My Granddaughter in Alligator Nation

I have previously published my granddaughter Erika's letters on this blog because she is such a prolific, humorous, and observing witness to her own considerably exciting life. Late last year, she finished her employment as a firefighter in Zortman, Montana. She then returned to Petoskey, Michigan, for a short stay at her mother's house, and then she undertook a 58-hour bus ride to Salt Lake City to spend Christmas with her brother, her grammas, her grampas, and her cousins. She then rode another 58 hours on the bus back to Michigan, and the very next day after her arrival jumped in her Jeep and drove two days to Frostproof, Florida, to start her next adventure with The Nature Conservancy as a firefighter. It is with pride that I present her latest missive below. Enjoy!


Dear Friends and Family,

Oh yes, it is that time again. I am ready to tell you some things (rubs hands together energetically). I hope you are ready. If you do not have a good chunk of time set aside for this letter, consider stopping now and proceeding later when you do. Plus, there are prerequisites to reading this:
(a) You must be comfortable, for with my writing even Homer would balk at its length.
(b) You must have a cup of something warm while reading. If you skip this step, be careful, for I have asked Karma to police that these rules are followed. So, find your favorite mug and make something warm. Make it before moving onto the next step, please.
(c) You must take 3 deep breaths: slow, relaxed, and focused breaths.

Ok, now you are ready to read. Truly read.

I am sure everyone is familiar with Jeff Foxworthy and his notorious jokes about "You may be a redneck if...." Well, I am going to steal that idea and apply it to riding the Greyhound bus.

You may be on a Greyhound bus too long:
1. If you start to panic that you accidentally got on a bus heading to a plumbers' convention.
2. If a parade of zombies saw you they would mistake you for one of their own.
3. If the passengers decide it is too difficult to locate the light switches, so they just start using their lighters to find things.
4. If you could fry an egg from the grease that is layered on your body, mainly from the windows.
5. If you realize that after sitting so long, your ass has actually fallen off, somewhere. You ask a few of the passengers if they have seen it, and they reply "No" but if you see theirs could you return it to them as soon as possible? After a few hours of searching, you let your limp and atrophied body carcass on without it.
6. If you stop consuming water for fear of having to use the bathroom.
7. If you find that the bathroom has hand sanitizer and your body is suddenly overtaken with a feeling like the one Moses probably felt when he saw the burning bush.
8. If you actually start to hypothesize, experiment, and conclude that sleep is a myth, and this fictitious and blasphemous piece of knowledge should be put to rest immediately.
9. When the sane become the minority, and you’re pretty sure you’re the majority.
1o. When the fuzz on your teeth is mistaken for the ancient and thought-to-be extinct Woolly Mammoth. What really boggles the scientist is how it got on the bus without any trace of breaking and entering!
11. When, after you have switched buses so many times, you have discovered which ones are conducive to oxymoronic fake sleep.
12. When hearing "Aqua" for an ungodly amount of time might be more soothing than the current state you are in. For those of you not from the "Aqua" era, just choose the most annoying and horrendous song you can conjure up.

I would say that this sums up the extent of my experience in a mustard seed. Though, for sure, I was warned. But I have never been one to be told what an experience is like. I choose to decide the horrors and joys on my own. Admonish to the ends of the earth, and I shall still feign deafness.

However, I do not know if I will ever take the Greyhound bus again. It seems it is only an experience to be had, based on the fact that it will glorify every other moment one lives through. And the CIA will eventually be contacting you about becoming an undercover agent who specializes in torture analysis. They may even try to sell you on some form of masochism where you try out your evil ideas, and you would say yes, for you would know you have been through worse. Thank you, Greyhound. Not just a transportation system, but a heartening lesson-giver of insurmountable knowledge.

All right, I will stop making jokes about Greyhound. It’s just too easy; one could go on forever. I already write long enough, so I will endeavor to write about that which everyone is probably curious. Florida!

Sadly, in my opinion, I do not live in a rural area though many have been apt to tell me that I do. When there are at least 8 Walmarts within a 50-mile radius, and perhaps more, then you are not allowed to utter, or even think, "rural." I often want to tell the people here about Montana and what rural can truly be like, but then I think perhaps it’s better not to say. I don’t think it’s any secret that Montana is desolate. I just simply don’t even want to say the name for fear that it might plant the seed in their heads that Montana is an option. Perhaps if those of us who know and love Montana could never mention it again, then it would become a forgotten place---
maybe a sanctuary for the hermits of the earth. Forget all those wonderful things I wrote about the most heavenly place I have ever been. Crazy talk, I know, but I think you get the idea.

