The Voice of Treason

There’s nothing quite like a pit bull attack to knock your routine off schedule. Well, maybe a hurricane, earthquake, mudslide, flood, or death in the family. As bad as events seem to you, someone somewhere is having it a lot worse. T’s here healing, the dogs are asleep, and thousands of people are buried under rubble in Pakistan waiting for snowfall.

I was watching coverage of the flooding in New Hampshire. A house, built in 1770, was threatened. I turned to T who said: “It’s history.” Lost a lot of blood but not his sense of humor.

It’s what gets a person through adversity. That and food. I imagine in India they make curry dishes. The aroma and flavor of Indian food, for me, is a tonic. In my family, a big pot of pasta sauce on the stove is a cure for most anything, including compound fractures. Jews boil up a chicken and make soup that heals a person’s soul. But what I did today was all about pot roast.

I had a piece of beef, potatoes, carrots, and both white and yellow onions. Our sleep schedule was off-kilter and our appetites were off, too. We needed to get back to normal fast and the way back to normal was through a pot roast.

It was also an opportunity to cook up a lot of vegetables that would otherwise go bad because we hadn’t been eating. I steamed some asparagus and cauliflower, and sauteed some mushrooms. The house was filled with the scent of the roast.

It’s like when you’re on a trip somewhere. Even if your hotel room is better than where you live, you still want to get back home and sleep in your bed and eat your own cooking. You want to be home. You want to get back to normal.

The hurricane coverage has gone from a Cat 5 story to a Cat .75, but pets and people are scattered, still in shelters, waiting for normal.

Nawlins is in the news again. Not that it ever left, really. I’m reminded of the night in the emergency room. One of the doctors who treated T talked about his efforts during Katrina. “We pulled a lot of pit bulls onto the boats. I mean, a lot. I remember this one - I gotta say they’re weird dogs - we pulled him out of the water and he seemed nice enough. There was a cat on the boat and a little dog that we’d rescued earlier. The pit bull was fine. He seemed friendly enough. But as soon as we stopped the boat and the cat, the little dog, and the pit bull got off the boat and got onto land, the pit bull turned and killed the cat right in front of us. Weird.”

As horrible as the events of that evening were, that little blurb stands out as one of the worst.

I do recall seeing a lot of stunningly attractive pit bulls being rescued. But it appears that Nawlins has both the four-legged and two-legged varieties. And some of the two-legged ones actually have eight legs and badges. Why did it take four police officers several minutes and several punches to take an old black man to the ground? Robert Davis, if I saw the scale correctly in his police photo, is shorter than I am. He’s sixty-four years old.

We haven’t seen the entire video and we don’t know the whole story. We don’t yet have the facts, but what we do have looks bad. I’m generally quick to take the side of dogs and cops, but this week I have reason not to. Chance was not provoked; we did nothing to deserve an attack. My dogs turn nine next week - they were just two old dogs out for an evening stroll and suddenly a pit bull chases them down and tries to kill them. If it’s true that Mr. Davis was just out for an evening stroll to get a pack of cigarettes, why was he attacked? Unless, in the portion of the video we didn’t see, he was waving a machete and screaming “I’m gonna filet you pigs!,” I just don’t see the justification of punching him repeatedly in the back of the head.

I pulled into the parking lot and saw two guys talking to each other. One was on a motorcycle. The other one was holding a copy of Seabiscuit. The book, not the DVD. “Can you tell me where the emergency room is?” The one on the motorcycle didn’t hesitate: “Park here and get on my bike - I’ll take you right there!”

Turns out his father had been in the hospital for brain surgery and he knew the fastest way around the place. He got me to where I needed to be and then said he’d stay with me. I thanked him and told him it wasn’t necessary.

A little advice. If you’re going to go to a big city hospital emergency room on a Friday night, make sure you’re covered in blood. They get to you a little faster. T’s head had been wrapped up like he’d gone through a windshield, his hands were bitten, and his elbow and both knees were hamburger. His clothes were soaked with blood. I knew he hadn’t lost his eye, but the area around it was shredded. One gash was wide and deep.

Other people were there under horrible circumstances. Car accidents, stabbings, a girl - home from school to attend a friend’s funeral and visit her parents - was thrown from a horse and might have suffered brain damage. One girl was there for six hours and no one had even talked to her. She was having a miscarriage.

People were friendly and concerned about T. He did look pretty awful when he got there. But it still took them forever to get him treated and out. T can take on a pit bull to protect his doggies, but needles? He doesn’t do needles. Not only did they give him a tetanus shot, but they had to go in with needles to numb the areas that needed stitches. It took so long for them to get back to him that the areas had to be numbed again. More needles. By that time I’d sneaked back to where he was and watched the doctor plunge the needles into his face. With every injection, blood poured down his face and pooled inside his ear. Finally, at six in the morning, the stitching began. We were out by 6:30. And it wasn’t until we got home that we realized we didn’t get the antibiotics the doctor said he absolutely had to have.

