A Colonel of Truth

SIMPLE COMPLEXITY TO SOPHISTICATED SIMPLICITY

2012-02-11T13:36:00.000-08:00

SIMPLE COMPLEXITY TO SOPHISTICATED SIMPLICITY
by Andy Weddington
Saturday, 11 February 2012

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Leonardo da Vinci

Not too often do I choose to write about painting. But today, this Saturday morning, a short presentation about the creation of a recent painting, and a big lesson learned, that has applicability to everyone whether interested in painting or not.

That lesson? Realizing sophisticated simplicity from simple complexity--an achievement possible in all disciplines of the arts, sciences, and everything in between and beyond, and in all walks of life; you just have to painstakingly search for it, and then recognize it when you see it. Easy? Not so easy. Difficult? Yes, absolutely difficult. But beautiful and rewarding when achieved.

For about six weeks now a small sketch hastily scribbled with a heavy black marker, in a minute or two, in my sketchbook has haunted me. Odd how a few marks on paper, and they not be school grades, can be so troublesome. Day after day, over coffee in the morning and Scotch in the evening, I've studied the sketch and at day's end closed the book not so much in disgust but frustration only to still be troubled and not knowing exactly why.

The quick line drawing was made 'en plein air' (from life) and was the essence of a view looking toward the Atlantic Ocean from the side of church on a tiny cay in the Bahamas. It was not the view, per se, that intrigued me but the design of the space--a design combining the work of God's eye and hand and the work of man.

And it was the design of the space, in life and on the paper, that would not let me rest.

The thumbnail sketch done one afternoon in late December...

"Reef" black marker sketch

A few days after completing that marker sketch I turned to paints. The result was a 16 x 20 (inches) acrylic on canvas. The painting is simple. Some may conclude unremarkable. But there is a complexity to it (like the sketch) betrayed by apparent simplicity. Anyone who has seen that particular view would recognize it immediately. Those that saw the painting taped to the wall in our cottage did so.

"Reef" 16 x 20 acrylic on canvas

For me, that painting only served to intensify the haunting. The painting was a decent representation of what I saw, and the marker sketch, but it was too literal. It was simple but not as simple as the sketch and not simple enough. It needed to be simpler than the sketch. It needed to be simpler than what I saw. The problem was simple--the shape of space and color was not simple enough. The solution was not so simple.

Six weeks after completing the above acrylic, and still haunted daily when looking at the sketch and painting, late the other night I turned to iPad to start problem-solving. Two questions were the root of experimenting: 1) How can I make this wonderful design of space (breaking up space on paper or canvas, simply, is the most difficult of feats) simpler?; and 2) How can I simplify the colors?

The iPad is an incredible tool for problem-solving. It saves time. It gives the capability of practically limitless possibilities sparked by the movement of a finger or two influenced by billions of brain cells and decades of experience, and it saves lots and lots of paint (i.e., money). But it is just another medium. Nothing more.

After a few hours, the anwer came to me. I saw it. I knew it instantly. It'd not been an easy road. It was difficult. Now the solution seemed oh so simple. Below is that iPad sketch. The frame, too, an important variable for analyzing its success.

"Reef" iPad study

That iPad solution came late at night. I went to bed and slept; peacefully. The next morning I looked at the iPad sketch again and with a cup of coffee in hand headed for the studio. With a larger canvas (24 x 30), a handful of acrylics, and a great big brush--size 14--I painted as if it were an emergency. It was.

The final painting, titled "Reef," now sits on the easel. It is one of the most complex paintings--in concept and design--I've ever done. But it's simplicity, masking it's complexity, was not easily realized.

Five shapes. Five colors. Harmony. One shape and color--the powerhouse--key.

The simplicity is easily seen.

But do you see the complexity? Think!

"Reef" 24 x 30 acrylic on canvas

Compare the original marker sketch to the final painting. Note subtle changes in shapes--in design. And note the changes in shapes and colors between the two acrylic paintings--arguably only achieved through experimentation on iPad.

The haunting has ended. I'm happy! At peace. And tonight I'll sip and savor a glass of single malt Scotch while studying the painting--not to forget its lesson(s).

Tomorrow it's on to the next painting--the next struggle toward simplicity, toward sophistication.

That life's lesson for all?

In the words of Thoreau, "Simplify. Simplify." It's a mark of the sophisticated.

Post Script

I have many 'artist' friends--painters and sculptors and poets and writers and musicians and storytellers and inventors and screenplay writers and actors, too. And more still. And I wonder if any of you see the complexity camouflaged, perhaps accidentally but done intelligently nonetheless, by the simplicity? Your observations and comments welcome, of course. As are welcome the opinions of all.

Author's Endnote

My tribute portrait, "painted" on iPad, in memory of Steve Jobs and his marvelous inventions--namely iPad; which has turned everything I ever learned, knew, and believed about painting upside down and inside out.

Steve Jobs was a complex human being. Steve Jobs mastered simplicity. Steve Jobs mastered sophistication.

How fortunate our complex world benefits from his simple, sophisticated genius. 'Apple'--his, and another Steve's, creation--makes perfect sense. How tragic he'll not see what's created by means of his creation. Or might he? And it's only beginning...

Steven Paul Jobs, 1955-2011

WINNERS PLAY TO THE END

2012-02-10T04:55:00.000-08:00

WINNERS PLAY TO THE END
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 10 February 2012

"Winners are different. They're a different breed of cat." Byron Nelson

Sometimes I am wrong. Almost always. More on that shortly.

Wednesday was an interesting day. It started with an early rise and opening an email that had one question, "What do you think about Santorum?" I'd not spent any time on the computer Tuesday evening nor watched television so was clueless as to what was happening in politics; a quick check of headlines--surprise, surprise--and the question clear.

Before heading out for a morning appointment, there was time to read a handful of articles about Mr. Santorum's caucus wins. He indeed surprised some folks--mostly those who predicted Romney had a couple of the three (and the GOP nomination) wrapped up.

Returning home and thinking more about Santorum, I turned on the television for some talking heads perspective. But before reaching the block of news channels a NatGeo program about mother earth caught my attention. To keep life, and politics, in proper perspective, here's a ray of sunshine--scientists predict in 300 to 400 million years our magnificent oceans will cease to exist. The water will be completely gone--having ever so slowly seeped into outer space. And remaining? Enormous dry 'lake' beds. Another 800 or 900 million years after our oceans disappear our dying sun will actually expand, turn a blinding red, and gobble up everything, to include earth (which will be blown to smithereens), in it's path.

For the duration of the program, and a while afterwards, politics, in one country, did not seem all that important. But I did take some comfort knowing there are "leaders" and special interest groups (i.e., nuts) already hard at work on this terrible problem our great, great, great, etc., grandchildren will face.

Back to reality.

I watched some of the talking heads, returned to the computer to read, and had planned to watch the evening news on television but there was a problem: the Duke v UNC men's basketball game on ESPN--a game I've been watching since Rusty Clark, Dick Grubar, and Larry Miller played for UNC, and Mike Lewis and Bob Verga for Duke (mid to late 60s). Politics, and everything else, would have to wait.

Not disappointing, the Blue Devils and Tarheels played another great game--maybe one of the best of all time. Duke, down by a dozen most of the second half, hit a three point shot launched with about 1.2 seconds to go--it dropped through some two tenths of a second after the backboard perimeter glowed red indicating time expired. Duke 85 / UNC 84. The Tarheel home crowd sat stunned. Dead silence. Prior to the game, polls had UNC ranked 5 and Duke 9. What do the "experts" know? Not much. It's why games are played. Winners play to the end--Duke did. And I thought some more about Santorum.

Not too long after the game, while sipping ice-cold fat-free milk to wash down Girl Scout lemon cookies (fat-free milk is believed to kill calories), I stumbled on a news program interviewing Marion "Mimi" Alford who--as a nineteen year-old White House intern--had a sexual relationship with President John Kennedy. So I watched. Mimi, as it were, was among many other women who experienced the president--who's coming to light as even more the creep than long believed. I forget the author but his thought was, "All men are creeps. Men of power are the creepiest." One might conclude JFK was the creep in chief. A few thoughts--1) might Lincoln's "Four score and seven..." meant something different to Mr. Kennedy?; 2) 'Camelot?' Hmm; and 3) maybe the unsubstantiated allegations against Herman Cain aren't so bad. Is it too late for him to get back in this thing? He's probably been thinking the same thing.

And then Mr. Santorum's victories came back to mind. And how a year or so ago I was wrong about him. Dead wrong.

Back on 13 May 2011 commentary titled, 'Reality TV--"I Want To Be President"' observed: "Rick Santorum. Who? Maybe a household name in the keystone state and in D.C. but not nationwide. Politician. Representative now Senator from Pennsylvania. Lawyer. No military service. Pro EIT [Enhanced Interrogation Techniques] to include waterboarding. Too many syllables in last name--last president, not counting present, with more than two was Kennedy. Nope."

A few months later, on 25 September, commentary, 'Pol and the Potato Chips Fight,' likened the GOP candidates to bags of Lays flavored chips. As for Mr. Santorum: "Lightly Salted / Rick Santorum. He's been around just long enough to be a little salty. And has visited Limon [Rick Perry] land's border with Mexico, so he told Perry. Claims to be versed in world affairs and policies. Could be. Could be. He won Pennsylvania's straw poll. But like the bag of chips near the bottom shelf, needs to be more visible."

Well, Santorum has been working hard on his visibility and credibility. Through tireless efforts hitting the streets and meeting folks, he's off the bottom shelf. In fact, for the moment, at coveted eye-level, folks are seeing and listening to his message, and they are buying.

Tuesday evening, confounding the "experts," Santorum swept caucuses in Colorado, Minnesota, and Missouri. To date he's won half of the caucuses. He's besting Gingrich and Paul and pressing Romney. And his rise contrary to what the "experts" predicted--that he'd already be toe-tagged among the dispatched alsorans Bachmann, Cain, Huntsman, Johnson, and Perry. What do the "experts" know? Not much. It's why Americans vote.

As to the other contenders likened to a bag of chips...

"Salt & Vinegar / Mitt Romney. Too much salt is not good for your health. Some advise potato chips are not good for your health. Neither is RomneyCare--no matter how packaged. He's still explaining that one. A smoother chip than Limon, he, too, is on the shelf at eye-level, at least for now. Some consumer 'taste tests' (polls) have him #1 but that could easily change and probably will. Consumers are fickle.

Classic / Newt Gingrich. He's been around and knows the game. Classic politician. Full of ideas--some good. A silver haired and tongued devil. Attire and hair second to Bachmann. Legs? Some things you just don't want to think about much less see. It doesn't look like he's ever seen a bag of chips he didn't like.

Wavy-Original / Ron Paul. The oldest candidate and therefore, by default, has seen the most--which counts for something. Probably remembers when all potato chips were handcut and deep-fried in lard and heavily salted. And when waves, ridges, and ruffles were invented. Bright guy with practical, original ideas though not without an occasional odd comment. A respectable debater with a patriotic heart but doubtful to improve shelf space."

Though tongue-in-cheek, seems like decent analysis and logical opinion that's holding up.

Tuesday and Wednesday I had a couple of interesting exchanges with a reader that centered around the character of those who opt to run for public office and namely the presidency. My belief is we do not get the best America has to offer--that is, some folks of impeccable character who'd be superb leaders simply are not willing to enter the arena. It's our loss. He, on the other hand, is not so sure but believes those who do run are respectable people, clearly not without faults (as are all humans), wanting to make a difference. Noted. There was more depth to our 'debate' but that's the gist. Somewhere in the fuzzy middle is reality, but absolutely there is no perfect candidate. Winners and losers is a matter of perspective.

Anyway, Mitt Romney is hanging around, not because he sends shivers up voter's legs, but thanks to name recognition, 2008 candidacy, and piles of money. Perry and Cain and Gingrich each enjoyed brief time on the eye-level shelf and being flavor of the month. Two of the three are gone. Now the flavor of choice is Santorum--a fighter, proving to be a winner, literally, determined to play to the end. He just might end up the flavor. It's still early. Who knows?

But no matter who opposes the incumbent, the choices for president could not be more different--the cats breeds apart. Talking a good game will not get it done--this time. The winner will be the one who fights through ups and downs and highs and lows, who plays to the end. The loser? The losers? We'll see. Though no one really cares.

Post Script

Not favored in the game, coaching was the difference in Duke's win.

Though basketball and politics are different, there are parallels between winners and losers. Maybe coaching, atop an able not-to-be-denied man, explains Mr. Santorum's wins.

PRETTY VIOLET

2012-02-07T09:01:00.000-08:00

PRETTY VIOLET
by Andy Weddington
Tuesday, 07 February 2012

"Don't tell a woman she's pretty; tell her there's no other woman like her, and all roads will open to you." Jules Renard

About fifteen years ago a friend, who'd just gone through a messy divorce, asked a handful of us at work--on a morning break--an interesting question. His query, "Guys, do you know what the difference is between a beautiful woman and a beautiful dog?"

Well, there's the obvious but his question was clearly deeper. His expression was not telling. He waited. And patiently waited a bit more. We thought a few moments, looked at each, and one finally said he wasn't sure where he was going with the question. Then came the answer. He said, "It's simple, a beautiful dog doesn't know it's beautiful."

Silence.

I don't know about the others but I recall thinking, 'I dunno, I've seen some pretty uppity dogs in my day,' but didn't bother arguing the point because that wasn't the point. He merely needed to get something off his mind and did.

Without another word, he smiled, turned, and went back to his cube. And that was that. Maybe it was some insight as to what happened with his marriage--don't know, no one asked.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote Commentary (http://acoloneloftruth.blogspot.com/2012/01/good-ghosts-of-abaco.html) titled 'Good Ghosts of Abaco.' The true story centered around an old-school boatbuilder of Abaco dinghies (and other boats) who lives on Man-O-War Cay and a pretty woman named Violet, from Hope Town on Elbow Cay (a 20 minutes motor boat ride between the two tiny cays--no known connection between the two people) but whereabouts today unknown, whose photograph has haunted me for nearly a decade.

Violet's photograph, taken sometime in the early 50s, I'm guessing, hangs on a west facing wall in a cozy corner in the dining room of the historic Hope Town Harbour Lodge. For the past eight years I've made it a point to dine at the lodge and to visit the walls of photographs of Hope Town (and cay) history and study the intriguing black and white of Violet.

When posting that Commentary I did not have a photograph of that photograph of Violet. And since, as I figured would happen, requests to see that photograph have continued to roll in. Dopey me. I don't know why but I'd never thought to take a photograph of her photograph--it just never occurred to me.

So my wife called on friends back on Elbow Cay for a favor--asking if they'd please drop by the lodge and take a photograph of a photograph for me. With only a brief description, they knew exactly which one. A photograph of Violet's photograph arrived Sunday--on my iPhone which I sent to my iPad to save as a jpg file and crop for presentation. Amazing considering there was a day not so long ago, long after the telephone was invented and commonplace, the cay relied on telegraph for communication.

Until recently, all I knew about Violet was that noted below her photograph--her name; she was born in 1923; and she married Carroll Russell.

Searching the Internet in hopes of stumbling on something about her, I found a website dedicated to Bahamas genealogy. Not finding anything about Violet, I sent the site's point of contact, Peter, a note asking for help. He replied promptly saying he'd get back to me in a day or so. True to his word, a day or so later he came back with a few tidbits.

Violet was the daughter of Louis Lowe and Doris Roberts. I know nothing about Louis and Doris but it'd be a safe bet Louis was a fisherman or a boatbuilder, and Doris a hard-working woman who had her hands full raising children on the tiny cay. Violet, Peter felt, was born in Hope Town. Cynthia--meaning moon goddess--was her middle name. Peter also discovered she had at least two younger siblings born in 1931 and 1933. There was no mention if Violet had older siblings nor the names or gender(s) of her known siblings. And most disappointing, there was nothing about the life she led. With her movie star looks, I still wonder.

Peter asked if I'd send along her photograph--I did, on Sunday, within an hour of receiving it. He came back with "Wow!" and asked if he could share it with others in the genealogy group. Of course. Maybe he, or someone, will be able to find more about this mysterious Bahamian woman. Maybe.

And so the wait continues--in hopes a reader, knowing something about Violet, will stumble on this Commentary and come forward. You never know. There's always a chance.

Case in point--a few weeks ago, out of the blue one morning, a Navy JAG (Judge Advocate General) officer sent me an email. It just so happened during the course of some routine legal review he came across the case of a young Marine who'd gotten himself into a heap of trouble--big trouble and paid an even bigger price for it. Curious as to how the young Marine had gotten to that point in life, he Googled his name. One of the top results of his search was a Commentary I'd written a couple of years ago about that very Marine. The JAG, thinking I'd be interested, sent me the update. It was not so good. But I was not surprised (since promotion to 1stLt and a few months of tarnish on the silver bars nothing has surprised me) though surely disappointed. Regardless, I'm glad I know.

So, the Internet has shrunk the world. You never know. You just never know. Standing by, Peter. Or anyone.

I suppose Renard was correct, there's no other woman like Violet. But she is pretty, is she not? Most likely many a man, and some women and children, told her so--though motives differed.

And I wonder if Violet knew she was beautiful? And if she was as beautiful, or more so, inside? Her calm, confident expression, though only an instant in time, seems to suggest such. She comes across as warm--as inviting, at least to me.

Did you notice "love it" is an anagram of Violet?

Violet b: 1923

Post Script

Might Violet be alive? Possibly. More to come--maybe.

Author's Endnote

Thank you to the woman, like no other, who coordinated the photo of Violet's photo. And likewise to the woman who took the photo and sent it along. Appreciated.

REALLY, I DON'T MAKE THIS STUFF UP

2012-02-03T06:29:00.000-08:00

REALLY, I DON'T MAKE THIS STUFF UP
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 03 February 2012

"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it." Henry David Thoreau

Tidbits from the week that struck a nerve or two...

First, another word about the USS Murtha (Tuesday's Commentary titled: Mutha of a Warship Named Murtha?). Many comments back with vows to write a note of displeasure to the Secretary of the Navy. Follow through, it's important. Why? Lots of reasons but fundamentally I know Marines and Sailors, some junior and some senior, who wrecked their lives by making poor choices when in uniform. Courts-martial with award of BCD (Bad Conduct Discharge) for enlisted and Dismissal for officers not an uncommon outcome. But none of their breaches, some not even crimes in the civilian world, came close to the deplorable behavior of Congressman Murtha. There won't be anything named for those Marines and Sailors. A warship, to be manned by Sailors and Marines held to a higher standard of personal and professional conduct than a congressman, named for a congressman? Are you kidding? Conclusion: Ridiculous. Write those notes.

Astronomers are fascinated by the moon. Americans have walked on the moon. One American popularized a moon walk (the day that fellow died, as light-hearted tribute, I spent an hour or so teaching myself how to do it). Singers of all sorts have wailed about the moon. Songs titled 'Moon River,' 'Moondance,' 'Moonshadow,' 'Blue Moon of Kentucky,' 'Harvest Moon,' and 'Dark Side of the Moon' first come to mind. Now a politician running for president wants to colonize the moon, and vows to pursue that lofty goal if elected. Conclusion: Newt's is an excellent idea. It's a Capitol idea. And in that light (moon or otherwise) may the first shuttle be filled with all 535 members of congress. And more. Set up shop on the dark side, please.

Speaking of presidents, how and why is it we end up with losers time after time after time after time, and men of the ilk of John Wooden (yes, I know he's dead) do not run for high office? Simple. They refuse to compromise their standards of personal conduct or the caliber of people with whom they associate. Conclusion: Unless there's radical change to how we do business sending folks to Washington, we're screwed.

A bite of big news this week is that sugar is bad for us. Somehow scientists have linked sugar to obesity, and all sorts of not-so-good medical conditions. Really?! Now there's a revelation. As analogy sugar was demonized as unhealthy as tobacco and alcohol and maybe worse (critics are calling it "Junk Science"--bahahahhaha). After hearing that news all I could think about was all the moon pies-- banana, chocolate, and vanilla--I ate in my elementary school days; a standard in my lunch box. Thanks, Mom (seriously, they were great and still are). Then I checked sundry packaged goods in our pantry and refrigerator--sugar, in some form or another, is in practically everything. Conclusion: I am not going to stop eating and drinking things I like. Concepts like healthy choices, moderation, and exercise are important. And, by the way, why isn't sugar spelled with "sh"?

Tuesday night my wife and I attended a Gilda's Club seminar on advancements treating breast cancer. From the ages, genders, and races in attendance breast cancer does not play favorites. The focus was on the field of molecular science and target-based cancer treatments. Amazing the progress in the less than four years since my wife's diagnosis and treatment. Some of the big takeaways--a baby aspirin a day reduces the risk of breast cancer; excessive sugar is not a good thing (duh); healthy choices, moderation, and exercise are good things (duh); and there's a new drug coming along called CLEOPATRA (no hair loss; no neuropathy; no nausea). Conclusion: Brilliant people are getting closer and closer to a magic pill or elixir for killing cancer. And they are getting closer because a lot of brave women battling breast cancer volunteered to partake in clinical trials. Five of our friends started chemotherapy during January. And most likely some folks you know did too. Prayers for them all.

I received a robo telephone call the other day informing me it was my "Final Warning." It was my final warning to act--to take advantage of an Obama program designed to stimulate the economy. After pressing one and laughing hysterically, I hung up. Idiots. Conclusion: There is no escaping morons. Did you notice if removing the "r" from morons you have moons?

The Super Bowl is Sunday. I challenge you to approach ten strangers, today or tomorrow, and see how many can tell you what number this year--in Roman numerals and the conversion. I have no idea. Too many Roman numerals--they lost me after combining more than two. The only reason for watching in past years was to catch the commercials and see the halftime spectacle or who would make a spectacle of themselves. Thank you, Janet Jackson. Sorry, don't remember the number. This year the commercials are hitting the Internet ahead of the game. Conclusion: Super Bowl? Frankly, I don't care anymore. But if you partake in the partying, remember moderation with the sugar, tobacoo, and alcohol. And exercise for at least 30 minutes the day after. And the day after. And the day after. Et cetera.

That said, I think this year's Super Bowl is XLVI--46. The only one I cared about was Super Bowl III (officially, the first one called "Super Bowl"). The NY Jets, led by cool Joe "Willy" Namath, beat the Baltimore Colts 16 - 7. It was an upset of mega proportions. I was just shy of 12 and won 50 cents from Bill S.--our adult neighbor. He paid. I'll never forget it. I wonder if he remembers? No bets this year.

On the rich and famous front, Mark Zuckerberg is a billionaire (maybe one day a gazillionaire)--the Facebook IPO incredible considering the company's start; Donald Trump's hair still looks silly, and he's silly; Madonna promises no wardrobe malfunction (see Janet Jackson) during her Super Bowl halftime show; and Eric Holder is in deep do-do.

Most disturbing tidbit of the week, Mr. Obama using our Navy SEALS as a campaign tool. Shameful. Conclusion: Desperation. Despite what some pols and polls say, his gig is up and he knows it. I've predicted it in this forum before and will again. His ejection from office will be even more impressive than his election--an overwhelming mass of sanity (controlling their anger) is quietly laying in wait. The 2010 mid-terms, in comparison, to look like child's play. I could be dead wrong but don't think so.

In closing, I don't make this stuff up; really.

Enjoy the game!

Post Script

Next full moon: Tueday, 07 February. Step outside that evening and take a good long look. Wow!

MUTHA OF A WARSHIP NAMED MURTHA?

2012-01-31T09:13:00.000-08:00

MUTHA OF A WARSHIP NAMED MURTHA?
by Andy Weddington
Tuesday, 31 January 2012

"The name we give to something shapes our attitude to it." Katherine Patterson

Last spring Secretary of the Navy Ray Mabus announced a United States warship would bear the name of deceased Congressman John Patrick Murtha, Jr. (D, PA).

Landing Platform Dock-26 (LPD-26), a San Antonio class amphibious ship that embarks, transports, and lands elements of a landing force that carries out expeditionary missions, is under construction and scheduled to be launched in 2013.

Tradition has been to name these ships after U. S. cities (e.g., Anchorage; Arlington; Cleveland; Denver; Dubuque; Green Bay; Juneau; Mesa Verde; Nashville; New Orleans; New York; Ogden; Ponce; San Antonio; San Diego; Somerset).

Murtha?

There was an uproar about the naming. There's still an uproar.

Why?

Because Murtha's lengthy 'public service' was tainted (poisoned may be more accurate) by corruption.

Further, inexcusable and unforgivable, particularly in the eyes of Marines, were statements Murtha made against U. S. Marines alleged to have committed war crimes in Iraq (Haditha). In short, back in 2005, Marines were accused of killing a couple dozen unarmed Iraqi civilian men, women, and children.

Congressman Murtha, without any facts, 'convicted' the Marines of killing, in cold blood, in the court of public opinion. Investigations and trials (due process--sorting fact from fiction) proved just how wrong Murtha's quick tongue. That the congressman was a retired Marine colonel (reserve) who'd served in Vietnam and wore a Bronze Star, a couple of Purple Hearts and sundry decorations, and who knew better, made his conduct all the more appalling.

To my knowledge, Murtha never apologized--at least not publicly.

Questions that first come to mind...

1. Why Murtha?

2. Why break from the naming tradition for this class of warship?

3. Why not name the ship after the city suffering the highest casualties during the last ten(plus) years of war? Or, a deserving city with laudable ties to the sacrifices of military service. Or, a city with rich history, size irrelevant, that in name alone sends a powerful message?

By law, sworn oath, and bearing the title "Marine," Murtha was expected to serve exemplifying the highest of moral and ethical standards. He did not. "Distinguished" cannot be used to characterize him as a leader nor his performance of duty as leadership.

One Marine's opinion, a warship bearing the Murtha name is wrong. It's insulting to country, Corps, and the Navy.

Just one question, respectfully, for another public servant, the Honorable Ray Mabus, "Really, Mr. Secretary?"

Finally, not one to question nor criticize without thoughtful recommendation, I do have a two-fold suggestion for Secretary Mabus:

1. Cancel Murtha.

2. Change the hull number from 26 to 47. Name LPD-47 the 'USS Truth or Consequences'--her namesake city in New Mexico (47th in our union). What a message that would send--to congress; America; our military; the world; and particularly her crew and embarked forces.

Now that would be a ship to be proud of, or so I believe.

Semper Fidelis!

Post Script

Noted Murtha is amongst ample company considering the ranks of corrupt public servants--past, present, and, sadly, future. By comparison, he can't hold a candle to some--some who went to prison, and many more who should have. But the comparison of who's less a criminal should never be the benchmark for gifting high honors. Yet, by appearances, that seems the case. Good grief.

A website, featuring Murtha and attempting to stop the ship naming, is not so flattering. Take a few moments to peruse and decide for yourself if he was an honorable man, and if he's deserving of the intended recognition. http://www.nomurthaship.com/ If you conclude no, engage.

GOOD GHOSTS OF ABACO

2012-01-26T15:14:00.000-08:00

GOOD GHOSTS OF ABACO
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 27 January 2012

"Dreaming men are haunted men." Stephen Vincent Benet

On a spit of Elbow Cay's high ground with less than a couple of hundred yards between high tide marks, separating the scenic Hope Town harbour anchored by its kerosene-fueled red and white candy-striped lighthouse to the west from the Atlantic Ocean to the east, sits the quaint Hope Town Harbour Lodge.

Eight years ago, after an evening of fine dining, drinks, and camaraderie at the Lodge restaurant, an arrangement of dozens of framed old black and white photographs (going back at least 60 years) decorating three adjoining walls that formed a cozy nook caught my eye. On closer inspection, there were some of boats--beautiful wood sail boats; one beached and listing to port taken in the early 50s was especially striking. And most of the shots were of local sites and candid pictures of the people who'd called the cay and the settlement of Hope Town home. One stuck out--a head and shoulders portrait of a beautiful woman taken about the same period as the boat. The boat's name was not on the accompanying caption. The striking woman's name was Violet.

The photographs of the boat and Violet, which I've seen every year since, seem like good ghosts. They haunt me for different reasons. The boat because it's a painter's dream--beautiful lines and rigging. Craftsmanship. Character. It was built to sail but it's a work of art meant for canvas, on a wall, not just furled or up a mast filled by wind. And then there's Violet. Born in 1923 as the caption read, she, too, surely had beautiful lines. Her natural good looks--any movie star would envy--and warm gaze haunting. I wonder what her life was like and what became of her. As analogy what comes to mind is a photograph of Jane Seymour in her role as actress Elise McKenna in the timeless 1980 romantic science fiction film 'Somewhere in Time.' Playwright Richard Collier, played by Seymour's co-star--Christopher Reeve, was smitten. He met her in a time warp.

On a recent trip to the cay, and after each of a couple evenings of fine dining, drinks, and camaraderie, I wandered over to look at the photographs yet again. And I wondered.

A few days later, through dumb luck, I finally learned something about the boat.

That story...

A twenty minutes motor boat ride to the northwest through the shallow crystal clear emerald green waters of the Sea of Abaco from Hope Town's harbour, Man-O-War Cay has a different look and feel. It's not so hectic with visitors--at least not this time of year. Boats are moored in the harbours. Boats are tied to piers. Ashore the equipment of seafarers lays about, without rhyme or reason--at least to the unfamiliar eye, indicating it's a working island. The stuff--equipment, tools, and so on, is not necessarily attractive yet it's beautiful. And yet the beauty is lost on those whose lives revolve around it and hard work. But the beauty is not lost on a painter's eyes.

The little more than 400 people who live on Man-O-War (about 2.5 miles long and in many places less than 100 meters wide) are busy so they use golf carts and mini vehicles to make the most of time. You don't see many on bicycles. And less walking.

Following lunch at the 'Dock & Dine,' a leisure stroll, and dropping in a shop or two, George, a friend and skipper of 'Zelda Belle' walked over and asked, "Andy, how's your back?" Daydreaming and not sure what he said or meant, I replied, "Pardon?" He said, "Your back, is it okay? Any problems?" "Oh, no, no problems, my back's fine." "Great, let's give these two guys a hand."

So we walked over and offered a couple of older gents a hand moving a big piece of furniture. I told the one closest to me I was as strong as an ox, almost as smart as one, and we'd be glad to help them. He laughed and accepted our offer. They seemed relieved.

So the four of us took awkward hold and lifted the bulky and damn heavy handmade cabinet from the flatbed of a mini Hyundai truck (probably lighter than the cabinet) and moved it up a cottage's narrow flight of cement steps and, after re-gripping a time or three, finally settled it in a narrow space on the front porch. And there it's to rest until interior renovations complete.

I doubt those men, in their 70s, could have handled the lift by themselves--at least not as easily nor as quickly. We were happy to help. They thanked us and we parted ways.

About ten minutes later along the same narrow street and less than 50 yards away I was standing under the shade of a large tree sketching--boats and water and small buildings etc.--when the man I'd made the ox comment to saw me, walked over, and asked, "Would you be interested in seeing some boats I'm building?" "Sure." As we walked towards his shop he said, "I'm Hartley." I replied in kind and as we continued walking George (and our wives) joined the parade.

Approaching the shop, outside, was a dinghy named 'Hesperus' up on blocks. She was under repair. A handful of ducks and a couple of cats, each not minding the other, were walking guard. "Guard ducks?", I asked Hartley. "Yes, they're vicious and do a good job," he said chuckling.

All sorts of roughly cut wood from assorted trees, destined to be Abaco dinghy or something that floats, was laying on the ground, propped against this and that, and some big logs, we saw later, were purposely submerged, strewn about haphazardly, in the harbour--curing.

Hartley led the way into a naturally lit but dim workshop and flipped on the bank of overhead fluorescent lights. Amazing! What a sight--accompanied by the pleasing smells of raw wood. He showed us a couple of Abaco dinghies he (and his brother) are building. Each, in a different workshop, were early in the skeletal stage but their beautiful lines clear. Craftsmanship. Old school.

In his distinctive Bahamian accent, he talked about the stages of building; offered particulars about the woods (e.g., Madeira; Dogwood; Cypress; Birch; Cedar); showed how some parts are cut and shaped, as one piece (for strength), from natural curves in limbs; discussed boiling woods for ease of bending; and demonstrated how a long heavy but pliable lead rod is used to figure rib shapes. It was an education for sure.

Hartley started building dinghies when he was a boy. He learned by watching and helping his father. He couldn't remember how many he's built. And he's built other boats--beautiful sail boats (like the one in the photograph) and speed boats, too. Hartley's children, grown and off pursuing other careers, were not interested in learning the craft. He seemed a little disappointed saying that--knowing an art, a tradition, may be dying.

We talked a little about another nearby beached dinghy--it was his father's last boat. He figured it was about 25 years old. I noticed the dinghy interiors were painted a peculiar green--a green (not seen in nature) I remember on the walls of a textiles mill I worked in during my youth. I always thought it unattractive and mindful of blue-collar industry but it looked great on the dinghies--especially in contrast to the stark white exterior with deep dull red (complement--the success of color depends upon context) belly and keel and crimson and gold trim. I asked Hartley about the green. He said it was traditional for the boats--the only color he remembers being used. And we talked about another dinghy that was in the water rigged and tied to the dock. He said a hundred pounds of lead made her sweet under sail. That boat, he thought, may be heading to the Mediterranean--a buyer in Greece. The Abaco dinghy is a popular boat.

Hartley had the strong roughed hands of a builder. Snow white hair, piercing pale blue eyes, and color from working in the sun completed the look of someone you'd imagine as at home on the sea. How interesting to listen to a man who knew his craft, who spoke humbly about it, and who was gracious enough to offer a peek into his world and answer questions.

Hartley said he'd lived on Man-O-War most of his life. I commented it must have been quite something to grow up on the cay. He smiled and said it was wonderful--swimming and sailing and boat building and so on. He pointed to a plot of land not 8 feet square that his brother's six year old grandson had roped off and marked as his boat yard. A simple wood sign hanging a couple feet off the ground suspended by rope looped around a tree limb read, 'Jeremiah's Boat Yard.' A block of wood with "Open" printed in black marker on one side and "Closed" on the opposite was the only note for business hours. This day the boat yard was closed but Hartley said Jeremiah spent much of his free time there--especially during the summer. Perhaps another generation boatbuilder? Maybe.

I told Hartley there was much on the cay that caught my eye and I wanted to paint it but there was not time this trip. I told him I'd be back next year. He thought that was fine and said if he was not in his shop working when I arrived to ask anyone for Hartley. That I will do.

He thanked me again for helping move the furniture. We shook hands, again, and bid farewell till next year.

Hartley--a Man-O-War boatbuilder. My dumb luck, and good fortune, to have made his acquaintance and to see and hear about his art. And that would not have happened if not for George's gesture to lend a helping hand to a couple of strangers. George, a decade my senior, has been visiting the cays since his youth and had never met Hartley. Oh the great things that can come from a small act of kindness.

Hartley did not build the boat in the photograph at the Lodge but his father and uncles and other kin just may have. And young Hartley just may have been watching, handing tools, and learning.

Oddly enough, as 'Zelda Belle'--with George at the helm and first mate 'Petty Officer' Stepper offering commentary--made her way about the Man-O-War American harbour we came upon a moored boat quite similar to the one in the photograph. Though in need of some maintenance, she was a beauty--her distinctive sweeping lines that of a Man-O-War boat. So I quickly sketched her from both sides, and opposing approaches, and shortly thereafter painted from the sketches and memory.