I am not worried about my happiness or contentment in Florida, for that is something that cannot be taken. Something external could never take that which is internal. I make the best of wherever I am. My major annoyance about Florida, though, is that despite all the edifices and conveniences of man that exist along endless highways is that one is unable to find any decent organic produce. They have pills and more pills, enough to cover all the land masses of the earth. The one thing they don’t have is good-quality produce. If they had that, maybe they wouldn’t need so many pills. Just a theory though. I have decided that it may take some time to figure out Florida because not only is it big, it’s citified. Montana is big, but nothing is out there, so it doesn’t take long to find man's creations. I will find my local produce, dairy, meat, and honey. I am excited that there is local produce about a mile from where I live. Something I can bike to! And I have seen a sign for honey, which I think I will be able to bike to based on the fact Florida is flatter than my ass after a 2-day bus trip.

I actually live in one of the highest points in Florida. I think it’s around 200 ft. I know! Get out those hiking boots and prepare for a serious summit. Ironic that Montana has the land I love, but Florida has the people I love to work with. If only there could be some symbiosis of the two. Oh well! Spend my time yearning for other things or go on merrily with what I have. The people I work with are amazing. They are dream comrades. They are all concerned with conservation and ecology---with fire thrown in as the main attraction. It is wonderful. It feels right. Now if I could only right Florida.

Yesterday at the grocery store, I was literally viewed as a terrorist from the bag man for not wanting a grocery bag. Sometimes when you look in people’s eyes you can literally see them decaying right before yours. You ache to throw light into their darkness. Their bodies look tired. Look ready to lie down and die. And those eyes: numbness oozing from his essence...so empty. Voids. They are like the undead, who you want to put out of their misery. People like that just give you the body shakes to get away from. I am sure everyone knows what I am talking about, though do not let my pessimism in this paragraph throw you into the depths of despair with those people, for there are far more decadently full people in this world than there are empty. It may seem surprising, but I think there truly are.

This weekend shall give me plenty of time to discover more about Florida, since it is a 4-day weekend. Last weekend I spent the whole two days cleaning the kitchen, which wasn’t that bad on the surface but underneath it all was the hidden world of apathy. Needless to say, once I was done, there were some jaws to be dropped at its final state. To quote my engine captain, “This is unprecedented.”

This weekend, I have decided with great angst that there must be no cleaning. There will, however, be biking, hiking, and, yes, kayaking! I can spend the next weekend shut up cleaning my bathroom, the living room, the pantry, the porch, the other porch, and the backyard. Yeah, I think that’s it. Plus, now that the weather has finally warmed to the perfect 70 degrees, I am far more tempted not to be inside.

So what have I been doing the past 2 weeks with The Nature Conservancy? We have been lighting things on fire! Let me put it to you this way. I am more than halfway to surpassing my quota of fires in 2 weeks than in the 6 months I spent in Zortman. We have been lighting on the Tiger Creek Preserve, which is the preserve that I work at, the Kissimmee State Forest, and the Waikia State Forest, which is near Orlando. I have also been getting more time on the saw, mainly because there is no swamping in Florida. We just chop trees down and leave them to be burned as is. Therefore, when we go out to saw, the only thing that needs to be done is sawing itself. I am slowly getting more and more comfortable with the machine that spins irrevocably fast sharp points in ellipses toward all atoms in arm's reach, including my own.

Ultimately, I’m just getting a feel for how things work, where things are, and how TNC runs. The usual perks of a new job. All in all, it’s been quite the adventure thus far. I brim with the excitement of new discoveries to be made, especially in the plant world. New, fresh, clean slate: tabula rasa. I wonder what I shall fill my plate up with now.

OK, if you have made it to this point, I am happy to tell you that you have survived, not that I had any doubts that you wouldn’t, OK? Maybe I did, but I hope to hear from others as per
usual, and I wish everyone all the best in their worlds.

Love,
E or B

The Ravens Song

"Gloom, despair, and agony on me.
Deep dark depression...excessive misery.
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.
Gloom, despair, and agony on me."

