Like Lemmings

Warning: I will be speaking heavily in acronyms for the next few minutes.

I was doing my usual reading this morning of Red Hog Diary and The Peace Tree, and noticed that the site owner of The Peace Tree had observed a hit from the Directorate of Automation Services (DAS) in Ft. Belvoir, Virginia.

Now, I had to go back in the old memory banks to my days at INSCOM (Intelligence & Security Command) , which is headquartered there. Seems that the DAS is the responsible to ensure that networks and e-mail systems are secure for organizations like USAREUR and INSCOM, which send volumes of classified messages and documents hither and yon.

Here’s the thing—it’s pretty apparent to me that the US Intelligence Community (NSA, NSC, DIA, CIA, etc.) is indeed gathering data on not only sites as they relate to terrorism, but small and fairly unknown sites with just over 22,000 visitors in the course of its life, that voices dissent regarding its own country’s leadership, the reactionary Right, and discusses other topics of social justice. In the time I’ve been reading and occasionally writing for this site, I’ve never once heard it espouse a desire to topple the government, call to assassinate leadership, or support Al Queda, Osama Bin Ladin, radical Islam, or in any way subvert our troops, despite a general disagreement over our involvement in this war.

It seems that many Americans think it’s okay to violate civil liberties in the cause of stemming the tide of terrorism. But, do they know at what cost? Is the rationalization that because you are not saying or doing anything that would be considered a risk, you have nothing to worry about?

As time goes by, and there is no direct impact on their own lives, getting around to understanding the mess that has become our civil liberties, or lack thereof, fades further into the background. So few people who have voted for the Bush agenda have taken more than a cursory glance at The Patriot Act and what it encompasses. Or have paid attention as the Bush Regime makes up it’s own rules regarding torture, interrogation, and which parts of The Geneva Convention they really can’t get away with disregarding out of hand.

What scares me more than being scanned, recorded, analyzed, and assessed with a threat level is the knowledge that the majority of our voting public are mere lemmings, following blindly uninformed, but so, so sure that they themselves are safe, until they topple over the precipice to the loss of democracy. It seems our government is ascribing to the adage, “Knowledge is power,” when its very subjects have missed that connection themselves. It is our responsibility to dissent if our leadership is doing the wrong thing—it is our country after all, they are merely our servants—something all parties seem to have forgotten.

The other fear I have is that the generations behind me seem not to have a clear understanding of history, and how it repeats. It reminded me of this, said at the end of World War II (and no, kids, that wasn’t in the 1700s or something): “In Germany they came first for the Communists and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist. Then they came for the Jews and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics and I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me–and by that time no one was left to speak up.” ~ Pastor Martin Niemoller

Also posted at The Peace Tree

Vacation In Paradise: Three Teens, Bad Weather & No Computer

Noon:  Three teens, locked in the house due to gale force winds (at least 40 mph) and rain (that stopped hours ago), and mom of said teens who is praying that they all decide to take a nap soon.  Damn, I keep forgetting they aren’t four anymore and I don’t get naptime.  My day.   Here we are in paradise and all anyone wants to do is bow to the God of Spongebob. 

2 pm:  I can take no more—we’re going to the movies. 

5 pm:  Apparently, the movie, Night at the Museum, didn’t suck as bad as it could have, at least that was the thought-provoking review by the children.

7 pm:  Mom purchases sedatives to slip into their after dinner snack drink.

Gratuitous plug:  I guess it’s no surprise, but my J-Man has a different perspective on things than do his peers. Not that he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the things that other pubescent boys normally think about, but I choose to shut that particular part of the J-Man out of my mind.  And, as I’m happy to plug a good blog when I run across one, I thought I’d give this aspiring writer one too.  Please visit “Yes, I’m Joe” as found on my blogroll.  Any support you can give him puts him one step closer to that $3,000,000 publisher’s advance that will purchase the beach house in which we’re currently residing. 

Vacation In Paradise: Teenage Sullenus

Paradise.  It’s all relative.  The much-anticipated trip to Balboa Park to the museums reminded me of why you couldn’t pay me any amount of money to be a teenager again.  Or the mom of a teenager.  The sun was beautiful—clouds hovering like pillows above us as the waves rocked into the shore—the bickering began as we opened the doors to the car. If you’ve seen that commercial where the kids sat in the back almost touching each other, teasing, “I’m not touching you,” that would be the trip to the park.  Until I began channeling my father; his voice deep inside of me spewed forth and yelled, “Hey, I’m either gonna’ take you home right now or else dump you here and you can walk back!”  Silence ruled throughout the land the remainder of the drive.

