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You guys out there from other places need to understand Thanksgiving. It’s when family you haven’t seen for ages and friends you only rarely see gather around a bountiful table and FEAST…after a heartfelt prayer. Lately, my Mom has been ailing, so I decided my lady and I should cook dinner for her…and it’s ALMOST done.
The only thing left to do is THE TURKEY; I mean…you GOTTA DO IT. Thanksgiving without a turkey is just another big meal. We made dirty rice, green bean casserole, and oyster dressing…not so easy these days since the oil spill…not so cheap either.  Everybody wanted candied yams, which I don’t PARTICULARLY enjoy but made anyway…along with broccoli and cauliflower au gratin, and pecan pie.  To make the yams more interesting, I soaked the raisins in dark rum.  They’re wonderful, but the yams are…you know…YAMS.
Tomorrow morning in the wee hours when my lady is fast asleep at my side and Angel pretty much the same at my feet, I gotta get up, wrap in a heavy robe, season a HUMONGOUS bird, and throw it into the oven. Then…I ASSURE you…I plan to crawl back into my spot, kick the electric blanket up to 3 or 4, and float away into dreams. I mean…WHY NOT? We got all kinds of stuff like smoke and fire alarms…and one neighbor who gets up BEFORE the glint of dawn. The house won’t burn down…not with Angel and that neighbor on the watch.
I figure it’ll take about four hours to do the deed, so that should make it ALMOST DONE when I finally wake up again…but I tucked in an ESCAPE CLAUSE. I’m sort of braising it…always tender, always JUICY, so even if I sleep a little longer than I wanted to it should be just about right. Then all I have to do is take the bird out, let it rest and make giblet gravy. To tell the truth, I use those little gravy packets you find at the supermarket and use pan drippings for the liquid.  Purists may object, but what the hell…it’s DELICIOUS!
So…whatever you’re doing, wherever you are, even if you’ve never had a Thanksgiving, I want to wish you a happy one.  Things are kind of puny in this country lately, but life is short and troubles of one sort or another will be with us forever.  Our Creator is always up there in majesty and love…and He should be thanked, even when things get dicey…and we, at least, always make it a particular point to do so in late November.  So…HAPPY THANKSGIVING, Guys…and pray my turkey turns out okay.  At least, I KNOW the cranberry sauce is good.  I tasted it…the oyster dressing, too!  Now…where did I put my electric knife?

A funny thing happened today. I had a lot to do and got up very early, and when I was leaving just after dawn, I looked up at the sky and closed the outside door, the one with the doggie door Angel and Baxter use…but NEVER that early in the morning. That was maybe around 6 or so. I went all over the place, got the oil changed on my Jeep, checked out my mom’s malfunctioning central heating, got a haircut, then on a whim went to Scott to get some boudin and gratons. By the way, they were WONDERFUL, but when I got back home around noon, I was in for a surprise.
Turns out, I had LOCKED Baxter out for most of the morning, and it also turns out it had rained…and he was soaked and PISSED when my lady finally let him back in, not just pissed, ROYALLY PISSED! It’s kind of fun watching a little fur ball be pissed. I mean…WHAT CAN HE DO? Strut around and growl? Baxter NEVER growls…and barks even less, but later in the afternoon when I decided to take a nap, he was up there in the bed with me, growling and barking almost constantly at Angel, not a full-throated bark, more like a yodel, which seems to be his idea of barking.
Even funnier, he seems to blame Angel and my lady for what happened…not me, and when my lady gave him one of my worn-out socks to woo him back into her good graces, it seems he decided I was his only friend…and that sock was his own PERSONAL, reassuring treasure. He’s STILL carrying it around. Of course, when my lady calls him, he IGNORES her, but all I have to do is lift a finger and he’s RIGHT THERE, tail wagging and eyes dancing.

His brain is the size of a walnut, but his sense of personal pride is IMMENSE, a little dog with TONS of attitude…and apparently a pretty good menory…even if he doesn’t always get the subtleties all that well. Of course, my lady, the ultimate tree-hugging animal lover, is devastated. “YOU DID IT,” she says. “and he blames me…WHY?” “Dunno,” I answer, “but it looks like you got a problem. It’s gonna be interesting to see how long he remembers all this.”
From the way he’s been acting, I suspect it’ll be a lot longer than she hopes. Actually, the only REAL victim I can see in all this is Angel…completely peripheral to Baxter’s personal tragedy and totally innocent…but somehow included in his circle of blame. The only one he lets off SCOTT FREE is me, and of course, I milk it every chance I get, petting him lovingly, giving him treats, letting him sit on my lap while I work the Sudoku in the morning paper…to my lady’s and Angel’s UNENDING dismay.
I keep telling them it’s incredibly EASY to fake out a little bitty dog, but it doesn’t seem to give them any comfort. My lady wants FORGIVENESS, which I think is both unnecessary…and much to abstract a concept to fit comfortably in a dog’s NOW consciousness…while Angel only wants peace and quiet, which isn’t likely for quite a while either, and I don’t really want ANYTHING…just the love and adoration of a little dog who feels like he’s been screwed.
I don’t know how to tell him this, but he’s in for another shock pretty soon when we take away those little Garbanzo beans he seems to treasure so much. My lady is torn about it, but I’m not. Little studs whiz all over the place, and I want to do it BEFORE he starts lifting his leg. I know it’s going to make him pretty unhappy for a while…probably a long while…this dog seems to keep a grudge…but I’m trusting on my luck holding…and him blaming my lady and Angel again. Makes sense to me; he’s ALREADY decided they’re the bad guys.
If he understood complex English, I’d explain to him that it’s all part of the drill. How you deal with the trials and frustrations ALL sentient creatures experience becomes a measure of your intrinsic value to the biosphere, but I’ll just have to let the philosophy ride. He’s has to work things out on his own, however dogs do it, but I can pretty much guarantee you, particularly after the next deed is done, he’ll be only SLIGHTLY friendly to my lady when he wants to be fed and to Angel when he’s bored out of his skull and wants to play. My lady keeps trying to explain to him that he’s got it all wrong and they’re on HIS side…but like I said…not a CLUE.
And now she’s blaming ME…for being thoughtful in the grey morning hours, mindful of the impending rainstorm, and doing my best to keep them all safe and happy when I left the house, but actually, I think she’s kinda pissed, too, mostly because I’ve enjoyed such hilarity from the whole situation…while steadfastly remaining the ONLY FRIEND he acknowledges at this point. I keep telling her, “He dog;we people…there’s a DIFFERENCE,” but it doesn’t help…and that’s more the pity. Dogs can be hilarious…and a lot of fun…but you can’t take them too seriously. It’s IMPOSSIBLE to explain things to a walnut.

