely not Filipino, and he was certainly too old to be a student, at least not one deserving of a reduced rate. My interest was piqued.

“Which University of California do you go to?” I tossed over my shoulder to him. He told me. (I won’t say which one here to protect “the guilty,” but lets just say it is north of Monterey.)

He asked what I was doing in these parts and I explained my status as a 27-year military retiree.

“Wow, you can do well living out here, right?” he quizzed me.

“Sure, pretty much anyone drawing a pension over a grand can do at least okay,” I answered without giving him too much info.

We had spoke long enough for me to take a measure of him and I “smelled” “teacher” on his breath. I smirked, vowing to do some more poking around this guy.

Later, finishing a series of stretches and crunches in the aerobics room, I spotted the “student” sitting in the gym café having a power shake. I filled a plastic cup with water from the dispenser and moved in for the kill. I took a seat near him.

“Hey buddy how’s that shake? I asked, trying to break some more ice.

We shook hands and formally introduced each other. I got down to brass tacks. In an offhand manner I said, “You know, I’ve been taking college classes since I joined the service in ’75 and I know almost for certain that you aren’t a student." Bluntly, I pressed him, "You’re a teacher aren’t you?”

He looked down at his hands and shook his head yes. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that and now I’m feeling bad about doing that.”

‘Aha! I KNEW it! Time to move in for the “kill!”’

“Hey man, I’m not going to bust you. After all, you KNOW how this place is—it’s the land of fraud—and YOU’RE just fitting in!” I laughed cruelly at his obvious unease. He was chuckling along with me, but it was forced. I could tell he would love it if I would just go away. But not yet!

“So, what do you teach? What’s your specialty?” I asked, searching for more “ammunition.” Sure enough, he quickly provided it.

“Criminal law and I specialize on how law effects (certain minorities).” (I won’t say what kind of minorities, as it would almost certainly identify him).

He couldn’t look me in the face as he told me that. He was sharp enough to realize that he probably should have lied to me, but too late. Here we have a lawyer, a “shaper of young minds” at that, purposely misleading a business establishment just to save a few pennies. Evidently, lying sometimes to suit one's convenience of the moment is not outside the bounds of propriety for “some” lawyers, at least not this one. Hmmm. Now my bubble has completely burst! Timmmm-ber! ...And there goes the already wobbling lawyer pedestal! (sarcastic grin).

I gave him “a break” and asked him what he thought of the “Scott Peterson Case,” since it took place not far from his neck of the woods. Obviously loving the chance to change the subject, he lambasted Mark Geragos for several minutes and I ended that conversational topic voicing my objections to the death penalty on personal moral grounds. Oops. I mentioned morals and again made him look a little uneasy! Heh heh.

I saw him again yesterday at the gym. I passed him on my out as he was coming in, I’m sure still using his “student card.” We spoke for a few minutes about his profession, the teaching part. I asked him when he was going to be due back in the classroom as Spring Break must surely be coming to an end, and he hesitated once more, much as he did the day before while admitting to his little “slip” of principle.

“...Well, you have to understand how the system works. I only teach one class this semester, so I’m not actually in the classroom all that much...”

I nodded understanding, “No, I KNOW exactly what you mean…”

I told him of an old friend who teaches Psychology at a state school in New Jersey, while his wife teaches at a university in Philadelphia. At the time, I was amazed to learn that neither had to make their long drives to teach any more than twice, and never more than three times a week, all while making ungodly sums of money for doing it.”

“…soooo, I know with complete certainty that you guys are under worked and most certainly WAAYYYY overpaid!” I smiled smugly cocking my head waiting for some kind of comeback or protest-laden retort. Instead, he shrugged and readily agreed with my accusatory shot across his bow.

“Oh, I won’t deny it. I always tell my students that if at all possible get a position in the academic world. ...It’s a hugely profitable scam.” He laughed proudly. I just let him have his moment of self-satisfaction. He may or may not have realized that the smile on my face was not one of admiration. No, I was feeling the just the opposite.

After all, if there’s anyone who knows a "profitable scam” when he sees it, it’s a lawyer, ESPECIALLY a lawyer with classroom tenure—a kind of a “double dipper of scam” if ever there was one.

Any wonder I prefer the company of veterans?

