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!

Part 4: VA Disability Claims Advice

• Do NOT wait to file! Let me stress the importance of NOT waiting years to file for disability by describing what the VA requires to grant service connection for a disability.

· First, for most conditions, you should be able to show that it existed while on active duty, or was diagnosed within one year from the day you got out.

· Second, you must have medical proof that you currently have the condition.

· And finally, you must show nexus, or proof of “connection,” which is best done by medical opinion (See "medical opinion..." below) from your doctor that your claimed condition is indeed the same condition that you suffered with while in service… Since some veterans wait years to file, many can show little or no evidence of treatment for the claimed disability over those years since discharge. By the VA’s rules, they can deny service-connection to that veteran for lack of proof that the current condition began in service. The rationale is that the problem might not be the same one shown in the veteran’s medical records.

· (For instance, you show a knee injury in your service medical records 5 years before discharge and you also checked the “knee problem block” on your last several active duty medical exam questionnaires. Its now 5 years after discharge, and you have little or no post service medical evidence to show that the knee has continued to be a problem. YOU KNOW or believe that it is, because it’s been painful for 10 years. All well and good, BUT, the VA needs medical proof and opinion that states as much. Also, if continuity of treatment evidence is unavailable, personal affidavits from workmates, friends, relatives, etc. ARE acceptable as evidentiary documentation that can be submitted).

• Appeal—and DON’T QUIT! Keep in mind that if your initial VA decision is not to your liking then you should appeal it. My experience with the VA disability claims process is that it is nearly 100% faulty. In other words, if you receive a VA decision letter, chances are they screwed you.

· A common VA decision error is to underrate conditions, but worse than that is their notorious disregard of their “duty to assist” the veteran by explaining exactly WHY a claim is not considered service-connected, and more importantly, to explain WHAT is needed to show that service-connection. Instead, they will only state that no evidence was submitted or that it is insufficient, or that the condition is not shown in the vet’s service medical records. OR, they state that there is no current diagnosis of the claimed condition. HINT: The VA will NOT normally provide it for you, especially here in the Philippines! Usually all that is needed to counter ALL this so called lack of evidence is a medical opinion from YOUR doctor (see "medical opinion..." below).

· The claims process is broken with a huge backlog that is getting bigger. Much of this backlog is due to the VA’s poor decision-making process, which results in errors and subsequent appeals. The VA in Manila brags that it has only a 15% error rate, but that is untrue. Evidently, they ONLY count the errors brought to their attention by complainants, and don’t count what they consider to be “minor” ones. I can tell you without a doubt that nearly every decision turned out by that office contains errors, so that in my opinion they have a near 100% error rate! Personally, I have little confidence in them and can find important problems in virtually every decision letter they send out. No wonder their backlog is so big. Once veterans learn that nearly every decision is suspect, THEY WILL challenge EVERYTHING, which only adds to the backlog.

· As I said though, appeal and DON’T quit. As long as you can survive the lengthy appeal process, as long as you have the evidence and medical opinion, you WILL most certainly prevail.

Reopening Closed Claims. A claim is considered closed 1 year after the VA’s decision unless the veteran has appealed it within that year. Reopening it means providing “new and material” evidence that is pertinent to the VA’s “reason for denial.” Many vets think that they have to find “old” pre-existent evidence from the time of their service, but this is not necessarily true, although it could be. The most common form of new and material evidence consists of your doctor’s medical opinion (see below).

• Medical Opinion is CRUCIAL!

· This opinion should be written by YOUR physician to state that he/she believes based on current diagnoses and treatment, assessment of service medical records and all subsequent medical records that the current condition in question more-likely-than-not IS service-connected or was caused by or made worse by a currently service-connected condition. It sounds kind of complicated, but truly its not.

· A common mistake by veterans is to use the VA doctors’ medical opinion ONLY. This is dangerous, since the vet is now at the whim of the VA. Remember, when it comes to the ratings process, the VA IS THE ENEMY! When you throw yourself at their mercy, keep in mind they HAVE NONE! Costly though it is, GET YOUR OWN MEDICAL OPINION from your OWN doctor. It will certainly be even MORE costly when you leave it up to the VA to provide the opinion. Consider the expense an investment. Do NOT hope that the VA will do right by you, because they almost assuredly will NOT!