My mind's now at ease about the boat--a good ghost. I'm glad to know something about her and to have met a man of the talent and skills as the generation of men who built her. Now the boat in the photograph makes sense to me--it means something. And I will paint her again. And again.

Now to learn something about Violet--another good ghost. Her photograph haunts me and I'm not sure why. Perhaps because, like the boat, I'd have liked to paint her in her day. Probably. Who knows, perhaps somewhere in time something about Violet will come my way. But like Collier meeting McKenna, I'll surely not meet Violet in a time warp. There's the movies, and there's reality--at least as we know both on earth.

I'd not thought to ask but it just dawned on me maybe George knows something about her. George?

Or maybe someone reading knows the story of pretty Violet?

Post Script

When visiting Man-O-War be sure to stop by 'Sally's' and 'Albury's Sail Shop' and the grocery store, too; all a visual treat.

There's also a soft-spoken, long time boatbuilder who works in Hope Town. Keeping to tradition, he's old school--no power tools. More than once through the years I've strolled by his cottage and shop and heard him shaping wood--nice sounds. Though never interrupting, I've been tempted to introduce myself and ask permission to sketch and paint him at work. It really should be caught on canvas. Maybe next year. Interestingly enough, Hartley mentioned his name and remembered him, in his youth, visiting Man-O-War to watch his father work. Small world. The Abaco cays smaller.

Latest paintings from the Bahamas (most from Hope Town--a few from Man-O-War): http://www.weddingtonartgallery.com/Bahamas2012.html

A BIT MORE ABOUT MARINES, COCKROACHES, AND CAMERAS

2012-01-20T04:22:00.000-08:00

A BIT MORE ABOUT MARINES, COCKROACHES, AND CAMERAS
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 20 January 2012

"Discipline is simply the art of making the soldiers fear their officers more than the enemy." Claude Adrien Helvetius

It's been an interesting week since posting the brief missive about U. S. Marines urinating on dead enemy in Afghanistan. Hence a bit more about Marines, cockroaches, and cameras.

Last week, well knowing the matter is more complicated than meets the eye (at least to Marines), I opted for brevity taking a stance that if not for the 38 seconds video stupidly released to the world there would be no brouhaha at the top levels of our government (nor the Marine Corps) and the matter would have been handled at the company level; perhaps battalion if extenuating and mitigating circumstances called for such. And I disagreed with the remedy(s) offered by retired Army lieutenant colonel and sitting U. S. Representative, Allen West (R, FL).

But, like it or not, handy cameras and the ability to instantaneously share with the world changes everything--sometimes for the good, sometimes for the bad. Sometimes both--and this may prove to be one of those times.

Everyone who's broached the subject with me during the past week or so stands firmly behind the Marines. They don't see the big deal. In fact, one woman wrote a shoulder-shrugging, ho-hum questioning type thought that males pee on everything don't they? Noted. I remember, as a boy, soaking ants--and more than once. And probably did so a time or two, inadvertently (is all I'll admit to), while training in the field. Anyway, all the email I received from readers, less one, were behind the Marines. More on that one momentarily.

Everyone has an opinion. Articles across the web were mixed--from what's the big deal to good on them to incensed Marines would do something like that and all should be sent to courts martial. And, some officers, too, should be queried as to what they knew when. Undoubtedly they will be.

The one dissenting email came from a longtime Marine friend--we go back just shy of 30 years. His angle, briefly stated, seemed off point so I replied he was wrong. A day or two later he came back with a thorough argument using ample command experience to support. His logic was solid and position well articulated.

In short, he said it was not the act of urinating, in and of itself, on dead enemy that angered him. Rather, it was what appeared to be premeditated failure to follow, to obey, established rules that was of concern. And, that their conduct may be an indicator of a bigger problem. Bottom line, there was a breakdown of good order and discipline. Quite simply, Marines failed to follow orders.

Agree, that's a problem. No argument. And it's the point I opted not to address last week. But its been on my mind since and especially after the exchanges with my thoughtful old pal.

On the flip side of extenuation and mitigation he pointed out the Marines were snipers--not young first-termers (e.g., privates, PFCs, lance corporals, corporals, etc.) behaving foolishly following the adrenalin rush of a firefight. No, these were more senior Marines (from his comments I assume up to gunnery sergeant, maybe higher) and this not likely the first incident of willful battlefield misbehavior.

He offered some parallels from personal experience and suggested an analogy to recruit training and drill instructors and recruit abuse. Though not a perfect example and without going in to his particulars, he made his point, and a few more.

The investigation continues. Who knows what all will be uncovered. There's always more. Having done an investigation, or two, once tugging on a dangling string things start to unravel, and there are more strings to pull. Typically it gets worse.

I don't know the ranks of the Marines. I don't know the extent of their combat experience (but if more senior Marines probably extensive--in Iraq and Afghanistan). I don't know if their group urination was planned or impromptu. I don't know the circumstances of the firefight. And I don't know if lower level unit commanders knew about the incident, dismissed it, or have already doled out disciplinary action against the miscreants. Frankly, I don't know anything other than what I saw on the video and the tidbits my friend offered for consideration.

What I do know, as do those familiar with the military and practically everyone else, is that if not for the video there would not be an issue--at least, most likely, not beyond the battalion level.

My friend was blunt. He feels the Marines are 'holes' (his three letter 'a' word omitted in the name of decency). They may be. If it turns out they are sergeants and staff sergeants and more senior still and their actions premeditated then I agree and wonder about them as Marines, as leaders. Who set the tone, something that comes from above, for this type of conduct? From whom did they get this example? What else have they done? Who has been following their example? Accordingly, have they been not only accepting but encouraging like behavior from subordinates? Did they completely lose sight of their role to set the example for younger enlisted Marines and to guide young officers (lieutenants)? Apparently. And the questions continue.

I do not like what the Marines did. I was disgusted by what I saw. I understand--I think--though I'd not have done it nor tolerated it.

So I wonder what happened to Honor. Courage. Commitment.--our Corps values? And then there are our leadership traits and principles--taught to all Marines during entry level training. As to traits, dependability, courage, integrity, loyalty, bearing, and judgment first come to mind. And for principles, set the example. Then there's our motto: Semper Fidelis.

Adjudication is going to be interesting. Though I still believe an officer, a captain, entrusted with the responsibility of leading Marines in battle should first address the misconduct at NJP (non-judicial punishment). Any captain worth his salt, if indeed the Marines turn out to be more senior and their behavior premeditated, knows the appropriate arena for justice rests with the experience and authority entrusted to more senior commanders. Unfortunately, because of 38 seconds of video, that bit of usual protocol is unlikely.

Akin to the above thought, I also wonder how the mindset of those Marines evolved to the point they thought urinating on corpses was a good idea. And I wonder if, if not caught on camera and whatever discipline and punishment forthcoming notwithstanding, they have regrets.

Though America reveres her Marines and we Marines hold Marines to a higher standard of conduct lest we forget Marines, like those they protect, are just people; a truth sometimes hard to believe. But Marines, private to general, are a breed who must always be held to that higher standard--it goes to our history, culture, and ethos. Otherwise, why in the world have Marines?

Last week was not so much a matter of taking a wrong position but knowingly taking a hasty one. My friend called me on it. The whole matter really does boil down to obedience to orders--so simple. As offered in this forum before, one of my favorite author unknown adages is, "The best defense is to not be there."

Being a Marine is tough.

Leading Marines is tougher.

Post Script

And my friend and I agree that "artists" who urinate on crucifixes, "Constitutionalists" who urinate on our colors, and "Freedom Loving Occupiers" who urinate on police cars, despite what they're protectors and advocates think, are 'holes.'

Author's Endnote

All your notes and thoughts last week appreciated. Thank you for opining. One comment submitted to the Commentary was not posted--not for breach of civility but for fouling my name in the remarks. I have to draw the line somewhere.

MARINES, COCKROACHES, AND CAMERAS

2012-01-14T08:13:00.000-08:00

MARINES, COCKROACHES, AND CAMERAS
by Andy Weddington
Saturday, 14 January 2012

"There is nothing so despicable as a secret society that is based upon religious prejudice and will attempt to defeat a man because of his religious beliefs. Such a society is like a cockroach--it thrives in the dark. So do those who combine for such an end." William Howard Taft (27th U. S. President)

No Commentary yesterday not because of any superstitions but merely because the week did not afford time to sit, think, and write. The past week was all about lemons, and more, and seeing the world for what it really is--shapes and colors bumping up against one another, teaching others the same, and showing them there's no magic to the art of painting.

The craziest question directed to me during the week, "Would you teach us how to paint boats?"

The sweetest answers heard to my standard question to new painters, "How's it going?"--"I'm struggling," and "Where's my gun?"

So, my intent for today was a bit about psychology, philosophy, communications, and emotion as all relates to painting. But then a You Tube video hit the net and emails starting rolling in as to whether I intended to comment. I have been thinking about it.

I watched the video a few times. If, for whatever reason, you've been out of touch I'm referring to a 38 seconds clip of U. S. Marines urinating on corpses--believed combatants killed during a gunfight--in Afghanistan.

Preliminary investigative work results provided to the media indicate the dead were indeed enemy. And the Marines have been identified (though their unit was cited that does not really matter). I have no idea how identities came about but I'd not be surprised if the Marines came forward.

There's no argument what the Marines did was contrary to training and the Corps ethos. But what were the extenuating and mitigating circumstances? How long had they been in combat? How many of them have seen friends wounded and killed? How intense was that particular fire fight? Did urinating on the corpses--the cockroaches--not only relieve a full bladder but take their victory to a personal level relieving unimaginable stress? I have no idea and am not making excuses; just trying to understand.

We're talking about young men who've been trained to kill, are fighting for their lives and the lives of their buddies, have likely witnessed all sorts of horror, and yet there's an expectation of civility.

If you have an easy answer for all this, congratulations.

During the 10 years America has been engaged in war in Iraq and Afghanistan, our enemies have burned and hung our dead, dragged our corpses through streets, and beheaded captives--civilian and military. And who knows what else. I don't really want to think about it.

So does the conduct of our Marines desecrating enemy corpses matter?

Consider the reactions of the platoon commander or company commander, and maybe the battalion commander, had they stumbled upon the incident after the battle.

Consider the reactions of generals.

And the reactions of politicians, and anyone else for that matter, seeing the brief clip in the comfort and safety of their home or office, thousands and thousands of miles away, while sipping a steaming cup of coffee to wash down a fresh-baked pastry.

Only because of handy recording technology is 38 seconds falling upon the eyes of folks, world-wide, who don't need to know. And that's too bad. But, good or bad, a reality of the world we live in.

NCIS is investigating. The Marine Corps is investigating and a three star general, appointed by our commandant, will make some decisions. Whether those decisions will be made without the influence, and approval of, higher ups, well, draw your own conclusions.

Allen West (R-FL), a retired Army lieutenant colonel and combat veteran, offered an official comment on the matter: "The Marines were wrong. Give them a maximum punishment under field grade level Article 15 (non-judicial punishment), place a General Officer level letter of reprimand in their personnel file, and have them in full dress uniform stand before their Battalion, each personally apologize to God, Country, and Corps videotaped and conclude by singing the full US Marine Corps Hymn without a teleprompter. As for everyone else, unless you have been shot at by the Taliban, shut your mouth, war is hell.”

That a camera recorded the incident should not matter.

I disagree with the congressman--he was a soldier not a Marine.

Whatever disciplinary action and/or punishment should be handled at the company level (the first level with formal disciplinary authority). A Marine rifle company commander, a captain, can take care of this. And fairly. The battalion commander involved? No. A general officer letter of reprimand? Are you kidding? Hell no. Make the Marines appear in full dress uniform before their Battalion to apologize and sing our Hymn? No, for one of the fundamental elements of leadership is to praise in public, admonish in private.

Plain and simple, this is, at most, captain's business. Any level higher would be wrong and disproportionate to the 'crime.'

The only thing I agree with the congressman about is his final sentence, "As for everyone else, unless you have been shot at by the Taliban, shut your mouth, war is hell.”

To the company commander of those Marines, "Take care of it, Skipper."

Post Script

As for the painting boats question, there is no recipe. Boats look differently early morning, late morning, noon, early afternoon, evening, and night. There must not be 'a way' of doing them, or anything else. Paint the shapes and colors you see. Simple as that!

CHINXICO

2012-01-05T05:26:00.000-08:00

CHINXICO
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 06 January 2012

"It is later than you think." Chinese proverb

China and Mexico have been in the news a lot lately. The two words (and countries) rumbling around in my head for a while now. So, for today, something a little offbeat, a bit jumpy, some might conclude kooky, and with plenty of room for some sense of order and much more.

What follows is another example of the peculiar thoughts that strike when out and about nature--sky, water, trees, boats, etc.--and painting. That is, those times when in a different zone, mentally--focused on seeing and arranging abstract color shapes, that thought is unconstrained and odd bolts strike from out of the blue (the figurative blue).

And so...

I've not been to China.

I've not been to Mexico.

And I don't know that I'll ever travel to either country for neither is on my current travel bucket list. But, who knows. There was a day I didn't think I'd ever see Europe, Scandinavia, the Middle East, nor the Bahamas but have been to all and then some.

Around our home we have things that were made in China. Televisions, computers, cameras, iPad, and iPhone, for instance. And books. Lots of books, art and others, printed in China. And eyeglasses and sunglasses and drinking glasses, too. The stuff is inexpensive, relatively speaking. Some of it cheap.

And there are things around our home that were made in Mexico. Different things than made in China. Some simple furniture, accessories, clothes, kitchen tools, towels, and Crocs, for instance. And picture frames--all shapes, sizes, and styles. The stuff is inexpensive, relatively speaking. Some of it, too, cheap.

I don't much care for Chinese food. There's something about the flavors and it's not so filling. Dishes like Moo Goo Gai Pan, Sweet and Sour Chicken, Yangchow Fried Rice, Kung Pao Ming Har, and Bang Bang Ji, for instance, are not so appealing. If hungry, and there's no alternative, sesame chicken and fried rice will suffice.

I like Mexican food. There's something about the flavors and it's filling. Simple things like tacos, burritos, and enchiladas. And chips and salsa. Uno cerveza, por favor.

China holds a great deal of U. S. debt. It's a problem, so say politicians, talking heads on TV, and others. But no one seems to be doing anything about it.

Mexico, trafficking illegals and drugs, presents other challenges, expensive ones, too, for the U. S. Problems both, so say the politicians, talking heads on TV, and others. But no one seems to be doing anything about this, either.

China's population is somewhere around 1.4 billion.

Mexico's population is just shy of 112 million.

The U. S. population is not quite in the middle at roughly 315 million; or thereabouts. And a not insignificant piece is illegals from Mexico; already noted as a problem.

Ever wonder how many households in China and Mexico are flooded with stuff marked "Made in the USA"? Or how many households in China have stuff marked "Made in Mexico" and vice versa?

What to do about China and Mexico?

Interesting that these two countries, on opposite sides of the globe, play such a big part in American daily life--from things to foods to languages and cultures.

Might the day come China and Mexico realize possibilities for greater influence if partnering in things made and exported? Perhaps they're already in cahoots. Who knows?

Whatever.

What about a name for this peculiar marriage?

How about "Chinxico"? New word with a nice look and sound to it--"Made in Chinxico".

I'd probably buy stuff made in Chinxico; especially if inexpensive and maybe even if cheap. Why not?

But I'm not interested in Moo Goo Gai Tacos nor Enchiladas Bang Bang Ji--in-house dining nor take out. And no thank you for chopsticks--to eat anything.

About a week ago, over dinner (western style seafood), I mentioned some of these odd thoughts to friends. They laughed, though I'm not sure at the thoughts or me.

Then a few days later one told me they were still talking about that evening's discourse and the Chinxico remarks. But she didn't share in what context--whether brilliant or crazy painter. Then again does it matter? They were talking about the idea(s).

I wonder how many Chinamen speak Spanish and how many Mexicans Chinese? Might there be call for a new tongue?

Now if only I could get the Chinese and Mexican markets interested in my paintings; especially iPad and especially China since that's where the things are made. Perhaps it's time to reconsider adding these countries to the travel bucket list. After all, yuans and pesos, like dollars, buy stuff.

Should I journey, I'll look for the Mexican restaurants in China but still eat and play fortune cookie numbers. You never know.

As I sit here finishing up, take note--the ball cap I'm wearing was made in China. So were the eyeglasses I wear, and T-shirt, too. Shorts and Crocs were made in Mexico. All that foreign stuff on an average American guy from Southern California who hangs out in the Bahamas once in a while.

Bai bai!

Adios!

In Chinxican that would be "baidios"!

Good thing for America, it's not too late to solve the China and Mexico problems. Yet. That is, if folks will stop talking and do something.

There's lots still rumbling around about this topic and not much order.

But now it's time to go paint--to focus on abstract color shapes. Maybe more to come--on this matter or some other bolt from out of the blue.

As Americans say, in English, "Later!"

Post Script

I've been reading "Code Talker"--the story of Chester Nez (one of the original 29 Navajo Code Talker U. S. Marines who served during World War II). Most likely the book, the story, had some influence coming up with "Chinxico." Makes sense, everything's related, somehow.

GINNY

2011-12-29T19:48:00.000-08:00

GINNY
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 30 December 2011

"Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can." Danny Kaye

It was not quite a year ago, early afternoon, and our cottage front door was purposively set ajar--a signal we were in and visitors, if so inclined, welcome.

There was a few polite raps on the wood frame and a female voice called out, "Hello. Anyone home?"

It was Ginny.

"Ginny, great to see you. Please, come in. Welcome." And so she did--"Just for a few minutes," she said.

Ginny was on a walk, happened to see the door ajar and, since it'd been a few days, wanted to see the latest paintings. She was interested in my paintings. She studied them. She asked good questions. She asked insightful questions. We talked. And then she took another quick look, offered a kind word or two, and bid farewell to continue her walk.

I first met Ginny more than a few years ago--I was painting and she happened by standing quietly behind at a respectable distance without interrupting. Sensing presence, I turned and offered a word of welcome and engaged in a few moments of small talk learning her first name and where she lived and she mine. Then she told me some of her college friends were visiting, knew they'd be interested in seeing the paintings, and asked if they could possibly drop by the cottage? "Sure. Anytime. If the door's ajar, we're in." Then apologizing for interrupting, she was off.

The next day a group of five or six women, Ginny amongst them, showed up and spent about an hour with us--looking at paintings and visiting. Nice.

Since our first meeting, about this same time each year in the tiny settlement, Ginny and I bumped into each other often when I was out painting. And with regularity, every few days, she'd stop by the cottage to see the latest paintings--always taking a 'few minutes' to study them and talk.

The last couple of years our friendship moved a step or two forward. She invited my wife and I to her cottage a few times for an evening social, and we would see her at socials elsewhere in town.

Ginny--unpretentious as they come. Pleasant. Bright. Genuinely friendly. Engaging. And simply a pleasure to talk with--about anything. And she had something in common with my wife--Ginny was a breast cancer survivor. Anyone who's been close to the disease knows there's a special camaraderie and bond amongst these women.

During one of her drop-in visits last year Ginny said she was interested in taking a painting course from me. But she had a concern--something that stopped her from approaching me in previous years. Ginny had a slight tremor--to a stranger it appeared as Parkinsons but it was the remnants of a head injury--and worried that her unsteady hand would be a problem. I told her quite the contrary, and assured her the tremor would be to her advantage--she'd enjoy a natural looseness others would envy. She smiled and seemed to like that perspective. "Something to think about," she said. And I figured I'd have a new student.

Tuesday afternoon, this past Tuesday afternoon, my wife and I walked by Ginny's cottage. After all, it's that time of the year. The doors and windows were open. Great. We decided as soon as we finished our errands we'd pop in and say hello, and see if she was all set to tackle the painting course.

Typical, errands took longer than expected and as it was getting on towards the dinner hour we decided it best to visit another day--maybe tomorrow.

That evening, over drinks at another friend's cottage, we learned Ginny would not be painting. And we learned Ginny would not be dropping by to see my latest paintings and talk.

Ginny, our friend informed us with a teary eye, died suddenly in some sort of accident back home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, less than two months ago.

Stunned. We'd not heard.

Tuesday night, in bed and about to doze off after a long day, I thought about my last brief visit with Ginny. I could picture her slight build and posture, sparkling eyes, and warm smile. Now she's gone.

Wednesday afternoon we walked by Ginny's cottage. The doors and windows were open--as if she was home. We knocked on the ajar side door and called out, "Hello. Anyone home?" The telephone rang as a female voice answered, "Come in." Two of Ginny's daughters greeted us. We introduced ourselves, said we were friends of Ginny's, had just learned of her death and wanted to say how sorry we were for their loss. One of her daughters went to the kitchen and retrieved a calendar of my paintings I'd given Ginny last year. I'd given her one the year before, too. And this year's calendar, one I'd earmarked for Ginny, will go to her children.

In a bit of irony, just before we departed one of Ginny's daughters showed us a couple of simple still life watercolor sketches her Mom had done--not known to her but stumbled upon the other day looking for some art paper for one of her children to use. Not once had Ginny mentioned to me she dabbled with paints but now some things made better sense. How fitting her daughter showed me a couple of her Mom's paintings. In a sense, our story, the 'painting'--life's canvas, complete.

Virginia "Ginny" Lee Groebe Dyer--1937-2011. A fine soul. A most fitting line in her obituary: "Above all else, Ginny had a generous spirit, was a committed friend, and a devoted wife, sister, mother and grandmother."

I was aware Ginny was a wife, sister, mother, and grandmother. I knew her as a friend.

Like dear family and friends, Hope Town misses her and mourns.

Call it irony or serendipity, Ginny's cottage is named "Chrysalis."

Life goes on. But for those who knew Ginny it'll not be quite the same--yet enriched for having known her.

Post Script

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/kansascity/obituary.aspx?n=virginia-lee-groebe-dyer-ginny&pid=154619774

THE SENSELESS DEATH OF PRIVATE DANNY CHEN

2011-12-23T12:30:00.000-08:00

THE SENSELESS DEATH OF PRIVATE DANNY CHEN
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 23 December 2011

"Hope is a necessity for a normal life and the major weapon against the suicide impulse." Karl A. Menninger

On Tuesday, 04 October 2011, the following notification appeared in my email inbox:

"The Department of Defense announced today the death of a soldier who was supporting Operation Enduring Freedom. Pvt. Danny Chen, 19, of New York, died Oct. 3 in Kandahar province, Afghanistan. He was assigned to the 3rd Battalion, 21st Infantry Regiment, 1st Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division, Fort Wainwright, Alaska. For more information the media may contact the U.S. Army Alaska public affairs office at 907-384-2072."

After reading the official release, though much like every other one I receive, I thought it odd there was no mention of the circumstances surrounding his death--for nearly all include brief comment of wounds suffered during combat operations or that death was non-hostile. The absence of comment nagged me as I filed the release with the hundreds of others. For whatever reason, Private Chen's name stuck with me.

A few days ago I happened upon an article about Private Chen. What I read was disturbing. And it brought back a memory of an encounter I had with a young Marine some 20 years ago. More about that young Marine later.

Private Danny Chen, U. S. Army died while on duty in Kandahar, Afghanistan. He died from a gunshot wound; self-inflicted. But why?

Why would a young man who voluntarily swore an oath to serve his country, knowing damn well he'd find himself in combat, commit suicide?

The answer? Eight soldiers, including an officer--a lieutenant, from Private Chen's unit are facing charges of dereliction of duty; assault; negligent homicide; and involuntary manslaughter. An article in today's paper noted, "On Wednesday, the Army announced the charges against the eight soldiers in his death, saying Chen was a victim of illegal hazing."

As an administrative note I'm going to give the reporter who authored the article (specifically that sentence) the benefit of the doubt as to not thinking about what they wrote. That is, the redundancy of "illegal hazing."

Private Chen's death remains under investigation so there's little to address, at this time, other than the core of the hazing was aimed at his Chinese ancestry, included hurtful name calling, and allegedly he was forced to do things, that served no useful purpose whatsoever, meant to be physically uncomfortable. And there may be more. Probably.

Private Chen was an infantryman in a platoon (in a company; in a regiment; in a brigade; in a division). I know something about that life--not in the Army but in the Marine Corps. There's a difference but then again much is the same. The questions that first came to mind, "Where were his noncommissioned officers (team and squad leaders)?"; "Where was his staff noncommissioned officer (platoon sergeant)?"; and "Where was his officer (platoon commander)?" And, what was the command climate, tone from the top, in the company, battalion, regiment, brigade, and even division?

From information released to the public thus far one can only surmise his "leaders" at the platoon level were party to the hazing. If that is in fact the case, where is a young, inexperienced soldier to turn for help? His chain of command is there for his well-being--24 hours a day, 7 days a week. If his enlisted "leadership" fails he has a platoon commander, a commissioned officer, to handle problems. Or that's the way it's supposed to work.

Was the hazing so severe, delivered at the hands of his platoon leadership, that he lost faith and hope and saw no other way out? Was he immature? Was he unstable? Was he dealing with other personal problems? Did a collective of life's problems--back home and in Afghanistan, for a young man in a combat zone, make for perfect circumstances that ended with an irrational, irreversible, decision? Who knows. Maybe the Army's investigation will get to the bottom of it. Until that hard look is complete and the accused have had their day in court it'd be improper to assail them. But something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong. And whatever the scope, it needs to be sorted out, adjudicated, and a clear message sent to the force.

I have strong feelings about hazing. Despite what anyone offers in defense of said practices, and whether a civilian social club, fraternity, or military outfit, hazing serves no useful purpose. Hazing is contrary to good order and discipline. Hazing destroys trust and loyalty. Hazing disrupts teamwork. And in military units hazing degrades a unit's combat readiness and effectiveness. And I could go on and on but the point made.

Now for that young Marine...

It just so happened I was walking along a hallway and noticed a young Marine clad in camouflage utilities mopping the deck--he was doing a lousy job because he was trying to mop using only one arm (as I recall, his right arm). With little control of the mop, he was making more of a mess than anything else. I didn't know the Marine. He didn't work for me. And he was not in my unit. Regardless, I stopped him and asked about his arm. He said he'd injured it. He appeared hesitant to talk so I pressed. I told him to remove his blouse. His left arm was a mess--shades of yellow-green, purple, deep crimson red, bright red, black and blue, etc. It looked awful. "What happened to your arm?" He did not want to talk but finally mumbled, "I was promoted." "What?" "Sir, I was promoted to corporal last week and took quite a beating." "Have you been to sick call?" "No, sir." "Why not?" "Sir, I don't want anyone to get in trouble." "Okay. Here is what's going to happen. First, I want the name of your unit, your commanding officer, and the phone number. Second, I am ordering you to go directly to the hospital emergency room--if you need a ride, I'll take care of it. You must see a doctor immediately. Third, I will call your commanding officer and explain."

The Marine went to the hospital. I phoned his commanding officer who had no idea but wasted no time engaging. About an hour later a doctor phoned me--he thanked me for intervening and said another day or two and he doubted they could have saved the Marine's arm.

Incredible. How appalling. A young Marine works hard to earn the rank of corporal and he's "rewarded" by his unit peers, god forbid seniors, by nearly losing his arm through some stupid hazing ritual.

Such nonsense. Will it ever end? Doubtful--with the outcomes, no matter how rare the occurrences, always leaving a bad, bad impression and impact. The only way to combat hazing is through education, training, engaged leadership, and punishing the guilty.

So here we are two days from Christmas--some time earlier this year a young man voluntarily took an oath to serve his country; donned a uniform; conquered the only rite of passage required to be called a soldier--recruit training; completed advanced training; reported to an operational unit; deployed to a combat zone; and then took his life while on duty in a guard tower seemingly triggered by the cowardly behavior of his fellow soldiers; some of whom were supposed to be leading him.

Sad.

And this Christmas, and for many more to come, the Chen family mourns.

Heartbreaking.

Death, hostile and non-hostile, is a reality of war. And death a reality of life. But this "casualty" on the rolls from the war in Afghanistan makes no sense to me. None.

Post Script

A while back I penned Commentary, that towards the end, addresses hazing. The powerful words of a Marine general put the matter of hazing in perspective.
http://acoloneloftruth.blogspot.com/2010/06/nook-bruce-kent-rob-sergeant-major.html

A PHONY CHRISTMAS CAROL

2011-12-21T03:49:00.000-08:00

A PHONY CHRISTMAS CAROL
by Andy Weddington
Wednesday, 21 December 2011

"I see you're a man with ideals. I better be going before you've still got them." Mae West

'Tis the Season'...

In an effort to satisfy a short-fused request for a Christmas tale, for today, an original, suggestively naughty but nice, button-pushing, bell-ringing, kind of cheesy, maybe dumb but true, downright phony Christmas carol. Listen, you just might want to read it twice anyway--check.

Forget the oldie but goodie mood setting, 'Twas the night before Christmas...'

This carol begins...

"The minute you walked in the joint,

I could see you were a man of distinction, a real big spender, good looking, so refined. I figured you're the Muriel cigar smoking kind. So let me get right to the point, you're right in style when you're in Muriel's company. Hey! Big Spender. Spend a little dime with me. Hey! Big Spender. Spend a little dime with me."

That was as adman's catchy variant of the hit 'Hey Big Spender'--from Bob Fosse's broadway play 'Sweet Charity'--as sung by Edie Adams more than 50 years ago while hawking cigars for the Muriel Company.

Wrapping up the ad, the svelt and sultry Mzz Adams invited, "Join the Muriel mild crowd. Pick one up and smoke it some time." Then walking away and glancing over her shoulder, she closed with a coy wink.

Only a few weeks ago, at first meeting, upon walking into the joint, she, but not Edie--that is, may as well have sung that ditty to me--if she could.

Who's she? Read on.

But she didn't need to sing nor say a word. I'd heard all about her and all of it was true.

She was provocative--built to be deliberately so. An exquisite model, an object of desire by men and women (and some not even close to being of age).

I'm not embarrassed nor ashamed to admit it wasn't, and still isn't, her fault. It's never her fault.

Yes, I took her (and sister, too) home.

Now night and day, she just lays there. With this quiet, come hither look, she just lays there; oblivious to her power.

Waiting's her game. Always the waiting game. And ever it will be her way--waiting.

Clad in alluring black (sister in white), with classy silver accent around her middle, she lay--tempting. Her seductive lines teasing but not a word. Not so much as a twitch.

Some think she's sexy but "sexy" is not quite the right word.

Oh, and makeup--an option--she doesn't need. None. She's a natural beauty.

Imagine, she wanted facetime with me. Ha. Not so much out of fear but for lack of want of turning her on, I hesitated to look her way. I knew I shouldn't have entered that joint.

Nor did I want to hear her song. Nor be lured into her tangled web.

I'd vowed not to push her buttons. I'd promised myself. And was determined not to break.

Out of the joint, in public and at home, she was great at first but infatuation began to fade. It always does.

Then one day at home she lay quiet. Deafenly quiet. And she stayed quiet for a couple of days. Too bad. Not my problem. I'd had enough. I didn't care.

I had nothing to say.

Nor did I really care what she might have to say. But she didn't seem to mind. She waited. She knew not appearing bored was key. She's intelligent that way. She's smart.

Then again, though waiting's her game, she had no choice but to wait, for me, for I had control--or so I thought. So I believed. Foolish. For a moment I considered taking her back to the joint--so she could wait for some other fool.

That dark, blank, expressionless face of hers--features aplenty but not revealing--she really looked as if she could care less. Not smug at all, just absolutely indifferent. Cold. I think that's right. I'd seen it before during our brief relationship. I didn't care but her game was certainly annoying. Damn annoying.

A day passed. So what. I went about my business. She about hers in silence. The peace and quiet was nice.

Still she waited.

As the second day passed, I began to question if I was being hasty? Maybe completely irrational? And considered giving her a look. Calling out to her was out of the question. Was I simply missing her? Just a glance. Maybe she'd not notice. What's the harm? The vow. I'd made the damn vow. I promised.

Towards the end of the day I decided what the hell and what's the harm.

At first, just a darting glance. She didn't notice. She didn't seem to care. I knew it. So I looked a bit longer. She still didn't notice. She definitely didn't care. Damn. She really didn't care.

Something told me she wanted to give notice, maybe to file, but wouldn't. She couldn't.

I did not speak.

Wait! Was that a cutting look she returned? Was she teasing or copying me?

I held my ground, stared, and still felt I wasn't missing anything. I was certain of it. Yet I wondered.

That look of hers. Maybe sexy's right afterall. Was her glance real? Or imagined?

She never made a sound--she couldn't. But that look--that look, I'd seen it pasted on her face before; numerous times. She could be maddening but I didn't let her get to me.

By day's end I could take no more.

Not cat and mouse, this poker game was about to climax. She held all the chips and cooly played them all. And she held all the cards, and knew it. Less I say we were down to the wire. She played me to the core. Practically broke, I opted not to fold but to see her raise and call--to see if my message clear. So, without warning, I gambled and made my move.

I snatched her up.

She was helpless. Not putty, but I had her in the palm of my hand. She said nothing still, and she didn't resist. Not so much as a whisper. Or wimper. She couldn't. She'd waited patiently, well knowing sooner or later I'd not resist. There was no escape. And she didn't care.

She knew me. She knew me too well. She was right. I was wrong. She had my number. Boy, did she have my number.

She's a beauty. Sleek. Thin. Lovely. Irresistable lines. Yes, sexy. I guess 'sexy' is right after all. What a body! And what's a body to do? There she lay in the palm of my hand.

From top to bottom and across, I traced my finger across her smooth, unblemished face. The feel familiar.

Eyes satisfied and sense of touch appeased, I reached to find, to locate, her button--the button--and then search surroundings.

Now it was her turn not to resist. She couldn't.

A couple of days in waiting, fully charged and ready, she responded immediately.

Electrons firing and juices flowing--she started to glow, quickly came to full power, and vibrated.

Smokin' hot, like a good Cuban but she's no cigar. She loves to be caressed and fondled--her face stroked and buttons pushed.

So much for peace and quiet. Another day.

Still, indifferent, she did her job.

That is, she offered beautiful, captivating, well-organized apps. All for the taking. Some for a price.

And then I pushed her buttons--checking for messages and email.

She? If you've not solved the story, the Apple of my eye--iPhone4S. This month I've called her Holly, now Carol.

Seriously?

Yes, folks, Siri(ously)!

True story and, as I forewarned, sort of cheesy, maybe dumb, and really phony.

Might you pick up Jobs's model and stroke her sometime?! But, Hey Big Spender,' fair warning, she'll cost you much more than a little dime--for talk, despite what they say, does not come cheap. Nor does love.

Merry Christmas, baby! Merry Christmas!

And to all a good night.

Post Script

She had me the minute I walked in the joint, that day just before Thanksgiving. My wife took home sister--the white one. So much for Scrooge, Santa came early this year.

As it turned out, I'd missed nothing during a couple days abstinence. I could have left her alone a few more days. Maybe weeks, but not much longer--for as most folks know, you can't go without for long. Besides, she's got my number. And so do some of you.

PARDON MY SARCASM

2011-12-18T15:17:00.000-08:00

PARDON MY SARCASM
by Andy Weddington
Sunday, 18 December 2011

"Sarcasm: the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded." Fyodor Dostoevsky

Some of the dopey, head scratching tidbits of news, all true, that caught my eye during the past couple of weeks--complemented with opinion, of course...