Those of us who secretly delighted in the corny humor of Hee Haw during the 1969-71 run on CBS television (followed by a phenomenal 20-year syndication) remember the song cited above. After the Baltimore Ravens lost for the millionth time to the Indianapolis Colts in the wildcard playoff on Saturday, January 16, 2010, this song popped into my head and stayed put for several days thereafter. It is with some minor reluctance that I now throw my considerable emotional and vocal support to both the New Orleans Saints and the Minnesota Vikings, and I am mostly OK at this point. I've had a whole week to get over it. That fateful game starts in about 7 hours, and I won't be sorry to see either team move on to Super Bowl XLIV (do the math) which starts in 14 days 5 hours 40 minutes and 15 seconds from now (February 7 at 6:18 p.m.). Be there or be square.

My only hope, like any good Baltimore fan, is that Indianapolis beats the New York Jets today just so either the Saints or the Vikings can pummel them into bloody, humiliating defeat on February 7th. There! I've said it, and I feel much better now.

In Another Land

Greetings from Salt Lake City, Utah, where I am visiting for a month. There is plenty of snow and coldness here, and I am suffering from airplane nose, which is a severe drying of the nasal mucous membranes brought on initially by the necessary oxygen flow during the flight out here and then exacerbated by the lack of humidity in this desert valley. I will probably get adjusted to the dryness just as I am about to leave for Baltimore, home of dampness and mold.

It is nice to be on vacation, especially here with so many familyfriends who care about my welfare and health. Our grandson and his significant other are here in the same house, and those two have been cooking and baking like there is no tomorrow. Every meal is like "eating out." The only difference is that these two youngsters use top-quality ingredients and lots of time and patience. A couple of days ago, we were treated to a pumpkin pie, for example, that was made from "scratch," including baking the actual pumpkin (not opening a can of pumpkin pie filling) and making a crust out of roasted pecans (ones that they roasted themselves). Last night, we had roasted stuffed red peppers, stuffed with organic vegetables and quinoa, topped with a singularly creative mustard-basil sauce. It was spectacular. Every meal here is a "hummer," meaning that there is a great deal of approval in the form of loud hums throughout the entire meal.

There is much reading, relaxing, and movie-going here. We last saw "Invictus," and even though some reviewers have called it overly emotionally manipulative, we enjoyed it. Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon did a good job in their respective roles, and I think Clint Eastwood did the right thing by concentrating primarily on the rugby team theme and not on the political situation during this trying time of transition. I felt it was touching and poignant.

Despite some pretty serious back pain from lumbar stenosis, I am still determined to get out and about and not miss very much of the continued newness of being all the way across the country and into a landscape that is so dissimilar from the Chesapeake Bay.

Merry Christmas to all, whatever your faith or lack of it.

Who is Leroy Robertson?

And why should you care? Curiosity, more than anything. And maybe a little gratitude for his work. Leroy J. Robertson was born on December 21, 1896, and died on July 25, 1971. He was an American composer and music educator. Born in Fountain Green, Utah, he studied violin, composition, and public school music at the New England Conservatory and in Europe. He received an MA degree from the University of Utah and a PhD from the University of Southern California. He was chairman of the music department at Brigham Young University from 1925 to 1948 and at the University of Utah from 1948 to 1962. He was instrumental in the promotion of the Utah Symphony and of classical music in Salt Lake City. For this reason alone, he should be remembered because the Utah Symphony is one of the finest in the country. One can attend the symphony at Abravanel Hall, sit in the upper reaches of the balcony (as I have done many times), and hear gorgeous music in an acoustically perfect building for $17 a ticket.

He is best known for his Oratorio from the Book of Mormon. This very long oratorio was composed by Robertson over many years and finally completed in 1953. The Lord's Prayer from that oratorio was recorded by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and released as a 45 rpm single on the flip side of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, and it hit the top 50 charts in the late 1950s.

A full-length 33 rpm vinyl album called THE LORD'S PRAYER was recorded on August 27, 1958, (released in 1959) with Dr. Richard P. Condie, director of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Eugene Ormandy, conductor of the Philadelphia Orchestra, and organists Alexander Schriener and Frank W. Asper. In October 1963, this record was RIAA certified as a "GOLD" record with sales over $1,000,000.

