Being Truly Thankful

You will have to make a gargantuan effort in two ways to be thankful today, Thanksgiving 2009. The past 12 months have been an absolute disaster for so many that you have to somehow block it out for 24 hours. The economy has been on the precipice all year. One out of every 8 people is unemployed, friends are losing their homes, and more of us live paycheck to paycheck. There have been divorces and deaths also, like any other year.  Cars have broken down, you may have fought with a friend, and your favorite person may not have won American Idol. No, it won’t be easy to build a temporary wall around all of this.

To truly be able to give thanks today, the effort needs to be made with your day to day life. Shut the computer down. Being on the Internet, surfing the web, Facebook and MySpace, is quickly turning us into a country of 300 million independent pods with an ever diminishing ability to interact face to face. Turn off the television. There is a reason why it used to be called the idiot box. It also foments our materialism and superficiality. Today, a Kardashian is hailed a hero, Lambert's lambasting helps him become richer, and reality shows are not really all that real. Who cares who will be the next top model or who lost the most amount of weight? Too bad family time can't be DVR'd. Put the cell phone away.  Our always on society with text messages, emails and games, interrupts your ability to focus for more than 30 seconds on anything.

Blocking out the difficulty of 2009 and stepping out of your technology inspired life for just a day will permit you to start noticing things for which to be thankful.

If you have someone to share a meal with today, appreciate it. Some weeks ago I was out to dinner and observed an elderly woman all by herself with just a magazine and magnifying glass to keep her company. She looked around every once in a while and smiled at different tables. No one seemed to notice. My father once told me that loneliness is the worst disease. Her eyes confirmed that.

In your mind, say thank you to the Marine Corps, Army, Air Force, Navy and Coast Guard. You may or may not approve of our current wars. Yet one thing is certain. These men and women have sacrificed more than you or I ever have and ever will. Today will be a long and lonely day for many of them.

Maybe you are lucky enough to live where birds sing. If you are and you hear a bird sing, stop for ten seconds. Listen to its songs. Look for the bird. Don't be envious because his is a simple life.

Sit with your dog for ten minutes. Give him a treat, pet him and talk to him. How great is it to have a true friend that would never leave your side, for anything? The loyalty and dedication of a dog is unequaled in our world. Their lives are too short.

Remember your parents. You may be with them or you may not.  Take just a few minutes and flip through some memories. Your mother’s soothing words after breaking up with a girlfriend or boyfriend. Or her hands putting on a band aid and telling you not to worry. Remember your father teaching you how to drive. Remember your father’s face of unadulterated pride at your graduation.  These are times that will never come back.

Talk to your best friends, even if they are far away. Your hectic lives may have separated you, yet that will never erase the good times and bad times that were shared.  Friends have helped make you what you are today.  A true friend is family.

In your walks today, wherever you may go, you may see an elderly couple holding hands. That is indescribable and beautiful. After decades of wrinkling together, the bond is still there.  They know they are in the fall of their lives.  That couple likely never stepped into the Walden woods but surely they have sucked the marrow out of life.  They will not waste one minute on such unimportant things, like the Internet, television and texting, like you and I do.  Happy Thanksgiving.

The Last Decade of Innocence

Children know what adults forgot:  life is simple and should be good.  Then you reach the teenage years and life's complexities begin to show.  The bonds that held you tight to your family begin to erode as you seek your own existence and want to define your life as you dreamt it years ago. Then after college when you finally face the cold wind of life alone, the kid realizes that the score is 100 to 0 and he is down.

As I entered my adult years, I finally admitted to myself that once in a while I wanted to run back to the safety I had when I was 12. The family room with the woodstove awaited me, where we’d all sit down at 5:30pm and watch All in the Family. Or, I would love to have laid down once again on top of my bed and look directly at my Run DMC poster. Nothing could replace sitting at the kitchen table on a cold Sunday morning, with the smell of coffee and fresh baked cornbread intertwined in a heavenly dance.

There was a comfort that life provided and my parents had been the root. Back then, as life was truly straightforward, my world consisted of my parents love and discipline, their principle and hard work; piano lessons and Boy Scouts; baseball and basketball; fights in school and fights at home; and of course, my few good friends. It was a simple world and a small town, with an overabundance of dreams and hopes and yes, it was good.

