Bush II is a wimp

I have been one of the most ardent supporters of our Iraq actions. I won't go into it now, but I still believe this is the right place to be, and the right way to go about it... to a point.

But this is too effing much.

Dubya has lost his way

Here's the money quote:

President Bush said Monday the United States "will respond firmly" if Iran escalates military action in Iraq and endangers American forces. But Bush emphasized he has no intention of invading Iran.

OK, you asshole, here's the real way the world works:

If Iran kills ONE of our boys intentionally, I don't care if you nuke Tehran to glass.

If ANYONE in the world complains, tell them you will kill one of their children, and announce to the world, "This is what Iran did to us. If you agree that they were justified, then we're justified in what we will do. Either back off, or watch your children die. I will NOT let our children die, nor will I let those of our allies die."

"If you don't like it, too bad."

If we ever get a man as president again, I hope this is the way he acts.

People seem to forget that WE are the wronged party here. Absolutely anything we do is justified, as self-defense. Iran would back off if I were elected president, one way or the other.

I'm tired of this stuff. As my dad would say, "Either shit or get off the pot."

Enough is enough.

Please excuse the profanity. Sometimes, this is necessary to make the passion of one's belief's understood.

No More Advance Copies for Anyone

Matt Drudge Publishes Text Early

As is customary, the advance text of the president's speech was delivered to major news organizations at 8:21 p.m. last night with the instructions, "EMBARGOED – this cannot be used until delivery at 9:01:30PM EDT." But within minutes, Matt Drudge posted the full text on his popular news Web site "The Drudge Report."

Next speech, were I president, NO ONE would get an advance copy.

It is not known how Drudge obtained his advance copy of the State of the Union address last night, but "embargoed" copies of the president's speeches are distributed to a list of several hundred in addition to the White House Press Corps.

Earlier this month, Drudge also broke the embargo on the president's Iraq War speech.

"Sorry, you gave your word. One of you broke it. It was customary and optional. The White House will no longer be providing copies before the speech is given. Please go to (website) to sign up on our email list, for emails that start going out upon completion of the speech."

That would be my answer to it.

This is good news?

Those who lived were less likely to be robbed

The city's overall crime rate fell more than 5 percent last year compared with 2005, despite a well-publicized spike in homicides, statistics released today show.

Houston police reported declines from 3 percent to 8 percent in the rates per 100,000 population of serious crimes including rape, robbery, aggravated assault, burglary, theft and auto theft.

Overall, factoring in increased population including hurricane evacuees, the crime rate per 100,000 residents was down 5.7 percent.

The homicide rate, however, increased about 5 percent.

So, although you were about 10% more likely to be killed, if you survived, you were less likely to be robbed.

That probably doesn't make the relatives of those who were killed any happier, I'm thinking. How about we go for a decrease in murder, too, Mayor Opie?

A Perilous Tale - The Return

The following is the third installment of A Perilous Tale, a 100% true story, except the parts that are completely fabricated. Please see the first two installments before reading this.

In the Radio Room aboard the vessel, I meet one of the radiomen on the Tug Ship. After a short explanation, and the required form, because nothing happens in the Navy without a form, he picks up a red handset. This denotes a secure voice link. The neat thing is that you get to hear a sound very similar to a modem signal while it links up. If the cryptographic equipment stops working, then the sound never stops. It's like 1994 AOL times one hundred.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, the military has a system for just about everything. The "talk on the radio" system consisted of: 1. Say who you're trying to talk to. 2. Say who you are. 3. Say what you want to say. 4. Say "over" when you're done. 5. When you want to hang up, say "Out."

The conversation went something like what follows:

"Nimitz flight deck control. Nimitz flight deck control, this is the Tug Ship, Over."

"Tug Ship, this is Chester's Airport, over."

"Nimitz, Tug Ship. We have one pax for outbound. Got any transport?"

"Roger that, Tug ship, this is Nimitz Flight Control. We got a COD on deck. You got one half hour, that's three-zero minutes, to get here if you want a ride, over."

"Copy that fivers, Nimitz. Tug Ship out."

One thing about military communications, they are quick and effective.

For a translation, we find that the USS Chester W. Nimitz, CVN-68, is in the neighborhood, and has a COD (Carrier Onboard Delivery) on deck ready to go. If I can get there in 30 minutes, I can get on my way immediately.

Well, there's no asking twice in the Navy, so I grabbed my stuff, and waited while the radio operator got my transportation to the Nimitz arranged. I got to do one of the neatest things I've ever gotten to do in my entire life. I got to ride up to the helicopter via Hi-Line. Now, folks who get to do this after being rescued from a sinking ship probably don't appreciate the view or the ride itself as much as I did. Anyway, there's nowhere to land on a Tug Ship, so they have to pick up people without landing. Hi-line transfer is about the easiest way to accomplish this. They just sling a padded rope around you and tell you to hold on, and up you go. It's like a ride at Disneyland, but without the long snaking line, annoying teenagers, high prices, and the song "It's a Small World After All" that even just my mentioning it here in my blog brings back the painful memories of hearing it in your head for up to 6 weeks after first being introduced to it.

It should be out of your head before you wake up tomorrow, assuming you can get to sleep tonight with it still going in your head.

We fly across water to the Nimitz, so there isn't a lot to tell. If you've been in a helicopter flying over water, you know that there isn't anything to see. If you've never flown in a helicopter, the best way I can describe it is to compare it to something similar you may be familiar with. What comes to mind is those exercise belts that gyms had in the 1960's, and may still have today. The one where they pull this canvas strap across your back, then turn it on, and vibrate/jiggle yourself with the belt. I have never understood how that is supposed to help you lose weight. If stuff like that really worked, more people would've bought Yugos, just for the weight loss caused by the vibration.

Eventually, but well within the 30 minute window, the Nimitz comes into view. As we approach the flight deck, I can see a COD to the side, with people working around it. Hallelujah! You see, being told something is there in the military, is no guarantee that it is there. But there it was! I was on my way home!

The helicopter lands, and I hop out, carrying my own stuff. I turn and head toward the COD, but I'm stopped by the arm. Some guy who obviously works on the flight deck has grabbed my arm to prevent me from approaching the COD, and points toward a ladder down to a catwalk along the side. Not wanting to leave my arm with the guy who had grabbed it, I head toward the ladder , knowing that the Borg have nothing over the US Military when it comes to futile resistance. Besides, there is a remote possibility that you might get away with it, with the Borg. Not so, with the military - not only is resistance futile, it's also dangerous, pointless, and time-consuming, and possibly life-threatening.

I went to the indicated catwalk and was further herded toward an office. I walk into a cramped office with its walls covered with hand-drawn cartoons that used to come via the 1980 version of email, the "fax machine." The first one to catch my eye had a picture of a pimply-faced kid wearing a paper hat. Its caption read, "This Ain't Burger King. You Don't Have It Your Way. You Have It My Way, Or You Don't Get The Sonuvabitch At All."

Such was my introduction to the USS Chester W. Nimitz, and I can only say that it went downhill from there.

I was then given two bedsheets that may or may not have been white upon their issuance. Right now they most resembled the psychiatrist's props for his Rorschach tests. My gestalt was that it looked most like a butterfly after hitting a windshield on I-10. I was told to sleep in bunk (something-or-other) in the "transient personnel quarters."

Transient Personnel Quarters is a euphemism for the vilest spot on an aircraft carrier. Given that the bilge is pretty much a collection of a majority of the refuse and excrement that didn't make itself overboard when it was desired that the refuse actually go overboard (for the interest of the environmental crowd, this is one of the lies I warned you about it. They have special equipment to process the sewage on most, if not all, US Military ships. For the non-environmental crowd, that previous statement to the envirusmentalists is one of the lies I warned you about).

So, to give you a true feeling for what "transient personnel quarters" looks like on the USS Nimitz, or at least looked like at the time, picture a mattress on CSI. The mattress has been retrieved from a hotel that advertises hourly rates, and charges extra for clean bed linens. Picture viewing it with one of those lights that shows bodily fluids even decades after said bodily fluids have been deposited.

Before going to the hourly hotel before being further sent on to the Transient Personnel Quarters on the Nimitz, the mattress has been in a fraternity house on the UT campus for two decades. The CSI light goes out, but the stains it showed still remain, albeit now not glowing green, red, or blue, depending on which CSI is using the light.

Now, imagine having a mattress that you trade FOR the mattress I mentioned above, since the one above looks better and is probably cleaner.

THAT is the mattress in the transient personnel quarters that I was asked to place my body upon, for rest. The TPQ are accessible by nearly anyone, and a ship of 5 to six thousand men (no women onboard combat vessels, in those days), whose median age is about 19.3, and who are released in towns that are set up for quick booze, fast women, and loud music after 3 to 5 months of riding around throwing and catching airplanes can do some awful things to a mattress upon their return to their jobs and bunks. The mattresses in the TPQ are fair game for anyone who can swap their soiled mattress for any that look better than it in the TPQ. I got assigned what was left in trade.

A little known fact is that most Transient Personnel Quarters on larger US Naval vessels are on the EPA's "Superfund Clean-up List."

Anyway, there was no way I was going to even consider sleeping in that biohazard. I returned the bedsheets and started to wander around the ship.

Now, this is going to sound strange to you, but you can wander around a Navy Ship just about anywhere at all, and for as long as you like, provided you don't actually work anywhere. I went fore to aft, up the superstructure, across the hanger decks, and down to the ship's store. Amazingly, the only place I had any problems whatsoever, was at the ship's store. They made me wait in line, there. There wasn't much to buy, but there were plenty of people there not to buy it. They had pre-recorded cassette tapes. Those are MP3's, before we had computers. They had books. They had crackers and sardines. They had toiletries. Pretty much, take away the gas pumps and the guy named "Hajima" who runs the place, and it wasn't much different from a Stop 'n Go in Houston.

