Warning – Political Opinions Ahead

Saber Rattling

This is absolutely nuts. Sometime last week Republican presidential candidate Duncan Hunter proposed in a debate that we toss a nuclear weapon at the Mideast. Leading Republican candidate Mitt Romney nodded sagely and said that “no options should be taken off the table” when it comes to the Middle East.

Oh, that’ll win the hearts and minds of the people… “We can’t find a way to counter your suicide bombers so we’re going to kill hundreds and hundreds of thousands of civilians and turn a few cities into radioactive slag.”

This is the United States of America. We hold ourselves to a higher standard than the rest of the world. We are the shining example of clear political thought, restraint and morality. We are known for helping our enemies (“Do unto others…”) and rebuilding broken nations. We do not allow torture. We do not allow people to be arrested without cause. We do not hold people without trial. Free speech is a bastion of our culture. We do not spy on our own citizens…

Or at least that’s the way it used to be. Sadly, it’s not so any more. We have reduced ourselves to the level of our enemies. This needs to change! We need to find our way back to honesty, accountability, morality.

Dropping tactical nuclear weapons isn’t going to achieve that goal. All that’s gonna do is give North Korea, Iran, Russia and even Pakistan a green light to drop a tactical nuclear weapon on us the first time they feel provoked — and we’re pretty good at provoking those particular nations lately. We need to maintain the morality of restraint. We need to remember to honor the human life.

We’re good people. We really are. We just need to start acting like it.


MORE Saber Rattling

I just heard this morning that Independent Senator Joseph Isadore Lieberman (I-Diot) went on national television and spewed even MORE venom into the world by saying the United States should mount covert raids across the Iraqi border into Iran in retaliation for Iranians training Iraqis to kill people. The Senator did say with a dismissive shrug that the majority of the work could be done by air.

Didn’t Senator Lieberman learn anything from Vietnam when we started bombing Cambodia, and sneaked across the border into Laos to close off the Ho Chi Minh Trail? I guess not. Historically, what the Senator proposes simply hasn’t worked. Do we need to deal with Iran? Yes. But we do NOT need to engage in a sneaky war with them, nor do we need to start throwing nuclear weapons around as others have suggested. We must regain and maintain the high moral ground.

But I’m sure Senator Lieberman knows what combat is like and realizes the sacrifices he’s asking others to make on his behalf. Oh, wait, he never served in the military, did he… Nor do his children, come to think of it.

Something to be aware of when discussing Senator Lieberman and the Middle East is the fact that he receives a LOT of donations from pro-Israel groups who hope he’ll continue to enact legislation that favors Israel. Senator Lieberman and his wife Hadassah are both Orthodox Jews and have staunchly advocated for Israel — part of which is working to continue the war in Iraq, one of Israel’s enemies. It’s also no secret that Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad wants to wipe Israel off the map and has declared the Holocaust never happened.

So… Iran hates Jewish people, and Senator Lieberman (who happens to be one of those Jewish people himself) is taking tons of money from other Jewish people for his campaign, and is calling to invade Iran. Could it be that the Senator has an ax to grind? Could he be pushing a hidden agenda? Is he trying to get us to fight Israel’s wars? Don’t get me wrong — I’m NOT defending Iran, nor am I advocating we abandon Israel. I just want to make sure we have our reasons and priorities straight before we start the bombing runs…


Thoughts on War in General

Someone mentioned in a comment to a previous post that I seem to be anti-war and pro-soldier. That’s correct for the most part, I guess. But I have to admit, I’m not a complete dove — there are times when war is necessary, unfortunately. If someone were to invade Iowa, I’d certainly call for war. If someone were to drop a nuclear weapon on Canada, I’d probably call for war. In other words, my philosophy is kind of “don’t mess with my family and friends and I won’t mess with you.”

When the twin towers of the World Trade Center fell and it became apparent that it was the work of Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda my immediate reaction was “well, let’s go get him!” The United States sent troops off to Afghanistan to find bin Laden and nullify al-Qaeda, and I was fine with that.

But Dagmar and I watched in horror as United States President George Bush gradually convinced the nation that Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein was the one that was actually behind the 9/11 plot, and that they were on the verge of launching weapons of mass destruction at western targets. We could see, my wife and I, that this simply wasn’t so — Hussein was an evil man who did evil things in evil ways, but he wasn’t responsible for the attacks of 9/11, nor did he have weapons of mass destruction — our own inspectors confirmed that. When the United States lined our troops up and pointed them towards Baghdad we watched the war from our couch, simultaneously aghast and appalled at what we were doing and proud of how well our troops were doing it. When Baghdad fell we thought our objective had been met and hoped the war was over, but it wasn’t. When Hussein was captured we thought our objective had been met and hoped the war was over, but it wasn’t. When Hussein was executed we hoped the war was over, but it wasn’t.

Meanwhile, the man who actually did the United States damage, Osama bin Laden, ran free in Afghanistan, and is still free to this day.

I simply feel we are in the wrong war. We should not have gone into Iraq; we needed to keep our focus on finding al-Qaeda operatives. Once we did go into Iraq, we should have had clear objectives and a definition of victory. Despite our troops’ best efforts, we’re now finding ourselves bloody umpires in a civil war in Iraq, left unable to defend ourselves should our true enemy al-Qaeda choose to attack. The blame for this goes squarely on the Bush administration — mainly former government bigwig Donald Rumsfeld, vice president Richard Bruce “Dick” Cheney, adviser Karl Rove, John Ashcroft, Paul Wolfowitz and President George Bush. They willfully ignored intelligence reports that opposed their wishes, replaced military leaders who didn’t agree with their ideology, and generally attempted to micromanage the war from the White House. This didn’t work when we fought in Vietnam, and it didn’t work in Iraq. (President Bush should have learned from his father, who was president during the Gulf War. During that war the president gave the military clearly defined goals and objectives, and let the generals do what they’re trained to do. Consequently, the war was over quickly, and victory was decisive.)

How do we now get out of the war in Iraq? I dunno. But we need to find a way. Our soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines have done exactly what we asked them to do, and have done it admirably. We need to get them home; get them rested up and ready to defend the United States against our true enemies. The war in Iraq has cost us more money that is imaginable, and that money must be paid. (Sadly, our children and grandchildren are going to be paying for this war for a long, long time.) We, as a nation, have been slowly mortgaging and pawning off our assets to pay for Iraq. Our creditors will come calling. We also need to find the resources to care for those that served in Iraq — they deserve the best care we can give them.

I’m very aware that there are other opinions, and that there are probably a few big holes in my argument that can be found, but this is simply my rather grumpy opinion on my rather grumpy blog. I’m tired of going to funerals.

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Oh my…

Video of the Day

Here are some rather spooky facts for you…

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A Sad Day

It was the crying child that got to me.