I’ve always been fascinated by Easter Island and its inhabitants, the Rapa Nui, way the hell out there in the middle of the Pacific, much too far from any sort of contact or intervention by outsiders…on their own and left to their own devices, philosophy, and fate. Forgive me…I’m a history nut, but that tiny little speck, almost invisible in the middle of an IMMENSE ocean, has a story I think we should all hear and learn from.
Like everybody else, they wanted food for their families, security in their homes, and freedom to worship their gods, but even though their resources were EXTREMELY limited, they chose to challenge and fight some of the other people clinging to their little rock, people they weren’t entirely sure agreed with them, their philosophy, or their hopes for the future. To me, it seemsmuch too EASY to demonize people you don’t understand…or even want to…even today.
Turns out, their future was NONEXISTANT, and ever more desperately challenged, they erected more and more moas, tributes to the gods they held so dear…praying, BEGGING them for help, but in doing so, they eventually STRIPPED their tenuous little island of all its trees. You see, they needed logs…something round…to haul those huge basalt statues to their places of honor on the beach, and VERY few cocoanuts float in to replenish those lost to enthusiasm and fanatic religious zeal.
It’s not a pretty story. In time, with food stores and just about EVERYTHING else gone, they even resorted to cannibalism, but even that didn’t save them. People grow even more slowly than trees and not nearly in numbers adequate to sustain an adult cannibal population. Trees, the symbol of hope they ignored, were gone, and so was the hope. Silently among the moas, they died out, and as a writer, I can’t help wondering what it was like for that LAST human being, walking through a desolate island, watching empty sunsets, maybe even praying to those huge basalt statues with piercing, non-seeing white eyes still surveying a paradise destroyed forever.
They had made a simple mistake, considering their environment PERMANENT and IMMUTABLE…and as such, took it for granted…until to their horror, well beyond regeneration, it began to fragment and disappear. I wonder if ANYBODY asked whether it was wise to cut down all the trees when it was all beginning, whether ANYBODY listened to him or even gave what he was saying a momentary thought. Probably not…he was most likely one of the first guys they ate. Human beings seem to ENJOY eliminating their visionaries.
Like they said in Star Wars, that happened long, long ago and far, far away, now only of interest to archaeologists and incredibly dedicated tourists, and I’ll just bet the tourists snicker when they see the moas, wander around the island, and hear the story. I’ll even bet they feel superior to those poor, benighted souls they consider primitives, cannibals, stone-agers at best…but the archaeologists don’t…because they see all this as a CAUTIONARY tale.
Now…let’s talk about another island, a beautiful blue island in the midst of an equally IMMENSE void, also much too far out to invite any sort of contact or intervention by outsiders, its people on their own and left to their own devices, philosophy, and fate and like the Rapa Nui thought, overflowing with bounty of every kind, self-sustaining, and endlessly promising. Its people consider it God-given, immutable, eternal, and incapable of serious or threatening change.
But they have the same flaws, those people…who ALSO challenge those they don’t agree with…or aren’t completely sure of….and all of them have begun to try and destroy their fellows on their island…while EVERYWHERE gleefully cutting down their island’s metaphoric trees. Unlike the Rapa Nui, their resourses are vast…enough to convince them that they’ll NEVER run out. There will always be water, so there will always be food…and warm summers, pleasant springs and autumns, and tolerable winters.
They have visionaries, too, but they don’t EAT them…at least not yet. Instead they destroy them with ridicule and laughter. Visionaries HATE ridicule…mostly, I think, because it tells them in no uncertain terms that they’re not getting through, and it won’t be long before they give up, hunker down, and start planning for the inevitable apocalypse…when all of those metaphoric trees are gone. Most visionaries are pretty smart, but even they know when they’re up against a stacked deck.
Of course, the island I’m talking about is planet Earth. We hit the 7,000,000,000 population mark this week…so it’s a pretty crowded little island…a lot like Rapa Nui when they were running around constructing moas out there. And…whether you like it or not, THINGS ARE CHANGING. We’re getting hotter, and our weather is becoming FAR more unpredictable and severe.
You can argue endlessly about whether WE did it or it’s part of some sort of solar cycle, but DAMMIT, THINGS ARE CHANGING! And now, even Saudi Arabia is telling us they’ve passed the midpoint in oil recovery. Those metaphoric trees are getting harder and harder to get to. You can say with certainty that it won’t all come crashing down in your lifetime…and in truth it probably won’t…but what about our children…and their children? Do you hate people you don’t even know yet, your genetic progeny, enough to condemn them to the Rapa Nui’s fate?
Quit trusting science; all they’ve REALLY given us is a BOMB! OK, maybe they’ve also given us a lot of spiffy doodads, but these days we’re WAY beyond doodad territory. Start trusting your personal philosophy, your instincts, and your innermost thoughts; tap into humanity’s hidden advantage…INSIGHT. Where do you want all this to go? HOW do you want all this to play out? How far are you willing to let all this go? Like Clatu said in The Day the Earth Stood Still…my FAVORITE movie…it’s up to YOU.
Translated: the ball’s in YOUR court, and if you do nothing, it’ll whiz right past you.