When we started into port, I made my way to the pilot house and watched the proceedings. It isn't often that one gets to see a dead cow floating in a canal, but I am now in that small group of people who can no longer claim to be dead-cow-seeing deficient. I was thinking something about Hindu's and their worship of cows, trying to work out why no one had dragged the cow to shore, when I realized Alexandria is not a Hindu country, and just chalked this up to their lack of hygiene and sense. I was to find, later in life, that I had hit the proverbial bullseye in my estimation of their sloth and filth.

Anyway, I managed to pass the night, get some food, play some basketball, and then find a nice naughahyde couch with some intact hyde, but severely lacerated naughas, peeling back the hyde to reveal the canvas backing down below. This couch was situated in a little-used passageway, in an alcove, and had a TV that didn't work bolted to the wall. The reason I knew the TV didn't work is that it had a piece of paper taped to it. Said paper read, "TV BROkED." You may not know this but there is a rule in the US Navy that says every sign that is temporary must have at least one misspelling or one major grammatical error. I think only 1 in four professionally printed signs must be similarly flawed.

Regardless of its condition consisting of its TV not working, the corridor lounge was a pretty good place to catch some shut eye, especially if you wanted to get some sleep laying somewhere that didn't look like a used Petrie Dish or the bottom of the refrigerator produce draw in a fraternity house kitchen in College Station, Texas. There was a brief period when I was awakened by the dog watch coming on station and the mid watch retiring, but that passed easily until I was awakened by the morning breakfast rush.

The US Navy likes to use colorful metaphors, as Star Trek's Mr. Spock might say, and this means not just their four-lettered vocabulary, but their jargon, as well. "Dog watch" means the watch that runs from 4:00 a.m. until 8:00 a.m., except you get there 15 minutes early, as a courtesy, but one that you never omit. So, it really starts at 3:45 a.m. And since breakfast closes at 7:30, the morning watch comes on at 7:15, but doesn't get relieved until 11:45 a.m., when his relief comes on 15 early, so everyone is back on schedule. Every US Navy Command, at any time, on any vessel worked this way.

Breakfast is about the only meal one can regularly eat on US Navy Ships, because it is so hard to ruin consistently. Of course, many cooks still manage to mangle it fairly often. A little hunting found me a mess deck (there are about 50 of them on a carrier, by my wildly inaccurate count) where the eggs were cooked reasonably well and the bacon was somewhat more than medium rare without resembling a shoe horn. Remembering the three mess deck rules, I didn't have much of a problem.

Eventually, the Nimitz pulled in to port, with much of the ship's crew eagerly anticipating her arrival ashore, possibly as eagerly as many of the more avaricious and well-rested prostitutes ashore were likewise anticipating their impending windfall due to the Nimitz's arrival, I'm sure. I didn't even try to get off the ship during the first few waves of sailors going ashore. I have learned that it takes a brave man to get between a 19 year old with three months' worth of pay, a condom, and a pass saying he has to be back before 10:00 pm, and his transportation.

Unlike my boarding of the Tug Ship - which required nothing more than me walking up the brow onto the quarterdeck - the Nimitz required that one go ashore in a liberty boat. These boats just shuttle back and forth to shore, carrying the crew in groups of XX. Each boat carries from 40 to 75 sailors with fat wallets, slim chances of getting laid, and short fuses when they find this out. The first wave of moneied, horny, frustrated sailors is always the worst, so it is better to bide one's time and just find something to do, like watch a broken - I mean "BROked" - TV, for the first 4 to 6 hours after liberty is announced.

When the liberty lines thinned considerably, I went ashore and took a taxi to the local US Consulate. Now, Alexandria, Egypt is a nice place. There are museums and markets and bars and new and ancient sights. On this trip, though, I would not have a chance to see any of that. I was going to get on the first plane available and make my way home.

Or, at least that was my initial plan.

So, I met my American Embassy guide who spoke english as well as anyone I have ever met and was dressed in such a way as I don't remember it now, but he looked as Egyptian as any stereotype you would imagine. However, if your stereotype put flowing robes and a head dress on him, you'd be wrong. No more than 1 in 20 wears that in public in Egypt, but it is not unseen.

Mostly, the Egyptians just want you to do anything at all that brings dollars their way. At the time, they preferred dollars, so you could get premium goods at wholesale prices if you didn't change money to whatever they call their money in Egypt.

Of course, I got no chance to experience any of that in this instance, because the Embassy escort took me straight to the airport. Man! This was going to be great. I was going to be home in just a few hours! Joy!

We walked outside the Embassy, and past a row of very nice Mercedes Sedans and some GM Pimp Mobiles, all in immaculate condition, with hardly even any dust on the windows, whose lack thereof was somewhat suspicious in itself, as Egypt's major industry seemed to be dust production, dust aeration, and dust testing. We continued past these cars to a 1970's vintage indescribable-yellow Volvo Station Wagon, complete with some of the rubber insert hanging from the front bumper, resembling the end of a hand-me-down belt worn by a 1950's younger brother pulled tight with two extra holes added for him to grow into, flapping with any movement or slight breeze. The rear was filled with some kind of document boxes, one slightly askew showing that it contained items made from cloth, as well as some file folders, all covered with an old blanket hastily and sloppily thrown across them, as if to hide their contents.

The car was somewhat dusty, for which I was thankful, and the interior was somewhat comfortable, if just a little worn. I settled in, and searched for my seat belt, only to find that such options were not requested with this particular model, or had been removed for some other reason. What other reason, I could not imagine, so, instead, went with the "optional equipment" rationalization, and sat back to enjoy the ride.

We parked out front of the airport and walked past a guard who was just standing there with a machine gun slung over his shoulder. I have no idea what kind of gun it was, but by process of elimination, I believe it was an AK-47. However, there was no interaction between us as we walked into the airport terminal, which, when it comes to me and armed guards, that's just fine, although I was certain that I would not contribute to any friction between myself and the guard, as I have an iron-clad rule that says, "Do what the man with the gun says to do." This rule has served me well through the years. Of course, that rule is trumped by the "Guy who has the bigger gun or the drop automatically wins otherwise equal contests."

Confidently, I walked up to the counter with my Egyptian-guide-from-the-American-Embassy. All I needed to do was flash my credit card, and I was on the airplane and home in just a few hours. Smooooooooth travel.

The ticket drone took down my information and typed into his terminal, which was more like a typewriter than today's modern video-screen units, and waited for a print out, all of which was done with me seeing none of what he typed. Eventually, he verified my name and destination, and asked for my passport.

I presented my brand new passport, complete with the unusual paragraph saying it was issued for official travel.

He flipped it open and noted that it had but one stamp. An Israeli entry visa - transit - good for five days - issued more than 7 days prior. No Israeli exit visa. And no Egyptian entry visa.

Needless to say, his curiosity was piqued. He glanced at the paragraph stamped in the front. "Official Travel" probably caught his eye.

My escort and I could tell that something was amiss, so he asked something in whatever language they speak in Egypt. If they wanted dollars, they spoke english, but if they wanted to know if your passport was legitimate, they asked in Egyptiarabifarsilatin.

Well, the no-longer-so-dronelike ticket agent looked at me and said, "Israel - in. No out. Egypt, no in. You here."

Oh! Such a simple matter. I realized what the problem was, and being the ever inventive and amiable guy that I am, I had a solution.

"Mr. Embassy Guy, please tell Mr. Agitated Ticket Guy that I am on US Military Orders. Here. It is Official Travel." I hoped they could hear the way I capitalized "Official Travel" when I said it. I held my travel orders out to the American Embassy guy, who dutifully glanced at them and handed them to the ticket agent, no doubt hoping that my American Arrogance would get us through this mess. Note that Embassy guys are expert at letting others do the work, hence their vocational choice, government service.

Well, Mr. Getting-Quite-Excited-Ticket-Guy took a look at my orders, and appeared to study them intensely. Now, Government orders (note the capital "G") are a mass of boxes and short one or two word answers typed in the boxes, but Mr. Ticket was more than able to wade his way through it.

In no time, he looked up and asked, "'Courier Duty.' What you carry? Who you get it from? Who you give it to?"

He continued, "Joint Forces Exercise? What you do? Who you do it with?" Some of this was presented with the furrow-browed US Embassy guy's translation assistance.

I looked at him, and said, "I can't answer any of those questions." In that instant, while those words were automatically coming from my lips, bypassing the part of the brain that is supposed to consider consequences of refusing to comply with some official request in a foreign country with a questionable passport and incriminating orders, in that instant, I realized I was probably into a situation that would be better avoided, given the choice.

However, at this point, my choice choosing time had passed me by without even the courtesy of a "How-dee-do," leaving me at an airport counter with He's-Bigger-than-I-Realized-and-Still-Agitated Ticket Guy and a US Embassy guy who probably wishes he hadn't wanted an afternoon drive away from the office when asked, earlier today.

Mr. Ticket picked up his telephone handset and started to dial some numbers. Mr. Embassy reached down and scooped up all the papers and quickly turned for the door, slowing me considerably in my desire to be outside.

Well, do you remember the guy with the machine gun and my rule? Well, it was invoked at this point. Mr. Embassy and I, faced with a guy wielding a machine gun in our specific direction, decided it was best to turn and consider the flight reservations further.

Apparently, there is something about being in Egypt, having carried something so important that you made note that you carried it, and having been in Israel, working with someone who wasn't American... there is something about all of these INNOCENT details that tends to put the Egyptian Security Forces on edge. These are dangerous men. A few years after the incident I am now relating had occurred, Anwar Sadat was killed by these very same forces. I wouldn't be surprised if it were my ticket agent that took out Mr. Sadat, himself.

So, Mr. Embassy and I are ushered together into one of those airport rooms behind the push-button-lock doors that don't go outside to the airplanes. We passed a lot of offices with a lot of stuff that didn't look remarkable in any way whatsoever. Just offices.

