A Memorial

GySgt John Fredette

His name was Gunnery Sergeant John Fredette.  Most Marines I knew thought of him as a mean S.O.B.  Actually, he was a nice guy, thoughtful and considerate to us who found ourselves under his command.  He also happened to be one who took pride in being a United States Marine and expected his charges to reflect the same.  He was a professional and conscientious about the tasks put before him and expected his Marines to be also.  He expected a diligent and thorough effort in each task he assigned.  He thought a Marine should take pride in their appearance with uniforms that were "squared away" and haircuts that were "tight".  He carried himself with Marine Corps bearing that was an example for all his fellow Marines.  GySgt. Fredette is the only person I served with that lost their life during military service to their country.  I wish to honor his sacrifice on this Memorial Day.

It was a tragic and senseless death.  While on deployment to Cubi Point in The Philippines GySgt. Fredette was waylaid by thieves and killed for whatever money was on his person.  It happened just before the start of the Gulf War with Iraq. Our squadron was on alert for redeployment to the war zone.  Muslim fundamentalism was on everyone's mind and it was easy to start blaming radical Filipino Islamic groups for Gunny's death.  It seemed too coincidental to the jarheads in our squadron, VMFA-323, for it not to be related to the conflict between the US and the predominantly Muslim  Iraq.  Initially, we thought Gunny was the first casualty of the war, and our blood ran hot.  But, the evidence told a different story, that indeed Gunny was the victim of petty theft.  As Marines we mourned the loss of one of our own; as men and women we were heartbroken and devastated by the mindless taking of Gunny's life.

A patch made up to remember rear det

I was part of what was called a "rear detachment" or "rear det" in Iwakuni, Japan when I heard the news of GySgt. Fredette's murder.  While our squadron was deployed to The Philippines, rear det stayed behind in Japan to repair some extensive damage caused by an engine fire to one of our planes.  Rear det took the news of Gunny's death hard and we longed for the solidarity of our fellow Marines in The Philippines.  With the prospect of war looming on the horizon and the murder of one of our own, emotions ran high.  Rear det decided to do something to memorialize GySgt Fredette, something only a bunch of air wing Marines could and would think to do.  We took the available supplies we had and painted our nearly refurbished aircraft unlike any of the other combat ready F-18's in our squadron, and probably anywhere.  Instead of the flat gray body and nearly black modexing (what we called the lettering stenciled on the aircraft), we painted the nose and tail a dark gray, feathering in the middle the usual gray and snake bit the vertical stabilizers with our squadron's colors, brown and gold.  (A snake bite was a series of diamonds stenciled to the vertical stabilizers of our jets, making them distinguishable from other squadron's aircraft.  We would use the snake bite also to mark visiting aircraft and base static displays.  Just a little something to remember the Marines of VMFA-323 by.)   One Marine spent the majority of a 24 hour day hand painting a memorial inscription to GySgt Fredette on the nose landing gear door.  The finished plane was striking!  And we of rear det felt we'd done our part to remember our fallen.

Unfortunately, the base commander didn't agree with our sentiment.  It was our hope our memorial bird would join the squadron and fly to show the pride we held for our own.  And we knew when we started the project we'd might be disciplined and made to revert it back to the standard  paint scheme.  Our rear det Aircraft Maintenance Officer (AMO) lobbied hard to have the bird approved and, although he never knew about the memorial until after it was completed (we spent a weekend inside a closed hanger to complete the bird so that no one could order us to stop), he took all the heat.  Word was he wound up losing his commission over it, but he never told us about it or suggested he regretted his eventual role.  He was rear det, after all, and he was as proud of our bird as we were.  And he believed in remembering Gunny.  I find it hard to believe our AMO was so severely punished.  We did see the base commander yelling at him from a distance, our AMO locked into the position of attention while his superior barked in his face, probably with spittle flying from his foaming mouth, and scene Marines are all too familiar with.  But, our AMO did not continue on with his career in the Marine Corps, and after seeing his courage and leadership in relation to the aftermath wrought by our memorial bird, it was the Marines Corps loss.

We were eventually ordered to repaint the F-18, but not before everyone had an opportunity to see it.  Although we eventually reverted it back to the flat gray of a Marine fighter jet, rear det was glad to have the moments shared in our effort to remember one of our own, GySgt Fredette.  There certainly were no regrets in what we did.  And I'm glad to be able to remember him here, one more time.  He didn't lose his life in combat or in a war zone, but he died while serving his country in the United Stated Marine Corps, and although I'm still sad by the loss, I'm also proud of the sacrifice he made.  And I'm thankful that on this Memorial Day, I can offer a small remembrance for one who paid the ultimate price.  That was Gunnery Sergeant John Fredette, USMC.

the GySgt Fredette Memorial F-18

Needing Some Sleep, And Some Sanity

I sometimes can't help but to be incredulous.  It's something of curse.


