On this Memorial Day, let us remember and contemplate the wise counsel of Father O'Brien:
It's the soldier, not the reporter,
who has given us freedom of the press.
It's the soldier, not the poet,
who has given us freedom of speech.
It's the soldier, not the campus organizer,
who has given us freedom to demonstrate.
It's the soldier, not the lawyer,
who has given us the right to a fair trial.
And it's the soldier who salutes the flag,
who serves the flag,whose coffin is draped in the flag,
that allows the protester to burn the flag.
Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USN Chaplain Corps
On this Memorial Day, give some thought to the freedoms you have. Freedoms that are paid for by the sacrifice and dedication of the warriors that defend them with their lives. Freedoms you take for granted in this great nation. Be grateful to those that serve, and respectful of their sacrifices. They don't ask for it, but they most assuredly deserve it. And never forget the freedoms you enjoy aren't your's to give away; they were earned by the blood of your forefathers and given over to your stewardship to be passed on to the next generation, in as good or better condition than they were when you received them.
Scottie
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
I Plead Not Guilty
With Obama’s Philadelphia speech to explain his relationship with Reverend Wright, a cacophony of articles and opinion are endlessly bringing up the concept of “white guilt”. Well I for one plead not guilty. I’ve never owned a slave, nor have any of my ancestors. I have never prevented anybody, black or otherwise, from achieving their potential. I don’t view black people as a monolithic group, nor do I give much credence to the concept of black “leaders”.
I have throughout my life dealt with every black person I’ve encountered as the individual he or she is, giving them the benefit of the doubt until their individual character could be discerned. Some I’ve met were natural leaders that I would gladly follow into the hobs of hell; others have been as close to me as my own brothers. Some have been talented coworkers and others have taught me valuable skills. Some have been hateful bigots that were discarded in short order. There is no monolithic body of black people; there is only an accumulation of many individuals that share pigmentation.
As to the argument that I’ve been the recipient of largess from society simply because of my race, I’d truly like to know where that’s happened. I’ve been turned down for many positions I’ve applied for, I’ve been pulled over by the police when I’ve wandered into areas where I was out of place, and the education I received wasn’t some form of largess, I had to work very hard to attain it. My admission to college wasn’t because I was white, it was because I was a straight A student. My tuition wasn’t paid for me because I was white; it was paid because I’ve served my country. The benefits I have received from society are the result of hard work on my part, and sacrifice to the society first.
I’ve taken my licks at the hands of fate without seeking to blame others for it. Sometimes you just draw the Wonka ticket and have to make the best of it. I’ve done a lot of jobs I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I know the sting of hot sand on sweaty flesh in the hot August evenings at a foundry, where I used a sledgehammer to break castings loose of their moulds to cool. I know what it feels and smells like to work all day in a pig pen shoveling matted straw and poop out of the pens. I’ve worked on roofs with my boots and pants cuffs covered with hot tar in the sweltering sun. I’ve cleaned grease traps in restaurants and shoveled rotten corn from the bottoms of storage silos. Each of these jobs built my character and provided me funds along the way. None of these jobs were at the expense of anyone else.
In short, I have nothing to feel guilty about. I haven’t sold drugs, didn’t quit school before I graduated, and never sired a child out of wedlock. I don’t go through life with a chip on my shoulder blaming others for my misfortunes. I simply refuse to buy the premise of a hate mongering reverend that has the audacity to blame racism for the problems in the black community. That a Princeton educated lawyer with a half a million dollars in annual income and a serious candidate for president wants to tell me how bad black people have been treated is laughable on its face. Here’s a sermon that should be preached every Sunday until it soaks in. Get down off your cross; build a bridge with the lumber; and GET OVER IT! As for me atoning for my “white guilt”, I have nothing to atone for, so go pound sand.
Scottie
I have throughout my life dealt with every black person I’ve encountered as the individual he or she is, giving them the benefit of the doubt until their individual character could be discerned. Some I’ve met were natural leaders that I would gladly follow into the hobs of hell; others have been as close to me as my own brothers. Some have been talented coworkers and others have taught me valuable skills. Some have been hateful bigots that were discarded in short order. There is no monolithic body of black people; there is only an accumulation of many individuals that share pigmentation.
As to the argument that I’ve been the recipient of largess from society simply because of my race, I’d truly like to know where that’s happened. I’ve been turned down for many positions I’ve applied for, I’ve been pulled over by the police when I’ve wandered into areas where I was out of place, and the education I received wasn’t some form of largess, I had to work very hard to attain it. My admission to college wasn’t because I was white, it was because I was a straight A student. My tuition wasn’t paid for me because I was white; it was paid because I’ve served my country. The benefits I have received from society are the result of hard work on my part, and sacrifice to the society first.
I’ve taken my licks at the hands of fate without seeking to blame others for it. Sometimes you just draw the Wonka ticket and have to make the best of it. I’ve done a lot of jobs I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I know the sting of hot sand on sweaty flesh in the hot August evenings at a foundry, where I used a sledgehammer to break castings loose of their moulds to cool. I know what it feels and smells like to work all day in a pig pen shoveling matted straw and poop out of the pens. I’ve worked on roofs with my boots and pants cuffs covered with hot tar in the sweltering sun. I’ve cleaned grease traps in restaurants and shoveled rotten corn from the bottoms of storage silos. Each of these jobs built my character and provided me funds along the way. None of these jobs were at the expense of anyone else.
In short, I have nothing to feel guilty about. I haven’t sold drugs, didn’t quit school before I graduated, and never sired a child out of wedlock. I don’t go through life with a chip on my shoulder blaming others for my misfortunes. I simply refuse to buy the premise of a hate mongering reverend that has the audacity to blame racism for the problems in the black community. That a Princeton educated lawyer with a half a million dollars in annual income and a serious candidate for president wants to tell me how bad black people have been treated is laughable on its face. Here’s a sermon that should be preached every Sunday until it soaks in. Get down off your cross; build a bridge with the lumber; and GET OVER IT! As for me atoning for my “white guilt”, I have nothing to atone for, so go pound sand.
