An open letter:

Dear Ms. Clinton,

You lost. Please go away now. You’re making a fool of yourself.

Thank you,
Us

The NASA Approach to Alternate Fuels and How That’s Bad

There are several ways to approach the energy crisis, and I believe we’re going about this the wrong way. I’m a color-blind guy with a degree in history who has worked as a graphic designer for the last couple decades, so I’m not real qualified to talk about engineering. But I’m gonna.

It seems to me that the way to design something (an electric motorcycle, for example) would be to build a couple scale models of the motorcycle, then build three or four prototypes with the full expectation of destroying most of them in testing. You build a full-scale model, then you run it until it fails so you know where the weak point in the design is — might be the new motor, might be the engine mounting, you’ll never know until you try it.

From what I understand from my three minutes of diligent research, this has been the way people have been engineering and designing things for quite some time, and the system works.

Until… Until the United States decided to build a space shuttle, lo those many years ago. Such a big project, such high stakes, but yet did we built prototypes? No… There were NO tests. When we sent the first shuttle up, it was truly the first shuttle, and there were real people in there.

In the 1950s and 60s, when we were in the midst of the Apollo project, we sent up smaller rockets first and watched how they worked. Then we built bigger rockets. Then we put a man in orbit. Then we built yet bigger rockets. The point being that we went one step at a time — we did NOT decide one day to send a man to the moon and immediately start building the finished rocket.

But in the 70s when we decided to scrap the rocket system in favor of the space shuttle, we simply built a shuttle and threw it into the air. No unmanned missions, no shuttles tested to destruction to find the weak point… The result? Through rigorous mathematics, computer modeling, and all the diligence NASA can put towards a project, the shuttle did, indeed work! It worked until the O-rings failed on takeoff one day in the 80s and blew a shuttle to bits, killing the entire crew. This failure probably would have come out in testing, had they tested actual designs to failure. They fixed it and went on with the project, which worked fine until a shuttle disintegrated on reentry over Texas, killing the entire crew.

The shuttle is as safe as they can make it, and does have a good safety record in light of how incredibly complicated the shuttle is and how dangerous space flight is. The problem is that they went about it wrong. They should have built shuttles and tested them to failure. Rather they went through incredible pains to get it perfect the first time, and were under enormous pressure to get it right without testing.

Okay… so what’s my point?

It seems that many engineering projects have been stuck in the “shuttle mode” ever since then.

I saw a show on television yesterday that mentioned putting undersea turbines off the Florida coast. The theory is simple — put some turbines in the gulf coast and let the ocean currents do the work, creating electricity. Why hasn’t this already been done? No one wants to go small-scale with the project… Instead of building a few of these undersea turbines at 1/5th scale and putting them beside the dock and seeing how they work, they’re hoping to develop an entire grid of turbines, anchored to the sea floor 150 miles below (or however deep the ocean is… a hundred miles? Fifteen yards? I dunno, I’m from Iowa), already fully developed and ready to go on the grid. The problem with that is that it’s horribly expensive to build a full-blown system like that from scratch, so no one’s done it yet, even though Florida sucks an inordinate amount of energy from the nation’s resources to run their air conditioners AND they have an unlimited amount of energy sitting just offshore…

Another example is with wind turbines. The big power companies have spent zillions of dollars building huge wind turbines to put in the midwest (where the wind comes sweeping down the plains). They started with commercial-grade turbines. Big honkin’ things. Huge. And they’ve gotten bigger. It’s hard to wrap your head around how huge these turbines are…

Okay, this is fine and dandy. But wind power is still only contributing a small fraction of the nation’s energy.

Here’s an idea. Instead of trying to build a big system of underwater turbines and continuing with the huge corporate wind farms, why not let us individual people have these things?

Release the technology to the public. Give some incentive to a couple companies to start making small wind turbines that a person can put on their house.* Make small undersea turbines that a marina operator (for example) can put in an out-of-the-way place to create some energy for his operation. Get a couple hundred thousand of these out into the public and let US test the technology. Tweak the system as it works on a small scale. Let people tinker with the system. See what happens.

Once people see that underwater generators really do work, you’ll be able to get more investors to buy into your dream of building a big huge system to power the entire state. Don’t try to create an infrastructure out of thin air.

Alternative fuels is too important for us to do it wrong.

*I know, there are companies like PacWind making small wind turbines that can go on someone’s house. The problem is that there aren’t enough of these companies, and the technology is too expensive. Incentives, anyone?

If I Were Magically In Charge of Things Around Here

1. If I were in charge of things here in Sioux City, I’d make it a rule that every new structure built in the city with a flat roof be “greenified.” Regular ol’ tar roofs can get up to 140+ degrees in the summer, which makes it miserably expensive to air-condition the building. Instead, put three or four inches of good soil up there on the roof and plant native prairie grasses. This will decrease the temperature of the roof, make heating and cooling much easier, will aid enormously in water control (let the plants and soil hold the water for a few days after a rain, gradually letting the moisture evaporate rather than depending on storm sewers sending the water straight into the river), will give some ecosystem back to the native birds ‘n bugs, and the plants will help filter some of the pollution out of the air. This costs a little more as you need to make sure your roof can handle the weight, but the benefits far outweigh the costs.

