Provincetown, Massachusetts has been a popular place for gays and lesbians to settle for as long as I can remember. In fact, I recall hearing about this about 35 years ago, from a buddy who used a derogatory term, not because he hated or even disliked gays, but because where I grew up, that was how 10 year old boys described anyone showing any sexual preference.
“Hey guys, guess what! Bobby likes Lori Walsh!”
“Shut up, Fag! I do not!”
“Why did you walk home from school with her then?”
“She lives on my street!”
“See? You live near her because you do like her! Fag!”
“Shut up, Fag!”
“You’re a fag!”
“No, you are.”
“Fag!”
“Fag!”
There was never any hate implied or inferred. In our minds, to be a fag was to be an outsider, someone who didn’t fit in.
I remember learning from a friend that a faggot was actually a bundle of sticks, and later, that in England, a fag is a cigarette, and none of us could figure out why the word had such disparate meanings. Of course, if any one of us had used the word disparate, or suggested that we look up the etymology of the word, he’d have been called a Fag, and he’d have gotten his ass kicked at recess.
The buddy who told me about P-town did so with a sort of awe, and now that I think about it, he must have heard about it from his parents. These days, we tend to look on that sort of thing with horror, as though they were intentionally raising their child to hate.
I’m not saying that there weren’t parents who fostered prejudice in their children in the early 70’s, but in my Catholic, predominantly Irish neighborhood, most of my friends were simply raised with the same misunderstandings their parents had. The kids in my neighborhood were the children and grandchildren of immigrants who believed so fervently in assimilation that those in my generation grew up seeking sameness, commonality, unity.
So I was amused this morning to read that the municipal leadership of Provincetown held a meeting so that heterosexual residents could complain about being the targets of hate speech by the town’s homosexuals. There’s no small amount of irony there: gays and lesbians move to P-town so that they can be where they feel accepted, to assimilate, to find a place where they can live honestly and can share a sense of community.
A place where they aren’t so different.
And then, they reject those who are different.
The one and only time I’ve ever been thrown out of a bar was in Norfolk, Virginia. I was there on business, and went out partying with a friend and her newlywed husband, and a group of their friends. We wanted a quiet place to have a few beers, dance a little, and shoot a little pool.
One of the women in the group suggested a lesbian bar, and we all agreed. Really…we were looking for a quiet place to have a couple beers.
The bartenders were polite. We were not obnoxious, at least, not in my opinion. We gathered around two tables, drank our beer, told stories, shot some pool, and did a lot of laughing. The regular patrons either ignored us or fixed us with sullen gazes.
Until my friend’s husband sought to distract her from the game by sliding the butt of his pool cue up the inside of her thigh as she leaned over to make her shot. She wiggled flirtatiously, then missed her shot.
By the time the table had settled back to stillness (I started to write by the time the balls had stopped moving, but that would be too ironic), one of the bartenders was standing at our table, arms folded and insistent that we leave.
“Why?” someone asked. “We haven’t been too noisy. We haven’t been rude to the other people here. What did we do?”
I swear I am not making this up.
The bartender spoke firmly: “You’re too heterosexual, and it’s bothering the other customers.”
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
Dear Terrorists
A friend e-mailed this to me this afternoon, and I thought it was worth passing on.
“Dear Terrorists,
I am a Naval Aviator. I was born and raised in a small town in New England. I come from a family of five. I was raised in a middle class home and taught my values by my mother and father.
My dad worked a series of jobs in finance and my mom took care of us kids. We were not an overly religious family but attended church most Sundays. It was a nice, small, Episcopal Church.
I have a brother and sister, and I am the youngest in my family. I was the first in many generations to attend college.
I have flown naval aircraft for 16 years. For me the flying was never a lifelong dream or a "calling," it just happened. I needed a job and I liked the challenge. I continue to do it today because I feel it is important to give back to a nation which has given so much to me. I do it because, although I will never be rich, my family will be comfortable. I do it because many of my friends have left for the airlines and someone has to do it.
My government has spent millions to train me to fly these multi-million dollar aircraft. I make about 70,000 dollars a year and after 20 years will be offered a pension. I like baseball but think the players make too much money. I am in awe of firemen and policemen and what they do each day for my community, and like teachers, they just don't get paid enough.
I respect my elders and always use “sir” or “ma'am” when addressing a stranger. I'm not sure about kids these days but I think that's normal for every generation.
