Category Archives: Essays

Hello! Earth to Mars!

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I’ve signed up to be a candidate for a Martian colony.  Okay, I’m actually just on an email list, but I’m seriously considering this.  Mars One is a non-profit organization with a goal to establish a human settlement on the “Big Red Planet” by 2023.  So far, they have a goal and a web site – and not much else.  But hey, why not dream big?!  That’s what prompted our ancestors to move north out of Africa and sail across the vast oceans of this planet.  This falls in line with an essay I wrote last year, where I included the prospect of sending people to Mars.  With the current budget deficits and political wrangling here in the U.S., that won’t happen anytime soon.

Thus enters Mars One, a Dutch-based entity that has joined with the for-profit Interplanetary Media Group to raise money for the mission.  They don’t just want to launch a spacecraft to Mars for a brief visit; they actually establish a permanent settlement.  As of January, Mars One has secured funding from Trifork BV, another Dutch company that “is a leading full service supplier of high-quality custom-built applications for organizations primarily in” education, research and government non-profit.  That’s amazing.  A country known for its tulips and marijuana cafes actually has the temerity to create companies with such grand visions.

But, the first stage for Mars One is conceptual design.  They have to convene a gallery of talented engineers and architects to visualize what Martian structures would look like and how they would function.  They have to consider air, heating, cooling and insomnia.  Next is an astronaut selection program.  That will be the most challenging aspect of the project; finding people willing to give up so much of their lives for something so incredibly unknown.  They hope to start taking applications from prospective astronauts soon.  As with anything so extraordinary, hope is the first and most significant investment.  Yet, Mars One seems undeterred.

Their literature indicates that residency on the colony will be permanent.  I don’t know how that will work out for some people.  Personally, I’m a creature of habit and enjoy certain comforts here on Earth.  I believe, though, that Mars One will have to reconsider that aspect of the project, since plenty of people may get homesick; while others will be so incorrigible they need to be sent back to Earth.  Unless they can meet an untimely death and their bodies be used for fertilizer.

I still have to give this a lot of thought.  I’ll be 59 in a decade, but I already take better care of myself than most people.  Hell, I take better care of my dog than most people do themselves!  I figure the colony will need a technical / fiction writer anyway.  I could regale the group with frightening tales of being a Democrat in a state gone wildly Republican.  That surely would keep them on Mars!

But, I have plenty of questions.

  • Will I be able to have a dog or two with me?  I can’t imagine living the rest of my life without a canine at my side.  I don’t need another person in my life.  Most people are assholes, and dogs seem to understand me better anyway.
  • Will I be able to bring my gigantic collection of books and National Geographics?  Or, will every piece of literature have to be digital?  As a writer, I’m a natural bibliophile, so books are as much a part of my life as dogs and rum.
  • Speaking of rum, will I be able to imbibe in such spirits while on this colony?  Things may not be as stressful on Mars as here on Earth, which is probably the whole point of establishing a settlement.  But, knowing how quirky most people are – especially engineers and scientists – I’d need to have a drink or two after a day of installing air filters.
  • Will I be able to masturbate in seclusion?  I’m an introvert by nature, so teaming up with others in such a remote environment will be a real challenge.  Ultimately, though, I seek out others for basic human interaction.  But, I’d still need some hand time.
  • Will I be able to have steak and meat tacos?  Or, will everything be freeze-dried and MRE style foods?  I’ve lived off peanut butter sandwiches, canned meat and blueberry muffins before.  I’ve even had a full-fledged MRE.  They’re different now than from the spam-based crap my father ate when he served in the Korean War.  But, unless there’s a chance they improve dramatically in the next ten years, I can’t see living off them for a lifetime.  I mean, I already suffer from dry mouth syndrome.

A great deal of thought and planning has to go into establishing a colony on another celestial body.  Just the logistics of getting material to the place to build will be difficult enough, unless structures can be put together here on Earth and then shipped.  I don’t think FedEx goes that far.  There’s insufficient oxygen on Mars, so no one can take a walk around the terrain without dressing up like a beekeeper.  There probably won’t be much room to move around, which means the colonizers will have to live in close proximity to one another.  That alone could take a psychological and emotional toll.  The intrepid astronauts will have to get along with each other and learn to cooperate even under the most jaded of circumstances.  That would be difficult, considering you just wouldn’t be able to get in your car and go home.  I got pissed off at some people during a play party once many years ago, so I just packed up the wine coolers and sex toys.  They tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t relent.  On Mars, I wouldn’t be able to just grab the remaining MRE’s and canisters of air and head back to Dallas on a moment’s notice.  Knowing how easily people annoy me, I really have to think about this whole Martian colony enterprise.

Still, I feel it’s a worthwhile endeavor.  Humans are naturally curious.  Think about getting into a boat and sailing into an ocean without knowing how far away the next island or land mass is.  Imagine just getting up from a grassy plain and starting to walk – to anywhere.  That’s what our ancestors did.  Americans made it to the moon, as part of the “Cold Warspace race.  I’m certain we, as a global society, can make it to Mars within a generation.  In the meantime, I’ll imbibe in a Bacardi and Coke and begin stockpiling stories for those lonely Martian nights.

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In Memoriam – The Iraq War

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Today marks the 10th anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq.  It’s tough to believe an entire decade has actually passed.  Any war is a sad, catastrophic affair.  But, this conflict is made even worst when we realize it was not only completely unnecessary; it was based on a pack of lies.

The nexus of the invasion was that former Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein had “weapons of mass destruction,” or yellow-cake uranium from Nigeria, or something that could wreak havoc on our world.  I knew almost from the moment that President George W. Bush stood before the United Nations in September 2002 that he was lying about Hussein’s nuclear weapons capabilities.

It’s equally sad that the U.S. media followed suit with the Bush Administration’s lies, and – to make matters worse – so did much of the American public.

The Iraq War did have one clear winner: the American oil conglomerate.  Before the invasion, Iraqi oil reserves were closed to Western oil companies.  Now, it is largely privatized and almost completely dominated by foreign entities.

“Of course it’s about oil; we can’t really deny that,” said Gen. John Abizaid, former head of U.S. Central Command and Military Operations in Iraq, in 2007.

Then Senator and now Defense Secretary Chuck Hagel pretty much agreed, when he said also in 2007, “People say we’re not fighting for oil.  Of course we are.”

The Iraq War was a long time in the making.  You only have to look back to 1998, when Kenneth Derr, then CEO of Chevron said, “Iraq possesses huge reserves of oil and gas-reserves I’d love Chevron to have access to.”  Derr later became CEO of Halliburton – the same company Vice-President Dick Cheney lead until May of 2000, when he abruptly resigned and moved from Texas back to his native Wyoming.

In 2000, Chevron, Exxon, BP and Shell dumped millions into the Bush presidential campaign; more than any other presidential race.  Their efforts seem to have paid off.  Less than two weeks after Bush took office, Cheney chaired the newly-formed National Energy Policy Development Group whose entire purpose was to lay out the course for America’s energy future.  In March 2001, the group outlined Iraq’s oil production capacity and produced a final report two months later.

In 2004, Bush’s first Treasury secretary, Paul O’Neill, said, “Already by February (2001), the talk was mostly about logistics.  Not the why (to invade Iraq), but the how and how quickly.”

