Blogging Beyond the Pale —

or, ‘Why Did We Care In The First Place?’

When Kennedy James, one of my longtime-friends from this site, wrote a pseudo-obituary for Y/360, one of the reasons he listed was ‘…we didn’t really care about all those featured-bloggers, anyway.’

I got a laugh out of that one.

Many of you have read me over the past few years. You’ve seen me comment from time to time about being a Yahoo ‘feature’ – what I’d learned; what I’d experienced. Several of you asked me, “Is it all ‘that’, anyway?” – and I’ve said, “Yes – and no.”

I got a lot of drive-bys, stalkers, troublemakers, and the like. I met a LOT of new people. I had marriage proposals from Egypt and Nigeria. I had a lot of people who thought I was female (ostensibly because I could [a] string a sentence together, and [b] my name wasn’t something like “BIG_10_INCH_4_U”.

Mainly, it was a pain in the ass, answering the same question eighty times with a smile on my face – helping people work through glitches in 360 or show them how to use it – I nominated several people as my replacement – until I found out that the entire program had been cancelled, and I was stuck with the damn job!

I’ve never (at least, not the way I see it) ‘bragged’ about the position – it was more like being an ambassador; later on, for a product no one wanted to claim, and which the developer had even abandoned.

Through it all, there was a whole lot of unwanted attention. I felt like the only girl in town after the mine let out for the weekend – everyone’s buying me drinks, but I still felt vaguely uneasy and sometimes downright unsafe.

Which, in case you wondered, brings me to my point.

While Y/360 has slowly demolished itself, the phenomenon of wearing-one’s-heart-on-one’s-sleeve has become de rigueur for the blogosphere. I learned this over on Multiply.Com, where I had a site for a while and learned that while I’d been busy writing a book, the rest of the world was busy airing dirty laundry and writing drivel.

Oh, all right. Not the whole world. Just a good chunk of it – and they all wound up writing on social-networking sites.

Take this gal, for instance. She’s one of an estimated twelve million bloggers – and she calls herself ‘90dayJane’. Her blog is one big whinefest; her stated goal is to leave something behind when, 90 days from late February (right around the corner, folks!) she’s going to kill herself.

That’s right. She’s gonna bitch for three months, then do herself.

Oh, please save me.

This has gotten completely out of hand – it doesn’t matter the problem; you can feel free to talk about it. Hemorrhoids? You can tell the whole world you’ve got a pain in the ass the size of a golf-ball and a whole collection of foam-donuts.

Boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife giving you fits? Bitch! The world will listen.

Don’t like your job? Be careful here – it turns out that most potential employers cruise the ‘net looking for your name – and if they find it on a blog that’s a B&M session about your current boss, you can keep steppin’ – turns out a lot of ‘em will use your blog as decision-making criteria.

Nope. Blogging has gone mainstream – the general public is blogging in huge numbers, with predictable results.

Many bloggers find that this is also the road to riches. While I’ve personally viewed blogging as a free medium, many have registered their own domains and are busy selling their life-experiences – and getting massive hit-rates, as well as outright rates-of-return.

That PayPal widget? It’s good for something – and for some, it’s the road to income. Yes, sirree; you can sell your troubles online
– and, sad to say, there are people who will buy.

(I’m often given to saying that chatrooms are like watching a train-wreck; you can’t look away. Now, blogging has gone the same route).

Me? I think I’ll keep my private life private. I can recall the odd bad-date blog (which led a couple of you to wonder if I’ve ever had a good one); I blogged the day my cat was killed – and I once entered a writing-contest last fall about the death of an old friend — but that’s about the size of it.

I’ll keep on writing the way I always have – and, assuming that I’ve still got a forum-of-sorts here, I’ll keep on keeping on – and leave the drivel to others.

Breeding, Christianity, and the American Way

Jim, Michelle, and all the Little Duggars

(The other day, the Duggar family of Tontitown, Arkansas [USA] announced that they were expecting their 19^th child. The Duggars were the subject of a Discovery Channel episode detailing their lives. Jim, the ‘man of the house’ is a real-estate agent and former Arkansas-state legislator; he and his wife are devout Fundamentalist Christians; one of their personal tenets is to continue to reproduce ‘as long as God wills it’.)

“Children are a heritage of the Lord”.

Thus begins the Duggar family website, which extols the virtues of indiscriminate breeding. They’re both real-estate agents, who have by all measures done a pretty good job of selling real-estate – because they’ve built a 7,000 square foot, ten-bedroom home and are (by their own statement) debt-free.

Back when they were the subject of the Discovery Channel series about their burgeoning litter, the Duggar’s enjoyed the largess of several companies which donated everything from commercial-kitchen appliances and diapers (turns out that breeding, for some, is its own reward).

All of this reproduction is a showcase for the Duggars to tell the world how their god has ‘blessed’ them. Their website is full of Bible quotes – in fact, they’re great at telling the Rest of Us how to live – just like the one, above.

Michelle (mom Duggar) homeschools all of the chitluns, with an emphasis on ‘JOY’ (‘Jesus’ first; Others second; Yourself last). This egalitarianism is enforced by a whole lot of communal-living – bunkbeds are the norm; of the ten bedrooms, one is for the parents (they need a lot of bed-time to do what they do); the other eight are for the 17 (soon to be 18) Little Duggars.

Whew.

I’m going to do some basic math here.

Globally, the 20% of the world’s people in the highest-income countries account for 86% of total private consumption expenditures — the poorest 20% a minuscule 1.3%. More specifically, the richest fifth consume 45% of all meat and seafood; 58% of total energy; and over 87% of the world’s transportation. The poorest consume around 1% of these items.*

Put another way, the average American consumes 300% more resources than his/her Third World counterpart.*

“But shouldn’t they be allowed to have as many children as they want?” This question was asked of me the other day in reference to my ‘blast’, which also addressed these folks.

The answer is twofold.

First, there’s no law against it. Secondly, their religion seems to mandate it. Putting those two together and understanding that there’s still no restriction on the practice of religion in America, no matter what the implications and as long as no laws are broken, and the answer has to be ‘Yes – they should have as many children as they want.’

However, there are greater issues at stake.

First, there are six billion (yes; that’s with a ‘b’) people on the planet. While people are breeding at a faster rate in the Third World, the perspective I just proved mathematically above should give one pause – because all those Little Duggars are going to consume the equivalent of 5,700 Third World residents.

Sort of makes even ‘god’ pale by comparison, don’t it?

Second, we can’t feed the people we have here. It’s that simple. Food shortages, primarily because of the increase in energy, will only continue as the effects of peak oil (do some reading on that topic if you haven’t already) aren’t assuaged by some miracle of engineering and discovery.

And that, dear reader, is what I mean by Global Irresponsibility – and the type exercised by the Duggars is appalling.

No matter what told them to ‘be fruitful and multiply’, it’s largely irrelevant today – the Bible, you’ll recall, was written by men who also believed slavery was the proper state of things, and that the world was flat – so to say that we can’t afford the Duggar’s brand of religion any longer is a superlative – it almost goes without saying, and really isn’t open to much debate.

What follows, again, is simple math: We’re out of food, nearly out of energy, and almost out of time. People like the Du
ggars, by that litmus test (the only one that really matters) – are the problem.

It’s beyond any hope that the Duggar’s will see what they’ve done and beg the world’s forgiveness – to them, ‘forgiveness’ is something else, indeed, and doesn’t apply to them. Many things ‘don’t apply’ to Christians of this stripe – because, you see, they’re right.

Their ‘book’ tells them so.

Meanwhile – that clock, remorseless beast that it is – keeps ticking….

References:

*Human Development Report (United Nations; 1998)

Yahoo 360 and The Future… — (with update)

(…or, ‘Why The Future Starts in Vietnam’….)

Vietnam?

That’s right.

Turns out that Yahoo has released a product called “360 Plus” in Vietnam – it’s modular, and proves out to be a LOT easier to use (if the initial information is correct).