The next two days were a blur of meeting the people who came out of their houses to help that night. We felt we needed to replace soiled towels and comforters and thank them. Turns out that the family who came out to help T was extremely nice - Mormons - and they knew the Mormon family that lived in the house before the family with the Shar-Pei/Boxer moved in. And this new Mormon family who had been so helpful had a dog, too. A Boxer. Small world.

And when we went back to the hospital on Sunday to see if we could score those antibiotics (it was too long a wait for T, so he gave up), I sat in the parking lot to wait for him and a car pulled up alongside mine. It was Chris. The guy who told me to get on his bike and he’d take me where I needed to go. Who are these people you meet just by chance?

We found out, after speaking with people who saw what had happened, that the dog’s owner’s daughter was in the garage painting signs for her school basketball team. T had seen the dog’s head under the door and that’s when he decided to turn around to avoid it. But the dog squeezed out from under the garage door and chased us down the hill and attacked. There’s a chance that the authorities will come for the dog and he will be euthanized. It’s a situation we didn’t ask for. We also didn’t ask for the night in a hospital, the medical bills that will be coming, and the permanent marks on T’s face and body. We found out, too, that the local TV station showed up after we left the scene to report the incident. “Dog walk turns to tragedy!” Or something like that. Didn’t catch it - we were in the ER.

I feel bad that the owner and his family might lose their dog, but this was not normal dog behavior. Our dogs were attacked and could have been killed right in front of us, and T will never look the same.

This dog’s name? Oh, it’s Chance.

I suspect I’m a creature of habit. I have a routine - more or less - and I don’t like it disrupted. A little spontaneity is fine - just as long as I’ve planned for it. Several chance meetings this week have upset our apple cart and now I’m behind on The Voice of Treason. Timeliness is next to Godliness, so I don’t like playing catch up.

T had been setting up the replacement computer from Bob, but then a series of chance meetings got in his way. The first one was earlier in the week. It was about one in the morning and our dog (I’ll refer to her as A here) started barking viciously at the bedroom window. I was on the couch, T was at the computer, and our other dog (who I’ll refer to here as D) was asleep.

T went out into the yard to investigate. When he turned the corner, there was a dog. He backed up and came into the house to alert me. By that time, the dog had made it out of our backyard, through our wrought iron gate, and was headed to our neighbor’s house. They’re the people who have the dog I adore: the Shar-Pei/Boxer cross.

I followed T out, who had a broom in his hand; the neighbors were out, too, and the husband had a rake. They wanted the strange dog away from their yard and their dogs. Frightened, the dog ran down the hill, looked back at us, then continued on its way. “I hate that. Some poor dog got out of its yard and now it’s lost and scared. What if it gets hit by a car? How will its family find it?”

Then I heard the neighbor say: “As long as that one doesn’t come into our yard.” I turned and looked at the house that separates ours from theirs. It’s the house with the Tuscan cucina - our neighbors moved to San Antonio and we hadn’t yet met the new people who moved in. “They have a big pit bull.” I looked at the gate, and there stood a big pit bull. “They don’t have a dog. I know every dog in the neighborhood. When did a dog just appear?”

Were both dogs theirs? Were they the last items the people moved into the house and this was their first night in unfamiliar surroundings? Did they panic? Was that dog in our yard theirs and now blocks away, lost and confused?

The pit bull wasn’t happy. He barked and howled, trapped in that yard. Did they come over the retaining wall from the other neighborhood? I decided the dog was on a romp with his friend and now that they’d been separated, he was desperate to get out of the yard and meet up again with the other dog.

The neighbor said she feared it was the new people’s dog and was worried about it jumping over the fence into her yard to attack her dogs. We wondered the same thing. We already have a pit bull cross on the other side of us. Now we’re a PB sandwich.

It was late, so we all went back indoors. The dog kept barking. The new neighbor never came out to shut it up, bring it in, or - if it wasn’t his - chase it away. Odd. They couldn’t hear it barking? Another concern: they moved in with four young children.

It was getting later and later and the dog hadn’t let up. In a few hours, the kids in the neighborhood would be gathering at the bus stop across the street. Was this a friendly pit bull? We’d soon have our answer. T went out again to quiet it down and heard the neighbor’s wrought iron gate rattle. The dog was out of their yard and in our front yard. It saw T and charged.

Later, when the police officers arrived, T amused them with stories about the encounter being like those scenes in horror films. The victim just can’t seem to get the keys into the ignition to start the car and escape. It was like that as he fumbled for our front door knob to get back into the house and avoid a pit bull attack.

As much as we hated the thought of calling animal control in the middle of the night and having someone’s dog taken away, this dog seemed unreasonable. There are other dogs up and down the block, and kids, and the dog was going to every house and starting up with each neighbor’s dogs. The police and animal control officer scoured the area and couldn’t locate him. After they left, the dog returned and started its barking and howling. Did it belong to the new neighbors or not? And what a great way to meet them: ring their doorbell in the middle of the night and ask them to identify a hysterical pit bull. Except no one was going to try to go near their house. To make a long story shorter, the authorities came back and looked for the dog again. People were coming out of their homes and the police were warning them to GET BACK INSIDE!

