Moving On

Comes a time to move on. This blog has about played itself out. It’s been fallow since we had to put our dog, my longtime friend Rainey to sleep. So I’m moving on to a new blog; follow the link.
An American’s Story.

I’ve had a 6 year run on this site.  2011. We were still pulling out of the great recession; my daughter was embarking on the American Dream with a husband, a house, two kids, two dogs and a gecko named Charlie.  My son’s daughter Sophie, our first grandchild was just starting school yet still latching on to her stuffed dog that she had since infancy; appropriately named Doggie.  Doggie is still around; a keepsake for Sophie’s parents. In 2011 I could ride a bike 100 miles. It’s something that I’m sure I could still do but instead I’d just ask myself - why?

2011, It was the year that saw the final voyage of the Space Shuttle; that program that elicited amazement at it's inception and after a couple of years and but for two disasters, inspired jaded indifference. It was the year when Steve Jobs, Joe Frazier, Al Davis, Betty Ford and Andy Rooney all passed on; among other luminaries and the common folk who went to their last reward. I was particularly touched by the passing of Harry Morgan who played Colonel Potter on my favorite TV show, MASH. Kim Jong Il passed on and bequeathed the world Kim Jong Un. Much to the chagrin of American conservatives Bin Laden was killed during the watch of Obama and I imagine that terrorist SOB is being force fed bacon and ham sandwiches in the deepest bowels of hell. Anthony Weiner flashed and instead of flaming out, his degenerate little story managed to haunt the Clinton campaign 5 years later. By year’s end Robert Griffin III would win the Heisman Trophy and where in the hell is he today?  Also at year’s end Newt Gingrich referred to Palestinians as “invented people” and unfortunately 6 years later we can’t be asking that where the hell is he now question about ole’ Newt.

2011 was the year when, dogged by knaves and fools President Obama did what he never should have been pressured to do; he released his birth certificate and years later a certifiable loon would take credit for forcing the president’s hand. Who would have thought that 6 years later that self-same screwball and a gang of cutthroats would comprise the United States government.

It’s not as if I haven’t been blogging.  My good friend Scott and I embarked on a project this past January, titled 1461 – Living in the Trump Years. The whole idea was to chronicle our humble insights on America’s national right turn towards the abnormal.  It was short lived.  A month or so in and I was slapped with the realization that it was an exercise in self-flagellation. I’d grown sick of the nastiness; sick of the administration; disgusted by the right and almost equally disgusted by the left which I usually relate to.  I told Scott that what began as a labor of love had taken on all the appeal of being the county road kill collector.  That blog is still online, albeit out of date. Take a visit if you like.

And so I’m on the move; to a new blog. An American's Story. Check it out!

“Go back?" he thought. "No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!" So up he got, and trotted along with his little sword held in front of him and one hand feeling the wall, and his heart all of a patter and a pitter.”                                                                                                                       From The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

Farewell to a Friend

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

It’s been a month since the Saturday that began with such great promise.  I’d managed to get myself up early and got in a good run; 40 minutes, pouring sweat and feeling exhausted.  Not the “I think I’m going to die,” exhausted. It was the kind of exhaustion that makes you feel great knowing it was damned good effort. Longest run in as far back as I could recall. It was going to be a good day.  Changed into a dry shirt and headed for Starbuck’s for morning coffee.  The Starbuck’s drill on a Saturday morning is to cruise by and peek inside.  Yeah, lined up to the door.  Never mind the coffee I needed to get home to see how our dog Rainey did overnight. When I walked in she was lying in the downstairs bedroom.  She sensed that I was home and struggled to get up on her three legs to greet me; a good sign.

Then came the screams.  

It's Just A Dog

“It’s just a dog.”  That’s what she said.  That was her first offense.  Her second offense was saying it to someone who had had to put down her two Rottweilers within about a year of each other.  Actually what she really said was, “It’s just a fucking dog.” Which only served to redouble the offense.  This was part of a friend to friend conversation. 

After ACL surgery

Tripod

That’s odd - I’m dreaming about a braying donkey.  A few moments of confusion when I came out of that deep sleep and the donkey hadn’t gone away.  Geeze, it’s my dog and that’s not a dream.  Rainey had rolled over onto the site where her leg had once been and was screaming in pain.  I got up and helped her to sit up.  She whimpered and quivered while I rubbed her head and held her.  Once calm I made sure that she laid down so that she wouldn’t roll onto the wound again.  Back in bed I wondered, ‘Did we do the right thing?’  I glanced down and she was already back to sleep and once I calmed myself down I reasoned that this is going to be one of multiple challenges for the next 10 days or so.  ‘Don’t get hasty with doubts.’