They found a way: the September 11, 2011 attacks on New York and Washington.  Dancing on the graves of the nearly 3,000 people killed in those attacks, the Bush Administration shifted attention to Iraq; accusing it of complicity in the calamity.  But, even before our troops landed in Baghdad, Cheney’s group was already making plans for Iraq’s postwar oil and energy industries.  Now, Chevron, Halliburton and several others have full access to Iraqi oil.  They must be happy – and proud.

It’s easy for draft dodgers like Bush and Cheney to wrap themselves in the American flag and cry freedom, before sending others into battle.  Like most wars, this one was commandeered by old men lounging safely ensconced in their leather chairs and fought by young people who often had no other opportunities in life, except to join the military.

Here’s what we have to show for the Iraq War:

Social conservatives always seem to find money for war – but never enough for education or health care.  Aside from the tangible costs, there are the emotional and psychological effects endured by military personnel and their families.  Nothing can replace the loss of a loved one – even if that person willingly joined the military, knowing they may never return alive.  The level of arrogance in the Bush Administration extended to the display of flag-draped coffins returning to the U.S.  In an effort to hide the true impact of war, photos of these coffins were banned from publication by the White House; a move you’d expect from the military dictatorships of Myanmar or Uganda.

Making matters worse, President Bush’s own mother, Barbara Bush, appeared on “Good Morning America” just a day before the Iraq invasion and said, “But why should we hear about body bags and deaths, and how many, what day it’s gonna happen, and how many this or that or what do you suppose?  Or, I mean, it’s not relevant.  So, why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that, and watch him (her husband, former president George H. W. Bush) suffer?”

God forbid if Barbara Bush’s quaint little tea parties should be disrupted by the sight of body bags on television!  I mean, that would be wrong, wouldn’t it?  I remember Bush, Jr., saying that he still listened to his mother.  Now, we know why he’s such an arrogant bastard.

A few years ago my local ABC News affiliate showed a young man returning to his home in a small East Texas town on Mother’s Day weekend and surprising his mother who worked at a Dairy Queen.  Only his father knew he was coming back, but kept it a secret, so the kid could surprise his mother.  I thought, ‘That’s who’s fighting this war: kids from small towns whose mothers work at Dairy Queen.’  Not Ivy League lawyers and Harvard graduates; not the sons and daughters of hedge fund CEOs – kids with few options in life.  Many of them are dead now; their promising futures squashed so cowards like George W. Bush and Dick Cheney can look good in the eyes of their blind supporters and large oil companies can earn extraordinary profits.

I know that the Great Creator will damn the likes of Bush, Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld and Condoleezza Rice for fabricating this mess and trying to sugar-coat it with layers of patriotic fervor.  Until then, I pray for the welfare of those who actually did the dirty work of fighting this war.

A family tries to leave the besieged Iraqi city of Basra March 31, 2003 in the back of a truck near a British manned bridge that had become a demarcation line. Photo by Spencer Platt/Getty Images.

A family tries to leave the besieged Iraqi city of Basra March 31, 2003 in the back of a truck near a British manned bridge that had become a demarcation line. Photo by Spencer Platt/Getty Images.

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Francis Is in the House

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Now that the Roman Catholic Church has crowned Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio as their new leader, followers from across the globe hope he can usher in significant and much-needed changes in an institution that has become as corrupt as it is antiquitous.  Bergoglio has taken the name Francis, after St. Francis of Assisi, a medieval cleric known for his work with the poor.  He’s also considered the Catholic patron saint of animals, which probably endears him to a greater number of people.  St. Francis founded the Franciscan Order in the early 13th century; a mission dedicated to helping the impoverished.  It’s obvious economic disparities have existed throughout humanity.  So, either the world’s political structures haven’t functioned properly for thousands of years, or religious entities aren’t doing something right.  If you realize the massive wealth the Roman Catholic Church possesses – how else can you explain their ability to pay out millions in sex abuse settlements? – then it may be a mixture of both.

Many Roman Catholics are excited about Frances, especially here in the Western Hemisphere.  But, while some people see change on the horizon, I see just another geriatric virgin (or maybe not) swaddled in silk and velvet; ensconced in a cloistered society, far removed from the real world in which most Catholics (and people of other faiths) reside.

Francis is the first pope outside of Europe.  He’s also considered the first Hispanic pope, since he’s from Argentina.  But, he’s an Argentinian of Italian ancestry.  Thus, in effect, the Church has just put another Italian in the pontiff’s chair; not much different than before Pope John Paul II.  Francis is 76, only two years younger than Pope Benedict XVI was when he ascended to the papacy in 2005.

Allegedly, as votes were being counted last week during the papal conclave, Bergoglio told a fellow cardinal, “Remember the poor.”  This is an interesting proclamation, noting that the Roman Catholic Church is one of the wealthiest institutions on Earth.  No one can put an exact figure on it, primarily because the Church isn’t beholden to tax burdens.  But, it’s estimated net wealth is between $400 billion and $750 billion.  This includes its vast collection of artwork and other treasures (often made of gold or silver) that sit in its tightly-guarded environs.  It costs a great deal of money to maintain the buildings that comprise Vatican City alone, as well as the heavily-armed security guards that surround the pope.

With such massive wealth comes power.  The Roman Catholic Church ruled much of Europe for centuries; often dictating who would be crowned king or queen.  But, the advent of political democracy – first here in the U.S. and then in Europe – weakened much of that authority.  In modern times, the Church has often confronted military and political dictatorships.  That’s what makes the selection of Francis a rather curious development.  He was around during Argentina’s notorious “dirty war,” when thousands of people either were killed by the country’s military dictatorship, or mysteriously disappeared.  Criticism about his activities in those years ambushed him almost as soon as he greeted the crowd in St. Peter’s Square.  I suspect it’s something that will haunt him for the rest of his life.  Yet, when Francis spoke openly about the poor, I was reminded of Oscar Romero, the late Archbishop of El Salvador, who once said, “When I feed the poor, you call me a saint.  When I ask why they are poor, you call me a communist.”  For his outspoken views, Romero was assassinated while conducting Easter mass in 1980.

I left the Roman Catholic Church years ago, mainly because of its disrespectful attitude towards women who make up more than half of its 1.2 billion adherents.  After two millennia of existence, why hasn’t the Church agreed to let women into the priesthood?  It’s clearly a patriarchal entity.  But, ignoring more than half the human population is an abomination.  It’s also just plain rude.  I mean, women can do more than have kids, mop floors and cook meals for the menfolk.  Any single mom will tell you that!  Besides, women would look better in those flowing velvet gowns.

The pedophile priest scandal that has swept across the U.S. these past several years only solidified, in my mind, ineptness and utter irrelevance of the Catholic Church.  I know the great majority of priests would never harm a child.  But, I just never could understand why the Church shuffled the perverted ones from one diocese to another.  I suspect it was a matter of self- preservation – one that backfired.

There is no other institution on Earth quite like the Roman Catholic Church.  Lutherans and Methodists, for example, don’t have a supreme leader in quite the same mold.  The Greek and Russian Orthodox Churches come close.  Baptists and Pentecostals here in the U.S. certainly have no central commander, which may explain why they hate Catholics so much are always pissed off.  Neither Judaism (Christianity’s cantankerous mother) nor Islam (its ugly offspring) have leaders similar to the pope.

Some observers hope that Francis will be a reformer along the same lines as Pope John XXIII who convened the Second Vatican Council in 1962 to update Church doctrines in accordance with various scientific discoveries and advancements.  But, Francis has already shown displeasure with contemporary issues, such as birth control and homosexuality, which is to be expected.  So, unless Francis accepts that some people use birth control, while others are queer, how is he going to be a reformer?