The family and I were driving back from the beach after an extended weekend of sun and fun, listening to the banality that passes for popular music these days, when through the din three words caught my attention.  Now, I typically avoid pop music stations altogether, but playing it in the car keeps the ladies happy and I have developed an ability to ignore it, the music becoming white noise to my ears.  There's only so many Lady Gaga songs I can listen to before I have a psychotic break.  Still, I couldn't ignore a mention of something called shift work disorder.

Shift work disorder?  Really?  I couldn't get past those three words to find out what the mention was for, but I'd resolved to look into this thing called shift work disorder as soon as I had the chance.   Boy, am I glad I did.  The first web site I visited said that shift work disorder (SWD), "is a medical condition that can be diagnosed and treated by a doctor."  Interesting.  SWD occurs when your work schedule isn't in sync with your body's natural circadian rhythm for sleep patterns.  In other words, you work during the time your body wants to sleep.  At night.  And it's a medical disorder.  Consider the medical advancements of recent history; the artificial heart, various vaccines, the human genome project, Viagra, and now shift work disorder.  Medicine is amazing.

SWD can lead to insomnia and excessive sleepiness.  It can also lead to:

• Trouble focusing
  
• Sleepiness-related accidents
  
• Reduced work performance
  
• Missed family and social activities
  
• Increased irritability
  
• Worsening of heart and stomach disorders

During the time I served in the Marine Corps I spent most of the time working a night shift.  The scheduled hours were 4:00PM to 12:30 AM, but there were few days that I didn't see the day crew roll in at 7:00 AM.  In fact, if I were to get out of work by 3:0AM I would have thought it an early night!  My work was pretty demanding and required attention to detail.  We worked to maintain $20 million aircraft, so there was no room for error.  We worked long, hard hours, and I have to admit that I felt many of the related symptoms of SWD, as I'm sure many of my fellow jarheads would agree with for themselves.  The only problem is, I can't imagine any one of us complaining to our NCOIC (Non-Commissioned Officer in charge) or OIC (Officer in charge) that we seemed to be suffering from a disorder that caused us to feel sleepy, or irritable, or might reduce our work performance, or maybe caused us to miss a family activity.  No, that would have been an ugly scene.  Probably would have involved violence.  Remember, this is the United States Marine Corps.

Of course, there are ways to avoid SWD.  One such prescription I saw on a couple of web sites mentions getting enough sleep, say 8 hours worth.  You should also avoid varying work shifts or night shifts altogether.  And the one that really threw me for a loop, the one suffering from SWD can use caffeine or energy drinks to ward off the effects.  That's right, a cup-o-joe a day keeps SWD away.  These might seem to be common sense remedies to most people, but it still took medical professionals to "discover" this disorder, so maybe it's not as common as one might think.  (OK, actually these are common sense remedies, but I'm trying to give these folks the benefit of the doubt here, just to be nice.)

And finally, if you think you suffer from SWD, it's suggested you consult your physician, as there are pharmaceutical remedies that can help with the symptoms.  That's right, there are drugs on the market, prescribed by doctors, that can alleviate your sufferings from SWD.  I really don't want to be cynical here, but I can't help to think there might be something disingenuous about this whole mess.  An obvious result of being tired when you work hours that differ from your natural sleep cycle, symptoms that everyone who's ever been tired are aware of,  and remedies that have long been in use, like caffeine, and we somehow have a medical disorder here?  Could it be the pharmaceutical companies, in collusion with our trusted doctors, have found a way to market yet another drug?   I'll leave that question hanging for you to exercise your own cognitive skills on.  Enjoy.

Do you see why I'm incredulous?

In Consideration of Scumbags

I don't know how to describe the feelings I have about the recent political scandals that have surfaced this past week.  It's been a long held belief of mine that politicians are scumbags, and when one finds themselves embroiled in a politically compromising position I tend to think they deserve what they get.  Recently, two politicians (aka, scumbags) have stepped in it real good, Connecticut senatorial candidate and current state Attorney General Richard Blumenthal, and eight term Indiana Congressman Mark Souder.  Blumenthal has claimed military service he's not actually served and Souder, well, got caught getting naked with a woman not his wife.  Of course, neither of these incidents are unique and, in fact, are quite common among politicians.  A Google search will reveal many politicians that have been unfaithful to their spouses, and the idea that a politician will lie should not be alien to anyone.  The old joke that you can tell that a politician is lying by the fact that their lips are moving is always prescient.  Both man have made public statements.  Here are the videos of both statements and my unsolicited two cents worth.



Here we find Mr. Blumenthal apologizing for a "few misspoken words" about his military service in Vietnam, or should I say the misrepresentation of his service in Vietnam.  I'm not sure if he's defending his integrity or his bid for the Connecticut senate seat.  If I were to guess, I'd figure the latter to be more important to him.  I found the group of sycophants behind Blumenthal pretty unsettling and reminiscent of a Trinity Broadcasting Network praise-a-thon where Paul Crouch or someone of his ilk try to bilk the gullible out of their last dollar while a choir of on-lookers clap and nod their heads approvingly.  Politicians and televangelists simply shouldn't employ the same techniques of persuasion, they impugn each other.  (Yes, while channel surfing I have, on occasion, stopped to watch a praise-a-thon or two.  It's like an automobile accident,  you know you don't want to look, but you slow down and gawk anyway.  And they are both disturbing.)  And speaking of impugning, I found this statement from Blumenthal quite amazing, “But I will not allow anyone to take a few misplaced words and impugn my record of service to our country.”   Really?  Mr Blumenthal, I don't believe you need anyone to impugn your record, you're doing a good job of that yourself.