• Use the Internet. Knowledge is power! Therefore, go on line to the 38 CFR (US Code of Federal Regulation Sections 0-17 specifically parts 3 and 4) and become familiar with it, specifically with parts 3 and 4. It is the procedural manual the VA uses in adjudicating disability ratings for veterans. It includes all the possible disabilities, the codes assigned to those ratings, the various levels of severity, and a whole host of other valuable information including every part of the claims adjudication process. Use this info to first figure out what level you should be awarded for each disability, and then when you get your initial ratings you can compare what they give you to what they should have given you.

Also, you can print out the ratings descriptions and show them to your doctor to see if he thinks you meet the next higher level of ratings severity.

· It is useful to know that the VA almost always underrates the veteran on his initial application and they actually seem to expect the veteran to challenge them for the higher level. This is best done by having your doctor use the criteria language verbatim from the ratings level charts in part 4 of the the 38 CFR.

· As part of the initial appeals process, an entirely different rater will evaluate your claim, and by regulation, this new rater MUST take your doctor’s evidence to heart and give you, the veteran, the benefit of the doubt. (Well, that's the theory anyway).

• “Perseverance Works in Favor of the Veteran” should be your motto. The VA system rewards those that won’t take “No” for an answer.

Stay tuned for part 5. Also see parts 1, 2, and 3.

June 12, 1898 and July 4, 1946, Two Philippine Independence Days

I'm certainly not the expert on the facts surrounding Philippine Independence, but AS USUAL, I have my observations and opinions as an American outsider on what I see and hear over here.

So, when it comes to this topic, what DO I see? That's easy—not much, as in not much happening.

Like so many aspects of this country's history, Philippine independence seems to inspire little more than ambivalence among the common folk that I know. It’s not really even celebrated, at least not like what I’m used to back home. I can’t imagine such indifference in the States during our own July 4th celebrations. Yet, based on the actual events of June 12, 1898, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In the end, things did not go well in the months and years that followed. By the end of 1898 a soundly defeated Spain ceded the Phils to the United States, and right or wrong, President McKinley decided to keep it. What followed was The Philippine Insurrection, a long war that was ultimately lost by the Filipinos to the USA.

The average citizen doesn’t know that June 12 was not even the original holiday. Or perhaps more appropriately, they don’t realize that it HAD BEEN the original, before being superseded. Until 1964, starting from 1946, July 4th was THE day marking this nation’s independence. The current president’s father, Diosdado Macapagal, who was the president in 1964, must have decided that sharing July 4th with the U.S as their Independence Day was just too much a source of national embarrassment.

I can understand the pride that went into his decision. After all, the way they see it, we “granted” them their sovereignty. The July 4th date was a reminder to those mostly academics and elite “in the know” that their freedom was more our decision than it was theirs. Basically, the Americans “gave permission” to the Philippines that it was ready for self rule, and that must have been a pretty bitter pill to have to swallow.

At the time, it was probably done in what we thought was a spirit of good will, but in hindsight, we should have done it on a different date—like June 12th maybe? But, who knows—(And I’m sure someone does)—perhaps Filipinos were in on the decision as well? To put it mildly, sometimes feelings between nations change over the years. In the jubilant months just after WWII I’m sure there was a lot of Filipino-American cooperation and friendship, which apparently had melted away by the 1960s.

Interestingly, the original 1898 declarer of Philippine Kalayaan (freedom), Emilio Aguinaldo, was still alive in 1964 at the age of 94, when President Macapagal made his decision to change the official date of independence to June 12; although Aguinaldo died on February 6, a few months before the actual new independence date could be celebrated. Knowing politicians and their sense of the theatrical, I’m sure Macapagal wanted to make some political hay out of having Emilio around during the big kick off.

