Burks Law

Veteran's Ink

2012-01-21T11:01:00.000-08:00

So, you want to show support for men and women that have served in our military?

No, really, do you?

If you don't really want to, that's ok.

If you do really want to, keep reading.

There is a company called Veteran's Ink. Here is their website www.veteransink.com

The company is owned by veterans. The company only employs veterans.

The founder is Patrick Sowers. I know him. I've worked with him. He is an Iraq War vet.

Veteran's Ink sells something you should be buying anyway. Ink at prices way less expensive than retail. (Did you know that 80% of Hewlett Packard's profits come from selling ink?)

They also are experts in helping companies and organizations manage printing equipment. Nationwide.

So, if you, your organization, your company, your family, your synagogue, your church, your bank, your city, your mosque, your whatever buys ink and prints stuff, why wouldn't you call or email Patrick and see what Veteran's Ink can do?

You might save alot of money, and in the meantime, create a job for someone that has willingly sacrificed their life for you.

Please pass this along. The unemployment rate amongst Iraq and Afghanistan vets is over 12% and growing. This is the kind of thing we can do to reduce that number without any government help.

Email this to the person at your company that buys ink. Send it to your vendors and suggest they think about it. Email it to all your friends.

Thanks for what you already do, and thanks in advance for helping Veteran's Ink continue to make a difference.

The price of freedom

2012-01-15T21:02:00.000-08:00

I sat next to four gentleman in their 60s today. They were loud talkers.

They were opining about the Marines in Afghanistan that appear to have made some unfortunate decisions.

Their conversation took them into a discussion of the mindset of today's American military.

They took a number of different views.

Some expressed empathy with soldiers dealing with incomprehensible difficulties.

Some considered all folks in the military to be dumbasses.

These were comfortable men. Wealthy men.

None ever wore the cloth of the nation.

I could have just left them alone.

But, I didn't. I couldn't.

On my way past them, I offered them a thought.

Their conversation wasn't theoretical. The people they were empathizing with or complaining about were real.

I told them to keep talking. But I wanted to remind them that they were talking about people as real as them, their kids, their neighbors. I didn't disagree with them. I didn't agree with them. I didn't have any answers. I just wanted them to know there are very real Americans that are doing a very difficult job on their behalf out of love of country.

Three of them shook my hand and shook their heads in disbelief.

They said thank you. They said, "I'm sorry." They said they appreciated the reality check.

But one of them was different.

He ignored me. He did not offer a handshake. He blew me off.

And with his actions, he blew off all the folks that serve and protect our country at the behest of our Commanders in Chief.

I've come to accept him and those like him. I don't understand him, but I don't have to. It is his right to not give a damn.

I'm just glad that his type isn't the majority. Yet.

I'm more proud of the people I know that are in harms way tonight to protect his point of view.

It isn't the fault of the military. It is the fault of politicians.

When our country sends folks to war, they ought to do a better job of getting the citizenry to be supportive.

It is scary to think of our all volunteer military being at the beck and call of a politician without the support of the American people.

I'm not smart enough to be a woman. Part two.

2011-12-29T15:24:00.000-08:00

Woman have to be smarter than men.

They have so many more choices. Issues. Decisions. Options. Possibilities. Worries.

Let's start with just getting ready to go out of the house.

A man can get ready for anything in twelve minutes. Work. Hunting. Black tie. Golf. Twelve minutes.

Do his necessary business.

Shower with Ivory soap.

Shave (maybe, or partially).

Brush his teeth.

Arrange the mop of hair on his head if he still has any.

Put his clothes on.

Done.

A man can be perfectly attired anywhere in the world for any occasion with this as his entire wardrobe.

One black suit.

One white shirt.

One pair of jeans.

One black tie.

One pair of black socks.

One pair of black cap-toed lace-up shoes.

One pair of boots.

Underwear optional.

Not nearly so easy for women.

Let's start at the getting clean part. Well, only because the necessary business part isn't polite. But gents, women sell something to each other called PooPourri. I swear. Look it up. Number one selling item in those stores that sell women everything they want and nothing they need.

But then it starts in earnest.

Bath? Shower? Both?

Soap? Scented or unscented? If scented, which scent?

And or, exfoliating or non-exfoliating scrub? Bath or shower gel? Bath or shower oil? Bath or shower salts? Or bubble bath? Or milk bath? Or milk bubble bath?

Wash cloth? Loofah? Bath brush? Poof?

And then when the bathing is over, there is the next set of infinite choices that must be dealt with.

Just how emollient do you need to be today? Tubes, jars, pumps, bottles, sprays. Oils, creams, lotions, with and without scent.

Oh lordy, and the hard part hasn't even started.

A female business associate I once worked with explained it this way to her always waiting male counterparts at the start of the business day.

"You don't have to complete a painting every morning, now do you?"

I have no idea what order these things are used in. But here is at least a partial list.

Powder.

Cleanser.

Foundation.

Concealer.

Shimmer. Not to be confused with Glow.

Blush.

Bronzer.

Rouge.

And then there are eyes. Mascara. Eyelash curler things that scare the willy out of me. Eyeshadow. Eyeliner. Brow liner.

And then lips. Gloss. Stick. Liner. Cream.

Please remember, for each and everything listed in the previous fifty lines of copy there are exactly one jillion choices of colors, scents, brands, and designers. Not to mention the various tools, brushes, applicators and other weapons of the alchemist.

This is why Alan Jackson sings,

I'm sorry I got mad, waitin' in the truck;
It seemed like hours, you gettin' all dressed up,
Just to go to Shoney's on a Wednesday night.

All the while the buffing has been going on, she has to plan what she is going to wear. And here the number of choices and the reasons why are impossible to calculate.

Who will I see today? Have they seen me in this before? Am I trying to impress, hide, flirt, be sedate, be outrageous, intimidate, please, infuriate, accentuate, emasculate or all of the above?

Dress. Skirt. Shorts. City shorts. Skort. Cullotes. Knickers. Sweaters. Blouses. Shrugs. Tank tops. Tube tops. Halter tops. Camisoles. Jeans. Leggings. Jeggings. Tights. Yoga pants. Cotton. Wool. Indigo. Gold lame. Angora. Sequined. Lycra. Spandex. Darts. Empire waist. Hollywood waist. Belt or not belt. Shawl. Oh shoot me now.

And don't forget, there is an entire selection process of mysterious undergarments that must be selected from. Colors. Fabrics. Appropriateness for the occasion. (What? Different underwear for different occasions?)

I have a daughter in the fashion retail business. They make trunkloads of money selling things that go under the clothes. Things like Spanx. And dimmers. (I wish I had invented those. $25 for two pieces of molded plastic to eliminate public party hats.)

And these are universal issues for women.

A few years ago, I was shopping on a Saturday afternoon on Oxford Street in London. In one quaint shop,. there was a woman covered in full burqa buying the tiniest dental floss g-string thong thing in the brightest color of purple. Allah be praised, indeed.

Shoes? Did someone say shoes?

Have you been in a DSW? Or Nordstrom's? There are two pair of guys shoes in the corner. The other 87,000 square feet are filled with shoes for the lady.

Flats. Platforms. Low heels. Mid heels. Stiletto heels. Mary Janes. Clogs. Boots. Booties. Knee high boots. Thigh high boots.

Slings. Pumps. Sandals. Thongs. Flip flops. Mules. Skimmers.

Open toed and closed toe. (Although Nancy Reagan did say a woman should never let her toes show in public, and things seemed to work out well for her.)

Oh, and then there is hair maintenance.

With the exception of monastic Buddhists and Miss Tanzania, most women don't shave their heads. (And after seeing Sinead O'Connor's recent photos, hallelujah.)

Those with long hair want it short. Those with straight hair want it curly. Those with brown hair want it blonde. Some want it purple. Seems very few want it grey.

So everyday for a significant number of women in this world, it's going to be a bad hair day. After various options of shampoo, conditioner, straightener, curl, pomade, spray, teasing, brushing, combing, and those Satanic creations called hair dryers, it still don't look right.

Women around the world have to deal with the politics of gender in culture, business, government, and law.

Women around the world have more complex plumbing systems and therefore more health issues.

Cysts. When's the last time a man had to worry about a cyst?

Cancers of various parts of the body that men don't even have.

The whole reproductive cycle, peak breeding years, pregnancy (no man has ever died birthing a child), lactation, birth control that too often falls solely on the woman, hormones, menstruation, chapped nipples, breast infections, yeast infections, menopause.

And yet, women handle all this and typically live longer than their male counterparts.

And in the meantime, raise children, start businesses, create art, and make homes out of houses.

God said, "It is not good for man to be alone." Because he made man with limited capacity. Man couldn't multitask. So woman was created to be the perfect complement to man.

I'm sure glad it turned out this way.

What time is the Outback Bowl?

The Christmas Angel

2011-12-24T11:57:00.000-08:00

I ordered the apron for mom out of a mail order catalog. It was a November in the early 1960's.

Everyday after, I would check the mail.

"Dad, did a package come for me today?"

"Nope. What'cha looking for?"

"Ah, nothing much. Probably tomorrow.."

When school was let out for Christmas, I started meeting the mailman at the end of our driveway everyday.

Seven days to go. Six. Five.

My heart began to sink.

Then a package would show. But it wasn't mine. Not the one.

Three. Two.

On Christmas Eve, we were busy getting ready. for the best day of the year.

Packages being wrapped. Fruit cakes being sliced. Ambrosia being chilled. Phone ringing. Big Papa and Momie stopping by to see what was going on. Looking forward to seeing all my cousins.

In the joy and warmth and excitement, I lost track of the mailman.

He had come and gone that Christmas Eve.

My mom was the center of my universe. She loved Christmas. She loved to spread joy. She loved to cook those once a year specialties.

I had spent hours picking out just that special gift. I had paid for it in cash with allowance money stored in my honey butter jar. It was the finest apron ever made.

But now it wasn't here. I had nothing for my mom for Christmas.

"What's wrong", mom asked. "You act like Santa isn't coming!"

Little did she know how right she was.

As I moped around late that afternoon, I tried to think of something I could do for her since I had no gift. Help around the house? Draw her a picture?

I was in a total stew.

And then I heard the sweetest words.

"Oh, look. The mailman came back. He said he had overlooked something."

It was nearly dark on Christmas Eve. And here comes the mailman with my mom's apron.

She wore it every Christmas till she died.

Thank you, Christmas Angel.

That Christmas about 50 years ago, you appeared as a mailman.

Wonder what you will look like this year?

I'm not smart enough to be a woman. Part One.

2011-12-13T14:49:00.000-08:00

Second only to my forthcoming bestseller, "Cats and Dogs, an Explanation of the Differences between Men and Women", my new friend Mark Gungor explains it best.

Women are superior.

One more thing I wish I'd said

2011-12-12T14:11:00.000-08:00

Before we got married, my wife and I attended a course on marriage.

The teacher was a very interesting guy named Billy Grammer.

At the first class, we quickly figured out he was going to be deep.

Billy shared this point of view:

"The basic structure of the universe is one of paradox or dialectic, which is the phenomenon of two interacting forces, each of which find their meaning in the context of the other (male/female, talker/listener, maximizer/minimizer, spender/saver, etc.). On the surface there are two opposite polarities, each apparently contradicting the other, but what is found on a deeper level is the truth that both polarities are needed to express a greater truth and a greater reality. The tension that exists between these polarities is the drive mechanism for personal growth. The great temptation is to eradicate one side of the polarity so as to bring instant ‘relief’ from the tension generated by the two opposites. The point is this: God has designed the universe with this built-in tension so as to push us toward the journey of growth (death and resurrection). We, in turn, are very reluctant to grow and wish to constantly get out of this tension so that we don’t have to grow. The truth is that every relationship we participate in forces us to face this dilemma."

It was at that moment I heard one of the funniest statements ever uttered.

A friend of 25 years in the class said, "Oh, that explains it. I'm not smart enough to be married."

I still laugh out loud when I think of him saying it with perfect pitch, perfect timing, and just enough volume to let all that needed to hear it, hear it.

And it wasn't just that it's funny, it's probably true. At least for me. But I muddle thru anyway.

When's the last time you and your betrothed discussed the dialectic? Or your polarity?

And now that I think of it, there's alot of things I'm probably not smart enough to be.

Hmm, more to ponder.

Why are we so entrusting of a man with an aborted lamb fetus for a hat?

2011-12-04T21:01:00.000-08:00

Hamid Friggin' Karzai.

Quaraqul hat.

Technicolor robe.

Nehru shirt.

Heart as black as Newgate's knocker.

But we western fools have propped him up as the titular head of Afghanistan. Cause he looked good. Heck, he was on Esquire's 2007 list of 10 best dressed men in the world.

Unto him we will entrust what the men and women of our militaries and information services have worked for, been wounded for, died for.

Hamid can't control his own brother, much less Afghanistan.

Hamid has already figured out life without NATO.

His ass will be grass when he can't hide behind our ACUs anymore.

So, he's made clear his allegiance to Pakistan over the United States.

He's making entreaties to those nice folks over at the Taliban offices.

Such as this sweet example of justice.

A 19 year old Afghan woman was recently raped. And impregnated by her rapist. For her troubles, she was thrown in prison for adultery. See, under the Talib way of thinking, it's her fault.

Oh, but wait. Old Hamid has stepped in to rectify this.

All this woman needs to do is agree to marry the man that raped her, and she will be pardoned.

And to this bastard, we are going to hand over security gains we've made against the Taliban and al Qaeda in that lawless land and entrust him with maintaining.

We will deserve it when the next 9/11 happens.

The awesome, queer, niggardly irony

2011-11-30T14:14:00.000-08:00

One day soon, we are going to run out of words.

We so misuse, overuse, abuse and infuse our language. Many great words can’t be used because their real meaning has been lost.

“That is awesome, man. My car is awesome. My team is awesome. My new phone is TOTALLY awesome .”

Really? Awe is an overwhelming feeling of reverence, admiration, fear, etc., produced by that which is grand, sublime, extremely powerful, or the like: in awe of God; in awe of great political figures.

Your crap isn’t awesome. You might well like it, but awesome it ain’t.

For clarification, try this. Churchill is to awesome as Obama is to underwhelming.

Once upon a time, queer meant odd. Unusual. Out of alignment. It was a great word to describe something that seemed out of whack. “That’s a queer little house in the midst of these mansions.”

At some time a century or so ago, the word queer was used to describe homosexual men. In a derogatory way. Eventually, queer became a common slang term used in a negative connotation by heterosexuals. Queer became a way to put down someone who clearly wasn’t homosexual. “Oh, quit being a queer.”

Then, the word queer was adopted by homosexuals of all types as their own moniker. Like the television show Queer as Folk.

And now, maybe queer is bad again. I think it may have been replaced by gay. Which is misappropriating another perfectly good word. Do any of us now sing, “Don we now our gay apparel” and not have visions of Carson Kressley in our head? And thinking of that verse, when’s the last time you donned something?

So can I use queer or gay anywhere without causing a ruckus?

It’s become almost as difficult as the word black.

For example. Several years ago, in a mind numbing governmental meeting of the Dallas County Commissioners, there was a discussion of issues related to collecting unpaid traffic tickets. Commissioner Kenneth Mayfield stated, “It sounds like Central Collections has become a black hole.” Seems like a cynical, sad, true statement of missing money at a government agency.

But, no. Dallas County Commissioner John Wiley Price and other Dallas County officials said that Commissioner Mayfield had just uttered a racist statement and demanded an apology.

You see. Commissioner Mayfield is, er, white. Or flesh. Or Anglo American. Or Northern European American. Or a honky. I don’t know, but you get the point.

And the offended county officials were, well, black. Or Negroid. Or colored. Or brown. Or African American. Or Caribbean American. Anyway, they were offended.

That event took place about the same time that I and my son Zac got a great English lesson.

Zac was in the sixth grade at an upscale private school in Dallas. And one fine week, his English teacher handed out their spelling words. And on that list was the word niggardly.

Some quick background. Zac’s two best friends from the time he was old enough to walk until they moved away during elementary school years were twin brothers who lived across the street from us. Cody and Cory Hill. And they had a different skin color than Zac. Thankfully, not one of them ever thought anything was different about any of them. They were just kids.

When he transferred from public school to this private school in the sixth grade, Zac made a new best friend. His name was Chris. And Chris had the same color skin as Cody and Cory. Which was a different color than Zac’s. And Chris was one of about three kids in the whole school whose skin color was different than Zac’s.

Chris and Zac made each other laugh constantly. They could make eye contact and crack up.

And so when the teacher of English handed out the words of the week, Chris looked at Zac. And they both started laughing. And tears rolled down their 11 year old cheeks from trying not to wizz in their pants. Because they saw the irony in the situation.

And Zac got hauled to the principal’s office. Because the teacher assumed wrongly that Zac was misappropriating the word niggardly. And I got called to the principal’s office. And despite my protestations, Zac was suspended for a day for being racially insensitive.

From then on, I was niggardly with my donations to that school.

Oh, how ironic. Or was that coincidental? Or paradoxical? Or bad luck? Or, just plain dumb?

The Magic Playhouse

2011-11-25T08:53:00.000-08:00

This is so cool.

Can't find it on the internet.

Not at any Black Friday sale.

If you can find one, you are extremely lucky.

It's called The Magic Playhouse.

You can crawl into this thing and you are transported.

One section is called The Dream Lair.

These are the directions on the outside:

"If you enter, make sure you make a wish because your dream will come true."

And then this:

"Star Light,
Star Bright.
First Star I see tonight.
I wish I may,
I wish I might
Have this wish
I wish tonight.

-Read this when you make your wish"

Inside The Dream Lair there is a very tranquil room with lots of tiny lights that poke thru the ceiling. You can lay on your back and imagine they are the stars. It is amazing how free, and warm, and safe, and fun it is. You can imagine almost anything in there, and it comes true.

On the other side of The Magic Playhouse is The Color Dome. Here, there are no rules other than to have fun. And have fun with color. Crayons. Pens. Markers. Chalk. Colored duct tape.

You can color the floor, walls and ceiling. Anything you want! And no grown ups can or will be upset!

There is a skylight and a window to allow enough light in so you can see all the colors.

Boys love it. They imagine forts. And race cars. And spaceships.

But girls really love it. It's where we can talk to our best friend and imagine what the world will be like and then it becomes real.

Grown ups just don't get it. Which is what makes it so awesome.

And best of all, you can't buy it. And each one is totally unique.

The one we just got is starting to wear out. Boys just don't take good care of things. Is there anyplace where they don't like to wrestle?

If I'm lucky, the next one will be even bigger. My daddy says there is a store that sells refrigerators nearby and they have really big boxes.

A Day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our Almighty Father

2011-11-23T15:21:00.000-08:00

By the President of the United States of America.

A Proclamation.

The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God. In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, which has sometimes seemed to foreign States to invite and to provoke their aggression, peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been maintained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere except in the theatre of military conflict; while that theatre has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union. Needful diversions of wealth and of strength from the fields of peaceful industry to the national defence, have not arrested the plough, the shuttle or the ship; the axe has enlarged the borders of our settlements, and the mines, as well of iron and coal as of the precious metals, have yielded even more abundantly than heretofore. Population has steadily increased, notwithstanding the waste that has been made in the camp, the siege and the battle-field; and the country, rejoicing in the consiousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years with large increase of freedom. No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.

In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and caused the Seal of the United States to be affixed.

Done at the City of Washington, this Third day of October, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, and of the Independence of the Unites States the Eighty-eighth.

By the President: Abraham Lincoln

Sentient Beings

2011-11-17T08:31:00.000-08:00

I was expecting the letter.

Although we had not anticipated any issue with the fire community about the TV commercial, we had spent considerable time talking about the parakeet. (If this blog makes no sense, please read the entry from a few days ago called, "When the air is on fire")

We expected some nutjob would protest that the man might have saved his pants before he saved the bird. Even though the bird is shown safe and sound at the end of the spot.

So, when an envelope from the good folks at P.E.T.A. showed up on my desk, I was ready.

Love 'em or hate 'em, you have to hand it to the folks in that ugly little building in Norfolk, Virginia. They know how to get noticed. They know how to use the media. They have a strategy and they execute it.

One of their ways of creating a ruckus is their annual bad behavior awards. The mainstream media just love to cover them.

Their modus operandi is to review advertising that depict animals in any way. They then determine whether or not in their estimation it is a positive or a negative depiction. If it is negative, they then send a "threatening" letter to the advertiser stating that said company and agency risks getting a Litterbox award if they don't stop running said ad. So if you don't bow to their threat, they get you. If you do bow to their threat, they also get you by announcing your willingness to negotiate with terrorists.

I already had my response letter written in my head. Not only had we saved the parakeet, we had already pulled the commercial so as to be kind to humans! And we had done it BEFORE we ever heard from P.E.T.A.

Their letter started as expected. Yep, we risked being on P.E.T.A.'s naughty list.

But then I was thrilled when I read what had them upset.

It wasn't about the parakeet at all.

We had offended cats.

In a magazine ad directed at young men, we had written something to the effect of, "The only bad thing about having a girlfriend is having to allow her cat to sit on your khakis."

The folks at P.E.T.A. said that cats were "sentient beings". Our ad had the potential to cause many a cat hurt feelings.

I still remember the note back to them. We explained that we had tried to focus group the ad with cats, but they showed total disinterest.

And we made a commitment. No more cat jokes, on one condition.

P.E.T.A. had to show us at least one cat that could read.

Still waiting on their response.

Jello World

2011-11-16T10:45:00.000-08:00

Lemme tell ya, I am dis many years old.

And when I have a nudder birthday, I think I'm going to be ten. Or nineteen.

I got to spend the night with just me with PaPa and Lalea. Bubba didn't get to come. It was my birthday. Bubba is having his birthday night with PaPa and Lalea next year sometime.

PaPa and Lalea took me to the greatest place to eat ever. Jello World.

PaPa and I got there firstest. And we sat outside. And some people walked in. They were old. And had sticks cause they had broke their legs. I'm Superman. So when I broke my leg, I didn't need a stick. Cause I'm tough. Look at my muscles. They are made of steel.

PaPa is made of mushy stuff.

So when we went inside, it was awesome. I got to pick out whatever I wanted for supper. PaPa said they had more Jello than anybody. I got blue.

And chicken fingers. And salad with lots of ranch dressing. And macaroni. And mashed potatoes.

PaPa said we had to wash our hands first. He's so crazy. He has crazy hair. He says to sing Happy Birthday when I wash my hands. That way my hands will be clean.

But I had to go potty. And that made PaPa have to go potty.

Poor PaPa. He doesn't have Transformers underwear.

And then we went to PaPa and Lalea's house. And I got presents. I got a soccer ball. And I got cleats. The bump things on the shoes make me go fast when I run.

And then I got a Harry Potter cupcake.

And I'm a super hero. I'm Juggernaut. I can go fast.

Then Lalea read me a book. I took a bubble bath. I don't like diving. Wonder if I have nudder presents?

I don't like Dolphin Tales. I like Captain America.

Then PaPa read me a book. I like it. Wonder if I can take it home to show Bubba.

And I tried to go to sleep. I had a dream about baseball cause I'm gonna be a baseball man.

Then I got up and crawled in bed with PaPa and Lalea. They were drinking coffee. I don't use coffee.

And I had a biscuit. But I don't really like biscuits. And I don't use any eggs. My muscles are really big.

Then we played soccer. And I got a dragon blood snow cone. I breathed fire on PaPa.

And I got to swing. Why do these shoes have bumps on the bottom?

A thank you note

2011-11-14T07:28:00.000-08:00

2LT Peter Haskell Burks was KIA in Baghdad, Iraq on November 14, 2007.

In May of 2008, we sent the following letter to thousands that had so honored Pete and so touched our family. It seems fitting to share it again as the circle of support has continued to grow.

To the thousands of you that have sent your love, support, letters, hugs, time, cards, boxes for the troops, phone calls, donations, flowers, blogs and emails,

Thank you.

You have encouraged us. You have reminded us of the strength of love, friendship and love of country. You have honored Peter’s life and his sacrifice. You have continued Peter’s legacy of service and giving. We have been in the middle of a circle of love that has amazed us. “It is the most beautiful experience we hope no one else has to go through.”

Peter inspired us all because he talked the talk and walked the walk. If you will indulge me, let me expound.

Peter was a solid athlete, but not the greatest athlete ever to walk the earth. He knew that.

But he had as good a heart as any competitor could have. He valued a team win more than anything. And he would work until he puked his guts out to make it happen. That is why he was awarded the “Unsung Hero” award by his high school football coaches.

And that is why we created the “Peter Burks Unsung Hero Fund” in his honor. The fund was created because immediately after learning of his death, we were confronted by the questions of “flowers or donations”. Nothing wrong with flowers, because they are remembered and they do comfort. But with no better idea, we created the “Peter Burks Unsung Hero Fund” with the purpose of carrying on Peter’s legacy.

He told us time and again that his job was to get his men home safe. Peter also felt a bit guilty because he had a strong support network that many of his soldiers did not have. His guys were excited when mail call came because Pete seemed to always be receiving some goodies from home that he would share. Just before he was killed, Peter had sent an email to Missy asking for help in gathering supplies of goodies that his men didn’t get from home or couldn’t get from the PX.

Since then, thru the fund and on your own, you have shown Peter and the other soldiers that we support them unconditionally. We have sent over three tons of love in the form of snacks, videogames, toothbrushes, etc. We have sent so much love that the Chaplain for Peter’s unit has set up a store where the troops can come in and “shop” for free. There stands now in the Green Zone in Baghdad something called the “Burks Country Store”. It opened on Christmas Eve. Hundreds of soldiers have been the beneficiaries of your love and support, and the store will continue to be restocked and expanded as we continue to be able to support it.

Peter joined the Army of his own choice. Peter had felt a calling to serve his country via the military since he was a very young man. Peter had choices amongst the branches of the military, and he chose the Army.

Peter was a student of world history. He understood the current global conflict because he understood its roots from ancient times.

In America today, we have a professional military. In other words, the men and women that serve do so of their own choosing. Their reasons vary: love of country, money for college, a taste for violence, the camaraderie, avoiding the lifeless soul of corporate work or a thousand other reasons. Peter was a professional soldier. He knew going in that one of the truisms was that, “the country will send you where it needs you and you die if necessary”. Peter understood that. He told us that. He wrote us that. Do not feel sorry for Peter Burks. He died doing what he believed in and doing a job that he loved.

And, he is not alone. As of this writing, over 4000 American soldiers have died in Iraq.

Also, do not feel sorry for Peter because he lived a life fulfilled. At 26, he accomplished what he wanted. He loved unconditionally and was loved unconditionally. He met his life mate. He fought for what he believed in. He had fun. He had convictions, he lived them, and he is at peace knowing that he never compromised.

Not surprisingly, Peter died with no debt. Specifically, no financial debt. So far as I can tell, Peter owed no other debts either. He had told the people he loved that he loved them. He told the people he disagreed with that he disagreed with them. He lived his passions. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder when death came to meet him.

Peter’s life was one of selflessness. He lived for others. He died for others. His role model was Jesus of Nazareth. Whether or not you believe that Jesus was the Christ, the life history of Jesus is not disputed. Peter, as Jesus, was a net giver. He gave much more than he took.

Peter was a young man raised on Southern cooking, Christian principles and the love of a good fair fight. Like football. He was not the least bit concerned that the possibility of winning or losing might hurt someone’s feelings. He believed in the concept of “iron sharpening iron”. Competing with and against the best could only make one better.

Upon graduation from Officer Candidate School, Peter was commissioned a 2^nd Lieutenant and went on to Field Artillery School and Ranger School. He was then assigned to the 2^nd Cavalry Regiment. Once, the Cavalry rode horses. Today, the Cavalry rides Strykers. One of the Army’s newest vehicles, it is both an armed personnel carrier and a lethal strike weapon equipped with a number of powerful guns.