Being the "family values" candidate, an advocate for sexual abstinence programs, and an evangelical Christian, Mr Souder gives a tearful mea culpa as he announces his resignation after getting caught in an affair with another woman.  He also provides here corroborative evidence that not only are politicians scumbags, but that men are pigs.  It's a shame that with his moral credentials he would succumb to the wiles of infidelity.  Not only does he get to wear the scarlet letter of adultery, but one for hypocrisy as well.  When you harangue others from the moral high ground you make yourself an easy target.  I found this statement he made puzzling; "Quite frankly, I'm sick of politicians who drag their spouses up in front of the cameras, rather than confronting the problem they caused."  Is it wise to pass a moral judgment about another's mea culpa during your own?  I'm thinking not, especially in light of his own moral failing.

I have to admit that after watching both videos I did find myself somewhat sympathetic to both men.  Mr. Blumenthal found himself within the heat of a political campaign, and if he would have said "during" instead of "in" to describe his military service things would be quite different.  (Still, this situation reminds me of another politician who played with the semantics of the word "is".  I think you know of whom I refer.)  Mr. Souder has simply proven he's human, male, and imperfect. So, even though my regard for politicians is low I can't help but feel a bit of compassion for both men.  They both seemed sincere in their apologies.  I really hope Mr. Souder can mend the damage his infidelity has undoubtedly caused, at least for his family's sake.  Mr. Blumenthal might not have intended to mislead anyone about his military service (but I'm thinking the possibility is pretty good).  So, whether they are skilled liars and I've succumb to their powers of persuasion or not, I feel a tiny bit sorry for them.

And with that said, I can't say my assessment of politicians has changed.  Politicians are still, and probably always will be, scumbags.

A Few New Favorite Things

I have a new favorite burger.

I had the good fortune to meet my cousin and three of her children in Melbourne, Fl. this past weekend.  I don’t think I’ve seen her for 25 years and I’d never met her kiddies.  Of course, they’re all grown up and probably wouldn’t like me calling them kiddies, but I’m making up for lost time.  We met at an Irish pub called Meg O’Malley’s.  There were libations and laughs, and some darn good food.  And I found my new favorite burger, the Irish Breakfast Burger.  This mouth watering mammoth was simply too tempting to pass on.  Here’s how they dress up this half pound chargrilled  hunk of beef; rashers (bacon), bangers (sausage), grilled tomatoes, caramelized onions, Dubliner cheese, and topped off with a fried egg.   Now that is simply ridiculous!  And amazingly tasty!  As I took my first bite of that tricked out bovine on a bun an immaculate chorus of the heavenly host broke out in song and I knew that the Irish Breakfast Burger would be on the menu in heaven.  Of course, if one was to eat many of these cholesterol packed fat patties they would find out sooner than later if my heavenly assessment is true, but as you checked out your taste buds would be dancing!

My son recently introduced me to my new favorite word to say out loud; synecdoche.  For it’s pronunciation click here.  It just rolls off the tongue.  Thefreedictionary.com defines synecdoche as :

A figure of speech in which a part is used for the whole (as hand for sailor), the whole for a part (as the law for police officer), the specific for the general (as cutthroat for assassin), the general for the specific (as thief for pickpocket), or the material for the thing made from it (as steel for sword).

If I were to use it in a sentence I’d say; “Dang, if that weren’t but the best cow I ever did eat!”  In this sentence the word cow ( the whole) is used to represent the Irish Breakfast Burger (the part).  A synecdoche.  Therefore, I can use my new favorite word and my new favorite burger in the same paragraph.  Pretty cool!

As a side note, I bet that if Archimedes had known of the word synecdoche all those years ago he’d have  used it instead of “eureka” during his main street streak show, just 'cause it sounds so cool.  What, you don’t know the story of Archimedes?  Check it out here.

And lastly, I’d like to share everyone’s favorite palindrome in describing my new favorite burger.  Thefreedictinary.com defines palindrome as:

A word, phrase, verse, or sentence that reads the same backward or forward. For example: A man, a plan, a canal, Panama!

it’s also defined as:

A segment of double-stranded DNA in which the nucleotide sequence of one strand reads in reverse order to that of the complementary strand.

Hm, interesting, but not applicable here.  I’m talking burgers.  The palindrome I reference is mm,mm, as in; “ That Irish Breakfast Burger was mm,mm good!”  If, in fact mm,mm is not a proper palindrome, then I’m claiming artistic license for this post.  I figure I can do that, being it’s my post and all.  If I have insulted any palindrome purists out there, then I apologize and I offer this bit of advice, get a grip.