I tell you all this because when I come for you, I want you to know me. I won't be hiding behind a woman or a child. I won't be disguised or pretending to be something I am not.
I will be in a US-issue flight suit. I will be wearing standard US-issue flight gear, and I will be flying a Navy aircraft clearly marked as a US warplane.
I wish we could meet up close in a small room where I could wrap my hands around your throat and slowly squeeze the life out of you, but unfortunately, you're hiding in a hole in the ground, so we will have to do this a different way.
I want you to know also that I am very good at what I do. I can put a 2,000 lb weapon through a window from 10,000 feet up. I generally only fly at night, so you may want to start sleeping during the day. I am not eager to die for my country but I am willing to sacrifice my life to protect it from animals like you.
I will do everything in my power to ensure no civilians are hurt as I take aim at you.
My countrymen are a forgiving bunch. Many have already forgotten what you did on Sept 11th, but I will not forget!!
I am coming.
I hope you know me a little bit better, see you soon...sleep tight.
Signed
A U.S. Navy Pilot”
“Dear Terrorists,
I am a Naval Aviator. I was born and raised in a small town in New England. I come from a family of five. I was raised in a middle class home and taught my values by my mother and father.
My dad worked a series of jobs in finance and my mom took care of us kids. We were not an overly religious family but attended church most Sundays. It was a nice, small, Episcopal Church.
I have a brother and sister, and I am the youngest in my family. I was the first in many generations to attend college.
I have flown naval aircraft for 16 years. For me the flying was never a lifelong dream or a "calling," it just happened. I needed a job and I liked the challenge. I continue to do it today because I feel it is important to give back to a nation which has given so much to me. I do it because, although I will never be rich, my family will be comfortable. I do it because many of my friends have left for the airlines and someone has to do it.
My government has spent millions to train me to fly these multi-million dollar aircraft. I make about 70,000 dollars a year and after 20 years will be offered a pension. I like baseball but think the players make too much money. I am in awe of firemen and policemen and what they do each day for my community, and like teachers, they just don't get paid enough.
I respect my elders and always use “sir” or “ma'am” when addressing a stranger. I'm not sure about kids these days but I think that's normal for every generation.
I tell you all this because when I come for you, I want you to know me. I won't be hiding behind a woman or a child. I won't be disguised or pretending to be something I am not.
I will be in a US-issue flight suit. I will be wearing standard US-issue flight gear, and I will be flying a Navy aircraft clearly marked as a US warplane.
I wish we could meet up close in a small room where I could wrap my hands around your throat and slowly squeeze the life out of you, but unfortunately, you're hiding in a hole in the ground, so we will have to do this a different way.
I want you to know also that I am very good at what I do. I can put a 2,000 lb weapon through a window from 10,000 feet up. I generally only fly at night, so you may want to start sleeping during the day. I am not eager to die for my country but I am willing to sacrifice my life to protect it from animals like you.
I will do everything in my power to ensure no civilians are hurt as I take aim at you.
My countrymen are a forgiving bunch. Many have already forgotten what you did on Sept 11th, but I will not forget!!
I am coming.
I hope you know me a little bit better, see you soon...sleep tight.
Signed
A U.S. Navy Pilot”
Monday, July 24, 2006
Foot In Mouth
The moment I told my brother-in-law that this had been the best birthday ever, I realized I’d said exactly the wrong thing; his sister died early that evening.
In my defense, I didn’t say it when we spoke that night. I said it when he called to wish me a belated birthday on Sunday morning. I’m not that insensitive.
It was a strange evening, the actual night of my birthday. Heidi was gone to her mother’s already, and Alanna went to bed early. And then my parents called with birthday wishes and the news of my brother-in-law’s sister. It was not unexpected; she’d been sick for several months, but the death of a sibling is never a small thing, and Joe felt it very keenly.
This was the second time in five years that a death has occurred on my birthday. The first time, some family friends lost their five year-old daughter. I cannot conceive of the devastation they must still feel, but the celebration of my birthday has since lost quite a bit of its luster. (And as if losing a child isn’t bad enough, Caroline’s birthday was December 25th. Sometimes life is very, very cruel.)
In my defense, I didn’t say it when we spoke that night. I said it when he called to wish me a belated birthday on Sunday morning. I’m not that insensitive.