If you go here and read the Q&A, it appears that the product was launched only recently, but is very well received, giving a boost to Yahoo’s presence in that growing country.

The sample page (yes, it’s in Vietnamese) is here.

While it looks pretty basic (no ‘blast’; no ‘quick comments’; no friends-sidebar or other 360-like attributes), it’s also modular – which leads me to believe that additional modules are available.

My hope?

That they’ll introduce something like this worldwide – something which, in the end, will correct the many bugs in 360 and finally give us a useable product that’s out of beta.

Whither the UPS….

This raises another question – what happened to the Universal Profile System (UPS) that Yahoo touted so recently as a couple of months ago?

Is it dead? In the background? Will the UPS be a ‘gateway’ to a revised blogging platform like 360-Plus?

It’s evident that this is new information. Techcrunch is only covering Yahoo’s failed deal with Microsoft; none of the other sites (Slashdot; etc.) have shown a peep of information.

A Betting Man….

If I were a betting man, I’d’ve bet on Yahoo accepting Microsoft’s bid. I’d’ve also bet on Yahoo keeping its word, and delivering a useable product in March.

It’s a good thing I’m not a betting man, because the longer I’m associated with the high-tech world, the more I (re)learn that (1) incredibly smart people do incredibly stupid things, and (2) we’re always slaves to the political-dimension of decisions.

Yahoo likely has a plan – but none of us are going to know about it ahead of time – and guessing likely won’t help.

(An update — the following is from Matt Warburton by way of the ‘360 Product Blog’):

“Just to be clear, the 360plus product is specific to the Vietnamese market and it is not the new universal profile that we have mentioned previously in this blog. So, while 360 is transitioning to the new profile for users worldwide, the 360 name will live on in a different product in Vietnam.”

Until later…..

— “Astra”

Rant for a Saturday….

Civilization (n): An advanced state of human society, in which high levels of culture, science, industry, and government have been achieved.

Snot-Noses and Potatoes….

Y’know, I’m getting old.

I went to breakfast this morning at my favorite morning-place here in the Portland area (a restaurant known for a good breakfast, day or night – they make the best Eggs Bennie in town, and I’m rather fond of just being ‘me’ on the weekends – but this morning was far different than normal.

I had the opportunity to watch a rather motley looking tribe consisting of grandparents, plus Mom, Dad, and three offspring gradually demolish the area around a six-person table. Mom thought it was great fun to feed the two-year-old hashbrowns, and watch him throw them on the floor.

They didn’t limit their festivities to the floor, either. One of them had a cold, and was wiping his snotty nose on his hands, then rubbing them on anything handy (chairs; table; carpet). His other sibling has taken the sugar-packets and was busy making some sort of sand-sculpture on the tabletop – all while the adults just watched.

The resulting mess was nothing less than frightful.

Now, I know just about everyone who works there. I’m virtually one of the crew, which is part of the ambiance. I’m often a part of the staff’s conversations, so when one of the women who work there walked in after Motley Crew finished their scorched-earth policy to conclusion and said “f**k!” under her breath, I shook my head and said, “I wonder how that tribe lives at home.” She turned around and said, “Will, this happens more and more now. The owner won’t say anything to people like this, no matter how much we complain.”

Potatoes on the floor. A table looking like a glazed-donut in places, thanks to Mr. Snot-Nose. Sugar on the table; none in the container; packets torn open everywhere. She simple cleaned the table, brought out the sanitizer for the snot-spots, picked up the potatoes off the floor, ran the carpet sweeper, and started setting the table again for the next group. I was almost finished with breakfast by the time she was done. She was not happy.

So, just when did people decide that this was proper behavior?

Recently, one of our local TV stations did a story about a company here in Portland which actually goes to people’s homes and teaches them how to conduct a sit-down dinner for the family. They make money doing this – teaching people basic manners.

The news-crew interviewed the teenage daughter of the family which was featured – she said that dinner was always a mess – her mother was on her cell-phone non-stop; the cat was allowed in the same room, so it often ate her dinner; her brothers were invariably in a fight, and her Dad sometimes just got up and left rather than deal with it.

Now, I don’t know about you – but I’ve got a simple solution, and it doesn’t involve spending $300/session to have someone teach ‘manners’.

It involves looking around at things, and making a simple decision: How important is civilization?

Yes. That’s right. Civilization.

I’m often called a snob. That’s fine. I’ll cop to that, and more, if it means that setting standards which prohibit using a cell-phone at dinner or throwing food on the floor.

This morning’s events made me realize why “American culture” is an oxymoron. Small wonder why other countries don’t respect us, when parents allow their children to behave in this manner, and the parents are no better themselves.

Slurp….

In fact, bad behavior is not only acceptable, it’s sometimes even legislated. Recently, one of my friends wrote a blog about ‘lactivism’ – yes, you read that right – it’s the impassioned belief of some that nursing women should be allowed to ‘whip one out’ and feed the chitlun right there in front of you.

“Don’t show me your t_ _ s!”, exclaimed Bill Maher a few months ago, when a manager at an Applebee’s in Virginia asked a woman to cover herself.

The whole chain suffered
massively after that request – ‘lactivists’ from all over the country, fueled no doubt by lattes and cheap Internet service, boycotted and demonstrated in front of most Applebee’s across the country.

Turns out that his request (issued at the request of a restaurant patron) was illegal.

Yep. You heard me right. It was illegal to ask the woman to cover herself in public.

A few years ago when the Rest of Us weren’t looking, the ‘lactivists’ all got together and rammed-home some legislation across the country – it’s now illegal in all fifty states to ask a woman to find some place private – or even to use a blanket – to breastfeed.

They’ve managed – and I don’t quite see how – to convince fifty state legislatures to pass laws allowing sucky-sucky in public – as long as it’s baby doin’ the deed, and not a lil’ somethin’-somethin’ goin’ on.

Now, I don’t follow.

As Maher pointed out, why not allow masturbation in public?

For that matter, why stop there? Why not allow public urination? Save a lot of money building public bathrooms – why not public troughs, like they had in Roman times? Take a dump in public, too – it ought to be legal now, but no – the same state which first brought you “no shirt/no shoes/no service” (Oregon) now allows bare-breasticles anywhere – as long as they’re being ‘used’ by a person under the age of, say 18 months.

I still can’t walk barefoot in a restaurant, though.

Not that I’d want to – you see, I’m civilized….

Reflections On The Last Reunion In A Small Town….

(By request – guess some of you still like this piece….)

Sometimes life comes at you so hard that the only thing you can do is hope to take the blow.

I’d grown up in a small town in rural Oregon. As with rural towns anywhere, there was the usual gossip and small-town dysfunction, but there were also some great moments where time passed in a fugue-state and none of us could imagine there would ever come a time again as magical and as fine as right then, at that moment.

In 1984, we held a two-years-too-late high-school reunion. Now, for those of you who might have suffered through one of these, they’re usually a waste of time – a chance for someone to brag about how much money he’s made; a chance for some of the girls to show off the fact that they’d transformed from the duckling to the swan; a chance for yet-others to show off that they’d started with a bad record, and had done a pretty good job thus-far of hanging on to it.

In my case, I was one of the ‘intellectuals’; a very, very small group indeed, but we were the ones mentioned most often in the yearbook; we’d held most of the class-offices through the four years we were there, and had been in most of the school-sponsored activities – plus a few of our own.

One of mine involved taking my new-found love of music and starting a band.

It started, innocently enough, with a conversation. One of my friends in the ‘brain-pack’ had convinced his parents that ownership of a drum-kit was a good idea; he played in the high-school jazz-band (a subset of the regular high-school band, of which he was also a member).

As with most of us, his real love was of rock and roll.

While others watched TV at night, Rich and I experimented with everything from three-chord to surf and free-form. The others might have bludgeoned their eardrums with Hermans’ Hermits; we listened to what are now called ‘indie-bands’ and little-known imports. Our evenings consisted of mastering passages written for guitar and drum; during the day, we traded five-line music-paper with scribbles and chord-notations like some teenagers traded hallway-notes.