Peter was sent first to Taji and then to Baghdad and was the leader of Thunder Platoon, Palehorse Troop, 4^th Squadron, 2^nd Stryker Brigade. He was put in charge of 17 soldiers including veteran Sergeants and fresh graduates of basic training, 3 Stryker vehicles, and two Iraqi interpreters. Peter told us time and again that his job was to deal with the enemy, complete his missions, but above all, get his men home safe.

Their mission was to patrol and keep safe a sector of Baghdad that had been previously cleared out of insurgents by other Stryker units. They believed their sector to be one of the safest in Baghdad.

On November 14, Peter was leading his platoon back to their base in the Green Zone in Baghdad after a night out on patrol. The three Strykers were within a few yards of entering the gate to the Green Zone. They were literally getting ready to turn into their driveway. They were directly in front of the Iraqi police station there that is intended to ensure safety for military, local Iraqis, and the media in the area.

At about 8am, an EFMP (explosively formed penetrator) was detonated just to the right of Peter’s vehicle. The EFMP was a cluster of 5 bombs hidden in a light pole. The bombs sent white hot liquefied copper into and around the Stryker. Peter was standing in the right rear hatch with his shoulders outside the vehicle looking out for his platoon. There were five soldiers in Peter’s vehicle. Almost all were knocked unconscious by the power of the explosion. The shrapnel hit three soldiers. One was blinded in at least one eye. One has hit in the leg. And Peter took a chunk of the shrapnel into the right side of his head which penetrated his brain, and caused his death.

We know that the soldier blinded is doing ok and is back in the U.S. getting treatment at Walter Reed. The soldier with the leg injury is in Germany. The rest of the soldiers were back on patrol within a few days.

The EFMP was made in Iran. This was no coffee can of nuts and bolts. This was a sophisticated device that the enemy has learned to make that now trumps our technology. The Stryker was built to be impenetrable. It isn’t.

Who placed the EFMP? Well, certainly the police in that station were involved. We will probably never know for sure, but the only group to claim responsibility is JAMI. You can look them up on the internet. They are an Islamic group vowed to kill any occupiers of Iraq by non-Muslims. They are not directly owned by al Qaeda, but they are inspired by al Qaeda. They are Iraqi nationalists that are bound to fight to the death to protect Iraq, the second most holy country in all of Islam, from foreign occupation. There have also been fingers pointed at Shiite militias. We will probably never know and never understand the exact motive.

Peter understood the madness that exists in Iraq and the Middle East. He had read the script provided by the book that he encouraged us all to read, “Imperial Hubris” by Michael Scheuer. He considered Mr. Scheuer and Col. Ralph Peters as heroes because they dared to speak the truth about the world war that “radical Islam” has ordered against the United States and what we must do to survive and win this war.

Peter died a soldier’s death. He was on his mission as directed by his commanders and was doing his best to protect his men.

So, what? What do we all learn from this? What should we do?

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but here are some thoughts on “what”:

-That we are at war. That there are soldiers that have volunteered to fight the fight. Real men and women with families fighting a strange war in a scary place. Show them you appreciate them in any way you can.

-That the war in Iraq is being mismanaged as it has been since its outset. We went to war over WMDs. Then we were about regime change. Then we were into spreading democracy. Now it is a fight with al Qaeda.

-That our government, our military leaders, and our soldiers on the ground cannot say clearly what the mission in Iraq is.

-That our enemy does not respect the Geneva Convention or any other convention of war. They fight to achieve their objectives, just as the Japanese did in the South Pacific in World War II. They observe no rules. They wear no uniforms. Our military is required to fight as if they did. How does one separate a jihadist from the other populace?

One of the issues that Peter was concerned about are our Rules of Engagement. That is a fancy way of saying how our military must fight. For example, if our military sees an enemy sniper shooting at U.S. soldiers, we can shoot him if he is behind his gun with his finger on the trigger. But, if the sniper gets up and starts running, we cannot shoot him. We have to try to arrest him. Make sense to you?

We are playing into our enemy’s hands. They know our rules, and they take advantage. They kill our soldiers with barbaric ferocity. Yet, our soldiers are restricted in their response. The enemy knows of our political correctness, and takes advantage of it. They know our freedom of speech and freedom of religion, and they are taking advantage of those. They know how to use the internet and the media to spread terror. They show beheadings on their websites. Our media doesn’t show us the burned U.S. soldiers’ bodies hanging from a bridge over the Tigris for concern it will upset us. WE SHOULD BE UPSET. AND WE WOULD BE IF WE SAW WHAT WAS REALLY HAPPENING.

They can behead our soldiers. They can behead an entire group that does not agree with them.

Yet, if one of our soldiers in the heat of battle puts a bullet in the head of an enemy soldier, he can be called out for a criminal act.

We are in a world war called by radical Islam, as directed by Osama bin Laden. We didn’t declare it. Islam, under the call of Osama bin Laden, declared it. If you will read books such as “Imperial Hubris” and “The Looming Tower”, you will understand why bin Laden has declared war on us. Radical Islam has also attacked on every continent with the exception of Antarctica. Apparently the penguins haven’t offended them. Yet.

As Americans, we need to come to grips with this.

Peter disagreed with our strategies in dealing with the Global War on Terror, but he signed up and went nevertheless.

This letter is a call to you to get informed and get involved. Support our troops. Support our politicians, but challenge their policies and strategies. Why do we have such a presence in Iraq if we believe that the real issue is in Afghanistan? Could it be that Iraq has lots of oil and Afghanistan has none?

Those who have studied this conflict with Islam predict that it is going to eventually be fought on U.S. soil unless we change our strategies.

Peter is dead. If he were alive, he would be saying this. Take the battle to the enemy. Kill them. Punish them until they give. Let us as Americans be so smart and brave as to be totally independent of foreign soil for anything. Including, but specifically, oil.

Peter wanted to live the American dream. He wanted to marry his love, Melissa “Missy” Haddad. He wanted a house with a white picket fence, kids and dogs running around the yard.

Well, as much as he deserved it, he didn’t get to live out his dream.

Was it his fault? Was it the fault of a poorly executed mission? Was it the fault of a poorly thought out American strategy? Was it the result of our laziness and dependence on cheap oil?

What we know is that Peter was killed by shrapnel from an Iranian made explosive device detonated by Iraqi police outside the Green Zone in Baghdad.

How and why did he and that bomb get into that place at the same time? That is a question we must ask on behalf of our soldiers and for America in this world conflict. Was it worth it? What did this gain us as a country? Are we safer because of this sacrifice?

Friends, we are at a precipice.

We are at war because radical Islam under the banner of Osama bin Laden has declared it.

Until the United States has a strategy and the willpower to deal with this as a military conflict rather than a police action, we will continue to lose soldiers while the enemy gains strength.

In our attempt to continue Peter’s legacy, we urge you to get educated on the issues that have created this conflict. We encourage you to continue to support the troops in any way you can. We stress that this is not the military’s issue alone, it is your issue as well.

We urge you to get educated, get involved, and take a stand.

For all that you have done and continue to do for Peter and for us, thank you. Your prayers bring peace. Your thoughts bring strength. Your voices bring comfort.

God is with us. Peter is with us. Love is with us.

“No matter the circumstance, we must remember that we are under the control of a good God who loves us very much.”

-email from Pete to Missy in November, 2007

With love and gratitude,

The Burks Family

When the air is on fire

2011-11-09T13:24:00.000-08:00

Herman Cain.

Penn State University.

Bank of America.

When the leering press descend on you, it is like the air is on fire.

From the breath of life to an all consuming inferno. Danger in every direction. No way out. Feeding on itself with no clear source of fuel except human speculation.

Doesn't matter if you are in the right or in the wrong. The media smells a hot story, and they will do most anything for a scoop.

I've experienced it twice.

It happened when Pete was killed. It's amazing how fast folks with microphones, cameras and deadlines can find your front door.

The other time was a business situation.

In 1996, I was the Chief Marketing Officer at Haggar Clothing Co.

We introduced a new khaki in September of that year. It really was a great pant. The kind of clothing item you just fall in love with because it is soft, fits great, looks great. It was even wrinkle-free.

Haggar was #2 to Dockers in the khaki world. As a strategy, we took every opportunity to let them and the rest of the world know we had better mousetraps.

So, we named it The Ultimate Khaki.

And to prove it was The Ultimate Khaki, we asked our advertising agency to convince America that men really would love this pant.

Goodby, Silverstein & Partners were, and might still be, the best agency going. They invented cultural icons like, Got Milk? Louie the wisecracking chameleon for Budweiser. And more recently, Chevy Runs Deep.

Our agency created one of the best televisions spots ever. It was funny. It was surprising. It sold pants. Too bad it only got to run twice.

The commercial opened with a father rushing his family out of their burning home.

As you see them running thru the flames, the camera would cut to their pet parakeet. Sweet little bird, chirping away, looking a bit anxious on the perch in his cage.

Once the family is safe outside, the father has an "OH NO" moment.

He rushes back into the blazing house. In his pajamas, he runs like a gazelle. More quick cuts of the bird. The man jumps over burning timbers. He is on a desperate rescue mission.

We see him searching frantically thru the flames and the smoke and the panic.

And then . . .

He finds his Ultimate Khaki. Safe and sound.

We all thought it was fabulous. Our retailers thought it was fabulous. The consumers we tested it with thought it was fabulous.

We put it on network TV in the Major League Baseball playoffs. You remember, that year when Jeffrey Maier became a household name when as a 12 year old kid he deflected a ball into the right field stands at Yankee Stadium out of the glove of Tony Tarasco of the Baltimore Orioles?

We aired it that first night of the playoffs. Twice.

And response from the market the next morning was terrific.

But on that morning after, a note appeared in a newspaper in a small town in Wisconsin.

It seems that our commercial had caught the attention of the chief of the local fire department. He was very upset that a commercial would depict what fire departments preach against. That being, returning to a burning house to retrieve anything.

And he was especially torqued off because that very week was National Fire Safety Week.

And so, the reporter for that small paper with a circulation of less than 2,000 called me. He wanted to know if we were going to listen to the concerns of his local fire chief and stop running the commercial.

I told the reporter that we could understand the chief's concern, but this was clearly just a silly commercial. It was a harmless joke.

The reporter shared my thoughts with the chief. And the chief's response was to say that we should do the honorable thing and stop airing the commercial.

And the reporter wrote what the chief said. And then the Associated Press picked up the story. And they called wanting to know what we were going to do.

The story had become small town fire chief vs. $500 million company.

Haggar was a great corporate citizen of Dallas. We knew the fire chief. I called and asked to meet with him.

I showed him the commercial. He laughed. Alot. And then he looked at me and said, "Alan, I get it. It's a joke. But if you don't take it off the air, the fire community will tear you apart in the media. You can put words on the screen to say, 'Dramatization'. You can put words on the screen that say, 'This is a joke. Don't ever do this in real life.' Alan, it won't matter. They'll win and you'll lose. "

By the time I could drive the 10 minutes back to the office, reporters were calling from around the country. ABC News. The New York Times.

"What is your response to the fire chief in Wisconsin?"

Calls to our PR guy in New York. Calls to the agency in San Francisco. Talks with other members of management.

The commerical was scheduled to air again that night. Less than three hours away.

We had spent over a half million dollars to produce the spot. Heck, the fire chief of El Segundo, California was at the shoot to supervise safety, and he didn't object!

The Wall Street Journal calls. The CBS Evening News calls and wants a statement for their broadcast this evening.

We had lots of options.

And what to do can still be debated.

We pulled the commercial. And we sent out a press release saying so.

We decided to listen to the fire chief of a small town in Wisconsin. Because we believed if we didn't, we would be barbecued in the press.

We were stewards of a great company and a great brand. The long term interest of Haggar was more important than short term sales and profits.

There were more than a few who disagreed. And maybe they were right.

I do know our answer satisfied the press, and we became a non-story as fast as we became the center of their universe.

I still have the plaque presented to us by the Dallas Fire Department for making a decision on behalf of public safety.

Wiener Says Butts T'aint Clean

2011-09-07T12:13:00.000-07:00

And you thought the Maryland jerseys were weird.

Well, in the city by the bay, there are bigger (well, perhaps better said, other) issues at hand.

Sometimes these stories just write themselves.

Apparently in San Francisco, it is not illegal to walk around naked. Anywhere.

Seems odd, but, that's the truth. However, it is illegal to walk around naked and be aroused. Now that's illegal. Even in San Francisco. Seems a rather sexist law if you ask me, but nobody's asking.

But that crazy-assed right wing City Supervisor Scott Wiener (who reperesents the Castro District) has proposed a new ordinance to limit those who can't limit themselves.

"San Francisco is a liberal and tolerant city, and we pride ourselves on that fact," said Wiener. "Yet, while we have a variety of views about public nudity, we can all agree that when you sit down naked, you should cover the seat. And, you should cover up when you go into a food establishment."

Thank goodness we can all agree on something, Mr. Wiener.

So, who is going to determine the adequacy of the seat cover? Won't this require a new civil servant force?

And, what if I am homeless and naked. Who will provide me with a free seat cover?

And, just what kind of food establishment will require covering up? Does that include Trader Joe's? Vegan establishments? A steak house? Surely, you don't consider that red meat as food do you Mr. Wiener?

The first offense, under Wiener's proposal, would carry a $100 fine. Breaking the law a second time within a year's period would land the offender a $200 fine. A third arrest would elevate the crime from an infraction to a misdemeanor and come with a penalty of up to a $1,000 fine and up to a year in county jail.

Uh, Mr. Wiener. I have no place to carry a wallet, so just where am I supposed to come up with $100?

And if I DO get arrested three times, what about my civil rights in prison?

Whilst the rest of the country is dithering about deficits, wars, and other trivial pursuits, just know the good folks in SF are dealing with really ________________ (you fill in the blank) issues.

Submit your suggestions here.

Road Trip from Heaven (Or Hell)

2011-09-02T12:48:00.000-07:00

It all started simply enough.

Georgia vs. Boise State in Atlanta on Labor Day weekend.

Me and Zac road trip. Eleven hours over. Eleven hours back.

That was and is the plan.

Oh, but the potential for fables abound.

First, there are the 800 miles between Dallas and ATL. Lots of barbecue. Lots of fried animal parts. Lots of flatulence. Lots of male bonding.

If all goes as planned, we'll swim thru Dreamland in Tuscaloosa on Saturday around 4pm and end up in our seats in the Georgia Dome hollering WOOF by 8.

Oh, but there are a few more opportunities that have been put in our path.

This weekend in ATL, there will be the craziest mashup of rednecks, African Americans, Gay African Americans, Asexual Americans, Weird Ass Americans, White Supremacists from Idaho, Danica Patrick, Comic Book Princesses, Kyle Busch, Larry Munson, Clueless Americans, 2xist Underwear, Big Smith Overalls, two dogs walkin', Super Heroes, men and women posing as Super Heroes, innocent children, and a frightened population ever assembled in one Metro area.

Labor Day weekend in Atlanta. Georgia vs. Boise State. Braves homestand versus the McCourt Dodgers. A NASCAR race. The Black Gay Pride Weekend. Dracon.con (look it up: it's too weird to describe)

And oh, this just in.

Tropical Storm Lee will be dumping 20 inches of rain accompanied by 60 MPH winds all along I-20 on Monday. Our route home.

Don't know where we'll end up, but we're already on our way.

We'll report if we survive.

Gilchrist & Soames

2011-06-29T14:07:00.001-07:00

All I want to do is wash my hands and dry them.

Sounds so innocent and easy.

Oh, that's a man talking for you.

If it was up to straight American men, then this task would be so uncivil.

There would be a big ole aluminum sink. Aluminum so it doesn't matter if you scratch it. Aluminum so you can degrease your hands after fixing the Weedeater and not worry about it. Aluminum so you can scrub it with Bon Ami and steel wool and get the sucker clean.

An oversized faucet would curl over the sink with about two feet of room between the firehose nozzle and the strainer drain so you can get your hands and forearms in there. And occasionally your feet. A one-handle faucet you can control with your elbows with just the three settings: real hot, good 'n warm, well-diggers arse.

Just over the faucet would be a jug of liquid Lava soap. The spigot placed so that any soap drip would end up in the sink.

And, next to it would be a roll of paper towels. Preferably Bounty. White. No little paisleys printed in aqua. And no select-a-size.

That's it. All I'd ever need.

But again, that's for cretins.

Nope, we need two poofters from England to make a little round puck that smells like Eckerd's perfume counter on Christmas Eve wrapped in cellophane tighter than Dick's hatband. And likely to have the queen's stamp of approval on it. When's the last time she changed the flapper on a toilet? I mean, Prince Charles has never put toothpaste on his own toothbrush. What does royalty know about washing hands?

And speaking of such things, what do Englishmen know about bathrooms? Have you visited there recently?

They don't know the difference between come here and sic 'em when it comes to washing up. They have a hot and a cold faucet on the sink. In the fanciest places.

And what that whole continent needs is a decent shower. I think the reason their P.U. factor is so high is their showers are the size of a phone booth. And they don't have doors or curtains on them. And the hot water runs out in 30 seconds or less. Yep, a properly designed American shower that's 5 feet by 5 feet with twelve adjustable shower heads and a flat screen TV and a mini-fridge would do that place a world of good.

But I digress.

So Messrs. Gilchrist and Soames have not only taken over the sink, they've invaded our showers. In hotels. In the "finest" homes.

I was in a "fine" hotel recently where the two Poms had elevated showering to their high art.

One little problem. There were three tiny jugs of their mystical liquid stuff in there. And I don't wear my glasses to shower. And the type on the little jugs was so tiny (other than, of course, the words GILCHRIST & SOAMES) that it was impossible to tell the difference. Other than the three Easter egg hues of the liquids.

I assumed one was shampoo. I assumed one was conditioner. I assumed the third was something I never heard of.

So I avoided it all and did the best I could with warm water and a clean wash cloth.

Now as for the drying of hands, that too has become much too high-falutin'.

First of all, if a piece of terry cloth has fringe on it, I assume it's for decoration, not for utilization. Same for things monogrammed that are pressed, folded and stacked in a basket. Same for paper napkins designed by Versace.

Come to think of it, I think I've seen this bathroom of my dreams. Isn't that what surgeons have? Isn't that how the guys wash up at Aamco after fixing my tranny?

Stan Richards has built a very large, profitable and stable advertising agency. And I recall having powdered my nose there once. And that's how his mens room was designed. (Wonder how Stan's ladies room is designed? And why do some ladies rooms have couches?)

Anyway. My hands are all germy from using this keyboard.

I'm gonna go let the dog lick 'em and then hose 'em off outside and dry them on my jeans.

Secretary Gates and me

2011-06-10T10:04:00.000-07:00

Secretary Gates had the stones to tell the UN today how worthless that organization is.

Gates warns of NATO becoming militarily irrelevant
By Daniel Strauss - 06/10/11 11:29 AM ET

Amen.

I hope we will re-read this post from two years ago that is as relevant today as ever.

Friday, January 30, 2009

Leagues of Nations

There are two amazingly similar organizations headquartered in New York City.

They are both inefficient, ineffective, rendered powerless by their members and their structure, subsidized by governments, and over-subsidized by the United States.

And for some odd reason, when things get really screwed up both organizations call in former Sen. George Mitchell.

Of course, we are discussing the United Nations and Major League Baseball.

In order for an organization to be effective, it must have a clear mission supported by all of its members.

Well, lets start with Major League Baseball. MLB is the organization that is supposed to set the rules, promote the game, and keep the teams and players playing Major League Baseball in line. It has become an international organization now with teams in Canada, season openers in Tokyo, and a farm team called Cuba.

MLB is owned by the owners of the teams. The owners appoint the Commissioner. The owners make the rules. And for years, MLB has been an example of wild West capitalism which means the MLB is a joke.

Unlike the NFL, the team owners in MLB never agreed to play by the same rules either on the field or in the business of running their teams.

The NFL is a lot like Marin County. We believe in socialism, so long as we are all rich and this socialism stuff will make us richer and won’t interfere with our lifestyle. Like, we will send money to Habitat for Humanity, but don’t think of building one of your places in our neighborhood. Like, what do you mean a black owner?

Anyway, MLB doesn’t buy that NFL crap. Dog eat dog. The big dogs do what they damn well please. The small dogs beg for fairness and subsidies. So, the big dogs have made sure that the MLB commissioner will be a meaningless figurehead. No power.

And to make sure that’s the case, the owners have learned that the best kind of commissioner is one of their own small dogs. This is akin to Spike appointing Chester commissioner of the backyard. Like Spike isn’t going to lift his leg where and when he wants to without fear of punishment.

MLB can’t even make sure that their two leagues play the same game. One league has something called a designated hitter. The umpires have made up their own rules including different strike zones. Puhleaze.

The United Nations got its start as the League of Nations. The League of Nations was formed at the end of World War I. Its task was pure and simple. To make sure that war never broke out again.

A couple of little problems. The League of Nations had no power. No peacekeeping force. Germany, who started WWI, wasn’t allowed to join. And the United States refused to join. Oh, Woodrow, where are you when we need you.

So, after WWII, which seemed to indicate that the League of Nations wasn’t cutting it, the idea for the United Nations came about.

The original United Nations sort of made sense. It was formed by the Allied Powers (the good guys) to make sure the Axis Powers (the bad guys) would never be allowed to be bad again.

Rules for membership are clearly spelled out in the UN Charter:

"Membership in the United Nations is open to all other peace-loving states which accept the obligations contained in the present Charter and, in the judgment of the Organization, are able and willing to carry out these obligations.

The admission of any such state to membership in the United Nations will be effected by a decision of the General Assembly upon the recommendation of the Security Council."

Somewhere along the way, it turned into a bad joke. “All other peace-loving states” now includes Iran, Burma/Myanmar, Cuba, Sudan, Afghanistan and North Korea. Every nation on earth is now a member of the UN. The good, the bad, the inconsequential.

Every nation is supposed to contribute on a fair “tax” basis (what a novel idea) to the UN fund. Supposed being the key word.

The UN annual budget is around $20 billion. The United States pays 22% of that. China pays 2%. Yet China has just as much say as the United States on UN decisions and policy. What? If you don’t pay your fair share of your PTA dues you don’t get to be a member and you are held up for public scorn. Not so at the UN.

As for the Secretary General, well s/he is selected by the member states. And since the member states don’t agree on much of anything, they are surely not going to allow someone from a big dog state to be Secretary General. So, we have Secretary Generals from South Korea, Ghana, etc. They strike as much fear as the robins-egg-blue helmeted UN peacekeeping force.

Here are a couple of thoughts on how to improve the effectiveness of the UN.

1. Get rid of the permanent headquarters. Move the meetings around to where the problems are you are trying to solve. There isn’t all that much poverty and violence on the East side of Manhattan. Why not move your meetings around between Mogadishu, Peshawar, Rangoon, Kabul, and other such places that most of the UN ambassadors have never visited. We know. The restaurants and the shopping won’t be quite as good as New York. But you will learn to love the taste of terrier.

2. The only real thing of value at the UN is that 18 acres of prime New York real estate that was donated by John D. Rockefeller. That land is not part of the United States. It is international territory. So sign a 99-year deal with Steve Wynn and let him turn it into Macau. Complete with the global array of prostitution and drugs. Then, the UN collects a big annual fee from this activity to go out and try to stop the prostitution and the flow of drugs in the real world.

Sen. Mitchell, if you need some help, give me a call.

It's headed the wrong way

2011-06-01T14:23:00.000-07:00

Things are likely headed the wrong way when . . .

You are in the men's room taking care of some business in terminal C at DFW after sprinting from the parking lot on an August morning in your best suit getting ready for a long day trip to your largest customer when the toilet decides to autoflush and you see several gallons of water pour into your taped seat seams and your captoe shoes.

You reach for that pencil behind your ear and find a tampon.

You leave for work on an icy January morning and slip on the front porch and spill your coffee and sprain your ankle and you go back inside and reload and start over and this time slip on the ice in the driveway and fall on your tuckus under which is your lunch bag and now you are covered with not only hot coffee but chocolate pudding.

You are in the shower at 6:30 in the morning and your teenage son comes and tells you some strange person is at the door with a package for you and you assume it's some overnight delivery for the new campaign you've been working on and you tell him to just sign for it and then he brings you service of a lawsuit that's been filed against you cause you wrote a letter to the board of directors about that hoopenheimer who lied his way to president at your best client and fired you for no good reason other than you wouldn't do the inane, stupid work he wanted.

Your grown daughter says to you daddy I've got an idea for a new business but you're probably going to think it's evil.

You meet the police chief in the new small town you've moved to and he asks if your ex is so and so and you answer in the affirmative and he says he ought to arrest you on the spot for allowing her to move to his jurisdiction.

You arrive in Germany after an overnight flight and go to check in your hotel and they reject your debit card even though you just checked the balance and there's plenty of money in there but they say it won't go thru and it's 3 o'clock in the morning where your friendly small town bank is so you have to sit in the lobby and drink coffee for five hours till your friendly small town bank opens and then you finally get them to answer the phone and tell you that for your protection they limit daily debits to $400 and never allow international charges and that in order to help you they'll have to talk to the main branch but they are in a meeting and is there a number where they can call you back.

You are excited to see that your kids have said something nice about you on Facebook only to click on said nice things and find they have posted a video of you snoring on YouTube.

You go for your final review with your academic counselor before graduation from the University of Georgia expecting to graduate at the end of the quarter with honors only to hear Mr. Burks your grades stink and you still have to retake English 201 and you better pull things up if you want to graduate from this institution and you see your name with your own eyes on the paper he's holding and finally figure out there is another person with exactly the same name that's attended the exact same courses for the exact same degree who is from the same town and whose phone number is one number different from your own although you've never met this person.

You get a once in a lifetime chance to play Augusta National and you practice like crazy and buy new clothes and shoes and clubs and are so nervous you can't swallow and you play like crap until you jab a 6 iron into the precious fairway about a foot behind your ball on the 7th hole and give yourself a hernia.

I got the headache

2011-05-19T13:29:00.000-07:00

No, that ain't a mistype in the headline.

If you are Southren, you understand.

If by the lack of the grace of God you ain't, hang on tight and you'll be better for it.

In God's country, if you get the headache, everybody knows you get you a headache powder and it'll knock it out.

No aspirin, no capsule, no nothing can cure the headache like a powder placed on the back of the tongue and washed down with an icy cold Co-Cola.

But, recent developments on the headache powder front are reason for serious concern.

Those of us Southren were one of three types. A BC powder fambly. A Goody's powder fambly. Or for those from the other side of the tracks that could only afford cheap imitations, the fambly that would snap back with Stanback.

And those loyalties and subtypes were as real and strong as, well, Ford or Chivalet. Baptist or Methodist. Chopped or sliced pork sammich. You know, the real defining points.

Not so long ago, I was watchin' some racin' and noticed the stupidest TV commercial ever.

In one commercial, they's selling you both BC and Goody's. Like they were on the same team.

Well, this here world wide interweb is pert handy. I checked some things out. And the news ain't good.

All the headache powders were invented in Nawth Calina. Don't know why. Don't matter. They was.

But now, some Yankee operated bigshot company has bought up both BC and Goody's! And they have the gall to act like the Hatfield's and McCoy's have kissed and made up. This just ain't right.

And to make it worser yet, some nabob at the bigshot company has messed with my BC powder packaging. You know, the one you buy at the Jitney Jungle. The three pack.

Used to be you had that handy red string you pulled and just easily opened the cellophane to get to your packets. But noooooooo.

Now, they have 'em gussied up in that kind of plastic that it takes scissors and golf language to open. The gawldarned thing is as hard to open as my ex-wife's mind.

