November, 1963

I was in the fifth grade. In Upper Lake, we were released for lunch just a little bit early. My dad worked as a mechanic down at a service station by the highway. I walked down there, ten years old, and went with him next door to the Willow Cafe, now long since gone. The mood in the cafe on that cold November day was very somber, and me, being only 10 years old, was not quite sure why. Somewhere around 12:30 p.m., Upper Lake time, I found out.

It seems the President of the United States was dead. I knew the name. In fact, when I was only 7 and living in Los Angeles, I had stayed home with my mother in late January 1961 to watch the inauguration of John F. Kennedy on television. She had recorded it on an old Bell and Howell tape recorder, back when tape was on reels, and there was no such thing as videorecorders, let alone DVDs. I was 7, but I knew that something special had happened, and that things were never going to be the same for the place I lived.
In October the following year, I also knew that something dramatic was happening. I just didn't know how close we as a nation had come to total disaster. Soviet missles were 90 miles off our southern coast, and thanks to cool heads, and extreme fortitute, they were removed. It was JFK who saw to it that we were safe, the Russian threat abated, and no lives lost, neither ours nor theirs. So in November 1963 when I learned at the Willow Cafe that JFK was dead, I didn't know what to make of it. I only knew that a brave man, loved by many Americans, respected by even more, was no longer the president. He had left behind a beautiful wife, two great kids, and Camelot, just as in the mythology, would move to Avalon to await another day.  It's forty years later. I still don't know exactly who JFK was, or what might have happened had those shots not rang out over Dealey Plaza in  Dallas. But I know that it was a day that for most Americans, we came of age as a nation, understanding what we might have been, and what we still can be. We can be respected, without disrespecting others. We can be vigorous, without being domineering. We can be humble, without being subservient.  We can be mighty, without being cruel. We can be a bright light, shining for all freedom-loving nation. And, as JFK paraphrased, "the glow of that light, can truly light the world."
Forty years later, it's still not to late to rekindle that flame.

(Guest Opinion, Lake County Record-Bee November 22, 2003)

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A Few Notes in Passing

This past week saw the passing of several individuals significant to American culture. Jack Parr left us at the age of 85. And Bob Keeshan departed after a lengthy illness at age 76. Most of us would presume that Bob was much older. He seemed to have been an eternal senior citizen. He was a grandfather figure way back in the 1950's, when he first came to national attention.. So how could he be so young? In large part, it was because despite his youthfulness in the 1950's, he had always been our grandfather: a kindly man, soft spoken and gentle, the man we always wanted as a leader of our moral values, our gentle side, showing us why it was good just to be good, and that was okay just to be who we were, just to be who we are. Despite his actual age, he was the person we always wanted for grandfather, despite whoever our actual grandfather may have been. For those who did not grow up in the 1950's or early '60, you might not recognize his name. Indeed, I didn't know his real name until I was an adult. Bob Keeshan was Captain Kangaroo.
 

When the Captain hit the airwaves, I was only two years old. But I remember many a Saturday morning with him and Mr. Green Jeans (Lumpy Brannan), Mr. Moose, Grandfather Clock, Bunny Rabbit, Tom Terrific, Dancing Bear, and all the other characters who inhabited a place of wonder called the Treasure House. Originally, the Captain was a museum guard, presiding over the museum (the Treasure House). Later, it became his home and a place where he lived and apparently was master of all he surveyed. Even as a child, I knew, trusted, and loved the Captain. He never lied, never steered us wrong, and never allowed for others to do the same (except for Mr. Moose's penchant for dropping ping-pong balls on the Captain when the mood struck).  After his service in the Marines, Bob started a children's program. And shortly thereafter you may remember a clown character he created. He was the original Clarabell on the "Howdy Doody Show." It was a role he later gave up to Willard Scott, and several others.  Some have compared the Captain with Mr. Rogers, Fred Rogers who passed two years ago. But the only real similarity is that neither chose to talk down to children, nor chose to occupy them with animations, music, or stories that served only to occupy what some might categorize as limits on their attention spans. Instead, Captain Kangaroo took the time to become a friend, a confidant, a pater familiar, a signpost of strength when everything else seemed commercial and weak.
 