Cho Hseung-hui's Blaze of "Gory"

I was haunted seeing Cho Hseung-hui’s fuming face on the news all day while he read his twisted manifesto into his own video camera, probably during a break in his record breaking killing spree. For a moment it was as if I was looking into my own tortured face more than 35 years ago. Of course I wasn’t the murderous freak that this character was, but I had my own teenage bout with anti-social self-hatred.

I remember many times looking in the bathroom mirror and being so filled with disgust that I felt like hurting myself; and actually, once, during a particularly low time, I exploded in rage and punched myself repeatedly full on the face. Inexplicably, not only did I hate myself but I hated practically everyone else in the world too. I saw the same self-loathing and spitting hatred for the entire world today on the TV in this Korean fella’s face.

It wasn’t just the tortured look on his face; Cho’s tirade against his fellow students also struck a chord. He ranted against their hedonism and wealthy trappings. Eerily, I distinctly recall feeling the same way watching other kids “strutting around” school showing off fancy clothes and cars while dabbling with new romance. I wanted nothing to do with any of that “normal” teenage stuff. To this day I’m not totally sure why I felt that way, but I think part of it was a visceral reaction against materialism and hypocrisy. I can remember feeling pretty strongly about some of that stuff, but perhaps it was more to do with some quirk in my developing personality that took some time to work through.

Even so, I managed to do well in school and even interacted with classmates and teachers; but I shunned parties and never attended a single school dance, not even the prom. I thought, ‘why should I, no one likes me anyway.’ Sound familiar? Cho's vitriol was also similarly laced with whining and self-pity.

I don’t think I was ever in danger of killing anyone or even ending my own life, but for several years I was a very miserable fellow indeed. As best I could, I tried to keep my torment hidden. Only my mother sensed that there might be a problem behind the sullen silence. I can laugh about it now, but several times back then she tried to tell me about “girls” and that they could be “fun.” Man! What awkward moments those were, but God bless her for trying. I think my mom was THE one person I NEVER hated.

Two things saved me and slowly brought me back into the world of “the normal.” The first was knowing that there were people who cared about me (especially my mom), and the second was endorphins.

One evening, I found a torn and faded Playboy Magazine along the railroad tracks while walking home after delivering newspapers in town. After checking out the naked ladies for awhile I read an interview piece with a marathon runner. Back then running wasn’t popular yet, and reading about what this guy put himself through for no real good reason to train for a torturous race that hardly anyone cared about intrigued me. It was then that I decided to try my hand at distance running.

I got up early one morning and gave it a try. Jogging shoes back then were heavy and ill-fitting and within a mile I had two very chafed and bleeding feet, nonetheless I was hooked. I discovered that I could “punish myself” physically and feel “noble” all at the same time. That magazine may well have saved my life, because I ran pretty much everyday from that time on for the next 30 years. In effect, I became addicted to endorphins, our bodies’ natural psychotropics released into the brain during heavy exercise; and whenever I started to get “the bad feeling” I would go out and run away from my demons. It always worked.

“Lost boys,” that’s the only way to describe us, especially Cho, this extra-special Lost Boy. And as I think about it, I’m convinced that in the Middle East it's the “lost boy types" that are especially sought after by Islamists to be strapped with explosives and sent forth to wreak havoc. It would be SO easy to talk a lost boy into ending it all, TOO easy!

To angry young men like I once was, the world seems VERY dark and hopeless; and truthfully, most of it has to do with sex, or the lack of it. Yes, sex! If I would have found a girl, or if one would have taken an interest in me, perhaps I would have felt valued, and probably, I would have been less angry at the world and at myself.

From what I’ve read of the dysfunctional culture that these young Muslim men are recruited from, they too have problems with relationships with women, or more correctly, the lack of any such relationships. Whereas the angst that I and Cho experienced was pretty much self-induced, these suicide/homicide bombers come from a society that forbids boy/girl relationships. I can speak from experience that it’s unnatural; it twists the mind, soul and guts, and ultimately causes hatred to bubble and seethe in the soul. I don’t know; sounds like an Islamist Cho to me.

I’m sure that Cho Hseung-hui’s problems were a heck of a lot more complicated and deep-seated than mine were. From what I’ve read on the Net his grandmother says that even as a boy he was withdrawn and unresponsive. From that, I’m not so sure that this guy was salvageable. From the day he was born it seems that someday something bad was bound to happen.