At about nine that morning, the animal control officer appeared at our door to tell us they’d found the dog hiding in a backyard nearby. The guy looked exhausted. “He hasn’t been neutered. He’s not a nice dog.”

We never got to sleep, so we were exhausted, too. I felt bad about the two dogs, but I would have felt worse if another dog or a kid had been injured. Maybe a day later, T and I went to the vet’s office to pick up food for D. I froze when I walked into the reception area. Sitting on an older man’s lap was very possibly one of the most beautiful pit bull puppies I’d ever seen. A red one with crazy floppy ears on top of its head. Without hesitating, I went for it. It licked my face and I inhaled as much puppy breath as I could, not knowing when I’d have my next chance.

The man said it was his son’s puppy and his name was Craven. Everyone who walked through the door after us stopped to give that puppy attention. It was sweet, affectionate, adorable.

Then on Friday night we went for a walk around the neighborhood with A and D. We went through the park and across to the new neighborhood that used to be all mesa. It’s a nice area, upscale and a little pricey. T was ahead of me with the dogs and I was a few yards behind, trudging up the hill. Suddenly I heard him say “DOG!” and he spun around and started back down the hill. Then I saw it. A large white pit bull that looked a lot like my Am Staff, George. We’ve encountered dogs before on our walks and we’ve been attacked. But not by a pit bull. In the past they’ve stared us down, but haven’t approached us. One time a pit bull appeared and we turned and slowly walked away. It followed us for a couple blocks just to be sure that we knew not to come back into his neighborhood. I expected this big white one to stop. There was him versus four of us. I yelled at him to stop. He ignored me completely and ran right past me towards T and the dogs. He attacked. It was like our D had a bullseye on him - the PB was on kill.

T could have dropped the leashes and stood back and watched both our dogs get ripped to pieces. Instead he kneeled down to pick up D and try to put him up on a parked car. That’s when the pit bull jumped up and bit T’s face. And after that it was just blood everywhere.

I was helpful. I stood there screaming hysterically. But it was loud enough to get people’s attention and they called 911. Soon there was a crowd, police, and an ambulance.

And another pit bull. The owner’s second dog had gotten out, too, and was a part of the action. I screamed at it and it just looked at me like “What did I do? I just came down to see what all the commotion was about.” It wasn’t aggressive and I pointed that out to the authorities who had already started taking statements. The female did not attack; the male did.

The owner had finally made his way down the hill to fetch his dog, but by then T was on the sidewalk covered in blood. Our dogs were bloody, too, and I wasn’t sure if it was their blood, his, or a combination. A family had come out with a comforter, towel, and first aid kit. T left in an ambulance; the dogs and I were escorted home by the police. As T would say later: “Two black and whites in the back of a black and white.” More like black and white and red that night. I got the dogs out of the police car. The officer’s parting words to me: “Pepper spray.”

Got the dogs into the house and quickly wiped them down to get the blood off. There was a lot of it and I couldn’t tell if they had been bitten. They seemed all right, so I grabbed a few things to take with me to the hospital. Before I got into my car I stopped at the neighbor’s house to tell them what had happened. They ride their bikes with their kids and the dogs off leash; I warned them to rethink that.

And off I went to spend Friday night in a big city hospital emergency room.

America is at war. We’ve been hit hard by natural disasters and a portion of the country has been devastated. George Bush is spending a lot of money and his poll numbers are dismal. There is division over race and poverty. Americans are getting uneasy about Iraq. Hey - wouldn’t this be a great time for a terrorist attack?

We took a hit on September 11, but our economy wasn’t crippled and we didn’t roll over. Another attack would be horrible, but not fatal. So what might be worse is the stuff that horror films are made of: Is there a boogeyman under the bed? A zombie in the closet? An ax-wielding psychopath around the corner? A blood-sucking maniac in the next room? A bomb in the subway station?

If I were a terrorist (either foreign or domestic), I’d launch a relentless campaign of threats. Why waste resources and perfectly healthy young homicide bombers when you can send a note or make a phone call merely hinting that something bad might happen?

Let us waste our resources instead! If every time there’s a threat we throw extra cops and agents at it and spend more money to prove that we’re protecting America, then the terrorists will succeed in nickel-and-diming us into a financial - and psychological - mess.

Kinda like the IRS.

I guess I have to weigh in on this whole Harriet Miers thing. First, I’ve always liked the name Harriet. Its origins are probably French, but some say Old German or English. Harriet means “the ruler of the home, the household, the estate.” Think Harriet Beecher Stowe. Harriet Tubman. Or the book Harriet the Spy. Years ago I named a puppy Harriet. Good name, Harriet.