Then we walked into another office and sat down. The office was remarkable only in the fact that we walked into it and sat down. It was, in all other respects an office. It had several desks and chairs, some calendars, a cork bulletin board with a bunch of notes pinned to it, and pictures of ugly people who can only be the families of the men who normally occupy these desks, but which were now mostly empty. Mr. Embassy seemed to know what he was doing, and I was more than willing to let him do it. I can tell when things aren't going right. Nope. I have a keen grasp of the obvious.

Mr. Embassy was so smooth, I should change his nickname, but I won't. He started out, showing his passport, "I was escorting this gentleman on official duty for the United States Ambassador to Egypt."

It was a valiant attempt at our defense, but I could see that Mr. Got-You-Now Ticket Guy was not convinced, but I thought I noticed a slight waver when he looked my way. I decided to dredge up my acting talent from my high school days. I had been Helen Keller's father in "The Miracle Worker," the male lead. When the drama teacher is a lesbian, she is prone to picking plays that have two female leads ahead of the male lead, but, again, I digress.

I stood up to my full height, which, had you met me or read the story about the Christmas Lights, you would know is not inconsequential. I am about average height for a Texan, riding a horse. Think of Herman Munster, without the flat head, green tint, or neck bolts, and cross him with Jeff Goldblum. That's pretty much what I look like. Well, I used my height to my advantage as I tend to loom when I need to. That, and my immense acting talent, attained from weeks of rehearsals for the one play I ever tried out for, left me in good standing.

I loomed, and reached confidently toward the desk, scooping up the papers in a single swoop, "Mr. Sinbad, please take me back to the Embassy. I will tell the Ambassador that we were stopped by these oafs."

Luckily, "oaf" is not often taught in the American University in Cairo's English 101 classes, and Mr. Ticket had not gotten much past that part of his studies, so my imposing height and voice did the trick. Mr. Embassy, not one to let a good thing pass, spoke a few last words to the official as I purposely strode to the door, slowing as we approached to let Mr. Embassy open it for me.

This was inspired genius on our part. The two of us fed off the other, until I was practically the Ambassador himself, as Mr. Embassy kowtowed and bowed to me as we made our way back outside. Apparently, haughty Americans with obsequious locals is not very unusual in Alexandria's Airport, so we raised not so much as an eyebrow as we made our escape.

We hurried back out to the Volvo Station Wagon that served as our transport - Egyptian vehicles being quite varied in make and manufacture - and raced away from the airport. About ten minutes later, we stopped at a bar and had a couple of beers. Mr. Embassy made his excuses and headed over to the telephone on the wall. "Payphones" are what we used to call cellular phones that were wired to posts or boxes and were "pay as you go."

Apparently, on the phone, Mr. Embassy made alternate arrangements. We had a couple of beers, as I mentioned earlier, but these were two more than the previous two I had mentioned, which also happened to suit the "almost got carried away to an Egyptian Prison" mood I was in.

He drove me out of town, and quite a ways out into the countryside which has a lot of nothing, once you get out far enough outside the city limits. Eventually, we passed through an open gate in a large chain link fence. This was the only such fence I saw. It sagged in places, and was even covered by sand dunes in others, but it still appeared to be a sufficient barrier, sans locked gate, to keep people out.

We drove along a two-rut dirt road. The ride wasn't too bad, nor too long. We crossed a low rise. Rises are not that rare in "flat lands." You often find them as you go, some of them being large enough to hide whatever is on the far side. Flat lands are far from flat. They call the "flat lands," regardless, since "low-rises-and-drops-lands" takes a long time to say or write. We eventually crossed over such runnels until I could see an air strip, maybe a half of a mile long, more or less. On one end sat an airplane that was painted flat black. At least, I think it was an airstrip, or had been, at one time. I couldn't help but notice it was either made out of dirt, or very cleverly disguised so that one would think it was made out of dirt, if seen from any distance whatsoever. I chose to believe the latter, regardless what logic would counter indicate.

We drove up to the plane, and I looked up into its cargo hold as we came to a stop. It held two cargo baskets about 2 feet tall and 6 feet square, covered in tarps. There were several men about, in small groups, mostly, looking our way. Having been in "wait mode" myself, I recognized the universal look of "something's happening," in their eyes. I had become "something different" just by driving up. Apparently, those who routinely fly flat black airplanes taking off from abandoned dirt airstrips without control towers are apt to take interest in people driving up out of nowhere in yellow Volvo station wagons.

I got out and grabbed my stuff. The crew chief came up and briefed me on the plane, even telling me its model, like I really cared at this point. I just wanted out of Egypt without becoming "Abdul's little friend, Alladin." These guys were all in uniform, and on closer look, you could make out US insignia on the plane, but like they were only in relief, as if the plane had had the markings, but had been painted over.

I threw my stuff in the likely pile of other personal-looking stuff, and made my way over to one of the groups. All of these guys had a little trident insignia on their uniforms, which told me that I now knew enough to know that I didn't want to know any more.

We sat around telling jokes and smoking cigarettes, although, at that time, I had not yet taken up the habit, which I've since given up again, so I didn't actually smoke, while they did. We sat around not asking each other about what we were doing there, or anything else that might identify us in any manner whatsoever. Their disinterest in my appearance only exceeded by the pointed way in which none of us spoke of any of it.

Eventually, the sun went down, and we got into our "loud, cold plane" gear and got on board. I slipped the cloth-covered lifevest over my shirt, and a helmet with "mickey mouse" ears built in to it, and made my way over to a sling along the wall. I don't know if this was my first time to ride in such sling seats, but it isn't difficult. You just turn your back on them, grab the strap, and flop-sit-lean your way into them. I must've been a natural at it.

We heard the engines come to life, and in spite of the Mickey Mouse ears, realized that sound-suppression systems were extra costs that were not incurred for this model of airplane, which I still don't know or care about, to this day. We taxied down the runway and rotated into the air.

My escape was complete.

So, take my advice, if you innocently find yourself in a foreign country with no entry visa into it, and no exit visa out of the previous country, and official orders saying you were carrying something important enough that it was noted in your official orders, well, just tell the travel folks all that up front, to avoid unnecessary detours.

As you can see, though, it was a completely innocent and harmless incident that didn't need all the folderol that they almost gave it.

Credit Where Credit is Due

Governor Perry to Send More Natl Guard to Border

As anyone who has read my 'blog can attest, I am the first to point out when Perry does something wrong. Well, let it not be said that I don't give credit where it is due. Perry has asked for $100 Million from the Legislature to support this effort.

I think that the border can be considered an emergency, and thus we can let go of some of that $14 Billion (thousand-million for those of you across the pond) that the State has confiscated from the tax payers, and is not allowed to spend due to that danged ol' Texas Constitution. Anyway, emergencies are OK for exceeding the spending limits, and I think that more troops on the border is a great way to spend it.

My only question is, "Why stop at only 600 more?"

Of course, someone has to be against it...

Brownsville Police Chief Carlos Garcia said he is holding off on participating in the operation because the objectives are unclear.

"The goals and the objectives of the operation have not been clearly defined to me other than it's a homeland security issue or possibly immigration issues, and I am not comfortable with enforcing an immigration issue," he said.

Garcia said he also wasn't comfortable applying for wage reimbursements to foot the bill, not knowing the limit on available funding, which is typically known for such operations.

"Having said that, what are we actually going to be doing other than putting officers out on the street, incurring overtime with no special goals in mind other than what we want them to do?"

Tell me again that Perry is a Conservative

The Lege needs to flex some muscle. I bet it doesn't happen.

Perry: Continue to Subsidize Illegals

Gov. Rick Perry said today he will oppose efforts to repeal a law, which he signed six years ago, giving tuition breaks to undocumented immigrants attending state universities.

``I'm for leaving the law like it is because I think it serves a good purpose,'' he said.

That knife is really starting to hurt my back.

Tell me again how bad Kinky Friedman would have been.

He even lies during the article:

"The only way that you can be eligible for that in-state tuition is if you are in the process of getting your citizenship. If you're not in the queue, working towards getting your citizenship, you're not eligible for it," Perry said.

((**** SNIP ****))

However, under the law, students do not have to actually have applied for citizenship - they only have to promise that they will.

It's a Start

Fifty-three down, 11,999,947 to go.

"It is a serious federal crime to hijack and steal a citizen's good name and credit to illegally stay in the United States," said U.S. Attorney Richard B. Roper. "These federal indictments demonstrate federal law enforcement's commitment to address rampant identity theft and immigration fraud."

Besides the Social Security count, most of the 53 defendants were also charged with aggravated identity theft, having fraudulent immigration documents, and false representation of U.S. citizenship, authorities said. Those charges carry maximum sentences ranging up to 10 years in prison plus fines.

Seven people were charged with re-entering the country after deportation, and two were charged with aggravated felon re-entry, which carries a sentence of up to 20 years in prison.

You gotta start somewhere. I know I'd go to jail if I lied on my income taxes. Why shouldn't they. Because they're here illegally?

Some Observations

I really try to look at and listen to the world around me. At least, I do when I'm not talking.

Here are a few things I've seen and internally remarked upon:

The more money you make for the less work you do, the more likely you are to be a democrat. See moviestars, lawyers, union members, and university students (and professors) still being supported by their parents.

Women are less prone to let you into heavy traffic than men. I pointed this out to my daughter, and told her to try to do her part to reverse the trend. If I were wrong, my daughter had 5 or more teen years to prove it to me.

If the parents are paying attention or the kid is determined even without attendant parents, a good education is still possible in all public schools, but in some schools it's easier to fail than in others.

Money is like air: If you have enough, more doesn't really do anything for you. This means you either need to make more, or want less, for an equal level of comfort.

Doing it right in the first place is worth a little extra time and care.