I mean, what the heck was wrong with it the way it was? It cured the headache for 100 years without some bunch of lawyers and marketing types messin' up a perfectly good thing.

And here's the nastiest part yet.

Have you noticed (if you're a BC man) that you don't get quite that same feelin' as you used to once you got it down your throat?

Well, the braniacs at GlaxoSmithKline (sounds like a law firm to me, but they are the owners of both BC and Goody's) changed the dadgummed formula.

The ORIGINAL BC powder had a little something in it called salicylamide. The new one don't.

Have no idear what that stuff did, but it did something. All I know is the new one has a little hitch in it's git-along.

We need some serious investigating here.

Where is Lewis Grizzard when you really need him?

The cab driver was right

2011-05-17T10:25:00.000-07:00

This was first posted on this blog May 9, 2009.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

From Kabul to LAX

Took a cab to the airport this morning.

The driver was a very nice man with a foreign accent.

"Where did you grow up, sir?"

"Kabul."

"How long have you been here?"

"25 years."

"What do you think about the situation in Afghanistan."

"The trouble is Pakistan. They are supporting the Taliban. The US and British must force Pakistan to take action. Pakistan is two faced. They want to be friends with the West, but they support the Taliban."

"Can the Taliban be defeated?"

"Sure. No problem. But not without help from Pakistan. And not without stopping funding coming from Saudi Arabia."

"What do you think the US should do?"

"Make Pakistan and Afghanistan kill the Taliban. The more troops the US sends, the more Taliban and al Qaeda will be created.

It was very easy to catch bin Laden right after 9/11. I do not understand why Bush allowed him to escape into Pakistan. I know he has been sick. Not sure if he is still alive. But if he is, he is in Pakistan.

And I don't know why Bush went to war in Iraq. A disaster. It was joke. Don't tell me CIA gives bad information. Bush wanted to go to war with Iraq for some reason that I can't understand. And Cheney was a very bad man."

"Sir, I agree with you. I lost my oldest son in Iraq."

He looked back over the seat. "I am so sorry sir. So many killed and injured. For what?"

We pulled up to the curb and he unloaded my luggage.

"God bless you and your family, sir. Again, I am so sorry for your loss. I have children your son's age and I cannot imagine the pain."

An Obstruction of Justice

2011-04-15T13:12:00.001-07:00

It's my fault.

I could have prevented all this.

This has been bothering me, causing sleepless nights, since "the no-throw" happened at noon on August 12, 2007.

Here's the story.

I grew up in Atlanta.

I was there when Major League Baseball came to town. The Braves moved from Milwaukee in 1966, when I was 11.

In right field and batting third was #44 in your scorebook, #1 in your heart, Henry Aaron.

It was a great time. My folks would let me pack a tomato sandwich in a brown paper bag, give me $3, and put me and Bobby Spurlin on the bus to go to Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium to sit in the outfield and watch our hero.

Oh, those sweet supple wrists. My, how they could flick 33 ounces of ash wood and deliver enough kinetic energy to send a horsehide covered sphere over 400 feet in the air.

He was a natural.

He was a team guy.

He was, and is, an unsung American hero.

I love the man. How he lived. How he played. How he has carried himself on and off the field.

Nobody hated or hates Barry Bonds more than me. I admired his athletic ability, but always saw him as a selfish crybaby. Then he found "the juice".

He is the exact opposite of Hank Aaron.

And so in the summer of 2007, baseball found itself with a dilemma. Barry Bonds "broke" Hank Aaron's all-time homerun record on August 7. It had an asterisk then, and it always will.

It so happened that I was living in San Francisco that summer. After he had "broken" the record, tickets to Giants games became much easier to come by.

And so on Sunday, August 12, I packed up my daughter and the woman I had mistakenly gotten married to and off we went to AT&T Park to watch the Giants play the Pirates.

We got off the ferry, and I started talking to scalpers on the street. In ten minutes, I bought 3 seats at face value. Had no idea where the seats were. It didn't matter.

I was taking my little girl to a ballgame.

Section 137.

Guess where. Left field bleachers. Twelve rows up. Directly behind Barry Bonds. I could see the sweat running off his size 8 and half melon of a head.

Bonds had a pregame routine that I was unaware of.

He warmed up throwing to a coach standing just outside the left field line.

When warmup was over, Bonds turned around and threw the ball into the stands.

I still see it in slow motion.

A baseball just leaving the hand of the most hated, despicable player in baseball is headed in my direction.

The ball came down three seats to my right. The guy sitting there totally whiffed it.

I can still hear the ball whacking on the concrete, and bouncing into the air.

And then it lands. In my lap.

Never moved. Didn't reach for it. It landed in my friggin' lap.

This was a sign. This was a chance to right wrongs. This was a chance to do something for Hank.

The fans around were congratulating me on my luck. Little did they know my heart.

I stood up to throw the ball as hard as I could at the back of that swole up, steroid and garbage filled head. He was only 35 feet away.

As I was about to let it go, the woman that I had mistakenly married tackled me. She said it would be a travesty.

She was right. It was a travesty.

I could have gone to jail a hero. Bonds could still be in a coma.

I'm sorry, Hank. I'm sorry, Braves fans. I'm sorry, lovers of baseball.

It's my fault this dark cloud is still hanging around America's Game.

The rogue wave

2011-04-04T15:42:00.000-07:00

I met Howard Davis in August of 1987.

Howard was the CEO of Tracy-Locke, the largest advertising agency South of Chicago.

He hired me.

Howard was Type A+.

He was a big boy. Six four. Big head. Big brain. Big ambition. Big appetite.

I was in his office when he got the phone call that his son had been killed in a car wreck.

I saw him crumble. Physically. Mentally.

I saw it all run out of him in that moment.

I got that phone call in November of 2007 when Pete was killed in Iraq. I was working in San Francisco.

I crumbled. Physically. Mentally.

Two days after we got the news about Pete, Howard called me from Montana.

"Alan, my friend, someone gave me an analogy that I hope will be helpful for you and your family.

You are walking on a beach and you are very near the water.

Right now, the water is washing over you. And it might take you under.

You have to keep walking on the beach.

Step after step. Day after day.

You will always be on that beach.

But step by step, you will get a little further away from the water.

In the next days and weeks, the water will still reach you and threaten to take you back in.

Eventually, if you keep walking, you will be a safe distance from the water.

But, my friend, the rogue wave will roll in and wash over you.

You have to choose.

Let the rogue wave take you, or keep walking."

Today, the rogue wave came and got me.

It was spurred by my silly mistake of going to a movie last night.

It is a really interesting movie. "Source Code".

But, part of the plot is a soldier KIA in Afghanistan.

I knew going in it had something to do with a soldier.

It wasn't until the images of him dying on screen that it hit me.

And today, the nightmares I had shortly after Pete's death came back.

It is spring time. Memories of Pete and friends and family in my back yard are overwhelming.

Memories of Pete fishing in the lake in the back of the house are fresh.

I walked in his steps.

I remember him out there in shorts and mud boots patiently waiting on the bass to take the bait.

I remember the Easter egg hunts.

I can hear his voice. I can hear that sneeze. I can hear that laugh.

Oh, buddy. I miss you today.

I know you are in a better place than me.

But I need to shed some tears today.

It is human. It is normal. It is your daddy missing his boy.

I'll see you one of these days.

I so long to kiss that stubbly cheek and hug that strong neck.

But tomorrow, I'll get up and keep walking, son.

Because that's what we do. That's what you tell me to do.

I'll keep walking.

Thanks, Howard.

Thanks, Pete.

Thank you Lord. Thank you for the trials that make us stronger and more aware of what we have to be thankful for.

To the Shores of Tripoli

2011-03-30T11:42:00.000-07:00

Who said history doesn't repeat itself?

The Marines hoisted the American flag over Tripoli in the First Barbary War in 1805. We were there to stop North African Muslim rulers from pirating ships in the Mediterranean Sea. And the trouble started when they hijacked an American vessel. So, we had a reason to invade and stop the crap.

Today, we are invading Libya again. (Or flying over and bombing the living doodoo out of the Libyan military, you pick your choice of words).

But why? Which American person or property has been attacked?

Well, none.

So why are we risking American military lives in Libya? (Did you hear that a U.S. plane went down last week, and we had to send Marines in to save the pilots? We have had boots on the ground.)

President Obama, our Commander in Chief, has made it all so clear. " . . . our military mission is narrowly focused on saving lives, we continue to pursue the broader goal of a Libya that belongs not to a dictator, but to its people."

Oh.

Just like we've done in Sudan. And the Ivory Coast. And Bahrain. And Saudi Arabia. And Iran. And Syria. And, oh darn.

I forgot. Apparently in those spots we don't have a military mission narrowly focused on saving lives, and continuing to pursue the broader goal of a (pick one: Zimbabwe, North Korea, Myanmar, China, Eritrea, Turkmenistan, etc.) that belongs not to a dictator, but to its people.

In the oh so clear words of P.J. O'Rourke when explaining how a farm bill gets hatched in Congress, "What the fuck? What the fucking fuck?"

Please, Mr. President.

Either tell the truth. Or don't say anything at all.

This policy makes no sense. (Unless, oh my gosh, Libya has oil, doesn't it? Like, say, Iraq? Wasn't that the last idiotic invasion without provocation that the United States has made? That war you campaigned against and called stupid, Big O? Because there was no clear end game? But, that would sound crass to say we were risking American lives for oil. Except that we all know we have been doing it since WWII.)

Mr. President, there is another place on this earth where civilians are being massacred. Including Americans. Civilians live in fear daily. And this place has lots and lots of oil. It is ruled by an unelected dictator. The dictator's name is Drug Cartels. The country is Mexico.

How long before we invade the Halls of Montezuma?

A Hug for Courtney

2011-03-22T14:26:00.000-07:00

I received this email today from a young friend.

This email has been circulating for five years.

No one knows the origin, no one can certify its authenticity, no one can deny its power.

Last week I was in Atlanta , Georgia attending a conference.

While I was in the airport, returning home, I heard several people behind me beginning to clap and cheer. I immediately turned around and witnessed One of the greatest acts of patriotism I have ever seen.

Moving thru the terminal was a group of soldiers in their camos. As they began heading to their gate, everyone (well almost everyone) was abruptly to their feet with their hands waving and cheering.

When I saw the soldiers, probably 30-40 of them, being applauded and Cheered for, it hit me. I'm not alone. I'm not the only red-blooded American who still loves this country and supports our troops and their families.

Of course I immediately stopped and began clapping for these young unsung heroes who are putting their lives on the line everyday for us so we can go to school, work and home without fear or reprisal.

Just when I thought I could not be more proud of my country or of our Service men and women, a young girl, not more than 6 or 7 years old ran up to one of the male soldiers. He kneeled down and said 'hi...'

The little girl then asked him if he would give something to her daddy for her...

The young soldier, who didn't look any older than maybe 22 himself, said he would try and what did she want to give to her daddy. Then suddenly the little girl grabbed the neck of this soldier, gave him the biggest hug she could muster and then kissed him on the cheek.

The mother of the little girl, who said her daughter's name was Courtney, told the young soldier that her husband was a Marine and had been in Iraq for 11 months now. As the mom was explaining how much her daughter Courtney missed her father, the young soldier began to tear up.

When this temporarily single mom was done explaining her situation, all of the soldiers huddled together for a brief second... Then one of the other servicemen pulled out a military-looking walkie-talkie. They started playing with the device and talking back and forth on it..

After about 10-15 seconds of this, the young soldier walked back over to Courtney, bent down and said this to her, 'I spoke to your daddy and he told me to give this to you.' He then hugged this little girl that he had just met and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He finished by saying 'your daddy told me to tell you that he loves you more than anything and he is coming home very soon.'

The mom at this point was crying almost uncontrollably and as the young soldier stood to his feet, he saluted Courtney and her mom. I was standing no more than 6 feet away from this entire event.

As the soldiers began to leave, heading towards their gate, people resumed their applause. As I stood there applauding and looked around, there were very few dry eyes, including my own. That young soldier in one last act of selflessness turned around and blew a kiss to Courtney with a tear rolling down his cheek.

We need to remember everyday all of our soldiers and their families and thank God for them and their sacrifices. At the end of the day, it's good to be an American.

Have you said thanks on Cloth of the Nation?

2011-03-21T11:24:00.000-07:00

http://clothofthenation.org/

We launched 9 days ago.

351 different folks have visited the site.

From 11 countries.

From 33 of our United States.

But only 50 notes of support.

The power in this idea will come from your note of support. Your note is needed to let our folks in uniform know someone cares.

Visits are of course appreciated. But today, we covet your note being added to the site.

On Saturday two members of 4th Squadron, Second Stryker Cavalry Regiment, were killed by small arms fire in Kandahar province in Afghanistan. Pete's squadron.

There are men and women in that unit today that need to hear a good word from somebody. And, there are units like that around the world.

Please, take five minutes to add your note of thanks. And, then pass the site on.

Thanks in advance from someone who longs to hear from you.

Join the Cloth of the Nation

2011-03-11T12:38:00.000-08:00

Please click on http://clothofthenation.org/

If you are a civilian, say a word of support to YOUR military.

If you are a member of our military, see that you are loved, appreciated and supported by the CIVILIANS that you serve and protect.

There are over 1.3 million currently serving in uniform and another 1.1 million in Reserve and National Guard forces.

There are 310 million U.S. civilians.

Over 150 million of us are on Facebook.

Let's let the folks that wear the Cloth of the Nation know that we appreciate them.

The Sounds of Silence

2011-03-02T23:36:00.000-08:00

Where, oh where, has al Qaeda (translated The Base) been?

On an NPR roundtable of experts tonight, that was the question.

Michael Scheuer, the former bin Laden team leader at the CIA, had this to say:

"bin Laden knows that silence is power.

Westerners don't understand that concept.

American Presidents don't understand that. They talk to much about things that we should be silent on.

The Base is expert at one thing. Media manipulation.

The reason folks in Cairo and Tunis aren't holding up signs supporting The Base is they know that will bring Western and U.S. forceful opposition.

Don't think that just because we haven't heard from them that they aren't active."

Revolutions have cycles.

Russia had two revolutions in 1917.

In February of 1917, the Tsar or Czar or the dictator was unseated.

In October of 1917, the Bolsheviks revolted and took power. Under the leadership of Vladimir Lenin with aid from Leon Trotsky. Joseph Stalin followed.

The Bolsheviks ruled until December 1991.

When viewed thru the lens of CNN, the recent events in the Middle East look like a call for secular democracy.

Tap the brakes.

The majority of folks there want Sharia law.

The Base wants just that. Worldwide.

Buckle up and wait.

It ain't over, by a long shot.

bin Laden and Ayman al-Zawahiri are licking their chops. And Zawahiri is Egyptian, and was a leader in the Muslim Brotherhood.

It wouldn't be surprising if those two got into a power battle.

Watch Zawahiri.

He may one day try to collect the $25 million bounty on bin Laden.

"Why can't I just be normal?"

2011-01-31T11:51:00.000-08:00

"We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be."
— Anne Lamott

Be careful what you ask for.

The "normal" human is 28 years old.

Doesn't speak English.

Is religious, but not Christian.

And, has one boob and one testicle.

Normal is a mathematic term for the average.

There ain't no such thing as a normal human being.

We are each just one of 6 billion realities.

And our reality is our normal.

So, everyone else in the world is abnormal.

Just remember that the next time you feel out of place.

Or out of touch.

Or out of it.

You and me, we are just perfectly normal.

It's them that has issues.

Bridging a great divide

2011-01-12T12:40:00.000-08:00

The country's top military officer praised the public's outward support of U.S. troops fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan on Monday, while lamenting the increasing gap between the U.S. military and the American public.

"America doesn't know its military and the United States military doesn't know America," said Adm. Mike Mullen, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

As the father of a dead soldier, this statement hits home.

It is sad. It is scary. It needs examination.

Why is there such a disconnect between civilian America and military America?

There was a time when that wasn't so.

And sadly, I believe that time was everything prior to Vietnam.

The Vietnam War was a mess. And it was a mess from the top down.

And as a result, it created distrust of our elected leaders. It created distrust of our military. It created a disconnect between civilian America and military America.

Those young men and women who served in Vietnam did so as their government directed them to do.

The young men and women who have served in our military since have one distinct difference from the folks that served before them.

They have all volunteered.

And, the leadership of our country has not properly or adequately enrolled the soul of America to fight as one.

I remember Vietnam and the impact on lives.

My older brother was 18 at the time of the first draft. I remember the night of the great ping pong ball drop and the dread and fear of it coming.

I remember my brother and several of his friends gathering at our house to watch it. I remember them bringing Jack Daniels to the house as they watched the U.S. government play Russian Roulette with their lives.

I remember my mom objecting to the sight of alcohol. I remember my dad intervening and telling her it was time for her to go down the hall and let these boys turn into men.

I remember the angst of those with low numbers and the relief of those with high numbers.

I remember Mike Jones being called out of class when news of his brother's fall came.

We all shared in that experience.

Since that war, there has been no draft.

We have had an all volunteer military. Not that there weren't many volunteers before. But in wars before, the country was as one in a willingness to fight those that would destroy us.

And because of the horrendously bad decisions made by our elected leaders during the Vietnam War, families that had for generations shared in the honor of sacrifice and service to our country began to counsel their young men and women to steer clear of wearing the Cloth of the Nation.

The disconnect between civilian America and military America started then, and continues to this day.

There is a book that needs reading by a much wider audience today.

AWOL: The Unexcused Absence of America's Upper Classes from Military Service-and How it Hurts Our Country by Kathy Roth-Douquet and Frank Schaeffer. Published May, 9 2006.

Publisher's Weekly had this recap.

"In this impassioned, convincing manifesto, Schaffer and Roth-Douquet, a former Clinton White House and Department of Defense staffer, call for class integration of the military. Their arguments are personal: Roth-Douquet is a military wife and Schaffer's son is a marine, and the authors fall within the demographic they critique. Alternately narrating, they relate their experiences with the military and detail the liabilities of the present all-volunteer "corporate" force: the hindered policy-making ability of a civilian leadership without significant ties to the military, the weakening of the armed forces themselves, and "the sense of lost community and the threat to democracy that results when a society accepts a situation that is inherently unfair." While Schaffer proposes a lottery draft and Roth-Douquet suggests the military "convince" people to sign up, they both call for all young people to submit to some form of national civilian service. Though the authors occasionally exaggerate ("we are fast approaching the day when no one in Congress and no president will have served or have any children serving"), they make a clarion call in the face of increasingly controversial foreign policy and a military stretched thin."

America, when did it become someone else's job to defend our country?

America, when did it become patriotic to guide our best and brightest away from the most fundamental and important jobs our country has?

America, when did it become smart to not put our best and brightest on the front lines against those that would destroy America?

It is time to correct this.

We need to reconnect civilian America and military America.

For those currently being served by those who have chosen to serve.

But more importantly, for our future, we need all of us connected to our military.

They are our sons and daughters. Our neighbors. Our friends.

They protect our freedoms.

They are paid for by our tax dollars.

They wear not some strange uniform with which we have no connection.

They wear The Cloth of the Nation.

Our nation.

Your nation.

The one you enjoy.

The one you have the freedom to complain about.

The one you don't have the freedom to not support.

Get connected.

Get aware.

Shake a hand in the airport.

Stop by a recruiting station and say thanks.

Find a base, a VA hospital, an ROTC unit, a military family and see how you can help.

We are disconnected because we have chosen to be disconnected.

The wars we fight are your wars. Not someone else's. Not "theirs".

Your wars.

Get involved. Get connected.

Show some love for America and those that defend us all.

And most importantly, controversially, and honestly, what will you do?

Will you encourage your sons, daughters, nephews, nieces, neighbors, students, employees, and friends to do their part?

Will all of America take part or is it a job beneath you and your family? Is it a responsibility your family isn't responsible for? Is it not part of a life plan you have in mind? Why not?

Be challenged. Be angry if you wish.

But know this.

Your grandparents knew whose job it was. Your great-grandparents knew whose job it was.

And you and I know too. But, it is just too easy to pass the hard task to someone else.

I was 18 in 1972. I got called by the Selective Service and registered. I was never called to serve.

And to this day, I regret that I didn't serve. I didn't have to, it was unpopular, it wasn't cool, I wasn't encouraged to do so, so I didn't.

I missed a great opportunity. I failed my country. I failed myself.

E pluribus unum.

Our country's motto.

We need to relearn it.

If not, this divide will never be bridged.

A Real Christmas Song

2010-12-09T08:44:00.000-08:00

And wonders of His love

2010-12-06T10:11:00.000-08:00

My sister sent an email to my brother and me on Friday recounting favorite Christmas memories from our childhood.

As the images flickered thru my brain, I felt like Clark Griswold in the attic. Those memories are fantastic.

And then reality hit and I felt like Clark when the attic door was opened beneath him.

In Los Angeles. Such a warm and fuzzy place for the holidays. And strife continuing in the most unbelievable of situations. Who knew it would take lawyers and judges and the State of California and thousands of dollars to be able to parent your own daughter.

Feeling cynical and not in the holiday mood, I had no idea of the miracle I was to witness on Saturday.

Peanut's Brownie Troop was going to the Los Angeles Ronald McDonald House to take gifts and dinner for the families staying there. I got to go along.

If you are feeling sorry for yourself, go visit a place where parents and grandparents are away from home staying in a strange place while their children are across the street clinging to life.

The Brownies and the moms were amazing. Preparing dinner. Making crafts with the kids. Arranging presents to match the ages of the children.

After a meal of golden arches burgers and lots of homemade desserts, a choir appeared.

In the lobby of this home for frightened and needy souls, about 40 of the best voices in the world began to sing carols. A Cappela.

This wasn't just any choir. These were pros. Stage. Movies. Music industry. Amazing voices.

And they were singing their hearts out for about 30 children and family members on a Saturday night in Los Angeles in December.

The choir leader invited several of the kids to come participate. And what joy it was to see their faces as they joined the music.

And then, the leader spotted one young boy in a stroller next to his mom.

The tumors on Andre's head are the size of softballs.

Scars tell the story of previous operations on this little angel's head.

He is two.

As she brought Andre to the front, the choir began to sing "Joy to the World".

The look on Andre's face was pure. Happy. Excited.

The look on his mother's face was the same. Her little boy was having a Christmas moment.

As I stood in the back of the room and took it all in, tears streamed down my face. I swear a golden light shown on that child's face. In this cold place, a song almost 300 years old and love from all around made that instant as warm and magic as any I've ever experienced.

Thank you, Isaac Watts.

Thank you, Handel.

Thank you, choir.

Thank you, Ronald McDonald House.

Thank you, Brownie troop and moms.

Thank you, Andre. And Godspeed.

Thank you, Lord.

I will forever repeat, repeat the sounding joy.

Thanks for the Providence of Almighty God

2010-11-26T09:22:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, I had a discussion about Thanksgiving with one of the brightest, most talented, most influential advertising creators on earth.

When I asked what the day meant to him, he said, "It is day to say thanks to other people."

Oh, how I wish I had this Proclamation memorized so that I could have set him straight.

And reading it again, oh how I wish the leaders of our country would go back to our politically incorrect foundations. And oh, how I wish they thought deeply and wrote eloquently as did President Lincoln.

For perspective, remember this was written in the middle of The Civil War.

Proclamation Establishing Thanksgiving Day

October 3, 1863

The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God. In the midst of a civil war of unequalled magnitude and severity, which has sometimes seemed to foreign States to invite and to provoke their aggression, peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been maintained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere except in the theatre of military conflict; while that theatre has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union. Needful diversions of wealth and of strength from the fields of peaceful industry to the national defence, have not arrested the plough, the shuttle, or the ship; the axe had enlarged the borders of our settlements, and the mines, as well of iron and coal as of the precious metals, have yielded even more abundantly than heretofore. Population has steadily increased, notwithstanding the waste that has been made in the camp, the siege and the battle-field; and the country, rejoicing in the consciousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years, with large increase of freedom.

No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy.

It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and voice by the whole American people. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to his tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.

In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, and caused the seal of the United States to be affixed.

Done at the city of Washington, this third day of October, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, and of the independence of the United States the eighty-eighth.

A. Lincoln

Who's zoomin who?

2010-11-18T12:30:00.000-08:00

Kaffee: I want the truth!
Col. Jessep: [shouts] You can't handle the truth!
- "A Few Good Men"

Watched "The Most Dangerous Man in America".

A fascinating documentary. Fascinating on so many levels.

I won't ruin it for you.

But there is one key question that the film makes you think hard about.

Who the heck really knows what's going on?

There are truths, there are lies, there is wrong information, there is misinformation, and there is spin.

About most any topic.

But especially about things like international politics. War. Espionage.

There is a fascinating scene in the film where Daniel Ellsberg meets the newly appointed Secretary of State, Henry Kissinger. Ellsberg is at the time working at the Pentagon, and has more security clearances than Kissinger.

Ellsberg describes to Kissinger the three mental stages he will go thru once he receives the highest clearances:

"First, a great exhilaration, for getting all this amazing information that you didn't know even existed. And the next phase is you'll feel like a fool for not having known of any of this. But that won't last long. Very soon, you'll come to think that everyone else is foolish. What would this expert be telling me if he knew what I knew? So in the end, you stop listening too."

So, the folks at the top know stuff we don't. And can't. And won't. That's a scary thought. And should make us all think more about who we elect into powerful government positions.

As I watched the film, I then wanted to know, why was this movie made?

It was made by two documentary filmmakers. Who only make antiwar films.

Hmmmmm. Any chance they slanted the movie thru their prism?

The film makes Ellsberg a hero.

Is he? If so, is Julian Assange a hero?

Or are they both stooges?

Or are they both villains and traitors?

I encourage you to take 94 minutes and watch the film.

If you weren't alive then, you will be amazed.

If you were alive then, you will have forgotten how crazy things were.

And after watching it, you will start to rethink alot of things. Question alot of things. Wonder if what you thought was true really is.

It will make you think more critically.

And even if the movie is all lies and crap, then it will be time well spent.

The Cloth of the Nation

2010-11-09T20:21:00.000-08:00

I had never heard this term until after Pete was dead.

I first heard "The Cloth of the Nation" at a military ceremony where all of our military service members were honored.

There is no one term to describe our folks in service other than "military".

Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, Coast Guard.

What a wonderful set of words.

The Cloth of the Nation.

Those who serve us wear the Cloth of the Nation.

Thanks to all who have worn it.

From the Revolutionary War forward.

You have represented us.

We are about to launch a new website called The Cloth of the Nation.

It has one simple purpose.

To connect civilian America with military America.

I have learned since Pete's death from thousands of Americans that they have a desire to show support for our folks serving in the military.

And, I have learned from you that are serving, does anyone give a damn about what I'm doing?

Well, millions do want to say we support you.

And, we want to provide a place where you can go in the middle of the night in Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq, or whatever awful place you are, and know that you are loved and appreciated.

We were created by a great military.

We continue to live by the service of a great military.

Godspeed to all who wear the Cloth of the Nation.

Ruh-roh

2010-10-15T11:18:00.000-07:00

So I'm watching Scooby-Doo on the Cartoon Network with Peanut.

Her favorite cartoon.

And to my horror, someone has now decided to screw it up for kids.

The episode jumped the shark, the parental guidelines, the decency factor, the moral standard and one of the key storylines of this ongoing saga.

There was an all girl "eco-goth" rock band. Sexily dressed. Way too curvaceous. Called The Hex Girls. Who wore vampire teeth. Were angry at the world. Made potions.

Worse, Fred was a bit too interested in Thorn, the lead singer.

Then, Fred has an idea to solve the show's mystery, and as usual, he splits up the group and chooses Daphne to be his partner.

Velma then asks why Fred always chooses Daphne. Then Daphne tries to kissy-face with Fred.