Once there, my good parking Karma held and we entered the Air & Space Museum.  The highlight for my sister was finding out how little she would weigh on the moon.  She was unable to locate the realty specialist for that ideal Moon property, so her newly hatched plan to relocate has been postponed.

All the things I marveled at on my trip here this summer were met with, “It’s just a tree,” (the historic Morton Bay Fig planted for the 1915 World Exhibition), “Why does this place make me want to take a nap?” (after witnessing the beauty of the grand El Prado and its Spanish Revival architectural wonders), and “Where are we going to eat?”   I wonder if they’d believe that the animals at the Wild Animal Park eat surly teenagers for lunch—and then insist we visit just before feeding time tomorrow.

 
It’s difficult to decide whether growing pains are something teenagers have - or are.  ~Author Unknown

Vacation In Paradise: Christmas At 80 Degrees

Having been raised in the Midwest where Christmas was likely spent up to one’s ass in drifting snow, with feet that would take several hours to thaw in front of the fire, this year was quite a change–even from our mild Northern California winters. I watched surfers in Santa caps, skateboarders whizzing by with gifts under their arms, and tourists desperately lining up outside the one restaurant in Pacific Beach that was open this morning–I HOP.  One Christmas tree in a pot, courtesy of The Girl.  Decorations, courtesy of the sea.  Tinsel, courtesy of a bunch of stuffing in a used gift bag.  Works for me.  It was so declared the coolest Christmas ever.

Vacation In Paradise: Merry Ho, Ho, Ho

This is what I saw last night.  What I heard throughout the remainder of the beautifully crisp, cool night was the lulling sounds of the ocean in my ear.  I slept peacefully and was rested when I rose.  My family was united once more—Notorious B.E.N. flew in to join my sister, J-Man, Em, and I as we luxuriate in a beach home that was way out of our price range, but somehow came to us anyway.  High road living seems to bring many gifts.  Including this opportunity to spend a new kind of Christmas together—one that is more about being together than opening gifts and more about laughing than hearing the endless crinkling of wrapping paper.  Watching the three reunited siblings frolic on the beach, with only the moon to light their way, implementing their plan to decorate the tree, laughing together as though no time had passed since they last saw one another, I felt truly content.  Then, I got an unexpected gift—a surprise hug from my oldest, nearly grown young man. Okay, then there are all those cool people I met through this blog and whom I let into my life generally since that day when passed the darkness, and found out it’s not so bad.  This truly was a fabulous year.  If yours sucked, I know it will be better next year, really!

Nice Guys Finish First

When my office moved from the elegant Class A+ Esquire Tower in Sacramento nearly two years ago, to the run down Elks Tower, which could be described as on a good day as a future potential residential hotel, complete with creepy crawlies, thread-bare carpet and urine stains in the elevator, I had the most doomish, gloomish thoughts regarding the future of the enterprise.

 

Not to worry—our buildout is almost complete and “spectacular” is the only way to describe the results.  We will be truly standout in a lovingly restored historic building.  Albeit a trifillion dollars and at least three unnecessary and unsightly wrinkles on my forehead later.

 

I never like getting used to new “people” though.  Like new UPS, Fedex, and US Postal carriers—they are always really busy and don’t want to chat.  I thought our postal carrier, Mr. Roy Tyree, was like that, but after a time, he warmed up nicely.  He’s just a really nice man of few words who does a rockin’ job on his downtown route.  But, because he doesn’t chat, I never knew much about him. 

This morning, I didn’t have a chance to leisurely sip my Mt Dew and read the paper.  So, I started thumbing through it tonight and wow, there he was; the main feature in The Sacramento Bee’s Metro section.  It’s worth a read—he’s 73 years old and 25 years into his second career (the first being a full career in the US Air Force—alright!).  Tomorrow, I have to ask him for his autograph.

It’s not true that nice guys finish last; nice guys are winners before the game even starts.