Five a.m. is early, no matter how you look at it. “Are you sure we need to get up already?” asked my beloved Viennese bride, Dagmar, as she swatted at the alarm clock. I pulled a pillow over my face, not quite ready to establish a viable high-speed connection with reality just yet. I don’t wanna get up, I don’t wanna.

But… “Yes, we need to get up. It’s gonna take us a while to get there, and I want to leave some extra time.” I sat up and rubbed my eyes, pondering. “Do you want to get in the shower first? I can wait…”

“No,” she replied in that cute little accent of hers. “You go ahead. I can vait.” That’s my wife, generous to a fault.

Half an hour later I was done with project Scrub the Hippie and had moved on to the fine art of making a cup of instant coffee. Mug in hand, I wandered towards the bedroom. As I peeked in the bedroom door I couldn’t help but laugh as Dagmar struggled mightily to get one eye open. As soon as that task was accomplished, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Dat noise you heard – that wasn’t me. Dat vas the cat snoring. I wasn’t asleep. I vas just laying here with my eyes closed, thinking.” She managed to get her feet on the floor and put one of them in front of the other until she got to the shower.

By six we were backing the bike out of the garage. “It’s going to be chilly,” she said. “I’m glad we’re wearing lots of clothes.” And indeed I was – I had leather chaps on over my britches, a T-shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, a denim work shirt, a coat, my vest, and gloves on. Dagmar was similarly dressed, sans vest and chaps. Up on the bike we went, zip-zoomy down the road we tootled. We stopped about ten miles down the Interstate to gas up, and away we went.

It was a bright, sunshiny day, the kind of day that happens just once or twice a month in the summer around here — not much wind at all, not a cloud in the sky, temperatures scheduled to be in the lower 70s most of the day… A beautiful, beautiful day.

Too bad we were going to a funeral. That kind of put a damper on our mood…

A soldier was being buried in his hometown just south of Omaha. He was killed in Iraq by an improvised explosive device (IED). The Patriot Guard Riders (PGR) were to meet at the local high school there at 8 a.m. in preparation for the 10 a.m. funeral. Sad duty, but necessary.

After fighting our way through downtown Omaha (a misbegotten, twisty maze of concrete that has baffled me my entire life, taunting not only my sense of direction, but my instinctive feeling that roads should at least make a half-hearted attempt to be straight) with only one missed exit and one wrong turn, we found ourselves headed southward on Highway 75, just like the map said. Within minutes we’d veered left and had found the high school. At a guess, I’d say we were about the 100th bike to arrive, give or take.

After a steady hour and a half on the motorcycle it felt GOOD to get off and stretch a bit. Unfortunately, though, we were running a bit late — we barely had time to get the “riding” flag out of the saddlebags and mounted on the back of the bike and we were up and running again. In strict formation we rode the six blocks or so to the chapel, arriving right at 8:30 a.m. Off the bike tumbled the hippie and the Austrian, coats and chaps off and stuffed into bulging saddlebags, down the hill we ran/walked to get our “standing” flags.

Some very generous people have donated flags, you see, to the PGR. It used to be that we simply stood with our backs to the protesters. Then someone got the idea to start bringing flags, so some of us had flags and some just stood. Now each area of the nation has it’s very own stash of donated flags, so riders can simply show up, grab a flag, and head to the flagline.

Flags in hand, Dagmar and I headed for the chapel door where about thirty other people were lined up with flags. After just a few minutes, though, it was apparent that there were quite enough people at the door, but there weren’t enough flags at the parking lot entrance — so we headed down the hill to join the flagline there. As we settled into our new spots we couldn’t help but notice the five big red shiny firetrucks in the parking lot. “Vas the soldier a fireman, too?” Dagmar asked. “I think so,” I answered. “From what I heard he was a volunteer fireman and had a wife and five children.” A few polite inquiries to our neighbors in the flagline confirmed that this was indeed the case.

“Five children,” my wife said. “How sad. How very sad.” We stood in silence for a few minutes, listening to the wind rustle our flags.

“Are the protesters here?” asked the lady to my left. “I’ve only done this a few times. I’ve never seen the protesters.”

“I haven’t seen them yet today,” I answered.

“Where would they be?” she asked.

“Well, I’d imagine they’d probably be right over there, across the street, in that parking lot.”

“Why there?”

“By law they have to be a certain distance away from the church,” I answered. “That looks like a likely spot for them if they show up.”

The reason we all go to military funerals is to shield the family from the taunts and signs of the protesters. It’s what we do. We want the soldier’s family to see flags and friendly faces.

By now you may be asking who would be graceless enough to protest at a funeral. The answer may surprise you — it’s a church in Kansas, led by Fred Phelps. Mr. Phelps has decreed that homosexuality is evil, and, since homosexuality is legal in the United States of America, those that defend our nation’s freedoms are therefore defending homosexuality.

It’s pretty much agreed that the this church can exercise their freedom of speech, but doing it at a funeral is in poor taste – especially when they try to get in the grieving family’s face with signs saying “God Loves IED’s” and “God Hates Your Son.” They yell the most vile things, but the most bothersome part of it is that they bring their children with them to help protest.

So we stand with our flags, staying between the protesters and the family.

(I explained this to a friend of mine a while back. He shook his head. “What a sad commentary on the United States that the Hells Angels have the high moral ground over a church,” he said. I need to tell you that we’re not Hells Angels. The PGR is comprised of bikers from many different groups and clubs — I happen to be with the American Legion Riders — but the gist of his statement is accurate.)

After about twenty minutes (oh, about 9:10 or so) one of the Ride Captains came up to our section of the line. “The uninvited guests are here,” he said. “We need more people to stand over there.” He pointed to a stretch of sidewalk right near where I’d guessed the protesters would be. As we walked the thirty yards or so to our appointed spot I scanned the parking lot. Yep, there it was – the van the protesters use. We got ourselves lined up and spaced appropriately, all of us watching the protesters get their signs ready. “Patriot Guard! About Face!” As one, each and every one of us turned our backs to the protesters.

We stood there, whispering to each other occasionally, but mostly in silence, listening to our flags talk in the breeze. By this time there was a steady stream of cars and firetrucks entering the chapel parking lot. By about 9:30 or so the police started asking some people to park in the “far” parking lot, over by us. This meant that people were now having to walk within fifteen or twenty yards of the protesters. We shielded people best we could, but everyone knew the Kansas people were there anyway.

After a while they started singing. I couldn’t tell you what they were singing as I was doing my best to ignore them, but I caught the occasional hate-filled phrase. A couple guys went down the hill and came back with their motorcycles. They parked them and left the engines running – just loud enough to drown out the singing.

I snuck a peek. There were about eight of them, each holding a brightly colored sign with catchy phrases like “God Hates Fags” written on them. At least four of them were children. There was a police officer in a car in front of them, and another officer in a squad car behind them. There were officers on foot on either side, protecting the protesters from the public.