A woman in the town where I live was snookered out of $7,000. Seems a slick-talking stranger approached her in front of a grocery store and told a hard luck story of hard times, a sick child, said he needed cash fast, and that he had a gold bar to sell cheap. Enter a second stranger (accomplice). Their scam included a bogus verbal appraisal of $20,000; some sort of meant-to-deceive exchange of cash and gold bar between the strangers; and, drum roll please, another gold bar the first stranger just happened to have on hand and was willing to sell cheap. The woman took the bait, handed over her cash, and then took the bar to a gold appraisal store. It was brass. The police are looking for the strangers.

Opinion: Never mind the dozen or so questions the scenario raises, not sure why the police are wasting their time. Charge the woman with stupidity and greed, and move on. Fools. And their money. Soon parted. Good grief.

Jon S. Corzine, once governor of New Jersey; once a United States Senator; an experienced business executive; and CEO of MF Global sat before a congressional panel, more than once the past week or so, and has yet to explain, sensibly or not, the whereabouts of $1.2 billion. That's right, $1.2 billion. He was the man in charge and claims he has no idea where the money is. Hmmm. It did not escape me that the nameplate resting on the table before him read: "The Honorable Jon S. Corzine." No, I'm not kidding. "Honorable"? Unbelievable.

Opinion: Put this dumbass, this thief (super grand theft), in prison awaiting trial, under stressful conditions, and $20.00 says his memory returns--quickly and clearly. "Honorable"? Good grief.

Speaking of honor...
Our esteemed Attorney General, Eric Holder, time and again proving he's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, testifying before a congressional committee regarding the 'Fast & Furious' operation--the inane gun-selling program to Mexican drug cartels that left a U. S. Border Patrol agent dead--attempted to explain the difference between "misleading" and "lying" to Congress. That in reference to a letter, filled with falsehoods (politician speak for "lies") his office sent to Congress formally responding to questions about the program.

Opinion: It seems our land's number one lawyer is a misleading liar. Fire him. Good grief.

I read a newspaper article the other day outlining Mr. Obama's "accomplishments." Yes, really. The article specifically stated "accomplishments." I was unaware there had been any so was intrigued enough to closely read the article. His hallmark "accomplishment," according to the article, was passage of the health care bill.

Opinion: The article's premise begs a question, "Can something be considered an 'accomplishment' if an overwhelming majority of the people opposed it, hate it, and the GOP candidates for president, if elected, have vowed to repeal it?" "Accomplishment"? Really? The acronym 'YHGTBSM' comes to mind. Good grief.

All over the news this past week were reports of good Samaritans, Secret Santas, whatever you want to call them appearing at Wal-Marts, and other such stores across the country, and paying off lay-a-way accounts. Generous. Noble. Smart?

Opinion: Is this just another form of bailout? It was an unquenchable thirst for things not affordable, purchased through credit--not affordable, that's in large part responsible for our country's current economic mess. How are the irresponsible to learn if always being bailed out? When and where will those lessons be learned? Bah. Humbug. Good grief.

I saw a news report about some loony efforts afoot to not require voters to provide ID before voting--particularly in the upcoming presidential election. What? Their argument was that requiring ID was discriminatory. And, that IDs are expensive. What? How ironic there's requirement to provide an ID before cashing a check, buying cigarettes and alcohol and medical marijuana, prior to boarding an airplane, and sundry other purposes but not before the civic duty and most important act of voting?

Opinion: Mr. Obama is toast. He won't be able to steal the election. Stupid. Really stupid. And, accordingly, stupid people, yet again, make euthanasia sound reasonable in the best interest of society. Want to vote? Provide ID. Don't like it? Get your sorry ass out of America. Good grief.

Listening to a Fox News panel debate the merits of GOP presidential candidates, their personal lives baggage, and the recent polls reflecting the strong upward surge of the former Speaker of the House, columnist Peter Wehner said this, "The Gingrich rocket continues to rise..."

Opinion: Bahahahahahahaha. Wehner said it without snickering or blushing. Arguably not the best choice of words considering Newt's amorous history. Oh, there was no comment as to whether the panel, off camera, was laughing hysterically. Good grief.

Tim Tebow, the rookie sensation NFL quarterback leading the Denver Broncos, is an outwardly religious man. He has routine of taking a knee before each game and praying. Harmless enough--or so one would think. But the nutcases determined to squelch PDR (Public Displays of Religion) are incensed. They're mocking and ridiculing Tebow and doing their damnedest to stop children, aping Tebow, from praying in public places.

Opinion: Finally, youth have a positive, wholesome role model in sports. It's about damn time. And they're mimicking Tebow's example--fine and dandy. All good. Or so one would think. Screw the nutcases. Don't like it? With ID or not, get your sorry asses out of America. Good grief.

Just today it was reported our government's congressional franking commission has banned members of the House of Representatives from sending seasonal official correspondence (taxpayer funded) with the words "Merry Christmas."

Opinion: Happy Festivus. Now let me be frank, "Up yours (chimney, that is), franking commission." Ho. Ho. Ho.

No, I don't make this stuff up. I don't have to. And couldn't if I had to.

As Mark Twain opined, "The political and commercial morals of the United States are not merely food for laughter, they are an entire banquet."

Merry Christmas!

DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE?

2011-12-15T20:06:00.000-08:00

DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE?
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 16 December 2011

"Discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen, and thinking what nobody has thought."

Albert Szent-Gyorgyi

To set the stage--more on the lighter side--for this week, quite a few responses, all appreciated, to last Friday's "DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?"

A couple favorites...

"Hi Andy,

Just had to share this with you!! After reading your commentary on hearing yesterday morning, I left to go work with Toys For Tots. I had been there a few hours when we received a phone call from a grandmother needing help for her 4 year old grandson. The lady that took the call explained we had already closed our applications but she would talk to someone and see if we might could help her and we would call her back. The worker came to me and told me what just happened and then she added ,”this child is deaf!” Your article immediately came to my mind.......We are buying this kid a Big Ass Fire Engine with all the loudest bells and whistles on it we can find. He can see the lights and place his little hands on the fire truck and feel the vibration of the sounds!!!!! The group working turned on all the toys that made a sound and placed our hands on them to see what we could feel that this precious deaf child would feel. It was a very touching scene to say the least. Then we thanked God for the gift of hearing.......................

From the mother of a wonderful Marine to another wonderful Marine, thanks for your great articles.

Merry Christmas,

Barbara, Burlington, NC"

And...

"Nicely stated. As the keeper of a diabetic and blind dog (Maggie), I have assumed the role of a "seeing eye person" for her. And with her very sudden onset of blindness, I have also come to appreciate what a miracle the gift of sight is. I no longer take it for granted. Well done, good friend, well done!"

Both readers unwittingly touched on the planned theme for today's Comment--sight.

Many years ago I watched an episode of the TV western 'Bonanza' that centered around an artist--a painter. Originally aired in 1962, the fittingly titled episode, "The Artist," cast actor Dan O'Herlihy as Matthew Raine, a (fictional) world class painter of plein air landscapes. Of course, the story resonated with me and to this day several scenes are so vivid in memory I could paint them.

As the story went, Raine's paintings--in design and color--were stunning and in demand worldwide. He'd been doing what he loved--to paint--and made a comfortable living with his brushes. But there was a cruel twist to the story. Only forty or so years old, and still to have reached the peak of his powers as a painter, he had a problem. Raine's had a big problem. He'd lost his sight, permanently, to disease.

Imagine--a painter losing sight.

Raine was distraught. A guest of the Ponderosa, he shared his problem, anger, and suicidal thoughts, with the Cartwright patriarch, Ben. The wise old rancher listened, comforted the painter like he would have one of his sons of about the same age, thought, and asked a simple question--'Have you considered writing?'

Ben offered, though not able to see the landscape and paint it, he still had much to offer his patrons, and the world, painting with words. That is, pointing out, though in a different medium, that which most folks saw but did not see. At first the painter was not so receptive, anger subjugating rational thought, and countered he saw no point in living if not able to work with a brush and pigment. He confessed to knowing nothing about the pen.

Though young, I'd been painting for a few years and understood--completely--how awful Raine's plight. I could not imagine. I cannot still.

In the end, a female friend helped Raine transition from brush to pen. And there ended the story--leaving the audience to conclude he probably went on to become a successful writer--an artist still but with pen.

The sense--the gift--of 'sight.'

For those with sight and able to differentiate between the reds of a rose; ripe tomato; apple; cherry; fire truck (Big Ass or not); strawberry; lush raspberry lipstick; Christmas tree light; and a rosy cheek--how to explain the subtleties to someone who has never experienced light and color?

Think about it.

And then how to explain each of those marvelous reds has a complement from amongst an equally dazzling array of greens, and that there are yellows and oranges and blues and purples, too.

How to explain?

Something to think about.

Then there's the art of 'seeing.'

There's a difference between 'sight' and 'seeing.' There's a big difference.

It's possible to have perfect sight yet be blind. That is, to not see that which is right before you. And that observation addresses only that before our eyes, as opposed to the psychological aspect of 'blindness' which is another discussion entirely.

None of us 'see' the same. And even if we did see the same, exactly the same, how would we know? For all we have to communicate is imprecise lanugage to share what we see. Now some may argue that agreement means the same thing was seen. But that's just not so. Agreement is merely that, an agreement. It's not proof positive of the exact same thing being seen. Hair splitting? No, not really. Important? It could be. It depends.

As simple illustration, why is it some can look at a white ceramic coffee mug and see only white while others (e.g., painters) see only dazzling colors and no white?

The differing visual experiences--sight--are not psychological. They are real.

An obvious explanation is some see white based on teaching and learning associations (e.g., grass is green; water is blue; a lemon is yellow; a white ceramic coffee mug is white; etc.). What a shame, for those simple associations lack the complexity of reality (of light) and, more often than not, are inaccurate.

Others 'see' beyond the associations, seeing reality--what is really going on. That is, unconstrained (yet still constrained, by teaching, learning, and lanugage) they see grass as blue or bluegreen or red; sky as green or purple or yellow or redviolet; a lemon anything but yellow; and that white ceramic coffee mug a kaleidescope of colors. Yes, really.

Further, I suppose Ben was telling the painter Matthew Raine, and us all, it's possible to 'see' without 'sight.' There's much truth to that and a sage perspective that lends credence to the pun, "I see, said the blind man."

And there's good argument still to be made that those who've never had sight see more broadly and colorfully than those with sight could possibly imagine. Makes sense. Though we'll never know.

But one thing is known, come Christmas morning a young deaf boy will see and feel a Big Ass Fire Engine. Just maybe what his imagination hears surpasses reality. And maybe one day he will hear--with the reality of hearing, in some sense, being a disappointment to imagined sounds; wonderful nonetheless.

Just maybe he'll grow up to be a writer--of all things unheard. And maybe heard.

Or maybe he'll be a painter.

Regardless, an artist.

We'll see.

Post Script

"...your new book, On "SEEING"& Painting, is -- how should I put it? -- an eye-opener. It captivates like one of your colorful paintings. It isn't just the book's handsome binding, colorful photos, or clear writing that draws one in. It's the book's explanation of "seeing" even ordinary objects in ways never before imagined -- objects like lemons, tin cans, apples (green and red) and bottles of beverages...The humble cabbage -- or carrot, cantaloupe, or cauliflower -- will never look the same after reading your book..." Bill D. (Palm Springs, CA)

That the perspective of someone who sent a note after reading my book--'On "SEEING" & Painting'--a tome, a primer, penned a few years ago and geared for every and anyone, not necessarily artists--painters, looking for more in their visual world. There is always more to 'see.' Always.

Author's Endnote

Please support the U. S. Marine Corps Toys for Tots program: http://www.toysfortots.org/

WARRIORS AND GANGSTAS

2011-12-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

WARRIORS AND GANGSTAS
by Andy Weddington
Monday, 12 December 2011

"Sportsmanship for me is when a guy walks off the court and you really can't tell if he won or lost, when he carries himself with pride either way." Jim Courier

The United States Military Academy (West Point)--Army--was founded in 1802.

The University of Cincinnati was founded in 1819.

Xavier University, a Jesuit, Catholic school, was founded in 1831.

The United States Naval Academy (Annapolis)--Navy--was founded in 1845.

The game of football was invented in 1876.

The game of basketball was invented in 1891.

Last Saturday afternoon Army and Navy met on the gridiron marking the 112th meeting (first in 1890 and annually since 1930) between the two military academies. Navy won 27 - 21--their 10th consecutive victory over Army.

After the game, in longstanding tradition, the teams merged and crossed the field paying homage to each student body and singing respective fight songs. Sportsmanship. Though opponents for 60 minutes of competition, they left the field a collective of comrades, of warriors, many of whom spring coming will be commissioned second lieutenants and ensigns, move on to training, and most likely end up in a combat zone sooner rather than later.

Post-game comments by Army and Navy players (and coaches) were what you'd expect from young men being shaped into leaders--they addressed a tough, hard-fought game. Army players, especially seniors, were not bashful citing frustrations having never beaten Navy. Understandable. Younger players noted they were looking forward to next year. No doubt everyone is.

In contrast...

Last Saturday afternoon Xavier University (Musketeers) hosted the University of Cincinnati (Bearcats) for their 79th meeting, between the cross-town rivals, on the basketball court. Xavier won 76 - 53. But, there were no winners.

Less than 10 seconds before the end of the game a Xavier player taunted Cincinnati players and coaches (in front of their bench) because, supposedly before the game, he'd been "disrespected." That player's childish behavior sparked an ugly brawl--the Xavier bench surged toward the Cincinnati bench. Shoving, name-calling, punching, kicking and so on and so forth resulted in at least one player blind-sided, bloodied, and decked before coaching staffs and officials were able to separate the players.

There was no post-game handshake nor camaraderie celebrating their longstanding rivalry. No sportsmanship. The teams left the court through the same tunnel to return to respective locker rooms but did so one at a time.

During a post-game interview the Xavier player who sparked the brawl said, "...That's what you're gonna see between Xavier and Cincinnati. We got disrespected a little bit before the game. Guys calling us out. We're a tougher team. We got grown men over here. We got a whole bunch of gangstas in the locker room, not thugs but tough guys on the court. And we went out there and zipped them up at the end of the game. That's our motto, 'Zip them up'..."

Note the second bullet, of eight (as listed on the website), outlining the Xavier University Mission Statement, "Xavier is a Catholic institution in the Jesuit tradition, an urban university firmly rooted in the principles and conviction of the Judeo-Christian tradition and in the best ideals of American heritage."

Hmm.

Also during post-game interviews, the University of Cincinnati head coach strongly and emotionally expressed embarrassment and outrage by his team's behavior. He apologized. He promised consequences. He said he'd stripped his players of their jerseys, forcibly removing some, and said they'd have to earn them back.

After extensive reviews of tapes, Sunday evening the respective schools made public announcements about suspensions.

Xavier suspended four players--two for four games; one for two games; and one (the player who sparked the brawl and made the inane post game comments) for one game.

Cincinnati suspended four players--three for six games and one for one game.

The schools noted the suspensions were merely a part of disciplinary actions.

Of course the obvious question is how this brawl ever came to be?

The intense rivalry between the schools is not a secret--the coaches knew. And the coaches knew there had been pre-game jawing from players. So what did the coaches do, what did they say to their teams before taking the court and during the game--especially toward the end, to preclude the melee?

Leadership. Where was it?

Army and Navy are looking forward to their 113th meeting.

There's talk Xavier and Cincinnati may not have an 80th.

How interesting in one arena America witnessed a spirited contest between warriors--true warriors. And in the other arena America witnessed something or other involving self-described gangstas but not thugs--masquerading as college students and athletes.

There's so much to address regarding opportunity, education, scholarship, athletics, citizenship, training, leadership, sportsmanship, and the list goes on but in the end Saturday afternoon was a stark contrast in the best and worst of college athletics. That is, the way it should be and the way it should never be.

Post Script

Why did Xavier not forfeit the game?

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?

2011-12-08T19:12:00.000-08:00

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 09 December 2011

"Seeing, hearing, and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle." Walt Whitman

It's not yet 0500. It's dark. The house still and quiet but not absolutely dead silent. While sitting here alone and thinking and preparing today's Commentary I hear...

the coffee machine, in the kitchen some 30 paces away, gurgling last draws of water; outside, a climate control unit engage; inside, warm air flowing through a nearby overhead exchange; a ticking battery operated clock; a bird with a shrill call that sounds excited--perhaps feeling frisky or a predator is nearby; a dog, far away, barking; a pack of coyotes yelping; the clicking keys of my wireless keyboard; a few high-pitched tones alerting brewing complete; and through it all, always in the background riding atop, the sound of crickets--tinnitus; that's loudest when it's quiet.

We just returned from a few days in San Antonio, Texas. While there, in no particular order, I heard...

the sounds of rain--drops striking the earth and manmade things, windshield wipers swiping glass, and tires splashing puddles; meat sizzling on an open flame grill; wax butcher paper torn from a big roll; a guy called a "cutter" slicing lean brisket, turkey, and sausage on a chopping block; a cashier thanking me and my wife for our military service and extending a nice discount; ice tumbling from a chute into a cup and pouring sweet tea settling the cubes; electronic tones and music at the gas pump; a waitress describe a favored red ale; a stranger kindly ask in a Texas drawl, "Where ya'll from?";

and...

our National Anthem sung acappella; a Sailor reenlisting repeat an oath and swear to protect and defend America, and an officer being promoted swear to the same; a departing commanding officer thank Sailors (and families) for their work and sacrifices; a man remark to me, "They didn't stand a chance, they were simply outnumbered and overrun" while looking at a miniature figurine tabletop display of the famous Alamo battle; the hotel manager ask if we enjoyed our stay (we sure did); a waiter at 'Boudros' on the riverwalk ask if I'd like another beer and if there was room for dessert (no to both); the hustle and bustle of people walking and cars and busses and signals controlling all the traffic ticking, clicking, and counting; the electronic crystal ring of a bell as iPhone announces someone cares--an incoming message; and in the background riding atop all the sounds--crickets.

At the airport I heard...

a rental car shuttlebus manager wish travelers "Merry Christmas"; a helpful ticket agent apologize for taking so long to solve a seating glitch; a TSA agent inspecting IDs and boarding passes thank me for my service; another TSA agent loudly repeat scripted advisory about what to take off before entering the full-body scan; the clickety-clack of roller bag wheels; strangers amidst cell phone conversations; cart drivers bellowing "Excuuuuuuse the cart"; a baby crying; a child fussing; a couple arguing--with civility; high heels; a quarter hit the deck; and a father, on the phone, tell his son what a big boy he was and he'd be home soon; Christmas music;

and...

announcements warning to not leave bags unattended and gate changes; cable news on TV monitors; a mother telling her teenage son he needs a haircut (he did); giggling pre-teen girls; a couple of businessmen discussing a contract negotiation; an older woman seated at the gate talking to herself and her husband snoring; a few soldiers in uniform agreeing it was great to be home; a team of high school boys horsing around; a little girl of four or five asking her father when Santa Claus was coming; and in the background riding atop all the sounds--crickets.

Home a day or two, I've heard...

passing cars; a friend say, "Welcome home"; a letter opener rip through sealed envelopes; a neighbor's barking dogs; the clicking ignitor on our gas range; boiling water; the microwave beep; the bed creak; the ice-maker drop cubes and refill; my wife (some 3,000 miles away), over a cell phone, say, "I'm tired. I miss you. I love you. I am crawling between the sheets. Good night."; and in the background riding atop all the sounds--crickets.

What's the big deal? Ho hum. Why the sounds?

Last week my wife told me she reconnected, on Facebook, with a friend from long ago. After losing touch decades ago he'd lost his hearing--to disease, I think. I have been thinking about his story. I have been thinking about silence. And I have been thinking about hearing--our wonderful sense of hearing.

Years and years and years of silence, thanks to technology and amazing medicine, my wife's friend's hearing was recently restored. He'd posted how chaotic and confusing all the sounds--but how wonderful they were.

He commented about some of the more amazing sounds...

his wife's voice and laugh; the fizzing of soda slowly poured over ice; and that while watching TV in his basement he could hear the faint sound of a barking dog somewhere in the neighborhood.

Initially confused by so much noise flooding in, internal filters are beginning to sort and prioritize sounds. Eventually, like us all, he'll realize a 'norm'--so much to be heard with some to be ignored, automatically, if only because, at the moment, the sound is only noise and does not matter.

For him, a world, once known, is returning. And yet a whole new world of sounds, never known because they did not exist when he had hearing, is being discovered. What a Christmas gift! I cannot help but wonder if the new sounds marry up with the visual images. That is, do the sounds make intuitive sense or must they be learned/associated with the images? What a problem to have.

Can you imagine a world of silence?

Absolute dead silence?

I cannot.

Even the most annoying of sounds...

a beginner on the clarinet or violin or accordian or drums; rap "music"; thumping, penetrating bass from a car stereo; "Press 1 for English"; "All of our representatives are busy. Please hold, your business is important to us"; and the noise of bloviating, arguing politicians--a bitter sweet sound of freedom; are tolerable.

Do you hear what I hear?

Of course not.

But you hear. And be grateful to hear--a wonder, a miracle, most folks don't pause to consider much less think about.

So pause a moment or two--daily. At home. At work. At play. Turn off the TV, radio, stereo, iPod, cell phone and close your eyes and listen--closely. Relax but strain--to hear what you may have been missing all along.

What do you hear that you've never really heard before?

As for absolute dead silence, no thank you.

Yet I'll settle for relative peace and quiet once in a while. If only to close my eyes and listen--closely.

And ever happy to tolerate the damn crickets.

Hear! Hear!

Post Script

We have family that took a new baby home this week--after a month in the hospital fighting and conquering the hurdles of being a preemie. I suspect that baby's noises--crying and all--are the sweetest sounds that couple has ever heard; their happy home alive.

Author's Endnote

While wrapping up these words I phoned home. Nice to hear your voices, Mom and Dad. Really nice to hear your voices.

HERMAN, HERMAN, HERMAN--HER MAN

2011-12-05T15:38:00.000-08:00

HERMAN, HERMAN, HERMAN--HER MAN
by Andy Weddington
Monday, 05 December 2011

"No adultery is bloodless." Natalia Ginzburg

Handwritten in fading black ink on a corner-curling, yellowing 3 x 5 index card, thumb tacked to a 1/2 inch wide edge of a wood shelf in a tiny grocery and bakery on a small Abaco cay in the Bahamas, is the wise adage: "The best defense is to not be there."

Implied: If there, you'd better get a lawyer.

Herman Cain was there.

Herman was there with Ginger White, and for more than 13 years.

Herman was her man.

Herman got a lawyer.

Herman told the public Ginger White was a "friend" he'd given money to help out with bills and such.

Herman told the public, repeatedly (before and after Ginger came forward), he'd never conducted himself "inappropriately" with anyone.

Ginger White got a lawyer.

Ginger White told the public Herman gave her lots of cash money, and romance, and never, in any way, treated her inappropriately.

Ginger White told the public she was not offered money to tell her story.

Ginger White told the public she is telling the truth.

Ginger White told the public, and produced phone records as proof, that she and Herman had had frequent contact the past couple of months (more than 80 text messages and phone calls during October and November).

What Herman did not tell the public was that he'd conducted himself appropriately but inappropriately with a woman not his wife.

Ah, the precision of language and the fine art of listening.

Herman's wife, Gloria, of 40+ years told the public she did not know Herman was Ginger's her man.

Oops!

Ut oh, is right.

Herman told the public Ginger was a friend.

But,

That's the end of the Herman her man story and Cain GOP presidential campaign--a Ginger snap.

Oh well.

Herman, Herman, Herman.

And finally, on a related front, rumored breaking news from the National Restaurant Association...

Tombstone Pizza announced, just in time for the holidays, a new extra dough, white ginger-flavored crust with 13 toppings from which to choose. They're calling it the 'Her Man Pie--No Lie.'

Who could make this saucy, cheesy stuff up?

Besides a pizza joint.

Post Script

That tiny grocery and bakery in the Bahamas has dozens and dozens of corner-curling, yellowing index cards tacked throughout the three short aisles, that offer all sorts of fun wisdom. A couple of other favorites, "Weather is here, wish you were beautiful." and, "A tattoo is a permanent reminder of a temporary feeling."

I guess you could say Herman ran into some foul weather and was tattooed. Good grief.

Author's Endnote

On a more serious note, a few weeks ago I wrote commentary titled, "LYNCHING CAIN." Turns out Herman would hang alright; by his own hand, but he's still going down swinging--with fists--or so he said at his campaign suspension announcement last Saturday--where Mr. Cain also said he will not be silent and will not go away. Someone may want to point out the First Law of Holes to Mr. Cain--that is, when in a hole quit digging.

And so a lesson learned long, long ago applies yet again: Never be surprised by what anyone does just disappointed--awfully disappointed. Having lived a life in uniform under Core Values--Honor. Courage. Commitment.--and the Uniform Code of Military Justice (which holds military members to a far greater standard of personal conduct than civilians--e.g. adultery is a crime), Mr. Cain presents sundry problems related to the Core Values and leadership traits like integrity and character and honor and so on and so forth. Of course these breaches are more common than not in politicians--even presidents. And accepted. But that is not justification.

Mr. Cain president? No.

WHAT ACCUSATION'S NEXT--"SORRY AMERICANS"?

2011-12-01T21:15:00.000-08:00

WHAT ACCUSATION'S NEXT--"SORRY AMERICANS"?
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 02 December 2011

"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves." Abraham Lincoln

What in the world is wrong with Americans? Tens even hundreds of millions of them?

According to one particular gent, the last few decades, especially the last few years, mark the worst American public in our land's short history. Approaching 237 years--infancy when compared to some countries--and the American people have, practically overnight, gone from being fierce fighters for independence and freedom lovers, protectors of the vulnerable, innovative problem solvers, and amongst the most creative, prosperous, and generous people the world has ever known to bums.

The decline, were one to believe it, impossible to comprehend much less understand.

Our melting pot is soft, lazy, whiny, and by no means exceptional. That the observations and voiced opinions of that particular gent--an American president, Mr. Obama--who's also referred to fellow Americans as the enemy. Unbelievable? Not really. Not when considering.

Never mind smoke and mirrors and teleprompters; idiotic policies and accompanying exhorbitant spending; and a disengaged chief executive (all points made by friend and foe); according to Mr. Obama, it's the American people's fault our economy is struggling. It's the American people's fault our national cohesion and psyche is fracturing. It's the American people's fault his presidency has been a miserable failure--to the point of laughable. And it's the American people's fault he'll not enjoy a second term. Mean ol' America--that country the gent's Mrs. knows all too well.

How long before a desperate president, self-proclaimed uniter and promiser of all things wonderful, tags America as dumb, stupid, unimaginative, intellectually inferior (at least to him), and downright sorry? Anyone doubt the thoughts?

Mr. Obama, void of critical red, white, and blue imprinting in his youth, will never understand America nor America's majority. It's not a matter of will not. He simply cannot. Though he does relate famously with a minority freeloading faction that expects something, anything, and everything for nothing. So supporting the Occupiers, a mere subset, a natural. And long ago he figured out how to bamboozle many yet not all. Ergo a gifted first term; a lottery win. A second go at it, in his words 'I'm going to need another term to finish the job,' (Huh? Train wrecks can be finished?) not merited as credible polls, for what they're worth, indicate base support (i.e. blacks, hispanics, women, and even illegals) slipping markedly. And the key cohort (white) that swept him into office is lost. So, as they say in the hood, the gig soon up. What a shame not stepping aside in the name of humility will make for one long, ugly year ahead.

So to whom does soft, lazy, and whiney refer? Tens even hundreds of millions? Not hardly.

The reasonable American, the average American, well knows the mess made economically and emotionally--at home and abroad--cannot be repaired overnight. Yet they've faith, and resolve, it can be repaired.

America, despite what the president and his hangerson claim, is not in decline. She's merely stumbling for want of leadership. And waiting. How long will it take for America to reclaim stature as the stand alone strong, exceptional, feared, and respected country--a giant, across the board, on the world stage? The world's leader?

Not long, provided she seats leaders.

The term "president" implies "leader" but any assumption the words are synonymous is false--they're, in reality, mutually exclusive. For empirical example, look no further than the contrast between Mr. Obama's exhausting apologetic pessimism and blaming persona and Mr. Lincoln's strong hand during dire times and, more recently, the determined and perpetual optimism President Ronald Reagan saw in America. Startling.

"Sorry Americans." Is the unthinkable insult, verbatim or in so many words, coming? Don't bet against it. Proven dismissive of self-reflection especially as to shortcomings and failures, ever looking for a scapegoat, and liable to say anything when under pressure off teleprompter, it's probable. Some argue it's already been said, in so many words.

The 'American' brandname "sorry"? Uh, no. But sad fact is America has indulged, humored, and suffered more than one sorry president; always to recover.

Can you imagine Mr. Lincoln or Mr. Reagan ever ridiculing America, on foreign soil, as arrogant, which Mr. Obama did, or saying, much less thinking, "Sorry Americans"? Good grief.

Sympathetic biographers will ink Mr. Obama's tenure like a Brothers Grimm fairy tale--with any resemblance to reality being purely accidental. But serious historians will chronicle the disaster by sticking to grim facts and telling the true tale; fairly. Pretty it will not be, and the outcome may be sorry.

Leadership. It's damn lonely at the top. Mr. Reagan knew it. So did Mr. Lincoln.

America now has less than a year to find another special someone. Someone with character. Someone competent and comfortable amid loneliness. Ah yes, granted, a tall order. Perhaps impossible. And hardly a breath-holding expectation. But you never know.

Election, judgement, Day is nearing.

Americans love the feel of gun metal, but what about the taste?

What will it be--a move for self-preservation or continue towards self-destruction?

Post Script

"The hardest secret for any man to keep is his opinion of himself." Author Unknown

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED...

2011-11-25T04:16:00.000-08:00

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED...
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 25 November 2011

"The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place."

George Bernard Shaw

There's a line I regularly use as intro when replying to goofy emails and weighing in, usually with humor, on other's facebook posts--"I don't make this stuff up...".

Frankly, I've found I can turn just about anything in life into a short story. All I have to do is step into the public arena and within minutes, every single time, something seen or heard will trigger an idea. Hence, there's no call for me to make anything up. Besides, I couldn't possibly make up all the peculiar stuff people do. No way.

Since it's the day after Thanksgiving, a light short story about a funny thing, an encounter, that happened at a counter, Wednesday morning.

But first a little background...

A few days earlier I received an email inquiry about the availability of a painting. The sender asked about "While You're Away...". I knew the painting instantly but sent a short note back with an attached image of "Baby, While You're Away Even the Tomatoes Turn Blue" (short title "Blue Tomatoes") to confirm. A day later came response, "That's the one, I like it a lot." And they provided a shipping address.

Sold.

Early Wednesday morning, but not before coffee, I crated the painting. Before departing for the post office, I measured and roughly weighed the bulky package then entered the figures into a calculator on the post office's website (http://www.usps.com/) to confirm cost.

At the post office, after completing a form for customs--which I did correctly on the third try--and one for express mail, I joined the short queue. The clerk who waited on me has been working the counter for as long as we've lived in the area (approaching 10 years) and who knows how many transactions we've completed, but numerous ones, without hiccup. I handed him the lightweight crate and a green post-it with the dimensions and said I thought it weighed less than five pounds but wasn't certain--so he placed it on the scale resting on the counter between him and me.

I looked at the clerk--who speaks fluent English, I think as a second (or more) language--and asked, "What's the weight?" Clerk, "What?" Me, "The weight, what's the weight?" Clerk, "Sorry, are you asking which way?" Me, "No, no, the w-e-i-g-h-t (spelling the word slowly), what's the weight?" Clerk still looking puzzled, "It's about 3 to 5 business days." At this point I'm beginning to question my English--southern accent and all, and wondering why we're not communicating. Me, trying to think of another way to ask the question, "No, no, how heavy is the package?" Still nothing is registering with the clerk.

Then for some odd reason and though I'm not conversant, the Swedish word for weight--"vikt"--came to mind. At least I was fairly certainly that was the right word. As I was about to say it, another clerk overhearing the miscommunication piped in, "Weight, he wants to know how much it weighs." Finally, a ray of light. Clerk, "Oh, pardon, sorry sir, it's four pounds. And twelve ounces." And then he smiled. Who knows what had been on his mind. He didn't offer.

We laughed a little. It was funny. I thought I heard a few others in the queue within earshot chuckle, too.

Business complete and as I turned to leave I paused, turned back, and remarked I'd better brush up on my English. The clerk laughed and again apologized. Customers in the queue who'd heard the entire exchange laughed, too.

Why "vikt"?

The package is on it's way to Sweden. Maybe that's why. I have no idea. The clerk is definitely not Swedish so I'm glad I didn't say "vikt" for it'd have only made for further confusion.

Arriving home, my wife--conversant in Swedish, confirmed "vikt" was the right word.

In case you care, "Bla (with a circle over the 'a'--pronounced "blue") Tomater" is Swedish for "Blue Tomatoes."

As for the painting's catchy title, I learned from Frederic Remington that wonderful titles can make paintings oh so much more interesting. Paintings that come to mind: "A Dash for the Timber" (cowboys on horses going a full throttle fleeing from chasing indians with guns blazing); "A Fight for the Waterhole" (a few cowboys encircling a small waterhole protecting from raiders--life or death); and "An Argument with the Town Marshall" (cowboys and the law not seeing eye to eye). Yes, titles can add intrigue.

And so it is with, "Baby, While You're Away Even the Tomatoes Turn Blue."

As does the new owner--I like it, too. And I'm going to miss that painting, but have a grand story to remember it by.

I don't make this stuff up! Absolutely not. There's no need to.

Post Script

By mid-week next, "Baby, While You're Away Even the Tomatoes Turn Blue" (posted left) will be gracing a wall and brightening a home in Sweden. So much the better that it's winter in Scandinavia. "Bla Tomaters" has a new home.

EAST WASHINGTON STREET CIVICS LESSON

2011-11-21T12:55:00.000-08:00

EAST WASHINGTON STREET CIVICS LESSON
by Andy Weddington
Monday, 21 November 2011

"I think the most un-American thing you can say is, "You can't say that." Garrison Keillor

The best, the lasting, lessons in life come from firsthand experience. And you just never know when those lessons are going to come along. You just never know, so you'd best be ever paying attention.

Situated between West Adams and West Jefferson streets, with East Washington running into it, in downtown Phoenix, Arizona, is the Wesley Bolin (1909-1978) Memorial Plaza. The site bears the name of the state's 15th governor who died after a mere five months in office (named less than a week after his death).

Bolin Memorial Plaza fronts Arizona's state capitol complex. It is home to more than two dozen memorials including World Wars I & II; Korean War; Vietnam War; Desert Storm; the mast and anchor from the USS Arizona; and many more military tributes and honors to individuals important in Arizona's rich history. And there are gardens. The plaza is listed among "Phoenix Points of Pride." When in town, make it a point to visit. You'll be glad you spared the time.

A couple of months ago I was invited to visit the Bolin Plaza, for the first time, to attend a ceremony held this past weekend. And because I was paying attention, there's a story, a life's lesson, a civics lesson, realized from my visit.