It would have been great if the Church had elected a truly unconventional and imperfect figure to the papacy; say, a 50-something man who perhaps had been married, maybe even has a juvenile criminal record, prefers vodka to wine, loves ultimate fighting and likes to tell bathroom jokes.  Somebody who – albeit multi-lingual and well-versed in religious scholarship – could still identify more clearly with the average person.  How could anyone who has spent most of their years enmeshed in prayer and meditation understand the complexities of daily life?

I don’t know what the future of the Roman Catholic Church holds under Francis’ leadership and I almost don’t care.  I know that too many people adhere to every word that spills from the gilded lips of the Church’s hierarchy, which of course, is their right.  But, it’s also their greatest fault.  I would only visit Vatican City for one reason: to check out the artwork.  Art serves a purpose; blind faith does not.

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Trashed

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I have to admit I’m somewhat of a pack rat.  I save most everything I’ve ever collected or gathered: books, records, National Geographic magazines, bank statements, vibrators, etc.  I mean almost every damn thing my calloused hands have touched!  I’m loathe to throw stuff away.  No, I don’t need an intervention!  My alternate personalities usually keep me in check.  Fortunately, I went paperless with my bank statements and cell phone bills years ago.  But, back in September 2007, I launched into a destructive frenzy.  I yanked out mounds of paper from my office closet and ran it all through the shredder.  The poor little device screamed for mercy and almost reported me to the police after a week.  My spine nearly did the same, sore from being hunched over the trash can.

Perusing through some boxes last month, though, I was surprised to find more ancient paper, including packs of ATM receipts.  Oh yea, I keep those, too.  But now, I destroy them after a year.  Thus, I immediately jumped into another round of paper shredding.  Amidst the refuse, however, I encountered something I really didn’t want to see again: my high school annuals.

I’m one of those people who bear absolutely no fond memories of high school.  I came to hate it so bad that I made no effort to attend my prom and almost skipped graduation.  In the second semester of my senior year, I had earned enough credits to attend only half a day.  When I realized my senior class ring didn’t fit, I didn’t bother to have it resized, despite the company’s please that they’d take care of it.  I just demanded a refund.  I may have been the only kid from my senior class who didn’t graduate with a ring.

“Enjoy those four years because they’ll go by quickly,” Eddie, one of my parents’ long-time friends, told me as I neared completion of grade school.  I was excited back then.  I was finally leaving the rigor of a Catholic parochial school and a mandatory daily uniform for a three-year-old suburban Dallas high school.  My freshman year was the first year the school had a senior class.  The building felt as new as it looked; it was bright and colorful.  The people were different.  No one knew me, which was as frightening at the time as it was exhilarating.  A brand new world.  But, by the time I started that second semester of my senior year, I could hardly wait to leave the damn building.  It had grown so old.

So, thirty-one years later, I sat here in my home office and scowled when I saw all that crap from high school.  For some reason, I guess I thought that stuff was like a moth; once it gets trapped somewhere it dies and disintegrates back into the Earth.  Thus, I ripped out every single page with my name and picture in each of the four annuals – all 12 or so sheets of it – and dropped them into the shredder.  Seeing the blades grind up those glossy pages almost gave me an orgasm.  It was one more thing from my past that I just had to let go.

I never blamed Eddie for his misguided optimism; he was just trying to be a good mentor and help out a shy boy.  When details of the 1999 Columbine massacre came out, I realized I felt more in tune with the killers than the victims.  I know what it’s like to be bullied throughout the school years.  I know what it’s like to feel left out.  I know what it’s like to hate yourself so much you wish you were dead – and wish everyone who tormented you could die with you.

Around the end of 2001, a man called me from some organization that was handling plans for my high school graduating class’s upcoming 20th anniversary reunion.  And, you know how some things just trigger a strong reaction in your mind, almost involuntarily?  Like a cough, or a sneeze – it just hits, and you have no control over your response.  That’s how I felt the second I heard the name of that school.  Everything flooded back into my brain; every pathetic, aggravating moment from those four pathetic, aggravating years.  I wanted to yell at the man.  Instead, I cordially told him to remove my name from his list.  I think the dismal tone of my voice revealed how I felt about it.  He simply didn’t ask any questions or say much more, other than ‘thank you.’

Then, I found those books.  And, it all came back again.  Damn!  I’m fucking 49-years-old!  I stopped reliving those nightmares a long time ago.  Yes, I also collect memories – good and bad – like I collect books.  But, just like you can’t change your birth date, you can’t change your past life experiences.  They’re ingrained in your soul forever.  The key is not to allow them to become a scar on your future.  I could teach classes on that and probably make a fortune.  Hm…I think I just found a new path to early retirement!

Oh, and as for the rest of those annuals?  I chunked them into the recycle bin, hoping the paper can be turned into something more useful – like an inspirational guidebook on how not to take high school too seriously.  Or, National Geographics.

Image courtesy Fuck Yea, Book Arts!

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Epimenio

Epigmenio, c. 1924

Epimenio, c. 1924

Today marks the 120th anniversary of the birth of my paternal grandfather, Epimenio De La Garza.  That’s a name you don’t hear too often, if not at all.  But, his moniker is as rare as the man was himself.  I was a little more than five years old when he died in February 1969, but I can still remember him rather clearly.  He had a sharply angular face with blazing green eyes and a booming voice.  He’s been gone for more than four decades now, but his memory lingers strongly and proudly in my father’s family.

Epimenio was born in Eagle Pass, Texas (formerly El Paso de Águila); a city on the Mexican border.  He was a descendant of some of the first Spanish settlers who arrived in the 1580s.  The region was then known as Coahuila y Tejas, Nueva España, or New Spain.  By the time of Epimenio’s birth, the De La Garza clan had carved a unique place in the state’s history.  Unique, albeit separate from the traditional or accepted version of the grand saga of Texas.

The third of nine children, Epimenio left school after the second grade – only because he had the audacity to correct a math teacher in front of the class.  He was a carpenter by trade, so exacting in his craft he could draw a straight line on a sheet of paper without a ruler.  After he and my grandmother, Francisca, wed in 1924, they immediately started a family, and Epimenio developed his construction and carpentry business.  Like most men of his generation, emotional strength and personal pride were uncompromising attributes.  In the late 1920s, my grandparents and their two oldest children moved to Dallas where Epimenio quickly established a solid reputation as an extraordinary carpenter.  One day, while my grandfather and his crew built concession booths at the State Fair of Texas, an Anglo man commented on Epimenio’s heavy Spanish accent.  My grandfather – as fair-colored as the Anglo man – said he had been hired to work there and, picking up a sledgehammer, added, “What are you going to do about it, goddmanit?”

He and his crew built many of warehouses on the southern edge of downtown Dallas, an area now known as Deep Ellum; hoisting massive steel beams onto their shoulders.  Today, many of those warehouses still stand; converted to chic loft and studio apartments for the city’s artistic crowd.  He often did work on the stately mansions of Dallas’ Highland Park and Swiss Avenue neighborhoods; wealthy enclaves where Hispanics and Negroes could labor, but not live.  Shortly after World War II, Epimenio attempted to purchase a large home in Highland Park, but was denied simply because he and his family were “Mexicans.”  But, they definitely liked his carpentry skills.  In the mid-1950s, he purchased a large swath of land in North Dallas and designed and built a home for his family; a large red-brick structure where he lived out his final years.

