He Did It His Way

by Pa Rock
World Explorer


Valerie and I struck off on our own this morning because Murphy wanted to get his beauty rest.  (I got mine last night while he and Valerie were out running the streets.)  She wanted to visit the National University of Taiwan. so we bought another all-day pass for the subway and bus system (180 Taiwanese dollars - or about $5.00 American) and headed off to college.

As we reached the main gate of the university I turned my back for just a second, and by the time I had refocused Valerie was busy chatting up an older Chinese gentleman who was wearing a Canadian ball cap.  (The poor girl has never met a stranger - at least not for long!)  By the time I got over to them they were taking each other's pictures in front of the main gate.

The gentleman was Andrew Liu who had graduated from the university fifty years before and was there today for a reunion.  He has spent his life living in Montreal, Canada, and practicing law.  Andrew led us through much of the campus before we finally reached a souvenir shop where we all bought university tee shirts.  (We were all able to save twelve percent on our purchases thanks to Andrew's status as a proud graduate from a half-century earlier.  Then we went to a student coffee shop where he treated us to a morning java.

Andrew was a most entertaining and interesting fellow.  He is fluent in his native Chinese, as well  as French (from living in Montreal for five decades), English, Japanese, and speaks some Korean.  His father was a prominent doctor in Taiwan and he had a dozen brothers and sisters.  He said that his family was like the Von Trapps in The Sound of Music because they all grew up singing.    As he was leading us off campus later, he mentioned that he sang like Paul Anka and Frank Sinatra.  Valerie asked him to sing something, and he broke into a complete rendition of Sinatra's I Did It My Way!

At one point I asked Andrew about the future of Taiwan, and he said that he fears it will eventually be taken over by China.  His reasoning is that the United States owes China so much money that it will not be in a position to offer any resistance if the government of China decides to seize Taiwan.

Based on information that Andrew gave us, Valerie and I were able to buy tickets on Taiwan's High Speed Rail which we did this afternoon.  We rode to Taoyuan, a stop that offers airport check-in and a free shuttle to the airport.  After learning our way to Taoyuan, we decided that is how we will get to the airport on Monday.  It is very quick and efficient.

While we were walking back to our hotel late this afternoon, I discovered the local McDonald's.  That is where I will dine later tonight.  I love to travel, but my stomach has become too temperamental for much in the way of exotic cuisine.

The Boy on the Subway

by Pa Rock
Concerned Traveler


We had just gotten on the subway yesterday evening preparing to take the long ride back to the center of Taipei, when a young boy, probably six-years-old, rushed into the subway car just as the doors were closing.  Unfortunately, his mother was not as fast, and she was left standing on the platform, helplessly watching, as the train sped off with her son on board.

The poor boy stood in front of the door looking perplexed.  Murphy tried to tell him that his mother would follow on the next train, but of course none of us knew his stop - and the child spoke no English anyway.  We were discussing what to do and trying to get a Chinese man on the train to speak to the child, but he did not understand English either.  Murphy came to the conclusion that maybe we should all get off at the next stop and wait with the lad until his mother showed  up.  Before that could happen, however, a Chinese woman told us, in English, that the child knew which stop to get off at.  She had some conversation with the boy to ensure that she was right about that.

A few stops later the youngster got off of the subway car to wait for his mother.  Crisis averted.  I left wondering what had been the scariest part of the evening for the kid - losing his mother, or having three large, white Americans trying to help him!

Friends in High Places

by Pa Rock
World Traveler


Much of our first day in Taiwan was spent in some mighty high places.  This morning, after we figured out how to use the subway system, we traveled downtown and made our way to the Taipei 101, the tallest building on Taiwan and a very unique piece of architecture.  It was a cloudy, miserable day, so after riding what was billed as the world's fastest elevator up to the observation room on the 89th floor, we found ourselves wrapped in fog, more so than  usual, and not able to see much from the enormous windows.  There was a very large and very beautiful collection of carved coral on display on the 89th floor as well as much coral jewelry for sale - and plenty of assorted tourist junk.

Our afternoon excursion was also well into the air up there.  We rode the subway out to the edge of the city where we planned to get on a gondola dangling from a cable and ride to the top of a mountain to visit a tea plantation.  As we were trying to figure out the process for getting the ticket to board the gondola, a young Taiwanese lady stepped up and offered to help.  Her name was Jasmin and she was showing her friend from Ireland, a young man named Terry, around Taiwan.

Jasmin, whose real name Ya-Fen Chen, is a tour guide by trade.  She met Terry at the university in Belfast, Northern Ireland, several years ago while she was there studying business management.  Terry Needham has a PhD in music history and theory - and plays piano.  We had a wonderful time getting to know them, and they were our traveling companions for most of the rest of the day.

The gondola ride up the mountain proved to be a thirty-minute ride up and across several mountains and forested valleys in a swinging contraption that often had us hundreds of feet above the ground.  When we reached the end of the ride, we disembarked and spent some time walking through apricot orchards in full bloom.  We concluded that part of the trip at a tea house where Jasmin prepared tea at our table.  We were also provided with several types of treats to go with the local tea including pistachios, pumpkins seeds, fried tofu, caramels with nuts, and hard boiled eggs that had been boiled in tea.  Jasmin said that the eggs are boiled about four hours before serving - and they were really good.

Tonight when we were walking back to our hotel, we stopped in a 7-11 so Valerie could get some gum.   While we were there, I came across a large pot of eggs boiling in tea!

The valleys up near the tea plantations were deeply forested.  I asked Jasmin if there are habus on Taiwan.  She said that she believed there were, and she added that cobras are also found on the island.  Fortunately we didn't encounter any of those reptiles.

There were several stops on the trip back into the mountains where passengers could get off.  We rode straight through going up, but coming down we got off at the first stop to visit a group of Buddhist and Daoist shrines.  (That is where we separated from our new friends, Jasmin and Terry, because they had to get into the city and pick up a friend who had just arrived.)  The shrines were beautiful, and as with everything Buddhist, very peaceful.

I had planned on becoming a Buddhist in my next life, but based on those whom I have gotten to know during this jaunt across Asia, I may make that leap of faith during this lifetime.  I am, after all, respectfully known in some circles as the "happy Buddha!"

Peace.

Three-for-Two Beers, Fried Chicken Cartilage, and Complimentary Condoms

by Pa Rock
World Traveler


We have arrived safely in Taipei, Taiwan.

The flight from Naha, Okinawa, to Taiwan is a quick hour-and-a-half, but China Airlines manages to serve a meal enroute.   Customs at the international airport in Taiwan was a breeze, the easiest that I have encountered anywhere in Asia.  After that we found a limo who agreed to take us to our hotel in the city (about a forty-minute ride) for 1,200 Taiwanese dollars - about $40 US - and here we are!

The Inhouse Hotel is nice, relatively new, with small rooms that each have their own unique features.  All of our rooms have windows that open and great views of the street seven stories below.  Mine is a corner room with windows facing in two directions, Murphy's seems more spacious, and Valerie has a ceiling-to-floor window in her shower!  Each room has a complimentary condom in the drawer of the bedside table.  Murphy said that is a true sign of civilization.