At approximately 1215 Saturday afternoon, clad in coat and tie and my wife in Service Dress Blues, we exited I-10 East at 144A and proceeded south on 7th Avenue in search of something to eat. Unfamiliar with the area, and starving, there was not much to be found. A McDonalds (drive-thru), not in the best part of town, was the only convenient option.

When handed the bag of food and change, heavy black marker writing on a five dollar bill caught my attention. On the face side, with an arrow pointing to the 'United States Federal Reserve System' seal to the left of Lincoln's portrait was the word, "Traitors." To the right, with a line coming from Lincoln's mouth, was the question, "Are you really emancipated?" Verso, in large letters above and right of the Lincoln Memorial, "Occupy Phoenix." Below and running across the bottom of the memorial's pillars, "Help Save America."

About thirty minutes later driving along East Washington, in the business district 12 or so blocks east of Bolin Plaza, we came upon a common area (on the south side) taken over by Phoenix Occupiers. Blue tarps hastily strung were the first signs of the disorganized encampment. To be blunt, it was a damn eyesore. A hodgepodge of characters, that by any reasonable person's assessment were in need of comprehensive personal hygiene and clean clothes, were milling around. Several police officers were in the area. I parked, momentarily, behind a television news crew's truck. And one character, wearing a sateen military-type jacket holding a hand-scribbled cardboard sign, "Honk If You're in Debt - Support Occupy Phoenix," was curbside annoying motorists and pedestrians.

How interesting. A defaced five dollar bill and an impromptu encounter with Occupiers (one of which undoubtedly ate at McDonalds) all within an half hour. And so was the first half of a developing civics lesson: Freedom to assemble and freedom of speech.

Twelve blocks and ten minutes later we pulled into the north parking lot of Bolin Plaza. It was not packed but steadily filling for the 1400 ceremony. Folks in uniform and others spiffily dressed were converging on a common area encircled by memorials. The occasion? A master chief petty officer in the United States Navy was retiring.

Well over 300, who traveled from coast to coast and Hawaii--many in uniform and many retired, came to honor a revered shipmate. There was a few admirals. And a few Marines. And there was some young Sailors--officer and enlisted. And more chief petty officers than I could accurately count--losing track after 62. And there was family. And there was friends.

The contrast to the Occupiers was striking--in purpose; in attire; and in civility. Chairs were neatly arranged and so was a temporary ground-level stage. There was no blue tarps. There was no disorder. There was no police. There was no television news crew (regrettable and shameful). Peacefully gathering was the people who protect and defend the other's right to assemble and protest. America, what a country. And what better illustration for a civics lesson in democracy? It was an opportunity missed by teachers and their students. Too bad. And too bad it--the contrast--wasn't captured by the television news crew for news at six and eleven.

The 2 hours and 16 minutes ceremony, a little longer than most, was marked by laughter and tears and plenty to think about. Thirty years of personal and family sacrifice, dedicated and faithful service to God, family, and country had elapsed and was coming to a close. The usual pomp and circumstance was nice and impressive. It always is. The awards and sundry recognitions earned bestowed with class. But in all my years witnessing retirements--military or civilian--I do not recall hearing an honoree deliver more eloquent, thoughtful, heartfelt, and passionate comments, while, for the most part, maintaining composure, about the meaning of duty--to God, family, and country; their personal mantra. Humility, while not afraid to march forward into uncertainty and conquer, throughout a career, clear. The older in attendance listened. I hope the younger paid close attention--to the master chief and the elders.

The day and time for younger Sailors to assume the watch had arrived. And they confidently and respectfully told that old master chief 'your duty done, stand down, we have the watch.' Though the Navy will dearly miss this Sailor, an indelible imprint remains--caring, exemplary, selfless leadership that will more than linger, it'll endure from generation to generation.

In keeping with tradition, sideboys saluted while the Chief Boatswain's Mate piped the master chief ashore. And following that once-in-a-career walk, and also in keeping with tradition, the master chief returned to escort family--spouse and three children--on their deserved walk ashore; salute and piping repeated. A Navy family they will always be.

Master Chief Petty Officer Stella Reyes, U. S. Navy (Retired) is one of the good ones--the really good ones. She is the daughter of a U. S. Navy Master Chief Petty Officer. The overlaps with her father's (now deceased) career more than ironic. Further, both sides of her family have a distinguished history of Navy and Marine Corps service too long to recap here. Suffice to say they have done, and continue to do, their part. No pressure on the youngsters now coming of age who are facing adult decisions--their example right before them.

Though not planned as such, the master chief's day was more than a retirement. It was an unplanned but powerful current events civics lesson of and for America--a more compelling example does not come to mind. It was a day I will long remember--with a defaced five spot, to be framed between panes of glass, as proof and reminder.

In summary, that 12-block stretch along East Washington Street in downtown Phoenix on a beautiful Saturday afternoon was 100% occupied: by a sampling of the 99% clueless as to how to go about making a credible statement and the other 1% being America's protectors, America's defenders--America's patriots. It was a clash of ideologies without confrontation of any sort. Perfect. And it was my distinct pleasure to be counted amongst and mingle with the elite minority.

As expected, shortly after the ceremony, the area was cleared and policed--leaving no trace of what had just happened. Rest assured that will not be the case with the Occupiers--whenever they should decide to disband.

In closing...

I suppose there's some serendipity, too, with Phoenix and ties to mythology--the old, the new, rebirth, and so on and so forth--and that our national bird is an eagle, an eagle is the centerpiece of a master chief petty officer's rating insignia, and an eagle rests atop a shield on a five dollar note. If nothing else it makes for a nice story--good copy. But it's much more.

And then there's the overarching conclusion the entire day of 19 November 2011 lending credence to the thought nothing in life is happenstance. It's just we don't, we can't, fully understand the complexity of our enormous, chaotic, and nonlinear world--of the master plan--until life ends. Thus leaving us all something marvelous to look forward to when we reunite, one day.

Fair Winds and Following Seas, Master Chief.

Semper Fidelis.

Post Script

It's my privilege to know Master Chief Reyes. Though a Sailor, there's the Marine mystique deeply rooted in her spirit--for she, as was her husband, was a Marine Corps JROTC student in high school. Her Marine instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Patrick Campbell, USMC (Retired) was at the ceremony. I've heard much about him. And though never having laid eyes on him I knew him the instant I saw him. He looked like a Marine 'Gunny'--he sported a fresh flat top, was neatly dressed from head to toe, and particularly the gaze--he just looked the part. Marines know. I introduced myself and we (and his wife) spoke briefly at the reception. I learned he retired from active duty in 1968 and then taught MCJROTC for 19 years. Though of different generations, we had plenty to talk about--just as any two Marines would. When parting, we agreed though a superb Sailor, Master Chief Reyes would have made a great Marine and that the Corps loss was the Navy's gain--was it ever. And she proved it.

Author's Endnotes

1. Master Chief Reyes has a daughter with a date of birth 10 November (some years ago)--the birthday of our Corps, for those readers unfamiliar.

2. To my wife's shock, she was, during the ceremony, presented with title "Honorary Chief Petty Officer" and thereby welcomed to the Chief's mess--an honor of the highest order (signed by Command Master Chief Banks). She's worked alongside Master Chief Reyes, and many of the other chiefs in attendance, throughout her career. Her brother, Bobby, retired a U. S. Navy Chief Petty Officer. He was a boiler technician--an always sweaty, grimy and dirty Sailor who made sailing warships possible. Deceased now 11 years, I suspect he was not surprised by another in the family making chief but, like me, is incredibly proud of his little sister. Anchors Aweigh.

A MONSTER IN THE PRIDE?

2011-11-17T10:09:00.000-08:00

A MONSTER IN THE PRIDE?
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 18 November 2011

"Disappointment is a sort of bankruptcy - the bankruptcy of a soul that expends too much in hope and expectation." Eric Hoffer

Pride--Nittany Lion, that is--pride? It's blemished these days for the chaos surrounding an alleged monster who stalked Happy Valley.

Queries have rolled in wondering about comment on the child sexual abuse mess surrounding Penn State University's (Penn State) football program and the university. First inclination was no. But after reading sworn testimony in the Thirty-Third Statewide Investigating Grand Jury report that made findings of fact and recommendations of charges, I changed my mind.

Where to begin?

Innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. So no one will be tried or sentenced in this forum.

However, sworn testimony in the Grand Jury report is damning. And the accused's admissions (a few days ago during an interview) of showering with boys and putting his hand on their legs, "horsing around"--as he described it while denying sexual overtones or attraction, is, if nothing else, taboo behavior in our culture. So there's plenty prime for comment.

There's no need to recap particulars. All of it, the graphic bad and ugly, is readily available on the Internet. And that, though not so much for Penn State, is good.

Analysis? No need.

Opinion? Plenty. And not enough time to offer it all.

Provided the investigative work is valid, the sworn testimony truthful, and the findings factual then whatever the explanations, whatever the rationalizations, whatever the denials, whatever the defenses, sick is the only word that keeps coming to mind. Adults, especially adults in positions of leadership, have a moral obligation--an ethical duty--to aggressively protect children. Sandusky, charged a predator and rapist of young boys, stands alone for his alleged criminal behavior.

Gerald "Jerry" Sandusky, once a Penn State football player, longtime football coach at his alma mater, and founder of a charity helping young boys, facing more than three dozen charges of sexually abusing children (young boys) for over a decade and a half, is a sick man.

Others (i.e., Joe Paterno, head football coach; Athletic Director; Vice President for Finance and Business; University President; etc.) who did not report what they knew to police, by default, sick accomplices. At least two of them committed perjury about their knowledge of the abuse.

Students (and anyone else), protesting and rioting upon Coach Paterno's immediate dismissal, are sick.

Anyone who had direct or indirect knowledge of what Jerry Sandusky did, and was doing, and did not report it to authority (i.e. police), outside the Penn State domain, is sick. (Note: A coach claiming to have witnessed a lewd act says he informed police. Ongoing.)

Then what of the complicit? Why? To protect self, institutional reputation(s) and, more importantly, an enormous cash flow (tens and tens of millions), at the expense of people, children, deemed expendable if not disposable. Unconscionable.

How did they live with themselves? How did they sleep at night?

Penn State's website (http://www.psu.edu/) has a page dedicated to "Principles." There are four. Two pertain to academics. Here are the other two...

"I will respect the dignity of all individuals within the Penn State community.

The University is committed to creating and maintaining an educational environment that respects the right of all individuals to participate fully in the community. Actions motivated by hate, prejudice, or intolerance violate this principle. I will not engage in any behaviors that compromise or demean the dignity of individuals or groups, including intimidation, stalking, harassment, discrimination, taunting, ridiculing, insulting, or acts of violence. I will demonstrate respect for others by striving to learn from differences between people, ideas, and opinions and by avoiding behaviors that inhibit the ability of other community members to feel safe or welcome as they pursue their academic goals.

I will demonstrate social and personal responsibility.

The University is a community that promotes learning; any behaviors that are inconsistent with that goal are unacceptable. Irresponsible behaviors, including alcohol or drug abuse and the use of violence against people or property, undermine the educational climate by threatening the physical and mental health of members of the community. I will exercise personal responsibility for my actions and I will make sure that my actions do not interfere with the academic and social environment of the University. I will maintain a high standard of behavior by adhering to the Code of Conduct and respecting the rights of others."

Charged to the student body, does it not follow adherence to the same principles is expected from all faculty and staff--including football coaches and administrative leadership? Rhetorical. Certainly! The premise is leadership--by example.

Moreover, what about ideas like right vs wrong; law; witnessing a heinous crime and reporting it--over and over, if necessary, until someone listens; knowing of heinous crimes being committed and reporting them--over and over, if necessary, until someone listens; and protecting the innocent and defenseless? And that's just for starters.

Penn State's principles are wordy--whatever substance lost in lack of clarity.

In contrast, U. S. Marines (and Sailors) are guided by a set of Core Values: Honor. Courage. Commitment. Three hard-hitting words that set an overarching standard for personal behavior for all, rank notwithstanding, to do what is right. Simple. Substantive. Clear. There's no arguing their meaning nor what is expected.

That said, Marines, too, misbehave--reprehensibly. I've seen it; investigated and reported it; saw the institution (at high levels) close ranks and some meddle with due process to protect--individuals and the Corps; and then saw higher level internal and external checks and balances, emplaced for the sole purpose of protecting the sanctity of the institution, fail. Not exactly but similar to what happened at Penn State.

What's alleged to have happened at Penn State, what I saw in the Marines, and what nonsense, to any degree, that goes on in any human outfit, surprising? No. Mankind, hard-wired to do so, errs and fails--innocently and intentionally.

But how indescribably disappointing, and troubling, when respected institutions (the people a given) resort to shady i-dotting and t-crossing--cursory reviews, ass-covering form letters, and rubber stamps--to bury problems. But the file cabinet drawer nor hole is ever deep enough. The odor stays. And sooner or later justice catches a whiff and starts digging. As was the case with Jerry Sandusky--apparently a 'state secret' for a couple of years.

There are no winners.

But possibly losers aplenty.

At Penn State, foremost the children--their innocence, dignity, and trust destroyed. Time will tell what else. And, include anyone "led"--in classroom or on gridiron--by the sick men. Pause to wonder what they, students and student athletes--alumni, are thinking. That's not so difficult to imagine.

As to the Marine Corps, Marines (and Sailors), "led" by the misbehaving and their abettors, lose. And on a grander scale, there's the inestimable damage the wrong example by seniors, passed from generation to generation, leaves on impressionable juniors and the future of the institution. Time will tell that, too.

A cold hard fact of life is evil exists. Testimony and admission indicates the unimaginable was reality, for a long time, at Penn State. The tragedy is all the harm that can never be undone. Managed, maybe. Most of the time good eventually prevails yet hurt lingers.

If the unthinkable happened at Penn State, whether substantiated in court or not, linger hurt will, likely for life, for a group of young men robbed of their childhood.

May justice prevail and if found guilty let punishment befit the crimes. We'll see.

And in closing...

Our Corps motto, Semper Fidelis (always faithful), a reinforcing complement to our values.

It's oh so easy to sour and overlook all the good that far outweighs the bad in all things human. It's just damn unfortunate a tiny drop of evil--a pollutant--is disproportionate to the enormous volume of good it poisons. But it's the words of a now deceased general, a commandant, gifted to me three decades ago that continue to proffer hope and courage under the direst of circumstances: "Keep the faith!"

Pride will one day return to the Nittany Lion pride but it will never be the same.

Post Script

On another note...

The problems at Penn State, football program to athletics department to administration, are symptomatic of out-of-control college athletics. Sadly, they're not so uncommon. At any given campus, from an emphasis on winning to players that masquerade as students to exorbitantly compensated coaches to schools that rake in millions and millions of dollars, a model in place for way too long, the system is broken. But that's not news. What to do? Is the status quo an inevitable by-product of capitalism? No question. Is it--the model--too big to fail? No. But whom will have the courage to fix it? For starters, it'll take nothing short of a huge collective of influential university presidents--from all conferences coast to coast. Don't hold your breath. Then again Congress doesn't have anything else to do--perhaps they'll schedule hearings. Good grief.

Author's Endnotes

1. Jerry Sandusky and at least one other Penn State official, to this day, draw comfortable pensions from the University.

2. If Penn State has a motto it was not to be found. Maybe they should consider adopting one. A few more words won't prevent evil but just might help fend it off. It can't hurt. And they should definitely rethink principles--simplify.

3. There is no geographic area called "Happy Valley." It's a slang term, not embraced by Penn State, journalists have used for a long time. The association with Penn State understood. It may be a while before writers feel comfortable using the term. Come to think of it, maybe never.

4. Ironically, Penn State has a Naval ROTC unit. The Core Values are part of the midshipmen's education and training. I doubt any of them were protesting and rioting in support of Coach Paterno. Disappointing if they were, and a sign remedial training required--as better thinking than that necessary to lead Marines and Sailors.

5. Grand Jury report: http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2011/11/06/sports/ncaafootball/20111106-pennstate-document.html

6. Thank you, KK.

PRESIDENTIAL DEBATES--WHY BOTHER?

2011-11-12T08:22:00.000-08:00

PRESIDENTIAL DEBATES--WHY BOTHER?
by Andy Weddington
Saturday, 12 November 2011

"I wish I could give you a lot of advice, based on my experience of winning political debates. But I don't have that experience. My only experience is at losing them." Richard M. Nixon

The GOP debates are necessary. But debates next fall? Why bother?

Now to explain.

Recent polling indicates Mr. Romney is in a statistical tie with President Obama in several key "battleground" states. Analysts argue the Republicans need to put forth the best candidate possible to beat Mr. Obama, and consensus is that candidate is Mr. Romney. Though analysts admit many in the party will toss their head back and pinch nostrils closed while voting for Mr. Romney. Why? Because Mr. Romney has baggage not to the liking of conservative America but, per the analysts, has the best chance of holding his own when debating with the president--a proven competent debater and superb speaker (at least with teleprompter).

But that perspective does not make sense. It's illogical. The thinking and the deduction is flawed. Sure the strongest candidate ought to be in the arena against Mr. Obama but, to date, there's not a compelling case Mr. Romney is that candidate. Nor is there any reason to debate.

I digress but necessarily so.

Mr. Perry stumbled, again, earlier this week during a debate. He went blank--he could not remember something. And oh how uncomfortable it was watching him struggle. But in the heat of the moment he handled it about the best way he could--he sort of threw up his hands, said he couldn't remember, and comically said, "Oops." Then the next day he aggressively set out to repair whatever damage (and raise money), real or hyped, that'd been done with a touch of humor tagline "I stepped in it."

By the media's and analyst's pounding on Mr. Perry's all-too-human gaff they'd have us believe he committed the crime of the century. Some tagged it the worst moment in televised debates in the last 50 years. That's hard to believe. Who hasn't gone completely blank on occasion? A couple of weeks ago at a social I forgot a longtime friend's wife's name. For whatever reason, cells and synapses failed me. Embarrassing? No, not really. I managed, gracefully, anyway. So what. Are we to slay a candidate for the presidency because of a momentary memory lapse? It's just too bad Mr. Perry has had more than one burp at the podium. But still. There's another debate this evening. We'll see.

Mr. Cain, relieved to have some pressure off, certainly took no joy in Mr. Perry's hiccup. And yet those same imbecilic media and analyst types would likewise have us believe the manufactured sexual harassment allegations (Ann Coulter recently exposed a slimy, stinky trail leading back to David Axelrod and Chicago--ah, perhaps a prominent Chicagoan's fingerprint to appear in a dusting; verifiable against birth certificate) against Mr. Cain are his death sentence. Baloney! Media's trying to sell. The public's not buying. Mr. Cain's campaign, even while straying from message to address baseless attacks, has reported raising more than $9 million. Explain that one? The folks are weighing in--with cash and support.

Newt Gingrich is steadily recovering from his bumpy start and the staff turmoil that marked his entry into the race. He's now perched on the top tier. And those who jumped ship to join Mr. Perry are probably now thinking how hasty their decision. Whatever. Mr. Gingrich, appearance after appearance, proves he knows the issues, foreign and domestic, and is no dim bulb. Most agree he is the one candidate who would bury--in form and substance--Mr. Obama in debate.

What of Bachmann, Santorum, Huntsman, and Paul? They're no dummies. But their's seems to be more of a supporting role keeping the top tier candidates sharp. And that's good.

Now back to Mr. Romney as the candidate to beat Mr. Obama, and the matter of debate.

I said at the onset the logic is flawed. It is.

Once the Republicans have chosen their candidate debate is moot.

What would be the point? What in the world is there to debate? It would be one thing if Mr. Obama's policies and administration were moving the country in the right direction, but most polls indicate more than 70% of Americans do not believe that to be the case. So, what of substance is there to debate?

These are unusual times. Remember, in 2007 and 2008, our sitting president promised the world. He's not delivered. He talks. He spins. He blames--everyone but himself.

Mr. Obama's tenure, particularly regarding the economy, has been a disaster. A disaster stemming from two primary causes: 1) He has no clue; 2) His economic team--no longer serving--had no clue. Cause 2 may explain cause 1. Maybe.

Protecting our borders--especially to the south--has not been any better. Let's set states enacting bills to enforce federal law aside. The larger issue is the problem has been framed wrong. The language is wrong. Mr. Obama, and Republicans, too, refer to "immigration" (illegal). That's ridiculous. The problem is "infiltration" not "immigration." In military parlance, "they" are inside our wire. We need to get them out. We need to keep them out. And that is accomplished through an interlocking and overlapping array of physical measures e.g. ditches, moats, fences--solid and wire, listening posts, observation posts, mines, fires registration points, fields of grazing fire, aerial surveillance, and manpower. That is how to protect our perimeter. Ask any combat arms Marine.

"Green" energy and jobs? Where? "Dirty green"--can you spell Solyndra?

And as to foreign policy, there's the headscratching snuggling up to and sharing winks, nods, and not-so-secret handshakes with known thugs, thieves, and backstabbers while cold-shouldering friends. What? Why?

There's more but the point made.

Words may be powerful. Results more powerful yet. Still again I cite the quote embossed on a plaque that sat on a bookcase behind an old commanding officer's desk: "Don't Confuse Effort With Results." By extension, effort includes talk.

By the time next fall--traditional presidential debate season--rolls around Mr. Obama will have had an entire term to have done something. Nothing significant is going to happen between now and then. Besides, governing has taken a back seat to campaigning.

No, there's no need for any Democratic vs Republican debate. None. Enough talk.

America listened. America, for a while, was patient. America, restless, started to fidget. America is fracturing. America has heard all she needs to hear--at least from opposing party candidates in a formal forum.

The Republican has nothing to gain by debating. Though there's much that could be lost against an opponent who dazzles with clever words and mesmorizing delivery.

Debating is tactics.

Not debating is strategy.

A compelling case has already been made to oust Mr. Obama. And he made it himself.

All the Republican candidate needs to do is stay on message and remind the country of the mess Mr. Obama has made. That's it.

It's time for our "45th President of the United States." But the logic for Mr. Romney is flawed. Seriously flawed. And smelly. There's no reason for American's to have to hold their nose voting for a president. None. And they don't have to. And so is there no sensible reason for debate--the choices clear.

And...

Some doubt Mr. Cain will survive the smear of the sexual harassment allegations. Though knowing nothing about politics and campaigning, I am not so gloomy and am willing to give Americans more credit for using their heads. Bold, I know, but there are encouraging signs (e.g. money flowing to Cain; standing room only rallies; etc.).

Several of the Republicans are problematic for Mr. Obama, but none more than Mr. Cain. A black (conservative or not) squelches any possibility of Democrats painting the Republicans (and Tea Party movement) as racists. His substantive resume of leadership and accomplishment, understanding capitalism and economics, trumps the sitting president's thin (and some say questionable) resume and dismal term.

In the end, race of candidates will not matter. And it will matter not how the black vote goes in 2012. The white vote, as it did in 2008, will determine the election. And Mr. Obama their choice will not be.

Finally, on a lighter note and to prove I am definitely comfortable in my own skin, something that occurred to me while polishing this Commentary, a thought for a campaign bumper sticker:

"HONKy for CAIN!"

Post Script

Or so it seems to me.

FINDING PATRIOTISM

2011-11-11T04:38:00.000-08:00

FINDING PATRIOTISM
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 11 November 2011 / Veterans Day

"A veteran is someone who, at one point in his/her life, wrote a blank check made payable to The United States of America for an amount of up to and including their life.” Author Unknown

Returning home from a quiet evening out last night with my wife toasting, dining, and celebrating the Marine Corps birthday, I found the following posted on my Facebook wall:

"So..I know I'm not much of a poet..But in honor of the Marine Corps birthday and Veterans Day, I thought I would share a poem that I wrote for English class. Thank you to all who have served and are currently serving in our military.

Thanks To Our Veterans
Kailey Pickitt

Little did I know
On that bright June day
I would get an opportunity
That would change my ways

I was off to Girls Nation
In the blink of an eye
To make many new friends
Maybe meet a new guy!

I arrived in DC
To a busy itinerary
Which included meeting Obama, watching the Senate
And giving speeches, how scary!

I was taken off guard
When we started to eat
When an announcement was made
That made us freeze in our seats.

“Tomorrow we’ll visit wounded soldiers at Walter Reed,”
said Director Vicki, as she began to advise.
I did not realize then
How this experience would open my eyes.

As we boarded the bus,
I got a feeling of dread.
“Would this event be sad?” I pondered
Thoughts raced through my head.

As we got off the bus,
I looked all around.
Soldiers with every imaginable injury
Covered the hospital grounds.

Though many missed limbs or deformed facial features,
That were covered with hairstyles,
They all had one thing in common:
Enthusiastic, infectious smiles.

We mingled with the warriors,
Finding home states and favorite teams in common
Being very cautious, though,
Not to offend or over-help them.

Many were open, describing
The explosions that caused their injury.
As I sat there listening,
I could no longer find ANY reason behind my misery.

As we lined up for the bus,
After saying goodbye,
I thought of their selfless sacrifice
And I started to cry.

As my tears continued,
I heard a rough voice.
“Please don’t cry, sweetheart.
This life was my choice.”

I could see in him,
As in all those I met
A sense of great pride in country
And desire to remove any threat.

I realized my new friends
That I talked with that night,
Owed their lives to these soldiers
Who were so willing to fight.

Now, back at school
I honor and thank them all
With a new sense of patriotism
That will forever stand tall."

The author is a high school senior.

Her father is a veteran--U. S. Air Force. Both grandfathers are veterans--U. S. Air Force. She has aunts and uncles that are veterans--U. S. Navy, U. S. Marine Corps, U. S. Coast Guard. And she has extended family that are veterans--U. S. Army, and the other branches, too. Their collective years of service to country easily eclipses two hundred. Pile on hundreds more years for the family members who did not wear a uniform but shared in the sacrifices, fears, and hardships of duty.

Though she had a vague idea about military service, it was not until visiting with wounded warriors--many of them young Marines not so much older than her--as part of the Girls Nation program that the selfless sacrifices of those who volunteer to serve moved beyond an idea. Those few hours with America's real heroes, patriots, were life-changing. Of course.

She now deeply understands, appreciates, and respects the colors of our land--that star-spangled banner. And the pledge we recite in allegiance.

Some things in our country are going exactly right. And Kailey Pickitt, author of "Thanks To Our Veterans", is one shining example.

Citizenship. And now the responsibility of leadership.

Through her, and many like her, and those willing to don a uniform, to write that blank check, America will not only survive she'll endure.

Patriotism found.

Post Script

Kailey Pickitt is my niece. Thank you, Kailey, for a memorable 10 November and Veterans Day. Forward, March!

Author's Endnote

In George Orwell's words...

"People sleep peaceably in their beds at night because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."

.

WHEN MARINES GATHER

2011-11-10T03:32:00.000-08:00

WHEN MARINES GATHER
by Andy Weddington
Thursday, 10 November 2011 / USMC236

"You cannot exaggerate about the Marines. They are convinced to the point of arrogance, that they are the most ferocious fighters on earth-and the amusing thing about it is that they are."

Father Kevin Keaney, 1st Marine Division Chaplain, Korean War

Today marks the 236th birthday of the United States Marine Corps.

So, fittingly, a sea story--a true one not a week old, preceded by a short intro...

A few months back I read a book titled "Brute." Lieutenant General Victor Krulak--aka: Brute--was a colorful character in Corps history (one of his sons, Charles, went on to earn four stars and become our 31st commandant). I'd read about Brute through the years and have read a little more since finishing the new biography. Somewhere amidst all the reading was a tale he told that when a lieutenant he asked his salty gunnery sergeant just how it was Marines came to be revered as fierce warriors. Not successful locating the source to cite the quote, the gunny's reply went something like this, "Well, lieutenant, it goes back to our early days when Marines first gathered and amongst themselves boasted about their toughness, superior fighting ability, and greatness. Soon that word spread and folks, upon seeing a Marine, would remark they'd heard Marines were tough fighters and to be feared. As goes gossip, so grew the reputation. And ever since, each generation of Marine has fought to live up to that public reputation." Or something like that.

But it's not gossip, not lore. The reputation of the Marine Corps was built the only way it could be--by slugging it out on battlefields while systematically destroying enemies. Yes, Marines are tough. Marines know how to fight. And fact is, Marines are feared. As longtime friend, Colonel Mike Lowe, USMC (Retired) told a company of new lieutenants at The Basic School some years ago, "Running into a Marine outfit in combat is your worst nightmare."

Now for the sea story...

While approaching the maingate to Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center, 29 Palms, California, last Saturday evening, a sign posted about 100 yards from the guard shack noted "FPCON A - 100% ID Check". "FPCON A" is the acronym for "Force Protection Condition Alpha"--a heightened state of security for the purpose of knowing who, exactly, is attempting to board the base.

My vehicle's windshield, driver's side bottom corner, has a current base decal with a blue stripe below it indicating officer. Above the decal is a small red sticker with white marking denoting rank of colonel. Beside the red sticker is a white one, of equal size, with black marking denoting rank of Navy captain. Normally the decal is enough to permit entry. Not this evening. As each vehicle in the short queue made its way to the sentry there was pause while ID cards, in addition to decals, were checked.

As I pulled forward the sentry, a Marine clad in desert camouflage utilities, extended his left arm motioning to stop. I complied. As I handed him my ID, I noted he was Private First Class Irwin (all of 18 or 19 years old) and said, "Good evening, Marine." He studied the ID a moment, handed it back, came to attention, saluted, and wished me a nice evening.

And with that refreshing exchange, a customary act of courtesy and respect and piece of Marine Corps tradition (in contrast, as I pulled away, I momentarily thought about the 'occupiers' and shook my head), I proceeded to the Officers' Club for an evening of celebration and camaraderie with retired Marines, and others, to mark our Corps 236th birthday.

Entering the bar, I saw familiar faces, exchanged pleasantries and small talk, grabbed a drink, and sought out an old retired Marine friend I've know for nine years.

He was born in 1919. The youngest of a dozen or so children raised on a struggling cotton farm in Texas, he once told me the lot of them damn near starved to death during the depression. He wasn't kidding. And he's told me other stories of a tough life. A favorite being one of chores shared by his siblings--with a straight face and a wink he claimed having been seven or eight years old before realizing his given name was not "get wood." Young Ray Wilburn enlisted when he was 18. With only the clothes on his back and a pair of dimes in his pocket, he walked and hitch-hiked to the recruiting station more than 20 miles away. That bold decision, as it turned out, led to fighting in the South Pacific, Korea, and Vietnam. And then, after 32 years, he retired. He still wears his dress blues to the ball. And inspection ready they are. Now approaching his 93rd birthday, he's as sharp as ever--though admitted his body is starting to fail. Sergeant Major Ray Wilburn, USMC (Retired) was the oldest Marine present Saturday evening--a distinction that earned him the first piece of the ceremonial cake. Though sounding a bit cliche-ish, he's a Marine's Marine.

Moments later I ran into a Marine I'd served with aboard the Combat Center years ago. He'd invited a special guest and introduced me. His guest, clad casually and wearing a lightweight black sweater embroidered with our eagle, globe, and anchor on the left breast, was sitting in a wheelchair. The emblem and his closely cropped snow white hair strong hints he just may be a Marine. I bent down for our introduction. Though his soft voice was hard to understand, no question he was tuned in--the glint in his eye and occasional smile attesting. Master Gunnery Sergeant Chester Walton, USMC (Retired) enlisted in 1940. He, too, fought in the South Pacific--including Iwo Jima. And he fought in Korea and Vietnam--two combat tours each. His daughter, dad's escort for the evening, is a Marine--something that made perfect sense once she'd revealed completing recruit training in 1979.

The dinner bell rang.

I was seated at Table 8. With the exception of one Marine (and his wife), the two other Marines (and spouses), colonels, and a Navy Captain (and spouse), and the widow of a Marine colonel, I was, by far, the youngest. The other colonels and the Captain retired in the early 70s. Aggregate years of service to Corps and Navy--about 170 (not including the ladies). And that was probably about average for the other 14 or 15 tables.

So that's over 2,500 years service to country--with Purple Hearts and other combat decorations for valor worn by many. By comparison, the aggregate years of service of an active duty infantry battalion would not eclipse that number by much, if at all. Our active ranks, by necessity and design, young.

The script for the evening was inked long ago in Marine Corps directives--cocktails, cake-cutting ceremony with traditional reading of thoughts from our 13th commandant and the current commandant's message, guest of honor remarks, dinner, and dancing--though not many in this crowd take to the dance floor any more.

The guest of honor was the Combat Center's commanding general--a brigadier (though wearing a star he was not the evening's star--that distinction belonging to the retirees). Commissioned in 1985, he was one of the younger Marines in attendance. An interesting happenstance, his 4th grade teacher, the wife of a retired colonel friend, was in attendance. During his opening remarks he acknowledged her and admitted taking extra care preparing his comments to ensure proper noun/verb use (the crowd chuckled). His remarks centered around Marines, regardless of generation, being Marines. Tough. Fighters. Fearsome. He told the story of a young corporal leading his squad on a foot patrol in Now Zad district of Helmand province, Afghanistan, on 22 March 2009. The squad, from L 3/8 (Lima company, 3rd battalion/8th Marines), was hit by an IED (improvised explosive device) which triggered an ambush. Keeping his cool, the corporal led his Marines directing their fire and calling in supporting arms. Not known by those on the other end of the radio, because he was calm and deliberate, the corporal had been seriously wounded (severed left leg and peppered with shrapnel) by the IED (it detonated under him) and was being treated by a Corpsman amidst the battle. His leadership led to the destruction of the enemy--that running into a Marine outfit in combat their worst nightmare thing. But he, while en route to a field hospital, succumbed to his wounds. For extraordinary leadership and gallantry, Corporal Michael E. Ouellette, USMC was postumously awarded the Navy Cross. The general summed up by saying the "Nintendo" generation of Marine, despite their doubters, were every bit as Marine as those before them.

With a decade of fighting, multiple combat tours under their belt in Iraq and Afghanistan, and instance after instance of sometimes bewildering heroism--some decorated, some not--every bit as good. Maybe better.

One nice thing about the evening--for the 100% ID Check at the gate, there was no chance of bumping into a fake Marine--something I've written about on occasion and as recently as a couple of weeks ago. But this evening, not a chance. Twenty-six balls while on duty. Six since hanging up the uniform. Yet the title "Marine" once earned is for eternity. As I've corrected many a folk, there are no "former" Marines. Marines are: active duty; reserve; retired; not in a duty status; dead.

Happy Birthday, Marines!

Semper Fidelis.

Post Script

It was unanimous, even amongst the ladies, I had the best shoes there--a pair of bright red canvas slip-on Crocs. They matched my vest. I wore them especially for friend Colonel Mac Dube, USMC (Retired)--a hero of our Corps whom I've written about in the past http://acoloneloftruth.blogspot.com/2010/08/heroisms-always-rewarded-sometimes.html and http://acoloneloftruth.blogspot.com/2010/05/marines-brass-recycled-and-mystery.html who, after I retired, ribbed me regularly about continuing to wear shoes with laces (and not shaving every day). He'd say, "Andy, you need some slip-ons. Here, look at mine. Oh, did you lose your razor?" I finally found a pair of slip-ons I liked. And found my razor. Regrettably, Big Mac, under the weather, was unable to attend the ball--the first he's missed. So, his wife took notes and we took pictures. Big Mac's wife, Pat, was the general's teacher. Small Corps.