Perhaps I am only rhapsodizing about the passing of the Captain because I too am a baby-boomer, when yet another icon has passed. But in retrospect, nothing before, or since, has seemed so familiar, so comforting, so educational, so socializing as the Captain.
Bob Keeshan was a great human being. A former Marine who choose to educate and comfort children via television. And in doing so, helped shape, mold, and educate a generation. Nothing before, or since has seemed so personal, so comforting, so inspirational as the simple instruction the Captain provided.  Now, even at 50, I will miss the Captain. As I grow older, I know that many more of my icons will pass. George Harrison is gone, as is John Lennon. Forget their individual politics. They were part of my youth, and I feel cheated that John was taken so early, or that George was taken by the ravages of disease. I remember Jack Paar, and many a late night when my parents would watch. And I don't discount that Paar was a genius, and the creator of an entire television industry and genre.
But I will miss the Captain more than any of those. He was a part of my childhood, my culture, my belief system, my friend, and me.

(Guest Opinion, Lake County Record-Bee January 29, 2004) A Walk in the Shadows

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The Next Big Thing

Ladies and gentlemen, the only original and creative genius of the modern age....
Is it Bill Gates, the creator of Microsoft? Or Ted Turner, the head of Turner Broadcasting, the owner of the MGM film library and media mogul? Or Steve Jobs, co-creator of Apple Computers and head of Pixar Studios? Or maybe David Elliston, the head of Sysco Systems, or Chairman of the Walt Disney Company Michael Eisner? Or who?

Welcome to our stage during this pre-purchased and commercial half-hour, the most original and creative entrepreneur... RON POPEIL!  Okay, wait a moment. You’ve never heard of Ron? What? You’ve lived the last twenty years in a vacuum? Let’s back up. You have no idea where light bulbs come from. You think electricity flows through your wires like water down a stream. You think toilet paper comes from the hall closet.  And you have never heard of a blender, mixer or toaster. That must be the case unless you’ve also heard of a device called a “Veg-o-matic.” You know. It slices and dices and makes thousands of Julienne fries. It can take a potato and make it into a thing of beauty, just before it gets dumped into a bath of hot oil. It can make your salad beautiful. And it could do all of those things without electricity and twenty years before anyone heard of a device called a “Cuisinart.” That, and plenty of mass marketing savvy, is the genius of Ron Popeil.  Ron is shameless in self-promotion, and who cares? It has paid off handsomely. Why? Because he creates devices that seem so obvious you wonder why you didn’t walk out to the garage and build one yourself. Take
the Veg-o-Matic, just for instance. What are the highly technical component parts of this kitchen magician? Two pieces of plastic, a couple of springs, and a set of cutting teeth that are variations of the old egg slicer that you’ve had lying in a drawer for a quarter of a century. Stick a carrot (or potato or turnip or tomato) between the upper pressure plate and the lower cutting blade and push down. That’s it. You’ve got a sliced vegetable. And Ron knew that Americans (meaning you and me) would rather spend $19.95 plus shipping and handling for a device that would do that in one push, and stand in the kitchen and do the same thing with a paring knife for free. Oh yeah, and a paring knife is a lot easier to clean. But Ron also knew that we (meaning you and me) love gizmos. We loved the Thermos bottle, because it could keep hot things hot and cold things cold, without knowing the difference. We loved digital dashboard displays in our cars, but they were only more expensive, not better, than the old analog dials and needles. We love DVD recorders and TiVo, even though we never learned how to stop our VCR’s from flashing 12:00 all the time. We love digital cameras while having a trunk full of cameras we never learned to use in the first place.

Look around your house. Is there an Instamatic somewhere in the den? A Polaroid in the attic? Maybe one of those Disc cameras buried in a drawer.  Forget ‘em! On to digital! Of course, the camera will cost your $200 to $1000, and you have to have a computer to use it ($1200), plus a color printer ($300). A roll of old 35 mm film was $4.00 and processing was about the same. But bring on the gizmos! We will love that gizmo, until the next one comes along, or we just get tired or it.  That’s why Ron Popeil is a multi-millionaire and we (meaning you and I) are not. We love gizmos, and will buy the next one to come along, only to set it aside two weeks later. So how many of you have a rice maker, a food processor, a drink mixer, a fondue pot, a Salad Shooter, a donut maker, a Fry Daddy (or Fry Baby) or dare I say it, an electric knife, sitting somewhere in a cupboard or drawer? I see a lot of hands out there.