Pictured below are the motley crew that partook of the aforementioned dining debauchery at Meg O’Malley’s.  It was, in deed, a good time.  If you must know, The Muller is in the middle.  If you look closely, you can tell he’s thinking of himself in the third person.  Go figure.  And please pardon this jaunt through the dictionary and the historical reference, the burger was simply that good.  Oh, and the family time? Well, even better.

Uranus is in Conjunction With Your Moon

My son’s high school principal was also his first grade teacher.  She’s actually been with him throughout his entire schooling.  She knows him better than many of his own family does.  In fact, she’s been like a second mother to him over the years.  She’s been there for him in difficult times, she’s help direct him in his accomplishments, she’s taxied and fed him more than would ever be expected of anyone to do, and she’s been, and will always be, his friend.  And she’s a very dear friend to our whole family, as well.  That’s why yesterday at my son’s graduation I felt compelled to make a confession to her about something that happened back in her first grade class.  Something I caused and never came clean about all those years earlier.  Something silly, maybe even easily forgotten, but something I’ve always remembered and wanted to share with her.

You see, my dad, despite his insistence for logic and reason in all things, was a believer in astrology.  You probably wouldn’t think he had a predilection toward anything metaphysical or of a divining nature upon first meeting him, but in fact, he was quite passionate about the influence the alignment of the heavenly bodies have on our lives.  After further consideration on my part as an adult concerning astrology, I concluded it to be hogwash.  Of course, I never was so explicit about my feelings with my dad, but we did have some disagreements over astrology and I was able to relate my disbelief, a bit more delicately than actually calling it hogwash.  We had some pretty good discussions over the plausibility of astrology.  Good times, indeed.

The incident for which I chose to confess happened because of that antipathy I had for astrology.  My son’s first grade class was learning about the solar system, and on one particular day they were learning about the names of the moons for each planet.  At home, when our son was sharing about the different moons throughout the solar system, I spouted out a pun I found pretty darn amusing that was a play on astrology terminology. I said something along the lines of, “I wonder what my dad would say about Uranus being in conjunction with your moon?  Get it, Ur(your)-anus in conjunction with your moon?”  Well, I’m the only one that found that one amusing, and after reading it I’m sure you can see why.  As bad as the joke was, my real mistake was saying it in front of my son.  You see, he didn’t know it was a joke.

The next day our favorite first grade teacher met Mom at the car.  The conversation went sort of thusly:

“Your son is so smart!”

“Oh boy, what did he say this time?”

“We were talking about the moons of Uranus today, and he shared how Uranus is in conjunction with it’s moons.  I’d never even heard of that before.  I was amazed he knew that kind of detail about the solar system!”

“Oh my goodness, but he’s precocious!  Son, get in the car!”

Eleven years later, as our family stood talking to our favorite first grade teacher and principal after our son’s graduation, I was compelled to make the confession.  I was apprehensive because I wasn’t sure how she’d take it, but I felt the air needed to be cleared. After, as I stood there with that puppy dog look of contrition on my face and my wife shooting daggers from her eyes at me for telling, she started laughing.  I think after all the years of teaching, this was but another inane story to add to her collection of inane stories.  But, I was glad I shared it, anyway.  And she said she was glad I shared it, too.

You know, she’s just great that way.  I’m so thankful for all the years of friendship.  I’m thankful for her patience and understanding.  I look forward to many more years of friendship.  As long as she can stand me, that is.

It’s as if God said, “Let there be Mama Schne (my nickname for her).”  And yeah, she is good.  

 

Graduation Day

He graduates today.

Today I see him with his Fender strat strapped on, working on intricate  scales and modes, then ripping through a Texas blues shuffle.  His hair’s disheveled, as are his clothes, much to his mother’s chagrin.  He’s not afraid to share an opinion, whether you've asked for it or not, and he’s quick with a witty retort, usually punctuated by a turn-a-round in the key of E minor.  He works most of the time now, to help finance his many interests, which primarily center around music.  He’s as tall as me and as strong as me.  Today, when I look at him I see a little of me and a lot of his mom.

He’s smart, he’s shy, he’s handsome, he’s moral, he’s talented, he loves his sister, he loves his mother, he irritates them both, he works hard, he plays fair, he doesn’t like to be tickled, he likes long walks, he plays Pokémon, he likes to go to church, he loves pizza, he loves to read, he likes to write, he’s not real fond of school, he still secretly plays with Lego's, he doesn’t care for football, he pretends to watch football with me, he says he doesn’t like metal music, he listens to metal music, his smile lights up his face, he takes his sister on late night trips to Dairy Queen, he says he’s not a computer nerd, he’s a computer nerd, he opens doors for women, he doesn’t always say please, he loves to stay up late, he loves to sleep all day…he’s my son.

Are there words enough to say, “Son, I love and admire the man you’ve become?”  Will I be able to express the pride I feel as he accepts his diploma?  Does he understand a dad lives vicariously through his son? Does he know I’ll always share his joys and feel his pains?  Will he realize I’ll be there whenever he needs me?  Does he know that I’ll always be a part of him, and he a part of me?