Gradually, two others asked if they could sit in – and we had a band before long. Keeping the improv to practice-nights, we played mainstream rock-classics for Friday and Saturday-night dances; we’d become a fixture of sorts; people would walk up to us in the hallway and ask us not if, but where, we’d be playing that weekend.

Time, however, has a habit of catching up with you.

It was January of 1972, and I was busy applying to colleges and getting things ready for graduation, which was just around the corner. The other fellow in the band who was my age wasn’t going on – a function of money – but the other two, who were a year younger, were clearly going to be fish-out-of-water.

We pledged to stay together as a band.

This worked, more or less, as fall went on that year – I was taking a huge course-load, but managed to break away every couple of weekends or so to play for something or another at the high-school or the old Quonset hut/former mess-hall which served as a community-center. As time went on, the only one interested in continuing was Rich, and though he was a year younger than me, he was more than welcome to stash his drums in our daylight-basement and practice with me on the weekends.

So much of it was like it was before – only we’d polished our ‘act’ to the point where Rich was seriously considering going pro. I knew deep-down that college was where I needed to be – so we parted friends, and Rich went about finding other bandmates.

We lost touch with each other; the one fellow my age (Ray) had maintained some contact with me through my college years, although by then it was like another world. The small town in which I’d grown up was slowly dying, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before it was a pale shadow of anything it had represented growing up.

During my second year in college, my parents moved to another town about fifteen miles away – much larger; a better commute into Portland for me, but still rural enough to suit my Dad (who had no use for cities). I grew even farther removed from the town where I’d grown up.

Time passed. I graduated; completed a masters’ program, and went on to start a career. I’d hear from Ray every now and again; the others seemed to lose touch, and conversations became more-stilted as the gulf between our chosen paths became more obvious.

It’s said that, in the end, the River of Life meanders where it will – and those of us brave enough to strike out from the shallows to the stronger current beyond are the ones who have the best chance of really Doing Something. I don’t quite know if that’s true – but it’s what happened, in vastly different ways, to Rich and I.

Rich managed to make a go as a session-musician in California; his name came up mentioned on several albums as a percussionist; he still maintained a home in Oregon and came back up on occasion, making the road-trip from L.A. in one of a succession of fast cars.

In my case, I took a gift for the written and spoken word, and turned it into a career in business. I’d gotten on well with the whole high-tech phenom, and by 1984 was just opening my first business, selling office automation and high-end networking produc
ts. I came straight from work to the opening event of the reunion – the hospitality-suite in the old high-school library.

The library was new the year we graduated. It had devolved into a shabby-looking hollow shell of its former self; folding tables had been set with the ubiquitous punch-bowl and an array of beer and wine, with some nondescript munchies (the reunion committee had collected some cash to fund the event, but there clearly wasn’t the economy of scale to really put on an Event).

The library reflected the town, which in driving through had revealed itself in faded glory; the peeling paint, poorly maintained sidewalks and other signs of age having caught up with it – the era of boomtown timber-money had long since passed.

“Will!”

It was Ray. Older; but then so was I. He was always vital and alive – truly my oldest friend, having known him since I was five.

“Ray!!”

I ran over to shake his hand and give him a hug – while he was bit uncomfortable with that, the one thing everyone knew about me then as now is that I never did anything by half-measure.

We caught up on a few things. I asked about the other two bandmates; not surprisingly I wouldn’t see them here – they hadn’t been a part of our class, strictly speaking.

“Don’s fine, Will. He’s working for XYZ Electronics now.”

“Anyone hear from Rich?”

“You didn’t hear?”, said Ray, looking uncomfortable. There was a pause.

“He died a year ago. Huge accident on I-5 heading north. I thought you knew.”

I eventually found my way to the men’s room to collect myself.

Rich and I had talked about making a record together someday, just for the heck of it. We’d talked about buying some land nearby each other, and maybe even raising a new crop of young musicians once we got married.

I started to cry.

A couple of minutes and a little composure later (some cold water on my face helped), I went back to the crowd.

Suddenly, the place seemed small. Old, and small.

Ray and I sat in the corner; one beer became four or five for him; I nursed a few glasses of nondescript red and swapped stories with him for a while.

I’d made the rounds. Talked with everyone I cared to. There was the fellow who bragged about his money; the fellow who bragged about his ‘reputation’; the young women who measured life in the number of children, husbands, or other trophies they’d managed to acquire.

“Going to the dance tomorrow, Will?” Ray was beside me again, as he’d always been – as we’d always been for each other.

“No, Ray. I don’t think so. I really don’t think so.”

“Well, we’ll all miss ya. You know that.”

“Thanks. Say—” – I interrupted myself to pull a business-card out of my wallet; wrote my home-number on the back. “Call me. All right?”

He looked nervous. Anything official made him that way – he was never comfortable with paper. “Oh. All right.”

“Or just drop by. You know where I live.”

“Right. Later!”

_________________________________

It’s true that you can never go home again; home is usually a dying town with little to redeem it in the eyes of the casual observer. If you’re lucky, you’ll have had memories which transcend the fact that good things – or good people – never last.

Changes….

Several of you have already commented in a couple of different venues about this, but I’ve killed my “Multiply” page.

The one you’re reading now is friends-only, so if you’re reading this, you’ve made the ‘cut’.

The reasons are many, but they boil down to this: It simply wasn’t the same ‘feel’ as the old 360.

You’ll say, “Yes, but yours was the best site on Multiply!”, or “I miss you already!”, or “But 360’s ‘hosed’!” — and you’ll be right as rain on that last one; the first two are subjective. So, as I’m fond of saying, let’s do the math.

First of all, unless I wrote drivel (‘human-interest’ and the like), I got virtually no comments. I learned this the other day when I posted one of my series on one of Multiply’s groups — one which was tailor-made for the sort of thing I’d written — and I didn’t get one response.

I miss the discussions we had here. I’m not ‘coming back to 360’, understand – I’m not hoping vainly that we’ll rekindle something. It’s come-and-gone; I know that, and there’s no reason to try. Yahoo abandoned us; it’s over. I get that. Still, I miss the fact that I could post something with substance and get fifty comments, all from people I knew well.

That saddens me — because of each one of those fifty, you had equally meaningful things to say on your own blogs.

The critical-mass was wonderful — but it’s a vain hope that it’ll ever be regained.

I’ve got a lot to do in real-life right now, so if I write, it’ll be on occasion, and if I don’t get any commentary – that’s fine, too. Having gone to ‘friends-only’, I’m doubting I’ll be having any issues, either – at least, I hope not — plus, it’s a little late for Yahoo to try to hold me to a set of ‘featured blogger’ standards.

In the end, it was just a website; that “Multiply” place – just like this one. No need to agonize over it; put any more thought to it past an ‘oh; well’ – just move on. I did.

(As to my “Jericho” series — well, it was a nice idea, but I got a grand total of fifteen comments on both sites, so, unfortunately (and for the last time, apparently) — “Jericho” has been cancelled.)

I might be tempted to write another researched series or another sci-fi piece — I don’t quite know yet; things are pretty busy now.

So, until things shape up here on Yahoo – or not — I’m taking a decidedly low-key approach to the whole blogging gig.

As always, you’re welcome here to drop your two-cents in the barrel by way of a private comment, or a public one.

Best,

— “Astra”

Ruminations….

(While I’m recovering from the upper-respiratory crud, I got to thinking about life’s-passages, and stuff. The following is sort of stream-of-consciousness)….

Back about ’95, a fellow named Baz Luhrmann wrote a piece for the Sun-Times in Chicago entitled “Wear Sunscreen”. In it, the Bazster informed us that it’s the things which hit us on a random Tuesday, and not the things for which we plan, that really get to us — and that there’s nothing we can do that’ll really work in life, except wearing sunscreen. That works.

