Students for Barack Obama

Another Chance

James — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 14:58:45 EST

Another Chance

By James Strauss

He was the first out for the season. The lake had iced over days before, which was uncommon so early in the year, but he’d taken the opportunity to beat any other ice fisherman and establish his fishing hut in the best location. Ten degrees below zero for three days was sufficient to form an ice layer thick enough to drive his truck across, tow the shack out, then park back at the edge of the lake and walk. He trudged back toward the run down ‘out-house’ looking shed he’d left near the middle of the lake. Inside the clapboard structure was a propane heater, six-inch ice drill, fishing equipment and half a case of Bacardi Rum. It was Saturday. He would have two whole days to do nothing but ice fish and drink, with a strong emphasis on the drinking.

When he arrived at the shack he turned around, and then studied the shore of the big lake for signs of other ice fishermen, but there was not a soul about. Smoke came from a few chimneys and he knew, even at six in the morning, his presence out on the ice was noted by many of the people who lived year around in the lakeside cabins. Several binoculars were probably sighted in on him, he thought, as he studied the shore. That conclusion did not give him any discomfort. Quite the opposite. If anything happened, like the ice not holding, then help would be only minutes away.

In past years many fishermen had gone through, one guy had even lost his Porsche, but all had been saved due to the ‘watchers’ on the shore and their quick actions. Because of the Porsche, and the potential pollution such a sinking might have on the lake ecosystem, no vehicles were allowed to park out on the ice during the frozen winter months. All the fishermen hated the discomfort and inconvenience that the rule caused, but they all understood the need to keep the lake pristine. Without the freshwater fish population there would be no ice fishing, and certainly no place to get as securely and quietly drunk as most ice fishermen loved to be.

Once inside, he turned the knob of the propane tank to full open and started the heater, making sure to pull down on the vent lever. Propane was clean but in a small enclosed space even the small waste of carbon monoxide it produced could be deadly. The next order of business was to mix a Rum and Coke, his favorite drink. Two parts rum and two parts coke mixed, without ice, inside a small ceramic cup.

He finished off two cups in as many minutes, warming him to the point where he could remove his heavy sheepskin coat and hat. The propane heater was extremely efficient. The thermometer read sixty degrees and he could see it slowly climbing.

He checked the ice surface around him. He had never built a floor into the shack. He preferred the walls to contact the ice directly, allowing him to pull fish right from the hole instead of up through a hole in a wood floor. He was a purist and proud of it.

Mixing a third drink, which he momentarily set aside, he worked on this fishing rig. A short flexible rod, light line and leader, two small hooks and a heavy sinker. He was going after bottom feeding bass. They were all fairly small, no bigger than nine or ten inches in length, but he loved their taste. Many of the other fishermen went after perch, a milder fish. The propane heater had a side burner. If he cared to, and was lucky enough to catch something early, he would have grilled bass for his breakfast. The thought made him smile. Downing the third rum and coke added humming to the smile. Auld Lang Syne. It was, after all, New Years Day, and he was dead set on changing his life. He was going to visit the children who’d gone away so long ago after the divorce. He was going to stop drinking after this last season of ice fishing. He was going to go back and get a real job, one more in keeping with his college diploma, rather than continue being a vacation cabin caretaker and handyman.

He set the prepared rod and line aside, built a back up, and then took hold of his powered ice drill. The guys at Home Depot said that it would drill a six-inch diameter hole through two feet of ice in one minute. Placing the point of the drill in the exact center of his small space he balanced the tip on the slippery ice, holding the machine perpendicular with his left hand while pulling on the rope handle sharply with his right. The machine screamed to top speed instantly, jerking him a little off balance with its torque. The blade bit into the ice, bounced upward, then slammed back into the ice, grinding in with great crunching sound.

He was under water. The impact of entering the thirty-two degree water was stunning. He body screamed in pain, and then flashed with a deadly numbness. He surfaced, dropping the drilling machine into the depths. He treaded water for a few seconds. Debris was all around him in the water. The heater, flame gone but gas bubbling from the tube, floated next to him, along with his hat and coat. Even the small stool floated inside the confines of the shack, bobbing among all the chunks of broken ice. He twisted around. The ice had broken under the shack he realized, his brain slowly recovering from shock. It had broken perfectly,

He moved to one wall of the shack and tried to lever himself up, grabbing hold of a cross-bracing two by four. The shack pulled down. He did not rise at all.

He paddled to the door. He pulled the shack downward, and then tried the handle. The door opened outward, designed to save as much of the shack’s small space for occupancy as possible. But it opened only two inches, and then jammed against the edge of ice outside. He started to panic. He was already losing the feeling in his hands, and strangely, in his hips and midsection. His legs still worked. His frog kick still kept him afloat, along with his weak grip on the wooden supports of the shack wall. He had to think, so he calmed himself. Help was not far away, if he could just maintain himself, get free of the frigid water and make his way outside. Simply waving his arms out in the open would bring immediate assistance.

More attempts at climbing failed. He fell back. A bottle thumped against his arm. He looked down. It was the half empty bottle of Bacardi. Treading water for a few seconds using only his legs, he grasped the bottle in deadened hands, got the cap off and took it to his lips. He drank the half bottle down in continuous swigs, but could not release it from his frozen hand when it was empty. Instant heat blossomed from his stomach. He could feel the heat move slowly up to his head. He could only prop his hand on the wooden support of the wall, his fingers no longer usable for grasping anything.

He half lay against the bobbing wall, wondering what was going to happen to him.

“Please God, help me. I’ll quit drinking. I’ll take care of my kids. Just give me another chance.” His last words were slurred, even to his own hearing. He tried them again, but he couldn’t improve the pronunciation. He had to rest or he was not going to be able to help himself, he knew. He closed his eyes for a second, to take a break.

On the shore William and Harriet Barrow stared across the mile of ice and snow that separated them from the shack.

“The damn thing was four feet higher, I swear, when he set it up out there earlier,” William said to his peering wife, “and I’d bet a season ticket to the Cubs that its moving around somehow.”

“Nope,” Harriet said, in finality, “that’s the wind and the temperature differential caused by sun reflecting off the ice. “That guy is in there, probably sitting in a drunken stupor, waiting to catch a fish he’d pay three dollars a pound for at the Sentry.

“We ought to call it in, just to be sure,” William said, still staring out across the lake with his binoculars.

“Nah, we’ll have us some hot coffee and consider. If you think its still moving then, we’ll call.”

Half an hour later the couple returned to the great window. Both agreed that the shack was not moving at all.

Inside the shack, ice sealed everything over, catching all the debris and broken chunks in a jumbled frozen setting. The highest thing to rise above the surface was a man’s arm. Thrust upward, almost from the elbow, was a plaid covered forearm ending in a hand tightly clutching an empty Bacardi bottle.

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OPERATION POINT GUARD: Recovery Act Morines RESOLVE To Extinguish 12 Trillion Dollar PUBLIC DEBT!

Blastamillion Action Media — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 07:27:46 EST

NATIONAL ECONOMIC SECURITY SERVICE

Dwight D. Eisenhower Office Building – Washington D.C.

_________________________________________________
For Immediate Release January 2, 2010

OPERATION POINT GUARD: Recovery Act Morines RESOLVE To Extinguish 12 Trillion Dollar PUBLIC DEBT!

January 2, 2010 – Recovery Act Morines from the National Economic Security Service (NESS) commence “Operation Point Guard” to advocate cooperative economics and consumer education outreach that effects eradication of poverty and the public debt.

NESS is an independent financial agent authority of the United States Treasury Department; United States Labor Department; United States Commerce Department: Federal Id #1226462.

Obama Morines staffing the Dwight D. Eisenhower Office Building have joined cash paper forces with Recovery Act Morines in New York City to POPLUV THE PAYGO. Most of the frontline troops are members of 32BJ, one of the largest building services labor unions in the country.

What is POPLUV THE PAYGO?

Closer To God, Silver Streak, Chapter VIII

James — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 19:04:46 EST

Closer To God

Silver Streak

Chapter VIII

The train seemed to take forever to reach its maximum velocity, as dinner came and went inside our small cabin. We prepared for the night ahead. I sent Burt off to check on the men we had left in custody, while the Earth Mothers prepped our area for sleep. I moved into the top bunk, by direction. The laws of sociobiology reigned, much as I knew they would, and Wendy declined to join me, preferring the company of her friends on the floor. Burt would be relegated to the bench seat, which would suit his overly large body badly, while Dingo would remain zipped in below.

Women do not have sex for sport. No women. Men believe they do, because women perpetrate that myth, just as men claim to be in love in order to enjoy sex.

Each gender gets mad at the other when it is time for real cards to be turned over on the table of life. My card was the empty upper bunk, but I was not upset about it. Sex always comes with entanglements. No matter what is said going in, the old phrase: “will you respect me in the morning?” has true merit. Plus there was the group phenomenon. Women do not like to perform in front of their peers. And I was bone tired, which had to be close to Burt’s condition. You do not get shot at, or play the fugitive, without substantial psychological, and emotional, energy output.

Burt returned, but motioned me from the door.

“Secret stuff?” Wendy intoned. “I thought we’d thrown in together.”

There was a silence in the room following her remark. Burt had closed the door, no doubt pacing up and down in the outside passage. Whatever he had to say I knew I was not going to want to hear.

“I think Burt’s afraid to come in. I better go reassure him,” I said, getting some small snickers, but nothing from Wendy. I didn’t feel guilty. The Earth Mothers were bright, tough, and had been around the Horn, but they were not equipped or ready to deal with what was facing Burt and I. Collateral damage was acceptable, but I did not want it to be any, or all, of these women. I stepped out, closing the door carefully behind me. I didn’t say anything, leaning back against the hardwood.

“They’re gone. Room’s empty. None of the porters or the conductor is saying a word. What do you think happened?”

I could tell from Burt’s tone that he already knew what had happened.

The Aegis men had used the money I’d given them to bribe the train people. They had skipped right over the custody issue they’d committed to and gotten off while the train was still stopped. I had underestimated just how tough they were. I pictured the two guys with broken wrists trying to support the broken ankle off the train, and across the quarter mile, or so, of rough country to Mombasa Road. The passage would have been a physical nightmare to go through. But those guys had nightmares every night anyway, I knew. We were all brothers in Post Traumatic Stress.

“My mistake,” I said, seriously. “We’re now more than likely to have company at the station when we arrive. They don’t have cell phones but they might just find a willing soul passing by on that road tonight.”

Burt stared out of the window into the fading light. The sun was already down, but the play of evening sunset splayed through the tops of the Baobab trees.

Our movement magnified the great beauty of the Savannah.

“I don’t know. Three white guys, rough looking, damaged, and trying to thumb a ride on that road at night? We might just get lucky here.” Burt turned to meet my eyes. We both knew that we had been ungodly lucky just to be alive to ride the train.
Could our string last? But there were no options. We could stop the train and bail out ourselves. That would put us in the same pickle as the Aegis team. Our odds were best if we continued on down to Mombasa as we were doing, and rested for the day ahead.

“You’re on the bench. I’m up in the top bunk. Both alone,” I said, opening the door behind me.

“Figured. Life just isn’t that good,” he replied.

I didn’t know what time it was when a poking finger in my right side awakened me. I looked down at my wrist in the dark, but the Omega was long gone.

“Can I come in?” Wendy’s voice said quietly, near the edge of the bunk.

“Just to sleep. I haven’t slept with a man for years. I’d like that. Just too sleep?”

“Okay by me,” I replied to her request.

She settled in next to me, her back pressed into my side. I stared up into the dark, seeing nothing. Her body felt comforting and protective. I hadn’t slept with a woman in years, but I would never admit that to Wendy, or anyone else.

Kenya is one of only ten countries in the world through which the equator passes, and Mombasa was about a hundred kilometers from that imaginary line. Dawn was always, year round, at about six forty-five in the morning, and the sun set around seven at night. It was dark when I awakened to the sounds of the Earth Mothers preparing for a new day. A paraffin lamp burned atop what passed for a dresser inside the tiny cabin, sending an eerie wavering light flickering off the lacquered wood of the walls.

I checked my non-existent watch again, grimacing at the thought of not having one.

“What time is it,” I asked, noting that I was alone in the bunk.

“Five,” Burt said, his voice penetrating up from among the girl’s moving bodies. Burt appeared to be making believe he could fall back into sleep.

“What’s our plan?” Wendy said, her head popping up from below, chin

resting on the edge of the bunk. She looked like the portrait of a beautiful angel, backlit by soft yellow light from the lamp.

I slung my feet over the side of the bunk.

“What do you think, Burt?” I asked.

“Mmmmm,” was all he responded.

“They’re likely to be waiting at the depot in Mombasa, Wendy. We can’t exactly get off with everyone and get lost in the crowd.” I massaged my unshaven chin. I hated not having a shave in the morning, or brushing my teeth and a shower, for that matter.

“Silver Streak,” Burt mumbled from across the cabin, Dingo having pushed him into a sitting position, then hugging him closely.

“Yeah, it was a movie, what about it?” I shot back, impatiently.

Burt frowned at the girl, uncomfortable with her physical attention. I wondered if he was one of those people who hated any contact with humanity just after rising in the morning.

“In the movie the train ran out of control, right through the station. We could try that,” he said, massaging his temples with both hands. There had been a lot of wine consumed the night before.

“ I’m not even sure we can reach the engine on this thing,” I replied, thinking about his idea. “And the depot is just a side building along the tracks, like the one in Nairobi, but maybe the tracks continue somewhere for shipping purposes.”

I climbed down to the floor, and then put my shoes on. “We’ve got a lot of shillings. Let’s see what I can find out. Wendy, you see if you can get hold of some coffee from the dining car, maybe something sweet to get the blood flowing. I pulled out a five thousand shilling note. She took the money. We both headed for the door.

“Be right back,” I said to Burt. “Maybe you can handle all these women on your own.” The light was sufficient for me to see that Helen and Anice, unlike Wendy and Dingo, were dressed in only panties, as they prepared for the day ahead.

I followed Wendy through the dining car, and then went on into the fourth class carriages until I found the conductor. I wondered, as I shelled out another five thousand, whether he also held some of the money I had given the Aegis guys. He informed me that the engine could be reached, but it would be a climb, as the thing was attached backwards. I would have to jump down to a catwalk, and then make my way back to the engineer’s small capsule on the other end. He didn’t bother to ask why I wanted to reach the man. The conductor was having a rewarding run down to Mombasa, no matter what I might be up to.

When I got back to the cabin, coffee steamed up from a pot set next to the paraffin lamp. Everyone was eating some sort of pastry, including Burt, who had grown more accustomed to Dingo having attached herself to his right side. The women were dressed, and all the packs were lined up near the door. Things could not have been more organized on a Marine Corps operation.

I explained the plan over coffee, standing with my back pressed against the door. Wendy poked a hole in the plan immediately.

“Right past the station the rail ends. We could only get fifty or sixty feet past it, which wouldn’t be enough to help at all. Unless the train didn’t switch tracks to run into the station, I mean.”

“What switch?” I asked, my coffee ignored in my left hand.

“The train storage facility and turn-around is right there, on the other side of the station. We have to switch tracks to curve into the station or we go right past on the other side,” she answered.

“Time?” I asked the room.

“Six,” Burt said, checking his watch. The window next to him was beginning to give off faint light. Dawn was minutes away. We were supposed to arrive in Mombasa at dawn. I wondered if the engineer had run faster because of our stop or whether we were going to be late, not that it mattered.

“Wendy, what’s the first major road the train would cross if it went through the storage facility?” I inquired.

“I don’t know Mombasa that well,” she answered, but Helen has a Michelin map.”

Helen of Troy opened a zipper in her pack, and then began unfolding a large road map. Mombasa took up on whole corner. Anice brought the paraffin lamp to the floor, holding it just above the flattened paper. I peered at the map.

“Moi,” I said, pointing at the only main road to cross the tracks after the depot. If we can get to that interchange, then we’ll be a good mile or more from the station, and I’d be willing to bet the Aegis people will take a while getting organized before they figure out what we’ve pulled, anyway. If we pull it off.”

“I’ve got to go forward, see if this can be done, then come back,” I went on. “If we can do it then you’ve got to call our Marine on the cell and have him meet us. If he’s made it himself, that is.” I pointed at Burt’s chest when I spoke.

“You have to go back up there if we can,” Burt said, after a moment. “You can’t just pay the engineer, then expect he’ll do the job. Our lives are riding on this.”

I did not miss his slight inflection, the words left unsaid, the words that would have stated my complicity in risking ourselves so badly.

“Yeah,” I replied, simply, gulping my coffee down, then went through the door. I checked my pockets filled with shillings and the small automatic. One way or the other we were going to Mombasa, but not to the station, not if I had anything to do say about it.

Standing on a small platform outside the passage car, I realized that the job I had taken on so casually was going to be fairly challenging. I stood at least eight feet above the coupling that connected us to the engine. There were no handholds to use in climbing down, or back up on the engine on the other side, if I was able to get there. The catwalk that ran around the noisy diesel was not open at the end. The only way to get over was to jump six feet through the air, catch the rail at my waist as my feet found purchase under it, and then vault over the top. Everything was made of very hard looking metal, and the light was so slight that I could not fully make out the far end of the engine. The jump was three feet down to the engine’s catwalk level. There would be no jumping back. I was a field agent in pretty good shape. I was not a gymnast. I returned to the cabin.

“Here it is,” I said, grabbing another cup of coffee from Helen. “The trip to the engine is one way. You’re right Burt, I can’t leave the man to change his mind, if this can be done. And I can’t make it back. We have to gamble that we can do it. Bailout is that I have him stop before we hit the station.” I motioned for the map again.

“There it is,” I pointed. “Makande. Quite a ways before the station, and in a lousy area, but it’ll do. If we have to bail there we’ll be running across a lot of tracks, then some through some swamp and cardboard housing. I know that area.

Give me the extra throwaway cell,” I said to Burt. He handed it over. The phone only had half a charge left. We had no charger. I checked the autodial screen.

The other phone was the only number listed. I hit ‘send.’ Burt’s phone rang once and I hung up.

“I’ll call. If I don’t, then I’ll use the train’s whistle. Three short means Plan A is a go. Two means Plan B. If there’s no call, and no use of the whistle, then you’re on your own.” I looked around the brightening room. I noted that the Earth Mother’s no longer seemed as certain of the adventure, as they’d been the night before, but there was nothing to be said. Mortal danger was upon us, and nobody sane ever took that lightly.

I wanted to grab Wendy, bend her over for a kiss and say something like “Here’s lookin’ at you kid,” but that feeling quickly passed. I headed back to the front of the car. We were operational. My body and mind were running on all twelve cylinders. I was doing what I lived to do and I felt the adrenalin kicking in to help.

The leap to the engine was not as difficult as I had considered earlier. The pain of hitting my hips on the single pipe, which served as the rail, was worse. I almost bent over the rail and fell into the face of the engine’s metal cover, but I caught myself. It took a few seconds sitting on the catwalk to get my breath back, and let the pain lessen to a tolerable level.

I made my way to the angled window where the catwalk ended. A small door was cut into the side of the engine cover just forward of the window. There was no handle on the outside. I breathed in and out deeply, considering. Finally, I took out the automatic, and then smacked the window several times hard, but not hard enough to break it. I quickly put the gun back in my pocket, took out a handful of shillings and pressed them against the glass. The engineer’s face appeared over the splayed bills. His eyes grew large. He disappeared and the door opened.

Once down inside the small enclosure I realized that the engineer and I were not alone. A woman crouched in one corner, clutching two small children to her with both arms. The children stared at me as if I had landed from outer space.

“My family. They ride for free here. You not notice. I not notice you.”

The engineer smiled a big smile, extending both arms out wide. I looked at him and smiled back. His family’s illegal presence might help me. I told him what I wanted.

“Yardmaster and switch operator control everything in the yard. I can use the remote control switches here when we get near the yard, but the yardmaster will be very very angry. The switch operator there may change the track back. He knows we are supposed to go to the station, and we don’t know what is on the tracks up ahead. There is terrible risk.”

I produced thirty thousand shillings. More than the man made in a year of operating the train.

“If you don’t tell them, go very slow, and we make it to Moi Road,” I said, handing him ten thousand. “The rest when we’re there. You can tell them what you want, but not about me.” Kenya took its railroad system very seriously. I did not want the authorities to pursue us with any kind of zeal. The engineer took the two bills, and then handed them to his wife. Her face lit up. I stared into the darkness ahead, hoping that I’d made the right decision. If we hit something, the engineer, his family, and I would certainly be among the earliest fatalities.

I pushed the button for Burt on the cell phone. He answered on the first ring.

“Three quick blips on the whistle,” I told the engineer. He complied, a look of question on his forehead.

“Got it?” I asked into the device. The sound of the engine was too loud for me to hear anything. I imagined it was the same for Burt on the other end, but there could be no misunderstanding the signal from the engine’s whistle.

The Silver Streak was headed on in to Mombasa, come what may.

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Chameleon, Line of Sight, Part IV

James — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 20:15:28 EST

Chameleon

Line of Sight

Part IV

Peter stayed on at Rendezvous for a full week, learning something new each day about the art of a mountain man’s daily life, and his survival. He did not get his rifle back until the day he was ready to leave. On his second day at the encampment, the day Johnson, discharged by Bridger from his service, left with a small band of followers, Peter ran into an armorer while practicing at the shooting range. The man was trying to sell a newly invented device called a telescopic sight. It consisted of a brass tube with lenses running its length. It magnified any target about four times normal size, or so the armorer said. He asked the armorer why nobody else used them, but the man replied he had only one and nobody at the rendezvous would pay the twenty dollars for purchase and installation.

Peter had not been sold until the man had taken him down range. The range ended at two hundred paces, about as far as a man could see a fist sized target. He demonstrated how an imaginary line from the tip of the barrel, two hundred paces away, to the center of the target was called the line of site. Line of site always remained the same. Then he pointed to the tree line, about five hundred paces distant, and asked Peter what he could make out from the bark of a tall oak.

“Can’t make out a thing,” he told the man, honestly.

“That’s right. The line of site to any spot on that tree, however, remains

the same. It’s straight and true, but what you really see is called the line of sight, and you don’t have any sight of that tree trunk at all. Now look through this Chapman device.” He handed a long brass tube over.

Peter squinted, staring with one eye through the tube. He could make out almost all the detail of the oak’s bark.

“That there beautiful Percussion you got can shoot accurately all the way to that tree and beyond, but your line of sight is lacking. This here invention fixes that, and its got regular blades atop it for short stuff.”

Peter was convinced. He handed the man, almost unwillingly, his rifle.

“I got one double eagle. You can have it if you’re done by the end of the week.”

The armorer left with his rifle. Peter was happy that the man trusted him for the money, until he reflected upon the simple fact that the man also his rifle, while he himself had nothing.

With his rifle once more comfortably positioned, hanging from his shoulder, Peter hefted his pack, loaded with powder, shot, beans and flour, plus a folded supply of calico material covered with a pleasing floral print for Neema. He planned to return later to pick up the beaver traps he’d ordered along with some Castor lure. He’d never trapped a thing, but he figured he could learn during the long winter. Beaver pelts were bringing top dollar. Peter didn’t need the money but he’d found out how easy it was to spend at Rendezvous. He was leaving four double eagles lighter than when he’d gone in.

If you bought traps, then you had to have a sled to tow them, and, nothing was cheap to buy at Rendezvous. Most mountain men were constantly indebted to the operation they worked for, drinking away whatever profits they might make.

He was three days in, about half way to the camp along the side of the river when Cat joined him. He could hear it in the brush nearby for hours before it revealed itself. He knew it had been making all that noise on purpose, but he couldn’t figure out why. The animal was well capable of moving through any terrain with the silence of death. Peter could not help but smile at its loping presence nearby. Before he encamped for the night, Peter noted something else. A number of men were traveling the same trail before him. Their tracks criss-crossed back and forth but they were definitely headed south, through the exact same valleys he himself was following.

By the fifth day a knot began to form in Peter’s mid-section. There was not going to be any way that the troop of men before him, if they continued to the river, could miss the encampment. The thicket of birch and willow would conceal it somewhat, but he now had a healthy respect for the perception and capability of mountain men. They would not miss it.

When he came to the top of the hill, overlooking the camp, he was immediately able to ascertain that the cache was intact. The snows were long gone, even from the higher altitudes, and there was no beaten path. Neema was smarter than to leave one. Peter stopped at the very edge of the ridge. The cat stopped with him, sitting erect, staring down toward the river below, where Neema stood naked, tied between two trees by her wrists. Peter knew it was she, even from the distance, as it could be no one else.

He confirmed his fearful angry suspicion using the Chapman device. Even in such a state, he still felt a great pang of longing when he stared through the scope at her naked body. One of the men he had been following came through the thicket. He was as naked as Neema. He took her while Peter watched.

He pulled the rifle down, then, with shaking fingers, unstrapped and opened his pack. He’d purchased the new paper cartridges. No more pouring powder down the barrel. And the paper was marked with the number of grains it held. He took out a half dozen marked ‘hundred,’ for the one hundred grains of powder it held.

It was the longest-range cartridge the store sold. One was already set at the bottom of his rifle’s barrel.

Peter lay across the top of the hill, using his pack to brace the rifle. The cat lay next to him, about five feet away.

“Its tough to estimate range, Cat,” he told the animal, trying to calm himself down. You could not shoot long distance with the kind of shaking he was doing. He breathed in and out deeply, sighting the glass cross hairs, then adjusting the knob that raised and lowered the brass tube above the barrel. He set it for seven hundred yards and hoped he was close.

“Windage is even harder than range, Cat,” he murmured, trying to gauge the wind, but the air seemed completely still. He waited for the man to step back from Neema. It was an agonizing wait.

When the man finally stepped back, Peter squeezed right through the trigger. The gun bucked and the cat raced away with the blast. Peter didn’t try to see through the billowing smoke. He stood and reloaded in his now automatic fashion.

He dropped and lay as before, studying the terrain. Neema stared out toward where he lay. He wanted to wave, but did not. The naked man was down, not moving. Two clothed men rushed to his side. When they stopped to consider the downed man, Peter fired. Again he reloaded as the smoke cleared. When he returned to his position he could see that one of the buckskin clad figures was down next to the naked man. He was moving, but not much. Nobody else was visible.

Quickly, he picked up his pack, backed from the edge of the berm, and then ran east for about two hundred yards. He set up, as before, the warming rifle across the back of the pack. Two men came into view. He knew that one of them was Johnson. The man had found another garish coonskin cap. Peter resolved never to wear his own again. They stood, peering through the bracken of the thicket, trying to see their attacker. Both men had their rifles braced against the sides of willow trunks. Peter heard the cat behind him.