He’s his own man now, and I think he’s ready.  I dad tries to prepare his son for what lies ahead, the ownership of himself.  I’m apprehensive as he takes possession of his life solely,  but I know he’s more than capable, equipped with the knowledge he needs to be successful.  But I’ll be there when he needs me, with a little nudge here and a pat on the back there.  He’s graduating today, and he’s ready.  And I think I might be also.

Sunday Morning Mulling, May 9, 2010: An Atheist’s View From Fanling

Question with boldness even the existence of a god; because if there be one he must approve of the homage of reason more than that of blindfolded fear.

-Thomas Jefferson, letter to Peter Carr, August 10, 1787

I’ve recently read an essay posted at, The View From Fanling, that I found to be quite provocative and stimulating entitled, Knowledge or Certainty.  About religion, it’s author, Dennis Hodgson, states “that atheism is the default rationalist position”, and uses the essay to present a cogent explanation of his views on religion and faith.  He presents a rationalist retort to faith and dogma and contrasts it to scientific reason.  While he directly challenges Christianity, he maintains a respectful discourse and does not resort to any name calling.  As I continue to evaluate the fundamentalism that I practiced for many years, I found this essay raised a couple of points that I could take to heart.

One point he makes is that the Bible is not the inerrant book fundamentalist make it out to be.  He uses two illustrations, the first of which reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend about the very text he uses.  The text is Genesis 1:3-5, 16-19;

3 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
…
5 And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
…
16 And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also.
17 And God set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth,
18 And to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness: and God saw that it was good.
19 And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.

Genesis 1 (Authorized Version)

The obvious difficulty is that in this account of creation, light was created before it’s source was.  Rationally, this seems untenable.  My friend thought the same.  He’s a Biblical literalist and after reading these passages found himself conflicted.  How could the Bible be inerrant and contain such a contradiction?  I said something along the lines that if he was to consider the possibility that the author didn’t mean it literally, perhaps he meant it figuratively, that it might not be as difficult to comprehend.  To a Biblical literalist, this is not a sufficient answer.  We later revisited the subject after he consulted his pastor.  The rationale for this account  not being a contradiction lay in that we assumed there was no other light source before the creation of the heavenly bodies, that we had not considered the “light of the world,” God as the light source.  Although it takes some Biblical chicanery to come to this conclusion, it was sufficient enough to answer the contradiction and allow my friend to continue to believe in Biblical literalism.

This leads me to my next thought raised by Mr. Hodgson’s essay.  He says that dogma; 

“is a denial of the human spirit, a closing of the mind against questioning, against adventure, against discovery, against knowledge. Dogma would turn us into a regiment of ghosts, a tortured host of manipulated automatons.”

I say; “Amen, brother, preach on!”  And I hate to say it, but my friend’s response to the challenge of the Biblical text mentioned above is an example of what Mr. Hodgson says about dogma.  Instead of allowing the difficult text to lead him to inquire about his faith, he acquiesced to the default of Biblical literalism.  It seems all inquiry is limited by the pretext of one question; “will I go to heaven or hell?”  When fear is the prime motivation of one’s faith and religious practice, all systematic challenges will be seen as “unorthodox” and rejected.  Dogmatic positions seem to allow the fundamentalist a sense of certainty in the face of fear. Unfortunately, the resulting dogmatism stigmatizes the fundamentalist and they come across as close minded and unwilling to consider any position beyond the bounds of orthodoxy. In essence,  unable to be reasonable.  That is sad.

People of faith should not be afraid to challenge their beliefs.  Science challenges itself constantly, sometimes changing long held laws and axioms as new discoveries immerge and further studies are conducted.  There are new discoveries in the field of religious studies everyday, and those discoveries should not be shunned or discounted because they don’t fit long held dogma. 

Fundamentalists should not be afraid to challenge the truth claims of their faith.  People of faith should always be willing to challenge their beliefs.  At the very least, they would have a better understanding of what it is they believe, and that’s always a good thing.  And I think fundamentalists could learn a thing or two from Mr Hodgson.  It appears the view from Fanling is clear and panoramic and stands in stark contrast to the myopic view of many of the fundamentalists I have known over the years.  And that’s not a good thing.

You can view the entire essay, Knowledge or Certainty, by clicking here.

Bike Nazis

A friend of mine calls them bike nazis.  Not because they are sympathetic to the Third Reich, or because they have an affinity for swastika tattoos and skin tight hair cuts.  No, it has to do with their boorish attitudes and inconsideration for anything or anyone else while cycling.  When she sees a cyclist in multicolored spandex garb, she’s thinking brown shirts, clip in bike shoes, jack boots.  And I tend to agree.

Now, I’m not painting with a broad brush here, because my friend and I also ride bikes.  In fact, I see her more often on the bike trail than I do in other settings.  I’m fortunate enough to have a bike trail that parallels my route to work, and I bike several times a week. I get some exercise and also get to do my part for the environment.  I figure when this blue-green ball of terra firma finally explodes due to the ravages of the evil human race, I won’t feel as guilty as others and will be able to hold my breath a little longer than those out of shape types that didn’t ride their bikes.  I guessing that I and a lot of people from China, along with bike nazis everywhere, will be some of the last to succumb to the lack of breathable air.  And that’s a good thing, right?