I tend to agree, this now being over thirty years since I walked down the aisle in the sweltering heat of an Oregon early-June evening, wearing a cheap polyester gown in the high-school gym, cursing my father for making me wear a suit, while every other one of my snot-nosed buddies got to wear shorts and t-shirts.

If I’d known of Ol’ Baz (or simply listened to my Mother, who told me the same damn thing), I wouldn’t have some of these wrinkles (y’see, I’d’ve worn sunscreen) – but I’ve aged pretty well, considering – my blood-pressure’s a little high (something for which there’s medication, if no cure, considering I got that, too from my Mother); I’m thin on top and thicker in the middle, rather than the other way around – but my hair’s still brown (what’s left of it), and my teeth are still white (while those, too, could be reversed) – so I consider myself lucky.

The fellow who sat in front of me in fourth-year English had a draft number of 8. The fellow behind me had a draft number of 6. Mine was 325, which guaranteed that I wouldn’t make history – I wouldn’t be one of the Last American Boys Conscripted Since WWII.

My Dad, my Mom, and even my Sister were happy for that.

The other two? They joined the National Guard, and save for some hazing in basic-training, emerged in the fall of 1972 with new haircuts and an obligation to attend Guard ‘meetings’ every two weeks, where they learned the basics of scrubbing floors, servicing heavy equipment, and drinking beer off-duty.

I went off to college – my father having promised to pay for it if I finished as quickly as possible. I found that college was a lot like any other form of schooling, except you (1) actually could skip class and no one would care, and (2) while everyone still misbehaved in their own fashion, no one gave them time-out.

I learned to avoid most of them.

I also learned that many things at that level are done for political reasons, some for financial, and some for both – which explained that while most of the football and basketball team were hard-pressed to write their names, they had full-ride scholarships, while those of us who had a reason for being in college had to scrape by.

I learned that lesson about a half-hour before I told myself, “Self? They have the money, and you don’t. Is there a way to get at least some of it from them?”

I did a little modest digging — and found that they needed people they called tutors (who were really just overpriced word-whores who’d write papers at $300-a-throw so guys like Clete and Tyrone could keep throwing, bouncing, or running with a ball.

They also paid us $5.00 an hour to teach Clete, Tyrone, and his buddies how to write, read, and answer the correct questions on a test.

Apart from teaching them to read, I avoided most of them, too.

This was my first – and best – lesson in the Fairness of Life — which, if you’ve gathered anything from this missive by now, you’ve learned Doesn’t Exist At All.

My use of the Booster’s Club’s money did, however, pay for my ‘threads’ (that’s what we called clothes back then), and my sports-car.

I didn’t dally with women then – I was too busy Learning Things. I learned them so well that I finished a four-year program in a little over two – and went right on to finish a master’s program in a little over a year. This left me at the end of three and a half years, more or less, with not one, but two pieces of paper which said I was Educated.

I then learned my Next Big Lesson: The Value of Education.

There ain’t none, folks.

Oh, yes, if you want to be a wage-slave, get a McJob and say ‘moo’ under your breath while everyone leaves the office at five, you’ll need one. Some professions require it – I mean, you’ll not be allowed to cut out your next-door neighbor’s gall-bladder without some credentials. You’ll also not be allowed to plead one side or the other’s case in divorce court, no matter how unjust it is that he screwed his secretary behind his wife’s back while she hit the bottle — but that’s another story, entirely.

In my case, I thought I’d try my hand at getting a teaching certificate at the same time I student-taught for a semester – there were plenty of programs with schools at the time who begged me to try – so I did. I learned that (1) there’s no money in it, and (2) everything is done to the lowest common denominator – 98% of your time is spent dealing with the 2% of ‘problem children’, whose parents don’t care if they’re educated – just that they’ve got a convenient place to drop them off while they go to work. Consequently, everyone in the class is underserved — and Little Snooky is still going to be a jerk when he grows up.

I decided on a career in business.

I started selling in the then-burgeoning world of High Technology. I learned rapidly that most corporations were Just Like High School – only they paid you for attending – and those of us who talked to the most customers and sold the most ‘stuff’ got paid very well for doing so – – the added bonus (if you could call it that) was that there was this fellow called The Boss who’d pat you on the back, order a gold-wreath printed on your next batch of business-cards, and send you away for a week to a place where Everyone Else who’d done so were also in attendance, wearing bad golf-attire, drinking too much, hitting on all the female staff, and Being Generally Obnoxious.

I learned to avoid most of them, also.

Time went on – and while I’ve done reasonably well with Life As We Know It, I’ve also learned a few things — so, in the interest of the
upcoming graduation of the Class of 2008, I offer what I’ve learned since leaving high-school:

1. Life will not be spent doing. It will be spent avoiding. Learn this early. Yes, you’ll learn to avoid troublemakers of every stripe, and you’ll re-learn this lesson often. Best to learn it once, and leave the rest of them to trouble others. Troublemakers are going to take many forms – from office-gossips who seem to draw trouble like a Black Hole; busybody neighbors who make everyone else’s business their own, and overfriendly members of the opposite gender, who my father once likened to rabid animals. Avoid them. All of them. You’ll do well if you only heed this one.

2. People come and go. This goes for friends who’ve said that you’re “2 good 2 be 4 gotten”, to your first boyfriend/girlfriend, to your husband/wife. Don’t read anything into it when they leave. Just be ready for the fact that one day you’re going to be happy, and the next day, you’re not. Everyone is an individual – when you go to bed, you go to bed alone. “Fall in love” all you want — just remember what I said here. People come and go and for no good reason you can define; if you’re not fully prepared to have your heart stomped flatter than a crabcake, you’ve no business messing with ‘love’.

3. Don’t expect ‘closure’. You’ll wind up shaking your fist at ‘god’/the universe/what-have-you and demanding a form of justice that doesn’t exist. Significant-other up and leave? Let ’em go. Running after them in a cheap imitation of the last scenes of “Mrs. Robinson” is not only personally embarassing, it’s against the law in most places now. Just get fired? Count on the fact that there’s not going to be a grandfatherly/grandmotherly boss who’ll put an arm around you as they escort you to the door and make a heartfelt recommendation to finish school or do something else ‘first’. The law took care of that a long time ago. You’ll learn from your experiences – but don’t expect much help.

4. Maintain your dignity. Don’t puke in public; find a trash-can. In a world where YouTube means that anything you do is on film, dignity is at a premium. Your mother was right in this, also – arguing with your S.O. in public, or doing anything personal in a public place, is bad form. Leave that to The Others.

5. Remember – You’re On Your Own. It’s true. When I graduated, a person could reasonably expect to go straight to work and earn enough to buy a house and put two kids through college. Nowadays, that whole lifestyle is over (here’s another wake-up-call; it ended years ago); you’re likely going to find yourself out in the cold without medical insurance, a home of your own, massive college debt, and no way to repay any of it – and all of this, sometime in the next six years. The jobs that paid your grandfather’s lifestyle are now being done by slave-labor in China, and the climate’s screwed because my generation didn’t have the cojones to keep the Third World from logging the rainforest. We’re screwed politically because we didn’t learn the lessons of Johnson and Nixon, and essentially put the same two people back in office (albeit under different names) starting in 1992. There’s a chance you can change it, but it’s slim, and the clock is ticking.

For all this, there’s still an opportunity for laughter, imagination, exploration, and fun. Just keep your wits about you – because, as Kipling said, all others about you are losing theirs. The world’s coming to an end, not with a bang, but a whimper, and if there was a chance the center was going to hold, it ended a long time ago.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

Reflections on a Cold, Earth Day, and Old King Canute….

It’s Earth Day, and I have a cold.

This is only appropriate here in Oregon. Here in the Beaver State; Land of the Empire Builders, we’ve just set a record — the latest recorded snowfall.

I’m old enough to remember the last one — it was April 1st, 1976. About two/three inches fell on the valley floor, and six-plus in the hills. Unseasonal; but it was an El Nino year.

(Aside: In 1997, an ‘Al Nino’ of San Diego was obligated to change his phone number and unlist it, because he was getting around 100 calls per day from idiots asking him why he was screwing with the weather. It’s true. Saw it on CNN.)