Author's Endnotes

1. Our commandant and sergeant major deliver 2011 message--11 minutes 51 seconds. As the video is every year, first class. Time well spent. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I79UW6-NAAU

2. A hand-numbered/signed limited edition copy of "Making Marines" to the first reader citing this endnote. See book link left for book overview. Send to: acoloneloftruth@gmail.com

3. A classic: Such as Regiments hand down forever. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CIKeSPK6I3g

LYNCHING CAIN

2011-11-09T07:25:00.000-08:00

LYNCHING CAIN
by Andy Weddington
Wednesday, 09 November 2011

"One of the worst things about racism is what it does to young people." Alvin Ailey

Growing up in the south in the 60s and 70s I saw things that disturbed me. Things I know my parents wished I'd not seen, and they did their best to teach me they were wrong. The images stuck with me. But my parent's lessons overpowered them.

What things? The two most prominent, 1) A giant, windowless exterior wall on the side of a building on "Main Street" in a small eastern North Carolina town painted with the greeting, "Welcome to (I'll not embarrass the town) - Home of the KKK"; 2) In another small community, klansman gathered in a rural field and burning crosses - not so far from where kin lived who'd have nothing to do with it and did their best to shield young eyes, and teach to the contrary.

Our small parochial grade school was integrated. Ernestine White, Johnny Davis, Harold Cobb, and Dwayne Wilson, all black, were classmates and classmates of my brothers. They were friends. Mrs. Byrd, my grade school science teacher, was black. She was a fine teacher. Johnny Davis's father, Ed, was our church's Boy Scout troop leader. He was the best of the three I had while in scouting.

In high school, Charles Rankin, Larry Lynch, Tony Satterfield, "HotRod" Clinkscales, and other teammates and friends whose names escape me--black. Same in college. And throughout a career in the Marines. Great people I'm better for having known and served alongside.

Black skin. So what.

For more than a week now GOP presidential candidate Herman Cain, a conservative and highly successful business man who happens to be black, has been weathering a determined attack to end his candidancy--allegations of sexual harassment the means. But the lack of substance--not one stained dress, 'un-smokeable' cigar, love child, questionable money transaction, nor police report--has been trotted out to substantiate allegations. Yet that's not prevented the media from continuing their assault nor deterred sleezy lawyers from digging up more women who might have been, particularly after being questioned and coached, peeved by something Mr. Cain did or did not do long ago.

News outlets, looking for the slightest fracture to turn into a mortal gash, have said Mr. Cain keeps changing his story. The fact is his only "change of story" has been to clarify use of the words "settlement" and "agreement" which have specific meanings in the business world. He's not offered to redefine "is."

A decade and a half later and a handful of women, most anonymously, are suddenly emerging with what, by any standard of reason, sound like ridiculous charges. Charges that certainly sound absurd in contrast to the public image Mr. Cain has cultivated these past six months. And contrary to what longtime friends and business associates have to say about Mr. Cain.

Who's behind this nonsense? And why are they doing it? In his well-presented statement and question and answer session of absolute denial yesterday afternoon, Mr. Cain made reference to the democratic party machine. Though he could offer no proof. His frustration understandable. Who knows. And the reason? He's a conservative black and proving to be a serious threat. That's undeniable.

Sexual harassment? What is it? Can the most innocent of behaviors--facial expression, hand gesture, or comment--be twisted into inappropriate conduct? You bet. Can women sexually harass? You bet. Mr. Cain claims having done nothing to offend anyone. Ever. And he volunteered to undergo polygraph. Bravo, but that's not likely to resolve anything. Considering all that's happened so far why let fact get in the way? How much more insistent can one be? He said he had no idea who this latest woman was--no recollection as to face, name, or voice.

Quite the 15 year-old memory of the woman whose unflattering past raises serious questions about credibility.

So what's really going on?

What is it everyone is tip-toeing around?

The absence of anything to corroborate the allegations against Mr. Cain are telling. And disturbing. For the rational person, applying logic, can't help but believe this assault against him is merely making convenient use of the popular politically correct "sexual assault" cry. Might it really be only a smokescreen to camouflage the real angle of attack--the politically incorrect and intolerable reality of racism?

Mr. Cain has used the term "high tech lynching" to describe what's happening to him. I think he's wrong. He's completely wrong. This isn't a high tech lynching at all--it's a good old-fashioned lynching. But instead of wearing hoods and swinging a rope configured into a noose, the hangmen are using a transparent coat of face powder, rouge, eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lipstick--literally and figuratively. Turning the tables, prove otherwise.

Given, politics is a dirty, stinky, and bloody sport void of true sportsmanship. But the attack on Mr. Cain is unconscionable. Every American, regardless of political persuasion, should be disgusted. Remember, in America, guilt must be proven.

Mr. Cain merits the presumption of innocence. He's entitled to it. How shameful he's not able to enjoy it.

He's standing on a solid platform he believes, and so do millions across the country, will return America to greatness. That's why folks are listening and he's still topping polls. Enemies are trying to slip a noose around his neck. But not yet. He's not dead yet. And if he does go down it's going to be swinging--with fists flying not by his neck.

I like Cain. He's a plainspeaking, direct, brutally honest fighter. My kind of guy.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. I was paying attention, still am, and am not going to stand by and spectate--young people, and many in our family, are watching. I hope they are reading. And thinking.

AMERICA'S MOVEMENTS

2011-11-06T11:15:00.000-08:00

AMERICA'S MOVEMENTS
by Andy Weddington
Sunday, 06 November 2011

"The cement of this union is the heart-blood of every American." Thomas Jefferson

There was an earthquake on the east coast recently. There are earthquakes in California daily. There were earthquakes, sizeable ones, in Oklahoma yesterday. Earthquakes are movements, but today's comment is not about earthquakes. It is about other shakers--movements--in America.

Not even a few years ago now a cohort of folks--known as the Tea Party--began forming to stop the newly elected Barack Obama from flipping America upside down. To some degree they've succeeded. To this day they continue to grow and wield great influence in the democratic process of our republic. One placard from 2009, displayed by an older couple seated in lawn chairs, summed up their and Party sentiments: "Shove it down our throats in 2009 and we'll shove it up your a** in 2010." Via elections, the Tea Party did exactly as promised on that placard. And they promise more to come. No one is doubting them.

The Tea Party--God-fearing Americans from all walks of life without regard to age, gender, race, creed, socio-economic status, and more--formed around the battlecry for lower taxes and smaller government--a sensible and easily understood platform that resonated with millions and millions. Their public rallies always peaceful, attended by thousands and thousands--some hundreds of thousands, and they disperse, quietly, without leaving a mess and return to their lives (most of them their jobs). They abhor violence. That is still their modus operandi.

In the beginning, the media and sundry public figures of all ilks, to include elected officials, tried to dimiss the Tea Party as insignificant and paint them all as radicals, loons, and racists. They were called vile names, accused (falsely) of spitting on distinguished black members of congress, and referred to as the enemy (even by the president). None of that nonsense worked to disrupt nor disband them. The efforts to discredit failed when people could see for themselves who was attending and what they were doing, that there was indeed a cause, message, leadership, organization, and civility. Forward the Tea Party marched.

To be clear, the Tea Party is not so much a 'Party' but a legitimate movement. They, mostly because of their cause calling for adherence to the Constitution and partly because of their mature, deliberate strategy and tactics, enjoy credibility and, therefore and rightfully so, wield power. Those holding elected office took note. Serious note. They still do. And frankly, they'd better listen or they're next to go on election day.

On the other hand, we have a recent uprising, a movement, that's been tabbed "Occupy Wall Street." So far, it's a disorganized revolt that has spread to other parts of the country--big and small cities and small towns. No one, even those amongst the 'occupiers,' have been able to articulate their cause. Their grumblings make little sense. Some attack "fat cat" bankers while others are essentially throwing a tantrum for free money (at the expense of those who've worked hard for it). But little, if any, of the ranting is intelligible.

Without a coherent, unifying cause these occupiers, from coast to coast, are nothing more than a message-less, leader-less, disorganized cohort of irresponsible rebels. In some cases, they're resorting to destruction of private and public property and carrying out violence against other people. Name calling, threats, and violence are measures steadily creeping into their resistance. And yet the media either ignores or justifies. Interesting.

In contrast to the aforementioned Tea Party placard holders, one sign, photographed last week making the rounds on the web, held by an occupier woman read, "$92,000 for a BA in Hispanic Transgender Gay & Lesbian Studies--and I can't find a job." Really?! And I suppose we're to assume, and that would be correctly, she has a problem with repaying her student loans.

The basis for this protest is not new. Their issues were present two and a half years ago. Where were they? Why now? The answer--they were waiting for their handouts; so promised by their god, Barack Obama. He's not delivered. And won't. He can't. He is still making ludicrous statements about working to create jobs. What world he's living in unknown. But it's not the real world. Businessmen create jobs, not presidents. So, betrayed and disillusioned and feeling used (and they were), the occupiers are angry.

Historically, the only course of action exercised by the stupid and angry is civil disobedience--that degenerates into chaos. Here we are.

'Occupy Wall Street' is a movement alright. It's America's latest smelly bowel movement. And a damn big, loose, and messy one. As always, the movement will collapse because there is no message, there is no organization, there is no leadership, and most importantly, there is no support from the masses--that is, the bottom line is they have no case. Adding insult to injury the media's pathetic attempts to legitimize the cause is an abysmal failure--no one of sound mind is buying the gobbledygook.

And yet they have the right to demonstrate. I support that right, that privilege (and did formally for over 26 years wearing a Marine uniform) but only to the point the lives, the safety, of others is not in jeopardy. Only in America, and for that they should be grateful.

A suggestion for the occupiers: Take a deep breath. Quit whining. Life is not fair. Figure it out. No one owes you a damn thing. Hard work and perseverance is the simple recipe for success. Fall down? Then get your ass up, dust yourself off, and keep moving forward. Enough is enough. Good grief.

Unfortunately, in the end the occupier's 'movement'--encampment messes, costs of destruction, etc.--will be left for others to clean up and pay for. And in an odd twist of circumstances, those others will be from the Tea Party; patriots who give a sh--. And about something beyond themselves. How ironic.

America--land of the free. Not the land of free stuff, and certainly not free money.

Standby. Another big movement is coming. Now whether it's first an earthquake or political upheaval remains to be seen. God only knows.

SPINNING GIRLS AND BOYS AND BOYS AND GIRLS WHO SPIN

2011-11-03T16:51:00.000-07:00

SPINNING GIRLS AND BOYS AND BOYS AND GIRLS WHO SPIN
by Andy Weddington
Friday, 04 November 2011

"In skating over thin ice our safety is in our speed." Ralph Waldo Emerson

It's been bothering me for weeks.

That is, whom the candidates, at least some of them, running for the GOP presidential nomination remind me of--seem to parallel--when it comes to interpersonal dynamics.

Following debates and interviews I'd give it some dedicated thought. And mull it over whenever the topic struck. Nothing. But there was definitely something about the manner in which they, mainly the top contenders, presented themselves--their naturalness, or lack thereof, and likability, or lack thereof, that rang familiar, but I could not figure what.

Then last weekend while studying paintings, and thinking about simplicity, that phenomenon known as the 'ah ha' moment struck. Hard. Ton of bricks hard. Was it the paintings that triggered the revelation? No idea. Might I have just as easily been wandering grocery store aisles mulling over commentary (as I often do), weeding with the hula hoe, or in the garage waxing a car? Probably.

Oksana and Nancy first came to mind. Then Tanya.

They were good, really good, at spinning. Remember them?

How about if adding surnames Baiul and Kerrigan? And Harding? Ring familiar now?

Think back to the 1994 winter Olympics in Lillehammer, Norway, and the Ladies Singles Figure Skating competition. Baiul skated for Ukraine and Kerrigan and Harding for the United States.

Just like the top tier of the GOP candidates, the three skaters competitors in an elite field.

The drama between Kerrigan and Harding months earlier at the U. S. Figure Skating Championships is another commentary, but one I'll not write because I don't care. The short of it was Harding being party to a physical assault on Kerrigan to prevent her from competing. The brazen attack, carried out in public by Harding's boyfriend and a few other thugs and seemingly meant to break a leg (though it did not), was successful. Kerrigan, banged up--physically and emotionally, did not compete. Those responsible, including Harding, were eventually found guilty and punished. Harding won the competition but Kerrigan was awarded a slot on the Olympic team anyway.

It's not the antics of Harding that first came to mind. It was the competition between Baiul and Kerrigan. The skating between them intense--scores close--and the free skate to determine who'd take home gold.

Their performances, technically speaking, were comparable. Aesthetically, they were not.

Kerrigan, the seasoned veteran, was competent. She was technically sound but she and her presentation seemed plastic--rehearsed over and over and over in the hopes muscle memory would mask a lack of natural athletic gracefulness. It didn't work. She looked mechanical, like a windup doll, and appeared to be counting in her head '1, 2, 3 spin; 1, 2, 3 squat; 1, 2, 3 raise leg; 1, 2, 3 turn head; 1, 2, 3 jump; 1, 2, 3 smile; etc.' The result was a decent but simply unremarkable skate. She was sort of clunky. Ho hum.

To the contrary, Baiul, all of 16 at the time and a newcomer, skated with poise and grace. She appeared one with the ice (though she, like Kerrigan, surely rehearsed over and over and over), carefree, and was clearly the better skater--a more gifted athlete. Her performance was beautiful. Flawless. The gold hers.

Then Mitt and Herman came to mind. Then Rick (and Newt, Michele, Ron, et. al.). They, too, spin. Some better than others.

Mitt, Romney that is, a man with Olympics experience (leading not competing), is Kerrigan-like. Though blessed with good looks and he looks good technically, he seems plastic. One, two, three; one two three; one, two, three. He and his operation have ample experience spinning, and the feel of orchestration and rehearsal resonates. Clunky. Though no idea what, something's broken. Repairable? Maybe. Maybe not. Kerrigan took silver. So might be Romney's destiny?

Rick, Perry that is, is not doing so well. At all. Mindful of most of Harding's skating, his debate performances awful. A recent speaking engagement peculiar--some believe he was under the influence; of something. I share that opinion. He, too, comes across as plastic and rehearsed. And clunkier than clunky. Can't you just hear well-wishers moments before he took the ice, debate stage(s), "Break a leg!" Of course they meant his--not Mitt's, Herman's, Newt's, or Michele's. His chief problem is being a career politician--an experienced spinner--of which America is tired. Exhausted. Fed up. Like Tanya, he'll compete but won't medal. No way. She finished 8th. That sounds about right.

Herman, Cain that is, has something in common with Baiul. A newcomer, a stranger, to the politics arena. His naivete, complemented with smarts, a refreshing edge. Not plastic, but he lacks some polish. Common sense, understandable ideas, and an ability to effectively articulate, with five-cent words from the heart, not a teleprompter, is, not surprisingly, endearing him to the people. He tops poll after poll--a recent one in Iowa hints he just may win the caucuses. Annoying "experts," ever telling us--the intellectually inferior--what to think and whom to support, are bewildered and getting angry. How dare we not embrace their selects. Mr. Cain's attackers cite no political seasoning and, among other petty shortcomings, no foreign policy experience. So what. It's time to rethink our international interests and responsibilities anyway.

Mr. Cain, a human, has and will make mistakes. His manner, his makeup, is to admit such--'humaness,' like common sense, a desired quality in an American president. Three years of godliness--claimed and bestowed--has not worked in the real world. Look around. And check your pockets--wallets and pocketbooks, that is.

Mr. Cain is scaring the you know what out of you know who--all with eyes on the White House--and for good reason, he's real; so say the folks. And, one more thing, though there's denial and casual dismissal across the board--from principal to peon, he's the assumed democrat candidate's worst nightmare. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

Scott Hamilton, Olympic champion figure skater, said, "Half of figure skating is opinion, convincing judges." Accordingly, opinion is at least half of politics, convincing people. Mr. Cain is convincing a growing cohort--and their opinions will be counted in a year or so. Come January 2013 America will have a 45th president. Who knows, it may be Mr. Cain. Stranger things have happened.

So until November next we watch to see the guys and at least one gal skate, and slip and slide and stumble and some fall, and, of course, spin, on the icy path to the Oval Office. We'll see who has the mettle. Plastic cracks and breaks.

Simplicity, whether applied to painting, figure skating, or politics, is beautiful. Simplify color, shape, line, and design--the message--in whatever discipline. Ever strive to simplify. People understand and respond to simplicity--the late Steve Jobs understood completely. He made simple machines that were simply beautiful--inside and out. Leonardo da Vinci, a remarkable artist and inventor, had it right, "Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." No question the Italian genius influenced Jobs. No question. And in all probability both have influenced Mr. Cain--running a simple campaign unlike anything seen before; a sign of a leader.

In closing...

Figure skating. Politics. There's an edge in both. And when you stop and think about it there's plenty of crossover too--particularly when it comes to spin.

Spin, on skates, awes and wows.

Spin, in politics, is a purposeful distractor to mislead. Bluntly, it's a damn lie. It's awful and woeful.

Up to now Mr. Cain has run a no spin, simple campaign. Along with a hefty resume of success in a tough arena and that he's a standup guy of sound character, principles, and values understood and shared by much of America, is why he enjoys an edge.

Spin it however you want, but it's as simple as that.

Post Script

While writing this commentary an attack on Mr. Cain, based on allegations of sexual harrassment (some 15 years ago), hit the airways. On it goes. And so goes the stinky, nostril-pinching game of politics. Good grief. No more proof of his legitimacy necessary. Mr. Cain denies inappropriate conduct. Plenty of spin--left and right--to come. Ignore it. The matter will get sorted out. To comment at the moment would be irresponsible. But note a Rasmussen poll taken Wednesday, 02 November, has Mr. Cain at the top. Perhaps an indicator the folks are full and aren't going to take the bait. Bravo!

Author's Endnote

Skaters take to Olympic ice in 2014--to jump, skate backwards, and spin. Most of those who will compete weren't even born when the 1994 games were played. The newcomers will make their own drama. And they'll spin and spin it.

JOBS

2011-10-31T16:32:00.000-07:00

JOBS
by Andy Weddington
Monday, 31 October 2011

"And no, we don't know where it will lead. We just know there's something much bigger than any of us here." Steve Jobs

I just finished reading Walter Isaacson's biography on Steve Jobs (1955-2011). I do not write book reviews but felt compelled to pen a few thoughts.

First, recommend the book--a terrific account of a controversial American icon.

The public persona, persona presented by media, and the private life of the quirky genius beyond interesting. Mr. Isaacson said Jobs wanted his story told honestly, that he was free to speak with whomever he pleased, and did not require the book meet with his approval. That is clear. The book is flattering and it is not so flattering.

Like us all, Jobs had his wonderful qualities and idiosyncrasies.

In short, Jobs was an enigma--a complex human with little patience for complexity. He sought simplicity. He demanded simplicity. He delivered simplicity.

Though an exceptional businessman, he saw himself as an artist. That, considering what he created--from devices to movies, makes perfect sense. The profits, a fortunate consequence--not principle objective--of his work, allowed him to pursue even greater art. And that he did, with passion and uncompromising and unapologetic drive.

True artists create. They point out to us what we do not see. Jobs went further. He created things people did not yet realize they needed. And he created like no one else could. In fact, others tried and failed.

As a painter obsessed with simplicity as to shape, color, and design I can relate to how Jobs went about realizing his vision(s). He believed the work environment was critical to product development. That is, he insisted buildings be designed (and staffed) with an open flow that fostered interaction between employees--especially employees that did not usually interact. He believed good ideas and problem-solving came from impromptu encounters and conversations--a model completely foreign to most big outfits that are built around stove-pipes and some that, for sundry reasons, forbid sharing. This belief of his struck a major chord and triggered a memory.

Years ago I advised a general responsible for moving a headquarters department, of several divisions, to a new facility to order that workstations be filled randomly--alphabetically by height was the idea. And I was not kidding. The reason for the suggestion was to take advantage of timing and to overcome long-standing practices--like the obstacles Jobs aimed to prevent--and crush unnecessary institutional controls hampering work. The idea was entertained. Unfortunately, it didn't happen. And, as I recall, it was because of next level down resistance. "Chaos," they cried. With the move, the department, maintaining division integrity, occupied the new territory and stale business practices continued as usual. The outcome--a missed opportunity to force culture change and build a new internal communication net and workflow--that is, people interacting--that could not otherwise be purposively designed. Some thought I was insane. But the real insanity was not exploiting the opportunity. For out of chaos falls order. Undoubtely, Jobs, considering his explosive personality, would have been incredulous if witnessing that move. No doubt. And I still shake my head.

What else to say? Not much. I don't want to ruin the book. Now more than ever I appreciate the life work of Steve Jobs. A strong personality of uncompromising standards, he gave us beautiful, marvelous things to make life easier and more enjoyable.

Steve Jobs was an artist but no ordinary artist. He saw differently. He thought differently. He solved problems differently. And he created differently. Only time will tell if his company, Apple, will endure without him--their taskmaster, head cheerleader, and visionary; their guru. We saw once, without him, they floundered and nearly died.

I wish he was still with us. For I'd like to ask him if he had any idea just how much iPad is going to change art--how it's thought about and created. I wrote in an earlier commentary iPad is going to take art in directions never imagined. That is happening. And it's only the beginning--the beginning of the beginning. My bet is Steve Jobs would be amazed by what artists are doing on iPad. And what he saw would surely spark all sorts of new ideas.

So we are left only to wonder what brilliant ideas would have come from him in five, ten, or twenty years.

Life goes on.

Post Script

"And one more thing." Steve Jobs

Author's Endnote

Just this morning I received an email from a stranger who saw some of my iPad paintings over the weekend. In their words, they were surprised, loved them, and intend to buy some. They've not seen anything yet.

FAKE, FAKE, AND MORE FAKES

2011-10-27T18:03:00.000-07:00

FAKE, FAKE, AND MORE FAKES
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 28 October 2011

"To fake is to stand guard over emptiness." Arthur Herzog

Elmyr de Hory was the greatest art forger of the 20th century. He was a fake. And his fakes, because he was skilled and had done his homework and knew what he was doing, fooled even the experts. And once fooled, those experts weren't so quick to admit they'd been fooled. Why? Expert reputations and big bucks were at stake. And so de Hory's success continued; at least for a while. Clifford Irving told de Hory's story in 'Fake!The Story of Elmyr de Hory the Greatest Art Forger of Our Time.' If you're interested in history and art and intrigue and incredible scams it's worth reading.

Fakes are not unique to the art world. They pop up in all walks of life--name the profession and undoubtedly there's been a remarkably successful fake, or two. Actors, by trade, are fakes. On the hilarious TV sitcom Seinfeld, George Costanza, the stumpy, pudgy, bald, lovable loser, posed as a marine biologist and as an architect. His aim? To impress--himself. And women. And speaking of women, George and Kramer and Jerry's friend, Elaine, claimed to fake, fake, fake, and fake--to Jerry's disbelief and great disappointment.

Who knows whom and what to believe anymore. But one thing's for certain, if you intend to fool a Marine, about being a Marine, you'd best have done your homework.

A few weeks ago, while sitting in a physician's waiting room, a gentleman about 15 years my senior struck up a conversation. He opened the dialogue by showing me a photograph (professional athletes on a field prior to the start of a game that appeared to be disrespectful to our national colors) in a magazine that angered him. He emphatically said he was going to write the editor to express his displeasure. And then he added, "My Marine buddies would never tolerate this."

"Marine buddies" got my attention. So I leaned over and asked if he was a Marine. He nodded and said yes. I then told him I was a Marine. We chatted a few moments and I asked the inevitable, "What was your MOS? (pronounced: "Em Oh Ess" for Military Occupational Specialty--the four digit designator a Marine can rattle off faster than their mother's birthday).

The momentary expression on his face told me he had no clue what the acronym 'MOS' meant. Then he proceeded to tell me he worked on the flightline. So I pressed by commenting there are quite a few jobs on the flightline and asked what he did. At that point, he surely knew I knew he was not a Marine but on he rambled about doing such and such with planes, that he was a sergeant, and that he'd once grounded a lieutenant for something or other and enjoyed the "full bird's" (slang for colonel) support. Though his story was so much nonsense, I listened; politely. And then excused myself to resume reading the book on my iPad. Yep, he knew I knew--he was a fake.

His bad luck was running into a Marine. How foolish he must have felt sitting there for the next 20 minutes or so. He probably got over it. And will carry on with his lie.

A week later my brother, a Marine (and Sailor), told me a story about a guy visiting his worksite who was passing himself off as a retired Marine gunnery sergeant. The guy talked some of the talk and wore a scarlet with gold lettering (U. S. Marines) security badge strap around his neck. As Marines tend to migrate toward each other, my brother introduced himself as a Marine, and then asked the question, "What was your MOS?" The response was some nonsense about working in the "wing QC shop." Which, by the way, is not an MOS. My brother mentioned he'd been in the wing, flew jets, and asked again about his MOS. Clueless. He was not a Marine.

Last Sunday, while visiting a retired Marine friend and his wife, in the small cowboy town of Bandera (Population 957), Texas, I was introduced to the wife of a retired Marine. The encounter went something like this: My friend and I was sitting at a table in the small general purpose store owned by his friend (and his wife). The Marine was not around but his wife was working behind the counter. During a momentary lull at the register she wandered over to join us and say hello. My friend said, "Andy this is 'Joan' (name changed). Her husband was CO (commanding officer) of 10th Marines before he retired (10th Marines is an artillery regiment so her husband was an 0802--pronounced: 'oh eight oh two' [artillery officer]). 'Joan,' meet Andy Weddington--he's a retired Marine, too." She offered a friendly welcome, handshake, and then asked, "What was your MOS?" Thinking about the previous couple of incidents, I laughed and answered "0302" (infantry officer). And then made some comment about it being among the first questions asked between Marines. And she said something along the line of, 'yep and even the wives.' And we laughed some more.

It only takes a moment for a Marine (or Marine spouse) to confirm someone's a Marine. And MOS is only one of a handful of queries to expose a fake. Why anyone believes they can fool a Marine (or spouse) is bewildering. Crazy. Sick.

Fakes. Some go beyond talk. The bolder wear uniforms and decorations. A couple of examples come to mind. The lack of any devices (i.e. clusters, stars, Vs) on row after row of ribbons worn by a masquerading brigadier general caught the attention of some real Marines. A few questions and his gig was soon up. Another, posing as a general officer, sported a combat 'V' on a Navy Cross. A stupid blunder considering the Navy Cross (2nd only to the Medal of Honor) is awarded for combat heroism (there is no V). Turns out neither man had ever served; in any branch. Still others have claimed being awarded the Medal of Honor. Imagine.

Another popular ruse by military fakes is citing service in "special forces" or "black ops" or being a "SEAL." And then offer lame apology that their service was classified and they're, "not being able to talk about it." I've run into these, too, on occasion, and wondered if these folks realize the true operators would not have mentioned anything. Probably not. Their behavior may seem harmless, less egregious than wearing uniforms and decorations, but hardly so when considering the sacrficies endured by those who've served.

And then there's the cohort, hardly worth discussing, who served, typically honorably, but for some peculiar reason embellish their service as to rank, theatres served, and decorations earned. Perhaps some in congress that have been outed for such nonsense (e.g. Vietnam service) can explain beyond pathetic offer of innocent misspeaks.

The 'Stolen Valor Act' was enacted to punish the fakes--the clowns. And deter others. But some nutty court decided the despicable conduct fell under the purview of freedom of speech. Freedom of speech is all well and good. But when it comes to service to country--fakes, of any ilk, cross the line. Accountability is only right.

So, in closing, a plea (though surely a waste of words) on behalf of all who've honorably served America...

Fakes, will you please stick to being wine tasters and politicians. Better yet, art forgers, actors, marine biologists, architects, and spirited insatiable bedfellows. Or idiot judges. And, when looking for an audience, find an intersection to guard, to occupy. Say along Wall Street--where there's always ample scat and room for a little more bull.

Thank you.

Good grief.

Post Script

Elmyr de Hory faked Matisse, Picasso, Chagall, Modigliani, Vlaminck, Derain, Dufy, and others. Best I can recall, he didn't fake military service.

KA-BOOOOOOOOM!

2011-10-20T17:08:00.000-07:00

KA-BOOOOOOOOM!
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 21 October 2011

"This is not a battle between the United States of America and terrorism, but between the free and democratic world and terrorism." Tony Blair

Early Saturday morning--at reveille, 01 October 1983, aboard U. S. Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island--17-year old Recruit James E. Hurst collapsed in the squadbay. Despite immediate and heroic actions by his Drill Instructors and soon arriving corpsmen (EMTs), Recruit Hurst died en route to the Naval Hospital in Beaufort. I was the Series Commander. And not a day has passed since that I've not thought about Recruit Hurst.

Twenty-two days later a terrorist attack in Lebanon killed hundreds--some young Marines with less than five months service I'd only months before seen through recruit training.

Sunday, to the day, will mark the 28th anniversary of what is commonly called 'the Beirut bombing.' For today, an annual reprise remembering warriors and a friend. I wrote the following Commentary two years ago. The Author's Endnotes are new.

Our fight against terrorism continues.

From 23 October 2009...

In the summer of 1982 Lebanon requested United States military presence in their country. The purpose was to serve as a peacekeeping force between warring factions of Muslims and Christians. The 24th Marine Amphibious Unit, home-based at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, received orders on March 24th, 1983 to deploy to Beirut.

United States, French, and Italian military forces (Multi-National Force or MNF) initially provided some stability in Beirut. But as diplomacy fell apart, Muslim factions began to perceive the Marines as siding with the Christians and, therefore, as the enemy. Consequently, the Muslims began to target and harass Marine positions with small arms, mortar, and artillery fire. Marines, adhering to their mission of "peacekeeping" and "presence," countered with appropriate measures only against clearly identified targets. In short, the "Rules of Engagement" (ROE) were restrictive--but commensurate with the situation; supposedly. I know, the situation and the ROE was much more complicated and remains debatable, to say the least, but is not relevant to the scope of today's Commentary.

Since the United States was not looking to escalate her commitment to Lebanon, the Marines did not conduct offensive combat operations. And despite the Marine's best efforts, to remain neutral and to protect themselves in a less-than-ideal "defensive" posture (in an absurd politically selected not militarily-driven site), the situation continued to deteriorate.

Then, in the early morning hours twenty-six years ago on this date--23 October 1983, KA-BOOOOOOOOM! Two hundred forty one warriors--220 Marines, 18 Sailors, and 3 Soldiers--were killed by a bomb-laden, terrorist-driven truck attack that destroyed Battalion Landing Team 1st Battalion/8th Marines (BLT 1/8) four-story headquarters building. Many of those killed died while sleeping--buried under tons of twisted steel, chucks of concrete, and rubble. Minutes later and only a few miles away a similar truck bomb was used to attack the French contingency of peacekeepers. Their eight-story building was leveled killing 58 paratroopers.

At the time, I was a First Lieutenant assigned to Company F, 2nd Recruit Training Battalion, Recruit Training Regiment, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina--one of two Depots where America makes her Marines.

With the tail end of one Series and one complete Series under my belt as an Assistant Series Commander, I was a Series Commander--responsible for the well-being and supervising the training of one other officer, 12-15 Drill Instructors, and four platoons each of about 65 recruits.

The Series was just completing the three-week second phase--marksmanship training and rifle qualification--and was wrapping up their service week, commonly referred to as "Mess and Maintenance"--a time when recruits contribute to the running and upkeep of the Depot and get a small taste of life in the Corps when not training. Before the hectic pace of third phase (final four weeks of training) began, I had managed to slip away from the Depot for a short weekend visit home to North Carolina.

In 1983 October 23rd fell on a Sunday. That morning I rose early to return to Parris Island and turned on the only television cable news program of the day--CNN. The anchors were announcing breaking news from Beirut. There had been a huge explosion in the U. S. Marine sector and information--some conflicting--was pouring in.

Once a member of 2/6 and on the Mediterranean deployment rotation with the 8th Marines, I remember my first thought--BLT 1/8 was on duty in Beirut. Not only did I have friends in the battalion but mere months earlier I had told recruits (soon to be Marines) that after leaving Parris Island and completing their specialty training some would soon find themselves in Beirut. Some would be assigned to 1/8. They were.

Before departing home for the five hour ride down I-95 and weaving South Carolina low-country back roads for Parris Island, casualty numbers were starting to trickle in. The initial number was less than 20 when I walked out of my parent's home. Throughout my ride I was able to tune in radio stations reporting the news. Casualties continued to climb--no names just numbers.

By the time I reached my small apartment in Port Royal and turned on the television confirmed casualties were well over 100. As we know today, that would not even be half of what was to come. Sobering.

Americans, and especially Marines, were asking, "How in the hell could this happen?" A comprehensive investigation would answer that question. But the truck was not unlike many that had become a routine sight to Marines--positioned at the Beirut International Airport as a show of "presence/peacekeepers." There was no call for alarm; until mere seconds before hostile intent was realized. At that point, sentries were helpless; not in position nor did they have the means to stop the barreling bomb on wheels. On a macro level, the unit's location had nothing to do, whatsoever, with military strategy and tactics. Plain and simple--the Marines were targets.

Eight days later, on Monday, 31 October, General Paul X. Kelley, USMC, 28th Commandant of the Marine Corps (1983-1987), addressed the Senate Armed Services Committee. For the purposes of this Commentary, I felt it best not to summarize General Kelley's entire statement but to cite passages relevant to today's post.

In the words of General Kelley...

"As I mentioned previously, the assigned mission of the MNF, simply stated, was "presence." It should be clearly understood that this was basically a diplomatic/political mission, not a military one in the classic sense, and the positioning of Marine forces at Beirut International Airport was not driven by tactical considerations. Moreover, the threats at the time, as reported to the Marines by the intelligence available did not require tactical deployment. Indeed, the mission of "presence" mitigated against such measures. Put another way, the Marines had to be seen by the Lebanese people.

I would now like to describe what occurred on Sunday morning, October 23, and why we believe that only extraordinary security could have met that massive and unanticipated threat.

At daybreak, a five-ton capacity Mercedes truck (roughly the size of a large dump truck and a type commonly seen at the Beirut International Airport) entered a public parking lot adjacent to the four-story, steel-reinforced concrete and sandbagged building which housed the headquarters elements of BLT 1/8. After making a complete circle of the parking lot for acceleration, and while travelling at a high speed this truck:

• crashed through the outer defense of a barbed wire emplacement,

• moved at high speed between two sandbagged sentry posts,

• passed through a gate in an iron fence-jumped over a sewer pipe which had been placed as an obstacle to impede the forward movement of vehicles, plowed through a sandbag barrier, hit with precision a four-foot wide passenger entry into the lobby where its cargo, estimated by the Defense Intelligence Agency to be 5,000 pounds of explosives, detonated.