“They can only stay for forty-five minutes,” said the man beside me, turning my attention back to the flagline. “That’s how long their permit is for. If they stay one minute longer than that I’m sure they’ll be arrested. But they’re too smart for that.” I nodded in agreement.

At 9:58 a.m. the police escorted the protesters back to their van. Several PGR members had to move forward a few feet to let them past. Not a single biker so much as looked behind them to see what was happening as the protesters brushed past. Not a word. Nary a dirty look. Complete composure. I have the utmost admiration for those individuals — I’m not sure I could resist the opportunity to hurl a dirty name or two at the protesters if I were that close.

It seemed to me that there weren’t so many getting into the van, though, as had gotten out of the van 45 minutes earlier. But then again, I wasn’t really counting.

After the van had gone its way (with police escort) up the hill and around the corner, the Ride Captain dismissed us and pointed us down the hill. We rolled up our flags and headed back to our bikes. “Vhat do we do now?” asked my wife.

“Well, there’s a riders’ meeting, then we go to the cemetery,” I said. “We probably have fifteen minutes or so before we have to go.” She kissed me on the nose and trotted off in search of a restroom whilst I returned our flags to the flag truck and made my way to the riders’ meeting.

After a quick “I’d like to thank you all for coming today,” speech, the State Captain told us how we were getting to the cemetery, (“parade formation, there will be a LEO escort and roadblocks, watch for loose gravel,”) then informed us that two of the protesters had been arrested. A cheer went up — this has never happened before! I found out later that only one had actually been arrested — the officers witnessed a lady throw an American flag on the ground and tell her 10-year-old son to stomp on it, a violation of Nebraska state law. Seeing as how they couldn’t very well arrest a 10-year-old boy, they arrested the mother for Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor. This carries a $1,500 fine and three months in jail if I heard right.

The State Captain dismissed us, and we all headed back to our individual bikes to get ready for the short ride to the cemetery. I was about halfway back to our Kawasaki when Dagmar caught up to me. “I heard a cheer when I was trying to find a bathroom,” she said. “What happened?” I told her about the arrest as we put our helmets on and checked our “riding flag.”

A determined rumble went up as over a hundred motorcycles started up and headed for the road. We were about a third of the way back in the pack – as you can see from the photo Dagmar snapped over my shoulder there was quite a line of bikes in front of us — and even more behind us.

We went through a twisty, curvy road up the hill to the cemetery, a beautifully manicured spot of green in the middle of the city. Off the bikes, down the hill, grab a couple flags, then down to the gravesite.

The PGR formed up in a large circle around the gravesite. Soldiers were there, nervously checking their rifles in anticipation of the 21-gun salute. Firefighters were there in their dress uniforms, rehearsing the flag-folding ceremony. We waited.

After a while, we heard rumbles in the distance. It was a police escort, six motorcycles leading the hearse into the cemetery. At the same time we heard rumbles behind us — ten or fifteen firetrucks pulled up on the street below. Within seconds we heard rumbles above us — three helicopters flew overhead in perfect formation.

The family slowly made their way down to the gravesite, and the ceremony began. About five minutes into the ceremony, just after the 21-gun salute, a small child started crying. Not the wails of an over-tired youngster, nor the cry of a hungry infant. This was the heart-wrenching, full-throated cry of a toddler who just realized that Daddy’s in the funny-shaped box under the flag and that he’s never coming home.

He cried the entire time.

That’s what got to me.

God bless Bill Bailey, National Guardsman and Volunteer Fireman, father of five.

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Monday. Is it Monday? Already? Oh…

Things that have disappointed me lately:

1. The Democrats. I had hope that they would stand up to the Bush administration, finally, and start ending this misguided war of ours. (Remember Osama bin Laden? He’s still in Afghanistan. Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11. We attacked Iraq anyway. Saddam Hussein is now dead. Why are we still in Iraq? Why aren’t we going after terrorists?) People who know me know that I’m fairly patriotic. I love this country. I think our soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines are doing a helluva job. But I believe our government has put them in the wrong place at the wrong time – we’re fighting the wrong war.

2. The Republicans. Blindly following doctrine is not getting us anywhere. We cannot fight extremism with extremism.

3. Security National Bank. They’re tearing down the historic Williges Building to build a parking lot. Doesn’t our heritage mean anything? Our history is being lost at an extraordinary rate — in Sioux City we’ve lost the stockyards, most of downtown, the KD Station is scheduled for demolition… Now the Williges building. I find it shameful that we do not value our past. It’s where we came from.

4. Michael Vick. The Atlanta Falcons quarterback/millionaire is under investigation for dog fighting. Whether he’s guilty of the crime or not, he’s been hanging out with the wrong crowd. And you have to admit, it looks bad that they found 55 pit bulls and dogfighting paraphernalia at his house. And, you have to admit, it looks bad that they found the dogs while searching for illegal drugs. It looks bad. Bad. I am hereby announcing that Mr. Vick is not MY role model.

5. Alberto Gonzales. The more I learn about United States Attorney General Gonzales, the less impressed and more scared I become. His sneakiness started before he was crowned Attorney General when he pushed his agenda by going around Acting Attorney General James B. Comey (who had ruled against Mr. Gonzales) and pushing Attorney General John Ashcroft to sign a document while Ashcroft was in the hospital recovering from major surgery. (Can you imagine waking up from surgery to find people standing around your bed asking you to sign covert documents? Talk about taking advantage of a situation…) Mr. Gonzales has gone on to rule that torture is legal, citizens’ rights are mythical, and that lying to congress is perfectly okay — all you have to do is “not recall” anything.

6. Drug Companies. The only people greedier than big drug companies are big oil companies. People are dying because they can’t afford the hundreds of dollars it takes to buy a bottle of pills. Yes, I know… “We need to charge so much because we give free samples away, and it costs a lot of money to research new drugs.” Fine ‘n dandy. But you cannot deny that prices are out of hand, and that drug companies spend a lot more time researching drugs that people need to take on a daily basis than they do researching drugs to save lives. After all, if someone has to take a blood pressure pill every day, that’s steady income. But if someone pays twenty bucks for a single injection that saves their life, that’s only twenty bucks. Better to turn that single injection into a pill that they have to take every day for the rest of their life…

7. Oil Companies. I’m sick and tired of that Shell commercial that’s on TV 20 times an hour – you know the one — where some teenager is sucking his malted milkshake through a straw and his father, a big rich oil executive gets the brilliant idea that we can suck oil out of the ground. Brilliant. Show me a commercial where Shell unveils plans to make hydrogen and electricity available at their stations. Then I’ll be impressed. Honda has plans to release a hydrogen car next year. We’re gonna need hydrogen stations eventually. Someone’s gonna have to be a leader and actually start making the things, AND making hydrogen without burning fossil fuels in the process.