Actually, she’s not nearly as clever as I give her credit for, I found the term defined online at Urban Dictionary.  Check them out, they're funny.  I also found a tee shirt I’d like to own on the site, but it’s nearly $34.  I’ll spend that money elsewhere. 

Here, I’d like to list a few characteristics I see in bike nazis:

• Bike nazis never wave at passersby unless they can ascertain that they too are a bike nazi.
• Bike nazis ignore all stop signs and red lights.
• Bike nazis will ride on the road instead of on the bike trail that’s just 20 yards to their right.
• Bike nazis usually ride in packs and will ride three abreast, regardless of how busy the traffic is behind them.
• Bike nazis think the slogan, “Share the Road” means sharing with motorists the same 15 mph they’re peddling, regardless of the 45mph speed limit that’s posted for that road.

I’m sure you could add a few of your own.  Don’t hesitate to do so in the comment section below.  I’d love to read them.

I had an encounter that helped persuade me to agree with the title of bike nazi.  It was a hot and steamy summer morning, and  I was cycling to work.  I saw three cyclists coming towards me about 100 yards away.  We were at the narrowest part of the trail and they were riding three abreast.  I was as far right as I could go, but there wasn’t room for us to pass.  At about 75 yards the guy directly in my path saw me.  He didn’t move.  He simply stared a me.  As we got closer, he and I were staring each other down.  I had no place to go as there was a fence to my right.  I rode on.  He kept coming straight at me. 

I resolved to not give any ground, as I had none to give.

He kept coming straight for me.

I steeled myself for the potential collision.

He kept coming straight for me.

I sped up hoping the extra momentum would give me an advantage.

He kept coming straight for me.

I remember thinking, “This is going to hurt.”

he kept coming straight for me.

Within 10 yards of colliding with me, he veered right and tucked in behind the other two.  I think I had the, “Oh Crap!” look on my face right before that.  Fortunately, disaster was averted, but I’ve held disdain for bike nazis ever since.

Still, I will continue to bike, despite the presence of bike nazis.  And I hold out hope that bike nazis will see the error of their ways and become considerate of others.  Am I hoping for too much?  Probably.  But I’ll hope anyway. And I’m thinking spandex isn’t a bad idea; you know, with all that chafing going on.  Just sayin’.

A Jehovah’s Witness Tract Comes in the Mail

It’s Saturday morning and you’re in the front yard washing the car or pulling weeds.  You look up the street and see a group of eight, maybe twelve people pile out of a car.  The men are wearing short sleeved oxfords with wide, striped ties and the ladies are in floral print dresses and hats.  They pair off and strike out in different directions, two of which are coming your way.  “Crap, they’re Jehovah’s Witness!'” you say to yourself.   You take your bucket or trowel and stash it up in the shrubs and make a break for the front door, hoping they didn’t see you.  Breathing heavy, your back pressed against the door, you hear the doorbell ring.  You wait, because you know they will ring it again.  You continue quietly waiting in the house another 30 minutes or so, just to make sure they’ve left your street.  Cautiously you open your door, scanning up and down the street, making sure the coast is clear before you go back out and carry on with your day.

You know you’ve done it; we all have. 

But going door-to-door is not the only trick up their sleeve.

My wife recently lost her brother to cancer.  Understandably, it’s been difficult for her and the family.  She’s thankful to all who have taken the time to visit and call to share their condolences.  She’s also thankful for all the sympathy cards she’s received.  Well, with one exception.  She happened to receive a note from a person she didn’t know.  It said:

Having read the obituary of your brother in the Orlando Sentinel, I can only imagine the extent of your loss.  Thankfully, The Bible offers comfort in the hope of God’s promise for the future:

“He will wipeout every tear from their eyes, and death will be no more, neither will mourning nor outcry nor pain be anymore.  The former things have pasted away.”  Revelation 21:4

May the enclosed pamphlet help you in this time of mourning, by providing additional comfort from the Bible.

In that letter was this pamphlet, pictured to the right.  It seems this woman scanned the obituaries, found my brother-in-law’s, and ostensibly wrote a sympathy note in order to proselytize.  When my wife told me about it I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

I did laugh after looking at the picture inside the tract.  The picture at the top of this post was cropped from that one.  After looking at those two blond girls they made me think of the movie Children of the Corn.  They look creepy to me, especially the one with her eyes rolled upwards.  As an attempt to provide solace by giving my wife this tract, I’ll quote my son; “Epic Fail!”

My sister-in-law is a former Jehovah’s Witness and was able to give us some insight into why this lady wrote to us.  Jehovah’s Witness are required to have 60 hours of field work, or pioneer time, each month.  Pioneer time includes the door-to-door witnessing we’ve come to anticipate on a Saturday.  When they can’t get their time in by actually beating the pavement, they can resort to writing letters to bereaving families they find in the obituaries. It’s also practiced by the elderly or others who can’t go door-to-door.