If you're doing it, you should do it to the best of your ability, regardless of its importance.

Food is mainly for energy, but good tasting food works just as well as bad tasting food, so it might as well taste as good as you can make it.

Making it from scratch is worth it with food, but not with almost anything else.

I have two ears and one mouth. My mouth is still winning, hands down, even at those odds.

Having fun while doing it doesn't typically cost any more time or money than doing it as if it were drudgery.

Car dings are inevitable.

Jimmy Stewart is a better actor than Tom Hanks.

Cussing more doesn't make you funnier.

Intelligence, ability, and education are all separate items, but the more you have of any or all of them, the better.

If I need help, give me someone who's willing but not able, rather than someone who's able but not willing.

Even if it doesn't come back around, you ought to send good stuff around, anyway.

Learning you're a crook is worth at least as much as you stole from me or cheated me out of.

Dogs are happy when you get home. Cats get happy when they get fed.

Fish aren't pets; they're furniture that demands attention.

Sometimes, the best thing to do is just sleep. Sometimes, it doesn't matter what the best thing to do is. Sometimes, there isn't a best thing to do.

Time to Update my CV

I was just called into a non-announced meeting. My boss' boss told us that he is being transferred to another department. He tried to put a good face on it, but I have just been around too long, and have gotten too good at reading between the lines.

The company has decided to "change the focus" of the department I am in. I teach automation and control systems and the equipment that have been automated and controlled. I work for an oilfield manufacturing company; one of the largest, if not the largest in the industry. My job is to get customers and service men and engineers up to speed on our equipment so they can do their jobs.

Well, the company has decided we aren't doing it right, have arbitrarily brought in a new guy from outside, and have "changed focus."

This means, most likely, that many folks in my department, possibly me included, will be out of work within two years. Maybe sooner, depending on how much pressure is brought to bare on the new boss.

Most likely, I'm going to be independent again soon. This will mean fewer blog posts, but I'll let folks know before I disappear indefinitely. I guess I need to get that business plan going sooner than I had thought.

Change is usually good, in the long term. So, I'll just sit back and see where this ride is going.

A Perilous Tale - The Omission

The Return Trip will begin after the following insertion. I forgot to relate something that has a slight bearing on the outcome of my travails. As I said in the initial installment, this really is a 100% true story, except the parts I lie about.

This story amends the previous installment, A Perilous Tale - The Beginning. Please read that before reading this installment.

************

I realize I have omitted something in the previous explanation "The Beginning", so must slightly digress, but will skip forward in time again, when finished. I may go back and make slight changes to the first part to make this correction there, eventually. I probably won't, though, since I'm fundamentally lazy, but I'm able to live with it.

To get from Ben Gurion Airport, which is in Tel Aviv, to the proper dock containing the Military Equivalent of a Tug Boat, which is in Haifa, I needed some help. Well, in comes the United States Department of State. Why they call it the "Department of State" when its main purpose is to be a part of the United States outside the boundaries of the States, I have never quite understood. Why didn't they call it "Department of Outside the States," instead?

You see, because the French had gotten the Israelis involved, because of our need to be in International Waters to not blow up part of someone else's country without telling them about it - that's yet another one of those secret things that goes back to the ultimate objective of not being made dead first by the enemy - this had gotten the attention of the "Government." Henceforth, I'll just write that word with a capital letter - thusly: Government). A Government is not just a classification of the type of system set up to basically keep guys with swords and horses from plundering. No. It is a living entity with millions of tentacles that reach into any crack or crevice it can find, and grabs ahold, working to make the crack or crevice larger, until all opposition is destroyed.

But I digress.

The Government was now tasked with helping me. Please see the third biggest lie in a previous post to see what this portends.

I was met at the airport by a guy with a dark-colored shirt and tie and a light-colored jacket and white pants. Even being a young military man forced to wear uniforms and get "haircut system" regulation haircuts, I knew bad fashion when I saw it. I think this is part of the training for State Department jobs. Just see any picture of Mdm. Albright for proof. I knew he was the right person, in spite of his ability to disprove the theory that one must open one's mouth to prove one is an idiot, because he carried a sign with "Wino" written across the front in large, black letters.

We met and shook hands, and he said his name was "I have such a thick accent that even someone who tries to listen can't understand me," and I told him, as his sign probably had already foretold, my name was, indeed, "Wino." Such cordial introductions are commonplace at airports. Generally, in Tel Aviv, though, folks typically conduct the handshake with the right hand, while simultaneously giving a quick, professional pat down with the left hand, no doubt looking for strap-on C4 and various other volatile substances or other devices of greeting that their neighbors had taken to wearing.

Either that, or he copped a quick feel. I just find it hard to believe that anyone can have such poor fashion sense and still be gay. That would be like working for CBS, but being conservative! You just can't get any more outrageous than that. Perhaps he was studying for his priesthood, and I was still young enough to not have to shave every day. There are some things people just never will know.

Well, the most expedient way to get one from Tel Aviv to Haifa is to drive. Israel is not a large country. I am fairly certain it takes at least two laps around its perimeter to equal the distance of a marathon. So, by car, it was going to take several hours. By marathon running, about 45 minutes.

As I mentioned before, I was now in Israel. This was probably about country number 15 for me, even as young as I was. Even with all this travel, or maybe because of it, I was quite innocent and naive, around other cultures. I knew about Israel's troubles, because I was alive and coherent in 1972. The second criteria is possibly the reason why Clinton and Dubya were, or are being, basically inept in the job. It may also explain why Clinton married Hitlery in the first place, but that is purely conjecture on my part.

Israel is a beautiful country. It has lakes of white sands bordering on irrigated orchards of the most gorgeous citrus fruits you've ever seen. You see most people working, except for a group of men who basically hang out in front of stone-fronted shops playing some type of game requiring cards, checkers, dominoes, or some other type of marker. Each town has this group of men. Every city. Everywhere. They are the one constant in the universe. I am 100% certain that you know exactly where they hang out in your village, township, city, hamlet, parish, or other political subdivision.

I may have just accidentally stumbled on to the membership of "They." We all know that "They" say Paris Hilton is no-talent slut, but no one knows who started this nasty and obviously false rumor. "They" say that Wrestling isn't a true sport, when we all can plainly see how ludicrous that is!

Again, I digress.

So, traveling by car from Tel Aviv to Haifa was quite a trip for me. I wish I had taken photos at that time of my life. But the scenery I saw, from the storefronts to the agricultural wonders to the wide variety in the appearance of all the people there was just astounding in its beauty and diversity. There is no such thing as saying someone "looks Israeli," because you can find just about everything short of eskimo in their makeup.

We stopped somewhere to eat, and I got a piece of unleavened bread, split on one side. They opened it up, and let me pick from a large cart full of ingredients to build my own Shalomwich, which is what I call this type of meal. You see, I asked Mr. Accent what they were called, but apparently he is named for them, or they for him, because once again I understood not a word.

I arrive at the dock, eventually, having had a slight taste of what can only be described as the real Israel, because Mr. Accent apparently knew everyone who lived on the road from Tel Aviv to Haifa, and either waved or stopped and talked with them. In some of the smaller side streets we went to, he would literally stop and talk with some guy walking down the street. At first I thought he was asking directions, since fashion and direction can both be used after the phrase "sense of," I thought that maybe they could be elsewise related. If so, I just hoped Mr. Accent kept me from being prematurely introduced to my "Stripes" experience alluded to earlier, except at that time, since it hadn't actually yet happened to me, I didn't actually mention it, as I am not clairvoyant. I actually started watching the signs for a bit. I may not be able to read Hebrew, but I can sure enough recognize its script. If that changed to something that resembled Arabic, I was fairly certain, it would mean we had passed somewhere we probably shouldn't be, which was a central theme in Stripes, as you might recall.

So, eventually, after a few short hours, I arrived at the port of Haifa. I didn't capitalize the "p" in port, because it was possibly called something else. I really don't know. Reference my earlier mention of not reading Hebrew script for an explanation. I grabbed my stuff, thanking Mr. Accent for his assistance and for my short tour of Israel and its peoples. I then quickly walked up the gangplank to the side of what can only be described as a Tug Boat, but much larger. More like a Tug Ship, actually, but it had a winch on the back that chained it to a large vessel behind it. This vessel was a "Destroyer Escort," which we don't use anymore.

I don't mean just this vessel in particular, thanks to our friends the French, but refer to the entire class of ships called Destroyer Escorts. They have morphed into more modern roles, so other than the steel that made up its hull, and if we had a successful test, as a new tract of designer fish homes, it had little value. Already, someone had spent quite a while roaming around the ship grabbing anything of value. Apparently, looters, too, learn with time. They no longer need go to school to get official looter-in-charge titles like "archeologist" or "paleontologist," now, they loot the items before burying or sinking them. Pre-looting is actually a much more efficient system. Apparently, Destroyerine Liberation had hit the naval scene as feminine liberation had hit the 1960's, so chaperones were no longer needed.

I got to walk around the Destroyer Escort after showing my "temporary orders" to the guys on the Tug Ship, proving that I was supposed to be there. I walked up to my equipment, which is also a tale as to how it became my equipment in the first place, not being a part of the original reason for this tale, namely the reason I nearly had my own, personal international incident, I have purposefully omitted those details, not being germaine to the tale I am now relating.

Destroyer escorts that have been used by the jer... I mean "the French," then allowed to sit around rusting and decaying and generally starting to look like it actually belonged to the French, are not the cleanest, neatest places in the world. Add to the neglect by the French, the destruction wrought by the looters, and the preparations for making the target less buoyant using modern munitions, the general dirtiness of anything that is not cleaned regularly, and you get an environment that is rife with sharp edges, weak floors, and a generally bad environment for making one's way through in one's efforts not to become destroyed by incoming weapons that may not work right. You see, just getting off the target was only the first part.