Life was so simple when I was 12. Of course I knew little about little. My music tastes varied. I did like Rod Stewart (only today can I admit that) and Noah still remembers my extensive collection of Hall and Oates. We would play them over and over again at night, pretending to be DJ’s on my Realistic tape recorder my Dad bought me. Noah and I would listen to WCOZ or WROR and when a good song came on, hit “Record” and “Play.” It didn’t matter that we’d catch a little of the DJ’s voice. We didn’t have iTunes back then. We had imagination.

My family and I grew up on Cider Mill Road, in a town called Sudbury. It had 12,000 people. Our house was set back from the street, with woods all around. There was a huge and hilly back yard that was absolutely perfect for sledding in winter. Our mountain began at the basketball pole, down the first small hill. Then it went on to the big one and from there to the third hill, the most challenging, that went past the stacked wood on the right, and down through the woods. I had to avoid the oaks and maples that were standing or fallen, to land on the frozen little stream that never seemed to go anywhere. Every Spring I’d go down there to see if there were any fish or turtles. There never were. But, one day while exploring the woods, not quite like Christopher Columbus, I discovered oil! I ran back home, screaming, to my mom that we were going to be rich. Shortly thereafter as I guided her to the secret location, she told me that some fool had dumped his car oil into the stream.

Hard work was what also defined my mother. One thing that she slaved at and could do and outdo anyone was cooking. I can still recall from the recesses of my mind the smell of the feasts cooked by my mother. They would have won awards at any competition. Forget Rachel Ray and those other overpriced, overmarketed figures on television as they cannot compare. My mother could take scraps of food and any leftovers and within 30 minutes whip up a meal worthy of a banquet. My mother cooked an incredible meatloaf. Noah and I partook of one particular iteration of that meatloaf one night. It was so good that we helped ourselves to more and more until it all disappeared. Of course, the next day he and I denied any involvement. But, we had no alibi nor did she have anything to serve for dinner that night.  She knew it had been us.

Christmas and Thanksgiving were special times for my mother to show off her skill. She would spend all day basting and cutting and preparing and making sure that every detail, smell, and taste would be perfectly coordinated. I will never forget that one Thanksgiving, as we all sat down in absolute drooling hunger. My mother was slicing the turkey in the kitchen. Her friend brought it to the table. Her footsteps got closer and closer to the dining room where all ten of us friends and family were sitting in pure agony waiting to feast. In absolute slow motion horror, I watched as my mother’s friend stepped in to the dining room and tripped over something. The beautifully juicy and perfectly sliced turkey breast unceremoniously fell to the floor. Our dog loved her even more that year.

My parents would give me an allowance for raking leaves, mowing lawn, shoveling the driveway and cutting, splitting and stacking wood. Before I hit 14, I alone deforested half of Sudbury, on direct orders from my father. Also, I contributed to global warming by polluting the winter air as I kept the wood stove fed and roaring throughout the winter. I was a Republican years before I could vote. But, work did not stop there. My mom had to have hers, too. So, without a union to defend me or any rights whatsoever for protection, I also became her servant. At a young age I became adept at dish washing, dusting, vacuuming and knowing how to keep the house ready for the ever pending Presidential visit. Of course, he never came.

Santa Claus did stop by, every year. But, I knew he did, and that he must have really liked our cookies and milk. Every morning on Christmas day, one bite was taken from the cookie and he drank some milk. Like most other kids, it was impossible for me to fall asleep as the great anticipation of Christmas morning was more than I could take alone in my bed. Somehow, I did fall asleep. Waking up was never a problem! One year, Santa hung out a little too long since, I guess, he had finished his rounds. I remember vaguely Santa walking up and down the hallway one winter, with his bell, waking us up, saying, “HO HO HO! Merry Christmas!” I woke up and there he was. I watched him and watched him in total disbelief for about one minute. Then I realized he sounded familiar and feminine. It was my mother, as a surprise to us all, dressed as Santa, doing her best to give us the most amazing Christmas possible.

Even at Christmas, our pets were given a little something. Canela was our German Shepard that outweighed me when I was ten by at least 30 pounds, she was faster, had bigger teeth and loved Frisbees, peanuts my sisters and I. She was a great wrestling partner, a gentle giant, protective of all that she considered hers, even the cats Sandy and Ashley. The cats would team up and tease Canela and make her run after them, up and down the hallways and stairs. My father would swear the house was coming down or that some earthquake had just rocked us. We learned to get out of the way so as to not become some statistic of injury inside the house. Once in a while, I did want to push a sister in the way, just to see what would happen. But, all big brothers are like that.

