In honor of Pistols at Dawn:

“George died today.” That’s all the e-mail said. That’s all it needed to say. I stared at those three small words for quite a while.

George has been living with brain cancer for more than a year. I remember him telling me so long ago that he was having trouble getting the kick stand on his bike up. “My balance is fine,” he said, “but for some reason my leg just won’t move right to put the kick stand up or down. I’m afraid someday I’m going to pull into the garage and have to let the bike fall down so I can get off it.”

Brain tumor, said the doctor. Take it out. So they did, the first time.

George’s wife, Kim, would bring George to our American Legion Rider (ALR) meetings. We’d pass the hat to collect money for those in need. George would invariably put ten dollars in the hat himself, even though we’d sometimes collected the money for him. One of our new members noticed it right away. “When I saw a terminally ill man, dying of cancer, donating money to those less fortunate — when I saw that I knew I was seeing a rare form of humanity.”

The ALR held a fundraiser last year for George. He didn’t know he was to be the recipient of the funds; all he knew is that there was a fundraiser being held, and that meant someone needed help. His wife drove him in their car along the route of the poker run. George donated extra money, not knowing he was the guy we were raising money for. We raised a fair sum… turns out, though, that we were only able to pay for three of his pills. It’s expensive to be sick today.

A few months later we went to visit George and Kim and sat in their home, surrounded by Army memorabilia and rodeo posters. George had been in the rodeo in Europe for years. He said he wanted to go to Texas to visit his family. A long trip. The ALR helped get some gas money for them to get to Texas. I gave him and his wife a photo album. Our chaplain gave him a special cross.

Four months ago George came with us to stand in the flagline for a young soldier killed in Iraq. He stood tall in the snow, flag in hand, honoring the dead soldier. His wife quietly told us that George had been ill all day and hadn’t been able to keep any food down for quite some time. Yet there he stood, tall in the blowing snow, holding the American flag.

A month or two ago we took George on a ride with us. A couple of our members knew a lady with a trike. We all rode to George’s house on the appointed day, lined our bikes up and stood at attention in front of our bikes until George came out the door. We came to full salute — a way for us to respect our buddy. He thought that was neat. We got him on the back of the three-wheeler and roared off to a nearby town for a couple beers, then rode back again. He had trouble walking, and seemed a little confused at times, but he sure had a good sense of humor!

A few days ago I got an e-mail from George’s wife. “He’s fallen several times,” she said. “He’s mostly just sleeping now. They’re giving him morphine.”

Then this morning, “George died today.”

I sat quietly staring at the words. I told my wife. We held hands for a while and talked about George and his wife, Kim. I e-mailed the ALR and told them the news, and left a voice message for our group’s chaplain. Then I got another e-mail from George’s wife…

“GEORGE IS ALIVE,” was the subject.

George is alive. Turns out his wife had written and addressed the first message earlier, presumably so when the time comes to send the fateful three words she could do so easily. She had been planning ahead. But this morning she accidentally hit the “Send” button.

“George is alive,” the new message said. “He’s watching TV…”

Rarely have I been so happy to have emotional whiplash! George is alive. His time will come soon, I’m afraid, but not just yet…

“No, he’s not my boss. I just work for him.”

As I mowed my yard with an electric lawn mower, a man pulled into my driveway in an electric car.

Too bad we still make most of our electricity out of coal…

A Dog-Eat-Dog World

The neighborhood has gone to the dogs. Officially. It all started on a sunny morning just days ago…

“I feel pretty good,” my beloved Austrian Snickerdoodle, Dagmar, said. “The doctor told me dat valking would help me heal from my surgery. Let’s go for a valk up the street.” I nodded affably and pulled my boots on. Being a traditionalist, I opted to go for the “right boot on the right foot, left boot on the left foot” method. It just works out best that way. Happily booted, I held my bride’s arm and we meandered slowly out the door.

“Vhat a beautiful day!” she said, pausing on our front stoop to look at the flowers. “Oh! Ve have a bloom! How nice!” She looked up the street. “Oh, the neighbors are out with their baby girl. Vhat a cutie she is!” And indeed, the two-year-old girl really is a cutie, all smiles and pigtails. Her grandpa was playing hide-and-seek with the girl in the yard, ducking behind a bush, then poking his head around, “Boo!” The family was sitting on their back steps, watching and chatting. Our other neighbors were sitting in their big blue swimming pool, watching the world go by. I could hear the neighbors to the west talking to their grandchildren, getting ready for a day trip somewhere. A peaceful day. All is right with the world.

Dagmar and I started west, walking slowly up the street, enjoying the sun. As we passed our neighbor’s house we heard a commotion. A ruckus. A kerfuffle. The dogs were barking. They bark a lot. I looked over to see what they were yipping at… A man was walking down the sidewalk next to the neighbor’s chain-link fence. The pit bull (Katelyn) was barking her fool head off, charging for the man. As I watched, Katelyn stood, snarling at the man, banging against the fence. The second dog, a little pooch named Sandy, ran up to help bark at the man. Katelyn, obviously upset over something, turned on the little Sandy dog, clamped her jaws on Sandy’s neck, and started shaking the small dog like a rag toy.