Oil executives are making record profits and ruining the American economy at the same time. I’m so proud of them! Does your shirt cost more? Well, that’s because it cost more to ship it from the factory. Does your milk cost more? Your beer? Your bread? It’s all going into the pockets of the oil men. And guess what? United States President George Walker Bush and Vice President Richard Bruce “Dick” Cheney are both oil men. Guess who has legislated laws favorable to oil companies? Guess whose friends are getting rich? Guess who will smugly smirk, throw his arms wide and shrug, saying “It’s the terrists fault” if you ask him about it.

We will be paying between $3 and $5 a gallon for gas until we change both our ways and our government.

8. Iowa. Why are we hiring people from other states to build coal plants in Iowa when we can hire our own people to build wind farms? Someone explain this to me.

9. Family Values. I’m really kinda getting upset at people who think Democrats have no family values. Look at the current presidential candidates (I’ll go with the top three in each party).

Democrat Barak Obama married his wife, Michelle in 1992 — nothing much there to talk about, really. Hillary Clinton and hubby Bill have been married for about a zillion years, overcame Bill’s “lapse of judgment” regarding a chubby intern and remained a stable couple throughout the turmoil. John Edwards and his wife have survived the death of a son and two bouts of cancer, and by all accounts have a very strong marriage.

Contrast this with the Republican candidates, all of whom tout the “party of family values” line. John McCain had numerous extramarital affairs, eventually leaving his crippled wife to marry one of his mistresses. Rudy Giuliani left his first wife to marry his mistress, then left her to marry his other mistress. Mitt Romney is married with five children – no scandal there.

So, of the six candidates, two of them — Democrat Obama and Republican Romney — have stable, rather unremarkable family histories. Two of them have overcome remarkable obstacles in their relationships – Democrats Clinton and Edwards. Two of them have numerous past infidelities – Republicans McCain and Giuliani.

Seems the party of values doesn’t value the values as much as they seem…

10. The Weather. Geeze, has it been a crappy couple of weeks or what? Oh well, it’ll get better eventually, I’m sure, as soon as the local weather patterns stabilize again after the whole Global Warming thing runs its course. I sure hope we can still grow food after that. But I guess that new coal plant in Eastern Iowa is worth it – what’s a little extra carbon in the atmosphere gonna do?

Things that have made me happy lately:

1. My Wife. The American Legion Riders (ALR) were invited to participate in the opening ceremonies and halftime show at the local arena football team’s “Salute to Veterans” night last Saturday night. It makes me exceedingly happy and proud that my wife not only approves of me participating in these things, but she comes along and takes an active role herself! She roamed around the arena, taking photos for the ALR’s web site and generally being helpful. It was yet another reminder that we truly are a team, me and she. I’m lucky and blessed to have her with me. (To see the photos, just click here or here.)

2. Honda. Finally, someone’s putting a hydrogen car into production! This 70-mile-per-gallon car does not burn gas, and the only emission is water vapor. Wondrous! The only problem is that there are no hydrogen filling stations around here (there are about 60 nationwide — 50 of them in California). Honda, however, is also developing a device that you can have at home that will not only produce hydrogen for your car but will also heat and power your house. YAY!

The only problem is that the gadget that makes the hydrogen and heats and powers your house burns natural gas. To be honest, I’m not sure how that affects global warming, but it doesn’t really sound so good… But it’s a start!

3. The Dollar Tree. It’s nice to have a dollar store nearby. We spent twelve bucks on toys and made three children happy. With the slow blight and destruction of our local neighborhood stores we’re grateful to have a thrift shop close at hand. Now if we can just get a local neighborhood grocery store to come back…

4. Bicycle Paths. Shortly after we moved into our happy little house in the hood the city came along and tore out all the trees in our neighborhood. Turns out that the little babbling brook that meanders behind our across-the-street neighbor’s house had flooded back in the 1950s, and the city was just now getting around to fixing it. So they tore out all the trees, straightened and widened the stream bed, lined it with rocks, built a bike path along the bank, and have now planted new seedling trees to replace the big huge old-growth trees that used to be there. Overall it’s a good project and needed to be done, but we were horribly distraught that they took so long to get our section of it done, and they tore out ALL the trees. But the other day I was able for the first time to walk along the new bike path for a few blocks. It was nice. I hope the new trees and other flora grow quickly. My mother-in-law has given Dagmar and I her old bicycles; we’re taking them to the bike shop today to see if they can be refurbished.

5. Google. I use Google stuff quite a bit. I have a gmail account, I use their photo software, their word processor and spreadsheet software, their web design software, their calendar, and this blog is done using Google stuff. I’m continually surprised and happy that Google is slowly but surely turning my lowly little PC into something more and more useful every day. Using computers is starting to be as I imagined it would when I was in college, lo those many years ago. And they do it in an environmentally friendly manner — I hear they use only recycled electrons.

6. Mustang Seats. If you have a motorcycle, get a Mustang seat. They’re kinda spendy, but your tuckus will thank you! Very much worth the cost.

I’m kinda sad – I came up with ten things that irritated me without a problem. But when I tried to think of things that have made me happy lately, I kinda ran out of steam after number three. I’ll keep going, though. I’m sure there are other things that make me happy (other than puppy dogs and beer and flowers and mushy stuff like that).

7. Puppy Dogs.

8. Beer. Boy, if you ever get the chance to try 1554 or Abbey, both brewed by the New Belgium Brewery, DO IT. You won’t regret it… Don’t be afraid of dark beer – these are both tasty, vaguely sweet beverages. (Abbey is brewed in the Belgian Ale style, while 1554 is based on a recipe the monks used to brew back in ye olden year of, well, 1554.) Good, good stuff! And what’s best is that the brewery is very environmentally friendly. They even give their employees bicycles so they can ride to work if you want. If you work there long enough, they send you to Belgium. What’s cooler than that?

9. Pot Stickers. (Bet you thought I’d say “flowers,” didn’t you.) Pot stickers make my tummy happy.

10. Weekends. Some day I’m going to find me a job that lets me get outside once in a while. Until then, I’m gonna love the heck out of weekends.

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Busy Busy Busy Weekend!

Saturday

Memorial Day 2007, Le Mars, IA

Memorial Day 2007

Memorial Day weekend started out on a rather somber (but productive) note for us this year, actually. Plymouth County (where I grew up, just north of Sioux City a ways) still does the “Avenue of Flags” at the Courthouse every year. The local American Legion keeps one flag for every deceased veteran, you see. On Memorial Day they go put up all 1,060+ flags around the Courthouse.

This year the Legion made dogtags for each veteran’s flag with the veteran’s name embossed to replace the old, rather weathered plastic name tags on the flags. So, on Saturday, Dagmar and I tootled our way to LeMars to help put all the new dogtags on their strings and tie them up.