Scottie
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Where There's A Will, There's A Way
And where there is a lack of will, there is no way. Our nation needs to summon up the will to shoulder its responsibilities. All of the problems we currently face are ultimately traceable to a lack of will. We don’t have the will to project our military power and mean it. We don’t have the will to control our borders. We just can’t be aroused from our Lay-Z-Boy recliners and our McMansions for much of anything anymore. It’s as if the cosmic phone is ringing and we are collectively waiting for someone else to get up and answer the call. In this case it’s the call of duty, the call to arms, the call to action.
The left may think this is George Bush’s war, but the rest of the world doesn’t see it that way. The rest of the world is watching to see if the bloated, atrophied carcass of the world’s only remaining superpower can finish a fight it initiated with a backward third world country or not. And if we can’t or won’t finish it, it will have repercussions well beyond the Islamists. Every nation in the world will have proof positive that America doesn’t have the fortitude to honor its commitments anymore. We talk the talk, but we can’t be bothered to walk it anymore. We are in a contest of wills with an implacable enemy and the only thing they have that we don’t is the will to see it through, no matter how difficult, no matter the sacrifice.
A nation with a will can put a man on the moon in less than a decade with less computing power on board than today’s automobile has using slide rules to make all of the calculations. If this nation truly had the will, a fence along our borders could be built in a matter of months. The flood of illegal aliens could be staunched in short order if we only had the will to do so. It’s not lack of resources, or manpower, or even a matter of it being the right thing to do: it’s a lack of will and nothing less. We are fighting to maintain our sovereignty with about the same gusto as we are prosecuting the war against radical Islam; half heartedly with half measures in a half assed way.
This nation had better rediscover its backbone soon and drop a pair, or all we believe in will become a thing of the past. A nation that can’t or won't protect itself and its interests, that can’t or won't control its borders, is a nation that cannot long endure. Whatever the course this country is to take, let it take that course either with a will or with a sense of nostalgia for the ambition of generations past that were greater than, and failed by, their progeny.
Scottie
The left may think this is George Bush’s war, but the rest of the world doesn’t see it that way. The rest of the world is watching to see if the bloated, atrophied carcass of the world’s only remaining superpower can finish a fight it initiated with a backward third world country or not. And if we can’t or won’t finish it, it will have repercussions well beyond the Islamists. Every nation in the world will have proof positive that America doesn’t have the fortitude to honor its commitments anymore. We talk the talk, but we can’t be bothered to walk it anymore. We are in a contest of wills with an implacable enemy and the only thing they have that we don’t is the will to see it through, no matter how difficult, no matter the sacrifice.
A nation with a will can put a man on the moon in less than a decade with less computing power on board than today’s automobile has using slide rules to make all of the calculations. If this nation truly had the will, a fence along our borders could be built in a matter of months. The flood of illegal aliens could be staunched in short order if we only had the will to do so. It’s not lack of resources, or manpower, or even a matter of it being the right thing to do: it’s a lack of will and nothing less. We are fighting to maintain our sovereignty with about the same gusto as we are prosecuting the war against radical Islam; half heartedly with half measures in a half assed way.
This nation had better rediscover its backbone soon and drop a pair, or all we believe in will become a thing of the past. A nation that can’t or won't protect itself and its interests, that can’t or won't control its borders, is a nation that cannot long endure. Whatever the course this country is to take, let it take that course either with a will or with a sense of nostalgia for the ambition of generations past that were greater than, and failed by, their progeny.
Scottie
How To Change the World
I think I might be on to something. I’ve discovered a way to change the whole world. All you have to do is be an oddball with a problem and whine about it and everyone on the planet has to drop everything and change everything in their lives to soothe your hurt feelings for being different. Although you may think I’m being facetious, I’m actually serious. Let me give you some examples.
If you are allergic to peanuts, don’t learn to deal with it. Why on earth should you do that? It’s much easier to whine about it and pretty soon, there are no peanuts on airplanes anymore and kids can’t bring peanut butter sandwiches to school anymore. Just a little wailing and gnashing of teeth and the whole world becomes a goober free zone to avoid inconveniencing you. Pretty neat, huh?
Coworker wearing perfume you don’t like? Take a page from the anti-smoking lobby and have a hissy-fit about it until the entire office is declared a perfume and cologne free zone. They can’t let you be inconvenienced by those hundreds of other people. They’re not as important as you are, are they? Just think of the office as your own private little world to shape however you wish and pretty soon you’ll find all kinds of things to be offended by. Calendars, cartoons, even the flowers a coworker gets on her anniversary are fair game.
Now we’re cooking. Can’t get around in your wheelchair? Well pitch a fit! Make every business and public building bow to your wishes. It’s not like the inconvenience and expense of changing the world around you is your problem to deal with, heck no. Keep it up and no matter the cost to society, no matter how many businesses go under, eventually you will have access to every place imaginable. Your whole crowd, what is it twenty or so of you, will have their way at the expense of everyone else. Of course, you’ll take a hit on sympathy and goodwill, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a small price to pay for changing the world, isn’t it? And while you’re at it, ask for a good parking spot as a kicker!
Don’t like the discomfort you experience when confronted about your lack of moral clarity? Well don’t just stand for it! Demand the removal of every vestige of religion in every place you find it. Don’t be concerned with providing a replacement, that’s not important. Just squall and babble until the whole world changes to prevent your discomfort. Now, demand schools teach the religious ideology of an enemy intent on destroying your nation and moan about how we have to tolerate and understand them. That’ll make it easier for them to finish changing the world after you get bored with it.
