Disneyland Closes At 35

Trump has been Trumped by Himself

In short, it seems that Trump has committed political suicide. Several factors have contributed to his future demise.

1. He has so offended the Republican Establishment that they will stop at nothing to destroy his candidacy.
2. His crude language, incivility and arrogance have caused his approval ratings to swirl down the drain of public opinion.
3. He has displayed a painful lack of specificity in defining his foreign policy, domestic policy, military policy or economic policy. Who knows how he expects to make America great again?
4. He claims to be well-educated and intelligent. I suppose he had the opportunity to be well-educated. He obtained a degree from an Ivy League university, still; that does not necessarily mean that he learned anything in particular. He offers no evidence, at least to me, of being an intellectual. He is not a logician, an analytical or critical thinker. He is a bully and a reactionary. Bluster does not equal intelligence.
5. He cannot beat Hilary Clinton.

I won't be voting for Donald Trump. I won't be voting for Ted Cruz either, but for different reasons.

1. He has the personality of a door knob
2. He seems to me  to be disingenuous.
3. He isn't respected or liked by most of the Senate. Can they all be wrong about him?
4. After many years in Criminal Justice I have, I think, some ability to spot a phony.
5. He seems to have accepted the advice of Machiavelli in the Prince.
6. He cannot beat Hilary Clinton

Given the opportunity I will vote for Kasich.

1. He is experienced.
2. He has articulated his foreign, economic, domestic and military policies.
3. He does not appear to be disingenuous.
4. He is well spoken and articulate.
5. He could win over Hilary Clinton.

On the 2016 Presidential Race

I don't often comment on Politics as I have nothing particular to recommend my opinion over the opinion of others; still, I'm going to comment on recent events in this year's Presidential race.

The Trump rallies of late conjure up unpleasant images of the National Socialist Brownshirt rallies in the 1930's. There is too much uncivilized speech, behavior and violence. Benito Mussolini is also illustrative of the time period. I am not saying that Trump would personally act in any of the ways favored by the Dictator or the Facist.

He is not Hitler or Mussolini; still, many of his most ardent supporters act as if they may be of the same ilk. The sort of person who steps out of the crowd to sucker punch a protestor is the same person who participates ardently in the persecution of Jews

The Sanders rallies cause one to envision the Communist rallies of the 20th century and Hilary seems disingenuous and insincere. Too many of their supporters want a free lunch at the expense of others. The fact that they never seem to acknowledge is that every time one person gets another right, like the right to a free college education, someone else takes on a new obligation.

I am afraid to think of Trump as Commander in Chief, but not as terrified as the thought of Bernie Sanders or Hilary Clinton being put in charge of anything, particularly our Military forces. 

So, it seems that Americans can choose between an aging Socialist, a less than honest woman who is herself a pawn of Wall Street, or a blow-hard, petulant, egotist. None of these choices are palatable, but they seem to be the only choices at the moment.

It seems to me that we have arrived at this unhappy juncture in American history because our government over the past thirty years has been so incredibly inept and ineffectual. All the Wars have failed to produce good results. Its not only Vietnam, the First Gulf War, the Second Gulf War, Afghanistan, or the War on Terror. Its also the War on Cancer, The War on Poverty, or the War on Ignorance. 

The young are struggling to find meaningful work. The elderly are struggling to survive their golden years. Those in the middle are struggling to support children who have returned home because they cannot afford to live independently, as well as aging parents who cannot fully fund their own retirement.

I don't pretend to know how to resolve all these problems. I was just hoping that someone did?

Things my Father Thought ( 4 )

My father was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant in the summer of 1960 and we relocated to yet another federal prison and another staff housing reservation in August.

The prison was situated on the outskirts of Ashland, Kentucky in the Tri-State area where Kentucky, Ohio, and West Virginia converge at the confluence of the Ohio and Big Sandy rivers. By then I had another little brother who had been born in February of 1959.

I actually looked forward to the move. It was the summer prior to my Freshman year of high school and I had grown to six foot three inches and one hundred and seventy pounds. I loved basketball and knew that Kentucky was famous for its high school and college basketball teams. I thought of the move as the opportunity for new adventures.

My father accepted his promotion reluctantly. He did not want to leave the Southwest, but felt that he had to do so to improve the financial situation of his family. He thought that eastern Kentucky was dark, drab, and backward. There was very little cultural diversity. The population, like my family really, tended to be poor blue collar workers. Ashland was all about refining, steel and coal production. I remember the lack of citizens who were not white. There was not a single minority of any kind at the high school.

My father wanted to return to Texas or New Mexico as soon as possible, as did my mother, grandmother, and middle brother. I, on the other hand, loved Ashland and Boyd County. My father thought that I had lost my mind, probably because of a girl, and there was a girl, one that never completely ceased to influence my life; but, there was also basketball, football, baseball and friends. 

I entered the high school as a Freshman and exited midway through my Junior year, right after the end of football season. My father had been promoted once again and thought that the move was the best for the family. We were to move to El Paso County Texas. I had an opportunity to stay with a friends family in Kentucky. My father would have none of that. He thought that my concerns did not override the collective concerns of the family.