The man who had been walking past stopped and started yelling at the dogs. The neighbors who owned the dogs ran screaming to separate the dogs. I ran to the fence. “Chris, you grab Katelyn,” yelled the neighbor. “Get in here and help!”

“Ain’t no way I’m grabbing an angry pit bull! Get her collar, I’ll get Sandy!” I stood outside the fence by the gate until the neighbor had her pit bull by the collar. The dog finally let go of the little dog. I opened the gate and tried to grab Sandy, but the little dog ran right past me — into the waiting jaws of the third dog, a rottweiler mix named Pepper-Ann. Pepper grabbed little Sandy dog by the neck and ran a merry chase through the gathered crowd of screaming grandchildren. Sandy’s yelps were heart-wrenching! I realized at that point that I was in the fence with an angry pit bull AND an angry rottweiler. Back out the gate ran the hippie. The neighbor grabbed Pepper and managed to pry her jaws off little Sandy.

This all happened in about five seconds. One second the neighborhood was a calm peaceful place, and within five seconds two dogs had savaged a third right in front of us.

I looked at the chain-link fence and thought about all the times the pit bull and rottweiler had gotten out and run free through the neighborhood. I looked over at the two-year-old neighbor girl just across the street. What is there to stop those dogs from savaging that child, other than a battered fence that the dogs have escaped from numerous times…

Little Sandy has a broken leg and various puncture wounds, but the vet says she’ll live. The neighbors put Sandy back into the yard with the other two dogs. “Oh, they won’t hurt anyone,” the neighbor lady keeps saying. “They’re harmless. Look at the way they play with my grandbabies.” Yeah, I think to myself, but look what they did to Sandy. Harmless.

Two days later I was rehearsing for a gig I have with one of my old bands. I got a call from Dagmar. “Are you on your vay home?” she asked. “Good! Please hurry. Vhen you get here, DON’T GET OUT OF THE CAR! There are two pit bulls running loose.” I threw my bass in the trunk and zipped home fast as I could. When I came around the corner I could see flashing lights from the police car parked across the street from my house. I pulled into my driveway. No dogs in sight, but Dagmar was standing in our yard, safe in our fence. I got out of the car and joined her.

“There are two pit bulls running loose,” she said as I walked up. “They attacked Jazzy, the neighbor’s little dog, and bit de neighbor lady, Linda, on the hand, und now the police are here.”

“Oh no. How’s Jazz? Is she gonna be okay?”

“She’ll probably need to be put down. De two pit bulls both grabbed poor little Jazz and were yanking and pulling on her. One had Jazz’s head, the other had her rear. Linda tried to get her puppy away and one of the pit bulls bit her.”

I watched as the policeman came backed his way around the corner, slowly making his way to his car, a piece of beef jerky in his hand. One “teenage” pit bull was following him, eyes on the jerky. The officer tempted the pit into the back of the squad car and shut the door. He looked up to see half the neighborhood gathered, watching him. “Anyone seen the other one?” he asked. Someone pointed up the street. The officer headed that direction, beef jerky in hand.

Eventually the animal control officer appeared and took the two pit bulls, and the policeman started taking statements, and the neighborhood returned to normal. Where did the officer find the pit bulls? Both of them were in the neighbor’s yard — right where Grandpa plays with his two-year-old granddaughter every day…

At a quick count, we have around six pit bulls and a couple rottweilers within a block of our house. I do NOT feel safe any more. No matter how often my neighbor lady tells me her pit and rott are harmless pups I still remember how they savaged Sandy, and no matter how often people tell me “it’s not the dog’s fault, it’s the owner’s fault” I still think these dogs are trained to attack — and one neighbor’s pet is dead because of that, and I worry about the other neighbor’s little girl.

We don’t feel safe. We can’t go for a walk in our own neighborhood. It’s gone to the dogs. I’m getting close to putting up a sign in my yard. “Yes, you have a right to own an attack dog. And I’m gonna shoot it if it comes in my yard.”

Tomorrow’s rant: People who honk their horns.

Tomorrow…

…Dagmar has her surgery. I’ve not been productive lately. Hard to concen… concent…

Firefox

Hey, yesterday, or maybe the day before, Mozilla released FireFox 3.0 — their newest Innernet browser. I’ve been a FireFox user for years. I don’t much care for MicroSoft products (I don’t like their corporate strategy, but more importantly I *think* they have more security holes than Mac or open source software), and Mac’s browser, though faster’n heck, seems kinda drab to me. So I use FireFox.

Okay, so go download it already. The update really seems to be a considerable update — it loads pages noticeably faster. It’s worth trying, in my opinion.

Okay, then when you’ve got FireFox 3 installed, go install a plugin called PicLens. It does WAY cool things to Picasa’s online albums (mine are at http://picasaweb.google.com/cradloff by the way) and (I guess) YouTube. I’ve been playing with it for at least 27 seconds now and I don’t see anything but coolness. I’m sure there will be a downside, but it’s neat anyway…

Tomorrow

I’m still nerved out about Dagmar’s surgery. I’m sure she’ll be okay, but will she be in pain? Will the doctors treat her respectfully? Will she be comfortable? Have we saved enough money? Do we have enough credit? Will my boss let me off work? Will she be okay? Will she be in pain? Will the doctors treat her respectfully…?