And to top it all, the man in the show who needed help from Mystery Inc. was a descendant of a woman who he proudly explains was a Wiccan. Sarah Ravencroft was her name. And she was extolled for using her powers to help "sick people that could not afford healthcare".

What's next? The Tasmanian Devil is actually on crack? Wiley Coyote joins al Qaeda? Daffy Duck talks that way because he has his tongue pierced?

What adult is making these decisions? This crap doesn't just happen. Someone decided to put those messages in a Scooby-Doo cartoon.

I never thought I'd sound like Rev. Donald Wildmon, but folks, watch out.

Maybe free TV should just go away. Let it all be PPV, or internet delivered. Let families pre-select and pre-screen everything that goes into the heads of their precious little ones.

Dear Jackie and Laura

2010-09-24T21:58:00.000-07:00

Blame me.

It's not your fault.

I asked you and you said yes.

There were red flags yet I ran thru them.

I was the one that said it will all work out, regardless of our differences.

I was wrong.

Thank you for what you gave me.

Many lessons. Many good memories. And many children.

All I ever wanted was to love and be loved. Unconditionally.

I thought that was what you wanted too.

Our differences caught up with us.

I'm sorry for the pain.

Let us forget and forgive and focus on life.

Five incredible people are now in this world because of us.

God doesn't make mistakes.

There is a reason Pete, Ali, Sarah, Zac and Georgia were created.

He has a plan for each of them. And we are seeing them impact the world daily.

Forgive me for my mistakes.

I forgive you.

Our lives will always be intertwined.

Let's make it the best it can be.

For your sake, for my sake, for our kids sakes, for God's sake, let's finish well.

I will always be in your debt for what you've given me.

I pray for you and our children daily.

I covet your prayers for all of us.

ab

"Can Santa bring me a new phone on the Android platform?"

2010-09-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

This may be my favorite question ever.

She asked this right after, "Dad, you want to catch a late brunch at Sloopy's?"

Nine. Fourth grade. Doing algebra and geometry that I struggled with in high school.

Can make my iPhone do things I didn't know it was capable of.

Can canter on a thoroughbred, explain gravity, likes mochi (only the red bean version).

And she still believes in Santa Claus.

Oh, how I hope that never ends.

Remember vividly the day Ali came home and demanded a meeting with her mom and dad in HER room.

Think she was 8.

Snot-nosed Jimmy down the street had broken the news to her about Santa, and she wanted a full confession.

I tried the "But everyone believes in the magic of Santa" routine. She was having no part of it.

"YOU and MOM are Santa. Aren't you?"

"Well, yes."

"And, you're the tooth fairy. Aren't you?"

"Well, yes. And the Easter Bunny."

Wailing and screaming from her, "Oh no. Not the Easter Bunny!!!!!!!!!!!"

Never assume. Never, ever assume is what I learned that moment.

So, whilst Peanut is still going with it, it is magic.

Don't know if Santa uses the Android platform or not. But I bet he's gonna bust his fat tush trying. (You know, Daddy, it is more popular now than the iPhone platform.)

The good news is I don't think Santa can get that thoroughbred and saddle down the chimney.

A daughter's love

2010-08-18T23:34:00.000-07:00

"Daddy, I just wanted to call and tell you that Kiley and Shannon and I are making the biggest pillow tent ever. But I wanted to call and tell you goodnight. And so did Kiley and Shannon."

It doesn't get any better. Well, she could live with me, but that's another story.

When Ali was two, she started calling me "Poppie". It's still my favorite name to be called.

When Sadie was two, she asked me to tell her stories. And, Mark and Teddy stories were born.

Ali, Sadie and Georgia have heard more Mark and Teddy stories than Jerry Jones has girlfriends.

Mark and Teddy are the ultimate morality stories.

Every night, Mark and Teddy have an adventure.

Mark is always bad.

Teddy is always good.

The situation always varies. No story can be retold.

They have been at grocery stores, Six Flags, on airplanes, at church, at school, you name it, they have been there.

And Mark has done more bad things than can be imagined. And Teddy is always rewarded for his good behavior.

That Mark will never learn.

Sons have a Dad relationship. That is, if we have spent time together.

We just get it. We are men, we talk, we move on. We are bonded.

Daughters have a Daddie relationship.

Oh how I love my connections with my boys.

We laugh. We bash each other. We share sports updates.

Daughters, they need communication. Stories. Time.

I'm in the middle of one sweet week with my youngest.

No agenda. Just me and her snuggling, playing, singing, wrestling, loving.

I am the most fortunate man alive to have had two sons and three daughters.

The fortress that is built between the five of them is formidable.

The Taliban would be well advised to stay away. Don't fuck with the Burks kids.

In the meantime, the relationships I have with the girls is so amazing.

The daughter thing is over the top. And I'm right there with them.

They need daddy to be there.

They need daddy to teach them about men.

They need daddy to be accountable.

They need daddy to provide.

They need daddy to show the way.

And it is a privilege to do so.

And, even though they don't always see it the same way, the most important thing is to be there. Just be there. Be their daddy.

I hear there are men that don't do that.

I am sorry for them.

And I am sorry for their daughters.

For a man, it is the most rewarding, challenging, daunting, wonderful task on earth.

There is nothing in the world so sweet as a daughter wrapping her hand in her father's hand.

There is nothing better than a daughter wanting to snuggle with her daddy.

There is nothing better than a daughter loving her papa.

I'm so excited.

I get two more days with my peanut and her undivided attention.

Then I get to go home to Texas, where peanut wants to be, and be with her sisters.

And her lone surviving brother who she calls her bodyguard. The Zac man.

But tomorrow, I will be wrestling her to prove once again that I am King of the Hill.

She has this amazing knee drop on my back that makes her King of the Hill. I just can't let her know that quite yet.

And on Friday, we are going to the skeeball place of champions. And we shall see who rules the roost.

Oh, daughters, how special you are.

How fortunate are the men who are your fathers.

And how lucky I am to be the daddy of Ali, Sadie and Georgia.

Man Love

2010-08-16T23:26:00.001-07:00

I am ill equipped to understand love between a man and woman.

I think I am figuring it out by what it isn't, in a painful long way.

And with patience, and the grace of God, perhaps what it is.

What I do know is man love.

Not sexual. Not romantic.

Just bonding between men that I know is a fact.

I hope women have it. But I know men do.

Men can go months, years, even decades between contact.

Yet the bonds are still there.

When men make a bond, respect each other, enjoy each other, learn from each other, it is eternal.

It doesn't need constant watering.

It's like a cactus.

It is a seed planted that will grow and be there for much longer than we are alive.

I consider myself fortunate beyond measure to have such bonds.

Baxter. Met him in 8th grade. Talked him into playing golf at 12.

The SOB is now club champion at East Lake.

Haven't talked to him in a year.

But I can call him tomorrow and we won't have missed a beat.

And there are many more. Galloway, Waldron, The Judge, Lowry (were he still with us), Morgan, Bennett, Fisher, Gebel (were they both still with us), Shackleford, Cook, Boykin, Harwell, Samchok, Elder (were he still with us).

Thru the magic of Facebook, have reconnected with friends from grammar school and high school.

The men relationships are all the same. Nothing changes.

The female relationships not so much. Gets all hung up on, well, men and women.

Man love is a wonderful thing.

I can call Hardtail who lives across the lake from me and talk about anything from our sprinkler systems to theology. I love his wife Janet, but I just can't have those same conversations.

I live in Dallas. Going to Los Angeles this week to see my peanut.

We will have a sweet time. The best. A man and his baby girl.

And while I'm there, I might see Lyle, Matt and/or Lanny.

Those guys and I can start right where we left off months or years ago.

I'm going to my hometown of Atlanta next week.

With a little luck, I'll play golf at the 9 hole muni we grew up on. And play with some buds who were just as much a knucklehead as me.

We've gone in wildly different directions, but if we can reconvene at Gordon A. Morris Memorial in College Park, it will be like nothing ever changed.

We'll call each other dickheads, assholes, MFs, and SOBs. And have love behind every word.

I've had the pleasure of making friends thru business. Men that I can call at this moment that would come to my rescue. And vice versa. Yes, we were business people.

But more importantly, we became friends. Real friends.

Haggar. Howard. Askew. Bracken. Sweeney. Lyons. Hudnall. Edelsten. Cashman. Condo. Rawlings. Aronson. Noble. Lanny. Yarbrough. Spagna. Wren. Stocker. Lents. Scully. Bud. DeVirgilio. Schornstein. Jeff. Silverstein. Siskind. Lohrer. Goldblatt. The Kohl's guys. Ambler. The JCP boys. The Commodore. The Nakash family. Olin. Gellers (were he still among us). Birmingham. Arnie. Laforce. Stephen. Hurston. The Belks and their men. DePalma. Hunt. Guglielmi. Killer. Ray. Jack. Tom. Denig. And many more.

I love men.

I do.

Married men. Single men. Straight men. Gay men.

Yes, gay men. They still get and can have man love. No expectations. Just that special bond men have in understanding how the world works and accepting each other.

I've been spoiled by the wonderful relationships that men have with each other.

No expectations. Unconditional. Accepting.

It also relates to the role of father.

Pete and I still relate.

Zac and I can communicate with a nod.

Ali and Sadie and Georgia, that's gonna take a conversation.

And it likely won't be done in one chat.

Men, we either hate each other or we love each other.

A very smart woman has told me that men can't multitask.

Perhaps that's the reason.

If I like a guy, and he's good to me, it's done.

I'm not capable of thinking of all the reasons why he might not like me.

Thank you, my men friends.

I love you all.

Except you son of a bitches and you know who you are.

Hide your money in your Tempur-Pedic

2010-08-11T18:07:00.000-07:00

It's 112 in Dallas, Texas.

And humid.

Hotter than Satan's taint.

Has been for awhile.

I choose to live here, so I have no reason to whine. But it is friggin' hot.

And I've got a bug that makes my head hurt and my stomach doing things it shouldn't.

I'm in a real bad mood.

Which brings me to money. My and your money.

Whose is it?

Due to one really stupid investment I made a few years ago, I had a significant tax loss last year.

Significant is relevant.

One woman's $100 is another man's $10.

We filed the tax return on December 31, 2009.

The refund was due in six weeks.

Well, then the IRS said they needed another form.

The exact same information, just on another form.

Filed as asked.

The refund was then due six weeks later.

The IRS said they needed one more form.

Same exact information, this time on 1040XD.

Filed as asked.

Six weeks later, no refund.

The IRS then needed form number 1040XDS.

Same exact info.

Net, net. The U.S. government has owed me money for a long time. And they are figuring out how to take their sweet time returning it.

I cannot properly explain how many hours I've spent on the phone with the lovely employees of the IRS. Who proceed to explain that my form has not yet been received. Because it takes them six weeks to process any incoming forms.

God help you if you owe the IRS money. I never have. But my understanding is they are quick to come get it. Whether you are right or wrong, if the IRS believes you owe money, they will come get it.

My accountant tells me he has never seen anything like what is going on now.

Our government is acting like the worst account payable ever.

Stall. Delay. Forms. Stall. Delay. Forms.

They have our money, and they are in no hurry to give it back.

And so, they create convenient roadblocks before checks are written to the public. The folks that created the money to begin with.

If you are owed money by the U.S. government, which we pay for, they are now floating our money because of lack of funds and overspending on their part.

This ain't right.

And the business world is doing the same thing.

The usual business of money flowing thru has slowed dramatically.

So, the CFO's of the world have figured out how to make the best of a bad situation.

Sit on other folks money. And charge them fees for it.

I opened a bank account with a large bank that uses a stagecoach as their logo. They should have used the stagecoach robbers.

I opened the account in California when I lived there.

Upon returning to Texas, my local stagecoacher told me I should change my account to a Texas stagecoach account versus a California stagecoach account.

"Why?"

"Because the California stagecoachers will charge you more to use your money."

"But I thought you were all on the same stagecoach."

"Not hardly. We are still separate banks."

I should have run away right then and there.

So I listened to this knucklehead. The Persian born, London educated, personal banker.

I switched the account.

I suspect he got a $5 spiff.

All I got was pain.

The stagecoach now proudly reports their improvement in profits based on overdraft fees.

When Alibaba tells you your accounts will be made identical and everything will flow thru as before, he couldn't give a shit less when it doesn't.

"Oh, Mr. Burks, you must understand that it takes our central processing unit 60-90 days to convert all of our accounts."

"Omar, where the fuck is your central processing unit? My money is somewhere in your financial ether."

"I'm not sure, sir. But believe me, it will all work out."

At $35 per bounced check from the old account to the new account, the stagecoach racked up a big bounty.

Except I pulled all my money out of that account. They are now trying to collect from themselves I guess.

And then there is American Airlines. I love that company. They do so much good.

But, they have their CFO and their processes.

Last week I booked a flight using an unused ticket from last year.

Which means they had $400 of my money since December.

So I used the unused ticket to book a flight next week.

And, since I'm such a bad customer, I had to pay $150 to rebook that ticket.

I've only flown 3 million miles with them.

I can understand why they would want to punish me.

So, I gave them my debit card to pay for the $50. The fare is $300. The change fee is $150. My credit was $400.

Guess what?

They charged my debit card for the new ticket and the change fee.

When I figured out what they had done, I called.

After twelve voice prompts, I got to a human being.

She looked at the record and admitted that they had screwed up.

She told me she was crediting my debit card that moment for the difference.

That was fourteen days ago.

I still don't have the refund.

I called today and spoke with a lovely agent who then put me in touch with her supervisor.

The supervisor was kind enough to tell me that she understood the frustration of not getting your money back promptly.

However, she also told me that, "I needed to understand the thousands of American Airlines customers that were a due a refund. The process is manual, has to go thru Wichita, and I had unrealistic expectations."

Wow. What a lesson.

When I book a ticket on American using a debit card, they suck that money right up.

They push a button and it's done.

But not so fast, Mr. 3 million miles.

You have to understand the issues faced by our folks in Wichita.

I now clearly understand their issues.

She told me that "normally", I should expect a refund in two or three billing cycles. Meaning two to three months.

Since I spoke with her, and had such a lovely time, she said she would put my request under "Priority".

I think "Priority" in her world means screw him. Put him at the end of the line. We'll see.

Regardless, thousands of folks are owed refunds by American Airlines. And American is sitting on the money as long as they can. Earning interest nightly.

This ain't right.

And then, there is the master of confusion and sucking money out of unsuspecting customers.

ATT.

Their Chairman once said years ago, "Where there is confusion, there is profit."

Think about that the next time you try to decipher your phone bill.

I went to the ATT store this week.

Learned I had more options on my home phone than Obama.

So I canceled all of them. But the nice fellow informed there was a fee to cancel the services I had been paying for and never used. We had a sweet interchange, and thankfully, he waived the fees for me.

Then I had them study my cell phone bill.

I was paying for the privilege of roaming in Tunisia.

So, I canceled that too.

I think.

We'll see when the bill comes. If I can read it.

So, as a closer, they tell me they can save me money on my tv.

No longer can I put up an aluminum Christmas tree and get the local channels.

I have to pay someone.

I don't need or want 600 channels of bullshit.

So, I tell the nice folks at ATT that all I want is local channels and ESPN.

Well, that will cost you $120 a month, but if you will add the NFL Ticket, it will only be $49.99 a month.

What the . . .?

So I cancel Dish Network.

Sign up with ATT.

It was less than the current Dish Network deal.

Only one problem.

I didn't want to give them a card to charge forever.

In order to sign up, it was $19.99.

I handed the young nerd a crisp twenty.

"Sir, we can't accept cash."

"Why?"

"Because we are reselling Direct TV. And we have to process a payment thru our system in central processing and they can't process cash."

"Oh. Then stick it in your ass."

So, I have no TV at my house.

Guess what. It's wonderful.

I can get all the news and sports I want off the internet.

Except I'm paying some asshole in central processing at ATT for the privilege.

Anyway, I think it's time we go back to a cash based society.

Cash your paycheck. Pay in cash. The green folding kind.

It sounds redneck, but it is then your money in your hands.

When our money is all digitized, we're screwed.

Because it is no longer our money. It is "theirs".

Common Sense from an Uncommon Man

2010-07-29T10:09:00.000-07:00

What's love got to do with it?

2010-07-16T01:42:00.000-07:00

Everything.

Or, nothing.

Freakonomics is the best book yet to explain human behavior.

We do things out of incentives.

But the one thing economic theory cannot explain is love.

Love is a conscious decision to put anothers needs before ours.

That isn't human.

Love is from God. Because God is love.

It is why a single mom works two jobs to put her kids thru school.

It is why a father quits his job to spend more time with his kids.

It is why a person voluntarily joins the military.

It is why some marriages last.

It is why we can say I'm sorry, and have the other believe it.

It is why there is a United Way and a Red Cross.

It is why there are angels amongst us.

It is why a man who didn't put the Easter eggs out the night before wakes up Easter morn and cuts bunny feet with a bandsaw, straps them on his feet and hops thru the snow to place Easter eggs for his kids.

It is why Union Missions exist.

It is why Hallmark and ATT exist.

It is why arrivals are so much sweeter than departures.

It is why some companies have fans.

It is the difference between Judaism and Christianity and all other religions.

It is the one thing every one of us on earth shares.

The need to be loved. Unconditionally.

It won't happen, but wouldn't it be wonderful if there was a country on earth whose mission was simply to love.

In the meantime, remember to love first. The rest will follow.

A Man of Independence

2010-07-04T07:19:00.000-07:00

Read the article below from today's edition of The New York Times.

You will then understand how amazing it is that I was able to chat with Brendan last night via Facebook.

Godspeed Brendan.

And Godspeed to your unsung hero Michael.

Spirit Intact, a Soldier Reclaims His Life
By LIZETTE ALVAREZ

WASHINGTON

BRENDAN Marrocco and his brother, Michael, were constructing a summer bucket list, to get them out and about, trying new things. A Washington Nationals game versus their beloved Yankees — sure, since they were stuck here rather than home on Staten Island. Perhaps a ride on the Metro, with its reliable elevators. Pizza: definitely.

How about going to an amusement park? Michael suggested optimistically.

“Would that really be safe?” asked Brendan, a smirk crossing his lips.

The beach? “I don’t do beach anymore,” Brendan replied. Then what about the National Zoo, the one with the pandas? “They got pandas?” Brendan said, razzing his brother again. “Why didn’t you mention that?”

Clutching a pen firmly in his oversize rubber hand, Brendan Marrocco completed the lineup. A trip to Annapolis, Md. A ride on a boat. And, his personal favorite, firing guns. He drew a miniature picture of a handgun next to that one.

Each would be a major accomplishment for Brendan Marrocco, who a year before had come so close to death that doctors still marvel over how he dodged it. At 22, he was a spry, charming infantryman in the United States Army with a slicing wit and a stubborn streak. Then, on Easter Sunday 2009, a roadside bomb exploded under his vehicle, and he became the first veteran of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to lose all four limbs in combat and survive.

In the nearly 15 months since, Specialist Marrocco has pushed past pain and exhaustion to learn to use his four prosthetics, though he can walk for only 15 minutes at a time. He has met sports stars like Jorge Posada and Tiger Woods — and become something of a star himself here at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where his moxie and humor are an inspiration to hundreds of other wounded service members. He has also met, fallen in love with and proposed marriage to a young woman who sees what is there rather than what is missing, though Specialist Marrocco has lately been questioning the relationship.

Now he is preparing for a rare and risky double arm transplant at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center that could profoundly improve his independence. One of the first things he will ask of his new arms is to drive a stick shift (the one time he got behind the wheel, in an empty parking lot, his rubber hand became unscrewed and was left dangling).

There have now been 988 service members who have lost limbs in combat since the first of the wars began in 2001, but Specialist Marrocco’s many wounds raised so many questions. Would he crumble mentally? Was his brain intact? How would he ever cope with daily needs like eating, bathing, even simply getting out of bed and putting on clothes?

“I would close my eyes and see a head and a torso,” his mother, Michelle Marrocco, 50, said of the early days. “How much worse could it be?”

But Specialist Marrocco, who was promoted from private in November, “has exceeded the expectations of everyone but himself,” said Maj. Benjamin Kyle Potter, 35, the orthopedic surgeon who has treated him since he arrived at Walter Reed last year, in April.

He can already write legibly (if left-handed), use a computer (but not play video games), work on a model car (with some help) and text furiously (a generational requirement).

He has not done it alone. His brother, Michael, 26, gave up a good-paying job at Citigroup to move into Walter Reed and, as he put it, “hang” with Brendan, shedding his tentative nature along the way. Their long-estranged parents, an engineer and a nurse, learned to communicate again as they kept vigil by Brendan’s bedside in the early months. And his indefatigable physical and occupational therapists take him out for Chinese food or watch ballgames with him on television long after their shifts end.

A contrarian by nature, Specialist Marrocco has become a bit of a homebody, preferring the haven of Walter Reed — where he is a role model — to the awkwardness of the larger world. And despite 14 operations, he refuses to let a dentist’s needle near his mouth to replace the eight teeth he lost in the blast.

One sweltering day this spring, a Marine sat in a wheelchair outside while Specialist Marrocco practiced walking nearby. The Marine had arrived at Walter Reed in May and was waiting for a shuttle bus. He lost both his arms and legs in Afghanistan, and is the wars’ second quadruple amputee.

The Marine watched Specialist Marrocco amble up an incline, determined to tame his prosthetics. “I’m hoping to be just like you soon, man,” he shouted.

NOT quite six months into his combat tour, Private First Class Marrocco sat behind the wheel of an armored vehicle as it made its way back to Forward Operating Base Summerall in Baiji, a town in northern Iraq. His was the last truck in a four-vehicle convoy on a routine mission escorting a group of soldiers from one base to another. A machine gunner, Private Marrocco had become a driver a few days before.

“It was one of my first driving missions,” he remembered. “I wasn’t driving the truck I was supposed to drive.”

He had arrived in Iraq on Halloween 2008, eager to fight. But by then, there was little fight left in Iraq. Violence had diminished; American forces were dropping in number. His days were spent mostly on patrol, conducting occasional raids and lifting weights at the base’s makeshift gym.

Growing up in the Huguenot section of Staten Island, Brendan had been smart and outgoing, but preferred racing cars to taking tests. His parents enrolled him at Staten Island Academy, hoping the prep-school atmosphere would knock sense into him. It did not.

“He is a very headstrong individual,” explained his mother. “He has taken it to an art form at this point.”

College did not stick, either, so he enlisted in the Army. When he got to Fort Benning, Ga., in January 2008 for basic training, he felt grounded for the first time in his life. Here was a career he could love.

“You kept the danger in the back of your mind,” he said. “You didn’t want it to happen, but you had to train for it.”

It is difficult, though, to train for hidden bombs, which is what makes the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan so insidious. All he can recall of that Easter Sunday drive back to his base is the flash of light against the black of the early morning. “I hit a pressure wire,” he said. “It was across the road.”

The bomb, a particularly lethal one known as an explosively formed penetrator, shredded his armored vehicle. His best Army buddy, Specialist Michael J. Anaya, was killed. Another soldier was wounded; the fourth man in the truck walked away unharmed. Roadside bombs do that — choose the soldier on the right but not the left, the one from Florida but not Georgia.

Maj. Jayson Aydelotte, 38, the trauma surgeon on duty at nearby Camp Speicher, got the call before dawn. Incoming wounded. He shook the sleep from his eyes and got into his scrubs.

Private Marrocco was rushed in. Within eight minutes, his clothes were off and he was connected to a giant bag of intravenous fluid. Both arms and a leg had been sheared off. The other leg, the left, “was hanging literally by a thread,” Major Aydelotte recalled.

Doctors quickly began pumping blood into Private Marrocco’s body, but it sprayed straight onto the ceiling and walls. Aghast, Major Aydelotte looked more closely. One of the two carotid arteries, which carry blood from the heart to the brain, was severed, an injury so lethal it can kill within minutes. “When fragments fly, they make tons of holes in you,” the doctor explained. “He had a hole in his neck. But we didn’t suspect it to be a carotid injury because it wasn’t bleeding.”

It was not bleeding because there was so little blood left in his body — 80 percent of it had spilled out in the field. “Any one of his injuries was life-threatening,” Major Aydelotte said. “It’s incredible.”

The medical team cleaned out each amputation wound, took a vein from his groin to reconstruct the carotid, and sewed him up top to bottom. The same day, he was transferred 85 miles to a larger base in Balad, and then on to Germany. He had survived the initial trauma and surgery. But other serious threats loomed: Infection. Pneumonia. Brain injury.

One day a couple of months ago, Major Aydelotte happened to run into Specialist Marrocco at Walter Reed. “I didn’t tell him who I was,” said Major Aydelotte, who had quietly kept tabs on his patient’s progress. “I didn’t want any kind of accolades from him. His life was saved, but I didn’t do it. He was meant to be saved.”

BRENDAN’S father let the phone ring again and again. Nobody important ever called his home number. Plus, it was Easter Sunday. The ringing was so maddeningly persistent, though, he finally picked up.

“Mr. Alex Marrocco?” the official-sounding voice said. Mr. Marrocco hung up, assuming it was a telemarketer. Then the ringing started again. A houseguest answered. “It’s a major such-and-such from Hawaii,” she reported.

Mr. Marrocco blanched, his mind reeling back to what he had learned at basic training graduation back at Fort Benning: If you get a knock at the door, the soldier is dead. If you get a phone call, the soldier is wounded.

The official-sounding voice, hoping to cushion the blow, asked when he had last spoken to Brendan. The day before. They had talked about a motorcycle that the father was eyeing. The son, a motor head, was urging him to buy it; one day, they could ride side by side.

Not wishing to delay the inevitable, Mr. Marrocco demanded, “Tell me what happened and where it happened.” The voice paused, then said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Brendan was involved in an explosion and he lost both his legs and both his arms.”

Mr. Marrocco’s knees buckled. He fell on the kitchen floor.

His ex-wife was in her car that morning after church and checked the voice mail on her cellphone. There was an urgent message from the Army: “Brendan has been involved in an accident.”

The hours that followed were a blur. To stay focused, Mrs. Marrocco tucked her despair under her nurse’s cap and digested the facts from the doctors at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. Her son’s legs were both amputated above the knee. His right arm was amputated above the elbow. The left arm retained its elbow; thank God for small favors, she thought.

His cheekbone had collapsed, and the retina in his left eye was badly damaged. The beefed-up body armor and helmet had fulfilled their missions. Private Marrocco’s torso — his internal organs — and his head were mostly intact. Then she heard about the carotid.

“How did he live?” Mrs. Marrocco asked.

“We don’t know how he lived,” the doctor said.

The parents, who separated seven years ago, flew together to Germany, where their son was in a medically induced coma. He was swollen and burnt and stitched, with a patch over one eye. His hair was the texture of a Brillo pad. His lips were puffed out of proportion.

“Had I not been told it was my son, I would not have recognized him,” Mr. Marrocco said. Mrs. Marrocco struggled to see beyond the wounds, the respirator and the missing arms and legs. Her son, who was small to begin with, had all but disappeared. “I could not accept it,” she said last month. “And I haven’t accepted it.”

By Wednesday night, about 90 hours after the blast, Private Marrocco was in Washington in Walter Reed’s intensive care unit. He drifted in and out of consciousness. In time, he began to realize something was wrong with his arms, though he could not see them well at first, in part because one eye was swollen shut.

“He looked up at me and lifted his arms up,” his father recalled. “He kind of looked at them and realized they were bandaged and they were different sizes. He couldn’t talk. He had a tube down his throat. But he mouthed the words, ‘I have no hands.’ I nodded to him. And that was it. He put his arms down. ‘O.K.’ ”

Mr. Marrocco did not have the heart to tell his son about his legs. “During that first week, Brendan kept pleading, ‘Dad, Dad, take my boots off. My feet are burning. My feet are burning.’ I would say, ‘Brendan, your boots are off.’ ”

SITTING by her son’s bedside the next week, shortly after he emerged from an operation, Mrs. Marrocco noticed that his left residual leg looked particularly bloody. The nurse on duty said a doctor would come by soon to take a look. Mrs. Marrocco demanded one immediately. Then her son’s blood pressure began to drop precipitously.