After those warm up exercises you’re ready for something more substantial like eliminating capitalism. Now that you've got that religion stuff suppressed, it's getting easier. Whip up a Global Warming boogie-man and demand the entire world start doing what you say on no real basis whatsoever. Of course, you don’t have to change your lifestyle, only the little people and anyone that disagrees with you will have to actually do anything. Isn’t this fun? Once you get some momentum started, pile on the “right” to healthcare for good measure. Don’t be concerned with the consequences; you haven’t been so far, why start now? Just jump in with your newfound power and start arbitrarily changing anything you don’t agree with or don’t understand and make the world in whatever manner suits your particular desire. Like God did.
Scottie
If you are allergic to peanuts, don’t learn to deal with it. Why on earth should you do that? It’s much easier to whine about it and pretty soon, there are no peanuts on airplanes anymore and kids can’t bring peanut butter sandwiches to school anymore. Just a little wailing and gnashing of teeth and the whole world becomes a goober free zone to avoid inconveniencing you. Pretty neat, huh?
Coworker wearing perfume you don’t like? Take a page from the anti-smoking lobby and have a hissy-fit about it until the entire office is declared a perfume and cologne free zone. They can’t let you be inconvenienced by those hundreds of other people. They’re not as important as you are, are they? Just think of the office as your own private little world to shape however you wish and pretty soon you’ll find all kinds of things to be offended by. Calendars, cartoons, even the flowers a coworker gets on her anniversary are fair game.
Now we’re cooking. Can’t get around in your wheelchair? Well pitch a fit! Make every business and public building bow to your wishes. It’s not like the inconvenience and expense of changing the world around you is your problem to deal with, heck no. Keep it up and no matter the cost to society, no matter how many businesses go under, eventually you will have access to every place imaginable. Your whole crowd, what is it twenty or so of you, will have their way at the expense of everyone else. Of course, you’ll take a hit on sympathy and goodwill, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a small price to pay for changing the world, isn’t it? And while you’re at it, ask for a good parking spot as a kicker!
Don’t like the discomfort you experience when confronted about your lack of moral clarity? Well don’t just stand for it! Demand the removal of every vestige of religion in every place you find it. Don’t be concerned with providing a replacement, that’s not important. Just squall and babble until the whole world changes to prevent your discomfort. Now, demand schools teach the religious ideology of an enemy intent on destroying your nation and moan about how we have to tolerate and understand them. That’ll make it easier for them to finish changing the world after you get bored with it.
After those warm up exercises you’re ready for something more substantial like eliminating capitalism. Now that you've got that religion stuff suppressed, it's getting easier. Whip up a Global Warming boogie-man and demand the entire world start doing what you say on no real basis whatsoever. Of course, you don’t have to change your lifestyle, only the little people and anyone that disagrees with you will have to actually do anything. Isn’t this fun? Once you get some momentum started, pile on the “right” to healthcare for good measure. Don’t be concerned with the consequences; you haven’t been so far, why start now? Just jump in with your newfound power and start arbitrarily changing anything you don’t agree with or don’t understand and make the world in whatever manner suits your particular desire. Like God did.
Scottie
Friday, March 7, 2008
Intellectual Odds & Ends
It seems like the anti-military and anti-recruitment zealots aren't against fighting per se. They fight quite vigorously against their fellow citizens and those that ensure their right to protest. It is people that will fight back that seem to escape their unhinged and unpatriotic attacks. If only they could gin up comparable outrage towards those intent on destroying them and their way of life.
I see that California has executed a one-two punch. First they asserted that parents couldn't object to the content being taught to their children under the presumption that the children were put into school voluntarily. Now they are told that they aren't qualified to withhold their children from those same schools to teach them themselves. So are the children's in those schools really there voluntary? Doesn't seem to matter either way, does it? It takes a village to destroy family values.
Most schools don't permit students to participate in extracurricular activities if they are failing in their regular course requirements. Shouldn't we apply the same logic to government? Until they can make the courts work, defend the country, and secure the nation's borders, why should they be given license to dabble in social engineering? I note that most of this extracurricular (and extra-constitutional) activity gets failing grades as well.
I was a capitalist when I had nothing, and although I still have very little, I'm still a capitalist. I don't resent those that have more; I resent those that would try to prevent me from attaining more by demonizing those of greater achievement. I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to steer my own life in whichever direction I wished, something very rare in the history of mankind. What I have is largely the result of my own stewardship of my life.
When you give someone the shirt off your back, that is charity. When someone takes your shirt from you at gunpoint to give it someone they deem more worthy, that is tyranny; or socialism as it's currently called.
Nothing ruins a man more than a life of unearned ease. To have succor at the expense of others without the wit, will and ability to achieve it on one's own breeds nothing but contempt for those that labor and sacrifice from those that do not. Hunger and poverty can be powerful motivators, given the chance to work their magic, when combined with the freedom to seek a cure for them by one's own efforts.
I support the idea that every vote should count; but, I do not support the idea that illegitimate votes should. Those opposed to voter ID requirements are really supporting nothing short of fraud and anarchy by implying that those that are disenfranchised by this trifling inconvenience have a legitimate franchise in the first place.
Why do feminists claim on one hand that men are unnecessary to their happiness while bemoaning the refusal of men to grow up and make commitments on the other? Why did they think that marginalizing men as optional wouldn't be reciprocated? If men are essentially reduced to a source of income and insemination, what incentive do men have to share their income and to produce children with those that consider them as little more than that? The feminist movement has done far more to free men from their traditional responsibilities than it has to free women from theirs. The law of unintended consequences will out.
Scottie
I see that California has executed a one-two punch. First they asserted that parents couldn't object to the content being taught to their children under the presumption that the children were put into school voluntarily. Now they are told that they aren't qualified to withhold their children from those same schools to teach them themselves. So are the children's in those schools really there voluntary? Doesn't seem to matter either way, does it? It takes a village to destroy family values.
Most schools don't permit students to participate in extracurricular activities if they are failing in their regular course requirements. Shouldn't we apply the same logic to government? Until they can make the courts work, defend the country, and secure the nation's borders, why should they be given license to dabble in social engineering? I note that most of this extracurricular (and extra-constitutional) activity gets failing grades as well.