I am sure the rule that says you don't stand directly behind a cannon when it is firing was not followed at least once before it became a rule. More Newtonian Physics Through Explosives training was probably not necessary for the witnesses, nor needed by the experiencee himself, who was probably more in need of either medical treatment or a will, depending on the amount of Newton he got taught.

After about three days of checking out my equipment, after all, there weren't a lot of electrical outlets still present, much less working, on the one-time Destroyer Escort. I either had to bring a battery capable of producing 120 VAC, or I needed a way to make it myself, so I needed to turn on not just the target, but I had to turn on the generators to make the target able-to-be-turned-on, without the viagra jokes from earlier. It wasn't just a matter of flipping a switch.

Anyway, after three days of checking out my equipment, I had my actions and route planned and set and marked. After all, Hansel and Gretel had the right idea, just the wrong implementation. "The Right Idea - The Wrong Implementation" is also a Government motto, but I don't know which Department gets it. No, I was prepared for my duties, including my actions planned to accomplish my desire not to be referred to posthumously in the near future.

Please see Part I's admonition about "package grabbing," and apply it to this not-quite-a-Part II's "checking out my equipment." Thank you. This information will be assumed to apply to all easy double entendres henceforth.

So, after all this, we have a meeting, which was as memorable as any meeting I've ever been to in my entire life, where we decide to do what we've been preparing to do for about 6 weeks, in total, and a few hours later, we up anchor, and are on our way to "International Waters," wherever that may be.

We then did the stuff I lied about in Part I, toward the end, getting me to the next part of my adventure.

End "The Omission."

The next Part REALLY, REALLY will be "The Return."

But Does It Work for Minimum Wage?

Here's a little headline from today's online Houston ChronicLies:

I wonder how many striking workers a single Raytheon Missile replaces.

Pig Races in Katy, Texas

The crowd in attendance.
Last night, I went to the Pig Races that have been all over the News. As you can see, there were a few of us there.

I'd estimate about 300 people, total, but I could be off by anywhere from 300 to 1000 in that estimate. You can see about 70% of the crowd in that picture.

The contestants were eager to participate, as they got cookies at the end.

They're off!

But number 6 seemed to win in a disproportionate share of the races. I believe something is afoot, and I want the United States Pig Racing Commission to institute an investigation.

Number 6 wins yet again!

A Perilous Tale - The Beginning

Once again, with a generous dollop of metaphoric license, some slight exaggeration, and other phrases that conceal the fact I'm lying more than just occasionally, the following story is 100% true.

In old time wars, it was easy to see why they started. You know, like in the movies where some guy with a sword and a black horse and a few friends could go around grabbing up land and making the people living on the land pay him so they could continue to live there. He would eventually run into a different guy with a sword and a horse of a different color so you can tell them apart as the camera angle changes, and the two guys with the horses - and their friends - would smack each other with their swords until they decided who got to keep the money taken from the people who are actually doing something constructive to keep the guys with the horses and swords from starving when the sword smacking is done.

But nowadays, we have what are called "international incidents," or "police actions," or Bush's contribution to the cause, "Enforcement of years of empty UN Threats."

International incidents come in a wide variety, from Mexican Drug Runners coming across the US border bearing arms (not that it would ever actually happen), to military trucks crossing the Czechoslovakian border only to be rescued by the Army's newest Urban Assault Vehicle, but that's a different story that also really happened to me, but they've already made into a movie with Bill Murray.

Police Actions and EOYOEUNTs generally involve tanks and airplanes, which are the modern day equivalent of horses and swords, and even include different color paints on the tanks and pictures on the wings of the airplanes to help you tell them apart in the fight sequences, too.

Not much has changed in some respects.

"Why is he telling me this?" you might ask. There's no need to ask. I was about to tell you why. I was the cause of a very minor, itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny "international incident" myself. This story needs quite a bit of introduction, but if you read along, you can see how innocent everything actually was and how I had really done nothing wrong.

Prelude
Back in the early 1980's, I was in the US Military. Now, those folks who have been in the US Military know that the military keeps a lot of secrets. The reason for this is simple: The other side wants to kill you before you kill him, while you plan to kill him first, instead. Not telling him where you are, nor how you are armed, nor what means you have of locating him, will all go toward helping you accomplish your goal of killing him, and preventing the enemy from accomplishing his goal of killing you.

In Secrets, though, some things are more secret than others. For example, how many rolls of toilet paper that a squadron buys in a year is less secret than the design of one of those atomic bombs that James Bond always has to go and fetch for us after KAOS or SMIRSCH or SPECTRE steals one, which they seem to be able to do quite frequently. (For some reason, though, stealing the nuclear warhead always takes elaborate plots involving futuristic technology and large military compounds that heretofore have gone unnoticed on the outskirts of a large metropolis, but are close enough from the metropolis to be reached in an Aston Martin without having to refuel. The hidden military compound is invariably approached by driving down winding mountain roads with majestic panoramic views and at least one place where pretty girls have a reason to be skimpily clad in public.)

To keep the different levels of secrets straight, they set up a system. The military has a system set up to do just about anything you need done. The Secret-keep-straight system involves "classification." This means giving different secrets code words that mean how secret they are, and you write that code word at the top of any thing that has one of these secrets written on it. Stuff that you just don't want the enemy to know, but that he could probably find out if he tried to hard enough, like annual toilet paper roll purchases, are called "Confidential," for instance.

Everything that anyone in the military says or does or writes is "confidential" at a minimum. Go back to the reason for secrets in the first place to see why everything is at least a little bit secret. They even come up with catchy phrases to remind you, like "Shhhh! Loose lips sink ships."

The classification levels continue through things like "top secret" which means that I can't even tell you what goes in this category, or else I'd be giving away confidential information. Some of the still higher levels are "Eyes Only," which means you can't even take it out of the room, unless you are a friend of Bill Clinton's and you stuff it into your socks, and the even higher level called "********" which means you can't even write in a 'blog 20+ years later what it was called, or they can come get you and throw you in jail.

People are given access to different levels of material depending on the job they do, and what they need to know. To keep straight who is allowed to see what, they give people "clearances." This means one is cleared to see that level of material, if his job requires it.

I needed to be around some stuff that was at a level that required one of these "clearances." I work in electronics, which includes a lot of stuff like radios and radars and guidance systems and word processors and synchronization systems and timing systems and a lot of other stuff. Just about all of that stuff is located in a room you can't even go in to without a clearance, much less be allowed to touch anything or read anything anything in there.

So begins my innocent foray into the international arena...

The Beginning

When the military builds something to kill the other guy, they generally try to check the weapon out before using it in a confrontation. Think about it. You just invented this thing called a "bow and arrow." While you're up against the guy still using the old fashioned "spear technology," who is far away but coming closer, so as to accomplish his goal of killing you first, you find out that your weapons research group didn't load test the bow string properly and it breaks as you pull it back a bit more than normal due to adrenaline and your fervent desire to plunder more peasants rather than becoming prematurely deceased. You are now forced to confront the not-so-old-fashioned-anymore spear technology with club-that-was-recently-a-bow technology. Your odds of getting to keep the money plundered from the workers just went down considerably.

So, being an electronics guy who was perfect for the job, I was given an assignment to help test some new technology, slightly more advanced than spear technology. "Perfect for the job" meant that the job required someone with a knowledge of electronics such as I had, and that I was high ranking enough to do the assignment independently, and yet still low ranking enough not to be able to get out of it and make someone else do it, instead.

My role was not very glamorous, though. My job was to turn on the target before the weapon was fired at it. Consider something as simple as a heat-seeking missile. These are the missiles that airplanes sometimes fire at each other, like in Tom Cruise movies, for instance. Since a jet flies by forcing compressed hot gases out behind it (Newton making sure that the jet itself then responds by moving forward at an equal, but opposite distance determined by the thrust developed by the moving-backward gasses) these hot gases are the target of the heat-seeking missile. When it was tested, someone had to turn on the heat source, then get out of the way before the missile got there to destroy the heat source the unlucky person had ignited just previously. If this second part is not accomplished correctly, the getting out of the way part that is, then the person turning it on also stood a good likelihood of being similarly destroyed.

This was my job. Of course, I had to go to where the target was located in order to turn on the source, since we typically didn't keep any target ranges laying around the office. I may have omitted the fact that I was stationed overseas in Europe at this time. This means that we were going to test this weapon in someone else's country.

Generally, testing weapons in someone else's country without their permission does not go over well with the people or government of that country. So, someone who wasn't responsible for turning on targets and getting away afterwards had come up with the idea of doing the test in "International Waters."

You see, when you get between 3 and 12 miles off the coast of a country... how far depends on which country has the coast, and whether or not it follows international law... you are no longer in that country. Since you must be in a boat or airplane, you are in an area called "International Waters," which means that no one owns them, and anyone can use them, barring EOYOEUNTs or wars and the other guys' capability to stop you from using them. But there was nothing of the sort going on that the US Military was participating in, at that moment, so we were free to set up the target in international waters.

Of course, I have to get to this place first, myself. I'm in Europe, and I have to get to International Waters. Try calling Continental for those reservations, and you'll see that there is still no airport there even to today.

To get to my destination, I would be forced to ride in the US Military Equivalent of a tug boat. This is the waterborne vehicle that resembles a Safe-Clear tow truck, but it's bigger and on the water, and the guy in charge is probably not a parolee or some kid who really just wants a reason to park on the side of the road with a girl in his cab.

The reason for this is that the tug boat was going to pull the target that I was to turn on out into these international waters. To do this, the tug boat had to start in the same place as the target. Since I was going to be part of this, I joined the target, the tugboat, and the guy-who-isn't-a-parolee where the target was located.