“That was one of the worst experiences of my life without a doubt,” she said. “I went back to my room and called one of my best friends, whose son is a youth minister, to get the children to pray. God hears children’s prayers better. I said, ‘Get the prayer chain going. I’m losing him. I’m losing him.’

“If I hadn’t been there,” she added, “I feel I would have lost him.”

In those early weeks, the worst of the pain often seized Private Marrocco in the middle of the night. On good nights, he slept 20 minutes and then wrestled with pain for three or four hours. He tossed and turned. He bobbed up and down. And his father sat watching, unable to do anything to alleviate the agony. It was, Mr. Marrocco said, “the hardest thing for me to bear.”

The family wondered about Brendan’s brain. Bomb blasts are notorious for shaking up the head so severely they leave tracks of destruction, despite the Kevlar helmets. Soldiers who return home with even moderate brain injuries can have trouble holding jobs or remembering to pick up a child at day care.

“You can’t rehab a brain-dead individual,” Mrs. Marrocco said. “How would you show him to do a situp if he doesn’t understand that?”

After Private Marrocco’s brain passed a battery of tests, his family then fretted about his mental health. Could he avoid the powerful punch of depression and post-traumatic stress, a one-two so harrowing it can cripple a soldier as easily as a bullet? Not long after Private Marrocco regained consciousness, Sgt. Justin Minisall, who had been wounded in the bombing, ducked in for a visit. Private Marrocco asked how Specialist Anaya, the gunner in the truck that day, was doing.

“The sergeant looked at me with wide eyes, and I looked at him,” the private’s father said. “The sergeant told him, ‘He didn’t survive.’ Brendan just laid there and, kind of like everything else, took it in and didn’t really say much.”

A week or two later, Brendan told his father, “I am really sorry that Mike died, but I am glad to be alive.” Mr. Marrocco, knowing how close the two were, saw that as a good omen for his mental health. Survivor guilt can sometimes cut too deeply. “That moment made me think, ‘He will be O.K.’ ”

As the weeks passed, the Marroccos were forced to look further down the road. The parents each considered quitting work, but each had a mortgage to pay. And the son, while grateful for his divorced parents’ dedication, was afraid they might suffocate him. He was a grown man. He had fought in a war.

Then his brother did something nobody expected: he volunteered to leave his friends, his social life and his job in information technology at Citigroup, and move to Washington.

The brothers were close, but they were opposites: Brendan the brash, outgoing, rule-defying joker; Michael, reserved and shy, the kind of guy who prefers melting into the background. Mrs. Marrocco worried that Michael, not a caregiver by nature, was not up to the painstaking job.

“It needed to be done, and I was best prepared to do it,” Michael explained in retrospect. “Instead of making a company a million dollars, I can see where my efforts are going.”

Since May 2009, the brothers have lived on the Walter Reed campus in connecting dormitory-style rooms, with a kitchen and maid service. The Army does not charge Michael rent and it gives him $64 a day for living expenses. The military also underwrites all of Brendan’s expenses, including the hand transplants, and pays him a $2,400 monthly salary.

“This tragedy has made Michael a better person,” Mrs. Marrocco said. “He is more talkative, more interactive than he’s ever been, more forthcoming, and he makes plans for himself and for the future, which is different from where Michael was.”

THE two brothers spend most waking hours together; Michael takes time for himself while Brendan has his daily nap. They watch television in the evenings, or at least argue about watching television. Michael wants “South Park.” Brendan wants “Law & Order” or “NCIS.” The older brother wakes the younger each morning, gives him his pills and a glass of water, and “that’s about it,” Michael said. Brendan has come a long way from when he struggled to put on his own T-shirt and brush his teeth. The two leave at 9 a.m. for physical therapy, a short wheelchair ride away.

Michael also keeps track of his brother’s many mechanical parts. “So many things to remember,” Specialist Marrocco joked. “Arms. Legs. We’ll get out the door and down the block and I’ll say, ‘Mike, you got my arm?’ ”

His left arm is a rubber myoelectric model, complete with a hand, that responds to muscle impulses; he wears it most of the time. The right is a primitive body-pressure hook that he puts on mainly for therapy sessions. He has the high-tech C-Leg X2, which has a knee joint sensor and is not yet available to the general public.

He mastered standing in his prostheses within two months, and walking a few steps shortly after that. But walking long stretches is infinitely more difficult, a bit like balancing on stilts, only without the benefit of knees or real arms for balance. He spends a lot of time doing situps and side body lifts to build up core strength, then transfers to the parallel bars to walk with support if he needs it. Unlike other soldiers, he does not listen to an iPod while exercising, so he can fully concentrate on the instructions of his therapist, Luis Garcia, a former medic in the Army Reserve.

Of all the leg amputees Mr. Garcia has worked with over five years at Walter Reed, Specialist Marrocco has been the quickest to adjust to his legs. “He has incredible balance, incredible drive,” Mr. Garcia said.

Before and after lunch in the cafeteria he has occupational therapy: writing, picking up small items like popcorn, positioning a pin on a beret, baking a cake, opening a can. In his wheelchair, a BlackBerry balanced on his thigh, Specialist Marrocco pecks furiously at the keys with his rubber hand or with his “fluffy finger,” an upside-down pencil contraption created just for this task.

Unlike using the prosthetic legs, using mechanical arms does not hurt physically. But the tasks are mentally taxing, and Specialist Marrocco occasionally nods off at the table.

“I want Brendan to be able to eat cereal,” his brother told Maj. Sarah Mitsch, the occupational therapist, one spring afternoon.

“We’ll have to get a swivel spoon,” Major Mitsch replied.

Around Walter Reed, Specialist Marrocco is a celebrity. Tour groups stop by to wish him well. Invitations pour in for sporting events. At the Military Advanced Training Center, where the wounded learn anew how to walk, run, box and climb, he inspires with his toughness and wit.

“It’s funny the complaining that goes on when Brendan’s not there,” Mr. Garcia said. “And then when he’s there, everybody shuts up. It puts things in perspective for them. It puts things in perspective for me, too.

“I never catch him feeling sorry for himself. I’ve never heard him say, ‘I wish this had never happened.’ ”

There are times, though, when Specialist Marrocco’s optimism and confidence are no match for his discomfort and fatigue. He rarely sleeps more than four hours a night and still suffers phantom pain in his right arm. He can be cranky and not keen on visitors; one of his pet peeves is people who talk too much. He jokingly calls his comrades with below-the-knee amputations “the paper cuts.”

But he does not blame the military or curse the war. If he had his way, he said, he would be back in Iraq, behind a machine gun. “I have no idea why I’m so happy,” he said.

It did not take long after the bombing for his wry, dark humor to break through. “Look at all the legroom I got!” he announced after boarding a first-class flight to Hawaii in November 2009, to reunite with his unit as it returned from Iraq. And, he explained, being able to feel your arms and legs when they are not actually there — which happens after traumatized nerves go awry — has its advantages. “I can move my hand around and give someone the finger,” he said. “I can do these things, and no one can see.”

Once, when he asked for a glass of water, a startled woman responded, “but you don’t have any arms or legs!” His tart retort: “I have a mouth!”

But Specialist Marrocco does admit to “down days,” and acknowledged, “This does suck.”

“You know, Mama,” Mrs. Marrocco recalled him saying quietly one day, “it would have been really nice if they left me even one hand.”

KATE BARTO, a beautiful, grounded 23-year-old from Johnstown, Pa., who was an intern with a nonprofit group at Walter Reed last summer, could not help but notice Specialist Marrocco in his wheelchair. But it was his charming wisecracks that really got her attention.

“He had a great spirit about him,” said Ms. Barto, who now works for Hope for the Warriors, another organization that supports wounded service members. “And we became friends.”

The two talked on the phone constantly. “I would fall asleep on the phone with him,” she said. Her only hesitation in getting more involved was that she had just come out of a three-year relationship. The rest, she said, she could handle.

Her family and friends worried. They feared empathy was overriding common sense. But Ms. Barto has a gift: She can see clearly and comfortably past Specialist Marrocco’s disfigurement and disabilities.

“One of my mom’s concerns was that I was feeling sorry for him,” Ms. Barto said. “ ‘Do you really love him? Do you pity him?’ There is no reason to pity him. He had a horrible thing happen to him. But he is no less of a person.

“Our lives will be as difficult as we make them,” she added. “As long as he believes I am going to be around and I love him, we’re going to be O.K.”

On Thanksgiving, Ms. Barto and Specialist Marrocco were playing the question game in his room. She would ask a question and he would answer, then vice versa. “He suddenly asked, ‘Will you marry me?’ ” Ms. Barto recalled. “I said, ‘Is this for real?’ Yes, he replied, ‘Will you marry me?’ ” She said yes.

A couple of weeks later, he slipped the ring, with three diamonds, into his wheelchair pocket for her to find. “It completely blew me away,” she said.

But theirs is not a fairy tale. In April, Ms. Barto said, Specialist Marrocco grew increasingly stressed as the calendar ticked toward his “alive day” — the anniversary of the explosion that nearly killed him — and he broke off their relationship. They reconciled, but then last week decided to take another break.

“We still talk,” Ms. Barto said on Friday, her voice cracking with emotion. “We’re backing off, giving the relationship a rest, giving him the space I think he needs.” She still has the ring.

Despite his remarkable progress, Specialist Marrocco is still struggling to find his place in the wider world. His family tries to coax him out of his Walter Reed fortress for more trips to shopping malls, restaurants and sporting events. But he finds such outings draining and awkward. People stare, or look away. They ramble, not knowing what to say. “I just tell them I got blown up,” he shrugged. “I don’t like it, but I can’t do anything about it. I just pretend they are not looking.”

His mother was more direct: “He hates it. He absolutely hates it.”

He is, however, eagerly anticipating leaving Walter Reed to get a new pair of arms.

THE donor has to be a man. The blood and tissue types have to match, of course. But so do the skin tone and size. The call could come at any time, and the Marrocco brothers will jump into Michael’s black Monte Carlo and high-tail it 237 miles to the University of Pittsburgh to prepare for surgery. They have 10 hours to get there to give the doctors enough time to do their work.

Dr. W. P. Andrew Lee, the hospital’s chief of plastic surgery, will lead four teams of more than 20 surgeons to give Specialist Marrocco, as he put it, the chance to live “a normal life” (a fifth team will handle the donor). His legs would still be missing. But new, human arms would mean he could put on the prosthetics himself. And: hug tightly, drive, twist open pill containers, catch himself when he falls, fix an engine, play Modern Warfare 2 and greatly increase his chances of getting a job.

“It’s going to give me so much more independence to do more stuff on my own,” Specialist Marrocco noted.

Nine people in the United States and about 34 others around the world have received hand or arm transplants since the first successful one in France in 1998. Dr. Lee has performed three in the past 14 months; in May 2009, his team did the first double hand transplant in the United States, and in February, the nation’s first double transplant that extended above the elbow, like Specialist Marrocco’s.

The transplant is mind-boggling in its complexity. The doctors must attach nerves, blood vessels, muscles, tendons and elbow joints, all within about 11 hours. A new antirejection protocol that Dr. Lee formulated should reduce the risk of infection, organ damage and diabetes.

Specialist Marrocco’s nerves would begin regenerating one inch a month — it could be a year or two before he gains feeling in the fingertips. It will never be like before the blast, Dr. Lee said, but the new arms can be almost as good in terms of touch and motor skills.

Unlike a heart or liver transplant, “a hand transplant does not save lives,” Dr. Lee noted. “It improves the quality of life.” He added, “We have to be very careful to balance benefits versus the risk.”

Specialist Marrocco wonders whether he will be able to get tattoo artists to make house calls to decorate the new specimens; he wants something to memorialize Specialist Anaya.

“You’ve got to give them a reason to come,” said Mr. Garcia, the physical therapist.

How about, “I have no arms and no legs and I’m in a wheelchair,” Specialist Marrocco answered.

He expects to spend six months rehabilitating in Pittsburgh (his brother will move there with him). The time there may set back his leg progress, so he will likely return to Walter Reed for further therapy.

Back home in Staten Island, several charities — the Stephen Siller Children’s Foundation, Building Homes for Heroes and a fund dedicated to Specialist Marrocco — have been raising money to build him a wheelchair-accessible house. In August, the actor Gary Sinise, who played a combative double amputee Vietnam veteran in “Forrest Gump,” is scheduled, with his Lt. Dan Band, to support the effort.

Ms. Barto is still hoping to move to New York with him, after a wedding at the National World War II Memorial on the Mall here in Washington. She said they had talked about having children, and that Specialist Marrocco wanted a girl, if only so he could answer the door when a date arrived and say the words, “You should see what happened to the other guy.”

My Mellow Box

2010-06-20T08:50:00.000-07:00

Sorting thru my mellow box on this Fathers Day.

Some favorites.

Seeing the miracle of birth of five children.

Attending the creation of five children. Especially Zac. There was time pressure involved. For employee benefits to cover him, he had to be conceived by a certain deadline. It was a particularly busy period of life with three kids under five and a busy job. I'm reasonably sure the night that boy was made was the night I put my foot down and said no. I was just too tired. After alot of cajoling, I said, "OK, but I'm not even going to kiss you."

Pete at 5 gazing out the window at the swimming pool. "Dad, when are you going to drain the pool?" "Why do we need to drain the pool?" "Because that whale we adopted on PBS needs to be in salt water."

Watching Ali set a record for three point shots made in one game at Ursuline. And having her hand me my head in H-O-R-S-E in the driveway.

Sarah at age two coming downstairs one winter morning. "Honey, your little feet are going to get cold. You need your houseshoes." Exact quote and a sign of things to come, "I can't find my fuckin' houseshoes."

Calling home from a business trip and asking Zac at 6 how his day was. "It was a great day, dad." "Really, did you learn something new at school?" "No, they put up a brand new big slide and you can go down it really fast headfirst."

Reading Where the Wild Things Are to Georgia at age three. "Daddy, you skipped a page." "Honey, I have read this book ten thousand times. I did not skip a page." She calmly licks her fingers and separates the pages to show me my error. Exact quote and a sign of things to come, "Now tell me I'm right."

Being a bonus dad to Chris. Zac's best friend in high school. His dad moved to a town nearby, but Chris wanted to finish at Celina. Got to be his legal guardian and have him live with us for a year.

Having breakfast at the local cafe with Georgia and having her become buddies with the farmers and ranchers at the Liars Table.

Having breakfast at the local cafe with Sadie and my two grandsons and watching the tradition continue.

Playing golf in Oregon when my cell phone rings. My buddy answers the phone and says, "Hello, Ali. Your dad is about to hit a shot." She proceeds to rip him a new one and says, "I don't care if my dad is about to win the U.S. Open. Put him on the phone. Now." Pete and Ali were interning in New York. On Pete's last day of work, his co-workers took him out for a celebration. He was now passed out cold, face first in a pile of yuk in their apartment on Central Park West. And Ali wanted to know just exactly what I was going to do about it.

Seeing my dad pin Pete's lieutenant bars on him at the commissioning service at Ft. Benning.

Watching Pete propose to Missy in the snow at the Dallas Arboretum.

Georgia telling me that she was quitting school after first grade. "Well, I can count to 100 by ten. What else is there?" "Peanut, I know grown men who can't do that. I think you have a point."

Rex Glendenning betting me his $100 to my $50 that Zac was going to catch his first touchdown pass. And then seeing it happen. And then happily paying the bet.

Packing soldier care packages together.

My kids presenting Missy with a ring at Christmas to let her know that she was officially a part of our family.

Landing in Seattle and finding 14 voicemails on my phone. Seven from Sarah. Seven from Ursuline. Seems there had been a little misunderstanding. Sarah and her buddies had decided it would be fun to skip out of school. Ursuline thought they had been kidnapped and had locked down the campus.

Having Big Papa's secret recipe for pig sauce to share with the world.

And Papa John's Irish writing bug to record this for my knuckleheads.

Honor and Remember

2010-06-19T09:57:00.000-07:00

Sgt. Zachary J. Walters, 2nd BN, 6th Marines (78th), 2nd Marine Division, passed away Tuesday, June 8, 2010 in Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

He was leading a group of Marines and Afghan soldiers when he was struck by an IED.

The Patriot Guard was there for his arrival on Thursday at Love Field.

When the plane door opens and you first see that flag draped coffin, it is one of the toughest moments for the family of the fallen soldier.

SGT Walters came home in a small flag draped container. He had been cremated.

It took my breath away as it did for the PGR who have witnessed too many of these homecomings.

The family will not get to say goodbye face to face. They won't get to touch him one last time.

SGT Walters was on his second deployment. He didn't have to go. He wanted to go to lead his men. He was a Marine thru and thru.

He was born May 24, 1986. He was preceded in death by his uncle Christopher Scott Walters. He is survived by his parents Kelly J. Walters of Irving, and Regina M. Walters of Decatur; grandparents Joe and Bobbie Walters of Irving; grandmother Lore Miner of Decatur; brother Dwayne Patrick Adair of Decatur; aunts and uncles Norma and Harvey Merritt of Alvarado, Nell and Al Berry of Mesquite, Ramona and Tony McCollough of Peculiar, Missouri, Rebecca and Mark Ireland of Alvord, Texas, and Tom and Ann Miner of Decatur; and numerous cousins.

He also leaves behind his fiance Vickie L. Falcon of Jacksonville, North Carolina.

Memorial services were at 1:00.PM. Friday, June 18, 2010 at Brown's Memorial Chapel in Irving, Texas. Interment services with Full Military Honors followed at 3 PM at DFW National Cemetery.

His family requests donations to Wounded Warriors, PMB 48, Western Blvd., Suite E, Jacksonville, NC 28546 or www.carepackageproject.com.

Thank you for your leadership, service and sacrifice SGT Zachary Walters.

You will never be forgotten.

Godspeed to Zachary's family and fiancee. Our family has lived this movie. If we can be of help or support, we are here for you.

The Clown Prince of Afghanistan

2010-06-12T10:02:00.000-07:00

Last May, I posted this entry http://burkslaw.blogspot.com/2009/05/from-kabul-to-lax.html

How wise he was. How prescient.

He never once mentioned Hamid Karzai as being the solution.

As I listen now to what he was saying, it was about the people of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Not the "leaders".

In the past few days, we've heard from President Karzai.

He's like a Kennedy or a Bush. His family has been in power and politics in Afghanistan forever.

Two senior Afghan officials were showing President Hamid Karzai the evidence of a spectacular rocket attack on a nationwide peace conference earlier this month when Mr. Karzai told them that he believed the Taliban were not responsible.

“The president did not show any interest in the evidence — none — he treated it like a piece of dirt,” said Amrullah Saleh, then the director of the Afghan intelligence service.

Mr. Saleh declined to discuss Mr. Karzai’s reasoning in more detail. But a prominent Afghan with knowledge of the meeting, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said that Mr. Karzai suggested in the meeting that it might have been the Americans who carried it out.

Mr. Saleh immediately resigned as head of intelligence. As did the interior minister, Hanif Atmar.

Hmmmm. Wonder who's zooming who.

Corruption in Afghanistan, lying in Afghanistan, manipulating in Afghanistan is like Louisiana politics on crack-powered steroids.

It's what they do. And how they survive.

Which makes it so hard to believe anybody.

And a week ago, President Karzai says he doubts the NATO forces can defeat the Taliban.

Hmmmm. Who are you rooting for, Hamid?

During the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, Karzai was a supporter of the Taliban. He knows those folks well. They were fighting his war for him.

Then when the Taliban decided to take over the country, he became their enemy.

Recently, he's been sidling up to them again.

And wow, it's just been discovered that there is $1 trillion in minerals in the ground in Afghanistan.

Guess who controls that ground?

Nope, not Hamid.

His buds in the Taliban do.

And so, ole Hamid is dancing the dance. He needs the West (read the United States) to keep him alive whilst the Taliban try to kill him whilst he tries to cut a deal with them.

And in the meantime, Pakistan believes these lands belong to them. Which is why they have supported the Taliban. And now they see booty.

Wonder what the old Soviet Generals are thinking. Wonder what Putin is thinking.

Probably not focused on the health and well-being of U.S. and NATO soldiers.

Probably wishing they had done a better job years ago. So this trillion dollar find would be theirs.

The only reason for the U.S. to be in Afghanistan is to prevent terrorist acts against the U.S.

We are not at war with Afghanistan. Just as we were never at war with Iraq.

Maybe its time we change our thought pattern.

There will always be terrorists.

The job of the United States government is to protect its citizens.

Perhaps we should focus more on protecting our borders and dealing with those terrorists already here and those trying to enter.

Let those barbarians fight over that ground in Pashtun.

Including that slickster with the shaved head, clipped beard, fancy suits and funny hat.

Mr. Karzai, think it's time you and Mullah Omar figure it out on your own.

In the meantime, we'll be fortifying against your type.

For the Faith of a Mother

2010-06-02T09:32:00.000-07:00

"Then Jesus answered and said unto her, 0 woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt. And her daughter was made whole from that very hour." —Matthew 15:28.

Not that God doesn't hear fathers, but there is just something special about a mother's faith and a mother's love.

Last July, I wrote about Bryce Saldi. He suffered a serious head injury and has been in the hospital and rehab since.

His sweet mama has been by his side virtually every day for 11 months. His dad, his brothers, his aunts, his girlfriend have been there as well. But Bre has been the rock.

First for two months in California where he was injured. Then an air ambulance ride to Dallas. And nine months of daily visits, back rubs, feeding, foot massages, therapy sessions. Sleepless nights. Stressful days. Her business put on hold.

She is a woman of faith. This ordeal has tested it.

I was in Los Angeles last summer when the accident happened and drove to Loma Linda several times to visit.

We had a long talk about life, faith, curveballs, hope, despair, losing a child, how to get thru the valley of the shadow of death.

This happy news from her blog today.

"A few days ago Bryce had a big surprise for me. He said his first word, "Mom". It was the loveliest word that I have ever heard. I went and hugged him and he repeated it over and over in my ear."

Our neighbors have a daughter who was born with a serious heart defect. But to look at her today, you would never know it.

She's a cheerleader. A model. A happy, beautiful child.

Her parents deal with the daily fear that normal life can turn bad in an instant.

Her mom has made sure that every day of Mackinlee's life has been a blessing and that not one is taken for granted.

Yesterday, she went in for her routine annual checkup.

Her mom Susie's post today.

"Dear God, yesterday you left me on pins and needles and sick to my stomach waiting on news that an echo tech implied might be bad only to later have the doctor deliver the most amazing news that he can't even explain except for Divine Intervention! Thank you for reminding me of your mercy and power and to never take anything for granted. Thank you for prayers answered!"

Thank you, moms. Bless you Bre and Susie.

Godspeed Bryce and Mackinlee.

An upcoming memorial day

2010-06-01T07:59:00.000-07:00

A good friend of my youngest son came by for a Memorial Day visit.

They graduated together from Celina High School.

He was voted best looking his senior year. If I'd had a vote, he would have had mine too.

In fact, if he would shave his legs, I would ask him out right now.

This young stud is now in the U.S. Army.

He knew Pete. He will be deploying to Afghanistan in a month.

He is responsible for a group of Apache helicopters.

As a memento, he brought me a dummy round from the 30MM cannon on his birds.

The pen might be mightier than the sword, but I don't know if it stacks up against this weaponry.

The Apache can fire these babies off at a rate of 625 rounds per minute.

That sort of thing can ruin Omar's day.

And here's hoping it does. Soon. And often.

Hey you Talibs. Don't know when your next memorial day observance is. But buckle up.

When you aren't too busy raping or selling a 13 year old girl, or burning books, or making drug deals, or destroying centuries old carvings as Allah tells you to do, come on out and greet your American visitors.

Josh and his buds will be looking for your sorry asses.

Decoration Day

2010-05-31T00:14:00.000-07:00

We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.

-George Orwell

May 30, 1868 was declared Decoration Day by the Grand Army of the Republic, an organization of Union Army veterans.

The first observance was held at Arlington National Cemetery. Maj. General John Logan declared that on that day the graves of fallen Union and Confederate soldiers should be decorated with flowers to honor their sacrifices.

By the end of the 19th century, the day had come to be known as Memorial Day. It was only after World War I that the day was expanded to include those that had died in all American wars.

Memorial Day wasn't declared a national holiday by Congress until 1971.

Like many of you, Memorial Day meant the beginning of summer and a cookout with friends and family for most of my life. I was too stupid, naive, shallow and selfish to recognize why the day had been set apart.

Now, I have a much different view.

So tomorrow, I will spend the morning honoring those that have given all. And I will visit the grave of my son and we will decorate it to recognize his service and sacrifice.

But in the afternoon, our family will have a barbecue. And it won't be a time of mourning. Or sadness.

It will be a time of celebration of life that those fallen brave men and women before us would want to be celebrated.

The men and women that died on the battlefield would want us to start summer with a bang.

They were willing to die so that we can enjoy such things.

They wanted to come home and do the same.

All that they would ask is that the nation acknowledge their shared sacrifice to enable us to enjoy such a day.

For fools like me, I wish there was a law requiring each of us to visit and decorate the grave of a fallen soldier on Memorial Day. To understand the cost of freedom. To appreciate why we have what we have.

And then the law should read that at one set hour (like 7 eastern, 6 central, 5 mountain, 4 pacific), we should all sing the National Anthem together in their honor.

And only then, let the rib sucking, steak savoring, hot dog eating, hamburger chewing begin with gusto.

Rest well at Fiddler's Green, you brave souls.

We will meet again in Heaven.

Know that your service and sacrifice will never be forgotten.

In fact, it will be decorated with flowers.

A Woman's Memorial Day

2010-05-28T08:03:00.000-07:00

"It is not of the dead alone that we think on this day.

There are those still living whose sex forbade them to offer their lives, but who gave instead their happiness.

Which of us has not been lifted above himself by the sight of one of those lovely, lonely women, around whom the wand of sorrow has traced its excluding circle--set apart, even when surrounded by loving friends who would fain bring back joy to their lives?

I think of one whom the poor of a great city know as their benefactress and friend. I think of one who has lived not less greatly in the midst of her children, to whom she has taught such lessons as may not be heard elsewhere from mortal lips. The story of these and her sisters we must pass in reverent silence.

All that may be said has been said by one of their own sex---

But when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
weaned my young soul from yearning after thine
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine."

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., Memorial Day Speech, May 30, 1884

To all of the wives, mothers, sisters, fiances, soulmates and friends, may you find strength and peace this Memorial Day. And everyday.

Thank you for your sacrifices. Thank you for sharing your very best.

You are as much heroes as those whom you have lost.

Whither Iraq

2010-05-26T23:12:00.000-07:00

"To fight out a war, you must believe something and want something with all your might. So must you do to carry anything else to an end worth reaching. More than that, you must be willing to commit yourself to a course, perhaps a long and hard one, without being able to foresee exactly where you will come out. All that is required of you is that you should go somewhither as hard as ever you can. The rest belongs to fate. One may fall-at the beginning of the charge or at the top of the earthworks; but in no other way can he reach the rewards of victory."

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., Memorial Day Speech, May 20, 1884

President Obama quoted Holmes last week as he addressed the graduates at West Point.

President Obama also said this to those soon to be commissioned officers. "... this is what success looks like: an Iraq that provides no haven to terrorists; a democratic Iraq that is sovereign and stable and self-reliant."

This is the same man who on October 22, 2002 said in front of a few hundred anti-war demonstrators at Chicago Plaza, "I don't oppose all wars." Obama said, "What I am opposed to is a dumb war. What I am opposed to is a rash war..."