***SPOILER ALERT*** Athiests, I suggest you click away…NOW! Go play a game or something.
My lady told me NEVER to write anything like this. She’s timid about the internet; you know, eyes everywhere reading what I’ve written, but what the hell…I LOVE a good fight…so here goes. I believe in God even though these days it’s not fashionable, but as you might guess if you’ve been reading this blog, I’ve NEVER been a slave to fashion. Anyway…when I was practicing medicine, I saw far too much I couldn’t really explain away…old men and women with no possible way to keep on living who told me they were waiting for specific members of their family to arrive, and when they came, the patient kissed them, said goodbye, and died.
How on Earth can ANYBODY do something like that? Those people were spent, used up, FINISHED, but somehow they hung on. Not only that…they KNEW they would hang on. I also remember one particularly traumatic night in the emergency room when I was trying to help a man in heart failure after a massive heart attack. He, too, was used up, and while I issued a stream of orders, he lay there, incredibly peacefully, until at last he said, “Yes, Lord, I’m ready!” Then looking up at the ceiling, he died. We all looked up there, too, but all we saw was acoustic tile and surgical lights.
Even though it’s really spooky, I’ve come to understand there are more things going on in our reality than ANYBODY could ever explain, influences we don’t know understand or appreciate, even miracles…take ESP, for instance. I know after this a lot of you are going to say, “That’s it! He’s gotta be nuts!” A predictable response…and you have a right to your opinion. My personal insanity is not outside the realm of possibility, but I promised myself I would always be honest with you guys, even when it makes me look a little wierd. One scary night I had an unexplainable experience, something that has mystified me ever since. I’ve written about it before, but it was a BIGGIE for me. It happened during hurricane season.
For weeks people had been talking about a tropical depression in the gulf, and of course, we stayed glued to the weather news on TV. One morning when I was driving to work, the news guy said, “Well, it’s not a depression any more; now it’s a hurricane…and it’s name is CARMEN,” and when he said the name, it was like a flashbulb went off in my mind. After kind of a white blur, I saw myself lying on the sofa in the parlor, my dog at my side, playing with an old transistor radio I hadn’t seen for years. To tell the truth, I was POSITIVE it had been lost forever somewhere along the line, but there it was, so clear, so precise…almost like a photograph.
About five the next morning, we were awakened by incredibly forceful wind blowing outside our window. Now, our bedroom is way at the back of the house, perilously close to two massive old oaks, and when I heard the wind screeching and the oaks groaning, I told my lady it was dangerous where we were and we should move to the guest bedroom in front…as far as we could get from those complaining trees. After we had settled in, I slept a little, but soon awakened. It was getting light, and I wanted to see what was going on, so I took a pillow, moved to the parlor, and stretched out on the sofa next to a large window, my dog following me.
The storm was violent, and while I was watching its fury, my lady got up, came in, and said, “See if you can find out anything with this,” handing me that old radio I didn’t know we had any more. She even brought me a battery, and while I was searching, trying to find an active station, I realized. “This is what I saw…EXACTLY!” I told you it was spooky. “Where the hell did you get THIS?” I asked. “It was In the bedside table drawer,” she answered. “There’s a lot of old stuff in there. Does it still work?”
What was that all about? I wish I had wriiten it all down before it came to be, but of couse, I brushed it off at the time. The whole experience was too precise, much too accurate to wish away, and it showed me how things are happening all around us all the time, unexplainable things I’ve learned to accept and cherish…just like the presence and promise of God. Wasn’t it Shakespeare speaking through Hamlet, who said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy?” Cool guy, Shakespeare…and one SPECTACULAR writer. As usual, he was right.

Either God exists or he doesn’t. Let’s look at the black side first. If He doesn’t exist, where did all THIS come from? Cosmologists say the big bang most likely occurred when one universe bumped up against the edge of another reality and spawned a new one, us, but where did those OTHER bumping universes come from? Always there…without ANY beginning…just always there? And NOBODY created that other place? JUST ALWAYS THERE? And you think THAT makes more sense than a Creator? Give me a break!
Whichever way you look at it, neither idea makes sense. Either there are a lot of universes bumping into one another, creating new ones, eternally, without beginning or end, or a Being made the whole thing, also eternal, without beginning or end. Get used to the idea. SOMEBODY or SOMETHING has always been here…eternally…without beginning or end, but we just can’t wrap our minds around that sort of puzzle. We’re too finite, too clothed in personal experience to get beyond what we can see and feel and remember. Personally, I think it’s all part of TIME, the illusion we’re locked within. That’s what Einstein called it…and he hasn’t been wrong yet.
They say God’s in the details, so let’s run with it. The incredible thing is our reality exists thanks to the perfect balance of the four fundamental forces of physics. If any one of them were even SLIGHTLY out of whack, none of this would have come into being…none of US, either. Random chaos without purpose would be hard-pressed to come up with so elegant a system, and what about the mathematical certainty and perfection of our galaxy, our solar system, and our planet? Like the best clock ever devised, they move, circling in precisely determined orbits and rotations…so predictable scientists can predict solar eclipses THOUSANDS of years in the future.
You may say, “Okay, so the universe is mathematically perfect…and by the way is and always has been…without creation or end…just there…kind of a mystery for our little minds,” but that’s actually a leap of faith, albeit an egocentric one. How DARE you bumping, eternal universe people make fun of those who believe it was created? They’re making the SAME leap of faith…just in direction you don’t happen to agree with. The fact is we CAN’T figure it out, and maybe we’re not meant to. Maybe each and every one of us is supposed to work it out for ourselves however we can, even fearfully late at night when the bedcovers offer only empty security.
Love is the only emotion not chemically mediated in human beings, perhaps the only thing we can actually create, and once allowed in, it transforms us, growing, enveloping us in the beauty of truth, and changing our lives. You bumping universe preple are living in a really DANGEROUS world because if in fact it’s all random, with no Creator, no Supreme Being, why be good? If there are no consequences, why not be selfish, greedy, cruel…and evil? Most people DON’T because they instinctively understand that good is better than evil and love is more rewarding in the long run. Cruelty and evil just don’t sit well on the shoulders of humanity…while love and kindness fit us like a glove. Sounds a little like God’s wrapped up in all this to me, but that’s only MY opinion.
Sorry, Guys, but I don’t buy the random, eternal, never-created, bumping universe theory. There are just too many potholes in that road. People who believe in God also believe He’s the personification of love, and inherently cherishing that concept, they do what every religious luminary we’ve EVER had says we should. Love one another, do good to one another, help one another, and love God. I have no idea what motivates those random universe, godless people, but to tell you the truth, to me they’re even spookier than that night Carmen hit.
Maybe you doubters are right and I AM crazy…but I gotta tell you. It’s a happy kind of crazy…and isn’t happiness what we’re all looking for in the end? I say, when you find happiness, GRAB HOLD AND HANG ON TO IT! There are enough bad things lurking, waiting to come your way, so treasure whatever goodness you can find while you follow your path…and maybe when it’s all said and done, you’ll find life less painful, possibly even JOYFUL. At least, that’s been my experience. Life’s funny that way; you learn as you slog and trudge along…if you’re paying attention.
I sincerely hope the athiests have given up on this post by now. If not, I’m gonna get a lot of comments from them. Athiests can be REAL pests when you rile them up, almost as bad as mosquitos and horseflies…and just about as relevant in MY opinion.