You see, picking a target is not difficult. Generally, it must be two things: 1. Capable of making it to the destination; and 2. Remaining there until destroyed by the weapons-system-that-passes-the-test, or until not destroyed by the weapons-system-thats-facing-cost-overruns. In general new boats, airplanes, tanks, or armored personnel carriers are not used for this, although they meet both criteria in many cases.

What is preferred is something that is ruined and worthless.

So, to get our target out to international waters, we needed something that floated, to fulfill the second criterium for suitability as a target, namely remaining afloat until we could shoot it and sink it.

What we needed was a boat that was no longer useful for anything, but that still floated. Luckily, the US Military is full of institutional wisdom. Like any homeowner knows, the best way to ruin a tool is to loan it to a friend or neighbor.

So, after we were done with some old ships in WWII, we loaned them to some friends. Well, actually, the one I am talking about in particular, we loaned to the French, so it wasn't exactly friends. It was more like the neighbor you thought you liked when he helped you cut up and dispose of the tree that fell into your yard during that bad storm, but eventually stopped inviting to your barbeques because you found out he was really a jerk.

So, anyway, when the French were done with it, just like that jerk neighbor, they left the old WWII vessel just sitting out to rust. Then, keeping the jerk analogy going, they give you back a rusted tool that doesn't work anymore with a shrug that says, "Yeah, you know and I know that it's my fault, but I'm still going to claim that it was like this when I got it from you."

And to make matters worse, we had to go pick it up!

Where was it? They left it in Haifa, Israel.

Now, back in those days, it was often possible for someone in the US Military to travel among friendly allied countries using just their military identification card, however, Israel was the exception. It had something to do with people of a different religion wanting to blow them up at random. I'm not going to say who this other group is or what their religion is, so don't even ask. You'll just have to remain in the dark.

Anyway, to go to Israel, one needs a passport, regardless of one's Active Duty Military status. My passport had expired a few months earlier, and this was my first need of one since that time. Of course, since I was going to Israel for official business, I figured I could get the Government to pay for my passport.

So I did all the required paperwork, and eventually got a bright, shiny new passport. However, the very first page had an unusual paragraph printed on it: This passport is issued by the government of the United States of America for the purpose of Official Travel. Anyone obtaining this passport using fraudulent means will be prosecuted under USC 351.01 or UCMJ Article 15 or Courts Martial.

What did I care, though? I just got a new, free passport, and it was legitimate.

Now, even though members of Congress may say otherwise, the Military really does try to save money. One way they do this is by having people going somewhere on official business fly on a cargo plane, if necessary, that is already going there, so they don't have to pay for "civilian air."

Also, when someone does anything in the Military that is not his normal go-to-work-at-the-office type of job, even if the office happens to be an M1A1 or the USS Carl Vinson or the cockpit of an F15, one has to have "orders" to do so. Actually, you get orders just to determine which "office" you go to, as well, but those you turn in when you get there, and don't keep them with you. When you go somewhere else for a while but are coming back when you're done, you carry your "temporary orders," which pretty much say where you're going and what you're going to do when you get there, in general.

I had to get such orders, telling where I was starting and where I was going, so if I was found in California on my way from Florida to Virginia, someone would know that something is amiss. This is done because the enemy is known to sometimes pretend like he isn't the enemy and do stuff like this. So, "orders" are required all the time.

My orders for this trip, since we needed a ship to carry the target and the French had been nice enough to render a ship target-carrying material, said I was on a "joint forces exercise." All this really means is that people from different services are going to be involved. My orders reflected this. In the block that said, "Purpose for travel," which was right after the block that said, "Is travel required?" the government had typed in "Joint Forces Exercise." Now if I was captured, they'd have to torture me to find out I was going to Israel to turn on a target and then run away before I got blown up, myself.

Although wisdom and frugality are both present in the military, these come about at the expense of "efficiency." The concept of efficiency is lost on most military commands, especially the commands where they deal exclusively with members of the military who have no choice but to follow the system the military has set up for whatever it is the military members are doing, no matter how inefficiently they are doing it.

One example of this is the "chow hall," also know as the "galley" or "mess tent," and sometimes even "the cafeteria." There are three rules to this locale:

1. Don't look at the menu.
2. Don't look at the food.
3. Don't look at the cook.

Another such place for inefficiency is the "Military Airlift Command." This is the Continental Airlines and Fedex of the military, combined. Whether you need to get a Bradley fighting vehicle from California to Italy, or a can of gear oil from Singapore to Nicaragua, MAC is in charge of getting it there. Some things get priority, but most people do not. The phrase "Hurry up and wait," is an expression known to every veteran no matter his rank or service or location. This also happens to be the actual slogan for "MAC" services.

During my travels to Tel Aviv, I find myself sitting in Naples, Italy, waiting for my ten o'clock MAC flight, and decide I should eat dinner as it is already close to 1800. This means the airplane is 8 hours late, or 16 hours early, but it really doesn't matter, because the plane is going to leave when it's ready no matter what the schedule said when published, and I'll get less than 20 minutes notice when that time actually arrives.

Well, I get a call on the PA, "Wino, please come to the counter at this time." I go to the indicated counter, since it is the only one. I wonder, on my way, why they thought the "at this time" part was necessary. Did they think that if they just asked me to come to the counter that I'd look at my watch and say to myself, "I'll go up there in 45 minutes, since they didn't say WHEN to come to the counter?"

Walking up to the counter, I am asked by the MAC drone, "Are you Wino? You're the highest ranking guy on the flight to Sigonella with the proper clearance, so we want you to carry this envelope to Building 22 when you arrive."

"I'm not going to Sigonella," I protested weakly, as foul-ups are legend in the military, even getting their own acronym "SNAFU," which means "situation normal - all fouled up." (There are other translations associated with that acronym, but this is a PG-rated blog most of the time, so I won't publish them.)

"You're going to Tel Aviv, right? Well, that plane is going to stop off in Sig' for a few hours. While there, deliver this envelope," as the package is thrust at me.

Now, when classified stuff is sent from one place to another by courier, you can't just leave it a manila folder with 2 inch Red Letters on the front that say, "TOP SECRET," no matter what you see in the movies. Also, they don't put it in a locked briefcase with secret gadgets and a set of hand-cuffs to hold it to your wrist, most of the time. Usually, they put that marked folder into an envelope that is marked with big Red Letters on the front that say, "TOP SECRET."

This marked envelope is placed into another envelope that is marked with not-so-big black letters that say, "Confidential." You see, it is the classification of the information that is confidential. A courier might be carrying "Secret," "Top Secret," or "********" level material. If the military didn't hide the level of classification, the bad guys could just say, "If you ever see a courier with something marked '++++++++,' (See, they don't know the right word for it, so our not telling folks about it is working) grab his package."

Editorial Aside: At the time of this story, the word "package" was not synonymous with others words referring to one's masculine endowment, such as "bulge," or "zipper monster." No puns about "package grabbing" in the comments will be tolerated, unless they're really funny.

On the outside is a multi-layer form. This is to document the "chain of custody." When you receive the package, you sign saying you have it, and give the bottom copy to the person who handed you the package. He keeps this for his own protection.

When you give the package to someone else, you have HIM sign for it, and YOU keep the bottom copy. If the package comes up missing, then the investigators just tell all the couriers to show their copies. It becomes obvious who had it when it disappeared, since he won't have a signed piece of paper saying who got it from him. This determines who gets a new roommate in Leavenworth. The person is then on his own to see whether or not he becomes this new roommate's bitch.

So, I did my signing, and went to sit down once again, with my package bulging under my clothes. I put the envelope into my briefcase.

Of course, now that I'm doing this courier service, it is something that isn't covered in my "joint forces" orders. This is easily corrected by adding "And Courier Duty" to the box that originally explained-without-explaining that I was on a joint forces exercise. The type fonts look the same, as well, as if the typing were done on the same typewriter, not one at the MAC Terminal in Naples, Italy. This is because the Military surely paid someone to determine which type font and at what size it was best for reading and comprehension, and now has a "typewriter system" that incorporates this rule. At the time, Courier 10 was the font of choice, so that's what absolutely every typewriter in the military used, except for some Texas Air National Guard units who had state-of-the-art typesetting machines that were capable of proportional spacing and precise centering. Mostly, though, the TANG typesetting units were just used for writing CYA memos and other such trivial tasks. My newly amended orders were ready to go, and allow me to complete my onerous task of envelope-carrying before my real job of missile-dodging commenced.

I won't go in to the other events that transpired on this series of flights, except to say that my eventual arrival in Tel Aviv occurred, and I arrived having completed said envelope-carrying, and had my signed-though-illegible copy of the custody form to prove it, were it to become necessary. As I had envelope-carried it to its terminal destination in Sigonella, though, and hadn't sold it to the Russians for millions of Rubles or tens of dollars, I knew I would not be needing the copy, and promptly misplaced it. Surprisingly, losing the custody form never resulted in me going to Leavenworth, or another outrageous story that I could make up... I mean... "relate to you" in this blog, at some future time.

I walked up to the arrival counter in Tel Aviv, in my civilian clothes, since wearing military uniforms where it is possible to run into someone who is wearing the latest in Abdullah al-Hilfiger Designer High Explosives is not very smart. Going back to the reasons for secrecy, yet again, shows why the "In Israel, take your uniform off, dummy" rule was invoked to prevent the enemy from making one dead first.

Even prior to 9/11, the Israelis took airport security fairly seriously. I was processed, but since I had military ID, military orders, and a brand new official passport, I was folded and spindled, my orders checked, by military ID card inspected, and my passport stamped with an "Ben Gurion Airport - Israeli Transit Visa - Entry - Good for 5 days" official Israeli stamp. I was on my way.

I made it to the target vessel, got towed to international waters along with the target vessel provided magnanimously by the French's abuse of perfectly good military hardware, energized the target, and got off without getting blown up. Although not every detail went exactly according to plan, the part where I didn't get blown up was definitely in my top ten list of things to accomplish successfully during the trip, and that at least, had gone off smoothly.