It was in 1963 that I first heard the Robertson composition of The Lord's Prayer. Before I fell asleep, I listened to a radio station that had a "talk show"on from 11 p.m. until midnight. Back in those days, radio stations went off the air at midnight (as did TV stations). This particular radio station played the Robertson version of The Lord's Prayer (by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Philadelphia Orchestra, as cited above) before it went off the air. I was so taken with this composition that I made it a point to stay awake every night just to listen to it at midnight. Those were the days before I had enough money to buy my own record player, so I relied on the radio to hear this intriguing composition. I've never owned the recording until just this week, but I've carried that song in my head for the past 46 years. I've been looking for this recording for that long, and after 46 years, I finally found it. I hope it fascinates you as much as it has me for nearly half a century. You can listen to it by clicking on the Happy Thanksgiving blog (Smilebox) below.

This excessive admiration for Robertson is not meant to take anything away from Albert Hay Malotte (1895-1964), the American pianist, organist, composer, and educator who wrote probably the most popular and frequently heard version of The Lord's Prayer. His career as an organist began in Chicago where he played for silent pictures and later concertized throughout the US and Europe. During World War II, he held the rank of Captain in the Special Services for two years while he toured with the USO and entertained troops in New Guinea, Australia, and Europe. At one point, he sponsored his own troup of entertainers that included Dame Judith Anderson, Ann Triola, and Helen McClure Preister. Malotte was an amateur pilot, avid golfer, and even boxed with Jack Dempsey in Memphis, Tennessee. He spent most of his career as a composer in Hollywood.

Malotte composed a number of film scores, including mostly uncredited music for animations from the Disney studios. Although two movies for which he composed scores won best Short Subject Academy Awards (Ferdinand the Bull in 1939 and The Ugly Duckling in 1940), he is best remembered for a setting of the Lord's Prayer. Written in 1935, it was recorded by the baritone John Charles Thomas and remained highly popular for use as a solo in churches and at weddings in the US for some decades. He composed a number of other religious pieces including settings of the Beatitudes and of the Twenty-third Psalm which have also remained popular as solos. His secular songs such as "Ferdinand the bull" (from the Disney animated short of the same name), "For my mother" (a setting of a poem by 12-year-old Bobby Sutherland), and "I am proud to be an American" are less well remembered. Some of his works are collected in the library of the University of California Los Angeles and the Library of Congress. In addition, Malotte wrote uncredited stock music for many other films in the 1930s and early 1940s including twenty-two of the Disney Silly Symphonies and other shorts such Little Hiawatha as well as Ferdinand the Bull. He also composed cantatas, oratorios, musicals and ballets. Malotte owned Apple Valley Music.

He died of pneumonia and is buried in the Forest Lawn, Hollywood Hills Cemetery.

Happy Thanksgiving

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This Ship Has Sailed

In another life, a half-century ago, I was at the end of my teenage years when I met a small group of unconventional women who impaled me with endless confusion, contradiction, denial, confined independence, co-dependence, restrained nonconformity, realism, hurt, passion, shame, guilt, danger, anxiety, validation, thrill, and unfettered, raw experience. I was their willing apprentice for only a couple of years. Then I moved to another state and pretty much lost contact with them and their daily lives, adventures, and misadventures.

As is often seen in dysfunctional group dynamics, the leader of this closely knit cadre was an alcoholic: Cubby. Charismatic as hell. Strong. Independent. Chivalrous. Outspoken. Powerful. Wealthy. Influential. Intelligent. Daring. Well known, yet intensely private. She had much to hide and hide from. Her impression on me lasted well beyond her physical presence on this planet. She died just short of her 69th birthday in 1994. No one notified me. No one felt there was a reason to. I hadn't kept in touch with any of them for many years, and yet they were as big a part of me as though I lived next door. Youth is an impressionable time, and certain things become indelible and permanent.

Her significant other preceded her in death by many years. It was a tragic illness and an untimely end, the result of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. I watched from afar, disabled by my own sense of inadequacy to re-introduce myself into this tight circle of grieving friends. Her "best bud" Florine, at another, more professional and yet kindred, level of intimacy, died in 2002, having to endure life without Cubby for another 8 years before she succumbed. I know it was hard to live without Cubby. I only "knew" Cubby for a couple of years. Florine knew and worked with her for a lifetime.