I have no idea what time it is tonight, somewhere between seven and ten, I guess, but frankly, I don’t really care. You see, we FINALLY got to Galveston…Angel’s eye all healed up and my lady and me TOTALLY ready for some R&R in the salt wind, sun, and foaming surf. Of course, obstreparous Baxter is with us, but he’s young, and adorable…and learning quickly. Even the people he pounces on forgive him.
Just this moment I’m sitting on our balcony enjoying the sounds of the gulf and its seemingly ENDLESS expanse all the way to the horizon…salt water…the same stuff coursing through our bodies with every heartbeat…and incorporated so long ago we can’t remember, but when I’m sitting beside the sea, I EMBRACE it like a friend lost in the convolutions of eternity; I think most people do. Delivered over eons by asteroids and comets, the ocean is really our nursery, our liquid parent, and somehow when I’m here, I UNDERSTAND…and thank it…and God for working things out this way.

I know I can only see the surface and never really know what’s going on down in the comparatively small patch swirling below…thousands of births each day, for sure…and thousands of deaths, little bitty deaths, small fish devoured by birds or bigger fish, shrimp snatched up by crabs, even dolphins…my friends…gorging themselves on nature’s bounty, but for me, sitting in the midst of all this wonder, all I see is beauty.
A land creature, I understand the boundaries I have to live with, but Ialso tend to envy those other mammals I can see out in the surf, chirping, jumping, and celebrating their lives, happy and seemingly carefree. To them, what is simply IS, and they joyfully accept their lot. It’s impossible to impose human concepts of good, evil, opportunity, and necessity on what’s going on out there, so I’ll leave the sorting out to God. At this PRECISE moment, I’m totally ENCHANTED…which is where I want to be.

There’s something viscerally ELEMENTAL about an ocean…maybe because somewhere inside us there are memories, carefully hidden memories, or maybe only because it’s beautiful and exciting, or maybe because it’s a shadowy glimpse of where we all began and yearn to return to…a simpler world free from the constraints of wrongdoing, guilt, laws, and repercussions…our scrupulously maintained moral walls, but sitting just beyond the roar and foam, all those concepts kind of float away in the constant wind.  My eyes command me; what’s churning below is stirring…and beautiful…and endlessly FASCINATING.
I want to go there, jump into that surf and foam, taste the salt, join my progenitors, and swim, but my lady is implacable. “NO,” she says, “SHARKS!” (She’s not all that big on sharks.) But what sharks? There hasn’t been a shark attack in Galveston since God knows when…but she won’t be moved. I love her, and I know I HAVE to work out some kind of resolution we can both live with…so…I’m planning to go wading with her…and while she intently looks for seashells…as she ALWAYS does…I’ll slowly slip out into deeper water and swim like hell. At least, that’s my plan.
There are LOTS of dophins out there; she’s seen them, too, and we BOTH know they’re EXPERT at dealing with sharks. Our seabound, brothers aren’t deterred, so I don’t think we should be either. They kinda PUNCH ‘em in the belly…REALLY HARD, not hard enough to kill but hard enough to get their attention, and it ALWAYS works. Actually, it looks like they’re playing when they do it, but the sharks don’t seem to understand and swiftly swim away.

My lady worries a lot, particularly since I don’t choose to worry a whole lot about anything. The way I see it, life’s too short to burden yourself like that, but she compensates by worrying for both of us…and I’ve learned to live with it. Swimming out there would be FAR more fun than swimming in the pool at the condo…and much more philosophically enlightning, but…you know…it’s a nice pool…a REALLY nice pool…with chairs all around, a shower, and float mats for catching a little sun. What the hell? I’ll do BOTH…fake her out, swim in the gulf as long as I can get away with it, then go back, wash off, and dive into that pool.
GOD, I love Galveston!