I was a capitalist when I had nothing, and although I still have very little, I'm still a capitalist. I don't resent those that have more; I resent those that would try to prevent me from attaining more by demonizing those of greater achievement. I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to steer my own life in whichever direction I wished, something very rare in the history of mankind. What I have is largely the result of my own stewardship of my life.
When you give someone the shirt off your back, that is charity. When someone takes your shirt from you at gunpoint to give it someone they deem more worthy, that is tyranny; or socialism as it's currently called.
Nothing ruins a man more than a life of unearned ease. To have succor at the expense of others without the wit, will and ability to achieve it on one's own breeds nothing but contempt for those that labor and sacrifice from those that do not. Hunger and poverty can be powerful motivators, given the chance to work their magic, when combined with the freedom to seek a cure for them by one's own efforts.
I support the idea that every vote should count; but, I do not support the idea that illegitimate votes should. Those opposed to voter ID requirements are really supporting nothing short of fraud and anarchy by implying that those that are disenfranchised by this trifling inconvenience have a legitimate franchise in the first place.
Why do feminists claim on one hand that men are unnecessary to their happiness while bemoaning the refusal of men to grow up and make commitments on the other? Why did they think that marginalizing men as optional wouldn't be reciprocated? If men are essentially reduced to a source of income and insemination, what incentive do men have to share their income and to produce children with those that consider them as little more than that? The feminist movement has done far more to free men from their traditional responsibilities than it has to free women from theirs. The law of unintended consequences will out.
Scottie
Monday, March 3, 2008
Uprooted
She wanders about the old place, lingering here and there to soak in the memories one last time. The house is in total chaos, her children busily scrambling about with various tasks. She directs their efforts, but her heart just isn’t in it. The accumulated treasures of a lifetime are being lovingly packed and sorted by the assembled throng of children, friends and grandchildren. Trucks and trailers line the driveway, waiting to receive the neatly packaged contents of a home she’s lived in for over thirty years. This whole affair has been quite a shock for her and it shows in the concern and fatigue on her normally smiling face.
There’s the china she received from her mother, the furniture she’s lovingly dusted and polished to a brilliant gloss, photo albums, vacation memorabilia, school projects her children made for her, and the millions of little things that one accumulates over the course of a long and fruitful lifetime. These things can be moved of course, but the memories attached to them are a different matter. Every particle of the old place evokes memories and she hears all of them clamoring for a last visit before the cosmic tranquility is permanently broken.
There’s nothing particularly wrong with the new place, but it’s not the same. As her treasures are transferred, she stops by to supervise their delivery and placement for later unpacking. The new house is rapidly becoming a warren of trails through many stacks of boxes and furniture. The physical work of transferring everything will be ably handled by others, but the monumental task of sorting and placing it will be to a large extent her sole domain. It’s going to take some time for her to create a new nest here and even longer to overcome the loss of the old one. But in the end, she’s a tough old bird; she’ll roll up her sleeves and one box at a time she’ll create a new home. And soon the holidays will come, and her new nest will be filled with the love of her extended family as she once again holds court and continues collecting her precious memories of home and hearth and family.
God bless you Phyllis.
Scottie
There’s the china she received from her mother, the furniture she’s lovingly dusted and polished to a brilliant gloss, photo albums, vacation memorabilia, school projects her children made for her, and the millions of little things that one accumulates over the course of a long and fruitful lifetime. These things can be moved of course, but the memories attached to them are a different matter. Every particle of the old place evokes memories and she hears all of them clamoring for a last visit before the cosmic tranquility is permanently broken.
There’s nothing particularly wrong with the new place, but it’s not the same. As her treasures are transferred, she stops by to supervise their delivery and placement for later unpacking. The new house is rapidly becoming a warren of trails through many stacks of boxes and furniture. The physical work of transferring everything will be ably handled by others, but the monumental task of sorting and placing it will be to a large extent her sole domain. It’s going to take some time for her to create a new nest here and even longer to overcome the loss of the old one. But in the end, she’s a tough old bird; she’ll roll up her sleeves and one box at a time she’ll create a new home. And soon the holidays will come, and her new nest will be filled with the love of her extended family as she once again holds court and continues collecting her precious memories of home and hearth and family.
God bless you Phyllis.
Scottie
Self Made Conservatives
One of the consistent themes of American culture is the self-made man. Given the Left’s stranglehold on Hollywood, Academia, and Journalism, it occurs to me that every conservative had to come to their philosophy through dint of personal effort and self-determination. Conservatives certainly didn’t learn the values they hold dear at a University. Their point of view is seldom bolstered by the fare emanating from Hollywood; in fact it is far more likely to be undermined than supported by the glitterati. And they most certainly didn’t arrive at their conclusions by following the lead of our nation’s mainstream media. All conservatives are therefore by definition self-made.
I will acknowledge that many conservatives get a good start from their parents. But parents can only take you so far. It takes tremendous effort and character to run against the prevailing wisdom of the “in” crowd. It takes real courage and a true belief in your core values to hold them dear in the face of ridicule by your peers. I’ll give parents their props, but I didn’t arrive in early adulthood fully formed; none of us do. In the absence of strong parents, the rest of us had to arrive here by forsaking fantasy for reality, by using reason, and by tamping down hysterical emotionalism. In short, we had to grow up.
While the Left claims to champion diversity, what could be more diverse than the multitude of individual paths conservatives have taken? While the Left champions the notion of tolerance, how could any conservative have arrived where they are intellectually without tolerance in abundance? The ranks of the Left swell with those whose only claim to legitimacy is their victimhood; that they have been offended in some way. Who among conservatives gets through a week, let alone an academic year without having their values and sensibilities offended? The difference is conservatives shrug it off and go about their business instead of making themselves the center of attention for something someone else did or failed to do.
Take comfort in the knowledge that conservatives are self-made people. They daily demonstrate tolerance, diversity and honest intellectual curiosity. In fact, you could say conservatives actually live what the Left preaches. No accolades are necessary; our self-esteem is just fine. After all, we’re grown-ups, we’re used to it.