Two other members of this tribe are unaccounted for by my reckoning. They might be dead or alive. I don't know, and there is no way for me to find out. I suspect at least one of them is gone---Doris, a massively obese, highly intelligent, extremely well read, wounded woman who I imagine could not have survived the biologic imperative of her corpulence.

The last renegade, Sis, passed over the golden bridge just last month on Hallowe'en, All Hallow's Eve. I prefer to think of this timing as some kind of practical joke perpetrated by Sis. She was nothing if not ironic.

Hallowe'en, a pagan tradition, was the biggest and most significant holiday of the Celtic year. The Celts believed that at the time of Samhain (Hallowe'en), more so than any other time of the year, the ghosts of the dead were able to mingle with the living because at Samhain the souls of those who had died during the year traveled into the otherworld. In some alternate universe that we can only guess at, there may have been many attempts by Cubby and Florine to induce Sis to come on over during the past decade or so, but Sis held out until All Hallow's Eve of 2009. She was stubborn that way and always had an outspoken mind of her own. In the earlier days, to which I was an actual witness, when the others of the cabal did not want to join Sis in something she had planned, she would say, "OK, then, I'll just get new friends." And she did. She was not going to be stifled in her social activities by these recalcitrant couch potatoes who preferred to sit around talking for hours in Cubby's living room, where all important things came to fruition and were made real. Sis always came back, however, despite disgustingly stomping out of the sanctum sanctorum on various occasions.

Sis is, as far as I can determine, the last to cross over from among the inner circle of this notorious group of unusual women. She left me with a couple of pithy shibboleths that were burned into my consciousness at age 19 and are to this day frequently repeated: "Anticipation is greater than realization" and "You can tell everything you need to know about a person by taking a trip with them." Even though I didn't heed the first of these mottos as much as I should have, I was always aware of its veracity as I reflected on dismaying circumstances in my life after they had broken my heart. As for the second motto, I have learned that I am able to travel comfortably with very few people. Taking a trip with someone does provide a valuable learning experience, most often a negative one, I've found. On both counts, Sis was right. Another thing she always said was this: "Never leave home without a jacket." This is such practical advice that it amazes me I wouldn't think of it on my own, but I often didn't and lived to regret it. Sis didn't say much, but what she said was believable. I should have listened more carefully. Now she's gone.

I learned of her death quite by accident yesterday. I had written to her every few years since 1964. In the early days of my departure from the Gopher State, I had even come back from the Wolverine State to visit with her, but there was an uneasiness to our visits. She never did quite forgive me for leaving. Despite her inexpression, she really was quite fond of me. In later years, I wrote to her every now and then, and sometimes she would answer and sometimes not. In the past 5 or so years, I began to wonder if she was still alive, so I would "google" her, and it would always come up with her address and phone number, so I tried calling her many times, but there was never an answer or an answering machine. Yesterday, I "googled" her again, just for the hell of it. I got back an obituary from her local newspaper. She had died at the end of last month. It was a shock to me. Now I know it's over. The group is gone. But, trust me, they live on and will do so until I am gone too.

Youth is an impressionable time, and certain things become indelible and permanent. Young love is one of these.

FRICKERS

In the current spirit of calling a spade a spade and putting away "political correctness" (as advocated by Glenn Beck on yesterday's show), I have created a new acronym: FRICKERS. If you are easily offended, you should stop reading right now. This is adult content, so reader caution is advised. FRICKERS stands for Far Right Ignorant Corporatist Kooky Evildoing Racist Sluts. There is no other way to say it. If Glenn Beck can freely express his political incorrectness on national television, then I guess that means I can freely express my political incorrectness on my own private blog (which has an audience of maybe 6). I am touting my "freedom of speech" the same way that Carrie Prejean is currently touting hers (incorrectly) on every national television show she can book. So here we go.

The bodies of the fallen dead and wounded at Fort Hood were not even cold when the FRICKERS began the race to score political points and inject hate speech into the national shock and grieving due to this godforsaken tragedy. The FRICKERS couldn’t call this an act of Islamic jihadist terrorism fast enough. Why? Because they are peeing their pants in the rush to claim that we have now had a terrorist attack on American soil under President Obama’s watch. It is their factless conclusion now that Obama can’t keep us safe, just as Cheney warned. Told you so!