Still, I wonder how close I might have been to reaching the kind of psychopathic anger that causes young men to go into a killing rage. I think it must be like a slippery slope that once started down there’s no climbing back up from. In my case, I WANTED to end the inner anguish and I actively looked for ways to cope with it.

Cho seemed intent on just the opposite. He WANTED to end his pain all right, but only though dramatic self-immolation, and only AFTER first taking a whole bunch of other people with him. He was actually quite savvy in knowing that if he had died quietly by himself that no one would have taken any notice. I only hope that others don’t catch on and seek their own end in the same kind of “blaze of gory.” With 24-hour news the way it is, I’m afraid that’s exactly what WILL happen.

And finally, I hope that we learn something from this. Cho had been flagged as dangerously mentally ill and yet there was nothing in “the system” to prevent him from buying deadly semi-automatic weapons because of confidentiality laws—even though to all intents and purposes, he was a little WMD just waiting to go off.

Virginia Tech Murder Spree; What's the Answer?

As a guy who generally finds himself to the political right it might seem like a paradox, but I hate guns. I’ve never been enamored with them even as I always fired expert with every weapon I was ever required to qualify with in the military. I dislike hunting; it seems that most people who hunt don’t really need to do so. Even so, I have killed animals to eat, but I find causing their death to be an odious thing. Still, all-in-all, I believe in American’s right to own and BEAR arms (notice the emphasis), but I also believe in their strict control. It all sounds pretty confusing, doesn’t it? Thing is, few important issues are cut-and-dry or black-and-white and private gun ownership is one of them.

This latest senseless mass murder is causing the typical calls for more gun laws and more controls, blah, blah, blah. That’s obviously not the answer; we already have literally thousands of gun laws. There are already millions of guns in the country so people wanting to commit mayhem like Cho Seung-Hui will find the guns to do it. So, how can we stop them once they start?

I think part of the answer is MORE guns. I know this sounds strange but Shaquille O’Neill comes to mind. He’s a private citizen who is also a volunteer police officer. He’s qualified to carry a firearm as a trained and certified law enforcement officer. Can you imagine how quickly this nut would have been shut down if we had some armed individuals in or near those “classrooms of death?” I wonder how many weapons-qualified veterans were in the area going to class? If I was armed and trained as a volunteer cop and I was in the area I would have felt compelled NOT to try to escape, but to go to the sound of the shooting just as any responsible cop would.

What killed so many kids was the lack of anyone around to protect them. They were like fish in a barrel for this twisted two-fisted shooter. Why not give teachers the option of qualifying with weapons and arm them? I know, I know; it’s a bit laughable since most of our academia would run away and blanch at just the thought of carrying a weapon, but not all of them feel that way. We trust all kinds of people to protect us; most policemen are just common folk with high school educations and yet we slap them into a uniform and give them a gun and a nightstick and bid them to go forth and protect.

After 9/11, the same calls for self-protection went up among airline pilots. A lot of them are military veterans and want to be armed, especially when they found how their innocent airline pilot comrades had had their throats slit like slaughtered farm animals by the 9/11 jihadists. I’m sure you won’t hear the same hue and cry coming from college professors since most of them don’t see themselves as macho kick ass types. Still, we don’t need all of them armed, just a few for “just in case.”

Virginia Tech doesn’t even allow firearms on its campus, but with one so sprawling it is impossible to keep them out. Since our schools can’t possibly keep firearms out then the best way is to selectively arm certain teachers, advisers and even some students, such as veterans, so that they can defend the rest of the student body for “just in case” situations. We do this now on civil airline flights now with the flight marshal program.

Let’s face it. Even cops these days are almost useless in these types of crazy gunmen situations. At Columbine the local cops stood around outside and basically watched while waiting for backup and SWAT. If they had immediately moved to the sound of the guns they WOULD have saved lives. It isn’t entirely their fault because “by the book” they did what they are supposed to do. Caution is their watchword, but it means death to hostages not yet killed, or not yet taken hostage, or to those bleeding to death while the police stand around with their figurative thumbs up their butts.