So, I find myself on a tug boat, in the middle of international waters, and orders to return from my temporary not-getting-blown-up assignment. I go up to the communications center and ask if they'll see about getting me to land somewhere, so I can make my way back. Wherever the tug boat was going, I'm pretty sure I hadn't parked there, since I was parked at an airport, not a marina-type port, and most tug boats don't fly into airports on a regular basis. At least, that has been my experience.

End - Part I

The next Installment will be The Return Trip.

I Really Would Like an Answer

I have asked many people the following question about government entitlement programs, and never received an answer:

What makes someone else more entitled to my earnings than me?

The Third Biggest Constitutional Mistake

Since hamous ruined this with his last comment, I'm going to post it early.

Yes, you get the apple, hamous. The Amendment XVI shows in the #3 spot!

It amended, from Article I, Section 9:

No Capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion to the Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken.

What does this mean? It means that everyone must be taxed at the same rate and the same amount, and it cannot be subverted. This was envisioned as a way for each State to contribute fairly to the Federal Government. But as you can see from my second complaint, the States have been rendered impotent by the Fed.

The Sixteenth Amendment:

The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes on incomes, from whatever source derived, without apportionment among the several States, and without regard to any census or enumeration.

BINGO! This gives the Congress direct access to everyone's wallet, and in whatever manner they choose.

Why was this so bad? If you need to ask, then you need to get a job and find out.

The real problem is that now, people can be set upon by the government unequally, and this gives rise to the "fair share" argument of tax-hungry democrats, and their "tax the rich" mantra. It becomes hard for me to type due to the red tint I see when these statements are uttered.

How was this allowed? Why, the people were told that only the top 5% of the "rich" would ever feel this, and it was only 1% (IIRC).

What is really insidious about this (go back to my introduction, if you need to), is that people who are ALREADY rich are not hit by this. It is on INCOME, not on savings or other resources. So, the folks who already have their "unfair share" are able to keep new members out of the club, because this make amassing an "unfair share" prohibitively difficult. In other words, someone with $10 million can keep it, but one who earns $10 million must give about 55% of it away in various taxes. Don't make me do the math for you, and don't quote tax brackets. I don't want to get into that now. Just trust me that more than half of the money never makes it to the earner, and the 16th amendment is the major culprit.

Yep... Lied to by Congress to help pay for WWI, and it's been killing wage earners ever since.

I want to see a tax on family pass-downs above $200 million... and on holding in excess of $1 billion, instead. Let's let the TRULY rich pay their "fair share," not just the EARNERS who are making the country work, rather than living off the fat of their forebears.

The Second Biggest Constitutional Mistake

The first line of Article I, Section 3 of the US Constitution reads:

The Senate of the United States shall be composed of two Senators from each State, chosen by the Legislature thereof, for six Years; and each Senator shall have one Vote.

Article V, in total, reads:

The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it necessary, shall propose Amendments to this Constitution, or, on the Application of the Legislatures of two thirds of the several States, shall call a Convention for proposing Amendments, which, in either Case, shall be valid to all Intents and Purposes, as Part of this Constitution, when ratified by the Legislatures of three fourths of the several States, or by Conventions in three fourths thereof, as the one or the other Mode of Ratification may be proposed by the Congress; Provided that no Amendment which may be made prior to the Year One thousand eight hundred and eight shall in any Manner affect the first and fourth Clauses in the Ninth Section of the first Article; and that no State, without its Consent, shall be deprived of its equal Suffrage in the Senate.

The first paragraph of Amendment XVII reads:

The Senate of the United States shall be composed of two Senators from each State, elected by the people thereof, for six years; and each Senator shall have one vote. The electors in each State shall have the qualifications requisite for electors of the most numerous branch of the State legislatures.

What this means is that originally, the Constitution provided for the People to have representation via the House of Representatives, and the States to have representation via the Senate. With the passage of the 17th Amendment, the States lost all representation in the Federal Government.

Remember, the Federal Government was FORMED by the States relegating some of their authority and power to form it, under the agreement of this Constitution. In 1861, the States tried to reclaim some of that power, but were defeated by force of arms and relegated to subservient status. I've posted about the War of Northern Aggression before, and don't plan to re-hash those points now.

In 1913, the 17th amendment removed ALL power and representation from the States, and has left them at the mercy of the Congress and SCOTUS. Unfunded Federal Mandates, intrusion into local politics by outside entities, and other occurences are the result of this loss of power.

In addition, this brings the US closer to a democracy, and takes us further from a republic. If you think a democracy is good, I suggest you research Plato's views, Madison's views, Washington's views, and Jefferson's views on democracy.

The 17th Amendment, removing all power from the State's in the Federal Government, was the Second Biggest Constitutional Mistake in the History of the United States.

The Three Big Lies

You know the three big lies, don't you?

1. I promise I'll still respect you in the morning.
2. The check is in the mail.
3. I'm from the government, and I'm here to help you.

Well, number three is apparently going to be inflicted on Texans, this year. I'm cringing, just thinking about it.

Consumer aid on minds of legislators this sessionSubhead: Many bills likely to address relief in gas, electricity, insurance costs

Another Republican lawmaker is working with consumer groups to make sure that motorists are getting what they pay for at the gas pump by requiring pumps to be adjusted for warmer temperatures.

The standard gallon of gas is measured at 60 degrees, but the liquid fuel expands at higher temperatures. Every degree above that standard diminishes the energy a gallon delivers to a vehicle, forcing consumers to use and pay for more fuel.

Rep. Burt Solomons of Carrollton said in a press release last week that Texas has an average temperature of 78 degrees, meaning consumers buy an additional 143 million gallons of gas at a cost of $416 million.

House Bill 37 would require the Texas Department of Agriculture to regulate and enforce the temperature-adjusted gas.

Here's some information probably overlooked by the distinguished representative. Gasoline comes out of the ground and into your tank. It is NOT at air temperature, but at underground temperature. I'm thinking that the 60 degree gas rule is about right.

I hope their "help" ends up costing us less than the federal "help" of Medicare, Social Security, Airline deregulation, and a slew of other "help" bills that have all but destroyed the middle class' ability to live on a single income.

The First Mistake

I hate to always start with a History Lesson, but it seems like too many people are ignorant of US History... or at least, don't know my take on it.

Back in 1776, Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence. This is the document that got the Congress really talking about, and finally voting to declare, the Independence of the United States of America from England, and the Tyrant King George III.

Now, the Constitution for the United States of America was not adopted until 1789 or 1792, depending on how you count things, and written in 1787.

We've got 11 or so years here without anything. What we were governed under, at first, was the Articles of Confederation. These pretty much said that, "We're a group of independents who get together to protect each other." It had a bunch of rules and regulations, one of which I liked, which said these rules could only be overturned with a unanimous vote. That's why I question the 1789 dates mentioned above.

Anyway, what happened was the Constitution was written and ratified, and the United States of America had its contract with the people.

Now, as with any set of rules, the rule-ed (two syllable pronunciation of "ruled") tend to push the boundaries. Early on in the history of the US, James Madison, who WROTE the effing thing, had a problem with its implementation.

What happened was typical political midnight tomfoolery. John Adams, himself not a small player in the revolution of America, had made some "midnight appointments," including William Marbury to the post of Justice of the Peace in the District of Columbia. Remember, Washington, DC, belongs to no State, and is Federal territory... so the President is in charge there.

Jefferson, the incoming president, told James Madison not to issue a commission to Adams' appointment, and instead to appoint his own man to the post.

Well, this is where the Supreme Court of the United States (hereinafter called SCOTUS) steps in and pulls the fastest of all the fast ones. It established the state of "Unconstitutional." Until this point, the branches had the choice of following the Constitution, as they were personally sworn to do, or doing what they pleased.

What's the problem with this? Well, the problem becomes, who decides what is or is NOT "Constitutional." As I stated, as an aside, earlier, the Constitution itself abrogated the previous contract between "The People" and "The Government", called the "Federation," but that's not the point.

The problem is that there are supposed to be three co-equal branches of the Federal Government. ONE such branch is appointed for life, and the voters cannot directly influence it. The Executive and Legislative branches have to answer to the people.

The Judicial branch, once ensconced in their tower, need answer to no one. They have arbitrarily declared themselves the "arbiters of Constitutionality." I guess, in this case, they are "more equal" than the other two branches.

If a judge dislikes something, why, he just crosses over to the legislative side and does some dabbling. Likewise, he'll go to the executive and take care of it there.

You think this is not true? Ever heard of "busing?" This phenomenon, from back in the 1970's was the Judiciary's way of FORCING its will on the people. Please, back away from the "morality button." I'm not talking racism here... I'm talking regulatory power and enforcement responsibility. Can you show me the place in the Constitution where it gives the Judiciary the Means to Enforce such an edict?

It doesn't. Enforcement lies with the Executive... the President.

Making the rules lies with the Legislative... the Congress.

Deciding the conflicts lies with the Judiciary... the SCOTUS.

So, who decides, in MY perfect world, what is "Constitutional?" Why, TWO of the THREE equal Branches of the Government... The elected mass, the Congress... The elected individual, the President... and the appointed ajudicators, the SCOTUS.

If any two of these votes that the other is acting in an "Unconstitutional manner," then they can halt them. Otherwise, the one branch... as is today the SCOTUS... becomes a non-umverate (nine-umverate) of dictators.

The Congress and the Executive letting the SCOTUS assume this power without contesting it is the biggest Constitutional Mistake in US History.

The Three Biggest Constitutional Mistakes In US History, Introduction

The following is just an opinion that I stated a while ago, without explanation. I hope that my following diatribe... I mean.. um... "treatise" sheds some light on my feelings of the matter.

First, before I begin, let me tell you my credentials.