It's Not My Time Dad

I’m not an overly spiritual kinda guy.  I pray, though not religiously – so to speak.  That is to say I don’t pray nearly as much as the wife but more than my daughter – who doesn’t pray at all (so I guess that would be damning myself with faint praise).  When it comes to praying I can’t hold a votive candle to the wife. In my own spiritual defense though I do pray for things more substantive than the elusive winning lottery ticket or the local nine going to the World Series.  And while my devotion is often fleeting there are those times when I’m given pause to consider that there may be some sort of providence at work.  But providence does have to hit me in the face – hard.

My Buddy, My Friend

You're my buddy, my pal, my friend

It will be that way until the end

“How do you know when it’s time?” I’d asked the vet a couple weeks ago.  “Well, she’ll have good days and she’ll have bad days .  You’ll learn to recognize those and then when she has more bad than good then you need to start considering putting her to sleep.”

Good days and bad.  Last Saturday (a week ago) was a very bad day.  Late in the evening I literally thought that she was dying.  The next morning when I got home from a morning run she looked at me with bright eyes; alert and inquisitive.  “Welcome home, where have you been?  Running without me?” she seemed to ask.  Sunday was pretty good.  Sunday was also the day that I decided to pull out two little left over bunk bed mattresses.  I laid them one on top of the other next to her dog bed and spent the night in my sleeping bag.  When she seemed a little restless I reached over and stroked her head.  That was in the little downstairs “computer room.”

Boundless Love

Dogs have given us their absolute all. We are the center of their universe. We are the focus of their love and faith and trust. ~ Roger Caras

She’s trying gamely to walk around the house, 

albeit awkwardly with the pink bandage on her lower front leg.  She’s eating again.  She comes around and hits me with her nose, her way of saying, “Hey old man get me some head scratching.”  There’s no moping in a crate, raising a painful paw in supplication It’s starting to feel like I have my dog back.  She’s alert again - pissed off when someone has the effrontery to ring the bell on HER door. She goes back near the open kitchen window to stick her nose up and see what kind of smells are out there. I feel like I have my dog, my best friend, back again.   She’s not totally whole yet.  She struggles to get to her feet because that one paw is still weak and doesn’t give her the leverage to lift her up.  It’s certainly still sore but she isn’t afraid to put some pressure on it.  The stairs are supposed to be off limits but Rainey saw an opportunity when the gate was left down and she bolted up and went to one of her favorite sleeping haunts. The other night she asked to go out on the back patio. So the two of us sat quietly in the warmth of a summer evening.  She stuck her nose up and looked into the night. It twitches as she picks up a scent.  Something irritated her and she barked into the darkness. I’m getting my dog back.

Old Dogs

Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.

I slowed up during the run and Rainey turned back and looked at me.  It seemed almost accusatory.  “What the hell,” she seemed to say, “Are we going or not?”  Hey miss birddog you are the one who practically pulls my shoulder out of joint when you feel the need to stop to point at some bird in a bush, I would think.  She has a beautiful feathered tail that would flip back and forth like a metronome.  Her trot was graceful and effortless. After the run we sat outside Starbucks.  I drank coffee and she lounged like a princess as she took in the compliments, “Such a beautiful dog.”

We got up before sunrise.  When she got to middle age she went day blind.  Couldn’t see past her long nose in the daylight but in the twilight she could see perfectly and so we, as my dad would say, got up with the chickens.  We ran for up to an hour. Years passed and we ran for 40 minutes. A couple of years ago I pared the runs down to half an hour.  Last year I would take her out for about 15 minutes and then I dropped her off at the house and then finished my run. The runs ended some months ago and when I would get up she would get up as well, “Sorry girl, you can’t. Go back to bed.”

It's The Ideology

It wasn’t a gun.  It wasn’t a bomb. It wasn’t a machete.   It was a truck.  2 -3 minutes.  84 now dead, including 10 children. Do you understand now? It’s not the weapon.  It’s the ideology. ~  A viral Facebook post.

I’ve had an epiphany. Yes, I totally understand now.  If someone with a twisted ideology or some random radical Islamist wants to take out a crowd of people then he’ll find a way.  It might be fertilizer rife with ammonium nitrate, it might be a box cutter, it might be a baseball bat (as happened in Deltona Florida in 2004) or it might be a simple kitchen knife as happened in Osaka in 2001.  Most recently of course, it was a truck.  "Where there's a will, there's a way," goes the old saw.