Some day we’ll be discussing the nomination to the Supreme Court - or worse, the presidency - of a Tiffany or Courtney or Amanda. I’d rather have a Harriet. Ms. Miers’ friends call her Harri. This hasn’t gone unnoticed. We’ve learned that she likes to clear brush. She was raised with three brothers. She doesn’t have children. She’s never been married. George Bush affectionately calls her a “pit bull.” She is of a “certain age.”

Right now the only thing I don’t like about her is that she can get her foot into a size six shoe. I wore a size six shoe when I was in elementary school. Of course, I’m much taller than Ms. Miers. She seems to be somewhat more compact.

I’m trying to remember if anyone attacked Ruth Bader Ginsburg on her size. Did they criticize her fashion sense or her hair and makeup? I just can’t recall. But there are people out there who have issues with Harriet’s use of eye makeup. Are they trying to compare her to Tammy Faye Bakker? Hmmm. Ya think?

But I’m more concerned about the comments concerning her age. “She’s sixty, you know.” What does that mean? Hillary is pushing sixty. Is something wrong with sixty? Even worse than that are the comments about her personal life. It’s code: She’s never been married. Has she ever actually dated? Don’t they say that about Condi Rice? Hey - isn’t she friends with Condi Rice?

She doesn’t have children. She’s a Christian. An Evangelical. Born-again. And worse than any of that? It’s a tie. I don’t know what bothers me more: that she’s “bright” or that she’s “nice.” Really, a very, very nice person. She’s just so nice. Everyone who knows her will tell you what a nice person she is. She is just so nice. Just one of the nicest people you’d ever want to meet. Such a nice, nice person. Everyone says so.

She’s not Ivy League. She’s a Texan. Her family isn’t wealthy and she had to work her way through school. This is bad? Well, yeah - if you’re David Frum or Bill Kristol. Bill “Disappointed, Depressed, and Demoralized” Kristol just doesn’t feel that Harri’s up for the job. She’s not the best possible choice. She doesn’t have the credentials. She’s not one of the great conservative minds. I’ll give him that. There’s an impressive list of conservative men and women who have been waiting a long time to get a chance at this nomination. Now it looks like this might have been their last opportunity, and that’s disappointing.

But I tend to get bristly when Bill goes off about a better conservative for the job. Does he forget that he supported John McCain, not George Bush? There’s a certain condescension here that I don’t care for. She’s not good enough. Sure she’s bright, she’s a hard worker, and she’s a really, really nice lady, but she’s just not right for this job. This is precisely the crap I dislike about corporations. Nice won’t get you the promotion. Working hard doesn’t guarantee one, either. Smart? There are more important things to consider. And this is probably why when you ask people about their employers, most of them have issues with female bosses. And it’s why some people hate the thought of a female president. It’s because for years, corporations have promoted the bitches. I’ve actually heard comments: She thinks like a man. She’s hungry. She’s ruthless. She’s got balls. She’s one of the guys. What they’re really saying is that she’s a bitch. And they only use that word once she has the job and they discover they can’t walk all over her. Or when they find out she really is a nasty, difficult bitch to work with.

I’ve seen supremely qualified women get passed over because they’re “too nice.” I’ve watched women climbing the ladder make complete asses of themselves in meetings, barking like Rottweilers and using language that would make a Marine blush just to prove they couldn’t be accused of being nice. Nice, in corporate America, can be a death sentence.

She’s been described as quiet, soft-spoken, self-effacing, modest. And that’s just not management material. Yet wasn’t Harriet the president of a law firm? The president of the Dallas Bar Association? The first woman to head the State Bar of Texas? How could she accomplish that? How, when so many on the Right make her sound like she’s the dependable secretary - not a skilled litigator?

Well, because the other way to climb the ladder is to be friends with someone. And David Frum doesn’t think that being the president’s friend is good enough. But it’s not like her resume is unimpressive. She has succeeded and has had a varied professional life.

And she did this without a man? Hmmm. Okay, she’s no Robert Bork. She might not be as dazzling and polished as John Roberts. I know there are some on the Right who are disappointed that the president isn’t willing to go to battle over someone like a Bork, but what’s interesting is that he chose Harriet over a list of great names. Why? He knows her. And, frankly, as president, it’s his choice to make. I don’t think she should withdraw her name. I think she should face the committee and prove she is perfectly qualified. If she can’t do that, fine. Get someone else.

But I do like that she’s different. There should be no argument about her religion because we have several religions represented on the Court - why not add an Evangelical? She served on the City Council. She used to be a Democrat and even supported Algore. Her background is more familiar somehow because it isn’t all academic. It’s real world. And isn’t that why people voted for Bill Clinton? That he was easier to relate to than George H.W. Bush?