We don’t have such things to blame this time around – it’s not an El Nino year here in Oregon. They’re calling for a hot summer, too – which is rather my point.

Climate change (I won’t call it ‘global warming’, in deference to those of you who consider the climate a politically-charged issue) is probably to blame for this one.

Last Saturday’s one-inch-on-the-ground was – or should be – a huge wake-up call to a lot of people hereabouts; it should have equal-effect on the granola-heads who eat grass and rocks and live in sod houses, as well as the Rich Guilty Liberals who are convinced that buying a Prius means that they have a lower carbon-footprint than their sod-house bretheren who drive a ’65 VW van.*

I’ve said this before – but I’ve got a slight fever, I’m grouchy, sick, snotty, and cold – all due to stuff that was 100% preventable (yes, I’m gonna blame this cold on the weather – I know it’s illogical, but cut me a break. I’m coughin’ up lungs here.) So, I’m gonna say it again – here’s the REAL cure for climate change:

#1. Quit yer friggin’ breeding (I know; that sounds redundant, but gimme a break). You don’t need kids. You don’t need GRANDkids. ‘God’ doesn’t have a damn thing to say about it — not unless you can prove he/she/it EXISTS (Hint: That’s impossible. Don’t try. You’ll embarass yourself). I know; the worst problem is overseas (at least by numbers) – but try this on for size: Little Snooky; born in the USA, consumes 300% more resources than his Third World counterpart. Sort of puts things in perspective.

(By the way – don’t give me this crap about ‘we have large families by tradition’, or such. You’re either a part of the solution, or part of the problem).

#2. Consume less (I know, I’m an economic terrorist; capitalism requires that we consume). Here’s a wake-up call, folks: Capitalism is destructive, and causes more problems than it solves. I don’t have an answer here, but if we all consume less, there’ll be more for later-on. Buy things that last. Don’t buy things that don’t.

#3. Support an earth-friendly agriculture (Yes, I’m saying that you should quit eating frozen dinners and Chee-Tos for supper, and use your kitchen more. Get out to that farmers-market. Give up on the idea that a Big Mac at 6:00PM on your way home is a good idea. Fast food is terribly destructive on several levels. The bonus? You’ll weigh less, and feel better, too).

#4. Support earth-friendly legislation (This goes for pro-choice intiatives to allow women the opportunity not to breed if they choose not to; pro-sustainable agriculture, and candidates who support these things – along with #5, below).

#5. Drive less – and support legislation for sustainable alternate energy (I shouldn’t have to explain this one – but we can’t starve ourselves to feed our cars by producing ethanol from feed-corn. Hydrogen; solar – even responsibly-designed nuclear – are all alternatives we can live with – and are rapidly becoming things we can’t live without).

____________________________________

I just looked out my window at the hummingbird-feeder; part of the benefit of being home of an afternoon. Big Mama (the female Rufous-Sided who took up residence with her mate last fall), is tankin’ up again. Normally a migratory species, they started staying year-’round in ’05 – and if you contact your local Audubon, you’ll find that hummingbirds all over North America are doing that in larger numbers.

The reason? Their wintering-grounds in Mexico are being logged off at a horrendous rate; the result of (1) birth control being illegal in Mexico; (2) the government choosing to solve their population-growth problem by giving people chainsaws and a chunk of rainforest. With no place to overwinter, the hummingbirds stay – through weather which they were never adapted to survive.

Some make it. A lot of them don’t – in such numbers that it’s doubtful many species of hummingbird will survive into the next century.

It’s all interconnected, people. All of it. Denying it is more than a bit like King Canute, who had his throne placed in the surf; he believed he could order the tide back.

He was, of course, quite mad.

How much of it do we direcly affect? Most of it, as it turns out — the one chart which tracks human population, carbon consumption, and climate change all converge rather nastily.

As Walt Kelly said through his inimitable cartoon character, ‘Pogo’: We have met the enemy – and he is us.

_____________________________________________

*They don’t. Read here.

Jericho — (Season Three; Episode Two) — “Allegiance”

(50-star flag of the United States of America)

The two weeks Hawkins spent in the hospital went by quickly. He arose every morning, spent less and less time getting ‘vertical’, and was greeted the same way by the charge-nurse: “Well, look who’s up! Y’all hungry?” He wasn’t at first, but as his convalescence continued he would get to the dining-room by himself and manage to get himself fed.

At first, it was touch-and-go for him. The surgeon who performed the operation, carefully removing the bullet and sewing his intestinal-wall together again, said that another fifteen minutes would have meant his funeral.

He was glad Jake had flown fast. He was glad for the intervention of the two F-16’s from the now-Republic of Texas Air Force.

He was doubly glad that the discussions now going on at the capitol in Austin centered around a bomb which he and Jake had delivered, intact.

Engineers from A&M had wasted no time dissecting the bomb – destroying the tracking device – and verifying that it was, indeed, made from former Soviet nuclear material, and had the same chemical-signature as the other bombs which had flattened several east-coast cities. They could only speculate on the western states – but the Cheyenne government and Austin weren’t on speaking terms nowadays, so ‘discovery’ was impossible.

In Cheyenne, President Tomarchio had demanded the return of ‘materials vital to the Allied States’ – but Governor Todd of Texas had made it clear to Cheyenne’s ambassador that this wasn’t going to happen.

Hawkins was discharged from the hospital the day Cheyenne’s third – and final – ultimatum was delivered by their ambassador to Austin.

_________________________________

“Jake?”

Jake turned. His father was sitting by the barn, whittling.

“We never finished our conversation.”

“No, Dad, we didn’t. Are you real?”

“I’m as real as it gets, son. Remember what your grandfather said….”

Jake awoke. He walked down the hall after dressing himself – while the hospital was good enough as a hotel, and while he appreciated the hospitality, he knew that he was better use back home. The dreams proved that.

“Ravenwood or Hessian mercenaries”, he said to himself.

“What? You all right, Mr. Jake?” The charge nurse had taken to calling him that in the intervening weeks – but in getting used to the hospitality, the place had become too familiar – and he was doubly-anxious to get back home.

Problem was, there was a lot of country between Austin and Jericho.

“I’m fine, June. Fine. How’s Mr. Hawkins?”

“Well, he’ll be let out today, Mr. Jake. I’m gonna be sorry to see you boys go, but I imagine you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

No joke, thought Jake. No joke.

______________________________________

President Tomarchio was sitting in the new capitol building – it had been constructed courtesy of Jennings and Rall, and while it had cost a pretty penny, he knew that a nation worth recognizing needed a capitol, and this one was a dead-on copy of the one in Washington – or, the one which had BEEN in Washington.

Now, however, he had other things on his mind. He knew he was ‘presidential’. He had to prove it – and that was going to take force.

General Andrews had ‘connections’ to the old Army, but was also the sort who recognized when allegiances needed changing. He’d taken his 10^th Mountain Division, on maneuvers in Colorado when the bomb went off in Denver, to Cheyenne at the request of then-Senator Tomarchio. He rapidly learned that Tomarchio was in the right place at the right time for the right reasons – and accepted the flag-patch of the Allied States for his uniform the next day, while strongly encouraging his senior officers to do the same, and to encourage their subordinates, on down the chain of command.

The result was that by the end of the first week after the bombs had dropped, he was the commander of the Provisional Army of the Allied States of America, and the chief military advisor of the new government.

The rest of the state-capitols had fallen in line quickly. Long ignored by Washington, the far western states (Washington, Oregon and California) were the first; the rest fell in line more or less within the week. By week two, the states west of the Mississippi had declared allegiance – while the more-populous eastern states had splintered into four factions – each with a claim on the nation’s presidency.

It had taken months to sort this out – but by that time, Cheyenne had a serious head-start on the eastern states.

“General Andrews – tell me. What do we do about Austin?”