Scottie
I will acknowledge that many conservatives get a good start from their parents. But parents can only take you so far. It takes tremendous effort and character to run against the prevailing wisdom of the “in” crowd. It takes real courage and a true belief in your core values to hold them dear in the face of ridicule by your peers. I’ll give parents their props, but I didn’t arrive in early adulthood fully formed; none of us do. In the absence of strong parents, the rest of us had to arrive here by forsaking fantasy for reality, by using reason, and by tamping down hysterical emotionalism. In short, we had to grow up.
While the Left claims to champion diversity, what could be more diverse than the multitude of individual paths conservatives have taken? While the Left champions the notion of tolerance, how could any conservative have arrived where they are intellectually without tolerance in abundance? The ranks of the Left swell with those whose only claim to legitimacy is their victimhood; that they have been offended in some way. Who among conservatives gets through a week, let alone an academic year without having their values and sensibilities offended? The difference is conservatives shrug it off and go about their business instead of making themselves the center of attention for something someone else did or failed to do.
Take comfort in the knowledge that conservatives are self-made people. They daily demonstrate tolerance, diversity and honest intellectual curiosity. In fact, you could say conservatives actually live what the Left preaches. No accolades are necessary; our self-esteem is just fine. After all, we’re grown-ups, we’re used to it.
Scottie
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Sleepless in Indianapolis
I’ve been to a sleep clinic before, so I didn’t think I would be surprised by much during my visit last night to Billy-Bob’s Sleep Clinic and Tire Care Center in Indianapolis, but I was wrong. I was working on the apparently false assumption that people in the business of studying sleep and sleep disorders would know a little something about sleep. Again I was wrong, very wrong. The absurdity of it all is impossible to put into words . . . but I will try nevertheless. I know it is medicine, but try to remember who the customer is in this transaction as you follow along.
First there was the paperwork. Most places will conduct an interview when you arrive and put your information into a computer. At Billy Bob’s, they opted not to waste resources on newfangled data storage devices or personnel, and decided to co-opt my time instead with several poorly designed forms. I can understand the need for my name and Social Security number on these various forms, but why do I have to give them my phone number, home address, spouses name, and in fact the same information on all four different forms in differing orders?
Feeling frisky, I inquired as to why I was providing the same information several times and was told that it was because the Doctors wanted it that way. When I asked the poor soul doing the intake whether there was any consideration of what the customer wanted, in this case me, he disappeared. His replacement was a very large fellow that would be my antagonist for the remainder of my stay at Billy-Bob’s. And of course he had yet another form that again asked for the exact same information in yet another order. He also had another document with him in very fine 8pt type roughly the same length as the Magna Charta and he seemed annoyed that I would have the poor taste to actually pull out my glasses and read it to his accompanying toe-tapping and multiple glances at his watch.
This well crafted document basically said that while I was at Billy-Bob’s, they were free to snoop into my medical records (I thought they were supposed to be adding to them), that they could pretty much kill me as I slept and I would have no recourse other than to take the matter to an arbitrator of their choosing (probably Billy-Bob’s Arbitration and Hair Care), and that I agreed to pay for their services no matter how much they charged (here as everywhere else in the medical profession, nobody at Billy-Bob’s had the slightest clue how much they charged for their services) Apparently put off by what he perceived as a trick question, my gorilla sized attendant retreated to regroup and to file these new forms in whichever pigeon hole they belonged.
I changed into my Spiderman sleeping attire (with matching undies!) and settled into what would be my torture rack for the evening. Most sleep clinics use hotel beds in order to give their clients a reasonable chance to get a night’s sleep that closely approximates a normal night’s sleep at home. At Billy-Bob’s, customer comfort isn’t a consideration. I was given a bed that had obviously been usurped from the emergency room. I know that because it was a perfect example of the kind of firm hard surface upon which one performs CPR. With a sleep number approaching if not exceeding 100, this bed approximated a concrete slab with an old camp cot mattress thrown on top of it. When I pointed this out to the beefy attendant, he said the other beds were even worse. Not wishing to further provoke him after my previous demonstrations of reading and reasoning ability, I resigned myself to this miniature slab for the evening and took him at his word.
I flipped on the television and scanned the channels. I found FOX news and decided to be grateful for this singular creature comfort thus far offered. While I watched the boob tube, my burly caretaker came in and fussed endlessly getting dozens of wires attached to various locations about my head and body. We chatted during the process and he seemed to relax a bit and so did I. After watching TV for a couple of hours, my handler returned and turned off the TV. When I told him I could not fall asleep without a TV on, he told me to try anyway. I asked him why the TV had to be off and he informed me that the glow from it interfered with the videotape they were taking of me. He was again put off when I asked him why interfering with the videotape was of greater significance than interfering with my ability to get to sleep, which was the point of the whole exercise after all.
I tried to negotiate a compromise that made perfect sense to me. “Why not just set the sleep timer? The video tape of me laying here awake isn’t of much value is it?” He then confessed that at Billy-Bob’s, they didn’t have sleep timers on their television sets. “This is a SLEEP clinic isn’t it?” I asked incredulously. All I received in reply was a shrug. Apparently Billy-Bob’s was eschewing state of the art (circa 1980) equipment, finding it an unreasonable accommodation. After wasting about an hour and a half monitoring a wide awake, and somewhat pissed off patient, my handler relented and let me turn the TV back on.About a half an hour later, I drifted off to the only sleep I would have that night.
In my previous visit to a sleep clinic, they were very conscious of lighting and took great pains to illuminate the room with indirect light from below so the staff could see well enough to do their tasks without waking the patient. Billy-Bob’s took another tack. The lighting in the room consisted of two 500 watt can lights focused on the bed (and in the patient's eyes) and the regulation 5,000 watt fluorescent standard lighting. There was no other lighting available in the room. I discovered this when I had to go to the bathroom about an hour after I finally went to sleep. When I tried to rise to go to the bathroom, I was somewhat disoriented by the plethora of wires attached to me. My sentinel came immediately and, you guessed it, completely blinded me with a thousand watts of can lights right in my eyes. While he busied himself with disconnecting me from the monitoring equipment, he should have been thankful that I had my Spidy Undies on. as I briefly considered wetting the bed in retaliation.