2. I’d make the city engineer go through every existing building with a flat room to see how they can put a garden on the existing roof. You have, oh, six years to retrofit your flat room to accommodate a garden covering, oh, sixty percent of the area of your roof. Extra tax credits if you make your roof entirely green.

3. Sell the city buses. Buy new buses that are environmentally friendly (hybrids or biodiesel at the least). Instead of having, for example, twenty big buses, buy thirty smaller buses and add some new routes. Build secure areas on some of the routes where people can safely leave their bicycles or cars when they get on the bus.

4. Make the downtown area more foot and bicycle friendly and less car friendly. Oddly, the bicycle paths in the city do NOT go to the downtown district, and it’s miserable trying to cross a downtown street on foot. The city is, as we speak, planning to tear out a pedestrian park to build a street, hoping to lure more people downtown by making the area easier to navigate by car. This is backwards to me… Instead, make it easier to park your car and walk.

5. Tax vehicles by mileage. If your car gets 20 miles per gallon you pay more for your car than the guy with a 50 mpg hybrid. If you own a 5 mpg truck, you get taxed quite a bit, but that’s okay as if you own a truck you’re obviously using it for business purposes and are making money with the vehicle so you can afford to pay more. (Here’s something to consider as you’re shooting this one down: Gas prices are rising due to supply and demand. The more gas we demand, the more we pay. Okay, fine… The problem is that if you drive a huge ol’ SUV to work every day, you demand more gas than I do in my little bitty car — which drives MY fuel prices up. In effect, those who use more gas pay the same price per gallon as those who use less, so there’s no penalty for using more gas if you can afford it. This proposed tax would even out the playing field a bit. If you demand more fuel you pay higher taxes.)

6. City bikes. Put some butt-ugly bicycles out there that are free for everyone to use. Make ’em ugly so no one will steal them… Put a small tracker on it so you can tell if someone’s taking a bike home with them at night or is keeping a bike. Keep them by the parking ramps so people can park their cars and ride the bikes through the downtown area.

7. Truck and SUV free zones. If you have a truck or SUV, park it in one of the parking ramps and walk the rest of the way, ride a bike or catch a bus. It’s hard to see around you in traffic, it’s hard to see around you when you’re parked, its hard to see through the fog behind you… You’re free to own whatever vehicle you want, but you’re a menace to public safety. Please consider leaving your guzzler in the parking ramp where it won’t bother anyone and walk the last two blocks to the bank.

8. The energy company shall NOT have a monopoly. If I want to make my own energy, the government shall reward me for doing so, and the energy company can NOT punish me for that. Currently it’s actually illegal around here to have your own wind turbine. The power company has actually made a farmer take his turbine down, forcing him to buy electricity from them. Now I want to know just where in the Constitution it guarantees a corporation a profit… If the power companies find themselves obsolete in a few years, that’s THEIR problem. They’re the ones who should be making personal turbines and selling them to us, NOT trying to stop the technology.

I fully realize that there are holes in each and every one of these proposals. I haven’t thought ANY of them through to their logical conclusion. My point is that we need to start thinking this way…

Bunnies

We have a rabbit in our yard. She’s bravely sitting on the hole she dug a day or two ago… She won’t move. I’m sure she has kits under there, little babies. She dug the hole in a strange place, right out in the open, near the chain-link fence by the sidewalk. If she’d chosen her hole on the other side of our yard she’d have two bolt-holes nearby (we have a rickety wooden fence on that side) and more privacy. But I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.

Dagmar put a few carrots out for her. It’ll be interesting to see if the carrots are gone in the morning. I’m a bit worried about the black kitty that’s been prowling around, too. With luck Mama Bunny can handle herself…

Fruitloop

Home from the vet, the little kitty Fruitloop, and recovering. He doesn’t seem to mind getting the insulin shots… This may sound cruel, but I really wish he’d squawk or squirm a little when the needle pokes him — he takes it so calmly it makes both Dagmar and I wonder if the shot is actually getting under his skin or if we’re just squirting insulin on his fur.

He’s really angry about his new diet. He gets a quarter-cup of food in the morning and a quarter-cup at night, which is considerably less than he’s used to having. We always just filled his food bowl to the top and kept it more or less full constantly so he could eat at his leisure. The poor little guy’s not adjusting well. He sat by his food dish for three straight hours today, looking miserable, occasionally licking the side of the dish. He’ll come to the computer room, bite my pantleg and try to lead me to his food bowl…

Vacation

I’m on vacation through Wednesday night. The original plan was for me to go fishing with Pops in Minnesota, but with the vet bill and Dagmar’s impending surgery (June 19th) I’ve opted to stay home for my spring vacation and try to get as much freelance work done as I can… With luck I can get both my vacation pay and earn some money on the side and “double up” as much as I can.