“Not much of a shot this time, Cat, they’re in the trees,” he said, his voice now smooth, his breathing steady. “Looks like seven hundred was right on, for the range, I mean.” The cat made some kind of purring noise behind him, as if in assent.

Peter fired at the tree one of the men was braced against. He reloaded,

this time hearing an awful scream from below, as well as the first return rifle-fire.

He smiled to himself, coldly. Unless those men had a Chapman device and had invested in paper cartridges, which was most unlikely, then they were firing out of fear and frustration. Seven hundred yards was well beyond their line of sight.

He stared down through the smoke and trees. Both men were down.

“Now how did that happen, Cat?” he asked the animal, knowing it was just behind him. There was not answer.

“Wood splinters,” he whispered, after observing for a few more moments.

“I love you, Mr. Chapman, wherever you are,” he finished, patting the rifle before he held it out before him. Dragging the pack, he headed down the hill toward the camp, remaining aware that wounded men could still be extremely dangerous.

The cat preceded him. Before he could come upon the scene he heard one more loud scream, then it was suddenly cut off. Peter peered around the trunk of thick birch. The cat had one downed man by the throat. He shook once, and then cast the body aside. The strength of the animal was astounding to observe. The cat stared at the remaining man. It was Johnson. He held his rifle up, as if that might deter the cat from attacking. His face was covered with blood. It appeared obvious that he’d been unable to reload after being hit, or Cat would have been shot.

“Don’t let him eat me?” Johnson begged, his voice quivering. Peter ignored him, collecting guns. Four rifles, all flintlocks. Up on the hill he was never in any danger, Peter realized. The importance of the new equipment came home to him.

Cat sat, ten feet from Johnson, looking at him quizzically, tilting his head upon occasion, as the quivering man shuddered and tried to ease backward in his half-sitting, half-laying position. Peter moved to cut the woman down from the trees.

Once released, she rubbed her wrists, quickly pulled her torn leathers over her, and then smiled. Peter stood stunned. He’d never seen the woman smile before.

“Did not think you come back,” she stated, as if they were in the middle of some celebration.

Peter examined the men he’d shot. Both were dead. He’d aimed up around their shoulders but hit both in the center of their torsos. He walked over to Johnson. The man next to him was dead, his neck bent at a ninety degree angle. Cat still waited, watching Johnson in its curious manner.

“Please,” the man begged. Peter grabbed his leather jerkin, then dragged him all the way to the river and dumped him in. Johnson floundered for a while before recovering. He crawled to the edge of the water.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Do?” Peter asked. “I’m not doing anything. Get the hell out of here.

I’ve killed enough scum like you for one day.” Peter didn’t mention that the men were also the first men he’d ever killed, and the last he ever wanted to kill.

“Who are you?” Johnson asked, climbing to his feet, holding one hand against the damaged side of his skull. Peter just looked at him.

“First you were a tenderfoot. Then you were a mountain man. Now you’re some kind of shooting expert. Who are you?” Peter stared at him, unmoving. Slowly Johnson backed down the riverbank.

Neema stood beside Peter, Cat moving to sit next to the body of the man he’d killed. All of them looked in the direction of the slowly disappearing Johnson.

“Chameleon,” Neema said.

“He is chameleon,” she yelled through cupped hands, before turning to the river and throwing off her leathers. Suddenly, Peter realized, there seemed to be no barrier between them.

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Chameleon,Rendezvous, Part III

James — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 18:38:23 EST

Chameleon

Rendezvous

Part III

It was a hard winter, with snow coming regularly about every third day. Treks back and fort to the cache were long, and potentially treacherous. The Indian woman had proven to be more than simply difficult. She and Peter shared the lean-to, separated by a pile of supplies. The woman was cold, demanding and almost totally silent unless poked or prodded in some way. The cat demanded meat. Peter had become a good shot with the rifle by practicing on a target range he’d established by the river, and because it took fresh meat, at least every other day, to satisfy the damaged predator. He’d gotten so good at muzzle-loading that he could shoot twice in ten seconds, faster if he just spit the ball down the barrel without a patch, but not as accurately.

Neema had fashioned snowshoes from twine and twigs. The ungainly things worked well but they were extremely work intensive to use. In spite of the food supplies they had, and the constant flow of fresh game, Peter lost weight. He could cover miles in the shoes by the end of winter, however, and the rifle, which has once seemed so clumsy and heavy had become like an extra limb of his body. The woman came up with solutions to every problem they faced but never discussed any of them.

“The cat is a better companion than you,” Peter said to the woman, in exasperation one day.

“Cat likes you,” she responded.

“And you?” he asked, but there was no answer. He looked at her for a long while, waiting for the answer that never came. She worked on sewing some new piece of fur and leather adornment while she prepared their meal at the same time.

She was severely attractive. Peter felt longing deep inside his body, but rejected it. The woman was an Indian, and she had about as much regard for him as she had for the cat, which was close to nothing at all.

Peter could not touch the cat. Any time he came close the animal focused its eyes on him intently. The message was easy to read: ‘touch me and you die.’ Peter got the message clearly each time, drawing his hand back, happy to still possess the appendage. But Neema was not governed by the same rules. She shooed the animal, sometimes smacking it hard on the rump to get it further away from the fire or out from under the small leather tent Peter had built for it off to one side. The cat would simply move, and then sit a distance away, licking its bad paw. Those were the only times when the cat and he looked at one another with any understanding.

He’d taken to talking to the cat, which caused Neema to stare at him as if he was insane. The cat did not seem to mind. Somehow, Peter found it more comforting to be deliberately ignored by the beast rather than by the woman. He called the cat ‘Cat,’ which seemed to bother Neema all the more.

In the spring Peter prepared to leave for Rendezvous, hoping that he was guessing right about when the event was and what day it was in his life. The woman seemed to understand, equipping him with new lighter moccasins, new pouches for his ‘possibles’ and a fine coonskin cap. The cat simply disappeared one day in the week before. Peter had looked for the animal constantly, sometimes calling his name, then looking back to see if the woman had heard him. She never turned, however. Peter realized that the animal’s paw was probably healed and that the predator was doing what predators were set upon the earth to do. He missed whatever the cat had provided, as well as being forced to hunt successfully every few days. With that need no longer in place, his shots with the rifle seemed to miss as often as they hit.

One day, with the sun just above the horizon, Peter prepared himself to leave. Neema helped load the pack onto his back, strapping it down securely, then patting it sharply to indicate she was done. He turned to the woman, prepared to say something about his leaving and eventual return, but she walked away into the brush above the camp.

He walked for days; dry camping at night without a fire. He knew nothing about who or what might be about in the strange valley he was traversing. He moved north. He knew nothing about trapping, skinning, or even jerking beef. He also knew he was about the poorest excuse for a mountain man as had ever prowled the area. Only Rendezvous could help him. There he could find advice from real mountain men, some supplies and possibly friendship. He had money. He could pay for the advice and supplies. Friendship would be more difficult, he knew.

Once he had crossed the last swale into the final valley Peter knew he was headed for the right location. He had not run across a single living soul. In fact, he had not seen another man since he’d left rendezvous the year before. Peter heard movement in the brush off to his right side. He froze, and then slowly dropped down to his knees, swinging the beautiful rifle up smoothly. He stared over the top of the barrel into huge unblinking eyes.

“Cat,” he whispered, lowering the weapon. The mountain lion sauntered out of the brush, walked right by him, and then swatted him once across the thighs with its black-tipped tail. It sat ten feet from him, staring. Peter sad down too, cradling the rifle across his knees.

“So, you’re going to Rendezvous? That would be some scene,” he laughed out loud at the thought, “there would be real mountain men running for the hills, I’d be willing to bet.” The cat just stared, licking its lips, as if wondering whether Peter was worth biting into or not.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he cautioned the animal. “I’m pretty good with this thing now,” he said, gesturing with the rifle. The cat blinked once, very slowly, as if completely discounting the threat. Peter pulled his pack from his back, took out his remaining supply of Pemmican, about half a pound, and tossed it before the cat’s front paws. The cat sniffed, and then lay down to chew.

“There, I’ve bought momentary safety from your clutches. I’ve got to go down. Maybe we’ll see one another again some day.” The cat ignored him, as it chewed on the Pemmican. Peter began the long hike down to the bottom of the valley, where smoke rose up in the distance. He didn’t look back. He knew the cat would never give him the benefit of looking to see him leave.

Men began appearing out of the trees, walking parallel to his own path. He heard them before he saw them. His hearing had seemed to improve immensely since living through the winter. Peter came upon the welcome scene of the rendezvous. Fires burned everywhere. Temporary shacks had been thrown up that appeared as substantial as any built on the main street of a regular town. Animals were corralled behind fences all over the end of the valley, with open areas occupied by men playing games, riding horses or putting up new tents. Peter slowed as he walked through the area, from one end to the other. He looked for the men of Jim Bridger. The same men he’d tried to get on with the year before. They proved to be easy to find. Laughing, yelling and an occasional gunshot came from their camp.

Without preamble he stepped in among them, meaning to announce himself, but he never got the chance. The same man who had fooled him into being a target for the previous year’s spitting competition encountered him directly.

“That’d be Jed’s rife,” the man stated, flatly, bringing a quiet over the entire area. The man’s outstretched finger pointed directly toward Peter’s chest. Peter stopped. He thought for a moment about explaining how he had come by the dead mountain man’s rifle, and other stores, but he again did not get the chance.

“I’ll be taken that,” the man said, moving sinuously toward Peter, his hand still outstretched, but no longer pointing. He wore a huge coonskin cap, the kind with the Raccoon’s head set above his own.

“What?” Peter asked, shocked by the turn of events.

“The rifle. He promised it to me, if he went over to the other side. You wouldn’t be strutting around with his rifle if he weren’t a deader. Maybe you had something to do with that. The rifle is mine, hand it over.” The man stopped five feet before Peter. They stared into one another’s eyes.

Peter saw mean-spirited drunkenness in the man’s eyes. He’d seen that same look in his uncle’s eyes, the day he was cast from his family’s property. He brought the rifle down from his shoulder, and then swept it up, all in one continuous move. He aimed quickly and fired. The man’s coonskin cap shredded, with bits flying all about through the air, while the man screamed, clutching his head in both hands.

Peter reloaded faster than he’d ever done before. Spitting the ball down the barrel, tamping the rifle butt once hard upon the earth, then swinging it back up into battery. Men ran all about around him. He held the rifle barrel rock steady, aiming at the recovering man’s chest.

“Gentlemen!” a powerful voice shouted. Quiet again came over the encampment. A tall man in splendid new buckskins walked into the open central area. “What do we have here?” he said, opening his arms wide.

“I’m gonna gut him,” the man who’d lost his hat said, through gritted teeth, his face near black from powder stains. His large ‘Bowie” knife was extended in his swinging right hand.

“Put that away,” the big man intoned. He was instantly obeyed, but not without complaint. “What about my cap? He shot my cap right between the eyes.”

“Tell me,” the big man demanded, looking straight into Peter’s eyes, ignoring the other man. Peter knew that he was standing in front of Jim Bridger himself.

“Jed died. Tree fell on him. I found his body. Took him awhile to die. I got this,” Peter pulled up his Jerkin, and then carefully retrieved the paper he’d found on Jed’s body. “I found this note in his hand.”

Bridger took the scrap of paper. He read, and then began to laugh. “I’ll be damned,” he said, “that son of a bitch had more class than I thought. Actually thought of somebody else but himself in the end.” He handed the note back.

“This here is the White Man who found Jed’s body. Jed left him everything proper and legal. He’s got the paper.” Bridger talked to the men around him, almost all of whom nodded back at him in agreement. When he was done with his speech, he pulled Peter aside. “Walk with me over to the exchange.” They walked for a bit before the big man spoke again.

“You’re the tenderfoot from Ohio who came though here a year ago, aren’t you? The one my men spit on?” he asked. Peter said he was. The man looked Peter up and down as they walked. “That idiot Johnson was lucky you didn’t shoot him right between the running lights, instead of his coon. Shouldn’t have happened, what they did to you. What’d you come back for?”

“Need some advice and supplies,” Peter said, leaving out the friendship part.

“You can get all the supplies you can buy over at the store. What advice you lookin’ for? Bridger stopped. They faced one another.

“I got this rifle, skins, twenty-one double eagles,” Peter pointed at his stomach, “an Indian woman back at the camp, a cache of stuff and some strange mountain cat who’s adopted me, I think.” Peter blurted out everything he could think of.

“Don’t tell another living soul about the double eagles,” Bridger replied, looking around them, but there was no one nearby. “What’s the advice you’re lookin’ for?

“I don’t know what to do? Do I go back to Ohio and claim the land my uncle stole? Do I go back to school? Do I try to sign up with one of the companies here? I have money, and all this stuff, but I don’t know what to do.” Peter finished, feeling exhausted in giving his huge problems over to a man of such known wisdom. They walked for a while without speaking.

“Let’s see if I got this right. You came here last year with nothing. Now you got what you learned during the winter, a fine rifle, skins, an Indian woman, a cache of supplies, some sort of mountain lion, and twenty-one double eagles. I don’t have any advice. But I do have a question. What does God have to do to get your attention?”

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Chameleon, All Alone, Part II

James — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 23:50:29 EST

Chameleon

Part II

All Alone

The sun shown brightly against the wall of supplies just in front of his face, as Peter groaned, working his way out from under the pile of blankets he’d pulled on top of him in the night. The fire was long gone, and it seemed that the biting cold had departed with it. He refolded the blankets, just as he would have done back on the farm, then he attacked the small wooden box of Pemmican. It was impossible to eat it fast. It was just too tough. Made from jerked lean meat, bison fat and local berries, it was considered the indispensible travel food of all mountain men, even though it had originally been created by Indians. With one pocket stuffed full of the rope-like strands, Peter chewed while climbing from the life-saving cache.

The sun was high and everything was melting when he climbed out of the hole. He examined Jed’s body. He realized that he needed the man’s leathers and gear. Travel through winter altitudes with the season just coming on was not possible in his condition. Not in the hopelessly threadbare garments he had. A hand axe lay atop all the boxes stacked in the hole. Peter bent and retrieved it. The tool was so sharp and well made that he was able to chop and worry one of the sprouting branches from the fallen oak in only minutes. Using a nearby rock for a fulcrum, it didn’t take much longer to lever the much larger branch upward, brace it and then pull Jed from under it’s fatal weight.

The man’s rifle was under the brush behind him. Peter retrieved it. His father had owned a flintlock, although he’d never taught Peter to shoot it. Jed’s gun was percussion, a much more advanced weapon. The hammer struck a small brass cartridge instead of a flint and open powder. There was no flash in the face of the shooter, no failure to fire from moisture, and only an occasional misfire, at least according to the men who had gathered for the rendezvous.

Peter hefted the rifle. He decided to examine it in more detail later. The sun was melting the snow. Before long the beaten trail Jed had made would be gone. Peter knew he needed to find out where that trail led. He stripped the body, changing into the dead man’s soft leather jerkin and pants. They fit badly.

Peter was too hefty, but they would do. The heavy leather moccasins were most welcome and nearly a perfect fit. Pulling them on, he noticed a leather band that circled Jed’s body. Loosening a leather tie he pulled the band to him. It was a long pouch. Inside the pouch, between thin folds, were new gold coins. Peter sat on the snow. There were twenty-one coins, each bearing the word twenty over the top of an eagle. They were ‘double eagles,’ Peter knew. He’d heard of them but never seen one.

Strapping the leather band around his own waist he looked down to see a piece of paper in the dead man’s hand. He pulled it free. A pencil fell from Jed’s stiff white fingers. The note said: “If White Man finds me have all. Use well. Body be buried at river, face water.” Peter tucked the note into a fold of the belt under his leather jerkin, and then proceeded to cut more branches with his new hatchet.

At rendezvous, the Indians present, those with horses, had traveled with triangular shaped devices called travois. He loaded the body onto newly cut branches, covered the cache as best he could, slung the rifle over his left shoulder, and then took up the pointed head of the travois. He would act as the horse.

The trip was not a long one. Melting snow lubricated the branches splayed out behind Jed’s bouncing body. The last hill was the hardest, not because of the incline but because of bad footing. Finally Peter came to the top of the rise. He stood, panting, gazing down upon a thin winding river. It was early in winter so the line was of black moving water instead of white covered ice. The tracks he was following also meandered in a dark line, right down to near the edge of the river.

Half sliding, half running, Peter guided the travois toward a thicket where the tracks seemed to end. He wondered what he would find. He fell twice, swore, got up and then went on. The leathers had not been dry when he started. After two plunges into the wet soggy snow they were nearly soaked through.

Smoke came from the far side of the thicket. Peter stopped, dropped the travois and crept slowly forward, peering through the branches of trees for which he didn’t know the names. His new rifle was at the ready. A lean-to came into focus, set forty feet, or so, up from the slowly moving water. He could not see inside it.

“How could a fire have burned that long?” he said, aloud.

A woman in pigtails stepped out of the lean-to. Peter almost sat down in shock. The woman stared at the thicket. She was an Indian, he realized.

“Come,” she said, very softly.

Peter backed up, regained his hold at the point of the travois, and then moved around the thicket. He lowered it next to the lean-to. The woman did not move.

Peter took the rifle from his shoulder. He leaned on it uncomfortably.

“He died when the tree branch fell near his cache,” he said, haltingly.

The woman walked to the side of Jed’s body, took a step back, and then kicked it in the head as hard as she could.

“Made sure,” she stated flatly, before returning to the lean-to.

Peter stood frozen, gazing from the body to the woman, and then back at Jed’s newly crooked neck. When he looked up again he caught movement further up the hillside, above the lean-to. Quickly he shouldered the rifle, pulling back on the hammer.

A large cougar sat not twenty yards from the lean-to, staring down at him hungrily. He took careful shaking aim, centering the top of the long barrel on the animal’s chest. He pulled the trigger. Snap. Nothing happened. He tried it again.

Another loud snap. The animal did not move. The woman walked to his side and stared up at what he was trying to shoot at.

“Cat,” she said, unconcerned, while Peter struggled with the weapon.

The cat took a few steps toward the lean-to, holding its left paw up, limping badly. It sat down once again.

“Cat sick, why shoot?” The woman asked.

“Its dangerous,” Peter said, his voice shaking, his eyes glued to the wild animal. “What’s it doing here?”

The woman sighed. “That one,” she motioned with her foot toward Jed’s broken body, “was feeding it, try to draw closer so he could take fur, but would not come close enough.”

“Oh,” Peter stated, knowingly, as if he understood. “What should I do?”

“Feed cat. Cat sick. Why shoot. Then learn to use rifle.” The woman sat next to the small hot fire when she was done. “Cat never come this close. Must know you cannot shoot.”

“What does it eat?” Peter asked, curious as to what the strange talking woman would answer.

The woman kicked a haunch of meat nearby, half buried in the melting snow.

“Deer. Cut. Throw. Cat comes close in night. No other animals. That,” she motioned toward where Jed lay, “not notice.”

“Not notice,” Peter mouthed. “And why’d he leave such a visible track to the cache?” The question had bothered him while he’d been dragging the travois.

The woman pointed toward the lean-to. Peter went to the pine and mud covered structure. Ceramic bottles, like the mountain men at the rendezvous had ‘pulled’ from lined the back of the lean-to.

Peter took out his new knife. It was a huge wonderful piece of sharpened metal. He severed the half frozen leg at the haunch of the deer, hauled it up behind the hut-like structure and tried to throw it. It thudded to the earth ten feet away.

The cat stared at him, the injured paw raised, as if in a wave of encouragement.

Disgusted, Peter grabbed the haunch again. This time he dragged it up toward the wild beast.

“If she’s not afraid of you then I’m not either,” he gasped out, slipping in the bright white snow. The cat never moved. Ten feet from the beast, Peter balanced it on end then let it fall forward. The cat slowly rose up on to its three feet. It stared into Peter’s eyes until the boy had to look away.

“Alright, alright, you can have it. I’m going now. Please don’t attack me.” He breathed the last words quietly, so the woman would not hear him. Bravely, he held his back square, not looking back as he made his way to the fire. Once there he squatted down, across the embers from the Indian. He fondled the rifle, wondering what was wrong with it, but not wanting the woman to see him trying to figure out the problem.

“Needs cap,” the woman said, in her unemotional way.

“What?” He gasped, understanding that she was trying to explain what was wrong with the weapon.

“Cap. In bag. On stomach. There.” She pointed at his waist. Peter looked down at the small bag hanging from a tied leather fringe secured to his belt. He opened the drawstring on the bag. The inside was filled with small brass caps. Carefully he took one out. He examined it. It was a tiny pointed thing, flat at one end. He brought the rifle up, pulled the hammer back and saw a similar brass surface. It was crushed. He turned the rifle over and pounded lightly against the lock with one hand. The old cap fell out. He put a new one in, and then carefully let the hammer down. He smiled thankfully at the woman.

“Load,” was all she said, looking into the fire. Peter’s face turned red. Of course, the gun had been fired and not reloaded. Jed had probably fired it to try to draw anyone nearby to him. Peter decided to load the weapon later, when the woman was not watching him. He did not know how to load the rifle, even though he’d seen his father load the flintlock many times.

“Who are you?” he asked, to change the subject. Steam came off his buckskins from the warmth of the fire.

“Take off skins. I fix. Skins too small. I take care. You no sell me.”

Peter stared at her. What was he supposed to put on if he gave her the skins? He was naked underneath. He’d left his farm clothes back at the cache. He shivered, and attempted to change the subject again.

“Name?” he asked, trying to talk like the woman.

“Neema. I Shoshone. That thing bought in summer,” she again pointed at Jed’s naked body. “Bad man. No honor. No soul. Bad heart. I with you now. Do not sell me.” Her last statement was not delivered as all she had said before. It was impassioned, and she had extended her hands before her, where they still were. Her face was down between her arms. Peter was deeply affected.

“I won’t sell you. I’m not sure I own you,” he replied uncomfortably. His life had suddenly become complex. He was a rich man. Four hundred and ten dollars would buy almost sixty fine horses, or a hundred head of cows. And now he had this woman. He looked up toward the cat, as it had moved again from where it had been. Somehow it had worked itself down to the side of the lean-to. It lay and munched comfortably, ignoring Peter and the woman.

“Cat has pride. We pride. But cat sick. Make good fur coat.”

Peter was stunned. “No, the cat can stay. Or the cat can go. But we won’t hurt it.” He didn’t know why he said the words, as they seemed to have come out all on their own.

“How is it that Jed,” Peter pointed at the body as the woman had, “said that he lived alone. That he howled at the night alone. That he’d die alone?” He didn’t expect the woman to understand him. She put her hands up, smoothed her raven black hair, and then looked at him intensely with her huge brown eyes.

“Did live alone. Did die alone. Is true,” the woman said.

Peter looked at the body, then all around him, and understood.

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Chameleon, The Cache, Part I

James — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 23:59:47 EST

Chameleon, The Cache, Part IChameleon
Part I
The Cache

Peter moved as quietly as someone wearing leather street shoes and fabric clothing could move through heavy snow. The trees were spaced fairly closely so he could creep from one to another in turn, wait a few seconds and then move on. That he was lost and cold no longer mattered. He had a trail. A mountain man who went by the name of Jed left his tracks nearby. The mountain man’s trail did not flow from tree to tree, as he did not appear to be tracking anyone, attempting to avoid detection.
Peter had been following the man for five days. He calculated that he was about a day behind. Both men had come from the Green River Rendezvous up above the Utah Territory. His attempt to become a mountain man at that annual celebration had been a complete and utter disaster. Coming out of Ohio, with farm clothes on his back, without a gun or proper travel equipment had been his undoing. That and his childlike wonder and enthusiasm. He could not shoot, wrestle, knife-throw (he had no knife) or tell tall tails. He also had no money. To the bands of mountain men and trappers he had been nothing but a ridiculed source of rolling entertainment. They’d tossed him coins after they’d used him as the target in a spitting competition. When he had simply stood there, not bending to pick up the coins, tears in his eyes, they’d laughed some more and taken them back. Reflexively, he looked down at the brown stains still adorning his torn woolen coat. There had been no chance at all that any of the companies filling the valley would let him join them, much less as a sharing member of their group.
He was going to die in the pine forest. He knew it, but he continued to trudge from one unfeeling foot to the other anyway. There was no place to go back to, and he lacked the energy. He followed Jed, his only hope. The man was a loner. He didn’t hunt or trap as part of a team, as most of the men did. Peter had figured that it would be easy enough to follow the man to wherever he was going. But there had been no snow at the lower altitude of the Rendezvous. There had been no intense cold. He could not go back. He knew he’d come to far. He could only go on, hoping that Jed might be holed-up just ahead. Peter knew that he could not last another night without proper clothing, a fire or a place of warmth.
He was twenty-two, but he looked fifteen. He was tallish, thick of body and whipcord tough. His blue eyes were bright with an educated glint of intensity. He could read. He understood numbers and he knew how to work, long and hard, but the snow was slowly sucking the feeling and life from his body with each swishing step. He thought about the farm, where his sister and parents had perished in the fire. About his uncle who had come and taken ownership of the land. Ohio law, the sheriff had told him, when he’d guided him to the county line.
Jed had won the shooting competition and Peter had been impressed. The beautiful English rifle the man had used had impressed him even more. Jed had proclaimed the rifle itself to be the real winner, as it had shot so straight. The mountain men had loved that. But it was Jed’s other comments that had caused Peter to follow him. After drinking, or‘pulling,’ as they called it, many times from an acrid smelling bottle, in celebration, he’d told everyone why he was a loner.
“I was born of woman who left me to be alone. I’ve lived alone, hunted alone and howled into the night alone…and I’ll die alone.” The mountain men had laughed, but not Peter. He’d understood.
“And I like it that way,” the mountain man had finished, to more 'pulling' from the ceramic container. Peter had watched the man intently after that. He wanted to live alone too, but he needed someone to teach him how to do it. So he’d decided to follow Jed and learn.
The light was beginning to fade when Peter saw a large oak rise above the pine in the distance. Following the tracks, his mind beginning to grow numb as the rest of his body, he made for the tree. A huge branch had fallen from it earlier. The great thing lay atop the snow, with only a light dusting on it’s bark. Peter squinted. The branch had fallen recently, he knew. The wound way up on the oak’s trunk was bright and fresh, although barely visible in the fading light. He crouched with the smell of smoke. Someone had had a fire nearby. He knew the smell of old wet smoke.
Slowly, Peter moved to the main trunk, then eased around. He looked for Jed’s tracks. He found them, but saw immediately that they were too thick and deep.
It was like the tracks had been made by several people walking the same path, or one person going back and forth to some distant destination. His eyes grew round. The deeper tracks began at the far side of the fallen branch. Peter ran to the mess of limbs and old dead leaves. Down through the bracken he saw the outline of a man’s torso.
“Oh no,” he whispered, gently climbing up over. Breaking branches and casting twigs aside Peter uncovered Jeb’s upper torso. A small pile of ashes lay near the man’s head.
“He lit a fire, but there wasn’t enough fuel,” he said to himself, having brushed aside enough to see the man’s pinned and mangled legs. The branch had fallen across Jed’s lower body. The man was frozen hard to the touch. Peter knew he had died during the pervious night, when he himself had almost passed, warmed only by a thick layer of needles beneath a large pine tree. He climbed back atop the main trunk of the branch, to consider how to free Jed’s body. The climbing activity warmed him, but he knew he didn’t have much light left to work in, or much energy either. Fleetingly, he wondered why it was important to move the body at all, but he discarded the thought. He jumped down to the ground at Jed’s side, having come up with an idea, but the ground was not there. Peter plunged right through the earth, wood and dirt cascading around him as he fell.
He hit the bottom hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. In panic, he clutched his chest, and then looked up. As the first breaths sucked through his gaping mouth, he stared at the broken opening above him. He breathed deeply several times. All around him were stores. Hides, blankets, boxes of lead and pemmican were neatly stacked against the walls of the pit.
“The cache,” he sighed, thinking of Jed at the Rendezvous. The men had talked of caches buried around special high mountain hideouts. In such secret store houses the mountain men kept supplies which enabled them to weather through the long cold months of winter.
Peter climbed to his feet, his head just barely rising to the height of the hole he’d created by jumping through the roof of the cache. A stack of split firewood lined one side of the pit. Conveniently, a forged iron bar and a flint striker hung from leather thongs over the wood. Using the kindling from broken door pieces, Peter set to work building a fire at the bottom of the cache. Once lit, he propped ‘Tee-Pee’ stacked chunks of fire-wood over the small fire. He then pulled down several thick blankets from a pile, threw then under, around and over him. He stared at the box with pencil writing on its side that said ‘Pemmican.’ His mouth watered but he could not move to get the box as deep sleep claimed him.