Thoroughly awake now, I went to the bathroom and returned to be reattached to the Matrix. I laid there until about four thirty or five o’clock fuming and as wide awake as I’ve ever been. The sentinel returned, apparently taking it as an affront of some kind that his resetting of my circadian clock was preventing me from sleeping. I informed him I was unable to sleep and there was no point in continuing this farce any farther. “Get me out of this rig, I’m going to go get some breakfast,” I told him. His condescending response was, “So you want to discontinue the test?” I considered his inability to absorb my common sense tips thus far and decided that explaining it to him would only upset him further and lengthen my time until breakfast, so I let it pass. I’m sure he noted somewhere that I was uncooperative, since I was unable to overcome his monumental efforts to prevent me from sleeping. So be it. At least this unbelievable incompetence was finally at an end. I went ahead and went about my day; the condition inflicted by my captors a reminder of how I used to feel when I actually had a sleep apnea problem.
So if you ever want to waste an entire night being continuously aggravated at what I assume are premium prices for absolutely incompetent service by the most clueless staff on the planet, I heartily recommend Billy-Bob’s Sleep Clinic and Tire Care Center. It won’t contribute an iota of medically useful information, but how many other chances do you get to wear your Spidy undies? Personally, I think the money would have been better spent going to Hawaii for a good spanking by a nice Polynesian girl.
Scottie
First there was the paperwork. Most places will conduct an interview when you arrive and put your information into a computer. At Billy Bob’s, they opted not to waste resources on newfangled data storage devices or personnel, and decided to co-opt my time instead with several poorly designed forms. I can understand the need for my name and Social Security number on these various forms, but why do I have to give them my phone number, home address, spouses name, and in fact the same information on all four different forms in differing orders?
Feeling frisky, I inquired as to why I was providing the same information several times and was told that it was because the Doctors wanted it that way. When I asked the poor soul doing the intake whether there was any consideration of what the customer wanted, in this case me, he disappeared. His replacement was a very large fellow that would be my antagonist for the remainder of my stay at Billy-Bob’s. And of course he had yet another form that again asked for the exact same information in yet another order. He also had another document with him in very fine 8pt type roughly the same length as the Magna Charta and he seemed annoyed that I would have the poor taste to actually pull out my glasses and read it to his accompanying toe-tapping and multiple glances at his watch.
This well crafted document basically said that while I was at Billy-Bob’s, they were free to snoop into my medical records (I thought they were supposed to be adding to them), that they could pretty much kill me as I slept and I would have no recourse other than to take the matter to an arbitrator of their choosing (probably Billy-Bob’s Arbitration and Hair Care), and that I agreed to pay for their services no matter how much they charged (here as everywhere else in the medical profession, nobody at Billy-Bob’s had the slightest clue how much they charged for their services) Apparently put off by what he perceived as a trick question, my gorilla sized attendant retreated to regroup and to file these new forms in whichever pigeon hole they belonged.
I changed into my Spiderman sleeping attire (with matching undies!) and settled into what would be my torture rack for the evening. Most sleep clinics use hotel beds in order to give their clients a reasonable chance to get a night’s sleep that closely approximates a normal night’s sleep at home. At Billy-Bob’s, customer comfort isn’t a consideration. I was given a bed that had obviously been usurped from the emergency room. I know that because it was a perfect example of the kind of firm hard surface upon which one performs CPR. With a sleep number approaching if not exceeding 100, this bed approximated a concrete slab with an old camp cot mattress thrown on top of it. When I pointed this out to the beefy attendant, he said the other beds were even worse. Not wishing to further provoke him after my previous demonstrations of reading and reasoning ability, I resigned myself to this miniature slab for the evening and took him at his word.
I flipped on the television and scanned the channels. I found FOX news and decided to be grateful for this singular creature comfort thus far offered. While I watched the boob tube, my burly caretaker came in and fussed endlessly getting dozens of wires attached to various locations about my head and body. We chatted during the process and he seemed to relax a bit and so did I. After watching TV for a couple of hours, my handler returned and turned off the TV. When I told him I could not fall asleep without a TV on, he told me to try anyway. I asked him why the TV had to be off and he informed me that the glow from it interfered with the videotape they were taking of me. He was again put off when I asked him why interfering with the videotape was of greater significance than interfering with my ability to get to sleep, which was the point of the whole exercise after all.
I tried to negotiate a compromise that made perfect sense to me. “Why not just set the sleep timer? The video tape of me laying here awake isn’t of much value is it?” He then confessed that at Billy-Bob’s, they didn’t have sleep timers on their television sets. “This is a SLEEP clinic isn’t it?” I asked incredulously. All I received in reply was a shrug. Apparently Billy-Bob’s was eschewing state of the art (circa 1980) equipment, finding it an unreasonable accommodation. After wasting about an hour and a half monitoring a wide awake, and somewhat pissed off patient, my handler relented and let me turn the TV back on.About a half an hour later, I drifted off to the only sleep I would have that night.
In my previous visit to a sleep clinic, they were very conscious of lighting and took great pains to illuminate the room with indirect light from below so the staff could see well enough to do their tasks without waking the patient. Billy-Bob’s took another tack. The lighting in the room consisted of two 500 watt can lights focused on the bed (and in the patient's eyes) and the regulation 5,000 watt fluorescent standard lighting. There was no other lighting available in the room. I discovered this when I had to go to the bathroom about an hour after I finally went to sleep. When I tried to rise to go to the bathroom, I was somewhat disoriented by the plethora of wires attached to me. My sentinel came immediately and, you guessed it, completely blinded me with a thousand watts of can lights right in my eyes. While he busied himself with disconnecting me from the monitoring equipment, he should have been thankful that I had my Spidy Undies on. as I briefly considered wetting the bed in retaliation.