Any of you guys ever read Chita? It’s a superb novel by Lafcadio Hearn…and I LOVE the author’s name almost as much as I love his book! If I made it up in a story, EVERYBODY would consider it far too off-the-wall to believe, but he was REAL…even lived in New Orleans for a while…where he learned about the destruction of Isle Derniere during a hurricane in the 1800′s and wrote about it. That’s where things get TANGIBLE and kind of spooky for me because I’ve BEEN there…to Isle Derniere…or more accurately what’s left of it, just spitting distance from dad’s favorite oyster beds when I was growing up.
Now only a few pilings and boards scattered among the palmettos, with maybe a HINT of a pier here and there, a gently sloping beach, and a lot of high, dry ground where a magnificent summer hotel once stood, it was a favorite retreat for people from New Orleans in those days, bathed by sea breezes, lavishly Victorian, and free from “Yellow Jack,” which we know as Yellow Fever. New Orleans has ALWAYS had problems that way, cloistered as it is between two bodies of water and completely vulnerable to miasma breeding and buzzing in the shallows.
If you want to lose yourselves in the horror of those times, watch “Jezebel,” one of my favorite Bette Davis movies, even though I didn’t really care for her concept of a Louisiana accent…more like Georgia, and for that matter, the scenes they depicted of New Orleans, too…but they got the idea across: antebellum, lavish, and VULNERABLE. I guess they were trying to establish a MOOD, but when Henry Fonda slapped that mosquito on his neck, EVERYBODY knew. Above the Yellow Jack line or no, he had CAUGHT it, and he was one dead puppy.
Most people don’t get this, but in the last few scenes when Bette is acting up a storm in a cart rattling over cobblestones toward Lazaret Island…which doesn’t exist…there are NO islands in the Mississippi around New Orleans…there were always NUNS in the wagons, nuns with big, fancy hats…and that’s accurate, too. The Daughters of Charity took care of those people at great personal risk and significant mortality to its members, and TO THIS DAY, they ride free on any New Orleans public transportation…as thanks from a grateful city.
The rest of it is also accurate, like those cannons firing sulphur into the air, stupid though it may seem. Those poor people didn’t have a CLUE about what was REALLY going on, but that didn’t stop the politicians and medical hacks from ordering the army to do things like that. They were wrong, of course, but they were DESPERATE; what else could they have done? Voodoo? Prayer in St. Louis Cathedral? They did all of it…everything they could think of, but the disease still got to them because if could FLY.
Poor New Orleans, Yellow Jack wasn’t its only disease problem; there were LOTS of others…like CHOLERA, and one poor, innocent bastard wound up crushed by both the disease and history. You see, if you’ve had cholera, you’re usually IMMUNE to re-infection, so when an epidemic hit, the guys who had it before were enlisted to stay and help the others…while the rest of them fled, usually to places like Isle Derniere. One of those staying behind was a minister, who in his quiet hours before sleep began plotting the new cases on a map of the city.
In time he realized something. Cholera seemed to follow WATER, and he made the big mistake of writing an article about it in the local newspaper. While he was only trying to help, the doctors in New Orleans POUNCED on him, demanding a retraction, and in time he printed one…poor fool, poor intuitive, brilliant fool. He was RIGHT, but that didn’t stop the establishment. I’ve read his announcement, and it’s heartbreaking. How do you reach back in time and tell a guy like that he was right and the rest of them were WRONG?
Not much later, some guy in England made the same connection, and HE’S considered the visionary…not our poor minister. I can’t help wondering…I’m a PHYSICIAN novelist, after all…what would I have done? Told them to BOIL their water, for sure, and to drain their swamps, told medical personnel to WASH their hands after every patient encounter, told cholera vicitms to drink a lot of water with salt in it, but doctors in those days were a stupid bunch…and VERY poorly trained. They’d probably have run me out of town on a rail, most likely tarred and feathered.
These days New Orleans is free from cholera and Yellow Jack, but you can just bet they’re still out there…waiting patiently in swamps surrounding the city for something to unleash them. In the old days people spoke a lot about malaria, even patients much later when I was practicing medicine, and I don’t see why it couldn’t have happened, same swamps and all…but these days all the cases New Orleans sees are imported, much like the few cases of cholera they had a couple of decades ago.
Of course, they had the usual problems, viral infections, pneumonia and infected wounds, just like we have today, but non-infectious causes of death were also common, most prominently including childbirth, accidents…life was tough in those days…and cooks burning to death in the kitchen. At one time, immolating cooks outnumbered childbirth deaths, and it makes sense if you think about how they cooked…on open hearths…while wearing MOUNTAINS of lacy undergarments. One well-placed spark or cinder and the cook went up like a Roman candle.
The people at Isle Derniere all drowned, of course, and that was common in those days. Not many people were effective swimmers, particularly considering the way they dressed. That’s actually STILL TRUE in the great Atchafalaya Basin. I’m always ASTOUNDED by how many of those trappers and fishermen don’t know how to swim…or even dog-paddle, and every now and then one of them falls in…and people say, “Well, he drowned…fell out of the boat.” FELL OUT OF THE BOAT? Hell, we used to DIVE out of boats when we were water skiing. Take some swimming lessons, Guys; you won’t regret it.
Sorting through all this makes me even happier to be living in the 21st century than I was before. Life is tough enough without the deck stacked against you…like it was in those days. I’ve never seen the statistics, but I’ll just BET there were a lot of food-borne illnesses, too…no refrigeration, easy for staph, shigella, or salmonella to get a toe-hold and bring you down. A word about staph food poisoning…as a physician, I saw a lot of cases, and the thing I remember most was when we had identified the infected food item, the patient always said, “But it was DELICIOUS!” No wonder we had so many infecitons; it seems staph tastes GOOD.
In the old days, death was always close by, sometimes only inches away in the kitchen, and EVERYBODY lost a child or two during a lifetime. There was nothing to do about it, so they went on with their lives, not perfectly, some might say not even in a civilized fashion, but they did persevere and left us an odd mixture of good and bad, as I suspect most forebears do. For one, I’m grateful they did, leaving us the Louisiana we have today…filled with promise and hope, free from cholera, Yellow Jack, dead mothers and infants, and with MUCH safer cooking…but there’s STILL one sticking point.
The old guys cleared the land…or more precisely, their plantation workers did…and we’ve built on it…in more ways than one. Normal life here no longer has the sting of unexpected illness and death, but at a truly TERRIBLE cost to humanity…and yes, I’m talking about SLAVERY. I’ll never understand how those cultured, sophistocated people considered it reasonable to go to Africa, link human beings into an iron chain, and work them nearly to death in their cotton fields. Slavery was…and ALWAYS will be a MONSTROUS evil…horrible, and damned…not just a human illness, a societal one.
Slaves died, too, from overwork, from illnesses, from childbirth, and from despair, but NOBODY has statistics on them. They DIDN’T COUNT…non-entities to those white folks behind the columns who only worried about the cotton crop, the latest fashions, and whether food arrived hot at the table. If those old guys could speak to us, they’d expect us to be grateful for what they endured for our sake and they’re right…up to a point, but thank God, modern sensibilities have kicked in to put things into perspective.
I’ve read the Civil War journals of BOTH Mary Chestnut and Sarah Morgan…several times. My copy of Mary’s journal is almost falling apart, and the take-away lesson is THEY KNEW SLAVERY WAS WRONG and did absolutely nothing to change things…didn’t even like to talk about it. Most of them were scrupulously religious…and not a little superstitious. I wonder why they didn’t see Yellow Jack, cholera, death in childbirth and all the rest as Divine retribution for their demonic traffic in human misery. Personally, I don’t think God sends death and destruction, but he DOES send tests…to help each of us learn EXACTLY who he is. Unfortunately, they failed theirs flat.
So…Old Guys…the way I see it, the best you can hope for from us is a WASH, whatever horrors you endured…and even there, the odds are iffy.