Our evening stroll took us several blocks along a busy street where we passed many open shops as well as a variety of food peddlers.  One of the delicacies that I noticed was fried chicken feet.  We also saw some menus that advertised fried chicken cartilage.    None of our party was brave enough to try either of those dishes.  We finally stopped at a very large outdoor cafe and  had drinks and snacks.   I ordered a Heineken with onion rings, and the waiter was quick to tell me that if I ordered two beers, the third one was free - but I stopped with just the one.

Tomorrow will be our first view of Taipei in daylight.  More to follow as our trip progresses.

The Last WWI Veteran

by Pa Rock
Veteran


While over the last few years two or three people thought to be the last surviving veterans of World War I - the war to end wars - have passed on, it now appears as though the absolute last veteran of the tens of millions who served  in World War I has died.  And that veteran was a woman.

Florence Green died in her native England two weeks ago, just a couple of weeks shy of her 111th birthday.  Ms. Green was a member of Britain's Royal Air Force, though she served on the ground working in an officer's mess on the home front.  Ms. Green would have gone completely unheralded if not for the work of a researcher who unearthed her service records in 2010 while digging through Britain's National Archives.

I am old enough to remember several World War I veterans quite well.  When I was in high school our principal - at least for some of those years - was a retired Army lieutenant colonel named Patrick W. Laurie.  Mr. Laurie, who over the years became one of my father's closest friends, was very patriotic and never missed an opportunity to expose the students at Noel High School to the military.  One time he marched the entire high school, maybe a hundred and twenty-five students, down to the Kansas City Southern Depot to stand and show respect as the casket of a Vietnam Veteran was taken off the train.

Another time Mr. Laurie brought in M. Waldo Hatler to speak to the student body in an assembly.  Mr. Hatler, a resident of Neosho, had been awarded the Medal of Honor for his service in Europe during the First World War.  The poor man was bent and frail and could barely speak above a whisper, but the point was that Mr. Laurie wanted us to see a Medal of Honor winner and to realize just how special those people were.

One of our regular substitute teachers in high school was A. Dean Scott.  Mr. Scott had been the school's principal many year's before and his wife was probably the best cook in the history of the school.  When Mr. Scott came to substitute, one of my ornery friends would invariably ask, "Mr. Scott, do you know anything about trench warfare in World War I?"  Usually we would spend the remainder of the hour enjoying Mr. Scott's stories about his service in the war - and avoiding our school work!

In the late 1970's while I was teaching high school history, I would often have my students make special reports or presentations.  One of those that I remember best was two girls, sisters, who took a tape recorder and interviewed several of the very last surviving World War I veterans in Howell County, Missouri.  It was then that I began to realize just how quickly those guys were passing into history.

Now it looks as if they finally all have gone on, and anyone wanting information on the war to end wars will have to Google it - or head to the library.  There will be no more new first-hand accounts from those who served.

Honest Abe, Old Bob, and the "Railsplitter"

by Pa Rock
History Detective


There is a trivia contest posted in today's edition of the Stars and Stripes.  Its official title is "Honest Abe's Civil War Trivia," and it asks readers to answer ten questions about our 16th President for a chance to win a $250 gift card to their local Post Exchange.  Being a trivia hound and collector of basically useless information, the temptation for me to try my hand at the endeavor was well nigh irresistible.  So, on those few occasions when I had a break today, I hit The Google and searched for answers.  I knew some - and was able to find most of the others, but a couple proved to be rather problematic.

Here are the ten questions and my responses:

1.  What was the name of President Lincoln's horse?  I found information in two places that it was either "Old Bob" or "Old Robin."  One listed "Old Bob" as being the favored name of the two, and the other said "Old Robin" was actually the favorite.  I am going with "Old Bob" because that sounds more Lincolnesque.  "Old Robin" sounds more like something that George W. Bush might name a horse.

2.  True or False, there are no descendants of Abraham Lincoln's alive today?  Sadly that is true.  The last line became extinct on Christmas Eve, 1985, with the death of Robert Todd Lincoln Beckwith.

3.  What is the name of the newspaper Abraham Lincoln owned in 1859?  The Illinois Staats-Anzeiger, a German publication that he acquired on May 30th, 1859.  He sold the publication on December 6, 1860, shortly after being elected President.

4.  Abraham Lincoln was the only President to ever hold a patent.  What was his invention?  Lincoln invented a device to free ships that ran aground in shallow water.  He was issued Patent # 6469 in 1849.

5.  What was Abraham Lincoln's stovepipe hat "endearingly" called?  This question was a booger.  I searched high and low for the nickname of his hat.  I kept running into the term "stovepipe,"  but knew that wasn't it because the word was used in the question.  I also found a couple of references to Lincoln's "chimney barrel" hat, but that didn't seem like a true nickname.  One source said it was officially a "top hat," and they were often referred to as "toppers," but that was not Lincoln-specific.   Finally I found one solitary reference to him calling his hat "the railsplitter."  That doesn't make much sense because I doubt that he split rails in a top hat, but I am going with it.  (A bit of related trivia that I came up with while researching this question is that Lincoln used his top hat as a briefcase, a place where he kept his important lawyer papers.  One account told of a group of mischievous boys who strung a wire across his path to knock the hat off.  It worked, and legal papers went everywhere!)

6,  How did Abraham Lincoln earn his first dollar?   He earned it by ferrying passengers to a steamer on the Ohio River in 1827.

7.  Abraham Lincoln was a Captain of a voluntary company during what war?  The Black Hawk War.

8.  Who was Abraham Lincoln's Vice President at the start of the U.S. Civil War?  Hannibal Hamlin was his Vice President during his entire first term.  Andrew Johnson became Vice President when Lincoln was sworn in for his second term on March 4, 1865.  Johnson became President thirty-two days later when Lincoln was assassinated on April 15, 1865.

9.  True or False, when Abraham Lincoln was narrowly elected President in 1860, he didn't even carry his home county.   That is true.  While he did manage to eek out a win in the city of Springfield, he lost Sangamon County, Illinois, to Stephen A. Douglas by 42 votes.

10.  Which President, other than Abraham Lincoln, was assassinated in the 19th century?  James A. Garfield.  Here is some additional trivia related to that question:  Lincoln's son, Robert Todd Lincoln, was either on the scene or close by for each of the first three Presidential assassinations.  As a young captain on General Grant's staff, he had been invited to attend "Our American Cousin" at Ford's Theater on the night his father was shot, but stayed home instead.  He rushed to the scene after the shooting and was there when President Lincoln passed away the next morning.  As James Garfield's Secretary of War, Robert Lincoln happened to be on hand when Garfield was also shot.  And then, a few years later, Robert Lincoln, a private citizen, was in President McKinley's entourage when he was gunned down.  (What would Orly Taitz, DDS, have done with those juicy morsels?)

If anyone has a better answer to any of the questions, please send the information along.  I really want to win that gift certificate!