It was an interesting process, really… The people at one table measured out lengths of weather-proof string, trimmed them to size, “cauterized” the ends with a candle to prevent the strings from fraying, and tied a knot. Our table (the “hookers”) took the string in one hand and a dogtag in the other, poked a paperclip through the hole in the dogtag, hooked the string on the paperclip and threaded it back through. Then we’d put a nifty little knot to keep the tag in place. A lady at the next table counted all the finished dogtags and checked the number against her list to make sure all were accounted for. (“I’m missing one E, then I’m ready for all the F’s – who still has an E?”) The final table alphabetized all the tags.

I think we all had a moment, sometime during the afternoon, when it hit us that there are an awful lot of deceased veterans in the area… The town of LeMars has, give or take, about 8,000 people. We had well over 1,000 tags. It seemed that every time I’d take a minute to read the dogtag in my hand I’d be thinking, “hey, I went to school with his son,” or “I wonder if they’re related to so-and-so,” and, once, “this is my grandfather’s tag.” I also saw my cousin’s tag come through the line.

Some of our fellow American Legion Riders had recorded a poem written by a local veteran, remembering bits and pieces of their experiences in Vietnam, to be played at the ceremony at the Courthouse on Memorial day. We listened to that while we worked. The guy across from me, himself a Vietnam veteran, quietly wiped tears from his cheeks as he strung dogtag after dogtag on the strings. “I don’t remember the heat being so bad in Vietnam,” he said when the poem was over, referring to one of the stanzas, “but one time when we were on a bombing run just south of…” He told his war story in a cheerful voice, unconsciously clutching a veteran’s dogtag in his hand so hard his knuckles were white.

When we were done with the tags, we went to the room next door which happened to be a bar, complete with beer and everything. We sat and had a few tasty beverages, then we all went off on our various ways to start the weekend.

Two Yaris'

Two Toyota Yaris’

After leaving the Legion, Dagmar and I zipped ten miles west to the family farm. My aunt and uncle were there visiting, freshly returned from the Peace Corps where they’d spent two years in the Ukraine, so they had plenty of stories to tell. My cousin was there with her twin girls. My other aunt was there, all the way from Des Moines. My brother was there with his family (including our Beloved Goddaughter) and his brand-new car, a 2007 Grayish-Green Toyota Yaris. We parked our car, a brand-new 2007 Grayish-Green Toyota Yaris, right next to his. We all laughed and pointed. (Honestly, we did.)

We enjoyed the evening, playing with the nephew and nieces and the twins, eating hamburgers, and listening to stories of life in Ukraine. My aunt had brought a bunch of scarves along, so my mother and aunts took great delight in pretending to be old Russian babushka ladies.

Kind of funny – one aunt is a retired Master Sergeant who joined the Peace Corps, the other is a retired Colonel who joined a circus band. My mother is a belly-dancer. I can’t wait to find out what I’m going to be when I retire…

“Are you going to be in the parade?” I asked my nephew who’s in Cub Scouts now.

“I dunno,” he answered. “Why are we having a parade anyway?”

“Well, every year we have a parade and a ceremony on Memorial Day to help us remember all the soldiers.”

“I don’t know any soldiers,” he said, looking up at me through his glasses. “They’re all off fighting, aren’t they?”

“Well,” I said, “you probably know more soldiers than you think. Three people here at the farm today used to be soldiers. I was, sort of, for a little while, too.”

“So we have a parade to remember you guys?”

“No, not really. We have a parade mostly to remember the soldiers who died. Some died in a war, some died after they got back. Some volunteered but never had to go to war. We want to remember them, and think of how brave they all were.”

The nephew thought for a moment. Then, “Do you know any soldiers who died?”

“Well, on Memorial Day I often think of my grandpa. He fought in a war a long time ago and did some very difficult things. So I like to think of him. I think of other people, too.”

“Did your grandpa die in the war?”

“No, he died later, just of being old. He was a soldier for a long time after the war was over.”

A moment of silence. “When Dad takes me home I think I’m going to draw a picture of this,” said the boy.

We wandered around the corner. Dagmar was on the swing with the Beloved Goddaughter and one of the twins. She’s a good aunt, patient, kind, gentle, and genuinely happy. She makes my heart do funny tickly things.

Later that night, after the family festivities wound down, Dagmar and I stopped back at the Legion Club to see if any of our friends were there having a nightcap. Sure enough, there was a table full of friendly faces. I ordered a beer, Dagmar a Diet Coke, and we sat and chatted for a few minutes. Another couple joined us – new people in town. The shaven-headed young man (he seemed more like a boy to me) was covered in tattoos and sneered at us a lot. He proudly showed us his tattoo of a swastika. I thought about my grandfather, who was a POW in Germany during WWII, and my mother-in-law who grew up in refugee camps in Austria. We left shortly thereafter.

Sunday

Sunday was not quite so productive. I was supposed to ride to a place in Nebraska called “Bob’s” for lunch with some friends, but it didn’t happen. Here’s an e-mail I wrote to my friends, explaining my absence.

“Hey everyone – sorry about missing out on the Bob’s run! I feel terrible about it.

“I awoke that Sunday morning, eager to take a quick ride through the hills, then head to Bob’s to meet everyone… Laying in bed I ran through the day in my mind, making sure I had the agenda right. I could picture myself gliding gently along the road to Ponca, the trees waving hello to me in the gentle breeze… I decided exactly what I was going to order when I got to Bob’s, and made up my mind I wasn’t gonna get any fries ’cause I was gonna mooch off Kioti when he wasn’t looking. It was gonna be a GOOD day! I stretched and yawned, pried the eyes open, one at a time, and began to face the world.

“Slightly foggy yet, my brain made it’s way through the morning routine of making coffee (instant with sugar, lukewarm so I can gulp it), checked my e-mail, scratched my vaguely flabby and increasingly hairy carcass, and made my way to the water closet to perform the daily ablutions that happen there. By the time the morning coffee kicked in I was happily brushing teeth, humming a merry song to myself. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that the merry song I was humming was keeping perfect tempo to the pounding in my head. At that point I realized I’d had a headache all morning… Kind of like standing up and realizing all of a sudden that not only do you have to pee NOW, but that you’ve had to pee for quite some time. That was how the headache was.

“I rummaged around in the mystery cabinet behind the mirror for some nice aspirin to take. (I call it the “mystery cabinet” simply because other than my toothbrush I really can’t identify any of the items therein – Mrs. Hippie seems to have made it her hobby to collect various exotic-looking bottles and keep them there.) Finding a bottle that looked pretty much like an aspirin bottle should look, I decided that maybe two might not be enough, and three might be better, seeing as how I really didn’t want to ride with a headache.

“At this point it should be stated that I’m not technically an idiot, I just bear a strong resemblance to one.

“Ten minutes after gulping the three aspirin I was sitting on the couch, pulling my left boot onto what I hoped was the correct foot. Seven hours later I woke up on the couch, one boot on, one boot off…

“I guess there really IS a difference between “Tylenol” and “Tylenol PM.” I slept until four that afternoon.