Thoroughly awake now, I went to the bathroom and returned to be reattached to the Matrix. I laid there until about four thirty or five o’clock fuming and as wide awake as I’ve ever been. The sentinel returned, apparently taking it as an affront of some kind that his resetting of my circadian clock was preventing me from sleeping. I informed him I was unable to sleep and there was no point in continuing this farce any farther. “Get me out of this rig, I’m going to go get some breakfast,” I told him. His condescending response was, “So you want to discontinue the test?” I considered his inability to absorb my common sense tips thus far and decided that explaining it to him would only upset him further and lengthen my time until breakfast, so I let it pass. I’m sure he noted somewhere that I was uncooperative, since I was unable to overcome his monumental efforts to prevent me from sleeping. So be it. At least this unbelievable incompetence was finally at an end. I went ahead and went about my day; the condition inflicted by my captors a reminder of how I used to feel when I actually had a sleep apnea problem.
So if you ever want to waste an entire night being continuously aggravated at what I assume are premium prices for absolutely incompetent service by the most clueless staff on the planet, I heartily recommend Billy-Bob’s Sleep Clinic and Tire Care Center. It won’t contribute an iota of medically useful information, but how many other chances do you get to wear your Spidy undies? Personally, I think the money would have been better spent going to Hawaii for a good spanking by a nice Polynesian girl.
Scottie
Reflections on Manliness
It's sad that boys today aren't exposed to the heroic literature of my youth. Tales of courage and spirit by Jack London; adventures by Jules Verne and Edgar Rice Burroughs; stories of the human condition by Rudyard Kipling, have all vanished from the reading lists of the modern school. These stories modeling traditional masculinity have been replaced with driveling feminized multicultural glop for the boys of today. " Heather Has Two Mommys" has replaced "The Adventures of Robinson Carusoe."
Is it any wonder that today’s trendy male is the Metrosexual? Has modern feminism managed to displace the concept of masculinity my father’s generation demanded of men; or has it been suppressed only waiting to reemerge as virile and unapologetic as in days of yore? Exactly when did it become a sin to be unabashedly masculine? I’m a man’s man in a world that offers few benefits to guys like me. Well so be it. But I’m not sorry.
I like to hunt when I can and I’m a better than average shot. I can dress game, and cook it in many a tasty fashion. I can put a keen edge on a knife and keep it there. My guns are clean, loaded and ready at a moments notice. That’s my idea of home insurance. I’m not afraid to protect what is mine. And I’m not sorry.
My tools are organized, maintained, and they work for a living. They are extensions of who I am and enable me to perform tasks the modern man has let slip from his ken. I can hang a door, paint a wall, wire an outlet, fix a lawnmower, roof a house, maintain my vehicles, and generally keep things working smoothly in my world. And I’m not sorry.
My boys respect me, and my daughter is an independent young woman with a sense of her own value and direction. I know the best way to help them is often to let them flounder and suffer the pain of their youthful mistakes. I also know how to pick them up, dust them off and give them a pep talk when the situation requires. “Get off your cross, build a bridge with the lumber, and get over it!” is my vernacular for “Go Kid Go”. I’m a Dad, not a cheerleader. And I’m not sorry.
My every waking hour is an example to my kids and a testament to my wife. I don’t miss work, ever! I go to church every Sunday. I pay my debts and keep my word. I read good books and listen to smart people. I don’t suffer fools gladly. I know horse puckey when I hear it and I’m not afraid to admit I’m wrong when I am. I’m a good sport when I lose and a better one when I win. I don’t run from confrontations, or delay dealing with unpleasant business. I live by the rules I preach to my kids. And I’m not sorry.
I take my share last without complaint. I can deal with crumbled chips, bread heels, and three Cheez-its at the bottom of the box. I can’t bear the thought of seeing my family hungry. The house is always warm, lit, and dry. The cupboards are full and the phone always works. I’m generous with my time and enjoy explaining an algebra problem or checking a homework assignment. It’s not about me, me, me in my world. And I’m not sorry.
I’m aware of what is happening in the world around me. I work to make my community better. I vote intelligently in every election. I watch out for the neighbor’s kids and stop to change a flat tire for a woman on the side of the road. I know first aid and CPR. I give blood. I’ve served my country in the military. I report crimes to the police. I don’t do these things because I particularly want to or because I expect some kind of reward; I do them because it’s my duty to do these things. And I’m not sorry.
I love my country, warts an all. And I'm getting pretty sick of hearing about nothing but the warts all the time from people that don't appreciate or invest in this great nation of ours. I know we're not perfect, but the naysayers that take cheap shots at my beloved homeland do it in the only land on earth that would allow them to act the way they do. I don't love my government, or trust it much anymore; but, I'll take it over any other system on this planet. Yes I'm a patriot. And I'm not sorry.
I’ve sent three boys into the world with a pretty good blueprint to follow. They are young men now. None of them know what color “Windswept Ocean” is, or what the latest fashion is, and none of them care. They all know the importance of work and discipline. They are searching for their own paths in life; but they have a good sense of what is expected of them. I’m a doting grandfather now. An anachronism perhaps and getting older for sure, but I’m a man in the classic traditional sense of the word. And I’m not sorry!
Scottie
Is it any wonder that today’s trendy male is the Metrosexual? Has modern feminism managed to displace the concept of masculinity my father’s generation demanded of men; or has it been suppressed only waiting to reemerge as virile and unapologetic as in days of yore? Exactly when did it become a sin to be unabashedly masculine? I’m a man’s man in a world that offers few benefits to guys like me. Well so be it. But I’m not sorry.
I like to hunt when I can and I’m a better than average shot. I can dress game, and cook it in many a tasty fashion. I can put a keen edge on a knife and keep it there. My guns are clean, loaded and ready at a moments notice. That’s my idea of home insurance. I’m not afraid to protect what is mine. And I’m not sorry.