Monday's Poetry: "My Poor Yvette Is Dead"

by Pa Rock
Versifier


Last year over the Memorial Day weekend, three friends and I traveled just north of Okinawa to a small Iapanese island called Yoron.  As is my custom, I took a book along because reading is something that I regard as truly pleasurable.  My book at that time was a favorite from my youth, Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.  


While we were on Yoron I finished my book, an accomplishment that left me in a strange mood - and we were assaulted by a very severe typhoon, an event that drove us into our respective rooms for a long night of sitting up listening to the winds howl.  Somehow, the confluence of those two things put me into a writing mood, and I began the effort which follows, a long, narrative verse entitled "My Poor Yvette is Dead," a fictional account of a pair of murders in a French resort community.  One of the two speaking characters in this tale is a policeman name Captain Aronnax - with a tip of the hat to Professor Aronnax, the narrator of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

Although I was able to piece together much of this tale during the typhoon, I brought the unfinished product back to Okinawa and spent way too much time tinkering with it.  Now it is finished, and "My Poor Yvette" is yours to do with as you wish.


My Poor Yvette is Dead
by Rocky Macy

My poor Yvette is dead.

She drowned last night, and her naked body,

Willful even in death,

Rode a dark current to the depths of the sea.

Later today Captain Aronnax will inform me of my loss

When the rags of Yvette’s reputation

Have been collected and bagged.

His heart will be heavy – heavier by far than mine.

Yvette left the casino at midnight. 

She had a bottle of cognac in one hand

And Claude, the Captain’s son,

Grasped firmly in the other.

(Emil, the doorman, will swear to it. )

The street dogs sniffed her skirts,

Aching to be Claude,

As she pulled him down the alley

And out onto the vacant beach.

The frenzied lovers littered the sand

With debauchery and evening wear

Two free spirits of the night

Displaying everything but shame.

Yvette ravaged Claude like an ocean tempest

Leaving him wrecked at the water’s edge -

Yet another of her broken boys

Stinking of alcohol and sticky with sex.

I watched from beneath the balcony of La Bella Vue,

A tourist cafe whose windows all too often

Fall prey to the wanton wrath of nocturnal creatures

Who roam the beach in gangs.

Yvette knew her voyeur was near,

Another street dog aching to be Claude.

She sat beside her unconscious boy and finished the cognac

As the retreating tide pulled me from the shadows.

I came to her in silence,

Letting my clothes fall among theirs.

Yvette smiled sadly as she rose into my arms,

And walked with me along the shore.

We danced our dance beneath the stars -

A sandy grind of heat and comfort,

Slow and sensual,

Played out on the rim of the ageless sea.

(But we both knew that the music was ending.)

Later, cooling in the surf, rising and falling with the waves,

I held Yvette close for a moment,

Or an eternity,

Before gently pushing her beneath the hungry brine.

She watched me through the moonlit waters

A sense of mild surprise in those soft eyes –

 Sad eyes that slowly slipped from vague to vacant

As her life peacefully seeped into the darkness.

I dressed above Yvette’s boywreck -

A hard, tanned carcass of mangled virtue

Lying on his back in the debris of passion,

Mouth agape, snoring softly.

The boy was no concern of mine

Yet I could not leave him in quiet repose.

His clothes I threw into the sea,

And a small measure of sand I poured into his mouth.

The Vadun gods could deal with his virtue.

If they deemed Claude to be merely a victim of my Yvette

He would awake calmly, spit out the sand,

And wonder at his folly as he strolled home naked.

But if the gods felt otherwise

And awoke young Claude with a start…

Well, I could hardly be blamed

For his fatal lust after another man’s wife.

Now the sun is well into the morning the sky. 

My sleep, though brief, was restful,

And Marie, my faithful housekeeper,

 Set an incomparable breakfast table.

Captain Aronnax presented himself to Marie

Before the breakfast dishes had been cleared,

Long before I had expected his arrival.

She brought him to me in the parlor.

His face, though calm, was tinged with sorrow.

And his eyes were red with rage.

The Vadun gods, I thought smugly,

Had shown no mercy on the hapless Claude.

“Captain,” I said, as he stepped into the parlor,

“You look distraught, my friend.

Pray, be seated by this sunny window

And tell me what has happened.”

“It’s my son, Claude,” he remarked solemnly.

“He died this morning

Convulsed in bewilderment and fear,

The victim of a sadistic swine.”

Captain Aronnax continued,

“Yvette has also died at the hands of the same mad man,

Although her body has yet to wash ashore. 

I knew that you would want to be notified at once.”

“Yvette?  My Yvette?”  I was incredulous.

“My poor Yvette is dead?”

I sank down next to my guest on the grand divan,

Swallowed up in blue velour and grief.

The tears rolling down my face were real,

Though hardly the product of sorrow -

Yesterday’s slave to obsession

Was transforming to a man long forgotten.

I sobbed unashamed for a respectable time

Before drawing myself up in righteous wrath.

“The devil who did this must be brought to justice.

“We will try the animal in my very own court!”

“If there is a trial,” the Captain said calmly

“You will be standing in the dock

Bearing witness to your own foul deeds

As you await the rope of justice.”

“But I have killed no one, you imbecile!

All last night I paced this very room

Alarmed by Yvette’s absence,

Concerned for her safety.”

“That is a sad story, Monsieur le juge,

But we both know it is false,

As false as your heart

And as cold as Yvette’s body.”

“But you don’t have her body,”

I fairly shouted as I stood above the peace officer

And scowled into his pathetic face.

“Who is to say that she is even dead?”

“Yvette had Claude on the beach last night

While you watched from the shadows -

And when she finished with Claude

You claimed your marital rights.”

“Nonsense! “ I roared.  “Utter falsehoods!

I was in this very house all night

Secure in the warmth of my sweet Marie,

Though it’s not as if I’ll need an alibi.”

“No, an alibi would be quite useless,”

The Captain smiled, but sadly.

“And Marie would not perjure herself

When I inform her of the evidence.”

“You have a witness?” I inquired.

“Some beach derelict seeking revenge

Over a verdict he felt was unjust -

Or with some other maligned motive?”

“There were no witnesses,” he sadly replied.

“Just the film from the security camera

That Claude himself installed this week

Behind the La Bella Vue.”

“A camera?  But why would…”

My voice stumbled as it fell across a sudden memory.

“To combat the vandals,” the Captain said.

“The work order was signed by your very own hand.”

Captain Aronnax slowly arose

And placed his pistol on the table in front of me.

“There is only one bullet,

And my men are stationed at each door.”

The Captain turned as he reached the kitchen door.

“After I share a coffee with Marie.

I will come back

And we will effect your arrest.”

The pistol was in my hand

Where I felt its firmness and heft

“And if I choose another option?”

I cocked the gun and aimed at my friend.

“Do as you must,” the Captain replied.,

“But know that by murdering my son

You have already thrown me through the gates of Hell.

It’s your bullet – choose wisely.”

(And with that he left the room.)