It was a strange evening, the actual night of my birthday. Heidi was gone to her mother’s already, and Alanna went to bed early. And then my parents called with birthday wishes and the news of my brother-in-law’s sister. It was not unexpected; she’d been sick for several months, but the death of a sibling is never a small thing, and Joe felt it very keenly.
This was the second time in five years that a death has occurred on my birthday. The first time, some family friends lost their five year-old daughter. I cannot conceive of the devastation they must still feel, but the celebration of my birthday has since lost quite a bit of its luster. (And as if losing a child isn’t bad enough, Caroline’s birthday was December 25th. Sometimes life is very, very cruel.)
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
How To Fix A Flat On A BMW
I am on a business trip to San Jose. In an ill-advised attempt to be somewhat self-sufficient, I opted to drive here from San Diego, rather than fly and rent a car. After all, I drive a BMW…the drive would likely be pleasant, or at least not unpleasant, and I’d have the use of my own car while here.
That was my logic, anyway.
So it was that I found myself moving along with early afternoon LA traffic. Feeling rather smug, I was, too.
“DING!” said my car, in her polite way. Her name is Giselle. She says, “Ding!” whenever anyone riding in her has forgotten their seatbelt, or if a door isn’t fully latched, or if the parking brake is not fully released. She is very polite, and this surprises most people, who expect her to be very German. I have no idea what this means, but most people say it, so presumably people expect the car to alert me to a passenger’s Seatbelt Infraction by sounding a U-boat diving klaxon and shining the errant passenger’s individual map light on them.
A-OOO-ga! A-OOO-ga! Eine passagier sicherheitsgurt ist nicht gewölbt!
No.
Giselle simply says, “Ding!”
I am sure she’d whisper it if she could.
But getting back to my story, I was in the far left lane, the ostensible fast lane, traveling at about 15 miles an hour (in a 65 mile per hour zone), when Giselle dinged this warning:
“You have a flat tire.”
That was the important part. There were instructions on the video screen that needed to be scrolled through to be fully read, which is not what one should do while driving in traffic with a flat tire.
As it turns out, I have run-flat tires, which I was a little skeptical of when I got the car, but now, having been told by my car that I have a flat tire while driving on the freeway in Los Angeles, I must say I fully appreciate the concept of the run-flat tire now.
I grok run-flat tires in fullness, as Heinlein would say.
I put on my hazard lights, and made my way to the next exit. (I must add here that hazard lights seem to be much more effective than mere turn signals when one desires a lane change in LA traffic. I don’t recommend abusing this knowledge, but it’s nice to know it’s there, you know?)
I found myself a gas station, pulled in and got out to examine my tires.
None of them were flat.
Now, never having actually seen a run-flat tire perform its sacred task, I speculated that perhaps it might not look any different when running sans air, so I checked the tire pressure in all four tires. Both rear tires were at 41 psi. The right front was at 41 psi. The left front was at 39 psi.
Hmmm. Not that big a difference, but to be on the safe side, I filled the left front to match the other three and started the car again.
Still getting the indication of a flat.
So, I asked the gas station cashier for directions to a tire place.
He sent me to his cousin’s place down the street.
To be fair, it might not have been his cousin, but it was another 76 station and the proprietor was also Middle Eastern. So it’s possible that this was, in fact, his cousin’s place.
The guy at the second station made me wait while he checked the pressure in all four tires of another flustered driver and sent him on his way. Then he checked the pressure in all four of my tires and concluded that the sensor was probably bad and suggested I take the car to my dealership for service. The other customer had exactly the same issue, he said.
He gives me vague directions to the BMW dealership in Glendale, which I find easily, but can’t figure out how to get into because it’s under construction. Two trips around the block later (growing increasingly nervous, as I may very well be driving on a punctured tire), I find my way in.
The receptionist is very apologetic about the fact that the service department is 8 blocks away.
I head to the service department.
I explain my predicament to the receptionist, who makes a call, and then tells me that they can schedule me an appointment for Thursday.
It was at this point when my frustration got the best of me. “Thursday? I need an appointment to have a flat tire?” I stop, take a breath, and less psychotically explain that I am already 140 miles from home and that I am en route to San Jose on business. Thursday is out of the question.
She makes another phone call. The service department doesn’t handle tires, anyway, but she can give me directions to the shop where they refer all their tire work. I explain that someone needs to at least reset the tire sensor for me before I go to the tire place.