She also pointed out that Jehovah’s Witness, “really do think they are doing a good thing by finding other ways to share the ‘truth’.”  When my wife first received the letter she was incensed and ready to send a “letter of appreciation” back.  (I would hope her “appreciation” would not be expressed with expletives.)  But, after our sister-in-law’s comments and further reflection, she simply feels sad for this woman.  Sad that she feels compelled by her faith to proselytize even though it could be hurtful or offensive.  Just to make some arbitrary quota.  In the name of a dubious truth. 

Well, who knows, maybe one day you’ll be the lucky recipient of a conniption causing sympathy letter from you neighborhood Jehovah’s Witness.  I hope not, but if you do, instead of finding the closest Witness you can and shoving it down their throats, maybe you will think to have some sympathy for them.  

The Remains of a 700lb Burger (A Mish-Mash)

There’s nothing like watching a movie about missed opportunity to cause one to reflect on potential missed opportunity.  The Remains of the Day is a movie that tells the story of Stevens, an English butler of extraordinary loyalty and devotion who travels to meet a former colleague, Miss Kenton, for whom he possessed a great affection for.  Well, great affection understates his feelings because as the movie unfolds we see the development of an unrealized love between Stevens and Kenton.  After watching the movie again some 17 years later I waited in dread for the ending and their final departure, the last moment where Kenton's hand slips away from Stevens’, knowing this was their last time together.  It’s an emotionally charged scene that causes one to hope there is nothing so emotionally tragic in their own life.  I felt like watching a movie like 300 to get back to a state of emotional equilibrium.

As Stevens considered his past and the remainder of his life, I pondered things as well.  Nothing so passé as love unrealized, I’ve got that realized (Well, for the most part.  When I tick her off I think she’d like to kick me to the curb, but…).  I thought about how I precede with the remains of my day, my life.  And I thought about a 700lb burger.  A new friend of mine shared photos of the Fried Onion Burger Day Festival  were a gargantuan, 700lb burger was cooked and consumed.  I believe the festival took place somewhere in Oklahoma.  You can take a look at the photos here.  Her photos not only recount the process of preparing and cooking that huge monster, but also revealed she has a foot fetish and a love for classic muscle cars.  OK, I’m kidding about the foot fetish thing, she just happened to share a couple of shots of feet.  Looking at her photos of that massive future coronary and, dare I say it, her feet made me smile.  That looked like a good way to spend a day.

I also thought about a commencement speech given this past week by President Obama to the graduating students of the University of Michigan.  I’m terribly cynical when it comes to politicians.  I take an a priori  position that all politicians are scumbags and self serving.  I have yet to be proven wrong, but I hold on to hope.  Still, Obama said something that resonated with me.  He was talking about vitriolic political rhetoric when he advised;

If you're a regular Glenn Beck listener, then check out the Huffington Post sometimes. If you read The New York Times editorial page (in the) the morning, then glance every now and then at The Wall Street Journal.

"It may make your blood boil. Your mind may not be changed. But the practice of listening to opposing views is essential for effective citizenship."

I figure this is sound advise, even if it is coming from a self serving politician.  I liked it (just don’t tell all of my conservative friends).  I have personally  grown weary of the political polarization game. It’s something that doesn’t make me smile. Now, a person audacious enough to take a picture of her feet and share them makes me smile!  But, I’m being redundant.

You know, I hope there were enough people to eat that 700lb burger.  And I hope a politician choked on it.  No, wait, I didn’t mean that.

I can’t change the past, but I can choose to make the most of my remaining days.  Fortunately for me, my Miss Kenton didn’t slip from my hand.  Hopefully, hand-in-hand, we can make the most of the remains of our day,  with a smile and without regret.  And I need to ask her if she’s wanting to grill some burgers.

(yes, a couple of what seems to be non sequiturs, but I had spicy chicken before watching the movie)

Memories of Hiroshima

Four jarheads thought to make the most of their tour in Japan.  Just a couple months into a six month overseas “cruise”, we planned a weekend trip to Hiroshima.  Being young, adventurous and, by then, fully infatuated with Japanese culture, we planned the trip despite the perceived irony four United States Marines visiting a city destroyed by US nuclear weapons presented.  A city we would find out was dedicated to worldwide peace.   We later found our slight apprehension mostly unfounded, with one small and revealing exception.  And it was a trip of lasting memories. 

Hiroshima is a 40 minute train ride from MCAS Iwakuni.  We arrived mid-afternoon.  If you’re familiar with Marines you will know that a jarhead’s favorite pastimes are drinking, fighting, and dare I say it, sex.  Our main interest was the planned visit to Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park the following day, but the night belonged to…other interests.