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Auto Erotica

I’ve owned a lot of cars. Probably less than many people, and probably a lot more than some. But regardless, just like most folks, every car hold a story of its own.  My first was a 1960 Pontiac Bonneville. I brought it from a friend who had fried the engine. Not putting oil in an engine for two years tends to do that. The body was perfect, the engine was gone. It was not unlike a few friends I had in the early ‘60's in that regard. So I rebuilt the engine, and within two years sold it for twice what I had in it in costs. But it was a great car. Not sexy, or sleek, or cool, but reliable and steadfast. That’s why I had painted “Rocinate” on the side. That was Don Quixote horse, who was
reliable, and steadfast. I sold it, as I found another object of desire. I gave in to my father’s choice, and started driving a Chrysler. Not
just any car, but a Chrysler 300. To be more specific, a 1962 Chrysler 300.  It was a two-door hardtop. And best of all, it was red. It was sexy, modern, powerful, with an unprecedented electronic dashboard (and push-button transmission) and a total boat. This car was huge. But with it’s enormous engine, it would wipe out anything on the highway in speed. We’re talking 110 MPH or more. Well, to be honest, I know. It was more. Then I was seduced by another.  I bought a Mustang. It was 1969. It was green with a vinyl roof. It
was a two-door, with that great Ford 289 engine. Automatic transmission.  Power steering and brakes. A car one looked sexy in, just sitting in the driveway. A car destined for the ages. After a couple of years. The glamour diminished, the luster of modern fell away. It was time for another. But the next was like falling in love with your girlfriend’s sister. It was another Mustang.  I bought a 1971 Mustang. It was blue, and sleek, and big and bloated.  It was like your girlfriend’s sister on steroids. It had a bigger engine, a bigger body, faster speeds, more bells and whistles, and overall glamourous. But while it had so much force in size and sensuality, it had no soul. And it was sent packing a few years later.

My desires were stirred by a foreign beauty. Just as when one visits a country, not of their own, I was lulled into a romance by this foreign beauty. It was 1974. I was American. She was Italian. She was red. She was topless. She was powerful. She was low. And she was incredibly expensive. I bought a Fiat Sport Spyder.  It was one of those star-crossed loves. I wanted open air, top-down
romance. She wanted a tune-up and oil change. I wanted independence and sex. She wanted a mechanic very 1500 miles. It was a love never meant to be. So I gave in.  In the interim, I had married. Not a wise thing to do when one is in love with a car. So the Fiat went, and the Volvo entered. 

The Volvo was reliable, stalwart, stable, substantial. It was the car for the married man. It said “I am reliable. I am dependable. I will always be there for you. I am married.” I hated it. It was big, boxy, boring. And worst of all, it was green.  The Volvo went, and in its place was something new and different. Just how different I now fully appreciate. It so different as to be absurd. It was an AMC Pacer. You might remember this car. It was the car equivalent of the Air Force plane known as the “Pregnant Guppy.” It was bloated, windowed, underpowered and just quite possibly, the most ridiculous vehicle ever to have patrolled the roads of America. And I had one. It couldn’t get out of its own way, but alas, it was red.
 

Then there was a Dodge Colt, a Ford, another Chrysler product, and a couple of Hondas. At this point, my future transportation remains unclear. Of course, looking back, I made some pretty bad choices in cars.  How many people do you know that actually admit owning a Pacer? And when St. Peter asks me some day, I suspect his question will be “Why did you get rid of that first Mustang? Don’t you know what it’s worth now?”

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 The Day After

David Dixon was accused of choking his girlfriend. He was accused of putting his hands around her throat during an argument, and trying to silence her. The jury didn’t know it, but David was also accused of being previously convicted of two other violent felonies. In other words, he was about to be subject to California’s Three Strikes law. This most recent incident, if convicted, would send him to prison for a minimum of twenty-five years, and possibly as long as life. David said he didn’t do it, and he insisted on taking his matter to trial.

On September 5, 2001, David, his lawyer, the district attorney, and all other parties convened to commence his trial. That first day was spent in large part selecting the jury. About 70 local citizens were in the courtroom, and by the end of the day, twelve had been chosen. His attorney insisted that at least one of the members of the jury be black. That’s because David was black in a very white community.
Testimony began the next day, with various witnesses. None of the witnesses, however, was present when the actual choking incident occurred.  A police officer testified about responding to the scene. A dispatcher talked about receiving the call for help. And then an expert witness testified. She was a pathologist who said she specialized in choking victims. She had listened to a tape-recorded interview with the victim, and said she could tell from that interview that the victim’s larynx had been damaged by the choking. She also testified that she had never met the victim, nor heard the victim’s voice before the incident in question. She also testified that she had never testified as an expert in this subject before, and had only appeared in court on such a matter on one previous occasion.
As was the practice in this court, trials were only conducted on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. The trial actually commenced on a Wednesday, because that first week contained Labor Day, a court holiday, which backed-up the entire court calendar by one day. Thursday adjourned without hearing from the victim, and the matter was continued to the following Tuesday.