One of the service representatives walks me out to my car and shows me how to do it. I is actually very easy, and I had thought of performing it myself, but wasn’t sure I could. He makes me promise to get the tire looked at, gives me directions to the tire place, and sends me on my way.
At the tire place, they removed the wheel, examined the tire and found…
No.
Puncture.
Not even a slow leak.
I asked the tire guy to set all the pressures correctly, and while waiting for the chance to back out of the stall, I reread the section of the owner’s manual on the flat tire sensing system.
If the system, when active, senses that one wheel is spinning faster than the other three, it knows that the only way this can happen is if the tire is somehow smaller than the other three. Low tire pressure makes the tire smaller…who knew? According to the manual, a difference of only 3 psi between tires will trigger the alert.
As you and I now know, the system works exactly as it should.
For the remainder of the drive, I kicked myself for not checking the tire pressures…as I should have…before beginning a 460 mile road trip. I assumed that the service inspection I’d had done on the car just a few hundred miles ago would have set the pressures on the tires correctly, and that I had one less thing to worry about.
Writing about this tonight, I realized that the front tires were over-inflated, and that undoubtedly contributed to the leak in the left front. I still should have checked the pressures, but I would have set the pressures to the same for all four tires, just as had been done by the dealership a couple weeks ago, so I wouldn’t have avoided the problem.
With the tire pressure set correctly…I got two miles to the gallon more than I expected. The little excursion off the freeway in Glendale cost me two and a half hours, but not a dime otherwise, and actually saved me money by improving the gas mileage.
Funny how things work.
That was my logic, anyway.
So it was that I found myself moving along with early afternoon LA traffic. Feeling rather smug, I was, too.
“DING!” said my car, in her polite way. Her name is Giselle. She says, “Ding!” whenever anyone riding in her has forgotten their seatbelt, or if a door isn’t fully latched, or if the parking brake is not fully released. She is very polite, and this surprises most people, who expect her to be very German. I have no idea what this means, but most people say it, so presumably people expect the car to alert me to a passenger’s Seatbelt Infraction by sounding a U-boat diving klaxon and shining the errant passenger’s individual map light on them.
A-OOO-ga! A-OOO-ga! Eine passagier sicherheitsgurt ist nicht gewölbt!
No.
Giselle simply says, “Ding!”
I am sure she’d whisper it if she could.
But getting back to my story, I was in the far left lane, the ostensible fast lane, traveling at about 15 miles an hour (in a 65 mile per hour zone), when Giselle dinged this warning:
“You have a flat tire.”
That was the important part. There were instructions on the video screen that needed to be scrolled through to be fully read, which is not what one should do while driving in traffic with a flat tire.
As it turns out, I have run-flat tires, which I was a little skeptical of when I got the car, but now, having been told by my car that I have a flat tire while driving on the freeway in Los Angeles, I must say I fully appreciate the concept of the run-flat tire now.
I grok run-flat tires in fullness, as Heinlein would say.
I put on my hazard lights, and made my way to the next exit. (I must add here that hazard lights seem to be much more effective than mere turn signals when one desires a lane change in LA traffic. I don’t recommend abusing this knowledge, but it’s nice to know it’s there, you know?)
I found myself a gas station, pulled in and got out to examine my tires.
None of them were flat.
Now, never having actually seen a run-flat tire perform its sacred task, I speculated that perhaps it might not look any different when running sans air, so I checked the tire pressure in all four tires. Both rear tires were at 41 psi. The right front was at 41 psi. The left front was at 39 psi.
Hmmm. Not that big a difference, but to be on the safe side, I filled the left front to match the other three and started the car again.
Still getting the indication of a flat.
So, I asked the gas station cashier for directions to a tire place.
He sent me to his cousin’s place down the street.
To be fair, it might not have been his cousin, but it was another 76 station and the proprietor was also Middle Eastern. So it’s possible that this was, in fact, his cousin’s place.
The guy at the second station made me wait while he checked the pressure in all four tires of another flustered driver and sent him on his way. Then he checked the pressure in all four of my tires and concluded that the sensor was probably bad and suggested I take the car to my dealership for service. The other customer had exactly the same issue, he said.
He gives me vague directions to the BMW dealership in Glendale, which I find easily, but can’t figure out how to get into because it’s under construction. Two trips around the block later (growing increasingly nervous, as I may very well be driving on a punctured tire), I find my way in.