Epimenio’s tendency towards practicality had no limits.  In the 1930s, he and another man were patching up the roof of St. Ann’s Catholic school on the edge of downtown Dallas, when the local bishop arrived.  The other man set down his hammer and knelt onto the sharply-slanted roof; bowing in blind reverence to the bishop’s presence.  Epimenio scolded him for his seeming idolatry.  “You’re going to roll off that roof and splatter onto the ground,” he said.  My grandfather also refused to kiss the hand of any Catholic official, as was the tradition back then; a response that always upset my devoutly religious grandmother.  But, Epigmenio remained undeterred.  “I’ll kiss the hand of Jesus, but I kiss the hand of no man.”

My paternal grandparents, 1941

My paternal grandparents, 1941

Epimenio began smoking as a boy, a common practice among his generation.  By his late 50s, however, he’d developed lung cancer.  Back then, such a diagnosis was a virtual death sentence.  But, he immediately quit smoking and, in 1952, he opted to have that lung removed.  At the same time, England’s King George VI had a similar surgery at the same time.  In a curious twist of fate, the doctors who operated on my grandfather in Dallas had attended medical school with the doctors who operated on King George.  George died, but Epimenio survived – and lived for another 17 years.

The day before my grandfather’s funeral, I asked my father to take me to the local grocery store.  I wanted to get something for my grandfather.  Not knowing what else to do, my father acceded and led me to the store; whereupon I led him up and down the cookie aisle, searching for a particular brand.  Finally, I found it – whatever it was – as neither my father nor I recall the product.  But, he told me later he had never seen it before – and has not seen it since.  When we visited the funeral home, I placed the package of cookies in my grandfather’s coffin and told him to enjoy them “because they don’t have these in Heaven.”

After we arrived back home, my father rushed into his bedroom and closed the door, while I remained in the front room with my mother.  She went into the bedroom after a few moments, and I could hear my parents talking.  My father had been crying; something I didn’t think, at the time, fathers did.  I still don’t know what the significance is surrounding those cookies, but I suppose it was just the mere innocence of a child coping with something new and thoroughly unknown.

I often wonder – amidst my daily struggles of dealing with personal finances and aging parents – if lessons from my grandfather’s life could impose any meaning on me.  Am I the kind of man that my grandfather was?  It’s one of those eternal questions; contemplating if your ancestors would be proud of you.

One Sunday night in April 2004, I severely sprained my left ankle while walking my dog; rotating it as far it could go without breaking it.  I lay on the cool sidewalk for a minute, excruciating pain swamping my body, before I forced myself back up.  The dog – just a puppy, really – still had to do his business.  I finally visited a local hospital early the next morning, both my ankle and foot swollen.  Then, I hobbled into work – and recalled another incident my father had told me about years earlier.

In one of those only-in-the-old-days situations, Epimenio was working on a house across the street from the family doctor’s house, when he severely sprained an ankle.  The old doctor had witnessed the accident and told my grandfather to come into his home, which doubled as his office.  My grandfather declined the offer and ordered his men to dig a hole in the dirt roughly the size of his foot.  He then planted the injured extremity into the hole and literally wrenched it back into place.  “See!” he called out to the doctor after a few minutes.  “Saved myself three dollars!”

Three dollars is what it cost me to park in downtown Dallas nine years ago.  But, like my grandfather, I had to get to work.  And, I knew – like my grandfather, I suppose – that life must continue.

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Hellacious Hooligans

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I don’t watch much reality TV, as in the “American Idol” or “Survivor” type of program.  I still think “Survivor” is one of the stupidest shows American television has ever produced.  Like “The Simpsons,” I have absolutely no idea why it’s so popular.  I generally prefer real reality TV, such as “The First 48” or “A Haunting.”  I love the former because it shows the good side of police work; when our tax dollars pay off, and law enforcement catches real criminals instead of those with expired inspection stickers.  But, I enjoy the latter series because I know now my strange visions aren’t the result of brain cells dying off after a lifetime of rum consumption.

Occasionally, though, I find myself stepping into the ‘Dark Side,’ which for me, is that part of our universe where intelligentsia has the same prevalence as a unicorn.  That’s when I catch a glimpse of such gems as “Jersey Shore,” “Mob Wives,” or “Basketball Wives.”  Watching these programs makes me feel like a Nobel laureate in economics, but it also makes me sad.  American television has come to this?  It’s been like that for a while.

I remember when MTV came out with their “Real World” series in 1992.  Of course, I can remember when the ‘M’ in MTV still meant music and not morons.  But, that show was deemed ‘reality’ and became an instant pop culture phenomenon.  It didn’t seem to matter that the network just cobbled together a batch of 20-somethings with no real aim in life and threw them into a faux household to see how quickly they didn’t get along.  If I wanted to see that, I’d just go to work.  I didn’t watch that show much either.  But, it was always for the same reason: my mind was tired and I needed something that – while entertaining – still didn’t require much energy.

A few years ago I tolerated one entire episode of “Jersey Shore,” just to see what all the hype was about; the same way I did with “Survivor” in the fall of 2000.  I came away with the same question: why?  Why is this show so popular?  Is it because most people are like me in that they need something just to make them laugh?  I hope so because, if people watch this show out of envy, I’m more eager to see that colony built on Mars than ever before.  After that one stint of “Jersey Shore,” I still didn’t know what the hell was going on.  Aside from the language barrier (I don’t speak Jersey trash), I only knew these people were pissed off at one another for some minuscule reason and had to get drunk to help them cope – which only made them madder and louder.

On a recent episode of “Mob Wives,” the title characters gathered for a Botox party.  Tupperware, I can understand.  But, Botox?  You know people have too much time and money on their hands when they get together to stick needles into one another while holding glasses of champagne.  As the pack of heifers assembled, I felt they looked like rejects from the ‘Miss (Gay) America’ pageant.  I thought at first, is this really “Mob Wives,” or ‘Home for Retired Porn Queens’?  As usual – as in “Survivor” and “Jersey Shore” – one of the fools in the crowd got pissed off at someone else, and soon everyone was arguing.  And, as usual, they were imbibing in alcohol.

I’m certain “Jersey Shore” and “Mob Wives” make most Italian-Americans think, ‘Forty years after “The Godfather” and we’re still dealing with this crap?!’  I have the same reaction when I see Geraldo Rivera discussing immigration reform as if it’s the only thing Hispanics have to worry about.  I’m just waiting for VH1 to come out with something like, ‘Latinos of East Dallas’ where the cast muddles through Tex-Mex linguistics while arguing if they should shop at Wal-Mart or splurge and head to Target.

Black women must feel the same about “Basketball Wives.”  In one episode, the cluster of perfectly-coiffed mavens met at a chic lounge to discuss – something.  I have no idea what because – as expected – they started screaming at one another.  And then, cocktail glasses and acrylic nails went airborne.  And then, big burly male security guards who surely got a good laugh (and maybe a quick orgasm) out of the feline fiasco swept in to scoop up the girls and dump their scrawny asses onto the street outside.  Their designer attire and spike heels with 6-figure price tags prove what my grandfather used to say: you can dress a donkey up as a thoroughbred horse, but it’s still a jackass.

If you’ll notice, these shows all have at least two things in common: shouting and alcohol.  Bad attitudes and prescription drugs also figure prominently into the mix, but screaming and booze are the central elements.  I guess these shows wouldn’t be popular if their subject matters weren’t intoxicated and wrapped up in a perpetual state of anger.  Maybe Americans like it so much because such antics mirror their own lives.  Hm…maybe that’s why I kind of like them, too.