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com
http://www.themastodons.comhttp://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogsplot.com

OFN-Jax Shared Vision 2010

Jerry E Fluellen Jr — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 15:21:16 EST

The Obama Family Network of Jacksonville, Florida

Shared Vision 2010

The Obama Family Network of Jacksonville, Florida (OFN-Jax) fosters learning, leadership, and change. Members engage professional development in such stellar ideas as Peter Senge’s fifth discipline framework for becoming a learning organization. This systematic development of minds empowers members to change from within and leave fingerprints on other organizations in the network. Additionally, with an eye on sustainability, members create strategic actions aimed at solving fundamental problems in the key issue areas of health, education, energy/economy, and political action. OFN-Jax hears President Obama’s call to action: make the world a better place for seven generations to come.

The Present

James — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 11:10:35 EST

The Present

James Strauss

The child who was not a child crouched, his back to the warm window. It was below zero in Wisconsin, but not in the deep window well. A mouse looked up at him, its puzzled stare demonstrating no understanding, but also no willingness to back down. The child smiled. He looked down at his fellow traveler, but did not extend a hand. He knew about wild animals. Wild animals survived. Wild animals fought and died over territory. He was in the mouse’s territory, but he wouldn’t fight. They could not be friends. Wild animals had no friends. He knew that, at eight years of age, for he was a wild animal himself.

His name wasn’t Zack, but that was the name he called himself. His real name didn’t matter. The police couldn’t do anything with Zack, because he’d made it up. A couple of times he’d been printed but his finger-prints were too small to register in their computerized network. He’d been remanded to youth authority custody as Zack Zack each time, a name he’d seen in a cartoon somewhere. The window was warm to his back. He turned his head to study it. The basement light was unaccountably on. If someone was in the basement he would be visible, but he’d seen no one at all in the hours he’d been there. The lock to the window was not fastened. He pushed. Very very gently he applied sideways pressure to the multi-layered glass. He didn’t have gloves. The glass was so cold, even though much warmer than the above-ground temperature. It moved. An inch. Then a few more. Warmth cascaded out, filling the window well. Zack checked back for his companion, but the mouse had disappeared. Zack was not disappointed. Everyone disappeared in his life.

He didn’t try to open the window far enough to enter the basement. He was not stupid. If he went in, and got caught, then the cops would be back real quick. If he stayed out he could jump out of the well and run.

The window was open about four inches when the cat appeared. A gray cat. Big. Sitting there, having come silently form nowhere. Zack felt a pang of fear. The cat was nearly a fourth of his own size. If it had claws it could hurt him, he knew.

The cat stuck its head through the window, its eyes wide open, unblinking, as if in question. Zack stared. He didn’t know what to do. He’d never had a pet. Cats ran when they saw him. Dogs too. But not this one. Unable to stop himself, Zack reached out one dirty hand to pet the cat’s head. The cat did not react. It blinked once. Zack patted its head several times. When he stopped, the cat stepped through the window, and then curled up on the cold detritus of autumn leaves and junk which had fallen into the window well earlier, before the snow had come.

Zack stuck the fingers of his right hand into the cat’s gray fur. The cat looked up at him, but made no move at all. The boy’s hand felt wonderful. The cat’s fur was warm and it seemed to draw his fingers in welcome. He sighed deeply. The coming night was the best he’d had in a week, no matter what. Sleeping in the fields, even under rolled crops or piled hay, had been terrible. But that was before the colder temperatures. When it was as cold as it was there was no sleeping. Zack intrinsically knew that. Sleeping in the fields was the same as dying, and he didn’t want to die, so he’d come to this house. The lights had attracted him. There were other homes about but they were all dark. He knew he would have been safer from discovery there, but the promise of warmth from the lights had drawn him in.

The lights were Christmas tree lights. A single tree, down the hill right in front of the house, glowed. Across the back yard was a row of five more trees, all lit up as well. Only one tree, in the middle of the five had colored lights. The rest were little white ones. Zack wondered why the one tree was colored. Deep snow covered the trees so the lights were a glowing soft white, except for the colored tree.

Zack loved Christmas. Not for the presents. He’d never had a present. His family had not been a family at all, just a collection of people laying around in different states of sleep. Zack loved Christmas because people were nicer during the Christmas season. They gave him money and things. That didn’t happen during the rest of the year. But he wanted a present. One Christmas present would be okay. Zack sighed again. He didn’t know anybody. He’d run from where he had been weeks before. He’d only gotten to the country because a drunken man had picked him up by the side of the road. He’d wanted Zack to drive for him, not understanding that he was only eight years old. Zack hadn’t minded the drive. The car had driven all over the road and it had been kind of fun, like circus rides he’d heard about but never experienced.

A boy appeared in the window. Zack froze in terror. The boy called softly, not looking a the window.

“Harvey, Harvey, where are you?” The boy said the same words over and over, looking up into the basement rafters, then at the many boxes stacked along the concrete walls.

Zack looked down at the cat. The cat had to be named Harvey, but he didn’t move. Zack gave him a gentle shove, but the animal just looked up at him, as if he was smiling in pleasure at the other boy’s inability to find him. The boy, who appeared to be about his own age, turned to the open window, noticing it for the first time. He saw Zack. They stared at one another for a full minute.

“What are you doing with Harvey?” the boy asked, pointing at the curled up cat.

The cat ignored the boy, remaining on the cold ground next to Zack’s foot.

“Nothing,” Zack whispered, truthfully, through the opening.

“Its cold out there. Why are you there? Its warm in here. Come in here, and bring my cat.” The small boy crossed his arms, waiting for his orders to be obeyed.

Zack crawled through the window, after pushing it open. He didn’t touch the cat. The cat seemed to know that he was supposed to follow, so he did. Both of them stood to face the child, once they were in and the window was closed.

“You don’t look happy,” the little boy said, “but Harvey seems to like you. Do you live around here? I didn’t know there were any kids around here. All the rich people go back to Illinois at this time of the year, and they take their kids. Not that those kids like me anyway. I don’t have any friends.”

“I don’t know,” Zack said, hesitantly.

“You don’t know what?” the little boy responded.

Zack’s face grew red. He didn’t know what to say.

“I think I need to go before the police come,” he forced out, turning to look back at the closed window.

“Why would the police come?” the little boy said, “Are you a criminal?”

“I don’t know,” Zack responded truthfully. “I don’t know what a criminal really is, but I may be one.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the little boy replied. I think you’re here because of Christmas tomorrow. I asked God for a different Christmas gift this year. I didn’t want a sled, an electronic game or a scooter. I wanted something interesting, like a real friend. My parents don’t understand me. So God sent you. Do your parents understand you?”

“I don’t really have parents and I don’t know about God. I went to school but only for a year. I’m not sure why. I learned to read, but I don’t have any books.” The little boy reached out one small hand. “I’m Clark, and I live here. You learned to read in one year? I can read now, but it took me three years. Maybe you can’t really read. Maybe you’re just saying that.”

Zack shook the serious little boy’s hand. “That box over there says ‘Maytag, this side must always be up," he intoned, pointing.

Clark followed Zack’s gaze, then nodded.

“Okay, you can read,” Clark said.

“Why are you down in the basement?” Zack asked, tentatively.

“Harvey,” the little boy replied, instantly, picking up the big cat, but not for long. Harvey twisted and jumped down. The boy laughed, delightedly. “Harv is my only friend, but he runs away from me and hides. He likes the basement.”

“What time is it?” Zack asked.

“Almost midnight on Christmas Eve,” Clark responded. “My parents are asleep. They ‘overserved’ themselves a bit. That means they drank booze. That’s why all the lights are on. I kind of like it. I can do whatever I want. What do you want?”

The question caught Zack off guard. He almost said that he didn’t know, but held back. He thought about what he really wanted. “I’d like a present,” he said, smiling for the first time.

“Cool,” Clark said. “I’ve got lots of presents. Let’s go upstairs and check them out. They’re all wrapped but I’ve opened every one without Mom or Dad knowing about it. Maybe you can guess what’s in the boxes.” Without another word Clark walked to the stairs Harvey followed him, then turned to look back. Zack realized that the cat was more like a dog than a cat. He liked that. He moved to follow the boy and the cat up the stairs, brushing the dirt and leaves from his clothes as best he could. The house was warm.

Clark lead him through a hallway at the top the stairs and into a front room library. A decorated Christmas tree stood against the outside window, its lights blazing with reflections of the lights in all the many decorations hung on its branches. In the distance, out the window, Zack could see the softened light of the snow covered tree in the front yard. Clark and Zack moved presents about until they’d handled every one. Zack had not been able to guess even one of the presents correctly, but he had loved trying. There was only one flat box left.

“This is from my crazy grandpa. He’s crazy but I love him. I never can guess what he’s going to give me. My Mom says that’s because he’s crazy. But that’s okay. Old people can be crazy and still love you. My grandpa taught me that."

Zack handled the wrapped box. It was wrapped with some kind of bright gold paper. He shook it. “Gosh its pretty,” he said, delaying his guess.

“Yeah, my grandpa is colorblind so he goes for the wildest colors possible. He has no clue. That’s why the one Christmas Tree outside is colored. Its for grandpa. But he’s crazy, so it doesn’t matter.”

Zack nodded, as if he understood at. He had no grandfather that he knew. The crazy grandpa sounded pretty neat to him.

“You can have it,” Clark said, out of the blue.

“What?” Zack asked, in puzzlement.

“The present. If you can guess what’s in it then you can have it.”

Zack set the box down. It was too much. He knew he could never guess what was in the box. It was like the rest of his life. He was never going to understand any of it. That was just the way it was. A tear almost rolled down his face. He grimaced, then turned away. He would not cry. He could not cry. He was in the best Christmas place he’d ever been in his life. He wanted to crawl under the beautiful tree and sleep. Then wake up and live there.

“You don’t have to guess. Here, its yours. Merry Christmas. Grandpa is so crazy he’ll never know his gift is gone when he comes tomorrow.” Clark pushed the box toward him.

Zack fought his tears back, knowing that Clark knew he had almost cried. He liked the boy for ignoring it. “He’ll know. You’re not telling the truth. I can’t take it if he’ll know.” Zack slid the box back.

Clark sat back on his think knees, staring at Zack. “Okay. You’re right. But grandpa is different. When he comes I’ll take him aside and tell him that there was this boy who came in the night and needed a present. Grandpa is the only person in the world who will understand. I just know it. He’ll just shake his head, and like me even more.”

Clark pushed the present over to Zack again.

This time Zack grabbed it and tore the wrapping off. It was a small model train. Inside there was even a small transformer. He opened the box very carefully. The train was from Switzerland, a place Zack had never heard of but loved the sound of its name name. Both boys worked to set up the tracks into an oval. They connected the transformer and plugged it in. The train ran. Zack could not believe it. The present was a marvel of wonder. A small light illuminated the engineer in the engine compartment. They ran the train around the oval many many times. Finally Clark told Zack that he had to go to sleep. Carefully, they packed the train back into the well formed box. Zack followed Clark upstairs to the bedrooms. Clark showed him his sleeping parents. Both of them snored gently. The boys smiled at one another.

“My Dad is kinda serious when he’s awake, but he’s a great dad. He wears an expensive watch called a Nardin, which I’m not allowed to touch, but I do when he's in the shower. Mom acts silly but she's not, even though she's a blond. She's okay.

Zack made believe he understood. They moved to the last bedroom on the floor. Clark climbed into his bed, then pulled the covers up to his neck. A small blue blanket was on the pillow next to his head. He reached for it, then inserted part of it into his mouth.

“Mom says I have to give up my blanket soon, and Dad says my 'rag' is unhealthy.”

“Its okay,” Zack said, standing next to the bed, with the train box under his arm, wondering what it would be like to have such a blanket.

“Will you be gone when I wake up?” Clark said, his voice beginning to grow sleepy.

“Yes,” Zack said, gazing down upon the boy.

“Are you the friend God sent me?” Clark asked.

“Yes” Zack replied, not knowing why he said it.

“Will you come back again.? You can live in the basement. Nobody will know. And then we can play every night when my parents are asleep. Harvey can come too.”

Zack stared at the boy. Clark’s eyes closed, then his breathing slowed, although the blue blanket never left his mouth. Zack reached for the light switch, and then flicked it off. He stayed for a few more minutes, just watching the sleeping child.

Back before the window in the basement he crouched. His back was to the glass, which now felt icy cold. He would sleep until morning and then be gone. The train set, his first Christmas gift ever, was clutched tightly under his right arm. Harvey lay stretched across his left ankle. Zack thought of Clark, in the bedroom way above him, as he waited for the dawn.

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com

http://www.themastodons.com

http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com

Polls

Walt — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 14:30:37 EST

Barack is falling in the polls. SO WHAT. These polls have between little meaning and no meaning at all. They exist only so that the media have something to talk about. The only poll that matters will occur in 10 months in November, 2010. I have given myself a goal, a stretch goal, to reduce the Republicans in the House and Senate both by 25%. Difficult to achieve in an off-year election, but a necessary and worthy goal. The Republicans have decided to be a party of obstruction. To prove to them that it is a flawed strategy, it is our duty to the country and to ourselves to see that they lose election after election until they realize that the good of the country comes before their desire for election or re-election.

I’m Not “Buying” It!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 07:59:56 EST

Where do Republican Senators get off accusing Democrat Senators of “buying votes” for Health Care Reform? Democrat Senators’ vote “buying” PROVIDED HEALTH CARE BENEFITS FOR THEIR STATE. Republican Senators’ vote “buying” PROVIDED CONTRIBUTION BENEFITS FOR THEIR 2010 CAMPAIGNS! If Republican Senators believe that I’m gullible enough to fall for their, TYPICALLY, hypocritical vote buying spin, I’m not “buying” it!

Nagging Republicans

Gregory Adair — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 19:10:34 EST

The year was 2009 and the Republicans have decided to play the role of the wife that you can’t divorce. All they say is “NO” and criticize everything you do. They are always talking to their girlfriends and/or boyfriends to keep confusion brewing in our neighborhoods. They are never part of the solution but always a part of the problem. And everything you get done without them, they stand to benefit and then they try to take all the credit. What a Bunch of Bitches. What a Bunch of Nagging Bitches.

" My Health Care Reform FLIP-FLOP...I FEEL GOOD !"

Greg Jones' Blacks4Barack ! — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 12:03:33 EST

By Greg Jones
Blacks4Barack
National Director

I, as many of you, have worked for months toward health care reform and lately some have been surprised by my lack of automatic enthusiasm of the bill as being proposed by the Senate. I have had a number of concerns since my primary objective has always been to see that the needs of the 47 million hard-working Americans who are struggling through life without the basic right to access quality health care are met. I have been very vocal about the vital urgency of affordability and how, without it there should be no mandate. I have voiced my disappointment of the secrecy of the Senate's process as well as the reports stating that the bill may not go into a full conference for amendments or changes to be made to the Senate's version, resulting in the bill being signed off basically as-is by Speaker Nancy Pelosi , then sent directly to The President for final signing.

But call it an EPIPHANY. Call it a flip-flop. Call it what you want but the more I see about what this health care reform bill will do for those in need, the more I LOVE IT ! Now don't get me wrong, there are a number of components of the bill that will need to be worked on or improved in the future, but I now truly feel that this is in fact an incredibly historic bill that will save the lives of many. One thing that prompted my transformation and makes me feel very good about the bill is certain things that I heard during last nights debate before the 1AM cloture vote. When I wrote my original draft of this piece I spelled it all out, word for word. Then, after listening to some right-wing radio today, and their declaration to ratchet up any and all obstruction they can muster to block the bill's passing, I deleted my 'breakdown' of what I feel is ahead to make certain of not supplying their much needed ammunition. And forgive my evasiveness but let's just say that I now have a clearer understanding of what Sen. Tom Harkin (D-Ia) meant when he said that the passing of the bill is "like buying the starter home; we're not done". In fact, he is now openly saying " we're going to revisit the public option...next year we can revisit it. There are other ways to get it ". (hope he's not being TOO open)

So I now see the strategy. An incredibly effective move on the part of the Democrats. They're going to push this bill through, possibly having Speaker Pelosi sign-off on the bill with minimal changes to get it to The President's desk as quickly and untouched as possible, and once signed into law, during the formulation period, they plan to slide in some of the changes reflective of what we all want. All hoopla free. Absolutely BRILLIANT.

So yes, I now see the true greatness of what is transpiring here. For the first time in seven Presidencies a health reform bill will be passed that no longer allows insurance companies to refuse coverage to someone because of having a pre-existing condition. For the first time millions of Americans will have access to truly affordable coverage erasing the embarrassing need for traveling, make-shift free clinics like a third-world country. Now, more people who fall in the lower economic bracket will be covered through Medicaid while seniors will have less burden with the so-called doughnut hole they have been forced to deal with. This bill will limit big-buck executive compensation and administrative costs of the insurance profiteers while creating an exchange that will give care seekers various options.

Through the passing of this bill , and thanks to Senator Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) there will be a $10 BILLION investment in community health centers. Sanders has stated that this investment will "help bring about a revolution in primary health care in America and create new or expanded health centers in an additional 10,000 communities. The provision would also work toward creating an additional 20,000 primary care doctors, dentists, nurse practitioners, physician assistants and mental health professionals for expanded mental health counseling". It is also anticipated that the community centers will save Medicaid billions of dollars by providing primary care to those in need. Sanders is also giving a significant hint of future improvements to the bill by saying, "the day after this bill passes we can improve it'.

While those are but a few of the incredible benefits of this historic health care bill, there are still elements of concern. Although many of the pre-existing clauses kick-in immediately (which is great) the start date for the majority of the plan is 2014, longer than I would like to have seen. The Medicaid costs to states could pose a future problem as states struggle financially. Here in Ohio they have just decided to stop giving prisoners coffee as a way to save money. Due to the fact that the Senate bill allows the insurance companies to charge up to 3 times the normal rate for older aged people and those with pre-existings, there will be a need for stern monitoring of this aspect to assure affordability, something that I feel The President will stay on top of due to his mother's personal experience with this issue.

One of the other issues that has been of great concern of mine has been the mandate/law which requires all individuals to purchase coverage or be penalized. My concern had always been the thought of penalizing someone for being guilty of not earning enough money. But we are now getting reports, although unconfirmed, that there is what they're calling a 'hardship clause' in the bill which will make those who truly can not afford coverage exempt from the mandate, a component of the bill that I find to be absolutely great.

One thing for sure is the fact that our current health care system has been terrible. I live in Cleveland, Ohio, home of The Cleveland Clinic, one of the finest medical facilities in all the world. But up until now, due to the lack of health care coverage, a large majority of Clevelanders could only hope for the day that they may be able to access such a fine facility. This bill creates that opportunity and serves as evidence of the Democratic idea that, as Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid stating during the cloture debate, "health care is a right" proven by the filibuster proof 60 votes last night which included every Democratic Senator, even those originally labeled as obstructionists like Senators Lieberman, Baucus, Lincoln, Landrieu and even the Blue Dogs, all under the powerful leadership of Senator Harry Reid; all of which-in my opinion-actually deserve a sincere hat-tip.

In my own defense, although I have been a strong supporter of President Obama since 2004, which lead me to create Blacks4Barack in February of 2007 to invigorate and stimulate support toward The Presidency, I will always study the issues to determine what is best for our country and the American people before automatically signing-on. That's just the way I am. And when it comes to this health care bill...I Feel Good !

Throughout the entire campaign and since day one in office, "Yes We Can" has been the driving motto promoted by President Barack Obama. In just 11 months in office he has achieved more than most Presidents have done in 8 years with much more yet ahead. The passing of this historic health care reform bill will not only illustrate the tenacity, vision and determination of a great Leader, but also displays 'The Power of WE'...those who have fought the good fight and will continue to do so, working together in Unity, for The Recovery of America. Very special thanks to all of The Warriors....and Thank You Mr. President. Now, it may not be perfect (yet) but let's get the bill passed !

Greg Jones

B4B

Congratulation

MyDocAngel — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 08:09:30 EST

to your health - reform!

As we in Europe experienced, there will be a lot of details to be solved - and although we have here social health insurance since 10th of years, there are always upcoming new problems.

Health lobby is strong - But first step is done!

Well done, Mr. President!

You Can’t Have It Both Ways!!!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 23:27:38 EST

You can’t criticize the President for the current status of Health Care Reform if you let anti-health reform conservative extremists take over Health Care Forums with NO EQUAL BUT CIVIL pro-health reform representation at the Forums; if you stood on the sidelines as anti-health reform conservative extremists held Tea Party demonstrations with NO EQUAL BUT CIVIL pro-health reform demonstrations, and/or if you didn’t call, email, or write your Congressional representative demanding health reform while anti-health reform conservative extremists were making sure that their sentiments were made clear to Congressional representatives in Washington as well as at “home”. If you don’t like what’s happening to health reform, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT because you can’t expect a President to ‘walk on water’ if you don’t provide him with a life boat!

Contact Republican and ‘Blue Dog’ Democrat Senators at 1-866-783-2462, www.senate.gov/general/contactinformation/senators cfm.cfm , www.congress.org. It’s not too late to have it both ways!

Mr. Dean,

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 00:11:22 EST

If the CURRENT state of the Health Reform Bill ONLY benefits health insurers, why are the health insurance industry and the Republican Senatorial insurance industry ‘band wagon’ blocking it?

What Are HC Polls REALLY Telling Us?

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 22:56:38 EST

News headlines are swarming with poll results on the public’s “dwindling” support for Health Care Reform, but what are the poll results really telling us? Is the public’s support for Health Care Reform dwindling because the public believes we DON’T NEED Reform within our present health care system, or is the public’s support dwindling because the Reform debate looks like it’s heading towards more of the same thanks to Lieberman, Republican “Break Obama” Lawmakers, Forums, Tea Parties, Conservatives, and the health insurance industry? Is the public’s dissatisfaction with the President’s “handling” of health care reform dwindling because he didn’t follow the Bush/Cheney/ Republican dominated Congress play book by designing his own Reform legislation and ramming it down the throats of Lawmakers whether they agreed or not, or is it dwindling because he kept his Campaign promise of “CONSENSUS BUILDING” which has proven to be a gigantic fly in the ointment thanks to Lieberman, Republican “Break Obama” Lawmakers, Conservatives, Forums, Tea Parties and the health insurance industry? When you break it down into nuts and bolts, what are HC polls REALLY telling us?

Are we that damn stupid?

Gregory Adair — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 22:22:51 EST

Political events today are puzzling me greatly. It’s like a thief on our streets that has been given a legal license to rob us at every opportunity and we are mad as hell that our law makers for not doing their jobs to stop the insane criminal act against us. We have worked together to start the sea of change and the very thief that has been ripping us off somehow start tell us that the law enforcement and the changes the law enforcer are trying to put in place are not what we need and the con works to perfect because now not only are we fighting against the law enforcement we have sided with the thief like the thief is stand up for us and all along the thief is only protecting his right to continue to rip us off at every turn. Are we that damn stupid? Are we that freaking blind? I know I am not.

We know healthcare is going up with or without healthcare reform. I just went through open enroll and my insurance went up 37%. I haven’t missed CC payments and every CC company is sending me notifications that they are changing my account to different type with higher rating and I told them to f themselves and closed my accounts with them. So on and so on it goes and I am F’ing tired of it and you better get there too. These thieves are calling these potential new law changes the redistribution of wealth. I call it getting my shit back that they have stolen and are stealing from me. You should start thinking if you are better off right now than you were? And with siding with these thieves, will your life improve. I know these devils for the better part of my life and this is why I telling them that it is time for them to get the stepping. I’m done. There is a new interest in town and it to help the little man that is playing by the rules and I am supporting that to the hill.

Face it … we have become the Big Business Bitches and they are about not bring change to change that. So are you going to continue being the Big Business Bitch, or are you about being a customer again. I do not work hard to give it all to the Big Business PIMPs . Something has to be done and it cannot wait.

Who Cares?

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 16:41:11 EST

Who cares if Republican Senators and Lieberman won’t support the public option? You could give them everything they want in a Health Reform bill and they still wouldn’t vote for “quality, affordable health care for all” UNLESS their vote was accompanied by a hefty campaign contribution from the health insurance industry. Republican Lawmakers didn’t care about bi-partisanship when they were in DEFICIT SPENDING power for the previous eight years and they sure don’t care about bi-partisanship now. All they want to do is take the money and run. When Republican Senatorial candidates and Lieberman are flaunting their fancy ads, posters, flyers, rallies and disingenuous, hypocritical rhetoric in 2010, remember that their campaign monies came from the “PEOPLE’S” UNINSURED blood, sweat and tears and vote them ALL out!