The entire event, which can best be described as the delivery by a suicidal driver of a 5,000-pound truck-bomb at very high speed, took approximately six seconds from start to finish. Rough calculations indicate that it would require a massive concrete wall to stop a vehicle of this weight and travelling at this speed. It is of particular importance to note that the Commander's security was oriented toward the threat of the past several months, i.e., artillery, rockets, mortars, small arms and car bombs. In this context, his security efforts had been successful. Obviously, the Commander's security arrangements were inadequate to counter this form of "kamikaze" attack. But, we have yet to find any shred of intelligence which would have alerted a reasonable and prudent commander to this new and unique threat. There was not even the indication of a capability to undertake such a monumental and precise action. General Tannous, the Commander of the Lebanese Armed Forces, informed me that he cannot recall, in his vast experience, a terrorist attack of the type which hit the headquarters of BLT 1/ 8 on 23 October 1983. In his opinion, it represents a new and unique terrorist threat, one which could not have been reasonably anticipated by any Commander.

Almost simultaneously, a smaller vehicle approached an eight-story apartment building to the north of Beirut International Airport which housed the French contingent. Since this building is on a busy thoroughfare, there would be no reason to suspect its intention. As it approached the building, it accelerated, took a sharp right into the driveway, and forced entry into an underground garage-where it exploded. During a personal conversation, General Cann, the Commander of the French contingent of the MNF, informed me he had no intelligence which would have warned him of this threat, as did General Angioni, the Commander of the Italian contingent."

General Kelley went on to offer insight that has since proven to be quite prophetic. His words--his predictions--should make us all take pause and wonder if our country's leadership was and is listening and paying attention. The general went on to say...

"I believe it important to recognize that there is sufficient evidence to conclude that both incidents were not suicidal acts by some individual fanatic. They were instead, well planned and professionally executed acts of terrorism which appear designed to drive our U.S. presence from Lebanon.

In closing, Mr. Chairman, let me say that the subject of increased terrorism against all Americans around the world may be one of the most serious problems which could be addressed by this Committee on a priority basis. This unprecedented, massive "kamikaze" attack was not against young Marines, Sailors, and Soldiers-it was a vicious, surprise attack against the United States of America and all we stand for in the free world.

Let me say, with all of the emphasis I can, that there are skilled and professional terrorists out there right now who are examining our vulnerabilities and making devices which are designed to kill Americans, lots of Americans around the world, in further acts of mass murder by terrorism. Let there be no doubt about it.

I would hope that the Congress would use this incident of cruel and premeditated mass murder to help us determine a way which tell nations that they cannot export and support terrorists who kill innocent Americans with impunity.

The perpetrators and supporters of this challenge to the rights of free men everywhere must be identified and punished. I will have little sleep until this happens.

Thank you."

In addition to a number of the young Marines killed whom I had seen through recruit training less than six months earlier, a friend-- First Lieutenant William S. ("Scotty") Sommerhof, USMC--also died that morning. I first met Scotty one evening in 1982 at Northwoods Tavern--in the day, a pub-type eatery and watering-hole in Jacksonville, NC, frequented mostly by young bachelor officers assigned to the Marine Base, Camp Lejeune and Marine Corps Air Station, New River. I don't remember many single women patronizing the place but we Marines sure had fun. I remember Scotty, then a rifle platoon commander with 1/8, as quite out-going, spirited, and a guy who enjoyed a good time. As we all did. I learned Scotty's home town was Springfield, Illinois, and he was a graduate of the University of Illinois Naval ROTC program. One tale I remember about him was, while a college student, only Coca-Cola machines graced the NROTC building. Scotty preferred Pepsi--but had no success trying to remedy that situation. As I recall, as a tribute to him, the NROTC unit had a Pepsi machine placed in the building with an appropriately inscribed plaque recognizing First Lieutenant's Sommerhof's selfless service and sacrifice to Corps and Country.

I phoned the Illini NROTC Unit earlier this week to check on that Pepsi machine. Sadly, I was told today there is, yet again, only Coke machines. Scotty would not be happy. But, he would be humbled and honored to know his name is the first one on the unit's "Wall of Tribute." And so continues the memory of a good man and fallen Marine.

I've no doubt that many who will read today's Commentary, that were on duty that October morning 26 years ago, will recall exactly where they were and what they were doing when hearing the news about the bombing. I know I will never forget--the 23rd also happens to be my youngest brother's birthday.

On that Sunday morning, a creative enemy had, yet again, changed the rules and methods of warfare. Our fight against a patient, pesky, and creative enemy continues. Though the enemy enjoys an occasional "victory," they are losing the war. And only through strength and resilience, despite painful times, will America defeat this challenge to our way of life once and for all. The equation is a simple one: Work + Cost (Sacrifice) = Freedom. For Americans have learned, since our country's founding, that freedom comes with an enormous price tag--blood and lives. And yet there is no shortage of men and women willing to risk all in the name of preserving democracy and freedom. For those brave souls their countrymen owe admiration, respect, support, and gratitude. Nothing worth fighting for is ever easy or free; never--ever.

In his televised Oval Office address to the country on October 27th, 1983 President Ronald Reagan said, "Sam Rayburn once said that freedom is not something a nation can work for once and win forever. He said it's like an insurance policy; its premiums must be kept up to date. In order to keep it, we have to keep working for it and sacrificing for it just as long as we live. If we do not, our children may not know the pleasure of working to keep it, for it may not be theirs to keep."

Anyone in the current Administration or the country who believes apologies, extending an olive branch, and not making hostile lunatic captives "uncomfortable" (to prevent disaster) will end the assault on America and Americans is completely delusional. Those acts of "civility" in our culture are seen as weakness from our enemy's perspective. It is ridiculous, stupid, and more importantly dangerous to our national security and safety to believe there is a common foundation from which to assess and deal with an enemy whose culture and ideology is diametrically opposed to ours. That is precisely why they hate us--they see the world much differently. Only fools believe we are going to temper their hatred or otherwise change them. There is one logical conclusion: Terrorists are ruthless. Accordingly, they understand, respect, and fear power and ruthlessness--the way they should and must be fought and destroyed.

Perhaps it's time--actually past time--for our country's present leadership to carefully read General Kelley's entire statement; especially as to the determined enemy we face--his words as germane today as 26 years ago. It sure can't hurt. And then all pause and reflect on what has happened across the globe, courtesy of terrorists, since 23 October 1983.

For whatever his faults and shortcomings, President Bush understood our maniacal enemy. He used every tool (maybe even stretching some) at his disposal to monitor, identify, disrupt, harass, hunt, generally make life miserable, capture, and kill them--around the clock--on his watch. Bravo!

Fight's on, President Obama. Do not blink. Show no mercy.

Post Script

Also from President Reagan's speech...

"May I share something with you I think you'd like to know? It's something that happened to the Commandant of our Marine Corps, General Paul Kelley, while he was visiting our critically injured Marines in an Air Force hospital. It says more than any of us could ever hope to say about the gallantry and heroism of these young men, young men who serve so willingly so that others might have a chance at peace and freedom in their own lives and in the life of their country.

I'll let General Kelley's words describe the incident. He spoke of a "young Marine with more tubes going in and out of his body than I have ever seen in one body. He couldn't see very well. He reached up and grabbed my four stars, just to make sure I was who I said I was. He held my hand with a firm grip. He was making signals, and we realized he wanted to tell me something. We put a pad of paper in his hand - and he wrote 'Semper Fi.'"

Well, if you've been a Marine or if, like myself, you're an admirer of the Marines, you know those words are a battle cry, a greeting, and a legend in the Marine Corps. They're Marine shorthand for the motto of the Corps - "Semper Fidelis" - "always faithful."

General Kelley has a reputation for being a very sophisticated general and a very tough Marine. But he cried when he saw those words, and who can blame him? That Marine and all those others like him living and dead, have been faithful to their ideals. They've given willingly of themselves so that a nearly defenseless people in a region of great strategic importance to the free world will have a chance someday to live lives free of murder and mayhem and terrorism. I think that young Marine and all of his comrades have given every one of us something to live up to."

Author's Endnotes--21 October 2011

1. Recruit Hurst's fate was sealed at birth. He had a heart defect not detectable during military medical in-processing.

2. Though not a Pepsi drinker, on Sunday I will partake in honor of Scotty.

3. For whatever failures of our president, to his credit Mr. Obama has aggressively taken the fight to our enemies. Whether ground forces are hunting and killing the rats the old-fashioned way or drones silently watch from above and kill without warning there is no hiding. And that must be unnerving. It should be. Good riddance!

4. A few years ago, a couple of young Marines, Corporal Jonathan Yale and Lance Corporal Jordan Haerter, standing post in Iraq had mere seconds to react to stop a bomb-laden vehicle barreling toward their compound. Maybe they'd been taught the lessons of Beirut, I don't know. Their incredible selfless actions cost them their lives while saving the lives of dozens and dozens--mostly Iraqi; some of whom fled vice standing their ground with the Marines. Both Marines were awarded the Navy Cross. Heroes of our Corps, their story worth reading: http://acoloneloftruth.blogspot.com/2009/01/six-seconds.html

5. Bomb-laden trucks are still a favored weapon of terrorists. Last month, in eastern Afghanistan, 77 U. S. combatants were wounded (2 Afghan civilians killed) when a Taliban truck bomb denoted at a U. S. combat outpost. Reportedly, a bit of good intelligence work precluded the attack from being worse.

SO, WILL YOU VOTE FOR OBAMA AGAIN?

2011-10-18T13:53:00.000-07:00

SO, WILL YOU VOTE FOR OBAMA AGAIN?
By Andy Weddington
Tuesday, 18 October 2011

"Are you better off than you were four years ago?" Ronald Reagan

This morning, a beauty of a day, for about an hour and a half, I ran errands patronizing a handful of shops in our small desert oasis.

During the short drive to the first stop I decided to conduct an unscientific poll--that is, to ask any stranger I encountered, after an ice-breaking pleasantry (e.g. "Good morning. Nice day. How are you?"), a simple question: "So, will you vote for Obama again?" (Note the subtle wording of assumption in the query).

I, clad in jeans, polo shirt, and a ballcap, was a non-threatening equal opportunity pollster caring not about obvious discriminators race, gender, age. I did not ask names, political party affiliation, or any other type of personal information. The aim--anonymous responses to a simple question. Provided they looked old enough to vote, I asked. Only a few opted not to answer, but they declined politely. Ages ranged from early 20s to 80s. About an equal mix of males and females. The majority white. Whatever their response, I did not pursue.

Consider double space different responders. Here's what I heard...

"No."

"Hell, no."

"Who said I voted for him the first time?" (this person listened carefully to the question)

"Obama's the president?" (detected a bit of sarcasm)

"Are you kidding me?" (took that as a "no")

"I just don't know. He seems to be trying but doesn't have much to show for nearly three years."

"Geez, what a question. He's a clown. I didn't vote for him last time."

"Nope."

"Is that a trick question? No!"

"I vote democrat. Yes." (no kidding, blonde female)

"I'm not going to answer that."

"He's an idiot."

"I vote we ship him back to Kenya."

"I hate to admit voting for him. What a disaster. Not again."

"I doubt it."

"It depends upon the other candidates."

"Too bad he can't lead as well as he talks. Didn't last time and won't next time."

"Obama couldn't lead three blind mice." (detected a little anger)

"Yes."

"No. Are you going to tell him my answer?" (I promised not to)

"It's been a tough couple of years. I supported him, but no more."

"I'd like to vote for him--impeaching him."

"Of course."

"Sorry, I keep my politics private."

"No. He's incompetent."

"He fooled me. Shame on me."

I did not know any of these people. And there was no reason for any of them to know me. Surely their willingness to answer the simple question stemmed from the security of anonymity and that I did not have a recorder or camera crew.

Admittedly, my poll was a hasty idea. And, though responders were selected at random, a clever analyst could undoubtedly find all sorts of flaws with the question and sampling of folk. But no matter. What I got was a raw taste of public sentiment. From that random sampling, it's pretty clear Mr. Obama's once ethereal image is no more.

Conclusion: Mr. Obama can raise all the green he wants. He can try to split black and white. He can talk and talk and talk until he's blue in the face. Even red. But if the sentiments of this small Southern California high desert community are representative, Mr. Obama is done.

Now, where's the fork?

Post Script

A fun morning. Perhaps more impromptu polls to come. Maybe. Suggestions for questions welcome!

SPACE

2011-10-15T16:30:00.000-07:00

SPACE
By Andy Weddington
Saturday, 15 October 2011

"Pardon me, space, is this shape taken? Pardon me, shape, is this space taken?"

From 'On "SEEING" & Painting'

A handful of emails have rolled in recently suggesting another simple word play Commentary.

Just back from a week of fly fishing (for tiger muskie and trout) with my brother, I had time to think about that request. Wading forty degree waters casting for trout is good for the soul, and it clears the mind. It must be the countryside--the wide-open space.

The word "space" came to mind while wading.

So, to satisfy the askers, a little mindless word play...

personal space
head space
parking space
outer space
deep space

filled space
closet space
physical space
art space
storage space

tight space
studio space
dark space
no space
commercial space

retail space
make space
space saver
save a space
reserve space

work space
multipurpose space
open space
dead space
crawl space

my space
back space
space race
space ship
space craft

space suit
space junk
space man
space station
space travel

space case
aerospace
space industry
space shuttle
space camp

space center
space exploration
space channel
space agency
space museum

space program
space related
book space
thinking space
green space

blank space
white space
breathing space
develop space
max space

space ghost
plenty of space
create space
space travel
space invaders

space cowboys
confirmed space
space flight
space jam
military space

access space
safe space
public space
private space
office space

rent space
lost in space
this space
that space
space probes

disk space
space odyssey
space needle
berthing space
handicapped space

and, 'scape'--an anagram of space--a fitting end.

Post Script

Yes, we caught tiger muskies and plenty of trout--rainbows and browns. I bested my brother as to tiger muskies. He clobbered me on the trout. There's always next year.

THE MAN WITH MAGIC NUMBER 45 vs 44

2011-10-06T16:44:00.000-07:00

THE MAN WITH MAGIC NUMBER 45 vs 44
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 07 October 2011

"The magician and the politician have much in common: They both have to draw our attention away from what they are really doing." Ben Okri

A week or so ago, during his regular 'Miller Time' bantering with Bill O'Reilly, host of Fox News Channel's 'The O'Reilly Factor,' comedian and radio talk show host Dennis Miller declared his support for GOP presidential candidate Herman Cain. The amiable, quick-witted, no nonsense Miller, who's oft times bizarre and colorful analogies are usually riotous, said he liked Cain's folksy straighttalk way and that he's actually accomplished something in the real world and has an original and interesting plan to lead the country. For his final laugh, Miller suggested a slogan for the Cain camp: CAIN vs UNABLE.

Hilarious.

Clever.

So thinking about Mr. Miller's idea I reviewed speeches--videos and transcripts (for the president pre and post election)--by both men; took a still closer look at backgrounds; read--a lot; recalled interviews and debate performances and comments made by "experts" (e.g. analysts, advisors, pundits, critics, dopes); and summarized the president's dismal performance in office. Then, sat and drafted a soundbite laundry list of comparisons--something to put truth, objective and subjective substance, to the differences between the men; one aspiring to the office the other, by any measure of fitness, should not retain.

In truth there is humor. And in humor there is truth--much truth.

CAIN / UNABLE

Us / I
We / Me
Reflects / Points
Self-starter / Teleprompter
Self-sufficiency / Dependency
Works / Hopes
Worked for dreams / Dreams of father
Labored / Won lottery
Thick resume / No resume
Thick business resume / No business resume
Led Godfather's / Thinks he's God
Deep dish / Thin skin
Shoveled pizzas / Shovel ready
Spread the sauce / Spread the wealth
Led Burger King / Bows to kings
Worked for Coke / Did Coke
Pillsbury / ACORN
Green / "Green"
U.S. Navy / Community organizer
Big league / Ivy league
50 States / 57 States
Common sense / Nonsense
Humble / Pretentious
Genuine / Artificial
Likeable / Aloof
Leads from front / Leads from behind
Speaks plainly / Preaches in hyperbole
National Baptist / Reverend Wright
Takes responsibility / Makes excuses
Problem solver / Problem
Solves / Blames, apologizes
Math degree / Math deficiency
Computer science / Junk science
Worsted wool / Teflon
Feet on floor / Feet on furniture
Makes money / Wastes money
Beat Cancer / Smokes
Substantive / Superficial
Hands on / Hands off
Doer / Pontificator
Uniter / Divider
Self-made / Manufactured
Crushed Hillarycare / Obamacare
Character / Characters
T. Boone Pickens / Bill Ayers
Capitalist / Socialist
Philanthropist / Narcissist
Motivator, inspiring / Scolder, demoralizing
Godfather's Pizza, Coca-Cola, Pillsbury, Burger King / Solyndra
Wildly successful / Monstrous mess

Etcetera. But that's 50! A good and appropriate stopping point.

CAIN--born and raised immersed in the American experience and spirit. He oozes it.

UNABLE--born American conceded but a turbulent childhood--formative years lived here and abroad coupled with a broken home and the influence of contemptuous 'mentors'--that short-circuited critical imprinting of all that's American. Aware of or admitted or not, there's a void. It's obvious. And not correctable.

The only commonality between these two? Dark horses, self-declared, for the office.

And a little more...

UNABLE: "We're the country that built the Intercontinental railroad." Barack Obama (during a speech a few weeks ago)

Hmm.

Excuse me?! That would be the "Transcontinental railroad" and it's construction fabulously told in Stephen Ambrose's book, "Nothing Like It in the World--The Men Who Built the Transcontinental Railroad, 1863-1869". And, oh by the way, if not for the ingenuity, courage, perseverance, and sacrifices of cheap Chinese laborers it'd not have been realized; at least not as quickly. Nor would we today be able to so cheaply enjoy access to the global electronic highway were it not, at least in part, for the Chinese. And on top of those 'debts' we owe them, the Chinese, trillions? There's irony in there somewhere. Perhaps an Intercontinental bridge is not beyond their making. So, was that speechwriter, cross-checker, proof-reader error; innocent misspeak; teleprompter misread; a subtle challenge; or the only other possibilities--ad lib hiccup, ignorance, or stupidity?

CAIN: "Stupid people are ruining America." Herman Cain (recurring theme in speeches)

Yes, Mr. Cain, stupid people are indeed ruining America. Sadly, as the cigar-puffin', Scotch-sippin' king of standup sarcasm, Ron "Tater Salad" White, believes, "You can't fix stupid." If he's right, and the world around us as empirical evidence seems to indicate he is, we have a problem--big problem. What are we to do?

UNABLE: "Do we participate in a politics of cynicism or a politics of hope?" Barack Obama

Hmm.

Politics of cynicism? By who's definition? We know hope doesn't work--it never has and never will.

CAIN: "It's time to get real, folks. Hope and change ain't working. Hope and change is not a solution. Hope and change is not a job." Herman Cain

Yes, Mr. Cain, you are correct; again. It's time to get real--past time to get real. Hope and change is not a course of action. And anyone that's worked and earned their place in the real world damn well knows it.

May our country's fate not be decided by the stupid. Let's leave that to the cynics--the wrongly accused, the disdained.

Political hacks and media naysayers, not without pets and agendas, believe, to their chagrin, Mr. Cain though an impressive candidate to date (can't dispute debate performances and straw polls), is "not electable." "Not electable"? Not sure what that means. Nonsense. Stupid.

As suggested recently to a young relative, a little giddy about soon becoming of age to vote, en route to bed one evening after brief discussion about politics and stressing to her politicians are neither stars nor royalty--they are public servants, temp hires, who work for us, nothing more...

"Sleep well. Vote responsibly."

Finally...

Gary, Jon, Michele, Mitt, Newt, Rick, and Ron who?

And who's best qualified to be president?

I read "This is Herman Cain! My Journey to the White House" this week. Recommend. His an interesting and inspiring story of a self-made man realized the old-fashioned way--through hard work; he earned it. A serious man, who does not take himself too seriously, that merits respect and to be taken seriously as a candidate for the presidency. Mr. Cain is what government by, for, and of the people is all about. Surely he represents what our Founding Fathers had in mind. And what is wrong with that? And why are some, of his own color, calling him offensive names? Incredible. Sad. Shame on them--the stupid.

This is not the time to outline qualifications. Nor is such a conversation even necessary considering the outcome of the 2008 election--where qualifications and experience proved irrelevant. Suffice to say Mr. Cain, by any definition, has extensive executive experience--at least in the business world. And you don't get to the top in that bloody arena without being a smart, hard-working, successful, risk-taking leader, and, yes, a politician. No previous elective office? So what.

The number 45, ever popping up in Herman's life, may be foretelling. Geez, who knows, I wrote this Commentary on the 4th and 5th. Weird.

I opened with a cynic, make that terrific comic, Dennis Miller, so as brethren cynic and so-so comic will close by offering an intriguing complement to his sane choice...

GOP 2012 CAIN/CHRISTIE THE A-BLE TEAM

Post Script

Book link:
http://www.amazon.com/s/?ie=UTF8&keywords=this+is+herman+cain&tag=googhydr-20&index=aps&hvadid=13914254995&ref=pd_sl_1idrcj737q_b

Herman Cain campaign website: http://www.hermancain.com/

Author's Endnote

There's another GOP presidential candidates debate on 11 October. Tune in. See for yourself. And no, it's not too early to engage--to get informed.

If you missed the politics Commentary posted a week or so ago, you may find it entertaining. http://acoloneloftruth.blogspot.com/2011/09/pols-and-potato-chips-fight.html

ONE POINT--A LESSON IN LEADERSHIP

2011-10-02T11:25:00.000-07:00

ONE POINT--A LESSON IN LEADERSHIP
By Andy Weddington
Sunday, 02 October 2011

"Sometimes the best gain is to lose." George Herbert

Yesterday afternoon I tuned into the football game, aired on CBS, played between the U. S. Naval Academy and the visiting U. S. Air Force Academy. Never did I imagine spending time writing a Commentary about those few hours. But I am. Not about the game, per se, rather an observation about leadership.

The game was high-scoring. Exciting. And though the midshipmen spotted the cadets a sizeable early lead, they dominated the field eventually knotting the score with 19 seconds to play in regulation. And when the game clock showed 00:00 the score was 28 - 28.

The midshipmen, led by seniors quarterback Kriss Proctor and fullback Alexander Teich, scored first in overtime. A momentary lapse of judgement by Proctor after the play resulted in an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty. And that lapse of judgement--that lapse of leadership--turned the ordinarily routine point after touchdown into a 35 yard try. It was blocked--34 - 28.

A few minutes later, the cadets scored a touchdown, kicked the routine extra-point, and won 35 - 34.

Game.

I saw the replay of what Midshipman Proctor did. After scoring on a one yard keeper he, after getting on his feet, got in the face of a defender and said something. The back judge witnessed the impromptu "meeting" and flagged it.

Appropriate call or not depends upon the prism through which viewing. But from my living room seat and with no heat-of-the-moment emotion clouding thinking it looked like the right call. The head referee (Big 12 crew) confirmed the incident during post-game comment to a reporter.

I have no idea why Midshipman Proctor confronted the defender nor what he said. Most likely there was something going on the entire game and opportunity presented itself. Maybe the official had been telling players throughout the game to knock off the chatter and taunting. I don't know. It doesn't matter. The team's leader had every opportunity to simply leave the field. To lead the way. He should have. He did not.

After the game the midshipmen's head coach, Ken Niumatalogo was quoted, “To make that call, man, that’s just a huge, huge penalty...it just changes the whole complexion of the deal. I hope those guys can sleep well tonight.” And, “It’s too critical of a part of a game to make a call like that...our guys are battling....both teams are fighting hard...they’re battling hard, and for someone to make a call like that, it hurts.”

Of course it was a huge penalty. Of course it changed the complexion of the game. Of course both teams were playing hard. Of course it hurts, Coach. But, the referee made the call. Regardless at what point in the game, would the official have been correct to ignore the violation he witnessed? He did not make the rules--he's on the field to enforce them--he's on the field to maintain order (ironically, amongst men being held to a higher standard of personal conduct and honor).

As it is, players from both teams, including Proctor and Teich, will soon be wearing gold bars of ensigns and second lieutenants. They will be leading sailors, airmen, and Marines--in challenging, dangerous training, and combat. And training them, too. But nothing will have more impact on the men and women they lead than by setting of example. Their young charges will be watching every move--on and off duty.

These future leaders were not born. Our service academies are in the business of making leaders--forging them through rigorous academics, field training, athletics, leadership billets, and competitions in classrooms and on fields; including football fields.

During their development those aspiring to earn a commission are expected to make mistakes. Many mistakes. And in all arenas. But learning from their mistakes, some more costly than others, is what molds them. Mistakes in classrooms, in laboratories, on intramural fields, and even on intercollegiate courts and fields is expected. And acceptable. They are preparing, and being prepared, for sobering duties of which they can only imagine.

A football field is just that--a field where a game is played. A violent game, minor injuries are normal. Serious injuries infrequent. Deaths rare. The outcome decided by points. Mistakes acceptable.

But the battlefield is different. It's not a game field. And the outcome is decided in minor and horrific injuries and death. Senseless lapses of judgement have no place on the battlefield. Mistakes not acceptable.

And that's the point.

Midshipman Proctor made a mistake, a senseless but acceptable one, on a football field. For a brief moment he failed to lead. He hurt his team. He'll remember his lapse for the rest of his life. It's already shaping him--for the good. It will shape his character and decision-making and leadership while in uniform and for however many years he may choose to serve. And that will be to the great benefit of those young men and women he'll be entrusted to lead.

Navy's star quarterback learned an invaluable leadership lesson yesterday afternoon. And so did every single man on that team. And the opposing team. And every single student--at both academies. Whether they realize it or not.

Any leader worth his salt will accept a Saturday afternoon football game one point loss stemming from a player's lapse of leadership when understanding that lesson just may one day save lives--whether during unforgiving training or on a battlefield.

Maybe not on the scoreboard but Coach Niumatalogo and his team won--they're winners with a lot of football still to play. And with a stronger quarterback--a better leader--at the helm. I'll be tuning in.

And Coach, I bet the officials slept well last night--the right call made.

Semper Fidelis.

Post Script

I have many friends who graduated from the Naval Academy and brothers who graduated from the Coast Guard Academy and Air Force Academy. I wonder how they see it?

Author's Endnote

Midshipman Proctor hails from Big Bear, California. I can see the mountain, snow-capped half the year, from my backyard. By car, the quaint community is less than an hour's drive. I've been there a few times--to paint and write and relax.

AN AVERAGE GUY'S TAKE ON SAVING "2ND BASE"

2011-10-01T04:41:00.000-07:00

AN AVERAGE GUY'S TAKE ON SAVING "2ND BASE"
By Andy Weddington
Saturday, 01 October 2011

"Cancer is a word, not a sentence." John Diamond

Three and a half years ago breast cancer forever changed life for my wife. And for me. Our story shortly.

Today begins breast cancer awareness month. The horrible disease, a global epidemic, is a heartless equal opportunity life-changer and killer. Breast cancer cares not about nationality, race, creed, color, age, social status, nor gender. Nor any other variable one can cite. And if you think breast cancer will not touch your life at some point, think again.

Today's Commentary was first published on 27 November 2009. Email flooded in thanking me for sharing a difficult story and offering a bit of education, too. Thanks was not necessary but appreciated. Reposted last October, email flooded in again. At this writing, family, friends, and friends of friends continue to be diagnosed, and I still feel obligated--a strong sense of duty--to share our experience.

If after reading what follows you have laughed, thought, cried, and thought some more then I have done my job. As to the job of readers, get that lump checked by a doctor; immediately. And pass this Commentary along. Please. Someone's life may depend on it, and you, and they, not even know it. So goes life and, trust me, it's changed forever when a doctor says, "You have cancer."

Appearing for the third time...

AN AVERGAGE GUY'S TAKE ON SAVING "2ND BASE"

"Courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death!" Earl Wilson

Thirty-two years ago Meat Loaf released a tune called, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." Included in the lengthy hit song was a radio broadcast of a baseball--make that "baseball"--game. The clever play-by-play was called by Phil Rizzuto (yes, one and the same--the all-star shortstop for the N.Y. Yankees and voice of the Yankees) and you had to listen closely to appreciate the gist of the song. It was about base-running alright but not on the diamond. The "game," as called by Rizzuto, went like this: "Ok, here we go, we got a real pressure cooker going here, two down, nobody on, no score, bottom of the ninth, there's the wind-up and there it is, a line shot up the middle, look at him go. This boy can really fly! He's rounding first and really turning it on now, he's not letting up at all, he's gonna try for second;...here he comes, he's out! No, wait, safe--safe at second base,...holy cow, I think he's gonna make it!..."

Twenty-nine years after Meat Loaf's release, Kelly Rooney (1963-2006)--a wife and mother of five, lost her courageous fight against breast cancer. An inspiration to family and friends, Kelly kept a sense of humor during her ordeal and coined the breast cancer fight battlecry, "Save 2nd Base!" While crafting this Commentary I could not help but wonder if Kelly was a Meat Loaf fan and maybe owned a copy of his classic 1977 album "Bat Out of Hell." I bet she did.

After reading the opening paragraph, I suspect most readers had a flashback or two to younger days and fond memories of a little "experience" by the dashboard light. Good times for sure--maybe even paradise. Well, wrap up the smiles and set the memories aside. It's time for the business of today's Commentary. Though a bit long this week it's important. Bear with me.

Not quite two weeks ago an independent panel of government-appointed "experts" forming a task force released new recommendations addressing breast cancer early detection and screening techniques. Their alarming, polarizing views contradict long-standing, proactive measures advised by the American Cancer Society--who, by the way, has not changed their position. More about the task force shortly.

Less than two years ago the only thing I knew about breast cancer was it happened to other people. And rarely to anyone I knew--even then I had no true understanding for the hell of a breast cancer diagnosis. Today I feel capable of giving a breast cancer seminar--at least from the perspective of a treatment program manager and round-the-clock caregiver.

Late afternoon on the first Friday in March 2008 breast cancer was no longer something that happened to other people. An oncologist walked into the treatment room where my wife and I were seated and, looking as if he'd seen a ghost, told my wife her biopsy results indicated breast cancer. There was no mistake. We were dumbfounded. Then in shock. Then angry--but that passed quickly. All those emotions occurred within a minute or two. The doctor was in the room only a few more minutes and did not offer details. He handed us the report and told us sometimes the news he has to deliver is not so good but much is known about breast cancer and it's curable. He implied we were lucky. Then he suggested the sooner moving forward with treatment the better and left the room.

That evening Marine Corps training kicked in and my mission began. With biopsy report in hand, I sat at the computer and began researching breast cancer. First, the macro. Then every confounding word, acronym, abbreviation, and number on my wife's two-page lab report. Not only was she going to fight breast cancer, we were going to fight it and there was not going to be a single element of the battle I did not completely understand.

I learned our diagnosis was an aggressive form of breast cancer commonly referred to as "Triple Negative"--a malignancy not driven by hormones but triggered by genetic defect. From what I read, not especially good news. A glimmer of good news was it was Stage 1 borderline 2. An appointment with an oncology surgeon within a week confirmed my research. And she also confirmed a tough fight ahead and flagged my wife's records as "Urgent." Within a week our primary oncologist echoed the surgeon's assessment and seconded the recommended treatment protocol; an aggressive one. Clearly, the two skilled women knew exactly what they were doing.

I will not take time to elaborate on grueling chemotherapy that stripped my wife of nearly every single hair on her body (there were a few hardy survivors), turned her skin a sick pasty white, left her with an equally sick odor that soap and perfume could only momentarily mask, zapped the spark from her eye and her energy, and, at times, despite powerful aprepitants, caused unimaginable nausea.

Nor will I address the ordeal of a bi-lateral mastectomy, emotional acceptance and healing, painful physical rehabilitation, or the interesting conversation with a plastic surgeon who made it clear reconstruction is not a procedure--it is a challenging, uncomfortable process over an extended period of time that requires commitment. That conversation still lingers with us.

Nor will I bore you with program manager and caregiver duties orchestrating medical appointments, mixing batches of L-Glutamine daily to combat neuropathy, carefully watching--day and night--for signs of adverse reaction after day-long chemotherapy sessions, cooking plain broiled chicken and O'Brien hash browns twice a day for nearly two straight months because it was the only food my wife could stomach (to this day, I can't stand either smell), and sundry other responsibilities I am trying my damndest to forget. Slowly they fade.

Thank goodness for family and friends whose notes of encouragement and gifts helped keep our sense of humor. Defiant T-shirts lightened up the clinic on chemotherapy days--"Cancer Sucks," "This is My Cancer Fightin' Shirt," and everyone's favorite, "Save 2nd Base!"--Meal Loaf would love that one. And thank goodness for sketching; it helped time pass and eased my mind.

Now for the essence of what I learned about breast cancer--at least the top six.

One: Breast cancer is an epidemic--the second leading cause of death in women. Annually, in the U. S. alone, more than 200,000 women will be diagnosed and 40,000 will die. One in eight women will be diagnosed at some point during their life and age is not a discriminator--the disease strikes the young, the middle-aged, and the old. So, the odds are pretty damn good someone in your family will be stricken with the disease.

Two: Breast Cancer steals second base.

Three: Breast cancer is not breast cancer is not breast cancer is not breast cancer is not breast cancer. Get the point?! First question when hearing someone has breast cancer, "What type?"

Four: As there are many types of breast cancer there are as many treatment protocols. Every case is different--because people are different. And, doctor's have as many differing opinions as to how to treat--ultimately leaving the course of treatment up to the patient. Therefore, the second question, "What's the treatment decision?"

Five: Regardless of type and treatment, breast cancer is serious business. It kills. But it's curable--sometimes.

Six: And, oh by the way, men are not immune to breast cancer.

Ten years ago, through self-exam (stomping my foot three times--loudly), my wife--not yet 40--detected a lump. A mammogram confirmed a suspicious mass and biopsy was inconclusive. The doctor recommended erring on the side of caution with surgery. The word "cancer" had not been mentioned and frankly it never crossed our minds--at least not mine. After all, cancer attacked others. The lump was benign--as expected.

Ten years later, again through self-exam (again, stomping my foot three times--loudly), my wife detected a lump--in the same location. A mammogram confirmed a mass. An ultrasound indicated something was not quite right. The doctor advised keeping a close eye on it and reporting any change in size, etc. In less than two months, through self-exam (three loud foot stomps), the lump was growing and fast. Another ultrasound confirmed significant growth.

After biopsy the doctor told my wife he was 99.9% certain it was nothing to be concerned about but core tissue samples would make certain. "See you tomorrow," he said. That tomorrow was the last Friday in March a year ago. Doctors do not know everything--he was wrong; 100% wrong.

My wife is alive with an excellent prognosis because she was conscientious about regular self-exams (three loud foot stomps), regular mammograms (three loud foot stomps), and did not ignore the lump (three loud foot stomps). She caught her aggressive form of breast cancer early.

About two weeks ago the dopiest news of the year hit the streets. And, surprise, surprise, it came from a government task force--as mentioned in an opening paragraph. In case you missed it, The U. S. Preventive Services Task Force (whose position influences coverage of screening tests by Medicare and many insurance companies) recommended:

1. Most women in their 40s should not routinely get mammograms.

2. Women 50 to 74 should get a mammogram every other year until they turn 75, after which the risks and benefits are unknown.

3. The value of breast exams by doctors is unknown. And breast self-exams are of no value.

Now, let me be clear. I do not hold a medical degree. My "medical" training includes basic first aid for Marines tending to minor injuries incurred while living and training in the field, immediate care of some battlefield wounds, and how to administer CPR and apply the Heimlich maneuver. That's about it. But, to my credit, I hold an undergraduate degree, a Masters, and more importantly, a whole bunch of 'simple, North Carolina, small town boy' common sense.