In the fall I would rake leaves with my cousin Charles, who was much older than me. We would always build the biggest pile of leaves possible at the bottom of the hill. Then, he’d encourage my sisters and I, at the top of his lungs, to jump in. And we did, over and over again. We seemed to have an endless supply of energy back then. We always made sure our pile of leaves was really big, as we could really get some speed and height running down that hill. Canela would gallop after us and jump in also, as she knew nothing but happiness when she was with us. We were only jumping into a big leaf pile in a New England fall, nothing more. We would delight ourselves at leaping into it over and over again, best friends in absolute and innocent ecstasy. The ache, twenty years later, is in my heart and no longer my arms.

My very first Mustang was in fact a blue Ross Ten Speed with baskets on the side in the back. I’d ride in loops, up and down my street, between Raymond Road and Robert Frost Lane, for those were my boundaries. I would pretend to be John Poncharello, imitating a siren and pulling my sisters over on their bikes. I had a little notepad and pen to write out fake tickets, for ugliness, being liberals or for just plain breathing too loudly. My mom told me years later that she had fielded at least two or three calls from the neighbors because the siren sound was just too loud. I wonder if they ever appreciated my sacrifice.

Back then, I worked at Star Market as a bagger and made $3.25 an hour, which was great money at the time. I was on my way to being the next Bill Gates. I hated having to take the bus to work downtown after school because it was embarrassing. I also had a paper route for a while. It was terrible having to deliver papers early in the morning and get laughed at by the high school kids who stood on Robert Frost Road while I made my way home for the middle school bus. And it was all the worse when there was snow and I rode my Ross 10 speed, trying to out run snowballs, without snow tires. I detested having to mow lawn, clear leaves, shovel the driveway, cut and split wood and make sure there was enough in the garage in case a monster snow storm suddenly appeared that Dick Albert had not seen, yet somehow my father with his Farmer’s Almanc had predicted. I am still wondering if he co authored it.

My dad used to embarrass me a long time ago. I have seen my father blow his nose in public in a sheet of newspaper. When he would go to the apothecary, and the charge was $9.73, he’d unload his two pants pockets which somehow, amazingly, held enough miscellaneous items to build a space shuttle. Then in front of everyone, he’d separate the exact change from the crumpled bills, the binaca, the keys, handkerchief, pens, notepad, wallet and credit cards. My father would always start up a conversation with any stranger and crack dumb jokes. Back then, I would instantly go running quickly in another direction, head low, wanting to divorce him somehow for embarrassing me. But, those are quirks and I, as an adult, have inherited them. I swore I would never do all that and today, I am just like him. The apple never falls far from the tree and I’m glad.

When I was younger, the first few times I’d smell a wood stove burning in October represented a sadness as it was the signal for winter. This would mark the exclamation point on the temporary death of late nights at Friendly’s and the pool hall; Saturdays at Horseneck Beach and Sunday morning basketball. It would spark thoughts of the coming months, of snow and Christmas, of mid terms and college applications, of cloudy days and 4pm sunsets, of cold mornings and the Toro snowblower.

Children look in amazement at the world around them and wonder about all that will be theirs. Somewhere that vanishes. As a child I was no different. I wanted to grow up so fast, that the handcuffs of time frustrated me. One day I was going to be a pilot. Then I thought about a fireman or a lawyer. Then I thought about basketball. Then girls. Quickly I had graduated college, got a job and the difficulties of life expanded exponentially. Looking back on a simple time, there were downs but not like today. It was the last decade of innocence. Those few negative things were simple strangers that passed by. All that they left in their wake, was a bed of memories so warm and comforting that still today I want to jump back in, fall asleep and be woken up again by Santa Claus.

Appreciating a Gift

Recently, I have been telling a story about the most wonderful experience in my life. I was lucky to have grown up in the 80’s in Boston. The Celtics were my team and they were my Gods. Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Chief, Cornbread Maxwell, and Dennis Johnson. DJ was my guy. I loved his tenacity, grit and basketball awareness. Those no-look passes to Larry Bird down low are as clear in my mind as if it were 1986.  I still remember Johnny Most, "There's a steal by Bird, underneath to DJ!"  Who always drew the defensive assignment on Michael Jordan or Magic? Dennis Johnson. It was because of him that I worked like hell on my defense.

In 2005, I boarded a flight from São Paulo to Miami. Like always, I was full of anxiety and itching to get home. As people filed in, I started playing my game of Seat Roulette, “That person, no, that one no, maybe that one, DEFINITELY not that one.” Some people, unfortunately, look like science projects gone bad and you definitely don’t want them sitting next to you for eight hours.