As a woman who has never been married and has no children, I can tell you that being an unmarried, childless woman is considered abnormal. It’s difficult to find women my age who don’t have families. They’re normal. Harri and Condi and I are not. It’s interesting to watch the Left speculate: Is Harri gay? But they did the same thing when Judge Roberts was nominated. He’s brilliant, he’s good-looking, he’s charismatic, he’s witty! He must be gay! (It was decided that because he wasn’t vain enough to disguise his bald spot, he must be straight after all.)

So let me get this straight - um, no pun intended. The gays are quick to claim Roberts because he’s attractive and smart, but they pick on Harri’s wardrobe and hint that she’s a lesbian. What if she is? Is that a bad thing? It’s just so confusing.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg said it was important to have a woman on the Court. It’s interesting that she and Harri (and me, too) have something in common: a deceased sister. I can’t help think that she would be an interesting addition to the group.

All I know is that I’ll support Bush’s decision and I’ll do it for one reason. Michael Savage claims he’s so upset about this that he’s threatening to walk away from his radio show. I’ve got my fingers crossed.

Go Harri!

I voted yesterday. I could be passing a kidney stone and I think I’d manage to get myself down to the ballot box. I don’t care what the weather’s like and I don’t care if the lines are long. I prepare, I decide, then I vote.

There were, of course, the usual bond issues. Everybody votes yes on those so I usually vote no, confident they’re all going to pass anyway and my taxes are going to go up. But this time I did a lot of research and learned precisely where the money would be allocated. I actually surprised myself and voted yes on a few.

I voted for voter ID because I’m tired of being the only person in line who whips out a driver’s license and voter registration card.

I voted against raising the minimum wage. I could list all the reasons why, but I’ll save that for the next time it’s on the ballot. Which will be soon.

I voted for…ugh, I can’t. Okay, let me try again. I voted for…um, for mayor I voted for…uh, a candidate. Okay, let me take a breath here. I voted for…okay, I voted for…for the Democrat, damn it!!! Aaaaarrrrggghhhh! There, I’ve said it!

First, there were three Democrats running and only one Republican, and I knew who was going to win. I could have easily voted for the Republican just to have it on record that the candidate had another vote in his favor. Perfectly nice guy. Attractive, articulate, competent. But he ran the worst campaign I’ve ever witnessed in my life. Rock bottom awful. I couldn’t even listen to the ads they were that dreadful. I’m talkin’ stomach-turning, nauseating, nails-on-a-chalkboard annoying.

As a candidate, he was invisible. He wasn’t even in his own ads. I never heard him on local talk radio discussing his platform or taking questions. I did catch him on our Public TV station one night and I think that’s when I decided I was going to have a problem voting for him.

His whole life has been in public education. He has a Ph.D in Education. A former teacher and school principal. So when the woman interviewing him asked him if there was a particular quote that was especially meaningful to him and he went blank - I mean like a poleaxed steer - and said he didn’t have one, I was mortified. How could you be around thousands of students in your career and not have a favorite quote or words of wisdom? When she asked, the first thing that popped into my head was the old Ben Franklin line:

Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

Okay, maybe that wouldn’t have been the best choice for this candidate and maybe that explains why I don’t run for political office, but he could have come up with something. But instead he made me cringe. Right there on the couch, I cringed. He said he didn’t have a quote, but if he said what his favorite movie was we’d know all we needed to know about him:

“Forrest Gump. I’m not a smart man.”

He said it over and over again. It’s not something I want to hear from the person who intends to run the city I live in. Then he said that even though Forrest wasn’t a smart man, he accomplished great things. Why? Because he was honest.

Not only had he sort of missed the point of the film, but I think he just lost the election. I know his entire campaign was based on him being honest and the other guy being a crook, but around this time the crook was starting to look pretty good.

The Republican just wasn’t hungry enough. He didn’t earn my vote. I don’t want to vote for someone I feel needs to win - like Algore - but I’d like to think I’m voting for someone who wants to win. I know that he had a very limited budget and was obscenely outspent by the other candidate, but there has to be a better way to get your message out. He just didn’t get it out. I wasn’t really sure what he wanted to do once he was in office; I just knew he wasn’t the other guy - the crook.

I stood behind the curtain with my finger on the button, ready to push it. But I couldn’t. I voted for the pro-growth Democrat.

God, have mercy on my soul.

I hear Bill Kristol is depressed again. Depressed and demoralized. This time it’s not over Katrina - it’s over Harriet. If you think about it, a lot of people seem to be in a funk lately. Whazzup? This is certainly not going to go down as one of my favorite years, but what’s the use in moping?

Some people think we’re sliding down the slippery slope at a rate that rivals the descent of Vin Diesel’s career. There’s no hope. We’re all doomed. Well, balderdash! Ye of little faith, just snap out of it!

I asked T the other day: “When you’re standing in line at the store or waiting for an appointment and have some time on your hands, do you ever picture yourself living in another era?”

“Huh?”

“You know, like imagine yourself living in Europe in 1180. A day in the life in the year 1180.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Never?”

“No, I think I’d remember if I had.”

“Really?”

“Drop it now.”