From my recent experience and perspective, the task force's "suggestions" are just plain dumb; especially the conclusion "And breast self-exams are of no value." It is difficult, no check that--make it "impossible" for me to believe even a half-wit would have their name and credentials associated with such a moronic statement. Unless there was "incentive" for lending expertise and influence. Certainly not outside the realm of possibility. So, whether the task force membership was "incentivized" or it's an instance of wrong-headed group think, their recommendations are dumb. Really dumb.

How ironic the group is called "The U. S. Preventive Services Task Force"--with an emphasis on "Preventive Services." Though they cite some sort of data behind their recommendations, remember the quip, "Lies, damned lies, and statistics"--popularized by Mark Twain. In humor rests much truth. And anyone with an understanding of nonparametric statistics knows you can shape numbers to support anything. Finally, is not the timing of the task force's announcement suspicious considering the president's rush to reform healthcare? Draw your own conclusions.

The majority of independent medical experts I've heard interviewed about the task force's work agree, if followed, the recommendations will increase the death rate of women dying from breast cancer. Comforting, but that conclusion is common sense. In fact, polls taken after the task force's news release indicate, women, by some 76%, intend to ignore the recommendations. Smart ladies.

I've heard the nonsensical arguments supporting the task force. One in particular being to reduce "false positives"--preventing anxiety, stress, fear, and panic of 'poor' women who wait a few days or maybe weeks for a biopsy result. Sounds reasonable. However, anxiety, stress, fear, and panic do not cause cancer; breast or any other kind. "False positives" and "false negatives" are the expected consequences of imperfect testing and all things human. Get over it. The benefits of preventive screening and testing have proven to save lives.

Women, what would you prefer to hear from your doctor? "Mary, I apologize for the delay between biopsy and results but the news is great...you do not have breast cancer." Or, "Mary, you have breast cancer. And, it is not good...it's aggressive and advanced--Stage 4. You could have detected this mass through self-exam and we could have addressed it immediately. I am sorry."

If the latter, you can add "anger" in front of anxiety, stress, fear, and panic following diagnosis. And, "hearty congratulations," now you can enjoy all five emotions for you now have a problem to sweat.

Self-exams, mammograms, ultrasounds, advanced imaging, and most importantly--biopsy (there's those three loud foot stomps again), saved my wife's life. The biopsy being the only way to absolutely diagnose breast cancer, and specify type and stage--my wife's aggressive. Had she neglected the first line of self-defense--self-exam (three loud foot stomps), her prognosis would most definitely not have been as good. In short, a lump detected at home triggered a life-saving process. Now one year of quarterly blood checks under her belt she remains cancer-free.

Self-exams are of no value? Nonsense! I am far too much of a gentleman to use the language I'd really like to use opining about the value of the government task force.

Men, by all means, encourage the women in your life to regularly conduct self-exams. Think breast cancer can't happen to them? Or affect you? Think again!

Women, trust your instincts--they are our innate survival mechanism; listen to them. Any abnormality should be checked, without delay, by a doctor. Something bad will not get better by ignoring, hoping, wishing, meditating, praying--or drinking. A second opinion is a good idea. And remember, if it's cancer (no matter type or stage), you won't know until biopsied. Delays can be deadly.

Is my wife's good fortunes from self-exam the exception? Not by a long shot. Famous and not-so-famous women are coming forward, in hoards, every day with testimonials that self-exams and regular screening saved their lives. With each passing day the task force looks more and more foolish.

The government's assault--albeit an initial probe--on breast cancer early detection and screening is only the beginning to degrade (socialize) American healthcare. There is no reason quality of care must be sacrificed while intelligently reforming the healthcare industry. But haste has us recklessly heading full-speed ahead in a dismal direction. A train wreck is inevitable. Marginalizing healthcare appears to be one objective of the reigning party's grand scheme to drive our country to mediocrity and that, in turn, will make us all vulnerable--as to healthcare and otherwise.

This rush to overhaul healthcare without a bipartisan solution reminds me of an axiom every good Headquarters, U. S. Marine Corps Action Officer learns after working as lead on a few complicated projects: "You want it bad, you are going to get it bad." In other words, intervene to rush and circumvent the deliberate staffing process--designed to ensure thorough work before fielding, the result is going to be garbage.

The president wants healthcare reform bad, rest assured we're going to get it bad. And that is not good. Not good at all.

Post Script

Please help provide free mammograms. Hit the pink box labeled, "Click Here to Give--it's FREE!" You can click once per day--it only takes a moment to help fight breast cancer. Add the link to your favorites. Please pass it on. http://www.thebreastcancersite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=2

For fighting breast cancer with humor, ala Kelly Rooney, or as the site promotes, "pink with a wink" visit: http://www.save2ndbase.com/

Author's Endnote

My wife is cancer free. But our lives forever changed.

ULTIMATE GUIDE TO THE 'BIG O'

2011-09-29T15:31:00.000-07:00

ULTIMATE GUIDE TO THE 'BIG O'
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 30 September 2011

"The presidency has made every man who occupied it, no matter how small, bigger than he was; and no matter how big, not big enough for its demands." Lyndon B. Johnson (36th President of the United States)

The 'Big O'...

In the field of computer science the 'Big O' notation is useful in the analysis of algorithms. In other fields of study, though not sure about physiology and chemistry, it is used to estimate growth rates. Neither a computer whiz, mathematician, nor scientist, I won't be addressing any computational aspects of the 'Big O' today. Nor any other day, for that matter. And, yes, in case you're wondering, there is a 'little-o.' Yes, really.

Where I grew up there was a popular music hall in the county called the 'Big O Jamboree' (everyone called it "the Big O")--live music on Saturday nights, family friendly, featuring local talent country and western and bluegrass acts like 'Earl Lynn & the Wonders,' 'Jeannie Long & the Jokers,' and a quintet of gifted high school boys, with my brother on the 5-string banjo, called 'Showdown.' Once in a while the 'Big O' would pack 'em in with traveling acts--'The Lewis Family,' featuring 'Little Roy' on the 5-string, comes to mind. I think the Osborne Brothers appeared. There were others. I'd not thought of that place for years until penning this Comment. Good times. Good memories.

A few years ago I bought car tires at a chain called 'Big O.'

And some folks refer to a popular talk show host as 'Big O.' I don't if that moniker refers to her wealth, power, girth, or all of the above, and don't really care.

After drafting today's missive and settling on title, a caption of similar wording on a news website caught my eye. More on that later.

But enough mention of distractors, time to get down and dirty--to business.

So unable to resist temptation to partake in risque wordplay, and at the risk of making some uncomfortable to the point of being fidgety, for today a politically, possibly socially, incorrect straighttalk quickie--ala chapter outline--in American history that happens to still be in the making...

I. Campaign (~2007 - Nov 2008)

Hyp-nosis: City Slicker, with smooth talk, charm, and foreplay mesmerized hordes. Puppy love. Zombies elect. Celebration. Premature elation!

II. Election / Office (Nov 2008 - present)

Out-of-focus: 180 degrees out from steam-rolling, polished campaign--Administration can't keep it, campaign momentum--that is, up. Can't perform. Nothing works. Even pumping big money fails.

A-trocious: Money, and speeches with cliches worse than bar pickup lines, over and over, fail to stimulate. Form over substance. Leadership impotent. Country frustrated and angry--headaches, night after night (and day after day), go from bad to worse and worse still. No relief. Restless. Sleepless. Folks tired of getting screwed and laid--off from work.

Trick-a-nosis: President's sex appeal gone. Refers to dissenting fellow Americans as enemies. Shameful. Whipped out "red meat" (quoting pundits) to base. Referring to Congressional Black Caucus as "the conscience of the Congress," stepped up dirty talk (subtle race-laced and class-warfare rhetoric) with 'preachaman' flair--aping mentor, Reverend Wright--but stopped short of cursing, 'God damn those Republicans.' Preachin's not leadin'. The color blind president? The great lover--the great uniter?

Prog-nosis: Halitosis. No more good vibrations. Hope and change and dreams dry up. Puppy love petered out. Desperation.

III. Re-election campaign / Election Day (Present - Nov 2012)

Ex-BHO-adocious: Ego, and more, shriveled. Frustrated, angry Americans--sick and tired of being petted and stroked--shun and deliver decisive, historic beating. Make that thumping or clubbing.

IV. Post-presidency (Jan 2013 - )

Diag-no-sis: "What happened, what went wrong?" Better question, "What didn't go wrong?"

V. Aftermath

Book deals: Autobiography / Titles: "Here Comes the 'Big O'" and sequel "Dreams of My Father--That Dried Up"; Biography / Title: "The 'Big O' That Never Came"

Customary erection: Presidential library(s)--Hawaii? Illinois?

Erectile dysfunction: Presidential library(s)--Kenya? Middle East?

So goes ins and outs and ups and downs of politics in America.

Oh yes, that eye-catching caption mentioned in the introduction? "Guide to the Ultimate 'Big O.'" What a difference shuffling a word or two can make. And adding context. But then again, sex and politics, they go hand-in-hand. Sorry.

As for "the" 'Big O' and the 'Big O'? Good luck. Dumb luck. And may both, grossly overrated, come and go.

And that is all I have to say, for now, about the 'Big O.'

Post Script

Speaking of the 'Big O'...

Tuesday I read Bill O'Reilly's (and Martin Dugard) "Killing Lincoln." Read this book! Every American, starting 5th or 6th grade, should read this book--not only for facts and depth into the murder of our 16th president but more so to remind as to what genuine love of country, public service, personal sacrifice, selfless and strong executive leadership, and humility is all about. It's a case study as to what we should expect, and demand, of our president(s)--frankly, from all leadership; period. Today we're being patronized. It's sickening. And it's unacceptable. Lincoln-likes are amongst us--but where? Where are they--he and she? Where? We'd better find them--soon.

Author's Endnote

Today, my brother fronts a bluegrass group called "Higher Ground." Based in Albuquerque, the award-winning band enjoys a huge fan base and radio play--internationally. He writes much of the music. And, though his strongest instrument is the 5-string banjo, if it has strings he can play it. Check out information and a link to the band's website here: http://www.highergroundbluegrass.com/ and posted lower left. The three CDs are fabulous! And more than reasonably priced--pick up one of each. Tell your friends. Oh, and he's a Marine and Sailor--earned 'Wings of Gold'--once flying fast-movers for our Corps and Navy. Semper Fi, Duke.

POLS AND THE POTATO CHIPS FIGHT

2011-09-25T11:30:00.000-07:00

POLS AND THE POTATO CHIPS FIGHT
By Andy Weddington
Sunday, 25 September 2011

"The whole campaign was a tragic case of mistaken identity." George McGovern

These are darn serious times for our country. Darn serious. But every once in a while, for the sake of sanity, a dose of humor is healthy. That is, laughing good for the heart, mind, and soul. And more often than not there's a bit of truth, of reality, in the humor. Here goes, decide for yourself.

So last Thursday evening I tuned in to the Fox News and Google Republican presidential candidates debate. Yes, it's early but certainly not too early to start learning about the folks jockeying to challenge the Democratic party nominee--whether it's the self-destructing incumbent or not. The evening did not disappoint. Great entertainment.

Though being on stage performing before a packed and buzzing theatre and millions and millions across the globe is certainly stressful, how wonderful to be in the position of no responsibility, able to criticize (with curt civility) one another, repeatedly attack the sitting president, and promise, promise, promise. Enjoy it while it lasts. For Mr. Obama can shed a little light on the inevitable pitfalls of over-promising and under-delivering--from god to dog. Will they ever learn? No. Will we ever learn? No.

I listened to post debate commentary, read some objective reviews, and thought about what I'd seen and heard. And then Friday morning, while wandering around the grocery story, a comical analogy struck. So standing in the snack foods aisle, with pocket-size notebook in hand and a curious shelf stocker and a few nosey shoppers keeping an eye on me, I started jotting down words on packaging.

First conclusion is considering the scrutiny customers around me devoted to reviewing potato chip bags, I'd be willing to bet the average person spends more time fretting over what brand and flavor of potato chips to buy than thinking about what politician to vote for. Where else but America. Surely that helps explain at least some, if not all, of the inept holding public office.

The comparisons between potato chips and politicians interesting.

Big money surrounds both. Potato chip annual retail sales in the United States is around $6 billion a year. A sixth of that is the fundraising target to fuel the president's re-election campaign. Cha-ching!

Attractive packaging--for the pol. No one sells in a competitive marketplace without good makeup. If hair, how styled? Face paint. Attire. Carriage. And so forth and so on. Image consultants tend to this business. As tennis phenom Andre Aggassi declared years ago--when he had hair--in a famous camera ad, "Image is everything."

Likewise potato chips, if bags are to sell, require attractive packaging. Shapes and colors and clever words (Betcha can't eat just one.)--all important. Marketers are image consultants for potato chips.

Other parallels...

Potato chips are bought. So are politicians. Some cheaper than others.

Potato chips have websites. So do politicians.

Potato chips have expiration dates. Most politicians do--all should.

And, potato chips, like politicians, are packed with hot air.

As if Frito-Lay, Inc. needs any free adverstising, following is the potato chip style / politician complement, as I see it, based on the Lay's product line.

In no particular order...

Limon / Rick Perry. Maybe bilingual but not an original chip. Head-scratching immigration policies. Not so impressive behind the podium, so far. A career, but not worldly, politician who Bachmann accused of being bought--cheap. Considered a front runner but seems shallow, plastic, and canned. So, Pringles, not a real man's chip, come to mind. Do they eat Pringles in Texas? Maybe he should grow a moustache. Or just grow.

Flamin' Hot / Michele Bachmann. The woman in red. Brought back memories of the beauty Kelly LeBrock's 'Charlotte' role 27 years ago. Bachmann, hands down, won the evening's best attire, hair, and legs. She's bright. And stuck to her conservative message. There's something about Mar--Michele. But she still needs to beat her drum. And watch impromptu public remarks--just because someone tells you something doesn't mean it has to be repeated. She won the Iowa straw poll. With Limon crumbling, who knows.

Lightly Salted / Rick Santorum. He's been around just long enough to be a little salty. And has visited Limon land's border with Mexico, so he told Perry. Claims to be versed in world affairs and policies. Could be. Could be. He won Pennsylvania's straw poll. But like the bag of chips near the bottom shelf, needs to be more visible.

Salt & Vinegar / Mitt Romney. Too much salt is not good for your health. Some advise potato chips are not good for your health. Neither is RomneyCare--no matter how packaged. He's still explaining that one. A smoother chip than Limon, he, too, is on the shelf at eye-level, at least for now. Some consumer 'taste tests' (polls) have him #1 but that could easily change and probably will. Consumers are fickle.

Barbeque - K. C. Masterpiece / Herman Cain. The pizza man. Folksy, common sense successful business leader with practical ideas. And he can articulate them. A fellow to hang out with during a Saturday afternoon backyard barbeque. Stage 4 cancer survivor. Chemotherapy--that's like being barbequed inside and out. So a tough guy, too. Serious candidate who's drawing bigger crowds--won Florida straw poll convincingly. Whether he wins nomination or not, hands down the best man for vice president--regardless of nominee. Think about it.

Classic / Newt Gingrich. He's been around and knows the game. Classic politician. Full of ideas--some good. A silver haired and tongued devil. Attire and hair second to Bachmann. Legs? Some things you just don't want to think about much less see. It doesn't look like he's ever seen a bag of chips he didn't like.

Cheddar & Sour Cream / Gary Johnson. With his neighbor's dogs producing more shovel-ready jobs than the current administration comment, a truer statement not made during the debate, he should pursue standup comedy. Now. Though he will have to give credit to the quip's author, Rush Limbaugh. Reminds me of Gopher from Love Boat (a show I never watched). Why weren't you in summer white uniform, Gary?

Chipotle Ranch / Jon Huntsman. Utah--a land of ranches. 'Chipotle' is derived from a word that means 'smoked chili pepper'--a brown, shriveled jalepeno. Whatever the folks in Utah want to smoke is fine by me--provided it's legal. I've never tried this style of chip. And probably won't. Though an interesting gent, America will likely not try Huntsman. Chipotle? Naagh. No kidding, these chips were on the bottom shelf. And that's about where Huntsman is at this point.

Wavy-Original / Ron Paul. The oldest candidate and therefore, by default, has seen the most--which counts for something. Probably remembers when all potato chips were handcut and deep-fried in lard and heavily salted. And when waves, ridges, and ruffles were invented. Bright guy with practical, original ideas though not without an occasional odd comment. A respectable debater with a patriotic heart but doubtful to improve shelf space.

There may still be another bag (e.g. Sarah Palin, Chris Christie) or two that will come forward. Should they, I'll give thought to a complementary chip. They deserve that much.

Potato chips. And shelf life.

Politicians. And self and shelf life.

Bags filled with hot air, both, that expire.

All fight on.

Where does our president fall out in the potato chip fight? Three years ago, Sour Cream & Onion. Why? Green bag--of hot air. But today, defiance making for ever-dwindling hope for a second term, Mr. Obama doesn't merit chip status because--he's toast!

So we wait to see who--tries to change their bag, their mistaken identity; dips; goes stale; and crumbles. Some will change positions on the shelf. Some will be pulled. No matter how ugly, we'd better end up with a fresh best-seller. Or else. That is, in pop culture lingo, he or she had better be, "All that and a bag of chips."

We'll see what next week and the weeks after bring our way. And we observe and listen and think and assess and prepare to vote.

While the cautious cynic in me wanders if we, when the promising's done, booths closed, votes tallied, and the oath sworn, won't just end up with another ordinary bag. Odds are.

And that's a $3.59 bag's worth of fun, whimsy, satire, fact, humor, and palm reading "analysis." Otherwise, we cry.

And in all seriousness, let the chips fall where they may.

Post Script

For a complete product line visit: http://www.lays.com/ Who knows, maybe they'll sponsor an upcoming debate.

FLYING ON 9/11

2011-09-22T15:10:00.000-07:00

FLYING ON 9/11
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 23 September 2011

"Time is passing. Yet, for the United States of America, there will be no forgetting September the 11th. We will remember every rescuer who died in honor. We will remember every family that lives in grief. We will remember the fire and ash, the last phone calls, the funerals of the children." President George W. Bush

Before moving to today's Comment, mention of an amusing encounter that happened Wednesday morning outside one of our local merchants.

About mid-morning, clad in shorts, T-shirt, and a pair of Crocs (aka: standard desert attire), I took a break from writing to make a market run for a few items. No time to waste, I was hustling in when a guy (mid to late 50s) holding a clipboard tried to ambush me--he asked if I was a registered voter. Without breaking stride, I stepped left, said "Yes," and moved on not giving him opportunity to say another word. Ten minutes later, exiting with goods for the fridge, the same guy approached and asked if I'd sign a petition. "I'm busy, for what?" He said something about an insurance industry effort to reduce rates for law-abiding, safe drivers. I guess that was the hook. "Really? Interesting. Who or what outfit do you represent?" He avoided the question and said, "We're trying to get this in a bill." "Okay, but who do you represent--who's we?" "A group of big insurance companies." "No, no, you did not answer my question. For whom are you compiling names on this petition--who's sponsoring the bill?" No answer. Then he admitted not having read what he was asking people to sign. Hilarious but typical. As I started to walk away he, apparently feeling foolish, resorted to sarcasm, "Ah, a smart guy with questions." Turning, "No sir, not a smart guy. Merely average. And not a clown pestering people to sign something of which I am not familiar. Have a nice day." There weren't many names on his paper. Go figure. Good grief. And the thought of him being a registered voter concerning. Yet it explains a lot. Fun times in SoCal. Scary.

Now for today...

We, my wife and I, made it a point to fly on Sunday, 11 September 2011.

That deliberate decision was our way of exercising freedom to come and go as we please, expressing continued 'two-barrel' defiance to enemies struggling to disrupt our way of life, and to honor a friend, Lieutenant Commander Patrick J. Murphy, U. S. Navy, killed in the attack on the Pentagon ten years ago.

American Airlines--of course. And coast to coast--east to west--with stop and plane change in Dallas/Fort Worth.

We arrived a bit earlier than normal at the airport thinking there'd likely be delays checking in and passing through security. That proved a good decision though we, without delay, were at our gate within 20 minutes after being dropped curbside. And that included a stop at Starbucks after checking bags, grabbing boarding passes, and negotiating security.

No one at the airport made mention of the date. Not a peep. Yet there were obvious signs of increased security--more TSA personnel; conveyor belts passing bags through the scanner doing more to'ing and fro'ing--the screening agent attentive; K-9 units; and a plainclothes folk or two moving from gate to gate looking at travelers and bags, and taking interest in bags that appeared a little too far away from an owner.

We didn't have any concerns about flying on the anniversary. None. But I did mull over how someone determined to bring down an airplane might go about it. Breaching the cockpit not likely. Some sort of homemade explosive not likely. About the only act that came to mind, that could definitely escape security screening, was opening one or more emergency exit row doors once at altitude. The old 'keep it simple but effective' approach. So, I made mental note to take a good look at passengers seated in exit rows.

My wife and I assigned exit row--seats 20A and B.

Eight other passengers, three to starboard and five behind, gave verbal responses, in English (thank you very much), to the flight attendant that they were able and willing to assist in the event of an emergency. All appeared to be solid citizens. The flight attendant had no idea what was going through my mind, and had I even felt the hint of an issue with any of those seated adjacent to a door I'd have discreetly brought it to her attention. For all I know others were thinking the same--and about me and my wife. After all, failing to act on instinct, to mention things that did not appear quite right, contributed to the 9/11 attack.

The flight to Dallas/Fort Worth was uneventful.

The terminals the usual zoo. Busy. Gates packed. Passageways hectic with pedistrians and cart drivers bellowing "Watch the cart, please." Waiting lines at restuarants. You get the picture. We passed on Skylink--opting for exercise from Terminal A to C. We heard not a single mention of 9/11 or the anniversary. But, as at our point of origin, along the way there was a noticeable presence of TSA agents. And there were K-9 units.

As luck would have it, a plane had just departed from our gate and there was ample seating. I assumed gear guard duty and my wife wandered to find eats. And make another stop or two.

I noticed an older gentleman, not in a uniform, holding a small comm radio and an index card size notebook. He was walking about gates. He was discreet. He was taking note of passengers and bags. I watched as he approached a couple of passengers. Conversations were short. It appeared he was asking questions and satisfied with the answers.

From my front, a clean-cut looking, neatly dressed young man with a shaved head approached. He made eye contact then his eyes shifted slightly down and right (taking note of the small Marine Corps emblem embroidered on the left breast of my shirt). No doubt he was a Marine. He looked the part. And his eyes betrayed him.

I asked if he was en route to the Combat Center in Twentynine Palms. He was. And offered he was a new second lieutenant just out of logistics school and reporting to his first command.

We spoke for a few minutes. Typical pleasantries. And then there was a few moments of silence. Then he asked about my service. I mentioned the Combat Center was my last duty station, I'd retired a handful of years ago, and now was a practitioner of the gentlemanly arts. That brought a laugh. A few minutes later he asked about rank, and seemed surprised. In the big scheme of things, you just don't run into many Marine colonels.

Then my wife returned. And conversation continued. It came up she is Navy, and a Captain. Interesting--for him. His new bride, at that moment (and still), is tackling Navy Officer Candidates School. He had many a question about making a dual military household work. His concerns about it not being possible now had a new angle for consideration.

And then the gate agent, unexpectedly, called my wife's name and requested she approach the desk. Odd. Not within earshot, I occasionally glanced at the gate desk while talking to the lieutenant. The two women were solving something. Minutes later my wife returned with boarding passes moving us from exit row to First Class. Then she looked at me and said, "You two need to sit together," and took the lieutenant up to the desk, explained the situation, and in short order had arranged for the two Marines to sit at the front of the plane--seats 2A and B.

On one of the 9/11 flights that struck the World Trade Center Twin Towers, two hijackers occupied those seats--an irony not lost on me at the time.

Before boarding, I reminded my wife to do a quick visual of the exit rows passengers.

The two and half hour flight was uneventful. First Class a little more comfortable than exit row.

We Marines talked. About the Corps. And about the Navy. And he had some questions. And asked for advice. I didn't offer all that much--set the example and eat last was the gist of it--and he probably didn't hear anything not already heard time and again at OCS, The Basic School, and logistics school. But reinforcement from a stranger, who's been there, is always of value if nothing more than reassuring.

About thirty minutes from landing we glanced out the window. He took note of the brown, the mountains, the desert--first sights for him--and commented it was far different than back home. It sure is. I asked if he needed a ride to the Combat Center (we always poke our heads in at the USO to see if anyone needs a ride). He said he was all set--his platoon sergeant was picking him up. They'd not yet shook hands but had met over the Internet.

He'd expressed excitement and nervousness about meeting his platoon the next morning. He was anxious--within and ready to get started. He asked if I remembered that first moment standing before my platoon. Of course. More than 30 years ago hardly seems possible. He listened. Marines have not changed. It'll be a memorable moment for him. And them. My Marine's names readily come to me--Sergeants Battle, Chastain, and White led their squads. Platoon Guide, Sergeant French. And Platoon Sergeant Staff Sergeant Cauly. And if I spent a few minutes I could cite most if not all the Marines in 1st Platoon, Golf Company, 2/6 (2nd Battalion/6th Marines). You don't forget your first platoon.

We waited at baggage claim and chatted a while longer. His cell phone rang. The call short and to the point. His platoon sergeant was in the area and would pick him up just out the doors. The lieutenant had stepped away a few paces to take the call so I did not hear the exchange but guess it went something like this: "Lieutenant, sir, I'm just outside in the van. You can't miss it." "Thanks, Staff Sergeant. Bags are on the carousel--mine should be out any moment. Be right there. Look forward to meeting you." About that time his bag came around. He claimed it, shook our hands, and we bid farewell--with our offer to contact us should he need anything at all. Anytime.

No doubt, during that hour+ ride to the Combat Center, his platoon sergeant put his mind at ease.

Soon, before his wife completes OCS and is commissioned an ensign, that lieutenant will lead his Marines in combat. A responsibility to which I could not say anything, for that was not the case 30 years ago. It was a different day.

Not one to glamorize war, at all, and wish it weren't necessary, I envy what awaits that young man. His chosen path honorable and noble. He'll never be the same--however long he decides to serve. I wish it were possible to start again.

What a way to mark 9/11--flying friendly but guarded skies while visiting with a new generation of Marine. Some things are just meant to be. They just are. Simple as that.

Huh, seats 2A and B. Better than a script.

Post Script

The Pearl Harbor Survivors Association, founded in 1958 and recognized by the United States Congress in 1985, has a motto: "Remember Pearl Harbor--Keep America Alert-- Eternal Vigilance is the Price of Liberty."

And with that dictum, we know how 9/11/01 happened. But if remembering, keeping alert, and eternally vigilant, then the question is why?

I don't know if the airlines are paying close attention to passengers assigned exit row seats or not. I'd like to think so, but on a flight not too long ago my wife had to point out to a flight attendant that a woman seated at the door, exit row, was holding an infant. That was not a good sign. Alert? Vigilant? It's why I make it a point to put eyes on folks seated in exit rows. Everyone on an airplane needs to be paying attention. Always. You just never know.

Remember 07 December 1941? Remember 11 September 2001?! Now America has two dates that live in infamy. A third? Inexcusable!

GAME OVER--THE NOT-SO-(AL)MIGHTY MR. OBAMA STRIKES OUT

2011-09-15T16:05:00.000-07:00

GAME OVER--THE NOT-SO-(AL)MIGHTY MR. OBAMA STRIKES OUT
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 16 September 2011

"If stupidity got us into this mess, then why can't it get us out?" Will Rogers

For today, a little history, literature, current events, politics, and sports delivered with a touch of staccato...

In 1888 Ernest Thayer penned a poem about baseball titled, "Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic Sung in 1888". The closing stanza about the hometown hero as follows...

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville -- mighty Casey has struck out.

No question the one some believe a sultan, and hometown hero, will go down swinging, wildly, but Mr. Obama is a one-term wonder. He, like mighty Casey, has struck out.

That hardly original observation and prediction confidently supported with five letters forming two words: "talk" (and) "walk"--too much "t" and too little, if any, "w." Look around, signs abound--unemployed family, friends, and neighbors; tight money; empty residential real estate; empty commercial real estate; businesses out of business; struggling businesses; businesses that need to expand and cannot; businesses wanting to start and cannot; wobbly markets; wasteful stimulus spending; inane debt; self-serving bandaid jobs plans; hindering policies; etc. And then there's Solyndra--an Obama "green" fiasco, looking kind of criminal, that just might prove one among more. There's always more. Fact or fiction, it's as if every act possible to wreck our country's economy purposeful. Outcomes--they matter not how intended nor realized. A mess is a mess.

Losers make excuses and blame others. So the president's last address to congress and our nation no surprise and right in line with Charles Krauthammer's early-in-the-term narcissist diagnosis--finger pointing; air of royal impatience; smug scowling under hooded eyes; pleas of 'help me' and 'pass this act now;' and void of reference to personal failure. At least there's consistency. Though a personal crisis is not, necessarily, a national emergency the line is blurry. But, in other words and as has appeared previously in this forum...

"Don't Confuse Effort With Results."

Mr. Obama's tired explanations and rationalizations, though more polished, sound a lot like Yogi Berra isms, "Slump? I ain't in no slump...I just ain't hitting."

Another year+ of talk is a certainty. Screwballs. Spitballs. Curves. Sliders. Sinkers. And fastballs. We're close enough to three years of him and them--steeeeeerike three! More like steeeeeerike twenty-three. Whiffs all. Another year will not make any difference. Besides, there are no mulligans in America's favorite pastime.

As the comedic master of dry wit, Stephen Wright, astutely and correctly observed, "Anywhere is walking distance, if you've got the time."

But time's run out, to walk anywhere.

And our disillusioned, ever-growing and angry impatient public will not balk. Nor wait for a 7th inning stretch (in the 3rd year of a second term). They'll be running--sprinting--to the polls. The dopey results of 2008 not to be repeated. Nope. It will not happen.

It's the swing voters who'll ensure a new game. Count on it--fully.

Next batter--player to be named later--up.

And whomever it may be has had ample time to bear witness success will not come easy. And as there are parallels between baseball and politics, all the players would be wise to read "Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game" by Michael Lewis. Who will have the smarts to do so and figure it out? Who will be in a league of their own?

In the end, it takes a bat and ball(s) to play the game. Mitt optional.

Hence forward, pro incumbent media will configure all sorts of rally caps. Of course. Mere distractors. And the closer to Election Day the sillier, and nastier, they will be--making for good entertainment. Nothing more.

The not-so-(al)mighty Mr. Obama--charismatic, competent orator, good guy, likeable or not--simply can't hit. Like the mighty Casey, he's struck out. Game over.

A few decades ago the executive officer--the XO, a Harvard man and economist, of a rifle company in 6th Marines energetically said in reference to just about everything going right, "That's what I'm talking about." Looks like 'Bullet' will be able to reprise that line come next November. And, as back in the day, I'll laugh in agreement.

Come the January following the next November there'll be a new game in Mudville--a fitting moniker for Washington. The ump--our Chief Justice--by administering the oath, bellows, "Play ball!" And soon thereafter we'll see whether we hired a hitter, or a Casey; again.

Rough game, politics. Sometimes, baseball. In both arenas, you'd best bring game and not just talk one. The big lesson for players in both sports--whether president, congressman, pitcher, or shortstop--is playing is a privilege not a right nor entitlement. And when the parties to whom you are under contract start boo'ing, hissing, and heckling you'd damn well better listen, and listen closely, because change is in the air. That's the way the games are played.

How ironically hilarious some think the current administration is, well, bush-league. And that is a pretty good deduction on opposing fronts. The good and to his credit, Mr. Obama has carried on, actually dramatically stepped up, the Bush practice of ruthlessly hunting down and killing terrorists thereby protecting our country. The big one is no more. The president seemingly grasps national defense. To the contrary and likewise to his credit, practically all things economic touched meets the understood definition (of bush-league). Whether his attitude toward that which fuels America--capitalism and all faults therein--is definance or ignorance or indifference matters not. Today's polls (credible ones), though always subject to change, make that point crystal clear--an overwhelming percentage do not agree with Mr. Obama's handling of the economy.

Baseball. Politics. Why is Mr. Obama striking out? Simple. He's a manager. And nothing more than average. Presidents are supposed to lead. He's not. He's out. Maybe there will be opportunity in some community to organize a baseball team. But neither manage nor lead that team must he.

And that's what I'm talking about.

Post Script

They play hardball--politics and baseball and everything else--in New York. Tough crowds. A GOP victory, Tuesday, filling disgraced Weiner's seat in the House sent a message from fed up New Yorkers: You're off to the showers, Obama. A free agent you soon shall be.

9/11-- AND A BLACK SHOE NAMED MURPHY

2011-09-08T16:56:00.000-07:00

9/11-- AND A BLACK SHOE NAMED MURPHY
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 09 September 2011

"I was in uniform for four years, and I know that heroism doesn't occur from taking orders, but rather from people who through their own willpower and strength are willing to sacrifice their lives for an idea." Thor Heyerdahl (1914-2002)

I knew someone killed on 9/11/01. He took orders--willingly--well knowing the idea for which he did so may one day cost him his life. But surely he (nor anyone else) never imagined payment would come due on that Tuesday a decade ago come Sunday.

Remembering, today's Commentary was originally published two years ago.

From Friday, 11 September 2009...

Today, communities, towns, and cities--coast to coast--will hold "9/11" Memorials. As it should be.

Countless newspapers, magazines, Internet blogs, and TV news programs will remember "9/11." As they should.

And far more famous and eloquent writers--with all sorts of impressive credentials, distinguished awards, and professional accomplishments--than I will recall the tragedy from a macro perspective; the temporary crippling of our nation, and the world. And that is okay; it is necessary.

Some writers and commentators will innocently skim over or completely overlook the micro. Still others will intentionally snub the micro--as to not rile America's anger as she reflects, remembers, and continues to heal--for no other reason than to promote a twisted political agenda. That is, they will deliberately work to just "let the sleeping dog lay."

But the micro--the human variable--is really all that matters. In fact, stirring up the "micro" is what will ensure no one ever forgets, ever--the shock of pure horror and the pain of nearly inconsolable anguish and grief. And remind our leadership and countrymen to remain alert and on-guard--to protect the homeland and Americans abroad.

For me, "9/11" was personal; on many fronts. And my purpose--my mission--today is to ensure no one ever forgets that it was personal for everyone who lost a loved one--family member or friend--that awful day and in the days that followed.

Therefore, today's Commentary will focus on the "micro"--honoring the life and selfless service of a fellow American--a "black shoe" Sailor--a hero. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct privilege and honor to present to you...

Lieutenant Commander Patrick Jude Murphy, United States Navy - 25 June 1963 - 11 September 2001

American Airlines Flight 77--with cockpit controls resting in the filthy hands and warped minds of Muslim extremists--inexplicably changed course; it headed toward Washington, D.C. As it turned out, the Pentagon. Flying well below treetop level, once a friendly airliner now a hostile missile, it--without warning--slammed into the side--and ripped toward the heart--of America's defense headquarters. It was 09:37 on Tuesday morning, 11 September 2001.