~ Addison Walker

Yuletide Insanity

I love Christmas movies. The soppier, the better. One of those I never tire of seeing is “The Bishop’s Wife.” No, no, not the one with Whitney Houston or whatever. The classic 1947 Cary Grant, Loretta Young, and David Niven version. In the movie, Young is a devoted wife to an Episcopal Bishop who is trying mightily to raise money for a giant spectacle of a church. His major benefactor is a cranky, old, impossible, rich lady (me in a past life?) who makes Niven into a pussy-whipped puppy, instead of the idealistic, worshipful man he once was. Young, though never-complaining, has been neglected—and in pops Cary Grant (playing an Angel) who teaches Young, Niven, and everyone else he comes into contact with about possibilities, if only they open their heart. He, of course, gets his devilishly handsome little Angel heart broken as he falls in love with Young—poor Cary, what will he do? It does have a happy ending wherein everyone remembers the true spirit of life and love and the old benefactress’ blackened heart is morphed into a selfless one, love is rekindled between Niven and Young, and they live happy ever after, yada, yada, yada.

I sat there tonight, as we joined a friend and her daughter for dinner, and I no longer felt so overwhelmed by the volume of stuff I have to do this week as I remembered that simple story. I’ve overcomplicated. It’s not really that hard. It’s not about the doing, it’s about the being. I’ve already got it all, baby—everything that’s important. But, that doesn’t mean I’m taking the Black & Decker Handisaw off my Christmas list.

Fill you mind with the meaningless stimuli of a world preoccupied with meaningless things, and it will not be easy to feel peace in your heart.
~ Marianne Williamson

And She Shall Call Her George

Tonight, the kinder (German for children) and I met with their Uncle “Jane” (my sister insists on being the only aunt, so we had to come up with something) for them to give her a Christmas present (a PetSMART gift card), have some dinner, then go shopping…for her new baby…that she picks up tomorrow night…woo hoo!  Uncle Jane is going to be a mommy!  Don’t think I’ve ever seen her so excited—well, not since she accidentally brushed her breasts against Ruthie Bolton while shopping at the Walmart near Arco Arena a couple of years ago.  I burned through hundreds of her dollars in mere minutes—now, that’s my kinda’ shopping!  Merry Christmas, my friend!

Here’s her new baby, fresh off the rescue boat from Taiwan:

 

Dogs feel very strongly that they should always go with you in the car, in case the need should arise for them to bark violently at nothing right in your ear.
~Dave Barry

Thou Shalt Covet Thy Powertool At Amazon.com

Okay, bright-side looking—the rat bastard burglars did not steal my tools.  Probably, because I had them with me.  My enthusiasm for tools is not quite that of Tim Taylor of “Tool Time,” but close.  I usually have no actual knowledge of how to operate these tools until the job comes up that requires its use.  Sometimes, I go wrong—like trying to use a large steel mallet when maybe, possibly, a screwdriver would do—but, I do learn from my mistakes.  Usually.

My dad knows how to make a girl happy—every birthday and Christmas when I see that Home Depot Gift Card arrive.  Then, we “ooh” and “ahhh” over whatever I purchase with it as it’s powered up and goes, “whir,” or “buzz,” or even “grrr.”   

Right now, I’m coveting a tool—the Black & Decker CHS6000 Handisaw Cordless Powered Hand Saw.  I sit at the chair at my workbench, and just imagine all the things I could cut effortlessly, which I’m sure would enhance my life in ways untold.  I know Dad would be proud of my tool fantasy.  It just harkens back to the last time he visited, and we were working on some project or another with the appropriate tools for the job, and he looked at me, slugged me in the arm, and said, “Lori, you’re like the son I never had.”  Then, I turned to him and said, “But, Dad….you do have a son—you know…my brother?” 

Anything you can do needs to be done, so pick up the tool of your choice and get started.
~ Ben Linder

Bad, Burglar, Bad

Gee, that was fun.  I sat here forever trying to put together my smallish Christmas card list—absolutely didn’t help that the rat bastard burglars stole my address book.  Makes it nigh on impossible to get those cards out to everyone in any kind of sensible way.  To make matters worse, most people did not have my new address as I planned to send it out in the Christmas cards—along with photos of the kinder—which were also stolen (along with all the backups).  Unfortunately, homeowner’s insurance doesn’t pay for inconvenience; otherwise, I’d be a millionaire right now.  I’m sending a special holiday wish for my new friends, the burglars, for what I hope they find in their stockings this Christmas.