Well, I’ve always imagined living in other places and in other times. It’s why when I hear someone complain that history is boring, I’m always stunned. The Black Death boring? The Inquisition? The Crusades? The French Revolution? The demise of the Roman Empire? The building of the Great Wall? The Donner Party?

I picture what I’d be doing for a living, what I’d be eating, what I’d be wearing, and what I’d be smelling like. How would I stay warm? Stay cool? Dry? How would I keep food from spoiling? What do I do when it gets dark? Can I read? What language do I speak? What do I do when I have a toothache or an infection? What if my vision’s bad and spectacles haven’t been invented? How do I do laundry? Is there coffee? Where could I get a good bagel?

Face it. We’re lucky to be alive today because I don’t think any of us could cope with 1180. It appears that we’re having enough trouble coping with today. Well, I say put down the St. John’s wort and take a look around. There is reason to be hopeful.

Sure, terrible things are going to happen in the world. There will always be war, famine, disease, disaster, rape, murder, torture, the IRS, and sitcoms. But sometimes we get a glimpse of what could be. I experienced such a thing just this week.

I was in the kitchen fixing dinner for the dogs. T was on the computer. I heard what sounded like a movie trailer. Perky, happy music. It’s a comedy.

Voiceover: “Meet Jack Torrance!”

(Why do I know that name? Oh - movie dialogue. I hear Jack Nicholson.)

“He’s a writer looking for inspiration.”

(More dialogue. Nicholson has a new comedy?)

“Meet Danny! He’s a kid looking for a dad.”

(Really familiar dialogue. Okay, something’s not right here.)

“Jack just can’t finish his book…”

(Uh-oh. Someone’s done something terrible - I have to see this.)

Yes, someone certainly did. That someone took the time to edit The Shining and create an entire trailer for a completely different film: Shining. I want to thank this person. I want to tell this person that this is precisely the type of creativity and humor that will save humanity. As long as there are minds like this in the world, we’re going to be all right.

Watch the trailer for Shining!

See, life could be like this. With a little bit of re-editing and a better soundtrack, we, too, could be shining.

I feel I should discuss the bombings in Bali, the wildfires in Southern California, and the new Supreme Court nominee (she’s a pit bull in size 6 shoes?), but how can I when a supervolcano’s ready to blow?

Okay, I was on the couch with one of the dogs and I ended up on the Discovery channel. I had to watch. It was a fun film about the USGS monitoring the supervolcanic activity at Yellowstone and what happens when she blows. In the film, the Homeland Security Secretary pulls the USGS guy (the geologist) into a meeting and explains that news of the impending cataclysmic event has leaked and there’s widespread panic. People are raiding grocery stores for food and trying to evacuate every state surrounding Montana. Traffic’s a mess. The public’s out of control. You - geologist guy - have to go on record and issue a (false) statement that there’s no cataclysmic event. Downplay the severity of the situation (doom), and curtail the mass freak-out. Tell people to relax and stay put. No need to panic.

What would you do? Lie to people? Toss your reputation and integrity on the molten lava? Or would you rationalize the situation? People are going to die. They can either die quickly from the eruption, or they can die fighting over bottled water, gasoline, or on the road during an out of control evacuation. Hmmmm. What to do.

All the while, the head of FEMA’s in meetings, trying to figure out how she’s going to save twenty-five million people. (There are a lot of meetings.) Finally, they decide that the original plan - “stay where you are and wait for us to come and rescue you” - is not going to work. The new plan, “Walk To Life,” asks ash-covered Americans to “start walking to somewhere (we haven’t figured that part out yet) and then wait for us to come and rescue you.” And how do you intend to communicate this to twenty-five million people?

In the end, a lot of the major characters survive, but are changed forever. A lot of other people die. The whole world is adversely affected and there are drastic climate changes. Dead livestock, dead crops. Darkness.

But, in time, nature heals herself and all is well. Not great, but better than it was when the volcanoes blew and ruined the planet. The end.

Um…this sounds eerily familiar. Except this time it’s not the Gulf Coast - it’s most of the fifty states. Generally people don’t think much about volcanoes. I mean, do you have volcano insurance? Maybe it’s because I’m fascinated by Pompeii, lived through Mount St. Helens, and exist in a part of the country where I can look behind my house and see a landscape dotted with volcanoes that used to be quite active. Call me pessimistic, but I don’t think FEMA’s going to be able to handle a supervolcanic eruption. State and local governments will be useless, too.

In the event that the government throws up its hands and says “You’re all on your own!,” then all I can suggest is basic survival training in schools. Start classes now. This is a course that teaches students how to support themselves, put a roof over their heads, feed themselves, put a little away for the future, and how to stay alive when the future isn’t so bright. You thought you were going to quit your job and travel, but now the molten lava is coming to get you. Here’s what you can do to survive!

Reading and writing and ‘rithmatic…and how to get water that’s fit to drink out of an abandoned automobile. You’ve studied history, now study the future.