My tools are organized, maintained, and they work for a living. They are extensions of who I am and enable me to perform tasks the modern man has let slip from his ken. I can hang a door, paint a wall, wire an outlet, fix a lawnmower, roof a house, maintain my vehicles, and generally keep things working smoothly in my world. And I’m not sorry.
My boys respect me, and my daughter is an independent young woman with a sense of her own value and direction. I know the best way to help them is often to let them flounder and suffer the pain of their youthful mistakes. I also know how to pick them up, dust them off and give them a pep talk when the situation requires. “Get off your cross, build a bridge with the lumber, and get over it!” is my vernacular for “Go Kid Go”. I’m a Dad, not a cheerleader. And I’m not sorry.
My every waking hour is an example to my kids and a testament to my wife. I don’t miss work, ever! I go to church every Sunday. I pay my debts and keep my word. I read good books and listen to smart people. I don’t suffer fools gladly. I know horse puckey when I hear it and I’m not afraid to admit I’m wrong when I am. I’m a good sport when I lose and a better one when I win. I don’t run from confrontations, or delay dealing with unpleasant business. I live by the rules I preach to my kids. And I’m not sorry.
I take my share last without complaint. I can deal with crumbled chips, bread heels, and three Cheez-its at the bottom of the box. I can’t bear the thought of seeing my family hungry. The house is always warm, lit, and dry. The cupboards are full and the phone always works. I’m generous with my time and enjoy explaining an algebra problem or checking a homework assignment. It’s not about me, me, me in my world. And I’m not sorry.
I’m aware of what is happening in the world around me. I work to make my community better. I vote intelligently in every election. I watch out for the neighbor’s kids and stop to change a flat tire for a woman on the side of the road. I know first aid and CPR. I give blood. I’ve served my country in the military. I report crimes to the police. I don’t do these things because I particularly want to or because I expect some kind of reward; I do them because it’s my duty to do these things. And I’m not sorry.
I love my country, warts an all. And I'm getting pretty sick of hearing about nothing but the warts all the time from people that don't appreciate or invest in this great nation of ours. I know we're not perfect, but the naysayers that take cheap shots at my beloved homeland do it in the only land on earth that would allow them to act the way they do. I don't love my government, or trust it much anymore; but, I'll take it over any other system on this planet. Yes I'm a patriot. And I'm not sorry.
I’ve sent three boys into the world with a pretty good blueprint to follow. They are young men now. None of them know what color “Windswept Ocean” is, or what the latest fashion is, and none of them care. They all know the importance of work and discipline. They are searching for their own paths in life; but they have a good sense of what is expected of them. I’m a doting grandfather now. An anachronism perhaps and getting older for sure, but I’m a man in the classic traditional sense of the word. And I’m not sorry!
Scottie
Little Charlie & Me
It was a brisk Sunday morning in the Heartland, not long ago when it happened. Little Chloe was scampering about the house locating her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes to put on for church. The Missus was already over at the Lord’s house, practicing with the rest of the English bell choir for the services this week, and little Charlie was engaged in his favorite pastime, sleeping. I was having a cup of coffee and trying desperately to get my motor running for the day ahead. The cat’s had been fed and were lounging about the house in their favorite napping spots and the house was fairly quiet. A time of quiet reflection gave me pause and I took the opportunity to look upon little Charlie’s sleeping countenance as he began to stir.
The Missus had laid out his church clothes, not much bigger than a pair of handkerchiefs, a bottle and a diaper with orders to have the grandchildren ready for church when she returned from rehearsal. Chloe circulated up and down the stairs, the progress of her dressing evident with each loop through the stairwell. I picked up my grandson and marveled at the heft of him. Then I set about disrupting his leisurely waking process by stripping off his night clothes and dressing him for church. He put up quite a struggle, but all the old moves returned as Poppy deftly swapped out his diaper and popped him into his clean duds.
Little Charlie didn’t take kindly to this whirlwind of activity and he conveyed his displeasure with a series of red faced grunts accompanied by gymnastic squirming. At least he did until Poppy finished dressing him and wrapped him back up in his blanket. Cradling him in the crook of my comparatively huge left arm, I produced the holy grail of infants, a warm bottle of yummy formula. I zeroed in on his intake port with the nozzle and he immediately quit squirming and got down to business. As he feasted on his bottle, I settled into the moment and watched him intently. And in his placid little face, in the quiet of the house, on a brisk winter morning, on the Lord’s Day, I caught a fleeting glimpse of another face looking back at me; the face of the living God. I solemnly thanked Him for this awesome gift; for the moment, for the glimpse, for this precious child.
Scottie
The Missus had laid out his church clothes, not much bigger than a pair of handkerchiefs, a bottle and a diaper with orders to have the grandchildren ready for church when she returned from rehearsal. Chloe circulated up and down the stairs, the progress of her dressing evident with each loop through the stairwell. I picked up my grandson and marveled at the heft of him. Then I set about disrupting his leisurely waking process by stripping off his night clothes and dressing him for church. He put up quite a struggle, but all the old moves returned as Poppy deftly swapped out his diaper and popped him into his clean duds.
Little Charlie didn’t take kindly to this whirlwind of activity and he conveyed his displeasure with a series of red faced grunts accompanied by gymnastic squirming. At least he did until Poppy finished dressing him and wrapped him back up in his blanket. Cradling him in the crook of my comparatively huge left arm, I produced the holy grail of infants, a warm bottle of yummy formula. I zeroed in on his intake port with the nozzle and he immediately quit squirming and got down to business. As he feasted on his bottle, I settled into the moment and watched him intently. And in his placid little face, in the quiet of the house, on a brisk winter morning, on the Lord’s Day, I caught a fleeting glimpse of another face looking back at me; the face of the living God. I solemnly thanked Him for this awesome gift; for the moment, for the glimpse, for this precious child.
Scottie
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