We were planning to go to Galveston for a week, a long, HOT trip for the dogs, so I decided to have Angel clipped to a “summer cut.” She’s been groomed so many times I didn’t really worry about it and went to help my cousin with her computer after I dropped her off, but I kept my celphone with me…just in case. Nobody called, so when I got home and my lady’s wet eyes told me there had been a problem, I was STUNNED. I mean…grooming? How many problems could there be?
Turns out it was a bad one. When the groomer-lady was working on her face, Angel suddenly jerked and the clippers SPLIT her lower eyelid, producing pain, fear, and a lot of blood. Before we get any further, I have to say that lady has done a BEAUTIFUL job many, many times before. She’s compassionate and devoted to the animals in her care…so I don’t blame her. It was an ACCIDENT, but by the time I was brought into the picture, Angel was ALREADY in surgery! Angel…my Angel…in SURGERY…it tore me up…and I didn’t really know what to do.
I mean…Angel, my SPECIAL friend? We’ve shared so many walks together, so much time in the evening, our souls touching and meshing perfectly. My God, Angel…surely Lord, NOT HER! The vet did a beautiful job; I know…I checked it carefully, but he sent her home in a “cone of shame,” which she HATED. He called it an Elizabethan collar, a huge, horrible thing she could barely carry around, but all I could see within it were her sad little eyes…one traumatized, asking me, begging me to tell her what she had done wrong…and I could do nothing but weep.
When she saw how much it was hurting me and my dog, my lady IMMEDIATELY took that damnable thing off…and Angel drank, ate, and happily ran outside to do her “business”. Since then, we’ve watched her obscessively, but she doesn’t even seem to know there’s anything wrong with her right eye. Now, our only problem is Baxter, who constantly wants to play with her. I keep slapping a rolled-up newspaper in my hand (which he’s TERRIFIED of) to remind him, and so far at least he seems to be getting the message.
Of course, I called the lady at By the Sea Condos in Galveston, and told her about our misfortune. There’s NO WAY we could go, but you know what? She was WONDERFUL about it all and happily rescheduled our vacation. I discussed the situation with Angel and my lady, and we decided to leave all the bags, cases, and what not in the parlor…just like we were leaving tomorrow. Somehow, that makes the whole thing less painful to all of us…except maybe Baxter, who’s OBLIVIOUS to almost everything going on at home.
The funny thing is Angel’s all worried about ME. She knows I’m upset and has NEVER been more compassionate or supporting, quietly following me around and when I’m sitting in my chair in the den, jumping up and covering me with those wonderful, slobbery kisses. My morning ritual is to crack open a Starbuck’s Frappuccino, gather up the morning paper, and watch the news on TV, and as always, Angel is right there with me, usually tucked at the edge of the lounger peaceful and happy. It’s strange, but even Baxter seems to understand we need that time together more than ever right now.
My lady and I are WRECKS, while Angel seems to think nothing much has happened, but guilt is hard to dodge.  Dogs are so pure, so innocent, and so trusting. I HATE it when what we do to try and make them more comfortable hurts them…like I EVER thought it might, but just now, I feel like I owe Angel much more than a walk in the gathering twilight.
I owe her an apology…for trying to help her and failing, for HURTING her, however inadverdently, but I can easily see what Angel thinks about all this…lounging at home with the people she loves, comfortable, happy, and free from that collar…cut eye be damned! She forgives me…it’s obvious…if she EVER blamed me…which I doubt. I just wish I could forgive myself.

UPDATE 8-25-11  I’m feeling better about things.  Young as he is, Baxter seems to understand what’s going  on, while Angel still seems to have no idea there’s something wrong with her right eye.  To tell the truth, it’s hard to tell where the repair was, and I’m planning to bring the torture collar back to the vet tomorrow.  Today in the bedroom we watched Julia Child, whom we ALL love, on the Cooking Channel…with the AC and ceiling fan going full blast, Angel at the foot of the bed in her usual place, Baxter in the crook of my arm, and my lady next to me.  I went to sleep (not a whole lot interested in what the French have to say about pizza), and when I woke up, Angel was still there, and Baxter, and my lady, all waiting for the final “This is Julia Child. Bon Appetit!”  Now, I know we’re all going to survive this and have a WONDERFUL vacation in Galveston in September, with Angel barking at waves and retreating when they come crashing in, eyes alert and bright as always, and Baxter probably digging TONS of sand somewhere, but most of all I need to thank God…for helping a lovely and complete innocent heal…and for showing me what’s REALLY important in the end.

Final Update 09-02-11  Today Angel got her stitches out, and I gotta say.  The vet, Dr. Richard Broussard, did a PHENOMENAL job!  You can’t even SEE where the cut was…and I KNOW; I studied her eye through his magnifier.  I was in there when he anesthetized her, and it kind of got to me, watching her like that…all limp with her tongue stuck out, my Angel, my friend who was harmed only because I wanted to make her more comfortable.  Of course, I asked him whether the anesthesia might suppress her breathing, but he said it wouldn’t…and he was right.  When I went to pick her up, the tech said, “She’s STILL pretty groggy; it may take a couple of hours before she’s normal,” but when she saw me, she jumped into my arms, curled up and started kissing me.   And when she got home, she ate, drank, and went outside to do her thing, then came back with me into my man-space computer room…where she slept it off at my feet.  At this point I don’t REALLY know exactly how I feel about all this.  I feel guilty, of course, but she IS more comfortable, though TERRIFIED now about going to the vet.  The funny thing is…she doesn’t really seem to CARE about any of it…just an inconsequential hiccup…at least to HER.  She’s still my Angel, my friend, and she still loves me.

A Painting by a Friend of Mine in Med School

I went to medical school when I was nineteen, and I’ll never forget my first night in New Orleans. A Cajun from the hinterlands alone in an immense city for the first time in his life, I found a fire escape in one corner of my apartment building and stood there eight stories up trying to make sense of the lights, sounds and smells attacking me from every angle, so different from the simple quiet peace I had grown up in and held dear.
Having lived in a small town all my life and attending college in Lafayette, which is really just a big small town at heart, I was POSITIVE I’d never adjust, a lost stranger in a confusing foreign land. Just getting anywhere involved a major effort, the city a seemingly endless patchwork of angled streets, expressways, and overpasses, so I took to riding busses and streetcars, knowing full well if I got lost I could get on another one going the other way.
I had a car, an old Dodge with about 300,000 miles on it, but my father absolutely FORBADE me to take it to New Orleans. At the time I resented his order because it condemned me to riding public transportation or walking, but in time I had to grudgingly agree with him. My car wouldn’t have lasted very long, nor was it very reliable, and I’d probably have gotten so lost I’d have to abandon it anyway and get on a bus just to find my way back.
I think walking served me best. An avid jogger, I had the legs and often walked all the way to the French Quarter, a good twenty blocks, and ultimately found an Italian short-order restaurant serving the best meatball po-boys I’ve ever had in my life. Not only that…the owner’s wife was one of the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen…and she LOVED medical students. Sitting there munching on my sandwich, sometimes with a glass of Chianti, and enjoying the scenery, I slowly began to realize there actually WERE worthwhile things in New Orleans.