The receptionist is very apologetic about the fact that the service department is 8 blocks away.
I head to the service department.
I explain my predicament to the receptionist, who makes a call, and then tells me that they can schedule me an appointment for Thursday.
It was at this point when my frustration got the best of me. “Thursday? I need an appointment to have a flat tire?” I stop, take a breath, and less psychotically explain that I am already 140 miles from home and that I am en route to San Jose on business. Thursday is out of the question.
She makes another phone call. The service department doesn’t handle tires, anyway, but she can give me directions to the shop where they refer all their tire work. I explain that someone needs to at least reset the tire sensor for me before I go to the tire place.
One of the service representatives walks me out to my car and shows me how to do it. I is actually very easy, and I had thought of performing it myself, but wasn’t sure I could. He makes me promise to get the tire looked at, gives me directions to the tire place, and sends me on my way.
At the tire place, they removed the wheel, examined the tire and found…
No.
Puncture.
Not even a slow leak.
I asked the tire guy to set all the pressures correctly, and while waiting for the chance to back out of the stall, I reread the section of the owner’s manual on the flat tire sensing system.
If the system, when active, senses that one wheel is spinning faster than the other three, it knows that the only way this can happen is if the tire is somehow smaller than the other three. Low tire pressure makes the tire smaller…who knew? According to the manual, a difference of only 3 psi between tires will trigger the alert.
As you and I now know, the system works exactly as it should.
For the remainder of the drive, I kicked myself for not checking the tire pressures…as I should have…before beginning a 460 mile road trip. I assumed that the service inspection I’d had done on the car just a few hundred miles ago would have set the pressures on the tires correctly, and that I had one less thing to worry about.
Writing about this tonight, I realized that the front tires were over-inflated, and that undoubtedly contributed to the leak in the left front. I still should have checked the pressures, but I would have set the pressures to the same for all four tires, just as had been done by the dealership a couple weeks ago, so I wouldn’t have avoided the problem.
With the tire pressure set correctly…I got two miles to the gallon more than I expected. The little excursion off the freeway in Glendale cost me two and a half hours, but not a dime otherwise, and actually saved me money by improving the gas mileage.
Funny how things work.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Curmudgeonly Game
Saturday night, sitting in a bar with Sihaya, I spotted a guy – a white guy, mind you, with dreadlocks that went to his waist. Blond dreadlocks.
Now, some of you might be thinking, “Wow, that guy’s been doing that for a while!”
I’ll admit, that was my first thought, too.
But then, the curmudgeonly side of me popped out of my chest, screeched eerily, bared tiny metallic teeth, and scurried across the barroom floor.
Keep an eye on the cat.
Anyhow, the curmudgeon that was formerly in me thought of the old Jeff Foxworthy routine…the one that made him famous: “…you might be a redneck.”
Taking a slightly different tack on it, I amused myself for several minutes with a little game that begins, “If your dreadlocks are blond, you might be a poser.”
“If you’ve ever touched up a temporary tattoo, you might be a poser.”
“Yo, if you be stawtin yo’ sentinces wit’ `yo’, an you a white boyee, you might be a poser.”
If you’ve got any more ideas, I’d love to read ‘em!
Now, some of you might be thinking, “Wow, that guy’s been doing that for a while!”
I’ll admit, that was my first thought, too.
But then, the curmudgeonly side of me popped out of my chest, screeched eerily, bared tiny metallic teeth, and scurried across the barroom floor.
Keep an eye on the cat.
Anyhow, the curmudgeon that was formerly in me thought of the old Jeff Foxworthy routine…the one that made him famous: “…you might be a redneck.”
Taking a slightly different tack on it, I amused myself for several minutes with a little game that begins, “If your dreadlocks are blond, you might be a poser.”
“If you’ve ever touched up a temporary tattoo, you might be a poser.”
“Yo, if you be stawtin yo’ sentinces wit’ `yo’, an you a white boyee, you might be a poser.”
If you’ve got any more ideas, I’d love to read ‘em!
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Shakespeare on a Midsummer's Night
Arr, me lads and lassies, the birthday plunder this year has been exceedingly good, yes it has.
Sorry. Still sort of in the spirit of "Pirates of the Caribbean" from Saturday.