Flying Away - One More Time!

by Pa Rock
Globetrotter


Since arriving on Okinawa in July of 2010, I have done my fair share of traveling.  I have been to three of the small islands that are just off the Okinawan coast, made two trips to Korea (one for training and one for fun), visited Guam, and spent a week in Vietnam.  I have made it a point to take full advantage of being in the Far East.

This upcoming holiday weekend (President's Day) my friends Murphy and Valerie will be  joining me on a jaunt to Taiwan.  We are leaving Thursday after work and will return late Monday evening.  Taiwan is only an hour-and-a-half flight from Naha, Okinawa.

Taiwan is the large island where Chiang Kai-shek fled to after the communists were victorious in China.  Old Chiang managed to steal a substantial quantity of the Chinese national treasures as he fled, and most of those are on display in various Taiwanese museums.  He always dreamed of returning China and driving out the communists, but that obviously didn't happen.

Taiwan has also been known as Formosa and Nationalist China.  There appears to be much to see and do there, and much of what I see and do will be blogged right here!

It will be so nice to get away for a few days!

What the Show-Me State Showed Romney

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist


It's been a very bad week for Mitt Romney.  Prosperity's child has learned that money can't buy everything.

The Romney campaign, which spits and sputters like an old jalopy, has its good weeks and its bad weeks.  Iowa was a yawn that turned into a mild embarrassment when the votes (those that Iowa could find) were recounted and instead of Mitt barely winning, it became apparent that he had barely lost.  That was followed by New Hampshire, where Romney owns property and often plays, which he won - though with only 39% of the votes.

South Carolina was next - a state that Romney had bragged would select the ultimate Republican nominee.  Unfortunately for Romney, South Carolina selected Gingrich -  rather decisively.  Oops!  Then came Florida, and it put out for Romney, though parts of the state - such as the panhandle - were noticeably cool to his candidacy.  And again, Mitt won without achieving a majority of the votes (46.4%).   But that was alright because he was headed into the Mormon west where he did very well in the Nevada caucuses (50.0 % - a wisp of a hair short of an absolute majority), though the state's organized working girls announced their support for Ron Paul.   (That had to hurt!)

Which brings us up to last Tuesday - February 7th, 2012 - a day that will live in infamy in the Chronicles of the Mittster - for on that dark day he lost not one, not two, but three political contests along the road to the White House.   That wasn't supposed to happen.  A white frat-boy with the support of the giants of his party and much of corporate America, with unlimited money, should just be accepted as the potential nominee, especially in a field that was otherwise nothing but a collection of kooks and clowns.  What the hell was going on?

Romney's best showing last Tuesday was at the Republican caucuses of Colorado where he came in second to Little Ricky Santorum.   The former Pennsylvania senator collected 40 % of the caucus-goer's support compared to just 35% for the "inevitable" Mr. Romney.  Minnesota was even worse.   There he received only 16.9% of the caucus votes coming in a dismal third - behind Little Ricky and Ron Paul.

But Missouri was by far my favorite Romney-drubbing of last Tuesday.  Missouri had a primary instead of a caucus, an event designed to increase public participation over the harder-to-access caucuses.  (Actually Missouri is in the process of switching back to caucuses, a system that allows party leaders to exercise far more control over the outcome.  This year as Missouri slowly transitions back to boss-controlled politics, the legislature somehow decided to have one of each - a primary and a caucus.  The primary, now history, was only a beauty pageant, and next month on St. Patrick's Day, the bosses will weigh in, or try to,  with their support of Mitt Romney.)

(Missouri Senator Roy Blunt, former Senator Jim Talent, and 7th District congressman and auctioneer Billy Long are all predicting that the caucuses will correct the people's mistake.)

Little Ricky campaigned hard in Missouri, though he will receive no delegates for the effort.  Romney, however, decided to hoard his corporate cash and spend it places where he could actually pocket a few more delegates.  That was a very poor decision on his part because his abandonment of the state played into a three-way win for Santorum.  Not only that, but by not campaigning he left the door open for a massive trouncing in which Little Ricky carried all one-hundred and fourteen Missouri counties and the City of St. Louis!  Romney was slaughtered - and that does not fit well into the "inevitability" scenario.

As a native Missourian and as someone who has worked and traveled in many of the state's counties, particularly the rural southwestern counties, as well the two largest metropolitan areas (Kansas City and St. Louis), I have more than a passing knowledge of the show-me state's political whims and vagaries.  Mitt Romney got the crap kicked out of him in Missouri for two reasons:  1.  He was stupid to have written it off, even if he had been assured that he would eventually get most of the delegates in the caucuses, and  2.  Newt Gingrich failed to get on the ballot, thus denying Romney that split in the rabid right (between Gingrich and Santorum) that he has come to count of to supply his minority wins.

Mitt, you are so stupid!  And vain!  If you were to unseat President Obama, a feat that becomes less likely with each passing day, you will have to carry Missouri.  McCain carried Missouri four years ago in his losing presidential effort (though it took several days of counting and re-counting for him to claim the state's eleven electoral votes) - and he still lost the general election - by a fairly substantial margin.  You will not be elected President without carrying Missouri, and I now feel confident in predicting that you can't carry my home state.

Here's why:

My friends, the hillbillies who live in McDonald, Newton, Barry, Stone, Taney, Ozark, and Howell Counties, are very conservative and very cranky.  Fifty years ago they went crazy campaigning against what they saw as the Catholic Church's assault on the Presidency.  These people vote when their pissed off - and they don't like  it when some liberal frat-boy pretending to be a conservative takes their votes for granted.  If you are the nominee, don't assume that they will all dutifully drive their pick-up trucks down to the polls and vote against the black man.  Some will stay home, and if the vote is close (as it was in 2008 when Obama ran against a white war hero), you're screwed.

Also, Little Ricky carrying St. Louis County, the state's most populous county and one that is heavily Republican, is a very bad sign for you indeed.  He triumphed there not only because you abandoned it to the kooks, but also because many of those white, conservative suburbanites just plain do not like you.

Mitt, Missouri just ain't a-gonna happen, and if it doesn't happen, you won't either.

And if you choose to "balance" your ticket by naming a vice-presidential candidate from the GOP's loony-bin - Santorum, or Bachmann, or Cain, or Gingrich, or even Perry - you're screwed in so many other parts of the nation.

It is possible that with a bad set of national circumstances, Republicans could take back the White House this fall - but it won't be under the leadership of Mitt Romney.  He is just a piece of tea-stained toast!

John Steinbeck Would Have Adored Rachel Maddow

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist


If I had to make a list of the people I miss most by living out here on the world's elbow, Rachel Maddow would be somewhere near the top.  It is possible to occasionally get a re-broadcast of one of her shows on Okinawa, but those occurrences are rare at best.  It is much easier to to access the screwy blatherings of Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly, or the especially odious Rush Limbaugh.

But I miss Rachel, and the things that I miss about her are the things that keep conservative America so riled up:  she is ferociously intellectual, able to speak in clear and coherent sentences that cut straight to the heart of the matter, funny, insightful, and is not afraid to research a topic before she starts talking about it on the air.  Add to that the fact that she is a highly respected female journalist who also just happens to be gay, and she becomes a perfect bogeyman for America's right-wing knuckle-draggers.