“Mr. President, there are only two things we can do. Act now, and swiftly, or we’re going to see Austin fall in with the U.S. Government in Columbus. We need to get that bomb; destroy it – and the ‘Republic of Texas’ with it. After that, you can spin any story you please – but if my people don’t start falling out of aircraft – and shooting everything they see when they hit the ground — we can kiss goodbye any credibility we have.”

“What do you need, General?”

Andrews thought for a moment. He picked up what was handy – a yardstick – and pointed at the map. “Authorization to move through Kansas and Oklahoma to Texas, and from there to Austin. I’ll need air support, and plenty of it. Ideally, I’d like to see everything from Dallas-south pounded flat before we even get there.”

“I’ll authorize the Allied States Air Force to provide whatever you need.”

Andrews was still uneasy about that statement. He knew that things were different, but the names would take some getting-used-to….

“General?”

“Yes. Sir.” General Andrews broke his reverie and came to attention. “I’ll leave the political end to you. Are you declaring war on the Republic?”

Tomarchio paused.

“Yes. Today.”

_______________________________________

Major Beck had been invited by Emily Sullivan, a teacher at the local high-school, to speak to her ninth-grade class.

Jericho’s school system was small – a grade school and a high-school, with about 150 teenagers enrolled in the high-school where she taught English to 9-12^th graders. She also doubled as the school’s Social Studies teacher, and coached dramatics, helping the community put on school plays. It was a rewarding life, but after the bomb, she was thrust into the role of principal, as well – the school’s principal had been out of town, and hadn’t been heard from since.

This was the fate of several Jericho residents – and something about which, like so many other things, the town had simply made-do.

“You asked to see me?”

“Yes, Major Beck. I did. I want you to do something.” Emily paused for a moment, and then said, “I want you to lead the Pledge of Allegiance tomorrow morning.”

“If you’ve got time”, she continued, “and being as this is the first day of school, I’d like you to speak to the kickoff Assembly – all four grades.”

“Sure you want me doing this? I wasn’t very popular here.”

“Major Beck – you’re what stands between these people and the outside world now. You’re something you weren’t before – elected.”

“I’ll do it, Emily. When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

_______________________________________

“Jake?”

“Yeah?” Jake looked over at Hawkins, who’d been working the secure-phone he’d brought with him. He’d been able to arrange a subsequent conversation with Mayor Anderson, and while it was brief (Cheyenne was tapping phones and killing conversations with anyone from the outside), he’d learned that Beck was now in charge of the defense of what was now called the Jericho District – and that one of his first tasks had been to contact the state-house in Oklahoma City, and explain what had happened.

The net result was that Oklahoma, seeing the situation for what it was, changed allegiance to Columbus.

His next act was to speak to the state house in Topeka, which, as it turned out, had already taken a vote due to the goings-on in Jericho and had joined with Columbus.

Jericho, as it turned out, was a very important part of Kansas. It was the first to rebel against Cheyenne, and it was literally right on the road to Texas.

“Well, it’s like this. Oklahoma and Kansas are now with Columbus. They’re broadcasting daily on both AM and FM on several stations, spreading the word. Only thing is, the Cheyenne government has the 10^th Mountain there in Cheyenne, and they’re likely to send it south to ‘deal’ with Austin. If I don’t miss my guess, they’ll do it soon.”

“Why?” Jake was trying to absorb all of it.

“Because that’s just what I’d do.”

_______________________________________

General Andrews conducted a spot-inspection of a brigade – they were ready. No surprise; these were battle-hardened troops; used to putting down insurgents in Afghanistan, they showed little qualms about turning their considerable skills against other Americans – especi
ally when they’d been told, again and again, that they were ‘right’.

After bringing a squad to attention, a young lieutenant saluted General Andrews and said, “All present and accounted for, General!”

“Are your men ready to reunite this nation?”, said General Andrews, looking the lieutenant in the eyes.

“Yes, sir!”

“Mount ‘em up, Lieutenant!”

“Saddle up, men! Let’s take this country back!”, shouted the lieutenant. The drivers were in the cab before the lieutenant’s voice faded, the men were in the truck with the gate closed, locked, and ready for travel a couple of seconds later.

The column stretched for miles. Turning to his aide, an equally-young lieutenant-colonel, Andrews said, “Well. Time to cross the Rubicon.”

“What, sir?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

_______________________________

September 4^th dawned warm; the benefit of a late Kansas summer. Harvest was largely done, and the kids showed up, freshly bathed, clean clothes, home-done hair-cuts – a lot like their 1920’s counterparts would have done.

Streaming in to the gym, they talked, giggled nervously, and took seats by class, awaiting a future they could only guess at.

Emily – ‘Principal Sullivan’ to them – walked in, followed by Major Beck. Giggling stopped.

Emily walked to the podium, which had been set up the night before on the gym-floor, close to the bleachers, so the kids could see and hear her better.

“Today,” she began, “Is the first day of school for many of you in a year.” More giggles, nervous laughter, some talk –

“However, today isn’t like any other day. Today is the first day of school in a new country.” She could see she’d gotten their attention.

“Several of your older classmates are not here. They were killed defending the town in the short war with New Bern.” By then, a pin, dropped at one corner of the gym, would have made a resounding echo.

“It was the arrival of Major Beck which ended that war and kept Jericho whole. Some of you are aware that we were sent ‘new’ textbooks, out of which we were to teach the history of the ‘new America’. Your fellow townspeople – and some of your classmates – defended the right of this school to teach the truth.”

Emily looked into the eyes of some of the students. There was Skylar, whose family owned half the salt-mine, and who had joined with Dale Turner in running the town’s only store. They were a couple now, and rumor had it they were going to get married if Mayor Anderson would sanction it.

“This year, thanks to those people, and to some of you here today, we are using the old textbooks. We are also flying the old 50-star flag of the United States. Today, Major Beck is here to help us do something we haven’t done in a long time. Major Beck?”

Beck walked to the podium. “Thank you, Em – uh, Principal Sullivan.” He looked over the crowd. Some of them were so young. Too young for all of this. It was his job to protect them – but it was going to be soon – too soon – that they would be asked to protect themselves.

“I fought in Afghanistan. I met a lot of people there; people of all different backgrounds. We had people of every religion in the Army; every color; every value system. The one thing which held us together was the fact that we were all Americans.”

He paused. Every eye was on him. It seemed as if no one was breathing.

“I watched more than a few of them die. You’ve seen that too, here.” There was an uncomfortable shift in the crowd; some coughed – he could tell that a few were crying.

“Your town has charged me with the task of defending it – this town, and the surrounding area. I’ll do my best to make that happen. Some of you may be called upon again to help. Until then, we will live each day – because, every one of us has the right to be a part of this town – to go to school, to play sports, to pitch in. We also have the right to do something we haven’t done in a while, and which Principal Sullivan has honored me with the right to conduct today. Would you all stand for the Pledge?”

The student body of Jericho High School stood as one – now realizing the import of what they were about to do.

Major Beck turned to the flag, and brought himself to attention.

Saluting, he began the words used in American classrooms since the 1940’s – and another war, of another time:

“I pledge allegiance to the flag–”

.. / .–. .-.. . -.. –. . / .- .-.. .-.. . –. .. .- -. -.-. . / -….- -….-

Jericho — Season Three — (“Cincinnatus”)

(Flag of the Allied States of America)

“Jake, you still don’t seem to get it.” Jake Green’s grandfather turned slowly; the heat of a Kansas summer heavy in the air as he walked over to the shade cast by the barn. Jake’s father, Johnston, sat on an overturned stock-tub, whittling at a piece of wood in the shade.

“Remember I told you – whether it’s Ravenwood, or Hessian mercenaries, the answer is the same – revolution.”

“But I can’t risk the whole town, Grandpa.”

“Son, the whole town is already at risk. The whole country. Everything I fought for; everything your father fought for; everything we both believed in – until we both died.”

The word died echoed in Jake’s mind as he woke up.