I might be working, but I’m still gonna count this as a vacation. I’ll be home for three days where I can choose to ignore the phone if I want, I can sip on a beer in the afternoon whilst working, and I can go for a bike ride at lunch time if I want. As long as I get the work done I’m free to enjoy the day.

Mat d and the Profane Saints

Yesterday I was kinda bummed. I was hoping to go on a poker-style run* a friend of mine was sponsoring, but circumstances dictated I’d miss the beginning and end of the ride. (It was for a good cause. A lady my friend knows was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her insurance company pre-approved treatment, so she started on the chemotherapy and whatnot. After several treatments her insurance company was taken over in a hostile takeover. The new owners denied her coverage, AFTER she’d already started the life-saving treatment. So she thought she was covered, but corporate greed and deregulation effectively ruined her life. To add insult to injury, she lost her job too. So the poor lady has a life-threatening disease, horribly expensive payments, and no job. Hence the fundraiser.

Anyway, I couldn’t make the beginning of the ride, so I thought I’d hook up with the run as it went through the neighboring town of Akron and follow the guys for a stop or two. I tootled down the road to Akron, enjoying the beautiful day. Once there I realized I was ahead of the herd, so I sat in the local Legion Hall and had a nice beverage whilst I awaited the thunder of motorcycles. A beautiful day, a nice ride on the bike, a cold beverage, how could this get better?

A guy at the end of the bar stood up. “Well, I’m outta here,” he told the barmaid. “That Dry Creek Music Festival in Hawarden is gonna start in an hour. I gotta go home and get cleaned up before I go see the bands play…”

Music Festival? In an hour? Ten miles away? I’m there! I dropped off a donation for the poker run with instructions to give the dough to Beek and ran out the door, hopped on my bike and roared off to Hawarden.

I only got to see two bands, the Matt Hittle Blues Band and Mat d and the Profane Saints. The Matt Hittle Blues Band played well; I’d recommend going to see them if you get a chance, but I was really excited to see the Profane Saints. I’m pals with most of the guys, and I used to be in a band with the drummer a couple years ago. They’re a helluva band! Go see ’em play. Go to their website. Listen to their stuff. It’s worth it… (Here are some pictures.)

*A poker run, for those of you who might not know, is a fundraiser where bikers all sign in at a starting point (usually a bar) where they toss in some money (usually $20 or so) and are given a score sheet and a map. There are generally five stops on a poker run spanning a distance of 100 to 125 miles or so. The biker heads off to the next location on the map (usually a watering hole of some sort), where the bartender will certify that the biker was, indeed, there. Then the biker will draw a card from a deck and the bartender will write the card on the scoresheet (two of clubs, six of spades, etc.). After five stops, the biker has a scoresheet with five cards. At the end of the run the motorcycle enthusiast with the highest poker hand wins a percentage of the entry fee money, and the rest of the moolah goes to the charity agreed upon. Most winners will keep five or ten bucks to buy a celebratory drink or two with and donate the rest back to the cause. It’s a good deal, so of course the government has tried to stop it… According to Iowa law a poker run is the moral equivalent of gambling, so people have come up with inventive variations to keep the spirit of the traditional poker run alive without having to pay for a gambling license and pay a tax on moneys taken in.

Parkersburg, Iowa

A friend of mine has been helping in Parkersburg, IA after the tornadoes last weekend. He sent me some photos… It’s amazing to see little lumps of debris and realize each little lump used to be a home.

Oh for gosh sake.

I just blew a big ol’ bubble while I was talking on the phone. Now I’ve got bubble-gum all over my face. And the phone. Some days I’m brighter than others. This is shaping up to be a fairly dim day, I’m afraid.

Last weekend I learned a lesson I learn at least five times a year: don’t blow bubbles when you’re riding your motorcycle. It collects bugs and makes a mess.

At least I don’t smoke any more…

The Littlest Bear

Boy, I tell ya what, 2000 was an interesting year for me! In June I bought my little house in the ‘hood. I met Dagmar over the Fourth of July holiday. Our “first date,” such as it was, was at my housewarming party. (I gave a buddy of mine who knew Dagmar ten bucks to “bring that Austrian gal” to the party. Somehow he conned her into coming to the shindig, for which I gave him his ten bucks and a pint and a half of Jägermeister.)

As soon as I’d cleaned up the cans from the housewarming party the next day (and made sure I had that Austrian gal’s phone number) I made a trip to the Humane Society. It was my longtime dream to own my own house — partially so I could have a cat without worrying about landlords kicking me out. So now I got the house, it’s time to get a cat… (I briefly thought about getting a pooch, but my yard is so very tiny… A cat it shall be.)