We departed Ashland in December. When we arrived in El Paso County I thought it looked like the surface of the moon. My father and mother thought it looked like paradise.

Football

I entered the 6th grade and wanted to play football; still, football did not begin until the 7th grade. I was big for my age, so my father approached the coach and asked if an exception could be made. The coach gave his okay on the condition that I provided my own helmet.

It was one of the few occasions upon which my father gave in to my requests. He thought I was too young. I was born in August and was even young for the 6th grade. He thought that I was not physically mature, even though he had taught me how to box and box well. He thought that even though I was tall that my musculature was not that of a 7th grade player. I persisted and he bought the helmet

I got my ass handed to me in practice and was little more than a tackling dummy that Spring and Fall. I played in only two games and I wanted to quit. My father thought differently. He thought that an honorable person finished what they started. He would not allow me to quit.

Things my Father Thought ( 3 )

My father was promoted and transferred again in the fall of 1954 to the Federal Institution in Seagoville, Texas, some 200 miles west of Texarkana. My family had grown larger. My first younger brother was born in 1951. We were living in a quadraplex apartment. Actually it was part of a converted Army Barrack, one of many in Robinson Courts. All the families were young and most of the men were World War II veterans. My maternal grandmother had also joined the family, so now we were five. 

When we arrived in Seagoville we rented a two bedroom home. I can't remember how we made that work. I slept on the sofa and my brother slept on a cot that we set up at bedtime next to me. I don't believe my grandmother had any source of income. She was in her early sixties at the time. My father thought that she was an integral part of the family and that he was responsible for her support. He took care of all her needs just as he did for all of us. That meant extra shifts, part time work, odd jobs and whatever else was necessary. My grandmother lived to be 87 and remained with the family the entire time. 

After several months we became eligible for housing on the prison reservation. Staff Housing was a nicer phrase for it. We moved into a three bedroom place, albeit one bedroom was in the basement. It had only one bath. There was of course no air conditioning in the house or in the car, but it was the nicest place we had lived in up to that point. There were a number of kids my age and my time there was mostly happy. My father was moving up in the ranks. My mother and grandmother kept a spotless house. We never lacked for clothing, food, care or solace; however, I was diagnosed with Rheumatic Fever at the beginning of my fourth grade school year and confined to bed for the next seven months. 

My father thought that I should use the time to read. He went to the little library in town every week and brought back five or six books. I read multiple biographies about our founding fathers. I read all the Joseph Altshelter books about the Revolutionary and Civil Wars. I read Booth Tarkington, (Penrod, Penrod and Sam, Penrod Jashper),  Mark Twain, Charles Dickens , Sam's Chance. . . The list goes on and on, and my Dad would set with me and talk about the books and what I made of them.

My Father thought that I would learn from these books and I did.

I returned to elementary school in the fifth grade. I don't know what I had, but it was not Rheumatic Fever.

 

 

Things my Father Thought (2)

When my father joined the Federal Bureau of Prisons he was assigned to the Federal Correctional Institution in Englewood, Colorado. Later, when I was three or four years of age, he was transferred to the Federal Correctional Institution in Texarkana, Texas. 

The English philosopher John Locke holds that that entity which we call ( our self ) begins with our first memory and ends with our last; thus, when you no longer remember anything at all, that thing which you call the ( self ) no longer exists. If Locke is correct, my self begins in Texarkana in 1949 or early 1950. Many of my earliest memories concern the things my father thought.

He thought that the United States was an exceptional country. He thought that God smiled on the USA. He thought that he had won the favor of the most beautiful young woman in Roswell, New Mexico. He thought Communism was a curse on humanity. He was a supporter of the views held by Generals Patton and MacArthur. I think that he was not unlike most of the other young men in his generation. We would later disagree about many things, i.e., he thought that Bob Dylan was the Anti-Christ and that the Hippies were his Angels.

We disagreed, but I never questioned his courage, his resolve or his love of family. 

On the first day of second grade I encountered the school bully. He wanted my cheese sandwich and the dime I had in my pocket. I didn't comply, so he shoved me into the monkey bars on the playground and bruised my shoulder. I told my father. He thought I should march out on the playground the next morning and hit the bully in the nose as hard as I could. He thought that would be a message to the bully and to my fellow students as well. I did what he said and it worked. He thought bullies pick on those who do not fight back and fear those that do.

What my father thought might be applicable to the challenges we face today.

 

Things my Father Thought ( 1 )

My father was born in September of 1921 in Mundy, Texas to a lower middle class family that had migrated from Canton, a town in East Texas. He had two older brothers and one younger sister and a father who resisted the efforts and intent of the KKK and was ultimately run out of town. He moved the family to Roswell, New Mexico where he went to work as a mail carrier for the U.S.Postal Service.

Some years later my grandfather was convicted of theft of mail and was sent to the Leavenworth Federal Prison in Kansas where he served several years, I am told, until his conviction was reversed after a deathbed confession by the actual perpetrator of the crime. He was released only to die a few months later from kidney disease. I believe his death occurred in 1939 or 1940. I don't think the government offered any apology. He received a train ticket home, nothing more.