That Tuesday, David’s attorney was awakened by his clock radio at 6:00 a.m. on the west coast. The thing that snapped him awake was a story about an accident involving a small plane. A small plane, it said, had accidentally struck the World Trade Center. David’s attorney was out of bed quickly, turning on the television downstairs, where it quickly became apparent the accident did not involve a small plane, and was almost certainly no accident. As he watched, the second plane hit moments later.  Showering and dressing, David’s attorney drove to the courthouse where the trial was scheduled to resume at 9:00 a.m. The jurors assembled in the jury room. Court personnel and attorneys gathered in the judge’s chambers and listened to local network radio and television as the towers fell
to earth, and the magnitude of the events became more clear, if not more comprehendible. While waiting for the state to declare a judicial holiday, which it never did, one of the jurors reported that she had relatives in New York City and didn’t think she could concentrate on the trial. That was all that was needed for a court recess. The jury was excused. David’s trial would wait another day. It was September 11, 2001.

On Wednesday, the prosecution rested without calling the victim to the stand. That was because she didn’t want to testify, and had made herself unavailable to even be subpoenaed. The attorneys argued the case, and the jury retired to deliberate. Shortly thereafter, a verdict was returned.  All twelve members of that jury talked about the case. They talked about the expert, the officers, the absent victim. They did not talk about terrorists. They did not talk about who was responsible for the towers’ collapse. They did not talk about retaliation, or retribution or responsibility.  They had just be reminded of something they already knew: life is precious.
Perhaps more so today, September 12, than the day before. They returned a verdict of not guilty because they had no proof of the charges.

Perhaps David was really guilty. Perhaps not. But life and freedom are still precious, and always have been. So the jury, and the justice system errs on the side of life and freedom.  From that day on, every day is the day after September 11. At least,
it should be.

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Choices

Today class we have a problem in logic and ethics. You may take notes. You have three apples. A stranger approaches you and asks to share an apple, because he says he is hungry. Do you give him a part of one of your apples? Any answer you give will probably be wrong, because you don’t know the context. That’s a fancy word for understanding the circumstances surrounding the question or proposition. Let’s fill in some of it. Those apples are only part of the food items you possess. But you are in the middle of the great Kalahari desert, without a Safeway in sight. You left your Thermos at home. Do you give him an apple? Don’t answer yet.

He has been in the desert for three days. You just arrived. Ready to part with an apple?  He hasn’t had food or water for those three days. You have enough to last a week. Tempted to share?  He has a bus ticket out tomorrow, but you will be there for at least
another week. Does he get the apple yet? See? What’s the right answer?  How do you know what the right answer is? You don’t. And in real life, you won’t know either.  That’s why the problems we deal with in our daily lives are not simple, and the answers frequently allude us. Is it right to give him an apple and perhaps deprive yourself of sustenance? Or is it prudent to save the supply of food for yourself, because he might (or probably) will be saved tomorrow?

It’s more than just ethical questions. It’s about not knowing all of the facts.   Now suppose you had answers to all your questions about the circumstances.  Suppose you were asked to go to war, risk the lives of your sons or daughters. Suppose you were told that if you did not, the enemy would attack you and your family with nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons.  Suppose you were told the danger was at your doorstep if you did not act.  What would you do?

Now suppose there were no weapons. The danger was far more remote. Sure the enemy was bad, but posed no threat to you and your
family. What would you do?  Suppose you decided to go to war, and smite the enemy, because he might come in the night and kill you and your family. But after going to war, you learned he had no weapons, wasn’t preparing for war, and was not waiting outside your door. Instead, he was just a bad person who had hurt his own people, but posed no threat to you. What would you do?
 

Suppose after going to war and losing the lives of your family and friends you were told that the enemy did not have those weapons, but was a bad person. Suppose you were told that the real reason you were asked to go to war was because the enemy had attacked his own people in his own country thousands of miles away from your home. What would you do?  Suppose you were told he never had those weapons, or any means of producing those weapons, or any history of having those weapons, but was a bad person anyway, and that going to war was just the right thing to do, even though he never was a threat to you and your family. But now, members of your family are injured, wounded, dead. What would you do?

Suppose you were told that this bad person was connected to other people who had hurt you. He had someone provide support to others who had attacked you and your family. He must be a bad person, right? Now suppose there is virtually no evidence that the bad person was connected to the other bad people in any way. Suppose the person telling you this made up those claims.
 