Once at the Humane Society I was immediately overwhelmed. For a reasonably small town, Sioux City had a LOT of animals for adoption. I scanned rows and rows of cages, each holding at least one cat, most having several kittens. Cats and kittens and kittens and cats. I stood there, not real sure where to start. I mean, here I am, trying to pick out a critter who will hopefully be my bestest buddy, my boon companion, my little pal. It’s kind of a strange thing to think about… One wants to be careful in these decisions.

“Can I help you?” asked a lady. She seemed to work there.

“Yeah,” I said, “I want a kitty…” I made vague pointy gestures at a cage of kittens.

“Oh, here’s a nice kitty,” the lady said, opening a cage and reaching inside. I peered inside to see a massive hissing lump of white and gray. “She’s only five years old. Her owners had to get rid of her because she kept biting the children.” The lump of gray and white hissed some more and nipped the lady on the thumb. “You don’t have children, do you?”

“Uh, no,” I said. “I’m really hoping for a kitten.”

“Everyone wants kittens,” the lady said, abandoning her attempt to get the gray and white lump out of the cage. “The problem is that they turn into cats and end up here, and we have a hard time finding homes for the adult cats. Are you sure you don’t want a more mature kitty?” She gestured at the neighboring cage which had what looked like a mutant bobcat stuffed in it.

“No, really, I want a kitten,” I repeated. “I’m looking for a smaller female cat. I have a small house so I don’t really want a big ol’ clumsy tomcat stinking the place up.”

“Kittens, everyone wants a kitten. Okay, pick one,” the lady said as she turned away.

I spent about an hour looking at kittens. Little gray kittens and little black kittens and mean kittens and shy kittens. I’d about made my decision to take a little gray kitty home with me when a small orange fluffball in a cage towards the bottom caught my attention.

“Where have you been?” I asked the orange kitten. Little kitty yawned and stretched. “Oh, you were napping.” The kitten came up past all the other kittens in the cage to the front and gave me the big-eyed look. I peeked at the tag on the cage with the kittens’ names on it. “Petunia, Rose, Buttercup, Shadow, Stinky” it said. I could see Stinky over in the corner of the cage. “Hmmm,” I said to little orange kitten, “you must be Petunia, Rose or Buttercup.”

I went to the front counter and told the lady I’d made my decision. She came back with the key and opened the cage. The little orange kitty walked right into my hand. “Oh,” said the lady, “that’s Buttercup. She’ll be a good kitten for you.” Buttercup purred and wriggled around until she was on my shoulder. She sat on my shoulder the whole time I signed the papers and paid the bill and got all my instructions… When you get a cat from the pound you gotta promise to get ’em fixed or else they’ll repo your pet.

The ride home was interesting. Turns out Buttercup didn’t like cars. She spent the whole ride under the gas pedal, which made for some interesting driving…

“We gotta change your name,” I said to Buttercup a bit later as I dropped her into her new litterbox. “Buttercup just isn’t gonna work…” If I get naming rights, I traditionally name cats after the first thing they catch, as one thing I admire about cats is their ferocious and tenacious hunting ability. I had a cat named Cricket for years.

That night my new Austrian girlfriend Dagmar stopped by to visit. “Ach!” she said as she opened the door. “Vhat is DAT?” She stared at the floor with a horrified look.

“Oh, that’s my new kitten,” I said, scooping the cat formerly known as Buttercup off the floor. “Kitten, meet Dagmar. Dagmar, this is a kitten.”

“I’m allergic,” said Dagmar. “Cats make me sick.”

“Oh.”

It’s a testament to her love for me that Dagmar went out and bought a bucketful of allergy pills and came back to visit again the next day. “Dat furball,” she said, perched gingerly on the sofa, “it has a name?”

“Not yet,” I replied. “Cats are known for being fierce hunters. I’ll name her after the first thing she hunts. I have to take her to the vet to get her shots in a little bit. Do you want to come along?”

“Vell, okay… I guess I did take my allergy pill. I should be okay to go with you to the vet. Vhat is de furball doing now?” She pointed to the kitten, who was engaged in a mighty struggle with something over there in the corner.

“Yay!” I said. “The kitten is bravely earning her name! Let’s go see what she caught…”

So, when we got to the vet, the first question on the form they handed us was “Pet’s Name.” I dutifully wrote “Fruitloop.”

“Ah,” said the vet, “so it’s time for young…” (he looked at the form) “Fruitloop to get shots, huh?” The vet picked young Fruitloop up off the counter. A few minutes later Dagmar and I stood by the door as the vet gave us our final instructions. “The shots are good for six months, you’ll have to bring Fruitloop in again then for some more. Oh, and you got him from the Humane Society, so you’ll have to get him fixed in a few months as soon as he’s old enough.”

“Um…” I said, “You mean get HER fixed, don’t you?”

“No, Fruitloop’s a boy,” said the vet. Dagmar broke out laughing.