Damnit!  Why don’t I realize these things before I starting writing?  Oh, well.  Time to sit down with a glass of wine and a “National Geographic.”  Hey!  At least I read!

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An Ensler Prayer

broken-heart

As part of her “One Billion Rising” movement – which brings much-needed global attention to the issue of domestic violence – feminist activist, author and film documentarian Eve Ensler wants everyone to think about Valentine’s Day more in terms of vicious behavior than love and romanticism.  In fact, she apparently feels Valentine’s Day should focus exclusively on domestic violence, a serious and ongoing dilemma that affects countless numbers of people.  Notice I said ‘people.’  Ensler says ‘women.’  Like most liberal extremists, Ensler perpetuates the myth that domestic violence impacts only those of the female persuasion and – more importantly – declares that, by mere virtue of our gender, males are inclined to inflict it upon those females; as if it’s some instinctive behavior that must be removed like tonsils.  I’ve heard that claim for years, and it still pisses me off.

Ensler is perhaps best known for her play “The Vagina Monologues,” which she first presented in 1996 in an off-Broadway theatre.  The plot is simple: women openly and unabashedly discuss their genitalia.  Everything from childbirth to rape is mentioned, as the characters hope to remove the stigma surrounding the female physique.  It was bold and innovative and it won her a slew of awards, including an Obie.

The success and popularity of “The Vagina Monologues” led Ensler to create “V Day,” a global activist movement to halt violence against women and girls that Ensler launched on Valentine’s Day 1998.  It addresses such matters as honor killings, female circumcision and sex slavery; issues that some small-brained people wish would just go away.

I understand the severity and complexity of domestic violence.  I know millions of women every year, around the world, suffer through it.  Ensler tries to give a voice to them.  But, domestic violence isn’t so clear-cut; it doesn’t follow conveniently prescribed lines – racial, cultural, religious and not even gender.  As shocking – and politically incorrect – as it may be, men are victims of domestic violence.  So, are infants and children.  But, there are really no special laws to protect those of us who aren’t adult females.  Now, Ensler is trying to hijack Valentine’s Day and morph it into a fashionable avenue towards violent relationships.  Again, the focus is on women as victims.

As part of V Day 2013, Ensler – the daughter of a Jewish father and a Christian mother – has composed a “Man’s Prayer,” in which she invites men “whose confidence comes from the depth of my giving/who understands that vulnerability is my greatest strength/who creates space rather than dominates it/who appreciates listening more than knowing/who seeks kindness over control/who cries when the grief is too much/who refuses the slap, the gun, the choke, the insult, the punch.”  It concludes, “May I cherish, respect, and love my mother.  May the resonance of that love translate into loving all women and all living things.”

‘All living things’?

I guess that means infants, children and maybe even us men.  For the record, I’m not a ‘thing.’  Yes, I have a penis, but I’m still not a ‘thing.’  Neither is anyone else.

I’ve known more than a few victims of domestic violence.  I have a cousin on my mother’s side whose first husband broke both sides of her jaw with a heavy-duty flashlight, while she held their baby in her arms.  On my father’s side, another cousin only survived her violent first husband when her father and brother beat the crap out of him and shoved a gun in his mouth.  One of my father’s sisters-in-law used to beat her three kids with whatever instrument in the house was available – until her husband (my father’s oldest brother) stopped her.  Ah!  But, would this latter incident constitute domestic violence?  Or, just child abuse?  Who makes these definitions?

Just after one in the morning on a cold Monday in January 1999, I heard a man yelling at some females in a neighboring unit of my North Dallas apartment complex.  I could tell a young girl was among them.  Moments later, the entire group was in the parking lot just outside my bedroom window.  Initially, I mistook a popping sound for gunshots.  But, when I peered through the blinds, I realized the man had one of the women on the ground, smacking her hard.  My call to 911 wouldn’t go through.  Shirtless and barefoot, I tore out of my apartment in a pair of sweat pants and kicked the man in the face.  I think my actions startled him more than they hurt him.  I looked at the woman, as she lay contorted on the cold, wet asphalt; her face swollen and blood-smeared.  I grabbed her and forced her to her feet.  Another woman had stood just outside my door with the young girl who could have been no more than 10.  I caught a glimpse of that girl’s face; the look of absolute terror burned into my mind.  The other woman rushed forward and grabbed the first one; both stumbling back beneath the breezeway.  The man looked as if he was about to kill me.  But, just as the sound of sirens whirled in the distance, another young man arrived beside me, a pistol in his hand, pointed squarely at the thug.  But, my thoughts were about that little girl and the horrified look on her face.  Was that brute her father?  What was going through her mind?  I never saw her or the others again.  But, I wanted to tell the girl that we’re not all like the guy who bloodied that woman’s face.  Most of us men aren’t anywhere near like that.  I wanted to tell her that so badly, but I never got the chance.

Domestic violence against adult males is another one of those dirty little family secrets.  Yet, if the subject is broached, it’s met with scorn; almost mockery.  People seem to think if men are victims of violence at the hands of their female partners, then they must have done something to deserve it – the way violence against women used to be viewed.

Ensler’s sense of what’s appropriate and inappropriate bears a hypocritical twist.  An original version of “The Vagina Monologues” included a section entitled “The Little Coochie Snorcher that Could” where a 24-year-old woman imbues a 13-year-old girl with alcohol and then has sex with her.  At the section’s conclusion, the girl – now an adult – reminisces, “If it was rape, it was good rape.”  ‘Good rape’?  You’d think Ensler was a Republican.  Protests forced Ensler to remove that particular passage.

My concern is to stop violence altogether – against everyone, not just adult females.  Whenever I’ve mentioned this, people give me that ‘what-the-fuck’ dazed and confused look; as if I’d just said, ‘I’m flying to Mars next week; want to come with me?’  In other words, it’s apparently not possible – or practical – to stop all violence.  Therefore, if we must have violence, it should be against males.  For example, Ensler rants about so-called female circumcision in remote parts of the uncivilized world, but of course, ignores the reality of male circumcision in the U.S. and other developed nations.  It doesn’t seem to matter that every year in this country, between 100 and 200 infant and toddler boys die from the effects of circumcision, or from botched procedures.  It also doesn’t seem to matter that, of the estimated 3 million – 4 million children physically abused in this country every year, approximately 65% are boys.  No, such details are of no concern to Ensler; she only wants to end that violence which affects the females of the species.  So, does much of the rest of the ‘enlightened’ world.  Since I advocate stopping all forms of violence against humanity, I guess Ensler and her minions would consider me a Neanderthal.  I’ve been called worst.

Here’s another cold fact: domestic violence will never be eradicated.  Humans are imperfect and someone somewhere will feel the ungodly need to beat the person they supposedly love.  We can, however, stop hiding it like a secret lover; we can prosecute perpetrators and make victims realize it’s not their fault.  We can also stop making rash accusations against entire groups of people and – more importantly – stop categorizing violence by saying ‘x’ is worst than ‘y’ because ‘z’ is the end result.

Valentine’s Day is one thing, and domestic violence is another.  They’re not interchangeable elements.  People who inflict physical or emotional harm on others aren’t filled with romanticism or love.  They’re filled with hate – and perhaps insecurity.  Personally, I won’t be celebrating Valentine’s Day because I have no romantic interest.  But, I know plenty of men who do – married and unmarried.  And, they don’t need a self-righteous playwright to tell them violence is wrong.  Contrary to feminist theology, we men just sort of know that – instinctively.