Spread the word!

We MUST Fight For RECONCILIATION !!!

Greg Jones' Blacks4Barack ! — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 19:22:29 EST

Greg Jones

Blacks4Barack

As the health reform debate continues we are hearing of the continuous watering-down of the bill for the purpose of appeasing various Democrats including Senators Joe Lieberman, Mary Landreiu, Blanche Lincoln and Ben Nelson. But there is a process available to be used by Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid which would make these obstructionists absolutely meaningless.

RECONCILIATION is the process by which a bill can be passed with 51 votes instead of 60. THIS is what we must DEMAND Reid uses to pass a bill with a strong, robust, National, competitive Public Option...the ONLY way to create affordable, competitive premiums for the 47 million Americans struggling throughout life without the basic right to be seen by a doctor. It is absolutely PATHETIC that hard-working Americans are forced to stand in long lines for as long as 8 hours, at make-shift free clinics just to be seen by a doctor, as recently occurred in Kansas City; a scene reminiscent of a third-world country.

This is a 2 part FIGHT....FIRST...we must FIGHT for a STRONG, Competitive Public Option. In the same call or email we must DEMAND that Harry Reid uses the RECONCILIATION process. As The President has said

The Time is NOW....44,000 Americans DIE each year due to the lack of affordable health care. This must end NOW...and it can...through RECONCILIATION !!!!

Please help spread the word as if your life depended on it. One day...it just might !!!

Contact Sen. Harry Reid/YOUR Senator/THE MEDIA...Rachel Maddow, Ed Schultz, Keith Olbermann etc. to say WE DEMAND STRONG PUBLIC OPTION THROUGH RECONCILIATION !

CONTACT YOUR SENATOR TODAY !

Greg Jones

National Director

Blacks4Barack

Say It Isn’t So, Joe!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 18:45:12 EST

Independent Connecticut Senator JOE LIEBERMAN is, publicly, threatening to go full throttle GOP on Health Care Reform and his self-serving stubbornness can kill all hopes of a bill. The “MAJORITY” cannot let this happen.

CONTACT JOE LIEBERMAN and keep the pressure on “Blue Dog” Democrats, BEN NELSON (Nebraska), MARY LANDRIEU (Louisana), and BLANCHE LINCOLN (Arkansas) EVERY DAY at 1-866-783-2462, www.senate.gov/general/contactinformation/senators cfm.cfm and/or www.congress.org .

Spread the word!

"An Open Prayer": Something we normally do in private

"NERVIE" — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 10:25:38 EST

Dear Heavenly Host, We understand, and see "up close" and in a personal way, how leaders of banks and other financial institutions do not want to see the economic stimulus that President Obama developed to work. We see how they are making Obama appear "less attractive" to the future American voters. Obstructionist don't want him to go down in history as the President who released the economic, healthcare and financial hold on American's lives. They are trying to save this anointment for their next "Presidential" pick, inspite of the eight years they held the pulse, fear, chaos of American thinking in their hands. It is the same cat and mouse game that was played with President Jimmy Carter and the release of American captives in Iran. We still hear "how fantastic Ronald Reagan was" in doing this. The same with the Berlin Wall. We know the elements were already in place before Reagan became President.It appears no matter how hard President Obama may insist on bipartisan participation, the harder the other side comes up with excuses to not work as a collective. And this is what is causing many to say, don't worry about the other side anymore, they are obstructionist, the "party of no", serious denial and don't want to admit "their prior selfish leaders got us in this mess in the first place". Now they want believers in Obama to own up to Democrats being part of Republican bad decisions. Lord we see the split in their party's attitude. We see how they are using your name to feather their beds more. We see the fear mongering and hatred being used to divide us. We know some in their party feel they were blindsided by the other side in creating a war with one nation that had nothing to do with 9/11. Yes, there were Democrats who voted with them. Many Democrats say now they were doing the immediate, efficient, "patriot vote" for political survival and not asking enough questions and exploring the options. We Lord these individuals lost sight of you and the human purpose, for the "selfish purpose", and hence we are where we are. There may be little new under the sun to you Lord, but if you know where we should look to learn more about "the past" so we don't continue to make the same mistakes, please guide us. The support that President Obama needs now is "tantamount". The Gridlock is increasing the closer we get to "voting time". To make us disheartened and walk away is the goal. Then they can say the American people are disappointed in President Obama and he doesn't deserve a second term. We hear the negative repetition like drum beats but we know they are not drum beats from you Lord. Right now, the media is hungry, looking for any "missteps", "mistakes", or any "hesitationon the Obama Administration's part and they believe they are our "little Gods". Obama, Lord, selected individuals who had been part of the Bush and Clinton Administrations to find peace and understanding in where we have been to rectify the present. May the Lord's wisdom continue to be Obama's guide and we pray that Obama does not lose sight of the most needed elements of the American people knowing the world is too as dependent on his walk to progress. AMEN! Minerva & Todd, "The Communicators" of Santa Clarita

Paradise Lost

Richard Thomas Gerber — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 02:15:18 EST

Mankind was born into a paradise that provided all sustenance needed for life, one of perfect design, maintenance free naturally correcting imbalance. This Paradise was stolen by the creation of an unnatural man made system, not based on any science just the whim and desire of the creators. It was then required that one must participate in the man made system to obtain that which was once naturally freely and abundantly available to sustain life. This gave the controllers of the system an unnatural power and dominion over their fellow men; this was the beginning of the Ego Empire and the indentured servitude and usury putting a price on participation in this thing called life, which was originally free for all.

All the free resources were locked down and ownership granted to a small number of men and the rest put into a public trust making what they could not manage unavailable to the individual citizen creating an artificial scarcity of land and therefore increasing the value of the land privately possessed. The system was not adopted freely by the economic constituency it was forced upon them backed by brute force and threat of imprisonment.

It created a beast that thrives on ignorance, gave rise to a massive gambling casino with fixed tables (Wall Street), permitted the creation of artificial value and needs, corrupted science, resulted in the creation of an institution called government that doesn’t fully represent the people in reality but creates only the illusion of doing so, and forces patronage of select vendors at inflated prices. Furthermore over time the natural resources were polluted and contaminated resulting in the most abundant natural resource, water, having to be purchased at a price from a supplier that cleaned and filtered it, the system became so distorted that at one point a bottle of water cost more then a gallon of gasoline and the copper in a penny was worth more than the value of the coin in the artificial financial system not based on natural systems science but rather greed and the love of power and dominion over others. It is time to restore paradise and eliminate the concentration of power distributing it amongst all men and women equally.

No longer shall science be perverted by profit; no longer shall there be profit from disease, fear and conflict. No longer shall the sustainment of essential economy be threatened by the artificial economy, no longer shall a few benefit to the detriment of the many. ~Richard Thomas Gerber

The Illusion of Government

Richard Thomas Gerber — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 02:11:47 EST

The Illusion of Government

The Citizens, Shareholders, and Customers Shall Ascend to the Throne as One
~The Infinite Play

The label “Government” does not own or owe anything, it cannot act, it does not decide, only people can act and make decisions; and the citizens own and owe everything.

If one can see though the illusion of the separation between the government and it's people, created by the ego empire, then you will become empowered to create in reality a true democracy with prosperity and abundance for all.

“Government” is just a label for an institution run by individuals with names, who are supposed to represent truth and the interests of the people as a whole. If they fail to do so then we have the illusion of democracy where the people are ruled by a fallible few and not self governed by the perfect many.

It is in the illusion where the people are taught to see themselves as separate from the institution of government. In reality the people united are the government, which is the manifestation of their collective effort. Unfortunately most live in an illusion, minds full of fiction, and thinking plagued by propaganda; it is the results of this that they experience even now.

"Government" which is a label representing the collective effort of a citizenry, does not make decisions, people do. Individual representatives that are not connected to the source (the people) and do not register the voice and input of each individual to know the collective intent, will, wisdom and intelligence of the people, cannot claim to represent the people and fulfill their fiduciary responsibility to the people.

It is the duty of the representative to balance between the needs of the whole and the "needs" of each part, delivering the essential to all, while taking into account and balancing the "wants" of all. It is their duty to invite conformity in support of the whole by illustrating the benefits of doing so. It is vital that no individual is bound or restrained but is allowed free agency, for it is the exception to the status quo that ensures the evolution and growth of the nation.

It should be understood that any representative or agent of government that acts to the benefit of a few to the detriment of the many has committed treason at least within the heart. Any that have chosen to believe a fiction because they desired it as a reality, prejudice against that which might threaten it, failing to question and doing due diligence to discern and garner the truth and facts, while exhausting all resources of insight and creative intelligence, have failed their constituency.

Until the authentic voice of each person is measured and taken into account on each article of concern and permitted to participate in the design of policy and solution, one does not have a democratic government in reality; only the appearance and illusion of one.

Accordingly the people cannot expect the effort called government to represent them if they do not participate as self informed shareholders that both discern the truth and give voice to it, while providing the impetus of their will. To remain silent is to allow the fictions to grow and spread disease. If a few are allowed to divide the people then they can rule the people, a united people cannot be ruled over, they can only be self governed.

If all one can do as a citizen is repeat rhetoric, rather than committing to study, research and understanding so as to be able to speak the intelligence and wisdom from your own mind then you have also failed your nation, your family and friends and there is no government to blame.

We cannot blame government, it is a label that does not think or act, only individuals can think and act. It is we the people that are to blame allowing ourselves to be divided having others to do our thinking for us, failing to question, remaining passive in ignorance. There is no power on earth greater than a people unified in intent and will, acting with intelligence, moving in truth, with wisdom and compassion. If we allow ourselves to be divided with fictions and labels then it is we that are to blame.

You cannot confront or question a label, you must confront and question the people hidden behind the label.

Truth is the highest of all authority and every law must be based on truth or it has no authority, and anyone acting in truth can break no law.

All injustice is born from fiction, and justice is not about revenge but bringing to light the truth that destroys that fiction that gave rise to the injustice. That fiction may be found far from the scene of the crime and often in the company of others.

It is the responsibility of the representative to craft and orchestrate the manifestation of the deliverables defined in concert with the people. It is the task of a lucid citizenry to be the dominant impetus and to become the main cause of the effect.

The people are the power and the glory of the nation, all as one and one as all, one as many and many as one.

~Richard, Thomas, and Gerber

Be sure to read Illusions the red and blue pill

Making Money is a Scam (in a world of fiction)

Richard Thomas Gerber — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 02:04:22 EST

Making Money is a Scam (in a world of fiction)

“The truth is often obscured by a veil of complexity”
~Infinite Play

Making Money is a Scam (in a world of fiction)

In a world of fiction making money is a scam. Over the course of time there has been a transfer of power from the “value” creators and the genuine value they create to the “transaction” managers and the owners of the symbol used to represent value, and the symbol itself. The value creators are then charged for the use of the symbol. The symbol controllers create the symbol out of nothing at zero cost and sell it, it is genius idea from an ego perspective but it is not sustainable. In other words the symbol transaction managers are able to usurp genuine value from the system without contributing any considerable value other than entering accounting transactions into the system. So in this world of fiction importance is placed upon the symbol and not the value it represents and everyone is doing whatever they can to obtain monetary units quite often using deception, gimmick, providing illusionary value or selling at an artificially inflated price rather than genuine value creation.

The transaction and symbol managers yield an unnatural power because they control the supply of monetary units to be used by the producers and consumers at anytime they can reduce money supply creating scarcity and conflict between the producers and consumers. They wield the power to decide which endeavors are funded and who gets loans often favoring those that support their scheme. This gives them the false status of Gods and the bank is the temple of worship as they are the source of all sustenance because one needs the symbol or account number to buy food, and obtain shelter. They become the source of all sustenance.

Making money is not a scam (in a world of truth)

In a truth based world making money is not a scam. The difference is that in the world of truth the producer is the creator of money, not the banks, because they are the creator of genuine value and therefore wealth which in a world of truth is naturally reflected in their value exchange account balance. In the world of truth the consumer is the validator of the creation of value and therefore wealth. The consumer credits the account of the value creator in proportion to the amount of value created. In the world of truth the focus is on the creation of value and not the obtainment of monetary units which naturally flow to the value creators, the producers are the true makers of money.

In reality the banks do provide a small amount of value they: Track transactions, Evaluate Risk, Create Debt (new money), Ensure Debt is repaid (future value is created), and calculate interest (their profit), which represents the proportion of your wealth they get for allowing your participation in the economic system. Of course they only loan the amount of the principal into the economic system so in order to pay the interest back as a whole the “whole” of consumers must borrow more creating a perpetual cycle and eternal servitude with cycles of boom and bust, each bust resulting in the conversion of their intangible symbol created at zero cost into tangible assets like land as some of the consumers will always default by design and lose their collateral.

Truth calls into question the price charged by the bankers in this game of monopoly for the use of their symbol and the tracking of transactions. The mark up or margin on the minimal actual cost of entering transactions into a computer system is substantially far more than it would be in free and natural market. In the seven years leading up to 2008, FDIC-insured commercial banks made an average pretax operating profit of $142 billion, for basically entering transactions into a computer system and tracking them. These are very expensive key strokes. Combine this with the Wall Street Gamblers that create no genuine value but take billions of dollars of value out of the system, food from mouths of the starving children, and you can understand the cause of the major economic imbalance we currently have.

The actual cost to manage the value exchange transactions, for the US financial system would be less than 100 million dollars for approximately 12 data centers with server farms and administrative, technical, managing and auditing staff.

If we really have a free market then the consumer / producer should be able to switch to the more efficient lower cost monetary system.

Many do not realize that when the US went off the Gold Standard in 1971 to a fiat currency the worlds monetary and financial system became nothing more than an accounting system. With the high priests of money having the power to create the transactions they became the source of sustenance. The Federal Reserve controls and owns the master chart of accounts making them the high priests.

The economic constituency needs to create a new choice for themselves, a new value exchange accounting system that is fair, equitable, and sustainable supporting a natural market. Read http://coinage.me for comprehensive understanding of the flaws of the current system and the design for the new and be sure to read The Money Changers. It is time to throw them out of the temple once again, for good. If you care about the starving children in the world send this page to everyone on your mailing list so they begin to see through the illusions surrounding money.

~Richard Thomas Gerber

Power Questions

When does it make sense for the citizens (government) to create a debt instrument to create money and then have it given to the banks to be loaned back to them at interest (profit)? Why must citizens borrow money twice?

If a house still provides the same shelter as it did two years ago how could it have lost half it's value two years later? It still provides the same value in reality. Perhaps the way the value is determined is a fiction.

If $100,000 (unreal intangible) buys twice as much real estate (real tangible) as it did two years ago did not the value of money increase?

Why are bank profits tax deductable? The interest you pay on your mortgage is tax deductable which actually allows the banks to charge you more for interest then you would normally be able to pay. It also reduces public funds, resulting in a need for increased taxes, causing the citizens (government) to need to borrow even more money at interest to pay the public debt. Is this fair to people who rent?

The wrong side of history

Gregory Adair — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 23:29:59 EST

It was in the year of 2009. The election of America’s first black American to the office of President happened. It was a time that America took great leaps ahead to make America and the world a better place to live. It was made possible by leaders and individuals that came together with the best ideas that were volunteered; by individuals who wanted to contribute to a better world in hope to make a difference. This movement happened in the mist of opposition of fear monger, naysayers, haters, and people who tried hard to obstructed to momentum, only to find themselves on the wrong side of history.

No matter what your affiliation, always be willing to offer up your best ideas. Always be willing to be a part of the solution and not the problem.

Just take a breath of fresh air...It’s fundamental

Gregory Adair — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 23:21:26 EST

Everyone we should just slow our role...let's just take a breath of fresh air, relax for a minute, and then think upon our thoughts before we speak.

It’s fundamental. All of this stuff is connected. The President can not concentrate on one thing. He doesn’t have that luxary and those that says he do, don’t want him to do anything. America’s house is in total disarray. This President ran as an agent of change and he made it perfectly clear that change will not happen unless we engage the system. This simply means that he cannot do it alone. We have a job to do and we all should receive a failing grade of an “F” for the engagement we have shown to date. We elected the man and we are leaving him not there to hang alone while we sit idly by and let the opportunity to change America for the better past us by. How are we doing it? It’s fundamental…we are doing and saying nothing.

All it takes for evil to triumph is for good people to do and say nothing. The ills of America are getting its second wind to suppress change. Change is not easy. Obtaining civil rights was hard among other things we fought to change. In my opinion, America’s people on average has become like water. We now travel the path of least resistance. We have become lazy as a nation. We have learned to submit to big business and public political legal corruption. Look…time stands still for no one. This is President Obama’s first year and 3 years to go. Before you know it election time will be upon us and the ills of our nation will have grown so strong that it will be an easy defeat to outast the element of change. Palin has started her campaign to become palatable to the easily pursaded people for the next President of the United States of America. The strategy for the GOP is simple…just see to it that President Obama fails at everything so he can be perceived as weak and a failure. This campaign is taking root like a weed and before you know it, it will cover the entire US of A. And we did nothing to stop it in its tracks…

We have evolved as a nation that there is never cooperation, just winning and losing. We all lose when there is the mentality that I will cause the down fall of my nation at any cost only so I or my party wins. I believe that we are better than that and that we all have good ideas and we need to work together to build a stronger nation and a better world.

I’m proud to be a Moderate Independent and all I ask is for us to do something…speak up…it’s that fundamental.

Poverty part 1

Walt — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 18:53:15 EST

Most of us will endure poverty during a portion of our lifetimes. If you haven't been poor yet in your life, odds are that you will be at some time. Some will experience it during childhood; others will be poor during their golden years. Still others, through accident or misfortune, will be poor for a period during their working adulthood. The social safety net is there to help us through periods of poverty when we need help. Some are in and out of poverty repeatedly while others never escape. It is the safety net that some want to further dismantle. The would-be dismantlers say that poverty is a person's own fault. Anyone can escape poverty if they really try. That is not true.

Seventy-five per cent of the poor are poor through no fault of their own. Some are children too young to work; others are the aged, 65 and older. Still others are adults aged 18 to 64 years who have physical or mental disabilities that prevent meaningful employment. In toto, these groups make up three quarters of the poor. The remaining poor work for a living at jobs that pay little or they cannot find work. That is a problem that our society faces, not enough good paying jobs to go around. I will discuss that in Poverty, part 2, but first I want to digress a bit and discuss my own encounters with poverty.

I think that the only time I was really poor was as a child. We had enough to get by, but all my friends and relatives had more. I felt poor. I worked hard in school and got good grades. I went to college but did not graduate. Then I found employment and worked my way up to middle management. By the time I was forty, I was a financial success. The rising tide had lifted my boat along with many others and I could afford some of life's luxuries. Then the tide turned, and my boat started to drift downward with many others. Hard work was not enough to keep up with the Joneses or inflation. I used debt to try to maintain a lifestyle that became more and more difficult to achieve any other way. Finally in 2003, my wife and I moved from California to Utah to extinguish our debts and get a new start.

We sold our home in California and bought a larger home in Utah and paid cash. We also planned to use a portion of our proceeds to eliminate the rest of our debt. It did not happen according to plan. Shortly after moving to Utah, I was involved in an auto accident in Las Vegas that destroyed my vehicle and left me with a sore shoulder that is not completely healed six years later. Then six weeks later I fell and broke a leg that prevented me from working for seven months. A veritable one two punch. Our small nest egg disappeared in a hurry. We paid our bills using credit cards and dug a deep hole of debt. Six years later, we are still trying to dig our way out. I am not poor, but I can see how easily an accident or illness can devastate the best laid plans.

To be continued

REASONS WHY AMERICA IS LOSING WAR IN AFGHNISTAN?

LIVETOLOVE GREENEYES LIVETOLOVE — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 14:19:02 EST

AMERICA IS LOSING WAR IN AFGHANISTAN DUE TO THE FOLLOWING REASONS.

1. AMERICA IS LOSING WAR IN AFGHANISTAN DUE TO TERRORIST ACTIVITIES OF INDIA, ISRAIL AND TERRORIST ACTIVITIES OF CIA AGENTS OF ISRAEL AND INDIA, IN PAKISTAN, TRIBAL AREAS OF PAKISTAN AND IN AFGHANISTAN TO DESTABILZE PAKISTAN AND TO KEEP AFGHSANISTAN DESTALIZED FOR THEIR INTERESTS. ISRAEL THINKS PAKISTAN IS A THREAT TO ISRAEL SO THEY WANT TO WEAKEN IT. INDIA IS ENEMY NUMBER I OF PAKISTAN DUE TO KASHMIR ISSUES SO THEY WANT TO DESTABLIZE PAKISTAN . ONLY A STABLE AND STRONG PAKISTAN CAN BRING PEACE IN THIS WORLD. BELIEVE OR BELIEVE NOT. WORLD HAS SEEN PAKISTAN CAN DEFEAT TALIBAN AND AL-QUAIDA WITHIN MONTHS. SO IT IS THE DUTY OF WHOLE WORLD TO HELP PAKISTAN WITH MONEY AND WEAPONS.

866 Did the Trick!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 18:36:48 EST

Thanks to the SILENT MAJORITY’S December 8, 2009 (866)783-2462 calls to Senators, the public option is STILL ON THE TABLE! It’s been a long and difficult road to travel, but because of YOU, the public option remains alive DESPITE Forums, Tea Parties, self-serving Republican, Independent and Blue Dog Democrat Senators, health insurance industry lobbyists and their millions, Palin, Rush, Beck and the rest.

Remember, nothing of worth comes easy. So, continue to call (866)783-2462 and continue to flood Senate mailboxes with e-mails and letters EVERY DAY until quality, affordable health care reform becomes law at… www.senate.gov/general/contactinformation/senators cfm.cfm and www.congress.org

SHOW THEM THAT DESPITE THE ODDS, THE “MAJORITY” IS UNDEFEATABLE!

Spread the word!

A Hope for Something Unlikely

Casper from Bolinas, CA — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 06:46:17 EST

Even as the polls have showed that Obamas Honeymoon has ended I Still remain trustfull of him , even as he begins to escalate the war we are all against. I have Decided to trust that there is a threat to our security in afghanistan. But tonight I have learnd that democrats in congress have decided to ax the public option from the healthcare bill. Though it has been said that the public option only constitues a small portion of the healthcare bill let it also be known that the heart is only three percent of the human body. The simple truth is this, without the public option there will not be any change in the american healthcare system. As long as americans have no choice but to choose a private insurance plan motivated by profit and not the welbeing of the patient there will not be a change. If it is ilegal to deny coverage because of pre-existing conditions they will find another way to deny coverage all they need to do is change the words. Without a not for profit option the private insurance companies have won because there is no reason to be afraid. I express hope that they have compromised something that is just as good but that hope sits next to Obamas plan to withdraw troops by 2011. Perhaps this hope will come true but it is by all means on the wrong side of history

S.O.S. - Call 866-783-2462!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 07:56:52 EST

TODAY - DECEMBER 8th - IS A CRITICAL “PUBLIC OPTION” VOTE DAY IN THE SENATE.

CALL 866-783-2462. GIVE THE NAME OF YOUR SENATOR AND LEAVE THIS MESSAGE: “KEEP THE PUBLIC OPTION”.

Spread the word!

All I Want for Christmas is…

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 19:37:53 EST

the passage of UNIVERSAL Health Care Reform!

Republican Senators, wavering Blue Dog Democrat Senators and their health insurance industry campaign contributors have NOT slowed down their fight to kill the public option. Health insurance industry interests are spending nearly $5 million per week to defeat health care reform with a focus on killing the public option. SELF-SERVING Republican and Blue Dog Democrat Senators are determined to protect health insurance industry interests with ABSOLUTELY NO consideration for the 70% of Americans who support the CHOICE of a public option while, EVERY DAY, 2,547 Americans go bankrupt because they can’t afford to pay medical bills. The Silent Majority CANNOT AFFORD to lose the fight. If the concept of GOVERNMENT-SPONSORED health insurance “options” is good enough for the Senators, it’s good enough for the TAXPAYERS who pay for it!

CONTINUE to flood ALL Senate telephone lines and mailboxes with calls, e-mails and letters EVERY DAY until a COMPLETED Universal Health Care Reform package becomes law at…

www.senate.gov/general/contactinformation/senators cfm.cfm

www.congress.org

Spread the word!

Keeping the promise of CHANGE !!!

National Strategist with Ariel hands — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 10:48:42 EST

Dear BLOG friends :

There is not a day when I don't think of change .

My little village could use more change . My neighbours should change .

Professors I have dealt with need to change . Sometimes

I am the one who should have done something differently and should have

stood for a better example of change .

But President Barack Obama has been about change consistently .

Ever since the campaign for change became a success he has accomplished as

much positive change for our nation as he possibly can !

There are more people doubting the accomplishments of change or even the

principle of change . Someone whose duty it was to help me once told me :

People don't change ! But change also starts with me and I

want change !! President Obama's approval rating has dropped

and some people abandoned the principles of change and focused on taking

care of one person again : themselves ! But let ME tell YOU :

President Barack Obama has worked hard for change without abandoning .

He will continue to work for change . This change is about fairness ,

it is about the people , it is for you and me and actually for everyone !!

Further : President Obama has done a great job in keeping his campaign

promises !!! Examples of this are :

Being an effective commander-in-chief .

Bringing us universal health care .

Making the economy a # 1 priority and

avoiding a depression .

Improving social services and benefits and

paying unemployment benefits when they are

needed the most .

Regulating the credit card industry with a new law .

Giving the Supreme Court a Justice that is

considered a minority .

Doing something helpful about education without

leaving the money behind .

ET CETERA .

Please continue to stand for CHANGE with me and

our special President !!!

K a i

Dither, Hither and Crash!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 19:07:52 EST

Considering Republican Lawmakers’ “DITTHERING” over quality, affordable health care for all, their focus on the Social Secretary’s not attending the White House crashers’ hearing is another one of their CIRCUS side shows. First of all, Republican Lawmakers’, continuous, “break the President” shenanigans make it, virtually, impossible to believe that they, TRULY, care about anything associated with the White House “crashers” outside of further inflating their OVER INFLATED egos. Secondly, if Republican Lawmakers placed the same concentrated efforts on working WITH the President to fix the economical mess they created over the previous eight years by deregulating the banks and Wall Street, outsourcing American jobs to foreign countries, the Iraq Invasion, and billions to Halliburtin, they would realize that flitting from hither to yon to exacerbate issues outside of their immediate jurisdiction, results in nothing but the blowing off of hot air.