“Gaaaahhh!” I said. “I told the lady at the pound I wanted a girl cat — they’re smaller and don’t pee on people. And the sign said ‘Buttercup’.” Dagmar laughed harder.

“Well, Buttercup’s a boy. It’s good you changed his name. Here, do you want me to show you?”

“NO! No, I’ll take your word for it…” Dagmar had tears running down her face.

So, I picked out a girl cat named Buttercup and ended up with a tomcat named Fruitloop. Go figger.

Fast forward to the weekend (editor’s note – I stole this part from a column I wrote for a local paper years ago): “Had much to drink tonight?” asked the nice policeman. “Oh, a few,” I answered, muttering a word my dad taught me under my breath.

I’d been in the neighborhood all of a week, and hadn’t yet met my neighbors. Now, at a quarter to four in the morning I’m getting pulled over in my own driveway. I looked to the left. Sure enough, the lights were on in the house next door, and someone was peeking through the window. I looked to the right. Yep, they were watching as well. Poop.

I explained to the nice officer that I had just finished playing with my band at a local bar, and he suggested I might as well step out of the car anyway. I watched my new neighbors watch me touch my nose and walk an imaginary line. “Hey, Ethel,” I could hear them say. “Come watch the new hippie get arrested. Bring the popcorn.”

The nice officer eventually agreed that I wasn’t a hazard to society and let me go my merry, though embarrassed way. For a week I avoided the neighbors. Long hair, black leather jacket, odd hours… I don’t often make a good first impression.

“What do you wanna bet my neighbors are still up?” I asked my friends about a week later as we came around the corner to my house at a quarter to four in the morning. “The last time they saw me I was standing on one foot trying to say the alphabet backwards.”

“Naw, don’t worry about it,” my friends said. “No one will notice.” So I got out of the car, wearing nothing but a very colorful blanket.

In my defense, we really weren’t skinny-dipping. I had worn my clothes in the water; hence the blanket. Wet clothes are COLD. As I scuttled towards my house I happened to glance across the street. Sure enough, the neighbors were there, sitting on their porch. “Hey, Ethel, get the popcorn! The hippie’s out doing odd things again.” I waved. They didn’t. I vowed to be inconspicuous and polite in the neighborhood from that moment on. I just wasn’t fitting in. The neighbors wouldn’t talk to me.

Three weeks later I was wandering about the neighborhood peering furtively under bushes, hoping desperately that no one would notice me. “HEY, MAN, WHAT’S GOING ON? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” my friend bellowed from his car as he pulled up.

“Trying to be inconspicuous,” I answered politely. “My cat escaped.”

“Oh, man… Fruitloop’s gone?”

“Yeah, I must have left the door open a bit,” I answered, peeking under someone’s car.

“Let’s go look,” he said.

About that time Dagmar happened along, hoping to visit. We explained the situation and headed off down the street to find the cat. So we’re wandering the streets — an inconspicuous, skinny hippie boy, a very conspicuous professional comedian, and an amused Austrian woman.

“Excuse me, haf you seen a liddle kitty vandering by?” Dagmar asked a couple of girls. I noticed their father watching from the side yard.

“Yeah,” one of the girls answered. “A little yellow cat was playing around here about half an hour ago. He ran off that way.” The other girl ran up to her worried-looking father and said something in a language I didn’t recognize. The father smiled and waved at us. We headed in the indicated direction.

About a block later, we ran into another group of kids. “We’re looking for a little tiger cat,” said my friend in his best John Wayne voice. “Can ya help us?”

“Yeah,” said one of the kids. “We’ll help watch for your cat.”

Half an hour later, after talking with several groups of kids, I was sitting on the curb, head in hands, sure that my poor little kitty was gone. I could hear echoes of “Ver haf you gone to, liddle Fruitloop,” and “Here kitty, kitty, kitty; Come here, ya little pilgrim,” dancing down the street. I suddenly realized that I was hearing other voices as well. (I mean besides the ones in my head.)

Not only were my friends looking for my cat, but several packs of neighborhood kids were calling for my cat as well. I looked up the street an saw a little old lady standing in front of her porch with a bowl, peering expectantly around as though sure that my kitty would come running for a milk treat.

I walked up the street a ways. A couple sitting on their porch asked if I was the one with the lost cat. “Yep,” I answered. “Don’t you worry none ’bout your cat,” the man told me. “Come round midnight he’ll be crawling up to your door, smilin’ and lookin’ all satisfied.”

“I hope so,” I replied. I wandered off to talk to the little old lady with the milk. “You haven’t seen my cat, by any chance?” I asked her.

“No. Are you with that foreign lady who was asking about a cat earlier?” she asked. “I’ve been hoping to find her cat, too. It’s nice that people care about their pets.”

“Yep, we’re looking for the same cat,” I replied. “I’m starting to get worried.”

“Well, if I find him, I’ll let you know.”