Suppose it is November 2, 2004, and it is election day. You are asked to re-elect the person who told you about the bad person and his weapons and how he was waiting to hurt you, and how he was connected with the other bad people who had hurt you. And you now know none of it was true.  What would you do?

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By the Authority Vested in Me...
 

There’s been a lot of controversy lately about the propriety or legality of same-sex marriages. Now don’t get me wrong. I am not pro-homosexuality, nor am I anti-alternative lifestyles folks. I just don’t see what all the hubbub is about.  I was brought up in the Methodist Church, which is like being raised Lite Baptist in a way. The Gospels were taught from the King James version of the Bible, which even the most conservative among us must admit was a retelling, and a new translation of scriptures written 1500 years earlier. So all I’m saying is that one must recognize a difference between what really was, and what has been handed down. So far as I know, no one who has translated the Bible from the original texts, whether in Hebrew, Aramaic, Latin, or whatever was present as a first-hand reporter. That’s not to say they don’t contain some great stories. They do. The teachings of the man called Jesus are just as valid today as then. Love thy neighbor; What you do to the least of us you do to me; Blessed are the peace-makers. And many others. Who can dispute the wisdom and advice contained in the Beatitudes?  Who can call the Sermon on the Mount anything but poetry, and inherent truth? And who should doubt that, whether Jesus was the Christ or not, he was a great teacher?

What I do have trouble with is that I don’t recall Jesus commenting anywhere about whether the state should recognize same-sex marriages. Or that marriage had the sole purpose of procreation, which seems to be the primary argument of many on the religious right. Which is also why I am troubled with George W. Bush’s call for a constitutional amendment defining marriage as the union of a man and a woman. He says that the recognition by the state (meaning government) of same-sex unions will harm the very fabric of our society. Using a word derived from "sacred," which implies a religious significance, he says that we, as a nation, should protect the "sanctity of marriage." Is he talking about the sanctity of the union between Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley? The sacred vows exchanged between Britney Spears and, what was his name(?) in Las Vegas? Or perhaps any one of the exchanges of promises between Larry King and any one of his wives? Or the holy union of Carmen Electra and Dennis Rodman?  Any of Zsa Zsa Gabor’s marriages? Or Elizabeth Taylor’s? The holy union of Mickey Rooney and his wives? Ronald Reagan and his first wife? Newt Grigrich and his first wife, that he divorced while she was suffering from cancer? How "sacred" were any of those? What is his frame of reference as to the sanctity of marriage? Marriage has two definitions. One is secular, recognized by the state. It only takes a license and even a blood test is no longer required. The other is religious. Let religion recognize whatever it wants. The Catholic church says abortion is wrong, but the law (currently) allows it. Many religions say consuming alcohol is wrong, but clearly that’s legal, and even George W. Bush has so indulged. But what has that to do with whether the state permits or denies identical rights to same-sex marriages as to traditional marriages. They are two separate concepts, functioning within two separate realms.
 

I am not ashamed to admit that I have many friends who are, delicately put, committed to an alternative lifestyle. But what I do know is that because they are my friends, I am convinced they are committed to each other as well. And in many instances, far beyond the bounds that many of my traditional friends are not, nor have ever been.  The other problem I have is that I can’t see how recognizing the union of these people, who love and are devoted to one another somehow diminishes the commitment of those in traditional marriages. Isn’t the idea supposed to be that each promises to love one another? Be true and faithful to one another? Commit their hopes, dreams, hard-earned incomes to one another? Stand before God and man and say "This is my beloved, and to him (or her) I pledge my trough?" I thought that was the definition of marriage.  This may mean that Bride magazine might lose a few subscribers, and that the bridal registry at Nordstrom’s might not have quite as many registrants, but otherwise, how does this alter my commitment to either my spouse or my church or my community? And please, do not bring up the procreation argument. Birth rates among married couples have been declining for the past several decades, and it’s not because same-sex marriages were involved. Oh yeah, while birth rates among non-married partners, or parties, have been declining as well.
 

The promise to love, honor, and cherish a partner isn’t gender specific.  It’s universal.

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Traveling through Time

Today, travel is an immediate adventure. You can go to the airport even if it is a couple hours away, board a plane and be anywhere in the country in three to four hours. And with modern highways, and highway speeds, you can travel hundreds of miles in a short day’s drive. But something about that travel has certainly made travel commonplace. There’s no mystery, and no romance. Travel is no longer an adventure.  I’m going to show my age, but I remember being very small and traveling with my parents. We didn’t fly, that was expensive. That was only for certain travelers, business people, or globe-trotters. There was the train if you wanted to cross the country, but it too was somehow slow compared to travel by car. That’s how most of our traveling was done. But the thing I remember most, as a small child, was that all long trips began in the dark. 