The answer is more guns. Arm teachers, advisers, principles, school nurses, lunch ladies—any law abiding school employee or any citizen who is willing to submit themselves to the required background checks and willing to take the on-going training to become and to stay certified as volunteer policemen, just like Shaquille is. It sounds crazy but it could save lives.

Simply banning all weapons from a campus like VA Tech obviously does nothing but provide defenseless sheep for the slaughter. Let's arm some of the sheep.

Much Ado About . . . Imus

I always get a kick when white politicians and pundits learn how flat out dangerous it can be to talk to and about black people. I also find it hilarious that they never seem to learn. Every month or two some new Caucasian big shot learns this lesson anew. And it doesn’t matter if what is said is “Imus bad” or even something ostensibly nice—regardless, these white bigmouths find themselves tangled up in their own guts.

Just a couple months ago Senator Joe Biden, a white democratic bigwig, “screwed up” when he dared say that black presidential candidate, fellow democrat Barak Obama “…is articulate…;” he practically got crucified just for “the implication!” (So Biden, you find it unusual that a BLACK man could possibly be well-spoken, do you?!) Implausibly, Biden found himself bullied into having to apologize for his “insensitivity and thoughtlessness.” Ha! Another white victim, and a liberal one at that, learns a hard eternal lesson!

A few years back in Washington D.C. some white bureaucrat got fired for using “racist language” by the black person in charge because the word “niggardly” was used in a report. The fact that “niggardly” means “stingy” and has nothing to do with the “N” word evidently escaped certain people’s attention. Lesson learned: Avoid, dodge, elude!

I’ve fallen into “the trap” a time or two myself. Long ago one of my so-called black buddies put me on the spot when I innocently used the word “boy” in a sentence referring to him. He took great exception to that even though I’m sure he knew better. It’s “that power thing” that American black folk have over us white folk when it comes to such rhetorical matters. For me, it was “once burned and never again.” I’ve found that avoidance is the best policy, because apparently it’s too easy to slip up. And even though not all blacks are prone to do this, you just never know when it COULD happen. Therefore: Dodge, avoid, elude!

I used to listen to Imus occasionally, usually by accident while getting ready for work if the TV happened to be on that channel. He irritates the hell out of me, almost as much as Howard Stern. My impression: He is a self-righteous cranky old man with nothing nice to say about anybody. After watching the clip where he dropped the “nappy-headed ho’s” bomb, it seemed entirely in character from what I remember of him. These college girls just advanced to the national basketball championship and he said something snide about them. That’s just who he is and who he’s always been. It seems there’s an audience out there that appreciates such mean-spirited observations and those are the people who listen to the jerk.

I can also tell you this with a reasonable amount of certainty: There aren’t a whole lot of black people, if any, watching and listening to Imus. That means that some white person spilled the beans and tattled to the likes of Jesse Jackson, The Rutgers Female Basketball Team, and Reverend Al! (That’s a joke by the way.) Just the same, when you listen to the Imus comment it’s obvious that it was a throwaway line said practically under his breath. The media is having a grand old time with THEIR “nappy-headed ho’s” story, and from what I can see its one they are doing everything possible to KEEP stirred up.

As I said, Imus isn’t the first or the last white big shot who got his pale nose slapped hard for not watching his “black people p’s and q’s.” I remember listening to Monday Night Football about 25 years ago to the announcer Howard Cosell as he excitedly declared during an outstanding running play, “LOOK at that lit-tle MON-key RUN!” I laughed and yelled at him on the TV, “Howard you’ve REALLY done it now man! You are FINISHED!”

That night Cosell committed THE ONLY unforgivable media sin being: “White guys saying “stuff” about black people!” Sure enough, after that, old Howard was washed up. It didn’t matter how sorry he was or that he didn’t have a racist bone in his body.

I don’t think Imus is a racist either. I WILL tell you this though, he’s a liberal who got careless. He thought his "liberalness" would protect him from himself. On top of that, ironically, he got a little TOO “ghetto” for his own good. There’s nothing more ridiculous than a white person trying to “talk black.” I’m sure black guys are quite entertained and probably more than a little contemptuous of white guys they see wearing their hats sideways while holding their crotch and talking smack. In effect, that is exactly what Imus was doing: he was trying to be hip and “talk ghetto.” Most of the girls he was referring to are black, and trying to be funny in his “Imus way,” he described them in “black speak.” What he was trying to say is that those chicks were some tough-looking, hard-playing gals and NO WONDER they kicked butt. The problem is that Imus is white and therefore he is not allowed to “talk black” about blacks. A black comedian can get away with it, but not a WHITE Imus!