A Painting of Cajun Life by Earl Hebert, A Superb Local Artist

Back home, they never said New Orleans; it was always The City, like there was only ONE in the world, and It took me a long time to understand how right they were. New Orleans gradually became THE CITY to me, too…and I hadn’t even seen Mardi Gras yet. At Christmas time I went back home, and dad presented me with a new car, a small Ford. Powder blue, good gas mileage, brand new…God, it was beautiful! By then, as he no doubt knew I would, I had learned the city pretty well from my walks and city transit rides, and I could pretty much get where I wanted to without using a map…although I always kept one handy in the glove box.
I used to play tennis at City Park and grew to love the quiet water, the lilies, and the moss-laden oaks, just as I loved the tree-lined streets and avenues getting there. At this point, I HAVE to share a little story with you. It may not seem like all that big a deal to you sophistocates, but to a guy from the boonies, it was HUGE. I was in pretty good shape…not overdone…functional, and I worked hard to keep things that way. Of course, to the city guys I was a clueless bumpkin, which…to tell the truth…I WAS, but one day all that changed.
There were a lot of airline flight attendants in our apartment building, and all the guys were ENDLESSLY trying to attract their attention. I didn’t blame them; they were GORGEOUS, but as an outsider to city life, I knew better than to try and follow their example. One day when I was returning from a hard-fought tennis match…all sweaty and dishevelled, standing with a bunch of med-school guys waiting for an elevator, one of the stewardesses walked up to me…ME SPECIFICALLY! Thank You, God, for that little kindness.
Shoving a piece of paper into my pocket, she said, “I want your BODY…anytime…anywhere…any way you like! Call me,” but it was her misfortune to have propositioned me the month we were studying venereal diseases…so I did NOTHING. Okay, maybe I treasured that phone number for a couple of years, but I knew when I was outclassed…and who knows who that lady had slept with? Venereal diseases can be scary…and embarassing…and damaging…and hard to get rid of. Med student…REMEMBER?
Thank God I had the presence of mind to answer, “Sounds like fun, but right now I got a few exams to worry about before I can call you.” She smiled, stroked my unshaven chin, blew me a kiss, and floated into the snack shop, but the good news about that story is my stock soared through the roof inside the med school. I could tell from their sly looks and smiles; they KNEW I was a player…which I knew I absolutely WASN’T, but apparently it looked good enough to fool THEM.
I think I got a testosterone kick out of that encounter. At any rate, the sky seemed more beautiful, the air sweeter, and the environment much less threatening, and in time I became very comfortable in the city I’d live in for ten years. Of course, each year, everything turned topsy-turvy when Mardi Gras hit. To those who haven’t been there, it’s hard to explain; the whole city goes kind of crazy…happy crazy. The parades begin, and people who are normally staid and respectable find themselves willing to KILL to recover a handful of worthless glass beads.
My first Mardi Gras, I had a date with a New Orleans native, a lovely girl, usually quite proper, but when we got to the parade route, she suddenly said, “A LITTLE GIRL IN A WHEELCHAIR! Let’s stand next to her; they gonna throw a lot of beads her way!” We stood where she suggested, and sure enough, they threw BUSHELS of beads. When we were leaving, my date asked, “Where are your beads?” “I gave them to the little girl in the wheelchair,” I answered, to which she responded, “Are you crazy?” That’s Mardi Gras in a nutshell…mass insanity with no concept of reality.
In time…when I became a resident…I lived on Nashville Avenue when I wasn’t at the hospital, and I think that experience gave me my most enduring memories of New Orleans. I remember getting up on a crisp Sunday morning and walking to the corner where a cart held mountains of fruit fresh from the docks, other Sundays sitting outdoors at a breakfast place enjoying the best food you could imagine with wonderful chickory coffee to wash it down.
Eventually, I had to give up jogging…just didn’t have time for it, but I craved some sort of exercise and decided to get a bicycle. I loved riding through neighborhoods or along the river road and sometimes on top of the levee. One day, I was happily pedaling along when a gigantic ship passed me in the canal between the levees. Stunned, I stopped and watched it go by, towering above me, then I looked at the neat subdivision about thirty feet below on the other side and became strangely uneasy. The city of wonder was protected from massive flooding only by simple, earthen levees and huge, constantly active pumping stations. It was living on the EDGE!
A lot of the wonder is gone now. New Orleans no longer SPARKLES like it used to; Katrina saw to that, making real the threat I had sensed that day on my ride. Watching the destruction of my city from our den in Lafayette, comfortable and safe, I WEPT, and my lady understood because she had lived there, too, until we got married. The sad fact is that we lived in a beautiful place when it was at its prime, numbered among the last to taste its irrepressible joy. They’ll repair and rebuild, of course, but to someone like me who soaked it all in when the city was whole, it won’t REALLY be the same.
You see, I LOVED that city, from the flambeaux carriers in parades, to the guy who sold the best hot dogs imaginable on a carefully chosen corner, to the perfume of night-blooming jasmine on summer evenings, to the smell of coffee everywhere in the morning, to the incredible spectacle of a Mardi Gras ball, through the bitter sting of cold air in November, all the way to those wonderful people, black and white, who gave it life.  I loved New Orleans; she was EASY to love, but these days, when I think of her, I always think of a King Alphonse.  You could get one in any bar on Bourbon Street…coffee liqueur with cream on top, dark liquid mixed with white, tumbling and swirling in its little glass…just like New Orleans…endlessly active, stirring, and enchanting…brash, quiet, sweet, bitter, and loud…staid, irreverent, tacky, and tasteful…but gone much too quickly, leaving only evanescent memories.