I had noticed an awful lot of tall guys with USA Basketball jackets coming down the aisle. I thought to myself, “That’s pretty cool, USA basketball on my flight.” It was not going to make me suddenly rich or famous but possibly worthy of a trip anecdote. I recognized maybe one or two guys. Then, suddenly, time slowed down. The angels sung. There he was, Dennis Johnson, entering to economy class.

I quickly put my head down. I was nervous. I thought to myself, “OH MY GOD IT’S DJ, IT’S DJ, OH MY GOD.” I tried to grab my cell phone to call someone. I dropped the phone. I bent over to pick it up. My hands were trembling, palms sweating. I got my phone, looked up, looked left, and there, in all his glory, was Dennis Johnson in the seat next to mine, the Angels were holding the high note. Again, I looked down, left, right, left right. What was my name? Could I form vowels?  I had Parkinsons. I felt faint.

Dennis Johnson tapped me on the shoulder and I passed out. When I came to, he spoke and simply said, “I’m sorry I’m a pretty big guy. If I fall asleep and you need to get up, don’t hesitate, shake me, elbow me, it’s not a problem.” I tried to respond. My mouth opened at least. All I could manage was a grunt and a head nod.

I slowly regained control of my muscles and my mind. I turned back to the TV screen for a second then blurted out as quickly as I could, “Mr. Johnson, I am straight, but really you were my hero and my idol growing up, I loved watching you, the way you played, your intensity, your awareness, your passing, your defense. I copied all of your moves. I had posters of you in my room. I even know why you spin the ball before a foul shot. You have no idea what I am going through right now having you sitting next to me.”

His reaction was stunning. All he said was, “Thank you. I appreciate that.” I was calming down, quickly becoming a 34 year old man again and not some 12 year old school girl at a New Kids on the Block concert. We then chatted, the basic chat one does on the plane. As we taxied and took off, we went from chat to conversation. He talked to me about Robert, Larry, Kevin, KC, as if I were on a first name basis with these guys as well.  I felt as if I had been part of the Celtics in the mid 80’s. It was so cool! DJ told me about his goal to one day coach in the NBA.  He had recently  accepted a new job to coach some team in Texas and had to leave Florida.

Then came an even more incredible move.  DJ asked me what I did for a living and so I explained it. I remember he told me that it was nice to hear about things other than basketball and how lucky I was to travel so much. He asked me about my family and how they deal with me being away. At that point I felt at liberty to go even further and asked him for advice, for at the time I was coaching high school basketball. He shared some pointers and drills that I could implement. By the time dinner was over, I felt like we had become friends. At the end of our flight, we shook hands and I expressed to him once again, the incredible luck in meeting my childhood idol and the joy in talking to him. I wished him luck and he thanked me. For some hours, to me, he was Dennis Johnson the man, down to earth, considerate, and humble.  

I had been given a gift that became even greater because in early 2007, Dennis Johnson suffered a massive heart attack and died while coaching practice for his team in Austin, Texas. He never made it to the NBA as he had told me he wanted on that flight from Brazil. Larry Bird called him the greatest basketball player he had ever played with.

To me, Dennis Johnson is my hero and my idol because he was simply a good man.

Pardoxical Irony

There were many wonderful ironies during last week’s buildup to the NFL game in London on Sunday. How great was it that the “Patriots” were playing on British soil? There was the actual football game in the land of another kind of Manchester United, where that sport is also called football. Yet, there was a striking contrast that was likely missed by most.

To discover this obscure contrast, one had to have looked just past Tom Brady at his press conference. Tom Terrific stood on a podium, in front of cameras, reporters and the like, as he has done hundreds of times. Behind him, there was a large Dunkin Donuts advertisement. This is the same Dunkin Donuts, founded in Massachusetts that is currently conquering the world with its delicious coffee.

The Dunkin Donuts sign was placed over a plaque memorializing some Brits who lost their lives in World War I. Many other companies leverage mass marketing and branding as a way to rule the world, such as Starbucks, McDonalds, and so on. We are fairly immune to this, except when it comes to the desecration of famed stadiums and ballparks. But in World War I (and World War II) the path to world domination was war. Yet in London this weekend, the power of modern day media trumped yesterday’s British power of valor and sacrifice.

Had it not been for the British and the United States in World War I, Dunkin Donuts and other companies would not be conquering world palettes. It is plausible that today they would go by different names and peddle fine schnitzel and warm beer.