In a way, the Philippines has three Independence Days. It could be argued quite strongly that the overthrow of the Marcos Regime on February 25, 1986 is THE most appropriate day of the three to celebrate. And without a doubt, of the three holidays, the February 25th EDSA Day is probably the most understood by the populace. Sadly, not much has changed here since then. I clearly remember the heady exuberance and optimism that followed the days of “people power.” Unfortunately, not much has come of it.

Academics here would never admit to such a thing, but the Philippines was neither ready nor capable of maintaining its territorial integrity in 1898. The Spanish had seen to that. Thanks to the Spanish, indigenous Filipinos did not speak a common language; they spoke a sea of them. And, the host of different peoples certainly did not yet have a sense of being part of a single nation nor did they share a culture, except for that given to them by their Spanish overlords. Thus, the archipelago was easy pickings for continued control by the rest of the colonialist world. The Dutch, Germans, Brits and a host of others were waiting for the U.S. to leave so they could swoop in, pull it apart, and take over.

Personally, I think the July 4th day, now called Filipino American Friendship Day, is the one that marks the true spirit of Philippine independence. By the end of the war against Japan, Filipinos had certainly proven they were capable of self-rule. And even though it could be said that we had consented to their sovereignty, in reality, it was pressure from the Filipinos themselves that had finally made it happen.

Then again, who says that any country has to have the same kind of spirited Independence Day that the States have? After all, the French still proudly celebrate their so-called Independence on Bastille Day, which marks the day in 1790 when the masses stormed the hated Bastille. Thing is, it was also the start of one of the bloodiest and most unsavory periods of France’s history. Who needs that?

Human Trafficking in Angeles City?

I was just looking at one of the Wikepedia articles entitled "Human Trafficking in Angeles City." What a piece of misleading propaganda!

In it, the author claims that this place is a haven for sex tourists looking especially for child prostitution opportunities. Wrong. Any tourists coming here to Angeles City looking for kids will be disappointed, will put themselves at great risk, and they shouldn't even try. They MIGHT be able to find an underage bar girl who lied about her age to get a job in one of the clubs, but she certainly won't be a child.

Granted, this is an exceedingly poor country and you WILL see children living and playing on the streets, more so in Manila. It kills me every time I drive through it. I see unsupervised filthy kids aged 3 and up all over the place, apparently living on the streets. Sometimes I have to just close my eyes to it or scream. It tears me up to see those innocent little children playing in the gutters or begging for beria (small money) in traffic. If there is a place ripe for child trafficking then MANILA is where it is happening. It's not here.

I'll tell you why child prostitution is not happening in AC. Around here, the police and other opportunists are always on the lookout for some idiot tourist who is asking around for sex with kids. Countless pedophiles have come here and paid out the nose for trying to make "an arrangement." What happens is that they will make a deal with some local "pimp" and they'll wait in a drive in "love" hotel for the girl or boy to delivered. Instead, a squad of cops will bust in. From there, the hapless tourist will be made to pay some large sum or go to jail.

Its a great scam for the people on the receiving end of the pay offs, because they ALWAYS get their money. They'll take a check, your credit card, or they'll even escort you down to an ATM machine. If you insist that you have no money, no problem! They'll just let you stew in a cell with 20 local unwashed criminals until you convince your parents, or your friends, or siblings, or ANYONE at all to advance you the cash. It could cost you anywhere from $5,000 and up, usually UP, depending on their whim at the time. And remember, none of this will be official.

Or, you could try to make it official and claim innocence. BIG mistake! You will probably sit for a year or so in a standing room only cell, again with a host of other cell mates where you will take your turn for the opportunity to squat in a small area on the concrete floor, while you wait JUST to be charged. I've only seen one American actually wait out the system in these conditions, and only because he in fact did not have any money. After a year he was released with all charges dropped. Chances are they let him go only AFTER they realized that he really and truly DIDN'T have any money to pay his way out.

What pisses me off about articles like the one in Wikpedia is that it actually misleads pedophiles into coming here and trying their luck. Sometimes I think the contributor is in cahoots with with the con men who prey on the would-be child rapists. Well, don't fall for it. Do NOT come to the Philippines for kids. I live here. I have my own children and I don't want your kind anywhere around me or my family. Go to Thailand or India for it and stay away from the Philippines!