“Nappy-headed ho’s” is the vernacular of gangster rap, AKA, “Ghetto music.” LOTS of Americans—White, Black, Asian, Latin, you name it—actually use that kind of language in sentences everyday all across America. Unfortunately, “The Ghetto” is not just a place in the inner cities anymore, now it’s a UNIVERSAL frame of mind. “Ghetto or Gangster Speak” has become mainstream and is being spoken by EVERYONE these days; even, it seems, by grumpy old radio announcers in their 60s. Imus too, evidently, has been influenced by “Ghetto Speak” and in a moment of weakness, or perhaps senility, he let some come out on the air. Oops. What it tells me is that he probably talks this way at times off the air, because when he said, “Nappy-headed ho’s” it came out sounding WAY too natural.

Watching old Imus today get grilled royally by Al Sharpton was quite a thrill for me. Imus and Al are on the same side politically and yet there was the “good reverend,” not a forgiving bone in his body, demanding that Imus quit his lifelong profession no matter how much Imus said he was sorry to “You people.” I got a huge kick watching Imus’ disbelief that Sharpton was going to try to catch him up with that old “You People” booby trap. It reminded me of another white guy, a little white Libertarian fellow, Ross Perot, who fell on his own “You people” sword back in 1992. Remember? Check it out from Wikpedia:

“Perot was criticized for a remark made during a speech at the NAACP convention. Perot was sympathizing with the plight of African Americans during tough economic times, but referred to his audience as "you people", a phrase that was loudly objected to by some members of the audience, and deemed insensitive by the media.”

You see what I mean? When it comes to us white folk, when we even TRY to pet the “black panther” we will probably get our “well-meaning” “good-intentions” hand bitten off (grin!). And the BEAT goes on, right Imus?

Personally, I don’t care about Don Imus, never have. He’s been insulting people and saying outrageous things for 30 years, so maybe its time he retired. I say let Reverend Al have his way and make Imus retire in shame. After watching “Sorry Imus” perform his endless and obligatory “sorries” on the “Mea Culpa Circuit,” regardless of what ultimately happens to him, Imus has condemned himself to being eternally apologetic, forever sorry for trying to be a white guy who tried to get away with “talking black” about blacks. If he had insulted white people like he normally does then it wouldn’t have raised even a whisper. His mistake is a classic one.

It reminds me of a similar error made by one of my friends from Philadelphia, also a white guy. I don’t know what it is about that town, but a lot of guys I’ve met from there have a certain “way” about them. I guess you can say it’s a tough town and the guys from there are tough too. I know it’s a generalization, but they all seem to act and talk like Italian mobsters to me. What I’m trying to say is that “Ghetto Speak” comes very easily to “Philly Boys.” The mistake my friend made was while he was in the Air Force stationed in Arkansas while playing golf with a couple of his black Air Force “buddies.” Forgetting himself, the Philly guy made a comment about Doug Williams, a black Eagles quarterback at the time. Using “the vernacular” of the black guys he was with, he said something like, “Man! That f**king niggah can RUN!” The next day his two “buddies” turned him into the Social Actions Office for using words that they themselves routinely used, and with HIM! The fact that these black guys ALWAYS used the word “nigger” around my buddy lulled him into using it too—BIG MISTAKE! The incident effectively ended my friend’s career—he never made another rank because of it.

I think sometime today Imus is supposed to meet with the Rutgers girls. I have to admit that I smirked during their press conference today while listening to how “hurt” they were to hear how he had referred to them. Yeah right! Like anything he said had ANY effect on them. The whole thing is an obvious play to the media. Imus is an idiot for continuing to subject himself to these grillings. He’s already said he’s sorry and that he’s going to change “his ways,” so what more is there to be done? Perhaps he should commit public suicide? How about a hanging? I say, “Enough already Imus!” Just shut up and go to the Caribbean for your two-week suspension. After 30 years do you really need to keep working anyway? In “the vernacular” of our times, "it’s time to retire you narrow-assed cracker Mother F**ker!" Oh, and Imus, no offense buddy.