The FRICKERS are highly incensed that Obama (and the White House) refuses to label this criminality as a terrorist act. Since FRICKERS specialize in fomenting IGNORANT RAGE among the ignorant masses for political gain, this worn-out tactic is not a surprise, but it is no less maddening and no less stupid.

There haven’t been enough consistent investigative results, or even time to sort through all the complexities, so that we can reliably conclude the Fort Hood massacre was the act of an Islamic jihadist instead of the act of a mentally ill man (of course, I personally think that anyone who kills another human being (or animal) without a morally good reason is mentally ill). But that doesn’t stop the FRICKERS from pumping up the volume on “terrorism” 24x7 since this incident in Texas. Since they hate Obama and all he stands for so much, any event will do to further their aim to depose him, deride him, disgrace him, and criticize him and the policies of this administration.

Blaming this murderous event on Obama is like blaming Richard Nixon for the Manson murders. He was President at the time, right? Or how about blaming the Lincoln assassination on Abraham Lincoln? After all, he was the President when he was shot to death. Using that logic, I guess we can finally rightly blame 9/11 on George W. Bush since he was President when that true act of terrorism occurred. However, you won’t hear the FRICKERS say anything about Bush in that regard. No, sir. Bush kept us SAFE for 7 years, but Obama has failed, just like Rush Limbaugh, AHIC, has wished and worked so hard for.

In addition, the FRICKERS are not done blaming the US Army for this either---that is, the US Army under Barack Obama. They don’t mention, of course, that the internal military, Homeland Security, and FBI investigations done on Major Hasan were instituted under the George W. Bush regime, and nothing discovered then was apparently considered the potential threat this turned out to be.

The claim is that “political correctness” kept the military (only the military under Obama, that is) from calling “a spade a spade” (another derogatory, racist phrase the FRICKERS are only too happy now to use on cable TV). If only we would, according to Glenn Beck, dispense with all this freakin’ political correctness, this tragedy and so many other adverse incidents could be prevented.

Because of freakin' political correctness, we are reluctant to label Muslims as Islamic terrorists or label anybody as fat-fatties, winos, homeless bums, whores, communists, radicals, Marxists, socialists, and so forth. You pick the hate target, and you get to call a spade a spade because now we are DONE with political correctness. You don’t like a black person, you can go ahead and call him or her the N-word. You don’t like a gay person, you can now call that person a queer or fag. You don’t like a homeless person, you can now call that person a bum, wino, or worthless piece of shit who just doesn’t want to work for a living and wants to live in a Nanny state. You don’t like an overweight person, you can now go ahead and call him or her a fat-fatty. Glenn Beck, the chief overthrower of political correctness and advocate of free speech, and his comrade FRICKERS keep pushing the hate envelope to see how much ignorant rage they can conjure up in this moment of grief, sorrow, and utter dismay.

If you took a survey of all the FRICKERS who appear on national cable “news” channels alone, I’ll bet nearly all of them would claim to be Christian as would all of their blind, dumb, factless, ignorant, hate-filled, racist, sexist followers and admirers.

Here’s another consideration: The Stupak-Pitts amendment to the House bill on healthcare reform (putting all kinds of new restrictions on women’s healthcare coverage for abortion services) is a kind of jihad of its own. Small-government advocates (i.e., far-right conservatives) constantly scream that they do not want the government restricting the rights and freedoms of the individual citizen, especially when it comes to healthcare, guns, and taxes, and that is why they oppose any kind of healthcare reform or gun control. They don’t want the government to come between them and their doctors (or between them and their guns). On the other hand, these FRICKERS don’t mind one bit having their favorite policies and laws restrict the right of a woman to choose her reproductive freedom (which is still legal in this country, according to Roe v. Wade). Is this terrorism or jihad (“holy war”) against women? It sure seems to be.

According to the dictionary, terrorism is "the calculated use of violence (or the threat of violence) against civilians in order to attain goals that are political or religious or ideological in nature; this is done through intimidation or coercion or instilling fear." I guess this makes the FRICKERS terrorists and jihadists, using the “logic” they have applied to the Fort Hood massacre and to the current healthcare reform “debate.”

All this makes about as much sense to me as the pro-lifers who hate abortion but support capital punishment, useless war, and the slaughtering of animals to put on their dinner plates every day. Acts of terror and death everywhere you look. Life is good in this country, ain’t it?