(Just a couple of years ago Massachusetts centerfold senator, Scott Brown, spent several months raising campaign cash by telling his redneck followers that Maddow was definitely going to run for his senate seat.  It was going to be Armageddon, and the only way to stop the evil journalist was to send money to the Brown campaign!   The devious Senator Brown managed to stir up a nice little pile of cash with that bald-faced lie.)

But not everyone fears or hates the intelligent and well-spoken Ms. Maddow.  It was recently announced that she will be the recipient of this year's John Steinbeck Award, also known as the Souls of the People Award.  It is presented by the Martha Heasley Cox Center for Steinbeck Studies at San Jose State University on an annual basis to a person who exemplifies the late author's values.  The recipients are artists, thinkers, and activists who make significant contributions that matter to the common person.

Thomas Steinbeck, the son of the famous author, said that his father "would have adored Rachel Maddow."  He undoubtedly would have adored her, just as millions of us do.  She tells hard truths and challenges us to listen to our better angels.  Rachel Maddow is in tune with the souls of people, and she is an inspiration to those who are brave enough to hear what she has to say.  

The Martha Heasley Cox Center has certainly outdone itself with this year's selection of Rachel Maddow to receive this award.  She personifies the best in us all.

Rusty Pails # 48: The Birthday Bash

by Rocky Macy

The evening shadows were beginning to crawl across Sprung Hinge as I pulled my old pickup truck, the Rust Bucket, up the alley that runs behind Ermine’s Coffee Bar.  I had steadfastly avoided that establishment ever since Ermine had dishonored every semi-retired, domino-playing man in town by desecrating the old Pump and Git and turning it into a biscuit boutique. 

But that was then, and lots of stuff had changed in the meantime.  The biggest change, of course, was that Ermine had pitched Shadetree Mike out the door, and Gladys Clench had caught him.  Now, after several months of slowly stripping Mike of every last shred of his manhood, Gladys was fixin’ to show him off at his “60^th” birthday party.  And wouldn’t Gladys be surprised when she opened her front door tonight and saw me with my date, the lovely Ermine!

The first thing I noticed as I parked in the backyard was that Mike’s old storage shed had been knocked down and carted off.  In its place was a new cement foundation and the framing for a nice two-story building.    Gladys Clench wasn’t the only one who was erasing all traces of the old Shadetree Mike.  Did these women have no shame?

“Why Rusty Pails,” Ermine gushed as she opened the back door and pulled me inside.  “Just look at you – all gussied up in a sport coat and tie!  You clean up real nice, Rusty.”

“Here, “ I stammered, handing her a small box.  I was almost too embarrassed to talk.

“Whatever could this be?”  She pulled the ribbon loose and looked inside.  “Oh my, it’s a daisy corsage!  The last time I had a corsage was at my senior prom, and that’s been over twenty years ago!”

“Twice over,” I thought, but had the good sense not to say it out loud. 

After Ermine pinned the corsage onto her party dress, she and I loaded two baskets of baked goods into the Rust Bucket and headed out.   Gladys, who considered herself to be the best cook in the whole county, would not be pleased with Ermine’s donation to the party of cupcakes, cookies, and brownies.  It was going to be a great evening!

The ride over to the Gladys’s was a mite uncomfortable for me, but Ermine took no notice and chatted merrily the entire way.   When we finally reached the Clench estate, the parking valet (Truman Treetopper) tried to direct us to the back end of the pasture with the regular guests, but I wasn’t having none of that.  I parked the Rust Bucket square in front of Gladys’s new henhouse, the poultry mansion that I had helped to pay for.  Heck Frye had the same idea.  He and his waitress de jour pulled in next to us.

The four of us, me, Heck, and our “girls” carried our gifts and Ermine’s baked goods to the front porch  where I stepped boldly to the door and knocked.  I quickly dropped my hand low in order to be ready to catch Gladys’s teeth in case they slid out of her gaping mouth when she saw Ermine.  (It had been a long time since I had been pumped this much about anything!)

But when the door swung open, it wasn’t Gladys standing on the other side greeting new arrivals – it was Esther Pearl – the same Esther Pearl who didn’t want to come to the party with me because she had to stay home and paint her toenails!  “Why Rusty Pails!”  Esther declared as she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the house.   But while I was tripping across the threshold, she turned and suddenly caught sight of my guest.

“Ermine?”  Then Esther leaned into me and mumbled:  “You old dog!  Something told me this was going to be a party to remember.”

“Toenails!” I snapped back.

Esther didn’t get distracted, and instead she reached out and pulled Ermine into the house too – leaving Heck and his waitress to find their own way in.    “Look everybody,” she shouted above the din of the party.  “Rusty’s here with Ermine – and she brought food!”

Suddenly it was quieter than the lull before a big storm.  And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw the big storm rising from the couch and glaring lightning bolts directly at me and my guest.   Hurricane Gladys was fixin’ to blow!

But there was too danged many people stuffed into the Clench living room and there was some other commotion going on in the middle of the affair, so instead of trying to pounce from twenty-feet away, Gladys sat back down – bidding her time and doing a slow smolder.   She wasn’t going to calm down anytime soon because Ermine and Esther had already started passing out cupcakes.

The commotion in the center of the room turned out to be Shadetree Mike who was wearing a blindfold and being spun around by a couple of stout women from the Sprung Hinge Sewing Circle and Bucket Brigade.   He had a donkey’s tail in one hand and a root beer in the other.  The ladies gave the Dean of Dominoes one final spin and released him into the laughing crowd to blindly search for the donkey’s butt – the one tacked to the wall, not the one sitting on the couch!

Poor Mike stumbled in circles for a few moments until a true friend stepped through the partying fools to help him out.  “Here you go, buddy.”  I said as I held one of Ermine’s cupcakes under his nose.  Then I began to lead my old friend out of the mess that he had gotten himself into and toward one of my own making.  I had him almost to where Ermine and Esther were handing out the baked goods when suddenly a noise broke through the crowd that was about as pleasant as a blast from the noon siren – or a dozen angry dog whistles!  “Michael!”   Gladys screeched, “Get over here.  Now!” 

Shadetree Mike tried to turn and respond to his basic survival instincts, but I had him blocked.   Instead I jerked off the blindfold and Mike found himself staring eyeball-to-eyeball at his better half of more years than either of us would care to admit.  Ermine, in her pretty party dress, was smiling ear-to-ear and holding out a cupcake for the man who was still technically her husband.

“Ermine,” Mike stammered, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Mike,” she replied, “Rusty brought me.  Isn’t he just the sweetest man!”

Shadetree Mike glared at me in a way that didn’t say “sweet,” and then sputtered, “Yeah, he’s a real peach!”  And then to me, “Rusty, what kind of a friend goes out with his best friend’s wife?”

That put the ball in Ermine’s court, because I sure as Heck Frye wasn’t playing.  She was starting to heat up.  “Wife?  What kind of husband moves in the most desperate and despicable woman in town after a teensy little disagreement with his wife?”