 
We lived in southern California. So if we were traveling to northern California, or back east to see our relatives in Indiana, the trip always started at 4:00 a.m. Yes, 4:00 in the morning.  I’m not sure why those trips started so early. Someone told me it was
to get started while it was still cool, since many of the trips were during the summertime. If that were so, why not just leave after sundown? But we never did. Get to bed early the night before (and not sleep, anticipating the trip the next day) and arise at 3:00 to get on the road by 4:00 a.m. I remember being awakened, dressed, and bundled out to the car, where a bed of sorts was made up on the rear seat. And between the whirl of the heater, the hum of the tires, and the rocking motion of the car on the highway, I’d be asleep again within 15 minutes. Dad would drive, Mom would navigate.  Now, I drive over five hundred miles in well under eight hours. As a
child, it seemed like it took forever. That was before the great Interstate  highway system, the Autobahn of America. We relied on the U.S. Highways.  Complete with the round roadside juice stands that looked like giant oranges, curio shops, and places to dine that had giant illuminated signs that only said “EAT” in flashing letters. The speed limit was 60 miles per hour, but that was pushing it for a Nash Rambler.  Today, the speed limit on most Interstate highways is posted at 70.   Drive 70 and you’ll wind up with a Kenworth stuck in your exhaust pipe.  The real speed limit is closer to 90. No more roadside juice stands, no curio shops, no places for home-cooked meals.  Just lost of pavement and typical chain food outlets like Burger King and Taco Bell. And only those every 50 miles, instead of scattered up and down the road like those curio stands.
 

Traveling back to Indiana started the same, it just went on longer.  Driving out through Needles (the hottest place on the planet as I recall) and east on Route 66. There were also juice stands and curio shops, together with Stuckey’s, and places selling petrified tree pieces. There were reptile farms, detours to various caverns, Esso, Standard Oil and Tidewater filling stations. It seems so long ago.
If we were in a hurry, and we always were with one a week to spare, Dad would drive and Mom would sleep. Then after a while they would switch. Me, I’d just watch out the windows, fidget, sleep some more and ask if we were there yet. About eighty times. When we arrived, exhausted, we’d rest. After three days of visiting, we’d reverse course and do the whole thing again, backwards. It was what we called a vacation. 

Today, you drive to the airport and get on a plane. The airport may be near or far, but once there, the planes all look the same. You depart from an airport and arrive in another, and either could be anywhere in America.  They are generic, white, open, with the same news stands, candy shops, pizza bars. There’s the same Burger King and Taco Bell in every one. If the sign over the terminal didn’t say “Welcome to (fill in the blank)” you would have no idea where you were. Driving, you knew when you left one state and entered another. You knew where you were by the restaurant chains and the brand of gasoline sold along the road. You checked the map, and noted the next turnpike or toll road. From the air, there are no boundaries, no local businesses, no sense of space. Driving, you felt the bumps in the road and appreciated the vast distances you had covered, and that still remained.
 

Flying is a wonderful modern convenience that gets you from one side of the country to the other. It’s a necessity for many business travelers. But while soaring six miles up at hundreds of miles per hour, you never get to be lulled to sleep by the whirr of the heater and the hum of the tires on the road.

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O’er the Land of the Free

I was driving home this evening when I passed a car lot that had an American flag flying high above the used vehicles. And for reasons I cannot name, I started to wonder and question just what that symbol meant. I’m talking about the emotional connection between a tri-colored piece of cloth and me.

This exercise in understanding why I simultaneously love the flag and my country, and have grave misgivings about my government, was underscored by the radio broadcasts I was hearing at that moment. It was about the unrest in Fallujah, Iraq, the death of seemingly innocent civilians, more bombings, and the general apprehension and mistrust much of the world, or at least certain parts of it, now feels for America. When did we stop becoming the Golden Door so many foreigners dreamed about. What has changed in us, as Americans? What has changed with the rest of the world that would alter their view that we were indeed the land of the free and the home of the brave?
 

The answer, I fear, is that the American people have not changed, at least not dramatically. We are the same now as we were ten or twenty or fifty years ago. We are still folks who “yearn to breathe free.” We want the American dream: a home, a family, a job, security for our future. We want fair taxes, good roads, air conditioning, heat in the winter, and a good education for our children. We want to share our freedom with our neighbors, and give everyone a chance in this land of opportunity. So what’s gone wrong?
 