But seriously, the gifts this year have been pretty sweet. For starters, for the first time in several years, I have a girlfriend. A Significant Other. I've written about it before, of course, but her presence in my life pops everything into sharp relief.
Then, my dad sent me a digital camera. I promise: I will take pictures and post them here for your enjoyment. I have two in mind, for starters…first is the view from my office window, and second, a shot of me and my shiny pate, taken in a mirror, of course. Other pictures will follow, I'm sure.
My daughters gave me a DVD and a gift certificate for a music and video store, so I will go shopping there tomorrow, when the fact that it is my birthday will give me an additional discount.
And Sihaya gave me tickets to this season's San Diego Shakespeare Festival, along with a book containing all of that Shakespeare guy's plays.
Last night was the first of the three: A Midsummer Night's Dream.
I must say that this Shakespeare dude knows his way around a story. I predict good things for him, and I suspect that his plays will (eventually) be very popular.
A Midsummer Night's Dream is pure fun. There are young lovers who quarrel, and doubt, and hate, and then love again. A husband and wife plot against each other, not for anything deadly, but in the way that married couples do when their arguments overshadow their appreciation of each other. Playful spirits, woodland fairies make mischief, and magic is everywhere, as pervasive and cool as mist in the forest.
Watching the Mechanicals rehearse their play-within-a-play, it's easy to imagine that Will might have been poking fun at some of his lesser contemporaries, or even at those with whom he worked most closely.
As a fan of Hamlet, Othello, and Much Ado About Nothing, I have to say that the bawdy side of Will Shakespeare is a welcome discovery.
When Helena says,
"…So we grow together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet an union in partition;
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem…"
…'twas the bark of laughter mine which heard you,
O'er reaching the tittering gallery.
Sorry. Still sort of in the spirit of "Pirates of the Caribbean" from Saturday.
But seriously, the gifts this year have been pretty sweet. For starters, for the first time in several years, I have a girlfriend. A Significant Other. I've written about it before, of course, but her presence in my life pops everything into sharp relief.
Then, my dad sent me a digital camera. I promise: I will take pictures and post them here for your enjoyment. I have two in mind, for starters…first is the view from my office window, and second, a shot of me and my shiny pate, taken in a mirror, of course. Other pictures will follow, I'm sure.
My daughters gave me a DVD and a gift certificate for a music and video store, so I will go shopping there tomorrow, when the fact that it is my birthday will give me an additional discount.
And Sihaya gave me tickets to this season's San Diego Shakespeare Festival, along with a book containing all of that Shakespeare guy's plays.
Last night was the first of the three: A Midsummer Night's Dream.
I must say that this Shakespeare dude knows his way around a story. I predict good things for him, and I suspect that his plays will (eventually) be very popular.
A Midsummer Night's Dream is pure fun. There are young lovers who quarrel, and doubt, and hate, and then love again. A husband and wife plot against each other, not for anything deadly, but in the way that married couples do when their arguments overshadow their appreciation of each other. Playful spirits, woodland fairies make mischief, and magic is everywhere, as pervasive and cool as mist in the forest.
Watching the Mechanicals rehearse their play-within-a-play, it's easy to imagine that Will might have been poking fun at some of his lesser contemporaries, or even at those with whom he worked most closely.
As a fan of Hamlet, Othello, and Much Ado About Nothing, I have to say that the bawdy side of Will Shakespeare is a welcome discovery.
When Helena says,
"…So we grow together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet an union in partition;
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem…"
…'twas the bark of laughter mine which heard you,
O'er reaching the tittering gallery.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Contrast
If you were paying attention, yesterday offered a good picture of what makes this country great.
I spent my morning in front of CNN, watching their live coverage of Discovery’s launch. When I tuned in, the commentators were busy trying to make a news story of the routine, but there really wasn’t much to report. In NASA’s parlance, all systems were “nominal”, so the “controversy” of the morning was whether or not a missing eighth-inch-thick piece of foam was capable of killing another seven astronauts.
Periodically, they’d switch over to cover other things, an interview with Warren Buffett’s grand-daughter about his $37 billion donation to the Gates Foundation, and a few other fluffy stories…and the terrible story of former soldier Steven Green, accused of murdering a young woman’s family, then raping and murdering her.
I’m not going to mince words about the soldiers who’re accused of going off the rez. Whether or not the accusations are true, the political climate will ensure that none of them will get a fair trial.