I’m mortified. T had monkeyed around with admin settings on The Voice of Treason yesterday, so when I checked my e-mail this morning (I didn’t look at it yesterday), I had two messages from someone who has taken issue with me. This was new. I hadn’t previously been notified of comments via e-mail. T was elated. That’s not the part that had me mortified. The messages from this person were not appearing as comments and couldn’t be seen by anyone. Rats! Technical difficulties!

It’s Sunday. I had my day carefully planned. Sunday paper, visit the old lady, go see the new warehouse space that the non-profit had moved into. My dance card was filled. T would use the day to set up a fully functional computer and restore all our files. But nooooooo! It was not to be.

T was on a mission. How do we get the new comments to appear? Another problem was that when the comments showed up in my e-mail, the opportunity for someone else to respond - even me - vanished. T was determined to find out how that happened, so he spent the morning addressing the issue.

I never did like the way the comment section was set up, so the new system for me works much better. And I have “eaglescry” to thank for that. I can now respond to his/her comments, but I choose to do it here instead of going back and doing it in the comments section. It would be too much like rewriting history - something the opposition likes to do - so, as a foul Republican, I choose instead to “move forward.” I’ll respond here.

First, let me thank Eagle again for supplying the actual quote from Michael Brown. I was not questioning the importance of ice. As someone who spent the first years of my life in a Chicago apartment building, I know that oppressive heat alone can kill people. Ice is nice when you’re in an oven. But I can’t remember if FEMA was Johnny-on-the-spot back in 1995 when almost a thousand Chicagoans cooked in their apartments during a heatwave. I doubt the iceman cometh back then; I doubt there was outrage in the media.

My intent, by supporting Brown’s seemingly flippant statement, was to illustrate that it was refreshing for someone to say something that, for a change, sounded genuine. My beef is that when an official says something and the media jumps on it, that person has to issue a statement, apologize and backtrack, then go through a period of self-flagellation for a period no shorter than the time it takes for someone else to come out with an even bigger flub. Like Bill Bennett. My point again being that he didn’t just roll over. He’s defending what he said because he didn’t say anything wrong. Where is the free speech we’re always talking about?

I wasn’t thrilled when Kanye West blurted out his “Bush doesn’t care about black people” comment because it wasn’t the appropriate forum and the comment was irresponsible. However, I wasn’t all that thrilled to discover that Mr. West was virtually muzzled after the initial wave of interest subsided. Why wasn’t he allowed to elaborate? Why wasn’t he given the opportunity to support his argument? Why wasn’t there debate and discussion? For me, that mishandling of the comment was a lost opportunity. Even fellow rappers dismissed it as West’s way to get publicity and promote a new CD. Are we that jaded? Someone says something and the first thing we do is follow the money trail. Why did this person say this? Where is the financial benefit of the remark? What are they promoting? It’s reduced to marketing and it strikes me as a little odd.

A lot of us have grown weary of political correctness because the strength of discourse has been diluted. Everyone’s so afraid to open his or her mouth and say what he/she is really thinking that we’re just skating on the surface of issues instead of diving into the muck and really doing anything productive.

I had hoped that both the Bennett and Brown comments would result in more discussion. As for Brown, my fear is that the average American watched the Katrina coverage and now expects that there’s something in the Constitution that states that FEMA will fill trucks with ice and drive them down from D.C. to save the day. All you, as a victim, have to do is sit and wait for the ice, food, debit cards, and checks to arrive. Frankly, that just gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Maybe I’m sympathetic because I’ve had so many coordination jobs. It’s a tricky thing, coordination. It implies that there is a requirement of collaboration, that two or more parties are involved and share the responsibility. When Brown flared up and asked if they expected him to be a superhero, I understood his frustration. You can coordinate every detail, but if the parties involved don’t do their part, the project will not work. You can urge them, harass them, beg them, and bribe them, but you really can’t coerce anyone to do something they have no intention of doing. Teachers can create exciting lesson plans and come to class prepared and enthusiastic. Is every child going to learn? No. And the teacher, ultimately, is blamed. It’s a two way street. The child needs to participate.

I think Brown was pointing out that there was a lack of collaboration at the state and local levels. I don’t doubt that he failed by being less effective than he could have been in his response. It sounds like he encountered problems and gave up too easily, believing that he couldn’t force anyone into a sense of urgency. At that point he might have looked for someone who could have.

I’m not comfortable with the perception that FEMA is there to take care of all our needs. The federal government has a history of ineffectiveness; it’s weird that people suddenly expected the feds to be timely and efficient. State and local officials were limp, so now we’re talking about the feds taking power away from states and handling these issues exclusively. Some are even saying that the military should be in charge of any disaster relief. The military as first, second, third, and fourth responders.