The answer, I’m afraid, is not pleasant, and many will disagree that it is the answer at all. Until the invasion and devastation of Afghanistan, we as a nation had never attacked a country that had not first attacked us.  September 11, 2001 was not an act of war by the sovereign state of Afghanistan. It was an act of terrorism by a group that was based in that country. One can argue that Afghanistan and the Taliban were inseparable, they were one and the same. Similarly, perhaps Al Queda and the Taliban were simply euphemism for each other. I don’t know, perhaps that’s true.   But I do know that Afghanistan was one of the poorest and least developed nations on earth when the first American bombs fell there. And we did nothing to improve that characterization. America, ally to a stricken Europe in WWII, and generous provider of aid to dozens of nations had squandered the support of the world after 9/11 by becoming a bully.  When we as a nation were told by our leaders that Iraq had WMD’s, including a developing nuclear capability, and must be stopped because the United States was at risk, we accepted that, and generally supported military action. Military action in this case was a euphemism for invasion and conquest. But we were told this wasn’t to “take” Iraq, but to prevent it
from doing harm to us and others. We now know, or should, that there were no WMD’s or nuclear program. A friend recently told me that I should “get over the WMD thing.” Like I’m supposed to get over being lied to by our government. Yes, the entire government, not just the White House. So the focus of the war moved to liberation of those poor people. The same people who have consistently shot at our soldiers, killed civilian personnel, dragged their bodies through the streets and bombed hotels, government buildings, and military targets on a daily basis, in all parts of a country the size of California.

 
So what does that have to do with our flag flying over a used car lot?  It is this: The flag is not a thing to be honored on its own. Nor is it a symbol to justify any actions of our government that do not promote freedom and democracy. It is a symbol of something much bigger. It is a representation of what this country could be and should be, not necessarily what it is.  That’s why I can look at what our present government has done to the image of America, and still salute that flag. It represents our hopes, dreams and aspirations. It is the vision of America perfected. I adore that flag and all it represents: truth, freedom, a hope for a better tomorrow, honesty. But no one should use it as merely a symbol, and craft the stars and stripes into a wrapping for their own political agenda. That’s the reason I cherish it flying over a used car lot, and despise seeing it as a decoration on the lapel of the President.

(Guest Opinion, Lake County Record-Bee April 2004)

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Lord, What Were You Thinking?
 

The title of this piece is a phrase that I have uttered, either externally or internally on thousands of occasions. That is because in my role as a criminal defense attorney, I have the opportunity (?) to read hundreds of police reports every year.  These are frequently stories of misadventure, of caprice, or flights of boredom, of just plain stupid behavior. From time to time there is a tale where one is truly disadvantaged, at the whim and will of forces over which he or she has no control. But in a great many cases, after reading an account of misfortunes of a poor miscreant, I am forced to ask myself, “Lord, what were you thinking?”

The answer of course is that no rational thought was involved.   Various powers, whether it was addiction, passion, or the inability to deal with life on a social level, overtook what we usually refer to as common sense, took control and lead these unfortunate individuals down a path that they would not, nay could not, have rationally chosen. We sometimes refer to such people as sociopaths, although few rarely deserve that derisive term.  Case in point: A young woman’s boyfriend is arrested. It doesn’t really matter why, and he goes to jail. She desperately wants him out of custody, to return to her hearth and home so that all can resume a sense of normalcy.  What does she do? She calls a bail bondsman, hoping to convince him to post the appropriate bail and return her lover to her bosom.  The interesting part is that she has no money, so the bondsman, being a good businessman, refuses to post the bail without appropriate
compensation for his efforts. What does the young lady do? She offers the bondsman a pound of high grade marijuana in exchange for the bond fee.  The bondsman, being no fool and not wanting to get caught up in the same activities that frequently lead his bailees to incarceration, calls the cops. A wire is placed on him, and he meets the young lady, who, as promised, provides the pot. Moments later, when they part, the police swoop in and arrest her. Hence my thought: “Lord, what were you thinking?” Clearly, there was some innate
inability to think through the consequences of this action at all.

Another example: Mary is on probation. She gets out of jail and promises to obey the law, follow the orders of the court, and go forth and sin no more. Two days later she is arrested for shoplifting from a local market.   Now Mary knows that if she violates her probation she could go to prison.  She knows that she has a very poor record in this regard, with many prior convictions for variety of drug offenses, and other unacceptable behaviors.  She even had enough money on her at the time to pay for the items she stole.  Again the question arises: “Lord, what were you thinking?” Again, if there is any thought here, it must be a self-destructive desire, or a determination to return to prison, where she had been before.