Eight years ago today, the Arlington, Virginia, landmark recognized as the world's most powerful iconic symbol of military might was the target of one of four civilian commercial passenger jets--the big tin birds--turned into weapons of mass destruction against America. The attack--SHOCKING and UNBELIEVABLE--left us momentarily stunned--incoherent.

Our enemies cheered and celebrated--they had wounded Goliath. But their partying would be short-lived. For our wound they would pay, and pay big time, having grossly underestimated the wrath of a bleeding, angry, and incredibly powerful giant. And their hell is not over yet. In holes they still hide.

The unprovoked, surprise attack was surreal. For those who did not already know it, it made a defining world-wide statement: the modern battlefield has no boundaries--it is nonlinear. And though the term "nonlinear" says it all--most civilians never considered the possibility of finding themselves in the middle of a war. Welcome to 21st century warfare--without rules; at least as waged by our enemy. Our enemy has one objective--kill as many western civilians/infidels as possible. By whatever means available. Men, women, and children--regardless of age, are fair game. 9/11 was testament they were serious, and determined. Make no mistake, they continue to be a serious, dangerous threat to our way of life.

Excluding the fifty-nine innocent passengers on Flight 77 (who gives a damn about the worthless lives of five miserable terrorists!), 125 souls perished in the Pentagon; including fifty-five of America's finest men and women--volunteers--patriots--all clad in an American military uniform. Scores more were injured.

Among the dead military was a Sailor named Lieutenant Commander Pat Murphy--a native son of Flossmoor, Illinois--a small village of 3.5 square miles in south suburban Cook County that, at the time of Pat's death, claimed a populace of a smidgeon more than 9,300. More than likely, many in the village knew Pat.

Fifteen years earlier, after completing course work for a Bachelor of Science in Chemical Engineering and finishing a demanding Naval ROTC program curriculum, Pat Murphy was commissioned an Ensign in the United States Navy at the University of Mississippi--home of the Ole Miss Rebels. Yes, Hotty Toddy!, Ole Miss alum.

After commissioning, Ensign Murphy, having breezed through the rigorous screening and interview process, reported to the Navy's challenging nuclear power training program. Many a talented officer is not selected for nuke power; it is reserved for the elite. That Pat was among the chosen, excelled, and subsequently assigned to nuclear-powered submarines says plenty about his God-given abilities and skills. He served among a rare breed.

Pat Murphy was a smart guy. One of those types in the military that his less-gifted peers--and undoubtedly with a bit of envy--refer to as a "ten-pound brain." And other intellectual inferiors joke that the only reason these extraordinarily bright people have a body is to carry their brains around. Only the "non ten-pound brainers" see the humor. Yes sir, Pat Murphy was one smart guy. And an all-around pleasant, stand-up man. A gentleman.

It surprised no one that Pat did well in the fleet. But after attaining the rank of Lieutenant and completing his obligatory active duty service, he opted to resign his regular commission, accept a reserve commission--to "RE-Serve" his country, as Vice Admiral John Cotton, U. S Navy (Retired) liked to say when he commanded the Reserve Force, and return to civilian life to pursue a career as a chemical engineer.

Pat Murphy had big plans--among them was starting a family. Pat married his college sweetheart and the Murphy's eventually welcomed two children--sons--to the world. For Pat, coming from a broken home, family meant everything. He was determined to give his children that which he did not enjoy--a stable home with a loving mother and father. He did exactly that. Pat was a great Dad and was close to his boys.

Life was good for the Murphy's. And then the unimaginable happened. The proverbial lightning bolt struck--on a crystal clear day in Arlington, Virginia.

A "RE-Serving" officer for five years, it was just his extreme bad luck to be on his two-week annual training, working with Navy Command Center in the Pentagon, on that dreadful day--the day today known simply as "9/11." A day, that anyone of age who remembers, recalls exactly where they were and what they were doing while the land of the free nervously watched and helplessly waited for the next commandeered airliner to strike. The World Trade Center Towers; the Pentagon; a field in Pennsylvania--if not for brave passengers, the Capitol; ...no one knew if more were coming or not. Finally, the skies declared clear, a terrified nation caught its breath.

Amid devastation and chaos, it took a few days before official casualty lists--Department of Defense or otherwise--were released to the public. Accuracy superseded speed; of course. On Friday, 14 September, while scanning the Pentagon's list looking for familiar names, I happened upon "Lieutenant Commander Patrick Murphy."

My heart sank. You see, I knew a Patrick Murphy at Ole Miss in 1986 while serving as the Marine Officer Instructor on the Naval ROTC Unit Staff. And though not an uncommon name I had an unsettling gut feeling it was the same Patrick Murphy.

After attempting to confirm suspicions through sundry sources without success, I shared my feeling and concerns with my wife--a close friend of Pat's wife. After a few moments of discussion we decided to call the Murphy home. Linnea's call was answered. She identified herself and explained the purpose for phoning. The gentleman on the other end identified himself as John, Pat's brother, and confirmed it was indeed the same Pat Murphy on the casualty list.

John was polite--of course struggling with emotion--and said he was "running interference" and would be happy to take a message. As he repeated my wife's unusual name and began spelling it, Pat's wife overheard and said, "Wait, John, I will take that call." Use your imagination--it was a tough, tearful conversation.

The Murphy household was devastated. A distraught wife laboring to comprehend reality. Their two young sons--one 6, the other 3--too young to understand why Dad would not be coming home. Even children, in their own way, must cope with the fact life is not fair--heartbreaking. Now, along with thousands and thousands of other families devastated on 9/11, the Murphy family was reeling from shock, excruciating heartache, asking the rhetorical question, "Why?", and gradually coming to grips with their new lives--all whilst trying to figure out how they were going to take even a small step forward.

Pat's wife, along with more than 1,600 others, lost her spouse (partner)--her lover. The boys were among more than 3,000 children who lost a parent--their Dad was gone. And all were facing the same gut-wrenching circumstances--the overwhelming challenge of how to put their instantly shattered lives back together. Somehow they did. Yet scars remain--they will for life.

My wife and I remain friends with the family Murphy. She is in a good place--though she misses Pat every day. Once boys are developing into young men, old enough to know their Dad, whom Mom continues to work hard to keep "alive," was one hell of a man--a son, a brother, a husband, a father--"Dad," a friend, a Sailor, a shipmate, a patriot and most telling of his character, a hero.

Pat's name, and sacrifice, is preserved as part of the Pentagon Memorial--opened on this date last year--honoring the 184 good souls who died either in the Pentagon or aboard the airliner.

Lieutenant Commander Patrick Jude Murphy, United States Navy, today rests peacefully. Honored in Arlington National Cemetery--a greener and more reverent pasture there is not for our country's best and bravest. He rests among good--the best--company in the protective ranks of a formation. Amid brethren heroes of America he is safe--forever.

"Pat, eternal 'Fair Winds and Following Seas.' Your shipmates are ever vigilant on watch."

Post Script

Clip....................Clop..................Clip....................Clop......................Clip....................Clop................is the repetitive and haunting sound of hooves striking asphalt--reverberating through the cemetery--as a horse-drawn caisson--laden with a flag-draped coffin, and an accompanying burial detail, weaves its way through Arlington National Cemetery. The journey--escorting a veteran to their final resting place. "Mourning March," if you will, is repeated over and over again--daily. The sights and sounds of the traditional procession are spine-tingling. And even on the hottest and most humid of summer days, a glimpse of the detail, or even the sound of hooves, will send an ice-cold chill through your body--the shiver reflex guaranteed. If ever happening upon the somber ceremony, "brothers" laying a "brother" to rest, take the time to pause and respectfully watch--to honor a warrior. It is moving... moving beyond words.

Author's Endnote

To mark this remembrance milestone, my wife and I decided to fly on 11 September 2011 - 9/11/11.

CINDERELLAS AND PRETTY NEAT FEET

2011-08-31T15:16:00.000-07:00

CINDERELLAS AND PRETTY NEAT FEET
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 02 September 2011

"I like Cinderella, I really do. She has a good work ethic. I appreciate a good, hard-working gal. And she likes shoes. The fairy tale is all about the shoe at the end, and I'm a big shoe girl." Amy Adams

For today, light fun, an observation on life in general, namely about pretty neat feet and Chucks, Crocs, flip-flops, and more...

Once upon a time...

Some forty years ago where I grew up the canvas Converse Chuck Taylor All-Star was the hot shoe. Though colors e.g. red, green, blues (Carolina and Duke), and amber were available, most kids wore black or white, and low cut wearers far outnumbered high toppers. Guys wore Chucks. Once in a while a girl. Pricey, at ten dollars a pair, not everybody could afford them. But there was an affordable and acceptable alternative. At half the price, Bata Bullets were a passable knock-off that came in black low cut. My brothers and I and many friends--expert at wearing out a pair of sneakers in less than six months--wore them proudly. And contrary to marketers, the guys who wore Converse could not jump higher nor run faster than the guys in Bullets (they weren't called Bullets for nothing). That last statement one of fact proven via "scientific analysis"--in backyards and on courts and fields not in company boardrooms. Marketers, of course, disagree. So goes business and making money.

Since those old days, Chucks--low cut and high tops--still come in a rainbow of colors. And more styles. Oh, and they're more than ten bucks. Five times as much in some locales in the States. I own a pair--red high tops. I bought them not to hopefully improve prowess in backyards and on courts and fields but to use as model for a big painting. Good decision--the painting sold the day after completing it. The shoes still sit on the model stand. I just might wear them one day.

I don't think Bata Bullets are manufactured any longer but could be wrong. Regardless, no plans to buy a pair nor make a painting of them.

Crocs. A simple, practical shoe not around forty years ago. Their cousin, the cheap flip-flop, ruled. Most flip-flops went for fifty cents to a buck a pair and could be picked up in big bins in five and dime or drug stores or K-Mart and even 7-11 convenient stops. Flip-flops were worn at the pool, on summer outings at the lake or beach, and around the home. Sometimes at school--the girls. And that's about it.

Crocs are a different story. They're worn everywhere--pool, lake, beach, shopping, school, and workplace--the medical community first comes to mind. They're especially practical in the desert--a handful of pairs scattered about the house. Some say they look silly and swear them off. Not concerned about looks nor what anyone else thinks, the Crocs are practical, comfortable, versatile, easily cleaned, and, to my liking, colorful. And, if you want, you can decorate them with jibbitz--that trinket that plugs the shoe's holes. I don't do jibbitz.

Recently my wife and I traveled about Sweden--big city to small communities. Guess what? Chucks and Crocs are the hot shoes--mostly with the younger crowd (toddlers to twenty somethings and up) but older folks are wearing them, too. Both shoes so popular you'd think they're the official unofficial national uniform. What first caught my attention was the females, all ages, wearing Chucks. And most wearing high tops with no or low-cut socks (back in the day, for guys, it was calf or knee length stripe topped socks) that could not be seen above the high top. And their Chucks did not necessarily coordinate, at least in the everyday man's sense of style, with attire. But they did--whether sporting short skirts, casual dresses, shorts, slacks or jeans, Chucks were everywhere and anytime. Fine and dandy.

And so were the Crocs popular--in their original style and all sorts of new ones. A young girl wore one red and one green one. She and a friend had swapped. The beginning of an obvious fad? Possibly.

The footwear of choice for Swedes was a surprise. Swede friends said, "Yes, they're quite popular. But we get a better deal on them when shopping in the States. In some New York City stores there are more Swedes than Americans." I'll say. Checking sundry shops, Chucks were going from 700 to 800 kroner and sometimes more. That's starting at $120.00 a pair. The thinner sidewall style, preferred by some women, were more expensive than the traditional model. Less shoe for more money--people will buy anything.

And some folks were wearing Chucks knock-offs. Crocs makes one. So does Polo. Both passable copies--reminiscent of the Bata Bullets but better. Cost? Didn't bother to check. But, considering the established brands, could well be more. After all, some would rather die than not have 'the logo.'

Crocs, on average, were running about twice as much in the American market. I found a pair of a new canvas, slip-on style in a "REA" (Swedish for "Sale") bin and bought them--for less than priced back home. A rare find. And a comfortable shoe--suitable for shorts to tuxedos. And damn convenient for going through airport security.

Everywhere--Chucks and Crocs. And entertaining to see what outfit would next pop-up complemented with a pair of Chucks. There was something stylishly interesting about the contrast of high top Chucks and whatever attire--especially the dresses.

Upon return to the states and standing in the immigration queue--Americans only--another apparent footwear rage caught my eye. Not Chucks. And not Crocs. All the young women, and some not as young, were wearing flip-flops. Black flip-flops.

The American ladies, too, clad in short skirts, casual dresses, shorts, slacks, and jeans.

Puzzling. Then after a closer look the flip-flops made sense.

Why? To parade expensive pedicures, meticulously decorated nails, and tattoos.

Chucks. Crocs. Flip-flops. Chic!

What's the next hot shoe? Who knows. A decade or so ago a small group of rebel kids in New York City found Hush Puppies--trend setters, of sort, they breathed new life into the dying shoe company's iconic basset hound. They bought and wore them because no one else was. Kids. Whatever it takes to stand alone--to be different. I remember when Hush Puppies were cool--60s and 70s. So were wingtips and chucka boots.

Feet gloves. Have you seen them? Sleek, lightweight, foot-hugging shoes with individual pockets for toes?

Odd.

'Vibram FiveFingers' (yes, really, FiveFingers) makes them--for men, women, and children. Sundry models slip on, strap tighten, and lace up. A men's high top model zips on the side--like the old 70s leather 'fruit boots.' FiveFingers are not cheap--$100 and up. And they're not commonplace; yet. But they might be if the right person or people do something attention-getting while wearing them. Or some hip kids start wearing them. I noticed a guy in Sweden wearing a pair. People stared. Some giggled. Some think they look ridiculous--corny (go ahead, groan). Not the wearers. I don't own a pair; yet. For now, just Chucks and Crocs--plastic and canvas. And cheap flip-flops--known as "shower shoes" to Marines--used solely for that purpose; not to show off a pedicure, painted nails, or tattoos.

And finally...

While abroad, I didn't see any glass slippers. Not a single pair nor nary a stray. But there was many a Cinderella--blondes aplenty, with pretty neat feet, having a ball sporting today's "glass slippers"--Chucks and Crocs. Flip-flops for the American girls--to parade feet more than shoes. Regardless, with the revenue those shoes are generating, company executives smile and are...

living happily ever after.

And that's the story of Cinderellas and pretty neat feet.

Post Script

Crocs, in addition to the original, are making clogs, sandals, heels, flats, boots, sneakers, translucents, work shoes, and, what else, flip-flops. For all I know the American girls were wearing Croc flip-flops. They're not cheap--ten to forty-five dollars a pair. And there not sold in big bins. With clever packaging and presentation, people will buy anything--anything. And they'll keep buying if it's good. Chucks have endured. So have flip-flops, and with some struggle Hush Puppies. Crocs most certainly will. Toed shoes? Who knows.

YOU JUST NEVER KNOW

2011-08-25T10:57:00.000-07:00

YOU JUST NEVER KNOW
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 26 August 2011

"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear--not absence of fear." Mark Twain

Early Monday evening my wife and I waited at Gate C-30 at DFW (Dallas/Fort Worth) for the third airplane ride of the day--the first in Stockholm--to board American Airlines 1121 to San Diego; almost home after some time abroad.

DFW was busy. The switchback queue at immigration absurdly long--insane. Customs better--the "Welcome Home" passport stamp only took a few minutes--the Air Force vet agent friendly and chatty. Transit routes congested, with people and people movers, but flowing. Noisy. Food courts packed. Restroom queues. Our gate's seating area crowded--overflowing. All typical symptoms of a major airport humming along during peak hours. It's quite an operation when you stop and watch.

The plane was going to be full.

Sitting on the floor and standing around a stanchion near the boarding lanes were several dozen youngsters--most clad in jeans and casual shirts--with short hair needing a trim. Though short, the raggedy hair a clue they were not military. Hair aside, they did not carry themselves like military. Only one or two appeared as if it was necessary to shave more than once every few weeks. And then probably needing nothing more than a spoon. Frankly, they looked like a mob though there were no indicators they were about to flash--breaking into song, skit, or stores.

Tired after a long day, I'd not paid much attention to the group. Walking by them to board, I noticed one wearing a JNROTC (Junior Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps) shirt and the school represented was George W. Bush. First thought was they're on an outing--maybe a field trip to a base before school starts.

Shortly after settling in our seats the youngsters began to board--groups of eight or nine at a time passed by. They did not have any carry-on bags. Each held a manila envelope. Then my wife and I put the clues together and realized who they were. Curious passengers seated near us asked the youths where they were heading. "MCRD, sir!" replied a few in unison. MCRD? That would be Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego. Our conclusion confirmed.

Buckled in I was trying to steal some needed sleep as we still had a two and a half hour drive after landing in San Diego, but my wife quietly spoke with a few of the young men, wished them well, and as a closing 'oh by the way,' told them the "old man" to her left in the window seat was a Marine. One reached out to shake my hand. I obliged then wished those nearby few standing in the aisle well and, having heard a flight attendant and clueless passenger innocently refer to them as "Marines," gently reminded them they were not yet Marines, life was about to change--forever, and a tough road awaited them. A sobering reminder, as if necessary. It was.

The impromptu encounter with those young gents reminded me of days supervising recruit training at MCRD, Parris Island, now just a couple shy of thirty years ago. I remember the faces of youth--bewildered, anxious, apprehensive--stepping off the bus in the middle of the night scrambling for a pair of yellow footprints with their world turned upside down by loud, impatient drill instructors and many questioning why they were there. I was a few years older than them--they looked young but not that young.

The youngsters boarding flight 1121 looked young--really young. They hardly looked like high school graduates but had to be. They were not yet close enough to the depot to look bewildered, anxious, and apprehensive. But those looks would come--when stepping off the bus, anchoring yellow footprints, and greeted by drill instructors. And there'd be those scared, missing home, and wondering why they were there--concluding they'd made a huge mistake.

I remember speaking with Series after Series (250-300 recruits) in the early days of training--bluntly telling them what to expect and, more importantly, what, exactly, was expected of them. And assuring them that as fair and as impartial an opportunity at life was before them and performance, nothing else, all that mattered--a single standard for all. The Corps did not care who nor what they were before nor from where they hailed. All-Americans, lover boys, rednecks, greasers, geeks, and nerds were now equals on the same playing field. Beautiful. Really beautiful.

The faces eager to get started but full of uncertainty. And after every address, while leaving the squadbay, I remember thinking who amongst them will one day be a sergeant major, or a general, maybe commandant, or somehow distinguish themselves. In a sea of shaved heads and camouflage uniform clad bodies it's impossible to predict. And that by design and good.

Since Parris Island days, I've learned recruits I supervised (the drill instructors trained them) did make it to the rank of sergeant major. Some went on to become warrant officers and others earned commissions. And I know of one who's a colonel still on active duty. His success not so surprising--he was a platoon honorman. I clearly remember him, and the three others from that Series, sitting in my office the day before graduation. Who knows, he might make it to general. He is of credible stock--his father was a Marine. I know of one, who's been in touch, that retired a lieutenant colonel. He remembered my short address to his Series--some comments about hard work and doors opened by education resonated with him. He took them to heart and acted--after his enlistment went to college and was commissioned. Someone was listening after all--time and breath not wasted. And I know many of those recruits, during three years of duty, distinguished themselves in all sorts of ways--while in uniform and after returning to civilian life. On occasion I hear from one but it's been a while.

There was once a recruit from Louisiana Cajun country who conquered the challenges of MCRD, San Diego, and later earned a commission. He was promoted. And promoted. And promoted. He went on to earn the rank of general. He served as our Corps 27th Commandant. General Robert H. Barrow--from recruit to four-star general during more than 40 years in uniform. Count three wars among those four decades. During his retirement ceremony he told a story of asking graduating recruits at MCRD, Parris Island, what they'd learned during training. He felt the best response was, "Sir, the private will always do what has to be done."

And with that simple reply, a young soon-to-be new Marine validated for the old general that carefully considered rigorous, demanding training--time and battle tested--had accomplished exactly what it was designed to do. And, by the way, that objective is as applicable to Officer Candidates School as it is recruit training.

Every once in a while you read something that leaves you quiet and thinking. I read something last week that did just that, and left me thinking about that recruit who answered General Barrow's question.

An example of a Marine doing what had to be done...

"The President of the United States in the name of the Congress takes pleasure in presenting the

MEDAL OF HONOR

CORPORAL DAKOTA L. MEYER

UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS

For service as set forth in the following citation:

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the repeated risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as a member of Marine Embedded Training Team 2-8, Regional Corps Advisory Command 3-7, in Kunar Province, Afghanistan, on 8 September 2009. When the forward element of his combat team began to be hit by intense fire from roughly 50 Taliban insurgents dug-in and concealed on the slopes above Ganjgal village, Corporal Meyer mounted a gun-truck, enlisted a fellow Marine to drive, and raced to attack the ambushers and aid the trapped Marines and Afghan soldiers. During a six hour fire fight, Corporal Meyer single-handedly turned the tide of the battle, saved 36 Marines and soldiers and recovered the bodies of his fallen brothers. Four separate times he fought the kilometer up into the heart of a deadly U-shaped ambush. During the fight he killed at least eight Taliban, personally evacuated 12 friendly wounded, and provided cover for another 24 Marines and soldiers to escape likely death at the hands of a numerically superior and determined foe. On his first foray his lone vehicle drew machine gun, mortar, rocket grenade and small arms fire while he rescued five wounded soldiers. His second attack disrupted the enemy’s ambush and he evacuated four more wounded Marines. Switching to another gun-truck because his was too damaged they again sped in for a third time, and, as turret gunner, killed several Taliban attackers at point blank range and suppressed enemy fire so 24 Marines and soldiers could break-out. Despite being wounded, he made a fourth attack with three others to search for missing team members. Nearly surrounded and under heavy fire he dismounted the vehicle and searched house to house to recover the bodies of his fallen team members. By his extraordinary heroism, presence of mind amidst chaos and death, and unselfish devotion to his comrades in the face of great danger, Corporal Meyer reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service."

Rumors, none about Corporal Meyer's actions, are floating about the long firefight. Some know the facts. Not me--and it doesn't matter. Regardless, all moot.

Some news reports note Corporal Meyer is a humble hero--that he remains troubled by the lives--a Marine lieutenant, two Marine Staff Non-Commissioned Officers, and a Navy Corpsman--he was not able to save that day. He says he'll be wearing the medal for them who, in his eyes, are the true heroes and the others who serve. I watched a short interview with him. Those reports are accurate. Humility clear. For he only did what needed to be done. He did what any Marine would have done. It just so happened he was the one who had to do it.

And what strikes me as interesting...

as Recruit Meyer sat amongst a sea of shaved heads and camouflage uniform clad bodies in the early days of recruit training at MCRD, Parris Island, not so many years ago, his drill instructors and Series officers could not possibly have predicted what he'd one day be called upon to do. That those same drill instructors and officers attested at the end of training he was Marine material levied responsibilities upon his shoulders he certainly appreciated and embraced but could not possibly fully fathom. I, and every other Marine who's had a hand in making Marines, know how those drill instructors and officers must feel about Corporal Meyer's bravery.

I've never met Corporal Meyer but know training, along with character and upbringing, compelled him to act without regard for his own life--to do what had to be done.

General Barrow (1922-2008), signs are he's paying attention, must be pleased.

Who's amongst the group of recruits from that Monday evening flight who reported to MCRD, San Diego, and what will they do? You just never know.

And that goes for those--people of a different breed--taking the courageous volunteer step forward, particularly during time of war, to serve in any branch of our armed forces. As long as America keeps producing them, we'll be okay. Surely, we'll be okay.

Semper Fidelis.

Post Script

Sergeant Dakota L. Meyer, USMC--no longer on active duty--will be honored in a White House ceremony on Thursday, 15 September 2011.

Author's Endnote

I've been longtime friends with General Barrow's son. Rob, a retired Marine, and I served together for three years in 2nd Recruit Training Battalion, MCRD, Parris Island, as lieutenants and young captains. We are working a little project, with Parris Island (his father, when a major general, commanded the depot) ties, that is seemingly being guided by his restless father--ongoing spooky circumstances defy any other explanation. Right, Rob? Our battalion commander, regimental commander, and commanding general--fine Marines and exceptional leaders all--concur with our position and effort. If believing otherwise, no question, they'd be the first to "counsel" us.

SAME THINGS--DIFFERENT NAMES

2011-08-19T00:09:00.000-07:00

SAME THINGS--DIFFERENT NAMES
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 19 August 2011

"The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names." Chinese Proverb

Last week's Commentary ended with the Post Script...

"Jordgubbar aside, there are huge, rolling fields in Sverige that sprout ginormous 'marshmallows.' The chewy treat is not farmed but harvested. And it's not for toasting. They're later eaten--but only the inside--by beasts. Perhaps some day I will write about them."

Only because I'd not settled on a point did I believe it'd be a while before writing about the ginormous marshmallows. But a serendipitous encounter the day before last week's posting changed that intent. For today, a short story and lighter fare.

About 9:00am last Thursday morning, having finished a leisure breakfast and coffee, my wife grabbed her camera and I shouldered my backpack of painting materials and off we stepped to explore the tiny and quaint village of Tallberg (for proper spelling and pronunciation, add a pair of dots over the "a" and pronounce as "Tellberry"), Sweden, nestled along the eastern shore of beautiful Lake Siljan (pronounced "Silyan") in Dalarna.

Even grossly exaggerated color post cards do not do the place justice. No exaggeration--it is remarkably beautiful countryside.

Though fast-moving clouds were heavy and the air felt and smelled of rain any moment, the sun managed to peek through often enough to encourage us forward. Painting would be challenging--only impossible if it rained and only because of water-based paints.

Initially heading east, the lake to our back, we opted for a meandering uphill route toward a "kaffestuga" (coffee house) recommended by the hotel staff.

Every few yards was another photo op.

The painter's eye, though teased, yet to be tempted.

An occasional car passed--courteous on-coming drivers offered a wave and generous yield.

We turned south continuing uphill. The countryside an amazing puzzle of vibrant greens. Most of the buildings--some old some new built to appear old--painted traditional Falun red. White trim--icing on the cake--on most.

About 100 yards further and the painter's eye held captive. A small field, with guarding treeline to the west running north south, didn't completely obscure Lake Siljan.

Every few minutes the sun electrified the landscape. And then the clouds returned. So goes the weather in Sweden and the challenges of plein air painting.

I told my wife this will be the morning's first painting locale. After decades of not always understanding choice of subject she says, "I'll be back. I'm going to wander."

I found a spot on the grassy shoulder of the road.

While setting up my easel and about to squeeze out paint a couple of women walking in the middle of the road--wandering downhill from the direction of the kaffestuga--approach. They are speaking to each other but are too far away for me to understand. As they near, one looks in my direction and speaks. Still too far away to be understood, I say nothing. They assume I did not hear them and as they get closer she looks at me and repeats her words. Her inflection suggests a question.

I stopped what I was doing. Smiled. And kindly said, "Jag talar inte Svenska" (I do not speak Swedish) followed by, "I am happy to converse in English." She said "Okay," switched to English, and proceeded to walk behind and to the right of my easel. She looked uphill and remarked how beautiful the old kaffestuga building(s)and the striking morning light. She was impressed and approved of the view. Her friend, nodding and offering a few words, agreed whole-heartedly.

"Ah, yes, it's beautiful indeed," I said. Then added, "But I am not going to paint in that direction. I am going to paint that!"--and pointed to the small field to the west in front of the lake. The women looked puzzled. I said, "Yes, the giant marshmallows--I am going to paint them in the field. They're marvelous. Look at how vibrant they are in the light."

The women laughed. And we had a short discussion about the giant marshmallows. They had not ever thought of them in that context. Nor heard them called 'gigantic marshmallows.' She said they called them "ice bergs." And they couldn't believe I was going to paint them. I told them to drop by in an hour or so and they could see the painting well underway--if not finished.

They spoke a few more words in English and we laughed some more. They wished me good luck and turned to continue downhill. I heard them switch to Swedish, exchange comments, and giggle and laugh some more. I suppose they were thinking silly American--crazy painter.

Though it was a battle, I defeated the clouds. I finished the sunlit painting. It's a little dandy.

Soon thereafter my wife returned. She approved. With pack loaded and shouldered, we continued uphill toward the kaffestuga for a cup. But before coffee I painted a quicky of the kaffestuga overlooking Lake Siljan. There was no sunlight so the painting looks gloomy--a contrast to the sunlit marshmallows. In the end, a productive morning.

A couple of days later we met a young Canadian woman in Mora, home of the famous painter Anders Zorn (1860-1920), and while telling her about the marshmallow painting she said in her circles they call them "dinosaur eggs."

And a few days later, while visiting friends in Falun, the marshmallow painting came up and they said they call them "space eggs."

What are they?

Bales of hay--in the shape of giant marshmallows. Heavy duty white plastic wrapping makes them appear so. The wrap keeps the hay fresh for feeding the livestock during winter.

When harvesting the hay the farmers bale and wrap--leaving the gigantic marshmallow-shaped bundles randomly scattered across their fields. From a distance, and even up close, they look just like gigantic marshmallows. Later the farmers gather, stack along the sides of the field, and move them to barns.

But while they are scattered about the fields they make perfect fodder for a painter. Just as good subject matter as an old kaffestuga--or boats or lakes or trees.

Ginormous marshmallows. Ice bergs. Dinosaur eggs. Space eggs. I have no idea what the farmers call them--after consulting with a couple of Swedes, we concluded there's no direct translation for white plastic-wrapped hay bales.

'Ginormous marshmallows' suit them best so, per Chinese proverb, that's the right name--as far as I'm concerned. Yet there may be disagreement amongst the wise.

But all names moot--words and names matter not to the cows--they who eat what's inside.

Oh, and the two laughing women? They did not return to see the painting; at least not within the hour. Too bad. I'd have enjoyed the last laugh.

Post Script

If ever visiting Tallberg, stay at Akerblads (that's A with a circle above it pronounced as "O"--"Okerblads"). It's a classy, friendly, and homey place with more than a century's worth of history--founded, and continuing to be managed, by the Akerblad family. And don't miss the Zorn museum in Mora.

Author's endnote

Paintings, acrylic and iPad, from our Sweden journey to be posted--weddingtonartgallery.com--soon.

STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER? PROBABLY

2011-08-11T23:26:00.000-07:00

STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER? PROBABLY
By Andy Weddington
Friday, 12 August 2011

"Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet." Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Until a couple of weeks I'd not given thought to the possibility of there being all that much of a difference in strawberries--one strawberry pretty much like another, or so I thought.

But a bowl of vanilla ice cream in a foreign land, topped with a few spoonfuls of sliced fresh berries, turned an assumption about strawberries upside down and, literally, inside out.

And then an analogy to politicians struck.

The strawberries, like no others, are called "jordgubbar" ("jordgubba" is singular) in their homeland--Sverige. Or as we English speakers call it, "Sweden."

By all appearances, jordgubbar look like the strawberries from coast to coast in the United States. That is, the bright red berries, with leafy green pointed cap and stem, enjoyed in the Carolinas, heartland, west coast and points in between--east and west and north and south.

Once inside jordgubbar the comparisons end.

Inside the berry in the states, and most everywhere else, there is typically a small void in the center. The 'meat' is not so dense nor juicy, has some pale color (near white) not so much red and is sweet but not to excess. Sometimes the taste is bland.

On the other hand there's jordgubbar. The berry's meat dense and juicy and not the slightest void. It's color rich--a vibrant blood raspberry hue. And tasty sweet but not sugary. The meat was cleverly hidden but barely contained in its sister fruit's costume.

From the outside, the strawberry and jordgubba look identical. Not on the inside. Oh no.

A couple of days later I purchased a liter of berries at a small grocery--the lighting on the produce made for beautiful, irresistable color. The sign said "jordgubbar--30 Kroner"--that's about $4.50. But after returning to the flat and rinsing and cutting open the berries they were not of the jordgubba standard enjoyed with ice cream. Confusing.

Later in the day, while walking the town, I traded another 30 Kroner for a liter of jordgubbar from a street-vending farmer. The berries looked identical to the berries bought in the grocery hours earlier. But this time, after returning to the flat and rinsing and cutting them open, there was delight in seeing the beautiful dense rich red juicy meat and tasting the natural sweetness.

Placing a whole berry from each purchase on the cutting board and looking at them there was no appreciable difference in size, color, texture, and leaf and stem. In hand, they felt the same.

Cutting them in half the differences remarkable. A void in one with less colorful meat and the taste only so-so. The other--dense, rich color, juicy, and tasty.

No one has yet been able to explain the difference. One suggested the strawberries were imported. Someone suggested slower growing season for jordgubba. Maybe. But in Sweden?

Politicians--like strawberries and jordgubbar--they look the same. And politicians and strawberries over-promise and under-deliver. How is anyone to tell the difference without cutting them open--that is, putting them in office to see what they are made of--what's inside?

Politicians fool some pickers.

Nothing is fair in politics. And it is with our top politician where the buck stops. Period. As such, it is the president's fault for the country's wayward mess. The president shoulders responsibility and blame.

The president is a politician. With exterior polish and slick words, the one currently in office fooled more than some pickers. He looked the same as all the other "berries" but he said he was not--he said he was not with void and not of a pale, tasteless meat. That is, he claimed to be jordgubba.

But unlike with jordgubbar, the pickers had a peek inside. They ignored it. And once cut open, "Aha, 'strawbarry' is nothing more than an ordinary berry." Disappointing many. Surprising none.

For some time now, he is talking. And talking. And talking. And telling all he's an extraordinary Barry and maybe berry. Not so.

So, soon America will again go berry picking--desiring jordgubba(r).

But how to pick--when all berries look the same, are so advertised, and claim to be jordgubba?

Avoid the grocery? Find the street-vending farmer?

No answers. Just as no one has been able to explain the reason for the difference between strawberry and jordgubba and how to pick the jordgubbar when they look exactly like strawberries.

Though if there is any validity to the explanation of a slower growing season then that the sitting president is strawberry vice jordgubba makes perfect sense. He did not have a long growing season. Imported? Some think so.

America picked and tried the president--strawbarry--and soon learned he is plain old strawberry. He's not jordgubba. He'll not be picked again, or so suggests polled pickers.

Fortunately, unlike picking strawberries and jordgubbar, with picking politicians there's an advantage. That is, if pickers opt solely based on what's on the inside--what can be seen from record of public service (long growing season), and ignore the outside--looks and words (making for short growing season)--odds for finding jordgubbar improve significantly.

Stawbarry forever? No. Strawberry fields forever? Probably.

But there is jordgubbar, though finding same takes a bit more effort; careful selection. Yet as with everything in life, with effort comes reward--sweet fruit from bitter patience--as opined Rousseau.

Might we find jordgubbar amongst our strawberry fields?

Maybe. But we'll not know for sure until we cut them open.

Of raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, lingonberries, and cloudberries, I do not know; yet.

Post Script

Jordgubbar aside, there are huge, rolling fields in Sverige that sprout ginormous 'marshmallows.' The chewy treat is not farmed but harvested. And it's not for toasting. They're later eaten--but only the inside--by beasts. Perhaps some day I will write about them.