About that time I heard a bellow from the couple on the porch. “HEY! HEY! HEY! I found your cat! He’s right under here!” I looked down the street and saw the man waving his arms at me, smiling. “Fruitloop was sitting under my chair the whole time.”

Several months later, I still got a friendly nod and a smile from the little old lady. The neighborhood kids came to tell me every time they saw a stray tabby cat outside. The couple on the porch always waved at me when I walked by. It’s a little humbling to realize that one little lost cat could bring an extremely diversified neighborhood together, get one inconspicuous hippie welcomed to the community, and provide a “bonding” experience between my friends and I.

The power of pets. Amazing.

A few months later: “Vhat I don’t understand is vy he always pees on my right foot. Never on my left, only on my right foot.” Our relationship was still fairly new, so I wasn’t sure if Dagmar was truly upset or only peeved. I could certainly tell she wasn’t happy, though. I handed her another paper towel so she could wipe the Fruity-pee off her shoe.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope he quits peeing on you when we get him fixed. They say male cats don’t mark their territory so much once they’ve been fixed.”

“Vell, I’m NOT his territory,” she said. “Why doesn’t he pee on you?”

“Well, maybe he sees me as the leader of the pack, so to speak. He doesn’t know where you fit into the pecking order yet. He might be trying to solidify his role in the household.”

“So if you’re the king, what am I?”

“Well, you’re obviously the queen, Princess!” I said.

“Vell, den, that must make Fruity the joker, huh?”

Life went on. Dagmar and I got married, Fruitloop got fixed and quit peeing, and the allergy pill makers made a mint. Our happy little household trundled along well as could be for years. Mama-Bear, Papa-Bear, and the Littlest Bear of All. Every year we take Little Bear Fruitloop to the vet for a checkup. The vet was a little peeved at us last February.

“Fruitloop’s eight now,” he said. “Last year he weighed sixteen and a half pounds. This year he weighs over seventeen pounds. That’s really too big for a cat. Now I told you last year that you needed to watch his weight. We need to get him down to about twelve pounds or so…”

“But but but but…” I said intelligently, “we put the poor little boy on diet food.” I looked at my beloved wife Dagmar for support. “Yeah,” she said, “und ve hardly give him much at all.”

The vet peered over his glasses at us. “You may need to exercise him more, or limit his portions. Somehow he has to lose some weight. He’s a healthy cat other than that, but just like in people, the more he weighs the more likely he is to die at a young age. He’s been slowly gaining weight for years, and I’ve been telling you for years to do something about it. It’s time for you guys to listen.”

We collected Fat Boy Fruity and made our way to the door. “We’ll do better,” I said to the vet. “We’ll make sure to exercise him more.”

When we got home, Dagmar went straight to Fruitloop’s food dish and dumped it out. “Sorry Little Buddy,” she said. “From now on you only get a cup of food a day.” I rummaged around and found the kitty’s favorite toy and put it out where we’d be sure to see it more often.

Strangely enough, our new routine of feeding Fruits less and playing with him more actually lasted quite a while. Normally within a few days we’re back to our old ways, but this time we stuck with it for a while. A few weeks ago Dagmar called across the house to me, “You know, I think Fruity’s lost some weight!” I went over and looked at the boy. “Yep, he looks a little skinnier to me too!” We were happy — this is what the vet wanted!

The next week found Dagmar and I standing in the kitchen, staring at Fruity’s food dish. “I haven’t fed him yet today,” I said.

“Me either,” answered Dagmar. “He’s not eating, is he?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Shall I give him some chicken?”

“Sure, sounds good.”

Fruitloop did indeed eat the chicken. The next day he started eating his food again. Life went back to normal — the three of us in our small house. I’d nap on the couch with a Fruit-Monster snoozing on my feet. We’d sit in the computer room where Dagmar would play hide-and-pounce with the Ferocious Fruits. Rarely has there been a time in the past eight years where we’re home and our Little Bear isn’t within just a few feet of us. We’re a close fambly. (Daddy sings bass, Mama sings tenor, and kitty sings Fruitissimo.)

Then he quit eating again.

“Should we call the vet?” Dagmar asked me, a slight quaver in her voice.

“Nah, he’s okay,” I said. “He’s just being finicky.”

But Dagmar persisted. “He’s looking awfully skinny. I vood like to call the vet. I’m worried about the little fella.” I nodded. “Okay, but the vet’s just going to say that he’s just being finicky…” We made an appointment.

“He’s lost a third of his body weight,” said the vet. “That’s not good in such a short time. Something’s wrong with him. This is not trivial.” He pulled the thermometer out of where they put thermometers in cats. “His temperature is okay… I’m going to need to do some blood work.” He picked up Fruity and went into the other room. We heard a yowl as the vet drew blood…

Dagmar and I made small talk until the vet came back with our little buddy. “I’ll send the blood sample off to the lab this afternoon,” the vet told us. “You take Fruitloop home. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I find out. It could be any number of diseases. I have suspicions that he’s a very sick little kitty, but we’ll know more tomorrow.”