Bob found himself in a difficult situation. He was arrested for possessing a controlled substance, while driving on a suspended license. He goes to court and is released, with charges pending. The officer who arrested him said he stopped him because he knew Bob on sight, and knew his license was suspended. All of that is true. In fact, when he was arrested, Bob volunteered to the officer that there were drugs in his car. Less than two weeks later, Bob is riding a motorcycle when he passes the very same officer who arrested him the first time. He knows he will be stopped. Bob pulls over on the side of the road and waits while the officer turns around and returns to him. Bob again tells the officer that he has drugs in his pocket. And Bob again goes to jail. The question? “Lord, what were you thinking?”

The answer, again, is that thought is not involved. I am not saying these people should not suffer the consequences of their actions. I’m not saying they should get off lightly. I am just asking that question over and over, and constantly amazed that there is no answer to it.  The question can be asked in a variety of situations, not all criminal.  It can be asked of those who commit moral transgressions when even an amoeba would understand the consequences. And it can be asked of many of our political leaders when they mislead or abuse the power given to them by the electorate.  “Lord, what were you thinking?”

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Memorials are Not Amusements

This past weekend was celebrated as Memorial Day. I watched the parade in Lakeport as people paraded with horses, little cars, race cars, sports cars, dance groups, advertisements for hardware stores, appliances, police cars, fire trucks, car dealerships, religion, and political parties. I saw few things that were meant to honor those who had given their lives to defend our country, during any conflict. Perhaps we don't remember why Memorial Day was created. It wasn't to celebrate the commencement of summer, the time for a grand Bacchanalian festival. It wasn't meant as the end of the school year, despite graduations and three-day school holidays for most, nor three day weekends for most others. It was originally created as Decoration Day. A time to honor those who gave their lives during the Civil War, when nearly half a million souls from the North and South died in one of the bloodiest wars of all time, and the only war, at least thus far, that has occurred upon our own soil. It was thus called because those who remembered the dead of that war would go to the cemeteries and "decorate" the graves of friends and family members lost. Later it became Memorial Day. World War I, the war to end all wars, brought the loss of nearly 120,000 Americans. WWII quadrupled that, including more than 405,000 American dead. The Korean "conflict," the first non-declared war for the American people killed nearly 52,000 of our troops. And Viet Nam? Our second non- declared war claimed more than 58,000. Along the way, there was Panama, Grenada, Iraq I, Bosnia, and now, Afghanistan and Iraq II (the sequel). In this last episode, over 900 American men and women have been lost. You will not hear me nor any other American knowledgeable of our history decry our involvement in WWI or WWII. We were at war to protect democracy, and our allies. In the latter case, we had been attacked by a foreign nation.

 
In the most recent conflict I cannot agree that the same is true. Don't be confused by the rhetoric. The attacks on the World Trade Center was not the product of any government nor nation. Iraq was not a participant (most of the attackers were Saudis, none were Iraqis) and our involvement there has been shown to be a mistake even by the Secretary of State, who said when addressing the United Nations and urging war that the intelligence he had was flawed and inaccurate. I recently read a letter to the editor in the
San Francisco Chronicle where the writer said emphasizing the names or faces or numbers of the casualties was counter-productive to the task at hand, which I presumed he meant ridding the world of terrorism. I agree that eliminating terrorism is a worthy goal, but a goal requires seeing the goalpost. I am reminded of a few lines by Mark Twain, who knew not of Iraq, nor terrorism, nor the Bush Administration. He said when one defends the actions of his government with phrases such as "My Country, Right or Wrong!" he is no better than a burglar defending his own actions with the justification that the ends (needing the money) necessitated the means
(taking it from others). 

I know many who support the present administration. They think the president acts only in the best interest of the country, and I honor their views. In the president's defense, perhaps he also thinks the same. But the acts of a man who cannot ascertain truth from delusion cannot be justified or excused because he thinks he is acting in the best interest of others or his country. With more than 800 fatalities of war under his belt, we cannot simply say that the president and the administration are excused because they thought they were doing the right thing. Recently, the president said he was guided by the Almighty in his actions. I recall others who said they were "just following orders." Not only do we turn people out of office based on such precepts, in this nation and in others on any given day they go to jail. 

(Guest Opinion, Lake County Record-Bee June 10, 2004)

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