Cute, for a while…

Mama rabbit dug a hole in my yard. Lo and behold a week or so later we had two baby bunnies hopping around the yard. Cute little buggars. We enjoyed peeking at them about every half hour to see how they were getting along… It was fun watching them explore the yard.

But the neighbor’s cat got ’em. One bunny disappeared, the other showed up on the neighbor’s doorstep, accompanied by said cat. All accounts are that the bunny was unhurt — the kitty may have been trying to adopt the baby bunny. But the neighbors figgered the cat would probably keep harassing the bunny, so they let the rabbit go down by the creek where the kitty may not find him.

Odd — when I lived on the farm, rabbits were viewed as lunch (pass the salt please). Now that I live in town they represent “the great outdoors” to me, and I find myself treating them as pets and wishing them well…

How Not to Run a Concert Series

A buddy of mine started a web site recently aimed to promote local art and music. In my last post you heard me whining about a series of concerts in Sioux City over the summer months, supposedly to promote interest in the local music scene even though they only hire one local band each year to participate… Anyway, my buddy with the web site e-mailed the Sioux City Chamber of Commerce (who’s sponsoring the concert series) and said, “Hey, I have an online calendar. I’d like to include your concert series so people know what’s going on. Is that okay?” He got an answer back saying “I’m sorry, we’re not interested in that sort of thing.”

So, they’ll complain if no one shows up to the concerts, but they won’t let people put their info on a FREE calendar. Seems like a strange way to promote music. “Hey, we’re having a concert, but don’t tell anyone…”

Hey, We’re Talented. Really, We Are.

This past winter I was in a leadership class here in Sioux City. On one of the sessions a lady from the Chamber of Commerce got up and gave a “rah-rah” speech detailing how Sioux City was an up-and-coming area and had a lot to be proud of… “One of the ways we promote the arts and local talent here in Siouxland is through the ‘Fridays on the Promenade’ series where we showcase local bands every Friday afternoon in the summer,” she said. “We’re proud of our local artists and want to use them to revitalize the downtown district.”

As I listened to her I caught myself wondering how many local bands actually played at the Promenade the year before. I could only think of one, and if memory serves they were a last-minute substitution for an act out of Chicago or something. Her remark stuck in my mind.

I just saw the schedule for this year’s Promenade, featuring local talent to showcase the city… There’s ONE guy from the Sioux City area on the list. One local artist. The rest are from way far away and have no connection to Sioux City.

And people around here wonder why the art and music scene is dying a slow death on the vine… Local artists get no support from the community even at events promoting local art! It’s frustrating.

And before you say things like, “well, they probably got the best musicians available,” lemme tell you that some of the musicians from Sioux City ARE among the best available. I’m not saying the local talent is better than what the city hired, but the local guys truly are a lot better than people suspect.

At times I’m happy I’m not in a band any more…

Absolutely THE most disgusting thing I’ve seen all year

If you’re read this blog for long you know I’m a member of the Patriot Guard Riders (PGR). The group was organized several years ago when a Baptist church in Kansas started picketing and protesting at soldiers’ funerals. The church isn’t protesting the Iraq war at the funerals, but rather homosexuality. They hold signs saying thing like “God Hates Fags” and “Thank God Your Son is Dead,” their reasoning being that since homosexuality is not illegal in the United States, anyone who defends the U.S. is damned and will go to hell. Seeing the church protesting, and the pain on the families’ faces as they bury their soldier, the PGR formed — a group of bikers (quite a few of whom are veterans) who stand between the protesters and the family, hoping both to maintain the dignity of the ceremony and to honor the soldier.

Okay, that’s the background.

Last Wednesday a tornado went through a Boy Scout camp just south of Sioux City, killing four boys. The whole area is in mourning. Last night when I got home from work I had an e-mail from a friend saying the Baptist church had released a press release saying they’re gonna protest the Boy Scouts’ funerals.

I’ll say this again. The church is protesting at four Boy Scouts’ funerals.

This is a new low. I simply cannot believe this is happening.

I contacted the PGR, but it turns out there’s nothing the organization can do — “we’re not a counter-protest group, we exist to help honor fallen soldiers.” Okay, I can understand that… It sucks, but I can understand it. I called the national Boy Scout council (with some help from a buddy with a phone number) and told them what was going to happen. There was stunned silence on the other end of the line.

I still wish there could be something we could do to stop these people from ruining the last memories the families will have of their boys. I’m absolutely flabbergasted by this whole thing.

I’m not sure, but I sure like to believe that Jesus’ main message was of TOLERANCE. Seems like the Westboro Baptist Church thinks they can read God’s mind somehow… The arrogance is appalling, the actions abhorrent.

The funerals will be held Monday and Tuesday. Two will be in Omaha, Nebraska, one in West Point, Nebraska, and one in Texas. The Boy Scouts of America are taking donations if anyone’s intersted.