140 Characters and a Meme

We’re two weeks removed from our nation’s 240^th Independence Day and the founders' great experiment is experiencing an upheaval unlike any that I can recall since the protests of the Vietnam War over 40 years ago. 

Over two centuries ago, America was the revolutionary undertaking that a doubting old world viewed with a bemused expectation of imminent collapse. For more than two centuries America has weathered the storms of war, strife, corruption and a temporary sundering. It's managed to put some issues behind it. But one issue, one wound will not heal. Whenever we think that the scab might fall off we manage to pick it and open the lesion afresh. It's our trauma that's scarred the nation since before it was a nation. 

It's the can that the founders and their successors managed to kick down the national road for over 200 years.  And once again, for that umpteenth time, we stand with that can before us with the decision to pick it up and finally dispense with it or kick it for another generation to deal with.  That can is of course race relations and the can kickers have been our nations leaders; by and large old white guys. The original can kickers couldn't come to agreement despite their reputation for being enlightened and ahead of their time. 

Trumping America

"It's amazing to me. A guy with the worst spray tan in America is attacking me for putting on makeup.”  "Donald is not going to 'Make America Great.' He's going to make America orange!"

~ Marco Rubio on Donald Trump

Historically presidential election years are characterized by truths and half-truths, partisanship, accusations, a fair bit of slander and enough melodrama to fill up several seasons of daytime TV.  They’re a Machiavellian daytime soap.  It’s popular to look back longingly at elections past and glorify them for having the dignity that never was.  And so we always try to lean on that nostalgia and the pretense that each upcoming election will rediscover statesmanship.  Yeah this election has squashed any hope of decorum. This election year a process that has at least historically pretended to having dignity has all of the decorum of a rolling barrel of random trash.  And that barrel was set in motion by the antics of one Donald J. Trump.  He came onto the political scene with all of the grace and tact of an exploding gasoline truck. 

Brief Notes from a Political Dreamer

I’m a dreamer apparently.  I’ve always thought of myself as being pretty matter of fact; pragmatic to the point of being stodgy.  I guess not.  Since I’ve hitched my political wagon to one Bernard Sanders I’ve been relegated to the ranks of the starry eyed idealists; Utopians with big ideas and small chance for success.  I’ve been told by the Hillary crowd that a vote for Sanders is tantamount to a vote for the GOP.  “We like Sanders," they say in that patronizing, I'm talking to an 8 year old tone.  "He’s got good ideas but they aren’t realistic.  Hillary has a better chance of beating Trump.”

The Quadrennial Games

It’s time once again for the quadrennial party.  You know the one.  That over the top orgy of backbiting, name calling, sore losers, graceless winners, allegations of cheating, actual cheating, xenophobia, jingoism, backroom deals, payoffs, under the table money and other assorted bad behavior.  Thought I was going to write about the Summer Olympics didn’t you?  Maybe another time.  This is about the presidential elections. 

Fixing the Internet (or call Al Gore)

Sunday evening and the daughter was indignant, “The internet isn’t working,” she called down from the corner upstairs bedroom.  The whole internet or just ours?  I wondered if Al Gore would be available on short notice.  I mean who better to call to fix the internet than the guy who (apocryphally) invented the damn thing.  It had been a long, hard day of moving.  The house was a mess.  There wasn’t one room in the place save the bathrooms that wasn’t piled with boxes and bags.  I’d just been on the internet earlier in the day so I tried to ignore her and hoped the whole issue would go away.  I don’t like fixing electronic things.  Then again I don’t like fixing plumbing things, metal things, wooden things, mechanical things or automotive things.  Yeah, I’m not the DIY guy.  If I ever win the lottery I’m going to put a DIY person on retainer.

What Exactly Did You Meme By That?

“How about you turn in your guns,” President Obama said, pointing a threatening finger.  Well there it was; right there on the internet, right there on Facebook.  I could see it in my mind as if it were really happening.  The President of the United States is knocking on my door, flanked by two U.S Marshalls and trailed by those suited guys who sport shades and earpieces.   And then he says, “How about you turn in your guns.  Boys", he says to the marshals, “do your duty.”  And so they push me aside and march into my home like SS storm troopers and ransack the place until they find the two black powder Civil War replicas that I’ve used in reenactments.  And then The President of the United States and his minions go on to pillage the next house, leaving me to sweep up the shattered bric –a- brac and right the overturned furniture.  Sure as hell it’s going to happen.  It has to because I saw it on Facebook, on the internet and in a meme.  Because if it’s in a meme it must be true. 