I could see Gladys starting to push her way through the crowd – just when things were getting interesting.  But it looked like she would be too late because Ermine and Mike were totally locked on to each other.  It was Mike’s ball:  “You threw me out and destroyed my domino parlor.  I had to move somewhere.”

Ermine was beginning to soften just a little which could be dangerous because Gladys was almost within right hook range.  “Yes, you’re right.  I did throw you out and I reckon I’m a little sorry about that.  Even considering how long I put up with you and your ne’er-do-well friends, I could have treated you better than that.”  She reached into a box of baked goods and pulled out a thick envelope.  “Happy danged birthday!”  She said as she shoved the card into Mike’s hands.

By this time Gladys was between them.  “Ermine, you’re causing a scene.  I think you need to go!”

Now it was my turn to get into the act.  “If my girl goes, I go too!”

“All the better,” Gladys fired back.  “I should have known better than to invite an arsonist anyway!”

“Arsonist!  Arsonist!  Why you jack-booted, man-suffocating, hyena in a party dress – I ought to…to…” but I never got to finish that thought because at that moment the real arsonist, Truman Treetopper, came across the bagpipes that I brought to Mike for a birthday present  and began to play.  It might have been “Camptown Races” or “Amazing Grace,” but whatever tune Truman thought that he was playing, the neighborhood dogs and party guests all took to covering their ears and howling.

All except for Shadetree Mike.  He had the envelope open and was looking at a set of building plans.  When somebody finally wrestled the bagpipes away from Truman and it got sort of quiet again, Mike looked at Ermine.  “What is this, Honey Bunch?”

Gladys, with her fist doubled, “Honey Bunch!”

Ermine disregarded Mike’s captor and said, “I’m deeding the back yard over to you.  I’ve torn down the old shed and am having a nice two-story building put up in its place.  You can live upstairs and play dominoes downstairs – all day, every day.  And if you all can behave out there, I might even bring out some brownies every now and then.”

Shadetree Mike, who used to be the manliest man in town until Gladys got hold of him, had tears running down his cheeks.  When Ermine asked him if he wanted to come home, he looked at her all puppy-eyed and said, “I do!  I do!”  A large whoop went up from the party animals, and Gladys stormed upstairs, probably to get her gun!

All of us were out on the lawn by the time Gladys reappeared.  She had Mike’s worldly goods in a couple of brown paper bags and threw them down on the ground.  “You all have five minutes to get off of my property or I’ll turn the hose on you!”  And with that she went back inside and slammed the door on her guests.

I would like to say that Mike and Ermine lived happily ever after, but this is Sprung Hinge, after all, so let’s just say they continued to live interesting lives – just like the rest of us hereabouts!

(And I spent the rest of the night helping Esther Pearl paint her toenails, but you probably already guessed that!)

Cheap Political Theater

by Pa Rock

Citizen Journalist

The loony fringe of the Republican Party has been waging such a dirty and mean-spirited war against women, children, workers, minorities, and the poor for so long and with so much fury that they have begun to look foolish to almost every segment of American society – as well as to a good portion of their own national party.  These zealots have pulled their presidential front runner, Mitt Romney, so far to the right that when the general election rolls around, he will be hard pressed to extricate himself from some of the extreme positions that he has had to take in order to secure the nomination.  In fact, Romney’s nomination will be a textbook Pyrrhic victory.

But that’s fine.  2012 will be a learning experience and the two-party system will undoubtedly survive.

According to a couple of recent press reports, Democrats are beginning to learn from some of these Republican excesses.  While Democrats have been more comfortable debating political issues with facts and logic, the GOP learned a long time ago that shameless theatrics will capture voters’ imaginations much quicker and more effectively than any boring old speech or pie chart.

Case in Point:  Republicans would have us believe that anyone who requires government assistance in order to survive is lazy and just wants to live high-on-the-hog at the taxpayer’s expense.  They want us to know that these aren’t good people, and to make sure that we see the welfare or unemployment recipients as borderline criminals, many Republican-controlled state legislatures have begun to impose requirements for anyone seeking public assistance to take a urinalysis to screen for drugs.  (That applies only to individual welfare, and not to corporate welfare which Republicans enthusiastically support as being good for America – even when many of those same corporations move their jobs and their profits overseas.)

And did I mention that these drug screenings are paid for by the welfare applicants?  One more needless expense, one more unnecessary hassle, one more indignity to be suffered by those with no means to fight back.

Fortunately for those welfare applicants and for society in general, a few brave Democratic state legislators have decided to use a little theater of their own to highlight the foolishness coming from their Republican colleagues.  The rogue politicians are saying if the poor need to take a drug test in order to receive their government checks, then elected officials should be required to do the same thing before receiving theirs.   Not surprisingly, the Republican politicians are less than enthusiastic about peeing in a cup themselves.

Second Case in Point:  One of the myriad of ways that state politicians have come up with to interfere with a woman’s Constitutional right to an abortion is to heap unnecessary and often expensive requirements on the woman before she can access the medical procedure.  The Republican controlled state legislature of Virginia recently decided that any woman who wanted an abortion must first undergo a highly manipulative and medically unnecessary ultrasound prior to the procedure.

But Virginia State Senator Janet Howell threw an amendment onto the ultrasound bill that would have required all males to have a rectal exam and cardiac fitness test before they could be prescribed any medications for erectile dysfunction. 

Want that Viagra, buddy?  Bend over and spread ‘em! 

Senator Howell’s amendment failed on a close vote of 21-19 with six of the senate’s seven female members voting in favor!  What’s good for the goose ought to be good for the gander - just not in Virginia!

It ain’t Lincoln-Douglas, but it ain’t bad.  Cheap theater begetting cheap theater.   Maybe someday we will find our way back to the high road – but it’s going to take a bi-partisan effort and a strong national will to get there.  And right now one political party in particular seems to lack the judgement and integrity to move us in that direction.

God Save the Queen, the Arts Club, and Uriah Heep!

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

There have been three stories regarding the cultural history and social life of England on the Internet this week,  and all three tie together into a nice little package.

Central to the collection was an item about Prince Harry and soccer star David Beckham having a boys' night out at a member's-only watering hole in the Mayfair District of Central London.  They were spotted at a newly renovated bar called The Arts Club - which was founded in 1863 by novelists Charles Dickens and Anthony Trollope.  Apparently it was the second time that this pair of celebrities, Harry and Beckham, have hung out there - until three in the morning!

And then yesterday, February 6th, Harry's grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, celebrated her Diamond Jubilee as Queen.  She has sat on the throne for sixty years and still looks constipated.  (Did I just type that?)  Elizabeth II is the second-longest reigning monarch in British history, close behind Queen Victoria who held the position for sixty-three years and change.  The current Queen's mother lived to be one-hundred-and-one, so there is a good chance that Elizabeth, who is currently just eighty-five, will break Victoria's longevity record for throne-sitting.

If I could ask Queen Elizabeth one question, it would be this:  "Your Highness, if you had it all to do over again, would you have reproduced?"