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Fight Like a Girl

Two Greek female gladiators, Amazonia and Achillea.

Two Greek female gladiators, Amazonia and Achillea.

For centuries, tales of female warriors known in Greek mythology as “Amazons” invoked lurid images of voluptuous, scantily-clad women parading into battle aloft white horses.  Such stories always made for more than a few good sexual fantasies and even some tawdry jokes.  Then, in 1997, archaeologists excavating in Pokrovka, Russia, near the Kazakhstan border, discovered 50 ancient burial mounds containing female skeletons – and weapons.  Among the paraphernalia, were iron swords, daggers and bronze arrowheads.  One of the skeletons in Pokrovka was that of a young girl, perhaps 13 or 14; proving that, in a world where life spans were short and sometimes fragile, people trained early to defend themselves.  As often happens in human history, legends contain some measure of truth.  And, in the region once known as Mesopotamia, female warriors weren’t mythical figures, like mermaids or fairies.  They were genuine members of their respective societies; committed, battle-hardened individuals who fought for their own freedom and that of their communities.

As controversy swirls around the new U.S. Defense Department policy to allow women into combat, I have to wonder if female warriors of the past are laughing; perhaps saying, ‘It’s about time!’  Predictably, social conservatives have reacted with horror.  Already upset that gays and lesbians are allowed to serve openly in the U.S. military, they’re now howling in greater protest at the thought of women squatting in the proverbial trenches alongside the men.  Heather MacDonald of the National Review surmised that the Pentagon has bowed to “feminism’s insatiable and narcissistic drive for absolute official equality between the sexes.”

Bryan Fischer of Renew America stated, rather chivalrously, “we want to live in a nation where we expect men to use their strength to protect the women in their world, not the other way round.”  He then added, “God simply did not design women to have the same size, upper body strength, or stamina as men.  It’s just plain stupid to ignore this biological fact of nature.”

Ryan Smith, a former Marine who now practices law, also views the matter from a physiological perspective.  “Many Marines developed dysentery from the complete lack of sanitary conditions,” he wrote in the Wall Street Journal, describing his experiences about the 2003 invasion of Iraq.  “When an uncontrollable urge hit a Marine, he would be forced to stand, as best he could, hold an MRE bag up to his rear, and defecate inches from his seated comrade’s face.”

Montana State Representative Ryan Zinke, a former Navy SEAL, told “Newsmax,” “This is not a Hollywood movie.  This has real consequences that are going to affect our sons and daughters whose lives are on the line.”  Zinke concedes that, during his lengthy military tenure, he encountered “women operatives who were very, very good.”

Elaine Donnelly, president and founder of the Center for Military Readiness, apparently speaks for all military women.  In a CNN interview she declared, “It’s the kind of a position that military women, in the majority, don’t want to have.  They don’t want to be treated exactly like men.”  In almost the same breath, however, Donnelly admits that, after more than a decade of war, “we’ve seen women do remarkable things.”

For these folks, the world as they have known it has come to an end.  They must be sad.  But, they must also be ignorant of world history, and the role women have played in national conflicts.  Many people, however, seem to view the concept of female warriors as a late 20th century anomaly; that, if women have served in a truly military fashion, it’s only been by chance or accident, or in times of absolute necessity, such as World War II.  Conservatives begrudge the overall presence of women in the military as the result of aggressive liberal ideology, social experimentation gone awry, and feminism run wild; they see it as an omen, a portent to an unstable American society; total collapse, they say, looms on the horizon.  Liberals, on the other hand, regard it as the culmination of decades of hard work and aggressive civil action; women, they declare, have finally arrived at the gates of freedom and opportunity within the military-industrial complex.

They’re all wrong.  To say that women have never held prominent positions in military history is tantamount to saying that men have never helped to raise children.  Human history isn’t so clear-cut.  People are looking at it from the prism of their contemporary opinions.

The United States alone has a long history of women in the military, starting with the American Revolutionary War.  Women, of course, served in the traditional roles of cooks and nurses, but there were a handful who jumped into the fray of battle; either by chance or disguising themselves as men.  On that front, many social conservatives are correct.  But, one has to go further back, before the U.S. came into existence, and understand the truth about “Amazonian” women.

While the “Helen of Troy” story is filled with glorious fantastical imagery, the Amazon warrior isn’t mythical.  In ancient Greece, women often trained alongside men.  They became skilled with horses, various weapons and even hand-to-hand combat.  They weren’t scantily-clad vixens on horseback; they were bruised and battered combatants who could eviscerate their enemies with a sword or an axe.

In “Warrior Queens Among the Classic Maya,” Kathryn Reese-Taylor notes that the “importance of women in Maya society is no longer in question.”  As part of one of the most scientifically and technology-advanced societies of ancient America, Mayan women held leadership positions, often ruling kingdoms of their own.  That certainly required some military knowledge and expertise, writes Reese-Taylor, and not just from a purely objective standpoint.  Archaeological evidence from the Late Classic Period (A.D. 600 – 800) proves women were prominent figures in the culture’s military.  Analyses of Mayan stone inscriptions revealed that both women and men carried the moniker of “kaloomte,” a high-ranking title in Mayan society that denoted accomplishments in political and military circles.

Mayan “Lady Snake Lord.”

Mayan “Lady Snake Lord.”

The Mayans’ counterparts, the Aztecs, also viewed women as equal to men.  In fact, as a whole, Aztec culture considered all citizens equally valuable to society; everyone, from the elite to the commoners, had to work to sustain and protect their communities.  It was, after all, a warrior culture, which ultimately led to its collapse when Europeans arrived (as the Aztecs had created so many enemies among surrounding tribes).  The Aztecs even considered childbirth to be a form of military combat, and pregnant women were viewed with the same high regard as male warriors.  Dying in childbirth was akin to dying in battle.

As Europeans began to traverse the Western Hemisphere, they were surprised – almost amused – to see that Native American women weren’t subservient to their male counterparts.  From the Iroquois in the Northeast to the Zuni Pueblo in the Southwest, women in most Native American communities held equal sway in politics and trade; they farmed and hunted with the men; and naturally, they served as warriors.  For most Native Americans, their history has been written by the Europeans; any famous Native Americans, therefore, were often closely associated with a person of European extraction.  Moreover, Europeans viewed war as a man’s duty, and any female Native American fighter became invisible.  Consequently, the identities of many American Indian women on the battlefront have been lost.  But, there are a handful of exceptions, such as Fallen Leaf, a member of the Crow Nation; Running Eagle, a Blackfoot; and Tashenamani (“Moving Robe”), a Lakota warrior who fought George Armstrong Custer in Montana in the 1876 “Battle of the Greasy Grass.”

Europeans were equally surprised at the high status of women in West Africa, especially their military prowess.  Queen Amina of Hausaland is among the most legendary.  As in Greek lore, there are some assertions Amina’s accomplishments are mere folklore.  But, there are reliable sources that substantiate her existence.  Amina’s mother, Bakwa Turunku, was another powerful queen and fierce warrior who reigned in the Hausa state of Zazzau during the late 15th century.  Bakwa Turunku is credited for establishing a new capital for Zazzau when the water supply in the former capital of Turunku was nearly depleted.  The new capital was named Zaria after her second daughter.  By the time Amina assumed power, the entire state of Zazzau had adopted the name Zaria.  Amina came to power around 1536 and helped to expand her kingdom by conquering surrounding states.