Time will tell which Barack Obama was correct.

I am as confused about the war in Iraq as anyone.

Was it good strategy?

Was it worth it?

Was it a dumb war?

Experience is a tough teacher. First you get the answer, then you get the lesson. And we don't have the answer yet.

What I do have is some insight you might not have on the situation in Iraq.

I have friends who are there right now. Men on their second and third deployment.

Here is an excerpt from an email from one of them in the last few days.

"A couple of things that are somewhat exciting is about a week ago my Brigade Commander was flying from a base from the North part of the Area of Operation when his wing man had mechanical problems and had to make an emergency landing in the desert.

The helicopter that was having problems was a UH-60 Black Hawk. The helicopter that the Brigade Commander was flying in was a UH-47 Chinook. No passengers were flying in the Black Hawk when it had to make an emergency landing.

When they landed the pilots and crew chief loaded up on the Chinook and continued their flight pattern back. Our Charlie Battery is our farthest perimeter to the North and one of their platoons was quickly spun up as the quick reactionary force that went to go secure the helicopter on the ground.

Eventually a couple of mechanics flew out to the landing site and was able to fix the Black Hawk in which the pilots were able to fly it back.

What was pretty cool about the story was that while that platoon was out there securing the site a Sheik and some Iraqis went out to them with some food to give to the troops. That was a small gesture from them to us that they support us and we have that continued friendship."

That is one reality that you won't hear from any other news source.

What does it mean?

I don't know. But I think that Sheik is like the Sheik that sought me out last April.

Last April when I was in Iraq, a Sheik wanted to meet me. Due to logistics, it never happened.

He had lost his son and his brother in an attack on him. The Sheik had been the target. Why? Because he was a good man. One that longed for peace in Iraq. And one that saw the U.S. as a force of good willing to fight evil.

The Sheik wanted to meet someone else that had lost a son in the Iraq War. Some day, I hope to meet him and come to understand better what this is all about.

From another veteran of Iraq, this excerpt from an email this week. He was the Captain of Pete's troop and one of the first on the scene that day.

"I fly over the spot where Pete was killed at least once a week. Never loses its impact on me. And I see his name every time I walk in or out of division headquarters. There are huge placques in the entrance hall with the names of those that were taken, broken down by year. Pete is toward the bottom of the 2007 boards. I say good morning and good night to him everyday.

So far we've only put two names on the 2010 board. Progress is real, no matter what the press may want to say. This is still a dangerous place but I truly believe we are going to get this sorted out soon and end this with dignity and honor."

Until there is evidence to the contrary, I'm going to listen to the folks with boots on the ground in Iraq. Which includes the U.S. military and the Iraqis. And not the evening news.

Which gives me hope. And peace.

Losing love

2010-05-18T23:38:00.000-07:00

Losing a love is decimating.

You begin to question everything.

It has happened to me several times.

And what I have learned is that I have to wait on God.

Because God is love. If you don't know God, you don't know love.

He has a plan.

There are many days that I don't care for the plan.

That's because I'm on my time.

But I am learning painfully and slowly that if I will wait on Him, He will take care of me and bit by bit reveal the plan to me.

God is eternal. Eternal is a concept none of us can really understand.

If you are eternal, there is no concept of time.

I have learned that I am not in control of anything.

I have learned that any and all blessings that have come my way have been of Him. And some of those blessings have not been happy things.

I have for years been a "Lord, bless my mess" kind of man.

He doesn't hear that prayer.

I have learned to open my mind, my heart, my arms, my hands every morning and say to Him, "Lord, I can't wait for the surprise you have in store for me today".

A thousand times in the past few years He has provided when there was no possible way.

I don't like alot of the things that have happened to me. But I'm learning to appreciate that He is in control and is teaching me to let Him run the show.

There are amazingly wonderful things happening in my little life.

The love of grandchildren. The flowering of my grown children. The simple sweet love of my 8 year old daughter who loves me in spite of my flaws.

And I think God may well have introduced me to my soulmate.

She is much too good for me. But, for some odd reason, she seems to like me.

All I've ever wanted is what all of us ever wanted.

To find someone that will love us unconditionally.

Jesus, or Yeshua, is the example.

I had given up hope.

He hasn't, and never will.

He is hope.

And she is the evidence of things unseen, and the proof of things hoped for.

Lord, thank you for my life.

If she is it, make it clear.

And please, Lord, don't let me screw it up.

Neosporin breath

2010-05-17T22:05:00.000-07:00

I'm a 55 year old knucklehead with an 8 year old daughter.

And four grown kids.

Yes, I know the math.

Yes, I know the issues.

Just please allow me to share the joy of what an 8 year old girl is all about.

On Saturday, we went to her riding lesson at Palos Verdes Stables.

If you've never driven south of Los Angeles into PV, you've missed something.

It is a magic place.

Years ago, the rich folk found it.

It is near the Pacific.

The air, the trees, the flora are all different there.

And in the middle of it is horse country.

Sandy loam.

And today, it is run by women.

Reedy, salty, earthy blonde women that love horses and dogs. And each other. And their husbands and boyfriends.

It is estrogen heaven.

As sports bars are to men, this place is to women.

It's all about the horses. And the discipline. And the life of brushing, and sweeping out, and feeding, and caring, and learning.

My peanut loves it. She is learning to ride English. Which I learned watching her means the rider actually exercises and works. I thought it was the horse that did all the work. Once again, I'm wrong. Which is ok, so long as I learn.

On Sunday, it was father-daughter dance night with the girl scouts.

Much more time was spent getting buffed than was spent dancing. Maybe one go round with pops and she and they were done. It was a classic generational learning session.

Every current song was well known by the 8-10 year old girls. They danced together. They conga lined together.

When "Play That Funky Music White Boy" came over the speakers, all the girls sat down. The dads all had their white man overbite ready to go, with nobody to dance with.

Soon, she realized this wasn't all that much fun. And her high heels hurt her feet.

She had two hot dogs. As did I plus a cold cheeseburger.

We took what I'm sure will be a classic picture with the photographer of, "I really don't want to be here".

All she wanted was to go home and relax and snuggle.

So we did. And then she asked if I wanted a back rub.

Of course I did.

So she starts the program. She walks on my back. She massages me with her strong little hands.

Then starts the "process". As a female, she somehow knows that special herbs and oils are required.

So as I lay prone, she starts rubbing something on my back.

"Peanut, what is that?"

"Neosporin, daddy. It will make your back feel better."

"Where did you get Neosporin?"

"It's in your shaving kit. And I'm going to use this old toothbrush to massage it into your back."

It was the most loving and lovely massage.

And my back is germ free.

And after brushing my teeth this morning, I can tell you that Neosporin mixed with Colgate leaves you with a hint of Vicks Vaporub breath with a minty finish.

And the knowledge that one little girl loves you.

The Store That Love Built

2010-05-11T23:50:00.000-07:00

The Store That Love Built:
12 Jan 2008
By CH (CPT) Bryan Smith 4/2SCR USA

“Greater love hath no man then this, than a man lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13. On November 14, 2007, 2LT Peter H. Burks gave his life for his friends, the men of 4th Platoon, Palehorse troop 4th Squadron 2nd Calvary Regiment. His family, fiancée and friends were stunned and grieved by the news of Peter’s death. As a chaplain, I expected this response from those who knew Peter so well. It was what happened next that neither I nor the men of Palehorse troop could have ever imagined. Peter’s family, his mom, Mrs. Jackie Merck, his dad, Mr. Alan Burks, and fiancée, Miss Melissa Haddad, fought their way through their own personal grief and rallied an entire community to support our troops. We began to receive care packages in the mail from people in Texas, from towns and communities I had never heard of before, towns like McKinney, Frisco, Duncanville, Celina and Garland. And the packages kept on coming. It wasn’t long we had received over two hundred care packages for our Soldiers. As I prayed and thought about how I could best honor the memory of Peter and show my appreciation to all those people in Texas whose cards and gifts kept coming in, it hit my mind that I should open a country store in Pete’s honor. So with the support of my Commander, LTC Antonio Aguto Jr., we celebrated the grand opening of the “Peter Burks Country Store” at Forward Operating Base Prosperity here in Baghdad on Christmas Eve 2007. Two hundred and twenty five Soldiers came by in two hours and picked up food, clothing, hygiene and gift items from the store at absolutely no cost. We also gave out several door prizes that people had sent us such as: Xbox controllers, CD’s, DVD’s and CD players. We continue to open the store twice a week and Soldiers can come by and get whatever they want for free. As I think now of the store, the sacrifice and the love that 2Lt Peter Burks had for his men and the kindness of some people in Texas, I can’t help but weep. The Peter Burks store truly is the store that love built.

Pete's regiment is in the process of deploying again. We don't know where, but we know it must be a hot spot. They call in the Cavalry when all hell breaks loose.

As this regiment of 5,000 brave men and women head into battle, the Peter Burks Country Store deploys with them.

We need your help to stock it. With love.

There are two ways you can help.

1. You, your church or synagogue or mosque, your company, your neighborhood, your kid's school can collect goods that we will ship. Here's what they want. Really complicated stuff:

-Salty snacks (pistachios, peanuts, Spicy Cheetohs, etc.)

-Healthy snacks (Clif Bars, Powerbars, etc.)

-White socks

-Red Vines and Gummi Bears

-Powdered Gatorade packs (to put in their Camelback water pouches to get them thru 125 degree days with 80 pounds of body armor on)

-Hand sanitizer (since showers aren't readily available)

-DVDs, CDs, Xbox consoles and games and controllers (yep, they are still kids)

-Handwritten letters from you and your family

-Playing cards

-Beef jerky

-Toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, eye drops, swabs

-Anything non-perishable, shippable and that would tickle a scared 18 year old and let them know somebody cares

Contact me at alan.burks@gmail.com and we will figure out how to get it picked up and shipped.

2. Cash

Our largest expense is postage. That's the only way to ship into a war zone. You can go to to www.unsungherofund.org to learn more and donate via PayPal or check.

To date, with your help, we have shipped over 7 tons of care packages into Iraq and Afghanistan.

With your help again, more tons of love will be on their way.

We will start shipments in early June.

These 5,000 will know that somebody in America cares about their sacrifice based on what you do.

A different kind of Mothers Day

2010-05-09T15:05:00.000-07:00

Below is a note I just received from a Gold Star family support group.

It is self-explanatory.

It is heartbreaking.

And, it provides a chance to be part of a miracle.

Since my Mom isn't here for me to give her a hug, I'm heading to the post office to send Mrs. Koch some love.

Thanks for anything you can do.

ab

Dear Friends of Christine Koch,

It is with overwhelming sadness that I be the one to inform you of a tragedy that has befallen the Koch family. As you all know, two years ago Christine and Bill Koch were informed that their beloved son, Stephen gave the ultimate sacrifice while serving in the United States Army over in Afghanistan. This morning, Friday May 7, 2010, there was another knock at the door; they were informed of the untimely death of their oldest daughter, Lynne.

I have been in contact with Christine and was given permission to alert you all of this unfortunate tragedy. Arrangements are not yet finalized.

David Lussier and I, along with Ron Dixon, the Commander of American Legion Post 25, and Nancy O’Rorke, Ron’s fiancé and Christine’s closest friend, are working together to help Christine and Bill and their other son, Billy, with the unfortunate task of raising the funds to help them bury their daughter properly. The family has been hit hard in recent months with unexpected financial matters; therefore, we ask that you find it in your hearts to send $1.00 in a sympathy card to help them bury their daughter properly. Christine has been there for our troops no matter what and today she is grieving the loss of yet another child – how much more can one mother endure.

In anticipation of your willingness to help the Koch family, I have obtained some vital information which is as follows:

Please do not send flowers, instead send Christine a card of encouragement and if you can, enclose $1.00 or more if you have it to let her know she is not grieving alone. This family has given enough and now its time to ask you all to search your hearts to help a Mother who is need of burying another child.

Cards and donations are being accepted via the American Legion. All donations will be used to help the family deal with this tragedy in private. Send your note, card and donation to:

Joyce Kilmer American Legion Post 25
Attn: Commander Ron Dixon
PO Box 173
Milltown, NJ 08850

If there is anyone out there who wishes to donate more or do something special for Christine, please contact Commander Ron Dixon directly at 732-404-7445 (this number is shared with direct permission from Mr. Dixon) Checks should be made payable to the Joyce Kilmer American Legion Post 25 – memo note: Koch Family

On behalf of David Lussier and myself, we thank you all for supporting our beloved Christine and her family in their hour of need. Please pray for their family to be strong and allow God to give them the strength to endure this terrible tragedy.

Betty Kilbride and David Lussier

This goofy little blog

2010-05-08T02:37:00.000-07:00

I'm an alpha male in a numeric world.

Meaning, words mean more to me than numbers.

Writing is an extension of thinking.

I'm Scotch Irish by descent.

And Scotch Irish folk are prone to verbal sharing.

Jokes. Stories. An inherent interest in other people. Because our ancestors were stuck on these cold, rainy outposts and strangers brought a chance to tell old stories new and the possibility of learning something.

I started writing this thing for two reasons.

First and foremost, to leave a written history of my thoughts for my children.

I was inspired by my maternal grandfather. As Irish as a McLarin can be.

He scribbled poems, stories, thoughts and stored them in what he called his "mellow box".

According to my Mom and my sweet aunts, Papa John would often go to that box and wallow in the good and sad thoughts he had written for only his consumption.

Oh, how I wish I had that box. I would know so much more about my family and me.

On my dad's side, there are great stories. My great-great grandmother was a Cherokee. One of my distant aunts was born at home during a battle in the Civil War as a Union cannonball came thru the house.

Sadly, these great stories aren't written down, and I wasn't astute enough to get them recorded when Big Papa and Momie were alive.

So, I hope this written record will provide my children and their children some history and some idea of what a knucklehead their dad, grandpa, great-grandpa and so on was.

Secondly, I am continually inspired by the words of my oldest son, Peter.

On his tombstone in Melissa, Texas are his words. "I want to foment change in this world."

Pete isn't physically here to do it. But his spirit drives me to ask, question and search for truth that can make a difference.

To date, their have been over 40,000 visits to this little mellow box.

Many repeat customers. And many new folks from around the world.

United Kingdom. Canada. Iraq. Iran. Slovenia. Russia. Norway. Singapore. China and Hong Kong. Australia. Ireland. Afghanistan. Iceland. Italy. Japan. Switzerland. Finland. France. Spain. Brazil. Turkey. Netherlands. Norway. Israel. Ukraine. Mexico. Belgium. New Zealand. Kuwait. Poland. Sweden. Poland. Vietnam. Kenya.

79 countries to date. And all 50 of the United States of America.

This world wide interweb thing is apparently catching on.

Dear reader, if you've gotten this far, I thank you. And I hope something in this combination of writing and typing has been worthwhile for you.

The Roadman

2010-05-04T07:30:00.000-07:00

I've been selling stuff all my life.

Newspaper route. Fuller Brush salesman. Magazine space sales rep. Mens retail clothing salesman.

In college, I had the good fortune to have an excellent job. Campus Marketing Rep for Gallo wine.

The University of Georgia held the esteemed position of highest beer consumption per capita in the nation. Gallo wine decided they wanted some of that money.

So I got hired to promote Carlo Rossi jug wine to the Dawg Nation.

After college, I have sold to the masses via advertising and global marketing programs.

But I've discovered that nothing I've done compares to The Roadman.

The person that loads up their car with samples, dreams and bills to pay and hits the road to call on accounts one-on-one. That is real selling.

Hours of windshield time. Hours of lonely driving thru the American countryside.

Keeping track of mileage for taxes. Weeks away from home. Cheap hotels. Fast food eaten in the car.

The Roadman doesn't mind being called a peddler. He knows what he does. He likes what he does. He's proud of his ability to turn no into yes.

I've had the privilege of working with a number of these engines of industry. Nothing happens in business until somebody sells something.

They are independent businessmen. And their bread and butter customer is an independent businessman.

Sadly, with the homogenizing of America by national retail chains, The Roadman is a dying breed.

Last week, I had the opportunity to make a sales call with a Roadman.

Ten hours of driving in one day for a one hour sales call.

It was worth it because the appointment was in Bentonville, Arkansas.

Bentonville is to The Roadman as Augusta is to golf.

This Roadman made his bones and millions selling womens and girls clothing.

Dresses, suits, and blouses by the truckload.

At one time, it was bras. He credits his success in this venture to his "tittie friendly hands".

His biggest hit was "jerk em up pants". A womens polyester pant with an elastic waistband.

He sold them till the world was flat with them. At about $3.50 wholesale. Bet your mom owned several pair.

As we departed that morning, he explained the rules to me.

One stop to tee-tee per five hours. No stopping for food.

We ate a one pound bag of pretzels on the way up. And another on the way back.

We laughed about our ankles swelling due to all the salt. Somewhere around Checotah, Oklahoma on the way back, our mouths were so puckered we had to stop for something to drink. Right next to the road sign that proudly proclaimed Checotah as the home of Carrie Underwood.

The Roadman learns to be efficient. The Roadman learns the best time of day for calling on customers.

Like late Friday afternoon. Most sales folks have called it a week. Many a fortune has been made by calling on that last customer at 5pm on Friday.

The Roadman knows where the best cheap Italian food is in Ooltewah, Tennessee.

The Roadman knows the high school mascot names in small towns. Like the Atoka (Oklahoma) Wampus Cats. And before political correctness came around, the Pekin (Illinois) Chinks.

Twitter, Facebook, Woot, Ebay and other internet tools are changing how we communicate and do business.

Sadly, so little of it is face to face. Person to person. Relationships. Trust.

Here's to The Roadman.

May your souls find rest. May your perseverance inspire us. May we never forget the art of selling.

May we long remember it was merchants like you who helped Sam Walton find the items that turned a one store operation into the world's largest corporation.

Twin sons of different mothers

2010-05-02T22:30:00.000-07:00

At the University of Georgia, I met Allen Burks.

He spells his first name different than me, but other than that, we have led amazingly similar lives.

We had never met, even though we grew up less than 20 miles apart.

In 1978, odd things began to happen.

We were both advertising majors in the School of Journalism.

We were to graduate at the same time.

And the way we met was eerie. Our phone numbers in Athens, Georgia were the same except his number ended in 3587 and mine ended in 3857. He got calls for me and vice versa.

After lots of phone calls from folks that were as confused as we were, we called each other and arranged to meet. And have been fast friends ever since.

His dad owned Martin Burks Chevrolet across from the farmers market south of Atlanta.

That was good for me. He always had a running automobile.

On several occasions, my VW would blowout a valve or one of the $5 retreads I would buy from the junkyards on 138 between Monroe and Conyers. Allen would always come get me and give me a ride home.

After graduating, we lived close to each other again in the leafy suburbs south of Atlanta.

Many a Saturday night, I would get a call from the Clayton County jail from one of the guys in the service department that needed bailing out because they'd had too much fun honky tonkin'.

Folks were still confusing us for each other.

Since they only got one phone call, I would call Allen and let him know one of his folks needed help.

We both got married. And we both got crapped on.

But we both had wonderful kids from those failed marriages, and thankfully have close loving relationships with our children.

Our dream jobs got cut short for reasons out of our control. GM shut the dealership that his dad and he had built when GM hit the wall. I worked for a public company that decided to sell to a private equity group, and the PE boys were convinced that all of the management group had to go.

Today was unusual for me. I had this odd emotional overload. I missed my mom who passed away 8 years ago. And I got scared thinking of the day that my sweet pops won't be here. (Although at 84 he is healthier and more active than me. Perhaps I'm the one that won't be here.)

Tonight I learned that Allen's mom went home to be with our Lord. His dad has been waiting for her for a couple of years.

I hurt for my brother.

I feel the pain and I'm back to missing my Mom like 8 years ago. The scab just got ripped off.

My brother, I love you and miss you. And I wish I could lift your burden. But it's a passage we must go thru.

Thankfully, Allen has found a great new love and is moving on in life.

Oh, how I hope the day comes that I find true love and my brother and I can be in the same boat again.

We'll take that boat all over Lake Spivey and be thankful for the lives we've shared.

Boobquake Aftermath

2010-04-27T12:51:00.000-07:00

So far as I can tell, no major earthquakes occurred yesterday.

However, it has been reported that many men today are suffering from sprained necks due to too much visual stimulation. And a poor night's sleep due to having to be on the couch.

Ladies, as explained by one of your own below, men can't be blamed. In fact, they can't help themselves.

Enjoy the "Man Trance" you can put on us.

By Louann Brizendine, Special to CNN

Editor's note: Dr. Louann Brizendine is a member of the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology and the National Board of Medical Examiners, and a clinical professor of psychiatry at the University of California, San Francisco. She is founder and director of the Women's Mood and Hormone Clinic. She wrote "The Female Brain" and, just released, "The Male Brain." .

(CNN) -- Although women the world over have been doing it for centuries, we can't really blame a guy for being a guy. And this is especially true now that we know that the male and female brains have some profound differences.

Our brains are mostly alike. We are the same species, after all. But the differences can sometimes make it seem like we are worlds apart.

The "defend your turf" area -- dorsal premammillary nucleus -- is larger in the male brain and contains special circuits to detect territorial challenges by other males. And his amygdala, the alarm system for threats, fear and danger is also larger in men. These brain differences make men more alert than women to potential turf threats.

Meanwhile, the "I feel what you feel" part of the brain -- mirror-neuron system -- is larger and more active in the female brain. So women can naturally get in sync with others' emotions by reading facial expressions, interpreting tone of voice and other nonverbal emotional cues.

Perhaps the biggest difference between the male and female brain is that men have a sexual pursuit area that is 2.5 times larger than the one in the female brain. Not only that, but beginning in their teens, they produce 20 to 25-fold more testosterone than they did during pre-adolescence.

If testosterone were beer, a 9-year-old boy would be getting the equivalent of a cup a day. But a 15-year-old would be getting the equivalent of nearly two gallons a day. This fuels their sexual engines and makes it impossible for them to stop thinking about female body parts and sex.

And so begins the 'Man Trance'

All that testosterone drives the "Man Trance"-- that glazed-eye look a man gets when he sees breasts.As a woman who was among the ranks of the early feminists, I wish I could say that men can stop themselves from entering this trance. But the truth is, they can't. Their visual brain circuits are always on the lookout for fertile mates. Whether or not they intend to pursue a visual enticement, they have to check out the goods.

To a man, this is the most natural response in the world, so he's dismayed by how betrayed his wife or girlfriend feels when she sees him eyeing another woman. Men look at attractive women the way we look at pretty butterflies. They catch the male brain's attention for a second, but then they flit out of his mind. Five minutes later, while we're still fuming, he's deciding whether he wants ribs or chicken for dinner. He asks us, "What's wrong?" We say, "Nothing." He shrugs and turns on the TV. We smolder and fear that he'll leave us for another woman.

Not surprisingly, the different objectives that men and women have in mating games put us on opposing teams -- at least at first. The female brain is driven to seek security and reliability in a potential mate before she has sex. But a male brain is fueled to mate and mate again. Until, that is, he mates for life.

Despite stereotypes to the contrary, the male brain can fall in love just as hard and fast as the female brain, and maybe more so. When he meets and sets his sights on capturing "the one," mating with her becomes his prime directive. And when he succeeds, his brain makes an indelible imprint of her. Lust and love collide and he's hooked.

The 'Doting Daddy Brain'

A man in hot pursuit of a mate doesn't even remotely resemble a devoted, doting daddy. But that's what his future holds. When his mate becomes pregnant, she'll emit pheromones that will waft into his nostrils, stimulating his brain to make more of a hormone called prolactin. Her pheromones will also cause his testosterone production to drop by 30 percent.

These hormonal changes make him more likely to help with the baby. They also change his perceptual circuitry, increasing his ability to hear a baby cry, something many men can't do very well before their wives are pregnant.

And a word to the wise for all the young mothers who are reluctant to let your husbands hold and care for your newborn. The more hands-on care a father gives his infant, the more his brain aligns with the role of fatherhood. So, hand over the baby.

His emotions run deep

Although men have earned the reputation for being more stoic than women, they actually have stronger emotional reactions than we do. They just don't show it very often.

Studies of men's faces show that the male brain's initial emotional reaction can be stronger than the female brain's. But within 2.5 seconds, he changes his face to hide the emotion, or even reverse it. The repeated practice of hiding his emotions gives men the classic poker face.

It's his poker face and his analytical response to personal problems that can put him in the doghouse. She's crying as she talks about what's wrong with the relationship, and instead of hugging her, his mind is racing to find a way to resolve the problem as soon as possible. With practice and because of the way their brains are wired, men use their analytical brain structures, not their emotional ones, to find a solution.

They enjoy this advantage, but women often take affront to it. When you're telling your husband your problem and he tries to solve it instead of hearing you out, you may think he's being insensitive. But that's not what's going on in his brain. He's working to solve the problem so he can relieve your pain as quickly as possible. Not because he doesn't care or doesn't want to listen, but because he loves you.

'Lovable Grandpas' and 'Grumpy Old Men'

As men age, the male brain hormones change and the male brain and body goes into the stage of life called andropause. The king of male hormones -- testosterone -- goes down and the queen of female hormones -- estrogen -- goes up. Whether Grandpa is your kids' hero or the grouch they hate to visit depends a lot on how he handles these hormonal changes. For example, if his testosterone levels drop to an abnormally low level, he can feel tired, irritable and even depressed. Some men in this condition seek hormone replacement therapy and others find relief in exercise, more frequent sex, and spending more time with other people.

The grandpa that kids can't wait to see is the one who's feeling the effects of the hormone oxytocin, often called the "cuddle hormone." He's fun and playful and likes to hear what his grandchildren have to say. He's much more patient with your children than he was with you, when you were growing up. The love circuits of the mature male brain can be hijacked by his grandkids, even more than they were by his own children.

The 'Lonely Hearts Club'

Not only is the mature male brain more receptive to closer bonds, but it's also more sensitive to loneliness. Nobody thrives when they're lonely, but it seems to take a major toll on older men. Sixty percent of divorces in couples over the age of 50 are initiated by women, leaving their husbands shell-shocked and devastated.

Once his wife leaves, unless he makes a point of socializing more with other people, his brain stops getting the social workout it needs to make him feel good about himself. If he becomes a loner, his social-approval circuits don't get activated. In brain scan studies of older males researchers have found that the brain's pleasure and reward areas, the VTA and the NAc, remain more active in men who are social. So don't begrudge the divorcee or the new widower some socializing and seeking female companionship.

The bottom line

The human brain is the best learning machine on the planet and human beings are capable of making major changes in our lives. But there are some things that the male brain and female brain are not likely to change anytime soon. And it makes more sense to deal with these brain realities, than to argue with them or ignoring them.

The best advice I have for women is make peace with the male brain. Let men be men.

Mulligans

2010-04-25T14:03:00.000-07:00

I'm so glad God likes sports.

Like baseball. The Bible starts in the big inning.

And recreational golf.

He allows as many mulligans as we want, so long as we admit our mistakes with the errant shots, and promise to slow down our swings.

New life in the form of a newborn baby is a miracle.

But the older I get, I believe new life, new chances, new opportunities, multiple redos for those of us already muddling thru is perhaps the biggest miracle.

Last evening I was with my 24 year old son. He got a call from his best friend from middle school.

A young man from a great family that had made some bad choices. He had succumbed to substance abuse a few years ago. Of the worst kind.

With the help of his God and his family, he has just graduated from rehab and is loving living sober again. He was living Hell on earth a few months ago. Now, he has a clean new start. We thought we might have lost him not long ago. Last night, we hugged him like a newborn.

We see it in our own kids. They make decisions that put them in a bad place and they can't see the way out. Mistakes are part of life. One of the great joys of parenting is seeing kids learning from bad choices getting to start life anew.