These were the years of the Great Depression. My father and his siblings did all they could to keep the family afloat. The boys were all accomplished athletes and boxers and my Aunt was a seamstress. They managed to keep the small house and the possessions they owned up until, and during World War II. The middle brother could not serve due to having stomach ulcers, but my uncle Jim served in the Pacific and my father served in North Africa, Sicily, Italy, Austria and Germany and was a decorated veteran.

My father returned to New Mexico in 1945 and reunited with my mother, who he had not seen in over three years, and went to work for the Postal Service, just as his father had done, but only for a short time. In 1946 or 1947, we moved to Denver when my Dad joined the Federal Bureau of Prisons.

I was born in August of 1946 and am indebted to my father for all he taught me.

More to come.

On Fairness

 

I have been astounded by the two Republican Debates that I have seen thus thus far.  These have not been debates, especially the first attempt.They have been Q and A's manufactured by the moderators in such a way as to produce maximum conflict among the contestants, The candidates did nothing more than carry out Argumentum Ad  Hominem attacks on each other.

There was no real debate over issues or strategies.

Some of the candidates are incomprehensible. Some are preposterous. Some are not rational. Some are rational and articulate. Think Fiorina, Kasich and Rubio,

Donald Trump was preposterous and frankly presented himself as arrogant and a narcissist . He isn't articulate. He is not well-spoken. He is not sophisticated or urbane. In essence, he is a rude and self serving bully with money.

His one partially saving grace is his opposition to Political Correctness, the insidious force that has all but stifled free speech. Speech isn't free when anything objectionable leads to being labeled a misanthrope, a racist, a sexist or a bigot.

Speech isn't free when a college professor cannot teach without risk of losing his or her job because of offending the opinion or sensibilities of one single student.

Speech isn't free when a person with an opinion in opposition to the majority cannot voice that opinion. Think Galileo, Darwin, King or Christ.

 

On Kate Wolf

Kate Wolf was an American folk singer. She had a wonderful voice, a powerful yet serene persona, and a beautiful face. She died young, not from the usual causes such as drug abuse, but from Leukemia.

One of the songs that she sang was Here in California. Among the most compelling lyrics is the following:

"Here in California, the fruit hangs heavy on the vine, but there's no gold, I thought I'd warn you, and the hills turn brown in the summer time."

When I first heard the song I thought that it was a perfect metaphor.

We all begin by prospecting for gold. We want to be successful, powerful, wealthy and famous, and, if we do not strike gold we are dismayed.

I started out my adult life panning for gold. I wanted to strike it rich, but I didn't really know what it means to be rich. I do now.

It means to have good health, friendships, a close and supportive family, and a heart that is at peace and untroubled by external events.

Power, wealth and fame are not necessarily golden. None of these things necessarily lead to happiness. In fact they can lead to abject misery.

STEAM - A Short Story

His existence had become illusory, like steam escaping a boiling kettle, a thin wisp of vapor spinning skyward, evaporating, fading out of being. It was the sensation of being diminished, made porous and insubstantial, of being thrust out of the current of everydayness that supports and envelopes life. He felt as if he was rushing out of himself, into night as thick and murky as ink, vaporizing, then disappearing.

It wasn't physical illness. It wasn't voices or visions. It wasn't depression or compulsion. It was steam, evaporation, slipping away, drifting above the borders of living, anchored to life by one thing only, a five year old girl.

He was delighted by every aspect of her being. The large, oval eyes, chocolate brown at the center, tinged with elderberry at the edge of each iris. The olive skin and dimpled cheeks. The thick mahogany hair, slender straight legs, white teeth and slightly crooked smile, the way she danced, the way she breathed in the early hours of morning as she slept, and he set beside her in the breaking dawn knowing that he had no plans for the future other than to live, to earn, to provide a safe home and see her placed into a secure and sturdy vessel when the time came for her to enter adult life. to find or not find a mate, to take or not take a job, to have or not have a mahogany-haired daughter of there own.

He was present nearly every morning to witness the opening of her eyes, to note the happiness that came over her face, to know that he would take her for a hunt at the end of the day to search for the small, wooden box full of quarters that he had buried the previous day. She loved to search for the treasures he had buried, to help him interpret the map he had drawn on a napkin, and to consult the magic compass which she had obtained from a Cracker Jacks box.

On his days off they searched for buried treasure, or walked the nature trail close to their home which led to the Monkey Bar Playground. She collected a number of Y-shaped twigs which she believed were witching-sticks capable of finding treasures.

The events that had woven the fabric of his own life receded from his consciousness. His childhood, the Army, the War, the college degrees were no longer of any consequence. Perhaps they never had been. And of course there was the death of her mother, his wife. It was too soon to allow any remembrance of that event.

The part of him that had hoped to find meaning, searched for certainties, and sought for undying love had trailed out of existence, floated upward into nothingness and was gone. 

At 10:00 a.m. they set off for the trail, found the box full of quarters which she placed proudly into her back pack.

"What are you thinking about Papa?'

"I'm thinking about steam."

"Oh," she replied, taking his hand, pulling him off the trail, and toward the Monkey Bar Playground.