“The lessons I learned? Read the damned label. And that Tylenol PM really does work.”

The rest of the day was spent in in a mild daze in front of the computer, doing not much, really.

Monday

By 6:30 or 7 Monday morning I was on the bike on my way from Sioux City to LeMars to join the American Legion Riders (ALR) in the parade. I was kinda halfway hoping to make it to town in time to help put the flags up at the Courthouse, but I was pretty sure I was about two hours late.

I was right. The last flag was going up just as I pulled up to the curb. After all the Boy Scouts who had been putting the flags up left I took the opportunity to wander around the Courthouse lawn for a while. The wind was still for a change; all 1,031 flags hung quietly on their masts as if in deep thought. I found my uncle’s flag and thought about him for a while. Then I found my cousin’s flag and thought about him for a while too. Some voices brought me out of my reverie. My riding buddy Jerry, the First Sergeant over at the local Army National Guard unit, was quietly going over details of the ceremony with a handful of soldiers on the Courthouse steps. I decided it was time to head to the Legion – they’d served breakfast for all the people who helped put the flags up, I figured they’d probably need help by now getting things cleaned up and ready for the lunch they were planning to serve to volunteers later that day after the parade.

By the time I got to the Legion there were just a few bikes there already. I grabbed a cup of coffee and helped rearrange the tables and get enough chairs out for the luncheon. When that happy task was over, I peeked outside to see that about 25 more bikes were just pulling in, including my buddy whose pooch, Bob, rides with him.

We milled around outside for a few minutes, taking pictures of Bob-Dog ’cause he’s so cute, then got the five-minute warning that it’s time to get ready for the parade. I pulled my swell 3’x5′ American flag out of my saddlebag and mounted it to the back of my bike. “Hey, I’ve got a couple extra kids here if anyone needs one,” yelled our Chaplain. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll take one.” I nodded to the lad Chappy indicated and we headed for the bike. It seemed that about half of our group had kids on the back of our bikes. We’re big bad bikers, I tell ya.

Just as I was about to turn the key to start the bike, Dagmar wandered past me, camera in hand. “Lots of bikes here,” she said, kissing the very tip of my nose. “It should be a goot parade! Who’s the kid?”

“Good Morning, Snookums!” I said. “The kid belongs to the Chaplain. He had an extra. When did you get here?”

“Hi Chaplain’s kid. I got here just a few minutes ago,” she said in that cute Viennese accent of hers. “Vhere are you goink?”

“Just around the corner. We’re going to line up there for the parade. It should start in about fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” she replied. “I’m going to go up to de Main Street und take pictures as you zoom by.”

That said, we all roared off in a thundering herd to find our way to the start of the parade route.

Fifteen minutes later we were, yes indeed, headed down the parade route. I have to admit, it didn’t really seem like there were many people there to see us, but that’s okay – we’re not here for US, we’re here to remember the veterans.

The parade went through the downtown section of LeMars (about four blocks, maybe), then hung a left a couple blocks to the Courthouse. Not the biggest parade in the world, but again, it’s not about us. I was just happy that there weren’t any horses in front of us like there were a few weeks ago in the last parade…

Around the corner to the Courthouse… Ahhhh! So THAT’S where all the people are! Way cool. We parked our bikes, Chaplain gathered his kids, I found Dagmar, and we all wandered up the Courthouse lawn to hear the speaker.

It was an impressive ceremony, as usual. The Municipal Band played. I snuck up towards the front to get a peek. Yup! My aunt, the one who joined the circus band, was right there, tooting her horn. She must have made arrangements with the conductor, as she lives in Des Moines and could hardly have made any of the rehearsals…

After the band there were a few speeches. I found myself daydreaming a little, to be honest. When I was a boy, I always marched in the parade with the Boy Scouts and helped put the flags up. My grandfather always marched in the parade, too, with the American Legion. At least once he was chosen to represent all World War II veterans by carrying a wreath to the Courthouse steps. I remember watching him from the side – he wore a short-sleeved white shirt and his special Legion hat. He walked solemnly up the sidewalk past all the silent people, stopped in front of the steps, did a snappy right-face, placed the wreath on its stand, saluted, then went to sit with the other veterans – one from each war – at the front. Grandpa often carried the American flag in the parade, too, with the Legionnaires.

Kind of funny. When we’re kids, we’re in parades and carry flags because we’re told to by someone else. It never really occurred to me when I was a kid that people march in parades and carry flags, not because they’re told to and it’s expected of them, but rather because it’s an honor to do so. I’m proud that I own an American flag, and that I use it often.

The band started playing again, softly, waking me from my memories. A man was now standing on the Courthouse steps, microphone in hand. He started reading. Names. A list of names. A long list. He read the name of every deceased veteran from the town – all 1,031 of them. They do this every year, and every year the crowd is absolutely silent until the very last name is read.

Once the last name echoed away into the distance, the speaker started reading again. Slowly. More names. These are the new flags. Over thirty veterans passed away in LeMars this year. Each one had a flag dedicated – as the speaker read the veteran’s name, an honor guard escorted the veteran’s family, following behind their flag as it’s carried down the central sidewalk to it’s appointed spot and placed in it’s stand.

It’s hard not to cry when you see the families huddled around their loved one’s flag, hugging each other, sniffling, trying to look brave.

When the ceremony was over, I gathered my family together (both those I’m related to and those that are simply family somehow) and we headed to my cousin’s flag. Cousin Caleb had just gotten out of the Air Force and was starting to find a life-after-military when he died in a motorcycle accident just over five years ago. Last week I’d asked our Chaplain if he’d be willing to do a quick ceremony in memory of my cousin, then I found out the next day that my cousin’s parents were coming to LeMars. Serendipity? Yep.

So we gathered, bikers, veterans and family for a short memorial. It felt good.

If you’d like to see more photos of the Memorial Day ceremony, just CLICK HERE. The link will take you to a magical place where you can see all the photos, and even see them as a slideshow if you want. If you’d like to see more about my cousin Caleb, you can CLICK HERE. My aunt and uncle have also set up the CALEB Library Project, they collect and donate books to be sent to Africa. You can learn about it HERE.

(Hey, I just found out I can embed a Picasa album in my blog. Neat, huh? If you wiggle your cursor over the picture below, you should see some nifty little slideshow controls pop up. If you push the little “next” button, it’ll take you to the beginning of the album. Then you can push the little “play” button and see all the photos of the day. (The only reason you have to push those buttons is because the slideshow was merrily playing itself through whilst you were reading your way down this far. By the time you got here, the show was over. That’s why you gotta restart it…) The photos were taken by Barb Hansen, Dagmar, and a few by me.

If you’re reading this on Facebook, you can see the original blog at www.radloffs.net, click on “Blog.”
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Aw, MAN…

Well, THAT sucked.