Dagmar drove us home as we sat in stunned silence, Fruitloop on my lap, staring apathetically out the window. “Vhat are we going to do if it’s serious?” asked Dagmar. “We should probably talk about this.”

“There’s not much we can say until we know more,” I said. “We’ll do what’s best for Fruitloop.” He lay still as I stroked his chin.

“It’s going to be hard not to be selfish,” said Dagmar. “I vant him to be around.” We paid a lot of attention to the little guy that night, scratching his head, not complaining when he woke us up at four in the morning. Dagmar cried.

The next morning (yesterday) I sat at work fidgeting, waiting for the vet to call, wondering if this was the day I’d have to make the decision to put my buddy down. When my cell phone finally rang I didn’t want to answer it. Maybe if I don’t know what’s wrong, well, maybe then there’s nothing wrong…

“Hi, this is the doctor from the vet’s office. I have the results back.”

I mumbled something.

The doctor continued, “Fruitloop’s glucose level is over twice what it should be in felines. He has diabetes. He’s a very sick cat.” The doctor talked a lot more, finishing with “You’ll have to give him shots twice a day. I’ll need you to bring him in so we can get his insulin level stabilized, and we need to keep him for some more tests to see how serious it is.”

My little buddy’s been at the vet’s office ever since. He’s a sick little kitty. But of course we’ll do what we need to do to keep him… The insulin is (they say) about two-hundred dollars a year. That’s not bad. We can afford that.

Tomorrow we get to bring our little pal back home again. Tomorrow we can sleep knowing Fruity’s with us. Tomorrow we can hug him. Tomorrow we start the insulin.

Tomorrow I get to see the shock of betrayal in my little pal’s eyes as I jab a needle in him as he sits in my lap. Twice a day I’ll hurt my kitty. Twice a day from now on I’ll be able to hear the vet’s voice in my mind telling me over and over to limit my buddy’s intake. Twice a day I’ll feel guilty that I was irresponsible. Twice a day I’ll have to look into those big trusting eyes as I give him an injection and wonder why I was so selfish, why I let my cat get sick, why I didn’t listen…

The Rock

There’s a guy down in central Iowa who, for the last ten years, has painted the local “graffiti rock” with some pretty neat murals. Sunday a bunch of us trekked the 180 miles down there to see the 10-year anniversary of Bubba painting the Freedom Rock. Pretty neat, actually. The Iowa Army National Guard was there with the Orange County Chopper that had been made for the Guard. Then they started talking about “large hail and tornadoes,” so we flew back up the Interstate ’bout as fast as you safely can on cruisers in a hard sidewind.

Pictures follow:

The Ceremony

Monday was Memorial Day itself. I went to help the American Legion Riders in my hometown. We were in a parade, and some of our Vietnam vets helped with the ceremony at the courthouse. Plymouth County puts up a flag for ever veteran from the county who’s passed on. Every flag has a dogtag with that veteran’s name. You ain’t seen nuttin’ until you’ve seen nearly 1,100 flags waving gently in the breeze, hearing the faint tinkling of the dogtags as they blow… And they STILL read each and every name during the ceremony. It takes longer and longer every year to read all the names, but no one has complained.

You can see the pictures here:

08-05-26 ALR at Memorial Day

Trust and Discipline

A Walk in the Woods

Dagmar and I went for a walk yesterday in Stone Park here in SUX. (You gotta love it when you live in a city with the airline designation SUX.) Anyway, Sioux City sits on a boundary of sorts. To the east there’s the entire state of Iowa laid out in neat squares of farmland, hundreds of miles of gently rolling hills checkered with roads that go entirely across the state with nary a curve. To the west is what I consider the true Great Plains — from the Missouri River all the way to the Rockies are the sweeping, windblown, seemingly-empty prairielands of Nebraska and South Dakota.

But in the middle is the Missouri River, and there’s Sioux City, right on the river, a break between the farmlands to the east and the plains to the west. The wind sweeping along the plains has, over the millenia, dropped it’s fine dust along the river, creating the Loess Bluffs. For a mile or so on each side of the river there’s an alluvial plain, but bordering the plain are the bluffs…

Stone State Park is just on the northwest corner of Sioux City, right on the Big Sioux River which serves as the border between Iowa and South Dakota, just a few miles from the Missouri. Here are photos. If you click on ’em they get bigger. (I really wish Blogger wouldn’t try to color-correct and sharpen my photos. I had ’em the way I wanted ’em. Oh well.)

Worried

My beloved Austrian Snowflake Dagmar is scheduled to have her surgery in a month. I hope we have enough money piled up… All our scribbling on the backs of envelopes and midnight insomniac mental math tells us we should be okay. Things will be a little tight, but we’ll cover our bills and will have grocery money. I’m very grateful that I’ve had enough freelance work in the past few months to be able to save up for this!