Another prominent African female ruler, Yaa Asantewaa, was the queen mother in the Edweso tribe of the Asante, or Ashanti.  As part of their continuing efforts to keep indigenous Africans under control, the British Empire removed the Ashanti king, Prempeh I, in 1896.  They installed their own ruler, a Briton, whom the Ashanti refused to recognize.  Yaa Asantewaa almost immediately began developing plans for a coup to overthrow the British.  In March of 1900, the Ashanti attacked the British fort at Kumasi; the ensuing conflict lasted over three months.  The British succeeded in regaining control and capturing Yaa Asantewaa.  They exiled her to the Seychelles where she died in 1924.  Unrepentant, she reportedly spat in the faces of the British military officials as they took her prisoner.

Yaa Asantewaa in an undated photograph wearing “batakarikese,” or ceremonial war dress.

Yaa Asantewaa in an undated photograph wearing “batakarikese,” or ceremonial war dress.

Asian history is also replete with female warriors.  Among them is Tomoe Gozen who lived in Japan in the 12th century A.D. and fought during the Genpei War.  Skilled in horse-riding, archery and with swords, she is known to have killed more than a few opponents.  Japanese women could attain the coveted role of samurai, the legendary warriors of feudal Japan.

In China, Fu Hao was the wife of Emperor Wu Ding of the Shang Dynasty; they lived around the 13th century B.C.  Hao’s battlefield exploits are inscribed on about 200 of the approximately 17,000 turtle shells unearthed in 1976 in Henan Province.  She also has the distinction of resting in her own tomb, instead of beside her husband, as was the cultural tradition in feudal China.

Xun Guan was only 13 years old when she joined her father, Xun Song, the governor of Xiangyang in Western China, in a battle to protect the state from an internal revolt led by one of Xun Song’s own officials.  Xun Guan led a group of warriors out of the city at night and successfully attacked the enemy.  Her father eventually joined the group to fortify the defense and saved the city.

Princess Pingyang is the only woman in China’s feudal history to have a military funeral.  She lived at the end of the Tang Dynasty where life had become unbearable for many local citizens.  In A.D. 617, Pingyang joined her father, Li Yuan, when he decided to overthrow the ruling government.  Officials learned of his plans and ordered Li Yuan and his family to be arrested.  He managed to escape capture, as did Pingyang and her husband, Chai Shao.  Pingyang returned to Huxian County and sold some land she owned to raised money for the planned siege.  She also recruited and trained hundreds of volunteers, finally leading her troops – known as the “Army of Lady Li” – to victory in a number of battles.  Pingyang’s forces were a major factor in crushing the remaining Sui Dynasty military.

Other Asian women such as India’s Queen Vishpala and China’s Hua Mulan, bear the same mythological aura as the Greek Amazons.  But, while those particular individuals may just be purely legendary, it’s more likely they’re composites of actual women who lived and died the warrior lifestyle.

Princess Pingyang of China’s Tang Dynasty.

Princess Pingyang of China’s Tang Dynasty.

European history has its own gallery of exceptional female warriors.  Queen Boudicca ruled the Iceni tribe of Britain during the 1st century A.D.  The Iceni had managed to retain their territory near present-day Norfolk after the Romans invaded in A.D. 55.  Following the death of her husband, King Prasutagus, died in A.D. 60, Boudicca assumed leadership of the Iceni.  But, the Roman government didn’t honor female rulers and attempted to confiscate the family’s wealth and property.  When Boudicca resisted, she was captured and flogged in public.  Her two daughters also were captured and subsequently raped.  Boudicca and her daughters recuperated and the Queen plotted retaliation.  She rallied her fellow Iceni into battle and attacked Roman officials in the new settlement of Londinium (later London).  Initially, the Romans retreated, but gathered their troops and fought back.  The battle culminated in the deaths of some 80,000 Iceni.  Although defeated, Boudicca and daughters remained defiant against the Romans and poisoned themselves rather than face subjugation.

Queen Boudicca of Celtic Britain.

Queen Boudicca of Celtic Britain.

Perhaps the most famous of all medieval female combatants, Joan of Arc, was a 17-year-old peasant girl when she joined France’s Prince Charles to battle England’s King Henry VI over control of the French crown.  English troops had invaded northern France where they found an ally in John, the Duke of Burgundy.  By 1422, Charles still hadn’t been crowned king, but he wouldn’t capitulate to British rule.  In 1428, Joan – claiming she had received visions from Roman Catholic saints ordering her to lead the French overthrowing England – traveled to Vaucouleurs to ask French military leadership for permission to support Charles’ efforts.  Military officials dismissed her, and Joan returned home.  But, she remained undeterred, insisting she could help the French achieve victory.  Apparently seeing few other options, the military finally accepted Joan into their ranks.  At the time, French royalty held a more guarded, conciliatory theory in dealing with enemies, which may have led to England’s presence in France.  Joan, however, rejected that approach, opting instead for more aggressive tactics.  She had to train French conscripts not just in tactical maneuvers but to rethink their views.  In May of 1429, Joan led her troops to attack a British fortress in Saint Loup, before marching on to another in Saint Jean le Blanc.  At yet another British stronghold at Les Tourelles in Orleans, Joan was shot through the neck, but survived and rejoined her comrades.  Her resilience inspired them to continue fighting, until the British surrendered.  With England in defense mode, Charles traveled to Reims where he was crowned King Charles VII in July 1429.

Allowing women into combat here in the U.S. invariably leads to another pertinent issue: Selective Service.  Can and should women be forced into military service via the Military Selective Service Act.  Passed by Congress in 1980, the Act requires all males in the U.S. to register for military conscription within 30 days of their 18th birthday.  If they don’t, they could be fined $10,000 and imprisoned for up to 5 years.  They also will be denied federal financial aid, such Pell Grants and Stafford Loans; federal job training; and federal employment.  Men who are only sons or only children are required to register.  Even men who are mildly physically disabled (meaning they can still leave their homes under their own power) must register for the draft.  It’s the most blatant form of sexism in the U.S. this side of the death penalty.  Feminists usually scoff at the notion that women should be required to register for Selective Service; stating that women should never be forced to do anything like that.  God forbid!  Whenever I’ve brought up the subject, some women have disparagingly responded that men should have children first; that is, get pregnant.  That, of course, is not the issue, since individual women aren’t required by law to bear children.  Men, on the other hand, have no choice but to register for Selective Service, lest they be dubbed criminals.

Women in Israel are already required to serve in the military along with men.  Israeli citizens don’t have a choice.  Surrounded by cultural and political enemies, everyone in Israel is obligated to protect their nation’s sovereignty.  I feel the U.S. should adopt a similar policy; it’s perhaps the only way to even out much of the social disparities in this nation and make our leaders think twice before jumping into war, as they did in Iraq.  But, I won’t hold my breath on that one.

Social conservatives deplore the idea of women returning home in wheelchairs or body bags, as if though we’ve made our peace with men in similar circumstances.  But, if anyone doesn’t like the idea of women being killed in battle, they shouldn’t feel comfortable with the concept of men dying like that.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but this issue clearly won’t be settled easily.  While conservatives scorn a nation that deliberately sends its women into war, liberals rejoice at the concept of equality.  Regardless, both sides need to understand that women have held a place in the world’s military history long before the United States and most other nations were even born.  It’s simply indisputable.  And, anyone who fights for their freedom should never be disrespected or forgotten.