With pockets loaded with as much yen as our US dollars would exchange for, we embarked on a perusal of the Hiroshima nightlife.  After a quick dinner we wound up in a club that we were under dressed for and which was quickly burning through our yen.  Although service was polite, there was no way to communicate other than by pointing at a picture menu.  Depending on how adventurous we were, this had the potential to be disastrous.  And was.  I wound up with a neon blue drink that was the equivalent of mentholated battery acid.  After the amount of yen I dropped on it, I was determined to finish it.  I actually attracted attention as I walked around with it.  I assume I was the only person dumb enough to order that nocuous concoction. But, you know, it got to be tolerable near the bottom of the glass. 

With our brains in a cloudy haze and being many yen poorer, we decided to move on to what we hoped would be a place more accessible to the likes of Marines on a budget.  As fate would have it, we found a quant hole-in-the-wall  populated mainly with non-Japanese; many Americans, but mostly Europeans.  We thought this quite fortuitous, but were soon proven wrong.  It seems that United States Marines are a distinguishable group. This bar was primarily frequented by beret wearing, peace-activist socialists who spotted us as Military cut, war-mongering capitalists (the beret wearing isn’t  metaphorical, there were many craniums sporting one that night).  There was so much tension in the air, I wasn’t sure we’d get out of there without partaking in a Marines number two favorite pastime (see above for a Marines three favorite pastimes).  We managed to mingle a bit, but it was obvious this wasn’t going to end well, if we stayed.  Braving a question of the bartender, we inquired of a place more suited to the likes of us.  She was very accommodating, with detailed directions to a club she thought we’d love. 

The club was located on the top floor of a building a couple blocks from the neo-hippie joint.  After the elevator ride to the top, I needed a head call (that’s Marine jargon for having to pee) and used the head (Marine jargon for  bathroom) located just outside the club while my party went in.  It’s weird to say, but I had never run into a group of men more cordial, especially in a bathroom.  It was a bit unsettling.  I left the bathroom and walked toward the club.  As I entered the club, I was greeted by a bunch of Japanese men who seemed tremendously happy to see me!  One man in particular came up to greet me with great enthusiasm.  The thing was, he was wearing a neon blue dress (much the same color as the mentholated, battery acid drink I had earlier), gaudy costume earrings and high heeled shoes.  The beret wearing, commie bartender had given us directions to a bar for transvestites.  I turned to look for my friends, just in time to see them getting on the elevator, leaving me only their devilish grins.  Some friends.  As  I waited for the elevator to make it way back up so I could make my escape, blue dress man earnestly beckoned me to come back as the rest of the crowd laughed hysterically.  When I met up with my so-called friends on the first floor, they laughed hysterically, too.  And so did I.  

After that, we found a beer vending machine on our way back to our hotel (they actually have those on the streets!), made some purchases and called it a night.

The next morning, four hung-over jarheads got up, cleaned up and made a short walk to the Hiroshima Memorial Park Museum.  The building known as the A-Bomb Dome lay across the river from our hotel and in sight along our walk, settling upon us a somber and reflective mood.  As we meandered  through the Peace Memorial Park on or way to the museum, the weight of being there pressed on us as we were of but a few non-Japanese there that day.  We stood out; four young Marines, engrained with proud bearing, striding with purpose, all the while being conscientious of who we were.  

We walked through the museum, looking at the statics, reading the placards and seeing the devastation caused by the nuclear bomb.  Seeing the destruction brought about by war, in general.  We experienced lives inextricably changed.  We vicariously felt pain and lose.  It was a moment we’d not forget.

After leaving the museum, we walked around Peace Memorial Park, taking in the different monuments and artifacts that were throughout, and reflecting on all we had seen.   As we walked around, I was approached by a young Japanese woman and asked if I would take a picture.  I said I would and held out my hand for her camera.  I’d misunderstood. What she wanted was for me and my friends to be in a picture with her family.  It was at her grandmother's request.  I looked and saw an old woman who looked like she could have been alive during the World War II bombing of Hiroshima.  I don’t know for sure , because I never asked.  She had a picture taken with me and then with all of her family together with all four Marines.  She turned to me and thanked me in Japanese.  I didn't understand her words, but I could see it in her eyes.  She seemed genuinely grateful that we had taking the time for those  pictures.  For some reason I didn’t think to have a picture taken with my camera and I regret that, but I will always have that memory. 

The train ride back was a solemn affair.  Sure, we laughed about neon blue drinks, transvestites and street corner beer vending machines, but we also talked about how ironic it was that it was foreign peace activists who hated us and not the Japanese, even ones presumably old enough to remember that infamous day of August 15, 1945.  That’s an irony I still think about to this day. 

Four jarheads thought to make the most of their tour to Japan.  Well, I think we did.

Lynn

The family gathered, but he wasn't there.
Fresh tears came, a few awkward laughs.
A picture frame fell. It said;

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

Consolations and memories were shared.
Outside his room, a green field dotted with gopher mounds.
A hawk soared by on the wind.

We stole a moment outside, by the fountain.
The sound of water diluted sorrow.
Blooming oleander leaned in,
along with laura pedlam more red than green.

With last goodbyes said, we drove away.
In the rear view mirror I saw him leaving as well,
But I knew he wasn't there.