I've seen it so many times in business. An employee is a round peg in a square hole. Try as everyone might, it just isn't working.

Telling someone they have lost their job is an awful thing to have to do. But sometimes it is the right thing to do.

So often, I have seen that person express relief because they have felt like they were in prison. And so many times, it has freed them to move on to what they really want to do. And they become thankful for being set free. And they prosper in an entirely new venture.

We see it in relationships. Situations change, people change, feelings change and sometimes friendships and marriages collapse.

It is as close to death as it comes in terms of stress. The loss of a love is a loss of hope. A loss of trust. A loss of confidence. A loss of willingness to be vulnerable.

And it does get darkest just before dawn.

But dawn does come again.

I've experienced it personally. I've seen friends in dark places when out of nowhere light shines thru.

I've lost a son. But thru his death, lives have been changed. Young men he knew have gained a new perspective on life. They have become more focused, more serious, more aware of mortality. More appreciative of the loved ones around them.

Losing Pete has given me new life. One I never hoped for. One I never imagined. But using his life's legacy as inspiration, we have seen miracles happen again and again to impact the lives of men and women in the military who need a soft touch on the shoulder.

New life is possible.

I've learned the hard way that I am not in control. I've learned the hard way to stop holding on with a tight grip.

I have to open my hands, my arms, my mind and my heart and trust that God will bring what I need.

He has done it time and again.

I can't wait to see what He has in store for me next.

Super Absorbent Tampons

2010-04-16T23:46:00.000-07:00

It's a bad Friday night that starts with your grandson having a seizure.

Liam, my youngest grandson, had a high fever.

104+

It caused him to have "seizure" like symptoms.

My baby girl, his mom, calls me in a panic asking what to do.

"Go directly to Children's Hospital. I'll meet you there as soon as I can get there."

So, she did. And I did.

Thankfully, whatever bug he has is a normal thing.

A dose of Motrin and he was back to normal.

Then his grandma started calling.

My daughter, all of 25, is trying to figure out if her son is dying from some unknown disease.

She's holding Liam and the phone rings in the emergency room stall that she's in.

Grandma can't find the hospital and instead of asking the hospital for directions, she is calling my daughter.

Can you spell stress?

"Hand me the phone."

"Look for the friggin' Children's Hospital sign and turn left."

Thankfully, Liam had a normal ear infection and amoxycillin will fix it.

And Motrin and Tylenol every other four hours will keep his fever down.

Grandma arrived and took charge.

She was quite sure the nurses had no clue.

The last time they took Liam's temperature was with one of those new-fangled deelybobs where they swipe that little suction cup across the kid's forehead and around to his jaw.

He was at 98.6.

Grandma was not so sure about this new-fangled instrument.

A rectal thermometer was more up her alley.

Because that's how you know the truth, she says.

She was over-ruled and Liam was set free to go home.

Being daddy-man and grandpa-king, I volunteered to go to the pharmacy.

Amoxycillin and bubble-gum flavored Motrin and Tylenol was fairly easy. Once my Hindi came back to me and I could speak to the pharmacist in their language.

But then there was the issue of Super Absorbent Tampons.

There is no Hell on earth like a man sent to buy feminine hygiene products.

So, as I stand there pondering, here comes a former neighbor.

She starts to explain to me the difference in sport tampons versus regular tampons versus absorbent tampons versus super tampons versus super absorbent plus tampons.

I'd had enough.

I have no idea what I bought, but it was enough.

All I could think of was my son-in-law.

He's at home waiting for a sick kid and a wife OTR.

If I could have bought him a bottle of scotch and a spliff I would have.

It's good to be a single grandpa.

All I wanted was to come home and slide gently to sleep.

But my 24 year old son had somewhere between 6 and a hundred friends bouncing to the Black Eyed Peas on the back porch.

I love all those kids.

But not tonight.

As the music bangs on the other side of the house, all I want is sleep.

I know how life changes with one phone call.

I've told them all to sleep here.

I do so love being a daddy.

Sweet boy

2010-04-10T17:13:00.000-07:00

April in Atlanta is glorious.

April 10, 1981 was a particularly glorious day.

Sky so blue and pure.

Azaleas and dogwoods exploding with color and joy.

And I was a new papa.

A big, healthy 9 pound 10 ounce baby boy.

I remember driving thru Atlanta that afternoon and having the thought, "Why isn't everyone applauding? Don't they know what just happened? The most perfect baby ever was just born. And he is MY son."

I think every new daddy has those feelings.

The miracle of new life and the excitement of fatherhood is overwhelming.

It finally occurred to me that other folks had experienced the same thing.

But on that day, I knew something special had happened.

Named for his grandpas, Peter Haskell Burks was born 29 years ago today.

He made life better for all that knew him. And for thousands more who didn't, he touched them in a special way.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.

Thanks for letting me be your dad.

Is is safe?

2010-04-07T21:33:00.000-07:00

It's not that I don't like dentists. Have had several that were good friends.

It's sadists I don't care for.

Broke a tooth Sunday, and went in today to get it fixed.

If it weren't for the nitrous oxide gas high, I might never go.

I really hate the process.

I mean, look at that tool tray.

Hooks, needles, chisels, hammers. It's like being in "Saw V".

If you've ever seen "Marathon Man", you know what I'm talking about.

Oh, they lull you into submission with the aquarium in the lobby and the pleasant receptionist and the perky hygienists. (They are totally in on this evil game. Do not be fooled. They all love to torture.)

This morning they took advantage of me and gave me the gas. Then it began.

At one time, there was a turkey baster, a jackhammer, a 2 x 4 and four hands in my mouth.

It's big, but it ain't that big.

So you're at their mercy while they practice their evil craft.

The worst is that Novocaine needle. Why is it the size of LeBron James leg? And why is designed to put the fear of God into you? Couldn't they design it to look more like a Popsicle or a fried chicken leg? Something you wouldn't be so afraid to have stuck in your mouth?

And those sounds. You're numb, but you hear the grinding of your exoskeleton. And the worst one has that awful high-pitched whine, which is the sound of pain.

Three and half hours into the process, and there is a bale of cotton and several metal objects you don't want to know about in your mouth. And while their pounding on your teeth and jaw, they want you to move your friggin' tongue.

Oh, and "please don't swallow" while several gallons of Lord knows what is in the back of your throat.

Then, just as you want to call your Mommy to make 'em stop, they say "you're good to go". And just like that, they take your smack away and remove the gas mask.

So as you are trying to escape and still groggy from the whole macabre scene, the nice lady comes in and asks how you would like to take care of the $1 million that your insurance didn't cover today.

You gladly throw them a credit card and don't ask any stupid questions, like, can we discuss that?

All you want is out. To be alone and whimper in the safety of your car. Away from the chamber of horrors.

Dentists have told me that most of the people on earth have such rotten teeth and jaw disease that they walk around with mouth pain that we couldn't comprehend.

I'm thinking Haiti sounds pretty good right now.

It's time for baseball, y'all

2010-04-05T22:10:00.000-07:00

"There are a lot of people who know me who can't understand for the life of them why I would go to work on something as unserious as baseball. If they only knew."

-A. Bartlett Giamatti

Oh, the sweet smell of the grass.

The life lessons learned in that most simple, yet complicated set of angles.

My hero in life came from that field.

Henry Aaron. Against all odds and the stupidity of racism, he became the best the game has ever known. Until someone beats him clean, he will be the King.

I was lucky enough to have seen him play in Atlanta. When I could ride the bus to the stadium with a tomato sandwich in by brown paper bag, and sit in the outfield with old black gentlemen who taught me how to watch a game.

I was fortunate enough to play Little League in sweet East Point, Georgia. Underneath the shadow of the water tower.

I was never very good at it, but I did so love it.

Does anything feel as good as hitting a ball square into the centerfield gap for a double? Off of a wood bat?

Is there any replacement for snagging one backhanded and throwing him out at first?

Like anything in life, if you really want to be good at it, learn to teach it.

Coaching began as a parental desire to be involved.

It got the best of me. It taught me more about the game and the players and their families than any book could ever try to do.

My favorite and most painful lesson came in a game of 6 and 7 year olds.

A good kid was playing third base.

With two outs, the batter fouled the ball up in the air down the third base line. And "my" third baseman just watched it drop.

I couldn't believe my eyes.

I barked something at him.

After the game, his dad came to me.

He said, "Coach, Justin said he thought a foul ball was out of play. Nobody ever told him that if he caught it, it would be an out.

If you had, he would have gladly caught it for you."

That's when I began to learn how to coach. Which is another word for teaching.

Teaching a kid how to not fear a fly ball. How to let her glove do the work. The physics of throwing a ball properly. Getting balance on the mound so you can throw downhill.

Of all my baseball chapters, teaching the game to a group of Slovenian, Croatian and Serbian kids has to rank at the top.

They had heard of the game, but had never seen it.

So the first lesson was to pull a ball out of the bag and say, "This is a baseball."

It might as well have been a moon rock.

One of my best friends in life went with me on this adventure.

Nobes and I watched these kids go from never having seen a baseball to playing a full six inning game in a week.

The game seems so simple, until you try to explain why you have to tag the base you are on when a flyball is hit and caught in the outfield before you can take the next base. Or why a foul ball on the third strike isn't an out. Or why throwing a ball at the runner and nailing her in the back doesn't make her out.

Yep, it is a much more complicated game than we think.

But at it's heart, it is so simple.

As Bart Giamatti wrote, the wonder of the game is to get on base. Then once you are out there, you are away from your teammates and family.

Then the overwhelming goal is to get home.

Home is where we all want to get. But not before we first get out of the batter's box.

We all have to learn that good things happen when you swing the bat.

The most exclusive club you never want to join

2010-04-03T14:09:00.000-07:00

Matthew Snyder joined the Marines in 2003.

He didn't have to. He wanted to. We do have an all volunteer military.

His family was so proud of him. As all of us should be.

On March 3, 2006, Matthew's dad got the knock on the door that no military family wants.

Matthew had been killed in Iraq.

I remember the day we heard about Pete. I remember the pain. The shock.

I remember the screams from Missy, Ali, Sadie and Zac when I had to call them.

I remember my dad losing his breath when I called him.

The world was spinning out of control. It was like the worst dream you've ever had, except you never wake up.

No one wants to bury their child.

And Al Snyder is no different from any other parent that has lost a child.

"He was a hero and the love of my life", said Al.

At Matthew's funeral, the sewer rats from Westboro Baptist Church showed up to spew their insane evil.

Al couldn't stand it.

So he sued Fred Phelps and the church. And he won.

Fred and his group have appealed the case. It has been upheld once, and overturned once, and now the Supreme Court has agreed to hear the case.

Earlier this week the appeals court that overturned the verdict ordered Al Snyder to pay over $16,000 of court costs for Westboro Baptist Church. As though Al and his family haven't been thru enough, this was the ultimate slap in the face.

You may well have read the story. You may well have seen Al on any number of network news programs this week.

I sent Al an email earlier in the week. Told him our family had stood in his family's shoes, and we loved them and supported them.

This morning, my cell phone rang and I didn't recognize the number. Came close to not answering, but I did.

"I'm looking for Alan Burks."

"You found him. How can I help you?"

"Alan, this is Al Snyder. Matthew Snyder's dad. I have received over 10,000 emails this week. I intend to respond to everyone in time. Somehow, God led me to yours. And I just felt the need to call."

A new friend, a new brother, a new bond made in that instant.

I wept. I got chills.

We talked for about 15 minutes. We shared what only folks who are in the Gold Star Family club can share.

In the midst of all he's going thru, he took the time to call and encourage me.

He gave me his number and said to call anytime I need to talk. And he really meant it.

And I said the same to him.

I don't know where or how or when, but I will hug that sweet man's neck one day.

I rode my motorcycle out to spend time with Pete this afternoon.

I think he winked at me when I asked him how he and Matthew were doing.

Pete and Matthew are now together and now their dads are together.

What a club.

Godspeed Al Snyder.

God, bless Fred Phelps and bring him to salvation and sanity. And in the meantime, please give him a serious legal ass whuppin'.

O Green

2010-04-02T18:14:00.001-07:00

And at last, it is green.

The color of life.

The color of safety.

The color of go.

The color of peace.

The color of joy.

Ah, it is green.

Pretty little bare feet.

Sweet smells.

Laughter.

Hope.

Everything is new again.

It's ok to go back outside and explore.

O green.

I want to lay in you.

I want to play in you.

I want to be with you wherever you are.

O green.

You are fresh.

You are encouraging.

You are a gift of God.

O green.

You are the color of love.

Thanks for showing your pretty face.

A miracle in medicine that's hard to believe

2010-04-02T07:32:00.000-07:00

A precious baby boy was born yesterday at Parkland Hospital here in Dallas.

Perfectly healthy 8 pounds and 4 ounces.

Except for one thing.

He was born without any eyelids.

Children's Hospital is next door, and has performed alot of miracles for children.

Their team of eye specialists were called in.

After conferring for a bit, they contacted the leading children's plastic surgeon in the country, who is on staff at the hospital.

He had an idea.

Circumcise the baby boy, and use the foreskin to form eyelids.

The doctors met with the anxious parents, and they agreed to this unheard of procedure.

After 9 hours of painstaking, sensitive work in the operating room, it was done.

Late yesterday the doctors met with the family and told them of their success.

When the doctors met with the media last night, it was a lovefest.

A reporter from The Dallas Observer asked if the child would have any side effects.

"Oh, he'll always be a little cockeyed", said Dr. Dubious.

Hope springs again

2010-03-29T18:21:00.000-07:00

Went back to Camelback, Arizona today.

Home of White Sox spring training.

"Thought I might find you here. Congratulations. You've had a pretty good week."

"Damn, AB, all I want is to watch baseball in the warm sunshine."

"Me, too."

"How are you?"

"Big O, I'm above ground. Have one dead son that you know about. And by the way, the Veterans Affairs Department just sent me 20 letters of condolences with your name copied like you had signed them. They spelled his name wrong. So it didn't work all that well."

"Crap. You'd think with all of our records and computerization we could get a kid's name right. I'm sorry."

"I know you are. It was a nice gesture. But. . ."

"So, what's going to happen this year?"

"The White Sox are a mess. The Braves have the best rookie in MLB, but I'd put my money on the Phillies."

"You're on. I bet the Yankees do it."

"Deal, Sir. In the meantime, what in the name of reason were you thinking when you pushed this healthcare bill thru? It's a lovely concept, but who the heck is going to pay for it?"

"AB, you are part of those blessed folks that need to share with those less amongst you."

"Big O, Sir, you are full of crap. I worked my way up from lower middle class. Paid every tax I was ever asked to pay. Nobody ever gave me a handout or a hand. I just worked. I'm paying over 36%. And I fear it's about to get worse with a VAT."

"We have to do something to close the income gap. Those with means need to pay so that those without can have something."

"Really, Sir? Where in the name of all that is Constitutional did you come up with that?"

"AB, it's the only fair way. We all have to share. We all have to contribute. We all need to share in the American dream."

"Sir, then make MLB follow the NFL. Does anybody in Kansas City thing their Royals have a chance? Does anybody in Pittsburgh think their team has a chance?

If you want it all to be fair, then we all need to produce, and we all need to contribute on a fair and equal basis. If American continues to follow the MLB doctrine, you'll have the Yankees with nobody to play."

"You mean we need each person, each town, each state to play it own their own? The Federal Government is here to equal it out."

"Sir, in all respect, you've forgotten how it all got started. And how it has worked for 200 years. The U.S. government exists because the states created it. And funded it. It is the states who must make it on their own. Sometimes they are up, sometimes they are down. You can't take away personal responsibility from the individuals or their state. If you do, you have the U.S.S.R."

"Hang on, pal. That's harsh. We are just looking to share the love."

"Big O, when the Steinbrenner's share the love, let me know. And when the U.S. becomes Big Brother to us all, we are screwed. You and me both. When you move back to Illinois, do you want to pay for California's stupidity?"

"No, I hate the Angels. And the Dodgers. And the Giants. And the Guvernator."

"Don't hate on Arnold. He's doing what any reasonable person would do. The state has spent too much and promised too much and now they have to cut because they can't fulfill all those admirable, but stupid, promises."

"You mean, like, we need every state to be on their own? Like, every man and woman to make it on their own?"

"Yes sir. That's how this country got started. And how this country got strong. It grew from the strength of individuals. Not from the greatness of the Federal Government."

"You wanna burn one?"

"Sure."

So we walked down the stairs underneath the vacant outfield seats. I lit his Marlboro Light as I lit my Marlboro 27. We smoked them in silence.

"You piss me off, AB. But I never thought about this baseball analogy. Thanks. Thanks for your son. Thanks for the light. And thanks for giving me something to think about."

"See you later, Sir. Go get the Taliban and al Qaeda. And tell Joe Biden this discussion is a big fuckin' deal."

Taking a soak in the VAT

2010-03-28T18:44:00.000-07:00

The U.S. is broke.

We owe more than we can pay.

That was true before the health care bill. Now it's even worse.

Most states are broke.

They owe more than they can pay.

Governments made the same bad bet that many citizens and businesses made.

The bet that our economy could only continue up. That real estate values could only continue up.

Therefore, we bet that cheap credit was a great idea.

Cheap credit on commodities that can only go up in value is a great economic plan.

Oops.

When you can't repay the credit cause you couldn't afford it to begin with, oops.

The banks that loaned it are cooked. But they are too big too fail, so the U.S. taxpayer (who already can't pay their bills) bails them out.

So now, politicians are faced with a very hard choice.

Whack budgets, or raise taxes.

And since politicians like to get re-elected, guess what the choice is.

So, buckle up.

Meet VAT.

Value Added Tax.

It is very complicated to explain. You can look it up on Wikipedia.

But, it's coming.

It is common in much of the world. Europe, Canada, Mexico all have a version.

In most places, it replaces income, property or sales tax.

Not here in the good old U.S. of A.

This is going to be a tax on top of all other taxes.

And this tax will be collected by the feds.

On sales of products, and for the first time, services.

Your accountant, your lawyer, your masseuse, your personal trainer, your bowling alley, your doctor, your dentist, your guy that mows the lawn.

All products and services will be subject to the VAT.

Since the politicians in Washington D.C. can't control their spending, they need to raise more money.

Especially since income taxes and import duties are going down since our economy is down.

They need more taxes to raise income to offset their spending.

It's like the worst third wife you ever thought of.

"I need more money cause I can't and shouldn't have to stop spending."

Imagine Mr. Pelosi explaining to Nancy that there is not enough money to pay for more Botox to keep her eyebrows in place.

That's what we are dealing with.

So, in the next month or so, I believe you will hear Value Added Tax, or VAT, become a term that you will like as much as TARP and healthcare reform.

Ms. Pelosi said last fall that it would be necessary.

The Obama administration has been studying it for a while.

It will be a lovely conversation.

Whilst we deal with the largest tax increase in history (healthcare reform), we are about to be told that we all must sacrifice more to make it possible.

As the old Vaudeville song went, "This fucking I'm getting isn't worth this fucking I'm getting".

One more reason to love Texas

2010-03-24T20:49:00.000-07:00

Tom Ford.

Creative director at YSL and Gucci.

Now, not only the most important men's designer, but also an Oscar winning film director.

Native of Houston, and grew up in San Marcos.

Like a cow pissing on a flat rock

2010-03-24T18:00:00.001-07:00

That's how it's raining tonight in North Texas.

Get the picture?

Folks that farm and ranch have a way of explaining weather.

And tonight, the cow is a whizzing. And the flat rock is wet and so is everything around it.

We don't get gentle rain like much of the country. It either comes in big dumps, or it doesn't come at all.

Tonight we got the rain and heat lightning in the sky that is better than any fireworks you've ever seen.

Lot's of folks like to piss on Texas.

Like we're backwards.

Like we all wear ten gallon hats and hubcap sized belt buckles.

Yes, we have some posers. And we have some knuckleheads.

But so do you.

We do have people that wear ten gallon hats cause they are protection from the sun, the rain, the wind. Because they ranch.

And you enjoy the Black Angus cattle they raise.

We do have people with large belt buckles cause they won them in a rodeo.

That's right, a rodeo.

We still have high school rodeos in the rural parts of Texas.

You have to take your kids to a zoo or a field trip to meet a cow, a goat or a mule.

Many folks here have them in their yard.

Texas is the home of most of the oil companies. They ain't stupid.

Texas is the home of NASA. They ain't stoopid either.

Texas is the home of SXSW, the hippest music festival in the world.

Texas is the home of Dell, the computer company that changed the computing world.

Texas is the home of Texas Instruments. The folks that invented the chip that makes every frigging thing in your world run.

Texas is the home of Willie Nelson, Erykay Badu, Barbara Jordan, Mollie Ivins, Stevie Ray Vaughn, ZZ Topp, George Strait, Kinky Friedman, Clint Black, Tommy Lee Jones, Matthew McConaughey, Sam Houston, Audie Murphy, Ann Richards, Paul Fucking Begala, and alot of other folks that have made a difference.

So, give us a break. We were a country all our own, and gave up our independence to join the U.S.

Our economy is stronger than most countries and certainly every other state in the Union.

When a blue Norther heads our way, we might say, "It'll be enough to knock your hat in the creek."

That's because it is. And that's because we still have folks on the farm and ranch that just might lose their hat bringing in that lost cow. That one day you will enjoy with horseradish.

Just because we are happy with who we are, and at the moment fairly successful, don't hate on us.

Chamillionaire is from Houston, and he certainly wants your love.

So do Carol Burnett, Steve Martin, Bill Engvall, Dimebag Darrell Abbott, Larry McMurtry, T-Bone Burnett, Kelly Clarkson, Van Cliburn, Lyle Lovett, Selena Gomez, Buddy Holly, Janis Joplin, George Jones, Beyonce, Lil Flip, Steve Miller, Boz Scaggs, Nelly, Roy Orbison, Walter Cronkite, and Usher (amongst many others) who were born here.

Don't hate us for colorful people and colorful language.

We can't help it if we have the toughest, smartest, most beautiful people in the world.

And most of yours are as ugly as a bucket of hair.

Health care for all: what's not to like?

2010-03-22T12:33:00.000-07:00

How you feel this morning about the new health care legislation depends on where you are in the health industry universe.

Hospitals and doctors are happy because they just got lots of new customers. And they don't have to discount anything to get them. The government is just going to send them their way.

The pharmaceutical industry is happy cause they got new customers too, but they face a few complicated additional taxes and mandated cost reductions.

The local pharmacies are tickled that new money will be flowing their way.

Business owners are going to have to hire almost as many accountants, lawyers and HR people as Sarbanes-Oxley caused them to in order to figure out what all this means.

So HR folks and accountants have found a new industry (just like IT people did with the whole Y2K mess).

Business owners know one thing. Their costs just went up. So less money to grow their business and add jobs.

So, if you are an employee, somebody somewhere will be looking at your name on the list of keep or release in the next few weeks.

If you are an insurance company, the government just told you how you have to run your business. And it's not going to be inexpensive. So, you are going to have to raise rates to cover these new limitless policies. Even though you are also going to gain new customers, you have no choice to but to raise rates.

If you are a lawyer, you are giddy. No tort reform was included in the legislation. More patients means more lawsuits.

If you run a tanning salon, there is a new 10% tax on you. So the cost of getting that other-worldly orange glow like the folks on "Jersey Shore" just got more expensive.

If you are in poverty, the government is coming with new entitlement programs. You will have health insurance that you don't have to pay for.

If you are wealthy, buckle up. You won't be much longer. You will be taxed, re-taxed and double-taxed.

If you are an American, the government has just spent another trillion dollars, and hasn't yet figured out that tax and spend, or spend and tax, isn't a great way to stimulate economic growth.

So net net, we'll all be healthier and poorer.

Our debt will go up. Which means our currency will be devalued internationally.

So celebrate for a short while if you feel like you won the lottery.

The celebration of a trillion dollar program that has to be paid for by somebody will soon turn into the reality of, "Oh, shit. Never thought about that."

Please remember the immortal words of P.J. O'Rourke. (P.J. was once a wide-eyed liberal as a young journalist. Free love, free everything was his mantra. Then he grew up and started understanding how the world really works.)

"Santa Claus is a Democrat. God is a Republican."

The cold hard detachment

2010-03-18T20:13:00.000-07:00

"They were on the rooftop of a factory with a few other soldiers, over-wathching Bravo Company's clearance operations on surrounding streets. The roof was three flights up a narrow enclosed stairwell. It was a big roof spotted with broken glass and dirty puddles from a recent rain, and Emory was there in the middle of it when there was a crack and he went down. . . They got Emory inside the enclosed stairwell, safe from any more sniper fire, but now they needed to get him down three flights of stairs. It was a big building. There must have been a hundred steps. Emory was placed on a backboard. He was limp. His eyes were opening and closing. Two soldiers hoisted the backboard, but there were no straps to secure him with, and when he began slipping off, another soldier draped him over his back in a fireman's carry.

This was a staff sergeant named Adam Schumann. He was regarded as one of the best soldiers in the battalion. A few months after this moment, having turned into a soldier who was mentally broken, he would say of Emory, "I remember the blood was coming off his head and coming into my mouth. I couldn't get the taste out. That iron taste. I couldn't drink enough Kool-Aid that day."

-From "The Good Soldiers" by David Finkel

I have been in a number of palaces of polished marble and gold toilets built by oil money.

One was in Baghdad.

Tonight, I was in the Crescent Hotel in Dallas.

David Finkel was in town to speak to a group called the World Affairs Council.

There were about 150 people there.

Very white. Very wealthy. Very intellectual. Very connected. Totally disconnected to the reality of our military.

Much like our current and former Commanders in Chief.

I went at the invitation of a friend. We both knew it would be emotional. I knew enough about David Finkel and his book to know it would be harsh reality.

David Finkel is the National Enterprise editor of The Washington Post.

He embedded with the Second Battalion, Sixteenth Infantry Regiment of the Fourth Infantry Brigade Combat Team, First Infantry Division during the surge in Iraq in early 2007.

I did not go for sympathy, empathy, condolences, or attaboys.

I went for two reasons.

To learn more about the war that killed my oldest son.

And, to thank David Finkel for his sacrifice to tell this hellish story.

David is an incredible journalist. He observes, and reports facts. In the greatest detail.

His job is to report objectively. And part of his job is to stay emotionally detached from what he is reporting on.

I could tell as he spoke that part of him had crossed that wall. He was emotionally touched. He had seen young men die and older men grow callous. But he maintained his professional demeanor as he told ghoulish stories that Hollywood can't imagine.

What amazed me was what happened after he spoke.

He knew he was speaking to the refined. The untouched. The elite.

He does it regularly as he promotes his book. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Miami, San Francisco, Washington D.C. Night after night, he speaks to the chosen.

And night after night, as tonight, the audience doesn't get it.

After he spoke, he opened up for questions.

There were two or three nabobs that asked "intellectual" questions about whether this war was different because we can keep wounded alive longer with medical technology, about how we can help start schools in the Middle East to change thinking there.

Not one asked about Emory or his family. Not one asked about Schumann and where he is or how he is today.

Not one asked how David was doing. He had seen hell and lived to tell about it. But no one cared. No one cried. No one asked. No one hugged him.

I couldn't help myself.

I stood up and told David that I was thankful for his service and courage to go into Iraq and come back and tell this story as honestly as he did.

And I told him that I was the father of a soldier that died in the surge shortly after he left Iraq.

I can't properly explain the chill I feel tonight.

Exactly three people came to me afterwards.

Two men shook my hand, but never could really say anything other than to ask what branch Pete was in.

But one man came and gave me a bear hug. And held my hand. He wanted to know Pete's name and where he was buried.

He was the only black man in the audience.

He is a retired Army chaplain who has seen too much in his own lifetime.