F-15 Eagle American pilots at the Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson.

F-15 Eagle American pilots at the Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson.

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How Do You Miss This?

sexy_girl_297567b

By now, you’ve surely heard the story about Manti Te’o, the Notre Dame football player who claims a girl he met on Facebook a while back never existed.  If you’ve been in a coma lately, don’t worry.  You’re not missing anything important.  But, this bizarre tale is rife with the tawdriness that only the reality TV / Internet generation could spawn.  Te’o says that he formed a relationship with a girl named “Lennay Kekua;” a union born in the pantheon of cloudy cyberspace and the hormonally-riddled loins of a lonely college boy.  Oh, Lord!  The humanity of it is already making me light-headed.

The drama unfolded in true Facebook fashion when “Lennay” supposedly endured a horrific car wreck late last summer only to learn she had inoperable leukemia.  Things allegedly took a turn for the worst when she died in September.  But, that wasn’t the only tragedy to strike the Te’o family.  The next day, Te’o’s beloved grandmother also died.  Despite the dual afflictions, Te’o managed to continue playing football successfully through the rest of the season; well enough to end up as a Heisman Trophy finalist.

But, as with most lies and fantasies, the truth eventually emerges – or at least when the drugs wear off.  I don’t know what it was in Te’o’s case, but things in his glass-domed universe began to crumble after the first of the year.  “Lennay Kekua” was a whole lot of nothingness.

Here are two things we now know for certain: first, Te’o’s grandmother did pass away last September; second, Te’o is an idiot.  The latter is based upon the sudden revelation that “Lennay” was the figment of some other clown’s twisted imagination.  There was no girl named “Lennay Kekua” and there was no car wreck, followed by an abrupt onset of leukemia.  This is particularly revolting considering that thousands of people die in this country – and across the globe – every year from both car wrecks and leukemia.  That’s not a lie, and people don’t incur cheap sexual fantasies about either dilemma.  Or, they shouldn’t.

But, this entire convoluted fiasco makes me ask two questions.

  1. How could you be in a relationship with someone you’ve never met?
  2. Who amongst us gives a damn?

A third question: why is the national media harping on this like it’s in an extension of the Benghazi massacre?

This mess would be newsworthy and plausible, for example, if “Lennay Kekua” had been a fan of Manti Te’o and if her family and friends had set up a trust fund for her leukemia-related expenses.  This has happened before.  People have faked illnesses or injuries well enough to have accounts set up; their ruses earning thousands of dollars, scores of gifts and mounds of sympathy.  Then, as always occurs, their lies unravel, and the world crashes down upon their greedy, stupid faces.

But, that’s not the case with Manti Te’o.  I still don’t understand how he didn’t know he was in a “relationship” with a girl he’d never actually met.  Maybe he did meet her – through someone else; through his dreams; through a drunken haze.  Perhaps – as only happens on Facebook – he “friended” her and came to believe he was in some kind of loving bond.  They shared photos and daily motivational greetings, and he thought they something going.

As a child, I often had invisible playmates; but then, so have millions of other people – especially those of us who grew up shy and introverted.  An only child, I even imagined I had a twin brother.  As an adult, I’ve had my share of my fantasy lovers.  I’ve enjoyed thousands of lurid sexual encounters; then I either woke up, or finally had an orgasm.  For the record, I still do partake in such hookups, but they’re more meaningful now.  I’ll write about that later.

I must concede I’ve become enmeshed in the Facebook frenzy.  I have “friends” I’ve never met; people who’ve connected with me for various and sundry reasons.  I actually value my Linked In connections more; that site serves a real purpose.  But, I’d like to find where some of these Facebook “friends” live, so I can test their trustworthiness and show up at their home at one or two in the morning saying my truck broke down.  You know you have really good friends when they give you gas money or help you bury the bodies of former supervisors without too many questions.  But, a romance?

I shouldn’t be surprised.  I started meeting people online almost as soon as I got my first personal computer in 2000.  It helped that I posted nude pictures of myself on the web and said I was a virgin, but again, I’ll tell you all about that later.  Still, I tested the value and honesty of these people by revealing bits of myself with each email exchange or instant chat.  I know a couple in Delaware who even sent me glossy photos of themselves.  I have another long-time acquaintance in Milwaukee.  But, I haven’t just traded emails with these guys; we’ve sent each other birthday and Christmas cards; we’ve talked on the phone.  I’ve haven’t met any of them, but I know they’re real people.  I have another long-time acquaintance in Oakland whom I’ve never met; nor have I talked with him on the phone.  But, I’ve looked him up through “White Pages,” and we have a mutual friend here in Dallas who’s met him.  So, I know he exists.

But, I still don’t understand what’s going on with Manti Te’o.  Notre Dame is investigating the matter – as if it’s a sexual assault case.  Now, Te’o has spoken with Katie Couric (who’s still desperately trying to stay relevant since leaving the Today Show) and conceded lying about “Lennay Kekua.”  Ooooo!  It’s getting deep!  Perhaps we’ll finally get to the bottom of this mystery and learn the sordid truth – as nasty and painful as it may be.  Then, we can move onto less pressing issues, like the ongoing economic crisis and global warming.  I mean, first things first, right?

In the meantime, I have another date with a steamy redheaded chick.  I think her name is Candace, but I’ll figure that out when I reach for the bottle of lube.  And, of course, I’ll tell you all about it.

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Father Wolf Turns 80

My father and I, Easter Sunday 1967.

My father and I, Easter Sunday 1967.

Today my father, George, marks his 80th birthday.  As I stated last month when my mother turned 80, that’s still a remarkable accomplishment.  My father was born and raised in Dallas; the middle of seven children.  On his father’s side, our ancestry dates back to late 16th century Texas; something we’d known about for years, but which he’s confirmed through his extensive genealogical research.

As you might expect, my father is kind of old school.  He comes from an era when family was sacred and hard work was revered.  People took care of themselves and their loved ones in his day, and they didn’t play the victim when things didn’t work out just right.  He worked hard – too hard – all his life and, along with my mother, built a comfortable middle class lifestyle.  He also a typical dad; doing things that only a father would do.  When I was about three months old, my parents ran out of baby formula just as a major ice storm hit Northeast Texas.  My father simply got dressed and walked a couple of blocks to a nearby convenience store.  He thought nothing of it; what else was he supposed to do?  He also thought nothing of standing on his feet several hours a day, slaving over hot printing presses in a dingy shop in downtown Dallas for more than 40 years.  He’s paid for it with bad knees and gnarled toes.  But, that’s what men of his generation did.  They worked hard and took care of their own without question.  Society doesn’t seem to produce men like my father anymore – at least not in great numbers.

Like most Hispanics growing up in old East Dallas, he had it tough.  Classified as “other,” he was occasionally complimented with comments about his fair skin and good looks, as if that made him different, or better.  He told me he once actually got into a fight with a dog in the neighborhood – and won; returning home with a tiny piece of the dog’s ear hanging from the corner of his mouth.  I didn’t know whether or not to believe him – as if I had any reason to doubt him, knowing how mean he could be – until his mother and oldest sister confirmed the story several years ago.  That’s one of those ‘only-my-dad’ type of stories.

So, here’s to my father!  Happy Birthday!  You mean old Mexican!

My father on his 16th birthday, in a picture he gave to his mother.

My father on his 16th birthday, in a picture he gave to his mother.

 

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