Republican Lawmakers need to STOP "crashing" the President's "HOPE" FOR AMERICA agenda, and START focusing on legislating universal health care reform; regulating the banks and Wall Street; getting outsourced jobs back on American soil; pushing for a meaty stimulus package (unlike the first, Republican-driven, “If I don’t get my way, I’ll vote no”, watered-down package), and stop whining for a never ending US “occupation” of Afghanistan.

Republican Lawmakers may revel in being ‘Obama Party Crashers’, but TRUE ‘party crashers’ don’t dither from hither to yon to be seen at the ball!

When you want NO-WAR, it's really never matter who do you vote for.

Erez Elul — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 06:31:07 EST

You --

Still here? Hi. Please
help us in this reverse structuring from ofa:

Any grassroots project must have a well defined aim, which when achieved
is only one among many steps together constituting a grassroots movement.

In such a process the organization must be flexible to allow some of its
parts to exit itself and some new parts to enter itself, so that the
organization could become a grassroots movement.

Yes Again We Can Be Reorganized!!!

We, who made obama to sit in the office, must be organized such that
never again any one of us could transform our organization into a top
down organization such as in the case of ofa.

The obama's grassroots movement is in a problem which could be helped by
ComComizing the mailing lists of movement.

for more please see this
http://comcom.wikidot.com/comcom-for-activists-or-an-open-letter-to-mitch-stewart

it also includes also the moore vid about this war issue

peace
namzezam

Rethink reform

Walt — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 10:28:40 EST

There is a disgusting full page ad on page 17A of today's USA Today. It shows the bare bottom of a male patient in a hospital gown. It is a view I sometimes see at work but we are trained to preserve a patient's modesty by securing the ties of the gown. Small print at the bottom of the ad says ,"paid for by the Employment Policies Institute." I went to their web site and to the Rethink Reform site at www.rethinkreform.com. There is no information there about where they are getting their money. That information would be very helpful and I think that it should be required in all advocacy ads in the future. I will make that a priority in the future. We don't need a list of all donors, but we do need to know where the big donations are coming from.

Gov. Huckabee freed Seattle police slayer

Michael Barnes — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 11:02:39 EST

Maurice Clemmons is suspected of shooting four Seattle police officers to death in a Tacoma coffee shop.

According to an article by The New York Times:

In 2000, Gov. Mike Huckabee of Arkansas granted clemency to Mr. Clemmons after he had served 11 years of a 95-year sentence for robbery and burglary convictions on charges prosecuted when he was 17.

I wonder how this will affect Gov. Huckabee's chances in 2012?

Afghanistan: Open Letter to the Best President of the World

MyDocAngel — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 06:10:10 EST

Dear Mr. President,

please do not repeat Vietnam! Get soldiers out and stop the war -

if not you, who else?

Jesse Ventura (with Larry King today) is right!

We believe - yes, that you and we can!

Sincerely

European Youth for Obama

Fault

PengPotter — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 09:11:21 EST

Here's my smell novel I am only a student of China，please give me some instructions,thank you!

Fault
"Sir,the enemy is going towards our north,It's dangerous!"
"Sir,our ammunitior is exhausting !"
"Sir,250 soldiers were wonded ,we need replacement!"
After hearing these news ,Gen.Peter throw himself back into chair,with his mouth open,seeming to say something but was blocked somehow.A sudden sound of

explode outside break the slience,"Never never never give up!""Yes,sir!"
Gen.peter was sitting there alone and lonely,he was ordered to prevent the enemy from country B headed by Gen. Lurry---they were trying to attract the

capital of country A as the first step of occupying the whole country.Realizing how heavy the duty he held was,Gen. Peter has been staying up for several

days,yet now they were put into trouble,he was even wondering whether he could survive the battle.
A hullabaloo arose outside ,the invaders started assaulting again,.he standed up and walked out towards thesrtillery battalion,he wanna rely on the

artillery battalion---the most powerful part of his army.
"Commander!""Here!what's up,sir?""How many long-range bomb do we have now?""Uh....Omly one.""Only one?!......Ok,Now listen Delly,you ,as the most

experienced gunner here,should bombard the command post of the bastard Gen.Lurry tomorrow,we must kill him or we'll be killed by him,No fault!do you

understang?""Yes I do""Remember, we rise or fall as one nation, as one people!"
Next day ,Delly---the battalion commander,squated beside the carriaje,adjusting the angle,"Ready?"Gen.Peter asked,"Yes,we can!Fire!"The bomb was launched

,but even a greenhorn could see that it was s big fault,the bomb took a wrong path,instead of went towards the command post it flew to a mountainous

area."Fuck,you made a unforgivable fault!"Suddenly Jen.Peter drew out his gun and shot Delly.....
After several seconds,he recived a huge tremble of the land which lasted for about 5 minutes,'What 's up?'no one answered,a soldier came

there,saying"Sir,Commander Delly just hit the enemy's backdoor ammunition depot" "What?oh my god,it's ,it's my fault..."
Several hours later the enemy attracted again.but it was odd that they only attracted the south district which was defended by artillery battalion,though

it lost commander Delly,but it was also a powerful battalionand now was headed by a new commander." Foolishly you have sought your own demise,let's teach

they a lesson!"then him dispatched all the gunners and bombs to surround the enemy and appointed a troop laying in ambush in a hill.
After a long fierce fighting,Gen.Peter achieved a complete triumph and what is more,they seized Gen.Lurry!At a courtroom,Gen.Lurry was squating at the

corner,when Peter arrived in ,a soldier came up to him and hand him a letter,"Sir,we got it from his pocket"
The letter says :Dear Gen. Lurry,I am ordered to bombard your command post to kill you,and I'll fire it into a mountainous area,it must be no harm of

you,is't it?Be sure to attract the south district,we'll wait for you. Yours Delly.......

Take back the country

Walt — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 13:18:33 EST

Barack's critics are saying that they will take back the country in 2010. I am starting to hear this at work and in the media. We will hear it much more next year. I intend to challenge each and every occurrence of that claim with two questions. From whom are you going to take the country back from? What is your agenda for the country if you succeed? We don't want a return to the Bush years and the BushMess.

Which Came First, the Chicken or the Egg?

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 08:20:19 EST

When Right Wing politicians, “rogues”, FOXY and other television/radio talk show hosts and guests profess their political, historical and factual ignorance blaming President Obama for our country’s current debt, deficit and indebtedness to China, INTELLIGENT listeners have got to ask the question, “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

When President Bush and his Republican-dominated Congressional DEFICIT SPENDERS came into office, they were left with a HEFTY budget surplus in the trillions from the Clinton Administration, and what did they do? They took that surplus and drove us into a near depression in eight years by…

Deregulating the banks and Wall Street

Outsourcing American jobs to foreign countries

Big time tax breaks for the wealthy

Reckless borrowing from China

The Iraq Invasion

Billions to Halliburtin

Prescription Drug legislation in the billions with NO budgeted funding

Now that they no longer hold the purse strings, Republican Congressional BIG SPENDERS and their ‘roguey’, FOXY and other Right Wing radio/television puppets have SUDDENLY become fiscally sane and blame all the woes THEY CREATED on President Obama.!

Why can't the naysayers face the truth and work WITH the President to clean up the mess instead of pecking and wallowing in the chicken coop?

Spread the word!

Truth/untruth

Walt — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 10:50:58 EST

Somewhere between Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton, our political system lost its respect for the truth. It got much worse under George W. and has now gone to H in a hand basket when the Republicans lost in 2008. I am reading books by several of Barack's critics in an effort to answer their criticisms. I am finding a mix of fact and fiction that is very hard to separate. It is so much easier to mix the two than it is to separate the truth from the fiction. It reminds me of the marble cakes my mother made when I was a child. She had a ring mold cake pan into which she put alternating rings of vanilla and chocolate batter. Then she removed the rings and swirled the batter before baking the cake.

Even if I do succeed in separating fact from fiction, Barack's critics probably won't listen. Some just want to criticize for any reason or no reason at all. Truth is taking a back seat in current political discussion.

Why is the Republican Party AFRAID of a Health Care Debate?

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 09:44:20 EST

The Republican Party is AFRAID of taking Health Care Reform through the debate process. They have taken their racist, hate-filled, bully pulpit, polarizing, “Tea Party” scare tactics to the Internet against moderate Democrat Senators who voted to move the Health Care issue to the debate process.

Is the Republican Party afraid because they have NO VALID arguments to fight quality, affordable health care for ALL Americans” on the Senate floor? Is the Republican Party afraid because they have NO LIE PROOF arguments to fight quality, affordable health care for ALL Americans on the Senate floor? Is the Republican Party afraid because they have no NON-CHICKEN LITTLE “SKY IS FALLING” arguments to fight quality, affordable health care for ALL Americans on the Senate floor? Is the Republican Party afraid because they have no GREED FREE health insurance contributions in the millions arguments to fight quality, affordable health care for ALL Americans on the Senate floor? Or is it the case that the Republican Party JUST DOESN’T CARE about quality, affordable health care rights for ALL Americans?

The SILENT MAJORITY must fight back. Show your INTERNET SUPPORT’ for moderate Democrat Senators who had the GUTS to care!

Spread the word!

Sarah Palin

Faith — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 22:30:20 EST

During the late 1800's and early 1900's thousands of Black men were lynched in the south and west. Many were strung up by the mere accusation of a white woman who claimed they had been raped, insulted, or in some way offended. The vast majority of these accusations were unfounded and untrue. No matter. Mobs of white men would terrorize the black community until they rounded up some poor man - and sometimes his entire family.

IMHO, Sarah Palin is the embodiment of those women. She was the inspiration for the mob style town halls during the campaign and she continues her insidious and evil accusations from Twitter and now this book tour. God help this country if she or anyone like her is ever made its leader.

We need leadership!

Chris — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 11:23:21 EST

Mr. President, I am becoming disheartened by the way this government is running the health care issue. There are several reasons for this. Firstly, you are showing very little of the leadership that got you elected. When you were running for president, you said that your health care package would be different from Hillary Clinton's, and furthermore, that this difference was a critically important one. From what I have seen, the bill in legislature is not just "Hillary"--it is radical Hillary. Remember, Mr. President, you were elected because of your vision--not in spite of it. So, now you cannot simply sit above the fray and not be involved. It is incumbent on you (incumbent because what you do will determine whether many of us will vote for you again) to let Congress and the Senate know what kind of bill you are willing to sign. Show them that you will not sign a bill that goes against your promises. This is the leadership we deserve.

For far too many months, this health care bill has been the singlemost divisive topic in the US. Rather than reaching across the aisle, republicans have resorted to a propaganda campaign and sabotage. However, the democrats have been just as bad, if not worse. Nothing stinks so much as a sense of entitlement. And, unfortunately, democrats are reek with it, right now. No one can work with a group that thinks it has a popular mandate to do whatever it wants. The bill is getting loaded with more and more crap, penalties, punishments, red tape, and pork. And now the most elite and leftist of the senate democrats speaks of the tyranny of the moderate voice. Now it is the left democrats against conservatives and moderates. This, sir, is a legislative house so against itself it will never be able to stand. If you don't do something soon, I guarantee that both the senate and the house will lose their democratic majorities, and no one will be able to blame the republicans for this.

Whose vision is this? We don't need a health care program that is as bad as our tax code. We don't need a health care bill that does not have a simple vision. And we don't need a bill written by a legislative body that has little or no respect for its citizenry. You can put a stop to this by making it publicly known how you feel on all this. And I hope what you feel now is the same as what you said when you were competing against Ms. Clinton. We need consistency of vision from our leaders.

Diamonds and Rust

James — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 21:28:09 EST

Closer To God

Diamonds and Rust

I carefully removed five more one thousand shilling notes and presented them to Wendy.

“That’s about one fifth the average wage in Kenya. It ought to get us dinner served in this cabin, and, unless my judgment about such things is sadly flawed, your natural allure ought to count for something.”

Wendy took the money. I saw a glint flash from her eye under raised eyebrow. I wondered how much of the five thousand would end up in the hands of the crew. She and Dingo headed out into the aisle.

“Who are you two?” I asked the remaining women.

“I’m Helen and this is Anice,” the blondest of the two blonds said, waving one hand toward her companion.

“Where you from?” I asked, making conversation while I thought about everything that had happened to us since stepping aboard the train.

“Troy,” she said, noting my lack of real attention.

“Helen of Troy…neat,” I responded with a smile.

“Why don’t you two join your friends at finding us all something to eat?” I said. I held the door open. Anice went by me, her short curly hair so thick and tight it resembled Velcro.

When they were out of the room I secured the one-sided deadbolt. I stood before Burt.

“Want to tell me about it?” I asked him, pointedly, my arms crossed. He watched the evening countryside go by for at least a full minute before answering.

“Ah, about what?”

I frowned. I was not accustomed to my team members withholding information pertinent to the mission, nor on acting independently.

“The three bad guys you forced to leap from the train. Take a close look at the window next to you. They’re safety latched, but you’d play hell at getting them open far enough to squeeze a full grown American through without using a lot of time and tools. Then there’s the terminal nature of what would have likely happened to guys. I don’t think you’d send three men to their deaths that way. I know something about you now. You didn’t force them from the window, so where are they?”

I watched Burt consider. I was determined not to be surprised at whatever he came up with. I didn’t know what had happened to our pursuers, but I knew Burt was lying about whatever had happened.

“I’m sorry, “ Burt apologized, But this isn’t a mission you know. Not anymore. I don’t have to report to you or do what you tell me. We’re on our own. I said I threw them off the train to impress the lassies. I haven’t been with a woman for awhile.” His eyes left mine to roam again across the moving Savannah.

In spite of myself, I was surprised. Burt was impressing young women while three guys, apparently still on the train somewhere, were trying to kill us for unknown reasons. I couldn’t think of anything intelligent to respond to that part of what he’d said, so I ignored it.

“Where are they?” I said instead, getting right to the point.

“Back in their cabin. Just like I left ‘em. One has a broken ankle and the other two broken wrists. They don’t have any guns. I threw their cell phones out the window.” Burt offered the last as if it made up for his earlier lie.

I glared at him, getting control of myself before speaking.

“This is a mission and I’m the mission commander, unless you don’t want to survive it. We’re not going to get through this by trying to impress young women. We won’t survive long doing stupid things like throwing their cell phones away either. Those phones had numbers and identities on them. Now you either accept that or you’re on your own. And, if you accept it, I don’t want any more of this crap. I make the decisions, on everything. That’s what I do. You implement those decisions in the manner I tell you to. That’s what you do. And you don’t keep anything from me. Got it?”

My voice had dropped in both tone and volume. Burt and I were in more trouble than I could calculate. I needed him, but I could reasonably survive without him. On his own, he wouldn’t last another day.

Helen of Troy’s voice could be heard through the solid wood door. She had one of those irritating nasal voices, but her looks were so great you tended not to notice when in front of her. I waited, my hand on the deadbolt, staring back at Burt.

“Alright. It’s a mission. I’ll do my part.”

I twisted the small brass knob. Four women filled the cabin, settling onto bunks and floor as if a gaggle of geese looking to forage.

“It’s done,” Wendy stated, proudly. “They’re bringing dinner in about an hour, between the early servings. I couldn’t understand their word for the meat.

I think its called Punda.”

“Punda milia,” I added, instantly sorry I’d spoken up. The words translated into striped ass or Zebra.

“Means beef, I think,” I recovered, looking over at Burt, who was staring at Dingo too intently to pay attention to me.

“About the sleeping arrangements,” I began, but got no further. Obviously, the Earth Mother’s had discussed more than dinner when they had gone to the dining car.

“You’re sleeping in my bunk. I’ll stay on the floor with Helen. Burt can have the padded bench, with Dingo on the floor next to him.” Wendy’s rapid delivery gave away the preparedness of her comments. There was silence in the room. The earlier arrangements discussed had seemed to include a whole lot more than just sleeping, but the amended plan suited me perfectly. The last thing any of us needed was more complexity, although I could not ignore the fact that the small room was going to occupied through the night by four attractive females and two men who had not known many women of late.

“The train is likely to stop soon,” I informed them. “While its stopped would be a good time to have dinner served. I’ll try to time it right,” I said, gesturing toward Burt to accompany me. Wendy frowned, but asked no questions.

“Wine, you have more wine. Might as well trot it out. We’ll be right back.”

I slipped out into the passageway with my last words hanging in the air. We didn’t need company with what we were about, and the Earth Mothers were just a bit too bright and adventurous. Keeping them from participating in anything would not be accomplished with force. Especially not since I’d allowed one of them to become armed. Our current and continuing presence in their lives was a risk to them, however, and I would not overlook it.

Burt led our passage through the dining car. I marveled at the old world charm of the décor. Red leather, deep brown wood and polished glass. It resembled some Hollywood director’s idea of what a dining car should look like, rather than what you would expect to find in a third world country. Eating in the cabin would be much less entertaining, but a whole lot more secure.

We made our way to the last car. We reached the last door, which Burt plunged right through, his weapon out and raised. I noted that the lock had been shot away, just like the one in our door.

Three men were in the room. Two sat on one lower bunk, opposing us, and the remaining man sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall. With the bunks down, there was not much floor space in a Fourth Class cabin. Burt moved deep enough into the space to allow me to sit on the lower bunk, across from the two men.

“Who are you gentlemen?” I asked, no threat in my voice. Burt’s gun was out and ready, but mine still in my pocket. They looked at me. The man on the floor had the broken angle. It was evident from off angle of the bones. The other two had wrapped wrists. One right wrist. One left wrist.

“Left handed?” I asked Burt, pointing at the appropriate man, but his attention was on the three men.

“Who are you people?” I inquired again. None of the three answered, each looking from one to the other.

I noted the very bottom of a tattoo sticking out from under the short sleeve of the one with the broken right wrist. I stepped carefully over the broken ankle of the floor positioned one. I pulled the sleeve gently upward. The tattoo was in blue. It was of the head of a water buffalo. Then I noted the age of the man. He was not young. Older than I, all three of them were, and I was old for the business.

“Thirty-two Battalion?” I asked. The man nodded once.

“Shit,” I mouthed to myself.

“What is it?” Burt asked, gauging the regret in my tone.

“Thirty-two Battalion is the old Boer Commando outfit, disbanded in 1993, I think. It was pretty hot shit. All three of you?” I pointed at the other two. I received no answer.

“Burt here will be glad to take your shirts off, and then break your remaining joints,” I offered. The one who had signaled before did so again.

“Who are you with now?” I inquired, not expecting an answer. I waited, but I knew I was wasting my time. The situation could only play out in one of two possible ways. Either the men were actually going to jump from the train, at high speed with their injuries, or they were going to see reason. I could only play the cards I had been dealt. I couldn’t change them.

“Okay. Have it your way. I don’t expect much. I know you guys. I was a United States Marine. I have a mission to perform. Either Burt here tosses you off the train or you tell me whom you’re working for. I’ll work something out. It’s not much that I’m asking. No names. Not even what this is all about. “ I waited, while once again they looked at each other. They had to be mercenaries. They worked for the money, so their loyalty was not to a cause. But their habit patterns where from the old school, and it would near impossible to break them down. I was not willing to resort to physical torture, and I didn’t really have the equipment for such an operation anyway. Physical torture always works. On everyone. No single human is immune, or tough enough to ‘gut it out,’ as that is the province of movies and television. But it comes with a high price, for the tortured and the torturers. I’d tortured. I knew the price, and I was no longer willing to pay it.

“Aegis,” the man said, his voice low. “Diamonds. It is about diamonds.”

I sat back stunned. Aegis didn’t bother me. It was one of the mercenary companies operating out of London. There were bunches of them. But his volunteering of ‘diamonds’ perplexed me. Tea, textiles, coffee and a few other things were exported from Kenya. There were no diamonds. Not that anybody had ever found or reported on.

“Where,” I asked, not sure what I expected to hear. And what I got I did not expect.

“Freetown.” We cannot tell you more. Our families will never be paid if we tell you.”

I liked the fact that the man was thinking about the money Aegis would pay out to their families following death. I had their full attention. There was no Freetown in Kenya. There was a Freetown in a place that had a ton of diamonds, however. Sierra Leone. A shit-hole of a place. The unadvertised, unclaimed, and nearly unknown, poorest country in Africa, which was saying something.

“We will talk no more. Do your will.” The man bowed his head. Without sharp instruments and a controlled environment I knew that I wasn’t going to get more.

“Lighten up, Francis,” I quoted from the movie Stripes. “You did what you were asked. Here’s the deal. I’m gonna pull the emergency stop.” I stood up and grabbed the single line running corner to corner near the top of the car. “The trains gonna stop. Only you three will be here. They’ll come in hordes once they figure out the cord was pulled in this room. Stopping the train is a First Class Felony in Kenya. You’ll be arrested, guarded, and taken to jail in Mombasa. When you get there one of you needs to confess that he did it. Claim drunkenness. The natives think all White Men are drunks. Or you can claim that you need medical care from the injuries you suffered fighting with one another. Once one of you confesses the others will be set loose. Strange Kenyan Justice. The two released can pay the fine for the felony, and then you can get some splints and treatment for your problems.” I stopped and looked at them carefully.

“If you don’t claim you did it, then there is going to be trouble. Burt here is going to take your going back on your word badly. You won’t survive this mission, I promise you. I want your word as an ‘Os Terriveis’” I stopped again. Portugal had contributed a lot of men to 32 Battalion, and had loaned it the name “Terrible Ones,” not without good cause.

“We agree,” the man said, this time without looking to the others for approval. I was giving them a rare gift, and the man seemed to understand. It would be safer to leave them for dead, strewn along the harsh landscape of the beautiful Savannah, then have them reaching their superiors to tell of their contact with us.

I pulled down hard on the cord. Squealing sounds came from the wheel brakes of our car. It was going to be a slow stop as the emergency cord only worked for the car it was pulled in. The train whistle blew long and loud. The crew had figured out that there was a problem.

I took out another ten thousand shillings and placed them firmly in the man’s good hand. “You’ll need this for the fine. They won’t take your cash when you’re in custody. Trust me, I know about custody in Kenya.” I then took my box of cigarettes out and offered one to each man. They sat there, each with a white tube sticking out of his mouth. Burt brought out a lighter and went slowly from man to man, keeping his suppressed automatic trained on each while he lit their smokes.

“Dankie,” the man said. Dankie is Afrikaans for thank you. He slipped the bills into his shirt pocket. Burt and I stepped out of the room, then made our way quickly back to the dining car, which was full. The non-stop train was slowing to a stop, which caused a lot of discussion from everyone around us as we made our way through.

“What if they try to lay it on us?” Burt asked, just before we reached the room.

“They’re screwed. Strange Kenyan Justice. They’re the ones in the room where the cord got pulled. The exact place is registered down by the side of the car, near the tracks. There’s no Crime Scene Investigation over here.”

“Will it work the way you told them?” Burt inquired, his voice evidencing skepticism.

“I lie when necessary Burt, but I’m not cruel. Those were brothers-in-arms, whatever path they’ve taken since, and, because of your ‘assistance’ they won’t be a problem for us anymore.” I didn’t mention any of the problems that might arise from they’re eventual report to higher ups.

Wendy welcomed us into the room, locking the door behind us. I noted another empty bottle of wine primly set against the far wall, where a partially filled one sat next to it.

“We’ve been wondering where you were. And the train is almost stopped, just like you said would happen. How did you do that? And, when are we going to get to Mombasa?”

I laughed at her tone and obvious gaiety rather than her comments.

“When is dinner served?” I asked. I was terribly hungry and so very tired. I looked up at Wendy’s upper bunk with longing.

“It’s coming. It’s coming, Wendy giggled, but first we want to sing you a song.

Dingo has a ukulele. It’s made from Koa wood carved in Hawaii.

I slunk down the wall between the bunks. I prayed that there were no more players aboard the Iron Snake. Our stopping had risk. Anyone paralleling the train on the Mombasa Road could use the opportunity to get aboard. We could only plan for so much, however. The Earth Mother’s started their song, the words brining an immediate rye smile to my face: “Well, I’ll be damned, here comes your ghost again…” The song was a Joan Baez thing from many years in the past. I knew that the final words were: “…and if your offering me diamonds and rust, I’ve already paid.” I hadn’t understood the words to that song any of the times I’d heard it. I could never figure out what diamonds had to do with rust, since diamonds are a crystal and rust is, well, rust. I listened to the words of the song flow over me, being sung from some of the toughest angels I’d ever come across, and I knew that diamonds and rust did indeed go together and that the amalgam was one of hardship and pain, just like the words of the song.

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com

http://www.themastodons.com

http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com

One Small Step For the “Majority”, One Giant Leap for Health Care Reform!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 20:55:19 EST

Members of the SILENT MAJORITY, we did it again! We’re one step closer to COMPREHENSIVE Health Care Reform!!! We got the Health Care Reform Bill out of the “House’ and tonight, 60 COURAGEOUS Democrat votes advanced the Bill to the “floor” for debate. We showed the Republican Blockade that health insurance contributions may ‘buy’ your vote, but it “can’t buy you love”! Let’s celebrate by contacting the 60 Senate Democrats with a ‘vote’ of “Thanks!” at: www.senate.gov/general/contact information/senators cfm.cfm and/or www.congress.org. Pass the word!

The SILENT MAJORITY Wins or Loses Tomorrow!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 18:03:10 EST

Health Care Reform comes up for a CRITICAL VOTE in the Senate on SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 21st. If it doesn’t pass, Health Care Reform is DEAD! Republican Senators have VOWED to kill the Bill. (They have sold us out for health insurance contributions in the millions!!!) IT”S NOW OR NEVER FOR THE SILENT MAJORITY! We stopped Republican Senators from blocking the vote all together. We must defeat them again on Saturday. Call and email ALL Senators (especially “Blue Dog” Democrats and Independents) TONIGHT and ALL DAY Saturday until the Bill has passed at: www.senate.gov/general/contact information/senators cfm.cfm and/or www.congress.org

Tell them to vote “YEA” and pass the word.

Psalms 109:8

"NERVIE" — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 12:17:42 EST

It may be considered a Bible war going on in the internet but ladies and gentlemen when someone markets teddy bears, t-shirts, with Psalms 109:8 on it in reference to President Barack Obama, it is time to turn up the serious valve and ask is this an American Jihad and where are the religious leaders when you need them to stand up and exhibit contentiousness against such a decree!

And what is the CIA, FBI and Secret Service doing about any of this?

The climate is more urgent that Health from the USA?

Ton007 — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 18:22:04 EST

"... ..Damage to the ecology, year after year, still going on, so we really need serious study and we have a plan for environmental protection. This is very, very important." Dalai Lama - Tibet leader.

Mrs. president Barack Obama and Congressists the U.S. look for one question!!!