He was the only person in that audience, save my friend, to understand that David's story and Pete's story were about real people. Real sons, daughters, brothers, fathers, cousins, friends.

The rest of the crowd exited to get their books signed by the author and to have dinner together.

"The military is at war. America is at the mall."

And the elite of America are in polished marble palaces built with oil money.

Pork: The Other World Religion

2010-03-17T17:47:00.000-07:00

Imagine being born into a life of guaranteed strife.

Guaranteed poverty.

Guaranteed war.

Guaranteed prejudice.

And guaranteed, no bacon.

I would be pissed off, and probably a terrorist too if that were my fate.

Imagine.

No bacon. Ever.

Not with your eggs. Not on your burger. Not on your salad.

And imagine it wasn't just bacon, but all pork.

No streak 'o lean in your black eyed peas.

No Honey Baked Ham.

No baby back ribs.

And worst of all, no slow smoked pork barbecue.

This is the life of the Semites.

The descendants of Shem, the oldest of Noah's sons.

The Semites include Arabs, Jews, Ethiopians, and Canaanites.

And they all are forbidden to eat pork.

Thank you Jesus. You freed us from Old Testament law. Soooeeeyyy.

Where I grew up, in the great State of Georgia, we hold pigs in high esteem. Not as high as the folks in New Guinea who worship the pig. But high nonetheless.

We like our cows too. But they aren't sacred. Especially the ones that grow up to become homecoming queens at Auburn and chew their cud on Jordan-Hare's green grass.

But I digress.

A properly butchered, properly smoked pig does wonders for your outlook on life.

Have you ever seen anybody leave Sprayberry's or the Speedy Pig or The Rendezvous in a bad mood?

Big O, if you and Hillary can get the Israeli knuckleheads and the Palestinian knuckleheads to sit down for a real meeting, I suggest it be at the original Dreamland in Tuscaloosa.

Ribs and white bread. That's it.

Imagine a meal of Big Daddy Bishop's ribs versus a politically correct serving of hummus and Gefilte fish.

You would get those folks in such a good mood they might forget their pre-historic issues and start to talking about their similarities. Their joint sufferings.

And start to find a kindred spirit.

And a kindred love of barbecue.

Pork barcecue.

The kind you can only find at a place like Dreamland.

That happens to be located in a part of Tuscaloosa known as Jerusalem Heights.

The tears of a SEAL

2010-03-11T21:02:00.000-08:00

Thursday night.

Preston and Park in North Dallas.

Could be Peachtree and Piedmont in Atlanta.

Broadway and the upper 80's in New York.

Sepulveda and Manhattan Beach Boulevard in LA.

The neighborhood without pain.

All is good.

An upscale dinner on Thursday night.

I went looking for a nice dinner.

I left with a new friend for life.

Scott was a SEAL.

As the piano player sang, we made contact.

He and his beautiful wife were in full song.

As we sang to Rod Stewart, he saw the bracelet.

We talked about Pete.

And then Scott got misty.

Maybe for a moment, lost it.

This is a SEAL for God's sake.

He cannot say what he's seen.

He cannot admit his pain.

But on a parking lot tonight, we shared it.

I cannot imagine what he has seen and lost.

He can't and doesn't want to try to imagine my situation.

He has two kids.

Scott, thank you for your service.

Scott, know that you are loved and supported.

Scott, know that you are not alone.

Godspeed Scott.

I hope we meet again.

Bliss

2010-03-08T20:53:00.000-08:00

Four days in Los Angeles.

Four days with my peanut.

She is happy, playful, open, alive. In love with her mommy and her daddy.

She and I played tennis together yesterday.

She's never played before, but she loved it.

On Saturday, we played the #2 ranked team in the 3rd grade girls basketball league.

We beat them 39-3. Every girl on our team scored. A coach's dream game.

That's all I could possibly ask for.

But, I got to have lunch today with a new friend.

Never expected this relationship, but he is such a blessing.

He is an encourager.

We've only known each other for a few months, but he encourages me. He prays for me and my family.

If you don't have an encourager, I hope you get one. And/or, I hope I can be one for you.

It is amazing what the power is of knowing that there is at least one human that thinks of you in a totally unselfish way and just wants to float your boat.

I hope I can learn from him and float his to an even higher tide.

Tonight, had dinner with another friend that is as talented a human as I've ever known. He has made history with his work.

We talked about working together on something bigger than both of us.

And I learned today that my son had won a hard fought competition for a job with a great company. Way to go, big man.

I've been worried sick about his health insurance.

He turned 24 on Sunday. As happy as I was to celebrate his birthday, I realized that he is now without health insurance. For whatever reason, as you well know, the health insurance companies kick them out of family coverage at that age.

But now, he's tucked in.

My grown daughters have great, solid jobs.

My pops is still selling real estate at 83 and he and his girlfriend rock Fayetteville, Georgia.

I'm sure there is a land mine that I'm going to step on tomorrow.

I know that one phone call from any of my loved ones can change my perspective in an instant.

But for this one night, bliss.

Thank you Lord.

May we all have more of these, please.

The wounded among us

2010-03-05T21:02:00.000-08:00

Friday night in Los Angeles.

Having dinner by myself at Chili's.

The young man sitting next to me is wearing University of Texas garb.

We strike up a casual sports conversation as the Lakers get beat by Charlotte.

After some exposure, you can just tell when they have a military countenance.

I finally ask him if he was military, and he tells me he was Air Force. In Iraq.

During his last months there, they were assigned to humanitarian convoys.

Delivering school supplies.

On one of these trips, an IED or EFMP ripped thru one of their vehicles and the first female Air Force casualty in Iraq happened before his eyes.

He lost 10 in his group on the ground in Iraq.

These are Air Force people. Supposed to be flying above and beyond.

But they spent time on the ground. And driving convoys delivering humanitarian supplies, he saw ten of his friends die.

He explained that the bombs would be hidden in innocent looking cardboard boxes.

He explained that the bombs would be hidden inside roadkill animals.

To this day, he has difficulty driving here.

If a car pulls close to him, he freaks.

If an unusual object appears in the road, he freaks.

He is now out.

He is now working for a domestic company.

But that war will never be out of him.

We had a great talk. He understands that Iran is in the process of taking over Iraq.

He knows the Iraqi Police have been Iranians in many cases.

He knows that someday in the not too far distant future Iran will own Iraq and will then challenge Saudi Arabia.

And then the U.S. will have a choice to make.

He has a a wife and two young children.

They will never understand the hell this young man has seen.

Godspeed, Adrian.

Thank you for your service. And your sacrifice.

Know that America thanks you for serving in a confusing war that will be hard for any of us to comprehend for years to come.

And know that you are loved and supported by millions.

You are not alone.

None of us has the answers.

But together, we at least have a chance to ask the questions.

Meanwhile, back at the war

2010-03-04T20:09:00.000-08:00

Our all voluntary military has a saying.

The military is at war. America is at the mall.

We've forgotten about Iraq. It is no longer newsworthy.

Yet, while we are in withdrawal, we still have 90,000 of our best in that theater.

And, they are still being shot at and attacked by bombs. But it isn't newsworthy.

In Afghanistan, we have been thrilled by the attack on Marja and the apparent success there.

But we have thousands of soldiers in other isolated parts of that country that are not being followed by reporters. They are freezing their asses off in the mountains. They are sleeping in caves and mortar holes when they can.

Somehow, we in America have come to believe that Iraq and Afghanistan are solved.

Nothing could be farther from the truth.

We cannot imagine the hard work that our Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force and Coast Guard are doing to manage the situations there.

From Generals to Privates, they are overwhelmed with issues.

And somehow, we don't get the message. We don't appreciate their sacrifice.

Here's a sobering statistic.

During the month of January, more of our soldiers in theater committed suicide (24) than were killed by enemy forces in Iraq and Afghanistan (16).

There's a message there.

We send our best and brightest to the harshest situations in the world. And then most of us forget them.

We can't do that.

We just have to do better.

We need those men and women to know that regardless of our views of the war or our political persuasion or our religious views, we support them.

Those men and women wear the cloth of the nation. The cloth of our nation.

As divided and confused as we might be, those men and women follow the direction of our Commander in Chief.

When these men and women volunteer to join the military, they write a check with their lives. Payable up to their dying for us if necessary.

We can't forget them.

We can't let them serve without our support.

These are not their wars.

These are our wars.

Sometime soon, with the help of the Good Lord and some talented friends, we are going to launch a website called Cloth of the Nation.

It will be designed to connect civilian America with military America. A place to say thanks to those who serve. And a place for those who serve to see how many of us support them.

In the meantime, love on those who serve.

And for those who serve, we love you.

You are doing our dirty work.

We will never forget your service, sacrifice and love of this great country.

How big can we get without getting bad?

2010-03-02T23:13:00.000-08:00

This was a challenge and a question of Jay Chiat.

He was a co-founder of Chiat/Day, an advertising agency.

His agency went on to create work that has changed our lives.

They created the "1984" commercial that ran only once, but introduced us to the Apple Macintosh computer.

They created advetising for Nike, Apple, Energizer and many more that you know.

Jay is now dead.

His agency lives on.

And so does his challenge. And his question.

"How big can we get without being bad?"

It is such a relevant question, especially with the headlines of the recent past.

Tiger Woods.

General Motors.

Toyota.

Lehman Brothers.

AIG.

Hummer.

The Democratic Party.

The Soviet Union.

Barry Bonds.

Yes it is quite a challenge for countries, companies, and individuals who have tasted success.

It makes me wonder about our country.

Is the United States of America getting better? Or have we peaked and headed down the backside of the mountain?

I don't know the answer.

But it is a question we all need to honestly ponder. And depending on the answer we come up with, we need to do something about it.

Manhood, brotherhood, and U.S. Canadian Relations

2010-02-28T17:03:00.001-08:00

I've been blessed in life with many good male friends.

Maybe none so much as a fellow that lives just outside Toronto, Canada.

He is a man I trust and love. If someone has to hold my heart during thoracic surgery, I would choose him.

Of all my male friends, I think he's the only one I've slept with.

Not like that.

There was only one hotel room. It was in his name. And we shared.

No spooning. No cuddling.

He drew the line the next morning with a note.

"I love you, but don't touch my toothbrush."

This is such a good man and such a good father.

Here's how good he is.

One Easter years ago, he and his wife had put their kids to bed on Easter eve.

His wife suggested that he might go out then and put out the Easter eggs.

Being a man, he said he would do it in the morning before the kids got up.

When his wife nudged him awake the next morning, he looked outside and there was a foot of snow on the ground where they live in the countryside of Canada.

My hero went to his garage. He found wood and his bandsaw.

He cut out oversized bunny feet and strapped them on.

He hopped thru the snow to hide the eggs to keep the dream alive.

That's a man. That's a father.

But he is also a friggin' Canadian.

He played hockey like us Americans play baseball and basketball.

He has actually curled.

So, today, the U.S. vs. Canadian hockey game was a test of everything we've been thru.

In true men's style, we bet.

And I made the stakes.

Loser has to kiss the winner's butt in front of Macy's Herald Square.

Oh, Lord, Ryan Miller. If you'd only closed the 5 hole.

Photo opps will be available sometime soon for the payoff.

I'm just hoping the Canadian requirement for French acknowledgement isn't imposed.

A Night of Charity

2010-02-28T10:46:00.000-08:00

Went to a Rotary Club charity event last night.

Raising funds for underprivileged kids to go to college.

Perfectly solid idea, and I hope they did well.

But some funny things happened along the way.

My first indication it would be a funny night was a sign I saw when I first arrived at the venue.

Warning: Drinking alcohol during pregnancy might cause birth defects.

This was prominently displayed over the sinks in the men's room.

Perhaps a better idea might have been:

Warning: Drinking alcohol can lead to pregnancy.

As I entered the gathering, it was interesting to observe the people who came for this night of charity. Several ladies in Full Dallas. Showing lots of everything. Probable cougars. Or snow leopards.

A couple of really bad hairpieces, including one gentleman that I believe had his own backwards.

It has a harmless evening, until the live auction took place.

A full length mink coat went for $1600. That lady got a steal.

Two days on a houseboat on a Texas lake went for $2500. He was either generous, or stupid, or really lonely.

But the real heist happened right before my eyes and I could do nothing but watch the crime go down.

The auctioneer announced he had two Masters tickets. Every man in the place came to full attention.

As the auctioneer read the description, it became clear to me that the two tickets were for Tuesday. A practice day.

Tuesday practice day tickets are sold out like Masters tournament badges, that have had a waiting list since 1972.

The face value of practice day tickets is about $75. They can be bought online for about $300.

But even though the auctioneer read the information, very few heard it or understood what he was saying.

The bidding took off and it was the most competitive and lively of the evening.

One man walked to the front of the room and stood in front of the auctioneer. He was marking his territory. He was in effect saying he was going to By God buy those Masters tickets. You could see the excitement in his eyes. The dream of a lifetime within reach.

And that man bought those two tickets for $2500.

I don't know when the reality is going to hit him, but it will.

God bless him. But, walking Augusta National just once, even on a practice day, is worth $2500.

The first time I walked to the crest of the hill on #11 and the spectacle of Amen Corner was before me, I just stopped and cried. It is golf heaven.

I hope he has the same experience.

And some kid just got part of his college paid for.

The Real Olympians

2010-02-25T19:14:00.000-08:00

Please don't get me wrong.

I love the modern Olympics for entertainment.

But the original Olympics were much different.

Men only.

Usually competing in the nude.

Competing in events related to war.

Running. Martial arts. Rowing boats. Shooting arrows.

They were celebrations of the best warriors.

The modern Olympics are a celebration of great athletes.

And they are great athletes. The men, the women, all the sports.

Frigging ice dancing requires more athletic talent than 99.99% of us have.

So, I'm not here to complain about the evolvement of this spectacle.

But we are not seeing the best athletes on earth.

Imagine the folks running up and down mountains in Afghanistan with backpacks and guns. On both sides.

Let's have the best of the warriors of the Afghans vs. the Russians vs. the Americans vs. the British vs. Chinese vs. the Massai, and the whoever else is out there.

Let's have the SEALS vs. the Rangers vs. the Islamic Revolutionary Guard vs. the Israeli Special Forces vs. the best of China's People's Armed Police vs. the best of the KGB.

Not trying to kill each other for the moment.

Let's just watch them in action. Running with backpacks.

Skiing unimaginable terrain.

Shooting at 500 yards after swimming a river.

Then we would see the world's best athletes.

To all the young men and women who fight for their countries around the world, you are being under-recognized.

The best athletes aren't in Vancouver.

The best athletes are on the battlefield.

Come to think of it, wouldn't that be a great Olympics? Wouldn't that be a great way to bring our young people together?

Way too simple. Would never work.

But, it's worth a shot.

Stop whining

2010-02-20T20:43:00.000-08:00

I'm guilty of whining.

I've got a few issues in life I'm wrestling with. And I don't like the way the referee is scoring it.

Big issues.

The IRS is late getting a refund check to me.

(But I've got one coming.)

The televised Olympics have been time delayed, and have shown too much curling.

(But I'm still watching.)

The war in Iraq is winding down and I hate the beginning and the end.

(But I voted for the President and the Congressmen that made it happen.)

I met a man this week for a business conversation.

He needed to meet at his home because he couldn't get to his office.

Because of an "issue with his leg".

We met at his home and he couldn't have been more gracious.

He was on crutches.

He sat with us in his living room, and had his wife prop his leg up on a chair.

He is about my age. Somewhere between 39 and 100.

He is positive. He talks about business. He talks about his children and grandchildren.

We learn we are both barbecue nerds and get into a chat about proper smoking techniques and rubs and sauces.

He explains he got a staph infection in his leg seven years ago.

In a hospital.

The infection entered his bones.

He has had 64 operations since. Rods in. Rods taken out.

He has lost three inches in the infected leg since his ordeal started.

He's had skin grafts from his stomach to his leg.

He lost the big toe on his opposite foot to the infection.

He told us he was happy because he and his doctors had figured out how to deal with the infection.

We then went onto to talk about business for over an hour.

As his wife came into the room to help him up and usher us out, it hit me.

He and his doctors had decided to amputate his leg below his knee.

And he was thrilled about it.

He never said the words. But he made it clear that in this next week, he was going to have part of his leg removed.

You would have thought he was going to The Masters. The World Series.

He was so excited about ending one episode of difficulty and replacing it with another, but better, life of difficulty.

Lord, forgive me for whining.

We all have issues in life.

Money, or lack thereof.

Death of a loved one.

Sickness of a loved one.

Political disagreements.

Disappointments in a mate.

Disappointments in business.

Our own health issues.

The only thing we can control is our attitude and response to the difficulties of life.

I hope I learned a lesson this week.

I hope I can learn to deal with my little issues with the grace of that man.

A Pitiful Legacy

2010-02-16T18:15:00.000-08:00

Whoooppee.

The U.S. announced today that our troop level in Iraq is below 100,000.

The lowest number since we invaded in 2003.

We invaded with a number prescribed by politicians and appointees. General Eric Shinsheki argued for two to three times the number so that we could have a chance to truly secure the country.

He was fired for his opinion.

Today, the poor man runs the Veterans Administration and is hamstrung by Congress and the administration to get money and services to our veterans who volunteered their lives to go do the country's bidding.

Our troops are on the way out.

It takes lots of planning and logistics to move people and equipment into and out of a war zone.

My question after the trillions of dollars and thousands of disfigured lives is, so what?

What did we accomplish?

Are we safer today than when we invaded Iraq?

Is Iran lesser than or more than a threat than when we invaded Iraq?

Are we any closer to tamping out radical Islam than before we invaded Iraq?

Specifically, how many radical Islamists were there before we invaded Iraq and how many are there now?

How many radical Islamist terrorist actions have happened since we invaded Iraq?

How many WMD's did we find in Iraq?

Does Israel feel safer today than before we invaded Iraq?

Is Hamas, Hezbollah, the Syrian secret police, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, al Qaeda in Yemen, the Muslim Brotherhood less of a threat than before we invaded Iraq?

Is Afghanistan more stable than before we pulled our resources from there after we toppled the Taliban so that they could be reassigned to Iraq?

How stable is the Strait of Hormuz and the Persian Gulf today versus when we invaded Iraq?

How happy is the Iranian government, whoever it is and however corrupt and merciless it may be, today than when we invaded Iraq?

How many good American men and women spent countless hours making bonds with Iraqis that wanted peace, and now are leaving them defenseless against the borderless Iraq?

What's different between the Shia, Sunni and Kurds in Iraq since the day we invaded?
(The answer is the Shia now control, the Sunnis are in fear, and the Kurds don't stand a chance.)

What a great day.

What a celebration.

Can't wait until all of our folks are out of Iraq.

My greatest concern is for the family of the last G.I. to fall in that country.

That family will have good reason to ask, why?

Olympic Tragedy

2010-02-13T13:53:00.001-08:00

How can such a thing happen?

With all the planning and all the security, how can this be?

Tragedy strikes the Winter Olympics.

Of course, I'm talking about Johnny Weir.

Rhymes with . .

Yes, the anti-fur people have made horrible threats to Johnny after he added that lovely piece of white fox to his, em, athletic uniform that you can see on his left shoulder.

So poor Johnny is going to have to hide out in the Olympic Village for his own safety.

No club-hopping. No shopping. What's an Olympic athlete to do?

And oh you animal folks, I've done some research, and in addition to that white fox fashion fiasco, you've plenty to beef about with Mr. Weir.

To treat an injury, he once wrapped his foot in a duck fat concoction.

In his apartment that he designed in New Jersey, there are MORE animal pelts and even animal tusks.

He once corrected a writer from USA Today who wrote about him wearing a boa the previous day: "That was a scarf, not a boa - dead chinchilla, not feathers."

Oh, Johnny, this isn't going to be pretty.

Once the PETA folks get riled up, they attack.

This should be quite a cat-fight.

Oh yeah. . . . rhymes with deer.

So Islam, what's it going to be?

2010-02-11T17:30:00.000-08:00

Dear Members of Islam,

I have no idea what your thougts are. I can't comprehend what all of your lives are like. You span the globe.

As do Christians. And Buddhists. And Hindus. And many other religions.

Just like I can't comprehend what all the Christians think. Nor the Hindus. Nor the Buddhists. Or the secular humanists. Or the Wiccans. Or the Druids.

I can't comprehend what you think.

As we currently sit, it ain't pretty.

The so-called "radical Islamists" have declared war on the West. Meaning Europe. The United States. Canada. South America.

It is their way or death.

Is that the way it is?

If so, we are headed to Armageddon.

Well, we in the rest of the world say it is open to interpretation.

And we will fight you to the death for that option.

You focus on America as the demon.

Let me point out an issue you haven't yet dealt with.

China.

They don't buy your program.

And as a group, neither do we in America. Or Europe.

Nor Australia. Nor South America.

As a Christian nation, regardless of what our President says, we are bound by the call of Christ.

"To love thy neigbor as thyself."

Warring against each other leads to no good end.

You are losing sweet souls. And so are we.

How long do we go on?

Regardless of the geography, how long do we keep fighting?

If there is a moral center of Islam, let it come forth.

I choose to believe that the Taliban and Al Qaeda don't represent the majority of Islam. As of today.

The rulers of Egypt put down the anarchy of the Muslim Brotherhood.

You Saud family tap down on the Wahhabis, even though you allow monies to be poured into the radical Islamist factions.

We are already in World War.

And this is the most serious yet.

It isn't geographic.

It is idealogic.

You and we have to make a decision.

Your radical arm is waging war. They want to blow up airplanes on Christmas Day.

Is that what you want?

If there is a moral compass in Islam, let it come forth.

Otherwise, you are going to see an awful situation where we, the West (and China), declare you an enemy of humanity and will have no choice but to bomb you out.
And Mr. Amajimgobbadadingaling, you will be first.

Tehran will be dust. Which is so sad, because there are obviously thousands if not millions of freedom lovers there that you oppress.

As will Qom. And the rest of your nuclear faciliies.

We will not fight you on the ground.

We will bomb you out from above. Just like we made the decision in the war with Japan. It was worth it to bomb civilians in your country to save the lives of our soldiers if it was to be a ground war. We own the skies. You own sand.

Having lost a son in this calamity, I pray that you might not want to lose anymore.

But again, I don't presume to understand.

All I know is if your way is the only way, buckle up.

Death of an Idol

2010-02-10T19:57:00.000-08:00

One of my idols died today.

Jack Conn.

He was bigger than the rest of us.

Physically. Six four and fully mature at 16.

But more important, he was bigger in his humanity.

Jack was bigger than sports. Although he was a stud.

Jack was a friend to all.

He was the guy in high school that had all the physical and mental gifts to be a snoot.

Yet, he wasn't.

He was a guy. A friend. A protector of the little people.

This world has a new hole in it. The size of Jack Conn.

Someone needs to fill it.

I wish I had known him longer and better after our high school years.

He was the guy I wish I had been.

I was a punk physically.

Jack was a giant.

But I learned from wathcing him that it was more important to be a gentle friend.

Godspeed Jack.

Godspeed to Jack's family that is hurting tonight.

Know that he inspired at least one human to love like him.

This is so not a man's world

2010-02-03T17:12:00.000-08:00

This is a man's world, this is a man's world
But it wouldn't be nothing, nothing without a woman or a girl

-James Brown, Godfather of Soul

James,

Brother, I got bad news.

It ain't even close.

It's a woman's world.

At least in these United States.

Example 1.

For the first time in my life, I am living alone. Since I left my parents home to go to college, I have always lived with other people. Roommates, wives, children.

Go to the grocery store tonight to buy dinner makings.

Green beans and Success Rice.

The directions say I need a medium saucepan.

Whoever wrote those directions was a woman writing to another woman. Women know what a medium saucepan is.

I'm not making sauce.

Just need to boil some stuff.

I think that's a pot. But, now I'm so confused, I'll just order pizza.

Example 2.

All across the country, there are restaurants that feature wings, burgers, and other fried foods. And the servers are all 20 something beautiful girls the age of my daughters.

It's the kind of food men like. But I can't go in there for fear of meeting one of my daughter's girlfriends or classmates.

The women make good money doing their job. And not because of the quality of the food.

Where are the diners like Mel's or the Silver Spoon where a man can go get a square meal without a show?

Example 3.

The internet.

Supposedly invented (I'm joking because he wasn't smart enough to do it) by Al Gore.

It is a female feeding frenzy.

Women have an instictual need and ability to communicate 24/7. And they do via the various methods on the world wide interweb.

Men just need short quick messages.

"Where?" "Colts or Saints?" "What time we leaving for the deer lease?"

Our lives were better when payphones were king.

Example 4.

The ladies have taken over the music business.

Sorry, bro, but you wouldn't have made the finals for the Grammys.

There's no room for your type. Or Teddy Pendergrass. Or Elvis.

It's all Lady Gaga and Pink.

James, it's all gone wrong.

We need you back.

Or a close equivalent.

Until then, I'm going to be trying to figure out the difference in paper towels between select-a-sheet and superabsorb.

Hurry.

There's not much time.

Peace and love,

White Chocolate

Haskell

2010-02-02T20:20:00.000-08:00

It is an uncommon word.

And a more uncommon name.

It's my dad's first name.

Why? I asked my grandmother that question.

"I heard it one day, and I just liked it. So that's what we named him."

Pops has been called Hershcel, Hashmill, and a thousand other twisted versions over the years.

When Pete was born, he was named for his two grandfathers. Peter Haskell Burks.

The day after Pete was killed, I was sitting at the dining room table with Hardtail, just trying to make sense of all that was going on.

My cell phone rang. "Unknown" said the caller ID.

Thought about letting it pass, but I answered it.

"Alan, this is Rick Perry."

Rick Perry was and is the Governor of Texas.

I had never met him, never made a contribution, never known anything about him.

Governor Perry, or Rick as he insisted, talked to me for 35 minutes that day.

He is the Governor of a state of 25 million people.

But he talked to me that day as one father to another.

He wanted to know about Pete, his family, his time at Texas A&M, his fiancee.

There are over 400 Gold Star families in Texas from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars.

I don't know for sure, but I suspect Governor Perry has talked to them all.

I was invited to a fundraiser tonight for Governor Perry. He is in a competitive primary facing Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison.

I'm not real polically active, but I went because I wanted to meet Rick Perry and thank him for that phone call.

The function was at a mansion in Highland Park.

There were at least 400 people there.

I got in the greeting line.

When it was my turn, I put out my hand.

"Governor, we've not met personally, but we have talked before. You called me the day after my son was killed in Iraq."

"Alan, it is so good to meet you. Pete's middle name is Haskell. Named after his grandfather. Thank you for coming tonight."

"Governor, I just wanted to come say thanks for that phone call. It meant a lot."

With a greeting line of hundreds of young Republicans eager to shake his hand and have a photo taken, he took me by the arm and we walked to a far corner of the room. I could see the security guy and his aides eyes open wide.

We talked for about ten minutes. He expressed his appreciation for Pete's sacrifice. He was aware of the Unsung Hero Fund and our shipments to soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. He wanted to know how everyone was doing.

As we ended the chat, I noticed a tear in his eye.

"Alan, I want you to know you and your family have been and will be in my prayers."

He went back to the greeting line and gripping and grinning.

He didn't have to call me that day.

He didn't have to spend the time with me he did tonight.

But he did.

That says something to me about the character of the man.

I'm sure that Kay Bailey Hutchison is a fine person.

But I do know that when I went to Washington, D.C. last year, she was the only Texan in Congress that didn't meet with me personally.

And for whatever reason, her letter of condolence about Pete arrived almost a year after his death.

I don't know Rick Perry from sic em.

But I do know he took time out of his life to console me and to express his interest and concern for my family.

Interestingly, Rick Perry was born and raised in Haskell, Texas.