Jake was sleeping on a cot in a hospital in San Antonio, Texas. His neighbor, friend, and now fellow – revolutionary? – Robert Hawkins, was in ICU, fighting for his life. Shot by an EMT in Cheyenne, Wyoming, it seemed like a year ago – but in fact it was yesterday.

He’d dreamed about his grandfather – who’d fought in World War II and who told him the tale of General McAuliffe’s response of ‘Nuts!’ to the German general surrounding the city of Bastogne – not long ago, when Major Beck, the military commander of the two counties comprising Jericho and New Bern, held him as a prisoner for several days.

Beck was trying to find the whereabouts of the other Jericho Rangers. Jake hadn’t given them up then – he hoped they were all right.

Jake looked at the clock. 4:30AM. He’d fallen into bed, exhausted, a little after 10 the night before. He was fortunate that his prior assignment with Ravenwood (subsidiary of Jennings and Rall) had given him an opportunity to learn to fly – otherwise, he and Hawkins would have never gotten as far as they did.

He put on the hospital-scrubs he’d been issued when they took his clothes, and opened the door.

“Well, look who’s up!”, said a nurse at the duty-station. “Want some coffee?” Her thick Texas accent was at once foreign and welcoming.

Coffee in hand, Jake said, “How’s Mr. Hawkins?”

“He’s out o’ surgery, Jake. He’s still critical, but stable. Doctor says he’ll make it.” She added, “Jake, I just want to say ‘thanks’ for what you boys did. Word’s all over the hospital. You boys are heroes.”

Jake shifted; if there’d been gravel to kick, he’d’ve looked down and done it. “I don’t want to be a hero. I just want what’s right.”

“Well, we’re a long way toward that now, ‘cause o’ you.”, said the nurse, going back to her perch behind the desk. “Shower’s down that way. Laundry should have your clothes back later this mornin’.”

“Can I see Hawkins?”

“When he wakes up. Not ‘till then, I’m afraid. Could take a few hours.”

“I need to make a call.”

“Phone’s over there, hon. It’ll call long-distance, if Cheyenne hasn’t cut the lines ‘tween here and the Outside. Might want to use your cell-phone; we have service here.”

“It’s dead.”, said Jake. “Do you know where Mr. Hawkins’ phone is?”

“Probl’ly with his clothes and other ‘personals’. I’ll have one of the LPN’s help you.”

Retrieving Hawkins’ phone was easy – Jake reflected on the ease of how things were done here – part of being in a truly free country. It was still hard to think of Texas as a ‘country’, but those were the rules now. He was already adapting to two governments, and being fifteen pounds lighter than he’d been before the Bombs.

“Gray?”

The voice on the other line was still sodden with sleep. “Jake?”

“It’s me. I’ll have to be fast; I don’t know how long we can talk. Hawkins is fine; he was shot yesterday, but he’s fine. We got the bomb to San Antonio.
Austin is working on joining with Columbus. I’m fine; tell Mom for me. How’s things on your end?”

“Jake, Major Beck’s come over. His officers joined him. About three-quarters of his troops joined him, too – the rest were disarmed and given safe-conduct to Cheyenne. The word has spread to Camp Liberty, and we’re seeing a LOT of defectors – although we’re anticipating they’ll land on us with both feet after all this. Tell Hawkins –“

The line went dead.

“That was better than I expected,” thought Jake, as he closed Hawkins’ cell phone.

______________________________________

Gray Anderson, the mayor of Jericho, rolled over and looked at the clock. “4:50”, he thought. “Might as well get up”.

Coffee and toast, and at least hot water to shower. He thought about the small things which now seemed so important.

He’d just returned from the ‘Constitutional Convention’ in Cheyenne at Jake’s behest. While he had no idea what Jake had done until a few minutes ago, he was clearly surprised to see him in Cheyenne.

“Cheyenne”, he thought. “Jake’s comment was right.”

He remembered Jake, looking out the new Cheyenne Marriott’s window and saying, “It didn’t take ‘em long to build their own country,” after seeing the new 22-story Jennings and Rall headquarters, and the new national Capitol Building still under construction in the background.

“Twenty minutes of discussion, and the second amendment is history,” thought Gray. “I was right, the other day. Doesn’t take much to keep a population in line if they can’t shoot back.”

It was the same with the First Amendment – ‘freedom of speech’ was subject to ‘congressional directives guaranteeing national security’ – whatever that meant. What it really meant was this – -the government could tap your phone, break up your church-meeting if they thought it was ‘subversive’, or tell a town-council that it was dissolved. The newspapers were, with that addition, under government control, as was any other form of media.

He was fearful of what was going to happen next. The Cheyenne government had sent the Jericho school district new textbooks, and had all-but-insisted on their use. Emily Sullivan, the high-school social-studies teacher, refused.

“Doesn’t matter much now. We haven’t held school in over a year.”

Then, he had another thought. Suddenly, there was no time to lose….

____________________________________________

Stanley and Mimi woke up at dawn; the habit of farmers the world-over and a habit Mimi had only recently acquired. Stanley had not slept well for over a week; he cried out at night; Mimi hadn’t mentioned it during the day, but she slept fitfully also, worrying over him.

They’d buried Stanley’s sister Bonnie only yesterday – the victim of a Ravenwood mercenary ‘action’ bent on clearing up the paper-trail from their financial corruption. Mimi was still nursing a bullet-hole in her shoulder as a result.

It was hard for her not to feel guilty. The Ravenwood operatives had come for her, not Bonnie – and it was Bonnie – who couldn’t hear, but who bought Mimi the precious time to hide in the pantry – and paid for that act with her life.

It was hard for Stanley to not feel a twinge, also – he’d been the one who’d brought down the Wrath of Major Beck, after shooting the man responsible for his sister’s death. Three residents of Jericho had been killed resisting Beck’s “relocation” orders, and the town was still dealing with the aftermath of the near-riot which had happened later.

“Stanley?”

Stanley’s eyes opened. “Yeah?”

“Good morning.”

He put a hand behind her head and pulled her down to kiss him. “Good morning, Mrs. Richmond,” he said.

Mimi giggled.

“Yes, we did that yesterday, didn’t we?” She smiled at the memory of yesterday’s impromptu ‘vows’ which they took before walking, hand in hand, down from Bonnie’s raw grave.

“How does it feel to be a ‘country girl’ for real, now?”

“Just fine, Mr. Richmond!”, Mimi said, looking at Stanley’s sunweathered face.

Up; Stanley was outside, doing barn-chores while Mimi did her best with a one-handed breakfast. When he came back an hour and a half later, she’d managed coffee, bacon and eggs after a fashion, and some toast. It would be at least two weeks before she could consider working full-time again; the effort of making breakfast had taken quite a bit out of her, and she sat down hard, catching her breath.

“Look at that!”, said Stanley. “Breakfast and everything!” He dug in, almost greedily. Food was a priority; farms usually did well, but it wasn’t without effort. He still had a day ahead of him after breakfast, and it wouldn’t end until dark.

“Did you hear about Beck?”, said Mimi.

“No; what?” Stanley looked alarmed. It was Beck who’d put a price on his head, and tortured Jake Green to give up both he and the other Rangers.

“He quit Cheyenne.”

“No!” Stanley’s eyes grew wide.

“Yes!” Mimi continued, “His officers did the same. I got the call from Trish after you went to bed. Nearly the whole outfit went over, including Colonel Hoffman. Tanks, trucks – those funny airplanes that shoot at tanks – all of it.”

Stanley had seen, up close and personal, those ‘funny airplanes’ – the A10 ‘Warthog’ – drop napalm between the New Bern army and the citizens of Jericho who had turned out to defend the town against New Bern’s attack. If the two companies under Beck’s immediate superiors hadn’t shown up when they did, it would have been a lopsided fight – New Bern had raised nearly a thousand men, intent on stripping Jericho of supplies.

“Stanley?” Mimi waved her hand in front of Stanley’s face. “You there?”

“Yeah. A lot’s happened, is all.” Through with breakfast, Stanley ‘policed’ his own dishes and stayed to help Mimi wash them.