The climate is more urgent that Health from the USA?

Think in CHANGE CLIMATE Today for life of tomorrow at the world!

During a summit on world hunger of the United Nations (UN) in Rome, Italy, the exiled Buddhist leader warned that rivers fed by glaciers of Tibet and the snow-capped mountains could disappear between 15 and 20 years. He called on China to study the problem from experts Tibetans.

The Dalai Lama called that China would act to prevent the melting of glaciers in Tibet, saying that the environmental crisis is more urgent than a political solution on the future of Tibet.

A political solution (for Tibet) can take time, but that's okay, we can expect," said the Dalai reporters this week in Europe.

"But damage to the ecology, year after year, still going on, so we really need serious study and we have a plan for environmental protection. This is very, very important."

The Qinghai-Tibet plateau is the source of many rivers in Asia, including the Yangtze and Mekong. Source: Reuters. Edition e add by Clayton Fernandes, signatory Global Compact UN. São Paulo Brazil, www.royalbusinessconsult.com.br/home and http://mixideias.blogspot.com

RECONCILIATION: Should Be A Household Word !

Greg Jones' Blacks4Barack ! — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 18:58:21 EST

RECONCILIATION !
Should Be A Household Word

The Way Senate CAN Pass The Health Bill

By Greg Jones
Blacks4Barack

For some reason the media and even our politicians keep pounding the vital importance of the Senate obtaining 60 votes in the Senate to pass the health care reform legislation. There's the non-stop 'what will (Traitor) Joe Lieberman do'...or 'will they get (R) Olympia Snowe'...or 'will Harry Reid get the 60 votes he needs...'? 60...60...60 !!! That's all we hear. I'm not sure if the media is trying to add drama to the health care issue in an attempt to stimulate audience ratings or if it's an orchestrated tactic in hopes of keeping Americans ill-informed through the direction of our great politicians, but the FACT is, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid DOES NOT need 60 votes to pass the health care bill but in fact ONLY 51- a simple majority, which makes a huge difference-through a procedure commonly used and known as RECONCILIATION.

Reconciliation is " a legislative process of the United States Senate intended to allow a contentious budget bill to be considered without being subject to filibuster (only needing 51 votes to pass). Because reconciliation limits debate and amendment, the process empowers the majority party ". The reconciliation procedure is limited to being used for budget related legislation that costs or raises substantial amounts of money. In the case of the Senate health care bill, that would include the expansion of Medicare or Medicaid, revenue-raising tax provisions, and even the creation of a public health insurance option, depending on how it's written. So the reconciliation procedure CAN be used to pass the health care bill with only 51 VOTES !

The downside of the bill being passed through this procedure is that, due to a ruling known as the Byrd Rule, non-budget legislation designed to regulate the insurance industry could not be included in the bill and would have to be voted on in a separate bill which would need 60 votes to overcome a filibuster. But there is a strategy that can be used to overcome even this obstacle as described by Ryan Grimm of HuffPo:

    But there's another alternative, according to Martin Paone. Paone, who served as a Democratic Senate floor staffer for 29 years, has been advising Democrats as they craft their legislative strategy. He proposes that Democrats try to get 60 votes to waive the Byrd Rule -- which would then allow the inclusion of those non-budget-related provision in one bill that would require only 51 votes for final passage.

    What's the advantage? And why would any senator who opposes the entire bill vote for such a waiver? The answer can be found in the specific proposals that would be in violation of the Byrd Rule. Mostly, those would include reforms to the way the insurance industry operates -- for example, a ban on using preexisting conditions to deny coverage, or a law that insurance companies can't drop a client just because they get sick.

    Those are wildly popular reforms. Getting 60 votes to support those policies is much easier than getting 60 for a public health insurance option, which Republicans and some conservative Democrats oppose.

    Conservative senators such as Mary Landrieu (D-La.), Ben Nelson (D-Neb.) or Olympia Snowe (R-Maine) could, in voting for a Byrd Rule waiver, put themselves on the record as being in support of popular insurance industry reforms, while still opposing final passage of the bill -- a political strategy that may be appealing to them.

So, as the media continues their daily rant of how imperative it is that EVERY Democratic Senator vote yes on the health care bill remember one FACT that they seem to want to hide from We The People. There IS a way for the Senate to get the bill passed WITHOUT 60 votes...without Traitor Joe...without Olympia Snowe...without Mary Landrieu...making them absolutely meaningless in the debate.

Now, WE must let Harry Reid know that WE know that this option is in fact available to him. Call...Email...and DEMAND that if he feels he doesn't have the 60 votes needed to block the filibuster, then We The People...

DEMAND
RECONCILIATION !

When they, our great politicians realize that WE KNOW that they have this option...they will be FORCED to use it...even if they had other intentions (like letting the bill stall or even fail). Help the word RECONCILIATION become a household word. Spread the fact that this IS in fact an alternate means of the Senate getting the bill passed. Since day one, President Obama has stated that he would not be able to create Change on his own...that he would need OUR help. Time to do OUR part by DEMANDING that our politicians do EVERYTHING possible, including RECONCILIATION, to stop 44,000 Americans from DYING each year due to the lack of access to quality health care, by passing health care reform-with a strong public option-for all.

Email the media to let them know that WE know
and are DEMANDING that our politicians
Get It Done !

Related Articles:
Gibbs: White House Not Ruling Out Reconciliation
(11/09/09)

Robert Reich Pushes Getting STRONG Public Option
Through RECONCILIATION
(11/13/09)

Greg Jones
National Director
Blacks4Barack (dotBlogspot.com)

Iron Snake

James — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 23:33:36 EST

Closer To God

Iron Snake

I grabbed the extended hand, going into a double wrist-lock for additional support. Burt’s arm retracted like a hydraulic ram coming up out of a ditch, and I was pulled straight to the top step of the car. I stuck my head out into the increasing wind as the train accelerated out of the sharp curve. I was the last aboard. A well-groomed conductor retracted the stairs, and then stood looking at us as if viewing zoo specimens. We were at the end of the last car. He blocked the aisle without seeming to do so. I produced our tickets, which he examined, clipped twice and pointed forward with, before returning them to my hand.

We’d waited an hour for the train under Ficus trees, called Mugumo locally, that lined the tracks, with an assortment of natives impatient to clamber aboard with us. Apparently, once aboard, the conductors charged a lower, negotiated price, than could be had at the ticket station.

Our First Class sleeping car was located just beyond the dining car. Most of the overnight train configuration was spent on Fourth Class Fare, which meant four bunks to a room. Burt and I had only two, the extra space taken up by a bench seat with a long private window.

We made our way down the aisle, situated along the left windowed wall of the car. The only cars with center aisles were the dining and day-seat cars. The creak of wood and clicking of wheels were comforting sounds of security. The room was a welcome haven from events of the day. At least it was until I looked at the door. I moved past it, raising one hand to stop Burt. We stood on each side of the door looking at the holes around the handle. Small bore bullet holes. The kind slow, sub-sonic silenced rounds make when they enter wood.

I looked at Burt. Neither of us brought out any weaponry, although there was nobody in the corridor with us. There would be no one inside the room, which I confirmed by pushing the now unlockable door open with my foot. It swung wide, allowing us to see every inch of the space. No one waited because they would have been waiting inside an inescapable trap, in the event of problems. We were up against pros, who wouldn’t expose themselves to the whimsy of chance unless they had to.

I went around the inside of the room, poking my finger into holes on the far side wall and then the frames of our bunk beds.

“Why’d they shoot out the lock? The doors don’t have keys. You can only lock them from the inside.” Burt asked, pulling the bottom bunk down from the wall with a thud, and then sitting atop the mattress.

“Not anymore,” I answered. “Kind of gives me the idea that we’re gonna have visitors later, and they don’t even care if we know ahead of time.”

“Cheeky bastards,” Burt sighed. “Why they treating us like citizens?”

Citizens are regular people. People who have no knowledge of intelligence work, guns, pyrotechnics, or real violence. We call ourselves, and others like us, players. Once you are a player you can never be a real citizen again. Most of us think we can, but in truth, it just can’t be done. “Paranoia bites deep….” the song goes.

“Maybe that’s all the intel they have. Maybe we’re just a hit to them. Maybe they don’t have a formal organization behind them,” I mused, taking a place on the bench seat. The scenery going by was the outskirts of Southern Nairobi. Broken blocks, tile and brick, mixed in with metal sheets in a state of angled falling rust everywhere. And dust. Tons of gray dust runneled through with dark rivulets of muddy water. And native peoples everywhere. Three stone fires sending up hundreds of single plum smoke signals wherever I looked.

Our door flew open. My left hand slipped straight into left front pocket, the forty-five bearing on the door open through the cloth of my trousers. A woman stood in the door.

“Evening mates,” she said, loudly and cheerfully, her rough but attractive face broken nearly in half by a huge smile.

“Hi,” Burt mumbled.

My hand relaxed out of my pocket. I was staring at an ‘Earth Mother,’ as we term them. Young women, mostly from England or Australia, some from America, who come over to Africa and then wander about the countries in their comfortable boots. They invariably wear shorts, long sleeve shirts and carry packs that have to weigh more than seventy pounds. Their lack of fear and sense of adventure has always impressed us.

“We got wine if you got an opener,” she stated, with a great laugh.

I was taken aback for a few seconds. An Earth Mother without a Swiss Army knife? I couldn’t picture it. Then I realized we were being invited over for social reasons. The bottle-opener was cover.

“Sure,” I responded, assuming that Burt had more tools behind the padding of his multi-purpose coat.

“Americans?” the woman asked.

We didn’t answer.

“I know from the accent,” she went on, turning to lead us to her room, as both of us had risen to our feet. “’Hi,’ like ‘Hey’ is strictly American. Then there’s the ‘sure’ comment. Another dead giveaway.”

She was Australian, I knew, from her own heavy accent, but I didn’t reply, only following her two berths down the aisle, where another door was open.

“Ever go see the Flamingos,” she inquired, but not waiting for an answer. “At that lake outside of town American tourists like to go to? Down there they always say the same thing when they see the birds: ‘Oh my God, they’re so pink.” She laughed heartily. I had to laugh too. Her impersonation of an American, totally over done, had been vividly descriptive and funny.

We filed into the room. The woman closed the door behind us, engaging the lock with a loud click. There were three other women in the room, all heavily tanned, all smiling broadly. I was humorously glad that I was armed. Burt produced his own Swiss knife, bottle-opener extended. He went to work on a bottle.

“Four of you in a two-bed First Class room?” I inquired.

“Sleeping bags,” the woman named Wendy, who’d invited us in, answered. “First Class room is two hundred shillings less than a four bed Fourth Class.” I marveled, as that amount of local currency was worth about three bucks, and then took a seat on the floor, my back to the outer wall so I could face the locked door. We’d already had a lesson in just how secure those were.

We drank two bottles of red wine. The label read ‘Terpenja Garnacha,” which I knew was Spanish, and surprisingly, not that cheap. Burt and I nursed ours in paper cups, knowing that there were other players aboard who’d have to be dealt with at some point in the night.

“They call this train the Lunatic Express, you know,” Wendy commented, her voice beginning to slur. “There was a lot of opposition to its being built by the British in the eighteen hundreds,” she slurred on.

“Iron snake,” Burt stated, speaking for the first times since we’d entered the cabin. We all looked at him. “Its what the natives call the train,” he followed, his expression showing surprise at our rapt attention. “Kikuyu. The natives are mostly Kikuyu, not Masai,” he finished, almost guiltily, eyeing the remaining wine in his cup.

I couldn’t believe that I had heard correctly. My formal education was in ethnology. Cultural Anthropology they used to call it, before they wanted everyone to think it was all about the study of fish or bugs. I understood the origins and interaction of the cultures in Kenya. I simply could not believe that a Knuckle-dragger, especially a huge dumb-looking one like Burt, would know anything about such things.

“Where the hell did you go to school?” I asked him, without thinking.

“Thornton Fractional,” he replied, proudly. I knew it to be a high school located somewhere in South Chicago. I didn’t know why I expected some center of higher education to come out of his mouth, but I had.

“You two don’t even know each other? Wendy inquired. “We thought you were companions.” The women all laughed, while Burt’s face grew red.

“I’m not gay,” he said, his voice small amid the raucous sounds filling the room around us.

“So, are you married?” Wendy asked me, directly, her first two words coming out as one.

I said I was.

“All the good ones…and all that,” she replied, then went on, “What’s her name?”

“Joan,” I answered, not having a clue as to why I lied, or used that name.

Burt almost laughed out load, held back only by the angry frown I sent across the room at him.

“Gotta use the loo,” Wendy said, unlocking the door. The other women paid full attention to Burt while she was gone, he having indicated that he was single. I presumed that they were merely practicing their skills, as Burt and I were a good fifteen years older than any of them.

Wendy re-entered the room. “Some Bogans down at your place,” she stated, offhandedly, before being surprised by Burt’s instant rise from the floor.

“What’s a Bogan?” he asked, opening the door a fraction, then drawing out his suppressed automatic. I joined him, the AMT Hardballer in my left hand, pointed down. The room went silent and still, the sounds of the train seeming to grow louder with each passing second.

“What have we got?” I whispered.

Burt held up one finger, then pointed aft, toward the dining car. His finger then tapped his own forehead.

“Okay, out you go. I’ll give you ten minutes.” I checked my wrist, but there was no Omega there. I cursed.

His gun disappeared. He was out the door and gone, seemingly more smoothly and quickly than a man his size could move. I slid the forty-five back into my pocket, then turned to face the women. They sat frozen, one with a cup of wine halfway to her lips. I slid down the door, sitting with my back to it.

“I wont stay long, just until Burt gets back. You’ll never see us again, once we hit Mombasa,” I said, my voice soft but flat.

“Mombasa,” Wendy replied, her voice no longer slurring. “It means ‘Battle City’ in Nandi,” she said, matter-of-factly. I didn’t reply, instead waiting for the inevitable question. It came, but not in the form I expected.

“Who are the others?” Wendy inquired.

“We don’t know,” I answered, truthfully. “They came at us in Nairobi because of something that happened in Mombasa. So we’re going there to find out. They don’t have good intentions.”

“That wasn’t a normal kind of gun, the one your friend has,” Wendy stated.

“We’ve seen a lot of guns on our Walkabout. That one’s not normal,” she repeated.

I had nothing to say. I didn’t care about lying to the Aussies, but I could see no reason to add anything I didn’t have to, other than about Joan being my wife, and I couldn’t understand what had made me say that in the first place.

“He’s the killer, so what does that make you?” Wendy asked, the other women opening a third bottle of the wine, as if they commonly spent time in enclosed spaces with gun-toting hitmen.

I again did not answer, setting my cup aside.

“You’ve drunk our wine. We’ve taken you in. You owe us something,” she said, slowly, with quiet expressive meaning.

I looked at all four of them, trying to decide what to say. If there was a code for such encounters, then Wendy was right. Our taking up with them had, at the least, saved a potentially violent confrontation, which might not have worked to our advantage. And she had warned us. I took out the wad of local currency and peeled off two bills.

“Two thousand shillings,” I intoned, putting the money in front of Wendy’s feet, since she made no move to accept it with her hand.

“More,” she said, with no smile on her face or in her voice.

I took another bill from the roll, but she held out her hand.

“Enough money. Tell us more.” She pulled her hand back, then filled her cup to the brim with red wine.

I sighed and put the roll back in my pocket. “We’re agents. It doesn’t matter what kind of agents. One of us got killed in Mombasa. Burt and I came to redress that loss, but nothing when right. When I inquired, these guys, who we don’t know, came at us. Shooting. We can’t go back and we can’t go forward until we know more, which is why were going down to where we lost that agent.” I finished, hoping that my explanation would be enough.

“Can’t exactly go back to your berth, now can you?” one of the other women said.

I had no answer. The woman was correct in her assumption. Unless I could be certain that none of our pursuers were on the train, it would be very risky to stay in the berth we’d booked. But it wouldn’t be any safer elsewhere on the train, unless it was in a berth nobody knew about. Like the one I was in.

“Since Burt isn’t married, he can stay with me, if he doesn’t mind the hard floor,” the woman went on.

“What’s your name,” I asked her.

“Ruthie,” she answered. “Ruthie Jorgensen,” she fluffed her bright blond hair, as if to indicate the obviousness of her Scandinavian heritage, then went on, “but they call me Dingo, because I don’t talk much.”

“Well, that’s more than kind of you Dingo, but Burt’s much older than you. Women don’t take to men like us, and they usually have better judgment than to marry us,” I warned her.

“Except for Joan, that is,” Wendy said, drinking her whole cup of wine down, before going for another.

“I’m not married, since we’re trying to talk truth here. I lied, to fit in better."

"Joan," I said, and then I paused. I could not minimize Joan, “Joan’s a real woman, but with somebody else. And yes, you’ve shared your wine, your room and your friendship with us. That deserves something, which is what I’m trying to give you. Our problems are not your problems, and our problems are very serious.”

“Than you can sleep in my bunk,” Wendy said. “I mean, since your not really married.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Far from rejecting us, the women were welcoming us into their lives, at least while we were all aboard the train.

“Listen to me. We lie for a living. Violence is our stock and trade. We’re not good men. We’re just tools, guided around out here by people who don’t necessarily have the best interests of humanity at heart.”

“Is that part the lying?” Dingo asked, her face serious. I massaged my face with both hands. I had never encountered Earth Mothers, except in passing, and I was finding the experience frustrating and difficult to deal with. I also noted, when I was done talking, that the two thousand shilling notes were no longer on the floor. Wendy smiled, as if in thanks. I wondered, by the time the train hit Mombasa, whether Burt or I would have any currency left between us.

There was a very soft single knock on the door. I felt it rather than heard it.

The bad guys would not be knocking, and there was also no way they could know which cabin we were in. I stood and opened the door. Burt slipped in, and then took his place near Dingo where he’d originally sat.

“What’d you find?” I asked him.

Burt looked at me, then at the women, then back at me, without speaking.

“They’re in,” I told him. “We’re staying with them. Don’t ask how or why. Talk to me.”

With an expression of reservation written across his face, Burt talked. “They had a Fourth Class room let. There were three of them, all Caucasian. They decided that it was in their best interest,” Burt stopped, looking around the silent room carefully, “to leave the train before we got to Mombasa.”

“This is a non-stop,” Wendy stated, analytically.

“Any blood? Clean-up? Disturbance?” I asked, ignoring her.

“No. They were in the last car. I popped the emergency latches on their window, and out they went. Had some duct tape, so the window won’t flap, or anything like that.”

“You made them jump from the train?” Wendy asked, obviously stunned. “But the train is going a hundred kilometers an hour.”

“Would have been nice to talk to them. You didn’t question them, did you?” I interrupted.

Burt looked at me, his expression showing guilt.

“No, but I did get these,” he said, laying two RAP automatics on the seat between he and Dingo. She immediately caressed the surface of both pieces.

“Parabellum?” I inquired of him. He said nothing, confirming my analysis. The guns were nine millimeter’s produced by a small company in South Africa. That company supplied the local police forces. The weapons were not normally available on the private market outside of that country.

“Boers. Shit. What the hell do the Boers have to do with this?” I said the words to myself, thinking. “You find the suppressor?”

A gray, powder-coated cylinder joined the two automatics. I stared at it for a moment. “SAI,” I asked. Again, Burt did not answer. “Shit,” I said. At every turn with these unknown assailants we were being confronted with an abundance of capability and quality material. SAI was a company out of Denmark. They produced a ‘carbon’ silencer superior even to an oil-filled device, but they were usually more expensive than the weapon they were fitted to.

“Get rid of them,” I said, concluding there was nothing more to be learned from the weapons.

“Can I have one?” Dingo asked.

“Me too,” Wendy followed, instantly.

“Alright, take them, but not the suppressor. That goes out the window.” I was unable to keep the exasperated tone from my voice. I was traveling from Nairobi to Mombasa in the middle of the night aboard the infamous Iron Snake, trapped in a room with people equally as crazy as I, if not more so. The thought did not give me comfort.

“Way cool,” the supposedly silent Dingo intoned, using her caricature of an American accent. “What about dinner. You can’t go to the dining car can you, I mean with those others having gotten off the train early?” She stroked here new acquisition while she talked. Burt smiled at her, and then produced a magazine filled with cartridges. I looked from one of them to the other, wondering which one of them was in more trouble.

I took out my wad of shillings. “These seem to work wonders here. I think we can manage dinner in the cabin.”

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com

http://www.themastodons.com

http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com

WINDOW TREATMENT

Marcia from Angier, NC — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 17:08:22 EST

We may not have money to donate.

We may not have time to attend a rally

We may not have gas to go door to door

But we do have crayons, markers, construction paper and tape.

Our windows are sick ------Just like US

They need HR676 ---------Just like US

Let's give them a healthy dose of HR676!!! make a sign and put it in your window then sign in and let us know about it. Click "ATTENDING" this event

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=293263660251&index=1

Senator Obama promised us

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fpAyan1fXCE

This is what it looks like to stand up for what's right

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=if5fgI-w-CY

WHAT IS SINGLE PAYER?
http://fora.tv/2009/09/14/TR_Reid_The_Healing_of_America
http://www.grahamazon.com/sp/whatissinglepayer.php
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAvy9jew9dM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jng4TnKqy6A

IT'S NOT THE PUBLIC OPTION that's what!!!

The Public Option is a placebo

http://www.pnhp.org/news/2009/july/more_of_the_same_is_.php

The Public Option is our ENEMY

http://www.healthcare-now.org/bait-and-switch-how-the-%E2%80%9Cpublic-option%E2%80%9D-was-sold/

HOLD OUT for Single Payer

http://www.pnhp.org/news/2009/june/hold_out_for_single_.php

EVEN REPUBLICANS Know it's best

http://www.republicansforsinglepayer.org/?p=3

Within a brief moment of time

i am rasa — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 13:22:15 EST

Within a brief moment of time

I have been focusing on the greatest journey of my life.

That most amazing miraculous dream of one tiny little sperm carrying the worlds most heaviest load, the genetic information of generations and generations and generations....in order to enter into the dream world of a small egg awaiting for that wondrous moment to arrive. The greatest journey of my life. The greatest journey of my life, happening throughout the ages.

Here i am, the dream of a tiny minuscule sperm who has touched, entered and combined into the amazing dream of an egg. Generations of dreams combining in ONE brief moment of time. Two different distinctive dreams combining everything together to co-create a dream dreaming.

Within that brief small moment of synchronization of time and space. The combined wholeness of my dream was unified. Then began the second most amazing adventure of my life. From one miraculous cell to 100 trillion cells playing and dancing in a unified field of utopian nature.

Then from being focused inside the womb to looking outward to this.

We are all energy. Within a brief moment of time. The possibility of combining and integrating our individual unique miraculous creative genius energy TOGETHER to realize a totally new dream coming from the heart of reality seems so simple so easy.

The Mass Group. E=MC2. Peace, love, freedom...pelodom.

Within a brief moment of time is our ability to integrate our consciousness to form an amazing new creative dream unfolding. Within the empty space is the ability to integrate ALL our dreams simultaneously. By coming to the O table, by giving freely of our geniusness, our dreams shared, our consciousness expands. Our reality expands. Abundance is the dance.

Within a brief moment of time, creation of a new life.. a new dream is owakened.

Dream Big Dreams

It's Us Against the 'Benjamins'!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 10:19:03 EST

The SILENT MAJORITY must not be blind-sided by Republican, ‘Blue Dog’ Democrat and the Independent Senators’ hype about abortion and the public option when it comes to their pledge to STOP Health Care Reform. IT'S ALL ABOUT THE ‘BENJAMINS’!

Senate Anti-Reform representatives will receive OVER A MILLION DOLLARS in contributions from the health insurance industry. (House Anti-Reform representatives received OVER HALF A MILLION DOLLARS in contributions from the health insurance industry - 15% more than Pro-Health Care Reform House representatives.) Go to The Center for Responsive Politics at www.opensecrets.org/ to find out more.

The SILENT MAJORITY must let Republican, ‘Blue Dog’ Democrat and the Independent Senators know how we feel about their placing a BOUNTY on our health care rights.

You know the drill.

Expose Republican, “Blue Dog” Democrat and the Independent Senators’ health insurance industry contributions BY AMOUNT AND BY NAME on ALL Internet venues, in local newspaper letters to the editor and on CONSERVATIVE and MAINSTREAM radio and television talk shows.
Flood Senate mailboxes with e-mails and letters expressing your disgust with their putting a BOUNTY on our health care rights.
REPEAT Steps 1 and 2 EVERY day until the US Senate acts on AND passes a Health Care Reform Bill BEFORE 2010.
Contact Senators at…

www.senate.gov/general/contact information/senators cfm.cfm

www.congress.org

Obamerica

National Strategist with Ariel hands — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 15:25:53 EST

Dear Americans :

Life in America is obamerican !!!

For the first time in the history of the United States of America there is a health care

initiative that will make the realization of universal health care coverage a possibility for

all Americans !!! This is the best achievement for American citizens since Social Security

and Medicare became a standard !!! We are going to be insured !!!

All of us !! Our neighbours !! The PEOPLE !!

So let's find that extra time to make calls to the Senate !!!

Let's work overtime in sending emails to our U.S. Senators to make this happen !!!

I am sure most of Obama Democrats would travel to Washington , D. C. just

to march infront of the doors of the Senate to make the health

care bill that our country needs become a reality !!! !!! !!!

So let's help President Obama make U . S . History !!!

Let's ROCK 'N' ROLL !!! !!!

Yours ,

Kai B .

Hooray!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 00:49:45 EST

The House Health Care Reform Bill has passed. The SILENT MAJORITY’S “public option” train has left the station.

Next stop – the US SENATE at...

www.senate.gov/general/contact_information/senators_cfm.cfm www.congress.org

Republican Senatorial ‘conductors’ have pledged to DELAY our ‘arrival’ at the Universal Health Care Reform station.

Get on board. It’s going to be a bumpy ride, BUT don’t let them stop us from getting to our “public option” destination BEFORE 2010!

"Were Going To Mombasa"

James — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 15:55:48 EST

Closer To God

“We’re Going To Mombasa”

We didn’t make it to the Railway Station, instead stopping the small van down around City Central near Kenyatta Avenue. The driver, conductor and two other teen passengers had remained silent during our trip, not that it would have made much difference with rock blasting from all the speakers. The conductor had rotated once to look at us, with attitude, but something about us had kept him from commenting, or doing anything else.

Burt and I were broke. We had to have cash, which meant we needed an ATM. A few businesses would take credit cards, but not many, even in a large developed city like Nairobi. Africa was third world, outside of a very few places. Our Teeny Matata plunged back into the ‘fishball’ of traffic as soon as we were out. I watched my Omega disappear with a glum expression.