I just knocked a filling out of my tooth. Oddly enough I was flossing at the time… I’m going back to the Water Pick. The heck with flossing.

If you’re reading this on Facebook, you can see the original blog at www.radloffs.net, click on “Blog.”
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I have a tummy-ache

Stirring Weasels

The prologue: As many of you know, my beloved bride hails from the fine country of Austria, a fair Alpine land of mountains, valleys and exceptional yodelers. She’s been in the United States for a long, long time, though, and is of course fluent in English. She does have a slight accent, but I don’t really hear it any more, sadly – I’m so used to it that it doesn’t register. So, occasionally, I forget that she ain’t from around these parts.

The story: “Bye-bye Snookums,” I hollered to my vunderful Viennese vife. “I’m off.”

“Vait!” she hollered back, padding her way out of the kitchen on little Dagmar feet, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You’re not taking your motorcycle are you? It looks like it might rain.”

“Yes, I’m taking the bike,” I replied, grabbing my helmet and opening the door. “It won’t rain.”

“It’s goink to rain,” she said, hands on hips. “Now you just take the car und forget the bike.”

“Do not tell me what to do, Woman,” I said with mock severity as I kissed her on the nose. “I’m all growed up now. I can make up my own mind to not come in out of the rain.”

“Okay, you just go on, then, Stirring Weasel.” She kissed me on the cheek and shooshed me out the door. I made my way through the gate and prepared the bike for the short trip across town. “Stirring weasel?” I thought. “What’s that got to do with anything? What’s a stirring weasel? What’s it stirring?” I’ve played bass in rock bands for years. My hearing just ain’t what it used to be. I forgot the matter and went on about my business, which consisted of getting rather damp in the rain because I’m too stupid to take the car when it’s wet outside even when my wife tells me to.

A few days later I wandered past my little Austrian Snickerdoodle on my way to the couch. I sat down, thinking that the world really owes a hefty debt to whomever invented flannel pajamas as they really are very comfy to sit in whilst you’re on the couch, and winced. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Vhat’s mit der wincing? Are you okay?”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” I said. “I trimmed the yard today with the weed-whacker and my elbow’s a little sore.” Stupid elbow’s been bothering me for two months now. I really oughta get it fixed one of these days.

“Why don’t you take an aspirin?” she said, standing in front of the TV, ensuring my full attention to the matter. “We have some Ibuprofin in the medicine cabinet…”

“I don’t need any aspirin,” I said. “It’s not that big a deal. I’ll be fine.”

She shook her head and wandered off to the other room, looking over her shoulder at me, muttering something like, “Don’t need any aspirin. Hah! My little Sturdy Easel.”

Sturdy easel? Wha…?

The next weekend I thought I’d give it a shot myself. If she can make phrases up, so can I.

“I’m going to Mama’s house to visit,” Dagmar said. “Do you need me to pick anything up at the store on my vay back?”

“No, my little Stupid Eagle,” I said, kissing her on the forehead. “Tell your mama ‘Hi’ for me, and drive safe.” She had a strange look on her face as she left. A few hours later, when she came back home, I greeted her with a hearty “Hi, my Whirring Diesel! How’s your mama?” She gave me an odd look, but didn’t say anything about stirring weasels or whirring diesels.

This weekend the matter came up again. “Vhat are you doing now?” cried the love of my life, one bloodshot eye peering at me from under the blankets. “It’s six-thirty in the morning! Put that lawn mower down!” (It should be said at this point that we live in a rather shady neighborhood, we don’t have a door on our garage, and therefore we keep the lawnmower in a corner of the living room, right next to the bedroom door where it can’t be stolen.)

“I have to mow the yard before I go to work,” I said, angling the mower towards the side door.

“It’s six-thirty in the morning,” she repeated. “On a Saturday. Lay down. Don’t mow.”

“It needs to be done,” I replied.

“Shtooreh Aizel,” she said. “You’re a little gray shtooreh aizel.” I blinked at her. Somewhere in the deep recesses of what passes for my mind a thought was forming. Maybe she wasn’t saying “stirring weasel” or “sturdy easel.” Not real sure what she’s saying… it sure sounds like a foreign langua… Wait! German! Austrians speak German! Doh!

It turns out “Sture Esel” in German means “stubborn mule.” Ich bin ein kleiner sturer Esel. Grau, vielleicht. Mit lange Ohren.

If you’re reading this on Facebook, you can see the original blog at www.radloffs.net, click on “Blog.”
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Fantastic Friday

My Brother’s Famous Now

They wrote up a whole big article on my brother’s house. He and my sister-in-law bought the house in Le Mars just three years ago and have kinda sorta been fixing it up little by little ever since. Now they’re featured in the local Historic Tour of Homes. From the article:

This home is a great example of the popular vernacular house form built around 1910 — the “American Four-Square.” Typical of that style is the low pitched pyramid-shaped roof with a hipped attic dormer on the front. Notice that this particular dormer boasts two diamond light windows which provide natural lighting in the attic. Notice the curvature of the roof at the eaves, a bit unusual on a four-square. That helps move the rain away from the windows so that spots don’t occur as often — less window washing!

The foundation is of locally produced Miracle concrete block. (Le Mars has four houses completely made with this block, but numerous homes sport Miracle block foundations.) This was a double air-space cement block advertised to insulate the basements from heat in summer and from the wintry cold. It was manufactured by the Moore Lumber Company. (The museum has one on display.) Plain block under the enclosed front porch, was probably added when the porch was added. Prior to that, there may have been a simple stoop for an entry.

A narrow sidewalk leads to a matching large square barn/garage built on the alley to the rear. Once inside the house, tour guests should note the floor in the two front rooms off the center hall. The Radloffs ripped out the carpeting in the room to the right just three weeks ago. Yet, the narrow oak flooring is in almost pristine shape, even to the color.

The large front window in the main parlor, as well as the large window in the dining room were originally 12 panes over 4 panes. These massive windows have been replaced with more energy efficient 1/1. Dawn says the glass was original, with its usual imperfections and eyes. Both the remaining original windows as well as the replacements allow wonderful light and ventilation.

A built-in china cupboard with its Arts & Crafts style leaded glass, employing an opaque white glass with tiny blue squares, is featured in the dining room.

Visitors going upstairs will find a mission-style, narrow, square spindled upper staircase, which was stripped and refinished by the former owners Floyd and Bernice Powell. The fact that the pine flooring in the upstairs does not appear to be laid the in same direction intrigues the couple.

Each of the Radloffs’ four children has their own bedroom which have unique features. The northwest bedroom has a a walk-out above the back entry, currently blocked to keep the children from exploring. This room has a shallow closet beside the chimney, and appears to have been Dr. James Powell’s room, according to a name written on the storm window.

Ain’t that cool? I’m not sure where they got the fourth kid, though – last I checked there were naught but three. You can read the whole article HERE if you want. Of course, if you’ve read this far, you’ve pretty much read most of the article already…

You’ve gotta be kidding me…

Two things have crossed my foggy little brain lately that worry me mightily.