“What happens now?”, said Stanley.

Mimi paused, considering the enormity of the situation. Beck had sent the nearly 1/3 of the battalion who hadn’t broken with the Cheyenne government back on foot with five days’ rations. The trucks they could have taken were needed, and sorely, for what was sure to come.

“Well, Camp Liberty is now affiliated with the Columbus government. Colonel Hoffman has gone back to Columbus with his second-in-command, a Lieutenant-Colonel. Beck’s in charge of what’s left, as he’s the ranking officer. I suppose I could go to the Jennings and Rall office and see what they’re doing.”

“Is it safe?”

“There’s so much I just don’t know. I don’t like not knowing. As soon as I can clean up a bit, I’m going to town.”

_______________________________________

Major Beck lay on his cot in the camp outside of town, where in a brief ceremony the day before, Colonel Hoffman had hauled down the flag of the Allied States and replaced it with the old 50-star U.S. flag.

He had to brief Jericho’s mayor on what was happening worldwide.

China had officially recognized the A.S. So had Germany, and about half the E.U. England, on the other hand, had recognized Columbus, along with Ireland, France, Italy, and even the opportunists running the Russian Federation.

Asia, apart from China, was split pretty much along the lines they’d expected. Japan, anxious about the A.S. attitude toward the rest of the world, had recognized Columbus. So had Thailand, Taiwan, and South Korea.

Several Asian nations had remained neutral. Australia and New Zealand had recognized Columbus, and were actually proposing aid.

Mexico had remained neutral, in spite of being courted by both sides, (and being warned by the Independent Republic of Texas that any incursion into Texas territory would be considered an Act of War.)

Beck considered this ironic – his original family name was Hispanic; his grandfather having come from Mexico to Santa Fe in the 1940’s during the years of the bracero program. Grandfather had picked crops and maintained farm machinery.

His father had the gift of good eyesight and a quick mind; he’d gotten an ROTC scholarship to the University of New Mexico, and flown combat-support missions in Vietnam. On his return, he married, and bought an old Stinson biplane, which he e
mployed as a cropduster, caring for the crops of white and Hispanic farmers alike. He’d been given the English name “Edward” by his father (rather than the Hispanic ‘Edwardo’, who (over the strenuous objections of his abuelo) had taken the family name “Beck”, in order to blend in.

He’d also drilled it into young ‘Edward’s’ head to learn proper English – it was, he felt, the only way to get ahead in an English-speaking country.

Beck’s mother had died when he was three.

Child-care wasn’t an option. His father simply strapped him to his lap when he went up, and as soon as Beck was old enough, taught him to fly.

This had all paid off. He’d won a slot at West Point eighteen years earlier, and had graduated in the top third of his class. His first choice had been Air Force, but he’d failed the physical; the family-eyesight hadn’t quite been passed down to him.

Beck considered all this while he shaved, showered, and got ready for reveille. Of greater concern was Gray Anderson’s return, and what to do about it.

He also had nearly 1,200 men plus support personnel in this camp, and there was no way he was going to let them fall into Cheyenne’s hands when the column dragged back into the outskirts of the new capitol with their story of mass defection.

Striding into the conference tent, everyone came to attention. Beck motioned them to sit down, saying “As you were!”

Walking to the whiteboard, he wasted no time. “Men, you’re all good officers. Some of us attended the Academy together. I’m not going to kid you. We’re all in trouble, one way or another. Cheyenne will consider us all traitors. If captured, we won’t be given the courtesy of a trial; we’ll likely be shot or hung, and our troops imprisoned – if they’re treated that well.”

Some of his junior officers shifted in their seats at this. They understood what was happening. Most had taken the oath to the new government the moment it showed order and authority under President Tomarchio; now that the government had shown its true colors, they felt no obligation to honor that oath – but they also knew Cheyenne had other notions of its validity.

“The mayor of Jericho contacted me at 5:30AM this morning and requested a meeting tonight in their town hall. The nature of that meeting is unknown. I will brief you on its outcome tomorrow. Until then, gentlemen, it’s business as usual. Drill your men; keep their minds off what’s going on. You know the problem with idle-time. Calisthenics for all not on watch or other duty; rifle drill by-rotation starting at 08:00. Dismissed!”

The sudden bustle of men standing up from folding chairs filled the tent. Beck turned and walked out. He had some preparations to make for a meeting which agenda he didn’t know….

_______________________________________

“This meeting of the Jericho Town Council will come to order!” Gray Anderson’s voice boomed over his microphone, causing some momentary feedback.

People began to settle down. “Funny thing about a town meeting”, thought Gray. “Even if we don’t have a way to let everyone know about it, everyone still finds out.” He looked at the audience; nearly the whole town was there.

“I’ve called this meeting to call for a vote. First, I need to let you all know what’s happened.”

Gray paused, then continued. “Yesterday, Major Edward Beck of the 10^th Mountain Division tendered his resignation to the Cheyenne government.” Some people gasped; others stood silent. The word had evidently not gotten out to everyone.

“You all noticed Johnston Green’s flag – the one from his office wall, which says ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ flying outside the town-hall. I don’t need to tell you what that means. Jericho is considered a town in open insurrection by the Cheyenne government – and Major Beck’s resignation doesn’t change that.”

He paused to let that sink in. “We’re on our own, people – but we have some help. Colonel Hoffman of the 10^th Mountain left today by air for Columbus. His itinerary is unknown, but we won’t know if he made it until we hear from him. Until then, there are elements of two battalions outside of town. They are fully armed, and are under Major Beck’s command.”

Stanley Richmond spoke up. “My farm’s well outside things, Gray – you know that – can they protect me if something happens?”

“Stanley, just wait ‘till I finish.” Gray smiled; he was clearly a different man than he was when he left. The impatient insurance-agency owner and part-owner of the town’s salt-mine had vanished; in its place was a man humbled by events and circum
stances – a man worthy at last to take Johnston Green’s place.

Everyone chuckled nervously at Stanley’s question. He was right to be concerned; it was his farm that bore the brunt of the brief fighting between New Bern and Jericho, and it was likely his farm that would see the brunt of it again – only this time it would be between Cheyenne’s forces and whatever Major Beck had to-hand to fend them off.

Gray continued. “Major Beck informed me yesterday that he has given his parole to all the troops who did not reject the Cheyenne government. He has sent these troops on-foot back to Cheyenne with rations and survival gear; they do not have their weapons.”

“As you know, I returned yesterday from Cheyenne. The Constitution, as we know it, now only exists east of the Mississippi.” He waited for this shock to sink in, then continued.

“Freedom of speech; freedom to own a rifle and hunt; freedom of the press – -these are all gone if we allow Cheyenne to have their way. I do not intend to allow this to happen to Jericho.”

Pausing again, he finished. “I am forwarding two motions tonight with the Council’s approval. One is that Jericho officially recognize the government in Columbus, Ohio, as the legitimate government of the entire United States – the second is that we appoint, for the duration, Major Edward Beck the military governor of the Jericho district, subject to the approval of the town by popular vote.”

“Cincinnatus,” thought Beck, who was sitting at the end of the Council dais. “Only I don’t know the duration. End of the war? End of my life? Which comes sooner?”

Beck didn’t hear the vote. He was still thinking. In fact, until Gray motioned him to the podium to say a few words did he realized he’d been confirmed.

Again, he wasted no time. After walking to the podium, he looked over the faces he’d come to know and respect – Stanley and Mimi; Eric and Mary; Mrs. Green (Johnston’s widow, who kept herself busy now at the local hospital); Dr. Dhuwalia; Emily and Heather….

“Folks, thank you. I won’t promise you anything but this – whatever happens, we face it together. I’ll do my best.”

The hall erupted in applause. Beck tried to walk down the aisle to the door, but was surrounded by people; shaking his hand; patting him on the back; even hugging him. Eventually, he made it to the door, and into the night.

He’d had a long day, and 04:30 came early. He had a lot of work to do.

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