In World War I, many British paid the ultimate sacrifice to defend their homeland and in a trickle down process have allowed the West to flourish. That is how Tom Brady was able to have his press conference on Saturday and how Dunkin Donuts can continue serving coffee in other countries, even Colombia.

Dunkin Donuts of course has a contract with the Patriots that cost the company millions of dollars for advertising rights. So, one the one hand, legally, they did nothing wrong. Since we are immune to mass marketing, except for the Super Bowl, we surely were oblivious to this contrast. But, the question must be posed: why couldn’t Dunkin Donuts skip one press conference? For one second, imagine the significance. It would have been nice to have Dunkin Donuts sacrifice those ten minutes in the spotlight by not arrogantly displaying its logo over a remembrance of those that died battling tyranny. Or, maybe they could have just found another angle or venue.

I remember when 9-11 happened, People magazine came out with an issue dedicated solely to that tragic event. On one page there would be a photo of someone jumping from a tower. The opposite facing page would have an advertisement of a smiling woman and her wonderful shampoo. Imagine for a second if Dunkin Donuts had not hung its logo that one time, out of respect for those British that gave their lives in World War I. The final irony is that companies would gain greater respect and customers by once in a while skipping the advertising.

The Hispanic and Latino Impossibility

In the United States we throw around two seemingly interchangeable terms, Latino and Hispanic, without even the slightest idea of how to define these words. From job applications, to the census, to scholarships and on and on, this country seems hell bent on classifying people. Yet, the words Latino and Hispanic will never be adequately defined. Let’s look at just a few basic reasons why not.

With regard to the classification of Latino, there are many paths this can take. Should it be someone with Latino roots? If so, would this, therefore, include Italians, French even Romanians? Or, should it be a requirement that this person be from this side of the Atlantic? Maybe we should only include Spaniards and their offspring from "over here"? What about Belize, in Central America, where English is the primary language? One thing is for sure, Brazilians don't like being labeled Latinos, altough their language has Latin roots, so that will limit a geographic definition.

Geography is one way to possibly define a Latino or Hispanic. But, should we also limit how many generations removed a person is? If a person was born in the United States, to parents born in the United States, whose parents immigrated from Colombia, would that be too far away to be considered Latino or Hispanic? Is a person born in Argentina to parents from Italy also Latino or Hispanic? If we accept this, then we creep closer to including those aforementioned countries in Europe under the Hispanic and Latino definition.

Now, these terms also present another challenge, one of misconceptions. From my experience, Hispanic, for example, has been used to describe a "minority" in the United States (sometimes in a derogatory way). But, who is Hispanic? Is a white Chilean an Hispanic? A Spaniard? Is a Brazilian also an Hispanic? After all, the Portuguese settled Brazil and while sharing the same peninsula with Spain, Hispania. Unfortunately, many people in the United States somehow equate Hispanic with Mexican and there go the stereotypes. But, we don’t all like tacos and mole.

The countries south of the Rio Grande have such a rich cultural and ethnic mix that it makes it almost impossible to define these terms. The skin colors are as varied as the foods, holidays, religions, and ethnic backgrounds. Set foot in Peru and observe how many Japanese descendants there are! In Argentina, there is an important Jewish population. The Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Venezuela and Cuba have many blacks who can trace their roots to the slave ships and Africa. Also, there is an important Arab influence in many countries "down south." The original peoples of the continent still exist as well.

In the end, the terms Hispanic and Latino will never be satisfactorily defined and I speak from experience and from the heart. I was born in Spain to a Spanish mother and American father. I consider myself Hispanic, Latino, American and Spanish.

At different moments of my life, different definitions of these words have prohibited me from participating in certain activities. One that I recall vividly was an Hispanic scholarship that was unavailable to me because I was not considered Hispanic. A classmate of mine, who was born in the United States, to parents who were also born in the United States, of Guatemalan and Mexican roots, won it. In culture, language, and birth, he was exponentially more American than I. He did not even speak a word of Spanish.

To define Latino and Hispanic, we must dig deep beneath the surface and consider many variables. In so doing, we will discover how incredibly dynamic, broad and rich the cultures are that came from the Romans. We can even make a link via Peru and Brazil that the Japanese and Latinos/Hispanics are cousins by marriage.

Mocking Domestic Violence

When Rhianna was beat up by her boyfriend, it was splashed all over the news. A spotlight was shed once again on the issue of domestic violence. Quickly, the media shut off the light and Rhianna’s problem seemed to have disappeared. But, not completely. It is back and more serious, only it is presented in a different way.