When we’re very young, our world revolves around the concept of ME, what I want, what I like, NEVER what I need…curbed only by the superior wisdom and physical strenth of our parents. Different kids move out of that phase at profoundly different rates, producing a spectrum of evolving awareness that the REAL world is all about give and take…if I do this for you, will you do that for me? And once attained, it remains the hallmark of all MATURE individuals.
Of course, some children never grow out of the self-indulgent stage, carrying on like a baby throughout their lives, and they’re called BRATS. You see a lot of them these days…in their formative stages…in movies, at the mall, and my favorite, at the supermarket. The other day I saw a kid pick a piece of bubble gum out of a bin and tear it open. His mother carefully looked up and down the aisle before she quickly re-wrapped it and returned it to the bin, leading me to decide today’s “permissive parenting” has skewed demographics in their favor.
If I’m right, there are going to be a lot more of them gumming up the works everywhere, and I feel sorry for those nascent brats because it’s a rough row to hoe in the long run. For the most part, society is INTOLERANT of such behavior, and when they grow up, they endlessly run into stone walls in their relationships, their work, and their lives in general. A few get the message, but most of them just keep banging away, never really understanding why people don’t like them or why they never ever seem to succeed.
My concept of raising children is keeping them alive until they get good sense, but what if they never do…you know…get good sense? From watching the antics of congress this past few weeks, I’ve decided most of those run for political office. It’s incredible, but what ELSE am I to think? What happened to give and take? You never lose that way of dealing with the world once you attain it, so I’ve decided those guys in Washington never had it. In a word, our government is run by BRATS, self-indulgent, hopelessly self-centered, totally immature BRATS!
Believe what you will, but the concept of COMPROMISE is anathema to those brats in Washington. Interaction to them is YOU giving ME what I want, not me giving you something to arrive at a common goal. They don’t think at that level. It’s as alien to them as the deadest language on the planet, and if I were you, I wouldn’t hope for some glimmer of inspiration to change them. They’re INCAPABLE of it…once a brat, always a brat. At least, that’s been my experience so far.
“He who knows and knows that he knows is a leader. Follow him.”
“He who knows and knows not that he knows is asleep. Awaken him”
“He who knows not and knows that he knows not is ignorant. Teach him.”
“He who knows not and knows not that he knows not is a fool. Shun him.”
My quandry is…how do you shun an ENTIRE branch of government? Just exposing them does nothing; they’re PROUD of their bratty shenanigans. We have the interesting problem of having seasoned and mature individuals on the outside and powerful but ugly brats on the inside calling the shots. I’m hoping some of them are only FAKING brattiness, but I agree…it’s a long shot.
Somebody over there has got to realize you can’t play CHICKEN with a country, but I’m beginning to think the only way to bring sanity to Washington is to winnow them out as quickly as we can. Keep electing new people, I say, and if they turn out to be brats, kick them out next time and try again. If they are mature and responsible, keep them in, but if they start getting bratty urges, turn them out, too. I know it may take at least four or five generations to give reason and maturity a fighting chance up there, but right now, that’s the only dim light I can see at the end of this tunnel.
If NEITHER political party is capable of producing a true statesman, let’s give them an unending round of musical chairs to see if we can at least attract their attention, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high. Brats think they should ALWAYS win…no concept of compromise…remember? They’ll only think we’re being jealous, or cruel, or stupid. When you ACTUALLY believe you’re the center of the universe, why would you think anything else? Thank you, permissive, self-centered parents.
We live on the only inhabitable planet in our solar system and in a country I believe to be the best hope for mankind, created by the tolerance, wit, intellect and wisdom of noble GIANTS. Yes, we’re fractious, multicultural, a little xenophobic, often confused and torn, and some of us the descendents of slaveholders, but overall, the roadmap they left us has worked out pretty well in the long run…after a few disagreements like the Civil War, which I personally consider just and formative.
The way I see it, too many good people have given their blood to see that this country succeeds and prospers, way too many, but it can again…if we can figure out how to get rid of those who don’t understand what’s REALLY screwing us up. Shakespeare said, “First, we have to kill all the lawyers,” but I say, “Don’t kill anybody…just get rid of the BRATS. For God’s sake, give us a fighting chance!”

We got none…clear enough? We got POLITICIANS…who really only want to get re-elected, and that puzzled me for a long time. I mean, when they’re stumping around begging for money and votes, they always talk about the country and what they want to do for it, but when they finally crawl into the marble halls of power, they kind of get hypnotized. I think it takes only a couple of ritzy cocktail parties cocooned in all the priviledge they enjoy to convince them that somehow they’re SPECIAL, stratospherically above the rest of us proles.
And they LIKE it; who wouldn’t? It’s all wrapped up in the power corrupts thing. After they get to the Nirvana of democracy, they grow fingernails and imbed themselves into the nearest marble column. Got a flash for you dreamers. After they slide their asses into those soft, cushioned seats of power, they don’t give a damn about what WE want, but they give a BIG DAMN about what they want. Napoleon started it…reach and grab…reach and grab, but where does it leave the rest of us?
Frustrated, mostly. We work hard, balance our budgets, make sacrifices, and live within our means…we have to…but they DON’T. They promise EVERYTHING to EVERYBODY, and usually make those promises good when they can, even if they have to do it with borrowed money, TRILLIONS of dollars of it. A dollar is 6.12 inches long. I tried to calculate how long a train of a trillion dollars would be, but my calculator maxed out. IT’S A BIG NUMBER, probably enough to go to the moon and back a couple of times, and that’s just one trillion. We’re working on FOURTEEN TRILLION!
I keep wondering about it. Don’t those guys pay their bills? Don’t they KNOW you have to? What the hell is going on over there? I’ve decided most of those guys are fueled by fantasy, or illusion, or maybe alcohol. It sure as hell isn’t reality. Take Social Security, for example. People PAID into that system…all their lives. They sort of saw it as a contract, and now they’re being told the government may not give them what they’ve earned…and in most cases what they NEED to survive.
And what about people working now? Why should they pay through the nose for a program they’ll NEVER benefit from? I’m a writer. I live from day to day, but if I was working, I’d think twice about paying stuff to the government I knew I’d never get back. It would be like pissing in the wind. Of course, those marble-hall people only see it as reliable income they can splurge with, waste, and NEVER be held accountable for.
I heard a really great quote from Margaret Thatcher the other day. She said, “Socialism is great…until you run out of OTHER people’s money,” and that’s where we seem to be…out of other people’s money…your money, my money, your cousin’s money, your yard man’s money, your checkout lady’s money, your parent’s money, EVERYBODY’S money…except for those idiots clinging to the marble halls on the Potomac.
Lincoln bucked a lot of people, but he had a VISION…and it proved to be the right one. He went on until John Wilkes stopped him, but when I look around these days, I can’t find anyone like him who seems to be able to look beyond the immediate present and plan for the indefinite future. I find it funny how they ALL keep quoting Reagan over there. I liked Reagan, liked Clinton, too, because they TOOK CHARGE and did good things for our country.
And as I see it, that’s a big part of the problem. The people in charge these days seem to be the pollsters. Before making any move, every damned one of them seems to check it out first to see how it might impact them in the next election. I know their lives are cushy and will be secure forever, but why do they do it? To STAY there…they like that life and those cocktail parties, that exposure on TV, and they LOVE enhancing their cherished concept that they’re better than the rest of us. They’re modern-day gods while we’re DIRT.
Nowadays, that’s all they seem to think about…getting re-elected, and it looks like they’re willing to sacrifice the country to do it. I got tired of phone calls from political parties begging for money…and my vote, so I changed my registration to INDEPENDENT. After all, I’m about as independent as you can be, and now when they call, I tell them proudly. After a few stutters, they always hang up, which is exactly what I had in mind, and I gotta tell you. It makes suppertime a lot more pleasant.
That’ll work for me as long as I can AFFORD supper. The way things are going these days, it may not be long before I’ll be fondly remembering those times before the great fall, those times when I could still grill a steak or bake a chicken to give my family something nourishing to eat. When our dollars can’t buy piss, when we are hunkering down in abject poverty, when we’re all wondering where it all went, those guys will be living a live of luxury. They’re like that.
They’re POLITICIANS…lapping up whatever dregs they can in a world CRYING for people who can rise above temptation and the seduction of power, crying for STATESMEN. Give up, America because they ain’t there, and the way things are going, I don’t think they’ll ever be. Face it; we’re screwed.