“Got a cell phone?” I inquired of Burt, hoping that I had not been wrong about his over-supplied pack rat nature. I was not disappointed. He handed a small phone over to me.

“Will it work here?” I said, opening the Star Trek flip cover. I wasn’t sure why I’d asked the question, as I already knew the answer. Burt didn’t bother to reply.

I examined the phone. It gave the time of day in big numbers on the screen. I knew that young people did not even wear watches anymore. They got their time from cell phones. I wasn’t that young.

“Agency?” I went on.

“Safaricom chip,” Burt said back. That meant the phone was on a local system instead of any international. It was a relatively untraceable way to communicate, but I wasn’t thinking of calling anyone until we knew more of what we were involved with. Phone calls would give more information out than I was comfortable with. I wondered what other toys Burt had. The mission had been cadged together at the last minute. There had been no clearance meetings, or even initial planning sessions. Things like ingress, egress, communications, armament,

and even financing, had been thrust upon us instead of being homogeneously put together with forethought and design. I put the phone in my pocket. Now I had a bulge on each side, but high fashion was not something common to Eastern Africa.

“Braclays is over in Queensway House on Kuanda,” I pointed out.

I walked in that direction, looking around to see if any of our pursuers had picked us up. If they were Agency personnel we would not have much time on our own. The Agency was terrific at surveillance, and two white guys in downtown Nairobi would not be too hard to find no matter who was looking.

We walked into the lobby of the bank. There were private security guards stationed everywhere, including one on each side of a bank of ATMs. I inserted one of my Visa debit cards, punched in the four-digit code and hoped. Local shillings were all we were going to get from any ATM in the country, which was okay, except for the fact that the largest shilling note issued was for a thousand. With the exchange rate running at about seventy shillings to the dollar, that meant a

Thousand-shilling note was only worth about thirteen dollars.

I used four cards to get a total of sixty thousand shillings out of the machine. The stack of bills was over an inch thick. I shoved the folded wad into my back pocket and we headed for the door. Nine hundred bucks, or so, would have to do.

There was nobody noticeable on Kaunda Street, so we crossed to the Catholic Basilica. We went straight in through a huge gothic entrance. The place was straight out of the dark ages, with tourists gathered together in small guided clumps.

I took Burt all the way to the front of the huge old church and sat him in the front pew. Unconsciously, I genuflected before taking a seat next to him. The lighting was dim to the point of darkness. The place was perfect.

“Stay here. I’ve got to berth us aboard the train going east tonight.

I’m less noticeable alone. Whatever we ran into started down there, where Smith died, so we’re going back to the scene of the crime, if we live that long.”

I looked over at the big man, wondering what the hell he was doing. I was known for my rather unconventional behavior, which had gotten us into the mess we were in, but it was uncommon for wet workers like Burt to be anything but sticklers for following Agency directives and rules.

“What about the woman? You told her to meet us. You don’t think she’ll come?” Burt asked. I rubbed my forehead, thinking for a moment.

“I do think she’ll come, but I don’t want to take her to Mombasa on this, not that she would go. I wanted her to meet us so I could talk to her about what she knows. We can’t drive all night down to Mombasa. We’d be sitting ducks on that rough road. The Agency has drones. We have to hope that whoever is after us will calculate that we’ll run to Jomo and fly out as quickly as we can.”

“We’re going to Mombasa?” Burt asked.

“Yes, we’ve got to get out of Nairobi.

“We’re going to Mombasa,” Burt repeated, this time with a strange tone of enthusiasm. I had more questions about his involvement but they could wait until we were on the train.

I left him there, heading of across the downtown common area for the station. I realized that I should have asked to see if he had a second phone, when the cell phone in my pocket rang. It was Burt.

“I have another phone. The number’s on the dialer, titled King Kong.”

I thought about his self-derived nickname he had given himself. I tucked away a thought to examine his phone to see what he’d chosen for me.

“Thanks,” I responded, not knowing what to say. The man was proving to be an enigma, like maybe a bear with human intelligence would be. Burt hung up. I waited until I was tucked into a corner alcove of the Kenya Bank, right across Haile Selassie Avenue from the station, and then flipped the phone open again. I called Staff Sergeant Stevens, hoping he was still around. I was compromising the cell phone by calling the Embassy, but I had little choice. I had to have more data. I did not believe that the Agency had sent men to kill me. It was just not done. There was no need. They could just recall me and lock me up any time they wanted. They didn’t need to kill field agents. They had worse punishments. Imprisonment and loss of retirement were much more feared punishments, and very commonly applied. In the final analysis, when Burt had been instructed to shoot me, he had refused. Field agents did not kill field agents. There was no career left to an agent who participated in such action, and we all knew it. It was not even entirely believable that he had been ordered to do such a thing.

“I can’t tell you anything at this point,” Stevens said, without preamble. I held the phone out and stared at it for a second. Whether Burt’s phone was already target material, or whether Stevens had been waiting for an unknown call, I did not know, but there was no point asking. Stevens was a Marine, first and foremost, above wife, country and even God. It resonated through him.

“Is she coming?” I asked.

“Tower, in twenty,” he said, and then hung up. I turned to my right and looked up at the tallest building in East Africa. The Times Tower. That was the tower. Twenty, in Marine parlance meant twenty minutes. She was coming. I was relieved, and intrigued, by her conduct. I hadn’t been absolutely sure that she would come. Not nearly as certain as I’d led Burt to believe.

Seeing no one of any consequence over at the long cinder block construct of a railway station, I crossed the street and entered the facility. I was always surprised that it was clean. Even the bathrooms were clean. And the rain earlier in the day had helped, giving the place a fresh, although local, scent. I went to the line of booths under a sign that said “Kenya Railroad Berthing Allotment.’ I could not help looking around suspiciously as I approached the attendant behind his bars.

“Two, first class cabin for Mombasa.” The man looked at me, the black visor of his blue cap shined to a high luster. As a former Marine myself, I could tell that it was polished leather and not the fake Corfam junk. There was one train to Mombasa every night. It arrived there, from Nairobi, early in the morning. Tickets were booked in advance, and for cash.

“Papers,” the man said, primly, holding out one hand toward the slot

under the bars.

I took out my wad of shillings, peeled off four of them, then slid them through the slot. The 1st class fare to Mombasa was posted on the chalk board behind the man. It said nine hundred shillings. I waited. He stared down.

“For two,” he said. “Private room with clean bedding and first service in the dining car.” The money was gone when I looked down. I had not seen the man’s hands move. He took two tickets from a drawer, shoved them toward the slot, then looked behind him and made believe he was concentrating on something else. I let him, taking the tickets and walking back toward the platform, until I saw the woman.

A white woman stood out form the building, peering up and down the platform, as if looking for a train. But there was no train, nor would there be until the evening run was ready to be made at around seven. The events at the Safari Park had occurred so quickly and intently that I could not recall if the woman was the same as the one with the camera crew. But she was looking for something. And I knew I was being looked for. I went into the restroom without going out onto the platform. From a stall I called King Kong and filled him in, about the woman and about Joan’s pending arrival, now only fifteen minutes away. Burt’s analysis was better than mine. If the woman was there, then the others would be in the area. We decided that I would try for the Railroad Museum just north of the station.

Before leaving the bathroom stall I removed a full roll of toilet paper. I carried it with me in my right hand.

The station was not crowded, which was unfortunate for my purposes, although no one gave me the slightest glance as I went out to the street side, gained the far edge of the building, and then darted across a twenty yard concrete expanse. The Railroad Museum was right there, with an old engine and cars lined up next to it. I hid behind the cars, kneeling to look up from under them. I did not observe any extraordinary interest or pursuit. After a five-minute wait, I did see the woman. She stood at the outside lip of the wooden platform. She gestured with one hand toward someone who seemed to be in the direction of my position, but I couldn’t see who she might be waving at. Finally, I went through the door into the museum.

The object of the woman’s attention was obvious once I was through the door. A large white male stood in front of me, his arms extending up and outward, as if to engulf me. Without thinking of the potential of terrible repercussions, my left hand went down. I brought the small forty-five up out of my pocket, flicked off the double-sided safety and walked right into the arms of the huge man. His attempt to grasp me never reached conclusion. I jammed the AMT into the side of the toilet paper roll, pressed the arrangement hard into his belly and squeezed the trigger.

The sound was not nearly as loud as I thought it would be.

The toilet paper roll shredded, but the man, amazingly, did not go down. Instead he held both hands to his stomach, an awful expression of pain on his face and a mewling grown coming form his open mouth. I marveled. The man appeared to be made of something tougher than hide, gristle and hair.

I ran, using a casual lope, which covered ground quickly but made me look more like a jogger than someone running from something. The gun stayed clutched in my left hand, so small it was invisible to anyone who might have been looking my way. I could not have run with a two-pound chunk of metal in one front pocket.

One thick hand waved from around the far side of the bank building, as I approached.

“What happened?” Burt asked, when I pulled up next to him, reseating the gun out of view.

“What in God’s name are you using for ammo?” I shot back. I had never known a forty-five round, at close range, fired into a man’s torso, to leave him standing and complaining0.

“Shot-shell,” Burt said, rather ruefully. I waited, looking back around the corner for some sign of pursuit, but there was none. When my head swung back I spotted the Pajero across the side street, just pulling up to the steps of the Times Tower. Burt saw it to. We started out together while he talked.

“I load a cartridge of birdshot as the first round. In all my guns. I’ve had a few occasions where I shot the wrong guy. A few years back I decided that I’d rather apologize for causing pain and misery than live with the other result.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The man was demonstrating an application of intellect and good judgment that I had never seen from any gun or pyrotechnics expert I had ever met. His forethought had saved the day. There would be no unexplainable dead body at the museum. No Caucasian ‘tourist’ slain by terrorists or robbers. The man I had hit would be marginally injured and very likely ambulatory. No cordons. No investigations. Our train trip was still possible.

“What’s the second round, some sort of nuclear device?” I asked, not entirely kidding. Burt didn’t answer. We were upon the car, which was not driven by Joan.

A young blond male with short hair sat behind the wheel. I got in behind him, while Burt went around. The DCM was in the front passenger seat.

“Drive into the traffic,” I told the kid, assuming he was one of Steven’s Marines. Without a word he wedged us in among the Matatas, trucks, and other conveyances trying to get from Kenyatta onto Mombasa Road. I looked behind us, but could not make out anything, but realized we had been either followed to the Railway Station without our realizing it or our behavior had been predicted.

“Thanks for coming,” I said to Joan, “and who are you?” I followed, rapping the youngster on his right shoulder .

“Corporal Sam Hill, Sir,” he answered. “I got the week off for leave but nowhere to go. Sergeant said I might come with you guys, if that’s okay.”

He looked to be a teenager to me, but most Marines do, as I get older.

“A guy just got shot back at the museum, and we’re being hunted by people we don’t know. Are you sure you want a piece of this?” I retorted. I didn’t mention that I’d done the shooting.

“Yes, sir,” the boy-child replied, filled with enthusiasm.

“Why’d you come?” I asked Joan, noting that her medium cut brown hair was perfectly combed. It seemed to float around her head. When she turned to face me, it bounced on its own a few times. I felt a warm glow. She’d carefully prepared to see me again.

“I wasn’t doing anything else,” she said, then smiled for the first time since I’d encountered her. I had a million questions I wanted to ask her but none of them had anything to do with our current situation.

“Thank you,” I repeated, getting control of myself, enough to find out what we needed to know. “How did your husband get involved in a CIA operation?” I asked her, directly.

“He’s not my husband, and I don’t know, but I know he did. What was it all about?” she asked me, in return. I noted that the nails of her left hand, draped over the side of the seat, were manicured, and painted to a high gloss. I could not tell the color, as blue was the only color I really saw well at all. Her eyes were intensely blue, with thick brows over them. I could see those. She had a stunning presence.

“What happened to Smith, down in Mombasa?” I countered, ignoring her question.

“It didn’t’ start in Mombasa,” she replied. “It ended there, down in that prison outside of town.”

“Shimo la Tiwa?” I asked? I knew the prisons of Kenya. Not hellholes like the prison typified in the movie Midnight Express, put out in the seventies, but dirty bad places to try to survive in, especially for a Caucasian.

“G.K,” she said, shaking her head, “I think it was called, from what I heard.”

G.K. were the two letters mounted above the iron grate entrance to Shimo prison. I’d never found out what they stood for, but I said nothing to Joan. We had a location to work back from. It was also instructive that Smith had been in prison, not in jail. It spoke of an unlikely permanence.

“Where did it start?” I asked her.

“What?” Joan replied, not focused on the data I was trying to get from her.

“Smith. You said all of it started somewhere. Where?” I asked, patiently.

“Oh,” she answered, taking her time. I wondered if it was because of perplexity or evasion. “At the Embassy. Smith came to see Paul at the Embassy.

Neither of them were happy about the meeting, but I don’t know what they talked about.”

“Was your Communications Director present for the meeting?” I inquired, wanting to know if the local CIA ‘cowboy’ stationed at the Embassy was involved.

“That guy?” she came back. “Tyrell? No, why would he be there?”

I couldn’t believe that the DCM of a major embassy could remain unaware of the facility’s only CIA operative, however ceremonial his role was, but I let it pass.

I would deal with Tyrell later.

“We’re going down there, to Mombasa,” I told her, not really understanding why I was giving her any information whatsoever. I just felt that I had to trust somebody and, for some reason I could not fathom, I found the DCM to be imminently trustable.

“The train. You’re taking the train tonight, aren’t you?” she correctly assumed. “You’re going after Rafiq, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer. Rafiq Salim was the name of our Lebanese target from the mission. I tried to think of why Joan would think we would pursue him down in Mombasa. The Agency had informed me that he lived in Nairobi where he ran a jewelry business. Without prompting, she gave me the answer.

“He lives down there. His family runs one of the ferries.”

I almost groaned aloud. Whatever we were involved in just kept getting more and more complex. I couldn’t seem to find any truth in anything.

“What do you want me to do, sir?” the corporal asked.

“Well for one, Sam Hill, I want you to stop calling me sir. My name is Jack.” I didn’t make the obligatory joke about ‘Sam Hell’ as I presumed he had been living with that all of his life. “Then, when we’re done here, I want you to drive this vehicle down to Mombasa. You have a cell phone?” The boy handed me a white card, like the generic Marine Corps card Staff Sergeant Stevens had given me. There was a Kenyan number on it in pencil. A ton of numbers really, but they seemed to work.

I noted that he was attired in a worn canvas outfit, with lots of pockets. He looked like an assistant to a tour director for one of the tourist ‘safari’ adventures, or maybe one of the redemption-seeking workers for an aid agency. In Kenya to seek redemption from living a life of spoiled ease and meaninglessness.

Joan’s information, if it was valid, changed everything. Mombasa was revealing itself as the key to our mystery, or at least the place where the key might be found.

“When you get down there, and you should arrive hours before us, go to the Inter-Continental and hang out. I’ll call you. We need a car down there, and it might as well be this one.” I could not rent a car for cash in Kenya. Renting another car, no matter what the bribe, would take a host of paper and plastic backup I was not willing to give out. I no longer believed that the Agency was after us. But somebody with assets and motivation was. I was not going to give them anymore than I absolutely had to.

“The embassy is locked down,” Joan said.

“How’d you get out?” I asked, but then didn’t wait for an answer, already knowing that Stevens was at work. The Ambassador would be howling mad when he discovered his ex-wife, his DCM, was not there. “When you going back?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll catch a Matata home. I don’t understand any of this and I need to think, and maybe drink half a bottle of Grey Goose while I do it. Can we go somewhere and talk? Do you have time? Is there some place?”

I was surprised by her request. I was also surprised, however, that she had gotten out from under an embassy lockdown. The woman was starting to amaze me even more than Burt. We had several hours to kill before getting aboard the train, and we needed to be someplace where we could be off the streets. The bottle of Grey Goose sounded wonderful, but it was not to be.

“The Java House, on Argwings, just off Kenyatta, you know it?” I said to the corporal.

“Kinda,” he answered, biting the sir off before it came out of his mouth. He made me feel old and slow, totally unlike what I got from Joan.

“Make it so,” I said, emulating Jon Luke Piccard from Star Trek.

“Engage,” he laughed back, diving out of the traffic, across two medians and reversing our course of travel. I noted that another vehicle tried the same maneuver but only managed to create a massive traffic tie-up behind us. Whoever they were, they were persistent and good. Just not as good as a crazy teen-aged Marine driving a Pajero in downtown Nairobi.

“What changed?” I said to Joan, as the Pajero rocked back and forth, avoiding all manner of obstacles I tried not to pay attention to, only too happy to be taking the train instead of riding with Sam.

“What changed about what?” she retorted, holding fast to the sissy bar mounted above her window.

Communicating with the woman was maddening.

“We’re going to Mombasa,” Burt said, unaccountably.

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com

http://www.themastodons.com

http://from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com

Reflecting on Issues

Julie — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 15:31:22 EST

It's time to talk about some of what has been taking place since the big win last November. I am puzzled about what has been going on with the healthcare issue and extremely disappointed in the progress. I am not here to blame anyone in particular, honestly, I am not sure who to blame. However, I do know who NOT to blame and that is the President Barack Obama. He has been working tirelessly on so many things (especially healthcare reform) in order to move this country in some sort of positive direction. It saddens me that there are so many people that are so determined to see this all fail. What kind of person or people want to see someone or something good fail? We have seen and have heard this said from the far right,or Republican Conservative standpoint and quite frankly it's disgusting. After 8 years of failed policy and neglect we have a President that cares and wants to create positive change. Unfortunately, for those that want to execute positive change,there are still those that want to destroy it's progress. How do we overcome this dilemma? How can we make progress if there are so many who fear that they won't get their slice of the pie? It's fear itself that will be the dimise of us. For once,It would be nice to see folks have faith and trust in something, faith and trust in our abilty to make change happen. I know that if we can get healthcare reform passed,all our worries regarding other issues (jobs, global warming,education,foreign policy etc.) can be resolved with ease. I hope for those who are afraid that the health reform bill will hurt them,will in fact see the truth. I hope that we can unite again as one country in order to make progress for the good of all.

I Declare! We're Almost There!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 12:37:00 EST

Members of the SILENT MAJORITY, we’re almost there! Write and call “Blue Dog” Democrats and ALL Congressional House representatives ALL DAY AND NIGHT. The public option is up for a vote in the House. Go to…www.house.gov/writer and/or www.congress.org

Yesterday the House Minority Leader quoted words from the Declaration of Independence as words from the “Constitution” at an Anti- Health Care Reform rally. Today Republican “Break Obama” Lawmakers are conducting a media blitz declaring that they WILL NOT vote for the Health Care Reform Bill and equating the public option with a loss of freedom. Since they don’t know the difference between the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, it’s not surprising that they don’t know the definition of “Option” which is associated with having a choice. "Freedom" of choice is what the "public OPTION" is all about! Functional illiteracy is no excuse for throwing the wishes of 62% of Americans under the bus.

Health Care Community Forum

Rev.E.L. — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 10:53:27 EST

Ongoing involvement is essential as the plan is fine tuned and implemente over the next several years.

An open forum to discuss a community strategy to insure that all persons in our community have access to reliable health care information and quality health care. Bring your cells phones as some will be requested to make telephone calls to encourage community support for the Obama Administrative Plan to include a public option.

Presentations will be made by expert comunity leadership, insurance professionals who support reform and the New Life Wellness Center. A voluntary free will offering to support our efforts will be taken.

During this Thanksgving Season, we encourage corporate and individual prayers for real change in America concerning healrh care and other critical community issues(III John 2).

This community events will take place at the St. Paul's Missionary Baptist Church in Bridgeport, CT. For more information call (203) 260-9134

Can you help me?

melania — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 10:02:11 EST

I want buy a mug in ofa store, but I have a problem: I live in Italy, so, I don't understand what I must do.. Can I pay with euro money? Can I buy something in ofa store? Can merchandise come here, in Italy?

Thanks to everybody!!!

You Snooze, You Lose!

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 07:22:15 EST

62% of Americans WANT THE PUBLIC OPTION. Don’t let the public option suffer the same fate as Virginia and New Jersey. New York and California election results proved that you can lose the battle, but not the war! The SILENT MAJORITY must act now, or suffer the consequences later!

1. Expose and challenge “BLUE DOG” DEMOCRAT Congressional Representatives who do not support the public option on ALL Internet venues, in local newspaper letters to the editor and on CONSERVATIVE and MAINSTREAM radio and television talk shows.

2. WRITE to ALL Congressional Representatives! Flood their Congressional mailboxes with letters and e mails detailing your health care woes, your family’s health care woes, and your friend’s health care woes. Send them the DOLLAR FIGURES of your health care physician and hospital balances. WRITING is proven to be the most effective way to make your point when it comes to influencing Congressional representatives. Contact Congressional representatives at…

www.senate.gov/general/contact_information/senators_cfm.cfm www.house.gov/writer www.congress.org

If we blow this one, we can’t blame Obama, we can only blame ourselves!

Obama is attention for Mexico and Brazil

Ton007 — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 17:38:32 EST

For the management of the president of U.S.A., Barack Obama, the American Latin countries could be joined in a common good. In the vision of the White House, crises as of Honduras, still denote a climate of instability and cohesion of objectives.Obama sees that Mexico and Brazil are if becoming illustrious representative mediators of new crises. In more, the White House does not have an official and opened position in relation to the thought of the American president. By Clayton Fernandes.

OFN-Jax thanks for interviews

Jerry E Fluellen Jr — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 00:43:33 EST

Peace, Deirdre, Tammy, Phillip,Vivienne, Bruce, and Ingrid. Thanks so much for your interviews last Saturday. Your ideas add value to the research problem we have been exploring: How did a group of campaign volunteers become a learning organization?

Our last data to collect will be a video tape of at least one of the two shared vision workshops in the four part series. As we close in on a published shared vision for OFN-Jax, we also close the ethnographic study. A few members asked for another chance to interview so I am figuring out how to do a second round in December.

Love you all,

Jerry

"Dream BIG Dreams" ...Take ONE...scene one, act one

i am rasa — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 18:38:47 EST

WE...We the people, in order to form a more perfect union ....decided to make a movie.

So, "Dream Big Dreams" was conceived as a process of WE creating community for the ultimate well being of the i within the we and the we within the i .

So, here i sit within the echoing silence of Kelly's Room of the First Street Community Center Mount Vernon Iowa.....LISTENING.....Listening to the deep subtle depths of the heart of reality. Within THE SPACE where the Masters gather, a small flame of a winter green flame coats the twenty foot square empty space ....a warm rich glow of peaceful solitude.

Our community seeks a strong sound foundation in which to reach out in play of our game of forming a more perfect union. A warm, secure, peaceful, creative, healthy, engaging, blissful playing field suitable for meeting each and every individual unique relationship in pure possibilities of play.

THE SPACE of the room, of infinite and eternal playing field of Kelly's Room is suitably framed by the words, "Beautiful Pure Perfect Love" for the integral informative conceptual magical Utopian ways of growing and sustaining communities through the ages.

"Dream BIG Dreams" is a movie about a process WE all co-create and co-design. A simple easy blueprint of economic development taken seed within the heart of oneself and being connected and networked, shared and danced into the heart of family, community, state and nation and the heart of reality.

A time to remember, Black Hawk, and all our ancestors that brought US to this point in time, this magical miraculous perspective with the heart of the sweat lodge within the heart of Kelly's Room.

WE all bring our "Dream Big Dreams" of our individual unique miraculous creative genius to the O table of Michelle's Tea House.

From the magic of Craig Wilson's "Chalk the Walk" appearing on Main Street Mount Vernon, George Washington appears through a worm hole of time, heading homeward, he appeared in Mount Vernon where he befriended Makiah Miller and all his friends of the small Iowa town of Mount Vernon. Here during the process unfolding, George shares his 33 insightful ways of forming a more perfect union....in sharing his magical utopian vision of manifesting everyone's "Dream Big Dreams"

So, the process of WE...We the people making a movie to co-create a more perfect union is born. ...OUR vision OUR goal of playing the game whole heatedly together...to act as a blueprint integrating the nation, integrating the systems of dancing the ultimate health of oneself into the heart of reality.

The process of making the movie is beginning. Til Thanksgiving Day the process of you..."Dreaming Big Dreams" is unfolding....is being shared with all the friends manifesting for one another each and every dream coming home to the heart of reality.

Which character do you play?

CUT..........

Recovery Act: Saving Over A Million Jobs

EsquireUK — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 11:10:00 EDT

http://www.whitehouse.gov/blog/2009/10/30/weekly-address-milestones-economy-and-recovery-act

Read the Transcript | Download Video: mp4 | mp3 (5MB)

While there is nothing to celebrate until job numbers turn around, the President cites the recent dramatic turnaround in gross domestic product as a sign of better things to come. He also applauds the fact that the Recovery Act has now created or saved more than a million jobs.

Yesterday we learned that GDP had grown at an annual rate of 3.5 percent during the third quarter, the first time the economy had grown in more than a year.

Today new reports confirm that the Recovery Act is responsible for more than 1 million jobs so far – and is on-track to create and save a total of at least 3.5 million jobs by next fall. The reports (which are required by Congress) were submitted by state and local governments, private companies, community organizations and other recipients of Recovery funds. The reports indicate 640,329 jobs have been created or saved, on a little less than half of stimulus spending to-date.

The majority of the jobs reported today were in the construction and education sectors -- about 325,000 of the jobs reported were in education and more than 80,000 of the jobs are in construction.

Jared Bernstein, Vice President Biden’s Chief Economist and the Executive Director of the Middle Class Task Force, has a great post on the White House blog about today's news. You can access the reports at Recovery.gov.

France Gave Us The Statue Of Liberty After WWII And Other Crazy Things Palin Supporters Believe

David from Muskegon, MI — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 20:53:26 EDT

France Gave Us The Statue Of Liberty After WWII
And Other Crazy Things Palin Supporters Believe

Note: I encourage everyone to take a look at Sarah Palin's fan page on Facebook™ It's quite a freak show. My post have been removed and I am banned from making further comments on her wall.

Republicans hate Free Speech, so you should go write something antagonistic and degrading on her wall right now. Make sure you do a screen capture, because they will remove it from the board within a couple minutes. If you send it to James.McSaddle@gmail.com I will post it on TheTruth.

Best of luck!

Dumb Twat: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door" This is the inscription written on the Statue of Liberty which was given to us by France, after we liberated that country. Think about this for a minute. Where else will the people of the world go if America becomes just like the country they are trying to escape?"

McSaddle: You sound about as smart as Sarah Palin.