Rhianna has a new album and the cover sure is racy and sexy. In it, she is naked except for barbed wire covering her private parts. The media has come back to her once again yet instead of portraying her as a vicitm, she is called intelligent, daring, sexy. They say she is pushing the envelope and they're in awe.

So today, I looked it up to see what all the hulabaloo was about. Sexy, yes. Racy, absolutely. I can understand all the fuss and know there will be more. Show a pair of breasts to most men and they’ll call the woman anything! Intelligent? Sure, if it helps. But, the reality is that it’s not hard to market a naked woman to men.

Daring? Yes, how dare she. After becoming a media figure for the abuse she took from Chris Brown, Rhianna’s album cover makes a mockery of the seriousness of domestic violence. When a man beats a woman, it stems from insecurity and his needs to feel powerful and in control. The woman is not treated with respect nor as a human, but as an object.

When Rhianna arrogantly exposes her breasts on an album cover, most men will think of one thing. They are not going to study the picture and think of the beauty of a woman’s body, of how it compares to a Van Gogh painting. These men will certainly not consider her intelligence or her potential or her humaness. They will think of one thing: those two objects can satisfy these other needs. Leveraging a well known weakness in men is not that difficult.

With Rhianna’s ability to reach and influence so many people, one has to wonder if she thought this one through. It's not too smart of her. The reality is that there are many men that look at women as objects, not as art, not as equals, not as intelligent humans worthy of respect. This picture reinforces that women can be considred objects.

Recently, Nicole Kidman testified before Congress and stated that Hollywood can be considered at fault for perpetuating violence against women by portraying them as objects. This won't get much air time from the media. They are also at fault, as they are at fault for most of our ills. The media reinforces society's ills, as they have with Rhianna. By confirming that Rhianna is intelligent, daring, and pushing the envelope with this picture is deceitful. They forget her domestic violence while they applaud the picture of Rhianna’s breasts.

Rhianna has lost a great opportunity. Intelligence comes from the inside. The ability to communicate a thought clearly, string together an argument, be unique – that is the basis of intelligence. Rhianna just took a picture of herself, naked, and wrapped in barbed wire. That’s not intelligence; it is a mockery of the seriousness of domestic violence. Her brush with this faded yet in many streets and avenues in the United States, it continues for many other women. Some women in abusive relationships will undoubtedly, and sadly, end up buying Rhianna’s album.

Atticus and Linus

Now I realize that for years I had been peering out windows looking for flying pigs. But, I stopped, forever, as the days of hoping Atticus Finch would run for elected office are over.

I live in a country that I adore but where all politicians are actors, not just Reagan and the Terminator. Actors are also politicians, one is heads, the other tails. There has never been a time where I’ve been in a drug induced haze, legal or other, while hoping that a truly decent man or woman would stand up, in the act of representing the people, and simply lead this country through strength, values, and honor, not lies.

These people exist, if imperfect, in history books. They wrapped me for years in the blanket of idealism. They were called Jefferson, Washington and Lincoln. I have now learned that every Linus has to grow up at some point. This year, it was my turn.

I used to consider myself a Republican because of Ronald Reagan and my Conservative upbringing. Also, I have always worked hard and still today, hate to part with money. I registered as a Republican at 18 and through the years, donated money to the cause. That’s past tense as I can no longer do it in good conscience.

For most of my life, I demonized only democrats. Reality has now sunk in. Whether Democrat or Republican, they are all the same to me. Politicians are hypocrites, devoid of intelligent argument and genetic liars. Take a cue card or script away from them and they become incapable of orating. Values? Scratch the surface just a little and you'll hear the air escape. Honesty? That depends on what your meaning of truth is. Our government is run by the equivalent of baboons in three piece suits.

Why did I leave the Republican Party? Well, you simply cannot on the one hand preach less government and grow government at the same time. How can they scream family values but then run off to Argentina behind a wife’s back? A real moral compass does not lead you to solicit sex in a bathroom. You cannot hold the Bible in one hand while you steal money with the other. How can you say you are pro life but support the death penalty? Is it too much to ask that if you parade freedom and liberty on the campaign trail, you don't limit mine after being elected?

The Democrats are hypocrites and liars just like the Republicans. How can a President be a champion of woman’s rights while treating interns and secretaries like objects for his satisfaction? You have a representative from New York who fights for the poor yet he hides his millions of dollars of assets. Traditional Democratic states have the highest tax rates yet year after year they rank near the bottom as far as giving to charity. The current President says he doesn’t want to bicker, then in the next sentence he takes swipes at his opponents. He runs on a platform of openness yet we have no idea who received our money for the bailouts. I don’t understand if all men are created equal, why do the Democrats therefore demonize those that are rich?