No one sees the problem here? I want my state officials to have control and to manage the state without federal interference. The problem is that I live in a state where the officials are about as prepared for disaster as those in Louisiana. That means that state residents need to vote for individuals who can do the job. Considering the history of my state’s politics, that’s never going to happen. If there’s a disaster, then, and people suffer and die, and property is destroyed, it’s not the feds who failed. It’s the freaking voters. (We have an election here this week and I’m already surly. Can you tell?)

My hope is that if anything good comes of this, the public will have a better understanding of how government works (or doesn’t), how the private sector works (odd how Wal-Mart is doing more than anyone else to put people’s lives together in the Gulf Coast region), and how self-responsibility works. Or doesn’t.

People were told to sit and wait for help. And they did. That’s a problem.

Now to address Eagle’s second comment: “I respectfully suggest you pull your head out of your own echo chamber long enough to learn from what’s happening in current events right now rather than just looking for constant justifications for ‘Republican=good, Democrat-bad, everything in the media is part of the conspiracy against the poor Republicans.”

Fine! Kick me when I’m down! I’m unemployed, I’ve got two geriatric dogs to support - one has bad knees and the other’s diabetic, I have a senile old mother who doesn’t know what state she lives in (probably a good thing), there’s a leak in my ceiling, and I’ve got a really nasty steam burn on my hand from taking the plastic off a bowl of hot Indian butter chicken! Go ahead - kick the Republican around!!! Be that way!!!

Oooh, for a moment I felt a little like Richard Nixon. But seriously, Eagle, I appreciate your remarks. You maintain that my view of the world is simplistic and that I’ve narrowed it down to politics. I should clarify. Republicans=bad, Democrats=worse. Until an alternative comes along - and I’m talking a viable one - things aren’t going to change. I do tend to reduce everything to politics, because for me everything is political on one level or another. I am guilty of taking sides. Shoot me.

Your final comment: “to read someone who writes in the rambling, trivial and self-important manner of your posts speak of tolerating Irving’s books is hilarious. Unless you are irony-impervious.”

Irony-impervious? Nah. I see the irony in many things. Like Ted Kennedy berating George Bush for not saving people from drowning. There’s irony in that. It’s ironic that John Irving has also been referred to by his critics as “rambling, trivial, and self-important.” Chances are if you e-mailed him with similar comments, he’d shred you like taffeta.

The word “tolerate” seems to bother you. Perhaps I meant it in the way that it’s used when someone is referring to alcohol tolerance. Developing a tolerance to alcohol is the human body’s way of adapting to alcohol use…or abuse. Its intoxicating effect decreases as a result of continuous consumption. I don’t think I meant “tolerate” to be insulting. Perhaps I meant that after reading a lot of Irving, I became somewhat less intoxicated by him. So are you saying you liked his early works? The “short” books? I think even Irving would agree that they were a tad insipid - it’s why he sticks to the looooong ones and calls himself a writer of loooooooooong books. My criticism of Irving is more about his dislike of criticism and less about his style of writing.

If you choose to write, paint, sculpt, act, direct, photograph, run for office (ooops - there I go again with everything eventually reduced to politics), you are going to open yourself to criticism. I used to think John Simon was brutal and cringed when I read some of his reviews. Yet I think Simon’s one of my favorite critics. He’s written some scathing critiques of plays and movies I hold dear, but once the initial bruising heals, I can go back and say: “Well, actually, he’s probably right about that point.” Yet he himself has been criticized for his misanthropic “personal attacks.” How does one take the personal out of criticism?

I remember in school that I was surrounded by some ultra-talent. And I remember a Q & A on campus with Michael Learned and Anthony Zerbe. Zerbe was fresh from est training and he was feisty. Michael thought he was boorish, but in a charming way because she knew him well. Idealistic theatre and film students asked him about his “craft.” How do you prepare for a role? What are your techniques? How do you become this character? What do you feel? What do you think? What are your choices?

He was brief:

“I read the script. I say my lines. They send me a check.”

Ninety percent or more of the group wilted. Probably the same percentage that eventually changed majors or chose a different profession after graduation to pursue an easier dream. But they should have listened to Zerbe’s advice. To him it was a job. It’s what he did to make it possible to afford his lifestyle. To them, he wasn’t suffering enough. Where was the struggle? What about his art? He made it all seem so…common. Acting is a job?

I got the impression that criticism wasn’t an issue for him. As long as he got the check, his work was done. They should teach that in theater programs. In any creative program. Rejection and criticism come with the territory. The art part is easy; its reception is hard.

To say that I am “rambling, trivial and self-important” - well, duh-uh! If a blog serves, essentially, as a journal and as, hopefully, a conversation between people, then I expect it be just that. “Trivial” is my middle name, I’ll have you know. If you knew me, you might retract the self-important part, but I suspect that it’s an element in any personal blog. Isn’t that a given? I will definitely give you rambling. I doubt that Mr. Irving would be as generous.

Time is valuable. Thank you, Eagle, for taking some of yours to read and respond. I would hope your comments, too, elicit a response. They are here, unedited, in an effort to “stop the muzzling.” Visit again.