Seriously the Queen is loved and well respected by her loyal subjects and her children.  Why just last summer her daughter-in-law, Camilla, the Duchess of York, adopted a Jack Russell terrier from the pound and named her Beth!

Today, February 7th, marks another very famous British milestone.  Charles Dickens, the novelist and co-founder of The Arts Club, was born two-hundred years ago today.  I came across the results of a survey conducted by Penguin Books asking which of Dickens' nearly nine-hundred fictional characters was the reader's favorite.   Ebenezer Scrooge of A Christmas Carol won big, followed by Miss Havisham of Great Expectations, Sydney Carton of A Tale of Two Cities, The Artful Dodger of Oliver Twist and Fagin of Oliver Twist.  Little Oliver Twist himself came in at number eleven.

My favorite Dickens character was the "very 'umble" Uriah Heep of David Copperfield.   While the gangly and cadaverous Mr. Heep was a bit conniving and sinister, he was certainly no match for villainous of Ebenezer Scrooge in his prime.   But I just like the sound of his name.  "Uriah Heep!"  It literally just rolls off of the tongue!   I understand that there is a band called Uriah Heep, which is great, but I would like to see Charles Dickens further honored by parents starting to use that wonderful name for their offspring.

"Uriah Heep Johnson!  Get your butt in here for dinner!"

But, alas, that would probably be a bit too literary for our modern world!

Monday's Poetry: "The Bee"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator


The is Monday morning on Okinawa and many of the Americans on the island are waiting breathlessly for the Super Bowl XLVI to begin.  The excitement of an event as big as this may lose a little something by airing in the morning, but I suspect that Americans on Okinawa watching the game during daylight hours will be nearly as wild and volatile as their friends who are partying back in the States.

I scoured the Internet in search of an appropriate poem for today's big game.  Most football poems, of course, are not really about football at all, but paeans to soccer.  I did locate "American Football" by Harold Pinter, but it was too raw even for my tacky tastes.  Finally, however, I came across "The Bee" by James Dickey, and like Baby's Bear's porridge, found it to be just right!

In this piece, Dickey, who in his youth played football for Clemson, sees his young son attacked by a malevolent bee and chased toward a busy California highway.  In order to reach his son in time, Dickey channels the spirit of his old Clemson coach to get him moving.  It is a very inspiring and exciting account of an incident that actually happened.

Enjoy the poem and enjoy the big game!


The Bee
by James Dickey


To the football coaches of Clemson College, 1942


One dot

Grainily shifting we at roadside and
The smallest wings coming along the rail fence out
Of the woods one dot of all that green. It now
Becomes flesh-crawling then the quite still
Of stinging. I must live faster for my terrified
Small son it is on him. Has come. Clings.

Old wingback, come
To life. If your knee action is high
Enough, the fat may fall in time God damn
You, Dickey, dig this is your last time to cut
And run but you must give it everything you have
Left, for screaming near your screaming child is the sheer
Murder of California traffic: some bee hangs driving

Your child
Blindly onto the highway. Get there however
Is still possible. Long live what I badly did
At Clemson and all of my clumsiest drives
For the ball all of my trying to turn
The corner downfield and my spindling explosions
Through the five-hole over tackle. O backfield

Coach Shag Norton,
Tell me as you never yet have told me
To get the lead out scream whatever will get
The slow-motion of middle age off me I cannot
Make it this way I will have to leave
My feet they are gone I have him where
He lives and down we go singing with screams into

The dirt,
Son-screams of fathers screams of dead coaches turning
To approval and from between us the bee rises screaming
With flight grainily shifting riding the rail fence
Back into the woods traffic blasting past us
Unchanged, nothing heard through the air-
conditioning glass we lying at roadside full

Of the forearm prints
Of roadrocks strawberries on our elbows as from
Scrimmage with the varsity now we can get
Up stand turn away from the highway look straight
Into trees. See, there is nothing coming out no
Smallest wing no shift of a flight-grain nothing
Nothing. Let us go in, son, and listen

For some tobacco-
mumbling voice in the branches to say "That's
a little better," to our lives still hanging
By a hair. There is nothing to stop us we can go
Deep deeper into elms, and listen to traffic die
Roaring, like a football crowd from which we have
Vanished. Dead coaches live in the air, son live

In the ear
Like fathers, and urge and urge. They want you better
Than you are. When needed, they rise and curse you they scream
When something must be saved. Here, under this tree,
We can sit down. You can sleep, and I can try
To give back what I have earned by keeping us
Alive, and safe from bees: the smile of some kind

Of savior--
Of touchdowns, of fumbles, battles,
Lives. Let me sit here with you, son
As on the bench, while the first string takes back
Over, far away and say with my silentest tongue, with the man-
creating bruises of my arms with a live leaf a quick
Dead hand on my shoulder, "Coach Norton, I am your boy."

Religious Hate

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist


I knew an older couple in Arizona who had lost their home due to the bad economy and not being employed.  He was disabled and couldn't work, and she had medical issues as well and worked part-time taking care of others who were no worse off medically than she was.  The couple was also burdened with serious medical bills. Their situation was hard, but instead of being angry at corporate America for systematically destroying the American job market, or at the nation's unfair medical system, or the insurance industry - these good, God-fearing people who went to an angry Baptist church several times a week, blamed all of their problems on liberals, and particularly the black man sitting in the White House.

I always got along with this couple, choosing to ignore their (particularly his) preachifying.  Now that I am overseas I don't have to hear the little rants or make excuses why I don't want to visit their church, but I still am subjected to their silly harangues courtesy of email.  Today I received a pair of emails from my friend (and he is my friend) that were so outrageous I feel the need to purge them from my system by means of this blog.

The first email was a copy of a piece by Bill O'Reilly entitled "Political Correctness and Muslims."  (My friend hates Muslims even more than he does Obama.)  O'Reilly's diatribe focused on the recent "honor killings" in Canada in which a mother, father, and adult son were convicted of killing the three daughters of the family because they adapted too easily to modern ways.   O'Reilly was incensed that American media primarily described the family as "Afghan" and not as "Muslim."  The erstwhile sage of Fox News went on to say the "political correctness is dangerous because it obscures the truth."

The "truth" apparently was not that a family suffered a grievous tragedy due to fundamentalist and anachronistic views, the "truth" is that these were Muslims - and they were evil - and therefore...

The second email was based on a report from...you guessed it, Fox News.  My correspondent stated that Fox News was "brassy" because they were the only news channel that reported the story.  It was based on an email that a man supposedly received from a friend that described a purported incident that occurred on a passenger plane at Atlanta's airport.  The email supposedly said that the writer was sitting in first class waiting on the plane to load when eleven "Muslim" men got on the plane in full "Muslim attire."

Apparently, again according to the email, two of the Muslim men in full Muslim attire seated themselves in first-class (oh, my!) and the rest sat throughout the plane.  One of the first-class Muslims then telephoned one of the tourist-class Muslims on his cell phone.  (How the other passenger knew who he was calling was never explained, and they were undoubtedly speaking "Muslim.")

(No, wait, I just found it.  They were speaking Arabic, "very loudly and very, very aggressively.")