I am no Arlen Specter or Benedict Arnold. I am just Conservative, except of course when expressing my opinions. There is so much to be said about the disenfranchising of Americans with their politicians. There is a growing gulf between those we elect and every day people. It continues to grow even faster than the icecaps are melting.

I know somewhere in this great country, there are Atticus Finch’s that could lead America as it should. But, they are terrible actors.

We've lost our minds

Michael Jackson's passing is a glaring example of how we have lost our minds. He was a phenomenal performer, whose songs many of us grew up with.

Yet, the frenzy caused by his death obscures the dark side of Michael Jackson, that of a bankrupt child molester, drug addict, man-boy, whose bizarre behavior left many of us shaking our heads in disbelief. Today, we honor him as a God.

His is a sad story but what is truly sad is how he has been annointed a deity. Not even Pope John Paul II's passing created such havoc. At the end, what Michael Jackson did was write great songs, invent a cool dance, molest children, bankrupt himself, lie, take drugs, and dangle his baby over a balcony (without ever being investigated for child abuse). These were his horrific trespasses.

Michael Jackson's death has been elevated above all else that is important in our world. But, he is not a God. A long time ago we lost sight of values and standing for right and wrong. People lost their minds upon his death in every way: emotionally and in the midst of the greatest economic crisis, somehow found money for his funeral today.

Imagine for a second the benefit, if the people that tried in vain to get tickets to today's event, would have dedicated that time to a truly worthy cause, or had donated the money they spent on tickets to a worthwhile charity. Maybe, just maybe, that would have been a way to honor someone who supposedly was all for the children. They could have left the Jackson family to mourn in private. Unless, of course, the media attention helps them get back into the spotlight, a stroke of marketing genius.

The media's constant 24 hour vigil on every nuance and event regarding his death from around the world has fed this frenzy. Unfortunately, the last tragedy with regards to Michael Jackson's death is what is left: for lawyers and his family to fight amongst themselves for whatever remains of his material wealth. Who wants to bet that the mother of his children gets nothing and no one will stand up for her?

Chicken or Pasta?

Since time began, man has wanted to fly. In the old days, he looked at birds and made them Gods. He wondered what the view would be like from way up there. Man was envious. Centuries after his lust for flying began, he flew thanks to the Wright Brothers, Santos Dumont and many others. Now man can fly as far and as high as he wants. Yet, today flying is miserable.

The first thing I would ask a flight attendant, if given the opportunity, is: did you want enjoy the glory of what a flight attendant used to represent or did they not accept you as a guard at Riker’s Island? Flight attendants are like Nazi Prison Camp guardians. They do not talk, they do not smile. They grunt and glare and say three things: chicken or pasta, pull your seat up now, that needs to be turned off immediately. You are not allowed to talk back to a flight attendant, crack jokes or complain about anything. You will be arrested upon landing.

Flight attendants play their own little games, too. Their favorite one seems to be smash elbow. This is where they will drive the cart up and down the aisle as fast as possible, eyes closed, and count how many elbows they can smash into.

On International flights, in economy, there are two carts: one with drinks, one with food. The one with food has two flight attendants and goes first. Right behind it is the drink cart but with only one attendant. The food cart goes three times as fast: they have two people (basic math) and it is easier to throw a tray of food than a cup of liquid. Therefore, if you fly economy, you will always finish your chicken or pasta before you get your drink or $6.00 MD 20/20 tasting “International Flagship” wine.

Now, the next source of misery are stupid fliers. If you don’t have an elementary school education, you should not fly. There is a simple order to where seats are located on a plane. There are numbers and letters, 23A, 28G. When you get on a plane, there is a flight attendant to help guide you. She will ask everybody to show a boarding pass, which has a seat assignment. Then, you will be pointed in the right direction. This flight attendant located at the boarding door is a backup for cases of stupidity. At this point, even a monkey could find its seat. But, incredibly, some people still cannot. Extreme stupidity has no solution. If you have trouble finding your seat, you should not fly. If you sit down in the wrong seat, you should be escorted off the plane, no questions asked. Why? Because when you get asked whether you want chicken or pasta, your brain will explode. By then, we’ll be in mid flight and have to land due to the mess.