Sodden Holiday Thoughts

We’re approaching that holiday time of the year once again.  Actually if you believe corporate it’s been holiday season since sometime around Labor Day.  Time to buy the little woman a Lexus or a Mercedes to go with the thousand dollar bauble from Zale’s.  Break out the camping gear because Black Friday is a-comin’ and you gotta blow off a couple weeks of PTO so that you can save a hundred bucks on a TV.  Every year about this time I try to come up with some holiday theme.  It gets a little harder every year and I was despairing a bit until Starbucks dropped a big present under the tree and a self-styled evangelist put a giant bow on it.

A Night in the Emergency Room

“The very first requirement in a hospital is that it should do the sick no harm.” ~ Florence Nightingale

“A hospital bed is a parked taxi with the meter running.” ~ Groucho Marks

“I joke, but only half joke, that if you show up in an American hospital missing a finger, no one will believe you until they get a CAT scan, MRI and orthopedic consult.”  ~ Abraham Verghese

As firsts go it wasn’t exactly my idea of a memorable milestone.  But there I was strapped to a gurney, taking a ride in an ambulance.  And this one came complete with a paramedic in training.  “Do you mind if our trainee treats you today?” one of the paramedics asked?  “No it’s alright; go for it.”

It all started when I came home from the gym and sat down to watch sports.  I felt a crappiness that I'd never felt before.  The wife and I debated what to do and I decided that maybe we just ought to drive down to emergency.  We’d just about got out of town when feeling crappy turned to feeling like ten pounds of shit in a five pound sack.  “You know I’m not feeling at all good.  Let’s just swing around and go back to the fire station.”  

Three firefighters greeted us and led us into the garage where they hooked me up to a cardiogram.  My racing pulse had slowed down and the irregular heartbeat was back to normal.  I was actually feeling a bit better than when we pulled in.  That’s the way it always works isn’t it?  That toothache that felt like a cattle prod in your mouth all day long turns benign the minute the dentist walks in and you end up feeling like a dumb ass.  I tried to beg off of the ambulance ride but I was talked out of it by all three firefighters and the wife. 

Mountain Musings

“I believe that a man gets closer to God out there in the big, free West,”  ~  William F. (Buffalo Bill) Cody.

There’s something both invigorating and spiritual in sitting on a porch in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, listening to the gurgle of a creek not 10 yards away. Aside from that creek the only sounds are the wind and the occasional screech of a circling hawk.  I’m alternately reading and glancing up from my book at the red cliffs that overlook the cabin.  Bighorn sheep clamor on those cliffs.  Downstream the green, yellow and orange leaves on young aspens shiver in the cooling autumn wind.  They shine and shimmer like colored coins. 

Wow I guess I didn’t fully appreciate the quiet until I got back home to the San Francisco Bay Area and went to my gym a week later.  The noise was like getting whacked in the face with a baseball bat; clanging steel, grunting and shouting and of course the dreck and cacophony that the tone deaf call music.  Walking in I hunched over from the sheer weight of the din.

             Ante Up! Yap that fool!

Ante Up! Kidnap that fool!

It's the perfect timing, you see the man shining

Get up off them god damn diamonds! Huh!

Ante Up! Yap that fool!

Ante Up! Kidnap that fool!

In the locker room I got ready for my work out and said to myself in disgust that “I could eat alphabet soup and shit better lyrics.”  Maybe a little too loud as the guy a few lockers down shot me a look.

High mountain valley

Gridlock

                                                            

Jackson Hole - Horse Thieves and Celebrities; Cheap Beer and Overpriced Pretzels

We’d pulled into Jackson late on a Saturday night a bit disoriented, very hungry and too dog tired to worry about food.  Well the wife didn’t worry about food but I opted for some overpriced room service; but I repeat myself because room service is culinary grand larceny.  What we found in the morning when we headed into town was not the Jackson that I remembered from childhood when we visited on a family vacation.  Understand that I don’t have the faintest recollection of my childhood Jackson but I can state with positive certainty that my childhood Jackson was not this Jackson. I couldn't imagine that the Jackson that my parents brought me to was a haven for the 1 percent. 

The Little Cabin in the Woods

“My God, this place is at the end of the world,” worried the wife.  It did seem like a long ride up the mountain from the main highway.  It was unpaved and pocked with ruts and holes but it wasn’t horrible.  Hell, highway 880 in Oakland has worse stretches and deeper holes with the added hazards of drivers texting, putting on makeup and fussing about the morning coffee that just sloshed onto the console.  The rain was a bit worrisome.  How bad would this thing be if this light shower turned into a gully washer?