As the story continued, a couple of stewardesses got involved and tried to get the first-class Muslim to get off of his phone, and he reportedly then called one of the ladies an "infidel dog."  Then a big Texan got involved, and then the guy who wrote the email got physically involved, and it all turned into quite a circus.  TSA was summoned and took all eleven Muslims off of the plane, but after searching their bodies and baggage they returned them to the plane.

The flight crew put up some objections, the man who wrote the email used some inappropriate language, and the passengers righteously marched off of the Muslim-loving airliner!  The email writer went on to declare, "If that wasn't a terrorism dry run, I don't know what is!"

And, of course, it had to be a terrorism dry run, because they were Muslims in full Muslim attire!  (Alec Baldwin might be a bit juvenile and boorish, but he was not a terrorist because he was not a Muslim in full Muslim attire.)

Is there any doubt why Fox ran with this story?

I feel sorry for my friend back in the States.  To him, these stories prove conclusively that Muslims are scary and evil people not fit to live in a good Christian country like his.  I wonder how he would feel if every time a serial killer was identified in the United States, he was labeled as a Christian serial killer, or a Christian rapist, or a Christian pedophile?  Clearly good people subscribe to all religions, as do many bad people - and it makes no difference at all what language we speak or what clothing we wear.

And Muslims are not a race of people - they are members of a very large organized religion known as Islam.  They come in a variety of colors and dress in all manner of clothing.  And some of them worship their God just as fervently as my friend worships his.

Komen Caves

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist


Nancy Brinker, the CEO of the Susan G. Komen for the Cure foundation and sister of the late Ms. Komen, spent most of yesterday telling journalists that her organization had made the right decision is their move to stop providing money to Planned Parenthood for breast cancer screenings.  And, she crowed, the Komen foundation was receiving plenty of new donations.

But as Brinker was claiming that things were never better, the blogosphere and mainstream media were having a heyday shining a light on the charity.  Suddenly people were learning things about the hard-line right-wingers who have been quietly moving into positions of power at Komen.  Suddenly the public was learning that Komen was also no longer funding stem-cell research.  Suddenly people knew that the sanctimonious Ms. Brinker was hauling in personal salary and benefits of a half-a-million dollars a year from the "charity."  Suddenly people were talking seriously about boycotting the corporate sponsors of Komen for the Cure.

Today Ms. Brinker issued an apology to Planned Parenthood saying that the decision to quit funding their breast cancer screening program had not been political in nature.  She said they had reworked their policy about groups under investigation and would no long penalize groups who were only being subjected to political investigations.  And, she apologized to Planned Parenthood and said that they would now be eligible to submit new grant requests in the future.  (Of course, the same group of right-wing zealots who made the decision to quit giving money to Planned Parenthood will be deciding which grants get approved - so it remains unclear whether anything has really changed or not.)

But it was nice that she apologized.

That apology, however, has now stirred up the conservatives who were busy yesterday giving money to Komen.  And many of the liberals are still pissed as well.  All-in-all it probably wasn't Komen's best week.

The Komen foundation hurt itself with the hard right and the hard left, as well as with the general public.  It clearly lost all the way around.  Planned Parenthood, on the other hand, came out smelling like a big red rose.  The group had been receiving about $600,000 a year from Komen for breast cancer screenings, but this senseless action by Ms. Brinker's group stirred up many Americans to donate to Planned Parenthood.  Net result:  over $3 million in new donations!

Thank you, Nancy.  Thank you very much!

Susan G. Komen Gets Ugly

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist


I only use one email address and it gets inundated daily with requests for money and support from a wide assortment of groups that fight poverty, advocate for quality health care, and promote political causes.  Sometimes I send a few dollars, or sign a petition, or regurgitate information about the cause into my Twitter account (@PaRock) or onto the pages of this blog.  If I get really fired up, as I am today, I am likely to do all of the above.

The Susan G. Komen for the Cure Foundation raises money to fight breast cancer through research, education, and political lobbying.  One of their primary ways of raising money has been through their famous "walks" for the cure  - big pink affairs sometimes lasting for multiple days in which those participating gather pledges and then walk to earn the donations.

(I participated in one of these walks in downtown Phoenix in the fall of 2007 with my daughter, Molly.  It was fun - and a very moving experience as we strolled and chatted with many marchers who were carrying signs and wearing homemade tee-shirts honoring relatives or friends who had suffered through the awful experience of breast cancer - some successfully, others not so lucky.  It was a good bonding experience for Molly and me.)

But I won't be walking with Susan G. Komen any more because the old bitty has turned mean and hateful.

The most venerable Susan G. Komen for the Cure Foundation has bowed to right-wing pressure and cut off funding to Planned Parenthood's breast cancer screening program - an absolutely essential program that provides women of low and modest incomes with a  life-saving medical procedure.  That deserves repeating:  Susan G. Komen, a charity whose sole purpose is the defeat of breast cancer, has suddenly quit funding a program that offers breast cancer screenings to women of modest means!

What's up with that, Sue?  Are the poor not worthy of a cure?

The political back story is that the various conservative movements in America have targeted Planned Parenthood for elimination through starvation, and they have been busy trying to stop government funding of the organization at all levels.  Now these extremists have extended their tentacles and  focus into charities that have been helping Planned Parenthood survive and fulfill its mission to women.

The political "logic" for the elimination of funding to Planned Parenthood is this:  A Florida congressman has started an inquiry in Congress to determine if Planned Parenthood is using public funds for abortions.  It is currently against the law to do so, and the "inquiry" is basically just a smear to keep the knuckle-draggers and mouth-breathers who fund American's conservative politicians  and movements stirred up.  Suddenly though, the Komen board instituted a policy stating that the group will not donate to any organization that is being investigated by Congress.

Nicely done, Sue!

The Komen organization has been quietly tacking right.  Last year the group hired Karen Handel, a former Georgia Secretary of State and unsuccessful Republican candidate for governor, to be its vice president for public policy.   Handel is vocally anti-choice, and during her failed gubernatorial campaign she vowed to eliminate any state funding to Planned Parenthood.  Jane Abraham, the General Chairman of the anti-choice Susan B. Anthony List, is a member of the Komen governing board - the group that ultimately made the decision to end research funding to Planned Parenthood.

Oh, and the Komen organization, a group whose sole purpose is the elimination of breast cancer, has also stopped all funding for stem-cell research - a move that shows it is much more interested in kissing conservative butt than it is in actually finding a cure for breast cancer.

Shameless, Sue, absolutely and utterly shameless!

So today I will send some money to Planned Parenthood, sign an on-line protest petition to Susan G. Komen, put up a couple of tweets, publish this post, and bask in the warmth of righteous anger for a brief while.  But soon it will all start to subside and the emails from Planned Parenthood will again begin to resemble the entreaties from so many other organizations.  And when that happens the people of our country, particularly the women of our country, will be the poorer for it.

There are alternatives to the Susan G. Komen for the Cure organization.  May I recommend:  the National Breast Cancer Foundation, Army of Women, and Breast Cancer Action.  The cause is too important to be held captive by extremists!