The first is a children’s television show, oddly enough. It seems that Hamas, which shares power with the moderate Fatah in governing Palestine, owns and controls its very own television station. On this television station they have a children’s show, called “Tomorrow’s Pioneers,” featuring a small child and a big Mickey Mouse named Farfour. So far, so good. The only people upset at this point in the story are Disney’s lawyers.

Until you hear what the little girl and the Mickey Mouse character are saying… Today the main character cheated on his exams because “the Jews destroyed my house,” and he lost his books source. Another recent quote is “You and I are laying the foundation for a world led by Islamists. We will return the Islamic community to its former greatness, and liberate Jerusalem, God willing, liberate Iraq, God willing, and liberate all the countries of the Muslims invaded by the murderers source.”

If you want to see a video of an 11 or 12-year-old child singing “…the answer is an AK-47. We who do not know fear, we are the predators…” as well as other clips from the show, just click HERE. (The link takes you to an Israeli news outlet. Needless to say, they have some pretty harsh things to say about Hamas’ show.)

History tells us that this sort of state-sponsored indoctrination truly does work. One only has to look at the Hitler Youth or to the Soviet-era schoolchildren for examples. Children learn what we teach them. If we teach them hatred, we’ll get hate-filled adults as the end result. What Hamas is doing is, in my opinion, just plain wrong. They also show commercials teaching their children how to cope with life if their mother dies in a suicide bombing – by picking up the dynamite themselves and joining her in heaven.

This is horrific stuff.

We need to make sure we don’t do the same thing to our children!

The second thing to come across my radar comes from Utah Republican Convention Chairman Don Larsen, who submitted the following resolution:

In order for Satan to establish his “New World Order” and destroy the freedom of all people as predicted in the Scriptures, he must first destroy the U.S. … The most quiet and unspectacular invasion of illegal immigrants does not focus the attention of the nations the way open warfare does, but is all the more insidious for its stealth and innocuousness.”

In a speech, Larsen said that illegal immigrants “hate American People,” and “are determined to destroy this country.” He continued to say that illegal aliens are in control of the national media and are working with the Democrats to “destroy Christian America.” At the end of his speech, he broke down in tears source.

No official action was taken on Larsen’s resolution as not enough people stuck around long enough to vote.

This scares me as much as Hamas’ attempts at brainwashing children. Trying to pass resolutions and legislate the view that immigrants are the tools of Satan is blatant racism. I was particularly tickled at the thought that illegal immigrants are in control of the American media.

In both cases, governments and governmental officials are using religion as a weapon, a means to an end, and in both cases it’s shameful. If you use religion as a political tool you cheapen your religion.

Sad Time

I spent quite a bit of time this week 75 miles away from Sioux City with well over a hundred other “motorcycle enthusiasts,” making sure a soldier’s grieving family saw flags and not protesters at their son’s funeral. The soldier was 19 when he was killed serving in Iraq.

If you’re reading this on Facebook, you can see the original blog at www.radloffs.net, click on “Blog.”
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Gloom, Despair, Agony on Feet

Pour Bébé…

I heard on the news this morning that Paris Hilton (who, despite her name, isn’t even French) gets to go to jail for a couple months. It seems that she was caught driving drunk a while back and her license has been suspended, but she chose to drive anyway and got caught. So now she goes to jail.

I was rather surprised that a judge finally had the temerity to actually punish a celebrity for their actions. Unfortunately, I was not surprised that Ms. Hilton threw a fit, told everyone how unfair it was, and fired her publicist. This may very well be the first time Ms. Hilton has been held accountable for her actions, and she’s not happy about it, not one bit.

I applaud the judge who sentenced her. I hope it teaches Ms. Hilton a lesson in humility.

Now if we can just get that same judge to revisit NFL star Randy Moss’ incident – the one where he ran over a police officer in Minneapolis whilst holding on to a bag of illegal drugs and got off without so much as a warning.

Woids

Why is it that the word “hoist” has a Brooklyn accent? Was it born there? Or did it live somewhere else foist…?

Springtime in Iowa

You know, I’m not so much mowing my yard as I am selectively breeding dandelions that can duck when they hear a lawnmower coming at them.

For Shame!

I just read here that four soldiers and a reserve police officer were arrested for looting. Apparently the off-duty regular Army soldiers and the reserve police officer went to Greensburg, KS after the town was leveled by a tornado and started stealing stuff. No one stopped them as they were all in uniform, and the National Guard had been called in to help with the cleanup – everyone thought the crooks were part of the rescue effort. In a separate incident, two people were arrested for looting the same town while dressed up like Red Cross workers.

How miserable! What a way to disgrace the uniform! I wish I could go down to Kansas and chew these people out myself. It’s bad enough to steal from people, but to steal from people who just lost everything in a disaster? That’s horrible!

Bah!

More Shame!

I read a post on Common Iowan that many of our service members serving overseas are losing custody of their children due to the war in Iraq. It seems that when single parents who belong to the National Guard or Reserve are getting called up to active duty their ex-spouses are taking advantage of the situation by demanding, and getting, full custody of the children while the soldier is overseas.

With all the sacrifices soldiers make, their children should NOT be added to the list.

What to Do?

Well, no one’s made an offer on my bass yet. I think I’m gonna put it up on that “Craig’s List” thing and see if I get any takers there… I hate finances. Dagmar and I are starting to bicker over money – something we’ve never done before. It sucks. If anyone out there knows anyone who needs any design work done, please point ’em to HippieBoy Design. I can mow yards, too, as long as I can plug my extension cord in somewhere (Dagmar’s mother kindly gave us her electric mower).

It’s hard to get enough hours in at work this time of year. As an example, last Thursday I went to a veteran’s funeral and held a flag. I missed about five hours work by the time everything was said and done. My bosses were happy to let me have the time off do do this, but when I said I wanted to come in over the weekend to make up my lost time, they told me not to bother – there was nothing to do. I made up what time I could by coming in early on Friday, skimping on lunch and staying Friday afternoon until the boss kicked me out. But my check was still considerably short when I picked it up today.

I’m hoping to go to a soldier’s visitation tomorrow to hold a flag in the flag line, and go to the funeral on Wednesday – again, to hold a flag in honor of his service. Both events happen during the work day, of course. My bosses will again give me the time off work, but I don’t know quite how many hours to “gamble,” hoping they’ll let me come in over the weekend… If I miss a whole day’s work and they don’t let me make it up it’ll really hurt our finances. Do I use what little vacation time I have just to get 40 hours on the clock? Or do I try to use my vacation time to take a few days off this summer to go camping with my wife?

Ah well – everyone has problems, I guess. I have a good wife and a roof over my head. I just wish it weren’t so much of a struggle all the time. But I bet that’s what pretty much everyone wishes…

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