Dagmar wants me to take a few days off and go fishing in Minnesota with my parents in a couple weeks. I have to say it sounds really good… A good 350 mile solo bike trip up to the lake region, a few days in a tent behind the little hotel in the woods, a day spent fishing, a day spent riding, plenty of opportunities to take photos, a nice 350 mile ride back home… My only problem is that I feel guilty spending money to go fishing just a few weeks before Dagmar’s surgery, even though I’m sure we have enough to cover it. It seems insensitive to me somehow. I’m not sure what to do.

I do know I’m really looking forward to next summer when Dagmar’s healthy again and has some vacation time! We’ll go to the zoo, we’ll go to the park, we’ll go camping, we’ll ride our bicycles, we’ll go EVERYWHERE together ’cause she’s my best friend!

Just a thought…
Hey, next time we have one of these election thingies, why not do all the states at once? Maybe over a long weekend or something. Say, the polls open at noon on Friday and close nationwide Sunday at 7 p.m. Eastern time. That would give everyone time to get to the polls… I can handle a long weekend, but GEEZE we gotta do something about this 19-month-long election cycle! I know, I know — Iowa makes a lot of money by having the candidates and all their entourage spending a year campaigning across the state. But realistically I went to four or five candidate rallies and I didn’t learn one single thing I didn’t already know, except that Joe Biden looks bigger on TV than he does in person.

From the Party of Family Values
Found this on the Innernet…

Actually, Senator John McCain started having affairs with other women in the late 1970’s, even though his first wife, who was crippled in a car accident, had waited faithfully for him for years to come home from Vietnam (McCain was a POW in Hanoi for five years). Speculation abounds that McCain started cheating on his beauty model wife shortly after his return to the states (and recovery from the torture he endured in prison) due to the fact that she didn’t look the same after her accident. Some people contend McCain broke the UCMJ during that time frame by having affairs with subordinates while in the military, and might have been court-marshaled, or at least disciplined, had he not had the right connections. Eventually the 42-year-old McCain met 24-year-old Cindy, who happened to be heiress to millions of dollars. They were married just a month after his divorce from his first wife. McCain and his present wife do not live together due to their schedules, though they do vacation together every year.

Senator McCain has done a lot for the United States, but if he starts preaching family values this is gonna come back to haunt him — especially after what the Republican party did to President Bill Clinton. Personally, I think his family life of nearly 30 years ago is his own business, and his familial problems may be a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder due to his service in Vietnam… But if the Republican party tries to fly the Family Values banner over Senator McCain this could be a problem for him. People may forgive McCain’s indiscretions, but they hate hypocrisy.

Four Bucks!

How long do you think it’ll be before the riots start? I’m just happy that two of our three vehicles get 40+ miles per gallon (I don’t drive the third car more than six blocks to work, and then only when it’s snowing or raining).

Think about it. Nearly all our economic problems stem from oil going from $18 a barrel when George W. Bush was appointed president in 2000 to $130 a barrel today. (I guess that’s what happens when you put two men deeply invested in the oil industry in charge of the government.) Food costs more because it costs more to transport it to the market. Same with all consumer goods. Prices are going up at a startling rate, all due to the increased price of oil.

Now, it doesn’t really matter WHY oil prices are going up, what matters is what we’re doing about it, and what we’re allowed to do about it.

Drill for oil in Alaska? Not gonna help. It’d take between 17 and 20 years before the first drop would get to us, and the percentage of oil that would come through the pipeline would be minuscule compared to our daily usage. Too little too late. ANWR really is more valuable as a
wildlife refuge than a source of oil. It’s just not gonna get us out of this crunch.

What we need is to find the Model T of alternate fuel vehicles. Don’t give me a Prius that costs nearly as much as my house. I don’t have that kind of money — I gave it all to the oil executives so they can hire lawyers to get them out of paying taxes. Rather, give me a little plug-in hybrid for $7,000, and let me build a wind turbine on my garage to make the electricity for the car. Make a bunch of these. Sell ’em to the Chinese and Indian folk. Don’t tell me we can put a man on the moon and build atomic bombs but we can’t find a way to put a battery in a car… We can do it.

Shoot, I’m about out of time.

My next item up for bid, real quick and without any more forethought than the preceding ravings, is ethanol. I live in Iowa, so I could probably be shot for saying this, but we really shouldn’t be making fuel out of corn! Two reasons. The first is that corn-based ethanol yields 1.4 units of energy for every 1 unit it takes to manufacture. In other words, it takes just about as much energy to make corn-based ethanol as we get out of it. Switchgrass, on the other hand, yields a ratio somewhere between 7 and 9 to 1 — MUCH higher than 1.4 to 1. Second reason — corn is not native. Corn really doesn’t grow well without a lot of help from the farmers. Switchgrass, on the other hand, is what grew here before we plowed it all under to plant corn… It grows all on its own.

‘kay now, I’m done.

Would they…?

I stole this from Skyler’s Dad over at Chewing Through the Straps.