An elementary school education also comes in handy when asking for a drink. They have some sodas, juices, coffee, warm beer and two 7 Eleven wines (but no brown paper bags). You have the option to ask what they have. If, after the flight attendant tells you everything available, you ask for tea, you should never fly again.

The TSA does a decent job of screening for weapons, liquids and patting down old ladies. But, they need to search and seize Cuban and homemade food. This is a weapon of torture. In a plane, you are no better than sardines in a can. There is no air nor space and having to smell this vomit is on the level of waterboarding.

If you are male between the ages of 14 and 60, you need to man up. For the love of testosterone, don't bring a pillow on the plane. Yes, airlines have done away with this luxury. Of course, the seats are as comfortable as those at Fenway. But, what has happened to toughing it out? These men should have their pillows removed to help get them back on the path to being a man. It is fine for kids, women and senior citizens. Back in the day when we dreamed of flying, a man would sleep on rocks and under a tree but never brought his own hay to make a pillow.

We all know people who fly first class are rich. They made their millions by inheriting it, screwing someone or a few of them through hard work and luck. Yes, they will enjoy a certain luxury in the air for a few hours while having paid ten times the price of economy. Yet, when we economy fliers get off the plane, the first class cabin always looks as if a tornado came through there, with blankets, food, water bottles, newspapers strewn about as if it had been Armageddon. When the firsters board the plane, they will plow through us serfs while looking down on us. Then, we are made to walk through their waste when we get off. It says a lot about rich people.

Bait and switch is illegal. This is when you advertise one product, expound in its glory and amazingness, yet after purchasing it, the buyer realizes it is no better than a two day old turd. The government allows the airlines to bait and switch. Television commercials demonstrate happy fliers. They smile, they wave goodbye, hug hello, they sleep happily on the plane, the flight attendants smile, the person eats well and can’t seem to wait to fly again. It is as if the life got touched by the magic wand of nirvana.

The product is not like that. Open the American Airlines magazine and you will find a page with dry snot, tons of ripped pages, the crossword puzzle filled out and sticky substances on the cover. Your knees are stuck against the seat in front of you. It is then that the guy will decide to push his seat back right on top of your knees. Now, your eyes and his balding, dandruff filled head are two inches apart. You can’t eat, you can’t read, you can’t work and you can’t put your own seat back because the guy behind you is 6’7”. His knee is your armrest. The guy next to you is burping and taking ear wax out of his ear with his pointer finger and making little balls of wax. What an interesting dinner it will make: dandruff falling from above the tray and little yellow curry balls from the left. To your right and across the aisle is a little kid hate because he is oblivious to the hell and torture that surrounds you. Looking up, you notice one of the panels on the wall is held on to another panel with duct tape. There are still eight hours to go. Chicken or fucking pasta.

Car executives were smart. They flew in their own planes and got skewered by Congress when they went to DC. The second time around, they drove. It says a lot when someone would rather spend 12 hours in a car made by GM or Chrysler, instead of two hours in a plane. Over a hundred years ago we should have been careful what we had wished for.

Taxes are not about smoking

Understanding the explosive new federal tobacco tax increase is simple. Smokers bad. Public sentiment is overwhelmingly against smoking. Politicians smelled easy money and went after it.

Yet, this new tax has nothing to do with smoking. It is about our government meddling in our private lives and using this tax as a form of behavior modification. It has to do less with health.

Our founding fathers warned us of the excesses of the majority. In America's history - and the world's! - we have seen governments try incorrectly and unsuccessfully to "clean" certain behavior (prohibition, McCarthyism). Today, anywhere one goes, smoking is not allowed. Smokers get nasty looks from passersby. Once in a while, we'll even get the exaggerated "cough! cough!" from some clown too weak to make the point to our faces but trying to make a point nevertheless.

What is frightening is how this tobacco tax could lead to future taxes on anything deemed dangerous by our government and society. Should we have 85% tax on foods and drinks that make you obese? Forget backyard burgers. How about 85% tax on gasoline if you have an SUV? So much for my choice. Should we tax gamblers? If you live in a high risk area (flood, hurricane) or in a very polluted city, should that be taxed also? What other behavior should we tax that is deemed "bad" by society? These behaviors are detrimental to our health in some way, just like smoking. Bad behaviors lead to bad health which leads to higher health insurance costs.

I know smoking is bad. What is worse is for the government to try behavior modification through taxation. Claiming they are trying to reduce health care costs and improve our lives is a smoke screen. It's just easy money and it sets an awful precedent for whatever behavior they want to change in the future. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness...unless the government doesn't agree that what you choose to do with your life.