But this morning, reading the story of the young Iraqi woman apparently raped and murdered by Green, I stumbled across a small statement – that thirty troops have been implicated in the various incidents that have come to light in the last few weeks.
Thirty.
There are 138,000 troops currently serving in Iraq.
Thirty alleged criminals out of a hundred and thirty-eight thousand. Two hundredths of a percent.
The main stream media would have us believe that all American operations in Iraq are vaguely Haditha-shaped, and they show distorted photographs of the mentally ill Steven Green as proof…I didn’t see a single human interest story yesterday about how the troops marked the 4th…just an absurdly stretched mug shot of Green, put up behind the story that he was honorably discharged in March after being diagnosed with a personality disorder.
But think about it: two hundredths of a percent.
I don’t mean to minimize the incidents in Haditha and elsewhere, but I would like to point out that the vast majority of our service members serving in Iraq are doing so with honor, courage, and commitment.
Shortly after Discovery achieved orbit, it struck me that ours is a nation of contrasts. On any given day, you can find rapists and murderers, but also brilliant scientists and engineers working together to put men and women into space.
On our way home from a party last night, Sihaya credited the freedom we have in this country for giving us such contrasts. We can choose, she said, to be a murderer or an engineer, to take lives or to save them. What we do with our choices is less important than the fact that we have them. The truth is that most people will choose to do something good, if given the opportunity…
I’m proud of my country. I’m proud that I had a small part in defending her, in carrying out her foreign policies. I’m proud of the way our leaders conduct themselves in the face of direct threats…and make no mistake, North Korea’s launch of a missile that could reach our Pacific coast yesterday didn’t have to be successful to convey the intended threat…and I’m proud of the way our soldiers and Marines are conducting themselves in nearly impossible circumstances.
There’s a lot to be proud of.
I spent my morning in front of CNN, watching their live coverage of Discovery’s launch. When I tuned in, the commentators were busy trying to make a news story of the routine, but there really wasn’t much to report. In NASA’s parlance, all systems were “nominal”, so the “controversy” of the morning was whether or not a missing eighth-inch-thick piece of foam was capable of killing another seven astronauts.
Periodically, they’d switch over to cover other things, an interview with Warren Buffett’s grand-daughter about his $37 billion donation to the Gates Foundation, and a few other fluffy stories…and the terrible story of former soldier Steven Green, accused of murdering a young woman’s family, then raping and murdering her.
I’m not going to mince words about the soldiers who’re accused of going off the rez. Whether or not the accusations are true, the political climate will ensure that none of them will get a fair trial.
But this morning, reading the story of the young Iraqi woman apparently raped and murdered by Green, I stumbled across a small statement – that thirty troops have been implicated in the various incidents that have come to light in the last few weeks.
Thirty.
There are 138,000 troops currently serving in Iraq.
Thirty alleged criminals out of a hundred and thirty-eight thousand. Two hundredths of a percent.
The main stream media would have us believe that all American operations in Iraq are vaguely Haditha-shaped, and they show distorted photographs of the mentally ill Steven Green as proof…I didn’t see a single human interest story yesterday about how the troops marked the 4th…just an absurdly stretched mug shot of Green, put up behind the story that he was honorably discharged in March after being diagnosed with a personality disorder.
But think about it: two hundredths of a percent.
I don’t mean to minimize the incidents in Haditha and elsewhere, but I would like to point out that the vast majority of our service members serving in Iraq are doing so with honor, courage, and commitment.
Shortly after Discovery achieved orbit, it struck me that ours is a nation of contrasts. On any given day, you can find rapists and murderers, but also brilliant scientists and engineers working together to put men and women into space.
On our way home from a party last night, Sihaya credited the freedom we have in this country for giving us such contrasts. We can choose, she said, to be a murderer or an engineer, to take lives or to save them. What we do with our choices is less important than the fact that we have them. The truth is that most people will choose to do something good, if given the opportunity…
I’m proud of my country. I’m proud that I had a small part in defending her, in carrying out her foreign policies. I’m proud of the way our leaders conduct themselves in the face of direct threats…and make no mistake, North Korea’s launch of a missile that could reach our Pacific coast yesterday didn’t have to be successful to convey the intended threat…and I’m proud of the way our soldiers and Marines are conducting themselves in nearly impossible circumstances.
There’s a lot to be proud of.
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