I have none. That's right. None, zip, zero. I'm just an average guy who does two things that are far from common: I read and I think. Most people do neither, much (if not most) of the time.

I know that this is a somewhat inflammatory introduction, but it is not meant to be. Many people read. Many people think. Most people, I have come to find, do neither. Congratulations! You, by reading this, at the very least do half of what I am talking about. Please think about what follows, as well.

Now, what I'm about to write is my personal opinion. Think of it as Publius, but without the genius behind it. I'm just trying to figure out where we went wrong. And "went wrong" is what I mean.

Just look at the Federal Government of today... They are doing things never authorized for them. You see, there are some evils in the world. Two of them are governments and corporations.

Now, I'm not one of those "I hate business" people. In fact, I love business, and I even love much of what corporations do. I'm not an "anti-globalist." I'm not much of a "globalist," either, for that matter. "Corporations are evil" and "Governments are Evil" are not two random statements.

Do you know what a corporation is? Probably not, I'm sorry to say. A corporation is a contractual construct that has the status of a person, in legal matters. That's it, plain and simple. Forget the legal gobbledy-gook and forget the "heretofores" and "parties of the first and second part." A corporation is a person, for legal purposes.

Now, a government is a similar construct. It is a contract between a people and a legal entity for both benefits and payments. The people are always seen to benefit, but the government always receives the payment.

Neither of these, in and of themselves, are evil. A corporation was needed, to insure the free flow of ideas, technology, goods, currency... the good effects of corporations are endless. What is wrong with a corporation? In short, it doesn't die.

Neither do governments. Both of these entities are set up with the best of intentions. No dictator ever took power without a lot of followers. No republic ever got established without the assent of the governed. They are never bad to start. What goes bad with a government is that the government inherently wants what is best for the government.

The government/corporation are interchangeable here. What we have is an immortal entity that looks out for its own interest. Both have power over smaller entities and people, though not all entities or people, and not absolute power, regardless.

These entities never die, so whatever gains they make into the inroads of creating more power, or making themselves more immune to outside influence or control, are consolidated, and never abandoned, once gained. It is much harder to take away than it is to never grant in the first place. The expression "possession is 9 points of the law" basically means that it's easier to keep than to get. So, once one of these entities gains power, it will only reliquish it with great opposition.

Once this self-interest and longevity begin to fester... I mean "mature"... the goveration or the corporment begins to grow uncontrollably. The problem with a corporation is that its power is not absolute. Market forces and government regulations can keep corporations in check.

But the government is a different matter. It has no sovereign except the people or more power. The real problem we have right now, is that the government isn't listening to the people, and it has amassed too much power, much of it against the compact it made with the people.

My next few articles will tell my opinion of the three worst things that ever happened to this Constitutional Republic we call the United States of America.

A Rambling Confession

OK.. I did it. I confess.

What did I do? Well, I have to go back a few years, and I'm going to change a few details, to protect the guilty - namely me.

I moved into my house in May. May 30, to be exact. It wasn't this year.

Across the street was a brick house that was fairly normal for the neighborhood, except it was brick, as I already mentioned. The rest of the houses on my street are not brick. They are typically some version of what I term "1970's siding." You know, the cracked vinyl that was touted to last until the next Ice Age, or the "never needs painting" aluminum siding that has since oxidized into what looks like a whitish powdery mildew, except, of course, that it's white and mildew is black. Think of it as a vertical layer of dust such as that typically found horizontally, of course, on all horizontal surfaces not suitable for sitting, in the homes of the typical winners of the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes, except it's vertical, as I also said earlier.

So, being a brick house was unusual, but that's not why I mentioned it. It caught my eye, mainly because it is directly across the street from my house. This tends to get one's attention, especially when looking out the front windows of one's house. I noticed the brick part later, but it does make it stand out.

So, it's May 30. It's Houston. The sun is bright and shining, and it's a perfect Houston Spring Day to move into the new place. I look around the neighborhood, and internally thank the inventer of the privacy fence, and the salesman who sold the fence to the builders of some of my neighbors' houses, but that's another story which I'll skip for now.

I internally note that, "being May 30, the family across the street certainly is lax in taking down their Christmas lights." I say this to myself internally, since I don't mind talking to myself, but I don't want anyone to eavesdrop on me while I do so.

Now, I don't want to offend any particular ethnic group, but this family is not originally from the US. At least, their language skills appear to be lacking for native speakers. I won't tell you what their background is. I'll just call them "The Navidads," since that is actually my nickname for them.

Anyway, those white icicle Christmas lights became an obsession to me. Every time I would see them, I would be forced to make a remark.

"You know, if they didn't have the red brick, but instead had some of that crappy, oxidized 1970's aluminum siding that had turned white already, those effin' lights wouldn't stand out so much." This would have been a typical comment I might make.

When I say "forced to make a remark," I am not being figurative. Even when my brain and jaw muscles would attempt to stop me, my lungs and voice box just fought all the harder, and the only thing worse than mumbling stuff like, "One of these days, I swear, I'm going to go rip those things down," is to shout things like, "You know, it only takes a few minutes to take them down. When can they ever find the time, since they are so busy leaning on pickup trucks drinking beer?"

Of course, one can only claim to have Turretts Syndrome so many times before folks stop believing. Sorta like crying wolf, without having to worry about getting eaten at the end. Of course, getting shot is still a possibility, but that's not what I was here to talk about.

Christmas, my first year in my new house, was very memorable. Not only did I get some neat magnet toys, I figured I'd finally get the payment of my six-plus months of waiting for the Christmas lights.

Never.
Not once.
Not even ONE time did they turn them on.

Not even a flicker.

Come my one year anniversary, it finally happened. It started out innocently enough. I came home early from work, and there was no pickup truck in their driveway. There was no Suburban in their driveway. There was no Toyota POS-car in their driveway. There was no 1980's vintage decayed pimp-mobile of indeterminate make, with a dent in the fender and the de rigueur bent coat hanger for the antenna in their driveway. The driveway was empty.

The front door was closed.

There was no one home. Now was my chance.

I may not have mentioned it, at least not in this post, but I am tall. If you have had the fortune (good or mis~) to have met me, then you know this already. In fact, I am tall enough to reach low-hanging icicle lights that have been hanging for at least a year with a red-brick background making them all that more noticeable, without a ladder.

I wanted to be certain no one was home, so I knocked on the door. I was ready to make up some story, use a lot of words like "icosohedron," "Bernoulli," and "fladutration," until I could claim "failure to communicate," and make my getaway.

Knock, knock! I did this as it is a customary way to make sure you're not caught committing property crimes in Houston. This is also preparatory to not getting shot by an angry homeowner, or meeting his dog "Budreaux." I don't know why Pit Bulls always have Cajun-sounding names, but it is a fact of life that if the tire-to-car ratio at a house goes below 3-to-1, the dog is named something that could've come directly from the swamps of our nearest southeastern neighbor.

Knock, knock! I repeated, and looked back across the street, casually glancing both up and down my street to see if I would be witnessed in my acts.

I walked across to my house and put my work-things away. Now, depending on your line of work, "work things" can mean many things. It can include lunchboxes and thermoses, for instance, if you happen to work in a mostly outdoor job. It can be a tool box if you happen to fix appliances. It can be a computer or briefcase if you work in an office. It can be iron maidens and other implements of torture if you happen to work as an X-ray technician.

This is an aside. The rest of the confession continues after this interlude.

It is my firm belief that people are sorted for medical-field professions by their reactions to a series of tests. In one such test, a candidate is placed in a room with tiny, defenseless animals, and food and water and bowls, etc.

Those who feed and care for the poor furry waifs are made into veterinarians.

Those who pet them are made into doctors.

Those who ignore them are made into dentists.

Those who torture and maim them are made into X-Ray technicians. "Can you put your foot at an angle like this?" accompanied by a throat-rending, ear-splitting scream of pain as my probably-broken ankle is forcefully twisted into a position it could never accomplish before such X-Ray was needed.

I have had several ankle X-Rays, and believe me, this is not a random occurence. It is intentional and systematic. Evil. Plain, ol' evil, is what X-Ray technicians are.

The Confession Continues...

So, after putting away my work stuff, I look back across the street, at the white icicle lights against the red brick house.

And I do it. I cross the street and grab the end of the string of lights. IT BREAKS OFF IN MY HAND!

It is dry-rotten. The copper has turned green and powdery and falls out of the short piece of stiff, cracked plastic insulation that once resembled festive holiday cheer I hold in my hand! How long had these things been up here? No wonder they didn't turn them on!

A quick glance along the line of lights verifies the absence of any plug on the end of the line, seeing it terminate toward the apex of the garage-gable behind their tree. No wonder! They couldn't be turned on if you soaked them in viagra for a week and sat up telling them "Bill Clinton Oval Office" stories all night long. Nope. The only way to get any light out of these involved their ignition temperature and a blow torch.

I proceeded to abandon all pretense of order in my crime. I snatched and grabbed the lights until my arms were full of little, broken faux icicles and my shirt was covered in green, oxidized copper powder. I walked across to my trash can and tossed in my first bundle, and returned for my next. I was between their front door and their garage door, greedily grabbing and snatching and bundling their erstwhile festive decorations, and I was beginning to wonder how to get the last batch down when IT happened.

Their front door opened from the inside, and a head pops out. I am asked, in some foreign language, what I was doing. Of course, at this point I speak absolutely no foreign language (if need be, I don't speak english either) I couldn't understand the words.

I didn't really need the words, though. I'm standing with an arm load of white, broken icicle lights. I am staring at the dangling end of more of the string of lights, five feet above my head, wondering how to get it down.

And there in the door is my neighbor. So, what did I do?

I went home, got my step ladder, and took down the rest of the lights.

With slight exaggerations, some hyperbole, and not just a little outright lying, the above story is true.