The Statue of Liberty was a gift from France to celebrate the 100 year anniversary that the Declaration Of Independence was signed. You know, when THEY helped liberate us from Britain, not when the Allies liberated France in WWII. Maybe do a fact check next time?

The "huddled masses" poem, or "The New Colossus" was added years later to celebrate America's history of immigration. Also, it's not written on the outside of the statue, it's on the inside.

You should know that the Huddled Masses get a better deal in France, where they are secure in their economic well being and everyone has access to world class health care. The food is pretty good too.

None of this matters, because you come off as someone who calls french fries "Freedom Fries", who cheers on the Minute Men, and who purports that looking after the poor and sick is the same as socialism.

How many people in France go bankrupt because they can't pay for their medical needs versus that United States?

Sarah Palin: Clearly not a thinking person's candidate.

http://thetruthorsomethinglikeit.blogspot.com/2009/10/france-gave-us-statue-of-liberty-after.html

Hakuna Matata

James — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 21:32:52 EDT

What the hell, I'll put it on her anyway. What are they going to do, kick me off?

Closer to God

Hakuna Matata

III

The reinforced double-steel door of the underground parking lot slowly retracted sideways across our view. It was too impossibly heavy to rise vertically. We sat waiting in the Pajero, DCM next to me in the passenger seat and Burt just behind her. Staff Sergeant Stevens pushed another button and rock barriers at the top of the drive began to sink into pre-formed slots. He held up one hand, watching the stones, until they were gone, replaced by metal grates that snapped loudly into place. His hand moved and became a salute. The kind only a Marine is capable of making. I nodded at the man, putting the Nissan into gear. Mrs. Haggerty waved to him, as well, but I knew the salute was intended for me. I smiled my appreciation. His arm came down. He pointed at the windshield as I drove by. I looked at the small white card under the wiper, then reached my hand around through the open window and claimed it.

Bright afternoon sun had replaced the rain, and a cooling wind blew through the Pajero’s open windows, as we waited to take a left onto Limuru Road. Traffic was heavy, and Kenyan’s gave no quarter when it came to driving. We plunged into the melee but didn’t have far to go. Muthaig’s crowning feature was the Safari Park, Kenya’s only real five star hotel with any local flavor.

We waited to take the turn into the hotel.

“May I call you Joyce?” I asked.

“No, you may not,” the DCM shot back, not looking at me, instead examining the wedding band still located on the appropriate finger of her left hand. “You can call me Joan,” she relented. “I hate the name Joyce.”

“You look terrific, Joan,” I said, quite truthfully.

“Fuck off,” Joan stated, her voice evidencing disgust, “don’t try your smooth, urbane, man-of-the-world crap on me.”

I checked the rear view mirror, to see Burt trying to cover his smile with one hand. He avoided my eyes.

“Thank you,” she followed up, unaccountably. The woman was confounding me. I was afraid to speak, but felt somehow, that she wanted me to say something.

I was in a verbal minefield.

“How long have you been divorced?” I tried, figuring that almost every divorced person I had ever met loved to talk about the divorce, and how rotten the other person was.

“None of your God damned business,” she hissed, massaging her wedding band hand, but looking out the side window. I waited for more, but nothing came.

“Two years?” I offered.

“Two years?” she turned on me, speaking the words loud enough to make me raise my right shoulder and wince. “Two years? What kind of idiot are you? Oh, I almost forgot, you’re a spook. One of those Southern-Fried-Chicken-University types who populate Langley. What’d you major in, Bo Weevil Mating? If I’d been divorced for two years, do you think I’d still be the DCM for that idiot?” Spittle hit my cheek.

I heard a barely audible giggle from behind me, but I didn’t look in the mirror. I finally hustled the Pajero through the broken ‘tiger-teeth’ jam of the opposing traffic.

“Ah, no,” I blurted out to her series of questions, driving as fast as I could manage to get to the hotel as quickly as possible.

“No, what?” she yelled. “No, you have a degree is something else, like maybe Burro Husbandry, or ‘Poor-White-Trash’ farming?” I shook my head, in agony.

The huge pyramidal structure of the Safari Park main building appeared and I headed the car for it like it was a laser-guided smart bomb. Supposedly the willow reed thatched buildings had been designed with clues taken from native Kenyan hovels, but in truth, there was nothing in the country that looked like the place.

Without meaning to, I skidded the Pajero to a halt directly in front of the lobby, and jumped out. I moved around the vehicle to get Joan’s door, but one of the bellmen had already attended to that. She stood waiting. Burt was out and leaning against the back fender, as if ready to enjoy more of the show. The show being my complete humiliation.

Joan headed straight for the lobby. I followed closely behind her, noting how powerfully she strode, her black pumps clicking loudly across the tiled floor of the entrance. Burt ran into me, because I had run into Joan. She had stopped too suddenly for me to avoid her. The three of us grabbed one another and swayed.

“Oh great, slimed by a Halloween spook,” she exclaimed, pushing herself from my fumbling grasp.

“Would you stop that?” I said, as quietly as I could to her retreating back.

“Look what happened to the last guy who got outed on your watch?” I followed up. She flinched, but kept walking.

“Good one,” Burt whispered behind me, which made me frown.

We trailed behind the fast moving woman through the lobby and out the back, around a great blue pool surrounded with palm trees of all sizes, and on past the cascading series of wonderful waterfalls that gave all the interior rooms of the establishment a special serenity. The Hilton, and the Sarova hotels have better rooms than the Safari, but none can come close to matching its ambiance. I knew where we were headed. The Nyama Choma Ranch Restaurant was the only thing left between us and the Muthaiga jungle forest. It was simply the finest African food restaurant in Kenya. Nothing else was close. I yearned for an Ostrich steak covered in Monkey-brain gravy. No monkeys involved, of course. Its only a name.

Under one side branch of the falls I caught a flash of movement. Then it was gone. It had been part of a head, sticking out of the bushes, viewing our arrival. I slowed. Burt stumbled into me. I was a little shaken, as I came to a stop, while Joan disappeared into the opening of the restaurant.

“What?” Burt inquired, backing up a step.

“I wouldn’t take an oath on it, but I think the Lebanese just checked us out from beyond the falls.” The water pouring down upon the rocks made talking difficult, but Burt got my message. He turned automatically, putting a palm trunk between himself and the falls.

“You still got that hand cannon under your coat?” I asked, remaining in the open. If we had walked into an ambush no thin palm tree was going to save us.

Burt nodded, but did not make any moves to access it.

“Got anything else?” I asked, feeling a bit naked.

Burt showed me three fingers, held down at his side. Special Forces hand chatter. I always liked the one where the leader takes two fingers of one hand and aims them at his own eyes, so everyone will look at him. In practice, however, I’d found that the gesture, like so many, was all for show. Anybody who could see the gesture was already looking.

“Three?” I said, in amazement. “The Mau Mau’s were put down in 1960, for Christ’s sake. Give me anything small.”

Burt leaned down by genuflecting on right knee, hand sweeping back to flick the bottom of his pant leg upward. Quickly and smoothly, like an unfolding python, the thick muscular man rose up and delicately inserted a .45 Caliber AMT automatic into my open left hand. I stuck it immediately into my front trouser pocket. The five shot auto was small, yet as thick as a full blown Colt. The bulge was noticeable, but I had little choice. Klingon’s preferred to die fighting in combat, or so they said on Star Trek, and I was not going down unarmed.

“What does it mean?” Burt whispered, his eyes never leaving the area of the falls.

“I don’t know. Not good. What would he come here for? If Haggerty decided on Executive Action, then why would the man come where the man is? He’s a U.S. Ambassador, for God’s sake. And how would he know where he was? I haven’t been able to make sense out of anything since we were out there on the Serengeti.” Joan came back out of the restaurant, looking even more impatient then when she’d walked in.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, clicking up to us.

“Admiring the falls,” I covered.

“Oh great, a gay spook and his cultured Troglodyte,” she complained, in exasperation. “Paul’s in there having lunch with one of his mysterious companions.

Should I announce you or do you want to make a grand entrance?”

“We’re coming. Please show us the way,” was all I could say. The woman did not elicit lengthy response, not without dealing out considerable pain.

“What’s a Troglodyte?” Burt asked, from behind. I was about to answer when I had another thought. I stopped again, this time with the four-top table, where the Ambassador sat with some unidentified white male, in sight. “Back out Burt, this could be a hit on Haggerty.” Why else would the Lebanese not take a taxi home, but instead head straight for his antagonist. Who was the Lebanese? He’d acted as prey, very convincingly, but he wasn’t acting that way anymore. Burt backed up to the restaurant entrance, and then disappeared into a hidden alcove. I moved to Joan’s side at the table.

“What’s this?” Paul said, slowly getting to his feet. He stared at me in surprise, and recognition. I stood stunned. The man could only have recognized me if he had a file photo. I relaxed a little as I realized that someone might have called him from the embassy. Cell phones worked amazingly well in Nairobi. I didn’t carry one but I was willing to bet that Burt had three or four under his “Q” designed safari rig.

“Sit,” I commanded the DCM, pulling out a chair for her. She hesitated.

“There’s danger here, sit and act like everyone else,” I continued. She took the chair. I sat at the one next to her, across from the two men. The Ambassador joined us.

“What,” he began, but I held up my right hand. I slid my left hand into the .45 pocket at the same time. The automatic was double action, I knew. In the silence over the table a distinct metallic click sounded. The automatic was off safety. All four of us sat frozen.

“You can worry about me later Paul,” I said, conversationally. “The same Lebanese, the subject of our attention a few hours ago, was out by the falls a few minutes ago. I let him off near the airport, where he was supposedly going to go into hiding. I might have erred and cost you your life, but I don’t want Joan here, or your friend, to go out with you. What do you think?” The waiter came over and placed water, without ice, in front of both Joan and I. We sat in silence.

“Ah, how sure are you,” Paul began to ask, but I cut him off.

“This is the Choma, and the waiter just brought us glasses of water, not bottled water like you have.” I smiled, wondering if the man would get it, as I prepared to go to the floor and attempt to crawl behind some nearby decorative rocks. If anybody opened up I could count on Burt to provide intense covering fire, but his ammo wouldn’t last long. The only safety might be found in staying less than a foot off the ground. An assassination at such a notable hotel and restaurant would have to be over in seconds. Surviving the first few seconds would be everything.

“The waiter’s not a waiter?” Joan said in a low tone, her voice shaking. “What have you done Paul? What are we in?”

“Alright,” the Ambassador said, ignoring his ex-wife and speaking directly to me. “Maybe I was wrong about you. I apologize. What do we do?”

I was amazed. The man was apologizing for attempting to kill me. I sighed.

Being an operational agent for the Agency could not be taught in schools or learned in books. It was too bizarre for that.

“We leave. Slowly, without fanfare, you move toward the kitchen over there Paul, while your friend heads for the washroom in back. Joan, you’re going out all the way to the street, where you’ll wait in the Pajero. You drive. I’m going to knock my silverware onto the floor, then lean down to pick it up. If there’s fire, then you all drop and stay where you are, without moving at all. If there’s fire, it‘ll probably be at me, here at the table, where they intended to shoot. The silverware hitting the floor is your cue. Got it?” Nobody said anything. “Tell me you got it?” I instructed.

Joan murmured something, while Paul and his companion said yes at the same time. I pushed my fork onto the floor. It hit with the sound of a ringing bell.

Everyone moved. I went to one knee, then leaned under the table and fell to my stomach, turning to bring the .45 out and up. I had no more time than that. The phony ‘waiter’ stepped out of the bushes holding an old-fashioned double barrel shotgun. The ends of the barrels looked huge, as he stood only two feet over me.

My AMT was only inches from his stomach. I laid there, looking up into his eyes while taking all the slack, and a little more, out of the .45’s trigger. Slowly, he moved the shotgun aside, cocking his head, as if in question. I gave him back the thinnest of smiles, wondering what Burt was thinking, since he wasn’t doing anything. The man stepped back into the bushes and was gone. I breathed for the first time since I’d hit the floor. I then crawled to the front of the restaurant, right past the host at the front desk. He looked down at me in amazement, until he saw the automatic in my hand. Then he dropped down and disappeared.

I got up and began loping back through the areas of the falls and pool. I saw nothing of anyone, save a few tourists laying near the water or taking pictures of everything around. At the main entrance I paused to observe some kind of film crew who were set up down near where cars circled to let people off. The Pajero idled near their large, tri-pod mounted, camera. Several large Caucasian men milled nearby, and one long-haired young woman. The passenger door snapped open. I saw Joan at the wheel and Burt’s hand sticking out from releasing the door. I jumped in.

“I think we’re gonna be famous,” I said, but nobody laughed.

Joan jerked the Pajero into gear and tore off back around the circle, headed for the traffic mess on Limuru Road. “What happened back there?” she asked.

I was about to answer her when Burt made a comment.

“The woman. I saw her. At the airport in Joburg. I think she was on my flight.”

I twisted around to face him, letting go of my seat belt.

“You flew direct from Johannesburg, and she was on the flight?”

Where where you flying to? You came down from Lake Victoria.”

I watched the big man closely. I had come to trust him, but I didn’t know just how far yet.

“Zurich. Then Zurich to down here. I met Walt up at the falls, to check it out. We had a couple days.”

“Shit,” I said, out loud, turning back to face Joan. “Pull down into the traffic, and then stop. Burt and I are getting out. You take the car to the embassy. You should be alright. I pulled Staff Sergeant Steven’s card from my shirt pocket.

Give me your cell phone number.” I took out my pen to write.

“Are you crazy? You’ll get killed out there. All this because somebody was on the same plane? And that whole restaurant thing? You’re looney and paranoid, and maybe dumb as a post.”

“The number,” I repeated, patiently. “There was a guy with a shotgun at the restaurant. I think he was there for your husband.”

“Double gun.” Burt added, from the back seat. I looked back to him in question.

“Looked like one of those Holland and Holland things. Big bore.

Elephant gun.”

I whistled. A gun like that would sell for a cool twenty-five thousand dollars, if not more. Whoever was involved in the mess we’d stepped into was very well heeled. And that was bad news indeed.

“He’s telling the truth?” Joan asked of Burt, her voice going up.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied. “Donner is the best there is. Not well liked, but the best there is.”

I would have commented but the back window of the Pajero blew out, along with the rear driver’s side glass. There had been no sound, except the whoosh and tinkle of breaking glass. Joan screamed, then drove recklessly right out into the middle of Limuru Road. Cars, vans and trucks careened and honked, but no contact was made. The SUV stalled out. I looked out the back, through the gaping hole, over the seat where Burt crouched down. The camera crew had scattered to cars and vans, now fighting one another to get out of the narrow driveway.

“The Railroad Station. We’ll wait there. When I call you, come get us.”

I flew between the seats and shot out the driver-side passenger door, Burt behind me.

“Like hell I will,” Joan yelled, “and you don’t have my number.”

I stood and put my hand up against the flow of traffic, which flowed around us like a thick school, of metallic fish. I liked the woman. She was tough as iron and she wouldn’t abandon us after we’d stood up for her. She’d figure it out.

A red mini-van, with a strange hand-painted poster of The Lion King splashed across its front, screeched to a halt, almost touching my hand. A gold stripe ran around the van’s body. I’d stopped a Matata, one of the thousands that constantly prowled the streets of Nairobi. They came in three kinds, regular, gospel and teeny. The regular one’s were for regular people, like most tourists. The gospel one’s blared reborn gospel music at impossibly volumes. The teeny ones were even worse, pumping out acid rock and rap. The latter two were mostly for locals.

Joan got the Pajero started. She joined the traffic flow. The side door of the Matata opened and a young hand waved. Burt and I crawled inside. There were already three teens inside, plus the driver and his ‘conductor,’ who collected the fare. Matatas had gotten their name from their original fare of three shillings. Now, the prices were variable, going all the way up to fifty shillings or more. Fifty shillings being about seventy-five cents American. The Matata didn’t move. Teeny conveyances were weird. They would carry people they liked, or thought were cool for free, or not let you in at all if they didn’t like your look. I could tell that the conductor didn’t like our look.

“You got any money?” I asked Burt. He shook his head. I stared at the evil looking teenager in front of me, trying to ignore the blast of horrid rap coming out of the Matata’s speakers. We had to get the hell out of there. I took off the Omega and held it up.

“Omega, Speedmaster, Astronauts took to the moon, four thousand U.S.” I said. The kid looked at the watch.

“Sare,” he said, then grabbed the watch. Sare, I knew, meant ‘free’ in the local street slang called Sheng. The kids spoke it, like pigeon in Hawaii.

“Sare, my ass,” I responded, angrily. “Railroad Station, right now.”

I tried to see out the windows of the mini van, to see if our new band of followers were there. They had to be. But I also knew they’d never be able to stay on us unless, somehow, they’d been able to attach a GPS unit to our specific Matata. Not likely. Not likely at all.

Matatas were the locusts of Nairobi streets, and they were nearly indistinguishable in outer appearance. We drove Limuru toward Mombasa Road in a veritable sea of them, our vast overpayment of fare overwhelming the driver’s natural tendency to stop for anyone else. Our teenage riders stayed with us to the station, without complaint or comment.

“Who were those guys, anyway?” Burt asked.

“Don’t know,” I answered. “They’re Caucasian, all of ‘em, and I don’t think they’re with the Lebanese. They look like Agency. And they fired on us.”

Ironically, a piece from the Lion King soundtrack blared out from the radio. Hakuna Matata played. I looked around at my fellow passengers. They didn’t seem to get the irony at all. Then the words of the song hit me. “Hakuna Matata! It’s a wonderful phrase. It means no worries for the rest of our days.”

Making Love Out of Nothing at All...

James — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 20:08:16 EDT

I put my latest chapter of the espionage novel called "Closer to God," on the other blogsite I maintain: http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com, simply because some people have complained when I have put fiction on this site. Not that anybody seems to be reading much on the Obama site anymore. I never get comments at all. You could say that maybe my writing is just not good enough to elicit commentary, but I don't think that is it. The grassroots wonder of what was established by the initiation and continuation of this site before and right after the last election was quite something, and great fun to be a part of. But our population loses direction easily. Our culture bores even more easily. And being fickle today, at home and abroad, defines most Americans and most American policy.

We are making believe our money is worth something, and it is still working...marginally. We are making believe that there are actually jobs to perform in this country, instead of in China, India and Indonesia...where we sent them. Friedman stated, last week in the NY Times, that the fault for that is simply that Americans did not properly prepare and educate ourselves for the future, when they had the chance. The man is a liar and low-life cur, making millions while he laughs about why American's should quite justifiably be paid the same as Chinese peasants. And he golfs with the president, when he should more properly be water-tortured in Gitmo. But there is no real justice in the universe. There is only the eternal movement of information packets. Quantum mechanics. And there is no mercy, consideration, or even intellect at work in quantum activity. We are the merciful, the considerate and the intelligent part of this universe...when we choose to be. Right now, in this period of time, we are choosing to be dumb as hell, and reaping the benefits of that stupidity.

We are so busy admiring, and holding up to high exaltation, the phony 'stars' of our world, that our world is falling apart around us. In the Chicago Tribune, yesterday, the headline was all about people (including families, women and children) living in storage lockers, garden sheds and abandoned cars. The tragedy of it. Above that headline was a four inch column across the page, with a photo of a fifteen million dollar a year baseball player smiling out at us. The Sports section took that photo and made it the size of the whole page. How many people got the subtle distinction of the idiocy illustrated by that presentation? I wonder. Bret Favre is actually given tons of sympathy as he awaits the big Packers/Viking game on Sunday. Sympathy? How many million is he getting to play for two hours? I love his interviews, however. The man is a drooling idiot when it comes to discussing anything other than his 'game.' Its pretty funny, at least.

We are still in Afghanistan. We are fighting the Taliban. We are at war with the Taliban. What the hell happened to declarations of war and Congressional approval? Gone. We now go to war at a whim, or the opinion of a president. We actually are dumb enough to say that we are depending on our generals in the war theater to tell us whether we should increase or decrease our presence in the war! Now that is as dumb as asking Bret Favre! What general in his right mind is going to say "Oh, cut my troops in half please!!" What do generals do? They make war. How do they get advancement and more power? They make war. And they do it like Bret Favre, by being exposed to about as much danger as a taxi driver or deliveryman. Others are fighting and dying, or coming home with PTSD so bad they will never have any bliss in their lives. We are torturing the wrong people. We have a whole line of bankers, generals and even sports stars whole could profit us all mightily with just a few turns of the screw.

Maybe, one day, prior to the coming disaster in 2012 (Oh please God, bring it on), the common man can celebrate the common man again. They guy or gal working to actually make cars, the people building our roads, the nurses, baristas, waiters and cooks. And those people living in storage lockers (until they are outed and thrown in the streets, because you can't be allowed to live in a storage locker!) who are somehow trying to held life together instead of becoming insurgents.

And that is what is next if we do not make some changes. We will have insurgency here in this country, and we will be no more able to stop it here than we were able to in Vietnam, Iraq or Afghanistan. We have a fiction of stopping it in Iraq, and we are going to try applying that same fiction to Afghanistan. We fortify the main population centers, then construct armored conduits to connect them, travelled by heavily armored vehicles. Then we claim that our 'surge' has worked. The natives laugh at us, as they properly should. We are not at war with Iraq or the Taliban. We are at war with our own self-imposed ignorance, and our willingness to glorify the ephemeral stupidity of stardom.

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com

http://www.themastodons.com

http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com

With A Cheesy Apology To Old St. Nick...

Spin Detective (St. Thomas, VI) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 22:06:18 EDT

Twas the night before November 3rd and all through the states
The pundits were debating the ELECTION fates
In places like New York, New Jersey, Virginia and Nevada
The SILENT MAJORITY arose with a clatter
They threw the “Break Obama” curse out the door
And remembered the ‘dissing’ of Chief Justice Sotomayor
They were unhappy with the blocking of health care for all
The hate, the posters, “You lie!” and more
They were tired of REPUBLICANS with “just say no”
And felt that anti-bi partisanship had to go
They wanted “for the people” representatives to elect
And decided, “I’ll cast my vote” – What the heck!
Fed up with the Limbaughs, “Tea”, FOXes and such
They SILENTLY shouted “Enough is enough!”
Members of the “MAJORITY” spread the word
Make it happen on NOVEMBER 3rd!

Hoekstra Is Bad Medicine For Michigan

David from Muskegon, MI — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 13:58:11 EDT

Hoekstra Is Bad Medicine For Michigan
Even His Family In The Netherlands Gets Health Care

Congressman Pete Hoekstra's town halls on health care show that he is the wrong choice for Governor of Michigan. Last week in Hudsonville, he vehemently exclaimed that he was against what is being considered in congress without offering ideas about what should be done about the rising cost and declining quality of health care. He didn't even entertain the idea of expanding coverage to the uninsured.

Michigan is one of the most economically distressed states, due in part to its rampant unemployment. For a number of reasons, our state has had perhaps the most difficult time thriving in a changing global economic climate. The Great Lakes State has seen a lot of suffering and now it is worse than it has ever been.

Pete Hoekstra is unfit to lead a state with these kinds of struggles. If he truly cared about the people of Michigan, he would fight for policies that could help those who are feeling the most pain.

Even the Netherlands, where Hoekstra was born, has some form of cost control and subsidized coverage; although it is not the best in Europe. It's possible that his mother received government-regulated medicine during his birth. Certainly Hoekstra’s immediate family back in the Netherlands benefits from so-called "socialized medicine" today. Perhaps if Mr. Hoekstra wants to be governor, he will help the people of Michigan attain that which he and his family enjoy: The security of their health.

Fact: Barack Obama, who was born in Hawaii, is more American than Pete Hoeksta.

Sid Hatfield & the Internet -vs- Elitists/Republicans (re-visited)

Dave Moore — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 20:41:57 EDT

Watching big insurance and the ole school Republicans battle to do away with reforms, and democrats, and just about everything and everyone against them brought me to research a little past history. Populist movements aren't new, but their ability to last and to be effective is. Never before have everyday people had the ability to align themselves, communicate, and act as one, as is evident today. Even wiith vast amounts of corporate money being spent on PAC'S, lobbiest's, cable news networks, politicians, and judges; Today, don't be seen attending some elitist style lobbying party these days, not with the internet frely flowing (especially Facebook, myspace, and twitter)youwill be on it. For "It" has changed the world of power brokering, meaning all that money and power that was being spent in purchasing government has gone to waste. It'sneeverbeen more evident than an evening with cable news tv. The populist movement that removed the GOP and their tin-eared breatheren. An historical example of populist movements would be Sid Hatfield, yes of the Hatfield-McCoy fame, and father of the mine workers union, ( Sid Hatfield (1893–1921) was Police Chief of Matewan, West Virginia during the Battle of Matewan, a shootout that followed a series of evictions carried out by detectives from the Baldwin-Felts agency. " http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sid_Hatfield ").

Chief Hatfield who came to the aid of the poorblue collar city folk and tried to prevent the mine corporation's privately hired detectives from evicting homeowners,(for things like union activity, political adversion, and self determination) was murdered on the courthouse steps along with friend Ed Chambers, http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=9980 .and became a Martyr. No charges have ever been brought for this public murder.

Sid seemed to have the ability to bring people together in a common goal, and the will to stand firm for what was right. The mega corporations of that time, in control of the town, county, state and federal government wouldn't have this, after all, they were bought and paid for. Of course, there was no internet at that time and certainly a huge corporation's spent money, was money you could count on forever. Today, big Corporation's and their recipients (i.e. GOP Today) appear to be showing the signs of disillusionment over this fact, that is the lasting effect of a financial power base being in demise and no longer in control. "Just can't seem to buy them anymore I suppose".

Anyhow, Sid Hatfield turned a populist movement into reality back then, especially as a Martyr; The West Virginia Mine War ("southern operators, closely linked financially with the big steel and railroad empires, had the statehouse at Charleston and most of the law on their side" (Bush/Cheney years?) http://www.americanheritage.com/articles/magazine/ah/1974/5/1974_5_58.shtml.

The union effort, atempts to forbid private detectives killing, arresting and beating locals all came to a climax after the murder of Police Chief Hatfield,(Blair Mountain) and comments by Frank Keeney speaksof such; "You’ve got Uncle Sam on your side now, and he won’t let you down. You can fight the government of West Virginia, but by God you can’t fight the government of the United States.”

Makes you wonder if FOX news and Glen Beck ever read this story.., or maybe they have? After all, democrats coming together have made insignificant, the republican machine and left them in dis-array, CEO's fired, Big Insurance now being leveled, politicians like the magnificent Grayson speaking up & out. Jobs and money coming back to our country.

THANKS INTERNET & SID HATFIELD